Burned

by Natasha Deen

  BURNED

  RETRIBUTION

  NATASHA DEEN

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2015 Natasha Deen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Deen, Natasha, author

  Burned / Natasha Deen.

  (Retribution)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0726-6 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0728-0 (pdf).—

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0729-7 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Retribution (Victoria, B.C.)

  PS8607.E444B87 2015 jC813'.6 C2015-901712-2

  C2015-901713-0

  First published in the United States, 2015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015935521

  Summary: After a fire kills Josie’s family, she is living on the streets while she finds a way to bring her family’s killer to justice in this fast-paced entry in the Retribution trilogy.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover image by iStock.com

  Author photo by Curtis Comeau

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  For Gudrun

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  It would be so easy to kill her.

  So easy.

  So simple to pass by her on the street, take her breath with the same ease I’d take her wallet. I’ve been on the streets for two years, and I’ve learned how to pick pockets and steal apples, which alleys are safe to sleep in and which ones to stay away from. I know which pizzerias leave their leftovers for the homeless and which ones watch over their garbage with the zeal of a miser guarding his gold.

  And I know how to use a knife.

  How easy it would be to bump into her. Instead of slipping my fingers into her purse, I’d slide my blade between her ribs, and I would whisper, “This is for Emily and Danny and Emma.”

  And she would look at me, startled, shocked.

  And I would smile and walk away, leave her bleeding on the streets, the red stain of her life dripping from the smooth edge of my knife.

  But I can’t.

  I won’t.

  Death would be too easy for her. A cop murdered on the streets. She’d get a hero’s burial, and people would cry. The department would decorate her, and the police chief would make speeches about her sacrifice and loyalty to the people she served. Newscasters with their helmet hair would use their the-world-is-ending voices and talk about the need for better policing. People would rally for tougher laws. Cops would roust the homeless.

  I live with these people.

  They’ve been rousted enough.

  I won’t bring pain and torment to their already tortured lives.

  Besides, if she died on the street, no one would know the truth of her.

  The lies of her.

  I will not kill her.

  She will not die.

  Not by my hand.

  But.

  I.

  Will.

  End.

  Her.

  Burn her. Burn her with the same heat she used to set my life on fire, and the orange-red flames that scorched the breath from my family will cauterize her soul.

  TWO

  Head down, a worn baseball cap covering my hair and sunglasses hiding my eyes, I entered Tron’s, a small family grocery store on East Georgia Street in Vancouver. The electronic bell dinged as I stepped through the door and left the fall sunshine behind me. My gaze flicked to the cashier. This time of day was the best for me, the worst for her.

  People rushed in for milk and bread. The line of customers stretched six people deep and irritated-end-of-the-workday wide. In the back, at the ATM, was the kid. One look said he’d been born with some kind of genetic disorder. The stocky body and hands said he’d inherited the dwarf gene. But the larger-than-normal forehead said there was something else going on in his DNA. And the way he moved screamed leg surgery. Whether the operation had been an act of mercy or cruelty, I didn’t know. And really, I couldn’t allow myself to care. We all have our sob stories. The way he was dressed said the kid had money, at least; everyone in the store figured he was the usual rich kid, coming at the end of the day to drain his trust fund of some coin.

  I knew there was more to him. I had seen the infinity tattoo on his wrist. I’d watched him long enough to know that, trust fund or not, the money he took wasn’t from his account. Maybe I should’ve said something, but I had other things to worry about. I ignored him and, turning from his form, hunched in his private-school blazer, surveyed the crowd. I moved past the doors and kept casing the store. By the chocolate aisle, I focused on a guy with a goatee. One who didn’t know me, but a man I knew too well. A guy who was about to pay for a bad decision he’d made regarding my friend Amanda.

  My gaze went back to the lineup. A man in a business suit glared at his vibrating smartphone, then scowled at the clerk, who gulped and rushed to finish ringing in the current customer.

  Perfect.

  This cashier was new. She didn’t know to look up every time someone came through the door, didn’t know not to be intimidated by the middle-class and middle-aged. I took my time, pushed up my hockey jersey and stuffed my hands in the pockets of the boys’ jeans I wore. As a girl, I don’t get baggy jeans. As a pickpocket, wearing pants big enough to hold three of me comes in handy.

  I got to the candy and started grabbing chocolate bars, breath mints and anything else in my reach. Walking out of a store with a five-finger discount is all about timing and finesse, and I have both.

  I overfilled my hands—almost. At the right moment, when the twentysomethingyear-old guy with the goatee walked by me, I twisted, spilling the bars.

