The boy was thirteen when his world came to an end.
He and his father had not gone on a fishing trip in a very long time. Today they were finally going on one, just the two of them, at the pond bordering the forest near their
"You secured that tackle box yet?" his father called from where he was locking the doors of their truck.
estate. The boy was very excited.
"Yes, Pa," the boy shouted back as he squatted on the pier, hastily checking the hooks, lines, and baits he'd packed for their trip. When his father wanted something done, it had better be done right.
"Good. Let's have ourselves a little chat before heading out."
The day suddenly dimmed. His father's bootheels echoed on the wooden planks of the little pier, and the boy's mouth went dry. Wordlessly, he put the tackle box down before turning around, keeping his eyes low as a tall shadow fell on him.
"The principal called me to say you got into some trouble the other day," his father began.
"No trouble," mumbled the boy, eyeing the shiny buckle of his father's belt.
"What was that?"
"I wasn't in any trouble, sir," the boy said, a little louder. "Johnny Willis and I just had a disagreement over baseball, is all."
"That's not what I heard."
"It's really not—"
"Look at me like a proper gentleman when I'm talking to you."
Gulping, he raised his eyes to his father's hard blue gaze.
"They told me Jimmy was shouting at you. Told me he said you'd better not show up for tomorrow's practice. Why would he say that? He's never had any reason to trouble you."
The boy kept silent. His father searched his gaze like a pawnbroker assessing gold.
"Well? "
He stiffened. "He...he didn't want me hanging around Jenny Greene from the cheer squad anymore. Said I'd better stay as far away as I could. He said he'd beat me to a pulp if I even stayed on the team.
"I see." His father rubbed his own jaw for a moment before looking out across the water. The morning sun gleamed on the golden hairs on his forearm. "And you didn't teach him a lesson?"
The boy gaped up at him.
"You let him disrespect you in front of a crowd of people. A Prescott, and my son."
"Pa, it's not important! He was just—"
"You know why he disrespects you, boy? You know why he can humiliate you in public like that?"
The boy looked out at the glistening water reflecting the azure sky, wishing he was in the boat and floating out beyond the reeds to where the fish were waiting.
"He doesn't respect you," his father went on, "because he doesn't fear you. You don't bare your teeth. You showed him you were scared of him and he made an example of you."
"I don't know what else I could've done."
"Punched him in the teeth, for starters."
The boy looked up to his father with wide, fearful eyes. "Pa, the principal would've kicked me out!"
"He'd do no such thing."
"The school rules said—"
His father speared him with a look. "There are rules older than that school, son, and it's time you learned them. In this country, nobody respects a loser. Which is what a coward is—a loser who doesn't even try. 'It's better to be violent than be a coward.' Gandhi himself said that. Are you a coward, boy?"
Again the boy dropped his gaze. His mouth tasted bitter, like the medicine he was sometimes forced to take. "No sir."
"Are you a weakling?"
"No sir."
"Are you a Prescott?"
"Yes sir."
"Then don't let them take that away from you. You fight tooth and nail for it. You make people fear you. That's the only thing that will earn you any real respect. Never forget that."
The boy nodded, hating himself, hating that his father thought he was weak. What was supposed to be a pleasant, relaxing fishing trip got somehow turned into a grueling look at his latest humiliation. As if reflecting his mood, clouds were racing across the sun, turning the water a muddy grey. A cold breeze stirred through the reeds.
His father looked at him a moment longer before sighing. "Alright. Load up everything into the boat. I left the cooler in the truck." He turned away, and the boy was relieved that, at least for now, the lecture was over.
He hefted the tackle box onto the rowboat and carefully stepped inside. He had just settled down on the center seat when a peal of thunder erupted above him. Gasping, he gazed up at the dark clouds boiling overhead. They had gathered so quickly, hiding the sun like hands covering a light bulb. He hoped his father wouldn't make them go back all because of a little rain…
The sound of pounding feet made him look back down. His father was pelting across the dock towards him, face slack and bloodless. He stopped at the edge, ripped the rope from the dock before putting his foot against the bow and shoving the rowboat away from the shore.
