And before any of them could think about running, a long limousine sliced out of the rainstorm. A man in a silver suit got out and pushed them inside.
Chapter Twenty-one: Fourteen Years of Waiting
Before the rain started, he’d spend a lot of his days just walking down the streets in Beverly Hills, watching the shoppers, enjoying the sideways stares you get when you look like a bum in the most expensive part of town. And getting harassed by the cops for not fitting the part. He’d ask the officer to pick a shop, any shop, and then he’d walk into Alfonse’s Diamonds, or Louise’s Designs, and plunk down ten grand in cash--the emergency cash they’d given him at the beginning. And then he’d walk back out and show the cop the bag, as if to say, see?
Now, he’d say, can I enjoy my goddamned cup of coffee in peace? That’s all they ever wanted to be convinced of: that you were buying something, keeping the gears moving, doing what was expected of all loyal subjects. And as soon as they saw you had cash, all of a sudden you were a reclusive celebrity or an unassuming movie director. Wait, they’d say, weren’t you in that movie about Guantanamo Bay?
Yeah, but I’m trying to stay under the radar, okay? So if you don’t mind . . . And then he’d go return the jacket or the bracelet as soon as the cop disappeared.
He’d watch the women fingerprint the windows, leaving their mark on the things just out of reach, and listen as they moaned over a pair of shoes or a handbag. He’d chuckle--that’s what’s cool these days, is it? And he’d get that little reminder, that tiny electric shock, when he realized he was too old to buy into what was cool, too calcified to be manipulated into seeing it. The craving in their eyes. They’re junkies, make no mistake, bleeding for the right image, the yearning like an open sore. They stop at each window and add to their lists of lusts. Each pane of glass revealing a different kind of wound that will never heal. It was as sadistically entertaining to watch as any prize fight.
And this year the mannequins were selling white hooded outfits that were way too much like Klu Klux Klan get ups. Was it supposed to be some sick bit of boundary-pushing irony, or was it just sheer stupidity? Better to be seen as racist and brutally ignorant than unfashionable, he supposed. You can get a new face, color your hair, implants, anything, but the second you take a left when the fashion world goes right, it’s game over. It was the only sign of aging these days. That and going to a place like the one he had started frequenting, even though he told himself he went there because they, of all the eating establishments in Los Angeles, had the best chow mein in the city.
And the chow-mein was indeed up to snuff on the day it went off, when everything finally started. The bar had descended into its familiar weeknight nocturnal calm. An Asian guy in a shiny gray suit was sipping whisky and scrutinizing the scene like a spreadsheet of sales figures. A nearsighted old man in thick glasses was leaning in from the front row to get an even better view. And up on stage were two women in jungle cat get-ups, prowling around like they were sizing up an injured wildebeest. Heavy dance music kicked in and the initial theatrics resolved into a typical routine as the women started prancing around the brass poles with an all-knowing boredom.
He’d seen this routine before, and until the thing went off there had been nothing to distinguish that night from the others he’d spent there. He’d been making dumb jokes with the waitress when it happened.
Hey, did you hear the one about the Irishman eating Chinese food in a strip club in L.A.?
I forget, Sean. Tell me how it ends?
Wish I knew, Cheryl. Wish I knew.
He watched the old man and the Asian suit, their rapt focus deflected by the dancers’ chiseled choreography. It was like how wrestling used to be before they started actually ripping each other’s faces off. The assumption of disbelief on a grand scale. A tacit agreement to never let the other party know they were delusional. The customer sits there and pretends he could have had a woman like this, or maybe, with enough money, that he might yet. She, meanwhile, thinks about how to get out of this, the segue into the real dream worlds: acting, fashion. To get out before she starts to reconcile it and explain how it’s okay. And both parties think to themselves: just because so many others have found this avenue to be a dead end doesn’t mean it’s going to happen to me. So they’re both in the same boat, really. Nobody wants to admit that it’s too late. That they’ve wasted their lives . . .
