Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

A light breeze blew through the slightly open window in George’s room.  He had been sleeping with just a sheet because Jeremy liked to have windows open at night, opting to keep the air conditioner set at the mid-70’s before it turned on.  He was used to the dry heat of Arizona, but was having trouble adjusting to the humidity of Wisconsin.

He woke up from a troubling dream . . . perhaps.  Perhaps, because the Navajo believed in the spirit world and the spirit world was interwoven in dreams.  George had to consider the possibility that his grandfather had visited him.  George didn’t think he actually spoke to him, however.  His grandfather was present, but George couldn’t decide whether his grandfather had beckoned him or had warned him.  Beckoned him to where?  Warned him about what?

He lay on his back, arms under his head, staring at the ceiling fan that didn’t produce much of anything by way of cool air.  He hadn’t noticed until just then that he had been crying.  George was profoundly sad.  He had loved his mother and grandmother, his brothers and sister.  But who he had really missed was his grandfather.  His grandfather was his greatest teacher, his greatest influence, his greatest mentor.  His grandfather was his best friend.

He began to weep again.  Where would he go?  Where would he live?  He had no answers, no ideas.  He was scared.  And lonely.

He got up out of bed, took his knife and crept down the hall soundlessly, past Jeremy’s room, past the twins’ room, down the stairs to the kitchen and the back door.  He opened it and shut it quietly behind him, and sat down on the cement porch step facing the backyard.  The night felt good.  The mist was light and cool. 

He sat head down, staring at the knife his grandfather had given him.  The blade was shiny and sharp.  The shaft was eight inches long, and the handle was an extra four inches and made of elk bone bound to the shaft with leather.  It had balance and heft and fit his hand much like it was naturally made for it.  His grandfather had wanted to give it to George during his coming of age ceremony on top of a plateau facing a sunrise with only his grandfather and George present, but instead had given to George a couple of weeks early.

His grandfather had practiced with him each day in the morning just before sun up.  To a casual observer, the routine looked much like karate or some other form of eastern combat.  It was defensive in nature, using slashes, slices and cuts rather than thrusts and stabs.  Though he was predominantly right handed, George was proficient with either hand.  He was quick and lethal, dancing lightly on the balls of his feet, breathing evenly through his nose.  His grandfather encouraged him and taught him to think calmly and clearly because his life and the lives of others would depend on it; could depend on it.

He had learned at an early age how to observe, to watch the land around him, to study the people nearby.  He had listened to his grandfather and had learned how to study sign, to listen to changes in sounds around him, to smell scents that changed.  His grandfather had taught him that all of life, and ultimately death, was connected.  He learned that he needed to be respectful towards life, reverent.

His grandfather was a singer, which in the Navajo religion was similar to a priest or minister.  George was learning the traditional songs and prayers of the Navajo, which he and his grandfather performed after the lessons with the knife as the sun rose in the east over their land each and every morning; each and every morning for the past two years.

He had grown up speaking English, Spanish, and Navajo, which is a very difficult and now almost extinct language that only his mother, his grandfather and grandmother spoke in his family.  His brother, William wasn’t interested, and his younger brother and sister were too young to understand the importance of this tradition, the Navajo language.  His cousin Leonard knew only a few words or phrases.

George stared at his knife and came back to his dream.  His grandfather was in front of him, a worried look on his face.  Was he beckoning him to something, or was he trying to keep him away from something?  George couldn’t decide.  He was deep into his thoughts, but was not startled to find Jeremy sitting down on the step next to him.  Though Jeremy had moved quietly, George had heard him.

He put his arm around George’s bare shoulders, and George moved closer to Jeremy, allowing himself to be held.  He liked Jeremy, found him to be sensitive and caring.  There was goodness about him.  His grandfather had taught him to look for those qualities in others and then to surround himself with the people who had possessed these qualities.  He liked both Randy and Billy and thought that in another time, in another place, they would be good friends.  George didn’t know many biligaana, but George understood that his grandfather would have liked this little family.  He flashed back to a discussion with his grandfather years ago about biligaana with hearts of the Dine.

“George, I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Jeremy said softly, almost in a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

A rabbit hopped out of the hedge line on the left side of the yard, separating the Evan’s house from the Schuster house, a family he had not yet met.  George lowered his head, weeping again.  Jeremy hugged him closer and kissed the top of his head.

George was as tall as the twins, maybe a bit shorter, and lankier.  He wasn’t as solidly built, but that wasn’t to say he wasn’t strongly built.  Jeremy had coached for years and knew an athlete by a certain look, a certain walk.  George had both.

“The boys and I have been talking, and we’d like you to consider living with us.”             

Jeremy stopped at that.  The boy had just lost his family, and they knew nothing of one another.  Yet, Jeremy had a gut feeling about George, much as he had about Randy when he had first met him.  In so many ways, he had the twin’s sensitivity, Randy’s seriousness, and Billy’s athleticism.  Again, it was only a hunch, but Jeremy rarely missed on people.

Yet, they had only known each other for less than a day, and George had to be reeling from the loss of everything in his life, including all of those who had meant so much to him. He couldn’t imagine the loss this boy experienced.  Even in his grief, his sadness, George caught a scent of cologne, different from the deodorant he or Jeremy used.  It was faint, but present.  At first he thought it was the lilacs at the corner of the house, but it wasn’t.  He had recognized it as being similar to the cologne or aftershave various male tourists wore when they visited or drove through the reservation.

