The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Third Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  He hugged me again, and I felt his shoulders shaking. Sobbing? I held him tight. He felt frail. Then abruptly, he broke away, and turned toward the house. "Come on in. I'll make some tea. We'll talk. I think I have some coffee cake. You don't know how hard it's been without you. I haven't touched your room. It'll be good to have you back—"

  I followed him in. "Urn, Dad. I don't know how long I can stay. I have a job — "

  "A job. That's good. What kind of a job?"

  "I'm not really allowed to discuss it. It's that kind of a job."

  "Oh. You're working for the government."

  "I'm not really allowed to discuss it. I'm not even supposed to be here, but—"

  "That's all right, I understand. We'll talk about other things. Come sit. Sit. You'll stay for dinner. It'll be like old times. I have spaghetti sauce in the freezer. Just the way you like it. No, it's no trouble at all. I still cook for two, even though it's just me and that old dog, too stubborn to die. Both of us."

  I didn't tell him that wasn't true. I didn't tell him that he and that stubborn old dog would both be gone in a few short months. I rubbed my eyes, suddenly full of water. This was harder than I thought.

  Somewhere between the spaghetti and the ice cream, Dad asked what had happened over there. I struggled inside, trying to figure out what to say, how to say it, realized it couldn't be explained, and simply finally shrugged and said, "It was… what it was." Dad knew me well enough to know that was all the answer he was going to get, and that was the end of that. The walls were comfortably up again.

  Somewhere after the ice cream, I realized we didn't have all that much to talk about anymore. Not really. But that was okay. Just being able to watch him, just being able to skritch the dog behind the ears again, that was okay. That was enough. So I let him talk me into spending the night. My old bed felt familiar and different, both at the same time. I didn't sleep much. In the middle of the night, Shotgun oozed up onto the foot of the bed and sprawled out lazily, pushing me off to the side, grum-pling his annoyance that I was taking up so much room; every so often, he farted his opinion of the spaghetti sauce, then after a while he began snoring, a wheezing-whistling noise. He was still snoring loudly when the first glow of morning seeped in the window.

  Over breakfast, I told a lie. Told Dad I was on assignment. That part wasn't a lie.

  But I told him the assignment was somewhere east, I couldn't say exactly where, but I'd call him whenever I could. He pretended to understand.

  "Dad," I said. "I just wanted you to know, you didn't lose me. Okay?"

  "I know," he said. And he held me for a long time before finally releasing me with a clap on the shoulder. "You go get the bad guys," he said, something he'd said to me all my life—from the day he'd given me my first cowboy hat and cap pistol. Something he said again the day I got on the plane to Nam. You go get the bad guys.

  "I will, Dad. I promise."

  I kissed him. I hadn't kissed him since I was eight, but I kissed him now. Then I drove away quickly, feeling confused and embarrassed.

  It was a drizzly day, mostly gray. Skipped the gym, filled the tank, drove around the city, locating the homes of the other seven victims. Two lived in the dorms at UCLA, Dykstra and Sproul. Didn't know if they knew each other. Maybe. One was a T.A. major, the other music. Another lived with a roommate (lover?) in a cheap apartment off of Melrose, almost walking distance from me, except in L.A., there's no such thing as "walking distance." If it's more than two doors down, you drive.

  One lived way the hell out in Azusa. That was a long drive, even with the I-10 freeway. Another in the north end of the San Fernando Valley. All these soft boys, so lonely for a place to be accepted that they'd drive twenty-thirty miles to stand around in a cruddy green patio—to stand around with other soft boys.

  Something went klunk. Like a nickel dropping in a soda machine. One of those small insights that explains everything. This was puberty for these boys. Adolescence. The first date, the first kiss, the first chance to hold hands with someone special. Delayed, postponed, a decade's worth of longing—while everybody around you celebrates life, you pretend, suppress, inhibit, deprive yourself of your own joy—but finally, ultimately, eventually, you find a place where you can have a taste of everything denied. It's heady, exciting, giddy. Yes. This is why they drive so far. Hormones. Pheromones. Whatever. The only bright light in a darkened landscape. They can't stay away. This is home—the only place where they can be themselves.

