“What’s this?” Risa asks.
Connor grabs it back from her. “If it were your business, I’d tell you about it, but it’s not.” He slips it back in his pocket, but she already saw who it was addressed to. She knows exactly what it is.
“You think I don’t know what’s been going on in your head? Why you almost crashed us when we were leaving Columbus?”
“That has nothing to do with anything!”
“It was your old neighborhood, wasn’t it? And you’re thinking of going back.”
Connor finds he can’t deny it. “What I’m thinking and what I’m doing are two different things, okay?”
Sonia struggles to her feet. “Keep your voices down!” she growls. “Do you want people in the street to hear you?”
Grace, a bit anxious at the storm brewing around her, slips past Connor in a hurry to remove herself from the equation. She grabs the printer. “I’ll take this back downstairs and hide it again. No point leaving it out in the open.”
Sonia tries to stop her—“Grace, wait!”—but she’s not fast enough.
The printer’s power cord, which is still plugged in, goes taut and the printer flies from Grace’s hands.
They all leap for it. Risa is closest. She gets a hand on it, but her momentum only serves to slap it away. It tumbles toward the open trapdoor, bounces once on the edge, and falls through. The cord goes taut again. And the printer dangles in the hole for a painful instant before the plug pulls free from the outlet.
Connor dives for that cord, knowing it’s the last chance to save it. He grasps it with both hands, but the cord is slick with spilled bioslime. It slips through his fingers, his hands close on empty air, and he hears with a deadly finality as horrific as a car crash their last hope for a sane future smashing to bits on the basement floor.
• • •
Grace is inconsolable.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.” She wails desperate apologies while her eyes let loose a typhoon of tears with no sign of clear skies any time soon. “I’m so stupid, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Risa does her best to comfort her. “You’re not stupid, and it’s not your fault, Grace.” She rubs Grace’s back that now hunches under the weight of their loss.
“It was, it was,” wails Grace. “Argent always says I ruin everything.”
“Risa’s right, it’s not your fault,” Connor assures her. “You wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave if Risa and I weren’t fighting. We’re the stupid ones.”
Risa meets his eye, but Connor can’t read her. Is that look an apology for having grabbed the letter from his pocket like the pin from a grenade? Or is she waiting for him to apologize for losing his temper? Or maybe that gaze is just mirroring his own look of defeat.
Connor has picked up all the pieces of the printer. He now has them laid out on a table before him in the basement. Broken plastic, twisted metal. Gears and belts. When Sonia saw the state it was in, she grunted, climbed back up the stairs, and went home. Connor suspects there’ll be no dinner for them tonight as she privately mourns their loss. For longer than Connor’s been alive, the thing has sat in a box in a corner of the antique shop. It took an instant for them to destroy it.
“What’s the big deal?” asks Jack. “It’s just some old printer.” He, like the other kids in the basement, is totally oblivious, and bewildered by the sudden air of despair, even more potent than the usual air of despair that permeates Sonia’s basement.
“It belonged to Sonia’s husband,” Connor tells him. “It has sentimental value.”
“Right,” says Beau. “Sentimental value.” And he slowly draws a finger along the broken plastic casing, coating his fingertip with the bioslime he risked his life to retrieve. He holds that finger up to Connor as an accusation, and tries to stare Connor down. Connor coldly holds that glare, refusing to give him anything. Beau finally backs down and returns to his task of ruling the roost.
Grace, her face in her hands now, sobs more quietly, and Risa leaves her long enough to assess the damage with Connor.
“You can fix it, can’t you?” Her voice has none of its usual confidence. It’s not a question; it’s a plea. “You’re good at fixing things.”
“This isn’t a TV or a refrigerator,” he tells her. “I have to know how something works before I can fix it.”
“But you can try.”
Before, Connor had been afraid to even open the casing to look inside. Now he picks up each of the pieces, rearranging them on the table, trying to get a feel for how it goes back together. “It looks like the printing cartridge and head are still intact,” Connor tells her, although he can’t even be sure of that. He holds up an electronic component. “This looks like a hard drive, and it’s not broken either, which means it probably still has the software it needs to do what it does. It’s mostly the mechanical parts that are broken.”
“Mostly?”
“I can’t be sure about anything, Risa. It’s a machine. It’s broken. That’s all I know.”
“Well, someone somewhere’s got to know how to fix it.”
The thought that comes to Connor next hits him with such grand and absurd unease, he doesn’t know whether to laugh or puke.
“My father could fix it,” he says.
Risa leans away, as if trying to escape the deadly gravity of the thought.
“I mean, I’m good at fixing stuff because he taught me.”
Risa doesn’t say anything for a long time. She lets Connor’s words drift in the air, maybe hoping they’ll hang themselves. Finally she says, “Congratulations. You’ve been looking for an excuse to go back there since the moment you arrived.”
Connor opens his mouth to deny it, but hesitates, because on some level Risa is right. “It’s . . . not that simple,” he says.
“Did you forget that these are the people who tried to unwind you? How can you forgive them for that?”
“I can’t! But what if they can’t forgive themselves either? I’ll never know unless I face them.”
