Using a twister blade, Derek popped open the lock. The room was dark, not even a night light. Twenty beds, ten on either side. Yen jostled the first orphan, who bolted up, gasping. He placed his hand on his lips; the men edged down the rows, waking the children.
“Where?” asked a girl in a heavy Eastern European accent.
“Safe,” Singh answered.
“Safe here.” She shook her head and the other children stopped putting on their shoes and jackets.
They’d expected this; Singh was half-surprised at how obedient they were. Do what you’re told in the orphanage. Do what you’re told in this bullshit camp where you’re kept out of sight. Like we are. Shove all of Grandma’s mistakes under a rug in the woods.
Derek sat on the bed as Yen anxiously tapped his watch and held up two fingers. At least there was no gunfire yet.
“What’s your name?”
“Patricia.”
Singh managed a smile; children made him uncomfortable since he lost both of his during 10/12. “This is not safe anymore, Patricia.”
“Grandma says…”
“Grandma lies,” blurted a fat little boy in a thick wool hat and shorts.
“Yes, she does,” Singh said, standing. “If anyone wants to stay, that’s fine. Just keep quiet until we’re gone so the Black Tops don’t kill your friends.”
That set off a little murmuring. Patricia stubbornly folded her arms. At the far bed on the right side, a teenage girl reached under the mattress and pulled out a snot-nosed Kenyon rifle.
“Put your guns down.” The girl leaned toward a small communicator on her wrist. “This is Bedroom Five…”
Yen shot the BT plant through the forehead; hopefully there’d be equally good shots at all the cottages. , Singh and Yen exchanged worried glances. We overlooked that.
“Her accent always sucked,” said the boy by the adjoining bed, ignoring the BT’s blood splattered on his arm.
Yen quickly bound and gagged the suddenly docile Patricia as the orphans watched almost listlessly; they’d seen worse. As he left, Yen tossed an orange wig on Patricia’s chest.
They hurried back through the split fence, lines of orphans flanking them.
A shot rang out. Then a volley, followed by screams. Singh and Yen kept a steady pace as ‘copters whirred into the night. By the tree line, two Miners fired a mini-SAM, blowing up a ship. The blazing debris and seared limbs rained around them, along with gunfire from two more ‘copters.
They crossed the road, stopping by the convoy of trucks. Behind, missiles and ‘copters traded fire. Six separate groups waited. Singh and Yen ran along the vehicles, signaling by pounding on doors. The convoy roared ahead as the Miners led more than two hundred Muslim Europe orphans deep into the other side of the forest.
They ran for half a mile away from the ‘copters pursing the empty trucks before turning left at a cluster of broken trees. The air parted and, with a slight collective intake of surprise, they disappeared inside the vast cave.
• • • •
BETH’S HANDS WERE caked with flour and eggs, joining the chocolate which stained the patched red apron; she had no sense of embarrassment before Puppy.
“My son’s not here.”
“Know when he’ll be back?”
“He’s with his girlfriend.” Beth started closing the front door.
“Can I wait?”
The thought of Puppy in her home was much like finding piles of rotting rats on the couch.
Beth grudgingly stepped aside, leading him through the house and out the kitchen door into the tiny neat yard. He wondered if she’d scour the floor where he stepped or just tear up the tiles. Beth half-heartedly straightened the wobbly metal table; Puppy squeezed uncomfortably into the small chair, which gave her pleasure.
“I don’t know how long he’ll be.”
“I haven’t any plans.”
“I do, Mr. Nedick.”
“Don’t let me stop you. Smells good.” He awkwardly buttoned up his jacket with his left hand. “Nice night.”
Beth disappeared for about ten minutes while he ignored the all too familiar view of the backs of the weathered apartment buildings, clothes fluttering off the fire escapes and draping the flower and vegetable gardens like diffident canopies.
From inside the house, pots slammed, a dish broke and Beth cursed very precisely so he would hear every word and know who was to blame for the cooking accident.
