Children of the Underground (21 page)

Thirty-one

It took me almost the full two days before I was comfortable with my part in the plan. At the end of our second day in the hotel in Philadelphia, Michael told me that he had something for me. I remembered the picture he'd given me and the gun he'd given to Reggie and wondered what type of gift he had for me now and what the gift would mean. He handed me an unwrapped white paper box. I opened it. Inside was a black knife in a sheath.

“What's this for?” I asked as I slid the knife out of the sheath. The knife was thin but solid. It had a black handle and a black blade. The blade was symmetric, sharp on both edges, and came to a point at its tip.

“Protection,” Michael said. “It's called a boot knife, but you can hide it almost anywhere. You don't need a lot of practice to use it. You pull it out and stab or cut. It'll work.”

“But I already have the gun,” I reminded him.

“That's fine,” Michael answered. “Keep the gun. Carry it. But guns are loud and difficult to use at extremely close range.” I didn't like the sounds of those words—
extremely close range
. “Hopefully, you won't need it,” Michael continued. “But you should have it.”

“Okay,” I said. He gave Reggie a gun, but he gave me a knife.

“I'd hide the sheath on the inside of your waistline with the handle sticking out beneath your shirt. You can access it quickly there, but it will be well concealed.” I nodded to Michael. I planned on listening to him. Michael knew knives. I'd seen enough to know that.

“So, do you think you're ready for this?” Michael asked me.

“Yes,” I answered. I slid the knife slowly back in its sheath and quickly pulled it out again for practice. I hadn't been ready. That morning, Michael gave me our target's file. He told me to take the day to look it over. He knew that I didn't feel ready yet. He thought rereading our target's profile might help me to overcome my hesitation. I knew that I was being a hypocrite, letting other people do my dirty work for me but suddenly developing a conscience when I had to do it myself. I was ashamed. I thought I'd be ready after what I'd done under the highway in New York. I wasn't. It was different when it was planned. It was another step. I took the file to the public library to study the material. I found a nearly empty spot at the back of the reading room on one end of a long table. The table was broken up into reading cubicles with high wooden walls on each side for privacy. I sat down at the table and dropped the manila envelope in front of me. I read and reread the file. I read about the people that our target killed, the people that he tortured. I also read about the kids that he taught. I wanted to be sure that by following through on my part of the plan, I'd be doing something positive for the world and not just something positive for you and for me. I couldn't. Our target was too full of contradictions to be sure about anything.

After a few hours of rereading the file without finding the magic potion that would make me okay with my part in this man's execution, I stood up. I needed to try to get my bearings. I felt dizzy. I grabbed the papers and slipped them back inside the envelope. I put the envelope under my arm and walked. I needed a moment. I walked out of the reading room and headed for the front door. I thought the fresh air might do me some good. Before I got to the door, however, I noticed a computer lab to my right. Seven of the ten computers were taken. Three of the computers were free. I decided that the fresh air could wait. I had to check something first.

I sat down in front of one of the computers. I pulled up the Web site for one of the local New York newspapers. I knew what section I wanted to read. I'd read that newspaper every day when I was in New York, searching for a way back into the War, searching for murders, trying to figure out which ones were related to the War and which ones were truly random. I could never tell. I don't suppose anyone could unless they knew something.

This time, I knew something. I clicked the link to the local crime section. The story was already a couple of days old, but I found ancillary stories from that day that linked back to the original. The original story was about a nighttime shooting that took place beneath the FDR, along the East River, just north of the South Street Seaport. It was a story about a botched robbery. According to the story, a white man and a white woman ambushed an Iranian street vendor as he was pushing his food cart back to his storage location, hoping that he would be flush with cash after a full workday. The perpetrators were said to be carrying a large knife. When they approached the street vendor, he pulled out a gun to try to defend himself. During the ensuing chaos, shots were fired. The shots were reported by the cars driving by on the highway. The event came to a tragic conclusion when both perpetrators were shot and the street vendor was stabbed. All three died at the scene before the police or ambulances arrived. In the story, they identified Dorothy using a name that I'd never heard. I suppose it was probably her given name. I wonder if her family knew where she was or if they only found out when they saw their dead daughter's picture in the newspaper.

I searched the Web site for a bit, looking for information about another incident, perhaps another shooting. I looked in the local Brooklyn section. I didn't find anything. The paper didn't have any record of any other murders or any other shootings over the past three days. That meant one of two things: either Reggie had gotten away or they were able to completely bury Reggie's murder. I flipped back to the story about the street vendor. I scrolled to the bottom of the page. At the bottom of the page, they had pictures of all three of the dead. On one side of the page was a picture of Dorothy next to the picture of the man that I had shot. On the other side of the page was the picture of the Middle Eastern man. In Dorothy's final image to the world, her face floated next to the faces of her enemies, next to the faces of the men she'd spent her life trying to save people from, next to the faces of the men she'd died trying to save Reggie from. It wasn't right. Dorothy was better than them. She deserved better.

