by Nicole Young
“Hey, guys,” I said, scraping stain remover goo from the floor planks, “Just wanted to let you know I’m taking a short trip. I’ll be back right after break.”
“Where are you going?” Celia’s clear voice asked from over by the front windows. She held her scraping tool, filled with slimy gook from the sills, suspended for a moment.
I looked away. “Back to Galveston for Christmas.”
“Got your phone call, huh?” Portia asked without pausing her work.
“Kind of. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m going.”
“Does the doc know?” This time Portia stared me down.
“No. And you’re not going to tell him.”
“Hmmm.” Portia’s body took on a “we’ll see about that” attitude.
“I mean it, Portia. Please don’t say anything. He’d be really upset.”
“Why? ’Cause you lied to him?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You just didn’t tell him the truth.”
“He can’t handle it.”
“Because he knows it’s not safe. If you didn’t get the phone call, then it’s not safe.”
“What’s going on here?” Celia tried to keep up with us.
I shook my head. “Nothing a few days in Mi-” I stopped before I said the word, “-Texas won’t solve.”
Portia stood, hands on hips. “Come here. We have to talk.” She grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to the tiny back bedroom. The door crashed closed behind us. She practically pinned my arms to the wall. “I know who you are.”
19
My heart skipped a beat. “Alisha Braddock. I’m Alisha Braddock.” I hoped the more I said the name, the more convinced Portia would become.
She squinted in accusation, shaking her head. “Your name is Patricia Louise Amble. You’re from Walled Lake, Michigan. You were the first ever convicted of assisted suicide in the state. You were a suspect in the murder of some guy named Martin something, but they let you go without charges. And the cops in Michigan want you for murder one, grand theft auto, and leaving the scene of a crime. Did I forget anything?”
My eyes felt like saucers in my head. “How do you know all that?”
“Come on, Alisha, Patricia, whoever you are. It’s the information age. You just have to know where to look.” She put her hands on her hips. “Okay, I confess I had Koby check into it. And if he got the info that easily, so could anyone else. Am I right?”
“So-,” I gulped, “what do you want? Money or something?”
She turned away in frustration. “I can’t believe you’d think that. I’m your friend. I want you to be safe. Believe me, if it was money I was after, I could have sold the information a month ago.”
I looked around, dazed. “I guess so. Didn’t know there were warrants out for my arrest. Denton said he took care of everything for me. Covered my tracks. I figured he must have explained what happened and everyone understood and let it go.”
“You’ll be surprised to hear that you’re also dead. Funeral and everything. Maybe that cancels out the warrants.” “Dead? Are you serious?” I giggled, then sobered as I digested the information. “If you and Jane both know who I am, other people probably know too. How safe am I here?”
Her face was blank. “I don’t have an answer for that. But I have a few ideas how you can get off that hit list.”
From the other room came the sound of glass breaking. Then a scream.
“Oh no.” Portia raced into the hallway.
I followed behind. Air rushed past as we staggered down the hall toward the sound. Then came the whoosh of an explosion.
“Celia!” Portia’s voice came from just ahead, but flames and smoke blinded me. I kept one hand on the wall as a guide.
Celia’s cries came shrill from across the room. “Help! I’m on fire!”
Orange blazed over the floor and up the windows, fueled by the chemicals we’d been using. Through eyes burning with heat and smoke, I watched Portia make a dive toward Celia’s chair. But flames drove her back, gasping and slapping fire from her own clothing.
“The tarp! Grab the tarp!” Portia crouched to the floor and crawled through the thick haze toward the kitchen. Right behind her, I snatched a corner of the cotton painter’s cloth she thrust toward me and scooted back into the mayhem.
Celia’s screams of agony and fear filled our ears, mixed with the deafening roar of the inferno.
“Hurry!” Portia pulled the fabric out of my hands as she made the rush toward Celia and threw the cloth over her frail body, crouched and burning in the wheelchair. Portia patted out flames where she could, even while her own clothing caught fire. She grabbed the handles of the chair and pulled it toward the hallway and the back of the house.
