CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Melissa was still weak, but she was conscious. Janet held her in a fierce embrace, and told her everything that had happened since she had fallen into her coma.

“And now I am trapped,” Janet concluded, “In the body of a freak.”

“But not forever, my darling,” Melissa said. “We’ll go away together, some place where we can be alone, away from the madding crowds, and I will work ceaselessly, until I have found an antidote to Alley Thing. I vow to you, just as you vowed to me—I will see that you are restored to your true self.”

“But, in the meantime, look at me!” Janet practically wailed. I’m a monster. There’s nothing that will make me look right. Not even Industrial Strength Oil of Olay would do it.”

“Never mind, my love. I love you regardless. The most important thing is, we will be together.”

“Forever?”

“Forever,” Melissa vowed.

They embraced happily.

“But we’ll order a barrel or two of that Oil of Olay,” Melissa said. “Just to be safe.”

* * * *

Larry and Curly had been hospitalized at Saint Maria Alfonso for two days when their chief, Karl Nuremberg, came to see them. Larry’s first impression when he saw their boss come into their room was that it was really quite flattering that he had taken the trouble to come visit them in the hospital.

“Boys,” Nuremberg greeted them, “How’s it going?”

“Okay,” Larry said, a little hesitantly. Looking at Karl’s solemn face, Larry began to feel a trifle differently about their boss’s arrival. Karl’s expression was not at all friendly. It seemed less concerned than accusing. Larry had the distinct impression that this was about to turn into some kind of a trial.

“We’re doing great,” Curly said, oblivious as always to any nuances of mood.

Karl regarded them solemnly for an uncomfortably long moment, looking wordlessly from one to the other. To break the ominous silence, Larry said, “Food could be better.”

“The Jell-O’s good, though,” Curly said. “And the chocolate pudding. I love chocolate pudding. With nuts.”

“The food’s not a problem,” Karl said finally. “We’re moving you out of this place, to a private facility upstate, one of our own. The medics should be here in a minute or two, and we’ve got an ambulance ready and waiting downstairs. It’s about a forty-minute ride. If it’s any consolation, they tell me the food is really great where you’re going. No nuts, though. If you boys are smart, you’ll forget you’ve got a taste for nuts, if you catch my drift. Plus this place is way out in the country. You don’t have to worry about traffic noise or air pollution, any of that stuff.” He paused. “Or, say, media attention. Nosy reporters, that sort of thing.”

“Reporters?” Larry said.

“Reporters,” Karl repeated. “Like the ones hanging around downstairs in the lobby when I came in. We’ll be going out the back way, of course. Where they won’t accost us. We’ve got a dozen agents keeping the freight elevator clear for us. We even requisitioned an ambulance off the street, put some guy with a cardiac business out, so there would be no record of this trip. And the driver is a free-lancer, a guy by the name of Luis. He needs money bad, seems he ran up some incredible expenses lately, and was having a hard time landing a gig, so we had no problem buying his silence. The point I’m making is, the agency is in full safety mode, thanks to you boys.”

“Gee, it’s great of the Agency to look after us like this,” Curly said, beaming. He saw Larry’s disapproving scowl and his own smile faded. “Isn’t it?”

“We’ve put a total shut-down on any information here at the hospital. National security. Anybody breathes a word about you boys and your problems, they will be on their way to a vacation at Guantanamo; a long vacation, no tee shirts, no postcards. That shut down includes the two of you two, by the way. Once this conversation is ended, you will both of you forget it and everything that happened leading up to it. Totally everything,” Karl emphasized.

“We won’t say nothing to anybody,” Larry assured him solemnly. “You don’t have to worry about us.”

“Our lips are sealed,” Curly said. He did the zipper thing across his mouth.

“That’s good,” Karl said, “Because, as you know, the agency does not like to be embarrassed. Especially not now, with every pinko do-gooder and leftie reporter looking for blood. And you have got to admit, you guys are an embarrassment. Bombs up assholes. How is that going to look on the news? Not to mention this last dust up of yours.”

“We got blind-sided on that one,” Larry said defensively. “Caught off guard. No way we could have seen it coming.”

“By an owl,” Curly said. Larry shot him a fierce glance.

“An owl.” Karl said it flatly, more of a statement than a question.

“Yes sir,” Larry said quickly. “A man dressed as an owl, that is to say, not an actual owl. It was Halloween, you understand. Here in San Francisco they get real carried away at Halloween. A guy dressed like an owl wasn’t all that unusual. There were walking hot dogs and hundreds of drag queens and a sailor with great, uh, sailor stuff. I even saw a watermelon. That owl person looked near normal compared to some.”

“That must explain the feathers,” Karl said. “I heard there were feathers everywhere when the paramedics came to get you.”

“Yes sir.” Larry said, “There were some feathers.”

