Killer Year

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Killer Year Page 17

by Lee Child


  By then I had gotten nicknamed “the Magnet.” Everywhere I went the pigs showed up. Eventually, people slammed the door on me when I tried to get into a party, and the only people who would even hang out with me were the project desperadoes—junkies and girls who’d blow you for five bucks—people so low that the cops can’t be bothered arresting them. And of course, O’Toole, my best friend since fourth grade. Even if I was the Magnet, Mike still invited me over to his apartment to smoke weed while his mother was at work. When we were really high, we would sit and stare out the window, and look for Monahan. He was never there, but Mike would point down the street and say, “Look, there’s his cruiser. I’d recognize it anywhere!” Or else I would look out on the one lonely tree in the courtyard, and pretend I saw his feet dangling from a branch. Then we’d laugh our asses off. To tell you the truth, those hours when Chimney and I were high out of our minds, playing Where’s Waldo? with Officer Monahan were the only times I really felt relaxed in those years. The only time I felt free of the two guys who were following me—one an asshole with a badge, the other one a dead man.

  There’s no telling how long this might have gone on, or how soon I would have ended up facing adult charges, but one Saturday afternoon things came to a head. Picture it: I’m walking home from the store with a pack of butts, minding my own business, when I see this black BMW parked on the side of the road, the window open just enough. And right away, I’m aggravated. I mean, there is this guy with everything, a Bose player, a pile of discs laying all over the floor, leather seats—you know, the whole works. And he doesn’t care about any of it. It’s almost like he’s saying, here—take it; I don’t want it anyway. And being me, I can’t let him down. Not because I want his stupid box—I don’t. I don’t even have a car to put it in. And with all the addicts selling shit like that in the project, it’s not like I’m going to get any serious money for the thing. In the end, I guess the only reason I pulled that box out of the car was because the asshole who left it there deserved it. And like Ma, I believe in giving people what they deserve.

  The crime was so easy I felt like I was sleepwalking. No rush at all. But as soon as I pull the box out and I’m standing there with it in my hand, this cruiser shows up out of nowhere. Like he was always there. Like maybe the whole thing was a setup—the open BMW, the box just waiting for me to grab it. And though I can’t see the cop’s face, I’m pretty sure it’s Monahan. I can feel those flat eyes on me, cutting through me like the siren as I run down the street, the useless piece of shit I had stolen slowing me down. My only advantages are that I’m on foot, and I know the neighborhood. But when I duck down the alley next to Our Lady of the Angels, the cruiser pulls over and I hear someone behind me. Hear their feet thumping like mine on the pavement. And then their breathing—heavy like mine. We’re both running so hard, I can almost hear his heartbeat in my ear. By then, I know it’s Monahan.

  Even though the voice that is yelling for me to stop gets closer and closer, I’m surprised as hell when my face slams the pavement. All of a sudden Monahan is on top of me, screaming, cursing as loud as he can in my ear. But as close as he is, I can’t hear what he’s saying, can’t decipher the words. All I hear is my own heart; all I feel is the sudden gush of water on my face. At first, I think, Shit, what am I doing—crying? But then I taste it and realize it’s blood. Though I’m facedown in the alley, tasting dirt and looking at nothing but concrete, I can see Monahan’s face as clear as can be.

  That’s why I can’t believe it when the guy pulls me to my feet and starts reading me my rights. And it’s not him at all. It’s this black cop I’ve never seen before in my life. When I realize he doesn’t know me, I tell him my name is Fred. Fred Monahan. It’s not like I even think about it. It just comes out.

  So there I am, sitting in a cell again, staring at those cinder-block walls. Fred Monahan. The black cop comes in and tells Fred he can make a call, so I go to the phone and dial home. But while it’s ringing, I see what’s about to happen as clear as one of those psychics on TV. I see Ma dragging her tired ass out of bed because it’s not even noon yet. And then when she hears my voice, I see that disgusted look she’ll get. The way she kind of twists her mouth. “What the hell’ve you done this time, Cody?” she’ll say. Then she’ll tell me that she’s not coming down, that I can sit here and rot, even though I know she’ll be starting to wake up by then, running her fingers through her wiry hair, mentally adding up the money in her checking account to see if she can make bail.

