The Tracker

by Chad Zunker

  “Okay, I’ve gotta go now.”

  “Please be careful. Call me soon.”

  I hung up, stared at the phone. Then slammed my fist down in anger at the thought of a possible murderer sitting in the cracked brown leather chair next to my mom’s bed. I found the TV controller, flipped on the flat screen inside the TV dresser at the foot of the bed. I found a local news station. Within five minutes of watching the news, I found myself staring once again face to face with Lucas McCallister. I was startled at how good he looked. No red lines in his eyes. No sagging cheeks. Hair perfect. As if nothing had happened the night before. As if his fingers were not all over the blonde. Had they made her disappear altogether? Again I thought about that text message. Stay hidden but be ready. McCallister’s wife stood innocently beside him. I wondered how much she knew about her husband’s extramarital affairs. She was obviously clueless about the events of the previous night, or there was no way she’d be standing by in support of her man. Had he come home to their hotel room at midnight, all cleaned up, as if his late-night “campaign meeting” had simply run long?

  McCallister was giving a statement in front of a throng of microphones, saying that he was as shocked as everyone else about the horrific events that had transpired in Boerne overnight while they were campaigning there. When asked about the suspects being connected to his campaign, McCallister said that he knew neither man involved; he reiterated that they were not men on his team. They trusted that the authorities were properly handling the matter. He and Lisa were praying for the family of the victim. They had plans to continue on with their regular campaign stops and were not at all concerned with his security. I couldn’t believe how calm and cool McCallister sounded. Just ten hours ago he was standing over the body of a dead woman in a puddle of blood, his own vomit at his feet.

  Seconds later, the news segment cut away to a video clip of McCallister’s opponent, Congressman Leonard Mitchell, a distinguished-looking, gray-haired gentlemen of fifty-five, standing behind a podium at a rally from the previous night in San Antonio. The reporter was giving an update on the campaign race, saying that McCallister’s lead over Mitchell had grown to four points, according to the latest polling. And that Mitchell’s team had become much more desperate in their efforts to somehow close that gap in the final few days before Election Day. I was about to turn off the TV when I saw him. I grabbed the TV remote, hit pause, and the screen froze in front of me. I walked up really close to the TV. It was him. I was sure of it. Standing directly behind Mitchell, wearing a black suit, with an earpiece in his right ear. Mid-thirties, prominent square jaw, short hair, small eyes. Yes, it was him. The same man who’d put a bullet into Rick’s forehead and chased me through the woods. One of Congressmen Mitchell’s security guys. The assassin. I was positive.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, stunned.

  The assassin was with Congressman Mitchell. Not with Lucas McCallister.

  I felt a chill rush through me, as cold as the familiar bite of winters spent on the street.

  SAM CALLAHAN

  Age Fifteen

  Denver, Colorado

  It was the most frigid night I’d ever experienced in Denver.

  It was certainly the coldest I’d tasted since I’d chosen to live on the streets two years ago. The weather guy on the TV at the gas station said it might be even worse than the blizzard of 2003 that dumped thirty-two inches of snow in one day. That put the city on lockdown. I remembered. I had a warm bed at the time and watched it through a window. The temperature was supposed to drop to fifteen below zero tonight. With the wind, it could easily reach twenty-five below.

  For the past week, I’d been sleeping on the second floor of a two-story office building with a buddy and about twenty other guys — a building that had been abandoned halfway through construction. Sheetrock was up in parts of the building, so some of us had our own tiny makeshift efficiency apartments. There was no plumbing or electricity, but it wasn’t too bad. Felt much safer than an alley or under a bridge. There was a roof over our heads. And it was certainly cheaper than the weekly-rate motels. They extorted kids like me. Three hundred a week? For a dump that had a lumpy mattress, a gross toilet, and a grimy shower?

  I was huddled under two heavy blankets when I heard the commotion.

