Burned (3 page)

“Why? So you can clean up, do a little presto chango, then bugger off until the next time?”

I’d met Vincent years back, when hanging with the homeless and ex-cons was a volunteer gig and not a way of life.
He was the only one—other than Amanda—who knew I was really a girl.

“You take off until your bones are broken or you’re bleeding—”

“Not true.”

“Yeah?”

I nodded, smiling even though the action sent a shock wave of pain through my muscles. “Last time, my bones were broken
and
I was bleeding.”

He scowled. “Yeah, you play Ninja Turtles in the sewers—”

“I’ve never been in the sewers.” Just the thought made my spine tingle. “You know how I feel about rats. They should stay above ground and in public office.”

“—and I spend my time wondering if you’re dead in a gutter.”

“Aw, I didn’t know you cared.” I got a glare for that one. “We have a deal,” I said. “Don’t mess with it.”

Another scowl. “Fine.” He stepped back and ran his hands through his grizzled hair.

I moved into the worn apartment and grimaced. Vincent was into knickknacks. No. Obsessed with them. Ceramic milkmaids, dogs with bones…every cheesy figurine ever poured into a mold, he had. They were stacked on shelves, wobbled on the edges of his tables and crowded the coffee table.

“It’s good you’re here,” he said. “I have some work.” He jerked his pointed chin at the narrow hall. He gave me a once-over. “Hungry?”

Starving. I shrugged and didn’t bother to hide the grimace of pain. “Yeah. I guess.”

Vincent nodded at the easel in the corner. “Fix it. You good with ravioli?”

“Yours?”

“No, Chef Boyardee’s.”

“I’d prefer his. Yours tastes like wet cardboard.”

“You could starve instead.”

I grinned and held up my hands as though weighing invisible objects. “Die of starvation, or eat your food and have
midnight cramps that make me wish for death.”

His long face fell into serious lines. “Milk too. Right?”

I ignored the sudden lump in my throat. He was the only one whose kindness didn’t make me feel weak. “Whatever.”

“Think I got some Flintstones vitamins around here somewhere.”

“I’m not ten.”

Vincent took a step toward the kitchen, then looked back. “Prove it. Work and earn your dinner.”

Long ago, he’d seen my art and called me a savant. Maybe. I just called myself passionate about the craft. I went to the covered easel and flipped up the cloth. “Bazille.”

“Always a favorite with the illegal art crowd.”

“Didn’t one of his paintings sell for three million?”

“Four.”

The carpet and walls muffled the sound of his voice, and I had to strain to hear.

“Can you fix it?”

I bent to inspect the paints and canvas, breathing through the pulse of my protesting sore muscles. “It’s good. It could almost pass for his work.” Before my life was taken from me, I’d been an average kid. Almost. I loved art. Loved everything about it. Thanks to art camps, the finearts program at Lord Byng Secondary School, student rates at museums and the Discovery Channel, I’d inhaled all the knowledge I could about visual arts. These days I got my art fix via the books at the public library and the rare visit to Youth Unlimited’s Creative Nights.

“
Almost
is the word. I have to get it to Munich by next week. The owner’s going to claim to find it in an attic.” That was our deal. Vincent gave me the chance to remember who I used to be.
In return, I helped him fake paintings. He fenced the forgeries and gave me a cut of his take, which I appreciated. But until I got justice for my family, no way was I going to spend the money and live some soft life.

I sank to my knees, holding my breath against the pain. “The strokes are off in the lower left. Not sure about the formation of the flowers, the color on the—”

“Make it perfect. Then sign it—and none of your secret identifying markers this time.”

“An artist always needs to mark his work.”

“Only Bazille’s signature.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “No additions. Got it.”

“Here.”

I jumped as his voice sounded right behind me.

“Painkillers and milk. Dinner will be out in a bit. Drink. Eat. Paint. Shower.”
He waggled a crooked finger at me. “In that order.”

Three hours later, with enough pain medication to put down a horse and sufficient vitamins to live forever, I straightened. “Done.”

“Good. Food’s staying down?”

“Yeah.”

