by Sean Platt
Rather than embrace Tommy or offer him any form of comfort, Frank makes a disgusted face then turns and stomps into the house.
Tommy follows.
I find myself wondering what Tommy meant by his question: Is it ever right to do the wrong thing for the right reason?
I hope he’s not about to do anything stupid.
I spend the rest of the night wondering what Tommy meant, and what he might be planning to do. I don’t remember seeing any alarming memories while I was in him. Maybe this is something new.
I wonder if I should call Stacy and warn her that Tommy might be about to do something stupid, but what could she do? If anything, Stacy might escalate the problem.
What is the assassin waiting for?
**
I’m in Frank’s house.
I know this can’t possibly be real, so it must be a dream. But here’s the thing — I haven’t dreamed in a year. I don’t know where I go when the host’s body sleeps, but I don’t think I’m in them once I lose consciousness. I’m not even sure if I ever sleep.
But now I am in a dream, in Tommy’s bedroom. I’m in his bed, staring out his window as rain pelts it with a million liquid nails. Lightning flashes, thunder exploding loud enough to shake the walls. I feel it in my bones.
I draw the sheets tighter, pulling them over my body, afraid.
Suddenly, Tommy’s door violently shakes — someone trying to get in. Is it Frank? It must be. But why isn’t he saying anything, demanding that Tommy open the door? It isn’t like Frank to keep his big mouth shut.
The door shakes louder, so hard, I’m sure it will fly off its hinges.
I climb out of bed, looking for a weapon, something to defend myself. I find a bat in the closet, then stop in front of the mirror and am surprised to see that I’m not in Tommy’s body.
I have no body at all.
The bat floats in the mirror as if held by a ghost.
The door continues to shake.
Suddenly, I hear Stacy crying, “No, don’t!”
The door stops shaking.
There’s screaming from the other side, Frank shouting incoherently.
A gunshot explodes.
Silence.
I stare at the door.
Oh, God, Frank did it. He shot Stacy.
No, no, no.
I can’t move.
Footsteps approaching. He’s coming for me, or maybe Tommy.
A knock on the door.
No, go away, I’m not answering.
Another knock …
* * * *
CHAPTER 5
I wake to three loud knocks.
I turn and see a bright, blinding light right in my face.
I jump, startled, then realize I’ve woken in a car. The light to my left is from the officer who knocked on my window.
Now that the cop has my attention, he makes a circular motion with his left hand meaning he wants me to roll down the window. His right hand is on his gun, still holstered in his belt. He’s tall, broad shouldered, in his late thirties, with thick dark hair hinting at gray on the sides. His expression is all business, intimidating.
I fumble in the unfamiliar car searching for the button, hit it, but nothing.
Then I remember to turn on the car. I look for keys, then remember the start button. I push it and roll down the window, knowing the cop is likely taking my confusion for inebriation.
“You okay, sir?”
I see the clock. It reads, 5:15 a.m. Not a good hour to be found sleeping in the car.
“Yeah,” I say, though my back and head are both throbbing. From the corner of my eye, I see a second officer at the passenger side door, flashing a light through the cabin.
“Do you mind explaining why you’re here?” the cop asks.
I realize I’m in the parking lot of Tommy’s middle school.
Why am I here?
I’m still waiting for information on my host’s details, like a name, or something. Anything. I certainly don’t know why I’m sleeping in a school parking lot.
Am I a teacher?
Yes, that’s it. I am a teacher.
Not just a teacher, but Craig Carson, the neighbor that Old Man Wilbur thinks is screwing around with Stacy. The man I watched storm out of his house.
“I work here,” I mumble, trying not to sound drunk. I’m not sure if Craig did get drunk last night. I don’t see any alcohol lying around, but I sure feel hungover.
“And what, you live in the parking lot?”
“My wife kicked me out last night,” I say, details coming as they fall from my mouth. “I was driving around all night trying to figure out how to make things right, then figured why bother with a hotel when I’ve gotta be at work early. Figured I’d come here, then shower and change in the gym before school started.”
“License and registration, please,” the cop says. “And do you have a school ID?”
“Yes, sir.” I fumble through the glove box, then my wallet, to get him everything he needs.
Both cops retreat back to their patrol car where they’re probably running my plate and checking my story. I realize how damn cold it is in the car, then roll up my window and turn on the heat.
My heart is racing. I feel moments from puke.
I have vague flashes of an argument Craig had with his wife, Colleen, but can’t remember the details. Did she discover the affair?
Was he even having an affair with Stacy?
If so, I don’t remember one. I wish I had more control over my hosts’ memories, could better direct them, get the information I need. How can I take control of their bodies and feel so many of their emotions yet not tap into their brains to get everything I need? If this is some sort of system put in place by whoever put assassins in the field, their engineers, scientists, or whatever, got it way wrong.
Maybe it’s not an exact science.
Another knock at my window yanks me from my thoughts.
The officer is back, my license, ID, and proof of insurance in his hands, though he’s not yet handing them back.
“If we did a breathalyzer now, would you blow positive?”
