“I’ll go first,” Sissy says.
I nod, walk out.
A minute later, I hear the sound of water splashing. Sissy will need a change of clothes—what she’s been wearing is grungy and stinks. Shouldn’t be a problem finding clothes. She and Ashley June are close enough in size. I browse through a chest of drawers, grabbing a pair of roll-up capri pants, a casual denim shirt. And underwear, quickly chosen, which I fling between the shirt and pants, sandwiching it.
I knock gently on the bathroom door. “Hey. I picked out some clothes for you.” She doesn’t answer. Concerned, I push the door open and step in.
She’s fine. There’s no shower curtain and I see everything. Her soaked hair, dark as a horse’s mane, pressed halfway down her back. Water streams down, pooling briefly in the small of her back, then over her pale-white buttocks. Glides down over the curvature of her calf muscles. Her face is upturned inches from the showerhead, her mouth gaped wide, drinking in some of the water as it splashes noisily over her. That’s why she didn’t hear me knock.
I quickly drop my gaze. I place the clothes on top of the hamper, turn to leave. But not before I notice she’s holding the bar of soap in her right hand, is softly grazing it across her left arm. Too delicate, too soft. She’s not cleaning herself.
I begin to step out. I’ll speak louder from the other side of the closed door, tell her that she has to scrub harder.
“What is it?” she asks, jolting me. “What’s wrong?”
I’m sorry is on my lips, one foot already stepping out. When I stop.
She’s turned sideways to me. There’s no shame, no embarrassment, no shielding. Just her eyes, honest and open. Her arms by her sides, the water splashing on her shoulder, creating a mist of tiny water droplets.
I shift my eyes away. Cold tiles, metal frames, gray containers. Swing my eyes back to hers and the warmth in them is like a flame suffusing me.
“You have to really scrub hard,” I say.
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
She holds my eyes. “Show me,” she says softly.
I walk over, take the bar of soap from her hand. I remove the coarse rag from a hook on the wall, soak it in the water.
“Turn around,” I tell her. My voice sounds hollow in the confined space, the words muted by the splish-splash of water.
She does. Water flows in waves down her back, coursing down the vertical dip of her spine.
“Don’t think of it as washing,” I say. “Think of it as erasing.”
I lather her back with the soap, moving in small circles. Trying not to let my fingers touch the skin of her back. “Erasing everything that makes you different. Erasing everything that is human.”
With my other hand, I press the towel against her skin. I rub down, gently at first; then I scrub harder and harder until her skin is chafed red, until it must feel like I am scraping her raw. She does not complain. She does not move.
“We have to erase everything. The smells. The oily secretions. The dead skin cells. And later, we need to cut our fingernails and toenails, pluck our eyebrows, shave the hair from our legs, arms, armpits. We erase all signs.”
“You did this every day?”
“Every night.”
She stares ahead at the tiled wall in front of her, not speaking. The water comes down, washing away the lather, curtaining over her skin. “I can’t imagine doing all this every single night. I don’t think I can do it even now.”
A fine spray of water, soft as mist, drifts onto my face. “I’ll show you how,” I whisper. “I’ll help.”
She turns her head to look at me and her eyes are dove soft.
I take her arm and slide the soap down its length. She shivers at the touch, goose bumps protruding out. I press the bar of soap harder into the soft give of her flesh. She keeps her gaze on me, and a film of something translucent layers over her eyes. A flash of doubt, suspicion even. But just as quickly as it appears, it vanishes.
“Okay?”
She nods. I rub the bar of soap over the ridge of her forearm. Then to the soft underside. She flinches.
“I’m sorry. I forgot about that.” I turn her arm over. The X branding has scabbed over into what will become a thick scar. Softly, I guide her arm under the showerhead, letting the water sweep down her arm, over and over, as if the water will wash away, will smooth, will erase away all the unwanted marks and protrusions.