I went back to the reading room. I threw the envelope back down on the table. I took the contents out. I didn't need fresh air anymore. That need had been subsumed by an internal fire. I flipped to the pages describing the mark's thirty-one confirmed kills. I skipped the rest. I ignored the contradictions. The mark was one of Them. He was the bad guy. It didn't matter which side he was on. They were all bad guys. Dorothy was the good guy.

The plan is simple. I'll pose as a student. I'll approach our mark, pretending to have an interest in next year's track team. With all the expulsions, suspensions, transfers and truancy, the school has enough students coming in and out of its halls that it shouldn't be unusual for our target to meet a student he's never seen before. All I have to do is pass for a high school student. That shouldn't be a problem. When I look at myself, I see all of the weariness and worry, but I'm still only eighteen years old. I'm still only five feet, two inches tall. It's only my eyes that worry me. My eyes have aged beyond their years. I'm counting on being able to cover up the wrinkles and bags around my eyes with makeup. I'll approach our target inside the school after he's coached track practice and ask him about the track team. The goal is to lure him into a specific classroom to talk. Michael will be waiting outside, with a clear view of the classroom's windows. If Michael sees me enter the classroom with the mark, he'll know that everything is going as planned. That'll be his cue to move. If I feel like something is wrong, I'm not supposed to go into the classroom. If I feel like anything is wrong, I'm supposed to walk away. Once Michael comes into the room, all I have to do is leave, locking the door behind me. The classroom doors have keys that lock only from the outside, presumably so that students can't lock themselves in. Whatever their intended purpose, it makes for an ideal trap. My only job is to act as the bait.

“You have the key to the door?” Michael asked.

I held it in my hand. “I stole a copy from the janitor's closet.”

“And you're confident that you can make sure that our mark is unarmed?” Michael asked.

“I'll take care of it,” I told him. I saw the skepticism in his face. “I won't go into the room if I'm not sure,” I assured him. “If you see me walk into that room, you're good to go. I won't do anything that puts you in more danger than you're ready for. Trust me.”

“Okay,” Michael said, “I trust you.”

Thirty-two

I leaned closer to the mirror and began to apply my makeup. I tried to be subtle at first, applying a base to hide the wrinkles developing around my eyes. Once that was done, I added color. Subtlety was no longer important. I wanted to look like a sixteen-year-old girl. I used eye shadow that matched my dress and dark eyeliner to surround my eyes. I lingered, enjoying feeling like a girl again. Then I puckered my lips and applied dark red lipstick to them. I had gone to a mall near our hotel to buy clothes with money Michael gave me. I bought a blue skirt and a loose-fitting white top that tied up the neckline in the front. The top was cut lower and the skirt shorter than I was used to. Still, I'd look conservative compared to most of the other girls in the school. I put the outfit on and looked at myself in the mirror. I was in the best shape of my life. I could see the outline of the muscles in my shoulders through my blouse. I could see the clefts in my calf muscles. I stared at the woman in the mirror. My eyes looked gray. Your father used to tell me how much he loved my deep blue eyes. I had been beautiful for him, but he's not around to be beautiful for anymore. Instead I have to be strong for you.

I stepped out of the bathroom. I wanted Michael to see me before I left. I wanted to make sure that he knew exactly what I looked like, so that he would be sure it was me walking into the classroom and not somebody else. When I stepped out of the bathroom, he was sitting on the floor, stretching, his legs spread apart, his torso bent all the way down to the ground between his legs. He looked up only when he heard the bathroom door click closed behind me. He stared for what seemed like minutes. I felt more naked than if I'd been naked. I could feel my cheeks begin to grow flush.

“How do I look?” I asked.

“Like jailbait,” he answered.

“I suppose that's a good thing?”

I waited for an answer that didn't come. “Five thirty?” Michael asked instead, confirming the time.

“Five thirty,” I repeated.

“Lift up your shirt,” Michael said out of the blue.

“What?” I responded, the blush on my cheeks intensifying.

Michael looked at me like I was a fool. “Lift up your shirt,” he repeated. “Just a little.” I finally realized what he was asking. I lifted my blouse a few inches above the waist of my skirt. When I did, Michael could see the hilt of the knife he'd given me sticking out of the waistline. He nodded in approval. “And the gun?”

“It's in my purse,” I said.

“Good.”

I didn't know what else to say. I didn't know the pre-assassination customs, so I simply turned to walk out of the room.

“Maria?” Michael said as I walked away from him.

“Yes?” I didn't turn around.

“Be safe,” Michael said. “If anything happens, if anything feels wrong—
anything—
bail out.”

I couldn't turn to face him. I wanted to but couldn't. “That doesn't sound like you, Michael,” I said. “You've never been the bail-out type.”

