The One Tree of Luna (9 page)

She paused, adding breathlessly — “Will you clean me now, you big brute of a man?”

 

The image faded and blackness returned. Harris lifted the helmet.

“You okay?” Mendez asked.

“Sure.”

“So what do you think?”

“Five shots. He didn't fire all six.” Harris picked up the gun still secure in the baggy.

Dropping it back on the table, he said, “There's not a jury in the world that would convict him. Let him go.”

 

Muffled by the bag, the gun's sultry voice could just barely be heard, “
Oooh!
I feel
so
used! Who's going to clean me
now?
”

 

 

 

This is the darkest story in this collection.

The story behind
Robin Redbreast
is interesting. I was following a tutorial to learn the nifty
modo
3D software. The project was to make a simple medicine bottle. When when it came time to make the label, I decided that it would contain
Evil Genius Pills.

Inspired, I decided to make a video based on these
Evil Genius Pills
and used digital voices, picking one cute little girl voice for the main narrator.

When it was done, I put it up on YouTube.com (
Evil Genius Pills — Take 2
) and forgot about it for a while.

Then I started wondering: what sort of girl would make such a commercial, and why?

 

 

“Parolee Beaumont reporting in,” I said as soon as my call was answered. “No, I haven't been drinking,” I said in response to the first question. “No, I haven't left the state,” I said to the second question. The voice on the other end sounded familiar.

“Goodi TwoShoes, is that you?” I knew he hated it when I called him that. Tough. He could change his last name — but he's a stubborn Indian.

“And what if it is?” Detective Inspector Paul TwoShoes asked gruffly. I sorta expected him to
argue over “Goodi” — officially there was no such thing as the Global Order of Detective
Inspectors. Of course, the name fit like a … shoe.

“What, did they drop you from the force?” I asked. “Is this all the work you can get now that all the big bad evil-doers are behind bars?”

“There's at least one evil-doer not behind bars,” TwoShoes said. Yeah, me. Mean ol' Robin
‘redbreast' herself. All one hundred and five pounds, five foot three inches of dangerous
post-adolescent.

“Is that so?” I said, sounding surprised. “Well I've no doubt you'll be able to catch him just as easily as you caught my dad.”

“I'm certain of it,” TwoShoes said. “As long as she doesn't figure out some way to beat the ankle tractor.”

‘She' — meaning me.

“Don't worry, I've seen the error of my ways.”

“Where are you now?”

“I'm at home, as your electronic gadget will tell you,” I said.

“The lights are out,” TwoShoes said.

Oh! So he was watching my place. Interesting. Not really a surprise but interesting.

“I'm in bed,” I said. I lowered my voice and added a bit of a purr, “Wanna come up?”

“I don't rob cradles,” TwoShoes said.

“Oh, yeah, you do!” I shouted over the phone. “I was in mine when you robbed me of TEN YEARS of my life!” I shouldn't have lost my temper, I know it but — damn! — how could he say such a thing?

“Sorry.” And — dammit! — you know, but he really did sound sorry.

“That's nice, Goodi,” I said. “It's a bit late. You coulda said that when they went for
sentencing. When they sent me up for all my childhood.” My eyes were watering now as too
many nights came back to me. “Do you know what they did to me for the first three months I
was there? Do you know they put me in solitary? ‘For my own good'?”

“No,” and Goodi had the sense to sound repentant, “I didn't know until I checked up on you.”

“And when was that?” I demanded.

“Three months after you were incarcerated,” Goodi said quietly.

Oh!

“So I'm supposed to thank you?”

“No,” TwoShoes said. “They'd already moved you when I found out about it.” A pause. “All I
did was make sure that the prison governor was removed for cause.” Goodi Twoshoes would
never say ‘fired'; he really had earned his nickname.

“Unh.” I was getting tired; tears do that to me. Stupid tears. I rubbed them off my face angrily. I'd sworn, ten years ago, never to cry again and here I was — only a day out of the joint — bawling like a … like a kid who was sent to jail when she was only twelve.

