He took notice of Job for the first time, and switched to English. “What are you doing in here? Get the hell out, and back upstairs!” And then in Italian into the telephone, “No, no, it’s just one of the dumb kids. He don’t understand squat. Look, if I’m to do it your way I’ll need a lot of help, here and over on the Hill. And if I don’t get that, you better remember you’re in as deep as I am.”
Another torrent of words burst out of the telephone, but Job could wait no longer. He ran back upstairs at top speed. By the time he came to the fourth floor he was wheezing and his lungs were aflame.
Laga had hardly moved since he left. She was no longer retching, or convulsing. He lifted her and turned her head, hugging her to him. She was warm and quiet against his chest. It was many seconds before he realized that she was not breathing.
Even then he did not fully understand what had happened. There had been two deaths in Cloak House since Job had arrived there, but he had not seen either body. Laga was still warm, her skin was still soft, she lay just as though she were resting.
When the fact of her death at last sank in, it drained Job. He laid Laga on the floor and leaned back against the wall. He was overwhelmed with misery, but the empty feeling inside left no urge to cry. For five minutes he sat unmoving, ignoring the shouts now coming from below.
When half a dozen tough-looking men ran past him, heading for the fifth floor, Job at last stood up, gazed blankly at Laga’s body for the last time, and went downstairs. He did not stop in his dormitory, or seek out any of his few possessions. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to do. When his steps led him to the front door of Cloak House, there was no sense of an action taken.
The door was open. Four empty cars stood in the alley outside, lights on and engines running.
Job stared incuriously into them, at their luxurious black upholstery, built-in communications systems, and tinted windows. Without slowing his step he went on past them, to the end of the alley where the street-lamp shone white; and on again, until he was swallowed up in the warm dark of the city’s Indian summer night.
• Chapter Four
Bracewell Mansion
By day the city had been intimidating in its size and complexity, but never scary. Perhaps it was Father Bonifant’s presence, a figure so familiar, so intense, and so obviously poor that not even the lowest basura in the street people thought to rob or attack him. Job had roamed the potholed roadways in his footsteps, and loved it.
But for a boy alone, and at night, the city put on a new face. Streets that he had walked a score of times became unfamiliar, filled with long, distorted shadows thrown by distant streetlights. He saw no one on sidewalk or pavement, but soft voices and strange sighs came from alleys and unlit corners. Without conscious decision Job turned his steps south and west, towards the glowing jewel of the Mall Compound. When he came within a quarter of a mile of the outer barricade, all aboveground structures ended. The Mall surround was dark, seamless concrete, unrelieved by light, tree, or blade of grass.
Job hesitated, until the far-off lights drew him forward again. He began to walk slowly towards the nearest part of the barricade. The Compound was quiet tonight, with no helicopter activity. For fifty yards he moved in an odd silence.
Suddenly a siren howled within the Compound. Twin spears of light converged and held him in a bright white focus.
ATTENTION. A great bellowing voice spoke in Job’s ear, so loud that he, ignorant of focused sonics, felt sure that it was audible across the whole city. ATTENTION. YOU ARE MOVING INTO A RESTRICTED ZONE, PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT. ACCESS IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED. THIS AREA IS PROTECTED BY AUTOMATED DEFENSE PROCEDURES. IF YOU DO NOT RETREAT AT ONCE TO THE BOUNDARY OF THE MALL PROTECTION ZONE, SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH MAY RESULT. DEFENSE PROCEDURES WILL TAKE EFFECT AUTOMATICALLY IN THIRTY SECONDS. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING.
While the mechanical voice was still shouting, Job turned and fled. He was desperately weary and downhearted, and he ran with failing legs directly away from the perimeter of the Mall zone and away from Cloak House. When he came to the crumbling streets of the eastern ghetto he was exhausted. He flopped down against a wall and stared around him.
