by J. R. Mabry
How will I sharpen them? she wondered. She spied a small sharpener above her, but she couldn’t reach it. Standing on tiptoe, she swung the pad of paper, but she still couldn’t reach it. She threw the box of donuts at it. At first she missed, but the next time she hit it—but it didn’t fall down. It took eight more direct hits to knock it off its peg. By that time the donuts were in rough shape, so clutching her paper, pencils, and sharpener, she wandered back to the bread aisle and exchanged the battered box of donuts for a new one. Then she simply walked out into the sunshine.
The grocery store was near a river—at least it looked like a river. Chicken sat down and opened the donuts. She took a huge bite, and realizing no one was watching her, shoved the whole thing into her mouth. Then she choked and spit it out. Taking it more slowly, she ate two of the donuts before opening her pencils.
Unwrapping the sharpener, she held it awkwardly. She fitted one of the pencils into it and twisted. Nothing happened. She pushed the pencil in harder and twisted. A thin wisp of wood began to spiral out of the slit in the top. She kept at it and was amazed at how much work it took to sharpen a pencil from the beginning.
Once she achieved a point to her pencil, though, the pleasure of drawing took over. Every now and then she’d help herself to another donut. She’d eaten six of them by the time she was satisfied with her drawing.
She held it up proudly and smiled at herself. Then she turned it over and started drawing again. When the box of donuts was finished, her drawings were, too. She stood up and brushed the dirt off the butt of her jeans. She picked up her paper and shoved her pencils and sharpener into her pocket and started walking.
A copse of trees led down to the water, but Chicken couldn’t see a way to walk through it, so she kept right, skirting the edge of the water’s bank along the road. After a while she heard gunshots. She ducked and her pulse began to pound. Images of the shootings a few days ago rushed through her. In her mind’s eye, she saw her mama shot all over again—saw the brains explode from her head, saw her crumpled to the ground, saw her padre holding the gun, his chest heaving and his low-necked t-shirt splattered with red. He had looked excited and confused all at the same time. Then she opened her eyes and remembered where she was. A little wobbly on her feet, she stood again and continued walking.
After a while she came to a parking lot. Sirens were getting closer, and she might have been shy of them except that she saw a familiar form. “Aunt Susan?” she asked out loud.
As she got closer, she saw Aunt Susan riding Uncle Terry. It might have been fun, but no one looked like they were having any fun. Then Uncle Terry saw her and smiled. Chicken smiled. She walked up to Susan and poked her on the shoulder. Susan whipped around. For a moment, it didn’t look like she believed Chicken was really standing there. Then she was nearly knocked off her feet as Susan embraced her and began to cry.
Casey dove for Terry to keep pressure on his wound. The ambulances were in sight now, barreling toward them, plumes of dust rising from the dirt road behind them.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Susan said, her mouth kissing Chicken’s hair over and over. “Are you okay?”
Chicken nodded. “I think Uncle Dylan needs you,” she said.
Susan pushed her to arm’s length and gazed at the little girl’s face. “Chicken…do you know where Dylan is?”
She smiled and gave a slow, proud, exaggerated nod.
“Where?”
Chicken opened her sketch pad and tore off the top sheet, handing it to Susan.
“Right here.”
80
Richard rolled to the side a split second before the handgun erupted. The explosion made both children nearly jump out of their skins, and the recoil tossed the gun out of the girl’s grip and sent it spinning into her forehead. It hit so hard Richard heard it connect with a sickening “thuck” sound. The girl wailed as much from surprise as from the pain. Richard looked up and saw a gash on her forehead beginning to seep.
Richard lunged for the gun and thrust it through the fold in his cassock, bringing it to rest in the small of his back, held snugly in place by his belt. Then he breathed deep and turned his attention to the children.
“It’s okay,” he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. “I’m not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you now. I promise.”
“Who are you?” the boy asked. The older girl was still clutching at her wounded forehead and sobbing hysterically.
“I’m a friend of your mom’s…and dad’s.” Richard squeezed their shoulders reassuringly. “Your mom is just outside. Do you want me to take you to her?”
The boy nodded. He even had the girl’s attention now. She didn’t respond, but she stared at him.
“My name is Richard,” he said, getting up. “What’s yours?”
“Mike,” said the boy.
“Isn’t that a coincidence?” Richard said. “One of my best friends is named Mikael. It’s a good name.”
Mike beamed at that.
“And what’s your name?” he asked the girl.
“Her name is Sophie.”
“Good to meet you, Sophie.”
“Why are you wearing a dress?” Sophie asked.
“It does kind of look like a dress, doesn’t it?” Richard said. “But it’s actually called a cassock, and boys have been wearing them for a thousand years. It’s my uniform…for my job.”
“What’s your job?” Sophie got to her feet, and Mike was already heading for the door.
“Uh…Mike, hold up, please. It’s still dangerous out there. We need to stick together.”
Mike hung back and Richard waited for Sophie to make her way to the door. She seemed stunned, even lost. He didn’t blame her for a moment. “I’m a priest,” he said. “Like at church.”
