Luna Proxy #2

by Mac Flynn

  I walked back to him and leaned forward to look into the can. The contents were beans. "Where'd you find it?" I asked him.

  He nodded at a trash pile some twenty yards off. "Over there."

  I stepped back and seated myself on my overturned drum. "I think I'll pass."

  "All right. . ." he murmured.

  He dug into the food with relish. I watched him consume the beans like a wild, starved animal. His gaunt face and dark shadows under his eyes told of the last stressful day. He held the spoon in his left hand, and the fingers trembled. It forced him to grip the spoon very tight.

  His eyes flickered to me. He stopped and swallowed. "What is it?" he asked me.

  I shook myself and frowned. "You have terrible manners."

  He lowered the can and spoon. "I'm sorry. It's just that I'm so hungry, and I don't know why."

  "I know why. It's probably because you changed into that werewolf," I told him.

  He opened the hand that held the spoon and studied the palm. "But how can I be something like that and not know it?"

  I nodded at the spoon. "You may not know it, but the proof is everywhere."

  Vincent followed my gaze to the spoon. His eyes widened and a curt, choked gasp escaped his lips. The handle of the spoon was bent into the shape of his grip. He jumped to his feet and stumbled back. The spoon clattered onto the pile of rocks that surrounded the fire. I stood and grabbed the spoon.

  "Ouch!" I yelped.

  The heat from the fire meant grabbing the spoon was like taking a small poker into my hand. The spoon dropped into the fire and I cradled my burned fingers in my other hand.

  Vincent hurried to my side. "Are you all right?"

  I pulled my hand away from him. "I'm fine."

  "That looks bad. Let me take a look at it," he pleaded.

  "It's not as bad as-ouch." I'd tried to flex the fingers. The deep burns sent spikes of pain down my hand. "Damn it."

  Vincent leaned forward and took my injured hand in his gentle hold. He pulled my hand close to his chest and examined the burns. "These need to be treated with water," he advised me.

  I ground my teeth together and looked over my other should at the river. "We can't do it there," I commented.

  "Let me boil some for you," he offered.

  Vincent released my hand and scooped up the empty can of beans. He jogged to the river and knelt at the edge. I clutched my wounded hand and watched him scrub and rinse the can several times. He returned to me. I stepped back and watched him set a rusted, broken grate over the fire. He put the can on the grate and stepped back.

  "There. We'll have clean water in no time," he assured me.

  "You don't have to go to all this trouble," I told him.

  He sheepishly grinned at me. "To tell you the truth, I-well, I really want to."

  I blinked at him. "But why?"

  He blushed and turned away. "N-no reason. Anyway, I'll go find some clean bandages. There might be something on the shore that we can use."

  "Don't bother," I replied.

  I gingerly pulled off my coat with my uninjured right hand and tossed it onto the drum. The clean shirt beneath my coat was a plain white t-shirt. I grasped the short sleeve and pulled. The seams held.

  "Just my luck that I'm wearing the only Chinese-made shirt that won't tear. . ." I muttered.

  "Would you like some help?" Vincent offered.

  I tugged again. The stitch held tight. I sighed and dropped my hand. "All I can get, but watch that you don't scratch me."

  He blinked at me. "Scratch you?"

  I nodded at his hands. "I've heard enough about werewolves to know a scratch is all it takes to make one."

  He glanced down at his palms. "I. . .I guess that might be true."

  I sighed and turned away from him. "Then just be careful, okay?"

  "I'll try," he promised.

  He stepped over to me and took hold of the sleeve and shoulder of the shirt. A quick tug and I heard the seam tear. The sleeve slipped a few inches down my arm. I grasped the edge.

  "Let me," Vincent requested. He pulled the torn sleeve down my arm and over my burned fingers. I instinctively flexed my fingers and winced. "Why don't you sit down?"

  I tossed my coat over my shoulders to ward off the chill of the night and sat on the drum. Vincent tore the sleeve into strips. The water boiled and he soaked the rags in the clean liquid. He scooted a rotten log close to my drum and seated himself beside me.

  "This is going to hurt a little," he warned me.

