Angel of the Underground

by David Andreas

  “Please,” he replies, “sit down.” I sit on the very edge of Nathan’s chair, close enough to the detective to smell that he hasn’t washed his suit jacket in a while. He also looks as though he hasn’t slept in weeks. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair is unkempt, while his skin is slick and pimply. After running his hands over his face he finally begins: “The rectory Father Vincent resides in was broken into last night. We tried keeping your locations confidential, but he admits maintaining handwritten records. They were stolen.”

  “Someone knows where we are?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Does this mean I’m leaving?”

  He twirls his hands as though searching for words and blurts out, “Another child was killed last night. Peter Heffernan.”

  I grab the armrests for support as the room immediately spins. I open my mouth to ask how, or why such an atrocity could occur under the watch of the law, but instead have to stifle a scream. Peter came to us only three months ago, but I quickly became attached to him. Whenever I’d turn my back on him he’d make himself filthy with dirt or food so he could spend time with the bath boats. Even Sister Alice had a hard time keeping up with him, and she’s been taking care of kids for decades.

  Detective Morris says something in a comforting tone, but I can’t distinguish his words as my ears are pulsating with the beat of my heart. I somehow get to my feet and stagger to the kitchen to call Sister Alice to see how she’s taking the news, if she even knows, but two hands land on my shoulders and lead me back to the chair. “First of all,” Detective Morris says sternly, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you or Amanda.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “The best course of action would be to relocate you out of state, but we haven’t a clue as to who’s doing this. There are no hairs, no fibers, no prints, no leads, no nothing. All we have are the extracted eyes that link the murders. Who’s to say if we move you to another home the crimes won’t spread to other children? As of now, you’re our best bet at catching this guy.”

  “As bait?”

  “The houses where you’re all staying have been under surveillance since the move, but obviously that hasn’t been enough. I’m increasing the watch with undercover cops equipped with enough ammo to take down the devil himself. Someone will try to get to you, but I promise they won’t.”

  “Wouldn’t my staying put everyone who lives here in danger?”

  “For all I know, every child on the island is in danger.”

  I drop back into the recliner, wondering how so much pressure can fall upon someone with so few experiences in life. Last month I was studying for sophomore finals, today I’m putting lives on the line as a means to salvage others. “Let me be the focus. Move Amanda as far away as possible.”

  “Ordinarily that would be a great idea, but two chances are better than one.” Mr. Morris places a gentle hand on my fist, and looks upon me with impassive eyes. “God as my witness, you’ll both survive.” I have no choice but to accept his strict promise, as my options are limited. Running from this will potentially leave more victims in my wake.

  After Detective Morris leaves, I head straight to my room and throw myself onto the bed. I need time to let everything settle before calling Sister Alice, since it’s probably best to let the shock wear off before trying to speak rationally. With nobody to console me, I reach for my Bible, but for the first time since I’ve been introduced to its teachings I can’t bring myself to open it. I’ve been unclear on God’s intentions with His children, particularly the fallen, but have been under the assumption He salvaged some of us for a specific reason. I believed God had a hand in transferring me from a life of squalor to one of divinity. That we’re still dying nullifies any significance we might have had in His divine plan. At that I feel expendable and worthless.

  After about an hour of trying to calm myself, I call Sister Alice from the kitchen phone, but am met with a pulsing tone. I figure she’s probably on the line with the police or others in the church who know what’s happened, but after trying for close to two hours I start to worry she had an accident, tried calling for help, and is laying on the floor unable to dial. Or maybe the killer got to her too. These days it’s becoming normal to suspect the worst. Unfortunately, the only way I’ll know for sure is to ask Barry for help.

  Upstairs, I knock heavily on a door that muffles a loud car commercial. Chair springs squeal and hefty footsteps approach. A lock unfastens with an acute gyration, and Barry opens up with bright anger that turns to pleasant surprise when he notices me. “Robin,” he says, “I wasn’t sure if I should . . . try to talk to you about . . . what happened to that kid. Did you want to talk about it?”