  Okay. Now, figure out the predator—

  I got back to the apartment, the drizzle had turned to showers. Matt was sitting by the door, arms wrapped around his knees. A half-full knapsack next to him. He scrambled to his feet, both hopeful and terrified. And flustered. He looked damp and disheveled. A red mark on his forehead, another on his neck.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I couldn't find the key—"

  "Oh, shit. I forgot to put it under the mat—"

  "I thought you were angry with me — "

  "Oh, kiddo, no. I screwed up. You didn't do anything wrong. It's my fuckup. Shit, you must have thought—on top of everything else — "

  Before I could finish the sentence, he started crying.

  "What happened — ? No, wait—" I fumbled the key into the lock, pushed him inside, grabbed his knapsack, closed the door behind us, steered him to the kitchen table, took down a bottle of Glenfiddich, poured two shots.

  He stopped crying long enough to sniff the glass. "What is this?" He took a sip anyway. "It burns."

  "It's supposed to. It's single-malt whiskey. Scotch." I sat down opposite him. "I went to see—someone. My dad. I haven't seen him in a while, and this might be the last time. I wasn't supposed to, but I did it anyway. I spent the night, I slept in my old room, my old bed. What you said yesterday, it made me think—"

  He didn't hear me. He swallowed hard, gulped. "My mom called me at work. She said I should come home and pick up my things. My dad wouldn't be there. Only she was wrong. He came home early. He started beating me — "

  I reached over and lifted up his shirt. He had red marks on his side, on his back, on his shoulders, on his arms. He winced when I touched his side.

  Got up, went into the bathroom, pulled out the first-aid kit. Almost a doctor's bag. Stethoscope, tape, ointment, bandages, a flask, even a small bottle of morphine and a needle. Also brass knuckles and a blackjack. And some other toys. You learn as you go. Came back into the kitchen, pulled his shirt off, smeared ointment on the reddest marks, then taped his ribs. Did it all without talking. I was too angry to speak. Finally: "Did you get all your stuff?"

  He shook his head.

  "All right, let's go get it."

  "We can't—"

  Grabbed his arm, pulled him to his feet, pulled him out the door, down the stairs, and out to the car, ignoring the rain. "You need your clothes, your shoes, your—whatever else belongs to you. It's yours."

  "My dad'll—he's too big! Please don't—"

  I already had the car in gear. "Fasten your seatbelt, Matt. What's that thing that Bette Davis says? It's going to be a bumpy night." The tires squealed as I turned out onto Melrose.

  I turned south on Fairfax, splashing through puddles. Neither of us said anything for a bit.

  When I turned right on Third, he said, "Mike. I don't want you to do this."

  "I hear you." I continued to drive.

  "I'm not going to tell you where I live —lived."

  "I already know."

  "How?"

  "I'm your fairy godfather, that's how. Don't ask."

  "You are no fairy," he said. Then he added, sadly, "I am."

  "Well, I guess that's why you need a godfather."

  "What are you gonna do?"

  I grinned. "I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse."

  Matt didn't get the joke, of course. It wouldn't be a joke for another five years. But that was okay. I got it.

  Turned left, turned right. Pulled up in front of
a tiny, well-tended house. Matt followed me out of the car, up the walk. The front door yanked open. Matt was right—he was big. An ape. But he wasn't a trained one. The scattershot bruises on his son were proof of that. He'd substituted size for skill. Probably done it all his life. He wore an ugly scowl. "Who are you?" he demanded.

  Gave him the only answer he was entitled to. Punched him hard in the chest, shoving him straight back into the house. Followed in quickly. Before he could react, chest-punched him again—harder, hard enough to slam him into the wall. The house shook. He bounced off and this time met my fist in his gut. His gut was hard, but the brass knucks were harder. He grunted, didn't double up, but he lurched —it was enough, I pulled his head down to meet my rising knee, felt his nose break with a satisfying crunch of bone and blood.

  Hauled him to his feet. His face was bleeding. "You're a big man, aren't you? Beating on a kid." He was still trying to catch his breath. "Matt, go get your things. Now."

  A woman came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands in a dish towel. "Matty—?" Then she saw me. "Who are you — ?" Then she saw her husband. "Joe — ?"

