Minion

by John David Anderson

  I reach out and take the gun from his hands, prying his fingers loose and holding it in both of mine. I point it at his chest. My concentration finally breaks, and he shakes his head. I can’t convince him of anything anymore. Not that way, at least.

  “Go back in the store,” I demand.

  Aziz puts out both of his hands; it’s just instinct, I guess. His glasses are streaked with rain. “Michael, please. I promised your father.”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around,” I say. “I’ll tell him that you did your best, but that I wouldn’t cooperate. Now get back in the store.”

  I wave the pistol around a little, the way I’ve always seen them do in movies. I’ve robbed banks before, but this is the first time I’ve ever held a gun. It’s a lot heavier than I expected. But Aziz doesn’t move. He doesn’t look at my face either, just stares over my shoulder.

  “You won’t shoot me, Michael,” he says, taking a step toward me. “I know you. I know your father. You would never kill anyone, either of you. You’re not that type.” He takes another step, close enough to reach out and grab the gun. I hope to god I know what I’m doing.

  “You’re right,” I say.

  I aim as carefully as I can and pull the trigger.

  “Haramzada!”

  I take a quick step back, startled by the sound of the gunshot and the sound of his cursing and the way the pistol kicked up out of my hands like a wild animal. The store owner stumbles backward, hopping on one foot, the other already up in both hands. He spins and falls through his own backdoor into his storeroom like a drunken ballerina, landing on his side, curling up and clutching his wounded foot. There is a hole in the front of his left shoe. I’m pretty sure I have shot one of his toes off.

  “I am so sorry,” I say over and over again as he continues to curse me in a language I don’t know. I throw the gun in a nearby Dumpster and hop on my bike just as Aziz manages to struggle to one foot, the other one dangling limp behind him. As I pedal down the alley, I can hear him shouting at me to come back, whether to save me or choke me to death, I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t let him take me away. I can’t leave my father behind.

  I careen out into the street and nearly run into a parked police car, the door just starting to open, one black boot stepping free. The cop undoubtedly heard the gunshot. Blowing a man’s toe off is an arrestable offense. I veer sharp left, nearly colliding with a lamppost and a mailbox before righting myself, pedaling as fast as I can, brushing the wet hair from my eyes. I take two more quick turns, shooting down side streets with no sidewalks, brushing against parked cars, listening for sirens, looking behind me constantly for flashing lights or cussing, spitting, hopping-mad Indians.

  But no one is following me. At least no one I can see. The rain is starting to let up, but it makes no difference. I am already soaked clear through. My jeans are so stiff, my legs can hardly pump. My lungs burn. But I don’t care. I have to get home. Whatever it is, whatever he’s into, he has to know that I’m in it with him. I’m not technically his son, I guess. But I’m still his minion.

  I pull up a block away from the house, drop the bike, and pull my hood tighter. The house looks normal. Windows unbroken. Door shut. The Honda sitting in the driveway—he hasn’t gone anywhere, at least not of his own accord. There are no strange cars on the street. No unmarked vans. No police anywhere that I can see. I head around to the back, peeking in the windows, past half-closed curtains, into empty rooms, walking on tiptoe as if it matters. I’m no ninja. I can’t even beat the girl of my dreams at a kung fu video game. Part of me wishes I had kept Aziz’s gun.

  The back door is locked, but at least I have a key to this one. I open it slowly, waiting for a hand to come out of nowhere and grab me by the arm, drag me inside, throw a pillowcase over my head or stuff a gag in my mouth. Waiting for the smell of chloroform, which I’ve never smelled before but assume is something like Windex.

  But there is no hand. No gag. No Windex. No anything. The place is deserted.

  I close the door softly and look around. The lights are all on. The basement door is shut. There is no sign of scuffle or forced entry. No bullet holes. No smashed glass. I call out his name—Dad, not Benjamin. Once. Twice. Three times. Louder and louder. No answer. If there is someone here, they would have surely leaped out and clubbed me by now.

