Page 15

Last time I went to scope out the hiding place, because the police showing up was an absolute concern, the bridge had fallen into the riverbed.

It was possible to climb into the ravine, but with such short notice I didn’t think to grab any climbing equipment; I might not have made it out on the other side. Therefore, I had to take the road .

Weeds had grown tall over the trails; I hadn’t taken care of them like Dad would have demanded if he had been around.

When I slacked on any of the chores, like clearing the underbrush, he would remind me how useless I was.

If I make it out of this, I’ll clear the trails over the weekend, I promise. I hated it when my dad was right.

Once I reached the main road, the pavement slapped the bottom of my shoes with every extended step. Only another half mile until the curve before the Madison’s.

It didn’t take long to lose my breath; I wasn’t in the best shape, even though I had lost twenty pounds over the summer. Stamina was never my strong point. Throbbing in my thigh caused me to limp. Running with one arm holding the other became awkward and slowed me down.

The headlights in the distance started out bright but dimmed as the vehicle approached.

I tripped as I slid down the hill into the ditch and fell to my knees.

If I stood, the vehicle might see me. I could use the time to catch my breath.

Did they see me already? Should I try to flag them down?

What would I tell them? Would they know who I am?

As the vehicle approached, I could make out that it wasn't a car, but it wasn't a truck either. It was more of a conversion-style van, almost like an ice cream truck. I positioned myself behind the largest tree I could find in case the headlights would reflect off me and give away my location.

It could be a tourist. How would I explain my situation to someone who doesn't know anything about the area? Alaska is an entirely different world from the lower forty-eight, from what Mom and Dad say—I mean, used to say. Strangers would probably ask way too many questions about why I am running along the road and where I’m going this late at night. I can’t let that happen.

Then, it hit me: What if it’s a mountain man? Or men? Mom always warned me about the creepy mountain men in the area and how they are a little wild. I could still hear her voice. I frowned at the memory. “Be careful, Jakey. Not all of them are bad guys, but you never know who you can trust.”

I couldn’t decide if it would be safe to stand and wait for the vehicle or if I should continue to allow the forest to hide me.

When Dad had his parties, his friends would tell stories of hunting expeditions with the mountain men. They had spent time in their dark world and reported back to civilization. It’s possible the person in this car could know my family. Hell, he could have even been to our house before.

At the last minute, I decided to make myself visible. So, I climbed out of the woods, up the side of the ditch to the middle of the road.

Tires squealed on the pavement as the truck slid from one side of the road to the other, correcting itself before skidding to a stop mere inches from my body. Bottles rattled and shattered within the vehicle, adding to the noisiest incident I’ve witnessed in months.

Blinded by the lights and frozen from the thought of being destroyed by the impact, I crossed my arms across my face and closed my eyes. This is it. I will finally be able to hug you again, Mom. I’ve waited so long.

It felt like an hour before I heard a woman’s voice—not my mom—asking if I was okay.

The radio blared from inside the van, a heavy beat with a raspy voice filled the air.

Then, the woman's voice was louder than the music.

She ran in front of the van and grabbed me by the shoulders. I screamed in pain.

“Oh, my God! I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Are you okay?” Her hands rolled lightly over my face and arms. If she applied too much pressure, I might scream again.

“What are you doing out here? I almost hit you! Oh my God, you scared the crap outta me!” The blood on my shirt got her attention and she gasped. “You are hurt. We need to get you to a hospital. Honey, what's your name?” She took a step back and studied my face.

Too scared to admit who I was, I remained silent.

If she knew what I had done, I would go directly to jail.

I made up a fake persona in a split second.

“Tom.” I spoke the first totally generic name I could think of.

Tom Johnson was someone I wanted to be like when I got older, even though I knew almost nothing about him.

When I just stared at her, not knowing what to say or where to start, she put her hands on either side of my face and forced me to focus on her voice. “What happened to you? Are you hurt?”

I nodded just enough for her to understand that I meant yes.

The gunshot wound in my shoulder hurt worse than the one in my leg.

The second bullet must have just grazed me, like when I hunted for the first time with Dad.

He never let me forget how I let that elk get away with barely a wound. Luckily, that cop was a bad shot.

“Whose blood is this? Yours?”

Tears streamed down my face, I took off my glasses and wiped them away before I nodded again.

“Okay.” Her hands were gentle on my shoulders and her voice was so calm I almost forgot what had happened. Almost.

“Get in the truck.”

METAL BARS made up one wall of the tiny holding cell. With only a thin cot to sit on, I pulled my feet up under me and tried to get comfortable. My entire body ached not only from being shot, but also from holding all my emotions inside.

Hiding always kept me safe. Nervous reactions to every little sound or movement forced me to stay tense for hours on end.

The previous week had been a blur. Nurses in the emergency room cooed and kept their voices soft. As they cleaned my wounds and pulled the bullet from my shoulder, I got the feeling they felt sorry for me. They couldn’t have known that it was a cop that shot me, could they? Did they know my story?

Stitches closed the hole where the 9mm slug called home for a few hours.

If I wanted to put a positive spin on the entire situation, I could say I had street cred; I had been shot.

