I Know When You're Going to Die
by Michael J. Bowler
Genre: YA Mystery, Thriller
Leonardo Cantrell is a painfully shy sixteen-year-old who cannot look people in the eye. One night while he’s volunteering at a homeless shelter, an old man forces eye contact and gives Leo the power to see Death.
His best, and only, friend—J.C. Rivera—thinks this new power is cool until Leo accidentally looks into J.C.’s eyes and “sees” his murder, a murder that will occur in less than two weeks. Stunned and shaken, the two boys sift through clues in Leo’s “vision” in a desperate effort to find the killer and stop him before he can strike.
Aided by feisty new-girl-at-school, Laura, the boys uncover evidence suggesting the identity of the murderer. However, their plan to trap the would-be killer goes horribly awry and reveals a truth that could kill them all.
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EXCERPT #1
After lunch, we head to a nearby
McDonald’s and buy bags of hamburgers, chicken sandwiches, and fries to give
out on the streets. I make momentary eye contact with each person I hand a bag
to because I want them to know they’re
human like me. But I can’t hold it for more than a second until, beneath the
dim shade of the freeway overpass on Main Street, this one man grasps my arm as
he takes his bag. He’s a regular named Hank, an older guy with a limp who
always wears a dirty Dodgers cap and mismatched clothes I’m sure he found in a dumpster.
“Thank you, Leo.” Hank’s voice is
strained, but sincere.
I force myself to look into his
grateful eyes and our gazes lock. I can’t
seem to look away. It’s like I’m being drawn into Hank’s very soul. Then I see it! Gasping, I lurch
back and yank my arm away from him.
He recoils, looking stung by my
action, and I want to apologize, but no words come. I’m paralyzed by what I
just saw and can only offer him a silent nod.
Gripping the bag with gnarled
fingers, Hank lurches down Main Street until he reaches the corner and turns
out of sight.
J.C. steps around in front of me.
“Hey, Leo, you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“I know… when he’s… going to… die.”
I barely get the words out.
J.C. stares at me. “Huh?”
EXCERPT #2
J.C. slurps his drink and waits
till I’m ready. This is one of those moments I need a lot of time. Five minutes
pass while I process everything I saw in
Kyle’s eyes. I know J.C. is about to jump out of his skin, so I finally
whisper, “He’s going to be shot.”
“No way!” J.C. looks as shocked as
I’ve ever seen him. “When?”
“Tuesday.”
He gags on the sip he’s taking.
“You sure?”
I nod.
“Could you see where?”
I shake my head. “It was hazy. The
gun went off and he was on the ground bleeding out.”
“Oh, my God!” J.C. puts down his
drink and we sit a moment in silence. He must know what I’m thinking because he
says, “You can’t warn him, Leo.”
“Why not?”
He hesitates. “I don’t know for
sure, but maybe it’s like he’s supposed to
die on Tuesday and if you warn him and he doesn’t, then maybe you create
some rift in time or something, like in X-Men comics.”
J.C. is a major X-Men fan. Me, not
so much. “J.C., he’s just a kid like us.”
“I know.” He pauses. “But what if
you tell him now and on Tuesday he changes what he would normally do and
because he changes his routine, that’s why he gets shot.”
Having had these geek conversations
with him over the years about time travel and numerous “what if ” scenarios, I
understand what he’s trying to tell me.
Make wise choices.
Was this what Mr. Franklin meant?
That the choices I make to tell or not tell people what I see could be as
significant as J.C. suggests?
EXCERPT #3
I’m not sure how long I lay curled
up on that beach before I hear someone huffing and puffing above me.
J.C.
I crack open my eyes. He’s doubled
over, clutching at his sides and fight- ing for breath. Sweat streams from his
wavy black hair down onto his face. “What…” he wheezes, struggling to breathe,
“did… you… see?”
I unravel myself and sit up,
pulling my knees in and clutching my legs tightly. I don’t look at him, instead
scanning the surrounding beach. It’s a weekday and there’s nobody around except
the lifeguard in his station, and he isn’t very close.
“Leo!”
I look up as he collapses to the
sand and gazes at me with wide, terrified eyes.
