Chapter 2
As the immediate shock of facing a gun wore off, Mark quickly assessed the situation, which wasn't as grave as he had at first assumed. The hand holding the gun was shaking, and Mark surmised it was the first time its owner had held a weapon. The boy seemed to be in his early teens and more scared by Mark's sudden appearance than the doctor was of him. Taking all this in at a glance, Mark hardly hesitated as his agile mind devised a plan and proceeded to put it into operation. He peered myopically at the boy.
"Well, hello, sonny. I wasn't expecting any company today. Come in, make yourself comfortable; I'll get us a bite to eat." He turned and shuffled out of the room, exaggerating his age and making himself seem as harmless as possible. He began rummaging around in the kitchen, keeping up a rambling monologue. Part of him was amused that his senile and decrepit act, which he had used to entertain his children for many years, should come in so useful.
The boy stared after him, confused. He had expected a very different response, both to the break-in and the weapon. He didn't even think the old man had seen the gun, and he pocketed it, relieved that he hadn't had to use it. He followed the old man out into the kitchen and stood awkwardly near the doorway, unsure of his next move. He'd achieved his objective, and instinct told him to run, to get out while the going was good. No one would try and stop him. However, he was undeniably hungry, and he found himself reluctant to leave what seemed to be a safe haven. If he carried through with his plan, his life would be changed forever. For now, the soup and sandwich being prepared for him were a welcome opportunity to postpone taking actions that would prove irrevocable.
Mark stole the occasional surreptitious glance in the boy's direction as he worked, relieved that the gun was no longer in sight. While seemingly engrossed in his task, he was appraising the boy and any potential threat he might still offer. The boy would have been hard to pick out in a crowd. He was nondescript in appearance, wearing typical teenage clothes, but there was something dejected in his demeanor, something more than just normal adolescent attitude. There was a sense of loss in his eyes that spoke of real tragedy, and Mark found himself hoping he could help. He couldn't believe the boy had any intention of harming him.
"We're ready to eat, sonny," he announced. "Let's eat outside in the sunshine."
With some hesitation, the boy picked up his own plate and drink and followed Mark outside. They sat down at the picnic table, and the boy stared longingly at his food.
"My name's Mark; tuck in, you look hungry. Good food, fresh air, that's the ticket. What's your name?"
Barely waiting for the soft, hesitant response of "Skylar", Mark continued a soft patter of words, innocuous in content, designed to put the boy at ease. Although Mark noticed the teen slowly relaxing, he missed the significance of the stealthy glances at the surrounding shrubbery, as if the boy expected to see something or someone hiding there.
Bobby Phillips had not come to the cabin alone. His friend Nick had come to act as a watchdog as he broke into the building. A lousy job he had done of it too, Bobby mused as he half listened to the old man continue to prattle on. It didn't look as if he'd stuck around after they had been surprised in the act. His thoughts swung back to the reason for his first attempt at breaking and entering, and unknowingly his expression mirrored his depressing thoughts. He was jolted out of his reverie by a concerned hand on his knee and the question, "Are you alright?"
He looked up in surprise at Mark and was caught by the gentleness in that gaze. That was a quality very much missing from his life since his grandfather died two years ago. This man reminded him of his grandfather, with his white hair and distinguished appearance, combined with a patient manner.
"You look as though you've lost your best friend," Mark told him. His concern and obvious interest invited the boy's confidence, and Bobby found himself suddenly eager to unburden himself to a sympathetic audience.
"My brother." He paused and gulped, the grief still too fresh to talk easily. Mark waited, not rushing him, afraid he might withdraw into silence again if he pushed; but the dam of pent-up emotions was crumbling, and a torrent of anger and sorrow spilled out.
"He died last week. They said it was an overdose, but it wasn't, I know it wasn't. He never really did drugs; I mean he experimented with some stuff when he was younger, but he promised me he'd stop and he did. He hadn't touched anything for months. They killed him. He was all I had left and they killed him." Bobby stood up and started to pace, too agitated to sit still.
"Skylar?" Mark tried to interrupt, but the boy was too absorbed in his narrative to respond to the alias he had given, and he continued to talk disjointedly until his brief burst of energy ran out and he sat down abruptly, and dispiritedly buried his head in his hands.
"Skylar. Who are 'they'?" This time Mark succeeded in getting the boy's attention. He lifted his head up and stared at the older man with a mixture of alarm and suspicion, aware that he might have said too much. Mark returned his gaze guilelessly, trying to convey support for his situation without too much interest in the particulars of his story. Apparently he struck the right combination, because the boy continued in a lower voice after another quick survey around him.
