“I’m…I’m sorry, baby,” she coos, but Chris doesn’t move from his curled ball.
Before continuing, she lights a cigarette.
“I just…I dunno whatta do wit’ you, baby. Yer always disappearin’, always readin’ Lord knows what, talkin’ all sorts of nonsense. Pastor Bobby Row’s been thinkin’ you might – Lord help us – he says you might’ve got some serious iss-yoous.”
Chris doesn’t move.
His mother rubs her wrists, exhaling smoke and flicking ash into a nearby soda can.
“You ain’t got no demons. Right, baby?” she asks, looking for reassurance.
And she takes a deep drag from her cigarette, waiting for an answer.
She doesn’t get one as Chris is unconscious.
THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA
And I told the old man all about…my mother. I showed him, didn’t really have ta say much.
What did your mommy do?
Hmm? [looks down at lizzy, distracted] Oh…my mother um…she wasn’t—
Nice? Yeah, I know. But why? What did she do?
Actually, mama didn’t do much.
She was very overweight. Mostly she just drank soda and went to church but when I left, she had a hard time getting outta her chair. [whispering] I hated that chair. [normal, but mournful] And uh, mama had a heart attack maybe three months after I left and died on that chair’a hers.
Why wasn’t she nice to you?
[assesses lizzy] She uh…used to have’a long woodin stick, and she’d whap me on the back with it. She’d do it anytime she thought I’s misbehavin’.
Her and I had different views on what was misbehavin’.
And she hated that I liked this neighbor girl. I dunno why she’as so against it considerin’ that April Mae was a church goin’ girl, and she was pretty and smart. And she liked me.
Think mama was afraid of losin’ me.
Didn’t she lose you anyway?
She sure did.
And I left and found this abandoned town and an old man.
***
“Holy Bejesus, kid,” the old man responds, solemn but without sympathy.
It’s still a bit sore as Chris lowers the shirt down over his back. Sleeping on the ground hadn’t helped the bruises and thin gashes covering his back either. His forehead still has a thin cut but, as his hair continues to grow, it covers half of the wound.
“Well, kid. I ain’t gonna ratcha out but they’s gonna flood this area and everythin’ in it tomorrow. Yer sure to die if yer still here round five.” That’s how the old man wants to end the conversation and he flicks his shaking wrist as a way of warding off twelve year old Chris.
Chris nods and lets his head droop a moment before returning to the edge of the house. The police cruiser had been silent for a few minutes but Chris can sense a trap. A sly peek past the corner finds the street empty and Chris takes a step away, then a step back. Besides the obvious fact that the patrol car is hiding somewhere, Chris can’t rid himself of an unsettled feeling in his stomach.
He returns to the old man.
“You gonna die here, mister?” he asks.
The old man snorts, lighting a new cigarette.
“Why?” Chris asks.
“Two reasons: Ain’t nowhere to go an’ even I’s did, no way to get there. Also, ain’t been a decent football game in years so…you know, what’d be the point anyways.”
Chris’ jaw drops.
“So yer just gonna sit there an’ die?”
The old man nods, exhaling smoke.
“Got beer. Smokes. I’m set. Least I know when it’s comin’. Out there, it’d be soon an’ creepin’ – that ain’t no way to go. They’d stuff me in some home or hospital an’ milk whatever moneys I got left.”
“But—”
“Kid, you ain’t know dick ‘bout nothin’ no-how yet. You need ta move along.”
Chris doesn’t move, thinking.
“You ain’t got no family?”
The old man puffs out an exasperated cloud of smoke.
“Look here, kid. Yer what, sixteen?”
“Twelve.”
“Holy Bejesus. Well, you know less than I gave you credit.” He waits a moment and as Chris doesn’t budge, finally answers, “My love’s been dead seven years. An’ my daughter don’t want nothin’ to do with me an’ she got good—very, very good reason not to.”
“What’s her name?”
“My daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“Julie. Moved to Livingston County up in Illinois.” Chris can’t see the old man’s eyes but he knows they narrow. “Why?”
“Wouldn’t she wanna know about this?”
“She ain’t even come back for her mama’s funeral…”
There’s a moment where the old man looks off.
Chris decides that it’s time to leave.
“What’s your name?” Chris asks, extending his hand through the gash in the screen.
“Gale,” the old man says, leaving the cigarette between his lips while he grips the young man’s hand. “Gale Burqeart. Good to meetcha, kid. Nice, firm handshake.”
“I’m Chris. It was nice to meetcha, Gale.”
And Chris leaves the back yard of the rundown house.
He checks the mailbox for the address and correct spelling of Gale’s last name before walking down the center of the street towards the bridge and distant road block. It isn’t even two blocks before the siren blares and the cruiser pulls up behind Chris.
The cop gets out of the car.
“Thank God, kid. You know what’s gonna happen here tomorrow?”
Chris nods.
“What’re you doin’ out here, kid?” the officer asks, looking in the general direction Chris must have come. “What’d you, walk? Had to come over that there ridge, we got everywhere else closed off.”
