by Mike Nappa
The man held up four fingers, then pointed to himself.
4 me, Trudi interpreted. For me. She quickly understood that he was saying Truck had left those things in the book for him. And now he was here to claim them.
She frowned and looked hard at the scar on the man’s neck. “Are you . . .” She hesitated, then pointed at the scar. “Are you, um, mute?”
The man looked relieved. He nodded. He tapped his fists together and then let his fingers fly in a mock explosion.
“War wound? Iraq?” Trudi asked. The mute man nodded. “I see,” she said. She took a step closer and held out his ring, which he placed back on the middle finger of his left hand.
“I don’t have the map or the key,” she said bluntly. “I’m sorry. I gave them to my ex-husband.”
The mute man’s face fell.
“I can tell you what was on the map, if that helps.”
He nodded, interested again.
“Well, it said ‘Alabama’ at the top. Then it had a string of numbers and a map of three buildings at the bottom. Best we can figure, the map is for some kind of property Truck had, a place with three buildings.”
The mute man held out his palm and pointed downward into it. Trudi took a minute to understand.
“Underground? Is that what you mean?” The mute man nodded. “Yes, one of the buildings on the map was underground. We only figured that out about two days ago, so that shows how slow we are. It looks like a main building, an outbuilding, and then something built underneath the outbuilding.”
The man smiled and nodded. So we were on the right track, Trudi thought. That’s a good thing, I guess.
The man took two fingers on each hand and crossed them in front of Trudi, questioning her with his eyes.
“What? I don’t know what that means.”
The man looked frustrated, but he tried again. He held up one finger.
“One?”
He nodded. He held up two fingers, then three, then four.
“Two, three, four? Oh, I get it.” She made the crossed fingers sign back at him. “Numbers. You want to know the numbers on Truck’s map?”
He nodded, pleased.
“Right, well, I should have them memorized by now.” She started reciting. “31. 111—”
He held up a hand to stop her and pulled a GPS device out of the pocket of his jacket. He waved his hand, and she started over.
31.
111
975,
-86.
809
845
He tapped the numbers into the GPS, and Trudi felt suddenly foolish. Of course, she said to herself. Latitude and longitude. How simple. Sheesh, and I call myself a detective.
The mute man held the GPS toward her, and she saw the spot on the map. 31.111975,-86.809845. It was farm country, down in southern Alabama. A spot just outside the Conecuh National Forest.
“That’s Truck’s place?”
The man nodded. He started pantomiming again. From what Trudi could tell, first he was milking a cow, then hoeing a field. He was so earnest about it that she didn’t laugh at his work, though it did look a little foolish for a big army ranger to yank at invisible cow teats in the middle of the night.
“It’s a farm?” He nodded. “So the aboveground buildings are what, a house and a barn? Samuel will be glad to know this. He says he’s to pick up something for Truck from that place.”
The mute man frowned. He pantomimed opening a door.
“The key, yes. Samuel has the key.” Trudi could see him thinking. “Don’t worry,” she said, “we’ll do right by Truck.”
The man looked deep into her eyes, and Trudi felt a little uncomfortable, but all she said was, “I promise.”
The mute man held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded. A decision made. A course of action chosen.
He turned back to the GPS device and tapped on it for a moment. Then he looked back at Trudi. He sighed.
He pantomimed striking a match. “Fire?” Trudi said. He pointed to Truck’s farm on the GPS device.
“Yes, I heard about that. The Great Conecuh Fire. But they’re starting to get it contained, right? And this spot where the farm is should be miles away from the hot spots now.”
The mute man nodded slowly, then pointed again to the GPS. Trudi saw he’d marked a second spot on the map, about two and a half miles from Truck’s farm. She followed the roads and saw what he was telling her. She pointed to a main road.
“Blocked by the fire’s path?”
He nodded. He put his finger north of the second spot on the map, checked to make sure she was paying attention, then traced down a few Alabama back roads until his finger stopped at the second location.
