by Hines
He checked his TracFone; he didn’t have long before his meeting time with Viktor. Lucas was regretting even agreeing to see the guy. Why get involved in something potentially complicated and messy? This was exactly why he avoided most interactions with others. Invariably, it led to something more complicated.
And yet, maybe that was part of the reason, wasn’t it? Because he’d had no personal contact with much of anyone for years. A chance to make up for his past transgressions.
Whatever those might be.
He sighed, knowing he would have to leave this building for later exploration. Maybe it would be a quick meeting with Viktor, and he could get back here for some initial recon. Maybe he could find a computer at an Internet café and log on to Donavan’s geopatch site to track Saul’s most recent movements. Provided Donavan hadn’t discovered a few of his geopatches moving and deleted the entire site.
Split Jacks it was, then.
ELEVEN
IT WASN’T THE KIND OF PLACE LUCAS WOULD BE DRAWN TO NORMALLY. Or even drawn to abnormally, for that matter. The sign above the door was a stark, black-and-white thing: the words SPLIT JACKS stacked on top of each other in big block letters, with a large notch of white cut out of the middle in a jagged slit. A split in the words, then; someone was trying to be clever.
Behind the garishly lit neon of the front door, a decidedly mundane bar, of sorts, waited. It wasn’t one of those classic old establishments, family run for generations, with a giant, thick-wood main bar and the feel of history in the air. Neither was it a sparkling new club, awash in shining metal and glass.
It was stuck somewhere in the middle, trying to be a bit of both and succeeding on neither count. Old diner-style stools topped with red leather were mounted to a sticky floor in front of a fake-wood bar mirrored with panels of chrome here and there.
At the far end of the long, rectangular space was a hallway, probably leading toward the restrooms and a few illegal card tables and a phone room with sports books. A name such as Split Jacks, after all, would be no accident.
He scanned the room, breathing through his mouth to keep the cloying mix of sweat and stale cigarettes out of his nostrils. Plenty of people in the bar, but he could tell the festivities hadn’t hit full stride yet.
He began walking down the long, metal-plated bar, scanning faces. About halfway back he saw the angular face he was looking for, seated in a booth just across from the bar. Viktor was on his cell phone, a glass of caramel-colored liquid with a wedge of lime—more of a dull yellow than the proper green—jammed haphazardly on the rim. A few file folders sat on the booth seat next to him, papers spread out on the table.
Lucas approached the table, and Viktor looked up. He jutted his chin at the seat on the opposite side of the booth, and Lucas sat.
Viktor listened to several more seconds of someone on the phone, then spoke. “You will call me later on this. I have something else now.” He closed the phone without saying good-bye, put the phone on the seat next to him, stared at Lucas a few moments, and said nothing.
Lucas decided to break the ice. “Eight o’clock, and here we are.”
Viktor let a brief smile crease his face. He held out a hand across the booth. “Viktor Abkin,” he said.
Lucas took his hand and shook it; Viktor was obviously one of those guys who believed you should have a firmer grip than anyone you meet.
“What shall I call you?” Viktor finally asked, releasing Lucas’s hand from his death grip. Viktor’s accent gave a slightly odd cadence, somewhat robotlike, to his speech patterns.
“You shouldn’t.”
“A comedian.”
The barmaid approached and gave Lucas an uninterested glance. “What can I get you?” she asked, glancing over at Viktor nervously before turning to Lucas.
Lucas wondered why she looked so uncomfortable. “Water’s good,” he said.
“Not here, it isn’t,” Viktor answered.
The waitress, obviously unsure how she should react, tried a pained smile before retreating to the relative safety of the bar.
They sat in silence a few moments, Lucas watching Viktor drum his fingers on the tabletop as they waited for the barmaid’s return. Finally, she slid a highball glass filled with ice and water in Lucas’s direction, along with a small basket of pretzels.
