by Derek Milman
I remind Nicks that I left my luggage at the coat check, give her a giant hug, and then I’m off.
CHAPTER 10
Mohawk State Park
I fling myself in front of a cab and climb inside. “Port Authority Bus Terminal, please.” As the cab pulls away, I think about my face being splashed all over cable news.
I think about Shiloh and his amazing smile, his coy, unexpected kindness. His mysteriousness. I get upset all over again.
I think about Tom. And that last day we had.
He said we could swim for a bit, but he wasn’t happy about it. He wasn’t happy I was even there. A frown cratered his face like a fault line when he saw me at his door. A distance had been swelling between us, and now there was this.
It was late afternoon when the sky turned a rancid green and the rain came, slapping everything. Lightning slashed over the treetops. When the storm was over, the smell of electricity was in the air. Everything was puddled, dripping, and the sun had made its final escape for the day.
Everyone was gone, of course. My parents were at something. Shane was elsewhere. His mom was out of town. Tom and I were alone during the storm, just watching the pool get pelted. I thought of meteors falling and striking Earth.
I realized Tom didn’t want me to come inside the house with him.
Truthfully, I messed up, maybe.
He had already told me to stop coming, told me to stop knocking on their front door when I knew he was home alone. But I didn’t listen. I kept thinking he was going to change his mind.
Thing is, we had already started breaking some of our own rules, like meeting at different times; he even came over to my house once to get me. I wasn’t mowing his lawn much anymore. We were getting brazen. Then this coldness began to creep in from the edges, out of nowhere. And I knew what was coming. He told right me then and there, after the rain let up, that it was over for good.
No more, he said. No more.
Half his face was illuminated by a slice of amber light pouring out of a window, spilling across the soaked lawn. He looked pained and worried, like maybe I wouldn’t understand.
There was always this torment in him I didn’t know what to do with. Him just saying it, finally—that we were done—didn’t come as any kind of relief. It was the opposite. It was a gut punch. I suddenly knew what a broken heart meant.
He stood his ground, calm and contained. He explained that he had so much more to lose than me, that he had to think of his family. He said he didn’t want anyone to get hurt over this. And I actually laughed at that.
I asked him if he loved me. And he didn’t answer. He just looked away.
I lost it. I really lost it then.
I’ll never forget the meaty sound of my fists beating against his wet chest as droplets of water were flung off my hair. He had to grab my fists in midair. I either slipped or he threw me to the ground to stop me.
I told him I could ruin him. I told him I could wreck his fucking life.
He told me his life was already in ruins.
That’s what he said: Already in ruins.
He looked so beaten down and pathetic that I didn’t know if I truly hated him or just felt sorrier for him than I have for anyone ever. It was a wild moment. Confusing as hell. Everything about him (and us) was confusing to me.
Over the past several weeks, he had been the one needing constant reassurance. He would lay his head on my chest while I told him, over and over, that everything was going to be okay, stroking his arms, his hair. I had become the wise one, the protective one, even though I was never sure what I was protecting him from. Of course I probably knew, deep down. Just like I knew this day would come.
Tom looked out at the dark pool, the inflatable toys making sad shapes in the misty night, huddled in one corner, as if not wanting to overhear. Wisps of steam rose from the surface like tongues. And then he turned and walked inside the house, leaving me there, covered in mud and wet grass, sobbing on my side, fetal with pain.
In the immediate aftermath, I didn’t try to make contact. I feigned a bad cold (I had, in fact, caught one) and missed three days of school. I didn’t try to get revenge on him for hurting me. I stayed in bed. I told no one.
The only thing I truly regretted was that I had threatened him, made him more fearful, made him feel even more miserable, defeated, and alone.
I didn’t know being in love is a kind of prolonged ache. I didn’t even know I was in love with him. I realized only when it was gone, extracted from me like a rotten tooth.
When I get to 42nd Street, I buy a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses at the first souvenir place I see. I’m sure I look weird wearing sunglasses at night, but whatever.
