Gate of Kaibyaku

A SMASHWORDS eBook 2nd Edition -- 2021

by

Sean Patrick O’Mordha

* * * * *

Tucson, Arizona, USA.

https://celtic-publications.com

Copyright: Sean Patrick O’Mordha  2017-2021

ISBN 13: 97781724416926

ISBN -10: 1724416928

Martial Arts Belts  by:

Buddy23Lee and Spoxjox, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Illustrations via Wikimedia Commons

Illustration edits by GIMP

This is a work of fiction. With the exception of familiar geographical locations and historical events, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, or events is purely coincidental or used according to US trademark and copyright law.

Chapter 1

Detective Cummings had no lack of witnesses. The residents in this area were all too familiar with the sound of gunshots. Curiosity brought some to cautiously peak out their window. A woman coming home from work exiting the midnight bus further down the street heard the high-pitched crack of the first shots and saw the headlights of a car speeding in her direction. A man in dark clothes, possibly a suit, standing by a soda dispenser encased behind a heavy, metal cage is apparently drinking a purchase. He steps off the curb in front of the oncoming vehicle.

I thinks he gonna be rundown. He raise his arm like pointing at da car. Bang. I sees a flash at da end of his arm. Da car swerve and runs into dat light pole, she said, her voice still shaky from the trauma. Da man walks behind da car like he was in da park. Da one in back is climbin' out da winda. I think he has a gun because he points arm like dis when he sees da man. She lifts a thick arm to imitate a shooting posture. Da man shoots him den git other out of front seat and make him kneel by curb, den ups and shoots him, too. Jist like dat. Bang. He takes a drink from his can and toss it down da sewer, den gits in his car, and leaves like nothin' happen.

The story was much the same from other witnesses, a drive-by up the street, this car speeding away. At this point, someone steps in front of the vehicle. The driver is shot through the windshield, ripping out the right carotid artery. The one in the back, the shooter, takes a bullet in the head and left half hanging out the window, a 9mm, semi-automatic pistol on the pavement directly below him. The front passenger is executed, one shot center mass. The shooter casually gets in a dark four-door car with a dark-colored license plate, but no one gets the number. Understandable considering their distance and the poor lighting. Cummings had never encountered anything like this as if a professional hit.

The shootings were a convenient mile and a half from District 15 Police Headquarters. The first car on the scene arrived within two minutes, Cummings and others not far behind. The street cordoned off as quickly to preserve evidence. Everyone worked like a well-oiled machine. They certainly had enough practice.

We may have a lead, Cummings, a uniformed Lieutenant said, joining him after collecting the last statement. The detective stood on the sidewalk watching a City worker open the sewer to retrieve the can. The victim up the street is a guy called Drummer, leader of the West End Crackers gang. Two of his boys were in the alley. Looks like there was a fight there. Both ended up with a concussion and broken ribs, maybe internal damage. Says some old guy trashed them who seemed to know one of their number, a kid called Watch Dog. Officers Herbert and Dade work this area. They went to where the kid lives. A neighbor taking a smoke on the back steps said an old guy and the kid left about an hour ago in a dark SUV parked in the alley facing the stairs. A few minutes later, a woman showed up, and the kid's mother leaves in another dark SUV. She was carrying a suitcase.

Any surveillance cameras?

"Yes, but they won't be much help. There is a distance shot of what happened up the street that seems to have precipitated this. Someone is waiting by the light next to the alley. Looks like a kid. A car stops, then a guy crosses the street, and the driver takes off. Three others come out of the shadows. Two take the guy into the alley. He reappears and works over the third, Drummer. A dark-colored vehicle pulls up, and the guy and kid get in and leave. Not long after that, the one on the ground, Drummer, barely stands on his feet and gets wasted.

Four bodies, witnesses who can only tell us what happened, but not by who, except they drove dark-colored cars.

Dark-colored cars and suits almost sounds like Feds.

Except for the execution. They're too squeamish about doing something like that, but it's worth checking as if they'd admit to something like this. He paused as something came to mind. Not long after we began processing this mess, a dark-colored car drove through, slow. I wondered at the time why it had been allowed in. There was a kid in the back seat looking out the window. Check on it.

Sorry, detective. Nothin' down there. Got carried off in the drain water, the City worker reported.

