Criminal Destiny

by Gordon Korman

  All at once, he’s sprinting in the direction of the bathroom. Water is pouring out from under the wooden door.

  A holler comes from the car. “Oh, here’s Dad! Come on, Dad! Let’s get going!”

  I swear, I’m so confused that I’m actually looking around for “Dad.” Then the driver door is kicked open and Laska’s voice hisses, “Get in the car, stupid!”

  I jump in and we squeal off down the road.

  “What if he calls the police?” Eli asks anxiously.

  “He might,” Amber tells him. “When he’s done plunging that toilet, which isn’t going to be for a while.”

  I picture the miniature Niagara cascading from the bathroom. “What did you flush down there?”

  “Paper towels.”

  “How many?”

  “All of them,” she says with satisfaction. “And by the time he fishes it all out of the pipes we’ll be long gone, right?”

  I step on the gas a little harder. “I don’t think he’ll call the cops. We paid for the drinks; we paid for the gas. He can’t even say for sure there was no adult with us. He called us joyriders. Not sure what that means, but I kind of like the sound of it.”

  We drive in anxious silence for a while, with me checking the mirror a lot. But when we cross into Texas, we breathe a little easier. We’re not lawyers, but we have to believe that toilet clogging isn’t the kind of offense you send officers into other states for.

  We pass a sign saying that Haddonfield is 110 miles away. I feel a new dread beginning to build. C. J. Rackoff—he’s sixty-two now, but everything about his picture screams Hector. His features, especially his stick-out ears; the way he holds his head. It’s going to be hard to look at him—and not just because he’s a big-time crook. If I cry in front of Laska, I’ll never live it down.

  Why does it have to be Rackoff? We could just as easily have gone to see my guy. Well, not just as easily. According to the internet, Gus Alabaster is in a hospital medical unit in Joliet, Illinois. He has cancer, and his doctors don’t think he’s got much longer to live. I’d kind of like to meet him. Even though he’s a bad guy, he’s almost like the closest thing I’ll ever have to a biological father. Plus it’d be a sneak preview of what I’m going to look like when I’m old. I wonder if he’d recognize himself at thirteen.

  I have to forget it. It’s not going to happen. The others voted for Rackoff because he’s the closest. Mickey Seven’s jail is in Florida, and Yvonne-Marie Delacroix is being held in New Jersey. Bartholomew Glen is the next closest, but he’s all the way west, in California. And anyway, wild horses couldn’t drag Eli to see him. I have to agree that the Crossword Killer doesn’t sound like a very pleasant guy to hang out with.

  It’s after one a.m. when we reach downtown Haddonfield. We’re in and out of it in about three seconds. It’s one of those places you could easily miss, especially on a dark night.

  We turn around to retrace our steps and end up missing the town again, this time going in the other direction.

  “There’s no way there’s a whole prison here,” says Amber firmly.

  “There’s no way there’s a whole dog kennel here,” I add.

  “The prison’s supposed to be outside of town,” Eli reminds us. “The question is where. We can’t just drive around in circles hoping to find a big jail. ‘Outside’ could mean forty miles.”

  There’s only one light on in the entire place—seriously, they’d roll up the sidewalks if they had sidewalks. It’s a 7-Eleven, which is good, because we ran out of snacks fifty miles ago. The best thing about being a fugitive is the junk food. Nobody lectures you about nutrition—unless you’re unlucky enough to have Laska with you.

  We might not have her with us much longer if she doesn’t eat something.

  “Hotter here,” Tori notes as we head for the entrance. “The air feels heavier.”

  I shrug. “Texas.” Different weather. Different scenery. Different states. It’s hard to get used to after nearly fourteen years cooped up in the same handful of acres.

  I open the door and usher the others inside.

  The guy at the counter frowns when he takes in our age. “Isn’t it a bit late for you kids to be out on your own?”

  We let Tori do the talking. “Oh, we’re not alone. Mom’s just too tired to get out of the truck. We’ve been driving all day.”

