by J P Barnaby
Creeping a little to the left, Anthony glimpsed lots of red-and-blue flashing lights and a long line of cars in front of the Sportage. There must be some kind of accident. The clock on the dash showed it was about half past two in his own time zone. He’d forgotten all about the time zone change crossing into Michigan when he talked to Jay, so he was supposed to be there in half an hour. He’d never make it. But it wasn’t like Jay would leave. It was his house. Anthony would just be late.
The clock continued to tick away the time as he sat, unmoving, behind the Sportage with its annoyingly complete stick family frolicking across the back. The lack of air moving through the window made sweat drip down his back as he shifted in the seat. After he hadn’t moved in ten solid minutes, he reached into a backpack on the passenger seat and grabbed his paperback copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. He couldn’t stand to sit there and do nothing. Each time Anthony read a line, he glanced up to check the stalled traffic and grew more anxious. Nothing from the pages stuck in his mind as his eyes swept past them with zero attention to the words.
Time passed at the same speed as the crawling traffic.
The car lurched as he tapped the gas to move up another car length. A solid thunking under his hood troubled him, but the car glided forward and he kept pace with the other cars, diverting to the right to get around the accident. When he finally saw the cop directing traffic, Anthony noticed everyone veering off the freeway onto an exit ramp. Panic gripped his throat, choking him. The directions said to stay on the highway. If he got off, he wouldn’t know how to find Jay’s place. He didn’t have a phone to rerun the GPS directions and no Wi-Fi to check on the computer.
The cop left him no choice; he followed the other cars merging to form one line as they crept along the edge of the highway. He lost the Sportage in the mass exodus but managed to slide in behind a silver Mercury Sable with a broken tail light. A faded sign indicated they were getting off at Route 23 North.
He followed the herd until he reached the light at the top of the hill. His car kicked again as he put his foot on the gas, hesitating before it moved forward, so Anthony coasted into a gas station to see if his printed map would give him an alternative route back to I-94 and on to Detroit. The font was almost too small to read, but he slid his finger up Route 23 until he found I-96, which would take him back to I-94, and then he could find Jay’s and everything would be okay.
Only, when he reached I-96, he found it shut down due to construction. In a disturbing lack of light, he pulled out the map again and tried to find yet another route. He proceeded north on Route 23 and eventually turned onto I-75 and found I-696. The car continued to slip, sometimes catching on a gear. At one point, he considered pulling off and calling someone, but he didn’t have anyone to call. He only had an e-mail address for Jay and no way of sending a message without Wi-Fi or a cell phone.
Anthony studied the signs as they passed, trying to decide where to come off I-696 to get gas. After all the miles traveled and the extra hours stuck in traffic, the needle hovered a whispered prayer above empty. If only he’d topped off in that little Shell station, he might have made it all the way to Jay’s, but as the car knocked again, he gave in to the need. Woodward Avenue sounded like a good place. Mr. Woodward had been his high school English teacher, one of the only people who actually cared if he showed up. It was a sign, a very good sign.
He coasted to the pump at the Sunoco and went inside to pay. Twenty bucks should see him through the last few miles to Jay’s place. Anthony started to get excited again, but nervous because he was so late. It was nearly ten o’clock now. The construction and accident traffic had fucked him sideways, and the time change certainly didn’t help.
He didn’t bother with snacks this time. As soon as he finished pumping gas and got back into the car, he turned toward Woodward and the lanes of traffic that would get him to the turnaround back toward I-696. A shuddering worried him, and when he hit the gas, nothing happened. Almost thirty seconds later, much to the dismay of oncoming traffic, the Mustang shot out across Woodward as the gear caught. He swerved into the far lane, and when he tried to merge back, the car gave out altogether. It was all he could do to get it into the small parking lot in front of him. The car coasted sideways across a couple of the farthest spaces, out of the way of other cars that might pull in.
He glanced up at the building. Mears Liquors. Even with the lights off, he could read the sign. Appropriate, it’d be a liquor store. It seemed weird for it to be closed so early, but then he realized it was Sunday.
He tried the car again, but when he put it into reverse and stepped on the gas, the engine only revved. His dreams and his escape died a slow, painful death under the hood of his car.
Icy sweat rolled down his back in the cooling evening air. He had no idea what the fuck had happened to the car or what he should do. Jay wouldn’t be able to find him because he couldn’t call. His parents probably weren’t even looking for him, and he’d had about two hours sleep the night before. His eyes hurt from the strain, his head hurt from the rapid influx of adrenaline, and most of all, his soul hurt with a terrible kind of ache.
Anthony climbed out of the car and searched the shadows clinging to the edges of the parking lot. He didn’t see a pay phone or any signs that someone remained in the store. The buildings on either side were dark. His balls crept a little higher at the thought of sleeping alone in his car, but he didn’t have many options. It probably cost a lot of money to get a hotel room, and he didn’t even know where to find a hotel.
