What the hell? What was that? New, these stains of violent death in her memory. New, and yet … the true start of it all.
“Mickey?”
There she was, frozen in mid-dab. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then caught his gaze to say it again. “I’m really sorry. You had no idea what you were getting into when I showed up. It really wasn’t fair.”
He tipped his head back against the water-stained wall. “None of it’s fair,” he said, and she knew he meant more than her arrival, more than what had gone down on the street tonight. “Just for once, give me the chance to really make a difference.” His lips barely moved; his eyes twitched slightly behind closed lids.
She’d meant to get some sleep. Instead she’d be checking him every couple of hours just to see if he could wake up after that concussion. “You don’t even know what you’re saying,” she murmured, and withdrew the washcloth, giving up to rub at the stubborn spot with one wet thumb.
“Do too,” he said, but he didn’t move.
Mickey watched him another long while, cataloging the pasty nature of his skin, the purpling of the bruises—knowing there were more beneath his Steve’s Gym shirt. She found herself waylaid by the dark sweep of lashes shadowing the thin skin beneath his eyes, and in remembering the eyes themselves … first so determined to help, and then most recently—whether he knew it or not—so determined to hope.
“We’ll see how you feel about it tomorrow,” she told him, and curled up in the small portion of bed available, pulling up the thin sheet to cover them both.
* * * * *
He remembered that she had a soothing touch. He remembered her quietly sardonic voice in his ear. He even remembered being woken up several times that night, being asked who he was and what year it was and who was president.
He didn’t remember expecting to wake up alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 9
Badra didn’t try to hide her disapproval of Naia’s planned schedule. “Two days in a row? For this clay, you neglect your studies?”
Naia almost succumbed to the knee-jerk impulse to explain herself. In Irhaddan, it was expected. Here, she had no need to remind Badra that she hadn’t neglected anything; that she was well abreast of her studies and that she had no classes this morning in any event. Or that her interest in pottery was just the kind of thing of which her father would approve. It allowed her to mingle with the Americans, allowed her to be seen. Allowed her father’s benevolence to be seen. And at the same time, it was properly conservative.
In the end, she couldn’t quite hold her tongue. She said, “I tried to sign up for parasailing classes, but they were full.”
Badra’s stricken horror was all Naia could have hoped for—except, of course, that she quickly realized she’d been had, and turned the expression into a ladylike snort.
Who would have guessed I would be so good at this? For by letting Badra come to her own conclusions—letting her rule out the outrageous—Naia had only nudged her further away from any suspicions that she would do outrageous things in the first place.
Such as spying on her own country.
No. Not my country. Just those people in it who are causing damage.
And still, as she ascended the narrow, twisty steps to the second floor pottery co-op, she hoped to find a response from Anna. Anna, on whom her safety suddenly seemed to depend. Insha’Allah.
The first time she’d met Anna, Naia had been at a famine relief benefit auction, her mind on the Lit 110 test she’d had the following day and her face trying out an unfamiliar public smile. She wasn’t accustomed to being seen at such things. In fact, she was more accustomed to being distinctly hidden.
What had her father thought would happen when he dumped her into this democratic, liberated culture? Had he not understood that she could love her land and her own culture, and yet absorb the good from this one? He surely hadn’t expected her to run into a woman like Anna. Not so very much older than Naia, who at twenty-two had started her university schooling late. And there she’d been, amazing in turquoise and chocolate swirls on silk chiffon, a dress that wrapped her waist and hugged her breasts and fell away from her hips, a dress Naia had instantly wished she had the nerve to wear. On Anna the dress was streamlined; on Naia it would reveal curves she’d only recently realized she wanted to reveal at all.
It took a moment for Naia to realize that what truly made the dress amazing wasn’t Anna’s figure or the art nouveau necklace and earrings that set it off so perfectly or even Anna’s hair, an elegant up-do with enough loose strands at her nape to show her independent personality.
No, it was her smile. The confidence of it, and its genuine nature—no matter which dignitary she spoke to in the crowded benefit reception, extolling the virtues of antique jewelry she’d donated to the cause. And, as far as Naia could tell, occasionally singing along with the live band in the background, even when she was right in the middle of a conversation.
Nothing seemed to faze her.
In that moment, Naia wanted to be her. To be an Anna, completely confident in herself no matter the circumstances. Maybe Anna had seen it in her, that wistfulness. She’d been kind from the start. And she’d eventually shown Naia how to fit in, and how to find her own way.
She’d never been pushy. Not even once Naia realized exactly where their friendship was leading. She gave Naia the room to decide what was important, and how she could best act on it. And then she’d given Naia the outlet to do just that. When she’d casually mentioned that some informants received gifts and money for their work, she’d known better than to suggest such a thing to Naia. “Here’s the deal,” she’d said, straightforward as always. “The agency is used to paying for what people bring in. So let’s funnel that money off to your favorite Irhaddan charity—didn’t you mention something about an orphanage?”
