Memento Nora (12 page)

“I started to watch for the vans on my off time,” he said as we turned into the circular drive in front of the school. “I noticed Koji—Mr. Yamada—doing the same thing one evening. Eventually we talked, and he introduced me to the group. And Katie—Ms. Curtis.” He blushed when he said her name.

“Thanks for telling us this,” I said.

“I don’t underestimate you like they do,” he answered. “You kids may get more accomplished than that lot in there. Mind you, if it comes down to it, I may have to arrest you myself,” he added.

“I still don’t see why,” I protested. “Free speech isn’t against the law.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem to matter anymore,” he said as he parked in the drop-off zone.

“What do the vans do?” Micah asked as I was reaching for the door handle. He’d been oddly quiet on the ride back and at the meeting, like he was someplace else. It was a good question.

Officer Bell didn’t say anything for so long that I thought he wasn’t going to answer. He just stared at the steering wheel.

“I’ll show you,” he finally said. “You wouldn’t believe it otherwise. But I can’t guarantee that we’ll see anything the first time out.” He told us to meet him next Tuesday at Winter’s house. After dark. “I know you can get out after curfew,” he added, looking at Micah.

Officer Bell let us back into school long enough to get our stuff and then he left us sitting on the front steps.

“He told us that story for a reason,” I said to Micah as we waited for my car service. I’d had to call because we’d been a little late getting back to school. “Officer Bell must want us to use the black vans in
Memento
,” I insisted.

“It would make a great story,” Micah agreed. “But it won’t make sense until we know exactly what the vans are up to.”

“And who’s behind them.”

Micah nodded.

“Do you think they’re Coalition terrorists?” I asked.

“Why would the cops cover for them?”

“Maybe they
are
cops. Some special bomb disposal unit.”

“Then why wouldn’t Bell have known that?”

I shrugged. “We should ask Winter. Maybe her grand-father told her something Bell left out.”

Micah nodded again, but I could see his mind was racing ahead, kicking around the possibilities. He looked very cute lost in his thoughts.
I really should tell him I won’t be around in two weeks
, I thought; but I pushed aside the whole move thing as my car service pulled into the pick-up lane.

I’d tell him later—as soon as I figured out how.

“Talk to Winter,” I said, “and then call me this weekend.” And without really thinking about it, I kissed Micah good-bye.

He stood there for a moment, stunned, before he grinned his little Micah grin and stepped on his skateboard, pushing off with a burst of energy.

I felt pretty glossy. I still hadn’t come up with a new word.

20

Therapeutic Statement
42-03282028-13
Subject:
NOMURA, WINTER, 14
Facility:
HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

The
step-whir
in my head beat out a rhythm like the wings of rabid hummingbirds as I watched Micah and Nora get into Officer Bell’s car.

My
sasuke-san
put his hand on my shoulder. “They’ll be fine,” he said. “Bell just wants to talk to them.”

I trusted my grandfather’s judgment, but I still felt jittery watching my best friend (and his girl) pull away in the backseat of a police car. Maybe it was just the bad coffee making me feel that way. The hummingbirds didn’t think so.

“Let’s go home,” Grandfather said. He gave me a quick hug.

We walked down the alley to Jefferson Street. We didn’t say much. I was still sorting out the questions flitting through my head. We stopped at the bus stop in front of Starbucks. We’ve been busing it for years, ever since Grandfather’s car was blown up outside his shop. It had happened not long after Mom and Dad disappeared. Since Grandfather didn’t have insurance, he’d never replaced the car. He inclined his head in the direction of the baristas serving up reasonably good coffee. I shook my head.

“That’s a first,” he said.

“Grandfather?” I started to ask him the question that had floated to the top of my brain, but the number 72 bus picked that moment to turn the corner and grind to a halt in front of us.

We grabbed seats toward the front. It wasn’t a long ride to our place. I could wait to ask him then. An ad for some cologne I’d never heard of was playing; but as soon as our butts hit the vinyl, the screen flicked over to the news. I had to smile. I think we confuse the system. We don’t buy much from retail markets, and not many vintage shops or tattoo parlors can afford to advertise on public transport. Most of the time I get Nomura products or the news. Grandfather usually gets cars. Guess the system thinks he needs a new one.

The local reporter woman was interviewing a new candidate for the senate outside a TFC downtown. “I never forget who I represent,” he said with a gleaming smile.

Grandfather groaned. “TFC is sponsoring him,” he explained without looking away from his mobile. “Nomura is being stingy with its funds this time around, which probably means your uncle doesn’t like this guy too much. Ichiro will let TFC or one of its flunkies, like Soft Target or Homeland Inc., foot the bill for this guy.”

Politics, family or otherwise, bores me; but the reporter looked familiar. Then it clicked. “That’s where I’ve seen her,” I said to no one in particular. “That’s Jet’s girlfriend.”