With no one to help him, and no plan, Anthony swiped the bottom of his T-shirt over the wetness on his face, which he told himself was just sweat. He pushed the front seats of the Mustang forward, climbed into the narrow backseat, and lay down facing the front so he could see if anyone tried to fuck with him. The stifling car felt like a tomb with the windows closed, but the thought of leaving them open terrified Anthony. Instead, he double-checked the locks on the doors, pounded his backpack into something resembling the shape of a pillow, and broke his neck to lay on it.
An unmerciful battalion of crickets surrounded him, crawling on the edges of his imagination. Somewhere nearby, a door slammed. A dog barked his disapproval. All the sounds of the city lay a fraction of an inch from him. A faulty layer of iron and glass became his only protection from the world.
In the blackness of an unfamiliar city, on the edge of fear, Anthony wrapped thin arms around his chest and closed his eyes, desperate for sleep to chase away his demons.
Three
BRENDAN MEARS scowled at the digitized image of the car sitting in the lot. He’d been watching it on his screen for hours, waiting for it to move. Something about it bugged him, and anger ate at his nerves because Patrick wouldn’t text him back. Again. The car looked abandoned, but he knew, just as soon as Patrick checked it out, some lunatic with a gun would throw open the door and blow his brother’s face off. Then Patrick would be faceless and he’d never get a date—all because liquor stores and desperate men made bad combinations.
Brendan should just call the cops and get it over with, but they thought he was fucking crazy, just like everyone else. They wouldn’t help. He watched, helpless, as his brother, the only person he had left in his miserable goddamned life, pulled into the lot.
Fuck it.
He dialed Patrick’s cell and let it ring again and again until the line connected.
“There’s a beater in the parking lot. Don’t go near it. It’s been there all fucking night.” He grumbled out the words in a long string before Patrick had a chance to say anything. A long pause followed, and then sarcasm permeated the morning.
“It’s seven o’clock in the morning. Don’t you ever sleep?”
A slow, hot rage burned in Bren, filling what was left inside him with embers. For the last two years it had been like a lover, wrapped around him at night as he slept, whispering to him in the darkness. Bren didn’t think he had another mood anymore. Rage filled the ho
llowness in his bones.
“No. I don’t fucking sleep.”
“Okay.” Patrick dragged out the word. “So have you run the playback? Is it a junkie or something?”
“Don’t go near it, Patrick. Just call the cops.”
“I’m sick of cops. Just check the damn history.”
“Fine,” Bren snapped. “But stay in the goddamned car.”
“Yes, little brother.”
That rankled Bren’s already prickled nerves. He grabbed the Area 51 mug from the counter, a gag gift he’d gotten for their father before the world went to shit. Two mouthfuls of coffee laced with a heavy-handed dose of Bailey’s helped to steady his hands. It took a minute for the browser to load the store’s historical surveillance. Patrick stayed quiet, and for that, Bren thanked… well, not God, but something.
Everything between them seemed to result in a fight lately. He could hear more weariness in his brother’s voice with each call. It wouldn’t be long before Patrick gave up on the broken mess keeping him chained to a life he didn’t want.
“Looks like it rolled in about ten last night, just after the store closed.” Bren studied the video playback. “Damn, from the camera angle, I can’t tell in the dark, but it looks like a vintage Mustang. An ’85 maybe.”
“Dude, I don’t care if it’s a Corvette. Who the hell is in it?”
Bren rolled his eyes. “A Corvette is a Chevy, a Mustang is a Ford. God, you’re hopeless.” He leaned closer. “I can’t get a good look at the driver. It’s not going very fast, like the thing barely made it into the space. Wait, the door is opening.” Bren watched as a small, thin figure tumbled out of the car and had the good manners to turn his anguished face to the camera. Bren zoomed in and saw pixelated tears on the boy’s cheeks.
“Oh damn….”
“What?”
“It’s a kid, Pat. Can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen. He got out, looked around, wiped his eyes on his shirt, and crawled into the back. He’s probably still asleep.” Bren leaned back from the computer. “Just call the cops, man. Let them deal with him.”
“You’re telling me there’s a runaway kid in our parking lot, and I should just send him back to whatever fresh hell he ran from?”
Bren held himself back from yelling, just barely. “I’m telling you it’s not your problem.”
“Neither is running the store.”
Bren hit the End button and slammed the phone down, cutting off the rebuke in his brother’s voice. Fuck him. Patrick didn’t know a goddamn thing about it. He didn’t have the fucking nightmares, that day burned into the back of his eyelids like laser-engraved misery.
Bren added enough booze to the mug to make his coffee look more like chocolate milk.
Fucking Patrick.
Four
PATRICK WISHED for a very long moment that he could have taken back the last bit. Bren didn’t need his angst; he already had enough for both of them. He took another long sip of his coffee, working up the nerve to go get the kid out of his lot. The day had already started to take on a heat haze. If he left the guy in the car, it would be a hundred degrees in there by the time he woke up. Patrick sighed and put his travel mug back in the cup holder.
At five foot nine with a video-gamer body, he wasn’t likely to scare anyone into doing what he wanted. Bren had always been the big one. Six foot one with broad shoulders, muscled arms, and a wicked left hook. Well, until the only thing he started hitting was a bottle. Damn it, maybe being thirty would finally work to Patrick’s advantage. Besides, he’d had a baby brother for most of his life. Surely he’d learned to intimidate someone, right?
