by Mark Gardner
Five days of...
A commotion from outside rocked Peter from his self-loathing. He rushed to the window to see who had found him.
Krystal turned a page in her photo album. She knew there were electronic methodologies to organize photos, but they lacked tactile sensation and the feeling of antiquity. They linked her to her past. Sometimes it was the past of her childhood and sometimes it was the past of less than a year ago. It had been weeks since she asked Kristof to leave. She ran her fingers along the borders of each photo. The glossy color prints were of her and Kristof during three wonderful years of dating and five years of declining marriage. The pictures in the early days were plentiful, as if capturing each moment was a prerequisite to enjoy their time together. They never did anything without a camera. She loved looking at these early photos.
After they had married, the photos thinned out as their focus shifted from courting each other to the business of living their lives. Kristof was not interested in making friends. More like making strangers, she thought. They now had cameras built into their phones, but they never seemed to use them. The photos went from daily and weekly to years absent of pictures. Near the front of the album, pages were filled with single events. Near the end... Not so much, she thought. She flipped more pages and stopped at one of the pivotal moments in her life: Marrying Kristof.
She dug through a small shoebox she kept in her closet next to the pile of albums and withdrew a pregnancy test. The indicators had faded, and she initially felt silly keeping it, but Kristof insisted she keep it the morning she revealed it to him. They cried and hugged. She spent the rest of the morning contemplating her future. Kristof returned from work that evening and asked her to marry him. She remembered his hands shaking as he opened the little box.
I grew up without a father, she remembered him saying, I won’t allow my child to do the same. She agreed and after his mother’s engagement ring was resized, she proudly showed it to all her friends and a few strangers. She held up her left hand and looked at the same engagement ring and matching wedding band. The pregnancy seemed normal to her doctors, but fourteen weeks later...
A tear fell into the shoebox, and Krystal stood up suddenly, spilling the photo album and shoebox onto the floor. Among the memories stored in the box now on the floor was an old photo of Kristof and his parents. He told her once that it was taken only a few weeks before his mother died and his father disappeared.
She leaned down to retrieve the photo. His father was hugging him tightly, and it appeared his mother was reacting to the two of them. They were all laughing, and it appeared to her that they loved each other and life itself.
Decades later, she looked at the faded photo and wondered if that scene could’ve been hers and Kristof’s if their daughter had been born. That single event and the aftermath changed them both. That was the way Kristof operated: he rolled with the punches life threw at him, then some catastrophe would level him, and he would retreat into himself.
The death of his mother and his father disappearing, she mentally counted off the upheavals in Kristof’s life.
Losing the baby...
Brain cancer...
A separation...
Out loud she said, “Wherever you are, Kristof, I hope you’re still alive and that you know I still love you.”
Krystal lowered herself to the floor to gather the memories and placed each one back in the shoebox with Kristof’s happy childhood photo.
Major Jacob Globe stared at a looming forest. His R-C-M-P liaison stood in deference a few feet behind him. He held up a grainy image showing Kristof at the edge of these woods. Globe took a step toward the tree line.
“Sir,” the R-C-M-P liaison started with his best sympathetic smile, “I respectfully remind you that people have died from exploring this wilderness area unprepared. It’s unseasonably warm, and a lack of fresh snowfall has led more than one ordinary person to misjudge the difficulty of the ‘Great White North.’”
Globe turned to the young Mountie. “I’m not being frivolous and I’m no ordinary person.” He stepped away from the woods. “This is no ordinary situation.”
“I understand, Sir, but there are millions of square kilometers here. Parts of these protected parks haven’t been visited by a human in years.”
Globe looked over his shoulder at the Canadian wilderness. “I’ve got to get my man, you know.”
The Mountie placed a hand on the Major’s shoulder. “If I may, Sir.” Globe nodded, so the young man continued. “You have considerable resources at your disposal.”
“You have no idea.”
“Yes, Sir, and I’m not privy to your organization or operation, but I’ve been instructed to allow you to operate in Canada without supervision.”
Globe smiled.
“It would take a team with the latest in surveillance gear more than two weeks to locate a single individual. And that assumes that the individual wants to be found.”
Globe nodded. “I have at my disposal surveillance methods written about in science fiction.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Globe opened his cellular telephone. “Arrange for subject one-five-nine to meet me at my location.”
After he had heard the response, he folded his phone and shoved it back into his pocket. He turned to the young Mountie and said, “Well, we’re together for the length of this operation. Where’s a good place to warm up?”
“What about Major Globe?”
Anne scowled and looked at a map of lower British Columbia. “He’ll need assistance to locate anyone.” She waved her hand over the map. “I wish Bree was still with us.”
Justin nodded. “We’ve tried recovering her several times since her capture, but each attempt fails epically.”
Anne nodded. “Bree is a special little girl, but she’s easily swayed by trinkets and baubles.” Anne looked up at Justin. “Bree probably doesn’t want to be rescued by us.”
Justin exhaled sharply. “She’s gonna help Globe find Joaquin.”
Anne nodded. “We’ve got to find him first.”
