Checkmate (Checkmate #8)

Prologue

Gunner – Eleven Years Old

“C ome on, Doodlebug. You have to put your things away. We’re going out.”

I look up from my spot on the living room floor as Mom rushes across the room to snatch up her purse.

My pencils line the original tray they came in, and sit just half a foot from my elbow.

They’re all sharpened and in the order of the rainbow, because I don’t want them to get lost or broken.

I sketch on old scraps of paper my mom swiped from the office at her work, but that’s fine, since only one side has stuff printed on it.

I live on the crappy side of town in an apartment building that has more bugs than humans – times a hundred. Cockroaches sometimes tickle my face when I sleep, and moths wreck my clothes, so I have to keep checking on my favorite sweater.

I don’t want it to be ruined.

My apartment is dark and crowded. Only one bedroom; and the bedroom isn’t mine. The floor is more comfortable for drawing than my couch, so I draw down here and try to stay out of the way.

My home is pretty crappy. It’s small, a little bit wet most of the time, and I think the metal bar in the couch has permanently warped my back while I sleep. But it’s clean. There’s no dust down here, no spilled food or dead bugs.

We let off a bug bomb once a month, spend the next week or two sweeping the dead bodies up as they appear, and then two weeks later, we bomb again and try to make sure cockroaches stay away at night.

It’s not so bad.

We’re going for a trip today, somewhere a few hours away. Mom’s been talking about it for ages, so I’m already dressed and have my shoes on. My favorite sweater sits on the couch so I don’t forget it.

Mom rushes to the bathroom one last time, so I set my pencil down in the tray and stare at the drawing in front of me.

It’s a man. A man I don’t know, but I’m supposed to be meeting him today.

Mom gave me a photo of him ages ago, so I drew his black hair from memory, since I spent forever staring at that picture. I drew his dark eyes and heavy forehead. His neat combover, and his broad shoulders.

I’ve never met anyone so big before; I guess I will today.

In the picture, he and another man smoke fat cigars and smile, but I don’t draw the cigars in. Or the other man. They look like they’re mid-joke, mid-laughter, and white smoke plumes around their heads.

“Doodlebug!” Mom flushes the toilet and rushes back through the living room. “Get up.” She claps her hands. “We have to go.”

“Okay.” I slide the tray of pencils under the floral print couch and stack my loose sheets of paper on top where they’ll stay safe.

Pushing to my feet, I catch sight of my red sweater and reach out to pick it up, but the thought of needing to pee on our drive makes me turn away and rush to the bathroom.

I’m nervous for today, and I don’t know why. I’m nervous to meet this man, but I shouldn’t be; I meet new people all the time.

Heading across the living room and into the bathroom, I work fast, flush, wash my hands, meet Mom in the living room, and when she smiles and pulls me into a hug, I wrap my arms around her waist and snuggle in.

She’s busy all the time. Always working. Always hustling so I can eat. She’s often short-tempered, she yells a lot, but she does it all because she has to. Because no one else will feed us. No one else will pay the rent so the cockroaches have somewhere to stay.

“This is going to be fun, okay?”

I’m the same height as she is now, so I bend my neck a little and rest my face on her shoulder. “Okay.”

“Don’t be nervous. This is an exciting day.”

Again, I nod. “Okay.”

“Alright.” She pushes me back and grins. “Let’s go. Our new adventure awaits.”

* * *

Three hours in the car isn’t so bad for an eleven-year-old kid with loads of music and a mom with an angel’s voice.

We play “I Spy” with license plate letters, eat our pastrami sandwiches when we get hungry, and make good time when we don’t stop the whole way.

I’m glad I peed before we left, because by the time we pull up out front of a large club and switch off the engine, I’m ready to go again.

The music cuts out, so we sit in the silence and study the multi-story building in front of us. “This is it.” Mom turns to me; she looks both happy and terrified. Nervous, but giddy. Emotions I’m not used to seeing on her usually serious face. “Are you excited?”

I nod and turn back to the club, to the blacked-out windows, and the overflowing dumpster at the far end of the lot. This place is dark, which sticks out weird, considering it’s the middle of the day and the sun shines down. It almost feels a little… I don’t know. Addams Family, maybe.

Mom wears a bright yellow sundress. Her long hair hangs low, and her lips, fire-engine red, make her blue eyes stand out against her light skin.

