When Director Kane suggested bringing one of the kids to the annual ISO security conference in June, Chief Anderson immediately asked Mark if he'd like to go. Mark's bright smile faded when he learned the conference dates. He had a prior commitment--it would be impossible to reschedule--but he really wished he could go. Chief Anderson considered which of the others, if any, he should take.
He ruled out Princess on the propriety level--he and a sixteen year old girl, even his daughter, shouldn't share a hotel room. Unfair? Probably. Four choices remained. Don he ruled out because Don already had enough work learning the martial arts the rest of the team knew so well. The Chief also knew he shouldn't further alienate Don by seeming to give him some sort of preference over the others. That left three choices. Tiny most likely wouldn't get enthusiastic about a week-long conference. Same for Jason. Keyop would enjoy it, but he wouldn't gain too much from the experience. He ruled out Keyop on age grounds. That was another unfairness--he'd have to make that up to Princess and Keyop. So--Tiny or Jason?
Perhaps it's a measure of the man that the Chief didn't keep dwelling on the disappointment that Mark couldn't attend. He fluctuated between Tiny and Jason for a while, and whatever made up his mind, eventually the one he called to his office was Jason.
Jason said, "Why aren't you taking Mark?"
The Chief explained. Jason shrugged. "Sounds interesting. Do we drive?"
A spark had come at last to Jason's eyes--what Jason meant to ask was could he drive. Anderson had planned on a plane ticket and a mid-sized rental, and he stated as much. Jason's eyes lost the spark.
The conference would be in Boston. The Chief made arrangements. Before buying the plane tickets, though, he received an invitation from a colleague in Albany, New York. A minor problem in their security system needed sorting through, and the Chief agreed to inspect it. He got together some paperwork, re-activated Jason as an employee, and broke the news to him as gently as he could--Jason would have to act as his chauffeur, driving him from Manhattan to Albany, then on to Boston. Jason beamed and asked which car he'd take--he didn't pay attention when the Chief explained the pay scale and the technicalities involved in his not being listed as an administrative assistant. The Chief sent him to the garage to select a car, and then he returned to his other duties.
The Chief would travel to Albany Friday morning, then spend a few hours at that site before continuing to Boston. Jason prowled the maps and got directions, called the track to arrange for another driver that Saturday ("Yeah," Cassie said--"I always get stuck doing your job. Have a great time.") Finally, he packed. Luckily, the Chief inspected the contents of his suitcase before they left.
This is what it's like to work for a living, Jason thought, removing a stack of t-shirts from his suitcase. Since he owned only one tie, he had to swipe a few from Tiny. After some thought, he pulled out his summer reading list and grabbed a couple of Mark's books: disgustingly, by mid-June Mark had already gotten through the whole list. Jason still wondered who'd been smoking pot before selecting the kids for the AP English class--he'd never been that great a student to start with, and even if his grades had picked up a bit last year, that didn't mean he should get bumped to Mark's level. His first surprise had been the AP selection; the second had followed hard on its heels--a reading list for the summer. That, the track, and his G-Force training had conspired to devour all his time. He figured nine hours in a car driving the Chief was about as much time to himself as he'd manage the rest of the summer. Along with the books, he stacked tapes and his walkman in a smaller bag, then filled the rest of the spaces with M&M's and Snickers bars.
On Friday morning, Jason and the Chief said goodbye, and Jason took them out in a Buick Park Avenue. He'd investigated the available cars and chosen this over the Lincolns and Mercuries available in plenty--his team loyalty to Chevy kept rearing its ugly head. Cassie had a t-shirt that said "I'd rather push a Chevy than drive a Ford." Jason knew a few acronyms, staring with "Found On Roadside Dead" and "Fix Or Repair Daily."
Between front and back seats was a plexiglass shield the Chief could shut if he wanted silence, but he kept it open. Jason played the radio low. He enjoyed the light traffic, and mindful of the Chief's preferences, he took the Thruway as opposed to the more direct Taconic.
In the back, the Chief opened his briefcase and started to work. Jason melted into the car and blazed up the highway. He found no cops speed-trapping. There was even less traffic once they passed Tarrytown. A good start.
In Albany, the Chief disembarked at the front door, and his chauffeur pulled around to the garage. This part of the routine Jason knew well: hose down the car, gas it up, check the fluid levels, vacuum the inside--in short, prep the car for the next trip out. He'd done this each of the six times he'd driven the Chief to the airport in an official capacity this spring. After that, he knew to go to the drivers' lounge and wait. Jason's good intentions of starting one of the books vanished when he saw the other drivers watching ESPN. He had lunch in the cafeteria with two of the others, and at one-thirty, the front desk called saying the Chief was ready.
Jason cruised I-90 at a faster clip than the Thruway: Sanders had told him Massachusetts drivers were fast, and Jason had taken that as a challenge. The Chief had brought another passenger with him--the Albany security director--so they kept the partition shut. Jason played the radio loud and ate chocolate. He'd have flipped the intercom to tell the passengers when they passed the sign for the highest elevation on I-90 since South Dakota, but he figured they wouldn't care. He chilled on his own when they passed a deeply-graveled slope with flashing lights that read "runaway truck ramp." In his heart, Jason could feel the momentum of twenty tons rolling out of control through the other cars on the highway to the bridge just beyond.
When the combined drives began to wear on him, Jason used a number of tricks to stay alert: the chocolate, cold A/C, and loud music (thank heaven for the soundproof partition, he reflected--he could sing and no one heard). He drew courage passing Worcester, and finally they crawled through Boston to the convention hotel. Jason discharged the passengers at the main entrance, then went to the garage and prepped the car--it didn't take too long. He grabbed his bag, stopping at the front desk for a room number before heading upstairs.
The Chief was tipping the bell boy when Jason arrived, so his only response to the room was a flare of the eyes. The bell boy left, and Jason stepped into the center of the room, staring.
"We made it." The Chief watched only Jason--he'd seen his eyes bug a moment earlier.
Jason laughed, then tossed himself on one of the beds. "The bed is huge! I mean, it's nearly the size of my trailer!" He flung out his arms and closed his eyes. "My feet don't hang off the end."
