Chapter 20
At home, the atmosphere was sadder still. On the way from the 'Fill, Samantha decided to stop at a cheap hairdresser and got her shoulder-length hear reduced to a half-inch boyish cut, as per the latest 'Fill fashion. Mary was outraged. Such a haircut was positively ‘not appropriate’ for their daughter. And even if it was, Samantha had to ask for permission first! The new ‘domestic Civil War’ battle was approaching fast. On the real – the United States – Civil War front, the situation became equally critical. Pamela did badly at her History test and got herself a huge ‘D’ with an exclamation mark and a nastygram from the teacher. She was now in the girl's room, hastily re-learning the key dates and the names of the generals.
Clarice, who had mastered the art of discharging such situations, today was not in her usual optimistic mood. Davy complained of a tummy-ache, so William and Clarice had to cut their Loop short and skipped the collection count at SWC. Now Clarice was upstairs, sitting with her sick son. William and Patrick quickly invented an excuse and both went upstairs too – manifestly, to finish off Patrick's school assignment, which was not due in three weeks. Usually, Patrick needed more persuasion, Mark observed.
With all the other ‘Confederates’ neutralized, Samantha had no choice, but to hold the battle alone. In accordance to the best Civil War tactics, her troops occupied the living room, digging trenches and commencing a rapid deterrent fire. The Commander-in-Chief sat in Mike's favorite chair and pretended to study Mike's gasoline processing notes. Samantha even held a pencil in her teeth, exactly as Mike liked to. Mary kept the strategic ground in the kitchen, bayonets attached, preparing a heavy artillery bombardment, followed by a frontal assault. Upon his arrival, Mark immediately found himself under ‘friendly fire’ from the kitchen fortifications: a harsh reprimand for the office clothes ruined at the 'Fill.
He took a plate with cold dinner and retreated to the living room. Tonight, Mark was the only person if not to avert the new ‘Civil War’ battle, then to reduce its collateral damage.
The TV was showing a weather forecast. A tropical storm in the Gulf had been promoted to a full-blown Category-2 hurricane. They already had a name for it: Arthur. If only the rains continue for a while! The Butcher never killed on a rainy night. “Looks like a big rain coming. A bit early for a hurricane season, what do you think, Samantha?”
“Now the weather is such a mess. Remember three years ago, when Mike started working at the 'Fill? We had four awesome storms in April…”
“I don't want to hear anymore: ‘When Mike started working at the 'Fill’!” Mary fired her first salvo from the kitchen, “Mike, for your information, was going from ‘C’ to ‘D.’ With an occasional ‘E’ as a bonus! I'm sure his teachers threw a party after he left the school! You're a different story all together!”
Samantha rolled her eyes, showing Mark that Mom was totally unreasonable today.
“Cut Samantha some slack, honey,” Mark replied. “We're talking weather. Hurricane Arthur has nothing to do with the 'Fill…”
His daughter nodded appreciation, turned ninety degrees in her chair, and threw her legs over the arm rest.
“How was your day?” Mark asked, digging into carrot escalope and peas.
“Wonderful!” Samantha replied in low voice, “in the morning, Mister Stolz and I went to sell our gas. Mister Stolz keeps calling it: ‘Sam's first batch.’ As if I made it all by myself! He even told shoppe owners: if any trouble with this gasoline, call Sam, my new Chief Technologist! Then, we fixed a leaking valve in bomb number four. Mister Stolz wanted to sell the valve for scrap and look for a new one, but I said: why don't we drill a bigger hole and cut a new thread? Mister Stolz had a second look and said: OK, Sam, give it a try. We can junk it any time. Real hard to drill, but Denny gave me a hand.”
“And?”
“Fine! All fixed, and holding two hundred pounds! Mister Stolz was pleased. I'm afraid now he starts calling this bomb ‘Sam's reactor’… Then, we drained number two and loaded number four. I ran all the tests by myself! After lunch, Mister Stolz sent me to Mesa Slum to pick up welding jobs he'd ordered.”
“To Mike Hobson's Mechanics and Welding?”
“No, Chapman and Sons, at the south side. Mike Hobson is better at mechanical welds, if you need high tensile strength. But for pressure-tight parts – only to the Chapmans. They have a Tuboscope.”