“You seemed to enjoy it.”

“Ate to be polite.”

“Four helpings?”

“The first one needed company.”

“That’s two.”

“What if they fought? Had to have another piece.”

“Three.”

“Odd numbers are never good.”

“Right.”

I stood. “Shower.”

“Still in the same place it was last time.” He kept his eyes on the canvas. “Hey, kid.”

“Yeah?”

“Take your time. Water bill’s paid.”

I didn’t say anything; I didn’t need to. Vincent knew all about sink baths in gas stations, washing up in fast-food restaurants. Thirty minutes later, smelling like soap and not street, I wrapped a towel around me and went into the room he kept for me. Vincent was already there, riffling through the closet.

“Still want to be a boy?”

“Yeah.”

“Rapper clothes again?”

“For now, but I need a second boy outfit.”

He jerked from his position. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Time to change identities.”

Vincent cussed long and hard. “What happened?”

“A soldier with the Vëllazëri thinks I saw something go down.”

That got another string of cusses. “You’re not going anywhere tonight!”

“Oh, okay.” I let sarcasm ooze over my fear. “I should stay here with a convicted
art forger who’s still on probation and subject to surprise inspections.”

He tossed me jeans and a shirt and focused on my long hair. “I got a blond wig you can use.”

“With my skin color? I’ll stand out.”

“Exactly. Hide in plain sight.” He rose, his arthritis making his movements slow and pained. “Dress.”

He left. I scanned the pile of clothes—stuff for girls and guys. After tossing a layer of rap guy on my body, I put a chick outfit in the bag and followed that with a second dude outfit. When I came out, Vincent jerked his thumb at the easel. “It looks good.”

“It looks perfect.”

“Usual payment?”

I nodded. “Offshore.” That was the nice thing about having a felon for a friend—he knew how to hide my money.

“Don’t know why you don’t take a cut of the profits. Get off the street.”

“And miss out on all the glamor?”

He scowled.

I shrugged. We both knew why I was on the street. I couldn’t do it—live in a comfortable house with money and clothes while my family rotted in their graves, cursed by the lies she’d told.

“Here.” He handed me food. Then he gave me a plastic container of pasta. “Consider it a bonus.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“How long?”

“Not as long as last time.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.” I went to the door and wished him a good night.

He snorted, then folded his arms across his chest and watched me as I started down the hallway to the exit. Four steps later, the sixth sense that had kept me alive for the past two years went on high alert.

Crap.

What was on the other side of the door? No way could it be the guy who
had been chasing me. I’d made sure he was gone before I’d set out for Vincent’s. I turned the knob, slow and steady, then opened the door to the stairwell and walked into my nightmare.

FIVE

Meena Sharma.

Through the window in the stairwell, I saw her step out of her sedan.

Calm.

Confident.

Stone-cold killer.

Spinning, I took two giant steps, slammed through the doorway out of the stairwell and into the hallway, passed Vincent, still standing outside his door, and headed for the back exit.

“Hey! Kid—what’s going on?”

No time for talk. It was all about survival.

I crashed through the rear door and skidded to a stop. A couple of cops coming up the stairs. My heart slammed against my ribs. I rushed back to Vincent’s apartment, pushed him inside and closed the door behind me. “Told you that you’d see me again soon.”

“What’s going on?”

“Meena.”

One word was all it took. His face went slack, white. He cursed, low and vicious.

Rage made me see two of him, made the world blur at the same time it sharpened every edge. I didn’t want to hide from the one who’d slaughtered my family. I wanted the fight, wanted to slam my fist into her round face and come away with her blood on my knuckles. But not now. Not here, when cops and guns came with her. Not when she could shoot me down and lie to the world.

“She may not be here for you.”

We made eye contact.

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t buy it either. The closet. Now.”

Through the walls, Meena’s footsteps sounded, coming ever closer. I yanked open the closet door and fumbled past the clothes for the compartment in the wall. If I squeezed my shoulders together, there was enough space to hide. Vincent locked me in the vertical coffin just as the knock boomed at the door.

“Yeah—”

I heard his muffled voice.

