by Sara Hanover
“Sure.”
He patted my shoulder and did an about-face to jog back the way we’d come. I wondered if someone had finally noticed Steptoe lurking or complained about his house-to-house late-night ramblings. A feeling like someone had put their cold hand to the back of my neck touched me, and I kicked into a jog-trot myself, eager to cover that last block to home and relative safety. I yawned and covered my mouth with the back of my hand, glad I hadn’t done that in Carter’s face. Nothing says “you bore me” like a good, stiff yawn. I made it to the corner house on our block.
The raggedy hedge bushes by Mr. and Mrs. Palmero’s lawn rattled in the breeze. They were nearly man-high. The year or so we’d lived in Great-Aunt April’s house, he’d spent every weekend on a ladder trimming them neatly with his clippers, but the hedges grew like weeds and never looked manicured or short and tidy. I don’t know what kind of hedge plant they were, but I guessed they came from a botanical family that could overtake ancient ruins in a fortnight, never to let them see the light of day again. The Palmeros had a prodigal son who came back from time to time to live with them for a few weeks before taking off again. One weekend I’d had the pleasure of seeing them both up on spindly ladders, clipping their little hearts away in futility. Mr. Palmero had looked tremendously pleased, though. That and sunburnt. Young Palmero had worn a hat, the kind with beer can holders and a straw on either side. I think he might have been using them because the holders were loaded.
The hedges rattled furiously again and growled.
I came to a halt. Growled?
The hedges snarled again and added panting.
I leaped into a headlong sprint for my house. Why wait?
They sprang out of the bushes at my heels and gave chase with happy yelps. Not being able to run while looking back over my shoulder, a talent I’d never developed nor been bullied into learning, I had no idea how many of what. They sounded like dogs, big dogs. Maybe even wolves.
I played striker, usually, on the field hockey team. I knew how to cover ground. How to evade. How to hit for the goal. Now I simply ran until I realized I was leading them straight to my front door. What would I do there? Slam the door in their jaws and call the city dog catcher? I swerved across the street abruptly, running between two parked vehicles, catching my pursuers by surprise. Unable to corner so quickly, one of them fetched up against a car fender and gave a sharp yelp of pain and dismay, followed by snaps and snarls as it was evidently disciplined or driven back into the chase.
I angled to my left, and that gave me a chance to see what ran after me. It wasn’t dogs or wolves. But it wasn’t NOT dogs or wolves either. They couldn’t have been real, even though I saw the spittle fly from their open jaws as their tongues lolled out. They yowled joyously for the hunt, their hound heads low as their four legs drove them across the street and pavement. I could almost see through them as though I peered into a mirror. One accidently overran his pack mate and sent him rolling, which he did, doglike, if dogs melted into shadow and then reformed after their legs and paws tangled up momentarily. Solid, melted, solid again.
I let out an oooff and ran even faster. I had no intention of letting them catch me to find out if those glistening ivory fangs were real or if I would melt when they bit into me. I didn’t know what they were, but I knew I didn’t dare find out. Across the street to the Palmeros’ again, where I threw myself over the hedges. Well, partly over and somewhat through, with a great crash that drew the attention of someone inside the house . . .
Prodigal son Palmero staggered outside, letting the door bang into place behind him, with muttered curses. He’d left his beer-can drinking hat behind. He flung a squinted-up look at me, his face still rumpled in sleep and unhappiness at being woken up. He punched his hand into my shoulder with a growl of his own.
“Help!”
“What th’ hell?”
I tried to dodge past him. He caught at my hoodie and hauled me around, his mouth twisted. “I ought to beat the stuffing out of you.” I could smell stale beer on his breath as I shoved his hand aside.
“Mr. Palmero, it’s Tessa from down the street.”
“Like I care. It ain’t even dawn yet!” He rocked back on his heels, thick and heavy hands ready to slap at me. I ducked away as the hounds burst through the shrubbery. He gave a twist and stood in open-mouthed amazement.
“Run!” I flew past him, down the side of the house.
