Changeling (24 page)

“Do they know what you can do, Noah?”

“They know we’re Changelings, yes.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

Kinsey’s eyes narrowed at me. “What are you thinking, Miss Perkins?”

I was thinking he needed to stop calling me Miss Perkins. “When were you first approached by these people and told they had Aaron?” I asked.

“Two days after they escaped Weatherfield,” Kinsey said. “The kidnappers called me at work. Demanded I go to a public telephone booth a few blocks away and wait for further instructions. The caller told me they knew about the Changelings, they had Aaron, and were sending me proof. The first photo was sent to my cellular that afternoon. I showed it to the boys. A few more days passed before they contacted us again with their demands.”

“Which were what?” I asked.

“Money,” Noah said. “And three favors, the specifics of which we’d be told about as they were needed.”

“You agreed to three blind favors?”
Favor
seemed like the wrong word.
Demand,
maybe, or
blackmail orders. Favor
implied a willingness to go along with it—help given without threat.

“We had to, for time if nothing else. We’ve spent this last week scouring the city, hoping for some trace of Aaron, some hint as to where they might be keeping him.”

“Have you given them the money yet?”

“No,” Kinsey said. “The money is only to be given at the exchange. That was our one demand they compromised on. Favors first, then money for Aaron.”

That was something, at least. “How many favors have you done?”

“Two,” Noah replied. “We’re waiting on a call for the third.”

A chill wormed its way up my spine and tingled across the back of my neck. “Was I one of those favors? The shooting?” Their silent inability to look at me confirmed the question. “Did they hurt Aaron because King missed?”

Noah’s head snapped up, fury narrowing his eyes. He hesitated. “Yes. We got the call five days ago, demanding a very public assassination of you.” His voice wavered as he fought for the words to explain. “We knew of the Rangers through our dad and our combined Scott memories. We didn’t know why they wanted you dead, and they wouldn’t tell us when we asked. At first we refused, so they sent us video footage of them tor-torturing Aaron.”

His voice broke under the weight of the memory. “When I realized I knew you from school and that it could be our way into your life, Jimmy manipulated you into coming into the shop. He put the subliminal suggestion into your head the day before, when he saw you buying paint. We thought if we got close enough, we’d get the opportunity. I just never expected . . . I never thought an old crush would affect me so strongly.”

My stomach ached. I wanted to bolt from the truck, call for help, and get them out of my life. I needed to make my
tumultuous emotions cease once and for all. Clear my head completely of Noah Scott.

“Do the kidnappers know we’re . . . ?” What? We weren’t anything except at odds with each other’s goals.

“I don’t know,” Noah said, understanding my meaning when I didn’t. “Lunch was a mistake.”

I flinched.

He realized how that sounded. “I should have been more careful to limit who saw us together. I don’t know who I’m looking out for. None of us do.”

“What about Weatherfield?”

“What about them?” Kinsey asked.

“Did anyone outside of Weatherfield know the Changelings existed?”

“No, and I’ve done thorough checks on all of our high-level employees, everyone involved in any aspect of the project. There is nothing to suggest anyone I worked with is involved in this.”

Figures. Only an intelligent, high-ranking scientist would forget the most obvious suspects, because he never gave much thought to those below his status. “You only checked high-level employees? What about the janitors? I don’t know about medical research buildings, but in my high school, the janitor heard and saw everything. You wanted dirt, you went to him.”

Kinsey’s skin went ashen. Nope, it hadn’t occurred to him, even after using low-level Jarvis to facilitate the Changelings’ escape. Self-centered bastard.

“We’ll have to look deeper into that,” Noah said.

“Let my people do it,” I said. “They want to help, Noah. We have good equipment and access to police records. They can check it out and get back to us fast.”

Father and son exchanged looks. Kinsey nodded. Noah handed over his phone. I dialed the house number.

“So,” I said as I pressed Send, “what was the second favor you did?” The phone hissed in my ear. The line went dead. “The hell?” I tried again. Same result.

Kinsey plucked the phone from my hand and tested it. “Someone’s blocking our calls.”

“Who?” Noah and I said in tandem.

Kinsey climbed over Noah, rushing toward the accordion curtain blocking the driver’s cab. He pushed it aside, slid into the seat, and cranked the engine. Noah leaned across me and peeked through the blinds covering the sliding counter window. I twisted around to look.