For a crime everyone knew I didn't commit. Not that it mattered. The jury didn't give a shit,
nor did the judge, nor did dear ol' Goodi TwoShoes when it came to it. Someone
had
to pay, the crime was too enormous — ‘a crime against humanity so heinous that it revolts
all common sense to even consider it' … and my dad was dead.

So li'l ol' Robin, “the notorious Robin Redbreast” as the newsies decided to call me — 'cuz
they couldn't call me “Red Robin” or they'd get sued — little twelve year-old pint-sized me
got to take the fall.

They even attempted to try me as an adult.

I was like all of five foot at the time, flat-chested, freckle-faced, ninety-five pounds
dripping wet, with flaming red hair and “beautiful, baleful blue eyes.”

At the time, I really didn't care. Hell, let them kill me was what I thought back then. There
wasn't anything left to live for. My dad was dead, thousands had died because of — “a
heinous act of premeditated murder” — no, really, a mistake. A mistake for which I cried
every night of those three months in solitary until I finally realized that that was all it
had been: a mistake. My mistake, so maybe I deserved some of the punishment.

But not all of it. No, not for a mistake.

“Make sure you report in tomorrow,” Goodi TwoShoes said now. “And don't think of leaving town.”

“Sure, no problem,” I said. “Is that all?” I knew better than to hang up on him. The shit would probably have revoked my parole just for that alone. Goodi TwoShoes.

“That's all,” he said and hung up.

I was in my room, just like I said. Of course, I was in the room that no one had ever found, not even my dad.

Maybe if they'd've found my room, they wouldn't have sent me to jail. Maybe not. I've had ten years to learn how people will close their eyes to the truth. How would the public have handled my room, all kitted out in pinks and Barbies? It wouldn't have fit with their nice post-Emo terrorist girl image of me. The kid with a mascara tears, the pierced nose, the punk haircut, the intense expression — how is anyone supposed to look when they learn that their father's dead, that he's convicted in the eyes of the public of being a mass-murdered/terrorist and that they're considered his happy accomplice? Would I have looked better if I'd've smiled? With all those blackened teeth in my face?

Did anyone REMEMBER that it was Halloween? How was I supposed to look, trick-or-treating with my Dad?

I spent a year being mad at my dad. Maybe I would have spent longer but strange things happened in the joint, things I never would have expected. I suppose the strangest thing of all is that I lived — that and they let me out.

It's true that my dad wanted to be the most notorious evil genius in history. And he tried, he really did.

He almost succeeded in creating a mini-blackhole gun. I had to work
really
hard to handle that one and, even so, we ended up with the Anomalizer.

When that didn't work, he tried to make “Evil Genius Pills” and that's where the trouble
began.

My dad was really, really, really smart. And he never set out to be evil. He made mistakes. But because he was really, really, really smart his mistakes were worse than most.

My mom died in childbirth. The car had broken down because dad had stolen some parts for his
infinite poker player — the machine that was supposed to make it so he could never lose at
poker. Because the car stopped along the highway, dad had to deliver me himself. Biology
wasn't his specialty — even after, he was never really good at it. He wouldn't say — but I
read the police reports — mom died from a ruptured artery. It's rare but not uncommon. Her
death was ruled “death by misadventure.”

So I grew up with dad. And he tried. He never really
saw
me, though. Because whenever he
really
looked, he saw my mother and he couldn't bear it. So, instead, he saw a girl-clone of himself. My mother was arty, airy, light-hearted, heavy-humored, and totally the sort of person my dad needed to keep him grounded. Only she was dead and I was supposed to be my dad's clone. So for him — by day — I was the emo-Goth super-scientist nerd lab Egor.

At night, in my special room, I could be me and draw pictures of butterflies, play with Barbies and pretend I was a normal girl. I even managed to get pink dresses and I'd put them on when I was playing.

My mother's memory preyed on him. I guess I was maybe four or five when I finally realized what my dad was trying to do — back then — and that was bring my mother back to life. He studied biology and he worked on resurrection, revitalization, and several things.

He came up with some good ideas but, somehow, ChemCo always seemed to patent them before he remembered to file. So he was never given the credit he deserved. He'd threaten to sue; they'd rattle their lawyers; and finally there'd be a small settlement — enough to distract him and off he'd go in a new direction, sure that this time he'd find the answer and bring mom back to life.

