Watched

by C. J. Lyons

“When you didn’t answer I got worried that you were going to do something stupid, so I wiped the hard drive. But you’re not going to tell anyone about us, are you, JohnBoy? Because you know I have just as much dirt on you as you have on me. More, even. I can make life hell for you and your mother and baby sister. So you better not even think of crossing me.”

  “Of course not.” I force myself to sound like JohnBoy—scared, obedient. “I was out taking pictures of kids like you asked. Wanted your help in picking the right one. I don’t know what to look for.”

  “Your uncle would be a better judge than I would.” He sounds mollified, though. “It was time for a new computer anyway.” He likes to switch them up, always worried about any traces of him on my hard drive. “I’ll have a new one shipped out. You’ll have it tomorrow.”

  That’s when it hits me. No computer means no going through with Miranda’s plan—at least not tonight. Now that she knows King’s real name, she’ll want me to meet him in person at the car show tomorrow.

  Suddenly I feel like JohnBoy again—the part of myself that I hate. The sniveling coward who can’t stand up to my uncle, to King, to King’s clients. The only thing JohnBoy is good for is satisfying their twisted needs.

  And protecting his family. I have to admit that. I hate it, but JohnBoy is the only thing keeping a roof over our heads.

  “My uncle and I might go to the car show tomorrow,” I tell King, hoping to draw him out. So far, our conversation implicates me as much as it does him. I doubt it’s enough for the cops. “I can look for kids there.”

  “So you didn’t need until Monday to make up your mind. I’m surprised.” He sounds suspicious again. I hate it when he’s like this. Sometimes his moods bounce around so fast that even when I’m trying to placate him, I end up triggering an outburst. Which always ends badly—for me.

  “You shouldn’t be. Not after you sent that man to hurt Janey. You know I’ll do anything to keep her safe.”

  Another long pause as if he’s dissecting my words and tone. “Don’t you forget it.”

  He hangs up.

  I stare at the phone. Did I screw up my one chance to get him on record? If he was suspicious enough to wipe the computer, he might decide to make a clean slate of everything, including me.

  I’m going on two days without sleep and my mind is blurry. I need help figuring out what to do next. I leave King’s phone in my room and go to the bathroom, turn the water on loud, and try to call Miranda, but she’s still not answering. While I’m in there I wash my face, then I go back to my room, plug the phone onto its charger, and sit back.

  All I can do is wait for my uncle.

  I sit there, alone in the empty house, staring at a dead computer, imagining the worst. I remember the other kids who died because of King. Suicides supposedly. But what if they had help? Like from the man who came after Janey yesterday.

  I wrap my hand around the gun in my pocket, quietly pull it out and load the bullets back in. I need answers. And my uncle is the only one who has them.

  26

  Her dad hugged her hard until his arms shook. Miranda abandoned all pretense at trying to act like an adult and bawled like a baby. Finally, after her tears had run dry and she’d stained his uniform shirt with snot, she sat up and rubbed her face with her palms.

  “I’m pretty good with computers,” she said, a hint of defiance in her voice.

  He shook with laughter that was close to tears. “I know you are, sweetheart.” He straightened, kissed the top of her head, and pulled his chair so they sat so close together that their legs touched, as if he couldn’t stand to have any distance between them. “How’d you find him?”

  “It was like piecing together a puzzle without knowing what the picture was,” she tried to explain it in terms a nonhacker would understand. Details like ISPs and steganography would just muddy things. He frowned and she knew he was thinking of her promise that she’d give up her search for the Creep. She had to prove to him that her lies were worth it. “First, I was able to track some emails to Smithfield Telenet. It was the common denominator, so I started there.”

  “Telenet? The ones who own the arena. They’re based in Smithfield.” He leaned forward, his gaze locking on hers. “It wasn’t a coincidence that I got the job offer at Smithfield College after you got out of the hospital.”

