Her blue eyes lasered in on me.
“Pugnare ad consequi, consequi ad da.”
“‘Fight to achieve,’” I said. “‘And achieve to give.’”
“Exactly,” she responded. “Then pass it on.”
“You know,” I told her, “I noticed that your science teacher was mighty pregnant the first time I was here. Perhaps when she pops, you might consider hiring this guy I know from my old school who always seems to have a file cabinet worth of extra-credit homework in his back pocket.”
Mr. Freedman smiled.
“That’s kind of you to say, McCutcheon, but I think I’m gonna stay where I am.”
“Really,” I said. “But think of the all the stuff you’d have here. All the possibilities, all the resources...”
“Yeah, it’s true,” Mr. Freedman said as his eyes scanned the campus. “This place does have a lot. But still, it lacks one thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Skateboarders,” he said. “At Fenkell, I think we still might have a few more skateboarders in our halls. Don’t you, son?”
I knew Mr. Freedman didn’t necessarily mean cage fighters. He was just talking about any regular ol’ kid who could use a caring adult to throw them a life raft as they battled through tough times. Sure, at Radiance there might be one or two students like this, but at Fenkell, the ocean was full of them.
“How can I ever pay you back?” I asked.
“Two ways, son,” Mr. Freedman replied. “First, graduate. Detroit needs more kids with diplomas.”
“For sure,” I said. “What’s number two?”
“Meatballs,” he said. “You owe me some meatballs.”
He extended his arm and I shook his hand like a man.
“Deal,” I said.
“Okay, like, I have a question,” Gemma interjected.
“What’s that?” Kaitlyn asked.
“Do they have chinchillas here?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know,” Gemma continued. “Chinchillas. ’Cause like I totally know what to feed them. See chinchillas need lots of exercise. When they are born they come out fully furred but as they grow, if their teeth don’t get the proper things to eat, then they could run into all sorts of toothy issues that...”
I grabbed Gemma by the shoulders and spun her around.
“Who’s tough?”
“I’m tough.”
“How tough?”
“So tough.”
“And why are we tough?” I asked, a steely look in my eye.
“’Cause that’s the way we get out,” she answered.
“Gimme a kiss,” I said.
And she did.
TWENTY-FIVE
Everything was perfect. For three whole days, everything was like a dream.
Gemma was given a special “Welcome to Radiance” party by her new kindergarten teacher in order to help her feel more comfortable as a mid-year transfer. There were no chinchillas, but they did have a spiny-tailed green iguana as a class pet, which meant I got to hear the word “herbivore” about ten thousand times before the cycle of dinner, bath, book, prayers, and bed was completed.
When Gem locks in on something, she’s like a pit bull. (And really, I’ve got no idea where she gets it from, either.)
Turns out my mom worked as the academic liaison for elementary school outreach for the Ford Motor Company, so she not only earned good money but she was home every night by five fifteen to make us a home-cooked, “sit down as a family” meal each evening. After tasting her garlic butter and Parmesan cheese mashed potatoes, I knew it wouldn’t be too long before I got fat.
The condo was a three-bedroom, two-bath unit on the fourteenth floor of a well-kept building in downtown, and for the first time in my life, I had my own room. The bed was soft, the pillows were fluffy, and the covers were warm and toasty, but I decided to sleep on the floor. Maybe I’d get to the bed soon, I told myself, but for my first few nights, well…I guess I wasn’t ready.
I didn’t say anything to my mom though. Didn’t want to worry her.
At Radiance I’d been placed in the science class of Mrs. Clascus just as they were about to start a second forensics unit revolving around arson, and though the P.E. coach really wanted me to join the wrestling team to help his squad climb out of the gutter in league standings, I took a pass and decided to give the chess team a go.
Mom had taught me a little chess back when I was a kid, but it turned out not to be enough. One-hundred-and-ten-pound weaklings were mopping the floor with my sorry butt. I didn’t care, however, because I knew one day if I paid attention, worked hard, and learned from my mistakes, I’d get better.
Much better.
MMA is the sport of warriors. Chess is the sport of kings.
But best of all, I was finally able to walk through the halls with my head held high and a bounce in my step. It was as if I was floating.
And it wasn’t because I thought I was some sort of badass who could take out any kid in the school, either.
It was because I had a girlfriend. My first.
And she meant more to me than the moon.
I literally found myself watching the classroom clock tick by like some sort of lovesick puppy counting the moments until I’d next see Kaitlyn. Holding hands in the halls, a kiss before I dropped her at class, a regular meeting scheduled at the top of the front steps by the entrance of the school after the last class of the day.
Like I said, the first seventy-two hours of my new life were perfect, and when the bell to end seventh-period English rang on Wednesday, I zipped out the door, the first kid in school to make it to the white steps, excited about what the future might hold.
Fear used to rule my heart. Nowadays fear had been replaced. With hope. It was all almost too good to be true.
I looked at the sign to my left.
PUGNARE AD CONSEQUI, CONSEQUI AD DA
FIGHT TO ACHIEVE, ACHIEVE TO GIVE
Without a doubt, Radiance was special.
