Greyson Gray

by B. C. Tweedt

  Though he had managed to convince Kip to send his Morris paddle with the perseverance brand he earned at sports camp to his counselor, Brandon, he had to hide a picture of him and his dad from Kip by stitching it into the inside of his hat. The lowest of low points had been when Kip informed them he had given away their dog, GrayHound.

  But now, after Kip had spent the early summer days teaching Greyson evasion strategies while he had been healing, and hand-to-hand combat and weapon training once he was healed, the Grays knew that he was the only thing keeping them alive and sane. Now, perhaps it was possible his mom would leave someday. Leave him with Kip.

  Greyson sat at the table, listening to Kip and his mother’s conversation. Much of it was over his head – various names and titles, laws and procedures, locations and dates – but he gathered enough to know that his mother would not be able to join them.

  Hearing his mom make excuse after excuse began to wear on him. What would happen to me if Kip left instead of Mom? Would I become obsessed with tracking down Dad as well?

  No. Why would I waste my time with that? He’s dead. He has to be. And his body, it’s somewhere they’ll never be able to find it. Either in sand or in the ocean. How will Mom find his body there? Would they even be able to identify the remains? What is she really hoping to find? Isn’t it enough to believe he’s in a better place? He’s dead!

  “Nolan.” Kip stood over him, a troubled look in his eyes. “Relax.”

  Greyson followed Kip’s gaze to his hands where he had a fork and a knife gripped so tightly that his palms hurt. He set them down and felt the release of tension travel from his arms to his neck where he hadn’t realized it had been.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Kip nodded with shifting eyes and grabbed his plate. He had already started shoveling a carrot in his mouth before he sat down.

  “You know everything, right, Kip?”

  Kip choked on the carrot and laughed. “I already think you’re the coolest kid I know. You don’t have to butter me up anymore.”

  Greyson smiled meekly, playing with the onions on his plate. “I’m the only kid you know. And I’m not; I just have a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Where do you think we go when we die?”

  Chewing loudly, Kip kept nodding and pointing at Greyson with his fork. “That. That is not a question I can answer. Sorry, little buddy.”

  Greyson shrugged his shoulders. “That’s okay. That’s what I thought.” He scooped at an onion and pressed it into a mash of beef.

  “That is a question for a priest or pastor or rabbi,” Kip continued. “I’ve only studied how to get people to that point, not what happens afterward.” He cut into the roast beef and added more to the amount already in his mouth. “I tell you what. Promise me you’ll ask the first priest you see, okay? He’ll let you know.”

  Disappointed, but relieved at the same time, Greyson nodded. “Will do.”

  “Good. I hope he tells you that people like the Emorys – they go straight to hell. People like your dad – they go to heaven. That’s where they belong in my opinion.”

  Greyson faked a satisfied smile and began to eat. It was delicious, but he wasn’t very hungry any more. There was something about realizing that he may have sent someone to hell that didn’t sit right with him – even if it was an Emory. He looked up at Kip. How many had he sent to hell? He looked down at his own hands – and the knife. Will I ever kill again? Or will I die first? If I do die soon, where will I go? After all, I am a murderer.

  “Hey. I got a call today,” Kip said, breaking the somber mood.

  “Oh yeah, Mr. Popular.”

  Kip smiled. “Actually, it was for you.”

  “Really?”

  Scraping his plate for the last bit of gravy, Kip nodded. “A girl, too.”

  A new energy started in his chest, but he didn’t want to show it. “I bet she was looking for Greyson Gray, not Nolan Schroeder.”

  “That’s right. But she really wants to see you.”

  It had been so long since he’d seen any of his friends. He couldn’t call them, email them, or anything. He was supposed to not even exist. How could they contact him when he didn’t exist? He had almost given up on seeing her – and the rest of them – ever again.

  “Can I please talk to her? I won’t give away where I am, or say my new name, or anything! I can…I can lie. I don’t care. I just…”

  “She’s coming over tomorrow. And you’re going with her for a few days.”

