by Greg Ness
X flung the sales figures out of his hand and directed all of his attention to Bruce. His face grew stern with anticipation. “Who?”
Bruce continued, “I know you think he had nothing to do with it, but I have new reason to believe otherwise.”
“What reason is that?”
Bruce said matter-of-factly, “He confessed to me.”
X stood up and met Bruce at eye level. The ferocity and fire usually absent in X’s workplace vigorously appeared. He trembled as he spoke. “You found Sara’s killer? Who is it?”
Bruce took a deep breath before he revealed the name to X.
‘Russell Corporation’.
Bruce, now over ten years out of college, walked through downtown Grand Rapids with Kristen. He noticed the illuminated ‘Russell Corporation’ sign at the top of the skyscraper in the distance. Bruce and Kristen looked slightly older than their college selves. The biggest difference lied in their demeanor. No longer were they two college kids squeezing every drop out of life; they were now working professionals. And with that came a difference in attitude: they were more confident, more relaxed, and married.
A year after they graduated, Bruce surprised Kristen with a trip to Las Vegas where, naturally, one thing led to another. In a drunken stupor, they walked out of Vegas as a married couple. When the news trickled to their friends and family, they reacted with a mix of shock, surprise, and laughter. Bruce and Kristen went with it. And it worked. They were an accidentally happily married couple.
Nothing would ever completely heal the loss of Sara. But Kristen was the perfect stitch to keep the wound closed.
On this warm evening, Bruce held Kristen’s hand as they walked through downtown. They just finished dining at an up-scale restaurant and were now on their way to get some ice cream, just like on their first date.
Kristen asked, “Is Chad still giving you a hard time at work?”
Bruce laughed. “Chad’s an idiot. He still tries to get under my skin but I ignore him. He’s just mad that he wrecked his spine and never made it to the NFL... Two Michigan State quarterbacks in a row that were robbed of their careers. Sad story isn’t it?”
Kristen slapped his shoulder. “Stop it!”
“What?”
“Making fun of my school.”
Bruce laughed.
Kristen continued, “Do you want me to call Vince? Tell him to have his brother stop picking on you?”
“Chad’s not picking on me. I can wipe the floor with him,” Bruce defended. Kristen was well aware of Bruce’s fighting prowess. She witnessed it firsthand when she and Lisa held that party in college.
“I don’t know Bruce, I think you’ve lost a couple steps.”
“Yeah ri…”
Before Bruce had a chance to finish his thought, a young boy sped between them. He was black, wearing a backwards hat, and speeding by on rollerblades. As he flew by, he tore Kristen’s purse out of her hands. She stumbled and fell into Bruce’s arms as her purse fled with the boy on rollerblades. Everything happened so fast, by the time the purse was gone, Bruce hadn’t a clue what transpired.
“What just happened?”
Kristen yelled, “He stole my purse!”
“Stay here,” Bruce said, “I’m going to get your purse back.” He bolted into action and ran after the boy who was fading away.
“Bruce, no!”
Bruce’s feet pounded on the concrete as he sprinted. The boy was but a spec in the distance. “Someone stop him!” he yelled. People idly stood by as Bruce ran by them. No Good Samaritans in the city tonight.
The boy on rollerblades looked back to see if the coast was clear. To his horror, a man was running after him. And closing in on him. The boy desperately pushed his feet with all his might. The wheels of his rollerblades furiously whizzed around. He dodged people who were walking throughout the sidewalk. One unfortunate old woman who wasn’t paying attention wound up falling backwards and losing her bag of groceries as the boy zoomed by and narrowly averted a collision.
Bruce leapt over the old woman, determined to catch the rollerblade boy. Bruce turned the corner, following the trail that was left behind. In the distance, there was a wide flight of stairs leading to some kind of government building. The boy carefully climbed the stairs, step by painful step, and lost valuable time. This was Bruce’s chance.
The boy’s heart raced as he struggled to climb. He needed to be careful not to slip. Not only to avoid injury, but to avoid the crazy man chasing him. He held on to a rail in the middle of the wide stairs. He looked down at the man, who was now only about thirty steps away and closing in.
