by Anna Carey
He thinks you’re anxious for the bus. You don’t know what you’re anxious for. Everything. The buses the night before were already full, but you were able to get a ticket for this one. Seven A.M. San Francisco. It seems far enough away to start again, big enough to lose yourself in. It feels like a chance . . . at what, you’re not sure.
When you step out into the morning air, the lot is empty except for a few cars. Two buses sit in spaces five and twelve. Their windows are dark. Across the street, a club is just closing. A man is pulling a metal grate over the front entrance, slipping the lock in, latching it shut.
You try to focus on the vending machine, on the twenty breakfast options you have in front of you. Cheetos, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, pretzels and peanuts and Snickers bars . . . You punch the code for Cheetos. The spiral turns, pushing them out, and they fall to greet you.
You sit against the station wall, popping the bag and eating them one by one. You close your eyes and try to hold the memory again, the tiny snippets of the coffin, your hands, the church. As you walk forward you see the podium. An angel on the altar holds a trumpet. You remember the incense and that bright floral smell, how that one bouquet sitting beside the podium changed the air.
You remember, you remember.
Everything else exists in a hazy place, like you are looking through a camera that’s out of focus. You can’t quite make out the clock on the church’s back wall. You don’t know what you were wearing, what year it was or where it happened. You focus on the book that was in front of you, trying to remember the exact page number. You can’t remember the passage. You can’t even see the words on the page; instead the memory cuts out, your hand still on that ribbon marking your place. Still, you keep your eyes closed. You wait for it to return. With your head down, your shoulders resting against the station wall, the sound is background at first. It’s somewhere beyond you.
You open your eyes.
You scan the empty lot. One side of it is all grass, some of it three feet high in places. A few tangled trees have sprouted in the abandoned plot next door. The wind has picked up, moving the tips of the grass in one direction. Only a four-foot patch is still, the stalks standing at an odd angle. You watch the shadow behind them.
Then you hear the sound again: the quiet crunching of a person moving through dry brush. It takes a moment for you to process what you are seeing. The figure pushes forward and emerges from the grass. The woman is clad in a long-sleeved shirt and black running pants, her chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks old enough to be someone’s mother, the type of woman you’d see at a Little League game or in a supermarket line. As she starts toward the front of the building, you notice the gun at her hip.
You stand. She gives you a quick once-over as she doubles her pace. You turn away, starting into a run. You cross the street and go down an empty alley. She is right behind you. You scan the backs of buildings, looking for an entrance into the gated parking structures. They’re all locked.
You go another block, but the woman keeps pace. When you look back, the woman is pumping her arms, her run effortless. She’s too fast. You try to get a sense of her height, her size, wondering if you have any chance against her. You are only about five three. The woman is taller but she is slight, her limbs long and lanky.
On instinct you run in an arc, cutting down another alley and over Hollywood Boulevard. The traffic is sparse and you feel alone, exposed, the streets too empty to hide. A convertible sees you crossing and slows. It takes only a moment for the car to speed up again, racing past without much notice.
You keep going, turning toward the freeway. You can hear the sounds of cars somewhere above. For a moment there’s nothing except that static hum, and it’s easy to believe you’ve outrun her. But when you glance over your shoulder the woman is there, right at the last corner. She hasn’t slowed at all. You try to keep your breath even, drawing long sips of air, but her presence unhinges you. It’ll only take her a few minutes to close the gap between you.
You’re all guts and instinct, muscle and blood and bone. You pull the pack to your front, unzipping it as best as you can. The knife is right on top. As soon as you have it you drop the pack, feeling the weight of it go. Everything you own. The cash. The supplies. The notebook. You try not to think about it, try only to feel how much lighter you are without it.
You pick up speed. As you reach the freeway underpass you turn, moving down an abandoned street that parallels the road above. She’s disappeared from view. There are bushes to your left and buildings to your right—another parking garage, three stories tall. You sprint along the backs of the buildings, hiding behind a Dumpster.
She is coming. You listen to her shoes hitting the pavement, the sound moving closer. You flip open the knife and clasp the base of it. Three, you think, trying to stop the trembling in your hands. Two . . . There’s an unevenness to her steps as she takes the corner, and you hear her hesitation. She’s realized you’re hiding. She’s registered something’s wrong.
One.
You step forward. You keep the knife down. You level your right shoulder into her stomach, keeping your feet out to absorb the impact. When you collide everything in your body hurts. Her legs give out. She stumbles away, falling to the ground, her hand on her stomach. All her breath has left her body and she opens her mouth, wheezing, trying to get air.
Your first instinct is to go to her, but then she reaches for the gun, aiming it at your heart. Before she can fire you are upon her. Both hands come together in an X motion, over her outstretched arm. The force of it breaks her grip. Your left hand grabs the barrel and twists, freeing the weapon. You throw the gun as far as you can, sending it skidding across the pavement.