  “Really? Really?”

  “Yeah. I set it up yesterday. You need a break. It’ll be safe. I’ll be with you and you’ll be blending in with a lot of people.”

  Greyson could barely contain himself. More people? “Where?”

  Kip took a deep sigh, prolonging the boy’s anticipation. He eyed Greyson’s mom who stood in the hallway, smiling. “The Iowa State Fair.”

  ----------------

  The Iowa State Fair sign shone in the dark, its new annual motto blazing underneath: “Legendary.” The last guests had left for the night, some stumbling after having too many beers, others still giddy with excitement after the late-night concert in the Grand Stands. The carnival rides had stopped spinning and their bright, colored lights had gone black. The Skyride had ground to a stop and the performers had retreated to their RVs for a restful night’s sleep. The gates had been closed to the campgrounds and the other entrances. They’d open once again for the early guests the next morning, but for now, they were locked and abandoned. A security guard or two wandered the fairgrounds at night, but there had never been much of a concern except for the time a few animal-rights protesters had hidden away in the Varied Industries Building and wrote “Freedom for All” on the butter cow display before dousing the buttery bovine statue with blood-red paint.

  Tonight, a more dangerous intruder had hidden himself away. Dressed in black with a wide, shark-like grin, the assassin watched the night guard, his target, pass beneath his perch in a two-trunked maple tree. He debated how to kill the target, wavering between using his red combat knife or his bare hands, but decided against it altogether.

  The assassin knew the importance of a good plan and the dangers of a conscience. Conscience made you hesitate – made you soft. Conscience restrained you. But he wouldn’t be restrained. For years he had mastered his own way of defeating a conscience. He tricked it. Human beings were not people. They were things. Objects. Hazards. Animals. Its. Not ‘he’s or ‘she’s. And he could do with things as he pleased.

  Don’t waste energy hiding its body. Wait. Wait until it moves closer to an area it can be disposed of quickly.

  An idea struck him and a smirk played at his wide, cracked lips.

  Dropping from the tree as light as a feather, he followed the target and passed it through the maze of wooden vendor huts. Minutes later he found the area he was looking for and took up a hiding spot behind a set of bleachers overlooking a large pit of dark, shimmering water. The guard came into sight.

  The assassin played out what would happen in his mind. Knock it to the ground, face first. The move to kill - smooth and quick to the neck, letting the evidence of the kill spill to the grass. Remove its uniform and personal items. And then the feeding.

  He watched as the night guard aimlessly meandered toward the chain-linked security fence, shining its flashlight on the warning sign with scary, green letters: “LIVE GATOR TAMER!”

  The assassin drew his red, serrated knife and widened his lips into a long, twisted smile.

  Chapter 2

  Monday Night

  Night came on the farm peacefully, drawing the crickets out to play their incessant song.

  Riiiiiiiiiit, Riiiiiiiiiit, Riiiiiiiiiit.

  Greyson lay on his bed covers, too hot and too awake to try to curl into them to sleep. Since the nights had been as humid as the day he kept his bedroom window open to let in a breeze. Besides, he liked to listen to the night –
the crickets, the rustling of the corn leaves against one another, and the distant jangling of the wind chimes from the front porch. He’d stare out the window as the moonlight reflected off the corn leaves, creating flickering shadows inside his room.

  Soon after he first moved in, the rows of corn just outside his window had played games with his mind. In his dreams, Mantis, the man who’d stalked him at sports camp – wide-eyed, fearsome, wearing a black trench coat – would suddenly appear from the corn, next to his window. But he wouldn’t attack – he’d just stare, as if he was about to jump into his room and lunge for him – but he’d never move. The razor-sharp tension would haunt him more than an actual attack.

