Firestorm Read online

  I’ve made it. But why? For what? Where am I going? Everything I love has been left behind. I steer the boat out into the middle of the river and head south.

  I put my head in my hands. And I weep for my father and my mother and P.J. and my teammates and for everything that was but now is not and never will be again.

  3

  Midnight. All alone. When I say all, I mean all. No one has ever been so alone. Just this boat. Just Jack. An hour ago I was worried about blue balls. Now I have nothing. I know nothing. “I’m not your father,” Dad said. “Mom is not your mother. Your friends are not your friends. You’re different from them.” Sheer nonsense. Ravings. Madness. It had to be. Except.

  Except that people came to kill you. On motorcycles. They fired guns. Dad blew his own foot off to get you to run away from them. And the fact that they came makes it all true. Doesn’t it? Yes, it does.

  But it can’t be true. Eighteen years of normal life don’t lie. But were they really normal? Always a little bigger than everyone else. Always a little faster. Always a lot stronger. Modesty aside, always just a bit smarter. Smarter even than P.J., the truth be told, and she is the top student at our school.

  So if you were smarter than her, why weren’t you top student, bozo?

  Because Dad didn’t want me to be. Don’t get the perfect score, he said. Don’t set the record in track. Don’t get straight A’s. You have nothing to prove. People won’t like you. You’ll stick out. Better to do well and fit in than to do brilliantly and show others up.

  It never made sense to me. Never. But when you have a dad as good as mine, you keep your ears open and follow the program.

  Now I know better. That wasn’t really the point, Dad, was it? Let’s be honest, now that the clock has struck twelve, so to speak. I can’t be angry with you. I’m pretty sure you just gave your life so that I could get away. But it wasn’t about other people getting jealous. That was a convenient explanation. It was about limiting exposure. It was about not winning science contests or track meets. Not getting too much acclaim. Not getting my picture in the paper or a mention of me on radio or TV.

  Because they were looking for me.

  Who are they? I don’t know.

  Why do they want to kill me? Jack Danielson? All-around nice guy? I don’t know.

  But they do. And here’s the bad news. Not only are they out there, but they’ve been out there for years. They were out there way back in third grade when Dad said not to win the spelling contest because the winner would go to the Nationals. “Who cares about being a good speller?” Dad had laughed. “Let someone else get that honor, son.”

  You were protecting me, Dad. Even then. Because they were out there.

  Even then. Ten years ago.

  So what’s my next move? Call the police and tell them what’s happened? Logical and standard operating procedure for all emergencies, but in this case maybe not a good idea. First: because Dad didn’t go to the police. And he could have. Station in town. Much closer and easier than the mad ride to the river. But he chose not to go and he knew what was happening. So you’d better follow his lead. Second reason: when you go to the police your information goes out on all frequencies. Radio. Computer. That’s how they do their thing. They share information. And right now people are searching for you to kill you. So if you go to the police with this story you might as well paint a bull’s-eye on a mountaintop and stand in it waving a flag.

  Okay, next option. Contact P.J. Or football teammates and friends. And tell them what? A story that you would never in a million years have believed yourself if it hadn’t just happened to you? And possibly bring danger down on their heads? Because whoever is looking for you is ready, willing, and able to kill. So anyone you go to becomes a possible source of information about you.

  Sorry, P.J. I do love you. You’re right about most things, but you were wrong earlier tonight. There never will be a better time. We missed our chance.

  The river dark and wide. Memories of P.J. First kiss. Junior year. Under the bleachers of the gym—of all places. We’ve gone there to talk. Just friends. Private place. Dark. Metal supports. We’re sitting on the wood floor. Not clean, but who cares. Big and silent gym. Exchanging gossip. All of a sudden eyes catch eyes. Heads incline. Noses brush. Lips on lips. Faintly, firmly, locked. Then unlocked. Looking at each other. Then smiling tentatively. Then laughing, both laughing.

  The joy of it. The sheer joy. Then a second kiss. Less tentative. Exploring newly discovered territory.

  Lines from a poem. Tennyson, isn’t it? I’ve always loved poetry. Remember oodles of it. Read a good line once, never forget it.

