Lucy ducks into a convenience store, in need of coffee and a pastry. She didn’t land any assignments for today, so thank God she doesn’t have to turn around and go to work. She’s going to have a hot bath, eat a lot, and hopefully sleep. Inside the store, it’s hot and steamy and already full of regulars, their puffy parkas cramping up the space. She feels it then, a jolt in her chest. Looks sideways. His name is Ivan. He bunks a few blocks over on Summer Street. He’s a tremulous, worn-out specimen who’s spent too many years on the cheap dope that’s all bunkers can afford. Lucy’s always surprised to see he’s lived another day.
“Hey, Lucy,” he says. “You O.K.?”
“Same old, same old.”
“Get me a coffee?”
“Sure,” she nods. “Grab a Danish, too.”
She gathers up a newspaper from the pile, pulls out her wallet. Someone says it’s mighty cold, and she ought to be dressed better for a day like this. She ignores him, unfolding bills on the counter. There are murmurs all around, disapproval, mostly. She picks the paper up, scans the front page.
And sees his face.
Black hair, staring blue eyes, pinched little lips.
It is like being socked in the head: everything goes dark at the edges of her vision, a cold metallic band presses like a vise around her skull.
A beat. Another beat.
Then awareness of her breath caught in her chest, tight as a fist. She lets it go. She makes herself move, pushes out the door, and almost trips down the steps. She walks up the sidewalk clutching the paper with his face turned in, so no one sees. All the way up to her building she keeps the paper clutched this way: it’s someone else’s face, it’s got to be.
But it’s him.
As she goes down the landing, she hears the click of a lock undone.
“Why do you do this?” Mrs. Kim demands. “You are a rude young thing.”
Lucy stares at the slight, hunched, malevolent Mrs. Kim without comprehension. She cannot process this. She cannot.
“Haven’t you anything to say for yourself? It’s seven o’clock in the morning. I need to sleep till eight. My bedroom’s right there”—she jabs her finger at the wall as if this is fresh news—“and yet every time, there you go, waking me. Is it too much to ask? Is it?”
The rage whips up and out, too late to prevent. “Can you fucking leave me alone?” Her voice rising, as if from another place. “If you harass me again, I’ll fucking kill you, you understand?”
Mrs. Kim’s wizened face collapses in fear and astonishment. Lucy falls into a half run. She fumbles with the locks, all the while aware of Mrs. Kim’s shocked stare. She ducks inside and slams the door. The newspaper falls from her grip and lands at her feet, and yes, it’s him, and, Oh my God I shouldn’t have yelled. Don’t draw any attention to yourself, ever. Ever. But what does that matter. What can it possibly matter?
She bends down, gathers the paper, and brings it to the table.
Boy Found Dead in Junkyard, the headline reads. The inset photo of the arrival looks a little strange, and Lucy realizes it’s actually a computer-generated image. Of course: it would be too offensive to show a picture of the actual corpse. But it is unmistakably him. The small, bony shoulders, the neck too thin, the head too big, blue eyes wide over a sprinkling of freckles. She sees the water wash over him: the bumps of his spine, the shuddering legs. She lights a cigarette, snapping the lighter three times before the flame takes. The distinctive deep blue eyes stare up at her, vacant, lifeless.
The junkyard has to be one of Theo’s way stations. Some serv on Theo’s payroll, clueless about the chain of events, would have been slated to collect the body for delivery to the closest sentry van. The sentries wouldn’t care how or why he died, they’d just log him and load him up for disposal at the Gate. Except, instead, the body was found by people. Theo will go out of his mind, when he hears.
The main photo splashed across the page shows a bleak asphalt foreground and a chain-link fence strung with police tape. Farther in, surrounded by towering piles of crushed cars, a group of police officers and detectives mill around a blue sedan with a missing rear door and a crumpled hood. Next to the heaps of wrecked cars and twisted metal there’s an office trailer with a CLOSED sign in the window. The manager is considered the main suspect, but he’s gone missing. Theo never has people in his pay, so this manager has got to be a serv. Given his lowly position he’d never be duped up, so most likely, he bit it on a call, leaving the junkyard untended.