Cummings had the distinct impression he had a dead-end case and then a surprise element.

I talked to the officer that let that dark vehicle through. The driver had an ID from the State Attorney General's office. Says there was a kid in the back seat and thinks the AG was next to him.

Chapter 2

Clandestine organizations have operatives known only by code names, as are their covert activities. Hitoshi not only initiated this action but personally inserted himself as handler for Operation Griffin, named for the half-lion, half Eagle protector of the precious. The name was purposely chosen.

At 2307 hours, Hitoshi slipped unseen into the dark, recessed door of a mid-block drug store to await the arrival of the quarry. Patient, Hitoshi leaned back against the steel gate closure, vanishing into the black hole.

At 2319 hours, a small group of males emerged from the alley across the street. The target, the youngest, positioned under the dim streetlight by the alley. Three others took position in another dark, recessed door twenty feet away. With years of practice, Hitoshi could hide outward signs of emotion while disgust and anger churned his stomach, like now.

The Company prepared a dossier on the three West End Avenue Crackers, a spin-off of the Chicago Gaylords gang. Drummer, the leader, was East European, age 36. Taco, Irish-Mexican, 29, and Pimples, Norwegian, who turned 24 two months back. Four other members ranging in age between 17 and 21 were delayed when several of Hitoshi’s team intercepted them for a discussion.

These three busied themselves watching the vehicle traffic and the boy. With nervous interest, one or another periodically poked ahead out of their hole. They were using the recently-turned 15-year-old as bait to troll the black waters of child predators, his initiation to become a full-fledged member of the Chicago South Austin District gang. Not something the lad wanted to do, but surviving on the streets didn’t leave many alternatives. His mother would die if she knew. Working two jobs kept her in the dark about his involvement with the street gang.

Reaching beneath long, honey-blond hair, the boy played with an earring, a tiny skull on a chain. All Crackers wore one, so people knew who they were. That and tattoos, which were next on the agenda after this ordeal. Just as well, his mother didn’t know that, although he hadn’t thought how to hide it.

Taco pierced the ear. Head laid on a table, he slid a piece of scrap board under the lobe and drove a small, 15-gauge, finish nail through it with a hammer. Step one in the initiation process—pain endurance. Pimples held his head, preventing it from moving, which wasn’t necessary, although the boy nearly bit his lower lip off.

On the verge of becoming infected, Drummer told him to steal some antibiotic ointment from the drugstore. No longer dumbfounded by the stupid things kids did, the druggist suggested something better. She even doctored the inflamed lobe three times a day for a week. The boy didn’t tell any of the Crackers. He purchased the ointment, doing odd jobs around the pharmacy.

Few cars used the mostly dark street known for women, girls, and a few guys hustling money to pay for drugs by selling their services. The boy’s mind felt like the inside of a washing machine. Whenever a car passed, his heart pounded hard enough his chest hurt as stomach muscles tightened, causing shortness of breath. Sweat-dampened skin felt sticky and dirty.

This journey began five years earlier when his druggie step-dad ended up in prison, forcing his mother’s move to a cheaper apartment close to work. Smaller than others his age, he had no friends. An impairment caused him to shy away from other guys who treated him as a freak.

One afternoon, the 10-year-old snitched a quarter from his mom’s purse as she slept and slipped out the bathroom window of their third-floor closet-like apartment. He intended to visit a mom-and-pop corner store to purchase candy. He didn’t quite make it. An older boy forced him into an alley to strong-arm him. That’s when Drummer appeared. The thug wanted to cut and run, except the thick-set gang leader pinned him by the neck against a concrete block fence.

Forced to turn pockets inside out, several items fell to the ground—the most important a switchblade and money. Pick that stuff up, Drummer told the boy. With small hands full and the teen picked clean, Drummer snarled like an irritated guard dog, Next time you pull this crap in my territory, you ask permission first. My cut’s fifty percent. That said, he buried a fist in the round belly and kneed him. Released, the kid struggled to get up and stagger down the alley best he could bent over double.

Sticking the blade in his back pocket, the boy’s rescuer collected the money. This is yours, he said, handing the intended victim two dollars in loose change while keeping the bills for himself. What you doin’?

I...I-I was gonna b...b-buy candy.

I could use some. Let’s go.

