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Part IX: 1917- War on All Fronts
This was more than Freddy could take. He crumpled forward, feeling as though shattered from within.
"I did!" he wept, "I killed them, Pop! Every one, as many as did die, I killed them! You say they're talking sabotage, and they're right...I rigged the boiler to blow. And anyone who's dead now is dead on my account."
He let out a painful, stabbing wail, words dissolving into sobs, "I'm a murderer, Pop...a murderer."
-Freddy
Buford furrowed his brow, unable to fully comprehend his son's rambling. "What?" was all he muster at first, overwhelmed by the initial wave of shock that was thrust at him. "What the devil are you talking about? You're no murderer! Why would you...?" Evidently frazzled but trying not to show it, he pressed down his clothes and stood up. "I'm getting a nurse! You're...you're not talking sense! You need anesthetic, that's what you need..."
"I don't need anesthetic!" Freddy grabbed his father by the arm as if to pin him in place, though of course he was strong and well enough to pull away as he saw fit, "Pop, I'm telling you the truth. I rigged the boiler so it would overheat, and I planted the tools in someone else's locker. O-one of the Krauts who roughed Nate up. The plan was I would cause the malfunction, it would be fixed, and they'd find the stuff later and think it was him, I never...I didn't think it would..."
It would be this bad, there would be so many, I would have destroyed so much...
"It was all me, Pop," he breathed, voice choked by tears, "I killed them all."
-Freddy
Buford's eyes were wide with shock, a million thoughts racing through his head at this honest-to-God confession. There was no denying it: the hurt in Freddy's voice, the genuine grief and sorrow that laced every word...
"I..." He swallowed, sitting himself down on a nearby chair. "I see..." Pressing his hands, Buford leaned forward, trying to clear his head, to rationalize what he had just learned and think clearly.
A nurse entered the room. "What's all this noise? Is everything o..."
"Everything is OK, miss," Buford got to his feet. "The boy, he..." He wiped his brow, unable to look her in the eyes. "He needs anesthetic, that's all. He needs rest. I...I need some time alone." And like that, he was gone, leaving his grief-wracked boy and the confused nurse on their own.
Buford was a man who relied on the truth to enact justice as part of his job. And while he never always liked the truth, it served as a useful parameter to judge what was right and what was wrong. Teagues had a good instinct for such things to begin with.
The same would be the case here. He swore it.
It looked like the end of the world.
Granted, Marco had had the same thought when the fire was burning, staining the very air vermillion and choking it with poisonous smoke. But now, in the full cover of darkness, with the fire at the plant extinguished, the streets seemed well and truly dead, as opposed to just dying.
There was still smoke everywhere, congesting broad boulevards and narrow alleyways alike. The stench was awful: burned wood and seared metal, mixed with the omnipresent sour tang of chemicals. Barring torrential rain, it would be weeks before the air freshened.
He encountered people as he walked. He'd heard mutterings as he left the hospital, of a curfew being imposed, but it wasn't being strictly enforced. Probably, some people had nowhere to go. Everybody he passed had their heads down, scarves and coats shielding their faces, despite the rank humidity of the summer night. He could hear people calling out in the eerie silence of the night, interspersed with drawn out, mournful sobs.
It would be a long time before all the bodies were found.
Marco walked aimlessly, no direction in mind. He thought briefly that Danilo might be waiting up for him at the boarding house, then thought again about whether he'd be welcome there, if his association with known Krauts (or Krauts-adjacent) had gotten out, tying into the rapidly concretizing sabotage narrative Bert insisted he had evidence to prove wrong. Would Danilo's estimations be similarly harmed and, if so, was that Marco's fault? Or was he caring about the wrong things again? Always a possibility.
The smoke was thinner the farther he went, and the smell of water, however rank and sour, was refreshing to spite it. In time, he came to a crowded quay, stacked high with shipping crates and barrels teetering dangerously close to rope-and-wood pylons that were the only protection from a sharp fall into the water.
Wren Lake, c. July 1917.
Marco wasn't sure when the area around the lake had been cleared away to make more room for nature (or, more honestly, palatial lake houses) ...probably somewhere around the time of the EPA. Now, however, the lake was choked by industry. Low warehouses were squeezed together, with bare feet between them for foot traffic. In the smoky darkness, they looked like shrouded, featureless mausoleums.
Gaslights from the dock pylons danced on the water. Most of the electricity in town had been shut off to save power for the hospital, and these scant lights barely illuminated anything due to the thickness of the air. The far side of the lake was completely hidden. No lights. No sign of anything living. Marco supposed the sugarcane Danilo had used to pick for a living grew somewhere on the other side.
The only light across the water were pinpricks, rank and file atop high walls, encircling what must be a big, boxy building. Marco couldn't fathom what it was, and it was too dark really to make out any details.
"Prisión."
Marco bit back a gasp of surprise, turning to find Eva standing at the pier with him, looking at the lights, "That's a neat trick."
"If I tricked you, you would know it," she loosened her grip on her shawl, her enigmatic smile not slipping.
"That's what it is, then?" Marco indicated the lights, "The prison the guys were talking about? Buford Teague's?" he paused, "'Course it is, sorry. How many prisons can there be, right?"
"I would think as many as there are people in the world," she continued, "To some people, the world itself may be a prison."
"Ain't that the truth," he drummed on the railing with his fingers, "But, uh, for practical purposes, that's...that's the prison. The one you can be put into," he bit his lip, "The one I almost got sent to yesterday."
"Do you agree with your friends?" Eva asked, "That it was that reptar, Nathan, who killed the priest?"
"I dunno. Maybe. But if that's true, and if it's also true that the other Teague, Freddy, caused all that destruction today..." he frowned, "Too convenient, isn't it?"
"I don't think anything that happened today was convenient. For anyone," she had slipped into Spanish so fluidly that Marco at first didn't realize he'd switched languages as well, to match her.
"You must be regretting letting Danilo chat you up that night," he commented, "Dragging you into all this drama."
"Did I let him?" she smiled, "He was very eager to be let."
"He's got a temper, but he's a pretty alright guy. I mean, from what I've seen. I admit, I don't know anybody too well, I'm still so new to all this..."
"He said you were from Juarez."
"I was," he answered quickly, "I mean, I am. Originally."
