This Way Home

by Wes Moore

  “No.”

  “It’s true. I listen to all these podcasts, and they had this Harvard neuro-something guy, and he said that thinking, as in real thinking—where you’re solving problems and all—well, it takes lots of cognitive energy and it’s the brain’s job to conserve that energy, you feel me?”

  Elijah narrowed his eyes, trying to puzzle it out.

  “Basically,” said Jones, “it’s the brain’s job to solve problems using as little brainpower as possible.”

  “That makes sense,” said Elijah.

  “But you didn’t ask about that. You asked about seeing the world. I seen enough of it to know that nobody was going to hold a door open for old Jones. Or invite me to no country club. Man, I got a college degree! And after all that searching, all that looking around and checking things out, nothing was different. Or if it was, not different enough.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I come back here. I set out to work for myself, right under that oak tree.”

  “You like it?”

  “Hell, yes. I keep it small so I can control every part of my business. If I can’t see it with my own eyes, it ain’t worth doing.”

  Elijah checked his watch one last time. “I have to get going, Jones. Good talking to you.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  They stood up and shook hands; Jones’s grip was crushing, like a vise. Elijah tried to pull free, but the tall, thin man held firm. Elijah searched his eyes, which were filled with a burning, crazy intensity that made Elijah want to look away.

  “I almost forgot,” said Jones. “I have something of yours. Gimme a second and I’ll get it.”

  Jones let go of Elijah’s hand and whistled around two of his fingers. It was a long and shrill whistle, loud enough to reach the parking lot, where Money pulled his car into view and parked. It took him only a couple of minutes to walk over, carrying Jones’s vintage eighties Adidas duffel bag.

  “College Boy,” Money said, shaking his head at Elijah, disappointed. “Not so smart after all.”

  “Go on and show him,” said Jones.

  Money took a big ziplock bag from the duffel and tossed it at Elijah’s feet. “Have a look. Something special for you; I’ve been saving it.”

  Slowly Elijah bent over and retrieved the bag; it held a thin gold chain with a small basketball pendant. Dylan’s necklace. The one he’d been so proud of. The one his father had bought him for his sixteenth birthday.

  Jones beamed. “You putting it together, young blood? Yeah, I can see them gears turning. Good, good. Keep thinking.”

  Elijah unzipped the bag and removed the necklace. He understood now that it had been Jones all along. From the beginning. Watching him play ball and mess around with his friends. From the vantage point of his oak tree, Jones had been setting them up.

  “It’s you,” said Elijah. “You’re the boss.”

  “That’s right.” Jones slapped his long, skinny thighs. “I had some plans for you, boy. Good plans, too. I was going to back you to the Big Ten.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Finance you, man. Pave your way.” His eyes grew wide with the excitement of an impending lecture. “Every top ballplayer’s got a money trail behind him. Shoes. Food. Travel. A clean apartment without no parties or drama so you can actually get some rest. Tutors. Other stuff, too. Where do you think that money comes from? Things cost what they cost.”

  “I don’t need your money,” said Elijah.

  “Everybody needs money. Don’t matter now, though, ’cause you messed it up and got your friend killed. What was his name? Cody? Dustin?”

  “Dylan.” Elijah’s mind raced to keep up, but Jones was too far ahead of him. “Why did you kill him?”

  “Boy, I didn’t kill nobody.” Jones held out his palms for inspection. “Do my hands look like they dirty with stupid people’s blood? Same goes for Money here. Him and me got us a ambitious young player who takes the trash out. You might even know him.”

  “Who? I know it’s Money.”

  “Naw,” said Jones. “I like names that mean exactly what they are. It’s honest that way. Money deals with my money. Get it?”

  The two men sat close together on the bench, laughing.

  “The dude who takes out the trash goes by the name Assassin,” said Money. “ ’Cause that’s what he does.”

  Elijah fought back the urge to choke the answer out of them. How deep could he bury his thumbs in Money’s windpipe before Jones pulled him off?

  “You want to meet him?” asked Jones. “Be careful what you ask for now, boy.”