And she turns fully around, cups my face with her hands. Her eyes pierce deep into mine. Dark circles rim her eyes, slanted black half-moons, and the sight of them stirs a protective instinct in me. Her eyes never waver from mine, not so much for even a blink. They hold mine, damp yet strong, like a long embrace in the rain.
This is what draws me most to Sissy. Not so much her beauty or inner strength. Nor even her loyalty to those she loves. It’s her utter lack of guile. This openness—it is something I’d over the years tamped down and shunned. For the sake of survival, I have instead worn a mask, thick and impenetrable as a calloused scar. And, denied exposure to the elements, I’ve shriveled beneath it.
Sissy stands naked and open before me. She strokes the side of my face, over and over, as if trying to peel something away. I feel the outer layer slipping off, and the sensation is akin to how I felt when I leaped off the mountain on the hang glider. Frightening and exhilarating.
Her fingers stroking my face. My hand trying to wash away her scar.
And in that moment, something breaks in me. I brush her upper lip with my thumb, follow the gentle curve of her cheek.
And that’s when I realize. My plan to use her for her blood, to put her at risk in order to save Ashley June—that is a plan I could never follow through on. I won’t do that to Sissy.
Not even for Ashley June.
We will go ahead with our plan. In a few short hours, I will put a bullet through Ashley June’s skull.
“Gene,” Sissy whispers. As if she has finally found what she has long been searching for.
And I lean my head forward into the jet of water. So that when I close my eyes the salt of my tears will be washed away and the evidence of my guilt will have been forever removed.
26
AFTERWARD, CLEANED AND shaved and clipped, we sit in the living room on the threadbare carpet. The last rays of sunset slip through the opened door. We sit facing each other, so close that our legs cross over one another. Sissy runs her fingers through her damp hair.
“We can’t go to the Convention Center by horse,” I say. “People—duskers—don’t normally ride double on them. We’ll take the bus, instead.” Seeing the confusion on her face, I add, “It’s like a long carriage pulled by at least a pair of horses. Fits over a dozen passengers.”
Her frown lines deepen. “I’m not crazy about getting into an enclosed space with them.”
“If we walk, we’ll build up a sweat. And a stink.” I place my hand on her kneecap. “The bus will be okay. I used to take it all the time. Don’t get freaked out if the horses turn to sniff you. Just remember—get a window seat and open the window wide. That should help dissipate any smell. And sit in the last row so nobody will catch any odors downwind. I’ll sit close but not next to you. Better if we’re not seen side by side, it might trigger recognition.”
“How long is the ride?”
“Only about fifteen minutes. But it’ll seem like an eternity, especially if it’s crowded.”
She squirms, clearly unhappy.
“Remember. Watch your lips—don’t let them be expressive. Don’t pull the corners down. And whatever you do, never smile or grin.”
“I don’t think I’ll be finding much reason to do either.”
“And don’t speak if you can help it.”
“Okay, got it. Just be a statue.”
“That’s the right idea. Except be a low-key, invisible statue. Don’t do anything that will attract attention. Keep this Moonlight Visor on at all times,” I say, taking two pairs out of the backpack and giv
ing her one. “Even inside the Convention Center where it’ll be dark and you’ll be tempted to take it off. Without these Visors, we run the high risk of being recognized, Sissy. Never take it off.”
“Won’t we stand out if we’re the only ones wearing them indoors?”
“We don’t really have a choice.”
She nods thoughtfully, her lips lining with determination.
“Your lips—”
She shakes her head, annoyed at herself. “Got it.”
“You can’t be so careless.”
“I know, I know. But anyway, won’t the Visor shield my face?”
“It only blurs. It doesn’t completely block your face. And besides, it only covers from your nose up. Your mouth is fully exposed. You need to remember that.”
She sighs loudly, but before I can reprimand her she says, “What about walking form? Anything special?”
“Walk with a glide, slow arm movements,” I instruct her. “Go with the flow, not too fast, not too slow. Slink into the background. Don’t speed up or slow down too quickly. Their eyes snap to irregular, inconsistent speeds.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t walk too close to anyone—”
“Gene! I got it!”
