Andrew Klavan - Nightmare City

“You know, my brother died in Afghanistan about six months ago,” Tom said. It hurt him even now just to mention it. “He was helping evacuate some kids from a school that was in a danger zone. He was getting them to safety when a sniper shot him.”

Dr. Cameron gave a puzzled gesture. “Yes, I heard. Too bad. But what’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s just… He didn’t have to be there, you know. He volunteered. He didn’t have to. He could’ve gotten a job. Earned some money. Become a success in the world. He wanted that. He wanted all that stuff. All he had to do was stay home. Just stay home. But he was playing a bigger game.”

“You’re not making any sense,” said Dr. Cameron.

“I’m not as brave as he was,” Tom said, and his eyes got misty as he said it. “I’m not a hero like he was. But I’m playing that game, too. And you can keep your money, Dr. Cameron. And you can keep your important friends. And you can keep your daughter, if it comes to that. Because I’m going to write the truth about you, and nothing’s going to stop me.”

Dr. Cameron shook his head one more time. Then he put his hand in his jacket—and when he brought it out, he was holding a gun. The relaxed smile was gone from his face, and even in the growing darkness, his eyes gleamed with fury and hatred.

When Tom first saw the gun, he was surprised and frightened. Then he was not surprised. What was surprising about it? This was who Dr. Cameron was. This was what he had made himself. Tom stared into the weapon’s deadly black bore and knew the doctor would pull the trigger without hesitation and that his life was over.

“You have a lot to learn, son,” Dr. Cameron said. “Too bad you’ll never get a chance to learn it. You want the truth? Here’s the truth: this is what happens to people who can’t keep their mouths shut.”

It flashed through Tom’s mind that he had to rush the man, had to try to get that gun from him—but there was no time for more than the thought. Because indeed Dr. Cameron did not hesitate. He pulled the trigger without conscience or remorse.

Tom never heard the explosion. He only felt the jolt of the bullet ripping into his flesh.

Then there was nothing but agony and darkness.

It was Tom’s eleventh birthday. It had been a great day, a perfect spring day. He had had some friends over to the house for a party. Then, when the party was over, Burt had given him his last present. It was an aluminum baseball bat. A Louisville Slugger Warrior. Burt had wrapped it up in some red paper, but of course he couldn’t disguise the shape of it. It was obvious what it was. Burt handed the long cylinder to Tom and said, “Here, kid. It’s a sweater.” Which had seemed hilarious at the time.

The next day was a Sunday. In the afternoon after church, Burt took him to the park and pitched to him. He gave him some tips on his swing, told him how to choke up late in the count. After about an hour, Tom could tell that the lesson had worked. He was whacking the ball better than he ever had, hitting solid singles right over Burt’s head, plus a couple of blasts that would have definitely earned him extra bases in a real game.

“You can be a big hitter if you work at it,” Burt said as they walked home from the park. The light of the long day was dying as the sun went down toward the ocean.

Tom shrugged. “We play in school sometimes, but it’s not much fun.”

“What do you mean?” Burt asked, surprised. “You don’t like baseball?”

“Not the way Mrs. Lerner plays it. She won’t let us keep score.”

“Oh yeah,” said Burt with a laugh, “I remember Mrs. Lerner.” He did a comical, high-pitched Mrs. Lerner voice that made Tom laugh, too. “‘It doesn’t matter who wins, children. If you don’t try to win, you won’t feel bad when you lose.’”

“That’s her, all right,” said Tom. “She makes the game boring.”

“Well, yeah. ’Cause, I mean, that’s what a game is all about, right? It’s about trying to win. When you’re in a game, you should try to win with everything you’ve got or else there’s no point in playing. You just have to play the bigger game at the same time, that’s all.”

“What do you mean? What bigger game?”

“Well, let’s say you’re playing baseball, right? You want to win, right? You want to win more than anything in the world.”

Tom nodded. That was the way he felt, no matter what Mrs. Lerner said. No matter what Mrs. Lerner said, he was always keeping score in his head, trying to win.

“So you play as hard as you can,” Burt went on. “You practice. You get excellent. You work. You sweat. You play and try to win with everything you have in you.”

“Right.”

“But do you cheat?”

Tom laughed again. “No.”

“Well, why not?” said Burt, giving his eleven-year-old little brother a friendly clap on the back of the head. “I thought you wanted to win more than anything in the world.”

“I do.”

“So why don’t you cheat, if that’s what it takes to win?”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. ’Cause I don’t want to be a cheater, that’s why.”

“Exactly. God didn’t make you to be a cheater. He made you to be the most excellent Tom Harding–type guy in the universe. Being that guy he made you—that’s the bigger game. So you play to win the game of baseball with everything you got, but if you lose…” He shrugged. “You feel bad for a while, but so what? Feelings are just feelings. The important thing is you keep working at being the excellent Tom Harding. Then even when you lose, even when you feel bad for a while, you can feel good, too, because you’re still winning the bigger game.”

They walked home the rest of the way in silence, as the light continued to die and the air turned a deeper blue and the first stars began to shine.

Tom’s eyes fluttered open. At first he saw nothing but a blurred darkness. Then the indigo evening world swam into focus. He saw the sky. He saw the charred timbers of the chapel ceiling. The blackened walls. He remembered.

The monastery. Dr. Cameron. He’d been shot. He was dying.

Already he didn’t have the strength to move. He didn’t even have the strength to breathe. He could almost feel his life draining out of him—just as his blood was draining out of him, spreading around him over the chapel floor.

He let his eyes fall closed. He lay still, waiting for the end. At least it doesn’t hurt , he thought. He didn’t even feel scared or sorry. He was just tired, that’s all. He just wanted it all to end.

Dear God , he thought in a farewell prayer, please comfort my mother. Please give her strength .

A sunset wind moved over him. It felt refreshing on his face. He heard it whisper in the burned-out branches around him. In his fogged mind, it almost sounded like a voice.

With an effort he opened his eyes again. Was someone there with him in the dusk? Yes. Someone was standing above him, looking down at him. Tom squinted, trying to see through the gloom. Then he realized: no. It was just that painting on the wall. Those painted eyes with the line of blood trickling down beside them.

The eyes gazed at him with enormous sorrow and compassion. Tom tried to smile at them.

Bad day , he thought up at them. It seems I’ve been murdered .

Yes , the eyes responded at once. That happens sometimes when you insist on telling the truth. People don’t always appreciate it .

Tom nodded slightly. He wondered whose voice that was. Was it Burt’s? It sounded a little like Burt. Maybe that’s why there was blood on him. From where the sniper got him.