Drummer escorted him to the store and let the boy buy candy for them both. From that time, whenever venturing out of the apartment, he sought out his protector. One evening Drummer and the six who routinely hovered like gnats around a rotten banana strolled to Columbus Park several blocks south of their usual haunts.

Me and the Jacks are gonna catch a play. Hang here, Stutters. That had become the boy’s street name. You see Jeep Riders or bangers, whistle. If nothing else, whistling was something Stutters did well, a shrill sound capable of carrying over the din of mid-city chaos.

A simple enough chore, he watched for the cops or competing gang members while the Crackers did a drug deal in the darker recesses of the park. Upon returning, Drummer handed the boy a ten-dollar bill. He’d never had so much money. That was the first but not the last as he stood watch while his protector-friend went about their entertainment.

He took a ribbing from a couple of the Jacks the first time he marked a lamp post with Krylon paint. His hand shook so bad the little ball rattled inside the can but improved with practice. Ripping off a bottle of booze was easy and became his thing.

Invariably angry coming off drugs or booze exposed Drummer’s unpredictable nature. When a homeless guy inadvertently bumped him one night, the Lord of the Crackers beat him beyond senseless, the reason for the name. He beat on anything and anyone faster than a sneeze—except Stutters.

Gang life was inherently dangerous, constantly alert for the cops and dodging other gangs on the prowl. Stutter’s name changed over time to Watch Dog because he had sharp eyes and stayed alert. He watched for trouble as they roamed the streets, watched as his protector drummed on some hapless fool who disrespected him by accident. He watched as drug deals went down and he watched as Drummer led a gang-bang on a girl who wanted sexed-in as a member.  He also watched as a light-colored Chevy came down the street.

Too distracted hustling a girl, Drummer ignored the boy’s warning until the car slowed. As a face appeared from the black interior, Watch Dog screamed and pushed Drummer aside. Red flashes accompanied the crack of pistol shots, the drive-by over in seconds. The Jacks got up, except for Two-Stroke, a kid four years older than Watch Dog. The boy watched as blood pooled out from the body to congeal on the cracked sidewalk.

The following week Drummer said it was time for Watch Dog to take Two Stroke’s place and become a New G. Of course, he’d have to undergo proper initiation. Receiving the earring was step one. A week later, he played the role of a prostitute, Pimples’ idea, of course. A closet gay, Pimples tried several times to get Watch Dog alone, but wise to the game, he maneuvered to never be alone with him. Not so with Two Stroke’s little bro, who seemed to like whatever they did. That took the pressure off.

Pimples offered the plan. Watch Dog stands under the light by Hat Man’s place lookin’ like a pickup. When a queer stops, we jump him. He pays to keep from bein’ turned in to the Jeep Riders for baby rape. He don’t pay up we turn over to the Jeep Riders and become good citizens. Drummer laughed. He liked it.

The boy became the worm, Drummer, Pimples, and Taco holding the line, ready to hook a victim. Wearing a soiled, white tank, short shorts, and tattered sneakers, the bait stood out like a neon sign as cars drove along the semi-dark street. Eventually, one car passed a second time, and everyone braced to reel in their first pedophile cruising the waters. Judging by the BMW logo, the dude had money. The boy’s heart beat harder, every muscle tightened, breathing became difficult. He felt like puking.

A third time, the car stopped at the curb, the driver leaning across the front seat to speak through the opened passenger window. Watch Dog hugged the building wanting to push through the bricks to the inside. Hitoshi crossed the street, inconspicuously taking a no-flash picture of the license number and driver. Someone would deal with him later. Saying nothing, he stood in front of the boy and stared at the driver. Not of an intimidating build, it was enough. The man squealed tires as he sped off.

Hello, Stewart, the stranger said, turning to face the boy.

The boy didn’t respond except to look to where Drummer and the Jacks watched, blue eyes blazoned with fear.

It’s late. You don’t belong here.

I...I-I can’t. His voice quivered falsetto, the stutter giving the response an odd sound.

Yo, mudda fucker? Ya got a problem? a voice said behind the intruder.

An undetectable smile played at the corner of Hitoshi’s thin lips. Let’s go home, son.

He ain’t goin’ nowheres ’til I says so.

The man turned slowly to face the voice. So, you’re pimping children these days, Virgil?

