The kid was in the middle of doing his homework when the phone rang, and he looked up. "Ma?" "I'll get it." Rules of the house: only she answered the phone, and if she wasn't home, it was to go to the answering machine. She picked up the receiver. "Hello?" And then she turned sheet white. The kid held himself very still. "No," she said with the utmost calm. "I'm afraid you have the wrong number. There's no one here by that name." She put the phone down. "Ma?" he said again. She wasn't his mother, but she loved him and had taken care of him for as long as he could remember. She gave an abrupt nod. He ran into his bedroom and grabbed the backpack that was always kept ready in the closet of whichever room he slept in. This wasn't the first time this had happened, and it probably wouldn't be the last. They'd formed a plan. They'd take whatever was packed and leave everything else. He'd learned early that if there was anything he was fond of, it needed to be in that backpack, or else it was left behind. He hooked a strap over his shoulder as he hurried back into the main part of the apartment. "You're not ready!" "I'm- I can't go this time, Wyn. They're never going to stop. Maybe I can convince them- " "You didn't before." He remembered that time. She'd made him hide, but he'd seen them take her away. He waited and waited, afraid she'd never come back, but even more afraid that if he went looking for her and she did return, they'd never find each other. "I'll talk to them." "I'll stay and go with you then!" "You can't. They'd make you- " They both shivered. She didn't have to tell him what they'd make him do. He'd known for a long time. Maybe some parents would try to shield their kids from what went on in the real world, but she wasn't like that. She knew if he wasn't prepared, it could cost him his life. She held out a small business card. "You remember this man?" "Mr. Wells? Sure." He'd met the man at a McDonalds when he'd been invited to a birthday party for one of the kids in his class a couple of years before. Mr. Wells had seemed to appreciate the sketch he'd made, one of the few regular people who did. "Call him." "He said not to until I was eighteen." "Wyn. Go out the back exit, get as far away from here as you can, and then find a pay phone and call him." They never used cell phones; it would be too easy to trace them. He opened his mouth to tell her he wasn't going without her, but they'd been together for so long that he wasn't surprised she knew what he was going to say. "No. Don't worry about me. Just go!" He put the backpack and his jacket into a black trash bag that she handed him, and then hugged her tight. "Take this with you." It was a wallet filled with the cash she'd withdrawn from a number of ATMs the day before. After a while you got to know when you had to run. He'd been feeling a little uneasy, but she must have felt it even more. "I'll see you soon," he choked out. "Sure, baby. Soon." He opened the door and said loud enough for anyone lingering nearby to hear, "I'll chuck the garbage for you, Ma." "Thanks, sweetie." Her smile wobbled but her voice was steady. As soon as he was out of the door, she closed it behind him. The snick of the lock sounded permanent. He hesitated for a moment, torn between following her wishes and following his own, but then he walked away. He didn't take the elevator, but went to the stairs at the far end of the hall and jogged down to the basement. Once there, he took his belongings out of the trash bag. He turned cold when he found the brown envelope she must have put in there. She kept that in a special place, and if she was giving it to him… He put it carefully into his backpack From habit he folded the trash bag and stuffed it into his backpack also. They'd learned those bags could come in handy, as a raincoat, as ground cover if they couldn't find a place indoors to sleep, maybe just as shelter. No one was in the back alley the basement door opened into, and he got away from the apartment house as unobtrusively as he could. He knew he needed to get out of the neighborhood, but as soon as he found a pay phone and made that call, he was coming back. * * * Trevor Wallace stared at the plaque that sat on the corner of his desk. Remember, hate leads to fear, fear leads to anger, anger leads to suffering… then you get the money, then you get the power, then you get the dancing boys… Scarface by way of Yoda Or maybe it was Yoda by way of Scarface. Well, he'd much prefer dancing girls, but there were times a man couldn't be choosey. And why he was letting his mind roam at a time like this… His gaze went from the boy who stood on the other side of his desk to the photos and the official documents that were spread out in front of him. They had been in a plain brown envelope, and of