She cocked an eyebrow, "Your own origins, or your parents'?"
He paused, cocking an eyebrow, "How'd you mean?"
"You may not be from here, but you do not act like you have only lately come to this country. I think your friends do not notice. For all their big feelings, they do not see very much."
And it was true, that her eyes seemed to see everything. They were sharp and bright, brighter at least than the meagre lanterns on the quay. Marco thought of lying, but there wouldn't be much point in it. After the day he'd had, he wasn't relishing expounding on the details of some harrowing journey over the border.
"You see right. I was, uh...born in the States."
"But you let them believe otherwise?"
He paused, "It's just easier."
"To lie?"
"It's not a lie!" he protested defensively, before conceding to himself that it technically was, "It's just...editing. Selective editing."
"Have you 'edited' much in your life?"
He thought of Sandy, hearing the snap of her head on the floor, loudly as if it were happening right here on the quay, and flinched, "Doesn't everyone?"
The water was reflected in Eva's onyx eyes, "I am from Oaxaca," she hesitated, adding with a lilt, "Originally."
"Pretty far away," said Marco, who'd never been but had seen pictures.
"I think of it often. Mango trees in the summertime, and the heat shimmering on the mountaintops. Our village was on the rocks. You could always smell salt from the sea."
"What made you leave?" he asked at length, thinking of Danilo, "The war?"
"A war," she nodded, "There are always wars, aren't there? Just as there are always prisons."
"And if a person can be a prison..."
"A body can be a battlefield," she considered him, "Why did you leave, then? Why are you here?"
There was no question of lying. She was a canny person, for all Danilo's bluster. No doubt she'd spot "editing" too, but little to be done about that.
"If I was trying to get away from a war, I did a bad job, didn't I?"
"Were you?"
He looked out into the dark, at the little lights of Buford Teague's prison, and imagined the glistening of ice on church spires, cold and cruel but fearsomely bright in the light of the moon.
"Is it fair to run away from a war you started?"
"Not fair, maybe, but the other side could not complain, could they?"
"Right..." he muttered, "Never mind, you can't run away from yourself anyway."
"No," Eva agreed, "But you can run from the self you used to be."
***
She didn't hang around long after that, though Marco stayed at the quay until the sky began to lighten. He didn't think he slept, though he did experience a kind of trippy waking dream. He wasn't sure. It was gray and foggy, much like he was used to, but instead of humid, it was bitterly, frigidly cold. Frost on the water, and the smell of snow in the air. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smelled snow.
"Shit, man," air misted beside him, "Why's it so cold?"
Danilo, in fingerless gloves and a distressed aviator jacket, a Yankee cap twisted to the right on his head. Marco blinked at him, thinking about his question before answering, "The EPA uses the Air Quality Index, or AQI, if you prefer, to gauge how healthy a biome's air is to breathe."
"Yeah," he twisted a Starbucks cup around in his hands, "S'what I thought."
Marco watched him fidget with the cup, noting the name "Danny" written on the side in a loopy script.
"Oh, you see that?" Danilo indicated the name, "She's never gonna get it right. Jury's still out whether she gets me, though. I'm evaluating."
"You're the one who needs to be evaluated," Bert, at Marco's other side, in a beanie and a gray thermal jacket, a muffler up to his chin.
"As the humidity level rises, so too does the level of air pollution. Air with Co2, carbon monoxide, and other pollutants becomes denser as humidity increases. This increases risk factors for a variety of ailments, such as heat stroke, cramp, and respiratory infection..."
"You gonna let this guy shit talk me?" Danilo prompted lightly, "No loyalty, I swear to God..."
"Okay, so maybe I'm being mean," Bert put his hands in his pockets, looking skyward, "Let's just say, if she's on the mound, you're in the nosebleeds."
"The hell does that mean?"
"It's a baseball pun."
"Screw your baseball pun!"
"Fine. Not the nosebleeds, the parking lot. You're sitting in the parking lot while she scores..."
"Dumbass, she's not scoring if she's on the mound..."
"This health risk rises in the summer months, as you can imagine. While very useful, air conditioning is a double-edged sword. AC units cool the air, but do not clean it, and the sudden transition from a cooled interior to a densely heated outdoors can hasten the onset of..."
"Arguing again?" Helmut, beside Bert, headphones on and a maroon hoodie with the logo of some university on it, "When's the wedding?"
"Shut up," Bert and Danilo, in unison.
"Look, it's none of my business, but if my folks taught me anything, if you're on each other's backs this much, you must really love each other..."
"Did not need to hear it," Bert rolled his eyes as Danilo snorted, "I love you too."
Bert flipped him the bird as Danilo, smiling with odd warmth, swatted his hand away, "Don't push it."
"This is why the first priority of an energy efficient household should be climate cleansing, not climate control. The temperature may rise and fall, but if the air isn't clean, the family is at risk either way."
Helmut let out a long, musical sigh.
"That our cue to ask you something?" Bert prompted.
"Just thinking..." he lowered the headphones. Marco could hear music. He knew the song, but he couldn't see that it was Helmut's genre.
"I never loved nobody fully/Always one foot on the ground..."
"You ever dream you were somebody else?"
Danilo snorted, "No."
"Sometimes," said Bert, "Why?"
"Had a dream like that last night. And you were in it," he pointed at Danilo, "And you..." to Marco, "And you..."
"And me?"
"And by protecting my heart truly/I got lost/In the sounds..."
Alejandro, one hand on Danilo's shoulder, one on Marco's. Heavy coat and construction boots, thick gloves, a cross in one ear. Marco told himself not to stare at it, but he wasn't listening.
"That's the funny thing," Helmut continued, "Not you."
"I hear in my mind/All of these voices..."
"I don't rate all of a sudden?"
"I'm just telling you what I dreamed."
"Like you want to be in this idiot's dream, man," Danilo, casually, "Dodged a bullet."
"I hear in my mind/All of these words..."
"Lucky for you I don't get offended."
Marco's legs were shaking, "T-the optimal solution, then..."
"You guys are ridiculous..." Bert, casually.
"I don't choose what I dream!"
"Was it a good dream, anyway?"
"...is to ensure regular air purity by maintaining a constant temp..."
"I hear in my mind/All of this music..."
"Jesus Christ," Danilo grabbed onto his hand, "It's cold as balls."