That startled Drummer. He hated the name, hadn’t used it since long before Watch Dog’s birth. How’d this dude know it? He forged ahead. I own him. I do what I wants with him.

So, now it’s Virgil Pettigrew, child slaver. That threw Drummer even further off balance; however, as they talked, Drummer’s two Jacks circled behind Hitoshi. If you own him, then he’s for sale?

Like him that much, huh?

Yes, but one way or another, he’s going to get in my car and leave.

A nod activated the goons who grabbed Hitotshi from behind. Again, his faint smirk went unnoticed.

Take old guy here down the alley for further negotiations.

No! P...P-Please. D...d-don’t hurt him, Stewart begged, receiving a backhand for the effort that pushed him against the building. He continued pleading as a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, making wild promises of submission and loyalty as the Jacks escorted the man into the dark alley.

You’re mine to do whatever I wants, whenever I... The crash of garbage cans interrupted. Ah-h, music to my ears. Remember that song. Better than the more permanent alternative.

Are you referring to the sound of a gun? Hitoshi’s voice said behind the leader who wheeled around, coming face to face with the intended victim.

As Drummer’s hand reached behind his back, the man’s curled knuckles lashed out like a Cobra strike collapsing Lord of the Cracker’s windpipe. As Drummer gasped for air, eyes bulging, the man took him by the wrist in both hands to whip him face-first into the brick wall. The impact resonated like a watermelon dropped on the sidewalk. Arm cranked behind his back and pushed toward the bull neck pinned Drummer against the blood-splattered wall. Reaching down, Hitoshi removed a pistol from Drummer’s waistband, ejecting the clip with one hand. Blood streaming from a smashed nose, the near-comatose gang-banger found himself jerked around, held on tiptoes by a hand around the throat.

Nice crucifix. You haven’t been to Mass for twenty years. You better see Father Alonso about absolution for that Toledo gang incident two years back. The police have the information. Your gang days are numbered. Drummer’s head slammed against the wall with the sickening thud. Released, the body crumpled into a sitting position on the worn, concrete sidewalk. I believe we’re done here. Let’s go home, Stewart.

Stewart Abrams gazed out the window of the jet plane as it streaked away from a rising moon, still stunned and bewildered at the rapidity of events over the last few hours.

As initiation into the Crackers gang, he was to impersonate a prostitute under Drummer’s thumb, a psychotic maverick among the street gangs. Among some of his entertainment, Stewart saw him beat a man to death, cripple others, and lure a rival gang member to his brutal demise, although he wasn’t aware of what Drummer intended at the time. He heard horror stories, some believable, some most likely apocryphal.

The gang lord treated him alright at first. Under his wing, Watch Dog Abrams felt reasonably safe, and no one taunted him for stuttering. Alone on the streets, Stewart would be dead meat. Then the stranger appeared. What he did to the gang single-handed threw the boy into a spiral of shock and fear. Still, there was an aura hovering about this man that filled his breast with a sense of security.

Standing between the man and the door to a dingy apartment, strong, firm hands rest on his shoulders as the door opened. Home between jobs, Ellie Abrams looked at Stewart, questioning his appearance, and then looked at the man. Hands flew to stifle a surprised cry. Eyes wide, she backed up. The two entered the combo sitting room/kitchen.

Take a shower. The man’s tone soft but firm.

I…I-I don’t need one, the boy mouthed back, but when their eyes met, the bravado withered.

It’s been three days. Believe me, you do.

Defiance peaked out from where it had retreated as he stepped into the bathroom. Worried about Drummer, he opened the window to access the fire escape like many times before. A man in a black shirt and tie was resting against the railing, arms folded across his chest, a black, spiraled wire protruding from one ear.

You can leave the window open. Fresh air keeps the mirror from fogging up, the youngish man said with a twisted smile.

Who the f …f-fuck are you?

The guardian angel of this fire escape. Better take your shower like the boss said.

Slamming the window shut, Stewart stood in the middle of the grimy bathroom, trying to decide what to do. A cockroach skittered into the sink drain.

Stewart stepped into the shared bedroom wrapped in a towel as his mother wiped tears from a gaunt face. He wouldn’t vocalize it but felt cleaner as personal and mental dirt washed down the drain along with another cockroach. His best board shorts and the button-down shirt he hated lay on the bed with clean underwear and socks. Tennis shoes were on the floor.

