A Better Place:
The Search for Robert
By Kate Raffordy
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Kate Raffordy
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CHAPTER 1
The thundering noise of the train as it raced along the metal tracks matched the intensity of Francis Cain's thoughts as he watched the blurred landscape of Atlanta's tall, green pines slowly give way to the blurred vista of St. Louis's cold, steel-blue factories.
For five years, ever since he had been made to leave the ranch in Pennsylvania, he had been aimlessly roaming the southern portion of the states, trying to find shelter, a place to hide from a government that out of fear of exposure to a deadly disease imprisoned its men regardless of whether they were infected or not. Ironically, the ranch had been the only safe refuge he had known.
Well hidden behind a forest of trees that stretched along an open highway, it was the place where his Aunt Beth had harbored others like him who had been forced since birth to masquerade as girls. Boys who for eleven years before coming to the ranch had been punished and threatened if they displayed their natural tendencies of boyish behavior, who after adjusting to this modification, had been suddenly given emotional freedom by way of a crash-course in what it meant to be a man. Boys who were expected to be grateful and obedient to their deliverers.
The absurdity of their intention still angered him. The audacity of their wrath when their plan backfired still eluded him. And now, because of their failed plan, he was forced to eat the scraps of strangers’ garbage, forced to sleep in abandoned buildings or beneath the tangled foliage of wooded acres, and travel endlessly in search of some sort of asylum from apprehension.
Never once in the time since he was forced to leave the ranch had he ever considered his actions to be anything but the inevitable consequence of the intrinsic nature of his environment. From the beginning of time, the need for freedom had created havoc with those who tried to oppress and control. Even his encounter with Rachel, which set off the chain of events that ended in that final and violent rebellion, was something he saw as being an inescapable act of fate.
He knew who had been responsible for blaming him. It was the one person who had always been quick to blame him whenever he acted in a manner considered normal male behavior: His mother.
For all her soothing words when he was a child, they were always accompanied by the threat of being taken away, and of course it was his behavior that would have been at fault. Never once could he remember his mother taking the blame for his predicament.
But his governess Sabrina had not hesitated to tell him at a very early age that his mother and aunt were responsible for his having to pretend to be a girl, that she only scolded him because it was what his mother expected of her, and she would lose her job if she did not do as his mother insisted.
But Sabrina had also been the one who was always there for him. She was the one who dried his tears when he became frightened and confused. And although he had sometimes thought her mean, he could see now that it was only because she loved him and the fact that she didn't want his mother to send her away that she had been so strict. Sabrina had only been following his mother's orders.
Now as he hid in the empty boxcar of the train that would take him home, it was Sabrina he hoped to find when he returned to Illinois. There was no one else that he could turn to now. Sabrina was his last hope. He wasn't sure what his chances were of finding her, but he had to try.
The last time he had seen her was the day he and his mother left for the ranch. He was just a child then, a confused boy of eleven, and when he asked his mother why Sabrina wasn't going with them, she had told him only that Sabrina had something important that she must do but that her leaving made it possible for them to go to the ranch.
Although Francis said nothing to contradict his mother, he felt certain that she and not some mysterious task was responsible for Sabrina's absence.
Hours later, the train slowed and the noise from its rhythmic progress along the tracks dimmed. Turning from the small opening he'd left in the car's sliding doorway, he reached behind one of the wooden crates that shared his passage and pulled his backpack from the floor where he had concealed himself within the shadows during the train's scheduled stops.
Slinging the pack's strap over one shoulder, he leaned hard against the heavy door, pushing it open only far enough to allow his escape. He looked out and for a moment saw the familiar sight of Chicago's magnificent skyline silhouetted against the evening sky before it disappeared from view as he leaped from the train and rolled down the grassy slope that bordered the tracks.
He came to rest beside a chain link fence that was topped with several lines of barbed wire and stretched far beyond his vision on either side of him. Stunned and confused, he pushed himself up from the ground and as he brushed the dirt from his clothes, he vaguely remembered Sabrina telling him long ago that the fences had been erected to prevent children from playing too near the tracks, that for years before their existence many children had died because they underestimated the powerful pull from the rush of a passing train.
The chain links of the fence were too small for toe-holds and was topped with barbed wire strung so closely together that spreading the lines apart was not even an option. He would have to find some other way to gain access to the other side.
He removed the coated band that held his long, dark brown hair back from his face and out of his way. Leaning forward, he shook his head, brushing his hands vigorously against his hair to remove any dirt and debris. Hanging over his face, he saw that his hair appeared almost black in the moonlight. Its brilliant auburn highlights once made so visible and vibrant by the sun were now as concealed as he by the dreary secrecy of the night.
With a short snap of his head, he flipped his hair so that it fell heavily against his back, then pulled it into a thick luxurious tail at the nape of his neck and once again secured it with the band. He reached down for his backpack and noticed a tear in his nylons along with a run that ran up to the top of his thigh in a series of parallel lines an inch and a half wide.
"Damn," he said as he lifted the edge of his skirt and inspected the damage. "I really hate wearing these things. They just never last."
