by Martha Carr
His brother, Tom had taken on the role of Keeper after the last Keeper was murdered in Georgia, choosing to never get married, never have a family so that he would be able to sleep at night. Maybe Norman could have an average suburban life as a lawyer, a father and a husband and leave it at that. It was his idea of cashing in on a lottery ticket.
But here he was, tucked in between two Watchers moving down the highway past the Jets stadium. Teterboro Airport, he guessed. Big enough to let a small jet take off but small enough not to attract a lot of attention.
No one is worried that I can see them. That I can see where we’re going, he thought. That can’t be a good sign. Either they think every player is already known to every side and it won’t matter who I tell. Or they don’t expect me to survive long enough to lay it out for anyone else.
His grandfather, Isaak had not survived Management’s purge of the Circle’s ranks. Norman was tired of being someone’s prey. He was going to make it out of this, no half measures, he told himself. No matter what it takes, I’m going home.
The landing in Chicago was bumpy as they ran out the snowy airstrip. Plows were visible out of both sides of the jet, making passes at different runways, pushing snow into large piles.
The Suburban turned and headed up the short ramp, past the blue and red sign that read 294 South, passing by neighborhoods that could be seen from the highway. At first, all Norman could see were McMansions that filled tiny lots, just beyond the highway. But the further south they drove, the older and smaller the houses were until eventually they got off on an exit and headed for a lower part of Michigan Avenue that was nowhere near the Great Lake.
Charlie had been silent throughout the trip. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping much and Norman worried that the strain was getting to him. Something was bothering him.
The neighborhood was quiet. Some of the houses looked abandoned with bushes growing wild, covering most of the windows. The grass was mowed but it looked like a half-hearted attempt to hide the downturn on the Southside of Chicago, in an old Irish neighborhood. The economic recovery that was rolling across the rest of the country, even in most of the other neighborhoods around Chicago, was barely creeping up to the doors in Riverdale.
The Suburban pulled up to a red brick two story house that had a dark red metal screen door on the front, covering an oak door with an oval frosted glass in the center. A snowflake was etched in the glass. Norman saw it as someone’s joke as he trudged through the snow that was already a foot deep, blowing everywhere.
The houses next door were so close he was sure if he stood on the narrow strip of grass that ran between each house he could touch both walls if he just stretched out a little. If he screamed, surely people would hear him. But he knew he wouldn’t get much out before he would be muzzled, violently. Besides, the neighborhood looked half empty and was eerily quiet, even with the snow falling all around them.
There were very few people left to hear him and no one who was left would care, he thought.
His feet were getting soaked by degrees as he tried to walk in the footsteps made by the Watcher in front of him. Bits of snow fed into his socks making him even colder. He was still wearing the same clothes he was wearing the afternoon he walked out of St. Stephen’s followed by Father Donald. They were barely adequate for a cold day in Richmond, Virginia.
“Take him upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Give him a towel to dry off,” said George. Charlie didn’t even look in his direction. Norman wasn’t sure if it was because he was staying in character or because something had happened.
The bedroom was furnished in early Holiday Inn style with matching pine furniture and a shiny acrylic bedspread with large white orchids printed against a maroon background. The beige carpet had a path worn into it that led from the bed to the bathroom on the other side and out the door. A matching nightstand had a small clock showing the time. It was late afternoon, four-thirty pm if the time could be believed, thought Norman. The only other piece of furniture was a long, matching dresser with faux brass handles. There was no decoration on the walls but smoke stains around empty pale squares in the beige paint with small nail holes that suggested where things must have hung not too long ago.
One of the Watchers, who had been squeezed in next to him in the car, lumbered over to the bathroom and came back out with a matching maroon towel, tossing it at Norman. It had a faint smell of mildew and was already damp.
“Dry off,” said the Watcher. “Food will be brought up at some point. This is your space. Enjoy,” he said, sounding annoyed.
Norman noticed he didn’t like being a babysitter. He probably wanted something more when he signed on to the team. That could be exploited, thought Norman, pulling off a wet shoe.
He pulled the towel closer to his face to get a better whiff but changed his mind as he noticed the different hairs still clinging to it. He grimaced as he wiped off his feet, running them along the carpet, trying to find a clean spot anywhere in the room to wipe them. He sat down on the edge of the bed and thought about taking a nap. He was bone tired.
The only bed he had in New York was the oversized chair and if he was going to figure out how to get himself out of there alive, he was going to have to get some sleep. His hand floated up to the back of his head, doing a small pat-pat. He sighed and turned to crawl up the center of the bed and lie down, trying not to think about who or what had been on the bed before him.
He felt certain no one had ever bothered to wash the sheets.
He laid his head down and looked up at the water stains on the ceiling. One of them still seemed to be wet. Let Wallis be okay, he thought, as a tear slid down his cheek. I never thought I’d be so thankful my mother in-law shoots first and never gets around to asking a question. Please don’t miss me too much Wallis. I’m coming home, I swear on my life, he thought. We’re not done yet.
