I do not argue with my dragons except when we are alone, for I have learned that these conversations—heated as they can become—trouble Professor Isabella and Abalone more quickly than anything else that I do.
“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” I am arguing for the hundredth time one afternoon.
“Let the dead past bury its dead,” Betwixt stonewalls.
The door unlocking interrupts us as Professor Isabella returns from the grocery store. I go to help her and when we make dinner I consider with bad temper refusing to feed Betwixt and Between.
I give in to their pleading, though. First and foremost, we are friends, and I cannot believe that they refuse me from a desire to bring me harm.
My lessons are not only in arts and literature. Abalone has succeeded, to her surprise as well as mine, in teaching me to recognize certain of the code symbols used in programming. The idea came to her when she realized that although reading words and numbers of more than two digits still defeats me, I can memorize the pictographs used for illiterates.
After teaching me those for simple traffic commands and warnings, she decided to try and teach me programming icons. Admittedly, the process freaked me out—I had years of resistance against looking at characters that swarmed on the page or screen like guppies in my eye sockets—but slowly I caught on.
In early February, Abalone is ready to take me on another theft.
Excited, I view myself in the bathroom mirror, unable to believe that the reflection does not show how I have changed. Eyes, hair, skin—all are the same. Perhaps brighter, shinier, rosier, but nothing shows of the knowledge of people and places, nothing shows, nothing at all, of the happier, more confident Sarah.
This time, we alter our appearances in a public rest room in a near-empty office complex. Abalone is neutral in dark blue coveralls and boots, her hair under a matching billed cap. Her computer is easy to hand in a tool kit. I am dressed as a junior executive—tailored trousers and blazer of grey-blue linen. Then we go our ways.
I am not certain when things begin to go wrong. My first hint is when I see behind me lights flashing gold and orange. From my lessons, I recall that these are police lights. Even if I did not, Betwixt and Between would have been enough to remind me.
“Cops, Sarah! Step on it!” Betwixt yells.
“No,” Between counters. “Pull over, everything will be fine. Abalone’s got it under control.”
Ignoring the muttered “I hope” that follows this declaration, I steer the vehicle to the curb. Although there are few passersby, I realize that my first reaction isn’t fear—it’s embarrassment. Trying to calm my frantically beating heart, I open the window as the officer walks over.
“May I have your license and vehicle registration?” he asks with a faint Spanish accent. “Wait here.”
He carries them back to his partner in the police car and while she runs them through the computer, he idly drums on the front bubble pane. When his partner says something, the drumming stops and his attitude becomes tense and listening. His partner gets out to assist him as he’s already walking forward.
“Ma’am, please get out of the car, slowly, so that I can see you…”
He continues to direct me in wooden tones through a simple body search. Mechanically, I obey. Somehow, as he is patting me down, I realize that he is nearly as nervous as I am. This does not comfort me.
In a short time, I am arrested for vehicle theft. “My” car is taken in tow and I am stashed with my belongings in the back of the patrol car.
As the patrol car pulls away from the curb, the flashing orange-and-gold lights fall on Abalone standing in an alleyway, leaning against a wall. Her expression is neutral and indifferent.
The police station that officers Martinez and Chen take me to is quiet enough that my appearance makes a stir.
“We’ve got ourselves an MV thief,” Martinez brags. “I think it’s one of the ring that’s been working this area.”
In the brighter light I can see that his skin is dotted with acne. He’s young, a rookie.
“Hush!” Chen reminds her partner. She’s an Eurasian with grey streaks in her close-cropped hair and rank stripes on her uniform shoulders.
Martinez looks chastened for all of five seconds, but he listens when Chen directs him to take my shoulder bag and inventory the contents. Then he is told to run an ID check on me, first through police records and then farther.
“Is there a secretary available? I want to get a statement,” Chen asks the desk officer.
“‘A,’ okay?” When she nods, he slides a code flimsy to her. “Here’s the key.”
