by Aric Davis
“Pass them over, please, along with a sheet of paper.”
Cynthia did as she was told, then began quizzically watching Mrs. Martin drawing on the blank sheet. When she was done, Mrs. Martin held the paper aloft. There were three words written on it.
“Read this to me, please,” said Mrs. Martin.
“Red, green, and purple.”
“One out of three isn’t bad,” said Mrs. Martin with a grin as she set down the paper, then ran a finger over it. “But this time I want you to actually read the words.”
Cynthia grimaced at the paper. She had read the words, and there was no way she had read them wrong. She had known how to write her colors since before kindergarten, but when she looked again, she saw that Mrs. Martin somehow was right.
“You tricked me,” she said.
Mrs. Martin shook her head. “You tricked yourself.”
Looking at the paper, Cynthia could see that the word “red” had been written in green, “yellow” had been written in purple, and “purple”—the only one she’d gotten right—in black.
“What your mind did here is the same thing it did when you were reading the right card back to me when I was asking you for the wrong one. Again, when you slow down and don’t just feast upon what repetition presents to you, you’ll easily find the correct answer. It’s just not always easy to go against some of our base ideas.”
“So it’s hard to think about another card when I saw the real one that you were looking at?” Cynthia asked, and Mrs. Martin nodded.
“Weaving comes so easily to you that you expend precious little effort when you do it. However, when you’re trying to tell me something different than what you see, your brain gets confused, just like with the words written in the wrong colors. Do you want to try the cards again?”
Cynthia nodded, and Mrs. Martin pushed aside the crayons and paper and took up the cards again. She shuffled, cut the deck, and then slid a card from it.
“Six of clubs,” said Cynthia, and Mrs. Martin smiled as she turned over the ten of hearts.
“Very impressive. Almost as fast as when I was only looking for the right answer and you managed to change the suit, number, and color. That’s about as good as it can get.”
Cynthia grinned, watching as Mrs. Martin cut the deck again and took another card. “Two with hearts,” said Cynthia, and Mrs. Martin laid down the king of spades.
“Impressive again,” said Mrs. Martin. “Do you want to keep playing?”
Cynthia did, even if she wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose of the exercise was. Guessing the cards was fun, and the second game, with its trick, was even more fun.
“I’ll call it out from here on,” said Mrs. Martin, “so make sure you listen to whether I want you to tell me what I’m holding, or anything but the card that I’m holding.”
Cynthia and Mrs. Martin finally put the cards away a little over two hours after they had started. Cynthia had the beginnings of a headache, and though she didn’t complain about it to Mrs. Martin, she had felt a small relief when her teacher called for a break.
After Mrs. Martin returned to the table, she asked if Cynthia would like to take the dogs for a walk with her. “I could use the exercise, and I bet Stanley and Libby would like to stretch their legs as well.”
“Sure,” said Cynthia, and Mrs. Martin nodded and went to get the leashes for the dogs, then readied the leaping animals by attaching the leashes to their collars.
“We can walk North Harbor for a little bit,” said Mrs. Martin. “May as well get out and walk while I still can.”
Cynthia followed Mrs. Martin out of the apartment, the two dogs straining at their leashes and making Cynthia giggle with joy.
Once the dogs had done their business on the lawn out front and Mrs. Martin had gathered the mess in a small bag, the four of them walked past the leasing office and away from their familiar section of North Harbor.
Cynthia loved the feeling of the sun on her face, the wind in her hair, and the way that Libby pulled at her lead. Looking back at Mrs. Martin, Cynthia could see she was smiling as well. The weather was perfect for a little walk, finally not too hot.
The rumble of a truck with an exhaust issue turned them both toward the leasing office, where the truck in question found a space to park and a man got out. Cynthia could see another man in the truck, but he was boring, while the man walking was not. He looked familiar in a way that she couldn’t place, and when Cynthia turned to Mrs. Martin she could see that she had been staring at the truck as well.
