The Orphan Factory (The Orphan Trilogy, #2) (19 page)

Nine walked off along the busy street. Gone was the usual spring in his step. He had a splitting headache and suspected he was experiencing his first-ever hangover – a result of his overnight beer drinking exploits. He swore to himself he’d never do that again.

As well as feeling hung over, he was hungry. A large
M
sign down the street caught his eye, and he decided now was as good a time as any to try his first McDonalds meal.

Nine headed straight for the sign, feeling a tad rebellious. After all, burgers and other fast foods were banned at the Pedemont Orphanage, and the orphans were under strict instructions not to eat junk food on the odd occasion they were entrusted to venture into the city un-chaperoned. Omega’s consultant nutritionist had them on a strict diet that helped ensure they enjoyed optimum health.

That’s all in the past now. I’ll eat what I damn well like
.

Inside McDonalds, he was surprised to see about a quarter of the patrons appeared to be homeless people. Some just drank coffee; others who couldn’t even afford that simply sat at empty tables with nothing and appeared to be there solely for the companionship on offer. All looked enviously at other diners scoffing muffins, chicken nuggets, hash browns and other such tempting goodies.

Ever since fleeing Chicago, the orphan had been shocked by the number of homeless people evident in every sizeable community he’d passed through. Having studied and read the Constitution many times at the behest of his tutors, he thought the existence of such huge numbers of homeless was the antithesis of the Founding Fathers’ original vision for the nation. Even more so considering most appeared to be suffering from mental illness, alcoholism or drug addiction.

As Nine queued to purchase his breakfast, a large Native American homeless man smiled at him from a table nearby. It was a genuine smile that didn’t appear to have any agenda behind it. Nine smiled back.
When he was served, he ordered pancakes, hash browns and a caramel milkshake then spontaneously ordered an extra load of pancakes for the man who had smiled at him.

Once served, he carried his order on a tray over to the stranger. “May I sit with you, sir?”

The middle-aged Native American looked up from the newspaper he was reading, surprised. He wasn’t used to being afforded that level of respect by regular citizens, especially not by young people. “Sure thing, son.” He cleared his newspaper off the table to allow room for the tray.

Nine placed the surplus plate of pancakes in front of the homeless man. “I think I ordered more than I can eat, so would like some of these?”

“You bet.” The man, who wore a traditional Native American carving around his neck and had long hair in the style of his ancestors, offered the orphan his hand. “People call me Ace.”

Nine shook hands without hesitation. “Pleased to meet you, Ace.” Keen to impress the man for some reason he couldn’t explain, Nine gave his best impersonation of characters he’d seen on television meeting each other for the first time. 

Ace didn’t release Nine’s hand. He just looked into the boy’s eyes as if he was waiting for something.

Nine suddenly realized Ace was waiting to learn the name of his fellow diner. “Luke,” he blurted out. He wasn’t sure why he’d chosen that alias except he’d thought of Paul Newman’s character in
Cool Hand Luke
, a film he’d seen many reruns of on TV back at the orphanage. It was a film that he’d resonated with as the downtrodden Luke never stopped rebelling against his tormentors.

Ace finally released Nine’s hand and began tucking into his pancakes. “Well, Luke, meeting you has made my day and I want you to know I really appreciate this.”

Nine followed suit, attacking his plate of hash browns. He finished them even before Ace finished his pancakes. This wasn’t missed by the homeless man who studied the boy intently as Nine interrupted his eating to enjoy a gulp or two of his milkshake.

Ace prided himself on his ability to read his fellow human beings, but he couldn’t work this one out. He sensed the boy was a good soul, but noticed an air of melancholy surrounding him. Sorrow even. “It can’t be that bad, Junior,” he ventured.

Nine saw that Ace’s twinkling eyes seemed to be laughing at him.

The bemused look on the orphan’s face prompted Ace to chuckle aloud. “How old are you, kid?”

“Fifteen.”

Ace’s all knowing eyes narrowed and he looked hard at Nine.

“Twelve.”

“Twelve,” Ace said. “Hell, kid. I’ve had more shitty days in the last twelve years than you’ve done shits.”

Nine pondered that as Ace warmed to his task.