The area was dimly lit, but it was as busy as the streets near Cloak House had been empty. In just a few seconds a dozen people hurried past, giving him not a second glance. One of them was carrying a basket of hot chicken, and its pungent smell made Job ready to faint with hunger. He had eaten nothing for over ten hours, and to a nine-year-old that felt like days. He sat and thought of food, of potatoes and hot meat and new bread. And with that thought the final scene at Cloak House came rushing back. He understood for the first time what had happened to Laga and what it meant. She was gone. He would never see her again. Not a day’s separation, or a week, but forever. Job leaned forward and began to weep, silently and hopelessly.
It was ten more minutes before he lifted his head again, to become aware that not everyone had hastened past and ignored him. A stooped white-haired man was standing thirty feet away. He was gazing thoughtfully at Job.
“You are out rather late, my lean young man,” he said, as Job returned the stare. “Are you a juvenile lycanthrope, or do you perhaps have no home to go to?”
Job said nothing. It was years since he had thought of the Tandyman as a real menace of the nighttime, but instinct told him that night still carried danger. And the white-haired man did not speak in the comfortable and familiar street jabber of chachara-calle, but in precise and carefully enunciated English.
“Are you sick?” asked the stooped man, after another quiet half-minute.
“No. I’m fine.”
The man nodded, and watched Job’s shadowed face as two people walked by carrying more of the spiced fried chicken. “But you are hungry?”
Job nodded.
“Very well. Then come along.” And, when Job did not move, the man switched to street talk. “Do not be afraid, chico-perdido. If you feel leery of me, all you need to do is ask. These basura, they can tell you lots about Professor Buckler.”
Job did not reply at once. He knew he could not stay forever on the street. Tonight was warm, but what about the coming winter? He could ask a passerby what they knew about “Professor Buckler,” but could he rely on the answer? Worst of all, could he go back to Cloak House? He dreaded the thought of that, and of Colonel della Porta; but it was the smell and thought of food that finally made him wipe his eyes with his sleeve and stand up.
“I have no money,” he said.
“Who does, nowadays?” said the old man, again in his refined tone. “Especially in these promiscuous parts. Let us proceed.”
Without looking to see that Job was following, he strolled off along the cracked sidewalk with the air of a man out for a midday stroll.
They were approaching a part of the city that Father Bonifant had avoided and Job had never seen. It must once have been a district of substance, because the buildings were huge and the avenues between them broad and formerly tree-lined. Now the windows were broken or boarded up, and only weathered stumps remained of lofty oaks and beeches.
They walked on and on, with Job clinging closer to Professor Buckler’s heels. The building that they finally came to was almost as tall as Cloak House. It was fronted by splendid stone stairs, fifty feet across, but they were littered with garbage and the lower floors behind the entrance were dark. One door was not blocked off. High above it one lit window shone out halfway up the colonnaded wall. They climbed the broad steps, and went on up unlit flights of wooden stairs inside the building. Job was at the limit of his strength. Professor Buckler seemed to know it, for he moved slowly, and waited whenever Job lagged.
On the fourth floor, at an open door leading to a lamp-lit room, he turned to Job. “There is one matter that we should resolve before we enter, if for no other reason than protocol. What is your name?”
“Job Napoleon Salk.” Job could smell food again, and that was making him giddy, more than th
e climb or his general exhaustion.
“A name to conjure with,” said Professor Buckler. And then, as they went on through into the room and approached a long red couch where a dark-haired woman was sitting, “Miss Magnolia, this is Job Napoleon Salk. I ran across him by accident on my evening stroll—although chance, of course, always favors the prepared mind. I think, my dear, that he may be exactly what we need.”
She turned and gave Job a suspicious frown. He stared back. He had never seen anything remotely like her. The long, fringed dress that she wore was of a plush crimson velvet, matching the couch, and around her neck a string of brilliants threw off a thousand glittering reflections of the lamplight. She wore lipstick, rouge, and eye shadow, skillfully applied. Job had seen plenty of street tarts, but he had never before met a woman who regarded makeup as an art. All he knew was that her scowl drew curved black brows down over dark-socketed eyes, and pursed the fullest, reddest lips that he had ever seen.
