“Do I need a lawyer? I don’t understand.”
“Do you think you need one, Lucy?”
Lucy shakes her head. She retreats back into her silence.
“That’s some history you have, Lucy Hennessey,” Bedrosian muses. “A real troubled girl. Violent, too.”
“I wasn’t violent.”
“Says here when you were sixteen, you laid into an aide, cracked three ribs and messed up his face pretty good.”
“I had a good reason.”
“Because he was inappropriate with one of the younger girls. He denied that.”
“Of course he did!”
“Relax. I believe you.” He peruses the file. “You were with your adoptive family till you were fourteen?”
“Yes.”
“Then the state took you out of the home. You lived all these places, pulled it together and got your GED. You in touch with Eva Hennessey?”
“Yes.”
“Is your relationship with her O.K., then?”
“Sure.”
“So you have some education, you work, you have contact with your family. Honestly, you’ve got it pretty good compared to most kids coming out of the system. So what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what happened, to bring you to where you’re part of this? This little boy, he went through hell. The coroner said he bit himself. Nobody knows that detail, Lucy. I just shared it with you now, and you don’t seem surprised. You already knew, because you were there,” he concludes, his tone flat with certainty.
She shakes her head no.
“Coroner said he’d never seen anything like it. Why’d he do that to himself? We know you were with him, so tell us why.”
“I wasn’t with him.”
“Yes, you were. Did you get paid? Is that it, money?”
Detective Miller leans forward, her motion cutting off Bedrosian. “What I think is you’ve had a tough time in life, you have lots of bills to pay, no steady income. And maybe you were offered some help, is that right? And you’re upset about what happened. I think maybe you got involved in something and maybe you didn’t know how far it’d go. Is that right, Lucy?”
It’s close enough to the truth that Lucy could weep. The arrival huddles, his face turned to the light. His scrabbling stick legs on the mat. Alee. Lucy squeezes shut her eyes, pressing her fingers to her eyelids.
“Are you feeling sad, Lucy?” Miller asks in her gentle voice. “It’s normal to feel sad about something like this. It’s a terrible thing, what that poor boy went through. But he seemed well-cared for before he died. Maybe that was you, caring for him.”
Lucy blurs her vision, stares down at the table.
“It’s hard to be precise, with the cold we’ve had,” Miller says, thumbing through some pages, “but the coroner’s estimate means the boy was alive for several weeks after the date you were seen with him. What happened to him during that time? Where was he? Did you take care of him?”
Lucy shakes her head. They’re way off, they have no clue. They’ll never be able to tell the arrival in fact died right away, because their calculations are based on human biology. She’s so exhausted, she can’t sort out if that means more problems for her or not.
They can’t hold her here forever, they don’t have anything. Even Bedrosian, who told her he’s got all the patience in the world, even he’s looking a little wiped out. Sweat stains at the armpits, constantly scrubbing his jaw with his hand. His frustration gives her a small measure of pride.
She says, “I’ve told you a thousand times. I don’t know anything.”
They respond with silence. She listens to them breathing. She stares at a minuscule crack in the beveled table edge. She presses her fingertip into the sharp space. She imagines a muscled convict smashing his handcuffs against the edge, trying to get free.
IT’S BEDROSIAN WHO WALKS her out. He leads the way, his left shoulder dipping with each step. There’s the whir of machines, fluorescent lighting, telephones ringing. She follows with her head down, barely keeping up. Her body feels wrecked. She was in that room for six hours, except for bathroom breaks. They turn down another hallway, get in an elevator. He punches the button with the heel of his hand. She can tell it’s how he always does it. He stares up at the lights counting down the floors. The doors slide open, and he stands aside, his arm thrown out in invitation. The look on his face does not match the politesse. She slips past him. She thinks that’s it, so she says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any use.”
Instead, he takes her elbow and guides her across the lobby. It’s snowing, the world outside dim with nightfall, streetlamps lighting up the gently floating flakes. He follows her out the door, right behind so she feels his weight against her, causing a twist of panic.