“Come on,” said Mrs. Martin, as though Cynthia had been the only one who had been momentarily distracted by the truck. “Do you think they’re going to move in?” Cynthia asked. When she looked to Mrs. Martin, she saw that her friend had an odd expression on her face.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Martin, “but I suppose we shall see.”
CHAPTER 52
Darryl gave the fat prick in the leasing office of the shitty-looking apartment complex a shove, reminding him that his porno collection wasn’t seeing a whole lot of love at the moment and he’d better hustle through this leasing process and attend to it, then decided it probably wasn’t even necessary. There might be a multistate manhunt for them, they might’ve left a growing pile of dead civilians and police in their wake, but still the workaday world was utterly oblivious to them. That would change over time, but by then Darryl had no intention of letting it happen without doing something to avoid it.
A beard and a new wardrobe won’t hurt things either, thought Darryl as he left the leasing office and climbed back in the truck. As he entered, a nervous-looking Terry asked, “Did it go OK?”
Darryl nodded and threw the truck in reverse, pulled out, and then drove down to the far end of the lot, past a little girl and an old lady walking a pair of dachshunds.
“About as good as it possibly could have,” said Darryl. “I gave the greasy fuck running the place a little shove, but all he really needed was a credit card. I think I probably could have used my real name and still gotten a place.”
“Thank fucking God,” said Terry. “We could use a little bit of good luck for once.”
Darryl and Terry had spent more than four thousand dollars at a Meijer outside of town, purchasing a computer, modem, hair dye, toiletries, two platform beds, bedding, clothing, and food, but it still only took about fifteen minutes to unload the truck. Terry had the computer set up on the cheap-looking kitchen table that came with the apartment within fifteen minutes of locking the door behind them, then moved down the hall to start assembling the beds while Darryl got to work.
It was the same deal—trolling chat rooms for kids on the other side of the wire who betrayed any sort of a bent angle. The work was tedious and exhausting, and not only did they have no access to cocaine, they had forgotten to even buy a coffeemaker in their trip to the store. Darryl tried not to think about it. After all, they’d been through hell and back to get to where they currently sat. He was lucky to still be free to look.
Darryl cruised through a Castlevania chat room, slowly working his way around the lame names and engaging just long enough with each to check them off as worthless goods. He was engaged in the work, but the thought of some secret government agency looking for him still weighed heavily on his mind. The news hadn’t gotten the story right, sticking with the idea that two fugitives suspected of killing in Mexico had been involved in a crime spree in the US involving the deaths of four police officers and two civilians. He had to admit that the letter of the reporting was right—Terry and he had been at the root of those crimes—but the story from the Badger docks was still miles from the truth.
The only reason for them to hold to that is if they’re being told to, thought Darryl as he entered a chat room focused on The Simpsons. No reporter would ever let go of a story of two cops helping them shoot their way off the docks—not now and not ever
. It was too damned titillating. Darryl didn’t have the sort of power to have turned all the cops at the dock upon one another, but even if that’s what had happened, he had a feeling the news would have just told the story of him and Terry killing a legion of police officers. Thinking about it made Darryl feel sick. He had no idea what would happen if he was interned by a group powerful enough to make that happen, and he had no desire to find out. They’ll crack your head open when they’re done with you, thought Darryl. There’s no point in trying to fool yourself otherwise.
Darryl found a teen on The Simpsons chat who at first seemed like a good candidate, but he quickly came to feel that she’d likely brushed aside most of her bend with weed and psychedelics. It was a lost cause in any case, regardless of the reason. There was nothing for it but to just keep looking.
Noise behind him made Darryl swivel in his seat, but it was just Terry dragging the second boxed bed into the other bedroom, grunting as he lugged the awkwardly shaped thing. Darryl turned back to the screen and the task at hand. Only five minutes later he had another lead, a kid with the handle of OICU812. Darryl was into him like a magician, seizing control in seconds and then worming his way with increasing excitement through twelve-year-old Robert Roberts.