“You’re as big a bobo as ever, Prof.” Her voice was deep. “Find it on the street, no matter what it looks like, you wanna pick it up. What you gonna do with him now?”
“He has not eaten,” said Professor Buckler. “Since—when?”
Job was staring at the woman and did not answer.
“Well, for much too long, from the look of him.” There was an old windup clock ticking away on the wall, and the professor nodded his head towards it. “I know that it is early, Magnolia, but is anything ready yet?”
Early? It was nearly eleven o’clock at night—not even Colonel della Porta’s second supper had been so late. But the woman was nodding, her dark ringlets bobbing up and down over her forehead and by the side of her head.
“Yeah. Lucky for him. Toria and Tracy worked morning and afternoon, they wanted an early night. Take him through. We’ll have this out later. I have to wait for a delivery.”
The man nodded and walked on through a white door. After a moment of hesitation, Job followed. Two more rooms, one of them equipped with dining tables and chairs, and they were in a kitchen. It was not of the scale of the kitchens in Cloak House—but the food! It was more in quantity, and as good in quality, as anything that Job had seen in Colonel della Porta’s private quarters.
The professor wandered along a line of half a dozen covered dishes, lifting the tops off and sniffing the contents. He shrugged. “Well, it is certainly not for me. I may have a little soup later. But take a plate and help yourself.”
Job had seen what was in those dishes: pork and rice, thick-sliced beef, whole fish in thick yellow sauce, boiled potatoes and carrots and pasta and peas and corn. He took a plate from a warmed pile, then hesitated.
“Which one am I to eat?”
“What?” The professor shook his head vaguely, and his white hair fell forward over his forehead. “Well, I don’t know. Anything you want. The fish is probably good.”
Job had never tasted fish, and didn’t dare to. But there were plenty of other things. He hesitated at first, but when the man did nothing to restrain him he piled his plate higher and higher. Only exhaustion kept him from eating himself sick. By the time that he had finished his second plate his eyes were closing, and he was only dimly aware of climbing more stairs and of being shown to a bed in a high-ceilinged room. He lay down (in Cloak House, day clothes and night clothes were identical) and at once fell asleep.
Job had gone to bed more tired than he had ever been. Nighttime noise did not wake him; but silence and sunshine did.
He opened his eyes to winter sunlight slanting in through the narrow window, and was convinced that he had missed breakfast. Then he remembered: Cloak House was far away.
He needed to go to the bathroom, but he was afraid to venture out of the room. There was no reason for people here to let him stay, they would turn him out onto the street. Except that there seemed to be no one in the building. This late in the morning Cloak House was bustling, with work details on every floor. Here it was totally quiet.
Job made his bed, found and used a toilet, and crept downstairs. Not until he arrived at the kitchen did he find any signs of life. Professor Buckler was sitting at one of the tables. He was alone. The morning sunlight showed every wrinkle. His jaw was withered and sunken, his hands shook, and his skin looked gray. He was sipping from a tumbler filled with clear brown liquid.
“Ah,” he said wheezily, at Job’s arrival. He pointed to a seat, and did not speak again until the glass was empty.
“Now,” he said. His color was a touch better. “Last night I thought it better to postpone certain formalities. But it is time for them now. We know your name, and little else. You ran away from home—but what home did you run away from?”
Job was not sure he understood the question. Professor Buckler’s voice was different, the words from his sunken mouth not so clear.
“I mean,” said the professor after a few more seconds, “where did you live until last night? I know you did not survive on the streets.”
“I lived at Cloak House.”
“I have heard of it. Do you wish to return?”
Job thought of Colonel della Porta, and of Laga’s silent face. “No, sir.”
“I hear no hesitation there. And it seems unlikely that they will seek you out. However, to assure Miss Magnolia’s peace of mind I must explore the circumstances of your departure from Cloak House. We would not welcome a formal search. And while I am doing that…” He paused, and went silent for a minute or two.