“You’re saying we should drive to here to avoid the fire’s aftermath, to avoid fire fighters in the area? Then what?”
He nodded and handed her the GPS. He put up both hands, palms out, then pointed to himself. He repeated the gesture, adding the number 4 just before pointing to himself.
Wait—4—me, Trudi interpreted. “Wait for you here?” She pointed at the spot on the map.
He smiled and nodded.
“Wait for you here, and then you can take us in to Truck’s farm by foot. I get it.” She hesitated. “I’ll have to run it by Samuel first. You’ve met my ex-husband, right?” A nod. “Then you know he can be stubborn about things, especially when Truck is involved. If Samuel is opposed to this, it won’t happen. You’ll be stuck there all by yourself. We won’t be coming. I won’t betray him just to make you happy. You okay with that?”
The mute man grinned and nodded his agreement. He extended a hand, but Trudi held off on shaking to finalize the deal just yet.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go get Samuel—”
He pantomimed opening a door again.
“Right,” she said, “I’ll go get Samuel—and the key. And we’ll meet you here.” She pointed to the second location on the GPS. “When?”
The mute man looked at a watch, and Trudi caught that it was now about ten minutes after 3:00 a.m. I’m going to be late getting back to Birmingham. Maybe I won’t get caught speeding.
The mute man looked at her and then held up seven fingers.
“Seven o’clock. Today? Tonight? Tomorrow?”
The man shook his head. He pointed down.
“Seven o’clock tonight?”
He nodded. He smiled again, then put out his hand again. She shook the hand once, firmly.
It was done, then. They had a deal. She would go back to Birmingham, pick up Samuel, and take him to the rendezvous. They’d meet the mute man there at 7:00 p.m. tonight and hike into Truck’s farm. There, the two men could argue over who took control of Truck’s emeralds, and she’d finally be finished with this whole Leonard Truckson business once and for all. Well, except for the whole Dr. Smith and Samir wanting revenge thing. But that was a problem for Future Trudi. Right now, she would focus on one thing at a time.
She started to return the GPS device, but the man shook his head.
“I’ll keep this, then?” she said awkwardly.
He nodded, then gave a longing look toward the weaponry atop her car.
“Yes, of course, by all means,” she said. “I’ve got to get back on the road anyway.”
The big man collected his guns and knife, then turned to leave. He gave her a short salute before jogging across the street back to a waiting vehicle. When he was gone, Trudi returned to her car and began the two-hour journey to Birmingham. Her mind raced with aftershocks of this unusual encounter, but at least she felt like there was a plan in place now, a way to reach the beginnings of a conclusion in this matter.
One thing still bothered her, though. She’d learned what the math problem was on Truck’s map. And the “AL” at the top of the map, well that had to mean “Alabama,” didn’t it? After all, that’s where Truck’s farm was.
But just below “AL” on Truck’s map was the notation “9:6–11.” That part was still unexplained. At
first, she and Samuel had thought maybe it was a reference to a Bible verse or a Sura in the Qur’an, but after looking through both books a bit, they’d ruled that out. Now it struck her that even the mute man hadn’t known about it, and that she’d left it out when talking to him.
So what did 9:6–11 mean? She didn’t take Truck for a man to put that in the map unless it meant something. She let her mind wander in the direction of that problem while the mile markers passed quickly by.
Trudi had driven about seventy miles away from Atlanta when an unwanted truth finally interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh man,” she said to the empty car. “I forgot to lock my office. Again.”
27
Annabel
I finally done it.
I shucked off all my clothes, skivvies and all, and ran ’round this big room screaming bloody murder. I kept running and screaming until I was panting and out of breath, red-faced and pink-bodied with exertion. I think it was the first time I actually scared that dog. At first he jumped and nipped at the air when I ran, then he backed himself up into a corner and sat there a-watching the crazy naked girl runnin’ and runnin’ until she couldn’t run no more.