Grandfather looked up at the screen. “Yeah, that’s Becca. Jet’s been working on her back piece for a few months now.”

Rebecca Starr is cute, a bit more boyish than I like. Jet is curvier. Wait.
Becca?
That meant he knows her pretty well.

“They moved in together,” Grandfather said gently, as if he knew how I felt about Jet. I’d never told anyone about my crush on Jet, except Velvet—and she guessed. “They seem really happy.”

Shit.

“Eighth and Day,” the bus announced as it jerked to a stop.

Thank God. I couldn’t get off of the bus fast enough. I did not want to hear Grandfather say that I’ll meet someone someday or some crap like that. He didn’t, but he seemed a little too aware of my discomfort as we walked toward our place.

Question time.

“Why is your group so threatened by a stupid comic strip drawn by a couple of kids?”

That wiped the grin off his face. He retina-scanned us into our front entrance. The big door slid shut behind us, and the security system beeped to indicate the place was locked—and bug free. A customer had installed this quasi-legal anti-surveillance system for us a few years ago in exchange for a full-body piece. Grandfather had felt we needed the security because of what had happened to my folks. He’s still working on that tattoo.

“It’s true that the Jonas Fund could get us all in hot water,” he said as he grabbed juice from the fridge. “And some people, like Katie, think it’s our most important function, and we shouldn’t be doing anything that could screw it up. But I think most of the group is nervous because of the black vans.”

“Micah drew them in
Memento
.” I shook my head when Grandfather offered me a glass of juice. I hopped onto the counter over the recycling unit.

He nodded. “We’ve been watching the vans for a while—Bell and I—and we think they’re connected to incidents that happen later. Car bombings, mostly. So
Memento
might attract the wrong kind of attention for the group. You’re my granddaughter, and you’re giving out the comic at Doug and Katie’s school.”

“Wait. Vans? You mean the Coalition is using the black vans to blow up stuff? Then why don’t you guys report it? You don’t support what the Coalition does, right?”

Grandfather looked at me like I was five. Of course, Grandfather would never support the Coalition. And he, Bell, and everyone else would be heroes if they turned in any information about the bombings. I realized I’d been kicking the metal door of the recycling unit and stopped.

“You mean it’s not the Coalition?”

He shrugged. “Some people think the Coalition might not be behind everything that blows up these days.”

The hummingbirds beat their wings into a frenzy. It was almost as hard to think as when I took my meds. I think I started tapping my foot again, but it couldn’t keep up with the hummingbirds. Finally I got a word out. “Explain.”

“All of the attacks in the beginning—the World Trade Center, the London tube, that train in Madrid—were all done by various terrorist groups for different reasons. Separate, unconnected incidents. Then it was quiet for many years, at least outside the Middle East. Until that plane took out the bridge in San Francisco about the time you were born. At first there was some debate over whether it was really a terrorist act or just a terrible accident, but a new group calling itself the Coalition took credit for it. Afterward, smaller things started happening more and more often across the country until it was almost a daily occurrence.” Grandfather stilled my foot with his. “Everything since the Golden Gate has been blamed on the quote-unquote Coalition.”

“But if you don’t believe it’s the Coalition, then who do you think is really doing it?”

“Certain corporate interests.”

“What about the government? Why would they let this go on?”

“Governments, corporations—same thing. One owns the other, right? And business is booming.” Grandfather wasn’t laughing. “Scared people are good citizen-consumers.” He let that sink in. “I know. It’s hard to believe and nearly impossible to prove. A lot of people have disappeared trying to do so—or because they stumbled onto something. A whole watch group in South Florida vanished a few months ago. Which is why the MLSG doesn’t want you involved.”

“Afraid we’ll mess it up and blow their cover, huh?”

“They don’t want anything to happen to you.” He drained his glass. “Or themselves,” he added with a wink.

“What do
you
want, Ojiisan?” I hopped down from the counter and stood in front of him.

“I don’t want to lose you, too.” His voice caught as he said it. He put his hand over his heart, over the snowflake he’d tattooed there for me fourteen and a half years ago.

“I’m just the tech support.” This time I winked.

He didn’t look convinced. “Don’t think so little of yourself or your friends,” he said. “But be careful.”

“Me? You’re the one chasing black vans.” All this time I’d thought he was just patrolling the neighborhood, looking for burglars and muggers.

The hummingbirds were making an unbearable racket in my head. “I need to tinker.”

“And I need to work out,” he said. He kissed me on the forehead before he disappeared.

I walked through the garden to my workshop.

Did I underestimate my friends? I had to admit Nora had
huevos
. She laid out her story there and stood up to the MLSG, but I wasn’t completely sure she was my friend—or Micah’s. He was the one I worried about. He had no one. Just his mom and a few other homeless people looking out for him. He was the one who would go down hard for this if it went bad.