“Yeah, that’s right, sport. You think about that.” Without waiting to be asked, Ace scooped up the last remaining pancake from Nine’s plate and started eating it. “If it’s good’nuff for me to get outta me cardboard box each mornin’, then it’s good’nuff for a young whippersnapper like you to get off ya lazy white boy ass and do somethin’ with ya life!”

Nine was gob smacked. He hadn’t expected a lecture from the man he’d just shouted breakfast. But thinking on it, he had to agree Ace had a point. Consumed all his life by his miseries as a virtual prisoner of the Pedemont Orphanage, he’d never considered there could be others even worse off.
And right under my nose here in the Land of the Free!

#

At the end of the working day, Nine was back at the same bus stop opposite the USPS Post Office on 5
^th
Street. He had to wait only twenty minutes before Mister Katsarakis emerged from the building, briefcase in hand.

The orphan could only guess at Mister Katsarakis’ mode of travel. He had no way of knowing if Helen’s father had traveled to work by car, bus or taxi, but he was about to find out. To his pleasant surprise, he discovered the gentleman was heading for home on foot.

Nine fell in behind him, making sure there was always fifty yards or more between them as they headed further inland away from the beach. Several blocks distant, they entered a low-income residential area of Santa Monica. Small, modest bungalows lined both sides of the street. The homes had no yards to speak of. Local children had to play on the street if they wanted to play outside.

Mister Katsarakis stopped outside a particularly drab bungalow. After checking the mail box, he opened the front gate.

Nine crossed the street and hid behind some wild shrubs growing on a vacant section diagonally opposite the Katsarakis residence. His heart skipped a beat when the bungalow’s front door opened and Helen emerged, carrying a black and white kitten. She greeted her father affectionately before he disappeared inside. Helen lowered the kitten onto the small area of grass that separated the bungalow from the pavement, and watched as it tentatively explored its surroundings.

Nine decided Helen looked more stunning than ever. Now that she was a Californian resident, she appeared to be more relaxed somehow. Her long, dark, silky hair flowed freely in the breeze and her feet were bare. Nine wished he’d brought Doctor Pedemont’s binoculars so he could see every inch of her gorgeous face.

The orphan suddenly felt guilty spying on Helen like this. Like some voyeur, or worse. A ghoul maybe. He longed to reveal himself to her, but something told him now wasn’t the time. Nine knew he’d need to pick his moment.
Preferably not when her old man’s around
. He’d need to find his own lodgings and set himself up first, not to mention take steps toward becoming a bona fide citizen. In other words, he needed a bit of a foundation from which to court Helen.

Nine reluctantly tore his eyes away from the Greek beauty and headed back in the direction of the beach. He knew it would be night soon and he still didn’t have a place to stay in.

34

It was almost dusk in Chicago, and Kentbridge had been inspecting the interior of the tree house behind the Pedemont Orphanage for ten minutes. He was still no closer to discovering why Nine had frequented it most afternoons. He’d noticed the green-eyed orphan’s attraction to the tree house on a few occasions of late, and the other orphans had reported they’d seen him climb up the sycamore tree every afternoon for the last month or so.

The special agent had hoped the tree house would provide a clue to where Nine had gone. He ruminated on the fact he’d been reduced to relying on such long shots because he had nothing else to go on.

With the help of the White Gold Powder, and a bit of luck, the crafty orphan had done the impossible and disappeared off the grid. And with all Omega’s available operatives tied up helping Naylor resolve the Nexus problem, Kentbridge was basically on his own. That, combined with the dearth of clues, meant he’d reached a brick wall.

As far as Kentbridge knew, the young fugitive could be anywhere in North America by now. Despite the best efforts of Omega’s formidable IT department monitoring all police reports nationwide, as well satellite networks, there hadn’t been a sign of Nine since he’d narrowly avoided capture in Downtown Chicago. 

Kentbridge became aware he was about to have company when he heard Cavell, the orphanage’s resident dog, climbing up the ladder. Tail wagging excitedly, Cavell barked as he made it to the tree house.

“What do you want, Cavell?” Kentbridge bent down and patted the dog.

Cavell responded by rolling onto his back and inviting Kentbridge to rub his belly. The special agent obliged.

“Where d’you think our boy went?”

Cavell licked Kentbridge’s hand.

