“I can’t stay in Diablo,” she said. “There just isn’t enough there for me. Not any more.”
“What then?”
“Bobby Ray was born in Texas. That’s where we met. He was a Ranger, Renny. He was tall and proud and beautiful when we met. I guess if he had a choice he’d die the way he did. He was afraid of turning into some kind of vegetable. Of being a burden on me until I wouldn’t remember the good times any more.” Her hands gripped at the wheelchair’s leather armrests. “That idiot. Couldn’t have ever happened, until the day I don’t remember my own name any more.” She sighed. “I think I’m taking him home, Renny. I think that’s what I’ll do.”
A single tear brimmed at the inside edge of her left eye, and brimmed over, leaving a glistening track on her cheek. “Aw, hell,” she said, and the tears were glimmering just beyond her control. He still couldn’t believe it: Because of this one little woman, forty-three children and four adults were still alive. Twelve innocent people had died, plus six weak, evil men, and one creature of fantastic virulence.
Kelly seemed so small, so helpless. Renny would always remember that he owed her his life.
And that because of him, her beloved husband was dead.
Might Kelly and Bobby Ray have had more good months, watching the warm Arizona sky together? Holding each other? Speaking of the good times? All of that was now gone, gone forever.
Renny didn’t realize how it had happened, but suddenly he was kneeling by the side of her wheelchair, Kelly Kerrigan was holding his hand, and he was crying.
“Renny Sand,” she said. She stroked his head as his mother might have, had she lived. “In life, things just happen sometimes. The Lord makes those decisions. We all have things we regret. Most of the time it doesn’t matter what we try to do, or what we want. It’s His will that’s done. Not ours.”
All the strength he had felt facing the Senate committee, the men and women who might decide the fate of a thousand innocent children drained away, and with it any sense of who or what he was.
She seemed to sense that he was a man who had no words, but desperately needed to communicate. “Renny,” she said. “There’s a good woman who needs a husband, and a good boy who needs a father. There is nothing more cleansing in this world than building a home. Put your past behind you. Life is too damned short.”
A blue-uniformed flight attendant touched her shoulder. “Excuse me, Mrs. Kerrigan. We’re ready to begin pre-boarding. Would you like to come along now?”
Renny took a deep breath and hugged her. “God, Bobby Ray was one lucky man.”
Kelly kissed his cheek gently. “You go on now,” she said. And the flight attendant wheeled her away from him, and down the tunnel to her waiting plane.
He never saw Kelly Kerrigan again.
83
MARCH 2002
Renny Sand drove north on the I-5 freeway, heading out of Portland toward Claremont. It was a cold gray day. Water beaded against his windscreen, turning the road into a rain-streaked watercolor. He was growing accustomed to the weather, and no longer felt deprived for lack of sunlight and blue sky. If he was going to live here, he reckoned he had better get used to real winters, and real weather.
He had been a Portlander for two months now, had carted his stuff north after resigning from Marcus Communications and finding work at the Oregonian.
For the first months following Charisma Lake he still smoked half a pack a day, but eventually Renny couldn’t strike a match without remembering a dancing cone of fire. In time the urge to swallow smoke recreationally weakened to a dull ache.
As he drove, his mind wandered to his notes on the Marcus affair. After all this time he still hadn’t decided what to do, or even what to think.
In the final analysis what was Alexander Marcus? War hero? Entrepreneur? Political figure? Olympic medalist? Faithful son?
Serial killer?
There were no hints in any of Marcus’s writings. Not journals or papers, memos or articles. Nor in public speeches. Every single word that might eventually come under public scrutiny had been sanitized. It might well be impossible to determine who and what Alexander Marcus had really been beneath his mask.
In desperation, Renny had read Marcus’s favorite tome, A Book of Five Rings, six times, praying that the words of a sixteenth century killing machine might provide some explanation of the man. But Musashi, who the Japanese called the Sword Saint, also urged his students to “exist for the good of mankind.” Musashi killed men who were trying to kill him. A killer, but not a murderer. Not a monster.
