Dillon

The Betrayal

Prologue

Most people went through life never knowing when it would end and were hardly aware when it did. For Carson Anderson, that wasn't the case. Carson knew exactly where and when his life ended; it was Tuesday, September 16th at 8:18 am and Carson was in homeroom.

There was no reason for Carson to expect that day to be different. It had started as ordinary as any other. His bus, one of a long line of yellow dragons, had disgorged him and a couple dozen other middle-schoolers by the side of the school. He had pushed through door along with a crush of other tweeners, wrapped in a cacophony of shouts and laughs. He greeted a few friends as he visited his locker, then raced to homeroom in order to beat the bell.

Arriving in class he shimmed his way down one of the narrow aisles between desks. His backpack slumped over on the floor as he slid into his seat by the window. He had engineered a seat next to Amy Simpson in the back of the room. That bit of effort had seemed wasted at first. Amy had been going steady with an eighth grader since school began, but he had suddenly dumped her for an older girl. Amy was still quite upset by her sudden turn in fortune and Carson was doing his best to be sympathetic and to show support. All the time, however, he was wondering how long he should wait before he made a move on her, himself. He didn't want to appear uncaring, but he also knew there were other boys circling, waiting for the right time to pounce.

In fact, it was because of Amy that he didn't hear the room descend into silence. She was absorbed in her confusion and pain while he was absorbed in the way the top of her blouse accentuated her cleavage. While her breasts weren't large, they were more than big enough to fill Carson's imagination. In fact, Carson's eyes darted down from Amy's face each time she looked away. He was so absorbed in the luscious, hidden treasure that it was a moment before he was aware that no one else was talking. Yet, when he did realize it, it took him only an instant to discover why.

The delegation at the front of the class was both unusual and impressive. In addition to his teacher, Ms. Little, there was the assistant principal and the seventh grade guidance counselor. He could see the school's resource officer, a policeman in uniform who visited the school once a week, lurking outside the door. But, it was the two strangers that the class stared at. The man talking quietly to Ms. Little was tall and broad with salt-and-pepper hair. He was dressed in a grey business suit that screamed cop.

It was the woman with him that caught Carson's attention. She was also dressed in a business suit but one with a skirt. Much shorter than her partner, her black hair was pulled back tightly. Carson guessed she was Latina. But what really got Carson's attention was the way she stared back at him, almost as if in recognition.

She held his eyes, her expression curious. Without looking away, she reached into the outside pocket of her suit coat and pulled out a photograph. She glanced at it only once before staring at Carson again. Then she nudged her partner, held the picture out to him, and nodded toward Carson. With that, the entire class turned and looked at him.

The walk through school seemed endless. The group made no sound except for the click of dress shoes and the occasional squeak from Carson's sneakers. The guidance counselor had tried to assure Carson that everything was OK and that there was nothing to worry about. But Carson couldn't convince himself of that, not while he was being marched through the school hallways with an entourage like this one. No one in the group said a word and that silence added to Carson's tension. Students in other classes looked as the group trooped past and Carson knew the rumors were spreading.

A disagreement broke out in the school's main office. Carson heard just a snatch of it before the door of the guidance counselor's office pulled itself close on its hydraulic hinge. The two strangers wanted to "question" Carson now. His guidance counselor was insisting that they wait for his mom. She was arguing fiercely, the two strangers seemed unruffled. The door closed before Carson could hear more.

Carson stilled his right leg. He put his hands on his knees and tried to sit calmly but his leg was jiggling again before he could stop it. The stillness of the guidance counselor's office bothered him. He heard the soft whisper of air pouring through the ventilation grate and watched as it stirred some of the paper's on her desk. The flat light from the florescent lamp in the ceiling washed away all shadows. Carson felt a pit growing in his stomach. The second hand on the wall clock lazily arced its way around forever lapping the other two. Carson wiped his sweaty hands over his jeans.

