Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls (15 page)

Abalone stands up, ignoring that the napkin in her hand is dripping orange juice down her pant leg. For a moment, I think she is not going to answer.

“Educated?”

Again that bitter, barking laugh.

“Oh, I got educated. Mom and Dad read tapes to me when I wasn't even born yet—‘prenatal' tutoring, y'see. It got more intense when I was around to work with. They had me talking eight months early, walking six months early, and reading when I was three. The theater and film stuff was just a sideline to pay the rent.”

She finally notices the juice and stops to stare at her soaked pant leg.

“So?” Professor Isabella probes.

“So? I did it all. I was going to be the girl genius, darling
of the media. Brilliant, talented, and lovely. Funny thing happened, though.”

She stops and the look that crosses her face is so ugly that I must force myself not to look away.

“There was this big shot, the type who makes or breaks dreams like my folks had for me. One day I was told that I had an interview with him. Just me. No Mom. No Dad. They dolled me up, took me to this golden glass tower, escorted me to the right floor, and left me on my own. I wasn't all that scared. When you're—young—one big shot is pretty much the same as the others. Parents are what really matters.

“I walked into that office and a slim, baby-faced man ushered me right into the Presence. I went in, took the chair I was offered, and parroted the proper responses to familiar questions. Mr. Big seemed kind, if sorta gross: fat and over-dressed.

“At one point, he asked me to stand up and read a script for him. I did and while I was, he got up and walked around me. I was used to being looked at, but something about the way he did it, staring and circling closer and closer, gave me the creeps. Then he came up behind me, slid his arms around me, and grabbed my breasts—what I had. I flipped out, dropped the script and everything. I think I made some excuse about needing the bathroom, because Mr. Big pointed to a door.

“I got through there and sure enough, there was a fancy little bathroom. My Mom was there, too, and I was so scared that I didn't even wonder how she got in there. I
started to blab everything to her, but she hushed me and said, ‘I know you were startled, but he's a very important man. I want you to think about that.'”

Abalone's eyes have grown very wide, but not one tear mars their brightness.

“I thought. Then I went back in there and let that bastard fuck me, knowing Mom was hearing every bit—hell, she might have been filming it for all I know. When I left there, Mom and Dad took me to a fancy restaurant, showing me the contract that Mr. Big had signed.

“That night, I left. All I took was the computer and I started stealing right off, replaced my old board and…”

She shrugs.

I reach out and squeeze her. “One fire burns out another's burning; one pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.”

“Your dream stop bugging you?” Her smile is almost genuine. “That's good. Anyhow, I'd kinda wanted you to know all that, but it's not easy to talk about and I really don't want anyone else to know. I think if my folks find me, they still have legal right to me.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Abalone,” Professor Isabella promises, her face drawn and tight.

I hug Abalone again. “The rest is silence.”

She hugs me back. “I trust you, Prof, and Sarah, you'd be impossible to get anything from, even if you would tell. I'm safe with you. Now we have to make you safe from them.”

A
WEEK GOES BY BEFORE THE OWL BEGINS TO COMMUNICATE
with me. At first, all there is are sighs and vague feelings, similar to those I had gotten from the apartment house. Within two weeks, it was calling to me in little chirps and hoots.

Professor Isabella had been reading to me about saw-whet owls, so I knew what to expect. Betwixt and Between reassure me that words will come in time.

“We didn't talk People at first,” Betwixt confides when Between is napping. “At least I don't think so.”

He pauses as if puzzled. “I don't know what we were talking; all I know is that Dylan started understanding us better and we did him.”

This raises something I have been wondering about, but I must search for words and even when I find some I know they are not quite what I want.

“Speech is civilization itself,” I say. “The word, even the
most contradictory word, preserves contact—it is silence which isolates.”

Hearing me, Between wakes up, catching only the tail end of my borrowings.

“Wha' she say?” He yawns.

“I was telling her not to worry too much about the owl talking and telling her about Dylan and us. Then she asked something about speech.”

“What did you say?” Between asks.

I repeat myself.

“Are you worrying about the owl still?”

I shake my head. “Am I my brother's keeper?”

“Oh, you want to know if Dylan could talk,” Betwixt says. “Yes, he could, maybe had to think over things, but he spoke. So did Eleanora, I think, but I don't remember her too well.”

“Me, either,” adds Between, “and how about lunch?”

We are finishing our lunch—a night meal for we have returned to the time schedule set by the Law—when Abalone comes bounding up, her tappety-tap bouncing on one hip. She slides to a seat on the floor beside us.

“News,” she says, “big time. Where's Professor Isabella? I'd rather go through this just once.”

I shrug, but Chocolate, who has just come in, says, “She's up by the stove—reading class!”

He grabs a notebook from under his pallet and pelts toward a small circle clustered around one of the camp stoves.

“I guess we'll tell her later. Up for a walk?”

