Recovering (8 page)

 No way I’m
going on the warpath without my lucky hat. I pat the chainsaw riding shotgun.
There’s more than one way to climb a tree.

 
Hat firmly in place, it’s time to
kick ass and take names. Bubba and I first stop over at a nowhere town about
fifty miles away from Farewell. A McDonalds battles with Dairy Queen as the
most prominent building in town. I suck in a big breath, clomp through the
snowy parking lot of the post office, and gratefully receive the bulky packages
addressed to my PO Box. Franklin may not be a top notch conversationalist, but
the stuttering gun dealer is solid on the follow-through. These guns and bullets
will be put to good use.

Since I’m
already here and pushing my luck, I might as well pick up a new ride while I’m
at it.  Bubba and I are thick as thieves, but he’s got to stay behind. If all
goes according to plan, I’ll need something I can ditch in Peoria Fucking
Illinois as soon as I meet up with Tarren.

I pull into
an older looking apartment complex and scan the cars up for offer. I need something
sturdy that can get me through a snowstorm in Peoria without drawing a lot of
eyes. My gazes rests on a black Ford Escape. Yeah, escape is pretty much the
name of the game here.

 I troll the
town, looking for a place to stash Bubba where he won’t be noticed or towed. Every
minute seems to stack up on my shoulders.
They could be pulling out her
fingernails or breaking her legs.
I have to get these thoughts out of my
head.
They could be cutting her.
No convenient airport parking garages
present themselves, so I finally use an old trick that Tammy first concocted.
It requires a quick trip to the gas station and more of my dwindling cash, but
soon enough I pull Bubba over on the side of the town’s main drag and prop my
bare bones For Sale sign in the back window.

 I swing out
of the truck and make my way back to the apartment complex where my new ride
awaits. I make a casual stroll through the parking lot, watching for anyone
coming and going or peeking out of the windows. The brown, boxy complex seems
abandoned in the middle of the day. Just a few lonely vehicles remain here. I
can’t help but think,
God, who would live here? Did they all lose a bet or
something?

 I slip my
lock pick kit from the inside pocket of my duster, which I sewed on myself, and
sidle up to the Escape. I try the door just in case and find it unlocked.
I
guess it’s time to find out that the world ain’t a good place,
I think to
the trusting saps of this SUV. I might actually be doing them a favor by giving
them this little reality check. I slip into the driver’s seat, eyes scanning,
scanning, scanning for trouble, and just as I’m about to take out the latch on
the steering column for a fast and beautiful hotwire, I glance in the rearview
mirror and see the pink flowered baby car seat all strapped in the back.

 Shit.

Stealing
someone’s ride is a dick move no matter what, but stealing from someone with a
baby is the dickiest of the dicks.

 Next to the
SUV sits an old, rusted VW Bug that might have been blue at some point in its misspent
youth. Faded stickers compete for room on the bumper, and a PETA decal fills up
nearly the entire back window.

Shit.

As soon as
the bug whines to life under my deft hands, I drive back to Bubba and transfer
my bags – furry sidekick, guns, tools, food, clothes – to the rust bucket’s
tiny trunk, shoving aside an ungodly amount of cotton tote bags to make room.
As soon as I’m clear of the town, I give Tarren’s cell phone a ring, only to
hit an immediate message that the number is no longer available. The stupid
bastard must have trashed his phone already. I use my old phone to check the
first email account Tarren created. No saved messages waiting for me. Of
course. I hastily type out an email --
Where R U? On my way. Send addy or
coords
– and save the
message to the unsent box. I check the second email account, the one I gave to
Lo and Dr. Lee and save a message with the number of my new burner.

I can’t help
but crack a smile at our clear dysfunction. Mom would be shaking her head in
horror if she could see us now. I can almost hear her voice,
Good planning
saves lives!
Tarren lapped up that Kool-Aid. Maybe my head just isn’t
screwed on right, but I appreciate a little fluidity in a plan…except now when
Tarren’s gone underground, and I have no way of reaching him.

 I know he’s
doing the radio silence thing on purpose, to keep me out of danger. Joke’s on
him. I’m dumb enough to go careening right into disaster all on my own if
that’s what it takes to save my sister. I give the Bug some gas, and with a
little grumbling, off we go toward a blizzard and God knows what else.  

 ***

My heart may
be in it to win it, but my body is not on board with heroically returning to
battle. On the way to Peoria Fucking Illinois, I plunge the first B12 syringe
into my upper arm right after I cross over into Kansas. While I wait for that
to kick in, I try all the tricks in the book to keep myself awake. I guzzle
down a can of Red Bull as I switch past the NPR crap that comes on when I hit
the radio button, find some heavy rock station, and turn it up hot and hard.
The music throbs through my tender head, but it’s all the better. I keep the
window cracked, so the icy breeze hits me full in the face.