“Come back here!”
And then the pack of shadow hounds hit him. I heard a shriek and then a smothered cry of pain and then nothing but the growls and snarls and—what kind of noise do wild dogs make when they’re tearing their prey apart? Wet, tearing noises. Awful sounds. Sounds that told me I couldn’t do anything to save him. I hurdled the leaning, wooden fence at the back of their yard and fell into the Langshures’ Olympic-sized pool, which took up nearly the entire lot across the way, minus the house. Ice-cold water shocked me to my eyebrows and I flailed about, disoriented, telling myself I had to swim. Swim!
Hounds boiled over the fence after me. Five. No, six. There was a deck. They swarmed it and stared at me, eyes reflecting a dark, deep red. I could see them better as I tread water, for the Langshures had pool lights on, making the water a clear, beautiful aquamarine. I wondered if they would have to drain the pool and repaint the plaster after my bloody remains were pulled out of the water. The hounds jostled each other aside, loping back and forth and around the pool, hesitating.
They were afraid of the water.
Suddenly happy I hadn’t gotten it together and made it out of the pool as quickly as I’d fallen in, I floated in place and watched the pack. As I did, the gray light of dawn began to lighten the night sky. And then I heard one of the Hap family’s crazy chickens next door—the kind that lay colored eggs and have feathers that stick out everywhere, even on their feet—start to crow. The Haps weren’t great favorites in the neighborhood because their chickens could be noisy, but on the other hand, they liked to give away free eggs. I listened hopefully. Another crow.
The official end of night.
The hounds began to melt into the pool decking. With soft yelps of frustration and unhappiness, they disappeared before my eyes, all but their reddened stares, and then those too vanished. I sculled another few minutes just in case it was a clever trap. My mind whirled on a thought or two, caught, stalled, and then spun away. Improbabilities of the night melted into downright impossibilities as it did.
I pulled myself out of the pool and slogged it back to my house.
Brian met me at the door.
Liars and impossibilities.
“We need to talk,” I told him as I went inside.
CHAPTER FIVE
“THAT BE A KEY to a box of deposit,” intoned Morty. He sat on the strongest piece of furniture in my living room and had a heavy, knotted stick braced across his shoulders, his hands looped lazily about each end. He called it a cudgel and, frankly, it looked as if it could bring any debtor to his knees crying for mercy.
Late morning had brought him back to our doorstep, waking me from what amounted to a long catnap. He had come, he’d explained at the door, to help us search for assets we might not be aware of, still playing his role. I’d let him in as my mother descended halfway down the stairs to listen, hesitated, and then finished the journey.
“Ma’am. I am sorry for the necessity of my return, but my employer feels that there may be assets you’re not aware of which can, shall we say, mitigate the situation.”
“Assets?”
“Hidden money, goods. Gamblers are like alcoholics, secretive, and many have what they call their ‘nut,’ or seed money, put aside for a rainy day.”
“And you’ve come to offer your help finding it? So we can hand it over to you?”
“Alas, that would be the end result. It would, however, clear his ledger. I assure you that my employer does not
believe in taking a pound of flesh from the innocent. Whatever we find clears the debt. We have no need to enhance our reputation. May I have leave to assist you in whatever way I can?” Mortimer had really thrown himself into his role as mob collector.
She had rubbed her temple.
“Mom, I can handle this. I know you’ve got student appointments today.”
“I do, but—”
“No buts. I know as much as you do about this whole mess. Go. Do professor work and then get some writing done.”
She frowned at me. “This is my job.”
“I thought we were a partnership.”
“I reluctantly agree with you. Unless this gets too complicated.” My mother took one long look at Morty and his cudgel before retreating to the kitchen to make coffee and ready her briefcase.
I’d turned to Morty. “You’re too good at this collector business.”
The squat man had rubbed the bridge of his nose, which looked like it had been broken once or twice in its history. “I am not unfamiliar with the job.” He cast a glance about our house. “I may even have known your father.”