“No, you don’t, Sissy. This is going to be a huge challenge for you. We’re going to be surrounded by thousands of people on the street, tens of thousands once we’re inside the Convention Center. And you don’t realize how much you stick out. Your demeanor, even when you’re merely standing, screams different. I’m trying to help here.”
She exhales with annoyance, stands up, flustered, taking deep breaths.
I rise with her. “See this reaction you’re having? Standing up in a huff, sighing audibly? Out there, you’re dead now.”
“Just stop it, already.”
“I’m trying to—”
“Hey, I’m not the only one who’s going to find things difficult.”
“Sissy, not to boast or anything, but I’m good at fading into a crowd. I’ve been doing this my whole life.”
“I’m not talking about blending in. I know you’ll be fine with that.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
She pauses, her face filled with regret over bringing up the topic. But when she looks at me her eyes are unwavering. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to take the shot?”
She keeps her eyes centered on mine, daring me to look away.
“You know what I mean. You get the first shot at Ashley June with the sniper. Long-range, hidden in the rafters. When you’ve got her in your crosshairs, are you going to be able to pull the trigger?”
I push out the next few words, quickly, letting them tumble out of my mouth. “Of course. Not a problem. I just put her in the hairlines, and squeeze the trigger. Done.”
Sissy shakes her head, but with sympathy, not acrimony. “Really, Gene? Because I’m not so sure. I know what she means to you. I know the special place she has in your heart. Just being here in her home, I see the effect it’s had on you.”
“What she meant to me.” I tug on the bill of my cap. And I return Sissy’s gaze with a conviction I know is genuine, glad that I had made the decision back in the shower. “Because that person I’m going to shoot in a couple of hours? That person may look like her, sound like her, but it’s not her. Ashley June is no longer. Ashley June is gone. I’m shooting a dusker, that’s all. It’ll be a mercy killing.”
The setting sun dips below the line of roofs across the street. The room plunges into a dark gray. Night is almost upon us.
“Back at the Mission,” Sissy says, her voice lowering, “when she attacked us. She paused, Gene. She paused. She was leaping up to attack you, but then she changed course and attacked me instead.” For a second, Sissy’s fingers instinctively move up to her neck, touching the tiny scabs where Ashley June had fanged her. “I don’t know if she’s changed completely the way you say she has. She may have retained a few things, Gene. Like her feelings for you.”
The house darkens even more. The sun a fading memory now.
Feelings of defensiveness rise up in me. “I will take the shot, Sissy.”
“Really?” She touches my hand, gently. “Because you’re also weighed down with a lot of guilt. You still feel responsible, justly or not, for what she’s become.” Sissy’s eyes penetrate the thickening darkness, piercing into me. She’s searching, probing. “Are you certain you’ll take the shot? Because if you’re not, we can change positions. Let me take the sniper.”
“No. I can do it—”
She puts her hand on my forearm. A soft grip, but tight nonetheless. “Understand why I’m saying this, Gene. If you can’t pull the trigger, I’ll be forced to take the shot. From close range. You know what that means, right? I shoot near the stage, and the crowd around me turns to me. Within seconds. I won’t be able to make a getaway in that crowd. They’ll jump me before I can even drop the gun.”
I look at the paintings, the photographs, all their lines and bright colors, disappearing into the deepening darkness. I meet Sissy’s gaze, straight on. “I can do it. Like I said, it’ll be a mercy killing. I’ll be putting her out of her misery.”
The house darkens. And then, like a mournful elegy, the neighborhood dusk siren sounds. Within a minute, shutters are raised, windows and doors opened. The metropolis is arising, and the thin, frail barriers separating us from them removed. Nothing stands between their millions of fangs and our skin.
I pick up the backpack filled with weapons, put on the Visor. “Time to do this, Sissy. Time to go.”
