The Orphan (18 page)

The Acura had come to a halt.

He should have known better, after twenty-six years, and he was angry with himself for getting his hopes up. What had he been expecting? That the dirt park would still be here, full of kids riding and jumping, performing death-defying stunts like the old days? Get serious. Today’s parents wouldn’t let their ten-year-old ride a bike to the end of the driveway without strapping on a helmet, elbow and knee pads, a mouthguard. It was over, and it had been over for a while.

Which means I couldn’t have come here last night. It was only a dream. Adam’s influence, his vision, not real, even though it seemed like it happened yesterday
…
 

A car honked behind him.

Darren raised a hand in apology, but before he could shift into drive, the car – a Range Rover with a vanity license plate that said RENDER – sped past, its wake wind rocking the Acura, the Rover’s brush guard inches from sheering off his side mirror. Darren watched the bastard race ahead, saw that it was a redhead babe with her hair in a ponytail, her thin arm extending to flip him off. She was not content with the standard, one-time bird, however. Apparently, stopping on a nearly dead calm street was enough of a violation to earn a truly vengeful, thrice-repeated jamming up and down of the extended middle digit:
fuck you fuck you fuck you!
As if she wanted to jab him with it, stick it up his nose.

He was already in a sour mood. The woman jackhammering her finger at him made Darren’s blood boil.

Not knowing what his intentions were, maybe to tail the psycho and scare her for a mile or two, maybe just to get the hell out of here, Darren pressed the pedal to the floor. The front-wheel drive engaged with a good dose of torque steer, pulling him left and then right before he got the car under control, and the speedometer climbed to thirty, then forty, in no time.

He passed the attached-housing development and a thick line of woods cutting through the land revealed itself on his left. Darren vaguely recalled a stream or culvert inside these trees, something too dense for him and his friends to ride through, and he turned his head in that direction as he ascended the rise on Kalmia.

We used to wet our T-shirts down in there on hot days
…
 

The blur came out of the trees some fifty feet ahead, a blue and black insectile figure with spinning disc wings spread above its central mass, hurling itself from Darren’s left field of vision and instantly hovering just ahead of the Acura’s front end. Darren’s adrenaline went berserk, dilating time, hauling the world into focus, and the figure resolved into something altogether simpler and more terrifying than a UFO.

Wheels, jeans, sneakers and a hump of backpack – it was a boy on a BMX bike. The bicycle itself was laid out pancake-flat, as were the boy’s legs, while his upper body remained vertical. Darren instantly recognized the move as a tabletop, the planning and execution and speed of which could not have factored in the presence of a car and therefore qualified it as death-defying. The handlebars were crossed-up, the blurring chrome spokes aimed skyward, and above the small model of planetary rotation Darren caught a glimpse of the face: open-mouthed, wide-eyed, sweating as if caught in the midst of a ferocious gym workout.

The superb control and exertion required to pull off this trick gave way to raw fear as the kid realized he was about to collide with a speeding car. He straightened the bars, righting the bike, and Darren saw the rear tire touch down at the dead center of his windshield with a dull plump. The windshield splintered and spiderwebbed, bowing inward. Darren’s foot mashed the brake pedal as the kid’s rear tire dipped preciously close to the dash, and then the anti-lock brakes bit hard.

Darren would never know if the bike’s rear tire caught the lip of his right-side A-pillar or if the Acura’s grind to a halt and the still-intact windshield were enough, but in either case the boy rebounded up and away, catapulted down the road and over the shoulder, soaring at least seven feet above the ground. Darren caught sight of the two-wheeled steed flipping freely, then a flash of the body itself tumbling down into the weeds that seemed to engulf him like an airbag collapsing around a stuntman.

The Acura skewed sideways across the double-yellow lines and rocked to a halt, but for nearly half a minute Darren continued to feel as though he were careening around a race track. His hands were white around the steering wheel. His ears popped. He expected to hear screaming, bystanders rushing in, ambulances to follow shortly, but there was only quiet, a stillness punctuated by his own heavy breathing.

Trembling, blinking away visions of carnage and lawsuits and grieving parents, he inched the Acura onto the gravel shoulder. He pushed the shifter into park, turned off the motor, opened his door, and stepped out to discover whether death was merely imminent or already here.

