Scott's hair was blown back, the clasps on his coat wrenched open by the force of the blast, though he had managed to maintain his footing. Bozo's melted nose had fused with one of his leather shoes, while a burning water bottle wrapper had settled onto his shoulder. A gash had opened on his cheek where a wood splinter had flown past and was now embedded in the wall behind him. And above the splinter was the smashed jar of baby food, the mixture trickling down to join the fibers of the carpet, and stray flecks of it scattered about the room.
Scott turned, silent, and looked into the remains of the closet. Instead of walls, it was now akin to a doorway. To one side there was the Clarks’ living room, Mary frozen on the couch and looking through the gap, her eyes wide and her mouth open. To the other side, there was the neighbor's apartment, the hole much larger than the infant sized one I had hoped to open. Four feet from the door was their kitchen table, a telephone on top of it, as if jeering at me now that it was unattainable.
Personally, I thought it really opened the apartment up. With a little paint here, and a little drywall there, the value might even appreciate. God knows the place needed a remodeling, and, if anything, it would let the Clarks be better friends with their neighbors since they now had a direct doorway. I’d practically done them a favor, and they could use the socialization opportunities.
Scott turned to me, then back to the hole, and took a deep breath. Then he took another and bit the inside of his cheek, his face paling.
"Mary," he called through the fresh hole, his voice low, "Mary, get the phone. We're calling the inspector."
Chapter 15
The inspector arrived within the hour, his shining, black car turning up the drive and parking in the deck. He wore a three-piece suit and carried a locked briefcase, and his long stride quickly carried him into the building.
Half an hour before he had arrived, the sirens of police cars below had departed, the police unable to find the source of the fourteen complaint calls they had received. Alani police were fickle creatures—without the aid of a bribe, there was little that they would do unless an emergency was imminent, and their short attention span soon caused the cars to disperse.
The Clarks’ neighbors had not been home—in fact, they were on vacation, and Scott had already phoned a carpenter to repair the damage to the wall before either they or the landlords would discover it.
"It's best," he explained to Mary, as he zip-tied my arms down to the highchair, "that we keep this quiet. We resolve it, we pretend nothing ever happened, and we go on with our lives."
And now, from my secured position in the high chair, my arms and legs held by plastic strips, I heard the knock at the door. And the inspector stepped in.
He was a tall man, thin but muscular, and his head nearly brushed the top of the doorway. He wore spectacles, the thick lenses resting heavily on his nose as he peered around the apartment interior. Grey specks had just begun to invade his hair, a well-groomed mass of black that swept from one side of his head to the other. And his suit was expensive, far more expensive than I expected an inspector to be able to afford, looking to be custom tailored due to its perfect fit.
His eyes came to rest on me, and the hole in the wall behind me, and his eyebrows rose.
"Good Lord," he said, and walked over to the table, opening his briefcase, "I take it the new addition to your apartment is behind the urgency of your call?"
"Yes, yes, inspector," said Scott, taking the inspector's hand in his own and shaking it. "It's become most urgent. Thank you for coming at this time of night, I understand you must have been resting."
"Nonsense," said the inspector. "It's my duty. With fugitives trying to reenter our society, it is my utmost priority to root them out at the source. And root them out I will, to take the scoundrels back where they belong."
"Of course, of course. Thank you again. Is there anything we need to do for the, ah, the examination?"
"No. Just sit back, and I'll conduct it. It should only take a few minutes."
The inspector settled into a chair and shuffled through a few papers in his briefcase.
"It appears that this is a class-four disturbance," he said, reviewing a document.
"Is that bad?" asked Mary from behind Scott.
"The worst. Should the examination fail to prove he is an Original, I am required by law to perform an arrest and conduct additional questioning and detainment elsewhere You will of course be compensated handsomely for reporting the incident, for his arrest, and for your confidentiality in the matter."
The inspector straightened his shuffled papers on the table, cracked his knuckles, and met my eyes. Picking up a small magnifying glass, he leaned forward and raised it to my face, studying my pupils. I made my sincerest baby gurgle.
"Anomelemic pupilic distension, second degree. Collapsed delinerary venous tissue."
"What's that mean?" pestered Mary again.
"Oh, it's the worst. I fear your suspicions may be correct."
Then the inspector removed a small box from his briefcase, a slot on one end.
"I'll need a hair sample," he said, and he reached across the table, plucking a strand from my head. Then he fed the hair into the box, watching the readout, his brow furrowed. The box started beeping, and the readout lit up, green light illuminating his face.
"I'm afraid your suspicions were correct, Mr. and Mrs. Clark. By the law of Alani, I am performing an arrest, and hereby taking custody of young—"
"Patsy," said Mary, her eyes watering.
"Patsy," the inspector repeated, the side of his mouth twitching to nearly form a smile. "Yes, I hereby take custody of Patsy for the criminal that he is and the crimes he has committed in the past. Rest assured he will never bother you again, and that he will receive the treatment that he deserves. You will receive your check in the mail in a few days. If I may, there are several adoption programs I can recommend to you, many of which have certified Original children."