Pimples t…t-took those runners for his little b…b-brother. How’d you get them?

Pimples’ little brother decided to go barefoot. Get dressed.

Who are you?

This is your Uncle Alden, my older brother, his mom managed to explain. Get dressed like he asked. Please. Her distraught and nervous manner frightened the boy.

M...m-maybe I don’t w…w-wanna. The attitude began sneaking out.

Please, Stewart. We’re leaving.

Whadaya mean we’re l-l-leaving?

You are being enrolled in a private school that will help you catch up on the things you’ve missed and help correct other issues you have been experiencing, his uncle said from where he sat in a frayed lounge chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching him.

F…f-fuck you.

For the first time in his life, Stewart’s mother slapped her son across the mouth—hard. You don’t use that word, ever! The unmistakable outline of her fingers turned dark red on his brown cheek.

Naked boys aren’t in much of a position to argue. Get dressed, his Uncle Alden said. His tone again turned firm as eyes narrowed.

The boy’s uncle had the appearance of Priest, docile, bald except for a wreath of short, salt and pepper hair. While not appearing to express emotion, his dark eyes did—gentle, kind, penetrating, sincere, resolute.

Stewart might have mouthed back to his mother, but not to his mother’s brother, not after seeing what he’d done to Drummer. He gave up further resistance.

Stewart’s tension ratcheted up when Alden stood with a deliberateness portending something ominous was about to happen. He hugged Stewart’s mother and kissed her forehead.

He will call once a week. Peg will be here in a few minutes to take you to the airport. Pack only essentials. Someone will return the work uniforms. The rest… you deserve better.

W... w-where’s mom g...g-going? Stewart began quivering.

Home and back to school for the nursing degree she always wanted.

I can’t afford school, Alden, she said weakly.

Mom’s health is deteriorating, and she’s showing signs of dementia. Your job is to help dad take care of her. For that, you get room, board, an allowance, and tuition.

But I can’t go back. Not after…

We’ve been searching for you since you run off fifteen years ago, sis. Mom and dad were never angry. Any supposed shame’s all been in your head. They still love you.

It wasn’t about shame, Alden. I didn’t want them hurt.

That became a non-issue not long after you disappeared, sis. We’re leaving now, Stewart. It’s those duds or a towel. It’s up to you.

Numbed by the sudden turn of events, the boy’s resistance crumbled. Uncle Alden’s words became law. He was dressed before brother and sister finished hugging. Ellie then gathered her son to her bosom, not knowing when they’d see each other again.

Descending the back stairs from their third-floor hovel, a black car with heavily tinted windows wait in the alley. The fire escape angel sat behind the wheel as the two climbed into the back. A few blocks down the street, the car rounded the corner toward where his uncle rescued Stewart. Flashing red and blue lights of police cars lit up the shadowy block. A cop stopped them.

Street’s closed. Turn around, he said gruffly. The driver showed him something that looked like a wallet. Oh. He backed up and waved them through with a salute. The angel chuckled.

As the car passed the haberdashery, the boy’s window rolled partway down to provide a clear view. A white van parked horizontally at the curb had Coroner in large, bright red block letters on the side. An ambulance blocked the alley, the back door open, waiting for two medics wheeling someone out of the black recesses of the alley. Despite an oxygen mask over the face, Stewart could tell it was Pimples seated partially upright on a gurney. In the middle of the sidewalk, near where Stewart’s uncle had rescued him, the crumpled form of a body lying in a blackening pool of blood.

Is t...t-that...that...? Stewart began as the car continued to pass the circus.

The consequences of living a degenerate life, Stewart.

Did you...?

That would be your future if allowed to continue on that path. Your mother tried to give you the best she could after the law threw her man in jail for homicide. Sis worked her fingers to the bone at two jobs. The only time left was Sunday afternoons to spend with you, but of course, you didn’t appreciate any of that. She was ashamed of what happened when you were born and hid well for these fifteen years. She’d only work for cash until her last employer filed a tax form with her Social Security number. That’s when she popped up on our radar, and we discovered the two of you living here.

The words blurred as he continued staring at the scene through the back window. Whirling back, he confronted his uncle.

