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The fact that I’m safe when the sandman whisks me away is proof that I am, indeed, off my rocker, because if there was something living in my brain, wouldn’t nap time be the perfect time for it to attack me? But what do I know? Maybe dreams are too fluid for the shadows to get a hold of them. Besides, I’ve trained myself to fall asleep in five seconds flat with music playing in the background to help my mind maintain a base level of activity.
With one longing, backward glance at my fluffy pillow, I abandon the idea. As much as I’d like to forget about IgNiTe and Xave and their games, they’ve trapped me in their web. I’m a helpless fly.
You are NOT the only one.
I need to know what this is about. And if, maybe, there are others who feel invaded, like a house occupied by a squatter.
I click play.
The president stands in the foreground. The Speaker of the House and vice-president sit behind him, looking as bored as I feel. President Helms talks about the economy, his stately face powdered to perfection, his salt-and-pepper hair as pristine as always.
Yawn.
Blink.
“Nope, don’t care about joining your workforce, Mr. Helms.” My words slur. “Unless you’re hiring hackers who get hacked.”
I prop my chin on my hands. The president’s words stop making sense. They don’t really register.
“Our country … deficit … committee …”
My eyelids close for a few seconds. Then they open.
“Congress …”
Eyes close again for long, long, long seconds.
Semi-blink.
“Approve …”
Dreams.
Something shatters. I jump to my feet, look around. I’ve fallen asleep in front of the computer. The screensaver flashes pictures of road bikes. Slobber shines on the desk. Gross. I’m looking around for something to clean it when I remember the sound that woke me.
Maybe Mom’s home. I step out of my bedroom and shuffle through the hall. I peek in her room. She’s not there. Rubbing my eyes, I head for the living room. Mom likes to watch the evening news after a quick dinner.
I find her sitting at the edge of the sofa, broken glass at her feet and a large wine splotch on the floor. Her eyes are locked on the TV. She’s shaking all over. I follow her gaze. The headline at the bottom of the screen reads: “Doctor found murdered in his home.” The frame is frozen. I look back at Mom. She holds the remote in her hand. Why did she pause it? My eyes bounce back to the TV. Above the headline, the picture of a familiar-looking man stares at me.
Puzzled, I step into the living room, trying to figure out where I’ve seen him. A vague recollection flashes through my memory.
“Oh, my God! I think that’s Luke’s dad,” I say.
I don’t recall Mom ever meeting him, but maybe she did. She attended a few PTO meetings during my early school years. Even if she knew him, though, why does she look so stricken?
“Mom?”
Her head turns my way, but she continues to stare at the screen. Then she blinks very slowly, and when her eyes open, she’s looking at me, lips trembling. A single tear spills and runs down her cheek.
“It’s him.” Her voice is a shaky murmur, barely audible.
“Who?” What is she talking about?
“That’s the man that took Max,” she says. Tears fall freely now, making her cheeks shine.
“Wait.” I look back at the TV. The word “Doctor” seems to blink at me. My eyes drift to the small print under the main headline: “Dr. Peter Smith, Seattle top OB/GYN and fertility doctor, brutally murdered.” Smith … Luke’s last name.
Mom leaves the couch and walks in my direction. “It’s him. It’s Ernest Dunn.”
I stare at the TV, a slight tremor starting in my knees. “No, Mom.” I shake my head. “It says Dr. Peter Smith. I think you’re confused.”
She’s standing right in front of me, her blue eyes huge and fierce. “I would recognize his face in the pits of hell. It is him!” she says, the words hissing through her clenched teeth.
My heart pounds like an angry fist against a locked door. “Mom, it’s been sixteen years. Maybe you—”
“NO!” she yells—startling me—then points a finger at the TV, even as her eyes drill into mine like I’m the enemy, like I’m the one standing in the way of something monumental. “That man is Dr. Dunn. That man took Max from me.”
She can’t be right. She can’t! There’s nothing distinctive about this man’s face. Nothing. He looks like any overweight, balding man out there: round and soft and doughy. He’s forgettable … so unlike Luke. I bite my tongue and taste deceit.
Mom’s hands drift upward and grip my shoulders. “Marcela, who’s Luke?” Her bottom lip trembles and her voice breaks at the name, heavy with something that sounds very much like hope, like a creature I’d thought extinct in her world.
“H-he’s nobody.”
