Pressure by Jeff Strand

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Darren and Alex were best friends when they were kids. But now Darren has become murderously insane. He's determined to have his old pal Alex team up with him on a killing spree-and he won't take no for an answer.

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Pressure

Dorchester Publishing

Chapter One

I nervously shifted my weight on the propped-up bicycle as we waited across the street (a dirt road that seemed to be comprised of one part dirt, nine parts jagged rocks) from the small drugstore. "I don't know. Can't I just steal a candy bar or something?"

Paul shook his head. "It's gotta be rubbers."

"But what if I get caught? I could go to jail."

Marty chuckled. "Then you can be an honorary member from your cell."

I sighed. At age twelve, I knew the basic function of the product they were asking me to shoplift, but I also knew that we weren't going to be getting any actual use out of it.

"How about this? I'll steal three candy bars. That's a lot harder, don't you think?"

"If we wanted candy bars, we could just buy candy bars," Paul explained, scratching the stick-on cobra tattoo on his right arm and then pushing up his thick glasses. "And it's not going to be hard. He's half blind."

"But what are you going to do with them?"

"What do you think?" Marty asked. "Use them."

"You are not."

"Sure we are. They make great water balloons."

"C'mon, guys," I protested. "Let me steal something else. Anything else."

Paulnodded. "Okay, steal a box of Maxi Pads."

"No way."

"Rubbers or Maxi Pads. Your choice."

If I'd still lived in Dayton, Ohio, I wouldn't so much as stolen a soggy straw wrapper for the privilege of hanging out with kids like Paul and Marty. They were both gargantuan nerds who'd somehow convinced themselves that they belonged to the tough-guy crowd. The first time I ever saw Marty, he was sucking on his inhaler after an unsuccessful attempt to rough up a ten-year-old for his lunch money. Paul's mom still cut the crusts off his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and included a daily note expressing her motherly love, though he always made a big show of crumpling it up and throwing it into the garbage.

But Trimble, Arizona, population 6000, was not an easy place for a newcomer. The children all knew each other, and had known each other their entire lives. The cliques were firmly in place. There was no room for a skinny, introverted, completely nonathletic kid with an ugly purple birthmark covering his chin. I'd sat by myself at lunch for three full weeks, hoping somebody would take pity on me, but the other kids seemed perfectly content to go on pretending that I either didn't exist or carried a communicable disease, perhaps one with an oozing flesh motif.

So when Paul and Marty asked me to go on a bike ride one day after school, I enthusiastically agreed.

"Chicken!" said Paul. "Chick-chick-chick-chicken!" He tucked his hands under his armpits and began making what he apparently thought were chicken noises.

"You sound like a duck," Marty told him.

"I do not."

"Then you sound like a retarded chicken."

"I do not."

"Okay, you sound like a special chicken."

"What does that mean?" Paul asked.

"A retarded chicken."

"Kiss my ass."

My fervent hope was that this conversation would continue until it was time for us to go home for dinner, but unfortunately "kiss my ass" turned out to be its natural conclusion. "Do it, Alex," said Paul. "Otherwise you don't get to be in the club."

"I don't even want to be in the club."

"Yeah, right."

Yeah, right. "Are you sure he's half blind?"

"He probably won't even look up," Marty insisted. "We steal stuff from him all the time."

My stomach was churning and I could feel a headache coming on, but I nodded, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and silently walked toward the drugstore. This was stupid. This was so stupid. This was truly, deeply, incredibly, astoundingly, jaw-droppingly stupid.

But I was going to do it.

A bell tinkled as I pushed open the door. Mr. Greystein looked up from his Christian Living magazine and frowned. From the way Paul and Marty had been talking, I'd expected some shriveled geezer in his nineties, but Mr. Greystein didn't look any older than fifty.

The drugstore was small and poorly lit; not much more than three aisles and a cooler. Behind Mr. Greystein was a display of cigarettes. "Leave it at the counter," he said.

"What?"

"Your backpack. Leave it at the counter."

I walked over and placed my backpack on the counter. Since the backpack was to be the vessel through which my dastardly crime would be committed, this wasn't a good development.

Mr. Greystein glared at me for a moment longer, and then returned his attention to his magazine. I walked over and pretended to look over the candy selection.

The boxes of condoms were on a rack right next to the front counter. Even if I'd had my backpack, they'd be nearly impossible to swipe. How could I possibly do this? Why was I even willing to try?

My stomach had gone from the churning sensation to outright pain, and the headache was throbbing with full force. I read the nutrition information on a Snickers bar while I tried to decide what to do.

Just leave. Who cared what Marty and Paul thought? Maybe if I bought them each a candy bar, they'd let me join the club anyway; after all ...

Then I realized something that should have been obvious from the beginning. I didn't need to steal the condoms. I could just buy them. Marty and Paul would never know that they weren't stolen merchandise. I could be a liar instead of a thief.

