Libby went to get dinner. He wished he could have gotten it himself. He thought of just leaving while she was out. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking, staying here. It made perfect sense less than five minutes ago, but now a sense of disconnect settled on him.
Yet, when he got up from the chair and thought about slinging his backpack over his shoulder and leaving forever, something pulled on him. It was warm here. Cozy. And anyway, he couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.
twenty-seven
Estimated flight time from San Francisco to Seattle was just over two hours. Drive time at under twenty hours. The flight was so short, no one bothered with business class—everyone flew economy. No meals were served. Low fat crackers that resembled tagboard in both taste and appearance were handed to everyone with ice filled plastic cups of complimentary beverages, and a napkin.
Patience was Joseph Madrid’s most valued virtue. If something took five hours or five years, he would wait. What mattered was getting it done correctly the first time. There was no need to rush. It’s what made him so good at what he did, on the record, and off the record.
But the flight felt long. It was as though the gods of time toyed with the hands of a clock, watching him squirm. His team also watched him, checking for cracks. But he gave no hint of impatience. To his team, Joseph Madrid was as sturdy and as calm as ever.
The phone call this morning from the central call center had been unexpected. Over the past ten years he had wondered what had happened to his project to the point of obsession. After the incident with the helicopter, the boy had vanished. There had been no rumors of strange activity from authorities. Archcroft had checked homeless shelters, prisons, under bridges, everywhere. Baker was gone.
Honestly, that’s exactly what he’d expected. Joseph Madrid knew everything about his project: where he was born, who he was born to, where he lived, what he had done as a child. It’s what made him so paranoid about any chance of escape. The street, the gray world of society which most people only thought they knew, was Baker’s home. He had grown up in violence, in a haze of chemicals. Slipping back in would be easy. The challenge for Baker was conventional culture.
Jaden Baker was also patient. He lay in wait, ready to strike when the moment was right. Dalton had almost paid with his life. He was stubborn, resolute, a consummate survivor. Determined to regain control, the boy had resorted to suicide. Giving up control, letting Madrid take him: Baker had not done it willingly. Foolish people like Dalton believed the boy, came to like him as a pet. Endearing as he may have been, Madrid knew Jaden Baker was a weapon waiting to be deployed.
The boy was clever in ways Madrid had not foreseen. Afraid someone would make a mistake, Madrid had ordered a tracking device be put inside the boy. If he were to escape, they could find and retrieve him. But Baker cut and removed the device, then threw it away.
But Madrid was a thorough man with back-up plans. He didn’t let the same thing happen twice. Jaden was not the first project he’d lost, though he was the first to be spotted again.
The plane landed in the early afternoon. A fleet of cars waited for them. He didn’t expect to find the boy today. He may have already left the city. After taking the call this morning, he received word that Jaden had left the hospital, dressed like the doctor he disabled. A lot of work lay ahead of them.
This time there were leads. Clues of the life Jaden had lived here in Seattle would hint to where he was going next.
Dr. Clarkson, a first year resident in internal medicine, sat in an upper-floor office of the hospital. He had not returned to his rounds since the incident this morning. Instead, he was dressed in his own clothes, waiting for Archcroft’s team to arrive.
Madrid wanted to speak to him personally. Clarkson was the first to come in contact with Baker and thus held interesting information. The rest of his team could interview the staff, in hopes of gleaning any interesting side facts about the John Doe admitted this morning.
He found Clarkson sitting on a desk, drumming his fingers on his thighs. When Madrid came in, the doctor stood at attention and reached out his hand to shake. Joseph gave it to him, shook it firmly, then asked the doctor to sit in a chair.
Joseph did not sit behind the desk. Madrid wanted the conversation to be friendly, as details tended to flow more smoothly when there wasn’t too much pressure. He sat in a chair opposite Clarkson.
“Wow, it’s so nice to meet you, sir,” the young doctor said, grabbing the armrests and giving them a squeeze.
“Thank you,” Madrid replied, smiling politely and bowing. “It’s nice to meet you. May I call you Brian?”
“Absolutely,” Clarkson said.
“Good. I hear you had a busy morning. Why don’t you tell me about it.” Madrid took a sip of his coffee and held the cup in both hands.
Dr. Clarkson related the tale to Madrid, how he scanned Baker’s arm and found the document with the emergency information; how he was about to call the mainline when Baker woke and he and Amanda, a nurse who had come to help, had been locked in a chokehold until they lost consciousness. Then Baker swapped clothing and was gone.
Madrid knew that most of that story was false, having been briefed with different information. He did not care. He understood Brian wanted to sound more powerful than Jaden, that he’d been overtaken rather than coerced. No one knew Jaden Baker like he did. Madrid had seen the boy at his most vulnerable and his most powerful. In some ways the boy was like a rattlesnake: he gave warning, would flee rather than fight, but would strike with venomous power when threatened. To the doctor and nurse, Madrid was certain, Jaden would have given warning.
“He can be dangerous,” Madrid remarked, allowing himself a knowing smile and friendly nod to Clarkson. “You would’ve had no chance of taking him alone.”
“I think you’re right,” Clarkson answered.
“What did he look like?” Madrid asked.
