The Ragged Echo

By Colin Wilcox

Book two of the California Trilogy. After nearly dying from a "safe" punishment, Julie Wilson tries to move on, only to find herself in the grip of more forces she can't control.
Julie's former boyfriend, Rick Westmoreland, tries to run--from the country, from himself, from the memories of what he and Julie shared, from his pain. But then a horrific accident puts him back in North America and in the crosshairs of the shadowy businessman who tried to buy Julie as his wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colin Wilcox
• Release date: May 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9780988540668

Colin Wilcox

Colin Wilcox writes thoughtful fiction about the ways we live. He lives in Seattle, and when he's not writing he enjoys being daddy to a rambunctious toddler, reading hiking, skiing, sailing, and not mowing the lawn.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

Rick was more adamant than Bev about using the classic English. As he puts it, Modlang uses one word to mean five different things. Those meanings change overnight, and the legal system uses too many of them.

BOOK ONE

PAWNS

ONE

JULIE

Fifteen days after they tortured me, I butchered my hair.

I remember the bright California morning and the girl in the bathroom mirror, supposedly pretty with her elfin brown eyes and sensuous lips, the blue anti-depressant patch covering half her neck.

Problem was, the reflection saw her old self, the girl of Before, the one ready to conquer the world. Every part of me wanted her back, but I could only hear an echo—ragged and secondhand, taunting me with who I’d been, sneering at who I was.

I also heard a whisper behind the echo, a gentle promise of quiet, of cool darkness, of endless peace.

But scissors first.

Hacking off random fistfuls of hair, the sharp hiss of the blades growing more violent with each cut until I was in a frenzy, nicking fingers and growling as I sliced.

With my blood spattering the bathroom floor, I did one of those Things We Just Don’t Do and spattered my parents’ bedroom while I rummaged around for dad’s laser trimmer. I spattered some more as I set it to Zero and ran it over my head until I had nothing left but a dusky wash over a pale scalp, dotted and smeared with blood.

And for her next act, the great Julie Lynne waggles that middle finger at God and the world.

I grabbed my cloak, an illegal weapon, my mom’s antique Wayfarer sunglasses, and a piece of jewelry, blew through the door without closing it and started walking. An hour later I reached North Ventura and the hives around Shoshone Street, a strip of greasy restaurants and moonshine bars, one of those places where respectable girls Just Don’t Go.

I didn’t have an address, but my cellmate had assured me the place was real and the owner was a chair survivor. Flash the right credentials, she’d do what you wanted. And age? No barrier.

I walked the streets for another half hour until I found the only tattoo shop in the area, jammed into the far end of a rusting Quonset hut that reeked of asphalt. The lean woman behind the counter scowled and pointed at me as I came through the door.

You don’t want to be here, girly. Head back south and enjoy the beach. I pulled off the hood of my cloak, returned the glare and she snorted. Tough little rich baby, huh? You think I’m intimidated by your shave job?

I tossed the jewelry onto the counter—the bracelet they’d given me when I’d left the prison. She caught her breath, then turned it over and looked at the inscription on the inside—the date I was punished.

Jesus, you’re still quiverin’. She came around the counter, softer now, and put her hands on my shoulders. I’m happy to give you whatever you want, but most people wait a while. Why don’t you—

No. Now. I pointed at a drawing on the wall. That.

I expected movement, preparation, but instead I felt her hand on my cheek, rough and cool. It smelled of ink and dirt, day-old fish and unwashed body. I didn’t care.

You got my best, girl, she said. And you know you ain’t alone, right?

I snorted and pulled off my cloak and shirt—the old blue soccer jersey with ‘Pele’ on the back—while she made her nook private. I got on the table and felt something cool on my skin.

This’ll stop any pain, she said.

No. No way. I reached around and clawed at the patch until it came off. I want to feel it. All of it. And you don’t use the needle. I want the other thing.

She made the customer happy, and I walked out with a permanent addition to my back.

* * * *

I kept my hood off during the walk home, hoping—praying—I’d attract the attention of at least one guard and hopefully more. The spray in my pocket would stun him/her/it/them, and after he/she/object hit the ground I’d shoot more of the spray directly up their noses. Then they’d die.

Dad probably shouldn’t have had the little canister in the house, and I probably shouldn’t have known where he hid it, but whatever.

So I slogged along the busiest arterials Ventura has to offer and never saw a single uniform, but that was okay. I’d take other walks. Until I was tired of them.

I turned up my street, Lincoln Drive, and focused on my next objective—crawling into a hole and slamming the lid. I’d lined up a drudge computer job that paid enough for food and a private room in a quiet ladies’ dorm. I could work from the safety of my cubby for three days a week and talk with no one, if I so chose. A cocoon. Something I wanted with a desperation I could taste.

