Читать книгу Dermaphoria - Craig Clevenger - Страница 13

seven

GRASS STABS MY NOSTRILS AND EYES AS RAIN SLIDES DOWN MY CHEEKS. THE drops climb through my hair and ears, foraging beneath my collar. It’s not raining. Beetles swarm from the dirt and pick me apart, scrambling for the precious patches of thin skin, fighting for the wet tissue inside my mouth and beneath my bandages. Antenna codes rebound from drone to drone in the space of a wing flutter until the machine-forged workers deep down catch the signal. The six-legged drill bits burrow up through the dirt to pick my cartilage clean with surgical steel mandibles until nothing’s left but my brittle bones for the hot rain to hammer into the mud. You say my name, your voice muffled with static. Flash. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand. Thunder. Wiggle your toes. I don’t have any. Other people have toes, I have shoes. Wiggle your shoelaces. Nothing. I can’t run from the legions of whoever or whatever are charging through the splintered door I can’t see. Open your eyes.

I’m buckled into the passenger seat of a minivan. The stranger in the peach golf shirt is driving.

“That’s what we call a Simi Valley speeding ticket.” He reaches for my face. With his thumb on my cheek, he stretches my left eye wide open. “You there?” He lets go of my face and takes the wheel. “The question is,” he says, “can you do it again?”

My fingers crackle. My motor control thaws as I rub my palms together. A voice behind shouts for ice cream, a child’s plea coming from a grown man.

“We’re going to get some ice cream right now, son,” the driver says. Then to me, “What happened to the hard-ass I used to know? Only a couple of weeks ago you were pure brains and attitude. Now, you’re a shivering wreck.”

The taste of metal lingers. My tongue won’t move and I can’t swallow. I might choke on my own spit. The windows are up, the air conditioner blows the faint lemon and pear blossom smells away with cold, empty air.

“Ice cream.”

“Settle down, son.”

Wherever I am, it’s far from the Firebird’s part of town. We drive among the houses I’ve seen in the distance from my window, box-shaped insect hives the color of sand, with red tile roofs behind high walls or iron fences. They cover the hills like barnacles. The Summit. Shady Pointe. Vista Acres. Groups of Mexican men trim hedges and lawns every half mile. The brightest color is the manicured grass that’s never seen a picnic blanket, lawn chair or baseball game. I don’t smell anything.

“I’m sorry about the shock,” the man says. “My son likes his toys and I’m a big believer in a strong offense. You used to know that. That’s my boy back there. You’ve met him before, many a time.”

He gauges my reaction in silence.

“Nothing, huh?”

Nothing.

“Don’t fool yourself,” he continues. I’m paralyzed and have to listen. “He knows every major artery, nerve cluster and pressure point on the human body. He can gut, cut and pack a grown man into a garbage bag in under forty minutes. He’s still just a child in most ways, always will be. But he’s got a knack for the job most pros will never come close to. Ever. He’s a legend, in some circles. You’re the best, aren’t ya, Toe Tag?” he says to the rearview mirror.

“Love you.”

“I love you too, son. Here we are.”

He pulls into a shopping complex, the same bleached sand non-color of the surrounding developments, and parks in a blue zone. The dirty, idiot boy from Ford’s opens my door. Toe Tag. He unbuckles my seat belt, grips the crotch of my arm and hoists me to my feet. I’m a doll full of feathers in his grip.

The evening shadows bleed like fresh ink until they’ve covered the ground. The desert air soaks them up, staining the sky deep blue, the color of morning glory petals. The sweeping hands of the enormous, outdoor clock make me dizzy. I stare at my feet and let Toe Tag guide me. My legs are still numb and I can’t risk slipping on a wet shadow.

My escorts leave me at an outdoor food court opposite a movie theater. I hear the hornet’s hum of current running through neon. When they return, the boy plows into a waffle cone, smearing ice cream across his face, oblivious to the world.

“My name is White,” the man says. “They call me Manhattan, but I’m from Rochester. I’ll repeat myself. The question is, can you do it again?” He strokes his son’s hair once, twice, then folds his hands in front of him, never taking his eyes from me.

“You’re really going to make me go through this from the beginning, aren’t you?”

I still can’t talk. Neither shaking my head nor nodding seems like a good idea.

Toe Tag says, “Share,” then offers a spoonful of ice cream to his father. Manhattan White lets the boy spoon-feed him a bite, then continues.

“You and I work for the same organization. Rather, we used to, as you’ve taken an unscheduled leave of absence. Among our interests is a chain of pharmaceutical manufacturing and supply, wherein you reported to me as part of Research and Development. Head of Research and Development, I should add. I reported, and continue to report, directly to Mr. Hoyle.”

