Snakes and Ladders

by Matty Dalrymple

  “Cop?” one of the shapes muttered.

  “Nah, just some guy,” another replied.

  “Get out of here,” came the tremulous cry from an invisible source deep in the shadows of the portico.

  “Yeah, run home to mommy,” said a fourth, this voice raspy and slurred.

  “I have as much right to be here as you do,” said Mitchell loudly, hoping his voice would be steady. “More right, I’d say.”

  “Oh, yeah?” replied the man. “And why’s that?”

  “I have a job. I pay taxes. I don’t lie around like an animal, waiting for hand-outs.”

  The man rose and advanced a step toward Mitchell. “Animals, are we? And why would a fancy boy like you bother talking to the likes of us? Hoping to talk us into getting a job and paying taxes?” His voice dripped with contempt. “Or maybe you came to look at us like we’re in the zoo?” he asked, advancing another step.

  He was big, made bigger by the layers of clothes he wore. It was impossible to tell if he had a weapon.

  “Going to the zoo like a little schoolboy,” the man sneered. “Like a mama’s boy.”

  Mitchell involuntarily glanced behind him, looking for Millard.

  “Looking for your mama to help you?” the man trilled, then his voice dropped to a growl. “Don’t make me come down there and teach you a lesson.”

  Mitchell turned back to him and squared his shoulders. “Teach me a lesson?” Mitchell’s voice was strained, but now it wasn’t from fear. That heat in his gut was spreading. It had reached his head, and it was all he could do to keep from closing the space between him and this piece of trash.

  “‘Teach me a lesson?’” the man fluted in an unsteady falsetto. “I’m going to teach you a lesson just for the fun of it.”

  Mitchell reached out mentally to probe the man’s thoughts, but rather than the images he was used to perceiving when people weren’t intentionally blocking him, he encountered only a confusion of swirling colors—muddy browns and grays, like a river in flood churning over farmland. His inability to read the man’s thoughts momentarily unnerved him, but that building internal heat overcame his hesitance.

  Mitchell turned to his left and began walking, waiting for—hoping for—the sound of the man’s steps behind him.

  “Let him go,” Mitchell heard the querulous voice call.

  “Mind your own business,” snarled the man.

  Mitchell heard the footfalls behind him.

  A few yards away, the Basilica’s facade stepped back beyond a concrete-paved courtyard separated from the sidewalk by a black metal fence. A light in the adjoining parking lot flickered on and off, creating a strobe of light and darkness. He stepped through the fence’s gate, planning to pass through the courtyard and into the parking lot to get further away from the street, but the metal fence ran along the side of the courtyard as well, blocking his way.

  He turned back to the gate, his hands balled at his sides.

  In a moment, the man ambled around the corner, obviously knowing his prey was trapped. “Well, look at that,” he said. “Looks like someone wandered into a cage all on his own. Who’s the zoo animal now?” The man held something in his hand, and Mitchell saw light glint off metal.

  Mitchell tried again to probe the man’s thoughts, but this time could not perceive even the swirl of colors he had seen earlier. They were overridden by the fiery red swirling of his own mind. If the force he had used on Brett Ludlow had been a slow stone-by-stone crush, the power now building in Mitchell’s brain felt more like a pneumatic press waiting to be triggered.

  The man stepped through the gate, and Mitchell retreated toward the darkest part of the courtyard.

  The man followed him with a rough chuckle. “You’re not the smartest mama’s boy, are you?”

  The pressure—the power—in Mitchell’s head was becoming unbearable.

  The man was only a few feet from Mitchell when the parking lot light flickered off.

  Mitchell released the force.

  The man’s head jerked back as if he had been hit by a bullet—the grainy images of the Zapruder film swam into Mitchell’s mind—and the man dropped to the ground face down, a knife clattering out of his hand onto the concrete.

  Mitchell advanced on the inert form, the taunt of mama’s boy clanging in his head. He placed his foot on the man’s shoulder and pushed. There was no reaction. Face down, it looked less like a man and more like a mound of dirty, discarded clothing. Mitchell pushed again, harder, and this time the body rolled over.

  The man’s eyes—yellow-tinged and rheumy—stared sightlessly. The mouth hung open to reveal teeth clogged with decaying food. Mama’s boy? This thing was barely human. Mitchell pulled his foot back and kicked. The head snapped to the side, a senseless piece of meat.

  But there was still the trash on the steps of the Basilica, and Mitchell Pieda had the means to clean it up.

  He took a step toward the gate, but suddenly the brutal brightness that had lit his vision began to darken to gray. He staggered to the fence and steadied himself with a trembling hand. He could hear a squabble break out on the steps of the Basilica, like irritable pigeons fighting over a crust of bread, then quiet.

  He heard steps approaching and staggered back into the shadows of the courtyard. A moment ago he had felt invincible—had been invincible—but now he could barely stand. If those men from the Basilica steps were coming to get him, he had no strength left to defend himself.

  “Mitchell?” he heard from the sidewalk. “It’s George. I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Millard stepped into the courtyard. He bent over the body and placed his fingers on the man’s neck for a moment. Then he straightened and crossed to Mitchell. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so,” said Mitchell, but he stumbled as he pushed himself away from the fence.

