Fortune (9 page)

He turned and started off. The woman stopped him. “What was she trying to help you with that almost got you killed?”

“That's none of your business.”

“Some of the other boys gave you that shiner, didn't they?”

“What if they did?”

The woman's lips lifted. “Skye always roots for the underdog. She can't stand to see other people being mistreated. I think it's because she's been the underdog so often.”

“That's her problem. I don't need any help.”

“I can see that.” Her gaze seemed to see much more than his surface bruises as it settled on his face—she seemed to see clear to his soul. He shifted uncomfortably.

“There's nothing wrong with needing help,” she said softly.

“I don't need help.” He scowled as ferociously as he could. “Especially hers. Just keep her away from me.”

He took a step backward, then with a final glare, swung in the direction he had come.

“I'll tell your fortune for free, if you'd like. To repay you for your trouble.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “No, thanks. I already know what my fortune is. I don't need some sideshow huckster to tell me.”

She arched her eyebrows. He sensed, rather than saw, her amusement. “Really? Are you a clairvoyant?”

“I don't need to be.” He tipped his chin up, daring her—or the whole fucking world, for that matter—to defy him. “I know what my fortune is, because it's in my own hands. And I know I won't let myself down.”

“And you're the only one who won't. Is that it?”

“That's right.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose you're going to tell me differently?”

“Not me. Life's rough all over.”

Something in her knowing expression grated. He narrowed his eyes. “Screw you. Leave me alone.”

Again he turned and started to walk away. Again she stopped him, though she spoke so quietly he could hardly make out what she said. Even as he told himself to keep walking, he swung to fully face her. “What did you say?”

“Forgive the man with the long beard and plain ways, he was only doing what he thought best.”

She was talking about his uncle Jacob.
Prickles ran up his spine.
How did she know about him?

A trick, he told himself. She had looked him over; she probably knew about the circumstances of his coming on at Marvel's and had figured out his background. People like her, who made their living tricking people, were adept at putting two and two together in a convincing way.

Hell, considering that they had been in the heart of Amish country, it wasn't even that good a trick. He told her so.

She simply smiled. That small, knowing smile bugged him, and he stiffened, angry. Defensive. “You, lady, are a fraud, your powers are no more than a parlor trick. A sideshow gag. In life what you see is what you get. Period.”

At his own words, his mother's image filled his head. With it, thoughts of her and all the things she had seen and wanted. All the things she had never obtained.

As he looked at Madame Claire, he thought—believed in his gut, startlingly—that she knew exactly what he was thinking. That she, too, could see his mother as clearly as he did.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he backed away, understanding now why all the other troupers steered clear of Madame Claire. Understanding her power over them.

“Just leave me alone,” he said finally when he had found his voice. “And keep your brat daughter away from me, too.”

S
kye sat cross-legged on the bed, her sketch tablet before her, open to a drawing in progress. It was a drawing of a toad—an ugly one with warts and a distorted face. He was cowering before another creature, a princely, handsome frog, one complete with bulging muscles and a gold crown.

Skye selected an emerald green pencil and carefully added a few final strokes of color to her handsome frog. She had been working on the drawing for days. It was for Chance. A peace offering. An apology.

The toad was Len. The frog Chance.

And she was the pesky little fly, buzzing around his head.

Skye frowned, remembering the way she had acted and the things he had said to her. In truth, in the past week she had thought of little else.

You're a know-it-all and a pest. You're ruining my life. I want you to buzz off, scram, get lost.

Make me. It's a free country, and if I want to follow you I will.

Skye moaned, her cheeks hot. How could she have acted that way? How could she have been such a jerk? Such a spoiled brat, just like he'd called her?

Skye moved her gaze over the drawing. She had only wanted him to like her. She had only wanted to be his friend.

She still did.

Tears stung her eyes and she tossed the colored pencil back into her box. She hated that. She hated that she cared what he thought about her. That she wanted him to like her. She had never given two flips what anybody thought about her before, and she didn't like the way caring made her feel.

Really crappy. Like something that had crawled out from under one of the show's Port-o-lets. Ugly and unlikable. No, she corrected herself. Unlovable.

That's what she was—unlovable. The only person who had ever loved her was her mother. Even her father, despite what her mother said, hadn't loved her. He hadn't wanted her.

Skye squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the tears. The other day, after Chance left, she had told her mother everything. And her mother had sided with Chance.

