by Clea Simon
Nothing, but she’s no fool. ‘The way I slipped by him – the big guy. What’s his name – Brian? That was supposed to happen, wasn’t it?’ She’s talking to herself. I can almost see her thinking. ‘He let us go into the shop. He knew Fat Peter was dead all along. He wanted us to find him. He wants us to take the blame.’
She’s got it – all but the last step. I’m waiting for the boy to bolt. To signal the men outside. Unless they’re already on their way.
I approach him slowly, the low growl rising in pitch as I get closer.
‘Blackie.’ Care reaches for me, to draw me back, and stops. ‘Tick – you were sent to bring me back, weren’t you? Or did you—’ She jumps to her feet, heading for the door, but I’m a move ahead. I’ve leaped into the doorway and stopped, frozen. There’s nothing. No motion. I look up at her and she turns back into the basement.
‘Tick?’
‘Don’t make me go back, Care. Please.’ He’s staring up at us, his misery clear in the last of the twilight. ‘I don’t trust those men, and AD – he’s …’ The tears are flowing freely and I feel Care hesitate. My tail lashes as I take in the street. Soot and ash. That hint of tar from the tracks nearby. Rain, again. But the smell of men and cigarettes has grown faint and far away. And so I sit, wrapping my tail around my feet as Care descends.
‘They’re not …’ She pauses. Swallows to keep her voice steady. ‘Are they coming here, Tick?’
He shakes his head vigorously, looking up at her. ‘This is my place, my secret. I used to come here when my mom was bad.’ We both watch him. Even if he believes this to be true, the basement could still be a trap. ‘I’ve got food here, even.’
He pulls himself to his feet and heads for the wall, where a loose brick reveals a cubbyhole and a plastic bag. The bread he pulls out has mold on it, but he brushes it off and hands it to Care like a prize. She takes it with a nod and, when he pulls out the pizza slices, a full-on smile. To do her justice, she looks for me, but I’ve seen how hungry these two are. And I know I can do better.
The rain has started up again as I head back out. The men on the corner have dispersed to warmer, drier parts to wait for Tick and Care. I can sense no sign of them, and so I set about getting my own dinner. I don’t believe they have given up. They are waiting for the boy, or to stage their own attack. But tonight I am a hunter, too.
NINE
I get back later than I intend, having spent more time than anticipated stalking my prey. Age has definitely begun catching up to me. Age or my recent trauma, leaving me less adept at certain forms of hunting. Almost I feel like I am unused to this mode of survival, as if perhaps I were a house pet or something of that ilk. But when I found my prey’s lair – a small, fragrant opening gnawed through a wooden baseboard – I felt like myself again. Watching, waiting – this was what I knew how to do. And the results? Delicious.
I had thought about sharing my dinner with the girl. Bread and pizza lack the essential nutrients to be found in fresh meat. However, I am hungry enough that my meal is gone before I can decide, and thoughts of who else might share my interest in these two children drive me back to the basement room before I can obtain more. I need not have worried. Only Care and the boy are there, curled around each other like kittens, their breathing soft and even. I consider joining them, sharing the superior warmth of my body on this chill spring night. The thought of sleeping within reach of that boy, however, keeps me distant and alert, as the rain peters out to be replaced by moonlight thin as watered milk.
‘Care, no.’ I wake to the sound of an argument. Hushed but determined, the girl and that boy are facing off as they share the ends of the bread. ‘Don’t make me.’
‘You have to.’ She gestures with a piece of bread before dunking it in a chipped mug of water. ‘Think about it. They expect you. They’re waiting. And I’ve got to find out who they are.’
‘But Care.’ The boy looks miserable, and the way he’s kneading his own lump of bread makes me suspect he’s off his food as well. ‘They’re dangerous. I know it. And if I get caught they’ll call in the services.’
‘I’m not going to let protective services take you. I promise, Tick.’ She chews the bread. Clearly, the soaking hasn’t done much to soften it. I can see her jaw working from across the room, the muscle visible under her thin cheek. ‘But the way I see it, this is all tied up with the old man. I mean, he wanted me to follow Fat Peter, and now Fat Peter is dead. And someone is trying to set me up for it. But I don’t know who, exactly, and I don’t know why.’
