“Perfect,” I said, remembering Mrs. Livesgate, the senator’s wife, from our list of candidates. She wasn’t optimal—if I remembered right, she was fourth down on our queue—but she fit the part. The twins would have to work to make up for any lost ground.
“And as for Pete?” I asked. “The money is already in the right pockets for his education?”
“With the amount of money riding on him, we could send a dog to the university of your choosing,” replied Marco. “It’s taken care of. Though as precautionary, his lessons with three separate tutors begin next week. One to cover painting, one history, and the third poetry. We’ll have an artist out of him yet.”
***
“So you’re saying,” said Angel, his eyebrows furrowed, “that you’re paying us to party?”
“No, not just to party,” I responded, crossing my arms. “To socialize, to mingle. Make some connections. By the time you’re eighteen, I want you invited to every big name event—I want actresses swooning over you, old men claiming to be your patrons, alright?”
“So to party,” confirmed Julian. “To show the civilized bastards the meaning of having fun.”
“Yes, but keep it classy,” I warned.
“Frederick, we know class,” said Angel. “Just because we rolled in the muck with you at Carcer doesn’t mean the stain won’t come out of our clothes.”
“Good. Then play the part. You’re Original children, to be Mrs. Livesgate’s favorites. Think of yourselves as princes—flaunt your arrogance, draw attention, but be likable. Make some headlines, alright?”
“It’ll be a cinch. And here she comes, if I’m not mistaken. She’s fatter than you mentioned, Frederick.”
The door of the orphanage opened, revealing a long, white limousine outside. A plump lady stepped out from the back door, a fur coat falling to her ankles as she walked to the building, four French bulldogs racing ahead of her, only to be constrained by the leashes in her right hand. She held a cigarette in her left, and the ash fell off the tip as she gasped, raising a spotless glove to her mouth and handing the leashes to a tuxedoed servant behind her.
“Oh, Mauricio! Mauricio, aren’t they precious?” she exclaimed, tottering forward, grabbing Angel by the cheek. He almost pulled away, but saw my look, and instead offered a shy smile with lowered eyes.
“Are you,” he stammered, his voice thin and hopeful, “are you our new mother? They said you were, and I just couldn’t sleep with all the excitement.”
“Oh I am, I am!” crowed Mrs. Livesgate, wrapping an arm around him to squeeze him just too tight, and shifting her focus to Julian.
“It’s as if our dreams came true, Angel,” he sniffled, burying his face in her coat. “I never thought they would! I thought we would be alone forever.”
“There,” said Mrs. Livesgate, wiping a tear away, as Marco walked forward.
“Pleased to see you have arrived,” he began. “Would you like a tour of the facility? Or some time to better know the twins?”
“I’ve made up my mind!” she exclaimed. “Mauricio, sign the papers at once. Pay the fees and any advances—they’re coming home with me today. They’re too skinny, and I know just the thing for that. We have our own cook, you know, children. He can make you anything you like, whenever you like. And he’s the best! I only accept the best!”
Then she picked up both the twins in her embrace, lifting them from the floor as Mauricio left with Marco to handle the paperwork, and the bulldogs trailed behind her on the way back to the limousine.
“We won’t forget you!” I cried as they left, waving a small hand.
“Nor we, you,” they replied, and they winked over Mrs. Livesgate’s shoulder.
Chapter 22
Despite the operations occurring under the same roof as them, the other children at the orphanage seemed to take no notice of our plans. I can’t say I would have either, if I had been in their place.
Life was good at the orphanage. We had more funding than any government-run institution. The children were given more opportunity than most in the area who had two parents. And not just that, but it was in our best interest to keep the orphanage empty, to adopt the other children out before they could catch on to what was occurring. We had a higher adoption rate by far than anywhere else, finding kids homes, good homes from which they wouldn’t return, before they started to get suspicious.
We’re criminals, not heartless bastards. And we’re damn efficient.
But some of the kids slipped through the cracks. Like Timmy.
