Children of the Underground (5 page)

Seven

I haven't stepped outside my motel room since Michael left. I can't risk missing him. I haven't seen or heard any sign from Michael. I'm trying to stay calm. I'm trying to breathe. He has to come back. He has your father's journal. I've been watching TV, hoping that it would help to kill the time, but I can't concentrate on it. I've been watching the BBC mostly. The newscasters keep talking about flooding in Asia and riots in Africa. No one mentions the War. A world exists out there for you, Christopher. It is full of hardship and trouble, but it isn't this. It's getting dark outside. I'm getting into bed. I could use the sleep.

* * *

Out of sleep
by the sound of the phone ringing next to the bed. I'd been dreaming. I don't know what I was dreaming about, but my head was a jumble. The phone rang again and I lunged toward it, unsure of how many rings I'd already slept through.

“Hello,” I said when I got the phone near my mouth.

“Did you get some sleep?” Michael asked. I could hear the sounds of the docks behind him.

“More than last night,” I answered. I wasn't in the mood for small talk. I wanted him to end my agony and come out and tell me that he was going to help me. I had to play the game, though.

“Good,” he said with an urgency that I hadn't heard in his voice the previous morning. “You're going to need it.”

“Why? What's going on?” I asked.

“Do you know Sunset Beach Bar?” he asked.

“The one by the airport?” I responded. Sunset Beach Bar was on my list of places to go to look for Michael. I hadn't made it that far down the list yet. It was famous because it was close enough to the airport that when the massive planes came in, people claimed that you could sit at the bar and almost reach up and touch them.

“Yeah,” Michael answered. “Meet me there at noon today. Bring everything you have with you.”

“Everything?” I asked, not that it mattered. Everything I had wasn't much. I was simply trying to gauge Michael's intentions.

“Everything,” he answered.

“What's going on?” I asked. “Are you going to help me or not?” I was losing my stamina for intrigue.

“We'll talk at the bar,” Michael said. I could hear the horn of a cruise liner behind him. “Noon.” Then I heard a click and the line went dead. I got up and took everything I owned and threw it in my duffel bag. Your father had taught me to travel light. Packing took me less than five minutes. I looked at the clock. It was only half past eight.

I didn't care how much time I had. I needed to go. I grabbed my bag, flung it over my shoulder, and walked outside. The sun was shocking. I felt like I was walking free after days in solitary confinement. I had to remind myself that I'd been in that room for only a little more than twenty-four hours. The world around me was shining, reflecting the bright sunlight. I went to the motel office and checked out. My finances were running dangerously low.

Maho Beach, where Sunset Beach Bar was, was only about a half an hour drive from the motel, so instead of heading straight there, I stopped for breakfast. Breakfast killed about forty-five minutes. After I finished, I decided to go to the bar. Killing time anywhere else seemed pointless.

Michael showed up fifteen minutes late. At noon, I started to worry. I worried that he'd changed his mind and was standing me up. I worried that he'd been ambushed on the way to the bar and I'd never see him again. I worried that the whole thing was a setup, that he had no intention of meeting me, that he hated me for what I did to Joe. At five after twelve, I took out a cigarette and lit it. I inhaled. The chemicals did nothing to ease my anxiety. A few minutes later, I heard his voice.

“How long have you been here?” Michael asked, sneaking up on me from behind for the second time in two days.

I turned and looked at him. He had a duffel bag with him. I'd left mine in the car. “About two hours,” I told him. “So what's going on?”

“We're leaving,” Michael replied.

“The bar?” I asked, wondering why we met there only to leave.

“No,” Michael answered. He sat on a bar stool next to mine. “The island.”

“So, you're going to help me,” I said, letting some hope slip into my voice. I assumed that's why we were leaving the island together.

