Every Day Above Ground

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  Twenty-One

  I found Cyndra sitting in the driver’s seat of Addy’s Subaru, parked in the little house’s nub of a driveway. The engine bucked and stalled as I approached. Cyndra leapt half a foot when I rapped on the passenger window.

  “Going to breakfast?” I said.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

  “Not unless the car’s in gear,” I agreed. She popped the lock and I opened the door to sit next to her, one foot still on the asphalt.

  “Addy said I could.” Cyndra turned the key and the car bucked violently again, straining against the emergency brake. I grabbed the gearshift and whacked it into neutral before either of us chipped a tooth.

  “Said you could what?”

  “Practice shifting. I’ve almost got it.” She turned the key again and the engine screamed like it was trying to be more than four cylinders.

  “Ease back,” I hollered over the noise. She let the gas pedal take a break from kissing the floor, and the Subaru idled with an almost human sound of relief.

  “Did she say you could practice without her?” I said. The kid had borrowed some of Addy’s clothes, too; a purple beanie covering her short black hair, and a KCMU t-shirt half-hidden under her overalls.

  Cyndra pressed the clutch and shifted into first, then second. “I got this down on the Ford at home. I drive that one all over. This one’s stupid old.”

  She was angry at more than the car. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wanna eat again?”

  “Okay.”

  She followed me to my truck and we drove over the hill. Cyndra nodded with approval at the Dodge. “See, automatic transmission. That’s better.”

  “Depends how many hills you climb. Who taught you to drive?”

  “Farrah’s sister. She’s pretty cool.”

  “You miss home?”

  “Farrah and her family.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing. Reseda sucks. My school sucks.”

  “Tachelle? Your foster family?”

  “Off-the-map suck. She’s got like seven of us in the house, and never knows what’s going on. I mostly just go to school and hang out with Farrah. I made friends with Jenna and Jerraud when I first got there, but then they moved out. Guess I will, too, soon.” Cyndra didn’t sound mad about it. More that her home didn’t even register as something worth any emotion.

  We found counter space at the Lost Lake Café and I ordered something from the chalkboard called the leñador especial. Cyndra ordered a side of crispy hash browns—as crunchy as potato chips, she told the server—and stole my bacon while I rolled chorizo and eggs into flapjacks to eat them like burritos.

  “I have some news,” I said when I was on my third cup of coffee. “I don’t want you to load too much weight on it, get too excited. But I promised I would to tell you whatever I could.”

  Cyndra nodded, not looking away from her fingers as she slowly tore a strip of the bacon lengthwise.

  “I met a woman yesterday who told me that your dad is alive. I believe her.”

  “Is she one of the people who took him?”

  “Yeah. She’ll let him go, if she gets what she wants. I’m trying to make that happen.”

  “What does she want?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “You mean you won’t tell me.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “I can help.”

  “You are helping.”

  “By not getting in the way.” She dropped the bacon and walked stiffly out of the restaurant. I tossed bills on the counter and went after her.

  “Hey,” I said once I’d caught up. The kid was making a beeline south. If she planned on walking home, this was the wrong direction. “Hold up.”

  “Go away.”

  “You came all the way from L.A. You want to quit now?” Cyndra took two steps to my one, and I still had to walk fast. “Or are you going to help me fight?”

  “Fight?” She stopped.

  “I need information. I need some leverage.”

  She made a face. “That’s not fighting.”

  “The fuck it isn’t. Nothing happens without intel.” A passing woman frowned at my language. “These people have your dad. I need to get in their heads, and I need Mick to know he can trust me, and you can help me do that.”

  Cyndra looked at me closely. Maybe I was trying to trick her. “How?”

  “Start by telling me some things about you two. Stuff only your dad would know.”

  “So you can prove you know me?”

  “Something like that.”

  Her blue eyes were steady. “Are you helping just because of Dad? Or do you want something else, too?”

