Bad Glass Part 19

Terry let out a laugh. "Yeah, yeah, that's me," he said. "I didn't think you'd catch on. I've had him stopping by once or twice a week to tell me how you're doing. It's all innocent, though. Nothing nefarious. I'm just trying to keep track of my favorite girl."

"And you're paying him for this?" Taylor asked. "You're paying him to spy on me?"

"Not much-just some food, some pot-and if you're worried about his character, I'm not making him report anything too personal or bad. I just want to know how you're doing, if you're in trouble, if you need help." He flicked a finger in my direction. "He told me about Dean last time he was here. He said you seemed happy."

"When?" I asked, jumping into the conversation. "When did you see him?" I was excited. This seemed like a miracle to me. Finally, here was the answer to a mystery, an explanation that actually made sense, that didn't get lost in a jumble of magic and religion.

"A couple of days ago," Terry said. "Just after Weasel moved in."

"And where'd you get the radio?" I asked. "How'd you wire up the tunnels?"

Terry met these questions with a look of confusion. It seemed genuine. "Radio? Radios don't work here. And tunnels?" Terry shook his head. "No. No, I don't go near any tunnels."

I looked over at Taylor, and she returned my gaze, confused. I hadn't told her about the radio and the wires. After a moment, she offered me a halfhearted shrug. "Maybe it's something Devon did on his own. Maybe it's not important."

I shook my head. No, that wasn't it, but I didn't bother trying to argue. Taylor hadn't been there. She hadn't followed the wire down into the dark; she hadn't seen the vast network of tunnels. There was no way that that didn't mean something. And there was no way Devon could have done it all on his own.

"Where's Weasel?" Taylor asked Terry. "I want to see him. I want to make sure he's okay." She cast me a nervous glance, looking for my reaction. But I didn't react. There was just no energy there, no anger. Not anymore. Weasel wasn't a threat; he'd never been a threat. Taylor could like me and still want to help her friend, even if that friend had tried to f.u.c.k me over. I could see that now. I guess I was getting more secure in our relationship.

"He's in the tower, down in the bas.e.m.e.nt," Terry said. "I don't know if he's there right now. Frankly, I haven't seen him since he moved in."

Taylor stood up and made to leave.

"Don't be angry with me," Terry said. "I didn't mean anything bad. I just want to see you safe. I want to see you happy."

Taylor nodded. "I know, Terry," she said. "I'm happy. I'm safe. But it's you I'm worried about." She bent down and gave him a kiss on the forehead. And then, in a quieter voice: "But don't spy on me. Don't you dare! I don't want to end up hating you. Okay?"

"Okay," Terry said, once again flashing that exhausted smile.

Then Taylor turned and walked away.

Taylor left through the front door. I followed her to the threshold, then paused, turning to look back into the room. Taylor continued on without me.

Terry was still seated on the sofa, facing the wide window. His hand was up on his forehead in a pose of absolute fatigue. Struck by the tableau, I fished the camera out of my backpack and started taking pictures. I framed it so that the bottom part of the vertical photograph showed barren hardwood floor, struck slightly out of focus. And then, up in the top third, there was Terry, seated on that ratty old sofa, surrounded by stacks of books. He was front-lit, as sunshine broke through the clouds on the far side of the gla.s.s. His shadow-nothing but a slumped head perched atop the sofa's elongated width-stretched back into the room, darkening the polished floor.

The Weight of the World, I thought, considering t.i.tles. No ... The Weight of Civilization.

When I thought I had the shot, I holstered the camera and reslung my backpack.

"Take care of her, Dean," Terry said, still holding that pose, head down, hand up on his forehead. He must have heard the shutter from across the room. "Don't let anything happen."

I nodded, even though I knew he couldn't see me. Then I followed Taylor out the door.

We climbed stairs up to the third floor, then crossed to the next building over, once again making our way across a makeshift bridge. The buildings on this block were all close together, but still, crossing these spans, feeling the wood wobble beneath my feet, was a nerve-racking experience, and each time I found myself holding my breath and keeping my eyes fixed on the far side. Three floors up, the fall might not prove fatal, but it certainly wouldn't be pleasant.