Toe Tag immerses a plastic army man into his ice cream. Hip-deep in vanilla, the soldier with the seam down the center of his face rears back to lob a grenade into mine.

“That placed you very high up in the chain, you understand,” says White. “You’ve made a great deal of money for us, and yourself, and we’ve been quite pleased with you, until this recent debacle.”

“And to whom does Hoyle report?” A rope of drool spills onto my numb and tingling hands. I wipe my chin with unfeeling fingers.

“This is going to take longer than I thought,” says White. “Hoyle reports to no one. He’s the first and last link in the chain and everything in it belongs to him. He’s the last word in this organization, his organization, and you’ve managed to land on his blacklist. Most people would have been given a pink slip in your situation, but you’ve got yourself one hell of a parachute, so we’re prepared to negotiate.”

“You’ve got my undivided attention.” My words are mashed together like warm clay.

“Sarcasm. Sounds as though the old Eric is coming around,” he says and smiles. “There’s that fire you started. That is not an accusation, so we’re clear. Neither I nor Hoyle believe you did that on purpose. Your precautionary measures were exemplary for the entire chain and your compensation was ample, to say the very least. Nobody doubts it was an accident but, the fact remains, the lab was your responsibility and the fire happened on your watch.”

“Hoyle ought to be insured.”

“He is and he isn’t,” White says, “but it’s not that simple. In addition to the significant loss of our assets, both manufacturing and finished product, there’s the question of some intellectual property, work you did for hire, which therefore belongs to us, and lastly, there’s reason to believe, and I’m being generous here, that you were personally responsible for inventory shrinkage at the site. Now with your legal situation, we face the potential compromise of your Nondisclosure Agreement with the organization. This poses the most significant danger to Hoyle, which thus poses the most significant danger to you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes. Would you like it in writing?”

“I haven’t said a thing to the cops.”

“But they’ve asked.”

“I didn’t answer.”

“I know you didn’t,” says White. “Otherwise Toe Tag here would have issued you a severance package. But they’ve asked nonetheless, and will continue to ask, as will they continue to barter your future in exchange for a violation of your Nondisclosure.”

I dig my nails into my palms and bite my lower lip until the pain punches through the static.

“I can’t barter with what I don’t know, and I don’t know anything.” My words are solid and clear. I scrape my tongue across my teeth and force sensation to return. I taste blood.

“You’re right, I probably was responsible for shrinkage because I’ve done some serious damage to my brain, so you can forget about my saying anything. I’m guessing Hoyle can’t use the fire as a tax write-off, if I’m hearing you correctly. And I’m in no position to compensate Hoyle or the chain for the damage you say I’m accountable for.”

“The police are saying it as well, so I don’t think that issue’s in dispute.”

“Right. So what are you and I discussing?”

“One of two things,” White says. “First, you say you’re unprepared to compensate for the loss of the lab, but you’re mistaken. You were one of our highest-salaried nonexecutives. You were also a workaholic with a modest lifestyle. So, it’s fair to assume that you are, in fact, capable of compensating for the damage. We’re prepared to wait until you’ve recovered from the incident in the desert and can access whatever offshore accounts or storage units you’ve invested your earnings in.”

“And if I can’t?”

“There’s the matter of some research and development. Again, you’re in possession of some intellectual property of ours.”

“I’m not in possession of intellectual anything.” My spit tastes like I’ve been drinking from a metal can. The electric numbness gives way to a fire beneath my bandages. If I hurt them when I collapsed, the skin grafts might not take.

“I’ve known you for a while, Eric. I have faith in you.” He stands and, without a word, Toe Tag once again helps me to my feet.

“Nonetheless, in your present state, your Nondisclosure Agreement remains uncompromised. It’s my job to see that, as your mental condition improves, you’re able to solve our issue of compensation while maintaining the integrity of our trade secrets.”

“What’s my job?”

“Remember. And keep your mouth shut.”

“That’s exactly what the cops, and my lawyer, said. You’d all get along. Want me to introduce you?”

“Once more, I see the old Eric coming through. Trust me, this will work itself out sooner than you think.”

“I need to get back.” I never made it to the Glass Stripper.

“Where’s back?”

Whether Anslinger’s tailing me or White, I don’t want them dropping me at the hotel.

We drive in silence. Moths cluster against the streetlamps, throwing shadows the size of vultures against the stucco fortress walls protecting Shady Pointe and Vista Acres. The anthill houses are all the same color of dark once the sun has set. White never looks at me or at his son. If Toe Tag is awake, he’s studying the back of my head.

“Here you are,” White says. I said anywhere, so he drops me back at Ford’s. “Let’s grab a latte some time.”