JUNK
Chapter Two
Bodie, on a little cot in room 13 (unnumbered but noted in someone's secret files), was dreaming. He was at the shore, but although it was a bright summer's day there was no one about because of the heavy orange-brown scum that covered the sea. He had a shovel and was supposed to be removing the scum - a monumental task with which Doyle was supposed to be helping him, but he could not find Doyle. "Ray?" he called, and his voice echoed out over the sea and was answered noncommittally by the gulls. They didn't know where Ray was, or they weren't telling. Resignedly, Bodie walked out into the scummy waves and started scraping.
He had with him several burlap sacks to contain the scum; he'd set them down on the sand but had to remember to keep looking over his shoulder periodically to make sure the tide wasn't coming in to wash them away. The one he held was getting full and he waded back to exchange it for another. As he approached he could see one of the sacks he'd already filled suddenly shifting, of its own accord, and moving away from him, back toward the rocky, shrubbed lands that bordered the beach. He froze, horrified. Part of him knew, of course, that this was a dream, but another part of him believed the unbelievable thing he saw. The sack stopped crawling several meters from the others and lay still. Bodie dropped the sack he had and walked, almost against his will, to the errant one. He bent to touch it but a sudden movement behind him made him spin: the sack he'd just dropped was crawling back to the sea. He turned from one to the other and back again, finally deciding that the second sack was calling him more urgently. He ran to it and threw himself upon it. It ceased immediately to move, but vibrated slightly under him. He tore it open and there, in the mire, was Mandy Chartress, her naked little body bruised and scarred, her dead eyes staring straight at Bodie. He yelled and jumped up away from the sack and the scum and the child; in doing so he tripped over the other sacks and fell backwards upon them. One of them stirred beneath him and he yelled again, this time more desperately, and rolled off. He crouched by the pile of sacks and watched in horror as one by one they slowly came to life and began to crawl off in several directions. One was crawling toward him. He scooted out of its way but it veered toward him and kept coming. From afar he could hear keening from the first sack: a child's crying. He risked a glance and saw Paul Kramer attempting to crawl out of the sack. Meanwhile, the one that had been following him touched his bare foot and he screamed. The sack stopped. Bodie crouched, panting. He did not want to look and he knew he was going to look. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The sack was still there. He reached for it and peeled back its lip. Orange-brown scum spilled out onto the sand and onto his feet. He reached into the mucky sack with his left hand and felt something tangled, like seaweed. He pulled on it. It was caught in something heavy. He pulled harder but could not budge it. He reached his other hand in too and gave a mighty yank; a little of it came off in his right hand. The tide had come in; he needed but to reach over to dip what he had in the little clear water that remained. He shook it and took a good look. It was hair: curly auburn hair.
With a cry Bodie reached into the sack, up to his shoulders in muck, and pulled out Doyle's head. "NO!" he screamed, and woke up. He sat up in the cot, sweating into the once-fresh flannel jacket he'd borrowed from Doyle's closet on his way back from the Allbright flat. "God," he said. "God." It was the third time that week he'd had that dream, and they'd only picked up the damned junkie two days ago.
He stood up and stretched methodically, ritually, for several minutes. The room was dark, but it would always be dark without artificial light, as it had no more windows than its neighbor. He didn't turn on the lights but put his shoes and holster on - he'd slept in his trousers - and, running his fingers through his hair and yawning loudly, felt his way to the door.
He knew before he even entered the room. The door wasn't exactly gaping but it hadn't been clicked quite shut. Bodie drew his Browning, counted silently to three and opened the door. A moment later the gun was holstered and Bodie was on his knees beside his woozy partner.
"Ray! Ray!"
"Bodie?" Ray was already sitting up, unlocking the cuffs, trying to remember how to bring a hand up to the parts of him that hurt and vaguely wondering whether he might not need three or four hands for that. "He hit me!"
Ray sounded so genuinely wounded by the little junkie's behavior that under other circumstances Bodie would've made a week's merry work of this, taunting his partner, mocking him, "Oh, he 'it, me, oh mother!" Tonight, however, Bodie had lost his sense of humor. "When? Where'd he go?"
"How should I know," Ray grumbled, trying to stand and brushing off Bodie's assistance. "Get away, I'm all right." He lurched out into the dark, empty hallway, squinting left and right. He let himself fall back against the wall, disgusted with himself. "Oh, bloody stupid, bloody, bloody stupid!"
Bodie joined him there, his gun once more unholstered. Doyle recovered enough then to reach for his own, then suddenly turned back to the room. "Bloody hell, he took it."
"He got your gun?" cried Bodie, exasperated beyond belief.
"No," said Doyle, sighing and producing the weapon from its holster. "He got the R.T."
"Bloody hell," said Bodie.
Sam stuck to the smallest, twistiest streets he could find; by rights he should've ended up back where he started but by sheer good fortune or intuition he averaged south-southeast and ended up at the river. Even in the nasty part of town in which he found himself the river was glorious, with glowing, majestic buildings on both banks (he did not know that one of the largest glows on his side of the river, just west of him, was the Tower of London) and the night sounds of the water and the birds and the distant traffic all conspiring to soothe his nerves. They desperately needed soothing. He was near collapse from exhaustion and hunger, and at the same time he shivered, itched and twitched with a need that wasn't his own. He wished he knew whether Luther were also strung out; from what Al had said, the lad would be worse off. He also wished he were home, anybody's home, in bed, asleep and warm. He turned left and stumbled along the river for a while. Finally he spotted a likely hideaway and crawled into what he hoped would remain a dry gap under a piece of walled quay where he could wait for Al to find him.
The tide found him first. It lapped at his feet, waking him up from a half-sleep. He scrambled back up to the quay, peering around and seeing only a pair of drunken men staggering by, smoking their last cigarettes before daybreak, with barely a glance to spare him. A moment later the street was empty again. He looked down where he had been; the tide now covered his erstwhile bed. A closer look brought an anomaly to his attention and he leaned over the wall, then climbed halfway down again to see better. Something had been washed up there, something Sam was sure he'd rather not identify, but he couldn't stop himself from wading into the muddy tide and taking hold of it, securing it in his arms and turning it over. Yes, it was what it had seemed to be: a naked female child, a child battered by more than just the waves of the Thames and bruised by more than whatever obstructions it had found thereunder. Rivers do not produce cigarette burns. Rocks do not cut the word "OBEY" into flesh. Sam's eyes blurred with more than exhaustion. He clutched the small body to him, mindless that he was becoming completely soaked, and wept for it, openly and completely.
"Sam!" called Al, from the quay. Startled, Sam fell backwards into the Thames, almost dropping the little corpse. He went straight under, swallowing an immense quantity of filthy water, then did drop the child in order to struggle to the surface. He emerged choking and gasping, turning frantically to look for the body. "Sam, no!" Al was shouting, as frantically, but Sam ignored him and dove.
On the fourth dive he found her, and on the fifth he managed to secure her once more. With great difficulty he dragged her, and himself, to the bank, or what was left of it, and climbed up to safety with her in his arms again. He was unwilling to set her down even for an instant. He sat, dazed, panting on the quay, clutching her to him, rocking her, too spent to cry anymore. Al was visibly shaken. He crouched down in front of his friend. "Sam," he whispered, trying not to look at the frightening thing in the scientist's arms.
