The Absence of Mercy (10 page)

Ben continued to scan what was left of the crowd for his wife and son.
Did they make it onto the train?
He began walking along its length, looking into the cars as he went. The body of the boy grew heavy in his arms. A piercing whistle filled the station and steam spewed upward from the locomotive's smokestack. The coupling rods began to move, driving the massive steel wheels that propelled the train forward.

Finally, at the second-to-last car, Ben spied a familiar face hanging out through one of the open windows.

“
Sam!
” he yelled, craning his neck backward. “
Sam, it's Ben!
”

Chief Garston looked down at him casually. “Oh. Hi, Ben.”

“
Sam, I can't find Thomas or Susan. Have you seen them?
”

“No, I haven't seen them,” he responded. Then, with more urgency: “Hey, you'd better get on the train.”

“
I can't find my family,
” Ben repeated. The train was starting to pick up speed, and he had to walk quickly along the edge of the platform—stepping over several bodies as he went—in order to keep pace with the car Sam was in.

“Oh, I wouldn't worry about them,” Sam chuckled reassuringly. “I'm sure they'll be fine. But—
say!
—you'd better worry about yourself. You don't want to be left standing here when
this
train leaves the station. That wouldn't be good at all.”

With growing unease, Ben realized that Sam was right. He didn't want to be left behind—but now the train was moving too fast for him to climb aboard. If he tried, he would be swept neatly beneath the wheels and crushed in an instant.

Ben's feet slowed, and he came to a shuffling halt. The last car was past him, heading into the tunnel. He stood alone on the platform, except for the dead boy in his arms and the few scattered bodies lying motionless around him. As the train began to disappear, he saw Sam Garston's receding face looking back at him, hanging half out of the open window. His friend looked a little sad.

“So long, Ben,” Sam called out to him, his voice small against the background of the rumbling machine. “Take care of that boy of yours.”

The last passenger car vanished into the darkness. For a few seconds Ben could still hear the sound of the wheels moving along the tracks. Then all was still. He stood holding the dead boy and wondering what was next for him, until a tentative voice floated up to his ears. It was little more than a croak, and it came from the lifeless thing that he held in his arms.

“Father?” it said. But Ben was too afraid to look down.

Part 3

The Girl

Thomas lay in bed listening to music. He kept the volume low so he could also hear the sounds of footsteps in the hall, should they approach. He didn't think they would, though. Now that his parents had gone to bed, it was unlikely they would get back up to check on him. Still, he'd locked the door just in case. Saturday night. Sixteen years old. And here he was: trapped in his own bedroom. Which was total bullshit, by the way. He'd been going out on his own for three years now. He'd never wound up drunk in the bushes, and he didn't use drugs. He hadn't knocked up a girl yet, either, which was more than he could say for at least one of his friends. And he knew how to protect himself. So what was the big deal about going out all of a sudden?

He knew one thing: His dad had been totally freaked out about the corpse they'd found in the woods two months ago. He supposed his old man had gotten a good firsthand look, since he'd been in charge of the autopsy and everything. It was probably good for him—rattled him up a little bit. That was the problem with getting old: You let yourself get comfortable. Complacent. It was up at seven with a cup of coffee, off to work all day, come home and maybe crack a beer in the evening before falling asleep in front of the tube. And even
that
was livin' large. It was pathetic, really.

Then again, he imagined his dad probably felt the same way when
he
was sixteen—just never thought he'd turn out like this: old and scared and worried about getting enough fiber in his diet so he wouldn't get constipated. It wasn't really his fault. He'd played by all the rules and had gotten predictably screwed over just the same. What'd he expect, really? People live their whole lives for someday down-the-road, and eventually there is no down-the-road left.

They'd been asleep for forty minutes now, his parents. He'd been keeping an eye on the clock. It still wasn't too late to catch a little action, which was exactly what he planned to do. He'd snuck out before—hell, he'd been practically
forced to
in this house. In the old days he'd sometimes tiptoed down the stairs and right out the front door. These days, however, Alex made it impossible to keep quiet: wagging his tail and whacking it on railing posts; shaking his head; sniffing and sneezing; clomping around behind him with those big, clumsy paws. It was ridiculous.