Timmy was six when he started to notice that something was awry, poking his freckled face into our business more often than was good for him. He was smaller than the other children, insisted on wearing a bowl cut, though we offered him more fashionable alternatives, and always carried a small, stuffed cat, named “Snuffers,” that he claimed could hear everything that happened at the orphanage.
And one day, Snuffers heard too much.
Marco and I were discussing tactics, my voice rising as our debate became heated.
“Without Lisa, we risk bringing on another member,” I said, “and without Smokestack, we have the same issue. He’s critical to our payout as well—no Smokestack, no reward. Not to mention a much higher chance of getting caught, and I have no intention of returning to Carcer.”
“What’s Carcer?” asked a small voice from the back, as a freckled head poked inside the room from the doorway.
Marco and I froze mid-conversation, debate forgotten, turning to look at the child, as Snuffers dangled from his arm.
And we knew what we had to do.
***
“He has a heart of gold, and a sweeter smile than you’ll ever see. Test scores off the charts as well,” said Marco, leading a young couple into the adoption center, wiping his eye. “I’m sad to see him go, but I understand he needs a stable family. And we only want the best for him. Would you be able to give him the care he needs?”
“Of course, of course,” said the husband, his arm around his wife. Despite months of trying, no bump had appeared on her belly. “We’ve been waiting for this for quite a while.”
“And we only want to give him the best,” chimed in the wife.
“Good,” said Marco, wiping away another tear. “Timmy? Timmy, can you come out?”
From behind a corner, I pushed Timmy into the room, and he stepped right where we had rehearsed the night before. A shaft of light entered from the windows high above and alighted on his head, giving him the appearance of a small angel. He no longer wore a bowl cut, but instead something that made his blue eyes shine—especially through the thin layer of makeup we had applied to touch up his appearance.
And Timmy didn’t know it, but his apple juice had been spiked that morning, boosting his confidence, reddening his cheeks, and widening his smile.
“Oh my,” said the wife, leaning down over him, her index finger coming to rest under his chin. “Oh my.”
Like I said, Marco and I did what we had to do. We got that eavesdropping son of a bitch adopted.
***
“Please, that’s easy,” said Pete, chewing on the end of his paintbrush, his hands stained with pigments. “Eighteenth century, Neoclassical.”
“And the artist?” I asked, still holding the poster in front of me, an unmarked painting printed on the surface.
“Er… Well, there’s many from that period. Very many, you see,” he said, edging closer.
“Stop trying to get a closer look at the signature, and start studying more. You need it.”
“Come on, Frederick, I have years before I’ll need to use this knowledge. Everything I learn now I’ll probably forget by then anyway. Why don’t I just cram it in then? Can’t a guy enjoy his childhood?”
“Because it needs to be believable as all hell. You’re not posing as an art enthusiast—you are an art enthusiast. An expert rivaled by none. And unless you are the best, we won’t be cashing out.”
“Fine, alright, alright,” sighed Pete. “Never
did like art, but I suppose I can learn. Great value for its density, but it’s so damn fragile. I like gold bars more, can’t break those.”
“Well if you want to leave and find one billion in gold bars, then be my guest. But you’ll need another plan.”
“I get it, you don’t have to rub your point in my face. I might be stubborn, but I’m not stupid.”
“Your tutors say otherwise.”
“I solemnly swear I’ll devote every hour henceforth to studying,” said Pete, his right hand raised mockingly. He looked around, then placed it on the poster of the painting I had brought him. “I swear on Neoclassicalism itself, because I so adore it.”
I stared, my eyes cold, and he continued, “Seriously though, I will, Frederick.”
Then he reached for a volume across the table and cracked it open, before turning the volume knob on his radio up.
Karen Miles’ voice filled the room, and Pete matched the tapping of his foot to the formulaic music.
You’ve got a lock on my heart, baaaaabyyy, then you come and set me free.
“Really? Now I’ll have that stuck in my head all day.”