Chen takes me into a small room with white stuccoed walls. In the center is an oval table surrounded by several chairs. She seats me in one.
“Put your hand on those grey outlines and look at the shield projected on the wall.”
I do this, recognizing the devices as similar to ones recently installed at the Home. A light flashes and I am holo-graphed and printed.
Chen’s attention is for a screen set in the table surface as she calls up the correct program from the secretary’s memory. Watching, I think that I am seeing afterimages from the retina printing, for over the data streaming by in a sickening stream a single pictograph superimposes itself: a line drawing of a face, fingers held to lips: the universal illiterate symbol for silence.
Pausing, her fingers on a tab, Chen asks, “Can you read?”
I shake my head “No.”
“Okay, I’ve set this for audio, then. Listen carefully and answer all the questions. Be sure to follow the directions. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I can feel her desire for a hot cup of coffee as she leaves. Then I watch as the door slides and merges into the wall. We had rooms like this in the Home. No windows, no door once it was closed, nothing so crude as ventilation ducts. Escapeproof.
I tug at my hair and try to listen to the computer secretary’s directions.
“First, be informed before you answer any questions that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”
Forgetting the pictograph’s warning, I whisper, “Yes.”
The computer begins its interrogation, starting with name and moving into the details of the arrest. This time, I remember to stay silent. Patiently, after each question that I refuse to answer, the computer asks “Are you invoking your right to remain silent?”
I do not even answer this and after a pause it states, “For the record, subject chooses to remain silent.”
The neuter voice eventually falls dumb, and I study the room. I miss Betwixt and Between intensely and hope that they are being treated well. As I think of them, I become aware of a little voice. I listen carefully and soon I hear that it is reciting the same phrase over and over in a sing-song voice.
“I’ve got a secret! I’ve got a secret!”
Standing, I search and find that the voice seems to be coming from near where the police shield is projected on the wall. I touch, but find no pattern in the rough stucco. The voice continues even as I search, perhaps more gleefully. I do not believe that it knows I can hear it.
“I’ve got a secret! I’ve got a see-cret!”
Finally, my voice low, I say, “No one ever keeps a secret as well as a child.”
The chant stops, startled, then begins again more hesitantly, “I’ve got…a secret. I’ve…got a secret.”
“There are no secrets better kept than the secrets that everybody guesses,” I taunt.
“My secret!” the voice insists. “I’ve got a secret!”
“He’s a wonderful talker, who has the art of telling you nothing in a great harangue,” I suggest.
“I’ve got a secret! I do! I do!”
I turn away, yawning. “The secret of being a bore is to tell everything.”
“Believe me! I’ve got a secret! You’d love to have my secret. Would! I’ve got a secret!”
I do not turn
from studying the ceiling, apparently enraptured by vague patterns in the stucco. The voice from the wall cannot bear my indifference.
“Here. I’ll share,” it teases. “Press the blue diamonds on the center of the shield.”
I hasten over and press. The wall starts to slide.
“I told you. I’ve got a secret!” the smug voice says.
I pat the wall as I step through the revealed door and hear the voice resume happily, “I’ve got a secret!”
The corridor is comfortably wide and dimly lit, even after the door slides shut behind me, from recessed panels. I follow it until it ends in another door. Through a one-way panel, I see that I am at the edge of the reception area. An officer has just brought in a group of vandals.
Heart leaping, I recognize Abalone, Peep, and Chocolate. My Pack!
As I watch, Peep and Chocolate start an argument, shoving and pushing each other. A few officers move to break them apart and are drawn into the scuffle. Under the cover of the distraction, Abalone reaches and touches a few icons on a desktop computer. Bells begin to chime from various workstations. A few more taps and drawers begin to fly open and shut. Suddenly, it begins to rain.
As chaos reigns, Abalone begins to slip off down the corridor toward the secretaries. I choose that moment to step out in front of her.