“I need someone to collect a package for me. How well do you know this region of the city?”
“Not well, sir. But I do know the part around Cloak House. I went outside every week. And I can read. I could find my way anywhere, if you tell me the names of streets.”
“Excellent. And by the time that you return there will be breakfast ready.” He saw Job’s surprise. “We maintain rather a late household. It is the nature of our work. Here.” He took Job’s arm and drew him to his side. On a five-inch square of paper on the tabletop he sketched in a network of roads and names. “Follow the way that I have marked. You will know the house, it has a red door and black painted lions on the railing. Knock on the door, and wait. Be patient. If no one answers in ten minutes, simply return here, to Bracewell Mansion. If someone does answer, tell them, Supplies for the Professor. Got that? Supplies, for the professor. That’s all. They shouldn’t ask questions, and if they do, don’t answer them. Don’t talk to anyone on the street. Come straight back here with what they give you. Stick it inside your shirt.” Professor Buckler stared seriously at Job. “You know, I told Miss Magnolia last night that I believe that you are an unusually responsible and reliable boy. She is skeptical. Do not betray my trust.”
“No, sir.”
Job went down to the one open door and out onto the street. By day, the spooky wide avenues and gnarled tree stumps were not scary at all. It was colder than last night, but unusually warm for the end of the year. Before he had gone a hundred yards he was beginning to enjoy himself. He didn’t know this part of the city, but he was quite at home in it. He knew no one by name, but here were the same sort of vendors of street food and street goods that he had seen for years. It was a temptation to join in their calling back and forth, to share in the cheerful insults and the swapping of gossip.
He kept his mind on his job, and moved on steadily through the winter sunshine. The house when he came to it had black shuttered windows and looked deserted. He knocked on the red door. In less than thirty seconds it opened a crack and a black face peeked out. “Mmm?” The voice was a tenor hum, rising in pitch.
“Supplies for the professor.” Job resisted the urge to say anything else.
“Yeah.” The face vanished, and reappeared a few moments later. “Here.” A skinny black arm passed a square brown package about four inches square and one inch deep to Job. “Stash that. You’re new, uh? What happened to Poppy?”
Job shrugged. He stuck the packet inside his shirt and did not speak. Man, or woman? The se
x of the person on the other side of the door was still not clear to him. The face wore makeup, but the arm looked like a man’s arm.
The door closed, and Job turned to retrace his steps.
He felt good. He had no doubt that he could find his way back, even without the map. He had done what the professor asked him to do. He had not answered questions at the red door, or talked—the temptation was still there—to anyone on the streets. Maybe he would soon be on the street himself, with nowhere to go. But before that, he would eat breakfast.
Professor Buckler had moved into the kitchen. He had in front of him another full glass of brown fluid, and he looked quite different; pinker, younger, and mysteriously fuller-faced (in his years at Cloak House, Job had never known anyone with dentures). The professor took the brown packet and dropped it casually onto the table. He made no move to open it, but waved his hand toward the serving line. “Help yourself.”
Job didn’t recognize most of the food. He took bread and milk, and after burning his mouth on a hot, lumpy yellow solid he piled a plate with it and went back to the table.
“The strong appetites of childhood,” said the professor. “Where do they go? Mais où sont les neiges d’antan?”
Job did not understand him, but he knew that he was hearing a new language, somehow like Spanish and Italian but different from them. How many were there in the world?
“You know what that means, Job Napoleon Salk?” went on the professor. And when Job shook his head, his mouth full of scrambled egg, “‘But where are the snows of yesteryear?’ Where indeed?” He leaned forward, elbows on the table and chin supported in his hands. His voice changed, became harsh. “You were not honest with me last night, were you?”
Job put down his fork and gazed up at him, too afraid to eat. Father Bonifant had reserved his harshest punishment for lying. “I don’t know, sir.”
“You know what happened at Cloak House.”
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