Weavers (23 page)

CHAPTER 52

Darryl gave the fat prick in the leasing office of the shitty-looking apartment complex a shove, reminding him that his porno collection wasn’t seeing a whole lot of love at the moment and he’d better hustle through this leasing process and attend to it, then decided it probably wasn’t even necessary.
There might be a multistate manhunt for them, they might’ve left a growing pile of dead civilians and police in their wake, but still the workaday world was utterly oblivious to them. That would change over time, but by then Darryl had no intention of letting it happen without doing something to avoid it.

A beard and a new wardrobe won’t hurt things either
,
thought Darryl as he left the leasing office and climbed back in the truck. As he entered, a nervous-looking Terry asked, “Did it go OK?”

Darryl nodded and threw the truck in reverse, pulled out, and then drove down to the far end of the lot, past a little girl and an old lady walking a pair of dachshunds.

“About as good as it possibly could have,” said Darryl. “I gave the greasy fuck running the place a little shove, but all he really needed was a credit card. I think I probably could have used my real name and still gotten a place.”

“Thank fucking God,” said Terry. “We could use a little bit of good luck for once.”

Darryl and Terry had spent more than four thousand dollars at a Meijer outside of town, purchasing a computer, modem, hair dye, toiletries, two platform beds, bedding, clothing, and food, but it still only took about fifteen minutes to unload the truck. Terry had the computer set up on the cheap-looking kitchen table that came with the apartment within fifteen minutes of locking the door behind them, then moved down the hall to start assembling the beds while Darryl got to work.

It was the same deal—trolling chat rooms for kids on the other side of the wire who betrayed any sort of a bent angle. The work was tedious and exhausting, and not only did they have no access to cocaine, they had forgotten to even buy a coffeemaker in their trip to the store. Darryl tried not to think about it. After all, they’d been through hell and back to get to where they currently sat. He was lucky to still be free to look.

Darryl cruised through a
Castlevania
chat room, slowly working his way around the lame names and engaging just long enough with each to check them off as worthless goods. He was engaged in the work, but the thought of some secret government agency looking for him still weighed heavily on his mind. The news hadn’t gotten the story right, sticking with the idea that two fugitives suspected of killing in Mexico had been involved in a crime spree in the US involving the deaths of four police officers and two civilians. He had to admit that the letter of the reporting was right—Terry and he had been at the root of those crimes—but the story from the
Badger
docks was still miles from the truth.

The only reason for them to hold to that is if they’re being told to
,
thought Darryl as he entered a chat room focused on
The Simpsons
. No reporter would ever let go of a story of two cops helping them shoot their way off the docks—not now and not ever. It was too damned titillating. Darryl didn’t have the sort of power to have turned all the cops at the dock upon one another, but even if that’s what had happened, he had a feeling the news would have just told the story of him and Terry killing a legion of police officers. Thinking about it made Darryl feel sick. He had no idea what would happen if he was interned by a group powerful enough to make that happen, and he had no desire to find out.
They’ll crack your head open when they’re done with you
,
thought Darryl.
There’s no point in trying to fool yourself otherwise
.

Darryl found a teen on
The Simpsons
chat who at first seemed like a good candidate, but he quickly came to feel that she’d likely brushed aside most of her bend with weed and psychedelics. It was a lost cause in any case, regardless of the reason. There was nothing for it but to just keep looking.

Noise behind him made Darryl swivel in his seat, but it was just Terry dragging the second boxed bed into the other bedroom, grunting as he lugged the awkwardly shaped thing. Darryl turned back to the screen and the task at hand. Only five minutes later he had another lead, a kid with the handle of OICU812. Darryl was into him like a magician, seizing control in seconds and then worming his way with increasing excitement through twelve-year-old Robert Roberts.