Marco met his eyes, startled by the cold, firmness of his friend's hand.
"And it breaks my heart/And it breaks my heart..."
"Clean, pure air at 35 degrees."
***
Marco blinked, letting out a short cry despite himself. He was still standing at the water's edge, the sky by now trending to gray with the approaching dawn. The air was thick, sticky, and toxic. He could hear the shouts of dockworkers and the sussuruss of unsettled townsfolk, still listless and frightened after the previous day's catastrophe.
No snow. No frost. No Starbucks.
He held up one shaking hand, and rolled back his sleeve, to see the goosebumps that had been raised there, as though provoked by a sudden chill.
-Marco and Eva
"A lot has happened since last we spoke…"
Marco screamed, turning around, hitting his knee on the railing, and falling into the lake which, mercifully, wasn't as toxic as the air or he probably would've died before he remembered how to float.
He surfaced, sputtering, feeling for the worn edge of the wharf with his fingertips.
"...has anyone ever told you," he panted, blinking to better make out the familiar "newsboy" who had snuck up behind him, "You're kind of a dick?"
-Marco
"Not as kindly and gentle as you have, mon ami," Galdamez replied, seated on a pile of empty crates as he thumbed through the broadsheets (troubling news, what was transpiring with the Bolsheviks and what not in Russia…). "Some of your friends have been ever so rude to me, even resorting to physical violence." He smiled, sure of himself, his eyes not looking up from his morning reading. "But you are not a violence person, are you, Marco?"
Folding his newspaper, Galdamez finally got a look at Marco, as if just noticing his soggy predicament, astonished. "Oh, sweet Hesperides! You're wet!"
Marco blinked balefully at the magic man, fully lifting himself to comparatively dry land. A passing dockworker gave him a disgusted look, shaking his head and muttering something which, if Marco had learned anything in this place, was probably a racist remark.
"Hope you're happy," he turned back to Galdamez, "I'll never live down the 'wetback' allegations now."
He took half a second to be proud of his wit before getting depressed at the context for the witticism and then sighing, "What brings you buy? Because if it's another reminder to go tragedy hunting, you'll be happy to know I'm pretty well-versed by now."
He looked toward the still spewing plume of smoke from which their toxic haze originated, "It was very tragic. Is. And I got to see it up close. I'm scarred for life and everyone's dead, dying, or screwed up in some other way, so I guess I accomplished my mission," he cocked an eyebrow, "Do I get a chance to say goodbye?"
-Marco
"Oh, yes," Galdamez nodded, licking his thumb and turning the page to the funnies. "Tres tragique, tre tragique…" He smacked his lips laboriously before adding, "That was not the tragedy."
"What?" Marco did a double-take, "What the hell do you mean? Of course it was tragic! A bunch of people died! They're still not finished counting the bodies! A-and the air's all screwed up and, yanno, it'll be a few more decades before anybody realizes it's not exactly healthy to have babies in this climate, which means at least a whole generation's gonna be born a little wacky and, since for the life of me I've never heard of this before, it seems pretty likely this is all going to be..." he slowed down, realizing the truth even as he said it, "...covered up."
He met Galdamez's eyes, "That's what's going to happen. This is all going to be hushed up somehow. The fire, the explosion, all the deaths and the injuries and..." he got unsteadily back to his feet, wincing at his wet pants squelching with the movement, "And the person responsible. Doc..." he leaned forward, bracing himself against a pylon, "Is that it? A cover-up? Because the others..." he paused, "I am starting to believe that...that the Teagues aren't exactly innocent. I don't know about the priest, but it looks a lot like one of that family...maybe even Anne's great-grandfather for all I know...caused that explosion. But if that's true...if a Teague did cause that happen, all that destruction and all that death...well, then shouldn't I know about it? People, I mean. In the present. It would come up. It would've been a huge scandal. Anne's Dad is a war hero, and her grandfather was too, so if this thing was hanging in the back of the family history, it would have to come up, at least a-as a comparison or something, right? As long as it was reported and...if it's true and if it wasn't reported...
"That would be pretty tragic, wouldn't it?"
-Marco
Galdamez looked up from his paper, suspicious. "Are you trying to fish answers out of me, dear boy? Because rest assured, if I knew the tragedy that was to come, I would not have even set you and your friends forth on this quest. All I know is when the tragedy is witnessed, cosmic gateways of time would open and you would be given the chance to leave. That is all, mon ami."
He crinkled the paper in front of his face, resumed reading for five seconds before lowering it once more. "But that is a good theory. Please, do go on." The doctor crinkled the paper back in front of his face.
"Right, yeah, the cosmic gateways," Marco muttered, "Believe me, I wasn't asking you for help."
He looked up and down the hazy pier, "I'm just trying to...organize my thoughts. Because...it's looking a lot like this kid, one of the Teagues...not the one Danilo thinks framed me, some other one who I don't know...caused that accident. Or, well, the explosion...it's not an accident if he caused it."
He cleared his throat, wondering if Galdamez counted mind-reading among his stable of powers, and amended, "If he caused it on purpose, I mean. He's in the hospital too, but I don't know how badly he's hurt. And if he did do it, it looks like he planted evidence in someone else's locker...Helmut, another friend. Now, the evidence probably went up in smoke when the explosion happened, so the frame-up won't work, but if Freddy is guilty..."
Marco bit his lip, "If he's guilty, he's got to get away with it. Because...because otherwise we'd know. This isn't that long ago...barely 100 years. That's technically a human lifetime. Someone born today could still be alive down the road from the White Castle. There's good enough quality of life, even in Lakewood. If Freddy Teague blew up a munitions plant a-and caused all this destruction, people would remember. Anne told me, once, her dad used to be a history teacher before he was a principal...it's impossible he wouldn't know what his granddad or his great-granddad or his great uncle did, a few blocks from where his school is..."
There was another possibility, of course. That Edward Teague did know about it, but had kept it quiet...a shameful family secret, like in an old gothic novel. Only instead of a crazy old lady hidden in the attic it was a mass casualty event that may have directly impeded the progress of a World War. Marco wasn't exactly friends with Anne's father...Teague, as a rule, hadn't liked any man Anne spent time with in those days. He didn't have to be Kade to get him flipping.