Two summers ago he'd taken a rock climbing course, and
that
had changed his whole approach to the home-escape business. He'd learned how to use a rope and carabiner, how to make a quick harness with webbing, how to set up anchors, and how to rappel. He'd learned about ascending, as well—using a set of Prusik hitches to scamper back up a rope into one's bedroom at the end of the night, for example. No more sneaking down the stairs. No more Alex, the Amazing Blunder Dog, to get him busted. It was truly a beautiful thing, and had worked like a charm on countless occasions.

Thomas went to his closet and retrieved a navy blue backpack. Inside was a fifty-foot climbing rope, a single carabiner, a nine-foot piece of one-inch webbing, a pair of leather gloves, and two short thin ropes that he'd tied into Prusiks, one slightly longer than the other. He tied one end of the climbing rope to his bed frame using a figure-of-eight follow-through, opened his bedroom window, and lowered the rest of the rope to the yard below. With the webbing, he fashioned himself a basic harness, and he clipped the carabiner in at the waist. He fastened the longer Prusik to the rope and clipped it into the carabiner for self-belay, then wrapped the rope itself three times around the 'biner and locked the device. He shoved the remaining unused Prusik into his jacket pocket to be used later for ascent, put on his gloves, and turned out the bedroom light. He took a moment to glance out through the front window at the street, ensuring that it was quiet and empty. Then he went to the side window and slid it open. Taking the rope in his right hand and placing it against his hip to serve as a break, and using his left hand to mind the self-belay Prusik, he stepped through the opening and quietly lowered himself to the yard two stories below, pausing for a moment at the top to slide the window closed as much as possible. Once he was on the ground, he unclipped himself from the rope and left his equipment in the grass for when he returned.

The street was quiet and empty as he walked down the sidewalk, but two and a half miles away Devon Coleman was throwing a party to kick off his parents' recent departure for their weeklong vacation in Cancún. The night was cool, and a light mist of rain had begun to fall. But Thomas felt good. After all, he was young, smart, and as far as he could tell, pretty much invincible. His gait was brisk, and he hummed softly to himself as he walked along. In no time at all he was turning onto Overlook Drive and could hear the pumping rhythm of music coming from the well-lit house down the street.

As far as high school parties went, this one appeared to be a huge success, if the throng of teenagers already swarming the place when he arrived was any indication. Devon's parents might have a different perspective when they returned home next week, but tonight that was probably the furthest thing from anyone's mind. Devon's family lived in one of those big brick Neocolonial-style homes that had become so popular with the upper middle class these days. The place was 5,600 square feet, Devon had once told him—a monster—and as the street name implied, it was perched atop a hill along with another twenty-some similar-looking dwellings, all with a commanding view of Main Street and most of western Steubenville. Tonight the place was pretty well packed.

Last week Devon had mentioned that since he had the house to himself, he wanted to have a few people over this weekend. Thomas had told him he would come, not realizing his dad was going to impose a mandatory lockdown for the rest of the year. He'd expected maybe twenty or thirty people, but as was the case with most high school parties, over the remainder of the week word traveled with the speed and dissemination of a brushfire in high wind. Judging from the masses assembled on the front lawn alone, Thomas guessed that at least half of the entire damn high school had decided to turn up. He shook his head.
Just a few of Devon's closest friends, my ass
. Then again, with the combination of an adult-free party and plenty of free booze, what'd he expect?

He saw Bret Graham standing near the front door, plastic beer cup in hand, talking with Cynthia Castleberry. Bret, who wrestled in the 152-pound weight class just above Thomas during the winter season, had asked the attractive but somewhat standoffish varsity soccer starter out twice that year, and had been turned down both times—mostly because she'd been going steady with the same guy since freshman year. If nothing else, though, Bret could be pretty damn determined when he set his sights on something.

