Twelve Days

by Steven Barnes

  That reddish tint to his vision sharpened. Oh, yes, he most certainly had their attention now. “You assaulted them?”

  “I used sufficient force to free their victim.” Phrasing was everything. “And found the girl, who had been rendered unconscious.”

  “Write down your name,” Mitch said. “And her address.”

  Terry and Nicki did as they were asked, and handed it over.

  The cop studied the result. “Where are these men now?”

  “I left them at the house, unconscious. We got the hell out, in their vehicle.”

  A raised eyebrow. “Why?”

  “It was handy.” They were looking at him very curiously now.

  “I’ll check this out. Do you mind?”

  “No. Please.”

  Mitch took the slip out to the car, which was parked in the lot right outside.

  The other cops assumed an attitude that seemed some odd intersection of suspicion, solicitude, and fascination. “Please sit down. Now, young lady … you said that your mother was taken. You saw this?”

  “I didn’t say she was taken,” Nicki said. “I said that I think she was taken. There’s a difference.”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Terry had to bite his lip to keep from smiling at that answer.

  “All right,” the officer said, conceding the point. “What makes you think that they took her?”

  “And my brother,” Nicki added.

  The cop nodded. “And your brother.”

  Terry could see Mitch out in the parking lot, staring into the little tactical laptop hinged to his dashboard. He had typed briefly, then paused. A startled look spread over his face. He looked up at the diner, then down, then up again … then picked up his intercom.

  The hair at the back of Terry’s neck flamed.

  Something was happening, and it was affecting the men around him. One at a time they touched their fingers to their ears, and when they looked at him, their eyes hardened.

  The people around Terry began to shift. The cops were starting to pick up on the fact that something was wrong out in the parking lot. Mitch somehow seemed to be larger, more solid, as if he had both swollen and increased in density. He got out of the police car and came back into the diner, his hand resting on the butt of his service revolver.

  The younger cop was still talking. “… and you rendered them unconscious. With your hands. You one of those karate guys? MMA or something?” The cop was still smiling at him, but his eyes had frozen into gun barrels. In addition, the diner was becoming quiet.

  Terry watched the cops around him as they began to bracket him. Every one of them seemed surrounded by a muddy, bloody whirlpool. Black shifting toward red, until the air resembled a swath of Ukranian flags. “What’s wrong?” he asked, already certain he knew.

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  The other cop had reached the table. “Sir. Step away from the table.”

  He had his service weapon leveled directly at Terry’s chest. From kitchen to cash register, the room went deadly silent.

  “I see,” Terry said.

  Nicki paled at least two shades. “Terry…?”

  “Don’t worry,” Terry said. “Everything will be fine.”

  He stood.

  “Sir, you are under arrest.”

  “For what? Assault?”

  The barrel of the Smith & Wesson .38 was as huge as a train tunnel. “For threatening the security of the president of the United States.”

  Somebody had hacked Homeland Security. Father Geek. You son of a bitch. Terry closed his eyes, the corners of his mouth ticking upward in comprehension and grudging admiration.

  “Place your hands behind your back, please, sir.”

  Terry sighed. Relaxed completely, slumping his shoulders in surrender. And then … he moved.

  But only in his mind.

  In his imagination, the air around him became a choreographed ballet of twisting bodies and reaction probabilities. Responses. Men diving, raising guns, lines of fire, patrons diving frantically out of the way, anticipating a hail of bullets.

  A thousand possibilities, a million responses.

  The world became like one of those rotating mirrored disco balls, each facet revealing a new potential reality.

  RESPONSE: A twisting evasion in response to a grab. It ended with a cop pointing his sidearm at a woman and child.

  RESPONSE: Another movement option, in reaction to a looping punch. The sequence of twists, chops, and deflections ended with a whirling breakfall that shattered a cop’s collarbone.

