UnBound (29 page)

The steel security screen is already down over the window, and the door is locked. No sign that anyone's inside. It's always like that after hours. Signs of activity would be suspicious. Miracolina jabs the bell and looks up at the camera she knows is hidden above them, to the left of the entrance, and gives a thumbs-up.

The door buzzes open, and Miracolina pushes Bryce through. The door from the front office to the back hallway is ajar, which means they don't have to go through the intercom code-talk to get in. They both slip through the front office and into the hallway that leads to the kitchen. It's quiet. Too quiet. For a second she thinks that Jack moved up the transfer, and the vans have already left with the kids. Which would mean they're on their way to being captured by parts pirates. Then she chides herself for panicking. It hasn't even been a half hour since they'd seen Griffin in the alley. She hears movement ahead of them, someone shuffling through cupboards, and they hurry to the kitchen . . .

. . . where Griffin is making himself a sandwich.

“Is that the AWOL AWOL? I'm surprised you were able to drag him back.”

There's no sign of Jack or Jill anywhere. Bryce turns his back, opening the fridge and lowering his head to look inside. Miracolina can't imagine he'd be hungry at a time like this, and then she realizes that if he had seen Griffin last week on the way to his Dumpster, Griffin could have seen him. That was why he kept his hood low when he was here the first time. That's why he's poking his head into the fridge now. She stands in front of him, hoping it's not obvious to Griffin what they're doing.

“Can you check if there's a bed downstairs for him?” Miracolina asks.

Griffin spreads mustard with a rather sharp steak knife—but that's not the weapon she's worried about. There's a gun in his belt. It's most likely loaded with tranqs, but that's little comfort.

“He doesn't need a bed. We're moving up the transfer. I've already got my van, and Jack and Jill are out picking up the other two now. We should be ready to go by midnight.” Then he goes to the fridge and pulls Bryce away. “Dude, y' can't leave the door open like that. Everything will spoil.”

He closes the door and catches sight of Bryce's face. He studies it a moment too long. Then he frowns. “Why do you look familiar, kid?”

Miracolina feels an awful sinking feeling—but Bryce grins.

“I was just here for dinner, remember?”

“No—I've seen you before that. . . .”

Still Bryce just shrugs it off, playing the part for all he's worth. “Everyone says that, sir. I got an average-looking face.”

Griffin isn't buying it. Shielded by Bryce, Miracolina gropes for something on the counter. Anything to use as a weapon.

Griffin's eyes narrow. “Were you hanging around an alley last week, off of Pershing?”

Miracolina grabs a glass pot full of hot coffee at the same time Bryce issues a general denial about hanging about in alleys of any kind, but it's too late—he's already been made. Griffin raises his gun, and Miracolina hurls the coffee in his face, then throws the pot at him.

As Griffin crashes against a cabinet, the gun goes off, a tranq dart embedding in the wall behind Miracolina. Fear gives them wings as they race upstairs, and Miracolina fervently thanks God when they find the door at the top unlocked. Behind them, Griffin is cursing and wailing his fury, clambering up the stairs, just a few feet away.

She slams the door and locks it, hoping that Griffin doesn't have the key with him. But even if Griffin had one, he's not in the frame of mind to use it. He begins kicking and hurling his substantial weight against the old door, until it crashes off its hinges.

Dressed for their night journey, kids are coming from bedrooms and bathrooms into the hallway to see what the commotion is. “Parts pirates!” Bryce yells, hoping that for these AWOLS it will be like yelling “fire” in a crowded theater.

A small Asian girl with pink barrettes pats him on the arm. “No, that's just Griffin.” Then she gulps as Griffin storms forward, waving the gun.

The kids start to back away.

Now Miracolina builds on what Bryce said. “He a traitor! He's selling kids to the black market! He's selling them to the Burmese Dah Zey!”

She has no idea if that last part is true, but it gets the desired response. The kids stop backing away and begin to make a stand. The little Asian girl and three large boys move forward.

“Stop!” yells Griffin. “I'm warning you!”

