Bullet Work (32 page)

Finally, to Our Buckwheat, Darla’s Charge,
Pray, Oscar, and Fly Girl. You’ll never know how you made my heart
sing.

BOOK OF THE YEAR, FICTION
Books and Authors

WINNER, NOVELLA
Next Generation Indie Book Awards

WINNER, TEEN-YOUNG ADULT FICTION
Reader Views Literary Awards

WINNER, FICTION AND LITERATURE, YOUNG ADULT
FICTION
National Best Book Awards

SILVER MEDALIST, AUDIO BOOK AND SPOKEN
WORD
Nautilus Book Awards

SILVER MEDALIST, MEN’S FICTION
Living Now Book Awards

SILVER MEDALIST, MID-ATLANTIC BEST REGIONAL
FICTION
Independent Publisher Book Awards

FINALIST, BEST NEW FICTION
National Indie Excellence Awards

FINALIST, AUDIO BOOK OF THE
YEAR
ForeWord
magazine

Also by A&N Publishing

By

So I chided the old man

’bout the truth that I had heard.

He just smiled and said—

“Reality is only just a word.”

—
Harry Chapin, “Corey’s
Coming”

Chapter 1

One hour from now I am going to
change my life forever.

I am lying on my back with my fingers
intertwined behind my head. I wait.

One hour from now I am going to be in charge
of my life.

I glance to my left and my digital clock
clicks from 12:59 to 1:00 a.m. I smile.

One hour from now I am going to do something
I’ve never done before.

I’m going to take what I want, when I want
it. I’m going to enrich myself. I’m going to set myself on the path
to instant riches. The future will be mine. I will be in
control.

You see, one hour from now I will be a
criminal.

I am not one of those down-on-my-luck,
need-a-break career criminals. No, I am more of a freelancer or
hobbyist criminal. I’m a college freshman at Tech in Blacksburg,
Virginia, with no real need to commit crimes. It is very simple: I
am doing this because I can. That’s the only reason I need.

On the way to my prospective crime scene, I
am dressed all in black. It is kind of an “in” thing for us
criminal types. Adrenaline is surging through me as I contemplate
going through with this or not. When the time comes, will I do it?
Will I chicken out? I’m sure all criminals go through this
self-doubt just before their first big job.

I had “cased the joint” as they say. I had
done my homework. Cashion’s Sporting Goods was going to be my first
mark. It was about a mile and a half from my dorm, so about fifteen
minutes by bike. No need to take my car as the bike will give me
more options and be easier to hide. The drive-thru bank on the
corner will be the perfect spot to stash my bike during the
break-in. I had been in the store and viewed the exits. I had been
outside during the day and at night. I knew how to get in and how
to get out and, most importantly, there were no dogs, no watchmen,
and no alarms.

I am on this mission alone. Come to think of
it, everything I’ve done the last few years of my life has been
alone. I’m not much of a joiner. For the most part, I’ve learned if
you trust someone you’ll be disappointed. Anything I do, I do by
myself. Anything I want, I get for myself. I’m my own rock. I can
count on me; I can’t count on anyone else.

My dad called my cell phone earlier in the
evening. I let the phone ring. He didn’t leave a message. He was
finally getting the point.

Being away at college was the break I needed.
Classes were mostly lame, filled with freshman overachievers. Many
were so avid to make an impression on professors that it was
embarrassing to watch. Some were actually pretty smart; others
should avoid the expense and just move home to work in gas stations
and beauty parlors. Homework was easy. Much of the assigned work
was easier than high school. Humanities and writing? Boring.
Accounting? Nearly indecipherable as the TA was Japanese or Chinese
or something like that. Calculus? A re-run of senior year.

The only course that held my attention at all
was something called “The Theory of Knowledge.” It was taught by an
aged elf of a man named Dr. Summerlin. He started teaching here
about the time the Appalachian Mountains were forming. The class
was more about logic, thought, and debate than the title let on. He
would state a problem. Half the class would write a short article
to defend the stated position; the other half would attack the
position. His classes were less like lectures and more like
Socratic discussions. He would never answer a question or give
evidence that he supported any particular opinion; he would only
pose more questions.

Many of the “sheep freshmen” in my class were
terrified. There was no textbook; there were only assigned
readings, sometimes an op-ed piece in
The New
York Times
, sometimes an article in the latest
Rolling Stone
. You couldn’t really take notes because
it was a meandering conversation, not a lecture. One of the more
courageous sheep asked how the class was going to be graded and
whether there was a final exam or a term paper. Dr. Summerlin only
smiled and said, “I will grade you on what you learn and how you
apply yourself. This is ‘The Theory of Knowledge,’ not some mundane
collection of facts that you can memorize and spew back on a test.
This class is about learning to learn and understanding to
understand.” About a quarter of the class bailed after that little
announcement and dropped the class in favor of art appreciation or
geography or some other “safe A.”

