Novel - Arcanum 101 (with Rosemary Edghill) (3 page)

BOOK: Novel - Arcanum 101 (with Rosemary Edghill)
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He hadn’t recognized the voice at the other end. It had given him a time and an address. And instructions.

And here he was. Out in the extremo del extreme of Queens—a place he’d never wanted to be—hanging around outside some old dusty warehouse in the middle of the night.

Everything here was dark—not many lights—and despite the heat of the night, Tomas shivered. It would be just his luck to get mugged. He was getting better control over his fire, but it was still far from perfect. And until he actually used it, nobody knew he had it. It wasn’t much of a threat. Not like a gun.

There didn’t seem to be anyone at the front—all closed up tight—but he wasn’t going in the front door anyway. He walked around to the back of the building, where the loading docks were. There was a door marked “Service.” When he got there, it opened, and an old guy in a Rent-a-Cop uniform opened it. He looked around, as if he was just checking out the view. Tomas was standing right in front of him, but it was like the guy didn’t see him at all. He set a brick in the door, chocking it open, and walked down the steps and away.

Tomas hurried inside, grabbing the brick and closing the door.

Once there, he wiped his hands several times on the thighs of his jeans, looking around. One lone light-bulb burned, far above him. There were stacks of cartons and big shipping crates all around him—the warehouse was filled with stuff—and he thought for a moment of liberating a souvenir or two, but it would take too much time, and Señor Prestamo hadn’t said anything about that. Besides, he had no idea what was in any of them. He wasn’t here to find out, either. He was supposed to set this place on fire. He just hoped that whatever was in them would burn. It’d be just his crappy luck if they were all filled with truck parts or something.

If this place went up, it would be the biggest thing he’d burned yet. He stared down at his open hand, imagining it filled with fire. Come on, come on…

But all he felt was nervous. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to set this place ablaze. He’d never felt less like a arrancador del fuego in his life. Maybe the power was gone. Maybe it had only been temporary, like a cold.

What would he do then? People like Señor Prestamo didn’t take “sorry” for an answer. Failure would be the same as refusal. And he wouldn’t be the first one to suffer. It would be Rosa. And Mama.

Fear grew in him then, and anger. He hadn’t asked for this power. He hadn’t asked for his whole life to be turned al revés—upside down—overnight. He hadn’t asked for Papi to go loco and to lose everything he had. Everything all of them had had.

Suddenly he felt the heat growing in his chest again—just like in the bodega, and in the basement. At first his relief damped it down, but he concentrated on his anger, and it soon returned, and this time he made it grow. He fed it with every scrap of anger and fear he had buried inside him.

And suddenly the fire was there.

With a whoop of glee Tomas flung a fireball at the nearest stack of cartons. He didn’t know what was inside, but the outside—wood and cardboard—caught quickly, and was soon burning with a bright golden light. Soon he was tossing fireballs everywhere, laughing in relief as they struck the crates and cartons around him, sticking and spattering and catching.

Burning.

It was only when he was coughing so hard he could barely breathe—and the warehouse was filled with smoke—that Tomas realized that he might be able to start fires, but that didn’t mean he was invulnerable to an entire burning warehouse coming down around him. He stumbled unsteadily through the smoke, back to the door he’d entered through, and staggered out down the stairs to the loading dock.

He was smart enough to know not to run, even though the fire was now plainly visible through the windows. Running attracted attention. Run—anywhere—and people always wanted to know why. He forced himself to walk the two long blocks and stand quietly on the subway platform—it was elevated here, not underground—waiting for the train. Just an ordinary innocent ciudadano going about his business. He was still standing on the platform when he heard the first fire sirens.

After that, it was easy.

Over the next two weeks, he got a few more calls. Once to torch an empty tenement. That was fun; it went up instantly—nothing but dry wood inside—and he didn’t make the mistake he’d made in the warehouse and stick around once the fire was started. Once he was told to start a fire in an empty lot. That was simple; all he had to do was toss one fireball and all the grass and trash went up like a pile of autumn leaves. A couple of times, all he had to do was set fire to a dumpster in an alley. Those could be hard—you never knew what might be in them—but two or three of his fireballs would start pretty much anything burning, and by now it was no trouble at all to call them up. Once he set fire to a car parked on the street. Each Friday afternoon Jorge came and found him outside Rosalita’s school—Tomas knew that was no coincidence—and handed him a thick envelope full of cash. Two weeks. Two thousand dollars.

