Knack (Benjamin Brown Book 1) Read online

  The killer was the typed note on the fridge.

  I can’t take it anymore. Send the kids to my sister’s. You’re not fit to raise them yourself. I can’t bring myself to say I’m sorry when it’s you who should be sorry. Don’t try to find me. I’m not coming back.

  Gee thanks, Mom. Thanks for looking out for us. And that reference, “the kids,” that sure sounded loving. She hadn’t even bothered to arrange for someone to pick up my little brother from daycare. When Dennis arrived home later, he was strangely quiet, no stomping around, no screaming obscenities. He just sat at the dining room table and poured himself a drink. He called a neighbor and had her pick up Billy. That night and the following two weeks were a disjointed blur. He reported her missing but the cops initially wouldn’t respond other than to fill out a report because she had left of her own free will and there hadn’t been enough time to rule out her coming back on her own; and “She left a note Mr. Doyle; it’s out of our hands.” Then, several days later, the same cops were back and investigating the suspicious circumstances surrounding her departure. They had been encouraged by my aunt, Barbara, my mom’s sister, to look into it. “She hasn’t been in contact with me and she would have let me know where she was.” That was a mess. Dennis started spending so much time at home that he got suspended at work. The drinking picked up speed and volume. When the investigation fizzled out for “lack of evidence,” I hoped that things would start steering back toward the neighborhood of normal.

  Sometimes, we try to convince ourselves that something we know isn’t going to happen, might.

  I think those are the cruelest kind of lies.

  If I had thought the drinking was bad before, it quickly went into warp drive after the police drifted out of the picture. Half a fifth of bourbon before breakfast was the new norm. By midafternoon, he would kill half a case of beer and be completely hammered. On good days, he would pass out around dinnertime. Those were the evenings I practiced my mediocre cooking skills for Billy. Burnt grilled cheese sandwiches, soup, crackers and PB&J were the extent of my limited repertoire. There weren’t many “good” days though. Along with the drinking, came high decibel profane tirades followed by beatings for imagined slights and nonexistent disrespect. I amazed myself with the numerous ways I could manipulate my wardrobe to hide the bruises. Billy was lucky. The abuse directed at him was some choice profanity and the occasional slap on the butt, no punches.

  Small consolation.

  The capper came about six weeks after Mom took off. I got home from a friend’s house and found him well into the daily stock of beer. He’d migrated from microbrews and bottled imports and had settled in with a cheap domestic in aluminum cans. He was blearily watching TV and gave me slurred orders to take the huge bag of empties out to the trash. Trying to stay off his angry radar, I was happy to oblige and make myself scarce.

  When I went out to the side yard and got ready to quietly (don’t wake sleeping dogs) put the cans in the recycle bin, I saw a shoebox full of what looked like important paperwork. Pulling it out, I started to paw through it and felt anger and sadness start to overwhelm me. It was all stuff that belonged to my mother. Old love letters from Dennis (yeah, throw that crap away), DMV records and dozens of greeting cards memorializing various events. A small manila clasp envelope was on the bottom. When I opened it up, I felt like I was going to cry. Billy’s and my birth certificates, our social security cards, mom’s and her high school diploma were neatly folded and nestled in a Ziploc bag. The worst piece was their wedding certificate. I leaned back against the recycle bin, bowed my head and just let the tears flow. When I’d managed to clog my sinuses and give myself a decent headache, I got to my feet. I was just about to throw the box back into the bin and then changed my mind. Tucking it under my arm, I snuck back into the house and made my way upstairs to the room I shared with Billy. I put it on my bed thinking I would transfer the contents to a hiding place later. I went back downstairs to watch TV with Billy.

  I forgot about it until later that night.

  Why Dennis had been rooting around upstairs in our room is beyond me, but he found the box. He was fit to be tied. He came roaring to the top of the stairs and bellowed for me to get my ass up there pronto.

