by H L Stephens
We both chuckled at the idea.
"A melting face might give you a momentary advantage though in a fight," I said. "It works in the movies."
"Things like that always work in the movies, Jane, because it's not real," Dorthia said. "Unfortunately, real life rarely turns out that way. So if your torrent of tears wasn't strictly because of the boys’ insensitivity, what caused them?"
"I guess I am just feeling homesick, that's all," I replied.
It was only partly true. I was feeling completely overwhelmed. I was filling my brain with all sorts of deadly knowledge, and I hadn't even celebrated my fifteenth birthday yet. I should be worrying about proms and SATs not whether I could strap a modified pistol to the crack of my rear end.
"You know Jane, you have never spoken about your home," Dorthia said. "Isn't it about time you let us in on your little secret; like why you are here and not with your parents?"
Dorthia's voice was gentle but her manner direct. It was the first time any of the crew had asked a direct question about my family or anything related to my separation from them. No one had ever pried; until now. I had been expecting an interrogation for the first few months, but the anticipation of it faded over time. The sudden emergence knocked me off guard.
"I don't have any secrets," I lied.
"Don't you?" she asked. "Do you really think we all believe that a child with a thick Texas twang just popped into New York City hunting the Russian mob for no reason? You came here spoiling for a fight Jane; a fight you were ill prepared for, but a fight you were willing to start nonetheless. It almost got you killed. I am guessing your parents don't know where you are. I think it is time you told us the truth."
So many times I had longed to tell the crew everything. To pour out the details of my sad little life. Most of the time, I just wanted to go home, but I knew that wasn't a reality. Not now. I thought the crew could help me, but I was scared. I was afraid to trust them.
Agent Howard had been a representative of the Federal Government, and the Russians had gotten to him. He had lied to my family and had pretended to care. Then he tried to kill me. I couldn't be certain that the crew would be any different. I mean, who in the name of all that was holy were they anyways?
I grabbed the jar of goop Dorthia held in her hands and began stripping off the layers of failed makeup and shellac. The more I rubbed, the angrier I became at being probed. I remembered the bag of money I had stashed in the useless air vent at the Homey Hotel. There was plenty of money for me to establish myself and figure out my next move.
When my face was clear of everything but my own bright, pink skin, I looked at Dorthia.
"I think perhaps it is time I gathered my things and went on my way. I have burdened you all enough with my presence."
I got up to leave, but Dorthia caught hold of my arm.
"This isn't necessary, Jane," she said.
"Oh, I think it is," I replied as I walked out of the room and down to where I kept my things.
My bedroom wasn't more than a few makeshift walls that had been thrown together around a cot and a few old metal lockers Avery had painted a dusky purple when he had learned it was my favorite color. He had done his best to make the place look presentable for a girl my age. In an odd, industrial sort of way, it was.
I didn't have much in the way of possessions since I had lost my dad's duffle bag thanks to the attack in the alley. I didn't figure the bag was still in the motel. If it was, it had been ransacked and picked over by every junkie and hooker who had called that place their temporary home since my infirmity began. My bear, my books, and my clothes were long gone. The loss of my personal things caused a deep pang in my heart, but I couldn't do much to correct it. What I was after now was the money.
I shoved what few belongings I had into a gym bag Avery had given me and was on my way. I was too pissed off at everyone to say goodbye. I had no idea where the warehouse was in relation to everything else in Brooklyn. I wasn't even certain I was still in Brooklyn until I found a convenience store and asked. The man inside thought I was drunk and smelled my breath for alcohol. When he didn't smell any, he called me a crack head and threatened to call the police if I didn't leave. I walked around for a few hours until I got my bearings and found a street I remembered from my earlier wanderings. I followed it until I found the Homey Hotel.
I stared at its ramshackle facade and then looked in my wallet. I was half expecting moths to fly out as I unzipped it. Aside from the money in the briefcase, the only other cash I had carried on me had been shoved into my duffle bag and boots. Both items were now indisposed, leaving me penniless and without much leverage to do any good. The one lesson I had remembered from when I was seven and living in the city was don't carry much money in your wallet just in case you got mugged. The two bucks that were safely tucked within its folds were little comfort against the cold reality that now faced me.
Weaseling my way into my old room was out of the question with the pittance that stared back at me from the dark recesses of my wallet. An outright bribe was impossible with two bucks as an incentive, and I was pretty sure the pimply faced kid with the curly brown hair guarding the motel counter was not going to let me pop into the room for free, even if it was just for a few minutes. My only hope of recovering the money was a good old fashioned B and E. I could get in there fast, grab the bag, and get out of there without being seen.
I waited until dusk, when the street walkers were looking for Johns and the junkies were looking for a score. I had the lock picks Marcus had given me and a small screwdriver I had stolen from his tool set. Marcus had so many screwdrivers, I didn't figure he would miss the one.
Getting to the room was easier than I thought it was going to be. It wasn't exactly Fort Knox, and the counter clerk wasn't particularly diligent in guarding access to the rooms. When I reached number 49, I knocked on the door to make sure no one was inside. When no one answered, I made my entry.