Her face shows her astonishment, but she merely indicates a side exit. I run, stopping only to scoop up my dragons from a desktop. As my hand touches them, the lights go out and a horrid cackling surges from the speakers. The rain falls harder. We vanish into the kind streets.
When we have run far enough, we stop and change our appearances some. Then Abalone takes us to a computerized restaurant, where she thrills the little wolves by making the vending machines spit out food on command.
“Wizard!” Peep laughs around a pink coconut snowball. “Really flipping!”
Abalone bows with an ironic grin, but I can tell she is pleased. For her own reasons, she rarely displayed her talents before the Pack and this homage thrills her. After eating, we send them off to the Jungle with promises to meet again.
Happy as I am with Abalone’s rescue, I am still puzzled as to what went wrong. My initial unworthy thought that she set me up is gone. Once they are well fed and we are on our way home, Betwixt and Between are able to offer me some answers.
“There we were, no shit,” Betwixt says, “in the interrogation room, tossed on a ledge with the junk from your bag, a red tag hung around the base of our necks. They’d finished with the ID cards and the other stuff and Martinez lifted us in his heavy hands. ‘Wonder why a pretty dish like that is hauling a bit of junk like this around?’ says he.”
“Betwixt!” Between exclaims. “You’re overdoing it.”
“He did say it, didn’t he?” Betwixt challenges.
“Well, yeah, but he was a jerk.”
“So, let me finish!” His red eyes gleaming, Betwixt continues, “The rookie tosses us a few times, ‘Hollow body,’ he muses, flipping open his switchblade, ‘Drugs?’ The point was right at our belly when Chen came in and told him in no uncertain words that he could be accused of tampering with evidence if he wasn’t careful.”
“When she left,” Between cuts in, “Martinez decided to heal his ego by telling another cop who wandered in how we got caught. Seems Abalone accidentally used the VIN number from a car that had been stolen. I guess when she scanned for a likely number it was neither on file as in use or as stolen. When we went driving by, eager rookie Martinez ran our number as practice and nearly lost it when he hit the jackpot.”
I giggle and Abalone looks at me. She clearly is feeling guilty at putting me in danger. I wish I could tell her what Betwixt and Between have told me, but the knowledge is walled in my throat.
I settle for hugging her. “True luck consists not in holding the best cards at the table: luckiest he who knows just when to rise and go home.”
She smiles ruefully. “You think I pushed my luck, Sarah? Took that bucket to the well one too many times?”
I shrug, motioning to indicate that we are free. “The net of law is spread so wide, no sinner from its sweep may hide. Its meshes are so fine and strong, they take in every child of wrong. O wondrous web of mystery! Big fishes alone escape from thee!”
Abalone squeezes me. “You’re right, Sarah. Don’t worry about the rent. I’ve enough socked by for now. I’ll let this scam die for now—it’s a big city.”
When we get home, Professor Isabella is nervously waiting. Abalone fills her in as we sit in the kitchen drinking thick, strong hot chocolate.
“I’m glad you got her out,” Professor Isabella sighs. “Clever of you to reprogram the station’s computer before going in so certain icons would trigger rather extraordinary results. You really are a wizard.”
“The best part,” Abalone admits, her good humor returning, “was that I’d reconfigured some of the standard commands I knew they use to try and stop what I’d done. So when they tried to turn off the sprinkler system, it poured harder and when they tried to override the lights, they triggered other stuff that made it even harder for them.”
She sips her cocoa. “I think most of Sarah’s records were wiped. She says she got my message and didn’t tell the secretary anything. I made sure her photos and prints were wiped. We couldn’t salvage the fake IDs but that’ll be minimal help.”
“If they even try and track her,” Professor Isabella agrees. “The case is minor enough and they still can return the stolen goods. What I want to know is how Sarah got out of the secretary room.”
“Yeah, those things are impossible unless you know the code. Maybe I accidentally tripped it by freaking out their computer system,” Abalone sounds unconvinced.
