by Steven Gould
Kimble tried. It was hard to avoid thinking about Parsons and the deputies, or Johnny Hennessey, or even Sandy Williams. But mostly he thought about sex.
He tried not to, but he was nearly fourteen and the images and thoughts that went through his head were like forces of nature. He thought about Lieutenant Durant and that idiot girl Luanne, whose breasts he’d glimpsed the day he kicked Johnny in the head, but mostly he thought about Athena and the afternoon swimming naked in the beaver pond.
Without details, he confessed these thoughts to Thây Hahn while Thayet was out in the garden. The priest had nodded seriously. “Yes, of course you do.”
“I try not to.”
“You can’t ‘try’ something without attaching to it. Don’t try anything. Let them come and let them go. Just sit.” He looked out the window at his daughter. “When I was your age there was the daughter of a fruit seller in Nha Trang who fired my loins. I sat and I sat, ‘trying’ to get her out of my mind, and while I could dismiss certain things—her clothing mostly—she stayed. Usually, when I think back on those sessions, I deeply regret the waste.”
He winked at Kimble. “And sometimes I rejoice.”
* * *
AN out-of-uniform Lieutenant Durant took her “Little Friend” for a walk into the northeast part of town. Behind the temple of the Church of Latter-day Saints she indicated, with a shift of her eyes, a two-story house across the lane. “Know it?”
Kimble, taking his cue from her averted gaze, didn’t even nod. “Madame Rosario’s. When I left, it was the best in town—or at least the most expensive.” It was easy for him not to look toward the bordello. The lieutenant was wearing a formfitting sundress and light sweater. And I thought she looked good in uniform.
Still walking ahead, casually, she said, “Hearsay? Or experience?”
“Of course hearsay. I was only eleven, after all. But young men brag. They pay for someone in an alley and they don’t say much, but they scrape together enough for Madame Rosario’s and they strut around like kings.”
“Well, it’s still the top house. You’ve got to have the money or, in the case of our local marshal or our public health director, you need to be in a position to shut them down. No window shopping for them.”
“Are they your targets?”
“No. Despite their patronage, or perhaps even because of it, Rosario’s has got a much better record on the STD front. No underage sex workers, either.”
Kimble froze, mid-step, and she said, “Relax! Keep walking. You’re breaking character!”
He dropped his shoulders and stuck his hands in his pockets, and concentrated on his breathing.
Lieutenant Durant pointed at some of the stonework on the temple. “What was that about?” she said quietly.
“I did some work for the captain, in Parsons. There was a rape. A fifteen-year-old girl—I found her.” He bent down and took off one of his sandals, pretending to dislodge a pebble.
Even the lieutenant had trouble appearing casual after he said that. “That meth ring. Heard about it.” She took a deep breath. “As I said, underage sex workers are not the problem here, though I certainly couldn’t vouch for all the houses in town.”
They resumed their walk, swinging west on Avenida del Flores.
“Why the concern? Isn’t this the marshal’s jurisdiction?”
“Corruption in territorial government is our lookout.” At his glance, she said, “Not the marshal, not the public health director. One of the governor’s junior aides was seen here, a Mr. Franks. He’s not a wealthy man. Happily married. Three kids. He wants to cat about town, that’s his business, but where’s he getting the money? Either he’s peddling influence, which doesn’t fit what we know about him, or someone else is paying for his time in the saddle.”
“If he won’t take money directly to influence the governor, it doesn’t seem likely that he’d do it for the nookie.”
“Hard to say. Everybody’s different. But I’m more worried about what Mr. Franks would do to keep his wife from finding out. There could be photographs.”
Digital and metal-cased cameras were impractical in the territory, attracting bugs as they did, but there were territory-safe cameras with plastic cases and light-sensitive emulsions.
“Ah. I see. So I’m following him?”
“Yeah. At least tonight. I’ve got a man in his office. Mr. Franks sent a message home saying he had a late meeting tonight. But there’s nothing on his office calendar.”