  Break, break, break

  At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

  But the tender grace of a day that is dead

  Will never come back to me.

  Standing at the prow feeling the deck rise and plunge.

  Passing under a bridge. The sky glowing up ahead.

  Is that Manhattan? It must be. Miles away, yet you can see it and feel it. A city that never sleeps.

  Bird overhead. Gull? Albatross? Get away. Scat. I like my solitude. Leave me to my memories and my misery.

  More lights on the banks. Suburbs of New York.

  Dad and Mom rarely brought me here. Hadley is only fifty miles upriver, but a different world. Manhattan is too big, Dad used to say. Too many people living one on top of the other. Can’t breathe. Too many cars. Too dangerous.

  This from a man who, it turns out, could drive like a NASCAR champion and shoot like Jesse James. But at the time I believed it. And I’ve always been something of a country boy. Caught snakes and frogs when I was little. Climbed trees. Fished. Eagle Scout. Who needs Manhattan?

  I catch my breath. There’s the George Washington Bridge all lit up at midnight like a magical gateway. And beyond it are the lights and the skyscrapers and the millions upon millions of people who never sleep because they’re too damn busy.

  I don’t know where I’m going, but this is one place I’m definitely planning to miss.

  New Jersey Palisades on my right. Manhattan on my left. Unending stream of cars even at this hour on the West Side Highway. I can see the Empire State Building lit up orange and yellow. Halloween colors.

  Sudden ungodly blast. I nearly jump off boat. Trumpet of doom. Big ship. Huge ship. Tanker. I can see its lights. Headed right for me. I steer for the Manhattan shore. Tanker floats past. Looks half a mile long.

  I watch it slide by. I’m close to the Manhattan side now. See a marina. Didn’t know they even had them in the city. Not that it matters. This is the one place I won’t go. Don’t know anyone. Never liked the city. Doesn’t make sense. Better to head north or south. Up to Canada. Down to the Carolinas and Florida. Put some distance between me and whoever is chasing me.

  But they know you’re on the boat, bozo.

  A little voice. In the back of my mind. I try not to listen to it. Go away.

  They saw you roar off on the boat. They know you’re headed downriver.

  So what? Go away.

  So plenty. They’re probably coming after you now. Boats are easy to spot. And this one’s kind of distinctive. The longer you stay on the boat, the more you’re a target.

  I don’t want to listen. Because this boat was given to me by my dad. Our last connection. Go away.

  Yes, focus on Dad, the voice insists. That’s all you have to go on. He knew what was going on and he loved you and you don’t have a clue, so follow his lead. His last few minutes. He tried to unmark you. So that you couldn’t be tracked. Someone was chasing you and closing in on you, so he tried to muddy the trail. That’s your next move. Muddy the trail. They’re probably starting to comb this river even in darkness, looking for you. And when dawn comes, you’re dead meat. What’s the best way to muddy the trail? Where’s the best place on earth to lose yourself?

  I take a deep breath. Damn it. Can’t beat the logic. I steer for the marina and the lights of Manhattan.

  4
>
  No sleep for the weary. I drop anchor near the marina. Big and small boats nearby. Yachts. A three-masted schooner. Houseboats. What looks like a junk. You name it. It’s all here. Manhattan. Melting pot supreme. I sit on the deck and watch the lights of the buildings.

  Thinking of Dad and Mom. Always there for me. Mom with her flower garden. Fresh vegetables and herbs. That’s the way I see her now. Walking to the house from her garden with fresh-picked tomatoes and basil. Blue jeans. Old T-shirt. Work boots. Passes me shooting hoops on the driveway. Lunch in twenty minutes, she announces. Wait till you taste these tomatoes. Let’s see you make a shot.

  I set up from twenty feet out. Blast off. At apex of jump, twenty-five inches off driveway, release jump shot that swishes net. Not bad, Mom says with a smile. Bet you can’t do that again.

  Her smile. Maybe not the warmest, maybe not the most touchy-feely mom, but she was always there.

  But was she? Her smiles were missing warmth and her kisses were missing conviction because she wasn’t your mom, bozo. She was filling in for somebody. And she never told you. Eighteen years of silence is akin to lying.