“That doesn't mean you don't have to be,” Michael said, his voice deep and resonant. I could feel its bass in my joints. “We're not the same. I've always had more to fight for than to live for.”

Our target was unwaveringly punctual. It was a trait I imagined he developed due to the War. We knew his daily patterns. Michael had studied them while Reggie and I were in New York. We knew where he would be almost by the minute. The timing was important. I had to approach him after track practice but before he had a chance to get back to his classroom to change. He wore sneakers, short socks, athletic shorts, and the type of T-shirt that is supposed to wick away the sweat from your body during track practice. It was an outfit that left very few places to hide a weapon, and all I had to do was get him into that classroom without a weapon.

We chose the classroom where I was supposed to lead our target for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it was along the route that he took from the track to his classroom. It was also around a corner from the most crowded part of the school. In the early evening, the foot traffic in front of this classroom would be nearly nonexistent. According to Michael, our target was often the only person walking those halls after five o'clock. Finally, it was the classroom whose door could be most clearly seen from the street where Michael would be waiting. Michael would see us as soon as we entered. Then he would make his move.

I snuck into the school and waited in the hallway near the classroom. I leaned up against a set of lockers, trying to play the part of an ordinary teenage girl. I was beginning to feel more comfortable in the outfit. I didn't get any strange looks from the other students as I walked down the hall. They didn't see who I really am: a widow, a mother, a killer. I took a deep breath, trying to focus on the job. I looked down at the hem of my skirt. It fell about an inch above my knee. I reached down and grabbed the skirt's waist. I lifted it another half inch so that the skirt rode even higher up my leg, careful not to drop the knife. I looked at my watch. The mark was supposed to walk by any minute.

I heard his footsteps coming down the hallway before I saw him. I could tell it was him by the purpose in his steps. I held my breath and counted my heartbeats to try to gauge my heart rate. It was beating too quickly to count. I could back out. If it felt wrong, I could abort the whole plan, but my time for that was running short. I took another deep breath. How would I know if something felt wrong? Everything in my life felt wrong. Right didn't exist anymore, only gradients of wrong.

I heard one set of footsteps. The mark was alone. I had been afraid that he would be walking down the hall with one of his students. I put that fear aside. I stepped away from the lockers as I heard the footsteps round the corner toward me. I stood up straight. I put one hand on my purse and grabbed the wrist of that hand with my other hand. I arched my back slightly. I wanted to get his attention.

I saw the mark turn the corner. Michael was already supposed to be waiting outside, staring through the classroom window, waiting for our entrance. “Mr. Ford,” I called out to the mark, using the name that he'd given himself as a teacher in this city, even though I knew it wasn't his real name. He heard my voice and looked at me for the first time. Until then he had been walking with his head down. He hadn't expected to see anyone—not then anyway. He knew, like I did, that this hallway was usually empty at this time of day. “Can I help you?” he asked, looking me over, trying to find me in his memory.

“I wanted to talk to you about the track team,” I said, trying to follow my script as much as the mark would let me.

“Are you a student here?” the mark asked. I stepped closer to him, hoping he would do the same. I knew I wasn't going to be able to simply talk him into following me into that classroom. I needed to entice him somehow. He didn't move closer, but he didn't move away either.

“I'm new,” I said. I looked into his eyes to see if they might tell me something. All I saw was confusion. “I've seen you coaching the other students,” I said, taking another small step toward him. We were close now, close enough that if he turned away from me, we were bound to touch. Would he be so pure that he wouldn't even consider what I was offering him? I'd read his file. I couldn't believe that would be the case.

“What would you like to know?” the mark asked. His voice didn't waver.

I had thought about this part of the conversation in my head. I had tried to think of what to say to him, but everything that I thought of sounded like a line from a bad romance novel. None of them sounded real. I needed this to seem real. We were so close that I could feel his breath on my neck. He'd been sweating, and I could smell him. It wasn't an appealing smell, though if it were someone else in a different situation, I might have thought differently. Not knowing what to say that wouldn't sound ridiculous, I simply reached down and ran my hands along the waist of his shorts. Then I reached down farther and cupped his crotch with my hand. It was forward, but I didn't have time for subtlety. I moved my hand and immediately felt a twitch and a growth beneath it. The mark's instinctive response to my hand on his crotch gave me the courage to continue. That response wasn't the only reason that I'd chosen this approach, though. Dressed for track practice, the mark had only one place where he could hide a weapon. His shirt was tight enough to see his muscle definition in his upper body beneath his clothes. If a weapon were under his shirt, I'd see it. His socks were too short to hide anything of any real danger. That left his shorts: the waist and the crotch. I felt everything. He was unarmed. I left my hand there for a second. Then I looked up at him. The look on his face surprised me. I could still see confusion on it, but now it was confusion tinged with anger. I pressed on, hoping that he was simply angry with himself, knowing that he wasn't going to be able to resist, that he was going to cross this line like he'd already crossed so many in his life.