  Before any of this plays out, I slam down the receiver. “You got a phone book?” I say to the black cop. His name tag identifies him as Officer Wainwright.

  “What—you forgot your mother’s number?” he asks.

  “I don’t have a mother,” I tell him. “She died when I was five. Got stabbed by one of her Johns.” I figure if I’m making up a life, I might as well make it interesting.

  Apparently I’ve done a good job because while I scan the phone book, Wainwright stands there watching me, his hands on his hips, like he finds me real fascinating. Or maybe he’s just wondering what I’m trying to pull. “Would you mind? I’d like a little privacy here,” I say. But the truth is I can’t believe I’ve got my finger on the number of my old English teacher. And that I’m actually thinking of calling him.

  While I’m waiting for him to answer the phone, I’m wondering if the old man still remembers me. I mean, it’s pretty strange calling a teacher you had two years ago to bail you out of jail—even if he did show up at that dumb hearing. But who else am I going to call?

  Anyway, Mr. Boyle practically hangs up on me when I ask him real politely if he’d mind coming down to the station and bailing me out. But I’m not surprised when he shows. I mean anyone who stands in front of a class and cries over people who don’t even exist has to be some kind of a sucker. Not that I care what the cops think, but it’s pretty embarrassing when the old man walks into the station with this fussy little white dog on a leash, wearing a pair of jeans that look like they’ve been ironed. Or when he pays my bail, counting out the bills like he’s in the checkout line at the grocery store. Wainwright looks from me to Mr. Boyle and back as if he’s wondering what the connection could possibly be.

  And I’m wondering, too. I mean, it’s kind of awkward, the two of us just gawking at each other when I come out. After he pays, Mr. Boyle stares at me real hard for a minute. Then he turns and leads his little dog out. Not that I want a lecture or anything, but the guy doesn’t even say hello.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? You’re a free man,” Wainwright says when I stand there like I don’t know what to do. “Until the next time anyway.”

  By the time I hit the street, Mr. Boyle has a couple of blocks on me. It’s a pretty pathetic sight: a hundred-year-old man wearing ironed jeans and walking his little poodle through a neighborhood like ours; poor guy’s just asking for a mugging. I don’t know why, but I follow him. I mean, he could at least say something. Hi Cody, how you doing? Good Luck, with your court case … something.

  When I run up behind him, he looks over his shoulder. “Good morning, Mr. Moran,” he says, the way he used to talk in class. Mr. Moran. Miss Phillips. Even the whores, he talked to like that.

  So there I am, out of breath from chasing a guy who’s moving at nursing home speed, and I say, “I … I just wanted to thank you for coming down. And to let you know that you’ll get your money back. I’m not going to skip out or anything.”

  That’s when he stops dead right in the middle of the sidewalk, takes off his glasses, and gives me a long look with his water-colored eyes. “It’s not my money I’m worried about, young man,” he says. Then he puts his glasses back on and resumes his walk.

  Of course, I’m forced to follow him again, to find out what the hell that’s supposed to mean. When he asks me if I’d like to stop somewhere for a cup of tea, I tell him I’m not much of a tea drinker, but I wouldn’t mind a Coke or something.

  Don’t ask me why,
but the next thing I know there I am sitting in McDonald’s having a Coke with this English teacher who’s so old he probably knew Shakespeare personally. And to make it worse, I’m spilling everything—the whole story about the crime I didn’t commit and everything that followed. I even tell him about Monahan’s pebble-colored eves.

  The only thing I leave out is the part about how Felipe Reyes looked at me that afternoon on the sidewalk. Believe me, I wanted to tell Boyle about it. Maybe being so smart, he could explain why the old man let me go. Why he looked right at me in the lineup and shook his head. But there are some things you just can’t tell anyone.

  Anyway, all through the whole stupid story, Mr. Boyle’s studying me, the way he used to study those ancient plays. When I’m done, I figure he’s going to say something really deep like he used to say in class sometimes.

  But instead, he just looks at me a while and says, “Well, Mr. Moran, it sounds like everything you touch turns to shit, doesn’t it?”