“Don’t you apologize to me, Lucy Hennessey,” he warns. “Look at me when I talk to you.”
She obeys.
“Don’t play me for a fool.” He measures out each word, his breath puffs of white. “You’re a part of this thing. I know it, and you know it.”
“I told you—”
“Be quiet.” He leans closer, forcing her attention. “You don’t fit. Nothing about you makes sense. But I will figure it out, do you hear me?”
She takes a step back. “Can I go now?”
“We’ll be in touch.”
At the corner she glances over her shoulder. He’s still standing there, watching her.
SHE WALKS. SHE’S CONSCIOUS of her own weight moving forward, or rather the lack of it. How thin and frail she is out here in the cold dark city, the buildings soaring up all around and rush-hour workers hurrying by with no mind for anyone but themselves, she’s a rabbit. A cold, exhausted rabbit. She walks with her mittened hand cupped over her freezing nose. She passes a pizza joint, and the aromas make her woozy, but that’s money she can’t waste right now. Ideas are forming, vague swirls in the back of her mind. About the coming days, how to get through this. She won’t be able to keep what’s happened from Theo, no matter how much she wants to. She doesn’t dare.
Preempt, she thinks.
She stops at a payphone, digs around her pockets for change. Dials Julian’s cell. It rings and rings. He doesn’t pick up unknowns. She waits through the interminable voice mail options, finally gets the beep.
“It’s me. The cops came by. I thought it was better to go with them, so it’s not like I’m hiding anything. I didn’t say a thing. They’ve got nothing, I swear.” Her voice cracks at the end. “I’ll get a burner on the way home. I’ll explain more later, O.K.?”
Julian will put two and two together just as she did, but she can’t help that. Margot made her bed: what the hell was she thinking, calling cops? How could she be so stupid? So goddam full of herself and her bunk-boss superiority. Why should Lucy have a single thought for that prissy bitch, when she turned Lucy in without a second thought?
Depleted, Lucy sags into the payphone, her hand still gripping the receiver. She’s been so wound up, now it’s like the mechanism just snapped and she can’t even move. The photo skims her vision, over and over: his white, dead face, lips slightly parted, the narrow little shoulders. But there was nothing she could have done. She can’t let what the cops said get to her. She’d like to show them a kid serv getting torn to pieces by a Nafikh: I’ll show you murder.
She blinks hard. Focuses on the crushed dirty snow around her boots. Cigarette butts, a candy wrapper. Graffiti all over the phone base and the phone itself. Call Josie for good head. You suck. Piano and guitar lessons by established musician. When she was a kid, Eva got her one of those electric keyboards, but Lucy quit after the first few lessons. She couldn’t stand doing scales, the ladder of notes like nails scratching a board, the Source twisting in agony. Poor Eva. Everything she put up with. All that money on lessons for this, tutors for that, never mind the equity loan for college. And for what. Look at me, I’m nothing.
And now this.
The current jolts and r
aces under her skin. She whips around, but it’s just a serv a little way off down the sidewalk, her eyes already fixed on Lucy. They can never just pass each other. Always checking, who are you, what’s your status, are you a danger, are you of any use. The serv’s in sweats and sneakers, darting through the rush-hour crowd. She makes a beeline for Lucy.
“Scoops!” she hisses, and then she’s gone, her long hair swinging on her back.
Lucy turns in place, peering up and down the street. There’s nothing worse than getting scooped—a random call that a sentry can slap on anytime, mainly to provide insurance via numbers, cast a wider net around the Nafikh. Scooped servs usually have to stand outside a venue or trail a limo, nothing like the dangers of a regular call. But scoops don’t count towards quota: they’re just pointless drains of energy and time, one more noose around a serv’s neck.
The sentries are still a good block away, coming down both sidewalks. She can pick them out even before her Source stirs. They’re always in dark, baggy, nondescript clothes, wool hats pulled down low. They’re nameless, faceless, forgettable, shadows moving through the unsuspecting world of real people going about their daily lives. But their black unmarked messenger bags are stocked with firearms, Tasers, full syringes, a tablet for logging stats. The best bet is to get out of sight, and Lucy feels a pang of pity for the clueless serv stepping out of a diner, right into their path. He immediately kicks up a fuss. Pointless. He’s screwed, even though there are two Faithful up ahead on the corner, ready and willing.
