Xavier dropped the photographs to the floor. Astonished, he sat on the bed, looking around the room. Out of all the people in the world… But who? Teddy or Simon? Anyone can be anything they want. Grant was right. There was no fact checking people anymore. People could change their history—who they were, who they are. Did Teddy take Simon’s identity, assume his persona? Who did I kill? It didn’t really matter if it was a Simon or a Teddy. All that mattered was that Xavier and the man lying under the bridge seemed eternally linked by tragedy.
This may have been where Simon was taken and forced into the Second Alliance. If only he had knocked on the door of River’s Edge. If only he had reached out for help. This whole thing could have probably been avoided. Things happen for a reason though.
Xavier couldn’t keep his mind from wandering. The letter never would have been found had Simon not killed that deer. Had he not been forced into the Second Alliance and killed Lynn. Had he not let Grant know. That letter would never have been found. They would be downtown right now—Xavier and Grant eating, talking about the day, but they weren’t. Simon was dead under a highway. Grant returned to the school. And Xavier was alone on the street where his nightmare began.
His shadow grew long across the blanket, blending with the darkness of the room. As the sun set, a different kind of night snuck onto the street. It seemed darker than most. There were no lights in the room, the house, or any along the street. No wall to keep the night from invading—to keep the twisted shadows that crept across the lawns from him. Being outside would only make it worse. It was decided that he would stay overnight.
The house was secure with the exception of the basement door. He pushed it back into place and hung some two-by-fours across it. It may not hold, but the sound would certainly wake Xavier if someone were to break it down. He checked the windows, doors, fireplace, anywhere the house could be infiltrated—secured, but true peace of mind was impossible. This would do for the night.
Upstairs again.
He placed the revolver he had found in the closet underneath a pillow on the bed, stripped to his underwear, and shuffled his way under the covers. It was comfortable, much more so than the cot he had grown accustomed to. Maybe he would be able to sleep just fine. His head sunk deeply into the plush pillow that lay against the wooden headboard. The chirping of crickets passed loudly through the broken windows. He rolled onto his side and sandwiched his ears in the folded pillow. It didn’t really help. Maybe Xavier could just enjoy the sounds of the night. The sounds from outside the walls of River’s Edge.
Xavier lay there staring at the ceiling fan in the middle of the room. How he wished it would start spinning. It was still stuffy even though the sun was absent from the sky—one of those muggy summer nights that couldn’t be helped. He slid one of his feet out from under the blanket. He could have kicked it to the floor completely, but it was soothing to have, so he didn’t. The fatigue of the day had tired him. He placed his glasses on the nightstand, and it wasn’t long before he was asleep.
Chapter Eight
A loud banging of metal woke him with a start. Xavier grasped the revolver from underneath his pillow and knocked the nightstand over in the process. He peeped over the headboard. Had someone found him? It was still a bit before dawn, and most of the neighborhood looked a dark gray, not nearly enough light to see well. Again, the metal banged, clearly it came from outside.
In a frenzy, he scanned, focusing his eyes the best he could, but it was no use. The street was full of blurry figures against a backdrop of nothingness. If something was there, he couldn’t know it. His hand patted around the turned over nightstand, searching for his glasses. They weren’t there. I’ll be safer downstairs. He tucked the gun back under the pillow and grabbed the rifle.
Careening through the unfamiliar darkness of the house, he made his way down the stairs, bumping into most everything along the way. He lightened his steps. He couldn’t remember the exact layout. Slow down. The peepholes were barely enough. Still unable to identify much of his surroundings, he listened. The same banging—fairly consistent—from just down the street.
He looked again, almost the perfect angle. Xavier could just make out an aluminum trash can crunching from grass to sidewalk to grass and back. Its rolling stopped, and out crawled a hunched figure that hobbled off into the darkened yards. Xavier sighed. Just a raccoon. It was nothing to be concerned with on this morning. He returned to the bed, relieved, laughing along the way. He lay back down, his eyes wide. His chest gradually slowed, but his heart continued its racing.
The night had not been kind. Every branch scratching against the house and every piece of rubbish that tumbled down the sidewalk kept Xavier turning in bed. He could have used the remaining twilight to sleep but didn’t. Preoccupied with his planned return to River’s Edge, he stayed awake. He needed to figure the best way to go about it. Getting in wouldn’t be the trouble, they would be expecting him. The potential trouble would be everything afterward.
He had a good story and knew Grant would’ve already laid the foundation for it. All he would have to do was keep it simple and vague under any scrutiny. Explain that they were attacked, that Simon—I’ll have to keep calling him that—had died, and they ran. Simple. Of course the pack and the letter had to be hidden. That hole in the side of the creek’s bank would do well to conceal the contraband. Again, simple. The tricky part was the matter of finding Sam and convincing him of the greater good—the risk of moving forward against the Second Alliance. Once he did, they could return later to retrieve the bundle. The revolution was about to begin. It had to. The plan ran through his mind on a loop. Xavier couldn’t shake it.
Once the light clearly indicated morning, he rolled from the bed, his toes curling into the cool wooden floor, creaking again from his weight. The jumbled mess of his filthy maintenance outfit was slid to the side, revealing his glasses that were lost within the pile. He placed them back onto his nose then sorted through Simon’s clothing hanging in the wardrobe. He made his choice. A simple gray t-shirt and blue jeans. They were a bit large, but he would make do. His old clothes had made it far enough, and these felt soft and new.
The mirror hanging on the inside of the wardrobe’s door gave Xavier his first full look at himself in what had to be at least a year and a half. He was taller, older. He was starting to look like his dad. Matching brown hair. The blue eyes. Even his smile had the same bend to it. He was certainly Larry’s kid. There was no denying it. We got this, Dad. I won’t let you down. I won’t let them take it without a fight. Xavier stared for a while longer then swung the door closed.
He made one last pass through the house, collecting a few cans of food, ammunition, the journal, and a minimal amount of hygiene and medical supplies. The stock that Simon had amassed was impressive and unexpected. It’s no wonder he took offense when questioned. He certainly had survival down to a science—his only mistake being the one that cost him his life. And now, through some sort of sick progression of time, Xavier was again taking from him. Someday, I’ll make this right. Make your death worth something. I know you didn’t want to do what you did. I know you were forced.
Although it had taken longer than planned, he couldn’t complain about this slight detour. The medical supplies were a definite bonus, and another gun alone made the trip well worth it. The three firearms (two pistols and a rifle) were the beginnings of a small arsenal. Now, Xavier at least had more to offer than simply the truth. He only needed to recruit more hands to put them in.