Angel of the Underground. David Andreas

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      CHAPTER III

      I awaken in the morning to pulsating heat against my back. I half-expect to find my roommate, Amanda, sleeping beside me, but the snoring sounds are too deep for a three-year-old. I look over my shoulder and find a bald, blemished scalp. I slither onto the floor, land hard on my right hip, and stare at Nathan with wide eyes. Still sound asleep, he rolls over facing me. His lips are stuck to his dry teeth, which makes him look like a skeleton veiled in tight skin.

      A frantic voice sounds upstairs. I crawl to the hallway for a listen and hear Lori say, “Dad! Enough of this shit! Where are you?” I hurry up to the dining room, where Lori stops short and looks me over as though I’m interrupting her for no good reason. “Can I help you with something?”

      “He’s in my room,” I reply.

      “Isn’t that nice? We’ve been going crazy up here while you two are having a fucking tea party?”

      Before I can explain what’s actually happening, she brushes past me and heads to the basement. I follow her with the hope that finding Nathan asleep will lead to an apology for chastising me with profanity, but when she sees Nathan she simply mutters, “Tell Barry to come in. He’s out back.”

      Sure enough, Barry is leaning inside the aluminum shed. When he retracts himself and notices me he offers a quizzical gaze.

      “He’s downstairs,” I say, “in my bed.”

      Barry places his hands on my shoulders and says, “You’ll have to forgive him. He’s not all there in the head and tends to forget where he is.” He leads me to the garage with a hand on my back. “I wouldn’t worry. He’s far from a threat.”

      I give Barry the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t say a word. I don’t know about Nathan’s health conditions, and can’t feel too upset since he didn’t do anything but sleep. Sister Alice says life is full of unplanned discomforts, so I forgive him as I expect Sister Alice would.

      When Barry heads downstairs to gather his father, I find something of interest in a lidless kitchen garbage pail. Beneath a wet coffee filter is the latest Newsday. On the cover is a photo of Detective Morris, the policeman who spoke to me when I found Bryan’s savaged body. While Nathan is taken upstairs, I slip the paper under my shirt and take it down to my room.

      The main article clarifies what I already know. The police department has yet to disclose any clues or leads that might tie the murders to a suspect. Detective Morris is under public scrutiny for his inability to set anyone at ease. Answering “no comment” to almost every question is angering the already frightened community. Sales of guns, home security systems, and guard dogs have spiked over the past few weeks. Citizens are begging for a new detective to take on the case, as they find Morris wholly incompetent.

      I think they’re too hard on him. When we met he appeared concerned for my well-being; he told me I had witnessed a scene more brutal than any he’s ever encountered before. At one point he excused himself to the bathroom, where he must have cried since he came out with swollen, bloodshot eyes. He promised me he’d catch the killer by any means necessary, but those means are eluding him.

      After flipping through the rest of the paper, which ends with the Mets’ three game losing streak, I call the group home and hang up on a busy signal. I head out back to see what the boys are up to and find Dennis in the pool. As I approach, Jeremy rises from the depths and blows water from his nose. He then says to me: “Why the long face, slut? Couldn’t get the geezer off?” He laughs hard, but the sound doesn’t relate to humor. My eyes start to burn as tears fill the ducts. Crying, even in the most minimal sense, often feeds the wretchedness of people like Jeremy, so I look into a sandy foot bath near the pool and try not to blink.

      Dennis bobs closer to me and leans his arms against the aluminum ledge. “Ignore him,” he says, “no one else thinks it’s funny. Nathan has issues.” I look at him with appreciation just as Jeremy slides an arm’s length of cold water at me. My breath is immediately seized. Jeremy laughs so hard he begins to choke. Undeserving of such treatment, I return downstairs, drop face first into my pillow, and don’t expect to hear from anyone until dinner.

      At half past two, a light knock sounds on my door, to which I reply, “Come in.”

      Dennis enters and closes the door behind himself, probably so he can be heard over Jeremy’s heavy metal. “I’m heading out for a bit,” he says. “Jeremy will probably blast music the rest of the day. The pool is all yours.”

      “Where are you going?”

      “A place you’re not allowed to go to. We were told not to bring you anywhere.”

      “I’m not a prisoner. And I can’t sit still without thinking horrible thoughts about those kids. I need to get out of here.” I look directly into his forlorn hazel eyes and clasp my hands. “Please?”

      Dennis bites his upper lip while bouncing his head from side to side, then says in surrender, “It’s only two miles away. If we hurry we can make it back before anyone knows you left.”

      I stand up and put on my Keds.

      Though Jeremy is screaming along to his music, Dennis says he has a sense for knowing when something fun is happening without him, so we creep up to the garage and quietly wheel out the two bicycles. “You can take mine,” Dennis says, “I’ll use his.”

      Their bikes are nearly identical, and only slightly different than the one I grew up with. The top crossbar doesn’t dip and the brakes aren’t pedal operated, but I’m sure I’ll adapt. I’m getting used to adapting.

      Dennis initially rides hard and puts twenty yards between us, but when we reach a safe distance from the house he slows down so I can catch up. When side-by-side I ask, “Where are we going?”

      “To the greatest place in creation,” he replies.

      “Can you be more specific?”

      “Can I ask you something personal first?”

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