Authors: John Gilstrap
Scott Free (38 page)
Scott blinked heavily. His vision was fading, and he found himself locked on DeHaven's gaze, on the kindness that seemed to glimmer somewhere behind his eyes. Suddenly, the rifle in his hand weighed fifty pounds. No, seventy-five. It was slipping from his grasp.
“Go ahead and let it drop, kid. It doesn't have to be like this.”
Over to his leftâto his broken sideâScott saw movement that startled him. A man bounded toward them through the snow, wildly waving his arms and shouting. The man looked familiar, but for the life of him, Scott couldn't make out the words.
“Gun.”
That's what it was. He was saying,
Gun.
But what about it?
I've got a gun,
Scott thought.
Then he understood. “Dad,” he whispered. His dad had shot Isaac.
Way to go.
What was he doing here? And what about the gun?
“Watch out!” Brandon yelled.
For what?
Gun.
Isaac produced the pistol from nowhereâa pocket maybeâand Jesus, did he move fast. Scott saw it as a blur, a swift movement of the hand and a telltale shift in posture.
Scott pulled the trigger on his rifle. He heard the shot, but he also heard himself howling again. The recoil reverberated through his body, rattling the shattered bones in his shoulder. When he saw the sky, he knew that he was falling.
But he never felt the impact.
S
COTT HATED THE SCARS MORE THAN ANYTHING
. According to the doctors, they never would tan correctly. In time, the withered look of the arm, the result of four months of immobilization, would bulk up and improve, but the damn scars would always be there, a road map of torn flesh to remind him of one terrible week in February.
He wasn't going to let it get to him, though. He'd spent his sophomore summer enjoying the swimming pool just as he always had. If a little scar tissue grossed people out, then that was their problem, not his. Piss on 'em all.
Today, though, had been too hot even for the pool. With three weeks left before the start of his junior year, he'd slept till noon this morning, then spent an hour watching the Cartoon Networkâhis one major holdout from childhood. Like it or not, he was hooked on
Dragonball Z.
Scott's music was the real long-term casualty from his ordeal. At first it was because of the immobilized arm and the weakness that followed, but now he was past all of that. In fact, his physical therapist encouraged guitar riffs as a means to speed recoveryâanything to get the fingers of his left hand moving.
Sitting now in the family room, Scott went through the motions of “Enter Sandman” from memory, with the amp turned way down. If it had been anyone else playing, it would have sounded okay, but Scott was used to being better than okay. Much better. He knew that it would all come back, but he didn't know if he wanted to work that hard. The heavy metal that used to rock his soul seemed somehow trivial nowadays. The music in his head had turned sad.
The doorbell rang straight up at three o'clock. He considered ignoring it, but given the number of visitors they typically got during an average dayâsay, zeroâcuriosity got the best of him and he peeled himself away from the television.
The man in the suit startled him. It was one of those faces he knew he knew, but couldn't quite place. It reminded him of bad times, though.
“Hi,” Scott said. He didn't bother to open the screen.
The man in the suit nodded his greeting. “You've got new hair,” he said.
Scott shifted self-consciously and touched his hair. It wasn't the wild mop that it used to be. And it was dark blond.
“I don't know if you remember me or not,” the visitor continued. “Special Agent Sanders, Secret Service.”
“I remember you,” Scott said. He wanted the man to leave.
“Can I come in?”
“No. What do you want?”
It wasn't the answer Sanders had been expecting. “Well, actually, I came to show you a picture.”
“Of what?”
Sanders gave an exasperated sigh. “Please, Scott? It'll only take a minute.” After a second or two of indecision, he added, “I promise.”
Hesitantly, Scott opened the screen and stepped aside.
“Your dad home?” Sanders asked.
“He took my mom to physical therapy.”
“How's she doing?”
“They say she'll be a hundred percent by Christmas. What do you want?”
Clearly, the agent had wanted this to go more smoothly. Sighing again, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat, and pulled out a single snapshot. He handed it to Scott. The picture showed a man and his wife and three children. It was a goofy picture, obviously posed at a summer place in the mountains somewhere, with the kids in funny poses, and the mother and father wearing Groucho Marx noses and mustaches.
“Who are they?” Scott asked.
“A friend of mine works for the marshal's service,” Sanders explained, “and I called in a favor from him.”
Scott's eyebrows knitted together and he shook his head. “I don't get it.”
“The marshals run the witness protection program. You know what that is, right?”
Scott shot a look that said, “Give me a break.”
“Of course you do. Well, this is the family you saved by killing Isaac DeHaven.”
Scott felt his face flush. “What?”
Sanders smiled, and for the first time, Scott saw that there might actually be a nice man somewhere under that suit. “It's a long story, most of it classified, but the man in that picture testified against some bad men a few years ago.”
“The Agostini family,” Scott prompted. He hated the patronizing “bad men.” What was he, eight?
“Exactly. Well, the story that DeHaven told you was actually this guy's story. Only difference was, DeHaven was the man gunning for him.”
“For five hundred thousand dollars, right?”
Sanders's face lit up and then he laughed. “Five hundred thousand? Is that what he told you? Try two million. This was the contract of a lifetime. Kill the family and retire to wherever you want to go.”
The very thought of it made Scott's head spin. “Holy cow.”
“Indeed.” He reached for the picture. “Sorry, I need this.”
Scott pulled it away. “I never heard from anyone who those guys were. The ones we dumped in the well.”
Sanders shook his head dismissively. “They're no one you need to worry about.” He beckoned for the photo again.
“So, they weren't FBI?”
“They definitely were not FBI.”
“So, whoâ”
“I need you to give me back the photo.”
And with that, Scott realized that there would be no answer. He looked at the faces one more time before handing over the picture. “How do I show my dad?”
“Tell him about it. If he wants to see it, have him give me a call. Your mom, too, if she's interested.” Sanders pulled a business card from his coat pocket and handed it over.
Scott studied the card, unsure what to say. “Isn't it kind of weird, you doing this?” Scott asked.
“Weird? How?”
“You're Secret Service. I thought you protected presidents and stuff. Why are you showing me witness protection pictures?”
Sanders smirked, obviously a little surprised that the kid had caught on. “Well, the marshals are grateful and they wanted you to know. They also figured that maybe you'd feel better dealing with a familiar face.”
Scott nodded. That made sense, he supposed. “Thanks,” he said, and Sanders let himself out. He watched the agent clear the front porch, then stepped out after him. “I'm fine, by the way,” Scott said.
Sanders looked confused. “Excuse me?”
“I said I'm fine. You asked about my mom, but didn't ask about me. I'm fine.”
The agent nodded. “Good. That's good to hear. I'm glad.”
“But you knew that already, didn't you?” Scott pressed, and Sanders grew uncomfortable. “You guys have been watching us.”
Sanders smiled. “I only watch presidents and stuff,” he said. “The marshals protect other people. Take it up with them.”
“You mean, if I see them?”
“Yeah, Scott,” Sanders said, walking away. “Take it up with them if you see them.”