  RESPONSE: Another movement option as a cop leaped at them like a defensive lineman flinging his body into a running back at the five-yard line. A pile of twisted, groaning customers and cops. Nicki shrieking with a broken arm.

  RESPONSE: (In between each fractured bit of perception, the others in the diner were moving toward him, away from him, piling through the door, scrambling over the counter, injuring themselves and each other in the process…) Terry’s inner vision swirled and swarmed with motion, blindingly fast and simultaneously slow as melting ice—dodge, deflect, position cops between each other so that they tangled each other’s arms and legs; grab Nicki; hip throw one cop into another—and then, miraculously, he was through the press.

  Blue sky.

  He’d found the sequence he had sought. Terry smiled, and began the dance.

  Now in actuality rather than imagination, the diner transformed into a cacophony of screams and splintering furniture. At every moment he was shielded by a falling or fleeing body so that the police were unable to shoot without risking the life of a civilian or brother officer. Terry flowed through the openings and around the obstructions, all the while carrying Nicki under one arm like a squirming, squealing sack of potatoes.

  A continuous flow of motion. Uninterrupted. Fluid. Moving with the speed of a rock falling in a vacuum. Down the aisle between tables and finally through the door, slamming a young cop back into the others as he cleared the threshold.

  “Come on!” Terry yelled.

  He was all the way to their van before he realized he still had Nicki tucked under his arm. He dropped her, whipped the door open, shoved her in, sprinted to the driver’s side, jumped into his seat, slammed the key into the lock, gunned the engine, and peeled out. They were around the corner before the first cop made it out of the restaurant. Pax slimed the side window with saliva and warm breath as she barked and howled at their pursuers.

  * * *

  “God damn it!” Mitch tripped over his partner, sprawled to the snow-speckled ground, and bounced back up. Blood streamed from his nose. “Did anyone see what he was driving?”

  “A van, I think,” a pedestrian said.

  “A station wagon?” another ventured.

  “What color?”

  “Green?” the first said.

  “Blue?”

  “Shit!” Mitch was now almost hysterically frustrated. He had bloodied his own nose in the melee. If he thought about it, the guy had kicked all of their asses without doing extreme damage to anyone in the process. What in the hell was that? What kind of freak were they dealing with?

  “This is car twelve-oh-three calling a code two,” the cop said into his microphone. “Be on the alert for a van, color blue or green. Or a station wagon. Color blue or green. Heading west. The driver is an African-American male, wanted for questioning by Homeland Security in relation to the threats and recent spate of assassinations…”

  * * *

  Terry slowed after turning left onto Dixon Lane, slid across three lanes of traffic, and turned left onto a residential street. Three minutes of zigging and zagging took him to another major boulevard, where he spotted a covered parking lot. He pulled into the driveway, got his ticket from the machine, and sought a space in the deepest shadowed pocket of the second level.

  “W-what are we doing?” Nicki asked, teeth chattering with adrenaline.

  “We have to change vehicles. Now. There are sate
llites, and you’d better believe Homeland Security is on the job.”

  “Why are they after you?”

  “I have friends with a nasty sense of humor.” What had the Pirates wanted? Him arrested? Killed? How did that help them …

  And then he realized. If he was killed outright, they were free and clear to continue their plans. If he was captured, all they had to do was destroy evidence of conspiracy, and either O’Shay would go down, or they’d be free to find another way to take a whack at the bastard. And Mark always had backup plans.

  Terry drove into the long-term parking section, then spotted a space and slid in. He unscrewed the license plate. Then he began searching for another vehicle.

  “What are you looking for?” Nicki asked.

  “An old car,” he said. “Something last century.”

  “W-why?”

  “Mechanical locks. Easier to … ah! Here we go.”

  A big powder-blue Chevy was parked between a Fiat and a little silver Prius. Late 70s, he figured, and just about perfect. He jimmied open the door, and then performed some wire yanking and crossing magic. The ignition responded with a roar.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Get Pax!” Terry said. Nicki squealed with delight and ran back to the van, slid the door open, and let the Great Dane bound out. Pax lumbered in, followed by Nicki. Ninety seconds later Terry had paid his ticket and rolled out onto the boulevard.

