Guardian (14 page)

I keep scrolling. I know I'm going to find what I want in this story. And there it is. A picture of this really scared-looking, mousy girl with the caption
Courtney Driscoll was murdered nine years ago
.

I'm looking at my mother. This is my mother. I see my own face and hair, my own cowardice, my own feelings of insignificance. She looks little, frail, temporary, like someone just waiting to be hit. Even though I've never known her, I know her. Even though she didn't want me, I know I'm her son.

I look at the picture of Stephanie in the same article, remember what he did to her, remember what he did to my mother. He's a fugitive. I'm a fugitive. Like my hope that I had a guardian angel … maybe this life I'm living is just another fantasy.

I shut off the computer, get up, and drag my dirty laundry home.

“I thought we were going to have Stroganoff tonight,” Dad says. He's been really quiet since he got home. I figured they gave him a hard time in Brentwood.

“You don't like this?” I made a stir-fry and I think it's pretty good.

He puts down his fork. “You didn't go to the store, did you, Hunter?”

I decide to keep eating, look calm. “Huh?”

“You didn't go to the Laundromat either. Because the hamper is full of dirty clothes.” His voice is really quiet. Bad quiet.

I can't think what to do. I just keep shoveling food into my mouth. I wish it was this morning and I could do the day over. I was so happy when he gave me those tickets.

“So, where did you go?” he asks.

He knows. He totally knows
. I don't know if I should keep evading or tell the truth. He's much harder to read than Stephanie ever was. I put my fork down. “I went to the library.”

It's so quiet I hear Cowboy sneeze in the other room.

“But you're not supposed to go to the library, are you?”

I wonder if his voice got like this in his last conversation with my mother. Some people get really calm and quiet before they snap.

“Nooo …” I say. “But can't we change that rule? I just wanted to read a book. If I can't go to school, I should at least be able to—”

“You went to read your e-mail.”

God! It's just like before when he was about a million steps ahead of me. “You don't know I did that.”

“I check your account every day, Hunter. You've had some e-mails from your foster sisters for a while. Now they're deleted. You telling me you didn't do that?” He's talking in this super-reasonable voice, like an actor playing someone reasonable.

“How'd you get my password?”

“It was easy to guess. Thunder is your favorite wrestler. It was the first thing I tried.”

The cat walks in and stares at us, like he can feel the tension in our conversation.

“You shouldn't do that.” My voice sounds weak and scared.

“I should TRUST you?” he says. “Is that what I should do? Because if I had done that, you could have e-mailed the police and put my ass back in jail!” He doesn't sound so reasonable now.

I'm sweating. “But I wouldn't do that. I didn't. You must have looked at Sent Mail. I just read them and deleted them. Doesn't that count for something?”

He looks at me for the longest time. I wonder if he sees, like I do, that our eyes are identical. “Yes,” he says. “It does count for something. But because you did this, Hunter, you just moved back a GIANT step.” He gets up suddenly, stands over me. I keep my head down. “A GIANT STEP!” I cringe. The cat runs out of the room. But he doesn't hit me. He catches himself. He walks back to his place at the table and sits down heavily.

“So for a while, until I start trusting you again, I think you better stay in during the day. We can run errands together on Sundays.”

I notice that under the table, my legs are shaking. I need to make him happy. I need to get him calm. “I understand.”

“And you really, really shouldn't think about defying me again like that. Because I'm smarter than you, Hunter. And you'll get caught every time. And the less trust I have, the less freedom you'll have.”

I picture myself locked in the bathroom, like when he first captured me. He's capable of doing that. He's capable of a lot of things. I think about that old bumper sticker
IF YOU LOVE SOMETHING, LET IT GO. THEN HUNT IT DOWN AND KILL IT.
“I'm really sorry, Dad.”

“We can have so much fun, Hunter, if you just play by the rules. Don't screw up a good thing for both of us.” He leaves the table.