  He looks at us sympathetically. It’s pretty obvious that he’s put two and two together and concluded that we must be visiting someone at the prison. And it’s probably not the warden. Let’s face it, how many other reasons could there be to come to Haddonfield in the middle of the night?

  Tori flushes. “We’re trying to find the Kefauver prison. Our—uncle—” She’s a pretty good actress, showing just the right mixture of sadness and embarrassment.

  The man smiles. “You’re almost there. It’s about eight miles south of town.”

  “Is there a sign?” I ask.

  “Trust me, you can’t miss it, especially in the middle of the night. They keep a lot of lights on.” He adds, “There’s a little motel there. Nothing fancy, but it’s clean. That’s where the visitors usually stay.”

  He must feel really sorry for us because he gives us free Cheez Doodles. If he knew who we were cloned from we’d probably get half the store.

  Back in the truck, I pull out of the lot and head south. The days of Frieden hogging all the driving are over. I think I’ve got kind of a knack for it. Maybe Gus Alabaster was a wheelman before he got too rich and important to drive his own car.

  That clerk wasn’t kidding about Kefauver being hard to miss. The sky starts glowing a couple of miles away. We crest a rise and there it is—a metropolis of buildings, towers, and walls, lit up like one of those sports stadiums on TV. The only thing in Serenity to compare it to is the Plastics Works, but it’s more like twelve of those built together. And fences—inside, outside, all around the perimeter.

  It’s weird, but I actually feel bad for C. J. Rackoff having to live in such a place. I know he’s a criminal, but he’s also exactly like Hector, and Hector wouldn’t deserve this. I know what you’re thinking: something even worse happened to Hector. But still.

  “What an awful place,” Tori whispers.

  “Take a good look at it,” Amber says stoutly. “This is where our parents are going when we prove what they did. Or somewhere exactly like it.”

  “It’s not just about revenge, Amber,” Eli observes. “It’s about making a life for ourselves.”

  “You worry about the life,” Amber shoots back. “I’ll handle the revenge.”

  “We’re all cloned from people who are behind bars in prisons just like this,” Tori ventures timidly. “Is this how we’re going to end up?”

  “We were in a jail exactly like this,” I remind them. “We had pools and tree houses and Contentment class, but could we leave?”

  Eli points. “Take a left. There’s the motel.”

  We turn into a parking lot that feels like gravel, but is really busted concrete. By the lights from the prison we can just make out the sign, which is not electrified: Tumbleweed Inn.

  “No wonder nobody ever comes to visit C. J. Rackoff,” comments Tori.

  “As long as they have a shower,” Amber counters.

  The Tumbleweed Inn is a single strip of eighteen units, all grubby stucco and peeling paint. There are cars parked in front of units 4 and 7, but the office is dark and closed up tight.

  “How are we supposed to get a room now?” I demand, annoyed.

  “We can sleep in the truck,” Eli suggests. “We brought pillows and blankets and everything.”

  “Not everything,” Amber growls. “Not a shower. Or real beds.”

  “Or a bathroom,” I add. “Those free Cheez Doodles aren’t agreeing with me.”

  Tori makes the decision for us. “We got no rest in Serenity; we were too scared. We haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in days. We have to get into one of these rooms.”

  “You
mean break in?” Eli questions.

  “Right next door to a jail?” I put in nervously. Gus Alabaster wouldn’t think twice about it, but I’m starting to wonder if I’m quite as brave as him.

  “We can leave some money for the room after we—uh—check out,” Tori suggests. “Come on, we need this.”

  “And for the damage we have to do to get in,” Eli adds.

  Tori shrugs. “Maybe there won’t be any.”

  I take the truck around the back and park it where it’s semihidden in a grove of trees. There are no lights in the rear, but the prison is so bright that we can see enough not to wipe out.

  “There was a TV show where somebody got into a hotel just by slipping a card through the door,” Amber ventures.

  “We don’t need that,” Tori says. “Look.”

  We squint into the gloom. Along the row of hotel units is a line of high windows, each one propped open with a short stick.