Yeah, and maybe the rabbit would finally get some Trix.
Patrick slammed the door on his father’s RAV4, the one he couldn’t quite bring himself to either sell or call his own yet, and started across the lot. He didn’t see any movement, no life inside the car. Feeling ridiculous at being scared to bang on the window of a teenage boy’s car, he pulled his balls out of his pocket and stepped up next to the harbinger of doom. He kept the cell phone in his hand, ready to call 9-1-1 at any sign of trouble, and peeked inside. Damn it, life didn’t used to be this hard.
The sight in the backseat stopped him short.
Bren had nailed it. The boy couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. A shock of brown hair framed an angelic face, anxious even in sleep. His body curled in on itself, protective, like a frightened animal. He clutched at the jacket spread over him like a lifeline and used a bright orange backpack as a pillow. Discarded Coke bottles and chip bags littered the front seat, as though he’d just come off a road trip. The windows weren’t even cracked; the kid had to be burning up.
Before he could lose his shit, Patrick banged hard on the window. The boy shot upright, slamming his head on the side of the car just above his backpack pillow. He rubbed the back of it and searched his surroundings until his eyes met Patrick’s. They were shadowed, wide, and terrified.
Patrick made a motion asking the boy to roll down the window, but he just shook his head and scooted as far as he could away from the side where Patrick stood. All of the anger, fear, and frustration drained out of Patrick as he saw a young Bren sitting in that backseat, terrified of the world.
“I’m not going to hurt you. This is my store.” Patrick spoke loudly to be heard through the glass. “Do you need help?”
The boy inside the car blinked and stared around again, as if searching for someone to make the decision for him. Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, he leaned forward. At first, Patrick thought he might be throwing up, but he just put on his shoes. Then he climbed up on the driver’s-side seat, which was folded down and shoved all the way forward against the steering wheel. He popped the door lock, jerked the handle, and pushed hard on the door.
Patrick backed up to give him room, his hands up in a gesture of calm. The boy stepped out of the car and threw his jacket back on top of his backpack. Patrick’s heart ached as he wondered if it was all the kid had in the world.
“Can I use the john?” The boy kept close to the car, his bravado completely out of line with his posture. It looked as if he might dive back in at a moment’s provocation.
“Sure, let me get my stuff out of the car and I’ll unlock the door. You’re not going to kill me, are you?” He’d meant it as a joke, but the way the kid’s eyes widened and darted back toward the car, he wished he hadn’t said it at all. “I’m kidding, kid.”
The boy didn’t say anything else. He simply followed Patrick, keeping a distance of several feet between them as they ventured toward the front door. The phone in his pocket started to ring—Bren no doubt ready to scream at him for letting the kid in the store alone with him. But really, his companion weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds with shoes. Patrick couldn’t articulate to his brother that he’d just found a younger version of Bren in the backseat of a junk car. Bren would hate him for the reminder that he acted like a scared little boy.
Once they were inside, Patrick locked the door behind them so no one else would come in before he opened the store to customers. Drunks wanted their morning fix just as soon as they could get it. They’d just have to wait. The boy’s hands trembled as Patrick walked him down the whiskey aisle toward the coolers and then back into the stockroom. He noticed that Kevin had done a great job getting the coolers stocked the night before. Finally. He didn’t want to have another talk with the guy.
He hated being the boss. He never wanted to be the boss—that was Bren’s job. Unfortunately, shit just never worked out the way you planned.
“The john is that door right there. Just come back up to the front when you’re done.”
“Sure.”
Patrick sighed and returned to the front counter. He hated being in the store alone. Even after they’d cleaned everything, even though he’d been an entire state away, the ghosts of the robbery clung to every inch of the space. The bloodstains lingered in his imagination. Fuck. He’d rather be anywh
ere but here, but he didn’t want to compound the kid’s terror by hovering over him. Even if the kid stole a pint in those loose jeans, he probably needed it more than someone who actually had the money to pay for it.
Lost in his thoughts, Patrick didn’t hear the door open in the back, but movement caught his eye and he watched the boy shuffle up the aisle. You’d think it was the Green Mile and he marched toward his execution.
“Your car die?” Patrick cut to the chase. He wanted to draw more than just one or two stuttered syllables at a time.
“You think?” the kid shot back, but when Patrick glared at him, he dropped his gaze. “It starts, but it doesn’t go anywhere.”
“You can talk, and you have an attitude, fabulous.” He smiled at the boy, and while he didn’t get a smile in return, the idea seemed to be there.
“I can. I can even read and do math and stuff.”
“What does math have to do with—?”
“It’s from Harry Potter.” The boy started to shut down again, as though maybe what little bravado he’d found in the bathroom dissipated in his fear. Patrick smiled, trying for gentle instead of patronizing.
“I haven’t read it.”
“It’s my favorite.”
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Anthony.”
“I’m Patrick. This was my dad’s store until a few years ago, and I guess now it’s mine. How did you end up in my parking lot?”