And that’s what they’d arranged. They’d trickled off their social outings, meeting only at the same receptions and functions to which they’d each always gone—Anna because she traveled in exclusive circles, providing rare and startlingly valuable antiques to the discerning collector, and Naia because she was expected to be seen. They’d arranged to spend time at this co-op, though rarely at the same time. And Anna had given her the dead drop, the one they’d only begun to use.
Naia wasn’t naive enough to think the timing of the dead drop introduction—right before she left for a long visit between spring and summer classes—was coincidence. Especially not after she arrived home and realized the differences in herself—her confidence, her attentiveness to nuance and detail … a new curiosity that drove her into situations she formerly would have avoided. Drove her right into a bit of startling secrecy that she’d wanted to tell her father above all …
And knew she couldn’t. He wouldn’t believe her; he wouldn’t take her word over that of a trusted colleague. He’d say the United States had confused and corrupted her and denied her the opportunity to return.
And she’d known that waiting in San Jose, she had a friendly ear, someone to whom she could tell everything. A means by which to do it.
No, nothing about Anna was coincidence. Probably not even the way they’d met that first time. And when Anna saw to a detail, it stayed seen to. It did as expected.
Which is why when Naia reached the dead drop and quickly thrust her hand into the hidden space, she was absolutely taken aback to encounter her own note.
Her own cry for help.
Unanswered.
* * * * *
Mickey left Steve sleeping after a restless night of interruptions. Steve was a mess, the bruises stark in the morning light, but his sleep was natural enough; the concussion slight. She paid the desk clerk to leave him alone and headed off to pick up some essentials—precious underwear, a few stretchy sports tops, pocket-filled shorts, sneakers.
Not so easy to shake the guilt over Steve’s battered state, or over leaving him alone in the ratty hotel. I didn’t ask you to follow me, she tol
d him in her mind, heading back out on the street. But he had—he was that kind of guy, she got that—and he’d been beaten up for his trouble. Pretty much exactly why she’d left in the first place—so no one else would get hurt because of her presence.
I’m sorry, she told him. And then she pulled her newly purchased sunglasses from the top of her head and settled them on her nose, and she headed back for Steve’s neighborhood. Not to visit, not to linger—not even to be seen. But to backtrack her steps as best she could.
To find the people who’d done this to her.
Because when it came right down to it, Naia was all she had. Finding Naia was all she had.
Keeping Naia safe …
All she had.
* * * * *
She thought they might still be looking for her … but she didn’t expect the tail she picked up not far from Steve’s gym, carefully backtracking her way out of the neighborhood.
She couldn’t have said just how she knew, or why the thought even came to her. One moment she puzzled over a corner street sign, trying to decide if she’d come that way, and the next she strode briskly off in the one direction she hadn’t even been considering. By then she realized what had triggered her concern, that she’d had a glimpse of the same nondescript hat one too many times—sometimes a block behind her, sometimes much less. By then she’d entered an ice cream shop, slipped straight out the back, and circled around to come up behind her own trail.
She didn’t find anyone. Whoever it was had realized they’d been made … and hadn’t wanted a confrontation. Hadn’t wanted to go public in any way.
She spent the next hour pulling flushing techniques. Alleys, double-backs, lingering at storefronts to watch the reflections. And, finding nothing, she ducked into a bodega to grab a cheap straw sunhat and to turn her tote bag into a something resembling a backpack; she put the old flip-flops back on her feet and stuffed the sneakers away. When she came out, she put more than a little twitch of hooker in her hips, and then she ran through all the flushing techniques all over again.
She’d lost them … or they’d decided to try again later.
But she’d also lost time, and she’d lost energy. She found her nerves stretched thin and her body losing its edge to hunger and lack of sleep. Nor had she truly returned to herself after her stint at the make-believe hospital.
At least, she hoped she hadn’t. It would be a bitch to be this tired all the time.
Urgency drove her onward … common sense stopped her and pulled her into a sub shop. She bought a footer and put half of it away for later, and when she returned to the street she knew her tracking exercise was a temporary thing. She put herself to tracing her steps and got as far as the footbridge over the Guadalupe River before admitting she’d had it.
That, too, seemed like a response to training, just as her footwork had to be. Such an objective evaluation—the awareness that she could go on if someone’s life directly depended on it, but that the circumstances didn’t currently warrant the risk.
She gave the city on the other side of the footbridge a rueful look, and she turned back. She bought bottled water from a corner vendor and sat down at a bus stop bench to eat the rest of her sub. “Tomorrow,” she promised the spread of buildings.
For she already had plans for the evening.
* * * * *
She found a new fleabag hotel—no shortage of them in this part of town—and dumped her few belongings there, switching back into sporty mode with sneakers and yoga pants. She gave herself thirty minutes of rest, and headed for the nearest PW grocery store. There she stacked a cart full of peanut butter and tuna and crispy crackerbread that wouldn’t get stale; she jammed the bottom rack with tissue and toilet paper, and crammed toothbrushes and paste into the remaining crevices.
The muggers paid for it all.