“They had to remove some from your backsides, the way I heard it,” Karl said. “With tweezers. The nurses are still talking about that amongst themselves, downstairs in the cafeteria. I sat near them and drank some coffee and listened to what they had to say. It made quite a colorful little story, feathers in butt holes. They were laughing their heads off.”

“Uh, that owl guy sort of kicked us,” Larry said.

“Besides, there were some chickens involved too, sir,” Curly said. “A lot of the feathers came from the chickens.”

“Chickens?” Nuremberg echoed, his expression increasingly grim.

“Two of them,” Curly said, head bobbing. “White ones. Female hens.”

“Hens?”

There was another lengthy silence. Curly squirmed around in his bed. Larry tried to shrink into his pillow.

“Let me ask you,” Karl said finally, “Since you mentioned San Francisco and drag queens and the like, I mean, you are right, weird things do go on here, in this town, all kinds of things. What I am curious to know is, was there anything, you know, of a sexual nature in what happened to you boys?”

“No sir,” both said at once, emphatically.

“The reason I ask is, it does look a little odd, don’t you agree, the two of you in the hospital at the same time, and both of you with splints on your national symbols. You don’t see that very often.”

“He jumped on our laps, sir,” Larry said. “The owl.”

“Smashed the chickens,” Curly said. “Just squished them flat. The one I was holding, she wasn’t nothing but a pile of mush and feathers, it was awful, I....” He became aware of Larry glowering at him from the other bed and his voice trailed off. “It was simply dreadful,” he said in a morose whisper.

Karl lifted the briefcase he was carrying and set it atop the bedside table and opened it. “I’ve brought resignations for the two of you to sign.” He put up a hand before either of them could say anything. “Now, don’t worry, we’re not cutting you adrift. The agency takes care of its own, you know that, even when they have become an embarrassment. What we have done, see, is the Chief made some calls to friends of his around the country, he went to a lot of personal trouble on your behalf, I hope you appreciate that.

“Anyhow, it seems like the Chicago Police Department can use a couple of extra officers. As soon as you are both recovered—and we do not want to hurry you on that, you can take all the time you need to get those things off of your flagpoles—as soon as you do, you will be reporting there for duty, to Chicago. I have got all the details written down here for you, everything cut and dry.”

“Chicago’s a nice town,” Curly said. “I was there once. They got a big lake. Big as an ocean. Bigger, maybe.”

“Will we be like, detectives? Homicide, maybe?” Larry asked hopefully, trying to put as brave a face as he could on what was happening.

“More like beat cops,” Karl said, offering each of them a slip of paper and a ballpoint pen. “To start, anyway. But, who knows what the future holds for any of us? You do your jobs, make a good impression, you can always work your way up. Sign where I put the little red exes.”

* * * *

To his own surprise, Tom had found that he liked living at The Heartfelt Hands mission. He had never had a room of his own before. Even as a kid, he had shared a bedroom with four brothers and a sister; and he couldn’t remember ever before having three squares a day either.

He was expected to work, of course. Father Flinnigan had made that clear from the beginning: “Everybody has a job to do,” he put it. “Working hands are busy hands, that’s our motto here at the mission.”

Even that wasn’t so bad, though. In Tom’s case, the “work” mostly involved taking care of a couple of dozen dogs that were kenneled in the yard behind the house, and he had quickly discovered that he had a real affinity for the pooches, and they had welcomed him as one of their own. For the first time in his memory, he felt like he really belonged. Even with the Moes, he hadn’t felt this welcomed into a group.

All in all, he figured he was one lucky dude, all things considered. It was true, from time to time he wondered about the others. The last he had seen, Hector was getting himself arrested, and most likely he was probably still in jail, but, hey, Hector had always been a mean shit, and knowing him, he would probably end up boss man wherever he got sent, so there wasn’t much point in crying over him.

As for Archie, well, Archie was pretty good at looking out for Archie. They had run into each other briefly just the day before, and Archie had confessed that he was living in the Castro with a couple of drag queens.

“Betty and Veronica,” he said. “You saw them, Halloween night, in the Castro.”

Tom’s memories of that night, however, were of another kind. The drag queens had faded from his mind.

It was funny, though, he had never figured Archie for anything kinky like that, like drag things. Just went to show, you never could tell about a guy. Of course, Archie had denied it when Tom asked if he was porking the queens—but he had that satisfied look about him, like a guy was getting it regular.

Tom had just shrugged it all off, though. The important things was, Archie had looked like he was happy, like he was doing just fine.

The same as me, Tom thought proudly.

“You know, Padre,” he said to Father Flinnigan one morning while he was cleaning out the kennels, “This is the best thing that ever happened to me, finding you, The Heartfelt Hands, the dogs and all. I mean—hyuk, hyuk, hyuk—who’d have ever thought it: me, cleaned up and straight, working a regular job, doing something worthwhile. I owe it all to you.”

