Beyond Recognition

a multi-step process: force the skylight open and keep it open in a way he had yet to figure out; climb up onto the table and jump; pull himself up and out; wait for the truck to slow; and either climb down or jump off. All this, without being seen or heard by the driver. He felt on the edge of tears-it seemed an impossible task. He felt afraid for his life.

The gun in the holster and the duffel bag both kept staring at him, as if alive and with eyes of their own. He crawled around the soiled carpet searching out a broom handle or some other device to help him push the skylight open. As the truck changed lanes, he was thrown off balance and onto his stomach, and he struggled back to his hands and knees. It was a tiny space, and he quickly realized there was nothing in plain sight to help him, and he felt convinced that if he opened the tiny closet or any of the drawers, Nick would catch on to his presence, kill him, and leave him dumped along the highway, which was where all bodies were found anyway.

He lost his balance again and was tossed up against the duffel bag, and he couldn’t resist looking inside. One end was clipped shut, using a webbed strap that ran from the fabric handle. He unclipped this, opened the canvas folds, and stuck his head inside, hoping something might prove itself useful to his cause. What he found instead scared him half to death: large, clear plastic containers filled with milky fluid. A chemical formula was handwritten on the nearest container in black marker.

He didn’t have to know chemistry to know what it was. Drugs! He had seen a police raid of a meth lab on TV. The thought that he was trapped in the back of a pickup truck being driven by an armed drug dealer sent his head dizzy, and he swooned, nearly losing consciousness, only brought back to reality by the swerving of the truck and its sudden slowing-the whine of the engine lowering and softening in pitch. He looked up in time to see the green flash of a highway sign outside the window:

SEA-TAC AIR TERMINAL EXIT ONLY

He glanced at the duffel bag. Nick was taking a trip. He would be coming after his bag in a matter of minutes! Ben had not considered the possibility that the truck might stop and the driver come into the back. He had pictured himself heading off forever. Suddenly, he found himself a victim of the clock; they were only a matter of minutes from the airport. Time was running out. He needed a place to hide.

Panic-stricken, he glanced around as if seeing this place for the first time: a tiny, claustrophobic space with the only obvious hiding place a broom closet that seemed too risky to open, given the small break in the curtains that hid the back from the cab. It was this gap in the curtains that kept Ben low, on hands and knees. Where else to hide?

The truck slowed more and took a strong right turn at a light. It was the entrance to the airport.

The few drawers were far too small to consider as possibilities. Ben thought about taking out the drugs, placing them in the drawers, and hiding himself in the duffel bag, but that would backfire badly if Nick took the bag with him, which was likely. Hiding inside the sleeping bag was a possibility, but seemed far too risky. Then he saw it.

The bench that supported the cushions where the gun was resting was a big wooden box, shaped like a coffin. A storage area with a lifting lid! Ben pushed and the cushion lifted up and the gun slid against the back. Cluttered with tools, extension cords, cigarette cartons, rags, and boxes of ammunition, there was still plenty of room inside for a boy his size. He crawled inside and lowered the lid, hoping the change in the position of the gun wouldn’t raise the driver’s suspicions. The truck came to a complete stop, and Ben heard faintly the sound of a mechanical voice say, “Take ticket, please.”

The truck began spiraling up the airport’s corkscrew ramps to the elevated parking. Ironically, Ben had never been to the airport. The only time he had been out of the city had been to take a bus with his mother down to see his dying aunt in Kent, at the age of six-but he had seen this very parking ramp in a cop movie and could actually picture the pickup truck, held in a tight corkscrew turn, accelerating up the steep ramp. He felt both apprehension- at the idea of the driver coming into the back of the truck-and relief that the truck was certain to park and the driver to leave, offering him the chance to escape. The truck slowed and took another hard right, and Ben had to move an electric drill that was stabbing him in the back. The truck made two more sharp turns and stopped abruptly. The engine died and Ben heard the driver’s door slam shut. He caught himself holding his breath in order to hear better. His heart beat painfully in his chest, his eyes stung. His mouth was dry and his tongue was sticky. He tried to think what he would do if Nick suddenly opened up the bench and caught him. His right hand searched blindly in the dark. He found a bag of small nails and quietly gripped a fistful of them.

The truck jostled, rocking Ben side to side. He heard the padlock snap open, followed by the sound of the clasp coming undone.

Nick was coming inside. The driver. The drug dealer. The man with the gun. It felt about a thousand degrees in the box. Ben was suddenly overcome by claustrophobia, the tightness and darkness of the uncomfortable space getting the better of him. He wanted out. He had to get out. Now!

A loud noise caused his whole body to stiffen. The driver had sat down on the bench. Ben thought it sounded like he was strapping on the gun, getting ready for whatever it was he had planned. And this discovery sent another electric bolt shooting through him. If the man was taking a gun with him, he wasn’t getting on any plane. So how long would he be gone? Or worse, maybe he was not going anywhere but had come to the airport parking garage to do a deal.

Ben did not want to be a witness to any drug deal. All he wanted, more than anything in the world, was to be back in his own room, the door closed and locked; he didn’t care if he had to listen to his drunken stepfather screw his girlfriends; he didn’t care if the guy lifted a hand to him every now and then. He just wanted to be home. He hated himself for everything he had done. He wanted nothing more than to set the clock back and start all over, get a second chance.

The bench creaked as the man stood up. Ben heard the duffel bag dragging heavily on the floor; the guy let out a grunt as he struggled with it. The back door slammed shut.

He didn’t think about getting to the police and stopping the deal from going down; he thought only of freedom, of his flight to safety.

There was no sound of the clasp or the padlock. Nick had left the back unlocked. Ben didn’t stop to think why. For him, this was the green light. He pushed the bench top up a crack and ventured a look. His eyes stung with the light, and he blinked furiously. The camper was empty.

Now was his chance.

15

Terrified, exhilarated, Ben climbed out of the storage bench, his one good eye trained on the camper’s back door, no plan in his head on how to deal with what the next few minutes might bring. He behaved more like a caged bird discovering the cage left open. He carefully approached the camper’s only door, distrustful and cautious, bravely venturing a look out the window into the parking garage. He ducked just as quickly, glad he had not charged out the back of the camper as he had been tempted to do: Nick stood waiting for the elevator with the large green duffel bag at his side. It was stenciled in bold capital letters USAF. Ben impatiently waited him out.

It was strange how with just the one eye Ben could see so much, or perhaps it was his lack of peripheral vision that sharpened the importance of those objects he could see. So many times he had been struck by a football or a stick or even another kid’s fist, because it moved too fast into his range of vision and caught him by surprise. Little by little his brain had adjusted, sending early warning signals far ahead of the warning signals received by people with stereoscopic vision. Ben lacked depth of field-the world played out on a two-dimensional television screen. He was a terrible judge of distance, and his hand-eye motor coordination suffered measurably from his impairment. But if something entered his visual field it registered fully, taking on an immediate importance.

It was just a shape. Dark. About as tall as his stepfather. Standing between two parked cars. Watching. Perhaps he-she? — was standing there waiting for someone with the car keys to arrive from baggage claim, but it felt far more sinister than that, as if Ben himself were being watched, or even the man over at the elevator. Worse, the presence of this man caused Ben to fear leaving the back of the truck; he would be seen, and something warned him to avoid this at all costs. (Although he didn’t see it as such, this was his first real glimpse of Emily’s true powers. He experienced the ability to tune in to the subtle signals inside him that, if trusted, offered a vision of