  That’s when I notice the note sitting on the table. A single sheet. Typed up in neat capital letters.

  YOUR FATHER IS SAFE

  HE NEEDS YOUR HELP

  COME ALONE

  That’s it. I flip the paper over to find more on the back. An address: 17878 County Line Road. I have no idea where that is. Somewhere outside the city proper. On the outskirts of New Liberty.

  I stand there with the paper trembling in my hand. He is safe, maybe. But for how long? Until six o’clock? I scour the room looking for something else, anything else. No overturned chairs, no missing knives. Even the rolling pin is where it should be. I’m no detective, but it looks like Dad didn’t even try to put up a fight. It’s as if my father met whoever it was at the door and just walked away.

  As if they had an agreement.

  My eyes return to the basement door. I pull one of the long knives out of the wooden block by the sink for good measure. I have as much business wielding a knife as I do wielding a gun, but it makes me feel better to wrap my fingers around something.

  Three slow steps. Turn the handle. The door is unlocked. I flip the switch to turn on the light and think back to the day Benjamin—my father—showed me his pictures, or most of them, anyway. A whole line of box makers. “You won’t be able to turn back,” he said. Can’t say he didn’t warn me.

  I take the steps carefully, leaving soggy prints, too conscious of the squishing sound my feet make. The lair looks the same as always. The computers are still humming away. The kitten is still hanging on for dear life. The shelves are still full. The only thing different is that the usual piles of parts that litter the workbench are gone. In their place sits one of my father’s little black boxes, all by itself.

  The label has an arrow pointing to the green button. It says, simply, PRESS ME.

  Alice in Wonderland, I think. Sucker for the classics.

  It could be a trap, of course. Though the writing on the label looks like my father’s, that is no guarantee. Somebody could have made him write it. I could press the button and instantly be blown to chunks or paralyzed with electric currents or struck blind . . . again. And yet I’m not sure what other choice I have. I suppose I could call the police. Normal people do that, I guess, in situations like this. I could report that my father—an illegal weapons and gadgets manufacturer with known ties to the city’s most wanted criminals—has gone missing. That would go over well. Or I could go back to Aziz and beg him to help me, even though I obliterated his big toe and left him wallowing in pain.

  Or I could just press the button.

  I take a deep breath and follow my instincts. The box hums to life. Suddenly my father’s face appears on the ceiling, projected from a tiny lens in the box’s top. He’s dressed in the same clothes as this morning, as yesterday. His voice falters as he talks into the camera.

  “Michael, if you are watching this, then that means that things didn’t go as planned. Either Aziz couldn’t help you, or you wouldn’t let him. It also means that you are still in danger, but this time you will have to save yourself. I want you to know I am sorry I dragged you into all this. Sorry that I couldn’t look after you the way I intended. I thought I could handle it, thought it would be worth it, but I was wrong. I underestimated him. I realized too late. Which is why you need to go. As far and as fast as you can. Start a new life. A good life. The kind you deserve.

  “But before you leave, be sure to empty the trash. And also, right before you leave, press the red button on this box. It’s okay this time. Just wait until you are ready to walk out the door.”

  The image of my father on the ceiling pauses, then looks
me in the eyes.

  “I love you, Son,” it says.

  The picture blinks out, and I let myself fall into the chair, his chair, the box in my lap. I press the green button again, though I know I didn’t miss anything. I just want to see his face. But nothing happens. The white button doesn’t do anything either. The message has been programmed to play only once.

  I don’t press the red button yet.

  Instead I walk to the corner and push over the hollowed-out missile, letting the crumpled papers and empty chip bags spill out over the floor. I dig through wads of discarded notes and blueprints till I find what I’m looking for at the bottom.

  Buried treasure. Ten bulging wads of hundred-dollar bills. A hundred thousand dollars at least, probably more. Down payment, I presume, for whatever it is he’s been working on. It’s a plane ticket to Canada and a new life once I’m there. With my power I’m sure I could make it. People will believe just about anything.

  But I’ve got an even better use for the money.