Lucy ducks away from the payphone and breaks into a jog. It must be so weird to be a sentry on scoop detail: all they see are servs scattering like ants. There’s no subway nearby, which is unfortunate since in a pinch, the T is the safest place to hide: scoops don’t waste their time going all the way down to a platform that could be empty by the time they arrive. At least it’s approaching rush hour, so there’s no way the Nafikh are going to be taken on a bus ride, one of Their favorite activities. She runs a few streets up, finds the 11 just about to leave, manages to leap on before the door closes. The Source pulses warning, causing an instant of anxiety, but it’s just an ordinary serv sweating in the corner, flushed and miserable, his knapsack held to his chest. He registers her presence with a vague nod, then resumes staring out the window.
BY THE TIME SHE gets to the Essex Street stop, though, she can’t help it, she gets off and heads for the T. She meant to keep going, make her connection, go home. But she’s got an idea stuck in her head of confronting Margot and she can’t shake it. She hurries down the steps and into the tunnel, into the blast of heat and fumes and screeching that signals a train pulling in. Sweat instantly prickles her scalp and she drags off her wool cap and mittens, unbuttons the parka all the way. It sucks for a serv to ride at this hour, to endure the sweltering press of bodies cramming in on all sides. She surreptitiously examines everyone around her, but no one seems interested: Bedrosian hasn’t had a chance to pull his shit together and keep tabs, if he decides to do that at all. Now’s her only chance: it won’t take long for Theo to exact his revenge on Margot, and they sure as hell aren’t going to let her stop in first to say her piece.
She gets out at Ruggles, scrolls through chat rooms for the kid bunk address. It’s a few blocks away, not such a great neighborhood. She walks fast, keeping her eye on the street signs. She cuts through a small park. The benches are scrawled with graffiti. The primly trimmed bushes lining the path shelter butts, used condoms, crushed cans and cups. Guys in oversized coats and wool hats wander the perimeter, snickering come-ons when she walks by. One of them steps into her line of sight, postures and preens, flashing his teeth.
“Come on, loosen up, baby. You think you too good for me?”
They chortle together. She manages to shoulder by, lengthening her stride almost to a run. They don’t press on, which is a relief, because one or two she could take, but they were too many.
The bunk turns out to be in a ratty tenement next to a vacant lot strewn with garbage. She climbs the stairs to the top floor and rings the buzzer. It takes way longer to get a response than she has in patience. She rings the buzzer over and over. At last, Margot opens the door.
“How could you?” Lucy snaps, and shoves her hard.
Margot stumbles backwards, almost falls. She teeters over to a chair and hangs onto the back. Lucy realizes she’s stoned out of her mind, probably on the good stuff, too, seeing as she’s a boss.
Though she’s not so far gone she can’t screw her face into that imperious, know-it-all look. “What’s the matter, Lucy? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“You know I am! What the hell is wrong with you? How could you do this?”
“What else could I do? I tried to tell a sentry. Fat lot of good.”
“You told a sentry?”
“You know what she said? ‘The Gate doesn’t care about some dead serv,’ she said. As if she was never one of us.”
Lucy drops her bag on the couch and sinks down beside it, at a loss for words. Margot stumbles her way around the chair, seats herself. It’s dead quiet except for an oversized white clock ticking above the kitchen table. Across from where Lucy’s sitting, a doorway gives onto a room where three bunk beds stand in a row. All the beds have matching red plaid blankets. The whole place is weirdly tidy, like all Margot does is clean up.
“Where are they?” Lucy nods towards the bedroom.
“I only have two right now. They’re on a call.”
Lucy stifles further questions: How long have they been out, who were the sentries, how many Nafikh. She sets her jaw, says, “Can you just tell me why?”
Margot sighs, as if the answer should be obvious. “Because, Lucy. Someone has to pay.”
“But they won’t pay.”