“Tommy boy, you finally decided to show up,” Bret greeted him as Thomas ascended the stairs leading to the front door.

“Nobody told me
you
were gonna be here, Graham,” he replied. “You bothering the ladies already?”

Bret feigned offense. “Take no notice of this one,” he told Cynthia. “He's just upset because I remind him of what a substandard athlete he really is.”

“That's right,” Thomas countered. “If beer bong ever makes it to the Olympics, you're all set.” He turned to Cynthia. “You planning on driving this guy home, or should I call his grandmother to come pick him up again?”

She laughed. Her right hand, which had self-consciously abandoned its subtle but strategic caress of Bret's upper arm when Thomas arrived, now returned to its previous position. “I'll keep an eye on him, Thomas.”

“Then he's in good hands and I'll tell the grandmother she can stand down for the evening.”

“Screw you, Stevenson,” Bret said with an exaggerated bow, holding his arm out to gesture Thomas through the open front door.

Thomas smiled and squeezed past a small congregation of six or seven freshmen standing in the front hall. Dave Kendricks spotted his entrance and motioned to him from across the living room, where he stood with Eileen Dickenson, Monica Dressler, Lynn Montague, and Kent Savage.

“The man of the hour has arrived,” Dave announced, handing Thomas a beer. “Ladies, please wait for him to remove his jacket before ravaging him in your usual manner.”

All three of the females in the group colored slightly and glanced away. At six foot one and 145 pounds, Thomas was lean but well muscled, the confident, agile movements of his body an amalgamation of power and grace. His brown hair, cropped short in anticipation of summer, was just a few shades lighter than the deep tan of his skin, and his green eyes had a calming, almost mesmerizing effect that made them hard to look away from once they'd set themselves upon you. In a way, he was almost too good-looking, and he actually dated far less than some of his physically flawed counterparts, as if prospective girlfriends judged themselves more harshly in his presence, and had not yet developed the self-confidence to push on nonetheless.

“Eileen here was just telling me that she didn't think you'd make it,” Dave advised him. “Seems the general consensus is that you're too good for the rest of us lowly peasants.”

“I didn't say that,” Eileen protested. She dared a quick glance up at Thomas, then looked away, fiddling with the cup in her hand. “I didn't say that,” she repeated.

“Well, it was something of the sort.” Dave frowned, his brow wrinkling in concentration. “I mean, I don't remember your exact words . . .”

“I do,” Kent Savage piped in. “She said, ‘You think Thomas'll show up? I can't wait to get him drunk and jump his bones.'”

Eileen blushed a deep crimson. “I
definitely
didn't say that.” She shook her head in irritation and embarrassment. “I'm out of here,” she told them, and walked off toward the kitchen.

Lynn Montague headed after her, turning back quickly to admonish the two boys. “You two are such assholes. Do you know that? Like, grow up.”

“
What? What did I say?
” Dave asked, pursuing the girls with a slightly unsteady gait. Kent looked at the two remaining individuals, considering them seriously for a moment. Then his face brightened into a broad smile, the decision made. “More drinks!” he announced, arms raised triumphantly to either side, and he marched off through the crowd like a man on a mission.

Thomas and Monica watched him go. They were quiet for a moment within their own corner of the room as the din from the party continued unabated.

“I don't think more drinks are the answer,” Thomas commented, placing his own beverage on the fireplace mantel.

Monica stared down into the recesses of her plastic cup. “She didn't say any of that,” she told him quietly. “Just so you know.”

“Oh, I make it a practice never to believe anything either one of those intellectual midgets tells me,” Thomas assured her.

Monica nodded, her eyes still focused on her drink.

“So, how's it going in Tulley's class?” Thomas asked. “Is AP Chemistry as hard as people say?”

“It's not that bad. Mostly balancing equations and knowing how things react with one another.”

“Sounds intimidating to me. My dad wants me to take it next year, but I don't know.”