"I never really saw the point of a king size." The Chief moved his suitcase to the foot of the other bed.
"This is bigger than Cassie's," Jason said. "I'm going to get lost in it." He counted pillows--four each, and another two on a shelf over the closet. "We don't have enough pillows."
"I'll call the front desk to complain." The Chief didn't crack a smile. "There's a reception downstairs in half an hour--after we get settled in, we'll go to that. So don't loosen the tie," he said too late.
Jason sighed. "How do you wear these all the time?"
"You get used to it." The Chief unpacked, but Jason didn't move. Eyes shut, still he saw six lanes of traffic.
The opening reception proved to be a cocktail-hour type affair, and Jason found himself the youngest person in the room. The Chief had been right to insist on the dress code, although Jason didn't notice. He remained near the Chief at first, getting introduced to people as they came to speak to Anderson. The man himself followed a strict pattern: greet the person, exchange one pleasantry, then turn to Jason and say, "[Name], I'd like you to meet my son, Jason. Jason, this is [Name], the [Title] of [Regional Office]." Jason would shake hands and try to dislodge the ringing in his ears that happened every time he became the Chief's son.
He realized after a while that Anderson didn't feel truly comfortable--Jason noticed how he didn't relax and laugh the way a lot of the other men did. Not tense or nervous, he viewed this as a necessary part of his job, the way Jason had viewed removing the permabug layer from the grille of the Park Avenue. The parts of the conference important to the Chief would begin tomorrow.
That night, changing for bed, Jason suddenly chuckled. "When did I become your son?"
The Chief looked up from the chair where he'd been reading a scientific journal. "Does that bother you? Most of these people are casual acquaintances, and I didn't care to involve them in a detailed history."
Jason shrugged. "I know why; it just sounds odd." He looked at his hands, drew up his knees on the bed. "I guess my parents wouldn't mind."
The Chief set the journal on the desk and squinted at Jason. "If you feel it's dishonest--"
"It's not dishonest." Jason looked up. "It's just odd to be somebody's son."
The Chief said nothing as Jason changed into worn grey shorts and a t-shirt for the night, then pushed three pillows off the king size bed and curled around the last. He slept instantly. The Chief took a little longer before he turned in, listening to the nasal whimper Jason always made just after falling asleep--sporadic, tense, and right at the edge of his hearing. Especially in the darkened room, the Chief could hear the irregular unpattern of it. Only when the air conditioner banged on did the Chief lose track of the murmurs in its whine and fall asleep himself.
The Chief awoke from a dream with a start at 2:09: the air conditioner had activated with a groaning bang, and the Chief felt the confusion of being in two worlds--one groggy in an unfamiliar bed, one at his desk sorting papers he'd suddenly found himself incapable of reading even as he knew what they ought to say. Some people dream in black and white; some dreamers are deaf. In dreams, the Chief always found himself illiterate.
Coming to, losing the dream self, the Chief suddenly realized Jason was whimpering again, only lower-pitched, more fervently. He had the pillow in a death-grip under his chest.
The air conditioner kicked off, and in the abrupt, loud silence following the white noise of vents and compressors in action, Jason gasped and shot up on his hands, staring into the headboard as if staring fifty feet away, mouth open, eyes wide, breath rapid. Frozen, the Chief watched, and Jason stayed immobilized, staring staring staring until abruptly his elbows buckled. He collapsed onto the mattress, twisting onto his side with his knees tight to his chest, hands up over his face, the pillow forgotten at his back.
The Chief's heart pounded. "Jason?" He crossed the room, sat on the edge of Jason's bed, touched his shoulders and found them so tense the muscles might snap. Now that he was close enough, he could hear slow shaking breaths. The Chief leaned closer and put one arm over the boy. "It's only a dream--you were dreaming. That's all it was."
"It's not--they're here." Jason choked, held his breath as if that would stop the Chief' realizing what had happened. He exhaled slowly, then trembled and breathed in fits again. "My parents--they're here--I saw them--"
The Chief's hand tightened on Jason's arm.
"I saw them get killed." Jason rolled flat on the bed and pressed his face into crossed arms. "I had a flashback. That's all. I'm fine."
The Chief let him go. "You relived it all?"
"The devil star, the way she came to the door and shot my father, then shot my mother. And I hid." Jason raised his head, rested his chin on his hands as he stared into the headboard, eyes rigidly avoiding the Chief. "You shouldn't have saved me. I'm not a hero--a hero would have grabbed his father's gun and tried to strike her down. A hero would have run toward the gunshots and not hidden behind a chair."
"I didn't want a vengeful hero." The Chief again rested his hand on Jason's shoulder, but his eyes studied the boy intently. "That's all you dreamed?"
"I woke up when they died." Jason's head dropped. "I didn't mean to wake you up--I'll be all right--go back to sleep."
"You'll be able to sleep again?"
"It's not like I'm still eight," Jason said. "I'm fine."
The Chief returned to bed. Even in the total silence of the hotel room, he wasn't able to relax. Jason might have the most important memories, but he had his own--three hours on the phone with Catarina Assacura, long letters in deliberate script from Giuseppe along with thick documents, and a first meeting during which he'd signed three death certificates. They'd meant to hand over the secrets of their entire organization and instead had handed over only their son.
Twenty minutes later, the total quiet of the room began to absorb the memories and drag them away from his consciousness. Jason hadn't moved in all that time. The Chief finally fell back to sleep, although he had the nagging feeling of forgetting a vital detail.
Day two of the conference began. At six o'clock, Chief Anderson awoke and started the day without turning on the lights--Jason stayed asleep. He adjusted the air conditioner, then took a shower, shaved, and went through his entire morning routine. He'd dressed and finished getting ready by the light of one desk lamp; Jason hadn't made a sound or moved in all that time. The nightmare seemed gone now, a 2:09 AM phantom.
Jason had driven a lot yesterday--maybe nine hours. Anderson had noticed his self-inflicted chocolate-high in an attempt to sustain himself the last fifty miles or so. Long distance driving sapped anyone's energy, and Jason wasn't accustomed to it. He'd let the kid sleep. He left a note by the clock and went to the first appointment.
