She drew her fist back.
Hesitated.
No. Bad idea. Getting a new left hand wouldn’t mean shit if she fucked up the right one.
Breathing heavily, she gripped the sink’s edge. Her cheeks were burning. She felt sticky all over.
Time for a shower, she thought. Time to flush the sweat away. Loosen some muscles. Feel human again.
She worked the shower faucet. Water spritzed the tub, ice cold at first. She wanted a hot shower, but lukewarm seemed like her best option. She undressed, held her breath, and climbed in.
Once she got past the cool shock of the spray, the water felt good. Not cozy, but refreshing. She grabbed a bar of soap and lathered it in her palm. She closed her eyes, washed her face, and carefully leaned under the spray, making sure to keep her hair dry. Soap rolled down her face and stung her eyes. On instinct, she lifted her empty wrist to wipe it away.
Something scratched her cheek. It felt like a thumbnail.
No. It can’t be.
But then, what was it?
She opened her eyes and screamed.
Screamed with joy.
At the end of her left wrist, under the spray, was a hand. A ghostly, see-through hand. Droplets rolled over it, painting it into view, tracing the dimensions of her fingers. The bumps of her knuckles. The flat of her palm.
Breathless, she bent the fingers. They curled into a soft fist. With nervous excitement she air-guitared under the spray, pantomiming power chords, hammer-ons, and her favorite solos.
The muscle memory was there.
Her heart thumped like an arena-sized speaker. Her knees shook. She started to slip on the soapy tub until she grabbed the curtain rod, removing her watery hand from the spray.
In that instant it disappeared. Trickled down the drain.
“No. Come back!” Panic rose in her throat. She thrust her empty wrist under the showerhead. The hand returned.
She took the longest shower of her life.
Ash waved her wrist beneath the running water in Candace’s kitchen sink. Her phantom hand took form again. Parts of it trickled away, but there was no mistaking the shape beneath the water. And judging from Candace’s silence, Ash wasn’t seeing things.
“See?” Ash closed her fist. “Snare didn’t steal my hand!”
“I don’t see flesh and bone,” Candace said. She reeked of cigs, a whole carton of them.
“Go on, touch it,” Ash said. “It’s there.”
Candace reached under the spout and squeezed the watery hand. Her grip felt hard and hostile. Ash returned the squeeze and managed a clumsy handshake until Candace shut the water off.
The hand dripped away.
“Why’d you do that?”
“I pay utility bills around here.” Candace handed her a paper towel roll. “Dry off and head home.”
“Are we making those trades or not?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“What is there to think about?” As Ash toweled her phantom hand, it disintegrated. Despair clouded her chest. “Earlier you said Snare robbed me. Clearly I got something back.”
“You sure did. If you find a waterproof guitar, you’ll be more famous than McCartney.”
“Candace, watch.” Ash squeezed the wet paper towel over her wrist and her palm reappeared under the trickle of water. “What more proof do you need?”
“That doesn’t prove Snare’s intentions. It’s a magic trick.”
“It’s a preview.”
“Oh, it is. Particularly the part where it vanishes after you get your hopes up.” Candace went into the living room, a wide room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the backyard. When Ash was younger, it had been an awesome spot to hang out on warm summer afternoons. Now the room was frigid. Atop the coffee table a cinnamon candle burned, seemingly the only heat source.
Candace sat on her couch and pulled a blanket over her legs. She grabbed a laptop off the floor. Nine rectangular boxes appeared on her screen: video feeds from the creek cams. Pine branches shook in some of them. Ash could tell by Candace’s brooding demeanor that she wouldn’t be powering them down anytime soon.
“What are you afraid of?” Ash asked.
“I’ve already made myself clear. Now get going. I’m hosting two dinners at the banquet hall tomorrow. I don’t have time to consider gambling with people’s lives.”
“Fine. I’ll go up there myself and rip down your fucking cameras.”
Candace threw her blanket aside, rising to loom over Ash, making her feel half her size. “You go near that creek without my permission and you’ll spend the rest of your life wishing you hadn’t. I’ve taken it easy on you today, but my forgiveness has limits.”