  I leave the cash on the floor and go back upstairs and pick up the phone. It takes six rings, but eventually he picks up. I can hear more shouting in the background, even more voices this time.

  “Zach,” I say, “it’s Michael. Listen. Tell your boss I have a proposition for him.”

  Two minutes later I hang up and go back downstairs. I peel ten bills off one of the stacks, then wad the rest of it up as best I can and stuff it in a backpack I brought from the front closet. I think again about Aziz’s pistol. I certainly won’t need it now. There will be plenty of guns to go around.

  Zach said to give him ten, buying me a little time. Changing into dry clothes slows my shivering but doesn’t stop it entirely. I stuff the thousand bucks in my back pocket and slip into some dry socks. My new cross trainers are still wet, but they are the only decent running shoes I’ve got, and I want to be able to move quickly. I reach inside the one and pull out the penny.

  Good luck, she said. I sure hope it starts working soon. I tuck it back in, then sling the backpack full of cash over my shoulder just as a car pulls into the driveway.

  Zach is at the front door, dressed all in black, down to the leather jacket and steel-tipped boots, pure Hell’s Angels with extra spikes. He frowns at me but doesn’t say a word. I already gave him the recap. The SUV rumbles behind him, waiting. I hand him the bag.

  “A hundred grand,” I say. “Give or take.”

  “It’s not about the money,” he says, but he takes the backpack anyway. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost,” I tell him. “Keep the car running.”

  Back downstairs, I just stand by the workbench and take a deep breath, looking over the shelves of little black boxes. My father’s life’s work. I don’t know what all of them do exactly—some of them were before my time—but several I had a hand in. I think about what the cops would say if they found them. The secret cache of a criminal mastermind. The arsenal of the insane. That’s what an outsider would see. But I just see another in a long line of Edsons, looking for a way to make it in the world. I take the one with PRESS ME in my cold hands.

  “Never press the red button.” That’s what he told me. The one time I did was by accident. It destroyed his workbench and took off two sets of eyebrows. Thankfully, my father shielded me with his body or I might have lost more than that. That was his way.

  I look over at the poster. “Sorry, kitty,” I say. Then I press it. The light glows like an ember, and the little box in my hand starts to hum, warming instantly, whatever chemical or electrical or nuclear reaction I’ve just triggered already under way.

  And it’s not the only one. Suddenly all the other boxes start to hum. A hundred singing, buzzing boxes, rattling around on their shelves. The whole room seems to fill with magnetic energy. Kinetic. Frenzied. I look around the room to see a hundred little red buttons glowing. Then my father’s voice comes through the speaker of the box in my hand, telling me I have exactly two minutes to get out of the house.

  I hurtle up the basement stairs as quickly as I can, through the door, and into the waiting SUV, to find myself sitting beside Blades again. He looks the same as last time, save for his left arm being in a sling. Mario still sits behind the wheel. Zach is riding shotgun, the backpack in his lap. I want to ask about Indiana Jones but decide better of it, remembering what the Comet did to him, the hole he left in the warehouse wall. Instead I hand up the piece of paper with the address on the back and tell Mario that he should probably step on it. We’ve only got about a minute left.

  We squeal out of the driveway and zoom down the street. Zach is watching the side mirror. I twist to look through the back window and wave good-bye to the house—my home—just as it explodes.

  It’s right out of a movie. One lone black SUV barreling down the country road out of town, kicking up dust, sun just starting to crawl its way from behind spent clouds. There is nobody around. Just miles of grain fields and wild grass. Then suddenly another black SUV zooms in from the right, cutting through the brush onto the road. Then another comes from the left. Lining up, one behind the other, falling into place.

  Soon there is a convoy. A cavalcade of all black four by fours with silver rims and tinted glass, thundering down the highway. I look behind me and count at least ten. I knew we would be joined by the rest of the Romano clan, but the presence of all those trucks full of hired guns makes me even more nervous.

  “I didn’t know Tony had this many men,” I say to Zach, who turns and smiles at me.

