Beyond Recognition

by Ridley Pearson

  The excitement grew inside him as he worked his way down through the branches. It was not an excitement inspired by a chance to see Emily; it was not the thrill of being in a tree—it was that open skylight immediately below him, for, as he paused and looked down through it and into the camper, he saw a dark steel tube that just had to be the barrel of a gun.

  His decision was made.

  Ben moved through the tree fluidly, lowering himself from limb to limb nearly as effortlessly as a monkey. He was completely at ease in a tree, regardless of height. He trusted the live branches and avoided the dead. If he went well out on a limb, he made sure to keep a strong hold on the limb overhead and to balance his weight between the two as evenly as possible. He made just such a move, inching his way out over the camper shell, the truck parked immediately below, hands overhead, fingers laced, dividing his weight between hands and feet. The farther out he went, the more the branch bowed under him, bending down and pointing toward the camper like an invitation. If he could have rolled a ball down the limb it would have bounced off the roof of the camper. He was incredibly close.

  He fixed his full attention on his position and the decreasing support offered by the limbs over and under him. He needed to walk another three feet to reach the edge of the camper shell—two or three steps—and it began to feel like walking the plank. The limb below him sagged drastically. He hoisted himself into a pull-up and distributed as much weight as possible to the overhead limb, but it too was sagging. He glanced down, realizing he faced a fall of ten or twelve feet over gravel if the limbs snapped. It wouldn’t kill him, but it wouldn’t be fun. He could easily break something. Worse, he could draw attention to himself and his intentions, and that could get Emily in trouble as well.

  He tested the next step and both limbs drooped tremendously, and he realized he had reached the extreme limit. His only hope of making it to the camper was to take the overhead limb and jump out and off the limb he stood on, using the flex in the overhead branch to swing him onto the shell. Again, he checked the ground below—it suddenly seemed much farther away. He slid his hands out on the overhead limb, held his breath, and jumped.

  The sensation of being carried through the air, of being lowered by the bending limb, immediately reminded Ben of an elevator. He swung out, the limb sagged, and Ben’s sneakers caught and grabbed the edge of the camper. He timed it perfectly, letting go of the limb just before it arched too greatly and missed the camper shell altogether. He hurled himself forward and came down quietly on the aluminum roof—toes, knees, palms—as if in bending prayer. The limb whipped back up over his head, sounding like a group of startled birds, wings aflutter.

  His good eye, which he had shut unknowingly, lighted on the open skylight, only a scant few feet away. He crawled carefully as the roof curved beneath him, spreading himself flat to keep from caving it in. He attempted to keep most of his weight over the ribs where the rivets showed and where he could feel support; the area to either side seemed fragile and weak. Inch by precious inch he wormed toward the open skylight, like a puppy stretching itself out on a rug. The frame of the skylight was wood, with heavily caulked edges; it looked as if it had been added, not part of the original shell. Ben slipped his head into the gap and peered down inside. It was a gun, lying on the padded bench. And next to it, on the floor, on top of an open sleeping bag, was a green army duffel bag. On the floor were several empty beer cans and an open copy of Playboy magazine. Ben pushed on the skylight, and it resisted. Then he spotted the hook and three different eyelets, allowing the skylight to be hooked open at different heights or locked shut. He pulled on the hook and it came undone and the skylight opened.

  Ben heard voices to his right. “You’re sure today is okay?” the deep voice asked. “It’s sudden, is all.”

  “It’s fine,” Emily answered.

  At first, it didn’t register. But then Ben formed an image of what was going on: The guy who owned the truck and the gun—Nick—was at the door. He was leaving.

  Ben glanced up. The man was standing at the door, just pulling it shut. In a matter of a second or two he would turn and face his truck; he would see Ben spread out on the roof, his head halfway inside the plastic skylight. Ben would be caught.

