Finally, I ran out of breath and the tumbling words fell silent. I knew what came next, and tried to brace for it. You’ve always been trouble. I told you something like this would happen eventually.
When he spoke, I had to replay the words in my head to make sure I’d heard them properly.
“Find the nearest Western Union location to wherever you are right now. I’ll wire you money anonymously so you can buy a bus ticket to Chicago.”
Wait, what?
Stunned, I scrambled to phrase a reply. My father was organizing an escape plan... for me? This wasn’t how our relationship worked. I’d hoped for, well, honestly I wasn’t sure what I’d hoped for. Some kind of advice on finding a lawyer. Maybe an insight into how the Department of Revenue and the state auditor’s office processed things like this.
Not... real help. Not support.
Damn it, I was going to burst into tears again. “Thank you,” I breathed, my body feeling shaky.
He wasn’t interested in heartfelt exchanges, though. “Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone who you are. Don’t use credit cards, or ID. You won’t need an ID to claim the money. They’ll let you use a ten-digit code and a password in lieu of identification documents. I’ll run down the street and get it set up on my end, then text the code to you.”
I was still in shock. “Okay,” I said faintly.
“Afterward, you should head straight to the bus station downtown. Buy a ticket from St. Louis to Chicago with cash, and I’ll meet you at the station when you get here.”
This was so completely out of character for my dad, I couldn’t help but freak out a little. Why was he helping me? Was he only a distant, passive-aggressive asshole when things were normal? But when shit got real, he suddenly turned into Super Dad, flying to the rescue? I was having real trouble wrapping my mind around the concept.
“Dad—” I began, unsure how the sentence would continue.
“I’ll contact you from the Western Union store in a few minutes.” And just like that, he hung up.
I stared at the phone. Did that really just happen? Did my dad just pull a solid to protect me? My dad? The man who’d emotionally checked out of our stunted, two-person family almost two decades ago?
I sat there staring around me at the bustling grocery store in the city I’d lived in all my life. A city I was about to leave, maybe never to return. Still fighting shock over this whole thing, I grabbed my backpack. There was a Western Union desk right at the customer service counter of the store. I’d walked past it a hundred times over the years, though I’d never had cause to use it before. I wondered if the store had a cheap prepaid phone I could buy, as well. It seemed like I should probably ditch mine as soon as possible, just to be safe.
As I walked from the pharmacy to the customer service desk, I wondered anew at my dad’s actions. For twenty years, he’d played the part of a man who’d lost everything he cared about and just... given up. But maybe he still had something left to lose after all.
Me.
TEN
WAITING WAS SLOW TORTURE. I imagined a hundred ways this could go wrong while I stood in line at the Western Union desk. The top of the list was Dad coming to his senses and changing his mind—refusing to answer his phone. Leaving me hanging. With only two people ahead of me, I picked up my cell and called him.
He picked up on the second ring. “Zorah? I’m at the place now. Give me a minute to get the transfer set up.”
“Okay,” I breathed, relief washing through me. He hadn’t abandoned me. I waited, foot jittering as I listened to the indistinct sound of people talking over the tinny connection, too far away from the microphone for the sense of the words to come through. The last person in front of me finished their transaction and I stepped up to the desk.
“Here’s the code and password. I’ll just read it off rather than texting. That way I don’t have to hang up.” Dad rattled off the numbers and letters while I jotted them down on a scrap of paper. “I’m sending you two hundred fifty dollars. Use some of it to buy a burner phone, then ditch yours. Be sure to take out the SIM card and cut it into bits.”
My dad seemed surprisingly good at being sneaky. I briefly wondered if he just watched a lot of television, or if there were things I didn’t know about him.
“I thought of that,” I assured him. “They’ve got prepaid phones here. I’ll get a couple, just to be safe. Thanks, Dad. I really mean that. I don’t know what I would’ve—”
“It’s all right.” His voice was shaky, probably as shaky as mine was. “Be careful, Zorah. No more phone calls on this phone. Dump it and destroy the SIM card like I told you.” The line was silent for a second before he let out a breath. “And Zorah...?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“I love you.”
The line went silent, and then he was gone.
My dad hadn’t said he loved me in years. In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last time the words left his lips.
Fuck.
I filled out the paperwork with unshed tears clogging my throat, and handed everything back to the lady. After that, I had to wait for her to check that it was in order and process the transfer. Another ten minutes, and I had the wired money in hand. I purchased a couple of cheap flip phones and a prepaid card that had talk and text on it, along with a pair of scissors.
Transferring the important names and numbers over to the new phones only took a couple of minutes. There were depressingly few of them. Then I took the SIM card out of my old phone and stuffed it into my back pocket. Returning to the restrooms, I sat in a stall and sliced the tiny plastic and metal wafer into the thinnest shreds I could manage. Some of the shreds went in the trashcan next to the sink. The others I would throw in random trashcans on the way to the station.
Unsure how much the ticket to Chicago would be, I used a few dollars to buy some food and a drink. When I was done eating, I left the store and paid cash for bus fare to the St. Louis Gateway Transportation Center, where the Greyhound station and Amtrak terminal were located.