A diet of soy was good for the arteries, or so they said, and when I decided the time was right, I’d simply ... a car skidded to a stop less than a foot away and my father shot out, angry and frightened, but mostly ready to cry.

He rushed at me, then stopped and reached out in a gentle slow motion, a surreal play of hands and fear, love and God only knew what else.

Oh, Jesus. My beautiful girl.

Next thing I knew I was on the couch, staring at nothing, his hands warm on my neck, the stun gas removed with a gentle finality. Mom rushed in and I felt her steel herself, force the calm, the gentle hands. She amazed me by giggling as she kissed the ruins of my hair.

Makes a statement, alright.

She dug her fingers into my shoulders. I convulsed with the sudden agony and tried to shove them away, but anything like fire died, snuffed out by the exhaustion that comes with malignant pain. Dad held on to my feet while mom slipped the jersey upward.

"Holy ... Jesus! No more composure for mom. Is that writing?"

Two words, actually. In an elegant script.

It’s Latin. Dad sounded beaten. It means ‘she died.’

I’ll get a pain patch, mom said.

* * * *

Alex Johnston. The shrink who supported me during my tour of the justice system. We sat on his couch. He sat about a thousand miles away, through a veil of unreal—there, but who gives a shit?

The mom voice launched itself and accelerated toward rage; the big rumble cut it off.

Her hair and back are minor issues, Alex said. "You do not want her taking that job and isolating herself."

More words bounced and tumbled around that useless distance, and why were they talking? What was the big deal? My artist had given me an antibiotic before I’d left, so just fucking chill, okay?

Julie? Did you hear me? You need to use these twice a day.

I felt dad’s hand on my cheek, and geez, I’m not four anymore. I batted the hand away and realized Alex was talking to me.

You’ll feel a lot better, he said. This will get your feet on the ground. And Julie, despite those words, you’re not dead. What you did means you’ve still got a lot of fight in here.

He pointed to his chest and gave me a familiar look, humble and loving, brimming with confidence and promise: The shit stream you call life will improve. He’d hammered that point from day one. I’d always have the grief, but it would get better, and sometimes—oh, my God—sometimes it would even lead to joy.

What happened to college and soccer? he said. You had some solid goals.

When I was in the system, Alex had driven me half insane by making me imagine life after I was free. I could do anything, be anything, so what did I want? Soccer, of course, college and pro, followed by a career in business.

What changed? he said.

I don’t know, and I don’t give a rat’s ass. This is my plan now.

I stood, shucked off my cloak and shirt, ripped at the pain patch and threw it at him.

He met my eyes and held them, a remarkable thing, given my overall lack of a bra. But I wasn’t flashing the ol’ 36-Cs for fun. I mean, come on, who wants a bra strap rubbing against a severe burn?

Fuck you, Alex. And your drugs. I’m taking that job.

I started for the door.

TWO

RICK

The message arrived two days after Julie laid waste to her hair:

Dear Mr. Westmoreland:

Congratulations! After careful consideration, a panel of experts commissioned by the Federation Council on Sport has voted you Captain of the Federation All-Star team for young men ages 17-19. The members of the panel are certain that you will represent your team and your country by setting examples of the finest ...

Me. The best teenage soccer player on an entire continent. Me. The exact wrong thing, given what I’d been through, what I’d lost. The emotion exploded. No warning, no rhyme or reason, no voice. Pure rage. Shockwaves.

Those bastards. Government daddy-fuckers.

I paced, looked for something to hit, throw, kick, denigrate. Nothing. My parents’ new kitten. She just ran and never trusted me again.

Julie. We both thought the FedSport awards were bullshit, nothing but politics. Sacramento had probably spent a quarter-million creds pitching me to those experts. Wining and dining, just so California could have bragging rights. Until next year.

I called up her code, told the computer to connect ... oh, shit.

Bev.

And not happy to see me.

What? she said in an exhausted voice.

Well, I was ... voted. An all-star, I mean, and I’m even the—

Oh, for God’s sakes, not soccer. Not now.

Oh. Um ... sorry. To bother you, I mean—

My daughter is in the goddam hospital, okay? So just ... enough with this sports bullsh—

She disappeared, and I shuddered at the delicious wave of shame. Lapped and sucked at it. I’d finally gotten what I deserved: white-hot rage. None of this grace shit for me.

And a perfect excuse. There you go. Topple back into that shyness. That drowning pool of isolation.

