“Lys, sweetheart,” he says with relief. “How are you?”
The garden blurs and I blink against the sudden tears. “Could be better,” I say, chuckling wetly. “How are you?”
“I’m glad you’re all right. When did you wake up?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“How are you feeling? They told me you had a fever.”
“The fever’s gone. I’m a bit shaky, is all.”
“Did your suitcases arrive? I had Leo pack them when we left the house. He didn’t forget anything, did he?”
No mention of the meds. I swallow a sigh of relief. “Yeah, everything’s there.” Thank you, Leo.
“Good. How are you liking your new accommodation?”
I wipe the last of the tears away and the garden comes back into focus. There is another statue hiding among the trailing willow boughs at the far right-hand corner of the garden. This one is not Japanese. It is Atlas the titan cast in bronze, blackened by time and shadows. He carries a sphere of four interlacing rings that are tall enough to break the canopy and gleam in the setting sunlight.
“It’s, uh . . .”
Dad laughs. “Unbearably nouveau riche? You’re in the cottage with the psychiatrist and the Rhode’s ward, aren’t you? Can you see the main house from there?”
“That Russian thing? I can’t believe they got away with it.”
“That’s power for you. You should see inside.”
“Why do they have a statue of Atlas in a Japanese garden?”
“It used to be in front of the Rockefeller Centre on Manhattan. They nabbed it in the nineties in the name of historical preservation.”
A shaft of light pierces the trees and lights upon Atlas’ glowering face. An unfamiliar bird lands upon his head.
“Huh.”
“I’m sorry I’m not with you,” Dad continues. “It’s mayhem down here. Tracking Shade and his associates has been a nightmare and we’re behind on Halloween preparations.”
Ah, yes, Halloween. How could I forget?
In the early 1950s, a gang war that tore across the city. It ended on Halloween of 1955 with the formation of the Risorgimento, NYC’s mafia coalition, and the transformation of the city in a mafia state. Three decades later, Alexandros introduced his new gang, Oikos, to the world by attacking City Hall on Halloween 1989, and embarking on a systematic decimation of the Risorgimento that left Staten Island in flames and Manhattan an urban wasteland and the fleeing of most of New York’s population before the Marines came in to declare martial law. Oikos lasted twenty-seven years until they collapsed due to in-fighting, also on Halloween.
Since then, Halloween has become an annual event when the city’s rebels mount their largest attacks against the Marines and the rest of the city shuts down for its own protection. At first these attacks were small ambushes of Marine convoys or a few molotov cocktails thrown over the Military Sector’s fences on Long Island. Then along came Shade. With a talent for recruitment and logistical planning, and a volcanic hatred for the Marines, his year-long reign of terror brought more destruction of Marine property – and life – than seen in the entire final decade of Oikos’ existence. It took the combined efforts of the Marines and F.L.A.R.E. to capture him in clearing in Central Park last Halloween. With Shade in prison, I know Dad hoped for this year to be a quiet one.
Yeah, well, so much for that.
“That’s okay. I understand.” I try to imagine my father in his Bronx HQ office, the one in the clocktower, though I’ve only ever heard his description of it. Sitting at his desk, perhaps looking at a framed photo of the family. Him and me, Leo, Maman.
“I’m glad you’re with the Rhodes. You’ll be safe there. No one touches Shelter Island,” he says.
That’s what you said about the Village.
“But – Dad –” I take a deep breath. “Shade had this guy take care of me while I was there, and he said that help was–”
“Who?” Dad interrupts sharply. I blink, shocked by the sudden switch from Dad to Colonel. His tone is almost frightening.
“He – uh – his name was Carter. Big blonde guy with a scar on his jaw. He brought me food and clothing.” He was kind.
“FLARE reported you were found alone in a dressing room in the Met. Did you speak to Shade?” Each rapid-fire word cracks through the phone’s little speaker like a shot.
“No. Carter said he was sick.”
“Did Carter mention Shade’s plans for Halloween?”
“No.”
“Did you ever leave the dressing room?”
“No.”
“Did you speak to anyone other than Carter?”
“No.”
“Were there other people in the building?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you tell Carter anything about our current security measures?”
“What? No. I don’t know anything about them anyway.” Except that they suck.
“Did Carter say anything of interest? Anything at all?”
How are you feeling? How’s your head? Are you okay? I won’t hurt you. I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can. Get some rest.
“Nothing of strategic value,” I say.
Dad hums in thought. “This Carter is new to me. I’ll have to look into him.”
“He said that help was coming,” I say at last. “And then FLARE turned up.”
“I was told they had a tip-off from one of Shade’s girls.”
“I don’t know. That’s just what he said. Dad, what if it was Shade’s idea to let me go as some sort of, I don’t know, trap? Or what if it wasn’t and he wants me back? What if he comes for me?” I wrap an arm around my ribs, holding myself tight. My heart pounds.
Suddenly he’s Dad again, calm, loving, stalwart. “Lys, sweetheart, don’t worry. I’ll find out everything I can, especially about this Carter and the tip-off. You focus on recovering. Try training with Feint, he’s the son of the kendo instructor I had lined up for you. His real name’s Fudo.”
“Why can’t I come to the Bronx?”
The speaker crackles as he sighs. “It’s best if you stay on the island until after Halloween. Once Shade’s back in prison, I’ll collect you myself. You and Leo can go home.” Dad chuckles. “Leo’s working at Pelham. It’s good for the boy.”
I barely hear him. At the mere mention of home, I’m overwhelmed with thoughts of Wellington and my flat and my friends and my job and my life that I left behind. Hunting trips with Carmen and trying to interpret fMRI scans and teaching my young students how to balance a side kick. The normality I tried so hard to build – it’s all there, waiting. I can leave this madness behind.
. . . leave Maman behind.
I’m crying again.
“Did you have a funeral for her?” I ask.
“Yes. Your brother and I, some of my officers, the doctors she was going to be working with, and a few of the Villagers came. We can visit her grave when we’re together,” he offers.
“Okay,” I murmur, my fingers finding the spaces between my ribs and pressing into the flesh. She should have been buried surrounded by friends, not a bunch of strangers. “Can I speak to Leo sometime?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” A second voice mumbles something in the background. Dad must put his hand over the microphone because I can’t make out what he barks at them. Then he’s back to talking to me. “Alyssa, I have to go. I’ll see you after Halloween.”
“Wait, when can I call you again?”
“I’ll call you. Hang tight. I love you. Over and out.” The dial tone sings in my ear.
I stand there for a long time, listening to the whine. In the time we’ve been talking, the shadow of this house has stretched over the lion statue and the red bridge and the reflecting pond, deepening the green of the bonsai trees, creeping up the branches of the willows. Atlas’ face is now black and brutal. Trapped beneath those rings, in this paradise, I know exactly how he feels.
Yeah, love you too, Dad.