The only seats on the bus were near the front. As the driver headed along the meandering route toward the station, he talked to himself. He muttered about possible causes for delay, like construction and a convention at a large hotel that could cause traffic issues. He wasn’t talking to me or any of the other passengers, but I couldn’t help paying attention. Hyperaware.
The driver was sandy-haired, although much of it was graying. He looked like a pleasant sort of guy, paying total attention to the job of driving and making good time despite the running commentary he was giving under his breath. With the kind of day I had been having, it was a relief not to have to worry about the people around me suddenly turning on me for no reason. The bus felt like a safe place for me to ride and think at the same time.
Lost in thought, I kept a corner of my awareness on my surroundings, just in case. The rest of my mind circled endlessly through a combination of dread, shock at my father’s sudden supportiveness and concern, and keeping an eye out for suspicious people outside the bus windows whenever we slowed or stopped for passengers.
Before I realized it, we were there. This was the last place I would see in St. Louis, maybe for a very long time. I scanned the area for danger, though it was probably a waste of time and effort. I had no idea what I was looking for. I wouldn’t recognize it if I saw it.
My heart started to race as the door opened and I got out with several other people, tossing the raincoat’s hood over my head again to obscure my face. Wasting no time, I walked toward the entrance of the station. I’d never been here before, so I didn’t really know what to expect.
What I did know was I needed to get the hell out of St. Louis. The sliding automatic doors opened, and I walked inside. The place was awful. Harsh overhead lighting illuminated a grimy, echoing space full of lost luggage and lost souls.
I would fit right in.
I found the ticket desk after only a couple of minutes of wandering around like a clueless idi
ot. Thankfully, nobody bothered me, or seemed to take any notice of me at all, really. There was a line, populated by a diverse collection of people ranging from wholesome-looking families with small children, to men I definitely wouldn’t want to be caught alone with. When my turn came, I stumbled through the unfamiliar process, much to the obvious irritation of the guy behind the heavy glass.
Eventually, with his help, I figured out what bus line I needed, and shoved cash for a one-way trip through the little gap at the bottom of the window. Ticket in hand, I left the counter and wandered toward the sweltering passenger area to wait until it was time to board.
Two hours. I just had to keep my head down for two hours, and then I’d be out of the city. Out of the state, and—hopefully—out of Werther’s reach.
I sat in a seat surrounded by sad and desperate people. To my left, a family of three. Mom, dad, and a baby who was squalling—loudly. Poor kid was probably hungry. Or maybe he was as grossed out by this place as I was. If so, I could hardly blame him. To my right, there was an old black man who looked like he’d stepped straight out of the roaring ’twenties. Suspenders, newsboy hat, vest, and high-waisted pants. He was quite dapper for such a stooped, wrinkled old guy, but his eyes looked lost and frightened.
I sat in the waiting area for more than ninety minutes, knee jiggling restlessly. My nervousness grew and grew, even though I couldn’t pin down a reason for it. I didn’t know if it was the people around me, or the memory of cops surrounding my house that did it, but I felt increasingly unsafe in this cramped row of plastic chairs. My heart started to pound in my chest as I thought about all the things that could happen between here and Chicago.
I cursed myself as the warning signs of a full-blown public panic attack clamored in my mind. Jesus, no. Please, please, not here, not now. But there was no stopping it. I knew that much from bitter experience. Gathering what little strength I had, I threw my backpack over my shoulder and practically fled to the women’s restroom down the hall.
If I’d thought the waiting area was bad, the restroom was worse. It looked and smelled like it hadn’t been cleaned in a month. Still, I preferred it to the open waiting area where anybody could see me losing my shit. I didn’t feel safe here either, but this was the best I could manage right now.
Taking deep breaths, I huddled in the corner near the line of sinks and wiped away the tears that were falling again. What the fuck was I doing? I didn’t have time to cry. I didn’t have time to let my guard down like this.
It was no good, though. I slipped inside a stall and locked the door, then leaned against it. My heart pounded like it was going to explode any moment now. I couldn’t catch my breath. Every time the restroom door banged open, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Still, I stayed hidden in the privacy of the stall... tried to relax.
Yeah, as if.
Time passed, and I knew I couldn’t hide in here any longer or I’d miss my bus. I looked at my new phone. It was nearly time to board. I had to do this, I told myself as I left the restroom and headed out, rejoining the other passengers in the stifling waiting area. This was my best—and maybe my only—chance to get away.
I’d put my hair up in a high ponytail, hoping it would make it harder for anybody to recognize me, since it looked nothing like my hairstyle in the photo on my ID. Despite the heat and humidity inside the echoing building, I pulled my hood up as well. The dampness of my clothes from the earlier rain made me feel like steam was rising from my skin, sticky and unpleasant.
The sun was setting by the time the announcement for boarding rang out over the PA system. I shuffled along with the other lost souls as we were herded through a set of sliding glass doors toward the waiting buses.
Cops were everywhere, weaving through the crowd outside. There was one stationed on each side of the glass doors.
My heart stuttered and began to pound again, even harder this time. They couldn’t possibly be here for me, could they? I mean—I hadn’t done anything violent. Hell, I hadn’t done anything, period—but surely they didn’t make a habit of staking out area bus and train stations for someone with no criminal record who was wanted for small-scale embezzlement and tax fraud.