He tranqs two of the boys, but five more kids replace them.

Then the girl with the pink barrettes leaps at him, delivering the nastiest flying kick Miracolina has ever seen. It pushes Griffin against the wall, knocking the gun from his hand. And in an instant they are all over him. A dozen frenzied kids, punching him, smacking him, kicking him—Miracolina's afraid they might actually tear him apart.

Griffin's angry protests degrade to desperate pleas for them to stop.

Then Miracolina picks up the tranq gun. It slides comfortably into her hand. One by one the kids see her holding the gun as she moves toward Griffin, and they peel off him till only the girl with pink barrettes is left, sitting on his chest, punching him with enthusiasm. Bryce pulls the little girl away.

Griffin is bloody and bruised. It seems the fight has left him, but Miracolina will not take anything for granted. She holds eye contact with Griffin for a moment. Making sure he sees her raise the gun.

Griffin is not the least bit repentant. “You stupid little—”

She fires before he finishes the thought, and the last word comes out as a pained grunt. The dart embeds in his sternum. One second later he goes limp, out cold.

Miracolina sighs, knowing that she'll be lining up for confession tomorrow with Father Lawrence. Not for shooting Griffin, but for enjoying it.

•  •  •

When Jack and Jill return with the extra vans they need for the evening's operation, they realize very quickly that the situation has changed once they see Griffin tied up and unconscious. Miracolina shows them the incriminating pictures—but even without them, Jack and Jill believe her.

Jill is furious, and heartbroken—but to Miracolina's surprise, she's also relieved.

“Now that we know where the leak is, no more of our kids will fall prey to parts pirates on our watch.”

Since Griffin knew the location of the new safe houses, the plan is abandoned, and Jack spends the rest of the night on the phone, arranging a secure location. They still need to leave tonight—there's no telling how many people know the kids are here. Best to abandon this location as soon as possible.

The question still remains what to do with Griffin. They can't turn him in—because sheltering AWOLs is currently just as illegal in the eyes of the law as pirating parts. They'd all be arrested.

It's Bryce who comes up with the solution. “Leave him here,” he says. “When you take the kids to the new safe house, just leave him. He'll wake up, and everyone will be gone without a trace.”

“And since he's already been paid for information,” Miracolina adds, “he'll be more worried about retribution from the black marketeers than tracking you down.”

Half an hour later the kids are loaded into the vans. Father Lawrence shows up to drive the third one. He's never afraid to get his hands dirty when salvation is involved—even if it's just salvation from the Juvenile Authority.

Miracolina notices that Bryce lingers, not getting in either of the three vans with the other kids. She hopes it's just because he wants to spend more time with her.

“You wanted to ask me a question,” he asks her. “What was it?”

Somehow it seems odd to ask after all they've been through, but it's a question she asks every AWOL she helps.

“How do you dream of a future when you're not supposed to have one? How do you keep going when the world has disowned you?”

Some kids laugh when she asks the question. Others shrug it off and don't have an answer—but Bryce, to his credit, seriously thinks about it.

“I keep reminding myself that I'm right, and the world is wrong.”

“But how do you
know
?”

He smiles. “I believe,” he tells her. “I don't have your kind of faith, but I got faith in myself, and right now that works for me just fine.”

Jack, having triple-counted the kids, tells Bryce there's room for him in his van, and Bryce tells him what Miracolina was fearing he might.

“I'm not going.”

Jack tries to persuade him, but Bryce cuts him off. “Decision's final. I've been on my own for more than a year. I'm used to it. I like it that way. I'll be okay.”

“And if you're not?” Jack asks.

“Then it's my own fault,” he says. “I can live with that.”

“You won't live with anything if you get caught,” Miracolina points out. “You'll be unwound.”

“I'll take that risk.”

A few minutes later the vans drive off, leaving Bryce and Miracolina alone, dawn just beginning to break through a still, silent haze.

“Walk me back to the church,” Miracolina asks him—although it's more like an order than a request. He's happy to do it.

