Chimera

by Rob Thurman

  “It’s a sign of insecurity. All the more classic psychology textbooks say so.” He peered into the glove box once again. There was no sign of disappointment on that inscrutable face when no more chocolate was to be found, but I knew better. He was a teenager. Raised in a combination of a school, prison camp, and laboratory, that might be true, but some part of him was still a teenager, no matter how suppressed or denied.

  “And what do you know about psychology, junior Freud?” Guiding the car with one hand, I dug under my seat. Bypassing cold metal, I pulled out a box of Double Stuf Oreos. We might be on the road for a long time and I’d stocked up on instant sources of cheap energy. Tossing them into his lap, I instantly heard the rustle of cellophane as he opened the package.

  “He’s not the type of psychology we study. His way of thinking isn’t useful.” There was the soft crunch of a cookie. “But I’m sure he would’ve had something to say about the size of your gun.” There it was again, the mixture of child and man. The ravenous inroads he was making into the Oreos was the picture of a hungry Little Leaguer after the big game. The psychological point of view combined with a swipe worthy of Saul himself put him in the range of a cynical and caustic forty-year-old.

  Bemused, I felt my lips curve. “Keep up with the sarcasm and I’ll take my cookies back.” I didn’t mean it of course. If anything, I was happy, fucking delirious to see a hint of humor in him. It made him seem a little less than a galaxy length out of reach.

  “I wasn’t being sarcastic,” he said seriously, flattening my cheer instantly. “The weapon is obviously an attempt to overcome your insecurity in many areas.” Fingers prying the next cookie from its row, he finished matter-of-factly, “You’re vulnerable. You should watch that.”

  Now what the hell could you say to that, I thought, nonplussed. And my 9mm was a perfectly normal-sized gun, no bigger than . . . shit. Cutting off that train of non-productive thought, I frowned with confusion. “Aren’t you at all curious, L . . . Michael? I swoop in and drag you off in a scene straight out of a movie. Don’t you have any questions about that?” Just one normal question to let me feel as if I had some control over the situation?

  “No.” Finally done with the cookies, he’d placed them carefully on the floor by his feet. “Either this is a test and you’ll lie or you’re an enemy and you’ll lie.” He rested his head back on the seat. From the corner of my eye I watched as he closed his. “Or you’re a crazy man and you really do think I’m your brother. It’s still lies, only then you’re lying to yourself.”

  Our first conversation in ten years was considerably different from our last regarding sidekicks and sand-castles, heroes and horses. Right then I was more than ready, cowardly enough, for the grown-up in Michael to be gone and the child to reappear. The child I could handle, but this unwavering brick wall of a young man—I wasn’t sure I could. I wasn’t even sure I could see him . . . truly see him at all, not as he really was. That would involve letting go of the vision of a seven-year-old tag-along who had shadowed me silently into adulthood. I didn’t think I would ever be willing to do that.

  Beside me I could see him chew his bottom lip, leaving a smear of chocolate. The motion didn’t last long, not with this self-possessed kid. His mouth relaxed as his jaw conversely tightened. He was tired; with the night he’d had it wasn’t any surprise. The one thing, the only thing, he needed now was to rest. No one had accused me of having a soft heart . . . not the ex-girlfriends and not the men who’d ended up on the wrong side of my fists or gun. But this was my brother, no matter what he thought. For him I had a number of emotions. They were ancient ones and rusty from disuse, but they were there and chief among them was a mile-wide protective streak.

  “Go to sleep, Michael,” I directed, not ungently. “It’s a long drive.” Especially when you had no idea where you were going. I’d picked a direction and gone with it, not that I had much choice in that. There weren’t many options this far down in the state. For now I was simply running. Determining the destination would come when I was positive there was no pursuit.

  He opened his eyes to give me a searching glance. There was no fear, but there was no trust either. “Come on, Freud,” I assured with rueful patience. “You’ve been kidnapped, shot at, and fed cookies. What else could possibly happen? Take a nap already.”