She scans the article. It was truants from a nearby school who found him. They’d climbed the fence to look for interesting stuff in the junkyard. There was a funny smell coming from a car. When an arrival dies before realization, the body gives off an oaky, licorice smell; Lucy had no idea how long it lasts. The truants pried open the trunk and saw something in a blanket. They knew right away it was something really bad, but they couldn’t help themselves, they had to look. The boy was in diapers, no other clothes. His eyes were half open and so was his mouth. His chest was wrapped in bandages. It was all dried up black, but I knew it was blood. You could see a hole through the bandages, like an inch wide. It looked burnt all around the hole.
His narrow, ribby chest, the skin so pale.
A wave of nauseating darkness pushes Lucy into a huddle over her lap. She remains that way for several minutes, till it passes. Then she lights another cigarette, crushes her hands together, but they won’t stop shaking. She chokes on exhaling smoke, her torso ratcheting each cough till the episode subsides. She stamps out the cigarette, forces herself to get up, makes her way to the bathroom. She leans her elbows on the sink, bent over, periodically sloshing cold running water over her cheeks and eyes.
When she’s able at last, she reads the article the whole way through. The police have it all wrong, of course. They’re saying they can’t be precise because the severe cold messed with decomposition. Their best guess is the boy has been dead anywhere from three days to two weeks, when Lucy knows it’s actually been over a month.
The body was wrapped in a blanket, which according to the police indicates possible remorse. The victim’s age is estimated at nine years old, and he is most likely of Irish descent. His perfect teeth and signs of good health suggest he was raised in this country in a fairly affluent family. The police are working closely with the Department of Children and Families and the State Police. No matches have been made yet with known missing children. The police would like to encourage anyone with information to call the anonymous tip line.
“The killer or killers are somewhere out there,” a detective is quoted. “Someone knows them. Someone saw something. We need the people’s help on this one.”
She reads again, more slowly. But there is nothing more to glean.
The image of Julian carrying the dead boy into the junkyard keeps playing through her head like a film, looping over and over. He trudges through the chain-link gate, the corpse wrapped in the blanket over his shoulder. Or no, in the duffel bag he brought to the hotel. The boy was so small, just a twig. Julian jimmies open the trunk, drops the body into the well. He walks away.
The detective said the blanket indicates possible remorse. What a joke.
Alee, she told him, over and over.
“Stop it, you stupid cunt,” Lucy blurts out. Her voice sounds harsh in the empty air. She flips the paper over to hide the little white face. She grabs her cell phone, punches in Julian’s number. He answers almost at once.
“I was just about to call,” he says. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. This’ll blow over.”
“Fuck you.” Her voice is a rock thrown hard. If he was in front of her, she’d smash him to pieces. “Is that all you care about?”
“Zip it, Lucy.”
“How am I supposed to believe he didn’t suffer? Did you even read what those boys said?”
Julian heaves a sigh. “He didn’t suffer, Lucy. With arrivals, the Source is just one big motherfucker of an explosion, O.K.?”
&n
bsp; “No, it’s not O.K.! It’s never been O.K.!”
There is a shuffling sound, like he’s switching ears. “Luce, you better take a deep breath, now.”
She struggles to pull herself together. Spewing her views is unwise, even to Julian. “What about the Gate? They’ll know. Every serv in town will know.”
“That a serv bit it? Happens every day.”
“Not with cops all over, that doesn’t happen.”
“Another throwaway kid that no one claims. It’ll blow over in a week, then everything goes back to normal.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want those jobs anymore, Julian.”
There is a pause. Then he says, “That’s not your call.”
“I’m asking.”
“And the answer is, that’s not your call. Do you have a problem with that?”
Lucy grips the phone hard.