 Over the
hours, the world flies by, little nothing towns followed by long stretches of
mostly empty road. I’ve been hunting angels since I was twelve and have seen
just about every speck of dirt this country has to offer, except for Alaska and
Hawaii, which, you know, don’t really count anyway. The thing is, you turn on a
TV anywhere, and you’ll see all the buzz, glamor, and human mosh pits that are
New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Miami, yadda, yadda, yadda. But America, the
real America is this right here, all these podunk water stops and vast
stretches of farm land, deserts, mountains, and open solitude.

In the
winter, the landscape is so colorless and cold that it makes your eyes want to
turn inside out and see if anything interesting is going on in the brain. I
hate that. Thinking doesn’t ever lead me to good places. Once someone you love
dies, all your mind ever wants to do is find that person again and comb over
all the worst things you said to them. I have so many memories of Mom and of
Tammy that want to come out. Especially those fights with Tammy where her eyes
would almost go black with rage. Sometimes her ghost drags me by the ear into
the past as if she were afraid of me forgetting her. But I won’t. I can’t.

 And now with
Maya taken…Jesus, the last place I want to be is inside my head right now. Dr.
Lee’s words sit on my chest like a 300-pound barbell.
Path of ashes
,
he’d said. I tried, dammit! I tried to keep Maya away from the mission, but
life has a way of trucking over you, leaving your guts all squished on the road
no matter what you want.

 
With all the music blaring, I don’t
hear the text ping through, but I feel the vibration against my chest. I pull
over right away, my rusted bucket whining as we skid onto the side of the
highway. I barely miss hitting a sign for an upcoming gas station. Only Lo, Dr.
Lee, and Francesca have my new number, which means someone is in trouble. I
pull out my burner, hands shaky with the doom and gloom about to rain down. The
screen is blank. No voicemail, no text.

 I reach back
inside my pocket and am surprised when my fingers wrap around a second phone. Shhhhit.
My original is still on – the one I was most definitely supposed to get rid of
the moment I sent my new number to all of our allies. If ghosts were real, Tammy
would be slapping me on the back of the head right now, and Mom, well, Mom
would probably be giving me one of those icy glares that Tarren has perfected.

 I take the
phone out and stare at it, wondering. Could Tarren be trying to contact me, letting
me know that he swooped in and heroically saved Maya?

 I swipe to
unlock the screen, tap in my password, and find a text from Maya’s number.

 I need to see you.

 I cradle the
phone in my hand, chewing on the side of my cheek while my brain fumbles around
like a fly caught in a jar.

 Maya would have
given me a Chuck Norris joke if everything was fine. Also, she sure as hell
wouldn’t ask to see me knowing that I’m stuck on the bench in Farewell. Which
means…

I stare at
the message again.
Who
?

I think I
already know.

The angels
that captured her are trying to ferret out her accomplices. This is an
opportunity. My stomach has somehow grown arms and is punching itself. Tarren
would know what to do. In the ten seconds since the text came in, he’d probably
have a gigantic mental whiteboard with a multi-level matrix plan and already be
on his way to kick ass, take names, and save the bloody day in that order.

Deep breath.
Tarren is a dick wad who doesn’t answer email. Screw him and all his day
savingness. I can handle this. The inside of my cheek is practically sushi at
this point. I just put Hannibal, MO in my rearview mirror, which means I’ve got
a little under three hours to go before I descend on Peoria Fucking Illinois,
probably longer considering the weather. My thumbs are sloppy as I reply.

 Sure, but tracking targets on other side of town. Meet at 8?

 That will
give me four hours to get there and…think of something.

 I pull back
onto the highway, and my eyes keep dashing down to the phone screen. Six eternal
minutes later, the next text pings through.

 
K
, it says followed by an address to
some kind of park and instructions on where to meet.

 B there
,
I quickly text back.

 Hells yes
I’ll be there. I sit back against the seat, watching my breath plume in front
of me. I’ve still got the window cracked, though I don’t even need it now. I’m
wide awake. Without Tarren I’ll have to walk straight into this ambush alone.
That’s a ridiculously stupid move, even by my standards.

I grin as I
gun the engine.

The Bug’s
headlights land on a whole bunch of blaring red taillights as
I hit the dregs
of the storm about an hour outside of Peoria. Huge snow drifts hug each side of
the road as if this little ribbon of life had to be chiseled out of the ice. A
half hour closer, and my wheels crackle over road salt. Snow flurries hit my
windshield like fists. I have to put the wipers on just to keep things visible.

 Traffic
crawls. I resist the urge to get out of the car, throw my shoulder into the
nearest bumper, and push those mothers a little faster. Wrecks line the side of
the road, and the Bug’s wheels don’t take a liking to this slick pavement. We
slip and slide, and it doesn’t help anything that I’m jacked on adrenaline and
exhausted at the same time.

