Periphery, page 20
John sprang. The inmate toppled forward, landed on top of him and pinned him face down beneath the mattress. He tried to shimmy out from under, but the guy was too heavy.
“Where you think you’re going? I’ll squash you flat, you fucking bug.” His weight lifted—too short a respite to even take a breath—and came crashing back. John’s ribs creaked under the assault.
“How you like that, bug? You squished yet?” The weight lifted and fell again. This time something did crack. Even if John could have inhaled, the pain was so intense he wouldn’t have managed more than a low moan.
“You feel a little flatter. When you pop, your guts are… AAAHHHH!”
From under the mattress, John saw Andrew clamped to the inmate’s leg, his teeth sunk into the flesh of his calf.
“You want to play too, princess? That’s just a love bite.” The pressure lifted once again as the inmate kicked Andrew off, grabbed him by the hair and landed a jackhammer series of blows to his face. “Didn’t want to mess up that sweet mug before I got my fill, but that’s fine. Blood’s the best lubricant anyway.”
John took a sip of air and scuttled to the wall. Where the hell were the guards? There were cameras everywhere. Someone should have seen the fight by now and sent in the troops. Could the vetro have infiltrated the guards in the control room? Or shorted out the monitors?
He scanned the room, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. The shiv! It was still embedded in the center of the mattress.
John slid the pad around the struggling men, wedged it under his foot and pulled the weapon free. As he did the inmate lunged and clamped a hand round the blade. John yanked back, hoping to slice off several fingers. Instead, the head separated from the shaft, leaving John holding a foot of boomstick.
Their attacker spun toward Andrew blandishing the naked blade and John pounced on his back, trying to garrote him with the broken handle. Had Andrew not struck at the same instant, John would likely have been stabbed repeatedly, but his son managed to backhand the metal out of his grip. John planted his feet and reared back with all his weight. Go down, goddamn you. Go down!
Instead, the inmate rose with a roar, pulling John up with him.
“Bug! You die now!”
He could still talk? Impossible! They staggered across the room and John was smashed against the wall. His head bounced off the concrete, sparking a cascade of lights that momentarily blinded him. Don’t let go, he told himself. Whatever you do, don’t let go.
Andrew threw himself into the fray, slamming everyone against the wall a second time.
“Go for the eyes!” John’s grip was weakening. In another moment, he’d be on the floor.
Andrew dug his thumb into an eye socket and their assailant retreated into the hall. John jumped from his back an instant before he hit the balcony rail, beyond which yawned the atrium and the floor ten feet below.
His son retreated into the cell, grabbed a mattress and charged forward intending, perhaps, to bulldoze the inmate over the edge. But he was too slow. The other man ducked and instead of plowing into his chest, Andrew landed across his shoulders. With a tremendous heave, the inmate straightened, sending his son arching over the rail.
“No!”
Incredibly, the guy turned in time to grab Andrew by an ankle before he plunged out of reach.
“Where you think you’re going, princess? Ain’t done with you yet.”
As he hoisted his catch higher John landed on his shoulders, clubbed him across the back of his head with the broken handle and held on as the world inverted.
Unbalanced at last, everyone went cascading over the side, exchanging blows all the way to the floor.
“Oh, my god!”
Andrew didn’t need the phone to know what Grace had said. He could have read her shock through a foot of tinted glass. Gingerly, he eased into the plastic chair and raised the receiver to his ear.
“Should see the other guy.” He smiled and winced, his swollen lips tasting once more of blood.
Grace’s hand remained clamped over her mouth as tears welled.
“I’m okay,” he tried to assure her. “Looks worse than it is.”
“What happened?”
“I fell.”
She covered her eyes, quivering with silent sobs.
“Grace, I know how hard this is for you.” Dear god, could he say anything more absurd? But absurd was all he had left. He couldn’t stand the thought of what she must be seeing on the other side of the divider, a broken and bandaged man, eyes swelled nearly shut, one cheek a yellow and purple bouquet of bruises, lips like gorged leeches about to burst. A mess. A goddamn walking disaster. But one who had a job to do on the outside, and if that meant groveling before this woman whose heart he was breaking yet again, so be it. Pride was a luxury he could no longer afford.
“I don’t know what we’re doing here, Andy. How did we end up in this place? Can you tell me?”
“Grace, you need to bail me out of here.”
“They said they found morphine packets in your locker. Drugs intended for suffering people.”
“I was set up. You think I’d do something like that?”
“You keep asking the same things over and over: ‘You think I’m capable of this?’, ‘Would I do that?’ It gets harder to say ‘no’ each time.”
“I need your help, Grace. Something very bad is coming, and whether you believe me or not, I’m one of the few who has any chance of stopping it.”
“I hate this. I hate what you’ve done to Anna and me. I hate having to come to this hellhole. I hate looking at your broken face. Every time I think we’ve reached rock bottom you pull out a shovel and start digging.”
Grace’s gaze fell to the shelf upon which the telephone rested, a look of dazed hopelessness giving her features a strangely childlike quality.
“Grace, I need you.”
