Brainboy and the Deathmaster (6 page)

“What am I doing here? As I said, we’re interested in adopting. We thought perhaps you could help us.”

“Help you?” Ms. Grimsley echoed, as if she was losing her grip on the English language.

“Is Darryl available, by any chance? He strikes me as just what we had in mind. How old are you, Darryl—about twelve?”

Darryl nodded, staring unblinkingly at the face he knew so well from newspapers and magazines and TV interviews. And also, he now realized, from the DeathMaster game on the MondoGameMaster. If the face had continued to grow younger, it would have become Keith Masterly’s.

“Twelve’s ideal,” Mr. Masterly said. “Of course, Darryl might not be interested in
us,
but if he is, we’d certainly be interested in him. We’ve been wanting to adopt for some time, and last night I had a dream about it. It probably sounds silly to you, Ms. Grimsley, but I’m a big believer in dreams. That’s where I get the ideas for most of my games. So first thing this morning we drove straight over here. Sorry about the jalopy, by the way. It keeps the press from hounding us.”

“Naturally,” Ms. Grimsley said hoarsely.

“Tell me, Darryl. What’s your last name?”

Darryl cocked his head to one side. “Don’t you know, Mr. Masterly?”

Now Mr. Masterly’s face paled slightly. “How would I know your name?”

“Aunt Ellie,” he said, just audibly.

“His whole family died in a fire,” Ms. Grimsley said
quietly, “including his aunt. I believe she worked for your company.”

Mr. Masterly smiled at Darryl. “So you didn’t buy my dream story, eh? You are a perspicacious boy—Darryl Kirby.”

Darryl couldn’t help grinning. Not only did Keith Masterly know his name, he considered him smart! He was almost positive that was the meaning of “perspicacious.”

“I’m sure it’s hard to have to think about such things at a time like this, Darryl,” Mr. Masterly went on gently. “But we really would be delighted if you’d give us a whirl. I think in time you might grow to like us. And, of course, if you don’t, you can just say the word and we’ll bring you back here.”

“But you already have a son, sir,” said Darryl. Keith Jr., now eighteen, a product of his first marriage.

“Didn’t I read somewhere that your son’s a gifted water-skier?” Ms. Grimsley said.

“Yes, he’s a gifted water-skier,” Mr. Masterly said. “Do you water-ski, Darryl?”

Darryl shook his head.

“Well, I’m sure Kit would love to teach you. I hope you’ll like him.” A beep sounded. Mr. Masterly checked his watch—or, rather, a small monitor he wore on his wrist, much like Captain Geomopolis’s in
Star Voyager.
“Unfortunately, I’ve got a board meeting at ten-thirty. I don’t suppose we could wrap this up?”

“Wrap this up?” Ms. Grimsley said, turning into a human parrot.

“As you so justly put it, this isn’t a fast-food joint. We don’t want Darryl feeling like a quarter pounder with cheese.”

Darryl laughed.

“Still, Ms. Grimsley, I was hoping you might make an exception in our case. But if you feel we need references, or a background check, I perfectly understand.”

“References! Background check! How could you think such a thing, Mr. Masterly? Good gracious, I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life!”

“Then I guess that leaves it up to our young friend,” Mr. Masterly said. “You were fond of your aunt, weren’t you, Darryl?”

Darryl swallowed, nodding. “She got me my GameMaster,” he said softly.

The thingamajig on Mr. Masterly’s wrist beeped again. “Sorry to be in such a hurry. What do you say, Darryl? Want to give us a test drive?”

“It’s very nice of you to ask me, Mr. Masterly. I mean, I really appreciate it a lot. But BJ and his mom want to adopt me.”

“Now, Darryl,” Ms. Grimsley said. “You should
know how unlikely it is that Mrs. Walker would ever be approved. She’s a single, working parent. And by the look of the house, with very few assets.”

“BJ’s a friend?” said Mr. Masterly.

Darryl nodded.

“Does he water-ski?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I guess Kit’ll have two students then.”

“But … how would he get over to Hunt’s Point? Mrs. Walker works at the library, so she couldn’t drive him.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Mr. Masterly said. “We can send a driver for him whenever you want.”

“Could I go along? And sometimes could I spend the night at BJ’s?”

“Darryl, really, you mustn’t bargain with Mr. Masterly,” Ms. Grimsley said.

“Shows he has a sound head on his shoulders,” Mr. Masterly said. “I’m sure we can work things out to everyone’s satisfaction.” He led the way into the front hall. “Do you have luggage, Darryl?”

