Copyright © 2017 by Matthew Landis
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available on file.
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Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-0735-1
E-book ISBN: 978-1-5107-0738-2
Printed in the United States of America
To my students, who rule.
And to traitors everywhere, who suck.
“Traitors are the growth of every country, and in a revolution of the present nature it is more to be wondered at that the catalogue is so small than that there have been found a few.”
— George Washington, September 27, 1780
______________
CHAPTER ONE
Jasper flinched as his dad’s casket hit bottom. The sound was cold and final, like a giant safe locking in place. There was also some creaking involved because the coffin was dirt cheap. It was the only one Jasper could afford. He was actually surprised it didn’t splinter on impact.
“Would you like to say anything?” the funeral director asked. His name was Bill or Tony or something short. Jasper had been having trouble keeping details straight lately.
“I’m not really sure what to say,” Jasper said.
“Some share fond memories of the deceased.”
“Anything else?”
“People sometimes pray.”
“For who?”
“Those the deceased left behind.”
Jasper looked around the empty cemetery. “So, pray for myself.”
“I suppose.”
Jasper shivered in the late-September morning air. The paper-thin suit had felt like a wool jacket during his mom’s funeral three months ago. That casket had been closed, too, on account of the tractor-trailer that had pulverized her car.
“Can I say something to … him?”
“Of course.”
Jasper boiled it down to basics. He spoke from the gut. “You were my dad, but I never felt like your son.”
Bill or Tony or something coughed.
“And I want to know why you didn’t like us.” He was pissed now, and it felt great. “Actually, I want to know what you liked instead of us, besides alcohol. You loved that. Couldn’t wait to get your drink on.”
Was it wrong to mock a dead person?
Who cared.
“You sucked as a dad and husband and she should have left you so—”
Rot in hell came to mind, but it wasn’t genuine. Jasper’s anger faded because the truth was actually way worse: he’d always wanted a dad. A real one who didn’t just come around for awkward birthday dinners. Who wasn’t an alcoholic.
You can’t fix that now. Because you’re dead.
“Thanks for being a horrible person.”
A minute went by.
“Anything else?” the funeral director asked.
“No. I think that covers it.”
Jasper kicked some dirt into the hole and walked to his car. The ’86 Volvo would probably be the next thing in his life to die.
Two weeks ago, he’d gotten home from taking the SATs to find a detective in his driveway. The cop couldn’t explain why Jasper’s dad had been at a hotel in Charlottesville, Virginia, or how he’d drowned in a nearby pond. He’d been drunk (shocker), and after searching his hotel room, local police had settled on accidental drowning. His wallet and credit cards were still on him, so the cops didn’t suspect foul play.
Jasper put his head on the steering wheel. Did hating his dad require knowing why the man had been such a complete mystery?
Didn’t matter.
It was over.
I hate you.
“Excuse me, Mr. Mansfield.” Somebody was knocking on the car window. “May I have a word?”
Jasper rolled down the window. “If this is about the house, I have another week.”
“It’s not.” The man was a well-dressed statue: tall, lean, face like a granite slab. He had cold blue eyes that made you feel like a wolf’s prey.
“What do you want?”
“There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
Jasper detected a slight British accent that the man was trying to hide. “Are you … a relative or something?” It was a long shot.
“No.”
“And you want me to just come with you.”
“Yes.”
“You could be a serial killer.”
“I give you my word that I’m not.”
Jasper thought about that for a moment. Better play this one safe.
“Bye,” Jasper said, slowing cranking the manual window up.
The man set his jaw. “What I have to discuss concerns your father’s will. It won’t take much of your time, but it is essential.”
Jasper stopped cranking. “Essential for what?”
“For your future.”
“Did he leave me any money? I could really use it for the house if he did.”
“Unfortunately, he did not,” the man said.
Of course he didn’t. “Then, Mr. Not-A-Serial-Killer, I’m not interested.”
“How do you know that when I haven’t told you anything?”
Jasper turned the key in the ignition and willed the engine to catch. It choked twice before settling into a rackety hum. “My dad was never around. He didn’t care about anybody but himself. I can basically guarantee you that his will reflects that.”
The man tugged on the bottoms of his black leather gloves. For a second, Jasper wondered if he was going to strangle him. “Nil desperandum, Mr. Mansfield. I assume you're familiar with that phrase?”
Jasper blinked, pretending that he wasn’t. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The man made a scraping sound in the back of his throat. He handed Jasper a black business card through the gap in the window. “Try to not be such a brat the next time we meet.”
