Watched (4 page)

As I stare at my lighter, I contemplate the one huge problem with my plan: I know nothing about King. Especially where to start looking for him.

For obvious reasons, I don't like computers, never use them except for homework. The one that's in my room, always on, that was a gift from King via my uncle. Some gift: a twenty-four/seven peephole into my life.

I'm a pen-and-paper kind of guy—especially after King came into my world. I grab my backpack and retreat to the kitchen, trying to look like I'm getting ready to do my homework instead of plotting a murder.

I grab my notebook, my personal one, smaller and more compact than my one for school. It's bent and warped because half the time I carry it folded in my back pocket or my coat. I always have it with me for notes and ideas and just to doodle thoughts in private. I can sketch and write and do whatever, then burn the pages before anyone sees them. I like holding the pages over the flames, watching them catch fire, then fall to ash. Closest thing to privacy I have.

Now I sit down and open it to a blank page. In the center of the page, I write
King
in big letters. I sketch flames around them as I ponder. What do I really know about the man who controls my life?

Not much. I know he knows my uncle. That's what started all this. My uncle owes him a debt of some kind. One that I'll never be able to pay off.

I'm pretty sure King really is a man—he could be disguising his voice, but we've talked so many times that I don't think so. The way he talks makes me think he's older than my uncle, who's twenty-eight. My mom's thirty-four and King sounds older than her as well.

He sounds like he went to college, likes to use big words.

He lives on the East Coast—somewhere in my same time zone from the times he calls, but has clients all over the world, hence the middle-of-the-night private shows.

I wonder if he has kids of his own. Could a father do what he does to me and other kids? He's mentioned others, ones who tried to renege on their deals with him, has sent me videos and pictures. Some he cybersmashes, others pay the price in real life—one kid, he looked about my age, was badly beat up when King outed him as being gay. Two more killed themselves, sent notes apologizing to King, saying they should never have tried to double-cross him.

At the time I half thought they were all fake, King's way of keeping me in line. But the man on the “date” with my mom and this other guy who followed Janey home, they weren't fake.

King has the dirt on a lot of people, kids and grownups. I circle his name with a line of faceless stick figures, his army of scumbags, ready to do his bidding. If I did what King asked, that's what I'd be signing up for. He'd never let me loose after that, could have me do anything…even kill someone.

Maybe those kids who killed themselves had help, someone who made their deaths look like suicide.

I shiver and slip into my jacket. It was my dad's, left behind with the rest of his stuff after he ran off to start a new life four years ago. I'm not sure why I kept it after Mom boxed up everything else. Sometimes I get so angry at Dad for ditching us, leaving me to clean up the pieces. So many times I've thought of burning it, imagining what the cracked leather will smell like as the flames devour the last bit of my father.

But I never actually do it. I've grown into the jacket. It's become a part of me, heavy across my shoulders, reminding me I'm the one responsible for Mom and Janey now.

I wonder if that's why Dad left it behind—too heavy. Too much to carry.

Maybe for him. Not for me. I'll never let Mom and Janey down.

I glance at my paper. I've drawn a shadowy sketch of a man, my best memory of my dad. I stare at it for a moment, then cover it in flames, black as my pencil skids across the page, devouring his face.

Back to King. Surely after almost four years I know something more about him.

He's good with computers—but anyone is compared to me.

He doesn't like boys—not like my uncle does. I have no proof, but from King's tone when he's dissecting my performance or coaching me for one of his clients, he seems bored, more interested in getting paid than anything. Definitely not like the tone of his clients. Those pervs don't bother to hide their interest.

Power, control—that's what King loves. Even more than the money, I think. The way he gets so creative when he wants to punish me or put me in my place. The things he's done to other kids even when they do everything he asks. This is all a game to him—one he'll win at any cost.

Over the years I've seen how twisted his mind is. It scares me because even before today, I knew he'd stop at nothing to get what he wants.

He really will kill Janey or Mom, just to prove to me that he can—and he'll get away with it. That's how smart he is.

How the hell am I ever going to stop him?

I scribble over King's name, pushing harder and harder on the pencil until it snaps. Even then he's not totally erased from sight.

As I reach into my pack for another pencil, I find the envelope Janey gave me when I got home. I look at it suspiciously. Sometimes King sends me stuff: new phones or props or clothes he wants me to wear. But his stuff always comes addressed to my uncle in boxes with return addresses to make it look like it was ordered online.