"Pa?" the boy cried as he pitched forward onto the floor. "What's wrong?"
"GET DOWN!" his father ordered. "LIE FLAT ON THE FLOOR AND STAY THERE!" He'd never heard his father shout like that before, voice cracking from panic. Then his father turned back towards their truck, feet apart, shoulders squared, hands balled into fists.
"Pa?" the boy cried as the boat fled into deeper water. The air around him was starting to sizzle. "PAPA?!"
Then lightning tore the world in two, and his father disappeared in an explosion of light.
Sean Prescott shook awake, and the first thing he did was cover his eyes from the sudden glare. But it was only the lights of oncoming traffic in the evening gloom, nothing more. His fingers grazed his cheeks and found they were moist with tears.
Wiping them, he looked up at the car's driver. Sheriff Skinner was watching him through the rearview mirror.
"You okay, boss?"
"Fine." He turned to look out the car window, more to hide his face than anything else. "How long was I out?"
"'Bout half an hour, I'd reckon."
Sean gazed out at the deepening twilight. The lights of Arcadia Bay receded into the distance as the car climbed uphill; it was easy to imagine that the further he moved away, the more cloaked he would be from prying eyes. The dark always comforted him. As a lad, he had spent four years under the antiseptic lights of the sanitarium, being poked and prodded and watched by a legion of doctors. He preferred the dark now.
"We'll be at the place in ten minutes, sir," Skinner reported.
Sean nodded. He had gotten the call from Burrows early that morning; the panicky foreman reported the breach at the construction site and the theft of his laptop. Even before he heard about the sudden fog and the underbrush uprooted by a tornado, Sean knew it was her.
The witch herself had come to his estate, looking for answers. So, she was aware of him now. Time was very short indeed.
He had spent the entire day coordinating with the police and gathering information. Tonight, however, his business was with Burrows. It wasn't going to be easy—this morning's events had made the foreman skittish. Burrows had run, but not far enough.
"We're here," Skinner announced, turning into a parking lot.
Here was the Pleasant View Motel, 20 miles south of Arcadia Bay, a nearly-dilapidated building meant for the penniless—or anyone trying to lie low. Burrows had fled here while waiting for a flight out of the United States. But he'd forgotten whose town this was. Skinner had no trouble tracking him down.
I have only tonight to convince Burrows, Sean thought as the car stopped in front of the row of motel rooms. It was all or nothing.
"Which room?" he asked, putting on his hat.
Skinner nodded to the one furthest from the motel office. Sean looked up to the sign to see that the No Vacancy signal was lit. Good. He'd already instructed the motel manager to leave them alone. They won't be disturbed tonight.
The two of them alighted from the car. "I'll wait out here," Skinner said, loosening the strap of the pistol on his hip as he lowered his cowboy hat over his eyes. "Once you exit the room, gimme a nod if you want the job done. I'll take it from there."
They approached the door and Skinner rapped on it twice. "Room service!"
After a moment of silence, an irritated voice called out, "I didn't order anything!"
"It's courtesy of the owner." Skinner stepped to the side, leaving Sean standing in the middle of the walkway.
The door opened, revealing a balding, mustached man in a cream-colored bathrobe. "What owner? I've never met the own—" He met Sean's gaze and his jaw went slack.
"Mr. Burrows," said Sean.
"Mr. Prescott! I'm…I wasn't expecting-"
"Clearly. May I come in? We have business, you and I."
"O-of course." Burrows stood aside to let him enter. Sean winced as strode inside. The room was a mess: towels on the floor, open suitcase on the night table, a porn movie playing on the TV, which Burrows hastily turned off before sitting on the corner of his disheveled bed.
"I know this looks bad, Mr. Prescott," he began, gesturing to a nearby chair, "but under the circumstances—"
"Under the circumstances you should be at the site, moving things along at a faster pace than before. We had an agreement, Mr. Burrows. I made you a rich man."
