by Tish Cohen
“What the—?” Marcus couldn’t take his eyes off the gun. It wobbled and shook in the hands of a pre-teen boy. “What are you doing?”
The kid—dressed in a huge cop’s shirt and a holster—stood about a head shorter than Marcus. In spite of his height, he still had the round, freckled cheeks of a child much younger. Marcus’s mother would call him “a solid boy”: he blocked the entire doorway. The kid steadied the gun and pointed it at Marcus’s face.
Marcus threw his hands up. “Hey, hey, hey ... let’s take it easy. You just back away from the door real slow, and I’ll be on my way. No one gets hurt.”
The boy shook his head slowly.
“You don’t have to put the gun down. Just back into the hall, and I’ll run out the front door. I won’t hurt you, I swear.” For a moment, Marcus thought of jumping forward to knock the gun out of the kid’s hands. But the little bugger’s fingers were on the trigger. One quick squeeze and Marcus could wind up dead.
The boy said something Marcus couldn’t hear.
“I’m not a burglar,” said Marcus. “I used to live here. We moved out just before you moved in. Me and my girlfriend. Is that thing loaded?”
The kid nodded, aimed the gun straight at Marcus’s chest.
That was that. Marcus was going to die right here in his old bathroom. At the hands of a kid in a Halloween costume. “Please don’t shoot.” The revolver slipped a bit lower, pointed at Marcus’s groin now. Without thinking, Marcus lowered his hands. “Please! Let’s just put the gun down.”
The boy shook his head.
“What’s your name, kid?”
Whatever the child said came out in short, sharp grunts.
“What?” said Marcus.
“A-alex.”
“Alex! Great. Now we’re getting somewhere. I told you, I lived in this house right before you moved in. I don’t want any trouble. I only came back for my girl’s ring.”
Somewhere in the house, a cricket chirped.
Marcus looked past Alex. Wondered if he could run faster than Alex could react. But the kid was getting fancy with the gun. He now waved it up and down Marcus’s body in the shape of a figure eight.
Marcus backed into the shower and closed the clear glass door. “Please don’t shoot! I swear to God, I only came in for, like, three seconds. To get her back her stupid ring. That’s all. I’m a normal guy just trying to get his girlfriend back.”
Alex stamped his foot for Marcus to be quiet.
There, behind the kid’s right shoe, in the crack where the wall and floor tile met—Lisa’s ring. Marcus tried as hard as he could not to stare. Lisa was right, the boy could easily take it. Keep it. Alex turned his head a little to see what Marcus was so interested in. He grabbed the ring and held it up, his eyes asking if this was it.
“Yes. Please let me have it.”
A slow smile spread across Alex’s face.
“Wait, that’s Lisa’s! You can’t keep it—”
As Alex slid the ring into his pocket, he dropped the gun. It crashed to the tile floor, nearly stopping Marcus’s heart.
“Get rid of that freaking thing before one of us gets killed!” Marcus’s voice echoed off the tile walls. Lisa had been right about the new people in the house keeping the ring. He never should have mocked her. “What are you doing home, anyway? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
Alex said something about insulting a cop.
“Cop. Yeah, right. You’re a child dressed for Halloween. In April!”
Something in the boy snapped. His eyes flashed bloody murder.
“Where did you get it anyway, your daddy’s costume drawer?”
Alex leaped forward in a rage. He grabbed up the gun and shook it at the shower door.
Okay. So the kid was sensitive about his dad. Point to remember in his mission to stay alive. “What is it you want? Want to call 911 on me? Fine. Go ahead. Jail is better than taking a bullet from a ...” He almost said “little freak-child,” but caught himself. “From a young boy.” He pulled out his iPhone and held it out. “Here, use my cell.”
“D-d-drop it!”
“You’re not going to call 911?”
The boy shook his head.
“What? Why not?”
Alex motioned for him to drop the phone. Marcus was done arguing. He tossed it gently to the floor and watched as the glass face shattered. There went about $600. He looked at Alex, tired. “What do you want with me?”
Alex moved further into the room, which meant the revolver moved closer to Marcus. Which moved Marcus closer to death.