This one is addressed to me. The name on the return address is the radio station I listen to: a hard rock, heavy metal station, the only one not country or oldies around here. But the address can't be right: One Hope Lane. I know most of the county, riding out to fires, and I've never heard of it. Besides, I've gone past the radio station; it's on Broad Avenue.

I look over my shoulder even though the kitchen is empty. Janey's still watching her after-school shows, Mom's not due home from her shift at the nursing home for another hour, and my uncle won't be home until after that, unless there's another fire. Then he'll be even later.

The kitchen is in the back of the house, faces the yard and, beyond it, the meadow and forest. No neighbors on this side; no one can see me. I'm alone.

But I don't feel that way.

I should be creeped out like I was when I first realized King could watch me through the laptop anytime he wanted—he controls that computer, can power it up remotely, and he knows if I try to shut him out by closing it. I've learned to accept that I have no privacy, but it still grates on me.

One Hope Lane. What if it's one of King's clients, tracked me down somehow in real life? It could be King, playing a trick. He loves anything that will keep me off balance, keep me easy to trip up.

I get up and go into the family room to check on Janey. Her chest PT is about done, so I unhook the vest even though it's a few minutes early. As I set up her afternoon breathing treatment, I ask, “Where'd you get that envelope? The one addressed to me?”

She finishes coughing and spitting out mucus, handing me her wet, slimy tissues. They don't gross me out; I'm used to it. Even glad that everything she's coughed up is white, no hint of the green that means infection. She's scheduled for a tune-up at Children's tomorrow—she and Mom will be gone all day, making the rounds of the specialists who keep Janey healthy.

“It was in the mailbox,” she finally answers, making a face like I'm trying to trick her.

“No one gave it to you?” I cringe at the thought of the man with the knife getting close enough to give her anything.

“Nope.” Her eyes grow wide. “What's in it? Are you trying to sneak something past Mom?”

Typical little sister, always looking for a chance to insert herself in my life. She has no idea how hard I work to keep her out of it.

I laugh and hand her the nebulizer mask. “Not past Mom, past you, you nosy brat. Maybe it's your birthday present. Maybe I'll just have to send it back if you peeked.”

She knows I'm only teasing but squeals anyway. “No, don't send it back, Jesse. What is it? Whatcha get me?”

Her birthday is a few weeks away and I've been working on a hand-drawn graphic novel starring her. Not many words—I suck at words—but tons of fun pictures. I start her nebulizer machine and smile. “You'll just have to wait and see.”

She flumps down into her chair, wrinkling her nose at me as the mist swirls around her face, then motions me out of the way so she can see the TV. I return to my spot in the kitchen and examine the envelope again.

The postmark is two days ago, Altoona—the post office where all our mail, even local Smithfield stuff, goes through. No answers there. Finally I grab a steak knife and slice the end open.

A black cotton T-shirt falls out. Lands on the table with a very un-T-shirt
thunk
. I open the folded shirt, finding a cell phone and charger wrapped inside. Along with a carefully folded note. The T-shirt advertises the big car show this weekend at the Telenet Arena at Smithfield College. I've been listening to the ads on the radio; my uncle's been talking about us going. They're going to have all sorts of drawings and giveaways—even a new car. I am starting to think this is all some weird promotion, and open the note, expecting to find free tickets or a chance to win.

Instead I find a phone number. And the words:
I
can
help.
Printed on a screen capture of my face.

I freeze, terrified. It's a trick. It has to be. A trap set by King.

Hands trembling, I shove everything back inside the envelope and bury it at the bottom of my backpack. I'll burn it all later tonight.

But I can't stop thinking about it. How does King do that? Read my mind, know my vulnerabilities? It's like he's in my head, knows exactly when I'm desperate enough to think of fighting back, to risk the consequences.

I sink into a chair and fold my arms on the table, resting my head on them, my face hidden in the darkness I've created. It's hard to breathe, like someone's choking me. There's no way I can take on King by myself. He's too smart, too strong.

There's only one person who can help me stop King: my uncle.

I take a deep breath and raise my face, squinting at the sun that's low in the sky, hanging just above the trees at the edge of the property. Even though it's April, most of the trees are barely budding, their naked limbs clawing at the fading flame-colored light.