Another crash of glass as a second bomb, what looked like a bottle stuffed with burning gauze, hurled through the back door and exploded, blocking our escape.
“We’re trapped. Get to the bedroom, quick!” Portia’s orders kept me from dropping into a useless heap on the floor.
We pushed through the blinding smoke toward the tiny space.
Portia jammed Celia’s chair against the threshold. “It won’t go through.”
A moan came from beneath the charred tarp.
“Thank God she’s still alive.”
I heard Portia, though I couldn’t see her through the smoke. I dropped to the floor for a breath of air. Through heat-singed lids, I caught a glimpse of Portia. Hair had melted like a helmet to her head. One cheek was black and oozing. Her palms were blistered from the heat of the chair handles. Smoke came in puffs from her clothing. Portia’s burns spurred me to action. “We have to get out of here.”
I yanked the wheelchair from the doorway and squeezed through, pulling Portia behind me. Her vacant eyes told me she was heading into shock. I left her on the floor by the window and went back for Celia, still wrapped in the smoking tarp. I dragged her by the feet onto the floor. Her head made a thud as it hit the wood.
“Sorry,” I muttered, tugging her dead weight across the planks. My lungs were at the bursting point. I stretched out a leg and kicked the door closed, hoping to conserve oxygen. I crawled across the room and felt around for the window latch. A twist, then a push as I tried lifting the sash. But the years had left it swollen in place, like so many of the others we’d already repaired. I tore off my ragged cardigan and wrapped a fist in the cloth. My face instinctively turned away as my arm smashed the glass.
Smoke rushed outside as fresh air streamed in. I gasped for oxygen, feeling new energy with the momentary gust. But behind me, flames snuck through the gap beneath the door and spread up its panels, engulfing the corner of the room. I grabbed at Portia and nudged her toward the window. Her body seemed to move in slow motion as she lifted herself onto the sash. With a push of her toes, she was outside. Now it was Celia’s turn, but the lump beneath the tarp didn’t budge. I wrapped my arms around her bulk and tried lifting her through the window, but my arms were made more of jelly than sinew.
Lying on my back, I worked my feet underneath her chest and hoisted her headfirst toward the sash, using the same kind of airplane ride my mother used to give.
My legs were ready to give out when Celia jerked forward as someone pulled her swaddled body through the window to safety.
The fire had spread to the floor nearby. Above me, only choking black smoke. I tried to breathe, but my chest wouldn’t move. I closed my eyes and focused on the pinpricks of light that danced behind my lids. Soon the dots formed a face-a crinkly-eyed, laughing Brad. As blistering heat pressed against my skin, sadness swept through me. I’d never see that happy face in this world again. The dots moved and a light took shape. I relaxed, knowing that the pain to come would be fleeting. In a moment I’d be through the veil, meeting my maker, dancing for Jesus. The world spun beneath me, hurtling through the blackness of space, and I felt every revolution. Blood rushed through my ears, a steady whoosh whoosh. I waited for the sound to slow and eventually stop. Ins
tead it grew more intense, gradually becoming a shrill beep beep beep. I opened my eyes. Through white haze, I realized I was in a hospital room. As my senses checked back in one by one, I detected an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. The beeping must be a heart-rate monitor, and the tender area on my arm must be the needle for an IV drip. But the oxygen-I took another deep breath- the oxygen tasted so wonderful and pure. It tasted like… life.
I was alive. I’d made it through. Somehow I hadn’t died in the fire.
A figure sat in a corner of the room. “Welcome back, Ms. Amble.” A man approached me.
Detective Larson wasn’t exactly the first person I’d wanted to see after my brush with death. But stuck in a hospital bed, I didn’t have much say in the matter.
I peered at him through lazy lids and let the oxygen mask do its thing. He’d obviously figured out my identity and was about to hammer the fact into my smokedamaged brain.