  “He doesn’t,” Zach says back. Beside me, Blades expertly twirls one of his knives with his good hand.

  YOUR FATHER IS SAFE

  HE NEEDS YOUR HELP

  COME ALONE

  Alone. Or maybe with a squad of three dozen heavily armed criminals, some of them blessed with extraordinary abilities. I’m suddenly wondering if I haven’t made a huge mistake, bringing Tony and whoever else he’s got with him to the doorstep of the maniac who has kidnapped my father. Zach is bristling beside me, the tips of his thorns peeking through the back of his neck.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re family. The Romanos take care of their family.”

  The Romanos “take care” of a lot of things. I’m not sure this makes me feel any better. Still, it’s not something I could do alone.

  The herd rumbles along the dirt road. As we drive, Zach tells me the plan. It’s not complicated. We break in, guns blazing. Find and rescue Dad. We hug. Then he and I have permission to leave while Tony and the rest have a talk with the Dictator.

  “I might have questions for him, too,” I say.

  “It won’t be that kind of talk,” Zach tells me.

  “Are you sure we are headed the right way?” Mario asks from the driver’s seat, tapping on his GPS. “This says we only got three more miles.” I look out the window. The city of New Liberty lies behind us, its skyline obscured by haze. Only cornfields and farmhouses stretch ahead. I start to doubt myself. I always thought supervillains made their homes in dormant volcanoes or abandoned medieval castles. Not out in the boonies. Maybe there’s a lake or something concealing an underwater fortress or a platform hovering up in the clouds, but all I see are hollow barns and abandoned tractors.

  “Maybe it’s a phony address,” Blades says. “Or maybe it’s a trap. Did you ever think of that?”

  Of course I thought of that.

  Mario taps his screen again. The nice lady on the GPS says we have arrived at our destination. He pulls to the side of the road. “There’s nothing here,” Mario says.

  But there is something. A mailbox with the address on it in peeling black letters: 17878. “I guess this is it,” I say, pointing to the farmhouse across the road, set back a ways. A rickety-looking wooden two-story with a wraparound porch and dark windows. A large tin-roofed barn sits off to one side.

  “Screams supervillain hideout to me,” Zach says.

  We sit in the car for a couple of minutes, waiting for something, I don’t know what. For
a rocket to plunge into our side or a tank to explode out the front of the house or the noses of a dozen machine guns to nuzzle their way through the windows and open fire. But nothing happens. The place seems deserted. Finally Mario’s cell rings, and he answers. He says a few uh-huhs and a yes sir, looking at me long enough to say the word clueless. Then hangs up. “Boss says we’re going in.”

  Twelve SUVs pull up onto the farmhouse lawn, and at least thirty men step out. One of them is Tony Romano with Rudy the red-nosed giant by his side. I do my best to avoid eye contact with either of them. Tony’s dressed for business as usual: black suit, blue tie. His gold wolf-head cane twirls beside him. He walks over and puts both beefy hands on my shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll get your dad back.”

  One of the other Romanos, who I recognize from the night at the warehouse, scans the farmhouse and shakes his head.

  “I don’t know, boss. I mean, how come we can’t just let that big blue guy take care a this? You know, like, shine a light in the sky or somethin’? Show him where to go?”

  “Because,” Tony says, gazing over the house and the fields beyond, “this is our city. And we have to look out for our own.” I hear Tony’s name called and turn to see another familiar face emerging from a truck, looking even more scarecrow than before.

  “What’s he doing here?” I whisper.

  “Tony invited him,” Zach says. “They agreed to play nice, just for today. It’s for a good cause.”

  Mickey Six Fingers saunters over to join us, flanked by a dozen men armed with everything from baseball bats to double-barreled shotguns. Mickey himself carries a machine gun that looks almost as big as he is, the kind with the ammunition that feeds into it like one of those ticket-munching machines. His belt of bullets is slung across his shoulder and clashes with his double-breasted white suit and bright red tie.