The special agent stood up and surveyed the view. It was rapidly disappearing in the fading light. He allowed himself to daydream, relaxing his mind to allow himself to intuit the answer to Nine’s disappearance. Cavell sat patiently watching him.

After a minute or so, Kentbridge opened his eyes and looked directly at the second floor window of the apartment building opposite. It was the same window that Helen used to sit at. He thought nothing of it and failed to recognize that his subconscious had just given him a clue. Not surprising as he didn’t even know Helen existed.

Kentbridge looked down at Cavell who still sat looking up at him, just as he did when Nine frequented that very spot. “Let’s go, boy.” The special agent picked up the dog and descended the tree house ladder.

No sooner had he entered his office on the third floor of the orphanage than he received a phone call from Naylor.

“Are you alone?” Naylor asked.

“I am.” Kentbridge thought the Omega director sounded tense.

“We have our man.”

“We do?” Kentbridge couldn’t be certain whether Naylor was referring to Nine or to the Nexus mole believed to exist within Omega’s ranks.

“Yes. It’s the doctor.”

Kentbridge had his answer. “Are you sure?”

“Beyond any shadow of a doubt.” Naylor sounded miffed his subordinate would dare question him.

Kentbridge couldn’t believe Doctor Pedemont was a double agent working for the Nexus Foundation. The doctor had been generously rewarded for his work with Omega’s orphans, and he would be well aware of the penalty for double-crossing the agency. “What do you want me to do, Andrew?” Kentbridge already knew the answer, but he had to ask.

“You know what to do, Tommy.”

“Yes, but I need to hear it.”

“Terminate him.” The line went dead.

Kentbridge didn’t hang up immediately. He sat staring at the telephone receiver in his hand.

He’d always been fond of Doctor Pedemont. The thought of having to kill him didn’t sit well with the special agent, but he knew there was no other choice. Naylor’s people at HQ would have left no stone unturned in the course of their investigation; if they said it was the doctor who was the Nexus mole, then it was the doctor. That being the case, he had to go.

#

At Omega’s subterranean headquarters in south-west Illinois, Naylor, too, had misgivings about terminating Doctor Pedemont. Not because he liked him. In fact, he didn’t particularly like the doctor. He’d always found him a little too eccentric for his liking.

The Omega director’s misgivings were more based on pragmatism than sentiment: the orphans were the brainchild of Doctor Pedemont, and their inception was the direct result of his scientific knowledge and brilliance. Naylor knew the doctor had added more value to the agency than any individual could lay claim to – and that included himself and Kentbridge. The tragedy was, Naylor thought, Doctor Pedemont had so much more to contribute.

More batches of orphans – clones in fact – were planned as part of Omega’s expansion. The doctor was crucial to those plans, and killing him would make the cloning procedures impossible.

Why the doctor had gone over to Nexus, only he knew. 

#

Kentbridge and Doctor Pedemont had been traveling more than an hour when the special agent turned his late model Chrysler west off US Route 12 between Volo and Fox Lake. They were heading for Volo Bog, an isolated area of woodlands, savanna and marshes best known for being the only remaining open-water quaking bog in Illinois.

The two colleagues traveled in silence. Beneath the clear, starry sky, a bright full moon rendered the car’s headlights almost obsolete as they sped along a narrow country road. It was just before midnight and they had the road to themselves.

Doctor Pedemont thought they were going to meet a Russian defector. Kentbridge had told him the Russian claimed to be one Boris Petrakov, a renowned scientist whose knowledge of genetics was said to match Doctor Pedemont’s. If that were the case, he would obviously be invaluable to Omega given its expansion plans.

Apparently, Naylor hadn’t wanted the Russian to be seen anywhere near Omega HQ or the Pedemont Orphanage until they were totally satisfied he was who he claimed to be. Hence the secret meeting at this isolated location.

It all made sense to Doctor Pedemont. As America’s, and possibly the world’s, leading biomedical scientist, he was the obvious person to meet the Russian and determine whether he was for real.

Yet something didn’t seem right. Exactly what, he couldn’t put his finger on. Sure, he was carrying a terrible secret, but he’d covered his tracks well. He knew it was always possible there had been a leak at the Nexus end, but he doubted that. Their security was every bit as tight as Omega’s, and they valued his clandestine services and the valuable information he provided them with, of that he was certain. So they’d have covered their tracks too.