"Jason--I have a meeting with Director Kane until a little after eight. If you want to join me for breakfast, I'll get to the restaurant on the first floor between 8:15 and 8:30."
After awakening, Jason read the note, checked the clock, and decided he had ample time. The shower got hot enough to burn, and he lingered. In the hotel, he had no older brother to walk into the bathroom and berate him for not taking a ninety-second dash through the sprinkle, no younger siblings to come in and brush their teeth or apply make-up or shave--just himself. Jason stayed under the stream a full twenty minutes, experimenting with the hotel-provided shampoo, the soap (two kinds) and the myriad settings on the shower nozzle. The water unbound all his muscles one at a time until the person turning off the water had awakened considerably. The hotel had heat lamps Jason stood under as he toweled dry, and he regarded himself in the full-length mirror: totally pink, even where he'd tanned this summer.
Facing his suitcase, he dreaded wearing a shirt with buttons, dreaded the glorified hangman's noose carefully selected to match the color of the shirt, dreaded the dress shoes. Dress pants he didn't mind. He wandered the room for a while in those and an undershirt before deciding he absolutely had to finish dressing.
Getting the tie properly knotted took five separate attempts, all starting from stage one--Mark usually helped him, tying a loose knot around his own neck, then slipping it over his head for Jason to transplant. The first time Jason had attempted on his own, shooting the hydrogen car video, had ended in disaster. That morning, Professor Sanders had donated his own tie to the cause, standing behind Jason to knot it over his shoulders, probably the way the Chief had taught Mark, the way Mark had tried to teach Jason and Keyop. Tiny had learned one lunch hour, he and five friends huddled around a book that explained the process, experimenting with the unwieldy fabric and a mirror. "Street ties," they called them: five for ten dollars, the loudest patterns and most brilliant semi-metallic colors anyone could imagine. Tiny had learned three separate knots and could explain the benefits of things like "full windsors"--things Jason had always replied to with, "Geek."
Staring at a slightly crooked tie in the mirror, Jason (er) reflected that possibly being a geek had advantages.
By then it was time to head downstairs. Jason brought Jane Eyre with him, in case the Chief took a little longer, and indeed, so it happened. Jason got seated and was provided with coffee. He tried to read the book.
Oh. My. Goodness.
Two pages in, Jason flipped to the back and felt the agony of Sisyphus. No choice, though. He flipped to the front.
He struggled a little longer before hearing his name. Raising his head, he listened harder. There--he heard it again. Anderson. Probably referring to the Chief, but he thought he'd heard "Jason" as well.
"I thought he had a different kid," one man was saying.
"Actually, I'm surprised he didn't bring Mark."
"Mark," the first man said. "That's the one I remember him speaking about."
And no one is surprised, Jason thought, the book open before him but not read. My grand debut to the world, and everyone wonders why I'm not Mark. He chuckled, stared at the open pages, drank more coffee. The Chief would grouse about the coffee if he had too much in his presence--best to get in most of his fix now.
Jason caught the first voice saying, "I wonder why he didn't bring Mark."
"Mark's the oldest--Chief Anderson's got a half dozen of them. Probably left Mark in charge of the younger ones." A pause, then the man continued. "You know what happened to Jason, right?"
Jason's heart pounded.
The first man said, "No--" and the second said, "He tried to kill himself last year--got Chief Anderson's gun and shot himself in the head."
"Are you serious?"
"The older one, Mark, tried to talk him out of it. But ISO won't let Anderson carry a gun any longer because of what the kid did."
Jason couldn't taste the coffee any longer, hadn't a hope in the world of reading another word.
The first man said, "Why'd he do it? He's all right now, isn't he? He looked all right when I met him yesterday--a little quiet and annoyed, maybe--"
Annoyed? thought Jason
"Anderson sends him to a psychiatrist and has him on antidepressants, and that does the trick." The second man chuckled. "Doesn't say a lot for Anderson, does it?"
"You can't hold him accountable."
"A kid doesn't get like that--"
Jason found himself on his feet. He abandoned both the book and the coffee. It was time to go end two careers. Not that he consciously thought the words or even thought as far as what would happen when he approached the men. Mark would have yanked him back into the booth; Mark would have tried to calm him or distract him. Mark was at a flying lesson in New York City, four hours away. And now Jason stood in front of two very startled ISO operatives, saying "Since I'm already such an intimate part of your conversation, I figured I might as well make myself a participant."
Jason's face had gone beyond annoyed to smoldering--both men stilled as he sat at an empty chair. He needed no threats--just a forced smile. Let this play itself through, Jason told himself. Let them make the next move.
"Jason?" said the man on the right, the voice recognizable as the first man's.
Jason's gaze riveted onto the second man. He'd met both last night, but remembering either man's name would have required a photographic memory: Jason had met upwards of fifty security officers last night--directors, deputy directors, deputy chiefs, chiefs, all the way down to some field officers and prison guards.
"While I admire your concern," Jason said, trying desperately to sound like Mark, to say what Mark with his larger vocabulary and sense of rhythm and word mixture could have said so easily--but he could try, couldn't he?--"and while I found the whole account entertaining, the fact content left a lot to be desired."
Jason's heart banged. He smiled, hoping he didn't look or sound as high-strung as he felt, as if he'd downed ten cups of coffee instead of half a cup. The long drive yesterday, the disturbed sleep last night--they'd built up to this. He should have let it go. He should have stuck his nose into Jane Eyre and swallowed the lies and waited for Chief Anderson.
The first man said, "If you don't mind my asking, was Streicher right?"
Streicher--file away the name of man number two. Jason said, "I'm not on any drugs or seeing any professionals. The Chief can carry any weapon he wishes. If you have to discuss issues that aren't your concern, I'd at least like to know you're telling the truth."
Men don't apologize, and men don't let "I'm sorry" soothe their pride the way a woman will. A woman will forgive a lot for the sake of a relationship, cutting down herself and her work to maintain equal footing. Men tend to vie for power instead--the man in the know over the man who doesn't have the facts, the man on the inside versus the outsider. They're different styles, of course, but in this particular situation, a woman could have apologized and extricated herself. Three men couldn't do likewise.
