Ashes (13 page)

“You want to sedate him and put him under that machine while he's in a coma?”

“Why not? The eff-e-f-f-effect should be the same. Perhaps Morpheus will work more efficiently now that his ps-s-s-psyche is probably looking for a way out. This is a gift. We may now have a clearer passage into his mind. From what we've gathered, in there, the boy exists only as the a-ar-ar-arson. We might have more control.”
 

“Well, I'll be. You do have a dark side. But tread softly, Manny. Keep him under our control.”

Krane eyed Carraway and the others standing in the circle.

“Check his vitals regularly.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Do better. I want that power harnessed, Krane.
This is not a boy
,
remember that
. He's an instrument to be used. He's the property of the U.S. government, and soon, the world. He will help usher us toward bigger and greater things.”

“That's what we promised Adam, isn't it?”

“Stop,” Carraway hissed.

Hoven breathed his hot breath over a cowering Krane. “217 hasn't been much use to us lately, or have you forgotten about that?”

Krane recoiled, cheeks flushed. “You're right. Mere self-doubt, I gather. It's-it's nothing, really. I'll keep working.”

“Doubt if you must, Manny, as long as you don't raise the white flag on me like that coward Parker did. I've already got one stupid flake,” Hoven said, that last comment aimed at Carraway.

“You brought the fire out, didn't you?” Krane asked with a grin. “Maybe it was a good idea we l-let-let him play after all.”

Saul Hoven scraped the top layer of his lip. “Maybe. Let's hope you're right about this. I want his dreams. I want his code. Get the flames to manifest again, without incident if possible. Back to work! And don't get sloppy or it'll be you on this table.” He leaned over to watch as Morpheus continued drilling into the girl's temples. “Sweet dreams, princess,” he whispered over Emery's body as she writhed in pain.

“I wonder if the pain ever stops,” Carraway added.

“One day,” Hoven answered, knowing that for him, for some, the pain would end. Gently, he stroked the girl's hair back, her eyeballs frenzied behind loose sockets. “But not today.”

18

 

JOEL SHUT HIS CELL phone and ended the call. He liked the way Redd's voice sounded from the other end—sexy, uninhibited,
certain
. She had a presence that he could feel, even when he wasn't in it. It was a nice reprieve from the grueling arguments he'd been enduring with Aimee.

“Maybe I should come up there and meet you,” she'd said. “I went to school at Suffolk, so I know my way around the streets pretty good.”

“No,” Joel had returned with slight hesitation. The truth was that he wanted her there, could've used the company and support, however little she could offer as premature as the case was.
But not yet.
This was something he had to do by himself, for now. Joel knew the retainer he'd put down would only last him a week or two, so he had to move fast.

She eventually caved when he politely refused to divulge his location, and said she'd “resort to the usual tricks, then.”

 
Joel caught himself smiling as she said it, knowing the comment wasn't without a hint of sarcasm. But even in sarcasm, she was attractive.

Careful
, he thought, staring at his ring finger.
Don't swim out too far.

It was hard to swim out too far when, for the last two and a half decades, he hadn't even left the dock. Sure, his eyes caught a pretty woman now and then, smiled coyly at a set of bright baby blues from time to time, but other than that, feelings remained mere feelings. Whatever this was, he didn't know how to handle it. It was like returning to a pivotal moment in his teenage years and getting to feel that new crush all over again. The feeling was a warm, almost hypnotizing sensation. He liked it. He could easily get used to it if he weren't cautious.

Joel returned to posting flyers of his daughter up on the city block. His eyes wandered back to where he was parked every five seconds, wondering how long he could let his hazard lights flash before a nosy cop dropped by to pay him a visit. The cool wind whispered through his dark hair and brushed against his just-shaved cheek as the staple gun bit into the paper and pinned the picture to the telephone pole.

After posting a few more images of his daughter, he got back in his car and headed south down Boylston. Once he'd blanketed that entire area—from church to grocery mart to liquor store—he was caught at a red light.

Close by was a basketball court and beside that, a skate park. He'd frequented places like this as a teenager, but he'd not revisited one since. Nevertheless, he revisited with each trick he witnessed from afar. That was
him
once, hopping poles to pull a pop-shove-it, something the Tony Hawk video games trademarked for the twenty-first century. The long, unwashed hair and the ripped jeans were only part of the ensemble; the attitude was the icing on the cake. It was almost like being brought back to an era once forgotten.

