The Orphan Factory (The Orphan Trilogy, #2) (15 page)

“You damn well better, Tommy! Your job’s on the line.”

“I understand--” The line went dead. Kentbridge put the phone away and looked at Marcia.

“Let me guess. He’s not happy?” she asked.

“Damn right he ain’t.”

The pair resumed their surveillance of the laptops in earnest. As they’d done all night, they ignored Howard-Witten who at that moment was pouring coffees for them, as he’d been doing all night, from a cappuccino machine in the corner of the boardroom. Besides making his chambers available to the Omega agents, it was the only thing he’d done that was remotely helpful since their arrival.

26

Daylight streamed through the barred window above the door of the disabled restroom, waking Nine. He felt refreshed and ready for whatever the new day had in store for him.
Bring it on, you bastards
. He knew he mustn’t become over-confident, but his sudden freedom – albeit somewhat tenuous – was like an elixir: he felt invincible.

He went over to the washbasin, splashed his face with cold water, then studied his reflection in the mirror. For a split second, the orphan didn’t recognize himself, such was the transformation created by the short haircut he’d given himself. The realization he’d so effectively altered his appearance added to his youthful confidence.

Nine quickly checked the White Gold was still in place then donned his windbreaker and put his backpack over his shoulders. He unlocked the restroom’s door, opened it a fraction and tentatively stuck his head outside. At a glance, he confirmed to his satisfaction no-one was waiting for him. No-one he recognized at least.

The covered walkway was becoming busier by the second as office-bound pedestrians negotiated it en route to their respective places of work. Their presence reminded Nine it was Monday morning. Sprinkled amongst the corporate suits were dozens of kids. Many of the children wore school uniforms and were clearly heading for school; others were dressed in casual clothes and carried dictionaries. The orphan recognized some of the latter, having seen them practicing for the spelling bee in various places around the city the previous evening.

Although Nine couldn’t see the sky, he could tell the blizzard had passed. Bright sunlight filtered through gaps in the covered walkway above, and pedestrians had dispensed with their extreme cold weather gear, though they were still dressed warmly.

Nine ventured cautiously out onto the walkway. He quickly merged with the other pedestrians and followed a group of kids so as not to stand out from the crowd. The rogue orphan also took care to look the other way when he passed a surveillance camera.

Now that he was back out in the open, he suddenly felt vulnerable. He was thankful he’d had the foresight to cut his long hair, but he knew his backpack and brightly colored windbreaker were a giveaway. Prying eyes would quickly spot these. While he couldn’t afford to dispense with his backpack, he turned his windbreaker inside out and put it back on that way. The inside fabric was black and the jacket now looked totally different.

The Pedemont escapee reached the end of the covered sidewalk by the natural history museum and was greeted by bright sunshine – the first he’d seen in days. Everyone around him seemed to walk with a spring in their step. Chicagoans were obviously pleased to see the end of the blizzard that had paralyzed their city for the past twenty four hours or so. Traffic was slowly moving again and council workers were frantically shoveling the last of the ice, snow and debris from the roads.

Nine walked quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention to himself. He was determined to put distance between himself and the last place Kentbridge saw him the previous evening. Logic told him that’s where his pursuers would be focusing their attention that morning. He still kept to the alleys and side streets, avoiding the main streets where there was a proliferation of surveillance cameras.

At the end of an alley, he saw removals men loading a furniture truck. He noted the sign on the side of the truck read:
Adams & Son Furniture. Mount Pleasant, Iowa
.

Nine knew Iowa was west of Illinois, which was in the direction he needed to go. He didn’t know that much about the small town of Mount Pleasant except that it was in south-east Iowa’s Henry County, which had an active farming community. Not that that mattered. Anywhere west was one step closer to freedom, to California, and most importantly, to Helen.

Nine checked to confirm nobody was observing him then headed over to the driver, a lean, middle-aged black man who was helping the others load his truck. “Excuse me, sir,” he said in his most mature voice, “are you heading for Iowa?”

The driver, who was an immigrant from Mali, flashed a look that said
don’t bother me
. “Yes.” He continued loading the truck, not giving the boy a second glance.