  From the skeptical narrowing of his eyes I realized he thought that argument lacking, but he slid down in the seat, twisted onto his side as much as the seat belt would allow, and rested his head against the door. It wasn’t long before I heard the deep and regular respiration of sleep. Looking away from the road, I took in the sight of his loose shoulders and the lax line of his spine under the white cloth.

  He was here. He was really here. I could stretch out a hand if I wanted and lay it on his arm. I could touch him, flesh and blood that held genetic hands with my own. I could, but I didn’t. He might have woken up or he might have disappeared . . . a soap bubble popping under reality’s touch. I wasn’t willing to risk either option.

  I drove for nearly half the night. Around four a.m. I pulled off the interstate and checked us into a cheap little motel. Shabby and run-down, it had about twelve rooms and a night desk guy a few short chromosomes away from Norman Bates. He grunted, took my money, and didn’t bother to ask for the fake ID I was prepared to fork over with the registration. Within ten minutes Michael and I were behind a locked door and at the visual mercy of ancient shag carpeting and orange and turquoise striped bedspreads. I dumped the duffel bag on the bed nearest the door and asked, “You want something to drink? There’s a machine outside.”

  He shook his head and sat on the other bed, his toes digging curiously into the long strands of the carpet. His toes were uncovered. Frowning, I switched on the bedside light for a better look. Was that . . . ? “Ah, shit.” Kneeling on the floor in front of him, I took his ankle firmly in one hand and lifted his foot for a better look. He was in bare feet, not that I’d given that consideration even once as we’d run across dirt and sand, gravel, and shards of rock. The sole of the foot I held was crisscrossed with cuts and abrasions and colored a dark rust by dried blood.

  Giving a pained hiss under my breath, I demanded, “You should’ve said something. Jesus.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that his hand was hovering by my head. It was palm down in a fairly harmless position, so I ignored it. He very likely felt threatened; I would’ve in his shoes. This time I moved more slowly as to not startle him further and his hand slowly dropped back to his side. Lifting his other foot with painstaking care, I saw that it was in the same shape.

  “Why?” he asked blankly.

  He had no idea, literally none, as to why he should’ve called attention to his discomfort. “Because hurting you was never part of the plan,” I snapped despite myself, guilt and self-annoyance bubbling up within. “And neither were feet that look like roadkill.”

  Setting the foot down gently, I headed straight into the bathroom and started water running in the tub. Taking one of the tiny shampoo bottles, I dumped the contents in as well. After seven inches of warm and soapy water filled the bottom, I turned off the tap and went back out to retrieve Michael.

  As he sat gingerly on the edge of the tub, I had him roll up his pant legs and immerse his feet in the water. “Soak them for a while. I’ll be right back.” Out in the room I opened up the first aid kit and spread it out on my bed. I’d packed the kit before I’d packed anything else, but I had no idea I’d be using it so soon. Shaking out two ibuprofen into my palm, I took them back in the bathroom and handed them to Michael. Running a plastic cup of water, I offered that as well. “Take those. It’ll help with the pain.”

  He studied the pills side by side in his palm while I held the cup. Finally, I nudged his shoulder. “Michael,” I prompted, “take the pills.”

  “I don’t like pills.” He looked up at me, a mutinous set to his mouth. I could tell that if I’d pushed the issue, he would’ve given in and taken them. He was shockingly ob
edient for a teenager, at least in comparison to the one I had been. Still, I decided pushing was not the way to go—not on an issue so small. After seeing that basement room, it was easy to believe he had every reason to dislike pills or anything remotely medically related.

  Sighing, I thought for a moment, then gave him a crooked smile. “Okay then, pick one.” His expression was understandably dubious, but I persisted. “Go on. Choose one. I’ll take it and you can take the other. They’re harmless, Michael. Honestly.”

  The honesty didn’t matter, but my offer to take one did. Hell, I had a raging headache coming on anyway and I swallowed the indicated pill without complaint. Cautiously, Michael waited twenty minutes to see the result before he took his. He was many things, this kid, but stupid was not one of them. The warm water had sluiced most of the dried blood from his feet by then and I finished cleaning the rest of it with gauze and peroxide. Drying them with a towel, I slathered antibiotic ointment liberally on both soles and then presented him with a pair of clean socks from my bag. “Cover them up. God knows what you could catch off this carpet—Ebola, the plague, there’s no telling.”