That had hurt. Her mother had always sided with her before; she had always championed her daughter—even times when Skye had landed in the principal's office. Skye had believed she always would.

That, more than anything her mother had said, made Skye see how badly she had behaved.

Skye drew her knees to her chest and pressed her face to them. She
had
been a bossy, little know-it-all pest. A big creep, she thought, her chest aching.

She didn't like
her
either.

But she still liked Chance. She still wanted him to be her friend.

He wasn't like the other boys with Marvel's. He was smarter, for one thing. He worked harder, he didn't drink or smoke pot or chase the local girls. And he always smelled good, even when he was working. She hadn't figured that one out yet; the other boys sometimes smelled so bad she wanted to retch.

She liked his smile and the way he laughed. She liked the way he had faced down Len and his gross, toady friends—like the hero in a story would. Cool and kind of smart-alecky. As if he wasn't afraid, not one bit.

She sighed. He was the coolest boy she had ever met.

Straightening, Skye cocked her head to the side, assessing her drawing. She labeled the toad, frog and fly, then, giggling, wrote at the bottom:

Frogs rule, toads drool. Or, once a toad always a toad.

I promise I'll never act so stupid again.

That done, she rolled the drawing and secured it with a rubber band, wrinkling her forehead in thought. Now, how did she get it to Chance? She could slip it into one of his pockets or leave it someplace he would be sure to find it. That way, if he didn't like it or if he was still mad at her, she wouldn't have to face him.

Skye shook her head. She was a lot of things, but a chickenshit wasn't one of them. No, she would wait for the perfect moment to approach him. A moment when he was alone but not working, a moment when she didn't think she would aggravate him. The moment when he would be most likely to forgive her. She would hand him the drawing and hope for the best.

 

That moment arrived two days later, at just past 7:00 a.m. Since the carnival didn't open till noon on Sundays, most of the troupers slept in. But not Chance. She saw him leave the deserted mess tent, screwed up her courage and followed him.

“Chance?”

He stopped and turned to her. He didn't look exactly pissed to see her, but he didn't look happy, either. Her cheeks heated, even as she fought the urge to look away in total embarrassment.

She held out the rolled drawing. “This is for you.”

“What is it?”

“A drawing. I…” She stubbed her toe into the dirt, wishing she had taken the chickenshit way. “I acted really…dumb. I'm sorry.”

He unrolled the drawing, stared at it a moment, then lifted his gaze to hers. “I'm the frog?”

She nodded, heart in her throat. “Len's the toad.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “That's cool.”

“Thanks. I just…I…” Her words trailed off. “Gotta go.”

She turned and started off, feeling like about the biggest nerd on the face of the planet.
So much for their being friends. So much for
—

“Hey! Kid? I have a question for you.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

“You really think I look like a frog?”

She didn't know how to answer. She thought he was the coolest, cutest boy ever. But she couldn't say
that.
She stared at him, cheeks on fire, totally, completely tongue-tied.

He grinned. “Lighten up, I was just teasing. I like the drawing. Thanks a lot.” He tucked it into his back pocket. “See you around, kid.”

S
kye awakened with a start. Heart pounding, disoriented, she moved her gaze over the dark bedroom. Something had awakened her, some sound. Like a person clearing their throat or a lock clicking into place.

“Mom,” she whispered. “Is that you?”

Silence answered her. Skye lay back against the pillows, drawing the sheet up to her chin. She had probably been awakened by a sound from the road just beyond the lot, or by a dream she had already forgotten. Sure. It had happened before.

Skye twisted to glance up at the window above her head. She had left it open to let in the nonexistent breeze; she saw that the nearly starless sky still wore the deep black of midnight. From outside came the sound of crickets and cicadas, but little else. It was late, so late that even the rowdiest of the roustabouts had gone to bed.

She lay back against her pillow once more.
Go to sleep, Skye.
It was nothing. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Even as she did, her head filled with thoughts: of Chance, of her mother's jumpiness of late, and of what the end of summer would bring.

She rolled onto her side, then onto her back again, focusing on thoughts of Chance. She had been careful not to pester him. She would stop by to say hi, but she wouldn't hang around offering advice and stuff. If he was busy, she left him alone. And she
never
tagged after him, though she had wanted to.

Little by little, things had changed between them. He didn't get that annoyed look on his face anymore when he saw her; he had stopped telling her to scram. He even smiled at her, once in a while.