  He couldn’t breathe; his heart felt as if it had stopped, but then it swelled to a painful size and tried to explode in his chest. Ben never thought about choices or about excuses he might use; his reactions were entirely instinctual. He pointed his head down, reached up to grab the lip of the skylight, and slithered inside. He swung down into the camper space, his toes nearly touching a folding table, and let go. He dropped to the floor, rolled partially under the homemade couch, and held his breath. The blood in his ears sounded like thunder; he couldn’t hear anything else. His racing heart felt as if someone were gargling in the center of his chest. On the other side of the truck’s cab the driver’s door came open with a loud complaint. The two spaces, cab and camper, communicated by a small sliding window hidden on the other side of a curtain that was—thankfully—closed.

  The man’s words echoed inside Ben’s head: “I’ll be back.” Perhaps he was simply retrieving something left in the cab; perhaps he needed a cigarette break. Perhaps, like Ben’s stepfather, he had a bottle of booze hidden under the seat or a joint in the ashtray. He wouldn’t be the first; Emily’s readings could get to people.

  The truck’s engine came to life with a roar. Ben glanced up at the skylight. It seemed so small, so far away. So out of reach. The truck rumbled and backed up.

  Ben scrambled on hands and knees for the half-sized back door. He reached up and turned the handle, preparing for the moment when the driver paused to shift into forward. He would use that instant to leap from the truck.

  He twisted the doorknob, and to his joy it moved. It wasn’t locked.

  The truck slowed and then braked, and the gears made a sound as the driver shifted. Ben pushed on the door. It stopped abruptly, only open an inch—padlocked from the outside.

  The truck roared off. Ben tried the door again, but it would not open. The pavement blurred through the open crack in the door.

  He was trapped inside.

  14

  Panic seized every muscle in Ben’s body. For the first few minutes of the drive, he couldn’t help but focus on how much trouble he was going to be in. He had violated Emily’s one rule—once and only once—and yet here he was locked in the back of a pickup truck, heading who-knows-where, with a suspected criminal behind the wheel. Surprisingly slowly, his fear of getting into trouble migrated into a realization of his predicament and focused on the importance of figuring a way out of the camper. Fast. The truck was moving quickly and not stopping at lights anymore. It seemed increasingly apparent to him that they were on a highway, and the only logical candidate was I-5, either north or south. North was Canada; south, Oregon and California. What if the truck never stopped? What if Nick had been checking out a date with Emily because he intended to commit a crime? Fear ran his blood hot and his skin cold.

  The side windows were tiny things with locking screens; there was no way he could go out through one. He kept looking up to the skylight—to the heavens—his only way out. It might be possible to jump from the folding table, catch his hand on the lip of the skylight, and pull himself up and out, but only if the skylight were open, and it had fallen shut behind his less-than-graceful entrance. He realized in a calculating and determined way that escape was a multi-step process: force the skylight open and keep it open in a way he had yet to figure out; climb up onto the table and jump; pull himself up and out; wait for the truck to slow; and either climb down or jump off. All this, without being seen or heard by the driver. He felt on the edge of tears—it seemed an impossible task. He felt afraid for his life.

  The gun in the holster and the duffel bag both kept staring at him, as if alive and with eyes of their own. He crawled around the soiled carpet searching out a broom handle or some other device to help him push the skylight open. As
the truck changed lanes, he was thrown off balance and onto his stomach, and he struggled back to his hands and knees. It was a tiny space, and he quickly realized there was nothing in plain sight to help him, and he felt convinced that if he opened the tiny closet or any of the drawers, Nick would catch on to his presence, kill him, and leave him dumped along the highway, which was where all bodies were found anyway.

  He lost his balance again and was tossed up against the duffel bag, and he couldn’t resist looking inside. One end was clipped shut, using a webbed strap that ran from the fabric handle. He unclipped this, opened the canvas folds, and stuck his head inside, hoping something might prove itself useful to his cause. What he found instead scared him half to death: large, clear plastic containers filled with milky fluid. A chemical formula was handwritten on the nearest container in black marker.

