Slapslapslapsla –
The footsteps stop abruptly. Not right in front of us, but very close. Somewhere in the same aisle.
I can picture the guy, looking at the stall. "That's not right," he's thinking. Pulling out the M4, aiming it and making sure he won't miss. Maybe taking a step toward us to create an absolutely perfect shot.
The feet take a step. My stomach twists painfully. I have to concentrate on not running screaming out of our hiding place.
Dad's hand grabs mine. Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking – maybe because he's thinking it, too – and is trying to keep me from making a move that will kill us both.
Our pursuer doesn't move for a long time. Probably listening, and I'm suddenly gripped by the conviction that he can hear my heartbeat. It's thundering through my body, individual gunshots booming through my ears in time with my pulse.
He has to hear that. He has to.
But he doesn't. There's just the wind.
He moves. I hear footsteps. Not running, but moving stealthily. Still trying to flush us out, to catch us running away.
The blood still pounds through my head, but other than that all I hear is his footsteps and the slap-crack of canvas and nylon in the wind.
Too late, I realize my mistake. Realize that I let the awning fall over us, but didn't anchor it at all. Didn't hold onto it.
I reach, but I'm too late. The wind flips it up, flapping it like a curtain, completely revealing us.
I see him as he turns a corner. M4 tucked into a shoulder, extended past him as he keeps up the hunt. I still don't see a face.
We wait as the canvas falls back over us. Covers and protects us. I think if it were up to me we'd just wait there forever. The next morning the stall's owner would open up to find me and Dad there, shivering with terror and wondering if we were about to be saved or slaughtered.
Dad's hand, holding mine, squeezes once. He reaches out and peels back the canvas that covered us. Looks around. Then he pulls us in the opposite direction from where the hunter went.
Back toward the rocks. Toward the Tomb.
I know what Dad is thinking. I know, and it makes sense. But I hate it. I don't know if I can do it.
We're weaponless, on foot. Sooner or later we're going to be discovered, and then killed.
So we have to get back to the one avenue of escape. Knight's car.
Dad leads me back to the Tomb. The moans are definitely coming from me now. My entire body is screaming, on fire. I can barely move – how am I supposed to climb?
Then I see Dad. His face is cut. His forehead and cheeks bloody. His hands run red. He hasn't complained, hasn't so much as murmured. He just wants to get away. To save me.
So if he can do that... then I guess I can, too. He'll save me, I'll save him. We'll wake up from this nightmare, and we'll be a family again.
Up we go.
Over.
Down.
My body hates me for this. Every inch is agony. Every second one that I expect to be shot from behind.
But we aren't. We make it. We get away, we get to the car.
Dad goes to the trunk. Zevahk is still there, broken body now riddled with the bullets that found their way into the small space. His eyes stare into a forever-place that seems oddly enticing. At least restful.
I'm so tired.
Dad closes Zevahk's eyes. Then closes the trunk. He does it as quietly as possible, but one of the hinges was bent in the firefight and it squeaks as Dad lowers it. It sounds deafening in the night. So does the click of the latch – loud as a gunshot.
We both look toward the Tomb. I figure our pursuer will be there, standing at the base, sighting down the barrel of the M4. Two quick shots. Checkmate.
But there's no one.
Dad gets in the car. So do I.
He starts the car. It turns over just fine.
We drive away.
I inhale. And wonder how long it's been since I breathed. It feels like forever.
I wonder how long I'm going to keep breathing.
18
I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG we drive. Forever. A day, a week, a month. I'm tempted to look over at the fuel gauge to see if we have enough gas to just drive... away. Somewhere far enough that no one has ever heard of me or Dad or anyone we know. Somewhere we can disappear, if we haven't already.
It feels like we're fading, losing ourselves in whatever Jack has planned, and whatever else we're caught up in. And those are two different things, I think: there's Jack, who has his game, his plans for us. Then there's whoever shot Zevahk, whoever's been following us in the police car all night. I don't think they're the same person – even if they might be looking for the same final outcome: me and my dad dead.
