by Rob Thurman
“Thank you, sir.” Stripping off her coat, she revealed no-nonsense black polyester pants paired with a plain white blouse. She was either a housekeeper or a nurse, although Bellucci didn’t seem to be in need of the latter yet. “Priscilla quite took her time with business. I’ll have to towel the little beast off.” After carefully wrapping both her umbrella and tightly folded coat in plastic bags she obtained from the top shelf of the closet, she reclaimed the still-barking dog and whisked it off. Not a single drop of water hit the floor during the process.
“Good help is hard to find,” Bellucci said ruefully. “But anal-retentive help is priceless.” He shook my hand again and let us out onto the porch. “Let me know when the article comes out, would you?”
I nodded. “Of course. As soon as I finish it and send it off, I’ll let you know.”
Eyes distant, he said quietly, “Hurry.” Then he closed the door, leaving us to the rain.
Protected from the weather by the overhang, Michael and I stood in silence until he finally said, “That was a lot of big words on your part. Are you okay?”
“My head hurts, but I’ll try to struggle on,” I replied dryly. Actually I was struggling, but it was in an effort to keep afloat above a wave of pessimism. What we had learned had given us something of a background on Jericho, but it hadn’t given us anything useful to our situation. The issue of government ties was still a mystery and Jericho had no family he might keep in contact with, which left us with no way to trace him. And while we did know now how it all began, we didn’t know the answer to the more important question.
How it would all end.
Chapter 28
The beach house was mostly as I remembered. It was a little shabbier, with a few areas of peeling paint and warped wood, but otherwise it was the same. A sprawling affair on stilts, it looked identical to the majority of the houses up and down the coast. There was an outside shower to spray off the sand and salt and a deck with chairs of weathered wood to watch the sunrise over the dunes. The ocean itself was hidden behind those same swells of sand and could be seen only from the windows on the second floor. You could hear it, however, no matter where you were . . . inside or out. I’d spent the majority of my life listening to the sound. In many ways it had been one of the few constants. Maybe now I could learn to enjoy it again.
“Can we go see?”
I dropped my duffel bag by the stairs leading up to the house and gave Michael a shrug and half smile. “Why not? It’s definitely worth seeing.” The Institute hadn’t been too far from Miami, but that didn’t mean Michael had had the opportunity to see the ocean—not that he remembered.
Leaving Zilla in the car, he took off toward the dunes. I zipped up my jacket against the biting wind and followed with less enthusiasm. When I crested the slope, slipping and sliding with every other step, I wanted to turn away from the sight. Gray water under a gray sky; it wasn’t like that day. That day had been all blues. Blue overhead along with crashing waves the color of a million shattered marbles was what I’d seen then. Gray or blue, it was all the same. It was where I’d been the moment life had fallen away beneath me. Sitting on my horse’s back as the water soaked my jeans, I had watched blue meet blue as water met sky. I’d watched that instead of watching Lukas, and . . . here we were.
It was why I lived in a condo on the beach. I wouldn’t let the impulse to close my eyes defeat me. I lived by the ocean; I swam in it, because I wouldn’t let myself forget. I didn’t deserve to. Seeing the waves fall was the same as seeing Lukas do the same. I wanted to look away, this time as all times, but I didn’t.
And because I didn’t, I was lucky enough to see Michael’s expression. He stood on wet sand in brine-soaked shoes and stared without blinking. This time water met sky in his eyes. I draped an arm over his shoulder. “Big, huh?”
“Big,” he agreed softly.
We stood for a long time in the presence of that which should’ve made me feel very small. It didn’t. Standing next to Michael, I suddenly felt big, and as whole as I’d ever been. In a place that echoed the beginning of a nightmare, the nightmare finally ended. And it felt right that it happened that way, an inevitable circle.
After a while the cold drove us back to the house. Inside the smell of damp and must wasn’t nearly as bad as I had expected, but I still cracked a few windows. As I worked, Michael roamed about exploring. He would stop here and there to peer at a framed picture or pick up a seashell collecting dust, although even that wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe Anatoly had a cleaning service come in once every few months to keep the place from falling apart. Being what he was didn’t change the fact he’d respected Babushka Lena and, in turn, would respect her treasures. “Pick a bedroom, Misha,” I prompted. “There’re four of them upstairs.”
