Applewood (Book 2): Fledge

by Myers, Brendan P.

  7

  It was a few minutes before closing time. Only a dozen or so cars were scattered throughout the brightly lit parking lot. One of them — a well maintained 1977 AMC Pacer — belonged to a thirty-three-year old medical transcriptionist named Lisa Scalabrini. It was unusual for her to be shopping at this late hour, but earlier that afternoon, her boss had asked her to work late and she readily agreed. Her mother’s birthday was coming up next month and she could always use extra money.

  She was in the frozen dessert aisle when a voice came over the intercom to announce the store would be closing in fifteen minutes. Glancing into her cart, she was relieved to see most of her shopping was already done. She debated a while before opening the freezer and reaching for a half-pint of mint chocolate chip. Holding the container in her hand for only a moment, she decided to put it back. There was a cute new radiology tech on the fourth floor who didn’t wear a ring. She was honest enough with herself to know she could stand to lose a few pounds.

  Closing the door, she was pushing her cart to the checkout when she suddenly let it go. Her cart rolled to a gentle stop against a display of Diet Coke. She stood there a moment frozen in place. A brief hint of puzzlement crossed her face before she walked over to reach beneath a closed checkout for a hand basket.

  Walking a few aisles over, she stopped at the rack of boxed cake treats and threw two boxes of Hostess Cupcakes and two boxes of Twinkies into the basket. When she looked to the lower shelf, she spied the mother lode: Suzy Q’s. She grabbed four boxes of those and took them all back to the checkout.

  While waiting for an old woman to write a check, she glanced over and saw the bagger put can after can of cat food into a brown paper bag. She began to salivate. After the old woman had moved on, Lisa emptied her basket and paid her money.

  While carrying the substitute groceries out to her car, a shadow moved close behind her. She heard sneakered footsteps on the wet ground. She wasn’t concerned about them. Unlocking her car, she put the groceries in the back and then stepped away from the door to let the boy in. She closed the door behind him and walked to the driver’s side.

  Pulling out of the lot, she drove across Elm to the Gulf station, though her tank was already full. She had filled it just that morning. She topped it off anyway. The teenager working the glass-encased booth gave her a funny look when she paid her three-dollars and twenty-eight cents.

  Back in the car, she glanced into her rearview mirror. The boy was slumped low as if trying to hide. She began to get the distinct impression he regretted choosing her, however also knew it had nothing to do with who she was or what she looked like. It was the damned car. What made the Pacer so distinct was a huge glass bubble taking up most of the rear third of the vehicle. It reminded the boy of old time helicopters and gave him no place to hide. But he was here now and he needed to get to Colorado Springs, and for the girl, it was now the most important thing in the world that she take him there.

  8

  Arthur worked late into the evening, finishing up some paperwork in his office on the first floor of their concrete headquarters on the air force base. He had just finished signing off on the final report of the Jacksonville event, and was now reviewing a proposed contract between Atlas Consulting and the government of Ecuador. The old man was keen on moving into international markets. Arthur had no objection, but he did have reservations about manpower and logistics. He wanted certain protections written into the document as well as a careful translation.

  While marking up the contract, he happened to glance up from his desk and look across the room, to a bank of television screens built into a credenza along the far wall. One of them was currently showing a summary of that day’s news, which apparently included the president standing at a podium in front of some now all too familiar faces.

  Setting the contract aside, he reached for the remote and turned up the volume. Though months had passed since his shooting, the president’s voice remained raspy.

  “. . . by the time we came into office, Nicaragua had already fallen. Tonight, guerrillas in El Salvador have launched what they call their ‘final offensive’ to achieve their goal of making that nation the second Communist state on the mainland of North America. Against this backdrop, terrorists continue to practice their own brand of evil in Europe and throughout the Middle East. Some believe their long term goal is to bring their terrorist practices to these very shores. Now, there are some who say the situation is hopeless and there is nothing we can do to stop it. Well, standing behind me today is a man who does not believe that and is offering his help.

  Many of you already know Robert Stetson as the young two-term Governor of Virginia — well, compared to me, everyone is young — but how many of you also know that in his younger days, Bob served in the Peace Corps, helping impoverished nations overcome decades of poverty and oppression? That is why today, I am asking Bob to become America’s roving ambassador for Democracy, a kind of Special Envoy, if you will. Bob will serve as our point man, spreading the good news about the benefits of our system throughout the world.

  In this newly created cabinet-level position, Bob will call upon friend and foe alike, alerting all that America is ready to help those who wish to embrace freedom, but also stands ready to defend it against those who wish to do it harm. Tonight, I ask the Senate to move quickly on this nomination so Bob can get this important work started as soon as possible. In fact, there’s an old story about a farmer and a lawyer that illustrates my point . . .”

  Arthur turned down the volume and looked more closely at the smiling man behind the president. He looked different somehow than he had in his campaign commercials of only a year ago. Older. Sadder. His wife was inscrutable, having perfected the vapid smile and loving stare of a politician’s wife. Still, something struck Arthur as odd about the scene, and it took him a moment to figure it out. When he did, he almost rejected it out of hand. It wasn’t necessarily unusual that the boy wasn’t there. School had started, after all. Even so, you’d think with his father being appointed to such an important post he might be there. The commercials that had replayed endlessly during the campaign showed a family that stayed together through thick and thin, through good times and bad.

