UnDivided (7 page)

Although the basement is warm, Connor notices that Risa crosses her arms as she watches, rubbing them like she's
shielding herself from the wind. “I'll never understand how they're able to spin murder into social consciousness.”

“It's not murder, didn't you know?” says Connor, and convincingly mimics the wholesome voice of a trustworthy announcer. “ ‘It's the kindest thing we can do for troubled youth with biosystemic disunification disorder.' ”

Grace, who seems to hear everything between him and Risa, just stares at him. “You're kidding. Right?”

If it were anyone else, Connor wouldn't justify the question with a response, but for Grace he winks, and she laughs in relief.

“We need to move on this,” Connor says. They should be out of here seeking out the people who can actually use the printer—or at least trying to find out if it even works. He's taken the lead, but has yet to take action. It's not like him, and he wishes he knew what was holding him back.

“Move on what,” Beau asks, adding his nose into the conversation. They've told none of the kids down in the basement about the printer because trust among AWOLs must be earned. There's no telling where these kids will ultimately end up and what bargains they'll strike to save their own lives.

“Lunch,” says Connor. “Are you cooking today?”

Beau knows he's lying, but also doesn't push, probably because he also knows he won't get any information from Connor that Connor does not want to give. Better to avoid pushing than to push and fail. Beau chooses his battles well: only the ones he stands a good chance of winning. Connor actually finds that admirable; the kid doesn't waste his time in futile pursuits. He could actually be a decent leader if he ever gets over himself.

When Sonia comes down to deliver cold cuts and fairly stale bread for supper that night, Connor manages to talk to her alone, while Beau and the other kids are occupied scarfing down their sandwiches.

“You do realize that we need to get our hands on some of those stem cells you were talking about, and make sure the printer still works before we go public.”

“Fine,” says Sonia, glaring at him. “I'll pick some up at Walmart tomorrow.” And when Connor doesn't back down, Sonia sighs. “You're right. But it won't be easy. There are only a few research universities in the Midwest that still do that sort of research. Major organizations won't fund it, because people think stem cell research has something to do with embryos, and people are terrified it might reignite Heartland War issues. Even the mention of it brings protests and negative publicity. Of course, adult pluripotent stem cells have nothing to do with embryonic stem cells, but facts never prevent the ignorant from jerking their knees into the groin of science.”

Connor grins. “Well, once we get this thing to work, and into the right hands, we can redirect that knee, hitting the Juvenile Authority and Proactive Citizenry where it counts!”

“I hope I live to see that day,” Sonia says, and pats him on the cheek like a grandmother might. Connor, usually a bit of a touch-me-not, finds it curiously comforting. “I'll find us a place that has a supply of cells,” she tells him. “The tricky part will be getting them.”

•  •  •

“What the hell are you doing? Stop that! Do you have any idea what those are?”

Sonia has left the trapdoor open a bit longer than usual to help air out the basement, which has gotten noticeably rank. Connor, who takes every chance available to escape the cage, has come upstairs to find Grace at the old steamer trunk. She's opened it and envelopes are spilling out everywhere.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it!” Grace frantically tries to put them back in, but the trunk is so
full, they just topple out again. It's like trying to get toothpaste back in the tube.

Connor immediately regrets having yelled at her. He kneels down beside her. “Calm down, Grace.”

“I just wanted to see what was inside, and they all started falling out. I didn't mean it!”

“I know you didn't. It's all right. Go downstairs, and I'll take care of it.”

Grace doesn't need a second invitation. “I gotta stop touching things. Curiosity killed the cat. I gotta stop touching things.”

Grace bounds down the stairs away from the situation, leaving Connor once again alone with the trunk, only this time Pandora's box is wide open. He has no idea where Sonia is, and what she'd say if she saw it like this.

There are hundreds upon hundreds of envelopes, many more than were there when Connor deposited his. The envelopes are mostly white and eggshell, but there is also the occasional colored one, as if Sonia got bored and started giving out brighter stationery to the kids. Each envelope is addressed by hand.

Now that he's begun, Connor finds he can't stop himself. He begins riffling through the sea of envelopes looking for a familiar address, in familiar handwriting. His envelope was simple white, and is hard to dig out of this snowstorm of correspondence.

“You'll never find it in there,” Sonia says, coming up behind him, as he's elbow-deep in the trunk.

He takes his hands out, feeling almost as guilty as Grace had, and sits back on the dusty floor. “Haven't you mailed any of them?”

“Not a one,” Sonia says sadly. “Never had the heart to do it.”

“Did any kids who survived come to take their letter back?”

“Not a one,” Sonia says again. “Guess they had more pressing things to do. If any of them
did
survive.”

“A lot of them did,” Connor reassures her. “I know because I sent a lot of them on their way when they reached a safe age.”

“
You
sent them?” says Sonia. “I guess I should ask what you've been up to all this time, but I figure you'd rather not talk about it.”

Connor smiles.
She's got that right.

“You're not mixed up with that awful Starkey person, are you?”

Connor grimaces and can't hold her gaze. “He's actually my fault. My own little wind-up psychopath.”

“Hmmph,” says Sonia, and mercifully doesn't ask for details. “You may have wound him up, but he's not following anyone's marching orders but his own. We all have our accidental monsters.”

Connor looks back to the letter-filled trunk and finally understands why he's still here. What's been holding him back.

“Will you ever send them out?” he asks.

Sonia sits at her desk, leaning forward on her cane. “I suppose if the time is right to unveil the printer, the time might be right for a postal run.” Then she pauses, checks to see that no one is coming up from the basement, and proceeds to read Connor's mind.

“But you don't want me to mail yours, do you?”

“No, I don't.”

“Because you're thinking you might deliver it yourself.”

Connor takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “Is that just me being self-destructive again?”