Man number one said, "Everything is all right, then?" When Jason nodded, he said, "I have a son a little younger than you--that's why I wanted to know. He's going through a difficult time."
Jason's head pounded. Cancer survivors tend to reach out toward people newly diagnosed with the disease, sharing, volunteering, intervening, listening if that's all they can do. Some suicide survivors might do the same--someone other than Jason might have grabbed the first man by the shoulders and told him definitely, Go home and talk to your son--the boy's probably scared to death of what he might do to himself. If you're worried, he must be terrified. Maybe all he needs is for you to ask--
Man number two, Streicher, still hadn't said a thing. Jason said to him, "You had a lot to talk about before--did I arrive just as you were concluding the results of your study of our home life?"
Streicher said, "Your eavesdropping--"
"I heard my own name," Jason said. "Maybe you should be more circumspect about your gossip in the future." The Chief had shown up in the entrance of the restaurant, and Jason looked up, his face instantly masking. He said nothing as he got up from the chair. The Chief neared the table and greeted both officers by name.
"We've got a table over here," Jason said, and turned his back on both men without another word. A moment later he said, "They knew me." Then they sat at the table where he'd left his closed book and a cup of coffee grown cold.
A man doesn't become a law enforcement officer and remain incapable of detecting when someone lies. Moreover, he doesn't prove eminently successful if he can't tell when someone's withholding the truth. The Chief didn't press for details, though--he knew Jason, and he knew Streicher. Streicher liked scoring points, regardless of the Chief's not offering any, and he'd probably invited Jason to sit with him and Atlanta's Security Chief Durland in order to make points both ways: he could impress Durland by his familiarity with Security Chief Anderson's son and simultaneously impress Anderson by looking out for Jason. He surmised Jason had deduced this and didn't appreciate the pawn business. The Chief didn't raise the subject, and Jason sat stone faced through the entire meal.
Afterward, with Jason still nursing coffee, the Chief showed him a list of the talks and panel discussions and demonstrations he could attend, and Jason snapped to attention. After an opening ceremony at noon ("boring"--the Chief could read that in Jason's body language) Jason could avail himself of a multitude of sessions that set his eyes afire: riot control, prison management, hostage situations, side arm training programs, criminal profiling--the list went on and on. Many of the programs would be repeated several times during the week, and Jason sat with a schedule sheet working out how many of the interesting sessions he could attend and when--why take the ones offered a dozen times in the same slot as one offered only once? Anderson had two lectures to give as well, and Jason highlighted those in his schedule.
The rest of the day went as planned. Jason took some time to find the hotel's weight room and swimming pool, jog briefly around the outer grounds, and finally channel surf--thirty channels and nothing appealing. It figured. Sprawled on the king size bed, he pulled out Jane Eyre again and tried to coax the words to make sense.
Anderson and Kane talked a long time after the first couple of sessions. Anderson mentioned the incident with Streicher, and Kane laughed--although he said he had noted Durland looking gloomy at lunch. Walking the hall to Kane's suite, the men kept their voices measured as they spoke.
"I'm glad you brought Jason, though." Kane nodded, his brows contracted. "It'll be good to have at least one member of G-Force familiarizing himself with our security tactics on the organizational level."
"If not the commander, then the second in command," Anderson said. "I figured the pilot wouldn't have the same opportunities to transmit the information to the rest of the team."
"Mark can come next year, if there's still time." Both men looked drawn for a moment--Spectra had a timetable, and they both knew it. The first strikes would come next summer, possibly as early as May. Kane continued, "Has he shown any interest in the sessions?"
"Finally." The Chief paused--they reached Kane's suite, and Kane invited him in. "He still has nightmares."
Kane shrugged. "Everyone does."
"He did last night. I'm worried about sending him into combat."
"He's the type to react well under crisis," Kane said. "He's not the same boy he was two years ago--you were right to give him time. He'll be ready when the strike comes. Trust him that much."
Anderson rolled his eyes. "Trust--you should have seen him ogling the king size bed. Anyone would think I'd walk in the room and find him in bed with one of the waitresses."
Settling into one of the upholstered chairs, Kane laughed. "I know he's seventeen, but do you think that's likely?""
Anderson admitted it wasn't. He muttered, "But there's incentive here--he'd never have to see the girl again."
Kane had opened his briefcase and pulled out a document, and the conversation changed to business for the next half hour. Finally, checking his watch, Anderson decided to go get Jason, and sure enough, he opened the door to the room to find him in bed with Charlotte Bronte, sound asleep.
Chief Anderson studied Jason a moment--lying on his left side, arms crossed as if he'd been upright and fallen over, but the folded arms kept his shoulders at a right angle to the mattress. Jane Eyre lay face-open before him, and the Chief lifted it so it didn't snap closed, then slipped in a bookmark.
Poor kid, he thought, sitting on the edge of the bed. Personally, he'd have hated yesterday's drive. He wondered if Jason had slept well after the dream, then realized Jason might not have slept at all for a while--the Chief hadn't heard him make any noise. That would explain the late rise this morning, too.
Jason had fallen asleep in such a way that his hair lay tousled. Chief Anderson reached forward and gently found the unevenness, the part not a part at all but the scar from the gunshot, a ridge of skin like a bald spot, three inches long, over the right ear.
Early that morning, Jason had told his awakening self not to think about the dream--more accurately, not to think about the humiliation of getting so upset over a nightmare. It was so simple to deaden the shame, feel the roast of hot water on his chest and not feel the scars left by time and orphandom. The trouble with turning off, though--and Anderson knew this--was that a person can't only turn off bad or uncomfortable feelings; joy and excitement and hope get squashed as well. Two years ago, nineteen months ago, Chief Anderson had done the same thing to Jason--he simply hadn't thought about the storm clouds building over and within his second oldest son. In order to do that, though, he'd had to shut away the rays of sunshine as well. With each ready to let the other make the first move, neither had made it himself, and finally the situation had erupted the way Anderson had so much wanted it not to. But thankfully, not the worst way. They could have lost everything.