  And I’m thinking—what the fuck? Does this old geezer think he’s cool or something, talking to me like that? I’m dehydrated as hell so I take a huge gulp of my Coke; then I get up to go.

  “Thanks for the soda,” I say. “But I just thought of something I have to do. Some more shit I’ve got to get into.”

  He lets me get all the way to the door before he says, “You can leave if you like, but it sounds like the way you’re living isn’t working out terribly well. Maybe it’s time to consider the alternative.”

  All right, so he’s got my attention. And to tell you the truth, I’m pretty aggravated with the old man—even if he did just bail me out. “And what’s that?” I say, standing in the middle of this restaurant like a fool. “Going to church on Sunday? Running for student council, maybe? You don’t know anything about me, Mr. Boyle.”

  He narrows his eyes like he did sometimes when he was reading a play out loud. “I know you better than you know yourself, Mr. Moran,” he says.

  “Oh yeah—how’s that?” I say. By now I’m figuring this guy isn’t only deaf and blind; he’s senile, too.

  “You have no idea how bright you are, for one thing,” he says. “Whereas I—I knew it the first day you walked into my classroom. Even before I went down to the office and saw it confirmed on your records.”

  “Didn’t you hear a word I just said to you?” I say. “My problem is what’s happening in the neighborhood. All that school shit—those tests they do on you and all—that’s irrelevant.”

  “I heard every word; it’s you who’s not listening, Mr. Moran,” Mr. Boyle says in that dramatic way he talks. “What I’m trying to tell you is that if the neighborhood is the problem, then maybe you need to remove yourself.”

  “My family’s been in the Heights for twenty-five years,” I say. “Where the hell do you think we’re going to go?”

  “Stop thinking so narrowly, Mr. Moran,” he says, repeating one of his favorite lines from class. “I’m not talking about a change of address, but a change of focus. For a start, I want you and your mother to make an appointment to meet with Miss Curtain. I’ll come, too, if you don’t mind.”

  “Miss Curtain—my guidance counselor? What’s she going to do—call Monahan and ask him if he’d please leave her student alone?”

  “Forget Monahan,” Mr. Boyle says with a wave of his hand. Like it’s that easy. “A change of focus means taking your mind off this Monahan character, and directing it toward your future.”

  That’s when I know the old geezer is totally clueless. But for some reason, I don’t walk away. I sit there and listen to him talk about focusing on my strengths, and addressing my weaknesses. About college and scholarships and maybe getting a part-time job down at the Y where he knows the fitness director. I sit there and listen for close to an hour—almost like I believe this shit could actually happen. Mr. Boyle even says that if I make the effort, he’ll testify in my behalf when my court case comes up.

  Since I’ve got nothing left to lose, I drag my mother out of bed a week later on Monday morning, and show up at this meeting he’s set up. Mr. Boyle thinks I’m all excited about this college thing, but that’s not it. I’m just wondering if what he says is true: If I stop thinking about Monahan so much, will he disappear? And if he does—what does that mean? Was he just a figment of my imagination all along?

  Anyway, for a while, I really gave it a try. I kept both my focus and my body away from any place Monahan was likely to look for me—in the courtyard where the desperadoes hang out getting high, on the street, at parties; I didn’t even go to O’Toole’s apartment.

  At first, Ma was suspicious as hell. “What’s this Mr. Boyle taking such a big interest in you for?” she’d ask. “Calling the house. Going for meetings with the guidance counselor … What does he want from you?”

  But when she saw me working out, or studying at the kitchen table for the first time since sixth grade, she shut up. “Cody just needs to get one C up in Math, and he’ll be on the honor roll,” she bragged to her cronies in the parking lot. “His guidance counselor says if he can do that, he’ll get a scholarship for sure.”

  If kids in the project didn’t want to know me when I was the Magnet, they wanted to know me even less when I became the Great White Geek. Only O’Toole came around, looking through my books for the homework papers, and holding them up like relics.

  “You did this?” he’d say, looking at the neat rows of math problems like he couldn’t believe it.