At lunchtime Kaitlyn had mentioned she needed to stop by Mrs. Notley’s office to do a thing or two for the Archer Award committee before we could meet up, grab a caramel latte from the campus coffee shop, and then head to the library together.
“Will you wait for me?” she asked.
“I’ve been waiting my whole life,” I told her.
That response got me a big ol’ kiss. I reached into my backpack looking for my headphones, figuring I’d jam out to a few tunes while I waited for my girl.
“McCutcheon Daniels?”
I raised my eyes and saw a pair of thirty-something-year-old men walking up the white stairs toward me. Both stood about six feet, both had short haircuts, and both wore navy blue suits with white dress shirts and not-so-flashy black dress shoes. Only their ties—one wore green stripes, the other blue—were different.
“Who’s asking?” I said.
“I’m Mr. A. This is Mr. B.”
I chuckled. “Those your real names?”
“We’d like you to come with us, son.”
“Am I under arrest?” I’d never seen two more white-bread guys in all my life. These dudes had to be some kind of cops.
“No, you are not under arrest.”
“Then thanks but no thanks,” I responded. “Don’t think I can help you fellas out too much.”
A person grows up where I did and they automatically learn how it’s best to never talk to the law. Hardly nothing good ever comes of it.
I turned away hoping they’d get the message and leave.
“Do you happen to know a Nathan Thomas Wachowski?”
I paused. Nate-Neck?
“Or David Elbert Klowner?”
“Yeah,” I said, turning back around. “What about ’em?”
Each of
the two guys scanned the perimeter as if they wanted to make sure the coast was clear before continuing. Students had begun to flow out of the building, but kids didn’t seem to be of any concern to them. After a moment, the guy in the blue tie continued.
“We’re sorry to inform you,” he began in a tone that showed no evidence at all of him being sorry about anything, “that both of their bodies were found this morning in an alley behind the Cooper Street Liquor Mart.”
“They’re dead,” his partner said.
The man in the blue tie—I didn’t know which of these guys was Mr. A or Mr. B—passed me a rectangular manila envelope and nodded as if I should open it and look inside.
I did.
Wish I hadn’t.
I’d never seen police photos of a homicide before. Both Nate-Neck and Klowner were lying on top of one another like lifeless crash-test dummies that had been thoughtlessly tossed out of the back door of a shitty bar into a puddle of mud and garbage. Their faces were pummeled, their eye sockets puffed, and their eyeballs stared straight ahead, wide open yet not blinking, gazing at nothingness. I studied the picture more closely and noticed that Nate-Neck had a four-inch gash that ran diagonally from his eyebrow to his hairline, and his jaw looked like it was cockeyed, as if it wouldn’t have lined up or something if you had tried to close his mouth.
Klowner was missing three teeth and a chunk of his right ear.
Most disturbing, however, were their throats. They’d been sliced at the jugular, gashed so deep and cut so thick that I could see the white of their spinal cords through the front of their slashed, bloodied necks. It takes a big knife to make a wound like that, I thought, a hunting knife or even a machete. And considering how badass both Klowner and Nate-Neck were, I couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of ferocious sons-a-bitches it must have taken to do this to them.
Klowner and Nate-Neck dead? The thought didn’t add up. But who? Why?
“And we have reason to believe that you and your family are not safe,” said the man in the blue tie.
My head snapped up from looking down at the gruesome pics.
“Gemma?” I said. “Where’s Gemma?”
I spun around, eyeballed the campus, and began considering the direction in which I ought to race off in order to go and get her.
“She’s in that white van,” said the guy in the green tie as he pointed toward the street. “And your mother’s in there, too.” My eyes followed the direction in which he pointed, and sure enough, there was a white windowless van parked on the road by the front gate of school.
“Who the hell are you guys?”
“McCutcheon,” said the man in blue. “It is our opinion that you should also enter the white van.”
“I said who the hell are you?”
“We’re United States Marshals from the Division of Witness Protection Services,” the man in the green tie said. “As was mentioned a moment ago, you’re not currently sa...”
Suddenly, without completing his sentence, the man in the green tie put his hand to his right ear, listened as if someone were speaking to him in a hidden earpiece, and raised his eyes. A moment later he spoke into his jacket collar as if he were wearing a concealed mike.
“Four o’clock, I see him.” The guy in the blue tie stepped in front of me as if he was going to shield me from something that was about to happen, but I was having none of it and stepped to the side so I could defend myself.
Mr. Freedman bounded up the stairs.
“This is bullshit, Farmer! Total and complete bullshit,” he yelled. “You think I wasn’t going to find out about it?”
“Stand down, Freedman.”
“The hell I will,” Mr. Freedman answered as he arrived next to us. “We had a deal.”
“Terms change,” the guy in the green tie coolly replied. “You know that as well as anyone, Freedman. All deals can flip to no deal and vice versa.”
“Bullshit,” Mr. Freedman shot back. “I wanna talk to Stanzer.”
“Stanzer’s the one who pulled the trigger on this. Now, stand down, Freedman.”