But having money was more difficult than he’d thought it would be, and it didn’t seem to solve any problems. He’d thought he could buy Rosalita toys and clothes, but Mamacita would see them, and what would she say? He’d thought he could tell her he’d gotten a job, and explain the money that way—at least some of it—but what? And where? She’d want names, details, and he wouldn’t be able to provide them. He’d been sure he could sneak money into the housekeeping account, but the one time he’d tried it, Mamacita had been so suspicious, he hadn’t dared try it again. She counted every penny.

He was stuck.

I’ll think of something, he told himself desperately. Maybe Señor Prestamo will help. He hated to think of going to the padrone for a favor, but Prestamo owed him now, didn’t he? Tomas was taking care of all his dirty little jobs for him.

Like tonight.

He had no idea why he was going to Brooklyn; that was one of the questions he didn’t ask in his new line of work. Brooklyn was a long way away from Spanish Harlem—all the way off the bottom of Manhattan, and then some—but that was the address Tomas had been given for tonight’s job. He hoped he could find the place easily, and do the job quickly, because from the looks of things, he’d have to hurry to get back before Mamacita was up and about. No chance he could just take a cab back, either, even though he had money to burn, because no taxista would stop for somebody who looked like a banger in the middle of the night. He’d have to take the trains back as well as out, and hope they were running—fast—when he was done.

It was after two when he reached the address he’d been given. Tomas looked around in confusion. He checked the scrap of paper in his pocket. Yes, this was the right place.

But it was all wrong.

The tenement he’d burned had been empty, with a junkyard on one side and an empty lot on the other. Here, both sides of the block were lined with two-story red brick buildings. His destination was the bridal shop in the middle of the right-hand side of the block, and there were businesses on both sides. All of them were gated and dark at this time of night, of course, but above all the shops, there were apartments.

There’s no way the whole block can be empty.

Tomas was confused. He knew he was supposed to come here and burn the place. That was what he did. And if he did it, there was no way nobody was going to get hurt or killed, because the bridal shop was right in the middle of the block, and the fire was going to spread.

He’d never hurt anyone. He’d never been asked to hurt anyone. Just burn things. Cars. Buildings. Garbage.

Maybe Señor Prestamo just wants me to burn up the stock?

He thought he might have enough control of his powers by now to do that. And everything in a bridal salon was white, anyway; if he just set a small fire, one that would go out by itself, smoke damage should ruin just about everything there. That had to be it. I’ll just go in and look around…

The building had the old-fashioned kind of security gates—iron latticework gates, not a solid shutter—with separate ones for the window and the door. As he’d been promised, the security gate for the door was unlocked, and so was the door itself. He slid the big steel door gate back cautiously—it was well-oiled, and didn’t make much noise—and then opened the door.

He’d barely taken half-a-dozen steps inside before he was grabbed from behind.

“Freeze, you little skel! You’re under arrest!”

CHAPTER TWO

Six hours later, and Tomas was in a room in a big building on Lafayette Street. Family Court.

First he’d been taken back into Manhattan and booked, and that had been bad enough, because they’d called Mamacita in the middle of the night—she was missing a day of work because of him—and he’d had to sit there, chained to a table like a dog, as el policía explained to her he was being booked for felony arson. Mamacita had looked not only tired, but old, and he hadn’t had the nerve to ask her where Rosalita was.

They asked him why he’d done it, and who he’d done it for, but even then, scared and ashamed, he hadn’t been stupid enough to give up any names. He might be going to prison, but he knew what happened to tontos who said the padrone’s name where they shouldn’t. He could still keep his family safe.

He’d thought being arrested, seeing Mamacita’s face, was the worst thing, but the worst thing had been when el policía had driven him back downtown again. There, he’d sat in a room with a kind-faced woman, Ms. Lyons—the Family Court judge—for his arraignment. It wasn’t like it was on television, with the judge sitting behind a big bench and everything. They all sat around the table together, him and Mamacita and the judge, and some blanco Public Defender who looked even more nervous than Tomas felt, and a hard-edged oscuro chinga who said she was from the DA’s office and looked rich and some old woman he didn’t know. And they all started talking, and the chinga called his guy “Marty” and Marty stammered a lot and called the chinga “Linda” and Tomas tried not to listen to any of it.