As Darryl quickly discovered, young Robert had been up to some very naughty things. Robert’s father was a regional manager for State Farm, and Robert had been taking his sweet time going through his father’s accounts, figuring out just how much his old man was worth—which, it turned out, was a surprisingly great deal. Who knew insurance agents pulled in that kind of green? In addition to discovering the depths of his own father’s wealth, clever Robert had found a way to bleed a single dollar off of every single direct deposit customer his father was connected to—which was every State Farm customer in nearly half the Midwest. Not only that, Robert knew that simply taking the dollar wouldn’t cover his tracks sufficiently—his father was obsessive over math and money—so he had first increased each of these direct deposits to be billed an extra dollar on their monthly premium, a dollar that eventually wound up in his account. So far Robert had only amassed a sum of about twelve thousand dollars, but by the time he graduated high school, it would amount to a very considerable pile of seed money.

Darryl played in Robert the way a concert violinist would handle a Stradivarius—he was cautious but determined to push his chosen instrument to its full, wondrous potential. Darryl plucked at Robert both carefully and violently, twisting and poking his way through the boy but never damaging him. Darryl had never concocted a scheme even close to the one the boy had set up, and the kid was only twelve. There was a lot to learn from Robert Roberts, and Darryl planned to glean as much as he could before helping himself to any money or placing Robert at too much risk. Darryl had blown it with Vincent but would not make that sort of mistake again. Robert was special, and Darryl was going to handle him with kid gloves.

CHAPTER 53

“He’s on,” said Pat as he snapped back to his place in the TRC.
“Did you get it? Do we have the IP address?”

Pat swiveled his head around the ring of waiting faces, his focus slowing on Jessica and then stopping on Brinn.

“No IP yet,” said Brinn. “You were only on there with him for a few minutes tops, and you know how chat rooms are. Once the text scrolls offscreen, it’s gone. If he’s not e-mailing you or registering to some forum, there’s a limited window for us to follow his footprints. Do you think you can get him to talk to you again?”

“What the fuck? We were on there forever, or at least that’s how it felt, and the whole time he was going through me and into all of this shit that I didn’t even know was in my head!”

“It wasn’t in your head,” said Jessica. “That was all Frank. He’s your muscle, remember? He had a plan in place for when Darryl or Terry got into you, and you followed along perfectly. I know it’s tough to think about doing it again, but that’s what has to happen.”

“This isn’t just some little ‘plan,’” said Pat as he stood. He sort of wished he’d been wearing special gear or a headset or something that he could strip off, toss to the ground, and further separate himself from the situation, but he was just standing there dressed normally, just plain old Pat. “He stole a bunch of money—like, a
shitload
from a bunch of accounts hooked into what was supposed to my dad’s bank. It was easy to do, but did I really just help him steal all of that cash?”

“It was really stolen, but it was all money from the TRC,” said Jessica. “We’ll get it back once we catch these two, which is just another reason why I need you to be in those chat rooms as much as possible. He will be back, he’ll be more trusting, and we’ll get this figured out.” She flashed a smile, the sort of look Pat was starting to think meant,
Fuck you very much.

Ignoring his exasperation, Jessica just maintained the grin, then grabbed the fast-food trash from his desk, and pitched it into the can under it. “How long do you need, Pat?”

“Before I go back in? I just got out!”

“You need to change your mind-set, man,” said Geoff. “That dude on the other side of the monitor doesn’t know there’s anything wrong with you. Think how often you’re online, and then imagine that you’re a fucking twelve-year-old kid with endless time on his hands. You wouldn’t be taking anything more than the occasional bathroom break, and that would be if you weren’t pissing in a jug.”

“God, men are disgusting,” said Brinn, shaking her head, clearly more amused than grossed out.

“Hey, if you could you would, and you know it,” said Rick, and the three burst into peals of laughter.

Jessica let them carry on for a moment as Pat stared at the other researchers as if they’d gone insane, and then raised a hand to gather their attention.

“Let’s not get offtrack,” said Jessica. “Pat, how long?” When Pat only shook his head, she pressed. “Serious answer, Pat. How long until you can go back in?”

