The Indigo Thief (23 page)

“What’d you expect?” I asked. “I bet the poor guy can’t swim.”

Sparky shook his head. “Negative. He can swim fine. He just lacks the motivation.”

I shrugged. What’d he expect from a sloth?

Copters buzzed overhead, and a couple of bombs fell on the island, shooting up sand clouds like fireworks. If we were hit too many times, I worried New Texas would dissolve like the Caravan.

Dove smacked Sparky’s butt. “Get in there, already.” Sparky hurried toward the fort.

“Is he the only one that can drive?” I asked.

“Sort of.” Dove shrugged. “I drive the boats, mostly, and Bertha flies the planes. Sparky drives the island.”

“So there’s no one else who can drive this thing?”

“Well, Bertha thinks she can do everything… But trust me, you don’t wanna see her try.”

More bombs fell from overhead, and pieces of the island splintered off into the ocean. Then thunder roared—actual thunder—and it began to rain. The few flaming Caravan boats that remained flickered as the raindrops doused their fires.

The island lurched forward, and I fell to the ground. Dove threw me a hand. The look on his face told me Bertha was driving. Then I heard it: mariachi music roaring over the thunder, trumpets blaring and guitars strumming over loudspeakers. The Federal copters hovered in the air, clearly confused.

“Crap,” muttered Dove. “She snuck out one of those too?” I raised an eyebrow. “She’s been sneaking stuff out all day,” he explained. “Every time we go to the Caravan she takes as many things as she can, and paddles them back to New Texas. Did she make you take some pastries?”

“She tried.”

“Figures.”

The island’s engines groaned as we hurtled past the Federal ships. Waves crashed in our wake as the copters buzzed overhead, no longer stunned by the screaming loudspeakers, and eager to drop more bombs like lightning. Dove pulled me to the fort and up a spiral staircase.

“Control room,” he explained, his chest shaking as he fought to catch his breath.

We found Bertha reclining in a rolling chair, her fingers clacking furiously at a keyboard while she stared intently through a panoramic windshield that circled the room. Holographic widgets cluttered her vision, and Sparky stood beside her, tapping them with worried looks. Phoenix stood in the back, his brow furrowed, and Mila sat hunched in the room’s corner. The group seemed oddly casual, as if it wasn’t a big deal that Feds were circling us with guns and bombs.

Mila glanced up at us as we entered. “Kindred’s making muffins.”

Sparky snapped his head around to face her. “Chocolate chip?” he asked.

“Nah, blueberry.”

Bertha slammed her fists on the keyboard. “Damn it!”

“What’s wrong, Big Bertha?” asked Phoenix, worried.

“We’ve had frickin’ blueberry for the past two weeks, that’s what wrong!”

Sparky echoed her sentiments. “Affirmative.”

Mila rolled her eyes. “Give me a break.”

“And give me some damn chocolate chips,” added Bertha, fingers still clacking against the keyboard.

A widget blinked furiously on the screen as Sparky tapped a hand to the glass.

“What’s wrong?” said Phoenix. He’d yet to acknowledge my existence, and the promise he’d made to Vern still loomed fresh in my mind.

Sparky glanced at the screen nervously. “Uh… low gas.”

“How is that possible?”

“Er… well, you see… the thing is, actually… we were chasing the Caravan for quite a while, you know?”

“You went whale-watching again,” said Phoenix. “Didn’t you? You wasted our gas looking for whales.”

“It was all Kindred’s idea!” said Sparky. “She thought it might be nice to see them. Tim wanted to, too!”

Tim smiled and stuck out his tongue ever so slightly.

“Nice work, Slothy,” said Bertha, shaking her head.

Phoenix yanked her away from the keyboard. “I need you to go into the armory and get us the biggest guns we have. If we can’t outrun the Feds, we’re going to have to shoot them down.”

Bertha hurried down the staircase, and Phoenix pushed Sparky into the now-vacant captain’s seat. “You drive,” he said. “And figure out to how to turn off that damn music.”

“Yeah—of course!”

Phoenix turned to Mila. “Help Bertha with the guns. You too, Dove.” They raced down the stairs. He grabbed my shoulder. “You all right, Kai?”

I shook off his hand. “Peachy.”

“Not peach-y,” he said, smiling, “but blueberry.”

He might’ve had the muscles, but god, he lacked the jokes.

Bertha returned from the armory, breathless. In one hand, she held an assault rifle; in the other, three black orbs. “Bombs,” she explained.

Kindred appeared in the doorway. “Blueberries!” she called. “Blueberry muffins!”