What he really hated was the need to dress like this in the first place. It had been difficult for him to revert back to the lifestyle he had given up when he went to the ranch. Not only was it emotionally painful, but physically he was more masculine in appearance than he was at age eleven, so disguising his gender was more difficult.
He had been almost seventeen then and after five years of physical labor, he was quite muscular in build. Luckily, he was also tall and his weight was in muscle not fat. He found that by wearing a blazerminus any shoulder padswith a loose-fitting dress or a billowy skirt with a long blouse hung out over top, he could pretty much pass, as long as he traveled by night and stayed out of any bright lights. The hardest part had been acquiring the items necessary for his disguise.
In the beginning he had to stay out of sight entirely. Without a disguise, even the night could not conceal his masculinity. He had to slink between the cloak of shadows, while he searched through back yard clothes lines and unattended houses for items that would suit his purpose, as well as fit. Learning how to apply makeup was another challenge he had been forced to master, although after a few failed first attempts he found the task easier than he had anticipated. He discovered that a good foundation to cover any five-o'clock shadow, a little definition to his now plucked eye brows, a small amount of blush, and bit of tint to his full mouth was all that he really needed for the transformation. Anything more than that made him look too theatrical and phony.
Dropping the skirt back to where it covered his thick, bony knees, he slipped his arms through the straps of his backpack and began his journey along the fence in the direction of the city that lay just south of his hometown of Evanston.
When Francis was a boy, Sabrina told him many stories about Chicago and how she had lived precariously from day to day on its frantic and contemptuous streets. But she also conveyed to him that because the streets could be so unwelcoming, there was a sense of community that developed among those who had proven themselves as survivors, that the victims were those who allowed themselves to be vulnerable to the situation.
Francis was certain that if Sabrina was to be found, she would be found somewhere on the streets of Chicago and not in the safe neighborhood of his home in Evanston.
He had been walking for several hours, using the fence as his guide through the dark, indistinguishable terrain. In his hand was a leafy branch he had ripped from a copious shrub that had overgrown its chain-link boundary. He let it brush softly against the fence as he walked, hoping to detect a break in its esoteric cadence, which would indicate a place of exit and allow him the release he sought from this unexpected confinement.
As his journey brought him closer and closer to the city and the landscape beyond the fence began to change from overgrown brush to manicured lawns, he tried not to let his predicament get him discouraged. He was certain that somewhere along that fence there had to be a place where someone had gained entry.
He looked up at the starless night and wondered how much time he had before daylight. Should the sun rise before he found a way to escape, there was no place on this side of the fence to conceal himself and in the light of day there was no chance that he could pass as being a woman. He would be discovered and turned in to the authorities and God only knows what would happen to him then. No one knew what happened to those unlucky enough to be caught, only that they were never seen or heard from again.
He looked to his left and saw that the three and four level wood and stone structures that he determined to be apartments were giving way to a long line of single story brick buildings surrounded by immense, well lighted parking areas that stretched from the rear of the buildings to the edge of the fence.
Although he was still a hundred or more yards away, he spotted several of the new solar cars that less than three years earlier had been made available to the general public. However, they were quite expensive. Gasoline or electric cars, while more affordable, were still only available to those in public service professions. Many companies, especially those dealing in manufacturing, purchased solar cars for their staff. They leased them at reasonable rates to new workers as an incentive when hiring.
Francis was surprised at the number of cars in the lot. They were parked in a tight single file near their rear entrances like soldiers defending the front line. Instantly his spirits picked up. He was approaching a row of factories and where there were factories next to a freight rail, there was a good chance that there would be some type of gate for loading and unloading shipments.
Although he wanted to run, he deliberately slowed his pace. He had to be careful. If anyone came out of those buildings unexpectedly, the bright lights that illuminated the parking area would just as easily reveal his presence and he would be apprehended immediately.
Then he saw it, the first of a string of double gates that led to each of the bordering lots. Again he wanted to run, but instead he dropped to his knees and crawled to the first set of gates.
Huddled at its edge, he peered upwards. He was disappointed but not surprised to see that its top was strung with the same tight rows of barbed wire that served the fence. He looked next at the space at the top where the hinge separated the gate from the fence. His eyes narrowed as he tried to calculate the distance, but there seemed to be only a maximum of four or five inches between the two: not enough room for him to maneuver through without serious injury.
He turned his attention to the lower edge of the gate. Here he had hoped to find that the earth beneath had been trampled down enough that he might squeeze through. But the ground was hard and flat and was a direct line that lay even with the asphalt lot adjacent to it.
He moved on slowly to the next gate some twenty to thirty yards farther down, checking to his left periodically for any signs of life emerging from any of the factory doors or around the cars parked within the lots.
Again he checked for possible access to the other side, but with no luck. Undaunted he continued to the next gate. He was only a few feet away, when suddenly he heard voices, the sound of lilting laughter mingled with unintelligible conversation coming from one of the cars parked at the far end of the lot, several spaces away from the others.
Instantly, he spread himself out flat against the ground, his arms stretched straight ahead, his head facing left so that he could immediately detect any danger of his being seen. He watched in silence, his heart nervously pounding the earth beneath him, as two women emerged from the car, slamming the doors hard behind them. Bang! Bang! It was like two gun shots in the otherwise still and quiet night.
