by Brian Toal
One by one they left their cars and, moving quickly through the rain or snapping umbrellas above their heads, they walked up the cracked and chipped sidewalk to the Rutherford's front door. They had a problem. Really, several problems - and tonight they needed to determine some answers.
There was no coffee served, no delectable tid-bits - although an hour into their conference Jonathan Whitmore would heave his gigantic body off of the tiny kitchen chair he had been assigned, take a massive crap in the Rutherford's toilet and then raid Beth's cupboards for a half a pack of chocolate chip cookies - they had business to discuss and social frivolities would never interest them again.
Their master, administrator, mentor and director wasn't in the room. It was elsewhere, immobile as ever, its location unknown but to a few, but present in all of its faculties, each aware of its interest.
A man, greying at the temples and dressed in a nondescript business suit, finished his report, multiple pages clutched in one hand. "...so we are unaware of the whereabouts of the boy. State Police have been notified in all of the Mid-western and Western states. We have a twenty-four-hour watch on his grandparents’ condo in Seattle, but they are away on a two-week cruise up to Alaska and won't be back for another ten days. We’ll keep up the surveillance of their home though, as it’s there our psychologists have predicted the boy will go."
"Did the FBI think about checking busses, trains, aeroplanes - other methods of transportation?" Jonathan Whitmore asked, his smooth hairless hands steepled before him, his knuckles, dimples in the flab of each swollen finger. "You seem determined to believe he is hitchhiking. Why?"
"We know he is - or was anyway. Several members of the emergency teams spotted a boy matching his description hitchhiking on the ramp of the interstate, on the morning after the fire. Since then we have collected additional information that he may have been hitchhiking in Northern California, close to the Oregon border."
"And the emergency teams just let him stand there? He was the whole purpose of the warrant."
The uniformed officer from Detroit answered. "They were unaware of any warrant. They were just cleaning up the mess and, as all of you are aware, we never had a warrant out for the boy."
"Yes, I’m aware of that." Jonathan said, exhibiting little emotion, but his disdain for police officers in general apparent. "And why was that? We don't give a damn about his parents. Why didn't the officer in charge go directly after the kid?"
All of them winced, as the voice erupted within their minds. Overwhelming. Captivating. Their instructor and master. It spoke for a few seconds only, followed by a longer silence as those present fought to regain control of senses.
"I see..." Jonathan continued. The decision had come from elsewhere. "Well, with all the resources of the U. S. of A's Federal Bureau of Investigation and our own overpriced Detroit Police Department..." There was no animosity in his voice, it was a learned habit - heaping scorn on any and all police forces. He had convinced many a jury of the incompetence of the nation's police departments. "...we should be able to do more than just post his picture in a few police locker rooms and watch an old couple's house."
"It’s a very difficult situation." The man from the FBI continued. "If he was an adult, we could construct some charges and do a TV and radio campaign - big time stuff - and we would probably have him in twenty-four hours. But he is not an adult, he is not even a nasty-looking kid. So, there is no way we can put together a campaign that would convince anyone that a twelve-year-old boy is of any real threat to the people of our nation - and if we did, someone would likely shoot him before we got to him anyway."
"So, what’s your plan?" One of the elected city councillors asked. He had no knowledge of police procedures.
"We’ve staked out the bus and train stations within the general area. But, I’ll have to call those people in shortly, as I’m getting some flak from Washington." He paused and then, raising his voice, he spoke not to the people present, but to the walls and ceiling. "My position doesn't allow me to do much more than I’m doing and, unless we recruit some more people in my department, I won't be able to continue what I am doing much longer." He paused waiting for some response. Then shrugging his shoulders, he continued. "Anyway, it’s likely the boy has moved on and is out of the immediate area. Possibly he is in Oregon or even Washington by now. So what I’ve done - and it took a lot of manipulation within various departments - I have posted him as a kidnapping victim and have encouraged the national networks to run a profile on him. I have also pinned to the notice that the victim has a serious neurological problem when stressed and he needs to be restrained and hooded when found. I also emphasized they must call us immediately when he is found, then we can stress the importance of the hood."
The others nodded as the city offical continued, "he probably thinks both of his parents are dead. I mean, it was a hell of a fire. Why wouldn't he come back here? He lives in Detroit."
Jonathan spoke up brusquely, "he won't come back here, because..." They all jerked upright in their seats as the voice spoke again. A few moments after it had finished, Jonathan continued, less forcefully than before. "Well, there you go...he won't be returning here, unless we can compel him to return."
"Why is this kid so important?"
"You don't know?" Jonathan asked, surprised at his ignorance.
The official shook his head and the rest waited for an overpowering explanation. None came. Slowly they turned their heads towards Beth, who had sat silent until now. She paused, waiting a little longer and then began.
"He was the first. He is the eyes and ears. We are too, but only indirectly. Chris, the boy you are all talking about, is directly linked and he is the only one. He will eventually be the spokesperson for us all. It is unfortunate..." She stopped, waiting to see if she would be reprimanded for her thoughts, "...that he is so young and, therefore his response to crisis less predicable than a more mature individual’s might be."
