The Battle for Jericho Read Online Free Page A

I took the long way to school, avoiding Juniper Street and any mention of our criminal acts there. I watched the local news and checked the newspaper—things I’d never done before—but there was no report of the incident. By Friday afternoon, I had cooked up a plausible lie for my folks to explain my disappearance. They bought my story that I’d been hanging out at a friend’s house, playing video games and losing track of time. Because it had taken me so long to confess, Dad said I’d be grounded for another week. The remorse I expressed was heartfelt. I was wracked with guilt every waking moment, and my dreams were filled with shattered dishes and broken bodies.
    Mac and I had dodged the proverbial bullet. As soon as it became clear we weren’t going to be hauled off to the county jail, Mac was back to life as usual. He tried out for the football team and made it. He started pursuing Gina Marie Silva, a girl whose body had morphed over the summer into a figure that made guys want to genuflect and thank God for creating eyesight. He played pickup games of basketball, went to the movies, talked his parents into getting him a gym membership. It was as if he’d had no part in the events at Dylan’s house. I should have followed his example and let things be. But I didn’t.
    The Saturday after my punishment ended, I made my way over to Juniper Street. The picketers were still there, marching in their endless circular parade. Dylan’s car, a red Camaro convertible, was parked in his driveway. Aside from a group of kids coasting the sidewalks on skateboards and a woman washing her minivan in her driveway, the street was quiet. It was just the kind of postcard serenity that drew people to the suburbs. My heart started racing, and I got so lightheaded I had to sit on the curb with my head between my knees. It took three minutes of deep breathing to get myself together, after which I got up and went home.
    Sunday afternoon, once church and lunch were done, I was back on Juniper. The picketers were gone, apparently taking a break for their own worship-day services. I had decided to own up to what I’d done. I had injured a man, and my soul wouldn’t let me rest until I made amends. Dylan was unconscious by the time Mac made it back to the kitchen and was thus unaware of my friend’s presence. I could confess without implicating Mac. This time, I didn’t allow myself any chance of losing my resolve. I marched headlong down the street and up to Dylan’s door, where I quickly rang the bell.
    I waited, rubbing my hands—which were suddenly real clammy—against the sides of my jeans. Movement at the window caught my eye, and I saw Dylan’s face peering at me through the curtain. The face disappeared, the curtain closed, and there went my heart jumping up and down in my throat again. “Oh Jesus…,” I muttered through my teeth. That was a prayer, by the way, not an expletive. The man was going to kill me. He was going to open his door, punch me flat in the face, and kill me for what I’d done to him
    I was so convinced of this that when the door opened, I actually flinched, my whole body tightening to accept my fate. Dylan stood in front of me. He wore only a pair of yellow sweatpants, and he had almost two weeks’ worth of beard growth on his face. A wide patch had been shaved in the top of his head and covered with a white bandage the size of my palm. Obviously, he was still convalescing. As I mentioned, I was expecting a punch in the mouth, or at the very least a good, solid cussing out, before he summoned the authorities. Instead he just stared at me, his expression cold but otherwise flat.
    Okay. The first move was on me. “Uh….” Brilliant start there. Unfortunately, my brain locked tightly after that, and I got no further.
    Dylan sighed wearily. “What do you want?”
    Did this guy have amnesia or something? “Uh… it’s me.” I leaned forward, patting at my chest with my hand to jog his memory.
    “I