Born Evil Page 12

  I wanted to ask her that, but I didn’t. I had learned a long time ago that Mom had a hard time dealing with criticism of any kind. So I avoided criticizing her as much as possible and agreed to talk to the waiter. Better than getting into an argument. I sighed inwardly and steeled myself when he came over, a guy who didn’t look much older than me he was so skinny under the uniform. But he had wrinkles around the eyes and really thin hair, so he had to be.

  He smiled at us, displaying a row of stained teeth in which one was missing.

  “Howdy, folks, what can I get you this morning?” He looked at Mom attentively, waiting for her to talk to him. But she ignored him and glanced out the window while kicking me under the table. She was obviously not about to let me off the hook.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Hi,” I said, trying not to sound like I was just thirteen, but someone much older. A man. “We would like coffee and two orders of number five.”

  The waiter jotted down the order on a small scratchpad, then glanced at me again.

  “Will that be all?”

  I looked at Mom, who muttered something I couldn’t hear. I leaned toward her to hear better.

  “Tell him to bring a large bottle of sparkling water,” she repeated, a little louder, glaring at me through her fake, black-rimmed glasses that made her look even smarter than she was. Uglier too. I was wearing wire-rim glasses myself.

  I returned my attention to the waiter, who was checking out some girl outside the window at the moment. A hot girl. I wanted to ask him if he thought he had a chance on her—she was like a nine, but he was only a four, so my guess was she’d blow him off—but I’m not stupid enough to do that. Mom would snap and hit me when we were alone later.

  Which, I suppose, I could understand. I could be a pain in the ass sometimes, so I’m not mad about it. She only hits me when I really misbehave according to her, which, fortunately, isn’t often. Most of the time she’s nice to me. She thinks I’m the shit. I do well in school, but not quite as good as she thinks, though not for lack of trying. I try very, very hard. She loves to tell everyone what a genius I am, when I’m really not. I’m just pretty smart, but I study hard, so I seem smarter. I don’t play nearly as many video games as she believes. Most of the time I’m studying like a maniac, because I want her to keep thinking I’m a genius. I want her to be proud of me, love me as much as I love her.

  I told the waiter her drink order, and then he left.

  Mom grabbed my wrist and squeezed it. “Good job, Shane! Really good. I told you this trip would be great for you. You’ll become a man in the end. You’ll see.”

  I smiled at her, glad that she was pleased with my performance even though I had no idea what she was referring to. But she’s been acting weird ever since we left New York, so it kinda fit.

  I had the sudden urge for a Coke; I’m not much of a coffee person and my flirtation with sparkling water has ended. “Can I get a Coke?”

  “No, honey. Only coffee is included, so you’ll have to drink water then. You know we don’t have that much cash. I don’t know how long it’ll take them to find the killer. I don’t dare going back with you before they have arrested someone.” She was leaning forward and speaking in a low voice.

  I wanted to tell her that I actually didn’t mind them arresting and interrogating me. I’d be fine, because I’m not guilty of anything. I didn’t kill Dr. Wilkins, so why did it matter if I was interrogated? Seriously, I didn’t get it. It was like so stupid, but I wasn’t about to tell Mom that. I did already in Philly, and she got really mad, telling me she was doing all this for my own good. That I didn’t know what was good for me. She doesn’t want to see me in jail, she said. I asked her why she thought I would ever end up in jail when I didn’t do it. How can they convict me if I’m not guilty? I read about Dr. Wilkins’s murder in the paper. He was killed in the middle of the night last Thursday night. I was in bed sleeping then just like every other night. The kid outside Dr. Wilkins’s building could have been anyone.

  Instead of answering my questions, she just shook her head at me, telling me to be quiet. I was smart, but I didn’t understand how the world worked quite yet. For that, I would need more life experience.

  I’m thinking this trip will provide a crash course in that.

