Speaking Evil

by Jason Parent

  Michael’s lips flattened into a tight line. “It’s okay. I get it. Let’s just get out of here before we both get run over.” He walked over to the sharpened stick. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll hold onto this.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Two men had held Sam down as the safe house blew apart around them. She had heard their grunts as debris rained down upon them, their backs shielding her from the blast. And she hated them for it. She had fought like a rabid dog, barely holding back from biting as she thrashed beneath their weight. She should have been looking for Michael, protecting him, getting him help if he was injured.

  If he was still alive.

  But they had kept her pinned, their combined weight too much for her. They would pay for it, she would make sure of that. And if her boy died because they’d kept her from him, she swore to God she would—

  “Help me!” Frank had shouted. “We need to get her out of here.”

  She at first had slapped away their hands as they’d tried to help her up. She didn’t want their help, didn’t need it, but she’d eventually relented and let them escort her to cover behind a parked vehicle.

  Hysterics no longer controlled her mind. Anger had pushed it out, cleared away the clutter. She sat stewing, waiting for her anger to implode. No one was going to stop her from looking for Michael. She would pull her gun if she had to.

  “Well, at least no one appears to be shooting at us,” Frank said, his levity working its way under her skin. “Yet.”

  Cursing, Sam leapt to her feet, dumbstruck by wreckage before her. Hand over her mouth, she hurried toward the desolation.

  No more than fourteen feet or so away stood a bowl-shaped opening where the front of their building had been. It was as some giant monster had opened its maw and chomped down on the safe house, leaving only its corners rising like bedposts.

  Sam walked on shaky legs toward the basement cavity that remained. A hand touched her elbow, but she swatted it away, gaining momentum and strength as she staggered clumsily toward the hole.

  “Sam, the shooters may still be...” Frank had started to say behind her, then apparently gave up.

  Down below, piles of smashed wood, concrete, and plaster speckled the remains of the building. Sam cried out as she approached. Amid the upturned sofas, dismantled chairs, sections of cabinets, and other somewhat intact or obliterated furniture and personal belongings, a hand jutted from the rubble. She stepped onto the remnants of the floor, no more than broken up wood stabbing at the air like fence pickets. She walked cautiously across it to its end as if being forced to walk the plank.

  “Sam!” Bruce shouted from behind. “It’s not safe!”

  “Is it safer than when you went into that church, Bruce?” She spat, her anger and fear for Michael getting the better of her. “At least this one’s already in pieces.” She crouched, sat down, then scooted toward the drop. Only about four feet of space hung between her and the pile of debris below. Without knowing how sturdy the pile might be, she lowered herself down gently.

  The pile held firm. As she edged toward the hand in the rubble, her arms out by her sides for balance, the smaller debris shifted underfoot, slowing her progress.

  Labored breathing came from somewhere above her.

  “You, too, Frank?” Bruce’s voice called into the sinkhole. “You’ve both lost your freaking minds. The person who did this, who’s responsible for all of this, is probably getting away as we speak.”

  Sam didn’t respond. She heard Frank drop down behind her.

  “Forget you, then.” Bruce groaned in frustration. “I’m going after them.”

  Frank delicately rested his hand under her elbow. “Here, let me help you.”

  Sam flinched at his touch, but this time, she didn’t bat him away. His strength supporting hers helped her to move faster, and only two seconds later, she was falling on her knees beside the hand.

  Tears of joy exploded from her eyes as hope welled inside her. Sniffling, yet almost giddy, she said, “It’s not him.” She grabbed the hand as if she were going to arm wrestle with it. “See? It’s old, veiny... white hairs on the knuckles. Not Michael’s.”

  Frank smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s good, Sam.”

  She knew what he thought, that Michael was just somewhere else under the rubble. But she wouldn’t believe that, couldn’t believe that, until all hope was confirmed lost.

