by Ty Drago
“So, Bob?” Senator James Mitchum asked. “What do you think of our young Mr. Ritter?”
Mittenzwei’s eyes traveled to one of the monitors, on which the skinny, redheaded boy he’d just spent two hours interrogating sat sullenly.
“Kid’s cool as a cucumber,” he said. “I think if I poured boiling water down his throat he’d pee ice cubes. More self-possessed than most of the racketeering types I used to deal with back in Boston.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I have,” the other man, FBI Special Agent Hugo Ramirez, remarked. “Did you talk to Helene yet?”
Mittenzwei nodded, scratching his bald spot. “In a way, she’s worse than he is. Won’t say a word. Nothing. At least the boy was willing to meet my eyes from time to time. She acted like there was nobody in there but her.”
Mitchum laughed, though Ramirez didn’t even crack a smile.
“These aren’t ordinary teenagers,” he said.
“So you’ve told me,” Mittenzwei replied. “Look, gentlemen … something unprecedented happened today in my building. More than a hundred people, most of them members of Congress, witnessed ‘a ten-legged monster’ jump from the Senate Chamber gallery to the Senate floor and engage in the pursuit of Lindsay Micha and her immediate staff … all with that boy”—he pointed at the monitor—“riding on its back! The Architect of the Capitol is calling me every ten minutes for answers.”
“I can appreciate your position,” Mitchum said.
“Glad to hear that Senator, because right now I have nothing to tell her. We have no usable footage of this alleged monster, thanks to not one, but two unexplained EM pulses that fried every camera in the building. I lost contact with my entire staff because those same pulses took out the internal phone system, all portable radios, and every cell phone within a quarter mile! What does that, aside from military grade weaponry? And how do I even begin to explain any of this to Homeland Security?”
“It is a bit of a pickle,” Mitchum admitted in what Mittenzwei thought was an Olympic-sized understatement. The senator turned to Ramirez. “If H.S. gets a hold of these kids, they’ll disappear … maybe for years.”
“I can’t let that happen,” the FBI man replied.
Mittenzwei didn’t know Ramirez except by his reputation, which had been stellar—until something had gone down in Philadelphia that had forced him to take “personal leave.” Basically, he’d dropped off the grid. For months, nobody knew where he was. Then a couple of weeks ago he’d popped up here, in the Capitol, in Mittenzwei’s office in fact, with Senator James Mitchum, one of the most powerful men in Washington, at his side—and an incredible story to tell.
“None of us can,” Mitchum said. He faced the police chief. “What’s the condition of the Birmelin girl?”
“Minor concussion. Hospital wants to keep her overnight, just for observation. Then they’re willing to hand her over to Youth Services.”
Mitchum and Ramirez shared a looked that Mittenzwei didn’t like. Then the senator said, “Bob … I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to let these kids go. All three of them.”
“Let them go?” Mittenzwei exclaimed. “That’s impossible and you know it! This thing’s too big and they’re the only witnesses we’ve got! Look, Senator, I owe you. We both know that. I wouldn’t have this job if not for you. But if I drop the ball on this, I’ll be doing crossing-guard duty by the end of the week!”
“I appreciate your position,” Mitchum replied. “How about this: when Homeland Security comes calling, just point them at me. And if your boss in the Architect’s Office gives you trouble, send her to me as well. I’ll settle things down with everyone.”
“Yeah? How?”
The older man put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “The same way I do everything. By calling in favors I’m owed or making viable threats. Either way, I’ll handle it. Trust me on this.”
Mittenzwei ground his teeth. This whole day had turned into a fiasco unlike anything he’d seen in his seven years as the Capitol’s chief of police. “What should I do with them … Ritter, Boettcher, and Birmelin?”
Ramirez said, “Take them to Union Station. Make sure they have money for train tickets to Philadelphia.”
“And don’t mention us,” Mitchum added. “Just tell them they’re free to go.”
“So that’s it?” Mittenzwei asked sharply. “We’re just going to drop them off with a pat on the head?”