“Why don’t you run up and get your bag?” Ms. Grimsley said.

Darryl shook his head.

“We’ll take you shopping later,” Mr. Masterly said.

Only when they were back out on the gravel driveway
did Darryl notice the chauffeur sitting behind the wheel of the van. He had on a dark-red uniform and cap.

“I hope you realize how lucky you are, Darryl,” Ms. Grimsley said.

As if to confirm this, the chauffeur popped out of the van and slid open the side door, revealing an interior that was as plush and luxurious as the outside was decrepit: four leather bucket seats grouped around a shiny walnut table. Darryl followed Mrs. Masterly in and sat down.

“We were thinking maybe you wouldn’t have had breakfast, Darryl,” Mrs. Masterly said, smiling at a plate of pastries on the table. “Help yourself.”

There was a napoleon, and a buttery thing shaped like a little boat, and a heart-shaped pastry with glazed apple slices, and a lemon tart with a dollop of whipped cream on it. The napoleon looked the best, but it was coated with powdered sugar, and Darryl didn’t want to make a mess, so he chose the one with apples. It was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted in his life.

M
r. Masterly walked Ms. Grimsley back up onto the porch of the Masterly Children’s Shelter and asked if she would be so good as to do him one small favor.

“If the press gets wind of our adopting Darryl, we’ll be under siege. We won’t have a moment’s peace, and the poor boy’s life will be turned upside down. And then there’s the kidnaping issue. We had two close calls with Keith Jr. when he was younger. So I’d prefer to keep the whole thing quiet.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“I appreciate your discretion, Ms. Grimsley.” He shook her skeletal hand. “And I also appreciate the job you’ve been doing here. When was the last time you had a raise?”

“Oh, but sir—”

“When was the last time you had a raise, Ms. Grimsley?”

“Let me see. Two years and four and a half months ago, I got a cost-of-living raise.”

“High time for another. And thank you again.”

Mr. Masterly strode down to the van and climbed in
the back. The chauffeur slid the door shut and went around to the driver’s seat, which was divided from the back by a panel of smoky glass. To communicate with him, Mr. Masterly pressed a button on the gizmo on his wrist.

“Home, Frank,” he said into it—and off they went.

The back of the van was so soundproof that Darryl couldn’t even hear the crunch of the tires on the gravel.

“You liked the
chausson aux pommes
?” Mr. Masterly said.

Darryl nodded enthusiastically. Mr. Masterly pressed a button on his wrist again and spoke into it:

“We’re on the way in, Jimmy. Fire up the copter for me.”

Darryl’s eyes widened. Fire up the copter!

“Do you have to fly to the board meeting, sir?”

Mr. Masterly pulled a green bottle of mineral water out of a mini fridge in the wall and took a swig.

“To tell you the truth, Darryl, I don’t have a board meeting. I sometimes beep myself when people bore me. Ms. Grimsley’s pleasant enough, but a bit tiresome—don’t you think? Which reminds me.” He pressed another button on his wrist gizmo. “Charles? KM here. Speak to the Foundation and see that a Ms. Grimsley at the shelter in Seattle has her salary doubled ASAP. Oh, and—Darryl, what kind of car does she drive?”

“It’s a little Toyota. Pretty old.”

“Charles, get her a new car, too, on my personal account. … Oh, a Mercedes. … Let’s see, nothing too sporty, I shouldn’t think. A sedan. Top of the line. Thanks.”

Her salary doubled
and
a new Mercedes!

“So, tell me about school, Darryl,” Mr. Masterly said. “You must get top grades.”

As he described his middle school, Darryl looked back and forth between Mr. and Mrs. Masterly. Neither face had a single wrinkle, and yet somehow you could tell Mr. Masterly was middle-aged while Mrs. Masterly was barely an adult. She didn’t say another word till they were halfway across the Evergreen Point floating bridge.

“Look!” she suddenly cried, pointing out the tinted window on the side of the van. “Barefoot!”

On the south side of the bridge a sleek powerboat with a dark-red hull was shooting along at the speed of the eastbound car traffic. The man at the helm was wearing a uniform identical to the chauffeur’s; the skier, about twenty-five yards behind the boat, was kicking up an unusual amount of spray. He was young and very handsome—tan and surfer blond—and looking closer, Darryl saw that he had on no water skis at all. He was skiing on the soles of his feet!

“Is that your son?” Darryl said.