  He parked on a side street and improvised a screwdriver from his pocket knife to switch license plates. Nicki watched him. “So what do we do now? How do we find Mom?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I’m not sure. But they’re looking for us. Maybe the people who grabbed your mom. Maybe something else.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Good time to be. So am I.” And … he was. He felt it. Something was changing inside him. He had been running at breakneck speed for three days, and all of that fatigue was tumbling toward him like an avalanche. Whatever fire had sustained him at such an amazing level was starting to recede. His hands trembled on the wheel. Adrenaline dump, or something even worse. He struggled to keep Nicki from seeing it. From a state of feeling like Superman, he felt like Clark Kent the night after a kryptonite-enhanced bachelor party.

  Luck was with him. Nicki had noticed nothing amiss, apparently still in awe of his diner display. This would be easier if he could keep her from panicking. “You’re scared? It’s hard to believe anyone who can do what you did would be afraid of anything.” She stared at him with some emotion balanced between awe and disbelief. “Where did you learn to do that? Are you like Morpheus or something?”

  “I took the red pill, that’s for sure.” The weariness foamed up like clouds of boiling ink, dampening light. But if he focused … there were still little sparks in the darkness, and he dove into them. The moment he did, he felt lighter again. On some deep level he reckoned that he was tapping into emergency reserves, that there would be a price for this, a price to be paid in full measure. But later. Please God, later.

  Not now, while Nicki needed him. “Where did I learn to fight like that? Here and there … no.” He stopped. Shook his head. “That’s not true. I learned it from a very remarkable woman.”

  “This Madame Gupta Mom raved about?”

  “Yes.” A light seemed to flash on in his head. “And … she might be just who we need to protect you. She just might have an answer for us.”

  “Can we go to her?” The sense of hope had blossomed in her as well.

  “Yeah. I think I can find her. I think that’s exactly what I should do.”

  License plate secured, the two of them got back into the vehicle and peeled out.

  CHAPTER 36

  A smiling, plain, and boyish Filipina calling herself Sister Blossom escorted Olympia and Hannibal to their apartment. Sister Blossom was accompanied by three unsmiling guards.

  “And this is where you will stay while you are with us,” Blossom said. “Isn’t it pleasant?”

  Olympia looked over the room quickly. Noncommittal on the outside, internally she noted that the decor bore an uncanny resemblance to their own house, the same earth tones and glass, a sofa that matched the tan rollaway in her living room, and windows with the same dark brown drapes. The implications were ugly. She turned to Sister Blossom. “What is your job here?”

  The Filipina smiled blissfully. Whatever was going on here, this woman knew nothing of the evil, of that much Olympia was certain. “It is my pleasure to provide for our guests.”

  Olympia watched Hannibal run into the living room and immediately turn on the flat-screen television perched on a burnished-oak media stand.

  Just like theirs.

  Brightly colored animals performed various athletic feats and breakdance moves, competing in an endless video game loop. Hannibal was enchanted, more engaged with his environment than usual. By far. “There are others like us here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

  Information is power.

  Sister Blossom’s smile made her plain face almost beautiful. “Oh, from what I’ve heard I don’t think there’s anyone quite like this little man. You’ll have fun.” She said the last in a conspiratorial tone.

  “Are you aware that we are held here against our will? That my son and I were kidnapped?” She focused in on Sister Blossom’s face, looking for any shift of eyes, tic of mouth, shift of balance. Nothing. The woman was a null. “Does this even matter to you?”

  Sister Blossom took Olympia’s hand and peered into her eyes. “I know that it feels that way to you. But we are more than flesh. Your spirit cried out for us, for what we can offer you, and what we have to offer your son.”