  She shook her head. Easy peasy to find a job that suited him and do a little phishing, make it look like it came from the résumé site he’d signed up for. And who wouldn’t want to hire him, with his qualifications and commendations?

  “Want to tell me which jobs I missed out on?”

  “Nothing you would have liked. Security guard at a West Virginia coal mine, stuff like that.”

  “But you wanted us to move near Smithfield. To be near Telenet.”

  “Convincing the doctors that a move would be good for me was easy,” she admitted. “And Smithfield has classes so Mom wouldn’t get too far behind. Plus, it’s not very expensive to live here, so I thought it would help since we still had the hospital bills and the house back in Pittsburgh and—”

  “You thought of everything.” His gaze narrowed as he looked at King’s image on the Telenet website. “You even got me to moonlight at the arena. Why? Because Telenet holds their events there? But how did that help when you didn’t know who he was—”

  “I knew I would. Someday.” Her tone was grim. He hadn’t figured out the rest and she hoped he never would. The part about her birthday and what she’d promised herself she’d do to end all this—one way or the other.

  “What makes you sure this is him? This Leonard Kerstater?”

  “I had a little help.” There was no way around it, especially since Jesse would be here any minute now. She told Dad everything—except the part about the gun. She didn’t want to get Jesse in trouble.

  By the time she finished, he was standing, pacing the narrow space between the table and the counter. She stopped talking and he stopped walking, his expression going from concern to disappointment to anger.

  “You were going to use this boy, this kid who’s just as much a victim as you are, and have him confront Kerstater? What the hell were you thinking? Putting an innocent civilian into that kind of danger?” The table shook as his voice boomed through the room. “Why didn’t you come to me? It’s my job to take care of you. To stop men like this, this—” His face flushed as he fought for control.

  Miranda didn’t know what to say. Guilt flooded her. He was right. Her crazy plan had needlessly endangered Jesse, and she felt ashamed. “I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t have any concrete proof. But he’s the only possibility. It has to be him.”

  He scowled at her, shaking his head sorrowfully. “I don’t know you. I don’t know what happened to my sweet baby girl, but she is not you. She was kind and gentle and she’d never betray us or anyone the way you have. You broke your promise to us. You acted recklessly.” His glare was as painful as a slap. “You should have come to me—this is a job for the police, not two kids who are in over their heads.”

  Miranda lowered her face so her hair hid her from him. He was right, so very right, and yet, what else could she have done with the clock ticking down to her birthday and King’s next attack?

  “I understand your fears,” he continued, pacing behind her. “For two years, your mother and I have been there, supported you every step of the way. But to use your disability as an excuse to draw this young man into—do you have any idea the danger you could have put him in?”

  With his words, her fantasy of publicly humiliating the Creep, making a spectacle of his destruction just as he had done to her, crumbled. She closed her eyes. Her dad was right. It was childish and stupid and selfish and so many things…

  She stood so fast the chair skidded into the countertop, ran to him, and hugged him hard. “I’m so sorry. I just needed—I wanted to make e
verything right again. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  He stood rigid for a long moment. Then finally, he placed his arms around her. “What else to do? How about asking for help? How about letting your mom and me into your world? Don’t you think we deserve that?”

  She nodded, her face buried against his chest. “I was scared, afraid that if one more thing went wrong, if it was too hard—” Her voice trailed off, fear swallowing her words before they could make it past her lips.

  He ran his fingers through her hair and lay his cheek on top of her head. It felt good. She felt good, solid, connected to the world in a way she’d hadn’t in a long, long time.

  “You never have to worry about us giving up on you,” he whispered. “Never. You’re our girl. We love you with all our hearts, your mom and I.” He hugged her hard, kissed the top of her head, and straightened. “Speaking of your mom, I guess I should fill her in on what’s going on, see if she can cut class early and come home.”

  “Why does she need to come home early?”

  “So I can go check out this Leonard Kerstater for myself.”

  She clutched his arm. “No. Dad. It’s too dangerous—what if he sees you? He knows who you are. Like I said, we have no real proof.”