“What’s bullshit?” I said interrupting. “What’s going on?”
Mr. Freedman paused before answering me. His brow was wrinkled, his eyes were narrow, and I don’t think I’d ever seen him look more troubled.
“I’m sorry, son,” Mr. Freedman said to me. “I’m, well…sorry.”
“What?” I asked.
“They broke the terms,” Mr. Freedman replied. “These bastards broke the terms that had been brokered with the Priests.”
“Huh?”
“What he means to say,” the man in the blue tie said, “is that you’re all targets now. You and your mother and Gemma. Unfortunately, they already got to your friends from the gym before we could react.”
“But Nate-Neck and Klowner didn’t know anything,” I protested. “Those guys had no idea what was going on between my dad and the Priests. I purposefully kept them out of it.”
No one answered. The message was clear. The Priests didn’t give a fuck.
And to these agents, Nate-Neck and Klowner were nothing more than collateral damage, innocent cadavers left in a dirty alley that were just another part of the job.
But those guys were dead because of me, I thought. Dead because of me.
“The van, McCutcheon,” the Marshal in the green tie said. “It’s our opinion that it’s your best option.”
The guy with the blue tie looked at me with calm, cool, sure-of-himself eyes, as if he was about to nudge me nicely along down toward the bottom of the stairs. Suddenly and ferociously I seized him with a C-clamp throat grip, ready to yank his fucking windpipe out.
After that I’d spin, gouge his partner in the eyes, and fire off a groin shot that would send his nuts into his lungs.
“What the hell did you guys do?” I demanded.
The Marshal in the green tie quickly ripped a sidearm from his belt, jammed it into my back, and then stepped extra close so as not to cause a commotion with any of the surrounding students.
“Calm down, son,” he whispered into my ear, not wanting to draw attention to himself, even though a few kids couldn’t help but notice the unusual disturbance. “Let my partner go, and calm down.”
He pressed the barrel of the weapon into my kidney with enough force to let me know in no uncertain terms that if he had to blow a hole through the bottom of my back in order to get me to release his partner from my vise grip, he would.
“Somebody better start talkin’,” I said as I removed my hand from his partner’s throat.
“None of this is about you, McCutcheon,” the guy in the green tie said as the guy in blue struggled to catch his breath. “None of this is about Freedman. None of this is about your father. None of this is about your friends from the gym or your sister or your mother, either. The only person this is about is D’Marcus Rose.”
“Who?” I asked.
“D’Marcus Rose,” Mr. Freedman replied with a defeated shake of his head. “The United States Government, courtesy of your father, just nailed themselves the High Priest.”
“My father?” I said.
“After your fight he escaped,” Mr. Freedman told me. “And turned snitch.”
“The phrase we prefer to use is that he turned state’s evidence,” replied the man in the green tie. “The head of the snake is now in custody.”
“And Demon’s in custody, too, son,” Mr. Freedman said as he put his hand on my shoulder seeking to put my mind at ease.
“Well, actually...” said the agent.
“You mean he’s not?” Mr. Freedman asked, his eyebrows raised.
“You’ll have to talk to Stanzer.”
“I’m talking to you,” Mr. Freedman replied with heat in his eyes.
“This Demon guy,” the Marshal replied. “Put it this way,
he’s a whole different bowl of soup.”
“And that means?”
“Hold on, hold on,” I said. It took me a moment to get my hands wrapped around the whole thing. “What you’re telling me is that the Priests now think I had something to do with the arrest of the High Priest and we’re all being targeted for revenge? Is that what’s going on here?”
“Our job is to serve the citizenry, son. We get an opportunity to take down a criminal of this significance, we owe it to the people of the community to do so.”
“But where’s that leave me?” I said. I turned to Mr. Freedman. “I thought there was a deal. I thought I was going to Radiance. I thought I was being given a second chance.”
He couldn’t even raise his eyes to look at me.
“It’s a scale, McCutcheon,” said the agent in green. “You put two things on a scale and then you see which carries more weight. In the business of stopping bad guys, you always take the one that carries the most weight.”
I rubbed my forehead. “You think they know where we now live?” I asked.
The guy in green nodded.
“You think they know where my mom works?”
Again, I got a head nod. The guy in blue had stopped talking to me though, still clearly pissed that I had put him in a throat lock.
“You think they know...”
“Look, kid, we don’t have all day,” snapped the Marshal in the blue tie. “Your mother is in the van. Your sister is in the van. The question is, are you going to enter the van or not?”
“To go where?” I asked.
“Could be Jackson, Mississippi,” said the guy in the green tie. “Could be Flagler, Florida. Could be Cedar Rapids, Iowa, or Bellevue, Washington, or even Vancouver British Columbia. We can’t tell you that right now.”
“And if you don’t come, you’ll never know,” said the guy in the blue tie as if it were some kind of threat.
“You mean I’ll never see Gem again?”
“Not even a goddamn postcard on your thirtieth birthday,” he answered as he rubbed his neck. I could tell this fed wanted a piece of me. But fuck him, I thought. I’m right here if he wants some.
“What about my stuff?” I asked.
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