Forgive Me, Alex (7 page)

"Shit! That was close."

That fuckin' Tony had returned down the dirt road across the street, and turned back onto Cary Road and into his driveway, just when I'd finally worked up the courage to move forward. Just as I was about to pull across to his house.

"What the fuck is that asshole doin'? Is he goin' to work or not?"

My plans were completely screwed-up, and I had no idea what to do next. The Reaper didn't help me out; he'd gone silent as a dead whore. Some help!

Maybe Tony would leave again at some point, maybe even to visit his
girlfriend
. Fucker! I'd show him. He could lead me right to Diana, and then we'd see who—

"What the fuck?"

Tony emerged from the house—couldn't have been inside for more than a couple minutes. He tucked in his shirt—his uniform shirt—as he hustled to his car. He hopped in, backed out the driveway, turned onto Cary Road, and zipped right past.

I froze, still trying to figure out what had happened. I couldn't be sure, but maybe he'd just stopped back to change his shirt. Why would he do that? Where had he gone before?

No matter. I'd sit here and wait a few minutes, make sure he didn't come back again.

I turned up the radio, rested my head on the top of the seat, and pictured Diana in my mind's eye.

***

I waited about thirty minutes, until pretty sure the coast was clear. "It's now or never."

I parked in their driveway, hopped out of the van, and approached the back door. The main interior door sat open, and only the outer screen door blocked entry. The dull sounds of a TV echoed from somewhere in the background.

Damn, someone must be home!

If anyone had seen me, it might look suspicious if I turned around and left without knocking, so I decided to carry out my charade. A young boy appeared at the door with a puzzled look on his face, and I started my pitch.

He interrupted me. "Sorry, but my dad's not home."

I listened for any sounds above the TV. "That's all right. Can I talk to your mom?"

The look on his face ran from irritation to confusion to sorrow. He lowered his head and I could barely hear him as he sighed and mumbled, "I don't have a mom."

"Oh, sorry about that. How about an older brother or sister?"

He raised his head and spoke louder. "No. You'll have to come back later, please, when my dad is home."

Just like that, he spun on his heels and headed deeper into the house.

I started to leave and—

Hold the phone, Mitchell! This little kid is home alone.
The Reaper's voice boomed like a bullhorn.
It's time, my boy, to put your recent studies to work. A new life awaits you.

"Fuck a rubber duck," I whispered. "Am I ready for this?"

Let us find out, shall we?

My gut rumbled, giving rise to the urge to barf right on the spot. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and returned to the door. No trace of the boy. I glanced around the neighborhood to ensure that nobody was watching. The nearest house on that side sat a good fifty yards away, and the separated garage at this house blocked much of the view.

A wild power built inside me, and I stood suddenly taller, stronger.

"I think I'm ready."

You're the MAN!

The screen door opened with a whisper. I crept toward the living room, comforted by the noise of the TV, which should cover my approach, and peeked around the corner to see where he sat. I'd have to pounce like a lion and—

Shit!
The living room was empty.

I turned and stalked down the hallway toward the bedrooms, and leaned around the doorframe of the first room. Empty.

In the second room, the boy lay belly down on his bed, surrounded by a bunch of baseball cards. He focused on several that lay on the far side of the bed.

I crept up on his blind side, careful to keep each step quiet, but the fuckin' floor creaked!

He turned. "Hey! Wha—"

I clasped a hand over his mouth, grabbed hold and raised him off the bed. He flailed his arms and legs—like wrestling a fuckin' tornado! I released him for a second and, before he could scream, drilled a hard punch to the left side of his head. He hit the mattress, bounced back onto the floor alongside the bed, and lay still.

I dragged him by an arm to the back door, and checked once more to ensure that no curious neighbors were watching the house. I lifted him over my right shoulder and kicked the screen door open.

He bounced on my shoulder and I almost lost him while jogging to my van. I slid the rear door open and dumped him behind the front seat, then pulled the door shut.

Fifteen seconds later, after backing out of the driveway as unobtrusively as possible, I shook my throbbing right hand in the air.

"Shit, kid, you got a hard fuckin' head, you little bastard."

He was out cold.