Nine detected a strong African accent. That didn’t deter him remotely. For some reason he naturally gravitated to people of other ethnicities. Even the girls he fantasized about were ethnic, exotic types or at least swarthy like Helen. He wasn’t sure why exactly, but he guessed it was because his experiences had been so bad with his own kind, especially the all-white Omega founders.

“What a coincidence,” Nine exclaimed, “I live on a farm in Mount Pleasant!”

The driver continued helping load the truck as if the boy wasn’t there.

Nine studied the name on the driver’s name tag. It read:
Mahamdou
. “Can you give me a ride, sir?” Nine carried on undaunted. “My mother couldn’t pick me up due to the blizzard.”

“No,” Mahamdou replied tersely. “I am already a day late.”

“I won’t slow you down, sir.” Nine pulled out his wallet and offered the same hundred dollar bill he’d wagered for the comfy Reeboks he now wore. “And you’ll make something extra out of it.”

Mahamdou shook his head then turned his back on the orphan once more as he carried on loading the truck.

Nine knew he had five hundred and fifty dollars on him. That amounted to his life savings. His Omega masters had never given him a single cent, but they had taught him skills to enable him to find monies virtually whenever he wanted. Those skills ranged from fraudulently cashing in misappropriated checks to the more basic art of pickpocketing.

Conjuring up cash to survive
. That was how Kentbridge had described those particular skills. Naylor had a more grandiose description for them:
Manifesting your future wealth
. Nine felt Kentbridge’s description was more apt – especially for where he was at this particular stage of his young life. Right now it was all about survival. Manifesting wealth could come later.

Nine recalled a time when Kentbridge had set a test whereby he and all the other orphans were dropped off in Downtown Chicago, not far from where he stood at that very moment. Using the skills they’d been taught, they each had to find twenty five dollars before they could return to the orphanage. It was a testimony to their training that every single orphan found the money, though some didn’t make it home until very late that night. Most found the money by using their highly-trained peripheral vision to spot lost coins in the streets around cinemas, cab ranks and phone booths; some, like Nine, resorted to pickpocketing to find their twenty five dollars.

None of the orphans knew exactly why they’d been taught skills like pickpocketing. They realized they were destined to become operatives, but their Omega masters never told them specifically what their training or skills would be used for. Nine however, had a theory the thievery had something to do with learning how to hold their nerve under pressure.

The slamming of the truck’s rear doors brought Nine back to the present. Mahamdou had just jumped down from the back of the truck and was walking around to the driver’s door. He was obviously ready to depart.

Nine pulled out all the notes from his wallet and walked over to Mahamdou, waving the notes in front of him. “Please. This is all I have.”

Mahamdou looked hungrily at the wad of bills.

Nine could tell the African driver was tempted. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse, sir.”  

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Nine puffed up to his full height as Mahamdou looked him up and down. Although he knew he still looked fresh-faced, he hoped his height was enough to convince Mahamdou he was as old as he claimed. He also thanked his lucky stars his voice had recently broken. 

“Alright.” Mahamdou snatched money off Nine. “But don’t give me any trouble, else I’ll drop ya on the side of the road.” He climbed in behind the wheel and fired up the ignition.

A relieved Nine ran around to the passenger side and climbed up next to Mahamdou who was already gunning the accelerator in anticipation of a prompt departure. The driver was mindful he was on contract and so was paid for pickups and deliveries, not for how many hours he spent driving. And he hadn’t been lying when he said he was running a day late. At least the extra cash would compensate for that.

As they approach a major intersection, Nine was mortified to see Kentbridge and Marcia standing on a traffic island. They were observing the drivers and passengers of all vehicles in the vicinity. Before Nine could react, Marcia looked straight at him.

The orphan immediately ducked down below the dashboard and, for the driver’s sake, pretended to do up the laces of his Reeboks. He just hoped Marcia didn’t see him.
If she did, she may not have recognized me with my short hair
.

When he adjudged they’d traveled far enough, Nine sat upright and casually looked in the truck’s side mirror. He was relieved to see Marcia and Kentbridge continued their observation of vehicles none the wiser.