  The hand twitched. Sam gasped and fell backward. Frank caught her in his arms. As the rubble shifted below them, he held her close, Sam allowing the embrace. The ground moved like tectonic plates, destroying and reforming the land around them. When it settled again, they were about a foot lower. The face and upper torso of the hand’s owner had shimmied to the surface.

  Sam broke free of Frank and leaned forward for a closer look. The body looked like a tire that had been popped, left to droop on a warped frame. One of his teeth was poking out of his nostrils. The top of his head looked like a plate of nachos with chili and salsa. And the rest of him wasn’t any prettier. He was clearly dead, the twitch probably the result of gas leaving his body or some other deathly function.

  Sam would have thought the man unidentifiable, but Frank knew. “Jordan Rockefeller—a patient at Brentworth, and by all accounts, a kind and peaceful man.” He rubbed his hand down his face then roared out his frustration. “This case, that man! So many lost. Even those we are trying to stop are victims in all of this.”

  He fixed Sam with a watery gaze, an unusual display of emotion for the usually robotic agent. “We have to stop him, Sam.”

  She looked at him then and knew he’d been trying to stay calm for her sake. Thinking she would offer some words of comfort or encouragement if she could find them, she faced him straight on and spotted blood on his cheek. “Frank, you’re bleeding.” She checked him all over for injuries.

  “Huh?” He checked his palm and wiped the blood away to reveal no wounds. Then he looked where he had touched her, and her eyes followed his. “Your elbow.”

  She turned her arm inward to view the gash in her shirt and deep into her forearm. In her frenzy to locate Michael, she hadn’t even felt the injury. She must have caught it on the jagged floor as she’d dropped into the basement.

  “We need to get that looked at.”

  She clenched her jaw and fixed him with the coldest stare she could muster. “We need to find Michael.”

  “Sam! Frank!” Bruce’s voice bellowed from above. “Get up here quick! It’s about the boy!”

  Frank slapped his sides. “And how do you suppose we do that?”

  “There’s a dresser along the back wall. If you can make your way over there, you should be able to climb out the other side.” Bruce’s shadow briefly disappeared before returning. “I’ll meet you over there.”

  Frank shrugged. Sam nodded. Arm in arm, they carefully navigated their way over the rubble. Aside from Frank slipping into a knee-deep hole and Sam having to pull him out, the two made it to the dresser with little hardship. They climbed up onto the street behind the building. There, a throng of spectators stood gawking at them as they dusted themselves off.

  Bruce led one of them over by the arm—an older lady with thick gray curls and a sleeveless floral shirt. “Please, Mrs. Canto, tell them what you told me.”

  In a heavy Portuguese accent, the woman said, “I saw a boy run away from here after the building fell. Then a man, a police officer, came running after him. I think he was chasing him.”

  “Which way did they head?” Bruce prompted.

  The woman raised a finger and pointed it directly away from the building. “There.”

  “It’s Michael!” Bruce bounced on his toes. “He’s in trouble. We need to go after them!”

  “Michael?” Sam was slow to process the information, and Bruce’s sudden concern for him rankled her suspicion. Still, a boy being chased by a police officer... Who else could it be? Though she’d hoped Michael could still be alive, that cynical part of her
that made up so much of who she was continuously chimed in to tell her she was dreaming.

  “He’s alive?” She laughed and more tears of joy sprang from the corners of her eyes.

  “He is for now,” Bruce said. “But we need to move if we want to keep him that way.”

  “Sir,” a man standing with a woman and a dog called from across the street, apparently having eavesdropped on the conversation. “My wife and I saw a boy, and—”

  Sam started to turn, but Bruce grabbed her arms and shook her. “Sam, we have to go now! Your boy is in trouble!”

  Sam couldn’t think, but after a moment trying to straighten out her thoughts, she nodded. “Right. Michael.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

  The three sprinted after the boy and the cop, Sam hoping they would catch up before they vanished into Fall River’s many dark places.

