Nickel Plated

by Aric Davis

  “Good, he didn’t. There’s going to be a big bang within the next half hour or so, okay? Don’t mess yourself.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “We’re going to have work to do soon. Call me.”

  “I will.”

  She slid the window shut, and I slunk off into the black, feeling more like a ninja than a little boy playing private eye. I found the perfect pole just after I left Arrow’s, right by a sewer grate on a plain stretch of road. It was far enough away from the house in front of it that even if it blew bad it probably wouldn’t hit it. Most importantly, there were no lights on around me, either on the streets or on either of the closest two porches. I took a deep breath and knelt next to the pole, sliding my backpack off of my shoulders and laying it in the lawn.

  I took the night vision goggles out first and snapped them onto my head. I closed my eyes and switched them on. My pupils dilated under my eyelids, and I opened my eyes to see. The world was built in shades of yellow and greenish light. I took the drill, pulled the trigger, and let it hum for a second. I picked my spot on the pole and went to work.

  It was harder work drilling into the telephone pole than I’d expected. I had a terrible time getting even halfway in, and I was worried about wearing out the bit or bending it. I made six holes in the pole, one on top of another so the edges were touching. I put the drill in the backpack and got the saw. Throwing what I knew about carpentry aside, I pushed the saw into the hole before turning it on. It whined a little, but the blade didn’t snap as I cut the treated lumber, widening the channel for my bomb. Satisfied with my work, I put the saw down next to the bag and tore the bomb off of my leg. I was close but not there yet. I set the bomb in the bag and made two more cuts. I tried again, and it fit, just barely.

  I put the saw away and got out the hammer and bit of dowel. Slowly hammered at the dowel to push the bomb the rest of the way in the hole. It cinched it in perfectly; I wouldn’t need the glue after all. I shoved the hammer and dowel into the bag and grabbed the rope. I wrapped one end around the pole about five or six times, just above the bomb, and tied it off. The other end I tied to the sewer grate, pulling on the rope to make what little tension I could force on the pole. Once the rope was as taut as I could get it, I stepped back to admire my handiwork. Everything looked in order, so I threw the backpack on and switched off the night vision. I sat next to the pole to let my eyesight reacclimate to the black night and lit a match on my belt buckle. I stuck it to the fuse and backed away. If I’d done the math right, the bomb would go in about seven minutes. If I’d done a really nice job, the pole would fall when it exploded. I backed into the safety of the bushes of the closest house, the goggles atop my head and the flashlight in a shaking hand.

  Sitting alone in the night, waiting for an explosion that was going to take forever to come, I hoped for Shelby’s sake that I was right. Arrow and Shelby, lives in limbo—and if I was wrong, no end to that limbo in sight. This was a long shot, but as best I could calculate, it was our best chance. I could see the fuse humming and bouncing under the light from the moon and the suburbs. I waited, and I hoped I was right.

  Chapter 24

  The explosion was deafening. One second it was a quiet weeknight in the suburbs, the next it was a war zone. The pole leapt off of itself like a horse vaulting a jump. It hung in the air, frozen as the energy from the explosion warred through it. I saw the rope go rigid, expected it to snap, and then the pole fell to the ground. The sounds were barking dogs and security systems, modern watchdogs for cars and houses. I wondered with a guilty smile how many windows I’d broken. I backed as far away as I could, to the edge of the woods Shelby had disappeared in. I lowered the night vision and flicked it on. I waited.

  It didn’t take long.

  Chapter 25

  At first, just adults’ loud swearing. Related, I’m quite sure, to the destruction of quite a bit of insured glass. Seriously, if there was a person I felt bad for, it was their broker. How someone can get so angry over something broken that will be replaced for free is beyond understanding. Not to mention, I wasn’t exactly in the ghetto—these folks had money. I’m sure it was inconvenient that my little project woke somebody up, but seriously, calm down; it’s just a pipe bomb.

