by Lamar Giles
Honesty is supposed to be the best policy, and I had a weak fantasy of her appreciating the way I fessed up and rewarding me with a kiss and forgiveness. The hardness in her face promised a different form of payment.
“You destroyed evidence of the conspiracy that got my brother killed.”
“I was scared, Reya. For four years they told me that if anyone knew about the Program my family might die. I freaked. But, when I took it, I didn’t mean for anything to happen to it. If Zach hadn’t—”
“My family did die,” she said. “You heard Dustin, Eli tried to bargain with him to keep all these secrets instead of exposing them. You. Tony.”
A slap would’ve been better than her spitting out my real name like rotten food. I reacted. Poorly. “We got Dustin. Those files weren’t going to bring Eli back.”
Her head jerked like I’d flashed a light, illuminating something she hadn’t noticed before. Something grotesque. “‘I’m sorry’ is a tough concept to grasp, huh?”
“I’m—” Too late for that. Another countdown missed. “Reya.”
“Go, Nick. Tony?”
“Nick.”
“I need time to think.”
If not for her tone, I’d have honored her request and left then. But her “I need time to think” had a “I never want to see you again” feel to it. “What are you thinking about?”
“Finishing what Eli started.”
She couldn’t be serious. “How!? The evidence is gone.”
“Not all of it. You’re still here. And the other rogues.”
Spinning her chair to me, I grabbed her hand, squeezed it gently. “You’re mad at me and you should be. But what you’re talking about is dangerous. You go snooping around for protected witnesses, someone’s going to get hurt.”
She pulled away. “I won’t look for the witnesses, then. I’ll start with their kids and work my way up. I already know one red flag. They’re going to seem too good to be true.”
I backed off. Pressing my hand to a furnace couldn’t have hurt more than what she’d said.
“Don’t worry.” She softened slightly, mistaking the pain on my face for self-preservation, “You saved us yesterday, and Eli wasn’t going to out you. I won’t either. The rest of you . . . I can’t make any promises.”
The rest of us. Like I was a mischievous rescue kitten and the rogues were an untended pack of feral cougars.
She returned to her monitor, to Eli’s face. “Leave, please.”
“Reya, don’t do this.”
“Go!”
I left her to her pain, and carried my own away from the Cruz house.
We’ve barely spoken since.
High winds turned Monitor Lake into swishing spikes. I observed the rough plumes from the car while a sad song played. Actually, it was “In da Club” by 50 Cent, but all the stations sounded sad to me at that moment.
A plastic clamshell from my latest disposable phone lay torn in the passenger seat while I punched in the new number I’d gotten off the web that morning. Bricks had his ear to the street, might have some info on Mom if she was still relying on the kindness of old friends. Our last call was weird, but I was over that and so sorry I’d cut it short. Even if he couldn’t point me to Mom, I just wanted to hear his voice.
The ringing stopped, replaced by Bricks breathing hard into the phone, saying nothing.
This Gus’s Gyro Shop? That’s how the routine went, but I didn’t say the words. Call it instinct.
“Who is this?” a voice said, thick with a Slavic accent. “Who is on the line?”
In the background, Bricks said, “Boss, what are you doing with my phone?”
The voice, “I thought that is phone on your hip.”
Bricks said, “That’s my business phone. You’ve got my social phone, you know, for women.”
“No woman. Silence.” Louder, to me, “Hello?”
I said, “Is this Gus’s Gyro Shop?”
The voice clucked his tongue and the call ended.
I stared at the phone display, entranced, expecting a tanned face framed in dark curls to appear, hissing like Satan in Eden, “I ssseee you.”
The thought snapped my trance. I shouldered the car door open, ran to the rough water, and hurled the phone hard enough to wrench my shoulder.
Kreso Maric had that effect on me.
I did go home that night, but left Dad’s horrible cooking alone, opting for a Big Mac in my room while willing Bricks to send me a new number. He didn’t. For three days I went crazy with worry for him and Mom. Kreso Maric, sticking his head up, after all this time? Nothing good could come of that.
I nearly told Dad. But my confidence in our new Circle of Trust arrangement was a work in progress. I would’ve broken down and told him everything if day four had come and gone with no word. But I got a private message on my bogus FB account before my self-imposed deadline.
I’m fine. No calls for a while, though. I’ll send word when it’s safe.
Bricks’s account was deactivated before I could respond. It felt like I was reading Mom’s letter all over again.
Dad made attempts to talk about my ultimate decision. Stay with him, or leave on my own? I made him no promises. But I think he noticed that my bag remained in Mom’s car and I kept the keys on me.
It was the best I could do.
CHAPTER 51
A WEEK PASSED, BUT THINGS STILL weren’t quite right at school. Boy Psycho Dustin Burke was the biggest thing that had ever happened in Stepton. There were more than a few whispers about why a bigger deal wasn’t being made by the administration.
Or the local news.
Or the national news.
I had a feeling the SPD and/or the U.S. Marshals had something to do with that. They were going to bury it.