Sam lifted his eyes to the Observer's and the latter wanted to crawl away and die. For once it wasn't the proximity of the dead; he could not bear to see his friend like this. He had seen him beaten up, nearly hanged, tearfully mourning the death of more than one person he had come to love in a short time, terrified for his life, furious and even in labor, but he had never before seen in his eyes such torment; the time traveler held the little girl as if to let her go would be to let go of sanity, truth, life itself. Never had Al wanted so much to touch his friend, nor been as acutely frustrated by his inability to do so. "Sam," he whispered again; unable to control himself he reached out a hand that passed through the arm it meant to grip, painlessly piercing the child as well. Al shivered.
Sam's reaction was unexpected. He flinched violently from Al's weightless touch and held the child more tightly, hunching over her to protect her. "No," he moaned, and Al understood then that his friend was not seeing him.
"Sam," repeated Al, gently, "Sam it's all right. I'm not going to take her from you. Hell, I can't. I'm a hologram." Sam moaned again, this time wordlessly, and rocked her more fiercely. "But you can't sit here all morning. You have to run away. Sam!" A light drizzle began to fall. Al, impervious to it, shivered again nonetheless. "Sam, this is dangerous! You can't stay here! You're gonna get caught, either by those nozzles or by the police, and you've got a dead body on you! This is not good, Sam! Plus you need a fix, and you're probably going to get pneumonia..." Sam slowly stopped rocking the child. He was soaked through and through but heavier droplets of rain were now coming down with speed and conviction, pelting his skin, causing him to look up, striking his eyes and making him blink.
"Run away," he said, tonelessly.
"Yes, yes, run away," agreed Al, eagerly, "yes, you've got to get out of here now, Sam!"
"But..." Sam looked at the child in his arms as if seeing it for the first time, a new horror paralyzing him.
"You can't help her," said Al, softly. "She's gone. And you'd better get gone too, kid, or... or..." He punched a few buttons on his long-forgotten hand link. "Or what. Ziggy says either you're still gonna swing or you're gonna die of... rat poison?" He slapped the link. "That can't be right... Never mind, never mind all that. Sam, put her down here where she can be found…" Sam gently set the tiny body down on the quay. He took off his soaking flannel shirt and lay it over her. He shuddered (as did Al) as he looked, for the first time, really, at her face, before covering it. "... now go. Go!"
"Go where, Al?"
"Go... follow the river. That way," he said, pointing west.
Sam stood up. "Do I... does Luther have a home, Al?"
"You can't go there. Come on, we'll walk together! I can use the illusion of the aura of the exercise."
They walked along the Thames and the sun never did come up, as the rain fell soon in torrents and all that Sam could see through the blinding downpour was a hazy puddle through which he had to wade, half-naked and frozen, destination unknown and, after a few minutes, unimportant. They passed first the Tower Bridge and then the new London Bridge but never knew it. It wasn't until the Embankment that they turned away from the river and walked north for a while. Now there were doorways in which to take breathers, though it was difficult to find space in them; everyone, it seemed, was hiding in doorways this morning. "It's Monday," commented Al. "You've had one hell of a weekend, kid."
The last thing Sam wanted was a Monday morning conversation; he stayed out of doorways, mostly, preferring the street, where he got knocked about by open brollies and the brusque office workers who were not happy about the weekend's ending. By the time Sam and Al turned onto the Strand the former was ready to turn himself in just to have a nice cot to lie on. A few minutes later, they had turned off the Strand and were on a little side street near St. Martin's Lane, standing fortuitously in front of a police station.
"Sam are you nuts? You can't do that!" shouted Al. "No, no, no, no, no! Just wait a minute Sam. Come here."
Sam ignored him and climbed the few steps to the double doors, then wearily pushed his way into the station. Directly ahead of him was a long wooden bench, and to his right was one pane of, presumably, bulletproof glass, with two service windows designated. One was vacant and the other half-hid a uniformed policeman who was trying to hear, and be heard by, a fat, frantic American woman and two dazzlingly beautiful Italian teenagers, one male and one female. Sam went and stood behind the woman and the teens, who stared at him in open curiosity. "Sam, just come outside now. Please."
"What was she wearing?" shouted the policeman behind the thick glass.
"What was she wearing?" the American woman repeated to the two Italians, who in response consulted with one another in their own language, at first softly and then a little less so.
Even as upset as he was Al got caught up in the conversation and translated for Sam:
"She says her sister - I guess it's her sister who's missing - she's wearing a red sweater with green diamonds and he says she's wearing a green sweater with red diamonds." The boy repeated this, in English, with a slight bias toward green with red diamonds, to the American woman, who shouted it to the policeman. "Sam, you can't stay here.…"
"You'll have to wait over there!" A policewoman had appeared, or barely appeared (so smudged was the glass) at the other window and was shouting to Sam. He didn't at first hear her; he was falling asleep on his feet. "You're not injured?" she yelled. Sam shook his head. "Over there!" she shouted, and walked away from the window. Sam obediently went to the scuffed-up wooden bench and sat down.
"What are you going to tell them, Sam?"
"The truth," said Sam. The girl turned all the way around to give him another appraising look.
"What truth, Sam?" Al was vexed. "You gonna tell the cops you're a time traveler? That's just great. You do that, Sam. Maybe they won't hang you after all. Maybe I can come visit you on Sundays, if they don't shut the project down.…"
"About the girl," said Sam, wearily. "I have to tell them about the girl."
"No, no, no," insisted Al, "they'll find her just fine without you. Better without you, in fact." He was practically prancing in his anxiety. "Come on, Sam." Sam slumped on the bench, his head lolling onto his bluish chest. "Sam!" With a shudder Sam jerked awake and squinted at Al.
"Come on where?"
"Just... come on." Al dragged Sam (by sheer force of will) out of the station, off into St. Martin's Lane again and over to the Parish Church of St. Martin in the Field. The lot beside the church was empty; as they walked through it, Al sighed. "In the summer there's a market here. Too bad. You could've picked up a shirt, maybe, and a coat and an umbrella... except you probably don't have any money, do you?" Sam checked his jeans pockets - not an easy task as they were nearly shrink-wrapping him - and to his surprise found a few soggy notes.
"They took my wallet when they searched me," he said, staring at the notes. "I guess they didn't find these." He squinted through the rain and his own streaming hair and looked around him, but there was nowhere for him to spend his money. It was not yet 10:00; no shops were open. Al shook his as well and led the soaking scientist out of the empty lot.
Sam stopped in dismay on the front steps of the church; he was not the only refugee here. "We're not going in there," said Al. "Well, maybe for a short time. It's a little early. I'm not sure the crypt is open."
"Crypt?" asked Sam. Another lurker on the steps, an old woman with white hair and only a glossy white silk scarf to protect it, pointed the way, but Sam didn't understand; the woman seemed to be pointing across the street to Trafalgar Square, where, incomprehensibly, people appeared to be gathering for something other than tourism; a huge contingent of bobbies, some with nightsticks, was also gathering.
"Never mind, Sam," said Al, who had briefly disappeared and was back. "It's closed. Let's go in here."