  I grabbed the towel from her hands, pushed it at Joe, pushed Joe at a chair, he flopped into it, covering his bloody nose. "You can sit down too, ma'am; probably a good idea." She hesitated, then sat. Joe was still gasping, eyeing me warily.

  Nobody spoke for a long moment.

  Finally, the wife. "Are you going to hurt us?"

  "Not planning on it. Of course, that can change." I nodded meaningfully at the asshole.

  "You—you won't get away with this — "

  "You won't call the police. He won't let you. He doesn't want anyone to know he's got a queer son." Took a breath. I wasn't planning to play counselor, but Matt needed time to gather his stuff, and I needed to keep the asshole from thinking too hard. "All right, look, lady—you should leave this jerkoff. Because if you don't, he's going to kill you someday. The only thing that's saved your life this long is that he's been taking it out on the kid instead, hasn't he? With the kid outa here, you're wearing the bull's-eye now. If I'm not mistaken, that bruise on your cheek is recent. Like maybe, this afternoon? And maybe there's a few more under that dress that don't show?"

  She didn't answer.

  "You're not doing yourself any favors, being a punching bag for this miserable failure. And you sure as hell didn't help your kid any, did you? Letting him beat the kid—you're a coward. Do you know what the word 'enabler' means? You're an en-abler. You're just as fucking guilty. Because you let him get away with it."

  Turned to the gorilla. "See, here's the thing, Joe. You're an asshole. You're beneath contempt. That's your son, your own flesh and blood. You should love him more than anybody else in the world. But he's fucking terrified of you. The one moment in his life, he needs his dad to love and understand and be there for him more than anything else, what do you do? You beat him up and throw him out. What a fuckwad you are. Your wife's a coward, you're a bully, and the two of you are throwing away the only thing in the world you've done right—raise a kid who still knows how to smile, god knows why, growing up with you two creeps. You don't deserve this kid. Shut up, both of you. I'm in no mood to argue. You can beat your wife, Joe, and you can beat your kid—but you can't beat the butt-ugly truth. You're a waste of skin. Oh, and if you're thinking about getting out of that chair, don't. If you try, I'll kill you. I'm in that kind of a mood."

  "He means it, Dad — " That was Matt, coming back into the room. "He's an ex-commando. Special Forces. Green Beret. Or something. He was in Vietnam. I don't want him to hurt you — "

  "You got everything?"

  He hefted a duffel and a suitcase. Hastily filled.

  Mart's mother looked back and forth between us. Finally, she worked up the nerve to ask. "What are you? Some kind of queer?"

  I looked her up and down. "Are you the alternative?" Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, I can't believe I said that. "Wait a minute." Turned back to the gorilla. "Your son's leaving home. You'll never see him again. Give me your wallet. No —I didn't say think about it. I said, give me your wallet."

  He passed it over. Nearly three hundred bucks. I passed the cash to Matt. "Here. Your inheritance. It's enough to live on for a couple months. If you're careful." Dropped the wallet on the floor.

  "You two are getting off lucky. I'm letting you live." Looked at the gorilla again. "You come after this kid, you ever come near him, you ever lay a hand on him again, I will kill you. I will hunt you down and I will make sure you take a long time to die. You ever beat your wife again, I'll break both your arms. Are we clear? Nod your head, this isn't television." Glanced sideways. "Matt, you want to say good-bye?"

  He shook his head.

  "Then go get in the car."

  Waited a moment, looking to see if the asshole was thinking about following. He wasn't. His face was ashen. He was still having trouble breathing. I looked to the wife. "You know what? I think you'd better call an ambulance. I might have punched him a little hard, I might have cracked his sternum. I wish I could say I'm sorry about that, but I'm not."

  Drove back without talking. The rain was coming down harder now. Matt was shaken. Probably didn't know what to think, what to feel.

  Got back to the apartment. He hesitated. "You coming up?"

  "I thought you wanted me to — " He held up the money. "I mean—isn't what this is for?"

  "There's plenty of time for that tomorrow. Or the next day." And besides, "You shouldn't be alone tonight." I grabbed his suitcase and duffel. Not as heavy as I'd thought. Gorilla and wife hadn't been very generous.

