ReVISIONS (30 page)

“C'mon c'mon c'mon,” Marcel said, and he could picture the kid pogoing up and down in a phone booth, heard his boots crunching on rock salt.

He covered the receiver and turned to Sylvie, who had a bemused smirk that wasn't half cute on her. “You wanna hit the road, right?” She nodded. “You wanna write about how unwirers get made? I could bring along the kid I'm 'prenticing up.” Through the cellphone, he heard Marcel shouting “Yes! Yes! YES!” and imagined the kid punching the air and pounding the booth's walls triumphantly.

“It's a good angle,” she said. “
You
want him along, right?”

He held the receiver in the air so that they could both hear the hollers coming down the line. “I don't think I could stop him,” he said. “So, yeah.”

She nodded and bit her upper lip, just where the scar was, an oddly canine gesture that thrust her chin forward and made her look slightly belligerent. “Okay.”

“Marcel! Calm down, twerp! Breathe. Okay. You gonna be good if I take you along?”

“So good, man, so very very very very good, you won't believe—”

“You gonna be
safe
, I bring you along?”

“Safe as houses. Won't breathe without your permission. Man, you are the
best
—”

“Yeah, I am. Four PM. Bring the stuff.”

 

“We're heading for East Aurora.” Roscoe looked over his shoulder as he backed the truck into the street, barely noticing Sylvie watching him. “There's a low hill there that's blocking signal to the mesh near Chestnut Hill. We're going to fix that.”

“Great!” Marcel said. “Hey, isn't there a microwave mast up there?”

“Yeah.” Roscoe saw Sylvie making notes. “Could you keep from saying exactly where we're placing the repeaters? In your article? Otherwise FCC'll take 'em down.”

“Okay.” Sylvie put down her pocket computer. It was one of those weird Brit designs with the folding keyboards and built-in wireless that had trashed Palm all over Europe.

“We should only need two or three at the most,” Roscoe added. “I figure an hour for each and we can be home by nine.”

“Why don't we use the microwave mast?” Marcel said.

“Huh?”

“The microwave mast,” he repeated. “We go up there, we put one repeater on it, and we bounce signal
over
the hill, no need to go 'round the bushes.”

“I don't think so,” Roscoe said absently. “Criminal trespass.”

“But it'd save time! And they'd never look up there, it'll look just like any other phone company dish—”

Roscoe sighed. “I am so not hearing this. Listen, if I get caught climbing a tree by the roadside I can drop the cans and say I was bird-watching. But if I get caught climbing a phone company tower, it's criminal trespass,
and
they'll nail me for felony theft of service, and felony possession of unlicensed devices—they'll find the cans for sure, it's like a parking lot around the base—and violate my parole. Enough about saving time, okay? Doing twenty to life is not saving time.”

“Okay,” Marcel said, “we'll do it your way.” He crossed his arms and stared out the window at the passing trees under their winter cowl of snow.

“How many unwirers are working the area?” Sylvie asked, breaking the silence.

Marcel said, “Just us,” at the same moment as Roscoe said, “Dozens.” Sylvie laughed.

“We're solo,” Roscoe said, “but there are lots of other solos in the area. It's not a
conspiracy
, you know—more like an emergent form of democracy.”

Sylvie looked up from her palmtop. “That's from a manifesto, isn't it?”

Roscoe pinked. “Guilty as charged. Got it from Barlow's
Letters from Prison
. I read a lot of prison-lit. Before I went into the joint.”

“Amateurs plagiarize, artists steal,” she said. “Might as well steal from the best. Barlow talks a mean stick. You know he wrote lyrics for the Grateful Dead?”

 

Marcel came out of his sulk when they got to the site. He set up a surveyor's tripod and was the model of efficiency as he lined up the bank shot to bounce their signal around the hill.

Sylvie hung back with Roscoe, who was testing the gear using his laptop and two homemade antennae to measure signal strength. “Got to get it right the first time. Don't like to revisit a site after it's set up. Dog returning to its vomit and all.”