The church was warm. Sam smiled at a young woman who said "Oh, my!" when she saw him but did not try to stop him. He made his way to a back pew on the left side, away from a few others who were praying. With his hands he wiped water from his face and from his upper body, which was still rather blue. He spent a long time with his thumbs in his eyes. He wanted to remove his soaking jeans but thought he might be asked to leave if he did, so he shivered in them, hugging himself and briskly rubbing his arms. He tried not to scratch them.
"That was probably a bad idea," said Al, "to leave your shirt back there. I know, I know! But a bad idea anyway."
Sam whispered, "How is Luther?"
"Bad, Sam. We could give him something but we don't know who would feel the brunt of it, you or him. It could kill you. Better you should take a small amount that wouldn't kill you and have it be insufficient for Luther than the other way around." Sam was silent. "We have him in restraints so he won't hurt himself but his organs are under a lot of stress right now, not to mention he thinks he's on one hell of a trip, which isn't his scene at all. He could have an aneurysm. His heart could give out. He's shaking pretty hard." He observed his friend. "So are you, Sam."
Doyle and Bodie didn't stop to tell Cowley where they were going. Hell, they didn't know where they were going. They rushed out of the building after their escaped prey and found themselves at an atypical loss.
"Think," said Doyle. "He can't go back home. He knows we'd look for him there."
"Unless," Bodie pointed out, "he is counting on our thinking he won't go back home.…"
"But he'd count on our thinking of that too," insisted Doyle.
"We should check just in case."
"Just in case," sighed Doyle. "We'll take my car."
"Stand out less in that neighborhood," Bodie agreed.
Doyle drove them to the ratty south London tenement flat Bodie and Murphy'd just searched. It was a hovel, shared, according to the lease, by Luther, Billy and Billy's wife, Angela, who had been in the first time, the time of the unmerry chase, and the second time, during the search, but who was now out. They climbed to the third floor and rapped on the door but no one came to open it. They rapped a second time, Doyle calling out, "Open up in there!" in as official a voice as he could muster; his head still spun somewhat. Both operatives drew their weapons. Bodie stepped back to get a good running start at the door but Doyle stopped him and reached for the knob. It turned. It was unlocked. He grinned at Bodie and Bodie, for the first time in days, grinned back.
"Hello?" called Doyle as they stepped in, weapons still drawn. "Damn. They said she was gone. You should've picked her up, Bodie."
"What for? She hasn't done anything." They moved through the flat, examining anything that could hide a human being.
"That we know of. And she knows where Billy is."
"Maybe not. Oh God what is this? We saw it before; Murphy didn't know and the woman wouldn't say." An orange-brown smear of something greasy virtually covered the master bedroom closet door. Bodie backed away from it without knowing he was doing so.
"You didn't get a sample?"
"What, touch it? Not on your life, mate!" Doyle looked at him. "Well, Murphy didn't want to either!"
"Did you at least check inside?" Doyle took out his Swiss Army knife and scraped a bit off, then wiped the blade on a handkerchief from his back pocket.
"Of course." Nonetheless, Doyle put away his knife and, after folding it many times, the handkerchief, opened the closet door (careful not to get any of the grease on him) and found a totally empty cupboard. Bodie's mouth dropped open.
"That was full of clothes before!"
"She's on the run, then," said his partner. "I told you you should've picked her up. She's gone to Billy."
"Jax was supposed to tail her," complained Bodie, as they left the empty flat."
"So where is he?" They got into the little Escort and Doyle fidgeted with the front seat.
"Um, dunno. Still tailing her? I've heard nothing from him." They zoomed off down the road. "Where are we going?"
"Back," said Doyle, grimly. "Hey, have you actually tried raising him on the R.T.?"
"Not for hours," admitted Bodie, pulling it out, but before he could try, Doyle yelled,
"Hey!"
"What?"
"Try to raise me." He grinned at Bodie's stunned stare. "Go on. See what happens. Luther has my R.T. Maybe wherever he is he doesn't want it to go beep-beep just now! Maybe he'll have to answer it to shut it up. And maybe…"
"... we can track him down," finished Bodie triumphantly, switching the R.T. on.
Sam was flitting in and out of sleep, lying on the pew. Al, having nowhere urgent to go and feeling bad about having left his friend for so long, sat and guarded him. He didn't want the time traveler to be surprised awake by any parishioners, clergy or cops, and he especially didn't want him to awaken alone and decide, in his despair, to turn himself in. As it was, the almost-sleep was doing Sam no good.
He dozed, shivered, tossed, awoke disoriented, dozed again fitfully, once rolled off the pew, alarming both of them, sat enveloped in his alarm for a while before climbing back onto the pew for another attempt to sleep, and in general worried the Observer so much that he snapped at Gooshie, failed to understand something Ziggy had said and had to ask her to repeat it, which of course elicited from the hybrid computer a most sarcastic comment regarding Al's neurons and mesons, and entirely failed to notice that Sam had now been awake for several minutes and was contemplating him in as worried a manner.
"Al," began Sam, and then the waterlogged R.T. in his jeans pocket went off, almost giving both of them a heart attack.
"Geez Louise," breathed Al, as Sam got the thing to shut up. To do so he had to flip a switch and extend a small antenna. Then he didn't know what, if anything, to say. He opened his mouth to speak and Al shook his head in warning. No sound came from the R.T. but what might have been muffled breathing. Sam covered it up and asked Al, sotto voce,
"Can they track me with this?" Al shrugged. Sam uncovered the R.T. and said, indistinctly, "Four-five."
A snort and a chuckle issued from the R.T. "Four-five my ass," came Doyle's voice from a slight distance." More clearly then came Bodie's:
"Luther, you son of a bitch, I am going to tear your little head off you and feed it..."
"Look, Luther," came Doyle again, after some scuffling, "we can get you a fix. Just tell us where you are, okay, mate? I promise I won't let Bodie feed your head to anybody. I can't vouch for him if you lead us on a long chase, though, and we will catch up with you, you know. We will."
"There's another dead girl," said Sam. Al put his head in his hands; this was not going well. He'd had no idea Sam was going to say this. There was silence from the R.T. "She's on a broken old dock by the river.
"Quay," corrected Al.
"Quay. I don't know if someone has already found her. Maybe she's still there. She's... she's all cut up and burned up and..." He couldn't speak for a moment. "Please find her. She's cold."
"Why, Luther?" Doyle's voice was soft, controlled.
"It wasn't me," said Sam. "I found her in the water. I didn't kill her. Please. You've got to believe me. She can only have been in the water for a matter of hours. I was in your custody when she was killed. Find her quickly and determine the time of death. You'll see that I am telling you the truth." Al looked up hopefully. This did make some sense. "Please."
"How do we know," said Bodie's voice, "that you are not sending us on a wild goose chase, Luther?"
"I left my shirt there. You'll know it. Please."
"Where, exactly, Luther?"
Sam didn't know exactly where he had been. He shut the R.T. off, set it on the pew and stood up, then was knocked back down by a wave of dizziness. Al reached out for him once more, in vain, of course. Sam smiled and stood again, much more slowly, grasping the pew in front for support. He looked up and around for the first time. "This is a beautiful church," he said, taken with the stained glass and painted ceiling. "I've never seen anything like it."
"Yes," said Al, soberly, "it's beautiful. Come. It's not safe anymore."