“No.” Michael shook his head. I felt my heart crashing into my stomach. “I can't help you,” he continued. “I don't know how. I don't know where your son is, and I don't have the slightest idea how to find out. It's not my fight anyway.” Michael reached down into the outside pocket of his duffel bag. “But I might be able to take you to some people that can help you.” He handed me a bunch of postcards that he'd pulled from his bag. I looked at the picture on the back of one. It was a picture of the Lincoln Memorial at dusk. Streaks of golden light glowed in the tide pool in front of the Memorial. I flipped it over.

Michael, we can help you escape the War,
it read.
Follow the directions below and we'll find you.
Below the words was a short poem that didn't appear to have any connection to the rest of the message. I flipped it to the back of the pile and read the next postcard. This one had a picture of the Washington Monument lit up at night like a giant sword pushing up through the earth. The message was similar.
We can help you escape. We know who you are. Follow the directions below if you're interested
. I flipped to another and another. They were all the same.

“How many of these do you have?” I asked Michael.

“Since I've been here, I've gotten about a dozen. I got the first one about three months in. I got it right after the first person came down here to try to kill me.”

“What are they?” I asked, looking over the postcards again.

“My only guess is that they're from the Underground.”

“What's the Underground?”

“They're former soldiers who've teamed up to try to wash people.”

“Wash people?” I asked.

“Clean them. Help them disappear. They take people who want out of the War and they make them vanish. They turn them into innocents.”

“And you think that they can help me?”

“I don't know.” Michael shrugged. “But I don't have any better ideas.” A plane flew overhead. The sound was intense, like standing inside the jet's engine. I looked up at the plane as it flew over us. Michael ignored it. He took that second when everyone else was looking up to glance around the bar.

“And you're going to take me to them?” I asked, wondering why he'd bother.

“Sure,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I need to get off the island too.”

“Why do you need to get off the island?” I asked. Michael was making me nervous.

“Because there are more of Them here,” he said. “I don't know how many, but more.” Michael's voice dropped to a whisper. “I saw them following me. There are at least four of them. I can't beat all four of them—not at once.”

“And that's why you're going to help me?” I asked.

Michael shrugged. His eyes met mine for a moment. “You have better options?”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay.” It wasn't what I'd been hoping for, but it was something. Maybe the Underground would be able to help me. “So what's the plan?” I asked. Michael glanced at the people around us. He put up one finger, telling me to wait for a moment. Then another plane roared overhead. As the sound grew louder, Michael spoke.

“Do you have your car here?” he asked over the sound of the jet engine. I nodded. He stood up from the bar and grabbed his duffel bag. The airplane was directly over our heads. “Meet me there in ten minutes.” I nodded again. Michael walked off. He didn't look back.

I sat alone at the bar for another five minutes. I looked around at the vacationers in their bathing suits. They looked happy. I looked at each of their faces, wondering which ones I could trust and which ones I couldn't. Then I paid for my drinks, got up, and walked to the car.

I didn't see Michael when I got to the car. I'd already learned that didn't mean he wasn't there. I tried my best to act casual, walking up to the driver's-side door. I unlocked the door and sat down in the driver's seat. As soon as I did, one of the rear doors opened. I looked back in time to see Michael jump into the backseat. “Holy shit,” I gasped. “You scared the crap out of me. Where did you come from?” Michael threw his duffel bag on the floor of the car and then ducked down in the backseat, closing the door quietly behind him. “What are you doing?” I asked, turning toward him.

“Look forward,” he said, “and drive.” I didn't ask any more questions. I put the key in the ignition and drove.

“Where am I going?”

“North. Toward Grand Case,” Michael said. I put the car into gear and turned out of the parking lot. I had no desire to go back to Grand Case after what happened the other night, but I headed in that direction. Before long we were on the main road, driving past Mullet Bay and Cupecoy Beach.

“I feel stupid, Michael. Are you going to tell me what's going on?” I stared at the road, glancing periodically at my rearview mirror. A yellow, open-top jeep was following close behind us.

“I told you. They're here. They're looking for me. You're just a woman on vacation.” I started to feel like I was being used. I checked my rearview mirror again. The jeep was closer, close enough that I could see the driver.

“Michael,” I said, looking in my rearview mirror again to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. “I think we're being followed.”