  I frowned at him. "I'm not a-ouch!" He'd grabbed my hand and spread my fingers.

  He winced. "Sorry." He wrapped each burned finger in the damp cloth. My skin burned, but I held my tongue.

  I raised my head and studied him. "You say that a lot."

  He paused and looked up at me. "Say what?"

  "That you're sorry."

  He pursed his lips and resumed his work. "Sorry."

  I couldn't suppress the snort that escaped my nose. "See what I mean?"

  A smile slipped onto his lips. "Yeah, I guess I do. I'm-I mean, I apologize."

  "Fewer apologies, more wrapping." I jerked my head towards the river. "Just looking at that thing makes me think I've contracted an illness."

  "I don't think it would dare," he teased.

  I raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He cringed. "I mean, I'm sure you haven't, ma'am."

  "Leila."

  He paused and blinked up at me. "Huh?"

  I rolled my eyes. "My name's Leila, not 'ma'am.'"

  He smiled. "That's a nice name, and it matches your hair."

  It was my turn to look confused. "How?"

  He returned to his work. "Because it means 'dark beauty.'"

  "How'd you know that?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. I just know that's what it means."

  I studied his down-turned face. "So what do you do for a living?"

  Vincent paused and cringed. "I. . .I don't really know."

  I frowned. "What do you mean?"

  He seemed to sink deeper into his coat. "I don't do anything."

  "Then how'd you pay for the apartment?" I questioned him.

  He shook his head. "I had the money on me. It was in a roll. There was just enough for the apartment and some food."

  "So what did you do before you rented the apartment?" I wondered.

  He bit his lip and turned his face away. "I. . .I don't know."

  My frown deepened. "You don't know or you won't tell me?"

  He shut his eyes. "I really don't know. I. . .I can't remember, okay?"

  "No, that's not okay," I persisted. My voice was higher than I intended. Vincent flinched. "You have to know something about yourself."

  "I don't!" Vincent jumped to his feet and half-turned away from me. He balled his hands into his fists at his sides and shut his eyes tight. "I don't know who I am or where I came from. I don't even know if Vincent is my real name. All I know is I have to get out of here. I have to go north."

  His face was tense. His body quivered. Tears pooled at the edges of his eyes. And all because of me.

  "I'm. . .I'm sorry," I spoke up.

  He relaxed his body and turned to me. His emerald eyes were wide and his mouth was slightly agape. "Sorry for what?"

  "For pushing you into telling me things you don't know yourself," I told him.

  A smile slipped onto his lips. "You don't need to apologize. It's a little frustrating for me, too." He gazed into the distance and frowned. "With my memories gone all I have to lead me now is this feeling inside me. It's telling me to head north. I. . .I think it might lead me to some answers."

  "Maybe for us both," I agreed. I shifted my partially wrapped hand and hissed. "Damn thing. . ."

  He turned to me and his face drooped. "Sorry about that. Let me finish." He knelt in front of me and reached out for the rags. I pulled my hand against my chest. He raised his head and blinked at me. "What are you doing?"

&n
bsp; "Less apologizing, remember?" I teased.

  Vincent smiled. "I'll try to remember." He took hold of the wrappings and continued his work.

  I looked up over the top of the culvert. The pipe stuck out of a forty-foot tall wall created from large white rocks. At the top was a guardrail that buffered the cars from the dank reality beneath the wheels. On the other side of the road and set back from the road by a wide sidewalk were rows of new townhouses. I wondered if the designer had a sense of humor when I noticed the mix of orange and brown-colored sidings matched the colors at my feet. At that late hour very few of the lights in the windows were on.

  I winced when Vincent tied the last strip of cloth and stepped back. "There. All done. Though I think we'll have to watch them. They could get infected."

  I flexed my fingers. The cloth kept them stiff and prevented the skin from moving. "Not bad. You sure you aren't a doctor?"

  He sheepishly grinned at me and shrugged. "I might be."

  I pulled my coat closer around me. "If werewolves have doctors, that is." His face fell and he turned away from me. I sighed. My eyes swept over the area. "I think the fire's dying. Is there any more wood?"