When Jason had finally entrusted him with all his reasons, the Chief had resolved to make certain changes. He looked at Jason and thought, It's time for my six-month review. They had a whole week together--a good opportunity. But for now, he let Jason sleep.
Nine years ago, Chief Anderson had adopted Mark, followed closely by Jason and Tiny. There hadn't been a question about either of the first two boys--he'd promised Mark's father, and he felt indebted to Jason's. While he'd had no attachment to Tiny's family, the prospect of leaving the boy in the hands of the child welfare system had repulsed him. He found himself learning things he never had imagined he would. The side effects of three boys--a smaller apartment than he'd imagined it to be, for example--had taken and were still taking some adjusting.
One night when he'd had Mark four months, Jason three, and Tiny six weeks, the Chief put his key in the door able to hear the television on the other side. He'd worked overtime that night. Apparently the babysitter lacked the capability to amuse the boys three hours longer than her normal schedule, but he could forgive that. Very often he'd reflected how lucky he was to land a job he loved, and for that reason the overtime had always gone unnoticed until there had arrived three boys who needed him home to make dinner and put them to bed.
All three looked up when he came into the living room, and the babysitter increased her standing in the Chief's sight by not just having the boys planted in front of the television, but by having game books and coloring pencils spread out on the coffee table; what played on the set was the evening news. Although that might be just as violent as prime-time, he thought as he dropped his coat on the chair and set his briefcase by his desk. Mark and Tiny got hugs right away, followed quickly by Jason.
"They've already eaten." The babysitter had put her coat on already. "I left your dinner in the oven in case you were hungry."
Anderson thanked her twice, the second time for staying late--she'd sounded tired when he'd phoned at four thirty, and he knew how exhausting the boys could be when they had all the energy and he had none. She had gotten on the phone to call for her husband to pick her up.
"So what did you do this afternoon?" he asked the boys, and Mark and Tiny spilled out a dozen activities, interrupting themselves and each other in an attempt to tell him every moment. This isn't fair, the Chief thought as he got dinner out of the oven. I need to spend time with them. Mark and Tiny were clearly attached to him already, and they missed him when he was gone. It was true--he missed the boys as well. Jason hung back. With dark eyes, he watched from the corner, and the Chief said, "Jason, what did you do this afternoon?"
Anderson saw the change on Jason's face--the boy stumbled through half a sentence in English, but suddenly he started screaming in Italian, and soon after came huge hot tears. Jason started throwing the coloring books off the coffee table, pulling books down from the lower bookshelves, tearing the couch cushions to the floor. The sitter slammed down the phone and ran to grab him even as Anderson dashed for him as well. Jason pounded his fists against the Chief's shoulders, kicked him, still screamed almost unintelligibly except for "I hate you!" and "I wish you'd go away!" and now, when the Chief wouldn't let the hurricane of a boy out of his grasp, "Let me go! Let me go! You killed my parents--I hate you!"
Mark and Tiny stared--Tiny could understand the Italian as well as the Chief; Mark couldn't. The sitter tried to pry Jason from Anderson's grasp, but the Chief shook his head and stood, keeping Jason pressed against his chest. Finally the boy had stopped screaming and thrashing and had locked his arms around the Chief's neck. Now he was only sobbing, and whatever he said had gotten totally incoherent.
"I don't know where that came from!" The sitter was shaking. "He was fine all afternoon! All three were even a bit quieter than normal!"
"It's all right." The Chief was speaking half to her, half to the boy at his shoulder. Jason's ribs jerked every time they expanded and contracted--he'd worn himself out. He still whined every so often, "Mi odia...." "Maybe it's because I came home so late--he may be overtired."
The doorbell rang as the sitter's husband arrived to drive her home, and it was only then the Chief realized what must have happened.
The Chief dismissed her. After a minute, he put Jason down. Jason looked steadier, although his eyes were red, and when the Chief went to the kitchen again, Jason followed, almost stepping on his heels.
The Chief said to Mark, "She didn't tell you I'd be coming home late?"
No, she hadn't told them anything other than that she'd be making them dinner that night. This made sense now--Tiny would have gone through something very similar when his parents mysteriously didn't show up to take him home from a friend's birthday party. Mark would have had a sitter quiet and tense as she made dinner for him, uncertain if his father would ever come home. Jason might have known that and would certainly have picked up their tension. Jason knew how quickly someone could die.
For the next five years, whenever Anderson worked late unexpectedly, when he phoned home, he made sure he spoke to each of the kids himself. They might not have realized why, but he maintained the practice unfailingly.
That night, as he ate dinner, Jason clung to his arm and made it difficult to maneuver. Jason had a bit of the fabric of his oxford shirt clutched in his fist, rubbing it between the tips of his fingers and the heel of his hand, and for the first time Anderson had ever seen, he was sucking his thumb. He put the other two boys to bed and got Jason ready, but Jason wouldn't let go. When he worked at his desk, Jason insisted on climbing onto his lap and hugging him, clinging to his shirt. Even by ten thirty, he'd refused to fall asleep (two hours past his bedtime, the kid looked exhausted.) The Chief made a choice--he could keep working all night while Jason got more and more overextended and fear-paralyzed. Instead, he turned off the desk lamp and brought Jason to his bedroom. He insisted Jason stay outside the bathroom, but when he opened the door he found the boy sitting beside it, his head raised stubbornly, eyes red with fought sleep.
The Chief put Jason in bed at his side, and Jason cuddled up to him but still refused to sleep. In the dark, with a feverish, trembling boy at his side, the Chief said, "I'm not going to leave you."
Jason shook his head.
The Chief said, "I'm sorry I was home so late tonight, but I'm all right--nothing happened to me."
He could feel Jason tensing beside him. He switched to whatever Italian he could manage. Jason was holding a teddy bear that hadn't begun looking old and ragged yet; he was still sucking his thumb. The Chief said, "Is the bear upset?"
Jason nodded.