"But why is he not here now and..." the counsellor paused, he too, waited to see if he would be punished for his thoughts "...and is afraid to return?" He added softly.
"Unfortunately, Chris was transported several hundred miles away almost immediately after his indoctrination. As you all know, communication is impossible over that distance. You should also be aware..." Again Beth paused waiting to see if what she was about to say would be allowed "...Chris is not like us. He is not a true member. He is independent, free of our mutual responsibilities and able to function autonomously from our community."
"Why?"
"He was never supposed to be separated so quickly. He was designed as our prime agent. A massive depository of facts and emotions. Able to travel and then report directly, so that all of us could share his feelings, thoughts, sights and information. It is difficult for us to function, as a whole, without him. He was our direct link and it was planned he would orchestrate and conduct our entire society."
"He seems like a poor choice!" Jonathan stopped quickly, his massive jowls flopping as he realized his mistake. All of them sat ridged at the table, bodies tensed, awaiting the thundering voice that would reverberate within their skulls.
Nothing. Each looked at the others waiting. Seconds past. Nothing. Jonathan relaxed. "What I meant was...he doesn't seem to have much discipline. Running off across the continent - granted, his parents probably had something to with that decision - but then starting that great bloody fire out there in California. All those people dying. He seams to be a bit of a trouble maker."
Beth nodded. "I understand what you’re saying Jonathan but, as I mentioned, Chris is not like us. He was eventually supposed to be our independent and fully cognisant speaker. Our spokesperson to the world. He really is no longer just a boy, part of it is in him. He has new, very powerful skills, which he is undoubtedly learning to use, which protect him from hazards a person representing a powerful authority would normally fear. It had all been planned for - except I removed him too soon."
"Why is h
e so violent then?"
"Chris was never violent, but he has been altered. Any time he perceives a threat against his well-being or especially his life, he will react. He can't stop himself. The main problem is, he is a twelve-year-old boy. His judgment isn't too good."
TEN - TWO
As they sat around the simple dining room table in Detroit, the boy of their discussions, climbed a set of narrow wooden stairs, bolted to the clapboard side of a plumbing shop on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon. At the top of the open stairs, there was a small landing covered with a decaying piece of shag carpeting. Music reverberated through the cheap panel door and Chris turned, looking uncertainly down the stairs at Jon.
Jon noticed Chris' hesitation. "It's my roommate, Jim. Sounds like he is having a bit of a bash."
Pushing by Chris, Jon turned the handle. A blast of hot air and a maelstrom of sound poured by him, engulfing Chris in all of the combined effects of the party. Cigarette and marijuana smoke, wafted from the doorway, raised voices clamoured above the blaring music - the beery sound of intoxicated males, inebriated with each others companionship and several of life’s vices. Chris stood transfixed on the landing, peering around from behind Jon as the people within turned to greet the new arrival.
"Jon!" A chorus of greetings. "Hey, Jon is back, let's party down!" As if they had not even begun, all the happenings before merely a preamble to the real thing.
"Hey, Jon, buddy..." A burly young man, with a three or four day growth of beard darkening his cheeks, pushed his way through the small room. "...I invited some dudes over for a bash - hope you don't mind. Al got his crop in and it is great weed man."
"No problem." Jon stepped into the room, giving his roommate a casual slap on the back, grinning as Jim craned his neck to look over Jon's shoulder.
"Who the hell’s that?"
Jon wrapped his arm around Jim's shoulders and turned with him to face Chris, still standing outside on the landing. "Jim, I’d like you to meet Chris. One of the most fucked up kids I’ve ever met. Chris and I are going to go on a trip..." He grabbed the half-full beer out of Jim's hand and in two gulps finished it off. "But, tonight he’ll be crashing here."
"He’s just a kid."
"Yep, that he is, but a kid who is old beyond his years."
Jim shrugged, reaching out with his right hand. "Hi."
Chris stepped forward into the warmth of the room and took Jim's proffered hand. "Hi." He replied shyly.
It was a small place. Two sagging couches on opposite walls. The stereo and two speakers jammed onto a table behind the door, with an additional two speakers standing to each side of the doorway to the kitchen. The room was crowded, all the available seating occupied, with many forced to stand but, as Chris closed the door behind him and pressed his back up against it, he realized that, at most, there were only twenty people present. The cramped space provided only an illusion of multitudes. Jon leaned down, speaking over the blare of the music. "Wait here, buddy, I want to grab another beer and take a piss."
Chris nodded silently, his eyes still investigating the many faces in the room.
Jon left, crossing the room, stopping twice to chat with a group sitting on one of the couches and another by the door to the kitchen, before he disappeared through the kitchen into unseen parts of the apartment beyond. Jim gave Chris an uncertain smile and then turned away to reclaim his seat on the arm of the sofa closest to the stereo.
