Separation (23 page)

Stopping periodically to listen, he heard no
voices approaching and no other sounds save his footsteps. For now,
it seemed as though safety lay in going where no one else wanted
to, but sooner or later, the police would come.

Trusting his instincts, he ventured further
along the slimy concrete with the smell of rushing water as his
guide. The smell of the sewage got stronger, as did his desire to
leave, but there were those mobs to consider, and now that he was a
fugitive...

Another smell entered his nostrils... the
smell of smoke. Someone had thrown a gas bomb down the hole. It had
to be the police. They were trying to smoke him out, and if they
did, chances were they had orders to shoot to kill.

Voices called out, “The mutant’s down here,
sir! Go after him!”

Tolliver had decided to send his minions
after all. Coughing and half-blinded, Harry took off and plunged
headfirst into the slime, swimming for his life. He ducked
underwater just long enough to make some headway, and then surfaced
again to breathe in a gulp of putrid smelling air.

Eventually, the gas faded, and he breathed
somewhat more normally. How far had he gotten? He didn’t know. His
wounds stung from the chemicals in the water. Wearily, he pulled
himself out of the water and lay back on the ledge, regaining his
breath. The desire for sleep came, but if he slept now, the police
would come.

Chances had to be taken, so he went up the
nearest exit, pushed-slid the manhole cover off, and poked his head
out. Clear, the coast was clear.

Emerging once more on dry land, he
reconnoitered the area and got his bearings. Shelter... he needed
to find shelter, and soon. Creeping along the backstreets as
quietly as possible, his nose and ears alert for any potential
danger, he recognized certain houses and landmarks. He’d been there
before, roughly six months earlier.

“I’m close,” he muttered, and soldiered on
until he came to a tidy little house in a residential neighborhood.
Although it was late, he had no choice in the matter. After
glancing around to make sure no one was watching him, he rang the
doorbell, heard the chime echo, and rang it again. “Josephine, it’s
me,” he whispered.

The owner of the house was an elderly widow
named Josephine Hutch. He’d met her once before when he and
Anastasia were being chased by a mob, and she’d provided shelter
and food, all because she trusted them. Trust was something that
had to be earned and couldn’t be bought, and he’d always been
grateful.

Shifting restlessly, he glanced up at the
moon. Judging from its position in the sky, it had to be around
midnight, and he hated waking anyone at this hour. Naturally, no
one answered at first, and then the sounds of shuffling feet
indicated someone was on their way. A voice asked from behind the
door, “Who is it? If you’re here to rob me, I don’t have anything
of value to take.”

“It’s me,” Harry responded, about to pass out
on his feet. If the sight of him didn’t give away his location, his
smell would.

The door opened and the elderly but unlined
face of Josephine appeared. She stared sightlessly and asked, “Who
are you?”

“A friend,” he decided to reply. Josephine
had mentioned having cataracts when she’d saved him and Anastasia
once before from a mob. Now, she’d gone completely blind.

The old lady cocked her head to one side and
a wise smile appeared. “I know that voice. Come in, Harry.”

His host was a most gracious one. Way past
her eighties, small and slight, Josephine shuffled around in her
kitchen, getting tea ready and expertly slicing bread and placing
cutlery and plates on the table, all the while clucking over her
guest and asking questions in a mild-mannered way, as if strangers
appeared every night of the week asking for a place to stay. In
spite of her age and handicap, she knew exactly where to go and
what to do.

“It’s in the touch and in my memory,” she
said, her voice calm, her movements measured and careful. With a
quick turn to the refrigerator, she pulled out the butter, went
over to the drawer to spider her fingers over the cutlery, and came
out with a butter knife.

It was a great surprise to him to find out
she didn’t use a walking cane or own a seeing-eye dog. “I don’t
need either of them,” she declared. “I don’t go out much, but I
learned that when you can’t see, you have to listen harder and feel
your way around more gently. You compensate and get used to
it.”