Ash set her jaw.
“This is your last strike, Ash. I suggest you stop swinging.”
27
Trent and Lauren were sitting at the table peeling potatoes when the doorbell rang. Has to be Ash, he thought. With a grunt he lifted himself from his chair and stretched his leg out, slowly rotating the ankle until his muscles slid into place. The doorbell rang again. Lauren offered to get it, but Trent insisted. He needed to get his leg moving one way or another. Plus, he hoped Ash had news about Snare’s eyes.
When he opened the door, he saw frizzy orange hair. Underneath it stood a rocker dude wearing a leather jacket with a green bandanna knotted around his neck. His thumbs were hooked inside the pockets. Dude must’ve been at least twenty-five, but he dressed like a thirteen-year-old who’d just bought his first music mag.
“Let me guess,” Trent said. “You’re looking for Ash.”
“Yeah, man.” The guy pushed his hair back and outstretched a hand. “Name’s Cheeto. And you are…?”
“Trent.” He refused the handshake. “Ash just left.”
“Wait… Trent?” Cheeto squinted as if thinking hard. The guy was probably drugged out of his mind. What a life. “Trent… Trent… You’re the twin brother!”
“Right.”
“Dude!” The weirdo gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Ash talks about you all the time. Usually when she’s drunk, but still, that’s pretty often.”
Trent allowed himself a smile. “I can imagine.”
“Yeah, man, sorry about your leg. That’s rough shit.” Despite touring with Ash, Cheeto seemed pretty chill. “Yo, can I come in? It’s freezing out here.”
Trent stepped aside.
The guy swaggered in and unzipped his jacket. He wore an Overkill t-shirt with a winged-bat logo on it. About a thousand necklaces jangled from his neck. When he yawned, Trent smelled cigs and Big Red.
“So where’s Ashes?”
Lauren called from the kitchen. “Trent? Who is it?”
“Just one of Ash’s boy-toys.”
“I wish,” Cheeto said. Surprisingly, he could take a joke. Jesus. Ash normally surrounded herself with bandmates as morbid as she was.
“Want a beer?” Trent asked.
“Would love one.”
Trent grabbed a couple Blue Moons and led Cheeto into the living room. They sat on the couch and clinked bottles.
“You know,” Trent said, “I’m surprised Ash tours with you.”
Cheeto grinned. “Why’s that?”
“You’re actually likable.”
Cheeto cracked up. “Wow. Thanks, I guess.”
“Back when I played bass with Ash, I couldn’t stand our bandmates.” Trent sipped his beer. “Bunch of morbid fucks. Legit devil-worshipping goons. I only put up with them for the extra cash.” He nodded to his leg. “Then this shit happened.”
“Heard the story,” Cheeto said soberly. “Ash is really sorry about it. For what that’s worth.”
“Nothing—that’s what it’s worth.”
“Dude, it legit bothers her. Pains her.”
“It’s the guilt that pains her, not my suffering. She just hates being responsible.”
“I don’t think it’s that.”
“Then you don’t know her.” Trent gulpe
d his beer. He decided it was time Cheeto saw his lead guitarist in a different light. “My sister only gives a shit about herself. Even right after the accident, while she was visiting me in the hospital, she bitched about having to cancel upcoming shows.”
Cheeto shifted uncomfortably. “This is just my guess, but I think you’re why she guitars as hard as she does. Like she wants to hit it big to make up for what she did to you.”
“That’s not it.” Trent shook his head. “Sounds like she never told you the real reason.”
“Reason for what?”
“Her guitar obsession.” With his thumb Trent smothered a water drop streaking down his bottle. “She ever mention the nickname ‘Trashlee’?”
“Trashlee? What’s that?”
“Ash and me are adopted.” Trent drank. “You know that, right?”
Cheeto nodded.
“For whatever reason, our biological parents didn’t want Ash.” Trent frowned. The next part always gave him a case of survivor’s guilt. “Me, they kept. But her, they got rid of.”
“What do you mean ‘got rid of’?”
“You know what they do to unwanted babies in China?”