I trashed the message from FedSport, changed into workout clothes and sprinted down the street, kept going, only turned around when I realized I’d get home after dark. Julie dissolved during that run, faded into a part of life I’d never see again, never revisit, even for its joy. I closed the door on her forever.

* * * *

Kiddo? Mom approached with caution this time. I just talked to the chief of FedSport back in Ottawa. You’re captain of the all-star team?

I shrugged.

Were you planning to tell us?

No.

You ... what?

Doesn’t matter, I said.

Her jaw dropped. They think you’re easily the best teenage soccer player in the country, probably one of the five-hundred best players in the world, and it doesn’t matter?

I glared at her. A gift doesn’t make me special. Remember?

Well, yes, she spluttered, but this is a huge honor. You should at least say thank you.

Waste of time, I said. I’ll be in Botswana. Remember?

Alex had asked me to articulate my future. I’d said, That’s easy. Anything not here.

He’d tried to get more detail, but not here was all I’d say. The North American Federation would never benefit from my time and talents.

Then, a few days before she’d gone to the prison, Julie and I had dangled our feet in the pool, enjoyed the twilight.

I’d love to see Africa, she’d said. Lions trying to kill adorable little gazelles, elephants hogging the roads and leaving giant poops everywhere.

I enlisted in FedCorps the next day. I’d turn nineteen, then go dig water wells in the middle of the African nowhere. They’d wanted me to teach English at first. But then they’d realized I was only nineteen. So I became a ‘Water System Apprentice, Grade 1.’

No rhyme. No reason.

Fine.

I’d live cheap, smile over the computer links, tell her about the marauding cobras. And I’d offer her the ticket. Please come.

Now I had a smaller goal, high and keening like a violin string tuned up to the point of breaking:

Fuck this place, bucko. Every way possible.

I had no idea what that looked like. But FedCorps was a start.

* * * *

Oh, no you don’t, young man. The cold tones brought me back. That’s no excuse for ignoring one of the biggest honors this country can—

Fuck you.

I shoved her aside, stalked up to my room, grabbed a duffle, started packing. She marched in and sat me down on my bed with one deft shove.

What did you just say to me, and what are you doing? she growled through clenched teeth.

Leaving.

And just where?

Dorm.

Oh, no you’re not. No son of mine will ever live in a hive—

She grabbed at the bag.

My elbow slammed into her skull.

* * * *

So, a choice: Talk with Alex or talk with my dear friends the Civil Guards.

I thought hard about that, spent a couple hours writing out those plus-minus lists. I chose Alex because going out with FedCorps would cost the taxpayers five-hundred creds a day, but only sixty-five to feed and house me in a factory. And I wouldn’t be here.

The parents spent a few minutes talking, then Alex bulled into the waiting room, a tower of black fury. He pointed and beckoned me in.

What is it? he barked after I sat.

I knew the answer. Had since that message from FedSport. But the truth was nobody’s business, and I had a convincing lie ready to go. Loaded and primed: If you’d gone to that chair, would you want to hang around this shithole?

But on that day the truth forced its way to out with no quarter or mercy.

She should be on the girls’ team, I blurted. And God damn me for saying that. And crying ...

They waited until I finished, then Alex glowered more. I’m legally bound to report you. But I won’t if you do exactly as you’re told.

I waited.

I want you to go to Trials, he said.

The Federation College Soccer Trials. A meat market. Coaches sniffing your butt, bribing you with scholarships and cute girls.

I snorted and laughed. I’ll send you a postcard from my cell.

Just hear me out—

No, I said in conversational tones. Go report me.

I stood to leave and found myself face-to-face with Scott Frederick Westmoreland, M.D., ready to take me out. From behind I heard mom leaking tears on the couch.

You think you’re going to treat your mother that way and then go hide? dad said. Throw your mind and your gifts away like this?

Pretty much.

Oh. Really. You take one step, and I snap you into unrecognizable pieces.

I got ready to take the step, but a hand grabbed my belt and pulled me onto the couch.

Quit being an asshole, mom said through the tears. You’ve used your lifetime quota, so just shut up and listen. After he talks, she pointed at Alex, we don’t care what you do.

Meaning if Alex reported me to the guards, they were done with me forever. I’m still not sure why that stopped me. I glared at the old giant and motioned with my hands.

What’s the one piece of advice I’ve given you since we met? he said.

Celebrate. Myself, I mean.

He softened into the familiar Alex. Exactly. I want you at trials because I want you to be yourself before you go. Have fun on your level. Forget signing with a school, just go run a bunch of dilettantes into the ground.

Why? I said.

