“Turning on Myan,” said the radio, and Marco took a fork at the last second, himself heading toward Myan, going west, “and gaining speed. Heading east.”
It didn’t take long for us to see the twins, heading directly toward us on the same street, blue lights not far behind them. One of the twins’ heads was just visible above the steering wheel, his eyes squinting along the lower edge of the windshield. And with each moment they came closer, until Marco swerved the car, blocking the two lane road.
I could almost hear the string of curse words from the twin’s mouth as he swerved his own car, trying to pull a u-turn in a street far too thin for such a maneuver. Their tires skidded on asphalt, leaving dark streaks behind them as the passenger side of their car slammed into our own, metal screeching as it bent and tore. The door windows shattered, broken glass spraying into both cars.
“Run while you can!” shouted Marco. “If they get you it’s back to Carcer!”
“I can’t,” I sobbed from the front, frantically working the door jam as smoke poured from the engines, obscuring us in a temporary cloud, “the door is stuck!”
But the back doors of the car worked just fine, and Coley and Ryan were already piling out, running as fast as they could up the street and outside the smoke cover. Marco reached through the broken windows of the cars as they departed, hauling two stunned bodies into our own car, shoving them into the backseat. Crawling back to join them, I pried the middle compartment open, and gestured, pushing them through the opening to the trunk.
“In you go, now. And keep quiet.”
Then Marco stepped from the door of the car as the flashing blue lights arrived, taking his hat off and slamming it against the ground as I began to wail.
“What in bloody hell?” he shouted, pointing, nearly frothing at the mouth as he waved his arms at the oncoming police officers, “What has this country come to? Those two driving a car at their age? I’ll bet they didn’t even have insurance! Hurry, get them, before they get away!”
And he pointed down the street, where two tiny figures were fleeing in the distance. But even overweight cops can outrun four-year-olds, regardless of their head start, and the pursuit ended quickly, the two small, kicking bodies being carried by officers who had already administered miniscule handcuffs.
“You got the wrong guys—” Ryan shouted as the back door of the cop car was slammed in his face, and his muffled voice continued from inside, though the words were incomprehensible through the door.
“We’re sorry for the trouble, sir,” one of the officers said, pulling out a notepad from the pocket of his grey uniform. “We’ll perform a damage assessment and have your car towed to the shop.”
“Damage assessment? Damage assessment? It’s not my car I’m worried about, you buffoon. It’s my instruments!”
Marco walked to the trunk and popped it open, pulling out two large cases designed for cellos as the officers backed away.
“Ten thousand dollars each! I swear, if a single string is snapped, if it is so much as out of tune, I’ll have your department strung by the ones that remain whole. You hear me? Can’t even catch a pair of children, what kind of police do you think you are? Besides incompetent.”
“These weren’t just any children, sir, they were—”
“What? They came in a pair? Two kindergarten minds could outsmart an adult then? The academy should raise their acceptance scores if you ask me. I’m leaving, I can’t bear to open these on the street, where their splinters would fall out and your grubby fingers would get all over them. Besides, my son is traumatized, and I’ll see to it that he has immediate medical care, because apparently your bloody ambulances can’t catch a four year old either!”
Then Marco stalked off, his arms each holding one of the cases, and myself tottering at his side, still wailing. He hailed a cab at the end of the street, the cop watching him as his face reddened, and we headed back to the orphanage.
Three blocks away, we entered a small side alley. A man, two cello cases, and a four-year-old entered. A man and three four-year-olds left, while two cello cases lay smashed in the dumpster.
Chapter 19
I can still remember the first days of the world council.
It was a pipe dream, at best. The notion that a unifying body could bestow harmony upon man, from the first of their lives to the last. Looking back, it was a foolish idea. And looking back, I still wish it had worked.
The world council was founded when mankind was still in its infant stages. Pottery was high tech back then—I still remember when spices were all the rage, when having a stallion was the equivalent of a sports car, when spear fighting was still in because the finer delicacies of sword fighting weren’t around yet. I think I liked it better back then. It was simpler. We believed in the good of man above all else; the potential to create a perfect world, with perfect people with each passing cycle. We had hope.
The council was primarily created for one reason—to draw the lines that defined countries. Before the council, the Void was something that was a threat to the well being of the common man. Wars meant not only death—wars meant disputed territories, unclaimed lands where the souls of men who died on the battlefield lay wasting away until months, or even years later, when the conflict was resolved. That was the primary duty of the council—to remove the grey from the maps, to declare which lands belonged to whom.
And it worked. The council drew the national lines, and souls stopped entering the Void. I think that taught us something about souls back then—that they’re impressionable. That all it takes is a thin streak of ink on paper to confine them, to bind them to a location.
But the council didn’t stop there.
When it was founded, there were twenty-four members of the council, two from each of the participating countries. Sixteen of those still remain on the council today, the others lost through time, exiled from leadership or leaving of their own will. And there was a twenty-fifth, a leader among them, the man who had brought them together in the beginning. And his name was Jamil Kolinder—an Original who already had more foresight than those ten lifetimes deep. Perhaps too much foresight.