What of Marcus’s early childhood, the abuse at the hands of boys and girls in the streets of Harlem? The mutilation? The betrayal by both his mother and the agent of his (possibly) first sexual experience? Could that explain it? Too damned simplistic. If Renny tried to blame Marcus’s environment, then what to make of the thousands of abused boys and girls who never become twisted things, who live with their dark memories, and struggle to be good and moral beings.
Vietnam? Korea? The horrors of combat, and the greater horror of meeting some secret part of yourself behind the closed door of an interrogation room? That was the hoariest cliché of all, and one that insulted every veteran who has returned to his family, picked up the plow or the school book on his return, reintegrated with society. Over the last months he had researched further, almost obsessively, and found so many conflicting opinions that he decided one could theorize, but never truly understand, why human beings took one path or another. The ultimate answer, he decided, lay not within the range of human analytical capacity, but in the mind or domain of whatever creative force had molded the essential force … the soul, if you will, that gave a being will and consciousness.
Whatever had molded Alexander Marcus, be it nature or nurture, had also formed his beliefs and values, and many of those were now buried so deep, rooted so firmly in the children, that there might be no psychic surgery capable of removing the shards. All the Charisma Lake campers had undergone therapy or counseling in the months following the incident in Arizona. Other children on the list were evaluated and interviewed using a variety of ruses. The counselors quietly reported their findings back to a certain Senate subcommittee.
So far, the conclusions were almost unanimous: the children were brilliantly focused and abnormally creative, with self-esteem indices far above the norm. Even the survivors of Charisma Lake seemed to have suffered far less trauma than expected.
The words sociopathic or psychopathic had not, as yet, been mentioned.
As yet.
Sand knew that in cloistered academic halls, very secretive discussions were in process. Every scrap of Charisma Lake information was being evaluated, debates about nature and nurture given new life.
The children were a thousand walking, talking, breathing lab rats, locked in a maze without walls.
Outside of a dozen people in D.C., Kelly Kerrigan, Renny Sand and Vivian Emory were the only living people who knew that the children carried Marcus’s spiritual seed. If Renny decided to go public, it would be the scoop of the century.
But whom would it benefit? Thousands of people would lose jobs. Hundreds might lose fortunes as Marcus Communications stock plummeted. And if, God help him, the truth about the children ever saw the cover of Newsweek, each and every one of them would carry that stigma to their graves.
What was right? What was wrong? Kelly and Vivian had said they would not judge him, but Renny just wasn’t sure anymore. He suspected that he would never publish these notes, and that was the final irony. He had prayed for a story that would save his career, make the public forget a certain terrible mistake. This was that story, that career miracle that comes once in a lifetime.
But he couldn’t run with it, and was in an odd way happy that he couldn’t, because the old Renny Sand could have. He would have justified it, rationalized it: Someone else would stumble across it. Penelope Costanza would tell her story to someone else. A policeman somewhere would tie two threads toge
ther. A computer disk from Advanced Systems would turn up at a girlfriend’s house, and prove to contain a list of children …
Or that old, reliable standby: The public has a right to know.
No, they didn’t.
If disaster struck, in any form, he would be able to stand with Vivian and Patrick, and the boy would know that he, Renny Sand, had not betrayed their trust. Had done everything he could to protect them all. When Renny looked at Patrick Emory he saw only the clear brown eyes, and the open heart of a boy who had lost a father, and needed a friend.
Renny wanted to be that friend so badly that it hurt to think of it.
He reached the Claremont turnoff (there was only one), and turned east to corkscrew west, drove two miles through familiar twisting streets, and found Costumes, Period. Vivian’s battered blue car was parked in front, along with a bicycle that he now knew belonged to her son.
He reached through the door and quieted the bell before entering: one of his greatest pleasures in life was simply observing Vivian when she was off guard.
And now, she was in the back of the shop, working with a heavyset female customer trying on a Wonder Woman outfit, gold tiara and all.