  He didn’t have to know chemistry to know what it was. Drugs! He had seen a police raid of a meth lab on TV. The thought that he was trapped in the back of a pickup truck being driven by an armed drug dealer sent his head dizzy, and he swooned, nearly losing consciousness, only brought back to reality by the swerving of the truck and its sudden slowing—the whine of the engine lowering and softening in pitch. He looked up in time to see the green flash of a highway sign outside the window:

  SEA-TAC AIR TERMINAL EXIT ONLY

  He glanced at the duffel bag. Nick was taking a trip. He would be coming after his bag in a matter of minutes! Ben had not considered the possibility that the truck might stop and the driver come into the back. He had pictured himself heading off forever. Suddenly, he found himself a victim of the clock; they were only a matter of minutes from the airport. Time was running out. He needed a place to hide.

  Panic-stricken, he glanced around as if seeing this place for the first time: a tiny, claustrophobic space with the only obvious hiding place a broom closet that seemed too risky to open, given the small break in the curtains that hid the back from the cab. It was this gap in the curtains that kept Ben low, on hands and knees. Where else to hide?

  The truck slowed more and took a strong right turn at a light. It was the entrance to the airport.

  The few drawers were far too small to consider as possibilities. Ben thought about taking out the drugs, placing them in the drawers, and hiding himself in the duffel bag, but that would backfire badly if Nick took the bag with him, which was likely. Hiding inside the sleeping bag was a possibility, but seemed far too risky. Then he saw it.

  The bench that supported the cushions where the gun was resting was a big wooden box, shaped like a coffin. A storage area with a lifting lid! Ben pushed and the cushion lifted up and the gun slid against the back. Cluttered with tools, extension cords, cigarette cartons, rags, and boxes of ammunition, there was still plenty of room inside for a boy his size. He crawled inside and lowered the lid, hoping the change in the position of the gun wouldn’t raise the driver’s suspicions. The truck came to a complete stop, and Ben heard faintly the sound of a mechanical voice say, “Take ticket, please.”

  The truck began spiraling up the airport’s corkscrew ramps to the elevated parking. Ironically, Ben had never been to the airport. The only time he had been out of the city had been to take a bus with his mother down to see his dying aunt in Kent, at the age of six—but he had seen this very parking ramp in a cop movie and could actually picture the pickup truck, held in a tight corkscrew turn, accelerating up the steep ramp. He felt both apprehension—at the idea of the driver coming into the back of the truck—and relief that the truck was certain to park and the driver to leave, offering him the chance to escape. The truck slowed and took another hard right, and Ben had to move an electric drill that was stabbing him in the back. The truck made two more sharp turns and stopped abruptly. The engine died and Ben heard the driver’s door slam shut. He caught himself holding his breath in order to hear better. His heart beat painfully in his chest, his eyes stung. His mouth was dry and his tongue was sticky. He tried to think what he would do if Nick suddenly opened up the bench and caught him. His right hand searched blindly in the dark. He found a bag of small nails and quietly gripped a fistful of them.

  The truck jostled, rocking Ben side to side. He heard the padlock snap open, followed by the sound of the clasp coming undone.

  Nick was coming inside. The driver. The drug dealer. The man with the gun. It felt about a thousand degrees in the box. Ben was suddenly overcome by claustrophobia, the tightness and darkness of the uncomfortable space getting the better of him. He wanted out. He had to get out. Now!

  A loud noise caused his whole body to stiffen. The driver had sat down on the bench. Ben thought it sounded like he was strapping on the gun, getting ready for whatever it was he had planned. And this discovery sent another electric bolt shooting through him. If the man was taking a gun with him, he wasn’t getting on any plane. So how long would he be gone? Or worse, maybe he was not going anywhere but had come to the airport parking garage to do a deal.

