STINGERS
by
W.G. Griffiths
Stingers
1
The light of the full moon shimmered gently across the calm Atlantic waters on a still summer night. Piero Silvestroni stood next to Bruno, the unlikely skipper, on the flying bridge of the “Sea Ya,” a large sport-fishing boat owned by alleged mob boss, Giovanni Scardino. Silvestroni glanced again at the rear deck. Key witness, Jeanette Severin, an attractive thirty-something with long red hair, sat in a white cushioned game-fishing seat. Her eyes blinked. The chloroform had apparently worn off.
“Half speed, Bruno. She’s coming to,” Silvestroni said with a smile that revealed a quick sparkle off his gold front tooth. He always smiled. If asked why, he would say it was because it took less energy to smile than to frown, but the real reason was because his smile was more frightening than any frown. In his occupation, he had learned how fearful it was for his victims to never really know what to expect. So, whatever he would do, he would do it with a smile, and in truth, watching his prey tremble with fear made him want to smile all the more.
Silvestroni was five foot nine, medium build, and wore a navy blue pinstriped Armani suit. His eyes were deep-set and so dark brown that they appeared black, and despite the smile, he had a cold glare that looked more reptilian than human. His semi-unbuttoned shirt exposed a thick gold chain that complemented the extravagant gold rings on each hand. His hair was thin and graying and slicked back tightly into a short ponytail. He climbed down the ladder and politely greeted the young woman who was gagged and strapped into the seat as if it were her turn to fish.
“I so hope that you’ve had a pleasant nap,” he said, genuinely excited that she’d awakened. He much preferred executing someone who he’d had a chance to talk to first.
“Mmmmmm, mmmmmm.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right. I already know your name, Miss Severin. May I call you, Jeanette?
“Mmmmmm.”
“Thank you. Such a pretty name for such a pretty lady. Has anyone ever told you that your red hair is magnificent? And the way it flows over the black tape. Black really does go with anything.”
“Mmmm, mmmm.”
“I’m sorry if I have it too tight. That won’t matter to you soon.”
“Mmmmm, mmmmm.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth. One moment you’re getting dressed in your bedroom, the next, you’re enjoying a pleasant boat ride twenty-five miles off the Long Beach shore. Did you know the south shore of Long Island is world famous for its fine sand? And the water temperature in the summer is just perfect,” he said, kissing his fingertips as if he’d just tasted excellent tomato sauce. “Even out here.”
“Mmmmmmm,” she said, straining against her bonds.
“How did you get here? Very simple. One of your guards is a friend of ours.”
“Mmmm, mmmm.”
“I agree. Bruno is a fine boatman, and I assure you that he is also an excellent navigator, but I’m afraid he must purposely not pay a great deal of attention to where we will leave you. I hope you understand. It is better for us if we can’t tell anyone where to find you,” he said, trying to contain his excitement at seeing the grogginess from the chloroform replaced with wide-eyed terror. “Although, if I were to guess, I think land is that way… or maybe somewhere over there. Oh, what does it matter, really?”
“Mmmm-- mmmm-- mmmm,” she said louder and louder.
“Oh, before I forget. Mr. Scardino asked me to give you his personal compliments on the wonderful detail you gave to the police. Quite precise. He asked me in return not to shoot you, but to allow you the few minutes more of precious life that comes from simply drowning. Sometimes he can be so... sensitive. Don’t you think?”
Her eyes rolled and pleaded for mercy. “Mmmmmmm.”
The boat’s engines were slowed to idle. “How ‘bout it Piero?” Bruno said.
Silvestroni nodded. “The captain has made a splendid choice, I think.” He glanced at her right hand, which had loosened.
“Mmmmm, mmm, mmm,” she said, tears pouring from her eyes.
“I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that I’ve been authorized to allow you to remain seated in this chair for your comfort. This isn’t the old days anymore, with cement blocks and chains. If anyone ever finds you, you’ll look so much more at home. Heaven knows it costs us more this way and most don’t appreciate the extra expense, but Mister Scardino likes to do everything first class, especially when he says, ‘goodbye’.”
“Come on, ya freakin’ nut-case,” Bruno said, loosening a hand screw at the base of the chair as she struggled violently. “Let’s throw her in the drink and get outta here. I’m starvin’ and Gloria made lasagna.”
With the straps still holding her in the fishing seat, the two men gave the chair a final push off the stern with a "one- and –a- two- and- a -three."
~
Jeanette Severin tugged, yanked, and pulled with all her strength, willing to pull her hand off if need-be. She paid no attention to the strong gush of swirling current from the fishing boat's props as it powered away. Her lungs ready to give out. She was a good swimmer and jogging had given her good air capacity, but the chloroform and fear of death had burned away the last of her oxygen and the bubbles before her eyes were growing strangely light as she sank into the darkness. But she wasn’t sinking. In fact, just below the surface… and rising.
She craned her neck upward, stretching, stretching. Air. Momentary air. She stretched again… more air. The strap gave way. Her right hand free. She ripped off her gag, spit out a wet cloth and sucked hard, her head now completely above the water. She didn’t understand what was happening, but went to work on the other straps and soon was free from the chair, which popped to the surface like a cork. In the distance she could see the fishing boat’s lights fading away. She could also see black lettering on the bottom of the moonlit white seat. “Sportmaster Emergency Floatation Seat.”
2
Jack Conway’s heart was adding beats and he could feel that strange something in his stomach that happened whenever Sam was in motion. He would be the first to admit that some parents just get too crazy when it cam to kids’ sports, but this was the Glenwood World Series between the Cove Tire Yankees and the Genero Pizza Tigers and it was in the top of the ninth inning with the score all tied up at two a piece.
Jack wiped the sweat off his brow and put his Tigers baseball cap on backwards. He heard his stomach growl again and looked at his watch. 7:36 p.m. The game had been rained out last Saturday, and for some reason tonight, Thursday evening, had been scheduled as the rain date. Whatever. The distraction was just what he needed to get his mind off work and the Wireless Infra-red Sound Placer, or WISP. He considered that some inventions just weren’t meant to work and some deadlines weren’t meant to be made. He would have to remember that line the next time he met with his boss. Right.