“Lucy. Do you have a problem with that.”
She says, “No.”
“Good. You’ve got a drop tonight for Bernie. Package will be with Joe.”
Click.
“Asshole,” she snaps at the phone, tosses it aside. She gathers up the paper and shoves it under the couch. Her body’s a stiff, sore mess from last night. She’s starving but feels too nauseated to eat. The image in the newspaper is stuck in her vision: freckled, wide-eyed, head too big on a thin neck. Big motherfucker of an explosion.
She closes her eyes, presses on the bridge of her nose. She’s getting a motherfucker of a headache. She herself might explode.
THERE’S A LIGHT SLEET falling when she gets to Joe Brynn’s bunk at a little before seven. His old Camaro is out front, the same one they used to ride around in when he was training her to be Theo’s lackey. She’d sit in the passenger seat, quaking with nerves because he was one of Theo’s oldest hands, he was important, and she could tell he didn’t like her.
He thinks you’re a mistake, Julian explained. Don’t worry, you’ll prove him wrong.
That’s not how things went, and now, when she has to swing by Joe Brynn, she aims to get in and out as fast as possible. She climbs the stone steps, pushes open the front door. There’s a serv in the entryway, touching up her lipstick for a call. She brushes by Lucy without a word, shrugging her coat on as she goes, trailing a flowery perfume. Lucy walks through the shabby living room which hasn’t changed an iota since she lived here. The glass coffee table, the ashtray piled with butts, the rows of empty beer cans and whiskey bottles in the bookcase instead of books.
Joe Brynn’s office door is ajar, so she slips in. He keeps a tidy place of gray cabinets, oversized desk with papers squared off, executive black leather chair. There are stacks of car magazines going back to the dark ages, and a darts area complete with rubber mat, lighting, chalk scoreboard. He’s lined up for a throw. She waits quietly, aware of his stiff-shouldered annoyance at the interruption. He throws. Another triple. She wouldn’t want to play him.
He turns to her. He’s got the mangled face of a boxer, but his skin’s as taut and smooth as a teenager’s due to the regular infusions courtesy of his boss. “Bit early in the season for you to look so raggedy,” he comments.
“Thanks,” she says.
He doesn’t smile. Even after all these years, he still creeps her out, and she’s eager to be gone. He bends to unlock a drawer, giving her a view of his bald head, which has a puckered blotch of a scar on the right side, something recent that no doubt the grabs will take care of soon enough. He hands over a small brown parcel, then pulls it out of reach at the last second, leaving her hanging.
“Stay on your toes, princess,” he smirks, and drops the package into her hand.
Outside, sleet prickles her cheeks. She hopes it doesn’t get any worse, as it’s a good half-hour trudge to the hotel. She bends over her phone to check the main Twitter feeds, discovers the closest Service is only a few miles off. She sets a fast pace, keeping an eye on the updates and adjusting her route to stay as far away as possible.
BERNIE’S ASLEEP ON HIS couch, snoring. Unfortunately, he’s not alone: his on-again-off-again girlfriend Alicia is perched on the couch arm chatting on her cell. Lucy raps the metal bars in warning, then comes around through the door. Alicia acknowledges her with a glance, then rattles on in the broken shorthand English typical of servs. “I say you wanna go? He say sure baby less go an stupid mofo believe me an we go an then but did I get him trade me drinks for …” Lucy tunes her out, drawn to Bernie’s desk computer, which displays a grid tracking every serv in his district. Name, date of arrival, etcetera, underneath all of which GPS coordinates update in real time. She bends close to peer at the names, scrolls down to find herself. The picture’s from Service checkout last night, they update automatically. God, she does look raggedy.
“Just a few clicks,” Bernie says. “And your quota’s, imagine, poof,” he shakes his fingers like confetti’s coming down from the ceiling.
“Go ahead, then,” Lucy says.
“Oh, baby, I wish I could, for you.” The couch springs squeak and groan as he sits up. Alicia slides down to where his feet just were, still chatting. “Gimme,” he crooks his finger.