I heard Michael mutter something under his breath. “What makes you think that we're being followed?”

“I recognize the driver from the bar. He was there. He was looking at us.”

“What does he look like?” Michael asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “He looks like a regular guy.”

Then Michael described him. “Brown hair,” he said. “Short and curly. Black-rimmed sunglasses.” It wasn't much of a description, but it was accurate.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Fuck,” Michael muttered. “How do you feel?” he asked me.

How was I supposed to answer that? My hands were trembling. “Fine,” I said. I could hear Michael moving behind me. I heard a click. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“I want you to slow down,” Michael answered, “and see if they drive past us.” I peeked down at him through the rearview mirror. He had pulled the back of one of the seats forward, opening up a passageway to the trunk.

“What if they don't drive past us?”

“Then pull over. See if they drive past us then.”

“What are you doing?” I asked again.

“I'm hiding in the trunk,” Michael answered.

“What if they don't drive past us when I pull over?”

“Talk your way out of it. Forget that I'm here.”

“What if they go for the trunk?”

“Then hit the gas and don't stop.” Peeking in the rearview mirror, I could see that Michael had already pushed his legs into the trunk. I started to slow the car down. The yellow jeep slowed down too.

“They're not passing us,” I said to Michael. Then I heard the click again. I looked behind me. The backseat was empty. Michael was in the trunk. He'd pulled the seat back into place. His duffel bag was gone too. It was like he'd never been there. I drove slower and slower. The jeep kept slowing down with me. A second man was in the passenger's seat. I didn't recognize him. He had straight brown hair. He wasn't wearing sunglasses, so I could see his eyes. He was watching me. Pulling over was a bad idea. I could feel it. Still, I did what Michael told me to do.

We had just passed Baie Rouge. I pulled over by a bluff overlooking the ocean. I could see the whitecaps on the waves in the water. When I turned off the car, I could hear the ocean churn. The jeep pulled over behind me. I wanted to ask Michael if he was sure this was a good idea, but it was too late.

The two men got out of the jeep behind me and started walking toward my car. The passenger walked about twenty paces past the car and then turned around to face me. The driver walked up to my window. He leaned in toward me, eyeing the inside of the car. “You okay, lady?” he asked after seeing that the car was otherwise empty. His shirt was untucked and hung over the waist of his pants. It did little to hide the gun tucked into his waistband.

“I'm fine,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “I was letting you pass. You seemed to be in a rush.”

“You're the lady from the bar,” the man said, feigning surprise. I didn't respond. “Where's your friend?” he asked.

“That guy? Not my type. I don't go for scruffy guys.” I looked at the other man standing twenty feet in front of the car, with his hands at his sides.

“Really? Because you guys looked pretty cozy.” The man reached down and placed a hand on the car door. “Maybe you should get out of the car.”

“No,” I answered. “I'm not getting out of the car with two strange men.” I shook my head. “I really need to get going.” I turned the key in the ignition, restarting the car.

“Open your trunk,” the man shouted at me when I started the car. He moved the front of his shirt, displaying to me the butt of his gun.

“No,” I said, knowing that my lack of a poker face might get Michael killed.

“We're not going to hurt you,” the man said. “Just open your trunk.”

“No,” I said again, and put the car in drive.

“Fine,” the man said. He pulled the gun out from his waistband. He walked behind the car. I could see him in the rearview mirror. He lifted his gun and aimed it at the trunk. He was standing only about ten feet behind the car. I looked in front of me. The other man had pulled out a gun too. I had only a second before the trunk was going to be littered with bullets. It was either them or Michael. Working on instinct, I put the car in reverse and slammed on the gas. It took a second for the wheels to catch. I could hear them screeching even before the car started moving. When the wheels caught, we moved fast, lunging backward. I looked into the rearview mirror. The man was holding his gun in front of him, getting larger and larger as the car sped toward him. He had underestimated me. He didn't think I'd fight. That's because he didn't know what I had to fight for. I squeezed the steering wheel so tightly that my forearms began to ache.