"I don't believe it," said Ray, kneeling in the pouring rain by the place where the body had been. "This isn't like the others."
"How not like?" asked Bodie. "The same age. The same... abuse. The same word: 'obey.' How not the same?"
"I don't know," sighed Ray, rising. "Maybe the shirt."
"It was his shirt. You know he was wearing it."
"Yes, it was his shirt. That's my point, Bodie." His partner looked puzzled and somewhat irritated. "Bodie, why would he leave the shirt? There wasn't a clue, not a speck of dandruff, on any of the others. And no confessions either."
"He didn't confess," said Bodie, heading back to the car. "And anyway we broke him down, a bit. That's why."
"That's crap and you know it." Doyle didn't follow Bodie but trotted off to fetch the sopping shirt from the agent who had it. Bodie stopped and leaned back against the Escort, ignoring the rivulets that flowed down from the roof, further drenching the back of Doyle's jacket. Ray hadn't said a word about the jacket; perhaps he hadn't noticed. After all, Bodie had a similar one, only his had gray and white checks and Doyle's had gray, white and red checks. Bodie's dark hair was rainslicked to his scalp; his eyes narrowed against the rain as he watched his partner run. There was a grace to Doyle, not only a physical grace but another kind as well that made Bodie want to believe in mankind despite all indications that mankind was not worthy of his belief. He had no illusions that he was worthy, either, of mankind's. Ray ran lightly as if running were not an activity but simply the way Ray was, and when Ray sat still that was how he was, too. If anyone had said this to Bodie he would've responded with an eloquent "huh?" and, to the word "grace," a snort as well. Yet he was not unaware of Ray's effect upon him; in his way he was grateful for it. Ray brought the shirt like an offering and Bodie took it solemnly, frowning as Doyle trotted on into the wet street to open the driver's door.
"You coming, love?" called Doyle, "or you planning to stand there until it talks to you?"
Bodie got in and Ray drove them off. "It speaks to me," said Bodie. "It says I'm an idiot."
"Smart shirt," said Ray. "But it wasn't your fault."
"What wasn't?"
"If it'd been me," said Ray, trying to see where he was driving, "I'd have slept straight through. You'd have come in and clunked me on the head with a teapot, for not comin' in to rescue you."
"I didn't rescue you."
"Never said you did. Only said I wouldn't have." The car's R.T. squawked. "Four-five."
"Is three-seven with you?" There was no need for Cowley to introduce himself. Bodie grabbed the R.T.
"Three-seven here."
"Three-seven where? Bodie, what the devil have you been up to?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Murphy says you left him in the middle of an investigation. Jax was following the wife, says you were going to back him up, he takes a mighty smack in the head and where are you?" Doyle was regarding his partner with some measure of shock. "I don't need any screwups," said Cowley. "Not if you want to stay in this mob. Now you and Doyle get your smart asses to Mercy Hospital and drive Jax home. You can debrief him on the way."
"Is he all right" asked Bodie in a small voice.
"No, he's not all right, he's got an ostrich egg on his damned head, and you'll have one too if you don't hurry over there!"
"On our way sir," interceded Doyle. "Four-five out." He drove carefully, in silence, not looking at Bodie. Finally he said, "So what's this all about, then?"
"Nothing."
"Don't give me nothing, Bodie. You've been acting weird."
"Just drop it, Ray."
"Don't tell me to drop it! You screw up, where the hell do I get myself another partner?"
"Leave it, I said."
The rain eased up a bit. Bodie rolled down his window and wrung out Luther's shirt.
When Sam and Al came out of the church there was quite a crowd on the steps, watching the riot now in progress in Trafalgar Square. Bobbies were bashing protesters over the head with their nightsticks, both protesters and bystanders were shouting at bobbies; some were throwing themselves rather indiscriminately at the bobbies and at each other. The action was not strictly contained within the Square; the cops at the corner by the church were visibly nervous about the population on that side of the street as well, and there seemed to be some scuffles going on at the bottom of the steps. Al tried to lead Sam away from the fray; it was impossible for him to avoid walking through everyone who was in his way, which did nothing to calm Sam's nerves, especially as he had to push his way between the folks Al could just ignore. Near the bottom of the steps Sam was shoved sideways by a young man trying to run up to the church, and fell directly into the arms of a bobby in close pursuit. He turned out not to be a particularly discriminating bobby; "Ho there," he said, taking Sam into custody, despite Al's inaudible protests.
The bobby marched Sam across the street, ignoring oncoming traffic (Sam closed his eyes, convinced that they were about to be killed, especially disconcerted by the traffic's being on the "wrong" side of the street) and steered him toward a waiting police van. Al was waiting there too, shouting, "No! Sam, run! Don't get into the van! Run away now!" Sam had a fleeting thought: it might be warm in the van. Still, as soon as they were out of the way of most of the traffic, Sam shoved an elbow back into the bobby's ribs.
Before the cop could recover from that surprise, Sam was racing in the drizzle up past the National Portrait Gallery, out of St. Martin's Lane into Charing Cross Road, and had turned left into one of the alleyways that lead to Leicester Square. "This way, Sam" cried Al, who was ahead of him, waving him to the end of a short queue of what seemed to be tourists; everyone in it carried large, map-like fold-out brochures. As soon as Sam got onto queue, four more people gathered behind him, and then two more came to stand behind them. The folks in front of him moved up a step and he moved up too. Two gentlemen strolled up and down the queue, crying, in cockney accents, "Lay Mi-zay-rab! Stah-lait Ex-press!" No one paid them any attention; everyone was busy reading their brochures. Sam inched forward, trying to look less naked, as he saw the bobby coming into the Square, and pretended to read the brochure over the shoulders of the couple in front of him. They were conversing in French and didn't notice his rudeness. The brochure turned out to be a theatre directory.
"J'ai vu 'Romeo and Juliet' le dernier Août," said the woman, who was much taller than the man and holding the brochure out of his sight line.
"Bien, donc, lequel devrions-nous voir cet après-midi?" asked the man, struggling to see the brochure; in response she held it a little higher. " Peut-être quelques chose d'Oscar WIlde? Y-a-t'il quelque chose de lui?"
"Non," said the woman, abruptly.
"Peut-être 'Guys and Dolls' Lulu?"
"Non," repeated the woman.
"All clear," said Al. "Come on, Sam, we've got to get you dressed before you catch pneumonia!" When Sam sneezed, he added, "That is, if you don't already have it!" Since Al wasn't actually showing him where to go, Sam headed toward a cinema. It didn't matter that he would not be able to purchase a shirt or coat there; it would be indoors. "They won't let you in like that," admonished Al, but Sam pushed his way through the double doors anyway. He went directly to the concession counter, where he offered the clerk a five-pound note and asked for some hot coffee.
"I'm sorry, sir," said the clerk (a young woman), in gentle, slightly uneducated accents, "we don't have that."
"Anything warm," said Sam. "Popcorn?"
"Salt or sweet, sir?"
"Sweet," said Sam. Al shook his head.
"Small, medium or large?"
"Small," said Sam, and Al nodded approvingly. The clerk gave Sam a cardboard coronet of caramel corn and some dry change, and Sam retreated to a wall near the glass doors to warm himself as best he could with the treat. Upon tasting it he exclaimed, "It's Crackerjacks!"