Not much had changed about the place. It was just as dilapidated as I remembered with the same level of filth and disgustingness as before. I made my way over to the defunct air vent, removed the screws, and discovered to my great horror that my life truly sucked more than any other creature on the planet. The bag of money was gone. Like the wild buffalo of the Western plains, it was no more forever.
Bile and the burrito I had for lunch were the first things to rise from deep inside me. I added my own fresh vomit stain to the myriad of others on the floor. When the heaving stopped, the tears began. I sat down next to my vomit stain of shame and cried. It was over. I had played my last set of cards, and it was a losing hand. Whatever hope I had left in me now lay in the same pile as the partially digested beans and shredded lettuce on the floor. I lost myself in the torrent of tears.
I was crying so hard, I didn't hear the footsteps that announced I had company. I was too busy wallowing in my own self-pity. It wasn't until I saw the shine of the boots through my misty vision that I realized I was doubly screwed beyond measure. My heart leapt into my throat as I tried to think what my next move should be. I was contemplating whether I should attack or just try to make a run for it when a familiar voice broke through the din of my misery.
"Now would be a good time for us to leave Jane if you are done feeling sorry for yourself."
It was Oz. I looked up and saw the same stoic face I remembered the day he rescued me from the Bratva in the alleyway, but this time, he held his hand out to me.
"We best get moving before someone comes," he said. "You might put that grill back on that air vent too, otherwise, they will know you were here."
All I could do was comply. Any words I might have spoken were stuck in my throat, next to the sour taste and the one bean that hadn't quite made the journey all the way to the top. With the defunct air vent grill back in place, we made our retreat. Neither one of us said a word as we made our way back to the warehouse. When we got there, the whole crew was waiting for me, and they did not look pleased. Oz led me o
ver to a table where the crew was collected on one side with a single chair was set on the other.
"Sit down, Jane," Oz said.
It felt like I was being brought in for a parole hearing before a panel of grumpy grandparents. I might have brought a little more attitude to my side of the table had I not just been kicked in the gut with the reality that my whole world, and the one plan that had remained in it, was now a pitiful pile of dust and vomit lying on the floor of that revolting motel. I had nowhere left to go but the chair I was directed into.
We sat there silently regarding each other. Oz was a little more stoic than usual, and Avery had a scowl that looked like his eyebrows were going to ram into each other right in the center of his face. Other than that, what I read on their expressions was disappointment, and it made me more uncomfortable than anything other feeling could have.
I remembered back when I was eight years old in Ironco. My dad had taken me to the local Five-and-Dime store to pick up a few things for the house. A cheap little toy caught my eye, and I wanted it more than anything. I begged my dad for that toy. Come to think of it, I was a pain in the rumpus about the thing.
No.
He explained we couldn't afford it. I figured I deserved it, so I plied my argument as to why I should have it. The answer was the same.
No.
My dad didn't appreciate how important it was to me, so I stuck it in my pocket, and we headed home.
A little while later, my dad caught me playing with my pretty new absconded toy. The look on his face told me that death was imminent. I ran through all of the possible ways that my end would come - the rack, the iron maiden, hot lava poured over my head, a thousand lashes. All he said was, "Get in the car".
My dad drove me back to the five and dime. It was just up the road, but under those circumstances, it became the longest drive of my life. He made me go in by myself, confess what I had done to the owner, give the toy back, and apologize to the man. I then had to volunteer to do ten hours of community service in penance for stealing the toy, which amounted to me sweeping and cleaning and helping the owner in whatever way an eight year could in a five and dime.
The worst part of my punishment wasn't the forced labor or the long drive or having to tell the owner of the store what I had done, though it was a close second to the worst part. The worst part was the speech I got from my dad when we got home where he told me how disappointed he was in me for stealing. I wanted nothing more than to have my father's respect and trust. In that brief second of stupidity, I had thrown them both away.
I never did anything like that again, and I worked my keester off to earn my father's respect and trust back. I never forgot the lesson of that day, however.
Now as I sat before the crew, I was afraid I had made the same kind of mistake I had made with the toy but on a much larger scale. I mean, what are the consequences when you disappoint a group of wet ops and weapons experts? I was about to find out.
Jameson cleared his throat. He had apparently been elected the spokesperson of the group for this particular confrontation.
"That was quite a stunt you pulled young lady," he began. It definitely sounded like he was going straight for the disappointment speech first thing.
"How do you know what happened?" I asked. "I haven't even been gone that long."
It was a reflexive response on my part. It was bad enough that Oz had seen me breakdown into a sniveling ball of vomiting goo, but the idea that they all were aware of what had taken place was a bit more than my brain could handle. The entire crew reached up in one fluid, uniform motion and touched their ears. They were all wearing ear buds and had, at a minimum, heard everything Oz had. For all I knew, Oz had been wired with one of Marcus' mini cams, and they had seen the whole affair as well. My humiliation knew no bounds.
"Figures," I mumbled to myself.