  Little groups of them gathered in yards, separate armies split by the downed and sparking lines. I hadn’t even considered the idea that they might be power lines. Phones just seemed obvious—they call them telephone poles. Why hang electrical stuff off of them? In any case, the police were next, great gobs of them to defend suburbia from the mad bomber. If they’d just worked this hard in the first place, maybe Shelby wouldn’t still be missing with the wrong man in custody. But what do I know, I’m just a kid.

  Fire trucks and ambulances and finally, someone from the electric company. He was heavyset, and he waded through the police barricade—I could tell as he nodded at a couple of the uniforms that this wasn’t his first rodeo. I clicked my night vision to the 3× to zoom in on him. It was hard to see his face, but I locked in what I could see. If there were a picture to look at, I’d know it was him. Granted, I had my doubts that the first guy on the scene would be my quarry.

  Two more electric company trucks pulled up next, and they had three more faces to recognize. I still thought it was most likely that the person responsible would be a lower-level worker, maybe come out in the days following to repair my mess. Still, having a database of four of them to work from was a good start. Even I can admit, though, the guys doing routine electrical work aren’t typically the kind pulled up for disaster time. I kept looking for a phone truck, but none were coming. It was kind of embarrassing, to be honest. I felt my pager buzz, but I ignored it; there was too much going on to worry about missing a call. One more truck pulled in right afterwards. Phone company. Great. Now I had two pools to wade through.

  My pager buzzed again. I ignored the stupid thing; somebody needed to get some patience. The cops milled around, laughing and joking. I just watched. I was getting bored, but who knew, something could turn up. The guys from the phone company truck got out, but I only got a look at one. I was trying my darnedest to scope the other guy so I could put another proof in the piggybank when the pager buzzed again. I clipped it off my belt and held it up so I could see it. The lit numbers burned like fire.

  911-59 911-59 911-59. The second was the same, and so was the third. The last was Arrow’s number with 911. Crap. 5-9. K-9. I saw the car with the dog markings on its side pull in as I ducked into the woods.

  Chapter 26

  I ran. I ran as hard as I could and as fast as I was able. I had no idea where I was going, and I didn’t care. I couldn’t go back, couldn’t go to foster care or reform school or juvie or any of it. That was not an option; I’d kill myself the first chance I got. I’d promised.

  A promise to Nick and Eleanor. A promise to Annette, a promise to the fields behind the house, pregnant with bodies. Where my own corpse was supposed to lie. Where Nick and Eleanor ended up was a mystery to me. They wanted to stay together; I wanted to get gone. I took the money and ran, all of that nasty, dirty sex tape money. I made a life for myself, and it was as hard as I knew it would be, but no cop was going to take it from me. Not today and not ever.

  My earliest memory, you don’t want to hear about, trust me. It was pain, that should be enough. Pain and shame and a whole lot of other things. My first good memory?

  You’d have never known Dad was grieving the way it was with us. It was years later, just before he died, that I learned about his other family, his gone family. I was dropped off as a foster kid, a rent-to-own child. I got the grand tour, and he sat me down at the kitchen table. He was dark black, broad chest with a belly, shaved head with a pencil-thin moustache. Hands as big across the palm as a small pizza. He extended a mitt to shake my hand, and I gave him mine. His huge paw enveloped it, gave me a shake, and let go. He said, “So what do you like to be called?”

  I told him.

  He no
dded and said, “My name is Benjamin. You can call me Ben, or even Dad if it gets to feel right. If you don’t mind it here, you can stay for as long as you want. If you don’t, you can leave whenever you want to. This house is as open for me as it is for you, with one big difference. I will never kick you out of here. You can leave if you want, but as long as you want to stay, no matter what, you’ll be welcome. Do you have any questions you want to ask me?”

