Destiny’s eyes were wild. “But they’ll hurt us.”
“If they do, they do. But don’t let them make it look like an accident.”
Cappy’s chopper brushed them, almost jolting them off their bikes, bouncing them forward. Patrick wanted to jump off his bike and run, but knew that to vault the waist-high barrier and run up into the woods would be even more perilous. Whatever Cappy intended, they couldn’t eliminate the threat just by walking or running away from it.
For a seeming eternity the tableau was unchanged, and then they heard another sound, rumbling up the highway behind them.
It was a flatbed logging truck, stacked with immense, freshly-felled logs, chained in a pyramid. It roared up behind them heading for the Allan Street turnoff for the I-5 freeway, heading down to Portland and the docks. Its horn sounded like Gabriel’s trumpet. Cappy looked around, and then back at Patrick and Destiny, and he made a gun of his thumb and forefinger, and slowly, deliberately dropped the hammer.
Cappy made another, broader motion of his massive arm, and the cycles gunned their engines. With a cloud of smoke, they swerved around the kids, and headed south down the road.
Patrick was breathing in shallow little bursts. Destiny’s eyes were wide, her cheeks streaked with tears. She looked at Patrick, blinked once, hard, and said in a small voice, “God, Patrick. What have you done?”
24
“Son of a bitch!” Otis Emory whispered, voice so deadly quiet that Patrick wanted to hide. His father’s face was so distorted by rage and an almost palpably murderous intent that he seemed like a raving madman viewed through a fun-house mirror.
He knew that he had made a terrible mistake in giving his mother even the slightest hint of the incident on River View Road. He should have lied about his shaking hands, the wildness in his eyes, the nightmare of chrome and rubber that had ejected him shrieking from his sleep.
He understood Cappy’s madness. At least, he thought he did. The bridge. That horrible night under the bridge was taking Cappy’s organization apart, and the man was going crazy. Or was there something more? Something that connected Cappy’s enterprise with Patrick and Destiny?
Like for instance the location of the club…?
Vivian stood in their trailer’s doorway, blocking it with her slender body. Otis tried to force his way outside, but so far she had refused to yield. His huge fists were knotted, forearms swollen until they threatened to burst his sleeves. “Goddamn it, Vivian,” he said quietly. “Get out of my way.”
Patrick tried to think, but couldn’t. It was as if a huge smoky cloud of blood and ink was blotting out the words in his head. He clung to his father’s massive right leg. “Daddy, no. Don’t do this—”
Vivian’s face was pale with fear and concern. “Otis, I don’t want you going over there, starting something.”
“That bastard tried to kill my boy!”
“We don’t know that,” she said. “We could call the police.”
“Fuck the police. They own the police. There’s something that I can sure as goddamn hell do. I can march over there and drag his hairy fucking ass out of that trailer…”
Desperately, Vivian said the obvious: “You’re drunk!”
“Daddy—that’s why I didn’t tell you.” Patrick babbled the words out, in a complete lather now. “I was wrong. I was probably wrong. I was just scared, you know? Just scared, and upset and mad.” He was watching himself talk, watching himself fall apart, couldn’t stop or slow the descent from logic into pure raving emotion. “Daddy, don’t do this.” His voice was a six-year-old’s.
* * *
Otis wasn’t listening. The anger and pain built up inside him, a yammering cacophony of voices that finally drowned out restraint, clouded his vision with violent need. No longer seeing or hearing Vivian, he placed one massive hand on her waist, and pried her out of the doorway. Not daring to meet her eyes, he squeezed past and onto the porch.
From across the way, he could just barely see Cappy’s trailer. There was no roaring party over there tonight. In fact, there had been no parties for more than a week. Something had happened, something that was whispered about and hinted at, but that no one had dared speak aloud. He knew that some of the bums that usually hung around Cappy’s place were no longer there. Fewer bikes. At work, Cappy had been barely contained, his eyes reddened, as if he was sampling too much of his own supply—or as if he was murderously angry about something. Something.