Bruce flew up the stairs. The boy was almost within reach and already in earshot. “Just give me the purse!” The boy panicked and dropped the purse. He ducked under the handrail and rolled to the other end of the stairs. He failed. Bruce was too fast.
Bruce stood on the same step as the boy and picked up the purse. The boy was physically and emotionally spent. He was young, plainly still in grade school. He had to have been about 10 years old. Bruce, out of breath, asked, “Where are your parents?”
The boy responded, “I don’t have parents.”
Bruce shook his head, not understanding.
“They’re dead.”
Sympathy grew within Bruce. The kid was just trying to get by, doing it the only way he knew how. It wasn’t like Bruce hadn’t found himself in any trouble at that age. He would give him some money. Bruce put his hand in his pocket to grab his wallet. When the boy saw this, he panicked. He didn’t know what the man was going to pull out. A knife? The boy turned around and leapt onto a concrete slab that ran parallel with the stairs. It was as a large, extravagant, concrete handrail. It was wide enough to provide enough space for the boy to easily balance on. This concrete rail ran all the way down to the beginning of the stairs and would work as a ramp to get away.
“Hey!” Bruce yelled. When he saw the fixture the boy was sliding down, he realized one thing:
This wasn’t good.
The fixture went down with the stairs but would inevitably rocket the boy into the street, where he would be lucky not to get hit by a car. And if he didn’t soar into the street, he would wipeout onto the stairs at dizzying speeds.
There was no good ending to this.
The boy realized it too. A sense of dread came over him. He couldn’t stop. His feet wobbled as he flew down the concrete handrail. The wind blew in his face, taunting him. What would he do? He had precious few seconds to decide. He would have to jump onto the street and try to avoid the cars. Maybe he would get lucky. But as he looked at the streets, there were dozens of cars crossing in front of him every second. There would be no luck. Maybe he would try to land on top of a car. The stairs next to him flew by. He was moving faster than ever.
Bruce, with the purse over his shoulder, ran down the stairs. He watched, terrified, as the boy torpedoed himself into the street. Goosebumps popped up on his skin. He had seen a sight like this before; he had felt this helpless feeling before. The night when Rachel Ixley was killed by an oncoming truck. This sight was eerily similar. Bruce watched as the boy came within feet of the street. This was it.
“God help him,” Bruce uttered.
Traffic relentlessly flowed through. The boy launched from his ramp and was sent flying through the air towards the street. Bruce held his breath. So did the boy.
The boy was airborne. He was fated to meet head-on with a car that would obliterate him. But miraculously, he was whipped backwards, away from the street. All his forward momentum was halted as his body contorted sideways. Bruce was shocked. The boy seemed to be tackled by an invisible force that landed him on his side.
Impossible.
The boy’s eyes were slammed shut. When he opened them, he saw he was on his side on the sidewalk next to the street. How did that happen? He looked around. There were people who looked at him with amazement. No one could discern what just happened.
It was a miracle.
&nb
sp; Bruce ran down the stairs and approached the boy. He knelt down and comforted him.
“Are you okay?”
The boy was dazed. “Yeah…”
“How did you do that?”
“I… I don’t know what happened. It felt like I was pushed backwards.”
A woman approached, “You should thank your guardian angel. He’s looking out for you.”
Bruce looked around. A couple yards away, hidden under the bushes, he saw something that caught his attention: a green hat. Bruce squinted as he tried to get a better look at it. He then remembered where he had seen that hat. What just happened became clear to Bruce. It wasn’t a guardian angel that saved the boy:
It was a repentant truck driver.
“Thank you,” Bruce whispered to himself. If the truck driver was anywhere near, perhaps he could hear him. And perhaps he could finally forgive himself for what he had done. Bruce looked back toward the green hat. Naturally, it was gone. Bruce smiled.
“What’s your name?” Bruce asked the boy.
“Mikey.”
