Thirteen Orphans

by Jane Lindskold

  Brenda, who knew she’d been hoping to get out of the routine drudgery, found herself laughing as she hadn’t since a piece of paper thrown in a LoDo parking garage had transformed her father, and in the process changed her as well.

  12

  Pearl was glad when Nissa came over to the hotel bearing a bag packed with takeout sandwiches from a local shop. She had spent less than thirty-six hours with Foster by then, but the dual roles of jailer and host were proving unexpectedly wearing. She’d made the excuse of having picked up a touch of the flu during her flight from California to explain both her keeping to her room and her need to have meals left outside her door.

  However, while the hotel did breakfasts well, their other food was indifferent, and the smoked-turkey club that Nissa had provided as proper invalid fare was very welcome.

  Other than delivering food, Nissa could provide Pearl only a limited amount of help. She’d agreed to work her usual hours at the pharmacy for the next few days—the least she said she could do since Bob wasn’t firing her.

  “And since keeping my job, even if I’m not drawing a paycheck, lets me keep my medical insurance,” Nissa said, “even if I do have to pay more, I’m eager to please.”

  “I’ll take care of the premiums,” Pearl assured her, “and send Bob something interesting in the collectibles line once I have time to rummage in my attic. After all, our goal is to remove disorder from our lives. What good would that do you if you ended up unemployed?”

  “I’d be alive and have my memory,” Nissa said softly, “and know that Lani is safe. That’s plenty.”

  They were sharing sandwiches at the small table in Pearl’s hotel room during Nissa’s lunch break. Foster sat cross-legged on the floor watching educational television and eating his own sandwich and a salad with his fingers, licking off the honey-ginger dressing with an appreciation he had not shown for the two slices of provolone cheese that were set neatly to one side.

  “You have a cell phone, right?” Nissa asked.

  “Of course.”

  “How about a computer? Did you bring a laptop?” Pearl shook her head. “No.”

  “Oh.” Nissa frowned thoughtfully. “I know you told me that certain things are not to be discussed on the phone or e-mailed, but I think we should keep in touch. Brenda has her computer with her, and I’ve e-mailed her more pictures of Foster. I’ve also sent a bunch of me and Lani.”

  Pearl nodded. “That’s fine, but remember, no discussion of anything arcane. Think of it as a matter of security.”

  “And you,” Nissa said, rising and stuffing the trash into the bag, “consider that we’ll be worrying about you and Riprap while you’re on the road. You’ll call me when he gets here?”

  “Promise. And if anything else changes.”

  Riprap arrived that evening, about an hour earlier than Pearl had dared hope.

  “Flight was on time, rental car was ready, and the lady at the counter gave me good directions. I slept on the plane, so whenever you want to leave, I’m ready.”

  Pearl reached for her cell phone. “Let me call Nissa. I’ve already handled late checkout, explaining that a friend was going to drive me to the airport, but I wasn’t sure when.”

  “They were okay with that?” Riprap asked. “Most hotels charge extra for late checkout.”

  “I thought they would,” Pearl said, “but instead they asked me to sign a few pictures for them. I think this room is going to get a ‘Pearl Bright Slept Here’ sign.”

  “Pearl Bright,” Riprap said, glancing over to where Foster was huddled in a corner, watching him with dark eyes that seemed as much fascinated as afraid, “and someone else.”

  “But they don’t know about the someone else,” Pearl said firmly. “My hypothetical flu has been ample excuse for no one coming in here other than Nissa.”

  “How’re we going to get your guest out without anyone seeing?” Riprap asked.

  “There’s a back stair,” Pearl said, “that leads to the lot where guests can park. It’s locked from the outside, and so doesn’t see much traffic. In any case, if anyone sees him, we’ll say he arrived with you.”

  “Okay,” Riprap said.

  “Now let me call Nissa,” Pearl said. She got through, and Nissa said she could be over in a half hour.

  “I want to meet this Riprap,” she said. Unspoken was her need to be assured that Pearl was leaving of her own choice, and in her own right mind.