  It was a familiar noise. One I heard too often on the streets at night. Cops. A whole group of them. Entering the building a few minutes after ten o’clock to shake us down and scatter us like rats. I knew this place was too good to be true. I was used to it. Word got out fast and then too many guys flocked to it. That’s when they usually shut us down. I heard cops telling everyone to head over to Rachel’s place, the worst shelter in the city. I couldn’t believe this was happening on a night like tonight. The other shelters were already packed, the motels already booked. They were going to have several human popsicles all over the city in the morning. The mayor may have promised to clean up the city, but did he really want to kill street kids like me in the process?

  I quickly grabbed my gear, rolled it up, stuffed it in my bag. I hit the road before a cop could lay direct eyes on me and ask me why a fifteen-year-old was on the streets. I didn’t need that tonight. Everyone was quickly scattering, not wanting trouble, just trying to make it to the next day. We were all too cold to even curse the cops. I found the stairs in the back, briskly moved up the sidewalk. When I cleared the building, the wind hit me direct in the face and took my breath away. I knew some of the old guys were headed straight back to the woods. They would put up tents, try to build a fire, and somehow weather this ice storm. I couldn’t do the woods.

  I began to roam the frozen streets. Alone. Snow pounding me. No one was out. I mean, not a soul. No people walking around, no cars driving. It was too cold to even get into a car. The gas tanks were probably blocks of ice right now. My toes were so numb, and I felt the bite working its way up my legs above the knees. My lips were trembling. My eyes watering so badly that I could hardly see. And I was starving. The places I usually went to grab food on the cheap had been on lockdown all day. This was the first time I thought I might literally die on the streets. The first time I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake going out on my own. Maybe the beatings and abuse weren’t such a bad trade-off to have a hot bowl of soup and a warm bed, even if I had to share it with someone else.

  The chill was above the waist now. My legs were not working right. And I felt faint. I was feeling pretty desperate when I turned onto 24th Avenue and spotted Zion Baptist Church. There were no cars in the parking lot. No lights on in the building. I followed a snow-covered sidewalk around to the side, then I quickly stepped up to a back door. It was locked. Not that this mattered to me. I just hoped that God wouldn’t strike me dead for breaking into a church. With barely any feeling in my hands, I managed to pull a tool out of my bag and work the lock. I pushed the door open a moment later and nearly fell inside, out of the wind and snow.

  I shut the door behind me, the heat inside embracing me like a thick thermal jacket. I sat there on the carpet in the hallway for ten minutes, just thawing out. I took my shoes off, tried to massage my toes. They were rock solid. Finally, I got up and began exploring. Thank God there was a kitchen. I immediately found a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter. I stuffed my face, finished the whole box, then emptied the full container of peanut butter with a spoon. I drank some milk from the refrigerator to wash it all down. My stomach started to settle. The feeling was returning to my fingers again. But I wasn’t sure my toes would ever recover.

  I moved to a hallway that led to the massive sanctuary.

  All the lights were off except for a few in the ceiling that were focused on the stained glass windows. One of the windows showcased Mary with baby Jesus. I studied the image. At least he had a mother.

  I sat on the first wooden pew. It had a nice cushion on it. Comfortable. I set my bag down beside me, untied my blankets, shook off the ice as best I could. I felt bad about bringing my mess into this nice churc
h, but what choice did I have?

  I was beat. I collapsed over onto the pew, pulled my feet up, and covered myself.

  I would live. And that’s all that mattered that night.

  SAM CALLAHAN

  Age Sixteen

  Denver, Colorado

  The east office of Denver’s Child Protection Services was inside a monstrous four-story rectangular building. The last time I’d been inside their second floor offices was three years ago while sitting at the desk of my case worker, a nice enough fifty-something woman named Ms. Jeanetta, who was checking on my well-being as I awaited another foster home assignment after being yanked out of yet another really bad situation. Story of my life.

  That was three months before I bolted from the system altogether.

