by B. C. Tweedt
“The deer’s.”
His dad held his large hands in front, palms-up. It looked just like his blood.
“Why is it on his hands?”
His mom gave his dad a smile and then knelt at Greyson’s level. “Your dad had to clean it, so he could feed us. But, that question you asked was a good one, Greys – an excellent one. If anyone ever has blood on their hands, ask that same question. Why?”
Greyson stared at his muddy hands.
Why? Why did I get blood on my hands?
Though most of the blood had washed away, he still felt it under his fingernails and in the crevices. He rubbed his hands together, smooshed mud through his fingers, and washed them in the puddle water, but nothing could free him from the feeling of blood. And he had only made himself dirtier and more miserable.
Because I was responsible for his death. I brought them there. I left him.
A piece of him fought the guilt, arguing that he had done the right thing, despite the risk. After all, he had gone back.
He used to be a better person, but he had forced that selfless part of him into surrender at the fair. He’d given up Sam in order to find his dad and now he had left John in a rush to do the same.
John’s warning had already come true. Don’t lose yourself in finding him. He had lost himself and had realized it too late.
But no more.
He wouldn’t leave anyone behind ever again. That wasn’t who he was. He would be like a new person. He’d put on a new self and make up for it all, pay it back somehow. No matter what it took.
Shaking his head, Greyson rose, dripping from the puddle, and tied the uneasy horse to the tree. The way it was huffing, he knew it was angry.
“Sorry, guy,” he whispered before a long sigh. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll make it up to you, ‘kay? You thirsty?”
But he didn’t have any water. He pet the horse, thinking. And then he saw the rainwater fall from his arm.
Duh.
Mentally slapping himself, he pulled Kit’s bowl from his pack and pulled off his soaking shirt. Ringing it out over the bowl gave nearly an inch of good drinking water, which the horse drank in a few seconds. Greyson finished the shirt’s supply with a few more twists over his own mouth and then pulled the shirt back on, already shivering with the cold.
“There. Now we have to keep going, horse. Just keep your chin up and eyes forward…”
Clunk.
A car door.
Kit’s ears were perked and Greyson matched his gaze into the dark woods. The first signs of daybreak glistened in the wet grass, and everything looked like a haze. Blinking and wiping his eyes, he focused on something that glimmered through the trees. Headlights?
Greyson’s heart beat fast as he rose to his feet. In a flash he had smashed the blanket into his backpack and wielded his slingshot. He knew very well who it could be. They had followed him. Trying to cut him off. They would have guns.
“Stay close, boy,” he commanded, trekking toward the light, fingers on the ammunition pocket.
He listened for further sounds over the pattering rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but when it was gone, he heard the voices. A little frantic. Someone giving commands.
He padded closer and closer, darting from tree to tree. Soon he could make out the headlights and hear the voices more closely.
Putting his back against a thick tree, he exchanged a look with Kit. Greyson’s eyes said what his mouth could not. This may be a losing battle.
But Kit didn’t look afraid. He seemed anxious – like some dogs do when they want to go for a ride.
“Get the roasting sticks!”
He could make out the voices now.
“Anything else?”
“I don’t think so! Oh! We left out the hotdog buns.”
“You left them out all night?”
“Ah, man! Oh well, just leave ‘em. Hurry in! We got to beat the traffic or we won’t make it home ‘til Tuesday.”
Greyson breathed in deep and long, a smile jerking at his lips. It was a family on a camping trip.
He peeked around the tree. The sun was itching at the horizon, giving just enough light to make out the family’s motor home and the tiny campgrounds. A young boy was running around, picking things up while a man, presumably his father, was packing things into the car that was hitched to the back of the RV. They were towing the car with them on vacation.
And then he saw it. He didn’t believe his eyes, so he scrambled to another tree even closer to the car. It was true. The license plate had an orange in the middle. Above the letters was his destination written in all capital letters.
FLORIDA.
And they were about to head home.