So while we’re pretending here, he was thinking to himself, I’m just going to close my eyes and listen to the music pound against my cranium and try to forget what I’ve done with the last fourteen years. Driving around California with that beast in the back of the truck, chained to some contract forged in the middle of the night with people even now he wasn’t sure actually existed. If only he could have known what he was getting into. And it was in that almost-dream in a near empty bar, a belly full of greasy noodles, maybe one in the morning, when his world exploded.
The vibrating in his pocket went unnoticed for a few minutes. Given the surroundings, he could be forgiven for mistaking it for other movements down there. And then it was just like, oh, hello. Sure enough, the screen said he had a hit.
He got up and waved to Cheryl like it was any other night when he’d go off to sleep in the truck. And then halfway to the door it really hit him. Guess this is it, he thought to himself.
Fish on! as his father used to say when he would take him fly fishing as a kid. The rivers running mossy green into the trees. The fish, a gasping, staring part of that moss. Fish, river, rain, all one and the same, cut from the same colors, the same wetness. The rain, the Irish rain that was part sunlight, mixing with the ocean spray offshore and coming down in glorious, waving tendrils.
Nothing like this Pacific deluge, he thought as he opened the front door. This is like a million water bombers disemboweling themselves all over the city. Never ending meteorological diarrhea. He couldn’t even see the truck through the downpour.
So. Was this it, then? Fourteen years of waiting. So. Let’s get us to the truck, he said out loud. And take it from there. Halfway across the parking lot he was drenched.
Chapter Twenty-two: The Crystal Hive
In a fluid and casual movement, Cabra removed his glasses, ripped off his long hair, and peeled away his beard. “Stupid costume gets disgusting in the rain,” he muttered to no one in particular.
As the car accelerated away from the alley, the neighborhood receded into a blur and the rain became a barrage of pebbles on the roof. The interior of the car was a sea of silver leather and glass. Video screens on either side of Cabra were flashing the latest news and sports scores.
“Well, it seems that you trash have something very important,” said Cabra after he had completed his transformation. He was still old looking, but now appeared somehow healthier, like a snake having just shed its skin. Sitting in the back seat of the car, the four children, struggling to grasp what had just happened, could only stare at Cabra. But Cabra merely turned around and started talking to the driver, as if the wardrobe change he had just undergone was completely routine. The Scottish accent had disappeared, and he now spoke in disgruntled grumbles. “So what’s the score on the game?” Cabra asked the driver. “That bad, huh? What a bunch of clowns.”
At a stoplight, the limousine attracted a crowd of people who started throwing garbage at the car. Glass bottles exploded against the windows, and people were yelling angry, unintelligible things, but Cabra didn’t even flinch. Mitty had curled up in the corner of the limousine and was fast asleep.
“But where are you taking us?” asked Hannah.
Cabra looked back from his conversation with an annoyed squint. His once generous and humble smile was now a cold sneer. “I told you,” he said. “I’m taking you to a friend of mine. He’s an expert on South American art.” He patted his pocket. “This thing you have is crazy valuable.”
“And who is this friend of yours?” asked Alison.
“Well, when I mentioned to Milagro last wee
k that there were four new kids living in the cavern, he was very interested. Told me to keep an eye out for something you might be hiding. Said it was very valuable. And then Mitty told me he saw Ben take out this amulet and throw it away.”
“Wait, your friend is . . .” croaked Alison.
“What do you mean Mitty told you?” asked Thomas.
“Well, Mitty here is a bit special.” Cabra picked up the cat and made smooching noises and nuzzled its whiskers. “He was my cat when I was a kid.”
“Mitty was alive when you were a kid?” asked Thomas. “That’s not possible.”
“Yeah, well Milagro did me a favor and brought Mitty back to life. Gave him a few extra features, too. Top of the line wireless micrears and camreyes. Transmit directly to my glasses. Amazing stuff. Like being in two places at once. Won’t be on the market for another year or so.”
“You . . . you’re a spy--you’re not some sort of mystic!” said Alison.
