his bed, hospital corners and all.
I’d heard the capital I in institute. That must be what they called the compound. Filing it away for a later subject of questioning along with his odd use of the word “what,” I took a change of clothes into the bathroom and showered. I left the door open to hear if Michael changed his mind and decided to make a break for it after all. The trickle of lukewarm water did little to drive the fatigue from my body or mind and I hurriedly soaped up. Climbing out ten minutes later, I dried off and wrapped a towel around my hips. The open door had kept the mirror from fogging and I shaved with a few quick strokes. Slipping on jeans and a sweatshirt, I pulled my wet hair back tightly. Before we left I would stuff it up in a baseball hat. I hadn’t been seen, yeah, but it didn’t hurt to change the look. If we were somehow traced to this motel, they could easily get a description of me from the desk clerk.
“Michael, you’re up.” I walked back into the room and gathered some of my clothes for him. “Here’re some sweats and more ointment for your feet. And I think I packed some sneakers that’ll do. They might be a little big, but I don’t think we’ll be doing much hiking.”
He accepted the bundle wordlessly, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. I guess he had no fear that I might make a run for it. By the time he returned with damp hair and sweat clothes that bagged on him, I was nearly ready to go. Handing him the tennis shoes, I took the white pajamas from him. Taking out my penknife, I began to methodically shred the cloth to small, easily flushable pieces. “How are the feet?”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he put on the shoes and tied the laces neatly. “Fine,” he said. He still didn’t know how to react to the concern, and it showed in the faintly mystified glance that he shot my way. It made me sincerely wish that Saul had used a real gun instead of the stun variety on that son of a bitch in the back of the van. That something so simple and basic as concern had been lacking from Michael’s life, it didn’t do much for the inner fire that had been smoldering since I’d seen that first room in the compound basement. “Let’s go, Misha,” I said gently. “There’s greasy food out there with our name all over it.”
“Misha?” He stood in shoes that surprisingly seemed to fit. Big feet had always run in our family.
“Michael is a mouthful,” I lied. If I couldn’t use the name I’d known him by since the day that he’d been born, then I wanted a name we could share . . . a name that wasn’t one those bastards had given him. The diminutive for Michael would do. “Misha is a nickname for Michael.” I cocked my head, deciding to go into our Russian heritage later. “That okay?”
He thought about it, then nodded. As always, he wasn’t exactly swimming in enthusiasm, but I counted it a win regardless. He did as well, I imagined, getting to keep at least a portion of the name he was attached to.
After disposing of the pajama remains down the toilet, one less thing to use to trace us, I hefted my bag and we headed out into the pastel dawn light.
Even the soft yellow and pink illumination stabbed at my eyes and I put on a pair of sunglasses the minute I entered the car. The brim of the baseball cap helped as well. After the nearly constant adrenaline rush of last night followed by no sleep, I had what was as bad as any hangover.
“Sleep deprivation can cause a significant decrease in performance and concentration,” Michael said absently as he watched a portly family of five through the passenger side window. Early risers as well, they were unremarkable in all but size, shockingly loud tourist wear, and a large chocolate cruller wrapped in each pudgy hand. And I knew for a fact which of those three had caught Michael’s attention. The kid had a jones for sugar like I’d never seen, and I had no one to blame for that but myself. With an almost wistful sigh, he turned back to me. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.” I liked that he was beginning to ask questions . . . waking up to the new world around him. I also hoped it meant he might be willing to listen to a few questions of my own. “I wanted to keep watch. But I’ll sleep tonight.” I wouldn’t have much of a choice. By tonight I would be too exhausted to fight it. Puzzled, I added an observation. “You’re full of fun little facts, aren’t you? Like the sleep thing. What kind of freaky classes did you have in that place?”
We were on the road again and had gone several miles before Michael finally spoke. “I’ve never talked with anyone outside of the Institute. I don’t know what to say.” It was hard for him to admit, as evident in the strained patches of white beside his mouth. “If this is a test, I’m doing badly. So badly.” He shook his head.