“Let’s go, Sam!” yelled parents from the Tiger’s side of the bleachers as Jack’s twelve-year-old daughter stepped up to the plate. Sam's wavy blonde ponytail poking out from under the red batter’s helmet and those cute baby-blues weren’t fooling anybody… not anymore. She tapped the plate with her bat and dug in her cleats.
“Come on, Sam,” Jack called, coaching third base. The truth was, she didn’t need his encouragement… maybe in cleaning her room, but not in baseball. She had never hit a fence-clearing home run, but no one in the league was better at getting on base and crossing home plate.
The Mets’ coach, Blake Wagler, a lawyer by profession, stood on the other side of the field. Wagler was a big man with lots of big cheeks. He also sported a substantial gut with an ego to match. Jack didn’t like him, nor was he too crazy about his punk pitcher, Mack Bulletti, who had just struck out the last two batters.
Mack, a lefty with a thick neck, wrists and ankles, and his name shaved into his buzz-cut just over both ears, was the biggest kid on the field, a fact mostly attributed to being left back in school. His pitching proficiency constantly reminded everyone he’d gone to baseball camp since diapers, and he carried a swagger and an attitude that made Jack wonder if he were still wearing them.
Sam took a few practice swings, then readied herself in a crouch to give the pitcher a smaller strike zone to work with.
Mack nodded to the catcher, reeled back and delivered.
Sam swung.
"Strike one," the ump shouted. A clean miss. Met fans screamed with elation. Tiger fans were silent.
Sam adjusted her batting gloves, reset herself and raise her bat.
Mack nodded, wound up and threw. The ball came in wicked fast and seemed to miss Sam’s face by an inch. Everyone gasped. Sam arched back and fell, catching herself with one hand to the dirt. Jack reflexively started toward her, but just as quickly stopped himself.
"Ball one."
Wagler smiled proudly at Mack’s ability to brush-back Sam off the plate she was crowding.
Jack wanted to wipe the smile off Wagler's face with a brush-back of his own. Jerk. That was his daughter out there. "You got him now, Sam," Jack yelled.
Sam went into her crouch, if anything, crowding the plate even more. Jack sighed heavily. He dare not say anything. Wouldn’t matter if he did. She was in her own world and the outside influences of sound were blocked out.
Mack stared for a long moment at Sam. Finally, he shook his head once, twice, then nodded. He stretched, wound up and dealed. Another fastball.
The ball hit her! She was down.
Jack was suddenly there, as was the Tiger coach, Kevin Campbell, and finally Wagler.
"You all right, Honey?" Jack said as his daughter got back to her feet and massaged the meat of her shoulder.
Sam nodded but shrugged off assistance and gave him a look that said, "Don’t call me Honey here."
"Take your base," the ump called.
"She leaned into it!" Wagler yelled. "That was a strike!"
"You’re crazy," Jack countered, immediately in his face. Up close the man not only looked like a pig, he smelled like one too. “Next time you have Mack throw high and tight, you’re the one that’s gonna get hit,” Jack said, so close his spit sprayed Wagler’s shirt. Suddenly, Kevin took him by the arm and walked him back toward his third base position.
Wagler ignored Jack but continued to fuss with the ump who wasn’t hearing any of it. On his way up the baseline Jack watched Sam trot to first. He frowned, wondering if she really had leaned in.
Tyler Green walked up to the plate as if he wished somebody else, anybody else, was up, and he wasn’t the only one. The crowd was relatively quiet. The Mets were confident the out was secure. A few token "Come on Mack" type encouragements leaked out of a teammate or two. Blake Mister Met Wagler said nothing, wearing a scowl and folded arms as if Mack was going to show the ump his last call was wrong.
Tyler stood there in his usual non-stance; bat too low, legs too close.
"Let’s- go- Tyler. Let’s- go- Tyler," chanted a lone voice, his mother, Alice Green.
Jack had to chase away the thought of hoping Tyler would also get hit. The last thing he would want was for Tyler to get hurt, but the truth was that Sam’s friend, who happened to always be around the house these days because he didn’t seem to have any other friends, was an automatic out. If only the ball would glance the cloth of his shirt.
Mack’s fiery hurl shot straight down Broadway and was instantly followed by a resounding pop from the catcher’s mitt. Tyler hadn’t twitched a muscle. In fact, Jack thought he might have had his eyes closed.
"Strike one!"
"Let’s go Tyler! Let’s go Tyler!" Alice cheered.
Jack noticed Sam using a little sign language to Tyler. Jack had no idea what she was telling him and less of an idea how he would implement any instructions.
Mack got the ball back and eyed Sam, who was taking a sizable lead off first and motioning to him to throw. Jack had seen her do this before and so had all the other teams. Somehow, in a run down, Sam seemed to have the advantage.
"Forget her," Wagler yelled. "There’s your out," he said, hitching his triple chin in the direction of Tyler.
No sooner did Mack follow Wagler’s instructions to focus on Tyler and wind up for the pitch than Sam took off. The crowd cheered, Tyler stood still, Mack cursed, Sam came into second standing up and the ump clicked his counter.
"Low… ball one. One and one," the ump called, but as soon as the catcher started to throw the ball back to Mack, Sam was off again, to third. Mack had to wait for the ball to reach him before he could throw, but he snagged it barehanded and rocketed it to third just ahead of Sam.
Sam dove. The third baseman caught the ball and put his mitt between Sam, who was plowing dry dirt with her outstretched hands, and the base. The ump stood up and ran up the baseline to call the play. Jack took a step back as the dust cloud mushroomed toward him. The ump made a fist and punched down with all the drama he could muster and yelled, "You’re ou… safe!" he shouted, changing his hand signals mid-swing.
"Time," Sam called, coughing as she crawled to her knees.
Wagler hurried over screaming. "She was out! You called her out!"
Jack helped Sam to her feet, wanting to hug her, but resisted the temptation and helped dust her off. She continued to cough and spit dirt, grabbing his pant’s pocket for support.
