Who's In Trouble Now?

By Spense

Chapter Eight – Reality Check

The first mistake Alan made that evening was that he'd been out too late. Everything had been going so smoothly, so according to plan right up until then. Well, almost everything. All except Parker. Alan gave an involuntary shudder. He didn't want 'that look' from Parker ever turned on him again. He could be downright scary.

His second mistake was that he'd gotten, well, cocky, and hadn't done his planning. And it wasn't until he reached the doors of the library at what would have been dusk if it hadn't been drizzling, only to find that this was the one night it closed early. Looking at the chains on the iron grillwork of the door, he knew he wouldn't be getting in that night. But then again, that was one reason he'd chosen it in the first place. It's impregnability. That, and frankly, nobody would ever think to look for him in a library.

Looking up in dismay at the impressive building, Alan knew he was out of his safety zone for the night. 'Humm, guess I should have had a contingency plan,' was his rueful thought. Not very bright. Not bright at all.

Seeing the shadows deepening and bringing the city street to a deep, uniform dingy gray, and noting that the drizzle was growing to actual rain, Alan decided that he'd better be finding shelter for the night. He'd seen a couple of homeless shelters a few blocks up. He'd duck in there. That simple thought was the beginning of a lesson that Jeff Tracy had prayed that none of his sons would ever have to learn, and had been trying desperately to find his youngest before he ended up in this world.

Alan learned that rainy early Summer night what it truly meant to be homeless or a runaway and living on the street. His money was hidden safely in his hideaway in the library and not accessible to him until morning, and he had none of his belongings with him. As the darkness grew, so did the rain, and Alan saw a side of life that he'd never witnessed. Turned away from shelter after shelter for lack of space, Alan was shell shocked. After the warm temperatures, the sudden change in weather drove the New York homeless inside, and Alan was competing for the few beds available in the shelters without knowing the rules of THIS game. Buffeted and rejected from place to place, Alan finally turned to doorways or subway stations. Soaked, he was driven from these possible refuges by inhabitants who had already staked their claims, or security who did their job, keeping the areas clear of the riff raff. This was life at it's most brutal, and Jeff Tracy's son was not prepared for it.

As the night deepened, and the rain continued, the few people on the street grew decidedly less friendly. Alan stared at the hookers and avoided eye contact with the gang members who stalked the streets as their own. After the third time he was accosted (once by a hooker, once by an obviously disturbed man trying to pick a fight, and the third, most shocking to Alan, by an older man who called him 'pretty boy' and invited him to his home for a hot meal and 'some fun'), Alan had panicked. He'd ducked and run from the last one, shaken so badly that he'd dashed into the first alley he could find. He ignored the complaint from the inhabitant of the area who had already staked it out, and ducked into a pile of cardboard stacked in a back corner near a dumpster. Alan pulled the cardboard over him, as much for camouflage as for cover from the rain and curled up on himself, trying to stay warm. Not much helped in that line since he was already completely soaked.

Alan had the unfortunate luck to have chosen an alley well frequented by a rougher part of the city. He received an education that night that would have appalled his father and brothers. It was one thing to know about drug dealing and gang wars. Or to hear that prostitution existed, and how the hookers (of both sexes) were treated both by those who used their services and by those who profited from them. It was quite another to see the trade practiced repeatedly practically in front of your face, or to see a drug deal go bad or to see one person violently stab another over something worth less than 100. Alan was treated to all of this with devastating clarity several times over. He finally closed his eyes to try to stop taking in the carnage of human life on the streets, but the noise intruded, and that was just as bad.

The rain finally turned to drizzle at about midnight, and stopped completely at 2am, but Alan remained huddled. Still as a mouse, and having nearly bitten through his own lower lip from the strain of staying silent. By 3am, the human traffic in the alley was dwindling. By 4am it had stopped altogether. By 5:30am, with the sky lightening with sunrise, and clouds beginning to clear, life in New York was beginning to revert to the normal pattern Alan was familiar with. But still, he didn't move.

"Hey, kid!" A voice shocked him with it's suddenness, and Alan tried to scuttle backwards as the cardboard over him was removed. A filthy, bearded face, framed by coarse gray hair, a dirty, damp knit hat, and a tattered army coat looked down at him. His companion in the alley for the night. "Try for the Mission a couple of blocks over. They always offer showers and good food." Without waiting for a reply, he turned an shuffled off, Alan staring after him, his eyes huge.

Alan didn't budge for a few more hours. He was afraid to.

TB TB TB TB TB

As shaky as Alan was, he did take the man's advice and headed for the mission. By the time he had screwed up his courage to emerge from his sanctuary, it was mid morning. The sky was still overcast, but more and more patches of blue were taking over. The normal morning rush was on. Alan was passed by business men with cell phones, business women darting into buildings, normal life. Alan saw all of it with new eyes. It was like there were two worlds coexisting in one place. He shivered slightly.

Glad to reach the mission, he ducked inside. There were a few people still scattered around the tables, but most of the crowd had left. A black man popped his head out from the kitchen where he was washing dishes. "Shower?" He called.

Alan nodded.

"Okay. Follow me." The tall black man directed Alan towards the showers, eyed his damp clothes quickly and pulled some worn sweats and boxer shorts out of a cabinet for him. "How about I wash your clothes?"

Alan just nodded dumbly and headed for the showers. He stood under the hot water until he finally felt warm again. He wasn't sure if he'd ever feel warm inside again, though. Dressing in the worn sweats, Alan made his was back to the dining room.

"Clothes are in the dryer," the man said cheerfully as he brought Alan a plate of sandwiches and a glass of apple juice and sat down across from him. "We're between meals, but you look like you could use something to eat."