Mr. and Mrs. Masterly spoke at the same time, Mr. Masterly saying, “I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Masterly saying “Isn’t he something?”

“You’re not big on sports, sir?” Darryl asked.

“I have nothing against them,” Mr. Masterly said. “I exercise regularly myself. But they can be a gigantic waste of time—and time’s the only thing of value in the world.”

Darryl yawned—not because he was bored but because all of a sudden he felt as sleepy as on the way back from the pizza parlor last night. “I think you’ll like BJ’s mom,” he said, leaning his head back against the buttery leather seat. “She thinks sports are a waste of time, too.”

His eyelids drooped and he felt strangely light-headed, as if he was rising up out of himself like a ghost. He seemed to float straight up through the van’s tinted sunroof, up into the cloudless sky, the van and ski boat down below getting smaller and smaller and smaller till they were nothing at all.

“S
omething’s not right, Ma,” BJ said, ripping a fourth sheet of paper towel off the roll. “He should have called by now.”

They were grilling baby back ribs in the backyard. Though the barbecue sauce tasted great, it seemed to end up everywhere: on BJ’s chin, his fingers, even his cutoffs. Next to a cordless phone in the middle of the picnic table was a roll of paper towels.

“Maybe that new foster family of his is keeping him busy,” said Mrs. Walker.

“Still. It’s been a day and a half.”

“Maybe they don’t live in Seattle. Maybe the call’s long distance.”

“He’d find a way. I’m worried, Ma.”

“But Ms. Grimsley wouldn’t have let him go with a family that wouldn’t treat him well. They check everything out.”

“That’s another thing. There’s something weird about that message she left yesterday.”

“What do you mean?”

BJ stood up and, grabbing one of his mother’s hands,
tugged her out of her chair. He led the way into the kitchen and hit the playback button on the answering machine on the end of the kitchen counter.

“Listen, I saved it,” he said as FDR leaped up onto the counter and started licking barbecue sauce off his fingers.

“Hello, Mrs. Walker, Dorothea Grimsley here. I just wanted you to know we’ve placed Darryl with a lovely family. To save you a trip over here. It’s now, let’s see, it’s three
P.M.
on Monday. Hope you’re having a good day.”

“See what I mean?” BJ said after the ending beep.

“What’s weird about it?”

“You can’t tell?”

“You mean them placing Darryl so fast?”

“Well, that, too. But I’m talking about Grimface. Her voice.”

“What about it?”

BJ hit the playback button again, and the message replayed.

“Don’t you see? She sounds happy.”

“So?”

“She’s not a happy person, Ma.”

“Mm, she is kind of like an undertaker without any caskets.”

“Yeah. So why would she be happy all of a sudden
just because she found Darryl some foster parents?”

“Maybe that’s what makes her happy—placing kids.”

“You buy that? I think something’s fishy.”

“Wash your hands, sugar pie, and let’s go finish dinner. There’s nothing we can do but wait for him to call.”

“I’m done with dinner.”

His mother followed him into the living room and watched him collapse on the floor. “I brought home a couple of videos,” she said.

He just lay there with Confucius on his chest and Gwendolyn on his belly.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “You’ve gone catatonic.”

That was pretty funny—
cat
atonic—but even so, he didn’t laugh. His mother sank down on the sofa and squeezed the toes of his right foot through his Nike.

“I know your feelings are hurt, sweetie, but I’m sure Darryl—”

“My feelings aren’t hurt!” BJ cried, sitting up so abruptly that the two cats flew halfway to the TV set and scuttled out of the room. “I’m just worried.”

“Well, I’m going to finish my dinner.”

When his mother left, BJ flopped down on his back with a sigh. Soon Galileo came over and started licking barbecue sauce off his cheek. BJ waited till the cat was done; then he picked him up and held him close to his chest, stroking his fur.

“You wouldn’t just take off and forget about us, would you, boy?” he murmured. For in fact his feelings
were
hurt. “You’re a nice, loyal cat, aren’t you? What’s the point of worrying about Dare if he’s not worrying about us, huh? Yeah, that’s right. You’re a good little cat, yeah, you are. …”

A
t first it looked like Mars in MasterTrek, but after rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and blinking a few times, Darryl saw that it was a glowing globe of rosy glass: a ceiling lamp. He stretched his arms out to his sides. The sheets were cool and crisp. He sat up a bit. He had on his underpants and T-shirt and was surrounded by pillows. Three, four—six pillows! He sat up a little more and peered out across a feather-light comforter at a room as big as the whole downstairs of his old house.