The Orphan Factory (The Orphan Trilogy, #2) (20 page)

The doctor glanced at Kentbridge. The special agent’s face gave nothing away. His full attention was on the road ahead as they sped through the night.

Kentbridge knew Doctor Pedemont was uneasy. He was an expert at reading the body language of others.

Damn you, doc.
If you hadn’t gotten greedy, you’d be heading for a comfortable retirement instead of a muddy grave
.

He put his foot down harder still on the accelerator as if to steel himself for what he was about to do.

Five minutes later, the car’s headlights illuminated the Volo Bog. Kentbridge pulled the Chrysler off the road and drove slowly along a dirt track alongside the bog. He’d obviously been here before as he drove without hesitation.

Beneath the moonlight, the bog seemed to go on forever. For Doctor Pedemont, this was his first visit here. If circumstances had been different and he had a clear conscience, he’d have taken an interest in the site. After all, it had been deemed a National Natural Landmark.

However, his conscience wasn’t clear and his earlier misgivings were intensifying by the minute.

“This is the site,” Kentbridge said, breaking a long silence. He looked at his watch. “Mister Petrakov should be around here somewhere.” Kentbridge climbed out of the car and stretched.

A nervous Doctor Pedemont also climbed out. “Was he coming on his own?’

“No, Andrew sent one of our operatives to escort him.”

The doctor looked around. “I don’t see another car.”

Kentbridge pointed to a narrow boardwalk that led out over the bog. “They’re coming via inflatable from the other side of the bog. We have a bit of a walk ahead of us.” He strolled around to the car’s boot, opened it and pulled out a powerful torch. “Let’s go.”

Following the torch’s beam, they set off along the boardwalk.

“We got a good night for it anyway,” Kentbridge said conversationally.

Doctor Pedemont was starting to feel more relaxed. Kentbridge hadn’t said much on the drive out, but he seemed more like his old self now.

After two or three minutes fast walking, they came across a jetty to one side of the boardwalk.

“Damn,” Kentbridge said. “They should be here by now.” He looked over Doctor Pedemont’s shoulder and smiled. “Ah, here they are.”

The doctor looked around. He didn’t see anyone. Nor did he see the strong fingers that suddenly tightened around the vagal nerve in his neck. He was unconscious before he hit the boardwalk.

Kentbridge bent down and frisked him, removing his wallet and any ID he was carrying. He then used his foot to push him over the edge of the boardwalk into the swampy water three feet below. The special agent switched off his torch and watched impassively as Doctor Pedemont slowly sunk. In less than fifteen seconds he was gone.

It’s as if he never existed
.

By the light of the moon, Kentbridge strode back the way he’d come. As he walked, he reviewed his actions. There’d been no witnesses and there was no sign of a body; if by chance the body was ever found, it would be considered an accident or death by suicide for there would be no signs of violence; and it was known the doctor had a love of the outdoors and often went for nature walks. And, of course, the doctor’s real name was not Pedemont. Nor had he ever been a registered employee of the orphanage or the Omega Agency. Not that the latter officially existed anyway.

The moon disappeared behind a cloud. Kentbridge stopped walking and stared out into the blackness for a moment.

Not for the first time, he questioned what Omega had turned him into.

35

Nine became fully alert as the front door of the Katsarakis’ home opened and Helen emerged. He watched with baited breath as the young Greek beauty walked the short distance to the mailbox. She didn’t so much walk as glide. Her slender limbs looked tanned and shapely.

The fugitive orphan had been waiting since sunrise for some sign of Helen. Hiding across the road behind the same wild shrubs from which he’d spied on her the previous day, he had already seen her father depart for work half an hour earlier. Now he watched as Helen retrieved the morning newspaper from the box and browsed its headlines.

Nine took a deep breath as he psyched himself up.

It’s now or never
.

