Playing Tyler (15 page)

The swell of bile rises up and I want to choke and spit and smash the phones all over again. But I don't. I slam my body into the chair. Feel the stiff leather against my back, feel it hurt.

Follow the truck. Follow the bad guy. Stop him. Help those good people on the ground just trying to get their lives back together. Where the hell is he going, anyway? I keep tracking the truck, waiting for it to take a turn onto one of the wider boulevards where I can probably hit it without a lot of damage to any buildings. Someplace clear of people. There aren't a lot of paved roads over there, though, so it would suck if I had to wreck one just to kill some loser. Let's see.

I pull a satellite image map up in real time on the second screen, keeping the drone tracking every millimeter the loser takes down the road. Driving slowly down the main drag of the town like he's casing it, which he probably is. Shit. Have to stop him. All the main roads look like they go back to dirt once you leave the city. If I were a terrorist, what would I want to strike? One, a big building in the middle of town, is probably like their town hall or something. Doubt anyone would hit that at night. Wouldn't be like a terrorist to hit an empty building. OK. Scratch that. Too bad, that parking lot would have been a great place to take him out with minimum damage to infrastructure.

Keep looking. What's that? Big, looks like a two-, maybe three-story building and a couple of smaller shacks inside a high wall with a guard tower. Barbed wire. Jail. Has to be either a jail or one of our bases. But it doesn't really look like the other bases, which usually have more buildings and an airstrip. Bet that's where he is going.

I check the truck. Slowing down. Stopping. Shit. That's a big building, too. I check the map. Shit. Shit! That's a school. Some other guy gets in the truck. Gets in the bed of the pickup. Along with a big bag. Relax, Ty. It's the middle of the night, there won't be any kids in there now. But the thought makes me burn. Those terrorists have to go. Wish I was killing them for real. The truck starts up again.

Where else could I hit them? The boulevard is the widest street but I don't want to damage it if I don't have to, and unless they roll into a parking lot the other streets are just too narrow. Shit. I wait. Hate waiting. Hate it. I grab the sandwich off the end table and bite it. Chew. The truck is rolling through town. Passes the big building in the center, turns onto another narrow-ass little street. But this narrow street leads out of town. Leads towards the building that looks like a jail.

I lase them. Type in the code for permission to hit. The second they get out of town. Green light blinking. SKY. Permission granted. Awesome. Sixty-eight thousand dollars' worth of hurt is about to rain down on their asses the second they get away from those houses. Get away from the good people. Get away from the kids. Weapons armed. Less than half a mile before they reach the jail. I wait. Wait until they are far enough away from the center of town.

I fire. Wait. Three. Two. One.

The truck disappears in a cloud as the missile hits. Yes! I wish I could hear it. Everything on the screen is so quiet. No noise. I feel good, man. Proud.

Then I remember. Remember that it's just a game and that B is missing. Remember that everything in my life is a sham.

Turning the music up even louder, I shout along with the lyrics and just fly. Fly around and see a fake truck blown to bits on the side of a dirt road. Fly over a fake desert with fake people with a fake sense of purpose.

 

CHAPTER 17

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17

TYLER

Mom's watching the news. She's in the kitchen, reading a paper on her tablet and sitting in front of the news on the TV as she ignores the phone smashed to pieces all over the floor. “Hey, Mom.” I kiss her on the forehead. It's nice. Boys should kiss their moms.

She does her usual, and doesn't look me in the eyes as she says, “Any luck finding your brother?”

I grab the dustpan from the closet and stare at the ticker on the screen. Dow is up, apparently. That's good news for somebody, I'm sure. I sweep up the plastic remnants of phone. “No.”

“We shouldn't have let him go back into rehab. We should have known that it does no good. A lot of money for nothing.” She takes a sip of her coffee. Eyes on the tablet. Hate tablets. Their gaming platform sucks.

“We had to give him another chance,” I say.

“He doesn't need another chance. He doesn't use them. Do you know how much rehab costs? Money for nothing, Tyler. For nothing.”

I'm too tired for this. “Mom, of course I know how much it costs.”

“It's money I should have used to help you,” she says, her voice trembling.