The ump pointed to the ground at the foot of the third baseman. "The ball came out of his glove. She’s safe!"
Wagler looked at his third baseman, who could only shrug his shoulders. Wagler looked like he wanted to choke the poor kid, but turned and stormed off to the mound to have a word with Mack, and waved for the catcher to join them. After a brief conversation they broke huddle and returned to their respective positions.
"You okay?" Jack said to Sam, who’s blinking blue eyes were the only evidence that his daughter was inside the living dust pile before him.
She nodded and took the base.
"Time in! Play ball! The count is still one and one."
Jack stepped backward and reached into his pants pocket for a fresh piece of gum, fishing around the car keys until he found a stick, unwrapping it as Sam stepped off the bag.
Mack readied himself, staring at the catcher. He looked over his right shoulder at Sam, taking her lead off third. If Tyler’s bat were to make contact with the ball, Sam would be off instantly toward home… and if a watermelon-sized asteroid were to hit Innovative Sound Technologies’ research lab, where Jack was chief scientist, he wouldn’t have to worry about perfecting the WISP.
Mack spun around and faked a throw to third. Sam dove for the bag, only to get up and see Mack grinning.
"Never mind that!" yelled Wagler. "Throw strikes."
Sam dusted herself off as she took another lead. Mack checked her again. She wasn’t even looking at him, paying more attention to dirt that had gotten under her shirt. A ploy, Jack thought. She could care less about the dirt.
Jack stuck the gum in his mouth and stuck the paper back in his pocket with his keys. Suddenly, in the parking lot behind the Mets dugout, a car alarm went off. Jack reflexively looked toward the noise along with everyone else and saw that the headlights to his minivan were flashing on and off. When he stuck his hand in his pocket he had inadvertently hit the panic button on his car remote. Before he could shut it off, in his peripheral, he saw movement.
Sam broke for home.
In the split second that heads had glanced in the direction of the parking lot, she had stopped fussing with her dirty clothes and bolted for a straight steal of home plate. Mack, caught off guard, abruptly came out of his normal motion and threw a rocket to the catcher. Sam was coming in head-first, her arms, and fingers, stretching for the rubber base. The ball looked like it was coming on line with Sam's head. Jack winced and wanted to yell out, but Tyler, in an apparent attempt to protect himself, turned, his bat dropping down in front of Sam. The ball hit Tyler’s bat with a dull thud and rolled in front of the plate. When Sam slid across the plate she took out the legs of both the catcher and Tyler.
"Run!" she yelled to Tyler before she even came to a stop.
"What?"
"Run… you hit the ball!" she said, tangled with the catcher, who also seemed to be wondering what was happening.
Tyler’s eyes popped, he jumped to his feet and ran for first.
"Go Tyler!" Alice yelled, this time with the help of the entire stand and every member of the team.
Tyler was running as fast as he could but that was too slow for Jack, who tried to somehow psychically push him. Mack grabbed the ball and threw, but not really. He never had a good grip and fumbled the ball back to the ground. Tyler crossed the bag. The Tiger bench roared, drowning out the car alarm. Tyler threw his hands into the air and turned left to go back to the bag. Mack finally threw the ball to the first baseman who promptly tagged Tyler before he came back to the bag.
"Yorrrr out!" yelled the ump.
"What?" Tyler yelled incredulously, then sheepishly walked toward his teammates.
Both coaches stomped from their dugouts to the ump.
The crowd quieted enough for Jack to hear the car horn still honking. He pressed the remote and the alarm went silent.
"He’s safe," yelled Campbell. "He was just going back to the bag."
"He turned the wrong way, and the run shouldn’t count!" Wagler countered.
The ump held up his hands. "He did turn toward second and was tagged out, but he also beat the throw to first, so the run will count.
Wagler pointed at Jack. "His car alarm distracted my pitcher. He planned it with his daughter! That’s cheating!"
Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. That fat pig. He felt his right fist clenching as he started toward Wagler. Someone had to put him in his place, now.
"Let it go, Dad."
"Huh," Jack said, and turned.
Sam had retrieved her mitt and trotted over to shortstop. "Let’s go Tigers!" she yelled enthusiastically.
Jack turned his attention to the battle at home plate. There was yelling, pointing, stomping, cursing and lots of dust. Finally, the ump’s decision remained as called, leaving both sides disgruntled and anxious to continue. Following Sam’s lead, the Tigers found their mitts and ran onto the field.
Ryan Campbell, the coach’s son, was the hardest thrower on the Tigers. He was no Mack Bulletti but he came out of right field to close the game as he had several times in the past. Meanwhile, the pitcher took right field and Tyler, who always had trouble putting on the catcher’s gear, finally squatted behind home plate.
"Batter up!"
Ryan reached back and threw. His arm was fresh and the ball blazed by the batter, but high. Tyler looked at the ball in his mitt as if he were surprised he’d actually caught it.
"Bring it down, Ry," yelled his dad.
Three fiery pitches later the batter took his base and the next Met came up.
"Let him hit it, Ry," Sam yelled out. "We’ve got you covered."
Ryan nodded, exhaled, settled and threw. The ball hit the dirt and passed Tyler, who basically had jumped out of the way. The runner went to third. Five pitches later, the Mets had their second base runner on first.
With runners on first and second and no outs Kevin Campbell walked to the mound and called the infield to join the meeting. A moment later they broke with a cheer and the next batter came to the plate.
Ryan’s first pitch was a strike, a sizzling fastball that caused Tyler to take his hand out of his mitt and shake the pain off. The Tiger’s audience erupted with applause. Kevin looked at Jack and winked.
"He’s all yours, Ry," Tyler yelled.
Ryan nodded, fired. The ball flew, up and in, and at the last moment the batter turned away and was nailed in the back. Jack winced. Ouch. Time was called and both coaches hurried to the batter. After catching his breath and holding back tears, he jogged to first. Bases loaded. Kevin took the long walk to his son on the mound. Ryan was done.
Kevin looked at Jack.