  Maybe she had her reasons.

  It’s still a betrayal.

  Dad. Throwing a football with his little boy in Hadley Park as the dusk settles and the lightning bugs start to flicker. White stripes on football spiraling through the gloom. Moon rising over river. Dad saying, Go out.

  Come on, Dad, you can’t reach me here.

  Are you kidding? This old arm’s a cannon. Go out. So I run. And the old arm lofts the ball. High arc. Too far. But I run under it. Ball falls into my hands. Way to go, son. Nice running. Now let’s see you throw it back. Nice tight spiral. Right to me because I can’t run the way I used to.

  Thanks for the football coaching, Dad, but there were other important things you left out. Exactly how fast did you use to run? Or perhaps, more to the point, how far? What were we running away from? Who was chasing us? Did you do something wrong? Did Mom? Why didn’t you ever tell me? Because you didn’t trust me? Had to be that. Very unpleasant thought, but had to be. Should have trusted me, Dad. Maybe I could have helped. Now I think you’re gone. They got you. I have a really strong sense that Mom is gone, too. She knew they were coming for her. That’s what the goodbye hug was about, and the tear.

  And here I am on this boat with nada. No knowledge. No money. Nothing to eat. Nowhere to go. No one to see.

  I search the boat. Stem to stern, as they say. Find a few things. A flashlight. Helps with the search. A cabin downstairs. The bare necessities. Bed. Looks like it was never slept in. I lie down for a second. Don’t even try to close my eyes. Sleep is a release and I’m trapped.

  Get back up. Keep searching. Tool kit. Bottled water. Toothbrush in plastic case. Toilet paper still in wrapper. One small cabinet. Locked. No key to open it. I’m not in a patient mood. Pound on it with my fists. More solid than it looks. Get screwdriver from tool kit. Jimmy it open.

  Not much inside. Manila envelope. Packet of papers. Hopefully, an explanation of who I am and what’s going on. No dice. Legal documents. Title to the boat. Made out in my name. Hey, this boat is mine.

  Something in the back of the cabinet. A small box. Inside is a watch. A bit old-fashioned looking. Big black numerals that stand out against a white background. Thick, stubby hour hand and much thinner minute hand, both sapphire blue. Heavy, dark metallic band that glitters as my flashlight’s beam hits it. I slip the band around my left wrist. It fits snugly.

  Back on deck.

  The eastern sky growing lighter. Man in kayak paddles by. Fifty-something. Graying hair around edges of bald pate. Bristly gray eyebrows. “Morning,” he says. “I thought I was the only one nutty enough to get up this early.”

  “Morning,” I say back.

  “Nice boat. Looks fast.”

  “Very. Thanks. Want to buy it?”

  “You’re joking?”

  “No. I’ll give you a great price.”

  Kayaks in circle around boat. “I already have a boat,” he says.

  “You can never have too many boats.”

  “Wrong,” he says. “One boat is too many. All the care and the work and the expense. Pain in the ass. Two would be a heart attack. How much?”

  “Make an offer.”

  “Two thousand bucks,” he says.

  “Four.”

  “Three,” he counters. “That’s not an offer yet. Just hypothetically.”

  “Hypothetically three thousand five hundred. Cash.”

  The grayish eyebrows knit together. “Did you steal it?” he asks.

  “I own it. I have the papers. Three thousand five hundred in cash and it’s legally yours. Go get a lawyer if you want.”

  He smiles. “I am a lawyer. Can I come check it out?”

  Three hours later the banks open, and an hour after that I walk off down the dock with thirty-five hundred-dollar bills in my wallet. Goodbye, boat. Goodbye, last connection to Dad. You were my home for only one night, barely ten hours, but I liked you.

  Now I’m homeless. Adrift in the whirlpool that is Manhattan. People riding by on bikes. Jogging by. Too many people. All strangers. Yes, but this is what you want and need to unmark yourself. Where do I go and what do I do?

  Playground near marina. Kids laughing. I’m drawn to it. Something innocent about kids. And parents of kids seem more trustworthy than other total strangers. I sit on a bench facing the sandbox.