Margot shrugs. “Better than nothing, you taking a ride.”
As in, a ride in the crazy car: when a serv gets picked up by cops, he can either spew the truth and be called crazy, or say nothing and feel crazy. Until now, Lucy never appreciated the full meaning of that. “Well, thanks a lot. It really sucks, if you want to know.”
This elicits no reaction, so Lucy leans forward, raising her voice. “Do you even understand the trouble you’re in? They won’t let you get away with this.”
Margot drops her head back, her motions muted by the drugs awash in her veins. “I don’t care anymore.”
“If you want to check out, you’re picking one fucked up way to go. You realize how bad they could hurt you?”
“Maybe I deserve it.”
“Oh, come on. Get a grip.”
Margot looks around the empty room. “You know, Lucy, I had the highest rate last year.”
“Yeah?”
“I work so hard, to train them, so they make it out. But there’s no point. They come home, but then there’s the next call, and the next. So tell me, what’s the point?”
The rawness of her plea makes Lucy uncomfortable. Servs don’t share this kind of stuff out loud. Because, ironically, there’s no fucking point to doing so. “It is how it is,” she says, repulsed to be falling back on that tired phrase.
Margot barely reacts, as if it’s all she expected. “And now my last two, they might not come back.”
“Well, it doesn’t help you’re in no shape to pick them up.”
Lucy’s effort to break through falls flat. Margot’s bleary eyes fix on her, full of sadness. She asks, “Why do you work for them?”
Lucy rubs her forehead. She’s wiped out. Totally thrashed. “I’ve got no choice.”
“You do so have a choice. The only one we get.”
“I can’t just check out, O.K.? I’ve got someone I have to take care of. I owe her.”
Margot squints her eyes, trying to grasp this bit of news. She shakes her head, as if it’s too much and she can’t be bothered. “You could try to stop them. That’s what you should do.”
“Right—me? Like you said, even the Gate doesn’t care. No one cares, Margot.”
�
��Can’t you just get a gun and shoot them?”
Lucy almost laughs. “The one who does this shit, I haven’t laid eyes on him in years.”
“But you know who he is. Where he is.”
“Not even. I’m telling you, Margot. There’s nothing I can do.”
Margot shrugs again. “That’s how it is, for us.”
She keels over slowly, curls up on her side. “I always thought you’d get out,” she mumbles into the chair arm.
“Why’d you think that?”
“Cause there was something different about you. You were smart, educated. I mean, it took me years to learn how to read, right? No one helped. They keep us low, but you, you were already up there. You had your fancy office jobs and all. I just figured you’d get out.”
“Yeah,” Lucy says after a moment. “I guess I thought that, too.”
“Yeah. Well.”
There is a silence. Margot’s breaths soften, lengthen. She’s passed out. Lucy gets up, goes to the bedroom doorway. Curtains with sashes, fringed carpet. A kiddie table and chair set, a few books. It’s too much to absorb, all the kid servs that have passed through here, season after season, the beds filling and emptying. She always thought of bunk bosses as having it easy, but this kind of bunk, the way Margot keeps it, no way. All those kids, clothing them, feeding them, then saying good-bye. No wonder she’s checking out. A handful of servs go that way every season, even without all that extra sorrow. The only reason so many hang on at all is just animal instinct, that recoil from death shared by all living creatures, even skinners.
It’s a nasty question that’s lingered around the edges of Lucy’s days for years: would she be able to gut it out, if she didn’t have Eva to think of. If all she had were the testy, changeable alliances forged in bunks and Services. It’s hard to imagine the answer being yes.
Outside, she stands on the sidewalk for a time listening to the traffic, flecks of snow dancing down from the black sky above. She wonders where Margot’s kids are, if they’re waiting for their ride that isn’t going to come. Who’ll end up with them. Last she checked there were three ongoing Services. They could be anywhere, or already gone. More will arrive soon enough, get dumped at the overseers all around town. One day soon, Margot’s phone won’t pick up, and someone else will get her job. The beds will fill up, and then they’ll empty, then fill again.
Skinner Luce Page 11