  “I have a favor to ask,” I say. “I was wondering if you could drive me some place.”

  “I don’t know, sugar. Church was risky enough.”

  “This place wouldn’t be risky. The killer already knows I’ve been moved from there. I haven’t been able to reach Sister Alice and I’m really worried about her.”

  Barry bows his head, compressing his chins into one glob, and issues a wet burp that smells like vinegar and Cheetos. “Tell you what: if no more kids die between now and sundown, I’ll think about it. There’s no way I’m driving you in broad daylight.”

  “Understood. Thank you.” I turn to leave, but Barry snatches my arm.

  “Not so fast! I gave you an hour at church, you can give me an hour here.” He pulls me into his room, unfolds an aluminum chair, and sets it beside a blue recliner whose springs scream to a halt when he sits back down. Though I try to keep my eyes away from the TV, which is airing a Yankees game, I can’t block out the paraphernalia that barrage every corner of the room. The walls are filled with team photographs of World Series winning lineups, two glass-enclosed towers carry modern souvenirs and framed tickets, numerous shelves are littered with figurines and signed baseballs. Not even the ceiling is safe, as a large canvas banner with the Yankees logo is sprawled above us. I have no choice but to watch the game, since that area at least provides movement and the possibility of a loss. The Yankees, however, are already beating the Angels by three runs in the second inning.

  I take a seat with a polite smile, figuring an hour of Yankees baseball won’t kill me as long as I root for the other team. Doing so, nevertheless, proves incredibly difficult. Whenever an Angel makes an out, Barry claps or laughs like a demented clown. He also squawks and pumps his fist every time a Yankee gets a hit. All I can do is pray the Angels will spark a rally to put Barry in his place, but the Yankees take an early 8-2 lead.

  When I’m freed to go, I dial the group home from the kitchen and yet again am met with a busy signal. Hoping to spend time with Dennis I head to the basement, but he’s in Jeremy’s room. Jeremy is berating him with swear words I can barely comprehend. When he catches me gazing at him from the open door he says, “Listen to me carefully, Jesus fucker. I just heard on the news that another little shit from your house was vaporized, so keep your God fearing ass away from me! I like my eyes exactly where they are!” He slams the door in my face. Attached at eye level is a handwritten sign that reads, INNOCENT BYSTANDER, ZEALOT DOWN THE HALL!

  I turn in disgust, only to find my bedroom door marred with further insensitivities. Written in bold letters on attached construction paper is, THE ORPHAN’S IN HERE! I tear it off, rip it in half, kick the door shut, and sit on the bed while wringing my hands. The patience I was taught to display through high and low is dissolving. My butterflies are drowning in bile, and I have no means of saving them. If I don’t get to see Sister Alice tonight, I might explode.

  * * *

  At around eight o’clock, Barry opens my door without knocking. Though he sees I’m laying on my bed staring at the ceiling he asks, “What are you up to?”

  “This,” I reply.

  “How would you like to . . .” he prolongs the last vowel to build suspense, but his avid eyes give up his scheme.

  “I’d love to visit
her!”

  Barry belches into his fist and pats his lower stomach. “Give me five minutes. I think those potato wedges were cooked in motor oil.” When he hobbles away I jump up and think of how great it would be to bring Dennis along, especially since he missed out on church.

  I stand at Dennis’s door, building up the courage to enter, since Jeremy is hollering obscenities and won’t be thrilled when I interrupt whatever movie they’re watching. I creep inside, dimly hoping Jeremy won’t notice me, and whisper to Dennis, “Would you like to visit Sister Alice with me? We’re leaving soon.”

  Jeremy cracks a laugh and says, “Why would he want to visit that hag? Some whore is about to take a fishing gaff through her twat. Too bad she looks nothing like you.”

  Dennis shuts off the movie and reaches for his sneakers. Jeremy hocks up about ten pounds of snot and spits a wad onto the TV screen. It sticks without running. I step aside as he rushes into the hallway muttering something about how sorry we’ll both be.

