The Alchemy of Forever (18 page)

He’s on foot now, so I hurriedly lock the bike to a parking meter and take off behind him as he heads east on MacArthur. I hold an umbrella in front of my face like a shield, but he never turns around. He heads into the parking lot of a seedy-looking motel called the Fireside Inn. I’d wager my meager savings that there’s not a working fireplace in the whole building.

Why,
I ask myself,
is Cyrus staying in this dump?
He could have rented a beautiful house in the hills or a brand-new condo downtown. I realize I haven’t seen Cyrus with any other coven member since he arrived. Would they condone what he’s doing? I know that my leaving must have filled him with rage, and I wonder if there was a challenge to Cyrus’s power.
He’s here,
I realize,
because it’s the last place in the world the coven would look for him
. I suspect they have no idea where he is. One thing is certain: Cyrus chose this place because no one would ask him any questions. It’s completely anonymous.

I duck behind a Dumpster, feet slipping in the grime, and press my back to the stucco wall behind me, its surface digging into my shoulder blades. I’m breathing hard, my sodden hair plastered to my cheek. I roughly shove the lank curls underneath my hat and will myself to become part of the stucco, to be invisible, to have the patience of stone.

The November twilight falls even faster in the storm, and it’s soon dark. I wait and wait, eyes trained on door number seventeen, the second-floor room into which Cyrus disappeared.

I almost miss the moment when he walks out, distracted by shouts coming from the street. There are two men, both looking quite drunk, yelling at each other. But my senses are heightened by danger, and the small movement from Cyrus’s door catches my eye. He’s still wearing one of his expensive suits, and couldn’t look more out of place. He glides down the exterior staircase, avoids parking lot puddles, and is gone.

I pull my hat low, put on gloves—can’t leave fingerprints—and crane my neck around the wall, watching him stroll up MacArthur, take a right, and disappear from view.

Scrambling up the concrete staircase, I nearly fall, but just bang my knee. His door is locked, as I knew it would be. Luckily, I know how to pick locks, and the motel is old enough that there’s no electronic key-card system to contend with.

I grab a hairpin from my pocket and coax the lock open in less than a minute. I slip inside and close the door quickly behind me. The cloying scent of pine air freshener assaults my nostrils, and the room is dingy and dark. Nothing here is to Cyrus’s extravagant taste; nothing is as he would have chosen.

But nonetheless, I sense his presence strongly. I can smell the soap he uses, vetiver and cedar, underneath the mustiness emanating from the polyester curtains. I can almost believe in ghosts, the ghosts of the living, as I imagine him here, coming home to this room night after night, fueled by his desire for revenge.

I hear what sounds like a gunshot outside, and instinctively fall to my knees. But it’s only a car backfiring. In the eerie echo that follows, I ache for the normalcy of traffic sounds. But I am caught in silence, its thick, cottony web, only barely able to make out the clatter of rain on the roof. I turn around and silence trails after me, curling up my arms like a living thing.

In front of me is a bulletin board, covered with paper, hastily nailed to the wall, cracking the plaster in miniature canyons. I approach through the gloom to get a better look, my knees going rubbery as I realize what I’m seeing.

It’s a collage of mistakes. The mistakes I made on a foggy night, three weeks ago.

There are two parking ticket notices, dated October 15, the night I ran away, from Minna Street in San Francisco. The place I had parked my car while I was at the party at Emerald City. Photos taken from a distance of a man who looks familiar—it takes me a moment to place him. It’s the man who sold me the car. There’s a newspaper clipping of the police blotter article that mentions the crash, the date highlighted. I pull down a stack of stapled e-mail printouts and sit on the saggy bed, my face crumpling.

There are e-mails that I wrote—the correspondence I had with the Craigslist seller, under an account I created just for that purpose. Cyrus must have hired a hacker to trace all the activity on our IP address. Of course I never thought to use a public computer instead of my own. . . . In my original plan, it wouldn’t have mattered. There would have been nothing left of me to find. I can only assume that Cyrus found out the police were looking for the car because I reported it stolen, and maybe was even able to trace the call to a pay phone outside Berkeley High.