The boy squirms like a kitten with worms before finally settling on the cold dirt of the floor. ‘You don’t know that. You don’t know any of that.’
‘I know enough.’ Care is keeping her voice low and her tone steady, but I can hear the tension building. ‘The old man takes a job to figure out who robbed that store. To find that necklace. He starts looking into it and he’s shot. Shot and thrown in a ditch to die like a dog. But before he died, he left me that message – the one about Fat Peter. And now Fat Peter is dead, too. They’re connected, Tick.’
The boy falls silent, his misery clear on his face. I understand his concern. Clearly, Care matters to him. Matters more than whatever threat or promise was made to get him to give her up. But I understand the hunt, as well. My tail lashes as I watch her make her move.
‘Look, Tick, we’ll be careful. I’ll be careful.’ She’s speaking gently now, trying to cajole the boy into complying. ‘We’ll take off at the first sign of danger and head south. Together.’
‘For real?’ He looks up, desperate to believe.
‘For real.’
I don’t believe her for a moment. I’m also not convinced of the boy’s renewed loyalty. Yes, he stayed the night without alerting the thugs to her whereabouts, but his allegiance can be bought or beaten, I surmise. When Care isn’t looking, he rubs his fingers. Those burn marks remind him of something. Something he wants as much, if not more, than her love.
‘Blackie.’ She’s rinsing her mouth out with rainwater when she sees me. She refills her chipped mug from the barrel that caught it and offers it to me. I stare at her, willing her to take this moment to reconsider, but she misunderstands. She puts the mug down at my feet and backs off, her eyes downcast.
I turn back toward the boy. He’s stepped outside, but we can both see him squatting just past the doorway. It takes little to raise the fur along my spine, to start the high-pitched whine that comes before the growl.
‘He’s OK, Blackie. Really, I know,’ she says. For a moment, I have hope. ‘He would never hurt you.’
So be it. As much as I dislike this mission, I will join it. I do not know if I can keep Care safe if this boy chooses to betray her. But not only am I more sensible, I have senses far more acute than either of theirs and I will do what I can.
One thing for the boy – he can move quietly. Although Care is thin, too thin for a growing child, the boy is featherweight and knows how to navigate the city. I watch him dart, head down but eyes alert, from building to shadow. He has the moves of a prey animal, furtive and quick, but that is nature’s way, and I find myself relaxing. This boy has his own agenda, I can tell, but he will not blunder into anything. He will not betray the girl with carelessness.
She’s close behind, slower than he is, though I see more thought in her actions. Again, I wonder at her education – at this old man whose memory she holds so dear. Not only is she circumspect, stepping carefully as she makes her way through the rubble of the city, she is concerned. Not about her own safety, or not enough, but about the boy’s. I see how she watches him, his thin form darting. How he starts at every shadow. She sees his vulnerability and it means something to her. I do not want her to forget what it could mean for them both.
At least she is aware of her surroundings. I can see that as we leave the quiet behind and proceed into busier precincts. As we get farther from the train tracks and pass the turnoff to Fat Peter’s, the broken asphalt and cobblestone give
way to smooth pavement and she begins to walk differently. She holds herself more erect, her chin higher. When one young man comments – whether in flirtation or a more commercial inquiry – she does not deign to answer, instead tossing off his murmured innuendos with a shake of her head that sends her pink bangs flying. It’s the equivalent of a tail lash, and he knows it, but I’m grateful to see her pick up her pace and hold her bag closer. Glad to see her hand settling on Tick’s shoulder as she guides him down the clean, white concrete. I hang back, using the shadows and the gutter for safe passage here, where all is centered on the patter of hard soles. But she is passing. Taking up space on these busy avenues.