Cheeto squinted. “Dude, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m not lying,” Trent said. “Our parents left her in a dumpster. Right behind the diner on Main Street.”
Cheeto cringed.
“I never got the full story,” Trent said, setting his beer down. “Only the basic details, like how we were taken from our biological parents and adopted. We didn’t hear the dumpster story till our Aunt Candace got wasted one night. We were twelve at the time. Later the kids at school found out and started calling my sister Trashlee. It drove her nuts. Ever since, she’s been out to prove the world wrong.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Cheeto said.
“Sure is,” Trent said, glaring at him. “Her ambition, her obsession…it cost me my leg. I’m telling you, Cheeto, watch out. If you don’t, you’ll get fucked over sooner or later.”
“No way,” Cheeto said, his green eyes burning. He slammed his bottle down next to Trent’s. “Look, it sucks what happened to your leg, but that was ten years ago. She’s different now. Still kinda self-absorbed, but the other night she stopped our show so two of our fans wouldn’t get squashed against the railing.”
“What if they were someone else’s fans? Think she’d still do it?”
Cheeto hesitated. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. You said I don’t know her, but you’re wrong, man. I know Ash Hudson. I’d follow her onto any stage, anywhere. And you know what? We got a huge gig on Friday. We’re gonna nail it thanks to her.”
“If I were you,” Trent said, lifting his beer, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“Why not?”
Trent swigged. “Have you seen her hand lately?”
28
After sending Cheeto on his merry way, Trent returned to the kitchen table and cheerfully skinned the remaining potatoes. He hummed Mötley Crüe’s “Don’t Go Away Mad” as he worked. Lauren, stirring gravy at the stove, asked why he was all smiles. After eight tepid years of marriage, she’d finally caught him in the act of being happy.
“Can’t believe what I’m seeing,” she said, removing her glasses and squinting. “Is this really you, Trent?”
“For the moment, yeah,” Trent said, sweeping potato peels into a garbage bag. “Had fun chatting with that Cheeto character.”
“He sounded nice.”
“He is. Good guy, means well… Kinda reminds me of myself before the accident.” Trent winced as his calf muscle spasmed. “Guy’s too trusting, though. I warned him to watch himself around Ash. Might’ve just saved his life.”
“Saint Trent at work,” Lauren said with an amused smile. She tapped her stirring rod on the edge of the pot. The aroma of buttery gravy made his mouth water. “Hey, mind grabbing Jake? I want his opinion on the gravy.”
Trent limped over to the den door. Jake hadn’t made a peep in over an hour, not since Ash brought the beer home. To think Jake enjoyed talking with her… It made Trent sick. Made him furious, too. He couldn’t fathom how his sister had earned Cheeto’s loyalty and Jake’s laughter. She deserved neither.
“Hey, Jake.” Trent knocked. “Mom needs to borrow your tongue.”
Silence. As usual.
“Jake?” Trent tried the knob. Still locked. “Open the door or your iPod’s mine. No more Goosebumps audiobooks till we get back to Jersey.”
Still nothing.
He pressed his ear to the door and heard a scratching, brushing sound but nothing else. Maybe Jake had headphones in. Wasn’t fair to punish him if he couldn’t hear.
“Last chance!” Trent pounded on the door. “Open up!”
Still nothing.
In the kitchen Trent opened the junk drawer, pushed aside some pens and rubber bands, and found a tarnished key ring. He unlocked the den and flinched at the temperature inside. Jesus, it’s cold. Someone needs to start a GoFundMe for Dad’s heating bill. It’s getting ridiculous. Trent noticed the iPod lying abandoned on the couch armrest, the headphones dangling inches above the floor. He scanned the den, unamused by this impromptu hide-and-seek game. Then he noticed the headphones were swinging.
Swinging in the breeze.
Trent turned to the window. The curtains fluttered. He rushed over, holding his breath as he yanked them aside.
The window hung open.
Wide open.
Wide enough for an eight-year-old to crawl through.