Keeping the gun pointed at Marcus, Alex sat on the closed toilet. With one hand, he pulled the ring from his pocket and had a good look. He twisted his mouth to one side, deep in thought, then turned his attention back to Marcus.
“My name’s Marcus Till. I live just a few blocks away, over on—”
Alex stamped his foot.
After a few moments of silence, Alex stood. Slipped the ring back into his pocket. Using the revolver, he waved Marcus out of the shower. Then, with the barrel nearly pressed into Marcus’s back, he forced Marcus down the hall. Into a newly painted bedroom with endangered animal posters on the walls and, in a tank—
“A tarantula? You keep a tarantula?” Marcus didn’t know what was worse, the spider or the gun. “You keep a poisonous spider beside your bed?”
“P-pick up B-Boris.”
What? “What? I’m not picking up.”
The revolver returned to Marcus’s face.
“Will you give me back the ring if I pick him up? Will you let me go?”
Alex nodded.
Finally. A sign that Marcus would live through the afternoon. He rolled up his sleeves and moved closer to the tank. Even to save his life, Marcus didn’t know if he could touch the spider. He needed to play for time. Think. “Can you at least tell me why I’m picking him up?”
The kid, and the gun, took a step toward Marcus. “P-p-pocket him.”
What could he do? Marcus sucked in a breath and wrapped his fingers around the furry creature. Held it as gently as he would hold a ticking bomb. Slid it into his jacket pocket. Then closed the zipper, leaving it open enough to allow for breathing. “Okay. I did what you said. Now can I have the ring?”
A look of disgust crossed Alex’s face. Marcus might as well have suggested eating the spider for lunch with ice cream. Alex jabbed the gun toward him, then waved toward the door. What could a kidnapping victim do? Marcus did as he was jabbed. He walked out of the house with a gun kissing his back and a spider doing what felt like push-ups in his pocket.
Chapter Eight
The Morrisons’ car wasn’t in the driveway. Mrs. Morrison had some sort of sickness, like diabetes or kidney trouble—Alex wasn’t quite sure. What he did know was that most afternoons, Mr. Morrison drove her to the hospital for care.
The thing about Mr. Morrison was that he was scared to death of spiders. All the kids in the neighbourhood knew the story. Last fall, he had found a big spider tucked right between his trash cans in the garage. The story changed depending upon who told it. Some said it was a deadly brown recluse spider. Others said it was nothing but a harmless daddy longlegs. Either way, everyone said the spider was as big as a man’s hand. Morrison himself claimed it was the size of a catcher’s mitt. Didn’t really matter. The point was that the spider had scared him into a heart attack. He got better in the hospital, but his heart was badly damaged. The doctors let him out with a warning: no more stress.
Alex made Marcus cross the street. He had tucked the gun under his dad’s shirt, but he was still plenty able to poke Marcus with it.
“Are we setting Boris loose now?” asked Marcus. He walked as slowly as he possibly could. When he realized whose driveway they were headed toward, he stopped. “Morrison’s place? The guy’s a total nut.”
The boy grunted his agreement.
“That’s what this is about? We’re giving the old boy a spider?”
Alex answered with a
shrug.
“So this is some kind of revenge.” Marcus stared at the Morrison house. Slowly, he started to nod. “I can actually get behind that.”
Alex poked him, and they walked through the side gate. The backyard looked different today. Last time Alex had been running flat out. This time he had a chance to really look around. What he saw creeped him out. Patio furniture made of sticks so sharp they could make your eyes bleed from looking at them. A small rubber duck bobbing its beak against a pool’s edge, trying to escape. The hedge that had been carved into a snowman family, now had pictures of sad faces hung on each of the tall bushes.
“It’s like a horror movie back here,” said Marcus. “All we need is scary music.”
Alex lifted his eyebrows in agreement and kept Marcus moving toward the house. Marcus didn’t need much pushing.
“He’s terrified of spiders,” Marcus said. “You do know that?”
The kid said nothing.
“He must’ve done something real bad to you,” Marcus went on.
Alex shot him a look that said, Shut up. With the gun, he moved Marcus up the steps. At the door, Marcus paused. “Want to see her?”
“Wh-who?”
“Lisa. Can I show you a picture?” When the boy didn’t object, Marcus dug into his pocket and pulled out a wallet-sized photo. Held it up.
