by Lamar Giles
“Good,” said Zach. “You still got that bat?”
Wood slapped palm. “You know it.”
Adrenaline sharpened my thinking. The skyline opened up, dense foliage replaced by dark clouds and half-erected building frames. I knew where we were.
Zach braked hard and killed the engine. The doors opened and the SUV rocked as everyone but me spilled out. Next, the hatch would rise and they’d do whatever they planned to do. I tried to recall a timely tip, some piece of wisdom from Bricks, or even Dad, that would reveal the exact move, or behavior, or attitude to get me through this. I had nothing.
Russ’s specialty must’ve been opening the tailgate, because he did that again. Dee and Dum dragged me out as gently as they’d put me in, then marched me over to a patch of red dirt in the center of the Burke Municipal Campus, where Zach waited. He smashed the business end of a Louisville Slugger into the ground over and over, like driving a fence post. Around us, construction equipment remained untouched, and buildings unbuilt. Like my previous visit, without the pretense of a subtle threat.
The sick grin on Zach’s face projected what I already knew. No help was coming.
No Eli stepping in with his camera and big brain. No Dustin and his Dead Boy Cavalry. No Dad to hide me from the bad men. Zach liked four-to-one odds, in his favor. Only . . . he’d miscalculated.
He’d made it so I couldn’t be Nick Pearson, the kid who played lacrosse, overachieved in science, and enjoyed hip music. Not entirely. I had to be the other guy, too. The son of a criminal, raised by thieves and schemers, tutored by killers.
My heartbeat slowed. My breathing, too.
I was Nick Pearson and Tony Bordeaux.
For the first time, I realized that the odds were in my favor.
“Long time coming, Pearson,” Zach said, taking short test swings with the bat. “Long time.”
Before things started—and regardless of how they finished—I needed to know something. “Are you going after Dustin next?”
He lowered the business end of the bat. “The hell you talking about?”
“You got Carrey and Lorenz on Saturday. Me today. You gonna kill Dustin next? It’s a simple question.”
He bounced uncertain looks off each of his minions, all of them shuffling, loose and confused. Dum let me go, he was so spooked. I didn’t run, though. Running wasn’t part of today’s plan.
Zach said, “Whatever, dick. Don’t try to spin your bad mojo on us. Ever since you got here, people been dying. Our phones were blowing up all morning about Reya’s car freakin’ exploding. Then, there you were, riding your bike like it’s all good. Nuh-uh. No way. I don’t know what kind of sicko hoodoo curse you got, but I’mma make you eat your teeth.”
Eat my teeth? Is that even—never mind. These guys weren’t killers. Just because they were all dumb, didn’t mean they could play dumb. Their confusion at the mention of Lorenz and Carrey was genuine. More so than if I’d asked them to spell genuine. There was still the matter of nailing the mayor and Miguel, the guys topping the Bad Stuff in Stepton pyramid. This first.
“Before I devour my teeth,” I said. “I suggest that you break both of my hands, too.”
“Huh?” Zach looked like he needed to consult his script.
“You should break my hands,” I repeated. “With no teeth, and broken hands, that will make it difficult to communicate for a couple of days at least. You’ll have a chance to run.”
Russ laughed. “Someone’s a funny guy, now.”
Zach, perpetually proving his toughness, nudged my shoulder with the bat. “How can you still talk smack when you know I’m about to cripple your ass?”
“I would not advise crippling, and I didn’t mean you’d be running from me. I’m talking about the cops, Zach. You’ll want to get a head start.”
Now everyone laughed. Dee said, “He’s going to tell on us.”
“Snitch bitch,” said Dum in a singsong tease you’d hear at a day care.
I said, “I won’t have a choice. They’ll want to know what happened throughout the course of my kidnapping.”
Laughs faded. They were back to confused. Where I wanted them.
“See, kidnapping is a Class A felony with a minimum sentence of a year. Unless, of course, you’re kidnapping a minor—which I am—then we’re talking five years. That’s minimum, guys. Even for the accomplices.” The legal talk was some BS. A mix of stuff I’d heard from Dad, Bricks, and a bunch of cop shows.