A beat-up Crown Victoria that looked like a fake cop car pulled up and the guy moved to get in, then hesitated, and turned back to Jasper. “Cheer up,” he said. “After all, you’re not the one who’s dead.”
CHAPTER TWO
Jasper woke up shivering on the living-room floor. He’d rolled off the mattress again; the night terrors were getting worse. He climbed back on and pulled the covers to his neck. Her portrait stared down at him from above the fireplace. He wouldn’t let the bank take it. He’d murder anyone who tried.
Somebody banged at the door. Jasper zipped his hoodie and peeked out a window. A big lady in khakis paced around the secluded gravel driveway.
“The bank notice said I don’t have to be out for a couple more days,” he called through t
he window.
“Hello? Are you Jasper Mansfield?”
“Yeah. What do you want?”
“Oh, hi. I’m Janine Tallison, your court-assigned guardian.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“How does it work?”
“When a minor enters the system, I help with the transition.”
“What does that mean?”
“I place you with a foster family.”
Jasper’s stomach lurched. “Janine, I can tell you with a hundred-percent certainty, that’s not going to happen.”
“I realize this is hard, Jasper.”
“Do you?”
“I’ve helped many kids transition—”
He gripped the windowsill. If she said “transition” one more time, he was going to throw a lamp at her. “Leave, please.”
“Jasper—”
“Seriously, get out of here.”
He slammed the window shut.
Janine paced around the driveway for another ten minutes, made a phone call, then left.
****
Jasper’s high school guidance counselor called the landline an hour later. Jasper let it go to voicemail, then deleted the message without listening to it. The guy called back at eleven, so Jasper ripped the phone from the wall. A couple kids from school texted, but he didn’t respond. He ate ten pancakes and watched half a season of Law and Order before passing out. He dreamed somebody was after him, and woke up screaming around midnight.
The cable cut out the next day. Jasper figured that was probably because somewhere in the three-month mountain of mail was the cable bill he had no money for and no idea how to pay. The electricity went next. After the cable, that wasn’t so bad. He’d been rereading his mom’s guilty pleasure collection of Danielle Steel, anyway. It was the natural gas being cut off that led to the transformation of his home into a legit hermit’s den.
Jasper spent that morning chopping wood and the afternoon worrying about what to eat. He’d cleaned out the perishables weeks ago and was working his way through the mountain of whole-wheat pasta that his mom had hoarded in the storage closet. Boiling water over an open flame in the fireplace was actually really hard/super dangerous, but he made it work. It was all he had left.
One week after Jasper buried his dad, the agent from the bank finally showed up to repossess the property. Or, at least, Jasper guessed it had been a week. The days had started running together since Janine stopped coming; Jasper had parked the Volvo behind the shed in an attempt to convince her that he’d taken off. The living room was a rat’s nest cluttered with books, clothes, and heavy blankets, and Jasper smelled like a bum. He’d also grown pretty comfortable with the outdoor toilet situation, which was exactly where he was—whizzing in the high weeds beside the driveway—when the guy arrived.
“Brisk day,” said Richard Corker. Jasper hadn’t seen him since his mom’s funeral, where the bank’s agent had gone over the finer points of a sheriff sale in annoying detail. Jasper had forgotten how much the man looked like a pig. “Should we go inside and wait for Ms. Tallison?”
“Who?”
“Janine Tallison—your guardian. She’ll be meeting us here to sign the papers on your behalf.”
Jasper zipped his fly. He eyed the distance to the front door. He could definitely outrun the guy and lock him out. “What if I don’t leave?”
“How do you mean?”
“Like, what if I just stay? What can you do?”
Mr. Corker scrunched up his pig face. “The police would escort you out—but that won’t be necessary. Ms. Tallison said that she would be taking you to your foster family today.”
Jasper caught sight of the gazebo in the backyard, and the pond behind it. The thought of another family using it brought on a familiar gag reflex. Or maybe it was hearing the phrase “foster family.”
“I need another week,” Jasper said. He had no idea where he was going with this, just that he needed to stall. Big time.
“Why?” Mr. Corker asked.
“Because …” he said, floundering for something—anything. “Because I am emotionally unstable. Any paperwork signed on my behalf wouldn’t be admissible in a court of law.”
Thank you Law and Order for that one.
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Mr. Corker said.
“Listen, Richard—can I call you Richard?
“It’s Dick, actually.”
Yes it was.