Amazing. He'd never have thought that would work. "Is the bear upset because he thought I wasn't going to come home?"
Jason nodded again.
"Did he think it was his fault?"
Jason shook the bear. "Because he got angry."
"But that wouldn't stop me from coming home."
Jason nodded furiously and spoke in Italian too quickly for the Chief to understand it all, but he caught enough to ask, "Did you get angry at your parents before they died?"
The Chief felt a couple of tears fall on his arm. "I was--they wanted to move away and then I screamed at them and I was bad--and--"
The Chief held Jason a long time. Outside, passing headlights made designs on the ceiling through the blinds. "Jason, parents don't leave because their children are bad."
"They do--they do--I wished--"
"They don't. They loved you."
"The woman came because I was bad--she came because I wanted her to--and then she shot me because I deserved it--"
The Chief squeezed Jason as tightly as he could--the boy had gotten unbelievably tense. "The woman didn't come because you were bad--the woman came because she was bad, and she did bad things because of herself. Not because you deserved it. Not because you wanted it. I promise, Jason. It wasn't your fault."
Jason lay flat and cried into his pillow, squeezing the Chief's arm so tightly it hurt.
The Chief hugged him. "I'm not going to leave just because you got mad. I'm sorry I came home so late. I didn't mean to worry you."
The Chief cuddled around him. It had been a revelation to him, after acquiring Jason and Tiny, that cuddling was a learned art--Mark had never dared climb into bed with him until after he'd seen Jason do it, and when he did he lay straight and untouching. Jason and Tiny had been very vocal that "you don't cuddle right!" and when they were near each other, the Chief had studied how they form-fitted to each other like two spoons; he'd tried to do that himself, and the boys stopped complaining so much. Tonight he cuddled around Jason as best he could, and Jason turned to him, stopped crying, and eventually fell asleep at last.
He was going to guard me and make sure I didn't die. The Chief stroked the hair from Jason's eyes and pushed the bear closer to the boy; Jason took the thumb from his mouth finally and snuggled against the bear.
Again he felt the conviction that he'd taken on far too much: Whatever made me think I could be responsible for him, for all three of them? But he couldn't remember now how he'd lived so long without them, and he so desperately wished he'd had them sooner because he did remember long and dry years. He'd never had someone worry if he didn't get home on time; he'd never had someone who needed him more than his job did.
And this meant, beyond question, that Jason had attached to him. Jason wouldn't have been so frightened of losing him if he hadn't bonded. That was all Anderson needed--given time, he could win Jason's confidence if only the boy trusted that at the very least, the basics would be met. But he had to promise to stay. And then he had to keep the promise.
In the morning, he had awakened Jason before getting up, intent that Jason not wake up alone, then had transferred Jason to his own bed and started getting himself ready for breakfast and the day ahead. All three boys had looked bright-eyed. Jason had returned to his normal, silly, demanding eight-year-old self, and the Chief had found himself enjoying the fight they had every morning when Jason started reciting television commercials for sugary breakfast cereals he wouldn't buy the kids on a dare. He'd had them ready for school by the time the bus came, and then he had headed off to his job. My other job, he'd corrected himself.
The Chief watched Jason sleepwalk through the rest of the conference's first day and part of the second. Standing in front of the mirror with a tie that seemed to be participating in an active rebellion, Jason had sworn under his breath and finally flung it at his suitcase. "Fire me. I'm not doing it." He'd dropped onto the bed and folded his arms as if Room Service would be arriving with a pink slip at any moment. After a minute, the Chief had lifted the tie, guided Jason back to the mirror, and stood behind him to knot it over his shoulders, showing him the way to hold his hands and the way to adjust the garment to get it straight. This was his son--how often did he hug him nowadays? He'd stepped back and let Jason try knotting it again himself. The tie had ended up a little off center even so, but Anderson had swallowed the criticism and forced himself to let it pass.
The only moments Jason returned to life were during the actual sessions, taking notes and listening intently, even asking a few really sharp questions. The Chief felt justified now in the hope he'd secretly cherished all along--that Jason was much smarter than his grades indicated. He lacked patience, but when he wanted to apply himself he did so in earnest. His thought patterns were different from Mark's and his own, of course--Mark immediately knew how things should be done, but Jason had a creative sense of how best to handle a situation for which there were no rules. The skill might serve him well at the track, where an instant decision in a never-before-seen situation might mean the win or saving one's life. Mark had a mathematical mind, the Chief had said, but now he thought that of Jason, too--Jason functioned better in terms of calculus: he instinctually weighed multiple variables and shifted them to find the optimal part of the curve. But only if it interested him. Luckily, G-Force remained interesting. For now, at least, security issues remained interesting.
At three, the Chief had a meeting across town and required his driver. Jason looked dull and lifeless again, hollow-eyed. The Chief had seen the look too often before, in a past hazy as a nightmare but just as potent.
They drove in silence. Jason played the radio but didn't sing for now. The Chief recognized the song. After a few minutes, he said, "Jason, can you turn off the music?"
The radio went off. Jason seemed unknowing that his hands had moved to the dial. Only the vibration of the engine filled the silence for a few seconds. The Chief's heart raced.
He said, "In January, you told me I wasn't approving enough when you deserved it." He fumbled with the rest of the speech as Jason's eyes flared and his hands tightened. "I wanted to know if things have improved."
Jason's rapid breathing betrayed the panic. "Chief--please--"
"I wanted to know if you still think about it sometimes."
"I'll answer you if you answer me." Jason's eyes tightened. "Why didn't you talk to Uncle Scott for eight years?"
The Chief juggled the situation in his mind. "I'll answer you, but later." A pause. "Jason, I need to know you're going to be all right."
His tactic failed, Jason had flushed, his eyes nervous but riveted straight ahead. Maybe while driving had not been the best time to broach the subject. It had been a good time to talk before, but maybe this subject, this moment in time, this unfamiliar car and unfamiliar city, this bizarre sharing for a whole week, meant too much in conjunction. Jason refused to look in the rear view mirror.
Go ahead or let him off the hook? Anderson decided.
"I've tried to do better," he said.
