Set You Free (8 page)

“Hey, who that?” one of them says.

I keep walking, my breath coming in little gulps.

“Yo, that a girl or a dude? Hey, you a girl or a dude?”

I don’t look back.

“Ain’t answering,” someone else says in a high, nasal voice.

“You know who that is?”

“No, man. Let’s find out.”

I’m almost to the street when they catch me.

One of the guys gets an arm around me just as I’m gaining some speed.

“It’s a girl. What you doin’ here, girl?” He’s older than I am, mid-twenties maybe. He has a wispy mustache and crooked teeth. He turns me around so I’m facing the other two guys. One of them is tall and, I’d say were the situation different, handsome. The other guy is large in that way people are once they’ve given up on all physical fitness.

“You like her?” the guy holding me says. He’s swaying and shifting but still holding me tightly. The stink of alcohol and pot wafts off them.

“Who, me?” the fat guy says.

The guy holding me laughs, and something wet hits my neck. “Yeah, whatcha think?”

I finally gather up enough courage to struggle, twisting in his grip. “Let go of me.”

I’m about to scream when the guy holding me throws a hand over my mouth and drags me back against the side of the building. I try to bite his hand, but he shifts and I get nothing but air. He’s holding my chin so I can’t move my jaw at all. “We were about to go out and get you laid,” he says to the fat guy. “This is like a gift from the gods or something. What do you think?”

“She don’t wanna be with me,” the fat guy says. He’s got a tall can of beer in his hand. He takes a long drink before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Does she?”

“I don’t think we’re askin’.” The guy laughs again.

The fat guy screws his face up. “I ain’t so sure about that. Weren’t we just gonna go find Connie? Your old man says—”

“Sure, sure, but you want to go where my old man’s already been?”

“No, it’s…” the fat guy says. “This ain’t right.”

“It’d be free.” The guy laughs again, then belches into my ear.

I try to get my leg up behind me to kick him in the groin, but he shifts to the side, still laughing like it’s all some awesome game. Without even looking at him, I can tell he’s glassy-eyed drunk. The kind of intoxicated people get where
a strange belief takes over them that nothing they do will ever have any consequences. I’ve been there; I understand the feeling.

Which scares me all the more.

The handsome guy hasn’t said a word. He’s taken a cigarette out and is looking at the street. I try to kick again, and the guy holding me wraps a leg around mine and holds me tightly with his free hand.

“Man, I don’t think so,” the fat guy says.

The handsome guy suddenly walks away.

“Where you goin’, Jones?”

“I don’t want anything to do with this. Pretend it never happened.”

“Whatever, man. I’m only fooling around.” He moves his face so I can see him. “What do you think of my friend Artie here? You think he’s hot?” The guy forces my head up and down. “See, Artie, she thinks you’re hot. Like Leonardo DiCaprio, right?” My head is forced up and down again. The fat guy smiles as if he’s buying into this, and I can picture him on top of me. Can see it all from beginning to end. And while I’m picturing this, while I’m waiting for this nightmare to kick into high gear, the guy holding me lets go, and a moment later he’s spun around, holding his hand.

“What the hell?” he says. There’s blood gushing from a cut on his palm and wrist.

“Start walking,” a new voice says from behind me.

“Whoa, buddy, what the hell?” the fat guy says. He takes a step forward, and I feel the guy behind me dart out. A moment later the fat guy is cradling his hand. Drips of blood stain the concrete beneath us.

“You gotta move, Lauren.” I look up, half expecting it to be Tom, even though the voice is much deeper than my brother’s.

“Who are you?” I say.

“Grady,” he says. He turns around and walks backward.

“Dude,” the guy who was holding me says, “I am going to kill you.”

“I will cut you faster than you can blink!” Grady says. The guy takes a step forward, and Grady flashes the knife at him.

“I’m a friend of Tom’s,” Grady says. His voice quivers.

“There’s two of us, dude,” the first guy says.

“I’m really bleeding,” the fat one says. He’s holding his hand, and there’s blood dripping on the ground all around him.

“We’re going to run now,” Grady says. He gives me a little shove.

“Don, I gotta get someone to look at this,” I hear the big guy say, and with that they move from the light and back into the building.

