Arthur pointed to the screen. “Bring it down here, please.” There was an excitement in his voice that the man at his elbow was well acquainted with. It was the thrill of the hunt.
The image shifted suddenly. The buildings fell off the screen as the image plunged from a distance of seven miles to a vertigo inducing few hundred feet in a matter of seconds. The shiny metal speck grew larger and was now completely visible. It was a vehicle. Arthur moved closer to the screen. The image started to blur at about fifty feet or so, but the distinctive outline was clear. Richards himself recognized what it was immediately. After all, the car was well on its way to becoming a classic.
“How old are these?” Arthur asked.
The answer came a moment later.
“Six hours, sir.”
“What’s the weather?”
The technician answered that a series of thunderstorms had moved through earlier in the day that had since given way to clear skies. After thinking a moment, Arthur gave the order.
“Rouse Nicholson. I want three teams on this, and tell him I’ll be coming along. We are to be in the air in fifteen minutes.”
From behind, a telephone handset was lifted and a hushed order given. Arthur turned to the blond man at his elbow and smiled.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Richards, that our relationship will be short lived.”
4
The man was seated on the floor. His arms were crossed. He had his back against the wall. His legs were splayed out in front of him. He smiled to recall it was the same position he had found the boy in just the night before. But what the hell, he thought. The boy was onto something. He was comfortable.
Their bags were packed. The bill with Maria had been settled. Dan had thanked her profusely for her kindness before asking shyly if he could give her a hug. She smiled and said certainly. Before letting him go, she whispered in his ear, telling him to get the boy well. He held back his tears and told her he would try.
The telltale stirring of the bed covering pulled him from his thoughts. The boy was awakening. Moments later, a thin hand reached out from beneath the bed to grasp the coverall and push it aside. The boy crawled out. His hair stuck out in all directions. The misshapen ear he tried so hard to cover was in plain sight. The man smiled to see it. To him, that the boy had any vanity left in him at all was just more evidence of his humanity.
“Evenin’, son.”
The boy looked at him and smiled. After pulling himself from beneath the bed, he asked, “What are you doin’ on the floor?”
The man chuckled. “Heh. You looked so comfortable down here I just couldn’t help myself.”
It warmed him to see the boy smile in response. For some reason, he looked even better now than he had immediately after his feeding of the night before. Though his cheeks remained deep-set and hollow, they appeared to pulse crimson with blood. That it wasn’t his own made no difference at all to the man. And though he couldn’t be certain, it appeared the boy had put on some weight while he slept.
“How you feelin’?” Dan asked.
The boy looked pensive before responding. “Good. Better than yesterday, anyway. It’s funny . . .”
The man waited patiently for the boy, trying not to let his frustration show, until finally he could wait no longer.
“What is it?” Again, it came out harsher than he wanted. The boy hadn’t seemed to notice.
“I dunno,” he answered. “It just seems that somehow after I . . . you know . . . eat . . .” his voice drifted off. The man didn’t interject this time. “There just seems some kind of cycle to it, is all.”
The man had noticed that himself, if indeed he was correct that the boy had fed at least once before. It dawned on him then that the boy had just all but confessed it. He wondered for a second just what it might have been that the boy had fed on before putting that thought out of his mind. There were more pressing matters at hand.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about, Scott,” he said. “Is that alright? I mean, do you feel well enough?” The boy looked at him searchingly for a moment before nodding.
Dan reached into his breast pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. He played with it nervously as he spoke.
“There was this girl I went to college with named Nancy D’angelo,” he began. “She was the sweetest thing you’d ever wanna meet. Smart as a whip, and funny too. Anyway, I haven’t told you any of this yet ‘cause . . . well, you were kind of out of it there for a while, and it’s a real long shot. Hell, she probably won’t even remember me. We only dated a couple of times. Went to the movies, to dinner, and a few parties. But I wasn’t a serious student like she was. And apparently, biology and pre-med take a lot more time and effort than the liberal arts degree I was after.”