  Dennis and I sit on the living room couch while waiting for Barry to come down. A toilet above us keeps flushing, and a tank lid keeps clanking. Instead of envisioning the cause, I half-observe a TV special about Korean War tanks that Nathan is watching, even though his eyelids are begging for sleep. Dennis leans into me and says, “If you ask him about his role in that war he’ll be your best friend forever.”

  “Seriously?” I reply.

  Dennis nods, so I say quite loudly to Nathan, “What did you do in Korea?”

  Nathan’s eyes snap open. He shifts upright in his chair, puts a hand over his heart, and says with beaming pride, “Bomb technician! I built the explosives that destroyed dozens of Zips at a time. Mortars, land mines, delay action time bombs, you name it.” He looks back at the TV with a contented smile. “Those sure were the days.”

  I can’t justify why Nathan is so happy to have had a hand in killing by the dozens, but do take comfort that he is happy in remembering his youth. As I mull over a way to continue, Barry hops downstairs while whistling a merry tune. When seeing Dennis, he plunks to a stop and says, “You don’t give up, do you?”

  Dennis replies, “I thought I could go with her and—”

  “And nothing! Back downstairs in three . . . two . . .”

  “For crying out loud,” Nathan says, “she wants him to meet her nun.”

  “Butt out, Dad! He deserves to be punished!”

  “He’s been punished enough! Let him go.”

  Barry tears open the front door, storms outside, and unleashes one of the loudest F-bombs I’ve ever heard. Dennis and I tentatively approach his car, where Barry gets inside so fast the driver’s side shocks grind to a halt before bouncing back up. When the passenger doors unlock, Dennis is quick to take the backseat, which makes sense, as Barry has never taken out his anger on me.

  As soon as I close the front passenger door and start fastening my seat belt, Barry backs out of the driveway with too much emphasis on the gas pedal and brakes. While he jerks us about and fills the car with steamy tension, my butterflies flutter in nervous anticipation of whether or not I’ll find Sister Alice safe and sound.

  Barry drives to the group home high above the speed limit and doesn’t brake for red lights or stop signs until a few feet away from them. Dennis sits pressed to the backseat with his eyes fused. While closing in on my old block, Barry says, “You need to get out right away. He shouldn’t see you in my car, in case he’s watching. I’ll park down the street.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say.

  “Don’t plan on staying all night.” When he rolls up to the house beside the group home, Dennis and I leap out onto the street without any time to close our doors. Barry speeds away so fast they shut by themselves.

  I take Dennis by the shirt sleeve, run with him to the group home, and ring the doorbell in three quick successions. I hear Sister Alice’s slippers shuffling to the door, a reassuring sign she’s alive, where she presumably checks the peep hole before opening up with a beaming smile. She extends her arms to me and says, “Robin!” I hug her a lot harder than I probably should, but stop the moment she presses me away. “Easy, sweetheart, I’m no spring chicken!”

  “Sorry, it’s just that . . . I’m just so glad to see you!”

  “I know how you feel. Who’s your friend?”

  Dennis extends his hand to her. “I’m Dennis. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  Sister Alice gently accepts his hand into both of hers. “You’re taking care of my little girl, I hope?”

  “She’s pretty capable of taking care of herself, but I’ve been keeping her company.”

  “Glad to hear. Come sit down.” She takes my hand and leads me to the couch where I ease in close beside her. Dennis sits in an adjacent recliner. I try to breathe in the familiar scents, but they’re overshadowed by four candles burning on the coffee table. Three are nearing their end, one is fresh. I know they’re for the fallen, but don’t say so. I need time to catch up with the living.

  On TV, the Mets are down by one run to the Pirates. “Have they won since I left?” I ask.

  “They’ve been getting creamed, but managed to score a run just now.” When she smiles, the lines in her face crinkle more than they used to. Her eyes are dry and worn. She looks to have aged ten years in the short time I’ve been away. I wriggle myself closer to her and rest my head on her shoulder.