29
Berke got off work at four, right when the sky fell dim and the wind blew frigid. Ash found her texting outside Narducci’s Pizza. The girl didn’t seem cold, even though she was wearing nothing warmer than a faded blue Pittston Area hoodie. Ash, meanwhile, shivered beneath her zipped jacket and knotted scarf.
“Ready to hunt some cameras?” Berke asked.
“Let’s do this,” Ash said, hugging herself for warmth. She smelled warm sauce coming from inside and wished someone would dump it on her. “I was over Candace’s earlier. Saw nine camera feeds on her laptop.”
“Nine, huh?” Berke led her around the Downhill Diner, toward the rear parking lot. “I know where most of them are. Last summer I camped near the creek a few times. In the mornings Candace went up there to change the batteries. Her and Mick.” Berke spat his name like it contained E. coli.
“Not a fan of Mick?”
“We went to the same high school.” Berke paused on the sidewalk, fists clenched. “When I was a freshman, he dated my one friend on the varsity basketball team. Then he cheated on her with girls from three other schools. When she played those teams, they reminded her every time she went to the free throw line.”
Ash cringed. “Ouch.”
Berke resumed walking. “Karma got him back, though. Couple weeks ago he got demolished during a football game. Did you see it? The running back from the other team lowered his helmet and—bam!” Berke knocked her fist against her palm. “Mick went down and stayed down. Got a nasty concussion and had to leave the game.”
“Camera question,” Ash said, trying to avoid the subject of brutal injuries. “Are they all within easy reach?”
“Most are hidden within the thicket surrounding the clearing. But one’s above the ledge. We’ll take this trail behind my house and—”
They entered the parking lot and Ash lost track of the conversation. Lost track of everything. She spotted the dumpster. The one her so-called parents left her in. Rusted and dented, the thing had been her cradle thirty years ago. Almost her casket. Seeing it now turned her insides to dust. Her brain knocked against her skull like a madwoman hurling herself around a padded cell.
“Ash?” Berke waved a hand before her eyes. “Hellooo?”
“Y-yeah.” Ash inhaled and turned to face Berke. “You mentioned a ledge?”
“Right. One camera’s above the ledge overlooking the creek.” Berke tugged open the driver’s door on an ancient white Volvo. “We
’ll get that one first. I know a great route through the woods from behind my house. If we hurry, we might reach the creek while it’s still light out.”
They got in the car.
A few minutes later Berke pulled into a concrete driveway on Peak Ave, just seven houses down from Candace’s place. They parked alongside a two-story colonial already decorated with Christmas lights. Berke thumbed her keychain, and the garage door rose to reveal a sweet Mustang Boss.
“Killer ride,” Ash said.
“My dad lets me drive it during the warmer months, but obviously I can’t go far. By the time I hit sixty on the highway, my spine’s buzzing wild.”
“Your spine? I thought traded parts were strict secrets.”
“Crap! Pretend you didn’t hear that.”
“Relax.” Ash waved it off. “Won’t matter after tomorrow anyway.”
Berke climbed out. She went inside the garage and pulled a pair of camo pants from a metal cabinet. Without hesitation, she removed her slacks, showing off toned thighs and strong calves that Ash could only envy. She herself never wore shorts in public and preferred to fuck with the lights off. After Berke dressed, she donned a pair of dirt-caked hiking boots.
“Ready, Ash?”
Behind the house, the woods rose steeply. After topping just one hill, Ash worried her Achilles might snap like an overtuned guitar string. Her knees and thighs roared. When the terrain leveled out, she hugged a birch tree and slid to the ground like a passed-out pole dancer.
“What’s wrong?” Berke asked.
“I’m thirty, that’s what’s wrong.”
Berke laughed. “You’re just outta shape.”
“Bullshit. You should see me onstage.” Ash rubbed her thigh, wincing. “Give me a minute.”
“Up you go!” Berke clapped her hands until her phone vibrated. She checked it. “Uh-oh. A kid went missing.”
“Who?” Ash climbed to her feet, her thigh muscles throbbing as she walked. “Anyone you know?”
“Some little boy. The town’s messenger app is going nuts.”
Bad Parts Page 11