Did you kill Drummer? His speech became unhindered when angered.

The driver answered. We don’t normally interfere in domestic affairs. Unlike the police, who have their hands tied by lawyers and courts, we have no such restraints. We could clean up this town in a little more than a week. Unfortunately, regulations don’t allow us.

To answer your question, no, his uncle answered. It was a drive-by shortly after we left. Timing was lousy all the way around, for Drummer and the shooters.

Looking through the front windshield, he saw more flashing red and blue lights. A sedan set partially on the sidewalk, the front end kissing a light pole now bent at a precarious angle. More police cars, another coroner’s van, its back doors open like some monstrous creature waiting for its meal. There was a shirtless human form slumped over the steering wheel. Another hung out the rear window. The third lie against the curb, their blood disappearing into a sewer drain.

The driver explained. Kinda bad timing for those dudes. Kirā had to stop to feed his caffeine addiction. Guess you’d say he was in the right place at the wrong time for them.

You d...d-do Pimples’ little b...b-bro to get my-my shoes?

Nope. A voluntary return, the driver said, obviously chuckling by the shaking of his shoulders. Gave him a couple bucks for new underwear.

W... w-where’s this...this school you’re taking me? Stewart tried sounding tough, unable to pull it off. His voice wasn’t deep enough yet and quivered from fear’s icy grip.

New Zealand. A place up in the mountains between a couple lakes. The weather is pleasant right now, but the winter gets chilly. his uncle said.

Yeah, actually nice year-round, the driver piped in. Not like here when you sneeze it comes out snowflakes. He was too jovial for Stewart’s liking.

I spend time there from time to time to recharge. You’ll enjoy it...in time.

Stewart went into overload. I d... d-don’t know w...w-where this New...New...New Zealand is, b...b-but I’m not interested. I’ll just s...s-stay here.

And pimp yourself or join another gang to end up in a pool of blood? In this, there are no alternatives or options available.

Alden’s response hit Stewart as hard as when he planted Drummer’s face into the brick wall. The boy reached for the door handle with the spur-of-the-moment thought to leap out when the car stopped at a red light. The door was locked. He stared at his uncle. Slumping in the seat, Stewart brood. Truthfully, this answered a secret wish to get out of the slums and away from gangs. He just wasn’t sure where all this was taking him.

Chapter 3

Stewart had never been closer to an airplane than seeing one pass a long way overhead. Walking toward the long, sleek, white winged bullet caused his stomach to knot again. No markings appeared on the aircraft except a number and a red stripe with narrower blue stripes on either side from nose to tail. Two huge turbo engines attached to either side of the plane’s rear, the tail section rising high above them. At the top of the steep, metal stairs, another man in his late twenties waited at the open door, attired in an open collar, white shirt, black slacks, and white tennis shoes. Very different from the angel he’d encountered. Except for Uncle Alden, he wore a black suit.

Before climbing up, Stewart heard his uncle tell the driver, Thanks for your help. There’s a picture of the guy in the BMW on this phone. Clean things up and report in. And tell Kirā he’s lucky that soda can washed down the sewer and Jōshi wants to talk.

Welcome aboard, Mr. H, a young man at the hatch greeted Stewart’s Uncle. And welcome to you, Stew. The boy startled that the stranger used his mother’s nickname. No one else knew it, but the friendly smile felt reassuring while still confused and harboring serious reservations about what he’d been caught up in.

I’m Hollister, your jack-of-all-trades attendant for this flight.

He backed up a few feet into a white and stainless steel compartment. This is the galley. I understand you like egg and bacon sandwiches. Don’t know if they’ll taste like Mrs. Friedman’s, though. Hollister started into the plane. This is the chat room. The tour continued as they proceeded aft. Stewart became increasingly disconcerted by how much these people seemed to know about him.

The chat room consisted of eight oversized, thick-cushioned, high-back recliners, four on either side of a center aisle. Their milk chocolate leather covers complemented the darker beige walls. A man and a woman occupied facing seats, a Scrabble board on the table between them. Each glanced up briefly. No smiles, but no frowns, either. On the opposite side, a surly-looking man with a swarthy complexion and salted Vandyke beard had his seat partially pivoted to face the players. Glancing up, his narrowed eyes appeared cold and angry, sending a chill rippling through Stewart’s body.