Her eyes were boring into him like a pair of drills. Pat knew she wasn’t a TK, but she was also a woman who was used to giving an order and having it followed. He was feeling like he was arguing with a five-star general or a middle school teacher. It didn’t matter what he said. What she wanted was what was going to happen, and any delays would be remembered, ruminated upon, and punished.

“Fifteen minutes,” said Pat finally, and Jessica smiled.

“Fifteen minutes would be perfect. You should go stretch your legs. It could be a while until we get a handle on these guys.”

CHAPTER 54

Mom drove Cynthia to Maryanne Fisher’s birthday party, Maryanne’s gift of a pair of Barbie dolls wrapped and sitting on Cynthia’s lap.
It was Mom’s first day off since taking her new job, and though Cynthia was a little sad that she was going to be with her friends instead of her mother, she knew her Mom would be around the house with some of the other parents. Cynthia had heard her talking to Mrs. Fisher on the phone two nights prior, and both Mom and Mrs. Fisher seemed very excited to have some wine and catch up on the divorce proceedings and to talk about that “cheating bastard.” Cynthia had been floating in and out of the space over the apartments on her own, something she knew she wasn’t supposed to do, but it was an attraction impossible to resist. Still, she’d managed to catch most of the conversation.

Mom parked in front of the Fishers’ mailbox, and Cynthia smiled sadly as she looked at Maryanne’s house. It was smaller than the yellow house where she used to live, but it was much bigger than the apartment, and Cynthia guiltily felt a little jealous of her friend.
Her parents are still together, too
, thought Cynthia.
Don’t forget that
.
And the ugliness of this fact made her want to heave the present into the bushes and get back in the car.

Cynthia didn’t throw the present, of course. Instead, she followed Mom up the path to the house and then waited with Mom for Mrs. Fisher to answer the doorbell.

“Ruth and Cynthia, what a treat,” said Mrs. Fisher as she opened the door.

Mom and Mrs. Fisher hugged and didn’t let go of each other when they were done. There was something weird about how excited they were to get together.

“Cynthia, the girls are out back,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Warren is out there with them, Ruth,” she said to Mom, “so we can get to the important stuff. I’ve got a bottle of chardonnay that is just begging for a friend and a pair of glasses.”

Mom and Mrs. Fisher walked behind Cynthia through the house and into the kitchen, and then Cynthia left them there, walking on through the open sliding door into the backyard. Cynthia could hear Mom and Mrs. Fisher laughing behind her, but she didn’t care. Maryanne’s parents had gone all out.

The invitation Mom had picked up from Dad had a circus theme, and Mom had liked it enough to throw it on the fridge with a magnet, but it didn’t begin to do justice to the setup for the party. Maryanne’s parents had refashioned their entire fenced-in backyard like it actually was a circus. Paper elephants lined the back of the fence, while a row of great cats covered the right side, and a cadre of paper clowns decorated the left. Carnival-style games were set up all over the backyard. There was Skee-Ball, a plinko board, water guns used to shoot pop cans off of a rail, pin the tail on the lion, and several other games that Cynthia didn’t recognize.

Cynthia set her gift on a table that was about half-full with other similarly wrapped packages and ran over to where Maryanne and a number of other little girls Cynthia recognized were sitting in front of Mr. Fisher.

“Cynthia’s here,” cried Maryanne as Cynthia began walking over to her with a grin plastered across her face.

“Well, that means we’re only waiting on two more,” said Mr. Fisher. “Cynthia, go ahead and have a seat. I was just showing these kids a few of my magic tricks.”

Cynthia sat on the lawn front and center next to Maryanne.

“This one is good,” said Mr. Fisher as he pulled a wand and an ancient-looking hat from the black trunk next to him.

It may just have been that Cynthia missed her friends so much, but the party was fantastic. The games were great, the Fishers even had tickets to be won and a prize table at which to spend them, and even Mr. Fisher’s cheesy magic show had been pretty entertaining. Cynthia hadn’t seen Mom except for a fleeting moment when she and Mrs. Fisher had stepped out onto the back patio, wine glasses in hand. Mr. Fisher and Maryanne’s older brother and his friends ran the games, and Cynthia wound up with a stuffed dog and sack of candy, but she still was a little sad that she’d lost the day with Mom.