For the first two years or more, I was his willing accomplice in this. He'd tell me all about my mother when he was working and I got this brilliant image of her, I could see how much he loved her and how great our lives would be with her back — maybe I'd have her in my special room and we'd play tea or house. Maybe — and I only thought this in the deepest, secretest parts of my mind — maybe she'd let me wear
dresses
to school! And then maybe (and now I couldn't even really bring myself to think this even in the deepest, secretest parts of my mind because it was just too miraculous and impossible), maybe I'd get friends and I wouldn't have to take karate classes and break all the bullies' bones at recess — and then I'd never get sent to the Principle again.

But that stopped the night he tried to dig up mom's body. I was asleep, I guess he couldn't bring himself to take me, so I only found out about it when the police banged on the door and barged in, throwing all our stuff around and scaring me so badly that I almost wet myself.

Dad was sent to jail and I was sent to a foster home while he was there. They wouldn't let me wear dresses, they were convinced that I
liked
being Goth and, after a while, out of loyalty to dad, I stopped trying.

Things were very different when he got out. He looked warier, meaner. I suppose I looked the same, too — because I discovered that the cops had found my special place and they'd taken all my pretty toys and clothes, “for evidence.” I guess none of them believed that I could actually want the stuff.

I was about eight, then, and I cried myself to sleep — when I could sleep — for the next year. I started wetting the bed again, too, but I couldn't tell dad, so I learned how to clean the sheets myself and finally figured out how to stop the bedwetting, too.

Everything was different. School was worse, way worse. Finally, one day, some mean kid shouted, “Why don't you go home and stay there?” I really wanted to but I knew I couldn't.

But when I got home, I started to find out why I couldn't. By the end of the week, the school received an official notification that I had transferred to the NightBridge school. They called the school to be certain and a very lady-like voice answered and assured them that, indeed, Robin Beaumont had been accepted and was currently enrolled there. It was the first time I used a voice-changer and I really liked it.

After that, every day dad would send me off to school and I'd go back around the house and upstairs to my special room. I studied very hard and my grades were excellent — I made sure that dad got regular report cards. And I really
was
studying. I studied Math, Science, Thermodynamics, Philosophy, Sociology, Criminal Law — everything. I learned French (they say I sound like a Belgian), German (they say I sound French), Japanese (they say I sound Chinese) and a smattering of Chinese (they say — you probably guessed — Japanese). I learned computer programming. And I don't meant that baby web-programming stuff that the kids on the net brag about. I mean
real
programming. Because the first thing I needed to do was break into my dad's computers to find out what he was doing.

You see, I'd decided that I never wanted to go to a foster home again. And the best way to do that was to make sure that dad never went to jail again.

And for four years, I did just that.

Breaking into his computers was the easy part. As soon as I managed, that, I had to get a spy eye into his lab and follow his calculations. So, while I was downloading his data, building a microtech robot that looked like a mosquito but could fly soundlessly when I wanted, I was also learning Calculus, Tensor Math, Manifolds, Number Theory, Quantum Mechanics, and sub-atomic element theory.

Because I discovered that dad had been trying to build a time machine. Only, after getting out of jail, he was now trying to build a mini-blackhole gun. And, from what I could tell, he was just about to complete it.

Yeah, I know, what's a ten year-old doing learning about black holes and stuff? Well, from the time I could speak, I could say, “Black holes warp space-time.” I mean, who couldn't? Dad taught me a lot growing up and if we didn't do regular girlie things we did build model rockets — the kind with real liquid propellants, not the kind you can buy in a store — we learning rappelling, skydiving, hang-gliding and all sorts of stuff. When I was six, I got a microscope and, at seven, I got a telescope. I did mention that my dad was really, really,
really
smart, didn't I? I forgot to mention that my mom was really, really, really, really smarter. And I'm smarter than both of them put together. Really, I'm not joking — they made me take the damned IQ test five times in the joint, they couldn't believe the numbers. In fact, I flubbed the fifth test on purpose and that's the number they used. So, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, I've got an IQ of 129 — not the 229 that I scored on the first four tests.