Again laughter rang out, as one of the girls stumbled into the arms of the other, causing both to teeter unsteadily. Even from where Francis lay some fifty yards away, he could hear the unmistakable sound of them shushing each other and snickering as they tried to regain their balance. Once steady, they then weaved their way precariously in the direction of the plant's rear door, their arms wrapped securely around each other's waist, their steps tediously attempted but not quite taken in unison, as though they thought they had a much better chance of making it if they traveled as one.
Although he continued to lay flat and still, Francis could not help but breathe a sigh of relief when the door finally slammed shut behind them. He waited several minutes, his head still facing left to insure that the two were not going to return either by choice or by force, before slowing turning his attention from the door to the area in front of him.
He was still stretched out flat and he could see the ground beneath the gate from where he lay. At first he thought he was seeing things. Propping himself up on his elbows, he rubbed the backs of his fists against his eyes before looking again at the miracle that suddenly presented itself. There, not more than a yard in front of him was not only a gate, but if he was not mistaken it was opened.
Again he rubbed his eyes. Then looking once more to his left and seeing that the lot was still deserted, he leaped immediately to his feet and ran, half stumbling, into the freedom that the opened gate allowed.
In that instant, he did not even care if anyone emerged from the building. He sprinted across the parking area to the safety of the shadows beyond the lighted lot. Leaning against the factory's brick exterior to regain his breath, he looked up to the heavens and thanked whoever it was that had provided his unexpected escape. Then he slipped out into the streets in search of a safe place to catch a couple of hours sleep before morning, when he would once more have to be on guard against the possibility of someone discovering whatever interim sanctuary he had found.
CHAPTER 2
He could feel the sun's rays warming his face and automatically threw his arm over his eyes to block the intrusive glare that had interrupted his sleep. He tried to imagine he was on one of the Florida beaches where he had spent many nights that first summer after leaving the ranch, hoping the illusion would allow him to drift back to sleep, but it was too late. The east window of the abandoned deli had served its purpose and he was awake.
Instinctively he looked at his wrist. A futile effort that continued to be a morning reflex, even though he had long ago sold his watch when he had been desperate for food and unable to find one decent edible scrap in the restaurant garbage cans that had been emptied before his arrival.
For three nights, as he traveled on foot through the small provincial towns connected like dot to dots along Florida's eastern coastline, it seemed as though he were following just behind the route of God knows how many sanitation trucks. Every time he thought a can would prove fruitful, his mouth watering in anticipation, he found it bare of anything but the greasy, chunky residue that clung to its putrid walls. By the forth night, he was forced to approach a stranger and offer his watch for far less than its worth.
He took extra pains applying his makeup that night and even then he added the extra touch of wrapping his long hair in a few well positioned rollers and covering his head with a colorful scarf. With his head held low and his posture bent and haggard, he drew upon the best of his courage and stepped up cautiously to a lone young woman just before she passed the alley where he had been waiting.
Presenting himself as one of those lonely elderly women who had refused to take charge of their lives when their husbands died but who none the less continued to be supported by their deceased spouses by selling whatever personal treasures they had left behind, he begged her in a high-pitched croaking voice to please purchase the watch he tearfully claimed to be all that was left of his now departed and dearly loved husband.
He had hoped that his sorrowful plea would not only bring him money for food but would also result in enough sympathy to allow him to retain the watch as well. Unfortunately, this was not the case.
The woman looked at the watch, barely giving notice to him, then dispassionately offered him five dollars. He immediately bargained for ten. Knowing full well the inequity of the exchange, she eagerly dropped the watch into her purse and extracted two neatly folded five dollar bills which she handed him before she hastily skirted passed him and continued on her way with not a single glance back in his direction.
He had been disappointed and a little disgusted that his ploy had not worked to his advantage, but at least now he could eat. And at the moment he needed food far more than he needed a watch. However, actually purchasing a burger at a non-franchised fast food joint proved more challenging than he had imagined.
That had happened long enough ago that the instinct to look to his wrist for the time should have by now ended, but for some reason it was a habit that he found impossible to break. Probably because it had been the last gift he had received from Sabrina before she went away.
Shaking his head at the stubbornness of his unconscious mind, he got up from the floor and moving from behind the counter, walked the short distance to the front of the building where he stood with his back flattened against the wall while he peeked out the window. He was relieved to see that the area was as desolate and deserted in the daylight as it had appeared to him the night before.
For two nights, as he traveled north from 115th Street, weaving in and out along his path of following Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, to 47th Street, he had tried to stay within the areas that had little to no activity. It had not always been an easy task, but he had come too far and was too close to chance the truth of his identity now.
At 47th, he had turned east, toward the lake and had located an expanse of four or five blocks that contained boarded up buildings of varying degrees of dilapidation. Their faded exteriors and weedy, overgrown lawns gave evidence to many years of neglect. But this alone did not prove to Francis that the place was uninhabited.
He had seen many run-down neighborhoods in his travels. Places that he never would have thought of as being a suitable place for people to live. Having grown up in a comfortable apartment in Evanston and then living his teen years on the lush and plentiful acres of the ranch, he had been unprepared for what he saw. He was at first appalled, then resigned that there were many such places.