  “I’ll tell Bob I’m bringing you a care package. Can you use anything?”

  “Shampoo,” Pearl said. “My travel bottle is empty, and I don’t care for the hotel’s choice. I could also use some deodorant for my young friend.”

  They discussed brands for a moment, then Nissa rang off.

  “Before Nissa gets here,” Riprap said, glancing over at Foster, “there’s something I want you to know. I’ve brought a handgun.”

  He opened the briefcase he’d carried up with him and allowed her a quick glimpse of a gun resting in a holster. Pearl knew only enough about guns to guess this one was an automatic. It was relatively small, but looked deadly efficient.

  When Pearl nodded, Riprap snapped closed the briefcase and zipped open a side compartment.

  “Here,” he said, “is my paperwork. The gun is registered, and I have all the appropriate permits to carry it in most of the states we’ll be passing through—my work with ‘disadvantaged’ kids takes me into some pretty rough areas, and my teams go outside of Colorado pretty regularly. I also want to tell you before you ask, no, I don’t plan on shooting anyone, but there are a lot of people out there who can be dissuaded by the sight of a gun pointed at them.”

  Pearl nodded. “I can’t blame you for wanting to have that edge, but I ask you to be very careful when you choose to use that thing.”

  “I will be,” Riprap promised. He tapped his wrist where the white tiles of an assortment of amulet bracelets shone against his dark skin. “These first. Fists second. Gun only if that’s my only choice. I’ve got a mini-safe to keep it in when we’re at your house, so there’ll be no need to worry about Lani or anyone else getting their hands on it and causing harm.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything,” Pearl said, permitting mild amusement to color her voice.

  “I’m trying, ma’ am. I’m trying.”

  Nissa arrived inside the promised half hour, bearing not only shampoo and deodorant, but chocolate bars, bottled water, trail mix, and a separate bag containing a small packet of antidiarrheal pills and another of antacids.

  “Bob’s gift,” Nissa said with a grin, handing the small bag to Pearl and setting the larger package on the table. She turned to Riprap and offered him a hand.

  “Nissa Nita, apparently the Rabbit—or the Hare.”

  “Charles Adolphus,” Riprap said, making her hand vanish in his own, “but call me Riprap. I’m just getting used to this Dog thing. Can you scout ahead and see if the stairs to the parking lot are clear? I moved out Pearl’s luggage, and didn’t meet anyone, but I’m just sure that when we move him …”

  He gestured toward Foster. The young man was neatly clad in clean clothes. His alert expression showed that he was fully aware of the changes, and more than a little worried about what they implied.

  “Right,” Nissa said. She took up the bag of goodies, balanced it on one hip, and flipped open her phone. “I’ll call from the stairwell and let you know if anyone’s there.”

  There wasn’t, and they got Foster out to the car with ease. Pearl settled him in the sedan’s roomy backseat and, after hugging Nissa, got in beside Foster.

  “We don’t know how he’ll react,” she said, “so Riprap is going to have to play chauffeur to my grand lady.”

  “Driving Miss Pearl,” Riprap said. He shook Nissa’s hand again. “Pleased to meet you. See you in California.”

  Foster jumped when Riprap turned on the engine, bracing long fingers against the seat, but otherwise not expressing any fear.

  He’s b
rave, Pearl thought, as Riprap took them onto the road and Foster’s fingers tightened their hold. But that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. It almost certainly makes him more.

  Brenda and Des caught a flight from Albuquerque to San Jose after Pearl and her guests were safely arrived in San Jose. The five days they had spent together in Santa Fe had alternated between intense focus and casual touring.

  Each day, Brenda worked on making at least one amulet bracelet. She wasn’t the only one doing so. While she settled in at Des’s dining-room table, Des took his own equipment into an adjoining room. He never let her see the end results of his work, probably because he knew she’d try and compete with him. Focus, rather than speed, was what was important, as Brenda found to her chagrin on the day she proudly presented Des with two completed sets of tiles, only to be informed—and then shown via a spell of Des’s casting—that the tiles were nothing more than beautifully carved polymer clay beads.