Still...he was an upright person, honorable and respected like the rest of his family. No. It seemed much more likely he didn't know anything.
"Doc..." he continued unevenly, "Can I ask a stupid question?"
-Marco
Galdamez slowly looked up from his paper, his brow cocked in, dare he say, a sassy manner. "At least you're asking questions, I suppose. You're better than some of your friends…" Once more, he flapped the paper in front of his face, burying his eyes in the economic section (hmmm…the value of copper seems to be going up…interesting…).
Marco ran his fingers along the rough surface of the pylon, "You said before that Anne's the wisest of us. The...the Sensational Seven or..." he cleared his throat, "What have you. Is she okay?"
-Marco
Although Galdamez's face was hidden, his arms visibly stiffened, causing him to wrinkle the paper further. He was quiet for some time. Oddly quiet for him, in fact…
Marco turned his head to the side, "Does that mean bad or is this another game? Look, okay, fine. I get it, you can't tell me the future, because you don't know the future, except for the parts you do know about, which aren't important anyway, but you do know about us."
He moved closer, "You know about us and where we are and what we're doing, which means if something happened to one of us, you would know. You'd practically be at the scene of the crime!"
His voice was shaking...whether from fear or anger he didn't know. Fear, certainly...to die divorced from your own time, adrift in a strange place, with nobody back home having any idea of where you were or what had happened to you...it was existentially terrifying. Anne didn't deserve that, no more than anybody else did.
But, of course, where did he get off being concerned for Anne?
"Is she alright?" he asked again, more hoarsely.
-Marco
Galdamez lowered the paper in a rare flash of anger, snapping, "What if I were to tell you no? What then? What would you do with that information, mon ami? Fret and shiver in fear, wondering what has become of her? Whilst you lose sight of your goals here and perhaps receive a worse fate than whatever dear Anne has succumbed to?" Just barely, the doctor choked up on the nun's name, perhaps induced by a strange pang of guilt.
He threw the newspaper aside and got to his feet, approaching Marco as he continued his speech. "And what if I were to tell you yes? Would you believe me? No, of course not! Because nobody believes me! And somehow, even fewer listen! Merde!" Galdamez threw his hands in the air and turned his back to Marco. "Please listen to me now, Marco…remain focused on your quest here and you will have your answers in time. For what good will your questions be if you strand yourself in this time? Or…or worse…"
His voice became a hollow shell of itself. Little did Marco know that Galdamez was hiding his tears.
Marco shrank back, regretting the asking at once.
"I-I'm trying to listen," he said apologetically, aware that he must sound like a petulant child and unsure what to do about that, "I'm not asking you to reveal your secret to me or whatever. Okay? I'm pretty aware I don't exactly have the right...from most people. Maybe you would be the exception, since you could argue you kidnapped me and chucked me into a time blender, but...bygones. Generally, I don't get to make demands of people."
He tried not to think of Anne. How shocking it had been to see her again, for the first time in so many years, so changed and yet so similar. How harshly he had been confronted with the sheer distance between Kade's garage and the Costco freezer aisle.
Really, he had no right getting upset about her potential fate, no more than he had any place shedding tears over her little sister, or any of the others from the White Castle.
"I only asked because...there's a possibility Anne's relatives...her ancestors, or whatever...had a hand in the things that've been happening. And, if the tragedy is that they did this and got away with it while other people...maybe some of the people I've made friends with here...that means that Anne's whole family has been living a lie, even without knowing it. Like...the shadow of a lie. And it's not her fault, or her sisters' or their Dad, but...it's wrong that it happened. And here I am, at the scene of the crime, and I have evidence that proves who's responsible..."
He paused, "What if I can prove who was responsible? What if I can help the people I met here? That's the right thing to do, isn't it? No matter what the Teagues become, and no matter how that would change if this changed...it would be the right thing to do...right?"
-Marco
Galdamez was quiet for a long time, deep in contemplation and his mind going to Marco's fellow time travelers and how they were faring (or fared, in some cases). To experience the trials and tribulations of others not in the linear fashion he was accustomed to but spread across the space-time continuum was a burden few beings in this world could understand. Moreover, it was one Galdamez struggled to carry. How could, even with all his knowledge of the supernatural, advise Marco here?
Without turning around, he finally spoke. "Suis ton coeur et écoute ta tête."
Marco waited patiently before sighing, "...is that a magic spell, or just French?"
"It's wisdom," Galdamez pivoted on his heel with dramatic flare. "'Follow your heart and listen to your head.' Act compassionately but think wisely. Some of your friends have act compassionately with no thought; others have thought too much and acted without no compassion or worse: not at all. And the results have yielded disastrous consequences for them!" He took a step closer to Marco, as fierce as he's ever been (not since the 1980s had he ever been this fierce). "The course of histoire is a colossal behemoth neither you nor I will ever truly comprehend. It is near unmovable BUT do not let this think you can do nothing! For the truth reveals itself to those who seek it out! The truth is what you are here to discover and the truth will be your path home. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!" The doctor hadn't realized he was shouting until then. "Je suis désolé…there has been…a lot on my mind, as of late. Je suis désolé…" He turned his back to Marco again, cradling his aching head. It appeared the consequences of the time travel cast were beginning to wear on him.
"Oh, you meant to follow my heart..." Marco nodded, "Okay, good, I was afraid it was gonna be some intricate advice, but it's just, like, greeting card stuff," he lifted his hands, "That's not sarcasm, by the way. I can appreciate advice like that more than, like, step-by-step instructions. No offense, but I was sort of gearing up to follow my heart anyway. Not that I'd have thought it in so many words..." he laughed softly, unintentionally, because it wasn't really funny, what he was thinking, but sad and almost pathetic.
"I think for too long I've been going step-by-step. It's only good for so long, and then you start scrutinizing each step and you forget what they're all going toward."
He couldn't stand around dithering about potential damage to time. Talk about crying over spilt milk and, anyway, all that theoretical naval gazing had never helped him out before, in or out of his chosen field. He'd spent too much of his present with his thumb up his ass, seeing change looming in bright billboard letters on life's highway and casually switching lanes without a second thought.
"Thanks, Doc," he said at length, "I'd better get going. I'm not sure what time it is. I don't have a watch, and the sun is poison gas, but I should probably check on some people, change some minds if I have to and..."