On the surface, there was little difference between this area and the others he had seen. What made this battered neighborhood different, what gave it its ghostly appearance was not its deterioration. It was that it was totally barren of any indication of human existence.
No where hidden beneath the tall blades of grass or tangled within the spindly weed stems did he see some sign that testified to the presence of life. Not one piece of litter, nor one small toy could be found. Not one solitary footstep crushed a single spot of the thick growth that covered lot after lot.
It was this evidence to a lack of activity that made him certain, even beneath the cloak of darkness, that these bent and broken frames held no human life within their cold and empty walls. That he would be safe here. Even the rodents had probably long ago abandoned the place.
And so he had examined each building for its optimum advantage and decided at last on the deli as the best place for him to rest before continuing his journey to the city and Chicago's Loop. Its large store front window afforded him a clear view of the surrounding area, while its counter acted as a shield for when he slept.
The view from the window seemed to prove him correct, as he let his eyes pass slowly from one end of the street to the other and he saw nothing but more of the same empty ruin he happened upon the night before.
He turned from the window, no longer concerned with concealing himself from its view, and walked back to the counter, where he bent to retrieve his backpack from the warped and dusty floor. He stopped just as his finger grazed the edge of the pack's nylon strap. Every inch of his body tensed in readiness as though he were a spring wound tight, capable of hair-trigger release.
Not moving from his bent position, he cocked his ear in the direction of the soft scraping sound that penetrated the hushed and tranquil room like the shrill cry of an alarm in the still of the night.
It seemed to be coming from the rear of the deli, where an opened archway led to a back room he had inspected the night before and found to be empty of anything except an old, unplugged and probably unusable chest-type freezer that still held the faintest detection of spoiled meat.
Very slowly he eased himself up from his position over the backpack, trying not to shift his weight as he rose. He adjusted his breathing to a shallow inhale. Stop. Slow and easy exhale. His heart pounded in his chest.
For an instant the sound ceased. Then after a moment of uneasy silence, continued.
Holding on to the counter for support, Francis let his eyes wander cautiously around the room, letting himself become completely familiar with his surrounding in case he had to act in haste. The scraping noise continued but it was joined by another strange sound. One he could not immediately identify.
Shifting his weight now to his left foot, he took a tentative step forward, being careful to avoid the discarded backpack. The noise continued, uninterrupted. Francis gingerly took another step, then another.
He was now at the end of the counter but not close enough to get a clear view of the back room. He stepped from behind the counter. The rotted floor creaked beneath his weight. He stopped abruptly. Holding his breath, he stood stock-still, his ears strained to any deviation to the peculiar disturbance he heard, but there was no change. The noise continued.
Whoever was scrounging around back there was now evidently too preoccupied to notice anything but his own intent.
Francis edged closer to the doorway. Three more lengthy strides brought him even with arched doorway. He rested his hand on its warped and rotted frame; the yellow-gray paint—probably once white and glossy—was cracked and curled with age and neglect. It crumbled beneath his fingers and drifted to the floor. Francis paid no notice to this as he peered cautiously around the corner. He was more interested in what he saw—or more to the point, what he didn't see.
The room was empty of anything but what he had seen the night before. The freezer stood by itself along the wall to his right, its dusty lid opened wide like a gigantic yawning mouth. To his left was a sink, suspended from the wall and held up by two thin, rusted cylindrical legs. It was the kind he had seen in books he read as a child, borrowed from his mother's collection that had been handed down from her mother and kept in glass-front bookcases in their living room.
The wall adjacent to the sink contained a cupboard of sorts, made of slim wooden slats that had rotted and split, leaving gaping holes in its seams that resembled prison bars. Next to the cupboard stood a ragged string mop, another tool he knew to be obsolete. Its long tendrils were mere threads now, covered in layer after layer of dust and a wide band of a spider's silken web was extended from it to the side of the cupboard.
Francis noticed that the noise had stopped, but for some reason, the eerie silence led him to believe that it was but a temporary reprieve.
He did not attempt to enter the room but continued his vigilance from the doorway. His wait was not long. Soon the noise began again, although from the closer proximity it was more a soft rustle than a scraping sound he heard.
Precisely and deliberately, he stepped through the doorway and into the room. Suddenly, without warning, something dashed out from behind the freezer, leaving a crumpled piece of butcher's paper in its wake. It scurried across the floor but before it could disappear behind the broken slats of the battered cupboard, Francis had thwarted its escape by the swift and accurate anchor of his shoe upon its tail.
For a moment Francis was stunned, a dumb look of surprise etched across his face. Then gradually a smile touched the edge of his mouth, bringing it progressively to a full-fledged grin and after that he broke out in a boisterous laugh.
He reached down and lifted the plump, furry rodent by its thick rubber-like tail. Holding it aloft, he fell back against the side of the freezer, laughing like a madman. He bent forward, extending the hand that held the rat's tail, and clutched himself around his middle with the other as he allowed the lunacy of the situation to relieve him of the pent-up fear that had held him only moments before.