I return the e-mails to the board, taking in the rest. It doesn’t seem as if he knows about Taryn yet, or the book. But there’s a request for hospital records that came up empty.
Thank you, patient confidentially
, I think. At least Cyrus didn’t get Kailey’s name. But everyone has a price, and Cyrus will find the right person to bribe. . . .

There’s one more newspaper clipping, this one yellowed with age. I peer closely—it’s a group shot, with many girls I don’t know. But Kailey’s in it, standing between Nicole and Leyla, an exhausted smile on her face and a number taped to her chest. The caption reads: “Berkeley High School Annual Breast Cancer Walk.” They’re all holding their hands up in the air, wearing identical silver bracelets. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end—the image chills me for some reason I cannot explain.

Sinking back on the bed, I try to think and suddenly feel exhausted. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of light in the dim room. I examine the bedside table. There’s a copy of the Berkeley High yearbook. And tucked halfway underneath it is something shiny. Something silver.

A young girl, maybe sixteen, with tangled blond hair and a silver bracelet around her tanned wrist.

A tug, then a metallic snap as I pull Kailey from the car. I hope I’ve not broken any more of her bones.

Cyrus, staring at my hands.

No one wears watches anymore. Although it seems that you usually do?

I pick up the bracelet, the same one that Kailey’s friends wear. It has a small circular charm on it, one side engraved with an image of a ribbon. And on the back, the engraving 2010
BERKELEY HIGH SCHOOL ANNUAL BREAST CANCER WALK
. Gooseflesh covers my arms as I realize where I first saw it: Kailey was wearing it when she died. I examine the pale line on my wrist from where the bracelet had lain. It must have fallen off during the accident, and when Cyrus went to investigate the intersection where a car was stolen and a girl got into a car accident, he found it there, in the crabgrass along the side of the street. A little white line, a road on a map, leading Cyrus straight to me.

No, not quite. I pick up the yearbook and thumb through it. In thick black marker, some of the faces are crossed out. Piper, Chantal, and Madison are all crossed out, along with plenty of other girls whose names I can’t recall. Nicole’s is also crossed out. I touch the line—the ink seems fresh. But over Kailey’s face is a garish question mark. The sight of it makes my blood feel thick and cold. But even worse is the second question mark, over another girl’s face. Leyla’s.

He’s going through every female student of driving age until he figures out who was in that crash. I’m not surprised that he’s suspicious of me. As clever as I think I’ve been, a small part of him must have recognized me. But Leyla? She has no idea of the danger she’s in.

I snap my head up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They grow louder. Cyrus. He’s home. The jangling sound of keys being pulled from a pocket fills me with terror. Hastily, I put the yearbook and bracelet back on the nightstand, hoping he won’t notice if they’re slightly out of place. I roughly rub my eyes, trying to clear away my tears so I can see clearly.

I look around the room wildly, hearing more rustling sounds from outside the door. The bathroom. It’s my only way out. I run into the small, mildewed room, trying to step softly. The window is shut firmly but I wrench it open, cringing at how loud it is. It will only open halfway, but it’s enough. Barely. The sound of a key sliding into its lock spurs me on. I push myself through the window, feeling a rip of pain as a loose nail rakes my thigh.

I land hard on the concrete walkway below, but scramble quickly to my feet and take off running. I don’t look back and don’t stop till I’m back to the spot where I parked Kailey’s bike.

It’s only now—legs pumping furiously, unsure if my vision is blurred by tears or rain—that the implication of my findings sinks in. I pull the bike over and take shelter under a storefront awning. I sink down on my heels and lean back on the window, holding my head in my hands, sobs wracking my body.

It’s clear to me now. I need to leave. Cyrus is so close to figuring out who I am. But I’m not the only one at risk. He’s suspicious of Leyla and he’s trying to gain Noah’s loyalty. I led him here—if I go, he’ll follow.