  Every day, Des took her to see some of the museums, galleries, and natural wonders that made New Mexico a tourist destination. Noticing that Des continued to choose places where they would be in the company of other people, Brenda began keeping a nervous watch on her surroundings. A few times she thought people were following them, but as tourists tend to cross and recross each other’s paths with a certain predictable regularity, she couldn’t be sure.

  Even though she felt positive he’d laugh at her, Brenda confided her suspicions to Des.

  “I don’t claim,” she said, “to be any great detective, but I was in student government all through high school, and it sort of gives you an eye for remembering people.”

  “And I bet Gaheris has taught you,” Des added, “the value of remembering a name and a face. I believe you when you say you’ve noticed the same people over and over again. Point a few out to me, especially if they seem really persistent.”

  Brenda did, but whether because of their watchfulness or because the people in question were really innocent tourists, no harm came.

  And the worst thing, Brenda thought, is that we can’t even be sure what our enemies look like. It would be a mistake to think that they’re Chinese because Foster looks Chinese. Even if they are Chinese, we know they must have local allies.

  Riprap and Pearl reported that they had learned little or nothing from Foster. His life before he had awakened in Pearl’s hotel room was completely gone, and he clung to them as the familiar constants in a steadily changing world. He was, however, showing himself very adaptable and very intelligent.

  “Television helped,” Pearl admitted. “During our first several days of driving, I would frequently hear him say ‘I saw that, on the picture box. I saw that.’ He’s also picked up a few words of English, but certainly not so much that we need to worry about him eavesdropping.”

  Despite the phone and e-mail contact, it had been a relief to get on the plane for San Jose, to know that soon their scattered forces would be joined. Brenda knew the reassurance she took in this was irrational, but didn’t deny herself this slight comfort when everything else was so unsettled.

  At the airport, Hastings, Pearl’s driver, was waiting for them.

  “Miss Bright sends her apologies for not meeting you herself,” Hastings reported formally, “but she said she needed to remain with her other guests. She said I should ask you if there are any stops you need to make before we go to the house.”

  Des asked to stop by a craft/hobby shop, and took Brenda in to help him clear the shelves of white polymer clay, various etching tools, brushes, and paints. When Brenda protested mildly that surely Pearl had some of this stuff, Des said with a laugh, “Absolutely, but what makes you think she’ll want a bunch of novices messing up her tools?”

  San Jose proved to be a pleasant city. From the guidebook Des had given her, Brenda knew that the city had a population of nearly 900,000, but it didn’t seem like a big city. The airport was pleasant, even intimate-seeming, and although there were clusters of tall buildings, the residential areas they glimpsed from the freeways were varied and attractive.

  The area where Pearl lived was long-established, if the size of the trees and shrubs was any indication. Green lawns, flowering shrubs, and large but genteel houses seemed the rule. Brenda liked the area immediately.

  Brenda didn’t know what she had expected Pearl Bright’s home to look like. All she knew was that the house the chauffeur drove them up to was not it. For one, although Pearl’s house was located in a very nice neighborhood, there were no towering gates, no sweeping circular driveways, no sense of show. The tidy stone walkway that led to the steps up to the front porch began behind a waist-high wrought-iron gate that Brenda could have climbed over with ease.

  The house itself was fairly narrow at the front—probably no wider than two large rooms and an entryway, Brenda guessed. It was painted a soft dove gray that held just a trace of lavender, the shutters painted a few shades darker. Although the overall impression was one of modesty, the house possessed at least three floors and seemed to extend a fair way back into the lot. Touches of stained glass over the front door and windows provided a little flourish.

  Yes. Pearl’s house was nicely kept, even elegant, but nothing Brenda hadn’t seen before. The plants in the flower beds that bordered the small front porch seemed to be mostly roses, not the exotica Brenda had subconsciously expected from a movie star’s home in California. The front yard was small, what might be described as “tidy,” but there were hints that the backyard was much larger.