I really didn’t care what grade I got from
him. I enjoyed the way he thought and the way he could move a
discussion. He would listen to one student ardently defending a
position and with a wave of his hand ask a question that so stumped
and repudiated the advocate that it left others breathless. It was
never done in an intimidating or threatening fashion. The counter
was quick, efficient, and intellectually deadly. It was like a
jujitsu move on a street thug. It was over before the thug knew
what had happened, and there was no reason to think it would go
differently if repeated. He would also praise original thought. In
an odd way I think he enjoyed being surprised by random ideas and
probing and pondering the extension of the ideas. This wasn’t a
class with a lesson plan or a series of tidy lectures. It was
free-form intelligence flowing through the room. Were it not for
Dr. Summerlin’s class, I could have skipped the whole semester and
never left my dorm room.

Speaking of my dorm room, I’m more than happy
to have it to myself. It took me about six weeks to get my assigned
roommate to move out. He was a nice enough guy, but I chose not to
talk to him. Ever. I think it kind of freaked him out. I ignored
him totally. He tried to build a relationship with me, even invited
other guys on the floor to our room to try to get me to open up,
but I would have none of it. I had my world; he had his. They
didn’t need to intersect.

Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore. He
went to the resident assistant and asked to be moved. The resident
assistant asked me about our relationship, and I told him I thought
there was something wrong with the guy. The guy was obviously
laboring under some form of latent “attachment issues.” Moving him
might be a good thing. The next day my roommate was moved to
another floor. I think his name was Brandon or Brent—something like
that. Doesn’t matter. It works out much better this way. I don’t
need people asking me questions about classes, and I certainly
don’t need someone nosing into what I will bring home from my
burglaries. No, alone is the way I want it.

It hadn’t always been like this. Only since
two years ago—September 28. My life had been a picture of normalcy.
Junior year—on the varsity football team, not a starter, but, heck,
I had a jersey with my name on it. Girlfriend—not the most
attractive girl in school mind you, but she was smart, athletic,
and well-liked. Classes were easy. College visits were on the
horizon.

All that ended September 28. Coming home that
crisp and clean fall evening, I coasted my bike up the driveway,
slid to a stop, and headed toward the back door, like I’d done a
thousand times before.

The back door was open, which was odd. That
became a minor detail as I entered the kitchen. I knew something
was wrong immediately. No sound. It was like entering a mausoleum.
Then I knew instantly. We had been robbed. Everything disheveled in
a random grope for valuables. It was hard to avoid the blood
splatter in the hallway. I raced to the living room and found my
mother curled into a ball on the floor. I guess the shape your body
makes when it is resigned to death. A pool of blood surrounded her
head. One arm was extended as if she were reaching out for
something. Then I spotted it. Her arm was stretched out because the
killer had stolen the wedding ring off her finger. I started to gag
and raced to the kitchen, where the remains of my lunch hit the
sink and counter.

A madman dialed 911 and screamed into the
phone. Then I realized it was me. It took six minutes for the unit
to respond. It seemed like seven years.

She wasn’t breathing. Her skin was cold and
clammy. What should I have done? Hug her? Move her? Stay inside? I
paced the floor. Where were they? It had been four seconds since I
had hung up the phone.

I don’t remember crying. I’m sure I did. I
know I did later. Doctors called it shock or traumatic stress
disorder. I don’t care what it is; I just want to know when it
ends.

The Washington Post
called it a brutal killing. When you’re seventeen, and it involves
the murder of your mother in your own home, is there another
kind?

Blunt force trauma, the ME said. “Probably
been dead since early afternoon.” Signs of B and E the policeman
said.

My dad drove up. No one had to say a word. He
collapsed on the front porch. The sight of that probably hurt me
the most. He would never recover.

They say only children grow up fast. Only
children whose mothers are killed in their homes on September 28
become adults instantly. Innocence, trust, kindness, and love are
all stripped away and crushed under foot. You go from a
devil-may-care adolescent to a hollow, emotionless human in a
series of rapid heartbeats.

Never found the killer. Never found the ring
or anything else for that matter. Never made an arrest. Why is it
that the perfect crime is the one involving the murder of my mother
on September 28?

People pulled back from me at that point, or
maybe I pulled away from them. No more sports. Former friends
didn’t know what to say or how to deal with this. They started
avoiding me in the hallway. Who could blame them?

No girlfriend. She tried to weather it, but I
couldn’t talk. It was a one-way relationship with her. She finally
gave up. Who could blame her?

Dad starting drinking heavily. We had nothing
to talk about. We sold the home and moved into a two-bedroom
apartment. Grades slipped. Visions of UVA or Ivy League educations
turned sour. I was lucky that Tech took a chance on me. One of my
dad’s friends pulled some strings, told them the story, and somehow
got me an acceptance letter.

I couldn’t wait to move away to college. Not
like the others who wanted the freedom, the partying, and the new
life. I wanted to go away just so I could be alone. So people
wouldn’t stare at me with sad eyes or shake their heads like “damn
shame.” I just wanted to be anonymous. I wanted to disappear. So I
didn’t have to talk to anyone, especially my dad. We hadn’t
actually spoken in months. Who could blame us?

Maybe I’m bitter, maybe depressed, but I’m
going to take what I want. Like the burglar who killed my mom in
the process of stealing our stuff, I’m going to take what I want. I
don’t want pity; I just want people to leave me alone. Who could
blame me?

  