Installment 8

            Look, I know it was a bad idea.

            At least, I know it now. When I did it, I don’t suppose I thought much along those lines. The general idea was that I was bored and I had to do something to keep myself from rummaging through Clara’s backpack, and if that something involved putting both of us at risk, well, I would do my best not to get caught.

            Like I said, it was a bad idea.

            Clara fell asleep while poring over a notebook. She had obviously latched onto the idea of being an agent quickly -- searching for clues, testing out the equipment she had…everything. But yet with all that, she was taking this seriously -- very seriously.

            I know what you’re thinking. And you weren’t?

            I was taking it seriously. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t scared.

            Not even a bit.

            And the part that did disconcert me was that I was partly enjoying it.

            I had been passed around from foster home to foster home all my life. I couldn’t wait until I graduated and I could legally head off on my own. It seemed that every couple -- or single person -- I was given to was completely incompetent at knowing what to do with a kid. Trust me, I’ve seen all sorts. There are those who give you whatever you want, or they think you want, and there are those who never want to give you anything, and there are those who try to keep a balance but they’re so obvious about everything that it’s clear as day that they don’t really care about you.

            I’ve got an idea. Let’s change the subject.

            No one really ever kept me around for very long, because I was so not normal. But with the sudden arrival of a policeman, a strange girl, and a computer program called Back Door, I was part of something. I had a thousand questions and no answers, I had a vague idea in the back of my mind that this was dangerous, but I mattered.

            As that thought struck me, a memory came flashing back.

            Do you matter at all?

            I threw it off as quickly as it came. I had grown experienced in this task, but not experienced enough, because with the memory of that question came other memories of other questions, questions I would dearly like to forget.

            I focused on the backpack next to the sleeping Clara in order to block out the memories, and I found that, surprisingly enough, it worked very well. Troubling thoughts were replaced with an overwhelming desire to search her backpack and all the gadgets she claimed were within it. And I knew that she would kill me if I did that, so I made a decision to go out and look around to see if the police were still there.

            I snuck out quietly without Clara waking up. We were in a back hallway. I had lived in this town all my life, so I knew that this part of the bus station wasn’t originally part of the station. It used to be a set of offices belonging to some company, but now, it was used as a set of record storage rooms. Apparently Clara had chosen the one empty room.

            I slipped down the hallway, and through another one, trying to remember exactly how we got in. It was a small little complex attached to the bus station, but I didn’t want to walk straight into the waiting arms of the police, and so I tried to be careful.

            Suddenly, I heard a noise. I froze and flattened myself against the wall. I could hear voices coming closer, and I frantically looked both ways for somewhere to go.

            I spotted the door to what I assumed must be a broom closet for a janitor, and I jerked it open, slipping inside and shutting the door.

            The voices came closer, and I realized they were walking through my same hallway -- and I felt a shiver run up my back when I recognized one of the voices.

            “Deal with it? What do you mean, deal with it?”

            It was Larson from the police station, but he sounded far angrier now than he had before.

            “Obviously I’m not telling you to deal with it. I’ll deal with it. I wouldn’t trust you to ‘deal with it,’ anyway.”

            The second voice belonged to Travis Thatcher, and he had the same sarcastic voice I had heard before. I knew it was dangerous…but I couldn’t help crouching at the keyhole to watch.

            “Heavens, Thatcher!” Larson snarled back. He was rubbing his forehead with his hand, looking positively furious. Travis had leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.

            “It’s not that big a deal to deal with,” he shrugged. “Seriously.”

            “Not that big a deal?” Larson exploded. “It’s a huge deal! We let the kid get away! It’s our fault!”

            “So he got away.” Travis spread his arms in a careless gesture. “So what? He can still fulfill his purpose.”

            “Oh, really? How?” Larson challenged.

            “Simple,” Travis insisted. “To me, I mean. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Mr. Drew Larson. Simple in my boat, but complicated in yours.”

            “You and your stupid mind games,” Larson muttered, and for a moment, I saw a genuinely unsettled expression on Travis’ face. Larson had succeeded in unnerving him for a moment, but only a moment, before Travis rearranged his features into the same confident air, and Larson never noticed the change.

            “Mind games?” he said smoothly, tracing a crack in the wall with one finger. “What do you mean?”

            Larson rolled his eyes. “Stories, and lots of them. Everyone knows them. Only a few people recognize them for what they are. But then again, only a few people have ever wittingly played your games, have they? I’m not one of them, Thatcher, so you should explain things normally.”

            Now Travis smiled his crooked half smile -- but it was not a smile of relief. I got the sneaking suspicion that Travis was not particularly happy with Larson’s revelation. “The kid’s a fugitive. He’s just as much use to me as a fugitive as jailed or arrested.”

            It was Larson’s turn to be confused. “What? How?”

            I have to go. I meant to get farther… but I’ll get back soon.

-Nathan T. Dalton