She returned, spreading out a napkin and laying down a thin cheese sandwich.
“Thank you.” He smiled gratefully. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Beth waited to make sure she had properly served her guest. Unless it was rancid, the proper response was a polite murmuring of approval while you ate silently. Dropping a slice of cheese because you weren’t used to eating with your left hand was wrong.
Offended, Beth picked up the cheese and took away the sandwich. More banging in the kitchen. In about fifteen minutes a sizzling AG hamburger on a burnt bun dropped before him like a grudging sacrifice.
“Thank you.” He smiled again. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
He grimaced and held the burger with both hands, chewing out those appropriate gentle murmurs. Beth yanked away the burger.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Puppy wiped ketchup off his chin.
Beth gestured at her pained mouth and sneered.
“I’m not lying,” he insisted.
She winced and grimaced and made all sorts of faces he suspected had little to do with his opinion of the hamburger.
“The food is good.”
Beth didn’t buy that. He’d insulted her hospitality and made it seem as if she couldn’t cook. What faults would be next?
“It’s not your damn food.” He shouldn’t tell her. Or anyone. “It’s my arm. It’s a little sore from pitching and hurts to hold the burger. That’s why I made a face.” He simulated her wide range of expressions.
She softened slightly. “How bad is your arm?”
“It’ll pass. I hurt it nearly twenty years ago.”
“Then why would you pitch again?” Beth seemed genuinely baffled by his stupidity.
“Because it’s a dream. Another last chance.”
“So you hurt yourself so badly you can’t hold a hamburger for a dream?”
“Yeah. Maybe if you’d ever had one, you’d understand.”
Beth slammed the sandwich onto the table and turned out the back light when she went inside. It was even colder in the dark. He stormed in, finishing the burger.
“What is your problem, lady?”
“Don’t you lady me.” Beth poked her finger into his throat.
“You hate me.”
“Yes.” She nodded matter of factly, returning to her pie.
“But why?”
She squished the dough in the pan as if it were his head. “You’re a bad influence on my son.”
“Really? By giving him a good job, promoting him…”
“He got promoted?”
“Yeah. Twice.”
Beth slammed the pie into the oven. “Parroting the propaganda.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“The museum ll about 10/12.”
“That was his idea.”
Beth went white with rage. “That’s not possible. He doesn’t think like that. Never thought like that. Until you.”
“I don’t think like that, either.”
“You don’t think at all, do you, Mr. Nedick?”
“Not as much as other people and I’ll probably live longer. I care about baseball. And I care about your son.”
“He’s not your child.”
“I wish he were,” Puppy said quietly. “I wish I’d had a kid like that.”
“So you could ruin his life?”
“How am I doing that?”
“You’re filling his head with nonsense.” Beth rushed into Frecklie’s bedroom, the mattress creaking up and down, returning with
the sketch pad which she shoved at Puppy. “He’s drawing stadiums. Stop smiling.” She yanked the pad back. “There are no stadiums. There will be no stadiums. He’s dreaming like his father did, which killed him. I won’t let my son be killed by dreams. Look what it’s done to you.”
He took a breath and grabbed her wrist with his right hand. “It’s given me a reason to wake up. It’s made me think that my life wasn’t a complete waste, no career, bad marriage, no children, looking forward to writing copy for a funeral home in a few months because that’s all there’s left. So let the boy draw his pictures. Let him dream. Otherwise what the hell do we have other than baking pies at midnight?”
“Get out, Mr. Nedick,” she said very quietly.
Beth seethed for half an hour after Puppy left. That put her way behind on sewing. But she couldn’t concentrate. She tried working on the Gutierrez wedding dress only to rip apart the stitching; by one AM, she gave up.
When Frecklie finally came home exhausted after humping the sex she-devil Dale all night, Beth was in the dark backyard, kneeling and praying. He hated when his mother prayed because it usually had to do with him.