"I could've told you that, Sam," said Al. "You don't look any warmer."
The caramel corn was not, in fact, as warming as the hot coffee would've been, and Sam had eaten only a few handsful when he was approached by a suited gentleman who asked him to leave.
"Please," said Sam. "It's raining. It's cold. Just give me a few minutes to get warm, okay?"
"I'm sorry, sir," said the suit. "You are not appropriately dressed and we must ask you to leave."
"Who's 'we,' you heartless nozzle?" spat Al. "I don't see any 'we.'"
Perhaps Sam hesitated too long, or perhaps the suit didn't like the way he dipped his hand into the coronet again before taking a step toward the glass doors; at any rate he grabbed Sam by one arm to oust him and the coronet of caramel corn went flying. Tears sprang to Sam's eyes but he did not resist. A moment later he was back out in the rain. Two cops were standing where the other bobby had been, looking away for the moment but nonetheless causing Sam's heart to pound.
"This way, Sam!" cried Al, guiding him across the grungy Square and into a large gathering that stood in front of the Swiss Center. Sam pushed his way well into the middle of the crowd before daring to glance back. The Square was full of buskers, panhandlers, early lunchers in suits, businesspersons hurrying through with no time to stop for lunch and especially not a picnic lunch in the drizzle, on the weedy grass and cracked pavements of Leicester Square; workmen, people queued for the public phone boxes, people fighting, people kissing, people walking, people standing, people, people, people. Sam thought he might have lost the bobbies and, relieved, turned his attention to the hand that was creeping around his right thigh.
He jumped, and looked down to his right. A tiny woman, perhaps in her thirties, was arguing with a powerfully built, exceedingly tall man who had to be in his late 40s or early 50s. Both of them were gesticulating so violently that Sam wanted to back away from them (though he couldn't, as the crowd was pressing in upon him) but their voices, soft to begin with, were all but muted by the din of the Square. Sam could not imagine that either of them owned the hand that had groped him. Then he became aware of another tiny woman to his right, this one a girl, really, whose resemblance to her mother was unmistakable. She could have been no older than 16. Both were blonde and blue-eyed, with mouths that were slightly too wide for their faces; both wore tortoiseshell eyeglasses. The mother's hair was long and straight, tied back into a ponytail, and the daughter's was as straight, but pixie-short. As animated and angry as her mother seemed, the daughter appeared to be bored, her eyes immense and vacant behind the huge lenses, her stance classic ennui. The hand, decided Sam, could have been hers. He met her eyes but not a flicker of guilt, nor even of interest, revealed itself there. Then a tremor ran through him and he hugged himself; he'd forgotten, for a moment, how cold he was, how his body itched and how his muscles ached. His nose was running and he didn't want to wipe it with his hand or on his sleeve. He was too distracted to notice the interest that did, then, flicker and continue to burn.
He looked away from the girl, trying to figure out whether the bobby was still after him (no cops were in sight) and why the crowd had gathered here. Each busker had (or didn't have) his or her own little gathering. No one in Sam's group was paying much attention to the violinist and his amplifier, the folk trio warbling palely, the mezzo-soprano who was murdering Schubert, or the mime in runny clown white.
"All clear," said Al. Sam stepped back, onto the toes and into the arms of the giant who'd been arguing with his diminutive wife.
"Whoa," said the man, who had to be at least six-foot-five, thought Sam, and was wearing several more inches of cowboy hat. "Watch your step, feller." The Texan tones were unmistakable.
"Sorry," said Sam, trying to break free of the man's grip without seeming to struggle. The grip did not loosen.
"My God, boy," said the Texan, "you're as cold as ice. Don't you feel cold?" Sam admitted that he did. "Well, now, I think we can do something about that. Madeline, Rose my dear, what do you say we get this young feller dressed and then take him somewhere to get a nice, hot lunch?"
"Oh, I..." said Sam, then shut his mouth. He was terribly cold, despite the body heat all around him, and terribly hungry, though for some reason all he could imagine eating at the moment was caramel corn.
"I'm not hungry, Daddy," said Rose, with a great deal of Texas in her voice too.
"I am," said Madeline, quietly, so that Sam knew that the fight had been over the daughter, who at these simple words looked as if she'd lost one battle but was by no means surrendering.
"Then we're agreed," declared the Texan, though they clearly weren't. Sam could not but agree, especially as even yet the Texan gripped his arms; they were going numb.
Just then a melodious chiming overtook the Square and all five of them (including Al, who had been observing this exchange at first with concern and then with increasing amusement) looked up. Automated mannequins had begun to parade around the outside of an upper story of the Swiss Center, where mechanized bells were ringing out a tune. "Oh, I love this kind of stuff," exclaimed Al. "This must be the glockenspiel. I've never seen it, Sam. Oh! Ziggy says it's brand new." Sam was delighted with the display (and to have his arms freed), and this was why the others had gathered there, so except for Al's prattling, all conversation was suspended for the duration.
The music lasted longer than they expected; when the first song was done a second began, and a third followed. Despite the continuing drizzle the crowd didn't thin; if anything, it thickened. Sam was finding himself jostled by more than just brollies. The hand that earlier had found his thigh sought it once more and instead found itself captured. Its owner didn't immediately look at Sam, but when he didn't let go she did look, and met his gaze with much more interest than before.
On the face that was looking at her, Luther's face, she saw amusement, pain, relief, hunger, exhaustion, fear, a lost quality and something she couldn't identify, something almost alien. It was a disturbing face and at the same time it calmed her. She smiled at Sam and did not try to free her hand; immediately he released it and smiled back, very sadly.
"Oh, Sam," said the unobservant Observer, back from a short vertical trip to check out the glockenspiel close up; he was just in time to see Sam and Rose making eyes at one another. "You dog, you! Leave you alone for a minute..." He trailed off when he saw that Sam had begun to shiver more dramatically. "Oh, Sam, you need a shot. I mean Luther does. You do, for him." He fidgeted with the hand link a bit, and sighed. "Soon, Sam."
"Let's go, Daddy," said Rose.
Sam followed his new friends out of Leicester Square, through a different alleyway. In a shop there he allowed himself to be outfitted in a tee-shirt that said "My friend went to London and all he got me was this lousy tee-shirt" and a dry pair of jeans that didn't quite fit. "We'll get you a jacket after lunch," said Sam's benefactor, hustling him the rest of the way out of the alley and back onto Charing Cross Road. Sam was a little nervous about returning but no bobbies awaited him. The four walked up the road until they came to a window filled with knishes, falafel, chopped liver and other delectables that made Sam's dry mouth start to water. The tall man had to take Sam by the arm and drag him away from that window and into the restaurant to which it belonged; they were all then escorted rather listlessly by a dour man (of uncertain age but undoubtedly Mediterranean origin) to the back of the long, narrow room, and into a shorter but equally narrow one, and seated at a large table by the rest rooms. As Sam slid into the booth, followed by the man (Madeline sat opposite him and Rose opposite her father), a clot of dust fell from a lamp onto the tablecloth directly in front of him. "Charming," he muttered, picking up his fork to shake it, and then he noticed that Al wasn't there. He looked around but couldn't find his friend.
