Rob Thurman - Chimera

Except for the occasional field trip, the kids weren’t allowed any interaction with the outside world. Videos, prerecorded television programs, and computer programs were used to immerse them in real life. It was just another class. The field trips were to allow their instructors to observe the students, to see if they could blend in . . . be taken for normal children. All of this elaborate program, all this perverse training was for the purpose of . . . what? Michael had laughed when I’d guessed it was aimed at turning these kids into spies, even though programs like that had existed in my grandfather’s time back in Russia, not to mention in the cheap novels I’d read in junior high.

“Why?” I demanded when he wound down. The details he had given me had been sketchy at best, and I could tell there were huge chunks of information he’d skipped over without touching on at all. “What’s the point of all this sadistic bullshit? What’s supposed to be the end result?”

“I’m the end result,” he said without emotion.

And that, apparently, was the end of that topic. Either he couldn’t face the rest, didn’t trust me enough to tell me, or both. And since I already knew where he stood on the trust issue, I drew my own conclusions. But I gave it one last effort.

“Misha, the only thing I want to do is help you. As far as I’m concerned, that ranks above breathing in my book, but how can I if . . .”

“Do you want to hear about Jericho or not?” he cut in sharply, shifting and pulling at his seat belt as if it were too tight.

“Yeah, kid. I do,” I relented. His customary calm might not be healthy considering his immediate past, but stripping it away all at once would leave him mentally defenseless. I wasn’t sure that was the smart thing to do. I knew it wasn’t the kind thing. “You can tell me over breakfast.” I wanted to give him a chance to regain his balance. He might not trust me, but I wanted him to be comfortable with me . . . as much as he could be. “We’ll even find you a real bathroom, nature boy. How about that?”

From the expression on his face and the set of his shoulders as he folded his arms, he let me know that was the very least I could do. He might not realize he was a teenager with all the personality traits that went with that, but at least he could pout like one. It was a start. Swallowing a smile, I kept an eye on the rearview mirror and started looking for a place to stuff the bottomless pit in the seat beside me.

Twenty minutes later we were seated in a mom-and-pop joint I spotted before we reached the interstate. It wasn’t too much of a risk. We were off the beaten path. If Jericho had any bizarre form of APB out on us, I found it hard to believe it could reach into the grease-smoked depths of Mrs. Testimony Delgado’s kitchen. She was the mom; we didn’t see the pop. He may have been banished to washing dishes or peeling potatoes.

“No, no. Not this table, perritos . Scoot.” She bustled out of the kitchen, her enormous breasts arriving two steps before the rest of her. Not old enough to be grand-motherly, she gave a good impression of an eccentric aunt. She would hug you, feed you with cookies and chocolate until you were as plump as she, then send you back to your parents while she put her feet up and drank a solid slug of scotch.

Waving a faded red and white kitchen towel at us, she herded us to another table in the corner. “Hope you don’t mind, but that one’s saved for four of my regulars.” She bent over and continued in a whisper that probably didn’t carry much past the parking lot. “Older gentlemen. They need to have the spot close to the convenience. Prostate troubles, poor old farts.” She had prematurely silver-streaked black hair piled high on her head in a mass of carefully constructed sausage curls, amber skin with a handful of freckles, and amazing green eyes. They were large, snapping, and the color of sea glass washed on the beach. The best of many worlds combined into one beamingly glorious whole, she snatched the laminated menus from our hands and gave Michael’s stomach a motherly pat. “These . . . They’re not for you. Growing muchacho like you, I know exactly what your panza needs. Flaco .” Shaking her head with disapproval, she pinched his chin. “ Perrito flaco . Skinny puppy.”

In a whirl of her green and red patterned muumuu she disappeared into the kitchen, her thick and sturdy ankles moving at a blur. Michael watched her go with something close to disbelief. I didn’t bother to hide my grin. “Somebody has a girlfriend.” A black glare was turned my way, and I jerked a thumb in the direction of the table we’d just occupied. “There’s the bathroom you’ve been pining for. You might as well take the opportunity to clean up while you’re in there. You need my comb, puppy?”

He slid out of his chair and gave me a scornful look that would’ve meant more without the confused flush over his cheekbones. Without a word he held out a hand to accept the comb and headed toward the indicated door. I poured a glass from the pitcher of juice on the table. It was strawberry, orange, pineapple, and something else mixed with crushed ice. It wasn’t bad . . . not at all. I was on my second glass by the time Michael returned. I didn’t feel the need to tell him I’d made a quick trip outside to check for an escape route from the bathroom. The only window I’d seen was far too small for even a lanky teenager to get through, and I made it back to the table long before Michael finished washing up.

Freshly combed hair was threaded back damply with only one strand springing free to curve and touch his eyebrow. He’d apparently run the comb under the tap before taming the fly-away strands of brown hair. I hoped he wasn’t too attached to the color. “Looking good,” I said approvingly, accepting back the comb. “You’re going to break Mrs. Delgado’s heart.” I knew her name from the face beaming from a framed picture over the cash register. Letters carefully painted on the glass read TESTIMONY DELGADO, PROPRIETOR AND EMPLOYEE OF THE CENTURY. She was a woman who knew her own worth, our hostess.

The flush that had filled his face with color before he went to the bathroom reappeared. “I thought you wanted to hear about Jericho,” he snapped defensively.

He wasn’t used to being teased, that was easy to see. Hopefully, that would change, along with so many other things he’d been denied. “Yeah, I do.” Pouring him a glass of the breakfast elixir of the gods. “But drink your juice first. I don’t want a swat with the Delgado dish towel.”

Lifting the glass, he gave the contents a doubtful sniff before taking an experimental swallow. “It’s good.” He sounded surprised, no doubt thrown off by the lack of chocolate syrup.

“ Si, perrito, and it’s good for you.” Bustling up to the table, she slid two heavy white plates overloaded with food in front of us. Scrambled eggs mixed with peppers, mushrooms, and tomatoes, fried potatoes coated with cheese and onions, thick slices of ham and even thicker toast slathered with butter and jam. I felt my heart stagger in midbeat just at the sight. Serve it to a man over fifty and Mrs. Delgado would be considered an accomplice to murder. Pulling a bottle of ketchup and a jar of salsa out of her apron, she placed them on the table, smoothed a stray hair on the crown of Michael’s head, and rushed back off. The woman was a whirlwind in a muumuu, a whirlwind with a black belt in cholesterol.

Michael looked down at his plate, then back up at me with round eyes. “Holy shit.”

“Hey, watch it,” I laughed. “Where’d you pick up language like that?”

“Movies.” He picked up his fork and started on the eggs. “And you.”