Over in the corner, someone had slipped money into the CD jukebox, and an old song Lucas dimly recognized—Lynyrd Skynyrd, some kind of southern rock like that—was punching out of the semi-fried speakers.
Viktor took a sip of his dark liquid, grimaced, set it back down. Looked into it as if he’d lost something valuable in there. “So,” he said, a little too low.
Lucas leaned in to hear him.
“What do you have for me?”
Lucas took a sip of his water, listened to the ice shift inside the glass. The water tasted faintly of sawdust. Not that he was surprised.
“I think I should just show you,” he said. He dug in the backpack, retrieved the minidisc recorder and DVD, and pushed the recorder across the table toward Viktor. “Take a look,” he said. “I burned a DVD too,” he said, holding it up.
Viktor looked at the recorder for a few seconds as if it were a venomous animal, then glanced at the DVD Lucas held.
“I didn’t actually record it myself,” Lucas said, feeling a sudden urge to explain. “A friend did.” He paused. “Not really a friend, I guess. A guy I know.”
“A guy you know.” Viktor smiled. “And he just decided to show it to you, and you happened to know who I am, how to find me.”
Lucas squirmed in his seat a bit.
“Yes,” he said slowly, deciding not to go any further down this conversational path. “Something like that.”
Viktor flicked the sickly lime off the side of the glass, pushing it into the liquid. He picked up the minidisc recorder and thumbed the Play button. After a few seconds, he held the recorder close to his face, listening intently while trying to block the sounds of a long guitar solo coming from the rattling jukebox.
Several seconds later, he turned off the minidisc recorder and set it back on the table. “So,” he said, and waited.
“So,” Lucas repeated.
“So now would be the time when you tell me what you want.”
Lucas shook his head. “I don’t want anything. I . . . I thought you should just see this.”
“A Good Samaritan.”
“I guess so.” Lucas was feeling more uncomfortable by the second; there was a sense of menace hanging in the air all around Viktor. No wonder his wife was looking elsewhere for . . . whatever she was looking for.
“So,” Viktor continued, “since you’re just a Good Samaritan, you probably know nothing about the company I own with these two.” He waved a hand, indicating the minidisc recorder still sitting on the table between them.
“Well, yeah, I do know about that. ATM2GO.”
Viktor smiled, but it was a smile that did nothing to comfort Lucas. “You seem to know much more than the average Good Samaritan.”
Lucas took a sudden interest in his own glass, took another drink of the sawdust-infused water.
“Let’s talk a moment about the life insurance policies—policies, I’m sure, you know nothing about. Impossible for you to know such things, being a simple Good Samaritan.”
Lucas said nothing. It seemed his best strategy at the moment.
“The company pays the premiums,” Viktor said. “Any one of us dies, the policy buys out that partner’s shares. The shares revert to the company, and the surviving family gets half the money.” He brought his gaze up to meet Lucas’s once more.
“What about the other half?”
Viktor smiled once more. “Ah, well. The company will have a hard time replacing me—let us just say it is me who has died—and so the company must be compensated for the loss of my services.”
Lucas nodded, waited.
Viktor leaned back, let his fingers start tapping in time with the tune on the jukebo
x. The throaty voice was singing about the smell of death. Yeah, it had to be Skynyrd; Lucas had heard it before. Maybe even on a beer commercial once.
“What are they giving you?” Viktor finally said. “It can’t be enough, if you are coming to me with this.” A derisive snort.
Lucas stared back. “They’re not giving me anything. I’ve never met them.”
“I will give you twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Lucas let out a small sigh. “To do . . . what exactly?”
Viktor motioned to the barmaid, held up his glass to ask for another drink. “So twenty-five thousand will do it.”
Lucas said nothing, so Viktor continued. “Our business arrangement—the life insurance—is a succession plan. To keep the business operating if any of us dies, or decides to leave. A fund has been set up specifically to buy the shares of any partner who wants out.”
“So you’re going to sell out and leave?”
