Children of Paranoia (47 page)

I looked over at Jared. He was leaning down to pick up the rifle. The two men who your father had ambushed on the porch were just lying on the ground, motionless. I could see blood. They were dead. Somehow, in seconds, your father had killed them both.

Jared picked the rifle out of the hands of one of the lifeless bodies. I ran toward him as he lifted it up to his shoulder. I tried to go faster but Jared saw me coming. In my moment's hesitation, in that moment when I looked up to see if you were okay, Jared saw me coming toward him. I lowered my head to try to bowl him over or at least hit him hard enough that your father would have time to drive away. I was about to hit him when Jared took his free hand and caught me near the base of my neck. He held me back with one hand before I had a chance to bury my shoulders into him. He dug his fingers into my collarbone while still holding the rifle in his other hand. He was so strong. I felt so weak. He lifted me up by my collarbone like I weighed nothing and flung me off the porch. I tumbled to the ground. When I stopped rolling, I turned to look toward the car. It was just beginning to move. Everything was happening too slowly. I looked back up at the porch and saw Jared lift the rifle up toward his shoulder. He aimed. He fired one shot. I turned and looked back at the car again. Jared had hit the right front tire. The car skidded to one side and fishtailed so that it was almost facing us. Through the darkness, I could see your father frantically trying to turn the steering wheel. Then, I looked back up at Jared again. He was aiming for a second shot. He took his sight and pulled the trigger again. I heard glass shatter before I even turned around. When I turned, the front windshield had already splintered, the crisscrossing lines of shattered glass creating a web centered on a hole directly in front of the driver's seat. Jared's aim had been perfect. I wanted to scream but I froze.

Jared walked back to the front door and yelled to the two surviving henchmen to come out. He ordered them to walk toward the car with him. “Grab the girl,” he said to one of them as they walked by me. The man leaned toward me and grabbed a clump of my hair in his fist. He lifted me to my feet by my hair but didn't let go. Instead, he dragged me behind him. I stumbled, trying to keep up. It didn't hurt. I couldn't feel pain. I was numb. I prayed that the car would be empty when we got to it, that somehow your father had gotten out and run away with you. Jared looked over at me as we walked, his face full of hatred. “You killed my best friend,” Jared said to me without the slightest hint of irony. My mouth was too dry to say anything back.

I could hear you crying as we neared the car and my heart sank. The sound was muffled but there was no mistaking it. You must have slipped down to the floor, beneath one of the seats, as the car spun. For a moment, all I was worried about was whether or not you had been hurt. Then I remembered all the other things that I had to worry about too. You were alive. I thanked God for that but that was all I had to be thankful for. “You can let her go but don't let her go anywhere,” Jared barked at the man who was holding my hair. He tossed me aside. I fell to the ground again, my already bloody knees digging into the dry dirt. Even if I wanted to, I had no strength left to run. “You,” Jared said, pointing to the other man, his orders now coming out with emotionless authority, “get the kid.” I leaned forward so that I could see you as the man opened the passenger side door. He reached down to the floor of the car and grabbed you by one of your legs. He lifted you out of the car like that, holding one of your legs and dangling your body beneath his fist like you were a piece of meat. I hated him. I held my breath. You were covered in blood. I don't know if it was yours or your father's. I'm so sorry, Christopher. I'm so sorry I let them do that to you.

“You're hurting him,” I shouted, but no one listened to me. Something inside me hurt physically, even though I knew that I wasn't injured.

Jared walked over to the driver's side door of the car. He opened it and looked inside. I couldn't see what he was looking at. All I could see was the cracked windshield and blood. Jared took a long look inside the car. He didn't say a word. His face was impossible to read. His eyes were cold. Then he turned away again.

“Let's go,” Jared said. He began walking toward the SUV he and his henchmen had parked up near the house. The two other men followed. They didn't bother with the bodies on the porch. You kept crying. Your face was turning dark purple as the man carried you upside down. I wanted to run to you, Chris. I wanted to comfort you. I was too weak. I couldn't fight. I could barely breathe. It felt like someone was standing on my chest. All the energy had been sucked out of my body. I didn't have the strength your father had. I didn't even have the strength to make one last, desperate try to save you. Death didn't scare me. Only the hopelessness did.

They walked past me, not three feet from me. For a moment, I thought they were going to pretend I wasn't even there. That was the worst part of it—their indifference to me. I would have rather had them shoot me than just let me lie there in my own uselessness. I wanted to be in pain. As they walked passed me, Jared turned to me one last time. I was praying he was going to lift his gun and put me out of my misery. Instead, he made eye contact with me and nodded toward the car. With a chilling indifference, he said, “He's still alive but he won't be for long. Don't bother trying to call for help because there's not enough time. Just go say your good-byes. Consider it my last favor that I'll ever get to do for my friend.” Then Jared stopped walking for a split second and finished, “And then I suggest that you disappear.”