“You’re the one who gave away their plans when we were ambushed yesterday,” said Ben.
“Ohhh kids,” said Cabra in an elaborate, drawn out voice. “You just don’t understand. Everybody works for Milagro in one way or another. You don’t know what you got yourself wrapped up with there. Dangerous stuff. It’s a damn good thing I sabotaged all the bombs before they could actually hurt someone. Yeah, that band of miscreants back there has had its fun. I’d been keeping an eye on them for a while. Been mostly harmless up til now. Milagro wanted to get rid of them a long time ago, but I convinced him it would be bad PR if it ever got out. Besides, between you and me, I was kind of enjoying myself. But when they started trying to bomb the Children’s Facilities, and then decided to kill Milagro, well that was a bit much. So we’re calling an immediate end to their b.s.”
“And . . . what does that mean exactly?” asked Hannah.
“Hmm? Oh, they’ll all be, um, taken care of. Yes, the tide’s coming in on the Strand. We had some fun, though,” he considered as he looked out the window. “I enjoyed my little stint as their . . . mystical savior.” He smiled diabolically at this. “Guess I feel a bit guilty sending them to their deaths tomorrow, but I did try to give Lorenz a warning at that last séance there. They won’t even make it out of the tunnel system, the poor fools.”
Alison went white. “How could you--”
“So, Ben,” said Cabra with a renewed energy, “did you like that stuff about finding that special something inside of you?” He seemed intent on an answer, but Ben couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. “Didn’t it sound like something out of one of those self-help guides, like you won’t know what you’re looking for until you find it, that sort of crap? I admit the Scottish accent needs some work. Mind you, that’s all over now . . .” His voice trailed away. He rubbed his chin in contemplation of his performance, and then resumed his conversation with the driver.
In the rainstorm outside, the city began to change. The dirty and run-down buildings disappeared. Everything became cleaner. The neighborhood where they had first emerged from the tunnel had been filled with people, trash, and fires glowing in the corners of alleys. Here there was nothing but the endless blue reflection of the limousine’s headlights echoing off the uninterrupted glass of office buildings. After a while they came to a high gate fringed with palm trees and spotlights, the rain like tiny white meteors shooting down through the cones of light. When men with shiny black guns approached the car, the driver undid his window a crack, displayed a small badge, and muttered something. The gate opened and the car advanced down a long winding road. Up ahead a massive pyramid loomed mountain-like. Through the driving rain, it looked like a giant, cresting wave of steel and glass. As the car approached, a hundred-foot sign carved out of white granite burst through the mist: MILAGCORP.
Four silver guards came out to escort them into the complex. The outside of the building was bleached in the glare of a thousand spotlights, but inside the glass wave everything was dark. The guards led them down a series of hallways, their movements turning on the lights as they went. One of them opened a door into a small meeting room and motioned for them to get inside.
“Wait here,” he ordered. He locked the door behind him as he left.
They staggered around like rodents thrown into a new cage. On the walls were charts and graphs and photos of the various Children’s Facilities. Except for a few different trees, the buildings all looked the same: a giant white warehouse with only a few tiny windows. Hannah went to the window and smushed her face against the glass to try to see the world outside. The rain was sweeping down the windows in sheets. It was like they were on a giant boat in the middle of the ocean.
“Way to go, Ben,” muttered Thomas as he kicked the furniture.
“Screw you, Thomas,” said Ben. “How was I supposed to know Cabra was a spy?”
“Ben, when a mystical man says that his cat tells him that you have something valuable, you might want to stop and think for a second about whether that sounds normal.”
Ben squinted and was about to lunge at Thomas. Then he realized Thomas was right. Ben had messed up big time.
“Thomas, be quiet,” said Alison. She sat on a chair, her chin resting on the boardroom table, a forlorn dejection on her face. “It doesn’t matter now. That amulet was obviously what Mom stole from Milagro, and now he has it. So let’s not argue--it’s not Ben’s fault. Besides, maybe this will all come to an end now.”
