Friendly Revenge

FRIENDLY REVENGE

JAMES PENCE

Copyright © 2016 by James Pence

All rights reserved.

Published by Mountainview Books, LLC

Author photo copyright © Alan Lindholm

Cover photograph of boy running copyright © istockphoto/Daniel Norman

Cover photograph of girl copyright © istockphoto/jaroon

Cover photograph of texture copyright © istockphoto/Roberto A. Sanchez

Cover photograph of church copyright © istockphoto/Joel Sorrel

Edited by Carol Kurtz Darlington

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-941291-20-7 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-9891621-21-4 (ebook)

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

How to Help

About the Author

Chapter 1

Palmer Keene gazed at the cold, gray metal door, afraid to open it. For almost five minutes he’d stood there, paralyzed by fear. He knew he couldn’t stay in the school building all night. He also knew they were outside. And somewhere they would be waiting for him.

The three boys had been watching him all afternoon. Ever since he’d bumped into one of them in the cafeteria and made him spill his drink Palmer had felt like a marked man. Now wherever he went he saw the boys—near his locker, in the gym, on the way to class. They never said anything. They just glared at him and whispered to each other. By midafternoon he could feel their cold stares like ice on the back of his neck.

Palmer volunteered to help in the computer lab after school in the hope they might leave and forget about him. Big mistake. Mr. Brooks locked the computer room at 4:30 and said it was time to go home. Palmer pretended he needed to stop at the restroom before he left, hoping to hide out just a little longer. When he came out, he knew he was in trouble. The wall clock now read 4:57. Palmer couldn’t hear a sound in the building. He wasn’t even sure if the custodian was still there. For all Palmer knew, he was alone.

The skinny fourteen-year-old stretched up on his tiptoes and pressed his face against the small square window in the upper part of the door. No use. He couldn’t see a thing through the tiny opening.

For all he knew, the three stooges could be waiting right outside.

Palmer drew a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. Like it or not, he’d have to open the door and take his chances. He reached down a sweaty palm and nudged the cold steel bar that would open the gate of his temporary fortress.

The door latch released with a ka-chunk that echoed off the lockers like a gunshot in the deserted hallway. He leaned against the door, and its rusty hinges squealed as if they hadn’t moved in a hundred years.

Palmer’s dry throat felt like sandpaper. He edged through the door, opening it only as far as necessary. He stepped halfway out and scanned the school yard. There weren’t many places for them to hide, other than a few live oak trees. Palmer stood still and watched the trees, waiting for any hint that someone was behind one of them.

Then someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Palmer’s heart skipped a beat, and he whipped around to face the person behind him.

Cassie Hurst stood there, looking at him like she thought he was crazy. What are you doing?

Palmer took a deep breath and blew it out. Nothing, he said.

She raised her eyebrows. Do you always stand halfway out a door for five minutes before you go out?

No. I don’t, he said. And it wasn’t five minutes. He turned back toward the door.

Are you afraid of something?

No. Palmer knew he didn’t sound convincing.

’Cause if you are, Daddy will be happy to give you a ride home.

That was the last thing Palmer wanted, a ride home with the school principal and his daughter.

I’ll be okay.

But Palmer, if someone’s bothering you . . .

Leave it alone, Cassie! Palmer pushed the door open and stormed outside.

The door clicked shut behind him.

All at once, panic seized him. Palmer turned and jiggled the door handle. Locked.

He thought about pounding on the door but didn’t want to give Cassie the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as the late-summer Texas sun beat down.

Ten steps down to the sidewalk, then a mile home. He could make it—maybe. Palmer ran nervous fingers through his hair then shoved his glasses back up his nose. He slung his backpack over one shoulder and started down the steps.

Nobody in sight. So far, so good.

At the bottom of the crumbling concrete steps, Palmer turned right and headed for home. He ignored the rush of cars on the street to his left. A child’s ball bounced out of a yard and rolled in front of him, but he ignored it. As he paced the mile to his house, Palmer looked and listened only for the boys.

