relaxed manner that added to her charm. Bondurant found the quality annoying, suspecting an ulterior motive for her pretending to be so pure of heart.
She left with Freeman, who clutched his belly as if he'd eaten too much candy, and as Bondurant waited for the door to swing closed he gazed at the bookshelf.
'Francis?' came Kracowski's impatient voice from the phone.
'Go on, sir.'
'Just keep everybody out of Thirteen until I give the clearance.'
'Yes, sir.' Bondurant was used to accepting the man's orders without a thought. He found his attention wandering back to the bookcase. One of the leather-bound volumes was out of place. Right near where he'd placed the little bronze globe given to him by the Governor's Childhood Initiative Commission.
The globe was gone.
The little brat had swiped it. No, there it was, a shelf below. Bondurant realized he'd missed what Kracowski had just said. 'Excuse me, sir. You were saying something about Thirteen?'
'The patient we're treating.'
Bondurant hoped the home didn't become the subject of a scandal. Kracowski had managed to keep things tidy and under the rug so far, but the man's experimental treatments had gotten stranger and stranger. 'And how is she?' Bondurant asked.
Kracowski's words sent a chill through him that was colder than the dead damp air of Wendover's basement:
'She'll be okay once she starts breathing again.'
THREE
Wendover's Blue Room turned out to be a large open dorm in the south wing of the building. Freeman supposed the name came from the sky-blue walls, a color probably chosen by some soft-skulled social scientist who'd decided that the sky promoted passivity. The room was lined with metal cots, a stained strip of gray industrial carpet running down the corridor between the two rows. The rest of the floor was of the same drab tile that had soaked up light in the hallway. If the walls had been olive or khaki, the place could have been mistaken for a boot camp barracks.
'I've got a feeling I won't have a private room,' Freeman said to Starlene. Most of the two dozen cots had wooden trunks tucked beneath, and stray socks and comic books lay scattered in the shadows.
'The others are in class right now.' She led him to a cot near the rear wall. 'This one's yours.'
Freeman pushed down on the cot. No give. Oh well, he wasn't here to catch up on his beauty sleep. And dreams were out of the question. 'What happened to the kid who was here before?'
'Excuse me?' Starlene still wore that patient, saintly smile. She smelled nice, too, like bubble gum.
'I'm superstitious, okay?' He waited for her to try to tell him that this was the twenty-first century, that he was too old for such things, that Wendover didn't allow foolishness. She was a counselor, after all.
'He found a permanent placement,' she said. 'Might be a lucky bed.'
Permanent. Freeman had noticed the word was easy for people to say who had families, homes, futures. 'I could use a little luck.'
'It's a new start, Freeman. I don't know what happened before, but you can put it all behind you. That's why we're here. That's why I'm here.'
Freeman sat on the cot, wondering where his gym bag was. Probably that lizard-breathed Bondurant was rifling through his possessions, hoping to find some dope or booze or girlie magazines. 'How many others are here?'
'Wendover houses forty-seven at the moment, counting you. We're licensed for sixty, but with this new state emphasis on reuniting children with their families-'
'Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Makes the numbers look good on paper, but does anyone ever go into the family home later to see what's happening? I mean, I've heard stories.'
'A social critic, huh?' Starlene knelt beside him, not letting him look away. She had strong, straight teeth. Almost perfect. 'Do you have a family?'
'Yeah. A virgin mother and a father who farts brimstone.'
'Why are you angry, Freeman?'
Freeman realized his fists were clenched. She was trying to drag something out of him. They loved it when they thought they were getting inside your head and scrambling the circuitry. Life was easier when you played along, so they could feel good about themselves for 'helping.'
'It's not anger, it's more of an indefinite pain,' he said.
'Your heart probably aches.'
Actually, the pain was lower down, in the part he was sitting on. But he saw no reason to be mean to her. She couldn't have much of a life if she spent all day with screwed-up kids. He should be the one feeling sorry for her, for having people dump their personal crap on her head. All she could do was smile and take it and cash the checks. But he couldn't show any pity. He'd probably have her for group or solo therapy, so he'd need to keep her at a safe distance. His edge was wearing off, anyway. The up cycle always came on like a rocket but left like a fizzled firecracker.
'I think it's my feet,' he said. 'May as well take off my shoes and stay awhile.'
He put his feet on the cot and removed his tennis shoes. His big toe stuck through a hole in one sock. For some reason, a stranger's seeing his naked toe embarrassed him. He tucked his foot under his leg to hide the threadbare sock.
A bell rang, the noise reverberating off the concrete walls. As the echo faded, other bells rang throughout the building in a relay.
'Class is over,' Starlene said. 'You'll get to meet your Wendover brothers and sisters soon.'
'One big happy family, I'm sure.'
'We're all part of God's family.'
First Bondurant and now this woman, coming on strong with the God job. Wendover must have taken a rain check on separation of church and state. At least Starlene wasn't being a Nazi about it. Her gaze was steady, her eyes bright. They were deep blue, or maybe it was the reflection of the walls. Her eyes were the kind that he imagined Joan of Arc had, martyr's eyes, ones doomed to see too much.
Eyes like his Mom's, back before death had shut them forever.
But Starlene wasn't his mother. None of them were, not the counselor with the whiskey breath at Durham, the frantic Spanish house mother in Tryon Estate, or the Charlotte foster mother who'd made Freeman paint clay figurines to 'pay his keep' even though she'd received a regular stipend from the state for that purpose.
Voices came from down the hall, the shouts of excited and bickering children.
'I'd better go,' Starlene said. 'Your House Supervisors are Phillip and Randy. They're good people.' Starlene went back between the rows of cots, no longer intimidating now that she was leaving. The threat of continued kindness faded with her.
Freeman cased the possible escape routes. His cot was beneath the only window, a smudged pane of glass some fifteen feet up. A steel door was set off in the corner, a severe-looking lock attached to the handle. A red light blinked on an adjacent panel above the lock, as if the lock required some sort of electronic password.
Freeman looked at the door that Starlene had exited. It had the same sort of electronic lock. With fire codes, they couldn't just lock the kids in and swallow the key, could they? He hurried across the room in his stockinged feet.
The door wasn't locked, it opened with a groan of hinges. He made a mental note to swipe some oil in case he needed to do any sneaking out. The hall was empty, Starlene's shoes making a flat echo around the corner. He was about to close the door when he saw a man coming from the opposite direction.
Must be a janitor. Except even a janitor ought to dress better than this guy. He wore what looked like an ill- fitting white uniform, gray with stains. The dome of his head shone in the grim light, a few greasy strands of hair stuck to the bald spot. The eyes were blank and empty.
