As soon as you set foot onto enemy territory, you were fair game. If they touched you, you were caught, and you had to freeze in place until someone from your side rescued you. That was one way to win the game: simply catch everyone else on the opposite team. But the real goal, the ultimate prize so to speak, was to sneak into enemy territory, find their flag, and get back to your side with it.
We always played at night, and most of us dressed the part, head to toe in all black. Some kids took it further than others, donning camouflage. This one kid, Donnie something, used to paint his face up with football eye grease, thinking it really gave him some kind of edge. It was, for a good portion of the guys in the neighborhood, a kind of fantasy, their opportunity to be soldiers sneaking behind enemy lines.
Those guys sucked at capture the flag.
I wasn’t the fastest, and I didn’t wear camo, but more often than not, I was the first picked when the teams were sorted out, because they all knew. They had seen it firsthand. You see, the game wasn’t just about getting the flag or capturing the other team. None of that really mattered if you couldn’t find the damn thing. We always stuck to the rules when we hid the flag, because there was no quicker way to get shunned from the neighborhood than to cheat. But part of the strategy was to hide it as well as you could without actually cheating. If there was a tree right next to a shed, you could hide it between the two, pinning it up on a low-hanging branch. It might be hard to find, but it was still legal.
It was a thrill once you made it onto the other side, with no one in sight, creeping forward in a crouch through creeks, ditches, patches of trees. But once you were over there, no matter how stealthy or fast you were, it didn’t matter if you couldn’t find the flag. That was where I came in.
I was smaller than everyone else, and I could move through the dead leaves with a lighter step than any of the hulking boys could ever dream of. But there was more to it than just my physical gifts. I knew to steer clear of the streetlamps, those little pools of light that would give you away in a second. I knew which houses had automatic lights that would flip on when you came into range, enough to paint a target on your back and bring the rest of the team running. I knew which of our neighbors raked their leaves in the fall, taking the crunch out of every step. But most importantly, I knew how the other teams thought, because I knew where I would have hidden something.
In short, I was a fucking bloodhound.
I was supposed to be in school that day. It was Monday, the last Monday, the beginning of the end of the school year. Half the kids were gone, and the others were watching videos and filmstrips, the teachers passing the time as much as the kids. I should have been there with my handful of friends, with Sallie and the rest, giggling, passing notes, our teeth practically chattering while the summer got its claws in us. Instead, I was watching Dad pace the room as he waited for the cops to show.
Once again, I had to give him credit. He stumbled through fatherhood, less with a plan than with a flashlight, but he did his best to hit the major milestones. Birthdays were good, if a bit underwhelming, especially compared to my friends’. Christmas was usually a nontraditional blast of junk food, scary movies, and as many toys as you could fit under a tree. I still don’t know how he pulled that off year after year. And even though we didn’t get the traditional tuck-in, kiss-on-the-forehead kind of good night, he still kept better tabs on us than I ever realized. Most nights, he was the first to bed, but, as I learned after Andy went missing, he would inevitably take a stroll through the house after we were asleep to check on us.
That was how he knew.
For the second time in a week, I stood just out of sight, spying as Dad talked to a pair of cops in the kitchen about Andy. Apparently we’d drawn the asshole card this go-round, as one of the cops, a big man with a buzz cut, rather stoically told Dad that that sort of thing was common among delinquents.
“Delinquents?” Dad asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir. I understand your son had a shoplifting incident just a week ago.”
“Yeah. He did something stupid, but I don’t think that qualifies as—”
“He has also been suspended four times from school for fighting, smoking, et cetera.”
Dad sighed, but it wasn’t a sound of exasperation – more of a plea to himself not to punch the cop in the face.
“What does any of that have to do with finding him?” he asked impatiently.
“Running away from home is also common among delinquents,” the cop added.
“Don’t fucking call my son a delinquent again.”
Just then the other cop, a shorter, round-faced fellow, spoke up. “We’ll do all we can, sir. You have to believe that.”
I listened to them talking, considering all of the potential scenarios running through their heads. The unhappy home lives of runaways that made them feel as if life on the road was a better option. Most came back soon, so they said, but this was a small town, and every cop knew to keep their eyes out. It was all rather bland and prepackaged, but I listened along just as well as Dad. Soon they were gone, and I crept around the corner, a mouse uncertain if the cats were asleep.
Had my father ever looked so pitiful? His head was slumped in his hands, his thinning hair a mess from where he had run his frustrated fingers through it. From the side, he looked like an old barn about to cave in. The only thing supporting him was the kitchen table itself. He heard me walk in, and I saw his brows perk up, but he refused to look at first.
“You okay, baby?” he asked, still not glancing my way.
Hearing his voice, so broken, so desperately sad, sent a shock of heartbreak racing through my entire body. All at once, I couldn’t even answer the question. Instead, I must have squeaked a little, some kind of pitiful excuse for a word. It was enough to turn those watery blue eyes my way.
“Oh, Jack,” he said, sitting up straight and spreading his arms. I spilled into him and went boneless as he scooped me up as easily as he had when I was a baby. He told me it was okay, and he let me cry until I was just about empty. Once or twice, I could feel his tears drip down, mixing with my own, the two of us all but spent.
“He’ll be back,” he told me at the end. “Don’t you worry. He’s just a little upset, I’m sure, but he’ll be back.” We talked a bit longer before I sneaked back to my room and slid the door closed. Maybe they were right.
Dad.
The cops.
That little voice inside me, the quiet part that always told me what I wanted to hear.
All of them were saying the same thing.
He’ll be back.
But I knew what they didn’t. I saw the truth that they were blind to. He hadn’t left. He hadn’t packed up and strolled out. He’d been taken. Stolen by that half-formed, horrid creature. There wasn’t any question in the matter. If my brother was ever to see our house again, it was up to me to make it happen.
I’m getting tired of writing this. I know that’s a weird thing to say, especially from the outside.
Just quit then.
That’s what I imagine most people would say, and my itching fingers tell me that would probably be for the best. They always itch when I’m doing something I shouldn’t be. When I fucked around with Gabe Thompson after that football game when we were fifteen, they itched so bad I couldn’t even feel what was happening below the waist. He didn’t like me. He had all but told me as much in class that year. He always, more so than just about anyone I knew, made it a special point to terrorize me in class. People like him made my high school years a nightmare.