I avoid cops with dogs as I buy a bus ticket ($55.75!) at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I use cash for everything. I take out my iPad. The Wi-Fi is weak all over the terminal, but I manage to find a lone spot where I can text Jackson and Leo.
I tell them I’m okay, that I’m on my way upstate. I tell them to talk to Tats if they want to know more. I give Leo all my passwords. I tell him my phone has been stolen and hacked. I need him to disable everything, change all my passwords, so no one can get info on me from e-mails, texts, voice mails, or whatever’s on my phone. Although I’m sure it’s already too late and that’s totally pointless.
Now I just have eleven hours to kill.
I duck into a Pixar movie at one of the big theaters off Times Square (don’t enjoy, totally distracted), then fall asleep in a corner table at a Starbucks, right near the bathroom, reading Age of Wonder. That was stupid. My hat and sunglasses slipped off. I could have been spotted. My backpack could have been stolen. I got lucky. A manager wakes me up, but he does it gently, and leaves me alone when he sees I’m not a drugged-out street kid.
Speaking of, McDonald’s is quite a scene late at night. I watch, fascinated, chomping a Big Mac, as prostitutes mingle with tourists clutching Playbills. Scary-looking people pound on the door of the one working restroom, desperate to get in.
A tweaking club kid, wearing a backward baseball cap with gold lettering scripted across, angrily complains to the cashier that he didn’t receive a cherry on top of his ice cream sundae. “But fine, that’s whatever,” he says, waving her off, walking away. Then he stops in the middle of the dining room, lowers his head, and begins to sob.
I wish I could chill back at the Mandarin Oriental, but that’s obviously not an option. I avoid the news. I don’t want to see my name in a headline crawl. I don’t want to see a photo of myself on a ginormous Times Square screen. But that becomes impossible to avoid, and I catch a screaming piece of breaking news. I can’t help looking. Crowds slow, heads crane up.
Instinctively, I pull the cap tighter over my face.
There’s been another attack.
Heartland Baptist Church, known for their hateful attacks on the LGBTQ community, was picketing the funeral of a gay teen—a recent victim of a school shooting—in Garville, Kansas. A swarm of drones descended on the crowd, throwing people off balance and scattering the homophobes. At that point “a small assault team of snipers,” well-hidden on various scattered rooftops, picked off the picketers, effectively wiping out most of the church’s membership since there were only like forty of them. It was well-choreographed—like a ballet.
Picked off the picketers. That has a ring to it.
I can almost hear the Swans laughing.
The shooters all got away. The drones flew off. When I see the image of the swan that was tweeted from Heartland Baptist Church’s hacked account, I slowly back away and run down a side street filled with packed restaurants and bars.
I get back to Port Authority early and wait, avoiding any more crowds.
I purposefully grab a window seat toward the back of the bus so fewer people will pass by. An old woman sits next to me. She’s grandmotherly but unsmiling, eating peanuts from a small crumpled paper bag and throwing the shells on the floor. She smells a little like cats and old chees
e.
I’m feeling that unnerving combination of fear, dread, and admiration that the Swans elicit in me. Things are definitely escalating.
And how are they doing all this so effectively?
I don’t let go of my backpack. I keep it firmly on my lap. I recline my seat back so I can just zone out. I charge my iPad.
There’s Wi-Fi on the bus. Leo texts back. He tells me the new password for my e-mail. He walks me through how to remotely lock and wipe my iPhone using the Find My iPhone app on the iPad. I do it right away.
Jackson texts, asking where I’m going. I tell him. He asks how Tats is. I tell him he should ask her himself.
Jackson tells me all the cable-news outlets are connecting Benoît’s murder at the Mandarin Oriental with the coordinated cyber-attacks, and now the attack on Heartland Baptist Church, which has apparently sent the religious right into hysterics. My face is still all over the news as a “person of interest,” but the authorities don’t seem to have released my name just yet. I don’t know why.
I hate texting on an iPad, but I’ll do it for Jacks.