  Seeing him red-faced and panting, with the box in his left hand, was not what I considered a warm invitation to meet and discuss my reasons for rescuing it from the trash.

  “Get up here, NOW!”

  Two shaky steps upward.

  “Why would you think to bring this garbage back in the house?”

  Another step.

  “Answer me you gutless wonder!”

  One more reluctant step.

  “I…I…don’t know. There’s important stuff in there.”

  Another step and now I was within an arm’s reach.

  “I don’t care WHAT you think!”

  Don’t hit me Dennis!

  “DON’T CALL ME THAT YOU LITTLE FREAK!” His eyes had popped wide open as he and I both experienced the first manifestation of my knack. In his drunken state, I don’t know whether he completely grasped what had just happened but he was not struggling with his rage.

  He threw the box at me and when it missed, he hit me in the face with his fist.

  I remember flying backward, my face exploding in pain, but the rest of the trip to the bottom of the stairs is mercifully murky. His first response was to tell me to get up, then to tell me to stop faking. When he finally realized that I couldn’t get up, he stormed down the stairs and started screaming at me.

  “You disobey me again and I’ll knock your ass into the middle of next week! And if you think you’re going to tell anyone about this you can think again! You so much as mention this and I’ll kill you!”

  He stepped over me and launched a well-aimed kick at my leg. The snap I heard seemed horrifically loud, but Dennis apparently hadn’t noticed because he staggered off to the kitchen without looking back.

  I passed out.

  I came to with the sound of Billy’s sniffles in my ear. He was trying to lift me up, but he was just too small to pull it off. My face was a mass of pain, and I couldn’t see out of my left eye. That was nothing compared to the freight train of pain thundering through my left leg. I pushed myself up into a sitting position and gently pushed Billy away. He couldn’t make an intelligible sound, but I could see he was hurting for me. I brushed at a lock of his hair, kissed him on the cheek and told him I was okay and that he should go to bed. Still choking back sobs, he toddled up the stairs.

  I suspect that there are times in everyone’s life when they make a decision that they know is wrong. Whether it’s a matter of convenience, fear, anger or lack of conviction, we shy away from the tough call from time to time. The choice I made that night wasn’t brave. It wasn’t a courageous declaration of independence. It was cowardice. It was based on survival. Since then, I’ve tried to rationalize the decision. I was young. I was hurt. I was confused. The fact is, I collected my backpack, the box of documents, half the medicine cabinet in my bathroom, all of the money Dennis kept in a coffee can in the garage and then I ran away. Limped and dragged myself away would be more accurate. But I left my little brother behind, and I have never been able to forgive myself for that.

  An injured kid on a bike with a backpack strapped to his back and a box bungee-corded in place can cover a lot of ground when he’s scared spitless. Pedaling with one bad leg was more difficult than I had thought it would be but I managed. Desperation can push you through a lot of tough stuff. My destination had been easy to figure out. I may have been only thirteen, but I was no dummy. I had a smartphone and had plugged the location of the nearest bus terminal into my GPS app. Convincing the bored bus terminal guy that I was buying passes for me and my mom (she’s in the bathroom) was an iffy thing. It was probably to my advantage that he was either stoned or not very bright. I had plenty of practice explaining and hiding injuries. My leg was hidden by my pants and my face I kept averted and hidden under a baseba
ll cap so that the worst of the injuries couldn’t be seen.

  Reluctantly, I had smashed my phone and thrown it away. Hey, I watch TV, and you have to be completely clueless to not know that cell phone equals location. I bought passes to another state, dragged my weary body to the back of the bus, swallowed four or five ibuprofen and tried to fall asleep. Before my eyes shut, I looked out the window as the bus pulled out and saw my bike where I’d left it leaning against the bus station wall by a trashcan. It looked lonely and small.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The trip took two days. I slept as much as possible and tried to be as small and inconspicuous as I could in the back of the bus, only getting off to buy food. When the bus finally pulled into Seattle, I had no idea what to expect. I had never been there before. Pictures of Mount Rainier, St. Helen’s and the Space Needle summed up my visual perceptions of The Emerald City. The official name is a little misleading. Yes, it’s very green compared to other places but it’s a push as to whether the name refers to evergreens or mold. It rains, a lot.

