Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5)

by David Feintuch

  In shirt, fin’ laserpen like Bigsis got. I c’n tray fo’ cansa. Won’ be hunger when ol’ man come back. I show ’im.

  Jag say, “Karlo say longtime back Rocks took a Uppie, tried ta trayfo. Uppie fo’ Unibucks.”

  Nothin’ else in pockets. “So? Wha happen?”

  “Jerries kept lookin’. Hadda dissim, fo’ safe. Karlo say if he get chance, he hannel it righ’, not like dumb Rock.”

  “Maybe should take ’im back ta Karlo.” Swee.

  “Naw.” Allatime joeys tellin Pook whatta do. Changman, Karlo, Bigsis. Like Pook can’ decide fo’ hisself. I stand. “I keep ’im.”

  Jag laugh. “Inna doorway?”

  “I gotta place.”

  “Howya gettim dere?”

  Prollem. Dunno. I stop, think. “Ya gonna help. We carry, ’fore he wake.”

  Jag say, “Innifo?”

  Glad he din’ see Unibucks. “Laserpen?” Hate ta give up, but fair be fair. Why dey help, widout innifo?

  “Naw.” Jag kick Uppie boy leg. “Boots.”

  “G’wan!” I sneer. “Noway!”

  “Carry ’im yaself!” He fold arms.

  I sigh. Jag be a stupe, but stubborn. “Okay okay,” I say, ’fore I realize I soun’ like Changman. “Not boots. Shirt.” I finga Uppie thread. “Nice ’n new.”

  “Not enough.”

  “Belt.”

  Jag glance at Swee. Nod. “Where ya take?”

  “Place.” I look at both. “Secret, like lair. Pook place. No tell.”

  Dey excite. “Where?”

  “I showy a. But Pook diss ya if ya tell. Swear. Don’ mess wid!”

  “Fadeout.” Jag make frien’ sign. “Cool.”

  I grab Uppie’s head an’ arms, Jag take middle. Swee hold legs. Dark now. Nervous time.

  I lead ’em down street ta build cross from Mid lair. Up stair in dark. Roof full a holes, so moon give ligh’. We stop fo’ breath, go ’notha stair.

  “Ya gonna stay widim allatime, he don’ run way?” Swee voice sneer.

  Wished I had Changman fo’ ansa; he know ways do things. Meantime, I gotta figga out fo’ self. But gotta hurry ta keep Jag respec’.

  “I got place.” Try ta soun’ like I knew all along. “Up nex’ stair.” Dey bitchanmoan, but comealong. Curious, now.

  We lug Uppie up ta four’ flo’. I lead Jag an’ Swee along hall. “Here.” I jump down on toppa elevate. “Gimme Uppie.”

  “Where ya puttin’ ’im?”

  “In.” I drag joey’s legs ’til he fall on toppa elevate. I push him to trap, pull it open. “Hang onta his arm, so he don’ fall har’.” We push his legs in, hold arms ’til his legs near flo’. When we leggo, he go thump.

  Swee all scorny. “Ya be glitch, Pookboy. He jus’ jump up, climb out.”

  “Naw. I showya.” I run up ta four’ flo’, ta room I been ’fore. Inna min I come back, an’ go down inna elevate.

  “Whatcha got?”

  I show ’em rope. Firs’, I take off Uppie’s green shirt, careful not rip. It ain’ mine now. Give it ta Swee like I promise. Jag pulls off joey’s belt, puts roun’ his own wais’. I rub Uppie boy’s face. Smooth, like mine. Ain’ ol’ enough fo’ shave. His ches’ white, smooth; little tufs a hair startin’ unner his arms. A smell like flower.

  I roll Uppie on stomach, pull han’s behin’ back, tie tigh’.

  “C’mon.” I climb up. Jag an’ Swee follow. We look down. “Now tell me he jump out.” My voice scorny.

  Jag shake head. “Noway, Pook.” ’Gain, his voice got respec’.

  I yank out shiv, hold near face. “I diss ya if ya tell! He mine!”

  “Fadeout, Pook. He your.” Swee nod too.

  Too late inna nigh’ ta trayfo cansa; gotta go hunger. Don’ matta. Been hunger ’fore. Think ’bout sleep in elevate, watch Uppiekit wake, but naw. I wan’ be by self, think a lotsa ways ta diss frazzin’ Changman. Go down two flo’, otha end buildin’.