I stand up, wobbling, and clear the plates. I'm still thinking of the Garden of Eden. Once you get the knowledge, you have to leave. My father is a desperate criminal and I'm still a prisoner. And anytime I make him unhappy, I'm in as much danger as anyone else who has ever crossed him. Like Stephanie. Like Mom.

My mother's face from the article flashes in my head again. He beat her to death. I wonder if she loved him as much as I do.

Chapter 14

Dark clouds roll into L.A. as we drive to the Staples Center. Dad says it's the beginning of the rainy season—that's what the other landscapers told him—a bad time for business, because you have to keep postponing and rescheduling work and everything grows out of control and the customers get cranky.

I've been to a couple of WWE house shows—once in a while Mike would wage a huge battle with Stephanie and convince her that the ticket prices weren't outrageous and that I needed a guy activity so I could recover from the stream of chick flicks Stephanie and the girls were always renting. About twice, she gave in, forcing us to buy the fifteen-dollar nosebleed seats, which make the wrestlers look like a colony of fighting ants, but still, it was cool to sit with Mike and cheer and do all the chants and stuff. Mike and I learned the second time that if you go to the arena early you can see the wrestlers come in their rental cars and limos.

I want to do the same thing now with my real father—have the ultimate guy-bonding experience. I have a right to some kind of memory like that. It's the least the universe can give me. Because soon, I know, I'm going to have to make a run for it. No matter how great my life seems now, I know I'm a prisoner and I'm living with the guy who killed my mom and who can turn on me at the drop of a hat and make Stephanie look like Mother of the Year. I'm just not sure when and how I'm going to leave.

“How do you know where the wrestlers will drive in?” Dad asks as we park the car.

I look up at the arena. The Staples Center has a very impressive shape, like Noah's Ark jumping in midair, and on top there's—well, you could only call it a steeple.

“We just walk around the arena and see where there's a cluster of crazy fans,” I explain. “There!”

Sure enough, twenty or so fans are hanging over a railing to our right. We walk up there and see a loading area with a huge truck idling. “That's where the ring is,” I explain to Dad. WWE flunkies in their yellow shirts are milling around, talking on headphones and interacting with LAPD officers, who are driving in and out and all around. I wonder if they stick around for the show.

“Did you see anybody yet?” I ask a kid. Little kids are your best information sources at these things.

“We saw Juan de Libre!” he screeches. “That's his car right there!” He points to a silver Toyota.

“It's not his car, stupid!” says his buddy. “It's a rental car. They all have rental cars.”

“You're the one who's stupid!” says the first kid. “He lives in San Diego! It could be his real car.”

An older guy, probably the father of one of these kids, smiles at my dad. “You know anything about this stuff?” he asks.

Dad's been watching
RAW
for the past few weeks, but he has trouble keeping any of it straight. “All I know is, if this guy”—he points to me—“sees somebody named Rolan Thunder, he's going to get hysterical.”

I grin at him. I'm trying to memorize every happy moment.

The fans here are a mixture of ages and races, more males than females, more kids than adults, but there's a couple of really old people too. They must have come to see Jack Shine or something. I think it's kind of cool that some people have never outgrown being wrestling fans. I hope I'm like that.

Suddenly, about thirty police cars pull in. “Somebody big is coming!” I shout out, and the littler kids whirl around. And it's then I get this crazy idea. What if I tried to run right now? Just run to the nearest cop car and tell them who I am. Police are everywhere, there are thousands of witnesses, so he really couldn't do anything, and most of all, I'd have the element of surprise. He'd never expect me to bolt at a time like this, which makes it the perfect time to bolt. Doesn't it?

Suddenly, there's a flash of lightning so bright it seems like it's all around us. Several of the people in the crowd, including me, scream involuntarily and then laugh. Then we scream again at the thunderclap.

“Should we go in?” Dad asks. “I think the doors are open now.”

I panic, not sure what I want to do. “Wait. Let's see who this is.”