“I’m Bruce,” he said as he patted him on the back. “You shouldn’t steal, Mikey. And maybe you should give up rollerblading.” Mikey nodded. Bruce turned Mikey’s backward hat forward.
A voice rang out amongst the crowd that had compiled around them. “Should we call the police?”
Mikey’s eyes widened and his ears perked. Calling the police would be bad.
“No,” Bruce proclaimed.
“But he stole that purse!”
“No he didn’t,” Bruce said, “He’s with me. We were just playing around.”
Mikey looked at Bruce with great surprise. Huh?
The crowd implored him to call the police. Bruce could hear them whispering and insisting police involvement. They vilified Mikey, demanding justice.
Bruce stood up and yelled, “You all need to mind your own business! If you don’t get out of here, I’ll give you a reason to call the police.” Bruce gritted his teeth, practically growling at the crowd.
The crowd began to disperse. It was as simple as that.
Bruce held his hand to Mikey, who was still sitting on the ground. “Come on kid, let’s go.”
Bruce walked to his car. He just finished his meeting with X at the Russell Corporation skyscraper. As Bruce approached his car, he saw Mikey sitting in the passenger seat. They smiled at each other and Bruce nodded at him.
Bruce opened the door and shifted into the driver’s seat. Mikey asked, “How did it go?”
“Perfectly. He bought every word of it.”
Mikey was older now. A teenager. He was taller, more muscular, and had a deeper voice. Star of the football team, he was becoming as athletically skilled as Bruce. Bruce noticed Mikey wearing a backwards hat. “What did I tell you about that, Mikey?”
Mikey turned his hat forward. “Sorry, Dad.”
Bruce buckled his seatbelt and started the car. Mikey asked, “So what now?”
“We get ready. We’ll bring him in. And then we’ll kill X and the disciples.”
Mikey smiled with satisfaction. Bruce interjected, “You won’t be killing anybody. You’re just helping. After next week, this will all be over.”
28
Over a year before Bruce’s grand plan with Mikey, life was good. While things were still sticky between him and Chad, Bruce had succeeded in settling in as a teacher. He was the polar opposite of when he started teaching and couldn’t retain the students’ attention more than five minutes. Now, they respected him, engaged in conversation, and constantly proved Chad wrong with their intellectual curiosity.
The school day was over and the Dennett family was at home. Bruce was downstairs investigating the contents of the refrigerator while Mikey sat in his room and diligently completed his math homework. Kristen lay in bed and read a book. All was normal in the Dennett household.
Or so it seemed.
Over the past few weeks, Mikey noticed a trend that seemed out of place. On certain nights, his dad would leave for a few hours and casually come back home. Where was he going? Bruce never mentioned anything about it to anybody. Maybe he was getting drunk at the bars, hitting up strip clubs, selling drugs… the possibilities were endless.
Tonight Mikey was going to find out.
Of course, only if his dad cooperated and left the house again. Mikey sat at a desk in his room. A small lamp pointed at his math homework, providing his only source of light. Mikey tapped his pencil on the desk. Wait. Wait. Wait.
Finally, it happened. Bruce yelled to Kristen, “Going out! Be back in a little bit!” Whenever he was going to his sneaky place, he always yelled something to that effect. If he was just going to the gas station, getting some milk, or doing something innocent, Bruce didn’t say a word. He just left. So tonight, he wasn’t just going out. No, he was going somewhere fishy.
When Mikey heard Bruce yell, he threw open the window to his room and tossed out a rope that was tied to the windowpane. The rope flapped to the grass below and waited for Mikey to climb down. Secure and sturdy, it would easily handle his weight.
Mikey didn’t arrive at this day unprepared.
After climbing down the rope, Mikey ran around to the side of the house. The sound of Bruce’s starting car filled the air. He would be zipping out of the driveway any second. Mikey had precious little time. He pulled a black tarp off of a motorcycle that leaned against the side of the house. He had borrowed it from a friend at school in exchange for test answers. Bruce and Kristen barely ever went to the side of the house so it didn’t require an extensive hiding. Just a simple tarp did the trick. The tiny motorcycle bordered on motorbike. It wasn’t a powerful machine, but it would get him where he needed to go.