Of course, they wouldn’t know that.
Dee released my arm, wiping his hand on his jeans like I’d soiled him. “You ain’t kidnapped.”
“I ain’t? I didn’t come here of my own accord.” Got that from an old Law & Order episode.
He scrunched his face.
I said, “It means I didn’t come here willingly. Don’t worry. Your attorney will explain words like that to you before your arraignment. Provided he’s not court appointed. The court-appointed guys are too overworked to explain things; they’re just going to tell you to take a deal for less time. Maybe as little as a year instead of the five.”
I saw them doing the simple math in their heads—one year is better than five, right? I gave them some more data to crunch. “Of course, we’re only talking about the kidnapping charge. There’s still the aggravated assault, the reckless driving, and attempted murder—”
“Attempted murder?!” Zach said, not noticing I’d taken a step closer to him.
“—throw in any anti-bullying laws this state has on the books and”—I paused, made a show of looking at each and every one of their faces, then smacking my forehead—“wow, all of you guys are white.”
Such an abrupt statement of the obvious perplexed them more. I took another step toward Zach. “Four white guys jump a black guy, drag him off in a truck. In the South. That’s a hate crime, fellas. A federal offense. By the time this is over you might be looking at thirty, forty years each.”
Russ, a quake in his voice, said, “You’re lying. You’re trying to play us.”
“You got a cell on you? Look up anything you want, though I wonder about the reception out in this secluded area you kidnappers took me to.”
“Shut up,” said Dee.
“Before we shut you up,” said Dum.
Not in this century. “Zach might do okay in federal prison. He’s big, strong. After a couple of knife-fight wins, he’ll get some respect. But you two, I feel bad for. They’re not going to put you in the same facility. You’ve had each other’s back since conception. No more of that. If you thought arguing over the top bunk was epic before . . .”
They stepped closer to each other until their shoulders brushed. Two reflections trying to merge. If their mom was here, they would’ve asked to move back into the womb.
I turned my attention to Russ, while inching closer to Zach. “And you, I don’t know what to say. You’ve got to spend an hour a day getting your hair to look like that. The inmates are really going to appreciate you. There she is, Miss America.”
I literally saw him gulp, the lump slipping slowly down his throat. I could’ve pushed, adding something about how he should get used to that swallowing motion, but I distracted them long enough. Now for part two.
“Or,” I said, “you could shut me up for good. Kill me. Do it the right way, and you go on with your lives with the darkest secret you’ll ever have. You four are tight, none of you would break and rat on the others. Would you?”
Zach opened his mouth, probably to deliver some corny, unconvincing threat to sway things back his way. Too late.
Ripping the bat from his hand, I shoved his chin high with the heel of my palm. The body goes where the head does. Forcing his skull back at such an extreme angle caused him to fall, a puff of dust rising where he landed. I swung the bat, hard, embedding it in the earth next to his ear.
I felt something turn on in my chest and head and stomach. A red engine with pistons pumping in a shudder, spewing black exhaust. “Ever since I got here, peopl
e been dyin’. That’s what you said, right? You wanna be next?”
“Guys,” he said, in an almost shriek.
I pointed the bat at the twins. “Don’t move.” They didn’t. No need to deliver the message to Russ. He was creeping back to the ride.
To Zach, I said, “There’s no win for you here. You douche bags don’t have the brains or juice to put me down and get away with it. Anything less than that lands you in jail for the rest of your lives.”
His face went cherry, his breaths huffs and puffs, but he still tried to save face. I told him the rest, my secret desires. “Thanks to this brilliant plan of yours, I can do whatever I want and get away with it.”
I saw the doubt in his eyes. I smashed the bat into the ground next to his head again and replaced that doubt with tears. “Yes. Yes, I can. Because now it’s self-defense. You brought me here. You planned to jump me and beat me with a bat. I happened to wrestle it away from you and”—I swung the bat by his head again—“fought for my life.”
I raised the bat, high this time, like an ax.