  CHAPTER 37

  Michael walked side by side with Dylan out the front doors of the high school, having doubled back for Dylan’s phone, which Michael kept in his pocket for “security reasons.” Michael explained what had brought him to the high school in the first place, all the while watching his classmate for any tell that Dylan already knew what had happened.

  For his part, Dylan either showed genuine surprise and concern for Michael or faked it well. As they walked toward the road, Michael never let him move beyond his sight. Although Officer Tagliamonte had cleared the boy of any connection to Carter Wainwright to the point of producing official records that proved his identity and innocence, Dylan still worked at Brentworth. The circumstances that had brought him and Michael together had always seemed a little too convenient, perhaps contrived. Michael had needed a friend. Boom, he’d gotten one. Dylan had survived not one but two attacks by Horvat’s brainwashed Indians. And Dylan had been brainwashed himself.

  Sam didn’t believe in coincidences. Her cynicism was wearing off on Michael. As they reached the road, he turned to face Dylan. “So... where should we go?” he asked, having a sneaking suspicion Dylan would only recommend one place.

  “I don’t know.” Dylan shrugged. “Can’t go to the police, right?”

  Michael nodded, watching Dylan’s facial expressions closely. “Right.”

  “How about the treehouse? She found you there once. Maybe she’ll think you’ll go there again.”

  Michael suppressed his smile. It was the answer he’d suspected, and it made him trust Dylan even less. His friend’s suggestion wasn’t without any reason—Sam might think to look for him there—but so might all the Wainwright douchebags, particularly if Dylan was one of them.

  It didn’t matter. Michael was tired of running. Without his phone, Dylan wouldn’t be able to contact Wainwright, except if he had a backup. Maybe there was even one in the treehouse. But Michael had his main phone, the stick-knife, and the wariness to be ready for even the slightest inkling of bull. Dylan was either a true friend used by a malicious enemy or a malicious enemy posing as a true friend. He claimed to have been brainwashed, and Michael could think of no reason why Wainwright and Horvat would brainwash a willing participant in their schemes.

  At the same time, Michel desperately wanted to trust his friend. Wainwright had had ample opportunities to use Dylan against Michael before that day. Why would he have waited until then? On top of it all, and the real reason behind Michael’s burgeoning suspicions, was that he couldn’t believe anyone would truly want to be his friend.

  He kept all these thoughts to himself, letting the doubt fester while keeping his expression level. Outside, he said, “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “Hey.” Dylan frowned. “We’re good, right? I hate what happened. It seems just so... unreal to me. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anybody. This whole thing is just so freaking crazy.”

  He rubbed his eyes, and Michael wasn’t sure if he’d seen tears. But Dylan took a deep breath and found his composure. “Anyway, you have my phone and that stupid stick. So unless we run into those brainwashing jerks, I don’t think there’s any way they’ll get to me again or that I’ll be able to hurt you.” He threw up his hands. “I don’t think I’ll be answering any calls ever again.”

  “Not your fault, man,” Michael said flatly. “I get it. Let’s just get out of the open. Sam’s probably worried sick about me, and to be honest, I’m worried sick about her.”

  Dylan nodded, and the two walked in silence back to Brentworth, both taking occasional glances over their shoulders and hiding their faces from oncoming vehicles. They saw no cops and few cars. No one passed that raised Michael’s suspicions.

  Brentworth was closed off to anyone but the police. Caution tape and orange cones stood sentry over a deserted building. Security patrolled the parking lot, so Dylan and Michael kept inside the tree line at the back of the adjacent properties, a gas station and carwash, working their way behind the hospital.

  Michael hesitated only a moment before heading deeper into the woods. Of course he second-guessed his logic in going back to the place where it had all began. But he’d had a vision of the future in which he was still alive and Sam was older, and he trusted that meant they would make it through the day okay. Of course, Sam could be hurt and needing help sooner than later. Moreover, having seen the vision, Michael knew that he might be acting in a way he wouldn’t normally act had he not had the benefit of foresight. He could be changing the future without even realizing it.