Alex looked at it a moment too long. Marcus ducked to one side and grabbed for the Smith & Wesson, but Alex was too quick. He jumped back and aimed the gun with two hands. He shook his head angrily, his heart pounding.
“Sorry, sorry!” Marcus held his hands up, backing away. “I won’t do it again, okay? I’ll help you with the spider. Deal? I help you, you help me. And then we separate. Deal?”
Alex said nothing while he caught his breath. He didn’t care that much about Marcus escaping and ratting on him. He could get sent to some kind of kid jail. Didn’t really matter. But he would never, ever let Morrison get away with killing his father.
Just as Alex had hoped, the back door was unlocked. Made it nice and easy—no need to break a window to get inside. The kitchen was straight out of the 1950s. Yellow checked curtains, fake marble table with chrome legs, plastic fake-lace place mats. An Elvis Presley clock hung on a wall. Elvis’s bent legs danced back and forth with each second. A tin sign said this kitchen was, in fact, “Mom’s Diner.” But as ugly as the room was, Alex liked it. It had a cozy, grandma appeal.
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said, leaning against a bright green fridge. “About before.”
Alex shrugged.
“Did you think she was pretty?” Marcus’s eyes were bright with hope. Hope that this eleven-year-old kid would agree with what he wanted so badly to believe. “Lisa. She’s pretty, right?”
Somehow Marcus looked sadder in this house than he did at Alex’s place. His chubby face joined his body with no sign of a neck. The beard looked out of place, that was for sure. Poor guy. In love with a girl so selfish she asked him to commit a crime. After she had already walked out on him. Alex smiled. He lowered the gun. “B-beautiful.”
Marcus sighed, satisfied. He reached for a banana on the counter and peeled it. Took a bite. “So where do we leave spidey?”
“H-h ... h-h-his room. So I can c-c-come back for him. A-a-after.” That was the plan. Leave Boris in Morrison’s bedroom with the door shut. Then go home and wait for Morrison to return. Wait for the ambulance to show up. Then—once they’d carried the old man’s lifeless body away—race back and collect the spider. Feed him an extra-special meal. Two crickets. Maybe three.
Suddenly, Marcus dropped the banana and started pulling at his jacket. “Oh God! I think Boris is loose! I think he’s in my shirt!” Bent over, he batted at his belly, tugging his T-shirt out from his pants. Alex dropped the gun and grabbed at Marcus’s hands before he hurt the spider. Marcus lost his balance, and the two of them fell to the floor, Marcus still yanking at his clothing.
Alex grabbed Marcus’s hands, pinning them to the floor. Something hard pressed into Alex’s knee. No sooner had he felt it when a shot rang out. It was so loud Alex thought he’d been hit in the head. Marcus held up his hand, opened his mouth, and let out a silent scream.
A perfect hole edged with a thin black line had appeared in Marcus’s hand. They watched the hole go from white to pink to bright red. It filled with blood and then started to leak. Blood dribbled in a thin stream to the floor. Behind the hand, a hole in the fridge door.
“Right through me. The bullet went right through me!” Marcus cried.
“It’s o-o-o-o-k-k ...!” said Alex, fighting his panic. “You’re going to be f-f-f ...”
“You shot me,” Marcus whispered, turning his hand over. “Right through! You shot me right through!”
Alex took Marcus’s hand and held it up. If Alex hadn’t caused his father’s death, this would be the worst thing he’d ever done.
“I’m going to die.” Marcus doubled over. “Here in Morrison’s kitchen. In front of a dancing Elvis clock.”
The bullet went right between the bones, that much was clear. Alex knew from his dad’s police talk that Marcus wasn’t even going to need a cast. But words stuck on his tongue worse than ever now. So instead of going to the effort of calming Marcus, Alex grabbed a tea towel. He tied it tight around the wound to slow the bleeding.
“Call 911!” said Marcus. “Hurry!”
It wasn’t possible. Calling 911 would mean Marcus would go to jail, too. That wouldn’t be fair. Marcus was the innocent victim. Okay, maybe not totally innocent. But still. Getting shot was enough punishment.
“Please!” Marcus begged. “I don’t want to die ...”