Viktor laughed, just as the barmaid returned with another drink for him. The lime on this one looked marginally better. Viktor waved her away, and she left without a word.
Viktor took the thin straw out of the glass, tossed it aside, and had a long draw on the drink. Over in the corner, the jukebox changed songs.
“The answer to your question,” Viktor finally replied after setting his glass down again, “is no. I’m not going to sell out. They are.”
Lucas sat back, tried not to show a reaction.
Viktor arched an eyebrow. “Perfect, eh? That is why I need you. You see?” Viktor was using his hands to gesture now.
Lucas wasn’t sure if it was a result of his excitement or of whoknew-how-many drinks.
“I show them the tape—all the tapes. There are more, I assume?”
Lucas nodded his head. “I think so.”
“Perfect. I show them the tapes, tell them it is time for them to retire. If not . . . perhaps authorities will be interested in hearing about their plans.”
Lucas suddenly felt thirstier than ever; he drained the rest of the water before speaking again. “So you just pay them out? Give them the money and let them go?”
Viktor licked his lips. He pursed his lips. “No, they do not get the money.”
Lucas saw the light now. “You want it.”
Viktor closed an eye in a slow wink, pointed at Lucas with the glass still clutched in his hand. “The money comes out of the company. They are allowed to go free.”
“But . . . what about taxes and stuff? I mean, isn’t that going to show up as income for them—how do they account for it?”
Viktor shrugged. “That is their problem. They are smart people; I am sure they will figure out how to pay taxes on money they never received.” Viktor smiled, obviously enjoying this.
Amazing. Here Lucas sat across from a man whose marriage had obviously crumbled long ago, whose business must have taken a turn for the worse—at least among the partners—and he was smiling because he’d inflict damage and get money out of the deal.
He studied Viktor’s features, tried to dream up a history for him on the fly. An athlete while growing up in Russia; played hockey, of course. Following the crumbling of the Iron Curtain, he saw opportunity in the United States, and so came with a dream. Met his soon-to-be wife soon after, a nice Midwestern girl with a bright smile and—
“I said, are we agreed?”
Lucas brought himself out of his reverie, finally registering that Viktor had spoken to him. He leaned forward in the booth and spoke slowly. “I already told you, I don’t have a dog in this fight. I gave you the tape; I gave you fair warning. Do what you want with it.”
Viktor’s eyebrows furrowed, and his face registered confusion. Obviously trying to figure out how someone could turn down an easy 25K. Once again, he pushed his lime into his drink, then let his fingers drum on the table. A sigh. Then: “I need more tape. More evidence. For this, I might be willing to double my offer.”
Lucas stood. This conversation was over, as far as he was concerned.
Immediately, a hard look crossed Viktor’s face, and he stared up at Lucas through slitted eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
Viktor relaxed his face a bit, shook his head. He offered his hand for a parting shake.
Lucas stood at the end of the booth, considered. Well, fine, at least he could end on a positive note. He took Viktor’s hand and shook it, but Viktor immediately sealed Lucas’s hand in that vise grip and pulled him down to his level, leaning forward and speaking through clenched teeth.
“You consider what you are doing here, my Good Samaritan,” he said. “You know who I am, so you know I do not like to be turned down. Some might even say I am quite unreasonable on this.” He finally released his grip. “I would hate for your selfless deed to go unrewarded, after all.”
Lucas stood and looked down at Viktor, still seated at the booth. Over in the corner, the jukebox had gone silent again.
He turned and walked from Split Jacks, eager to breathe the air outside.
LATE THAT NIGHT, IN HIS SLEEPING BAG ON THE FOURTH FLOOR ABOVE Dandy Don’s Donuts, Lucas dreamed. It began with his earliest memories of the orphanage, dreams of his bed in the converted attic. In his childhood bed, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering what was above. What secrets the sky held. Then he was creeping to the window, carefully, slowly, making his escape to the world outside.
