by James Morcan
Eyeing Nine suspiciously, Blondie asked, “You sure you won’t be competing in the tournament?”
“I’ll be competing alright, but not in no spelling bee,” Nine said as he finished tying his laces. “I’ll be competing to stay alive.” Standing up, he opened the exit door and left.
Behind him, the others looked at each other in disbelief. Crushed, Blondie stormed off. As he departed, he heard Red giggle, adding to his mortification.
24
Outside the hotel, in the alleyway, Nine allowed himself a moment of luxury to enjoy the feeling of warmth returning to his feet. It was actually a painful sensation, but he welcomed the pain. Pain reminds you you’re alive, Kentbridge had always insisted. The Reeboks he had won fitted perfectly and, it seemed, his feet had suffered no lasting damage.
Nine’s heart sank when he noticed a hotel security camera he hadn’t seen before. He hoped his movements hadn’t been monitored. Aware he could attract attention to himself at any time, and knowing the longer he was on the streets the more likely it was his pursuers would find him, he turned his attention to finding a safe-house for the night.
The orphan turned down a long, covered sidewalk that connected a natural history museum at the near end with a cinema multiplex at the far end. He found he was sharing the sidewalk with cinema-goers and others – many of them children – who were coming and going. He assumed they must be staying in one of the many inner city hotels as public transport remained at a standstill.
Half way down the sidewalk, he reflexively ducked behind a mailbox when he saw Kentbridge and another operative approaching from the far end. He wondered if their appearance at this location was a coincidence, or whether they’d been tipped off to his whereabouts. Risking a peek around the corner of the mail box, he was relieved to see they hadn’t yet spotted him. They were still a hundred yards away, but approaching fast.
The orphan backed away from the mail box. Keeping it between the operatives and himself, he remained out of their line of site as he hurried back the way he’d come.
Nine pulled up again when, above the heads of other pedestrians, he saw Marcia and a male operative standing at the near end of the sidewalk. They were obviously waiting for their approaching colleagues to join them. Realizing he was now surrounded, Nine instantly stooped so they wouldn’t see him. What now?
He back-tracked to the mail box, thankfully remaining out of the line of sight of Kentbridge and his companion; behind him, pedestrians ensured he remained hidden from Marcia and her colleague. But he knew his freedom could be measured in seconds.
For the first time since his escape, he was fresh out of ideas. He suddenly felt like surrendering. Instead, he reverted to his training and daydreamed off for a moment in the hope that his subconscious mind would provide the answer. He closed his eyes.
Nine opened his eyes and immediately saw a partly concealed restroom door that he hadn’t noticed before. It was only a dozen strides away. A sign above it indicated it was a private cubicle specifically for handicapped persons. The door opened and a woman emerged pushing a man in a wheelchair.
The orphan eyed the now vacant cubicle then glanced behind him. Fortunately, pedestrians continued to conceal him from Marcia’s team. Nine estimated Kentbridge and his colleague would only be fifty yards away now. He just hoped pedestrians would shield him from them, too, as he covered the dozen yards to the cubicle.
It’s now or never.
Nine took a deep breath and strolled as nonchalantly as possible into the cubicle, closing the door after him and locking it. Now all he could do was wait. He knew if he’d been seen, he’d soon find out.
The seconds passed slowly. Then he heard footsteps outside the cubicle door. He recognized Kentbridge’s voice, but couldn’t hear what he was saying to his companion. The familiar voice faded and the operatives’ footsteps receded as they continued along the sidewalk.
Nine breathed a sigh of relief. He was safe for the moment.
Looking around, he saw the restroom cubicle was quite large and reasonably clean. It was well appointed, too, with a toilet, sink and bench.
Nine felt an overwhelming desire to lie down. He was exhausted and desperately needed to sleep. First things first. He removed his windbreaker and rolled up his sweatshirt sleeve to confirm the White Gold was still in place around his forearm. That done, he switched out the light and lay down on the bench. Using his windbreaker as a pillow, he fell asleep almost immediately.
