Stick (18 page)

Y
es, I'm a stalker. I couldn't help myself. I sat in my car, parked way back in the corner of the dark lot, waiting. We'd had a great time at the movies the day before, and of course Preston had been bluntly honest about it not having any value other than spending two hours watching unrealistic special effects and incredibly poorly written dialogue that complemented a plot that a third grader could have come up with. My dad agreed wholeheartedly, and they'd laughed about it.

I thought it was an awesome flick.

The one thing predictable about Preston was that there had to be an order to everything he did. A pattern. He was too obsessive-compulsive to not have everything in his life under control, and that's why I was waiting for him.

He counted under his breath when he climbed stairs. He knew exactly how many stairs there were from the first to the second floor of the school. Everything he owned was alphabetized, from the sodas in his mini-fridge to the color of the shirts in his closet, starting with B for blue. He told me that for the most efficient tooth brushing, thirty-two strokes covered it nicely and reduced the buildup of plaque by fifteen percent in most cases. He left his condo every weekday at exactly 6:47 a.m.

So I sat. And I knew I'd see him. Midnight came and went. At 1:15, I smiled, watching as a shadowy figure left the entry to his building. The avenging Nakedboy was on the prowl tonight, and I was going to follow him.

As I hopped out of my car and started trailing him, I wondered why I was doing what I was doing. He was a friend, yeah, but it was more than that. Something about the kid made me want to watch out for him. Almost like a little brother—which he would reject if I ever said it to him. I was learning that Preston, for all outward appearances, could take care of himself better than most people I knew. Including myself.

But I still wondered.

Preston walked northwest, away from the downtown area and toward the river. Just before an old railroad bridge, he left the street and made his way across a vacant field, coming up behind a row of low-roofed buildings. At one end was a parking lot with three or four cars in it, and he stopped in the shadows at the edge. The end building looked like a small bar or club, but I couldn't see the sign because of the angle. Just neon splashing the night.

I watched as Preston took his pants and hoodie off, revealing his superhero costume underneath. Then he crouched beside a bush.

I stepped to a tree, trying to blend in as I watched. Either Preston chose random parking lots to watch, which wouldn't surprise me, or he was waiting for something. Or someone.

At two o'clock, good old Tom came walking around the corner of the building, keys jangling in his hand as he staggered to the lot. I groaned. Why would Preston be waiting for him? His mom had dumped him, and as far as I knew, that was that. He was out.

Tom reached his car, which was no more than ten feet from Preston. As the fat lawyer punched the key fob and went to open the door, Preston leaped up and ran toward him awkwardly, his cape flying behind him. Tom heard him just at the last moment, and he turned, giving a startled yelp when he saw the incredibly unintimidating skinny superhero charging at him. Just as Tom raised his hands, Preston's arm jabbed toward Tom's face. I saw a blue spark come from Preston's hand.

In the next second, Tom was flat as a board on the ground, groaning. Without hesitation, Preston knelt down and fastened a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. Then he sat him up against the side of his car, rifling through his pockets and taking the man's phone from him.

Creeping closer, I got to within a few feet of them. Tom was still groaning, his feet splayed in front of him, his wrists shackled and sitting in his lap.

Preston spoke. “I saw the marks. Confronted her. She told me.”

Tom blinked, furrowing his brow at the voice, peering at the mask-covered face. “Preston?” he said groggily.

Preston crouched down in front of the man. “You hit her.”

This wasn't payback for Tom being a jerk—this was real payback.

Tom struggled with the handcuffs. “You let me go right now, you little fucking weirdo. I swear to God…”

Preston flicked the Taser against his face once more, and Tom tightened, spasming uncontrollably for a few seconds, gasping and blubbering. Preston went on. “You hit my mother.”

Tom was breathing heavily, his sweaty jowls shining in the dim. “Okay, okay. I'm sorry. What do you want? Money? I'll give you money. Whatever. Just let me go.”

“It doesn't work like that, Tom. Let me explain,” Preston said, then placed the Taser directly on Tom's forehead. “I want you to put yourself in jail, Tom.”

