John Burley - The Absence of Mercy

“Father?” it said. But Ben was too afraid to look down.

Thomas lay in bed listening to music. He kept the volume low so he could also hear the sounds of footsteps in the hall, should they approach. He didn’t think they would, though. Now that his parents had gone to bed, it was unlikely they would get back up to check on him. Still, he’d locked the door just in case. Saturday night. Sixteen years old. And here he was: trapped in his own bedroom. Which was total bullshit, by the way. He’d been going out on his own for three years now. He’d never wound up drunk in the bushes, and he didn’t use drugs. He hadn’t knocked up a girl yet, either, which was more than he could say for at least one of his friends. And he knew how to protect himself. So what was the big deal about going out all of a sudden?

He knew one thing: His dad had been totally freaked out about the corpse they’d found in the woods two months ago. He supposed his old man had gotten a good firsthand look, since he’d been in charge of the autopsy and everything. It was probably good for him—rattled him up a little bit. That was the problem with getting old: You let yourself get comfortable. Complacent. It was up at seven with a cup of coffee, off to work all day, come home and maybe crack a beer in the evening before falling asleep in front of the tube. And even that was livin’ large. It was pathetic, really.

Then again, he imagined his dad probably felt the same way when he was sixteen—just never thought he’d turn out like this: old and scared and worried about getting enough fiber in his diet so he wouldn’t get constipated. It wasn’t really his fault. He’d played by all the rules and had gotten predictably screwed over just the same. What’d he expect, really? People live their whole lives for someday down-the-road, and eventually there is no down-the-road left.

They’d been asleep for forty minutes now, his parents. He’d been keeping an eye on the clock. It still wasn’t too late to catch a little action, which was exactly what he planned to do. He’d snuck out before—hell, he’d been practically forced to in this house. In the old days he’d sometimes tiptoed down the stairs and right out the front door. These days, however, Alex made it impossible to keep quiet: wagging his tail and whacking it on railing posts; shaking his head; sniffing and sneezing; clomping around behind him with those big, clumsy paws. It was ridiculous.

Two summers ago he’d taken a rock climbing course, and that had changed his whole approach to the home-escape business. He’d learned how to use a rope and carabiner, how to make a quick harness with webbing, how to set up anchors, and how to rappel. He’d learned about ascending, as well—using a set of Prusik hitches to scamper back up a rope into one’s bedroom at the end of the night, for example. No more sneaking down the stairs. No more Alex, the Amazing Blunder Dog, to get him busted. It was truly a beautiful thing, and had worked like a charm on countless occasions.

Thomas went to his closet and retrieved a navy blue backpack. Inside was a fifty-foot climbing rope, a single carabiner, a nine-foot piece of one-inch webbing, a pair of leather gloves, and two short thin ropes that he’d tied into Prusiks, one slightly longer than the other. He tied one end of the climbing rope to his bed frame using a figure-of-eight follow-through, opened his bedroom window, and lowered the rest of the rope to the yard below. With the webbing, he fashioned himself a basic harness, and he clipped the carabiner in at the waist. He fastened the longer Prusik to the rope and clipped it into the carabiner for self-belay, then wrapped the rope itself three times around the ’biner and locked the device. He shoved the remaining unused Prusik into his jacket pocket to be used later for ascent, put on his gloves, and turned out the bedroom light. He took a moment to glance out through the front window at the street, ensuring that it was quiet and empty. Then he went to the side window and slid it open. Taking the rope in his right hand and placing it against his hip to serve as a break, and using his left hand to mind the self-belay Prusik, he stepped through the opening and quietly lowered himself to the yard two stories below, pausing for a moment at the top to slide the window closed as much as possible. Once he was on the ground, he unclipped himself from the rope and left his equipment in the grass for when he returned.

The street was quiet and empty as he walked down the sidewalk, but two and a half miles away Devon Coleman was throwing a party to kick off his parents’ recent departure for their weeklong vacation in Cancún. The night was cool, and a light mist of rain had begun to fall. But Thomas felt good. After all, he was young, smart, and as far as he could tell, pretty much invincible. His gait was brisk, and he hummed softly to himself as he walked along. In no time at all he was turning onto Overlook Drive and could hear the pumping rhythm of music coming from the well-lit house down the street.

As far as high school parties went, this one appeared to be a huge success, if the throng of teenagers already swarming the place when he arrived was any indication. Devon’s parents might have a different perspective when they returned home next week, but tonight that was probably the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. Devon’s family lived in one of those big brick Neocolonial-style homes that had become so popular with the upper middle class these days. The place was 5,600 square feet, Devon had once told him—a monster—and as the street name implied, it was perched atop a hill along with another twenty-some similar-looking dwellings, all with a commanding view of Main Street and most of western Steubenville. Tonight the place was pretty well packed.

Last week Devon had mentioned that since he had the house to himself, he wanted to have a few people over this weekend. Thomas had told him he would come, not realizing his dad was going to impose a mandatory lockdown for the rest of the year. He’d expected maybe twenty or thirty people, but as was the case with most high school parties, over the remainder of the week word traveled with the speed and dissemination of a brushfire in high wind. Judging from the masses assembled on the front lawn alone, Thomas guessed that at least half of the entire damn high school had decided to turn up. He shook his head. Just a few of Devon’s closest friends, my ass . Then again, with the combination of an adult-free party and plenty of free booze, what’d he expect?

He saw Bret Graham standing near the front door, plastic beer cup in hand, talking with Cynthia Castleberry. Bret, who wrestled in the 152-pound weight class just above Thomas during the winter season, had asked the attractive but somewhat standoffish varsity soccer starter out twice that year, and had been turned down both times—mostly because she’d been going steady with the same guy since freshman year. If nothing else, though, Bret could be pretty damn determined when he set his sights on something.

“Tommy boy, you finally decided to show up,” Bret greeted him as Thomas ascended the stairs leading to the front door.

“Nobody told me you were gonna be here, Graham,” he replied. “You bothering the ladies already?”

Bret feigned offense. “Take no notice of this one,” he told Cynthia. “He’s just upset because I remind him of what a substandard athlete he really is.”

“That’s right,” Thomas countered. “If beer bong ever makes it to the Olympics, you’re all set.” He turned to Cynthia. “You planning on driving this guy home, or should I call his grandmother to come pick him up again?”