The boy watched him smile, but knew somehow it was a sad smile that reflected lost love and wasted plans.
“Anyway, I never did graduate from that place. Probably why I’ve had such a successful career myself . . .” He paused a moment before going on. “I’ve never told anyone this before . . . not your father, not your mother, not any of my friends. But just for the hell of it, I still get the alumni newsletter, just so I can keep up with everyone else’s success. I mean, how stupid is that, right?”
The boy stayed quiet. The man went on.
“And believe me, my class was real successful. Did you know I was in the same class as the guy who is now my state representative? Another guy I went to school with hooked on with some no name politician right after graduation and is now the top aide to a United States Senator. And me? I make brake linings for a living.”
Dan was rambling now and knew it. He stopped to look over at the boy, who appeared to be hanging on every word anyway. Dan glanced once more at the folded piece of paper before holding it up in the air, halfway between him and the boy.
“Sorry. Got sidetracked there for a minute. Anyway, we don’t have time for this crap. The choices I made were my own and I got no one to blame but myself. Now, back to Nancy. Nancy is one of the top researchers in the field of blood-borne diseases. Know what I mean? Pathogens, viruses, that sort of thing. And right now, she is the only person in the world I can think of who might be able to help you . . . help us. Not to mention, she’s the only person I trust enough to be discreet about it. She works at a place called the Scripps Institute in San Diego.” Dan paused again to choose his words carefully, then looked over at the boy to catch him in the eye.
“I wrote down a message for Nancy on this piece of paper, like an introduction kind of thing. Now, it ain’t gonna happen, but if for any reason you and I ever get separated, when you get strong enough, I want you to go and see her. I want you to forget all about me and I want you to go see her. She’s the only one that I trust enough to help you.”
Dan handed the paper to his nephew, who after some hesitation took it. He stared at it a while as if it were a foreign object before raising his head to look at his uncle. But Dan had already looked away and picked a spot on the far wall to ponder.
When he was again able to look the boy in the eye, he saw his nephew’s face had taken on a mistrustful cast that stared right through him.
“You know something don’t you?” the boy asked accusingly.
The man thought about that a moment before realizing he couldn’t lie to him. He blew out a long sigh before going on.
“I think they’re close, son. I think they’re real close.” He stood up and looked down when adding, “What’s more, I think we’re runnin’ out of time. Let’s go.”
Walking to the bed, he grabbed the bag he’d packed their paltry belongings in. After picking it up, he turned and saw the boy hadn’t moved. He remained on the floor, mindlessly folding and unfolding the piece of paper.
“I said let’s go, boy,” Dan said.
It was another moment before the boy brought himself from the floor. Walking toward the man, he reached out suddenly and brought him close, clutching him in a cool embrace. He began weeping. The
man dropped the bag and hugged him back.
“Thank you,” the boy said through his tears. “Thanks for everything you tried to do, Uncle Dan.”
The man’s own emotions welled up but he willed them away. There was no time for this. He pushed the boy from his stranglehold to look him in the eye. The sorrow in the boy’s face broke his heart.
“Hey, kid!” he said playfully. “Enough of that now. We’re not done yet. Not by half. So come on . . . let’s go!”
But the boy wouldn’t let go, simply pulled him closer and held on tighter. The hair on the back of the man’s neck began to rise. Pushing the boy away, he looked him in the eye.
“What is it, Scott?” he asked. “Tell me. What is it?”
The boy took one last sniffle before wiping his eyes. He looked the man in the eye when he answered. “Time’s up.”
The glass windows behind them shattered from the force of a dozen steel canisters spewing a red, noxious gas crashing through at high velocity. They landed spinning, rolling around on the floor and on the bed. The boy doubled over in agony. The man smelled the distinctive odor of garlic blended with something that might have been chili powder. Below them, the building exploded with sound. More windows shattering. Heavy pots and pans falling to the floor. A woman’s scream.
