Bone Gap (8 page)

“Forget it,” she said.

“Go ahead, tell me.”

Petey's breath came out in an exasperated huff. “Fine. You're crazy about her. You and your brother both.”

Finn's marshmallow flamed blue, skin blackening, crackling. It was perfect, and now he didn't want it. He dropped it into the fire. “Well, who am I to argue with all of Bone Gap?” He stood and moved to the horse. He tangled his fingers in her soft mane, then dragged himself over her back. He angled the mare away from the fire, away from Petey, but only had to lift the reins and the mare knew to pause. “You're right. All of you. I am crazy about Roza. Just not the way you think.”

NEARLY A YEAR BEFORE, A FIERCE SPRING STORM HAD
woken Finn in the early hours of the morning. After the rain let up, he pulled on some clothes and went into the slanted red barn to see the swallows. A pair of birds had built a small nest of mud and grass in the highest beams, had themselves a family. Finn liked listening to their hysterical cheeping. He liked to watch as the birds swooped back and forth, scooping up crickets and dropping them into the gaping mouths of their chicks.

But when he swung the creaky door wide, he didn't hear the hysterical cheeping. He didn't see the swooping and dropping. He saw what he first thought was a bale of hay in the corner of the
barn. But Sean hadn't bought any hay. And hay didn't have feet.

Finn crept over to the “hay.” It was a girl, curled into a ball. She was wearing a ratty beige sweatshirt streaked with mud. A red flip-flop hung sadly off one big toe. The other foot was bare. Her hair was a spill of black liquid curls. Finn didn't know anyone in Bone Gap with that kind of hair. And he didn't know anyone from Bone Gap who would want to sleep in the barn, except maybe Charlie Valentine's chickens.

Right then, a swallow dived past the open door, twittering and squeaking loud enough to wake even strange girls sleeping in other people's old barns. The girl sat up. Saw Finn. Screamed. Or at least she tried to scream—her mouth opened nearly as wide as a chick's—but nothing came out. She slapped a hand over her mouth and scrabbled backward till she was pressed against the planks. Her chest was heaving as if she just couldn't get enough air. There was a bruise purpling one cheek.

“Are you okay?” Finn said.

She didn't answer. Just stared, her eyes as wide as her mouth had been, and so bright against her skin that it was painful to look at her. Then she seemed to gather herself. The heaving in her chest slowed. Her hand dropped away from her face. She struggled to her feet, wincing as she did, clutching the wall.

“Are you hurt?” Finn asked.

Again, she said nothing. She straightened as best she could and limped past Finn toward the open door. He reached out to stop her, to tell her that it was okay, that he only wanted to help.
But when he touched the skin of her elbow, she lurched from him, stumbled.

He reached for her again, but then thought better of it. He turned and ran to the house. He threw open the back door. Sean was standing at the counter by the coffeepot, willing it to brew faster. He was already dressed for work.

“What did I tell you about slamming that door?” he said.

“There's some girl in the barn. I think she's hurt.”

Sean didn't ask any questions. Both he and Finn ran back to the barn. The girl was gone.

At the time, Sean was only four inches taller than Finn, but to Finn, it felt more like a foot. Sean stared down his nose at his brother. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“No!” said Finn. “She was here.” He pointed down. All around the barn, the storm had churned the dirt near to mud. In the wet earth, strange footprints tracked from the front door. A print of a bare foot alternating with the flat print of a flip-flop.

They followed the odd prints to the back of the barn. They followed them around the side of the barn. The girl was barely hidden in the green bushes. When she saw Sean, she screwed her eyes shut as if pretending he wasn't there.

Sean crouched next to her. “Hello.”

She didn't answer.

“Can you tell me what happened? Are you injured?” Sean put out his hand. She knocked it aside.

“Okay,” Sean said to Finn. “You stay with her. I'm going to
go inside the house and call an ambulance. She should go to the hospital.”

At the word “hospital” the girl shook her head violently.

“Yes,” said Sean.

She shook her head again.

“Will you let me help you?”

She shook her head.

“I'm calling an ambulance.”