course as soon as the boy had taken it out of his backpack, security had scanned it for any possible threats to his safety, but what it contained would never have been discovered by any of the machines the WBIS used to detect threats. This was something he'd never anticipated. He raised his eyes. His secretary stood before him. She'd been the one who'd ushered the boy in, and she'd been the one who stood beside him while the men from security had loomed over him. "Ms. DiBlasi, send for Dr. Futé." She reached across his desk for the phone and pressed a key. Without a pause she began speaking. "Mr. Wallace wants Dr. Futé to come to his office immediately. Have him bring a DNA kit." She released the key and straightened. "Will there be anything else. Sir?" She sounded disapproving, but then that was her general tone of voice. It intimidated the hell out of the most senior of his directors, and even Mark Vincent, former senior special agent and now Director of Interior Affairs, tended to tread warily around her, one of the few women Wallace knew he respected. "Hold all my calls. I don't want to be disturbed." "No, sir." She glanced at the boy. "Shall I bring some… refreshments?" "Yes." The question surprised him. She'd never struck him as being particularly maternal. The door closed behind her with a decided snick. Yes, she was unhappy with him, but there was too much history between them for him to take umbrage at it. He grimaced and began kneading the spot in the center of his gut. The burn was not frequent but it was persistent, and it was back now with a vengeance. His doctor had warned him it could come to this. Maybe it was time for him to pass the baton, take that early retirement he'd begun promising himself. In his younger days he'd planned on going out like Hoover, dying in harness, so to speak, but he was getting too fucking old for this shit. When he'd started in this business, his adversaries had been men like Nigel Mann and the Sebring brothers - Anthony, Jefferson, and Bryan - and in the KGB, Vasily Sidorov. Now he faced off against assholes like Edward Holmes or Boryenka Kaminski, who was in the Russian mafia's back pocket, and even in his own agency there were bastards like Robert Sperling and Anson Davies. And at least back in the day, members of Congress knew enough to stay out of the intelligence communities' affairs, unlike that idiot Wexler. Now… He stared at the boy who stood before him. His ears were prominent, and his eyes were almost hidden behind lenses so thick Wallace squinted in sympathy, willing to bet none of the armed forces would let this boy get within a stone's throw of a recruiting office. "And you're here because?" He knew he could be intimidating, but this child, who didn't look as if he could be more than six, met his stony gaze with a sangfroid that would have been beyond the capabilities of most grown men. The boy - Wallace flicked a glance at the page that had his personal data listed. Elwyn Graham. With a first name like that, he could just picture the kids in this boy's class calling him Winnie and making horse sounds at him. "Mr. Wells told me to call here when I was eighteen, but… " He bit his lip. "I- " "Mr. Wells, hmmm?" That was the name Mark used from time to time. If his secretary wasn't maternal, his Director of Interior Affairs was even less paternal. What was Mark up to? The intercom buzzed. "Yes?" "Dr. Futé is here." "Send him in." He turned back to the boy. "The doctor is just going to rub a swab over the inside of your cheek. There's nothing to be afraid of. He won't hurt you." "I know what a DNA test involves." Wonderful. He'd upset the boy. The door opened, and the Frenchman walked in. "You wished to see me, m'sieur?" "We need a DNA swab of this young man." "Oui." Max did the swab and put it in a sample envelope. "Who did you wish for me to test this against?" His intercom buzzed again. "Mr. Vincent is here." Dammit, his secretary was too efficient. Futé's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything. Mark Vincent came in, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, a glass of milk, and a dish piled high with cookies. "I didn't know you had a weakness for Oreos, sir. Bonjour, Max." "Bonjour, M'sieur Vincent." Vincent set the tray down on his desk. He looked more relaxed than Wallace could recall having seen him. He had been, ever since he'd settled down with that CIA spook. Oh, yes, Wallace knew - there was very little he didn't know - but Vincent was the best he had, and with the way things were going at the WBIS, he had no intention of kicking up a fuss and losing the man he'd slated to replace him. Besides, he'd always had a fondness for Portia Mann, the woman who might as well be Vincent's mother-in-law, and the last thing he wanted was to