I nod, scooping up Betwixt and Between and placing Athena, as Abalone has named my owl, on my shoulder.
Abalone leads us to a grass island with a small grove of trees nestled within one of the loops of the highway's cloverleaf. At this hour, traffic is minimal and we dart across the dark pavement easily.

We seat ourselves where we are least visible from the road and Abalone pulls a couple of beers from a cooler cached beneath a rock. After sipping for a moment in silence, she puts the bottle down and wraps her arms around her knees.

“I think that the Institute is relocating, Sarah.”

I sit up from where I have been lounging on the grass, surprised to find that I feel both dismayed and relieved. My hands flutter as I seek words to express my emotion; Abalone misinterprets my gesture as curiosity.

“How'd I find out? I'd been tracking what commercial traffic went in and out, thinking we might get in that way with the least fuss. Started noticing that there were a fair number of midsize moving vans, nothing flashy or likely to catch the eye of the neighbors—if they were looking—but enough to cue me.”

In the flash of a passing headlight, I see her blue lips twist almost cruelly. She sips a bit more from her beer and goes on.

“The vans weren't marked, but I checked license and registration and traced them to a moving rental company. The Institute may not link out, but this jobber did and I was able to hack in and learn that the big move is scheduled for two nights from this one.”

Although fear has set my heart to pounding so that I can barely speak, I manage some familiar lines. “If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.”

“Yes.” Abalone leaps to her feet. “That's why I want to talk with Professor Isabella; we'll need to move tomorrow night. We may even be too late already if the people went out in the early vans. I'm hoping not, but if this is a dead end, we'll track them down all over again.”

We take our time walking back, stopping to bring some beer to a couple of late-working Tail Wolves. When we get back, it is nearly dawn and Professor Isabella is drowsing over a book. She wakes quickly, though, when Abalone tells her the news.

“Are we ready?” she asks. “Maybe we should let them go, then find where they've gone and go in when we're better prepared.”

“There's no time like the present,” Abalone urges. “Their security must be lower to allow for the traffic. We've got to jump while we can.”

Professor Isabella sighs, but nods agreement. “I presume you can get transportation for us? Or am I silly to even ask?”

“Transport and driver,” Abalone promises, “and a bit of extra muscle. Midline is coming along. Won't hear ‘no.'”

“Then don't tell him,” Professor Isabella smiles. “He's talented and knows what we're up against; I'll feel better for having him.”

“I'll have Peep and the vehicle ready at dusk tomorrow.”

Even with the soothing hum of the highway overhead, I have trouble falling asleep. There's just too much to worry about. The owl chortles disapprovingly at my diurnal restlessness and Betwixt and Between sing lullabies in duet.

Near midmorning, Abalone hands me a beer. I suspect that she must have put something into it, because the last
thing I remember after setting the bottle down is Betwixt and Between harmonizing on nearly infinite verses of “Rock-a-Bye-Baby.”

Abalone wakes me just before dusk, giving me only enough time to wash and dress. She hands me a black pullover and slacks. I notice that she is wearing something similar, a scarf tied over her bright hair; her lips are still painted blue.

By the time I have dressed, Peep has driven a blue panel van into a cul-de-sac near the Cold Lairs. Abalone takes the seat next to him. Midline stretches out to sleep between the seats and almost before we are on the road, he is snoring softly.

“I envy him,” Professor Isabella says, tugging at a pullover which rides up until she tucks it into her waistband. “I'm too old for this.”

“You can stay with Peep,” Abalone calls back. “He'll be waiting with the van and I'm going to signal him when we're ready to leave. Apparently, most of the jamming stuff has been moved out.”

“No,” Professor Isabella replies. “You may need me.”

Abalone periodically drills Peep on some contingency plan, but otherwise we talk little for the rest of the ride. Some hours into full darkness, Abalone directs Peep to pull the van into a field and shut off the power.

When we open the back hatch and step into the dark, I am amazed at the velvety fullness of the darkness. Here there is no ambient glow from buildings and vehicles, only the half-moon and fainter stars give any light.

My owl seems to approve, but I am still intimidated. My
only comfort is that Peep and Midline appear to share my discomfort. Professor Isabella is studying the sky with apparent pleasure and Abalone sees nothing but her computer screen.

“You can't see the Institute's buildings from here,” she says, “because there is a ten-foot-high stone wall around the compound. Most of the wall is impossible to cross—topped with electric wire. I found a place where a fallen tree grows near the wall on the outside. None of the branches cross—their grounds keepers were careful—but there is a tree of about the same height on the other side. I figured we could anchor a line, like in the Jungle, and get over that way.”

“If the pictures you showed me are any good, I can set our line,” Midline says. “Even found a pulley Professor Isabella can slide with since she don't climb like we do.”

Professor Isabella bobs a self-mocking curtsy. “Midline, can the rope be removed? What if the Institute patrols see it?”