I am less happy here. The loud clatter of commerce offends my sensitive ears, and the vehicles – common here – limit my safe range of motion. Were it not for my color, I would find it difficult to make my way. As it is, between shadow and superstition, I am able to clear a path. More troublesome are the concerned shoppers – women, mainly – who see me speeding low and call out as if to give me aid. As we navigate an urban mall – a stretch of concrete blocked to traffic – one even dares to reach for me, her manicured hands brushing my guard hairs before I can escape. One hiss, a green-eyed glare, and she draws back. Still, I have lost precious seconds and must hurry to keep Care and the boy within earshot.
‘There.’ The boy knows enough not to point, but he has grabbed Care and stopped her. They are standing on a corner, at the edge of a building as sharp as stone and glass can be as I catch up to them, and at the boy’s alert they have pressed against the granite wall. There is no place for me to hide here, no shadows, and so I squeeze by them, letting the girl feel my warmth on her ankle. She glances down and smiles at me, her green eyes only slightly darker than my own. The boy does not. He is staring, his eyes riveted on the building across the street, where the storefront is metal instead of stone and the glare from the windows is blinding. ‘That one,’ he says.
‘There?’ Care squints at the building. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’ The boy sounds excited rather than hurt. ‘There’s not another store like it.’ He looks up and I see what he’s staring at: a diamond shape of painted glass suspended above the windows,
Care isn’t looking at the sign. She’s turned toward the boy, and I don’t think it’s the glare that has knitted her brow.
‘Tick, you’ve been here before?’ She’s watching his face, and so I open my mouth to take in his – and this city’s scent.
‘Not this way.’ He’s sweating, though not with the stench of fear. Some of that may have been the journey; we moved fast and he is still a young child. Some of it is excitement, and I lean against the girl, willing her to be careful. Willing her to remember those burn marks and the strange, acrid odor that even now clings to his skin.
Before I can act, however, he moves. Taking Care’s hand, he darts into the street, leaving me exposed. Perhaps he hasn’t seen me. Someone has, though. I hear a quick intake of breath and I flatten out, ears back and teeth bared. He’s leading Care across the pavement, and so I dash after them, passing them just as a truck rolls by. For a moment, I lose them. I hear the gasps as I pull myself up on the curb. They have taken a less direct crossing, I see. The boy has led her to a corner. Another alley, I assume.
‘There they are.’ Tick is talking, hanging back as Care appraises the situation. Making myself as small as I can, I peer around the building, expecting that brute or another of his ilk. These back ways are seldom left unguarded.
What I see surprises me. The man looks like several we have passed on our way. His clothing is clean and his jacket shines like that gaudy diamond sign, although it cannot camouflage the belly that age and success have bestowed upon him. Not that the young woman whose cigarette he is lighting cares. She lifts one leg, brushing her foot against her own calf in a signal that transcends species. In response, he raises a hand to her cheek, the glitter of his rings obscuring her dulled eye.
The scene is common. Private, and not what Care expected. I can see on her face that she doubts Tick’s information, if not his judgment. This is the kind of man who runs off children like these, I know from some deep memory. If, that is, he sees them at all.
‘Wait, is that—’ Care pauses. I can almost feel her searching for the right word. ‘That’s who you’re supposed to report to?’
The boy nods enthusiastically. He’s done this before. Been paid well, too, or in some manner to his liking. Even as he’s brushing back his bangs – they’ve grown too long, giving him an almost girlish appearance – he’s contradicting himself. ‘Well, not him, or not directly. But he’s the one. They answer to him.’
I sit and prepare myself for the wait, confident that Care will do the same. We may need our strength yet for another dash. Another escape. Clearly, one of the ruffians acts as an intermediary. One or all of them – maybe the brute I recognized – will show soon. But we may have time. Care, Tick – unless they put themselves underfoot, that well-dressed man won’t even see them. Which, I realize with the beginning of a purr, is why they are useful. It is why the boy has been recruited.
‘What’s going on, Tick?’ There’s a tightness in Care’s tone. She is not resting. Not relaxed. ‘Tell me the truth now.’
‘I have.’ The boy’s voice rises, although I am happy to see that the burgher has not noticed. He’s too focused on his companion. Making his pitch, I gather, before his business associates arrive.
