brittle smile curved his lips. “Time is of the essence for them. Isn’t that what they say in all the movies?”
“They let you see movies?” I asked, distracted by the thought of strangely quiet children dressed in institutional white pajamas. They were lined up in chairs before a television screen with their hands clasped in their laps as they watched images of a world beyond their reach. It was a scene from a darkly sterile future, one that I hoped not to be around to see.
“Training.” The smile faded to a much smaller but more genuine one. “The only training I actually liked. And no one in the movies used a tree either.”
“You just didn’t see the right movies.” I returned the smile and was surprised—and pleased—to see his deepen, but a sudden movement had the emotion melting away and my hand jerking toward the gun tucked between the seat and center console. The overhead V of geese honked and flew on. Relaxing, I pulled my hand away, but the shared moment was gone. “Tell me about Jericho, Misha,” I urged quietly. “Tell me about the training.”
The kid didn’t have a nervous bone in his body from what I’d seen. His nerves, if not absent altogether, were knit of steel and titanium wire. But now I saw from the taut line of his spine and the tense clamp of his jaw that he wasn’t happy with the subject at hand. They were subtle clues, barely visible unless you were looking and looking hard, but they were there. “I’ve been at the Institute all my life.” The fleeting frown that came and went like heat lightning indicated that perhaps he wasn’t as sure of that statement as he would’ve been two days ago. “I’ve been with you a little more than twenty-four hours. I’m not sure what I should do.”
It was a hard-won admission of uncertainty from a shockingly self-contained boy. I treated it with the respect it deserved. “Would you go back to the Institute if you could?” It didn’t seem conceivable, but I knew better than that. Some animals and most people get used to their cages, whether the bars were made of iron or something less tangible. Swing the door open and let them smell the freedom. A few would make a break for it, but the majority would turn their backs on it. Try to drag them free of their trap and they would kick and scream bloody murder. Freedom is hard, and dependence is so very easy. It’s simple human nature. No one knew that better than I did. For the past ten years I’d lived in a cage built of bone, blood, and guilt, and I would’ve very likely have killed anyone who tried to force me out of it.
“Would you?” I repeated.
“No!” The answer was carried on an explosive burst of breath and it proved one thing instantly. Michael at seventeen was a stronger man than I had ever been. “No,” he went on more calmly, “I won’t go back. Not ever.”
“Then trust me. Tell me what I need to know.”
“Trust you?” The blackly amused cynicism that glittered in his eyes made me abruptly feel as if he were the older one. I was one day out of the family business, a grimly dark and violent business, and this kid had me feeling wide-eyed with dewy innocence. “Trust you,” he echoed, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe I had the audacity to even say the words. Rolling down the window, he propped his elbow on the sill and his chin in his hand. “We had classes on that as well.”
Waiting him out, I started the car and jounced our way back to the road. He would tolerate only so much pushing; I would have to be patient. It was nearly fifteen minutes before he spoke again. Eyes still gazing out the window and hair whipping in the wind, he began to speak in a voice indifferent and detached. He may have been aloof to it all, but the more he talked, the sicker I felt.
The Institute was precisely that from his description—twisted and horrific, but with the goal of education all the same. It wasn’t what the students were being taught that triggered my gag reflex; it was the motivation behind it. Psychology and biology were part of a normal high school curriculum, but not the way they were presented there. They were teaching psychology to children to instruct them in manipulation and biology to illustrate the body’s vulnerability. On and on it went. Every class was presented in terms of attack or defense.
Except for the occasional field trip, the kids weren’t allowed any interaction with the outside world. Videos, prerecorded television programs, and computer programs were used to immerse them in real life. It was just another class. The field trips were to allow their instructors to observe the students, to see if they could blend in . . . be taken for normal children. All of this elaborate program, all this perverse training was for the purpose of . . . what? Michael had laughed when I’d guessed it was aimed at turning these kids into spies, even though programs like that had existed in my grandfather’s time back in Russia, not to mention in the cheap novels I’d read in junior high.
“Why?” I demanded when he wound down. The details he had given me had been sketchy at best, and I could tell there were huge chunks of information he’d skipped over without touching on at all. “What’s the point of all this sadistic bullshit? What’s supposed to be the end result?”
“I’m the end result,” he said without emotion.
And that, apparently, was the end of that topic. Either he couldn’t face the rest, didn’t trust me enough to tell me, or both. And since I already knew where he stood on the trust issue, I drew my own conclusions. But I gave it one last effort.
“Misha, the only thing I want to do is help you. As far as I’m concerned, that ranks above breathing in my book, but how can I if . . .”
“Do you want to hear about Jericho or not?” he cut in sharply, shifting and pulling at his seat belt as if it were too tight.
“Yeah, kid. I do,” I relented. His customary calm might not be healthy considering his immediate past, but stripping it away all at once would leave him mentally defenseless. I wasn’t sure that was the smart thing to do. I knew it wasn’t the kind thing. “You can tell me over breakfast.” I wanted to give him a chance to regain his balance. He might not trust me, but I wanted him to be comfortable with me . . . as much as he could be. “We’ll even find you a real bathroom, nature boy. How about that?”
From the expression on his face and the set of his shoulders as he folded his arms, he let me know that was the very least I could do. He might not realize he was a teenager with all the personality traits that went with that, but at least he could pout like one. It was a start. Swallowing a smile, I kept an eye on the rearview mirror and started looking for a place to stuff the bottomless pit in the seat beside me.
Twenty minutes later we were seated in a mom-and-pop joint I spotted before we reached the interstate. It wasn’t too much of a risk. We were off the beaten path. If Jericho had any bizarre form of APB out on us, I found it hard to believe it could reach into the grease-smoked depths of Mrs. Testimony Delgado’s kitchen. She was the mom; we didn’t see the pop. He may have been banished to washing dishes or peeling potatoes.
“No, no. Not this table,
Waving a faded red and white kitchen towel at us, she herded us to another table in the corner. “Hope you don’t mind, but that one’s saved for four of my regulars.” She bent over and continued in a whisper that probably didn’t carry much past the parking lot. “Older gentlemen. They need to have the spot close to the convenience. Prostate troubles, poor old farts.” She had prematurely silver-streaked black hair piled high on her head in a mass of carefully constructed sausage curls, amber skin with a handful of freckles, and amazing green eyes. They were large, snapping, and the color of sea glass washed on the beach. The best of many worlds combined into one beamingly glorious whole, she snatched the laminated menus from our hands and gave Michael’s stomach a motherly pat. “These . . . They’re not for you. Growing
In a whirl of her green and red patterned muumuu she disappeared into the kitchen, her thick and sturdy ankles moving at a blur. Michael watched her go with something close to disbelief. I didn’t bother to hide my grin. “Somebody has a girlfriend.” A black glare was turned my way, and I jerked a thumb in the direction of the table we’d just occupied. “There’s the bathroom you’ve been pining for. You might as well take the opportunity to clean up while you’re in there. You need my comb, puppy?”
He slid out of his chair and gave me a scornful look that would’ve meant more without the confused flush over his cheekbones. Without a word he held out a hand to accept the comb and headed toward the indicated door. I poured a glass from the pitcher of juice on the table. It was strawberry, orange, pineapple, and something else mixed with crushed ice. It wasn’t bad . . . not at all. I was on my second glass by the time Michael returned. I didn’t