Because most African villages are facing a critical shortage of all-star soccer players, right? He gave me a look—way to comprendo the obvious—and I nodded. "Besides, what you did to your mom, that’s not you. And we all know it. I want you on that plane to Africa, not the twisted little shit currently taking up space on my couch."

Something visceral screamed about manipulation. But the math didn’t lie. So I set up a chant in my head: FedCorps costs more, FedCorps costs more ...

Cheerleading my best shot at revenge.

THREE

JULIE

A blur of time in a locked ward taught me two things: I despise hospitals, and maybe a shit job and a quiet dorm weren’t the best ideas.

Maybe.

Oh, and parading topless in the great out-of-doors? Stupid. I guess. Except the consequence for being stupid didn’t hurt, or so said the medical evidence, and I was on intimate terms with most of said consequence anyway, all but the painless part. So ...

I’m not sure what Alex prescribed, but one morning I got up early and watched the sun rise, warm light spilling through a thick window. Psych wards have lots of cheery furniture, the kind that invites you to snuggle in with a good book, and the light bathed it all in shades of yellow and coral.

One of the nurses saw me sitting on the window ledge and put her hands on my shoulders.

It’s nice, I said. So pretty. So peaceful.

The hands went to work, and I felt her smile. There we go, she said in a quiet, happy voice. Are you sure you don’t want to fix those scars?

The anger flared. They aren’t scars.

She actually laughed. Good for you, hon. We were afraid you’d never come back.

The parents looked even happier when I reached for them. I can still see my bald scalp and shy smile, flaring just far enough past the shame to light my eyes.

* * * *

Home.

I suppose I should describe the place. It’s all angles and planes, a front porch and huge windows, features you don’t see these days. Inside it’s oak floors, cherry cabinets, and the main stair rail is bird’s-eye maple, stuff you can’t legally buy anymore.

The sun streams in and does amazing things—all sorts of beams and warm glows—and the main stair throws these wonderful shadows in the afternoon. I used to play in those shadows when I was a kid. They were my super-girl fort, where justice and unicorns prevailed and we always ate pizza.

Outside, the first floor was covered with cedar, stained a dark red, and corrugated steel wrapped around the second floor.

But outside was also the pool.

On that first morning home I stood in the kitchen, scratching Harley’s ears and looking at the water, calm and sparkling with the early sun. Mom stole up behind me and gently kissed the new words through my shirt. I shuddered at the touch and the love behind it, leaned into her and let her wrap me in her arms.

A long moment, and then I said, I’ll never own one. If I ever buy a house with a pool, I’ll bury the shit thing or have it broken out.

Mom chuckled. I’ll come help you plant flowers.

It felt so good to just be there with her as she rocked me from side to side and we had one of those chronic conversations.

I’m sorry, mom.

You’ve already said that.

Yeah, I know, but...

We stopped when the house changed moods, snapped from contented now that I was home (okay, relieved) into cold anger.

We tiptoed our way to the study and found dad glaring at a computer screen. I went in, took one of his arms, and found myself looking at a map of some kind, overlaid with a set of red cones.

What is it? I said.

He didn’t reply, and that’s when I saw them—sniper’s eyes, cold and calculating. I’d only seen them once before, during a reserve weekend for families, watching him put the trounce on an opponent who outnumbered him three-to-one.

I looked at the map again and realized I was looking at our street, Lincoln Drive, up near the scrub on the northeast side of Ventura. Then I noticed the red cones overlapping a familiar shape.

Oh, my God, is that our house? Dad nodded, his eyes more cold. What are those red things?

I don’t know, he said. But I will find out. And I will cause pain.

He unlocked a desk drawer, put a cube I didn’t recognize on the desk and let it scan his retinas.

Working, it said.

Silence the house.

Done.

Scan for any non-consumer firmware within a hundred meters, all sides.

Whoa. Silence the house? That was military spy hardware on the desk, and I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near it.

Eight class-one scanners, all in passive mode, the spybot said before I could move.

Who made them? dad said.

Bannon Solar.

Can you trace the owner?

Bannon Solar.

My aunt’s firm? What the hell?

Mom solved the mystery by carrying one of the house cubes into the room, with my aunt Jen hovering over it and smiling. I waved and Jen waved back just as mom thrust the cube at my dad.

I see you found my toys, little brother, Jen said. You can relax.

I can?

I’m just watching your back.

The cold eyes didn’t change. And why do we need that?

Because the Bannons just turned political.

FOUR

RICK

Celebrate myself.

Of all the bullshit.

Hey, Westmoreland, come here.

I registered a paunch, custom sweats, elevated self-esteem.

Fuck off.

I hated Husky Stadium. Hated Seattle. Hated the rain in early July. Really hated wading through two days of chickenshit so I could leave.

