Children of the Underground (2 page)

“Stay here,” Michael whispered to me. “Don't move. No matter what happens, don't move. If you move for any reason, I'll know that I can't trust you.” I didn't know how to respond, so I simply nodded. I felt his hands release my arms. Then he disappeared into the shadows. I stood there for a moment, relieved to no longer have a knife blade jutting into my skin but afraid because I was alone again. He had known that people were following him. I didn't know how it was possible, but he had known.

I stood alone in the darkness and listened to the night. I stayed as still as I could, trying not to move a muscle, hoping that my stillness would hide me.

Everything was quiet. I don't know how long the quiet lasted. It was impossible to measure the passage of time. Then I heard something moving toward me—the sound of barely audible footsteps. Whoever was coming was placing each footfall carefully on the gravel, trying to move silently. I heard the footsteps only because my senses were heightened by the darkness. Then I saw a shadow move through the street in front of me. I held my breath. It was the man with the deep-set eyes. He was holding a gun out in front of him. His hands were trembling. All he had to do was look in my direction and I would have been at his mercy. I had never felt so vulnerable before. I stood there in the shadows, not daring to move. Losing Michael's trust now would be worse than death. Then, without warning, the man standing in front of me broke into a run, his feet pounding on the gravel. The footsteps sounded as loud to me as a drum. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM they went and then, only seconds later, they stopped as abruptly as they started. I stayed as quiet as possible, trying to listen to see if I could hear what was happening. The sounds drifted toward me through the night air. I heard something that sounded far too short to be a fight. I heard the sound of feet sliding across gravel followed by a deep, guttural grunt. Then, even though I'd never heard it before, I heard the unmistakable sound of a knife piercing someone's skin. I heard a quick sound, almost like a popping noise, as the knife punctured the skin, and then I heard the knife slide deeper into flesh. I stood there frozen. Then I heard a huffing sound, followed by the piercing sound of the knife a second time. Everything was quiet for a moment. Finally, I heard the last breath, gasping and horrid. Nothing else in the world sounds like the last breath of a dying man. I had almost forgotten what it sounded like. I wish I had. As someone else's breathing stopped, I breathed again. Someone was dead. I had stood there in the darkness and listened to them die. I only prayed that it wasn't Michael.

Then everything was silent again. I still didn't move, standing as Michael had ordered me to, hidden from the world only by the shadows, and waited for Michael's return. Michael didn't get to me first, though. The man with the dark eyes found me first. I saw him before he saw me. He was moving down the street, trying to jump from shadow to shadow. The fact that he was still out there searching for something meant either that Michael was still alive or that they were done with him and were looking for me. I watched the man. His movements were clumsy. He looked younger than he had at the restaurant. For some reason, as he tried to make his way through the darkness, he didn't look much older than a boy, a scared and frightened boy. Like his partner, he held a gun. Without even realizing it at first, he turned toward me. He stared directly into the alleyway. He stopped moving, trying to let his eyes focus. Every single piece of my body told me to run but I didn't. If Michael was going to test me, I was going to pass. The man took another step toward me, still unsure of what he was seeing. He lifted his gun and pointed it at me. I thought he might pull the trigger, firing blindly into the alleyway just to be safe, but he didn't. He simply walked toward me, no longer bothering to hide himself in the shadows. “Don't move,” he shouted as he walked closer, though I could still hear confusion in his voice. He made it across the street and stopped just shy of the entrance to the alley where I was standing.

He could see me now. He aimed the gun at my chest. We were standing less than five feet apart. “It's you,” he said, his voice full of shock and anger. “The bitch from the restaurant.” He lifted the gun so that it was pointed at my head. “Where's your friend?” he asked. I didn't answer. I didn't move. I stared into the barrel of the gun and was not afraid. No one could hurt me more than I'd already been hurt. “Okay, I'm giving you until three to answer me, and then I pull the trigger.

“One,” he counted. I stared at him. I felt stronger than I'd ever felt before. “Two.”