JACKSON: Ur famous bro.
ME: U mean infamous.
JACKSON: Like the game, lol.
ME: :P
JACKSON: WHY did you run from Kibbutzeteria?
ME: I didn’t want to drag you guys into this
JACKSON: was that rlly it tho?
ME: also worried u were gonna call the cops
JACKSON: yo why don’t u trust me I am ur best friend
ME: bc you WERE gonna call the cops
JACKSON: u have trust issues
ME: you were tho
JACKSON: I mean that would have been best thing don’t ya think?
ME: Not how I wanted to handle things. I need to make decisions for myself and ur not respecting my ability to do that.
JACKSON: I get that but HOLY HELL u r going through a lot rn. I wanted to help!
ME: Respect, but sometimes you treat me like a helpless kid and I hate that. I can help myself.
JACKSON: I want to say 1 thing don’t get mad.
I lean back against the seat and sigh loudly.
JACKSON: I think sometimes you do risky shit, make irrational decisions so u can make things right retroactively.
Ugh. He may not be so off base about that.
JACKSON: Nothing will get solved that way.
ME: k
JACKSON: I’m legit scared this is the last time I’m ever going to talk to u.
I close my eyes for a second, then decide to tell Jackson something I’ve always wanted to say.
ME: In case I don’t see u again… uhhh… I think for a short while back in freshman yr part of me was a little bit in love with u.
There’s an extended pause. Those animated dots, starting and restarting. Jackson deciding how to respond to this.
JACKSON: I’m flattered. srsly. Never knew. Part of u falls in love with everyone tho, right? Least for a while?
ME: yeah maybe. Just the peeps I care about tho.
JACKSON: There’s a v. thin line bet friendship and that other stuff, the romantic stuff u know.
I smile at that. Jackson will be a great therapist one day. He’ll be a great anything one day.
ME: yep.
JACKSON: If I went that way Id totally run away with u. You’d be my bae!
ME: LOL. Thx.
JACKSON: What ur doing rn is totally nuts.
ME: It’s my only option to stop this shit. If I can get them this item, it stops.
JACKSON: Except if it doesn’t.
ME: No other options.
Jackson and I digress a bit into a rapper we both like who just dropped a new album. It’s a nostalgic yearning for the normal friendship we used to have, when we’d talk about music and watch movies—when I wasn’t a fugitive, a suspected terrorist, and a murderer.
ME: Love 3rd track.
JACKSON: That shit slaps, man.
ME: k, I should get some sleep.
JACKSON: Word. Love u. Do not let yourself be isolated or go with anyone alone.
ME: Love ya 2. I will survive this. Singing to u: I will surviiiiive, hey, hey!
JACKSON: LMAO. Ur so gay.
ME: ttyl.
I lower my cap over my face and manage to sleep for most of the ride. I don’t leave the bus during any of the pit stops. I use the bathroom only once, and I take my backpack with me. I wake up just as we’re nearing the state park. I watch the thin line of horizon out the window ignite into a neon blue. Coupled with the steady roar of the bus engine, things seem almost mundane, maybe even hopeful.
I’m very aware I could be walking into a trap. Maybe this was the stupidest thing, coming here. But the Swans left me no choice. I do not want to join their evil “organization,” even if part of me does want to root them on a little bit, but only from afar.
I don’t understand what Preston’s motivation is. Why have me travel all the way to the Adirondacks to meet him? What is he going to want in return?
Trap, trap, trap: my brain, on repeat, rattling around that word.
The more I think about it, the more nervous I get, because he was so insistent on me coming alone, and so scant on details. But there’s a chance he’s someone who can help me. And I need someone on my side right now.
As we reach our final destination, Leo texts me.
He reminds me I can use the Find My iPhone app to see where my phone is at this very moment. I didn’t bother before. I assumed it was still in the Merrick Gables.
Leo says check anyway.
It’s not.
There’s a gray dot, meaning it’s offline, but it shows the last known location. It’s close by.