  Olympia gripped her hand. “I’m not sure you are hearing me. We have been kidnapped. Men came to the Golden Dream community center and took us at the point of a gun. Do you understand?”

  Sister Blossom’s smile never wavered, but two small vertical creases appeared between her brows. Confusion, not anger. “I’m sure you remember things that way. But you are mistaken. In time, all things will be clear. You asked us for help—” When Olympia opened her mouth to protest, Blossom raised a chiding finger. Olympia wanted to slap her.

  “If not in this life, then in another. This is what I know: you are only to be here for a few days. You’ll be home before New Year’s. And after that time, your son will be whole. If you wish to remain with us, we would love it. But these things are delicate. It isn’t about you. It is about what is good for your boy. Wouldn’t you agree with that? Isn’t that what all mothers want?”

  Olympia was aware that she wasn’t quite communicating. “Mothers want a lot of things,” she said. “I’m starting to think what I want doesn’t matter much.” This was not a bad woman. This was that very rare and dangerous being, the True Believer. And that made her even more difficult to predict, let alone bribe or persuade. “I’ll cope.”

  Sister Blossom seemed relieved, as if she had finally taught a recalcitrant kitten to use the litter box. “Well then. You’ll see. Your boy is very special.

  “Come on, Hannibal. Let me show you something.” Hannibal allowed himself to be led to one of the bedrooms. “This is yours!” The posters on his walls were scenes from The Lego Movie, as well as various superheroes and Pixar films. She’d seen them all before. In the same arrangement.

  Hannibal seemed ecstatic again, oddly engaged with his environment, eager to examine everything. From time to time, he looked up to the corner of the room. Then he stared up into the corner, and pressed his hands against his ears.

  Odd.

  Olympia’s throat tightened, and when she spoke her voice was low and hard. “You were in our home.” The anger and fear felt as if her scalp was frying. How long had these terrible people spied upon them? This had taken time.

  “Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Olympia’s voice went dead. “When were you in our home? What are you up to? What is this all about?”

  Sister Blossom wagg
ed her head, almost as if talking to a naughty child. “I think it might be best if you rest. Don’t agitate your boy. See if you can get him to take a nap. He has a big day coming up. A big, big day.”

  Sister Blossom closed the door. It clicked shut behind her, followed by a low machine sound, like a bolt being geared into place. Hannibal stopped running around the room. “Not home,” he said. He pressed his hands against his ears again. “Looks like home,” he repeated. “Not home.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not home.”

  Hannibal looked sad. Scared. Hurt. He squeezed at his fingers until his knuckles whitened. Something was hurting him. A sound? She couldn’t hear a thing. “Where is Nicki? Want my Nicki.”

  “I don’t know if we want her here. We just want her safe, and this isn’t safe. Come on, hon, let’s look around.”

  They began to examine the space. The living room window looked down on the courtyard and the topiary maze.

  “Animals,” Hannibal said.

  “Yes. Animals. I wonder if we can get out to see them?”

  She tested the window. It was sealed. Reinforced. She suspected that she might be able to break it, if that would accomplish anything. Right now, she didn’t see how it would. She put that out of her mind for the moment, and began inspecting other aspects of their not-home away from home. The corners and walls, the living room minibar, the bathroom and microkitchen. Was there anything they could use? Anything that offered escape, or communication? There was a phone line, but no phone. Was there any way to tap into it?

  She bet Terry would know.

  Hannibal threw his arms around his mother’s neck.

  “This is not our home,” he whispered to her.

  “No, it’s not our home.”

  He looked directly up into the corner of the room. “You’re hurting me!” he screamed at the wall, small fists screwed into his ears. “It hurts!” He made more sounds, but they were unintelligible, just rage and fear and pain. He sprinted in circles, slamming into the wall before Olympia grabbed and held him. Hannibal writhed and struggled in her arms, panting like a little steam engine, eyes wide and wild, but no longer fighting to escape.