His mind wandered to his late brother, Harry. Norman and Tom had to make the decision to lock Harry up in a fortified house in Bartow, Florida after he had betrayed so many of them and gotten Carol Schaffer, the old Keeper, killed.
He looked around the drab room and realized he missed Harry. The room they had locked Harry up in was a lot nicer and he was treated fairly but still, it was a box. In the end, after George Clemente had broken Harry out of the comfortable prison, Harry had eventually redeemed himself and was killed by Clemente trying to save others.
We should have given him a second chance, thought Norman, trying not to think about who had died because of Harry. Trying not to think about how Harry had died.
“I see you’re enjoying the accommodations. Good, good,” said George Clemente, as he came bustling into the room, rubbing his hands together. Norman sat up, pulling himself back till he could lean against the wooden headboard.
Charlie was close behind him, carrying a ladderback wooden chair that he put down near the bed. He left the room and came back carrying a matching chair and placed it next to the first one, taking a seat next to George. He looked weary and as if he didn’t care anymore. Maybe that was a better cover, thought Charlie.
George ran his fingers through his greasy, wet hair, pushing the remaining strands back, until they made neat lines, flattening against his head.
“Now,” he said, taking a deep breath, opening his hands wide in front of him. “We are going to need some assistance from you. That’s a big move on our part. Takes some trust. I hope you can appreciate what we’re doing here with you.”
“The person you kidnapped,” said Norman.
“Okay,” said George, shrugging one shoulder, staying with his mood. He reminded Norman of a football coach convincing a recruit that his junior college was actually a step up from the Division I schools. “That could be said,” said George, “but will it help anything? I don’t think so, and there are things here we can do. Together. You and me,” he said, pointing back and forth between himself and Norman.
“You are crazy,” said Norman, slowly, knowing he was pushing his
luck.
George let out an annoyed laugh, looking over at Charlie who didn’t return the laugh. He only looked at the two of them, saying nothing, taking it all in.
“Charlie here, he’s had a rough couple of days. Don’t mind him. Now, crazy is a hazardous word to be throwing around. You know, I’m the one who rescued your brother from that little homemade prison you were keeping him in, in Florida. That was a favor.”
“And then later you killed him,” said Norman, the regret washing over him again.
“Self defense, self defense,” George argued. “Suddenly took it upon himself to help that damnable priest. There’s someone who’s crazy,” he said, his voice rising. George caught himself and took in a deep breath. “An unfortunate circumstance. Let’s start over. These are your new accommodations. Not as nice as your brother’s from what I saw when we came to get him but trust me, just as fortified,” he said, looking around the room.
“There’s a panic room in the basement of the house. Not very high tech but very discreet, especially given the neighborhood. No one tends to notice things in a place like this. Everyone just wants out. The entrance to it is off a bedroom closet that is above a stairwell. All of it goes down to the basement. Holds four people. More if you had to pack and an exit that if I ever needed to use it would drop me down through a false ceiling into the basement. Plunk,” said George, waving his hands.. There’s even a drop-down ladder that unrolls down to a couple of feet off the ground so I don’t break a leg. The last owner used it for extra storage.”
George bit his lower lip, pausing for a moment. “I tell you all of this so that you get the big picture. If they should figure out you’re here and storm the place, you’ll be dead before they make it upstairs. We will kill all of them from the comfort of our little room. Pointless to run, pointless to argue,” he said, lowering his chin to look at Norman. “So, let’s bargain. Your help in exchange for your life.”
“What is it you want?”
“A chat with Wallis. The two of you exchanging a few words. I imagine she’ll be glad to hear from you. Tell her to sell her speech to the Management crowd. Your life depends on it.”
“You want Wallis to talk to Management? And tell them what?”
“They’ve been betrayed, but I have the answers,” said George, patting himself in the chest, sitting back, smiling. Charlie looked at him, his eyebrows raised.
Chapter 14
Wallis was trying to pour herself a glass of water from the kitchen sink but her hands kept shaking. She put the glass down in the sink and rested her head on her arms.
The back door opened and she looked up, thinking for a moment it might be Ned, trying to straighten up. She was relieved to see Alan Vitek and started to shake harder till it turned into sobs.
Her hand was gripping the side of the sink, as she doubled over, trying not to give in and crumple to the floor. Alan gently helped her straighten up and put his arms around her, tightening the hug, letting her sob into his shoulder.
“I can’t, I can’t,” she said in between hiccups. “Ned will be home any minute and my mother. I don’t even know where she is,” she said, remembering Harriet didn’t travel far from her house these days. “This isn’t the way I want to tell her.”
“No, of course not,” said Alan.
Wallis looked up at Alan. “You already know, don’t you,” she said. “You’re not even asking me what I’m talking about or why I’m losing it. You know, maybe more than me, don’t you?”
“I know enough. Acceptance is going to be a necessary component of your survival,” said Alan, letting out a deep sigh.
“That’s just it,” said Wallis, feeling the anger and fear rise up in her again. “Just when I learn to accept some piece of it. Just when I think I can handle this, make a life in some corner of it, the ground shifts and opens up,” she said, waving her hands, pushing against him.
