by Robert Pobi
He then stepped into the storm.
41
The lights were off, and the snow coming down beyond the big bay window looked like volcanic ash. Erin couldn’t sleep. And she knew she wouldn’t be able to until Lucas came home—if he came home. And that pissed her off because if she didn’t get any sleep, the kids would suffer. All because the people Lucas used to work for weren’t happy with the pound of flesh they had taken—they wanted all of it.
She hadn’t been feeling okay since Kehoe and his bodyguards—or whatever the gorillas in the matching suits were called—had shown up. And now Lucas was back out there, surrounded by bad people who had worse ideas all because they couldn’t develop the technology to replicate the very unusual thinking he was capable of. Which made her both proud and angry at the same time.
And she was self-aware enough to realize that she was feeling short-changed by recent events. She had wiped her slate at the hospital, handing off all her surgeries for the next two months, so that she could be here for Alisha. She would never ask Lucas for that kind of commitment—not that he wouldn’t have agreed, but because he needed to work; it was the only thing that calmed the monsters in his skull—but she expected him to keep his word about the holidays. Was that really too much to ask?
Erin rolled onto her back, then up onto her elbows. Maybe tea would help her sleep.
She quietly opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway, avoiding the noisy third board from the sill; if the kids heard her, they’d start with the I’m thirstys and the I’ve gotta pees, and a five-minute foray to the kitchen would end up taking an hour.
The hallway glowed with a pink light thrown off the little elephant night-light at the top of the stairs. She took a step and then stopped. Something was wrong. She could feel it.
No. Not feel it.
She could hear it.
Someone was downstairs.
42
The Robert F. Kennedy Bridge
Whitaker kept the chatter dialed to monastic levels as she drove. Lucas couldn’t see anything beyond the hood—the world outside looked like a television dialed to static, and he wondered if she actually saw the road or if she navigated using some vestigial perception that he lacked. Whatever it was, they were firmly planted in the passing lane of Grand Central Parkway, and Manhattan ahead was completely painted over by the snow coming down. She passed what few drivers were brave enough (or was that stupid enough?) to be out, and whenever she came up behind someone sitting in the passing lane, she hit the asshole lights—as she called them—and they moved over.
Lucas was tired. And grumpy. And pissed that he had let Kehoe bait him into coming back. What the fuck had he been thinking? But if he really thought about it, he knew exactly what he had been thinking: that going back would, in some intangible way, mitigate what he had lost.
Which made him the one thing he had fought his entire life not to be: foolish.
There was no getting it back any more than it was possible to bend time. Fuck Faust and fuck Stephen Hawking. Once the second hand moved on, past events became immutable, completely resistant to bargaining. Human emotions? Much less so. He had fallen prey to the saddest of wants: to turn back the clock of life. It was embarrassing.
The lights of Manhattan finally peeked through the snow, distant and almost unreachable, and Lucas was somehow drawn back to his childhood, to the day he left Mr. and Mrs. Potts.
The big Bentley pulled up in front of a stone building that stretched up into the sky. Little Lucas had never seen anything like it, and for the rest of his life, every building that impressed him would be compared to it.
A man in a green uniform with lots of buttons came to the car and opened the back door. Mr. Teach stepped onto the sidewalk and held out his hand, helping the boy to the sidewalk. Lucas’s feet touched the concrete, and he took a few steps, his neck craned up at the edifice.
The big gold letters over the three entrances were framed by two beautiful couples sitting on chairs, children at their feet. The letters spelled out The Waldorf-Astoria, and Lucas did his best to sound it out. Combined with the images of happy couples sitting with their children, he realized that it must be some kind of orphanage. Or at least a place where children were brought to meet their new families. Maybe the Pottses had sold him; some of the older children said that went on all the time.
The driver took his suitcase out of the trunk and handed it to Mr. Teach. Lucas kept his notebooks clutched to his chest and took Mr. Teach’s free hand and followed him inside.
There was a big clock in the middle of the lobby that grew out of the floor like a tree. Lucas had never seen one like it, and as they walked by, he tried to hear it ticking. It didn’t make any noise, and he wondered if it even worked.
He had never been in an elevator before, and when he became heavy and his ears popped, he was afraid. He tried very hard not to cry by holding his breath, and the car stopped and the doors binged open onto a carpeted hallway that had five doors, all with big brass numbers on them.
Mr. Teach led him to a door at the end of the hallway and crouched down, fixing Lucas’s hair with a comb from his pocket (which even little Lucas found ironic). After flattening the boy’s lapel and straightening his placket, he asked, “Are you ready?”
Lucas didn’t want Mr. Teach to be upset, so he said, “Yes, sir,” even though he had no idea what he was supposed to be ready for.
“Well, then, I have someone who wants to meet you,” he said and knocked.
A man in a black suit with a little black tie that looked like a butterfly answered the door, clicking his heels as Lucas and Mr. Teach walked by. Mr. Teach handed Lucas’s suitcase to the man, and Lucas wondered if he would get it back. Maybe they would sell that, too.
