“Okay, I’m going to let you in, but I’m going to call the commissary, tell them to keep an eye on you.”
The guard turned and went into the shack. In a moment, the gate swung open. I put the truck in gear, drove through it and continued on, following the road to the commissary. By the time I pulled up to the loading dock, I was sweating, and I hadn’t even unloaded the milk order yet. I made it this far and felt exhilarated, but at the same time I was scared out of my wits.
At the end of the dock was a metal roll-up door. It clanked open a moment after I banged on it with my fist. Inside, a man dressed in white stood at a tall desk; the receiving clerk, I presumed. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and had a three-day growth of heavy stubble and a thick, dark head of hair, the color of which matched his eyes. He glanced up at me for a second and then shifted his gaze back to the desk, jotting something on a pad.
“You’re late,” he said. “They’re getting ready to serve breakfast, and there’s no milk. Unload your truck and hurry it up.”
I took a quick peek beyond the guy into the kitchen area. The room was bright, well-lit with fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. The walls were yellow ceramic tile, the floor red cement squares, and the equipment all shiny steel. The area was about the size of a small college or large restaurant commercial kitchen.
Teenage boys and girls were busy working, some at the prep tables, while others scurried about with trays in their hands. I estimated that ten or twelve kids silently prepared the morning meal. If there were that many kids just fixing breakfast, how many people resided on the base?
A large TV, mounted high in one of the corners, beamed down a flickering image of a women’s choral group. The group contained half a dozen members or so-each wearing a white surplice over a delphinium-blue gown. Even with the noise of clattering pans and pots, I could tell that the music was religious in nature. The kitchen staff ignored the TV. I didn’t blame them; when I was a teen, I liked rock ’n’ roll. Still do.
I hadn’t expected to see Robbie, but I thought Jane might be working in the kitchen because of what she’d said at the Harvey House. I quickly scanned the area, but she was nowhere in sight either.
“Hey, Mac, I told you to move it.” The receiving clerk made a sweeping motion with his hand like I was an insignificant piece of rubbish, something easily brushed away. But I kept my cool; to this guy I was just a uniform.
“Sorry, I’m new on the route.”
“Yeah, that’s what the gate guard said. Now, goddamn it, Chip, go get the milk.”
I started to turn, but took one more glimpse inside. The choral group on the TV was gone, replaced by a familiar figure, the guy I’d met at Hazel Farris’ church, J. Billy Bickerton, the part-time preacher and owner of the Holy Spirit Network. He was pacing back and forth across the stage, his hand clutching the mike. He whipped the cord around behind him until it became a skinny black snake that followed in his steps, ready to jump up and bite him on the ass. The teens in the kitchen turned and gazed at the screen. They stood mesmerized, listening intently to Bickerton’s bombastic sermon. I couldn’t make out what he was shouting about but, of course, I didn’t care. I turned and hurried back to my truck.
Since this was the last stop on the route, I didn’t have to check the order sheet. I just loaded everything remaining in the truck on the dolly and wheeled it over to the receiving clerk.
Clipboard in hand, he checked the order. “Hey, are you trying to pad your commission?”
“No, why?”
“You got an extra case of butter here. We ain’t paying for butter we didn’t order.”
“Got a new promotional deal. Fourth Monday of the month, free case of butter.”
“It’s only the third Monday.”
“Our mistake, take the butter.”
I was eager to get inside the commissary. I wanted to poke around while unloading the order. If I spotted Jane, I’d have to figure out how to get her aside and explain the plan I’d worked out in my mind, the plan to get her off the base, the plan where I’d rescue her without getting shot. The plan was a simple one. I’d somehow hide her in the truck and drive through the gate. I had everything worked out-everything but the details.
The receiving clerk gave me a look but stepped aside. I pushed the dolly past him into the kitchen. The TV was still going full blast, but some guy standing in front of a lectern pounding a bible had replaced Bickerton.
My eyes combed the room studying faces: blank faces, faces of kids without passion or vivacity. These kids moved and acted like zombies, like the walking dead I’d seen in the B-movies of the ’50s at the Gage Drive-In Theater, I Was a Teenage Deadhead, or something.
“Over there,” someone said. A teenage boy with blond hair cut short wearing a rubber apron, leaned listlessly against a washing sink. He pointed to the walk-in refrigerator door cut into the wall beyond a bank of several mixing machines.
“Thanks, buddy.” I started maneuvering the dolly through the tables. “Give me a hand, okay? I got a sore back.” My ribs were sore, but that’s not why I asked for help. I wanted him to move close to me, close enough so I could quietly ask about Robbie and Jane.
The kid ambled over to the cooler. He grabbed the latch and yanked the door open. “In here,” he said in a flat voice. “I’ll unload the stuff.”
When I got to the door, he took the dolly from me and I followed him into the cold, darkly lit room. The kid bent and lifted the cartons. Shelves lined the walls behind him.
“Do you know Robbie Farris, a kid who lived out here for a while?” I said in a low voice.
He wagged his head from side to side and kept on working.
“How about Jane Simon?”
The kid stopped in mid-turn, stood stock still for a moment, then slowly turned to me. His face was white.
“Who are you?” he asked.
CHAPTER 29
From the look on his face, I knew he didn’t believe I was the milkman, so I took a chance. “I’m here to help her. My name’s Jimmy.”
The kid set the crate down. “She told me you were going to save her. She said you were coming for her.”
“What? How did she know that?”
“You’re her guardian angel, aren’t you? She said you were.”
“I’m just a guy who wants to help her… and maybe she can help me too.”
“Hey, I’ve never heard of an angel named Jimmy.”
“Look, kid, I’m not an angel-guardian, cherubim, seraphim, or even an L.A. Angel.”
I sensed a presence and glanced over my shoulder. The receiving clerk, hands in his pockets, stood braced against the freezer door jamb. I didn’t know what he’d heard. I stiffened up. The kid went back to stacking the milk crates.
“Hey, Saint Butterfat, what’s going on? The dishes are stacking up, and you’re jawboning with my dishwasher about angels. The Reverend gives the sermons around here.” He waved a hand. “Get back to the sink, Ariel. You know better than to talk to this guy. Angel Gabriel here is paid to unload his own stuff.”
The guy had obviously heard the part about angels, but it seemed he hadn’t overheard me asking about Jane.
The kid fled into the kitchen. I made a move to stack the remaining crates, but as the clerk started to turn away, I said, “Gotta use the restroom.” I didn’t know how much time I had here before they suspected I wasn’t really the milkman. I felt this might be the only chance I’d have to take a look around the building.
“All right, but make it snappy. Go out through the kitchen to the hall. Turn right. Men’s room is three doors down.”
I dropped the milk crate and dashed to the door that led from the kitchen into the depths of the building. Instead of turning right, I went left, figuring I’d get a better picture of the place, and if I it was my lucky day, I might spot Jane. But as I jogged along, it dawned on me that I had no clue where I was heading or where she could be.