The dangling rat swayed and squirmed as it tried unsuccessfully to free itself of Francis's grip. At last Francis calmed himself of his hysterics and lifted the animal to where he was eye to eye with the suspended creature.
"So there was something good to come from my training at the ranch after all. And you, my friend, are the proof of my education."
With his free hand, Francis removed a long, thick hunting knife from its sheath beneath his jacket. He reached up and with a little effort pulled the stubborn lid of the freezer down to meet the cracked lip that lined the edge of the chest, then with a snap of his wrist, flung the rat on top of the lid.
"Now, little one, I would be honored if you would join me for breakfast." In one quick motion, the head of the rat was severed from its body.
CHAPTER 3
Beth held the thick, white envelope close to her chest and mentally asked for a miracle.
Thirty-three years had passed since her brother Robert had been taken away at the age of twelve—far too many years for her to be certain that she would even recognize him. But recognition was the least of her worries. First she had to find out if he was even alive and the contents of the envelope was her first step in doing so.
Many of the boys taken at the age of twelve had actually died of the deadly disease called All Male Extinction Syndrome, better known as AMES, and there was the possibility that her brother had been one of them. But now there was evidence that some boys had survived and had been incarcerated and used as guinea pigs, in an effort to try and find a cure for the deadly disease or for other ulterior motives not yet discovered.
Even with the cruelties he may have encountered, Beth hoped her brother was one of the survivors. Unfortunately, she wouldn't know the answer to that until she did a physical search, since there was no indication of individual names being listed anywhere.
The families of these boys, Beth's family included, were never told of their child's fate. All had been told the same thing, that their son had been infected with the disease and could not be allowed to return to their families and that due to the highly contagious nature of the disease, there could be no visitation allowed as there was no way of knowing for certain if women could be at all affected by it.
Beth, her sister Cora, and their mother had watched in horror as the authorities interrupted Robert's twelfth birthday party and took their brother away. The cruel and callous act, with no regard for personal feelings, devastated the family, causing their mother to have a nervous breakdown and Cora, who had been closest to Robert, to spend many, many nights alone in his room, agonizing over his sudden and permanent departure.
Beth was left to care for her family alone and was not allowed the luxury of losing control while she mourned her brother. Silently she vowed that when she became a doctor, she would work to save the lives of other boys and not allow them to be taken from their families.
Their mother died thinking that her son had succumbed to the dreadful disease. And when she died, Beth's plan of becoming a doctor died with her.
Later Beth used the knowledge that she had obtained during the short time she attended med-school at Northwestern University and after taking a few special classes, became a certified midwife. Ironically, this led to her fulfilling her vow, and for almost twenty years she managed to save what few boys she could by starting a covert operation that resulted in the boys and their families living on a secluded ranch in Pennsylvania.
Then just five years ago, after Beth's plan had ended in violent rebellion against her and the other women at the ranch, her friend Alice, who worked at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, had come across some information that led her to believe that some of the boys who had been taken from their families had actually survived.
She contacted Beth and told her of her discovery. She said that uninfected boys were apparently sent to various secret locations across the country and probably around the world. There experiments were performed and information recorded as to the affects of those experiments.
At the time Alice didn't have a clue as to where those locations were, only that they existed. It had taken her five years of intense investigation to compile the list of places where these boys may have been kept for all these years, and now Beth held the fruits of her friend's labor in her hands.
The full compilation of each facility located within the continental United States was sealed inside that envelope and Beth's hands shook uncontrollably as she tore open its gummed flap.
Inside she found page after page of computer printout. A quick scan showed each page to contain at least ten names and addresses of hospitals, mental facilities and other public institutes large enough to handle untold numbers of patients. There was even a fifty-two page addendum listing private agencies, as well as, private homes that had been used either freely or involuntarily.
Placing the stack of printouts on the large glass coffee table in front of her, Beth sat slowly down on the couch and leaned back against the soft, smooth leather. She took a long and deep, resigning breath as she stared at the three hundred page mound of paper. Its size was intimidating, and dared her to admit defeat.
But though she was dumbfounded by the amount of names contained within those pages, when she considered how many years the lie had been told, the size seemed less amazing than how something this extensive could have been kept a secret for so long.
Who took care of all those men and boys? What did the people in charge offer to guarantee their employees' silence? And how did they manage to get away with it for all these years?
Any or all of the answers to her questions seemed unfathomable to Beth. But she did not have to understand how something like this could happen, at least not at the moment. All she knew was that it did happen. How or why was something she would have to consider later—after she discovered the true fate of her bother Robert.
The big question now was how she was ever going to begin a search of this magnitude. She had no idea the list would be so long. It would take years to get through this list: maybe more years than she had left to give.
She was already fifty. Even if she lived to be the ripe old age of a hundred, could she expect to continue to have the stamina necessary to visit each of these places and search each nameless face in hopes of recognizing a brother she hadn't seen since she was seventeen?
"No." She told herself, sternly. "Don't look at the big picture. Break it down." She reached forward, taking a small handful of pages off the top of the pile. "Bite-size pieces. That's what we need. Bite size pieces."
She scanned each page briefly, then laying those face down next to the larger pile, she picked up a new handful from the un-reviewed stack, again making a succinct inspection before placing those upon the smaller set of papers. She did this twice more before combining the two stacks back to one.