  I shook my head—I didn’t. He was Dad to me less than a month later, a real father. You know the old expression, “You can pick your friends, not your family”? Nothing less true has ever been said. I would do anything to have that moment back again, that wonderful beginning. A good reason why I am what I am. The only good things that happened to me before I was Nickel, the only really good things that ever will. There are so many things I would ask. But there are even more I would tell him.

  Dad showing me how to rack the .22 long rifle by myself. My little fingers kept slipping off of the action, and I was getting frustrated. He wasn’t. Just kept saying, “Grab it tight, son. Grab it tight and fire it back.” I was four at most, but my real age is a mystery to me, and we decided early on that we’d just share the same birthday. I try to tell myself I don’t care about stuff before that, and sometimes I even believe it. I was with the woman who birthed me, not my mother, for the first couple years of my life. There are no memories there that aren’t miserable. I was with Dad for less than four years; I wish I knew exactly how long. I wish I knew the count by the day.

  Sitting in his office, his name on the door. Meeting a girl with a problem, knowing even when I was young that the good parts were getting left out for the sake of my ears. Him standing up for me to a teacher I knew was doing bad things with some of the girl students. She was, but no “biological” parents believed their kids. She was fired; to the best of my knowledge, no one ever thanked my dad. Also to the best of my knowledge, he never cared.

  I learned about the family business a little from him, but I mostly used the rules he made for himself as I got older. He never laid them out to me or said in some old-guy talk how a man was supposed to act. I learned the good way. I watched him, listened to how he treated people, to how he let people treat him. “Always open a door for a lady, and always hold one for a fella if he’s close.” He never said it—I just watched. You could learn a lot from a man who knew how to say please and thank you, yes sir and yes ma’am. People worry about leopards and elephants and tigers being endangered, but we all watch as rudeness butts its way into normal conversation. We should care about the animals, don’t take me the wrong way. It’s just that we should care about ourselves too.

  Dad worked for free a lot, at least as far as I could tell, but we were always getting little things. Not boxes of apples or fried chicken or stuff like in the old days of his work, but sometimes the electric bill would just come up paid, or we’d have cable for a few weeks. Little things Dad didn’t care a lick for, but I enjoyed.

  He carried a .357 in his jacket. Eight rounds, full-size Smith and Wesson. I wish I had it. Cops took it. You read enough in Detroit, you’ll find out that was the gun my dad killed himself with, right after he gave himself two black eyes, broke his own nose, and shot out his right knee. Someday, I’m going back there.

  The wind was cold and the trees were knives, blazing my face and showering me with mist from the dew. I ran. In the distance, barking and beams of light so powerful they could blind a man into submission were cutting through the foliage like lasers. I’m not a man, but I’m working on it.

  Chapter 27

  Some deep instinct in me was screaming to hide, while a force just as powerful begged me not to, to keep running, to never stop, ignoring the cramps as I scoured the ravages at the ends of the earth. I wasn’t sure if it would be safer to keep the night vision on or take it off. So far it was the only thing keeping me ahead and away from them, but if one of those million-candlepower bulbs got me in the eyepiece right, I’d drop as hard as if they were firing guns instead of light. I kept moving, deeper in the woods but close enough to see bits of houses. My feet splashed in something; I worried for the noise and then crossed back and over the little tributary twice.

  I moved back to the houses, closer to the yards now but still in the tree line. The dogs and lights were no closer or further away than they’d been; they were after me, and that was all that mattered. When I saw what I thought was Arrow’s house, I split from the trees. Crossing the yard was going to be the hardest part, and I ran low, moving as fast as I was able while still remaining close to the ground.

  When I came out of the woods, I was two doors down from Arrow’s house, little houses and ticky-tacky and all that—stupid things really do look the same. I stayed tight to the trees, still close to the ground, still terrified. It had been stupid to stick around.