Dustin was in Central State Mental Hospital eating applesauce and playing checkers. If Bertram’s boys decided to make his stay there permanent to avoid exposure and keep their precious secrets, it wasn’t going to sit well with Reya. She wouldn’t see that as much justice for her brother’s killer. Can’t say she’d be wrong.
Reya was still serving her suspension for the Callie fight. On one of the days she missed, I noticed a student guide leading a pair of new kids through the halls. I was glad Reya wasn’t around to see them, because I’m sure she’d have been thinking the same thing I was.
Were they part of it? Were they Whispertown rogues?
I’m going finish what Eli started.
I tried not to think about our last conversation, but she hadn’t called or texted since, so that last conversation was the freshest memory I had.
Yeah, I could’ve called her. For what, though? Another fight?
According to Dad, we weren’t staying long. We were going to track down Mom. We were going to be a family again. Soon.
When that happened, the other rogues wouldn’t be my problem, and Reya Cruz would be in the rearview. Another memory from another school I used to go to. I’d get over her. Move on. I’d done it before.
That’s what I told myself.
Since the truth about Dustin was being swept under the rug, the rumor mill went crazy, mixing a colorful assorted bag of made-up goodness. Dustin became this Hannibal Lecter–like serial killer who cut up bodies and fed them to his koi.
Okay, that wasn’t too far from the truth. . . .
Especially compared to other versions that painted him as a practitioner of the black arts, a chain-saw-wielding inbred with a skin suit, a junior Dr. Frankenstein who was trying to build the perfect best friend, and so on.
I know. Crazy. That’s high school for you.
In my favorite version, I was the true killer and I’d gotten away with setting Dustin up. Guess who started that one.
Zach Lynch wouldn’t look me in the eye and became deaf-mute when we crossed paths in the hall. His crew wasn’t much braver. Some rumors are beneficial.
Depending on who else you asked, what day it was, and what was on the lunch menu, you’d g
et different assessments of me from different people. Zach’s popularity translated to credibility for some. The weak-minded saw me as Lucifer with a backpack, and were afraid.
Something else I learned from Bricks: a little fear isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Then, there were the other rumors . . .
It took a couple of days before those stories got back to me, because you always hear the bad before the good. When I did hear, they made me more uncomfortable than the worst of the tales.
Some kids were calling me a hero.
It was all nonsense. I tried not to pay too much attention. Though, I knew others were.
On the first day of a new week, Vice Principal Hardwick came to personally pull me from fifth period.
“I need Nick Pearson,” he said, interrupting class without so much as an “Excuse me, Lowly Teacher.”
I gathered my things to dead silence. It was like half the class expected me to stab Hardwick in the neck with a Bic, while the other half waited for him to turn into a lizard monster so I could defend them with my lightsaber.
Damn it, Eli. Now you’ve got me casually referencing Star Wars.
When I stepped into the hall, the class erupted in hushed murmurs, cranking the rumor mill once more.
“What’s going on, Mr. Hardwick?”
His face was tight, gave away nothing. “I need you to see something.”
“It couldn’t wait until the break? What the hell?” I asked, a little pissed that he’d exposed me to further classmate scrutiny.
“Language, Pearson. I was told you’d want to see this as soon as they finished. Exciting.”
“See what and they who?” I veered toward the main office, but Mr. Hardwick caught my arm and led me farther down the hall, toward the cramped conference room where I’d had my counseling session.
Two kids in blue wood-shop coveralls were there. One was balanced on a stepladder, mounting some plaque over the door. The other stood back like an artist admiring a fresh canvas, nodding his approval.
“What is this?” I asked.
Stepladder Guy finished and descended just as we reached the room. “All done, Mr. Hardwick.”
“Good work, fellas.”
With their tools gathered, the wood-shop guys went on their way, but not before one of them said, “Way to go, Nick.”
Confused wasn’t the right word. Neither was observant, because I still hadn’t looked at the plaque. When I did . . .
THE ELIJAH CRUZ JOURNALISM ANNEX
Hardwick noticed my shock and grinned. “Step inside.”
When was I in here last? Two weeks ago?
Before it had been pantry-sized, a place to put things that didn’t get used. I hadn’t noticed it was split by folding room divider, which was peeled back now, giving this new “annex” a spacious feel the old J-Room could only have fantasized about.
Three desks, each with its own shiny new MacBook (bolted down with fiber-steel cables, of course), created an island in the center of the room. Shelves were filled with glossy manuals on iMovie, Photoshop, and Dreamweaver. A small, steel-cage lockup filled with digital cameras, tripods, microphones, and other devices that seemed like overkill for a high school operation. I spun in place, overwhelmed, and then realized the one device I hadn’t seen. “Where’s the printer?”
Hardwick said, “The Rebel Yell has gone digital. It’s going to be a blog. With me having final approval over anything that gets posted, obviously.”
“A blog?”
“Sure, that’s what you kids are into, right?”
“I guess so.” The old-mushroom smell of current events that Eli loved had been replaced by ozone. He would’ve hated that. I walked the room, still amazed by all they’d done in here. It must’ve cost a fortune. The MacBooks alone . . .