  27

  Mom and I were in a cheap motel, sharing a grungy room with two uncomfortable twin beds and towels so stiff they could stand by themselves. We didn’t have to provide photo ID to stay, which was why Mom picked this place. Also, it was near the Miami Greyhound station. Tomorrow we would find another, more permanent place to sleep.

  I was lying on my bed, relaxing with my hands under my head, while she was taking a much-needed shower. It might not be the best bed in the world, but it was way better than the dilapidated, sweaty bus seat. I couldn’t tell, but I was pretty sure it had given my butt bruises. I closed my eyes and thought about how we hadn’t brought any school material for me to study while we’re away. It’s not good, especially if we were gone more than two weeks. (Mom keeps telling me she doesn’t think the cops will need more than that to find Wilkins’s killer, but I’m not so sure.) That means I’ll get behind and there won’t be much I can do to catch up with the others. There are only so many hours in a day. Well, I guess Mom will just have to accept then that I’m not the genius she’s convinced herself I am, I thought. I’m lucky if I’ll be able to finish the required schoolwork by Christmas break. Forget about getting good grades on it.

  Just the thought of her disappointed face when she sees my average grades—or maybe below average—was enough to make me cringe. I hate it when she looks at me like I’m not all that she expected.

  Will she hit me?

  She’s hit me a few times, but it was a while ago since the last time. It first happened after I shot Dad by accident. It really was an accident, but she doesn’t seem to believe it. She did tell the cops and everyone else that it was an accident, that Dad forgot to lock the box in the walk-in closet where he kept his handgun. He also forgot to remove the chair he’d taken into the closet to be able to change the lightbulb in the ceiling. That was how I managed to reach the box and get out the gun.

  I really thought it was a toy gun, just a little heavier than my other ones. I had no idea it would do what it did when I held it in the bedroom. I was just trying to show it to Dad, who was sleeping on his bed, and I couldn’t get a good enough grip around it. It was so heavy and my hands were so small. I had to hold it with both or I would drop it. It went off sometime when I was moving my fingers around it. The loud sound scared me so much I peed my pants and the gun also jumped in my hands like it had suddenly become alive, so I dropped it on the floor.

  I didn’t understand what had happened to Dad until Mom came running into the bedroom. She started screaming louder than I’d ever heard anyone scream, and then she threw herself on Dad on the bed, covering his body with hers. She cried and wailed his name over and over: “Peter. Oh no, Peter. Oh no. Oh God, Peter. Please don’t be dead. Oh God…”

  I didn’t know how much time had passed before she slipped off him and turned to me. I stood like I was nailed to the floor, unable to move, my pants wet with pee. I’d kept staring at Mom and Dad and I had known something was very, very wrong.

  She looked at me like she wanted to throw herself at me and kill me. Her pretty face was dark and furious, her mouth open as she inhaled and exhaled heavily. Her green eyes, flashing with anger, went to the floor beside me where the handgun had remained, a couple of feet away from me.

  She’d suddenly lunged at me and slapped my face. It didn’t really hurt because I was so surprised. My ear rang and I saw a bunch of tiny stars flitter before me, but that was it.

  “You’ve killed your father, Shane,” she hissed at me, grabbing me by the upper arms and shaking me. Tears had begun streaming down my face. “How could you kill your father? Huh?” She shook me so hard my head bobbed. “How could you kill your own father?”

  As
suddenly as she had gotten hold of me, she let go and ran out of the bedroom. I heard her footsteps fade as she made her way down the stairs, but I didn’t move.

  I’d remained in the same spot until I heard sirens wailing outside our house. Car doors slammed and people yelled stuff to each other that I couldn’t make out. The house shook lightly as the front door opened and people climbed the stairs. Soon, a few men and two women entered the bedroom. A brunette woman in jeans and a white blouse came up to me, sinking down to her haunches and facing me.