"Just ask her," Jack said. Sam had played every infield position but had become too valuable at shortstop to be utilized anywhere else… until now.
The coach only had to look in her direction. A few moments later Sam was on the mound and Ryan was at short, a position he’d never played. A confused hush blanketed the fans on both sides. Could she pitch? For certain, she couldn’t throw like Mack, or even Ryan. But she had been working with Tyler before practices, so she shouldn’t have any problem putting the ball over the plate.
Sam was given a few moments to warm up as the on-deck batter, Chris Cartalano, continued his practice swings. Chris was a good hitter and would make contact with anything within reach of his bat. Sam’s throws looked slow and Tyler seemed to be having a hard time just playing catch with her. Not good.
"Batter up."
The bases were full of Mets. He looked at the new on-deck batter. Mack. Wonderful. If she somehow got through Chris, she would face Mack.
Sam nodded at Tyler’s sign. Tyler arranged himself, legs wide, squat low, as if he were about to catch a cannon ball. Sam wound up in a sort of abbreviated way and fired, well not exactly fired, more like tossed. The ball seemed to float slowly right over the heart of the plate. Jack squinted as Chris began to swing. He waited for the bat to crack. All he could hope was for the ball to stay in the infield.
"Strrriiiiike one!"
Tiger fans cheered reservedly.
Jack frowned. What happened? Chris took a good swing, but a clean miss. Somewhat mystified, he walked behind the backstop where he’d get a better view of the next pitch.
"Settle down," Wagler scolded. "Just hit the ball. We don’t need a grand slam."
Sam got the ball back and took the hill. She readied, eyed the bases, and then looked back to Tyler. Again, she wound up and tossed. Slow and right down the middle. Chris stepped into his swing. The ball was going to get crushed. But just then Jack noticed something else that widened his eyes
Swoosh.
"Striiiiike two!"
Tiger fans cheered again, this time with a bit more enthusiasm. Jack laughed, but not so much at the second strike as at the ball coming across the plate without spin. Pushing, rather than cutting through the air. Sam was throwing some kind of knuckle ball. But how did she…
Sam caught Tyler’s throw and immediately glared down third, causing the runner to shorten his lead. Chris took some swings then set. Without any communication to Tyler that Jack could see, Sam threw. Chris swung.
"Strike three… you’rrrre out."
The Tiger fans exploded in applause. Chris threw his bat and immediately got reprimanded by the ump. Tyler came out to meet Sam and the two talked as the next batter came out from the on-deck.
Mack Bulletti stood outside the batter’s box taking practice swings with a black shiny bat that only he used. No doubt, if he connected with one of Sam's floating pitches, the game would be over.
“Mack, Mack, Mack, Mack,” cheered several kids in the upper bleachers that all looked like Mack, but smaller.
Wagler paced intensely. "Come on, Mack," he yelled. "Knock the cover off that ball."
Mack held up his hand to call for time as he stepped into the batter’s box and dug in his feet, like a bull readying for a charge. He tightened his gloved hands around the bat, took a slow level swing and then set.
Sam checked third, then threw. From where Jack stood, behind the ump, he could see the strange unpredictable movement the knuckleball made, like a butterfly, he thought. With a small preceding hitch, Mack swung the bat hard and grunted loud as the middle of the bat connected with the middle of the ball. The ball exploded off the bat. What a shot, Jack thought as he watched the ball quickly leave the field. He certainly slammed that one.
"Foul ball… strike one," the ump called.
The slow ball had apparently caught Mack off guard. He had swung so hard that the ball, while hit squarely, pulled foul into the woods. Wagler threw Sam a new ball. She examined it for a moment, then stared down at Mack, apparently unfazed by the foul blast. Mack took another slow level swing and raised his bat.
Sam threw another flutterer.
Mack swung hard, but this time missed the ball cleanly, spun around and fell from his own momentum. Tyler laughed as Mack staggered to his feet.
"How’d you like me to bat your head off?" Mack said to Tyler, who immediately lost his smile. He then leaned closer and said, “After the game, I’m gonna be looking for you.”
"Play ball," the ump quickly said before tempers could flare.
Mack dusted himself off and glared at Sam, who was staring right back at him. Jack could read her mind. She didn’t like Mack and she especially didn’t like people picking on Tyler. She wound up, reaching further back than she had been, and threw. To Jack’s surprise the ball was spinning and coming in fast. Not as fast as Ryan’s throws, but compared to the knuckleballs this was a missile, coming in high and tight, but still in the strike zone.
Mack swung and connected, but not point to point. Apparently expecting a slower dipping ball like the rest, he got under it. The ball looped over Sam’s head and was dropping between the pitcher’s mound and second base. The Met’s fans ignited in cheers of anticipation. Ryan was trying to get to the ball but had gotten a late start, as did the second baseman who had been playing too deep.
Sam was suddenly in a dead run, her back to the mound. She dove, stretched out as far as she could. Jack was on his tip- toes, fingers gripping the backstop fencing, neck craning, to see what happened as the ball came down. He couldn’t see the ball hit the ground or the glove, but cat quick, Sam got to her knees and dove again, this time for second base. The umpire ran out onto the field and Sam rolled off the bag and onto her back, holding up her glove, the new white ball Wagler had tossed her was inside the web.
"Yourrr out!" the ump shouted at Mack. He then turned to the runner who had been on second. "And you’re out. Double play. Game over. Tigers win."
Mack, who’d been running down to first, took off his helmet and threw it hard to the ground with both hands.
“Good game, Mack,” Tyler said, running past him to join the rest of the team, mauling Sam at second.
3
A cold breeze moved through the depth of the darkness, origin unknown.
“My candle’s going out,” Tyler said, as if he would also disappear. A moment later, Sam’s candle also blew out, but not before seeing the frightened look on Tyler’s face.
Little league baseball was now officially over, but the summer vacation had really just begun. The Forth of July was only a few days away.