When I was done, I thought I’d feel better, but it just made me sad, and I don’t know why really, but I started to cry. Hard crying. The kind that seeps out your nose and your eyes both. It was awful, but after I was done, after I’d wiped my face and rubbed my eyes, then I felt a little improvement. So I guess it was worth something.
Truck didn’t put no washing machine down here, nor did he include a shower. But by now I was feeling sticky and sweaty on top of who-knows-how-many-days of body odor and dirty clothes. I decided to take advantage of the moment.
There wasn’t no soap down here, but there was plenty of water. I spent some time hauling up buckets from the well, squishing my clothes in the cold freshness, then wringing them out over the toilets in the outhouse. There wasn’t no clothesline in here neither, so I just laid ’em out flat on the floor to dry. By the time I was done, I was shivering from the cold, but it felt good to know my clothes would be sorta clean and dry in just a few hours.
I wrapped myself up in two sleeping bags and perched on a top bunk of the bed. That was a time ago. And now the dog finally comes out of his corner to start investigating.
From up here, he looks kinda funny. I actually feel like laughing.
“What you looking at, Dog?” I say to him. “Ain’t you never seen a body go crazy before?”
He sniffs at my clothes, then turns away in disinterest. Me, I’m thinking now about how it’s foolish to put clean clothes on a wretched body, knowing that means sooner or later I’m gonna have to toughen up and use that ice-cold well water to scrub my personal hide. I shiver just thinking about it, and it makes me laugh out loud.
It feels good to laugh.
Seems like years since I last knew how to do it. And that makes me get all teary-eyed and weepy again. Maybe I am getting bat-crazy in here.
After a time, my body is warmed up enough to make me feel like venturing out of this cocoon of sleeping bags. I flip open the blankets and feel cool air skitter across my skin.
Too soon, I decide. I wrap back up in the sleeping bags and wait some more.
My dog has taken his usual position at the side of my bed, resting comfortably, ready to spring into action at any moment.
“Hah!” I shout.
Just testing the limits.
The dog raises his shaggy head up to look at me, but his eyes appear unconcerned. His look seems to say more “You want something, Girl?” than “What’s goin’, Girl!” Guess by now he’s getting to know me a bit, and I’m getting to know him too.
I’m still a little flush from my naked runnin’s, so I say to him, “Es ist ein guter Hund.” It’s a good dog.
Spark my lighter if that dog don’t stand up now and start to wag his tail just a little, just one swish or two from side to side.
“Es ist ein guter Hund,” I say again, then I add a little correction. “Du bist ein guter Hund.” You’re a good dog. Sure enough, that tail wags again.
Is this the first time I ever said something nice to that dog? At least so’s he could hear it? The animal looks at me with expectation in his face, and it strikes me that when Truck said things like that, he probably gave this dog a treat. I’m not sure how my dog will react if he gets praised and don’t get a treat as part of the bargain, so now I’m in for it.
Like it or not, I’m gonna have to shrug off this warmth and skip through the coldness in my altogether just to get that dog a snack. Next time I’ll know better, but now I’m under a stern obligation. So off I go.
Dog seems happy with the beef jerky I toss his direction, so that’s good. And now that I’m out here, I figure it’s time to face the job at hand. The well water is worse than ice on my bare skin, but just a little rubbing with a wet rag reveals to me how greasy and dirty a girl can get while just sitting in a clean room. Even I’m disgusted by what appears on the rag after swashing it under my arms. I grit my teeth and complete the work.
When my skin is finally scrubbed pink and raw, I drop the rag in the bucket to soak. I’ll wash it out later, when I can feel my fingers again. For now I leap back under the sleeping things and try to get warm.
I’m surprised at how nice it feels to be clean again. Clean is something you never miss until you can’t get it easy, I guess. But for now, blood is pumping happy in my veins and even the air around me seems to smell better. I tuck my wet head under the sleeping bag and let hot breath fill the space until I start to get a little claustrophobic and have to crack the edges to let fresh air in.
