The Acolytes of Crane "Updated Edition" (15 page)

‘Let’s
say Nezatron is wrong and Travis is actually spying on you. So what are we
going to do?’ Lincoln asked.

‘Well,
Nezatron told me right before I left that if someone was teleporting on Earth
and leaving singed grass behind, the port had to be local. He said that type of
heat was only generated by using a port within the perimeter of a vessel.
Nezatron searched my street for heat signatures and found nothing. He brushes
it off, but I think there was a ship, and it must have been cloaked or
something. We need to work fast, and we need to find someone today. Did you
come up with a plan?’

‘I
did, my good ol’ pal. So here it is. . .’

Lincoln
told me that the first stage of the recruitment operation, was compiling a list
of the individuals whom we would engage, because some people just might not be
able to believe our bizarre pitch, or even give us the time of day.

Once
we completed the list, we needed to cross-reference with Nezatron, and
eliminate possible candidates who were not of outstanding integrity. Then, we
needed to approach them to do our own hands-on detective work.

For
that, Lincoln brushed up on his knowledge of the literature of Sun Tzu. I
definitely expected Lincoln to have read that classic, because he was always
quoting ancient philosophers. Sun Tzu was his absolute favorite. In
The Art
of War
, Lincoln said there were ways of distinguishing friend from foe.

There
were certain tests that we could use to expose the subjects’ moral standing. He
was going to use his knowledge gained from that book to aid in finding the
three extra people we had currently lacked.

The
first person on our list was Liam McCaffrey. Liam made the list for his
physical attributes. He was seventeen and worked as a dishwasher at a
hole-in-the-wall bar called Green Streets. He was on the Triton High School
varsity wrestling team.

See,
Liam was sort of an anomaly. He stood at five-eleven, two hundred pounds, and
his weight was distributed well. Rather than appearing obese, he was the
heavyset type that adults approvingly called “a growing boy” or “has big
bones.” He once beat a college kid in an unsanctioned match in my grandparents’
backyard near the wood-line. We didn’t know how the match made its way into my
grandparents’ yard, but it was entertaining as I breathlessly watched from the
window.

Lincoln
and I did a background check on him to see if he was legit and of good
character. Our findings were solid to say the least. Liam was the son of the
local minister. More importantly, he helped me personally.

When
I was in sixth grade, a boy came up to me and took my drawings out of my hands.
At first, I thought the kids were just having fun with me, and then they
crumpled the paper to toss back and forth.

They
were teasing me, bullying me. I tried to stand up to them myself, but all the
other kids were laughing and pointing at me. Just when I could not take any
more ridicule, and I was ready to walk away defeated—Liam came to the rescue.

“Like
a paladin warrior, he rose from the mob and stood by my side. He told the
bullies that if they didn’t give my books back, he was going to smash their
heads like little grapes.  Throughout the years, Liam made continuous reference
to grapes. I figured that he must have sat around squashing grapes all day. I
knew that Liam was someone we needed.”

After
telling the story about Liam, I realize I forgot about the nurse. What if she
was someone who could help me?

She
had called me Theo.

I
rub my fingers through my hair, daydreaming that the love of my life was
caressing my locks with tender, slender fingers and a contented sigh. The
coarseness and grease within my tresses defeat my fantasy, and I quickly
withdraw my hand in disgust.

I
realize that if I pretend to be a casualty of dehydration, it is possible that
the guards will send her in again. I place my hand on the wall and instantly
drop onto the floor. I lie there lifeless as before, with my eyes closed and
trying to mask the rise of my chest.

I
try not to blink, leaving my eyes white and visible for the cameras.

“Prisoner,
eight-six-seven-five. Stand up and approach the vault. Stand up, you scumbag!
If I have to come in there, you are going to wish you were standing.”

I
recognize his tone; he is the troubled guard, for reasons I do not know.
Someone must have mocked and bullied him before my time, because he treats me
poorly.