All at once, he sensed someone was watching him.

He slowed down just a little and turned his head for a quick glance. Two of the boys walked behind him, about half a block away. One was about Palmer’s height with short, red hair. The other, tall and thin, wore a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and parted his wavy dark hair down the middle.

Palmer quickened his pace, looking back now and then. The boys matched him stride for stride but seemingly paid no attention to him. Palmer knew they weren’t out for a casual stroll; they were following him. But where was the third boy?

Palmer walked faster as he crossed Miller Street.

I’m only a third of the way home. I’ll never make it. No, got to keep calm. Only four blocks to downtown. They’d never do anything there. Too many people. If I can just make it that far, get to a phone, I’ll be okay.

Palmer sneaked another look behind him.

The boys were closing the gap.

Palmer broke into a full stride. He worked his legs hard, stretching them as far as he could. His chest heaved and struggled against the heavy, humid air.

No good. Every time he looked, they were closer.

Palmer broke into a run and darted across Wilkins Street.

So did the boys.

Only three more blocks and he’d be safe.

Palmer’s lungs ached and his legs burned, but he didn’t dare slow down. He could hear their sneakers slapping the pavement behind him. They couldn’t be more than a few feet away. In a few seconds they would have him.

Palmer tossed his backpack aside and made a desperate dash for the safety of the downtown square.

That’s when he saw the third boy.

Up ahead. Standing. Waiting for him.

Shorter but better built than the other two, he stood there grinning. But his eyes were cold.

Trapped.

Palmer flashed a glance to the left. He couldn’t cut across the street. Too much traffic. He turned to his right and tore down an old alley, risking a quick look behind him to see if he’d escaped.

Palmer didn’t see the Dead End sign. He didn’t see the trash cans either.

He plowed into three large garbage cans, sprawling over them. He stretched his arms out to catch himself, scraping his palms along the street. He skidded along, his chin, chest, and knees grinding against the asphalt. The overstuffed trash cans toppled, sending a flood of rotting garbage along with him. Palmer came to a stop amid a suffocating wash of decaying chicken and rotten eggs.

On your feet, geek.

A wave of nausea swept over Palmer. He fought it off and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Slimy pieces of chicken and egg shell crawling with maggots dropped from his shirt. The stench made Palmer want to throw up. His new jeans were ripped, and a flap of his shirt hung down, chewed up by gravel from the street. Blood oozed from wounds on his chin and palms.

I said stand up.

Palmer forced himself to his feet and turned to face his pursuers.

Paaaalmer! Paaaalmer Keeeeene! The red-haired boy smirked and strutted toward him. Palmer Keeeeene, he sang in a mocking tone.

Punk kid, you mean, said the tall boy who parted his hair in the middle.

No way, guys, said the short one, a sneer curling his lip. Preacher’s kid. Palmer Keene, preacher’s kid.

The short boy took a step toward Palmer. His soft voice chilled Palmer like dry ice. You messed up my shirt, preacher’s kid. Now it’s time to pay.

I’ll get you a new one, Palmer blurted out.

I don’t want your money, the short boy replied. I’m gonna take my pay out of your hide.

Palmer took a step backward and felt his back press against a concrete wall. Nowhere to go. The three boys formed a barrier in front of him.

In desperation, Palmer lunged forward and tried to break through the boys. He head-butted the short one and knocked him down. But just as quickly, the others grabbed Palmer’s arms and held him tight.

Furious, the short boy jumped to his feet and clenched his hands into fists.

Give ’im one for me, said the red-haired boy, giggling like he was crazy.

Palmer tightened his stomach muscles, bracing for the punch he knew was coming.

The short boy drew back his fist slowly, as if savoring the beating he was about to dish out. But he stopped without hitting Palmer. Palmer noticed that the boys’ triumphant grins were gone. Fear filled their eyes.

Let him go, commanded a deep voice from somewhere in the alley.

At the end of the alley stood a boy who looked more like a man. Sixteen or seventeen years old, Palmer guessed. His would-be savior wore