He kept running over everything he might have done to earn this trouble. And, the more he did, the more confused he became. It's not that Carson was an angel; he was, in fact, pretty typical for a boy his age. Still, if he had broken the law, it had to be accidental. Carson had never shoplifted; not that he was above doing that, he just never saw anything he needed badly enough to want to take that chance. There had been the chat with a gaming opponent on X-Box where Carson's language has been pretty choice, but it wasn't anything that should land him in this much trouble. He and his friend, Jason, had been looking at porn on the computer one evening, but all the boys in school did. Carson couldn't imagine they would send the cops to bust him for that.

The door opened suddenly and Carson jumped and turned in his chair to watch them enter. The two strangers led the way; his guidance counselor followed. The vice principal pulled the door shut behind him. Carson saw the resource officer leering outside.

He could tell right away his guidance counselor had lost the argument, whatever that had been. She pushed past the two strangers and took her seat behind the desk. She scowled as she did, never meeting Carson's questioning eyes. The small woman in the suit took a chair along the wall. The vice principal joined her. The man perched himself in a friendly way on the edge of the desk. He smiled at Carson for a moment and then went to speak, but the guidance counselor interrupted before he could begin.

"Carson, these two people are from the FBI." Carson's mouth dropped open and the pit in his stomach grew. Suddenly he felt like he really needed to pee.

"They'd like to ask you a few questions, but -" but now it was the man's turn to interrupt.

"But we only have a few simple questions for you, and since you're not in trouble, we see no reason to wait," he said calmly, smiling the whole time.

"Carson, you can insist that they wait for your mom and that's what I advise you to do," his guidance counselor interjected. Carson looked between the two, confused and uncertain. The man paused and watched Carson, then he began again.

"Carson, I'm Special Agent Frederick and this is Special Agent Alvarez," he gestured to his partner as he introduced her. Carson didn't like the intensity of her gaze.

"You're Carson Anderson, right?" the man continued. It was a simple enough question, Carson nodded.

"How old are you, Carson?"

"I'm thirteen, sir." Carson tried to make his voice sound confident but came out scratchy and soft.

Special Agent Frederick turned to his partner and gestured for her to hand him something. With her eyes on Carson, she again reached into the pocket of her suit coat and removed the picture. Special Agent Frederick studied it for a moment, they looked back at Carson.

"Carson, this is you, isn't it?" He turned the picture to Carson as he asked.

In that instant, Carson knew he was dead. His life had ended. He felt the room collapse in around him. He couldn't turn his eyes away from the photograph. He couldn't see anything past it. For a few brief moments it was just him and that picture.

When he did it, he wasn't sure, but he must have reached out and taken it. He sat leaning forward, his arms on his legs, the picture clutched in both hands, both knees were bouncing quickly.

In the picture, he was stretched out on Blake's couch; his feet were bare; he was dressed in gym shorts and a t-shirt, the name of his middle school proudly emblazed across the front.

How the FUCK did they get that picture? Carson felt tears come to his eyes.

Could he hope this was the only one they had?

Blake had taken more pictures that night, ones with Carson's shirt off, then with the front of his shorts pulled down, then with his pants off, then of him lying nude on the couch. The more Carson ran the evening through his mind, the worse it got. From the couch he had gone to the shower. Blake had suggested he stroke himself hard. And he had, both of them laughing as the water from the shower ran off the head of his cock making it look like he was peeing in the shower, the camera clicking the whole time. Then they had gone into his bedroom. And the pictures just got worse from there, the never bashful eye of the camera seeing and remembering everything.

In fact, that camera was always there. The whole time that Carson had known Blake the camera was there. From the first outing to the latest, Blake recorded everything. There were easily thousands of pictures; Carson outside, Carson inside, Carson at Little League, Carson at the park, Carson on a hike, Carson at the lake, Carson on the swings, Carson building with Legos, Carson reading a book, Carson playing video games, Carson sleeping. The camera had chronicled their entire relationship.

"Is that you Carson?" The man's voice had become gentle. For some reason Carson avoided the man and looked over at his partner. For the first time in the short while they had been together, she avoided his eyes. And as she did, any hope Carson had that that was the only picture they had, vanished. Carson nodded, then dropped his head and fought against his tears.

"Carson, who took that picture?"