She took out her key chain and dangled it in the path of the business end of the repeater Roscoe was testing. “I'm getting good directional signal,” she said, turning the keychain so he could see the glowing blue LEDs arranged to form the distinctive Nokia “N.”

Roscoe reached for the fob. “These are just
wicked
,” he said.

“Keep it,” she said. “It's just a Nokia freebie.”

Roscoe felt obscurely embarrassed—like an American hick. “Thanks,” he said. “Hey, Marcel, you got us all lined up?”

“Got it.”

They lined up the first repeater and tested it, but there was no signal. Bad solder joints, interference from the microwave tower, gremlins . . . Who knew? Sometimes a shot just didn't work.

“Okay, pass me another one.” It worked fine, but they needed two to make the shot. “Didn't you bring a third?” Roscoe asked.

“What for?” Marcel shrugged. “They worked back home.”

“Shit.” Roscoe stamped his feet and looked back at the road. Sylvie was standing close to the truck, hands in her pockets, looking cold. He glanced at the hill and the microwave mast on top of it.

“Why'n't we try the hill?” Marcel asked. “We could do the shot with only one repeater from up there.”

Roscoe stared at the mast. “Let me think.” He picked up the working repeater and shambled back to the truck cab. “Come on.”

“What now?” asked Sylvie, climbing in the passenger seat.

“I think.” Roscoe turned the ignition key. “Kid has a point. We've only got one unit. If we can stick it on the mast, it'll do the job.” He stared at Marcel. “But we are
not
going to get caught.” He glanced at Sylvie.

She whistled tunelessly. “It's your ass.”

“Okay. You guys keep an eye out for any sign of anyone following us.” He drove with excruciating care.

The side road up to the crest of the hill was dark, shadowed by snow-laden trees to either side. Roscoe took it slowly; a couple of times there was a whine as the all-wheel drive cut in on the uncleared snow. “No fast getaways,” Sylvie noted.

There was an empty parking lot at the end of the driveway. The mast rose from a concrete plinth behind a chain-link fence, towering above them like a giant intrusion from another world. Roscoe parked. “See anything?”

“No,” said Marcel from the back seat.

“Looks okay—hey, wait!” Sylvie did a double take. “Stop! Don't open the door!”

“Why—” Marcel began.

“Stop. Just stop.” Sylvie seemed agitated, and right then, Roscoe, his eyes recovering from headlight glare, noticed the faint shadows. “Marcel,
get down!
”

“What's up?” Marcel asked.

“Crouch down! Below window level!”

Roscoe looked past her. The shadows were getting sharper and now he could hear the other vehicle. “Shit. We've been—” He reached toward the ignition key and Sylvie slapped his hand away. “Ouch!”

“Here.” She leaned forward. “Make it look like you mean it.”

“Mean what—” Roscoe got it a moment before she kissed him. He was hugging her as the truck cab flooded with light.

“
You! Out of the
—Oh, geez.” The amplified voice, a woman's voice, trailed off. Sylvie and Roscoe turned and blinked at the spotlights mounted on the gray Dodge van as its doors opened.

Sylvie wound down the side window and stuck her head out. “I don't know what you think you're doing, but you can fuck right off!” she yelled. “Voyeurs!”

“This is private property,” came the voice. Boots crunched on the road salt. A holster creaked. Roscoe held his breath.

“Sorry,” Sylvie said. “All right, we're going.”

“Not yet, you aren't,” the voice said again, this time much closer. Roscoe looked in the rearview at the silhouette of the woman cop, flipping her handcuffs on her belt, stepping carefully on the ice surface.

“Go go go,” hissed Marcel from the back seat.

“Sit tight,” Sylvie said.

From the back seat, a click. Roscoe mumbled, “Marcel, if that is a gun I just heard, I am going to shove it up your fucking ass and pull the trigger.”

He rolled down his window. “Evening, officer,” he said. Her face was haloed by the light bouncing off her breath's fog, but he recognized her. Had seen her, the day before.

“Evening sir,” she said. “Evening, ma'am. Nice night, huh? Doing some bird-watching?”