“We don’t go to church,” she said.
“Not many people do anymore,” Richard said. He noted a hint of sadness in his own voice. “But we’re there every Sunday…just in case you show up.”
She stopped and her eyes grew a little wider. “You’re waiting for us?”
“No, we start on time. But we always hope you’ll come.” He smiled. She seemed marvelously impressed by this bit of information, and he allowed himself to enjoy it.
At the door, he paused. “Okay, we’re going to go out in single file. I’m going to go first, then Mike. Sophie, you’re the oldest sibling, so you have to protect your brother from anything that comes at us from behind, okay?”
She looked stunned again. Richard half expected her to ask, “Protect him with what?” but she didn’t think that far ahead. She just nodded her assent.
“Good. Let’s go.” He snatched the pistol from his belt and held it in front of him as he whipped into the hallway. He didn’t see anyone—at least, he didn’t see anyone alive. The bodies of Officer Martinez and Mr. and Mrs. Olivo, however, were splayed out on the floor at erratic angles. Richard turned around and faced the children. “Okay, change of plan. I want you both to close your eyes. Mike, grab the back of my cassock and hold on tight. I want you to walk right behind me—”
“With my eyes closed?”
“Yes,” Richard said. “With your eyes closed.”
“Okay,” he said, although he didn’t sound too certain about it.
“Sophie, you hold onto the back belt loop in Mike’s jeans. Just put your index finger in there and don’t let go of it. Okay?”
“You want me to close my eyes, too?” she asked.
“Uh…yes.” He thought that went without saying, but he inwardly kicked himself for not being absolutely clear with her. “Okay, eyes closed?”
“Yes,” they both answered.
“Now let’s go,” he said, and moved again into the hall. He walked slowly, making sure the children could keep pace with him. The last thing he wanted was for one of them to trip and fall face first onto a dead body. With deliberate steps he made his way to the foyer, then veered right, hugging the wall to avoid stepping on Evans. Then he
passed through the front door and onto the porch. He let out a sigh of relief.
“Those people were dead,” Sophie said. “The Olivos.”
“Sophie, you opened your eyes,” Richard said, the disappointment evident in his voice.
“They were mean to us,” she said.
“They were…not themselves,” Richard said. “If you had met them in a different time, like last week, you might have liked them a lot more.”
“I don’t think so,” Sophie said.
“Can I open my eyes now?” Mike asked.
“Yes. Come on down the stairs. This is my dog, Toby.”
Toby wagged profusely, and Mike instantly plunged his hands into the dog’s fur.
“We’re going to see your mom. She’s right…” Richard looked up to where he had left Rachel on the lawn. She wasn’t there. “Oh, shit.”
“Language,” Mike said. “You have to do dishes on a night it’s not your turn.”
“I guess I’m going to be doing dishes every night,” Richard said, but he wasn’t really paying attention to the exchange. His mind was spinning around how Rachel could possibly have left her children. Perhaps she had gone back into the house? She wasn’t feeling well, after all. “She’s probably at home,” he said. “Let’s go see.” The last thing he wanted was for them to see the remains of their dad on the floor. It was true, he had a sheet over him, but kids are curious. The sheet wouldn’t shield them for very long.
When they got to the house, he stood in the way of the stairs. “It’s still not safe. Wait right here. I’m going to go in and see if your mom is there. I’m sure she is. Then we’ll…we’ll go up to your rooms and get you cleaned up. Okay?”
They looked uncertain, but nodded. He gave them a reassuring smile and took the steps two at a time. “Rachel!” he called as he ran into the living room. No one. He ran into the kitchen. There was Ben, bleeding through the sheet, but no Rachel. He turned and ran toward the stairs, yelling as he ascended them. Within seconds, he had searched the second floor. Rachel was nowhere to be seen.
“Damn,” Richard breathed. Then he scrambled down the stairs again.
“Okay, kids, here’s what we’re going to do,” he began as he burst through the door. But he didn’t finish his sentence. The children were gone. So was Toby.
81
“Uncle Dylan is right here,” Chicken pointed at the center of her drawing. Susan held it up and saw what looked like a maze at first, but as she studied it she could see the outline of a building—one that must be very large, given the number of hallways Chicken had indicated. To one side was a sketch of a hairy man with one eye, tied to a bed. His mouth was open in an angry scream. Susan’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned.
“This is where Uncle Dylan is right now?” Susan asked.
Chicken nodded with huge, loopy motions of her head. She was giggling, enjoying the impact of her drawing on Susan. Then Susan looked away. “I can’t leave Terry,” she said. “You and Dylan disappeared, and I can’t have Terry disappear, too.”
“I’ll stay with Terry,” Casey said. “I promise I won’t leave him.”
“But you’re one of—” Susan caught herself in the middle of her sentence.
“What?” Casey snapped. “One of them? Is that what you were going to say? As in ‘one of those people from Alameda’?” She looked hurt and angry, and Susan didn’t blame her.