  Damn, the girl was bright. I nodded my head for her to walk with me and she did. Going toward home, this time.

  “Mick is what I care about,” I said. “You too. I won’t lie to you, there’s money in this deal. If I could ask Mick, he would say that I should forget about him and get the money for you. You agree with that?”

  Cyndra shook her head angrily, without slowing her walk.

  “Me either,” I said. “So to hell with what Mick wants. We’ll save his ass. If the money tags along, great, but he comes first. Okay?”

  She didn’t answer. I was asking her to trust me. If Cyndra was much like me when I was twelve, trust was a long shot.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll help fight.” And a few steps later, I caught the touch of a smile in her profile. “Screw what Dad says.”

  That’s the spirit, kid.

  Age Twelve, December 23

  Kassie threw up her hands and screamed. The tower of wood blocks crashed across the kitchen table as I fell over laughing.

  “Spoon!” she finally managed to spit out. We had decided that was a lot cooler than yelling the game’s name like in the TV ads.

  “Six to two,” I said. My wins, counting yesterday and the day before, when we met. Kassie was smart, but she got nervous and her breath got shaky and her hands followed that like a dog, as Granddad would say.

  “Let’s play something else,” she said, with a glance at the clock. I had to be gone before her dad got home. Kassie wasn’t allowed to have friends in. Kassie didn’t seem to have any friends. She was too new to the neighborhood.

  Her dad’s name was Trey, I had discovered. I had also learned that they had just moved in, that the house was owned by Trey’s parents, who were away until Christmas, and that—big ah-ha here—Trey had gotten out of jail this year. Kassie told me that in a whisper, like someone might hear us, even though we were the only ones in the house. I think she was trying to impress me. It did, just not the way she thought.

  Had Trey been in the same jail as Granddad? I guessed they must have been.

  Whenever Kassie went to the bathroom upstairs—we had mostly played down at the kitchen table or watched TV in their living room—I had looked around the drawers and other rooms to see if I could learn more. I wanted to look in Trey’s bedroom, too, and the garage, but that hadn’t been possible. Not yet.

  Then we heard a car turning into the driveway. Kassie always left the window open so sound could come in.

  “That’s Dad!” she whispered, her face in shock. She must know the sound of the Ford’s engine.

  “Can I go out the back?” I said. She didn’t even nod yes, just ran for the door. I grabbed my coat and followed just as fast.

  Their yard was tiny. Just a wide strip of grass before a really big hedge that blocked the next yard from view. I couldn’t go that way, not without a chainsaw.

  “There,” Kassie whispered, pointing anxiously to the other side of the house, where I saw a slim gap between the house and a chain-link fence. It would take me straight to the road. That was the good part. The bad part was that the ground was all gravel. My first step crunched so loud I was afraid Trey could hear it all the way from the driveway, over the sound of him pulling open their garage door.


  After that, I walked in slow motion. It took at least three minutes to make it to the front corner. I snuck away from the house and ran across the street to where my bike was hidden in the ravine.

  Damn. I’d been having fun. I really wasn’t learning much, hanging around with Kassie, if I was being totally real. But it was still cool.

  Granddad wasn’t at home. He thought I’d been spending mornings with Davey, and Davey thought I’d been spending all of my time working with Granddad and doing chores, which was partly right. I had to get my stuff done every afternoon after seeing Kassie. So Davey got the shit end of the stick.

  Maybe if I got the dishes and my room clean now, I could go over there, maybe even stay for dinner. I started in. I’d just dusted the windowsills when I heard Granddad coming in the door.

  “Thought you were away,” he called up the stairs.

  “Davey had church,” I said. It was Sunday, that sounded right. I hoped Granddad didn’t know any more than I did about when services started.

  He grunted. Granddad’s usual answer to any mention of religion. He and the priest from his neighborhood in Belfast had once had what he’d called a violent parting of the waves, I think.

  “Can I go over there tonight instead?” I called down.