Made. He couldn't have moved if he tried. He couldn't go back—

Another click. A flashlight. The cop shone it on Sylvie. Roscoe turned. The concealer was smudged around her scar.

“Officer, really, is this necessary?” Sylvie's voice was exasperated, and had a Manhattan accent she hadn't had before, one that made her sound scary-aggro. “It was just the heat of the moment.”

“Yes, ma'am, it is. Sir, could you step out of the car, please?”

The flashlight swung toward the back seat. The cop's eyes flickered, and then she slapped for her holster, stepping back quickly. “Everyone, hands where I can see them
now!
”

She was still fumbling with her holster, and there was the sound of the car door behind her opening. “Liz?” a voice called. The other cop, her partner. Fourth and Walnut. “Everything okay?”

She was staring wide-eyed now, panting out puffs of steam. Staring at the rear window. Roscoe looked over his shoulder. Marcel had a small pistol, pointed at her.

“Drive, Roscoe,” he said. “Drive fast.”

Moving as in a dream, he reached for the ignition. He slammed it into gear, cranking hard on the wheel, turning away from the cop, a wide circle through the empty parking lot that he came out of in a fishtail.

He regained control as they crested the ridge. Behind him, he heard the cop car swing into the chain-link fence, and in his rearview mirror, he saw the car whirling across the ice on the parking lot, its headlights moving in slow circles. Sylvie's gasp snapped him back to his driving. They were careening down the hill now, tires whining for purchase.

He touched the brakes, triggering another skid. The truck hit the main road still skidding, but now they had rock salt under the rubber, and he brought the truck back under control and floored it, switching off the headlights.

“This isn't safe,” Sylvie said.

“You said, ‘Drive fast,' ” Roscoe said, hammering the gearbox. He sounded hysterical, even to his own ears. He swallowed. “It's not far.”

“What's not far?” she said.

“We've got about five minutes before their backup arrives. Seven minutes until the chopper's in the sky. Need to get off the road.”

“The safe house,” Marcel said.

 

Roscoe hadn't been to the safe house in a year. It was an old public park, closed after a jungle gym accident. He'd gone there to scout out a good repeater location, and found that the public toilet was unlocked. He kept an extra access point there, along with a blanket, a change of clothes, a first-aid kit, and a fresh license plate, double bagged and stashed in the drop ceiling.

He parked the truck outside the fence, between the bushes and the chain-link. They were invisible from the road. He got out quickly.

“Marcel, get the camper bed,” he said, digging a crowbar out from under his seat and passing it to him.

“What are you going to do?” Sylvie asked.

He passed her a tarpaulin. “Unfold this on the ground there, and pile the stuff I pass you on top of it.”

He unloaded the truck quickly, handing Sylvie the unwiring kit. “Make a bundle of it,” he said, once the truck was empty. “Tie the corners together with the rope.”

He snatched the crowbar away from Marcel and attacked the nuts holding down the camper bed. When he'd undone them, he jammed the pry end of the bar between the lid and the truck. It began to slide and he grunted, “Get it,” at Sylvie who caught the end.

“Over the fence,” he gasped. They flipped it over together.

A car rolled past. They all flinched, but it kept going. He stilled his breathing and listened for the chop-chop of a helicopter, and thought that, yes, he heard it.

“Over the fence,” he said. “All of us.”

Marcel opened his mouth.

“Not a word,” Roscoe said. “If you say one god-damned word, you're out. Fence. Sylvie, you stay here and cover the camper bed with snow. Kick it over. As much as you can. Marcel. Drag the gear.”

They entered the dark toilet single file, and once the door had closed behind them, Roscoe pulled out his flashlight and clicked it on.

“We're not going home ever again. Whatever you had in your pockets, that's all you've got. Do you understand?”

Marcel opened his mouth and Roscoe lunged for him.

“Don't speak. Just nod. I don't want to hear your voice. You've destroyed my life, climbing that tower, pulling that gun. I'm over, you understand? Just nod.”

Marcel nodded. His eyes were very wide.

“Climb up on the toilet tank and pop out that ceiling tile and bring down the bag.”