He looked up from the abstract pink and purple curl of abalone shell nestled in the palm of his hand. “I get my own room?”
He sounded like a five-year-old, simultaneously thrilled and apprehensive at the prospect. If he was afraid, I didn’t blame him. Jericho had decorated many of my dreams in the past week and a half, propelling me from a sweat-soaked sleep with my hand searching desperately for my gun more times than I cared to admit. And Michael had ten more years of that evil bastard to contend with than I did. The things that he dreamed of I couldn’t even begin to guess. If he wanted to bunk with me until he was ninety, I wouldn’t hold it against him.
“Maybe,” I answered noncommittally. “Tell you what. You take a look. If two of them are in good-enough shape, then take the one you want. If only one is livable, then sorry about your luck, kiddo. You’ll be stuck with me for a while.” That left him an out. If he found only one to be acceptable, we would go with that and there would be no embarrassment on either side.
“Okay.” Carefully placing the shell back in a cloudy glass bowl, he headed for the stairs. It was circular, a wrought-iron monstrosity that showed the red bloom of rust. At the top and out of sight, he called down, “You know you’re not half as clever as you think you are, but . . .”
It had been obvious all along that my college psych classes were sadly lacking compared to the ones he had been exposed to, but I kept on trying. Yeah, I kept on trying, and I kept on getting shot down, I thought ruefully. “But . . . ?” I prodded, flipping the switches to check the lights. The utilities had been kept on all these years in the name of Babushka’s long-gone gentleman friend. It was just one more way of keeping the place untraceable. “But what?”
There was a pause and then, “Thanks.” Footsteps creaked overhead as he hurried away from the stairs and toward the bedrooms. He wouldn’t want to get caught up in a wave of gooey emotion or anything. God forbid. I allowed myself a small grin and headed back out to the car for our stockpile of groceries. We’d switched roles, Michael and I. When we were kids, he’d been the open one. Every emotion he felt he wore on his face, so clear and bright that it couldn’t be missed. Hell, you would know what he felt before he knew himself. I’d been more like our father in that respect and, to be honest, I still was—aloof, a little distant. But not with Michael. He needed to know how I felt, and he needed it pretty badly. It was the only evidence he’d been able to accept so far that I considered him family . . . no matter what he considered himself. Photos and stories were suspect, but emotion couldn’t be faked. Michael was too damn smart not to see through anything that wasn’t completely genuine.
Turned out he picked out two bedrooms for us. I wasn’t surprised, and I couldn’t have been any damn prouder. What did surprise me was the pang of separation anxiety I felt. I was worse than any overprotective mom waving good-bye to Junior on the first day of kindergarten. But I bit my tongue and stood in the doorway to watch as he shook out the sheets. Apparently the cleaning service had skipped this bedroom. Dust billowed in huge clouds and I waved a hand in front of my face. “Sleeping on a bare mattress isn’t that bad.” I coughed. “Maybe you should give it a try.”
Blond hair sticking up in d
usty spikes, he shook his head. “No. I’m done with sleeping in cars and going to the bathroom in bottles. No bare mattresses either.”
“Aren’t you the picky one? Wanting clean sheets and real bathrooms. You’re like a little girl.” I ducked as the sheet was snapped in my general direction. “I never did teach you to write your name in the snow, but we’ve got a whole shitload of sand out there to practice in.” Another fierce snap of the sheet expelled me from the room.
That evening I made my first home-cooked meal in months. In the condo, I lived mostly on takeout. Natalie had managed to get me involved in cooking despite myself—mainly by threats or promises. Both involved kissing, soft touches, and the occasional brisk swat to my ass. Needless to say, after Natalie had her wicked way with me, a Cordon Bleu chef had nothing on me in motivation, if not talent. Since she had left, I’d done much less cooking, but you never really forget how to make a tuna casserole.