  “You can,” he said. I almost dropped the cleaning bucket. “In fact, ask if you can stay through tomorrow.”

  I came down the stairs. Granddad was in the kitchen, stacking the cold roast from last night onto slices of bread.

  “Mayo and mustard, please,” I said automatically.

  “I know.”

  “D’you have a date?” I knew what happened on dates. Once or twice I came home from Davey’s or another friend’s too early the next morning, and had to meet Paula or whoever Granddad was dating. We all couldn’t wait for those conversations to be over.

  “I’ll be out,” he said.

  I knew what that meant, too. Work.

  Was the job tonight? I bumped my elbow against his jacket hanging on the hook. Felt the weight of the Colt inside.

  “I’ll ask Davey,” I lied.

  After dark, I left my bike chained up at a church a few streets away and ran back to hide in a group of trees by the roundabout at the bottom of our block. Wherever Granddad might be headed tonight, I wasn’t going to be able to pedal after him this time.

  I wasn’t really sure what I could do, except watch him leave, and hope that it would give me some idea of what he was planning and whether it might get him in serious trouble.

  Granddad left the house at half past six. He didn’t get into the Chevy, which was odd. Instead he walked down the block in my direction, and for a bad second I thought he might know where I was. The trees and the dark made me mostly invisible, but mostly didn’t mean completely.

  He rounded the corner and walked halfway up the lane, where a white RV with purple stripes was parked on the wide dirt shoulder. When he reached to unlock the motorhome’s door, I saw that he was wearing gloves. Not the black fur-lined gloves he wore in winter, but the lighter cotton ones he wore when he didn’t want to leave fingerprints.

  The RV was stolen. For sure.

  Granddad wasn’t inside the RV for longer than a minute. He emerged and retraced his steps back to the house.

  I wanted to have a look inside the motorhome for myself. It would only take a moment, and I had my picks. Once I saw Granddad go into our house, I dashed up the street.

  No houses fronted the lane, and the lock was easy, so I was only exposed for a couple of minutes. I had to take my gloves off to pick the lock, but slipped them back on before opening the door. The RV looked expensive and nearly new. Dark purple stripes on a pure white background and American Eagle written in big swoopy letters on the side. Kind of conspicuous for a vehicle you’d steal.

  With the window shades drawn, I had to squint to make out many details. The inside looked like Hollis’s boat—everything a house might have, but smaller and in one long narrow space. There was a rug on the floor and a blender and other appliances resting in the sink in the galley. It all seemed super-clean and even smelled a little of plastic and leather cleaner.

  Why in the world would Granddad want a big motorhome? With purple stripes?

  I was turning to leave when I heard the crunch of footsteps coming toward the RV. Familiar footsteps.

  Oh, crap. Granddad was coming. Without thinking I reached out and flicked the lock closed on the door.

  Hide. I stepped quickly to the back of the RV and tried a closet. It was for linens. The upper shelves were full of stacked towels and the larger compartment at the bottom held a thick patchwork quilt. I yanked the quilt out and stepped inside as a lock clunked from the front of the motorhome. Curling into a ball, there would be just enough room to hold the quilt on top of me.

  A door opened just as I tugged the last of the fabric over me. Not the side door where I’d come in. The driver’s door, up front. I reached out to gently pull the closet closed.

  The RV’s engine started. Shit shit shit. I was going for a ride.

  Cold night or not, I was sweating like a pig within five minutes, trapped under the heavy quilt with my hat and coat and gloves on. I was dying to reach out and push the closet door open, just to feel the air move. But I didn’t dare.

  The RV stopped. The engine turned off.

  Already? We couldn’t have gone more than a couple of miles. I could run back home. That would be awesome. The driver’s door slammed shut, and I risked cracking the closet for a look. Not that I could see much. Just the same shadowy interior of the motorhome, with a few trees and part of a street visible through the windshield.

  Wait. I knew this street. Kassie’s street.

  I ducked back into the closet as someone rattled the side door. A moment later, I heard it open.