“I haven’t been drinking, sir. Just a rough night, I swear.”
He stares into my eyes, and I’m nervous not knowing what he’ll see. Maybe he’ll sense something is wrong, even if he isn’t sure what, then pull me out and arrest me.
I remember my dream.
I don’t know what it meant. Only that I need to find Stacy and Tommy to make sure they’re okay. Maybe in Craig’s body I can convince them to leave Frank once and for all. I don’t have a plan after that, but we’ll figure something out.
But first I need to get these cops to leave. If they think I’m drunk and arrest me, my day is shot.
I maintain eye contact with the officer, just enough to show I’m not hiding anything, but not enough to make him think I’m psychotic or on drugs.
His expression goes from suspicious to understanding. Maybe he can relate to Craig’s problems, or feels a kinship in that we both have demanding, thankless jobs. I’m not sure what it is, but he’s moved enough to hand me my license, work ID, and proof of insurance.
“Okay, sir, I suggest you find somewhere else to sleep tomorrow night.”
“Thank you, officer.”
He heads back to his car. A few minutes later, the cruiser leaves and I’m left alone in the dark lot. I can’t stop thinking about the dream. The only one I’ve had since I started Jumping. It wasn’t just terrifying, the dream was ominous, maybe prophetic.
It sounds silly to think I somehow glimpsed the future, but considering everything else that’s happened to me — that I wake up in a different body almost every day, that I was given a chance to save Allie Martin, the assassin who verified my reality, and the strange transmissions I heard in the parking lot leading me to the assassin — prophetic dreams aren’t even especially crazy.
But how can I see the future? Is this some sort of time travel — I’m getting hi
nts of what might happen, and their prevention is up to me?
I don’t know, and the lack of answers is maddening. But I do know one thing: ignoring the dream would condemn Stacy and Tommy to tragedy.
I have to do something.
I think I have an idea.
I pull out of the parking lot and head to Baker Street.
**
I find a spot a block away, parking in front of a vacant lot, and sit, listening to the radio while I wait.
I’m overcome with a deluge of memories from Craig’s argument with his wife.
It began rather innocuously with Colleen complaining about his working late. She asked why he never made time for her.
He said that he can’t help it if he has to stay late sometimes. He’s a teacher and subject to external forces — last-minute staff meetings, parent conferences, needing help from the guidance counselors after hours for problem students, and kids who ask to see him after school.
“I wish you cared as much about our marriage as your stupid job,” she said. “And why do you put so much time for such low pay? Do you like being treated like shit?”
This was easy for her to say, of course, since she worked part-time for her father’s air conditioning company, where she’d been since college. She’d never had a real job, one she had to earn on her merits, without carte blanche to come and go as she pleased. Colleen was also paid at least three times what her position was worth, simply because she was Daddy’s Girl. She worked a third of Craig’s hours, but often brought home more than him, which justified her questioning his job.
To make matters worse, he sometimes agreed. Yes, his job has long hours and is often thankless. He didn’t make nearly what he was worth. Add inept board members, ignorant parents who barely care to help their own children, and yes, sometimes Craig hates his job.
But he also likes making a difference. And all the crap is worth it for those few kids each year whom he could genuinely help.
She went on about his “stupid job” some more, and Craig found himself wondering why he’d married her. And then why he stayed with her. He hadn’t loved Colleen in at least eight of the ten years they’d been married, but at the same time, he was raised to believe that you didn’t break a vow. You made the most of a situation, just as his parents before him for thirty miserable years.
Craig wasn’t sure if Colleen had changed after they got married, becoming more materialistic and less caring about others, or if she’d always been that way and he’d been blinded by her better qualities. She was beautiful, confident in a way that he wasn’t, funny and outgoing. She challenged him in ways he’d never been challenged. Craig liked that. But after a few years, challenges became more like character attacks. She had a complaint about nearly every aspect of his personality: Craig was too into his job, he was too obnoxious when around his male friends, he didn’t care enough about having bigger and better things. He was, she often said, a perpetual college kid refusing to grow up. Forget for a moment that it was she who didn’t want to have children, while he’d always wanted to settle down and raise a family.
At some point, the conversation shifted, so fast and so jarringly, that he was blindsided by her accusation.
“Are you cheating on me? Are you sleeping with another teacher? Or maybe one of those single moms you’re always meeting with?”
“What?” Craig said, barely able to believe the accusation.
“Well, clearly you don’t have sex with me anymore. So, who is it?”
“Nobody!”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m not sleeping with anyone! I swear.”
“Then why don’t you touch me?”
No answer would please her.
“Maybe you wish I was more like Stacy? Is that it?”
“What?” he asked, not just annoyed, but ashamed by the truth. He’d come to care a lot about Stacy in the past year. He’d come to know her when he had them over to tutor Tommy in math. She was everything that Colleen wasn’t — warm, a nice person, a loving mother, and someone who would do anything for her family.
