FORTY-ONE

MY RESOLVE TO LEAVE forever didn’t waver as I drove beyond Masonville city limits on a one-way trip to isolation. It felt like the gray storm clouds brewing above my head were escorting me, eager for me to leave. Now that I’d heard my mom’s confession, even the scenic Texas hills along the winding highway looked hideous to me —like splotchy lumps lining a crooked spine.

I drove for miles, lost in thought, trying to reprogram my brain to the idea that it was my mother who had abandoned my father, not the other way around. All this time, I’d believed he resented me —thought so little of me that he didn’t care to know even one thing about me. And now that I knew the truth, it was too late to see what he would really think of me.

By late afternoon —after a few unsuccessful stops to clear my mind —I reached San Antonio and took a random exit heading north. I noticed there were just as many shackled people in this part of the state as there were back in Masonville. And there were Creepers scattered around —not all concentrated like they were at my school, but still haunting this region.

After about seventy more country miles, I ended up at a mediocre motel in Kerrville, Texas —a hick town where people weren’t likely to look for me. Assuming anyone would come looking.

I dropped my bag on the dilapidated bed and stood silent awhile. I was supposed to start college in the fall, begin my journey toward medical school. Instead I’d fallen out of life.

The ambitious young guy with no end to his potential was spent at eighteen. Limited at every turn.

I bought my dinner from a vending machine and yanked my motel curtains shut. Why watch the sunset? Nothing was majestic anymore.

My antique room actually had Wi-Fi, but I wasn’t ready to research my father. My worst fear was that we’d look alike —that I’d see myself in him with no chance to show myself to him.

I checked my phone. A flood of voice messages: some from my mom, others from Ray Anne, then one from Detective Benny.

“The lab results are in,” he said.

I dropped onto the stiff mattress and listened so hard that my eyes pressed shut.

“We found no trace of contaminants or toxins on any of the specimens collected at the site.” His tone was flat. Zero enthusiasm. “And the well water is pure enough to drink. Pure enough to bottle and sell. Imagine that.”

He paused so long I thought maybe that was it.

“So Owen, we have no evidence to prosecute you.” He cleared his throat. “At this time.”

I let out a really long sigh. The jacked-up water had pulled it off again —managed to conceal its toxic, transcendent nature from analytical minds.

Guess I was a runaway now, not a fugitive.

Jess texted me that night to let me know she’d followed through and reported Dan to the police. Good, I texted back. You did the right thing.

I had a miserable night’s sleep, thinking nonstop about all the brutal ways my father could have possibly been killed in Africa. Adding to the torment, I kept rehearsing the accusations etched on my six cords, handwritten by Creepers. I couldn’t stop rubbing the back of my scalp. And wincing.

The next morning, my ringing cell woke me —a number I didn’t recognize. Another voice mail. I played it and was surprised to hear his voice. “Masonville’s finest.” Dan’s abusive father, Dr. Bradford.

He obviously didn’t know yet that his son was being charged with a crime. Or maybe he did, and he’d disowned him completely. Or figured he could get some big-name attorney to make it all go away.

Dr. Bradford practically begged me to reconsider allowing him to mentor me. “It’s what your grandparents wanted,” his voice mail said. “I’m prepared to teach you things you’ll never learn from someone else. Powerful things.”

It made sense to me now, why my mom’s parents had willed their estate to me. Even though they were dead, they were still recruiting me —luring me to Masonville so Dr. Bradford could single me out and entice me into their sinister world.

I wasn’t exactly a God-fearing person, but I knew better than to get caught up in that occult stuff, even before I could see hell’s creatures. And how stupid would I be to let someone who raised a son like Dan be any kind of father figure to me?

I deleted his message, then showered and left the motel.

It was a long day of driving unfamiliar roads, aimlessly mulling over where and how to begin my secluded life. Before moving to Masonville, I had felt so in control of my decisions. Now I was like the ball in a pinball machine.

At nightfall, I sat in the corner of a Starbucks, clutching my laptop and a grande vanilla latte —extra hot, with no foam. I marveled that the dreaded date was nearly here: 523. Mass attack day.

I remained content to leave the situation in the hands of fate. I’d watch from the sidelines, which in my case meant I’d tune in to the news tomorrow to see if anything really even happened.

I sipped my drink, plagued by curiosity about my father. How tall was he? What kind of doctor? What kind of man?

I tapped my fingers on my closed laptop. Should I . . . ?

Eventually I opened my Mac. It felt weird typing his name.