  Eventually, he tried to set those thoughts aside and picked up the contract again, but the niggling questions would not leave his brain. It was too much of a coincidence. Setting the contract aside, he considered for a moment before picking up the phone and dialing a three-digit extension. A moment later, a voice came on the line.

  “Wilson, here.”

  Wilson was one of the young Turks within Atlas, an excellent analyst who left very few footprints. Like everyone within Atlas, his discretion was assured.

  “Wilson. Arthur here. I wonder if you might come up to my office for a moment. I’ve got an assignment for you.”

  After hanging up, Arthur glanced again at the television. The president’s introduction of his nominee for — what was it again? Some kind of roving democracy ambassador? — was over, replaced by a report on California’s medfly infestation.

  Almost immediately, he started having second thoughts. He almost called down to intercept Wilson and tell him never mind. It really was a waste of company resources, using them to satisfy his own curiosities. Then again, what good was power if it wasn’t used? Anyway, it shouldn’t take Wilson long to find out. After all, he had only one question. Where was the boy?

  9

  With the woman now snoring beside him, Agent Richards climbed out of bed and walked naked into the kitchen. He reached behind him and felt scratches along his back, remnants of the woman’s insatiable lovemaking. Though she was only a low-level functionary within the Russian embassy, it never hurt to groom a new contact. Reaching for the refrigerator door, he winced at the pain in his back and smiled. Sometimes it hurt.

  He pulled out a carton of milk, then hunted through the cabinets for a glass. Pouring himself a tall one, he drank it down while glancing around the small ki
tchen. It wasn’t much, but he knew it was a castle compared to anything the girl might find in Moscow. It really was far too easy to turn these people, he thought. In fact, the whole damn Soviet empire was going to collapse one day of its own weight without any prodding from the west, he knew. But talk like that was heresy within the agency, and that was cool with him.

  Still thirsty, he turned around to reach for the milk and froze. His eyes widened. The cheap jelly glass left his hand and shattered on the cheap Linoleum. Moments later, his arm moved as if underwater as he reached for the milk carton to take a closer look at the photograph emblazoned on the side. He had read somewhere they started doing this, heard about that poor kid in New York who had vanished into thin air and instigated the whole thing. He even recalled thinking at the time it was a good idea, though he never imagined he would ever recognize one of them.

  But he did indeed recognize the boy now staring back at him from the side of this particular milk carton. He even recognized the photo beneath bold black letters that read MISSING. The other two boys had been cropped out of it, and they’d had to blow it up a little. Still, he remembered the long brown hair and the smiling face of a shirtless boy in the woods. Grainier now and in black and white, there was no doubt it was him, even had his name and date of birth not been printed beneath the picture. Richards flashed back for a moment to the blond boy shooting baskets by himself and couldn’t help but smile. It was a clever enough trick. He made a mental note to put it into his own bag while pouring what was left of the milk into the sink.

  Walking to the trash, he began tearing the carton into tiny pieces. Caught up in it, he didn’t even notice he had stepped on a sliver of glass and was dripping blood onto the floor. He wondered just how many of these were out there. Hundreds? Probably thousands. Maybe, tens of thousands. As he ripped and tore the milk carton into hundreds of pieces, all the while he whispered under his breath and smiled.

  “You bastard. You little bastard. You bastard. You little bastard.”

  10

  Although he would not remember it in the morning, asleep in his own bed in a government purchased house in the small Massachusetts town of Dutton, a blond haired boy who was not a natural athlete smiled in his sleep.

  Part Three

  In the Garden of the Gods

  Chapter Five

  1

  As they approached the city through the blackness of midnight, rounded hills and craggy peaks rose against the nighttime sky to block out the starlight. Like an advancing ocean wave, the domelike foothills that cradled the city appeared to crest against a series of larger, rounded peaks beyond, until they all seemed to come crashing down against the snow encrusted majesty of the largest mountain Dugan had ever seen with his own eyes.

  Craning his neck to have a better look, he smiled to think he had at first regretted his choice of vehicle. But it turned out the bubbled windows of an AMC Pacer were the perfect platform for viewing such a grand spectacle. He sat back again only when he remembered he hadn’t come here to sightsee.

  The car got off the highway a few minutes later and drove into the city proper. He had the woman pull into the parking lot of an all night convenience store, where he handed her the business card. She’d know what to do.

  He had learned nearly everything there was to know about the woman during the two hour drive and they hadn’t passed a word. She was unmarried but hadn’t given up hope. A few gray hairs had sprouted recently that had her a little worried. She’d spent all her life in Rocky Ford and was sometimes jealous of friends who had gotten out. There had been no serious relationships for a long time. Her mother gave her a subtle but very hard time about that. She visited local nursing homes three times a week just to keep the old folks company. None of her friends knew it.

  Dugan had come to like Lisa very much.

