I, of all people, know the answer: bad guys who are nothing like me do that. Vigilantes with no respect for the law or human decency do that. They see blood, and their eyes glaze over as they set off on lethal adventures.
I kissed my dad good-bye when he set out to hunt, waiting for the limo to pull up and take him to the private airport. Because the TSA guys at McCarran International don’t like it if you have too many ounces of shampoo or a sniper rifle in your carry-on. I wasn’t supposed to notice him packing this rifle, but even disassembled, it was hard to miss.
He was just another guy in shades off to neutralize an irritant, solve the fucking problem, kill his prey. My plan was to ignore heredity and environment, and become his antithesis. I was the model guy, attending the closest thing to prep school a city that runs on vice can offer, battling Dan Barrons for every honor in the place. I was home on school nights, heating up nutritious dinners my mom left for me as she powered her way through night law school and setting out a striped tie and regulation button-down blue shirt for the next day.
But look at me now.
I’ve got the shades, and I know where to find Don’s gun in Mom’s garage. I’ve got good marksmanship, penmanship, grades, and skills with a bow and arrow, a fencing saber (useful if someone dressed up like Zorro comes at you with a sword), a harpoon, and, right, my bare hands.
I have years of Krav Maga to thank for that—starting at six years old, jamming my fingers into the teacher’s eyes, crying because I was afraid that when I pulled my thumbs out, his eyeballs would be stuck on my thumbnails like two candy apples on sticks.
My dad smacked me on the butt. “Don’t cry, Jack. That’s just stupid.”
You want stupid? Stupid was taking the envelope when Don first handed it to me. I wish I’d buried it out in the desert. I lock it in the glove compartment before I pull back into the prison parking lot.
I tell the lady at the sign-in, “I didn’t use my time up. Please?”
You have to look pretty pathetic for Yucca Valley Correctional to cut you a break.
They bring Don back out. He has his slack-jawed, superior face on. I hate the part of myself that wants to smash him.
I tell him, “I can’t do this.”
Don shrugs. “Can’t or won’t?”
This is another gem from our dad.
“Either way, it’s not happening.”
Don’s eyes get squinty, like on the kind of animal you don’t want in your attic. I know his eyes don’t glow red in the dark—I’ve shared a bedroom with the guy—but they look as if they would. He shakes his head, and this time he looks smug.
“It’s not just me you have to worry about,” he says. “You want to be an orphan? If this girl doesn’t disappear, I’m not the only one Yeager’s coming after.”
What?
I level my gaze into the center of his pinprick pupils. I can’t tell if he’s lying or juggling half truths, or why this is happening, but I’m shaking like winter in Alaska with no parka.
Dead Don is one thing, but my mom? Not my mom.
“Shit, Don. What did you do to piss off Karl Yeager?”
Don waves for the guard.
I say, “Stop! What the hell? You can’t drop that and disappear. Explain.”
I reach for the pocket where I keep my phone, which isn’t there because they take electronics away from you on the way in.
“Don’t bother calling her,” he says. “You know what you have to do to make it right. If you care what happens to her . . .”
In what universe do I salute him and not call her?
I can’t get my phone back fast enough. In the corner of the prison parking lot, I’m locked in the car, blasting the air conditioner, radio cranked up, trying to noise-bomb fear so I sound normal enough to call home.
“Mom?”
“You’re not holding that cell phone while you’re driving, are you, Jackson?”
I’m so relieved to hear her voice, I’m not even annoyed by what the voice is saying.
“No! I’m parked! And it’s hands-free. I never do that. It’s just . . .” It’s just that Don just threatened your life? “It’s just, I’m leaving Don’s late, and hey, is everything okay over there?”
There’s a longer than usual silence. I’m not used to being this afraid, not for years.
“You left some lights on. I wasn’t going to say anything until you got home, but since you asked.” She sighs. “Did you have a nice time with Don?”
There, she’s her normal, Don-loving, deluded-mom, compulsive self. I start breathing again.
“Always nice.”
It’s a stretch to remember a nice time with Don.
“Sweetheart, are you tense? You sound tense.”
I’m so tense, I can hear my neck crack when I turn my head.
“No worries, Ma. I’m not.”