Watched

by C. J. Lyons

  I run east, onto the neighbor’s land, cut down the lane between their fields to the road. All the neighbors are outside, watching. The fire trucks, two cop cars, and an ambulance create a light show. The police are pushing people back—more people driving past are stopping. Everyone in Smithfield knows and loves my uncle. Women are sobbing and I wonder if they found a body.

  I move closer but stay at the back of the crowd, the hood of my sweatshirt pulled up, so no one can see my face or ask questions. I listen as I watch the firemen do a rapid deployment. They’re angry, arguing with the chief about going in. They know whose house this is, have been here for cookouts and parties.

  The chief won’t risk their lives. Not when it’s obvious to anyone that no one can be alive inside. He orders an exterior attack only.

  There’s a small explosion—small to me and the firemen—but the crowd gasps and steps back. All but one man. Across the way from me, I realize there’s one man not watching the blaze and the drama. He’s scanning the crowd.

  He senses me watching him and pivots, eyes only for me. He’s tall, shaved head, narrow face, the kind of guy you’d never notice. Except for his eyes. Even with the flashing lights casting more shadows than illumination, I notice his eyes. Staring right at me.

  My instinct for survival finally kicks in, but it’s too late. He raises his hand, finger cocked like it’s a gun, aims at me. I stumble back, my feet tangled as I want to run but also know better than to turn my back on a predator like him. He smiles, brings his index finger to his lips, kisses it, then lowers it like he’s holstering a gun. Bang, you’re dead.

  I scuttle back, using the ambulance as cover to hide behind. Next time I dare to look, he’s gone. Could it have been King? Or one of his minions—the man who came after Janey, maybe?

  I edge around the crowd, hoping to get another glimpse of him, see where he goes, what kind of car he’s driving. A dangerous man like that, I don’t want him out of my sight—and I sure as hell don’t want to be in his.

  I can’t find him, but I do spot a sheriff’s deputy at the drainage ditch that runs alongside the road. He’s found something. Waves another cop over as he shines his flashlight down into the ditch.

  The second cop takes a photo with his phone. “Best secure it,” he says, eyeing the crowd and chaos. I’m afraid to see what they discovered—it can’t be my uncle, can it? No, they’d take a lot more photos, be calling the ambulance crew, making a big deal.

  I stick my hands in my pockets and just as the deputy scrambles up out of the ditch holding something in his gloved hand, I realize what they’ve found. Now I know what felt wrong when I ran out of the trailer. Now I know why the stranger was smiling at me.

  My jacket. The pockets are empty. The gun is gone.

  • • •

  Miranda and her mom dragged her mom’s large whiteboards out to the living room and filled in all the data points Miranda had discovered over the past two years. Her mom colored the information with bright markers, drawing arrows back and forth, adding different colored stars alongside information, making connections that Miranda never realized before.

  That was her mom for you. Miranda missed the old days back in Pittsburgh when they’d have to eat in the kitchen because her mom’s whiteboards had taken over the dining room. Mom would fill them with pictures and quotes that inspired her as she created her “word salads.”

  That’s what Mom called them. Her professors at Pitt and the editors of the poetry reviews that published them called them “transcendent” and “illuminating” works of art.

  Miranda sighed, regretting once again this murky, dismal wasteland she’d dragged her parents into. They didn’t deserve this, living like this, fighting to just pay the bills when they had art to create and bad guys to put away and lives to live.

  “Mom,” she said from where she sat cross-legged on the floor, her laptop balanced on her knees.

  “Yes, dear,” her mom replied absently, darting from one corner of the board to put a big purple circle around a date and email address of one of King’s cybersmash posts. She stood back, taking in the big picture.

  “Thank you.” Miranda realized she might never be able to tell her parents that enough, not even if she lived to be a hundred.

  When she left Ariel behind, she’d given up on self-pity, on being a victim. But she’d also shut out gratitude: at being alive, at being blessed with parents as great as hers, at being able to do something instead of suffering in silence like Jesse had been forced to in order to protect his family.