"Quite charming," echoed Rose in sarcastic agreement.
"Well," said the man who was crowding Sam, rather, in the booth, "I suppose I oughta introduce myself. I'm Steve Whatley and this is my wife, Madeline, and my daughter, Rose." He reached over with his napkin and wiped Sam's nose for him, to the latter's discomfiture. Still, the scientist was able to compose himself enough to reach out a hand to each of the Whatleys and say,
"Nice to meet you." Steve squeezed his hand overlong and Rose barely touched it. "My name is Lu... Lawrence. Lawrence, uh, Parsley, um, Presley," he decided, having glanced over at the meal being served at the next table.
"Well, Larry," said Steve, "how the hell did you get yourself out in the freezing rain with no coat and all, and one hell of a cold, and I can see you haven't eaten for a while - you in some kind of trouble, boy?"
"He's on drugs, Daddy," said Rose, calmly.
"How would you know?" asked Madeline.
"I am not," protested Sam. "I was... I was, but I'm not now." He tried to return Steve's clear-eyed look but was overtaken by shudders. "Okay, I'm a little bit sick but don't worry about that. Really."
"No, you're not," said Al, from a few feet above Sam, who looked up. Everyone looked up, puzzled, shrugged and looked back at Sam. Al floated down, landed on the table and hopped off. "Have your little meal but forget the fling. You've got to get a you-know-what and Ziggy's trying to figure out where and how to get one." Ignoring Sam's look first of startlement and then of resentment, he added, "You may have had the right idea all along, about turning yourself in. Only I hate to see you back in the hands of those goons."
"He's strung out," said Rose. "Look at him. I bet he can't even eat."
"Bet I can," said Sam, quickly.
"Bet you can't," Al disagreed. "But you should, so go ahead. Try. Get some soup."
"How do you know?" pressed Madeline.
"Oh, mother!"
"She knows," said Steve, "from those dirty little boyfriends of hers. Don't you think I'm not wise to your little games, my little Rose. I know exactly what you do."
"Excuse me," began Sam, as another clot of dust puffed down in front of him. He brushed irritably at it. Al shrugged and pointed to his watch, to the hand link and to the crook of his elbow, mimicking an injection.
"May I take your order?" asked a woman of indeterminate age, who had materialized to do just that. The space between their table and the next (where Sam had caught a fortuitous glimpse of parsley) was so small that the waitress was resting her butt on the latter; the lone luncheoner there seemed not to notice. She was as dour-looking as the man who'd shown them to their table and could have been Greek, Iranian or Turkish; she could have been the man's daughter or wife. She slapped a menu down in front of Steve; no one else got one.
"It can't be a drug center," mused Al. "They'll give you methadone and they'll give you way too much."
"We need a few minutes to look," said Madeline to the waitress, taking the menu from Steve. "Could we have a few more of these?"
The waitress grunted what might have been assent and was turning to leave when Sam said, "I know what I want." She stopped, annoyed, retrieving an order pad and pencil from the pocket into which she'd just stuffed them. "Barley soup, please," said Sam, "chopped liver on a kaiser and some falafel and some iced tea, please, and a piece of chocolate cake, and some baklava."
"You won't finish that," said Rose.
"That's enough, Rose," said Madeline, and Steve added,
"Shut up, Rose."
Sam was hungry and strung out, and at the same time he wasn't sure he wouldn't prefer to take a few lumps from Bodie instead of having to sit and listen to this.
"I hate this place," declared Rose, suddenly, with vehemence. "I hate it, and if you send me here I'll run away, I swear I will."
"And live on what?" scoffed Steve. "You'll end up like Larry here, cold and alone..."
"... strung out..." provided Rose, as if this had nothing to do with her.
"... strung out, hungry, dependent upon the kindness of strangers..." He stared appraisingly at Sam until the strung-out string theorist felt himself blushing under the other man's scrutiny. "And on the run, am I right, boy?" Sam dropped his eyes. "Damn right I'm right."
"Why don't you tell them your DOD Umbra clearance code while you're at it, Sam?" Al was vexed. "Geez Louise, what is it with you, Sam? One lucky guess and you crumble? Tell the guy he's fulla crap, you're a rich tourist from Miami and you're scouting out real estate in Normandy. No, no, eighty-six that, you're British. Okay, you're an escaped Lord milling among your constituents, or people, or whatever... Cripes, Sam, tell 'em you're Maggie Thatcher."
Through all this Sam sat, burnt scarlet by the four pairs of eyes upon him and trying extremely hard not to scratch, twitch or retort to Al. He looked up at last and said, "My father is very, very rich." This got everyone's attention, including Al's and especially including the waitress'; she put down the one menu she'd brought in front of Sam with great respect, although he already had ordered and didn't need one. "My mother," he continued, "was one of his servants."
"This is pretty good so far," admitted Al.
"My mother died when I was six years old. My father didn't want me around because, well, he was married, you see, and I was an embarrassment to him, so he sent me to a military school."
"Private school," corrected Al.
"Private school. In, uh... Manchester," continued Sam, thinking of Claude Hooper Bukowski. From the corner of his eye he could see doubt and sympathy competing for title to Rose's face; Madeline was frowning slightly and Steve was just a blob on the periphery of Sam's vision. The waitress had wandered off as soon as she had figured out that Sam wasn't after all a guaranteed fat tip (possibly in advance of service). "I was happy there. I enjoyed my studies. I did well in school. The older boys were very protective of me…"
"Yeah, I bet," said Rose, then yelped as Madeline slapped her. Sam stopped. Al held his breath. "Sorry," muttered Rose, and Al let his breath back out.
"... but I didn't know how happy I was. All I could think about was how I had been rejected by my father, and how much I hated him for it, and what kind of revenge I wanted to take on him. So," Sam concluded, or hoped he did, "I ran away."
"At the age of six?" Steve was incredulous.
"No, I waited until I was... fourteen. Fifteen."
"What kind of revenge did you take?" asked Rose, subdued but interested.
"Sam, Ziggy says this guy's name is Raymond Doyle... Oops, sorry, scratch that. Gooshie, will ya tell Ziggy she's just slightly late here? And tell Tina I'll call her back!"
"I got a job," said Sam, somewhat unresponsively, "working on a sh..., uh, in a coal mine."
"Gooshie, I don't care if it's difficult, that's what hybrid computers are for, to find out things that are difficult! Don't give me what hybrid computers, I know Ziggy's the only one. You know what I mean! Come on, Sam's in trouble here! He's just run away to work in a coal mine!"
"And, you know, well, I got in with a bad crowd, and, well, one thing led to another, and, um, soon I was, uh, shooting heroin." He risked a look around him now. To his relief he saw nothing but compassion on the faces of the Whatleys. Madeline reached out and took one of his hands. Steve cleared his throat and reached out too, to relieve Sam of the menu. Rose said,
"I would never do that. I would go back there and make my father accept me."
"Never mind, Gooshie, just... tell Ziggy to get a move on, okay?"
"Well, you see, I made a big mistake," explained Sam. "I thought I wanted revenge, you know, but what I really wanted all along was for him to accept me."
"You can still go back," said Madeline. "We'll help you."