Mustering all his courage, he stepped out from behind the shrubs and walked toward her. He tried his best to look cool. As he neared her, she remained engrossed in the newspaper, though he sensed she was aware of his presence. “Hi there,” he croaked, his voice cracking as nerves got the better of him. “I’ve just moved into the neighborhood and wondered if--”

“I know who you are,” Helen interjected, stopping Nine in his tracks. Her head remained buried in the newspaper. Finally, she deigned to look at him. “You’re that weirdo who spied on me every day in Riverdale.”

Her words cut him to the bone. Worse, she turned her back on him and resumed reading the newspaper as if he wasn’t there.

The orphan woke, startled, and then relaxed when he realized he’d been dreaming. Relief flooded through him. Relief that Helen hadn’t actually directed such cruel words at him. He suspected the dream had been prompted by a fear of rejection. Either that or guilt over how he had spied on the stunning girl who had dominated his waking thoughts ever since he’d first seen her.

Having regained his composure, Nine glanced around at his surroundings and at his new companions. Dawn was breaking. The boy had spent the night with a group of homeless people beneath the palm trees bordering Venice Beach, the colorful seaside community neighboring Santa Monica. Among them was Ace who was only an arm’s length away and still fast asleep.

Nine had tracked down the friendly Native American after confirming where Helen was residing the previous afternoon. Some two dozen other homeless lay nearby. Like Ace, they were still asleep. Some slept in sleeping bags, others beneath blankets and a handful in cardboard shelters that served as makeshift homes.

Twice during the night, they’d been moved along by local police. Finally, the cops had given up, allowing the homeless to sleep in peace. Officialdom’s intervention had worried Nine at the time, but he soon relaxed when he realized they weren’t looking for him.

As an interim measure, until he found permanent accommodation, Nine had decided there was safety in numbers. Even though it went against his training, it felt right being part of a group. After all, he and his fellow orphans had never once been alone for more than half a day at a time. Besides, he trusted Ace.

Nine studied the fiftysomething Native American as he continued to sleep. He couldn’t help thinking how normal Ace looked compared to the other homeless he’d seen on his travels. Ace had somehow maintained a physical dignity and pride in his appearance despite having been homeless for many years. His long, dark locks didn’t have a single gray hair that Nine could see.

Ace was an enigma to the orphan who was already beginning to look on him as something of a father figure. Nine appreciated the worldly advice he’d received from him and hoped to receive more, especially when it came to his planned courtship of Helen.

The homeless around him began to stir as the first rays of the morning sun cast a warm glow on the beach. The orphan threw his borrowed blanket aside and quickly checked his forearm to ensure the White Gold remained firmly in place. This was now ingrained in him as a several-times-a-day routine.

Nine knew the monoatomic substance was all that stood between him and the loss of his freedom. If it was removed or dislodged, even for a second, resumption of the transmission signal from the microchip embedded in his forearm would reveal his whereabouts to Omega. The agency’s operatives would be onto him within the hour – no matter where he was in North America. Their tentacles were that far-reaching.

The fugitive orphan realized he would eventually need to find an alternative to the White Gold. It wasn’t practical to wear it wrapped around his arm every minute of every day. He knew to be truly free from his Omega enslavers, he’d eventually need to find a corruptible doctor to surgically remove the microchip. But it would take time to raise the cash required and locate such a doctor. Anyway, he had more important things on his mind right now – like Helen.

Nine glanced at Ace and saw he was still asleep. The Pedemont escapee jumped to his feet and walked barefoot on the beach to the water’s edge. The sun felt warm on his back. He looked north toward the Santa Monica Mountains and Pacific Palisades. They glowed in the early morning sun.

The beach was starting to come to life. Surfers paddled their boards out to catch the day’s first waves, and joggers ran by.

Nine couldn’t help thinking how good it was to be alive. He bent down and scooped up a handful of sand. As it escaped through his fingers, he promised himself he’d remain free until the day he died.

But how? How am I going to live day to day?

His thoughts turned to practical matters – like finding a place to live. He was aware no landlord would rent a property to a minor, and no boarding house would accept an under-age boarder. The boy was in no doubt he could manifest the funds to afford permanent residence in a hotel or motel, but that would also raise questions and draw undue attention.