  “Yeah, I want to meet him.”

  “There.” Jones jerked his thumb in the direction of the parking lot, where another figure emerged from the black Mercedes.

  THE GLARE FROM the sun made it hard to see clearly, but Elijah would have recognized the swaggering walk of his big friend anywhere. “No. It can’t be.”

  “It is.” Jones cackled, clearly pleased with the turn of events.

  “Assassin,” said Money. “Also known as Michael Henderson.”

  “No.” Elijah gripped Dylan’s necklace inside a tight fist. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You’d better believe it, boy!” Jones unzipped one of the end pockets of his duffel and pulled out a small black gun. He stood next to Michael and handed it to him. “ ’Cause you ain’t observed my rules. Smart as you are, you thought you could do whatever you want and get away with it. You can’t.”

  “What rules?” It seemed impossible that someone could shoot him in broad daylight in a public place, but two other dead boys proved otherwise. He wanted to look around for help, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the gun. He heard distant voices, though, and the throaty rumble of an engine revving somewhere in the parking lot. Money’s black Mercedes? No, this was something bigger, like a truck or a muscle car.

  “Tell him,” said Jones.

  Michael’s voice wavered, but he forced the words out. “The first rule is, if you screw up, somebody’s got to bleed. Dylan already bled, so that one’s covered.”

  “That’s right,” said Jones, nodding his head vigorously. “Second rule says, if you can’t be trusted, you got to go. And you, College Boy, can’t be trusted.” He paused to suck his teeth in mock disgust. “So you gotta go now.”

  Michael pointed the gun at his oldest friend. His face was blank, emotionless; his green button-down shirt was crisp and perfect.

  “You’re supposed to be my best friend,” said Elijah. “And you’re going to kill me?”

  “I got to,” said Michael. “Boss says one of us got to go, and it ain’t gonna be me. I’m sorry, man, but that’s the way it is now.”

  “That’s right.” Jones bobbed his head in agreement.

  “Come on, man.” Elijah took a step toward Michael. He heard the engine sounds again, only louder. Money and Jones looked over their shoulders, trying to locate the source, but Elijah kept his eyes on the gun. He needed to stay in the moment, like in a game. He would focus and do whatever he needed to keep Michael talking and, more important, to keep him thinking. “You’re still the same person. You’re still my friend.”

  “I ain’t.” Michael held the gun steady, but beads of sweat were popping out on his forehead. “I killed Dylan, and now…I’m sorry, man, but this is who I am. This is me now.”

  “That’s right,” said Money, looking around him again, distracted. “You’re the Assassin.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Elijah. “He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know us. This isn’t you, Michael.”

  Michael wiped at his eyes with his free hand. “It is, Elijah. I shot Dylan, and I shot Ray Shiver, too. Remember when I was telling you about crossing that line and how it gets a little easier each time? And then one day you wake up and you don’t even recognize yourself no more?”

  “Because you changed,” said Jones.

  Michael nodded.

  Jones checked the screen of a cell phone tucked
in his palm. “Time’s up. Got any last words, boy?”

  Elijah thought about all the people he would miss. His mother. Kerri. Even Banks, the grizzled Special Forces “accountant” who had once taken him for burgers and taught him his own brutally effective rule. What was it called? The law of the inexorables? He tried to remember, but there was a gun in his face, and also the engine whining somewhere in the distance. He needed to stop thinking and do something, but what?

  “Yeah,” said Elijah. “A couple.”

  “Let’s hear ’em, then.”

  Elijah shifted his body slightly. He tried to appear relaxed, even though his nerves and muscles were strung as tight as wires. “Your rules are flawed. I’ve got one that’s better. Want to hear it?”

  “Your rule?” said Jones. “You ain’t got a rule.”

  “Well, it’s a law, really. It’s called the law of inevitables.” He spread his right thumb and forefinger, shaping his hand into a flat blade. His weapon.

  “Never heard of it. You heard of it, Money? Assassin?”