I began to cry out loud again. I don't know how I had any tears left. I didn't have the strength to stand up. I knew that if I tried, I'd simply fall back to the ground. I just lay there in the dirt and watched as the three men got into the car with you. The man holding you in his fist climbed into the backseat. Once he was in the car, I couldn't see you anymore. He closed the door behind him and, when he pulled the door closed, the sound of your crying disappeared. The SUV's engine started and the men simply drove away, leaving me lying in the dirt. Just like that, you were gone.

I watched the SUV for as long as I could, knowing that you were in it. When I couldn't see the SUV anymore, I began to crawl through the dirt back toward your father. The car was only about twenty feet away, but I barely had the energy to crawl. I didn't know what I could possibly say to your father. I was ashamed. Your father was dying because he tried to save you and there I was, frozen, with scrapes on my knees.

As I neared the car, I realized that I couldn't hear any noise from inside. I thought that maybe I was too late. I tried to stand up, putting my hand on the car door, but my knees wobbled and I fell back to the ground. When I landed, I heard a small sound coming from inside the car. I looked up. The interior light of the car was on because the door was open. Your father was slouched in the driver's seat, a pool of blood on the front of his shirt. Jared had shot him in the middle of the chest. I could see more blood beginning to dry on the corners of your father's lips. He wheezed slightly as he breathed. I could see the pain in his face.

“I let him go,” I confessed. I was already on my knees, in the perfect position to beg your father for forgiveness.

He shook his head. “You couldn't have done anything,” he said to me, his voice growing quieter with each word. “You don't deserve any of this. You and Christopher, you don't deserve any of this.” He looked down at the blood on his shirt.

“You don't deserve this, either, Joe. It's not your fault.” I crawled closer to him and placed my hands on his lap.

He chuckled. It sounded painful. “No. You're wrong. This is exactly what I deserve. This was always how it was going to end for me.” I didn't know what to say. In retrospect, I know what I should have said. I should have told your father how much I loved him. I should have told him that I was going to find you. I should have told him that I was going to rescue you and that you wouldn't have to grow up to be a killer. I should have told him that he was the bravest man that I ever met and that I didn't blame him for anything. Instead, I said nothing. He made one more request of me. “Kiss me,” he said, his voice now barely more than a whisper. I hesitated, not sure if I heard him right. “I want the last thing that I feel to be your lips.” The words were clear this time.

I gathered my strength and stood. I put one hand on the roof of the car to steady myself. I laid my other hand lightly on your father's chest. I could feel his blood through his shirt. I didn't care. I leaned in and kissed your father for the final time. I pressed my lips to his. The warmth was already receding from his lips but I could feel his heart beating weakly beneath my hand. As we kissed, I felt the beating stop.

You don't owe your father anything, Christopher. I would never put something like that on you. But you should know that he died trying to save you. Don't blame him for what you are. It's not his fault. He loved you. He gave everything just to try to give you a normal life.

It took me some time after your father's death to realize what I had to do. Now I know. I have to find you. I have to learn from your father's strength. I have to find out where they've taken you and I have to save you, for your sake and your father's. I hadn't been strong enough to stop them from taking you, but I can make myself strong enough to get you back. At least I can try. It took me a while to realize that I have nothing else to lose. I don't care how far I have to go or how long it will take. They followed us to a tiny, remote corner of the world. If they could do it, then so can I. They stole my child and killed the only man I ever loved. I've had enough running. Now it's their turn.

I need to thank my wife, Carly, first and foremost. Dreamers can dream all they want, but without the pragmatist poking them and nudging them along, those dreams will never come to fruition.

Thanks to my agent, Alexandra Machinist, in part for helping me to navigate the funny industry we call publishing but mostly for believing in me and in my work and for standing with me when I was unwilling to compromise.

Thanks to my editor, Ben Sevier, and the rest of the team at Dutton. You've made me a better writer, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Finally, thanks to Drew Pitzer, Amanda Hulsey, Aron Gooblar, Jay Johnston, Noah Davis, David Menoni, Marty McLoughlin, Kevin Trageser, Stephen Szycher, and Michael Bedrick for reading and commenting on earlier drafts of this books. It would be a much different and far inferior book without your input. More important, thanks for giving me an audience to inspire me to keep writing, no matter how frustrated, frightened, or discouraged I became.

Children of Paranoia
is Trevor Shane's first novel. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and son.