Then my attitude trended downward. They’d invited an honest-to-God pro, a guy named Ronal Moniz. He’d been one of Europe’s biggest stars, first at Man/Glasgow United, then at Siena in Italy.

He was thirty-eight then, at the far end of his prime, but still a man amongst the diapers. Fatherly. Confident. Half-assing the ball whenever it came his way.

And that’s the world’s biggest nose. So screw him.

He took a pass and dribbled toward me at that nothing pace. I pretended to ignore him until he got within range, then I cut loose—left knee down, right leg out, a gentle tap and the ball was mine. Down the field, a crowd of bodies around me, looking for someone open so I can pass ...

[Blackness]

[They ... they’re gonna]/OOOHHH—MYYY—GOOOD—Jesus—JESUS—PLEASEJESUS ...

The fake grass brings me back, away from the cold plastic feel of the chair and that agony.

Dude, you okay?

Yeah, man. Sorry I tripped you up like that.

Hands appear out of the drizzle, grab and lift, swat my butt.

Nice steal.

Truth, duderino. Way to stick him.

The world faded back to green turf, and you didn’t fall. Duderino. You had a flashback.

My first. With everyone watching. I stood and shook my head, said I was fine.

Then I saw the coaches and older players.

Smirking and chuckling.

At me.

Mr. Sports Star joined in—aw, cute, the puppy wants to play. Someone passed him a ball and he killed it, put his right foot on it and stood there, that universal challenge.

So, surfer boy. Think you can take me on?

The rage muscled any vertigo aside and spoke with icy clarity. Return in kind. Add interest.

You here to play the game or just brag about your tiny cock? I said. It was almost like that ancient film: Use the Force, Rick.

Then he moved, a blinding rush, body on green turf, drive.

I flip into one of two modes when I play: practice and game. Everybody’s human in practice mode, forgivable and worthy of encouragement. But game mode reduces any opponent to a shape, wooden and slow, problems to hammer into dust.

Game mode springs from two gifts—speed and the ability to process what I see faster than most athletes. I can almost slow time down, anticipate what the other guy will do, get there before he does.

So gray and drizzle, breath and pounding blood, chasing down the old-fart shape. Left leg out, right knee down, I missed and levered myself up, saw him watching me as he sidestepped and passed the ball away.

Your ass is mine, old guy.

Moniz snorted. You here to play the game or admire my ass?

He played clean. I have to give him that. No grabbing my shirt or nailing me in the face with the ball, just long, accurate passes, an arsenal of stepovers and feints that had me thinking the guy was an octopus.

At his age.

But on that day I had the Force. I wanted him to feel old, smell old, lose more hair, die soon, and I would’ve run with him until doomsday to make that happen. Longer, if necessary.

Now I see the firebox, stoked with grief and white hot with rage. But then I only saw it as normal. Energy. Desire.

Drive.

I robbed the corpse of its ball twice before the whistle blew. It shook my hand and walked away without a word, and I figured that was it. I’d never see him again, and God knew I’d never risk another public meltdown.

That flashback. A reason to smile. Cosmic affirmation of my life in Africa.

I headed to my far corner of the locker room, away from the trash talk and stench of rancid feet, the tight clusters of teenage idiots and their counterfeit heroes. I’d slip out, catch the bullet train and screw our beloved federation, proud and true. I might have a fatal encounter with a Black Mamba, but if not, I’d get over being homesick, maybe even take the parents on a safari.

You have it here. I nearly blew a circuit. Moniz was sitting next to me and tapping his head. But even more, you have it here. He tapped his heart. In a year, your legs are a lot stronger and you’ll be unstoppable, like me at Manchester. Keep it up and let’s do it again tomorrow.

He walked away without another word. I defied Alex’s orders. No lunch. No quiet spot where I could let myself cry. I slipped back into the stadium and ran every stair I could find.

I had no choice.

* * * *

I spent the next day hammering the dilettante shapes and terminating a predictable conversation.

Hey, hold up a minute.

Hey, fuck off.

It felt so good to tell a system, any system, to crawl back into its cavity of origin.

Moniz disappeared after the last scrimmage. I didn’t bother showering or changing, just wadded my clothes into my bag and made sure I had train ticket in hand. Let the sweat dry, the odor waft, maybe I’d get a seat to myself. I checked the locker one last time, slammed the door and a janitor sidled up. He couldn’t have been a coach. His gut didn’t play hide-and-seek with his knees. I handed him my wet towels.

Thanks, I said.

He smiled and sat.

Mind if I sit? he said.

I shrugged.

Can I ask you a question? he said.

You just did. I