Not much is known about Jamil, most of the details washing away over the millennia. Details of his physical attributes ranged through all possibilities—short and tall, fat and skinny, crippled and athletic. But it wasn’t his physical being that mattered; rather, it was his ideas.
I know he meant well when he proposed the first utopia. When he created his own country, a power reserved for himself that he had written into the world council’s constitution itself. According to legend, however, Jamil’s utopia was predicated upon one assumption—that with each passing life, men learned from their mistakes. That men became better men with each rebirth.
Jamil was wrong. And his city crumbled three generations in, after he himself abandoned it after his first life.
Honestly, I’m impressed it lasted even that long. Most other utopian attempts that followed with other leaders barely lasted half a lifetime a best, never more than a full cycle.
Long ago I had been a citizen of that first utopia. And I should have seen the end coming. But I didn’t.
Things were simpler back then.
Before his city collapsed, Jamil disappeared, leaving the world council to their affairs. And to this day, they hold his seat open and the door unlocked, hoping that their leader will return.
He’s still there somewhere, watching, perhaps waiting. Some say he has forgotten the memories of the council he once helped create, and has turned his head as many of the members descended into corruption.
***
“You idiots!” I shouted atop the planning table, as the twins sat across from me. “You jeopardized the entire plan for a joy ride!”
“You said to come to Allego orphanage as fast as we could,” said the one on the left, who I had identified as Angel. But that was mostly a guess.
“So we did,” said the other, Julian, a mischievous smile on
his face. “Literally. I held the gas pedal down to the floor. Not my fault there weren’t many ponies under the hood.”
“Damn it, you knew what I meant,” I said, voice sharp. “If you want any part of this, any chance at the money, then you’ll be playing smart from now on.”
“For a four year old, we considered being able to drive pretty smart,” said Julian, and Angel nodded.
“We even outsmarted the cops! Plus we’re here now, which is all you asked of us. It’s a win-win, Frederick.”
“You got lucky. Hell, you should be back at Carcer. You would have been, if we didn’t intervene.“ Then I frowned. “Where did you get the car, by the way?”
“Lifted it,” said Angel, chin out. “Daddy tried to drunk drive us home. Fell asleep at the wheel after turning into the neighborhood.”
“So you see,” Julian continued, “there really was no choice in the matter. And it was quite convenient. Couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity.”
“And that’s what all this is about, Frederick,” said Angel. “Opportunity. You going to spill any more details on this plan of yours?”
“We’ve been waiting for years,” said Julian, leaning in. “Don’t tell us we came all this way for nothing.”
“And we were first, weren’t we?”
“Yes, you were first.”
“Hah!” he said, standing up in his chair and punching toward the ceiling. Then he held his hand out to his brother, who reached into a pocket and handed him three hard candies and four dollars.
“Now that that’s settled,” he said, and they both folded their arms on the table, waiting, “let’s hear about this plan.”
So I told them.
Chapter 20
“Financially ruined isn’t enough,” I said to Marco as he placed the balance sheets into a folder. “I want him socially ruined, too. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Slandered.”
“Well considering your plans, I would assume the public’s reaction would be that of empathy.”
“They won’t know enough to be empathetic,” I said. “We’ll need Smokestack for that, and until he shows up, we can’t count on him. I might have to play his part.”
“You’re assuming that the target will fall into your trap,” said Marco, his eyebrows scrunched together.
“I know that he’ll fall for the trap, Marco. That part, at least. If there’s one weakness he has, it’s keeping his dick in his pants, and that hasn’t changed. We’ve looked into his past ten lives—mistresses are hidden around every corner, paid to keep their mouths shut unless he comes to visit. It’s a good thing we paid more to find them.”
“Still, it’s ambitious. It might arouse suspicion.”
“You don’t know him like I do, Marco. His arrogance will blind him.”
“Just be careful your own doesn’t do the same.”
***
The orphanage itself was an old church, its steeple rising far above the surrounding buildings and overlooking the city. Where there had been a small graveyard in the back, there was now a playground, children playing above while bones watched from below. Inside, the pews had been cleared out for common areas, the confession booths converted into closets, and many of the side rooms into bedrooms.
I slept in the attic, at the highest point of the inside of the church where I could watch the city below for new arrivals. Additionally, it was the hardest place to get to in the church—I’d be the last to be found should the inspectors perform a raid. Should old enemies from Carcer decide to attack, I had a rope I could drop and escape by while they searched inside. Just getting to my position took some maneuvering as well, requiring a climb of three staircases and a ladder just to reach my door.
And today, as I watched from my vantage point, a yellow cab pulled up the drive. The cabbie opened his own door, slipped out, slammed it, and wrenched open the back door. A small figure jumped out, stamped his foot on the concrete, and held a fist up to the cabbie. And they began to argue loud enough I could hear it from my room.
