The Bewildered Page 15

  The air did not seem like air—thicker, greasier; it hummed, it tasted like metal in her mouth, deep in her throat as she swallowed. She heard footsteps overhead, then they were gone. A slant of light angled from a cracked floorboard overhead, and winked away; a glow from a forgotten trouble lamp hooked down some bent passageway. The dark tightened. Were there other people, movements around them? Rats? The two stood still for a moment, and so did everything else.

  Chris tugged on Kayla’s arm; the man’s long shape jerked close by, suddenly, then moved away, after something else—Leon?

  They stumbled, trying to keep up. Kayla telescoped out the blind woman’s cane, feeling their way along. She lost track of the man in the darkness, as it thickened around them. Were they descending farther? The broken-down tunnel opened into an underground room, into a larger cavern, narrowed to another broken-down tunnel. Here and there, shafts of pale light, stripes of dust, slanted down.

  Kayla felt Chris’s damp hand on her face, turning her head to see. There, just across the tunnel, the bearded man stood—pressed flat against a wall, a white moth, his arms outstretched. Slowly, he moved, sliding along, another twenty feet down the tunnel, then pressed himself against the wall again. He continued to proceed in this manner, and they followed, cautiously, at a distance.

  The man seemed to be working at something, bending a piece of the wall with his hands. His white shirt made him look like a masked ghost, his beard hiding the edges of his face. Then, without warning, he slipped away, inside the wall somehow, leaving them there.

  Kayla pulled Chris across the tunnel; a piece of plywood, only visible up close, leaned against the brick wall. She bent it out and they could see the rough hole in the bricks, the space through which the man had gone, where Leon had to be.

  On hands and knees, Kayla went first. The ceiling was close above her head. She could not tell how far the man was ahead of her; she could not see him. Crawling, she slowed and Chris slapped the bottom of her shoe, bumping her. She let go of the cane, left it behind, pulled herself along. And then there was light ahead, a door being opened, a fresh gasp of air tinged by spices. Kayla hurried; she heard Chris breathing behind her and tried to hold her breath, not to make a sound.

  When she reached the trap door, she waited, slowly looking up, expecting the man to be looking down at her. She could see nothing about the room overhead except the fluorescent lights, flickering in the ceiling.

  “Not now, Victor!” a man’s deep voice said. “I’m quite busy at this moment.”

  Kayla hesitated, Chris close behind her. Slowly, she raised her head, just enough so her eyes were at the height of the floorboards. She saw no one, nothing except shelves, aisles; it was some kind of shop. Quickly, she slid out of the tunnel, down an empty aisle. Chris followed, crawling sideways.

  “This day is so long,” said another man’s voice—he paced across the room, and Kayla saw that it was the bearded man. “I’m only trying to be helpful,” he said, “you know, certainly, and I came here to see—”

  Kayla and Chris slid farther toward the shop’s dim corner. A row of dusty cardboard boxes was stacked near the wall, a narrow space there to hide, gaps to see through; they were ten feet from the men, yet could not be seen. Here, the smell of spices thickened. The signs on the wall were in Chinese or Korean; Kayla could not quite make sense of them. She leaned around the aisle, still low, just enough to see the other man, who was turning the sign in the window from OPEN to CLOSED, locking the front door. This man was even taller than the first one, and built more solidly. His head was up near the ceiling, and bald; the fluorescent lights reflected along the angles of his skull as he turned. His skin dark black, his face serious, he looked like a retired basketball player; he walked stiffly, hardly bending his knees, his long arms swinging straight. He stepped closer. He did not see them.

  “You must remember, Victor,” he said, “to close this trap door. There’s a draft, on top of everything else. Now, now—that’s not a reprimand, simply a fact—”

  He put his arm around the bearded man and they walked across the room, beyond where Kayla could see. She turned and looked at Chris, his frightened face, his mouth open; he had also been watching the man. Kayla winked, but still Chris stared, afraid, his eyes strained, a nerve ticking in his neck. On the shelf next to him were dried mangos in jars, and folding fans; silver, dried fish stared out through cellophane bags.