  He jerked to a stop. Candy and chocolate littered his path.

  “Sorry.” I grunted the word, kept my gaze on the floor. Big difference between guys and girls? We chicks love to talk. Man, are we vocal. Dudes, on the other hand, not so much. It took my first year on the street to realize that if I was going to pretend to be a guy, I had to shut up.

  “No problem,” the man said and gave a short laugh. “You’re hungry, I guess.”

  I shrugged. That was the other trick to being a guy. Men don’t explain. They give information, but they don’t give speeches. “Yeah.” The nice thing for me is my voice. It’s already deep. I scooped the chocolate bars into a pile—step one in my con game, with this guy as my victim and accomplice. The man crouched to help.

  Perfect.

  He blocked me from the cashier’s view, and I�
��d already positioned myself so my face wasn’t in the camera’s lens. As the man handed me the bars and treats, I made a show of putting some back on the shelf and holding on to a couple of others. I made sure we bumped into each other as he moved to grab a bar and I went to put another back. I mumbled my apology, and he nodded. When he wasn’t looking, I slipped two bars under the leg of my jeans and tucked them into my white tube socks. By the time we were done, I had three bars in my hand. He nodded at me, and I moved off.

  Part one, complete.

  Part two was trickier. I returned two bars to the shelves, then went to the cashier and waited in line to pay. This was the hardest part. Playing it cool. A few minutes’ wait was all I needed. I gave it a couple of minutes, faked impatience, stuck the bar on the counter and left the store.

  The hum of rubber tires on asphalt mixed with the chatter of pedestrians as I stepped into freedom. At the corner I hung a right and found the back entrance to Tron’s. I knocked. Pulling the candy bars out of my socks, I waited.

  A few seconds later the metal door opened. Tron was in his mid-forties, with graying hair that was wispy on top and a belly that spoke of home-cooked meals and a comfortable life.

  “I wanted to Take Five.” I showed him the first chocolate bar, grinning at my clever use of the chocolate bar’s name in the conversation. “But I was worried I might be a Butterfinger.” I showed him the third bar. “I think I Skored.”

  Tron rolled his eyes, turned and ambled down the narrow hall to his cramped office. I followed. The fluorescents buzzed overhead as we squeezed past shelves of inventory. “Did you pay for any this time?”

  “Nope.” I slipped my sunglasses off.

  He grunted. “Suggestions?”

  “Nah. She’s new. She’ll learn, but I’d add another camera by the soda section.” I kept my sentences short, information without explanation. I’d never told Tron I was really a girl. Spending my time pretending to be a boy wasn’t my favorite choice, but changing gender seemed the best way to hide in plain sight.

  He grunted again and sat in the ripped office chair. “Usual fee?”

  I nodded.

  Bending, he pulled a bag of cans from under his scarred desk. “Soup, mostly.” The light in his dark eyes softened. “Maybe a couple of chocolate bars and cookies.”

  The girl in me went soggy, but I held to my macho side and nodded.

  “The people you collect this for. They’re grateful?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.”

  I left the bars on his desk and grabbed the bag.

  He cleared his throat.

  Not moving my body, only lifting my gaze, I made eye contact and took in the uncomfortable lines of his body. “Yeah?”

  “A couple of months back, you—uh—mentioned this girl you knew.” He stopped, took a short breath. “She was having—”

  “A small emergency.”

  “Yeah.” He moved his bulk. His round face, and the kindness and softness in him, made him look like a panda cub who’d lost track of where his mother had gone. Tron sighed, then bent and tossed me another bag. “Just in case.”

  I didn’t need to open the bag to know what was in it. I could see through the translucent plastic. Feminine items. There was a time his kindness would have moved me to tears. These days, I didn’t think a jumbo jet could move my heart. I said, “Yeah. Thanks.” I turned away from him.

  He cleared his throat again. “Uh, you might want this too.” Tron shoved a black box into my hand. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and this girl, but the streets are no place to raise a kid.” He watched me for a second. “And you don’t seem the kind who’d give up a baby.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I shoved the box into the bag.

  “Listen, buddy.”

  I hadn’t given him a name three months ago when I’d first approached him about a deal: I’d occasionally steal from him to show the gaps in his security, and he’d pay me in food. It was a good arrangement. A sliver of clean honesty in the waste and mud that was my life.

  “There are shelters, you know—”

  I shook my head. “Price is too high.”

  Tron knew I didn’t mean money. He sighed. “Look…just be careful, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “And if you need—if you need anything, tell me.”