  Her mom turned around, looked down at Miranda with a smile, oblivious to the purple smudge the marker left on her cheek. “My only regret is that you didn’t come to us sooner, sweetheart. I wish it hadn’t come to this, this—” She shook her head, like she always did when the perfect word danced just beyond her grasp. Before she could wrestle it into focus, the door opened and Dad returned.

  He didn’t look happy.

  “What happened?” Miranda asked, jumping to her feet. “Did you find him? Was he there? Do we have enough to take to the FBI?”

  Dad just frowned and shook his head. He sank onto the couch, then got back up again when Mom glanced at his gun. She was okay with guns in the house, was a pretty good shot herself, but preferred them safely locked away from their somewhat crazy and suicidal daughter.

  Miranda wanted to tell them it was okay—she was okay…but she couldn’t lie to them. Not anymore.

  Dad went to their bedroom to secure his weapon and returned wearing more comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt instead of his uniform.

  “It wasn’t him,” he said before Miranda could ask.

  She shook her head in disbelief. “No. It has to be.”

  “I’m telling you—it can’t be him.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I met the man.”

  Her mom lasered in on that. “George. You didn’t. Was that wise?”

  He sank back onto the sofa. Mom joined Miranda on the floor, sitting cross-legged, chin resting on her palm.

  “I just had to see him. For myself.” He sounded as disappointed as Miranda felt. Kerstater had to be King; he just had to be. “So I used a pretext to get inside. Said we were following up on a hit-and-skip fender bender on campus and had a partial plate that matched his.”

  “So you saw him?” Miranda persisted. “You actually met him? I don’t understand—”

  “His brother answered the door. Howard. Explained that the car is registered in Leonard’s name, but Leonard can’t drive anymore.”

  Miranda frowned, rocking in place. She didn’t give a damn about registrations. Her mother wrapped her arms around her, squeezing tight to soothe her.

  “George—” her mom said, a warning in her voice.

  Dad rubbed his knuckles against his eyes and Miranda knew he was just as upset as she was. “It couldn’t be Kerstater because he was in a coma, almost dead when you, when your event”—his euphemism for half-naked pictures of her being captured and distributed across the world—“occurred. Hit by a car while riding his bike at night. The guy’s paralyzed, practically a vegetable.”

  “But, but—” Miranda’s mind reeled in shock. It had to be him. Logic said…

  Mom hugged her harder. Dad slid off the couch and joined them on the floor, wrapping his arms around both her and Mom. Her favorite kind of hug. What was she thinking, running away from all this? Pushing them away?

  “It’s okay, honey,” he said. “We’ll get him. But right now, don’t you think the more important thing is that we help your friend, Jesse?”

  She nodded. Of course, he was right. How could she be so selfish?

  “Where is he?” Dad asked. “I thought you said he was coming over.”

  “He said he was. I haven’t been able to reach him.” She gathered in a breath, straightened, their arms falling aw
ay. “Let me try him again.”

  Mom stood gracefully, in one fluid motion, without using her hands. “It’s too late to cook. I’ll call for a pizza.” She held a hand to Dad, helping him up from the floor.

  His knees creaked, and he definitely wasn’t as graceful as Mom. But it was good to see them working together—with their jobs and Mom’s school and alternating shifts to watch over Miranda, they hardly ever saw each other anymore, much less ate together.

  For a moment, they felt like a family again—all together, moving in the same direction. Miranda hadn’t realized how much she’d missed that until now.

  Then she opened her computer back up, ready to use the VOIP to call Jesse’s home number. Saw a Google Alert with his uncle’s name. Breaking news, from a local TV station.

  She clicked on the video. Gasped. “Turn on the TV,” she told her parents even as she frantically tried Jesse’s cell. No answer.

  “What’s wrong?” her mom asked. Her father clicked the TV on. The local station had just started their evening news broadcast. The graphic behind the reporter was a house on fire.