With a deft move, she coated the knife with a
film of butter and slathered it on the bread. Task done, she handed
the plate to Harry, who gratefully accepted and ate quickly. After
eating, he felt a little more strength flow through his system.

“When did your sight go?” he asked.

Her answer didn’t sound bitter at all,
although she did utter a mournful sigh. “Around four months ago, I
guess. I always knew I’d go blind, but thought I’d have a little
more time. We always wish for more time, but never seem to have
enough.”

Simple words and simply spoken, they carried
a great deal of resonance. “I get by, you should know that. One of
my children lives nearby and he’s been a great help to me. And I
thank you for the money you sent. It’s a great comfort, although I
don’t really need it.”

“You helped us before. I wanted to make it up
to you.”

Josephine had been buttering her own slice of
bread. She put the knife down and spoke softly. “You did, and here
you are again. Where’s that lovely girlfriend of yours?”

“She’s my wife now, and a really nasty guy
captured her.”

A look of shock came over Josephine’s face.
“Why on Earth—?”

“A lot of reasons,” Harry interrupted and
gave her the short version of his saga, finishing off with, “I need
your help.”

The look of shock on her face faded, replaced
by one of sympathy. “So now you’ve got mobs chasing you as well as
the police,” she said as a tsk-tsk sound came from her. “Then it’s
settled. You’re staying here.”

Offer gratefully accepted. “Thank you, but I
need a computer to contact my friends.”

At this late hour, it was impossible,
Josephine told him. “Sleep here tonight. If you say the police are
after you, then going outside isn’t safe. Tomorrow morning I’ll
call my son. He knows something about computers, or so he
says.”

Sated from the food and weary, Harry nodded,
although she couldn’t see it. “Thanks. If it’s okay, I’ll take the
sofa.”

Josephine’s nose wrinkled. “The first thing
you’ll do is to take a shower, young man. You smell like a
sewer.”

She would have to remind him, and then taking
a whiff of his own body odor, he realized she had a larger
tolerance to stinks than he did. “Uh, yeah, I guess I could do
that.”

“Up the stairs and to your right,” she
commanded. “Leave your dirty things in the hamper. I’ll have some
fresh clothes ready for you when you’re done. Now scoot!”

Doing as she suggested, he bounded up the
stairs and found the shower. The hot water felt good and blasted
the stench of the sewers from him.

After emerging clean and ready, he shook off
the excess water, toweled himself dry, and found a pair of pants
and a t-shirt waiting on top of the toilet seat. Both were a little
large, but he wasn’t in a position to argue.

Going downstairs, he found his hostess
sitting on the couch, and she cocked her head to one side as he
approached. “Well, the aroma is a little more pleasant,” she said.
“We’ll talk in the morning.”

With that, she got up and moved without
hesitation toward the stairs. On the way, though, she reached out
laid her hand, still smooth and unlined, on his arm. “I’m sure your
wife will be all right. I didn’t see her or you very well before,
but I felt the shape of her face, and I heard her voice. She struck
me then as a good person, as you did.”

Speech over, she slowly walked upstairs and
Harry took a spot on the nearby couch. He didn’t think he’d be able
to sleep, but felt surprised and grateful when it came up to catch
him.

Waking up with a start—he’d had a dream about mob
vengeance involving pitchforks, stakes and fire—he sat up, glanced
furtively around to make sure he was still in Josephine’s house and
not a jail cell, and looked around for his host. “Is anyone
here?”

His voice echoed and then died away. Perhaps
she was still asleep. A glance at the clock told him it was
eight-fifteen, and the smell of food wafted through the air. Going
into the kitchen, he found a plate piled high with eggs and toast
on the kitchen table. With it sat a note written in a shaky hand.
I’ve gone out to get my son and we’ll be back soon. Don’t worry
about me. Eat!

Well, she’d commanded him to eat, and he did,
polishing off the food in less than a minute. Never mind that it
was only lukewarm. He was famished, and the eggs sated his
appetite.