Still, I can’t bring myself to say
it.
He grabs me by both shoulders. His
grip feels like iron. His panting has lessened, but not the fear on his face.
“Tell me. Please.”
I lower my eyes again. “You’re…” I
force myself to breathe. “You’re going to be…” I can’t say it.
“What?”
“Murdered!” I blurt, glancing at
the stunned look on his face.
His mouth opens, but nothing comes
out for a long moment. “When?” His voice is a choked whisper.
I don’t want to say it, but I have
to. “A week from Friday.”
He gags, like he’s gonna throw up
all over me. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable, so small and afraid, and that
scares me more than what I saw in his
eyes. He collapses onto the sand and cries.
EXCERPT #4
I hear the door to the parking lot
open with a creak and spin around in fear. J.C. and Laura do the same. We
listen. The door closes quietly. Muffled footsteps approach along the catwalk.
Crap, we’re trapped!
I ignore the other two and take in
my surroundings. There’s a door behind us. With no time to even wonder where it
leads, I scuttle over as the footsteps grow louder. In seconds, the newcomer
will round the colossal boilers and
see us. I grab the door handle and pull. It’s not locked. I ease it open and find a large storage room with boxes and
plastic jugs lined up on shelves and odd pieces of equipment in corners on the
floor. Laura darts inside without hesitation, but J.C. looks at me uncertainly.
I shove him harder than I intend and squeeze in right behind him. The footsteps
clanking along the catwalk are almost
around the corner when I ease the door closed and hold the inside handle
tightly to keep it from rattling. I feel J.C.’s raspy breath on my neck and his body pressed in tightly against mine
as I place one ear up against the cold metal door and listen.
The footfalls saunter on past as
though the person doesn’t have a care in
the world and isn’t worried about being detected. I hear a muffled
greeting in Spanish, but it’s not Mendez. My breath freezes as I recognize that
voice.
EXCERPT #5
I’m ladling out stew to ragged old
men, boys in hoodies, and women clothed in layers of dirty, mismatched apparel.
They’ve come to stay the night at one of Skid Row’s rescue missions because
it’s better than a tent or cardboard box on San Pedro Street. I like being here
more than I like being at home, so I help out every weekend.
I’m
chatting with a skinny boy and his mother passing through the line on their way to scarf a hot meal at one of
the foldable tables when one of the mission staff taps me on the shoulder.
“Leo, there’s a guy in the sleeping quarters asking for
you. Said his name is Franklin.”
“Thanks,” I reply. I don’t recognize that name, but I make my excuses to
the boy and his mom and hand over my ladling duties to the girl who’d brought
me the message.
To get to the sleeping quarters, I
walk down a narrow, dark-paneled hallway with the familiar smell of sweat and
unwashed socks. The door to the dorm is open and I step in. It looks like a
huge barn with a worn hardwood floor studded with row after row of folding
cots. Since it’s dinnertime, all the cots are empty except one.
An old man with surprisingly alert
eyes lies atop that cot staring at me. Most of the older people who frequent
the shelter have rheumy eyes, always
moist and often clouded, because
they’ve struggled for so long on the street, and maybe because they have
alcohol or drug problems.
“Come here, boy.” His voice is
raspy and echoes faintly in the cavernous room.
At first, I don’t recognize him.
True, there are hundreds of homeless on the streets every day, but I’ve been
volunteering on Skid Row since I was fourteen and after almost three years,
like I said, I know most of them. I’m
thinking that if this guy is a
regular, he’s passed under my radar.
And yet…
I have seen him, I think. Not here
at the shelter. Walking to my car…?
Yes! Several times over these
past two or three weekends, I’ve noticed him.
He’s caught my eye because, every time, he’s stared at me so intently it
made me shiver. He’d be pretending to
rummage through a dumpster, but his eyes would follow me until I got into my
car. I confess his gaze made me uncom- fortable, but I let it go. I’ve learned
to shrug off such creepy feelings because
so many of the people I meet down here have mental health issues.