27
PEOPLE RUSH OUT of their homes within a minute of the dusk siren. Everyone is already dressed and eager as they head out, all in the same direction. Toward the Convention Center.
“Wait for more traffic,” I whisper to Sissy. “We’ll stick out less.”
Horses trundle by, all single ridden, as more pedestrians hit the sidewalk. Within minutes, it seems like the whole neighborhood has hit the pavement. A few of the wealthier families rattle past in their carriages.
“Okay,” I say in a low voice. “Now.”
We walk down the path, turn left at the sidewalk. I stay ahead of Sissy about ten paces as per our plan. We need to stay apart to lessen the chances of being jointly recognized, and she doesn’t know the way. But now I wish we’d reversed our positions—I want to keep an eye on her, monitor how she’s doing.
I move off to the side, bend down, and pretend to do my laces. She passes me a few seconds later. I stand up, and slowly—slowly—catch up with her. Nobody speaks, nobody makes small talk, nobody offers a greeting. Nothing is wrong: This is just the way they are. Bland, sullen faces, everyone donning shades or Visors at this early hour of the evening.
I can tell the silence of the crowd is unnerving Sissy. Her gait is too stiff, tight, not enough to attract attention, not yet, anyway. I walk to catch up with her. She senses me beside her, doesn’t turn her head in acknowledgment (good), but she’s breathing too fast (bad). It’s the proximity of fangs and claws, the potential for brutality to erupt in a split second, that’s unsettled her.
When we find ourselves in a slight clearing, I whisper to her, “You take the lead. The bus stop is two blocks down. Look for the yellow sign.”
She doesn’t reply, but she starts walking too quickly, her arms swinging too high.
“Slow down. Arms,” is all I’m able to murmur before the crowd fills in around us. But she gets it. She slows her pace, stabilizes the swing of her arms. I slowly drop back.
There’s already a line at the bus stop, about seven people. Standing perfectly still, their pale faces turned sideways in our direction. I’m paranoid, on edge, and for a moment I think they’re staring at us. But they’re only staring down the road, past us, looking for the long carriage of the bus.
Sissy gets in line, and I stand behind her. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but the people queuing up seem to stiffen slightly. In front of us, horses and carria
ges roll by, the clip-clop and occasional squeaky wheel breaking the monotone thumping of boots on concrete.
The bus arrives, an extra-long carriage used on special days when ridership is high. The six horses are already chuffing with exertion, their combined heat radiating out. We board. And as we do, the nearest horse suddenly swings its head toward me, nostrils flaring wide and wet. It smells us. Hepers.
Discreetly, I nudge Sissy from behind. A hurry up, get on already prod. She ascends the two steps, glides down the aisle slowly but deftly, avoiding body contact. No easy feat considering how crowded it is. She finds a seat in the second-to-last row. Opens the window quickly. Good. Wind gusts in. A few passengers, annoyed, turn to look at her. Sissy only stares out the window. Even after they look away, she keeps her head perfectly still, face turned looking outside. Perfect. She’s doing great.
I find an empty seat across the aisle from her. Place the backpack down on the aisle seat, carefully. I open the window wide, feel the glorious rush of air. So far, so good. Everything according to plan, not a hitch yet.
Behind my Visor, I glance sideways at Sissy. She’s rock still, holding strong. Her breathing controlled, her shoulders not too tense. Only her hands give away the stress she feels—her fingers are fidgeting in her lap. But nobody’s sitting next to her; nobody can see her hands.
The bus moves along, the sound of the horses’ hoofs on concrete synchronized almost perfectly with one another. The wood-shelled carriage creaks as we move forward.
Several stops along the way. More people pile in. Somebody approaches. Points to my backpack on the seat next to me. I ignore him, stare out the window. He doesn’t say anything, only stands in the aisle. He reaches up and grabs a strap dangling from above. Bodies fill the aisle now. Somebody sits next to Sissy. Then a wall of bodies in the aisle blocks my view of her.
The Trap (The Hunt Trilogy) Page 12