The Clarks took the pamphlets, and the inspector left for his car, returning with a small cage like those used to transport pets through airports. Removing the zip ties, he forced me into the cage, prying my fingers from the ledge as he slid the bolt shut and locked it.
"Comfortable?" he sneered.
"Fuck off," I answered through the bars. Then we left, him leaving a stack of adoption pamphlets on the Clarks’ table, and me swinging under one of his arms. We reached his car without trouble, and he placed me in the back seat, buckling the cage into place. Then he settled into the leather front seat, turned the keys in the ignition, and peered at me in the rear view mirror.
"Excellent performance, Marco," I said from the back seat. "The magic hair box was quite convincing, and anomelemic pupilic distension made for a nice touch. But seriously... you had to put me in a dog cage?"
Chapter 16
Marco glared at me as the car lurched into motion.
"Really, Patsy?" he said. "You couldn't give me any warning that I would have to parade around as an inspector? You're lucky I was able to pull it off. One wrong word on the phone call the Clarks placed to me and my cover would have been blown."
"Luck had nothing to do with it—it was a good plan, and you're a good man. And I didn't have a choice, Marco. I tried to call you, but there was no service. So I switched the inspector's number in their phone with your own and forced their hand. It was a backup plan, really. I thought the first would work."
"The plan of creating a bomb in their living room? Real thoughtful, Patsy. God, I hope that couple recovers. Right now I'm just happy they're rid of you."
"Rid of me? Marco, they were the worst. They wouldn't—" but Marco cut me off, his voice sharp.
"You're being a toddler, Frederick. Lose the selfishness. I know at that age it's difficult to think of anyone other than yourself, but so help me God, if you try anything like that on me, I'm leaving."
I took a deep breath, my instincts urging me to scream in rage. But I calmed them and spoke.
"You're right, of course. You know how it is. Spending a cycle without reaching adulthood dulls the memory of maturity a bit. Have any of the others arrived yet?"
"So far, none. We're still waiting, but according to our sources in the government, none of them have been accounted for yet. They should still be out there."
"Well, at least the original plan with Carcer worked," I said, working at the lock on my cage, "just like I knew it would."
"Oh, I take it you haven't heard, then?"
"Heard what?" I asked as my fingers froze.
"When you were reborn in Carcer, you must have been color blind," said Marco, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. "I told you to cut the lime-green wire. You cut the orange one. You didn't just blow up the closet with the group of you in it; the entire prison went up in flames. Every one of those convicts escaped, Frederick. If it wasn't for the poor shape of the government in this country and the sheer number of babies being born that make it impossible to sort out the goats from the sheep, you'd already have been captured. Many of the convicts have."
I gulped, my fists turning white as I gripped the bars, and Marco read my mind.
"But many haven't. Many that still bear grudges against you for landing their asses in there in the first place."
My eyes closed, and I rocked within the cage. Fifteen to twenty names sprung to mind, men and women who would be eager to settle scores with me. Some of them I had put in there because they belonged there—typically I'm not a proponent of the law, but when a soul is dark enough, it needs to be sealed away. It wasn't a matter of helping the police, it was a matter of caging the beasts that murdered and raped for enjoyment, who truly had the mark of evil cast upon them.
With a bit of luck, they wouldn't find me. But now they were all in the same country, a team bonding out of mutual hate. A team that formed a threat to the greater plan. And if they did find me, they wouldn't let me die. Not without years of torture and their own mutilated version of fun.
I remained silent for the remainder of the ride, trying to think through the new challenge. Before long we pulled into the parking lot at the orphanage, Allego, and Marco was opening the car door and reaching for my cage.
"Marco, do you have anything to drink? I’ve been sober for years, and I could use something stiff right now."
Chapter 17
I spent three years at the orphanage with Marco. Three years in careful planning, standing atop a pile of phone books like a miniature Napoleon, slapping a drumstick onto mounds of documents scattered on the dining room table, moving them around like armies on a battlefield map.
“Financials?” I asked, pushing forward one stack of paper and spreading it with a tiny fist. Pages of banking information and balance sheets surfaced, numbers with an eye-popping amount of zeros on them populating their columns.
“Our sources indicate this to be the full extent of his wealth,” said Marco, towering above me, “Surely he will have more squirrelled away, bits of property hidden throughout various lifetimes, but those are cents to the dollar. These are his investments, his assets, his treasures. A good portion is on the stock market, and another good portion is on the black market—stolen paintings, artifacts and such. Wipe them out, and you wipe out his fortune.”
“Ah, money, the first source of power,” I said, taking another candy from a bowl on the table. They never grew old.
“Careful with those,” said Marco, “Or you’ll get diabetes. That has to be the thirtieth one today. God, Frederick, you’re difficult when you’re a child.”
“I’m difficult when I’m an adult too,” I answered, popping the candy into my mouth and smiling.
“How right you are,” sighed Marco as he returned the financial papers to their proper order.