Zach threw his forearm over his eyes, pulled his knees to his stomach, full fetal.
I hadn’t lied to him. Everything about the potential charges, and their lives in prison, and me having a free pass to hurt them had shades of truth, knowledge passed down from the overheard conversations of Dad and friends. There was another truth, a scarier one.
I wanted to hurt him, do more than hurt. I could get away with it, too. Maybe with WitSec’s help. Self-defense, remember. My arms quivered, my hands ratcheting the handle.
Slowly, I lowered the bat. Then tossed it into the guts of a partial building, where it rattled against the frame. “Go!” I said. “I’m not hurt. If you leave now, it’s just a prank. Not worth mentioning.”
Russ was already in the SUV, a getaway driver in the wrong seat. Dee and Dum scrambled. Zach wasn’t as quick; he took his time getting his feet under him, turning in an awkward way that did nothing to hide the wet spot at his crotch. He saw me seeing, shot me one final, hateful glare before crouching by a puddle and smearing handfuls of mud on his jeans to disguise the piss stain.
Zach climbed into the vehicle. One of the twins asked about a strange smell before the SUV fishtailed, spitting thick mud from the back tires. They spun in place before rolling away. Not so much as a wink of brake lights until they turned onto the main drag and sped toward town. Where I needed to be.
How the hell was I getting back?
I could’ve humped the four miles, but I felt achy and stiff from crashing my bike. Calling Dad wasn’t an option, and I didn’t want to explain to Mom how I got here. I dug in my pocket for my phone and felt jagged plastic. When Zach ran me off the road I’d heard a crunch and I knew where it came from.
I groaned and emptied my pocket, thinking about how a broken phone meant I’d definitely be walking back to town. But my phone was fine.
Eli’s flash drive wasn’t.
Broken, clean down the middle.
“Mother—” My profanity echoed across the construction site.
Get back to town, Nick. Maybe someone can fix it.
I shot a text to the only person I could think of while giving myself a flash-drive-repair pep talk I didn’t believe.
Me: Any chance ur not n school AND mobile 2day? I need a ride ASAP.
Dustin: I’m on my way
CHAPTER 42
A YELLOW STREAK FLASHED THROUGH THE tree line. Dustin’s Xterra turned into the construction site and came toward me, shooting big sheets of dirt behind. He jerked the wheel like a stunt driver, sliding into a sideways stop.
“Dude, what the hell is going on?” he said, his head through his window like a turtle’s from the shell, his unnerving blood-bruised cornea lighter now, like a case of pinkeye.
I took the passenger seat, tapping a text to Reya before I settled in.
Me: Is ur mom okay?
I told Dustin, “Go. I’ll explain on the way.”
“No, Nick. Your seat belt first. They save lives. Trust me, I know.”
I did a double take. His jaw clenched and he had a death grip on the wheel, the fresh white cast on his arm devoid of “get well” signatures.
“Lorenz and Carrey?”
“They didn’t like to wear them.” He shuddered.
“No problem.” I’d gone to Dustin because he was my only option. Never considered what being behind the wheel again must be like for him. Uneasy now, I secured the belt.
“Thank you,” he said, his tension decreasing noticeably. We were in motion when I got a response.
Reya: She woke up N the ambulance. Where r u? Where did u go? Y did u go?
Dustin said, “Yo, people are saying Reya’s car exploded. I been getting texts, tweets, FB messages, even a MySpace alert about it. I didn’t know I had a MySpace account. Everything’s been blowing up—” He reconsidered his choice of words. “I mean, everyone’s on this, man.”
“It’s true,” I said, deciding which of Reya’s questions I should answer honestly. Or at all.
Me: I’m w/ Dustin, ridin back 2 town
Dustin said, “What did you two do?”
“We got too close.” Another text came.
Reya: Can u come get me from hospital? Fast?
Not planning to see her so soon—how was I going to explain the flash drive?—I thumbed a text to stall. Hers came first.
Reya: Miguel is here & I don’t like the way he’s lookn @ me
“Dustin. Hospital. Now!”