Shit. “Mom, I'm fine, OK?”

“No. No, I should have seen you sliding, baby. Should have gotten tutors or counseling or something to help
you
. I know you and Rick think it's OK but I don't. I'm your mother, I should have been doing more for you.” Her lips press together. Press so hard they turn white. “We can't make Brandon get better if he doesn't want to get better. He's selfish. And he's a liar. We shouldn't trust him, shouldn't believe him, shouldn't believe that he cares…”

I throw the broom into the cabinets, chest tight. “Jesus, Mom, he's your son!”

She puts down her coffee, hard, liquid splashing on her shaking hands. “No, not really, not anymore.” Her shoulders tremble and her lips can't keep steady and she cries. Cries in her power suit. Doesn't look so strong when she's crying.

“Mom.” She does this. I forget. Forget how easy it is to break her. Especially now that B's gone again. I should have known. I grab her, wrap her up in my arms, let her cry. She's so delicate, like a kitten. Even when she looks normal, even when she looks tough, she's not right. Her mascara runs onto my shirt and she wipes her eyes and she sobs. Big, earth-moving sobs from such a small woman. “Sorry, I wasn't thinking, OK? You have me, Mom. You'll always have me.” I kiss the top of her head and hold her until she steadies. But I still hold her after she stops. Hold her tight so that she knows that I love her. That I'm not Brandon.

Some guy is talking on the news. Financial stuff is over. Now there's a breaking story. Hate the morning news. Hate that they act like some nine year-old playing the violin is real news. This sounds like real news, though. At least to me. “Good news in the War on Terror. The Pentagon announced the morning the death of Bashir Hamad, a former ISI officer and a known Al-Qaeda sympathizer. Anonymous Pentagon sources have stated that Bashir Hamad was known to have operational links to insurgent forces in the region. It is also believed that he had ties to some of the individuals who funded the 9/11 attacks. Bashir Hamad and his accomplices were killed overnight en route to a planned attack on the Al-Quaddari prison in the Helmand province of Afghanistan.”

My heartbeat picks up, one beat at a time, like kernels of popcorn starting to go. They show a picture of some guy in a turban, in-set eyes and long, bushy beard. “Hamad has been wanted by coalition forces for some time. He is believed to be responsible for leading a 2006 attack on Marines in Marjah that led to the death of three US servicemen.”

I'm happy he's dead.

Mom slips out of my arms. Grabs her coffee and walks it over to the sink, shuffling her feet along the floor. She kisses me, quietly, quickly, on the cheek. And waits. Waits for me to say something, to look at her. Anything. But I can't move. I can't. Freaking. Move.

It's the truck. The image on the news. It's my truck. Gray truck blown to bits on the side of the road. It's my truck. My jail. My heart beats so loud that it rings in my ears.

Rick's got one hell of a sim if it can simulate a mission that took place, hours, minutes, before.

Fuck. Or did I just kill Bashir Hamad?

 

CHAPTER 18

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18

TYLER

The phone. Stupid phone, ringing again. Don't want to get it. Want to get to Yale. I pedal faster, hoping to burn. Needing to feel the burn. I should get the phone. Don't stop pedaling. The wind snaps my cheeks. Tip of my nose and ears burning in the cold. Get the phone. Don't stop pedaling. Fingers and nose and ears will be numb in a second, just keep going. Have to get to Ani. To New Haven. Almost there. Stupid phone.

I yank the handlebars off to the right and veer off the bicycle path. I grab the phone out of my pocket, heart racing.

“Yeah,” I say. Breath bouncing off the device and hitting my frozen cheek, making it hot, making it burn then freeze all over again.

“Mr MacCandless?” A voice, unsteady, nervous.

Shit, it's a telemarketer. “Take me off your list, OK?” Balancing the still bike beneath me, I kick at the gravel.

“No! No, it's not like that. I'm a friend of your brother's,” the voice adds quickly, like he's trying to rush it all in before I hang up, like he didn't just stop my heart.