Wow. ‘High tensile strength,’ ‘pressure-tight,’ a ‘Tuboscope.’ She was always so good at technology. The influence of two older brothers. Samantha never played dolls, and her favorite toy was Thomas The Tank Engine, passed down to her by William and Michael along with their Lego kits.
“One of the sons, Dad…”
“Sons?”
“As in the Chapman and Sons. Zap Chapman is about my age. Although, I'm sure Zap is not his real name. Zap – like arc welding, right? He gave me this. Cute, isn't it?” From under her T-shirt, she extracted a pendant of sorts and handled it to Mark. On a length of a thin Nylon shoestring (Mark hated those: they always came untied at wrong moments), – a tiny ball bearing. With few little bolts and nuts welded to the sides, blackened, and partially polished, it became a steampunk mechanical flower.
“Very cute,” Mark agreed, returning the necklace.
“Zap said, he makes those himself. While we waited for Mister Chapman, Zap told me all kinds of jokes. He is so funny! Unfortunately, the parts were ready, and I had to go.”
“Unfortunately.” For sure, not the last time his daughter met with the artistically-inclined boy welder. It explains Samantha's new hair style, Mark suddenly got it. You simply cannot wear this steampunk jewelry together with a plain-vanilla school haircut. “But please, Samantha, be careful with the boys at the 'Fill…”
“Ah, Dad. The boys at school are the same. No difference.”
“But at school they don't give girls such mechanical flowers either.” No big worries yet, Mark decided. His daughter is still telling him about boys. At some point in not-so-distant future, she will deny any boys' involvement, but every other evening – disappear in the woods till mid-night. And we will have a real reason to worry.
“That's why I like the 'Fill so much more,” Samantha said. “At the 'Fill, everything is for real. And at school – just a make-believe. Mister Stolz – he knows everything! You ask him, – he picks a pencil: bang, bang, bang! And explains it. Easy! And in the school, you ask a teacher a real question, and the teacher repeats from the book. Over and over. Just by different words. I always felt our teachers have no clue what they're teaching about…”
Mark nodded. Close enough to be true. With their incomes lower than of a delivery boy, the teacher corps incorporated profound dead-woods, save for few teaching enthusiasts, but the latter were a rare exception.
“Dad, I'm really fed up with the school,” Samantha continued. “Want to know how Pam blahed her History teacher today?”
“Enlighten me.”
Samantha pressed her index finger to her lips, turned to check if Mary was not listening at the kitchen door, and whispered: “Pam said: your History-Schmistory, sir, is not even good for making moth-balls!”
Mark noted the very tip of Samantha's finger was black. Well, now her fingertips would be permanently black from the chemicals, the same as Mike's and Arnold's.
“Your sister is wrong!” Pamela was right in her assessment of Mr. Connely teaching, but Mark had to maintain a resemblance of parental authority, “Knowing a bit of History is useful.”
“Yeah, right!” Samantha laughed and wiggled her bare feet in the air. Very well she knew what her Dad thought of school teachers in general and Mr. Connely in particular!
“OK. So you like your new job, do you? Are you getting along?” Mark changed the subject.
“Perfectly. Denny – he is our foreman…”
“That young man on scaffolding yesterday?”
“
That's him! He's very hard-working and very serious. Exactly like Billy was… before the Army. Sorry, I didn't mean… Anyway. Denny looks after me, and helps with everything. The roughnecks are nice. Jack and Paul – these two are just like Mike. Practical jokes, and all. Lindy and Caroline. Lindy is Jack's older sister. Denny is in-love with her, up to his eyebrows, but he tries not to show it… But everybody can guess anyway… Mister Kingsley, our stoker. He looks after the boiler and buys fuel. Cherry Kingsley – his daughter, one year older than me. She is our three-in-one: an assistant stoker, a storekeeper, and a waterboy. Missis Prochnow. She is a part-time: only brings us lunch and brews coffee. Also, we have Mister Spalding, a night guard. He is a weirdo.”
“Weirdo?”