No matter how long he would've liked to stay captive there, though, his mind was ripped from memory after a series of horns forced him to notice the traffic light above flashing green. Signaling an apology, Joel switched lanes and pulled into a curbside spot.
 

Some of the kids were skating; others sat lounging inside their cozy hoodies, relaxing in the smell of their cigarette smoke. He noticed a few were placing bets on who'd smack their face the hardest or break a bone while trying to perform a nasty move. A black kid with cornrows handled the bets. Joel choked back a laugh, remembering placing a number of bets
himself
, more often than not stupid attempts to prove skill and masculinity. Looking back, it was just plain lunacy. “Street cred” didn't hold a lot of weight anyhow when a fight broke out.

Two kids slid down a pole just then, one falling off and smashing the right side of his face against the pavement but not before crushing his groin on the metal rod. A spew of curses flowed, and all the boys hugged their manhood in empathy.

The bookie motioned for the kid to pay up once his balls stopped swelling. Then he raised an eyebrow, laughing at the ridiculous positions the hurt skater tried to stay in to avoid pain. Nothing seemed to work.
 

Joel stepped out of his car to get up close. To his left, a skilled group of athletes were earning their pride with a basketball game, a fence dividing the two separate worlds. He watched both arenas with his fingers lost inside the metal holes, wondering who'd fall next or fumble a ball and thus forfeit a game.

This venue was a city in and of itself, a place for weary teenagers to go to release the crap they felt inside—the struggle of making it through high school in a messed-up place. This was their ESPN, their temple, and this little bookie, with skin like coal and wearing nothing but a wife beater and a faded, tattered jean jacket to match his over-sized gym shorts, was their priest. He held their redemption, and they offered their tithes if only to be a part of something greater than
themselves
—to earn a way to be accepted, if such a thing were even possible.

“Looks like we got some paparazzi, fellas. Try not to choke in front of Casper.” The boy was amused by his own comment. He turned and winked at Joel. The few kids Joel actually made eye contact with blew smoke rings in his direction. He couldn't make out their faces, but he assumed they could make out his.

“What's the matter, ladies?
Too much pressure?
Fifteen and a pack of smokes says Ricky breaks his butt during the next trick.”

“Fifteen says I land it, slug,” Ricky said, grabbing his board and smacking the bookie's hand with fifteen bucks. Then he headed to the top of the court's half-pipe.

“Yeah, he's cocky, he's crazy, he's Ricky!” the bookie said in a high-pitched voice, like he was some auctioneer or a boxing announcer. Then, he followed it up with, “But he's still gonna fall and break his butt. Be sure to send a note to his future ex-wife and kids, people.” Another sarcastic laugh split his mouth, and he hugged his side. Then, counting his money, he challenged another skater. This time it was a newbie for twenty-five bucks. The challenge was accepted.

“Like moths to the flame,” he chimed. “Ricky's gonna break his butt, and this clown's gonna break his hymen. Ha-ha-ha. Show me whatcha got, baby.” Then the bookie turned to the basketball court, catching the last
slam dunk
and the biggest guy on the court bragging about it. “Guess that covers the bet you made me last week, Chico,” the boy said. “Must feel good to be all paid up. Say hi to your moms for me.”

“Screw you, Kyro!”

“Tell her I'll be by later. I'll sneak in, and we'll try not to wake you up.” Kyro put the wad of cash in his pocket, sent a text, and focused on the next group of kids ready to make fools of
themselves
. Joel was in awe of how effortlessly this kid ran the grounds, almost without reproach. Here, it was like he was an untouchable priest with a motor mouth.
 

“You want in, Casper?” Kyro asked, flashing Joel some of his cash.

Joel shook his head no. He was envious of so much vitality, so much wild ambition, not unlike what had drawn him to this city. He blocked a wind of dust from coming into his line of sight and pulled a few flyers out from his back pocket.

“Have you seen this girl?” Joel asked Kyro, who was more focused on watching his friends, or victims, smash their faces.

“No, I ain't seen
nobody.
You a dark blue?”

“Dark blue?”

“You a cop or something? Why you comin' around our hood asking if we seen somebody? I ain't
no
snitch.”

Joel walked around the fencing and approached the kid on his own turf. Instantly, a group of teenagers surrounded Joel. “Take it easy, guys. I don't want any trouble.”

“Then you best get on outta here.”

“You've got a big mouth for someone so small,” Joel said, ignoring the big hand on his chest urging him to be cautious about his next words.