“So this is real. Not another of your tests?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” She did not suit her actions to the words. “Let’s go give you a look at Mr. Franks.”
* * *
MR. FRANkS, a lanky redhead in a tropical-weight suit, left the Territorial Complex on the plaza side about a half hour after the rest of his staff. He ate tacos alone at one of the market stalls before taking the Avenida del Sol toward Northgate.
Kimble found himself falling into a meditative state, standing, sitting, and even walking, aware of Franks but not attaching.
Even from half a block away, Kimble could tell that Mr. Franks was nervous. He paused a lot. Once he ducked into a store when he spotted two women coming up the street and didn’t come out again until they were well past. Yet his glance skipped right past Kimble.
He’s avoiding people he knows.
At least twice, Franks paused on street corners and gazed westward. Lieutenant Durant had told Kimble, “He has a cottage near Westgate right across from his kids’ school.”
Kimble staggered suddenly. The street was shaking and the sound of a bell was swelling, blocking out all noise, yet people were strolling calmly by, as if nothing had happened. Kimble steadied himself against a garden wall.
Franks is conflicted. It had come out of the Zen state, unasked for, unlooked for, but it had pushed up out of his unconscious with volcanic force.
When Franks took the right that led toward Madame Rosario’s, Kimble took the closest turn, sprinting down the middle of the street and then through an alley. He was catching his breath at the alley mouth when Franks came up the walk. The man was slowing with every step and glancing back to the west and Kimble knew his analysis was correct.
“Mr. Franks,” Kimble said, “please come with me.”
Franks took a step back, startled. “What? Did Sam send you? Who are you?”
Kimble said, “I’m a friend.”
“I don’t know you!”
“No, you don’t know me. Life is full of friends we’ve never met.” He gesture at the city in general. “I really do have your best interests at heart. For instance, I’d like to see you keep your job and not go to jail.”
Franks’ eyes widened. His voice raised in pitch, strident. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Kimble wanted to slap him. “Fine. It’s your marriage. Do you really want to go back to Madame Rosario’s?”
He’d said it quietly but Franks’ hand went out, toward Kimble’s mouth, as if to cover it, to silence him, even though he was two yards away. Franks hissed, “How do you know about that?”
“That’s not the question you should be asking. What I’d worry about is ‘who else knows’ and ‘what are they going to ask you to do to keep them from talking to your wife?’”
* * *
PER orders, Kimble reported to Lieutenant Durant back at Café del Mundo. She was wearing reading glasses and had a thick volume open before her.
“Cervantes?” said Kimble. “In Spanish?”
“Yeah, the original seventeenth-century Spanish. It’s more like modern Spanish than Elizabethan English is like modern English. What are you doing here?”
“Reporting.”
“You found the contact? Already?”
“Samuel Peralta. He’s an attorney who works for Richardson and Sons, Importers. They’re seeking a change in the governor’s import regulations, specifically the interdiction against some of the nastier insecticides.”
&
nbsp; Durant made a face. “We know Richardson and Sons.”
“The first and only time Franks ended up at Rosario’s, he was drinking with Peralta, who got him in there after four quick whiskeys. Franks thought they were going to another bar but he was up to his armpits in tits and ass before he knew it.”
Durant said, “Now how the hell did you learn that?” The book shut with a thump. “You talked to him, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah. The question is, why didn’t you guys?”
Durant glared at him. “You were told to follow him. Not blow your cover.”
“He wasn’t going to make the rendezvous. He was skittish from the start and getting more so the closer he got to Rosario’s.”
“But now we don’t have Peralta. There’s no evidence.”
“You wouldn’t have him even if they had met. Not until Peralta tried to cash in. Now you’ve got Franks on your side.”
“We do?”
“He’s expecting someone to call on him tomorrow morning. His office. I didn’t say who. Didn’t know if you’d want to talk to him or the captain or whoever, but he’ll cooperate. He’ll help you sting Peralta and testify.”
“So he never went to Rosario’s?”