And if he couldn't? If some of the guys still didn't want to go public with what they suspected...what they knew?
"...make some grudges if I can't," nothing he wasn't used to, "Catch you later. Um...I'll let you know when I find the truth."
With one last half-hearted thumbs' up, he was off on his way, weaving between disgruntled, clumsily masked dock hands, to change history, or at least say that he tried.
-Marco
"Yes…you…you do that…" Galdamez said in a shell of his voice. Watching Marco walk off, having taken his advice to heart, the good (?) doctor felt oddly…shaken. It was queer and atypical of him to feel such concern for his clients, not to mention their acquaintances (for Galdamez was not seeing a single Costco shilling from the boy!), and yet here he was, anxious for Marco's success.
Perhaps it was the simultaneous journeys of the others causing him to soften as he was now. He had not expected to be so affected by their successes nor their failures, being only truly invested in discovering the truth behind the chain of le morte. For indeed, wouldn't that be quite the feather in his cap, solving a mystery of this plagued town that has haunted its denizens for over two centuries?
But instead, Galdamez found himself in a role he did not feel accustomed to. Not solely an advisor of spiritual matters…but of the emotional, the personal, dare he say, moral matters. And while, yes, he anticipated to act as the counsel to these travelers and to advise them and at times protect them to the extent that he was able (a guardian angel…bah!), Galdamez began to feel a kinship to these heroes. A kinship not borne out of obligation to protect them…but out of a yearning to help them as a…as a friend.
The thought made him shiver, as Galdamez didn't have much in the way of those. Friends! Disciples, maybe…followers…clients…but no friends. No, he had denied himself such friendship to better succeed in his pursuit of the paranormal. A cold strategy but a profitable one. And for a time…Galdamez was content.
But he was not happy. Hector was alone.
In the far distance, the doctor heard some birds chirping. Across the way, there were some boys skipping rocks. A pair of young lovers had rowed onto the lake, with the young man rowing and the young women giggling at the sight. What was so funny, Galdamez wondered. He wished he knew. Maybe he did know…once upon a time…
Galdamez hid his tears well enough when Marco was present but now, he found himself crying freely. How much had Galdamez sacrificed to get to where he was today? And how much had he rediscovered since he made himself responsible for the lives of these travelers? The joy that warmed his heart when they triumphed over evil…the sorrow that bored a hole in his gut when they were bested…the way he found himself choking up when they became intimate with these figures of the distant past, in a way that was far from wise but Galdamez knew was only human…
Was Galdamez still human?
The doctor dried his tears with the newspaper, crumpled it up and threw it aside. "Bad news…all of it…bad, bad, bad…" He had no time to ponder such lofty questions. He had other responsibilities to attend to…people to look after…the role of a guardian angel. "Merde…"
Galdamez walked away from the lake as the lovers began to kiss each other delicately on their humble dinghy. For maybe that was the truth he needed to witness…but it was not why he was here. He had to remember that, not only for his sake but for those he watched over.
Suis ton coeur et écoute ta tête…suis ton coeur et écoute ta tête…suis ton coeur et écoute ta tête…
He repeated the words to himself well after he had left the lake behind and the chirping of the birds had faded.
Lakewood was slow to wake up this morning. Marco figured it made sense. The smart thing, of course, would be for the whole town to be evacuated until the air cleared which, barring a convenient rain storm (not entirely unlikely in this part of the world, at this time of year), might take anywhere from a few days to a week.
But that wasn't a thing people knew yet, and for all Marco's thumb-wrestling about changing the course of history, he was pretty sure he didn't have the clout in this community to convince everyone to pull an exodus. Better stick with his own capacity and seeing how much he leveled up then.
Could you level down? Worthwhile question. Level Down was the name of the indie game store back home. Kade had worked a shift there for two weeks before getting booted for smoking in one of the arcade booths.
Jesus, Kade had been cool. The kind of person your parents warned you to stay away from...Anne's Dad, definitely, and his parents too. Then again, Edward Teague had his own reasons for wanting Anne well away from guys like Kade. His folks had mostly been surprised to find he had friends at all...everything else was a pretty delayed shock. Marco suspected his father would've appreciated if he got into some more trouble...as long as it was the right kind. Embarrass the family, sure, but do it with some flare. Get drunk, get detention, get a girl in trouble...
Marco was late getting into trouble and, by the time he had, it wasn't the right kind. Go figure.
Why was he thinking about Kade? Right. Leveling down. Hypothetically, if one screwed up enough at some task, was it possible to lose experience and, therefore, become overall less competent in general? He could understand why it wouldn't be talked about in practical terms but, really, if you thought about it, it must be very common for people. While the expectation was that you got better at things the more you tried, everybody knows that you can also get worse. You stop studying, you forget leg day, you relapse or ask for more bread at the table or forget to pay off your credit card.
Life isn't an uphill climb. There's plenty of pitfalls and corkscrew turns and perilous detours. Leveling down is just as common as leveling up...for some people, at some stages of life, it must be more common.
And that's not good, obviously, but it's better to have a setback on the road than drive off a cliff, right?
Where was he going with this? Oh, right. Life is successes and failures, and it's okay to fail. It's even okay to fail a lot. As long as you don't get yourself killed or something, because then you aren't able to course correct and you die in disgr...
"¡Ey!" from the other end of an alley, "Marco!"
"Al?" the other man walked briskly, a blue handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth, giving him the unfortunate appearance of a wayward bandito, sans cool hat, "Hey. What's up?"
"Eh?" he furrowed his brow, confused, but seemed to catch on quick enough, answering in Spanish, "I was on my way to you."
"Me?"
"Danilo too. The others. Your roommates, at the hostel."
He frowned, "The hostel? What happened? I..." he paused to explain, "I never got back last night."
"They questioned you, then?"
"What? Questioned? No, I..." he sighed aggrievedly, "Can we walk this back? What's going on? Who's being questioned?"
"Me, for a start. Police were at the Jardin before dawn. I've had people staying the night...give them a place to sleep, if they couldn't make it home. These men, they had the pick of the crowd. Me, they spoke to for 10 minutes. On the way out, I hear them mention the ostel. There will be a raid. I thought it best to sound the alarm."
Marco bit his lip, trying to process all of this, "But why? What would the cops want from the hostel? Or from your bar?"
