The Inner Circle (18 page)

So what became Jesse’s main source of entertainment? Comic books. Superman, Batman, X-Men—anything with superheroes. He loved superheroes. His favorite was Spiderman. Out of all the comics he’d come to own in the past year since being taken out of Simon’s game and coming to live here with us, his Spiderman comics eclipsed them all.
 

So it was no surprise that when I knocked on his door he was reclining on his bed, the lamp tilted at an angle behind his head to provide enough light to clearly see each panel of Peter Parker’s latest adventure.
 

When he looked up, he closed the comic book with a finger to save his page. He must have sensed my real purpose for knocking, because he sat up and said, “Hey, Ben. You lookin’ for Ian?”
 

I started to shake my head but then stopped. “Yeah,” I said. “You have any idea where he is?”
 

“I think he’th downthairth. Wathin the new guy.”
 

I thanked him and started to back out of the room.
 

Jesse said my name.
 

“Yeah?”
 

“I wanted to ax you thomethin.”
 

He set the comic book aside, taking his finger from between the glossy pages. This I knew was serious. Jesse never welcomed interruptions when he was in the middle of a new Spiderman.
 

I entered the room and sat down on Ian’s bed. The cheap twin mattress squeaked beneath me.
 

I sat there for a moment, looking about the room. This had actually been my room two years ago. Back then we had been able to have our own separate rooms. But once we started pulling more players out of the games, bringing them here, space became an issue. We started bunking up. Started switching rooms. Carver had liked the idea of us trading rooms every couple of months. Getting to know each other. It was his form of musical bedrooms. Not like it was a huge deal anyway, because besides clothes and a few books or DVDs, we didn’t really have any possessions we needed to move from one room to the next. Only the girls had always kept their own room, Carver figuring it was best he didn’t make the sleeping arrangements completely coed.
 

Jesse was sitting on the edge of his bed, the comic book beside him. He was staring down at his dry and calloused hands, massaging the palms, the tips of his fingers.
 

I waited. Just sat there watching him. When it became apparent he wasn’t going to speak, I said, “So what’s up?”
 

He looked at me sharply, as if surprised to find me sitting there. He tried smiling, his buck teeth flashing for a moment, but the smile was forced, awkward, almost pained.
 

“Tho what ... what do you think ith gonna happen to uth?”
 

“How so?”
 

“You know. Now that Carver ... now that he’th gone.”
 

“I don’t know. Depends on the vote tonight.”
 

“Right. But what if ... what happenth if the vote ith we thplit?”
 

“Then we split. Go our own separate ways.”
 

Jesse shook his head. “I don’t know where I’d go.”
 

“Me neither.”
 

I forced a smile, then got up and started toward the door.
 

Jesse said, “I felt ... cold.”
 

I turned back around. “What do you mean?”
 

“When I heard about what happened to Carver. I felt cold.”
 

“Do you ... feel cold now?”
 

He shook his head, staring down at his hands.
 

“It’th like thith, okay? There wath thith old cowhand I uthed to work with. Old man we all called Rex. He was like eighty, eighty-five, thomethin’ like that. Anyhow, one night he tharted complainin’ about gettin’ real cold. He kept thayin’ he could feel it comin’. Everybody, we all ignored him, figured he was ramblin’. But every night, without fail, he keepth thayin’ he’th cold. Finally I ax him what’th wrong. I’m like fourteen then, okay? Been there only a year. And tho I ax Rex, and you know what he tellth me? He thayth he can feel Death comin’. Like Death with a capital D. He thayth that’th what it feelth like when you ’bout to die. You feel cold. And not like you feel cold in the middle of the night, when your blanket ith thin and you’re thiverin’. I mean cold, like in your thoul.”
 

He paused, still staring down at his hands, still massaging his palms, the tips of his fingers.
 

“There at the end, he even thaid he could thee him comin’. Death, I mean. He thaid he could actually thee him comin’ for him. One night, it wath only me around, and I don’t know why I thayed, but I did. And Rex ith lying there, thaking, thaying that Death ith right there with uth, about to touch him. And you know what Rex thaid? He thaid the hand of Death wath like ice. And ever thince then, that’th thuck with me. That idea about Death. And ... and that’th what I felt when I heard about Carver. I felt cold. Like in my thoul.”
 

He looked up at me, his eyes glassy with tears.
 

“Like ... like Death ith comin’ for me next. Like it’th comin’ for all of uth.”

28

I headed back downstairs. Turned the corner to find Beverly and Maya in the kitchen, both of them at the sink, Beverly washing the dishes and Maya drying them.
 

Maya had a plate in one hand, a dishtowel in the other. She forced a smile and said, “Hey.”
 

I nodded at her, forced my own smile.
 

Beverly had her hands in the warm soapy water, scrubbing a copper pan. She smiled at me too, though her smile wasn’t at all forced.
 

I asked, “Beverly, do you have the Racist’s dinner ready yet?”
 

Even though we knew the man’s real name, we always referred to the latest player we saved as their show name, at least until we were certain they were on the level.
 

Her back to me, rinsing the pot, Beverly said, “It’s still in the oven. About another ten minutes before it’s done.”
 

“Can you have it ready for me then, please? I’m going to head over there next.”
 

Maya said, “Want me to come along?” There wasn’t so much hope in the question as simple curiosity.
 

I took a moment, as if really considering it, then said, “Thanks, but I already asked Jesse to come along with me.”
 

She nodded once, like it was no big thing. She took the dripping copper pot from Beverly and began wiping it with her towel.
 

I waited a moment, expecting more questions, and when none came I turned and headed downstairs.