“What? Your mother didn't press charges. She won't. It's done, and I'm gone.”

Preston shook his head. “In the state of Washington, the victim doesn't need to press charges if the police determine a domestic act of violence has been committed.” He took Tom's phone, sliding it open and pressing an icon. Light splashed across Tom's face. “Tom, you know the right thing to do, and you might be able to be a somewhat less than disgusting human being if you do it. I'll help you. You should confess to hitting my mother. Please be specific with time, date, names, and location. I'll record it on your phone.”

Tom struggled against the handcuffs. “You can't be serious. I'm an attorney, for God's sake.”

Preston nodded, his cape shifting in the breeze. “Then you know I'm correct about the law.”

Tom shook his head, looking at Preston's costume. “I'm not confessing to anything. I'll have you jailed for kidnapping and assault, you freak. Release me now.”

Preston lowered the Taser and took something from one of the slots on his utility belt. “My mom isn't very good at math, Tom. You know that. What you didn't know is that I handle all of her finances because I'm one of those smart people you think you're smarter than.” He held up the items in his hand. “These three checks that you forged her signature on would result in much more serious charges than misdemeanor domestic violence. They equal over a thousand dollars, which I think is a felony. But I'm not an attorney. Perhaps you can give me some legal advice. Is it a felony, Tom?”

Tom sighed, then leaned his head back against the side of the car, staring up at the night. I realized I was watching a master at work.

Tom blustered, “Okay. Fine. I'll do it, but I'll watch you tear those checks up after I do.”

Preston held the phone up. “Okay. Start. Make sure you use your lawyer lingo. We need it official-sounding.”

Tom groaned, then began, “I, Tom Clarkston, committed an act of domestic violence…”

A few minutes later, after the recording was finished and the checks had been destroyed, Preston unlocked Tom's hands and held the Taser up. “You did the right thing, Tom.”

Tom sneered, rubbing his wrists. “Give me my phone.”

Preston shook his superhero head. “I'll be taking it to the police station and showing them the video. I'm sure they'll be asking you to come down and pick it up after I show it to them.”

Tom clenched his teeth. “You're nothing but a—”

Preston cut him off. “Yes, I am, Tom. I'm nothing but a freaky little weirdo. But I'm also better than you, and I'm smarter than you will ever be. You shouldn't have hit my mother.”

As I followed Preston back to his place, he suddenly turned around. “And you say I'm odd. Do you follow other people around, or just me?”

I rolled my eyes. “I was going to…,” I began, but stopped. “That was amazing, Preston.”

He shrugged. He'd put his pants and hoodie back on, and his stance was typical Preston. “Unfortunate, but necessary.”

“Are you really going to show them the video?”

“Of course. And I know they'll visit my mom, too. She might not have called the police on him, but she values authority too much. She'll tell the truth if they ask her.”

We walked along.

As we neared his place, he said, “Lance Killinger came to my apartment this afternoon.”

I looked at him. “He knows where you live?”

“I don't have a batcave, Brett. We're listed in the directory.”

“What did he do?”

“He told me about your stupid deal. And that he has to leave me alone for it to work.”

“Yeah. That's right.”

He stopped, facing me. “Do you know what you're doing?”

“I hope so.”

“He's coming after you. They are.”

“Yeah. I can handle it.”

He shook his head. “They're not just going to beat you up, Brett. They're going to hurt you badly enough that you can't play. So they win.”

“I know,” I said, and we walked.

We reached the parking lot a few minutes later. Preston hitched his pack up higher. “If you want to follow me around some more, be here at nine-thirty tomorrow night.”

“Sure. Why, though?”

He smiled. “I'm not as lonely as you think. See ya.”

I
woke up Monday morning with five days on my mind. Five days until we played Hamilton. Five days of watching my back. I didn't know when it would come, or how many there would be, but I knew Killinger would get me when I least expected it.