“Do you want to talk about it in the classroom?” I said, motioning to the door behind us. He looked back over his shoulder at the closed door. Then he turned and looked back at me. My hand was still resting on his crotch. The blood hadn't receded. If anything, it had grown.

“Okay,” he said in a voice that was only half convincing. He was beginning to make me nervous, but I decided that I couldn't go back now. I'd compromised too much already. I walked toward the door to the classroom. I didn't want to turn my back on the mark, so I took my hand off his crotch and placed it on the small of his back, leading him toward the door, making sure that he was walking next to me and not behind me. I kept telling myself that all I had to do was open the door and walk inside, and Michael would come. That was the plan.

I opened the door. It opened outward into the hallway. We stepped together into the classroom. I heard the mark close the door behind us. I glanced out the window for a second to see if I could see Michael. I didn't see anybody. I had to hope that he'd moved so quickly, I didn't have a chance to see him, that he was already on his way. I turned back to the mark, unsure of how far I would have to take this charade before Michael arrived.

I felt the sting on my face before I saw or heard anything. It wasn't until I was tumbling, already halfway to the ground, that I realized what had happened. The hand had swung from seemingly out of nowhere. I'd heard the sound as his open palm connected with my cheek. My purse, with my gun in it and the key to the door, flew off my shoulder and slid away from me across the floor. I thought about trying to crawl for the purse, but worried that the hand would strike me again. I could still feel the tingling on my cheek and began to feel the soreness in my jaw as I rolled over to face him again. He was standing above me, his face flushed with anger. I could see his chest moving up and down with labored breaths. He was struggling to contain his rage. He took a step toward me and I flinched reflexively.

“Who are you?” he yelled.

“I'm a new student,” I said, almost choking on the words.

“Fuck you,” he responded to my lie. “I know you from somewhere. Who are you?”

I struggled to get to my feet. I grabbed the desk next to me and pulled myself up. The mark stepped around me, placing himself in between me and my purse, knowing that I could have a weapon in there. Slowly I stood up. He'd hit me hard. I'd never been hit that hard before. My vision was still blurry. My head throbbed. Where was Michael?

“Are you going to hit me again?” I asked. I felt weak and small. Even after all of the exercising and all of the planning, he still made me feel weak. He was sweating. I could see his forehead glistening. My vision was beginning to focus again.

“If you tell me who you are, if you tell me the truth and I like the answer, then I won't hit you again.”

“That's a lot of ifs,” I said, not meaning to sound smart.

He raised his hand again and stepped toward me. This time, his hand wasn't open; it was balled into a tight fist. If he punched me as hard as he'd slapped me, I might never wake up. As he stepped toward me, I remembered. I reached down with my left hand, lifted up my shirt, and pulled my knife from its sheath. The mark was coming toward me so quickly he almost ran into the blade. He stopped short, and I lifted the blade of the knife so that it was inches from his face.

“You don't have the stones,” he said, looking me up and down.

“I don't need them,” I said. “If you scare me enough, I won't need courage for this—just fear.” He took another step toward me anyway. I slashed at his face, opening up a gash on the closest thing to me, his nose. I hadn't been aiming. I hadn't had time to practice with the knife, other than quickly pulling it from its hiding place along my waist. The mark stopped again. He reached up and touched his nose with his hands. Then he held his fingers in front of his face, staring at his own blood.

“Who are you?” he asked again. “I know you're not one of Them. If you were, I would have killed you already.” I believed him. What was left of my innocence saved my life. “Why do I recognize you?”

“How do you know I'm not one of Them?” I asked, trying to buy time.

“I can smell Them,” he said, his facing turning mean and cold. He was talking about Michael. He was talking about your father.

I knew why he recognized me. “You teach initiation classes for the War?” He nodded. “Then you've seen my picture.” I watched him, waiting to see the recognition in his eyes. Until that moment, I didn't know that both sides taught their people about us.

“You're the one with the baby?” That's what he called you:
the baby
. They all knew. They all talked about us. “What do you want with me? I didn't have anything to do with your kid.”

He was wrong. He was so wrong. “You know about my son,” I said. I felt brave, filling up with righteous anger. “And you fight in this War. And you still don't do anything about it. That means that you have everything to do with my kid.” I looked down at the purse on the ground. By positioning himself between me and the purse, he had left open the path to the door. I could have run for it, but I couldn't risk leaving the purse. The mark was quiet, trying to digest the situation. Over the silence, I heard a shuffling noise of a man with a limp walking from out in the hallway. Michael was moving slowly but he was coming. My gun was in the purse. I promised Michael that I wouldn't signal him to come unless the mark was unarmed. The last thing I wanted to do was to arm him with my own gun.