Children of the Knight, Michael J. Bowler [classic book list txt] 📗

to Jack. “Gimme your phone.”

Jack pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over. Marcus slipped around behind the counter and sat in front of a computer screen. He fished around until he found a USB cord to connect Jack’s phone to his computer.

“Thing is, see, all these new phones got global positioning chips and locator technology built right in. I can use his number to track his phone, Jack. Show you exactly where he’s at.”

Jack cursed himself. “I never thought of that.”

Lance also felt like a fool. “Sorry, Jack, I didn’t think of it either.”

“That’s ’cause you guys’re too hot to be geeks,” Marcus said, waving them over to the counter.

They waited expectantly while Marcus triangulated on Mark’s location. A map of Hollywood appeared on the computer screen and then began zooming slowly in. And in. And in. Finally it stopped, and Jack leaned as far over the counter as he could.

“That Vine Street?” Jack asked, squinting to get a better view.

“Yeah,” Marcus confirmed. “But see this little street just up from Vine?” He pointed to the screen. “Cosmo? That’s where the signal is. Phone’s not moving either. Looks like he’s right on that street, maybe an alley?” He turned with a grin. “See, piece of cake.” He disconnected the phone and handed it back. “Left the map on it for you.”

Jack looked like he wanted to cry happy tears. He reached out and clasped Marcus’s hand. “Thank you, Marcus, thank you ssssooo much!”

“Anything for you, buff boy. Give my love to Mark.”

“C’mon, Lance,” Jack said, bolting from the store.

Lance nodded his thanks to Marcus.

“Take good care of him, cutie,” Marcus said, winking, and an embarrassed Lance dashed after Jack.

Now they ran, and ran hard. Every bit of exhaustion was gone, and adrenaline had taken over. They dodged people and cars and wheelchairs and dogs and even cops. They were frantic with excitement that their quest was nearing its end.

Finally, just ahead, loomed the world-famous and heavily trafficked intersection of Hollywood and Vine with its theatres and trendy shops, but Cosmo was half a block before that. They stopped to catch their breath, and Jack glanced down at the map on his phone screen. The little stickpin was to their right.

They turned and pelted down Cosmo and stopped again. It was a tiny street with no traffic. Jack and Lance both consulted the map, and Lance looked around. Across the street behind a building were some dumpsters, including a huge industrial-sized one in a little alley.

He glanced back at the phone and then nudged Jack, pointing toward the alley. “There.”

The boys jogged across the empty street as Jack slipped the phone into his pocket. They halted at the mouth of the alley. It looked deserted.

“Mark?” Jack called out hesitantly. There was no response.

They walked slowly into the alley. Dumpsters lined the walls on the right side and Lance knew they could get jumped by some strung-out junkie or crazy-ass homeless person. He’d seen it happen before.

As they walked quietly, Jack whispered, “Oh please, God, don’t let Mark have lost his phone.”

Lance glanced at him. That thought hadn’t occurred to him.

Suddenly Jack stopped and pointed. Lance gasped. What looked like two feet, twisted up, were sticking out from behind the industrial dumpster. There were leather boots on those feet. Exactly like the ones Jack and Lance were wearing.

“Oh no,” Jack whispered, as a tear worked its way from one eye. Petrified, Jack couldn’t even move, except for his fists clenching and unclenching.

Lance inched his way around the dumpster, his wide eyes fixed upon those boots.

Don’t let it be…. Please!

There was trash scattered around the overflowing dumpster. Gradually more of the body came into view. A shirt became visible from beneath the garbage—a sky blue shirt. Lance put a hand to his mouth. His heart thumped, his legs wobbled, his breath froze in his throat. He forced himself to step closer.

The face was covered by a plastic bag that had probably fallen from the overfull dumpster. One of the long shirtsleeves was rolled up, revealing a pale white arm with marks along it. Needle marks. And there was an empty syringe lying beside the body.

Lance felt his stomach clenching. He reached down, dreading what he would find, but needing to know the truth.

He pulled the bag away.

Mark’s long blond hair was dirty and disheveled, his mouth open in a silent grimace of pain, his usually lustrous blue eyes open and pale and staring lifelessly from their sockets. He was dead.

Lance cried out and stumbled back, even as Jack pushed his way forward. Lance jumped in front, tried vainly to block the view, but the stronger boy lifted him to one side. Lance’s hand flew to his mouth. His stomach lurched. He thought he might vomit.

“No,” Jack gurgled, shaking his head from side to side. “No. No. No.” And then he screamed. “Nnnnnoooooo!” and threw himself onto Mark’s lifeless body, hugging him, cradling Mark’s head in his lap, and burying his face against Mark’s silent chest, sobbing uncontrollably, his chest heaving and hitching with unbearable sorrow.

“I love you, Mark!” he blubbered into the dirty blue shirt, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I never told you….” The tears cascaded down Jack’s cheeks to stain the light blue of the shirt like acid.

Lance stood rooted in shock, tears streaming down his face, stunned that someone he knew, someone he loved, his best friend who he was supposed to have saved, was dead. Mark was dead! And he never knew. He never knew he was loved.