  Hard ta sleep, outa lair. No blanket, no mat. Wake up in morn feelin’ grunge, pissoff. Day rainy, but I go out anyway ta trayfo, come back wid three cansa veg. I gettin’ betta; don’ get skin. Put cups out window ledge, get lotsa water drip.

  I count my Unibucks. Think ’bout givin ’em ta Karlo as innifo, but naw.

  Pookboy don’ need Mids what don’ need Pook.

  Open can, eat vegs cold. Feel betta. Time ta decide ’bout Uppie. Maybe bes’ ta dissim. I go up stair, cross hall.

  He yellin’. “Someone help! Please! Help me!”

  I jump to top of elevate, crouch. Uppie look up. We watch each otha face. He don’ say nothin’ fo’ a min. Den, “It hurts.” Wiggle his hans behin’ back.

  Could tray pants fo’ five, six cansa. Boots, I dunno. Lots. Two, three cases cansa, at leas’. Pook don’ have ta worry eat ’til winta. I jump inta elevate.

  “Don’t just stare! Help, for God’s sake! My name is Jared Tenere, and I ...I’m lost. There’s a reward.”

  Dunno who ta tray boots wid. Could try Changman, but might skin me ’gain. I gotta be careful.

  I run my hand ova his boot, admirin’. Jag crazy, thinkin’ I innifo him any thin’ so good.

  Uppie yank ’way his foot, but I drop on his legs, sit tight ta hold. Slow, not sure how, I unlace.

  “Get your hands off!” He kick and rage.

  I yank off boots, shout wid glad.

  “Damn you! Give those back!” Boy face all red.

  “Frazzin’ Uppie.” I spit; he duck ’way. Funny. I spit ’gain.

  He shriek, dodgin’ spit. “Goddamn mothafuckin’ trannie scum!”

  Don’ like. “Shut mouth, Uppie.”

  “Let me go!” He try kick me.

  I go pissoff, but remember he my trayfo. Lotsa Unibucks, maybe. “Brung cansa. Veg.” I show.

  “Jesus, where am I? Let me go!” He try ta twis’ hans loose, but can’. “Who are you?”

  “Capture. I ya capture.” Chang word. Ol’ man be proud, if he knew. I go closa, try ta pull ’im sit. Gotta feed ’im.

  “Don’touch me!” Kick me har’in shin. I hop. “Getaway, you filthy—”

  I go rage. Grab his leg, push his ches’. Down he go. “Think ya betta den trannie? Think ya own da worl’? I show ya!”

  “Scum! Garbage! Don’t touch—”

  I pushim lyin’ back, sit on stomach. Yank out shiv.

  “Jesus, don’t hurt—” He thrash’, but can’ get his hans loose from behin’.

  “Yaain’ Uppie nomo’! Jus’ trannie like res’a us! Nowya be Mid!” Wid sharp point a shiv, I slice Mid mark cross his ches’, deep so scar stay. “M”, wid Mid tail at end.

  He holler God oh God please no Jesus God. Kick and scream worse’n Jag when Karlo done his upbringin’. I climb up trap, look down ta watch. He curled in corna, sobbin’ like joeykit, blood drippin’ on stomach. On pants too, but I c’n wash ’fore I tray.

  Oh God save me, he shriek, someone help me. He wail like nino. I watch, wunner whether ta eat his can a veg, or save.

  Stupid bigmouth Uppies. Think they own da worl’.

  Chapter 19

  ROBERT

  SNUG IN MY WASHINGTON apartment, I’d just hung up from a long evening chat with Mother when the caller rang again. I eyed it with distaste.

  Like anyone in public life I had a list of friends and associates whose calls I took at home. Like anyone in elected office, my list grew to unmanageable proportions, lest I offend some supporter who wanted the cachet of direct access to his Assemblyman.

  The caller rang again, and I was tempted to ignore it. I sighed, picked it up. “Boland.”

  “Rob? Thank God.”

  “Arlene? You sound—what’s wrong?”

  “Can you come? I can’t—Adam’s in no condition—”

  A stab of fear. “Is the Captain all right? Is Adam?”

  “Yes, we—” Muffled voices in the background; her tone sharpened. “Then look again! No, leave the yard lights on all night, and keep the gate open.”

&nbs
p; I’d never heard Arlene sound anything but calm and collected, even while she was blasting away at the idiot from Worldnet in his low-flying heli. “I’ll be right over. Turn on your landing lights.”

  “Thanks, Rob. I really appreciate—”

  “See you.” I slipped into my shoes. If Arlene was distraught, it was serious. Regardless of our political differences, I had to go.