When we get to the sidewalk, where the streetlights shine more brightly, I take a closer look at Grady. He’s tall, around six feet, and thin. He’s wearing a tie, a white
dress shirt and jeans. His hair is flicked up at the front and trimmed on the sides.

He steps away from me once we’re out in the open. “My car is up here.” He looks back at the building. “Those guys are pissed. I really don’t think we should hang out here for long.”

“You’re friends with Tom?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I’m shaking. “How can I know that?” I ask.

Grady stops beside a dilapidated Honda Civic and opens the front passenger door. “His favorite flavor of ice cream is cookies and cream. He used to play soccer before he put on weight. He still watches every episode of
The Simpsons
no matter how bad it is. And we really,
really
need to not be here right now.”

All of this is true.
The Simpsons
was one of the few things we’d talk about every week. If our father didn’t drop Tom off, he’d call and we’d go over the episode from beginning to end, charting the characters’ lives.

“I mean, even if they aren’t coming back, those guys could call the cops. I did assault them.”

“You were saving me,” I say. “No one would blame you.”

“I have the weapon.” He looks at the building again. “I don’t want to leave you here. Tom would be seriously pissed if I did. But I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to. And by that I only mean getting in my car. Like, going with me to try to find your brother.”

“You think you know where he is?” I say.

“Not for sure, no. But maybe.”

“Where?” I say.

“I’ll show you,” Grady replies. “If you can trust me.”

TWELVE

As we cross the bridge, I press myself to the door and pull my legs up onto the seat.

I don’t know this guy. I would say, looking at him, that he’s harmless. But he just cut two people with a knife, so maybe
harmless
is the wrong word.

“Are you okay?” he asks. The streetlights are brighter here, set up on giant towers in the median. The inside of the car flares up, then fades to gray every few seconds as we pass from one halo of light to another.

“Sure,” I say, though I don’t even sound convincing to myself.

“That must have freaked you out a bit.”

“Um, yeah. And you too. Are you okay?”

“I’m good. I do that kind of shit every day,” Grady says, doing a little head-shiver thing.

“Oh, do you?”

“Fo’ sure, girl,” he says through his laughter. “Actually, that scared the hell out of me. I didn’t mean to cut that guy who was holding you.”

“So what happened?”

“I just meant to get the knife out and, I don’t know, wave it around. I kept thinking,
Brandish it, Grady. That’ll be enough
. But I got too close and accidentally cut him. He also moved in to me, if we’re being honest.”

“Oh, of course, and if we’re being honest, what about the other guy?”

“He was an easy mark. But again, I only meant to get close. I know it might be hard to believe, but I’ve never done anything like that before.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Seriously,” Grady goes on. He holds his hand out, and it is shaking almost as bad as mine. “See, that totally freaked me out.”

I hold my hand up beside his. “We match,” I say.

I try to slow my breathing and in doing so detect an inexplicable odor. I look at the floor, then into the backseat. A laptop lies half out of an open backpack, alongside four cell phones in a Tupperware container. I sniff loudly.

“Yeah, about that smell,” Grady says. “This isn’t my car.”

“Oh, whose is it?” I clasp one hand with the other, but the shaking continues. My throat feels as if it has needles in it. Grady seems calm. Which worries me even more.

“My uncle owns an auto-wrecking place.” Grady glances at me. “People bring cars in they don’t think work but really only need an adjustment or a couple of replacement parts. That happens because, basically, people are lazy. I mean, it’s a car, right? Who decides their car is ready for the wrecker without first getting it seriously checked out? Anyway, my uncle keeps some extra license plates around, so if I can fix a car, I can take it out.”

“Oh.” I sniff again for effect. “Any idea what that is?”

“It’s rancid, isn’t it? I didn’t notice it until I turned the air-conditioning on.”

The windows are down, and a hard wind pushes through the car. It’s the beginning of June, and the weather has already turned from spring to summer. Resurrection Falls is far enough north, right up near the Canadian border, that we get really distinct seasons.

“Let’s leave that off then,” I say.

Grady laughs. He’s tall enough that his head almost brushes the ceiling.