  Tori approaches the end room and turns to me. “Give me a boost.”

  She steps into the basket I make with my hands. I heave her up to the window. It takes some doing, because she has to remove the screen. But within two minutes, she’s in. We hear her drop to the floor.

  We run around the front. She’s already standing there with the door open, grinning widely. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

  “Get that screen back in!” I snap. “They’ve got mosquitoes the size of B-52s around here!”

  The place is a dump by Serenity standards, but with the advantage of not being in Serenity. There are two double beds—one for the girls and one for Eli and me. We give them first dibs on the shower.

  By the time they come out, we’re dead to the world.

  21

  TORI PRITEL

  I wake up scared.

  These days, I always wake up scared. But today’s different. I’m in that dump truck in Denver and it’s tipping me down into the wood chipper. The grinding noise is loud and very near, and I’m sliding, falling . . .

  Heart hammering, I leap out of bed, biting my fist to keep from screaming as I struggle to get my bearings. There’s no wood chipper, just an air conditioner—in great need of maintenance—a couple of doors down. I’m still in the room at the Tumbleweed Inn. The air is hot and heavy as pea soup. We don’t dare use our own air conditioner, since no one is supposed to be here. Dim light filters in through the uneven venetian blinds. Not morning, not yet. More like predawn. I check the nightstand clock. 5:16 a.m.

  Amber’s still asleep, sweat beaded on her brow. In the other bed, so is Malik—at least I assume that lump in the blankets is him. (I recognize the snoring.) Where’s Eli?

  A second later I spot him in the center of the room, still as a statue, staring at the front door.

  “What?” I ask in a low voice.

  “Someone’s out there,” he whispers hoarsely.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I swear I saw the doorknob turn.”

  I go to the window, open the blinds an inch or so, and peer outside. The walkway is deserted. I move to the other side and check the opposite direction. Nobody’s there. But at the far end of the strip, I can see a splash of light spilling out of the office.

  “The coast is clear,” I report. “But the check-in desk is open.”

  He looks worried. “Do you think the clerk will be able to tell someone’s in the room?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply, “but we’d better do a little scouting around. If anybody’s about to call the police on us, we need to be gone.”

  We kick into shoes, grab some money, and slip out the front door. We snake around the back of the Tumbleweed Inn, confirming first that the truck is well hidden. Malik did a good job parking it in some thick trees, where it wouldn’t be easily spotted by employees or guests of the motel.

  The office has a high rear window, just like the rooms do. We’re not worried about being heard, since an ancient air conditioner roars in there too. Eli boosts me up and I peer inside.

  The clerk reminds me of my own mother (the person who posed as my mother, obviously). The resemblance puts me at ease and on edge at the same time. She’s all alone at the desk, watching a tiny portable TV. I spy on her for a few seconds and conclude that there’s no way she knows trespassers broke into one of her rooms last night. She looks bored—half-comatose, actually. Her attention never wavers from the small screen.

  I jump down and signal Eli to start back.

  “What, no room service?” he whispers.

  I smother a laugh. I like being with Eli. In Serenity, we were getting to be pretty close. Malik used to tease us about being boyfriend/girlfriend, although it was nothing like that. Now we spend more time together than ever, but it’s not the same, since we’re always running for our lives. All at once, I realize how much I miss hanging out with him.

  We’re about halfway to the end of the strip building when Eli suddenly wheels. “Did you hear that?”

  I turn and scan our surroundings. There’s nobody around. From the front of the motel, the ice machine clunks. “Is that what you heard?”

  He looks doubtful. “Maybe. It’s probably just me. I’m pretty stressed these days. For all I know, the doorknob never moved either.”

  “We’re all on edge,” I assure him.

  But as we reach the pavement of the side parking lot, I hear it—and it’s definitely not the ice machine. Scuffling footsteps, dislodging rocks and chunks of fractured concrete. Yet when we turn around, no one’s there.

  Is someone stalking us?

  We’re not walking anymore. We run the rest of the way to our room and duck inside.

