Scott Free (BookShots) by James Patterson (8)

THOMAS SAT ON the bed, numbly watching a rerun of Friends, still wishing the television picked up the Cartoon Network. This show was funny enough, but the colors were dull, lifeless. He liked colors. He liked the cleanliness of animation. Cartoons never looked dirty.

He picked up the container of sesame chicken next to him, used the plastic fork to skewer a gooey piece of meat. It tasted like cotton. Which wasn’t an indictment of the place he’d ordered it from. It was a little different from his regular place, but not bad different. He just couldn’t concentrate on things like flavor. There was too much to think about.

He got up, pulled aside the heavy blackout curtain and peeked into the parking lot. It looked the same as it had twenty minutes ago. And still, every time he pushed it aside, he expected to see a group of cops, dressed in armor and carrying guns, ready to cuff him and drag him away like last time.

At least this time he would know why. The first time, he had no idea what was happening. They were just there, and his instinct was to figure out what was happening, and because he kept trying to pull away to talk, one of the cops jammed a nightstick in his stomach. He doubled over in pain and didn’t put up a fight after that.

Or maybe he’d look out the window and see John Junior’s dad, waiting to tear him apart. He wished he could talk to him. Explain what happened. He was sure that if he got a couple of minutes, he could make him understand.

He sat on the bed again, took a long pull from a plastic bottle of water. When it was empty, he placed it carefully in the trash can, then picked up the bottle of rum, ripped off the plastic around the cap, unscrewed it, and took a sip. It stung the back of his throat, and he winced and coughed. It splashed around his throat and burned. After a few minutes he took a longer sip.

Thomas surveyed the room again. It was familiar now, but not comfortable. The smell of smoke wasn’t going away. It was cramped, and occasionally he would see something flit in the corner of his vision, something he feared was a roach or a mouse. And even though he didn’t have any bites or welts, he still assumed it was only a matter of time before the bedbugs found him.

The whole place seemed to be a magnet for filth.

He thought about his apartment. Neat and tidy and clean and bug-free.

His life, nearly gone from him now.

He’d have to move. There was no way he could stay on Staten Island. And truthfully, it’s not like there was a whole lot that was compelling him to stay. But he’d miss it. Staten Island was a nice little place. You got a slice of city life, and it was still quiet at night. And the rents were affordable. Not like across the bridge, where you paid several thousand dollars for the privilege of living in a shoebox. With the kind of money he made, this area was the best he could afford.

He didn’t have any family. No real friends, outside some people he saw around at the local shops and at work. He’d heard nice things about Portland. The Oregon Portland. Quiet, lots of nice places to eat. And plenty far away from here.

Far was good. He needed to be someplace where he could start again. The idea terrified and excited him in equal measure. It’s not like he had anything here holding him back. But he’d miss the familiarity.

He took a little sip of rum, getting used to the sharp, stinging bite of it, and put the bottle on the nightstand. He picked up his phone and opened his email. He tapped out a message:

Thomas put the phone aside and put his head in his hands. Sighed.

Through it all, the thing that hurt most was, he missed the kids. Their sweet smiles. Their laughs. Parents were rude, inattentive, unkind. Thomas wasn’t a nice-looking man, and sometimes he got nervous talking to people, and he scrubbed toilets, and that made him unworthy of respect and attention. To most people, he was like those characters in the background of a cartoon that no one interacts with. Just there to fill the space.

The kids, though, they had yet to be jaded to the world. They were nice.

He got up again. Checked out the curtain. A beige minivan pulled into the lot and traveled around the building. Probably someone looking to park for the night. Or else they were looking for a little privacy and were too cheap to pay for a room.

Thomas hated this part of town.

He got himself ready for bed. Stripped down to his boxers, putting his clothes in a neat pile, so he could hop in and out of the shower quickly. He hated showering, and hated that the filthy room made him feel compelled to take another one.

It was a necessity, yes, but it was a frustrating act. He thought back to when he was a child, and he and his friend were horsing around in the backyard, and he fell into the in-ground pool. His dad, long since dead now, had already laid down a blue tarp to keep the fall leaves out.

He hit the water and the tarp wrapped around him like a giant hand, pulling him down into the water, choking him. He couldn’t remember much of what happened. Just blacking out, and suddenly he was on the concrete next to the pool, sputtering and coughing, his mother hovering over him, pressing her hands into his chest.

That blue tarp had nearly killed him.

It was incredible, how something can instill a fear so deeply, that a person carries it for so long. A little water in his face, up his nose, and he flashed right back to that terrible moment.

He assembled all of his belongings on the dresser top. Belt and phone and wallet and bottle of rum. He wanted everything neat and close so that in the morning, he’d be ready to leave. Mark would have gotten back to him by then. He was sure of it. He’d go someplace where he’d be able to go to the store and not worry about being attacked by strangers.

As he crossed the room to the bathroom, there was a knock at the door.