It stops your breath, how easy it was to disarm her. You try to ignore the throbbing in your head, your shoulder, your side. Kneeling down beside her, you’re so close you can see the mascara on her eyelashes. She is in her mid-forties but her skin is pulled taut. She has plump, overdone lips.
One hand immediately goes to her neck. She pinches a medallion between her fingers, the metal glinting in the bright morning light. There’s a man’s silhouette on one side, an antlered deer on the other. She turns it back and forth.
You bring the knife up, letting it hover over her throat. But you’re not going to kill her, you know you won’t. You can’t. She stares back at you, her chest heaving as she struggles for air, and you try your best to pretend.
“Who are you?” you ask. “Why were you chasing me?”
The woman coughs. She still holds the medallion, turning it between her fingers. When she parts her lips, her voice is a sad, slow whisper. “I’m sorry . . .” she murmurs.
“Sorry?” you repeat.
She closes her eyes, takes another breath, and before you can process it she smiles. Her palm comes up, hitting the base of your nose. The pain is so intense your eyes squeeze shut. There’s only the throbbing in your head. She grabs the knife from your hand, your grip loose, your whole body weak. You can barely fight her as she rolls away. She sits up, adjusting herself so she has a better view of your throat.
She grabs your head with the one hand, watching you as she holds you there, the smile still curled on her lips. Then she raises the knife. The pain in your head is white-hot, your back scraped and bleeding on the pavement, and you know this is it.
You close your eyes, waiting for her to strike. You hear a whizzing sound, then the quick intake of breath. Something has hit the woman in the side. A wound opens up, no bigger than a quarter. The bullet has buried itself just below her left breast. She lowers herself onto the ground, her body twisting and tense, her hand pressed against her ribs.
You stand and turn, looking for the person who shot her. You are alone in the alley. The buildings reveal nothing, the windows closed and dark, the roofs empty. It takes you a moment to notice the parking structure two doors away. A figure stands on the second level, beside one of the concrete pillars. It’s the man from the day before
, wearing a similar white shirt and black pants. You blink, stunned, as he watches you from above.
Then he lowers his gun. He stares at you for a moment, and if it’s an acknowledgment, you’re not sure of what. His face is expressionless. His hand wanders to his back, tucking the gun into his belt.
He climbs into the silver car behind him, slamming the door shut. You can hear the screeches and squeals of the tires as he takes each turn, winding down the parking structure, disappearing out an unseen exit.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER NINE
THE FIRST KNOCK fills the tiny gas station bathroom. There’s a pause, then more knocking, this time louder. You’re wedged in the corner, beside the sink, dried blood splatter on the side of your shirt. You have to get up, you know you have to, but the person on the other side of the door could be anyone—the man from before, the police. You only got five blocks before taking cover here.
Finally you hear a young girl’s voice—small, unassuming. “Is anyone in there?” You stand, rinsing your hands beneath the cold water, dabbing your face with paper towels. When you meet your eyes in the mirror you look half dead, the overhead lamp creating strange shadows on your face.
You shake your hands dry. You keep your head down as you push out past the girl, no older than thirteen, mumbling that you are just feeling sick. Two hours have passed since the shooting, maybe more. In the morning heat you are all thoughts, wondering how long the man was standing there before he took that shot. Who are you to him? Why did he protect you? Why did he follow you, watching from above?
The world goes by outside you: the gas station attendant helping a customer with their credit card, a thirty-something guy in a car, a store sign flipping to OPEN. Turning over your shoulder, the line of cars is endless, but there are no cabs, no buses, no easy way out. You scan the storefronts and office lobbies, the outdoor café tables and the windows above. The man has been gone for hours now, but you still think you see him everywhere—in the passing faces of strangers, in the parked car across the street.
You’re doubling your pace, your head down, when you recognize the intersection from before. It’s hard to resist. The backpack can’t be more than three blocks away, and without it you have nothing. No clothes, no water, no food. Hundreds of dollars are waiting for you there, the pack nearly visible from where you stand, the branches of the bush broken under its weight.
Cars pass. You check behind you, in front of you, beside you, making sure there’s nothing you’ve missed. Then you start toward it, not stopping until it’s slung over your shoulder.
One block gone, then another. No one is following you. Only a bus passes, tourists peering down at you from the top deck. Still, something’s off. You can sense it. No police, no sirens, no sign of the man. You take a left on the corner, starting into a run, scanning the tops of the buildings, the parking structure where he stood.
When it comes into view there are no ambulances. The alley isn’t sectioned off with police tape. Nearly two hours have passed and her body is gone. A truck drives up the freeway ramp, accelerates, and joins the traffic above.
As you near the long stretch of road you keep looking behind you, but no one’s there. When you get to the alley there’s no blood. You circle the pavement, going to the spot where you threw the gun, but it’s not there. The stretch of open dirt below the freeway is scattered with broken bottles. You look for a trail, some indent or mark where the gun could have skidded across, but there’s nothing. Leaning closer, you see faint lines in the dirt, like it’s been raked even.