  Michael gave the slightest shake of his head. Elijah exhaled slowly once, twice, and then, without showing so much as the twitch of a muscle beforehand, he struck out with the inner plane of his hand, seeking the notch of cartilage just under the Adam’s apple. There was a loud popping sound, followed by a terrible sucking of air. Michael dropped the gun into the cloud of dust at their feet. He clasped both of his hands over his throat. His eyes went wide with panic as he fought against the competing desires of breathing and clamping down on the awful pain.

  Jones and Money circled, looking for the gun. Elijah stepped on it with his left foot and, at the same time, delivered a crushing blow with his right fist. It landed on Michael’s cheek. Michael’s head jerked backward from the blow, and he put up his forearms to block any further ones. Elijah felt consumed with rage; he ducked low and went to work on the body, throwing short, hard punches to the ribs and stomach. He drove his fists mercilessly into Michael’s soft middle until his enemy reeled backward and fell.

  Elijah stood over Michael, the terrible engine sound filling his head. He wanted to look and find out what it was, but his foot had come off the gun. The weapon rested in plain sight between him and Michael. All Michael had to do was reach out; but he’d rolled onto his side, holding his ribs protectively. Elijah could see Jones and Money in his periphery, closing in.

  Elijah made a stutter step to pick up the pistol, but Jones proved quicker. How could he be so fast? Elijah watched him grab it, his long fingers searching the metal casing for the safety, Money right beside him. Jones clicked the safety off.

  “Time to go,” said Jones.

  Finally, after all of his efforts, Elijah was going to die.

  He had thought that, in the end, he would be more frightened. But there was no fear, only the feeling that he’d done his best, that he’d tried to stand up for his friend, Dylan, who deserved better than to be shot in the back by a friend who had turned out to be a coward. A traitor. Elijah’s thoughts were drowned out by the deafening sound—some kind of horn blasting over the grinding of a big engine working its way through its gears. What the hell was it? He looked up in time to see the vertical steel slats of a truck’s front grill as it barreled straight toward him. How could there be a truck at the Battlegrounds? It made no sense at all, but there it was.

  Instinctively Elijah fell back out of its path. He rolled in the dirt just as the vehicle, which he now recognized as a green Jeep Rubicon—Banks’s green Jeep Rubicon?—took out the bench in an explosion of splintered wood and angle iron.

  Jones threw up his arms and shouted something, but his words were drowned out by the spitting of oversized mud wheels fighting for purchase on the hard-packed dirt. A piercing squeal, more animal than human, rang out as the front end plowed into Jones’s hip. His long, thin body flipped up and onto the hood and then, finally, crashed into the windshield. At the same time, the Jeep’s door flung open and clipped Money in his back, sending him sprawling on his face just two feet from where Elijah lay. Only then did the truck stop.

  ELIJAH PULLED HIMSELF up and surveyed the wreckage. Jones had slid off the hood and crumpled in the dirt near the Jeep’s front fender. His right leg was bent at an impossible angle below the knee. His breath came in quick pants, and his face was covered with a film of sweat. Money was closer. His face had the shocked look of someone who has just had the wind knocked out of him—and gotten a few cracked ribs.

  “Elijah.” Banks killed the engine and slid down from the driver’s seat. He looked at Elijah, running his eyes over him from head to toe, presumably checking for injuries. “You okay?”

  Elijah nodded. “I think so. Yeah.”

  Banks smiled. “Good.” He stalked across the dirt to where the gun lay. Picking it up, he emptied the chamber of its round and then popped the clip out of the grip. All of the pieces went into his back jeans pockets.

  Money’s breath finally returned to him, and he gasped. “Help. I think my ribs are busted.”

  “Shut up,” said Jones. “You ain’t hurt. Michael, get your fat ass up and help me.”

  In the distance, they could hear the warbling sound of police sirens.

  “How did you know?” asked Elijah.

  “I didn’t,” said Banks. “Kerri figured it out; I was just keeping an eye on her. You know those little GPS chips? Soon as I saw her with them, I put one in her car. Followed you two here.”

  “She’s not here. It’s just me.”