“Marcela!” Mom’s nails dig into my shoulders as she begins to shake me. “Who. Is. Luke?” Her tone is desperate, maniacal.
He’s nobody.
He’s nobody.
He’s nobody.
“What does he look like?” she demands.
A current of frigid air travels from Mom’s stiff fingers down my back. My spine freezes, shatters into a million pieces, and I feel I could crumble.
Some part of me has always known this. Luke’s blond hair, gold-specked blue eyes, angular nose … so much like Mom. He looks just like her and I’ve always pushed the knowledge away. It’s the reason his flirtatious advances have always bothered me, the reason my stomach churned when he asked me out.
Luke is Max.
Luke is my brother!
I stagger backward, head spinning.
“Who’s Luke?” Mom asks again, her nails like claws. I knock her arms away in one swift motion and take another step back.
“It’s Max. It has to be Max,” she says. Life floods her gaze. Suddenly, her eyes don’t look empty and distant the way they have all these years, the way they greet me every time I walk in the room. They have fire in them now.
The burst of light, this flash of immeasurable hope, hurts me deep inside. I’ve been here all along. Was I not worth a little bit of this radiance?
My chest feels like a too-large cage for my shriveling heart.
Pain.
“Marcela, it’s Max, isn’t it?”
Yes, your son.
My ears ring and I take another step back.
My brother.
“Where are you going? Wait!” Mom’s loud command makes me realize I’m running, headed for the door. I burst outside into an afternoon that has started to blend with the night colors.
Gray. Dark. Blue.
The wind blows in my face. The motorbike hums as I speed away from home. How did I get here?
Stop. Get off the bike.
I make it as far as the wooded area where Xave and I crashed last night. Almost out of control, I drive off the shoulder, between two bushes and into a small clearing. The bike wobbles. I kill the engine and jump off, letting it drop to the ground. Tottering forward for a few steps, my legs give out and I fall to my knees.
My chest pumps furiously. Shadows lurk and it takes all my strength not to succumb to their attack. My brother is alive. I stare at my hands. They’re shaking with the effort of keeping this upheaval from triggering another attack.
Luke is my brother and the knowledge threatens to unravel me, like a wool sweater without the final stitch.
He’s been here all along, slipping in and out of our notice, grazing the fringe of our somber existence but never quite touching it. Why? It makes no sense. I always imagined him dead or miles and miles away. Instead that man, that sadist, was raising him right under our noses, taunting us. The sick bastard! To get away with such a monstrous crime. How?!
I slam my fists against the ground, trying to channel the tsunami of emotions that is washing over me. I feel cheated, fooled … replaced. Just like that.
Anger against Mom takes center stage in my private storm. I can only imagine what’s going through her mind now, how new, exhilarated thoughts are quickly erasing any trace of me. Clenching my jaw, I let my anger bulldoze the pain that threatens to grip me by the throat. My teeth audibly grind and I feel as if my skull will split in two.
Darkness descends over me, obscuring the world.
Get up! Do something!
I spring to my feet, my eyes darting in all directions.
Rocks. Ants. Wild flowers.
My thoughts shift, hop, morph. They become everything and anything that makes me forget why I’m trying to hide. I take a deep breath. The shadows retreat, like fog being sucked into a giant vacuum cleaner. My jaw relaxes and control slowly returns.
I straddle my bike and ride out of the patch of wood. I drive slowly, reading the street signs and spelling their names. All thoughts of Mom and Luke fade into the background. I’m good at ignoring monsters that I’d rather slip under the rug. As their images grow fainter, Mom seems to become nothing but a vague specter. She feels more absent than ever. Lost.
My heart seizes. I was never meant to have a family anyway.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_bffe2018-e0b9-5628-9c01-27d811f894e4)
After driving aimlessly, spelling street signs until I feel I might have a stroke, I stop the bike and look around. Dr. Smith’s face flashes in front of my eyes, fleshy lips mumbling something. His resemblance to the man I’d imagined after so many of Mom’s stories is uncanny. My stomach churns as the emotions I’ve been trying to hold back threaten to rise.
I need to focus my attention on something else. Anything else.
The State of the Union Address!
Straddling my bike, one foot on the blacktop, I take my phone out and browse until I find President Helms’s video. As I start watching, groaning at the thought of sitting through a full hour of babbling, I remember the numbers at the bottom of the message. My brain was too foggy with sleep to understand before, but they must indicate minutes and seconds. Impatient, I fast-forward to minute nine and let it play.