"What you really value is what you miss, not what you have." – Jorge Luis Borges

~~~~~

See you in a short, Sport.

Those words haunt me.

Long before the embers of the dawn burn, I awake to a world cloaked in darkness, mired in a storm that mirrors my essence. My dream of Alex, reduced to a puff of smoke in a gale-force wind, still cuts me to the bone. I struggle to regain my composure, but my emotions remain on edge, as though the smallest catalyst will tumble me into the abyss, the black chasm of my mind.

I've long stood upon the precipice, waiting—almost hoping—for the ledge to collapse beneath me.

I often think of Alex these days. I still remember pulling out of the driveway seventeen years ago, leaving him with his baseball cards, assured that he'd be fine until Dad arrived home from work.

Times were different then. Our neighborhood promised innocence and security, a relaxed lifestyle. Few monsters stalked our world in those days.

I departed for work without giving it another thought.

***

May 20, 1978

My supervisor tapped me on the shoulder as I took an order at the counter, and relieved me so I could take an important phone call. What was so important that someone would interrupt me at work? Then I remembered that Alex was home alone. Perhaps Dad was running later than expected and Alex was getting antsy. I picked up the phone.

"Tony, it's Dad. Do you know where Alex is?"

"Alex? You mean he's not home?"

"No. I've called a few of his friends but I can't locate him."

"That's weird. I know he was looking forward to the pizza you were bringing home for dinner." I considered the possibilities for a second. "Have you tried Frank's place?"

"Frank!" The relief almost whistled out of his mouth. "I can't believe I didn't think of that. Go on back to work and don't worry about it."

I shared his relief. The Hoopster didn't think to leave a note, but with pizza on the way he'd probably run through the door at any moment. I drudged back to work, got busy, and finished my shift without thinking any more of it. Afterward, I did a quick change in the men's room at the restaurant before I called Diana, her voice instantly recognizable by her simple, "Hullo."

"Hey, good lookin', whatsya got cookin'?"

"Hey!"

The excitement and enthusiasm in that single word provided a rush no drug could match.

"Are you coming to get me?"

"Yep, I just have to call my dad to let him know where we'll be and when I'll be home. I should be there in ten minutes. Will you be ready?"

She assured me in that
try-not-to-be-a-smartass
way that she'd be ready and I needed to get my butt in gear. She then added her customary sign-off, "Smooch-smooch."

Geez, give me a break.
I looked around to ensure that nobody could hear. "Smooch-smooch."

When I phoned home to inform Dad of my plans for the night, an unexpected voice offered a simple, monotonous reply. I hesitated and waited for it to register.

"Frank, is that you?"

"Hi Tony."

"You decided to join the gang for some pizza, huh?"

Silence ensued for a few seconds. "Are you still at work?"

"Yeah, but I'm about to leave. I need to update Dad first."

"Actually, he intended to call you as soon as he got out of the bathroom. It's been rather.... Maybe you'd better cancel your plans and come on home."

What in hell is that supposed to mean?
"Frank, what's going on? Where's my dad? Where's Alex?"

"Please come home right away."

He hung up.

I stared at the phone for about a half-second before I ran to my car, jumped in and sped off as though engaged in the most important race of my life. What in hell had happened? I had no idea, yet somehow my mind returned to Alex, who'd been missing earlier in the day. Might something have happened to him? Why hadn't Frank said more? Why did he sound so worried?

The short drive home usually took about four minutes. I arrived in two.

Parked in the driveway was Frank's car, in front of the open garage that contained Dad's car, to the right of.... O
h shit!
A police cruiser.

God, this can't be good.

It had to be Alex. He was probably hurt—something minor—or in some kind of trouble. But something that required the police? What could that be?

I parked in the grass alongside the garage, bolted from the car almost before cutting the engine, and ran into the house.

It wasn't as bad as I thought, or it was worse. Alex was missing. His baseball cards were sprawled haphazardly over his bedroom floor, an ominous sign for those of us who knew the Hoopster. Nobody we knew had heard from him. His bicycle, his only mode of transportation besides walking, remained in the garage.

Dad provided Officer Sam Weaver with a recent picture of Alex, to go along with my description of what he wore when I last saw him. I explained to Weaver the earlier events and exactly why Alex had been home alone. It had seemed so reasonable at the time, so innocent. Yet at that moment, guilt and anger beat me like the proverbial redheaded stepchild. If the look on his face was any indication, Dad felt essentially the same about himself.

Sleepy little Algonquin had been enjoying one of its usual slow nights, and the police immediately began their search. Weaver took it seriously enough and assured us that they'd look throughout the night. They would also notify the county sheriff and the police departments of the small neighboring towns. He offered lighthearted encouragement, however, confident that we'd hear from Alex or one of his friend's parents any minute.

I had my doubts.

That terrible premonition clawed at me again. A shadow was building in my mind, and it would become a raging storm if I let it. I walked outside and sat in a lawn chair to escape the madness inside the house.

Nobody thought anything terrible could happen in Algonquin, but I knew Alex, Mr. Ten-going-on-Eighteen. He'd never leave the house with the TV on, the doors wide open and pizza on the way, let alone with his precious baseball cards in a mess. Not without leaving a note or making a point to call.

Emptiness and loss assaulted me. I'd known that feeling once before: I'd been thirteen and Mom's blood had dripped from my hands.

I was desperate to chase away the feeling, but it nagged me like the bugs I swatted absent-mindedly on the humid night. I rested my chin on my chest and stared unseeing at the ground. I had let Alex down. I should have protected him. I should have been out searching for him, but where should I look? What could I do?

After two hours of futile attempts, Diana got through on our phone. I cut her off in mid-yell and explained the events of the evening, the reason she got all those busy signals, the reason I forgot about her. She caught her breath, apologized and offered to help. What could she do?

Exactly what I did: nothing. I said I'd call her the next day.

Yes, that next day.

***

Return to June 7, 1995

Last night's dreams, the memories of seventeen years ago, are too persistent.

Earlier in the evening, I said goodbye to Linda at the bar, but first I agreed to meet her for breakfast today. She didn't invite me to her hotel room, nor did she ask to accompany me home, nor did I breach the subject in any way. There
was
an underlying tension, a thought that we might rekindle the flame from three years ago. I sure felt it, and I believe she did too, but in the end, we said goodnight and went our separate ways.

Until now.

I've anticipated this meeting from the instant she offered to buy me breakfast, yet as I drive to her hotel, the lingering effects of last night's dreams distract me. I attempt to drown them out in a blast of music from a cassette, an upbeat, kick-ass mixed tape designed to improve my mood and get me going on days like this.

Robin Zander of Cheap Trick screams that he's
All Wound Up
. I could use a little of that myself.

Linda said last night that she wanted to talk about Mitchell Norton.

What's to talk about? I want to return to the job I started seventeen years ago and failed to finish.

I want to slit his goddamned throat.