Michael moved so fast that I didn't see him. He must have made a sound, but I didn't hear him either. All I knew was that the instant before the dark-eyed man said, “Three,” the gun wasn't pointing at me anymore. Instead, it was pointing up toward the sky. The dark-eyed man's whole body was turned so that I could see his silhouette framed by the light from the street. Michael appeared, standing in front of the dark-eyed man. A knife blade was protruding through the fingers of Michael's right hand. Michael's left hand was clamped onto the dark-eyed man's wrist, pulling the gun up toward the sky. Michael took his knife blade and jammed it into the dark-eyed man's throat. That's when I smelled the blood. That's when I remembered what it smelled like. It smelled like a mixture of life and death. Then Michael twisted the knife like a corkscrew and the dark-eyed man fell to his knees. I could see the blood now too, dripping from the man's neck onto the ground. In the moonlight, it looked dark and inhuman. Michael pulled the knife out of the man's throat. He wiped the blood off the knife on the dead man's shirt. Michael let go and the dead man fell to the ground with a thud.

Michael turned to me. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted. “Are you fucking nuts?”

“You told me not to move,” I answered.

“I meant not to move from here,” Michael said, pointing around the dark alley I'd been standing in. “I didn't mean not to move at all. Jesus Christ.” I didn't know what to say. I'd done what he told me to do.

“I wanted you to trust me,” I said.

Michael stared at me like I was crazy. He shook his head. “Help me get rid of these bodies,” he ordered me. “The other one is in a garbage can at the end of the street.” He bent down and threw the dark-eyed man's body over his shoulder without another word. “Don't worry,” he said, “I've done this before.” His assurance didn't make me feel any better.

It took longer to get rid of the bodies than it had taken Michael to kill them. We dumped the bodies in the trough of water surrounding the landing strip of the Grand Case Airport. I tried looking down into the water as we dropped the bodies in, wondering how many more bodies were down there, but all I could see was my own reflection on top of the shiny black water. By the time we were finished, it was the darkest part of the night. It wouldn't be long before morning.

We barely spoke to each other as we worked. When we were done, Michael asked where I was staying. I told him. “Good,” he said. “I'm staying with you.”

Two

I waited until the sun came up before daring to get out of bed. Even with the shades drawn, the sun burst through cracks in the windows and the walls. I heard birds. I heard the squawking of the seagulls first and then the singing of the songbirds in the trees outside our room. Michael was still lying frozen on the floor. Michael had slept on the floor in front of the motel room door without a blanket or pillow. He simply folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. I didn't sleep. I had too much adrenaline pumping through my system. It had been a long time since I'd been that close to death. I had a feeling that I should start getting used it again.

I climbed out of bed as quietly as I could and walked into the bathroom. I wanted to wash my face and brush my teeth. I wanted to look at myself in the mirror. The mirror hadn't been my friend for some time. I almost didn't recognize the woman in the glass. She looked tired, sad, and lost. I ran water, as cold as I could get it, and splashed some on my face. I took out the soap and scrubbed my hands clean. I used the same soap to wash my face. I brushed my teeth. I felt better. I felt slightly cleansed. A thousand more days and maybe I could feel clean.

I opened the bathroom door and walked back toward the bed. My eyes darted to the spot on the floor in front of the door. It was empty. Michael was gone. My heart dropped in my chest. I lifted my eyes. The chain lock still hung between the door and the wall. The windows. I turned and looked toward the windows to see if any were open.

“I'm still here,” a voice echoed from the corner of the room. I turned and looked. Michael was sitting in a chair along the back wall. “I haven't gone anywhere yet.” He was sunk low in the chair, with one foot resting on the chair's armrest. The light shining in through the blinds drew shadows on his face. I wanted to finally say something to him, but the words failed me again. Michael took his foot off the armrest and leaned forward in his chair, placing his elbows on his knees. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I'm Joe's girlfriend,” I repeated, as if that answered his question.

“I know. I recognized you from your picture.”

“What picture?” I asked, confused.

“In Joe's file,” Michael answered. “When you and Joe went on the run, they sent his file out to everyone—his friends, his enemies, everyone.” I knew about the file. I'd seen it on the kid that your father shot in Ohio. I remember how surreal it was when I saw my own picture in it. “I remember looking through the file, trying to figure out why Joe ran. I read your bio. I saw your picture.” Michael looked up at me. “You look different.” He paused. “You look older.” His voice was somber, not like I expected.

“I am older,” I told him. “Is that when you left the War, when you got Joe's file?” I asked.