Helms is talking about the economy. His words offer zero explanation as to why I’m supposed to be watching this. The president pauses, takes a big breath and widens his eyes, then transitions to a new topic. I skip to minute twenty-five and listen closely. Helms is now addressing foreign policy issues. He might as well be speaking Chinese. I’ve never cared for politics. Once more he switches topics, pausing, breathing deeply. His eyes do a weird little roll, as if he’s tracing a circle with his gaze. It strikes me as odd, but I can’t put a finger on why.
On minute forty-three, it’s the same thing. Another boring subject, the delay from one idea to the other, the shift of his eyes, the deep breaths.
Then it hits me, like light bursting in front of my eyes. I know why he’s not blinking, why he takes deep breaths and looks as if the load on his shoulders goes beyond the responsibility of being the president of the United States of America. I know the weight of this burden. I carry it with me every day.
President Helms also fights the shadows.
Pushing, shoving, ramming any thoughts of Luke to the back of my mind, hoping the shadows eat them for good, I rush into Millennium Arcade. I need to find Xave so he can take me to this James guy.
“Cameron, have you seen Xave?” The noise and lights in the arcade disorient me further. I rode like a lunatic to get here, my mind a fluid continuum of disjointed ideas.
He ignores me as he slides the cue over his thumb. After making the shot, he pushes his layered bangs to the side. “Nope, he hasn’t been here today.”
I turn on my heels and head out.
“You’re welcome,” Cameron shouts behind me. I ignore him.
Dialing Xave’s cell phone, I step outside, where the sky is now a deep shade of navy blue with heavy clouds starting to roll in. After several rings, the call goes to voicemail. Obviously, he’s ignoring me. At home, Selina, Xave’s twelve-year-old sister, says he just went out.
Where is he when I need him? I have to tell him about Luke. He’s the only one who can understand how I feel right now.
Damn, don’t think about Luke! James, concentrate on James.
Deep breath.
Logic returns. Maybe Xave is with James and that’s why he’s not answering his phone. One other place comes to mind where I can look for him. I turn the key in the ignition, put on my helmet and drive toward downtown. I’m not sure going back to that alley is a good idea. My head is too jumbled right now to know which way is up, but I drive there—at war with the shadows. After a million thoughts about trees, siblings, candy bars, jealousy, hamsters, loss … I arrive.
The dark alley lies before me. Shadows loom inside as a light drizzle begins to fall. I shiver. The solitary street lamp barely illuminates the entrance, the huge mouth that may grow teeth to chew me up once I step in. I shake my head, take a deep breath and walk tentatively into the darkness. My eyes readjust, the shadows against the walls become less threatening as I identify the objects that cast them. I pass a Dumpster and a few barrels. A large stack of compacted cardboard boxes lie to my right. Maybe there’s a recycling center in the building.
The thought of a legitimate business operating in this place is reassuring, even if gangsters sometimes use garbage-related schemes to hide their illegal operations. Or is that only in the movies?
The hum of an air conditioner and the trickle of water echo with an eerie quality that sends my skin crawling. Stubbornly, I continue forward, throwing glances over my shoulder every few steps, trying to figure out if IgNiTe’s lair lies in one of the two buildings that make up this dead-end alley.
The wall on the left is solid, while the one on the right has several windows accessible through a fire escape. They’re pitch-black, so climbing the staircase to peek inside would be no use. I doubt IgNiTe’s holding a meeting in the dark, although weirder things have happened. If they’re here, my guess they’ll be somewhere deep inside the bowels of one of the buildings.
At the end of the alley, I spot a door. I approach and twist the knob. When it turns and the door swings open, a cold wave slides down my spine, raising goose bumps on my skin. A dank smell wafts from inside. I face nothing but blackness. I let my eyes adjust, hoping I can make something out. As I stand there, the distinct feeling that someone is watching me from the depths of the passage takes over me. I shudder. I have nothing to light my way, but even if I did, there’s no way I’m going in there. I don’t need to find Xave that badly. This can wait.
I shut the door and head back slowly, keeping away from the cardboard boxes in case someone’s hiding behind them. My heart rate slows when I see my bike, waiting patiently on the street. I pick up my pace, then halt when I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. I freeze. A man’s standing past the Dumpster, back resting on the wall. He digs in his pockets and pulls out something that glints in the dark.
He doesn’t see me. Slowly, I take a step back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.