His lumbering form towered over the bed. “Lucky for you I put the pieces together in time. If I hadn’t ordered personal protection for you when I did, you’d probably be taking up space at Del Gloria Mausoleum instead of Del Gloria Memorial.” He chuckled like he’d just told a funny joke.
“See,” he continued, taking advantage of the fact I had a muzzle on, “in this day and age of computers, the human mind is still the smartest kid on the block. Computers can match faces and fingerprints, determine DNA, and look up criminal records. But it takes a real live person to noodle through the information and come up with four.”
His body shifted and his voice sped up. “Back in the fall, I had a good laugh when I read the report on the rooftop heroine and her stolen ladder. Never thought another thing about it. But when I saw the same girl at the scene of a murder, I couldn’t help but wonder, why her? What made Alisha Braddock the common denominator between the two crimes?”
The detective’s voice droned on like background music to my heart monitor.
“If this was LA, I’d have never linked the two events. But here in Del Gloria, we pride ourselves on being The Town Crime Forgot.”
He chuckled again, this time almost dousing me with a stray spitball. I cringed, shrinking deeper into my pillow. “So I did my detective thing. Fed the computer your picture, your name, and whatever else I could come up with, made a few phone calls, checked a few sources, called in a couple favors, made some hypotheses. And last night, I ordered personal protection on a woman named Patricia Louise Amble. The officers tracked you to the same block. But instead of a missing ladder, they found a raging inferno.” He shook his head in awe. “I gotta hand it to you, kid, whatever guardian angels you got looking out for you, they’re doing a pretty good job.”
I thought of Portia and her single-mindedness in saving Celia and getting us out of the building.
“How’s Celia? Is Portia alright?” My mouth spoke the words, but only a muffled sound made it through the mask.
His eyes watered. “Ms. Romero will be fine after a few surgeries.” He choked and looked to one side. “They’re not sure about Ms. Long. Her health was fragile as it was. She might not pull through.”
A deep moan filtered through my mask. I squeezed my eyes closed and felt a stream of tears burn down my cheeks.
“It’s like this.” Detective Larson leaned toward me. “I’m the captain of the Good Ship Del Gloria. When a Jonah sneaks on board, I find him and throw him into the sea before any more of my passengers get hurt.”
I should have known better than to stay here. What made me think I could escape a well-oiled drug machine? The day I got involved with Candice LeJeune was the day I signed my own death warrant-along with Jane’s and maybe even Celia’s.
Detective Larson was right. I was a Jonah in this town. I could wait for the cops to throw me overboard, or I could jump ship myself. Either way, the sharks were circling.
“We’ve got an idea who’s behind the bombs,” Detective Larson was saying over the beep of the monitor. “Your classmate Simon Scroll seems to have skipped town. I’m guessing it was his job to make sure you never left Del Gloria alive. And as far as he’s concerned, he succeeded.” “What do you mean?” I asked, my words barely legible through the mask covering my mouth.
“Mr. Scroll has been employed by Professor Braddock as your bodyguard.”
I groaned. Simon was so useless… I would get him for a bodyguard.
The detective continued. “We think he got a better offer from someone else to make sure you turned up dead. We’re hoping to get the feds to step in this time with a little more sophisticated version of witness protection now that there’s proof your life is on the line. Professor Braddock had good intentions, but it’s obvious you need another fresh start.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. My throat hurt from trying not to cry. I didn’t want another fresh start. I didn’t want any of this to be happening. If I couldn’t stay here in Del Gloria, then I wanted to go home to Port Silvan. I didn’t want another name, another town, another life. I just wanted to be Tish Amble again, whatever that entailed.
But something in the back of my mind warned that if I ever remembered what it was I’d forgotten, I might not be so excited to get back to my old life.
I told that something to shut up.
20
I was released from the hospital with nothing worse than an irritating cough, curling eyebrows, and a section of singed hair, which Maize agreed to shape into a spunky layered style.
“You are so lucky to be alive,” she said while I holed up at her apartment a day later.