  “Where’s Leon?” he mouthed, and Kayla shook her head, trying to calm him.

  “I forgot something,” the bearded man was saying. “Something I was doing. Underground. I lost—what?—”

  “Of course you did,” the other man said. His shiny black shoe was close enough that Kayla could have reached out and touched it. She held her breath.

  “I forgot, I forgot, I forgot.” The man hopped slightly, repeating himself.

  “Don’t fret about that, Victor. Listen to me—I would like for you to take the train out past the zoo. Bring me a stalk of Queen Anne’s lace from a ditch in Beaverton.”

  “Very good.”

  “Also, Victor, I would like a matchbook from the Bagdad Theater on Hawthorne, and a leaf from a tree on the corner of Alberta Street and Northeast Eighth Avenue. I’ll write it down for you.”

  “Excellent.”

  The two men walked together, back across the shop, away from Chris and Kayla. The black man pulled the trapdoor open again, and the bearded man climbed into it; saying nothing more, he was gone.

  The black man closed the trapdoor with an expression of satisfaction. He unrolled a carpet across the floor where the door was hidden, then looked around the store before fixing his attention on a bookcase behind the cash register. Stiffly, he walked toward it.

  Kayla shifted to see better, and heard Chris do the same, behind her. The man took down a notebook, opened it on the counter next to the cash register, and seemed to read what was written there. Then, a feathered quill in his hand, he began to write. In front of him were displays of copper bracelets; pieces of jade, lacquered boxes. Everything around him looked small, fragile. The counter shook slightly as he wrote. He smiled, enjoying himself, pausing to choose the right words.

  And then there was a tapping at the window next to the front door, a rhythm, a kind of code. The man leapt up, knocking his leg on the counter. He hopped and limped around to the door, passing close by where Kayla and Chris were hidden, fishing out a huge ring of keys.

  The first person through the door was the blind woman from the MAX.

  “Heather,” the man said. “Nice to see you. And whom have you brought along?”

  The sailor, Steven, stepped in next. He wore dark glasses, also, and held a white cane, acting as if he were blind. He felt his way along with his hands, shuffled his feet. He looked even more pathetic than usual—a foot shorter than the black man, not even as tall as the blind woman.

  Kayla fought off a sneeze; Chris was pressed even closer to her now, watching, his head above her own.

  “You said it would be all right, Mr. Chesterton,” the blind woman said.

  “Absolutely. The process does require two people.”

  “My name’s Steven,” the sailor said, holding out his hand at the wrong angle, as if he could not tell how tall the man was.

  The black man, Chesterton, didn’t shake it. “Very well,” he said. “Come along.”

  Reaching out, he took hold of Heather’s arm and Heather grasped Steven’s hand; the three of them, linked, moved toward the back of the shop. There, they turned and began climbing a partially hidden staircase.

  “Hurry,” she said, hissing at Chris.

  “What about Leon?” Chris said, whispering. “Is he in here?”

  “Still in the tunnel, probably.”

  They looked at each other, each wondering if Leon was lost beneath them, each thinking of the bearded man’s pursuit.

  Chris pointed toward the trapdoor. “Let’s find him.”

  “This can help us, maybe,” Kayla said. �
��All of this, about what’s happening with him. We have to find out what we can.”

  “But Leon—”

  Kayla pulled Chris out of the hiding place, closer, where it was not safe to talk. They could hear the creak of footsteps, climbing. She peered around the corner, then nodded; the stairs were clear. Before climbing, though, she pointed at her shoes, then Chris’s. They bent down and unlaced them with trembling fingers; they continued upward in stocking feet.

  Halfway up, Kayla paused. She could see the back of the sailor’s head—he was in the rear—moving down a hallway. The black man was explaining something, but she could not make out the words. She strained her neck, her ears. She felt Chris’s breath on her bare arm. She kept moving. When they reached the top of the stairs, the hallway was empty. They passed an open doorway, a small room with its walls covered in maps. They slowed, but did not stop; they were crouched low, though it made no difference. The second door in the hallway, the last one, was closed. Kayla leaned her head against it and could hear sounds within—footsteps, low voices, the shifting of chairs or something metal. The only voice she could make out was Chesterton’s, deep and commanding:

  “Beware distractions, noises outside, any physical sensation. You will feel as if your heart is speeding up to an incredible rate. Do not worry.”