“Peep'll reel it back from higher up—there's some chance of it brushing the line, but it shouldn't alert them. There must be a margin for natural things like leaves or birds.” Midline shrugs. “An' I'll pull out my arrow. The rest is up to chance and who knows what.”

“Once we're over the wall,” Abalone says, sketching a small map on her screen, “we should be able to see a cluster of buildings across a park from us. We want to make for the small, low one to the right. From what little I've got, it's used for residences. We stand to find Dylan and Eleanora there.”

I look at the detailed map, fighting disorientation as se
vere as if I was looking at print. Uneasily, I look away and my stomach calms. As I regain my composure, Midline leads the way toward a darker shape that must be the tree. I follow, realizing that I have missed the rest of Abalone's instructions. I don't get a chance to ask, because Abalone asks me to send Athena up and make sure that the way is clear.

The wall crossing goes without a hitch and I drop lightly to the ground at the base of a gnarled oak. Shutting out the others, I study the illuminated cluster of buildings across the manicured park. Memory strikes me solidly and I know that I have been here before.

As planned, Abalone starts toward the small cottage. I hustle forward and stop her, grabbing her arm. When she turns to face me, the moon reveals her perplexed expression.

At a loss for words, I can only point to the cottage, shaking my head vehemently. Then I point toward the largest building, a flattopped three-story thing, intermittently lit.

“Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast,” I whisper.

“Huh? Sarah, what's wrong?”

I gesture toward the larger building. “The play's the thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.”

“King?” she starts to ask, then nods. “You think that we'll find them in that building? Why?”

I smile bitterly. “I remember, I remember the house where I was born, the little windows where the sun came peeping in the morn.”

The other two are stirring, restless and curious at the reason for our delay. Abalone beckons them forward and explains.

“Shouldn't we let Sarah lead?” Midline suggests. “She
may remember something else, an' the owl can scout for her.”

Abalone agrees, promising to be as close as my shadow, and now I lead the way across the park. The well-tended lawn springs beneath my soft-soled shoes and the night wind whispers through the new leaves on the trees. From the bag slung across my shoulder like a bandolier, I can hear Betwixt and Between muttering to each other, but I do not shift my focus to listen.

Ahead is the building and my memory fills in details that the darkness does not reveal. It is stone, rough and red, grainy to the touch, though not crumbly like sandstone.

The lower floor will not interest us. It is mostly offices and entertainment areas: a ballroom, a conference center, a lounge. The second floor is labs and test areas, some recreational facilities, but these are for the patients, not for the guests: treadmills to measure heart and respiration, rooms with walls of one-way glass, an Olympic swimming pool.

The third floor is our goal. Rooms for the resident patients. Dylan. Me. A kitchen and dining area. A playroom. Somehow it does not occur to me to wonder if this will have changed with the passing years. Maybe the place itself tells me. Change of that sort is not important to its purpose.

Purpose.

Something touches a buried memory, but eludes me like the moth Athena futilely snaps at as she soars just ahead of us. Then we have arrived in the building's shadow and the others are waiting for me to tell them what to do.

The building's flat roof makes an entry directly into the third floor seem possible, especially if we target one of the
empty rooms. Holding a finger to my lips, I motion for the others to take cover behind some azaleas thickly covered with red flowers that smell faintly sour. Then I send Athena to look in each window, charging her to remember what was within each.

After a few moments, she returns. Her report does not take the form of anything as simple as words, but I manage to learn that most of the rooms are empty of all but dust and darkness. One or two show signs of human inhabitants, but none of these are a man with white hair and pale green eyes. More than this is beyond my limited ability to understand.

I reassure myself that both the second-and third-story windows above us are dark and the rooms untenanted before I turn to the others, who are waiting with nervous tension.

I gesture upward, motioning as if swinging a grapple.

Professor Isabella looks sharply at me. “You think we should climb up?”

I nod and Midline purses his lips, surveying the height involved.

“We can do that,” he says, pulling gear from his belt.

“Okay,” Abalone whispers. “Anchor a line to the roof and I'll go first. I want to check if the upper windows are wired. The lower ones are.”

Midline steps just outside of the azaleas' shelter and I fight the impulse to huddle small. If anyone sees him, we are all in equal danger. But the night remains quiet and the stretch of park is uninterrupted by guards or other hazards.

A nearly inaudible clunk announces that the grapple has
found purchase and Abalone climbs upward with the primate grace of one of the Free People. She stops outside of the third-story window and wrestles out her tappety-tap.

Something troubles her. She hangs there, studying a reading. Then from a pouch at her waist she removes tiny tools, visible only as points of light in the shadows. After working for a moment, she presses up against the window frame.

I hear Professor Isabella intake her breath in apprehension, but no alarms go off and Abalone vanishes within. Midline gestures for me to go next and I scramble up, certain that I will be spotted. Yet, I dive safely into the room, rolling past Abalone, who motions for me to go and listen at the door and warn her if anyone is coming.