“Catchy, isn’t it?” replied Pete. “It helps me study though. So you’ll just have to live with it.”
Chapter 23
When I turned fifteen, I started waking up each day at six in the morning, running two miles around the block, and abusing my membership to the local gym. For the plan to work, I'd need a fit body. And in all my cycles, I have yet to find a shortcut on how to get one.
After a few weeks of this routine, I woke up one morning, put on my running shoes, and descended the stairs. I opened the front door of the orphanage, inhaled deep for a taste of the morning air, and immediately burst into a coughing fit as I was met by a thick cloud of smog and haze.
"What the hell?" I stuttered, stepping back inside the frame as smoke wisped inside. The day was windless, so it had accumulated there at the top of the steps. And its source was a boy, about my age, with a lit cigarette in his hand, and twelve more stamped out at his feet. Beside him was a small backpack, bulging from being over packed, and a large, rolling suitcase which looked like it should have been tossed in the garbage years back. He wore a straw hat and overalls, and squinted up at me.
"Door was locked," he said, taking another puff and exhaling it through his nose. "Figured I'd keep myself occupied."
"By looking like a homeless person on my stoop?" I answered, holding my t-shirt to my nose. "And are you trying to burn down the building?"
"Something like that," he said, and he tossed the finished Almaretto on the ground, where it smoldered as it made contact with a leaf.
"What the hell took you so long?"
"Memories took longer than normal to resurface. Plus, even then, I was limited on how quickly I could get back here. I was born in farmland—wasn't much in the way of transportation. Short of riding a tractor in, there wasn't much I could do. Besides, being farmland, there was a tobacco farm a few acres over. Good stuff. I hand-rolled it, and I brought a supply."
He gestured toward the bags next to him on the porch.
"Hell, you brought a full backpack of tobacco, Smokestack?"
He laughed then, and shook his head.
"Naw. The backpack's full of my clothes. That's what the suitcase is for." He patted it, and I heard crinkling inside of plastic bags, and the rustling of leaves against each other. "Got any smoking rooms?" he asked.
***
"The twins are off on their assignment," I said to Marco back at the planning table, frowning. "Pete is moving forward with schooling, now that his mind is in the right shape. I'm slated to get into aviation school, but since Smokestack arrived last week and is being brought up to speed, he will replace me. All the cards are falling together to make this work. Except one."
Above us, I could hear Pete studying, the pop music trickling down—the most recent songs to burst into the radio scene. Damn, teach a boy about the greatest artists of his time, educate him on the marvels constructed by those long before him, and still his favorite music is absolute trash.
"Lisa," Marco answered. "But you said yourself that her part isn't crucial. She can be replaced."
"Of course she can be replaced. Anyone on the team, ahem, except for you and me, can be replaced. But why drive a compact when you can drive a sports car? We could find someone else reliable, but I want the best. And she's the best."
"Considering the rest of the team showed up, a little compromise may be necessary."
"Considering we still don't know where the hell she is, or what the hell she's doing, or if she's back in Carcer, compromise is the last action I want to take. She's a loose end. Already she knows too much. And she's unaccounted for. All it takes is a few words to the right people, especially some of the recently liberated inmates of Carcer, and I'm dead, Marco. Which brings us back to square one, and the plan has failed."
I drummed my fingers on the tabletop while Marco typed away on his laptop, checking with his contacts to see if any new female inmates had been admitted to Carcer. I closed my eyes, trying to think on my next move, the music from Pete upstairs drilling into my mind and breaking my concentration.
I'm worth diamonds, I'm worth pearls.
I'm worth nations, I'm worth worlds.
So how're you gonna buy me, baaaaby?
"No contacts in yet, Frederick," said Marco, then his brow furrowed and he squinted at the screen. "But wait, hold on, that's strange."
His fingers clacked away, and I leaned forward.
"What is it?" I asked, leaning forward, trying to see his screen.