“Well, no, you owe it all to yourself,” Father Flinnigan said. “You were the one who made the decision to go straight.”

“Course, it’s not a regular job. I mean, I don’t get paid, or anything.” Tom looked wistful.

“Everybody has to start somewhere,” Father Flinnigan said. “And, if you do your job well and prove yourself, we’ll see about putting you on the payroll down the road. But, first things first. How are you doing, so far? Getting along okay with the dogs, are you?”

“Great. I even got myself a special friend already, Willi,” Tom said. “You know, that big old Great Dane you found in the Castro? Willi and me have gotten to be real pals.”

“That’s great. He’s a very loveable dog,” the father said.

“He sure is, really loveable,” Tom agreed. “Plus, he’s beautifully marked, as we say here at the shelter. Course, we had to clean that lavender stuff off his toenails. Looked too fruity, you know? I wouldn’t want that in my buddy. I like my guy to look like a guy.”

Father Flinnigan put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Keep up the good work,” he said. “And take good care of Willi.”

“I promise,” Tom said. “Besides, you want to know, I’m figuring Willi will take good care of me, too, once he gets to know me better. That’s my plan.”

“I’m glad to see that you really love the dogs,” Father Flinnigan said.

“Oh, I do, I love every single one of them.” Tom paused and grinned. “Hyuk, hyuk, hyuk. Of course, they say you never forget your first one.”

When Father Flinnigan had walked away, Tom started thinking about the prospect of actually getting paid for his work. When he had a few bucks, he could afford the occasional present for Willi. He could just imagine how grateful Willi would be for a little pampering. Guys liked that shit.

* * * *

Sylvester had already turned in his resignation, citing “personal matter” as his reason. He hoped that Lawrence and Curly stuck to their words and kept their mouths shut, but even if they talked, he was already gone from Homeland.

Not that the agency couldn’t touch a private citizen, if they wanted to. That was the whole point of the agency, that no one was safe. Homeland could nail anyone, anywhere, anytime, no matter how innocent. It was the thing of which they were proudest: they made their own rules.

The truth was, however, and he faced it philosophically, it was time for him to be moving on. Luckily, he’d had the foresight to arrange for another identity way back when he had been working for the CIA, just in case. CIA agents who screwed up had the unfortunate habit of disappearing from sight. He had long ago reasoned that if he was going to disappear, it should be at his own time and of his own doing.

Which was exactly what he was going to do now, was already in the final stages of doing: disappearing. He had the works: a social security card, a driver’s license, credit cards, even a passport. As of this day, Sylvester Katt had ceased to exist. He was now Harry Beaver.

He had been stashing away his money as well, so he had enough of a nest egg to take care of him for a while, though he didn’t actually expect to have to live off of it. He had a plan for that, too. That was where he was different from putzes like Lawrence and Curly, who couldn’t plan past their own noses.

He left the freeway at Petaluma. He had scoped out this place months earlier, as a precaution. He liked to be prepared, like in the Boy Scouts. He knew exactly where to find Cox’s Chicken Ranch—“The World’s Largest Chicken Ranch,” as its sign proudly proclaimed alongside the highway, “Our eggs can’t be beat!”

He drove through the open gate, up a short lane, and stopped in front of an enormous barn. He stepped out of Harry Beaver’s brand new red Honda. The air was pungent with that smell peculiar to chicken farms: a heady blend of wet feathers and straw and chicken poop that took him back to his childhood in Tennessee. Fond memories assailed him.

A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance. A short, round man in bib overalls came out of the barn, saw Sylvester and walked toward him. “He’p you?” he asked politely, shoving a straw from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“I was looking for a job,” Sylvester-now-Harry said. “Can you use any help?”

The man looked him up and down. Guy looked okay, except there was something funny about his mouth. That mouth reminds me of somethin’, Farmer Cox thought. Can’t ’zactly put my finger on it. It’ll come to me, though.

“Might could be I was,” he said aloud, spitting out of the side of his mouth and passing the straw back again. “You had any ’sperience with poultry, son?”

“Lots,” Harry said. “Chickens, turkey, ducks, geese—you name it, I guess I’ve fooled around with all of them at one time or another. Sometimes I feel like I have been married to poultry.”

Farmer Cox chuckled and nodded knowingly. “Yep, times it can sure seem that way for a fella, can’t it? Got mostly chickens here, you unnerstant. A duck or two from time to time, but mostly this is a chicken farm. That’s why our name says, Cox’s Chicken Farm.”

“I confess, I dearly love a pretty little chicken,” Harry said. “Nothing sweeter than a good layer.”

“Well, say, then, whyn’t you come with me, now,” Farmer Cox said. “We can talk whilst we look around.” He started toward the barn. “Folks ’round here say our chickens are the sweetest.”

Sylvester-now-Harry fell in step with him. “That’s music to my ears,” he said. “Yes, sir. Music to an old chicken-lover’s ears.”