Frustration made his temples pound. So much had happened! Senator Micha, another DC hard hitter, was missing, though the clothes she’d been wearing had been found on a three-week-old cadaver.
Then there were Micha’s staff members, seven in all. One had been found in the Senate Chamber, four in the North Corridor, and two in the Crypt. All were comatose.
Charles O’Mally was missing, too. The Senate Sergeant at Arms, a personal friend as well as a member of the Capitol Police Board, had disappeared yesterday. A preliminary investigation had so far yielded no trace of him.
And let’s not forget Rich Camp, a member of Mittenzwei’s command, who’d disappeared from the Rotunda last week, leaving behind a half-crazed partner spouting stories about—you guessed it!—a ten-legged monster.
Tons of questions. Few answers.
Mitchum and Ramirez had explained some of what was going on—but even that little bit had stretched the limits of sanity.
And these kids were somehow in the thick of it.
If I let them go … I may never know what happened today.
Then again, do I really want to know?
“I understand,” Bob Mittenzwei said.
“The important thing,” Ramirez remarked, “is to keep this entirely to ourselves. We don’t know … can’t know … who to trust.”
“Agreed,” said Mitchum. “What happened in the Capitol today is going to be hotly debated for weeks, perhaps months. There will undoubtedly be a Senate investigation. That’s good for us, as no one’s better at slowing down any search for the truth than the US Senate.”
Mittenzwei groaned. “Look, I get that you want to bury this thing—”
“Need to, Bob,” Mitchum corrected.
“Okay … need to. But I’ve lost men. Good men.”
Ramirez asked pointedly, “Have you?”
Mittenzwei eyed him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How many Capitol police have been lost since this business started?”
“At least three! Others have disappeared. Like Richard Camp.”
The senator nodded, looking grim. “And how many of them have families, Bob?”
Mittenzwei gaped at them, his anger turning to confusion. “None.”
None of them were family men. None had been with me for more than a year and a half. None had any living relatives.
“Are you trying to tell me …” He felt his face drain of blood “… that they were them?”
Both men nodded.
“My God!” the police chief exclaimed. “This is crazy! How many others on my force are …” His words trailed off.
“We can’t be sure,” Ramirez told him. “That’s why we asked you to handle these interrogations personally.”
“How big is this thing?” Mittenzwei demanded. “All I’m getting from you are hints. Some terrible conspiracy that started in Philly and is spreading outward. Frankly, if you were anyone else, I’d have locked you both up!”
“We can’t tell you more,” Mitchum said, looking genuinely sorry about it. “If we did, you probably would lock us up. You’re just going to have to trust us for a while.”
The police chief sighed heavily. Then he met his old friend’s eyes. “For a while.”
Ramirez turned to Mitchum. “I still think I should talk to Will. Explain things—”
But the senator held up a hand. “Not yet. I know how you feel, Hugo. And I promise you: the day is coming when we’ll be in a position to reveal ourselves. But, for right now, I really think it best that we pla
y the guardian angels. We’ll continue to provide them with whatever supplies or ordinance they need, but let them think it’s just you alone who’s helping them.”
“Why?” Ramirez pressed. “Senator, I know these kids. We can trust them!”
“It’s not our trust in them that I’m worried about. It’s their trust in us. These children have been in this struggle for a long time without supervision or guidance. They’re not going to surrender that autonomy easily. We must wait until we can demonstrate conclusively that we are in a position to join the fight.”
Mittenzwei listened to this exchange with growing unease. “How is it these kids have been on their own for so long?”
“Because,” Mitchum replied, “unlike us … they can See.”
The police chief was about to press the point when someone knocked politely on the door. A moment later, it opened to reveal a fourth man. He was young—not a day over twenty-one. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I wanted to let you know that the rest of them are at Union Station.”
“Did they notice you monitoring them?” Mitchum asked.
“No, sir. I stayed well out of sight. In any event, they seem very distracted. They’re trying to figure out what to do next.”