  Every now and then, to prove I wasn’t totally lost, I would smoke a bowl with him. Or maybe drink a couple of the beers he was always stealing from his drunk uncle. But for some reason, I couldn’t enjoy being buzzed anymore. Instead of relaxing me like it used to, it made me feel kind of edgy and nervous. The way I used to feel when I was waiting for Monahan to show up out of nowhere.

  For a while things were so good that I started to believe that Mr. Boyle was right. Maybe I could be someone other than the person I was born to be. Maybe I didn’t have to be the Magnet. And even more amazing—for a couple of months, I didn’t see Monahan at all. I started thinking he had lost interest; maybe he was even bragging to his friends that he had “scared me straight.” There were days when I didn’t even think about him. Not once. But other nights, I’d wake up in my room, my heart pounding like it was the day that black cop chased me down the alley. And it was like Monahan was right there in the room with me, sitting on my chest. Sometimes I thought he was the only person who really knew who I was.

  Then, a couple of months ago I get out of work, and I’m heading for Ma’s car in this dumb good mood when I spot Monahan’s profile in the cruiser. That sharp chin, kind of hunched-up shoulders. This time he didn’t send his buddies; it’s him.

  So I walk real fast, trying to tell myself it’s a coincidence. Even though, deep down, I know there are no coincidences between Monahan and me. Never were. It’s not a coincidence when I see him three or four times in the next week, once parked outside of school, then just outside the entrance of the project, and finally near Mr. Boyle’s apartment when I stop in to visit him. And though I want to tell someone, I know there’s no use. Even when I didn’t see him, I knew he was there. Watching from someplace where I couldn’t see him. Waiting for that one moment when I would screw up. The moment he knew was bound to come.

  And today was it. Payday. The day Monahan was waiting for all these months. It all started when O’Toole asks me if I want to shoot a few hoops on Station Avenue. But when I get there, he’s not on the court. He’s sitting in Chad Baldini’s car.

  I have to get to work in an hour, but I figure what the hell; you can’t play the geek all the time. So we sit there for a while, smoking a couple of bowls, listening to some tunes, laughing about old times. Before I know it, I look at my watch and I’m fifteen minutes late for work. And I don’t know why, but I panic; I tell Chad he’s got to take me home right away. Then, when I realize he’s too messed up to drive, I take the wheel.

  Maybe it�
��s the herb, but I feel like my whole life will be over if I don’t make it to this stupid job. So while we’re driving, I’m all revved up, cursing, practically riding on curbs. And when we get stuck in traffic, I yell out the window so loud I can feel every vein in my head.

  O’Toole and Baldini are saying shit like, Calm down, man. You’re losing it. What’s wrong with you, Moran? But they don’t understand. They never did. It’s not the job; it’s getting out. Getting out.

  So all right, maybe I’m speeding a little. Maybe I’m on edge. But when I came to the stop sign right before you turn into the project, I swear I looked. And it’s not like people actually stop at that corner anyway—not if it’s clear.

  As soon as I saw the blue and white of the cruiser, I knew it was him. I mean, who else? And what’s more, I knew it was all over for me. Even before he dragged me out of the car, screaming all up in my face, I knew.

  “You think you’re going to get away from me, Magnet?” he was saying. “You think you’re going to go to college? Well, it ain’t gonna happen; it’s never gonna happen.”

  He said a lot of other things, too. But that was all I really heard, all I remember.

  It was as if this whole dance we’d been doing these past couple of years finally put us face-to-face. For a minute, I thought Monahan was going to kill me right then and there he was so out of control. But instead he just threw me onto the hood of Chad’s Hyundai. “Go back to the Heights,” he said, spitting out the words.

  By the time I got home, I was crazier than he was. I was kicking things, screaming, blubbering, saying the same shit over and over again no matter how hard my mother tried to calm me down. “Wherever I go, whatever I do, he’s gonna be there,” I scream. “Don’t you get it, Ma?”

  At that point, I’m not sure whether I’m talking about Monahan, or just about old Mr. Reyes, the guy who’s been tracking me with his eyes ever since the day we knocked over his stupid cart. How can I explain that Monahan is the only one who really knows me? And like he says, I’ll never get away from it. Never. Anyway, it wasn’t like I expected my mother to understand. Not her or anyone else, either.

 

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