Cappy examined every passing face compulsively, searching for something. Guilt? Knowledge? He didn’t know, but he knew that the thug had braced at least half a dozen men, had lumped three of them up. No one was talking, or no one knew why at least three regulars had just left town. Just picked up and vamoosed. He knew that. There was no explanation, but there were, once again, rumors. Something about the Allan Street bridge. But he didn’t know, or care.
He only knew that something had almost happened to his boy, his only child, and that was more than he could tolerate.
Otis started down the steps.
Patrick screamed it: “Daddy, no!”
Otis felt like his ears were filled with cotton. He seemed to be viewing the world in slow motion, and through a red filter. His lips felt numb and clumsy as he said, “Watch an’ see how it’s done, boy.” He descended another step.
Patrick still held his leg in a death grip. Otis hadn’t even noticed. The big man pried his son away gently, careful not to hurt his fingers, and set him on the porch. Desperate now, Patrick pulled at his mother’s arm. “Mom,” he said. “Stop him.”
For a moment, Patrick’s voice shook off that childish cant; it was dead calm now. That change seemed to snap Vivian out of her trance. He managed to catch her eyes, and hold them. “You’re the only one who can, and you know it.”
There was something in Patrick’s eyes that was older and calmer than God. She shook her head sharply, then ran down and around to confront her estranged husband.
“Otis!” She slapped him stingingly across the face. He whipped his head toward her, raising his clenched fist as if about to strike back.
“Otis Cawthone Emory,” she said. “I swear to God if you go over there, and start anything, anything at all, I will never let you in my home again.”
He looked past her, toward the trailer, and a thin sound escaped his lips, something that was almost a whine, a desperate, animal yearning, to vent his rage and frustration physically.
His eyes refused to focus on her, but they flickered a bit, as if some deep part of him, a part too small to halt or deflect the emotional avalanche, had heard.
She went on, her voice dropping to a hoarse, fierce whisper. “Never, Otis. You will never lie in my bed again. I promise you.”
Now he looked at her, his desperation even more starkly vulnerable. “You not takin’ anything away from me, Vivian. I already lost everything I love. Pret’ near. I lost you. But I still got my boy. Can’t let ’em hurt my boy.”
She came closer to him. Placed her hands on either side of his face.
“We’re still your family, Otis.” Her face was tense, but her voice was calm and strong. “You haven’t lost us yet.”
“I haven’t?”
Her eyes flickered away from him to Patrick, who stood on the porch. He seemed so small and weak. Frightened. Her eyes locked with Otis’s.
“No. Not yet.” She pressed her lips against his, very gently.
From deep within his chest came a mewling sound, something he didn’t recognize.
“Come back inside with me,” Vivian whispered.
“Inside?”
She kissed him again. He backed away from her, almost disbelieving. Her fingers circled his fisted hands, smoothed them open, guided one of his broad hands to the warm swell of her hips. His expression was that of a little boy offered a sweet he knows he does not deserve: suspicion, hope, longing.
She nodded gently, and took his hand, and led him like a trained bear back into the trailer. Past Patrick, wh
o watched her with shining, worshipful eyes.
25
Patrick rolled off his mattress silently. Without the aid of external lights, he felt his way through a maze of books, magazines and model cartons, to his swivel-bottomed computer chair. He touched the space bar to get a live screen, and logged onto AOL.
A few keystrokes took him to the kids’ chat room. There he scanned a list of subjects: Baseball, Music, Education, Dating and Miscellaneous. Cruised miscellaneous and scanned down a list until he came to an odd one: Musashi.
He relaxed a little, more than he had in the previous three hours, hearkening to the moment when he wondered if his father was going to die. Four years ago he had received an Instant Message on AOL inviting him to check out the Musashi room. Out of curiosity, he checked it out, and was instantly addicted. The nine principles of Japan’s greatest warrior were its bylaws. He no longer remembered where he had first heard the Nine, but they now seemed to be engraved upon his heart.
Do not think dishonestly.
The Way is in Training.