“I’ll bet they are,” Ramirez said. “The Undertakers won’t leave DC without their friends. That much I guarantee.”
“Undertakers,” Mittenzwei echoed. “That’s the … street gang … you told me about.”
The senator replied, “They’re much more than that.”
“And they’re all kids?”
Ramirez answered, “Very brave and inventive kids.”
Mitchum nodded grimly. “True. But still just children. All in all, I’m glad to have an eye into their operations.”
“An eye?” asked Mittenzwei.
The senator and the agent swapped another look. Then, Mitchum explained, “We recently placed someone in their organization. We hadn’t planned it that way. Not at all. But, as things turned, it was fortuitous.”
“I’m still not comfortable with that decision,” Ramirez said. “It’s one thing to keep quiet about your involvement, Senator. I can see the logic behind that … more or less. But this—”
“Again, it’s only temporary,” the older man interjected. “Just until we devise a viable course of action, given our … handicap. In the meantime, we can be ready to act if Jillian gives us the word.”
Ramirez fell silent, looking unhappy. The mood in the tiny room turned awkward.
“But I’m forgetting my manners,” Mitchum announced, perking up. “Neither of you has met my young colleague here! He’s from my office, but lately has been helping me on … special assignments.” He motioned to the twenty-one-year-old, who came obediently forward. “Say hello to Greg Gardner!”
“A pleasure to meet you both,” Gardner said.
Then he grinned.
And something about his grin sent a chill down Bob Mittenzwei’s spine.
There was a lot of debriefing.
Once the five of us boarded the train we found a relatively quiet car and called Haven. Tom got on the line and we went over everything in detail.
I don’t think he much liked what he heard.
“They just let y’all go?”
“Yeah, bro,” said Sharyn. “I can’t figure it either.”
“They say anything to you, Will? Helene?”
“No,” I replied. “We were dumped in the back of a cop car and dropped off at Union Station.”
“How ’bout you, Jill?”
Jillian had a black eye and her forehead was bandaged. But aside from that, she seemed fine. “Not a word,” she said. “Two cops showed up at the hospital and drove me to the train. Even gave me money for the ticket!”
“Us, too,” Helene added.
“Don’t make sense,” grumbled Dave.
“No, it don’t. Get home fast as you can.”
So we did, getting into Philly around midnight and Haven about a half hour later.
My first stop was the Shrine. But when I got there, I found Nick Rooney, the Mom Boss, cleaning it. He told me that my family had been moved around the corner, into one of the regular rooms. “It’s what your mom wanted,” he explained.
I went to my family’s new room and found Emily asleep, but my mother awake. At the sight of me, she sort of sighed. Then she stood up and wordlessly hugged me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Me, too,” she replied.
And that was that. Families are amazing.
Lilith Cavanaugh was dead, having fallen from her sixth floor office window. The local news was full of it. The Philly Police were still investigating whether it was an accident or suicide, but no foul play was suspected. At the time, the entire sixth floor had been evacuated because of a gas leak. So she’d been alone in her office. Everyone was sure of it.
Of course, the Queen wasn’t dead, though her Mask sure was. Too many witnesses had seen her fall. As far as the world at large knew, the Director of Community Affairs was “late”—deceased, dispatched, passed on, pushing up the daisies, kicked the bucket.
Kaput!
Her body had been publicly removed and publicly processed and would be publicly buried tomorrow after a public ceremony, complete with TV cameras and politicians and speeches…
…and us.
The Angels had been keeping careful tabs on the body. No way were we going to pass up an opportunity to Ritter the Queen once and for all. But, so far, that opportunity hadn’t presented itself. Her minions were guarding her too closely.
What little injury Jillian had suffered got Anchor Shard-ed. She was now a full-fledged Undertaker—an Angel, in fact, having proven herself in combat. Even Sharyn was starting to warm up to her. Starting to.
Neither Helene nor I knew why the Capitol Police had let us go.