  He was growing tired of the constant battle, his life of fear, helplessness, and loneliness. And he was tired of being pushed around. If he kept running like he always had, he was starting to think he would always be running. Maybe it was time he pushed back.

  As they plodded over pine needles without saying a word, Michael thought back over the events of the last several days—the attacks on himself, the people he’d seen die. He thought back to those who’d exploited him for his curse, all the way back to Tessa, whose actions caused her stepfather to murder his last foster parents, and Sam, who’d exposed him to a murderer just to solve a case. He thought of the Suarez gang and Jimmy, who’d sold him out to the brothers. His so-called friends, people who were supposed to care about him, using him like some carnival freak for their own selfish reasons.

  Heat rose to his face, and he flexed his fingers. He wondered who his real enemies were. At least with Wainwright and Horvat, he knew where he stood. But there was no hurt greater than that of betrayal. The betrayal of a friend.

  He stared up at Dylan as they climbed the splintering ladder to the treehouse. Michael reached for each rung without hesitation, squeezing them as if he wanted to strangle them, his feet marching from one to the next with hostile snaps.

  When he reached the top, Dylan was working the pulley. “I’m just going to bring it up, you know... just in case. To have it at the ready.”

  Michael stood a foot away from him. “Your father’s an administrator at the hospital, right?”

  Without turning, Dylan continued to draw up the bucket. “Yeah, but he didn’t have anything to do with those crazies, if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s been cooperating with the cops ever since everything went down.”

  “It just seems odd that... I mean, you were just hypnotized by them, right?” Michael pulled Dylan’s cell phone from his pocket.

  “Yeah?” Dylan worked the bucket closer.

  “Well, aren’t you even the least bit concerned that maybe he was too?” The cell phone was locked. “What’s your password?”

  “Three two one... one two three. Why? Who you going to call?”

  Michael typed in the password, then scanned the recent calls. The last one had come from DAD. He dialed it back and let it ring.

  Dylan looked over his shoulder and sighed. He smiled shakily. “Where are you going with this, Mike?” His brow furrowed. “Who are you calling?”

  “Don’t you want to make sure your father’s okay? You haven’t even mentioned him or asked for the phone on the entire walk over. Aren’t you concerned about him?” Mi
chael inched closer to Dylan. “Or is it that you already know there isn’t anything for you to be concerned about?”

  The phone continued to ring until, at last, someone answered. A familiar voice said, “Where are you? Are you with that detective’s kid?”

  “No,” Michael snarled. “But I’m with yours.” He hung up the phone.

  “Michael,” Dylan said, starting to turn while holding the pulley in place. With the metal bar at his side, he stepped toward Michael. He raised his hands, confusingly placating and threatening at the same time, as he inched ever closer. “You’ve got things all wrong. I’m your friend—”

  “Get away from me!” Michael saw the raised bar and acted. He threw out his arms, slamming his palms into Dylan’s chest.

  Dylan cried out. His arms reached wildly for something to grab, finding nothing but air as he plummeted from the platform. His elbow smacked the bucket, tipping it and spilling the handlebar down to the ground with him. He hit earth will a dull thud.

  Michael gazed over the ledge. Dylan was sprawled on the leaf-covered dirt below. He wasn’t moving. Michael made his way to the ladder and began his climb down, his whole body trembling and working on cruise control. In his mind, reruns of what he’d just done played over and over again.

  At the bottom, he circled the tree to check the body of the kid he was sure he’d just murdered. But Dylan was no longer where Michael had pushed him. Indentations in the dirt marked the spot where he had landed. A trail of footprints led away, then turned, circling.

  In his peripheral, Michael spotted something metallic swinging toward his head.

  CHAPTER 38

  Sam hadn’t run far before encountering the crane that had been used to destroy Frank’s safe house. It sat on a flatbed and appeared to be unmanned. A barrel-chested man in a denim shirt and red hard hat stood next to the machine that had tried to kill them. She drew her gun on him. “Freeze! Police!”