The world around me is quiet. Apparently that screaming girl has calmed down a mite. I feel myself relax and know it will be easy to go to sleep again. I don’t know if it’s nighttime or just nap time, only that sleep sounds nice.
When I wake up, I’m still buck-skinned, but cozy and warm under the covers. I want to just stay here, to keep in this womb-like place for as long as possible, but I make the mistake of letting my hands rest on my belly. That reminds me quickly of the bodily demands, so I sigh and make my way to the outhouse.
Afterward, I check the clothes and find my shirt and underwear are dry, but my socks and jeans are still a little damp and cold. I brave up and get dressed anyway. My body heat will dry the clothes quicker than this cold floor.
I feel a little sad as I pull on the last sock, like I had a little vacation there for a minute but now it’s over. Like for a short moment in time, I was free again, a girl again, having fun with life and the world around her. But now I’m back in my prison clothes, seeing the four walls around me and knowing I ain’t going nowhere, no matter how much I run and scream and cry.
I look over at the dog and see that, in his own way, the animal must also feel the same. Cellmates. I guess that’s what we are. A couple of jailbirds just waiting for freedom to come knocking on our cage, shouting the safe code to let us out.
“Where the heck are you, Truck?” I say to the walls.
As usual, they don’t answer.
On the table before me is Marelda Gregor’s journal and my own notebook. We’ve had an interesting journey so far, Marelda and me. But she always leaves me with more questions than answers.
I look at my notebooks on the table, waiting for me to return to them again. I suppose it’s time, so I sit down to work once more . . .
Die persönliche Rechnung Marelda Gregor, Psychiater, Biologen, Mystiker . . .
It pains me that this baby still has no name.
It’s been two months now. The child deserves a name. But Dr. Schmitzden won’t allow it. He says that giving the prototype a name will humanize it in the eyes of the workers, and that it will negatively impact their ability to do their jobs.
I see the wisdom in his words; I know he is right. And still, is this child not already human? Is she not already a living, breathing thing?
She is weak, even Dr. Schmitzden sees
that. Her cries, once full-fisted and fraught with power, now echo damply, like whimpers from a sickened animal. The drainings have been too frequent. They sap her of strength and life. She’s too young, too new to endure that kind of treatment. Dr. Schmitzden knows it just as plainly as I do. When he gave her to me for nursing six days ago, even he acknowledged the obvious.
“Feed her well, Frau Gregor,” he said. “She needs her strength.”
He could see in my eyes the questions that came. He let his hand caress my shoulder, a gentle touch, one I remember.
“Don’t worry, dear Marelda. I will not let her die. She is too valuable to me.”
“Yes,” I said.
He smiled. “Perhaps we will wait a week before the next draining. Perhaps that will ease your worries, yes?”
I nodded, and he said, “A week then. It’s settled.” He gave me a light squeeze. “Now, feed her well.”
“Yes,” I said, and he left me to my work.
She barely ate at first, she was so limp and frail. But I was patient, and she has a strong will, this one. After a time, she took her fill. Each new day her body grows to match her will.
I feel her warmth pressed against mine. She who lived inside me has come to know me again. Come to trust me. She sleeps now and I see the beauty of the stars in her face.
I know I should not do it. I know it is unwise. But she is my child, and despite her future, despite her place in the work we have begun, this baby deserves a name.
Yes, of course I understand what we are doing. It must be done. The Order of St. Heinrich von Bonn demands nothing less than everything, this child included. I knew that when I dedicated myself to this life, to this cause.
And still . . .
She is just a child, and every child is worthy of a name.
Sleep, little one, sleep in your mother’s arms tonight. Rest. Be strong.
Tomorrow is one week since your last draining. Tomorrow will be hard for you. But tonight, you may sleep in safety. This is my promise to you, and I swear it by the name I give you now.
Sleep, my Raina Aemilia Gregor.
Sleep, my little life. Tomorrow will be bitter for you, but not tonight.
