Falling (19 page)

Krugal’s house isn’t far away, and I like running — it helps
me not to think. Instead, I feint in and out of the shaggy pine trees lining
the road and feel the cool rain sliding down my back. Whatever grand goodbyes
the sun might want to give on the horizon are censored by the clouds.

A dull gleam beneath a street light hails my eye, and I
randomly decide to pocket the half-used tube of lipstick. I think I already
know what I’m going to do with it.

I find Tarren’s SUV parked a block outside Krugal’s gated
community. For no good reason except that I’m starting to go giddy with fear
and the certainty of my own stupidity, I pull out the ruby lipstick and draw
sideways Ms on the back window to make sloppy wings. I am Zorro.

Tarren is right about me getting in the way. Being
untrained. I’ll probably bumble in and get us all killed. I know this, and I’m
going anyway. I have a reason somewhere in my head; something about being part
of the team, using my curse for good, seeing justice done.
Ex
malo bonum.
The repentant monster. I draw a halo over the wings.

At the gate, the guardhouse is empty. A camera perched on
the fence is turned away, and its red light is dark. I hear a slow and steady
heartbeat coming from the thick hedges surrounding the gate. Gabe and Tarren
have found tranq guns to be of substantial value on their missions.

I launch myself over the gate, arcing to avoid the sharp
points at the top. The wind picks up, gusting rain into my mouth and eyes.
Strands of hair stick to my face, and I tuck them back behind my ears.

I run down the street, just your average everyday girl out
for an evening jog in her teddy bear PJs. Headlights sweep behind me, and I
drop low, suddenly very interested in retying my shoes. When the light crosses
over me and moves down the street, I am back up, running again — head down,
eyes puckered to resist the rain — past stately, sprawling houses with
glittering chandeliers in the window.

And there it is: the home of Harold Krugal. It’s large, but
not ostentatious. No fountain out front. A mere handful of latticed windows.
The back door is unlocked, and the security alarm is dead. I close the door
behind me and take a deep breath of
the holy shit what am I
doing?
variety.

Beads of energy roam around the house, and I recognize the
unique signature of each Fox brother. I creep through the rooms and find an
older woman laid out on a couch, tranqed and probably dreaming the trippiest
dreams of her life. A vacuum stands in the middle of the floor, looking lonely.
I step around the vacuum, crouching low, suddenly forgetful of why I’m here.
The hunger whispers in my mind, separating the chords of reason away from my
hot, growing appetite. Not so repentant after all. The thin film of light
around my hands is evident in the darkness. The bulbs are pressing against the
fabric of my gloves as I look at the woman, watch her confused aura shiver. I
might even be drooling.

And then I turn away, because little Maya is clamoring in my
mind, screaming something stupid like
you’re in control
.
I keep moving through the house, honing in on the boys. I hear the faint creaks
of their footsteps above and something else. A soft click like a latch
unhooking.

I make it to the staircase, and Tarren and Gabe are just
above me. Something isn’t right. There’s another clear bead of energy. I hear
their voices whispering.

“Master bedroom is clear,” Gabe says. “This is his office.
He’s got to be in here. The rest are guest rooms.”

“Alright. We go in, we take him out.”

The knob turns. I’m running up the stairs, skipping four at
a time.  Gabe pushes open the door, and Tarren steps through, gun raised.

“Don’t!” I cry. I’m past Gabe before he can swing his weapon
around. I plow into Tarren, and his gun goes off, softened to a hiss by the
attached silencer. I hear a sharp crack as the bullet lodges in the wood
paneling of the desk in front of us. Tarren and I are tangled on the ground,
and he flips over, pinning my arms against the floor. Gabe is behind him, gun
trained on me…again. He’s looking at the teddy bear on my chest.

“Maya,” he says, confused.

“Stay on Krugal,” Tarren growls to his brother, really
growls. He lets go of my wrists and I sit up. His eyes are turning gray as if I
couldn’t tell from his sparking energy how pissed he is. I turn around and look
at the figure sitting behind the desk. Krugal hasn’t moved, and when our eyes
meet I see calm resignation.

“You can’t kill him.” I turn back to Tarren. “He’s human.”

It is a dark and stormy night. An old man tightens his grip
on the arm rests of his great wing-backed chair. His eyes, dark and hostile,
are sunken into bruised pouches of skin. He is prepared to face the two
shadowed figures moving toward him, brandishing their pistols.