I steel myself and walk between the
rows of empty cots—each with its neat
bedroll awaiting an occupant—and stop before the stranger with
the scary eyes. Unlike most of the people, his clothes aren’t especially
dirty and he doesn’t smell like someone who’s been on the streets for a long
time. Wisps of gray hair stick out from his head at haphazard angles and his
face has so many wrinkles I don’t think I could count them if I tried.
I don’t make eye contact, but
that’s because I never do. Not here, not anywhere. People tell me I’m the
definition of “shy” and they’re right.
“You asked to see me, sir?” I say deferentially,
my gaze on his gnarled hands.
He rolls over onto his back. “I
been watching you, boy. Seen you on the streets a lot.”
I freeze. So, I didn’t imagine it!
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The voice sounds like
sandpaper scraping along a fence. “Rich boy like you helping out poor folk like
me. What gives?”
I’ve been asked this question by
all my relatives, so I’m ready with my answer. “I think people like me who are
lucky to have a lot should help people who don’t. And I hope I’m making the
world better instead of worse. The kids
I know just party and think about themselves all the time. I don’t want
to be like that.”
A crooked smile cracks the wrinkled
face. “You’re the one, all right.” “The one?”
With effort, he unclasps his hands
with their swollen knuckles and holds his right arm out toward me. It shakes,
like he barely has enough strength to keep it aloft. “Take my hand, boy.”
Unlike my best friend J.C., who
never touches any of the people when he comes with me to the shelters, I
usually have no worries about contact. But I hesitate this time. I mean, this
guy has been watching me on the streets. But kindness makes me swallow my
anxiety and I clasp his hand. He squeezes gently.
“Look into my eyes.”
Ordinarily, I’d just glance into
his eyes and then look away. But that com- manding tone compels me. I raise my
eyes and focus on his. They’re brown and
alert and they shimmer beneath the overhead lights. We lock gazes, and I stiffen. Something I can’t quite pin
down swells within me, like a surge of emotion. I suddenly feel… different.
All the tension drains from his
face in an instant. Relaxed, he releases my hand, pulling his arm back with
great deliberation. He rests both hands across his stomach and gazes up at me
with obvious gratitude.
“Thank you, boy. Now I can die.”
I shudder. “Wha-what do you mean?”
The man offers a gentle smile. “I
gave you a great gift, boy. Or maybe a curse. Had it so long, I can’t be sure
no more. But I couldn’t die till I passed it on.”
I stand frozen in place, my heart
thumping, my breathing on hold. A gift?
A curse? “Uh, pass what on, sir?”
He chuckles and it’s a wheezy
sound, like he doesn’t have much air in his lungs. “Just you calling an old bum
like me “sir” proves you be the one.”
I feel different inside and his
words scare me because I know he’s done
something to me. “I’m just a
regular kid, sir. Nothing special.”
That chuckle erupts again, wheezier
this time. “Oh, you’re more than a regular kid. Like you said, most kids only
care about stupid crap like partying. You’ll
use my gift well.” He lapses into a coughing fit that scares me
even more.
“Want me to get some help?”
He waves away the idea with one
hand. After a few moments, the hacking
ceases. “No need. It’s my time.” He suddenly looks really pasty and
gray in the face. “When you find
someone worthy, boy, pass on the gift to them,” he whispers, his voice very
soft and almost inaudible. He closes his eyes and lies still. “Until then, make
wise choices.”
Then he stops breathing. Literally,
just stops. One second his chest is ris- ing and falling and then the next,
there’s nothing. I want to shake him back to life and ask a thousand questions,
but instead I run from the room to get help.
Michael J. Bowler is an award-winning author who grew up in Northern California. He majored in English/Theatre at Santa Clara University, earned a master’s in film production from Loyola Marymount University, a teaching credential in English from LMU, and a master’s in Special Education from Cal State University Dominguez Hills. Michael taught high school in Hawthorne, California for many years, both in general education and students with disabilities. When Michael is not writing you can find him volunteering as a youth mentor with the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, volunteering within the juvenile justice system in Los Angeles, or caring for his newly adopted son. He is a passionate advocate for the fair treatment of children and teens in California, and hopes his books can show young people they are not alone in their struggles.
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