Helen’s face came to him in a dream. He sighed in his sleep as he studied her sparkling, dark eyes and long, silky hair.
#
An hour later, something woke him. A noise perhaps. He couldn’t be sure. There it is again. Someone was slowly but repeatedly turning the door handle. Nine eased himself to his feet and tip-toed to the door. Pressing his ear to it, he could hear someone whispering to someone else outside. The soft male voice sounded familiar. Kentbridge perhaps. Nine broke out in a cold sweat.
25
With his ear still pressed against the restroom’s door, Nine braced himself for the assault he felt sure would come. He expected the door to be kicked open any second to reveal Kentbridge and his fellow operatives. The rogue orphan had no idea what they’d do to him, but he knew it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Nine looked up at an air vent above. He’d noticed it earlier. It was barely visible in the dim light that filtered through the frosted glass of a small barred window above the restroom door. Not for the first time, he wondered if the vent offered an escape route. Do it! As he prepared to climb up onto the washbasin and test the vent, the sound of a commotion outside reached him. Loud teenage voices replaced the whispers of a few moments earlier. Profanities, insults and laughter signaled the teenagers were either drunk or stoned.
Nine relaxed as the restroom door handle stopped moving and the voices trailed away. He returned to the bench he’d been sleeping on. Out of habit, he checked to confirm the White Gold was still firmly fastened to his forearm. The substance had become far more precious than real gold to him, for he now knew for certain it was blocking the signal from his microchip.
Stretching out on the bench, he tried to get back to sleep. Sleep failed him. He no longer felt tired. The orphan suspected that was more to do with the adrenalin boost he’d received when the teenagers had woken him with their drunken antics.
Nine sat up and looked at himself in the mirror opposite. He could just make out his shadowy features. Standing up, he walked over to the mirror and studied himself in the dull light from the small window above. The first thing he noticed was his long hair. That has to go, he told himself. Attracts too much attention. Retrieving his small backpack from the bench, he pulled out a first aid kit, opened it and immediately found what he was looking for: a pair of scissors. Here goes. He immediately began snipping.
#
After quarter of an hour of uninterrupted snipping, Nine looked radically different. He now wore his hair short. The short-back-and-sides styling, although a bit rough in places, would look smart enough to any casual observer.
Nine was surprised something as simple as a straight haircut could make such a big difference to his appearance. He knew Kentbridge and his team would be looking specifically for a long-haired orphan.
The new look gave him renewed confidence, but it wouldn’t dispel the ever-present fear that resided deep down in his gut.
Thinking of fear made him recall what Kentbridge had once told him. He’d said it was a disease that invades every cell in the body and every neurological connection in the brain. Kentbridge had gone on to explain that although a natural response to danger, the trick was to never dwell on fearful thoughts or empower them in any way. All men feel fear, but some have the intestinal fortitude to dismiss it while others wallow in their fear until they are completely besieged by it.
Mostly out of habit, but partly to further boost his confidence, he quietly recited his daily affirmation as he continued to stare at himself in the mirror.
<
br /> I am an Omegan and a polymath.
Whatever I set my mind to, I always achieve.
The limitations that apply to the rest of humanity,
Do not apply to me.
Running his hand through his short hair, he continued to encourage himself. C’mon, you can do this. They haven’t caught you yet. Just get through this night then escape tomorrow. After that, you’ll be able to find Helen in California.
#
Three blocks away, in a nondescript boardroom in an equally nondescript downtown office complex, Kentbridge and Marcia sat staring at six laptop computer screens lined up before them on the boardroom table. For the last few hours – ever since Nine had gotten away – they’d been observing surveillance camera footage of downtown Chicago, hoping to spot a glimpse of the fugitive orphan.