A young woman stands in the back of the room. There is
something strange about her, something wild and hungry. This is when the lightning
should sear across the night sky like a jagged wound throwing the old man’s
eyes, the guns, the girl into relief before releasing them back into the
shadows as a long peal of thunder swells overhead.

There is a monster in this room, but the heroes are moving
the wrong way. Sad heroes. Mean heroes. Heroes who are too sarcastic for their
own good. My mind is going crazy again like every other time I need to
concentrate and stay calm.

Harold Krugal sits ramrod straight in his chair. His wispy
silver hair is combed back from a high forehead and heavy brow. There is
something wrong with his aura.  A bookshelf behind him holds different-sized
bottles, each protecting an intricately-built model ship — the kind I imagine
brought conquistadors over to this side of the world. A bottle lies on his desk
encapsulating a half-constructed model.

Gabe keeps his gun leveled at the man’s head, while Tarren
steps up to the desk and says, “You’re Harold Krugal.”

“I am. What, you need the safe combination? Can’t crack it
yourselves like proper thieves?”

“We’re not here for your money.”

“I see.” He glances at me. “Slumber party then?”

“This isn’t a joke.” Tarren doesn’t need the scar to look
menacing. He’s somehow composed himself entirely of jagged metal and rock:
steel voice, flint eyes, granite face, iron jaw.

“That, I am sure of.” Krugal tents his hands and waits.

“You don’t seem surprised to see us,” Gabe says.

“I crush dreams for a living. I’ve faced my share of threats
before.”

“Who is it?” Tarren asks. “There’s radiation all over the
house. Who’s been infected?”

Krugal tilts his head and smiles as if amused by a private
joke. “People are sheep,” he says. “They don’t want to excel. They want to
watch football and drink beer. They want to throw back diet pills instead of running.
People are getting so fat they’ve had to expand airplane seats. Incredible
isn’t it? We’re choking on our own excess, begging for more.”

“Who is it?”

Krugal takes the bottle between his hands, gives it a small
push. “It’s still a jungle. We each must decide for ourselves whether we are
sheep…” The bottle spins lazy between his fingertips, “…or wolves.”

“And so you wanted to give your own a little leg up on the
food chain?” Tarren keeps his scowl firmly fixed in place.

“People are dying,” Gabe speaks up, “innocent people.”

“Yes, and that is unfortunate. I had hoped that the animals
would suffice, but it seems they are not enough. Then again, people die every
day. They’re starving in Africa. Suffocating in China. You’re not saving them.
There’s no difference. Human life is a commodity like everything else.”

“Humans are not commodities,” Gabe’s voice is rising.

“No?” Krugal touches the glass bottle to pause its motion.
“Then why do we send our soldiers off to war with paychecks in their pockets?”

“I’m not asking again,” Tarren says.

A crazy laugh itches in my throat. How could any of this
possibly be real? Even the shadows are just right, cutting across Krugal’s
face, pooling in the deep lines of his sagging skin.

“You’re going to tell us who and where.” Tarren pulls a
short blade from his belt. “Now, or I’ll start cutting. Fingers first.”

“It won’t work.” This is me, still lingering behind the two
boys. I’ve got a part to play, so I hush my voice, turn it hollow and cold.
“He’s not afraid, because he’s already dying.” I’ve been watching the weak
flicker of Krugal’s energy. It lays close to his body, churning slow like
sludge and hued a murky brown almost to the core. “That’s why he didn’t turn
himself.”

“The tumor is inoperable,” Krugal confirms. “I won’t really
be needing my fingers much longer anyway. You’re welcome to them.” He spreads
his hands on the desk. His rings click against the polished surface reminding
me of another click I heard a short while ago. Then I understand.

“The angel was here,” I say, and the jump in Krugal’s energy
confirms it. “It went out the window. I heard the noise right before you
stormed the office. He’s been stalling.”

“You keep strange company.” Krugal is looking at my gloves.
There are many clever responses available, but it’s me, and I’m not, so I
don’t. Instead, I turn and make my way down the hall, touching each door until
I find the one with the smell I recognize from the small shred of fleece. The
lights wake at my touch and throw me into a world of confusion.

