Buzz Cut (13 page)

Butler set aside his magnifier. He stretched his arms out to the side, yawned and stood up. He came over to her, patted her on the shoulder. A wide smile erupting.

"My children." He motioned to the photo of a small girl staring forlornly into the camera. The child sat on the dusty ground, her hands cupped in her lap. "That's Lucy."

He pointed a finger at the photograph next to Lucy and the one next to that. "And that is Ben Aram. And this is Belinda."

"You're a photographer?"

"Oh, no," he said. "These are my children, the kids I sponsor. International Rescue Foundation. I started with Lucy, then I added two more in Rwanda, some more after that from Sierra Leone, Senegal. That was a couple of years ago. It grew."

Monica stood and moved close to one of the walls of photos.

"Twenty dollars a month," he said. "Twenty a month buys them food and clothes, covers their housing costs."

She circled the small space, scanning the photos. Hundreds of them, all those haunted eyes. Distant lightning fluttered through the windows.

"And you're doing this, sponsoring all these kids, because of me, what some little girl said all those years ago?"

He beamed. "It's the groundwork. The beginning of our campaign."

She shook her head and turned away from him.

"So," Butler said. "We'll eat breakfast while we drive up to the airport. Later on we have to find time to go shopping. Buy you a new wardrobe. Bright colors, plaids."

"And why would we do that?"

" 'Cause we're going on a cruise. Everybody dresses that way on cruises. Garish stuff. Like golfers on hallucinogens."

He continued to grin at her. Eyes full of mischief.

"What cruise?"

"Twenty-fifth anniversary of your daddy's cruise lines. A very big deal."

Butler stepped over to his workbench, scooped up something, and came back over to her. He held out both hands, a small compass in each one. She frowned at him. The grumble of thunder rolling away toward the Atlantic.

"Can you tell which one of these is accurate?" She glanced at them. One pointed in the same direction the Winnebago was headed. The other put north ninety degrees off the first.

"It's a trick question," Butler said. "Neither of them is. True north is that way." He pointed toward the rear of the van.

"So?"

"Magnetic north," he said. "I've altered it."

Butler was smiling, looking at his two compasses.

"Oh, I know it doesn't seem like any big deal," he said. "After all, how often does anyone consult a compass in their daily life? But, you know, in certain circumstances if your compass reading was off just a degree or two, it could be a major problem. And in that case, the person who knew exactly how much distortion had occurred and which direction true north was in, well, that person would be very much in demand."

"I'm not going on any cruise," she said.

"Oh, you'll love it," he said. "The water, the sun, all the planned activities."

"Look, Butler, I appreciate your help last night, hiding me. And I'm glad something I said made a difference to you. But this is as far as it goes."

She looked into his pale blue eyes.

"Your father will just find you again, wherever you go, he'll track you down. And he'll do the same thing again. You're never going to be free of him if you keep running."

"The world's a big place. I can go somewhere, start over. He's not that powerful."

"Trust me, Monica. When we're through with him, you'll be free of him forever. This cruise will do it. When it's over, Morton Sampson will be powerless over you or anyone else. Somebody will have to sponsor him. Twenty bucks a month. Rice and beans."

Butler's smile was relaxed.

"We need to go up to Baltimore today," he said, "finish off a final detail, then we come back and board the ship late tonight. I have our tickets already. Everything's set. IDs, passports, credit cards, everything. We'll have a few hours on the plane, it'll give us time to talk, find out about each other again. Give you time to get comfortable with this new situation. You ever been to Baltimore, Monica?"

"No."

"Well, we're about to change that. We're about to change everything. But we got to start moving. Our plane leaves in a few hours, we're getting short on time."

Butler walked to the front of the Winnebago, sat down at the driver's seat. He was smiling as he started the engine, shifted into drive, and pulled out to the edge of the highway to wait for a break in the traffic.

