Omaha, Nebraska

Gibson told his mom he wasn’t feeling good. No, it wasn’t any big hairy deal, an upset stomach, maybe a touch of the flu or something. No, she didn’t need to call the doctor, but he didn’t want any dinner.

He really did feel sick to his stomach, but it wasn’t from the flu. It was that Darth Vader guy almost poking him into the wall. Now he wanted to stay in his room and not be bothered. He wondered if he could stay home for a few days. He wasn’t so sure he even wanted to go to Explorers tomorrow. His mom wouldn’t notice. She left for work before him and came home after him. If he could keep Tyler’s big fat mouth shut it wouldn’t be a problem. He’d need to think of a bribe. Usually Tyler’s silence could be bought. It was just a matter of figuring out what lame thing he was into this week.

He sat in front of his computer, wondering if surfing the Net might help. He hadn’t played the game since…since Monsignor O’Sullivan and the airport. How many days ago was that? He clicked the computer on and waited for Windows to boot up. In the meantime he grabbed his backpack from the floor and started going through it. There had to be a candy bar or granola bar or something inside. He dug his hand to the bottom and started feeling around so he wouldn’t need to dump everything out. His fingers found the seam of a wrapper—success! He pulled out a Snickers bar and noticed an e-mail flashing, waiting at the corner of his computer screen.

He and Timmy had exchanged e-mail addresses. He was probably wondering why Gibson didn’t wait for him this afternoon. He clicked on his e-mail and sure enough there were two from Timmy, one with the subject line that read:

WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?

There was also an e-mail from The Sin Eater, and Gibson’s stomach started to churn again. The subject line read: CAUTION!!!! He clicked it open before it managed to paralyze him. It looked like a list of instructions. At the top in caps and bold letters it read:

YOU’RE SAFE AS LONG AS YOU HAVE THE LEATHER PORTFOLIO. DON’T WORRY. I WON’T LET ANYONE HURT YOU.

Downstairs the front doorbell rang. He ignored it. His mom hadn’t gone to her evening class yet.

The portfolio. How the hell did The Sin Eater know about it? Gibson left the computer and rummaged through the back of his closet until he found it. When he first discovered it stashed inside his backpack, he had opened it enough to find Monsignor O’Sullivan’s name on the top paper. He should have known it was something important, something from that afternoon. That’s how The Sin Eater knew he was at the airport. He was there, too. Did he see who put the portfolio into his backpack? Or did The Sin Eater put it there? If it was Monsignor O’Sullivan’s and The Sin Eater took it from him, then did he see who murdered him?

Gibson stopped and sat on the edge of his bed. How stupid was he? The game. He had submitted Monsignor O’Sullivan’s name as a character to be eliminated. The Sin Eater was supposedly the only one who knew and recorded the name. The Sin Eater had to have killed Monsignor O’Sullivan. Or was it all just a coincidence that both Gibson and The Sin Eater were there at the airport and happened to see the priest dead?

He could hear his mom calling for him from the bottom of the stairs. Why didn’t she come up? Could he ignore her? No, ’ cause then she would come up.

Gibson made himself get up off the bed and go to his door.

“What?”

“Come down for a few minutes, sweetie. There’s someone here who would like to talk to you.”

Was it Timmy?

“Give me a couple of minutes. I need to close down something on my computer.” He shut his door with a bit of slam, then very slowly and quietly opened it so he could tiptoe out far enough to see who it might be. He could hear his mom’s voice, now a worried whisper. “I’m sure you must be wrong, Brother Sebastian.” And the rest was muddled up the stairwell, but Gibson thought she said something about drugs.

Now he could see a slice of who she was talking to, who Brother Sebastian was. He had his back to the staircase, but Gibson recognized him anyway. It was the Darth Vader guy.

He could barely control his panic as he tried to get back to his room quietly. He closed and locked the door and then his eyes raced around his room. He had to get out. He shut down his laptop, snapping off cables and wrapping the power cord around it then shoving it into his backpack. He pulled off the gadget he had duct-taped to the underside of his headboard, worked it open and took out the folded-up cash he had hidden. It went into the backpack’s side pocket. He grabbed the portfolio and slipped it in last.

He slid open the window and could immediately feel the blast of warm, sticky night air hit him in the face. He double-checked to make sure no one was out on the sidewalk. The sun had just started going down behind the trees but only the fanatics would be out walking on a night like this.

It had been over a year since he had used this exit, which required sliding down onto the porch roof and then jumping off into the grass. He hadn’t needed to sneak out because his mom was hardly ever home. He hoped they couldn’t see him when he dropped off the porch. He’d have to go more toward the left and then use the back alley. And damn, he’d have to leave behind his bike. It was on the porch.

He pulled on the backpack and readjusted the straps so it’d stay tight on his back. He couldn’t risk smashing his laptop. He had no idea where he would go or when he could come back.

Gibson took one last look around his room, the one place he had felt safe. Then he left.