  I was back outside the building now, standing in the cold snow. It was after ten. The building was locked down for the night, but I was still determined to get inside. Today was my sixteenth birthday. Not a soul knew about it. No one. It had admittedly been weird not having any birthday mentions the past three years. Like I hadn’t publically aged. Like I wasn’t even a real human being. Even the worst foster parents had usually stuck a candle in a crummy cupcake and sang the stupid song. But that was life on the streets, life without family, life on your own. I told myself I’d gotten used to it.

  That’s a lie. You never get used to it.

  Today felt different. Something had stirred inside of me.

  Three years ago, Jeanetta had let it slip when looking through my official file that I had been abandoned on my actual birthday. Not around my birthday. But on the actual date of my birth. I’d heard her whisper “how cruel” under her breath while reviewing my paperwork and adding new reports. I’d let it slide at the time. I was thirteen. I didn’t care, didn’t want to know.

  But I cared today. For some reason, I’d been thinking about it a lot the past week. For the first time, I wanted to know more about what had really happened. What did my file actually say about me? About the details on the day of my abandonment? Did it say anything about my mom? My dad? Any family at all? Who the hell was I, really?

  The side door for employees, from the parking lot, had a security system. You had to have an electronic keycard to access the building. I’d easily snagged one from an unsuspecting office worker near her minivan earlier that evening as I helped her load up two boxes into the back of her vehicle before she headed home for the day. The badge said Dorothy Jenkins.

  The parking lot was nearly empty. I sidled up to the employee door, flashed the badge at the security box, heard the door click open. I was inside a second later. The hallways were well lit, the office suites dark. I found the stairs, scooted quickly up a level, poked my head into an empty and silent hallway. I knew exactly where I was going. I found the right office suite a few seconds later, used the badge one more time, and was inside. I left it dark. I didn’t want to turn on any lights and draw unwanted attention. I didn’t need to steal my file. I technically could walk in during broad daylight and have access to it. I had rights. But I didn’t want to deal with people, deal with the system, deal with Ms. Jeanetta.

  I liked being “missing” and planned to keep it that way.

  I slipped around three metal desk cubes and spotted the familiar desk of Ms. Jeanetta near the corner of the room. The same pictures of her grandkids were on the desk. I could smell her fragrance, a mix of flowers and chocolate. I always liked Ms. Jeanetta. She seemed to really care about me. Everything on and around her desk looked exactly the same as when I’d sat there three years ago. I pushed in behind her swivel chair, stood in front of the two plain gray metal file cabinets. My mind began flashing back. I knelt down to the third drawer on the left cabinet and pulled it open. Bingo. I found the “C” files exactly where I expected to find them. I began to skim.

  A few seconds later, I had the thick file for Samuel W. Callahan. I used my phone as a light, did a quick scan inside to be sure it was me. I immediately spotted pictures they’d taken from all over my body. Evidence of abuse. Stuck to detailed reports.

  There were a lot of pictures, a lot of reports. Yep, it was me.

  For a second, I hesitated. Did I really want to open Pandora’s box? Did I really want to know more? Maybe my hell was already big enough. Did I really want to relive every cigarette to the back, every lash of the belt, every punch to the face? Did I want to see images of large finger imprints around my skinny neck when I was nearly choked to death as an eight-year-old? Did I really want to know the sordid details about the day I was so cruelly abandoned?

  My file suddenly felt heavy in my hands.

  I swallowed the thick ball in my throat, shut the cabinet drawer, and found the hallway again.

  An hour later, I stood on the sidewalk outside of St. Luke’s Medical Center.

  It was snowing again. Light flakes. Nothing heavy. But they floated down out of the night sky and blanketed the medical vehicles parked right outside the doors of the Emergency Room. I watched as an ambulance with lights spinning raced around a street corner and up to the glass doors. It jerked to a quick stop. Emergency staff hustled out from the building to help pull a patient out of the back on a stretcher. Looked like a middle-aged man, all strapped down to the bed, pale skin but eyes open. Moments later, a middle-aged woman showed up in a separate car along with two boys my age, teenagers, probably the man’s family. All concerned, holding each other, reassuring the dad. They all rushed inside the glass doors together.