  At this hour my driver was at home with his family. No need to disturb him; I had my own keys. I rode the elevator to the roof, waited impatiently while they brought round my heli. Moments later, I was aloft.

  The compound was a mere thirty miles from my tower. Night driving was somewhat more annoying than day, if you flew by sight, but I locked onto the traffic beacons at two thousand feet. Below, a steady stream of lights surged along the Beltway’s twelve lanes.

  As I neared the compound I keyed my transponder. The guardhouse puter would flash my ID. Something had gone wrong, and someone might be trigger happy. I didn’t want an accident.

  I landed in the center of the helipad, guided by the waving lights of a guard. I switched off the motor, jumped out while the blades slowed to a halt.

  “Hello, sir. Mrs. Seafort’s in—”

  “Mr. Vishinsky, isn’t it? Shall I park to the side?”

  “No need, we’re not expecting anyone.” His expression was taut. “But you might leave your keys.”

  “Of course.”

  “Rob?” A woman’s voice, across the pad.

  “Hello, Arlene.” She hurried to meet me halfway. I said, “I take it they found Adam’s boy? Is he—”

  “Philip disappeared.” Her face was haggard.

  “Lord God. When?”

  “We learned of it this afternoon. I’m half out of my mind.” She clutched my arm. “Nick’s at his retreat. I could call him home early, but ... is it really neces—” Her voice broke.

  I guided her toward the house. “It’ll be all right.” I was the perfect politician; a soothing inanity for every crisis. “Did you eat? I thought not. We’ll sit in the kitchen, and you’ll tell me all about it.” We were at her door; I guided her through.

  She braced her hand against the doorframe, as if to resist. “Rob, don’t condescend. I’m in no mood for it.”

  “I—but—” I swallowed.

  “If I eat I’ll throw up. I’m frightened for my brainless genius son. If—when I find him I’ll paddle his scrawny behind, but for now I’m worried sick.”

  “Of course. I would be too.”

  “How could you know? You never had a child.” Her hand darted to her mouth. “Oh, Rob, forgive me. Didn’t I tell you I’m out of my mind?”

  “I understand.” I tried to keep my voice flat.

  She buried her face in my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. You’re the last joey I’d want to hurt.”

  My resistance melted. “Of course, Arlene.” I glanced about with vague unease. If some twit captured the scene with a holocamera, he’d cause us no end of embarrassment.

  She led me inside, to the kitchen. “A drink? A sandwich?”

  “Whatever you’ll have.” While she set teacups in the micro I loosened my tie. “What do we know?”

  “P.T. never showed up at his tutor. Or his psych.” She slid a note across the table. I perused the boyish script.

  “You’ve questioned the guards?”

  “The note was a lie. He never asked the guards to drive him.”

  “How’d he get through the gate?”

  “They’re not sure. Probably during the night. They heard a crash and clatter. The guard went out to check, but found no one. I assume that’s when P.T. slipped through. The alarms don’t sound if the guardhouse door’s opened from within.”

  “What was the noise?”

  “A pair of frying pans. Mine.” Her lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “I’d guess he threw them over the wall to distract Mr. Tzee. When I get hold of him ...” She poured our tea, sat again.

  “Why did he run away?”

  “Who knows?” Her eyes teared. “Don’t we treat him well?”

  “What does Adam say?”

  “He’s not sure what to think. The state he’s been in, since Jared left ...” She sipped. “Jared is truly awful; he stole his father’s Terrex card. If it weren’t for Philip ...” She explained P.T.’s suggestion that they search Adam’s accounts.

  “Is there a connection?”

  “With P.T. disappearing? Christ, I hope not.”

  “Do you have a Terrex?”

  Her mouth tightened. “Yes, and it’s still in my wallet. There are no charges. Philip wouldn’t steal, unless I truly don’t know him.” She swirled her tea. “Adam told the police about his missing card. They put an alert on the credit nets.”

  “Any luck?”

  “They traced the card to Von Walther Shuttleport. Nothing since.”

  “So that means he’s in New—”

  “No, it means the card is. Jared may be in a ditch with his throat slit.” She covered her face. “So may P.T.”

  I was careful with my words. I’d been slapped down once for being inane. No need to be brutal, but Arlene wanted truth. “It’s possible.” Her eyes shot up. “But highly unlikely,” I said quickly. “Philip will be back. Is he old enough for a girlfriend?”

  “A platonic one, at most.” She smiled. “Truth is, he has almost no friends near his own age.” Her smile faded. “Except Jared.”