She headed out of the store with a step lighter than any amnesiac being hunted by really angry mystery enemies should ever have. She’d gotten a good cart, too—it let her shove it on down the sidewalk and jump up to coast along, and when she hit a downhill stretch she just went along for the ride, trailing one foot behind as a stabilizing rudder. Music bubbled right on out of her throat, something that went along with her long sweeping movement. Manilow. Sweepingly, dramatically … one of the ballads. “… Ohhhh Maaaan—” She had a fumble, a lost note as she navigated a curve, but picked it right back up again. Another oldie, she realized, and decided to update herself, fumbling for another tune. Celine Dion, that would do it. Celine was now. Right to the power chorus—“I’m youuur la—”
She stopped the cart. Celine Dion might be now, but her fickle memory was happy to inform her that the song came from the eighties. “Fine,” she muttered to herself. “I like the oldies.” And she pushed off, launching back into the Manilow song.
No one along the way seemed to care one way or the other, and that suited her just fine. She drove her little shopping cart right down to the underpass, taking the long way around to avoid the steep bank, and by the time she approached the underpass itself—breathless, but still singing—she had a wary welcome committee.
“Thought you was gone,” Meth Woman said with a sniff. “Saw you leave last night. Wasn’t that—”
“Zander’s brother,” Mosquito interjected, swiping at something invisible on his arm. “She’s sweet on him. I saw it.”
“Maybe it was.” Mickey waved a box of tissues, enticing them and changing the subject in one fell swoop. “I hope you like peanut butter. It keeps. And tuna—”
“Oh!” Meth Woman snatched the can out of Mickey’s hand. “Gourmet choice!”
“Nothing but the best,” Mickey said, and after that the cart emptied apace. She was bending to get the final tissue box when a gruff voice spoke beside the cart.
“Yesterday you were one of us, and today you bring us this stuff? You got new clothes?” There was warning to the words.
Mickey stood to face the man who’d appointed himself to look a gift horse in the mouth. She said, “You just keep my business mine, and any trouble following me around will stay clear of here.”
“You think bringing this stuff makes up for that risk?”
She straightened, offering him the tissues. “I think bringing this stuff was something I could do, so I did.”
He offered her only a skeptical look.
“Plus, I found it to be sweetly ironic revenge on the fellows who used to have this money.”
His eyes widened slightly as he absorbed the implications. “You?”
“Word getting around already? Good.” Although that would only make it harder later.
“You wore a shirt on your head with eye holes in it?” He snorted in amused disbelief.
“Hey,” Mickey said, stung. “And what about a little black cowl with bat ears isn’t silly?”
He seemed to consider this. Then he took the tissues. “I saw you at the gym.” At her surprise, he added, “Not my turf, but Steve don’t care. I’m thinking Mosquito’s right—you’re sweet on that boy. You’re smart, you won’t bring him your trouble, either.”
She opened her mouth to protest. Plenty of protest, most of it having to do with how she’d left the gym specifically to take her trouble away and he’d only followed. But the man turned his back on her and ambled away, and she realized he had few enough victories in his life … she’d give him this one. “Cart’s for the taking!” she announced to the underpass as a whole. And with any luck, Robbin’ in the Hood would be back in a day or two to distribute more mugger money.
Lots to do between now and then.
And most of it involved people who wanted to get their hands on her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 10
The bus pulled away with a grumble of gears and lingering diesel smoke, leaving Steve to walk a block to the gym in the late afternoon heat. He liked to think of it as walking, at least. Other people obviously considered his movement more of a borderline lurch, and they gave him plenty of room.
He wondered if his brother had felt like this. Watched. Judged.
Of course he did.
With effort, Steve straightened his shoulders, lightened his walk. But by the time he reached the gym, fumbling for his keys, he’d already attracted attention. Dawnisha. She ground a cigarette out on the sidewalk and picked up a full garbage bag, and he realized that she’d been waiting there. Then he looked at the bag again and realized—Tuesday. The day Dawnisha brought over Sunday’s take from the hotel where she worked. Soaps opened and barely used, toothpaste left behind, lost and found items never picked up. Officially, the hotel didn’t know that these things didn’t end up in the garbage. Unofficially, the other maids pitched in to make sure the Tuesday bag was bulging.
“Don’t you look fine,” she said to him.
Steve offered a vague, evasive gesture and opened the door. He hadn’t realized how hot he’d been until the cool interior air washed over him; he might have stood in that doorway for the next year, eyes closed and head tipped back, if Dawnisha hadn’t nudged him. And at that he let out an involuntary yelp, jerking aside as she marched in and dropped the bag beside the freebies barrel. She turned around, crossed her arms, and looked him up and down. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Locked it up with someone, didn’t you?”
“In the loosest possible terms,” he muttered.
“And came back without that Mickey.”
Couldn’t argue that.
“Doing anything about it?” The challenge was right there in her eyes. He’d spent years telling the people in this neighborhood to take charge of their own fate, to reach for what they wanted. Clearly enough, she thought it was his turn to walk the talk.
“Shower,” he said. “Long one. All the Ben Gay in the world.”
“That’ll bring the ladies running,” she noted. She flicked her fingers at the training room. “World won’t end if you close this place for the whole day. You’ve gone and missed most of it already.”
Hidden Steel Page 9