Blue eyes like mine.

Not like the man in the picture.

She doesn’t normally wear dresses like she’s wearing today, or heels, or a fancy purse. She doesn’t often wear lipstick, or style her hair overnight so it curls the next day.

My mom cleans hotel rooms seven days a week; she wears jeans, sneakers, and ponytails. She never wears heels, and she never ever takes days off, like she’s done for today.

That makes this special.

This place looks empty; there are no cars besides ours in the parking lot. The double front doors are closed, the windows dark. But this is where she brought us, so I guess this is where we’re going.

Turning back to my mom, I nod and reach out to pat her hand. She’s nervous, so it’s my job to make this less scary. “Let’s go.”

We push our doors open and step onto the parking lot of concrete and broken gravel bits. The breeze is chilly, and I forgot my sweater, so I fold my arms and slam the door closed. Moving around to the hood of the car, I wait for Mom to loop her arm in mine, then we move toward the front entrance.

She’s more nervous than I’ve ever seen her. It’s weird, because she’s normally our strong one. She’s our leader. She’s a single mom and she works herself to the bone.

The fact that she’s feeling weak means I need to be strong.

As though by magic, the doors at the front of the club open, and a man in a police uniform steps forward to wait.

He’s not one of the men from the picture I’ve spent my life looking at.

He’s like them, I guess. In the way that his face is hard, his jaw square and strong.

This guy has shaved his head bald and wears a shiny diamond in his left ear.

He’s in full uniform, with a black gun on his hip and a shiny badge on his chest. His presence in this dark place brings me comfort in a way.

Cops make some people nervous, they make the guilty worry that their crimes have been carved into their foreheads, but my mom and I have committed no crimes.

We’re the good people, and he’s the police.

He watches us approach with heavy brows and narrowed eyes, and still, he makes me comfortable. But my mom doesn’t relax like I do.

Lifting his left hand as though to scratch his jaw, the policeman stops and speaks into his wrist like this is a spy movie. “They’re here.” He pauses, and while he waits, his eyes don’t leave mine. “Yeah, Sarge. On our way.” He drops his arm and finally meets Mom’s eyes. “Ms. Ellis, come on in.”

“Thank you.” Mom nervously pats her dress down and lets me lead her into the dark building and along a long hall.

“Is… uh…” Mom looks around. She was nervous and a little scared, but the further we walk into this unknown place, the stronger she becomes.

She becomes my protector, my leader, and helps my heart slow. “I’m here to see—”

“I know.” The handcuffs on the back of the man’s belt glint in the light that peeks through windows and doorways.

Keys hang near the cuffs, and a flashlight sits on his left hip.

He’s like the cops I see in the movies, which is super cool.

I’ve wanted to be the law ever since Walker, Texas Ranger came out on tape.

A tape I’ve watched so many times that it’s basically ruined.

Maybe if this guy is friends with the man from the photo, while mom talks to the man, I can talk to the cop. We can hang out and talk criminals, I can ask him about the cool cases he’s solved. I might even ask him if he’s ever shot someone before.

That would be really cool.

We’re led through the hall and into a large space that’s basically empty now except for tables and chairs, but I bet at night, people sit and drink while others dance.

Colorful lights hang from the ceiling, though they’re all switched off right now.

This is like a dance club, I think. People probably get drunk here, so maybe that’s why the policeman is here…

“Up here, Ms. Ellis.”

We follow the bald policeman when he turns left, then climb up a set of stairs that creak as we move. His boots stomp on the metal steps, Mom’s heels click-clack . My sneakers are silent, and when I release my mom’s hand, she and the cop move ahead without glancing back to me.

Arching my neck, I look around the club as we head up, and notice a long bar with a billion bottles behind it, empty milk crates stacked between, two cash registers, one on each end, and a box tossed on one of the tables, the flaps a little open, and black sticks poking out of the top.

Turning back to the top of the stairs, I jog to catch up, and reach the landing in the same moment the cop taps on a heavy door.

Only a second passes, long enough for Mom to look back and take my hand when I step closer.

She clutches me close, twines her fingers with mine, and pats our knuckles as she turns back to the door.

She holds our clasped hands to her chest, so I feel her heart racing as the door slowly creaks open and the policeman whispers to someone inside.

It’s all “ she’s here ,” and “ she brought the kid .”