“There’s an old man on that porch back there. He aims to sit there an’ die.”
“Who?—Gale Burqeart? Goddamnit.” The officer takes the walkie from his belt and radios in. “Dispatch.”
“Copy,” it responds.
“Burqeart’s back on his porch. Tell the Sheriff. I’m gonna lock him up ‘till 5:01 in the p.m. tomorrow.”
“That’s an affirmative. Did you find that young kid?”
“Yeah—” he lowers the walkie talkie and asks, “Where you from, kid? What’s yer name?”
“Chris…uh, Young. Chris Young. I’m from Illinois.”
***
Can we get out of here.
[pause] Absolutely.
What d’you say we go to the nearest city and find the most expensive hotel we can, have your uncle treat us to massages and pampering for a night?
[another pause] I love you, Uncle Chris.
Love you, too, Pickle.
THE GOOD NEWS
After several hours, the doctor finally comes back to talk to David.
Shepard had been right – the doctor’s very cute.
“Good news. The hearing in your right ear will be fine with some minor surgery. The damage to your left is detrimental but—and this is a pretty big but, there’s a chance we may be able to repair the damaged lining. Your left eardrum did bust but that’s not the main issue, it’s the surrounding tissue that’s collapsing around it.”
“When can I have the surgery?” David asks.
“First thing tomorrow morning. You have priority. They tell me you have a flight to catch but I-I have to tell you, there’s no way you can fly – not a commercial airline. At least not this week. Another dramatic fluctuation in air pressure will almost certainly guarantee you’ll lose hearing in your left ear. Probably your right, as well.”
“Even after surgery?” he asks.
“Even after surgery. Earliest you can fly is—maybe next week, at the earliest.”
“I have to be in London this week.”
“I recommend a boat. Should we schedule the surgery for tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I have to go, my agen
t’s probably shitting himself right now. We have a signing to get to in half hour.”
THE FINAL SIGNING IN NEW YORK
Shepard’s quiet the rest of the day.
He doesn’t say anything when David finds him sitting on a bench in the lobby, reading a publishing magazine; he doesn’t say anything other than “Ok” when David tells him the surgery is the next day and that he’ll be unable to fly this week; he doesn’t say anything on the cab ride except the destination and for the cabby to keep the change; he doesn’t say much other than pleasant greetings to the staff of the open-windowed, multi-leveled bookstore that stands as their last destination in New York; and he disappears during the entire signing, confined to a small back room.
As the less-than-stellar signing ends – maybe forty in attendance of four hours – Shepard remerges with news:
“Dawlish is trying to get a military aircraft to escort you to London. It’s an aircraft that’ll fly at a low altitude and—I think it fuckin’ refuels in mid-flight a few times,” Shepard starts to get excited at the prospect but stops himself when he remembers he’s talking to David. “They’ll postpone the first signing to a later date but keep the second on schedule. They didn’t want me to say anything but they got a surprise for you so…if you’re game…”
“Yeah, I’m game. Listen—” David reaches over, still seated, and touches Shepard’s elbow. He was staring at his phone the whole time he spoke and David’s touch startles him, as if he were being attacked. He looks down, worried. “I’m sorry I snapped. I’m just…I’m having rough time, okay? I think you do a good job and I miss my child, I miss…I miss my hearing, I miss the woman I want to spend the rest of my life…oh…”
It’s odd to hear himself say it, as if it hadn’t been true until the words hit air.
“It’s cool, dude,” Shepard smiles, showing a bit of relaxed posture. “I totally understand.”
“…so they have a surprise for me?” David asks.
“Yeah, you’ll see.”
“And this military aircraft stuff, they’d really do that for me?”
“Just…you’ll see.”
“I’ll do it as long as the doctor says it’s alright.”
“Fair enough.”
A devilish grin crosses David’s face.
“Think the publishers would do something else for me, too?”
“Probably. What is it?”
“It’s kinda big…”
“That’s what she said,” Shepard laughs.
David does, too.
THE MARQUEE CHANTEUSE – SUITE 1122
Seventeen hours on a plane and two hours sitting alone in an empty VIP lounge during a layover in Senegal. For fourteen of those hours, I scribble into a tiny black notebook – this is the failsafe, the phase four.
It’s 9:30 p.m. when I reach Johannesburg and hit the sandy air.
A cab drives me to the Marquee Chanteuse and, though this is my second time in South Africa, I can’t register or recognize any of the details. It’s been over a day since I used the Hacker plus-plus and the after-effects are wearing on me. My body feels exhausted but my mind in particular feels wasted, drained. My focus is hard to control and my mind keeps going blank. It takes immense effort to stay awake, the withdrawal and jetlag dragging me into slow motion.
I exit the cab with no baggage; only thing with me is a passport.
The lobby passes in a blur of faceless people and shining silver and gold. I press two of the wrong buttons in the elevator before I get the right one. The doors open and I spend several minutes aimlessly wandering the spritely-colored floral pattern of the hallway carpet. Eventually I stumble onto Suite 1122 and knock. The tall, spindly fellow I know to be Albert answers the door, pushing the rounded spectacles further up the bridge of his nose to get a clear look at me.
