League of American Traitors

Chapter One

Jasper flinched as his dad's casket hit bottom. The sound was cold and final, like a giant safe locking in place. There was also some creaking involved because the coffin was dirt cheap. It was the only one Jasper could afford. He was actually surprised it didn't splinter on impact.

"Would you like to say anything?" the funeral director asked. His name was Bill or Tony or something short. Jasper had been having trouble keeping details straight lately.

"I'm not really sure what to say," Jasper said.

"Some share fond memories of the deceased."

"Anything else?"

"People sometimes pray."

"For who?"

"Those the deceased left behind."

Jasper looked around the empty cemetery. "So, pray for myself."

"I suppose."

Jasper shivered in the late-September morning air. The paper-thin suit had felt like a wool jacket during his mom's funeral three months ago. That casket had been closed, too, on account of the tractor-trailer that had pulverized her car.

"Can I say something to . . . him?"

"Of course."

Jasper boiled it down to basics. He spoke from the gut. "You were my dad, but I never felt like your son."

Bill or Tony or something coughed.

"And I want to know why you didn't like us." He was pissed now, and it felt great. "Actually, I want to know what you liked instead of us, besides alcohol. You loved that. Couldn't wait to get your drink on."

Was it wrong to mock a dead person?

Who cared.

"You sucked as a dad and husband and she should have left you so—"

Rot in hell came to mind, but it wasn't genuine. Jasper's anger faded because the truth was actually way worse: he'd always wanted a dad. A real one who didn't just come around for awkward birthday dinners. Who wasn't an alcoholic.

You can't fix that now. Because you're dead.

"Thanks for being a horrible person."

A minute went by.

"Anything else?" the funeral director asked.

"No. I think that covers it."

Jasper kicked some dirt into the hole and walked to his car. The '86 Volvo would probably be the next thing in his life to die.

Two weeks ago, he'd gotten home from taking the SATs to find a detective in his driveway. The cop couldn't explain why Jasper's dad had been at a hotel in Charlottesville, Virginia, or how he'd drowned in a nearby pond. He'd been drunk (shocker), and after searching his hotel room, local police had settled on accidental drowning. His wallet and credit cards were still on him, so the cops didn't suspect foul play.

Jasper put his head on the steering wheel. Did hating his dad require knowing why the man had been such a complete mystery?

Didn't matter.

It was over.

I hate you.

"Excuse me, Mr. Mansfield." Somebody was knocking on the car window. "May I have a word?"

Jasper rolled down the window. "If this is about the house, I have another week."

"It's not." The man was a well-dressed statue: tall, lean, face like a granite slab. Cold blue eyes that made you feel like a wolf's prey.

"What do you want?"

"There's something I need to discuss with you. I was hoping to catch you at your mother's house before the service."

Jasper detected a slight British accent that the man was trying to hide. "Are you . . . a relative or something?" It was a long shot.

"No."

"And you want me to just come with you."

"Yes."

"You could be a serial killer."

"I give you my word that I'm not."

Jasper thought about that for a moment. Better play this one safe.

"Bye," Jasper said, slowing cranking the manual window up.

The man set his jaw. "What I have to discuss concerns your father's will. It won't take much of your time, but it is essential."

Jasper stopped cranking. "Essential for what?"

"For your future."

"Did he leave me any money? I could really use it for the house if he did."

"Unfortunately, he did not," the man said.

Of course he didn't. "Then, Mr. Not-A-Serial-Killer, I'm not interested."

"How do you know that when I haven't told you anything?"

Jasper turned the key in the ignition and willed the engine to catch. It choked twice before settling into a rackety hum. "My dad was never around. He didn't care about anybody but himself. I can basically guarantee you that his will reflects that."

The man tugged on the bottoms of his black leather gloves. For a second, Jasper wondered if he was going to strangle him. "Nil desperandum, Mr. Mansfield. I assume you're familiar with that phrase?"

Jasper blinked, pretending he wasn't. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The man made a scraping sound in the back of his throat. He handed Jasper a black business card through the gap in the window. "Try to not be such a brat the next time we meet."

A beat-up Crown Victoria that looked like a fake cop car pulled up and the guy moved to get in, then hesitated, and turned back to Jasper. "Cheer up," he said. "After all, you're not the one who's dead."