Zac Effron is hanging out above the bed. The Jonas Brothers
rock on the ceiling. Random visuals fall into my swinging gaze: white comforter
with small roses dotting the trim, green and silver pompoms hanging off the bed
post, computer desk with books and stuffed animals crammed into the cubbies,
clips and hair bands on the dresser, brush filled with long, copper hair,
quotes scrawled on the closet door. The one in the center says:

An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind - Ghandi

I suppose this is ironic. Little wooden bubbles hang on the
wall, each holding a picture. In the first, three cheerleaders hide behind
their pompoms, eyes squinted in laughter. She must be the frizzy redhead in the
middle, freckled and pale and no more than fourteen.

Here she is again, younger, throwing a teddy bear at the
camera, then sitting on a bench with Krugal and another woman, also redheaded.
In one more picture she’s clutching the woman’s wide waist as they sit on a jet
ski together.

“There’s a door back here,” Tarren says behind me. “A deck,
the carpet is wet.”

“It’s her. She’s the angel,” I say.

Tarren peers over my shoulder at the pictures. “You sure?
I’ve never seen one that young. Children can’t survive the infection process.”

“I’m sure.”

We look at each other, and for the first time I’m glad for
Tarren’s tight, repressed energy field. As I try to regain my bearings, try not
to totally freak, I hold on to his hardened features: the squared shoulders,
the locked jaw, those eyes, more blue than gray now, keeping their chill.

“Stay focused,” he tells me.

“I’m fine,” I say and then say it again, louder. “I’m fine.”

“Good.”

We return to the office. Gabe still has his gun trained on
Krugal.

“Granddaughter,” Tarren says. The reaction of Krugal’s
energy confirms his guess.

“Oh, you sick fuck,” Gabe says.

“Who else?” from Tarren.

Krugal leans back, suddenly small within the wide curve of
his chair. “My son is a disappointment. Always was. I sent him and his third
wife to a beach in the Caribbean with a hundred grand in his pocket. He’ll
drink it up in a month. But my granddaughter is different. Amber is sharp. Not
just book smart, but cunning, clever. She can read people, twist them to get
what she wants. Competitive. Passionate. She is worthy of the chance to excel.
So I gave it to her.”

Krugal’s eyes linger on the half-finished ship inside the
bottle. “It is love that propels us to do anything for our children. And
perhaps our own need to leave something important behind.” He glances at Gabe’s
gun and smiles. “Amber knew to run if anything happened. She’s gone.”

“You stay with him,” Tarren tells his brother. “Make sure
he’s telling the truth. Find out who infected the girl. Names. Numbers.
Anything relevant.”

“You want me to torture an old dude with cancer?” Gabe
hisses, keeping his eyes and weapon on Krugal.

“Yes. And kill him when you’re done.”

“He’s human.”

“He’s on their side. If he lives, he’ll warn his contacts.”
Tarren clutches Gabe’s shoulder, and they share a quick look. “This is the job.
Use the tub. Wipe down everything when you’re done.”

Gabe gives a small nod and then fixes his gaze on Krugal.
“Take Maya with you. She shouldn’t be here.”

Tarren says “Come on.” I follow him to the door and stop.

“Did you give her a choice?” I ask Krugal.

He looks back at me, hands clasping the arm rests of his
chair so tight I can see the bones of his knuckles through the thin parchment
of his skin.

“I asked her if she wanted to be better than all her
classmates.” 

Nothing snaps inside of me. No breakage. No boiling. It just
comes, the anger. It’s there, filling me all the way up. I walk with purpose
into Amber’s room and gaze at the picture of the cheerleaders giggling behind
their pompoms. The anger grows bigger and bigger inside of me.

Tarren steps into the room behind me. He opens his mouth, no
doubt to issue a rebuke about me wasting time.

“She’s at the park,” I tell him.

“She knows we’re coming. She wouldn’t go back there,” he
counters. “We’re wasting time.”

I stare at the girl in the middle, counting her freckles
like I sometimes count the stars. Green eyes, pointed nose.
Poor little angel girl. Amber.

“She’s afraid and confused. The park is where she goes to
think. She feels safe there.” I look at Tarren, and because he can’t possibly
understand, I make it easy for him. “You got any better ideas?”

“No,” he admits. “The car is down the block.”

“It’ll be faster to cut through the houses on foot.”

“Maya, you can’t come with me.”

“I know.” I walk out to the balcony; let the misting rain
cool my skin.

“You won’t be able to keep up.” I leap over the railing. My
feet crush divots into the soggy ground. I run, kicking up muddy water, letting
my legs propel me to their full speed. Wings would be nice, but there are other
ways to fly.