The bell rang, but me and Hardwick weren’t finished. I said, “Why bring me here?”
“Why? Because you’re our new blog editor in chief.”
“What, no—”
“Nonnegotiable, Pearson. You signing on is one of his conditions, and frankly, I don’t want to give any of this shit back.”
“Language, sir. Whose condition?”
“Miguel Rios, your friend Eli’s uncle. He insisted you captain this ship.”
Miguel recommended—insisted—I take this job? I looked around with new eyes, seeking booby traps.
Student salmon-fought the people current in the hall, when Hardwick ran from the room without warning. For a panicked second I thought something was about to blow, and I’d missed my escape window.
Hardwick yelled, “Ms. Cruz, come here a moment, please.”
My stomach sank. Reya.
He led her inside. Her neck craned as she read the sign over the door. She didn’t notice me at first, even with her new glasses. No kiddie throwbacks with purple frames, but black rimmed, just like her brother’s.
She smiled at his name hung for the world to see. When she saw me, her smile went a little crooked. She crossed her arms and scanned the room . . . not in awe like I had, but to avoid me. I was glad. It was hard to look her in the eye, too.
“I hope you’re having a good first day back,” Mr. Hardwick said. “No more fights. Okay?”
She nodded and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Yes, sir.”
Hardwick continued his spiel. “This is our new journalism room, funded by a generous donation from your uncle. Mr. Pearson over here is going to run it.”
“Hey, I didn’t agree to that. No one asked me anything, and I don’t care what Miguel—”
Reya said, “You should, Nick.”
The class bell rang again, starting sixth period. I looked her in the eye then. “For real?”
“Yes. Eli would’ve wanted you to.”
This didn’t feel like the verbal kickboxing we were into last time. She was being genuine, and kind. That alone was enough to swing me toward a yes. Anything for her to see me as something other than rogue.
Hardwick cheerfully ruined the moment. “I’m sure he could use an assistant, Reya. It’d be a great way for you to honor your brother.”
The kindness in her faded a little. “No, this is all Nick. I have other ways to honor my brother.”
And there we were . . .
“This is all beautiful, Mr. Hardwick,” Reya said, turning her back on me, “but I should get to class. I’ve got a lot of work to make up. Would you mind writing me a pass since the bell already rang?”
“I’ll do you one better and walk you there myself,” he said. Then, to me, “Before I forget, Pearson, in or out? I think future editions of the Rebel Yell will benefit greatly under your leadership.”
That remained unseen. “On one condition,” I said.
His eyebrows peaked.
“We’re changing the name.”
He smirked, tossed me a key chain. “Those will get you into this room, and the equipment lockup. Get familiar with the place, it’s going to be your home away from home.”
They left, and I gave the place another once-over. Home away from home, huh? Who would’ve thought I’d be a Newspaper Nerd? The new Eli.
Hopefully, when I left the job, it would be under better circumstances.
My arms were full when I made it home that night, just in time for dinner. I carried new manuals on blogging that I’d taken from the J-Room, and one other thing. Dad waited and watched. I stacked the books next to a huge bowl of unappealing spaghetti and meatballs, then dropped the other thing—my duffel—on the floor by my chair.
Eyes on my bag, he said, “Does this mean you’re staying?”
“For now.” I sat and spooned noodles onto my plate, a gesture of goodwill. It was the first time I’d eaten with him though he’d set a place every night for a week.
“Tony, I want you to know—”
“The plan, Dad. All I want to know is the plan. What’s the next step?”
He nodded, slid the bowl aside, and retrieved a tiny notepad from his shirt pocket. As he talked, he jotted th
ings in shorthand. “I’m thinking three to six months to set up bogus accounts and siphon the funds we need. In the meantime, we can tap Hill for help with your mom, see if we get any leads.”
“He should try Florida first,” I said.
He shot me a crooked look. “Why?”
Just a hunch, really. I remembered finding Mom at the window awhile ago, staring south, thinking about a time when we’d been happy. But all I said was, “You know that trip to Disney when I was little? She liked Orlando a lot.”
“Right, she loved that place.” He scribbled in the pad. “Orlando. As good of a place to start as any.”
We stayed up late, plotting. What we had wasn’t a loving relationship, and it may never be, not after all that’s happened. We might serve each other’s needs on another level. Possibly the only level we could ever truly exist on. Not father and son. Not friends.
Accomplices.
Three to six months to put our escape together. All while staying under WitSec’s radar, pretending to be a normal student, and giving Stepton High the news they could use. The Marshals had something different in mind when they created the legend of Nick Pearson. No big.
It’s time I started making my own.
About the Author
LAMAR “L. R.” GILES never met a genre he didn’t like, having penned science fiction, fantasy, horror, and noir thrillers, among others. He is a Virginia native, a Hopewell High Blue Devil, and an Old Dominion University Monarch. He resides in Chesapeake, Virginia, with his wife. Learn more about him at www.lrgiles.com.
Copyright
FAKE ID. Copyright © 2014 by L. R. Giles. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