My phone seems to have followed me to the Adirondacks.
I don’t know if that’s a glitch in the app. But if it isn’t a glitch, I don’t know what it means. And I sure as hell don’t know what to do about it now.
We disembark. The visitor center won’t open for another forty-five minutes, but apparently they serve an early breakfast in their main cafeteria. That’s good, because I’m famished. But now I have even more time to kill, and no more Wi-Fi.
The visitor center looks like a bunch of interconnected wooden cabins with exposed beams on a sprawling campsite. The triangular rooftops are the color of oxidized pennies. Coming from the city, and being asleep for most of the ride up, everything feels so open all of a sudden, like someone unbuttoned the world. The sky is cerulean clear. I see the lake sparkling in the distance, reflecting the morning sun. Mounds of mossy-looking mountains rise all around us.
I step away from the crowd that’s getting off the bus, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, keeping to myself, eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary: anyone who seems to be looking at me, or have any interest in me whatsoever. But no one does.
Most of the people coming off our bus, and the two that arrive next, are in chatty groups: couples and families and old friends, people with serious backpacking gear, waving maps and guides around. People who look like they know exactly what kind of kayak paddle to buy at a sporting goods store. I’m the only one traveling alone.
Because who the hell goes to the freakin’ Adirondacks by themselves?
The one thing that comforts me is that this place is pretty busy. There are crowds of people here, so if someone wanted to harm me, this is not the place to pick. This is definitely more the place to meet clandestinely, make some kind of handoff. I’m not surrounded by Heartland Baptist Church members, and I doubt the Swans want to kill innocent people.
But, again, why here? And why was my iPhone heading here, too?
Maybe Preston is or was a Swan? Maybe the Swans found out about this meeting and are going to facilitate the handoff. Or try to kill me.
If it’s the second thing, it doesn’t matter—if they want me dead, they’ll get me eventually. They’re good at finding their marks. I might as well see if what Preston said is true. I can’t get what he said in that note out of my head:
They’ll never leave you alone until they get the item. Let’s meet and work this out. It’s the only way to end this.
I’m praying that’s true.
I sit on a rock, off the parking lot, swatting bugs off my arms, and watch people until the visitor center opens. Hungry hikers stream in to get their hearty breakfasts. I head in with them, never taking off my cap or my sunglasses, my fingers nervously twirling the strap on my backpack, prepared for anything.
I think the best thing to do is act like a normal tourist. So I load my tray up with hunks of scrambled eggs and disc-shaped sausages and hash browns and mini cups of orange juice and ciabatta rolls like I’m Bear Grylls. This is probably the most food I’ve ever held in my hands in my entire life. I’m not exactly a mountain man.
I pay the cashier and take my tray to the bustling dining area in the back of the visitor center, which overlooks the lake. The walls are all glass, the large windows at the top swung open to let in the breeze coming off the water.
To buy time I eat slowly, so I’m not sitting by myself, hunched over an empty tray. My eyes are everywhere, looking for whoever I think this Mr. Preston is. But everyone here is talking to someone else. There is no lone man wearing a raincoat and fedora, holding a briefcase. There is Wi-Fi, though. And it works.
I have texts from Leo and Jackson, asking for an update, and five from my sister, asking me if I’m alive. But I don’t respond to anyone just yet. I think I need to be off the grid in case the police are trying to find me; they may be monitoring the phones of my family and friends. Silence is smart right now.
Says me, Veteran Fugitive.
The Find My iPhone app doesn’t provide me with any new updates. My phone is still offline, its approximate last location the same, not that far from here. I scan the cafeteria—still no one who could be Mr. Preston.
I open my iPad and dip into my Tumblr, just to keep myself occupied. I haven’t been on it since I uploaded those photos at the Mandarin Oriental, when I first got back to my room. I love the series of the woman with the eye patch holding the orange Hermès bag. I took my customary burst of photos, following her trajectory across the lounge. But now I see something I hadn’t before.