Xenofreak Nation (20 page)

The bike was still there, unchained. Scott quickly straddled it and took Bryn by the shoulders, guiding her to stand facing away from him with the front wheel between her legs. “Hands here,” he said, thumping the hand grips. She didn’t need any further direction. He held the bike steady as she hopped up and settled her butt on the handlebars.

It was not the first time Scott had stolen a bicycle. His only other attempt had been at age five when he made off with Hector Nunez’s new Spiderman bike one hot August day. The little snot had seen him do it, however, and Scott’s dad took away his video games for two weeks. His parents attributed it to sibling rivalry, because they’d just adopted a little girl.

This time, the owner of the bike didn’t catch him, and they were three blocks away before he noticed the blood on his hand. Since he felt no pain, he assumed it was Bryn’s.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, breathing hard with effort now that the sidewalk was slanting upwards.

“It’s fine.” He barely heard her response—she was concentrating on maintaining her balance and hadn’t turned her head.

The blood began trailing down his wrist. He stepped up the pace, quadriceps burning. At the top of the incline was a field of grass with evenly spaced pine trees, stretching to an isolated building. Beyond the building on one side he saw a baseball field and on the other a basketball court. It was a school.

“Hang on.” He turned onto the grass and cut across the field. There were two vehicles in the small parking lot; a silver car and a van with the words, ‘We Clean ‘Em Carpets and Floors.’ Summer was winding down and the school must be preparing to open its doors by having the carpets in the offices cleaned. The other car would belong to the janitor, who would be on hand to open and lock up.

Scott stopped behind a copse of trees and helped Bryn down before dropping the bike into a patch of low shrubbery, which hid it pretty well. He turned Bryn to assess the damage. The denim fabric had a dark red blotch surrounding a tear in her jeans.

“Butt’s cut,” he informed her.

“No kidding.” She twisted her torso in an attempt to see the damage as they walked to the school.

A thick corrugated hose ran from the back of the carpet cleaning van into one of the school’s side doors, which was propped open with a rubber wedge. The engine was running, powering the steam cleaner. He smelled cigarette smoke. Gesturing for Bryn to wait by the side door, he walked along the wall and peered around the corner. A man, he presumed it was the janitor, was sitting on a bench, smoking and involved with his holoreader.

Scott ran back and looked in the side door. No one in sight. The humming hose stretched down a linoleum-floored corridor packed with displaced furniture. He waved for her to follow him inside. Heading in the opposite direction from the hose, he glanced through doorways until he found the teacher’s lounge. It was empty of furniture and carpeted, but since the carpet was damp, he figured they’d be safe.

“Take your pants off,” he said. “Rinse them in the sink.” While she did that, he searched the cupboards until he found the first-aid kit. In the nearly empty refrigerator, he spotted the second item he needed: an open box of baking soda way in the back.

She was at the sink rinsing and wringing her jeans out, dressed from the waist down in white bobby socks and those unsexy panties he’d washed at the safe house, the left buttock soaked with blood.

He knelt down behind her and opened the first-aid kit. “Hang on, this may hurt.”

He heard her mutter, “Oh, my God, how embarrassing,” as he peeled her panties away from the wound and down so she could step out of them.

“Bare-assing is right.” He couldn’t resist the pun and was rewarded with a groan from Bryn. Her bottom was firm and pert, but under the circumstances, it wasn’t hard to stay clinical. He blotted the two-inch long gash with paper towels. It hadn’t stopped oozing blood, and he suspected there was still a glass splinter or two inside. He handed her the baking soda box, saying, “Add a little water and make a paste.”

Once she’d done so, he gently spread the baking soda paste onto the wound before taping a large gauze pad in place over it. “That’ll help draw out any shards of glass that might still be in there. It’s the best I can do for now, but you’ll need stitches soon.”

He discarded the mess, including the ruined panties, and put everything away while she struggled back into her wet jeans, hissing in pain as she shimmied them over her hips.

He helped her into her boots and she asked, “Now what?”

“You need a new disguise. They’re going to be looking for a girl in a leather jacket and beige scarf.”

They found last year’s overflowing Lost and Found box in the main lobby—luckily the school hadn’t donated the items to charity. Since it was a middle school, most of the coats were too small for her, but they did find a plain blue, lightweight nylon jacket that some largish boy had probably abandoned because it had a broken zipper. She left her leather jacket in the box with a disappointed pout.

The new jacket didn’t have an attached hat, and the only hats in the box were the knit variety that wouldn’t contain the quills—although he did note with a flicker of satisfaction that the insurance guy had thinned the quills out some. There was one scarf, but it was too thin, too pink and had a popular cartoon fairy emblazoned on it.

On the way out they passed the double doors to the auditorium. Bryn stopped him by touching his arm before slipping inside. She turned on the overhead lights and seemed familiar with the layout—went straight backstage to the costume closet—it was easy for him to imagine her as the lead in her high school musical.

Another box, this one full of hats that were wholly unsuitable to wear in public; tricorn soldier hats, ten-gallon cowboy hats, feathered and bejeweled hats, even a poorly-constructed plastic fruit one.

“Aha!” she whispered theatrically, pulling out and brandishing a curly blonde wig. He helped her put it on, not an easy feat since the thing was designed to fit snugly against the skull and the quills made that just about impossible, but eventually they got it settled. Quills stuck out everywhere, but the curls fell past her shoulders and concealed them pretty well. If no one looked closely, she’d almost pass for normal.

There was a full-length wardrobe mirror by the curtain, probably for last-minute costume checks before the kids went onstage. Bryn approached it slowly and when her face came into view, reached out to touch her fingertips to the dusty glass. He hovered behind her, looking over her shoulder.