The senior Omega agents were in the offices of Attorney at Law Bartholomew Howard-Witten who at that very moment was shuffling important looking documents and trying to appear significant. Although these were the legally registered premises of an attorney, the reality was very little legal activity ever occurred within its humble chambers. They were an example of the numerous sub-stations Omega maintained nationwide.
Bartholomew Howard-Witten, who looked every bit as pompous as his name sounded, was in his late sixties and all but retired. He had been recruited by the agency fifteen years earlier. Ever since then, he’d assisted with the agency’s legal situations. More accurately, he helped influence or undermine the legal system in Omega’s favor and ensured its employees stayed below the radar and didn’t attract the attention of the nation’s lawmakers.
The elderly attorney liked to believe he was an important and valued associate, but in truth he was just a cog in Omega’s ever-increasing wheel of influence – a wheel which included corrupt attorneys, crooked cops, greedy judges and ambitious politicians. None of these people were ever given any details about the secret organization, not even its name.
Paying independent, influential figures like Howard-Witten vast sums of money under the table to do much of the agency’s dirty work allowed Omega to preserve its invisibility and ensure there was no known link between them and the agency itself. The beauty of such an arrangement was if they were caught breaking the law, they took the fall, not Omega.
The agency wasn’t the only clandestine organization in America using such tactics; the Nexus Foundation rivaled Omega when it came to such practices.
Kentbridge and Marcia felt like they were going cross-eyed as they studied the computer monitors before them. Hours of studying surveillance camera footage had done nothing for their patience or their tempers – especially as they hadn’t even caught a glimpse of the elusive orphan since Kentbridge had almost caught him.
“He’s gone to ground,” Kentbridge said with certainty.
Marcia nodded her agreement. “Probably hiding in some shop basement.”
“Could be anywhere.” Kentbridge’s thoughts turned to the five operatives Naylor had loaned to them. They were still roaming the streets in the freezing cold searching for Nine. Every so often, he or Marcia would contact them to suggest a new location to explore, but their instructions were getting more and more speculative. Normally they would have been able to get helicopters in the air to aid the search, but not in blizzard conditions such as these.
Kentbridge’s satellite phone rang for the umpteenth time since they’d set up shop at Howard-Witten’s chambers. He had been receiving calls from Naylor all night long. The Omega director was becoming more irate over Nine’s disappearance and he made it clear he held Kentbridge directly responsible. But the Nine problem, for the moment at least, paled into insignificance next to the Nexus problem.
Kentbridge answered his phone. “Kentbridge.”
“Things are escalating with Nexus,” Naylor said without so much as a hello. “I’m going to need those operatives back tomorrow.”
Kentbridge shot Marcia a concerned glance.
“I take it the urchin is still on the loose?” Naylor asked. It was more a statement than a question. He knew he’d have heard if Nine had been found.
“I’m sure we’ll have him before sunrise, sir.”
“You damn well better, Tommy! Your job’s on the line.”
“I understand--” The line went dead. Kentbridge put the phone away and looked at Marcia.
“Let me guess. He’s not happy?” she asked.
“Damn right he ain’t.”
The pair resumed their surveillance of the laptops in earnest. As they’d done all night, they ignored Howard-Witten who at that moment was pouring coffees for them, as he’d been doing all night, from a cappuccino machine in the corner of the boardroom. Besides making his chambers available to the Omega agents, it was the only thing he’d done that was remotely helpful since their arrival.
26
Daylight streamed through the barred window above the door of the disabled restroom, waking Nine. He felt refreshed and ready for whatever the new day had in store for him. Bring it on, you bastards. He knew he mustn’t become over-confident, but his sudden freedom – albeit somewhat tenuous – was like an elixir: he felt invincible.
He went over to the washbasin, splashed his face with cold water, then studied his reflection in the mirror. For a split second, the orphan didn’t recognize himself, such was the transformation created by the short haircut he’d given himself. The realization he’d so effectively altered his appearance added to his youthful confidence.