  The door had no keyhole; the slot for the key was right in the doorknob, tight, impossible to see through. Again, there was the sound of bodies shifting, of mumbled replies. Again, Chesterton’s deep voice:

  “There is no metal on your bodies? Remove your watch, sir. No, don’t tell me your name again—I’m already trying to forget it. That’s only a complication. Just take off all your clothes. Yes, that’s right, that’s right.”

  Kayla heard belt buckles, coins in pockets, the soft, heavy collapse of clothes dropped to the floor. Now Chris pressed his ear to the door, so he could listen. His face was inches from hers, his eyes open but not really looking. The metal sounds eased for a moment, and then there was a sound like claws across a hardwood floor, and further instructions:

  “I have to slick down your hair with this—it makes your scalp more accessible and conductive, yes. It will be cold at first; it will warm up. Now, now you must breathe slowly. Concentrate. Listen to yourself breathe. Imagine your breath coming up through the soles of your feet, up your legs. Pull the energy through you. Try to imagine your hands are inside your legs, just inside the front of your torso, pulling up with your breath—”

  Kayla looked at Chris; he stared back at her.

  “I won’t be in the room with you the entire time,” Chesterton was saying. “Only for the sake of safety, to this point, only insofar as it is necessary. And now, as you continue, I will take my leave.”

  Suddenly, footsteps approached the door, growing louder on the other side. Chris and Kayla spun, bumping each other, sliding down the hallway, hands slipping against the walls, then onto the stairs, half-falling to the bottom.

  They overran their shoes, then twisted to snatch them up, regaining their balance. Chris was ahead now; they darted beneath the fluorescent lights. The ceiling itself shook, a thumping overhead as if the people in the room had multiplied and were dancing. The lights rattled; dust rained down. Trailing, Kayla veered toward the counter. She clapped the open notebook shut on the quill pen and slipped the whole thing inside her shirt, almost running into Chris as he worked the key, the ring luckily still hanging in the front door’s lock—

  And then they were out on the sidewalk, still carrying their shoes, stumbling in the sunlight, startled, not looking back. They did not speak, right away; they passed under the red gate of Chinatown, back across Burnside.

  “We couldn’t find Leon, even if we tried,” Kayla said.

  “He went down there like he wanted to,” Chris said, “like he’d been there before. Maybe he knew his way around. No one would catch him.”

  “It’ll be all right,” Kayla said. “We’ll talk to him later. We will.”

  They walked close together, toward Pioneer Square, convincing each other.

  Half an hour later—back on the MAX, the trip to Cal Skate put off to another time—Chris took from his pocket what he’d stolen from the store’s shelves. The sign had said it was a dried monkey claw, but upon close inspection it was revealed to be fake, cleverly constructed of rabbit fur and wire. Kayla did not mention the notebook; she kept it concealed inside her shirt, its sharp edges against her skin.

  20.

  STEVEN SHIVERED. He swallowed, and felt the wire that circled his throat, the weight of the cold metal plate on his chest. He was still blind—the dark glasses, the tape, the dough, the coins pressed against his closed eyelids; Heather did not trust him to act blind without this; she feared he’d give himself away. She was close. He could hear her breathing, to his left. She had brought him here. This was something, she said, that only a few in the blind community knew about—a secret passed along, not to be repeated, a mysterious waiting list, a call that came out of nowhere. A call from the man with the deep voice: Chesterton.

  Only now was Steven certain that he and Heather were alone, that this Chesterton had left the room. Only now did he dare lift his hands and touch the metal plate on his chest, follow the thin wires that radiated out from it; other wires were attached to his ankles, his wrists, all stretching away from him.

  He reached out his arm, and his fingertips touched skin. Heather. The wires were attached to her, as well, connecting her to him. Just as he touched her, she began to laugh, and then to speak.