Satisfied with what she found, she rested again against the back of the couch, this time breathing a sigh of relief.
Thank God, she thought. "Correction," she said aloud. "Thank Alice."
The list had been organized regionally, and although Beth could recite most of the names of the fifty-two states, she had no idea where they were located in relation to one another or which ones belonged in which region. But separating the list into workable chunks was going to be a lot easier now than if the list had been in alphabetical order.
"Okay, let's get to work," she demanded of herself.
She pushed up off the couch and walked across the room to the bookshelf that lined an imaginary wall separating the living room from her bedroom of the loft apartment she and Valda, her lover and assistant from the ranch, had moved into when they relocated to the small town of Williamsport.
Beth had books on a multitude of subjects from medicine to antiques, from architecture to science fiction. The shelves were overflowing with them. It wasn't so much that she loved to read as she loved to learn about new things, which often included old things.
Her mother had managed to keep quite a few books that had belonged to her mother, as well as some that had been Beth's father's as a child. Beth supposed that having had the opportunity to browse through those old books when she was growing up had influenced her more than she realized at the time. She had even managed to retain some of those same books, having appropriated a few before moving to Pennsylvania.
One of her favorites was the novel Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by the French author Jules Verne. As far as she was concerned the man was either a genius or a witch. Either way he was definitely ahead of his time. But it wasn't just the eerie foresight of the novel that made it one of her favorites. It was because inscribed on the first page of the book was the crayoned signature of her father.
That book had a special place set apart from the others that crowded the white laminated shelves. It was the only book held upright between two brass bookends at the corner of the shelf that she passed to enter her bedroom.
Whenever Beth had an occasion to approach that section, she would reach out her hand and touch her father's book, thinking briefly and regretfully about the last time she had seen him, and how he had reached out to her as he lay dying of AMES, and she had coldly and fearfully rejected him.
Her fingers grazed its worn and ragged seams now as her eyes probed each shelf for the Atlas that would assist her in breaking down where the search for her brother would begin. Spotting the Atlas, she reached for it eagerly, her one hand still lingering on the older book's binding. As she pulled the Atlas from its place along the top shelf, she inadvertently knocked the other to the floor.
She shivered involuntarily and wondered as she bent to retrieve the fallen book if this was a sign that her efforts now were as useless as her belated atonement to her father.
CHAPTER 4
It had been a long time since he had eaten fresh meat and as he hastily cooked the small, skinned rodent, the aroma was so tantalizing that he gave in to his appetite and to the apparent security of his place of refuge, and hungrily devoured the succulent meal.
After making sure that no one had been alerted to his presence by his actions, he went back to sleep for four more uninterrupted hours. When he woke the second time, the sun was just starting its western decent. He felt better rested and more replete than he had in a long time, giving him the energy and the confidence to continue his journey without waiting for the benefit of nightfall.
Since his disguise was integral to his survival, traveling by day was trickier than it was by night. He had to keep his head low and his eyes and ears alert to anything that seemed out of the ordinary. He had to appear purposeful and determined in his manner so as to discourage any attempts of strangers to approach him.
Slipping in and out of secluded areas in an effort to minimize his exposure had to been done with extreme caution, since he could never be entirely sure that he was unobserved.
To his amazement he was able to do this with little effort, encountering only a few derelict women who had had so much to drink that they probably would not have recognized their own mothers had they stood face to face with them.
Even with the ease with which he traveled, by the time he reached Cermak Road the air coming off the lake had cooled and the sun had sunk behind the buildings to his left, blinking in and out like a golden red strobe as he passed. He did not feel especially tired, but not wanting to exhaust himself to the point where he could not continue through the night, he began to look for a safe place to rest for an hour or two.
He wanted to stay as close to the lake as possible, since he was unfamiliar with the area and it was his guide to the city. He had been following as near as he dared to the road called Lake Shore Drive and although the north and south lanes had thus far been connected, he noticed that they suddenly split.
Inside the triangular area created by the split was a bed of dry brown grass that had grown over what had obviously at one time been a large parking area. Francis could still see faded fragments of white painted lines on some of the larger chunks of black asphalt that had been broken up and piled haphazardly along the perimeter to allow for the growth of vegetation that had long ago been neglected and left to whither in the summer sun.
He didn't know why, but it saddened him to see such waste. Surely something useful could have been done with this plot of land. He had never considered himself to be sentimental or overly idealistic, but the bit of triangular decay that lay stretched out before him seemed to touch him in a way he hadn't felt since—God, he couldn't remember when.
Maybe it reminded him of the loss he felt when Sabrina left or maybe it was cognitive of the constant loneliness of his own life. Whatever. He felt his eyes mist and as he blinked back the tears, he silently told himself that maybe it was just more bull shit.
He forced himself to look out beyond the ravaged lot. There he saw something that instantly made him forget the feelings he so desperately wanted to deny.
Even from where he stood he could see that the large structure was in ruin. It reminded him of something he had studied in school. What was it? Oh, yeah, the Roman Coliseum. The place where the gladiators fought before it fell to ruin in medieval times.