  Time passes. Minutes. Hours. Replay events of last night in my mind. Over and over. Still can’t believe it. I go get hot dog from vendor. Soda. When I open my wallet to pay him he sees wad of hundred-dollar bills. Quick eyes. Careful, Jack. This is the big city.

  I come back to playground. Eat my hot dog. Midday sun beats down on me. No sleep the night before. Eyelids suddenly weigh a ton. Lean back. Nod off for a few minutes. Kid falls off swing and cries and I wake up fast.

  Someone’s watching me. Nearby bench. Girl. Cute. Very. She turns away fast when I look at her. Long blond hair. Open notebook. Pen. Some kind of school uniform. Skirt. Blouse. Knee socks. Gleam of bare thigh. Sexy.

  I look away. After a few seconds I feel her looking at me again. Turn my head. Eyes meet. Both look away. Both look back. We both giggle, embarrassed.

  “Hi,” she says. Speaking first. New York girls. Not shy.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  “You were really out. Snoring.”

  “Long night,” I tell her.

  “Party?”

  “Worse.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I answer question with question. “What’s that uniform?”

  “Oh, that’s what they make us wear at Drearly. Hideous, isn’t it?”

  “Is that your school?”

  She laughs. Lovely laugh. Nice teeth. Blond hair splashed by sunlight. “Where are you from?”

  “What? Why?”

  “Drearly’s like one of the most famous schools in the city. I thought everyone’s heard of it.”

  “I’m just a tourist.”

  She looks at me. Probing. Curious. A little fearful. A lot attracted. “Are you here with your parents? Or friends?”

  “Just me.”

  “Cool,” she says. Then, after just the slightest hesitation: “So, are you a serial killer?”

  “What?”

  “Just checking. A girl can’t be too careful. Did you chop your parents up and burn down the house and run away?”

  “No.”

  “But you did run away?”

  “I don’t like twenty questions.”

  “Neither do I,” she says. “Can I come sit on your bench?”

  I nod. She comes. Flounces down next to me. Nice smell. “I’m Reilly,” she says. “My friends call me Rye.”

  “Like the bread?”

  “Or the whiskey. Do you have a name?”

  “Jack.”

  “Do you always hang out in playgrounds, Jack?”

  “I don’t know the city.
I thought this would be a safe place ’cause of the kids.”

  Her face softens. “It is safer. But there are rats here. They come out after dark. The kids leave, the rats come.”

  “What are you doing here, Rye?”

  “Homework.” She nods at the notebook. “English assignment. Describe a scene in two hundred words or less. How do you describe chaos in two hundred words or less?”

  Our eyes sweep the playground. Little boy crying because he’s just tripped over little girl, who is also crying. Baby wailing as mom changes diaper. Two boys throwing sand in each other’s faces in sandbox. Father by slide shouting into cell phone, completely oblivious as toddler prepares to ski-jump off slide and break neck.

  “I see your point,” I say. “Sounds like you have a pretty creative English class. All we do in mine is read David Copperfield.”

  “I like Dickens.”

  “So do I, but one book all semester? I got hooked and finished it the first weekend.”

  “Wow,” she says, “that must have been a slow weekend. Don’t they have parties where you come from?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “I like parties,” Reilly confesses wickedly. “Just by coincidence a friend of mine is having one tonight. Would you like to come, Jack?”

  Don’t take this the wrong way, Reilly. There are things you don’t know that I can’t explain to you. First of all, I’m running for my life. Second, when I’m not in shock I’m in mourning. Lost parents. Lost childhood. Lost innocence. Lastly, there’s P.J. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you, but I can’t. Maybe another time.”

  She pouts. Highly effective. “Why not?”

  “I can’t handle a chic Manhattan party right now.”

  “It won’t be stuck-up. It’ll be fun. Try it.”

  “I’m going through a hard time right now, Rye.”

  “I kind of figured that out, Jack. That’s exactly why you need a party.”

  So I tell her. “Look, I didn’t have a shower this morning. I don’t have clean clothes. I’m kind of a mess.”