Watched (13 page)

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 back 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.”

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.

“What do you want to know?”

“How did you meet?”

He laughed. “No one meets King. Ever. He finds you. Spots you in a chat room, spies you on video. Doesn't even have to be vid—dude has some kind of backstage pass into just about any webcam anywhere. Without you even knowing it, he's there, watching and recording everything in sight. People, especially kids, do a lot of stupid things in front of their computer, gives him all the ammunition he needs to get what he wants.”

I think about Miranda, how King tried to blackmail her. “So that's what happened to you? He blackmailed you into, into,” I stumble, trying to find the right word, “hurting me?”

He shakes his head. I don't like the smile on his face. It's as if he's rewinding every time he's touched me, some kind of warped highlight reel in his head. Like he's proud of it.

I slug him again. It's hard to stop with just one punch, but he pukes and I jump back to avoid it. He sinks down to the floor, not caring that he's sitting in his own vomit. Disgusting. How can anyone see him as a hero?

“Answer me,” I shout.

He wipes his mouth on his shirt. Spits. “No. He didn't blackmail me. Didn't need to. You're mine, Jesse. You always were and you always will be. I've known since you were younger than Janey that we were going to happen one way or the other. Figured I might as well make some cash from it.”

I step back. It's the only way to keep from beating him to death. “You—you went to him?”

“Sure. I ain't no victim. Word got around—you had a fantasy, he was the guy to find it for you. If he couldn't, he'd find someone to create it, custom-like. I knew if I couldn't resist you, there'd be others who'd also pay for the pleasure.”

“You talk like you're ordering a freakin' pizza or something.” And I was the pepperoni on top. Now I'm the one who feels like throwing up.

“That's all it is to King. Just business. Either you're making money or someone's making money off you.” He looks up at me with a sneer. “Not like you ever turned down anything I bought you with his money. You liked those new soccer cleats and that trip we all took to the Outer Banks. Oh, and who did you think bought your mom that new car of hers? You're just as guilty as I am, JohnBoy.”

The name does it. I lose it. Smash my foot into his face so hard his nose gushes blood like a truck running over a ketchup bottle. He screams and twists away in pain.

Shame floods over me hot and cold, so I'm shivering and sweating all at once. I'm disgusted with myself—but it also feels good. The power, the control. Almost as good as when I create my fires.

Fire. Perfect way to finish him and destroy any evidence. The whisper is seductive, dancing through my brain red and gold and purple. It would be so easy—so very, very easy.

No! I can't. Oh, but I
could
. I should. I'll hate myself if I don't.

Then I think: What would Miranda do? What would she think of me if I gave in to temptation and anger?

I step back, give him space to recuperate. It's easier to breathe when I'm not within striking range of him. “What's King's real name? Where's he live?”

He shakes his head, blood speckling the air, sniffs, and swallows, but his voice still comes out clogged with phlegm and blood. “No one knows King's real name.”

Figures. Miranda said King was a genius at covering his tracks. Then I realize my uncle hasn't answered all of my questions. He's looking away, afraid to make eye contact. “Tell me. You know something, don't you?”

He doesn't answer right away. I take out my Zippo and flick it open, my hand hovering above the gas can, thumb on the striker.

“You're used to putting fires out,” I say, my voice sounding like a stranger's. “Want to start one? I'll bet you'll light up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Sorry I don't have a gag. You'll just have to listen to your own screams.”

God, I sound evil. Where the hell did that come from? I hate myself, hate that someone that wicked lives inside me. But it works.

He shakes his head. “Don't. Just don't. I'll tell you everything.”

I close the lighter but keep it in my hand.

“I don't know if he's still there, but since what we were doing is technically against the law, I wanted insurance.”

His capacity for denial outrages me.
Technically
against the law?

Then I realize: My uncle is just as bad as King. Maybe not as manipulative or greedy. But neither man sees their victims as human. Hell, maybe they didn't see anyone as human. Maybe they don't—or can't—experience love or compassion or anything human. It's like they're cripples.

“What did you find?”

“It wasn't easy, but I tracked one of the cell phones he sent you to a store in Altoona. From there I got a name belonging to a guy who works for Smithfield Telenet. Figured it was the perfect place for him to work. And since it's right here in my own backyard, it was easy to track down where the guy lives.”

“What's the name?”

“First, set me free.”

“Not until I have the name and address.” Once I reach Miranda, we can compare notes. It might even be enough proof for the police—without us ever having to face King ourselves. If I can keep him talking.

He stares at me. I stare back. Then I unclench my fist, dangle the lighter before his eyes.

“Okay, okay. But it's not him. Can't be, because the guy's in a coma—happened after being hit by a car while riding his bike. I figure King stole his identity, used it to set up his business, then once he got enough dough, bought however many new identities he needed to hide behind. After all, I'm not his only content provider. Guy must be rolling in dough by now.”