Of course, not having researched prophylactic purchasing restrictions, I wasn't sure if it was legal for a twelve-year-old to buy them. This wasn't like alcohol or cigarettes, was it?

Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I returned to the register. I grabbed a random box of condoms, set it on the front counter, and then set the Snickers bar next to the box as if that might distract Mr. Greystein from my other purchase.

He regarded me for a long moment.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Do your parents know you're buying these?"

I shook my head.

"Don't you think you're a little young?"

I shrugged.

"I think you're a lot young. I really don't think I should be selling you these. I can't imagine that a boy your age is responsible enough for that kind of thing, can you?"

I shrugged again.

He stared at me for a moment longer, and then his mouth curled up into the beginning of a smile.

"See, I don't think you've fully considered this purchase," he said, tapping the box. "These are lambskin condoms, which aren't as trustworthy as the latex variety. The only reason you would want these is if you or your partner had an allergy to latex. Do you or your partner have an allergy to latex?"

I didn't respond.

"Don't be shy. If you're not comfortable discussing the product, you're certainly not comfortable using it. Do you or your partner have an allergy to latex?"

"No, sir."

"Well, then, this isn't what you want." He shoved the box aside, leaned over the counter, and retrieved another box. "Now, this brand is ribbed for her pleasure. Do you know what ribbed means?"

"No." My ears were ringing so loudly that I could barely hear him.

"It means that it has ridges that help with stimulation. That's definitely something you want. It's only common courtesy. I'm not sure about spermicidal lubricant ... you seem like you might be too young for that even to be a problem, although I guess by the time you work through the entire box it could be a different story. What do you think?"

"I don't know."

"You can't be an informed consumer with an attitude like that. You wouldn't just grab any old candy bar off the shelf, would you? You'd make sure that if you were in the mood for peanuts, it had peanuts, or if you wanted nougat, that it had nougat, and so on, right?"

"I guess so."

"Of course so. May I ask your name?"

"Alex."

"Tell me, Alex, do you honestly feel that you're ready to buy these condoms? Or should you maybe call the whole idea off? The whole idea, if you know what I mean."

I like to call what happened next the trigger event for everything else that was to happen in my life. That's probably not accurate. The trigger could have been agreeing to steal the condoms in the first place, or meeting Paul and Marty, or my parents moving us to Trimble, or, hell, just my being born if you wanted to get technical about it. However, I can say with absolute certainty that in twelve years of a life that included no small number of poor judgment calls, this was far and away the worst decision I'd made up to that point.

I grabbed the box of condoms and ran.

I shoved open the door at full speed and sprinted across the dirt road toward Paul and Marty. "Go!" I screamed. "Get out of here! Go, quick!"

They took off riding without hesitation, knocking over my bicycle in the process. Nearly hyperventilating with panic, I pulled it upright, jumped on, and began frantically pedaling after them.

I didn't dare look behind me because I just knew that Mr. Greystein was standing outside of his drugstore, holding a shotgun, not afraid to use it, even on a kid.

I cringed and gritted my teeth, waiting for the sound of the shotgun blast and the unwelcome sensation of my head being blown apart.

It didn't come, but I still didn't turn around. Maybe the only thing preventing my death was his unwillingness to shoot me in the back.

Would he call the police?

Would they be able to find me?

Of course they would. In a town this small, the police would have no problem finding a shoplifter based on Mr. Greystein's physical description ...

... especially when the idiot shoplifter had left his backpack right there on the counter.

I squeezed the hand brakes, leaned over, and threw up onto the dirt.

Just go back there. Return the condoms, apologize, and beg him not to call the police. Tell him you'll pay twice as much as they cost ... three times, if he wants. You don't have that much right now, but next week when you get your allowance ...

Marty and Paul, far ahead, turned the corner and vanished from sight.

Still no sound of a shotgun.

I needed to go back.

Instead, I threw up again, and then rode home as fast as I could.

I parked my bicycle behind the house in case Mr. Greystein drove around looking for it. Since he had access to my name and address in multiple places in my backpack, it was unlikely that he'd resort to prowling the town looking for my bicycle, but I wasn't exactly thinking at maximum logical capacity. Then I went to my room, sat on my bed, and stared at my pillow for the next hour until I was called to dinner.

"Did you get your homework done?" my father asked, disinterestedly, taking a bite of broccoli.

"Most of it."

"Why not all of it?"

"Too hard." Not to mention that Mr. Greystein was probably rifling through my backpack at this very moment.

My father made no comment and took another bite.

The phone rang.

My stomach lurched.

My mother got up, pushed back her hair, and went into the kitchen to answer.

I tried to scoop up a forkful of macaroni and cheese, but I couldn't force my hand to work. Even if I could, I didn't see any possibility of swallowing it without puking again.

