Wind sliced off Lake Michigan and drove needles of sleet through his bomber jacket, the kind of Chicago cold that made even the bums on lower Wacker crawl out of their alleys and head for the missions. The air bit and stung him, and he loved it. He puffed out a breath just to see it fog and was almost glad that Walter had gotten himself thrown in jail. Thus he strolled into the precinct in an insupportably good mood. He stated his business to the desk sargeant and she pointed him to a bench to wait. "Coffee's back here, if you need warmed up," she added, crooking her head to indicate a little alcove set up with a percolator. Hard to believe that not fifteen years ago Dailey had these same copes beating demonstrators in the streets at the Democratic Convention. Not that he heard about it until after the fact. Long after.

"Thanks," he replied and helped himself, then sat down while they tried to locate Walter in the midst of the rest of the flotsam in the drunk tank.

He was just getting warmed up ben a beat cop entered, a blast of an Alberta clipper sending shivers over him again. The cop motioned to a kid with him, no more than eight or nine, skinny and swimming in a ratty old sweatshirt, to the bench. "You wait there while I talk to the sargeant. You warm enough, you want something to eat?" The kid shook his head no and slid onto the bench.

"So," he said, finishing the last of his coffee, "Whatcha in for?"

The kid looked at him, dark eyes solemn. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

He smiled and put out his hand. "My name's Sam. Now we're not strangers. What's your name?"

"Loitering."

"That's a weird name."

The kid nodded to the beat cop. "That's what he called it. 'Loitering'. That means hanging around."

"Yes, I know."

The kid leaned back into the bench and hugged himself. "My mom's gonna be real worried if I'm not there when she comes back." He looked scared, dark eyes wide. He began to rock himself, bumping his head on the back of the bench with each rock. "I have to go back. My mom is coming back, and I have to be there." His eyes were moist, and he closed them, but he didn't cry. By God, Sam thought, this kid is terrified, and he isn't going to cry.

"Hey, hey, stop," he said, cathching the kid in mid-rock. "Here." He took of his jacket and put in behind the kid's head, pillowing the bench. "You hold onto my jacket for me, okay, and I'll go see what's taking so long."

"Okay." They eyes opened, and they were still wet, but no tears slid.

***************

Sam entered the coffee alcove. "--so we get to the Greyhound Station and there's this kid, in the ticket office. The ticket guy said he'd seen him around a coupla days, but just thought he was neighborhood kid or something. But today the kid comes in, asks if he'd seen his medicine. Kid's got asthma or something, I don't know, he says he has trouble breating sometimes, and the manager questions him and finds out him and mama came in on the Frankenmuth bus on Wednesday."

"This kid's been wandering the bus station for three days?"

"Yeah. So the manager flags us down."

The desk sargeant nodded. "So what's the kid say?"

"Kid wanted to stay there. He keeps saying that Mom went to find Dad and is coming back for him."

"Yeah, well, you get back on your beat. I'll watch him until Children's Services picks him up."

Sam glanced back at the kid. He was over at a desk, fiddling with a computer while a cop stood helplessly by.

"--then you do this, and see? Now it works."

The cop shook his head. "And six of them idiots from downtown couldn't figure it out."

Sam went over and watched. "You're pretty good at that."

"At the restaurant where my mom worked, sometimes at night I had to go with her. The guy would let me play with the computer in his office. He had lots of games. Sometimes, though, it would break, so I had to fix it. It's easy." The boy continued through the system, chattering blythely about hard and software as if the cop and Sam should know what he was talking about. "If you want, I can make it so you can see the FBI stuff."

"No, thanks, kid," the cop said. "We'll probably get in trouble just because you got it working."

Sam grinned. Bureaucracy was universal. The cop shooed them back to the bench, and Sam decided to gather a little intel on the situation.

"So, you came here with your mom?"

The boy nodded. "She said I have to stay with my dad for a while."

"He lives in Chicago? What's his name?"

"I don't know." The boy stared at his feet. "I never met him. But my mom says that maybe I have a sister or a brother at his house. Do you have any boys or girls at your house, mister?"

Sam stared at his feet, too, and tried not to think about the last time he saw his Stevie, just a little round-faced cherub in Donna's arms, both of them smelling of soap and baby powder, waving while he boarded his plane. How the light hit her hair, and they looked like a painting, a Rafael, a Bottacelli, Mary adoring the Christ Child. He stared at his feet. "No. No children."

"My mom said I'm going to live with him because boys need dads. She said its hard to be a single mom and sometimes moms and dads can't be with their kids."

"What's your mom's name?" Lost kids weren't his specialty, but if he could get the kid to tell him something useful--

"Babe. That's what everybody calls her."