I want to look at that gas gauge. But I don't. Because as soon as I look the fuel level will read "E" and we'll be worse off than before. That's how these things work.
We don't need to stop right now. Stopping in a city full of police who are all looking for you? Bad idea.
Of course, everything is a bad idea now. Go home? That's sure to be crawling with detectives, with CSI guys. Those nerds aren't like the ones in the TV shows. They can't really tell your whole life story from a single hair. But they are smart, and a lot of them are armed. So we don't want to go there.
And as much as I want to just drive away, that won't solve much. Short of going to Mexico, we're going to have to deal with this mess at some point.
Dad's radio clicks on. "You having fun?" says Jack.
Dad doesn't bother with niceties. He snatches the mic. "What the hell are you doing this for, you sonofabitch? I'm sorry you lost your kid. So, what, you're going to take mine away from me? Is that how this works? That was passes for justice in that sick mind of yours?"
He's almost shrieking with rage, and the sound of his voice is so very loud in Knight's little car.
Jack laughs. Long and loud and hearty. He could be trying out for a position as a mini-mall Santa. Just ho-ho-hoing us along as we turn down one dark street after another.
His laughter finally slows; I swear I can hear him wiping tears away. "I love it," he says. "I absolutely love it."
Dad holds the mic against his lips like he's going to say something. I guess he changes his mind. He drops it away from his face. His teeth grind so hard I can see the muscles in his jaw and temple bouncing up and down. The lights in the dashboard cast weird shadows against his face. He looks pale, worn.
Dead.
That sense of fate takes hold of me again. I feel like I'm looking at a ghost. A spirit who simply hasn't clued to the fact that he needs to move on. Chills sweep through me, and they have nothing to do with my still-soaked clothes.
Jack speaks, and now his voice has no laughter in it. Nothing even approaching mirth. "Listen up, Latham. I'm not done with you. And until I am, you're not going to fully understand what the point of this is. But I can assure you of this: your daughter is going to leave you. Your friends will leave you. When I'm done, your life will leave you." Jack is panting with excitement. He sounds like a wild animal. A rabid dog. "All your lives will end, there or not, ready or not, here I come." And he laughs laughs laughs.
The rage falls away from Dad's expression, leaving it strangely slack. Then he glances at me. And the love, the fear on his face leave me breathless. "Please," he whispers. "I really don't care what you do to me. I won't fight it. I'll let it happen. Just... please leave Mel out of it."
"Leave her out of it?" Jack laughs again. But not a Santa laugh this time. This time it's Jack Frost – cold and completely merciless. It freezes my blood, leaves me shivering. "She's already in it, Latham. Has been since before this night began. And she can't leave until it's over."
A long moment passes. All I can hear is the whisper of air passing along the outside of the car, the hum of tires on asphalt.
Then Jack says, "But don't worry, it'll be over soon."
Then the radio clicks and we're on our own. Driving who-knows-where. But wherever we
go, whatever we choose, I think we'll be doing exactly what he wants us to.
Whoever he really is, whatever he really wants, Jack is in control. He has been since the beginning. Since, as he said, before the beginning.
All we can do is play along, and hope the game ends well for us.
PART FIVE:
A PEEK BEHIND THE CURTAIN
June 30
PD Property Receipt – Evidence
Case # IA15-6-3086
Rec'd: 6/29
Investigating Unit: IA/Homicide
Journal
Day Twenty-nine
LIAM IS STILL CALLING. At least, I think it's him. He calls and hangs up without saying anything.
Dad was cleared in the inquiry. He goes back to work tomorrow.
I can't let that happen. He'll die the next time something like this happens, I know it.
I just know it.
1
DAD KEEPS TURNING. I wonder how many of the turns are random, how many of them are designed to avoid the roadblocks and stops that have probably gone up to look for us.
"What now?" I ask.
Dad shakes his head. "I don't know. I just don't want anything to happen to you."