The national media was all over the events at the Capitol, though nobody seemed to know exactly what had happened. Some were labeling it as a terrorist attack; others called it some kind of bizarre practical joke. At first, the witnesses—mostly senators—had described seeing a multi-legged monster. But most of them were already backpedaling.
Apparently, there was going to be a “Senate investigation.”
Overall, Tom declared the DC mission a success. And it was, I supposed. I mean, the Queen had gotten her butt kicked and Corpse Micha was gone for good, so this one definitely belonged in the “win” column.
Except Lindsay was dead.
And so was Ian.
All of Haven still grieved for Ian. As I moved through its dank corridors, I heard his name on everyone’s lips. I’d been away for a little over a week. Yet, for me, it felt like an eternity since he’d died. But for the rest of the kids, the news was still fresh.
Almost as soon as we got back from DC, Tom called a meeting and formally named my mom as Haven’s new medic. The announcement went over kind of coolly, until she got up and said that, as her first act, she’d decided to rename the Infirmary. It was now the Ian McDonald memorial hospital. The Monkeys even made a wood plaque and fastened it to the brickwork just outside the entrance.
Everyone now seemed pretty okay with my family staying in Haven.
Well played, Mom.
After leaving my mother and Emily’s room, I headed over to my own, hoping to stretch out on my cot and sleep for maybe three days. I kept thinking about the bed I’d had back at Webster Hall. Mattresses were nice things. I missed mattresses.
Helene sat on my bunk holding a crumpled up sheet of paper in her hands. She’d lit my bedside candle—Haven’s private quarters, for the most part, lacked electricity—and its light shone on her pale face as she looked up at me.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I said.
She held the paper out to me.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Helene scowled. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
Her scowl deepened. �
��Just take it, will ya? And read it?”
I accepted the crumpled paper. Then I stood in stupid indecision. Should I sit on Dave’s bunk, or beside her on mine?
Finally, I sat down on mine.
“Read it,” Helene repeated impatiently.
I smoothed out the single page, tilted it toward the candlelight, and read it. It was handwritten in a hasty, child’s scrawl.
HELENE,
DADDY’S MOVING OUT. HE SAYS ALL THE FIGHTS ARE TOO MUCH. HE SAYS MOM NEEDS TO MOVE ON, BUT SHE WON’T. HE SAYS THAT HE LOVES ME AND HER, BUT THAT HE CAN’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE. MOM JUST CRIES ALL THE TIME. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
I WISH YOU COULD COME HOME BUT I GUESS YOU CAN’T. I KNOW IT BUT IT MAKES ME SAD, ESPECIALLY NOW. DO YOU THINK YOU COULD MAYBE CALL MOM AND TELL HER YOU’RE OKAY?
I LOVE YOU.
JULIE
I read it twice while Helene watched me expectantly.
“Julie’s … your sister?” I asked.
“Duh,” she said.
“You’ve never talked about her.”
“You’ve never asked about her.”
It was shameful but true. I’d joined the Undertakers six months ago, babbling all about my own little sister. I’d never even thought to ask if she had one, too. “Um … how old is she?”
“Eleven. Sixth grade.”
“This looks like a fax. Is this what you went to Quaker City Comics on South Street to get last week?”
“Two weeks ago. But, yeah.”
“How long have you been … talking … with Julie?”
“About a year. Doug … that’s the guy you beat up—”
“I didn’t beat him up,” I interjected.
“Whatever. He used be our babysitter. Last year, I kinda went to him and asked him to set up this … drop, I guess is the word for it.”
I could have told her that was against the Rules ’n Regs—way against them. Instead, I asked, “How’s it work? E-mail?”
She shook her head. “E-mail can be traced or opened. Faxes are safer. We … I mean, my parents … have a fax machine. It’s in my dad’s office. Julie faxes her message to the comic book store. Then, once a week, I go there, pick it up, and give Doug my reply.” Then, after a pause: “Or I did, before Doug cut me off.”