As Darryl quickly discovered, young Robert had been up to some very naughty things. Robert’s father was a regional manager for State Farm, and Robert had been taking his sweet time going through his father’s accounts, figuring out just how much his old man was worth—which, it turned out, was a surprisingly great deal. Who knew insurance agents pulled in that kind of green? In addition to discovering the depths of his own father’s wealth, clever Robert had found a way to bleed a single dollar off of every single direct deposit customer his father was connected to—which was every State Farm customer in nearly half the Midwest. Not only that, Robert knew that simply taking the dollar wouldn’t cover his tracks sufficiently—his father was obsessive over math and money—so he had first increased each of these direct deposits to be billed an extra dollar on their monthly premium, a dollar that eventually wound up in his account. So far Robert had only amassed a sum of about twelve thousand dollars, but by the time he graduated high school, it would amount to a very considerable pile of seed money.
Darryl played in Robert the way a concert violinist would handle a Stradivarius—he was cautious but determined to push his chosen instrument to its full, wondrous potential. Darryl plucked at Robert both carefully and violently, twisting and poking his way through the boy but never damaging him. Darryl had never concocted a scheme even close to the one the boy had set up, and the kid was only twelve. There was a lot to learn from Robert Roberts, and Darryl planned to glean as much as he could before helping himself to any money or placing Robert at too much risk. Darryl had blown it with Vincent but would not make that sort of mistake again. Robert was special, and Darryl was going to handle him with kid gloves.
CHAPTER 53
“He’s on,” said Pat as he snapped back to his place in the TRC. “Did you get it? Do we have the IP address?”
Pat swiveled his head around the ring of waiting faces, his focus slowing on Jessica and then stopping on Brinn.
“No IP yet,” said Brinn. “You were only on there with him for a few minutes tops, and you know how chat rooms are. Once the text scrolls offscreen, it’s gone. If he’s not e-mailing you or registering to some forum, there’s a limited window for us to follow his footprints. Do you think you can get him to talk to you again?”
“What the fuck? We were on there forever, or at least that’s how it felt, and the whole time he was going through me and into all of this shit that I didn’t even know was in my head!”
“It wasn’t in your head,” said Jessica. “That was all Frank. He’s your muscle, remember? He had a plan in place for when Darryl or Terry got into you, and you followed along perfectly. I know it’s tough to think about doing it again, but that’s what has to happen.”
“This isn’t just some little ‘plan,’” said Pat as he stood. He sort of wished he’d been wearing special gear or a headset or something that he could strip off, toss to the ground, and further separate himself from the situation, but he was just standing there dressed normally, just plain old Pat. “He stole a bunch of money—like, a shitload from a bunch of accounts hooked into what was supposed to my dad’s bank. It was easy to do, but did I really just help him steal all of that cash?”
“It was really stolen, but it was all money from the TRC,” said Jessica. “We’ll get it back once we catch these two, which is just another reason why I need you to be in those chat rooms as much as possible. He will be back, he’ll be more trusting, and we’ll get this figured out.” She flashed a smile, the sort of look Pat was starting to think meant, Fuck you very much.
Ignoring his exasperation, Jessica just maintained the grin, then grabbed the fast-food trash from his desk, and pitched it into the can under it. “How long do you need, Pat?”
“Before I go back in? I just got out!”
“You need to change your mind-set, man,” said Geoff. “That dude on the other side of the monitor doesn’t know there’s anything wrong with you. Think how often you’re online, and then imagine that you’re a fucking twelve-year-old kid with endless time on his hands. You wouldn’t be taking anything more than the occasional bathroom break, and that would be if you weren’t pissing in a jug.”
“God, men are disgusting,” said Brinn, shaking her head, clearly more amused than grossed out.