“Why’s this kid so important?”
“I can’t explain it. There’s just something about him.”
Justin stepped around the table and squeezed Anne’s fingers with his gloved hands. “I’ve not seen you this way since...”
“Since we left Globe’s organization,” she finished Justin’s sentence and stepped away from her occasional lover. She sat in an ornate chair. “Justin, do you know how old I am?”
Justin smiled. “I know better than to answer that.”
Anne rolled her eyes. “I’m almost two-thousand years old, Justin. I was the last ruler of the Jade Council.”
Justin nodded. “Two hundred years, right?”
Anne looked away. “One-hundred and ninety-seven years, thank you very much.” She looked back at the map. “The point is this: I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
“What about Temüjin or Ögedei?”
“Some monikers, huh?” Anne shook her head. “I was a different person then, less refined. But, to answer your question, no. Joaquin doesn’t know it yet, but he’s important.”
Justin leaned against a wall and crossed his arms.
“Don’t give me that look,” she whined. Whining wasn’t something she did very often, but she used the tools in her tool belt when they were appropriate.
Justin walked to Anne and embraced her. “We’ll find him,” he whispered into her ear.
“We better,” she replied, “because if we don’t, I”m afraid it’s the end for us all.”
Kristof opened his eyes and felt the stiffness of his joints. Squeeze, flex. His eyes focused on something out of focus dangling in his face. He inhaled and batted away the spider, a shudder running down his spine.
“Thiodina Sylvania,” he said out loud and marveled at the absence of condensation from his breath. Here, in late August, the nighttime temperature never got much below sixty degrees. Kristof closed his
eyes and pictured the pages and pages of temperature tables going back decades. He looked at the smoldering remains of his campfire and his water condenser – both constructed from memory. Kristof stood and arched his back and walked to the water condenser to drink from the broad leaves. They were arranged in such a way that they reminded him of some strange bird, yet to be discovered.
Kristof imagined discovering some unknown bird species. The crooked smile faded as he worked out the logistics of touring the country and having an article published in popular scientific magazines.
“Damn it!” he hissed. This super-intelligence thing is great in so many ways, he thought, but man, do I get distracted!
Kristof covered the embers of his fire with moist earth and underbrush. He surveyed his campsite for a moment and continued his journey east.
Joaquin watched from a distance. His teeth chattered so loud he was afraid Kristof would hear them. It amazed him that Kristof could start a fire and collect clean water with no tools whatsoever. Joaquin pulled a Zippo he stole from the duty-free shop out of his pocket, and turned it over several times. He tried the night before to start his fire, but even with a lighter, he was unable to do so.
He spent the night drifting in and out of sleep, watching Kristof snooze loudly next to his fire. The other item he pilfered from the duty-free shop was an antique-looking pocket watch. An antique it was except for the ‘made in China’ stamped into the thin metal. The watch read seven thirty. Kristof seemed punctual on waking. The last three days of following him reinforced to him just how much Joaquin was a city kid.
Kid, he thought as he looked at his reflection in the shiny cover of the pocket watch. He looked at the lines on his cheeks and forehead, distorted by the origin stamp. That Justin dude did age me, he thought as he shoved the lighter and pocket watch into his pockets. He brushed the leaves and debris from his sleeves and ambled down to Kristof”s former campsite.
Kristof looked to the sky at smoke lazily wafting on the still air. He raised his thumb and covered the top of the smoke. He repeated the process against a tree a few hundred feet away and after some basic math and calculations, determined he would reach the source of the smoke just before sunset. He vowed not to stop for the trivialities that had turned what should’ve been a two-day trek into four.
It doesn’t matter, he thought, my journey is about to end.
Kristof picked his way through the underbrush, his destination only hours away.
Joaquin stood, mimicking Kristof with his thumb extended in front of him. What was he doing? The thought ran through his mind as he tried to reproduce Kristof’s actions. For the last four days, Joaquin foraged the same insects and wild berries Kristof did. By watching Kristof construct his atmospheric water condenser, again and again, Joaquin was now able to construct his own instead of relying on Kristof’s cast-offs.
Joaquin followed as he had for several hours. Kristof stood at the edge of a clearing, staring at a cabin lazily belching smoke from its chimney. Kristof started to step forward but after a moment, he knelt and examined a few areas of the perimeter.
Kristof smiled and identified five distinct deadfall traps. Well, four, he thought, one was filled in recently. His boots sunk slightly in the mud as he snaked his way around the traps and headed for the front porch of the cabin. Kristof was unaware of Joaquin watching from the woods or a pair of eyes watching from a cabin window.
A man skirted between two of the remaining deadfall traps. There was something familiar about the man, but Peter couldn’t quite figure it out. Years of isolation broken by scheduled trips into town left Peter with a broken stranger detector.
The man looked up at the smoke wafting from the chimney and then shifted his gaze to the porch. He seemed to take in every nuance of his surroundings while moving closer and closer to Peter’s sanctuary. The man shielded his eyes from the sun setting directly behind the cabin.