This wasn't the ruin of the Coliseum. He new instinctively what it was: Soldier Field, the arena for the long ago famous Chicago Bears.
Sabrina told him that her grandfather, on her mother’s side, had been a big Bears fan: at least according to her mother, since Sabrina never knew her grandfather. She said her mother used to spit it out like being a football fan was something vile and disgusting. That her mother was glad when after the onslaught of AMES, women had failed in their attempt to continue the sport. Sabrina told him that her mother thought all sports were uncivilized, even baseball, which she also hated although it continued to thrive as well as it had when men were the players.
As he drew nearer the stadium, following the southbound lane of the drive, he saw that it was in worse shape than he thought. The top of its walls had succumbed to the elements and had crumbled leaving huge, gaping holes along its rim. Large chunks of its surface were caved in as though hit by a wrecking ball and Francis could see parts of the field. The stands were empty, their seats curved in a cruel smile behind the single goal post left standing at the farthest end of the field. Its foundation had weakened and it leaned heavily to one side like a tall, lonely fan saddened by the loss.
As Francis looked for a way to enter, he continued to hope that he would find the structure abandoned and its condition not so deteriorated that it could not be utilized for his purpose.
He found the entrance at the north end of the stadium, where a small hill of green lawn lay lush and healthy beneath the full shade of a towering tree's leafy umbrella. A sidewalk, cracked with age but otherwise intact, led from the street and curved before the stone front of the stadium that was almost Gothic in appearance.
Next to this was an offshoot to the sidewalk that began where a tall rusted gate had been partially torn from its base and hung unevenly open by a single lower hinge, offering a less than inviting welcome, and stretched along a crumbling wall to the stadium.
He passed through the gate and followed the narrow walk till he came upon a covered entrance leading to the field. From outside the entrance he could easily hear the clamor of voices on the other side. Their tones were loud, forceful, but not really like a full-scale argument. It was more like business disagreement.
He turned immediately and slipped quietly back the way he had come, not allowing his disappointment to get the better of him. When he reached the end of the lawn, he noticed a large sign was posted. The kind of sign builders erect to inform the public of what that particular sight will hold in the future. He walked around to the front of the sign, which faced the southbound lane of Lake Shore Drive. Its message brought a cruel but ironic smile to his lips. Soldier Field was to be the future headquarters for Chicago's New Scientific Community.
His smile faded quickly as he made his way back to his path along the drive and continued north.
He passed the magnificent lawns of Grant Park, pausing only for a moment to look at the wondrous sight of Buckingham Fountain. By the time he reached Jackson Boulevard, the sun had set. But even without the decorative ornate lighting or the towering architectural masterpieces, he knew that at last he had reached the city.
Because of the increased illumination of the artificial lighting, the night did little this time to hide his approach, so he cautiously and expediently made his way across the Jackson Boulevard bridge, which overlooked line after line of spider-like train tracks that stretched endlessly on either side. After safely reaching Columbus Drive, he went in search of State Street, which he knew continued north and then into the first darkened alley he could find so that he could catch his breath and plan his next move.
He sat down on a discarded cardboard box that he had separated at the seams and placed flat between a recessed doorway. Pulling his knees up to his chest and smoothing his skirt around his legs, he rested his chin on his folded arms and stared out at the deepening shadows within the littered alley.
He wondered briefly how far it was to Rush Street from here. He had read about the famous street when he was growing up after hearing Sabrina talk about it. She had told him how much fun she had when she had visited the street many nights before she began to work for his mother. He felt his lids grow heavy over his eyes and in reflex straightened his back and forced his eyes wide.
He tried to picture how Sabrina might look after all these years, and he wondered if he would recognize her. He wondered, too, if she'd recognize him. He wondered if Rush Street was where he would find Sabrina.
Slowly his eyes began to close again. This time he failed to resist.
Hours later he woke and stood at the edge of the alley. Hidden within its deep shadows, he looked out at the empty sidewalks along State Street in the heart of Chicago's loop.
He had no idea how long he had slept. It was still dark out but without a watch he could not be certain of the time. The sky was slowly giving way to the dark gray illumination that indicated the start of another day, but in a city the size of Chicago that too could be an illusion.
He did not want to run into any early risers. He wanted a leisurely look around the city without interruptions. He had to find the section called Rush Street, although Sabrina had told him long ago that the strip of late-night bars was actually along a sector of Division Street, not far from where Rush Street ended.
Confident that he was alone, he stepped slowly out of the alley. Knowing the lake was behind him and to the east, he turned right and made his way past corner after corner, his eyes darting back and forth as he hurried along.
He looked up at a street sign as he came to the next intersection. Even in the dark, its white letters leaped out at him from the green background of the painted metal. Randolph. He looked back from where he first entered, Jackson Drive, just north of where the El tracks leading from the south side of the city met with those that circled the downtown area and connected with the tracks that continued north, giving rise to the name The Loop.
Time was running out, and he hadn't even crossed the Chicago River yet. He was tired and he was hungry. He had not eaten since early morning, when he had been lucky enough to kill that rat at the abandoned deli.