By the time we reached Stepton General, I’d filled Dustin in on everything Reya and I discovered together. Talking about Whispertown—WitSec—aloud felt blasphemous, but there was no way to avoid it. He took it as well as I could’ve expected.
“My dad let a bunch of psychos pull an Occupy Stepton?”
“Not psychos. Unruly witnesses and their families.”
“What’s the difference? Psycho and Psycho Junior.”
My insides churned, fighting the urge to call him everything from ignorant to asshole.
Reya waited for us at the main entrance, hopping from foot to foot and hugging herself despite the day’s warmth, a dark soot smudge on her cheek looking like a bruise. She saw us coming and climbed into the back before Dustin was at a full stop.
She stuck her head between our seats. “What are we waiting for?”
Me and Dustin spoke at the same time. “Seat belt.”
When we were back on the road, Reya said, “How much does he know?”
“I told him about the files. What’s going on with Miguel?”
“He beat the ambulance to the hospital,” she said. “He’s all like, ‘I heard what happened.’”
“From who?” I said.
Dustin said the other thing I’d been thinking. “That’s the fastest grapevine I ever heard of, like 4G speeds.”
“I know,” Reya said. “I mean, I didn’t at first, I was worried about my mother. But when she was awake and talking, I started to relax. So did he. All that concern turned to ‘you kids are going to be the death of my poor sister,’ then he’s blaming me, like I blew up my own car. It was weird, and creepy. Nick, I kept thinking about ‘family concerns.’”
“What?” Dustin said.
“It’s from the videos I told you about,” I said. “Eli was worried about breaking the Whispertown story because of ‘family concerns.’ He had to have been talking about Miguel.”
Dustin agreed. “It makes sense. I know that sleazebag—no offense, Reya—”
“That’s nicer than what I call him,” she said.
“—is tied up with my dad. And Whispertown is his top secret project. Who else could it be?”
No one else. Yet . . . it didn’t feel right. If Miguel was making a million bucks a day off all the mayor’s cover-ups and lies, was that enough to fake his own nephew’s suicide, then go after his niece? I still didn’t know how Dustin’s accident fit in, if it was a part of this at all.
Reya said, “Take me
home, Dustin. I need to get Eli’s flash drive.”
“No!” I said, kicking myself for sounding so adamant.
“Why not?” Reya said. “That’s our proof.”
Yeah, Nick, why not? “Because the cops are there.” The lie came smoothly, as smooth as a sax player riffing. Practice makes perfect. “That’s why I left. We can’t trust the police. They might have the flash drive already.”
Dustin weighed in. “You might have a point. If my dad’s involved at all, they won’t make a move against him. He’s like their god.”
Reya punched the seat, cursed in Spanish. “What do we do then?”
I didn’t have an answer. I pulled my seat belt, running my hand up and down the tough nylon. My nerves, getting the best of me.
Dustin said, “Regroup at my place. The cops don’t mess with me either. I had patrolmen stop by Dust Offs to grab a beer and scope some high school ass—Sorry, Reya.”
She waved it off.
“You guys will be safe there,” Dustin finished.
“What about your dad?” I asked.
“Considering everything that’s happened, he’s probably running damage control. We should be fine.”
It was a good plan. The best we had at the moment. I said, “Okay, your place.”
The next turn put us on course for North End, where we’d try for answers. I still didn’t realize I had them already.
CHAPTER 43
WE SPENT THE NEXT HOUR TALKING in circles while we ate leftover pizza in Dustin’s room. We each had a different idea of what should happen next. Dustin, convinced Miguel was behind his accident and Reya’s car bombing, felt it was time to get some big government agency involved.
“Like the FBI, or the U.S. Marshals since this is related to Witness Protection,” he said.
I cringed, thinking of Bertram arriving in a nondescript car, asking, “On a scale of one to ten, how guilty do you think Miguel Rios is?”
Reya, mostly concerned about bringing Eli’s killer to justice, in spite of the attempt on her life, went smaller. “We need to get the flash drive. That’s our leverage. We should wait until night and sneak in my house.”
