Burned (5 page)
My rumbling stomach woke me early. I lay still. Light traffic, no doors opening or closing, no sound of children. The neighborhood was quiet. I stood and brushed the dirt from my jeans. My hands grazed a bump in one pocket. The money from the guy at the store. My stomach grumbled; the acid bubbled. A breakfast
sandwich would be great. Coffee, freshly made. My cold fingers twitched at the thought of something hot to hold; my mouth watered at the idea of food free of mold.
Despite what anyone thought, I did have money. I kept small pockets of cash hidden in different parts of the city. But it was for an emergency. There would be no life of comfort for me, not until Meena paid for her crimes. Today, though, called for a special treat. I was close—so close—to bringing Meena down. That deserved a hot meal.
After hopping a series of buses, taking a quick withdrawal from the Bank of Jo and getting some freshly made food, I ended up on Robson Street scouting for parkades. Specifically, one with underground parking and lots of cement to block any signals from the laptop. It took a few minutes but when I saw the one I wanted, I ducked my head, pulled the baseball cap low and went for it. I took my time,
headed to the lowest parking level and kept my head turned from the cameras. A sign on the wall said security patrolled the area every half hour. Nothing like a ticking clock to make it interesting.
I found a corner and booted up the laptop. The sign-in screen beamed at me, and I went for the obvious password. Her daughter’s birthday. I knew it because that was the kind of employee my mom was. She knew everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries, and I knew them because I used to help her shop for small gifts. I typed in the date and waited for the welcome screen.
Instead, I got a flash of red and the message
Incorrect password. One attempt remains
.
I hadn’t thought she’d limit the tries to two. Visions of the computer exploding a la 007 Bond villain filling my head, I shut down the laptop and considered my options.
I only had one.
My option wouldn’t be around until late afternoon, so I headed to the community kitchen to see if I could pack groceries in return for lunch. Clem was there, head down, reading the clipboard. Not looking up, he asked, “Just how much trouble are you in, boy?”
“What?”
“The getup.” He paused. “The hair. Who’s after you?”
“How can you even see my hair and clothes?”
“Your hair’s neon blond. The bigger question is, how can I not see the hair and clothes?”
I slipped my bag behind the counter. “I was looking for a change.”
“And if they find you, will that change include bars?” This time he lifted his head and met my gaze.
“It’s not what you think,” I said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You can keep the wig or the clothes but not both,” he said. He set down the clipboard. “Lose the wig or the clothes—” He sighed. “If it’s dangerous enough, then keep the wig and the clothes, but lose us.” Clem interlaced his fingers. “How big is this?”
“Been nice knowing you.”
He cursed. “You can’t go to the cops?” He took in my expression and cursed again. “What are you going to do?”
“I have one option.”
“Only one.”
“If it works, it’s all I need.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
I didn’t say anything.
He heaved a sigh. “Does this have anything to do with Amanda?”
I jerked back. “You saw her?”
Clem shook his head. “No, but after you asked, I got to thinking. A week ago, I saw her with a woman.”
I waited.
“I was worried at first.” He shrugged. “You know Amanda and—”
“How she made her money. Yeah, I know.”
“But it was okay.” Clem straightened. “At least, I thought it was okay. But if you’re running from cops...”
“She was talking to one?” I asked.
“Yeah, a detective.”
The room spun around me, and the world blurred, bled and tilted. I gripped the edge of the counter and held on. “You sure it was a cop?”
“She gave me her card.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the white rectangle.
I took it, already knowing whose name I’d see, and wondering how She—Meena Sharma—was connected to the disappearance of my friend.
Clem wouldn’t let me leave until I took the hundred dollars he offered, along with his business card. “You all go missing,” he said. “Keep this card in your pocket. When they find your body, I want to know.”
It was the closest we’d ever get to a declaration of our friendship. “Thanks.”
He handed me a Wagon Wheel. “I’d say
stay safe
, but…”
A couple of hours later, after a quick detour back to Vincent’s, I waited outside Tron’s grocery store for my option to
come out. Around four o’clock, he did. The prep-school kid, blue blazer, gray pants, black shoes. He squinted at the sun and turned toward Victoria Drive. I watched him for a few seconds. The way he moved, his posture…it wasn’t my place to wonder why or feel sympathy, so I shoved aside my feelings. I followed him, my mouth moving in silent practice of the speech I was going to give.
I stayed back, giving the kid space. Then I realized he never looked around, never acknowledged the world. Earbuds in, head down, he seemed to move through the streets on autopilot. Instinct had him veering left or right, avoiding the people on the sidewalk, but he never saw them. Not really. And I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, if his lack of interest would work in my favor or not.
I followed him, my brain chewing and spitting words of explanation, pleas for help. He hopped the fence and crossed the train tracks to get to the water’s edge.
I did the same and waited for the moment he’d look up or stop or do something that would give me a chance to break his silent wall. But this guy wasn’t in a world of his own. He existed in a solar system of one. No perfect moment. No opportunity except the one I’d create.
“Hey, buddy.”
He didn’t turn around.
I jogged closer. The laptop slapped my back. I stopped just short of stepping on his heels and gave him a quick tap on the shoulder.
He jerked like I’d tased him, which said a couple of things about how many friends he had and how many of them were girls. But I wasn’t going to let mercy or sympathy affect me.
He kept walking.
I got in his way.
He sidestepped me.
I did it again, then matched his attempt to move around me. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He stopped. Head down. Wind ruffling his brown hair.
“I need a favor—I need your type of talent, and I’ll pay for it.”