  Miranda stared at the image. She knew that house—had used Google’s Street View to look at it a hundred times before taking the risk of contacting Jesse. “That’s his house. Jesse’s house is on fire.”

  31

  Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run, I tell myself even as my feet slam the pavement and my body’s leaning forward, wanting to sprint. I back into the crowd, trying hard not to make eye contact with anyone as I work my way to the outer edge, away from my uncle’s fellow firefighters, away from the cops.

  My truck is blocked in by fire apparatus and half-drowned by water from the hoses, so my only hope of escape is on foot. I have no idea where. All I know is that I need to find a safe place to hide.

  Just as I think I’m clear, someone grabs my arm. I spin. It’s the stranger, the one who knew about the gun.

  The expression on his face, lit by the fire and the police lights, is like he’s praying. Eyes wide, a weird smile. A kid who woke up on Christmas Day to find everything he wished for under the tree.

  Except he’s not a kid. He’s old—older than my uncle or my mom, forty at least. Then I realize where I’ve seen that expression before: on King’s clients’ faces.

  I jerk away. He reaches for my arm again, his eyes narrowing in anger. His other hand holds a knife. The same knife from the video yesterday.

  He takes my hand and twists it back hard, stepping behind me, pulling my thumb with him. The pain is excruciating, lightning blazing up my arm. I have no choice but to lean over before my wrist and elbow break.

  The only place I can look is down. And I see his shoes: black leather, tassels with tiny horseshoes.

  This is the man who almost killed Janey.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” I ask as he propels me forward, down the road, toward a dark-colored car.

  He says nothing, only wrenches my thumb harder. I can’t help it. I cry out in agony. He slows, and I can tell he’s looking back, making sure no one heard me. He doesn’t want to get caught.

  I take advantage of his split second of distraction and pivot all my weight in the direction that will twist my hand free, getting one foot between his to trip him up and yelling as loud as I can the two words that will get the attention of any firefighter or police officer, “Man down!”

  To my surprise it works. He drops his hand and I stumble free, tumbling into the pavement. I block my fall with one palm, push off again, and come up facing him.

  His smile hasn’t faded. But the knife has vanished. The hand he raises toward me is empty, just one finger pointing my direction.

  “There he is,” he shouts as he backs into the crowd. “He did it! That’s Jesse Alexander. He killed his uncle!”

  The crowd whirls almost as one. Cops shove their way through, all eyes on me. Bright lights hit me, pinning me in their glare: TV cameras.

  I stand frozen for a heartbeat. Then my instinct for survival kicks in, and I take off, running.

  • • •

  They forgot about pizza. Miranda and her mom sat in front of the TV, Miranda’s laptop on the coffee table between them, flipping channels, trying to stay updated, while her dad put his uniform back on and went to the scene to see if he could learn anything from the first responders.

  “It’s not good,” he reported when he called an hour later. “The house is gone. And they found a body.”

  Miranda’s mom reached a hand to grab the phone and take it off speaker but Miranda stopped her. “It’s okay. Tell me everything. I’ll find out sooner or later anyway.”

  Her mom nodded but wrapped her arm around Miranda. “Go ahead, George.”

  “They think it’s his uncle. He’s a firefighter, so everyone’s pretty upset. Plus…” He trailed off as voices could be heard in the background. There was the sound of a car door slamming; then, it was quiet. “Plus the body was handcuffed. And they found a gun in a ditch in front of the house.”

  Miranda stiffened. Jesse said he had a gun. She should have found a way to stop him, to help him. She pounded a fist against her thigh, counting the blows. One two three…not enough…four five six seven eight nine… “They’re sure? I mean, it couldn’t be Jesse? Dead?”

  The last word came out choked. Her mom hugged her tighter. Miranda wanted to run and hide, lock herself in her room, lock out the rest of the world, block out her dad’s answer. It took all her strength to stay there, to wait and hope…hope, that nasty four-letter word.