“No, I—” She stopped before she could blurt out something that wasn’t true. It was so tempting right now, so easy. She struggled with what to say. Finally, she met Casey’s gaze and forced herself to say, “Yes. That was what I was going to say. You are from Alameda. And right now I don’t know who I can trust.”
The heat left Casey’s eyes and she deflated a bit. “It’s okay. I get it. We’re all pretty traumatized. But Susan, I wouldn’t betray you. I really like you. And…at some point you have to trust someone, don’t you?”
Susan wasn’t sure what to say to that. The sirens had stopped and she saw the paramedics running toward them. “You promise you won’t leave his side?”
“I promise,” Casey looked directly into her eyes.
Susan believed her and relaxed. “Terry, I have to go. Dylan…I don’t know what’s happened to Dylan, but I have to find out. I don’t want to leave you, but Casey says she’s going to stay with you. I guess I’m asking you if that’s okay?”
Terry opened his eyes. “One little lapse in judgment, and look what happens.”
“What do you mean? If you don’t want me to leave you, I—”
“I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about me.”
“Terry, surely you don't think all of this is somehow your fault?”
He looked away. “It must be. I fucked up, and the whole world went to hell.”
“Oh, honey.” Susan kissed his cheek. “It only seems that way. But it isn’t that way. You can’t trust—” She stopped herself again, wondering at the words that were about to leave her mouth, and the flood of thoughts that followed. You can’t trust yourself right now. You can’t trust anyone. You can’t trust anything.
She stood up as an ambulance arrived, followed by several more. Teams of paramedics jumped out and ran toward several of the people lying on the ground. One of them headed toward them and dove for Dylan’s shoulder, taking over for Casey. Casey stood up and put her arm around Susan. Chicken clung to her leg. Susan watched as they put Terry on a gurney and loaded him into the back of the ambulance. Casey squeezed her hand, then climbed into the ambulance beside him. One of the paramedics started to complain, but she tore into him and he relented. Susan smiled at her ferocity. She looked down at Chicken. “I’m going to choose to trust her. What do you think?”
Chicken grinned at her. “Okie-dokie.”
“I’m beginning to wish you never heard that phrase.” Susan walked a couple of steps and knelt. She picked up a 12-gauge bolt action shotgun and yanked back on the bolt. A shell was loaded, and she could see the outline of at least one more behind it. She slung it over her forearm and held her left hand out to Chicken. “Let’s go get your Uncle Dylan, sweet-pea.”
82
“So what is with the squirrel?” Madison asked as they marched deeper into the Berkeley hills.
“Lots of squirrels around here,” Marco noted. “I think it’s the dominant species.”
“Did you notice that it was a white squirrel?”
Marco looked up at the standard leading their procession. It was actually more of a light gray, but he took the point. It sure wasn’t brown.
“What’s your point?” Cain asked.
“Are you napping, Cain?” Madison asked. “You see any black or brown faces under them white hats back there?”
Cain looked over his shoulder.
“You see that?” Madison said to Marco. “This is what I put up with every day at the BPD. Cracker didn’t even notice—that’s how white he is. You noticed though.” It wasn’t a question.
Of course he had noticed. Marco’s skin crawled as the sun descended and the breeze began to cool. The Berkeley Hills were an impossible maze of crazy-quilt streets that snaked and intersected randomly. Marco was turned around and lost almost as soon as they’d set out. Only the setting sun provided a landmark for him to orient by—that and the steep grade of the hill that pointed always east—or would until they crested it. But it was a big hill and they hadn’t gone nearly that far yet.
They turned left onto a cul-de-sac that contained only three very large houses sitting on almost impossibly large lots for this neighborhood—a filthy rich enclave in an already rich area.
“I see fences,” Madison said, his voice dripping dread.
Marco saw what he meant. Straddling the property of two of the large houses was a warren of incongruous chain-link fencing. Marco could make out several discreet “yards” portioned off by the fences, and several large tents and lean-tos inside a couple of them.
In front of one of the houses the squirrel standard c
ame to rest, and the little man leading them barked some orders to the sergeant-at-arms, who called the militia to attention. The man gave the three of them a respectful nod and said, “Right this way, please.” He led them to the side door of a garage, which had the emblem of the squirrel painted over the door. This squirrel wasn’t hanging, though. Instead of macabre, this was cartoonish. This squirrel was holding an acorn in its little hands and winking.
“That’s one cute squirrel,” Madison pointed at it.
“Shhh…keep the Eddie Murphy routine to yourself, unless you want to be lynched next to that other squirrel,” Marco whispered.
“Ain’t no routine, boss, this is just me.”
Marco began to wonder for the first time whether it might be safer to be separate from the officers rather than stay with them. He certainly did not want to suffer for Madison’s inability to hold his tongue. Just then he had a thought. “The talismans I gave you—”
“The what?”
“The scraps of paper with the drawing on it.”
“Oh, yeah, what about it?”
“This is just a feeling, but I think it would be best if you put it in your mouth.”