Makes sense. “But when you first approached him, he was just starting out.”

“Right. Which is what makes this name and address so valuable. It's the start of his trail.” The sly look is back. He sees a way out of this. Or so he thinks. “Let me go and I'll give it to you. Hell, it's not that far away. I'll drive you over to meet him, see for yourself he can't be King.”

I think about it. Wish I could reach Miranda—what if the name she found is the same dead end?

He rattles the cuffs, smiles up at me. Like he's trying to seduce me—does he actually believe I'd ever, ever want to be with him? I remember how easily I coaxed him into my trap and realize that's his secret desire: that I would want him as much as he's always wanted me. And I realize what he feels for me goes beyond sex, more like obsession.

My stomach rebels at the thought and I take another step back, revolted.

“C'mon, Jesse,” he says. “I'll make it worth your while. All you need to do is unlock these cuffs and we'll forget this ever happened.”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

He misses the sarcasm in my voice. “I know how to make you like it.”

Disgust roils through me and I can't trust myself not to hurt him, not to set the fire free and let it do what I so desperately want to. I pat my pocket with the recording pen. It'll have to be enough for the cops—at least enough for them to get him to talk. I'm finished here.

I make it to the door to the house, turn off the garage light, and leave him in the dark. I close the door behind me, listening to his shouts, shaking so bad it's all I can do to coax a flame from my lighter. I stare at the dancing light, my trembling breath making it flutter.

For once fire fails me. I don't feel in control. I don't feel powerful.

Instead, I feel sick and dirty and evil. Because I can't deny that it's taking all my strength to stand there instead of doing what I want to do: Turn around and throw the lighter into my uncle's lap. Light up the whole place, memories and all—especially the memories. Torch it, burn it, scorch it to barren earth.

Kill the son of a bitch.

Miranda still sat on the floor beside the apartment's door when her mother rushed in. She wasn't sure how much time had passed—she'd spent it in a dark haze, body curled up, back to the wall, rocking, rocking, face pressed down into the cavern she carved out with her arms wrapped around her knees, trying to find the right combination of numbers to lead her from the darkness.

“Are you okay?” Her mom's voice came to her from very far away. Slowly she realized Mom was there on the floor with her, had her arms wrapped tightly around her, face pressed against Miranda's head. “I broke every speed limit getting here. Your father told me what happened. He never should have left you alone.”

Anger colored Mom's voice, sparking bright against the darkness surrounding Miranda. Dad. He was in trouble.

The thought and her mother's presence pushed through the veil of black. Miranda stopped rocking.

“I can't believe he did that,” her mother continued, soothing Miranda's tangled curls with her fingers, like she had when Miranda was a baby—no, that wasn't Miranda, not back then. That was Ariel. Mom missed Ariel.

Sometimes so did Miranda.

“Talk to me, sweetie. Remember what Dr. Patterson said. Talk it out. What are you afraid of? Focus on me. I'm right here.”

The numbers stopped their whirligig stampede through Miranda's brain. Suddenly it was quiet. Just her and her mom. Miranda painstakingly unlaced her clenched fingers. They ached from working to keep a grip on reality.

“It'll be all right. Everything will be all right.” Her mother's voice coaxed Miranda's panic into submission. “Now, tell me what happened. Your dad said you found him? The man who—” Her voice faltered, crash-landed.

“Dad.” Miranda jerked her head up. Feeling returned sharp and prickly to her face and mouth. “You have to stop him. He's gone to King's—”

“King? Is that the man's name?”

“One of them. Mom. You can't let Dad—what if he does something,” Miranda faltered, choking back laughter that she was even thinking the word, “what if he does something crazy? Like in the courtroom when he tried to punch that guy?”

They couldn't lose her father, not because of her. How could she ever face her mother after that? Who would take care of her mother after Miranda was gone?

“It's okay, Miranda. He promised he was just going to see if the man was there.”

Miranda shook her head, her curls bouncing wildly. Anxiety buzzed through her, stealing away any words to clearly explain her fears. “No, no. You don't understand. Please, call him. Make him come home.”

“You have to trust us. We can take care of you. That includes making the right decisions about how to deal with this, man, King.”

“Please,” Miranda pleaded. “Just call him. Stay on the phone with him.” Her mom could calm Dad down. Like Miranda had with Jesse. Where was Jesse? She glanced out the window—it was dark already. How much time had she lost?

Her mom pulled out her cell and put it on speaker. “It's us.”

“Miranda,” came her dad's voice. Normal. He sounded normal. Better than normal—he sounded like his old self: in charge, ready for anything. “Are you okay? I'm so sorry. I should never have left. I just needed—” He paused, made a small noise muffled by the airwaves. “It was a bad decision. I apologize.”