Not everyone could tell that kind of story.

Then again, not everyone could tell the story of killing their own dad, either.

Not even after a million questions did I admit the entire story, certainly not to the nice nurses.

I liked how they felt bad for me; if I admitted to them who I really was, I imagine their view would change.

Then they would look at me with disgust, like my dad had.

The time spent between the police department and juvenile detention had been a blur of cold handcuffs, interviews, court, and small holding cells.

At first, the police officers had treated me like a victim.

In the end, I broke down and admitted what I had done and why.

As I knew it would, my entire world turned upside down.

I gave a short explanation, but the officers understood how I had been abused for longer than I cared to admit, my entire life, really.

I had thought long and hard—the entire summer—about how to make up for my actions, but nothing could even the score for killing my dad.

I had known that eventually someone would have discovered that my parents had gone missing.

That I had also gone missing. I knew when that day came, my story would need to be solid.

No holes. Even details of the truth were hard to keep straight.

I had spent hours upon hours and day after day trying to figure out the best way to phrase the explanation for why I did what I did.

The more time I spent thinking about it, the more I convinced myself that I wasn’t the same pitiful kid I had been the day he killed my mom. The day I killed him.

I had to face it; I would officially be labeled a murderer. During the bouts of quiet time, I tried to remember who I had told the most details and who I had lied to. Well, not really lied, more like omitted specific details. Details that may make me look like I deserved to be abused.

I mean, I didn’t tell them how much I had talked back or that I broke things on the farm. When Dad hit me, I learned not to do it again. I totally deserved the punishment he had doled out.

Most of the officers treated me like the scared kid I was, but a couple looked at me like I had murdered my parents or something. They were rough when transporting me from the interrogation room to the cell—my cell—and back.

Turns out that my school called the police concerned because I hadn’t been registered for fall classes.

My mom was friendly with the social worker and although they weren’t close, she knew my education was important to Mom.

The counselor knew that Mom would have told her if we had moved away; she was very organized that way.

My mom had hidden the worst of our home life from me. It was only after being detained that I learned how my dad chose the ranch in Moose Pass for his hidden drug lair. One of the special agents pulled me into a private room and asked what I knew about the illegal activities.

Obvious to him, the questions confused me. He understood I had no knowledge of what my dad really did for money. I always thought he worked as an architect, at least that’s what Mom told me.

The parties my dad held for his so-called friends turned out to be a way for him to distribute drugs through his dealers to the entire Kenai peninsula.

He spent most of his time in Seward convincing dealers to do his dirty work.

They never figured out where he stayed, so he must have had some girlfriend in town.

When Dad got greedy and tried to take over Anchorage, the undercover cops infiltrated the group and convinced my mom to talk.

When one of the undercover officers, Tom Johnson, took her into the barn for a “tour,” my dad thought he was using her as a bonus for dealing with my dad, like others had done in the past.

Sick as it had been, it was Dad’s way of showing his appreciation for the secrecy. Instead, he had convinced Mom to confide in him. Tom had planned on saving us, but he was too late.

If I hadn’t taken my dad out last spring, the police would have had enough to put him away for life. We were all better off, so they say.

This news hit me like a ton of bricks; I felt like I had been hit by a Mack truck. My entire body ached, and my head spun. I attempted to make all the puzzle pieces fit but thought my head would explode.

Tom. The one person I had a positive feeling about was actually a good guy. Chills ran up my spine knowing my assumption had been right.

Even though I had eliminated the biggest drug dealer in southern Alaska, the fact was that I had committed murder and the state made me pay for my crime.

Unfortunately, I was forced to endure a trial and my lawyer convinced me that by pleading guilty, which I was, I would be charged as a juvenile instead of an adult. He was right; I was sentenced to juvenile detention, which meant I would be released when I turned twenty-one.

MCLAUGHLIN Juvenile Detention Center’s secure treatment unit would be my home for the next five and a half years.

Fifteen-year-olds aren’t supposed to cry, but I couldn’t help myself.

Change is hard in general, but going from a four-hundred-acre farm to sharing a ten-by-ten cell with another boy was a bit extreme.

I wasn’t sure how to live without being outside, without soaking up the sunshine, without drinking a glass of iced tea with my mom at the end of a hard day’s work.

When I finally got comfortable—or exhausted—I dreamt. Mom floated beside me over our property. She held my hand and told me everything was going to be okay. I wanted to believe her.

My face throbbed with pressure; I woke to find a fist slamming into my cheek. I backed away before the second hit connected. My roommate had dropped from the top bunk, grabbed me by the hair, and with his nose almost touching mine, whispered, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Sorry.” I sniffled.

“If you keep making so much noise, they're gonna come in here and search our room. If they search our room, you're the one who will be in solitary, not me. I’m not getting put in that hell hole again. Got it dickweed?”

“Got it.”

“Now. Shut the fuck up.” He climbed back to his bunk.

Mom? Can you hear me? I’m so scared. What’s going to happen to me? What’s going to happen to the farm? Am I ever going to be able to go back there? Shit. I didn’t grab any of our pictures.