The Bodies We Wear (12 page)

My head snaps up in surprise.
Honey bunny?

How is it possible that Chael could know that? He said those very words to me.

There were only six people there that night. Rufus. Trank. Ming. Phil. Four men. Two victims. Christian and me.

My father called me that, but he’s dead.

Christian’s dead.

Where does Chael fit in?

I turn and run back to the front of the church, hoping that Chael is still there. But the street is empty. The light shines down on emptiness.

I jog down to the end of the block but he’s not there either.

“Chael!” I scream, but not too loud. I don’t need to wake up the entire neighborhood.

I hear nothing but the sound of the rain as it falls harder.

“Chael!” I repeat. I look around and slowly start walking back toward the church. No familiar figure appears and by the time I reach the door, I have my key back in my hand. I twist the lock, grimacing when the door squeaks as I push inward.

I turn again, looking out once more onto the empty wet street.

“Christian,” I whisper.

I made it to bed without incident. I didn’t sleep.

There is no way Chael could have been there. He’s not one of them, my enemies. I know them better than I knew my own mother. I’ve spent a lifetime following them. Besides, Chael is too young. He would have been Christian’s age six years ago.

But he’s not Christian. Christian’s dead.

So who is he?

In the middle of the night, I slip out of bed and go into the back of my closet, where I keep my photo album. There are only a few pictures there. One of them is of Christian and me. It was taken shortly before his death. The two of us were at his house and his dad was trying out his new camera. I’m smiling, big and goofy, and Christian has his arm around me. I look like the happiest kid in the world even though my dress is secondhand and my hair is held back with a ponytail holder I found in the Dumpster. I was so thrilled that Christian had his arm around me and I planned on taking that picture to school and telling everyone he was my boyfriend. I carry the photo back to bed with me and light a candle. By the small flicker of light, I stare at it for the longest time.

Christian’s hair. Dark chestnut brown. His eyes. Green. His smile. White and pretty. Beautiful and dead.

It’s not possible.

I went to his funeral. Gazer held my hand. Christian’s parents were kind to me. They hugged me tightly and even offered to take me home with them. They’d heard by then about what my mother did and thankfully she wasn’t invited. But I declined. The hatred and desire to seek revenge were already embedded in my brain. Gazer had promised to teach me how to fight. As much as I loved Christian’s parents, I knew my future didn’t involve being their adopted daughter.

But I would get revenge for their son.

As the candle burns down, I trace my fingers along the initials scratched into the bedside table. Christian’s name.

Not Chael’s.

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out the flyer that the girl with the red umbrella gave me. Opening it, I stare at Arnold Bozek’s face. His short blond hair and glasses. His smile is big and toothy. The nerdy image of someone who would never take Heam but has gone missing just the same. The little girl accused me of keeping him from her.

“You talked to him right here. Under this light. I saw you!”

As God is my witness, I’ve never talked to Arnold Bozek. I remember when she called out to us and Chael suggested we go grab a cup of coffee. He’d been nervous and pulled the hoodie up over his face but that didn’t mean a thing. He’s always doing restless stuff like that. That has to be the night she’s talking about. There wasn’t any other. I don’t understand how the Red umbrella girl could possibly mistake Chael for Arnold. They don’t look a thing alike.

There are too many questions going through my mind. Funny enough, I don’t think about Trank. His death isn’t what’s keeping me awake. If anything, his death is a relief. It’s one less person I have to follow. One less monster out on the streets. I’m glad he’s dead.

When morning comes, I must look like a zombie. Gazer sits down while I’m at the breakfast table, my cheek leaning against my coffee mug in a pathetic attempt to try to keep my face elevated.

“Rough night?”

I look at Gazer in alarm but he’s not even paying attention to me. He picks up the paper and opens it. I really pulled it off. He thinks I stayed home.

“Didn’t sleep well,” I say.

“Maybe you’re doing too much,” he says, and he goes over to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. “You should take a break. All this work you’re doing. You’re too young to look that awful.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say.

“I’m serious,” Gazer says. He comes over with the coffeepot and refills my cup. “Take today off. I don’t want to see you go down to the basement. Go do something fun. Go to the mall or something. Whatever it is normal girls do. Get a manicure. Go to a movie. Do you need money?” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out some bills, and drops them on the table in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You need to do this more often,” Gazer says. “Take breaks. They’re good for the soul.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in souls?” I say as I pocket the money.

“Figure of speech. Now, what do you feel like for breakfast? I’m in a cooking mood. Maybe some pancakes? Or how about an omelet?”

“Do we have hash browns?”

Gazer goes over to the fridge and checks the freezer area. “Not sure. When’s the last time we cleaned this thing out? I think there’s a frozen dinner here from ten years ago.”

“If the stupid machine stopped breaking all the time, we might be able to put fresh food in there,” I suggest. As soon as the words are out, the fridge shudders and dies. Neither of us looks surprised. It’s a daily event around here.

Gazer gives the machine a swift kick and it jolts back to life. One of these days it will probably throw in the towel for good and Gazer and I will be forced to live on crackers and chocolate bars for a month or two before we’re able to find a cheap enough replacement.

“Maybe we’d better stick to pancakes,” Gazer suggests. “Doesn’t that come in a box? Besides, I’m not sure we have eggs.”