“So, Bryce Barlow,” Miracolina says playfully as they walk, “what do you want to do with this life you're not supposed to have?”

“Tons of things,” he tells her. “I just don't know what they are yet, but that's okay. One thing I know—one thing I can feel in my bones—I'm going to be important. I'm going to
matter
. And people are going to know my name.”

“You already matter to the kids you helped save today,” she tells him. “Even if they don't know your name.”

“Yeah, it's funny how that works, isn't it?” he says. “I mean, look at you—I bet you've touched the lives of lots of people who don't know your name. You're like this invisible connection between hundreds.”

She stares at him, his words striking something deep within herself, and suddenly she understands. Her desire to be divided is not about the annihilation of self, but of the expansion of herself in the service of others. Being divided would connect her to hundreds, but there are many fulfilling ways to connect, aren't there?

“Thank you,” she says as they reach the church.

He laughs. “For what?”

“Just because,” she says. “Because I'd rather say thank you than good-bye.”

“Well, in that case, you're welcome.”

Then he turns and disappears into the misty dawn.

In the community center of the church some of the sisters are already getting breakfast ready, while the shelter guests still sleep.

“You're here early today, Miracolina,” says Sister Barbara. “Don't you ever sleep?”

Miracolina yawns. “Once in a while.” It's Saturday, isn't it? She'll spend some time here, then go home and sleep the rest of the day.

“Maybe you can help Sister Vitalis with her tapestry. She can't see well enough to do the work, the poor dear.”

Sister Vitalis, named after the martyr Saint Vitalis (buried alive under a pile of rocks), sits in a corner trying to repair one of the church's tapestries. She seems to work at it morning, noon, and night with endless patience.

“Let me help you with that, Sister,” Miracolina says, and the nun is more than happy to share the work.

Live like Lev.
Miracolina thinks. That was the battle cry of the rescued tithes back in the Cavenaugh mansion. Do not give in to the urge to extinguish oneself in the waters of the world, but instead be a light above those waters to help guide the way.

Thank you, too, Lev,
she thinks. Like her brief time with Bryce, she now realizes that her tumultuous friendship with Lev is a gift. She can only hope he is still alive, so that she can someday repay him.

Sister Vitalis puts the tapestry into Miracolina's lap, graciously allowing her to take over. Now she knows she doesn't need to surrender her eyes to be the eyes of an old nun. And she doesn't need to surrender her sense of self to connect with others.

Besides—she's only fourteen. She has her whole life to be a martyr.

Jigsaw. Rubik. Twist twist twist.

He chews on his thoughts like a piece of gum that has long since lost its flavor. 00039 still believes he might one day make sense of those thoughts. He has no choice but to believe, because losing the hope of having hope would be unimaginable. Almost as unimaginable as his existence.

“I know you all must be angry. Confused. You have every right to be.”

School of salmon. Gaggle of geese. Murder of crows.

There are many others here in this group of diced-and-sliced souls. All are like him. They are ugly. They are scarred. They pass their timeless days babbling their own particular incoherencies. And fighting. Always fighting. But with whose hands do they fight? Does anyone know?

“I'm here to ease you through this. To help you find yourselves—and you will, I promise you that.”

Pretty boy. Media star. First of his kind.

Different parts of 00039 remember the young man addressing them. He was the sparkling example of what could be. He was the dream before the nightmare. Camus Comprix. Unlike the dozens of rewinds gathered here on Molokai, Camus Comprix has gentle seams instead of jagged scars. Unlike them, his many flesh tones are well designed and symmetrical, expanding out from a dynamic sunburst in the center of his forehead. Unlike them, his hair, filled with textures and tints, redefines the very concept of style. He is a work of art. Unlike them. And yet he claims to be one of them.

00039 knows he is no work of art. Even though he has never seen himself in a mirror, he knows because he can see versions of himself reflected in the rewinds around him. All of them are in their teens, with no specific age. They are a mix of many ages. All of them are caught between what they once were and what they might become.