When we reached the third building, we continued to climb. The building ended up on the fourth floor. We stepped out of the stairwell onto a tar-papered roof.

"Terry likes heights," Taylor said. There was a small tent set up on the corner of the roof. Arrayed around its entrance were several potted plants and a small charcoal grill. A thin ribbon of smoke curled up from the grill, guttering up toward the sky. "He linked up all of these buildings to give us territory, but he himself prefers to sleep out in the open." She was smiling widely, her affection for the old man beaming through. "The first floors of these buildings are all boarded up. There are only two entrances, one on each end of the block, and Terry keeps them guarded. It's his own medieval castle, you see. Only here, no one's trying to storm the gates."

The next building on this side of the block was much taller than the one we were standing on. In fact, it was the tallest building in sight, stretching at least ten stories tall, an imposing brick edifice, each side a dark red face stubbled with tiny windows. Taylor stepped to the edge of the roof and gestured up toward the building's top floors. A lot of the windows up there had been covered over, and I could see the glint of aluminum foil in those recessed squares, glimmering like silver teeth between narrowed lips. "The tower," she said. "I used to live up there ... for a while."

The buildings here were not quite even, and the bridge over to the tower was skewed, slanted down at a fifteen-degree angle. Thankfully, somebody had set up a handrail, though it didn't feel much st.u.r.dier than the planks bouncing beneath my feet. Once again, I held my breath, not letting it out until Taylor grabbed my arm and helped me down on the far side.

We ended up in a stairwell. Taylor pulled a flashlight from her pocket and led the way down, casting shadows back and forth across each riser as I struggled to keep up. She didn't pause when we reached the bottom. She shouldered her way through a heavy fire door into a cold and musty bas.e.m.e.nt.

It was like stepping into a long-abandoned crypt: the penetrating cold, the touch of moisture, a slight hint of rot floating in the thick, stale air. There was a dim light at one end of the main corridor. Taylor touched my arm-a brief, tentative touch-and started toward the light.

The corridor ended in a large industrial kitchen. There were stainless steel tables running along all four walls, and a cooking station stretched down its middle, complete with stove tops and a wide ventilating hood. The floor was dark red tile, and it dipped down toward a drain in each of the room's four corners. The smell of rot was stronger here.

The light was coming from a pantry on the far side of the room. Taylor gestured with her flashlight, then led the way over to its entrance.

There were three people in the pantry, and all three lay stretched out on the floor. At first, I thought they were dead, then one of them-a large black man wearing a bright red knit cap-groaned and turned over, burying his sweaty face in a blanket on the floor. The other two-a girl sporting wild black dreadlocks and a stick-thin man with a scraggly, unkempt beard-remained still. The girl had her face pressed up against the man's chest. She was shivering, despite the sheen of sweat glistening on her cheeks.

There were lit candles scattered around the room and a single battery-powered lantern burned in the corner. The batteries must have been dying, as the lantern gave off only the dimmest orange glow. There was a candle and a charred spoon at the girl's feet, and she had a pair of panty hose cinched tight around her bicep. The smell of ozone, sweat, and cooking heroin lay thick in the air.

"s.h.i.t," Taylor muttered. "Motherf.u.c.ker!" She crouched down next to the bearded man and began slapping his cheeks, first softly, then with increasing strength. After the sixth slap, the man's head snapped up off the floor.

"f.u.c.k, man," he said, wearing a distant, s.h.i.t-eating grin. "What the f.u.c.k ...? Taylor?"

"Yeah, Johnny," Taylor said. "You're a motherf.u.c.king piece of work, aren't you?"

"I try," Johnny said, still wearing that lunatic smile. He let his head drop back down to the floor. "I'm a work of art ... always in progress."

"Just tell me where Weasel is," Taylor said, shaking her head. "Tell me where he's staying."

Johnny was silent for a handful of seconds. His eyelids began to droop, and then, abruptly, they fell shut.