Vivian was dressed for dinner and a Lionel Richie concert at the Portland Rose Garden: a dark blue pullover that hugged her torso like a dream, and an ankle-length saffron skirt so perfectly tailored that it couldn’t possibly have fit any other human being on the planet as sublimely. Her hair was a fall of relaxed ringlets that kissed her shoulders with every move she made.
Patrick was working the cash register, and peered out at Renny from behind the counter, allowing a smile of recognition before returning to inventorying a box of monster teeth. “Hey, Renny,” he said casually.
At that, Vivian looked up from her customer, and her face lit up. One minute, she mouthed silently, and then went back to pinning up the hem on a dress that looked like something from a Star Wars tarot deck.
Renny leaned against the counter, waiting. “How’s school?” he asked.
“Fine,” Patrick said. He didn’t follow that up with any additional probing. The rules had been established early on. Don’t try to be my father. If you’re dating my mother, fine, but just because I trust you, just because you helped to save my life, don’t try to be what you can’t be. I get one father. One. And he’s gone.
But maybe, just maybe, we can be friends.
Vivian shunted the customer off to the dressing room and came to Renny, depositing a kiss on his cheek. Despite his reserve, Patrick didn’t turn away fast enough for Renny to miss the grin.
The peck had been conservative, considerate of Patrick’s feelings, but Renny knew how much more of her there was, knew the miracle that had been granted him. He treasured the memory of every night they had shared. Tonight, Patrick would be staying at Frankie’s house, and Vivian would come to Renny’s apartment. There, after dinner and music and perhaps dancing, she would share with him all that he had ever dreamed of, and despaired of ever experiencing.
They were both torn, both lost, but in the depths of night, one blessed evening following another like pearls on a golden strand, they were slowly but surely healing each other’s wounds.
“Hi,” she said, and took his hand in hers. Her fingers were strong and warm.
“Hi back,” he said, and wanted to kiss her right there, in front of her son. The urge was almost overwhelming. He didn’t. Not quite yet. But soon.
She seemed to sense his thoughts. “So…” she said. “Ready to go?”
“Absolutely.”
She turned to Patrick. The boy had grown two inches in the past year, and was starting to fill out a bit. A bit more of the bearish Otis was manifesting in Patrick’s youthful body. “Do you have cash for tonight?”
“You paid us already,” Patrick said, but she reached into the register, pulled out another twenty, and handed it to him.
“Just a little something,” she said. “What time will you be back tomorrow?”
“Maybe I should ask you that,” he said, and she ruffled his hair.
“Give me a hug,” she said.
“Aw, Mom…” he protested, a reply more ceremonial than heartfelt. She pulled him from behind the counter and squeezed him, scanned her store one more time and then tugged Renny toward the door.
“I’ve got energy tonight,” she said, “and I want to burn it.”
“My very thought,” he said, letting her into his car. “There’s a little jazz club called Annie Pearl’s I keep hearing about from our entertainment editor, and we have a table at midnight.”
“Ooh, Mr. Sand. Food, music, alcohol. Are you sure you can handle the consequences?”
In answer, he leaned toward her, and she toward him. Their lips met, and opened, and for half an eternal minute they spoke to each other wordlessly. When she finally pulled back, he felt dazed.
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
“Hope to God,” he said. Before he could get in on his side two more bicycles came speeding along the alley behind the costume shop, bearing Destiny and Frankie. They seemed to be having some kind of race, careering into the parking lot with hair-raising speed before dual squealing brakes brought them to a halt.
“Hey Mrs. Emory, Mr. Sand,” Destiny said. Frankie just waved, quiet within the folds of his new navy jacket. Renny always winced to see it. He remembered his last sight of the old one, left covering Ocean’s smoking body.
“Just in time,” Vivian said. “Help Patrick on the inventory, would you? What time is your movie?”
“Eight-twenty,” Frankie said, chaining his bike to the fence. Every motion was controlled. No wasted words. Even this small amount was, Renny knew, more than Frankie gave to most people. There were those who had been at Charisma Lake, and then there was the rest of the world.