"Your guess is good as mine, but I think we both know they will decide that when they find it."
The hostel came into view out of the haze and Marco caught his breath. No sign of police activity yet. Marco banged on the door, "Hey! Hello?"
"Jesucristo," Alejandro muttered.
"It's Marco!" he added uncertainly, "Maybe that doesn't matter? I'm not sure how popular I am."
"If we can warn them in time, they'll elect you to sainthood."
"Over my dead body, man. That's kind of the point."
Al let out a humorless chuckle, knocking on his own, "¡Aquí abajo! Es una emergencia!" still nothing. He cursed under his breath, muttering something about people not taking things seriously.
"Wait, wait, I've got an idea..." he nudged Alejandro aside, kicking the doors and crying out, "¡Policías!" at the top of his lungs.
Presently, there was a noise of footsteps on the stairs and a voice grumbling profanities. A latch turned and the door opened, "Es muy temprano para esto..." Danilo, in the greasy wifebeater and chinos he'd slept in, his hair hanging in his eyes, looked at them blearily, "You have a death wish, making all that noise this early? Some people have jobs to get to. Not me, but some," he looked at Marco, "You never came back. The hell were you off to?"
"Eh, I kinda wandered around. Got lost a few times. It's not..." but he paused, "Wait, did you wait up for me?"
Which provoked a disgusted (Embarrassed?) exclamation from Danilo as Alejandro barreled on, "Marco wasn't lying."
"About being lost? I didn't think so."
"About the cops," said Marco, "They're coming. They're gonna raid the place."
Danilo stood up straighter, his eyebrows slowly rising beneath the veil of uncombed hair, "Maldición," he stepped aside, waving them in, "How far away?"
"Minutes. They had just finished at the Jardin."
"What, are they working the whole quarter?"
"Very possibly."
They started up the stairs. Danilo banged on the peeling walls as they went, crying out warnings to their fellow lodgers, most of whom were already getting dressed. A few words were all that were needed to spur action: people began rifling through their things, turning out rucksacks, pillowcases, the drawers of the scant pieces of abused furniture they had. Al threw himself into helping out, barking orders in a brusque, oddly reassuring manner as he assisted the men in sorting through various articles: helping a hysterical young man navigate a heap of stained paperwork, interceding in a brawl between two men both trying to stash the contents of their bags under the same floorboard.
Danilo hovered in the doorway of their dormitory, not looking at Marco as he asked, "Wasted no time, eh?"
"Huh?" Marco looked at him, confused, "Oh, Al? No, he went right for this place. I ran into him on the way. A good thing too..."
"The police," he clarified, "Someone torches their factory and they run right for us," he gripped the doorframe, his knuckles turning white, saying again, "Shit..." he drew in breath before slamming the wall, just as quickly lifting his knuckles to his mouth, "Dammit."
"Well, there's time."
"Time?"
"To get everything in order. Right?" Marco indicated Al's efforts, "Al said they asked for papers..."
"You have papers, hermano?" Danilo asked darkly, "Come on," he stalked into the room. Marco looked around warily. These men had nothing to their names, but that wasn't bound to matter. The littlest justification for arrest would suffice, especially with tensions as high as they were now, and...
"They don't mind the cheap labor," Danilo picked a ratty rucksack up from under his bedroll, "But they're happy to make a case of it if it suits them. They know damn well the kind of people who stay in this rat's nest and they're only now interested. Any excuse...any damn excuse..."
"Hey," Marco put a placating hand on his arm, which turned out to be less than placating. Danilo recoiled and Marco, feeling like a chastened kid, petered out, "...at least they won't find what they're looking for."
Danilo snorted, "What they're looking for?"
"You know!" he whispered, "The...smoking gun. Evidence for the...the explosion."
"You think that matters?" Danilo demanded, "Obviously, they're not going to find proof. But they'll find enough. One man has a knife, one man has a gun. Someone has a jacket they decide is too rich for his blood..." frustrated, he overturned the rucksack onto the floor and began sifting through its contents with his hands, "They look for what isn't there. Identification, passport, working papers..."
"A foreign agent wouldn't have papers," Marco realized flatly.
"If that. They look the other way until they have reason not to. And once they've decided on their scapegoat..."
"Look, Danilo, let me help you..."
"You can't help me!" he spat, "Christ, Marco, there is nothing..."
"What are you looking for? I can help you find it..." he tried, again, to put a placating hand on Danilo's wrist. "Stop..." Danilo began, warningly, drawing back and dropping something to the floor: a brass necklace, with a round locket suspended from the chain. It clattered to the floor, the locket opening on contact.
Time slowed down, then sped up. Marco got a glimpse of the locket's contents: a smudged photograph of a dark-haired woman in a wide-brimmed hat tied down with a scarf, and a flower...carnation?...held to her nose in an over-affected display of daintiness.
He looked up, met Danilo's eyes and saw the color had completely drained from his face.
That was the slow part. Then things sped up. Noise from downstairs: more knocking. And a voice, in English, "Police!" A ripple of consternation, a few raised voices, angry swears. Alejandro waved his arm, "¡Mantén la calma!" which, characteristically, didn't have much effect. Danilo snatched the locket, shoving it into a pocket. Another knock...
"I'll get it," Marco got back to his feet.
Al gave him a look, "You?"
"Me. Why not? It might even be someone I know."
"The exact reason you shouldn't."
"I can speak English! I may be able to..." he looked around at the men who had, for a few short days, been his housemates, settling back on Danilo, who had snatched the locket back up and secreted it away out of sight, "Keep them busy."
There was a silence. Some of the men muttered dubiously, but most of them went about their work of searching and disposing as needed.
"Well," Danilo said at length, "If there's one thing this man's good at...it's talking," he clapped him on the shoulder, nodding curtly, which Marco figured was as good as he was going to get.
Another knock. With another look back at Alejandro, who mouthed, "Buena suerte," by way of parting, he was gone.
***
At the door, Marco found two burly men in crisp, navy blue uniforms...not the same khaki and drab worn by Sheriff Halliwell's deputies, which was his first indication things were more serious than he'd wanted to reckon. He'd prepared a gregarious introduction, some sort of boisterous "Greetings, gents!" to really disarm them, but his voice betrayed him.