My uncle. I almost laugh at the irony—my English teacher would love it, I should write an essay or something. The one man I can't trust is the only man who can save me, save my family.

It makes sense in a warped kind of way. After all, my uncle is a firefighter, a hero. He saves lives, helps people every day.

And I need help. Like I never have before. I can't go to Mom—if I tell her about King, I'd have to tell her about my uncle. After Dad walking out on us—on her—she's so vulnerable, blames herself, tries so hard to be both mother and father to me and Janey. How can I ever tell her what her own brother does to me? It would kill her.

Forget the cops or teachers or anyone else—no one would believe me about my uncle, the hero firefighter, and if they don't believe that, they'd never believe there's some creepy guy online who has been controlling my life for the past three years. Besides, King would find out—he always does—and he'd hurt Janey or Mom.

I don't trust my uncle, but surely he'll help—for Janey and his own sister, my mom. He loves being a hero. Plus, he hates King—refuses to talk about him, even though I know King tells my uncle sometimes what he wants him to do with me. Special events, King calls them.

But now King's raised the stakes, now it's life or death.

My uncle. He has to help now.

After my mom comes home from work, I wait outside on the front stoop, picking at the crumbling concrete along the edge of the top step until a shiny, new, black Ram hemi grumbles its way up the driveway.

A man my height only with dark brown hair instead of my dingy blond climbs down. He's got plenty of muscles and walks like he knows where he's going today, tomorrow, next year.

When I was little, younger than Janey, before I knew better, I adored my uncle, his confidence and strength. Loved it that he took extra time with me, treated me special.

Now I despise him. But I don't dare ever let him see that, because we have nowhere else to go. My mom and Janey wouldn't last long out on the street. It's my job to keep them safe. That means keeping my uncle happy—and King, his invisible not-so-silent partner.

“What's up, Jesse?” my uncle asks, strolling up the front walk and staring down at me like I'm a little kid with a skinned knee. Like next to him, I'm nothing, a klutz who can't even keep from tripping over his own two feet.

He wants me to think that. To remember my place. After almost four years of living in his home, eating the food he puts on the table, he doesn't have to say anything. I know what we owe him.

What
I
owe him, for taking care of my family when my dad walked out. But sometimes, between him and King, I wonder if there'll be anything left of me when they finish taking what they want.

Today, finally, I know the answer. If I give in to King's demands, there won't be anything left. He'll own me, body and soul. If I give in to him, I'm as good as killing myself—only I have no choice but to stay alive in order to protect my family from King and my uncle.

Who am I kidding? I'm screwed. Totally, completely screwed. In every damn sense of the word.

All's that left is to save Mom and Janey.

My uncle nods his head, passing me by, and I know he wants me to follow. Wordlessly, he leads me inside, shedding his coat in the front foyer, calling “Hi!” to Janey and telling my mom that we'll be working out in the basement. He speeds down the wooden steps, barely touching them.

I close the heavy door behind me and trudge down. The basement is partially finished with cheap paneling and linoleum flooring. There's a weight bench and heavy bag, along with a scruffy old recliner, TV, workbench, and shelves with tools and half-finished projects.

By the time I reach the bottom, he's taken his flannel and T-shirt off and is straddling the weight bench, doing bicep curls with a dumbbell. I know he probably already spent time at the gym at the firehouse this morning before coming home to catch a few hours' sleep and then leaving again. He's a people person, hates being alone in the house. So when he gets up in the middle of the day after a shift, he likes to go and “hang out.” Janey's seen him stop by her school, watching the kids out playing, but she thinks he's checking up on her, thinks it's cool to have an uncle who cares so much.

When I was a kid like her, I used to think that too.

He raises the weight slowly, gaze fixed on me watching him, veins popping along his muscles. He likes it when I watch. I indulge him, sinking into the recliner across from him. He smiles and lowers the weight, then repeats the motion.

“You going to tell me what's wrong?” he asks. “If not, get over here and we'll pump iron.”

He's not talking about lifting weights.

I shift uncomfortably in the recliner, but it's so old and worn the movement makes me sink in deeper. I remind myself that my last hope, my only hope, is my uncle. I need to smother my anger and convince him to help me.

So I tell him what happened today. About Janey and the man with the knife. About what King wants me to do next.