‘We’ve got to get out of here, Tick.’ She’s grabbed his shoulder. She’s pulling him toward her and I look up at her. She’s gone pale in a way that the neighborhood, the city, doesn’t explain. She starts to back away.
‘Care, wait.’ He’s as confused as I am, and I hear no guile in his complaint. ‘It’s OK. They can’t see us.’
‘It’s not that.’ She turns and walks quickly, head down. ‘We’ve got to— You don’t know.’
‘What?’ He stumbles as he turns and tags after her. She’s leaning into the walls now, hurrying as I do, from shadow to shadow. ‘What is it?’
He catches her when she pauses at the entrance to another alley, three blocks down. There’s a dumpster here and she ducks behind it, only then pausing to lean back on the brick wall and breathe.
‘You don’t know, do you?’ She looks at him, her color returning to normal.
I’m intrigued by the dumpster. It smells of coffee and the rubbish of the wealthy, discarded, half eaten and full of meat. But I smell poison, as well, and the bin is too silent for hunting.
The boy, meanwhile, is shaking his head, his upturned face a mask of confusion.
‘That fat guy in the suit?’ Care says. ‘That’s Diamond Jim. He’s the one who hired the old man. Hired him and got him killed.’
TEN
‘I swear, I didn’t know.’ Time has passed and Care is still grilling him. ‘All I know is that’s the place. Diamond Jim’s. AD said to go around the back.’
I’ve folded myself into a neat circle, drowsing while they talk – while he talks, actually. Her voice has become more of a hiss, urgent and angry, and I feel the beginning of a dream coming in. Her questions echo in my own mind as if I had voiced them. Not that she gets answers, in my dreams or waking life. She keeps hammering him for details but he’s gotten tired. Tired and hungry, and there’s the hint of tears in his voice. ‘Honest, Care. I’m telling you the truth.’
She believes him, I can tell. She slumps to the ground beside me, letting her bag slide to the ground, and I lift my head from my tail in order to examine her face. Angry red spots have formed on her thin cheeks but she’s staring off into space now, not at the waifish boy who still stands before her.
‘Care?’ He’s shifting from foot to foot, uneasy or uncomfortable. She sees it too, and her voice is gentle when she looks up.
‘Yes?’
‘Can I – I’ll be right back.’
She nods and he dashes off. I marvel at the planes of her face. It should be softer, her cheeks more roun
ded. And she should be more alert, I remind myself. That boy may not intend harm. That, at least, is the girl’s assessment, but he is a small thing and vulnerable.
I stand and stretch, my back arching as I do. She reaches out and her hand is warm. I lean into it, butting my head against her palm and she fondles my ear, running her thumb and forefinger over its ragged end.
‘How did you get so chewed up, Blackie?’ Her voice is warm, too, and although she does not expect an answer, I respond as best I can, pushing my head again into her hand. Purring to explain a past I myself no longer remember.
‘Care?’ We look up. The boy has returned, and it is all I can do not to growl at the interruption. At my own inattention, as well. If this boy could come so close without my realizing it …
Care is on her feet as fast as I am. But while she pretends to stretch, peering around the dumpster, I simply sniff the air. No, no other human has come into our alley, and the sounds I hear on the street beyond remain constant in their rhythms, careless of the three of us.
‘What?’ She yawns, and I realize that last night must have offered her the first good night’s sleep in a while, despite the men in pursuit, the boy in her care. My inability to communicate wounds me deeply. There is something about this girl.
‘They’re there. The men.’ The boy looks scared – though whether of Care’s response or the men he’s referring to, I cannot tell. ‘I saw them.’
Care’s alert now, as am I. We should run, I know. Find the tracks and keep going, but we won’t. I feel my fur bristling, my whiskers alert. With a nod to the boy and a quick glance at me, Care signals, and we set out. The hunt is on.
Some things are easier when you are small. The boy, for example. Simply by dipping his head and hunching over he can appear even younger than his years. His height keeps him below eye level as well. As we navigate our way back up the street, his main concern is not being trodden underfoot as the city goes about its business.