"Babe?"

"Uh-huh."

"Did she say where she thought your dad lived?"

The boy shook his head. "She said she had to go and find him. She hasn't seen him for a long time, either."

"I don't suppose you have a phone number."

"I only know 911. That's the only one I'm allowed to call, and only in an emergency."

"I see."

They sat for a while in silence. Finally the boy said, "I hope my dad isn't sad all the time."

"What do you mean?"

"My mom was. Sad, I mean. A lot. She cried."

"Everyone cries."

"Yeah." A little later, "I think she's mad at me, too."

Sam looked at the boy. "Why?"

The boy leaned back, huddled himself into Sam's jacket. "Last week my teacher sent home a letter. Not a note. A letter, a big one. We took these tests at school to find out who was smart and who was dumb, and my teacher said I have to go into a special class. 'Special class' means the dumb class. I think that's why she's mad."

"You don't seem dumb to me."

The boy pulled the jacket tighter around him, and Sam knew he wasn't going to get it back. "I didn't think so either--I can read better than anybody else at reading aloud, I just don't like to, and I know all my times tables, even the twelves. Nobody else even knows the eights." He shook his head. "But tests don't lie."

Sam smiled. "I don't think the test said you were dumb. I think they wanted you in a class for kids who are very smart."

The boy looked up, gratitude glowing in his eyes. "You think?"

"I think. I think you're very smart."

"Then why did my mom say I have to go live with my dad? Why does she cry all the time?"

"I don't know." And Sam wondered if his bride, his Donna, had ever gotten so overwhelmed, felt so alone, that she had considered abandoning their Stevie . . . No. Donna would not do that. Their son was fine, Donna was fine. Better than if he had gone home to them, after. They were better off, they were all better off. He looked at the kid beside him. "So, you want to get something to eat?"

***************

The waitress brought the sandwich and by the time she had refilled Sam's coffee, the kid had the sandwich gone.

"You must have been hungry."

"Yeah."

"Do you want another?"

The kid's face lit up, then he looked down shyly. "No. My mom only lets me have one sandwich at a time." He sipped his soda.

"you haven't had much to eat the last couple of days. It's okay if you want another sandwich." Sam signalled the waitress to bring another.

The boy looked up through long lashes. "My mom maybe doesn't have enough money to pay you back. She didn't have much left after she bought the tickets."

Sam smiled and tried not to wonder if his son always had enough to eat, and not to remember all the kids he'd seen who didn't. "That's okay. Your mom doesn't have to pay me back."

The boy stared down at the crumbs. "I think I better go back to the bus place. My mom's gonna be real worried when she comes back and I'm not there."

Sam looked around, unsure of what to say. The waitress brought the second plate. The boy started eating, slower now, and Sam doubted from his distracted look if he even tasted it. "How about, when you're finished, we go check the bus station? See if your mom's there?"

"Okay."

The rest of the meal passed in silence. When they finished and went to pay, Sam noticed the boy gazing at the candy behind the register. "Do you want some candy?"

The boy shook his head.

"It's okay if you do. What kind do you like? M&M's? Hershey's? Snickers?"

The boy shook his head, reached out and put one finger gently on a bright blue pack of Oreos. "These. These are my favorite. But my mom says they're too expensive, so we buy the other kind. She says they're the same." The boy fixed Sam with an earnest gaze. "They're not."

So Sam shelled out an extra buck, and with the boy swaddled in the oversized bomber jacket and clutching two packs of Oreos like they were the Holy Grail, they walked to the bus station.

Sam could not imagine an adult living three days in the noise, the filth, the confusion of the station, let alone a skinny little kid. And he had lived some rough places. Very rough. Like eight years in a Viet Cong prison camp. He shook that thought out of his head. "Do you know where you last saw your mom?"

The boy nodded, eyes wide, clutching the sleeve of Sam's sweater with one hand, cookies in the other. "Over there." He pointed to a rack of lockers. "That's where she said to wait."

They searched the area, even though Sam knew it was futile. They talked to every vendor, bus driver, and bum. No leads. Toward dark, Sam bent down on one knee. "Look, I think we'd better get back to my hotel. This isn't a good place to be at night."

The boy nodded. Sam rose and started toward the main entrance. "Come on."

The boy shook his head, tears filling his eyes. "My mom said to wait here." He wiped his eyes with a sleeve. "She said she'd be back, she was just gonna find my dad--"

Sam walked back slowly, knelt down before the boy. "I know your mom told you that--" The dark eyes began to fill again. "Remember how I gave my card to everyone we talked to? When your mom comes back, they'll tell her and she'll call me. Then we'll come meet her. But utnil then, you can't stay here."