• • • •
KENUDA SLIPPED ON his new checked overcoat, squirming around pleasurably at the wonderful real cotton material. His A12 waited in the doorway with that insufferable way the garbage cans had of silently entering rooms or knowing what you wanted. Damn, for just a human secretary. But we took away their faces, meh, meh, he muttered darkly, so must be nice to them.
“Yes?”
“You have one more visitor, Third Cousin.”
He sensed it would sneer if it could.
“I have evening plans.”
“At six-thirty. It is five, which leaves sufficient time.”
“Not if we reschedule.”
“He’s sent by the Family House.”
The A12 returned with a tall, stiff-looking guy who couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands.
“This is Dr. Pablo Diaz.” The A12 handed Kenuda a file, cheerfully closing the door.
Kenuda sullenly pointed Pablo onto the couch.
“Did I get you leaving, Third Cousin?”
“Yes,” he grumbled, stopping on the first page. “You’ve not even been accepted yet?”
Pablo shrugged. “I was told you’d be my mentor.”
He tossed aside the file. “I haven’t received any word. You’re supposed to wait.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe I jumped the gun.”
Kenuda raised an eyebrow.
“I know I’ll be accepted. If I could get a little help. A glimpse ahead.”
“By breaking the rules?”
“By starting my training on stronger footing. Is that breaking the rules? Otherwise why would I be given your name?”
Kenuda almost smiled. “You’re an arrogant little shit, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’ll have to shed the ego to be successful.”
“So you think. Save The Family through better dental hygiene.”
“Will this be more half-answers, sir? That’s all I’ve gotten so far.”
“You think there’s something wrong with the process?”
“I think simple and direct is better, Third Cousin.”
“Because serving as a Cousin is simple and direct?” Kenuda clucked his tongue. “It’s all about half-answers, Diaz. Be bold but not too bold. Without ego, but confident you know what you’re doing. Move up because it helps The Family, but not yourself. But if you don’t help yourself, how can you help The Family.”
“That seems to be my brief experience, sir.”
Kenuda grinned. “Where are you screwing up the most?”
“I tend to observe.”
“Observing isn’t a good trait.”
Pablo nodded unhappily. “I like to know the facts.”
“Assuming there are facts.”
“There are always facts.”
“Not necessarily the right ones. Sometimes the wrong ones are more important.” Kenuda glanced at his watch and poured a couple large Montana brandies. “You do know all this is confidential.”
“Of course.”
Kenuda weighed the somber, earnest face and decided Diaz wouldn’t give up the nuclear codes under torture. “I played basketball.”
“Yes, at Temple.”
Elias raised the glass in grudging respect. “I was good, but my fatal flaw was trusting teammates. I was a point guard and they couldn’t handle my passes. Bullets, right through their hands. I led them perfectly and the pass still went out of bounds. I looked like shit. I don’t like looking like shit, Diaz. I talked to them, practiced endlessly, but they sucked. What would you do?”
“I’m not a sports fan.”
“I’ll let you get away with that for now. I kept passing. I could’ve taken the shots, but how would that’ve helped?”
“What if you made the shots, sir?”
“What if I did? Then it would’ve been Kenuda the star, instead of Temple University the team.” He shrugged. “We still finished 6-15 in my senior year, but that was the right thing. Helping. So here I come to Fifth Cousin, years later. I realized I was wrong. Leading means rising above. They won’t tell you that because you’ll hear all of Grandma’s warnings about elitism. She’s right. Unless you lead for a reason, Diaz. If you know you’re good, lean into it, because that’s where you’ll make a difference. Just don’t let anyone know how good you are.”
“Are you, sir?”
Kenuda snorted. “During the first session with my mentor, First Cousin Albert Cheng, I explained my dilemma from college. They love moral quandaries and seeing how we’d get to the other side. He said Grandma doesn’t want us to do what she says. That’s where everyone gets tangled up. Like you. Do what’s right. Show them you have the balls to set the agenda. Take risks.”
“Like breaking the rules by meeting my mentor?”
Kenuda smiled. Brash, pretentious and somewhat annoying. Familiar, Elias? “You like pop music?”