"Please, Chief!" Jason pulled into the closest space and folded his arms on the steering wheel, dropped his forehead to his wrists. "I didn't want to do that to you, I didn't mean it, I didn't want to cause all that trouble, I didn't honestly think everything would happen the way it did, I just didn't think it through--"
Only when the Chief reached over the front seat, laid a hand on his son's shoulder, did Jason silence. He had the clipped stop of someone who's just realized he's babbling. The Chief didn't let him pull away.
He thought, Push him? If he kept asking, he might get close to breaking through only to have Jason slam completely tight, but if he didn't ask now he'd lose the chance. After nine years, he should have known, should have known how to prompt Jason to release the armor and talk honestly about something other than the rage--something like fear.
"Talk to me," he said.
"I can't--" Jason broke off. "I can't."
What? A thousand nuances of body language flooded by, the different meaning of the first I can't and the second, the horrible consciousness of the passing traffic and the time. He had a meeting to attend.
Jason's head raised. The Chief lifted the cell phone in the back, dialed without checking the number, and told the person who answered that he couldn't make the three o'clock meeting, something had come up, please give his regrets to the other participants.
He flipped the phone shut. Jason said, "You didn't have to do that--we can still make it. You won't even be late."
Most likely they could make the drive in time--without question. Even in bad traffic they'd have the minutes to spare. He studied Jason a moment.
The seventeen year old met his eyes in the rear view mirror and said, "Call them back."
The Chief said, "Get out of the car."
Jason's eyes widened, then lowered. Anderson was out of the car. Jason followed.
Neither spoke as they walked, and finally the Chief turned in at a doughnut shop, seating Jason at a booth in the corner and ordering two coffees--decaf for himself and although it galled him, regular for his son. But there were times to make statements and times to make a safe place. This had to be the latter. He set the coffee before Jason, who had an abrupt expression that made the Chief's skin crawl.
Laughing nervously, Jason said, "Can I have a doughnut?"
The Chief tried not to get annoyed at Jason as he got him a muffin, and Jason seemed a little relieved.
"Talk to me," the Chief said. Instead, Jason worked at the precision-heavy science of putting half-and-half and sugar into a coffee cup. "You're really upset."
"It's a bunch of things." Jason didn't meet the Chief's eyes. "You know, you could handle one thing, but then there's another thing and another--"
"Your dream?" the Chief said.
Jason nodded, put his head in his hands. He'd broken off the edges of the muffin but hadn't eaten much, and he stared into the coffee like a medium into her crystal ball.
The Chief reached across the table. "I should have talked to you about it later. You must have felt terrible."
Not pulling away, Jason said, "It didn't matter. I don't like all these shoulds and shouldn'ts. I never wanted to make everyone walk on eggshells all the time around me. I really didn't intend for that to happen, only everything got out of control."
"Am I doing better?" the Chief said.
Jason's head dropped, and now he did pull back his hand. "That's just what I mean--I shouldn't have told you. I didn't want to go changing everyone."
The Chief had come this far. "Am I?"
Jason nodded. He still looked at the table top.
He'd have time to feel relieved later. "If it wasn't just the dream, what else got to you?"
Jason shrugged. "I heard these guys talking. They knew the whole thing. You know--all of what happened. And--well, they brought it all back to me. I remembered it all. And I confronted them. I don't know why. But they'd already done the damage."
The Chief's gaze hardened. "At breakfast?"
Jason nodded.
Evenly, the Chief said, "Did you threaten either of them?"
Jason looked up.
"I'll carry through, Jason--" The Chief looked as coldly furious as Jason had ever seen him, including the two AM skirmish after he'd returned from Michigan. "Give me an excuse."
"I didn't even know who they were." Jason shook his head. "That guy--Streicher?--he was the one who knew. He said ISO ordered you to get rid of your gun. That's not what you told me."
"I told you the truth--I won't carry one, but I could." Other customers had entered the coffee shop, and Jason watched them instead of the Chief. Across the table, Anderson sighed. "I should have expected that kind of remark from Streicher."
"You didn't try to cover it up," Jason said levelly. "I thought for sure you had."
"It didn't seem important at the time." Anderson watched Jason work on the coffee. "The important thing was saving your life. I didn't care who found out, so long as you were all right." He noticed the shine in Jason's eyes. "But ISO officers saw the ambulance, and an officer brought Tiny to the hospital, and the cleaning staff knew. Two of the other division heads were around when Keyop broke in on the meeting. Word gets out." He opted for more time for Jason to clear his eyes: he still looked shakey. "If I were to do it over, knowing you'd survive, would I try to cover it up? I don't know."
Both Jason's hands wrapped around his cup. Warm styrofoam has a half comforting, half impersonal feel.
With soft eyes, the Chief said, "Are you thinking about hurting yourself now?"
Jason's head dropped. "Not really." He chuckled. "This is so scary--it's just like when Sanders found out about the team. He took me to a coffee shop and told me why it was wrong. And we each had coffee, and I felt just like this. That's why I needed a doughnut. Something had to be different."
"He disapproves?"
Jason nodded. "Blames you. Thinks you should have trained adults instead of your own kids."
"I figured as much." Anderson said, "Do you understand why?"
"Sometimes." He chuckled, looked up briefly. "So--what was the deal with Uncle Scott?"
The Chief chuckled. "I supposed I have to answer, don't I?"
They made it to the Chief's next appointment on time, and the Chief noted to himself how much more alive Jason looked. They talked a long time over dinner, just the two of them, and Jason revealed how much he detested Jane Eyre and his true feelings toward the individual who'd slated him into the AP class.
"That was me," the Chief said. "I thought you'd respond well to the challenge."
Jason's eyes popped, and he hurled half a dozen reasons at the Chief why he ought to have stayed in the regular class, beginning with average grades and average SAT scores, and ending with Jane Eyre. The Chief offered to take a look at the reading list, and right off the bat he suggested which books Jason should try instead of the ones Mark had picked (instantly substituting Pride and Prejudice for Jane Eyre in the women authors section.) He handed Jason his credit card and told him to go to Barnes and Noble that night instead of attending the evening session. When he returned to the room, he found Jason had wriggled out of the dress pants and climbed into bed and taken a pretty sizable chunk out of Pride and Prejudice. He'd also picked up copies of The Sun Also Rises, The Assistant, and Catch-22.