“Where do you think he is?” I ask, trying to change the topic.

“It’s just a guess, but we sometimes jam in this old warehouse by the lake.”

“Jam?” I say. “As in play music?”

“Yeah, I have a portable studio. We bring a guitar and a few drums and set up in there. The sound is amazing.”

“What does Tom play?” We stop at an intersection. Cars flash past. Music pours from the speakers outside a McDonald’s. It’s after midnight, and most of the city is asleep.

“You don’t know?” Grady says.

“No, I didn’t know he could play any instrument.”

“He sings.”

“Is he good?”

“He’s great.” The light changes and Grady pulls through the intersection. “He’s never told you? Or, like, you’ve never heard him singing at home? He’s crazy talented. It’s really annoying.”

“We kind of move in our own circles.”

Grady says, “He did mention that.”

“How do you know him?”

“I used to work at the record shop downtown before it closed. You know that one on Percy Street? Radicals?”

“No,” I say. “I didn’t know record shops still existed.” We are out of the city limits now, heading for the warehouse district.

“That was the last one. Your brother would come in and listen to soul albums.”

“Really?” I say, trying not to sound too surprised.

“Yeah, he loves that old soul stuff. Some blues as well.” Grady glances at me. “He has that old-school voice. I guess you don’t know that.”

“I’ve never heard him hum, never mind sing.”

“I found out he could sing by accident. One day I had to run down the street to grab something, and I left him in the store by himself. But I’d forgotten my wallet and had to go right back. When I came in, I thought it was an old Smokey Robinson or Sam Cooke a capella thing playing. But it was your brother, wearing headphones and singing along. After that I became the most aggravating person alive, trying to get him to jam with me. He finally caved, but only if we were somewhere no one could hear him. Which is why we started coming out here.”

“What do you play?” I ask.

“A bit of everything. Drums, keyboards, guitar. Absolutely no singing.”

“Do you go to Mitchell Mayer?”

“My mom pulled me out of regular school in the eighth grade. Since then I’ve been homeschooled. But not really. My mom started doing a few things with me, and eventually, I guess, she figured I would learn everything I could about anything I am interested in and left me to it. I passed my
GED
last year.”

Outside, the old, abandoned manufacturing plants and warehouses rise up in the darkness.

“Listen, if you’re nervous coming in here with me, that’s okay. You don’t have to. You can wait in the car, or I can take you home now. You don’t really know me or anything. I can tell you I’m not a creepy guy, but how would you know for sure?”

“What’s with the tie?” I ask.

Grady flips his tie. “That’s complicated,” he says. “Basically, I’ve discovered that if you look like a criminal, people think you’re a criminal. Whereas a guy wearing a tie is on his way somewhere important.” He smiles at me, then pulls off the highway onto a secondary road.

There’s a drop of blood on his white shirt, which instantly gives me the shivers again. I hate blood.

“Where are your shoes?” he asks.

“That’s kind of a personal question,” I say.

“Is it?”

“No, I’m joking. They fell off when I was scrambling around in that stupid ravine.”

“Oh.” He palms the steering wheel. “What were you doing in the ravine?”

“I was climbing trees,” I say.

“Nice,” he says. “Do you have a cell phone?”

I hold my phone up for him to see.

“Yeah, of course you do. Dumb question.” He pulls in between a set of Dumpsters and a very tall fence around the back of the warehouse.

“Okay. So. How about you keep your phone in your hand and, I don’t know, stay a bit away from me when we walk in? Whatever makes you comfortable.” He shuts the car off, and a silence envelops us.

“Comfortable,” I say. I look at all the dark corners and imagine sitting in the car with my mind going crazy.

Grady nods and gives me a really forced smile.

“That’s creepy.”

“What?”

“Your smile. Why does your face do that?” Which is totally rude. I sometimes get like this. Saying whatever comes into my head. Usually when I’m nervous.

“I don’t know how to smile. Class photos are probably the main reason I left institutionalized public education. I mean…” He smiles again. “Seriously? Who can’t smile?”

“Maybe say something when you smile. I hear that helps.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like cheese, but not cheese. Something that makes you laugh. Then your smile will be genuine.”