Now, as his stomach rumbled loudly and threateningly, he wished he had not been so hasty and had saved the meal to be eaten later as he had originally planned.
Brushing the useless thought from his mind, he forged ahead. Moments later he saw the sign for Lake Street, which ran beneath the elevated tracks that marked the north end of the Loop. To his right he saw the large glass front window of a restaurant, its burglar lights illuminating small square tables vacant of anything more than empty cut glass bud vases.
Francis turned right at the end of the block and entered the alley that thread behind the restaurant. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the difference in light, but once they did, he had no trouble locating the cans that proved to contain enough scraps to assuage his turbulent stomach.
Wiping his mouth with the inside hem of his already soiled and stain-streaked skirt, he crossed Lake Street, then turned onto State, feeling somewhat better as he gnawed of the meaty remnants of a pork rib bone and continued his journey north.
He dropped the naked bone into the gutter. His breath was labored as he made his was up the street that now included a slight incline. His renewed energy from the scraps he had secured was short lived. He wanted more than anything to look up at the next street sign and see the name Rush. When he reached the end of the street, he was not rewarded with the desired sign, but there, across the broad multilane intersection, was the murky greenish-brown water of the Chicago River.
He wanted to run, to race across the bridge to the other side. He wanted to swing from the lamp pole, to climb the wide concrete arm of the bridge and balance himself on its narrow ledge, like the pictures he'd seen of high-wire acts from the circus. His adrenaline surged, making his heart pump faster. He knew that he was close now. That it couldn't be that much farther to Rush Street or to finding Sabrina. It took every ounce of his resolve for him to stop and look, to be certain that the coast was clear. Once satisfied that he was not being observed, he bolted across the street. Then for no particular reason cut to Wabash, which was to his right, and crossed the bridge, turning now and then in joyous circles as he ran.
Twenty yards north of the bridge he stopped and leaned against the carved mural wall of the Sun Times building to catch is breath. Again he was amazed by the magnificent architecture of this famed city and wondered why neither Sabrina nor his mother had taken him to see this part of the city when he was a child.
His mother had often worked in the city. She had been a high-rise window cleaner then and since Evanston had buildings no where near the size of Chicago's, her job had regularly taken her to areas like the Loop.
For an instant, he pictured his mother clearly in his mind; her sleeves rolled up; streaks of dried; dirty water running from her wrists to her elbows; the squeegee holster that hung from her belt; her smile when she inspected the drawings he had made for her. Lastly, he saw the look of terror and disbelief on her face as he straddled her that last night before she sent him away.
His head jerked involuntarily at the vividness of that last image. He looked out to where the river ran silently beneath the bridge. Something had tried to register in his mind, but it was gone now. He had lost it and staring at the Chicago River did not bring it back.
He shrugged his shoulders, then turned from the river and continued north. He realized immediately that he could not go much farther. His whole body ached and his legs felt like lead pencils, like they might easily break at any moment if he didn't stop. Besides, downtown Chicago was not the place to try and pass himself off as a woman. Not the way he looked and felt right now.
The sky was definitely brighter. Hues of rose and gold inched its way up from the lake, the morning light peeking ever so faintly around the lower edges of the buildings.
He started making a concerted effort to find a safe place to sleep. If he wanted to get any rest, he would have to make a slight detour from the street he was on. He turned left on Grand and had gone less than a block, when he made an abrupt stop. A picture in a store window had caught his eye and he turned back to be sure he had not imagined it.
Stepping up to the window, he leaned forward for a closer look. His arms stretched out on either side in front of him, his hands flat against the tinted plate glass. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, but there it was—propped against some type of easel made for holding books flat for viewing. He stared at the author’s photograph. He couldn't be mistaken. That was Sabrina.
He let his hands slide slowly down the glass as he scrunched down for a closer look. On the back of the book—beneath the photograph—was a name, but the name was not Sabrina. It was a stranger's name. Rita Woods. But the name didn't matter. He was certain it was Sabrina.
He looked now at the front cover and the title of the book: Plea Bargain. The title made no sense to him. What did Sabrina know about plea bargains? She had never been in jail—at least not that she had ever mentioned. Maybe it was a work of fiction.
He looked for some explanation, but the book held very little information. On the front was an artist's rendition of a gavel, the edge of the judge’s bench and the cuffed, outstretched hands of some anonymous defendant. He looked again at the back cover and the picture of Sabrina. It was then that he saw the few short paragraphs about the book’s interior. He was surprised that the picture had garnered such an effect on him that he hadn’t noticed the synopsis earlier.
He looked to the east and saw that the sun was coming up fast. He had to find a place to hide. He would think about this later. He turned to leave, then walked back to the door of the shop. Depending on the day, the store closed at two different hours. He had no idea anymore what day this was but he had anywhere after 6 P.M. or 8 P.M. to come back and see if he could somehow get a copy of that book.
CHAPTER 5
"So have you had any luck in getting a list yet?" Cora asked, trying to balance her cell phone and add the finishing touches to the still-life painting she had been working on.
"Yeah," Beth answered coyly. "As a matter of fact that's why I'm calling."
Cora stepped back from the painting, holding the brush out toward the picture to check her perspective, like she had seen them do in the movies.