  Ben did not want to be a witness to any drug deal. All he wanted, more than anything in the world, was to be back in his own room, the door closed and locked; he didn’t care if he had to listen to his drunken stepfather screw his girlfriends; he didn’t care if the guy lifted a hand to him every now and then. He just wanted to be home. He hated himself for everything he had done. He wanted nothing more than to set the clock back and start all over, get a second chance.

  The bench creaked as the man stood up. Ben heard the duffel bag dragging heavily on the floor; the guy let out a grunt as he struggled with it. The back door slammed shut.

  He didn’t think about getting to the police and stopping the deal from going down; he thought only of freedom, of his flight to safety.

  There was no sound of the clasp or the padlock. Nick had left the back unlocked. Ben didn’t stop to think why. For him, this was the green light. He pushed the bench top up a crack and ventured a look. His eyes stung with the light, and he blinked furiously. The camper was empty.

  Now was his chance.

  15

  Terrified, exhilarated, Ben climbed out of the storage bench, his one good eye trained on the camper’s back door, no plan in his head on how to deal with what the next few minutes might bring. He behaved more like a caged bird discovering the cage left open. He carefully approached the camper’s only door, distrustful and cautious, bravely venturing a look out the window into the parking garage. He ducked just as quickly, glad he had not charged out the back of the camper as he had been tempted to do: Nick stood waiting for the elevator with the large green duffel bag at his side. It was stenciled in bold capital letters USAF. Ben impatiently waited him out.

  It was strange how with just the one eye Ben could see so much, or perhaps it was his lack of peripheral vision that sharpened the importance of those objects he could see. So many times he had been struck by a football or a stick or even another kid’s fist, because it moved too fast into his range of vision and caught him by surprise. Little by little his brain had adjusted, sending early warning signals far ahead of the warning signals received by people with stereoscopic vision. Ben lacked depth of field—the world played out on a two-dimensional television screen. He was a terrible judge of distance, and his hand-eye motor coordination suffered measurably from his impairment. But if something entered his visual field it registered fully, taking on an immediate importance.

  It was just a shape. Dark. About as tall as his stepfather. Standing between two parked cars. Watching. Perhaps he—she?—was standing there waiting for someone with the car keys to arrive from baggage claim, but it felt far more sinister than that, as if Ben himself were being watched, or even the man over at the elevator. Worse, the presence of this man caused Ben to fear leaving the back of the truck; he would be seen, and something warned him to avoid this at all costs. (Although he didn’t see it as such, this was his first real glimpse of Emily’s true powers. He experienced the ability to tune in to the subtle signals inside him that, if trusted, offered a vision o
f the future: If he stepped outside this camper, there was trouble waiting.)

  The figure in the dark possessed him; he couldn’t take his eye off him. When the man—he suddenly saw clearly that it was a man—turned his attention away from the elevator and toward the truck, Ben knew that he was headed for him.

  The elevator arrived.

  He twisted the handle, tempted to flee, regardless of that dark shape. He wanted out so badly he could taste it. At that same instant, however, the figure moved, walking out from between the parked cars, and headed straight for the truck. A voice inside Ben’s head warned, “Don’t!” and he found himself releasing the doorknob.

  Nick stepped into the elevator, hauling the duffel bag with him. The doors slid shut.

  The other man suddenly approached quickly, taking long strides, nearly at an all-out run. Patches of light flashed across his face, but even so, Ben had trouble actually seeing that face. It was as if the man were wearing a mask.

  Ben lifted the bench and dove inside, driven back into hiding amid the tools and oily rags, feeling ever more involved with something he wanted no part of. How many times had Emily warned him not to so much as touch a customer’s car? It felt as if his situation was designed as some kind of lesson; he half expected the approaching figure would turn out to be Emily, having created and acted all this out with Ben in mind. He promised himself that if he got out of this, he would never, ever in a million years, lay a finger on another person’s property. He hoped this promise might in some way protect him from the man who now approached, for his stomach churned with fear and trepidation.