  It made sense at the time, but now it just seemed like the stupid decision of a little kid. I made it through the no-man’s-land of her neighbor’s lawn and flew into Arrow’s yard. We must have some kind of connection, because she was waiting for me at the back door. Hair pinned up with two pencils, wearing a white T-shirt and blue shorts. She looked like an angel, and that was exactly what I needed. She held her finger over her lips, making the universal sign for, “If you’re loud, I’m going to kill you.” I abided and followed her in.

  The house was dark, and even through the blinds we could see flashlights cutting the night. I shut off the night vision and flipped them up onto my head. Arrow looked at me like I was crazy and whispered, “What are you, freaking James Bond?”

  “I need to see at night sometimes.”

  “You need those.”

  “They’re pretty cool.”

  “Boys and toys.”

  “Do you want to try them on?”

  “Yes.”

  I handed them to her, helped her fit them onto her head, and flipped them on.

  “Whoa. These are awesome.”

  “Shouldn’t you be hiding me somewhere?”

  “Hang on. This is seriously crazy. You can see everything.”

  The lights were getting deeper into the forest, moving away from us. If I’d left a trail, they were off of it. I sat heavily into a well-padded chair and let Arrow play with my goggles. When she had finished amusing herself, she sat on the arm of my chair with the goggles flipped up on her head.

  “Is your mom going to come down here?”

  “No, Mom is pretty well incapacitated.”

  I nodded.

  “We’re going to need to make you a bed.”

  “Are you crazy? I can’t stay here.”

  “Where are you going to go, Nickel? All they’re doing out there is looking for people who shouldn’t be outside. Speaking of that, you knocked out my power, didn’t you?”

  “I thought they were just phone lines. How was I supposed to know they were phone and power?”

  She shrugged. “I’m sure there would have been some way of checking.”

  I blushed, but she couldn’t have seen it in the darkness. “Yeah, well, I would have knocked it down either way.”

  “How’d you do it?”

  I told her, and she nodded and listened like it was the most important thing in the world. When I finished, I could see a question still on her lips.

  “How is taking away the power going to…you’re going to watch them, see who comes around.”

  “Clever.”

  “Did you need to knock down a pole?”

  “It was the right thing to do. If I would have cut it, they would have just thought it was somebody being stupid. A bomb in a rich neighborhood? All it’ll take is one cowboy cop to say terrorist, and this thing is going to be handled.”

  She nodded like it made sense to her. If she wanted to go along with me, I wasn’t going to argue. She slipped the night vision goggles off and handed them to me. I pushed them into my backpack.

  “I get to borrow those someday.”

  “They can zoom in, like binoculars
, just not as far.”

  She rolled her eyes at me—boys and their toys all over again.

  “You can sleep down here. Let me get you a blanket.”

  “What if your mom comes down?”

  “She won’t.”

  “But if she…”

  Arrow cocked her head to the right, the loose hair left unsecured by the pencils whipping across her face and shoulders. “Are you going to trust me?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  I watched her leave and come back with her hands full with a down comforter.

  “I’d show you how to work the TV, but we don’t have power. I have school in the morning; at this rate I can get about three hours of sleep if I really work at it. I’ll wake you up before I go.”

  “Thanks, Arrow, you saved my butt.”

  “Nickel. You were out there doing what you do for Shelby and me. Thank you.”

  She gave me that big, beautiful smile that I’d impale myself over and threw the comforter on my lap. I drew it over myself and lay back, knowing that I would never be able to sleep. I was wrong.

  Chapter 28

  I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar blackness. A flashlight beam crossed over my face, and I flew off of the chair, diving towards the form. I was caught in the comforter, drawing back my arm to attack whoever had brought me to the darkness.

  The form spoke: “Nickel. Nickel!”

  It flooded back. Arrow. Crap. I picked myself off of her as best I was able and sat Indian-style on the floor. I pulled at the comforter, and an Arrow-shaped form emerged. Her head came out first.

  “You better not have messed up my hair.”

  “Uh…”

  She smacked me on the arm, playful, not like the shot that gave me the shiner I still had under my eye.