“Come in,” he says with a disgruntled hint.
I enter into the open living room area of the suite.
There are open French doors leading out to a short porch overlooking the Johannesburg horizon. Charne is out there – I can see the bottom of her robe and a bare leg stretched out on a deck chair, her foot rocking back and forth, the rest of her body hidden by the corner.
“She’s on the—” Albert begins but I’m passed him and out on the deck before he finishes.
Charne glances up but doesn’t deter from her phone call.
“Tell him to do it for forty less and he has a deal.”
She points to the other deck chair.
Her face looks the same as it had when I first met her five years ago. She has graying blonde hair, the skin of her face tight and plastic-looking. She does appear to have bigger lips this time.
In the moment my body fits the groove of the cushioned deck chair, I fall asleep.
ASS TO CASH
When I wake, it’s to the shrill laughter of older women somewhere behind me.
The sun is vanished but the moribund black hints at a dawning blue.
It’s a half-hour to dawn.
I sit up from the insanely comfortable deck chair on which I had been sprawled. Stand, gain my bearings, rub my eyes. Charne is with the spindly Albert and some other older woman, all sipping champagne from nice, curved glass. The women are in sparkling gowns and Albert is in a tuxedo. They turn when I stumble a bit, reentering the living room area of the bright, pink-embroidered room, and Charne speaks something in Afrikaans, dismissing me. She motions to another room and Albert escorts the other older woman out.
“We tried to wake you,” says Charne, matter-of-factly, her face obviously bothered by my inconvenient nap. “What can I do for you, Mr. Ridley?”
“A few questions,” I answer, back with all faculties.
“Phone wouldn’t suffice?”
“I wanted to see your face. Are the Seven Devils invested in Nethuns Deep Sea Mining?”
“The Seven Devil Nation doesn’t invest.”
“Then why are they behind whatever’s happening in Philadelphia?”
“Behind it? No.”
“Whatever word you want to us. Why are you involved?”
“I’m not involved,” Charne says, growing upset but keeping her voice steady. “And the head operates separate from me so it’s not my decision, either. Don’t you dare come into my house and accuse me of anything. You watch your tongue. You got a question for him, you find him and ask yourself.”
“No, I know why he’s doing it.” I sigh. “And I’m going to go stop it, as I’m sure you and the head already know I’ve been watching this whole thing. I’m going to stop it and then I’m going to come back and deal with this situation.”
“Is that a threat?” she asks in an off-hand way.
“You’ll know when I make a threat.”
HUE SINTO
A man of tiny stature checks into a room in the Hilton.
The front desk clerk notices the scar under the man’s eye but says nothing of it. The front desk clerk does mention the man’s eyebrows:
“How did you dye your eyebrow, man? That’s awesome.”
“No dye.”
The man says this while looking down in the small bag he has strapped over his shoulder. His one eyebrow is blonde but he explains no further why that is. He hands over his credit card, the clerk charges it, hands it back with the card key, and the man walks off without any further talk.
He opens his room, turns on all of the lights, and sets his bag on the bed. He does a series of stretches, his bones cracking from having sat in a car for so long. He removes his shirt. He has three bullet wound scars on his breast. The man of tiny stature begins a routine of pushups and situps. He pours himself a glass of water and drinks it.
The man opens his bag and pulls out a large folder. Inside are pictures of a people and information about them. He flips through. A child. Two adult males. A redheaded woman. He makes a phone call to his boss. The conversation is short and about acquiring a rifle in the U.K. He hangs up.
The man of tiny stature sits on the edge of
his bed.
He doesn’t stare at anything in particular.
a brief interlude about the seven devil nation
The Violent End of Sensei Ki-Jo
I was on my way to the window when everything began to move in slow motion.
Steve and Travis passed on either side of me, running away, their heads low and bodies hunched down. I was dazed as if in a trance, facing the open door to the back deck watching the approaching shower of arrows headed toward the house in which I was standing. They were released from their bows at the same time, all of them joining together deep in the heart of the blackening sky. They grew slim and then, driving back down toward the Earth, only slightly larger. The flames of their tips were only visible as they landed. The early ones hit, one coming in through the window, but two hands grabbed me, pulling me back, back into the kitchen, squishing me down behind cover. The sound of tiny thuds, like miniature feet running across the roof. Windows broke, things shattered. Before the arrows finished landing, I snapped out of the stupor and remembered the goal.
Travis, Steve, and I were crouched behind the counter.
“You—” I spoke to Steve, “go downstairs and find the rifles.”
“You—” I spoke to Travis, “go upstairs and get the supply bag and then get downstairs to Steve. You two hole-up, stay at the downstairs door until the fire gets close.”
“Where are you going?” Steve asked.
“I’ll be outside. They’re here for me. They want me, they can have me.”
The two men dashed off to follow my plans. They weren’t very well-trained but we had practiced a lot with the long shot rifles. Steve was a good shot but Travis wasn’t particularly good with any gun.
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