The boy was on his back, arms and legs outstretched, a snow angel in weeds. His backpack was shoved up under one shoulder and beside his head, and Darren wondered if the pack had saved his skull from bursting open. He didn’t see any blood. No road burn on the boy’s arms or face. Luckily he seemed to have fallen on a downward slope with few rocks in the vicinity. The fact that he had come through unscathed on the outside was of no comfort, however. Darren knew there could be large amounts of blood pooling inside, around broken bones and ruptured organs. His eyes were wide open and his chest was still heaving from the hard riding he’d been doing leading up to this.

Darren stepped closer and the kid put up a hand in warning – don’t come any closer, don’t touch me. He had the strangest feeling that if he made one sudden move or said the wrong thing, the kid would leap to his feet and dart off like a wounded rabbit, finding a hole in the ground where it would be safe to die.

‘Hey,’ Darren said, unsure where to begin. ‘Can you hear me? Can you move? Where does it hurt? Say anything, my man, talk to me.’

‘I’m okay.’ The boy paused for breath. ‘I rolled.’

Darren noticed the T-shirt. On the chest was a faded iron-on of The Creature From the Black Lagoon, with a thought bubble that read, ‘Who peed in the pool?’ He remembered seeing this years ago, when he was a kid, back when those iron-on T-shirt shops were all the rage. A quiver of recognition swam through him, the first tingle of realization that something about this situation was extremely… odd. But like the boy, he was in shock, not able – or not yet willing – to process much more than the basic questions he was supposed to ask now. Assess the damage. Worry about the rest later.

‘Did my car hit you, your body I mean? All I saw was your tires.’

The boy shook his head an inch or so. ‘Bounced off you.’

‘That was one hell of a tabletop,’ Darren said.

The boy frowned. ‘How do you know what a tabletop is?’

‘I used to ride BMX. Still do. Well, these days I collect a lot more than I ride, but I try to get out now and then.’ Darren looked back but saw no sign of the bike. ‘Your bike is probably ruined. I guess I owe you a new one.’

‘Wasn’t mine,’ the boy said, sitting up.

‘Whoa, easy, don’t move. You need to lie still while I call an ambulance.’

‘I said I’m not hurt.’ As if to prove this, the boy pushed himself upright and stood. He immediately looked to the road, both ways, as if expecting company.

‘You’re in shock,’ Darren said. ‘You might feel fine, but we have to get you checked out. I don’t want you walking around only to find out you have a severed vertebra or a brain injury.’

‘Not possible,’ the kid said, wiping his jeans and straightening his backpack. ‘No doctors, no cops, no nothing. I gotta get out of here.’

‘That’s insane. No way I’m letting you walk away from this.’

Ambulatory, looking tired but otherwise fine, the kid walked past Darren in search of his bike. ‘You don’t have a choice.’

Darren glanced around for help, wanting to wave a witness over, wishing for an expert to intervene. But this was a seldom-used section of Kalmia. The nearest condos were in front of them, facing southwest to take in the sun and the mountain views. There were only trees to the north, and no one had come running out to offer help.

They were alone.

‘What’s your name?’ Darren said, following him. ‘We need to contact your parents at the very least.’

Combing the weeds, the kid said, ‘Don’t have any.’

He found the bike, lifted it to inspect the damage. The handlebars were snapped at the crossbar, the rear wheel bent, one of the crank arms was gone. The kid chucked the bike back into the weeds. He turned and looked at Darren.

‘Nothing left to do. You can go now.’

‘All right. Hey, I’m not trying to hassle you. Just hold on a second. What’s your name? Can you at least tell me that?’

The boy only stared at him, and suddenly Darren knew. It had to do with the boy’s size, his thin build, his sweat-flopped hair, certain facial features. But more than anything it was the look in the kid’s eyes. The sadness, the forlorn look of someone who is utterly lost. There are coincidences, and then there are things too rare to be a coincidence. It had to be him.

But also,
it could not be him
. There was just no way. No explanation.

‘Patrick,’ the kid said, looking at the ground. ‘Patrick Robinson.’

See? It’s not
him
. And only an insane person would even consider otherwise.

‘Okay, Patrick. I’m Darren. What do you mean you don’t have parents? You don’t live around here? Did you run away?’

‘Something like that,’ Patrick said, but he no longer appeared calm or resigned. He was staring at Darren with a caution that hadn’t been there before.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Your name’s Darren?’

‘Lynwood, yes. Darren Lynwood.’

