13
3:30 a.m.
MICHAEL COOPER FELT a tooth chip and a pool of blood rise in his mouth after the third time Christian Bidwell pistol-whipped him. The latest blow sent Michael reeling to the floor beside his bed. After chewing off a string of random curses beneath his breath, Michael spit out blood.
“Dude, this is not happening,” Michael started. “Even if I knew where Jamie was, I’m not going to spill to a douche like you.”
Christian offered the cocky smirk that Michael often saw when Mr. Everything sauntered down the halls of the high school with his entourage.
“Douche,” Christian mocked. “Clever guy. Look, Coop, don’t know if you’re a fan of irony, but we’re swimming in it, my friend. You see, if you’d given up Sheridan right out of the gate, I wouldn’t have reason to knock you around. I’d be out of your life. Turns out, though, you’re just a clueless son of a bitch. That means the guy with the gun has nowhere to go and needs to work out his frustration. Follow?”
“I get your speed,” Michael said. “But messing me up don’t change a damn thing. Bad enough you and the Queen Bee won’t even tell me why you’re after Jamie.”
Christian stepped back and dropped the gun to his side. He lost all pretense of a smirk.
“Huh. Skipped that detail, didn’t we?” He shrugged. “Simple, really. When I find him, I’m going to kill him. Do the world a favor.”
Michael considered the absurdity of the past fifteen minutes of interrogation and torture then responded to Christian with a howl of laughter. He fell against his bed as the lunacy of this scene – staring into the face of a pistol wielded by the most popular 18-year-old in Albion County – left him certain he was lost inside the most painfully stark nightmare of his life. If only he could figure out when the script called for him to wake up …
“No, seriously,” Christian continued. “I will literally be doing this world a favor. Don’t feel like I should have to, but Mom says it’s for the best, so who am I to fight the Queen?”
Michael’s laughter died as he looked closer and saw what appeared to be sincerity in Christian’s olive eyes. Christian had always been the sort of guy Michael envied and despised at the same time: He could do no wrong in the class, on the field, or in the arms of girls, and he could punch a ticket to any future he chose. That he was a vacuous, self-absorbed Adonis who offered nothing of true value to society apparently escaped his adoring legion of hangers-on. And now, on top of everything else, Christian was taking his talents into the fields of torture and murder.
“Yessir,” Michael said, “you’re gonna kill a kid who never looked cross-eyed at you, but oh, you’re gonna save the world in the process. Yessir, you got the whole package.” Michael scared up his best impression of the high-pitched blondes who practically bowed before their young god and said, “I love you so much, Christian Bidwell. You’re totally lit.”
Christian again shrugged before he mumbled, “Screw this,” and tightened his aim, setting the muzzle square between Michael’s eyes. “Too many comedians, Coop. Nobody’s going to miss one less.”
In the instant that followed, Michael felt the first taste of his mortality. He saw the coldness in Christian’s eyes, and the finger pull back on the trigger.
He was going to die. He was actually going to die.
“No,” Agatha Bidwell shouted as she re-entered. “Not this way.”
Christian pulled back. “He’s worthless, Mom. Knows nothing, but he sure has a mouth that needs to be shut down for good.”
“I think not. Our objective today is to save innocent life when practical. We have already lost too many friends and colleagues.” She dropped a hand on her son’s shoulder and waited for him to lower the gun. “We need to reevaluate our stratagem. I’ve just spoken with Arthur. We have a problem and we need to leave here now.”
“And Cooper? He’s seen us. All he has to do is …”
“Come with us. Based on what has happened, he may yet have appreciable value.”
“Appreciable value,” Michael mumbled. “Stock’s going up, huh?”
The next time Michael tried a sarcastic retort – while sitting in the back seat of Agatha’s car – he received a crossing blow from the butt of Christian’s gun. He cupped his nose and felt blood.
Michael did not pay attention to where Agatha was driving them or that she slowed down at the entrance to Truman Street. He did, however, see the sun come out much earlier than it should have. Flames raged from a house halfway down the street, and the yellow glow lit up the neighborhood. Small explosions erupted from inside the two-story structure. Neighbors emerged from their homes, some running and others gawking.
“I should have anticipated this,” Agatha said as she pulled off the road. “Walter always had a special love for fire.”
“Holy shit on a stick,” Michael said, recognizing at last where they were. “Walt Huggins? You trying to say he’s …”
“There,” Agatha pointed without paying Michael any mind. Seconds later, the front passenger door opened, and a man stumbled into the seat gripping his left arm, his shirt sleeve coated in blood.
He coughed. “They were waiting for us. Drive.”
Michael leaned forward when he recognized the voice. When he caught enough of the profile, Michael forgot all about his broken nose.
“No way. You? I mean, look, I can buy into the Ice Queen and Prince Charming over here, but you? Coach?”
Arthur Tynes, who coached track at Albion and trained both Jamie and Michael since they were 12, glanced back at Michael. He offered only a brief nod and turned away.
“Sorry, sport,” Arthur said. “I didn’t figure you to get