“Homeless. Long hair and beard.”
Joseph nodded. “Were his clothes clean or dirty? How did he smell?”
Clarkson thought for a second. “Clean. He didn’t smell.”
“How tall was he?”
“Just under six feet, I’d say.”
“Build?”
“Slender, but strong. I saw muscle definition through his shirt.”
Madrid already had a sketch artist ask Clarkson and the nurse all these questions. The two renderings together gave them something to go on, but not much. By now Jaden had cut his hair and shaved off his beard, making the lower half of his face unrecognizable.
“Thank you so much for your cooperation, I know it was a difficult time. If I may ask a few more questions, and then I will leave you to your work. I hear you’re quite the resident here.”
Clarkson smiled confidently. Flattery was the best way to grease the wheel.
“Was he a quiet man or loud? How did he react to you?”
“He was quiet. We didn’t realize he was awake until after. He never raised his voice. He was calm. Well, sort of. When he saw the information on the computer he destroyed it and said it wasn’t our business.”
“He saw his file?” Madrid asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Clarkson said.
Then Jaden knew Madrid’s name and Archcroft’s. That changed the game. He had been careful and clear with the staff that Jaden was never to hear his name. To fully control a person, he had to be in total control, the other could have none at all. Madrid knew his name, Baker did not know his. It was a finer detail.
“Did he do anything out of the ordinary?” Madrid asked, his final question.
“I’ll say. He broke glass without touching it. Is that why Archcroft is interested in him?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair, eager to hear more.
“Yes. That’s why we’re interested.”
Computers kept records, even when the user tried deleting them. This was true of the X-ray machine. Neither Dr. Clarkson nor nurse Blithley admitted to scanning Jaden’s head and f
inding the array inside. Confronting either with the lie was pointless, so he didn’t waste his time. Even if he did confront them, they would inquire its purpose. If Madrid did not ask about it, and neither admitted to seeing it, they could not ask questions, and he wouldn’t need to lie.
The films of Jaden’s brain were developed. Comparing it with the last film from ten years ago, he was pleased to see the array had adjusted with Jaden’s brain and had not, as some feared, interfered with activity. Having a view of his developed skull would enable them to accurately render an even better image of Baker’s face.
“Hospital staff said a John Doe was picked up at a drugstore here in town,” said Loren Dillard, coming into the office after the doctor had been dismissed. “He collapsed in the store with seizure-like symptoms, and bleeding from the nose and ears. Once in the hospital he seemed asleep.”
“We know that already. We don’t have anything new.” Madrid said, pacing. Indeed, preliminary reports said the same thing. That Dillard simply confirmed it did not add value to the investigation. They needed clues, hints as to where he was now, where he came from, where he was going.
“We do have something new,” said Dillard, smiling.
His trademark smirk piqued Madrid’s interest.
“What is it?” he asked.
“He didn’t come in alone.”
twenty-eight
There was something cute about the way Libby swirled her plastic fork in her noodles, taking so much of her concentration. Once the noodles were on her fork, she scooped some rice then stabbed a piece of chicken, getting a sampling of sides and entree all in one sizable bite. Efficient.
“So,” she said, just before swallowing, “you should know that I am a very impatient person.” She swallowed and started the process of noodle swirling again, watching her fork.
“Excessively honest,” Jaden remarked, dipping a spring roll into peanut sauce.
“Yeah, I can’t help that. Anyway, I’ve been waiting for you to open up on your own. I had this whole bit that I would be this mysterious and silent woman who you could confide in and come to with your concerns. It was a brilliant plan, but I didn’t factor my impatience into the formula. The plan would’ve taken months and there is no way I’m waiting that long.”
“I wondered why you were so reserved in your inquires.”
“Oh, so you did think I was mysterious, all calm and cool and sure?”
“Indeed,” he said, picking up a second helping of Teriyaki beef.
“Great. Too bad I had to ruin it by opening my mouth,” she said, taking another large bite of food and chewing silently for a period.
“You want to know more,” Jaden said, not bothering to make it a question. “I’ll try answering your questions, it’s only fair if I’m sleeping here tonight.”
She put the food on her coffee table and sat back in her armchair, picking at her teeth, thinking of her first question.
“What about your parents? Aren’t they worried about you?” she asked.
Jaden tried to swirl his noodles around the fork, grab rice and beef, but couldn’t. Perhaps it was a learned art, taking a great deal of practice.
“I don’t think so,” he answered.
“But you were kidnapped.”
“Not from my parents.” He stabbed some beef and used it to scoop rice.
“Then who?”
“I was living with foster parents. They hadn’t formally adopted me yet, but I’d been told it was in the works. I’d only been with them for just over a week, so...”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Sorry.”
“They were good people,” he said, speaking more to himself, setting down his plate, no longer hungry. “I think I would’ve been happy there.”
“And your real parents?” she asked in an almost whisper, as if afraid to ask the question. Jaden was not offended, it was natural to be curious. It had been so long ago, and other life events had been just as traumatic, the issue was hardly a touchy one. She knew much of the truth already, it seemed silly to not give her the rest.
“My father doesn’t know I exist. The last I knew of my mother she was in prison.”
