And Alice. Wanted for murder.
She could think of no actual solution for anything whatsoever, but she did have Dad’s disk, she could read it. She clung to the belief that on that disk would be what she needed: knowledge, a way out, safety.
She popped the disk into the slot. Moved the mouse. Double clicked.
There was only one file.
She opened it. The fingernails made her crazy. They stuck out far enough so that she hit the wrong keys, or two at a time.
Alice had been expecting scientific material from some company that Dad was involved with at Austin & Scote. Codes and data. Dollars and bank account numbers. Details of some scam or fraud. Maybe even plans to assassinate somebody.
But what she found was her father’s autobiography. He was writing about his childhood, and he had started with his own birth. She read several paragraphs. He wrote about the brother Alice had never met, because Uncle Rob died long before Alice was born.
Alice’s nerves doubled up on her. She could barely read. The kids in her row were nothing: She was probably waist rotating, hair patting, and humming all at once. But she couldn’t tell. That was the definition of losing your mind: when you couldn’t tell anymore.
Alice’s father wrote: We were not twins. We just thought of ourselves that way. My brother Robert Robie was one year and one month older than I was. Kid, he called me. Or Little Guy. Actually I was taller and heavier. I loved fighting. I was born with fists. I got into wrestling, but my real love was boxing. It was the ultimate challenge: one other guy, one other set of fists. After they found out about it, our parents wouldn’t let me box; they were afraid of brain damage. They did let me take self-defense stuff, various Asian disciplines, and those were okay, but I never fell in love the way I did with boxing.
Rob never cared about his body the way I cared about mine.
Like with cars.
I loved cars. I loved high-powered cars, and how acceleration felt against your spine, and how it felt under your foot. I loved the smell of new cars, and the feel of them, and the look of them. I could spend half of every weekend in car dealerships, just looking and touching. I wasn’t old enough to drive.
Rob was old enough to drive, and he didn’t even care. How could this guy I called Twin be so different from me he didn’t care about cars? I couldn’t stand an engine that didn’t sound perfect, and I believed in a constant program of preventive maintenance. Rob figured if the car started, and he arrived without a tow, that was plenty.
I could never stand a crummy car. Or a crummy body.
But Rob ate enough to keep going, and exercised enough to cross a street, and then he was done.
Alice’s mind jumped in and out. Who cared about this? This was more than twenty years ago!
Daddy, you have to help me! she cried. I obeyed you! I took the Corvette and the disks and I went to meet you. You can’t let me down. Daddy, I need you now, not twenty years ago talking about your twin who wasn’t even a twin!
Alice scrolled quickly, stopping now and then to read a paragraph.
I had short hair because of wrestling; you didn’t want to give a guy a grip he could break your neck with, but short hair was not “in” when we were in high school. I had to develop muscles to offset short hair. Believe me, I did. You wanted a great body? Got it. You wanted a great car? Got it. From the time I was born, I knew I had to have a great car and I did yardwork and I washed windows and dishes—about all a kid under sixteen could do—and I never spent a cent. You never found me buying a candy bar or a record. (Cassettes were just coming in. I didn’t buy any because I wasn’t willing to spend my money on a cassette player.)
She was hungry and tired and deeply afraid and this was a waste!
The disks had nothing to do with it.
Her father had let her down. He hadn’t meant to. He had not known that her life would depend on this disk, that she had no other place to go than inside his disk. But there was nothing here.
She dragged the arrow to the end of the file—skipping dozens and dozens of pages—and looked at the final paragraph. Here Dad was talking about Mom and her flaws, and that Alice definitely could not look at. That was what the fake-confession-writer had said—that Alice and Dad were fighting about Mom in the first place!
She could sit here no longer, she could stay calm and collegiate not another minute, she could not stare at a computer screen and think; she had to move on.
She’d moved the pointer to the little box that would close TWIN. Her long strange fingernail was ready to tap. Then she decided to print the file, to read later, in privacy. Not that she knew where to go, where she’d be alone and safe and could turn on a reading lamp.
It took forever to print. Maybe there were too many people in here doing the same thing, or maybe the computers looked good, but were actually ancient, three or four years old.
The printer clicked and buzzed and rattled. It had a continuous feed, and the roll lapped out as if it would never end, and Alice wanted to run screaming out of the room, because it was futile, it was pointless, she had expected a clue, a place to go, a number to call—and all she got was Dad wishing his brother were still alive.
“What are you printing, a book?” asked somebody irritably.
“It’s a very long term paper,” said Alice. Really, the human body was remarkable. Who would have thought Alice could still speak, and sound rational?
“How many pages were you required to write?” said another voice.
Alice had no idea what length college papers were supposed to be. “This is an independent study.”
The printer stopped, in the complete way of computers, as if it had died. Alice tore the last page free, stuck the enormous printout into her stolen backpack and left.
She bought a candy bar from a vending machine, and that would have to be lunch and dinner. Chocolate made her feel a little better. She tried to think of nothing but its silky taste.
Exiting Stefan R. Saultman was easy. Maybe this was always true: Leaving was easy.