Feeling somewhat safer, he sat back in his seat and took in the city sights as Mahamdou drove like the seasoned trucker he was through the heavy morning traffic.

In his peripheral vision, Nine saw a police helicopter. It hovered just above Chicago’s tallest skyscrapers. The orphan wondered if it was searching for him.

27

“Like a phoenix rising from the flame, and against all political pundits’ expectations, Bill Clinton, the self-proclaimed comeback kid--” The newsreader’s voice coming over the furniture truck’s radio cut out abruptly as static interfered with reception. The truck had just entered a tunnel near Galesburg, in Knox County, Illinois, and the signal had been lost.

“Not even a variety of scandals,”
the newsreader said, his voice returning loud and clear over the airwaves as the truck emerged from the other end of the tunnel, “from accusations of draft dodging during the Vietnam War to claims of infidelity to question marks over
Hillary Clinton’s personal ambitions, appear to have dampened Democrat voters’ love affair with Bill Clinton.”

Nine, who was still seated next to Mahamdou in the truck’s cab, listened to the late afternoon news report with interest. He thought back to Kentbridge’s reference to Clinton in a lecture he gave in the orphanage and wondered if the Arkansas Governor really would become the next President. Nine didn’t give a rat’s ass about politics, but the recent meteoric rise in Clinton’s stocks was a painful reminder of just how powerful the shadowy Omega Agency actually was.

Mahamdou brought Nine out of his thoughts when he flicked the radio off and reached around to a compartment behind him. He pulled out a can of Coke and large donut wrapped in plastic, and tossed them onto Nine’s lap. “Eat,” the Mali trucker said. It was one of only three or four words – more like grunts really – Mahamdou had said to his young passenger since leaving Chicago.

Having not eaten since he’d bolted from the Pedemont Orphanage the morning before, Nine ripped open the plastic bag and tucked into the donut. The orphan had never eaten a donut before, or any junk food for that matter, as his masters forbade it. He had to admit the mixture of cream, dough and sweet jam was pleasing to the taste buds. “Thanks for that,” he said, wiping a smidgeon of cream from his chin.

Mahamdou nodded and gave yet another incomprehensible grunt.

Nine was tempted to engage the trucker in French. Being an immigrant from Mali, it was a safe bet he’d be fluent in that language, as was his passenger. But Nine decided not to reveal his linguistic skills. The orphan did try to engage Mahamdou in general conversation, but gave up when he realized his companion wasn’t interested in small talk.

Lulled by the steady vibration of the truck and the warmth of the cab, Nine soon fell asleep.

#

When Nine woke it was dark, the truck was stationary and he was alone in the cab. The clock on the truck’s dashboard showed he’d slept for a couple of hours. A glance outside revealed the truck was parked amongst half a dozen other large vehicles at a truck stop. There was no sign of Mahamdou.

Looking around, Nine saw several truckers topping up their fuel tanks at nearby pumps. Others came and went from a diner. Nine guessed his African driver was in the diner, grabbing a bite to eat.

Five minutes passed and still the trucker hadn’t returned. Nine experienced a moment of panic when he imagined Kentbridge had tracked them down and possibly killed Mahamdou. He quickly pulled up his sleeve to check the White Gold remained in place over his forearm. It was, and he dismissed such negative thoughts as quickly as they’d occurred.

As if on cue, Mahamdou emerged from the diner, carrying various goodies he’d purchased. He jumped into the cab alongside Nine, dropped a magazine onto the seat between them, reached into a bag and pulled out a huge hamburger, which he handed to his passenger.

Nine snatched it from him. “Thanks!” He immediately tucked into the burger, his first ever.

Mahamdou reached into another bag and pulled out a coffee in a polystyrene cup. He removed the top to reveal he liked his coffee strong and black. Like many of his fellow truckers, the coffee and speed tablets he regularly popped were the only things that kept him awake on these interstate trips.

The Mali trucker fired up the truck’s engine and they drove off. An interstate sign indicated they were approaching the Illinois-Iowa border.