“Not last night. After our little talk, he went home. I followed. He was playing with his kids in the front yard when I left.” He scratched his head. “You might want to send someone to keep an eye out. Be a shame if Peralta got to him tonight.”
Lieutenant Durant swore and threw down a territorial twenty-dollar bill. “Pay my bill.” She tucked El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha under her arm and left, hips swinging.
Though Kimble thought he would regret it in the morning, he watched until she was out of sight.
* * *
AFTER supper Kimble told Thây Hahn that he would be leaving the next day after an eleven o’clock meeting with Bentham, and immediately regretted it.
“Eleven? Ah, good. We can sit for six hours.” He laughed at Kimble’s expression. “It will be my gift.” Suddenly Thây Hahn reached out with both his hands and grasped Kimble’s head. “What happened?”
Kimble blinked. “Thây Hahn, I may not tell what I do in the day.”
Thây Hahn rapped him on top of the head. “Not that! I don’t care what you were doing or who you were talking to. There was a moment when things came undone, yes? And when it came back together there was something more there.”
Kimble’s eyes went wide. “The street shook and a great bell rang and, yes, I realized something when it was done.”
Thây Hahn released his head. “Were you meditating?”
Kimble licked his lips. “Not intentionally. I was watching some … thing and I was trying to relax, to observe without judgment, without—”
“Without attachment,” said Thây Hahn, with certainty.
Kimble turned his hands palm up. “Perhaps.”
“Have you done công án study? You may know it by the Japanese word, koan.”
Kimble shook his head. “I’ve read about it. Sensei said she wasn’t qualified. That it was enough to sit and breathe for now.”
“Until it is time to stop breathing, it is always good to breathe. Take this, if you will: A man walks through the territory carrying his Buddha nature in a metal cup. The bugs come and eat the cup. Where is his Buddha nature?”
Kimble opened his mouth and Thây Hahn held up his hand. “Not now. Tomorrow, after you sit.”
Kimble slept hard and deep and if he dreamed he did not remember. When Thayet came to waken him, he was sitting upright in bed. “Yes,” he said first. “Time to sit.”
They did six sitting and two walking meditations and he was shocked at how quickly it went.
“Do you have an answer for me?” Thây Hahn asked.
“Will you hit me with your sandal?”
“Do you want to be hit with my sandal? Doesn’t your sensei hit you enough?”
“I don’t know where his Buddha nature is, but it was never in the cup.”
Thây Hahn put his hands together. “Travel safely.”
* * *
“YOU don’t follow orders very well,” commented Captain Bentham.
Kimble felt his ears go hot. He hated blushing. He knew he had the criticism coming, but Lieutenant Durant was also in the room, and this morning he was feeling less certain about his actions of the night before.
“Any word on Pritts?”
“And you like to change the subject,” Bentham said. “No. Nothing yet.”
“Okay. Did you make contact with Franks? Is that working out?”
Lieutenant Durant started to speak but stopped herself. She looked sideways at Captain Bentham, who gave her a short nod. “Yes,” she said. “I read him the riot act this morning in his office. He’s talking and he’ll cooperate. I strongly urged him to confess to his wife, too. If he ends up testifying in court, it could come out. Better if he opens that can of worms now.”
Kimble nodded “I’m glad. During meditation this morning I had a panic attack. I was convinced they’d killed him during the night.”
Bentham, for some reason, looked pleased at this confession. “Right. Something like that could’ve happened. Oddly enough, it could’ve happened if you’d said nothing and Franks had still skipped the rendezvous.” He raised his bushy eyebrows. “You know, this reminds me of your incident back in Perro Frio.”
This seemed unfair. “I didn’t kick anybody in the head!”
Bentham laughed. “That’s not what I was referring to. It was the other thing that you learned.”
Kimble thought for a moment, recalling the conversation. “Sometimes things aren’t black and white?”
“Exactly. Sometimes things aren’t black and white and sometimes strictly following orders is the wrong thing to do.” He pulled an envelope out of an inside pocket and handed it to Kimble.