She went back out the inner door—no ID needed, but there was an alarm, so presumably if she were skipping out with a computer it would go off. At least she had not done that today. Alice held the chocolate bar in her teeth and shoved the heavy glass with both palms to open it.
A lot of time had passed. It was dark out.
It was night.
Night, and Alice Robie was alone with nowhere to go.
Flight had been possible when the sun was shining. But flight in the dark seemed grotesque and terrifying.
The door closed behind her before she realized what a mistake that was. She could have spent the night in the lab. But she was outside now, among unknown buildings, squat and shadowy. The temperature had dropped and she needed a jacket, and she did not know one more thing about her father’s murderer than she had known before.
She tried to walk down the dozen cement steps and could not make herself move. Her toe explored, like a little kid testing the water.
A thought quivered up Alice’s spine and into her brain. It was a cold thought, and sharp, like crushed ice.
That phone call to her mother. The next call, to 8789.
Mom didn’t have Caller ID. But if 8789 had it, he would know Alice had used a State University phone, because all SU phones had the same first three digits.
Half an hour ago, she had told a murderer where she could be found.
Chapter 7
FINGERS CREPT UP HER shoulder.
Alice leaped away, flattening herself against the wall.
It was Paul of the ID card.
His fingers wired her fears of the dark. The only knowledge Alice possessed was even darker: Alice had nowhere to go.
Paul was stricken. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She could not pull herself together. She could not even decorate her face with a pretend smile.
“You okay?” he said worriedly. He didn’t touch her again. She co
uld see him wanting to soothe her, casting for a method, finding none.
“Hard day,” she said raggedly. “I’m sorry I jumped.” She looked away from him to keep from spilling her story.
The dark was not complete. Every building had spotlights at the corners and doors, and the diagonal paths threading everywhere glowed like white lines on a map.
“What dorm are you in?” he asked. “I’ll walk you there. If you wait for the campus escort bus, it’ll be fifteen minutes.”
So it was a dangerous campus for other people, too, not just those whose location was known to murderers.
Alice tried to have a strategy. I must be a college student, she thought. Somebody three years older than I really am, who actually does live here, and would have waited for the campus bus. “That’s very nice of you,” she said, and remembering the girls in the van, she added, “I live in Flemming, Paul.”
It was his turn to be startled. “How do you know my name?”
“Your friends were teasing you when you let me in. Besides, Paul is a nice-person name.” She smiled at him, but it was a failed smile. Her lips didn’t cooperate. She tried to breathe again. What would happen when they got to Flemming? What was she to do all these long hours of night? And the next day, and the next?
“So, in what way was the day hard?” said Paul, heading down the last steps.
She went with him. She tried to think of a good lie.
Couldn’t.
Shrugged instead.
Paul grinned at her. “Guys with nice-person names try to be sympathetic.”
Alice could not help returning this smile. If criminals didn’t get caught phoning their mothers, they probably gave themselves up to the first warm smile. “My roommate and I had a terrible fight,” she told him. “I can’t imagine where I’m going to sleep tonight. I just can’t go back to the room.” Nice of Bethany to provide her with behavior excuses as well as a dorm name.
Paul nodded. “I’m in a triple. My two roommates and I fight like that all the time. There’s never a night when I want to go back to the room.”
Since Alice had no idea where Flemming was, she had to let Paul lead, but he was walking at her pace, so the let-Paul-lead theory was not working. They were coming to an intersection of paths and she would not know where to go. “I feel like sleeping on the grass,” she admitted.
By day, “grass” sounded green and soft, a place where you might sit and picnic. But at night, “grass” sounded black and cold, creatures slithering over you and nothing to protect you.
Paul took Alice seriously, as if he had slept on the grass once. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “The temperature’s really dropped. It’ll get even colder during the night. We might have a frost. Listen, you can spend the night with a friend of mine at Flemming. Her roomie always stays with her boyfriend, so Ginger’s got an extra bed. Ginger’s on the sixth floor. Where are you?”
Alice felt ruined, hopeless, yet she was able to deduce that sixth might be the top floor, in which case if she said seventh, Paul would know he had a problem here. “Third,” she said easily.
“You won’t run into your roommate then,” he said. He strode to the left and she turned with him, and around the next building was a many-arrowed sign. Flemming’s arrow pointed across a major street. Paul hit the Walk button, and they waited patiently for the lights to turn. People gathered around them and she felt strangely less safe in a group.
Alice found herself gripping Paul’s arm above the elbow, where the muscle felt as solid as the smile had. She tried to let go, but letting go didn’t happen, and Paul did not seem to mind. He said, “What’s your name?”
It was Dad who had Other Life fantasies. Dad who liked to talk about changing his name, going underground, becoming a spy. Had Alice, listening to Dad ramble, also planned to become another person with another life? Rehearsed what to say to a future Paul? She must have, because the lie came so easily. “Emily,” she told him.
A wonderful fantasy grew in her mind. What if Dad had vanished? What a great explanation! That was the answer. Her father was not dead at all, but had run away to begin his Other, more exciting, more dangerous, Life.
How comfortable this idea was. Like a teddy bear. She would cuddle it during the night.