  Other times it would be SquareJaw – the one who had chased him throughout Morris, shot at him, and eventually crashed his SUV into a flooded stream. And sometimes it would be Dr. Jacob Emory – the mastermind with his pockmarked face, now bloody – pointing his bony finger straight at him as if blaming him for his death. Greyson had shot him just before he reached the red button that would have detonated the missile; the shotgun blast left a small, bloody cavern in Emory’s chest – a gory sight that would always wake him with a start.

  But tonight was different. The corn didn’t scare him anymore, but he still couldn’t sleep. His thoughts wandered from the wondrous news of being able to see his friends again to his familiar fears – discovering his Dad was not coming back, or being found by Everett Oliver Emory, the most-wanted man in the world who happened to be the brother of the man Greyson had killed. For some reason, this Emory never made the corn nightmares, but he was scary nonetheless. Maybe he never made the nightmares because Greyson’s one brief memory with him was when he had pretended to be his dad, seemingly back from the Sudan. It was a horrible memory, and Greyson had tried to block that memory from his consciousness. Maybe he had actually succeeded.

  Greyson looked at the clock. 12:14. Past midnight and he still couldn’t sleep. Frustrated, he sat up and grabbed his hat and fanny pack from the bedside table.

  He wandered through the dark hall in his pajama pants, padding as softly as he could, the old house’s floorboards creaking in the dead silence. Finding the small crack of the opening to the office door, he peeked through. Still clicking away at the keyboard and mouse, his mom was frustrated with something she was seeing on the computer. She scrawled something down on her notepad.

  Good luck, Mom.

  Shaking his head, Greyson went to the fridge and found a Tupperware of green grapes. Yes! Along with a glass of milk, he padded out the squeaky screen door and made his way across the dirt driveway to Kip’s SUV. Placing the food and drink on the hood, he crawled up and made himself comfortable, lounging against the windshield.

  He took in a long, deep breath and gazed up at the stars. There was nothing like it. Vast and wide, the black sky was peppered with white and yellow specks that seemed to shimmer like jewels so far away. The distance between him and the stars fascinated him, as he knew it had fascinated mankind for centuries. The stars were both a link to the past and the frontier of the future. They united everything, humbled everyone. He knew he’d never fully comprehend how big they were, how big the universe was, but somehow that was comforting.

  He laughed at his thoughts when he realized none of them were really his. They’d been his dad’s. But now they were his, too.

  His dad, wearing his red hat with the white ‘G’ on the front used to lounge outside with him, pointing out constellations, talking about whatever came to mind. They’d often escape outside together with leftover food – sometimes popcorn or marshmallows – and see how far they could lob a bite into the air and still manage to catch it in their mouths. The morsel of food would almost be lost in the ocean of stars at its greatest height, but come down like a falling star, right back to them. Sometimes they’d make wishes upon the falling ‘stars’ – but they’d come true only if they caught them.

  Greyson eyed the grape. I wish that Sydney will still like me.

  He chucked the grape in the air, watching the arc, measuring its trajectory, and then moved his mouth at the last moment. Thup! Right in his mouth! He chewed it with both hands in the air.

  Keeping the momentum, he took another grape and wished that Emory would be captured soon. He threw the grape just like before, but a sudden breeze jangled the wind chimes and rustled the corn leaves. The distraction was just enough. The grape bounced off his teeth and rolled to the hood. Greyson watched as it rolled down the slope to the dirt.

  He took another grape and pondered another wish. Settling on one, he shook the grape, nodding to himself. “I wish that I will see my dad again.”

  He began to throw the grape, but something caught him. What if I miss?

  Rethinking his plan, he dropped it into his mouth and chewed. He was pretty sure that didn’t count, but maybe there was a loophole. Maybe he could make his wishes happen his own way.

  “Couldn’t sleep again?”

  Greyson smiled and patted the hood next to him where Kip could sit.

  Kip grunted as he pushed himself up, taking his place next to Greyson with a thump as the hood bent under his weight.

  “I might be a little too old to do this.”

  Greyson laughed. “Nah. Just too fat.”