She continued staring at the shelf as if waiting for someone, anyone, to throw a blanket over her shoulders and lead her by the elbow back to safety. Eventually, her eyes lifted to his in an unwavering stare that lasted long enough to convince Andrew she was focused not on him, but rather her own reflection in the divider.
“How much?”
“Seven thousand, five hundred.”
“So, ten percent of that? Seven hundred and fifty dollars?”
“No. Seventy-five hundred is ten percent. They set my bail at seventy-five thousand.”
Grace stared, and this time he knew she was seeing him and not something between them. When his bail had been read out during his initial court appearance, he thought he’d misheard. Seventy-five thousand dollars for a first offense? But the judge, taking into account his position as someone entrusted with the public good and his alleged betrayal of that trust, bumped his offense up to a drug trafficking charge and declared him a disgrace to every first responder in the city.
“Just write a check, Grace. It’s not like I’m going to skip town.”
“You want me to deplete our savings?”
“I’ll take a loan out on my 401(k) as soon as I’m out of here.”
“Will you? The very second you get out of here?”
“As soon as I can. As soon as I do what needs to be done.”
A mirthless smile touched her lips. “Not that long ago, I would have asked what those things might be, those important jobs that can’t wait. I know they have nothing to do me or Anna. That’s obvious. Still, I would have been curious.”
“They have everything to do with you and Anna, with saving you and a hell of a lot of other people.”
“Your lip’s bleeding.”
“Grace.”
“I’m not doing it, Andy. If you want out of here, call a bail bondsman.” She made to set the receiver on its cradle and Andrew pounded the divider with a fist.
“Then leave! If you’re not going to bail me out, take Anna and get away, drive as far north as you can. Pack a few things and go today and don’t stop until you reach the mountains.”
“Goodbye, Andy.”
“Grace, for the love of god look around. Open your eyes. You know something’s wrong, you have to. Haven’t you been hearing the voices? Haven’t you caught glimpses of things that shouldn’t be there, things out of your nightmares?”
His wife’s features pulled to one side in a brief contortion of distaste, as if catching a whiff of decay.
“You see a lot of strange things when your world is falling apart around you.”
She cradled the receiver, wrung her hands, stood, and walked slowly out the far door, and if she heard his fist pounding against the divider, she gave no indication. The last thing he saw as the guard pulled him from the window was his wife’s wedding ring gleaming dulling on the ledge next to the phone.
Fifteen
Bob Sanderson shuffled behind the John Deere, his head bowed against the midday heat, watching sourly as the machine snarled minced hay across his sweat-soaked legs. Hay was all that remained of the lawn, hay and briers. But his wife still kept bugging him to cut it. After weeks of hounding, he had finally dragged the mower out of the shed and aimed it toward the withered remains of St. Augustine that had somehow managed a few inches of strangled growth during April and May.
Sanderson cut a meandering trail through the yard and doubled back, making no attempt to keep the rows parallel. When he finally looked up he saw islands of tall stems amid the shorn grass, giving the lawn a mangy, patchwork appearance. Good enough for him, but Margaret would bitch and moan until he came back and did it right. Better to deal with it now than endure this sauna a second time.
Sanderson grabbed the mower as if to throttle it, and as he did his eyes drifted across the fence. Something was there. At first, he thought it might be a child’s toy, some elaborate, mechanical thing that transformed from tractor to dinosaur and back again. It was nestled among a thicket of dried weeds, a long, low shape, both smooth and complex, a jumble of overlapping plates assembled into some sort of crustacean or bug. His neighbor had grandchildren who sometimes visited. Maybe one of them had chucked his toy over the fence and into his yard.
Sanderson took a step toward the toy.
The toy took a step toward him, moving with a fluid grace he would not have expected from something made of plastic and running on half-a-dozen C-cells. It moved like it was alive. He took a step to the left and the thing near the fence took a crablike sidestep, tracking him perfectly. It had shifted orientation slightly, showing off more of its shape, and he noticed the upward sweep of something that looked like a long horn or stinger protruding from the creature’s posterior.
A flutter of panic seized him. That thing was real. It was real and it was stalking him. But just as he felt the first tightening in his chest, the first tingle of adrenaline, he remembered something he had seen years ago, a television show in which unwitting participants were set up by friends for the scare of their lives.
Sanderson smiled and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Sure, that’s what this was. A prank. There must be a hidden camera crew somewhere nearby. But they weren’t going to make a fool out of Bob Sanderson. He scanned the line of magnolias, looking for the tell-tale glint from a hidden camera lens and took a confident step forward. The thing by the fence skittered forward, halving the distance between them. It was amazing what they could do with servomotors and gears these days.
“I have to admit, you almost look real.” He smiled and shook his head. “Still think mechanical effects look better onscreen than CGI.” He considered for a moment, then repeated: “CGI sucks. Guess I’m pretty old-school when it comes to the flash.”
Old-school? Was that phrase still in vogue? He didn’t want to come across as a crony trying too hard to be hip. He turned quickly to his left, toward the shed. Was that an arm poking out from behind the open door?
When he turned back, the robot was less than four feet away. It rose up on a dozen legs, its tail swaying back and forth like the arm of a metronome. He could actually see something that looked like gills opening and closing along its flank.