  Millard took his arm, looped it over his shoulders, and led him—hauled him, if Mitchell were truthful with himself—out of the courtyard. They turned right, away from the Basilica steps, and once they had cleared the fence, turned right again, into the parking lot.

  “Hold on to my shoulder for a minute,” said Millard.

  Mitchell did his best to grip Millard’s shoulder.

  With his free hand, Millard pulled his phone out of his pocket and in a moment said, “Meet us on 17th between Race and Vine,” then slipped the phone back into his pocket. He closed a hand over Mitchell’s wrist where it draped over his shoulder.

  “Just two guys out on a bender, right, Mitch?”

  Mitchell nodded.

  “Mortensen’s coming to pick us up, then we’ll get you back to Pocopson. She’s going to be pretty happy with how that went, Mitchell.”

  Mitchell nodded and, despite the painful throbbing of his heartbeat in his head, he smiled.

  10

  Louise stood by the bed where Mitchell lay, his arm thrown over his eyes. Millard stood behind her.

  “Mitchell?” she said.

  He moved his arm away from his face and looked up at her with bloodshot eyes.

  “This will help,” she said, handing him a pill and a glass of water.

  “Thanks,” he said dully. He tried to sit up, but groaned and fell back. Louise helped him sit and he took the glass with a shaking hand and swallowed the pill.

  Louise set the glass on the bedside table. “Anything other than the headache?”

  “Everything aches.”

  “It will be better by the morning. Try to get some sleep. George or I will check on you in a little bit.”

  He nodded, covering his eyes again.

  Millard followed Louise out of the room, then downstairs to her study.

  She crossed to the side table and poured herself a glass of sherry from a decanter. She started for her desk, then stopped. “Anything for you?” she asked.

  “No. Thanks.”

  She sank into the desk chair, then waved Millard into a chair on the other side of the de
sk. Instead, he clicked on the gas fireplace and stood with his back to it, enjoying the warmth on the back of his legs. They had kept the car windows open on the drive from Philadelphia back to Pocopson because Pieda kept complaining that he was burning up. The young man’s legs had buckled when Millard helped him out of the car after they reached the house, and Millard had practically had to carry him up to his room.

  “So, did you get what you wanted out of it?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I made a stupid mistake. I should never have suggested to him that he test his ability on someone he thought was dangerous. The whole point of the test was to see if he differs from Ballard in being able to create a cerebral hemorrhage when he’s not angry or frightened. It’s good to know he can do what he did, but will he be able to do it when we need him to get Brashear out of the picture?”

  “Should we do another test?”

  She sighed. “No. I don’t want more people in the area dropping dead of unexplained strokes. I thought about taking him somewhere else for another test, but traveling with him would be complicated, and too risky.” She took a sip of sherry. “I’ll try to build a case against Brashear with him so at least he doesn’t go into the situation feeling any sympathy for him. I suppose the worst that can happen is that nothing happens and we’ll have to figure out another way to put a stop to the investigation.”

  “You could let me take care of Brashear and send Pieda to take care of Ballard and McNally.”

  She sighed again. “Maybe. We’ll keep our options open.”

  Millard clicked off the gas fireplace. “From what I saw, the drug you gave him sure turned up the volume on whatever power he has. The homeless guy dropped like a sack.”

  She cocked her head at him. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Like he had been hit with a battering ram.”

  “Interesting. I’d love to see the autopsy report. Maybe the dosage doesn’t need to be that high.” She swirled her sherry contemplatively and gazed into the flames dancing in the fireplace.

  After a beat, Millard asked, “What did you give him?”

  “A steroid compound.”

  “So what he’s experiencing are withdrawal symptoms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you just give him more of the drug? Or ease him off it gradually?”

  “Giving him more of the drug would be like keeping a loaded gun in the house. You’ve heard of ‘’roid rage,’ right? And easing him off it …” Her voice trailed off. In a moment, she continued. “If he thinks he has to rely on me to give him the antidote to make him feel better, it’s leverage that might come in handy.”

  “The antidote is aspirin?”

  “Yes. But he doesn’t need to know that.”

  Millard shook his head, then asked, “How long will the symptoms last?”

  “A few days, but the most severe symptoms—the joint and muscle pain, the headache, possibly nausea—will begin to lessen within twenty-four hours.”

  Millard sat down in a chair facing the desk. “Do you think he can read our minds? See what the plan is?”

  She took a moment to answer. “Every indication is that he can’t read the mind of someone who is actively putting up mental barriers against him.”

  “Maybe the steroids will make his mind-reading ability greater, like with the brain hemorrhage thing.”

  “That wasn’t what I formulated it for, but it’s experimental so I can’t be absolutely sure of any unintended side effects. But in case it does have that effect, it’s another argument for getting him off the drug fast. He doesn’t need to know the whole plan, just the parts that he’s involved in.”

  “How many times can you give him the drug?”

  She pushed back from the desk. “It won’t need to be frequent. He takes care of Brashear, you take care of Ballard and McNally. Or vice versa. That’s it. We don’t need to make this any messier than it already is.”