  “Hi, sweetie, my name is Christina,” she said and smiled warmly. She was from somewhere in the South where people speak funny. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s Shane,” I could hear Mom say behind me. “His name is Shane. It was an accident. Oh God, it was all a horrible accident. Peter must’ve forgotten to lock the gun storage…” Her voice sounded like she was crying. She sank down beside me and put two arms around me, burrowing her nose into the crook of my neck. I could feel her warm tears against my skin and it was hard to talk.

  “Ma’am,” Christina said, her face serious now. Someone pulled at Mom, pulled her away from me. “I need to speak to your son. Please let him go. Please.”

  Mom was protesting loudly, but more people showed up and it didn’t take long until she was gone from me. People were moving around in the room, talking to each other.

  Christina returned her attention to me. I was petrified, not sure what was going on. Why were they pulling my mom away from me? I wanted my mom to be with me. What were all these people doing here? Why did my dad remain in the bed? Why didn’t he sit up and help me and Mom?

  “Shane,” Christina said in a soft voice. “I need to ask you a few questions. Would that be okay?”

  I didn’t know what else to do but nod.

  “Okay, good,” she continued. “Can you tell me what happened in this room in the last hour?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shifted her position. “Why did you go into your parents’ bedroom?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I was bored and I was gonna see what Dad was doing.”

  “Okay, great. Then what happened?”

  I screwed up my face. “Dad was sleeping on the bed. He was snoring, and that means he’s sleeping hard. You have to pinch him or he won’t wake up then. Then I saw that the closet door was open, so I went in there.”

  “Okay. You’re doing great, Shane. Tell me what happened next.”

  “I saw a chair in the middle of the closet and I climbed up on it. I’ve never been that high up in the closet, so I looked around at all the stuff there. That’s when I saw the big gray box Mom and Dad have told me I can’t ever touch. I was curious about what was inside it. I thought maybe it was candy that they were hiding from me. So I felt the top part and it was loose. I lifted it up and stuck my hand inside. I thought I was gonna feel bags or boxes with candy, but all I felt was a cold, hard metal thing. I pulled it out and saw that it was one of those toy guns I have in my room. I love guns. I’ve never seen a gun like that. Is Dad gonna be okay?”

  Christina blinked a couple of times, then said, “We hope so. Can you please continue the story? You were doing so well. What happened after you found the gun?”

  “I stepped down from the chair and took it with me out of the closet. Dad was on the bed and he wasn’t snoring any longer, so I was gonna show it to him. Wake him up and pretend I was a cowboy with a big gun. But it was so heavy that I had a hard time holding it. When I finally did have a good grip and pointed it to Dad and was gonna call him, I almost dropped it and then there was this really loud sound and the gun jumped out of my hands. I was confused about what had happened. I just stood there and Mom came running into the room, screaming like she was super mad. She hardly ever screams. She threw herself on Dad and hugged him. Is Dad gonna be okay?”

  Christina looked at me for a long, silent moment, then, instead of answering my question, said, “You did great, Shane.”

  28

  Five days had passed since Mom and I left NYC, and the cops have yet to find the person who killed Dr. Wilkins. Can’t say I’m surprised. We’re enjoying the nice, sunny weather in Miami, and there have been plenty of opportunities for us to practice our Spanish. I may be fluent by the time we return to New York. That would be so cool.

  She and I had just finished reading the news on a computer in a public library in downtown Miami. As we both had suspected, there’s a national manhunt for us and the FBI is involved. It sure didn’t seem like that letter Mom sent Detective Morales has had any positive effect. I’m still the number one suspect. The prime suspect. The authorities showed pics of me and Mom, telling everyone to call a number they’re giving out or to email them if they spot us. Thank God we changed our looks so drastically. I really don’t look anything at all like those pics any longer with my new black hair and glasses.

  Nor does Mom. With her new, stubby black hair and black-framed glasses, I barely recognize her. Apparently, she likes her new look better than I do, because I’ve caught her staring at herself in mirrors with a pleased smile on her lips. Personally, I think she looks terrible, but I’m not stupid enough to tell her that.