I say this because of a huge, collective squeal from the other fans. This time it's not for lightning. It's for a white stretch limo that's pulling in, accompanied by two police cars. We all forget the weather and hang over the railing, trying to see who gets out. It's Rolan Thunder. Oh my God. He looks amazing in person. Even in street clothes, you can see he's almost seven feet tall.

“Rolan!” I scream at him, because suddenly it's the most important thing in the world for him to acknowledge me.

He peers up at me. Me! And then he gives me the thumbs-up. It feels like a sign.

Tears fill my eyes and spill over.

“What's wrong?” My dad tries to look into my face.

I cough and sputter. “A bug flew in my mouth. Let's go in.”

“We'll get you some water.” He tries to put his arm around me.

I shrug him off. “Let's just go in.”

I can't believe the seats we have. We're ringside, on the floor, within chair-throwing distance of all the action. We're also on the aisle, I note. I still don't know if I'm going to do anything or not. I keep thinking about all those police cars out there. I feel like I felt my first time on the diving board, voices in my head yelling,
Do it! Don't do it!
I look around to make sure I know where the nearest exit is. I see Dad glance at the beer guy. “Go ahead.” I nudge him. “Have fun.”

He smiles at me. Guilt stabs my stomach. “Maybe just one,” he says. “Get yourself a Coke or something.”

“Okay.” I look around at the filling arena, trying to get so caught up in the excitement that I won't worry about what comes next. But I can't help myself. I scan the program, looking for the right match, somewhere in the middle of the card, where Dad will be lulled by beer and camaraderie into a false sense of security.

I rehearse in my mind. Review where all the police cars were parked, mentally walk myself over there. I would calmly tell my story and they could check it out. They'd believe me, wouldn't they? I wonder how long it would take before Dad got suspicious and came looking for me.

The announcer climbs into the ring to mixed noises and starts telling us all the things we can't do—videotape the show, point lasers at the wrestlers. My heart starts to pound. It's showtime.

By the second match, I've lost all thread of what's going on in the ring. All I can do is rehearse. Down the aisle, through the door, run to a cop car. Down the aisle, through the door, run to a cop car.

“This is so cool!” Dad says. His voice seems to come from far away.

“Yeah.”

“I wonder if I could have another beer and be a safe driver,” he says.

“Go ahead. We're here to have fun.” Anything to slow his reaction time.

He gives me a little pat on the shoulder. “This is one of the best times I've ever had in my life, Hunter.”

I turn my face away fast.

I hear the giggling sound that signals Susie Cute. I figure this is the match. Dad will be distracted by a bunch of women rolling around more than anything else.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I scream over the cheering and catcalling.

“Now?” He can't take his eyes off the ring, where she's waving her cowboy hat.

“I shouldn't have had the Coke. Anyway, I want to get back for Rolan's match.”

He sips his second beer, which is almost gone. “Suit yourself.”

I get up and start walking. My arms and legs feel funny, like I just got off a trampoline. I hit the exit doors and come out into the concourse, speeding just a little. A couple of security guys eye me and I think of offering myself up to them, but so many jokers come to wrestling, I know they'd take me for a smart aleck. I walk through the long expanse of arena to the escalator, knees getting weaker all the time.

Through the glass, I can see and hear the mother of all thunderstorms, flashing, crashing, and pouring water over every side of the arena. I wonder if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

I'm at the bottom of the escalator. I see the door. I don't see a policeman anywhere.

“Hunter!”

I whirl. He's at the top of the escalator, smarter than I thought, faster than I could have dreamed. And now he knows I've betrayed him and I'm trying to run. I run.

“Hey, kid!” yells a security guy as I sprint for the door. “Don't run on these floors.”

“Stop him!” Dad yells. “That's my son!”

I hit the doors so hard shock waves bounce in my shoulders. I run into the rain and then stop like a fool, wondering what to do.
Should have planned better. Should have planned better
.

Since I don't have a plan, I just keep running. I circle the arena, toward that loading area, still hoping a cop will be sitting in a car somewhere. It's a bad choice. I come to a ledge that I have to jump from. I look behind me and see Dad and the security guard, allies, in pursuit.