His eyes tearing up from the fumes, the man tackled the boy and pushed him to the floor where he hoped the air was better. He heard the boy wheezing breath into his lungs. Or out of his lungs. The man still wasn’t sure how it worked. All he knew was that his respiratory system was also somehow different since the change. Grabbing the boy by the shirt, he dragged him out of their room and onto the landing at the top of the stairs.
The air was clearer here, but not by much. Only the force of the man’s will got the boy nearer the door that led out to the balcony and freedom, while the sound of heavy boots rushed into the building below. Heavy footfalls also came up the staircase on the side of the building that the man knew was their only escape. Then he heard them on the balcony itself.
Man and boy were still on the floor wheezing when the man grabbed the boy by the hand and squeezed tightly. Looking him in the eye one last time, he said, “I love you kid. Always know that. Now. Do your stuff.”
The boy looked puzzled a moment before understanding. He nodded once and squeezed the man’s hand before letting go, to disappear into the haze scant seconds before men crashed through the door and onto the second floor landing where he lay.
“Don’t you move you dirtbag,” came a muffled shout from behind a plexiglass mask.
That man was followed by a half dozen others, all carrying heavy weapons. Some rushed past him into their bedroom and the other rooms on the second floor, kicking open doors that were closed.
Dan kept his head down and pressed his face to the floor as the sound of another dozen or so men came up the stairs behind him. With the boy safe for the time being, all he could think about at that moment was Maria and all the trouble he had caused her.
His eyes were still squeezed shut against the noxious gas when he felt himself grabbed by his belt and dragged toward the door and the balcony beyond. His stomach screamed in agony as he scraped against the metal landing, but he was grateful anyway to be pulled onto the balcony where the air was clean and the night was cool. They dropped him there. His head bounced once against the old wood before a heavy boot stepped on it.
The men seemed to go quiet a moment, milling about or waiting for orders. Moments later, Dan heard unhurried footsteps come up the inside stairway, step onto the balcony, and stop beside him. Seconds later, a sharp wingtip kicked him savagely in the chest. He curled up in breathless agony as best he could with a heavy boot still pressing on his head.
Fingers snapped. The boot on his head lifted. The wingtip wedged itself beneath his body and rolled him onto his back. Through blurry eyes, Dan looked up and saw two men now standing above him. Wingtip was closest. He was a younger man in a dark suit and silk tie. Another man, this one blond and wearing a stupid smile along with a white suit and an open collared purple shirt, stood close behind.
Wingtip motioned one of his men to hand him something before kneeling down and gently lifting Dan’s head. Cradling it in the crook of his knee, the man removed the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and drenched it with water from a soldier’s canteen. Bringing it to Dan’s face, he tenderly wiped his face and brow. The cool wetness was like a gift from heaven.
“Do you feel you can talk now?” the man asked, his voice oozing sincerity and the milk of human kindness. But Dan wasn’t ready to talk. Not now. Not ever.
The man looked him in the eye. “Come, come,” he said. “You’re going to tell us sooner or later. So let’s just get it out of the way. We have only one question. Where is the boy?”
Tearing his gaze away, Dan looked over the man’s shoulder at the other man, the blond one. He still wore his idiot grin, but his eyes told a different story. They said he didn’t want Dan to tell them anything. That would be no fun. Dan realized suddenly that what he saw in those eyes was similar to what he had seen in the eyes of the ornery pig just last night. Was it only last night?
“I’m waiting Mr. Proctor,” the man continued. “Just tell me and this will all be over. You’ll be glad you did, I promise. Now, where is the boy?”
Dan closed his eyes and braced himself for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t come, though. Not then, anyway. The man simply pushed his head off his knee and let it fall with a thud before standing up and shouting orders.
“Listen up! You know the drill. Everyone, fan out. I want a grid search twenty miles in every direction. I want roadblocks. I want every vehicle stopped and searched. And I want the birds in the air. Now.”