“And if this isn’t a test?” We had to get this misconception out of the way before we could make any progress, but Michael was hanging on to it hard.
“What else could it be?” There was a defeated note to his voice.
I tried for a reassuring smile. I doubt I succeeded. My job hadn’t required that look very often. “Like you said, maybe I’m just some crazy guy who thinks he’s found his brother. Sometimes, kiddo, you just have to go with the flow. So, tell me what they taught you. I think I’m sensing a theme.”
Tracing a finger along the dashboard, he considered as more miles passed and then he began to talk. I listened to every word, hoping to hear the key that I could use to unlock the mystery of my brother. He talked about multiple classes. There were the usual basics such as history, math, chemistry, and others, but they were supplemented with psychology, law—both domestic and international—languages, and acting. There was a theme all right; a very definite one.
“And how are you in acting?” I flashed him a more natural smile as I reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. If he could pull a De Niro, I hadn’t seen any signs of it yet.
“According to the Instructor, the worst he’s ever seen,” he replied without concern. Impressing the Instructor with his Oscar-winning ways apparently didn’t interest Michael whatsoever. Once again I heard a capital letter where normally none would be. If Michael had any idea what the acting instructor’s name actually was, I would be astonished.
“No big deal. There’s more to life than Hollywood.” Not that Hollywood had anything to do with the acting classes he had been taking. Spotting a sign indicating heart-stopping cholesterol at the next exit, I decided to make a stop. “They were training you to be a spy, weren’t they? Espionage.” Maybe Saul had been wrong about this not being a government project. It sounded more like a project better suited to the old Soviet regime of the Cold War, but all ruling parties had their secrets, even here.
“Spy?” He laughed too, but without humor. “No, not a spy.” And with that the subject was closed. Crossing his arms, he closed his eyes to indicate this particular conversation had soured for him.
Having received more from him than I expected, I gave him a break. As I took the exit and hit the first generic fast-food place I saw, I decided against asking him what he wanted. I would hate to get my brother back, only to lose him to terminal dental caries in the first month. A breakfast sandwich, biscuits and gravy, and orange juice should be enough, I thought, before weakening to add pancakes to the order. I personally hated drive-through breakfast crap and ordered nothing but a large coffee for myself. I’d make up for it at lunch.
Back on the interstate, Michael took no prisoners on that bag of grease. The sandwich he tolerated, the gravy he loved, and the pancakes lifted him unto Heaven. They’d been labeled a new addition on the order menu: chocolate chip with a gallon of pseudo maple syrup. As I watched, he devoured every bite and then licked the fork. This kid, grave and educated in damn peculiar ways, was going after every molecule of sugary goodness like a five- year-old with a bowl of icing.
“What the hell did they feed you in that place anyway? Bread and water? Gruel?” I asked.
“Nutritious meals to keep our bodies at the peak of health,” he replied. It sounded like a quote. I could picture it now . . . straight-edged grim words emblazoned on a wall above a pear-shaped cafeteria lady doling out boiled chicken, boiled potatoes, and boiled cabbage.
“All right,” I said with determination. “For supper we have pizza, a liter of Coke, and a shitload of ice cream. Rocky road. So what if our teeth rot out? It’ll be worth it.”
“I know those are all very popular. Do they taste as good as chocolate chip pancakes?” There was definite interest in the question.
“Better,” I promised. I wondered how it worked in that concrete prison. I imagined heads bowed over test papers. Circle A if pizza tastes good. Circle B if it does not taste good. Speaking of not good, that entire picture left a foul taste in my mouth—all those children leading the lives of small prisoners of war. I’d listened to the radio for any news on a police raid on the compound. Nothing. Big surprise. Either the entire police department was in their back pocket, not a very realistic proposition, or the Institute had been evacuated. Either way, the kids were gone.
Since the full stomach seemed to have relaxed Michael some, I decided to try more questions. “Misha, you said you were taught languages. Do you know Russian?”
“