"Motherf.u.c.ker!" Taylor growled. She clamped her hands over both of Johnny's ears and started to shake his head back and forth. His eyes snapped open, and there was a look of fear there as he tried to get a fix on Taylor's angry eyes. "Where's Weasel, Johnny?" Taylor continued to growl. "Just f.u.c.king tell me!"

The violence jolted the dreadlocked girl out of her stupor. She pushed away from Johnny and frantically rolled across the room, finally coming to rest against her other roommate. She pressed herself tight against his sleeping body and curled into a fetal ball. Her eyes remained open. She watched Taylor and Johnny from beneath drooping, heavy lids.

"f.u.c.k," Johnny groaned as Taylor continued to shake him. "Just stop! Stop! I'm going to be sick."

Taylor grabbed the collar of Johnny's shirt and pulled him up into a sitting position. A ribbon of spit poured from his lips, and I thought he really was going to be sick. "The other ... the other end of the hall," he said, trying to prop himself up with a shaking arm. "He emptied out a broom closet. Won't f.u.c.king come out."

Taylor put her hand against Johnny's face and pushed, hard, sending him tumbling back to the floor. Johnny let out a loud groan and grasped his head between his palms. He closed his eyes and started rocking back and forth.

"Leave Weasel alone, Johnny," Taylor said. "Terry might be letting your s.h.i.t slide, but I won't let it go. I'll f.u.c.k you up-absolutely f.u.c.k you up-if I ever, ever see you near him again. Okay? Okay?"

Johnny let out another groan. I took that as a sign of agreement.

"We've got to get him out of here, Dean," Taylor said as we crossed back through the kitchen. She paused and looked back at me over her shoulder. There was a hint of fear in her eyes, a glimmer of trepidation fighting its way past all of that seething anger. "He's going to die here if we don't do something. We've got to get him home."

"Yeah," I said. "It's fine. I understand."

After seeing Johnny, I really couldn't argue with her logic. I wouldn't wish that kind of punishment on anyone.

A grateful smile flickered across her lips. And then she was gone. She barreled out of the kitchen and back down the main corridor, quickly making her way to the other end of the floor.

There were a half dozen storage rooms at this end of the bas.e.m.e.nt, but Taylor barely paused as she darted past, sending a brief flicker of light across each open door. I struggled to keep up. Finally, at the end of the corridor, she pulled to a stop. There was a jumble of debris strewn across the floor, here-a mop, several brooms, rags, a bucket filled with dirty gray water-and it barely left enough s.p.a.ce to let open the broom closet door.

Taylor stepped up to the closet and knocked. "Weasel?" she said. Her voice was tentative, weak, a stark contrast to all the energy she'd unleashed against Johnny. She knocked again, this time a little bit harder. "Let me in. I want to help."

There was no response.

"Please, Wendell," she said, her voice cracking. She continued in a low whisper: "I'm sorry. I forgive you."

Then she opened the door.

There was no one inside. The closet was a tiny s.p.a.ce, barely large enough to house a sleeping man. There were blankets layered in a stack on the floor, the top blanket turned down in a neat triangle. It looked like a child's bed, prepped and ready for a good night's sleep.

"f.u.c.k," Taylor said, letting out a nervous laugh. In the backwash of her flashlight, I could see tears glistening on her cheeks. "All of this work ... I thought we'd find him dead, and the f.u.c.ker's not even here."

She played her flashlight across the floor of the closet. The blankets took up most of the s.p.a.ce, but there was more of Weasel's stuff inside. There was a stack of flannel shirts folded into a pillow at the head of the bed and, lying next to it, Weasel's fedora. I remembered it from my first day in the city. He'd doffed it like a gentleman as he greeted me.

Taylor once again panned the flashlight across the small room, finally settling on a stack of notebooks tucked into the corner. They were cheap notebooks. I recognized the style: black-and-white marbled covers, the words Composition Book and College Ruled stamped across the front. There had been stacks and stacks of these things at my university bookstore-nearly a full pallet, dumped right inside the front door-on sale for fifty cents each. A worn-down nub of pencil lay on top of the stack, and there were wood shavings scattered across the floor.