But when he reached the window, it didn’t lead to the roof outside; instead, it put him in a stark room, painted a dull, eggshell color. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling above him, and he stared intently at the bulb, repeating the words he knew so well, the words that would transport him away from this room that smelled of slick sweat and oil.
(Humpty Dumpty had some great falls. Humpty Dumpty had some great falls. Humpty Dumpty—)
The window behind him opened again, this time on its own, and now it was pulling him, like a vacuum it was pulling him toward it—
He was sucked into the window and spit out in the tunnels beneath DC. He recognized the area immediately; he was in the northeast quadrant, not far from Union Station. Straight ahead, he knew, was a small hatchway that led to the underground sewer system, and he had to reach that hatchway soon, because a deep, guttural growl stalked him in the tunnels.
He sprinted to the hatch and opened it, splashing his way through a couple inches of standing water, then continued running because it seemed like the right thing to do. And soon he came to the iron-rung ladder that led to the street above. Just a manhole cover between him and freedom as he scrambled up the rungs, the guttural growling directly below him.
He pushed at the manhole cover, and it opened easily, so easily, sliding away and revealing another impenetrable hold of darkness.
But it was safe, of course it was safe, it was a manhole cover leading to the world aboveground so it had to be safe. So he boosted himself through the opening and into the space beyond.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He hadn’t climbed into the light above at all; he’d climbed into . . . a monster. The monster that had been chasing him. He looked behind him, and now saw the gaping maw of a mouth closing, lips sealing over the jagged teeth. Soon all contact with the outside world was gone, and he was surrounded on all sides by wet, sticky darkness, and he felt the monster diving, diving deeper, and—
Lucas awoke in a drenching sweat, his lungs huffing in gasp after gasp of oxygen. A dream, yes. He fumbled around in the dark for his electric candle, found it, then thumbed the button. He picked up the candle, turned toward his arrangement of photos and mementos, and scanned the smiling faces he saw there.
(Humpty Dumpty had some great falls. Humpty Dumpty had some great falls.)
He repeated it to himself again and again, and lay staring at the photos of smiling families until the sun rose in the eastern sky.
TWELVE
THE TEENAGED BOY LISTENS TO THE INCESSANT HUM IN HIS EARS, SMILINGto himself as he waits for his secre
t visitor.
At first the hum—the all-encompassing, inescapable hum—drove him nearly crazy. So much so that Raven, and a team of others, started new medications to combat the side effects. After several weeks of experimenting, they found the combination that worked. The chemical cocktail he now took twice a week didn’t deaden the sound of the hum swirling about him at all; it stayed the same volume, the same exact pitch, all the time. But somehow, the hum stopped being maddening and started to be comforting.
And so, when he awakes, especially on the days after his most recent shot of the new chemical cocktail, he enjoys lying still for several minutes, letting the noise envelop him, transport him to some place none of these people can understand.
He is the only traveler on these journeys.
Beneath the buzz he hears the steel door slide open, and his smile widens.His secret visitor is here.
“And how are you feeling today?” the secret visitor asks.
The teenaged boy licks his lips, smiles, looks at the secret visitor. “Better than ever.”
“Good, good. And you haven’t told Raven about—”
“I wouldn’t tell Raven anything,” the teenaged boy says. And he means it. Raven is the enemy.
The secret visitor nods, puts a hand on the bed beside the boy. By this time the boy has figured out how to release the restraints in mere seconds;he can get free anytime he wants to. He can slip past Raven, if he chooses, make his escape, explore the world outside this room of steel.
Someday, he knows, he will do just that. Someday, his secret visitor will make it possible.
“Do you think you’re ready to start taking on some other . . . duties?”the secret visitor asks. The voice is almost a whisper.
“I was born ready,” the teenaged boy says. For all he knows, this is absolutely true. He has no idea where he was born, who he is, how he got here. There is only this room, Raven, and an endless parade of nameless faces poking and studying him.
At least, that was true until his secret visitor appeared, someone who has promised to unlock the world beyond.