Thomas swiveled around in the big black leather chair at the head of the table. He shook his head in silent disagreement.
After a while it became clear that “wait here” meant until morning. They curled up on the floor under the boardroom table and tried their best to sleep amid the noise of the storm outside, the plasticy stench of new furniture, and the chaos of a million unanswered questions.
When the guards came to get them, it felt like only minutes had passed. The sky was brighter outside, but it was still raining fiercely. It might have been somewhere around seven o’clock. But the thought felt weird: guessing the time of day by looking at the sky was something Ben hadn’t done for weeks.
Without saying anything, and merely motioning with their guns, the guards led them into the expansive, glass lobby. The entire place now shimmered like a crystal palace and buzzed like a beehive.
“Did I tell you miscreants to stop?” barked one of the guards when all four children slowed down to take it all in.
People in smooth suits and dresses were bustling about. Hanging in the air was a low-level white noise of whirring machines, beeping devices, and ringing phones. No one was in any way troubled or even interested in the sight of four bedraggled children being led at gunpoint through the building. The guards stopped at a room-sized glass box, and motioned for them to get inside. Just as Thomas said, “Wow, is this an--”, the elevator shot into the sky in an invisible cylinder of air. Knees staggered and stomachs growled as the box kept rising to the very top of the glass pyramid. Things down below became incredibly small and just when it seemed like there was no more building left above them, they disappeared into the floor of the top storey. With a sweep of noiseless air, the doors opened into a luxurious office.
Soft, regal music drifted through the room, an expanse of carpets and wood framed by gigantic windows overlooking the ocean. And behind the massive desk directly in front of them was a man who looked much smaller in person.
“Well, hello, kids!” said Milagro in a huge, cheerful voice as he got up from behind the desk.
And then they heard a noise from the far side of the room, a whimper whose timbre and tone made it instantly recognizable, even if it had been weeks since they had heard it. In the corner of the room was their mother, tied firmly to a chair. The voice was the same, but she looked different. Her black hair was tied up in a ponytail. She wasn’t wearing her glasses. They instinctively tried to run to her but the guards grabbed them from behind.
“Not so fast you little punks,” said one of them as he shoved them all to the g
round. “Have a seat.”
Milagro squinted at them on the floor, and his grin changed to a stern and condescending glare. “So glad you’ve turned up,” he said. “Cabra says you’ve been living with that group of wretches in their underground fort. Amazing. Help me out here. How is it that in the middle of one of the most technologically advanced cities on earth we can have these cave-dwelling, stone-throwing pests running amok? And coming to kill me, I hear. Oh well, in a few moments they’ll all be destroyed.”
“You monster,” said Alison.
But Milagro didn’t flinch. He seemed used to the insult. “Yes, it turns out their little hideout was right under a construction project I had a controlling interest in--makes a little dynamite accident quite easy.”
“Just let us go, Milagro!” shouted their mother from across the room. “I don’t have it--I never did!”
Milagro looked back at her and smiled. “So, kids, as you can see, I’m looking for something. And I think you might be able to help us here. Your mother and I are trying to solve a bit of a mystery.”
Alison spat at Milagro, and Ben tried to staunch an impressed laugh as the spit smacked against the cheek of the richest man in the country. “I don’t know what you want, but we’ll do everything we can to stop you from getting it,” she said viciously. “We’ve seen those Children’s Facilities where you force kids to work for nothing.”
“Ahh, yes,” said Milagro calmly as he wiped his face. “You’ve obviously heard the silly rumors being perpetuated by that group of . . . miscreants. I guess you didn’t see the recreation rooms in the facilities where we provide kids with all the video games they want?”
“And that’s healthy?” said Alison. “You probably make the video games. And besides, it doesn’t matter what you give kids if you’re forcing them to work.”
“So I’m a criminal for facilitating it then, for giving people jobs, is that it?” asked Milagro, arching his eyebrows.
The Fortress of Clouds Page 21