Brendan clicked the Safari icon and hoped he could get really lucky for a change. When the Apple homepage opened up, Brendan typed in the address for Hotmail. He crossed his fingers and stifled a cheer when the page opened into Tyler’s private e-mail account. Tyler assumed no one would touch his computer and he was right, and lucky for him, his trusting ways might be the key to saving him from the mess he was in. And probably making worse right now.
There were several folders that might contain what Brendan needed. They had different names: Kelly, Kristen, Allie, Shelby, Steve, Paul, and then topics: Bio, Eng, Work, and something called Free Range. He clicked on the folder for Allie (might as well start alphabetically). All the e-mails were from Paul. In the most recent, Paul wrote, “Let that bitch go. She’s a ho. Ha. Allie’s hot. I got pot. Need a blow. Fuck that ho.”
The next folder—Kelly—actually had an e-mail from Starstruck489@gmail; it read, “Tyler, you’re a great guy, but we really wouldn’t be a great couple. We’re different. See you in school. Hugs!” The other four e-mails in the folder were from Paul. Brendan didn’t need any more of his clever rhymes.
Brendan moved the arrow to the next folder, but then he saw a more promising folder labeled, PSYCHO. The first was from Paul. He had written simply: “You’re fucked. Just joking. We’ll fix this.”
Farther down the line of e-mails, including ones Tyler had apparently written to himself, was a message from SKarras17@newmail. Sasha had written: “Going to a movie is fine with me. It’ll be fun just to go out, you know?” Then she rambled on for a few paragraphs about how unfair their math teacher (“Mr. Sux,” she called him) was and how his mustache made him look like “a creeper.” It was signed, “See you soon, Sasha.”
There were no other e-mails from SKarras17. In an e-mail from Tyler to himself (entitled, Get the Date), Tyler wrote: “Hey, Sasha. I was just wondering if you thought we could go out some time.” Several lines beneath that, he wrote, “Too lame? More forceful? Seductive? WTF bitches want?”
He felt bad for his brother. He was barely scraping out a social existence and his effort at dating had turned into a rape charge from a psycho.
Brendan chuckled, just once; he couldn’t help it. Maybe he’d take his brother’s advice and stay away from those cock-trappers.
Regardless, he had what he needed. Now, it was time to call Dwayne again.
* * *
“Karras?” Dwayne asked. “You’re sure the girl is Sasha Karras?”
For a moment, Brendan thought he had done something wrong, but his logic was sound: the e-mail was signed “Sasha” and the address was SKarras17. This wasn’t rocket science.
“Yeah, I think so,” Brendan said.
“That’s incredible.”
“Why?”
“Because He really does work in mysterious ways.”
“Who?”
“God.”
PART THREE
“Anger cannot be dishonest.”
Marcus Aurelius
1
“There’s a baseball bat in the back,” Paul said, “and a crowbar.”
Tyler took off the ski mask; it had seemed like a good idea a few minutes ago but now he felt ridiculous dressed in all black. Paul was wearing his usuaclass="underline" jeans and a blue Carhartt jacket. Paul’s father worked outside a lot and always dressed in clothes with the name Dickie’s or Carhartt. Paul wore this jacket religiously, even when it was a bit too warm like tonight. He sped out of SkyView Estates so quickly he almost nicked his car on the automated gate.
“A crowbar? We can’t actually … do anything, you know.”
“Relax,” Paul said in a we’re-just-fucking-around-so-stop-being-a-fag way. “We’re not going to do anything permanent.”
“What’s that mean?”
They were speeding along one of the main roads in town. Paul didn’t even have his unrestricted license yet; he wasn’t allowed to drive after nine. “Slow down, we don’t want to get pulled over.”
Paul laughed. “You are way to tense for this.”
“I don’t want to get arrested.”
“You called me, remember?”
“Yeah. I needed help, not a rap sheet.”
Another burst of laughter. Did he smell of alcohol?
“Were you drinking?”
Paul shook his head as if that was the most ridiculous idea. “I snuck a few of my dad’s beers. He won’t even notice. There’s a couple in the back if you want.”
“Jesus.” If they did get pulled over—he was still speeding—they’d definitely get arrested. “Maybe this was a stupid idea.”
“No, no,” he said and car swerved a bit, not too much but enough to make Tyler grab the handle on the door. “This is the perfect idea. That crazy bitch will have no idea what’s coming. Don’t worry about the crowbar and the bat, they’re just for show. We’re going to scare her so bad that she changes her mind.”
“Scare her into having an abortion?”
“A procedure’s what they call it. You sounded pumped on the phone.”
That had only been a brief time ago but it felt farther away than that. In the interim, Tyler had threatened Brendan, probably scared the kid so badly he wouldn’t sleep for days. Sasha had caused this, created him into this unstable beast that had forgotten who he was.
Tyler had wanted to tell Brendan about tonight but he had already told the kid too much. He probably would tell Dad, if he could find him, and then the truth would finally spill out. There was likely no way to avoid that. Yet, if there was something he could do, he had to at least try. Dad was languishing in misery (he’d looked like a zombie during the funeral) and throwing this Sasha shit on top of him—by the way Dad, I raped a girl from school and now she’s pregnant—would kill him. One way or the other, Tyler was sure the news would lead to another funeral in the near future. Maybe even one of those FATHER SLAUGHTERS WHOLE FAMILY WHILE THEY SLEEP killings.
Paul was right: they had to do something, try anyway. As long as the crowbar and baseball bat were only props in an elaborate play meant to scare Sasha and not bludgeons or weapons of vandalism, Tyler would go along with this. But if Paul decided to run up to Sasha’s house and smash her windows, Tyler was out. At least he hoped so.
“No violence, right?” Tyler asked.
“Don’t puss out, man. This is something we have to do. This is like Gospel or something.”
“What does that mean?”
He laughed. “I don’t know, shut up and think of something we can do.”
* * *
By the time Paul stopped the car in front of Sasha’s house, Tyler still hadn’t thought of anything. This felt too much like the last visit. Only this time they had weapons.
The house was dark. Most of the neighborhood was dark and Sasha’s neighbor was apparently asleep too, which was a relief. The guy who had been standing on his porch watching all the excitement last time might recognize them, even call the police. Paul dismissed his worries.
Now, Paul sorted through the scattered items in his backseat. “I think I have a golf club in here, too, if you’d rather use that.”
It was pointless asking why a golf club might be in the back of Paul’s car. An entire golf bag replete with a full set of irons might be buried back there beneath soiled clothing, school books, and crushed Dunkin Donut cups. “I threw the bat and crowbar on top so we wouldn’t have to waste time, but if you’d rather have the golf club …”
“No, no.”
“Okay, bat it is.” He handed it to Tyler. “Crowbar’s mine.” Tyler sat back in the driver’s seat and appreciated the thick piece of steel like it was a hand-made sword. “My dad calls this The Persuader.”