She looked at the side door. She could step out, walk away. If he tried to follow her, she'd find a way to flee. Run over to the dock, steal one of Jesse's rental boats, scoot up the islands, get out, catch a bus. There were ways.

"How about passion, Monica? You know the word
passion?
"

She found herself saying yes, she knew it. Staring at the side door while Butler waited to pull out on the road.

"But do you really? Do you know what you're saying when you say it? Do you know what's coiled up in the word, hiding inside it, the other words you're bringing alive when you say passion?"

His voice was growing softer, fading, and without meaning to, she stepped toward him.

"
Passio
is from the Latin. It means suffering, especially that of Christ. Isn't that interesting? Also it's derived from
passus
and
pati,
which mean to endure. So when you say you feel passionate about something, you're saying all these things at once. That you're suffering, like the agony of martyrs, but you're enduring that suffering. That's what passion is all about—enduring desire. That's why it aches so much. Why it hurts to desire something. You have passions, don't you? Something you ache for, something missing in your life, something you're wanting? Don't you, Monica? Don't you?"

"I'm not that little girl, goddamn it."

"Give it time," he said. "Give it time."

For a while she stared out her window at the watery distance, Butler humming to himself. She reset the angle of her seat, leaned back. Idly picked up the headset lying on the console and slipped it on. There was a swivel-down microphone attached to it, like a hands-free telephone. She cocked the mike down so it was an inch from her lips and suddenly Butler snatched the headset off her head.

"Jesus! Be careful."

"What the hell?"

Butler continued to drive with his left hand and held the headset out with his other. He squeezed the earplugs close together, then brought the microphone near his lips.

"Hello," he said.

And a crisp blue spark shot across the inch of space between the earplugs. Monica pressed her back against her door.

"Holy God, what is that thing?"

Butler drew the plug out of the lighter socket and set the headset on the dash.

"Just one of my toys," he said. "Something I've been tooling around with."

"You consider that a toy?"

"Oh, it is at the moment," he said. "Nine volts is all. It'd give you a buzz, but wouldn't knock you out or anything."

"Still," she said.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't leave these things lying around. I'll be more careful now that you're here."

"Good," she said.

She rested her hand on the door handle. Soon as they hit Miami, first traffic light, she was out of there.

While Butler drove, she dumped Special K into plastic bowls, poured in milk. Across from the kitchen sink was a photograph of an African child dabbing rice into his mouth with his fingers. Monica looking at the boy or girl, the eyes too big for the head. Tummy bloated, face shrunken.

She went back to the front, set Butler's cereal on the console, and took the passenger seat. He looked over at her and smiled his thanks, then cut his eyes back to the road. A careful driver. Not in a huge hurry, obeying the road signs.

She ate a few bites, placed the cereal on the dash. Beside the bowl lay a dagger with a black grip and fancy chrome filigreed hand guards. She reached out and picked it up, rubbed a thumb across the blade. Very sharp. She put it back on the dash, felt him looking at her. She stared out her window.

In Miami she'd find a job. Waitressing. Motel maid. It didn't matter. Save up as fast as she could. Get bus fare to Taos, San Diego, some other planet, and go.

She shifted in her seat, looked forward out the windshield. "Did I really say that thing?"

"Which thing?"

A line of cars stretched in front of them, crossing the Seven Mile Bridge. The sky had cleared, bright water spread in every direction, ten shades of green.

"The thing about war. One side or the other."

"Your exact words," Butler said. "I never forget anything. I have one of those brains, I read a book, I can say it back. I hear a speech, a song, anything, it stays inside there. All the words in order. I have to be careful what I learn because I'm never going to forget it. A gift and a curse rolled into one."

"I know about those."

He smiled to himself, steering with one finger for a moment. "That thing you do, those definitions, what the hell's that about?"

"Etymologies, not definitions. The histories of words."

"All right, etymologies."