Cynthia was standing by the prize table, watching other little girls pick out what they wanted, when she heard something from inside the house. Mr. Fisher heard it, too. Cynthia could tell by the quizzical look on his face when he turned to the noise and the swirl of pink that threaded its way amongst the blue and green that had been flowing from his head before. No one else seemed to notice the sound, and Mr. Fisher lost interest, returned to his job as prize master. A few seconds later, though, there was another noise, and someone from inside—it sounded like Mrs. Fisher—shouted, “You need to leave right now!”

Mr. Fisher stood at that and started toward the house, the threads on his head instantly divided between red and pink, and Cynthia broke from her friends and began to follow him.

“Nick, no!” screamed Mom from inside the house, and then there was a crash of noise, and Mr. Fisher began to run.

Cynthia’s heart fell when she heard her father’s name, though she already knew it was Dad—she’d known since she’d heard the first noise. He was going to embarrass her in front of her friends, and there was nothing she could do about it.

As Dad burst through the back door, a screaming Mrs. Fisher all but hanging from his back, Cynthia’s fear of being merely embarrassed died inside of her. The threads coming from Dad were purple and black, all of them swirling like sea anemone feelers in the wind.

“Where is she?” Dad yelled. “Where is my daughter? Where’s Cynthia?”

Mr. Fisher held up his hands in a warding-off gesture as he walked up to Dad. Mrs. Fisher had backed off and was standing in the doorway holding a phone to her ear. Cynthia didn’t see Dad cross the lawn and deck Mr. Fisher because she was gone, floating over the Fisher house as time hung like dew on a thread, and then dove into Dad.

Cynthia saw through his eyes as Mr. Fisher fell to the ground, and Cynthia could hear the screams of Mom and Mrs. Fisher behind him.
/ Get up, you bastard / She’s kept me from my daughter for weeks / Ruining this family / Ruining everything /
Cynthia let go of Dad and left him, working on his threads from the outside as Mrs. Martin had taught her. She knew that she could make him leave, but if she did he might just hurt someone else, because he was still so angry and confused. Cynthia began to tear at the black threads, but it wasn’t like with Patrick. These were rooted, not yet dead but still dying. Cynthia felt the yellow surrounding her, yellow she tried to mate with Dad’s angry purple, but Dad’s threads blackened as swiftly as she took hold of them. Cynthia could feel a coldness coming over, something she’d never felt before while weaving, and when she pulled back at one of her threads, it was frozen and linked with Dad’s.

Cynthia took hold of the closest braided threads connecting the pair of them and spun the threads apart, but as they split she could see that the black was still on the tip of her yellow strand, like some Gothic highlight. Ignoring the black, Cynthia began to part the rest of them, tearing herself free from Dad. The strands broke, and pieces fell and disappeared. Cynthia could feel Dad screaming inside as surely as if he really were screaming.
Just go, just leave
, Cynthia urged him, and then Dad took off running. Cynthia felt tossed around as if she were in a pinball machine, and then she dove into the sky and screamed back into herself. Dad was shoving Mom out of the way as the two women ran into the backyard, Mrs. Fisher headed for her husband, now propped up on one knee, and Mom to Cynthia.

“Oh my God, Cynthia, are you OK?” Mom asked in almost a whimper.

Mom had a cut over her eye and smelled like wine, but Cynthia had never been happier to see someone in her life. She wrapped her arms around her as both of them fell into tears, though Cynthia was upset for entirely different reasons than Mom. She’d tried to help Dad, but she hadn’t been able to—it was too late.
He’s lost, and you’ll never see him again, unless he decides to hurt you and Mom.
The thought brought pain boiling to the forefront of Cynthia’s mind, and her tears turned into a racking cough. Mom hoisted her up and began to cross the yard, the sound of emergency sirens in the distance, and Cynthia’s eyes closed.