John Gilstrap - At all costs

The Brighton persona had lasted much longer than it was ever supposed to. Credit Travis for that. Once the baby was born, the business of changing names became infinitely more difficult. And by the time he was old enough to talk, name changes were out of the question. How would they have explained it? Some secrets, they agreed, should never be shared with a little boy. So they became the Brighton family for good, switching back to the name on Travis’s birth certificate.

The rest was just a matter of being careful. By obeying all laws, paying their taxes on time, and in all other ways just blending in with their surroundings, they’d been able to pull it off. In retrospect, Carolyn saw now that they’d become far too comfortable. They’d let their guard down.

Now it was all caving in on them, and she wasn’t at all sure that she was up to it anymore. She was thirty-six now, Jake thirty-eight. They were too old to be pulling up stakes and starting over. And what of Travis? What were they going to tell him? How was it, she wondered, that the only issues they’d never discussed thoroughly-the only ones not a full part of the plan-were those that directly involved their son? It was as though they were afraid to open that particular door, for fear of what they might find lurking behind it.

How could Travis ever forgive them for their lies? How could he not hate them when he found out? This was no run-of-the-mill Santa Claus lie, after all. Their son’s entire life was built on a collapsing foundation of sand. Every record ever made of the boy showed his name as Travis Brighton, whose mother was Carolyn Davies Mallone, and whose father was Jacob Aubrey Brighton. Yet those people-the ones who had been born with those names and lived with those Social Security numbers-were both dead; killed in separate automobile accidents back in 1982.

What did it mean for Travis, she wondered, that his parents, as he knew them, didn’t even exist? Would he have to change his name if they were caught? Could they afford not to change his name even if they weren’t caught? Thousands of questions flooded her mind as she sat there shivering in the warm car, trying to make sense of it all. In a rush of dreadful pessimism, she realized with absolute clarity that they had no idea what the hell they were doing. The secret to survival was not the plan, after all; but rather the ability to adapt to random slaps and shoves that life handed you as you went along, trying your best to do your best. Planning was merely a way to bide your time and rationalize that somehow you’d be able to solve your problems.

She shivered again and found herself thinking about that bottle of Jack Black nestled in her duffel bag. That’ll warm me up. Her mouth watered at the thought of white-hot brown liquid coursing its way down her throat…

No! she commanded herself, so forcefully that she wondered if she’d said it aloud. This is not the time.

She didn’t even see the cop car until it had passed her, moving quickly down the street toward the school.

Oh God, please, no.

Her heart hammered behind her breastbone as the blue-on-white cruiser approached the driveway, then slowed for an instant as it swung the turn.

“Shit!” She said it aloud this time and climbed over the center console to slide behind the steering wheel. “Oh, God. Come on, guys,” she moaned through clenched teeth, scanning her obstructed view for some sign of her family. They were nowhere to be seen. “Dammit.”

Reaching down between her knees with her left hand, Carolyn pulled the lever she found and clumsily adjusted her seat behind the wheel. Her first try was too close, then the second slid back too far. Two or three oscillations later, the seat was about right. She stepped on the brake, reached for the gearshift lever with her right hand, then stopped.

Somehow the shiny little. 380 from the bank had materialized in her palm.

“Two days in a row,” Travis grumbled as he shrugged into his jacket and stuffed his books into his backpack. He slammed his locker shut. “This is getting to be a regular friggin’ habit.” This time he didn’t even know what he’d done, yet obviously it was expulsion time. Why else would he have to bring all his books?

Should have kissed Menefee’s fat ass when I saw him in the hall this morning, he thought. Well, no great loss. He hated this school, anyway.

How the hell was he going to break this news to his dad? Yes indeedy, there was going to be some serious shouting in Farm Meadows tonight. He wondered absently if his mom would hold him while his dad screamed him to death, or if Dad would just handle the dirty deed on his own.

As he turned the corner from G-Hall into the administrative wing, he searched his brain for what he might have done wrong today. Surely, they wouldn’t expel him for letting Eric Lampier’s brother stomp the shit out of him after school. Then again, maybe they would. If he had to tell the story about his eye one more time to one more stone-faced teacher, he was going to barf. Mrs. Benoli, the guidance counselor, must have asked him a dozen times whether his mother or father had hit him. Almost seemed like she wanted him to say one of them had.

He didn’t, of course. He said he couldn’t remember the last time his dad had hit him. Not exactly the truth, but a spanking for biting Tommy Mution in kindergarten hardly equated to the kind of abuse the old crone was fishing for.

Travis nearly dumped in his drawers as he swung the last corner and saw his old man waiting for him in the office. Yep, some serious shit was going down.

“Hi, Dad,” he said sheepishly as he pushed open the door to the office. “Hi, Mr. Menefee.” Ordinarily, Travis wasn’t much of a suckup, but right now it didn’t seem like a bad idea.

“Hi, Trav,” Jake said, forcing a smile. Something was going on in there-Travis could almost taste the tension in the air. “Have you got your stuff?”

Travis shrugged. “Yeah. Where are we going?”

Jake put his arm around his son’s shoulder but continued to look at Menefee. “On a little trip,” he said.

“Don’t get him involved, Brighton,” Menefee urged again, daring to rise from his chair. Travis recognized the threat in his voice.

“Stay out of it, Menefee,” Jake warned. He brought his finger to bear one more time.

Travis watched the exchange like a tennis match, moving his head from one man to the other. Mrs. Harris looked like she might cry. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Is Mom okay?”

Jake glanced quickly down at his son. “She’s fine,” he said, way short of sounding convincing. “Menefee, you do what’s good for you, hear? Just stay out of this.”

“You won’t get twenty miles,” Menefee persisted.

“That’s enough out of you now,” Jake repeated, backing out the door. Then, to Travis, “Come on, son, let’s go.”

Travis looked terribly ill at ease. “What’s he talking about, we won’t get twenty miles?”

Jake hurried the boy along. “Let’s just get going.”

Once free of the office, Travis followed his dad’s lead and walked quickly but cautiously toward the main entrance, just as a police car slid into the spot reserved for buses. “Whoa!” Travis exclaimed. “They’re in a hurry.”

Jake whirled to face the main doors, in time to see the blue and white cruiser slide into place. “Shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

Jake grabbed the boy by his denim jacket and made a hard left, heading down A-Hall toward the door at the other end. “C’mon, Trav, quickly now.” He drew the Glock.

“Holy shit, Dad! What are-”

“Hush,” Jake snapped, pulling harder on the jacket.

Instinctively, Travis wriggled out of Jake’s grasp. “What’s the gun for?”

“Move!”