But it already has. Things have happened to me tonight, things that I know he's going to beat himself up about forever. And that's part of what makes him a good dad, too: he wants to protect me from everything, but never can. And even if he could, I think he wouldn't – we have to get out into the thick of it. Be hurt once in a while. That's the only way to learn, to grow.
But it still cuts him up inside when it happens to me.
Suddenly, I realize where we should be headed. Not out of the pain, but into it. We can't escape, so we'll have to embrace.
At the least, maybe we can help someone else this way.
"Dad, we have to go to Glenn."
"What?" He blinks. "Why?"
"He's the only one who hasn't been killed or hurt."
"What do you mean?"
I can tell by his expression that Dad's already decided I'm speaking out of panic. I have to head that off – I know what I said is right. We have to get to Glenn, and we have to get to him fast.
"Hear me out, Dad. There were a bunch of you the day of the bust. And the only one who hasn't been hit yet is Glenn."
Dad shakes his head. "No, Glenn wasn't there, I told you that. He was out sick. And besides, I was there and I haven't been killed."
"No, but Jack's making us miserable. And he said your life would end. So maybe he's toying with you because you wanted to run out and save his kid but didn't. Maybe he's making you suffer for that, before...." I can't end that sentence. I switch back to the original point of my thought. "But Glenn – he was out sick, fine, but he was Voss's partner. So he should have been there, and he wasn't. If he had been there, had been doing his job, maybe he could have helped. Maybe he could have changed something." I pause to let that sink in. "At least, I bet that's how Jack will see it. He doesn't strike me as a guy who will say, 'You're off the hook because you weren't there.' He's into punishment more than forgiveness."
Dad is silent. He purses his lips. "Maybe."
Fate reaches fingers into my mind. Pulls at me. "For sure. Jack said 'there or not, ready or not.' Like, 'whether you were there that day or not.' Dad, we have to get to him. Fast. What if Jack gets to him first?"
Dad looks at me. "What if the killer gets to you first?"
I smile. Try to, at least. "I'll stay in the car where it's safe. I'm just a ridealong, after all."
Dad doesn't smile back. After a moment my smile fades as well. Because I can feel that things are winding down. Things are coming to a close.
We're going to find out what Jack wants. And find out if we get to live or die at the end of his game.
2
THE RIDE TO GLENN JAMES's house seems like it takes only a few minutes. But dawn is reaching fingers of light across the horizon by the time we get to his subdivision.
All night? How has it been all night?
Finding Knight, going to the bar and Liam... the nightmare at the Ocean's Tomb. It's all a blur of colors and sounds, like something you'd see from the Tilt-a-Whirl at a carnival. Just hints with enough detail to figure out what you're seeing without actually seeing it. And it's enough to make you dizzy and sick and about halfway through the ride maybe you wish you could get off.
I definitely wish I could get off this ride, that's for sure.
Glenn's house, like his family, seems perfect. It's light yellow, with perfectly-mown grass, flowers planted all around the outside, and a real-as-I'm-standing-here-now white picket fence surrounding the whole thing. I've been here twice, and both times I had a great time but also felt a bit jealous that it wasn't my house. That Dad and I didn't have a Mrs. James of our own. That Mom died before giving me any little brothers or sisters.
Life's a drag, huh.
The place seems cheery even in the early-morning twilight. Catching the predawn glimmers and throwing them back a hundred times stronger, standing as a beacon of order and goodness in the middle of a world gone bad.
I want in. I want in that world so badly, and I wonder for a moment if the reason I urged Dad to come here was less about what's happening to us and more just the need to see this place again.
Dad goes to the door. Hammers on it. Three sharp raps, one-two-three. The sound of a cop knocking, which is pretty unmistakable. You don't even have to hear, "Police, please open the door!" after hearing that knock – you just know who's outside.
There's a long stretch of nothing, then the door swings wide.
Glenn stands there in boxers and a t-shirt. His hair is mussed, and he's blinking blearily, like he hasn't quite woken up yet. When he sees Dad and me, though, he stops blinking and starts staring.