“—I’m coming.”

“Mr. Pyra.”

There was a time I’d liked her. Adored her and her daughter. But now? God, I hated her voice, and I despised the thought of her. Smug. Confident. A mass murderer cloaking herself in the skin of a protector.

“Congratulations,” said Vincent. “You got my name right. You must be so proud.” He paused. “I’d ask who you are and
what you want, but you have the smell of bacon all over you.” Another pause. “And powdered sugar. Isn’t sugar bad for pigs?”

She chuckled.

“If you’re checking up on me, talk to my parole officer. I’ve been a model citizen.”

“We’re not here for you, Mr. Pyra.”

“I’m crushed.”

I took a shallow breath. With less than an inch between the plywood and my nose, I wasn’t sure how much air I had and how long it would have to last.

“We have reports of a young man entering your building.”

I allowed myself a small breath. A boy. Not a girl.

“So?”

“He’s wanted in connection with a traffic accident.”

“He hit somebody?”

“Someone hit him.”

“Let me get this right.” Vincent was amused. “You’re going door to door in this
building, trying to track down a victim who walked away? You guys run out of murderers to find? I got a plugged sink I need help with, if you’re looking for work.”

She answered, but I lost the conversation because I was trying to figure out how she’d tracked me.

Then I realized how she’d done it. The security cameras on the streets. I was always careful around them, but my run-in with Eagle Man had made me rash. Note to self: Don’t be a moron when in danger. And remember that cops can gain access to the cameras faster than you think.

“—waste your time.”

Vincent’s voice pulled me back to the conversation.

The creak of the chair shifting under someone’s weight preceded Meena’s response. “You and I have been in the system too long to play games, so I’m going to level with you.”

“Wow.” His contempt made the word heavy. “Should I make popcorn and we
can paint each other’s nails while you spill your guts?”

“Two years ago. You remember that woman and her two kids who died?”

The ice was on my skin, frozen memories of that night, of the flames that burned the heart from me.

“Lots of women and kids die,” said Vincent, and I gave him credit for keeping his voice steady.

There was no room for me to move or shift my weight. I wiggled my toes and fingers, trying to keep the blood circulating and prevent myself from passing out. My shoulders ached, and coupled with the pain from the car accident, I was in a world of agony so bad I felt it in my hair. But it was nothing compared to my sharp, pointed rage as I listened to her talk about my family.

“Her ex-boyfriend shot them, torched the house.” She paused. “We’re still looking for him.”

The image haunted my dreams; the unanswered questions tormented me.
Who had she shot first? Had Danny screamed? Did Emily cry? Mom would’ve thrown her body in front of both of them. I wanted to wail. There had never been a boyfriend—never been an ex-boyfriend. There had only been Meena, lying about a phantom lover to cover her tracks.

“Unless you want me to partner with a witness and give you a sketch of this guy,” said Vincent, “I can’t help you.”

“He had an accomplice,” she said. “That woman? She had been my housekeeper for four years. We shared stories about our kids. She helped change my daughter’s diapers.”

Yeah. And you shot her in return for her loyalty and hard work
. I held on to my fury. It was better than diving into the grief.

“Most cases go cold in forty-eight hours, but not this one. Not for me. It stays hot. I’m going to find the guy and his partner, and I will bring them to justice.”

“An accomplice?” Vincent snorted. “How do you know? You can’t find him—
you can’t even find some guy who got hit by a car.”

“We have video.”

“Of the hit and run?”

“Of the fire.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“And I saw the hit and run. I never forget how perps move, Mr. Pyra. It’s the same guy, and I’m going to find him. Bring him to justice.”

How I’d moved the night of the fire was no longer how I moved now. Back then I was a girl. Now I was living life as a boy. Girls move from the hips. Guys from the shoulders. My run-in with the gangbanger must’ve made me forget my training. One stupid mistake, and Meena had me in her sights. I stopped breathing and hoped Vincent would keep control.

“What kind of video?”

Way to go, Vincent. Way to stay in control
.

“Now you’re interested?”

“Because I think you’re full of fertilizer.”