Alan just nodded and began to eat automatically. He couldn't tell how the food tasted, everything had the consistence of dust.

"Runaway?" The question was asked softly, and was non-threatening.

Alan looked up suddenly to meet the black man's kind eyes. He looked at him for a moment, then dropped his gaze.

"Hey, it's okay. I won't even ask your name. But you can talk to me."

Alan looked up at him again, thoughtfully. He seemed almost familiar somehow.

"My name is John. I'm Pastor John actually. This is my Mission."

John. That was why. This man reminded him of his brother, John Tracy. He seemed kind, like John. Alan had always been able to talk to him. Maybe . . .

"Do you have family?"

Alan nodded.

"Are they okay? I mean, somebody you'd maybe want to go back to?" Pastor John was quiet, serene. Just like his brother.

Alan again nodded thoughtfully.

"If you wanted to, I could call them."

"Not after what I've done," Alan found himself saying.

"Oh, I think you'd be surprised," Pastor John smiled. "There isn't much parents won't forgive."

"Father. It's just my father. My Mother's dead." Alan almost shut down at that. That was the root of the whole problem, wasn't it? He thought for awhile. "I don't know. He's going to be pretty mad," he continued thoughtfully.

Pastor John answered, sounding more like his brother John every minute. "I think you're father would just be glad to see you. You'd be surprised how many kids I reunite with their families. Most are just thankful to have their kids back."

Alan had to admit that sounded plausible. He knew his father loved him, even though he got exasperated with him. But still, most fathers weren't Jefferson Tracy, famous astronaut, founder and head of Tracy Enterprises, and head of International Rescue. That put things into a whole new league. And again, most kids probably hadn't managed to hijack a dean's computer, commit credit card fraud and con a bunch of money out of their father's assistant, just to name a few of the more recent infractions. Then of course, he'd also almost blown up a school. Nobody'd ever forget that one. Most kids probably hadn't killed their own mother just by being born either, to their brother's disgust. They probably weren't the youngest of FIVE either.

Alan shook his head decisively. "No. Not now." He finished and stood up.

Pastor John got up as well. "Hang on." He disappeared for a moment and came back with a plastic bag. "Your clothes. Nice and clean."

Alan could smell the fabric softener. That nearly did him in more than anything else had that day. It smelled so – normal.

"I've also put some more sandwiches in as well. Keep the sweats. You ever need an somebody to talk to, come see me. I put my card in as well. Ok?"

Alan nodded.

"Ok then. See you soon." He smiled again, reminding Alan strongly once more of his second oldest brother, and disappeared back to the kitchen.

Alan headed back to the library. And safety. No sightseeing today.

TB TB TB TB TB

Jefferson Tracy stepped into the small, nondescript mission in the middle of the evening meal rush the next day. A black man looked up at him and asked inquiringly, "Mr. Tracy?"

Jeff nodded, and the man smiled. If you'll wait a few moments, I'll be right with you. My office is in there. Make yourself at home."

Jeff made his way into the tiny office next to the kitchen and sat down. The black man joined him in a few minutes. "Sorry about that. They have it all under control now. I'm Pastor John, I spoke to you on the phone."

"I understand you may have spoken with my son," Jeff said as he shook the proffered hand.

"Yes, I believe so. I kept thinking he looked familiar but I couldn't place him. Then, I was cleaning up some of papers left here and I saw his face. I believe it could be him. After seeing the pictures and video the police brought around after I called them, I can say that yes, it was your son with a high degree of certainty, but not proof positive. He didn't give a name however, and I don't ask."

"I understand. How . . . How was he?" Jeff was almost afraid to ask. He'd spoken with the police after they'd interviewed Pastor John, and he had all the information, but Jeff had wanted to talk to this man himself. This man had spoken to his son, and he was the closest link he'd had to his son in nearly two months. Just sitting in the same room with him made him feel closer to Alan.

Pastor John paused to think a moment before he spoke. "He was scared. I don't think 'terrified' would be too strong of a word to use to describe his state of mind. And he looked to be in a state of shock. I don't know where he's been previously, but I think he was on the streets the night before he came in here. This is not a good neighborhood, in fact it's one of the worst. You name it, it happens right in these few blocks. He looked like he'd been places he didn't want to think about."

Jeff paled. "Was he hurt? Was he . . .?" He couldn't go on.

"I'm sorry Mr. Tracy, I wish I could tell you more. I don't really know. In the short time he was here, all I could see was that his lower lip was bruised. But I can tell you this," he continued, "he's very close to coming home. And if he wants to, he knows he can come to me to act as intermediary."

"Thank you," Jeff breathed. This man's serenity was soothing.

"Also, for what it's worth, he thinks he's done things that you can't forgive him for."

"Never," Jeff said forcefully. "Not ever."

The man across from him smiled. "That's what I told your son."

TB TB TB TB TB

Scott hit the disconnect button on the vidphone, his face stone, after the brothers had all finished hearing from their father about the latest update.

Gordon, from his video link on TB 5 broke the loud silence, sounding very shaken. In a small voice he asked rhetorically, "Do you think it really was Alan?"

Nobody answered. How could they?

"DAMM!" Scott snarled, and levered himself out of the chair in an explosion of movement so strong that the chair rolled halfway across the room behind him. His momentum took him as far as the window, where he stood, arms crossed and tension filled. He looked out on a view full of peace and beauty, all azure water, white sand and lush vegetation. The comparison could not have been stronger to what his baby brother had been experiencing.

John's quiet voice sounded softly from the back of the room, a hard resonance to it, " If Alan's been hurt, so help me, I'll . . . "

"Stand in line, bro," Virgil said in a voice like steel, "Stand in line."

No other voices filled the strained silence after that. There just wasn't anything to say.