A switch flipped and Greyson bolted from the scene, sending mud into the air behind him. Kit stood undecided for a moment, but followed Greyson back to the horse where he grabbed his backpack, untied the horse, and then trekked back to the campground.
Just as the last family member entered the motor home, Greyson emerged from the trees, slunk to the empty car, and opened the back door. Kit jumped in after Greyson, and he quietly closed the door behind. A moment later, the motor home started and pulled away.
It took a full minute of bouncing along in the backseat of the car for him to catch his breath. Even then he didn’t have much to say. All he could do was hug Kit with all his might and ruffle his wet fur.
As soon as he felt safe enough, he laughed and let out an awkward squeal; but he didn’t care. It had been amazing luck – a miracle. And he didn’t even know how lucky he’d been.
As they pulled onto the main road, an SUV passed them, headed to the campgrounds. The driver’s face glowed with hate. The passenger’s was full of glass and blood.
Greyson sighed and sat in the seat, thinking it must be the softest seat he had ever felt in a car. Maybe ever. He watched the trees whizz by and felt the hope rush in to his empty tank.
Kit nosed the window, panting. Greyson laughed.
“That’s right, boy. We’re going to Florida.”
---------------
“Morning, Sam.”
“Morning, Sydney. How are you?”
“Good. You?”
“Good, too. Just got in to the hotel in D.C. See the room?”
“Sweet! Looks all fancy! Is that a whirlpool in the corner?”
“Yeah! Should I try it out?”
“Ha! By yourself?”
“I guess. My bodyguard would probably look at me weird if I asked him.”
“Remember the last time you were in a hot tub?”
“Yeah, with you. Hiding.”
“Right. Not a good memory.”
“Hey! I didn’t mind it. You were there.”
“Right…”
“Just saying. Wish we could do it again – without the whole being chased part.”
Sydney turned the phone’s camera from her face to hide her blushing smile. “That’d be fun.”
Sam smiled back on the screen, his perfect winning smile.
Sydney tried to change the subject. “How long you staying again?”
“A week or so.”
“Cool. Will you be busy?”
“Well, mostly my dad will be. But I’ll make sure to call you every day, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Yeah, I was real worried. But it is good to have someone to talk to.”
“Same here. Adults are boring. But I just met a new one who’s pretty cool.”
“Who’s that?”
“His name’s Calvin. My new tutor.”
“Oh, what happened to the old one?”
“They told me it was because he couldn’t travel – do the whole nationwide campaign thing. But I also think it’s because he was teaching me stuff that didn’t go over too well with my dad or his advisors. I liked him…but whatever. Anyway…” The camera on Sam’s phone wobbled as he seemed to be walking about the room. “Just a sec.”
Sydney waited until Sam returned
to the king-sized bed and the camera focused on his face, which was now serious.
“He’s helping me get you to the Bahamas. But I need your help as well.”
Sydney’s eyes brightened. “The Bahamas? No way. How?”
“I’m learning from Calvin. I think he knows what I’m doing – but I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, Calvin said passports are the hardest to forge quickly, but the only way to get to the Bahamas without a passport is through a closed-loop cruise.”
“We’re going on a cruise?”
“Hopefully. Your family and the Aldemans. But you’ll be under different names. And we’ll have to convince everyone, including the FBI, that it was an ordered gift from my dad – to pay you back for all you’ve done and to make up for stuff, you know? And the fewer people who know, the better; you never know who might give up the secret on accident. So this is just you and me.”
Sydney nodded. It would be hard to keep such a big secret from everyone else, but she would give it her best shot.
“Calvin said we’ll use Witness Protection protocols against them or something like that. To prevent bad guys within the FBI from finding out, there will be only one person who knows where you all are – and it will be a fake name. We’ll give your parents the emergency contact, but it’ll just be Calvin’s number in case they ever call it.” He paused before adding, “I think we can actually do this.”
Sydney was lost in thought, but her hands shook with excitement. “When do we go?” She listened thoughtfully to the answer and replied, “You have to tell the twins.”