A shadow moved two rows away. Light glinted off metal. Several new cars were in the lot, each one a dark sedan. Also an unmarked black van. I’d seen vans like that before, when the city’s SWAT team didn’t want to be seen coming.

“How did they find us?” I asked.

“Ask your friends,” Noah snarled.

“Get down, you two,” Kinsey said. He shifted and backed up so quickly that Noah and I went sprawling.

I hit the floor on my back, and Noah landed on top of me. Before he could move, Kinsey changed direction. A cupboard opened above us, raining down packets of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise. Noah braced on his elbows, covering
me from the avalanche. Arms around his waist, I held on tight and we huddled on the floor.

A sharp rat-a-tat-tat sound was punctuated by loud pings against the sides of the truck. Gunshots. The truck swerved. Plastic utensils showered down from above, cans and boxes rolled in their cupboards. More gunshots banged against the back door. I screamed.

Kinsey kept driving. The truck bounced and swerved again. Glass exploded up front. I peered over Noah’s shoulder and saw a gaping hole in the windshield. Kinsey had his hand up, shielding his face. We sped up. Turned again. Our tires squealed. I closed my eyes and held Noah tighter.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he whispered. His voice burned my ear.

After all his speeches about trust, had Gage betrayed me? Sent me in alone, only to call the cops? I couldn’t believe he would do that. Simon was the more likely candidate, but he hated cops. Calling them made no sense. None of this made sense.

The only thing I was certain of was that someone had betrayed my trust and used me as bait to catch Noah and the others. Damn them to hell for not trusting me.

The ride smoothed out, still dangerously fast, but the sharp turns stopped. We must have made it out to a freeway. Noah sat up, debris falling all over the place. He offered his hand. I took it, letting him pull me up.

“You okay?” He opened his arms, and I fell into them.

“Not even a little bit,” I replied. My hands bunched in the
fabric of his T-shirt. We swayed with the truck. Air blasted through the broken windshield, hot and humid. I lifted my head and pulled back to look him in the eye. “As far as highspeed chases go, this one isn’t so bad.”

He chuckled. The sound vibrated in his chest and in mine. The truck jerked sideways. We both crashed into the side of the grill, letting go of each other to keep ourselves upright. Noah stumbled toward the cab.

“Hey, watch the turns,” he said. “Where are—Dad?”

His abrupt change in tone alarmed me. I picked my way forward, stepping on and breaking a dozen different condiment packets in the process. Noah leaned over Kinsey, gripping the wheel with both hands, eyes straight ahead. At first I couldn’t figure it out. Then I saw the blood.

Twenty

Getaway

N
oah pressed one hand against Kinsey’s chest, just above his heart. Blood oozed between his fingers and had already soaked Kinsey’s shirt. The older man continued to drive—ignoring us or spaced out from blood loss—intent on the road. From bits of scenery, I guessed we were on I-101 heading south. Traffic was heavier going the other way and sparse in our lanes, which wasn’t surprising given the neighborhoods we were heading toward.

I climbed around Noah, getting into the small space between the two front chairs and the dash. Noah shifted to the rear, his hand still pressing against the wound. I grabbed the wheel with one hand, glad we were on a pretty straight section and not boxed in with cars.

“Keep your foot on the gas, Dr. Kinsey,” I said, easing his hands off the wheel. “I’ll steer, just don’t stop pressing the gas pedal.”

“ ’Kay,” he said. His eyes were glassy, unfocused.

“Okay,” I said. “Noah, when I say, I need you to pull him out of the driver’s seat. We’re going to switch places.” I didn’t
wait for confirmation of the plan. Instead, I slipped across Kinsey’s lap, keeping all my weight on the balls of my feet, practically straddling the steering wheel. My hand slipped and the wheel jerked. Someone in the next lane honked long and loud.

I got us going straight again, then situated my right foot near Kinsey’s leg. Took a deep breath and, “Now, Noah, pull.”

Noah grunted. Kinsey shouted. The body below me moved, brushed, nudged me forward over the wheel. More grunting from beside me was followed by a heavy thud. The instant the seat was empty, I sat down and put my foot on the gas. So far, so good. I inched into the next lane, hoping for a halfway-decent exit ramp in the next few minutes.