“Oh no!” Sam said in mock concern as she continued forward confidently in the pitch black. She laughed and her laughter echoed, adding an eerie feeling to an already gloomy place. For Sam though, the concrete pipes weren’t scary anymore. They were as familiar and comfortable as the worn and deflated Nike sneakers on her feet. But for Tyler, they were completely unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and as usual, he had had enough exploring for the day.
“What’s so funny?” Tyler demanded.
“You,” Sam said.
“Me?”
“The look on your face when the wind blew the candles out. You had the same look as yesterday, when Mack said he’d be looking for you.”
"There’s something about your sense of humor that makes me nervous. I want to get out of here and I want out now. I should’ve stayed outside where the sun is bright and hot and visibility is one hundred percent. But no, I let you talk me into another one of your ‘explorations’. Why am I here? It’s dark, cold and wet, and when I stop to listen, all I can hear is the echo of water drops plopping into puddles, even though it hasn’t rained in a week.
"So leave," Sam said, knowing he wouldn’t.
"Believe me, this time I would, if I had the slightest idea of where I am and how to get out of here."
“And do what?”
“Something normal, like a game on your computer?”
“Borrrrrring.”
“And this isn’t? My feet are soaked. I think there’re fish in my socks.”
“Probably worms. Mine are perfectly fine. See what training can do for you?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. This is training for, uh, what was it this month? FBI agent? No, no, that was two months ago. This month it’s archeology, right? Tomb raiding? Little Miss Indiana Jones?”
Sam smiled, but only because he couldn’t see her. Keep the wheels rolling, she thought. Her father had told her, “wheels turn easier when they roll so follow your instincts and don’t be afraid to make mistakes.” Someday, she didn’t know when, but someday, all this training would pay off. She could easily call up past dreams of explorative adventures, holding lost artifacts tediously discovered in buried ruins, or scuba diving for treasure, or stealthily slipping behind enemy lines to retake a stolen weapon or rescue a prisoner. All the time, working together with the FBI, CIA or British Secret Service.
“Okay, forget about the computer games. How about a game of chess?” Tyler suggested.
“Fine, I’ll play you a game of chess, but only after we finish mapping.” Occasionally Sam would agree to play chess, a game Tyler was very good at, but only if she was allowed to play darts between moves. She felt that darts enhanced her game. She could think more clearly when on the move. Tyler would tell her she was crazy, but was clearly baffled when dart games coincided with Sam winning the chess game.
Sam opened the back of her commando-style camping knife, took out a waterproof match and dragged the self-lighting head across the concrete wall. The light flash was momentarily blinding, followed by a fleeting smell of burning sulfur. She re-lit his candle and peered forward.
"The next room is just ahead. Hang in there Ty, and remember to watch your head," Sam said, every word echoing. She put the knife back in her mini-backpack.
Although Sam enjoyed goofing on Tyler, she liked to think she would defend her friend with her life. Tyler didn't have many friends. He was new to Glenwood Landing, and in the eyes of most of the other twelve-year-olds he didn't have much going for him. He didn't have a favorite team in any sport, and he was always the last one picked when sides were chosen for playing anything. Except for his bike, he didn't own any interesting toys or have money for anyone to borrow. And he was school smart, at an age where intelligence was a disease. He was good on the computer, but the one he had was old and slow, and neither he nor his mother could afford a new one since his father left.
"I'm cold," Tyler said.
Sam continued on, with Tyler right behind her. "I told you to wear a sweatshirt or something."
"It's ninety-seven degrees out."
"Not in here it's not," Sam said, and stepped into the next ‘room’. She straightened up, a dim light filled the room from above. “Watch your feet, there’s plenty of water pooled in this one."
Sam watched as Tyler carefully proceeded into the underground concrete basin that she called a room.
“Are you sure I won’t step on anything that’s alive?” Tyler said, his eyes darting about.
“Positive.”
“No rats, Sam? Are you certain there are no rats?”
“I told you, that wouldn't be a problem.”
“Bees?”
Sam rolled her eyes. No matter where they went or what they were doing, Tyler would always be wondering about bees. Ever since he stirred that hive last summer and came away with thirteen stings. A day he apparently was never going to forget. “I already told you, no bees.”
“You also told me my feet would stay dry and that I would like it in here. Are we almost done yet?" Tyler whined, folding his goose-bumped arms for warmth.
Sam looked at him in the faint light afforded by the two one-inch holes in the manhole cover fifteen feet over their heads. She took off her backpack and then her sweatshirt and gave it to Tyler. "Put this on," she said, extending it toward him.
"What about you?" Tyler said, his arms still folded.
"Ah... I don't need it. I was going to take it off anyway. Too warm," she lied.
Tyler grabbed it and quickly put it on. "Let me know when you want it back," he said.
Sam looked up at the manhole cover. On her left was a ladder made of steel loops sticking out of the concrete wall. She pulled a can of spray paint from the top of her backpack and started her climb. The loops, made of bent reinforcement rods, were cold, damp and rusty. Sam’s palms were already brown from the other ladders.
When she got to the top she held on to the last rung with her left arm, reached out her right arm, and sprayed a burst of yellow paint into one of the two holes in the manhole cover that allowed in sunlight from the world above. Just as she took her finger off the spray nozzle, a car drove over the manhole cover, causing a momentary loss of light and a loud clang. The timing of it startled her. She was used to the clang sound, but not so close.
Sam climbed back down the ladder and jumped onto the sandy high spot where Tyler was. Except for the occasional sandbar, the bottom was a slow moving stream that constantly ran through the storm drain sewer system Sam often refered to as, “The Tunnels”.
Tyler looked at his watch. "It's twelve o'clock. We've been in here for almost three hours and painted twenty-four manhole covers. I'm hungry. When do we eat?"
Sam stuffed the spray can into the backpack, pulled out a local road map and spread it out for Tyler to see. The roads on the map had been color-coded with highlighters in accordance with various tunnels. By painting the inside of the manhole cover holes, Sam was able to locate and map out the tunnels from above on her bicycle.
"You see this area, Ty?" Sam asked, pointing to an area on the map yet to be colored in. "When we get this done we'll have it all. The whole tunnel system. In real life."
Tyler rolled his eyes. "Something to tell our grandkids someday."