Did they?
It didn’t matter. There was no real choice here. I could either go through those doors and try to get onto my bus, or I could back out and run. If I ran, then what? I’d already bought the ticket with cash. The bus was the only transportation to Chicago I could afford. And even if I had enough for a plane ticket out of Lambert Airport, security would be far tighter there than a bus station.
No, I had no choice. I had to try to brazen it out.
They probably didn’t know what I looked like, and they didn’t seem to be checking IDs. They were just wandering around, looking at people. I’d keep my head down and it would be fine.
I hoped.
Surrounded by the steady stream of people, I felt reasonably certain I could make it through without incident. I’d managed to sneak under the radar all day by blending in with the crowd and acting as normal as possible. As I reached the open doors, I walked through without slowing down, being sure not to look anybody in the eye.
Hood up. Eyes down.
My feet carried me along the cracked concrete walkway between lines of buses. My heart was still galloping, but hope grew in my chest as my flickering gaze landed on the overhead sign with the route number for the bus to Chicago. It was right there, less than fifty feet away. I hurried my pace, unable to stop myself.
A few short yards from salvation, a heavy hand closed on my upper arm, pulling me roughly to one side. My breath caught. No, no, no...
“Zorah Elaine Bright,” said a gravelly voice. “Come with us, please.”
ELEVEN
TWO COPS FLANKED ME. They were large, towering over me, their blank expressions giving nothing away as they hustled me out of the flow of people. I was aware of nervous passengers shooting us sidelong glances before scuttling off to their buses, faces caught between curiosity and relief that whatever was going on, it had nothing to do with them.
“Let go of me!” I grated as the police officers penned me against the grimy cinderblock wall of the building. I jerked against the bruising grip on my arm, to no avail—my eyes darting past them to the line of buses that had been my only hope of escape from this nightmare.
“I’m not the person you’re looking for,” I tried. “You’re making a mistake. I’ve never heard of Zorah Bright.” Even I could hear the pitiful quaver in my voice.
All the energy was draining out of me, fading into hopelessness as the steamy summer air tried to suffocate me. I felt like I was in real danger of passing out. My chest hurt, a stabbing pain behind my ribs.
“Turn around,” one of the cops said in a flat voice, and then they were manhandling me again, pressing me face-first into the wall. Rough hands jerked my arms back and zip-tied my wrists behind me. The thin plastic was tight, cutting into my skin and blocking the circulation. Once I was restrained, they spun me around and marched me out of the transportation center.
“Am I under arrest? You’re supposed to read me my rights!” I said, a bit desperately. As long as they acted like police were supposed to act, I could convince myself that things would eventually be okay. That I would eventually get a chance to prove my innocence, and all of this would go away, leaving only a bad memory.
The cop on my right glanced down at me with cold, emotionless eyes.
“You have no rights,” he said, the words flat with finality.
They were still dragging me away from the crowd. Panic gripped me, and I started fighting. Screaming for someone to help. But the people shooting us uncomfortable glances only saw a crazed criminal in police custody. No one was going to leap forward and rescue me. Nobody realized that this was all wrong. Nobody knew that I was an innocent person being dragged off to god-knew-what fate.
Nobody cared.
Not even the cops. To them, it was clear I was just another lamb being hauled off t
o the slaughter. Why were they acting like this? Surely they realized that if they were caught treating an arrestee like this, there would be consequences?
“Why are you doing this? I’m a citizen! I do have rights!” I yelled as they dragged me further into the shadows of a deserted parking lot behind the station. It was almost dark now, only a streak of lighter gray through the heavy clouds above the western horizon remaining.
They didn’t grace me with a reply, and my stomach sank. They weren’t taking me out the front door to a waiting squad car. They were taking me out the back, to a dark, secluded place. This was bad... so very bad, and none of my struggles had any effect. None of my cries had attracted any attention, and I could see no sign of bystanders nearby. We were entering a poorly lit area. I thought the big building to our right must be the Civic Center, which put Triangle Park at my left. There were train tracks ahead of us—the white gravel of the verge a pale swath in the fading light—and a mostly empty parking lot around us.
My breathing grew erratic as we came to a halt and I saw three men in suits standing in front of a black Mercedes. The back of my neck prickled even before I registered that the center figure was Caspian Werther. He regarded me coolly. The two men with him had the same creepy, shiny air of otherworldliness. All three stared at me like they might stare at a mildly interesting bacterium on a microscope slide.
Werther’s flat green eyes locked with mine, glowing faintly in the darkness. A slow smile crossed his lips then, and I swear every nerve in my body shivered into full alert.
The two men beside him wore suits almost identical to his. Both had dark sunglasses on despite the late hour, and stood with their hands clasped behind their backs in nearly identical poses. The one on the right broke formation to take off his glasses, revealing green eyes with the same dead expression as Werther’s. He was scary disturbing, just like Caspian. The guy on Caspian’s left did the same thing, his movements nearly identical, and every nerve in my body screamed at me to run.
The Last Vampire- Complete series Box Set Page 8