“I'm fine,” she assured him. “Please, come home.”

“I'll be there soon. I've been doing some checking—things just don't add up. But don't worry. I'm fine.”

“Don't do anything rash,” her mom warned him. Funny, Miranda always thought of her mom as the emotional one of the pair—after all, she was the poet, the one who lived half her life in a dreamworld, interpreting ugly reality with a paintbrush of words.

Jesse would like her. Where was he? Was he in trouble?

• • •

I'm overwhelmed by disgust, shame, fury, frustration…feelings so tangled I can't begin to put a name to them. I run through the house, like I'm going to explode if I don't keep moving.

I don't care what my uncle says, don't even care that he's my mom's brother, family. What he did, what he and King did, it was wrong. Not just wrong. That sounds like an incorrect answer on a math test. There has to be a better word for it, but right now I can't think, can't see anything but a red haze that blazes through my body…

My palm strikes the hallway wall so hard it buckles the drywall. The force rattles through my bones and my hand stings. I bounce away, careening down the hall to my room. Not my room. Not really. Just a bedroom inside my uncle's house. Not my house, not my home.

I howl in frustration and yank my dad's jacket off, flinging it to the floor, not able to even admit to myself the real cause of my pain. The one who started it all: my father.

If he hadn't walked out, abandoned us, if he'd had the guts to stay or at least tried to take care of us, protect us, good God, give us a damn phone call to let us know he gave a shit…this time I hit the wall with my fist and it goes through. Just drywall. It hurts like hell, but as I flex and stretch my fingers I don't think I've broken anything.

I almost wish I had. I kick the desk chair across the room like a kid throwing a tantrum. Thanks to King's destroying my computer I have some privacy here, but it means nothing.

Not when I look at the bed and feel my uncle's body on top of mine, not when I see the chair in the corner where King would have me perform for his clients, not when nothing here really has anything to do with me at all…Lies, my entire life—empty, meaningless, lies.

As if he can read my mind, King's phone rings.

I hurl it across the room. It ricochets from the wall and slides under the bed, still ringing. The computer follows, making a more satisfying crash as it knocks over the lamp beside my bed.

I don't feel any better. I need to get out of here before I hurt someone—myself or my uncle.

Miranda's phone is finished charging. I grab it and start to leave. I turn back. Hesitate. As angry as I am, as much as I hate him right now, I can't leave behind the only piece of my dad that I have left. It's the only thing in the whole damn house that feels like it's also a piece of me. I grab my dad's jacket from the floor and run.

As I race out the front door, I think about calling Miranda. It feels good just holding her phone in my hand. Something she touched, a lifeline to sanity.

I can't call her, not like this. She'll think I've gone mad—I'm not even sure I can find the words to explain that I haven't, much less what I've done.

I need time. Just a few minutes. To calm down, regain control.

I glance at my truck but don't trust myself to drive without speeding headlong into a tree. Running now, it feels good: pumping my arms and legs, exorcising the emotions churning inside me. I pass the truck and race to the rear of the house, past the garden, past the barn, through the trees, to the abandoned trailer.

Fire. I need fire. Power. Control. A way to let the pain escape.

Then I can call Miranda. Together we can come up with a plan, maybe tell her father. He used to be a cop; he'll know what to do with my uncle.

But first, I need, I need…fire.

I bury Miranda's phone deep into my inside pocket and reach for my lighter. Feeling worse than a junkie craving a fix, I flick it, stare into the flame, center myself.

Slowly, the enormity of what I've done hits me. I look around the decrepit stink of a place that has become my sanctuary. No way can I ever return here, not after the police come for my uncle.

And me. I'd hit him. Hurt him. Made him bleed. I'd have to take responsibility for that. Stand up like a man.

I study the flame in my hand. It trembles as exhaustion overwhelms me. It's what happens after an adrenaline surge, I know, but I can't fight it.

I close the lighter without starting a fire. Fire can't help me gain control of my life. Never could. Just another damned lie. I feel empty inside, as if my emotions have burned to ashes, leaving nothing behind. Pretending not to feel for so long, I'm not even sure if there is anything left.

I don't even know who I really am.

The boy who let my uncle and King take possession of his soul? The kid who struck out in anger and hatred, beating an unarmed man, handcuffed and defenseless?

Am I Jesse or JohnBoy or Miranda's Griffin?

The trailer is pitch-black and cold. I sink to the floor, hugging my dad's jacket around me, huddled against a wall. Shivering and alone, I curl up in the dark and let exhaustion overtake me.

The last thing I sense before I drift away is Miranda's phone vibrating against my chest, right over my heart. I want to answer it but can't move, can barely even think the thought before my mind is swallowed by oblivion.