“Outstanding work guys. You all deserve Oscars.” What was that over there beneath the crape myrtle? Just a pile of leaves? It looked almost too ordinary, too perfectly irregular. Just the place for a cameraman to hide.
Bob Sanderson was still smiling toward the crape myrtle when the stinger pierced his brain.
Mrs. York sat before the canvas, head titled quizzically, one finger tapped her upper lip. The finger was smeared with dried paint and so was her cheek. She was an intentionally messy artist. Although she would never admit it to anyone, Mrs. York enjoyed looking at herself in the mirror after a long session. The smears on her skin and smock were confirmations of the intensity she brought to her work, her passion and tireless dedication to the highest level of achievement.
After several minutes, she plucked her brush from the bowl of murky water, slathered the broad head in dark vermilion and with five brisk strokes added the beginnings of a fan palm in the bottom right corner next to the fountain. She had spent most of the afternoon getting the details of the fountain just right. The texture was tricky. It was hard to make aged cement look realistic and now she was covering half of it in a big frond, but it couldn’t be helped. That corner needed something big and simple to balance out the fountain’s intricate contours.
When she had shaded the foliage to her satisfaction, Mrs. York sat back and took a deep breath. The smell of the wildfire was stronger with every passing hour.
“We’ve offended the gods,” she said aloud. “Damn global warming.”
Mrs. York—Abbie to her friends—pulled a cleaning rag from a nook in the easel and dabbed at her neck. She wanted to incorporate Mr. Bigglesby into this painting, a secret presence that would be a sort of gift to the careful viewer. Mrs. York wasn’t entirely sure how she was going to manage that. She suspected the necessary technique to render something both there and not-there was beyond her current abilities, but she was determined to make the attempt. Mr. Bigglesby himself was lobbying for it. Why else had he been making so many recent appearances?
As she patted her cheeks with the cloth, a familiar trill drew her attention to the branches overhead. Well, speak of the devil!
“Hello, my dear! What brings you out on such a hot afternoon?”
Another, lower trill in response. Above her, Mr. Bigglesby scuttled a few feet closer, his feathers rising and falling the way they did when he became excited.
“Have you come to pose for my painting?” She wouldn’t be surprised if he had. Mr. Bigglesby was very clever. Mrs. York had first met her friend shortly after moving into her townhome. That was two years ago and she still didn’t know what he was.
At first, she had thought him a phantom, a trick of shadows and light, something conjured up by her artistic temperament. But he had continued to appear, growing more distinct every time, until she became convinced what she was seeing was real.
What marvelous camouflage! When motionless he merged into his surroundings, melting into the background like a fading afterimage. She doubted more than one in a thousand people would realize Mr. Bigglesby was sitting next to them on a park bench if he remained perfectly still. She, however, had learned how to see him, had trained her eyes to look in a new, more thoughtful way.
Mrs. York knew he was real, but what was he? A bird? He was covered in what she called feathers, but she didn’t think they were feathers. They were too fleshy, somehow, too … what? Alive?
Was he a mammal, then? Some sort of exotic arboreal with strange fur? But mammals had four limbs. Mr. Bigglesby had six. And those eyes! What on earth had eyes like that? They were indescribable and so, so beautiful, like gems from the most distant kingdom. She loved looking into them, the way they changed color and luster, first flat and depthless, then hard and brilliant.
It didn’t really matter what Mr. Bigglesby was. He was her secret. He was her treasure. And he had come to pay her a visit.
To her amazement, Mr. Bigglesby dropped from the branch onto her patio with a graceful leap. He had never done that before! And a new sound as well, a lower warble that shook his entire frame, not as musical as his trill. Almost guttural. Almost a growl.
“You definitely want to be in my picture. Do you want to pose for me?”
Mr. Bigglesby said nothing, but his “feathers” rose and fell, rose and fell. And were they changing color? Yes, yes they were! They were brighter, flushing from a brownish lavender to a deep crimson.
“And you’re excited, aren’t you? I’ve never seen you like this before.” She would have to make a quick sketch, but her pad and charcoals were inside.
She stood and backed away, making little patting gestures in the air. “Stay. Stay.” Her leg bumped the canvas chair and she turned to catch it before it fell, fearing the noise would scare her treasure away. When she turned back Mr. Bigglesby was no longer where he had been.
A little moan of despair escaped her before she felt the brush of something against her leg, something that was not soft or pliant or featherlike in any way. Mrs. York—Abbie to her friends and two ex-husbands—reached out to grab the paintbrush off the table, but her fingers instead closed around something slick and muscular. Mr. Bigglesby’s eyes were brilliant orbs of swirling colors inches from her own. She could lose herself in those colors if she wasn’t careful. She could let go and just fall and fall and fall forever. And why not? It would be like entering a living painting, becoming part of an exquisitely sublime arrangement. She liked the notion. It appealed to her artistic side.
Mrs. York gazed into her treasure’s eyes and let go.
Amanda Silverton checked her cell a third time, confirming what she already knew: no new messages. She had missed no calls in the last ten minutes. No calls. No texts. Nothing. She stared at the screen for several seconds, willing it to change. It did not.