  “Maybe not, but I want to get a look at him. And then we’re going to have a long talk—you, me, your mom, and this friend of yours, Jesse. He needs help, and we need to make sure he’s safe before we do anything else.”

  “Anything else? Like what?”

  “Like take all these pieces of the puzzle you gathered to the computer crimes guys at the FBI. Maybe you don’t have proof, not enough for a court of law, but you might have enough for them to find some.”

  She doubted it. King was too slick—two years of her tracking him and all she had were a few stray data points that added up to a name. No proof of any illegal activity. No proof of anything, really. Her stomach bottomed out as she realized the extent of her folly—drawing Jesse into this when it all added up to nothing. But without him, she would have never gotten the final clue to King’s true identity.

  Honestly, without Jesse, she might have taken the coward’s way out and not waited for her birthday. She wished she was stronger than that, strong like Jesse was, but she knew the truth. It had been her hunt for the Creep that had kept her alive. Jesse answering her call for help had given her hope—funny how the word didn’t seem so bad anymore.

  While her dad called her mom, Miranda tried Jesse. She’d missed four calls from him—had something happened? He should have been here by now. But he didn’t answer. The call went to voice mail.

  “Where are you? It’s me,” she said. Who else would it be? She was the only one with this number. Still, she didn’t want to say her name.

  Her mouth went dry and the room wavered for a moment before she remembered to breathe. Her dad was right. Her plan was too risky; it would never work. As soon as he got here, she’d tell Jesse to forget it. They’d do things her dad’s way.

  “Your mom’s on her way,” Dad said, a hint of his old cop voice returning. It seemed like he stood straighter, was taller somehow. Now that he had an enemy to confront. “I’ll call you—”

  “No. Wait here for Mom and Jesse. Don’t go see King—Kerstater, whatever.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. He won’t even know I’m there.” He grabbed his jacket and opened the door.

  Miranda stared out into the hall. Her dad paused, turned back. “Unless. Do you want to come with me?”

  Yes. No. Yes, yes, yes. With all her heart. But no. Facing the Creep, even with her dad at her side, even hiding in the dark where he’d never see her…no, no, no.

  Her hand clutched her throat, her pulse fluttering beneath her fingertips like a hummingbird trapped in a net—desperate to escape.

  “It’s okay. Everything will be okay.” He sounded excited by the chance to take action, regain control of his life—of their lives.

  He gave her another quick kiss and left, walking hard and fast, radiating confidence. Like he used to, before King…

  Miranda hugged herself, spinning in place, seeing the apartment as if for the first time. It was so tiny. Her world had grown so tiny. There was no space, not enough room for her to breathe. She ran to the door, yanked it open without even click-clacking the lock to a magic number, and took one step out into the hall, ready to yell to her father to stop, wait for her.

  The fresh air hit her like a tsunami, the hall stretching out, out, out a warped tunnel lined with doors that hidden dangers lurked behind. Gasping for breath, her vision blurring red, she fell back against the wall, felt for the door back into her sanctuary, and collapsed inside. Panic roared through her, deafening, as she curled up on the floor and smothered her screams with her fists.

  27

  My uncle finally pulls up in his truck and hops out, surprised to see me standing inside the open garage, waiting for him.

  He grabs his duffel. It must’ve been busy for a day shift. He still has soot smudges at the corner of his jaw. Right where the edge of his mask rubs. The first shower never totally erases those.

  “Your mom tell you she won’t be home tonight?” he asks. He blinks slowly, a smile growing. Not angry about me skipping school—what the hell would he care about that? Anticipating. And I know exactly what he wants.

  “Yes,” I say shyly, looking down at my boots. They’re my steel-toed Timberlands. I’m hoping I won’t need them.

