“Can’t say I’ll miss you sons-a-bitches,” Wells said. He was standing in front of the door that led out of the prison.
The guard yelled for the gate to be opened and laughed. “Likewise, asshole. Get the fuck out of here.”
Ten days had passed since the discovery of Cole’s body. Wells’ release had been delayed by five days while the death was investigated. Other than Bert being thrown out of T25 for participating in the drinking party, no action had been taken.
Wells guessed the investigation hadn’t turned up any evidence of a crime. Not that the prison investigators would’ve looked very hard. Bert’s story had been consistent with the facts, the great state of Texas was chronically under budget, and the medical examiner probably had bodies stacked to the rafters.
That’s burking’s other secret. Cops don’t look for a crime when they don’t want to find one.
Life in T25 had dragged on as usual. Before Wells was released, he and Lobster had met one last time. They’d agreed that Bert would die as soon as it could be arranged. Neither of them liked loose ends and Bert was too weak to trust. Arranging for the murder wouldn’t be that expensive and would help solidify Lobster’s position as Wells’ replacement. They both knew plenty of lifers who’d trade a year or two of black-market cigarettes for doing the deed.
When the day of his release finally came, he and Lobster bumped shoulders in a rough not-hug, then Wells was escorted to a room where he changed into civilian clothes provided by the great state of Texas. He was given a hundred dollars in twenties. He’d receive another hundred when he reported to his parole officer on time. A van drove him through the rolling gates of the double cyclone fence that surrounded the compound’s buildings, along a mile of dusty asphalt road, to a squat, white building that abutted yet another razor-wire topped fence.
A guard in the building took his picture and collected his signature in bored silence. Wells marched through the automatic doors and down the short sidewalk to the adjoining parking lot. He stared at the sun, stretched, smiled, and caught the woman who had sprinted across the lot from a parked Dodge Shadow and hurled herself at him. He looked past her at the skinny kid standing next to the beat up car.
8
Ticonderoga, New York
“It sucks when you have to work double shifts, dad. It’s like you’ve been kidnapped. Will you be home tomorrow for gotcha day?” Shin Gonzales was sitting at the table in the breakfast nook, his dark hair bathed in the fuzzy golden light streaming through the surrounding windows.
Shin had celebrated his twelfth birthday nine months earlier. In addition to his birthday, his family partied on the day they’d taken the six-month-old baby boy from the South Korean orphanage—gotcha day.
He finished the last bite of his Honey Nut Cheerios and spooned the final bits of fruit cocktail into his mouth, glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall. Eight minutes until the school bus rolled up to their house.
“I don’t like it either, buddy, but it couldn’t be helped. I’ll be here, count on it.”
“I picked a movie for us to watch tomorrow night,” Shin said.
“Good. What?”
“I was born a poor black child.” Like his dad, Shin loved movies, the older the better. Unlike his dad, he loved dropping movie quotes into conversations.
“You want to watch The Jerk for gotcha day?”
Shin nodded. “For one dollar, I’ll guess your weight, your height, or your sex.”
His dad laughed. He’d just gotten home and was sitting at the kitchen table across from Shin, rubbing his eyes. He’d been working since three the previous afternoon.
“Your eyes hurt?” Shin asked.
“Just a little scratchy,” Carlos Gonzalez said. “Must have been more dust in the converting room than usual last night. Looked like blood was about to ooze out of them for a while, but they’re better now.”
“Ooze blood? Awesome!”
His dad smiled. “I thought you’d like that.”
Shin’s mom walked back into the kitchen carrying a bottle of No More Tears. “Lean your head back. This should help.”
Carlos yelped as the saline solution dripped into his eyes.
Marjorie Gonzalez laughed. “You big baby. Suck it up."
“Big baby with the bloody eyes!” Shin hooted. He jumped out of his chair as his dad leaped up and darted around the table to grab him.
“We’ll see who the baby is.”
His dad was built like a short version of the guys on WrestleMania. He could move like the wind and loved to wrap Shin in a bear hug and tickle him until he cried for mercy. His dad’s parents had settled in Ticonderoga when they emigrated from Guatemala. His mom had lived in the town all her life. She’d met his dad at a bowling tournament and they got married six months later.
“Bus time!” Shin yelled. He ducked his father’s grasp, tore out of the kitchen, and ran upstairs to get his book bag.
They lived in a white Cape Cod, tucked into a grove of hundred year old maples near the intersection of Burgoyne and Adirondack Park roads. Shin’s bedroom had been his nursery when they brought him home from South Korea.
His mom and dad quit talking when he tramped back into the kitchen.
“What’s wrong?” Shin asked.
His dad glanced across the table at his mom before answering. “Nothing. I was just telling your mom that Natalie Forrest is sick with some sort of bug.”
“What’s she got?”
“Don’t know. Her dad has been splitting his time between the mill and the hospital. That’s why I had to work the double.”
Shin’s dad worked for Mr. Forrest at the Global paper mill out by Lake Champlain. Shin knew Natalie, but they went to separate middle schools. He only saw her at the annual company picnic or when their families got together, which wasn’t very often.
