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Almost directly across from the restaurant, he double-tapped a garbage can and kept going.
A garbage can?screamed through Slate’s mind. He watched Jackson continue to saunter down the street, randomly tapping poles and posts as if that was just something eccentric he did.
Slate shot his right hand straight into the air, the fingers in a fist, and then he dropped to his knees in front of the garbage can. Knowing Jackson, he’d duck into a doorway or around the corner to watch Slate. He’d check his stash immediately after that, because he’d never leave the goods out when he wasn’t there to watch them.
“Did you drop something?” a woman asked, crouching down next to him. “Austin PD,” she whispered. “We need him to get the drugs out. Having you do it makes you guilty, not him.”
Slate looked at her in horror. “I am not going to jail again.” He’dknownthis was a bad idea, and he couldn’t believe he’d gotten himself in this situation again.
“Get him back here,” she said, straightening. “Okay,” she said loudly. “I was just trying to help.”
Slate stared after her and then looked at the garbage can again. It looked like any other he’d seen around the city for most of his life. Plain brown plastic container. Inside, there would be a big, round plastic can with a black liner. The container could be lifted straight up to get the can out, and then the two parts were put back together.
With shaking hands, he felt along the bottom edge of the brown plastic. Panic filled him. He could not be arrested again. What would he tell his mother? How could he ever show his face to Nate and the other boys again?
To Jill?
Get up!his mind screamed at him.Get up and get out of here!
He looked in the direction Jackson had continued walking, and sure enough, he loitered in the doorway of a paper goods store, about thirty feet down the block. He gestured for Jackson to come help him, and he could feel the man rolling his eyes as it happened.
Please, Slate prayed.Dear Lord, if there was ever a time I need You, it’s now. Please.
By some miracle, Jackson stepped out of the doorway and came back toward Slate. “You really are an idiot.’
“There’s nothing here,” Slate hissed, standing up and moving out of the way. A glance in both directions told him there was really no one on the streets. Those that were had given up pretending like they were talking to friends or window shopping.
Jackson knelt on the ground. “There’s a key right here,” he said, picking it up. Slate hurried to step back to his side, shielding his view of the now quiet and immobile people on the street. “It fits into the side there,” he said, and Slate moved his foot back so Jackson could unlock a compartment on the side of the can.
Slate’s nerves vibrated as if he’d been hooked to an electrical supply.
The key turned, creating a click.
“There’s a tray here, and you…” Jackson kept talking, but Slate backed away from him, his fist back in the air.
Someone blew a whistle, and someone yelled, “Sir, I need you to freeze right where you are.”
The special forces team swarmed across the street. Men came out of the doors right behind Jackson and Slate. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him down the street, out of the way.
Jackson screamed as he tried to get away and got tackled to the ground. He snarled and spat at the officers as they handcuffed him and arrested him. Though Slate was practically being dragged backward, he couldn’t look away.
“Arrest me,” he said to the man who had a death grip on his arm. “Pretend to arrest me,” he said again. “Like I’m running.”
His eyes met Jackson’s as he got hauled to his feet, and Slate wrenched his arm out of the officer’s and started to run.
The man yelled—several others did too—and the next thing Slate knew, he’d been knocked to the ground. The yell that came from his mouth was involuntary, and he really hated the cool kiss of metal and the horrifying click of handcuffs as he got arrested.
His heart pounded as he was helped to his feet and led away. Everything inside him shook. “Don’t let me go until he’s gone,” he said. “Please. Make sure he can’t see me.” He kept the pleadings going all the way to an unmarked black SUV.
The man shoved him in the backseat and went around to the front driver’s side as another man got in the passenger seat.
He turned, his eyes wide and somewhat afraid. “Give me two minutes, sir,” he said. “And we’ll get those cuffs off.”
“Is he gone?” Slate asked. “He has to be gone first.”
“Laurel’s got him,” the other man said as he climbed behind the wheel. He too faced Slate, his eyes anxious. “Did I hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” Slate said, though his shoulder pulled, and his chest ached. “I’m fine.” He took a deep breath and tried to see through the nearly black windows. “I’m fine.”
And with Jackson off the streets of Austin, maybe he really would be able to let go of the past and step into the future.