I'd had dreams of broken fingers. A dislocated shoulder. Of being stomped and beaten. Preston was right. This wasn't a vendetta, it was Lance Killinger wheeling toward a goal, and I was in the way. I also saw Mike's face leering down at me, replaced with his fist screaming toward me. But there was only one thing to do. I couldn't hide. I wouldn't hide. I'd do what I set out to do. I just needed to be smarter than him.

Getting up from my bed, I walked to my dresser, picking up the business card. I stared at it, remembering that day in our living room. The day that exploded everything in my life. I dialed the number.

“Silvia,” the sleepy voice answered.

“Mr. Silvia, this is Brett Patterson. I'm sorry to call so early. We met a while ago—in Spokane. I played for the Hamilton Saxons, and you came up for a game.”

His voice brightened. “Yes, Brett. How are you?”

“Well, I'm actually great. I'm playing,” I said, and I explained in soft terms what had happened. We spoke for a few more minutes, and after I hung up, I walked to the kitchen, where my dad was reading the paper.

He looked up. “Hey, son. You were out late last night.”

I swallowed. Busted. Years of him passed out by nine had given me freedom in the past, not that I'd done anything more than go to the store to sneak an ice cream or soda, and I still wasn't used to him being sober and aware. “Yeah. I met up with Preston.”

He eyed me. “I suppose you're old enough to take care of yourself, but I'd appreciate a heads-up when you're going to be out that late. Everything okay?

I sat down, surprised once again. It was like he was a completely different person. “Not really. Can I tell you something?”

He set the paper down.

I looked at the surface of the Formica table, hoping I'd find some sort of symbolic answer in the speckles. “Preston dresses up like a superhero and goes out at night, stopping crime. He gets the crap kicked out of him,” I said, explaining the black eye, the bruises, and what had happened at the convenience store.

When I finished, my dad studied my face, most likely waiting for the punch line. When it didn't come, he bit his cheek, thinking. “I suppose it's a bit odd.”

I shook my head. “No, actually, it makes sense,” I said, explaining about Preston's father being murdered in front of him and how he felt guilty about it.

Dad took a sip of coffee and tapped his finger on the table. “Your mother was on bed rest for the entire time of her pregnancy—I think I've told you that before,” he said, his voice getting thick. He looked at me for a moment, then went on. “She was going crazy, you know? All day, every day, in bed for months. I tried to make her happy, but she was miserable. I couldn't imagine it, but she held up pretty well. Then, two months before her due date, she'd had enough. She begged me to take her out. Just one night. Just a couple of hours, you know? So I did. She picked a movie, and I took her.” He continued looking out the window. “
Love, Forever,
” he said, nodding to himself. “It had come out just the day before, so I walked her to the car and drove her downtown. She loved it. She laughed and she cried, and I hated every minute of it because it was a horrible movie, but even more so because I was so worried about her.” He stopped, and I saw tears gather in his eyes. “After the movie, we came home, and an hour later she had her first contraction. Four hours after that, I saw you being born. So tiny. Helpless. You were so premature the doctors said you might not live….”

I swallowed. “Dad, you don't have to do this. It's okay.”

He cleared his throat. “As they rushed you to the intensive care unit, your mom never took her eyes from me. She was so scared, Brett. Bleeding so badly. The doctors and nurses worked hard, but she knew. She knew our time was over, and she just looked at me as I held her hand. She never said a word, and she didn't have to. Then she was gone. Just like that. Gone.” He stopped, and a tear ran down his cheek. He looked at the table. “I killed her, Brett. If I'd kept her home, she'd be here right now. She'd know you.”

Tears streamed down my face, and I bit my lip. My dad didn't cry. I'd never seen him shed a tear over anything. “You didn't. It just happened.”

He wiped his tears away and looked at me. “I went to see that movie every day until it left the theaters, Brett. I saw it thirty-six times. I saw it to remind me of her, and how wonderful she was, and to punish myself. And when I hated myself enough over it, I started drinking to forget it.” He said, and his face hardened. “Your friend will always feel that guilt, Brett. Nobody will ever take it away. But if it gets ahold of him, it'll ruin his life, just like I ruined mine. If there's anything you can do to help him, do it.”