Peter quietly turned the knob on the cabin door. He threw it open and yelled, “Who are you?”
The man froze, as if he contemplated running away. He set his jaw and advanced on the cabin with trepidation.
“Don’t come any closer,” Peter yelled, “Tell me who you are!”
“My name is Kristof.” The man steped toward the cabin again.
Peter grabed the shotgun leaning against the doorframe and pointed it at Kristof. “I said, ‘don’t come any closer.’” Kristof, he thinks, could it be? Peter only saw Kristof once after Nadine died. It was at a used bookstore. Kristof gripped a picture book in one hand and a woman with the other. He stayed in the area, but with law enforcement always just a step behind him, he was forced to flee.
“Dad,” Kristof said in a small voice and spread his arms, “we need to talk.” He squinted at the shotgun. “The scatter-gun isn’t even loaded.”
“You’re not Kristof!” Peter shouted. He looked past Kristof, and into the woods. “How many of you are out there?”
“Dad!” shouted Kristof, trying to force the frustration from his voice. “Something strange is happening to me.”
“Stop calling me Dad! You’re too old to be my Kristof!”
“It’s been twenty years.”
“You can’t be him. I refuse to believe you’re my son.” Peter retreated into the cabin, but kept his head and shoulders in the doorway. “Did Anne send you?”
“I don’t know anyone named Anne.”
“I don’t believe you, who sent you?”
Kristof stepped toward the cabin.
“Don’t think I won’t kill a man pretending to be my son. I’ve killed before.”
“I know. A doctor in Oregon; a homeless guy in Seattle. Seems like pretty depraved behavior from someone who claims his innocence.”
“What do you know of innocence?”
“I know my mother died, and you ran away. I’ve done the math. If I can find you,” Kristof allowed a self-righteous smirk to show, “they will too.”
Peter backed away from the door. “You’re not my son,” he screamed and slammed the door closed.
“I am Kristof, and I’ll prove it.” Kristof yelled at the closed cabin door. He looked south. “I’ll bring you the evidence you need. You’ll see!” Kristof stormed off without looking back at the cabin.
“I see a cabin in the woods.”
“Go on.”
“Smoke drifts from the chimney. It smells like disaster.”
“’Disaster?’ That’s a big word. What else can you tell me?”
Bree crossed her arms defiantly. “That’s because I’m a big girl.” She stuck her lower lip out.
Major Globe looked at Bree’s pouty face. A cold chill traveled the length of his spine. If she weren’t so powerful, he might’ve taken a sterner tone with the little girl. Powerful and dangerous, he thought. He looked into the eyes of one of the guards sitting directly behind her. He looked away from Bree only long enough to acknowledge the look from Globe, then returned to watching Bree down the barrel of his M-16. Returning his attention back to Bree, Globe said, “Can you help me like a big girl?”
“I don’t know; I’m awfully tired.”
“Please, Bree. I need to know where this person is.”
Bree sighed and patted a stuffed cat on the seat next to her. “Puss is hungry. We should feed her first.”
“What about you? Are you hungry too?”
Bree sighed dramatically.
Globe nodded and tried to keep his face expressionless. “Let’s get you and Mister Puss something to eat.”
Bree giggled. “Puss is a girl cat.” She smiled. “You can tell by her eyelashes. Don’t be a silly-nilly.”
Globe turned to his R-C-M-P liaison. “Let’s get these two something to eat.”
Moonrise
“What’re you doing here, kid?”
Joaquin looked up the barrel of a shotgun. He tried focusing on the deadly end, but his eyes crossed until he was dizzy. Everything became dizzy. Joaquin made a barely audible sound, a quiet sigh as the events of
the last few months finally weighed on him.
“I asked you a question, kid.”
Joaquin leaned back against the tree he huddled under. How can a mountain hermit understand, he thought. Let’s just get this over with.
Peter cocked the shotgun. “I’m going to count to five, and then you’d better give me a reason to not pull this trigger.”
“One.” I’ve lived most of his life by the code of the street.
“Two.” I’ve wasted my life.
“Three.” It isn’t to say I’ve never had the opportunity to turn my life around.
“Four.” I can’t even think of a reason to tell this old bastard.
“Five.” Joaquin lurched to the side, shielding his face with his arm.
When the shotgun blast didn’t come, Joaquin peeked over his arm at the strange old man. The man’s eyes were no longer cold. He stared at the stitched number five on Joaquin’s sleeve. The jersey was dirty from several days of wear. Muddy here and there, but the number – the high-contrast number five seemed to mesmerize the man.
Without taking his eyes from the number five, the old man cleared his throat and spoke slowly as if he were talking to a toddler. “What’s your name, kid?”
Joaquin squinted; if his eyes had been weapons, they would have ended the old man. “Don’t call me kid,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Not the smartest kid, huh?”
Joaquin regained his composure and shrugged. “You wouldn’t’ve hurt me anyway. My skin is im-perf-you-loss.”
Peter lowered the shotgun. “Are you trying to say impervious?”
Joaquin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, man. I’m bulletproof.”