his friends had grabbed some random homeless guy. Grabbed him,
taken
him, but taken him where? Rex couldn’t remember.
He stood. That fear, it sat in his stomach like a block of ice. It wouldn’t go away. He picked his jeans up off the floor. As he slid them on, he looked over at his desk, at his latest drawing of Alex Panos and the bullies.
The drawing wasn’t finished.
Maybe he could finish it in history class. Rex had read the whole textbook the first week of school and got 100 percent on every test — Mr. Garthus didn’t care if Rex did any work, as long as he kept quiet. No time to finish the full drawing, but Rex felt an urge to sketch that symbol again. He
had
to sketch it, right now.
When his pencil completed the symbol’s final half-circle, the lingering dream-fear finally eased away. Rex’s more familiar, ever-present anxiety remained, however. Roberta was wrong; it didn’t matter if he minded his own business or not, the bullies would come for him no matter what he did.
Rex shivered. He wanted to skip school, but he didn’t dare. Whatever beating the bullies had for him, it couldn’t match what Roberta would do if she switched from the belt to the paddle.
Rex rubbed his new welts. He finished dressing. He gathered his books, then slid them, his pencils and his art pad into his bag.
Maybe today would be better.
The Drawing
B ryan opened the Buick’s door, moved Pookie’s pile of folders, then sat.
“Pooks, you ever clean up this crap-ass car?”
Pookie leaned back, affected an expression of hurt. “My goodness, did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”
Bryan shut the door. Pookie pulled into traffic.
“I had some messed-up dreams,” Bryan said. “Couldn’t sleep for shit.”
“That could explain why you look like the wet side of a half-dry dog turd.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. But seriously, folks, you do look awful. And trim that beard, man. You’re starting to look like a gay hipster. I’ve no room for such nonsense in my life.”
Bryan’s chest pain had faded from sharpness to a dull, nagging ache, like a jammed finger, or a knot in his spine that refused to crack. He dug his right fist into his sternum and rubbed it around.
Pookie looked over. “Heartburn?”
“Something like that.”
“Not sleeping, pale as a ghost, and chest pains to boot,” Pookie said. “If we weren’t meeting Chief Zou, I’d drive you back to your apartment and tell you to take a sick day.”
Chief Zou would already have the preliminary overview from the shooting review board. A full investigation was under way — standard procedure — but the early overview would determine if Bryan stayed on normal duty or was relegated to a desk until the final report came in.
There was also the option that Zou could just suspend him altogether. For most cops, that wouldn’t be a worry. Most cops, however, hadn’t just killed their fifth human being.
“I’ll be okay,” Bryan said, which was a lie. His fever had grown during the night. He felt hot all over. He was still a little dizzy, congested, and on top of that the body aches were even worse. His knees and elbows, his wrists and ankles, all his joints felt like they were filled with gravel. His muscles throbbed with an entirely different feeling, as if someone had spent hours pummeling him with a meat tenderizer.
“Don’t breathe on me,” Pookie said. “You get me sick, I’m kicking you in the nuts. Tell me about these messed-up dreams. Anything involvingeither a naughty cheerleader, detention with the MILF-a-licious assistant principal, or a shy-yet-stacked nun questioning her life choices?”
Bryan laughed, a short, choppy thing that drew a raspy cough. “I wish. Weren’t those kind of dreams.”
“Nightmares?”
Bryan nodded. “Dreamed I was with a couple other guys. I don’t know who they were. We were hunting this kid as he walked down Van Ness, and at the same time something was hunting us. Something
taken
him, but taken him where? Rex couldn’t remember.
He stood. That fear, it sat in his stomach like a block of ice. It wouldn’t go away. He picked his jeans up off the floor. As he slid them on, he looked over at his desk, at his latest drawing of Alex Panos and the bullies.
The drawing wasn’t finished.
Maybe he could finish it in history class. Rex had read the whole textbook the first week of school and got 100 percent on every test — Mr. Garthus didn’t care if Rex did any work, as long as he kept quiet. No time to finish the full drawing, but Rex felt an urge to sketch that symbol again. He
had
to sketch it, right now.
When his pencil completed the symbol’s final half-circle, the lingering dream-fear finally eased away. Rex’s more familiar, ever-present anxiety remained, however. Roberta was wrong; it didn’t matter if he minded his own business or not, the bullies would come for him no matter what he did.
Rex shivered. He wanted to skip school, but he didn’t dare. Whatever beating the bullies had for him, it couldn’t match what Roberta would do if she switched from the belt to the paddle.
Rex rubbed his new welts. He finished dressing. He gathered his books, then slid them, his pencils and his art pad into his bag.
Maybe today would be better.
The Drawing
B ryan opened the Buick’s door, moved Pookie’s pile of folders, then sat.
“Pooks, you ever clean up this crap-ass car?”
Pookie leaned back, affected an expression of hurt. “My goodness, did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”
Bryan shut the door. Pookie pulled into traffic.
“I had some messed-up dreams,” Bryan said. “Couldn’t sleep for shit.”
“That could explain why you look like the wet side of a half-dry dog turd.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. But seriously, folks, you do look awful. And trim that beard, man. You’re starting to look like a gay hipster. I’ve no room for such nonsense in my life.”
Bryan’s chest pain had faded from sharpness to a dull, nagging ache, like a jammed finger, or a knot in his spine that refused to crack. He dug his right fist into his sternum and rubbed it around.
Pookie looked over. “Heartburn?”
“Something like that.”
“Not sleeping, pale as a ghost, and chest pains to boot,” Pookie said. “If we weren’t meeting Chief Zou, I’d drive you back to your apartment and tell you to take a sick day.”
Chief Zou would already have the preliminary overview from the shooting review board. A full investigation was under way — standard procedure — but the early overview would determine if Bryan stayed on normal duty or was relegated to a desk until the final report came in.
There was also the option that Zou could just suspend him altogether. For most cops, that wouldn’t be a worry. Most cops, however, hadn’t just killed their fifth human being.
“I’ll be okay,” Bryan said, which was a lie. His fever had grown during the night. He felt hot all over. He was still a little dizzy, congested, and on top of that the body aches were even worse. His knees and elbows, his wrists and ankles, all his joints felt like they were filled with gravel. His muscles throbbed with an entirely different feeling, as if someone had spent hours pummeling him with a meat tenderizer.
“Don’t breathe on me,” Pookie said. “You get me sick, I’m kicking you in the nuts. Tell me about these messed-up dreams. Anything involvingeither a naughty cheerleader, detention with the MILF-a-licious assistant principal, or a shy-yet-stacked nun questioning her life choices?”
Bryan laughed, a short, choppy thing that drew a raspy cough. “I wish. Weren’t those kind of dreams.”
“Nightmares?”
Bryan nodded. “Dreamed I was with a couple other guys. I don’t know who they were. We were hunting this kid as he walked down Van Ness, and at the same time something was hunting us. Something
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