"You speak English, son?" asked one of the men, who couldn't be more than a year older than Marco, if that.
He cleared his throat, "As a matter of fact, sir, I do."
"Hmph," he didn't look impressed.
"Do you speak Spanish?"
"...I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, well...I thought, since you asked mine, I should ask yours."
The other man interjected, "We're here to have a look around this little halfway house of yours."
"Well, it's...it's not mine. The landlord doesn't live on the premises, actually. Typical, right? Keeps him from hearing the complaints...bed bugs, you know. But I guess that isn't your department..." seizing the segue, he pivoted, "Which is, um...what is your department?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your agency. Um...office. I mean, er...may I see some identification?"
The men looked at each other, incredulous and/or aghast. Finally, the second one indicated the badge on his front, "Bureau of Investigation, sir."
Marco blinked, "What, like the FBI?"
"I beg your..."
Marco reminded himself the FBI probably didn't exist yet and this was some sort of period-appropriate equivalent, "Sorry. Um...Bureau of Investigation, right. What are you investigating?"
"Is that supposed to be a joke?" asked the first one, "I don't know if you haven't noticed, sir, but there was a munitions explosion two blocks down the street last night. Biggest disaster since Black Tom. We've been called in to determine whether the similarities are more than superficial."
"That is," the second man added, with some satisfaction, "Whether the destruction was an act of deliberate sabotage."
"Ah," Marco said hoarsely, "And you think the saboteur might be...here."
"We're investigating every avenue, sir. Now, if you'd kindly step aside and permit us..."
He was aware of creaking floorboards overhead. Only so long he could manage this charade for...
"Well, um...if you kind fellows will allow me, I don't think you're gonna find much here."
The second agent laughed darkly, his nostrils flaring, "Oh really?"
"Really," Marco struggled to keep his voice level, "No spies here. Just...hardworking, decent folks. Underpaid, mostly, but...such is life, yeah?"
"Decent folks..." the first agent repeated, "Sir, I don't think I have to tell you why it might be of some interest to the Bureau that an American munitions plant was destroyed a stone's throw away from the largest Mexican immigrant population in a 50 mile radius."
Marco wasn't stupid. Foggy as he may have been on this period in high school, he'd compiled enough metadata since he'd gotten here to fill in the blanks. The Zimmerman telegraph, the sinking of the Lusitania...just about everything that had expedited the U.S's entry into the war had something to do with an alliance between the German Empire and Mexico. Now, this alliance never officially materialized, but knowing this wasn't likely to get him or any of the other guys away from scrutiny at this point. On top of that, there was an ongoing Revolution, in which U.S. soldiers had been fighting, right up until the Lusitania.
The government had every reason to suspect a connection, groundless as the suspicions may be.
"Well..." Marco nodded, "That is a good point. But," he held up a finger.
"But?" the agent asked incredulously.
"You're going to need a warrant."
The agents looked at each other, then back at him. Marco saw the second agent's fist clenching before he could think to move...
In lighter news, he was pretty sure the back of his head hitting the wall did more damage than this shitheel cop's knuckles on the front, which had to count for something.
***
He wasn't knocked out. Not strictly, at least. Marco was aware of voices and movement. Mostly shouting. Hands under his arms, dragging him around.
"Idiot..."
"Moron..."
"Cabron..."
"Ugh..." he groaned, forcing the slimy miasma in his vision to concentrate into something resembling life, "You're welcome."
Danilo, crouched down to scrutinize him, rolled his eyes, slapping him lightly, "Goes without saying. Doesn't mean you're not an idiot."
Alejandro, standing just off to the side, shushed him, touching a wet handkerchief to Marco's swollen lip, "Press that there."
Marco obliged, looking around to see he'd been hauled to a covered tram stop, some blocks away from the hostel, "What happened?"
"What do you think?" Danilo challenged, "You started a scene."
"Crap...Jesus," he groaned, "I don't know what I was doing. I thought...maybe if I kept them talking..."
"You did," said Al, "It made a difference."
"For some," said Danilo, not meeting Marco's eyes, "For me."
"For..." Marco narrowed his eyes, "What did you do?"
"Well, what's a cowardly Mexican vagrant with no papers and a sketchy past to do when the law comes calling?" he shrugged, "I went out the window."
"Seriously?"
"Me and some others in the same boat. Not enough, though. Carranza didn't make it, and they made Pimental before we crossed the street."
"Only two men, though," said Al, "So only so much they could do."
"What they get," said Danilo, "Underestimating our peoples' extraordinary capacity for lawlessness."
"Damn straight," said Marco flatly, "But...they searched the hostel?" he looked at Al, who nodded.
"I urged the men who had identification to stay. Easier. Like Danilo said, not everyone was lucky, but they conducted their search and found no...what did you call it? Smoking gun. But of course they wouldn't."
"Didn't stop them, though," said Danilo, his face darkening, "They made their arrests anyway."
"The guys without papers?"
"No papers, too much lip...ran but not fast enough...." Danilo's fingers twitched, "I didn't stick around to count."
"But it must be toward 20," said Al, "Detained on suspicion."
Marco adjusted the handkerchief on his lip, "But...what about me?"
"Your medal of honor is in the mail."
"You know what I mean! I have no papers, gave way too much lip..." he indicated his injury as proof, "And I was too busy being KO'ed to run anywhere. Why wasn't I arrested?"
Danilo looked at him like he'd gone stupid, "Because I dragged you out, imbécil. Doubled back after I got out the window."
Marco felt this odd squeezing pressure somewhere south of the ribs, "That...Danilo, I..."
"Oh, save it, you girl," but he almost smiled, "I wasn't gonna have them toss your ass in a cell. I still need you."
"You...need me?"
"To talk some sense into your white friends," he got to his feet.
"What, you mean...Bert?"
"And the other one. Helmet. He can whimper and moan all he wants, but this is an international concern now, with good men in trouble who don't have to be. They can do something about it and they will, if I have anything to say about it."
Marco rose gingerly, leaning on Alejandro as he did, "You mean...?"
"Your friends are going to tell the police what happened yesterday," he said grimly, "Whether they like it or not."
-Marco, Alejandro, and Danilo
They faced no difficulties on the way to the hospital, despite Marco's worries.