  “The white lights are so bright!” she said. “I can see them, and I can see the woman—”

  “What?” Steven said, turning his face in her direction, unable to see. Heather’s voice was low, full of wonder, the words coming slow.

  “—and she has long, blond hair, almost white, coming through a door, wearing boots that look like snake or crocodile skin. Green, green and yellow triangles. All the colors! She’s throwing her white jacket on the floor. The boots are all she’s wearing, her skin shines—oh, and a gold chain, a thin necklace, and she’s tossing her hair around her shoulders, I can see her walking to a golden wicker chair, its wide back like a fan. There are white stockings on the floor, a garter belt, red, dark red cowboy boots, but she walks right past them—”

  Heather laughed in surprise, in delight. The wires pulled on Steven, physically but inside, as well, as if sharp threads were being unwound, stripped out of his memory.

  “—to a tall mirror on a stand, I can see it,” Heather was saying, “and there’s a hat, gray, hanging on the mirror, and other clothes, and now she’s posing with the hat on her head, naked, cocking her hip, looking at herself in the mirror, having a great time, swinging the clothes around. Her fingernails are so long and curved and so dark red. Wait! There’s someone else in the mirror, someone behind her. It’s a man—he’s just standing there, nervous by the door, watching like he doesn’t know what to do. He’s trying to untie his shoes, his scalp shows through his reddish, thinning hair. He’s clumsy! His pants are off, now. He’s a little paunchy—but all the lights are on the woman, and she’s climbing onto the bed, grabbing its metal frame—”

  A car honked somewhere. Steven heard the slap of Heather’s hand on the floor, felt the pull of wire; he turned his head and the tape across his left eye popped free; the coin—a Susan B. Anthony dollar—bounced on the linoleum floor, and he reached up, straining against the wires, and pulled off his dark glasses, the tape and dough over that eye. Heather was still talking, facing the ceiling; she was naked except for the metal plates and wires, as was he. The copper plate on her chest was square, rectangular, while his was triangular. Shallow abrasions marked her wrists, her ankles, her neck. Suddenly she lifted up, on her hands and feet, moving like a crab to the end of the cot and back, wires sawing the air, tugging at him, and then she collapsed, flat on her back again. Her dark glasses slid off; she turned toward him, smiling, her white eyes wide.

  “Heather,” he s
aid.

  “Oh, it’s sad,” she said. “It’s funny. I can see, I can see her on the bed, still in her boots and the sheets are pink, and there’s a fur, gray and brown and black like a wolf, and she has a choker of shiny black beads around her neck, now. She’s pausing, she’s posing, stretching out across the bed, and she’s pulling on a bright red, sheer blouse, then one of white lace, and she’s gesturing for the man, the one in the doorway. She’s saying something. He’s repeating it—a name. Patricia? He reaches out and touches her, he’s wearing bright white underpants, that’s all, but he can’t do it, doesn’t dare. He’s afraid. She’s crawling across the bed, stretching up on her knees, but he’s turned away, stumbling, gathering up his clothes—”

  Steven lay still, watching and listening. The way Heather was talking, the way her legs and arms jerked, it seemed that the wires must be plugged into a socket somewhere. They were not. From what he could see of the room, there were only the two cots, and the rest was white—white metal cabinets, white linoleum floor, white blinds over the windows. He watched with his one eye, he listened to Heather. He’d never told her about the night with Natalie, the scene she was recounting. He hadn’t told anyone; he had tried to forget it. Now his face was hot, a wave of confused shame passing over him, and at the same time he realized that Heather could not possibly recognize the woman she was describing as Natalie, that she did not even know that he himself was the man she was seeing, however she was seeing him.

  Heather had stopped talking, stopped moving. The room was silent, only the faint tap and slide of wires as they settled.

  Steven sat up, knelt on the hard floor next to her. She was breathing; she seemed to be asleep. He touched her forehead, her cheek, lifted the wires where they were tight. It was easiest to untwist them from his chest plate, his wrists and ankles. Loose, he stood and stretched. He had raw circles around his wrists, ankles; he felt the sharp line against his neck when he turned his head.