“I don’t give a shit if you drove two hours to bring me here! I was in the backseat if you remember, and had to deal with it too. Your air conditioning is nonexistent, and I found four ants and a dead roach in your backseat in the last fifteen minutes alone! You’ll get half the fare, and no more! We both know that to be a fair bargain.”
“If you had a problem with it, then you could have gotten out,” hissed the cabbie, staring down at the child, face reddening. “I didn’t make you stay, boy, and I didn’t hear a complaint on the ride over.”
“Then you must be deaf! As well as blind, because you almost crashed twice, and don’t think I didn’t notice you took the long route to try to knock up the fare. Please, trying to take advantage of a helpless child, you are!”
“A helpless child? My ass, boy. You’re no more an Original than the sky is green!” retorted the cabbie as I lept from the windowsill, and started running down the stairs. The volume of the argument continued to increase, and I heard their voices rising as I descended toward the door.
“Oh, so now we’re going to start being prejudiced? At this rate, I’ll be paying a quarter of the supposed fare, if any! What’s your cab number, I’ll be reporting that to your manager.”
“Fine, report me so we can get your information, and we’ll send the collectors to cover the bill with interest!”
At that moment, I burst from the door, monetary notes raised in a fist high above my head, my voice joining the argument.
“That’s enough, that’s enough, I’ll pay! Here you go!”
“The Hell you will,” came the reply, the child slapping the bills from my hand. He had a few inches on me, giving him the height advantage, and the money fluttered to the ground, “Neither of us are paying you, swindler! Thief! Asshat!”
“Fine, I’m calling the police,” answered the cabbie, pulling a phone from his pocket.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, pushing the child aside, “Forty percent tip. Take it or leave it.”
The child’s hand came from behind this time, smacking the money again from my fist where it fell from the pavement.
“If he wants it, he can pick it up,” the juvenile voice behind me seethed.
For a moment, all was silent. The cabbie’s eyes narrowed, his finger millimeters from the call button on his phone, the police number already dialed. A light breeze blew, causing the bills to skitter across the pavement, their action the sole noise between us.
“Freaks,” said the cabbie, sweeping down to pick up the bills, then spitting on the concrete. His car door slammed so hard that the glass should have shattered, and the tires screeched on the pavement as he drove over the curve, denting the bottom of the car’s body.
I heard the boy behind me take a sharp breath, ready to let loose a deluge of curses in the cabbie’s wake. But he never had the chance.
My palm slapped across his face so hard he lost one of his baby teeth, blood trickling down his face as he turned back upward to look at me, his stature lower despite the difference in physical size.
“Listen here, Pete,” I said, grabbing his cheekbones to force him to look at me. “From now on, you focus on the big picture. I’m in charge, don’t you forget that. And if you ever contradict me again, so much as raise a finger against me, then you’ll go straight back to Carcer where you belong.”
Chapter 21
“Damn it, Marco,” I said from my chair. I was nine now and no longer had to sit on phone books to reach the top of the planning table. “You’ve checked with your contacts? Neither Lisa nor Smokestack has been reported to the police? What’s taking them so damn long?”
“Still no news whatsoever. According to official reports, which my intel has assured me are actually the truth, two-thirds of Carcer inmates have been recaptured and returned to the island, where a new, though temporary, facility has been erected to contain them until a more permanent solution is reached. Neither of the remaining two match any of the descriptions that in
tel has relayed to me. Unless Smokestack has given up his partiality to nicotine, he is not among them. Nor is Lisa, considering the disparity between males and females at the prison, most of the females have been identified. And they do not match her traits.”
“Damn. I don’t like it. Something feels wrong. They should be here by now. They’re nine—the twins have been here five years already. And Pete nearly that long. Any longer and the plan will have to change.”
I scowled. Changing a plan this early was a bad omen.
“Sometimes memories take longer to manifest. We’ll need to wait a few more years to be sure.”
And at the age of nine, waiting was the last thing I wanted to do. I huffed, closed my eyes, and leaned back in my chair. Outside I could hear a car stereo booming, playing the most recent kids’ pop fad, a single by young prodigy Karen Miles, the lyrics reaching up to catch my ears.
You gotta wait, wait, wait on me, baaaaaabyyyyyy.
My frown deepened, the irony not lost on me, and I spoke.
“Either way, show or no show, we’ll move forward with the rest of the plan. Have you found a suitable adoptive parent for the twins?”
“The best,” said Marco, tapping the table, “for our needs. Rich senator’s wife in Newland, already considers her four French bulldogs as children and is absolutely pouring her heart out in helping a young pair of dashing twins escape from their poverty-stricken home. To her, they’ll be numbers five and six. Hosts dinner parties weekly, all sorts of high-class in attendance—plus she will be eager to show off her new toys. And assuming she keeps a loose leash on them, there will be plenty of time for other activities.”
Til Death Do Us Part Page 6