Dejectedly,
I acknowledge that the nurse entering isn’t a likely conclusion. As I rise up
slowly, I see something of significance. My pupils dilating, I glance away,
pretending I didn’t see it.

“That
is right, you punk! I knew you would get up,” the disgruntled guard says.

“He’d
probably kick your ass if he wasn’t locked up, Shifty!” the veteran guard
yells.

“I
will write you up for using my real name!”

“Go
ahead, how many times have you ratted on someone up around here? And when has
anything come of it? Leave the prisoner be, or I will write you up.”

Their
verbal squabble continues, but it ends for me, because the view box closes.

I
decide to wait until the moment is right, to see what is on my floor, but to
ensure its safety, I lie down near it to shield it with my body. Grabbing my
tablet, I pick up where I left off:

“Ah
hell, where was I? I said something about remembering, and then, oh yes,
grapes—that’s it. Liam McCaffrey.”

We
arrived at Liam’s house. His home was the only residence in our area that still
had a functioning farm—one of those small one-acre “hobby farms” favored by
some suburban families seeking to offset their taxable income. For homecoming
one year, a group of teens kidnapped a goat from Liam’s farm, and streaked
across the football field in loin clothes, tugging onto the recalcitrant goat
with a rope as they did so. It was very entertaining. Thankfully, they returned
the goat unharmed.

It
was during the day that Lincoln and I first approached Liam’s house to seek his
interest. The wind was gusting, and Lincoln kept losing a ridiculous bandana he
was trying to wear.

We
walked down that block many times before to feed their animals. The McCaffrey
house was quite the novelty. They had five goats, ten sheep and two ponies. The
ponies were usually locked up. The one time I did see them, they looked like
over-fed dogs, as if they just sat and ate all day.

We
cautiously walked up to Liam’s house. The driveway was gravel and was almost
swallowed by brush. I could not see the driveway from the street, because of
the thick cover that smothered it.

We
took care; there was no telling how they might behave once we walked up to
their house. We didn’t really know them well enough to make an accurate
judgment. As we approached, I heard shouting from within the house.

Through
the window, I saw Liam’s mother, Mrs. McCaffrey darting around on the main
floor. She was gesturing with her hands erratically. Her scraggly locks, rusty
orange in color, curled wildly off her shoulders. Her eyes were freakishly blue
and mesmerizing. She seemed so intensely immersed in whatever she was engaged
in. Lincoln looked over at me for guidance before he knocked. I gave him the
signal.

‘Honey!
Will you get that please? Hon, will you get the door,’ a man’s voice shouted
from the second floor.

 The
front door swung open so abruptly, that we felt an inward draft breezing by the
skin on our faces and upper arms. Just as quickly, the door slammed as Mrs.
McCaffrey burst outside and closed it behind her. In her haste, she nearly
thrust her body at us, so off-balance was she, breathing deeply.

She
didn’t give us any time to manage a simple “hello.”

‘Okay
boys, I want you to stand here,’ she said, pulling me over toward the plastic
flamingos scattered about on the coarse lawn, as Lincoln, puzzled, followed in
tow. Her eyes blinking rapidly, she dramatically held out her arms toward the
heavens. ‘You both stand over there. Perfect. Now, you will play the role of
the audience as I display my affection and distraught mind as Margaret. It is
my most emotional act.’

Lincoln
and I exchanged bewildered glances.

She
didn’t seem to notice our reactions. Both hands clasped against her chest just
above her left breast, she acted as if she were auditioning for a role. ‘I am
but a weary soul, and my heart is shackled by your love.’ Feigning distress,
she brought the back of her hand to her forehead. With a theatrical gasp of air
and a scoff, she continued, ‘Now deliver me from this pain. Go, you
insufferable beast. Cure the ache in your soul! Begone!’ She slowly fell to her
knees and faked some tears, rubbing her eyes with bent index fingers.