  He shook himself from his pensive mood. "No, but I can find some more."

  I stood. "Did you want any help?"

  "No, it's fine. There's so much rotten wood around here that it won't take long to find some," he assured me. His eyes fell on my hands. "Besides, we don't want you to cut yourself. There's a lot of nails on these boards. I'll be right back."

  He hurried off into the darkness, and I reluctantly sat back down. I watched his shadow walk along the bank and rock wall. He stumbled and fell face-first into the hard ground. I stifled my laugh, but I couldn't hide my smile. He sat up and rubbed his head.

  In a short while he collected enough wood to last us the night. His arms held a mix of paper and wood. One of the papers was familiar.

  I furrowed my brow and pointed at the paper. "Let me see that."

  He glanced down at his arms and pulled out the paper. "This?"

  I nodded, and he handed the paper to me. It was a copy of the newspaper I worked for, and was the edition dated yesterday evening when Red and I staked out the diner. The paper were damp and soiled, and most of the pages were missing, but the bundle held the front cover. I spread the paper over my lap and inspected the headlines.

  "Shit."

  CHAPTER 8

  Vincent knelt in front of the fire. He paused in his feeding of the flames and looked up at me. "Is something wrong?" I turned the paper so the front page faced him. He leaned forward and squinted. His eyes widened. "But. . .but why?"

  On the front page was a picture of Vincent. The headline read "Suspect Wanted In Murder of Five Gang Members." My eyes brushed over the lead paragraph.

  The murder of five gang-related men has authorities scrambling to find a motive, but the hunt for a suspect is over. The police announced that they are looking for Vincent Mortale, a one-time resident of the city. Witnesses have testified to his being in the vicinity at the time of the murders. It is uncertain if he acted alone, but authorities are searching for him and have asked residents to keep an eye out for the suspect.

  In the meantime, residents are advised not to approach the suspect, as he is considered dangerous.

  Things had gone from bad to worse. I looked up from the paper. Vincent clutched his head between his hands. His wide eyes stared at the ground.

  "What did I do?" he chanted. "Was it really me?"

  "Vincent," I called to him.

  He shut his eyes and shook his head. "It wasn't me! I swear it wasn't me!"

  I bundled the paper into a wet wad and threw it at him. The ball hit him square in the face. He fell back onto his rear. The paper slid off his face and onto his lap to reveal his surprised expression.

  "Snap out of it! We don't have time for whimpering!" I scolded him.

  He winced. "But they think I'm a murderer."

  "And the whole city is looking for you, but now is not the time to panic," I advised him. I looked down at the paper that lay between his legs. A corner of his picture stared back at me. I furrowed my brow. "I've seen that picture before."

  Vincent followed my gaze to the picture. "Well, yeah, it's me."

  I shook my head. "No, I mean I've seen that exact picture. The pair who attacked us, they came around my apartment asking questions about you. They had that picture with them, except you held up one of those boards with the mugshot numbers."

  Vincent picked up the paper. "So does that mean I've been arrested?"

  "No, it means somebody wants everybody to believe you've been arrested," I corrected him.

  "So what do I do now?" he murmured.

  "We'll wait until the banks open. Then I can go and get some money out, and we can follow that hunch of yours," I told him.

  He looked up at me. Those emerald eyes showed concern. "But what if they link you to me? You'll be in danger, too."

  "The police don't work that fast. I'll be fine until Meyer tells them I'm missing. Maybe Red's missing, too. You beat him up pretty well. He might be somewhere licking his wounds," I pointed out.

  Vincent looked down at his lap and pursed his lips. "I can't let you go. It's too dangerous."

  I grinned. "You can try and stop me, but I'm pretty stubborn."

  Vincent stood. The light from the fire danced across his face and cast deep shadows over his features. His lips were pursed together, and his emerald eyes almost glowed in the weak light as they stared down at me.

  "I can't let you help me, and I can't let you go with me," he insisted.

  I glared at him. "I'm going with you." He turned away and headed down the filthy waterway. I jumped to my feet. "Where are you going?"

  "Away," he called back.

  "Damn it. . ." I muttered.