“I prefer Bach, sir.”
“So do I. But Dara Dinton has presence.”
Pablo grinned. “I’d be honored.”
• • • •
HAZEL SNEERED AT Frecklie’s hand outstretched over the gaping crater which was framed by jagged rocks, ending somewhere down there in the darkness.
“It’s dangerous,” Frecklie insisted again.
Hazel patted his right leg. “Works fine.”
The reporter had nearly fallen into the hole by Section 120. Show off, the teen sighed. He wouldn’t care if the guy fell into the hole. He didn’t like him. Something about the way he shorthanded, but not meaning it. Big smile, way too cheerful. Frecklie didn’t trust especially happy people; his mother said they were usually covering up.
But Puppy insisted he show the guy around. More repairs were required now. About fifteen thousand fans came to the last game. They needed usable seats.
Hazel balanced pigeon-toed around the crater. He wavered a moment, but never panicked or showed any fear, concern, nothing. He kind of enjoyed the wobbling. Was he doing that because he enjoyed it or is he giving me the finger, Frecklie wondered. Hazel smiled triumphantly and hop-skipped to the other side.
“Where’s this lead?” Hazel asked.
“Below.”
“I know. Where below?”
“I’ve never been.”
“Can we go there?”
“Why? There are no seats, just the hallways to the clubhouse.”
“So you have been?”
“Only at the clubhouse. Not everywhere under the stadium. It’s dangerous.”
Hazel peered into the hole and followed Frecklie past the shuttered concession stands.
“There was quite an assortment of foods here once,” Hazel commented on the worn signs for barbecued chicken, sushi and pizza.
“We have new ones now, too,” Frecklie snapped.
“Hey, I was just saying.” Hazel smiled disarmingly. “Can those booths be re-
opened? Might be nice. Retro.”
“Let’s worry about the hallways.”
“You’re the boss.”
Frecklie choked back an answer and navigated around a four-foot high pile of concrete. Hazel paused by Section 220 and watched a few minutes of the Falcons batting practice.
“Are they bunting?” he grinned.
Frecklie wasn’t sure what that meant.
“Bunting.” Hazel mimed hands apart on a bat.
“I know, I know.”
“Are you something of a baseball expert now?”
“Something,” Frecklie said, struggling to show respect. “How much of the stadium are they fixing?”
Hazel looked around sadly. “Up to these second levels. Though who knows. Wouldn’t it be something to do it all?”
Frecklie perked up. “Think they will?”
Hazel shrugged and jotted into a notebook. “Let’s go below.”
“I told you, fans don’t go there.”
“And I’m telling you, I have to check out the whole ballpark for my report for Commissioner Kenuda. Unless you want the damn fans sitting on laps.” He gestured angrily at the blue seats flanked by faded rust.
Frecklie edged around the debris in the basement, glancing uneasily at the holes in the ceiling spitting grainy half-light. Hazel moved quickly until they were in gray darkness, doors on both sides.
“The clubhouses are back there,” Frecklie said, irritated.
“What’s in there?” Hazel pointed.
Frecklie shrugged.
“Probably electricity rooms,” John mused aloud, running his hand on the walls as if reading. He tried a door, but it wouldn’t budge.
“I don’t have the keys,” Frecklie said defensively.
Hazel grunted, muttering.
“We should go back.”
John yanked on a door; it gave slightly. He pulled a screwdriver out of his inside pocket and twisted between the door and the frame. The knob shattered onto the floor.
Frecklie liked none of this, but couldn’t help following into the room. Hazy dust twisted into thick clouds.
Hazel cursed and fell to his bad knee. He held up a skull, then a bone. He got on all fours and scurried forward, moaning as he stepped between the skeletons. Frecklie lit a match. The weak flame flickered over rows of skeletons in army fatigues holding rifles, orange wigs glittering on their skulls. It was a circle, Frecklie realized. Huddled together against some enemy.
A Mound Over Hell Page 36