Sam just looked at him and shook her head. "What’s the matter, there’s nothing to keep score of-- no extra lives-- no laser guns or sound effects?
"Yeah, and no escape when you don’t like the game," Tyler said quickly.
"Sometimes there is no escape, Ty. Besides, with this map you would never get lost down here and always know what's outside."
"I’ll never get lost down here anyway."
"Why's that?"
"Because I'll never be in here again." Tyler said, lighting his candle from Sam's. “I don’t want to grow up to be a professional hero.”
"What do you want to be?"
"I don’t know yet, but nothing that would put me in a sewer. Maybe I’ll be a channel twelve weatherman. And when I tell everyone that it’s raining out, I’ll be thinking of you sitting up in a tree with binoculars."
Sam shook her head, folded up the map and slid it into an outside pocket in her backpack, then reached deep into the main section, which she called the "abyss." Her fingers identified an assortment of the usual items: used candle stubs, toy periscope, stethoscope, opera glasses, nine-volt battery, mini-transistor radio with ear plug and . . .yes! There was the sound of paper crackling, and a brown bag emerged. Tyler's eyes widened. Sam daintily opened the bag and peeked inside, then raised her eyes to meet Tyler’s, smiled and pulled out a couple of sandwiches. "You didn't think I'd let us go hungry, did you, Ty?" Sam never went anywhere without food.
Tyler laughed. "Hand it over."
Their backs slid down the cold concrete wall until they sat on the damp sand, then they attacked the sandwiches with a large single bite. They held up their prey to compare bite radiuses, and each claimed to have done the most damage. Sam reached in her backpack again and pulled out two warm cans of root beer.
"Either you make the best sandwich or I'm starvin," Tyler said, reaching for his soda, his mouth full of bologna and cheese with ketchup.
"Neither, Ty," Sam said, her mouth stuffed full. "It's this place-- the atmosphere. It just doesn’t get any better than this." They both laughed, and Tyler got soda up his nose, which made them laugh more.
After lunch Sam and Tyler continued on to the next junction room. This one was a fork in the road with three other concrete pipes coming in. The three pipes were all the same size as the others they had been in; about four feet in diameter. After Sam climbed up and sprayed the manhole cover she came down and sprayed the same color on the far left tunnel.
"Sam, how can you possibly know where we are?"
"Everything is color coded. Look at the tunnel we just came from."
Tyler turned around. The top edge of the pipe coming into the room had a red spot on it. "Okay, what's red mean?"
"Red is the most important one to remember Ty. It means exit. The way out. If something happens to me, follow the way of the red marks." Sam didn’t have the slightest thought that something would or even could happen to her, but believed that a good agent prepares fellow agents for the worst to keep them alert and aware of their surroundings in the event of an enemy attack; Sam’s favorite fantasy.
"And where does the one you just sprayed go?"
Sam shrugged. "I don't know. That's what we're going to find out."
Tunnel after tunnel, they continued, their heads down and their feet apart, hugging the sides to avoid stepping in the stream that ran down the middle. The intruding warm glow of the candle pushed away the darkness as Sam moved through the pipe. At the edge of the soft yellow light she saw something odd. She knew the way the tunnels were fitted together: Storm drains into small pipes that merged into larger ones that emptied into junction rooms and finally into the main tunnel before running out into the sump, or as Sam called it, "The Pit." But just ahead, midway between junction rooms, coming directly into the main tunnel itself.... "Hey, what's this?" Sam said.
Sam and Tyler held their candles out. Running out perpendicular to the tunnel was another smaller tunnel. Besides the fact that it wasn’t located in a junction room, the pipe had other peculiarities. It wasn’t made of concrete like all the others, but old and rusted corrugated steel.
Tyler brought his candle to his watch. "Look, Sam, lets call it a day. It's almost two."
"We have to see where this goes, Ty."
"This? We?"
"Who knows where it could go?" Sam said. Keep it rolling. Exciting possibilities began to take shape in her head.
"Who cares where it goes? It’s a sewer pipe. Sewer pipe. You should have been a bug." Tyler yelled, then stuck his candle into it. "Look at this thing, Sam. It looks like it's going to cave in."
"No way!" Sam said, wondering the same thing herself. It must lead to someplace important or they wouldn't have bothered sticking it into the town system. This pipe was obviously installed at a different time and by different workers."
"You’re a lunatic! You’re not making any sense. I'm not going in one inch. You can't even walk in. It's so small you’ll have to crawl. And who knows what else is crawling in there. I'm leaving."
"How will you find your way out?"
"I'll follow the red out," Tyler said smiling.
"Look, wait right here. After this, we'll go home. I promise. We've come a long way and I've got to check this out while we're here. I know a short cut home to make it up to you."
"A short cut?" Tyler said, sounding suspicious.
"Yeah, a place we can pop out where there is no traffic and we can walk home above ground."
Tyler paused to think.
"Okay, Sam, but don't be long or I'll be gone when you get back."
Sam was just about to climb in when Tyler grabbed the back of her pants. "Now what? Sam said.
Tyler said nothing, but pointed further up into the tunnel they were already in.
Sam looked and smiled. Less than fifteen feet away there were four little green lights the size of peas. She couldn’t possibly tell Tyler what they really were. Not now, when she was on the verge of a new discovery. If she told Tyler that the lights really were, he would be gone in a flash, screaming all the way.
"What is that?" Tyler whispered.
"Phosphorous."
"Phosphorous?"
"Yeah, from people cleaning their cars with old laundry detergent. The stuff mixes with storm drain algae and glows. Let me get going so we can go home." Sam said.
"Phosphorous?”
“Yup.”
Storm drain algae?” Tyler repeated as he tried to get comfortable. The water was low enough that he could sit against the lower part of the curved wall of the tunnel with his feet on the opposite wall at the same height. He looked at his half-burnt candle. "If you’re not back by the time the candle gets to this line," he said digging a line into the candle with his fingernail, "I’m outta here."
"Deal," Sam said, then climbed into the pipe.