"Uh, no," said Sam. "I can't. I mean, he's dead now. Died. Dead, I mean." The waitress brought him a huge bowl of barley soup and huffed away before he could thank her. He lifted his spoon, then wiped it with his fingers before dipping it into the steaming liquid. "So I can't. But here's the problem, see. Now I am in trouble with the law."
"What did you do?" asked Rose, excited.
"Oh, I.…"
"Rose, maybe Mister Presley would rather not say."
"Where did that waitress go?" asked Steve, looking up from the menu.
"Oh, mom, if he murdered someone I think we should know!"
"I didn't murder anyone."
"This boy," said Steve, raising a great paw to hail the waitress, who ignored him, "did not murder anyone. I could've told you that. I'm a good judge of character and this boy didn't do anything wrong."
"That's right, I didn't, but, you see, the law... thinks I did. I was framed. By the bad company. That I fell in with." He slurped at the soup, which was very tasty and effectively killed his appetite. He pushed the bowl away.
"Eat that, Sam," advised Al. "You don't know when you'll get more, and you need to keep your strength up."
Sam pulled the soup back toward him and took another spoonful. The warmth of it did feel good in his throat and gut. "Anyway," he said, anxious not to lose the edge he felt he had gained, "my so-called friends set me up and now I am running from the law."
"What will they do to you?" asked Rose. The waitress returned with the rest of Sam's order, including the dessert. "I don't want anything Daddy. Just a ginger ale."
"One ginger ale," said Steve, "and some of that barley soup, 'cause that looks pretty good, and what is that stuff?"
"Falafel," said Sam.
"Falafel, what the hell. Madeline?"
"I'll have a smoked salmon sandwich and a cup of tea, thank you." The waitress snatched the menu from her hands and bore it away. Sam nibbled at the chopped liver sandwich and found it good. "Go on, Lawrence. We didn't mean to interrupt."
"What?" asked Sam, who had lost the thread. He was suddenly struck by the amount of food he had in front of him, and by the fact that he was the only person at the table who had been served. "Oh, would anyone like any of this?"
"I told you you couldn't eat it all!" said Rose, and Al lifted an I-told-you-so eyebrow. "So what will they do to you anyway?"
"I don't know," said Sam. "It won't be pretty, whatever it is."
"That's the truth," said Al.
Having ordered, Steve could turn his full attention to his new prot?. He put a protective arm around Sam's shoulders, causing a minor soup-accident, and declared, "We won't let anything bad happen to our pal Larry. We're on your side, kid."
"I've got it," said Rose. "We'll hide him."
"Where?" asked Madeline. "In our suitcases? We're leaving for Tintagel tomorrow!" Sam swabbed with his napkin at his suddenly soupy shirt.
"He can be... he can be my older brother! No... my older sister!"
"What?" Al's voice echoed the parental Whatleys'.
"You heard me!" cried Rose. "Mom, remember that dress shop we were in this morning? We can go back there.…"
"Oh," said Sam, catching on, "oh, no, that's okay, I.…"
"No, it's perfect! Oh please!"
Al shrugged. "You need a shot. You wanna play games, play games. It's only Luther's life."
Sam didn't particularly like Al's tone, he was genuinely interested in indulging this girl in any way that might call her back from the brink of a huge, imminent catastrophe, and it had been a few days since he'd had even the illusion of a fragment of control over what was happening to him. "Okay," he said, with a rebellious sidelong glance at his friend. "Let's do it. Um," he added, hastily, shoving the real food aside and reaching for the chocolate cake, "after lunch."
Doyle and Bodie had made one stop before Mercy Hospital and so had a nice big bag of grapes to offer Jax, who wasn't in a room but only in Casualty; Bodie presented these and Jax accepted them so graciously that Bodie felt guiltier than before. "What happened?" asked the felled agent.
"I forgot."
"You forgot!"
"He's been under a lot of pressure lately," explained Doyle. "How're you feeling? She hit you hard, then?"
"I never saw who hit me," said Jax. "Thing is, Cowley says all her stuff is missing from the flat. I saw her come out of the house and she wasn't carrying anything, just a little handbag. She got into her car and I followed her."
"She doesn't have a car," said Doyle. "What car was this?"
"Oh a blue Citröen Safari, the new kind you see in the adverts. I got the license number."
"Billy's car," said Doyle.
"How does he rate a newer car than mine?" complained Bodie.
"We couldn't find it. What, was it parked out front all along? Are we losing it or is this just a bloody bad week?" To himself, though, Doyle thought, that is an interesting question, Bodie. How indeed does a lowlife like Billy rate a brand new Safari?
"He's only a perp in a gil-ded cage..." sang Bodie as Doyle's eyes gleamed.
"He's losing it, anyway," said Jax, searching his pockets and coming up with a scrap of paper, which he handed to Bodie. Bodie squinted at it, turned it upside down, then turned it again. "Well I was trying to drive at the same time, mate!" He sighed. "Anyway, she drives here and there, to this flat and that, and it's the middle of the night you know, God knows whom she's visiting."
"Whom," echoed Bodie, then shut up as Doyle gave him a nasty look.
"I called in each stop so Bodie could catch up with me..." Jax rubbed his head. "Anyway, she gets out at this one place, in Islington, and doesn't come back for a long time. Every other place she's in and out, in and out, you know? This one she stays, but the thing is, she's left her engine running, like all the other times. So I start to get all suspicious. I get out of the car…"
"Big mistake," said Bodie.
"Well what would you have done?" Bodie shrugged.
A young Pakistani doctor came over then with papers for Jax to sign. "You keep that head out of the way of any more cricket bats, my son," he said. Jax grinned. He had at least five years on this doctor. He handed the signed paper back and jumped down from the gurney on which he'd been sitting.
"Thanks, dad," he said. The doctor grinned back and walked off as the three CI5 agents found their way out of Casualty and into the rain.
"Wait here," said Doyle. He ran off to get the car.
"I'm really sorry," said Bodie, more sincerely than he would've done had Doyle been there. "I think this one is getting to me, you know? Making me nuts."
"Forget it, Bodie. No harm done. I'll live."
"Thing is," continued Bodie, grimly, "I know I'm screwing up. I know it while I'm doing it and I can't seem to stop."
"You talk to Doctor Ross about this?"
"Her? No way, mate. She'd like to feed me to the men in white suits. No thanks, mate. I'll take my chances with raging insanity. At least it might be interesting."
Doyle pulled up in the Escort and honked. Bodie climbed into the back so Jax could sit up front. "Honored," acknowledged Jax.
"So you foolishly, unwisely and ill-advisedly got out of the car," prompted Bodie as they zoomed off. "And where are we going then?"
"To tuck Jax in, of course," replied Doyle. "Go on, mate. You intelligently, wisely and with malice aforethought left your vehicle and then what?"
"Well, I went over to her car, naturally, to see if anything interesting was in it."
"Was there?"
"I have no idea. I got whomped on the head by the great bloody sky. Woke up by the side of the road, next to the spot where her car had been. My car's engine still running. Bloody stupid."
"A lot of that going around," said Doyle. "Is it this street or the next?"
"The next. So I called it in and drove myself here, dunno how I did it, as I was seeing stars."
"You sleep it off, mate. We'll call you tomorrow morning at half-seven and if we don't the Cow will. No rest for the wicked in this mob." Doyle watched Jax enter his building, then hesitated before pulling back out into the street. "You gonna stay back there and be chauffeured about then?"