"Checking to see if it's spam. And no, it's not. It appears that ten thousand dollars have been donated to the orphanage, by a—" Then Marco started to laugh, and he looked up toward Pete's room. "Oh, you're going to love this, Frederick. By young teen pop star, Karen Miles."
It made the news that night, Marco making a tearful appearance to speak with the reporter about his gratitude. And Karen made her own statement, released by her studio, speaking with a knowing smile toward the camera. Toward me, as I watched it on television.
"It's but a small investment into the future, which I'm sure will be paid back ten thousand times over.”
"Lisa, you bitch," I said, and I turned off the screen.
Chapter 24
It was another three years before she made contact. In that time, Marco and I had been monitoring her closely, watching her on television and buying celebrity magazines by the sleeve. Every so often she would recall her donation to Allego, and how she hoped to visit one day to see those poor children. And every so often, she would come within a hair's breadth of revealing our secret.
"I feel as if I was born to do something important," she said during a televised interview, the host reading her questions off of a flashcard. "You know, something that will make a difference. Something big." And then she stared directly at the camera. "I think I would feel, like, a billion times better once I've accomplished it, if you know what I mean." Then she would wink, and smile, and the interview would continue.
"Think we should kill her?" I said as we watched the broadcast, shoveling a breakfast of sausage and eggs into my mouth. With puberty, my body had started taking form. Form that would be needed to get into the military aviation academy, though now Smokestack was starting to pack on that muscle under my direction. Despite his habits, the farm life had done him well, and already his form was lean and wiry.
"Well, she hasn't said anything yet that others would find suspicious," answered Marco, "Just jabs at you, I believe. And killing her would raise far more suspicion, should it be traced back to us."
"You're right," I answered, and I continued watching her. Lisa had always been able to find a way under my skin. She found joy in it. Reveled in it. And in this life, she was no different.
And damn, did I love a woman who could do that.
This cycle had done Lisa well, physically. She would be eighteen years old now, the sa
me as me. She was thin, her makeup professionally done to give the appearance of flawlessness, her face plastered in commercials everywhere from shampoo to breakfast cereal. Her hair was naturally black, though it sported whichever highlights were trending that week and curled down to her shoulders. And though I didn't like her musical style, damn she could sing, her voice exploding across the stage to reach the ears of a frenzied audience. In Alani, she was a sensation. And she played the crowd for all it was worth.
For the plan, that had worked out perfectly.
Originally I had slated Lisa to be a model, or a political person of interest if she didn't have the face for it. Someone with power that she could use to her advantage for her talents in seduction. I'd seen Lisa in lifetimes when she had not been so flattering, and she'd still managed to become a highly desirable woman—it wasn't her physicality, it was her persona. The light behind her eyes. How she worked with what she had.
But by becoming a pop star, Lisa had already done all that. And it took the effort off my shoulders, so I could focus on the rest of the team. If anything, she'd done a better job than I'd been able to.
There were only a few weeks left now until Smokestack left for aviation school. A few weeks to make sure all the pieces were in motion, rolling in the right directions, able to converge at the last moment. And one particular night, Pete studied art, having recently received acceptance and a scholarship to the most prestigious art college on the continent. The twins partied, maneuvering their way through social functions as if it were second nature. By now their popularity exceeded that of their already influential foster mother. And Smokestack was at the gym for his nightly personal trainer sessions.
I returned, exhausted, to my room after hours of planning with Marco. Outside it was dark, a sliver of the moon just visible in the sky. I flipped the light switch in my room, but nothing happened, the freshly burnt out bulb dangling lifeless above me. Cursing, I fumbled my way in the darkness, feeling through the clutter on the ground to the edge of my bed. Then I slipped under the covers, closed my eyes, and prepared for what was likely to be several hours too few of sleep. The covers on my bed were already loose, and as I lay there I realized that the mattress felt warmer than usual. My brain, exhausted, processed this slowly, reaching its conclusion when a low voice spoke next to me, directly into my ear.
Til Death Do Us Part Page 7