  “What about we help them find the killer?” I suggested when we left the library. I turned my face toward the sun and soaked in its rays. The nice weather put me in a good mood and I wanted to do something proactive. Fix this situation. “Wouldn’t that be better than just hiding? Seems the cops could use our help.”

  She tossed me a glance and chuckled. “How on earth would we do that?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe we could go back up to NYC and see what’s up? The authorities must think we’re hiding somewhere in the middle of the country for sure, so that would throw them off, right? It’s not like they’ll think we’re so stupid we’re going back home, right?”

  Mom looked like she was considering what I had just suggested. “It isn’t a bad idea actually. Especially if we keep up our new looks. We look so different that people won’t recognize us anywhere. Not even in New York. In a few days, I’ll be able to ditch my cane, which will help further.” She lifted up the brown cane and punched the sidewalk. “I barely need it now, but I’ve grown fond of it. It’s like it’s become part of me, almost.”

  I filled with joy and skipped in place. “So, we’re going back then?”

  “Not so fast, honey. I need to think it over before we decide what to do. Consider all pros and cons. But today you and I are going to practice meditation.”

  I stared at her. “Practice meditation? Why do we need to do that?”

  She smiled and ran a knuckle against my chin the way she so often did. “Because you need to relax. I do too, but not as much as you do. I’ve come to the conclusion that meditation is the best way to deal with the stresses of the current situation.” She laughed and tossed her head back. “I’m surprised it took me so long to figure it out. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the answer to all our problems.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink as though I would know what she was getting at. I had no idea what she was referring to. I decided it was best to just agree with her, though, so I gave a half smile back.

  “You’ll see, honey,” she said and turned her own face toward the sky, soaking in the sun. We had both gotten some color, which made our black hair less jarring. “It’s too bad it’s not warmer out or we could have meditated outside. In nature. It’s a little too chilly still, so our room will have to do. Come on, let’s go back home.”

  We headed back to the old house where we had rented a small studio with a cooking plate and a bathroom where the mirror was broken and most appliances rusty. It had small beds that were so shaky it felt like they’d fall apart any second. I hated it, but I knew we couldn’t afford a better place if we wanted the money to last for a while.

  Even if we returned home, we wouldn’t be able to get more money from the bank. Of course, maybe we could get it from grandma. She’s always kept cash hidden in the house.<
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  We walked through the unkempt garden and around the two-story house to the backside where we had our own entrance, which was something to be happy about at least. The house owner stunk like he hadn’t taken a shower in a very long time and looked like he was high on something. His deep-set eyes looked like two piss holes in the snow, a bleary yellow, and his face was full of wiry gray beard.

  I hoped I wouldn’t have to talk to him again.

  Once inside our little place, I threw myself on my small bed. I placed my hands behind my head and watched Mom remove her shoes and jacket. From behind, I would never have recognized her, she looked so different. I made sure my own feet were hanging off the edge of the bed or she would get annoyed that I was making the bed dirty with my sneakers.

  She took a seat on her own shaky bed, which was facing mine. A small nightstand sat between them. She crossed her legs so that she sat Indian-style.

  “Do you see how I am sitting?” she asked me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sit like me. It’s a great position for meditation. Remove your shoes before you do it, though. You don’t want to get the bedclothes dirty.”

  Sighing, I pushed myself up into a seated position and leaned forward to remove my shoes. When I straightened, Mom had pulled out her burner phone. She was doing something on it. I crossed my legs and waited for her to look up.

  “Okay, this is how we’ll do it,” she said, meeting my gaze. She put the phone on the bed beside her, then placed her hands on her knees, palms up and the thumbs connecting with the long fingers. “Do you see what I’m doing with my hands?”

  “Yes.” I did the same with mine.

  “This is the ideal position for meditation. Make sure you sit up tall, not slouching.”

  I made myself taller.

  “That looks good, honey,” she commented. “Now I’m going to tell you a phrase that you’re going to repeat in your mind over and over. For twenty minutes. You cannot allow yourself to think about anything else but this phrase, okay?”