“Ugh,” Shin said. “Bet she doesn’t like being in the hospital. Too many needles. She going to be okay?”
“I’m sure she will,” his mother said.
“Cool.” He bolted for the door. “See you guys after school.”
“Wake up kid, or I’ll drag you out of bed. You’re gonna be late for school.”
Shin pulled the covers over his head and rolled away from his father.
“Oh, no you don’t.” His dad grabbed the bedcovers and yanked them away. “Up!”
Shin moaned and sat up. “Daaad, you’re mean.”
“Mean?” His father wiggled his fingers and tickled Shin until he squirmed out of the bed and dropped to the floor.
“Wait a second, buddy.” His dad knelt on the floor and stared at Shin’s face.
“What?”
“Looks like your Transition is finally here. Except, your irises aren’t lavender. They’re black.”
“Transition? Woo Hoo!” Shin jumped up and ran to the bathroom. Sure enough, the colored part of his eyes was black with dark-red specks.
His dad had followed him. Shin turned and asked, “Why are they black? What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Shin’s mother had apparently heard the commotion. She was standing next to the door with her hands over her mouth. “That’s not right. I’m calling the doctor.”
Transition had always made his mom uncomfortable. As Shin’s voice started changing and he started sprouting body hair, she’d gotten more and more tense. Anytime he’d asked a question about Transition, she’d get angry, telling him to talk to his father or look it up on TransitionWeb.
My eyes are freaking her out.
Carlos placed a hand on Shin’s forehead. “You’re a little warm. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine. They’re just a different color. It’s no big deal.”
“When did you become a doctor?” his mom asked. Her voice was shrill, with a sharp edge. “You’re staying home today. Get cleaned up and take your book bag downstairs. You can study at the table until we go to the doctor.”
She turned and walked away.
Shin looked to his father for help, but encountered the same grim expression.
Doctor Johansen’s office had called with a mid-afternoon cancellation. Both his mom and dad took him for the appointment—Shin couldn’t remember the last time they’d done that.
The doctor had poked and prodded, ordered the nurses to take Shin’s blood, and asked a bunch of questions. When the doctor was finished, he’d told Shin to go back out front and wait for his parents. They came out to the waiting room about a half hour later.
“Let’s go, bud.” His dad’s frown didn’t match his cheerful voice. His mom’s eyes were red, like she’d been crying.
They left the office, his mom walking several steps in front of Shin and his dad. As they crossed the parking lot, his father ruffled his hair. “We’re all a little tired. What say we postpone Gotcha Day until this business with your eyes is all cleared up and we can enjoy the celebration?”
Shin was about to protest when his father gripped his shoulder and nodded toward his mom. Her shoulders were slumped and she was staring at the ground, swiping her face, as she trudged toward the car.
Shin figured celebrating later would be okay.
They climbed into their ancient Chevy Suburban and headed home. It was a hot summer day but his dad powered the windows down rather than turn on the air conditioner. Shin sat in the center of the back seat, enjoying the air buffeting his face and the wet, green smell of nearby Lake George.
His dad squirmed in the driver’s seat, met Shin’s eyes in the mirror for a moment, then looked away. “We’re supposed to have some heavy thunderstorms later today.” The fake cheer in his voice was back.
“So, what did he say?” Shin asked. He raised his voice to be heard over the wind.
“Who?” his mom asked. Her voice sounded distant, like she barely heard him.
“Dr. Johansen, that’s who,” Shin said. “Is there someone else?”
The only sound in the car was the wind rattling the seat belts on the door columns. Normally his sass would have earned him a sharp warning.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“The doctor needs to get the results of the tests,” his dad said. “Meanwhile, you’ll stay home and rest.”
“Am I in Transition?”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“Then why are my eyes black?”
“I told you. The doctor needs to get the results of the tests. You shouldn’t worry. It’s just a little unusual, that’s all.”
Shin thought he heard his mom make a small whimpering sound. She kept staring out the windshield, unmoving, almost like she was frozen.
Maybe I have a kind of Transition that’s really rare.
Shin knew that in the old days before the Internet, the ritual that made Transition magic possible was hidden from kids, so they wouldn’t try it.
Maybe my kind of Transition is still a secret.
“Do I have to do homework?”
If the answer is on the web, I can find it.
His dad snorted. “Sure you do. I’ll arrange for your assignments to be sent home, so you won’t fall behind.”
Shin felt a little tired, like he’d been running cross-country track. He stretched out on the seat, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the gray fabric that lined the car’s roof.
What’s different about Transition when you have black eyes?
As soon as he got back home, Shin closed himself off in his bedroom and began searching the Internet and TransitionWeb for any mention of black eyes. He was careful to conceal his searches from his parents by using anonymous windows and cleaning out his browser history every now and then. The afternoon disappeared in a flash. His mom came by once and his dad stuck his head in every hour or so.
I wonder if they’re searching for answers the way I am.
He found nothing. He wasn’t too surprised that he couldn’t find anything on TW, because the government ran the site and he figured they wouldn’t let any secrets get posted. But it was weird that he didn’t find anything on the Internet, because the web had stuff on the craziest things.