-------------
DING-DONG!
Jarryd cocked his head at the early-morning doorbell, but shrugged it off, rubbing the firming cream on the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept much. Maybe he had jet lag from the time difference. How many hours difference was it from Iowa to Texas? He pulled at the dark bags. He would need the cold pack to get rid of those bad boys.
DING-DONG!
Who rings the frickin’ doorbell at 7am? Do Texans have manners?
DING-DONG!
His parents would get it. Or Nick.
DING-DONG!
“Ugh!” Jarryd swung open the bathroom door and marched to the front door of their new, and very empty, home.
On the doorstep, a boy and a middle-aged woman stood before him with dishes of food in their hands.
“Welcome to Tex-Sucks!” the boy declared.
Jarryd’s jaw dropped. “Patrick?” Jarryd recognized the boy. Patrick had been in their Cowboys Gold huddle at Morris All-Sports Camp several months ago, though he had opted out of most of their antics – sneaking into the observatory, stealing the terrorists’ keys, and nearly getting incinerated under a gigantic nuclear missile.
“You…” Patrick muttered, recognizing Jarryd. “You’re the loud, chipmunkish one.”
“You’re the one who hates everything.”
The boys exchanged sneers before Patrick’s mother broke the tension. “You’re one of the twins? From camp? That’s wonderful!”
“Yeah. Why are you here?”
The women remained chipper. “Well, we’re your new neighbors. We just moved in a week ago.”
Patrick shrugged. “This place sucks worst than our last neighborhood. And our old one is radioactive ash.”
“Patrick!” his mom scolded. “It is not.” She turned to Jarryd. “They just moved us out of precaution – with the radiation. Your family here with the Texas Refugee Housing Program, too?”
“Yeah,” he said, scanning the rows of cookie-cutter houses that had been built in a matter of weeks.
Jarryd wiped his wet bangs from his eyes. There was an awkward pause.
Finally, Patrick held out a Ziploc of cookies. “Here. They’re called Death by Chocolate.” His face drooped in disappointment. “But they don’t work.”
Jarryd grabbed the bag as Patrick’s mom squinted her weaning patience away. “They’re fudge mocha chocolate chip.”
“They’re about the worst cookies you’ll ever taste,” Patrick added. “Taste like diapers. But if you eat’m and die, I’ll be a murderer. And Tex-Sucks has the death penalty.” Patrick faked a smile. “Enjoy!”
“Patrick!” Nick ran from behind Jarryd and shook Patrick’s limp hand.
“You’re the smart one.”
Nick smiled sheepishly and shook Patrick’s mother’s hand, too. As Patrick’s mother re-explained their appearance at the door, Nick handed his cell phone to Jarryd with a whisper. “You’ll want to hear this.”
Jarryd was all-too happy to retreat from the doorway as his parents and Sammy joined the excitement at the door. Once a safe distance away, Jarryd raised Nick’s cell phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Jarryd?” It was Sam Reckhemmer. “I was talking with Nick. What’s going on?”
“Hey. An old-friend showed up at our door. What’s up?”
“How’d he know where to find you? Jarryd, be careful. You can’t trust anyone.”
Jarryd peeked at Patrick and his mother. Nick was already sampling a cookie with bulging cheeks. “This one’s harmless. He’d rather be killed than kill. And he brought cookies.”
“Cookies? Geez. You check if they’re poisoned?”
Jarryd watched Nick chew and chew. He didn’t fall over.
“Yeah. I checked.”
“Good. But still. Don’t tell them anything – especially what I’m about to tell you.”
“What? Did Greyson make it?”
He could hear Sam sigh on the other end. “No. Well, I don’t know. But you’re going to find out.”
As Sam explained, Jarryd’s smile grew. Nick nodded from the distance with mutual understanding.
“That’s awesome!” Jarryd whispered, keeping his excitement from Patrick. “When? When do we go?”
“You leave in eight days.”