  “Do you know how much I miss your voice?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. It’s been unusually quiet around here.”

  “It’s weird not seeing toys all over the rug.”

  “It’s weirder that I miss tripping over them.”

  “We’ll be back together soon. Despite everything, I’m still praying.”

  “True to your word.” She adjusts herself to face Dennis, who sits up attentively. “She’s been devout since the day I took her in, you know.” I recoil, and probably blush, because I know she’s about to tell a story I often hear in front of people I’ve just met. “When Robin arrived here I told her the story of Job, to coincide with the difficulty of her upbringing. Are you familiar with him?”

  “He’s the guy God torments to test his faith,” Dennis says.

  “You should also know, then, that God’s reward was giving Job twice what He’d taken away. When I finished telling Robin the story, she looked at me with the most bemused eyes and said, ‘So if I believe in God, He’ll return two childhoods?’ Let me tell you, my heart just melted.”

  Dennis eases back into the chair with, “She’s prone to do that.”

  Sister Alice looks at me with a pleased hum. I pretend not to have heard him, and focus on the game. That Dennis is kind to me is one thing, but that he thinks of me in such a tender way isn’t something I anticipated. Having no idea how to handle the matter, I decide to change the subject and say, “Can I ask you something kind of gloomy?”

  “If it’s about the Mets,” Sister Alice replies, “talk to their batting coach.”

  “Are you scared to stay here?”

  “Mostly at night, but the Lord will see fit to save me if that’s my fate. Besides, Father Vincent decided I should remain here to show a brave face, which, I agree, is important.” She lets out a distressed sigh and faces the TV, where the Mets are in trouble. Two opposing Pirates are on the corners with nobody out. The Pirates batter hits a shallow pop up. The Mets center fielder calls for the ball while running in, but stops short and lets it drop at his feet. A run scores. Sister Alice punches the air. “For the love of Saint Augustine! Where was the charge?”

  Dennis looks away with discomfort, but he needn’t worry. Angst is a lesser part of Sister Alice’s demeanor, and it’s only brought on by the Mets. “For what they’re paying him,” I say, “he should have an operation to get the lead out of his butt.” Sister Alice holds out a flat hand. I gently slap it five. Dennis smiles at us and we all share a subdued laugh, until a honking horn outside shatters the moment. Through the bay window I see Barry’s SUV across the stre
et. Not staying all night apparently means two measly minutes to him.

  “Is that your ride?” Sister Alice asks.

  “Unfortunately,” I reply.

  “Ah, well. Better to see you for a minute than not at all.”

  “We’ll come back soon. I promise.” I give Sister Alice a soft hug and kiss her on the cheek. She pats my back, but remains seated when I stand. She doesn’t appear to have the strength left to walk us to the door, which makes me feel worse for having to leave her. Outside, Barry leans on the horn, destroying the very secrecy he himself demanded.

  As soon as Dennis and I sit inside the car, Barry pulls away fast enough to make the tires squeal. I slump forward and rest my forehead on my palms. “Some visit,” Barry says, “I thought she makes you happy.”

  “I don’t like that she’s alone,” I reply. Barry pats my knee, as though doing so will comfort me.

  After we arrive at the house, Dennis and Jeremy finish watching whatever movie I’d interrupted, so I sneak outside to the pool and sit with my bare feet in the water. Alone in the dark, and wary of a noiseless prowler, I keep splashes to a minimum and silently pray that Sister Alice isn’t going to cave under this calamity.

  A little while later, the back door opens. Dennis peeks his head out. I whistle lightly to catch his attention. He climbs up the ladder, removes his flip flops, and sits beside me with his feet submerged. “How was the movie?” I ask.

  “Gory,” he replies, and kicks at a leaf the same time I do. Our slippery feet rub together. My butterflies flutter up from their gloomy depths, but my mind is still fixated on dismal subjects.

  “If I ask you something stupid, will you be honest with me?”

  “If you want.”

  “If I were trapped in a horror movie, would I survive?”