On Friday, the last full day of the conference, the Chief suggested they tour some historic sights, and Jason looked bored but not belligerent. He set aside Catch-22 (he'd been laughing for a half hour straight, so much that he'd been crying even though he'd tried not to let the Chief see it) and drove to Lexington and Concord.
"You can't spit without hitting a national historical sight," Jason said finally.
They went to Walden. "Like Walden Pond?" Jason said. "I thought that was in England." The Chief groaned in quiet pain at his children's education and attempted to explain the Transcendentalist movement as they drove. Jason wore an amused smile. They looked at the reconstruction of the cabin, which Jason said smugly "is actually larger than my trailer, but you don't see me writing essays."
They walked to the lake and hiked the trail skirting the water away from the crowds on the beach. They said nothing as they walked. At a place where the brush cleared and the road edge jutted out a few feet above the water, Jason stopped and sat on the stones.
The murmur of people on the beach mellowed this far away from the popular part, the place to bus a dozen inner city children to show them "nature." Jason closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The Chief stood behind him.
"Florida was like this."
The Chief felt Jason's invocation of the pivotal point in his life. He made no response, like a pilgrim admitted to the Holy Sepulcher who knows his voice will only echo off the stone floors and not add a thing.
Already Jason had stripped off shoes and socks, rolled up the legs of his pants, and now he climbed the rocks to the water. The Chief watched a moment as the sand played up around Jason's bare toes in the cold clarity lapping against the rocks, and he felt the tug, the wanting not strong enough to call yearning--he could resist, could say something about the dignity of his position, and merely watch as his son stood knee deep in history reliving his own past.
The Chief sat on the rocks and did as Jason had: removed shoes and socks, rolled up the pant legs, and then moved down to the water's edge. Dragonflies, darning needles, tiny fish he couldn't name that sparkled like silver, fuzzy lichen stroked by the ripples--he watched it all. Anderson waded in up to his knees and watched a train pass one corner of Walden Only then did he notice Jason had gone back to the shore. He turned just in time to see Jason toss a bunch of clothes at the rocks and plunge headfirst into the water.
"Jason!" He was half-laughing, half embarrassed beyond belief, and hoping Jason had actually worn something. A subconscious clock kept track of the seconds Jason stayed under the water, legs whipping like a mermaid's tail, arms propelling himself forward with great scoops. He covered half the lake under water, then broke the surface and headed for the opposite side. The Chief timed him, impressed by the endurance, the speed. His deep breaths looked painful when he recrossed the lake, but he finished in fine form.
"You're shameless." The Chief realized Jason had stripped to his boxers. "How are you going to get dressed again?"
"One arm at a time, same as always." Amusement glittered in Jason's eyes. "You don't maybe have a towel, do you?"
"The sun's going to have to suffice for now." The Chief tried not to grin, tried less effectively to suppress the wish that he could do the same. "Are you satisfied?"
Jason sat on the rocks and tilted his face toward the sun. "Very."
He sun-dried slowly, sitting with his back to the path where sometimes people passed but which more often lay hard-packed and undisturbed in the heat. The Chief sat beside him on the rocks.
After a while, Jason slipped on his t-shirt and the dress shirt, looked scornfully at the tie, then gathered his pants, socks and shoes, and crossed the path into the bushes beyond. Studying the rounded wet spot on the rock where Jason had been sitting, the Chief puzzled momentarily. A few minutes later, Jason returned fully dressed, nowhere near as wet as the Chief had feared. They continued walking.
"What did you--?"
"Left it there." Jason smiled mischievously.
They walked the rest of the way around the lake, stopping to watch a family of ducks, some sparrows, a woodchuck, and a fisherman catching a fish "this big." Afterward, they returned to the hotel, and Jason surreptitiously grabbed some underwear and slipped into the bathroom.
The Chief used the time to call home, and he spoke briefly to each of the kids. Jason talked to Mark and Tiny for a while as well, sprawled on the bed, head on one pillow, hands on the tie he'd removed the instant he'd entered the room. "Yeah, it's kind of boring here." The Chief didn't argue with him.
"Yeah, I guess I'll see you guys tomorrow," Jason said before hanging up.
They drove to New York in the morning, rested, breakfasted, and packed. Jason kept the radio playing in the car, but the Chief didn't close the shield between them. He'd noticed Jason was an incurable singalong ever since Jason had begun playing the radio on his own--always either singing or lip-synching, dancing if he could even in the driver's seat. While the others teased Jason about not being able to carry a tune in a bucket, the Chief thought Jason had improved a bit since two years ago. He didn't mind that Jason missed a note or strayed off key--he'd never claimed perfect pitch himself.
Jason leaned forward. "Did you see that guy's bumper sticker? I couldn't read it."
"I missed it." The Chief looked over the Times, shifted back in his seat as Jason accelerated. He looked up, found Jason tailing the car and leaning forward to see the bumper.
"Jason," he said, "I say this not as the man you call Chief, as your father figure, as the one who raised you and who fed and clothed you for nine years--but as the man who signs your paychecks. Do the speed limit."
The car decelerated gradually. The Chief didn't resist adding, "You may find you like it."
"If you want to take another hour getting home." Jason shrugged. He'd picked a car doing sixty five and dropped into the right lane following it, eventually increasing the following distance to three seconds--he could turn off stock car mode when he wanted. He usually found himself driving more slowly than the maximum he'd feel comfortable doing, but a few moments at a desired speed sufficed to program it into him, get his eyes used to the rush of white lines so he'd realize as soon as the speedometer started creeping up.
The Chief said, "Get a speeding ticket in an ISO car, and you lose your job."
Jason glanced at him in the mirror. "I use extra-gentle mode for the other people I drive. I figured you'd be used to me by now."
"I have gotten used to you, but extra-gentle mode is fine for me too." The Chief chuckled as he returned to his paper.