"Oh, I guess it's because of Lola," he said. "She was hellbent on making me succeed. Thought vocabulary was the key, so she had me study dictionaries. I'm glad she did. Now I understand what I'm saying, the words inside the words. I'm grateful to her. Otherwise I'd just be skimming the surface like everybody else."

"So you've been stealing from my father, using the money on those kids."

"That's right."

"Great," she said. "Fucking great."

She shook her head, couldn't help but chuckle. "But you know, what I said that day, Butler, that was just some spoiled kid making a smartass crack. What the hell did she know? She was twelve years old."

"It doesn't matter. What's true is true. Whoever speaks it, however old they happen to be."

The storm had blown out to sea. A mile or so to the east dark funnels of rain were tearing loose from the thunderhead, while closer in the sun took back the shoreline. She watched a trio of pelicans skim close to the water. Near shore a Jet Ski crashed back and forth across a cabin cruiser's wake.

"Now let's talk about you," he said.

She watched the thunderstorm plow to the north. "There's nothing to talk about."

"You have no politics," he said. "No career. I mean, yeah, you went to college, you studied things, you did your drawings. But the truth is, Monica, when you disappeared like that, you were running away from things, but you weren't running
toward
anything. That's the fact. Isn't it?"

"You don't know me. Stop pretending you do."

"Am I wrong?"

Butler kept his eyes out there on the traffic. Smiling away, cocksure. Monica let the silence answer for her.

"Those ice turkeys," he said. "Those silver dollars dropping out. The kids at the tables trying to act polite, but still grabbing. The way they whooped as the coins fell. That was your daddy's little training session in capitalism. No adults there to make sure the money was spread around evenly. The money went to the quick and the strong. That's his idea of charity—make them scramble, make them dive into the dirt and thrash and jostle. Teach them the American way. You were only twelve years old, Monica, but you knew that was wrong. You saw it and understood immediately."

She drew in a breath, puckered her lips, and blew it out.

"You know it's possible, Monica, it's possible to know things when you're young and not to understand them until you're older. It's possible."

"So what do you want? I'm supposed to become your partner, Bonnie and Clyde?"

"Robin Hood and Maid Marion, I like them better."

"What do you need me for? You're doing fine already."

"We'll steal some money from your father. Once you have your share, you can decide what you want to do. Stay with me, go off on your own."

"I'm no goddamn thief. I work for my money."

"You'd be doing something good. You'd be contributing to the welfare of thousands of children. Lucy, the others. Fiesta Cruise Lines had a three-hundred-million-dollar profit last year. The money I've been taking, it's like a scrape on the knee."

Monica looked back at the wall lined with photos. He was right. She hadn't been running toward anything. Just away. Always away.

"Jesus," she said. "This is nuts. This is totally fucking crazy."

"Yeah," he said. "I knew you'd like it."

He smiled at her, just a glance. But it felt like he was looking past her eyes. Getting in there where nobody but David Cruz had ever been before. Just that spooky split second.

***

Two hours later they were at Miami International. They left the Winnebago in an outside lot, took a shuttle to the terminal. In an airport boutique she found a ginger-colored linen dress and suede oxfords, a thigh-length burgundy sweater for the Baltimore fall. Butler drew out a roll of twenties, paid for the clothes. She changed in the store, put the work shirt and torn shorts into the shopping bag.

Their seats were in the last row of the plane, old smoking section. The window seat empty. Butler in the middle, his blond hair loose down his back. Monica on the aisle. Look at them, anybody would think they were a young married couple on vacation. An hour into the flight people began lining up next to her seat, waiting for the bathroom. Butler kept on talking to her like he hadn't noticed them.

"Multiply it out," he said. "Twenty dollars a month, it doesn't sound like much, but you take on twenty-six hundred kids, that's a big nut. Over fifty thousand monthly."

She cut her eyes to the large black woman waiting for the bathroom a foot away. She lowered her voice. "You probably shouldn't be talking about this."