“Are you entirely delusional? What do you think they’ll do—take you back into their home and pretend like these past two years never happened?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know! All I know is that I feel as broken as this machine.” He looks at the fragmented device on the table before him. He may be whole, but there are times he feels unwound in the deepest possible way. “I can fix myself, but part of that means facing my parents on my own terms.”
Connor looks around, realizing that they’ve been raising their voices again, attracting the attention of other kids. The others pretend like they’re not listening, but he knows they are. He lowers his voice to an ardent whisper.
“And it’s not just my parents, it’s my brother, too. I never thought I’d say this about the little snot, but I miss him, Risa. I miss him like you can’t believe.”
“Missing your brother is not a reason to forfeit your life!”
And then it occurs to Connor that not only can’t Risa ever understand—she can’t even understand why she can’t. She was raised in a state home. No parents. No family. There was no one who cared enough to love her or to hate her. No one whose lives were so focused on hers that they could be made either proud or furious by her actions. Even her unwind order was not signed out of impassioned desperation, as Connor’s was. For Risa it was a product of indifference. The deepest, most personal wound of her life wasn’t personal for those who inflicted it. She was a budget cut. Suddenly Connor finds himself feeling sorry for her because of the pain she’ll never be able to feel.
“I put a lot of trust in your opinions, Risa,” he tells her. “Most of the time you’re right. But not this time.”
She studies him, maybe looking for a crack into which she can inject some doubt. What she doesn’t know is that he’s all doubt—but that doesn’t change his need to do this.
“
What can I say that will talk you out of it?”
Connor just shakes his head. Even if he had an answer to her question, he wouldn’t tell her. “I’ll be careful. And if I can safely get to them, I’ll feel them out, see where they stand. If time has turned them against unwinding, maybe they’ll see helping us as a second chance.”
“They’re unwinders, Connor. They’ll always be unwinders.”
“They were parents first.”
Risa finally backs down, accepting it with mournful resignation. Funny, but Connor wasn’t even sure he’d go until Risa challenged him. Now he’s committed.
Risa stands up and suddenly the gulf between them feels immense. “When your parents turn you in to the Juvenile Authority—and they will—I will not shed a single tear for you, Connor Lassiter.”
But that’s a lie, because her tears have already started.
• • •
“The house will be under surveillance,” Sonia says. “Not as much as before—after all, thanks to that Starkey person, you’re no longer public enemy number one—but the Juvies still want to take you out if they can.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You realize how much danger you’re putting yourself in. You don’t know what your parents have been told, or what they believe about you. They might even think you mean to kill them.”
Connor shakes his head to scramble away the thought. Was it possible that his mother and father knew him so little to think he’d do that? But on the other hand, they must feel responsible for everything that’s happened to him since signing that unwind order, and might think he’d want vengeance. Was there ever a time he would have taken their lives to avenge himself? No, there wasn’t. And not just because of his brother. Even were he an only child, he wouldn’t do it. Someone like Starkey might target his own family—but Connor is not Starkey.
Connor turns the letter over in his hands. “I need to do this, and I need to do it soon. Or I’ll never have the nerve again.”
“You’ll have the nerve,” Sonia assures him, “but not the need. There’s a critical time for everything. I do believe you need to do this now, or forever hold your peace.”
He knows the worst that could happen probably outweighs the best that could happen. Lev found that out, didn’t he? He found out the hard way.
“My friend Lev—I’m sure you’ve heard of him—he saw his parents again. They disowned him.”
“Then Lev’s parents are assholes.”
Connor guffaws in surprise. Not that he wouldn’t expect that out of Sonia, but to be so blunt about it. After everything, it’s refreshing.
“I never met the boy, or his parents, but I see kids like him every day.” Sonia tells Connor. “Their world is shattered, and they’re so desperate for validation that they’d blow themselves up to get it. Any parent who disowns that boy after what he did, and didn’t do . . . doesn’t deserve to have children at all, much less a child to give away.”
Connor smiles, thinking of Lev. He was mad when Lev chose not to come here with him, but he was only mad for selfish reasons. “He saved my life,” Connor tells Sonia. “Twice now. He’s a pretty amazing kid.”
“If you ever see him again, you should tell him that. After what his parents did, he needs to hear it, and never stop hearing it.”
Connor promises Sonia—and himself—that he will. Then he looks down the stairs to the basement. He considers going down, but knows if he does, he’ll find too many reasons not to go. To reassure himself—and to remind himself of his resolve—he pulls the letter out of his back pocket. The envelope is tattered and beginning to fall apart. He takes a deep breath and tears it open, pulling out the pages within. He had planned to read it, but he can’t bring himself to do it, because he doesn’t know what emotional acrobatics his own words might send him through.
When he looks up, Sonia is watching him to see what he’ll do. “Do you need some time alone?” she asks.
He answers by folding the pages of the letter and slipping them back into his pocket. “They’re only words,” he says, and Sonia doesn’t argue.