  He’d sat military straight on the bed while I’d performed the first aid and watched my every move. Furrowed brows said that care such as this wasn’t exactly what he was expecting, but he said nothing as he straightened and pulled on the socks.

  “Go ahead and crash, kiddo.” I cleaned up the first aid kit and shoved it back in my bag. “We’ll sleep a few hours before we hit the road again.” It wouldn’t be much of a rest, but I wanted to make sure those assholes weren’t going to pick us up somehow. If they had government ties as we suspected, it would be easy enough for them to have a finger dipped into the local authorities’ pie as well. There could be an APB out for Michael at this moment. No one had seen my face or Saul’s, but it was safe to say they had an excellent description of my brother, both inside and out.

  Once again I saw a glimpse of a shadowy and jaded humor as the last word passed my lips. “You really have no idea what I am, do you?”

  I was going to have to adjust to his denial, at least for a while. Doing my best to massage out the pang of tension stabbing at the base of my neck, I answered with weary quiet. “You’re my brother, Michael. And I’ll prove it to you, I swear. Now get some sleep.”

  Bicolored eyes were as opaque and vigilant as those of a wild animal, but he stood to turn down the blankets. Sliding under them, he pulled them up to his neck and shifted over onto his side. It wasn’t too long before he drifted off, his hair a brown tangle on the pillow. He was tired, I knew, but as had happened in the car, questions were passing through my head. He didn’t trust me; as far as I could tell he didn’t trust anyone, including those with whom he’d lived. Even factoring in exhaustion, it was unsettling how quickly he dropped off. It was as if he were so used to a life filled with menace and uncertainty that it was the norm for him.

  I stood by the bed and watched him sleep for a long time. To look away seemed like the worst invitation to fate . . . as if he were only a dream conjured by nothing more than years of guilt. Stupid, but my gaze lingered on him as I turned off the lights and went over to recline in the garish orange chair by the window. I left the world inside the room and turned my attention to the one outside the window. If I wanted to keep my brother, I had to act like the professional I was. Arranging the blinds until a small space showed between each slat, I kept watch on the parking lot until the sun came up.

  It was about then that I realized what Michael had said before he’d gone to bed. “You really have no idea who I am, do you?” That’s what I’d assumed he had said, but my assumption had been wrong. It hadn’t been the word “who” that sat in the middle of that sentence. No . . .

  It had been “what.”

  Chapter 11

  Michael woke without help from me. Rolling over, he tossed around for a few minutes before murmuring something. It sounded like a name . . . Peter. The sound of his own voice must have stirred him from sleep, because his eyes opened and the firm grip he had on a wad of sheets loosened. Blank and confused, his face smoothed out when he saw me. I didn’t fool myself into thinking the sight of me was reassuring in any way. My image simply triggered his brain into catching up with the events of last night and letting him know how he’d ended up in a strange hotel room.

  “Hungry?” I stretched my legs as the twinge in the small of my back reminded me of a night spent in a chair designed by the most sadistic carpenter alive. “We can get some drive-through later, but I have jerky or peanut butter to tide you over until then.” Running a hand over fly-away hair, he sat up and slanted me a less-than-thrilled look. I supposed even institutional food was better than what I was serving. Giving a tired but heartfelt grin, I added, “Or there are still some Oreos.” Our mom had to be spinning in her grave over my idea of nutrition for the teenager on the run.

  The mention of the cookies went over much better than my other offerings. Blankets pooled on the floor as he climbed out of bed to give me a demandingly expectant look. “Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I said, snorting. Within minutes Michael was munching his way to hopefully a more communicative mood. At seven he’d been a morning person, but then again, who wasn’t at that age? There were lands to explore, dragons to slay, worlds to conquer.