The isle shifted against the side of the plane and narrowed as it passed beside a dark gray wall no longer than a full-grown man’s height. A sign on the door read, Communications.

A slender, oblong table occupied the next section. The attending chairs were covered with white leather while the walls were a dark blue, the carpet red.

This is the POTUS Suite, although you’ll never see ‘Ol Flip-flop condescend to join us. The guide chuckled. Next is the lavatory. Shower left side, john and washbasin on the right. He pulled a pair of sliding doors aside. And back here is the VIP Suite. This is your hangout.

Stewart’s cabin contained the necessities---two cushioned chairs like upfront with a table, a bed, and a large screen TV. The table had a plastic-covered sheet listing available movies and games he’d never heard of. Light tan walls with brown trim project a soft, warm, relaxing feel. The only sound so far, a faint hiss from small vents circulating air.

While his stomach began to relax, his heart continued a quick step, but not as hard until a high-pitched whine began. Time to buckle up. Hollister indicated the chairs where they settled in and fastened over-the-shoulder seat belts. Stewart could look the length of the plane to see his uncle sit by scary guy. Anxiety ratcheted up as the plane begin moving. He felt sick.

Noticing the boy’s distress, Hollister reached up to direct cold air into his face. Take deep breaths and let them out slow. Use your stomach muscles. That’s right. Keep it up. When Stewart stopped, he said, Feel better? The boy nodded, yes. This is a real sweetheart of a plane. It’s a Gulfstream G650. Brand, spakin’ new. A month off the assembly line. Cruise speed is just under 600 miles per hour with a range over 8,000 miles. Our destination is about 7,500 miles from here, so we’ll stop at Pinal Base, that’s north of Tucson in Arizona, to drop off a couple of our passengers and top off the tanks. That leg will take us about three hours, then it’s off over the briny deep to Christchurch, New Zealand. That will take about thirteen hours. You’ll change planes there for a one-hour hop to Lake Tekapo. That should put you there in time for lunch.

Dylan...d-do you know anything about t...t-this school where I’m going?

Nope, tho I’ve had folks go there a half dozen times this past year. Closest I’ve been is Christchurch. You’re the youngest, so far, so you’re special.

Stewart felt the plane taxi for what seemed a long time before sensing it turn and stop. He did the breathing thing again. The engines revved to a high-pitch scream before shooting down the runway. Fingers hurt from squeezing the armrests, but his stomach was okay until pushing down on the bladder as the plane lift off the ground. A solid-sounding thud momentarily startled him as it became increasingly quiet except for a soft humming sound.

How c...c-come everyone seems to-to know everything about me?

How would you like some hot chocolate? With marshmallow.

Ah-h...yeah. Again, Hollister seemed to know things about him more than his mother. There had been no egg and bacon sandwiches or hot chocolate with marshmallows since his step-dad left them more destitute than ever except what Old Lady Friedman provided in return for helping at the deli.

Leaning sideways, he watched Hollister return to the galley, checking with the others as to their needs, then return with a china cup, the white sugary treat melted on top. The perfect temperature in no time helped him to relax.

It had been a long day, a very long day, continually under stress. As eyes grew heavy, Stewart became vaguely aware of Hollister helping him slip into soft, warm PJ’s and tuck the covers around his neck, not unlike what his mother did when he was little.

Good morning, Hollister’s cheery voice called out as he opened a window over the pull-down table. Been a while since you ate last. Ready for breakfast?

After a deep, stretching yawn, Stewart pulled back the covers to sit on the edge of the bed. Hell yes, I’m ready, he thought while staring at the white and gold china plate with two steaming egg sandwiches beside a tall glass of chocolate milk. Beyond hungry, the last he’d eaten were a couple hot dogs for lunch yesterday. It felt as if his backbone and belly button were shaking hands, a familiar sensation.

Beginning to feel cocky. You g...g-guys seem to know a lot about me. S...s-so when did I take a d...d-dump?"

Let me see, just before climbing out of the bathroom window to join your gang friends. That was at 1947 hours. Sorry, 7:47 p.m., Thursday. At 10:17, you changed into the clothes Pimples insisted you wear for the charade. You did that in the alley where you took a whiz. You are probably feeling the need again.

Totally deflated as if punched in