"Holy Mary," he says. "What the hell happened to you?"
"You mind?" Dad says, gesturing inside the house. "It's a bit cold out here."
"No," says Glenn. "I mean – no, of course not."
He moves aside to let us pass.
Dad walks ahead of me, then turns as Glenn closes the door behind us.
"What's going on?" says Glenn. "You all right?"
"No," says Dad. "Neither are you."
"What do you mean by that?" asks Glenn.
"Where's your wife, the girls?" asks Dad.
"They're at my in-laws. They go every year for a week." He smiles a tight smile. "I get to live the life of a bachelor: pizza rolls and beer for breakfast, lunch, and dinner." The smile disappears. "Now you going to tell me what this is about?"
"I think you're in danger," says Dad. "Someone's killing off the guys in our unit."
"What do you mean, someone's –"
"What do you think I mean?" Dad almost roars. He has to visibly get himself under control. "Knight, Voss, and Zevahk are dead."
Glenn's gaze seems to wobble strangely. "No, that's not possible. I mean –" Then it steadies out and he grins a real grin: wide, with dimples at the corners. "Haha, Latham. Very funny. Is there a stripper on the way, too?" He turns and heads toward the back of the house. "Come on back, I'll get you a drink and you can explain why April Fool's has come at such a weird time this year."
Dad looks at me. "It's true," I say. "They're all gone. So is Liam."
Glenn turns back to look at us. "Liam?"
"Sarge's kid. He...." I swallow. "He killed himself."
This time the wobble isn't confined to Glenn's gaze. Something about my words must convince him this isn't a joke. He weaves on his feet, almost leaning into a nearby wall. "No. Sarge's kid? He's not...."
"Believe it, Glenn," says Dad. "I saw it myself."
"Now I need a drink," says Glenn. He turns and walks down a short hall that leads to the kitchen. We follow.
Dad stops in the doorway. I nearly collide with him.
"I thought you said the girls and your wife were on vacation," says Dad.
"Yeah," says Glenn.
"So why are there two
glasses on the table?"
That's when I feel the gun poke into my ribs.
3
WE'RE TOO LATE.
Too late to save Knight. Voss. Zevahk.
Liam.
Always too late.
I turn, and see the other guy from the Exxon. And now I know who I killed in the cave, because this one is still wearing the red flannel shirt with "Ray" written on a pin.
I must have killed Bob. Knowing his name makes what happened in the cave worse. Makes it more real. A dead man with no name is barely there. No more reality to him than a statistic on a news report. But "Bob" is a person with friends and family and a life – no matter how badly lived.
Ray me with the gun again pushing me into the kitchen. And looks at Glenn. "You let 'em in, you dumbass?"
Glenn shrugs. "I was asleep. It's five in the morning. And the whole point of you and your brother following was to make sure there were no problems." He pauses, then adds with a delicious grin, "Dumbass."
Ray's look hardens further. Not just angry at us now, but at Glenn.
Dad looks dumbstruck. "Glenn?" he says. He sounds like a little kid. Lost. Alone.
Glenn shrugs. "Business, Latham. It's always been about business." He looks over our shoulders at Ray. "You might as well do it in here." He sighs and looks around at his immaculately clean kitchen. "At least the tile's easier to clean than the carpet in the living room."
4
DAD AND I ARE MOVING as one the instant Glenn says "clean." Even so, we're not fast enough to stop the first shot. It goes off with a tremendous explosion and I feel one of the now-familiar wasp-buzzes fly past my head. Something burns my ear and I feel blood flow down the side of my neck.
I don't cry out. Don't even make a sound. Survival has consumed me. When we came out of the caves a million years ago, when we climbed out of the trees in the jungle and made towns and began wearing suits and dresses and talking about stocks and bonds instead of berries and beasts, we pretended we were civilized. But it turns out there's a wildness buried inside us. It's deep, it sleeps while we hustle about our lives and Snapchat and Vine ourselves into oblivion.
The Ridealong Page 13