"But she said--"

"I know, I know. But this isn't a good place for your to be alone." He took the boy's hand firmly in his own. "Come on. I'll take care of you."

************

When the boy awake again he was in a rrom that was very white. Two people were talking, a man and a lady. The light shone down in his eyes so he squeezed them shut. The man's voice was his friend Sam's. "--dammnit, I don't care!"

"You kidnapped him from a police station. You had better care."

"I didn't kidnap him, I liberated him. There's a distinction."

One I'm sure Operations will be more than happy to make."

"What's he going to do, place me in abeyance? You forget who holds the survival record for the most consecutive months in abeyance." She said nothing. "Look, Madeline, don't fight me on this. This kid is Section's future. He knows more about computers and electronics than Serrano ever dreamed of. This kid--"

"Is a child. He doesn't belong here."

"Nobody belongs here." There was a pause. Then Sam said very quietly, "So what did you want me to do? Let him go to foster care? You know as well as I do that if that had happened this kid's next stop would be either the state pen or the morgue. Do you want that?"

"This is not about what I want."

"If you don't make things about what you want, then you shouldn't be surprised when you don't get them. No wonder you're Baffington's favorite junior op. You follow orders almost as well as Herman Goehring."

She slapped him. The boy knew that sound. He sat up. "Sam?"

"Hey, kiddo, so you're awake?" Sam came to him, put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. Her name's Madeline."

"Hi," she said. She smiled. The boy decided she was pretty, although not as pretty as his mom.

"Hi." He wasn't sure he liked the way she talked to Sam. She was bossy.

"Madeline and I have to go talk to our boss now. Will you be okay?"

The boy nodded, eyes never leaving Madeline. He thought she was grading him, like a teacher or a doctor.

Sam patted his shoulder. When Sam got to the door, the boy said, "Sam, are they gonna yell and say bad words at you?"

Sam smiled. "Don't worry. It's okay. I'll take care of it."

Operations said a lot of words to Sam, many of them bad. Interspersed were other words, longer ones like "defiant", "reckless", "irresponsible", "selfish", and, of course, the ubiquitous "undisciplined". When the Old Man finally wound down, Sam said, "So, that's another 'does not work or play well with others' mark on my permanent record?"

The Old Man sighed and gestured to Mr. Baffington. Mr. Baffington, head of the psych ops, reminded Sam of Edmund Gwenn in "Miracle on 34th Street". If, of course, you had a sneaking suspion that Santa was going to jam a shiv in your ribs.

"Samuel, you have been very careless bringing in this boy. We cannot tolerate such nonsense. He will have to be destroyed."

Sam regarded Baffington coolly. "Then you'll be destroying the future of Section One, too. That boy is the kind we need if we're going to keep pace with the Soviets technologically. You think those 'remote viewers' at Fort Meade are the future? This kid understand electronics on a level no one's seen since Edison, Tesla, or Marconi. In a few years cold ops are going to be damn near obsolete and kids like this are going to be calling the shots. Do you think the world's going to remain in this damned Cold War forever? The Soviets are crumbling and when they fall, all kinds of roaches are going to come crawling out of the woodwork, and they're going to make the KGB look like grandma's quilting bee. That kid is our ace in the hole."

The Old Man looked from Baffington to Sam, then back. "Madeline, test the boy. If he's not everything Sam promises--make it painless."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed." They turned to leave. "Except you, Sam. There's still that little matter of you allowing Walter to get arrested during a brawl in a strip club."

"I can't watch him every minute."

"He's our best demolition man. You didn't even bail him out."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, well, I thought he would stay out of trouble there."

The Old Man snorted. "Just pray nobody knifes him for a cigarette before DiNicola can spring him."

***************

When Sam came out of Operations' office, Madeline was waiting for him.

"I thought you had orders to test the kid."

She smiled. "Medical's with him now. Someone threw a fit about the boy having asthma."

Sam shrugged. "I didn't want him to die on us." He started toward MedLab. He didn't want to leave the kid alone with those doctors too long. Madeline followed.

"So, is this your penance?"

"Hmmm?"

"Penance. Atonement."

"I don't know what you mean. I'm neither Catholic nor Jewish."

"No, you're a grieving father."

He stopped, leveling a gaze at her that had withered hardened lifers. "Don't try climbing inside my head, little girl. You won't like the terrain."

She regarded him dispassionately. "He won't replace your son."

Sam continued down the corridor, quickening his pace, Madeline jogging to keep up. "Running away isn't very becoming, Colonel."