Renny Sand had been there, and despite the pain and the nightmares, despite what he had seen and done, was glad. Not that it had happened, but that for once in his life he had been in the right place, at the right time, and had done the right thing.
Sometimes, that was enough.
84
Patrick’s head came up as Destiny and Frankie entered the shop, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, dudes,” he said.
Frankie waved, scanning the shelves as if looking for spiders. Destiny glared at Patrick and kissed his nose. “I am not a ‘dude.’”
“Dudette, then.”
“Try again.”
“I guess ‘bitch’ is out of the question—” He ducked back to avoid her swinging palm, and she was after him, had chased him halfway around the shop and yanked his arm up behind his back in a punishing hold before he could escape. She leaned her head close as she pinned him against a pile of fabric. “Ow! Ow!” he protested.
“Take it back—”
“All right, I take it back. And I buy popcorn tonight.”
She released him, and he rubbed his shoulder in protest. “You get no sympathy,” she said.
“It was just a question—” She balled her fist, and he relented. “Okay. I’m a shit.”
“Yep, but a cute shit.”
“Head’s up, guys,” Frankie called. “Customers.”
Patrick ran back to the front of the store as the front bell tingled, and three teenagers in leather pants entered. They looked like some odd cross-breeding of goth and leather punk, with pierced cheeks and belly buttons, leather vests open to the belt, spiked hair, pale skin and bad teeth. Two guys, one girl, and all thin as concentration camp inmates.
Patrick took his place behind the counter, continuing to inventory, watching them in the security mirrors. He’d seen these three around town. They’d even come into the store, asked a lot of questions, but ultimately purchased nothing. His mom was polite to them. Then again, she was polite to everyone.
Frankie was just trolling the aisles, maybe pretending to be another shopper. Patrick found himself immensely relieved that his friends were there, but that thought made him think of Shermie and
Lee, and the distance that had grown between them. As he’d suspected, his friendship with them was irreparably strained by the events of the last year. The sudden flurry of media attention around Patrick, Destiny and Frankie hadn’t helped at all.
One of the three “customers” was looking at leather studs in the glass case under the register, then looked up at Patrick. A gleam of recognition flashed in his eyes. “Hey, man,” he said. His breath was like curdled milk. “Weren’t you in the paper or something? That deal with the summer camp?”
Patrick said nothing. Destiny appeared beside him, her arm brushing his.
“That was like so fucked up!” the tall one crowed. “Did they ever find out what those assholes wanted?”
Patrick just shrugged. The media blitz had been intense, but brief. The killers were said to be veterans of an elite unit known as the Praetorians, who had followed Alexander Marcus, and subsequent to his death had gone bizarrely crazy. No motivations. Just the awful irony that the followers of a man Patrick admired had tried to kill fifty kids. The kids had all met in AOL’s Musashi chat room. Marcus had admired Musashi, but there seemed no direct connection. Patrick believed that the FBI or the CIA or somebody knew more than they were saying. Maybe even his mom, or Renny.
The pierced guy studied Patrick as if he were a goldfish in a bowl, then laughed. “Snap, crackle, pop, man.” He brayed as if he’d said the funniest thing in the world. His two friends were chortling now too, and picking up and putting down things in an accelerated, agitated fashion. Patrick could feel his stomach tightening. These assholes meant no good. Their blood was up, and they wanted trouble.
“Can we help you?” Destiny asked, a voice of reason in the growing storm.
Pierce-face looked at her incredulously. “Another one! And the other kid, too! What is it? This place specialize in fire sales?” The three of them were absolutely dissolving now.
Frankie had drifted up close to the cash register. His eyes were narrowed. He peered up at the tallest of the intruders, his face utterly calm. A touch of alarm squirmed along Patrick’s scalp. He knew, Destiny knew, his mom and Renny and all the kids at Charisma Lake knew what Frankie had done, what he was capable of. Pray to God that no outsider would ever be privy to that terrible knowledge.
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