“Stop trying to handle it. Stop trying to make a life in the corner of it. You still think you can wrest some piece of control out of all of it. It has knocked you to your knees once again. Acceptance is a much bigger picture without a lot of information,” he said, taking a few steps back.
“I can’t accept the violence. The small, mean little things people are willing to do to each other. I watched someone carve an ‘x’ into someone’s neck like a cheap tattoo,” she pleaded. “And Norman is missing, gone.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “How do I accept that?”
“You’re asking me, how do you accept that he’s not coming back. Isn’t that really the truth?”
Fear rolled across Wallis’ face as she clenched her jaws shut.
“That’s not actually happening. Not today,” said Alan, reaching around her to pour the glass of water. “Today, Norman is alive. Today, we still have options, opportunities to bring him home. As long as you stay focused on the one thing you fear most, you won’t ask for help for the things we can do something about. Ask for help, find your courage. Do what has to be done,” he said handing Wallis the glass.
“I can’t imagine a life without him,” she said, taking a sip.
“Then don’t, not today. Put that energy toward imagining a way out of this. Believe in that more than you are believing you’re helpless. It’s not all or nothing,” he said. “First things first, though. Have you told anyone around you that Norman has been abducted?”
“No, not yet,” she said.
“How have you explained his absence?” asked Alan.
“I said he was out of town gathering evidence for a case. I’ve been a little jumpy ever since our street was turned into a battleground so Ned thought I was just having a bad day. But that’s not even the first thing to address,” she said, sounding exasperated. “We can’t talk about anything else in this house, my house, until we do. David Whittaker, a Clemente punk planted cameras in my house,” she said, putting the glass down hard as the water sloshed over the edge. “We’re going through this entire place and finding all of them before I tell them. No matter how long it takes. I don’t want either one of them to know anything about that part of it, if I can help it.”
“It won’t take as long as you think. Get out your phone. We can do this together. Turn on the camera,” said Alan, closing the shades around the room. “Old private eye trick. We work on a tighter budget than the Feds so we have to learn to hack the system.”
“None of this is funny,” said Wallis.
“No, agreed but you either grow a bigger sense of humor or eventually you become something like George Clemente. You find places to lighten up in the cracks between all of the pain. It’s there. Okay, hold up your phone and scan just one wall, like this,” he said, holding his phone horizontally, aiming it at the top of the room and moving steadily, left to right. The image appeared on his phone.
“What does that do?” asked Wallis, holding up her phone on the adjacent wall of kitchen cabinets and open shelving. “Wait, what’s that?” she asked, stopping to hover the phone by the open shelves of glasses and cookbooks. Norman’s cookbooks.
A small infrared glow could be seen on Wallis’ phone that was coming from between the green Depression glasses. Wallis looked directly at the glasses but didn’t see anything. She held up the phone again and there it was, a small red pinpoint of light.
“That is exactly what we’re looking for,” said Alan, gingerly taking down the glasses. “See that small drill hole? There’s a camera in there. Not bad craftsmanship.”
“How do we get it out?”
“We tear it out. It’s been embedded in there. Small patch job will cover it back up. David Whittaker did this? I know of him at least and this seems too complicated, particularly given his love of drinking.”
Wallis gripped Alan’s arm, her fingers pressing hard. “Norman checked for this kind of thing. Harriet and Esther trusted him. They said the place was clean!”
“And I’m sure he did,” said Alan, “I’ll need that arm to keep hunting these things. We’ll need to do a sweep for a
udio as well. I doubt they stopped at cameras,” he said, a little distracted by the sweep. “But the harder all of you work to keep them out, the harder they work to find a way in. It’s almost impossible to keep your place clean one hundred percent of the time. You do the best you can.”
“That’s not good enough. Shit,” whispered Wallis. “Two home invaders. And that’s what we know about so far. It’s like we’re always in the game. No breaks.”
“I thought that part was obvious.”
“What am I doing wrong, here?” she said, lowering her phone.
“Who said you were doing anything wrong,” said Alan, getting a pen from the small desk underneath the shelves and marking the camera hole with an ‘x’. “This isn’t about right or wrong. Look,” he said, stopping for a moment, “this is why people can stay in the game, the fight, whatever you want to call it, for so long. For a lifetime. It’s why Tom still looks happy, even banished to Wisconsin,” said Alan, smiling.
“He likes Wisconsin,” said Wallis, wiping her face with a dish towel. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung near the back door. “I need to do something about the way I look. Ned and Harriet will know before I tell them and think the worst.”
“Okay, I’ll be going room to room.”
Wallis stopped in the hallway and came back. “If it’s not about right or wrong, then what is it?”
“Consequence, just consequence. You keep trying to judge every little bit and decide who’s good, who’s bad. I find the ground underneath shifts too much. Trust becomes impossible and it gets there too late. I’d have to know if your self-righteousness matches mine before I could know if I can trust you. If it’s about consequence, none of that matters. Oh, another one,” he said, following the faint red glow to another small hole. This one was just under the cabinets over the refrigerator.