I get up and poke around in the cupboards until I find the instant pancake mix. Gazer finds some milk that isn’t expired. Together we manage to come up with a breakfast that doesn’t look like it will give us massive heartburn or food poisoning.

It’s a miracle that we’ve both managed to stay alive this long, considering that our cooking skills together match those of a child mixing dirt in the sandbox. But the pancakes come out almost fluffy and not too badly burned and I find a bottle of syrup sticking to the bottom shelf in the fridge.

“Not bad,” I say through my first mouthful of pancake.

“I should have sent you to cooking classes,” Gazer said. “I’m not sure what this private school is teaching you if you think this dreck is tasty.”

“I never said it was tasty,” I said. “But it is edible. That’s better than we manage most days.”

Gazer laughs and I pour more coffee.

I like mornings like this. It’s almost enough to take my mind off of last night’s events.

Almost.

A strange noise fills the kitchen area. Someone has just rung the buzzer. Gazer looks at me with surprise. “Wonder who that could be. Are you expecting anyone?”

“Nope,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.

I don’t follow Gazer to the door. I stay in my chair although my legs start to twitch and I fight an uncontrollable urge to get up and run. This can only be bad news. No one ever comes to visit us since neither of us actually has friends. Gazer parted ways with his old life before I ever met him. There used to be a few guys from the force that would drop by from time to time but eventually they stopped coming around. As time moved on, so did they.

Gazer opens the door and I can hear low voices talking back and forth. A few minutes later, Gazer returns, and he’s being followed by two cops in black uniforms.

Uh-oh.

“Faye,” Gazer says, and I can see the anger boiling over in his eyes. “These officers would like to have a word with you. Something about a party last night?”

I’m so boned.

We go into the living-room area to sit down since the kitchen table is full of leftover pancakes. Suddenly the smell of maple syrup is a tad overwhelming. The two officers have identified themselves as detectives Daily and Aggett.

I sit down on the chair and the officers take the couch. Gazer stands over by the bookshelf and he won’t even look at me. He asks if the cops want any coffee and they politely decline.

Daily is older and fat. He’s of average height but he looks taller because of his girth. His belly sticks way over his belt and his forehead is beaded with sweat even though the church is cool. His mustache is trimmed and neat. He wears a ring on his finger and I wonder if his wife is concerned about his health. Does she lie awake at night worrying about him getting killed on the job or is she trying to come up with healthy choices to keep his heart beating a few more months?

Daily pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead quickly before opening up a notebook with his pudgy fingers. “We just want to ask you a few questions,” he says, and his voice is friendly enough.

“Am I in trouble?” I ask. I keep my voice high and breathy, trying to sound worried and slightly confused. I’ve decided to go for the innocent-girl look. It’s worked for me before. I look over at Gazer and he’s glaring at me. He knows exactly what I’m doing. But he’s not the person I’m trying to convince.

“That depends on where you were last night.”

Now I’m really boned. I could lie and say I was here last night, but Gazer will immediately know I’m full of it. But will it be enough to convince the police?

I look over at Detective Aggett and discover he’s not paying attention to us. He’s staring at the rows of wooden pews and the dirty stained-glass windows that make up our living area. He’s uncomfortable. Maybe he was an altar boy at one point. Maybe he wore the long robe and stood uncomfortably on the platform, wishing he were anywhere except there. I find that people with strong religious backgrounds have trouble being in our house. They look around at the marble and unpolished wood and find it sacrilegious that anyone would ever want to live here. Then when they see that we’ve put a couch and chair where the altar used to be, they have to clamp down to try to keep the lectures out. Aggett has that look on his face right now. He wants to ask us why we’d ever defile a house of God with our philosophical books and small color TV that no longer works.

I’d be grinning at him in amusement if it weren’t for the fact that this is supposed to be serious.

“Faye?”

I look away from Aggett and see that both Gazer and Daily are staring at me.

“Um … yeah?”

“Where were you last night?” Daily asks again.

“I was home,” I say. “Here. All night.”

I’ve decided to lie. Might as well go all out.

Daily opens up his notebook and flips through a few pages until he finds what he’s looking for. “We’ve got a report of a party last night. A girl matching your description did some damage there. Do you know anything about that?”

“What kind of damage?” I ask.

“Seems like there was a fight,” Daily says, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. “This girl took on a few drug dealers. Kicked their asses halfway across the room if you’ll pardon my language.” He laughs. “Never thought I’d live to hear a story like that. Gotta wonder what these kids are smoking these days.”

“Really?” I say looking straight at him. I don’t dare glance over at Gazer. I won’t be able to keep a straight face if I do. “Wow.”

“One of the dealers ended up dead,” he says, and I immediately lose the smile.

“I’m sorry, officers,” Gazer interrupts. “What does this have to do with Faye?”

“A few kids mentioned her name,” Daily says. “Personally, I think it sounds impossible, but we have to follow all leads, as you remember.”

Gazer nods and I realize he must know these cops. At least Daily. He can’t possibly know Aggett; he’s too young. But Gazer probably worked with Daily back in the day before he turned in his badge. This could be good on my behalf. If Daily respects Gazer enough, he might not follow this lead through as much as he would someone else. I can only cross my fingers and hope.