  Inside, I went scrounging through the junk drawer, found the extra key and handed it to him. "Listen. Don't take this the wrong way. But I'm worried about you. You stay here as long as you need to."

  He looked at the key in his hand, looked up to me, a question on his face.

  "You can cook, right? You can clean? That'll be your rent. We'll move my typewriter in here, over against the wall or something. And you can have the other room. Just one condition. Stay away from Gino's —" No, that's not fair. "I mean, don't go there without me. And don't go out with anyone without—well, checking with me. Okay?"

  "You trying to be my dad?"

  "No. Well, maybe a big brother. I dunno." I sat down opposite him. "Can you keep a secret?"

  "Not very well. I mean —my dad found out."

  "There is that. When did you know you were — ?"

  "When I was twelve. Or thirteen."

  "So you can keep a secret for five years. Six? Right?"

  He nodded.

  "All right. What I'm going to tell you is that big a secret. You up for it?"

  He didn't say no. I took that as a yes.

  "You know how I knew where you lived? I know a lot of other stuff too. Some bad shit is going down this year. Dangerous shit. People are going to get hurt. Killed. I'm not a cop. But I'm —I'm like a private investigator. And I'm looking for the guy. And you're his type. And so are a lot of the other kids at Gino's. I wish I could warn everyone, but if I do, it'll spread. You know how those girls love to gossip. And if the perp knows I'm looking for him, I'll never catch him. So you can't tell anyone. And the only reason I'm telling you is —is because I want your help."

  "You need my help?"

  "I want your help. I don't need it. But I can use it. If you're up to it."

  "Up to it? Is it dangerous?"

  "Do you think I'd put you in danger."

  He thought about it for a moment. "But you want to use me as bait."

  "I want to see who cruises you. I want to know who talks to you. That's all."

  "Can I ask you something?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Was this your plan all along? From the very beginning? When you brought me home the other night?"

  "The truth?" I looked him right in the eye. "No. This was not what I planned. You were just one of the boys I was going to watch for a while — "

  He frowned. He turned that o
ver in his head. And then —oh, shit—he got it. "You son of a bitch!" He started to get up. "You know, don't you!" He looked around for his duffel and his suitcase. I resisted the temptation to get up. Force was absolutely the wrong answer here. He waited for my response.

  I nodded. "Yeah, you're right. I know."

  "You're a—a time-traveler?"

  Nodded again.

  "Then it's true? There really are? Because I thought that was just—like an urban legend or something."

  "It's true," I admitted.

  He stared at me, hard, as if trying to puzzle me out. "So… how far from the future are you?"

  "I'm not. I'm from three years in the past. But I've been to the future. Twelve years anyway. You're going to like it. Parts of it, anyway."

  "Like what?"

  Shrug. "Things like… um, well, Stonewall, for one. Neil Armstrong. Apple. Luke Skywalker. Pac-Man. But I think, Stonewall might be the big one."

  "What's Stonewall?"

  "You'll find out soon enough. It's —it's going to be… kind of important."

  "Give me a hint?"

  "Rosa Parks."

  "Who's Rosa Parks?"

  "Look it up."

  He frowned, annoyed. Then his frown eased. He dropped the duffel on the living room floor and came back into the kitchen nook. "Tell me what you know about me."

  "Urn-"

  "You want me to do this, you have to tell me." He sat down opposite me and waited.

  "Okay," I said. "Wait." I went into the bedroom, came back with the folders. Tossed it on the table. "I have to prevent the disappearance of this boy. Have you ever seen him?" I slid over the picture of Jeremy Weiss.

  Matt looked, frowned, started to shake his head no, then said, "No, wait, I think he comes in mostly on weekends."

  "He's number three. There are two other disappearances before him. Ten more afterward. Here's number one."

  "That's Brad. Brad-boy. He rides a motorcycle. He comes in, picks up a trick, rides off. Nobody knows much about him, not even his tricks."

  "Yeah, I've seen it."

  "When does he — ?"

  "Two weeks. A little more than two weeks." I passed over the next folder. "This is the second victim."