Alex shook his head. He needed to think like a cop. Look at the Who, What, When, Where, How, and Why. The Who and the What needed no further thought. The When and the Where could not be denied. They needed a How.
“Promise you’ll give the ring to Lisa.”
And a Why, Alex thought.
“She lives at. oh god, I can’t even think with the pain.”
Alex looked away from the now blood-soaked tea towel. It made him feel even more guilty and even less able to think. They couldn’t call 911 or the police would show up. He knew from his dad that a bullet to the hand wasn’t fatal. Not unless it caused a huge loss of blood. But they still had to get Marcus to the hospital. He’d been shot. Emergency room doctors don’t care what happened, his dad used to say. They just fix the problem and move the meat. Human meat.
“W-we’ll go to em ... em ... emerg.”
“Yes!” Marcus climbed to his feet. He checked his pants pockets with his good hand for his keys and pulled them out.
What about the How? How did the shooting happen? They couldn’t show up at the hospital with a bullet hole and no How. Alex thought back to his father emptying the Smith & Wesson on the living room table. “U-un ... un-l-loading.”
“What?”
“That’s the H-how.” Of course, the police would check the bullets, if the hospital called them. They’d want to see the gun. It was registered, of course, to Alex’s father. “I-it’s my d-d-dad’s ...”
“Okay,” said Marcus. “You were checking out your dad’s gun when I knocked on the front door. You opened it, gun in hand. I took one look at the gun and insisted on checking to make sure it wasn’t loaded. It was. I accidentally shot myself trying to get the bullet out. It’s perfect.”
“You came f-for your g-g ... girlfriend’s ring.”
“They’ll never believe it,” said Marcus.
“Th ... that you have a g-girlfriend?”
“No! That I just happened by and checked the gun. And, anyway, you shot me in the hand!”
“Fine. Then y-you broke into my house!”
Marcus held up the bloody towel and turned a shade paler. “I’m getting dizzy. Can we move this along?”
“I’ll d-d-d ... drive.”
“You’re, like, eight years old!”
Alex tugged at Marcus’s jacket, and a hairy blond
ball fell to the floor. They both stared, mouths open. Boris lay perfectly still.
“Oh, no. Your spider’s dead.”
Alex dropped to his knees. He poked at Boris’s lifeless, curled-up legs.
“I am so sorry, Alex,” Marcus said. “I couldn’t be more sorry. But the thing was crawling all over my body. It was like he was looking for an opening. I just freaked out.”
Alex looked at Boris. How could I have been so cruel as to include an innocent creature in my revenge, he thought. If only I hadn’t come up with this stupid plan. Boris would be in the glass tank back at the pet store right now. He’d still be hanging out behind the plastic palm leaf next to the tank full of tiny lizards. His death wasn’t Marcus’s fault. “A-a-a-accident,” Alex said.
They couldn’t leave Boris’s body here. They had to take him to the hospital, care for him until they could give him a proper burial. Alex grabbed the Kleenex box from the counter. He tore off the top and emptied out half the tissues. He put Boris’s little ball-of-yarn body on the bottom tissues and covered him with the others. Then he tucked the cardboard coffin under his arm and held out his hand.
Slowly, Marcus handed over the keys. “You driving is so not legal.”
Alex took his father’s sunglasses from his shirt pocket and pulled them on. “W-w-what part of this d-day is?”
Chapter Nine
Alex explained why driving to the hospital would be simple. He’d watched his parents drive a million times, and he knew a great route that was all side streets. But when he put himself behind the wheel of Marcus’s car, Marcus pointed out the problem. His feet didn’t quite reach the gas pedal or the brake. Not if he wanted to see where he was going at the same time.
The answer lay in a grocery bag in the back seat. Alex pulled out a four-pack of toilet paper and stuffed it behind his back. Exactly what he needed!
Turned out Alex hadn’t learned quite as much as he thought. Marcus had to tell him how to take his foot off the brake and step on the gas. He helped Alex shift from Park into Drive, and the car jerked into motion. Alex guided the vehicle to the middle of the road, as if lanes hadn’t been invented yet. The car shook and bumped as they made their way toward the hospital. With any luck, they wouldn’t run into the law.