Michael regarded the steaming pile of cheese, fish, and crackers on his plate with a dubious frown. “What’s wrong with hamburgers? I like hamburgers. And pizza.”
“This is healthy.” I didn’t know what they’d fed him from that place before I snatched him, but the kid now had a love of junk food that was passionate, if not borderline obsessive. I sat down at the kitchen table and dug into my helping. “Growing boys need healthy food once in a while.” I knew it was true. I’d read it in a magazine.
Spearing a chunk of cheese with his fork, he stretched it out from the plate in a near-foot-long streamer. “Healthy. Useful in grouting tile maybe, but healthy?”
“And what do you know about grout?” I grumbled, taking a bite and swallowing. It wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t that good either, but it rose above the grout standard.
“There’s a book in the bathroom.” He moved his fork in a different direction, snapping the cheese like an old rubber band. “And lots of fuzzy green grout.”
It was another black mark against the not-too-accomplished cleaning service. A haphazard dusting seemed to be the best they could do. “Eat your food or the next thing I fix will be fuzzy-grout casserole.”
With a long-suffering sigh he stuffed the forkful into his mouth and chewed with such grim resignation that I may as well have served him fried roadkill. “You know, I could learn to cook. Just to help you out. A way to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Yeah, you’re a real humanitarian, pizza boy,” I scoffed. “Now eat.”
Before he finished with the meal, I knew more about the clogging effects of cheese on the heart than I cared to. But the next time we came across a cheeseburger or loaded pizza, I was sure I would hear about nothing but the glowing health benefits. After dumping the dishes in the sink like true bachelors, we set up camp on the couch and turned on the TV. Without cable there were only three channels and two of them were full of snow. We were living in the dark ages here. I skimmed through them, then switched off the television in disgust. “Hang on. I think there might be a checkerboard in the closet.”
A checkerboard and books on bathroom repair were the sum total of our entertainment here. I didn’t mind the change from the bright lights and greased poles of Miami. I didn’t mind it at all. The closet was stocked with boxes and broken vacuum cleaner attachments, but I sifted through it to find the red and black box. Beneath it I found a photo album, one that had belonged to Babushka Lena. I hesitated for a second, then piled it on top of the checkers box. Placing them on the table next to the sofa, I sat down and lifted the album into my lap. “I know you’re not much for photos.” I moved over until I was shoulder to shoulder with Michael. “But I thought you might want to see some of me when I was less frightening to the naked human eye.”
He cocked his head doubtfully at me. “Less frightening? I’m not sure I can picture that. Are you sure they’re really you? They can do amazing things with computer effects.”
“Funny. You’re a funny guy. Bet you scored an F in that class,” I said sourly. I riffled through the book and stopped at one I recognized of myself. About two years old, I was trying to ride the family dog. Lying across his back with my arms around his furry neck, I was bare-ass naked and grinning like a loon. “The traditional naked-butt baby picture. A favorite of grandmothers everywhere.”
“I do pity the dog. He probably never recovered from the trauma.” Michael’s finger stroked the glossy surface. “What breed was he?”
“A mutt, Lab with a dash of Saint Bernard, I think. I cried like a baby when he died.” I elbowed him and added, “Tell anyone that and I’ll have to kick your bony butt.”
So underwhelmed by the threat that he didn’t even feel the need to roll his eyes, he reached over to turn the page himself. “Who’s that?”
“Our . . . my mom.” She’d been caught in the act of nothing in particular. The only occasion was a trigger-happy kid with a new camera, namely me. I didn’t recognize the background—a slice of muted wallpaper and the leaves of a potted plant. It wasn’t the kind of thing a young boy paid attention to. Mom was looking over her shoulder at me, startled but with the merry and indulgent smile that rarely left her face. She had always been so happy. I’d wondered more than once over the years if she knew what her husband did for a living. How could she not? She was a grown, intelligent woman; after years of marriage she simply couldn’t be that blind. Yet . . . somehow I thought she was. It could be I didn’t want to believe she wasn’t as picture-perfect in her purity as I saw her to be as a child. And it could be the sun rose in the east and set in the west. With the incredibly obvious bit of psychoanalysis out of the way, I just looked at the picture—looked at it and treasured the feeling it sparked in me. I might be a thug and worse, but damn if I hadn’t loved my mother.