“Give it up, Marty. Mrs. Rodriquez has already picked him out of the line-up and made her statement. She’s here now as a courtesy to you.”

Tomas looked up and met the woman’s eyes.

She was one of his victims.

It had never occurred to him, not really, that anybody was actually getting hurt by what he did. A warehouse, an empty lot—who was getting hurt by that? They were just warnings—and besides, all those businesses had insurance, didn’t they?

“This is—” Marty said.

“Standing ten feet away when he torched the car, Marty. Got his picture on her daughter’s cell-phone. People’s Exhibit A.”

He listened—he couldn’t help it—as Mrs. Dominquez spoke urgently to the chinga in Spanish. The woman shook her head sadly. No, even if Tomas went to jail, there would be no money.

Sure, the insurance had paid off, but it wasn’t enough to replace the car. She was someone just like his mother, working as a cleaning lady, and without her car, she couldn’t get to her jobs.

“I saw you do it,” she said, looking at him. The worst part was, she didn’t even seem angry. Just sad. “Why did you do it?”

Tomas stared down at the table in front of him.

Ms. Lyons—Judge Lyons, he guessed—beckoned to the woman sitting beside Mrs. Rodriquez. They talked together for a moment in voices too low for him to hear, then the woman went over to Mrs. Rodriquez and walked her out of the room. When she came back, the judge stood up.

“I’ll be in my chambers for the next fifteen minutes, Linda.” She got up and walked away.

The woman nodded, and sat down again, this time right across the table from Tomas. She stared at him until he looked up.

“Tomas, my name is Linda Kenyon. I’m from the DA’s office. I’ve talked to Mrs. Rodriquez, and I’ve talked to Detective Martinez, and I’ve talked to your mother, and now I’m going to talk to you, and if Mr. Mitchell is wise, he’ll keep his mouth shut while you hear what I have to say. You’re fifteen years old, but our office is pushing to have you tried as an adult, and frankly, if this goes to trial we’re probably going to get a conviction. You’re looking at—at the very least—two to five, and I guarantee you that you do not want to do one minute of that time. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

Tomas nodded. He wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t born yesterday. Back in El Paso, the vatos from Nuestra Familia had talked freely about life in el jugado, and that was a place Tomas had long ago decided he never wanted to go.

Ms. Kenyon looked satisfied. “All right. Now. This case doesn’t have to go to trial, and you don’t have to go to prison. We’re willing to cut you a deal. This is a one-time offer, and it’s only on the table while Judge Lyons is out of the room. Here it is. You agree to attend St. Rhiannon’s School in Upstate New York for the next three years—on parole—and you come out with a high school diploma and a clean slate, records sealed, or you can go to trial and go to prison. Your choice.”

“Well I think—” Martin Mitchell said.

“He’ll take the school,” Mamacita said quickly.

“I have to hear it from him,” Ms. Kenyon said. “Tomas?”

It felt like a reprieve, but he wasn’t quite sure he trusted this fancy-looking dark woman. Still, what could it hurt? Especially since he hadn’t told anyone anything. If this estúpido school didn’t look like a good thing—and he didn’t see how it possibly could—he could just run away from it, come back to the city and Señor Prestamo, and take up again where he’d left off. Only he’d be smarter this time. He’d make sure nobody got hurt—except for people who really deserved it. And he’d figure out some way to make sure Mamacita got the money for what he was doing this time.

“I’ll go to the school,” he said reluctantly.

“Good.” Ms. Kenyon smiled. “I’ll call them and make the arrangements, and I’ll give your mother a list of things she can send with you. It won’t be much. St. Rhiannon’s is very strict. But I think you’ll like it.”

He didn’t think he would. But that didn’t matter. Tomas didn’t expect to be there very long.

That had been at nine o’clock yesterday morning. By noon of the following day Tomas Torres was beginning to think agreeing to go off to some school in “Upstate New York” had been a very bad idea.

BOOK: Novel - Arcanum 101 (with Rosemary Edghill)
10.25Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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