Not that she thought he
really
liked her or anything, but she didn't seem to bug him anymore. She supposed he had just gotten used to her; maybe in the same way the other troupers seemed to have gotten used to him.

Secretly, she hoped he had decided she wasn't a know-it-all, spoiled brat. Secretly, she hoped he did, at least, kind of like her. That, she had decided, would be about the coolest thing that had ever happened to her.

Skye sat up and turned on the bedside light. She retrieved her sketch tablet from the floor and flipped through the pages, stopping at the drawing of him she had done a week ago. Her favorite thing to do was sit and draw while he worked a game booth. She drew all sorts of things, but a lot of the time she drew him; this was the drawing of him she liked most.

In it, he looked out at the horizon, at nothing, yet the seriousness of his expression suggested he saw something, something important. She touched the drawing lightly, careful not to smudge the pencil. She traced her finger along the line of his strong jaw, then across his high cheekbone.

He liked her art. He thought she was good. Really good. He had told her so. And he hadn't laughed when she told him she was going to be an artist someday, that she was going to be famous.

Skye's cheeks burned as she remembered telling him that. Afterward, she had wished with all her heart that she could take the words back, but he had been really cool about it. He had told her to keep believing in herself. He had said that someday her belief in herself might be all she had to hang on to.

Skye drew her eyebrows together, recalling his expression. He had looked so determined. And so alone. Swallowing hard, she glanced back at the drawing of him and tilted her head to the side as she studied it. What was he looking at? she wondered. When he stared off in the distance that way, what did he see?

She would never know. Like her mother, Chance had secrets.

Chill bumps raced up her arms. Suddenly, the trailer was too quiet, the night too black. Suddenly, Skye was afraid. She moved her gaze around the room. The shadows in the corners seemed darker, fuller, as if they hid someone. Or something.

Something cold. Evil. Something that watched her.

With a squeak of terror, Skye threw aside her sketch pad, scrambled out of bed and out of the room. Her mother had taken the foldout that night. She would let Skye curl up with her; she would protect her from the dark things.

But her mother wasn't there.

Skye stared at the empty couch, heart pounding. “Mom,” she whispered. Then louder, “Mom!”

Her voice resounded in the empty trailer. Her mother was gone.

She was alone.

The sound that had awakened her, Skye realized. The sound of their front door snapping shut. The sound of her mother leaving.

Her mother leaving.
Skye thought of all the times they had picked up in the middle of the night and moved on. She thought of the things they had left behind each time—furniture, her toys, their food, no matter how full the refrigerator or pantry.

Maybe this time her mother had decided to leave without her. Maybe this time she had decided that it would be Skye she left behind.

Skye couldn't breathe. She curved her arms around her middle, fighting hysteria. What did she do now? What did—

Her mother always took their clothes. Always.
Heart in her throat, Skye raced back to the bedroom. She yanked open the narrow wardrobe, then each of the drawers in the built-in chest, riffling through the contents—her mother's underwear, her favorite blouse, the housecoat she had worn so much the fabric was nearly transparent in places. Nothing was missing.

Nothing except her mother.

Skye wandered back to the open couch. She sank onto its edge. As she did, paper crackled. Frowning, she stood and dug under the rumpled bedding and pulled out a section of newspaper.

She flipped on the light to get a better look. It was the front page of the
Philadelphia Inquirer,
two days old. She stared at the newspaper, something tugging at her memory. That's right. Her mother had picked up the paper at the Laundromat the other day. Skye remembered her taking a section of the paper with her when they'd left.

Skye screwed up her face in thought. After that, her mother had begun acting weird. Jumpy and distracted. Short-tempered.

She quickly scanned the page's headlines:
Reagan Sets Foreign Policy; Train Derails Outside City, Four Killed, Dozens Hurt; Jewelry Designer To Host Benefit; Mob Boss Set…To…Testify.

Mob boss.
Skye's legs began to shake, and she sank to the edge of the bed, rereading that last headline again, then the article accompanying it. The article detailed the start of the grand-jury investigation into allegations made against the head of the East Coast's most notorious crime family.

She had been right. Her mother was on the run from the mob.

Maybe what she had heard hadn't been the sound of her mother leaving, but the sound of her being taken away.

Taken away.