“Oh,” Libby said again, sitting cross-legged. “That’s horrible.” She paused, chewing on her bottom lip, then finally asked, “What did she do?”
She started everything, Jaden thought. Lynn Baker created him in more ways than one, and as he considered telling Libby the truth, the memory of his mother from almost twenty years ago came back to him.
“A lot of things,” he said, his eyes glazing over as he answered. “Burglary. Drugs. Murder.”
Now Libby did whisper. “She killed someone?”
Jaden nodded, remembering. “Yes.” Though it was long ago, the memory pulsated in his mind.
Libby said nothing more, though based on her body language she wanted to know who Lynn shot and why. If she had asked, trying to pry the information out of him, Jaden would not have answered. She attempted the mysterious and comforting woman, and her efforts were appreciated, even if inside she screamed for the answer.
“She was a methamphetamine addict,” Jaden began, recalling her to his mind: a slender woman with sandy blonde hair and dull blue eyes, dark circles under them, boney hands, pointed chin. Her eyes were always wide and paranoid. She had sores on her arms and legs. “She had a friend, or boyfriend I guess, and they got high together. To pay for drugs they stole things. One day, when I was six, they got in an argument. It got out of control.”
* * *
Jaden and Bear stood on an overturned trash can, so they could reach the sink and wash their hands after using the bathroom. There was no soap or clean towels, so Jaden wiped his little hands on the back of his shorts, which were getting dirtier. He grabbed Bear from the counter and hugged him, then walked into the living room, stepping over dirty clothes and car radios, brown bags filled with trash, and other things he didn’t think about.
Mom was arguing with Manny again. There were thuds and slapping sounds coming from the back room. Mom screamed and yelled. It made Bear scared. The closet, their usual hiding space when Mom and Manny fought, or when they used their drugs, was filled with things Jaden wasn’t allowed to touch. He did not want to touch.
He maneuvered around a tall heap of dirty clothes and smelly things, and sat in the corner, covering his ears with his hands and covering Bear’s ears with his elbows. He hated hearing them fight, or doing anything. Fighting was worse than when they got on top of each other and made grunting noises.
A door burst open and Mom came out screaming at Manny, who grabbed her wrist, pulled her around and slapped her across the face. She kicked at him until he let go, then ran for something in a corner. She dug through boxes and bags, Manny tried moving her away. From this angle, Jaden couldn’t see what they were doing. He tried not to listen. The screaming grew louder, higher in pitch. The wall thudded a few more times.
Manny chased Mom into the living room.
They were too close. They would find him hiding here, and Jaden could tell they both had been using drugs. He shut his eyes and tried making himself smaller, imaging himself in a different place.
When Mom shrieked, Jaden’s eyes opened.
She was pointing a pistol at Manny, and when Manny laughed and lunged to take the gun, she pulled the trigger.
Blood sprayed the walls at the bang. She shot him three more times in the stomach, the gun louder each shot, more blood on the wall.
Then she aimed for Manny’s head, Jaden shut his eyes too late.
Manny’s head exploded, brains and bone flying, like a plastic bag of red Jell-o popped.
Jaden’s own heart pounded as he cried, scared of what she would do if she found him.
Shaking from fear, his elbow hit a stolen cell phone, which fell to the floor with a thud.
Lynn Baker turned, gun pointing at the sound.
Time slowed.
Her fierce eyes growled at him, her tangled hair was wild. Her boney
, bruised hands held the gun firmly. It was pointed at his face.
Jaden’s eyes were wide with terror. She’d shot Manny five times—one round left in the gun.
Somewhere in the back of Jaden’s mind, something did not click, it chimed, buzzed. The room he sat in, his mother caught in the time trap, Manny’s blood, guts and brains spread everywhere, trash and stolen property strewn throughout the house—he felt everything.
He disregarded it.
The gun, a six shooter revolver, his mother’s finger depressing the trigger, the hammer soon to release and fire, pulled itself from her grasp. It jerked in her hand, an explosion ripped the air.
Time snapped back. The gun flew out an open window after discharging. The final shot still ringing, Jaden clutched Bear and prepared to run.
Lynn gasped, seeing her son huddled in the corner with his teddy. She grabbed him before he could run.
He pushed against her only for a moment. She held him and cried as he did, cradling him to her, his face in her neck. She smelled like smoke and sweat, her heart raced as his did, but he encircled her with his small arms, gripping Bear with one hand.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Close your eyes,” she told him as they passed Manny’s mutilated body floating in blood, then ran out the door.
Police sirens grew louder. Cops were always patrolling this neighborhood. That didn’t matter. Lynn and Jaden ran for it, sprinting down the street. She ran as fast as she could, her small son in her arms, holding her tight.
But she could not outrun cars. Two black and whites, lights spinning, sirens wailing, pinned them in. Jaden buried his small face into her neck, instructed to keep his eyes closed.
“No!” she said, as an officer came to her, reaching for her boy. “No, you can’t have him!”
It took two officers to pry Jaden from Lynn’s arms. Jaden grabbed at her, swinging his arms, kicking and screaming at the cops, trying to bite them so he could run to her.
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