upset her. "You wanted to see me, sir?" "Yes, Mark. I believe you know our visitor?" Vincent nodded. "I didn't expect to see him here. Things aren't going well, kid?" "Why do you assume that, Mr. Vincent?" "Last time I saw him, he was with a woman- " He hesitated, which surprised Wallace. His Director of Interior Affairs never hesitated about anything. The boy looked up at Mark. His lower lip trembled. "I've- They killed her. I don't have anyone any more." "Who killed her?" The boy shrugged. "I don't know, but they've been after me- us- for a long time." "Open your mouth, s'il vous plait." Max touched Mark's arm, drawing his attention. "Huh? Wh- " Max had the swab in Mark's mouth, efficiently collecting the cells. "What the fuck is this about?" Wallace nodded to the Frenchman. "I want the results immediately, Dr. Futé." "Sûrement." "This might explain a good deal, Mark." He handed Mark the most pertinent of the documents. Mark took it and scanned it quickly, his expression becoming grim. It was a good thing the physician in charge of that little fiasco had died of a heart attack some years ago, because otherwise Wallace knew Vincent would have taken him out with extreme prejudice. To his surprise, Mark picked up the milk and the plate of cookies. "You look hungry, kid. Sit down over here and take a load off." He got the boy settled on a chair in the corner of the room, then returned to stand before Wallace. "How did this happen?" "You know all WBIS agents are given a thorough physical upon being hired." "I don't remember giving a sperm sample. I don't remember being asked for one." "You weren't precisely asked for it. I believe you were also given a list with the names of young ladies on it." "I never- " Vincent began, his voice lowered so the boy wouldn't hear him. "You did. Once." "But I tossed the condom." "And she retrieved it." "Goddammit! Tell me she's the mother and I'll track her down and kill her!" "No." "No, what? She's not the mother, or you won't let me kill her?" "No to both, Mark. We have the DNA of Elwyn's mother." He wasn't surprised to see Mark wince. "Who the fuck saddled this poor kid with a name like that?" "Apparently it ran in the mother's family." "Bitch. Okay, how long until we get the results?" "Normally it could take anywhere from three to ten days." "Max will put a rush on it, won't he?" "Of course, Mark." "Do we know who's going after the kid?" "At this point, no." Mark nodded and turned toward the boy. "C'mere, kid." Wallace was surprised to see how readily the boy went to his most deadly agent. "Where were you staying?" The boy gave him the address. "I'm gonna go check out what happened to your mom. You stay here, okay? Mr. Wallace?" "This will be the safest place for him. While you're away." "We don't- " He cut off the rest of his words. "Yeah, okay." "Mark, take a team with you." Vincent's eyes grew cool and his mouth tightened, but he didn't challenge the edict, simply saying, "Keep out of trouble, okay, kid? I'll be back as soon as I can." Wallace watched as Mark left his office. Now this was going to be very interesting. "Why don't you finish your milk and cookies, Elwyn?" The boy flinched. "Please don't call me that!" "All right. What would you prefer to be called?" "I guess 'Mark's' already taken." He wondered what Mark would think about this. "I'm afraid so. It would get a little confusing, don't you think?" "I guess. Can I use Joe?" "If that's what you'd like." "Yes." The boy yawned. "You must be tired, son." He keyed his intercom. "Ms. DiBlasi, would you come - On second thought, never mind. I'll take care of this myself. Come along, Joe. I have a lounge of my own. I think you'll be fairly comfortable there." "You… you won't leave me alone, will you?" "No." There was a laptop there. He could catch up on some work while they waited for Mark to return. Was Mark going to take the boy home with him? How was his lover going to deal with Mark being a father? How was Portia going to deal with being a grandmother? Lord, the woman was too young for that! "There's a bathroom right through that door, son. Make yourself comfortable and then lie down. I'll wake you up when Mark gets back." In a matter of minutes he was back, taking off his sneakers and lying down on the couch.
"What is, Joe?" "You keep calling Mr. Wells 'Mark,' but the name on his business card is 'Joseph.'" Fortunately he fell asleep before Wallace could come up with an answer to that observation. He'd let Mark deal with it. After all, the boy was his, no matter how the DNA testing came back. Meanwhile, he was going to look into how this whole thing happened. And what interested him most was how a wealthy eccentric such as Barbara Graham knew a man named Mark Vincent even existed. He powered up his laptop and began his search. ~End~ |