  She returned from the store a few minutes later with a hand written note. The man behind the counter had been very helpful. Although he wasn’t familiar with the specific address, he was certain his directions would get them close. They drove east a while, soon finding themselves outside the city and into the foothills of the mountains beyond. Houses and businesses grew scarcer. Roads became steeper. The car slowed as it came upon an intersection, and after double-checking the name of the street with her directions, Lisa took a right. The car began climbing a steep road carved into the side of a hill. About a half a mile up, the car slowed. Dugan looked to his left and saw between the tall trees was a gated entrance to a private road. Lisa pulled over and stopped in front.

  Dugan stepped out of the car and into the chilly night air. He stretched his legs a moment, glancing across his shoulder to take in the breathtaking view of the city below. When he approached the heavy iron gate, he saw it was anchored between two stone pillars. A gold plaque affixed to the left pillar read, “767 Mountain Road.” In smaller letters beneath it were the words: “The Institute for Human Understanding.” On the right pillar he saw embedded there some sort of a buzzer or alerting mechanism. With the car still idling behind him, he walked over and pressed the button, though he was certain he was being watched the whole time.

  Moments later came a high pitched whirring noise followed by a click, and the massive gate began swinging inward. He watched as it opened in invitation, yet hesitated before taking a few tentative steps toward it. Before he stepped across the entrance, he turned around to look at Lisa. She really was much prettier than she realized. Walking back to the car, he had her roll down her window. She looked out at him with a vacant stare.

  “Look,” he began. “You’re not going to remember any of this, and there’s a good reason for that. But I just wanna say thanks a lot for all your help.” Glancing into the back seat, he saw the mess of Hostess wrappers he had left behind and smiled. “Sorry about the mess. Make sure you clean that up before you go to bed, okay? And stop being so hard on yourself! You’re pretty special, you know that? You’re going to find someone, I promise.”

  He let go of his grip on her mind for a moment and saw a wisp of a smile appear. “In fact,” he continued, “you are going to wake up tomorrow morning and feel good about yourself. Better than you have in a long time. I promise. And . . . you are going to believe there isn’t anything you can’t do if you put your mind to it. What’s more, you will know that is the truth.”

  He tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t, so he just looked into her eyes and said, “You can go now. I release you. And thanks again.” Turning, he walked through the gate. He heard the car idle a few more moments before hearing it back up to turn down the road the two had traveled. While walking, he felt the wind kick up a little bit. His thin flannel shirt flapped in the breeze. But he was still warm inside from his earlier feeding. He quickly put that thought out of his mind.

  A few hundred yards down the road, the deep forest ended and he stepped into bright moonlight. A vast expanse of carefully tended lawn stretched out before him. Raising his head, he saw beyond the acres of lawn, a large stone mansion loomed high on a hill. Windows numbering in the hundreds peered down upon him. Battlements rising on either side gave the place the look of a forbidding castle. Before allowing any second thoughts, he reminded himself he was a hunted man with nowhere else to go. And after all, he had been invited.

  When almost there, he walked over a small bluff and smelled something wonderful in the air. Veering off the roadway onto the wet grass, he came upon a trestled garden. He wandered through, letting the dank smell of pungent fertilizer blend in his nostrils with the sweet smell of wildflowers and fruited plants. He stayed there a while, until he realized he was only stalling.

  Leaving the garden, he approached the house and walked up its stone steps. The doors opened at his approach. Looking up, he saw the stone faced man who had given him the business card. The man nodded at him before stepping aside to let Dugan pass. He walked into a brightly lit reception area with an enormous crystal chandelier hanging two stories above. An intricately detailed oriental car
pet was centered beneath it. The rest of the floor was reddish hued marble. A vase on the wall opposite was bigger than he was. It depicted snarling dragons and violent shipwrecks.

  The man closed the door behind them, then turned without a word and began walking to the right. Dugan followed, his grungy sneakers squeaking on the marble floor. Sconces hung along the walls every fifteen feet or so accented various paintings and other fine art objects. Halfway down the seemingly endless hallway, the man opened a pair of doors and motioned Dugan inside. He walked into what appeared to be a medium sized library. A warm fire blazed in a fireplace along the far wall. The cozy sitting area in front of the fire had two leather chairs. The man walked to the one on the left and gestured Dugan take a seat. He then walked to the other end of the room to a small bar area, returning a minute later to hand Dugan a mug of steaming liquid.

  The warm fire was already helping Dugan shake off his weariness. After taking a sip of the liquid, he felt almost himself again. Bitter and sweet at the same time, it tasted of almonds and honey, though with a familiar coppery tang. He took another long sip while watching the man walk to the doors through which they had entered and leave the room. Almost too comfortable now, feeling a half-remembered sense of human sleepiness, he turned to stare into the fire and jumped out of his seat. Some of the precious liquid swirled out of his mug to spill into the lap of his jeans.

  There was a man there. He was smiling.

  “I’ll bet it’s not half as much fun when someone does it to you,” he said.

  2

  Once over his surprise, sensing the man meant him no harm, Dugan smiled at the trick and flashed back to his own liberal use of it, both with his uncle, and later, in his carnival act. His smile faded some when he recalled it was also what helped him escape from the men in black uniforms. He looked down when answering the man’s question.