I watched more and more hair drop to the ground as she snipped and talked, snipped and talked. “I think that’s enough off the ends,” I told her before I ended up bald. “It looks really good just like that.”
“Sure. Whatever.” She put the scissors down and picked up a yo-yo, performing a bevy of tricks as she kept her hands occupied. “So you’re taking off for a while?”
“Yeah. I hate to abandon Celia and Portia at a time like this, but I really have to check into things back home.” “Do what you have to. We’ll keep plugging away at things until you get back. Probably won’t get very far without someone telling us what to do and how to do it, but we’ll give it a shot-”
I touched her arm, interrupting her nervous prattling. “You guys will do great.”
“Listen,” Maize said, “if there’s anything you need while you’re on vacation, just call Koby. The guy’s a magician when it comes to getting flights out of thin air.
He can probably hook you up with a ride home. I know you have to take the bus there since you don’t have any identification, but he could probably even get you a fake ID if you’re desperate…”
I didn’t even want to know how she knew all that. With a nudge from my hand, I stopped her monologue. “Thanks. I’ll keep his number handy. You guys have been so understanding. Thanks for not being mad at me for misleading you about my name and stuff up front. Just, you know, try to keep it a secret until I can figure out how to make it all go away.”
“No problem there. I never tell secrets. And even if I did, no one would listen to me anyway, since I’m always talking so much. They barely hear a word I say as it is, unless it’s something really juicy like the time I found out about the college president…”
I smiled, letting her ramble on, tuning out the gossip as I focused on plans that would get me safely home to Brad.
The Sacramento station was hopping at four thirty in the afternoon. The cab driver stopped across the street in the dimming light. “Watch yourself in there. And don’t use the bathroom.”
I thanked him and stepped into the cool December air. On the way downtown, we’d passed a towering Christmas tree-the only indication it was time to deck the halls. I wrapped my black slicker close. No snow, just chilling, damp air so close to dusk.
I stepped toward blinking neon lights and pushed through the glass entry door. Bodies milled aimlessly through the overly bright interior. I couldn’t tell if they were homeless fol
ks or passengers restless for a getaway driver. I sat on a plastic seat defaced with ink and carvings. A smell like ripe baby diapers permeated the air. I kept my nose tucked close to my collar. As the 4:50 departure time neared, more passengers trickled in, waiting for the only cross-country transportation that eluded Big Brother’s radar.
I adjusted the black flapper-style wig on my head and pushed my sunglasses a notch higher on my nose, hoping to avoid eye contact with my fellow travelers, who looked as directionless and despairing as I felt. I kept my luggage on my lap and both eyes peeled for trouble.
I’d planned the perfect escape-so far. I knew I couldn’t leave from the Del Gloria station without Denton or Detective Larson tracking me down. So I’d hired a cab to drive from the nearest big city and pick me up at the Del Gloria McDonald’s, then drop me here. With so many cab drivers in this city, what were the chances they’d question some guy named Ferdinand Olivares? And it had been easy enough walking into the fast-food restaurant as Alisha Braddock, and exiting the bathroom a few minutes later as the temporary me, Tasha Stewart. The name seemed both mysterious and boring, and hopefully would never have to be uttered before my arrival in Michigan.
A loudspeaker announced the bus’s arrival. Passengers filed past the driver, handing him their tickets and boarding.
I hovered at the back of the line, contemplating if I really wanted to be in an enclosed area with the fellow up ahead who kept mumbling to himself and waving his arms. Or the woman with the cleft chin and Adam’s apple.
“Watch your step,” the blue-jacketed driver muttered as I nudged by, passed him my ticket, and climbed the three stairs inside.
I took a seat as close to the driver as I could manage, whispered a prayer for protection, and geared up for a trip scheduled to last two days, ten hours, and forty minutes. If I didn’t jump out a window first.
Somehow I’d misread the itinerary. Had they really meant I’d be arriving at 4:30 in the morning Manistique, Michigan, time? The bus pulled away and I stood outside the twenty-four-hour gas station, wondering how I’d managed to mess that up.
