“And if this isn’t a test?” We had to get this misconception out of the way before we could make any progress, but Michael was hanging on to it hard.
“What else could it be?” There was a defeated note to his voice.
I tried for a reassuring smile. I doubt I succeeded. My job hadn’t required that look very often. “Like you said, maybe I’m just some crazy guy who thinks he’s found his brother. Sometimes, kiddo, you just have to go with the flow. So, tell me what they taught you. I think I’m sensing a theme.”
Tracing a finger along the dashboard, he considered as more miles passed and then he began to talk. I listened to every word, hoping to hear the key that I could use to unlock the mystery of my brother. He talked about multiple classes. There were the usual basics such as history, math, chemistry, and others, but they were supplemented with psychology, law—both domestic and international—languages, and acting. There was a theme all right; a very definite one.
“And how are you in acting?” I flashed him a more natural smile as I reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. If he could pull a De Niro, I hadn’t seen any signs of it yet.
“According to the Instructor, the worst he’s ever seen,” he replied without concern. Impressing the Instructor with his Oscar-winning ways apparently didn’t interest Michael whatsoever. Once again I heard a capital letter where normally none would be. If Michael had any idea what the acting instructor’s name actually was, I would be astonished.
“No big deal. There’s more to life than Hollywood.” Not that Hollywood had anything to do with the acting classes he had been taking. Spotting a sign indicating heart-stopping cholesterol at the next exit, I decided to make a stop. “They were training you to be a spy, weren’t they? Espionage.” Maybe Saul had been wrong about this not being a government project. It sounded more like a project better suited to the old Soviet regime of the Cold War, but all ruling parties had their secrets, even here.
“Spy?” He laughed too, but without humor. “No, not a spy.” And with that the subject was closed. Crossing his arms, he closed his eyes to indicate this particular conversation had soured for him.
Having received more from him than I expected, I gave him a break. As I took the exit and hit the first generic fast-food place I saw, I decided against asking him what he wanted. I would hate to get my brother back, only to lose him to terminal dental caries in the first month. A breakfast sandwich, biscuits and gravy, and orange juice should be enough, I thought, before weakening to add pancakes to the order. I personally hated drive-through breakfast crap and ordered nothing but a large coffee for myself. I’d make up for it at lunch.
Back on the interstate, Michael took no prisoners on that bag of grease. The sandwich he tolerated, the gravy he loved, and the pancakes lifted him unto Heaven. They’d been labeled a new addition on the order menu: chocolate chip with a gallon of pseudo maple syrup. As I watched, he devoured every bite and then licked the fork. This kid, grave and educated in damn peculiar ways, was going after every molecule of sugary goodness like a five-year-old with a bowl of icing.
“What the hell did they feed you in that place anyway? Bread and water? Gruel?” I asked.
“Nutritious meals to keep our bodies at the peak of health,” he replied. It sounded like a quote. I could picture it now . . . straight-edged grim words emblazoned on a wall above a pear-shaped cafeteria lady doling out boiled chicken, boiled potatoes, and boiled cabbage.
“All right,” I said with determination. “For supper we have pizza, a liter of Coke, and a shitload of ice cream. Rocky road. So what if our teeth rot out? It’ll be worth it.”
“I know those are all very popular. Do they taste as good as chocolate chip pancakes?” There was definite interest in the question.
“Better,” I promised. I wondered how it worked in that concrete prison. I imagined heads bowed over test papers. Circle A if pizza tastes good. Circle B if it does not taste good. Speaking of not good, that entire picture left a foul taste in my mouth—all those children leading the lives of small prisoners of war. I’d listened to the radio for any news on a police raid on the compound. Nothing. Big surprise. Either the entire police department was in their back pocket, not a very realistic proposition, or the Institute had been evacuated. Either way, the kids were gone.
Since the full stomach seemed to have relaxed Michael some, I decided to try more questions. “Misha, you said you were taught languages. Do you know Russian?”