  If Jesse died because of her, how could she go on living?

  “No,” Dad’s voice made it through the panic spiraling through her brain. “They don’t think the body belongs to your friend.” His words hung there and she knew there was more. “Honey, let me talk to your mom.”

  “No.” She grabbed the receiver before her mom could reach it. “No. Tell me everything. Now.”

  “I’m on my way home. It can wait.”

  “Dad, whatever you have to say, it can’t be worse than what I can imagine. They think Jesse did it, don’t they? They think he killed his uncle?”

  There was a long pause. “Yes. He was seen with his uncle at the house before the fire started, then afterward he was spotted running away.”

  “Is Jesse there? Did they arrest him?”

  “No. But they have his truck. They found, they think…there’s evidence that Jesse is the arsonist who started all those fires these past few months. They have city, county, and state police out searching for him and might soon involve ATF.”

  “Because of the arsons?” her mom asked.

  “Yes. Honey, if you have a way to reach him, he needs to turn himself in. Because his uncle, he was a hero to these people, one of their family. I don’t need to tell you how dangerous it could be for him.”

  “You mean, like shoot to kill or something?” Miranda broke free of her mom’s arms and stood up, clutching the phone to her ear despite the fact that it was still on speaker and her dad’s voice was plenty loud. “No. Dad, no. He didn’t do it. I know he didn’t.”

  “Then all the better that he turn himself in before things get worse. I’ll help him any way I can, you know that, but—”

  To her surprise, Miranda’s mom took the phone from her and said, “Come home, George. We’ll decide what we do next together.” She arched an eyebrow at Miranda with a look that said she was taking a chance on Miranda doing the right thing. “As a family.”

  “I’m on my way.” He hung up.

  Miranda’s mom set the phone down. Miranda gave her another hug. “Thanks, Mom. I won’t let you down.”

  “It’s not me you need to be worried about. It’s Jesse.”

  32

  If I ever have to retrace my steps, I couldn’t tell you how I got here. I remember cutting through the woods across the street from my un
cle’s. Heading down the hill, staying off the road. There were dogs barking as I ran through the trailer park, babies crying behind curtains and TVs flickering. Then I was on Pine Street—not the nicest part of Smithfield with its condemned properties and crowded row houses, more bars than streetlights. I crossed the railroad tracks, hit the warehouses on Broad Avenue, and realized I’d reached the old bottling plant turned into student housing for the college.

  That’s when it hits me—I can’t outrun the cops. Not forever. But I can hide in plain sight on campus, surrounded by a thousand other guys.

  Smithfield College is an oasis of hope in an otherwise failing city. It sits between the warehouses along the railroad tracks and an old neighborhood with nice, big houses where most of the professors live, while the far edge of campus backs up to State Game Lands that lead up the mountain.

  I need a place to hide, I need to call Miranda, and I need to get the recordings from the pen to her.

  I stop running. There are classroom buildings across from me, windows dark. I jog between them, my stomach gnawing. A little food wouldn’t hurt, either. The library is closed for the night, but the student union is open.

  There’s a guy and a girl heading inside it just as I arrive at the door. The guy gives me a nod, as if I belong there, even holds the door open long enough for me to reach it. Once inside, they go one way, toward a room with music coming from it. I stand tall and, ignoring the overhead TVs hanging at every corner, most filled with student events but a couple tuned to CNN and local news, saunter to the food court’s vending machine area.

  Five minutes later, I’m sitting in a shadowy corner, my back to the wall at the far row of computers, where I found one with its browser open, account still active. As I wolf down a microwaved cheeseburger and bottle of milk, I send Miranda an IM.

  Griffin: Safe to call?

  Miranda: You OK?

  Before I can type an answer she calls the cell. “Jesse!” Her voice is breathless and hushed, like she’s worried someone will hear.

  I hate that she’s calling me Jesse again. I prefer being her hero, Griffin.