***
I was four and three quarters when the first of the gang arrived.
Marco and I had taken to watching the news in the morning, me with the brightest-colored, sugary soil available in the grocery that week, and Marco enjoying a salmon bagel that I could not yet appreciate. The rest of the orphans were downstairs, inhabiting the common room where several attendants watched over them. Each Thursday Marco hired an inspector to visit the orphanage,making sure that none of the children were inmates from Carcer who could put the plan in danger.
But apart from the inspector visits, the children were treated well. They went to bed with full stomachs and received a proper education. Bullies were not tolerated. The staff ratio was exceptional, thanks to a large donation Allego had received from an, ahem, anonymous donor. Together we painted the picture of the perfect orphanage, one that would never arouse suspicion or harbour fugitives among its ranks. Plus, I know it may not seem like it at times, but I am humane. And they were children.
Marco and I watched the news each day for several reasons, all of them pertaining to the intricate details of our plan. But more than that, we watched it to see if any of the gang from Carcer had been caught. Chances are, we wouldn’t see them—but if we did, we might be able to intervene before the authorities had a chance to completely insulate their new prisoner from outside influence.
We’d seen a fair amount captured, though none we could identify. Several gave their names in court under a bargain for a lesser sentence if their identity could be proven, and none of those matched the ones we were interested in. Typically one or two a month were found, the number accelerating as the children grew older, regained their memories, and fell back into their past tendencies.
But today’s big story didn’t particularly catch my eye. There was a car chase, the police funneling in toward a single car that had broken away on the interstate. It bobbed and weaved through the other cars, occasionally miscalculating and scraping up against one. It lurched forward and backward as if delayed by a moment’s hesitation. A cop car slammed into the back of it, and the driver had barely regained control of the vehicle before sticking his head out of the window and yelled obscenities behind him.
“What’s that?” I asked, standing to rush toward the television, my hands against the screen for a closer look as my cereal bowl clattered to the floor and spilled milk everywhere.
“What’s what?” asked Marco, annoyed. “And you’ll burn your eyes—”
Then he stopped, his words cut off as the camera zoomed in close enough to see through the window.
Two figures were in the car, both occupying a single seat, and both much smaller than an adult or teenager who would be licensed to drive the vehicle. One gripped the wheel, using his entire body weight to turn the car around sharp corners, and barking orders to a second, lodged underneath near the pedals. And both were identical.
Twins.
“Let’s go!” shouted Marco, swinging me over his shoulder and running downstairs.
Chapter 18
As a criminal, it’s always been easy for me to spot other criminals. We’re a different breed of people—we have different motives, we act differently, we even move differently. There’s a separate mentality. The saying “thick as thieves” exists for a reason. We are drawn to each other, and we bond over our differences from the rest of humanity.
So when I started at the orphanage, I picked up on something that Marco’s inspectors had missed. There were criminals from Carcer among the orphans. Two of them.
And they were easy for me to find, because they had already found each other.
It became evident through little mannerisms at first—they way one of them would distract an attendant while another took cookies, or how they always went stiff when the inspectors arrived. And it took me a full month to confirm it, but soon, I was sure about both Coley and Ryan.
They were from Carcer. And we kept them around, just in case they proved useful.
They did.
***
Marco shoved me into the front seat of his car, slamming the door and yelling over his shoulder before I had a chance to right myself.
“Buckle up, you’ll need it!”
Then he was gone, d
isappearing into the orphanage, returning moments later with two children under his arms. Coley and Ryan.
“Get in and keep your mouths shut!” commanded Marco, pushing them into the back seat and locking the door, then jumping into the driver’s side and turning toward me as he shifted the car into reverse. “They’re onto us, Frederick. The cops are coming for us, at this address, despite everything we did to try and hide. But I’ll get us out of this—all you have to do is keep quiet, and they’ll never know you’re from Carcer. Especially since we’ve got two Originals in the back, so you’ll fit in.”
“Damn it Marco,” I swore, wiping sweat from my brow, “I hope so. Let’s get out of here.”
“On it, boss,” said Marco, eyeing the two children in the back seat. Both their faces had turned white as they fidgeted, and they cast each other furtive glances.
Marco rocketed from the driveway as if the police were already on us, causing Coley and Ryan, yet to fasten their seatbelts, to tumble about in the back seat.
“Hell!” I heard one exclaim before the other smacked him into silence. Marco fought not to let a smile cross his lips as he took turns far faster than necessary. I leaned forward and turned the radio on, turning the dial to tune in to the news, where the car chase was being covered.
“Suspects are traveling along Burnal street,” crackled the radio, “heading northwest. Police are in hot pursuit.”
“Shit!” said Marco. “They’re following us. Hold on, hold tight, I’ll get you out of this!”
Marco nearly lifted two of the car’s tires from the ground as he took the next sharp turn. Coley and Ryan struggled to turn in their seats to view the imaginary police behind us. But Marco kept the turns coming, interjected with curses from both him and myself, and rarely could they get a full view of the street.
Til Death Do Us Part Page 5
