“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Kudrow said, his voice controlled to the point of flatness. Rothchild was the only man he feared.
Rothchild grinned and whipped his eyes briefly at one of the displays. “The President did her doggie style last night. Wanna see?”
Kudrow shook his head. The Secret Service might have looked politely away, but not Rothchild. That he could look at all was no mystery. Wires especially were not mysterious. If something, be it an innocent phone call or the most intimate of digitized video imagery, traveled over a wire, or as a radio signal between stations, anywhere on the planet, Rothchild could intercept it. Uncle Sam had made sure that he could without even knowing that he was. Only KIWI vexed Rothchild, a small favor Kudrow was grateful for.
“You know, her body came back real fine after that baby,” Rothchild commented, wanting Kudrow, the ever faithful husband and father, to just sneak a peek, just one peek, so that he might seem human. But the offer found no takers. Rothchild cocked his head with mild regret, set the Pepsi aside, and pointed himself back to his main display. “So, what do we need to do with Special Agent Art Jefferson?”
Kudrow stepped behind Rothchild as his fingers began to work the keyboard. Information, the basics at first, concerning Art Jefferson scrolled on the screen. “He needs to be separated from a young man.”
“Simon Lynch,” Rothchild said. “Autistic. You know, I met an autistic guy once in a class. The prof brought him in. He could play the piano, the sax, French horn, violin. You name it, he could play it. But he never finished a song. Just couldn’t do it. Vivaldi or ‘Mary had a little lamb.’ Couldn’t finish. Strangest damn thing. That and the way his tongue hung out of his mouth like some limp dog dick.”
“What can you do with Jefferson?” Kudrow asked, forcing away the mental image generated by Rothchild’s crass description.
“I only have the basics so far,” Rothchild explained, his eyes darting left and right over the data draining down the screen. “Phone numbers, medical history, bank balances, blah blah blah. I’ll need more to work something up.”
“When?”
Rothchild thought, squinting at the screen, the data reflected as bright raindrops on his glassy blue eyes. “I’ll let you know.”
“It needs to happen soon.”
Rothchild looked up at Kudrow, the big man, the powerful man, and smiled. “I’ll let you know.”
Kudrow turned away first, and swore he could feel Rothchild’s eyes on his back even when the door had closed behind and he was walking down the hall.
Chapter Nine
Mr. Tag and the Red Rocker
Six people stood some distance from the gravesite, five of them watching as two men with shovels began heaping dirt into the twin rectangles cut in the grass. Simon Lynch was the only not to look, his attention snatched by the squared-off peaks of the Chicago skyline.
Art, one arm around Anne while both eyes kept watch over Simon, asked her, “What’s he doing?”
Both Anne and Chas Ohlmeyer looked, and smiled in knowing unison. Simon’s head was cocked sideways, his eyes peering through blonde strands, his posture otherwise remarkably steady, no rocking and arms folded across his chest.
“Something’s caught his fancy,” Anne said.
Nita Ohlmeyer leaned close to Anne. “Maybe a squirrel. In the trees.”
Art’s face traversed several emotions as he watched, something that was not lost on Chas Ohlmeyer. “Why don’t you go ask him?”
“Me?” Art reacted. “He doesn’t respond to me.”
“Hogwash,” Anne said quietly, then in almost a whisper, “I saw you. Remember?”
A few seconds drifted by until Art gave in — to his own urge as much as Chas’s suggestion — and went to Simon.
Reverend Charles Lewis, his heart heavy for the boy after speaking over his parents’ caskets, watched with some measure of satisfaction. “I’d say Simon Lynch is lucky to have you and Art, Anne. It was more than decent of you to arrange this.”
“They had no family,” Anne said. “They didn’t go to church.” She glanced off toward Simon, then came back to the pastor of the church she and Art had started attending soon after arriving in Chicago. “People don’t come into this world alone. They shouldn’t leave it that way.”
Ohlmeyer caught Anne’s eye with a familiar tilt of his head. “You paid for this, didn’t you?”
Anne said nothing, and that was enough of a confirmation for Ohlmeyer. He touched Anne’s back gently, then walked off toward the cars with his wife.
“Anne, if there is anything more you need…” Lewis hugged her, then he, too, was gone, leaving Anne almost alone, grave diggers to her rear, Art and Simon to her front, tiny against the downtown skyline.
She stood where she was, leaving them be.
“Do you like the buildings?” Art asked, his hands loose in his pockets, one fiddling with change and the other trying not to do so with the house keys.
“Black is up,” Simon said, then he squatted low and cocked his head as close the ground as he could to get the lowest possible vantage point. “Up more.”
Art’s eyes shifted curiously from Simon, to the skyline, and back again several times before the meaning behind the words became clear. “The tower, you mean. The tall black building?”
“Up, up, UP!” Simon shouted, giddiness flavoring the exclamation.
Art chuckled and gave the Sears Tower a good once over. “Yeah, she’s up there. You’re right about that.”
One of Simon’s hands reached toward the black monolith, and a single finger poked at it, stabbing into the air, trying to touch it. Hunched to the ground as he was, the child-like pleasure in the effort was obvious.
But sadness surrounded Simon like an aura, touching those who were his link to the horrid reality that had become his. Art, closest at the moment, was caught in the pull of the emotions. After a moment he could take no more. Damned if he was going to cry again, funeral or no funeral.
He put his hand out and said, “Simon, time to go home.”
Simon rose almost too quickly, and Art had to steady him, grabbing his hand firmly. Then the mild green eyes came up, and danced around the knot in Art’s tie. “Two five six four Vincent. A blue house. Mommy has hot chocolate.”
Art said nothing, knowing there was nothing to say, then led Simon back to Anne, who took his other hand. They walked to the car together.
A half hour later, slowed in Monday traffic heading north from the city on the Edens Expressway, Art Jefferson yawned deeply.
“You’ve got to get some more sleep,” Anne said, knowing she should have made the statement inclusive of herself. The nights had been extremely rough on them both. But Art, he had to get up every morning and put in a full day at the office. Anne felt quite guilty that Chas had been so generous with the university’s leave policy. Guilty, but still thankful. “Worrying about him falling asleep won’t do either of you any good.”
Art tapped the Volvo’s brakes and forced an easy breath as a car on his ass came very close.
“You had the same dream last night,” Anne probed. “Didn’t you?”
Art glanced low in the rearview. Simon was staring off toward a refrigerated truck, shiny white, passing on the left. “Not with him around.”
“What can be so bad about a dream that—”
“Anne…” Art gave her that look, and she understood. She was pressing, being ‘earnest’ as she would put it. “Anyway, you’re right. There’s got to be some way to get him to go to sleep before three in the morning.”
Her hand found his knee and rubbed reassuringly. “We’ll find it.”