Nine looked back at the palm trees and noticed Ace was now up and about. The Native American gave him a wave.

As the orphan slowly walked back up the beach, he saw Venice locals – some homeless, some not – calling out to Ace as though he was the heavyweight champion of the world, or the mayor perhaps, or at least someone of note. One, a doting, middle-aged woman, emerged from a nearby café and handed him a steaming hot breakfast on a tray; a group of street kids stopped to share a joke with him while a young man rode up on a scooter and handed him a large bag of tobacco.

The Native American greeted all with a smile and a charm that belied his status as a homeless person. 

Nine had overheard some homeless refer to Ace as the Tsar of the Streets. He’d already figured that out for himself. It was evident the man had set up shop as some kind of moneylender.

The orphan didn’t know it yet, but Ace had created a lucrative niche for himself lending monies to other homeless and then charging high interest rates with exorbitant late fees built in. He got away with it because his clients accepted they represented such a high risk that not even the shadiest loan sharks would do business with them. That and because he was generally well liked. He could get away with things others couldn’t.

It sounded an unlikely business, but Ace made it work through knowing everybody and understanding how to use the grapevine to his advantage: the grapevine, or
tom-tom drums
as he preferred to call it, told him with unerring accuracy who among his associates and clients had suddenly had a financial windfall; if those same people owed him money, he’d come calling. As a result, he had his share of enemies. He also had their respect, so few ever tried it on with him. The one or two who did, only ever tried it on once. And word quickly spread – the Tsar of the Streets was not a man to cross.

As Nine caught up to Ace, he remembered a line he’d once read in an ancient text:
In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king
. The local Tsar really was king of his humble community. At that moment he was delivering a lecture to an unkempt, homeless youth who had fallen behind in his monthly loan payments. The youth was visibly shaking as Ace berated him.

A thought occurred to Nine as he observed his newfound friend conduct his business dealings with all the confidence of a self-made billionaire.

36

Nine looked on as Ace shook hands with the landlord of the small, two bedroom unit the Native American had just signed a lease agreement for. The high-density apartment complex, whose third floor the unit occupied, was situated in one of Venice’s rundown backstreets. It was a good mile from the beach and surrounded by other properties that were in a state of miserable disrepair – properties that were frequented by junkies and other undesirables.

However, it was paradise compared to living on the streets, and Ace had a huge grin on his weathered face. He didn’t mind the threadbare carpet, the flecks of mold in the ceiling or that the landlord was grossly overcharging for a place that was barely livable. Especially as it wasn’t his money. It was Nine’s.

The rent was eight hundred dollars a month. Ace had just handed over the first month’s rent and an extra four hundred dollars for the bond deposit. That represented the last of the cash his young companion had acquired during his pickpocketing exploits at the farmers market in Mount Pleasant, Iowa.

Nine had organized the accommodation after scouring rental property listings in local papers. He had earlier purchased Ace a suit and schooled him up to advise prospective landlords that Nine was his nephew and was only visiting Los Angeles. Neither of them wanted any record of a young boy on some tenancy agreement.

Ace had scrubbed up remarkably well – so much so the landlord had no idea he was handing over the apartment to someone who had been living on the streets for almost a decade.

In fact, the Tsar of the Streets had a more impressive background than the average homeless person: he’d once managed a big city gas station, helped run a small town hunting and fishing retail outlet, and had completed a tour of duty in Vietnam. Having mixed with people on both sides of the tracks, Ace felt completely at home whether in the company of the haves or the have-nots. To this day he carried around a credit card – albeit an expired one – and he never hesitated to flash it when the occasion required.

#

That evening, the two unlikeliest of buddies drank Coke together in companionable silence in their newly acquired unit. They had no furniture yet, so Nine and Ace sat on wooden boxes.

The fugitive orphan congratulated himself on securing a home for himself. He wasn’t sure exactly how he would come up the money for furniture, not to mention the monthly rent and other living expenses, but was confident his unique skills would enable him to manifest the funds acquired.