Can I be the only one who’s ever had Transition with black eyes?
His dad ordered pepperoni pizza with double anchovies—a family favorite—for dinner. He’d taken a couple pieces back to his room, deciding that he needed to stay away from his mom; the more she looked at him, the more she seemed to freak out.
He wasn’t hungry and wondered how he could ditch the pizza without being caught. He wished he had a dog. But his dad was allergic, so he’d settled for the pair of zebra finches—Rogers and Hammerstein—that were beeping and chirping in their corner cage. A dog would eat anything and never tell on you. His finches wouldn’t tell either, but he didn’t think they liked pizza. He tore his dinner into small pieces, slipped into the bathroom, and flushed the nasty-smelling food down the toilet.
Shin worked on his school assignments until nine, yelled downstairs to tell his parents goodnight, switched off the lights, and climbed into bed. He turned on his eReader and was soon lost in Harry Potter and the Vale of Tears.
There was a soft knock at his door. “Buddy?” He dad slipped into the darkened bedroom and settled on the side of Shin’s bed. He looked at the reader. “Mr. Potter, I presume?”
“Yeah.”
“How many more volumes to go?”
“This is the ninth. One more to go,” Shin said. “Unless she writes some more, which would be great.”
His dad smiled. “The hallway smells like pizza. Did you eat any dinner?”
Shin smiled. “Not much. Just not hungry.”
“Okay, but while we’re trying to figure out what’s going on with your eyes, I want you to tell me if you’re not eating. No secrets. Promise?”
“That was a good movie,” Shin said.
“Ummm…”
“Sneakers. 1992. Robert Redford used Scrabble tiles to solve a mystery. He spelled ‘no more secrets.’”
“Got it. I’m still waiting.”
“I promise.”
“And I want you to get a good night’s sleep. Put the book aside and pick it up tomorrow.”
“Awww, Dad.”
“Tomorrow. Being rested is important.” He bent and kissed Shin on the forehead. “Sleep well.” He stood, took the eReader and placed it on the bed stand, and left the room.
But sleep wouldn’t come. Shin tossed and turned, pondering the mystery of his eyes and what they might mean. He kept trying to break the puzzle down into small pieces, like his dad did when he had a tough problem.
The night crawled by. Much later, he rolled over and checked the clock. One thirty. He sat up.
What if I’m in a rare kind of Transition and can do magic and it doesn’t have to be unique? That’s why it’s such a secret.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became. He was right. He knew it. He could do magic.
I can find out for sure.
He slid out of bed in the dark, crept to his closed door, and opened it enough to stick his head out. No light, no sound. His parents were asleep in their bedroom next to his. He pushed his door closed and navigated to his desk, where he flicked on the light. He searched through the messy pile of notes that he’d collected earlier, until he found the page with the Transition ritual.
Maybe this ritual doesn’t work with the kind of Transition I have.
He shrugged.
Then nothing will happen. No big deal.
He stuffed the page into the band of his pajama bottoms, picked up his desk chair, carried it over to the bird cage and set it down. As he sat, the finches started hopping from one perch to another, chittering softly. He took a deep breath and began reading from the page:
"I invoke my birthright to the Power granted by Transition. I beseech this Power to grant my request. I honor the requirements of Transition and affirm…
What if I kill the little guys? That’d be horrible.
"That I make my request with respect and humility…"
<
br /> Suddenly he was bathed in heat, like the hottest day of summer.
Holy shit. There’s nothing about heat on TW.
He swallowed and pressed on.
"That my heart is pure…"
He was surrounded by a dense, dark fog that pressed on his body and swallowed the light from his lamp. Flickering red lights, like the sparks of a bonfire, swirled around him, growing brighter with each phrase.
"That my request is worthy…
He was sweating from the growing heat, the sweat sliding into his eyes and blurring his vision, then falling from his face onto the paper in soft plops.
Maybe I’m doing it wrong.
He hesitated, his heart pounding.
Or maybe it’s working. Finish and find out, you big baby.
"That no request like mine has been uttered since time began…
"That this is my own true wish…
"That I willingly surrender my life if I am found unworthy or my request is found wanting…" He closed his eyes and concentrated.
"Hear me: Make the finches in the cage in front of me as black as my eyes. Make their eyes as red as the red specks in my eyes.
“So thus I beseech."
The heat and fog that had been threatening to crush him disappeared. Shin leaped to his feet, gulped the cool air of his bedroom, and shivered. He bent and stared into the cage.
The finches had been transformed. Their feathers seemed to absorb the light from the room and their eyes pulsed with the color of blood. They were silent and hunkered down on the bottom perch, as if a hawk was flying above their cage.
I did it!
His exhilaration was cut short by a wave of exhaustion that buckled his knees. He collapsed to the floor with a thump, knocking his chair over backwards. He lay there, panting and scared.
Rogers and Hammerstein.
He groaned, tried to move, and failed. His legs felt like they were anchored to the floor and he couldn’t seem to get enough air. He closed his eyes and counted to a hundred. He tried again. He was able to stand, but it took massive effort.
The Ebony Finches: A Transition Magic Thriller Page 5