And I knew it would. The hummingbirds told me.

I had to finish my garden.

21

Therapeutic Statement
42-03282028-12
Subject:
WALLENBERG, MICAH JONAS, 15
Facility:
HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

She kissed me. Again.
That was the only thing going through my brain, like a loop playing over and over again, as I pushed off toward home. That and the smell of her hair. Like Fruit Loops. I love Fruit Loops. We don’t get those too often in the Village. My board glided over the ramps and sidewalks and handrails until I got to the King footbridge.

I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet. I plopped myself down by the statue. From there you can see the back end of downtown—the reverse of the skyline you see on the city logo—with Memorial Avenue running right through it.

My brain wandered off from the Fruit Loops to darker areas, like cops and black vans. I, for one, was looking forward to some ride-along action with the Black Van Committee, but I didn’t know how I was going to stand not knowing until then. At least I’d get to see Nora on Monday. And she definitely said to call her this weekend.

I got out my sketch pad, cranked up the tunes on my mobile—a little Lo-Fi Strangers I’d cadged off Spike. I started out drawing Nora; but as my mind went to that chill, kind of glossy-in-a-good-way place it goes when I draw, I began sketching black vans and crowds of people. I could see where my story and the cop’s intersected.

I poured it out on paper, not all of it, just a scene or two, while the Strangers croaked out “My credit rating sucks and so do you” through my earbuds.

The lights on the bridge started to flicker on as the sun dipped behind the copper roof of the Alexander Hamilton Building. I was losing my light, so I watched the traffic roll down Memorial for a few minutes. Most of it was buses or car services—you can tell by the armor plating—fleeing from the city center. All except this black van streaking toward downtown. I stuffed everything into my bag and hopped on my board and rode it down the handi-ramp to the street. The van was long gone now. A cop car coming the other way slowed. Its blackened window slid down as it pulled up alongside me.

“Unless you have a work or sports permit, you better get home, kid,” the cop said. Her Homeland Inc. badge flashed J
ACINDA
W. “The eighteen-and-under curfew starts in twenty,” she added, not waiting for me to reply. Without a pass or an adult, no kids can be on the street after dark in our fair metropolis. She hit her flashers and took off after a speeding limo.

“On my way, officer,” I said to the back of her car.

Mrs. Brooks scolded me for being late again, but she’d saved me a big bowl of excellent vegetarian chili and a hunk of sunflower fennel French bread. Mom was working another double. She’s determined to get us our own apartment again by Christmas. Most places these days require a wad of cash up front if you have a shit security score like we do. First three months’ rent. Last three. Security deposits. Cleaning fees. Credit check. Security check. I’d rather just stay in Black Dog Village, but I get it. Mom wants us to have our own place. How could I get mad at her for that? Especially since I keep screwing up and costing her money. I know the emergency room isn’t free. We can’t afford insurance.

Mrs. Brooks sank into the seat next to me with a big cup of coffee in one of her new blue-glazed cups. She asked me how my day was, and I nearly choked on my bread.

“Chew, boy,” she said. She looked real tired, and I knew that wasn’t decaf in her cup. She volunteers at a soup kitchen twice a week on top of everything she does here.

“Mrs. Brooks, have you heard anything about black vans?” I asked. She knows a lot of people—on the streets and off. Church people. Cops. Delivery drivers. People more homeless than us.

She looked at me hard. “Young man, you steer clear of any unmarked black vehicles you see in this city. Or any city.” There wasn’t a hint of that stern-but-not-really thing in her voice. She was dead serious. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I said, and then chewed furiously. Mom hadn’t told anyone in Black Dog how I’d broken my arm. I guess they all assumed I’d wiped out on my board. “Just had a dream about one hitting me,” I added when I could see she wasn’t buying it. It wasn’t exactly a lie. I had that dream sometimes. And sometimes a bunch of apes in football jerseys drove the van.

I probably could have told her about the whole memory support group run-in and about
Memento
, but Mrs. Brooks might tell Mom. And then she’d figure out I never took the pill. That would really freak her out.

I fetched the rest of the firewood for Mrs. B. before I hit the sack, but I couldn’t really sleep. I pulled on my jeans and padded out barefoot to the playground. Here you didn’t have to worry about junkies and terrorists when you couldn’t sleep. Melinda Peterson waved to me as she sat in front of her cottage having a late-night smoke and a cup of herbal tea. She usually waits up for her husband to come home from his job scrubbing floors at the courthouse. I sat atop the jungle gym and stared at the stars for a while. The city slept. I could still feel Nora’s lips on mine. And I could still smell the Fruit Loops.

In the quiet, I heard the distinct sound of a car bomb going off somewhere. Maybe uptown.

That’s when it clicked in my head. Black vans. Car bombs. Duh. Crazy, but so duh that no one would believe it.