  “Wake up!” Eli cries at the sleepers.

  They’re out of bed like a shot. “What is it?” Malik babbles, blinking wildly.

  “We’re not sure,” I confess.

  His brow lowers. “You woke me up for not sure? Come back when you’re sure!”

  Only half-awake, Amber stumbles toward the bathroom. Her eyes aren’t open yet, so she doesn’t see it. There’s a face at the window, pale and indistinct through the dusty screen.

  I scream. That wakes Amber up, and the guys come running. But by that time the face is gone.

  “We’ve got to disappear!” I hiss. “They’re after us! He was looking in the window!”

  “Who?” Eli demands.

  “I couldn’t tell. He has to be really tall, though, if he could see in! Maybe one of the Purples.”

  “I’m not sticking around to find out!” Malik declares.

  We jam our stuff into our backpacks. I peer through the venetians. “Coast is clear.”

  “On three,” whispers Malik. “One . . . two . . .”

  He hurls the door open and leaps outside. But instead of making his escape, he trips over something and crashes sprawling to the pavement. We hear a muffled “Oof,” definitely not from Malik.

  Eli picks up the nearest weapon, a porcelain table lamp, yanking the plug from the wall. Brandishing it like a club, he springs after Malik to fight for our freedom. He lifts it high, ready to deliver a devastating blow.

  Malik’s eyes bulge. “Stop!” He grabs the lamp in mid-stroke.

  Amber and I scramble into the fray. We gawk. We goggle.

  Lying on the ground, stunned, is Hector Amani.

  22

  MALIK BRUDER

  My head explodes. Seriously, that’s what it feels like.

  Hector—I never thought I’d see the little shrimp again! I shouldn’t be seeing him now! He died!

  The others are just as blown away. Eli drops the lamp, which shatters on the concrete.

  Half to prove to myself that he isn’t a ghost, I throw my arms around Hector and squeeze.

  “Not so hard,” he gasps. “I can’t breathe!”

  “You’re not supposed to breathe!” My voice comes out unsteady. “You’re supposed to be dead!” There’s wetness running down my cheeks. I think I might be crying. Impossible—Gus Alabaster never cries! But I don’t care. I can’t
process any information beyond the impossible fact that Hector’s okay.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Tori hisses. “There’s a Purple around. We saw him looking into our room.”

  “That was me,” Hector rasps.

  Tori shakes her head. “That guy had to be six-foot-five.”

  “I was standing on boxes,” Hector explains. “I had to make sure it was really you.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Amber demands

  He’s sheepish. “I got so excited to see you that I fell. I came around to knock on the door, and Malik plowed me over.” He rubs his brow. “Elbowed me in the face.”

  We get him ice for his forehead, but not before the hugging happens—first the girls, and then Frieden. I go again for good measure, and this time I really crush him. He’s feeling it, but he doesn’t complain. We both understand that coming back from the dead is a pretty big deal.

  It’s time for some major catching up. Hector lies on one of the beds, holding the towel-wrapped cubes to his bruise, and rakes us with a resentful glare. “Thanks a lot, you guys, for saving yourselves and leaving me alone to die in the woods.”

  Only the shrimp could make me so happy and so exasperated all at once. “Some things never change. Complain, complain, complain. We looked for you, man. We screamed the forest down until the cars started up from Happy Valley.”

  “It’s true,” Eli confirms. “When we couldn’t find you, we thought you went over the side with the truck. You were still hanging on when I jumped.”

  “We had to drag Malik away,” Tori adds. “He was out of his mind. I’ve never seen him like that before.”

  “And you see the thanks I get.” I glare at Hector, my cheeks hot. “I’m the one who should be ticked off at you, letting us think you’re dead. I wasted a lot of sad on your unworthy butt!”

  “It’s like Eli said,” Hector admits. “I hung on too long, and by the time I jumped, the truck had already broken through the barrier. I rolled into a tree and I must have got knocked out. It was good luck—if the tree hadn’t been there, I would have gone all the way to the bottom and burned up in the explosion.”