“What?”
“That’s not important now. Forget about the computer. We need to talk, man to man.”
“Uncle Frankie, I’m sorry that I can’t—”
“I’m not here to convince you to come back to work on the thing.”
“You’re not?”
“Come here.” Frankie led him to the couch, which sat in a cluster of remaining normal furniture Buddy had pushed to the center of the room. “Sit with me, Matty.”
The boy sat hunched on the couch, staring at his feet.
Frankie said, “I’m here to apologize to you.” Matty started to protest and Frankie held up a hand. “No, no. I failed you. Something happened that made you turn away from me, and I want to know what it is—so I can make amends.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Did your mother find out? Is she punishing you for more than the pot?”
“No! I didn’t tell her anything. She has no idea about…our thing.”
“Then I’m at a loss,” Frankie said. “What happened to change your mind?”
Matty said nothing for a long moment. “I guess I got scared,” he said finally.
“Scared of what?”
The boy didn’t answer.
“Did you think you’d get caught?” Frankie asked.
Matty seemed to list away from him, which Frankie took for a nod.
“That’s impossible,” Frankie said. “You’re not doing anything. You’re just floating around, invisible. I’m doing all the work—and I’m the one taking the risk.” Jesus, was it hot in here. He was sweating just sitting down. “You have to know, if I got caught, I’d never, never ever, tell anyone you were involved.”
Matty looked up in surprise. Shit. That possibility had never occurred to the kid.
“What if there are people who can see me?” Matty asked.
“Who? What people?”
“I don’t know, like, the government?”
“Okay, I get it,” Frankie said. “This is my fault. I’ve been telling you all about Grandma Mo and her spy stuff. But what did I tell you? The Cold War’s over. The government’s done with that stuff.”
“Is it, though?”
“Of course it is. But that’s not what you’re really afraid of.”
Matty waited for it.
“You’re afraid of using your powers! You know I’m right. You can’t even say the word. P-O-W—”
Matty looked back at his feet.
“Say it. Try it out.”
“Powers,” Matty said quietly.
“Damn straight. You have powers, and you’re powerful. What do you have to be afraid of? You can’t go through life terrified of using what God gave you. You still want to help your mom, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
Frankie said, “She works at that shitty grocery store, wearing that shitty uniform, making shitty money. She can’t even afford to move out on her own! How the hell are you supposed to go to college? How’s she supposed to afford that? Because you’re smart, Matty. You want to go to college, you better go. Or not. Your kind of power, you don’t have to. The thing you don’t want is to end up working some dead-end job, with a bunch of kids you have no control over, wondering what the hell happened to your—”
Frankie waved his hand as if clearing a chalkboard. “Never mind all that. Focus up.”
“You want me to focus?” Matty asked.
Frankie wasn’t exactly sure. One of them needed to.
“I know you want to help your mom,” Frankie said, lowering his voice. “And I know you want to help me. But you’ve also got to think about what’s going to help you. This is not just about the—what we’ve been practicing for. That’s just the opportunity we have in front of us at this moment. Think of it as a first step. You’re going to take a lot of steps, Matty, so many steps I don’t even know where you’ll end up. The other side of the moon, maybe! However—” He put his arm around Matty’s shoulders. “You gotta think of who you are. You’re a Telemachus.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts. Do you know what today is?”
“Thursday?”
“The last Thursday of the month. Which comes right before the last Friday of the month. And you know what that is.”
“Um…”
“Payday, Matty. The big payday. And due to circumstances beyond my control, this is the last time I—we will ever get a shot at what’s in that safe.”
“What’s happening?”
“Too complicated to explain.” Frankie glanced at his watch, then saw that he’d forgotten to put on his watch this morning. He jumped up from the couch. “I gotta go see a guy. I’ll check in with you later. But while I’m gone, think about your future, Matty. Think about embracing who you are. You’ve got to embrace life.”
“The UltraLife,” Matty said quietly.
“Yes! Exactly! I knew I could count on you.”
Frankie spent the first hour of his arrest alone in a motel room, trying to open the handcuffs with his mind. Agent Smalls had deposited him in the room and told him to wait “until we get set up.” Frankie had no idea what he meant by that. Set up what, torture equipment?
He perched on the edge of the double bed closest to the door and stared at his wrists, willing the restraints to spring open. Or unlock. Or merely tremble. But all he could think of was chips flying into the air, and arms grabbing him. He doubted he could move a paper clip now.
His shirt was still damp, not from river spray, but from sweat. He’d been sure the casino operatives were taking him away to be beaten or killed. When Destin Smalls had shown up, Frankie had been relieved, but the longer the handcuffs stayed on, the longer he sat on this floral bedspread that smelled of industrial cleaner, the more he suspected that he’d made at best a lateral move: out of the frying pan and into the frying pan.
The door opened and Frankie jumped up. Agent Smalls filled the doorway. He was in his late sixties, but Frankie gave no thought to bum-rushing him. You could hurt yourself running into a wall, even an old one.
“I’d like to call my lawyer,” Frankie said.
“Sure,” the agent said, and grabbed him by the elbow.
It was near dawn, but there was no light in the sky except the small yellow face of the Super 8 sign. The parking lot was full of dark. Frankie felt another hope die. Not a person in sight to witness his illegal incarceration.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” the agent said. “I came to your house dozens of times before your mother died.”
“To do what, harass my dad?”
“That was a side benefit.”
The trip was all of five feet, to the next motel room door. Smalls opened the door and nudged Frankie inside. “Do you remember him?” Smalls asked.
A bald gnome with a handlebar mustache sat behind a round table loaded with electrical equipment. The waxed, curlicued mustache had turned silver sometime in the past twenty years, but Frankie recognized him all right.
“Motherfucker,” Frankie said.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again as well, Franklin,” said the Astounding Archibald. “Please, have a seat.”
Agent Smalls unlocked the handcuffs and gestured toward the chair opposite Archibald. The devices on the table between them hummed and buzzed. Cables spilled onto the floor and snaked toward a stack of black metal cases. The air smelled of ozone and aftershave.
G. Randall Archibald lifted one of Frankie’s hands like a manicurist and began slipping rubber-tipped thimbles over the fingers. Each thimble sprouted a bundle of wires that led to one of the machines.