“Wow.” He finishes his set, lowers the dumbbell, and wipes his chest with his T-shirt. “That's a tough one. What are you going to do?”

“Whatever King has over you, it can't be worth Janey's life.” All my frustration and fear flash over into my voice before I can stop it.

Without using his hands, he pushes to his feet, standing over me. I edge back in my chair.

“King has nothing on me.” His voice has flared from polite “don't care, but I'll listen” to “don't you dare go there” edgy. His hands bunch into fists that make the muscles he just worked bulge even more. “You think I'd ever take that kind of shit from anyone? Let a creep like him blackmail me?”

“Then why—” I trail off, my world teetering, making me feel seasick as the pieces finally fall into place. I thought my uncle hated King because King was using him just like he used me. But no. “He pays you. You do this for money.”

“Not only money.” He yanks his T-shirt over his head, shoving his arms through the sleeves. “I love you. And I love my sister and Janey. A firefighter doesn't make shit—especially not when three more mouths to feed show up uninvited on my doorstep. And you, you were so lost. You needed a man in your life, someone you could look up to. Everything I do, I do for you, Jesse.”

I'm silent, trying to swallow my anger, but it's not going down easy. Then the logic behind his words catches up with me. “Wait. You're saying I'm to blame for all this?”

He shrugs. “I don't know what arrangements you made with King—it's none of my business—but a man has to take responsibility for his own actions. I never did anything with you that you didn't want, Jesse. You never said no. And look at the good that's come from it. Your mom and sister have a safe place to stay; they're not homeless out on the street. You've got food, clothing, hell, I even gave you my old truck. How many sixteen-year-old kids have it as good as you? I sure as hell didn't when I was your age.”

I blink. The world fractures into puzzle pieces as my eyelids close and open and close and open. Each time, I expect to see it go together in a way that makes sense, but it doesn't. I open my eyes and my uncle is still standing there, truly believing I wanted everything that's happened to me these past few years, that I asked for, that I even…liked it.

I taste burning in the back of my mouth and don't have enough spit to wash it away. I hang my head, try one last time. “What are we going to do about Janey? I can't let King hurt her or Mom.”

“Of course you can't. They're your responsibility. You have to follow through with whatever you promised King. Man up, Jesse.” He's impatient, as if we're talking about me backing down from a scary leap off the high dive, like when I was six and he climbed up, jumped with me, holding me safe.

Maybe not so safe. After, alone in the changing room, was the first time he insisted we shower together. I was so young and dumb. I didn't tell anyone, scared no one would ever love me or think I was special the way my uncle did.

“I-I can't…” My voice shakes away the rest of my words.

He doesn't hear. He's pacing back and forth, full of energy. “I'll help you. We'll go over to the car show this weekend, start looking.”

“Looking?”

“Sure. For your new friend. A kid who needs a role model, someone who can show him the ropes, let him know he's not alone.” He stops behind me. My shoulders tense, but all he does is ruffle his fingers through my hair and kiss the top of my head. “Don't worry, Jesse. It's still you and me. I'll be with you every step of the way.”

His phone rings and he grabs it. “Gotta take this.” He runs up the steps, leaving me alone in the basement.

The door slams shut behind him and I'm still sitting there. Frozen. Like the coward I am. The light from the naked bulb overhead burns against my eyes. I close them but they still sting. Warm, salty tears escape. All I can think is:
this
is
my
fault.

I deserve whatever happens to me—I'm weak and sick and stupid and every name King or his clients ever called me. I can handle that. Can handle anything King—or my uncle—wants to do to me.

Standing, I rub my face against my shoulder, leaving a wet, gray trail on the white cotton of my tee. What I can't handle is something bad happening to Janey or my mom or some other poor kid because of me.

I sniff hard and move to unlock my uncle's toolbox. Not the big one on wheels. This one is a heavy, red steel one that sits on the lowest shelf along the back wall, hidden in the shadows. He doesn't know I know the combination, but I saw him open it last time we came home from the shooting range. He has a few guns, but the one I take is the smallest: a snub-nosed .38 revolver. So small, I can hide it in the palm of my hand or slide it into my pocket.

King and my uncle are right about one thing: It's time for me to man up. Time for me to accept responsibility for my actions and deal with the consequences—even if it means ruining the rest of my life.

What other choice do I have?