“Time is everything,” Brian had snapped, and flopped down in his armchair. “This is what Tessa retrieved from the arbor.” And then, he had shown Morty the key.
Which the Iron Dwarf had recognized almost immediately, leading us into the current conversation, and just like Mom had beat a retreat to her office, the professor seemed to have disappeared within the depths of nature boy.
Yawning, Brian flipped the key over in his palm. “You’re certain? I don’t remember what a key like that looks like, let alone what it might unlock.” His tousled hair caught stray bits of sun from the windows and seemed to blaze. His dimple accented every word he spoke.
“They have a look to them, those keys. The problem would be to know the bank.”
“Safety deposit boxes in a bank then.” My mind returned to its lightning quick reflexes.
“It’s Saturday. The bank should be open for another two hours. Getting into that won’t be hard, but most banks have a sign-in system before you can get into the vault area. That’s going to be awkward.”
“If we determine what bank.” Morty turned his sorrowful eyes on young Brian, who sat curled up rather catlike in the armchair. “Any memory at all might be helpful.”
Brian shrugged. “Whatever.” He stared at the ceiling, eyebrows knotting deeply, then peered back at us. “I’ve got nothing.”
I tossed a look at him. He’d sunk into his sullen teenage mode, which had proven very unhelpful so far. I couldn’t tell if it was his teen body ruling his mind or his cantankerous mind ruling his body, but sulking wasn’t solving anything. “That last thing I want,” I said pointedly, “is to be on the streets after dark trying to solve your problem.”
“I didn’t make it your problem.”
“Actually, you did. You called for help.” I stood up and went to the Richmond phone directory. I could Google what I wanted to know, but the professor seemed more at ease with hard copy. I fanned to the “Bank” page in the book and spread it out on the coffee table. “Read that and see if any gears get jogged.”
Brian rolled his eyes. Morty grunted and thrust his cudgel out, shoving the book closer in the other’s direction where it couldn’t be ignored. With a shrug, Brian leaned out of his chair and began to peruse the pages. I knew it wouldn’t be a long read. We had banks, but not a ton of them. After a minute, his finger stabbed downward. “That one just . . . I dunno . . . tugs at me.”
I peered over his shoulder. “Greenwood Savings and Loan. Greenwood, redwood. It’s worth a try.”
My mother’s voice floated in from her office. “Greenwood? We have a box there.”
My face flushed as my voice had roused her. Still, she offered more information. I barely remembered the bank, but wheeled around. “Do we? Is that where the papers are?”
“Yes. You’re on that account too. Remember? We put the birth certificates and Grandma’s brooch watch in there.” She paused. “Your father could very well have kept a box there too.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Thanks, Mom.” I looked back to the others and said very quietly, “We’re in. I’ve got ID to get in. We just use the other key when we get inside the vault area.”
“Easy,” rumbled Morty.
Brian rocked back into his comfy chair and ran his hand through his red-gold hair. “Doubt it.” Teenage pessimism. This despite looking like a Celtic god, with two worshippers at his beck and call.
“It’s worth a try. Let’s do it.” I pointed to Brian. “You’re going to need a shirt and shoes.”
He rolled out of his chair and took the stairs two at a time to retrieve the rest of his clothes. Morty stood with a grunt and a heave, rather like getting a small mountain in motion. The floor barely creaked. My eyebrow twitched. “Did you lose weight overnight?”
“I can lighten myself, when the situation demands it.”
“Wow. You’ve got to teach me that.” I grinned. I’d never had a weight problem, but who knew? It might come in handy someday.
I waited at the bottom of the stairs looking up. At nineteen I felt like an overworked mother or something, engaged in the old high school social experiment where they give you a sack of flour or an egg and say, “This is your child. Keep it with you 24/7 for the next week, and nurture it” just to prove if you have an ounce of maternal common sense or not. Well, Brian was my egg. And I hadn’t even had him for twenty-four hours yet. I sighed. So far, I couldn’t prove any sense, common or not.