"I know, I know." Burrows rubbed the nape of his neck; sweat stood out on his wide forehead. "But things have changed, sir. We've been infiltrated, sensitive information stolen—"
"That hardly matters. What's important is that we finish what we started, and quickly. That's well within your skillset. You've built the same structures over and over—"
"But only for Dionysus!" Burrows hid his face in his hands. "Mr. Prescott, you have to understand how bad this is. Our data's out in the open! If word hasn't leaked yet to Dionysus that we went behind their backs by building our own site, it soon will!"
Heat began to rise up the flesh of Sean's neck, but he forced himself to remain calm. "That hasn't happened yet. Your data is encrypted and Dionysus has enough measures to keep the server on their side secure. If we keep to my plan, it won't matter what they say because they won't find out until after the deed is done!"
Burrows looked up at him through the gaps between his fingers, his gaze filled with misery. "Mr. Prescott, I'm sorry, I…I can't do this anymore. When you came to me with this plan, you assured me we wouldn't get caught. You'd have captured the girl and it would all be done before anyone found out. But if that information leaks…there's nowhere I can run where the Twins won't find me. I have no choice. I have to go on hands and knees to Dionysus, tell them the truth, and beg for forgiveness. We need their help to fix this."
Sean felt the heat enveloping his skull; it was like an oven baking his brain. At last, he saw his mistake: there was no changing this man's heart. Burrows was a wimp through and through. And he was about to ruin everything.
"I see." Slipping his hand into his coat pocket, Sean approached the TV and turned it back on.
"For what it's worth," said Burrows. "I'm sorry we can't come to an agreement."
"So am I." Sean flipped through the channels until he found a Western—A Fistful of Dollars. The final duel. He turned the volume up to maximum.
"Sir, if you explain to them what happened, maybe we both can reach an accommodation—"
"We won't. Sooner it later, it all comes to violence." Sean turned to him and pulled the .38 pistol from his pocket. "But my father taught me something as he burned to death on that pond. It's better to be violent than a coward."
He pulled the trigger. The gunshot thundered in the tiny room, echoed by the sounds from the TV. Burrows jumped in his seat as a red blotch appeared on his chest; his mouth formed a long dark O when his mind caught on to what just happened. The steel sizzled in Sean's hand as he fired again. This time, the shock pushed Burrows back onto the mattress. His eyes had glazed over, and a rattling sigh fled from his throat.
Sean turned as the door crashed open and Skinner rushed in, revolver in hand. "Ah, Christ," he muttered when he saw the foreman's body. "You could've stuck to the plan!"
Sean stared at him, then walked over to the open suitcase. In one of the pockets, he found the construction blueprint, which he slipped into his coat. "Bury him at sea," he said over his shoulder. "It's important nobody finds him."
"Sure, boss," sighed Skinner. He pulled out his phone and dialed one of their cleaners. As Sean marched past him, Skinner held out his hand. "Better give me the gun. I'll get rid of it."
Sean merely fixed him a cold stare before stepping out into the night. The neon No Vacancy sign still blinked overhead. No lights turned on in the other rooms, no curtains moved. Satisfied, Sean Prescott strolled over to their car. Tomorrow, he would call Jefferson to demand an update on the search. For now, he needed to be alone and wait for his racing heart to slow.
He opened the car door and slipped inside. The dark embraced him.
The boy saw they weren't alone. A woman had emerged from the forests behind their truck, walking slowly towards them in the sighing wind. She was light-skinned, her hair flowing behind her like a black flag. Her long yellow dress hid her feet from view and made her seem like she was floating. She glanced at him once, then fixed her gaze on his father. They neither knew who she was or where she came from. But the news of his death was plain in her eyes.
"GO AWAY!" His father, who had terrified him all his young life, now stood visibly shaking, growing smaller the farther the boat drifted from the shore. But he remained where he was, between his son and certain danger.
The woman raised her eyes; her palms pointed toward the sky. The wind gusted once, then a bolt of lightning cracked through the air and the world exploded around his father.
The force hurled the boy against the seat. The dock was now a shattered, smoking pyre. Then a second thunderbolt followed the first, coming down like a flaming sword, so bright that it was blinding. And as the stench of his father's burning hair hit his nose, the boy clutched his ringing ears and screamed.