  The garage is filled with boxes, a real firetrap—boxes stacked on pieces of my grandparents’ old furniture, boxes from my dad that Mom can’t bring herself to throw out, boxes of old Christmas ornaments and books and clothes and half-empty paint cans and motor oil and dirty rags and clean rags and…well, right now, I’m not seeing them as boxes at all. I’m seeing them as tinder.

  Because if this goes wrong, I’ll need to get rid of the evidence.

  “So,” he says, drawing closer. “What should we do?”

  “I was just thinking…” I pitch my voice low and he draws near. “I thought, maybe, we…you and me…”

  He steps into the garage. The neighbor pulls up across the street. My uncle shuts the garage door behind him. No witnesses. Just the way he likes it.

  Now it’s just him and me and a single lightbulb crowding out the shadows. He places his hand on my shoulder. Lays it there, warm and heavy. Not reassuring. Not at all.

  “You and me?” It’s not quite a question, not the way his mouth twists into a smile as he says the words.

  His eyes gleam in the reflection of the lightbulb over my head. He doesn’t realize it, but I’m just as tall as him—he still thinks of me as a scrawny little kid. His hand slides down my shoulder. He squeezes my arm. “Nice. I knew someday you’d come around.”

  He tugs on my belt with his other hand, pulling me close enough that I smell the smoke and shampoo and steak and onions he had for dinner.

  He leans in, his gaze on my lips, hungry for more than dinner. I slide the snub-nosed revolver from my back pocket and jam it under his chin, forcing his head back. Hard. Digging the barrel of the gun into his flesh.

  His eyes flash with anger first. Then fear.

  Funny, those two always seem to come in the reverse order for me. Maybe that’s the difference between predator and prey. Or the difference between grownups and kids? Miranda will know. I file it away for later; it feels important.

  “Jesse, stop,” he stutters. “You don’t want to do this.”

  Too late, he realizes that I am the same size as him, a grown man. Just as strong too. I’m not the little boy he made cry that first time. Right now I have no idea who or what I am, but I sure as shit don’t feel like JohnBoy.

  The thought brings with it strength—and the memory of Miranda’s voice. “Griffin. The protector against evil,” she whispers inside my head.

  I force him b
ack until he’s pinned against the corner between the wall and the door. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

  My voice surprises me. It’s not loud, but it’s so big. Big enough to fill the garage, fill all the space between the boxes, space usually filled by shadows and cobwebs. Big enough to fill him with fear. I feel his body shrink away from me—not just the gun, but me. Not JohnBoy. Not Jesse. Me. Griffin.

  “Wh-what do you want?”

  “You’re going to tell me. Everything. Every single damn thing you know about him.” Even now I can’t say King’s name out loud. Not even for the recorder that’s humming away in my pocket. Damning me as much as them, but I don’t care. Not anymore. All I care about is ending King before he hurts someone I do care about.

  He shakes his head—or tries to. I jam the gun up harder, and he makes a little squeaking noise like a rat with its leg caught in a trap. Tough choice. Chew your leg off or wait to see who comes to get you.

  “I can’t. He’ll kill me.”

  “Think I won’t?” I’m not sure of the answer myself, but he is. I can smell the fear coming off him in waves. “Tell me about King. Now.”

  28

  At first he just glares at me. I do what I’ve wanted to do since I was twelve. I sucker-punch him. So hard he doubles over, gasping. That gives me time to handcuff him to the steel support for the garage door.

  “Hey!” he says, surprised. I shove the gun back in his face and he shuts up. Fast.

  I leave him there while I stroll over to the can of gasoline I use for the lawn mower. Bring it and some rags over to him. I open the can. Spill a bunch onto the floor. That’s all.

  He’s rattling the handcuffs against the railing, realizes he can’t break free. Glaring at me, he gives a jerk of his chin. Smart enough to know what damage gas fumes and a spark can do in a place like this.

  “King.” I sound like some tough guy from the movies. Power surges through me. I like it. It doesn’t come from the gun—the gun isn’t necessary anymore, so I pocket it. No, the power comes from me, from what I can do—things I can’t even imagine. But he can.