“Listen, Dick,” Jasper said. The plan was forming now—he could see it taking shape as his brain came back online. Money … he’d need money. But first he had to get this guy to leave. “I am on the edge of a breakdown, okay? I am not leaving this house today. That’s just a fact. Now, you can call the cops, in which case I will totally freak out and make a scene—lots of screaming and yelling and cursing, at you—and you and Janine will feel like horrible people—”
Dick’s cell phone went off. He fumbled for it and answered, “Hello. Ah—yes. Hello, Janine.” He listened for a while. “I see. Ah ha. Well, that’s bound to happen in your line of work.” Dick nodded. Looked at his watch. “No, that won’t work, my afternoon is booked. No—tomorrow, too. What about Friday? Same time? Okay. Good. Yes, yes, I’ll see you then.”
Jasper was trying to do the math in his head. Friday. Three days. That should be enough time.
Dick put the phone back in his pocket. “It seems Ms. Tallison got held up in court, but is available this Friday. Is that agreeable to you?”
Jasper nodded.
“Friday, then.” Dick got back into his car. “We’ll be back Friday, October 5th.”
Jasper sucked in a lungful of cold air. “Right. Okay—thanks.”
Richard Corker did a five-point turn and drove away.
Jasper charged his cell phone in the Volvo’s ancient cigarette lighter port and then took pictures of every item in his house. He walked to the far corner of the property and found an unsecured Wi-Fi signal, and posted the images on Craigslist. By dinner, he had twenty interested buyers. Anything he wanted to keep he shoved into the Volvo, starting with his mom’s portrait.
Jasper didn’t have an exact destination, so he packed a suitcase for each season; everything else went on Craigslist. When he came across the black suit he’d worn to both his parents’ funerals, he wadded it into a ball and threw it in the fire.
A card fluttered out as the clothes went up in flames.
CYRUS BARNES
ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
Jasper turned it over and saw faint lettering on the back.
THE LEAGUE
He wondered if it had anything to do with the Latin phrase tattooed on his dad’s left forearm—Nil Desperandum. Jasper thought about Googling it, then remembered that he didn’t actually care. His dad was dead, and his secrets could rot with him.
****
By Thursday night, every couch, bureau, desk, lamp, and table was sold. The back porch swing went, too, so Jasper counted his money on the cold stone patio. He’d netted almost six grand—more than enough to keep the Volvo gassed up for wherever he wanted to go.
The wind shifted and blew the gazebo screen door open. Jasper had avoided it because going in probably would induce an all-out breakdown. Definitely would. The tiny building had been their temple. His mom had written all her books there, Jasper curled up on the squeaky couch near her desk, lost in some fantasy book that was way better than his real life.
Jasper walked across the yard and stepped inside. He sat in her worn chair and ran his fingers over the writing desk. He could easily have gotten eight hundred for it, but the thought had never even crossed his mind. He opened the drawer and found a copy of her first novel. The heroine died at the end; he’d always hated that.
Underneath the book was an envelope. To Jasper, Happy Birthday.
He swallowed. She’d died a week before his seventeenth birthday. This was a message from the grave.
My dearest son,
Above all, remember who you are: my son.
All my love,
Your mother
Jasper reread it three times, then tucked it inside the book and left.
That night, he cried himself to sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
Jasper walked out of his house on Friday, October 5th. He was shaking with nervous excitement. He didn’t have a freaking clue where he was headed—he’d figure it out on the way. Jasper left the house key in the door. Court-assigned guardian Janine Tallison could choke on it.
The Volvo moved slower than normal because he’d stuffed it to the ceiling. People kept honking and passing him, so he turned down a side road that dropped toward the Delaware River. The road got steeper, and he pumped the brake.
Nothing.
He shoved his foot to the floor.
The Volvo went faster.
Jasper’s stomach lurched. He yanked on the emergency brake, and the car slid sideways onto loose gravel. He cut hard to the right and straightened out, still gaining speed. Spotting the T-intersection ahead, he white-knuckled the wheel.
HONNNNNNNK.
He narrowly missed a two-ton gravel truck as the Volvo rocketed through the intersection and caught enough air to sail clear over the guardrail and into the river.
Jasper’s vision splintered as he slammed into the steering wheel. Frigid water spilled in, reaching his waist in seconds. He couldn’t feel his legs.
A morbid peace suffocated him: maybe death was just easier. Was there really anything left for him to live for? Wandering the Northeast until he ran out of money seemed super depressing. He should just surrender. It would be so easy.
The water reached his neck, and he whimpered. He could hold his breath for a while, but why? Better get it over with. He closed his eyes and prepared to inhale, praying the coroner wouldn’t find traces of urine in the car.
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