"Yes, Raymond."
"And where would monsieur care to be driven this fine afternoon?"
"We haven't eaten yet."
"And the Cow hasn't called."
"So.…"
The R.T. went off. "Damn. Four-five."
"Where are you?"
"We just drove Jax home, sir. We thought we'd grab a spot of lunch, sir, if it was all right with you, sir. We have had nothing since last night, sir, and it's almost dinner time."
"Why don't you call him 'sir' a few times more, hmm?" whispered Bodie.
"You'd do well to learn from your partner, three-seven," came Cowley's crackling voice.
"Got the ears of a bloody bat," muttered Bodie, covering his mouth this time.
"Did you debrief Jax.?"
"Yes, sir, we did."
"All right, four-five, take a half an hour for lunch and meet me and Susan back here. There's no time to waste. We don't want to lose another child."
Neither Doyle nor Bodie had anything to say to that.
Three peas in a pod, thought Sam. Ann, the woman who was listening to Rose's excited explanation, was as petite as Rose - and Luther, he noted, having his first proper glimpse into a mirror. "I could be a jockey!"
"No, no," said Rose, "this is better."
"Not that I mind making the sale," said Ann, "but don't you think this is a bit of an expensive purchase for one costume party? When will he ever wear it again?"
"Oh," said Rose, cunningly, "we're the same size, Peter and I." Peter-Larry-Luther-Sam had to smile at this. "And Daddy's pretty rich. I'm sure we'll figure it out."
"Then you'd best not buy two of the same thing!" agreed Ann, considering some lovely earth-toned knit dresses on a rack not marked "sale." She chose a rust-colored one for Sam, who frowned foolishly at it until he recognized the shade as identical to one from Katie McBain's wardrobe. He winced; Katie had been raped, and although he had succeeded in bringing her tormentor to justice, he would never be able to right that wrong. Ann held the dress up to him, frowned and replaced it on the rack. She produced a blue one from somewhere else and nodded, pleased. although Sam winced again; Katie had also worn blue.
For Rose, Ann selected an olive-green frock with a bit more flounce to it. She was wearing a similar dress herself, in a rich brown. Droopy and Brown, the shop was called, and Sam felt that perfectly described Ann's attire. "Let's try these on," she said.
The parental Whatleys had ventured off, leaving the youngsters temporarily in Ann's care. The three peas repaired, down a steep flight of stairs, to the fitting rooms.
Rose looked marvelous in her green dress but Sam, who needed less help than Ann or Rose had expected, was caught up in admiring himself in the full-length mirror. Why, between his youth and his slight build, Luther could almost pass for a woman! (The "almost" was largely based on an ever-so-slight hint of down on his upper lip; it was apparent that even at 18 Luther did not yet need to shave, and the almost-mustache just barely spoiled the effect.) His skin, he noted, was rather dark, though certainly not from exposure to the sun. Neither Ann nor Rose commented on the needle tracks that decorated his arms. They had not seen the ones on his legs.
"With your skin tone," said Ann, "that color looks wonderful on you." Sam turned this way and that, entranced. His innocent narcissism amused both the girl and the woman, who giggled behind his back. Ann tugged at the dress, which was riding up a bit.
"Is this royal blue?" asked Sam.
"Midnight blue," answered Al, who had never left Sam's side. "Some of us," he added, "know more than others about the blues."
"Midnight blue," said Ann.
"See?"
"Okay, let's trade now.," said Rose, ducking into her booth. Ann unzipped Sam so he could do likewise.
Al would've liked to follow Rose but he'd done that the first time and had felt Sam's anxiety at being left alone again. The Observer was determined to stick by his friend for as long as he was able, and had already more or less told Dr. Beeks to go to hell twice since they'd entered Droopy and Brown. He did peek out of the booth, though, at Ann. "Look at the way she moves," he said to Sam, who could not look. "She must be some kind of dancer. Look at how she wears her hair all pulled back from her face like that. Dancers wear their hair that way."
Trying (and failing completely) to imagine Ann as a feathered, sequined Vegas chorus girl, Sam handed the blue dress over the door of the booth and received in return the olive one. It smelled like the girl who'd been wearing it and Sam flushed pink but began to put it on. "I liked the other one on you," said Al.
"Are you a dancer?" asked Sam, emerging from the booth. This dress needed no zipping but it had one button at the back of the neck, which Ann buttoned for him.
"Yes," said Ann, surprised. "How did you know?"
"The way you move. Ow!"
"Yes?" said Al, but Sam had been responding to a pinch from jealous Rose, who looked stunning in blue. "Uh-oh, Sam, how will you ever choose?"
"I like the blue," decided the scientist. "I wish I looked half as good in it as you do, though!"
"That's not what I meant, Sam!"
"Oh, please."
"I like this one too," pouted Rose, "but if you're going to beg.…"
"You'll end up with both of them," Ann pointed out, unzipping Rose and unbuttoning Sam.
"That's true," admitted Rose, happy once more. "Okay, Peter, because you're my favorite cousin and I love you..." and she planted a kiss right on Sam's lips, "... you can wear the blue dress. But only once."
"Thank you," said Sam, gravely, and stepped toward the booth.
"She's married, Sam," mourned Al, suddenly. "So much for the dancer. You're stuck with the kid."
"What kind of dance?" asked Sam, suddenly, turning to look at Ann once more.
"Ballet." She looked a bit discomfited. "But I don't practice enough."
"I dance a little," blurted out Sam, from the booth. "I mean I used to."
"Dance now," cried Rose. "Show me!"
"Oh, I..." Ann stepped back, embarrassed. She had the olive dress in her hands and clutched it to her. Sam came out of the booth dressed in his new T-shirt and jeans. He was shaking. Ann frowned. He lifted his arms above his head: a simple movement, also graceful. It felt good to move his body in a controlled way; it stopped the shaking somewhat. He held the pose for a beat, then let his arms float down to his sides, at the same time raising his shoulders and stretching his torso. Ann carefully put the olive dress down on a chair and raised her arms, then matched Sam's pose.
In the rather large dressing room the two of them might be said to have danced. In many ways it was a simple mirror exercise; they took turns copying each other's movements, which could not be extravagant or hasty due to the restrictions of their surroundings. They stared into each other's eyes, sometimes almost smiling, sometimes almost not smiling. There was music filtering into the room from upstairs: show music, which for their immediate purpose they ignored. At no time during their dance did they touch.
"Ya'll decent down there?" boomed Steve, and Ann dropped from a posture of regal height to one of utter confusion and embarrassment, and scooped the olive dress back up from the chair. Sam held his pose a moment longer, then slowly lowered his arms and stepped back a bit, leaning finally against the door of one of the booths that had not been used.
"We're stark naked," cried Rose, but her parents came down the stairs anyway.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" asked Steve. Apparently he and Madeline had; both of them were now laden with packages.
"Yes," declared Rose. "Look!" She showed both dresses to her parents, holding the blue one up to Sam. "Isn't it perfect?"
"Perfect," said Steve, unconvinced. Madeline took the dress from Rose and held it up to Sam a little more closely, trying to fit it to him. She looked at him approvingly.
"Yes," is all she said.