Tonight was the night Mikey would find out what his dad was up to.
It was many years earlier, when Bruce had not yet become one of X’s disciples. Mikey had been on a long journey from street rat to Bruce’s son. Bruce and Kristen often disagreed about the extent to which they should help young Mikey. At first, she was against helping him. He did steal her purse after all. But Bruce felt a vast responsibility to help him. Why? It was a question even he didn’t have the answer to. It could’ve been the fact that Mikey’s parents were gone. It could’ve been the fact that saving Mikey was the truck driver’s penance. But most likely, it was that Mikey reminded him of himself. Defiant, intelligent, and athletic, Mikey’s personality was a mirror image of Bruce’s confident-sarcastic self.
The two formed a naturally strong bond. They had officially been father and son for little over two years. It was symbiotic: Bruce was the father Mikey lacked and Mikey provided a young, energetic attitude Bruce had been gradually losing. It took some time for Bruce to get used to being called ‘Dad’, but he learned to embrace it. Kristen eventually got used to being a mother too, once commenting that, “He tried to steal my purse, but he ended up stealing my heart.” Eck. She just couldn’t control her level of corny.
Bruce had taken up Mr. Ixley’s offer and was given a teaching job. He stood at the front of a small classroom, housing roughly 20 students. An ordinary chalkboard stood behind him, with little written on it. Bruce wore a ruffled collared shirt and tie. He maintained a semi-clean appearance. Most of his students thought he was crazy.
“Desiderius Erasmus,” Bruce declared, looking at the empty faces of his students. “Can anyone tell me the significance of Desiderius Erasmus?”
No hands shot in the air. Bruce wasn’t surprised. For sixth graders, they had no intellectual curiosity. The students were more concerned with videogames, sports, and members of the opposite sex. They stared at him blankly, mostly wondering when recess would arrive. Bruce pointed at one of the girls, actively engaged in twirling her hair. “How about you, Karen?”
She shrugged her shoulders, never taking her eyes off her hair.
“Nothing? Did you read any of the handouts?”
“Nah,” she responded with a mouth full of gum.
Bruce conti
nued in spite of the low interest from the students. “Erasmus had a central disagreement with Martin Luther on the idea of Free Will. I’m sure you remember the guy who nailed the 95 theses to the door of a Catholic Church, ultimately starting the Protestant Reformation…” Bruce looked at the students staring into space. “Actually, you probably don’t remember that. Anyway, that was Martin Luther, and he believed we had no Free Will. That we were instead controlled by God’s will. To Luther, man had no choice at all. So Karen, that means that no matter what I do, God has already decided if any of this will ever make sense to you.”
Karen, with the palm of hand planted on the side of her face, rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Mr. Dennett.”
Bruce continued, “And does anybody know what Mr. Erasmus believed?”
A hand rose into the air. Bruce almost stumbled over in astonishment. Someone actually raised his hand. Young, fat little Joseph. Bruce knew that boy had potential.
“Yes, go ahead, Joseph. What do you think?”
Joseph asked in a monotone voice, “Umm… Can I use the bathroom?”
Bruce’s bubble didn’t just burst. It exploded. “Is it an emergency?”
Joseph furiously nodded his big head.
“Alright then go, get out of here.” Bruce was disgusted. He stood corrected; Joseph had no potential. He was just fat.
As Joseph ran out, Bruce continued, “Desiderius Erasmus believed man had to have free will. And that we would be rewarded or punished based on our choices.”
A hand sprung up. It was Karen’s. Probably had to go to the bathroom too. “Yes, Karen?”
Karen sat up straight, folded her hands and said, “I agree with Erasmus.”
Bruce tilted his head in surprise. A student engaging in class discussion? And Karen, no less. Miracles do happen. “And why do you think that, Karen?”
“Because God doesn’t tell me what to do. I do what I want.”
“Interesting. Does anybody else have an opinion?”