As
she kneeled, her gaze reverted to normal, as if she had snapped out of a
trance. Quick like a rabbit at dawn, she hopped to her feet. She looked
directly at us, just like any responsible adult addressing two kids.  ‘Can I
help you boys?’

Lincoln
and I looked at each other. Simultaneously, we asked, ‘Is Liam home?’

‘No,
I do apologize. I so love the theater and that was one of Margaret’s defining
moments. I have been working on a play.’ She placed her hands on her hips and
sighed, looking off into the distance. ‘Liam is at camp with his father. They
will be coming back later tonight. Would you like for me to tell Liam you
stopped by, wait, aren’t you boys young to be hanging out with Liam?’

‘Yes.
Please ma’am, we don’t really want to play with him. We just want to ask him
some questions for a project we are working on. We’ll get out of your hair,’ I
said, and I grabbed Lincoln to follow me down the driveway.

‘I
will tell him you stopped by—your names?’ she asked.

‘Lincoln
Royce and Theodore Crane,’ I said.

Mrs.
McCaffrey’s eyes grew sad. Again folding her hands over her heart, she emoted
sincere warmth and sympathy, as if it were her own son that died. ‘You are the
boy who lost his friend. I hope all is going well for you. I was deeply
saddened by your loss. Jason has most definitely found a place in heaven among
angels, and I know he is up there watching you now, as does God. God bless you
boys, I will tell Liam you stopped by.’

She
walked away and started-up with another dramatic monologue. Lincoln and I
looked at each other again and took off down the gravel driveway. With Liam’s
house to our backs, I asked Lincoln, ‘If her husband was at camp, who was the
man upstairs?’

‘I
don’t know, and I don’t want to know. It couldn’t have been good. He was
calling her honey,’ Lincoln said as he shook his head.

So,
now we knew Liam and his dad were at camp. Lincoln and I sized up our progress
to date. To recap, we needed three people who were of impeccable character, and
had specific skills.

First,
Liam was not available right now, and we were running out of time. Second, we
knew that whatever Liam’s mom did, it shouldn’t reflect upon Liam’s character.
But—if Liam’s mom was doing what we thought she was, then we need to ensure
that Liam didn’t inherit her questionable moral values. We were definitely off
to a sluggish start.

The
next boy on our list was someone who had a reputation as a “bad boy.” We knew
him better than most people, and we knew he wasn’t actually a troublemaker. He
wore this toughness as a façade in order to appear “cool,” designed to hide the
true nature of his kindness. He viewed his innate generosity as a weakness,
but  we viewed it easily as strength.

He
always skated behind a local bread factory by the freeway. This factory, named
County Hearth, was probably the hottest spot to skateboard because of its
industrial layout, and because it shut down every day at six—allowing
skateboarding enthusiasts to congregate there as if it was a shrine. The
location, just off the frontage road by highway six-ninety-four, was known for
a concrete embankment near the loading dock—perfect for skateboard tricks and
stunts.

People
played games of SKATE there. It was a match no different from HORSE or PIG in
basketball. The object of the game was to match or better the trick that the
previous skater had cleanly landed. If a player bailed or blanked on the board,
they would find themselves with the next letter in sequence of the word, as if
each letter was a dreaded penalty to be imposed. The first person to
unwillingly complete the word, SKATE, would be eliminated from the competition.

We
arrived at the Hearth to shred the concrete embankment with our decks, but all
the regular skateboarders were missing. We figured we would get some practicing
in.

I
had a banana board, and I was oddly good with it. As if it were second nature,
I easily executed the slick motions that awed my friends. A sign of my skill
was that grip tape was sparingly added to my board’s front and back ends, both
of which curved upwards. Most boards—for amateurs—had the entire upper surface
covered with grip tape.

To
do an “
ollie
,” I would pound the tail of my board down to the ground
with my back foot and simultaneously jam my front foot against the roughness of
the grip tape. This action would cause the board to rise up, and soar into the
air along with me.