Chris pressed his back against the door, its firmness providing the only security he felt in the room. This was the sort of party his Mother had warned him about. As if he or Todd or any of their friends, back in Detroit, would have ever been invited to such a bash. The group on the couch, where Jim had perched himself, were in the process of rolling up a joint. A pretty blonde girl, sitting in the centre, had a plastic bag open on the coffee table in front of her. Scissoring at the leafy marijuana bud in her hand, she trimmed off enough to fill the cigarette paper. Her friend, sitting beside her, reached over and picked up a few of the scraps that had fallen elsewhere on the table and added them to the pile. The two girls shared a joke, their heads together, bent over the table. Then the blonde girl sat up, her pink tongue licking the edge of the cigarette paper and her eyes met Chris'.
He looked away quickly, embarrassed. There was no sight of Jon and Chris supposed he must still be using the toilet.
"More beers?" A man dressed in jeans and a black motorcycle jacket called from the doorway to the kitchen. There was a chorus of yeses and he disappeared. Chris was beginning to feel a bit foolish, standing immobile against the door, and was keenly aware of his size and age.
He really was a little kid, in comparison with these young adults, smoking marijuana and drinking beer with decisive abandon. He looked down at himself, his white running shoes and his new jeans, already wearing at the knees. His white T-shirt, with the ketchup stains from McDonald's staining the belly, the glint of metal from the cluster of State pins attached to the collar of his windbreaker. He was a child - no more than that. All the knowledge that he had accumulated, all the trauma he had experienced, all the years he felt he had aged over the last few weeks, and he was still a little boy. What was he doing, he wondered. How could he have been so stupid? To think that he, a pre-pubescent twelve-year-old with a little collection of State pins on his collar - a collection he had been so proud of - could really accomplish anything. Adults were so domineering, so self-possessed, so assured, so much...in control. In comparison, he felt so young, so foolish, so inadequate.
There was an explosion of laughter by the doorway to the kitchen and Chris looked up. Jon was back. A beer clutched in one hand and one of his perpetually bent Camels, in the other. He said a few more words to the group by the door, then strode purposefully across the room to stand by the stereo. Speaking a few words in Jim's ear, he cranked the volume down to zero. There was silence in the room, shouted conversations chopped off to nothing as everyone looked towards the source of the sudden serenity. Jon lifted his beer before him in a silent toast to those gathered before him.
"Everybody..." he spoke, his voice loud in the small room, then reaching out with his free hand, he pulled Chris over beside him "I'd like you to meet Chris. I picked him up hitchhiking in California..."
"Hey, Jon, I didn't know you were that type of guy." Someone shouted from the opposite side of the room.
"Yeah right..." Jon answered scornfully. "He and I have been travelling together for most of the day and I'll tell ya, he’s a real cool guy. He knows more and is smarter than all of us fuck-heads put together. So, give him a chance and treat him right. He’s going to crash here tonight and...he’s my friend."
Jon put his beer down and cranked the volume back up to where it had been before.
Chris felt the pressure increase on his shoulder as Jon crouched down beside him. "Ya got to forgive these guys, they’re cool too, but they’re partying on some major excellent weed tonight. Some of them will probably get a little baked."
Chris still felt intolerably insecure. Looking back over Jon's shoulder, he saw the man in the motorcycle jacket bend down and press his lips against the blond girl's, sucking a lung-full of smoke out of her mouth. "I don't know Jon..." all his bravado lost, "...I don't really belong. Do you think they want me to stay here?"
"Who cares? It’s my place. And Jim doesn't mind - he thinks it’s a little weird - but he doesn't care. So, who cares what the others think?"
"But...what do I do?"
"Shit, I don't know. Hang out. Some of these people are pretty cool." Jon turned and scanned the crowd. "See that girl over there on the couch. The dark haired one, beside Jeanne."
There were only two girls sitting on the couch, one blonde - which had to be Jeanne - and the other. Chris nodded.
"That's Carman. She lives in the apartment on the other side of the building and she’s studying to be a teacher. I'll introduce you to her." Jon stood up and with a gentle shove against Chris' back, guided him across the room.
"Hey, make room for the kid." Jon said to a young man sporting a fashionable goatee. The only beard he could grow, Chris figured, noticing his otherwise smooth cheeks. He took a proffered joint from the girl they had crossed the room to meet, and then pushed himself up from the couch, leaving a space between the worn arm and Carman. "Chris..." Jon pushed Chris forward "...this is Carman. She’s practising to become a school teacher."
"I have almost a whole year to go, but soon." She smiled up at Chris. "Do you want to sit down?"
Chris nodded and with one last gentle shove from Jon, carefully settled himself against the arm, keeping as much distance between himself and the girl as he could.
"So..." She asked as Jon moved away. "...how did you meet Jon?"
"He picked me up hitchhiking." Chris replied, knowing she knew the answer. There wasn't enough room on the couch and he felt the warmth from her hip seeping through his jeans. She was quite beautiful, Chris decided, although he was by no means a great judge of beauty, having not had the years nor the interest in becoming a connoisseur. Her brown, almost black hair, flowed in thick waves over her shoulders and down her back. Her brown eyes glistened - probably because of all the smoke in the room - but when she looked at Chris, he felt drawn into their depths. He also felt, terribly, terribly timid.