Jeremy noticed that George had said nothing and was just staring off into backyard.  Perhaps he should have waited until morning to have had this talk. 
Real
morning and not the
middle of the night
morning.

“I hope you consider the offer.  We’d love to have you.” Jeremy said sincerely.

It didn’t even seem like George had heard a word.

“Mr. Jeremy, I’m tired,” George said with a yawn and stretching. “Let’s go back inside and go to bed.”

They stood on the porch facing each other, and Jeremy held George’s face gently and said, “It might not seem like it right now, George, but things have a way of working out.  You’ll be okay.”

George embraced him and then without another word, George opened the door and waited for Jeremy to enter.  He did, and before George followed, he took one last look at the backyard and then shut the door behind him, taking care to lock the dead bolt and the chain.

Jeremy turned to say something, but George put a hand on Jeremy’s chest and said very calmly, “Mr. Evans, there’s someone in the backyard.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

“He’s not answering!” Pete said through clenched teeth.  “How much longer?”

Jamie stared straight ahead driving as fast as he dared.  They had decided not to use police frequency for fear of it being monitored, and they didn’t want to call the house land line because it might alarm the intruder, especially at this late hour, so they reluctantly decided to use cell phones.

“About fifteen minutes.”

“I hope that’s not fifteen minutes too late,” Pete said as he tried calling Jeremy again.

*                                                        *                                                        *

“Are you sure?” Jeremy asked. “I didn’t see anyone,” he added, though he also had to admit to himself that he wasn’t really looking for anyone either.

“Yes, Sir . . . positive.  He was in those trees or bushes on the left side . . . towards the back of the yard.  He was trying to be quiet, but he made noise.”

“Not a cat or dog or something?”

“No, Sir.”

Jeremy moved towards the window, but George held him back.

“Don’t.  I don’t think it would be a good idea for him to know that we know about him.  I think you should call Agent Pete or Detective Jamie and then wake up Randy and Billy.  Tell them not to make any noise though.”

“My cell is in the bedroom.  I’ll make the call, but I want you to head down to the basement.”

Jeremy went to the door and held it open for him.  George nodded and started to walk that direction.  As Jeremy headed down the hallway to the stairs, George took hold of the door and shut it just as quickly.  Instead of going down to the basement, he headed to the living room and out the front door.  George couldn’t explain it, but it seemed that his grandfather walked with him, actually leading him.  That calmed him some, though his heart thudded in his chest.

“Shadow, be calm.  Think clearly.  Move quickly, but silently.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“He cannot see you until it’s time to strike.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

George never said a word out loud, but the conversation was clear, just as the vision of his grandfather was clear.  He was never so happy to see him.

“Slow down.  Control your breathing.  Concentrate.  Focus.”

George did as he was told.  He stayed in the shrubs and bushes at the front of the Evans’ house, but he felt very exposed, and the mulch stuck to and poked his bare feet.  Still, if his grandfather was leading him, this must be where he needed to be.

At the corner of the house, George stopped; stooped low and peeked around the corner looking for the man.  He didn’t see the man right away but saw his grandfather holding his arm out, telling George to stay where he was.  George nodded that he understood.  His grandfather turned and smiled at him.

“Now, Shadow.  Slowly, very quietly. Control your breathing. Focus.”

George nodded and then crept forward and peeked around the side of the house.  There, fifteen yards in front of him, stood a man in black, looking into one of the family room windows.  George looked up and saw that the window was just below the window to the room he had been sleeping in.

The man stood about six-one, was slender, and when he moved his right hand from the window screen, a glint of light shown on the gun he held.

*                                                        *                                                        *

“Dad, where’s George?”

Randy and Billy had sprinted down the stairs in the dark expecting to find George waiting for them.

“George, where are you?” Jeremy called softly.

“George . . . George,” Billy called.

“Dad, he’s not here!” Randy whispered urgently.  “Where is he?”

Stunned, Jeremy had an idea where he was but didn’t like that thought, at all.  He turned on his cell and called Pete back to report that they were in the basement, but George wasn’t with them.

*                                                        *                                                        *

“Almost there,” Jamie said. “Five minutes.”

“That was Jeremy,” Pete said.

Jamie glanced over at Pete because of the tone of voice he had used.

“George is missing.”

“Jesus
Fuck
!” Jamie said. “Call O’Brien and tell him what’s happening.  We’ll need backup.”

“Just get us there, God Dammit!”

*                                                        *                                                        *

George crept low, knife out in front of him.  He was silent.  He felt nothing, no emotion.  His breathing slow, rhythmic.  Focused.

George stared at the man’s right hand, because that was the hand that held the gun.  He’d have to attack the man before the man attacked him.

Five yards.  Four.

The man, perhaps sensing someone was close, began a slow turn to his right, just as George thought he might.  George, under control, closed the distance quickly, much like how a wrestler might approach an opponent.

George had an advantage the man didn’t recognize: the man underestimated George because he was a boy.

As the man turned to face George, his right hand came up.  George slashed with his sharp, heavy knife and connected.  At first, the man didn’t realize what had happened or who or what had hit him.  It felt is if someone had batted his hand, but then it began to sting, then ache, then throb.  The pain was on him suddenly.  The gun was on the ground, along with three and a half of the man’s fingers.  What was left of the hand pulsed blood.