You pace the length of the alley. Beside the Dumpster, right where the woman was shot, the pavement is almost dry. Caught near the curb is a thin pink puddle, the stain so faint you can barely see it at first. In those two hours you were gone someone collected the body, cleaned the scene, and left. They even washed away her blood.
Staring at the parking garage above, you can almost see the silver car there. You picture the way the man stood just behind the shadows, under the awning, where he wasn’t as easy to see. The shot was quiet. If you had been in a passing car you might not have noticed it at all.
You spin back toward the pavement, wanting some acknowledgment that it was real. Your nose is still throbbing. Your shoulder is sore from where it collided with her stomach. You pinch your shirt between your fingers, studying the brown specks against the white fabric, the spray on your right side, exactly below where she was hit.
It was real, you think. It happened.
But when you turn around, the narrow alley is deserted. Not a single car is in the parking garage. There is only that shallow wash of blood and the rush of the freeway above.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER TEN
THE FOREST IS quiet. The boy walks in front of you, his bent knife blade parting the vines. As he moves through the trees you stare at the tattoo covering his shoulder blades, the skull that stares back with its hollow, cavernous eyes. On either side of it are wings. The feathers are so perfectly rendered they look real. You keep focused on that, watching the muscles move beneath his skin, trying to quiet your breaths.
The sweat catches in your hair. It drips in thin streams along the sides of your face. You grab vines as you move through, stepping over rocks and fallen tree limbs. The branch in your hand is heavy, five inches thick, the top of it sharpened to a point.
Somewhere to the right of you, a twig breaks. The boy turns and you watch his profile—the ridge of his nose, his thick black lashes and the black hair that falls over his eyes. He’s seen something, but before you can turn to look he is yelling.
“Move! Go!”
You don’t see what’s coming, but you hear the rush of leaves parting, tree branches breaking, the breath of some living thing moving through the woods. The boy bolts out in front of you but thick mud sucks at the bottom of your broken boots, pulling you down. The beast is coming toward you, faster through the trees, and you are locked there, unable to move. As it approaches, you try to free your legs one last time. Vines snake around them, twisting, tightening around your ankles. You turn and see a glimpse of some massive animal, its fur dark and matted, a bleeding wound in its neck. The boy disappears beyond the trees. You are running, trying to move faster, when the thing reaches you, its jaws clamping down on the back of your neck.
12:22 A.M. You haven’t gotten more than an hour of sleep and your heart is still drumming from the dream. You check the locks on the motel-room door. You check the windows, making sure they’re still closed, the latches turned shut. You’re on the fifth floor but it doesn’t make you feel any better. You only notice the fire escape, the landing ten feet under you, the roof that could be reached with a ladder.
The dream felt so real. You can still hear the cracking of branches as the animal came at you. It was massive, its agile body darting through the trees. What was it? Where were you? And who was the boy with the tattoo? Even as you try to remember him, his image is already fading, slipping back into the unknown with everything else.
You pull the notebook from your pack and copy down the details—the skull tattoo, a scar that ran along the bottom of his back, just above his belt. His knife blade was bent. You write down anything you can remember about the forest. The air was heavy, the trees lush and tropical, as if it was another world away. It seems impossible, and yet as you write down the final detail—some kind of wild animal attacked me—you reach up for your scar, running down the length of it.
When you’re done you set the notebook next to the rest of your things, but you’re still not any closer to knowing whether or not the dream was real. You lean back against the bed but your body hurts. Your arm bleeds, the scab pulling against the skin, catching on the rough, pi
lled blanket. The muscles on your shoulder and side are tender to the touch. At some point you scraped the knuckles on your left hand. They burn when you make a fist.
You spot the receipt with Ben’s number, tucked inside the notebook’s front. You think of his hand on your wrist, how his face changed when he saw the gash, wincing as if it were his arm that had been cut. How earnest he had seemed writing that number on the receipt, pressing it to your palm, telling you to call if you needed anything. You’re not sure if you want to see him, or if you just want someone here, if it’s the loneliness that’s wearing on you. You pick up the phone, dialing before there’s time for more questions.
When Ben walks into the diner he smiles—this easy, everyday smile—and it makes you think of that word carefree, and what it really means. You are trying so hard to be normal. You’ve ordered a milkshake. Sitting in the booth, smiling back at him, you can feel the muscles in your face, how strange and stiff your skin is.
He chose the place—House of Pies—just a few blocks from the motel. It’s mostly empty, but there’s a guy in a sequined jacket and tie a few booths over. You’ve chosen the table in the back, against the wall, near an emergency exit. You feel better when you can see the entire room.
As Ben comes toward you his expression changes, his brows drawing together, his mouth set in a hard line. “Why are you wearing those glasses? What’s with the hair?”
He slides into the booth and you can’t help but be offended, your hands swiping at your bangs, adjusting the glasses so they sit straight on your nose. You’ve looked in the mirror so many times but now you feel like you missed something.
“I always wear these, just not the other day,” you say.