  I needed a place to sleep and, if I could figure it out, medical attention. Finding a hostel was easy by picking up a pamphlet in the bus station, and lucky me, there was a medical clinic within a few blocks. I was tired, but pain won out. Seattle has great public transportation, thank God. I was at a clinic within an hour. Then the bad news: no adult accompanying me, no ID and the black and blue artwork on my face set off immediate concern with the pretty girl at the reception desk. She asked me to park myself in a chair and assured me she was going to get help right away. I slipped out while she was on the phone.

  The trip to the hostel had been depressing. My leg hurt like crazy and I was learning how difficult being on my own was going to be. Fortunately for me, I met Seth Mullen.

  Seth was in charge of the hostel I had picked based on nothing more than location. He just exuded “good person.” Before I could say more than my name, he sized me up and got me some medical attention right off. It wasn’t much; I needed to have the leg set and casted, but all he could arrange for me that first day was a brace that was held in place with Velcro strips. The alcohol and ointment he smeared on my face hurt going on, but I felt better when he was done.

  “All right, what’s the story? I can’t let you sleep here unaccompanied by an adult and I’d like to know how you got banged up.” He was probably in his mid-twenties. Seth had short, sandy-colored hair, carefully trimmed stubble and a kind face with a ready smile. He had the slender and rangy physical appearance that girls his age liked and the muscles in his exposed arms were toned and tight. He was sprawled in a chair leaning back with his feet stretched out waiting for my answer.

  I had decided to open up a little, but not be completely, foolishly honest.

  “My mom and I ran away. Dennis is violent. He was abusing her and that’s how I got messed up.” Technically all true.

  “Where’s your mom right now? Seems like she should be here with you.”

  “She’s looking for work and asked me to see about sleeping arrangements. We don’t know anybody in town.” Now the fabricating began.

  Seth looked skeptical. “Where is she looking for work? Maybe I could give her some suggestions.”

  “She didn’t say. She just told me to stay put and said she’d be back later.” Okay. That was just a plain outright lie. I was starting to feel bad about not shooting him straight, not to mention, he seemed too smart for me to snow him easily.

  “How much later?”

  Dang. “She didn’t specifically say, but it won’t be long. I mean, I’m just a kid. She’s not going to just leave me here, especially since my leg’s so screwed up.”

  “Dennis… That your dad?”

  “I don’t call him that anymore.”

  “Mmm. I get it. Look, I don’t live here so I can’t watch out for you all day, and I’m only here until tomorrow morning when the daytime administrator gets here. What I can do is let you bunk here in the office on the couch overnight or until your mom gets back. It’s pretty comfortable. I’ve used it a time or two. But, I don’t want to see you out in the dormitory area and I want to talk to your mom when she shows up. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I said, relieved.

  “Is your leg hurting?”

  “Yeah, but I can handle it.” Another lie. It hurt like hell when I was still, but it was really bad when I put any weight on it. All of the travel and hopping around had made it worse.

  “Well, stretch out in here and I’ll check in on you later.”

  As bad as my leg hurt, I was out almost before my eyes closed.

  Seth obviously never met my mom. The next day, my sleeping arrangement on the couch was exchanged for a cot in a tiny eight by eight room that was closest to the office. I had money, but he wouldn’t take it. Meals I had to pay for though and that plus buying some second-hand clothes at a place called The Buffalo Exchange had cut into my cash. I needed a way to make money and stealing wasn’t an option I wanted to explore. I didn’t think I had any skills that would get me work. And who would employ a thirteen-year-old? I was afraid to experiment with the unexpected and eerie silent speak attribute that had popped up during my confrontation with Dennis, but during my second week at the hostel, I discovered two new talents. One, because kids will be kids and I was bored; the other was an accident.