  “Could Jar have set this up? Or called him?”

  “We’ve had no calls. I haven’t checked the nets for mail.”

  Footsteps; a knock. “May I join you?” Adam.

  Arlene rose. “Of course. Any word?”

  “Nothing.” Adam turned to me. “Rob.”

  “Good to see you, sir.” I clasped his hand. “The jerries called me twice on the search for Jared. There’s no sign of him. They’re concentrating on New York.”

  He sat wearily. “What should we do?”

  “Wait,” I said. “There’s nothing else.” I looked to Arlene. “Did you notify the police about Philip?”

  “No.” She knotted her fist.

  Adam said, “I urged her to. She won’t listen.”

  She said, “Tomorrow, whenever, P.T. may come back on his own. If we call for help, they’ll splash Nick’s face across every holozine in home system, and that will mortify him.”

  I said, “The Captain would want—”

  “Furthermore, an announcement will set every loonie on the continent looking for Philip. It could put him in danger.”

  I cleared my throat. “Wait a day, see what happens.”

  Adam said, “At least we know Jared went to New York. Without P.T.’s advice we’d be in the dark.”

  I asked, “Did you cancel your card?”

  “No.” He blushed.

  “Adam!”

  “Two reasons. If he’s in trouble, he might need—”

  “The hell with that. He deserves—”

  “And it might help track him.”

  I hadn’t thought that far. “But he could bankrupt you.”

  “He’s my son.” Adam’s voice was tired. “Yes, I know. At times I despise myself.”

  Arlene snapped, “Belay that. I hear it enough from Nick!” A gentle squeeze of her hand softened her words. “Adam, you’re doing your best.”

  Two boys disappearing within days was no coincidence. I couldn’t see how a bright joey like Philip had much respect for a fraz like Jared, but one never knew.

  Had they gone off together? In that case, why leave separately? Why would he alert Jared’s father about the Terrex card, unless ...

  “It’s connected.” I looked up, interrupting their soft conversation. “P.T. disappeared because Jared did. I’d stake my career on it. And that credit card ... show me P.T.’s note.”

  Adam retrieved it.

  I read aloud. “‘See what money Jared could have taken with him.’ He already knew, Adam. He practically rubbed your nose in it.”

 
“Why couldn’t he tell me outright?”

  “A remnant of loyalty, perhaps. Who knows? The point is, I know what’s happened to P.T.” The two of them watched me as if expecting an oracular pronouncement. “He went looking for Jared.”

  It got their attention, though they weren’t ready to believe me. The more we argued, the surer I became, and the more distraught I made Arlene. She paced the kitchen, mouth set in a tight line, while Adam and I reviewed and discarded all other possibilities.

  At length she held up a hand. “It’s all speculation. Let’s wait until morning, when we may know more. Then you’ll help me decide whether to call Nicky home.” She eyed us both. “You know what his annual retreat means to him. The Benedictines won’t allow calls, but I presume I could get through. On the other hand ...” She crossed the room, stopped to stare into my eyes. “Rob, this goes no further, regardless of politics. Agreed?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “You have my oath.”

  “I’m ... afraid for Nicky. If anything happ—if P.T. has an ...” Her voice grew determined. “If P.T. dies, Nicky might suicide.”

  “Good lord.”

  “He’s fragile. You can’t imagine what his son means to him. He’s already lost two families. I don’t think he could stand losing anyone else.” Her lip quivered for the slightest instant. “If I call, he’ll be in an agony of worry, whether or not he leaves Lancaster. I’d spare him that, if I knew P.T. would come trooping home with his silly grin. But if I don’t reach Nick, and something happens ...” She didn’t finish.

  By unspoken agreement, I spent the night in the compound. Luckily, the General Assembly wasn’t in session, so my time was my own. Before turning off my light I called Dad, told him I’d have to skip the Hudson Freshwater expansion hearings because of an urgent personal commitment. He wasn’t happy, but didn’t ask the particulars. Dad gave me credit for common sense, if not punctuality.

  I tossed and turned, grimly aware that only a week ago, in this same bedroom, Dad and I had calmly plotted the discredit of our host.

  Politics.

  In the morning we breakfasted on the terrace. Still no word from P.T., but Adam fielded a call from the Police Commissioner of New York District. He listened, grunted, asked a few sharp questions.

  When he rang off, he shrugged. “I suppose its good news, in a way. Jared was spotted yesterday in the New York Sheraton Skytel.”