into for you, what's really going on. I never got to know all of you when we were together. And that was fine. But if I'm gonna help you, I need to know now."
My apartment felt suddenly stuffy, and I realized I'd broken a sweat. "I... I can't do that."
"New alliances, pal. They come at a price." She extended the paper, holding it pinched between her thumb and forefinger, ready to drop.
I'm not sure how long I stared at her, but she didn't lower her gaze. I'd always told myself that if I had my past to relive, I'd make different choices. I looked around at the mounds of hurled clothes, the clumps of couch stuffing, the strewn papers, the offset front door. Maybe this was, bizarrely, my shot at a fresh start.
I crossed and sat on the gutted couch. Induma shadowed me, sitting also and leaning against the arm to face me. My throat was dry and my thoughts jumbled, but patience was one of Induma's virtues.
I made a few mental runs at the beginning before I forced it out. "My stepfather was murdered when I was seventeen." Saying it aloud gave it a profound power that I couldn't have imagined. But I was talking. The words poured out. I told her everything. The Zapruder tape and Isabel McBride on the pitcher's mound and the way the calluses on Frank's heels scraped the floorboards as he died. I told her about the dark sedan trolling the street, the phone call telling me to come outside, my trip to the Metropolitan Detention Center, the envelope stuffed with traveler's checks.
And then I told her the rest.
Chapter 13
The cold interrogation room, the car ride with Slim and the big guy, the coerced drop-off at LAX-- they left me unable to catch my breath. At the Alaska Airlines counter, my hands shook so badly I could hardly count out seven of the traveler's checks from the envelope. I didn't know that oneway cost more than round-trip, and it took the agent to say, "Then just buy a round-trip and don't come back."
She looked mystified by my expression. I could only imagine what / looked like.
A moment later she frowned down at my driver's license. "I can't issue you this ticket. You're not eighteen for two more days."
I showed her the number written on the envelope and waited, melting in sweat, as she called and explained the situation.
"Oh, okay, sir. Right away, sir." The reverence in her voice and her lack of eye contact seemed to seal my fate as a nonentity. She hung up, printed my ticket, and handed it to me without further comment.
I spent half the flight in the cramped bathroom, sitting on the toilet and rocking myself while impatient passengers banged on the flimsy door. My running made me look guilty, but it also kept Callie clear, and that was a trade I was willing to live with. But how would I know when it would be safe to see her again?
We set down in Anchorage, the wind on the tarmac cutting me at the neck, the shins. I didn't even have a jacket. I followed a matronly woman who'd been on my flight to the terminal and boarded the same bus. I suppose I was clinging to anything familiar. She got off an hour in, and I watched her vanish into the white morning haze, my breath steaming the window. I rode on, watching the permafrost roll by, as blank and lifeless as I felt. I woke up half dead at the end of the line in Ketchikan.
It was light till ten-thirty at night. I got a job in a cannery, cutting the heads off salmon. No one asked questions. All those felons in Alaska, everyone on the run from something. Deadbeat dads and bail skippers. My own private Siberia.
I worked the line next to a massive bearded guy named Liffman who wore an eye patch and a maniacal grin. He brandished his knife with skill and zest that left me wondering.
After a few weeks, at bedtime, I called Callie just to hear her voice. I had to assume that the house was bugged, since they'd known about my conversations with her, but I needed to know she was safe. After she said "Hello" a third time, I hung up. I couldn't sleep, so I pulled the
My apartment felt suddenly stuffy, and I realized I'd broken a sweat. "I... I can't do that."
"New alliances, pal. They come at a price." She extended the paper, holding it pinched between her thumb and forefinger, ready to drop.
I'm not sure how long I stared at her, but she didn't lower her gaze. I'd always told myself that if I had my past to relive, I'd make different choices. I looked around at the mounds of hurled clothes, the clumps of couch stuffing, the strewn papers, the offset front door. Maybe this was, bizarrely, my shot at a fresh start.
I crossed and sat on the gutted couch. Induma shadowed me, sitting also and leaning against the arm to face me. My throat was dry and my thoughts jumbled, but patience was one of Induma's virtues.
I made a few mental runs at the beginning before I forced it out. "My stepfather was murdered when I was seventeen." Saying it aloud gave it a profound power that I couldn't have imagined. But I was talking. The words poured out. I told her everything. The Zapruder tape and Isabel McBride on the pitcher's mound and the way the calluses on Frank's heels scraped the floorboards as he died. I told her about the dark sedan trolling the street, the phone call telling me to come outside, my trip to the Metropolitan Detention Center, the envelope stuffed with traveler's checks.
And then I told her the rest.
Chapter 13
The cold interrogation room, the car ride with Slim and the big guy, the coerced drop-off at LAX-- they left me unable to catch my breath. At the Alaska Airlines counter, my hands shook so badly I could hardly count out seven of the traveler's checks from the envelope. I didn't know that oneway cost more than round-trip, and it took the agent to say, "Then just buy a round-trip and don't come back."
She looked mystified by my expression. I could only imagine what / looked like.
A moment later she frowned down at my driver's license. "I can't issue you this ticket. You're not eighteen for two more days."
I showed her the number written on the envelope and waited, melting in sweat, as she called and explained the situation.
"Oh, okay, sir. Right away, sir." The reverence in her voice and her lack of eye contact seemed to seal my fate as a nonentity. She hung up, printed my ticket, and handed it to me without further comment.
I spent half the flight in the cramped bathroom, sitting on the toilet and rocking myself while impatient passengers banged on the flimsy door. My running made me look guilty, but it also kept Callie clear, and that was a trade I was willing to live with. But how would I know when it would be safe to see her again?
We set down in Anchorage, the wind on the tarmac cutting me at the neck, the shins. I didn't even have a jacket. I followed a matronly woman who'd been on my flight to the terminal and boarded the same bus. I suppose I was clinging to anything familiar. She got off an hour in, and I watched her vanish into the white morning haze, my breath steaming the window. I rode on, watching the permafrost roll by, as blank and lifeless as I felt. I woke up half dead at the end of the line in Ketchikan.
It was light till ten-thirty at night. I got a job in a cannery, cutting the heads off salmon. No one asked questions. All those felons in Alaska, everyone on the run from something. Deadbeat dads and bail skippers. My own private Siberia.
I worked the line next to a massive bearded guy named Liffman who wore an eye patch and a maniacal grin. He brandished his knife with skill and zest that left me wondering.
After a few weeks, at bedtime, I called Callie just to hear her voice. I had to assume that the house was bugged, since they'd known about my conversations with her, but I needed to know she was safe. After she said "Hello" a third time, I hung up. I couldn't sleep, so I pulled the
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