  Two years on the streets, I’d learned fast not to trust anyone. Kindness always came at a price, and I couldn’t afford the cost. I liked Tron, but he had an agenda. We all had agendas. The trick was to make sure yours was the one people followed. “Thanks.”

  He didn’t push the conversation.

  “I just need to grab something.” Leaving his office, I went into the store through the back entrance, to the ATM machine. There was a rack of boxed caramel popcorn, covered in dust. I reached for the box at the back, slipped my hand in and pulled out a cell phone. Good. It had recorded everything. I slipped it into my pocket and headed to the door.

  Tron followed. If he wondered what I’d done, he was smart enough not to ask.

  “Oh.” I turned and dug into my other pocket. “A man dropped his wallet.” I handed him the leather billfold of the goatee guy who’d helped me pick up the candy.

  Tron stared hard. “He dropped it?”

  “Right in my hands.” I’d made sure of that. One thing I’d learned about being homeless was to look out for those who looked out for me. Amanda had been my protector and educator for surviving the streets. This guy had used and abused her. No way was I going to let him get away with it.

  Tron closed his eyes and shook his head. Opening the wallet, he peered inside. “No cash?”

  I shrugged.

  He heaved a long sigh. “Where’s the cash?”

  “I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

  “Look, I trust you, but if—”

  “When you return the wallet,” I said, “you should tell him that if he’s going to rent people, he should pay for their time with money, not fists.”

  Tron jerked back, staring at the billfold like it was a snake about to bite.

  I stepped through the door and he followed, walking with me to a city garbage bin. Lifting the heavy lid, he wiped the leather, then tossed the wallet. “Can you believe how careless some people can be?” He shook his head and wiped his hands on his dress pants. “He should’ve been more careful.” He gave me a final once-over, then turned and walked back to his store.

  I slid my sunglasses back on. Then I headed to Hastings Street—specifically, the stretch that made up the Downtown Eastside, Vancouver’s skid row. The dealers hadn’t come out to play, and the drunks were still hunched in alleys, letting the hot rush of cheap booze warm their bellies. A few girls were on the corners. If their super-short skirts and thigh-high boots didn’t tell passersby what they did to make a living, then the flat, empty light in their sunken eyes did. I went to my usual spots and handed off the cans to the old-timers of Hastings. Some of these guys were only in their forties, but life on the streets made them look and move like seniors.

  Giving them food wasn’t straight kindness on my part. Sure, for some of these guys, I stood in the gap between hunger and a half-full belly. The food banks were great, but for some of them you had to have government ID. And an address. Laughable. A lot of the people on the streets came here to disappear. They didn’t want to remember their lives, let alone their names. Besides, there was more need than supply. A person could only visit the food bank once a week.

  If I didn’t bring food, they’d starve for the other six days, or dig through Dumpsters or go to the soup kitchens. The kitchens were the best option, except that charities run on the generosity of people with money. If people don’t donate food and money, then those places don’t have enough to go around. Too many
nights, I’d had only my hunger to keep me company in the dark. If I could help even one person, then it was worth it.

  But there was another reason.

  The homeless had a network, a line of communication, a system of order. Keeping in their good books meant that if I ever needed their help, it would be there. I moved through the network of alleys and sidewalks. For those with roofs over their head, a road was the thing that took them from one place to the other. For the homeless, the streets were a concrete jungle, complete with two-legged vipers, gold-toothed lions. Danger didn’t lurk at every corner. It stood strong and confident, waiting for someone to do something stupid.

  And that wasn’t going to be me.

  Not anymore.

  I handed out the food and kept an eye out for Amanda. I wanted to give her the cash I’d lifted. She deserved it, and besides, walking around with two hundred bucks in twenties and fifties seemed a surefire way to get myself beaten up. The last time, it had taken three weeks for me to recover, and my ribs still ached when it rained. I didn’t need another visit to a hospital, another “talk” with some nameless counselor who would fake compassion with empty eyes and an overly caring voice.

  If Amanda was around, though, I didn’t see her. Like oil on water, fear floated in my mind, always there, always reflecting back the questions I didn’t want to ask.

  After I finished handing out the cans, I headed to the East Hastings Community Kitchen. The facility was split into two sections. One had a kitchen and tables, and volunteers served dinner there three times a week. The other side was like a grocery store. Sort of. Shelves of food sat behind a long hip-high counter.

  Volunteers were on one side. The clients were on the other. They gave us their family information and details on allergies, and we packed them a week’s worth of groceries. The community kitchen tried hard to make sure all members got what they needed: baby food for the tots, prunes for the older folks. It was hit and miss, and the shelves were full or empty based on the community’s generosity. Christmas was the best time. In summer, we all lost weight.