* * *
• • •
Greenwood Bank stood on a shaded street overlooked by the cluster of high-rise office buildings near the river. It looked rather quaint, considering the high-powered backdrop less than half a mile away. The breeze off the river felt good as we got off the bus and stood in the parking lot to observe the bank—the day had grown hot and sticky. A poster rippled as the wind struck it: WARNING: Feral dog packs in area. Exercise caution. Call police.
A photoshopped black and white picture of the younger Palmero bandaged up and minus his beer-drinking hat stared back at me. The poster gave me pause for a long moment. At least he’d survived our little encounter.
“Waiting for the right time?” Morty intoned at my elbow. His deep voice brought me back to the problem at hand.
“It’s not like we’re breaking in,” I said finally.
“Not exactly, no.”
Brian stretched. His shirt rippled, suggesting muscles underneath it. He kicked a foot out. “If there’s money in it, can I buy new shoes?” His little toe wiggled through the hole in the side.
“It’s your money. But I don’t suggest stopping to buy anything if we’re being pursued.” I heaved the strap of my satchel purse up on my shoulder. It was nearly empty, prepared to hold the contents of whatever we found in the safety deposit box. I had stashed my personal goods in my pockets. “Come on.”
Brian and I entered the bank, leaving Morty at the front doors, where he squared himself off to keep a lookout, thumping his cudgel on the pavement. Brian bumped a shoulder into me as we passed the building threshold. I turned and looked into his stunning eyes. Not the eyes of the professor but green-blue eyes with a youthful shine. He took my hand.
“Look. Sometimes there’s two of me in here, and sometimes there’s just me. And the just-me feels pretty bewildered about a lot of things, except for you.”
My breath caught in a hitch. “Me?”
“You. I know I can trust you. And, I like to look at you. You’re . . .” Brian gestured with his free hand. “You’re beautiful.”
“Me?” It sounded worth repeating.
“I think so. At least, when it’s me thinking. So, I just wanted you to know, I appreciate your help, and I know that you know that. Still, I’m glad it’s you.”
“It has to b
e someone, I guess.” I moved away, reluctant to take my hand from his and look away from those gorgeous eyes, but we had a job to do. Plus, I needed to be breathing properly. And, he was making me feel guilty about Carter, even though there was no Carter in my life, even though I wanted there to be.
I signed into the vault visitation book and waited for someone to notice us. A woman looked up and put up a finger to let us know she’d be a minute, and smiled at her customer.
“This one’s for you,” I whispered to Brian. He lifted one shoulder and dropped it.
There’s nothing quite like feeling you’re the only one making an effort. I waited till the assistant manager drifted over, her nametag proclaiming her to be Betty. I smiled. “I need to get into the family box.”
“Of course, of course.” She buzzed open the gate and ushered us through the double doors. Inside the inner room the boxes gleamed. Most were ordinary size, though one bank of them on the inside wall held drawers that were positively humongous, and I wondered if the bank doubled as a mausoleum on the side.
I showed her my key: 116. That was legitimately ours. Smiling, she put in her master key, and that was Brian’s signal. I pointed at him.
Male: my distraction, female: his.
He doubled over, coughing. Betty turned about. “Oh dear.”
“Water,” he said. “Pollen. Asthma. Water?”
“Of course, of course, come with me.” And she bustled off efficiently, leaving her master key behind when he clutched at her arm and half-leaned his young, virile body against her. I liberated the key ring, found box 66 and promptly used it, and then slipped in the professor’s key. It turned, although a little reluctantly, and I felt a tingle through my fingers. The box slid out when I tugged on it.
Nothing much filled it. A small packet of money, maybe a few thousand dollars, tied in a colorful green ribbon. Two rolled up scrolls (Scrolls? Seriously?) as ancient looking as the professor had been. I supposed everyone might have a scroll or two in his background. A coin that was so worn I couldn’t tell what nation had issued it, except that it was silver. A few modern papers, folded over and unspectacular looking. And then there were the passports. Five in all. I looked at the most recent one. It was USA official. Current. Embossed. Had all the seals.