Sam was barely able to squeeze in without hitting her backpack on the top of the pipe. Crawling through the corrugated steel pipe was a lot harder than she had thought. Her knees quickly hurt from the rounded high spots. Coming around a slight curve, Sam saw light. She felt a rush of excitement anticipating what she might find. She wasn’t even sure of what town she was in. Maybe this was an old drain in the National Guard base, she thought. What could top that?
A few feet from the storm drain room, Sam could hear voices from the street. She poked her head through the tunnel, and the room she found herself in was a much different version of other storm drains she'd been in. Instead of poured concrete, the walls were old red brick with roots cracking through, buckling inward from years of ground pressure. Not too much longer before they collapse, she thought. The ceiling, with the usual manhole cover in the middle of it, was shallow. She couldn't stand up without hitting her head. That's good, she thought. She and Tyler could probably lift the cover and push it aside without the usual bother of standing on each other’s shoulders.
The voices were getting closer. Sam peered outside the curb grate to see where the tunnel had brought her. The daylight was momentarily blinding and the air on her face was warm. Her eyes adjusted and she was surprised that she didn't recognize the street she was on. She wasn’t at the National Guard facility. Where was she? She stuck her face into the grate and looked from side to side. She was inside some huge estate with a big cobblestone driveway. Footsteps were approaching. They didn’t sound like they were walking as much as they were strolling; stopping, turning, continuing and stopping again. All the while she heard talking. Sam's imagination quickly ran wild. Maybe they were government scientists talking about a top secret weapon they'd invented, or some big business men getting away to talk about... wait. One of them was speaking with a foreign accent-- Italian. Maybe they....
They stopped right in front of her. Sam's heart raced. Why did they stop? Did they see her? Just three feet away, the shoes turned and faced each other. They were shiny, black and probably expensive, but didn’t look very comfortable compared to her sneakers. She slowly peeked higher and saw the shoes belonged to two men in black pants, white shirts and suspenders, one of them smoking a cigar. Maybe they were band members on a break at a catered wedding at one of the many country clubs in the area. Sam strained her ears to overcome their accents and hear what they were saying.
"I don't like this, Joseph," said the man with the cigar. " I can't even talk to you in my own house anymore. Since when does a Pardo and a Scardino have to walk in the forest to speak freely? You and I are very much the friends our fathers were, but you're also my lawyer and I pay you a lot of money. This is unacceptable. You need to do a better job," he said, pointing at him with the cigar.
"We can't take any chances of being overheard, Gio. The walls in your house may have ears."
"Ears of rats. I don't even know who they are anymore. I swear on the grave of my mother, may she rest in peace, if I so much as catch one of those little rodents with my name on his lips, he'll wish to hell he'd never heard of Giovanni Scardino. I'll squeeze the skinny neck ‘til the eyes pop out of the face."
Sam felt her neck tighten. Pressure built up behind her eyes at the man's suggestion. She was too scared to even breath. She knew exactly where she was now, and for one shocking instant she wished she were home with Tyler playing chess or something-- even a video game.
Giovanni Scardino was a major organized crime boss whose compound was in Brookville, a bordering village of exclusive estates and mansions. His high profile murder and racketeering trial had been going on for several months, and for most of that time it dominated the front pages of all the newspapers. His name was constantly heard on the radio in Sam’s kitchen and his face always seemed to be on TV. Like most of the locals, Sam was familiar with the guarded outer gates of the compound, but the man inside had remained mysterious.
In school, Sam had heard rumors of gruesome murders. In school, it was fun to talk about the supposed crimes of America's most current mob boss, but Sam never imagined she'd be this close to the man himself. She concentrated on making zero noise. The very sound of her own heart was so loud she wondered if they would hear it.
"We have to get to another juror, Joseph. I don’t feel comfortable with owning just one, and we're running out of time," Scardino said to his lawyer, Joseph Pardo, making a fist with his right hand and softly hitting his left palm with it, knocking a large lit ash off his cigar that landed in the sand by Sam's feet. The smell of it was so bad it made her eyes water and her nose tickle. She felt a sneeze coming on.
His lawyer shrugged. "We're trying everything, but since the last witness, uh… disappeared… the security's been tighter than I've ever seen it. Besides, one is all we need to hang the jury."
Scardino was shaking his head in dissatisfaction. "I’m not confident in just one. Suppose she gets brave at the last minute and double-crosses us. And don’t talk to me anymore about that witness. We did what we had to do. Instead of pointing at me, she'll be pointing at fish." He laughed at his own joke and then coughed from his laugh.
Sam's eyes were wide open. She couldn't believe what she had just heard. She felt the sneeze coming on stronger and tried desperately to suppress it. When she blinked, tears squeezed out.
"We can't even get one of our cops in there to bring them lunch," Pardo said, ignoring Scardino's sick humor.
The men shifted their feet on the cobblestones. "Then go higher. Get someone to order one of our cops in there. Another week and my fate will be in their hands, and I want one of those hands to belong to me.”
Pardo shook his head. “Then we’re going to need more time. We’re going to have to implement another idea.”
Scardino looked at him. “Idea? What’s this idea? The way you said, ‘another idea’, makes me think were going from plan A to plan D.”
"Gio, when we're in court on Tuesday, I want you to fake a heart attack."
"A heart attack? This is what I pay you for… a heart attack," Scardino said, throwing his stogie into the storm grate.
"What am I in, his favorite ashtray?" Sam thought as the cigar butt landed next to the previous ash. Sam held her breath, and with the side of her sneaker bulldozed sand over the reeking embers, and then stepped on the small mound.
"It doesn't matter whether they believe it or not, they have to respond to it. You'll take an ambulance ride to the hospital and they'll do some tests and find out it was indigestion, but it could buy us a couple of days, maybe more. At this point, every day is precious."
"This is what they teach you in law school, Joseph? Heart attack? You know what I think? I think it’s so stupid that it’s smart," Scardino said. Then he laughed and coughed again. They turned and continued to walk.
As they were leaving, Sam anxiously turned to leave before she sneezed. A can of spray paint that had worked its way to the top of the backpack fell out and splashed into a puddle behind Sam's feet.