Nine quickly checked the White Gold was still in place then donned his windbreaker and put his backpack over his shoulders. He unlocked the restroom’s door, opened it a fraction and tentatively stuck his head outside. At a glance, he confirmed to his satisfaction no-one was waiting for him. No-one he recognized at least.
The covered walkway was becoming busier by the second as office-bound pedestrians negotiated it en route to their respective places of work. Their presence reminded Nine it was Monday morning. Sprinkled amongst the corporate suits were dozens of kids. Many of the children wore school uniforms and were clearly heading for school; others were dressed in casual clothes and carried dictionaries. The orphan recognized some of the latter, having seen them practicing for the spelling bee in various places around the city the previous evening.
Although Nine couldn’t see the sky, he could tell the blizzard had passed. Bright sunlight filtered through gaps in the covered walkway above, and pedestrians had dispensed with their extreme cold weather gear, though they were still dressed warmly.
Nine ventured cautiously out onto the walkway. He quickly merged with the other pedestrians and followed a group of kids so as not to stand out from the crowd. The rogue orphan also took care to look the other way when he passed a surveillance camera.
Now that he was back out in the open, he suddenly felt vulnerable. He was thankful he’d had the foresight to cut his long hair, but he knew his backpack and brightly colored windbreaker were a giveaway. Prying eyes would quickly spot these. While he couldn’t afford to dispense with his backpack, he turned his windbreaker inside out and put it back on that way. The inside fabric was black and the jacket now looked totally different.
The Pedemont escapee reached the end of the covered sidewalk by the natural history museum and was greeted by bright sunshine – the first he’d seen in days. Everyone around him seemed to walk with a spring in their step. Chicagoans were obviously pleased to see the end of the blizzard that had paralyzed their city for the past twenty four hours or so. Traffic was slowly moving again and council workers were frantically shoveling the last of the ice, snow and debris from the roads.
Nine walked quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention to himself. He was determined to put distance between himself and the last place Kentbridge saw him the previous evening. Logic told him that’s where his pursuers would be focusing their attention that morning. He still kept to the alleys and side streets, avoiding the main streets where there was a proliferation of surveillance camera
s.
At the end of an alley, he saw removals men loading a furniture truck. He noted the sign on the side of the truck read: Adams & Son Furniture. Mount Pleasant, Iowa.
Nine knew Iowa was west of Illinois, which was in the direction he needed to go. He didn’t know that much about the small town of Mount Pleasant except that it was in south-east Iowa’s Henry County, which had an active farming community. Not that that mattered. Anywhere west was one step closer to freedom, to California, and most importantly, to Helen.
Nine checked to confirm nobody was observing him then headed over to the driver, a lean, middle-aged black man who was helping the others load his truck. “Excuse me, sir,” he said in his most mature voice, “are you heading for Iowa?”
The driver, who was an immigrant from Mali, flashed a look that said don’t bother me. “Yes.” He continued loading the truck, not giving the boy a second glance.
Nine detected a strong African accent. That didn’t deter him remotely. For some reason he naturally gravitated to people of other ethnicities. Even the girls he fantasized about were ethnic, exotic types or at least swarthy like Helen. He wasn’t sure why exactly, but he guessed it was because his experiences had been so bad with his own kind, especially the all-white Omega founders.
“What a coincidence,” Nine exclaimed, “I live on a farm in Mount Pleasant!”
The driver continued helping load the truck as if the boy wasn’t there.
Nine studied the name on the driver’s name tag. It read: Mahamdou. “Can you give me a ride, sir?” Nine carried on undaunted. “My mother couldn’t pick me up due to the blizzard.”
“No,” Mahamdou replied tersely. “I am already a day late.”
“I won’t slow you down, sir.” Nine pulled out his wallet and offered the same hundred dollar bill he’d wagered for the comfy Reeboks he now wore. “And you’ll make something extra out of it.”