“Nothing wrong, but he is kinda strange. When Mister Stolz introduced us, Mister Spalding mumbled: I'll be damned! A maggot for a Chief Technologist? But then, he somehow learned my surname. Comes to me and asks: Miss Pendergrass, are you Michael's sister? I said: yes. After that, he became the politeness itself. Samantha, how are you doing? Samantha, do you need anything? Never calls me ‘Sam’ or ‘Sammy,’ as all the others, only ‘Samantha.’ What a suck-up! But fine with me: he leaves in the morning and comes in the evening, so I'm quite safe from him through the day.”
“But apart from this… weirdo Spalding – you are OK with everybody else?”
“Everything is awesome! Mister Spalding – he is also fine. No probs whatsoever! I wanna stay at Mister Stolz place. And I don't care what Mom says… Dad! Can you convince Mommy, please, please, please?”
“Very well. You want your dear Daddy to abandon the ‘Union’ and join the ‘Confederates’?”
“As if you don't want to join us already, Dad…”
How did she guess I wanted to defect the North? The good news, he did not need to make a decision. His daughter had decided everything. A defector jumped on a horse and bolted across no man's land towards the ‘Confederates’ trenches, waving his hanky instead of a white flag. Mark brought his index finger to his lips and looked at the kitchen door.
“Are you still saying studying History has no use? That's the Civil War for you! Never know who is your friend, and who is your foe. Anyway, I'm on the ‘Confederates’ side, but Mom doesn't need to know yet, does she? Now, listen to our new plan!”
Samantha nodded.
“OK. First: is that ‘nice lady’ shop, next to your school, with the bead anklets and all the other things – still operating?”
“Yes! Now they're even bigger.”
“Good! I need to pay them a visit tomorrow. Second! Promise me something, Samantha.”
“OK.”
“A real promise, not like yesterday.”
“What – yesterday?”
“Yesterday, in the morning, you promised Mom to have your rubber boots on…”
“Oh-oh. Here come my boots again…”
“The damn mud was so-o-o soft. Or was it: squeaky-clean? Then, in the afternoon, I gave you my unofficial permission, and you promised to put your boots on while not at the plant.”
“Yeah?”
“And today, only honestly. You went to Beaumont Flee Market and to Mesa Drive. Did you have your boots on?”
“Dad! We agreed with Mom. No school tires to the market.”
“This particular agreement was about our local market here, but not for the flea market at Beaumont Highway.”
“But Dad! The Beaumont market is…”
“Samantha, I've studied all your evasion tactics! Now you're going to explain me the Beaumont flea market is technically also a market. Just one question: did you have your boots on at the welders?”
“But Dad…”
“Never mind. You're a big girl now, and may go barefoot anyplace you want. No objections. But if you real-promise something, you must do as real-promised, agreed?”
“Agreed! A real-promise to do as real-promised!”
“Tomorrow. No sudden moves! Don't even think to do something barbaric, like your steampunk haircut. Tattoos are still not permitted! Or putting a ring in your nose, or inserting tea-plates in your ears! This is for your own good. Don't make our Mom pissed off over nothing, understand? The 'Fill fashions are tempting, just hold on for another month or two before following new fashion trends. Deal?”
“Deal, Dad.”
“Excellent! Third! Tomorrow morning, explain Pamela and Patrick they'd better behave at school. Above and beyond expectations! Most crucial: don't blah any other teachers. We have enough trouble with Mister Connely. A couple of ‘A’ marks would be good too, but I don't insist.”
“Consider it done, Commander.”
“Fourth! Don't start the battle by yourself, understand? Sit quiet, do your evasion maneuvers, say ‘yes, Mommy,’ pretend you're helping Patrick or Pamela with their homework, whatever. Wait for me to give you artillery support.”
“OK, I will wait, Dad. No shit. O-o-ops! I mean: it's a deal!”
‘No shit’! Where did she learn these wonderful expressions? Likely, not during her three days at the 'Fill, but in her school. Yet, before the 'Fill, she hid her linguistic knowledge quite well.