A moment later, he sat back and reflected on
the dream he’d had during the night. No, it was no dream but a
nightmare, and he’d woken up in a sweat. In it, he saw the dead
body of his wife, with Allenby standing over her, a look of triumph
on his monstrous face. “This is what you’ve made me do...”

The thought of living without Anastasia was
something Harry couldn’t bear. He’d been alone before, but not this
way. In loneliness came fear, the fear of the unknown as well as
the fear of something bigger he couldn’t fight against. Admitting
the truth to no one else save himself, he realized fear, the most
crippling of all emotions, had always held him back.

Small and shy, bookish and nerdy, he’d been
the butt of jokes and beat-downs from the first grade until his
junior high school days when his genius had finally shone through.
Afraid of confrontations, he’d either run or taken it.

After his parents had died, he’d felt totally
alone, isolated and ignored. Everything had changed once he’d met
Anastasia. Meeting her, having her accept him for what he was, it
gave him confidence to face life and try to surmount any
difficulties associated with it. She knew of his inadequacy, and
told him in no uncertain terms he had to fight against it.

“It’s okay to be afraid,” she’d said once.
“We all are, but knowing you feel it and working through it can
make you confident.”

Keeping her words in mind, he’d done his best
and had taken the steps necessary. He’d trained, he’d studied, and
he’d done his best to help her. More important, she’d stayed with
him, and their relationship had given him an inner strength to
surmount the challenges thrown his way.

His transformation had given him even more
confidence, although it had been sorely tested at times. He’d
traded off his humanity in a sense, but he’d gained so much more,
mainly the companionship and love of someone like himself. And he’d
come to terms with being what he was...

Coming back to the present, he wondered if
there was any news. Although Josephine had lost her sight, she
still had a television. Clicking it on, he kept the volume low and
occasionally glanced out the window to check and see if anyone was
coming. The newscast showed a reporter, a young man, tall and
slender, with a head of professionally styled dark hair, standing
outside police headquarters, speaking to the Chief of Police. “Can
you give us a statement?”

Tolliver directed his gaze at the camera. “If
you’re out there, Goldman, I want you to hear this. In the time
you’ve been gone, more of those...
things
came. They savaged
everyone they came into contact with. We have over eighty people
dead, and twice that number wounded. The FBI has also suffered
untold losses. I have no choice but to ask my men to bring you in
dead or alive. I’d rather be it alive, but if it’s the other way,
I’ll consider it acceptable.”

Harsh words and the reporter audibly gulped.
“Chief, considering Harry Goldman and his wife weren’t responsible
for the attacks, what justification do you have for arresting
him?”

An angry glare greeted the question. “My
justification is saving the lives of the citizenry of this city. If
we arrest Goldman, then this Allenby character will break off his
attacks.”

“Oh, is that so,” Harry muttered. Tolliver
was a fool. Allenby had been a step ahead of the authorities all
this time and he’d never stop. He had nothing to lose and
everything to gain.

“What about jurisdiction in this matter?” the
reporter asked. “Isn’t the FBI in charge?”

“I have been in contact with the director of
the Washington branch,” replied Tolliver. “They have removed the
agent minder for Goldman and ceded control to us. That means we can
and will use every possible means to bring in Harry Goldman dead or
alive.”

Damn it, they got rid of Overton?
The
question was why, but maybe it had to do with damage control or
assuming responsibility. Perhaps the FBI didn’t want a black eye,
or perhaps they just didn’t care. Whatever, he was on his own. And
the way Tolliver had pronounced the last three words—dead or
alive—filled Harry with dread. The police were good marksmen, and
they shot to kill. Not only that, he had to think about a mutation
controlling other hideous creatures of the night.

As well, the thought of where Anastasia could
be kept turning itself over in his mind, and he recalled the
details of the videos he’d seen, the ones with Allenby delivering
his message of hate. There had been an echo—and where would you
find one?

The obvious answer was a cave... caves had
caverns. However, trying to find which cave within the continental
USA—assuming the message had even originated in the USA—would be a
futile task. If Allenby had already gone to Europe, then it would
be almost impossible to find him...

“Harry, we’re back.”