Taylor let out a curious grunt. "His journals," she said. "He's always writing. Every f.u.c.king day." She got down on the blanket and pulled the topmost notebook into her lap. She held up her flashlight and flipped through the thin pages. I could see densely packed words scrawled in pencil and ink.

She leaned forward to put the notebook back, then paused in midmotion. Her eyes widened, and her left hand started to move slowly at her side, gently caressing the blanket down by her leg, feeling ... something. I couldn't see what she was doing. After a couple of moments of tentative exploration, she scooted off the edge of the blanket and pushed it back violently, bunching it up against the far wall and exposing the concrete beneath.

And then she let out a sudden, strangled sob.

"No, no, no," she hissed. She clamped her eyes shut and fell back against the wall. Her legs went dead, and gravity pulled her back down to the floor.

There were fingers in the concrete. Four fingers and the tip of a thumb, sticking up from the broom closet floor.

Fingers, reaching up from the world below.

Taylor dropped her flashlight, and it rolled slowly across the floor. The fingers were at the edges of its light, but they still cast sharp shadows: tapered pyramids stretching across the concrete, pointing up toward the left-hand wall. The flashlight stopped rolling, but the shadows didn't remain still. The fingers were quivering. Not strong, conscious movements, but rather an electric tremor, tendons adjusting beneath skin, pulling tight against bone.

Taylor let out a weak groan. "It's Weasel," she said. Her voice was a raw, guttural whisper. She kept her eyes clenched shut. "It's Weasel," she repeated.

I didn't say anything. My heart was beating fast, but I was not afraid.

I was numb. I was astounded.

I got down on my knees and pulled the flashlight over to my side, fixing the fingers in the center of its beam. The fingernails were ragged and packed with dirt, and there was a bruise beneath the middle cuticle. The knuckles had been sc.r.a.ped raw, but otherwise there seemed to be little damage. And the concrete itself was absolutely perfect-no cracks, no crumbling, no hint of violence of any type.

I glanced back at Taylor. She had her hands up over her eyes, as if she were trying to hide, as if she were trying to retreat from the world into the comfort of her pressed palms. I left her alone. Instead, I grabbed my camera and started taking pictures.

Journal. Undated. Weasel's words:

(A composition book, battered and creased. The first twenty pages are filled with cramped, handwritten letters-messy and uneven, often deviating from the light blue college-ruled lines. The first couple of pages are written in ballpoint ink; then pencil takes over midsentence.

Entries are generally short-brief bursts of words separated by thick horizontal lines. The horizontal lines are bold; they've been traced and retraced, scribbled back and forth with a heavy hand. The entries are undated.

As the pages pa.s.s, the words become larger and sloppier, and the last couple of handwritten pages are barely legible. Left-leaning letters spill off the rule. Lines and curves refuse to meet, as if the words are losing cohesion, breaking apart and scattering across the page.

The second half of the notebook is completely blank. It is untouched by pen or pencil. It is an empty canvas, waiting for paint.)

I've made mistakes. I've done a lot of things I shouldn't have done. And each hole I dig buries me deeper.

There's something wrong with me, I know. Something very, very wrong!!!

And that's why I belong here. That's why I'm never getting out.

Yesterday, about three, I met Johnny and Trent in front of Mama Ca.s.s's. They were tweaking on something, bouncing up and down like ADD children on cotton candy and crack. They had these wide s.h.i.t-eating grins, and they kept glancing at each other and exchanging looks, like they had some motherf.u.c.king secret and I didn't measure up to share. I almost turned around and left right then. It was all just bulls.h.i.t, bulls.h.i.t I didn't need. But I didn't have anywhere else to go.

They took my arms and started guiding me east, Trent braying that ridiculous laugh of his, like it was all so f.u.c.king funny, and they wouldn't tell me where we were going. Just Johnny saying, "It's a surprise. It's your motherf.u.c.king birthday party."