The room was the largest Lucas had ever been in. Much larger than the church Mr. and Mrs. Potts had taken him and the other children to every Sunday. And it was filled with shiny, curly gold furniture that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. Maybe even a castle. There were paintings and candlesticks and carpets everywhere.
As they passed one of the three fireplaces in the space, the regal woman in the painting above the mantel watched him, her eyes swiveling in their sockets. Even little Lucas could tell that it was an old picture and that the woman was very special, maybe even a princess. She was young, with a long neck, pale white skin, red hair, and a shiny pearl necklace.
Mr. Teach led Lucas to a pair of doors that opened onto an enormous balcony overlooking the city. Lucas had been impressed by the sheer volume of people, streets, and big buildings on the drive in, but up here, looking over the skyline, he was awestruck. At the far end of the balcony, past a fountain decorated with a statue of the devil playing a flute, an old lady sat at a big stone table in the sun.
The woman was small and possessed a poise that even at such a young age he recognized as elegance. She looked like the woman in the painting, but she was much older. And her hair wasn’t red—it was white. She was wrapped in a fur blanket that was the most intense black he had ever seen. But what hijacked his attention was the notebook on the table in front of her; it was the one Miss Clark had borrowed.
Mr. Teach introduced Lucas to the woman. “Lucas, this is Mrs. Page.”
The old lady stared at the boy for a few quiet seconds before smiling. “Lucas, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Lucas didn’t know what to do, so he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
She gestured to the seat to her left, and Lucas walked over. Mr. Teach pulled the chair out for the boy and said, “Will there be anything else?”
Mrs. Page smiled at Lucas and asked, “Perhaps some lemonade?”
Lucas liked lemonade very much, but he didn’t want to be a problem. He was silent for a minute as he figured out if he should say yes or no.
While he sat there, Mrs. Page said, “Yes, bring us two lemonades, Mr. Teach.”
And with that, Mr. Teach disappeared, leaving Lucas alone on the balcony with the old lady in
the sunshine.
“How was the ride into town? Long?”
Again, Lucas wasn’t sure how to answer the questions, so he said, “One hour and three minutes, ma’am.” He had just learned to tell time (Mrs. Potts had patiently explained how to read a clock), and he was proud to show off his new talent.
“One hour and three minutes?” She smiled at that. “What a precise answer.”
Lucas tried to keep focused on her, but his attention was drawn down to his notebook.
“Do you like Mr. Teach?” she asked. “I know he certainly looks very scary. But I trust him. And you can, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He couldn’t take his focus from the notebook in front of her.
“I suppose you are wondering who I am and why you are here.”
The little boy nodded, then pointed at his notebook. “And why you have my star book, ma’am.”
Mrs. Page looked down, and it appeared as if she were seeing the notebook for the first time. “Your star book is why you are here.”
And with the change in the tone of her voice, Lucas began to worry that he was in some sort of trouble.
His fears must have colored his expression, because Mrs. Page said, “You are not in trouble, Lucas. Far from it. I was hoping that maybe you and I could talk. Like friends.” She kept her hands on top of the notebook. “Mr. Teach said you are a very curious boy.”
The tone in her voice lent an import to the question, and Lucas thought about it before answering, “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Page smiled at the short-form answer. “Lucas, there are no right or wrong answers with me. Mr. Teach likes you very much. He said you are kind and polite and smart. Very smart.”
“Yes, ma—” He stopped as Mr. Teach came back out with two tall glasses of lemonade on a fancy silver tray.
Mr. Teach put the glasses down without clinking them on the stone table, then disappeared.
Lucas was very impressed by Mrs. Page; she had to be an important lady to live at the top of the building and to have people serve her lemonade when it wasn’t even lunchtime.
The boy took a sip of the lemonade, and it was cold and sweet and sour all at the same time, and his mouth puckered up.
“Do you like lemonade?” she asked, giving the drink a sip and making her own sour face that made Lucas laugh.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s my favorite.” He took another sip. “Along with root beer.”
“Root beer? I’ll remember that.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon talking, and it was the third time Lucas could remember an adult treating him like something other than a nuisance or a responsibility. They didn’t discuss anything of import, simply a little back-and-forth between two people trying to get to know each other. They talked through two more glasses of lemonade each, even going on through a soup, a salad, and the tiniest little roasted chickens that Lucas had ever seen.
And just like that, it was the end of the day. Mrs. Page apologized that they had to end their conversation—which she said she was enjoying very much—but she was old and tired and ready to lie down. Lucas climbed out of his chair and walked around the table to say good-bye to his new friend. He said he had had a nice afternoon and he hoped that they would see each other again. He said that maybe she could come to visit him at the Pottses’ house.
And that’s when Mrs. Page said, “How would you feel about moving in here with me?”
43
The Upper East Side
Dingo stood on the back porch for a few beats of his heart, gearing up for war. The Christmas lights overhead blinked, casting weird shadows in the snow and tinting the blade of his garbage-found sword red, white, and green. He took a deep breath to push the adrenaline into some kind of a usable fuel, eased the door open, and slipped inside.
