The Fox Inheritance (22 page)

I don't know much about Allys's history, except that she is as old as Jenna. As old as me. And yet she's as clear skinned and young as a seventeen-year-old girl. Still. After all this time. How much time do I have? My stomach churns, and I wonder how Gatsbro got it all so right. How did he know that when I was nervous or surprised or simply hit with something too big for me to handle, my stomach was the first to betray me and tell me,
Locke, your world isn't right
? Or maybe I give Gatsbro too much credit, and he had nothing to do with it. He never knew me, after all. Maybe my stomach clenching is just all saved memory. I take a deep breath to calm my stomach, even though the message is correct. My world isn't right.

"Like the view?"

I look away. I thought I was being discreet in looking at her. She must be able to see out through her ears. "Sorry," I say. "I'm still--" It's too hard to explain.

"Still trying to take it all in?"

"Something like that."

"Give yourself time. It took me a while. Ha! I guess that's an understatement. I'm still trying to figure it all out." She breaks loose with all the things I was wondering about, telling me about the illness that shut down her organs, how she betrayed Jenna and told her own parents to report Jenna and her family, and how Allys's parents instead sought out Jenna's parents to help Allys in the same way.

"That must have been some U-turn for you. How did you feel when you woke and discovered what they had done?"

"Spitting mad. Confused. Sometimes grateful. There probably wasn't an emotion I didn't go through. Mostly I was a pain in the ass."

I feign surprise. "You?"

"I know. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"What made you change your mind?"

"A boy with the most gorgeous green eyes I had ever seen."

"Good old-fashioned lust?"

She laughs. "Plenty of it." She makes a sharp turn and parks the truck in the shade of a large oak tree. "And life," she says in a more serious tone. She turns to look at me. "Life changed my mind. In little bits and pieces, it grabbed hold of me. After the first six months, I flipped back through all that had happened in that short time and all that I would have missed. My first kiss, my first chocolate peach, things as simple as rainfall on my skin--"

"A chocolate
peach
?"

"Oh, Lord, you haven't had one yet? We'll have to remedy that. But later. Let's go see how the trenches are coming." She swings open the truck door and hops out. I grab my pack and do the same. She pauses and takes a second look at me as she reaches into the bed of the truck for a bag.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

"What's with the coat?"

I pull on the collar. "This? Nothing. What about it?"

"You look like you're part of the Resistance."

I didn't think there still was a Resistance. Miesha made it sound like it died with her husband. "How do you figure?" I say. "These are free and common. Government issue."

"Some people wear them for protection, others with purpose. Huge difference. The homeless roll them up in their packs when they don't need them, and when they do wear them, they pull them tight against the weather. You wear yours like you own the planet."

Swagger, Locke, like you own the planet
. I remember when I put it on the first time at the train station. I liked what I saw. Something dark and dangerous. I needed to feel dangerous and not like a seventeen-year-old kid on the run. It was just a coat, but I knew it was something more too. Maybe it did feel like a statement. But I'm not part of any Resistance. I don't have time for other people's troubles. I have enough of my own.

"I'll take it off if it bothers you."

She shrugs. "Doesn't bother me. Just curious. Leave it on."

I take it off. I unzip my pack to put it away, but just as I begin to stuff it inside, something catches my eye. Something sharp and shiny. A knife. The butcher knife from Jenna's kitchen counter.
How did--

"What's wrong?" Allys asks.

I look up at her. Did she put it in there? Jenna? Surely not Kayla. Am I being set up for something? Or did I get it myself during one of my lapses? I steady myself against the truck and finish stuffing my coat in the pack. "Nothing," I answer. "Let's go."

As we walk, I plan on ditching the knife as soon as I can--or maybe I should just return it to the kitchen. I hold the pack closer to my side.
Who put it there?

In the distance I see a grassy hill dotted with wildflowers. Maybe that's where Jenna gathered the wildflowers for Lily's grave. At the base of the hill is a tilled field and a truck. Just beyond that are two men lifting a long pipe and walking it to a trench. A third man stands near the truck. Allys explains that she and Jenna want to plant another vegetable garden, maybe even a few citrus trees, but they need to get some water flow to the perimeters of this field.

"And we're always trying to find some sort of work for the Non-pacts who camp out on the edge of the property."

"You allow strangers to live on the property?"

"They're not exactly all strangers. A lot just pass through, but some have been around for quite a while."

But still strangers. Strangers who could have gone into my room. As we approach, the workers look over at us. I can already tell they are sizing me up. Allys greets the man near the truck who seems to be the one in charge and then introduces me. His face is heavily lined, and his eyes have a permanent squint, like he has spent years in the sun.

"Bone," he says. "Mr. Bone to you."