Lucy hands over the package. There’s an open pizza box on the coffee table. She leans over to investigate. It doesn’t look that old, and she hasn’t eaten since morning, so she grabs a slice and tucks in. Bernie rips open the package to reveal a small box. He removes the lid. “Oh, yeah,” he mutters.
She looks up, wiping sauce from her chin. He’s holding a tiny vial to the light, twisting it between thumb and forefinger. She glimpses the tell-tale silvery mist within, and almost chokes.
He gives a sly grin. “Finally got a pay raise.”
Alicia’s watching now, too. “Hey,” she says, “I get some?”
“You skedaddle,” Bernie snaps. “I’m sick of all that noise. Didn’t anyone ever tell you how bad it sucks to hear one side of a conversation?”
“Yeah, whatever.” Alicia unfolds her legs and gets up, taking one last envious glance at Bernie’s prize before heading out. Lucy doubts she even knows what it is. Making grabs isn’t that common, as it takes resources most servs don’t have, and whatever cuts might come on the market are priced way out of reach.
“You really gonna take that?” Lucy asks, tossing the rest of her slice back into the box, her appetite gone.
“What do you mean?”
“I dunnow. It’s always seemed kind of sick to me.”
“Huh.” Bernie drags a lockbox out from behind the couch, opens it up. His butt crack shows when he bends over.
“It’s like being a cannibal,” Lucy insists. “It’s gross.”
Bernie’s done squirreling away his treasure, and now he turns to face her. She’s clearly pissed him off, which is never a good idea with an overseer. She makes to leave, but he stops her with one fat hand on her belly, tutting. Now that he’s close she can smell his sweat and mixed in that, Alicia’s perfume. He says, “I got a soft spot for you, Lucy. Just the story of you, it’s so fucking strange, and look at you. But this,” he waves a circle in the air, “it’s not anything. It just is how it is. So don’t fuck around with it, you hear? Because that’s fucking around with me. And you don’t wanna do that,” he wags his finger in warning.
“No,” Lucy agrees, “I don’t.”
“And might I advise you not to fuck around with Julian and whoever the hell he works for, either.”
“For sure. I wouldn’t.”
His hand slides away, releasing her. He says, “You watch your back.”
Whether that’s another warning or him showing concern, she can’t tell. She exits the room, aware of his gaze tracking her past the barred window. Her whole body feels so wound up, she could just bust out screaming. When she gets out the front door, she breaks into a run, makes it all the way up the street and around the corner before she collapses against a wall. She puts her hands on her knees, bends over. Her breath makes white clouds around her face. The sleet’s changed over to softly falling
snow.
She sinks onto her haunches. It was dumb to have expected anything different from Bernie. Fundamentally, he is incapable of giving a shit, like pretty much their whole goddamned race. Or, more accurately, he’s just not motivated to show it, because there’s never any point. It is how it is: if there was ever a mantra common to all servs, that would be the one. She’s tried to reach that numbness, she has, because what else can she do. You can’t care about stuff in the serv world. You just can’t. She can’t think about how that arrival ended up, or any of them. It’s done. It just is how it is.
Her Source churns fire and hurt. That is me, she used to think so delightedly. Theo said they had been potent as burning stars, and one day they would be again. He’d smile and chuck her under the chin, You too, Lucy-goosie. It shames her that she can still miss those long-ago days, even after all that’s happened. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, exposing her bare skin to the snow, letting it float into her mouth and melt down her throat. If only it could put out the burn once and for all.
LUCY CARRIES HER GROCERY bags up the three steps and shifts them to one hand. She fumbles through her keys searching for the right one, but her fingers are frozen numb so the keys drop into the filthy slush on the stoop. “Dammit,” she curses. She plunges her hand into the freezing mess and gropes around the soaked welcome mat. The door swings open, releasing a blast of hot air from the lobby.
Skinner Luce Page 9