  I hurried after him. His pace was fast, but consistent. I caught up to him fifty yards down the bank and slipped in front of him. I glared into his sorrowful face.

  "I'm not letting you leave without me," I insisted.

  He tried to step around me. I pulled out my gun and pointed the barrel at his face. That stopped him cold, but his eyes didn't widen. His voice was apathetic.

  "Are you really going to shoot me?" he wondered.

  "I don't want to, but I can't let you go alone," I replied.

  He closed his eyes and a small, bitter smile slipped onto his lips. "Because I'm dangerous?"

  "Because you hold the answers," I explained.

  Vincent opened his eyes and furrowed his brow. "Answers to what?"

  I shook my head. "That's not important. What is important is that you need me and I need you, so we can work together to get you where you need to go or we can work against each other and get caught separately. It's your choice."

  He sighed and turned his face away from me, but the smile became less bitter. "I guess I don't have much of a choice."

  "Good." I tucked the gun back into its holster. My hand ached just from pulling it out. "Now we should get some sleep. Even if they haven't found any connection between my disappearance and you it's still not going to be easy bringing you along with me to the bank."

  "I could stay here," he offered.

  I pursed my lips. "Unfortunately, that's probably the best plan, but can I trust you to stay here?"

  He nodded. "I'll stay."

  "All right. I'll go tomorrow as soon as the bank opens," I told him. I passed by him and walked in the direction of the fire. "It shouldn't take me more than two hours."

  "And if you're not back by then?" he wondered.

  I paused and half-turned to him. "Then you won't have any problems going on without me."

  He frowned. "I can't do that."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Why not? It's not like we know each other."

  Vincent turned his face away from me. "B-because I can't."

  I rolled my eyes. "Fine, you can wait three hours, but any longer and you're just wasting daylight. Now come on.
I don't know about werewolves, but I need some sleep."

  We wandered back to the fire. The flames were fed with the garbage Vincent had collected, and I looked around our little camp.

  "Is there only the one mattress?" I asked him.

  He sat on his barrel and nodded. "Yeah, but I'm fine. I think I'll keep the fire going a little bit longer."

  I shrugged. "Suit yourself."

  I climbed into the culvert and tried to make myself comfortable. The mattress smelled, and the dirty blanket wasn't much cleaner. Both made my old bed seem like a new, king-size bed. I shivered and curled myself into a ball. The heat from the fire didn't stretch into the culvert. I wrapped my arms around myself and closed my eyes.

  My mind's eye replayed the day's events, but in reverse. The confrontation at the house, the diner, the apartment, the interview at my work. They played out like scenes from a story that I couldn't quite comprehend. Every new situation brought with it new questions and few answers.

  Something slipped over my shoulders. My eyes flew open. A shadow loomed over me. I sat up and pulled my gun. Vincent stumbled back and held his hands in front of him. His coat blocked my view of his body.

  I lowered my gun and glared at him. "What are you doing?"

  "I thought you looked cold, so I. . ." He held up his coat.

  I holstered my gun. "I'm-" My eyes caught on something. I leaned to my left and raised an eyebrow. "Are you wearing a shirt?"

  Vincent sheepishly smiled and moved his coat to block my view. "No."

  My eyes flickered to his face. "Why not?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. I had one on earlier, and now I don't."

  I swung my legs over the mattress and studied his attire. "Are your pants stretched?"

  He looked down at them. "No, they fit fine. Why?"

  "Because when you change into a werewolf you're a lot bigger. That probably explains why you wear those pants, and that coat," I commented.

  "What's wrong with my coat?"

  I nodded at the front. "It's a little big for you."

  He smiled. "Yeah, but it's really warm."

  I stood. "How about we move the mattress closer to the fire? I don't want a sick werewolf on my hands just because you gave me your coat."

  "I guess," he agreed.

  He slipped his coat over his shoulders. I glimpsed his pale skin and thin frame. The necklace lay against the center of his chest. There was nothing to show he was the monster. He buttoned his coat so I could only see his pants and stepped to one side of the mattress.

  "I'll lift the end, and you can get the other," he suggested.