My headlights
glint off a snow topped sign. I think it’s supposed to say
Welcome to
Peoria,
but only the last line is visible –
Peoria
– like a statement.
You are in Peoria now you stupid bastard. Deal with it.

 I inch past
the sign to try and get my first look of the town. The buildings and vast
sweeps of flat land are so covered in snow that I can’t tell a thing about it. I’m
sure it’s a nice enough town six inches deep.

 Just for
kicks, I check the shared email account. No messages from my brother. I try his
phone again and listen to the pleasant voice of the operator tell me that the
number I have dialed is no longer in service and I should just go enjoy a nice,
healthy glass of paint thinner. Might have made up that last part.

I don’t like
this. One isn’t just the loneliest number you’ll ever do. It’s also the most
vulnerable number. One gets stabbed in the back. One gets ambushed. One gets
introduced to the wrong side of unfriendly fists.

“Not alone,
though right?” I murmur to Sir Hopsalot who sits patiently in his carrying
case. “There’s an extra carrot in it for you if we survive this thing.”  

After
swinging into Starbucks for a bathroom break and the biggest cup of plain hot
coffee they make, I head on over to our designated meeting spot an hour early.
My joints howl, and my eyelids feel like paperweights. As soon as I nudge the
Bug into a parking spot, I chug the coffee and jab another B12 syringe into my
arm. Dr. Lee told me to wait 24 hours between injections, but if I’m not alert
right now, the game is up.

Alright, time
to stop bitchin’ and start assessing the scene and stuff. I try to be all
serious about it like Tarren would, furrowing my brow as I look around. I’m at
some kind of Rec center. In the poorly lit parking lot, a few American trucks
and SUVs sit in the spaces. To my right, a wide, snow-covered field might hide
baseball diamonds or soccer fields. According to the instructions texted by the
angels, I’m supposed to cross the fields and wait at a small playground on the
other end. I squint into the night, trying to see the playground, but the large
field lights are off, and darkness swallows the landscape just a few feet in.
Wow, creepy much? I’m pretty sure I’d rather eat an entire spoonful of my own
toe fungus than set one foot into that death arena.

I huddle in
the Bug, slurp the dregs of my coffee, and decide on a plan. It’s a good one:
figure out who the angel is, shoot him a couple of times in non-lethal places
as soon as he turns his back to walk into the field, and use every nerve pinch
I know until he tells me where my sister is.

There. Done.
Gabe’s recipe for instant family rescue.  

Franklin was
kind enough to throw in a good-customer silencer in his weapons delivery, and I
screw it on now to the barrel of my Beretta. They don’t actually silence a gunshot
– none of that dainty spitting you hear on television – but do dampen the loud
crack of gunfire. That’ll be useful if I end up in a shootout in the parking
lot.

I watch an
SUV pull up. My fingers tighten on my gun, and I roll down the window just a little
using the ancient hand crank. Two bundled up kids tumble from the back of the
SUV and start slipping and sliding toward the entrance. A weary mother follows,
holding a thick parka closed around her body and two small hockey sticks under
her arm. My hand relaxes, and I crank the window back up to keep out the cold.
As soon as anyone walks toward the snow logged fields, I’ll know my angel.

 As I wait, I
think back to my last target practice…and then I stop thinking about that.
Instead, I play every game Tammy and I ever made up to help keep each other
awake on long stakeouts, including such classics as
Would you do it for $25?
Which pinch hurt more? How many animal noises can we make before Mom/Tarren
tells us to shut up?
Half an hour later, a gray truck rumbles into the
parking lot. I tuck myself further down into the front seat, keeping just my
eyes above the window. The truck slides into a space in the back corner of the
lot, close as possible to the fields.
Bingo, Yahtzee, and Connect Four.

 I tighten
the grip on my gun and slip out the door, away from their view.

 
Please
don’t let any civvies come into the parking lot right now,
I pray. One set
of eyes from an innocent bystander, and I’m going to have a huge problem. It’s
worth the risk though – Maya’s worth the risk.

 After a
whole frickin minute, both doors to the truck open, and two figures drop out.

 Two. Damn.
Change of plans. I’ll have to head shot the first and then proceed with my
original plan on the second, assuming he doesn’t have time to unleash some
weird power like jet streams of volcanic lava at me.

 The two angels
are wrapped in heavy jackets, and I can see the puffs of their breaths as they
come together and murmur. I wait for them to start making their way across the
snow covered field just to be sure. Once they start moving in that direction,
I’ll trail at a distance and hit them as soon as they’re out of sight of the
parking lot.

The two
angels pull on plastic animal masks.

In that
instant, everything goes to shit. Total shit.

Not angels at
all.