  I watched these types of scenes for nearly a half hour, eyes on those glass doors.

  The file said fifteen years ago to the day, at exactly eleven-forty in the evening, a woman claiming to be my mom had dropped me at those exact glass doors, screamed for help, told medical workers she thought I might already be dead from frostbite, that I’d stopped breathing and my lips were blue. They had ushered me quickly inside and took care of me.

  But my mom had walked away. Forever.

  Orphaned on my first birthday.

  Not much at all was known about my mom, according to the file. I didn’t arrive at St. Luke’s with any official paperwork. The young woman gave them my name and that was it. But the night was accurately detailed by medical staff once CPS workers showed up.

  I blew warmth into a fist. It was cold. But nothing like that night fifteen years ago.

  My file said it was ten below that night.

  I had pored over my file for an hour in a corner booth at a McDonald’s up the street. It was like an emotional torture session. I relived every foster home, every swing of the fist, every weapon of abuse, every vicious verbal lashing. So many names, so many faces, so much rage. Even thinking back on the McGregors brought up so much dashed hope and pain.

  And it had all started on the night of my very first birthday.

  I’d already hated my mom before that night. But that was an ambiguous and generalized hate. Now my hate was more specific. Hell, the word hate was not a strong enough word. It was something that ran much deeper in me than that.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket, watched it for a few minutes until the digital numbers on the screen finally turned to eleven-forty. Felt tears form in the back of my eyes. Then I quickly shoved them away, gritted my teeth, shook my head.

  Happy friggin’ birthday, Sam.

  SAM CALLAHAN

  Age Sixteen

  Denver, Colorado

  I slept on a middle pew inside Zion Baptist Church.

  The old church building had become my new home this brutal winter.

  The plaque in the hallway called it the oldest African American church in the Rocky Mountain West. All I knew was that they kept the temperature warm at all hours, always had plenty of extra food they wouldn’t notice was missing in the church kitchen, and they left the back door unlocked most nights. Not that this would have stopped me. But it somehow made me feel better about being there. Like maybe someone was intentionally leaving the door open for me. I’d been sleeping there for nearly two weeks,
slipping in around ten most nights and out before dawn the next day without anyone ever noticing. Until today.

  I heard a voice before I ever saw anyone. I was in dreamland.

  “Hey, friend, time to get up.”

  I felt a nudge on my shoulder. My eyes fluttered open, confused. Then I saw the face of a twenty-something black man standing above me. I shot upright, startled, looked around me for all my things, ready to make a run for it before the cops got there. But the man in the dark suit and green tie put up a friendly hand.

  “Hey, take it easy. You’re not in trouble.”

  I looked at him. Was he serious? He had a nice face, with big brown eyes, a perfectly trimmed goatee around a solid chin, small round spectacles.

  “It’s bitter cold out,” he said. “I get it. Worst winter I’ve seen. I’m actually sorry to wake you up, but we have a six o’clock prayer meeting in here twice a month.”

  I looked at my phone. Five forty. My alarm was set for six-thirty, which was when I would usually grab my things and hit the cold sidewalk. I stopped panicking, but still began packing up my bag. I wasn’t going to hang around. This gig was clearly up. That sucked.

  The man was hovering and watching me.

  “How long you been staying here?” the man asked.

  I shrugged. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Just needed to get moving.

  “My name is Pastor Isaiah. I’m one of the associate pastors here at Zion.”

  I rolled my bag, stood. Time to go.

  “You got a name?” asked Pastor Isaiah.

  “Nope.”

  Pastor Isaiah smiled. “Okay. You want some breakfast?”

  I paused. I was starving.

  “I got fresh bagels and donuts,” he offered. “Straight from the bakery. And coffee, orange juice. I’ll make you a trade. I get a name, you get breakfast.”