I don’t go home, but stay huddled there against the storefront, using Kailey’s iPhone to research the logistics of buying a new ID. I’ve never had to worry about these practical details before; Cyrus always took care of them for me. At first I thought it was kind, thoughtful. But really, it was just another way of controlling me. But it can’t be that difficult—kids do it all the time to buy beer for parties.

There are a few places in East Oakland that look promising. It’s too far to bike, so I leave it locked up outside the store, then head to the nearest BART station. When I get off at Fruitvale, the rain is coming down harder, and there aren’t many people out and about. I’m thankful for this. The few people that I do pass shoot me curious glances. I catch sight of my blond curls in the rippled reflection of a
lavanderia
window and understand why: Kailey looks a bit out of place in this neighborhood.

I finally find the place I read about and go inside. The market is small and jumbled, tall metal shelves leaning unsteadily over the aisles, and no customers in sight. I’m overwhelmed with the smells of cooking meat and cilantro emanating from the rear of the store. I look around uncertainly, then notice a counter near the front.

“Yes?” says the man sitting behind it, idly thumbing through a magazine. He sets it down on the counter, and I’m surprised to see he’s reading
Vogue
.

I take a deep breath. “I’m looking for Lucia?”

The man smiles, deep creases showing around his eyes. “Of course you are.” He hops off his stool and comes around the counter to lead me to the back of the store.

Lucia comes out from the kitchen—she’s younger than I expected, maybe midtwenties. Her lips are very red, and her hair is pulled up in a severe bun.

“What you need, sweetie?
Mica?
No . . . a license?” She nods to the man, and he walks away.

“Yes,” I say. “My favorite bands are always playing twenty-one-plus shows. Can you help?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She raises her eyebrows. “You got cash?”

“How much?”

“Seventy-five. But it’s legit. You can scan it and everything.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and I nod okay.

“Right, let’s go for a walk.” She pulls a raincoat off a peg on the wall, and we head out to the street. We walk a few blocks, and she offers to share her umbrella, but I shake my head no. “Come on, now,” she says, looking at me ruefully. “You’re like a drowned bird. You want to look pretty for your picture.”

We stop in front of a photo studio, its display windows full of glamour shots in elaborate gold frames, all soft focus and dreamy expressions. The inside of the studio is dim and smells faintly of mildew. There are an assortment of backdrops and a rack of frilly dresses. I run my fingers over them, but Lucia heads straight to a door and leads me into another room, with a plain blue screen. I recognize the hue as the background for the California driver’s license headshot.

A man wearing dark sunglasses comes in, his bald head gleaming under the studio lights. He murmurs to Lucia in Spanish: “You sure she’s cool?” I can’t hear Lucia’s response, but he seems reassured.

She brings me a towel to dry my hair.
“Gracias,”
I whisper. I give her my money, and the man takes my photo, then leaves.

“It will be about an hour,” she tells me. “You can meet me at the taqueria.”

“Can I stay with you?” I ask her. I’m hungry.

“You’re pretty new at this, eh?” She laughs at me, but agrees.

As we walk back to the market, I’m lost in thought. Kailey’s hospital records are a problem. Every hour will count when I make my escape, and I can’t risk him finding out who I am before I’m well out of town.

At the taqueria I order two carnitas tacos and sit at the counter on a stool. Lucia cracks open a mango Jarritos soda and slides it over to me. “On the house, sweetie.”

I take a grateful sip. “Hey, Lucia,” I begin. “I have another . . . request. Do you know anyone with computer skills?”

“What, you need help buying concert tickets?”

I smile. “I need to make some information disappear. There’s a hospital visit and a police report that I don’t need my parents finding. They’ll kill me.” I feel my face grow hot and take a bite of the taco, spilling onions onto the paper plate.

“Ah, I see. I do have a friend who’s a total genius with this stuff. I can ask him for you.”

She pulls out a cell phone and disappears into the kitchen. I strain to overhear, but can’t make anything out. After a few minutes she comes back.

“You probably won’t want to pay. He can do it, but he wants a thousand. And he says he can’t make anything on the Internet disappear.” She leans against a refrigerated case of beer and clicks her nails, waiting for my response.