He moved to stand, but she grabbed his hand, then dropped it as if it had been dipped in acid. But she swallowed. Nodded.

“Good,” Sean said. “Now, I'm going to help you walk to the house.”

More shaking.

Sean said, “Listen, I can't—”

The girl pointed at Finn.

“You want him to help you up?”

She nodded.

“Okay,” said Sean. “Finn, lean down next to her. Try to lift her by putting your hand around her back and underneath her arm. But don't press too hard.”

Finn shuffled close to the girl. He wasn't sure how old she was. Nineteen? Twenty? Hard to tell. Her breath was coming out in pants. He held out his hand, sure she was going to punch or bite him. But she let him put his arm around her back. She let him lift her from the ground. And she leaned on him as they walked slowly to the house. She was so small, he thought about trying to
carry her instead, but decided that would not only terrify her, it would probably make him seem like the world's biggest tool.

When they got inside, Finn walked her into the front room and lowered her to the couch. She groaned a little as she stretched out, but her big eyes were wide and wary and tracked both Finn and Sean around the room. Sean got his black case and brought it over to her.

“Let's make sure you're not hurt,” he said.

She shook her head wildly. Her black hair, silvered by dust on one side, stood out in a halo around her head. Again, she pointed at Finn.

“He's not a doctor. And he's only sixteen.”

She jabbed her finger at Finn again and again, like someone tapping out a beat.

Sean sighed and motioned Finn over. “Help her sit up, will you?” Sean pulled a stethoscope from the bag. “Can you take off that sweatshirt?”

She gripped the top of the zipper.

“I can't listen to your heart very well through the sweatshirt.”

She sank into the couch, shaking her head
no no no
.

“You could have broken ribs.”

This time the girl didn't bother shaking her head. She glared hard enough to barbecue the nearest mammal; even Finn took a step back.

“Fine,” said Sean, stuffing the scope back into the bag. “What about that wrist?”

The girl crossed her arms.

“Now, how is that going to help?” said Sean, almost to himself.

But the girl seemed to understand. She made a clucking sound with her tongue—sounding a lot like Charlie Valentine as she did it—and held out her wrist. It was badly bruised. Some of her fingernails were broken off and bloodied, as if she'd tried to scratch herself out of a box. Sean inspected them without touching them, and without comment.

“Can you flex your wrist?” said Sean. “Like this?” He held out his own arm and flipped his hand up, like a policeman telling someone to halt.

The girl flexed her wrist. She winced, but she could do it.

“Now, can you do this?” Sean dropped his hand limply, as if the hand itself had no bones in it.

The girl complied, still wincing.

“How about twirling it around?” Sean demonstrated this.

The girl could do this, too.

“Okay,” said Sean. “Do you have pain anywhere else? What about those feet?”

The girl shook her head.

“No?” said Sean. “You've got at least two toes on your left foot that are probably broken, or at the very least probably hurt like hell. Maybe some on the right, too. Can't set toes, though. You should have some X-rays.”

The girl said nothing.

Sean said, “I'll be able to scare up some crutches for you when
I get to work. But it will hurt to use them if you've got bruised ribs, which I'm guessing you do. You'll have to rest for a while.”

The girl pressed her bloody fingers to her temples, rubbed. Finn didn't want to say it, but he wondered if someone had beaten her up. A husband or a boyfriend or a random perv. Some asshole who Sean would have to—

“Are you sure I can't convince you to go to the hospital?” said Sean.

Again, a head shake.

Sean examined his own large hands. “Anyone we can call for you? Anywhere you want to go?”

The girl stared past Sean, lips pursing, as if there were a place, but she didn't know what to call it.

“I suppose,” he began, flexing one hand, then the other, “I suppose you can go back to the barn, if you want. We're not using it. But we have an apartment.” He pointed toward the back of the house. “It's nothing fancy, pretty much just a room and a bathroom, but it's clean, and it's vacant.”

It had always been vacant. Their mother wanted to rent it, but she always asked for too much. And Sean never wanted to let strangers in the house before.

“Anyway,” Sean said, “you could stay for a couple of days.”