“We don’t need blueberries right now,” said Bertha, shaking the orbs. “We need bombs.”

Kindred pursed her lips. “Oh, dear.” She offered me a muffin and whispered in my ear. “Someone didn’t get all nine hours of her beauty sleep.”

“I’M BEAUTIFUL, DAMN IT!” shouted Bertha.

Kindred hurried from the room, leaving the muffins on the table. Mila and Dove appeared in her place, bullets strapped to their chests. They tossed Phoenix a gun. “Let’s go.”

“You stay here with Sparky,” Phoenix said to me before hurrying down the staircase.

Sand flew in bursts on the beach as more bombs were dropped. I watched out the window, eating my muffin, as the four Lost Boys raised their weapons and fired at the sky. A copter burst into flames.

“Hand me a muffin,” said Sparky from the controls. I tossed him one and he swallowed it in a single bite.

A familiar voice cracked over the computer’s radio. “Captain Vern to the Lost Boys,” it said. “Lost Boys, do you read me? Over.”

Sparky pointed to a mic left of the desk, and I pressed a button on its side. “Uh, roger that,” I said. “Lost Boys here. Over.”

“You boys still in the fire? We’ve still got a couple of birds around our neck. Trying to take care of them as we speak. Over.”

Birds? Did he mean helicopters? Bad guys? What was he talking about? Birds were close enough to helicopters, so I just went with it. “Uh, yeah,” I said. “We’ve got a couple of falcons on our tail here, too.” Another copter skidded onto our shore, bursting into flames. “The falcons are on fire. Over.”

Silence on the other end. “Uh… what was that last bit?”

If this man wanted me dead, I figured I deserved to have a little fun at his expense. “Falcons on fire,” I said again. “Flames and fireworks, too. Looks like a big bad blueberry muffin, if I had to guess. Whiskey. Hotel. Alpha. Tango. Over. Do you read me, Sarge? I SAID, DO YOU READ ME, SARGE?”

Sparky covered his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Uh… come again?”

“Roger that, Vern. Base to Vern. Delta. Alpha. Kilo. Blueberry, pumpkin-pumpernickel-strudel-peach pie. Over.”

“Err… what? There must be some static, or something bad with the connection. We have no idea what you’re trying to say—”

“ALPHA, KAPPA, FALCON, FAHRENHEIT. OVER.”

“We’ve contained the threat,” Vern said, grunting—obviously tired of my charades. “They must’ve known where we were. There’s a rat, I suppose. No other way they could’ve found us in the middle of the Pacific. Maybe they caught one of our fishermen—I don’t know. We lost four of our floats. The rest are free-floating at sea. We’ll be lying low for a while now.”

He sucked in a breath. “And who exactly am I speaking with? Over.”

I jabbed Sparky in the arm. “Sparky,” he shouted. “You’re speaking with Sparky. Over.”

“Right, then, Sparky, tell Phoenix you’re clear for the raid. The safe house in the Suburban Islands will host you. Be nice to Gwendolyn for us, won't you? Over.”

“Roger that,” said Sparky. “Over.”

“That’s all from the Caravan, then.” Vern paused for a second. I could still hear him breathing on the other end of the line. “And Sparky?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Tell Phoenix I expect him to honor our promise.”

My chest felt tight, my head dizzy, and sweat gathered on my forehead.

“And what’s that, sir?” asked Sparky.

“Just give him the message. Vern and the Caravan signing off. Over.”

The speaker buzzed as the radio searched for a signal. Sparky turned to me. “You know what he promised?”

I shrugged. But inside, the weight of Phoenix’s promise hung heavy on my shoulders. No, not my shoulders—my neck. Phoenix’s promise hung around my neck like a noose. It was hard to breathe when I thought about it. I reminded myself again of my mission. My own promise to myself to find Mom and save Charlie.

If Phoenix thought he’d kill me, I’d make sure
he
died first.

Charlie stood at the edge of her bed with a rope wrapped around her neck. Its soft white coils caressed her throat’s flesh, beckoning her to step forward. Just a little step. Her arms dangled at her sides, and she prayed Sage would soon come. Her stomach snarled; the food they’d given her had been spoiled and putrid. When she touched her cheeks, she could feel the hollows that had formed.

Here, alone, she’d had a lot of time to think the past few days. She thought mostly about her home and the other kids back at H.E.A.L.