There is no shaking of hands. A nod of the head. A grunt. A shovel in my hand. The niceties are over. Allys winks at me when Bone turns away, which I assume is a message that his behavior is normal. Yeah, in some alternate universe. She waves good-bye, saying she will return later with more supplies, and then leaves me alone with the cheerful company.

The two other men ignore me. I notice they are both thin and don't seem particularly experienced at what they are doing. One drops his end of the pipe. The other curses at him and then, for no apparent reason, they switch ends, like one end of the pipe might be lighter than the other. Bone puts me to work at the opposite end of the field from them, digging trenches. It is mind-bogglingly primitive. They send people to Mars, but they still dig trenches by hand?

Our spider broke down,
Allys had explained just before she left,
and we can't afford another right now
. She pointed to a large long-legged machine near the truck that actually does look like a spider. It digs trenches, tills rows, and hauls materials on its back--a handy little arachnid--except for today. After half an hour of digging, I take off my shirt. I should have done it sooner. The shirt is drenched. After another half hour, I put my shovel down to go check out the spider. There has to be a better way.

"It's not working," Bone calls when he sees me walk over to it.

"I can see that," I answer. I walk around the beast, trying to find where controls might be hidden.

"Those trenches aren't going to dig themselves," he calls again.

"No, they aren't," I call back. The body of the spider is four feet across, and each jointed leg is about eight feet long. Finally, on one of the back legs, I find a slight indentation. I press it, and a panel unfolds.

"I told you, it doesn't work."

I hear the gritty rise in Bone's voice, but this time I don't respond. I look at the panel, which has a dozen small lighted squares, each with a printed word in a language I don't recognize. How many commands could there be? Go. Stop. Dig--that's the one I need.

"He told you. Doesn't work. Don't touch it." The voice is right behind me. I turn around. All three men stand just a few feet away. Easy for them to say. They're not the ones digging ditches. I turn my back to them and touch the first light on the panel. The spider responds, groaning, rising, coming to life. I touch the second light on the panel. Its front legs snap, like it is stretching. I touch the third light and the spider's second set of legs dig into the earth. Bingo. I turn back to my peanut gallery.

"Would you look at that? Looks like it's working, after all. I guess it just needed the right--" I feel something touch my leg and I whip around, but it already has me. A clamp on its back leg locks onto my ankle. "What--"

And then it takes off like a crazed horse. I fall to my back and am dragged over row after row of tilled earth. It's moving so fast, I can't reach up to touch the panel. I flop like a rag doll behind it. Dirt flies in my face, my mouth, my eyes. I try to grab hold of something, but there is nothing to grab. It moves through the tilled field and starts up the hill, dragging me over grass, brush, and rocks. At the crest of the hill, it stops dead like it has either taken mercy on me or reached the end of its leash. Good spider. I lie there, rubbing grit from my eyes, spitting dirt out of my mouth, and looking up at a blinding sun. My back hurts, but my ego hurts more. I sit up and press the first light on the panel and the spider groans, its legs bend, and it releases my ankle. When I stand, I see it is not just the crest of the hill. It is the edge of a cliff. I look over at the straight drop down. At least two hundred feet below are some jagged rocks and a black seething river. I step back from the edge.

Yeah. Good spider.

I limp back down the hill without making eye contact with the men below, who I know are watching me. I spend the next three hours digging the trench without complaint. Sometimes there's not a better way. Sometimes there's only the hard way. I guess they already knew that. And it is hard. When dirt turns to clay or rocks, I put my shovel down and swing a pick instead. My trench finally connects with the one that the three men are laying pipe in--a much longer trench they must have dug on another day.

Bone walks over and surveys my work. "Hm. Done."

A man of many words. No praise. No thanks. No "good job." But I didn't really expect it. I implied I was smarter than him when I thought I could make the spider work even though he couldn't and then I mocked their advice and stepped right into trouble. I wonder if that's why they have such chips on their shoulders--have they been insulted one too many times? I hope I never get so cynical that I speak in grunts and scowls. Bone points to the forest of eucalyptus. "Shortcut. Follow the creek back to the house." And on top of no appreciation, I also have no ride. But a shortcut is better than nothing.

I glance up the hill at the spider, wondering if it needs to be retrieved. "What about that?"

"It doesn't work."

Right. That's well established. I nod. I guess it stays right where it is, and I'm glad I won't have to tangle with the maniac spider again. Or these guys. I walk over to the truck and grab my shirt that is draped over the hood. It is stiff with dirt and dried sweat, so I stuff it into my pack and walk away. I don't bother with good-byes. I know they aren't interested in them, either.

Halfway across the field, I look back over my shoulder. They are throwing shovels and picks into the back of the truck. And then one by one, they put on coats--just like the one in my pack--and I watch the hems flap in the breeze. