2
Well, that’s my story as honest as I can tell it. I don’t know if I feel better but I do feel something, and after everything that’s happened—I’ll take what I can get. Right now it’s late and time for bed, but before I go, I will leave you with this: When I was a boy, and all the monsters in my head stalked me, the grownups in my life told me not to worry; that monsters were not real. They’re all in your head, silly boy—merely figments of my imagination. Don’t believe them, don’t you dare, because if I’ve learned anything in this life, it’s that grownups lie. I assure you, the monsters are very real. Tonight, when I lie my head down, I will sleep like the proverbial baby, because I no longer fear the boogeyman in the closet or the beast hiding in the shadows, because the monsters in this world—in this room—don’t hide under the bed, they sleep peacefully between the sheets.
Book Two
The Perfect Life
Jeremy Peterson
CHAPTER ONE
Mr. Bleaker
Present day …
“What is your name?”
The driver’s words were flat and emotionless, and the car was too dark for the passenger to read his facial expression when he asked.
“No names. That’s not how we do it.”
The driver gripped the steering wheel tight with both hands while the road disappeared into the darkness behind them.
“Can I tell you my name?” the driver asked.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Silence filled the car and they exchanged no names. Outside the sedan’s tinted windows, the city fell away, and the open plains of Nebraska took its place.
“I usually don’t travel this far from home,” the passenger said. He was growing fidgety in his seat, and the driver noticed it with a smile. The passenger continued, “You’re paying by the hour you know … and you’ll have to drive me back.” He was nervous and there was no disguising it.
“Don’t worry,” the driver said. “You’ll get everything you’re owed. Maybe even a little extra.”
What a tease.
“This is far enough … there, over there!” The passenger pointed to a dirt road off the highway. It was fast approaching and the driver had to pump the brakes, barely making the turn. The passenger let out helpless yelp as he reached for the dashboard. Panting, he said, “There, behind the trees. That looks good, right?”
Almost, the driver thought.
He drove another mile down the county road until he could no longer see the taillights on the highway behind them.
“This is far enough,” the passenger pleaded, his voice cracking slightly. “You wanted to know my name earlier.” The car came to a stop. “It’s Robby.”
The driver turned off the headlights but allowed the car to idle on the side of the desolate country road. It was silent, save for the sound of crickets outside and the faint crackle of the car stereo, which was now picking up nothing but static.
How far from town do you have to be to lose the radio signal, Robby wondered. He tried and failed to control his breathing.
“Robby is a nice name. I like that.”
No response from Robby in the passenger seat. He rubbed his palms on his much too short cut-off denim shorts.
“It’s gonna be okay, Robby,” the driver said.
Robby smiled feebly and took a deep breath. “Let’s get started then,” he said.
“Yes, that sounds good. Let’s get started.”
Robby unlatched his seatbelt and adjusted the radio. The only thing he could find was a classic rock station: Credence Clearwater Revival.
“That’ll have to do,” he said. He looked at the man behind the wheel. Robby guessed he was in his mid-thirties, maybe younger, with short brown hair and matching brown eyes.
He isn’t bad looking, he thought.
The sharp angles of his face made him look mysterious and possibly even sad, but dangerous? No, Robby didn’t think so. He almost chuckled at how nervous he had been moments earlier. It was like his first time all over again. “You wanted to tell me your name before,” Robby said, feigning shyness, “and I cut you off. That was rude … and I’m sorry.”
Now it was the drivers turn to be nervous, but he hid it well. It was not his first time either, but it had been a while.
“You want to know my name?” The driver asked, smiling. “Come over here and I’ll tell you.”
Robby chewed on his lower lip and went into his act. He slid across the seat and reached over the driver’s lap. With a snap, he unlatched the driver’s seatbelt and looked into the man’s eyes. “You gonna tell me your name or what?”
The driver gently grabbed Robby’s shoulders and guided him slowly back into his seat. With his left hand, he reached past Robby’s waist for the lever that would recline the seat. The driver pulled the lever and Robby fell back, giggling like a schoolboy as he stared into the man’s face. Robby was honestly excited, and he hadn’t expected that. The man straddled him in the reclined seat. Credence had turned to The Doors and Jim Morrison was wailing about breaking through to the other side. The driver leaned into Robby’s face. “My name is Mr. Bleaker.”
Robby’s smile faltered, but only a little. “Ooh, so formal. What now, Mr. Bleaker?”
Mr. Bleaker smiled wide; his lips curling back to expose grinding teeth.
“This.” Mr. Bleaker wrapped his hands around Robby’s throat and squeezed. The man (boy, really) froze for a fraction of a second as the reality of the absurd situation set in. When that first paralyzing moment passed, he kicked his legs and bucked his hips, but if there had ever been a small window for his escape then it had already slammed shut. Robby’s strength was waning fast and he knew it was over.
So fast, he thought, it can’t be over already can it?
But it was. And he knew it. With eyes wide and pleading, Robby stared into the face of Mr. Bleaker … and there they would remain forever.
CHAPTER TWO
Father and Son
Three years ago…
Brandon revved the motorcycle’s engine and smiled at his son who returned the gesture in earnest. The exhaust billowed from the muffler and filled the garage, despite the open overhead door. They both batted at the air in front of their faces and laughed.
“Oh yeah!” Brandon said, completely aware that his voice was lost amidst the screaming engine.
“What?” his son, William, asked.
Brandon shook his head and mouthed the words, ‘never mind.’
He gunned the engine once more and made a few more adjustments. Finally, he shut the motorcycle off and slapped William on the back. “Not too bad, eh?”
The young boy nodded enthusiastically. “It’s awesome, dad! When can I drive it?”
Brandon laughed. “Just as soon as you turn sixteen and get your license.”
William’s smile turned upside down. “Ah, come on, Dad. I gotta practice. How am I going to pass my test if I don’t practice? Besides, I’ve rode with you a million times.”
“Oh no, your Mom would kill me if something happened to you. You know she hates these things.”
“She hates everything,” William said, hanging his head.
“No she doesn’t. She loves you, and she doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
“She’d love it if I got hurt. Then she could blame that on you, too.”
Brandon put both hands on his son’s shoulders and pulled him close. They were face to face, no more than eight inches apart. “Stop it, Will. That’s not fair. She loves you … she loves us both. And whatever is going on between us has nothing to do with you. Do you understand?”
William lowered his head without saying a word.
“I said, do you understand?” his father repeated.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir,” William said, defeated but with a hint of a smile on his face.
“Good. Now grab me a rag so I can clean up that oil drip before we both get put on the Ten Most Wanted li
st.”
Father and son continued polishing the bike and cleaning up the mess that they had made in the garage. With music blasting from the Rock radio station, it was becoming a perfect Friday evening in suburban New Mexico. With their work coming to an end, Brandon turned down the stereo.
“Come here, bud. There’s something I need to tell you.”
William put away the can of carburetor cleaner and engine degreaser that he’d been carrying and walked reluctantly towards his father. Will had been hoping that if they stayed busy, maybe he could have avoided this conversation, which he could sense brewing for a while; hoping against hope that it would disappear altogether and a miracle would happen between his mom and dad.
“Come on, son. I need to talk to you.”
William approached dutifully, knowing the bad news was coming, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He sat on an overturned five-gallon bucket.
“You know I love you, right?”
William looked up and nodded his head. His dad returned the gesture. “Good. Never forget that. Your mother and I will always love you. That will never change, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” William said, crossing his arms.
Brandon took the hint and mentally prepared himself to get down to the real business.
“I’m gonna be gone for a little while.”
“Where are you—”
Brandon raised his hand, “I’m coming back. This is short term … I promise.” He stood up and paced the dusty garage floor. “It’s been a tough year, kiddo. Your mom …” He stopped pacing and shook his head. “Me and your mom just need a little time … a little space. I don’t expect you to like it. I don’t want to go, but I have to.”
“It sucks and it pisses me off,” William said.
Brandon sighed. “I understand that you’re mad. You know I don’t like you talking like that, but I understand … and you’re right, it does suck, but it is what it is.”
William snickered, his frustration palpable. Brandon did his best to ignore it and continue, “Your mother and I are going to do everything we can to make this work, but if we can’t … well, we will always love you and we are both going to be there for you always. And I mean always. Got it?”
After an awkward minute passed, William asked, “When are you leaving?”
Brandon looked at his son and saw a tear trickle down his cheek. “Tomorrow evening.”
William wiped the tear away and looked at the floor. “How long are you going to be gone?”
“Not long,” Brandon said, forcing up a cheerful voice that didn’t sound cheerful at all. “A couple weeks … month at the most. I’m gonna go see your Grandma. You remember Grandma Grant?”
William only stared at him. Brandon nodded, knowingly, “Yeah, It’s been quite a few years. You were probably too young to remember. Anyway, I didn’t see my dad before he passed away, and I don’t want to make the same mistake with my mom. Your gramma—my mom—moved to an assisted-living place up in Colorado, and I’m gonna see her while I still can. But I’ll be right back. It’s going to work out, bud. I’ll get to see grandma and your mom, and I will get the time and space we need to get ourselves back on track.” Brandon realized he was giving a speech and felt William was beginning to tune him out, but he couldn’t help himself. “But either way, kiddo, both your mom and I will always be here for you, and we will always love you. Don’t ever forget that.”
William raised his head and smiled sadly at his dad. “Yeah … sure.”
CHAPTER THREE
Monday Morning
Present Day…
William sat low in his desk, resting his feet on the seat in front of him. The hood from his sweatshirt hung over his eyes, and if it was not for the slight rise and fall of his chest, then one could have mistaken him for dead.
“Will, hello. Earth to William,” Mr. Woodley said, raising his voice. He sat up from his own desk at the head of the class and stared at his student. “I said, what does the conch signify … in your humble opinion?”
The pencil hanging loosely between William’s fingers dropped to the linoleum floor. Several of his classmates chuckled. Mr. Woodley, however, did not. He closed his copy of The Lord of the Flies and slapped it loudly on his desk. Most of the students jumped at the noise, including William, who snorted once and raised his head, wiping the dribble of drool from his chin with the back of his hand.
Mr. Woodley stood up from his desk, subconsciously checking the lines in his tailored khaki slacks as he did so. He approached William’s desk. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Grant, did we wake you?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Will said, not bothering to make eye contact with his teacher. More chuckling from the students, and this time, Mr. Grant smiled as well.
“I thought you’d like The Lord of the Flies, Will.”
“Really? I guess you shouldn’t have done that,” Will said, still looking down at his empty desk top.
The room was silent. “No hoods in my class.” Mr. Woodley said, finally. “Take it off.”
Will slid the hood from his head and looked up at his teacher. They glared at each other and the rest of the class held their breath.
Mr. Woodley asked his question again. “William, what does the conch stand for? What does the author want that conch to symbolize?”
“You know I’m not reading the damn book. I haven’t even taken it home.”
Mr. Woodley approached Will’s desk and leaned over it, hands clenched into tight fists. “I saw you reading a copy of the damn book two years ago. This tough guy act is actually quite pathetic.”
Will sat up in his desk. “Can’t you tell you’re ruining this book for everybody?” He motioned to his classmates who sat quiet and watched the confrontation with wide-eyed fascination. “It’s a book about a bunch of kids on their own. No parents. No rules. Why do you always have to ruin a good story with all of this bullshit about symbolism? The conch represents civilization … social order … blah blah blah. It’s just a goddamned horn. Who gives a shit what it symbolizes? Look around you. Nobody here does. But please, Mr. Woodley, keep talking about symbolism. Keep talking and eventually none of us will ever care to read another word.”
“Stand up,” Mr. Woodley ordered. “I said stand up! You think you’re pretty smart don’t you? You’ve got a lot to learn about respect, Mr. Grant. Surprising considering your dad was a marine.”
Will stood up and looked into his teachers face. “My dad is a marine. And you’d best keep his name outta your mouth.”
The teacher took a step forward, the two of them standing chest to chest. Will was only fifteen but he was tall, like his dad. “Do you think your father would approve of the way you’re acting? Disrespecting me and your fellow classmates?”
“Are you done?” Will asked.
“I’m done.” Mr. Woodley sighed. “Grab your things and get out of here. Straight to Principal Paulsen’s office. You know the way by now.”
Will grabbed his backpack and draped it over his shoulder, but not before grabbing his copy of The Lord of the Flies. He held it out, and when Mr. Woodley reached for it, William dropped it onto the desk. It landed with a dull thud. “I’ve got my own copy at home. See you later, Mr. W.” He had to walk the long way around, as Mr. Woodley did not move to accommodate his passage.
The teacher glanced around the room, noticing the look on each student’s face. He didn’t like what he saw. “What would your dad say?” The teacher said, desperately looking for a way to regain control but finding only pettiness.
Will stopped halfway down the row. With his back to the teacher, William said, “I told you to leave my dad out of this.”
Mr. Woodley chuckled dryly. “It’s no wonder he left you behind.”
Without thinking about what he was doing, William turned and punched Mr. Woodley in the face. The man’s nose broke with an audible crunch and the teacher crumbled to the floor; uttering a bubbly wail through a mixture of snot and blood.
Will
iam let the door to Mr. Woodley’s classroom slam shut behind him and he vaguely heard the scraping of desk chairs on the linoleum floor as students leapt from their seats to help the fallen teacher. Mr. Woodley’s desperate wails made it even sweeter.
The halls were empty and Will realized that he could simply bypass the Principal’s office and walk straight out the front door and head home if he wanted to. He quickly dismissed that idea, however. He had no desire to run from this.
William approached Principal Paulsen’s office and his secretary, Miss Holstein, who sat at her desk with a cup of coffee steaming into her face and a half eaten donut on a napkin.
“Hello, William. How may I help you?” she asked.
“Uh, I guess I’m supposed to see the Principal.” His voice was soft but he looked her in the eyes.
“Uh oh,” Miss Holstein said, giving Will a disappointed look and shaking her head. “Not again. Well, he’s not here right now.”
William turned to go. “I’ll come back later then.”
“Not so fast,” Miss Holstein said with a chuckle. “You’re to wait in the media room until he gets back. Marsha is volunteering this week. She’ll be in there if you have any questions. Do you know where the media room is, Bill? Can I call you Bill?”
“I prefer Will. And yes, I know where the media room is.” He turned to go and this time, Miss Holstein didn’t stop him.
“Have fun in detention, Bill,” the secretary whispered under her breath.
William turned the corner and passed the teacher’s lounge before coming upon the media room. He peeked through the window in the door and saw nobody inside. He didn’t ask who Marsha was, but he assumed she was one of the student volunteers—one of the smart kids who were academically ahead of schedule and always looking for something impressive or magnanimous to put on their college resumes. Apparently, they approve of babysitting misfits in the halls of higher learning.
The Complete Bleaker Trilogy Box-set Page 10