PART 3
Chapter 23
Eight days later. Northern Georgia.
Greyson wiped the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his grimy hand, but he didn’t feel the streak of dirt he left behind; he was focused. He quietly edged around the corner of one of the dumpsters and peeked through a hole in the wooden fence that had hidden him as he had searched for food in the dumpsters. His hunger had woken him, forcing him from the mountains’ pines into the town below.
All he needed was one car. He waited for several minutes, but the traffic at the gas station was still slow.
“Come on…come on…” he muttered, watching a van pull into the lot. Kit watched as well, huffing a silent bark.
His feet ached, his stomach was an empty pit, and his head pounded – but that wasn’t the worse of it. The worse part was the layers of sweat and grime on his body and the smell that came with it.
Sure, most of it was his body odor. It seemed like he sweated more and more lately – maybe because his body was changing, growing – but some of the smell came from the dumpsters. He’d been in many of them. The best one had been behind the McDonald’s, where he’d found a few fries and slurps of Coke at the bottoms of cups, but he had only emerged craving more.
But this new idea could improve his fortune – if it worked.
Once, when he was very young, his family had been traveling through downtown Des Moines when an old man – probably homeless – had startled them as they stopped at a stoplight. He had sprayed their windshield with cleaner and wiped it down with a rag. Before the light had turned green, his dad had rolled down the window and given him money.
Money. He needed money just as bad as that man had needed it.
A van swung around and parked in front of a gas pump.
“Yes. Bingo. Let’s go, Kit.”
Springing into action, Greyson closed the wooden fence behind him, put on his hood and sunglasses, and jogged toward the woman. When he got close, the woman stopped mid-stroke with the squeegee and her eyes grew wide.
“Hi! I can help you with that! Let me.” He held out his hand and strode toward her,
smiling. But she didn’t respond. She looked inside her van at a child asleep in the front seat.
“Hold on,” she said sternly, holding up her hand.
Greyson stopped and Kit paused next to him, confused. “I just want to – ”
“I know what ya want, but ya just stay where ya are, ya hear?” the woman shouted, nervously shutting off the pump. “Here! Take this and get some help; but leave us be.” She fumbled in her purse, took out a few bills and threw them in his direction. A moment later she was back in her van and speeding off, leaving Greyson in a state of confusion.
The bills drifted to the concrete and began scuttling along with the wind. For a few moments he couldn’t move. What just happened? Why would she…
And then he felt the hunger pains, a scissors-sharp jab in the gut, and he jumped at the bills one by one. The last one managed to evade him until it reached the front of the gas station. Catching it against the wall, Greyson placed it nicely with all the others and counted. Eight bucks.
Suddenly realizing where he was, he looked up, right into the glass of the station’s large picture window. His reflection greeted him poorly. Sunglasses, hood, face covered in dirt, clothes plastered with mud and dried blood. No wonder the woman had been afraid.
His eyes suddenly focused through the window where a cashier was staring at him. The cashier’s brow was scrunched in concern.
Greyson couldn’t think of anything to do except to wave as he retreated around the side, back to the wooden fence that surrounded the dumpsters, hiding from the cashier and hoping he wouldn’t find him suspicious enough to follow.
Putting his back against the dumpster, he looked again at the money. Eight bucks! He could buy several meals – or a tarp! A tarp would be smarter in case it rained again, like it had the hours after he had left John. How long ago was that now? A week? Or longer?
Lost in a daydream, he remembered the first wonderful hours in the car, napping, watching the landscape fly by mile after mile, imagining how hard it would have been to walk them all – especially as the hills turned to mountains in Kentucky and then Tennessee.
At the first stop they’d managed to slip out of the car while the family was busy buying snacks. The next stop had been their undoing. They left the car unnoticed and did their business separately; but something had caught Greyson’s attention on the way out. A teenaged boy was arguing with his girlfriend – at least Greyson thought it was his girlfriend. But the boy’s hands had been all over her, and she didn’t seem to like it.