“Hey, if you could you would, and you know it,” said Rick, and the three burst into peals of laughter.
Jessica let them carry on for a moment as Pat stared at the other researchers as if they’d gone insane, and then raised a hand to gather their attention.
“Let’s not get offtrack,” said Jessica. “Pat, how long?” When Pat only shook his head, she pressed. “Serious answer, Pat. How long until you can go back in?”
Her eyes were boring into him like a pair of drills. Pat knew she wasn’t a TK, but she was also a woman who was used to giving an order and having it followed. He was feeling like he was arguing with a five-star general or a middle school teacher. It didn’t matter what he said. What she wanted was what was going to happen, and any delays would be remembered, ruminated upon, and punished.
“Fifteen minutes,” said Pat finally, and Jessica smiled.
“Fifteen minutes would be perfect. You should go stretch your legs. It could be a while until we get a handle on these guys.”
CHAPTER 54
Mom drove Cynthia to Maryanne Fisher’s birthday party, Maryanne’s gift of a pair of Barbie dolls wrapped and sitting on Cynthia’s lap. It was Mom’s first day off since taking her new job, and though Cynthia was a little sad that she was going to be with her friends instead of her mother, she knew her Mom would be around the house with some of the other parents. Cynthia had heard her talking to Mrs. Fisher on the phone two nights prior, and both Mom and Mrs. Fisher seemed very excited to have some wine and catch up on the divorce proceedings and to talk about that “cheating bastard.” Cynthia had been floating in and out of the space over the apartments on her own, something she knew she wasn’t supposed to do, but it was an attraction impossible to resist. Still, she’d managed to catch most of the conversation.
Mom parked in front of the Fishers’ mailbox, and Cynthia smiled sadly as she looked at Maryanne’s house. It was smaller than the yellow house where she used to live, but it was much bigger than the apartment, and Cynthia guiltily felt a little jealous of her friend. Her parents are still together, too, thought Cynthia. Don’t forget that. And the ugliness of this fact made her want to heave the present into the bushes and get back in the car.
Cynthia didn’t throw the present, of course. Instead, she followed Mom up the path to the house and then waited with Mom for Mrs. Fisher to answer the doorbell.
“Ruth and Cynthia, what a treat,” said Mrs
. Fisher as she opened the door.
Mom and Mrs. Fisher hugged and didn’t let go of each other when they were done. There was something weird about how excited they were to get together.
“Cynthia, the girls are out back,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Warren is out there with them, Ruth,” she said to Mom, “so we can get to the important stuff. I’ve got a bottle of chardonnay that is just begging for a friend and a pair of glasses.”
Mom and Mrs. Fisher walked behind Cynthia through the house and into the kitchen, and then Cynthia left them there, walking on through the open sliding door into the backyard. Cynthia could hear Mom and Mrs. Fisher laughing behind her, but she didn’t care. Maryanne’s parents had gone all out.
The invitation Mom had picked up from Dad had a circus theme, and Mom had liked it enough to throw it on the fridge with a magnet, but it didn’t begin to do justice to the setup for the party. Maryanne’s parents had refashioned their entire fenced-in backyard like it actually was a circus. Paper elephants lined the back of the fence, while a row of great cats covered the right side, and a cadre of paper clowns decorated the left. Carnival-style games were set up all over the backyard. There was Skee-Ball, a plinko board, water guns used to shoot pop cans off of a rail, pin the tail on the lion, and several other games that Cynthia didn’t recognize.
Cynthia set her gift on a table that was about half-full with other similarly wrapped packages and ran over to where Maryanne and a number of other little girls Cynthia recognized were sitting in front of Mr. Fisher.
“Cynthia’s here,” cried Maryanne as Cynthia began walking over to her with a grin plastered across her face.
“Well, that means we’re only waiting on two more,” said Mr. Fisher. “Cynthia, go ahead and have a seat. I was just showing these kids a few of my magic tricks.”