“If you get there and change your mind at the last minute, you can always mail that letter instead.” Then she looks over at the trunk. “In the meantime, I think I’ll get all these other letters stamped and in the mail. I’ve never felt the time was right to send them. But if the Akron AWOL is going home, maybe it’s time for all of these kids to be heard too.”
“Have Grace help you,” Connor suggests. “She needs it. I’ll try to be back as soon as I can. Even if it looks like they’re willing to help, I won’t bring them back here . . .” Then he swallows hard, forcing himself to admit the real possibility. “. . . just in case they’re lying.”
“Fair enough.” Then Sonia takes a few steps closer to Connor, considering him like she might appraise an antique. “I hope this brings you some peace. We all need a moratorium on misery now and then.”
“Moratorium. Right,” says Connor.
Sonia regards him with the sort of mock contempt usually displayed by people his own age. “It means a temporary break.”
“I knew that,” says Connor, which he didn’t.
Sonia shakes her head dismissively and sighs. “It’s Sunday morning—do your parents go to church?” Until then Connor had no idea the day of the week.
“Only on holidays and when someone dies.”
“Well,” says Sonia, “let’s hope nobody dies today.”
23 • Lev
Hennessey is dead, and Fretwell will face justice. The unwinding of Wil Tashi’ne will be avenged. Lev couldn’t ask for more.
Una calls ahead so the Rez is expecting them—and intends to play it for all it’s worth. The Royal Gorge Bridge is closed to traffic for the transfer. A phalanx of guards is there as Morton Fretwell, the Arápache’s public enemy number one, is taken from the trunk of Una and Lev’s car and into police custody. They remove the gag and plastic ties restraining him, and place his hands and feet in steel restraints that seem like overkill for his ugly, emaciated frame.
Then he is walked across the bridge, in perhaps the greatest perp walk of all time. The Arápache are nothing if not dramatic.
“You and Una will lead the procession,” Chal Tashi’ne told them over the phone. “It will be a public event, and the first thing the public will see coming over the bridge will be you.”
Chal is not there when they arrive. Lev is not surprised. As an accomplished attorney for the tribe, Chal might put on a professional façade, but as Wil’s father he couldn’t bring himself to face the last living parts pirate responsible for his son’s unwinding. At least not yet.
At the far end of the bridge is a large turnout of the Arápache people. Five hundred at least.
“Don’t wave or smile or anything,” Una tells Lev as they cross the bridge toward the crowd. “Show no emotion. This is a somber event.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Lev responds. “I’m not an idiot.”
“But you’ve never faced the Arápache as a hero. There are expectations. A demeanor that goes back a thousand years.”
When they reach the end of the bridge, the cheers begin. Una was right to tell Lev how to comport himself, because he does have an urge to bask in glory. Then as they get closer, the cheers drop off and are replaced by boos and jeers. It takes a moment for Lev to realize that this communal vitriol is for Fretwell, who hobbles behind them, with multiple sets of guards on either side.
The crowd shouts epithets in both Arápache and in English, to make sure he understands the nature and level of their hatred. The crowd makes as if to push through the wall of guards holding them back, but Lev suspects it’s also just for show. Yes, they want to tear him apart, but they won’t. They want him to suffer, and suffering requires many more opportunities for public humiliation.
“You people suck,” Fretwell shouts, which thrills the crowd because it allows them to hate him even more.
The chief of police comes over to check
out Fretwell. Lev finds himself disappointed that the tribal chief isn’t here, but perhaps he had his expectations too high. As the police chief assesses Fretwell, the parts pirate makes that familiar guttural sound, dredging phlegm from the back of his throat.
“Spit at him and you die right here, right now,” says one of the guards holding him. Fretwell’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the substantial loogie.
The police chief turns to Lev and Una, shaking both of their hands. “Well done,” he says. Then Fretwell is put into a squad car, driven off, and the party ends. Lev can’t hide his disappointment.
“What did you expect?” Una asks him. “A medal of honor? The key to the Rez?”
“I don’t know,” Lev tells her. “But something more than a handshake.”
“Handshakes from the right people mean a lot around here.”
And there are plenty of handshakes.
First from members of the crowd before they disperse. People of all ages come forward to shake Lev’s hand, and offer words of thanks and congratulations—and Lev begins to realize this is what he needs more than official recognition. What he needs is grassroots acceptance from the Arápache people, one person, one handshake at a time. Only with that sort of support—support on a personal, visceral level—will he find himself the clout to be taken seriously by the Tribal Council.
In the days following Fretwell’s arrest, Lev makes every effort to be as visible as possible in town.
At diners and restaurants, he is given his food for free. He accepts the generosity but leaves an even more generous tip. He is stopped on the street by families who want to take pictures with him. Children want the occasional autograph. He is gracious and accommodating to everyone who approaches him. He handles his own emotion with reserve, just as Una told him. The deportment of a warrior hero, sublimated to modern times.
“I don’t understand you,” says Elina Tashi’ne—Wil’s mother, and a woman whom Lev has come to love like a mother too. “You came here to escape attention, and now you bathe in it like a pig in mud. Perhaps your spirit animal should be the hog instead of that monkey creature.”