"Well, I'm just saying, if any of those Investigation Bureau guys recognize me..."
"Eh, one sweaty chapo looks like another," said Danilo.
"Thanks, man."
Anyway, the streets remained pretty near to empty. It was only when they neared the hospital that they ran into crowds...tired, sleepless women and their just as disheveled children, on their feet, on the curb, leaning against cars and carts, as far as a block down, waiting and dreading news on husbands, fathers, sons and brothers inside.
The crude tents that had been thrown up in the wake of the explosion still cluttered the lawn, stretching far out to the street, and the barricade the police had helped to put up had been pretty well disregarded, which probably wasn't ideal for patient safety, but at the same time wasn't the worst thing that had happened to any of these guys in the last 24 hours.
"Which one was it?" Danilo asked, "They all look the same."
"He's blond," said Al.
"I meant the tents."
Al shrugged. Marco sighed, looking up and down, "We'll find them. And when we do, we should probably have a plan..."
"Plan?" Danilo scoffed, "Dáme un respiro, I have a plan."
"Is it nonviolent?"
"Depends how helpful they want to be."
"Look, we are on the same side here," said Marco, "We're all targets in the same witch hunt..."
"Tell me when people come into the taffy store to find abuelo's papers, then."
"Hey, we don't know. Maybe they have."
"Not as yet, but I would not be surprised if it was in the offing."
Danilo swore, pressing a hand to his heart as they all turned to regard DIK Smith himself hobbling up to them on his cane, a paisley kerchief tied under his chin, "Good day, young friends, or as good as we can make it. Marco, lad, I hope you did not try to find me at the shop this morning."
"Oh, don't worry about it, Mr. Smith. I wasn't even planning on clocking in."
"Good boy. I am afraid I insisted on accompanying Bertie to visit with Helmut this morning. I could only stand so long cooped up indoors."
"So..." Marco began, "Nobody's watching the store?"
"Ah, you sound like Bertie. I tell you what I tell him: if someone is mad enough to rob a candy shop in the middle of all this, I want to be as far from him as possible, and will accept the damages in their time. But what is this you are talking about? Who is looking for papers? What manner of devilry is stirring now..."
"Well..." Marco was all too ready to explain, but Danilo was already off, "Is this the place? Right..." and charging into the nearest tent to Smith where, indeed, they found Helmut in his cot, and Bert sitting beside him. The rest of them followed, DIK moving as brisk as his bad leg would allow.
"Your friend, Marco, is a spirited youth."
"That's a polite way to say it."
"Eh, with spirit comes from purpose. I saw that well enough when we helped you from your little legal trouble. He is not ornery without purpose..." they moved into the tent in time to hear Danilo greet Bert and Helmut.
"You're going to help us or you'll start paying the hospital rent. What will it be?"
A short silence before DIK doffed his hat, "Look who I ran into, boys? Our Mexican friends!"
-Marco, Danilo, Alejandro, and DIK Smith
Helmut perked up, glad to see more of his new friends (as shaky as they were). "Ah! My friends! I'm glad you're here! I think I'm starting to feel much better!" He sat up on his cot, planting his , poorly disguising his cringing in pain. "Bad ear aside, I feel I am ready to rejoin society at long last! A good thing, too. You missed my mother not too long ago and the trip here is far too strenuous for her. Her gout, you know..."
"Return to society," Danilo repeated, "Being a citizen. Excellent. You can start by telling the police what happened yesterday," he turned to Bert, "And you too."
There was an awkward silence. Marco opened his mouth, "What he means is, um...it's been a bit of a morning..."
"Tell them about the raid," Al whispered, in Spanish.
"I'm getting to that!" and then, switching back to English, "So, uh...there have been some troubles..."
"A pack of government suits have camped their khaki culos in the Latin Quarter and are turning inside out..."
"The quarter, not the culos," added Marco as Danilo continued.
"...because they think your factory was blown up by a swarty sabotaging llegado."
"There have been arrests," Marco added.
"Lucky for us all, you two know better," he turned from Helmut to Bert, "If you have the cajones to say so."
"No pressure," said Marco and, at scandalized looks from the others, added, "But...pressure, yes. Just...in a nice way. Look, we're all on the same side here, like we were saying last night..."
"But I do not understand," DIK interjected, "What is it you boys are supposed to say?"
"You haven't told him yet?" Danilo turned to Bert.
-Danilo, Marco, Alejandro, and DIK Smith
Bert tightened his lips before grabbing Danilo by the wrist,
"I had looked for you before, we need to talk elsewhere."
He let go and walked outside the tent. He had hoped he would be able to convince Marco's friend of what needed to be done.
Danilo tensed at the sudden touch, "Que lindo," flatly.
"Thst wasn't cursing," said Marco helpfully, "If you were wondering."
"But I do not understand..." DIK continued, "What is it that you must tell..."
"Why don't you catch him up?" Danilo asked casually, "While this one rubs noses with me."
"Rubs noses?" Alejandro whispered to Marco, in Spanish, "¿Qué es eso?"
"Like making out," said Marco automatically, "But, um, that's sarcasm. I think. Probably."
Al made a noncommittal noise as Bert and Danilo made their exit.
"So," Marco turned back to DIK, "What I guess Bert didn't mention to you...long story short..."
"Ah, shame the devil," DIK waved his hand expressively, "It will have been a short story if it were told me sooner. Now...alas. What happened?"
"Well, it's nothing Bert did, or Helmut, even..." Marco looked at Helm helpfully, "Just that we think, er, that..."
"Komm, komm!" the older man said impatiently, "What is it?"
"Helmut was framed for the explosion," Marco interrupted hastily, "By Freddy Teague."
DIK blinked, "...Fred Teague?"
"Fred Teague."
"Nathan's brother."
"Ja."
"Warden Teague's little son?"
"Ja."
Smith mopped his brow again, shaking head head laboriously, "Verdammt."
Marco paused, "...is that cursing?"
"Ja."
"That sums it up."
***
Danilo let Bert take him just outside, "All this to get me alone? I'm overwhelmed," he folded his arms, "If you've decided you suddenly don't want to go public with this, apologies, hermano, but it's not your vote anymore."
He cocked an eyebrow, challenging...inviting...Bert to tell him it was something else.
-Danilo, Marco, DIK Smith, and Alejandro