Claire’s front tooth had been loose for a week the morning she left with Kai. “I’m sellin’ this for a grapefruit,” Claire had declared, flicking the tooth between two fingers. Charlie tried to explain you couldn’t sell a tooth for grapefruit, but Claire didn’t listen. She said her mom told her lemons were pieces of the sun, and that if you ate one, it warmed you from the inside out. Charlie asked why she’d wanted a grapefruit, then.

Claire shook her head. “If lemons are pieces of the sun,” she said, “then I think, maybe, grapefruit are pieces of the sun’s heart. They’re yellow, too. And bigger. And pink on the inside.” Claire said that if she had a piece of the sun’s heart, she could give it back to him—and in exchange, he could give her a piece of her own heart back.

Charlie asked which piece, and Claire said her mom.

Charlie remembered the days when she’d wished for her own mom—actually, she still did. But time had smoothed the gaping hole left by her mother’s euthanization.

She thought about Kai, too. The boy who could hold his breath for nearly three minutes yet still insisted on wearing a pair of cheeseburger socks to feel brave. She missed his caramel brown eyes, warm like cocoa, not the cold Indigo blue irises of adults. She missed the way he played with her chopsticks, and his hands got sweaty when he talked to her. The way he tried to wipe them off on his pants and probably thought she didn’t notice. The way he looked at her and listened, like everything she said was important. Most people just couldn’t listen like that.

There was a hard rap on the door, and Charlie shut her eyes tight, wondering if she should let her tongue hang out. She’d never seen a corpse before, and thought their tongues might hang out.

The slot slid open.

“Bed checks!” Sage called. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief.

“Bed checks!” she called again. Charlie stood silent. It was all part of the plan. The door swung open with a screech, and Sage walked over to her bed.
You okay?
she mouthed.

“I’m fine,” Charlie whispered.

“I NEED A BODY BAG FOR CELL SIXTEEN,” Sage shouted. “WE’VE GOT A PRISONER HANGING FROM THE RAFTERS.”

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hall, and Sage’s arms wrapped around Charlie’s legs. “I’ve gotcha,” she whispered, and Charlie stepped off the bed as the rope’s pressure tightened on her throat, held off only by Sage’s arms lifting her slightly from below.

It had to be done this way. Her face had to look a bit purple. The guards wouldn’t believe it otherwise. Eddie, a guard with a bad knee and a birthmark on his face shaped like a turtle, wheezed outside the doorway. He held his knee in one hand, and a body bag in the other. “Jesus,” he said, cracking it open. “Already? I thought this one had more fight in her.”

Sage shook her head. “The pretty ones always go fastest. Like flowers, the bigger the blossom, the sooner it wilts… You got the scissors, Ed?”

He shook his head, and Charlie heard his footsteps trudge slowly down the hall. What was the rush, after all? She was already dead, and he was paid by the hour. She made a sputtering sound, and Sage lifted her a bit higher in the air. Sage was stronger than Charlie would’ve guessed.

The drag of Eddie’s footsteps echoed in the hall as he returned. Charlie heard him fiddle with the rope above her. It snapped when he cut it, and she fell onto Sage, knocking them both to the floor. She bit her lip to keep from panting, but her lungs screamed for more oxygen.

Sage stood quickly, grabbed the body bag, and threw it over her. “To the furnace?” she asked Eddie.

“Nah, computer says this one goes to the mortician.”

“Right, then. I’ll bag her and bring her down there.”

Eddie moved toward Charlie. “I’ll help,” he said. “Nothin’ better to do, ’cept maybe get my yogurt from the fridge. The missus made it for me.”

Sage wrapped Charlie’s torso in the bag. “Really, I’ve got it,” she said. “I can drag her down just fine on my own. Besides, I heard Rhonda’s been eating other people’s stuff from the fridge. Might wanna check on your yogurt.” Eddie hurried down the hall.

“You okay?” Sage whispered to Charlie.

“F-fine.” Charlie sucked in a series of breaths. “Th-throat just hurts. Hard to breathe.”

“That’s understandable.”

“W-where do we head now?”

Sage pointed to the bag. “Lay down here, and I’ll drag you.”

“You’re taking me to the mortician?

“No, the garbage chute. There’s a column that runs along the edge of the building. It’ll take us to the first floor. Then we’ll get out.”

Sage wrapped Charlie up in the bag, then dragged the bag down the hall, past the desk, and into the corridor. She hurried across the tiled floors before reaching the room with the chute. After exchanging a few words with a custodian dumping bags of trash, she was left alone with Charlie and the body bag.

Charlie peeled herself from the bag, and Sage pointed to the chute. “You go first,” she said, tearing the bag into two pieces. “Take one of these. It’ll help break your fall.”