That this was some kind of momentous occasion for her was obvious. Her face was pale and desolate, and the harsh lighting slanting in from the auditorium reflected off unshed tears pooling in her eyes. Venturing an opinion might set her off, but he felt helpless, so he said, “Looks pretty good.”

Even though he’d expected an adverse reaction, he was taken by surprise when her face crumpled and she burst into tears. He stood there as she covered her face with her hands, watching her shoulders shake silently. The seconds ticked by; he didn’t know what to do.

He thought of his sister, something he found himself doing more and more lately. Whenever May had cried, he would pull her into his lap and pat her on the back, murmuring, “There, there, little bear,” until she began to giggle, even at the end when it was so hard to distract her from the pain.

He reached out to comfort Bryn, but as soon as he touched her, she whirled around and slapped his hand away.

“Why didn’t you stop them?” she cried.

Her voice was way too loud. He held up his hands. “Sh-sh-shhh!”

She blanched, expression instantly contrite. With her knuckles, she swiped the tears from under her eyes. In a softer voice, she said, “You could have stopped them.”

There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but all he could say was, “It wasn’t my call.”

Her shoulders drooped and she stared at the floor. “Whose call was it?”

She was probing again, asking if he answered to Fournier or not. “Let it go, Bryn.”

Her eyes lifted and her voice dropped. “Let it go?”

“I mean…” he drew in a breath. She was deliberately misunderstanding him. “It’s just, now’s not the time.”

“Will there be a time?”

He had no ready answer. By way of apology, he raised a hand to her cheek, halfway expecting her to slap him down again. Instead, her lips parted on a little hiccupping sob. His intention was to offer comfort, make her feel better, but before he knew it, she warm and yielding in his arms.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Bryn met him halfway, a flood of emotions propelling her forward, intense and indefinable. There was no thought, only feeling. His firm-soft mouth, his body pressed against her, his roaming hands pulling her closer until the clothing between them presented a frustrating barrier. She yanked his shirt up to reach under and trace the lines of his back. Her fingernails grazed his sides, bringing goosebumps alive under her fingertips. All the while she was drowning in his kiss.

He broke away, searching her eyes. If he was looking for permission to continue, she made sure it was plain on her face.

A man’s voice echoed across the auditorium. “Is someone there?”

Bryn’s breathing went from shallow and fast to frozen. She and Scott stood in place, listening. No footsteps sounded; no one discovered them. After about ten seconds, the lights went out and the door clicked shut.

“I think we better go,” Scott whispered.

“Where?”

“I have an idea.” He felt for her hand. The only light came from the green exit sign over the main entrance. They navigated the darkness across the stage, down the stairs and up the aisle. Once there, Scott quietly opened the door and they looked out. The sound of the generator powering the carpet cleaner had ceased, but the hose was still in the hallway and she heard voices. Scott waved for her to follow, tip-toeing to a door marked ‘Boy’s Restroom,’ directly across from the propped-open side door. Once hidden inside the dark restroom, Scott cracked the door and they peeked out.

The hose made a thrumming sound against the door frame as the carpet guy began hauling it in. In the light from the door crack, she saw Scott wink and mouth the word, “Distraction.” He darted into the hall and by the time he joined her back in the restroom, the fire alarm was blaring.

They didn’t have long to wait before the janitor and the carpet guy ran in, looking for the source of the alarm.

“What the hell did you do?” The janitor yelled.

“Nothing!” The carpet guy threw his hands in the air. They ran down the hallway.

Scott grabbed Bryn’s arm and drew her with him outside. “Get in!” She jumped into the back of the van and helped him push the hose spool out. It clattered on the tarmac, but the noise was dwarfed by the strident alarm.

Scott shut the van’s back doors, vaulted into the driver’s seat, and shifted the running vehicle into gear. Bryn, conscious of her injury, made her way more slowly into the passenger seat as he drove away. She watched out the window; neither the janitor nor the carpet guy appeared before they turned a corner and the school disappeared from view.

“Won’t the fire department respond?” she asked.

“Probably.”

“And the carpet guy will call the police as soon as he realizes the van is gone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So…what if we get pulled over?”

“Hopefully we have enough of a lead to get where we’re going and ditch,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

He glanced over at her. “Bluto’s.”

“Is that up for discussion? Because I vote we go somewhere safer.”

“There is no such place.”

Instead of driving right up to Bluto’s, Scott parked the van on the street behind the restaurant, a few blocks from the lair of Nosferatu.

“Oh, please tell me we’re not taking that tunnel,” she said.

“Can’t. Crime scene.”

She thought she caught him with information only a cop would have. “How do you know?”

She followed his pointing finger to the front of the boarded-up building, which was wrapped with distinctive yellow tape. “Oh,” she said.

There was no one around—at least, not anyone they could see. It was too early for the restaurant to be open, so they tried knocking on the back door. After several minutes it opened and a large black man leaned out. Bryn recoiled at the sight of the tusks protruding from his wide mouth.

“Phaco,” Scott said.

“Lupus’ lookin’ fer ya,” the man named Phaco said. He opened the door further to let them in, but Scott hesitated. “He’s not here now, is he?”

“Nah. You comin’ in or what?” As Bryn passed uncomfortably close to Phaco on the way into the kitchen, he looked at her with small, pig-like eyes that still managed to seem kind. “Mouse tol’ me ‘bout you. She was worried.”

“Oh, yes, well, thank you. I’m—I’m fine, as you can see.”

He laughed, a hearty ho-ho-ho like Santa Claus. “Yer not gonna be fine if you keep hangin’ with Cougar, here. He about to get his ass-hat handed to him.”

They followed Phaco through a door off the kitchen that led into a hallway. He opened another door and said, “Sorry, folks. I lied.”