“I haven't left the War,” Michael answered with a liar's smile. He looked at his hands. They were still stained with blood. “I just stopped taking orders.” I wondered if he'd gotten blood in his hair while he slept with his head in his hands. I went into the bathroom and got a wet washcloth. I handed it to Michael. He started rubbing the blood off his hands. The washcloth turned a dark pink. “But yeah”—Michael nodded now—“that's when I stopped taking orders.”

“Did they send a file out on you too?” I asked. “Is that how those people last night found you?”

“No,” Michael replied. “I haven't been cut loose. They just aren't protecting me anymore.”

“So who were those guys?” I asked.

“Word's gotten out that I'm holed up on this island.” Michael finished scrubbing his hands and placed the blood-soaked washcloth on the table next to the chair. “So they've been coming, trying to make a name for themselves by taking me out. It was only a trickle at first, one every few weeks. There are more of them now, and they come in bunches—two at a time, sometimes three. It's like a rat problem.”

“And you kill them all?” I asked.

“Well, first I ask them to leave,” Michael said. I deserved the sarcasm.

“How can you keep it up?”

“I can't,” Michael said. “Eventually someone's going to get the drop on me.” His dark blue eyes flared up for a moment as a streak of sunlight snuck in through the blinds. “It won't be easy for them, though.” We were quiet for a moment. “You still haven't answered my question,” Michael said, breaking the silence. “Why are you here?”

I couldn't think of a diplomatic way to do this. “I need your help,” I answered.

“My help with what?”

“I need you to help me get my son back.” I swallowed hard, trying to fight the tears I felt in my eyes. “I need you to help me get Joe's son back.”

“What good's that going to do?” Michael stood up and walked over to the window. He pulled back the shades with one hand and peeked outside.

“I want to save him. I want to take him away from the War.”

Michael smiled again. It was a sad smile. He shook his head. “You can't save him from the War. The War's in his blood. He was born into it. He's a child of paranoia, just like I am, just like Joe was. No matter how hard you try, the War will find him.”

“I don't believe that,” I responded.

“Believe what you want, little girl,” Michael said. “What you believe doesn't change the truth.” The words stung.

“You realize that if we don't get him, Joe's son is going to grow up on the other side.”

“I don't see how that's any of my business,” Michael said, but I could see something in his eyes. He cared. I saw it, if only for a second.

“How is that not your business? If we don't find him, Joe's son is going to grow up to be your enemy. He's going to grow up to be one of those kids that you sink in that lake.”

“Oh, I don't think so, Maria,” Michael laughed. “I'll be long dead by the time your son starts fighting. I'm sure of that.”

“His name is Christopher,” I said, searching for words that Michael wouldn't have an answer for. “Joe died trying to keep him out of the War.”

“Joe was a dreamer,” Michael answered.

“Funny, that's what he said about you.”

“Yeah, I was a dreamer too,” Michael replied. “Now Joe's dead and I'm not a dreamer anymore.”

“Wait. I have something for you.” I walked over to the closet and reached up to the top shelf. I pulled down your father's journal. I hadn't planned on giving the journal to Michael. The idea just came to me. If I couldn't convince Michael to help you, maybe your father could. I handed Michael the journal. The pages were worn where I had read them over and over again. “It's Joe's journal. I asked Joe to write it.” I crammed the crumpled pages that I'd written about the day they stole you into the back of the journal. Michael deserved to know how his friend had died.

Michael held the journal in his hands. He looked down at it, unsure if he actually wanted it. He reached up and rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. “Am I in it?” he asked, his voice weak.

“It's how I found you,” I told him.

“Can I take this?” Michael asked, lifting the journal in one hand. He was leaving. I couldn't make him stay. I could only try to make him come back.

“Only if you promise to return it.”

“I promise,” Michael said. “You can count on me.”

“I know,” I said. “That's why I'm here.” I reached out and grabbed Michael's hand and squeezed it tightly against the book. His hand felt thick and weathered.

He looked down at my hand on top of his and then turned to go. He walked toward the door and unchained the lock. “Am I safe here?” I asked before he left.

“You thought I stayed here last night to protect you?” Michael said as he opened the door. I was nearly blinded by the sun. The room flooded with light. “You've got a lot to learn, Maria. I stayed here last night for my protection, not yours.” Michael stepped into the daylight. “You'll be safe. They're after me. Now that Joe's gone, nobody cares about you anymore.” Then Michael walked out the door, closing it behind him.

He hasn't come back yet. I have to believe he will. I have no choice.