  “Fancy shit,” said a voice. I knew it, too. The vulture man.

  “Nothing but the best,” said Trey, Kassie’s dad.

  “You’ll drive,” Granddad said, and a moment later the engine started again. The rumble drowned out most of what they said after that, but I did catch a curse of excitement from Trey as the RV began to move.

  Despite my sweat and my terror, I was a little excited, too.

  We drove for half an hour, or a little more. I could tell some of the roads wound through residential streets, with a lot of sharp turns that made the motorhome list a little to the side. Then there was a long stretch at higher speed, which must have been a freeway. The RV eventually slowed, and slowed even more with each turn, and then stopped. I could hear Granddad and the men talking urgently for a minute, and then we pulled away again, one final stretch and a long curve before the motorhome stopped, reversed for a few feet, and the engine turned off.

  The men got out and the doors closed. I waited. When they didn’t return right away, I dared to climb out of the linen closet and stretch. My legs felt like somebody had been punching them all over. I walked shakily to move the window shade an inch and peeked out.

  We were parked next to a house. A big house. Like, castle big. The mansion had a curved shape and seemed to stretch on for the length of the bleachers at the high school. Through the windshield I could see a courtyard, with a damn fountain right in the middle of it. Water splashing and everything.

  The RV was under a long overhang or an awning. Like a rich person’s version of a carport, I guessed. That made sense, because on this side of the building was an entrance. Double doors, made of carved wood and colored glass panes for decoration. Both wide open. Granddad and the men must have gone in there.

  Should I stay or should I go? I knew the song—Davey was into music—and it bounced around my head while I checked the windows. If I hid in the linen closet again, there was no telling how long I’d be stuck there. They might drive the RV to Mexico, and I’d be a mummified husk by then. Assuming I was lucky enough not to be found. If I got out of the RV, they might catch me even sooner.

  Then I’d be in for it. Grounded until I was ei
ghty years old, plus hard labor. Worse, Granddad might never trust me to work with him again.

  But outside sounded a lot better than going back into the hotbox. After one more peek out the windows to make sure the coast was clear, I slowly clicked the latch on the side door and crept down the steps to exit the RV.

  The cold air felt great, like diving headfirst into a lake. Sweat chilled on my forehead as I edged around the rear of the motorhome.

  Only to see a second motorhome, identical to the one I’d just left. It was parked a few yards around the back corner of the mansion.

  What the hell? Another RV?

  I looked around the grounds. A wide lawn stretched over the expanse between the mansion and water. I wasn’t sure what water; might be Lake Washington, might be the Sound. We’d driven a long way. In the other direction, I could see the roof of another really big house in the far distance, and a stone fence with an iron gate bordering the huge courtyard, between us and the road. As I watched, a red Ferrari zipped past.

  Ah. I got it.

  The mansion already owned a fancy purple-striped RV. Granddad must have boosted one to match. The sight of our vehicle from the road wouldn’t be at all unusual for the neighbors, or any security patrols. Not like a moving van or a bunch of unfamiliar cars. We could park here all night.

  I realized I was thinking we and not they. It wasn’t my score, I knew that. Still. Pretty cool. Whatever we were stealing, it must be big to need so much cargo space.

  Still no sound from inside. What were they doing in there? I tiptoed to the double doors.

  Man, the place was huge. The doors led into a hall—not a foyer, a frickin’ two-story hall—with a staircase on one side that was wide enough to roll a piano down it. All of the lights were on. I guess they could afford it.

  An intense-looking alarm panel hung open on the wall. I didn’t recognize the brand name, something German. I did recognize Granddad’s work on the wiring inside to reroute the circuits. He sometimes made a prep run when he had a big house job, to disable the contact pads on the house’s entrances and keep them from triggering an alarm. That bought him time to grease the whole system during the actual job. Maybe that’s where he had been during his nights away from our house. I felt kinda good for figuring that out.