“Not another court order?”
“No. It’s your GED results. You averaged 765.”
Kimble blinked. “Uh, is that good?”
“Out of 800. You needed to average 450 to pass. You’re in the top five percent.”
“Congratulations,” said Lieutenant Durant, and she kissed him on the cheek.
For the second time that morning Kimble turned bright red.
11
Broken Glass
Ruth wanted a small greenhouse so that she could grow vegetables in the winter like Mr. Covas, so, one sunny day in late March, Kimble floated down the Rio Grande on a plywood deck over bundles of netted plastic soda bottles. Mr. Covas’ cousin, Julio, accompanied him.
They’d entered the river between the rubble of Algodones and Bernalillo, moving across a bug-free stretch of the Santa Ana Pueblo. Julio’s unmarried sister, Patrice, drove them and the disassembled raft by wagon.
“In a week, then, right?”
“Seguro,” said Julio, “where the Puerco joins the Grande.”
The river widened to a lake where the old 550 bridge had collapsed. Flood detritus, helped by beavers, had plugged gaps, but the bugs still mined the metal from the dry side, following the embedded metal reinforcing rods and wire mesh like the veins of ore they were. Occasionally they’d succeed too well and a part of the dam would collapse, but then the beavers would drop trees into the water and guide them across the gap.
The dry parts of the dam were covered by an iridescent mass of aluminum, steel, copper, and crystalline blue.
“I’ve never seen so many bugs,” said Kimble.
Julio laughed. “Wait until you see downtown.”
They slid the raft over the dam at its lowest point and ran down the tumble of rapids to the river below.
They spent their first night on a sandbar near Corales, cooking with driftwood. The sandbar was less than a foot above water level and before the sun had dropped over the horizon, they’d made sure it was clear of any bugs.
“This bar wasn’t here when we came five years ago,” Julio said. “The river’s always changing.”
In the morning, they waded across to the west bosque and cautiously moved up the banks toward old Corrales, but the bugs were too thick.
“It’s the old steel erosion bars.”
Kimble raised his eyebrows.
“They were girders welded into crosses, no, that’s not right, more like axis, like in math? X, Y, and Z? They put these through the brush, near the old embankments, to catch stuff during the floods. It looked like those obstructions they put on the Normandy beaches to keep troops off. There was steel cable strung between them. I think that’s why the bugs are still here.”
“Perhaps metal debris, too?” suggested Kimble. “Washed into the river during heavy rains and piled up here.”
“Could be.”
They retreated to the raft and headed farther downstream. The dam and lake formed by the collapsed Alameda Bridge got them past the bugs. The lake had flooded the bosque, submerging the erosion control beams there. Julio and Kimble floated the raft up to the old recreation area, a green area where the most metal had been vinyl-covered steel park benches. They beached the raft and threaded their way past an old strip mall into the old residential areas.
Bugs make a mess of frame houses. They go for metal window frames and metal roofs first, but there’s so much metal used: nails, anchors, galvanized wall plate and joist hangers, and even the chicken wire fastened to the siding to anchor the stucco. Sometimes the houses remain standing, a fragile honeycombed froth of a building, but more often they come down, collapsing onto their slabs or into their crawlspaces. The bugs take longer to mine out the reinforcing rods in the slabs and foundations.
But sometimes the collapse is slow and surprisingly gentle.
That’s where they looked for the glass panes they needed.
It was sweaty work. They needed the best light to make sure they didn’t accidentally step on a bug, so they tended to work in the hottest part of the day, while the sun was high. They moved the debris cautiously, lest they uncover chunks of copper plumbing or conduit still being consumed by the bugs. They averaged a few panes of glass a house, doing better with vinyl-framed windows. If it was an old metal casement window, the edges of the glass tended to be uneven—not broken, but eaten where the bugs went right through the glass to get at the metal. Provided the pane had a large enough expanse of glass, they took these anyway.