Yes, he’d thought about Stacy a lot. And it was more than a crush. He wasn’t sure if he’d come to love her or if he just related to her because they were in similar situations — trapped with miserable people. There’d been a few times when Stacy had met him after school, and it was just the two of them in his classroom. They’d started talking about Tommy, but recently the conversations ended with her tears on his shoulder. She’d never told Craig about the death threats, but Stacy had confessed that she was sad, and sometimes scared. He’d told her to call the cops, but she always backed down, saying it wasn’t that bad. Seeing her cry like that, he longed to rescue her — take her and Tommy somewhere safe, where they’d be appreciated instead of abused. Not only would Craig be saving them, he’d be saving himself from a life sentence with Colleen.
Despite his feelings, he’d never once flirted. The fact that Colleen had somehow figured out his feelings only angered him more. She had no right to talk about their friendship, or make accusations. Craig had been faithful, and would’ve probably remained miserable with Colleen forever.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” she said to his nonresponse. “You’re fucking that white trash bitch.”
“She’s not a white trash bitch!” Craig said, jumping to Stacy’s defense fast enough to curl Colleen’s lip in the way that he hated.
And even though Craig hadn’t intended to say what he had, he couldn’t stop himself. He’d bottled the truth, putting up with her haranguing for so long, playing a charade, and for what, that he finally exploded in a single brutal moment of truth.
“You want to know why I don’t touch you? I don’t touch you because I can’t stand to look at you!”
She stared at him, stunned, mouth agape, tears welling up.
“What?”
Instead of taking it back, Craig continued, telling Colleen how much she had changed, and that he was tired of being made to feel that he was always wrong. Tired of having to pretend that she hadn’t changed for the worse, that she’d become as cold and callous as her mother. He ended with, “No, I am not sleeping with Stacy, but I’ll say this — for you to call her a white trash bitch shows what’s wrong with you. And if you can’t see that, then I don’t know that we have any hope.”
Colleen’s face went stone cold, lips pursed tight. She glared at Craig, her contempt no longer hidden behind crooked smiles and rolling eyes. “Get out.”
“What? Get out of my own house?”
“It’s more my house than yours.” She was, of course, talking about the fact that her father had helped them with a generous loan for the down payment, an advance that neither Colleen nor her father would ever let him forget.
That did it. The kid gloves were off. Craig was done pretending. Done putting up with her shit. Done being made to feel worthless because he wasn’t rich or cultured like her stuck-up asshole father.
“You know what? Fine. It’s your house. Fuck you and your daddy.”
And Craig stormed out.
As I sit in the car watching morning light slowly nudge the shadows, I can feel the rawness of the fight as if I’d just had it myself.
No wonder Craig was sleeping in the parking lot.
I finally get out of the car and start walking toward Baker Street, hoping I can catch Stacy before she leaves, without drawing attention from Frank.
I stop at the end of Baker and wait patiently at the corner, using the cover of a tall red fence to stay clear of Old Man Wilbur’s line of sight. Now that I’m in Craig and have some of his memories, my blood boils at the old man’s accusations that Craig and Stacy were having an affair. Hell, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Wilbur accidentally let his suspicions slip while chatting with Colleen, or maybe another of the neighbors who then told her.
I can see the old man sitting on the porch, using a newspaper to hide his voyeurism. How can someone devote so much of their time to spying on his neighbor
s, spreading gossip, and generally making other people’s lives miserable? He may not be an assassin, but his chatter can have the same effects on people’s lives. Maybe if the assassin comes today, Wilbur will get caught in the crossfire.
I smile at the thought.
At the end of the block, Frank’s front door opens.
I step back behind the corner, waiting a moment, then peer around the fence again. Tommy is walking up the block toward the bus stop. But he isn’t alone.
Frank is with him.
What the hell? Why is Frank walking him to the bus? Maybe he’s going as Tommy’s protector, to stand by and make sure that Evan and his friends don’t start anything. Or maybe he’s going to intervene and kick their asses himself. Frank is a hothead. But having been inside his mind, I also know there’s a small part of him that probably doesn’t want to see Tommy hurt. Does he like Tommy? No. Does he wish Tommy lived somewhere else? Oh yeah. But he doesn’t want to see the boy physically hurt by a bunch of punk kids. So maybe Frank will stand up for the kid, even if doing so might land his ass behind bars.
Come to think of it, I almost hope Frank goes off on Evan. Maybe seriously injures the punk. Put Evan and Frank both out of commission for a while.
I hide as they reach the end of the block then turn to head up 112th Terrace to the bus stop.
I make a run toward Frank’s house.
I’m not even partly way there when Old Man Wilbur calls out from the bench, “Hello, Mr. Carson.”
I turn, wave, and am eager to move on.
But he isn’t done yet.
“Going to see your lover?”
I turn, angry, wanting to kill the gossip with my fists.
He stays seated on his porch swing, but lowers his paper. “Of course, you’re not really Craig, are you?”
He winks. I see the briefest flash of light in his eyes and realize that he isn’t Old Man Wilbur.
“You?”
“The Asian woman, and the mailman, yes. Come here, come here,” he says, waving me over.