On the floor between the front seats, Noah cradled Kinsey in his lap, still pressing hard against the bleeding bullet hole in his father’s chest.

“He needs a hospital,” Noah said.

“No, no hospital.” Kinsey waved one hand in the air, too weak to do little more than verbally protest. “Not too bad, just need rest.”

“What about my house?” I asked. “We have medical facilities, he can get attention there.”

Kinsey growled. “No, back to the hideout. They’re waiting for our call. Aaron. The third favor.”

They still hadn’t clued me in on the second favor, but now wasn’t the time to ask. Once we were safe and Kinsey was out of immediate danger, I’d poke into that viper’s nest.

“No matter where you want to go, we can’t stay in this truck,” I said. “Every cop in the city will be looking for it.”
A bright red import careened into my lane from the left. I hit the brake to avoid rear-ending it, then mashed my hand down on the horn. It bleated like a dying cow. The driver flipped me off and zoomed sideways into the exit ramp.

“What was that?” Noah asked.

“Road rage.” I sped back up, alert for the next exit. We were smack in the middle of one of the worst neighborhoods in Los Angeles, heading toward the big East L.A. Interchange. South toward Huntington Park and Compton was our best bet. Even the city police stayed out of those ravaged neighborhoods.

We needed a car. Finding one was easy. The hard part was getting it to run. “I don’t suppose either of you knows how to hot-wire a car?” I asked.

“King can,” Noah said.

“Not helpful.”

“He can?” Kinsey asked. Pink flecked his lips, making them stand out brightly from his ashen face. His eyes blinked rapidly. Every pavement crack I hit put him in more pain, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.

A peeling billboard, half covered with graffiti and paint, advertised Used Cars, Cheap! at the next exit. Not helpful—wait. A plan formulated. It was a little out of my usual repertoire, and I wasn’t much of an actress, but then Kinsey made an awful sound, something between a cough and a wheeze, and I made up my mind.

I pulled onto the next exit ramp, mindful of every single bump and shimmy. The truck had bad brakes, and they squealed and rattled when I slammed my foot down—the
stoplight at the bottom of the ramp seemed to come out of nowhere. I peeled my aching fingers off the steering wheel. Panic attack was so not on the day’s docket.

“What are you doing?” Noah asked.

“Improvising,” I said.

No traffic, right or left. Nearly a full minute passed; the light did not change. I checked again, then made the left turn, anyway. Half a mile down, I made a right onto a slightly busier street. Foot traffic and beat-up cars, many with rusted roofs and doors, mismatched hubcaps, and dented exteriors. Multifamily homes and the occasional convenience store lined the street.

A few residents waved at the truck, probably hoping for a hot, cheap meal. I kept going, ignoring their taunts and swears as I passed. Houses turned into apartments, apartments into businesses—adult-video stores, groceries, cheap and resale clothing shops, a bowling alley. Farther up, another billboard: Used Cars, Cheap! Bingo.

Kinsey had closed his eyes and seemed to be sleeping in Noah’s arms. The dutiful son just held him, his chin resting on the unwounded shoulder, whispering things over and over into the older man’s ear. I ached for both of them, and for their intense bond. I had loved my mother that way, but she was gone. I wanted to love someone like that again—in an all-consuming way.

I drove past the car lot. It took up half a city block, sandwiched between a Korean deli and a used bookstore. Red and yellow plastic flags adorned every streetlight, strung between them like a party banner. The word
sale
was printed on
every available surface. Another block down, I turned into a narrow alley, barely able to fit the girth of the food truck.

A dozen yards down, a pile of metal trash cans blocked half the alley. I stopped, shifted into park, and turned off the engine. Noah looked up, curious but silent. Fear for his father was his entire existence.

“I’ll be back in less than ten minutes, I promise,” I said. “I have an idea to get us another car.”

His lips parted as if to protest, but he didn’t. He nodded. I winked and then climbed out, slamming the door shut behind me.

Jeans pulled down
lower on my hips and shirt rolled up above my navel, I strolled onto the lot showing midriff and swinging my hips, mimicking Renee’s sexual ease and camping it up. I had let part of my hair down, careful to keep the orange streak beneath the bandana, while still showing enough blond to catch interest.