Lance dropped to his knees and took Mark’s cold, lifeless hand in his, pressing it to his lurching chest, and sobbed along with Jack. They stayed that way for a long time. What did time matter anyway? The boy they both loved was gone, and he’d died without hope.

Lance went numb with pain and remorse.

I love you, Mark, he said in his mind. I should’ve told you before. And I should’ve saved you. You were worthy, Mark. I’m the one who’s not….

He didn’t even know how long they stayed that way, Jack cradling Mark, him clasping the dead boy’s hand to his heart, except it was dark by the time he had no more tears left in him to shed, and finally recovered enough to call 911.

When the paramedics and police arrived, he had to pry Jack off of Mark so they could take the body away. Even then, Jack desperately wanted to go with the coroner, but was told he could not.

“But you don’t understand,” he told the sympathetic, middle-aged paramedic tearfully. “I loved him. And I never told him.”

The small man with pale gray eyes patted Jack on the shoulder, and Lance took his friend’s arm.

“I’ll take care of him, now. Thanks.”

They watched the coroner’s van pull away, and then Jack threw his arms around Lance in a crushing hug.

An officer approached and asked some questions. Lance haltingly explained as best he could about Mark, about who they were, and how they’d come to find Mark’s… body. His voice choked on the word, almost couldn’t say it. Was that all Mark was now, a body?

The officer, who clearly recognized Lance, offered a sympathetic smile before stepping away.

Lance continued to support Jack, while the police moved around them gathering evidence.

Finally, after a time that had no meaning for him, the same officer approached. “Boys, you can’t stay here. I’ll—”

“I’ll handle it from here, Officer,” another voice, gruff, yet somehow gentle, said in the dark. “You take off.”

Lance didn’t look up as receding footfalls came to his ears. He and Jack remained locked in mutual grief.

“Son,” the voice said softly, “I know you’re Arthur’s boys. Lance and Jack.”

That made Lance turn his head. “Sergeant Ryan?”

Ryan stepped closer, the sickly alley light making his weathered face appear drawn and haggard. “Yeah. I heard about this on the dispatch. I’m sorry about your friend.”

Lance nodded, gently stroking Jack’s hair in a soothing gesture. Jack had stopped crying, finally, but still held on as though drowning, and Lance was his life preserver.

“I couldn’t save him, Sergeant,” Lance murmured, almost in a trance. “I couldn’t save my best friend.” His wide eyes gazed imploringly at the gray- haired detective.

“Let me drop you boys somewhere. This is no place to be on a night like this,” Ryan offered, his voice far different than Lance remembered from the pizza parlor. This voice wasn’t angry, but rather laced with compassion.

Lance nodded again, and led Jack to the detective’s four-door sedan. Ryan opened the back door so Lance could guide Jack into the rear seat and slide in beside him.

Lance silently held Jack’s hand along the way, absently staring at, without really seeing, broken pieces of pencil strewn randomly about the floor of the car. The boys remained silent and desolate, hands clasped tightly. Lance needed the basic human contact, flesh touching flesh, a reminder of life, rather than death.

No one spoke. Only the raspy engine noise and the uneven thumping of tires against pavement filtered into the car. Still enveloped within a haze of shock, Lance finally asked Ryan to stop at a deserted spot that he knew was close to the LA River.

“You sure?” the detective asked after stopping the car, his head out of the driver’s window watching the boys exit, and glancing uneasily at the shadowy, menacing squalor surrounding them.

Lance turned his devastated eyes on the weathered face peering out at him. “Yes, sir. This will be fine. Thank you for your kindness.”

“Least I could do, Lance. Give Arthur my regards.” Ryan drove off into the night.

Lance led Jack down the embankment and along the dry riverbed to the storm drain entrance, but balked at going in. He felt overwhelmed with confusion. Hurt cocooned him—hurt over Mark, and over his relationship with Arthur. What could he even say to the king? Would Arthur blame him for Mark’s death because he hadn’t found his friend in time? Wasn’t that the quest he’d been given, and then failed so miserably? He was the one in charge, Arthur’s chosen one. Hadn’t Arthur called him that on many an occasion? And hadn’t Jack insisted that Arthur was proud of him? But how could he be proud now?

I let Mark die! I let my friend die!

No. He had to think. He needed to skate. That would clear his head. Yeah, he’d skate for Mark. He’d skate ’til he dropped. He’d skate until he could bring Mark back and make everything right again!

Guiding Jack through the grate, Lance retrieved his skateboard, which he’d left behind when they’d embarked on their quest.

“Jack, can you hear me?”

Jack looked over at Lance, his face riddled with shock and despair.

“I can’t go in, Jack. I can’t face him. Or you. I failed Mark, man.” New tears doubled, and then trebled his vision. “I’m First Knight, it was my job to save him, and I let him die! I gotta go, Jacky. I just gotta go. I don’t know where, but I gotta go!”

He spun around and dashed frantically off into the night.

“Lance, wait!” Jack called out and leapt forward to follow, but the receding scrape and roll of receding skateboard wheels against pavement told him his friend was gone.

Broken and bereft, Jack slumped down onto a concrete balustrade.

“Now they’re both gone,” he mumbled despairingly. “I lost ’em both.”

The tears returned in force, and he buried his head in his hands, sobbing quietly, with only the forlorn sound of dripping water to keep him company.