He never slowed. "There is no dishonor in a tactical retreat."

"You retreat so much, I'm surprised you ever got close enough to your wife to make a son."

The light dawned. "So that's what this is about. I've told you, I made vows, Madeline, and I won't break them."

"Even though you're dead to them? Even though she's dating doctors and lawyers and, oh, yes, that wannabe-astronaut Navy flier? Do you think she's remembering your vows when he's sucking on her ear, nibbling her neck, caressing her--"

"Shut up!" He slammed her against the wall. "Let me explain this once and for all. You can't replace and you can't grieve what you haven't lost. My wife and my son are still out there. They still believe in me. Maybe I can't be with them, but I sure as hell have not lost them." He eyed her up and down. "As for this kid, well, I don't expect you to understand. It's called compassion and human decency, and I'm not about to let some sick, abandoned kid suffer--"

"--When you can use him for your own ends. You forget, Sam," she said, shoving him back a step, "I know you. And as for that terrain inside your head, it's the mental equivalent of Nebraska: flat, dull, and very predictable." She turned on her heel and left.

Sam sighed. She always got like that when he mentioned his wife.

***************

Madeline tested the boy, and when she showed him the results, Baffington retested him himself. The decision was made to send him to school locally, at a small private school administered by a very obliging brother of the Jesuit order. Sam drove him every day, unless he was away "on business". Then Madeline took him and picked him up. He was carefully lectured in the arts of secrecy. Sam remained his best friend, teaching him to clean his room and do laundry, and, when they first came out, presenting the boy with his very own laptop computer. The boy was grateful to Sam and to Sam's bosses, and only rarely did he speak of his life before or finding his mother. When he did, Sam listened, and every year on a specific date, he and Sam journeyed to Chicago to the bus station. They canvassed the area, talking to vendors, bums, and bus drivers. Every year they came up empty.

So they went on like that for a long while, the boy going to school, both formal and informal, and Sam taking care of the business to which he was assigned. It went on like that until the boy's fifteenth year. That was the year the boy grew up.

Everything changed.

He completed school at St. Andrew's and began his vocation training in earnest. He was an eager student, soon outstripping his masters. He was a natural in the shadowed world of computer espionage. Dailey he informed Sam what he was learning, rambling on about wave capacitors and RB101's. He knew Sam didn't understand any of it, but he liked the way Sam loked at him when he talked. Like Sam was proud of him. He didn't tell anyone that was the reason he worked so hard.

They went to Chicago that year like always. They went to the bus station, made their usual rounds. No, no one had seen anything, no woman looking for her kid. People who left things at the bus station usually don't come back for them, they were told.

They walked to the hotel in silence. In the room the boy went into the bathroom. Sam sat on his bed and smoked. When the boy came out sometime later, red-eyed and somber, he picked up his laptop and climbed onto his bed. He didn't open it, just sat, cradling it, for a long time.

Sam sat and smoked.

When finally the shadows had lengthened and twilight obscured their faces, the boy said, "Sam?"

"Yes?"

"She's not ever coming back, is she?"

Sam didn't answer. He had no answer.

"She never intended to, did she?"

"I don't know." He had tried to find her, but no name, no car, everything cash--there was no trail. Frankenmuth had been a dead-end, too. She could have been anywhere, anyone, or a Jane Doe taking up a slab in a morgue somewhere, if her body had every been found. He didn't know.

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"Let's go home."

***************

A few months later the Old Man retired, just one day din't come in any more. Some said he went to live in Jamaica. Others said he lay in a shallow grave. Sam was promoted, and he went to the capital for several weeks. When he came back, he looked older, harder. He was responsible for everyone now, not just himself or his team, or even all the operatives in Section One, but everyone, especially the innocents who might suffer from terrorism. It weighed on him. He didn't have time any more to tuck the boy in at night, or to listen to ramble about solutions to an arcane hardware problem. He didn't even have time to explain the changes to the boy himself, to tell him how sorry he was, how proud he was, how he wished . . . he didn't know what he wished. No, someone else told the boy first, instructing him he would no longer call his friend Sam. That his friend Sam was, for all intents and purposes, dead.

Operations stood a the the glass staring out, not really seeing anything. He was thinking about Chicago, and how cold the winds blow in off the lake.

He saw Birkoff glance up, puzzled, then shake his head and fall back into the trance of his work. It was chilly down on the tech floor, and Birkoff pulled the battered old bomber jacket tighter around him, lost in the floating, ephemeral data stream.

Operations watched him, and wondered how cold the wind blew in Chicago tonight.

End

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.
OR
If you would like to send a comment to Ursula click HERE.