The boy looked away quickly, then back at him with a flash of… what? Anger? Repulsion? Fear? Maybe all three. Then he trudged away, up toward the road.

Darren followed him. ‘Hey. Patrick, you okay?’

‘I gotta get going. Sorry about your car.’ Patrick turned east, walking faster.

‘Wait,’ Darren called after him. ‘Hold up, man.’

Patrick stopped, looked back.

If I can just get him in the car, get to my phone, I can call 9-1-1, or drive him straight to the hospital. Or home first. Maybe if I set him up with a new bike, he’ll tell me what the story with his parents is and I can call them
…
Hell, Beth will know what to do. She deals with runaways and troubled kids. This one fits the bill. Then we’ll get to the bottom of this. All of this.
 

‘At least let me hook you up with a new bike,’ Darren said. ‘I mean, if there’s one thing I have, it’s bikes. Come on. I live close by.’

Patrick watched Darren with increasing suspicion. His eyes widened and his entire body went rigid just before he ducked, throwing himself to the weeds.

‘What’s wrong?’ Darren said.

‘I knew it. They found me! Get out of here!’ Patrick was scurrying deeper into the weeds, keeping low. ‘Did you do this? You lead them here? They’re with you, aren’t they?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Darren turned to look back up the road.

Two blocks away, at the intersection of Kalmia and 28th, there was a big brown truck with a mangled front end, steam rising from under the hood, and a white camper shell on top. It was idling on the opposite side of the road and he could not see anyone inside from such distance.

‘Who is it?’ Darren said. ‘Your parents?’ Another wave of premonition passed through him, with no specific details attached to it, only the sense that something bad was about to happen. That this meeting was not a coincidence, but had been imminent for days, maybe weeks.

He turned back to the kid. ‘Who’s in the truck, Patrick?’

‘Yeah, I bet you don’t. Trying to kill me. All of you. They almost ran me over about fifteen minutes ago, right before you did.’

‘I’ve never seen that truck in my life,’ Darren said. ‘I have no idea who’s inside it. I swear.’ When Patrick did not respond, he added, ‘I can’t help you unless you tell me who they are. What’s going on.’

‘I don’t know, but I can’t stay here. They don’t care. They’ll kill you to get to me.’

Darren turned and faced toward the truck. He wasn’t afraid. He believed the kid, but the introduction of this third element aroused his protective instincts in a way he could not define. He walked into the middle of the road and waved.

‘Don’t do that!’ Patrick said.

Darren ignored the boy and raised his arms with bravado, taunting the truck.
You want something? Come get it!

The Ford’s engine revved twice, the big camper shell rocked back and forth, and then the truck lurched forward in a tight U-turn, away from them. It paused at the stop sign, turned right onto 28th Street and disappeared.

Darren lowered his arms, turned to Patrick. ‘They’re gone. Now, do you want that ride or not?’

Patrick got to his feet. He said nothing for a long time. He seemed impressed, then only tired and sad.

‘Come on, you need a new bike,’ Darren prodded. ‘What do you say?’

‘You promise no hospitals? No police?’

Darren nodded. ‘Yeah, of course.’

Patrick took one last look down the road and Darren could see him calculating the choice of risks. Get in this car with this stranger, or take your chances out there alone, no bike, with whatever was in the truck looking for him.

‘All I want is a bike,’ Patrick said. ‘Then I’m gone.’

‘Fair enough.’

They got into the car, Patrick sinking down with his backpack clutched in his lap. The windshield was ruined but Darren pushed a hole through the left side, enough to get them the six blocks home. He started the engine and turned back the way he had come.

Patrick didn’t say a word, only stared straight ahead, worn out.

He’s lying to you
, Darren thought.
His name’s not Patrick Robinson. It’s Adam Burkett and you know it. He should be your age by now, or dead, but he’s not either of those things. He’s a lost soul in a warm body. That’s why he’s not injured. He’s real but
…
not natural. He is Adam. It’s impossible but it’s true. He knows it. And he senses that you know it.

This was meant to happen today. Even though this is true and right, whatever happens next is going to cause a lot of problems for everyone involved.
 

‘I know,’ Darren mumbled.

‘What?’ Patrick said beside him.

‘Nothing. Tell you later. After we get you back on a bike.’

Patrick tightened his grip on his backpack, as if it contained his entire world.