•
   
•
   
•

T
HE
BASEMENT
WAS
split up into two sections. On one side there was a matching washer and dryer, a hot water heater, a furnace. On the other side were tables lined up against the wall, four computer monitors spread out on top of them. A few bookshelves, a TV, a radio, even a mini-fridge.
 

I found Ian slumped in front of one of the tables, his left leg propped up on a chair. He was reading a thick book. He didn’t hear me coming down the old and creaking steps because of the earbuds in his ears.
 

Graham had done the work on the leg, making a splint and then bandaging it. Ian couldn’t be taken to the hospital, he couldn’t get the proper medical attention he needed, so this was the best that could be done.
 

I stood there for a long while, staring down at the leg, hoping against hope that it would heal properly.
 

A part of me didn’t want to interrupt him, so I just continued standing there. Moving my focus away from his leg to the computer monitors. Only one of them was turned on, split so it showed four different pictures. All were of the safe house, and the Racist inside.
 

The big man lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling. He was so still it didn’t even look like he was breathing.
 

Ian finally sensed me. He glanced over, his head bobbing slightly to the beat, started to turn back to his book but instead jumped, did a double take.
 

“Son of a bitch.” He closed the book with a snap, sat up straighter in his chair. He yanked the earbuds from his ears, picked his iPod up from his lap and turned it off. Looked back up at me and said, “What the hell are you trying to do, Ben, scare me to death?”
 

“No.” I shook my head, attempted a small smile. “But I didn’t want to interrupt you, either.”
 

Ian sucked in a deep breath. He lifted his Red Sox cap, ran his fingers through his hair.
 

“What are you reading?”
 

He glanced down at the book on his lap, held it up so I could see the cover. “Just catching up on some history.”
 

It was one of the fifty or so books Carver had purchased two years ago. Mostly history texts that dealt with the Roman Empire. He’d wanted us to read up on the subject as much as we could, and would even test us every few weeks.
 

I lifted my chin at the computer monitor. “How’s our boy?”
 

“Our boy isn’t doing much of anything. Hell, I don’t think he’s moved from that cot in the past seven hours.”
 

“Do you know if he’s read it yet?” Meaning the thing I’d written two years ago, the story of the Man of Wax.
 

Ian, staring at the screen, shook his head. “I haven’t seen him touch it. Not after you first gave it to him.”
 

I nodded but didn’t say anything.
 

Ian sensed the awkward silence and glanced up. “So,” he said.
 

“So.”
 

We just stared at each other.
 

Swallowing, feeling a lump in my throat, I said, “So ... I wanted to apologize. You know, about what happened this past weekend.”
 

He waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
 

“You know I can’t do that. I gave you up. You were right to be pissed at me.”
 

“My leg had just been broken, Ben. I was in a lot of pain. I was pissed at everything. So yeah, it didn’t help when you gave me to that guy, but ... well, it worked out.”
 

“It might not have.”
 

“But it did. I’m here. You’re here. That little girl was saved. That’s all that matters.”
 

Neither of us mentioned Carver. Neither of us mentioned anything more of the mysterious rider who’d come out of nowhere to save us.
 

I asked, “So what do you think about him?”
 

Ian took another deep breath. He glanced at the screen. “I’m not sure yet. You?”
 

“I’m not sure yet either. But the past four times I’ve been in to talk to him, he hasn’t said a word.”
 

Above us there were footsteps, Beverly and Maya moving about the kitchen.
 

I said, “You know what Carver said about him that night? Right after we’d left the club?”
 

“What’s that?”
 

“He called the Racist a loose cannon. He said ... he said he reminded him of Christian Kane.”
 

Ian bit his lip. He glanced at the screen once more and whispered, “It might not matter after tonight anyway.”
 

“What makes you say that?”
 

Ian shrugged. “Depending on how we all vote.”
 

“What’s your vote?”
 

Ian just stared back up at me, his expression flat. Confirming what I already guessed.
 

“Do you think that’s the wisest decision?”
 

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
 

“But what would you do? How would you survive?”
 

Ian suppressed a laugh. “You make it sound like I would be dropped in the middle of the Sahara without water.”
 

“But at least you’re protected here. We’re a family.”
 

“We are not a family, Ben. We’re just a bunch of people who got fucked over in life. Yeah, okay, so we got a second chance, that’s great. Carver gave it to us and I appreciate that. But now? Now we get a third chance. How many people can say that?” Ian shook his head. “Do you want to know what I think? Honestly?”
 

I waited.
 

“I think you’re scared. Shit, I can’t blame you. I’m scared too. My life ... it’s over. I can’t go back home. I can’t endanger the lives of any of my friends, or even distant family members. You got to figure Simon and his crew would find out about that pretty fast. So what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to live?”
 

I crossed my arms, didn’t say anything.
 

“So yeah, Ben, I’m scared. I’m scared to death. But who knows, maybe everyone will vote differently. Maybe we’ll stay together. If that happens, fine, okay, I don’t mind staying.”
 

“That’s bull.”
 

Ian nodded. “Of course it’s bull. I don’t want to stay here if I don’t have to. Not now. Not without Carver. I mean, seriously, Ben, you think we can continue doing what we’ve been doing? Who’s going to lead us?” He snorted. “You?”
 

I said nothing.
 

Ian dropped his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound like an asshole. It’s just this fucking leg won’t stop hurting. The painkillers we have here aren’t strong enough. You have no idea what I’d do for a Vicodin right now. But anyhow, you have to look at it this way. No matter what you think or how you feel, you have to understand this simple truth: now without Carver, nothing will ever be the same again. Nothing.”