I consider trying to explain and give up almost before I begin. “Walls have ears.”
They look at me and then sigh. I smile and shrug, palms held upward, but when I go to bed that night, a happy little voice sings, “I got a secret.”
Eight
FEBRUARY IS ICY AND UGLY. OFTEN WHEN PROFESSOR ISABELLA and I go to a museum (I have learned that there are more than one—I had believed that the one was vast enough to hold everything), Abalone insists that we take a cab or rent a car.
She confesses shamefaced that she is doing legit freelance programming work. However, she hastens to add that all her ID is forged and the names are tags. I am curious why she is so secretive about her identity. Even Professor Isabella and I only know her by an alias.
The help Peep and Chocolate gave us has reopened our grapevine to the Jungle. They never meet us at our apartment, nor do we go to the Jungle. I wonder if Abalone misses Head Wolf as much as I do. She must, but she never shows it.
Sometimes we will cruise in a rented car with tinted windows by the corner where the little wolves strut in their tights or second skin trousers. Under the watchful eyes of the Four, we’ll buy a night of the boys’ time. Then the two Tail Wolves become little boys for a night.
“We can’t do it too often,” Abalone cautions one night when I start weeping after dropping the boys off. “We can’t make them soft. They’ve got to stay fierce, keep their pride. Otherwise, when some horny old creep comes after them, they’ll forget that they’re doing this because they’re of the Pack. Then they’ll cry or forget to smile…”
She lets herself trail off. To mollify me, Professor Isabella suggests that we make certain that the boys meet Jerome and learn the location of When I Was Hungry. I agree, eager to see Jerome again.
Soon after this, Abalone comes home ashen-faced and shaking harder than the frigid day could account for. Without pausing to remove her wrap, she drops something into my lap, then into Professor Isabella’s.
I look down wonderingly at the picture of a girl with cream-colored hair and jade green eyes. She is something like me, I think.
“Brighton Rock!” Professor Isabella reads. “‘Spot our Girl and Win!’ Why it’s a candy ad! But what is Sarah doing on the advertisement? It can’t be
a coincidence!”
Abalone hangs up her cape and pours herself tea before plopping down on the floor.
“I don’t believe in coincidence—not where Sarah’s concerned.” She turns a card over. “Listen: ‘Creamy outside, tart lime inside.’ That’s just an excuse for using Sarah’s face on these cards.”
“I see.” Professor Isabella carefully bookmarks the volume of Don Quixote that she’s been reading to me. “Where did you get these?”
“I had work up near that police station where Sarah and I had our mishap. I don’t know what made me pick the card out of the gutter, but when I did I recognized Sarah right off. I snooped around a bit then and discovered that they’ve been handed out since about a week after our scrape. Lots of people are hot on them—wait for new cards with clues and stuff. Heck, they’re even buying the candy to get the cards.”
“And if you spot the girl,” Professor Isabella muses, shaking her head, “you get a prize. Why, they’ve turned the entire City into a means for finding Sarah.”
“I’m sure of it,” Abalone agrees. “I did some scouting. The places where these are being handed out most thickly are near our police station and around the Home and the Jungle, our hunting grounds.”
“Not here,” Professor Isabella asks worriedly.
“No. Apparently you two have been careful enough with your trips. Won’t last. Someone at some museum will remember the weird, pretty girl with the dragon who stands muttering at walls. They’ll assume that the fruitcake bit is meant to get attention.”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “A little nonsense now and then is relished by the best of men.”
“Sorry, Sarah.” Abalone has the grace to blush. “I only mean how you seem to people who don’t know how much sense you have under all that hair.”
Mollified, I reply, “We be of one blood, ye and I.”
Abalone presses her lips together. “That’s what’s so bad about this, Sarah. Not even the Master Words will protect you—even from your own Pack. Remember, Mowgli was nearly sold out by his own Pack members because they were just young and thought with their bellies and not with their hearts.”
Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls Page 8