I feel cold. Cold all over, even inside me, and my legs holding the bike don't feel so steady. I want to sit down, I want to scream, I want to ask a million questions. They rattle around between my ears, hurting. Where is he is he safe did he call you why isn't this him?

“Mr MacCandless… um… Tyler? You still there? Don't leave me hangin',” the guy says and I let the bike fall to the ground with the sickening clang of metal on stones, metal on pavement, metal slicing through the fog in my head.

I stomp. Pace. Walk fast. Real fast so I can say, “Yeah. Have you… Where is he?” Six days. B's been gone for six days. I need to know. Need to find him.

“Oh, well, I don't know where he is, but…”

“If you don't know where he is then why are you calling?” My head. My freaking head. I push my free hand into my head, grinding into my scalp, pulling at my hair.

“We knew each other when he had his show. Man that was a great vlog, great show, great guy, your brother. Shame about… Listen, maybe we got off on the wrong foot here. My name is Todd Sevier and I'm a reporter for the
Montreal Standard
. I'm sure your brother told you about me, I even came down to meet him once, when Ralph Nader was giving a talk in Hartford. Man, what a weekend that was.”

Montreal? What, like, in Canada? My chest expands and fills with ugliness and pain and worry and I can't seem to keep it all from flowing over, from gushing right out of my mouth. I grunt.

“Yeah, well, he called me this morning, said he had a story for me. Also mentioned that he couldn't believe that I actually landed a job as a journalist, but hey. Anyway, he said that you're involved in a program with Tidewater and that I might be able to help you out, maybe fill in some blanks, give you some info.”

Keep him talking, keep him talking, don't let him stop talking. Did B not tell him why he doesn't have his show anymore? Does he know that B has less chance of becoming a serious journalist now than I have of being an actual pilot? I find a tree. Tall, big thing with crackled bark and punch my fist into the wood. Punch it, hard. Again. Bleeding. Stinging. Feel the impact travel up through my arm, feel it cover the fact that Brandon called him and not me.

“Yeah,” I manage. A hoarse whisper. Thank God there's no one else down this far on the trail today. No one really likes the parts of the path behind the abandoned shopping centers.

“So what's this about some guy from Haranco contracting you to test flight simulation programs for him? Sounds cool.”

Shit. This is bad. His words roll through me. I shouldn't be talking about it. Rick told me to keep the fact that I had the sim quiet. I shouldn't talk about it. At all. Especially not with a reporter.

I shouldn't have told Brandon.

I say nothing. Can't even bring myself to punch the tree. Just stand there like a moron, letting the cold eat me.

“He said that the program even comes with specialized equipment, and that they put it in your house? Is it like a huge Xbox or something?” His voice is steady now, beneath the banter, primed, on the hunt.

“Yeah,” I whisper. Probably can't even hear me.

“So, is it like a videogame or what?”

“No, it's not, it's…” I stop. Look up at the clouds, shifting. Ani. If anything happens to Rick, to his program, then Ani gets in trouble, too. “Look, I shouldn't be talking about this.”

“No worries, man, I just wondered if you could maybe send me a picture or something. I'd love to check it out.”

“No, I can't.”

“OK, then. I don't want to put you on the spot. I just wonder why they'd need someone who worked at Althea to help you set up the system.”

“What?” Shit. Stupid Brandon running his mouth to some reporter starting trouble. Why am I worried? This is Rick's program. Rick's a good guy, right? “She's the programmer.”

“Really?” His voice is light, but underneath I can hear metal. “Did you ever ask yourself why an employee of the United States' largest defense contractor came to the house of a seventeen year-old boy to give him a videogame system with multiple high-definition surround screens?”

How does he know what it looks like? Has to be from Brandon, I told him all about the system last visit we had before he disappeared. I'm gonna
kill
B if he messes up my chances for this flight school. My heart turns to stone and falls down to meet up with the rest of the gravel. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“All I know is that drone attacks kill a lot of people, Tyler. A United States senator stated last week that drones have killed forty-seven hundred people. I imagine that at least half of them were civilians. We're talking women, children. Your government even redefined the meaning of militant to include any military-aged male, whether or not they were known to have any ties to actual insurgents. Kind of serious stuff.”