"There's a group of people around here who're working on this experimental stuff – you know, a new type of drug. Its worth a ton of money, and they recruited a couple of the kids nearby as distributors. They call it 'rocket', you know, it gives you a real quick trip to the stars." He shifted his gaze away from Mark, obviously uncomfortable about revealing any more.
"How did you get involved with them?" Mark asked gently.
"My brother got me in." Billy shrugged. "It seemed like an easy way to make some extra money. There's not a lot of opportunities around here. But it didn't take long for me to decide I wanted out. These guys aren't just playing, they're vicious."
"Is that where you got the gun?"
"No," Bobby looked surprised at the question. "I found it here, in the bedside drawer. Everyone knows that Doc Harley loves to hunt. We thought we'd find a hunting rifle here, some kind of weapon at least."
Mark tried not to show any reaction to that. It put a whole different perspective on things. He had imagined that the teen had brought the gun to commit the robbery, not vice versa. It had never occurred to him to check to see if his friend had left any weapons lying around the cabin. He was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude that Steve had not been with him earlier. His more threatening presence could have pushed the boy into ill-considered action, and the thought of the ensuing tragedy left Mark chilled. Although he wasn't expecting Steve back any time soon, it would be a good idea to retrieve the gun before he arrived. He knew he was pushing his developing relationship with the boy, but he had to ask:
"Why do you need a gun?"
Bobby looked at him closely and, for the first time, realized that this was not an old man on the edge of senility. However, the compassion and kindness in his eyes continued unabated, and it didn't occur to him to question this apparent transformation.
He raised his head with a touch of defiance. "They killed my brother, and I'm going to kill them, or at least the guy responsible. The police won't touch them; they say it was his own fault, but I'm not going to let them get away with it. Ni.... a guy who was my brother's best friend and works for the gang told me exactly what happened. They didn't give him a chance. My friend told me this was the only way."
Mark pondered wryly on the seemingly altruistic actions of this helpful friend, but refrained from sharing his suspicions about the ulterior motives behind his actions in favor of encouraging the increasingly agitated boy to relinquish the weapon. He didn't believe the teen was acting out of his own conviction, but had been pushed towards this goal while vulnerable in his grief.
"And what then?" he asked softly. "You'll either get yourself killed or go to jail for the rest of your life. Is that what your brother would want? I know it sounds cliched, something older people always say, but violence isn't the answer. There has to be some other way to get justice for your brother." He half expected the boy to become aggressive and start brandishing the weapon again, but there was no overt reaction to his words, which encouraged him to continue.
"Just give me the gun. I understand why you took it. You must have loved your brother very much, but this isn't the way. I have friends in the police department; maybe I can get them to reopen the investigation into your brother's death. I won't mention anything that's happened here. Please, just give me the gun."
He held out his hand, and slowly Bobby reached into his pocket and withdrew the gun. With a mixture of reluctance and relief, he placed it in Mark's hand, and as his overwrought emotions got the better of him, he placed his head back in his arms and sobbed out his loss and the release of tension. Mark placed the gun in the inside pocket of his jacket, not wanting to leave it accessible in the unlikely event the boy should change his mind. He patted the teen's shoulder comfortingly, then picked up his soup bowl and went inside the cabin, ostensibly to fill the lemonade pitcher, but really to give him some time to recover his composure.
Bobby's tears were abruptly interrupted by a rough hand on his shoulder, brutally wrenching him around. He looked up in shock at his tormentor. Nick's face was distorted with rage as he hissed, "What the hell do you think you're doing, telling him all that, and why did you give him the gun back, you idiot? How're you going to kill Caymen without it?"
Dazed from the interruption of his emotional catharsis, Bobby just stared at him, not attempting to defend himself. He was only moved to expostulate when Nick stepped away from him and, after a quick glance at the cabin, deposited the contents of a small white envelope in Mark's drink.
"Hey, don't do that," he protested as the white powder swirled into oblivion as it mixed with the lemonade in the glass.
"Shut up. We need that gun back, and this way he'll be in no condition to go to the police to try to stop us. You heard him, he has connections with the cops. If you warn him, you'll regret it." Nick's last threat was uttered as he disappeared back in to the bushes, leaving Bobby dazed and torn with uncertainty. He was aware that a dose that large could kill the older man.
He didn't have long to wait before Mark reemerged from the cabin carrying some more lemonade with which he refilled Bobby's cup and then, as Bobby watched in an agony of indecision, Mark started to drink from his own.