With a cry of terror, Skye jumped to her feet and ran to the bedroom to dress. She would get Chance. He would know what to do; he would be able to help her. She pulled on her denim cutoffs and a T-shirt, folded the piece of newspaper and stuffed it into her pocket, then raced out into the night.

Skye made it to the trailer he shared with the other guys, and not wanting to wake anyone but Chance, went around to the back side, to the window nearest his bunk.

She grasped the razor-thin ledge and stood on tiptoe. “Chance,” she whispered. “Wake up. It's me. Skye.”

From inside she heard a rustle of bedclothes and a moan. She waited a couple moments, then tried again. “Chance, wake up. It's Skye. Wake up, please.”

A minute later his face appeared at the open window. He looked as if he was still asleep. “Kid?” He passed a hand across his face and yawned. “What are you doing out this time of night?”

“I need your help.” She hugged herself hard. “I don't know what to do!”

“What are you talking about?” He eased up the screen, stuck his head farther out and looked around. “It's awfully late. Does your mom know you're ou—”

“She's gone!” Skye cried. “I woke up…I don't know why, except I thought I heard a sound. But it was really quiet…and all of a sudden I had this feeling and…and I was really scared.” Her teeth began to chatter, and she rubbed her arms. “So I went to curl up with her, and she was…her bed was…” Skye burst into tears.

“Oh, geez. Don't cry…” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “Hold on. I'll be right out.”

A couple minutes later, Chance emerged from the trailer. Skye stumbled toward him. “What am I going to do, Chance? How are we going to find her?”

Chance put an arm around her. “Come on.” He led her away from the trailer, to a grassy spot by a scrubby-looking tree. They sat down, facing each other.

Chance caught her hands and rubbed them. “You're getting all upset about nothing. She probably went for a walk.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Here you are, and it's the middle of the night. I bet she couldn't sleep and decided the night air would help.”

Skye shook her head, wiping roughly at her tears. “But she's never done that before! I know she hasn't.”

“How can you be so sure? Maybe every other time you just didn't wake up.”

Skye caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “At first I thought maybe she'd left me for good. But her clothes are all there. But now I…I think she might have been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” he repeated, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Skye, don't you think that's just a little far-fetched?”

“No. Look at this.” She leaned forward and dug the folded newspaper page from her pocket. She held it out. “Here.”

Chance took the paper, unfolded it, then met her eyes. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”

She reached around him and pointed. “This, about the mob guy.”

Chance read it, then shook his head. “You think this has something to do with your mother?”

Skye nodded, tears welling again. “I found it on the sofa bed. She must have been reading it and now…and now she's…gone.”

She started to cry again, but softly this time. “What am I going to do, Chance? I don't have anybody but her.”

He scooted forward, put his arms around her and patted her back. “Look, kid, your mom didn't run away and the mob hasn't kidnapped her. She went for a walk. Or to meet a friend.”

“She wouldn't do that.” Skye pressed her face to his chest, the beginnings of one of her headaches pushing at her. “Besides, you don't understand. I think she's…that we're…I think we're in some sort of trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

Skye rubbed her temples. “I don't know. She won't tell me. But we're…always moving around. We pick up in the middle of the night sometimes and just…go. Don't you think that's weird?”

For a moment he was silent, and Skye tipped her head back to meet his gaze. “Chance? You think it's strange, too, don't you?”

“What I think doesn't matter. Ask your mom.”

“I did. She says we're nomadic adventurers.”

He made a sound of amusement. “Sounds about right, kid. More right than the mob being after you.”

“It's not funny!” She stiffened. “She won't tell me where I was born or what my father's name was. She says he's dead, but that's weird, too. If he's dead, why won't she tell me about him?”

“I don't know, Skye. She must have her reasons.”

Skye moaned, the pain in her head intensifying. She pressed her hands to her temples and squeezed her eyes shut, battling it.

“What's wrong?”

“I get headaches. Bad ones.” She drew in a sharp breath. “I'm okay.”

“Yeah, right. Come on, I'm walking you back. You need some aspirin or something.”

“Wait!” She grimaced as pain knifed through her skull, and her vision blurred. “Did your mom keep that kind of stuff from you? Stuff about your dad?”

Chance laughed, the sound rough. “Hell, no. I wish she had, though. My father was a real prick.” He stood and pulled her gently to her feet. “Come on. I'm getting you home. I'll bet your mom's there, waiting for you. She's probably worried sick.”