Thus, the battle of ‘I Wanna Be A Scav’ had been deferred. The following morning a fragile peace had been maintained through the breakfast and the water run. To Mary's utter surprise, Samantha kissed her in the cheek and apologized for the inappropriate haircut. Then, the unthinkable happened. Without any power struggles, for her ride to the 'Fill, Samantha put her rubber boots on! Mary suspected this was just a show, but smiled nevertheless. Mark even did not need to suspect: the mud was again so-o-o soft today. He smiled later, when he observed how Samantha briefly stopped at the corner, took her boots off, and hung them under the seat of her trike. He hoped the stubborn girl would be clever to put the boots on prior to her home arrival, so a full illusion of ‘appropriate’ could be maintained.
Seconds after Mark walked into the Station, his phone rang with a dedicated Police tone.
“Mark Pendergrass.”
“Deputy Kim here. GRS.” Oh no, Mark thought. Not two bodies in the woods again. As the second week was passing since the previous kill, he became more and more nervous…
“Our Sherlock-on-Skate believes she's uncovered something of importance. I know it's crazy, but she insists.”
Mark smiled. He was ready to listen to any idea, crazy or even stupid. All better than driving to investigate a new crime scene and then leave the FBI in a hurry.
“Jus' gimme the goddamn phone!” he heard from the speaker, then Kate's voice: “Mister Pendergrass, sorry. We are fighting here… I think I got something for you, only, Kim says it's garbage.”
“Tell me.”
“I was going over those old reports… There's particular incident I would like you to check. I entered it already. Do you have a pen?”
Mark confirmed, and Kate gave him the database ID. In seconds, Mark had the report open at his screen. What he saw made him jump in his chair.
“Kate, please inform Deputy Kim if he calls this ‘garbage’ once again, I'll ask Russian Bear to swing by your beat and give both deputies an extra training of self-defense. This is not garbage, big time.”
“Kim, did you get that?” Kate's voice sounded victorious.
“Now, Kate, you have the victims' addresses and phones here. Do you know if they still can be reached?”
“Yes, Mark. I phoned them this morning. Linda Cherby, one of the victims. Now she calls herself Linda Espinoso, but the name change is not registered. Kinda married, to the second victim. Linda is at home. They moved to another address since the incident, but the cell phone is still the same.”
“Kim, are you listening?”
“Yessir! We are on the speaker.”
“Get on your bike. I will meet you at the corner of King and Garret. Now!”
Mark pushed his bike hard, barely touching the
seat with his buttocks. Finally – something! Perhaps, this would give them the exact time reference, or an extra insight on the killer's identity. Or this time the serial killer made a mistake. Both victims survived, so the attack did not go by the Butcher's plan…
As they agreed, Kim was waiting with his bike at the intersection, but not alone. Kate waved to Mark from the bike's back rack.
“I couldn't just sit in the office. So exciting! My first police investigation!”
“Kate, it's a formal interview. I'm afraid, civilians are not allowed.”
“I thought it's OK, sir,” Kim said. “Kate is practically a Police employee now. The papers are not through yet, but she's this close.” He demonstrated with his fingers that Kate was two inches away from being in the Police officially.
“Really?” Mark did not expect it so fast. Only yesterday morning he had a short talk with Ben, hinting that a document clerk position must be created in the GRS Beat. The Station Chief nodded and promised to make few calls, not too optimistic about success.
“Last afternoon, I suddenly receive a call from the Downtown HR. They ask for Kate's CV. But it's just a formality, they said. They had her military record already, from the Navy. Half an hour later, they sent me an application form for her to fill. She is hired!”
“Wow! That's what I call fast! Did they mention the pay?”
“Yep. Two hundred and ten, pre-tax,” Kate smiled.
“Two hundred and ten a day? Not bad.”
“No, Mark. This is per week. Because it's a part-time position. I'm not supposed to work for more than twenty hours each week.”
“Cheap scoundrels! The document clerk's salary is four times that.” The extra-low pay explained the HR quickness. They received an objective this year to reduce the average rate. In case of a legless vet, all the negotiation leverage was on their side. The goddamn Social Optimum once again, Mark observed.
“A half-time multiplied by a half-girl… Exactly one-fourth. No complains. With twenty hours per week, nothing prevents me from taking my red bucket to the Loop, after all.”
“You know what, Kate? If your discovery helps the FBI, you can ask Sheriff's Office to hire you full-time and double your pay.”