  “I’m going to grab a shower.” I hesitated. “You’re not going to take off, are you?” He wouldn’t have gotten more than three steps outside the door if he had, but I wanted him to feel as if he had choices. He’d been a prisoner so long that I didn’t want him feeling the same way with me.

  “Is that even an option?” he asked with a marked lack of faith. My question was as glass to him. My intentions didn’t matter, and he saw all too clearly what my actions would be.

  I might as well be honest. Whether it was whatever psychology course he’d been fed or merely natural talent, he would be a hard kid to fool. It could be both. Lukas at seven had been both innocent and wise . . . and an impressive judge of character for such a young child. “Not really, Michael.” I rubbed a hand over a bristly jaw and said regretfully, “Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “This is no worse than the Institute.” Finishing his last cookie, he went over and began to make his bed, hospital corners and all.

  I’d heard the capital I in institute. That must be what they called the compound. Filing it away for a later subject of questioning along with his odd use of the word “what,” I took a change of clothes into the bathroom and showered. I left the door open to hear if Michael changed his mind and decided to make a break for it after all. The trickle of lukewarm water did little to drive the fatigue from my body or mind and I hurriedly soaped up. Climbing out ten minutes later, I dried off and wrapped a towel around my hips. The open door had kept the mirror from fogging and I shaved with a few quick strokes. Slipping on jeans and a sweatshirt, I pulled my wet hair back tightly. Before we left I would stuff it up in a baseball hat. I hadn’t been seen, yeah, but it didn’t hurt to change the look. If we were somehow traced to this motel, they could easily get a description of me from the desk clerk.

  “Michael, you’re up.” I walked back into the room and gathered some of my clothes for him. “Here’re some sweats and more ointment for your feet. And I think I packed some sneakers that’ll do. They might be a little big, but I don’t think we’ll be doing much hiking.”

  He accepted the bundle wordlessly, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. I guess he had no fear that I might make a run for it. By the time he returned with damp hair and sweat clothes that bagged on him, I was nearly ready to go. Handing him the tennis shoes, I took the white pajamas from him. Taking out my penknife, I began to methodically shred the cloth to small, easily flushable pieces. “How are the feet?”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he put on the shoes and tied the laces neatly. “Fine,” he said. He still didn’t know how to react to the concern, and it showed in the faintly mystified glance that he shot my way. It
made me sincerely wish that Saul had used a real gun instead of the stun variety on that son of a bitch in the back of the van. That something so simple and basic as concern had been lacking from Michael’s life, it didn’t do much for the inner fire that had been smoldering since I’d seen that first room in the compound basement. “Let’s go, Misha,” I said gently. “There’s greasy food out there with our name all over it.”

  “Misha?” He stood in shoes that surprisingly seemed to fit. Big feet had always run in our family.

  “Michael is a mouthful,” I lied. If I couldn’t use the name I’d known him by since the day that he’d been born, then I wanted a name we could share . . . a name that wasn’t one those bastards had given him. The diminutive for Michael would do. “Misha is a nickname for Michael.” I cocked my head, deciding to go into our Russian heritage later. “That okay?”

  He thought about it, then nodded. As always, he wasn’t exactly swimming in enthusiasm, but I counted it a win regardless. He did as well, I imagined, getting to keep at least a portion of the name he was attached to.

  After disposing of the pajama remains down the toilet, one less thing to use to trace us, I hefted my bag and we headed out into the pastel dawn light.

  Even the soft yellow and pink illumination stabbed at my eyes and I put on a pair of sunglasses the minute I entered the car. The brim of the baseball cap helped as well. After the nearly constant adrenaline rush of last night followed by no sleep, I had what was as bad as any hangover.

  “Sleep deprivation can cause a significant decrease in performance and concentration,” Michael said absently as he watched a portly family of five through the passenger side window. Early risers as well, they were unremarkable in all but size, shockingly loud tourist wear, and a large chocolate cruller wrapped in each pudgy hand. And I knew for a fact which of those three had caught Michael’s attention. The kid had a jones for sugar like I’d never seen, and I had no one to blame for that but myself. With an almost wistful sigh, he turned back to me. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”