I waited, desperately listening for some sign to indicate who my mother was talking to. The police wouldn't phone beforehand, would they? "Hi, Mrs. Fletcher, this is the law. We're on our way to apprehend your son, so if you've got any furniture you don't want riddled with bullet holes, we recommend that you move it into the garage as soon as you can."

"Mmmm-hmmm," my mom said from the kitchen.

Then she laughed.

Thank God. It wasn't about me. Unless the person on the other end had used some light humor to break the ice before informing my mother that her son was a wanted criminal.

My mother talked on the phone for less than a minute and then returned to dinner. I told her that I had a stomachache (the truth) and was excused from the table.

The next morning my stomachache was worse than ever, like I'd spent the night swallowing shards of glass with a chaser of rusty nails. I had to go to school anyway.

I talked to Paul and Marty briefly at lunch. That is, they talked to me, laughing about our close call and welcoming me into the club, while I silently kept a close watch on the lunchroom entrance, waiting for Mr. Greystein to show up, flanked by a pair of armed police officers.

Because I didn't have any of my homework or textbooks, I received two hours of detention, which was a long time to sit after school with nothing to do but worry about whether or not Mr. Greystein had contacted my parents.

When I finally got home, he was seated on the living room sofa.

I immediately burst into tears.

"Go to your room," said my mother, sounding neither angry nor upset. Her voice was barely audible, which was unusual for her. "Your backpack is at the foot of the stairs. Do your homework."

I grabbed my backpack, ran upstairs, sat in my doorway, and tried to listen in on the conversation below.

I could only catch quick pieces. "... a good kid ..." I heard Mr. Greystein say.

"... no excuse ..." said my father.

"... a tough age ..." said Mr. Greystein.

And finally, perfectly clear from my father: "We'll take care of it."

The front door opened, and then closed.

I sat there, waiting to be called downstairs for my unimaginable punishment.

Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Twenty.

This was going to be a scary one if it was taking them this long to decide. Usually my mother could blurt out punishments mere seconds after the offending action, or, just as often, before the infraction even occurred. Of course, I'd never done anything nearly this bad before, so there was no precedent for this level of discipline.

One hour.

I wasn't called down to dinner.

I didn't dare go downstairs.

Two hours. Three.

I went to bed. I didn't sleep.

The alarm went off at six thirty and I rolled out of bed, never having undressed. When I looked over, my parents were standing in the doorway. I wanted to cry again, but I forced myself to stay calm. Tears would only make them madder.

My mother sat down on the bed next to me, while my father remained in the doorway. "What did you do with them?" she asked.

"Threw them away."

"Why?"

"Didn't want them."

"Then why did you steal them?"

I shrugged.

"Alex, why did you steal them?"

"To get into a club."

"I see. And you think that was a good reason?"

"No."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I suggest that you figure that out."

I sniffled. "Am I going to jail?"

"Do you think you should?"

I was silent.

"No, of course you're not going to jail. Mr. Greystein didn't call the police. He wants you to pay for what you stole, and he thinks you should help out in his store, maybe for a few hours on weekends. He thinks you'll learn responsibility."

I nodded, relieved that I wouldn't be spending time in prison with murderers, rapists, and fellow condom filchers. "I'll do it."

"No, you won't. You're going to a new school."

"We're moving?"

"No."

I thought about that. There was only one school for kids my age in Trimble, which could only mean ...

"I'm moving?"

"I'm sorry, Alex."

"You're sending me away?"

"It's not a military school, but it's a school for kids who need the extra discipline. Honestly, your father and I don't know what else to do with you."

The tears started flowing now, and I didn't try to stop them. "But this is the only thing I've done!"

"You know that isn't true."

"It is true! I've never done anything like this before! I'll never do it again! I promise! Please!"

"You should have thought about the consequences before you shoplifted."

I shook my head violently. "You can't send me away! It's not fair!"

"It's totally fair," said my mother. "And you need help."

"No, I don't! Can't I prove it? Let me prove it! I'll be perfect, I promise!"

"You had your chance."

"But that was the first time," I said with a whimper.

"And the last time."

I sat alone on my bed, shoulders quivering, tears and snot flowing down my face.

I was a bad kid. A rotten kid. A terrible kid.

I was a thief and a liar.

I deserved to be sent to this school. In fact, I deserved to go to jail.

A terrible, rotten, miserable, evil kid.

I looked in the mirror. I stared at myself for a moment, and then began making the most awful faces I could manage. I stuck out my tongue and scrunched up my eyes, contorting my face into ghastly expressions worthy of a kid like me.

A terrible kid.

The worst kid in the world.

It felt good to know I was that terrible. It was refreshing. A relief.

Because otherwise I was a perfectly decent kid whose parents just didn't want him.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Pressure by Jeff Strand Copyright © 2005 by Jeff Strand. Excerpted by permission.
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