Become acquainted with every art.
Know the Ways of all professions.
Distinguish between gain and loss in worldly matters.
Develop intuitive judgment and understanding for everything.
Perceive those things that cannot be seen.
Pay attention even to little things.
Do nothing that is of no use.
He loved those rules. Tried to live by them. Read every version of the Book of Five Rings he could find, from Clavell to Kaufman. One day, he would study sword, would really understand what those words meant, and where they might lead you. Some of Japan’s greatest businessmen and warriors had, as had many Americans, including his personal hero, Alexander Marcus. Marcus had started with nothing, with less than Patrick had, and built himself an empire.
Ever since the day a fourth grade social studies teacher had read Marcus’s life story to her class, he had known this man would be his role model. Had searched out and read everything he could on this great man.
Musashi Miyamoto. Alexander Marcus. Great men. Great examples.
In the Musashi Chat he had found kindred spirits. Claremont, Washington might well be the very definition of lame, but there was a big world out there, filled with brothers and sisters, a family he had never met.
There were three people signed on to Musashi at the moment: Ronin3, Hamlet007 and Virgo. Patrick’s name was Marcus9.
Patrick spoke aloud as he typed. “Hi, guys. What’s up?”
A chatter named Blckbelt signed in and answered. I’m up for testing next Saturday.
“Still into the gay kwon do?”
Manners … Ronin3 typed.
Yeah, Blckbelt said. Or I’ll kick your butt right through the screen.
Virgo got into the discussion. How r you, Marcus?
He paused. What did he want to say? In some ways, it was as easy to talk to these guys as it was to Shermie and Destiny and Frankie. Virgo was in Mississippi. Ronin3 was in South Dakota. Patrick had family he’d never met. “Things are kind of weird here.”
What kind of weird? Virgo asked.
“My mom and dad are back together, but not really. It’s confusing.”
Ronin3 typed, Perceive those things that cannot be seen.
Hamlet007 had been lurking, but now jumped in. Pay attention even to little things.
Patrick brightened a bit. That name was familiar. Only one person he knew would label himself after a brooding, half-crazed Danish prince and a British agent. “Hey, Frankie.”
Don’t call me that. Hamlet’s the name.
“I’m the one who’s screwed up today,” Patrick typed. Little knots of tension floated away, just by tapping the keys.
How so? Ronin3 asked.
“I don’t know what I want. It’s good to have Dad back, but I don’t think it’s good for Mom. I know what I want, and I think it’s not good for her. This sucks.”
A lurker named Barnum675 jumped in. Keep busy, tiger. What’s up with the projects?
“Everyone here is on-line—we mostly spend spare time distributing flyers and marketing for the local businesses.” Thinking about business helped to take his mind from his personal problems.
Good deal, Ronin3 said. I like to try to get other kids working for me, so I can sit on my butt more often.
Tom Sawyer, Blckbelt said.
Yeah, answered Ronin3. But I’ve never been able to figure out how to get people to pay ME to do my work.
And at that Patrick managed to laugh. It was forced at first, and then, although quiet, grew deeper and more healing. He hunched over the keyboard, and lost himself in the community of friends he had never met.
But somehow, he sensed, he would.
26
Shadows filled Vivian’s room. Otis was heavily asleep in the bed next to her. For two minutes she listened to him snore and then slid out of bed, and into her nightgown. She slipped into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her. She looked into the mirror at her smudged, puffy face, staring as if trying to see the girl that she used to be. Then she began to cry.
She dried her tears and listened carefully to a tap-tap sound, put her ear against the wall, and smiled faintly. She left her bedroom and walked down the short hall to Patrick’s room. She could hear him giggle.
And in spite of the pain she felt, she managed to smile.
* * *
Patrick was bent over the keyboard, tapping away. His bedroom door opened, and he was too lost in cyberspace to pay any notice.
He was talking with someone named Kipper6.
I found this jammin’ book on co-op ventures. Finding people who have a customer list that matches yours, but is in a kinda different area?
“How so?”