  She stood and walked to a William Harnett trompe l’oeil hanging on the wall. She swung the painting to the side and spun the dial on the safe behind it. She drew an envelope from the safe, closed and locked the safe door, and moved the painting back over it. She crossed to Millard and handed him the envelope. She returned to her desk and sank into the chair. “Keep an eye on him.”

  Millard stood, tucked the envelope into his inside jacket pocket, and left the study. Before heading upstairs, he made a detour to the kitchen. If Pieda had twenty-four hours of withdrawal ahead of him, it was going to be a long twenty-four hours for himself as well, and he wanted to be well supplied with caffeine.

  11

  Lizzy stayed close to home during the days following her encounter with the biker. She had come home to an anxious Uncle Owen—she hadn’t noticed the texts he had been sending her since the storm had rolled in—and fortunately was able to hurry into the bathroom for a hot shower before he noticed the rips in her clothing and the scratches on her skin.

  She didn’t tell him what had happened, fearing that he would want to pack them up and move on again, probably even further from Philadelphia. Despite the encounter, she didn’t want to run further than they already had.

  In the following days she scanned the local news for any references to an off-road biker being accosted by a deranged teenage girl, and watched the street from the large windows in the living room for someone scouting the neighborhoods around the Sugarloaf trailhead, but saw nothing to alarm her.

  Then she realized that there was a simpler solution to avoiding having the biker identify her than hiding out in the house.

  It had been two months since she had cut and dyed her long blond hair to a shaggy purple-black when she was in hiding from Gerard, Louise, and George Millard in Pennsylvania, and about an inch of her natural blond was showing at the roots. She actually kind of liked the effect, but its noteworthiness was its disadvantage as well as its appeal. She decided it was time for a change.

  Lizzy had never been to a salon before—at least, not that she could remember. Her mother had been too nervous about what might happen if little Lizzy got a haircut she didn’t like and got angry with the stylist, so Charlotte had just let Lizzy’s hair grow long. After her mother died, it had never occurred to her father to do anything other than comb out her long blond hair and put it in a ponytail. When she had needed a new look in Pennsylvania, she had cut it herself, with a little help from Christine, the waitress who had befriended her.

  But the change she was considering was not one she wanted to attempt on her own. She agonized over the websites of the Sedona salons and finally chose one that seemed reputable but not too upscale. She called to confirm what the cost of a haircut would be, looked up the appropriate percentage for a tip, and asked Uncle Owen for a loan of that amount. Uncle Owen had never refused her any money she asked for, but other than a small allowance, most of which she had saved, neither did he offer any without being asked. Lizzy suspected that it was his way of limiting the options she had for striking out on her own.

  When Lizzy sat down in one of the salon chairs, the stylist asked, “What did you have in mind?”

  Lizzy pulled up a photo on her phone and showed it to the stylist.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  The stylist grinned. “Good for you.”

  An hour later, Lizzy clattered up the outside stairs of the house.

  “Uncle Owen, don’t look yet,” she yelled from outside the door.

  “Why? Did it not turn out like you wanted?” he called back.

  “It’s like I wanted, but I’m not done yet. Close your eyes.”

  “Okay, they’re closed.”

  She peeked around the edge of the door. Uncle Owen sat at the kitchen table, his eyes closed, a fan of papers and an empty French press carafe in front of him.

  She ran across the living room to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. “Okay, you can open them now. I’ll be out in a little bit.”

  An
other hour had passed when she called, “I’m coming out!”

  “I’m ready!” he called back.

  She opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

  Her hair was cropped crew-cut close to her head and was now a rich copper red. A huge smile lit her face. “It’s called Red Penny!” she said. “What do you think?”

  Owen stared, then smiled. “It’s gorgeous, Pumpkin.”

  “I could have dyed it orange, and then you really could have called me Pumpkin,” she said, giggling. She pirouetted, then plopped down into one of the chairs at the table. She ran her hand up the back of her head, grinning. “It feels funny. Like animal fur.” She glanced at Owen. “Why are you looking at me like that?” She noticed that his eyes were misty and leaned toward him. “Are you okay?” she asked, concerned.

  He nodded. “Your new look is very fetching. But what’s even better is that smile. I haven’t seen that smile in months.”

  12

  With her appearance changed, Lizzy was willing to venture out into Sedona again, but her encounter on the Sugarloaf Trail convinced her that, as Donna had predicted, yoga alone was not going to provide the solution to her issues.

  “How about a therapist?” she asked Owen that evening.

  “What would you talk with them about? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I could just say I don’t feel like I have enough self-control.”

  “You and every other teenager in the world.”

  “Yeah, but maybe they would have some tips for me.”

  “Possibly,” said Owen, sounding skeptical. He shrugged. “As long as you have a cover story, I guess it couldn’t hurt. Let me do a little research.”

  Research completed, he made an appointment with a therapist whose credentials passed muster, explaining that his goddaughter needed to talk with a professional about “teenage girl things.”

  Owen dropped her off the next day at an office complex where the therapist’s office was. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”