Waiting for the search engine to populate, I could feel my heart pounding in my neck —erratic uncomfortable thumps. Like a bass drum was lodged in my throat.

Then, just like that, I saw him. Images of my father’s face.

It took my breath away. My eyes pooled before I even had a chance to register the emotion.

Had I run into him in person, I swear I would have known he was my father. The resemblance was undeniable. I looked a lot more like him than I did my mother —a realization that hurt just as much as I’d feared it would.

The sense of loss was crushing. We’d probably have been the most important persons in each other’s lives, if only . . .

I had to look away. Take some deep breaths. More sips of my drink.

I spent hours there, reading all about him —articles about his humanitarian efforts, his bio on multiple physicians’ websites, the reports that he’d gone missing.

He was a cardiologist with a thriving practice, and he frequently traveled to Third World countries to perform surgeries for impoverished people. He was married and —

I nearly choked on my second cup of coffee.

He had two daughters.

I wasn’t an only child after all. That was hard to comprehend.

What I read about his disappearance matched what my mother had told me. He’d traveled to Uganda fourteen months ago and hadn’t been seen or heard from since. Some of his belongings had been found strewn in the brush outside a village ransacked by a militant regime. Among his items, a blood-soaked shirt.

I had to take a break, walk around and pretend I actually wanted to look at a display of coffee mugs. I asked for an ice water and didn’t sit until I’d downed the whole thing and chewed every piece of ice.

His wife was an attractive lady, a blonde with a pretty smile. I imagined she was devastated. Their daughters, too.

For the life of me, I couldn’t envision him ever having been in love with my mother. He looked nothing like the type she brought home.

Even though it pained me, I liked reading about him —his accomplishments, all the ways he helped people. I clicked on an article written by a reporter in his hometown of Tulsa, Oklahoma, published less than a week before he vanished. My father acknowledged that he was going into dangerous territory, and when asked why he would go to such great lengths to help small, remote tribal groups, his answer surprised me: “I’m going to serve and meet their medical needs the best I can because I want to show them God’s love —something I believe every person on earth deserves.”

My dad was a man of faith? It had never crossed my mind that he might be religious. Still, I admired his willingness to go above and beyond for others. Way beyond.

The more I read, reciting the words he’d once spoken, the more I wished so bad that I could have met him. Looked him in the face and told him I exist. There’s nothing I wouldn’t have given to have even one minute with him.

A few seconds.

My father had been brave and selfless and lived every day with purpose and passion. Although the pictures didn’t allow me to see it, I was sure he had been a Light. If I could have called him up and made plans to go see him —if he were still alive and well —all of this would have felt too good to be true. But the fact that I’d come this far only to still be worlds away from him was like torture.

There wasn’t a single statement of his I read that didn’t move me somehow, but it was the final quote I came across that completely rocked my world. I typed it into my cell notes app, word for word, then tucked my phone in my pocket. I threw my backpack over my shoulder . . .

Then walked away.

Away from Starbucks.

Away from my motorcycle.

Away from my pointless life.

I traipsed deep into a nearby field of tall grass and buzzing insects with just the moon to light the way. I don’t recall the specifics of all that ran through my mind, only that something was stirring in me —something new and strong.

I eventually spied a lonely boulder and made my way to it. I climbed up, gripping the cool stone, hoisting myself on top, then stood and looked up at the massive canvas of stars. I was about as far removed from civilization as I’d ever been.

I pulled out my cell, opened the notes app, then read the words out loud —my father’s response when asked why he was willing to make such extreme sacrifices and risk his life for others, especially knowing there was no way he could help them all . . .

“‘The fact that I’ve seen and empathize with their suffering tells me I’m called to intervene and help. I refuse to sit back or run in fear and leave it up to someone else to try and save them.’”

How was it possible? That his words, spoken over a year ago, applied directly to me, like they were meant for me at that very moment?

It hit me all at once —what a coward I’d been, running off and leaving Ray Anne and my classmates when I knew full well that an evil army, led by a demented commander, was likely preparing for their destruction tomorrow.

I knew what I had to do. More than that, I finally realized how to do it. Of all the tactics I’d tried against the Creepers, I’d overlooked one of the most powerful, obvious weapons. And it was time to use it.

There was no guarantee I’d survive, much less rescue anyone, but my father’s example had changed everything.

I understood now . . .

Lots of men fight to defend themselves. A real man fights for those who can’t defend themselves.

Even if it costs him everything.