Dan heard them then. The sound of helicopters approaching. They must have landed a few miles away to retain the element of surprise. He smiled to know that the boy had heard them, though. Or maybe he had just sensed them. Like his disappearing act, and his ability to sometimes see things that weren’t there, but once were, Dan knew the boy had a few cards of his own to play.
He drifted into unconsciousness thinking the boy just might make it. His last thought was a prayer.
Dear God in heaven. Please help the boy make it.
Amen.
5
From his perch atop the Diamond Bar, the boy watched the scene unfold. He saw black-uniformed men drag the man onto the porch. The nice man. The man who had protected him. The man who called himself uncle. When the man in a dark suit unleashed a vicious kick, the boy felt it too. Doubling over in pain and empathy, he turned his yellow eyes across the alley to memorize the man’s face, vowing to himself he would see it again.
A moment later, he watched the same man take his uncle’s head tenderly in his own lap and wipe his face with a cool cloth. But through the darkness and the distance that separated them, the man’s question echoed in the boy’s head: “Where is the boy?”
There was another man on that porch who seemed to take a special delight in his uncle’s pain. The boy etched that face into his memory as well, the face of a stupidly grinning blond man in a white suit. He sensed somehow that he was the more dangerous of the two. And when the masked men dragged his bruised and bleeding uncle down the stairs, the boy swore vengeance on them all.
He watched until it was safe to watch no more, until he smelled the men in black getting closer. When the sound of heavy footsteps and violent shoving and shouted orders came from the bar two stories beneath where he lay, he leaped from his second floor hideout into the deep shadows behind the building and ran headlong into the night. He was only a few hundred yards away when he heard the sound of the metal machines that had gathered across the highway begin to take flight.
For the next few hours, both men and machines hunted him through the desert. He crouched low beneath thin brush when the black vehicles came close by. He ducked under the cover of heavy boulders when flying machines roared overhead. He used all his newly acquired sens
es during the chase, eyesight that turned night into day, hearing that captured a deer’s gentle footfall from a mile away. He ran until he could run no more, then walked until he could walk no more, and in the same way that beasts of the forest had learned over millennia how to avoid their own predators, the boy made his escape.
Ten miles outside of Mercy, in desperate need of respite, he found himself standing at the foot of a small hill. Rounded on one side in the usual hill fashion, its other side was sheer cliff face with a curious ninety-degree cutout where the rest of the hill should be. Sensing he was safe for the moment, he walked around the hill and saw on the other side a collection of abandoned and collapsed buildings. Puzzled, he walked toward one of the larger structures that had three sagging walls and no roof. Venturing inside, he stopped to listen. It was another moment before he began to hear it, the distant echoes of an out-of-tune piano playing a bawdy song. Through the distance of time, he began to hear the clink of glasses and the rowdy laughter of boastful men who had once frequented this place; men in fine suits who had staked their claim to the silver and had it pay off handsomely.
It was a mine, he realized. The hill. It was a silver mine.
Beneath those voices he heard the whispers of other men, jealous men who had come late to the party, after the vein was mostly exhausted. Those voices spoke in hushed tones of thievery and robbery and murder. It dawned on him then that these abandoned buildings were what was left of a town that had sprouted up around the mine. He began to hear the echoes of all the thousands of people who had once lived here.
Leaving that place to its ghosts, the boy walked toward a concrete, windowless structure across the way. Once inside, his head began to throb with the residual memory of men sleeping off their drunks. But within these same walls were voices he now recognized, the tortured whispers of those jealous men from the bar, whose plans and schemes had brought them to this place. Stepping again into the night, the boy followed the voices into the middle of what he now knew had been the main street of the town. Here, the whispers of those men turned to screams at the place where their lives had ended, their necks snapped at the end of a rope. The boy’s own head snapped back in empathy. His neck began to burn.
Applewood (Book 2): Fledge Page 6