  My continued presence in the hostel had caused me to become nearly invisible to the staff but less so with the tenants since they came and went and were replaced by new people every day. I spent a lot of hours lying on my bed, putting as little pressure on my leg as possible. The pain had subsided to a dull ache that never stopped. Seth had convinced a friend with some medical background to look at it. He’d had enough skill to put a cast on it but told me that it looked like I had suffered a spiral fracture of the tibia and that without surgery it wasn’t going to heal right. More good news: no adult guardian was one thing; no insurance was another.

  On a day when I was trying to distract myself from the ache and the itching from the cast by playing solitaire on my cot, a new guy who had drifted in that morning poked his head into my room and asked me if I wanted to play some poker. I was a little intimidated and more interested in feeling sorry for myself so I had said “No.” Probably a good thing, because I was experiencing a major fail with solitaire. My mom had often said, “Lucky at cards, unlucky in love.” Based on that little nugget, I was going to meet the love of my life that day. Sure, me being thirteen, that was likely, right? I had lost several games and had resorted to peeking at the hidden cards to see how far I was from being able to make a play. Not even close. Whether it was just childish frustration or stewing over the emotional body blows, I’d taken the week before, I was in a pretty pissy mood.

  I shuffled the deck and set up another game. I was unable to play a single card. I stared at the seven of spades that was face up from my last play. I had all black suits showing so I needed a diamond or a heart. I just stared at the card angrily and stoked my emotional fires with unproductive sulking. I looked at the spades on the card face and imagined them transforming into hearts.

  Why did she have to leave?

  Heart….heart…heart…spade…spade…spade.

  I shouldn’t have left Billy.

  Heart…heart…heart…spade…spade…spade.

  I wish Dennis had left and Mom had stayed.

  Heart…heart…heart…heart…heart…heart.

  I did a double take. The face-up playing card was a seven of hearts. At first, I thought I’d just spaced and the card had been red all along. But when I reached for it, the symbols blurred, darkened and turned into spades. Feeling a little strange and giddy, I focused on the card again. It changed instantly but as soon as I stopped focusing, it phased back to the original suit.

  Remember the first time you figured out how to do something cool? My experience that afternoon was like that. I couldn’t stop. I must have spent almost two hours practicing my newfound trick. I tried different suits, different numbe
rs, multiple cards, the design on the back of the card, every possible combination. Then I pulled the ace of spades out and just focused on that. I pushed myself to make it change to a heart faster. I tried making it retain the new suit and color as long as possible but every time I consciously stopped focusing, it would change back. But over time, I noticed that it changed back more slowly each time. I lost count of how many times I made it transform but after at least a couple of dozen metamorphoses, it didn’t revert.

  I riffled through the deck and found the original ace of hearts. There was a slight difference. The color of the original was a little duller and the surface of the card I had changed didn’t show as much wear. It took a while but by focusing on the two cards side by side, I was able to get my “new” ace to look exactly like the original.

  Lying back on the cot, I stared at the rafters above. What could I do with this? Would I still be able to do it tomorrow? How big of an object could I change? My thoughts spun from one subject to another.

  Then I had an idea.

  Scooping up the cards, I grabbed the pair of crutches Seth had loaned me and went looking for the guy who had wanted to play poker. I found him and a couple of other guys over by the coffee station. I hadn’t paid much attention to his appearance when he had spoken to me earlier. Getting a closer look made me question my plan. His jeans were shiny and had that green tinge that indicated it had been a long time since they’d been washed. His shirt was wrinkled, probably from sleeping in it, and sported several small holes. His gray windbreaker had probably been white or tan when it has been new. Dark, greasy hair; moderately heavy beard growth; and red-rimmed eyes screamed of his membership in a club I was familiar with from living with a charter member. If you looked up disheveled on Wikipedia, his picture would be posted there.