  “Oh!” Kip laughed, grabbing a handful of grapes from the bowl. “You’re funny at midnight.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, did you and your dad used to do this together on your farm?”

  The smile on Greyson’s face faded and a sudden fear shook him. Kip couldn’t replace Dad. Never. Why did I let him up here? Should I make him get off?

  No, I can’t. That would be too mean. But I’ll never play the grape game with him. That was me and Dad’s.

  “Yeah. All the time. He was great.”

  Kip smiled. “Do you mind if I ask, what was so great about him?”

  Crossing his legs and shifting his weight, Greyson pondered an answer. His eyes bounced from the barns and the silos to the stars. “I…I guess everything. He was awesome. He’d like…always hang out with me – and he’d like it. He’d challenge me to do stuff, even if I was afraid. He liked all the stuff I liked – or at least pretend to.”

  Kip laughed, nodding and chewing on his handful of grapes.

  “And he and mom would take turns teaching me. I was home-schooled until he disappeared. Then mom switched me to public so she could work on finding him. Dad was better than my public school teacher by a mile. Our classroom was wherever we wanted it to be, and he wouldn’t make me sit down unless my handwriting sucked too much for him to read it.”

  Kip smiled as he saw a smile curl at Greyson’s lips. “Home-schooled, huh? All alone?” Kip had known that but wanted to hear more.

  “Yeah. But they’d let me go to some home-school parties and events and stuff, to meet other kids.”

  Listening intently, Kip leaned back onto the windshield. “Your family seems like you were real close, out here by yourselves for much of the time.”

  Greyson nodded happily. “Yeah. They were my best friends.” He paused. “Well, my mom still kinda is, but Sydney and the guys are, you know…”

  “Can’t beat kids your own age. But, did you ever think that you guys were kind of hidden out here? Barely seeing anyone?”

  What is he getting at? “I don’t know. I guess not. We’d still do stuff, like go to the mall every month, or go to the fair a day each year.”

  Kip withdrew the line of questioning, sensing Greyson’s apprehension. “Sure, I just grew up in the city, so being away from all the action seems so different.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Kip reached for another handful of grapes and Greyson noticed the computer tablet in his other hand. “What’s that for?”

  Kip matched his gaze. “It’s my access to all the action. It keeps me up to date on all the happenings in the world.”

  He hadn’t seen Kip use it before. Perhaps he only pulled it out after midnight.

  “An
ything new?” There wasn’t a television in the house, and his mother never let him use the computer. He’d barely even wondered about what was happening in the news since Morris.

  “Well, the world’s even more complicated. It’s difficult to tell what’s going on, let alone what to do about it to make it right.”

  Greyson nodded at his general, unsatisfying answer.

  “But I suppose that might be why your dad was spending so much time preparing you on a farm like this one – to send you out into the world when you were prepared.”

  “Sure. I don’t know. I guess the last time I was sent out, the world did try to kill me.”

  Kip laughed, spitting out some grape. For a while they laughed together, and then they let the crickets’ song fill in the silence as they finished off the grapes and washed them down with swigs of milk.

  “You better get to bed, buddy.”

  “You, too, old man.”

  “Big day tomorrow.”

  “Yep.”

  They jumped from the hood, releasing it with a thump. When he went to grab the glass of milk, he found one last grape hidden on the windshield wiper. Taking a glance at Kip as he walked toward the house, he pondered a wish. I wish that Kip will never leave me.

  He took a breath, threw the grape high in the air, and followed it through the stars.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday Morning

  Greyson aimed, pulling the long, taut rubber back past his neck. His arms shook, one hand holding the slingshot’s grip, the other the steel ball-bearing in the ammunition pocket. He placed the ‘Y’ of the slingshot’s uprights on both sides of the target and then aimed up, allowing for the distance. He tried not to hold his breath until the last moment, settling his aim. He released.

  Snap! The ball-bearing seemed to rip through the air, slightly wobbling in the wind as it arched over the pasture fence and pelted the scarecrow in the face.

  “Haha! See that?”