  There was one odd thing about Pearl’s neighborhood, and it made up for the relative mundanity of Pearl’s house. Her next-door neighbor was not another house or even a shop. It was a museum, and not just any museum, but one set in ornate gardens that looked as if they had come directly from ancient Egypt. There were even sphinxes and gigantic statues of pharaohs.

  Brenda stood in the street and gaped.

  “That’s the Rosicrucian Museum,” Des said, his tone not quite hiding a ripple of laughter. “It’s more than just a museum. It’s an educational and philosophical center—and the gardens are fantastic. Pearl is associated with the museum somehow, although I’m not quite certain in what capacity.”

  Riprap had come out of the house, and now he had moved around to the back of the car and was helping Hastings unload the luggage. He voiced what Brenda had been thinking.

  “Even with the museum, this doesn’t seem much like a place a movie star would live, does it?”

  Des reached to carry a couple of his bags. Since they’d been coming from his home, he had more luggage than either of the other two. Brenda grabbed her laptop, determined not to be useless. Des turned to the driver.

  “Go ahead and take the car around, Hastings. We can manage this.” Then he returned to their conversation. “It does and it doesn’t. You’d be surprised how expensive the Rose Garden—that’s the name of this area—is. Expensive and classy. It fits Pearl perfectly. She refuses to say just how she managed to get a house on the same block as the museum, just smiles and looks enigmatic. However, I do know that her mother invested a good bit of Pearl’s early earnings in real estate. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the answer.”

  “So Ms. Bright didn’t get shafted by her folks,” Riprap said. “That’s good to know. I was feeling a little uneasy about her hiring me for however long this lasts.”

  “Ms. Bright’s parents,” came that lady’s voice from the top of the short flight of stone steps that led up to the front porch, “were alternately embarrassed and delighted by her success. And, unlike Americans, Chinese are very careful about money, and Jews even more so. My mother was a Hungarian Jew—a Jewess, as they used to say in the press releases that mentioned her at all, a very poetical word, I have always thought. Not only did my parents do well by me, they managed to have me do well by themselves and by my brothers as well. There were times I blamed them a little for that—being as egotistical as the next young thing, and wanting it all for myself. Now I am deeply grate
ful. Come in now, so you can meet Nissa and Lani.”

  Brenda noticed that Pearl had not mentioned her other guest—or captive. Was he asleep? Locked up?

  The truth turned out to be more prosaic, and yet slightly sinister.

  “We arrived after dark, and went to great trouble to get Foster into the house without him being seen,” Pearl explained. “You should not mention him on the street, or even that there is another resident. Whoever Foster was working for certainly has missed him by now. When they start looking, our homes are among the logical places to check. I have warded my home and garden as best I can, but wards will do no good if we are careless.”

  Luggage was left in the front hall while Pearl led them toward the back of the house. She paused in a formal parlor to introduce them to her two pet cats. Bonaventure, a moderately long-haired grey, and Amala, a fuzzy, pale orange, marbled tabby, blinked politely at the guests, but made no effort to get up and greet them. Brenda guessed they must be fairly jaded.

  From the parlor the group looked into a formal dining room, then to a more casually furnished family room that adjoined a nice kitchen. When taken as a whole, the decor of Pearl’s house was nothing like what Brenda had subconsciously expected.

  The formal rooms were done in antiques that Brenda vaguely thought were French or Italian. The family-room furnishings, which included a deep leather recliner, could have been bought at any of a dozen home decorating centers. There was nothing of the exotic as in Des’s house, none of the elaborately Oriental as in Albert Yu’s office. There was none of the flash Brenda had expected of a movie star—not even a wall adorned with signed photographs.

  It was a nice home, a comfortable home, a home that—despite exquisite maintenance—showed signs of long occupancy. There were none of the little compromises that Brenda knew from her parents’ home. All that was here was good, but very much the result of one person’s taste.