The girl sat frozen, squinting at Sean as if she could see into his mind, see his intentions. Finn, who often found himself frozen at the worst possible moments, felt bad for her. “We won't dive-bomb you.”

She turned a quizzical gaze on Finn as if he were some creature that had yet to be identified by science.

The hot flush spread over him. “I mean, we won't dive-bomb you like the barn swallows will. That's what they do. To protect their chicks. So.”

“Unless you have somewhere else to go,” Sean said. “We can drive you wherever you want.”

Finn thought of something else. “It's got its own entrance. The apartment, I mean. It's private. We won't bother you.”

“Right,” said Sean. He went to the kitchen, came back with a key. “We don't normally lock up. But you can.” He held out the key, but then thought better of it. He gave the key to Finn.

A tear cleared a path down the girl's dirty cheek. She swiped it away. Then she reached out her hand, so that Finn could place the key in it.

“Okay, then,” Sean said. “I'm Sean O'Sullivan. That's my brother, Finn.”

The girl took a deep breath. “Roza,” she said gravely, in an accented voice much deeper than Finn would have expected.

Sean sat back on his heels, the barest hint of a smile on his face, one palm pressed over his heart. “Nice to meet you, Roza.”

At first, Roza hardly left the apartment, and only nibbled on the food that Sean would bring her in the mornings and evenings. Then, barely a week later, she limped into the kitchen as Finn was scratching around in the cabinet for boxes and jars. She took
one look at the box in Finn's hand and frowned. She put it back in the cabinet. She rummaged in the fridge and pulled out some ground beef, an onion, and some cabbage. That night, they had stuffed cabbage with sweet-and-sour tomato sauce. The night after, pierogi, which was some type of dumpling. Every night, she cooked, making enough for a whole crew of poor motherless boys. When Sean reminded her she was supposed to be off her feet, she grunted and dumped more goulash onto his plate.

He said, “You don't have to cook for us.”

Roza laughed, a loud, happy sound too big for her body. “I cook for me. You get what's left.”

Finn remembered what Charlie Valentine said, that he might never figure out what made his brother happy. But already Finn knew. When Roza laughed, Sean grinned, too, like a kid getting a birthday present.

Eight months after Roza arrived, Sean showed Finn the tiny ring he bought—not an engagement as much as a promise—a ring that he tucked in a box in a dresser drawer. He was waiting for the perfect time to give it to her.

But he never had the chance. By the time he'd gathered the courage, Roza was stolen by a man who looked like everyone and no one at all.

ROZA AWOKE, NOT IN THE BEDROOM WITH THE BLUE
chairs, the armoire, and the smashed bedroom window, but in some sort of museum.

At least, that's what it looked like. A roped-off room in a castle somewhere, a room made entirely of blocks of stone, icy and cold, even though a fire burned low in the hearth. A room where doomed queens went to die.

She sat up. She was wearing an elaborate gown of silk and brocade, so heavy that it felt like armor. Her wounded arms, arms she had cut on the window glass when she'd leaped to the tree, were wrapped in bandages. The bed in which she lay was
canopied in red velvet with golden accents. The elaborately carved furniture and drapes matched the bed. On the walls hung portraits of dukes and kings and strange goddesses cavorting with goat-legged men.

The door creaked open. A maid carrying a pitcher curtsied, moved toward a washbasin in the corner of the room. She poured the basin full of water, then set the pitcher next to the basin. She curtsied again and pulled the covers away from Roza. Deft fingers untied the gown knotted at Roza's throat. When Roza brushed the maid's hands away, the maid barely seemed to notice. She curtsied a third time and took a few steps back.

“What is this place?” said Roza.

“Your home,” replied the maid.

“This isn't my home.”

The maid said nothing, merely bowed her head. She gestured to the basin.

Roza said, “There are drugs in the water. That's why I'm seeing things. I'm probably in a coma right now.”

The maid frowned. “Drugs?” she said, as if she didn't understand the word.

Roza stood and walked over to the basin. She unwound the bandages and rinsed her raw hands and arms, splashed some water on her face. The maid brought her a length of cloth, which Roza pressed against her damp cheeks. More cloth to rewrap the wounds.