Before either of them could blink, one of the kids—
Ricky,
if Joel remembered correctly—flipped off his board and bruised his backside on the concrete step. The other skater landed the trick no problem, but no one was attentive enough to cheer.

“Pay up, man,” Kyro ordered, almost out of breath.

Ricky flipped him a few bills. Kyro turned to Joel for the first time and eyed him. “Give me the picture,” he said.

Joel handed him the photograph. The boy glanced at those around him then dropped his eyes back to the page. “This some kind of joke?” he asked.

Joel shook his head no.

“This chick looks messed up. What happened to her face?”

“Doesn't matter,” Joel said. “Have you seen her or not?”

“We haven't seen
nobody like this.
You're on the wrong side of tracks, Casper.”

“Yeah, guess so. Well, keep an eye out, will ya?”

“
Who
am I supposed to tell, anyway? The po-lice? Shoot, is there even a reward? Rich white boy like you's gotta have some coin.”

Kyro's subjects all agreed with nods and grunts.

Joel feigned a halfhearted smirk. “You don't seem to be doing bad yourself.”

The boy reached into his pocket. “How about you do a trick for us, pops? Maybe we'll tell you where the girl is.”

Joel's face flushed red.

“Now he's listening,
fellas
. Look at his face go
all blank
like that. You heard right, Cass. Get your used carcass up there and show us whatcha got. Maybe our memories'll come back. Get you what you want.” Kyro leaned in close. “Maybe.”

Joel grabbed the kid by the shirt and tugged hard. “If you know where my daughter is, you better tell me.”

“Or what, pops?” one of the kids behind said, nudging the tip of his knife into Joel's back. “Careful, amigo. You ain't back home.”

Joel wiped the spit from his lip and let Kyro go. “You have no idea.”

“You want something, and I want something. Show me whatcha got,” the bookie said, grinning. “Tell you what, I'll throw in a little something extra for ya, so you can buy your broke self a new pair of shoes or a necktie or somethin'.” Kyro flaunted a hundred-dollar bill.

 
“I don't need your money, kid.”

“You will if you wanna get outta here. You crossed the fence,
gotta
pay your toll. Ricky, give this old dude your board.”

Ricky groaned.

“Shut up and give him the board, before I break it off in your tailbone!”

“Fine,” Ricky said, still wincing from the pain of his fall. He handed the skateboard over.

“We got you a ride, Casper. Now go fly. 'Less you wanna give my boy behind you an excuse to go home and polish his blade.”

Joel grunted, took the board, and climbed the steps. A crowd of cheers followed every move as the dark sky loomed. The cold snaked into his nose and mouth, sliding through his blood the more he let it in.

What was he doing here? Was he trying to prove something? Just what did he have to prove, anyway, to these project kids? He was a grown man, not some sixteen-year-old punk with acne. But still, it felt invigorating returning to his youth. Like taking a dare and having the guts to follow through with it. Only question was whether he could land a trick without breaking any bones.

He swallowed a cool, deep breath and brushed his hair back. Stretching a bit, he slanted back farther so he'd have more room to skate some before leaping onto the pole. Blinked twice, twitched his nose, lost sight of why he was here or that he was completely moronic for stepping into the fence line on somebody else's turf to begin with. He knew better.

If Aimee were here, she'd no doubt be condemning the very notion of trying to prove himself to a bunch of kids. Taunts haunted the air from below, while
tsk-tsk
and kissing sounds filled his eardrums; they were trying to distract him, psych him out. But it wouldn't work. Not this time.

With one deep breath, Joel Phoenix was a sophomore in high school, dressed in a v-neck t-shirt and jeans with holes in them. His long hair dangled in front of his eyes no matter how many times he brushed strand after strand back. In no time, he was skating and leaping in the air, catching the cold, unchanged steel beneath the board.

Balance was hard enough, let alone thinking about which move to land. He had about four and a half seconds to decide. Some of the crew below shot their fists in the
air,
others spat slander, and some just sat in the fog of their cigarettes.

Joel blinked and felt his knees drop, felt the almost weightlessness of his body atop the thin board. A few sparks shot out from the wheels along the grind. Propelling upward he managed a varial heelflip before crashing down onto the concrete.

Only problem was, the board went flying into Ricky's face, and Joel ended up on his back. But he couldn't stop laughing.

“Just stay down, Ricky,” Kyro said before applauding Joel's move. “Not bad for a senior citizen.”

“Hey, I'm not as old as I look,” Joel said, catching his breath.