  Banks pointed across the street, toward Antonio’s Pizzeria; her little red Fiat was parked out front. “I told her to stay put and call the cops. She can’t come over here until they put cuffs on the bad guys.” Banks patted down his pockets until he produced a cigar. He bit off the end and spit it in the general direction of Jones.

  “It’s probably killing her to wait,” said Elijah.

  “No doubt.” He lit up and took a deep pull. “Where’s the fat kid going?”

  Elijah looked at the spot where Michael had been a moment ago; he’d pulled himself up and was in the process of limping away.

  Banks shielded his eyes against the sun and scanned. “What’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They watched him skirting the outside of the fence by the basketball courts, still holding his stomach but jogging slowly. From the opposite direction came Bull, stalking his prey warily. Michael was busy looking over his shoulder; when he finally noticed the big man, it was too late. Bull backhanded Michael across the face so hard that it spun him around one hundred and eighty degrees. He followed with a vicious chokehold.

  Elijah and Banks moved close enough to listen.

  “I know you killed Ray.” Bull loosened his grip. “Now say it.”

  Michael’s mouth opened enough to speak. “I didn’t—”

  Bull squeezed, cutting off Michael’s last words. “You killed him, and now I’m gonna kill you.”

  Elijah was certain that Bull would have kept his word if a trio of police cruisers hadn’t encircled the courts. Two cops emerged from the first cruiser. They approached cautiously, guns drawn. “Hands up and back away.”

  “No,” said Bull. “He killed my nephew.”

  Michael’s eyes bugged even more.

  “Easy there,” said the lead cop. “What’s your name?”

  “I’ll tell you my nephew’s name,” said Bull. “Ray Shiver. Shot up by this punk on Grider Street. That ring any bells for you all?”

  The cops looked at each other. “Put your hands up and back away, sir. You have my word that we’ll listen to your story.”

  “But right now,” said the other cop, “you need to listen to us. And we need to see your hands. Now.”

  Bull didn’t move, but neither did he continue cranking down on Michael’s neck.

  “The sooner you back off, the sooner we can sort this out.”

  —

  IT TOOK MORE than an hour for the police to take statements and document the
crime scene, all of which would go in the files connected to the Blood Street Nation case. Kerri joined Elijah and Banks; the three were made to tell their respective stories at least five times. It wasn’t until later, after the cruisers and ambulances were loaded up, that Kerri threw an arm around her father and kissed his cheek. “You were amazing, Daddy. You came at just the right time.”

  Banks scowled. “You two could have gotten yourselves killed. You should have told me what was going on.”

  “I’m sorry.” Elijah looked down at his feet, wondering how he was going to explain the day’s events to his mother. It was almost unbelievable.

  “Hell, don’t be sorry.” Banks examined the end of his cigar and relit it. “It was a tough situation; not many people could have done any better.”

  “You think so?” asked Elijah.

  “Absolutely.” Banks puffed intensely. “Which reminds me, I’ve got something for you in the Jeep.”

  “Go on.” Kerri nudged Elijah; he followed Banks past a rusted drinking fountain and an overflowing garbage can.

  The Jeep’s front end was surrounded by the remains of the splintered bench and the broken glass from the shattered windshield. Elijah also noticed the dent in the driver’s-side door from Money’s back.

  “Here.” Banks opened the rear hatch and pulled off a canvas drop cloth; underneath it was a walnut shadow box, the one he’d been working on in his basement. The glass door had a large diagonal crack in it but was otherwise well crafted. The joints fit snugly, and the finish was deep and lustrous, the product of several hand-rubbed coats of linseed oil and wax.

  “You finished it,” said Elijah. “It looks great. I’m impressed.”

  “Look inside. There.”

  The display shelves were bare except for the top one, which held a single object. Elijah instantly recognized the shield and arrows, and the raised lettering that said “Special Forces Group.” “Is that…”

  “You earned it. Go on.”

  Elijah opened the door and carefully handled the challenge coin. His chest and throat tightened, a clear warning that he was overwhelmed with emotion. “I don’t know what to say.”