Omaha, Nebraska

Gibson tried to remember the last time he had invited someone over to his house. He did it all the time when his dad was alive. But then his dad was sort of like a magnet. Gibson could remember inviting a friend over after school once and his dad talked them into a game of H-O-R-S-E. Before they knew it there had to be like half a dozen neighborhood kids playing, taking their turns and laughing so hard nobody could hit the rim.

It was like that all the time whether they went sledding or to a ball game or even just washed the car in the driveway. Everyone wanted to be around his dad. Sometimes he wondered if he ever had any real friends or if they all just wanted to be around his “cool” dad. But this kid, this Timmy Hamilton was different.

They’d figured out that Gibson would turn sixteen a month before Timmy turned fifteen—so he was more than a whole year older than Timmy—which allowed Gibson to call him “kid.” Timmy didn’t care. He seemed in awe of Gibson and his knowledge, and not in awe like he couldn’t believe how geeky Gibson was, but like he really was interested, like he really wanted to be Gibson’s friend. Not an easy task. Gibson knew he didn’t make it easy for people. He knew he was sort of odd, compared to other kids. He didn’t care about the right things, or at least not the things his classmates cared about. Instead, Gibson loved playing chess. He listened to a strange combination of music, with the Stray Cats being one of his favorites. He collected old pop bottles and had every episode of The X-Files on DVD. He wore his hair longer than was the style and wore a baseball cap even during class until the teachers asked him to take it off. Except Sister Kate’s class. He never made Sister Kate ask.

When his dad passed away, Sister Kate was the only one who wasn’t all weirded out about it. Instead, she had asked for his help, wanting to know if he might be able to come in after school a couple of days a week to catalog her collection on a new computer program she had just created especially for it. He missed his dad the most those first weeks, but his afternoons with Sister Kate had been some of the best. They talked about stuff and she made him laugh. But then the project was finished. And the next week was when Monsignor O’Sullivan started asking him to come to his office so Gibson tried to spend as little of his extra time at school as possible. That was partly why he had told his mom he didn’t want to ruin his summer by having to go to the Explorers’ class. But he liked being around Sister Kate. And now that the monsignor was gone for good…well, maybe he could finally enjoy stuff again. Stuff like his own collection.

Back during class he had told Timmy about the medallion he bought off eBay, and now he was excited about showing it to him. He kept it in the strange little wooden box it came in even after he shined it up. He’d spent a whole Saturday afternoon working the metal cleaner into the black-crusted grooves, using Q-tips so he could be careful not to scratch or rub too hard.

“You can make out the date at the bottom if you use this magnifying glass,” Gibson told Timmy as he handed him the glass and held the medallion up to the sunlight.

“Wow! Ten ninety-six? That’s old. Did it cost a lot?”

“Nah. I don’t think the guy knew what it was.” Truth was, Gibson wasn’t sure it was the real deal, and Timmy wouldn’t know the difference. He pointed to the engraving again. “This part is Latin.” He ran his fingertip over the top of the medallion. “It’s something about courage and honor. Only a few of these were given out by Pope Urban II. I found a picture of it on a Web site that has a bunch of stuff about the Crusades. Pope Urban II’s supposedly the one who came up with the First Crusade.”

“Yeah, I like reading stuff about the Crusades and the Knights Templar. Or anything about medieval times. My mom thinks it’s silly and violent and stuff, but I just think it’s really interesting.”

Just then Gibson noticed Timmy’s eyes wandering over to his computer screen. He had been checking out Gibson’s room since they got here. Gibson didn’t mind. It wasn’t like Timmy seemed freaked out by the mess or any of Gibson’s collections. But his eyes kept going back to the computer screen. Gibson did a quick panic glance when he realized there might be another crazy instant message. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Now Timmy looked embarrassed, like he had been caught at something he shouldn’t be doing.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything. It’s just that…that icon.” Timmy pointed to the skull and crossbones that Gibson had moved to the bottom right of the rest of his icons. Even with the others and at the bottom it still stood out.

“It’s just a game,” Gibson said, pretending it was no big deal, not wanting to explain. One of the rules was that you didn’t tell anyone about the game. You couldn’t talk about it except with other invited players. He reached over and closed the lid of the laptop.

“Sorry,” Timmy said again, only now he was staring at Gibson. “I didn’t mean anything—”

“It’s no big deal.” Gibson picked up the medallion again and put it in the box. Maybe it was time for Timmy to go.

“It’s just…” The kid was still stuttering. “I play that game, too.”

“What?”

“The game.”

“This isn’t just an ordinary game,” Gibson told him, trying to figure out what Timmy meant.

“I know it’s not. It’s by invitation only. You got an invitation to play, right?”

Now Gibson was staring at Timmy and the kid’s eyes didn’t blink, didn’t look away. Was it possible? Everybody who played had almost been imaginary to him, sort of like the game itself. All of a sudden it was becoming way too real.

“How’d you get an invitation?” Gibson asked, letting it sound like the test he meant it to be.

“I was surfing Web sites one day and I got an e-mail that asked me if I wanted to play a game.”

“Yeah? Who was it from?”

Timmy hesitated, and Gibson thought it was because he couldn’t fake his way past this question.

“It was from someone who calls himself The Sin Eater.”

“Jesus,” Gibson whispered. He couldn’t believe it. It was true. “Did you…” He wasn’t sure how to ask, but if the rules were the same for all of them…“Did you have to submit a name?”

Again, Timmy hesitated, and this time he looked away for a brief moment as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to confide anything more. Finally, he said, “Yeah, I did.”

“Mine got killed,” Gibson blurted out as if it had been festering for too long and suddenly exploded from his mouth without warning.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to start plotting to kill mine.”

“No, no,” Gibson said and he could feel a sense of panic returning along with his confession. “I mean really killed. Not just playing around. Not just part of the game.”

“You mean like for real? He’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you do it?”

Gibson didn’t know how to answer that. He sort of shrugged and looked away. “I wanted him dead,” he said.

“Are you sure he’s dead?”

“Yeah. I saw him.” This time Gibson met Timmy’s stare and he could see the realization finally coming into his eyes. “I was at the airport on Friday,” he explained, hoping that was enough. And it was. He could see his new friend knew exactly what he was talking about. Of course he did. It had been all over the news all weekend. Gibson remembered Timmy saying that his mom was a reporter for the Omaha World Herald.

They were both quiet for what seemed like a long time to Gibson. They stared at each other, glancing away as if to think and then looking back to each other with knowing, frantic eyes. With guilty eyes.

Finally Timmy broke the silence. “Do you think mine’s dead?”

“I don’t know,” Gibson answered in almost a whisper. “But if he isn’t, I bet he’s gonna be.”