“Emily,” repeated Paul. “It’s a nice person name, too.” He shifted her with practiced ease, so that she was not gripping his arm, but holding his hand.
Alice had a sudden memory of her first day in kindergarten, when her parents had parked on the far side of the street. To make the big and scary crossing to that vast and frightening school, they stood on each side of her, so she had two hands to hold. She remembered her mother’s skirt, her father’s khakis.
What could have happened to that happy marriage?
I have to read the printout, she thought. Because I have another mystery to solve. Where did the love go?
She thought: Is Mom afraid for me? Or afraid of me? Oh, Mom! What can you be thinking about me? We have to talk. But I can’t talk to the police. I can’t have that horrible E-mail between us.
Paul was telling her about his major. He was studying computer engineering, of course; people who did not understand computers were hopeless. Someday he would have his own company, writing the best software, and people would recognize him on television.
Now that Alice thought about it, she realized that people asked very few questions. Without any hesitation, Paul had accepted her as another college student. What if Paul watched the news tonight and found out otherwise? What if Mom had supplied the police and the network with a photograph of Alice?
It was suddenly gruesome. If Alice were to turn on the six o’clock news, she would see herself.
But it was way past six. The news was over, unless you stayed up to eleven. Alice supposed everybody in college did stay up, but she doubted it was to catch the news.
The Walk light flickered. Paul stepped into the street. Alice did not. She had a sense of ongoing traffic. She half looked to her side and half identified a minivan hesitating before making a right turn on red. There was no mistaking the extreme slant of the front end. Chevy Lumina, thought Alice.
“Come on,” said Paul, and she was embarrassed. Her dawdling was annoying this very nice person going so far out of his way for her. She stepped after him and the Lumina accelerated instead of stopping.
Paul knew that traffic was there, but did not bother with it. He had that campus swagger, complete certainty that mere citizens would make way for a college student. He probably rode his bike in the middle of the road and, on Rollerblades, circled in front of traffic to prove he could control them.
Paul reached the curb.
Alice was still in the middle of the road.
The van had manual transmission. It shifted hard from first into second and roared around the corner. The low-scooped front end bore down on her. It was a dark color. Possibly navy. Possibly not. The engine sounded exactly like the minivan that had left her father’s. But that van had left her father’s slowly and politely, and this van was going to run Alice over.
Alice could not pick her feet up fast enough. It would crush her.
“Sheesh,” said a guy behind her. A huge arm gave her both a shove and a lift. Alice and a guy built like a linebacker teetered on the far curb. The minivan shifted into third, way too hard, as if the driver thought he had a Corvette, and then it vanished down the street. Alice heard it go into fourth when she could no longer distinguish its taillights.
If I were going to run somebody over, would I choose a lightweight minivan with crummy power? she thought. No. I’d get a Dodge Ram and obliterate them. Maybe it’s a coincidence, two Lumina minivans in one day.
Trembling, Alice touched her rescuer’s sleeve. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Hey. No problem. I swear that dude headed right for you.”
“I didn’t even notice him,” said Paul.
“Yeah, man, I saw that.” The football guy was laughing. “Didn’
t you go to kindergarten? Remember? Look left and right before you cross?”
“I was a genius,” said Paul. “I skipped kindergarten.”
Even Alice managed a laugh.
Paul said to the guy, “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“Hey. Whatever.” Her savior turned left, and Alice and Paul went straight. The inside of her head was clogged.
They arrived at a huge building with several wings. A lot of women lived in Flemming. The front doors were propped open with wooden wedges. So much for electronic ID. Alice and Paul walked right in. Alice tried to act as if she knew every corner.
The ground floor of Flemming was a sprawling, open room with several sitting areas. Girls were slouched on hard-looking purple couches in front of a large television. They didn’t look like the kind of people who cared about the news. In fact, they were watching General Hospital, which was impossible at this hour. Must be a tape and a VCR, thought Alice, amazed that she was capable of deduction after such a day.
Alice wanted to be at home, at Dad or Mom’s, in her own familiar bed with her own familiar pillow, to cry herself to sleep, to make all the noise she wanted while she bawled. But if she gave herself up, she would spend the night in a jail, and she would have company all right, but probably not the kind of company she was used to.
Paul headed for the phones, punched in four digits, and said, “Hi, Ginger.”
What if Ginger were the chatty type? What if she wanted details and names and room numbers? If Ginger wanted to talk, Alice couldn’t do it; it would turn out that Alice had seams, like a rag doll, and her seams would burst, and her stuffing would come out.
Paul turned with a smile. “Ginger says it’s cool. She’s in Six-Fourteen. Go on up.”
Complete strangers would literally open doors for her, and give her rides and rooms, and save her when cars didn’t look where they were going. Alice managed half a voice. “Thank you, Paul.”
He did not seem ready to leave her. He gave her a funny, crooked look and she thought for a minute that he wanted to say something romantic, but she was entirely wrong; couldn’t have been more wrong; he wanted to give advice. “Nothing matters that much, Emily. It’s only a roommate. You gotta shrug.”
Wanted! Page 7