Pale blond hair caught in a loose French braid and high Slavic cheekbones joined with blue eyes and porcelain skin. She wasn’t a beautiful woman; she was more than beautiful. The cheekbones were a shade too sharp, the eyes a little too round, and the mouth overly generous. But it all came together in a shining whole—much like it did in Michael. His features weren’t as much like our mother’s as I remembered; time had changed him from a male copy of Anya to his own distinct person. His eyes were more almond shaped and his mouth not as wide, but he had the same inner . . . hell . . . light, I guess you’d say.
“She’s pretty.” He looked as if he wanted to touch the photo but pulled back his hand before he made contact.
Maneuvering it free of the protective plastic film, I handed it to him. He started to shake his head, but I wouldn’t let him refuse, pushing it into his hand. “Keep it.”
“But . . .”
“I know, kiddo. You don’t have to say it,” I said patiently. “She’s not your mom. But she was a great mom, the best, and I don’t mind sharing.” I knew Michael wouldn’t accept anything less than rock-solid evidence, something that couldn’t be denied—like Anatoly, he’d want to see the DNA results. One day when our situation cooled down I hoped to get that for him. But that could be years and until then it was going to have to boil down to a leap of faith. Unfortunately, that was the one thing the Institute had been ill-equipped to teach.
Still, he did take the picture. Resting it carefully on his knee, he asked, “What about the one of you and the dog? Whenever I have trouble sleeping, I could use that to laugh myself into unconsciousness.”
“All right, you snide little punk,” I growled. “Just for that you get to see Babushka Lena in a bathing suit, all five yards of it.”
Over the next half hour, we made our way through the rest of the album and Babushka fulfilled my threat, showing up several times in beachwear that had been outdated even in the fifties. It was one of Lena’s early albums, put together before Lukas had been born. The majority of the pictures were of a preschool me wreaking havoc. Only in the last pages did I start to age upward . . . five, six, and finally seven. And in the very last picture I was shown sitting on the edge of a hospital bed. With an awkward armful of blanket and baby, I looke
d wary, amazed, and not a little horrified.
Michael studied the slightly yellowed window to the past with a blank face. Then, almost reluctantly, his lips curled. “Nice button.”
I shook my head and gave a combination groan and laugh. “Mom made me. You should’ve seen the matching shirt she wanted me to wear. Luckily her water broke in the gift shop and I escaped with my dignity.” The button pinned to my thin seven-year-old chest was blue and white with the traditional I’M A BIG BROTHER written cheerfully across it. “Mostly.”
Before he could point out how far from the truth that was, I changed the subject with a suggestion. “Want to take a run on the beach?” I hadn’t been able to keep up my usual exercise regimen the past few weeks, and that wasn’t good. When you’re on the run for your life, you need to actually be able to run.
“In the dark?” Michael glanced over at the slice of plum-skin dusk peeking in under the blinds.
“The moon will be out soon. There’ll be enough light to whip your skinny ass into shape.” Dumping the album onto the table, I stood. “I’ll grab my shoes.” When I came back down the stairs, I pretended not to notice him slipping two pictures into his jeans pocket. The first would be the one of Mom I’d given him, and I felt safe in betting the second was of a petrified boy holding a wet baby.
We walked along the water’s edge until the moon rose high enough to reveal the dips and swells in the sand. Quicksilver light made the sand glow an oddly brilliant gray, and our footprints shadowed hollows of inky black. The moon itself was huge, the pumpkin-sized globe you seemed to see so much more often as a child. The glitter of the stars faded to pinpricks beside its brilliance. Blowing out a breath that curled and steamed as white as the breakers, I called out to Michael, “You ready?”
He was about twenty feet ahead of me, looking out to sea as the water washed over pale bare feet. I’d told him it was too damn cold, but what did that mean to a kid who couldn’t remember ever seeing the ocean or feeling it on his skin? I let him enjoy the moment and trusted in his common sense to stave off frostbite.