"Listen Jane," Jameson continued, "we have tried very hard not to press you about the details of your past because we wanted to give you time to heal and to see you can trust us. We have taught you a great deal about what we know hoping to break down some of the walls you have built up against the world. Today's behavior has shown us your walls are still fortified. Now, we don't know if you have held back because you are trying to protect us or because you still don't trust us, but truth be told little Jane, we need some answers. We have decided it is time to change our tactics a bit."
Jameson looked at Oz and nodded his head. With the unspoken signal, Oz got up and walked out of the room. My sense of unease went through the rafters. Jameson looked back at me and waited. When Oz returned, he was carrying my duffle bag; the one with Bernard, my precious stuffed bear, and my books and clothes, but most importantly, the pictures of my folks and Iggie. They were the few possessions that mattered to me.
Tears began coursing down my face when I saw the bag. Part of me felt relief that it wasn't lost to me. Part of me felt violated. I hated myself for it. I saw a flash of remorse go across the crew's faces. They were not relishing this moment, but I realize now they felt as though they were given no other alternative. Oz plopped the duffle bag on the table in front of Jameson, who laid his hands on top of it.
"Alright just plain Jane," Jameson said. "The time for games has passed. Tell us who you are."
There was no escaping the inevitable. The time for revelations was at hand.
"What do you know about the murders that happened to the Shores family about seven years ago in the Upper East Side?" I asked.
The crew looked at each other but said nothing.
"Well, sit back, because I am about to educated you," I said.
Spilling the Beans Again
Sorrow has a way of sapping your strength like no other force your body can endure. Even the beating from the gang of Bratva was not as punishing to me as sitting before the crew and divulging everything that happened to my family. Not a single sordid detail was left unshared. It felt like I was raking my insides along the tire spike strips the police sometimes use to deflate the tires of a runaway fugitive.
For so many months, I had held myself together, but now that the crew was demanding the truth of who I was, I fell apart into little wispy bits of nothingness. When I was done goring my heart with the sharpened details of my family's murder, I moved on to my life in Ironco, Texas and all the minutia of what I had gained and then subsequently lost there. They learned about Agent Howard and his betrayal; how he had tried to kill me and how I had turned the tables and sealed his fate. I even told them about the bag of money that I had secreted away in the defunct air vent. The bag that was now lost to me. I ended my tale at the moment when Oz found me near death in the alleyway.
"That pretty much sums up my shitty life in a nutshell," I blubbered. "The shitty parts being where I lost everything and everyone that ever meant anything to me."
I just wanted to crawl into a hole and die after I stopped talking, like a wounded animal ready to lick its wounds. Everyone looked to Marcus who sat typing away at his computer.
"The facts check out though she has more details than what are available in the official records," Marcus said. "The Feds are atrocious at keeping their records. Not much on her life in Ironco aside from school records. No surprise there. As for this Agent Howard and her offing him in Hell's Half Acre, it won't be difficult to track down some verifying details based on what Jane just told us. Give me just a sec."
His arthritic hands flew across the keys. I could tell he was really enjoying himself.
"Here we are," he said after a few minutes. "Based on the amount of time Jane said they were on the road, the general direction they the approximate location where Agent Howard tried to kill our girl. Now, if I borrow access to government satellite were traveling, the landscape, and the description of the area, I have triangulated imagery of that day in the area I think she was in, we have an image that looks something....like....this."
Marcus tapped the final key of his computer like a maestro. It was a very grand gesture with a bit
of flourish, and it had the general effect of drawing everyone's undivided attention. The laptop was passed from person to person. Each one of them looked at the image with a similar mix of emotions. Even Oz, who rarely shifted his expression from the stoic, blank wall appearance, was affected by what he saw. When it was Dorthia's turn to view the mysterious image on Marcus' screen, I thought I saw a tear course down her cheek, which she artfully wiped away before it could be detected. It was enough to knock the cobwebs from my brain.
"Would someone clue me in on what has everyone so enwrapped, please?" I asked.
Marcus turned the laptop around so I could see the screen. He clicked a button to reset the image, and within seconds, I was watching an aerial view of my battle with Agent Howard, including the moment when the car burst into flames. The satellite images were small, but there was little doubt as to what was happening. The car rocking to and fro was me battling for my life. The brief lull was the odd conversation between Howard and me as he slowly bled out. Then, I was out of the car and pulling my duffle bag out of the trunk of the car. Each additional step of the encounter played out in miniature.
"How did you.....?" my voice trailed off.
"It doesn't matter," Marcus said, pulling the glasses off the tip of his nose. "What matters Jane is that you have told us the truth. All of it. I believe it is time we did the same."
The crew rose as one unit from the table. I felt a gentle hand upon my shoulder. It was Dorthia. Her smile was warm and welcoming.
"Come, Jane," she said. "We have much to share with you as well."
They led me over to an oil smeared wall I had passed a million times before. It was the kind of surface that made you want to don a hazmat suit before approaching it, much less touching it. Oz in his typical, indifferent fashion, touched a small panel barehanded. I would have laughed at the seriousness of his expression had the panel not started to glow a pale blue beneath his touch. When Oz removed his hand, a section of the wall slid open, revealing a set of stairs behind it.