He moved forward, testing out his wet blades on the floor. They were good for his apartment, which was mostly carpeted, but on the ceramic he knew they could be a little iffy. The movement gave him a good feel for the place, and the rubber contacts seemed to be both quiet and solid. He stopped and listened.
They were doing their best to be silent. And they were doing a decent job. But they were somewhere to the front and left, probably near the door in the dining room. Which meant they were on their way upstairs.
Fuck these guys and their guns. Good old-fashioned muscle and a ten-pound broadsword had a lot more history.
Dingo raised the massive slab of garbage-found steel in a classic two-handed attack position and stepped into the hallway, into the darkness.
It was time to walk the walk.
Fuck the police.
44
The alarm bells in Erin’s head were clanging her teeth loose as she crawled on the carpet. They were being very quiet, but she knew the sounds of the house. There were little tentative noises that didn’t belong.
She peeked through the spindles of the banister to the U-shaped staircase.
The only discernible details other than human were the ugly silhouettes of assault rifles that grew from their outlines. Those weren’t burglar weapons; they were murder weapons.
She scuttled sideways, racing along the banister above them, keeping low so the little elephant light at the top of the stairs wouldn’t throw her shadow.
All she heard was the adrenaline-fueled twelve-cylinder scream of her heart as she hit the end of the Persian runner and turned left, making sure not to kick over the little table in the corner.
Erin reached Maude’s door and wrapped her fingers around the knob. It was slippery with her sweat, and she had trouble getting a grip on it. When she finally got it to turn, it was locked.
Erin lost a second getting the key off her neck, but it magically went straight into the hole. She turned and slipped into the dark room.
Maude was up at the edge of her bed. She didn’t say anything, and Erin knew that her instincts would kick in—fight or flight; this girl was an expert.
Erin whispered, “We have to get out,” and the girl was on the floor beside her.
Before they went out into the hallway, Erin cradled Maude’s face in her hands. “You get Laurie. I’ll get the boys and Alisha.” Erin kissed her, and they scampered out into the hall.
Maude moved left, Erin across the hall, straight for the boys.
Before entering the room, Erin glanced at Alisha’s door, working out how to get her. Three steps down to the landing, an eight-foot span, then three more up, and another five to her door.
She couldn’t do it. Not without being seen.
She didn’t try to hide the fear in her voice with Damien and Hector, and that woke them up. They all slithered out into the hall. Maude and Laurie were there, and they all crawled into her bedroom.
She closed the big oak door, and the final sliver of film to flicker out in the hall was of the men cresting the landing and turning toward Alisha’s room.
Erin closed the door.
And quietly locked it.
45
FDR Drive
Whitaker pushed the SUV in the outside lane, using momentum to compensate for a loss of traction. Theoretically, they were in no rush, but Lucas now knew Whitaker well enough to understand that she only had one way of driving.
They were making better time than most of the other vehicles desperate enough to be out in this soup. Somebody in a blacked-out Porsche Cayenne had passed them about two miles back, and other than that one incongruous mental case, they were passing everyone. Whitaker had to go around a few people, and she had resorted to using her asshole lights a handful of times to convince the unobservant to move over. The dangers of passing were compounded by the trucks sitting in the middle lane, throwing up an icy wake that had all the give of a wooden fence.
She was changing lanes to overtake an eighteen-wheeler when the car phone rang, cutting into the ambient noise via the SUV’s Bluetooth system.
Lucas checked the clock on the dash: fourteen minutes since he had dropped his badge on Graves; this had to be Kehoe.
/> Whitaker thumbed a button on the steering wheel, her eyes locked on the shifting road and the optical illusions being conjured by the snow.
Kehoe’s disembodied voice came on in remarkably clear and calm Dolby THX. “Is Page with you?”
“Yeah.”
Kehoe went straight by the greetings with, “Nine-one-one got a call regarding your address twelve mikes ago. Something about armed intruders. A pair of NYPD cruisers are on the way, and I’ve sent a tactical team. ETA: six and a half mikes.”
Lucas felt the big V-8 growl as Whitaker pushed down on the gas and hit the disco switch, lighting up the claustrophobic world outside in a dancing red-and-white heartbeat.
Lucas tried not to scream.
46
The Upper East Side
Erin was running on full shakes now, and all she could hear was the pounding of her fear as she lifted the sash on the window. The kids were a warm spot in the darkness behind her.
The window locked open, and a gust of snow blew in, yanking the curtains back. She hoisted the aluminum-and-nylon escape ladder out from beneath the bed and hooked the rubber-coated brackets onto the sill. She tried to keep it away from the wall so it wouldn’t clatter against the brick as it unfurled into the night.
The kids huddled behind her, a lump of pajamas and wide eyes.
“Out. Out,” she whispered.
They had gone through fire drills without ever actually using the ladder, but the children knew the routine—the older kids went first, followed by the others. She’d wait inside until they were all down.
As Damien went over the sill, she whispered, “Get them to the market on the corner. Tell them to call nine-one-one. And keep out of sight until I get there.”
“I know. I know.” He looked all grown up for a moment. Then he nodded solemnly and slipped over the edge.
Erin fed Maude over next, followed by Hector, then Laurie. And then it was her turn.