“I can't say . . . but it would seem to me that wanting to bring closure is anything but self-destructive.”

He looks to the trunk one more time. “What's the use? Like you said, I'll never find it in there anyway.”

“No, you won't.” Then she opens her top desk drawer and pulls out a single envelope. “Because it's right here.”

Had she pulled out a stick of dynamite, it couldn't have felt more dangerous.

“I went fishing for it the night you came back. I thought you might want it eventually.”

She hands it to him. His handwriting. The address where he grew up. On the back is the ripple of dried saliva where he licked it closed two years ago. He cannot yet tell if this letter is an enemy or a friend.

But now that he's holding it in his hand, there's something he knows beyond the shadow of any doubt.

God help me . . . before this is all over, I'm going to face them. I'm going to confront my parents. . . .

From
The Telegraph
:

GIRL SMUGGLED INTO BRITAIN TO HAVE HER “ORGANS HARVESTED”

By Steven Swinford, Senior Political Correspondent 10:00 PM BST 18 Oct 2013

The first case of a child being trafficked to Britain in order to have their organs harvested has been uncovered.

The unnamed girl was brought to the UK from Somalia with the intention of removing her organs and selling them on to those desperate for a transplant. . . .

The case emerged in a government report which showed that the number of human trafficking victims in the UK has risen by more than 50 per cent last year and reached record levels. . . .

Child protection charities warned last night that criminal gangs were attempting to exploit the demand for organ transplants in Britain.

Bharti Patel, the chief executive of Ecpat UK, the child protection charity, said: “Traffickers are exploiting the demand for organs and the vulnerability of children. It's unlikely that a trafficker is going to take this risk and bring just one child into the UK. It is likely there was a group.”

According to the World Health Organisation as many as 7,000 kidneys are illegally obtained by traffickers each year around the world.

While there is a black market for organs such as hearts, lungs and livers, kidneys are the most sought after organs because one can be removed from a patient without any ill effects.

The process involves a number of people including the recruiter who identifies the victim, the person who arranges their transport, the medical professionals who perform the operation and the salesman who trades the organ . . .

The full article can be found at:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/crime/10390183/Girl-smuggled-into-Britain-to-have-her-organs-harvested.html

Trouble in the world, trouble at home. How can they expect a man to concentrate on his work with all this trouble? AWOLs wreaking havoc everywhere, clappers blowing things up—and then, of course, there's my daughter. I thought she was finally wising up, getting a good head on her shoulders—and now she does this? What is she thinking?

“Earth to Frank!” the foreman's voice booms over the intercom, startling him. “Are you on this freaking planet?”

“Yeah, I'm here. Are we ready?”

“Ready? We've been waiting here twiddling our thumbs. Start hoisting already!”

“Starting the hoist. Clear the area around the payload.”

“The arm's clear. I'll alert the media.”

Frank chuckles—because the foreman isn't making a joke; he is literally alerting the media. They're gathered around Liberty Island, cameras aimed upward at the statue, which is ensconced in construction scaffolding. It may be a momentous occasion to them, but to a crane operator, it's just another job.

What the hell is my daughter thinking? How could she date such an obvious loser? She's barely fourteen; what business does a fourteen-year-old from Queens have dating a sixteen-year-old delinquent from the Bronx?

“He's got a good heart,” she tells me.

Fine. So rip it out and put it into another kid more deserving of her attention.

The cables go taut, and the new arm shifts on the barge, slowly, smoothly. This is not a job accomplished with cavalier
speed. That's the best way to wind up with snapped cables, dead coworkers, and lawsuits. Lots of lawsuits. The arm begins to rise, as if being levitated by a magician. He mans the crane's controls, feeling the cables attached to the massive unwieldy object as if they're his own sinews and the crane itself is just an extension of his body.

The boyfriend is not too old to be unwound. Not yet. That freaking tool won't be seventeen for at least a few months. And then if they repeal the Cap-17 law, there's a whole year of potential unwinding tacked on to his miserable life. The problem is, the lowlife's parents won't do it. Of course they won't! They're probably druggies or worse. No supervision, no boundaries. If you don't raise a kid right, it turns into a weed that's gotta be torn out. The whole damn thing is their fault!

“Frank! Jesus! What's going on up there? Keep it steady!”

“I'm on it. It's the wind.”

“So compensate! The last thing we need is the freaking arm lying crushed at the freaking base of the statue like a dead freaking whale!”

There are cameras mounted on the crane, on the ground, and on the statue itself to monitor the arm as it rises, but the monitors don't tell as clear a story as actually seeing the thing. Frank leans to the side, looking out of the huge glass windows of the sky crane, to see the arm twisting and torquing in the wind below. He adjusts the tension on the cables, like fiddling with a pair of venetian blinds, to get the torch and hand to take on a forty-five-degree angle. Now it rises with the torch slightly higher than the rest of the arm, and at this angle it catches the wind differently, rising more steadily. In a minute, it has risen past the height of the statue's base. Now he pulls it in, the cable dolly bringing it closer to the statue.

Breed a bum to a bum, you get a bum. What goes for horse racing goes for humans as well. The loser's parents are probably too
stoned to even sign an unwind order. Sometimes these things can't be left to the parents. Especially when those parents shoulda been unwound themselves before they started to breed. It's good that they're talking about mandatory unwinding of juvenile undesirables. If the law passes, maybe the problem will take care of itself. And if it doesn't, I've got a cousin who knows a guy, who knows a guy, who could put me in touch with a parts pirate. Someone who'll come in, take the kid, and be done with it. The thing is, I know I don't have the guts to make the call.

“It's looking pretty from down here. How's it hanging, Frank?” And the foreman laughs. “How's it hanging!” Probably didn't even notice his own joke until after he said it.