Nothing.
“A hundred dollars. I want you to crack the password on a laptop.”
Still nothing.
“Two hundred.”
Not even a flicker.
Okay, money didn’t move him… so why had he been stealing it from the
ATM
? Of course. The challenge. “The laptop. There’s only one more try left, and then it burns the files.”
His gaze snapped up. Way up. I had a huge height advantage on him.
Whoa. I backpedaled. Judging from his eyes, this guy wasn’t disconnected from reality or living in some la-la land. If anything, this guy was too connected, too aware. It was like he kept his gaze down and the music on so he wasn’t overwhelmed by the world around him.
I moved to him. “One chance. Think you could do it?”
His focus went over my shoulder, and he moved past me. His arm brushed mine, and just like the last time we’d touched, he jerked away.
I turned my head and followed his path as he shuffled by me, and I saw the object of his attention.
Another prep-school dude. His profile was to me, but I didn’t need the details to get a sense of him. Built with a boxer’s frame, he was bigger, wider… deadlier than his counterpart. He stood, weight on his heels, shoulders back, hands loose, but the relaxed pose was a lie. Contained power, restrained rage. He was a coiled viper.
Too bad for both of us, I needed in his nest.
I watched him for a second, registering how he held his body, how he shifted his weight. The thing about being an artist is knowing anatomy, movement.
And everything I knew said this guy spent a lot of time in a boxing ring.
ATM
Guy came to a stop beside him. The viper bent his head, leaned in close, and my impression of him shifted.
Not a snake this time. Guardian. Whatever their relationship—friends, brothers—he watched over
ATM
Guy with the same fierceness that I watched over Amanda. A gust of wind brought the faint trace of his scent to me: cedar and spice.
Boxer Boy pivoted with smooth precision, turned and faced me. Our gazes locked. A sharp pain hit my chest, and it took me a second to realize what it was.
My heartbeat. He made my heart beat.
Boxer Boy stepped close to the
ATM
kid. It was a protective gesture. And a warning.
In the back of my mind, the danger signal
bing
ed. But I was locked by emotions I hadn’t felt in forever, chained because he made me aware of every
breath I took. Just like Raven, this guy made me feel as though I was seeing my reflection.
Rule number one to surviving the streets: trust no one.
But I couldn’t break eye contact with him, couldn’t stamp down the feelings. We were the same, Boxer Boy and I, watchers over the defenseless. And maybe…maybe he could be the exception to the rules. Maybe...he could be more.
ATM
Guy shook his head at something asked. Boxer Boy twisted his gaze from me, then put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and steered him away from me.
ATM
Guy ducked his head and followed in the shadow of the bigger guy.
Round one went to Boxer Boy, but I wasn’t done.
My life, Amanda’s life and the murders of my family rested on
ATM
Guy. No way was he getting away from me. Ignoring my nervousness, I hiked the bag on my shoulder and went after them.
The chain-link fence rattled as I dropped over the side and stuck my landing. Boxer Boy climbed into the driver’s seat of a Lamborghini, and
ATM
Guy climbed in the passenger side. Thanks to Danny’s love of everything auto, I knew it was an Aventador Roadster. These guys weren’t just rich. They were disgustingly loaded, which meant if
ATM
Guy wanted to hide, I’d be screwed trying to find him. Boxer Boy put the car in gear. The tires spit dust and gravel as the vehicle took off.
Today was Friday. I had three days to come up with another plan, but I hoped
ATM
Guy was a routine dude, hoped Monday afternoon I’d find him at Tron’s, hoped he’d help.
Too bad for me, I should have remembered rule number three:
hope
is just another way to spell
dead
.
Saturday afternoon, I sat under the shade of the tree, far enough away from the other park goers to be left alone but close enough to feel the warmth of their lives. Pulling my knees to my chest, I took a sip of my drink and took out the fries. These were for lunch. Half the burger for dinner. The other half for breakfast.
I tried to take my time, but French fries didn’t make for slow eating. They got cold too quickly. I stuffed them into my mouth as fast as I could. My intention was to come up with an alternate plan to enlisting
ATM
Guy. I wanted to concentrate on the problem, but something distracted me.
A dog.
No, not a dog.
A puppy.
Bulldog face, basset-hound body. She—it was a she; I knew it from the pink collar—shouldn’t be that cute. It was too weird a breed mix. But the gray spots on her white body were a masterpiece to me. She was all paws and ears, running with the awkward grace of a newborn.
I was so intent on her, I didn’t see the danger until it was too late. Didn’t sense the predator until I had no other role to play but prey.
But he was suddenly there, silver tips on his black cowboy boots. And then he was crouching in front of me, my image reflected in his mirrored shades.
“I’ve seen you around,” he said, his voice rough from nicotine, his nose raw from cocaine.
My survival instincts kicked in, told me to stay quiet.
“You alone?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
He smiled. “You’re shy. I like that.” He settled on his butt.
The fries in my stomach heaved. I’d lived through a lot on the streets—getting caught in the crossfire of gang fights, hiding in garbage cans to avoid cops. Through it all, I’d managed to stay away from guys like him. And now, because of a puppy and the yearning for a life lost—I was the fly in his web. If I wasn’t careful, this guy would drain me of more than my blood.
“I’m shy too.”
Not with his fists, he wasn’t.
Or his belt.
Or his boots.
Or the rat.
“You look like you’re all alone.” He shivered as though a cold wind had touched him.
It hadn’t. That’s because it was howling through me.
“I can help,” he said. “I’ve got a place.” He shifted closer.
