Chaos Theory Read Online Free

disappears into the crowd. I head for EB. It’s snowing again, but my trusty ride hugs the road like a trooper. Trying not to slide through the turns, it’s like Grandma’s sitting beside me. When I took her to chemo treatments last winter, she’d grip the hand rest and say, “I trust your driving, but go easy on the curves.” Most times, she’d trusted me so much that she’d slam an imaginary brake. I miss her.
    Near the college, students—snow or not—plow across the roads, ignoring traffic. They’d be heading home for Friday night pub crawls. The library will be a ghost town. Even better, the nearby parking spaces would be empty.
    As I inch to the library intersection, his red Mustang passes me on the right and then cuts back in front of me. Damn it, Drug Guy in my private space again?
    Surprisingly, he doesn’t turn toward the library, but continues straight. Making a snap decision, I follow him. There are two cars between us. Cemetery Hill is a dangerous slide down toward the town center. I peer through the crystal snow with windshield wipers sweeping and count three cars now separating us. The drug-dealer-who-killed-his-half-sister passes under the railroad viaduct and turns left into the city park and then into an immediate T-intersection. He takes another left and pulls into a parking space. Turning in the opposite direction, I find the farthest parking spot possible, slide down in the seat, and peek at the rearview mirror. He pulls out a skateboard from his trunk and climbs the slight rise to cross Sixth Street, heading for the covered skateboard park.
    Why spy on Drug Guy? I get out of the car and hike through six-inch-deep snow, glad for my boots. Rejecting his straight path, I head for the bike path that runs along the river’s edge. Opposite the railroad viaduct, it passes under the Sixth Street Bridge and curves back toward the skate park. Fifty yards from the concrete dome, I cut into the heavily scented pine trees.
    The skate park is known as Broken Bone. On its official opening day, no less than twelve bones were broken. Shocked, the city leaders hastily set a rule requiring users to wear knee, wrist, elbow pads, and helmets. The rules are frequently ignored, as are the ones forbidding smoking. On summer evenings, there’s usually the sweet smell of weed. Today, it’s freezing. The skateboarders, a mixture of high school, college, and dropouts, grouped together inside, near the heating pillars.
    Drug Guy strips his coat off, hops on his board—without pads—and begins sweeping the skate bowls. After some easy moves, he shifts to complex ones. Boarders stop to watch him and nod approval. Isolated from the others, three guys glower on the sidelines. I don’t recognize their ugly mugs.
    Shivering in the cold, I watch Drug Guy finish his run. He scoops up his board with a practiced hit of his foot and it flies into his arms. He nods slightly toward the three brutes.
    Like it was choreographed, Drug Guy puts on his coat and joins them. Together, they head toward my hiding place near Joint Row. I scramble back into the pine trees. If they come far enough along the path, they’ll see my footprint trail. Luckily, they stop, but only ten feet from my present position. I freeze.
    Goon One pokes his finger into Drug Guy’s chest, who doesn’t back down. Daniel talks, but Goon isn’t listening. Then Daniel reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small baggie. Goon gets angrier.
    Surprise. Surprise. Drug Guy’s dealing drugs. Without warning, the creeps jump him. Three on one, but they’re slow and awkward. Drug Guy has his martial arts training. He drops the baggie and his skateboard, lifts his arms into a defensive position, settles back on his left foot—and slides on the snow, falling forward. His arms flail and Goons Two and Three punch his stomach as he goes down.
    The hit crew is practiced. They’ve done this