This is all my fault. The thought echoes through my brain and I can’t stop it. Just like I can’t stop King’s man from hurting Janey.
As I drive, wrestling with the old Ford F-150’s propensity to spin out on sharp curves taken fifteen miles an hour too fast, I keep trying to call King.
He doesn’t answer.
Finally, I turn down the lane my uncle lives on. There are only four houses, clustered together at the end, with big, wide yards carved into the forest that surrounds them. My uncle’s house is the second one in, a redbrick ranch with a small barn out back. He keeps saying he wants to get a horse—Janey would love a horse—but it’s too expensive. He’s got six acres, most of it gone wild. Behind his house are some woods and past them another small clearing with an abandoned single-wide trailer.
The truck skids as I twist the wheel to turn into his driveway and slam on the brakes. I heave the driver’s door open and almost trip and fall in my hurry to get inside. There’s no sign of the man from the video. No sign of anyone.
I barge through the front door. “Janey!”
The house is silent. I run past the living room on the right—the TV’s on, PBS, but no Janey. Dining room on the left—empty. Kitchen—empty. “Janey!” Now I’m screaming, all my fear and anger exploding into my voice.
I hear footsteps from the hall leading to the bedrooms. There are three bedrooms. Janey shares one with my mom; I get my own and so does my uncle, since it’s his house. I turn down the hall, my hand in a fist, ready to hit someone. Ready to kill.
“I’m sorry, Jesse,” Janey says as she comes out of my room. She’s carrying a padded envelope the size of a school binder. “I was just gonna leave this—”
“Janey,” I gasp, rolling her into my arms and hugging her so tight she makes a squeaking noise. We fall to the floor—mainly because my legs can’t support my weight—and I pull her down with me. “You’re okay.”
She pushes away. “What’s wrong, Jesse?”
I heave in a breath, then another. Reach out to hug her again, gentler this time. “Nothing.”
She hands me the envelope. “I know I’m not supposed to go in your room, but—”
She has no idea that I don’t want her in my room because King is always watching everything that goes on in there. He can control any camera, maybe even any computer, that’s connected to the Internet—that’s how powerful he is.
I can’t stand the idea of him ever, ever catching sight of her. Too late for that now, I guess.
“That’s right,” I say with mock sternness as I take the envelope. Inside there’s something small and heavy with squishy stuff wrapped around it. I shove it into my backpack, drop the pack to the floor. “Don’t go in my room. Or else.”
I make her favorite oggly-woogly-scary monster face and she squeals in delight, running past me to the living room. I chase after her, taking care to never force her to run too fast, but I know she loves it, being treated like any normal seven-year-old. I let her tackle me and clobber me with pillows, until I see her getting congested and the slightest bit wheezy, then I beg for surrender.
She spins around, hoisting the pillow with triumph as I climb to my feet, acting like it’s me who’s out of breath.
“Get your vest and I’ll fix you a snack,” I tell her, handing her the special vest that vibrates all the mucus out of her lungs before it gets too thick for her to cough up. She hates the damn thing, but the rule is no TV unless she does her chest PT.
Janey has cystic fibrosis, which means living with a lot of rules. Thanks to my mom’s constant vigilance, Janey is doing great, but between worrying about her and paying all the doctors’ bills and getting her to her appointments at Children’s Hospital three hours away in Pittsburgh and working two part-time jobs, one cleaning a nursing home, the other cleaning a hospital in Altoona, my mom barely has time to breathe, much less worry about me.
Used to be my dad helped out a lot—especially with me, since all the medical stuff, measuring and timing and shit pretty much freaked him out—but since he’s been gone, it’s down to me to be the man of the family. Mom tells me not to worry, that my uncle will always take care of us, that he’ll always give us a roof over our head, but of course that only makes things worse.
So many secrets, so many lies—is it any wonder that some days it feels like I’m sleepwalking through my life, numb to the world?
Not today. Today King’s threats and the visit from his goon squad have me wide-awake. As I slice an apple for Janey, I peer out the kitchen window, searching for any signs of the man with the fancy shoes and sharp knife. My own knife feels small and flimsy—should I get a gun? How can I protect Janey?
I grab Janey’s enzymes and take her the snack. I zip her into her vest as she looks past me, mesmerized by the TV, and start the chest PT machine. She swallows her enzymes without me even needing to prod her and settles back as the vest hums and whirls, gently pounding her chest wall. I squat beside her. “You good to go?”
She nods, her chin quivering in time with the vibrations. “Turn up the sound.”
I adjust the volume on the TV, kiss her on the head, but she’s already gone, following Dora the Explorer on a trip into the jungle.
I know the answer of how to protect her, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I spin away, unable to look at her anymore—she’s such a sweet kid, the thought of anyone hurting her…it’s too damn painful—and finally I go to my room and the laptop that sits on the desk facing my bed. King is waiting.
But he doesn’t use the computer—he’s like that, enjoys keeping me off balance. Instead he calls on the phone.
“Where is he?” I demand.
“Waiting. Watching. He likes your baby sister.” King laughs.
“No. Get rid of him. No one comes near Janey. Not ever again.” I sound strong. Defiant. Like I might actually stand up to him this time. We both know better.
“There’s a price to pay,” he says. As if I could forget. “You’ll owe me.”
“What do you want?”
He pauses. I have no idea what King really looks like—I’ve only ever seen what he wants me to see. Hell, I’m not even sure if the voice I hear is really his.
Three years and seven months we’ve been at this. In my mind, he’s a cross between Heath Ledger’s Joker and Ted Bundy. As the silence lengthens while I wait to hear what my punishment will be, I imagine him licking his lips, tasting victory.
“It’s time you made some new friends. And then introduce me to them,” he finally says, his voice sounding just like my uncle’s when he calls me down to help him in his basement workshop. A tone that makes my bowels go loose.
I grab my stomach, clenching it as I force the panic from my voice. “What do you mean?”
“You’re getting too old for most of my clients. Unless they see you with other boys. Younger boys.”
“You want me to—” I can’t even finish the thought. The phone almost slips free from my grasp. I stare at it. It’s in my hand. But I can’t feel it. My fingers have gone numb. My entire body is a block of wood—except for the acid burning inside me. I reach for my Zippo in my back pocket. I need fire, flame, a spark of life.
“I want you to have some fun. Like your uncle does with you.”
I flip the lighter open. Inhale the rush of butane. Stare, mesmerized by the dancing flames caught in my hand. So many colors, so much power.
My life is dull, dead, gray. I have no colors. I have no power. All I have is anger, simmering like the flames before me, buzzing through my veins where no one can see it. Where I won’t—can’t—let anyone see it.
“What’s it going to be, JohnBoy?” King asks in a businesslike voice. Paper or plastic? Do you want fries with that? Diet or regular? “You or your little sister?”
I can’t answer—no words can make it past my clenched jaws.
King knows just how far to push to get me where he wants me. “Take the weekend,” he says magnanimously. “I want your decision by Monday.”
He hangs up.
The flame cradled in my palm weaves its magic, moving in time with my breathing. Fury burns through me. I snap the lighter shut, killing the fire.
That’s when I decide I no longer have any choice. I’m going to hunt King down. Find him. And kill him.
It’s the only way to save Janey and Mom. My uncle I couldn’t care less about—this was all his fault to start with.
And me? Who cares what happens to me? I sure as hell don’t.