Like if you do car detailing, and there’s a car wash that keeps a list of their regular customers. That kind of thing.
“Cool! ‘Know the ways of all professions.’ I—”
He looked around, and saw his mother in the door.
“What exactly are you doing?” Vivian asked.
Patrick hit a button on his machine, and it shut down.
He turned to her. “Just having a little trouble sleeping,” he said.
Vivian nodded. “Me, too. Your chat room friends?”
“Yeah.”
“Some of them are east coast? It must be three o’clock!”
He smiled sheepishly. “Some of ’em are in Europe, I think.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Well, you’ve still got a few inches left to grow. You need your sleep.”
He flexed his right arm, making a muscle. Or trying to. “Nope, doing fine.”
“Sleep, young man. Hop into bed, and we’ll just forget that this happened for now.”
Relieved not to be punished, Patrick made no protest, just followed her orders. Vivian kissed his forehead, and then turned out the lights and left the room.
Patrick lay in the dark and looked at the computer, its screen giving off a soft green phosphorescence in the darkness. He longed to sneak back up and rejoin the chat room for just a few minutes, but instead murmured to himself, like a catechism: “Do not think dishonestly.”
Then he yawned deeply, suddenly feeling the fatigue, and slid more deeply beneath the covers, closing his eyes.
27
Vivian sat in the living room, staring at her computer screen. She had a separate e-mail folder set up for her correspondences with Renny Sand. Her finger touched the button on her mouse, and she dragged the entire folder over to the trash bin, and dropped it.
Then she lowered her head, and began to cry. Who was she kidding? She was trapped, trapped by a life that had once seemed so full and promising.
An hour ago she had made love a lie in her soft, wide bed. She might never sleep there again without remembering what she had done.
But Patrick’s eyes …
What was true? What was the lie? She didn’t feel dirty, or used. She just felt lost.
In the last weeks she had received several notes from Renny Sand, mostly just updates on his career. The longest had been three hundred words of pure disappointment when an anticipated assignment fell through. She remembered feeling sorry for the disappointment, but glad that he had chosen to share his feelings with her.
Then, just days ago, an odd mixture of excitement and anger blossomed in his careful, polite notes. Something that had happened during his most recent interview that made him reach out to her as a friend.
… and when this woman mentioned Marcus, and told me things she thought would shock me, she was right. I was surprised how deep it went. Sure, there’d been hints in the media about his predilection for prostitutes, but I just didn’t need to go there. I have few enough heroes any more. It got worse than that, but it wouldn’t be right to go into it right now.…
Alexander Marcus. Most of the world knew that name—Patrick had done a project on Marcus for his American History class, and had a picture of him on his wall. He had quoted the man, but then so had news commentators. Marcus was black, wealthy, and had been raised in poverty by a single mother. Easy to see why Patrick would look up to him.
But Renny’s mention of Marcus seemed strange. Another hero-worship thing? It seemed an odd way to reach out, but even so, she took a bit of comfort from it. She wondered what the “worse” might be, and figured that if it was really important, it would end up on 60 Minutes one night. Whatever it was, she just prayed it wouldn’t hurt Patrick.
But that was all foreground. In the background, flowing smoothly as a river, was communication. She and Renny had begun to share thoughts. She spoke of her shop, he of his job. Small hopes and dreams. Likes and dislikes.
She never opened one of his notes without a tingling sensation bouncing between her heart and her tailbone, and she instinctively knew that the same was true for Renny.
Like it or not, distant or not, strange or not—they had a relationship. Something was budding.
A bubble of hysteria broke the artificial surface of her calm. What would Musashi say?
Where had that come from? Oh, God, Patrick and his Book of Five Rings. He said that he’d learned about it in one of Marcus’s biographies, which listed it as the great man’s favorite book. When Patrick finally bought a copy at Barnes and Noble, he had read the entire book in one sitting, and then looked at her mystified, as if it contained the hidden secrets of the universe. He had turned to her and asked: Did you ever read this book to me? Maybe when I was a baby?
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