The men turned and looked at the grate.
Sam froze. She could hear them walking back toward her. Sam slowly crouched down into a ball against the wall closest to the driveway as the men bent down to have a look inside. One of them picked up a rock and threw it inside, hitting the puddle and splashing water onto Sam's face.
"Like I said, too many rats around here," Scardino said, his voice echoing just over Sam’s head.
"Speaking of rats," Pardo said. "I sent Piero over to I.S.T. to have a talk with the mouse, Budd Clemency. Piero will have the usual heart to heart talk with him."
Sam's eyes widened. Her father worked at I.S.T. and Budd Clemency was his boss. She inched upward and peered out with one eye.
"Good," Scardino said, putting his arm on his lawyer's back. "This trial is costing me a fortune. Everyone’s keeping a distance. We've got to do keep the money flowing in." They walked slowly away and out of sight.
Sam remained motionless, listening to their voices trail off. She wanted to hear more. She needed to hear more. She crouched to get back into the steel pipe then paused, looking at her reflection in the dirty puddle, and wondered. What did Giovanni Scardino have to do with the company her father worked for? Suddenly, Sam heard a scream from inside the pipe. Tyler... she’d forgotten all about Tyler, but apparently the rats hadn’t.
Sam scrambled into the pipe and went as fast as she could, hoping the screams wouldn't reach the ears of the men outside.
When she got to Tyler, he was holding his candle out and kicking water in the direction of the rats.
"Phosphorous," Tyler yelled. "Phosphorus," he repeated. "Why don’t you go over there and bring over some of that phosphorus."
"Shhh! Be quiet!" Sam said.
"Where were you?" Tyler cried. "I thought you said there were no rats in here. I hate rats. Hate them."
"Rats?" Sam asked.
"Oh, very funny. As if."
"I told you that rats wouldn't be a problem, and they're not. Besides, I didn't want to scare you."
"You failed," Tyler said, staring in the direction of the rats.
"Come on, Ty, don't worry about the rats. They were long gone a second after you screamed. They're more afraid of you than you are of them."
"Where'd you get that from, Animal Planet?"
"Forget that. You'll never guess where we are," Sam said excitedly.
"In a sewer with rats?" Tyler said angrily. Forget it Sam, I don’t even want to hear it. You’ve got that look on your face that comes just before you tell me another one of your crazy ideas."
"Right now we're outside Giovanni Scardino's estate, and this tunnel gets us inside."
Tyler looked at Sam in the candlelight without expression. Then he turned and started walking away in the direction they had come.
"Ty, wait!" Sam yelled.
"No! Wait for what? To get my picture on a milk carton?"
Sam went after him. "I heard two guys talking about killing a witness and getting to one of the jurors, and one of the guys was Giovanni Scardino."
Tyler stopped, didn’t reply, then continued to walk away.
“Did you hear me?”
"No way! I don't believe you," Tyler said, his feet splashing.
"Yeah! And he was saying something about my father's boss, too. My father might be in danger. Tyler stopped and turned. "You're lying. I can tell when you're lying and you're definitely lying.”
"I swear, it's the truth. On Tuesday he's going to fake a heart attack."
"He said that?"
"Yup. Ty, we have to tell the police what I heard."
"Oh yeah, sure-- tell the police. You don't think they already know he killed the witness? They just can't prove it, and if you tell them what you heard then we're going to get in trouble. Besides, without proof, he'll just say you were lying, and then he'll have us both killed.
"Then we'll have to come back with a tape recorder. Then we’ll get proof. My father is in danger, Ty. We have to do something."
"How convenient for you," Tyler said, then stopped and turned around. "Forget 'we'. You're sick. Who do you think you are? Jane Bond?" he said, then paused. "That was a stupid question. Of course you do."
"My father has this thing called 'the FM Ear'. It's a bug he used for Jesse and me when we were babies. He said it worked better than any intercom. He would stick it in our pockets when we went out to play. It's the size of a piece of bubble gum with a nine-volt battery attached. You can tune it in on an FM radio from five hundred feet away. We could set it up near him and tape what he says. That should be good enough for proof. Who knows what we might catch him saying?"
“If it’s that easy, why don’t the police do it?”
“Because they can’t get in there… but we can.”
"I wish I had a tape recorder for what you say, so I could play back all the crazy stuff you tell me. Do you know what they'll do to you when they catch you? And remember real hard that I said you, y-o-u, not--us..."
4
Jack Conway sat at his desk in lab room one, staring at the stars flying by on the screen saver, his fingers loosely holding a forgotten half-empty mug of luke-warm coffee.
"Warm that up for ya?" asked a man in a white lab coat with a name pin stuck into the top pocket, "James Ramirez--Engineering."
"Huh? Oh-- yeah, sure," Jack said, sliding the mug to his left, still lost in the screen.
"This should help." Ramirez poured from a Knob Creek bottle, that had been unopened since last Christmas, into the mug that had a cartoon on it. The cartoon showed a fat lab professor pointing to a blackboard that read, 'Time = $'.
Jack took a sip and turned from the screen to look at his project partner. He allowed himself a brief smile and then gave Ramirez a weak salute with a lift of the mug. "Thanks Jimmy. But somehow I don’t think this is going to help us solve our problem.”
Ramirez clicked Jack’s cup with his own and said, “That’s where you might be wrong, my friend. I just read a recent study that claimed a little drink can help you think.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Dare I ask how?”
“Simple. The human brain is capable of major thinking but, like sports cars in traffic, thoughts can only flow as fast as the slowest and weakest brain cells. Since alcohol kills brain cells, it’s only logical that the weakest get killed first. That’s why you feel smarter after a couple of beers.”
“You truly have lost your mind,” Jack said as he looked at his spiked coffee. “I thought we were going to save this for a special occasion.”
“This is. With the WISP at an impasse, we’re going to have to begin on our next project.”
Jack allowed himself a thin smile before shaking his head in disappointment. “The WISP-2? You know they’re not going to let us shelve this thing."