Sweat-soaked and aching, it dawned on him that the chaos had slowed. A few more tugs, another pull, and suddenly, quiet on their side of the improvised dam. They stood side by side on the glistening catwalk, breathing hard. Overhead, the overlapped, battened tarps quivered, shivered, but didn’t give, not where the hole was or where they’d covered and buttressed the panes in danger. They stood and watched for a long time. Kelly felt the temperature rise.
A pretty sound: He looked up. She was pointing at their handiwork and laughing. “That’s really ugly.” She shook her wild head.
“You mean we were going for art?” He folded his arms. “Damn!”
She smiled, right at him, right into his eyes. “Really,” she said, “thank you.”
“Hey. It was fun.”
“Fun?”
“Okay, it was terrible. But,” he shrugged, looked around, “I’m from the South.”
Her gaze followed his. “I’ve been looking after them for eight years. Some are rare, very valuable.”
“But that’s not the point, is it?”
Again, a direct look. Her eyes were an impossible blue, a lazy afternoon on a windless sea. “No.”
He smiled too, lifted a hand, stopped just before he touched her. “We’d better take care of that.”
“What?”
“You’re hurt.”
“Me?” In true surprise she put fingertips to her brow. She found blood. That made her laugh too. “Okay,” she said, taking a last survey, “I guess we can go down.”
They climbed into the basket, leaving the catwalk littered with fabric, with rope.
As the hoist inched down, she asked, “What do you do here?”
“I…”
She waited, still smiling. A volunteer, he’d said he was a volunteer. He’d gotten a phone call. How could he answer her? What do volunteers do at a place like this?
“Lots of things,” he settled on. “Variety, you know.” The start of doubt shaded her eyes. He didn’t want that, so he said, “I build things. Temporary barriers, that kind of thing.” Every place needed those. No matter how carefully you planned, there were always changes in what was allowed, where you could go, how close.
She nodded. Maybe she was going to speak, but a shout blasted up from below. “Doctor Morse! Is that you in that thing?”
They both peered over the basket rail, found a uniformed man craning his neck below, obscured by foliage. “Of course it’s me!” she shouted back, her voice full of disgust. “Wilson,” she said quietly to Kelly. “An asshole.”
Takes care of Wilson. And when they reached the glasshouse floor, it got worse.
“Who’s that with you? Dr. Morse, you know you can’t take people up without a signed waiver! You—”
“Shut up, Wilson. This is John Kelly.” Don’t tell him my name! “A volunteer. He almost got killed helping me plug the break. Which you weren’t about to do, so shut up.” She jumped from the hoist’s basket, gave the guard a hard stare. He flushed. Once that happened she turned her back, clambered onto a bark-mulched mound to inspect a broken frond, a casualty.
The red-faced guard regrouped. His glare bounced off her back, her riotous hair, so he turned to Kelly. “John Kelly?” He said it slowly and squinted, and shit, it was that guard.
Kelly climbed from the basket too, spoke to the horticulturalist worrying over her plants. “Listen, I better go, see if—”
“Kelly! I thought so!” Wilson’s bark was full of nasty triumph. “They gave us your photo. They want you back, boy. Big reward. Saw you the other day, didn’t I? At the gate.” He came closer, still talking. “This guy’s dangerous, doctor.” He said doctor like an insult.
“No,” Kelly said, backing. “Keep away.”
“You’re busted.”
“No.”
“What’s going on?” She jumped down, between them.
“He’s a killer. Escaped con.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re wrong,” Wilson sneered. “Cops passed out his picture. He sliced his wife up.”
She turned to Kelly.
“That was someone else,” he said, and he also said, “I’m leaving.”
“No!” the guard yelled, and drew a gun.
“Wilson, are you crazy?” Her shout was furious.
“Doctor, how about you shut up? Kelly! Down on the floor!”
“No.” Walk past him, right out the door. He won’t shoot.
“On the floor!” Wilson unclipped his radio, spoke into it, gun still trained on Kelly. “Emergency,” he said. “Dispatch, I need cops. In the conservatory—”
That couldn’t happen. Kelly lunged, not for the gun, for the radio. Pulled it from Wilson’s grip, punched his face, ran.
And almost made the door.
Two shots, hot steel slicing through soft, spiced air. The first caught Kelly between the shoulder blades. To the right, so it missed his heart, but all it meant was that he was still alive and awake when the second bullet, flying wild after a ricochet, shattered a pane in the arching dome. Glass glittered as it burst, showered down like snow, with snow, on waves of icy air Kelly could see. The wind, sensing its chance, shifted, pulled, and tugged, poured in, changed positive pressure to negative and ripped through an edge of the tarp patch. Collected snow slid off the tarp onto a broad-leafed palm. Kelly saw all this, heard a repeated waiclass="underline" “No! No! No!” He tried to rise but couldn’t draw breath.
Looking around he saw blood, his blood, pooling. She knelt beside him, wild blond hair sweeping around her face, and he heard her knotted voice, choked with sorrow not for him. “All right, it’s all right. An ambulance is coming.”
In this storm? And he didn’t want an ambulance, he just wanted to go home. The trees, he tried to say to her, watching the palms cringe away from the cataract of frigid air. But he couldn’t speak, and what could she do for them? I’m sorry, he told the trees. I’m sorry none of us ever got home. Sprinkled with glass shards and snow, losing blood fast, Kelly started to shiver. As darkness took the edges of his sight, he stared up into the recoiling leaves. At least it wouldn’t be as bad for them as for him. Freezing, they say, is a warm death.
Lost and found
by Thomas Bentil
Rikers Island
I’ve been running for six months now. What from? you ask. The answer isn’t that simple. To find the right answer, you have to ask the right question. So let’s try that again. The question is, What am I chasing and who’s chasing me?
In certain circles, they call me Ice T, but my name, date of birth, and Social Security number change more often than songs on Hot 97. I’m a fugitive. I’m a tweaker. Today I’m lost, just holding on for dear life. My minutes are running low. Any day now the heat will come knocking with an all-expensepaid ticket to the not so far off Island — the carcarel hell that will soon be my home. Face it; there are only so many places the Bronx will let you hide. Nothing changes, the streets are still watching.
Here I am, spun out on crystal meth once more. I stink and I’m weak. I’m penniless and friendless. No more credit cards to squeeze dry, no more checks to wash. The spreads are all used up. What’s a spread? you ask. It’s basically everything you need to know about a person to rob them of everything they have. Cough up 250 bucks and I’ll get you everything you need to be John Smith today and Michael Phillips tomorrow.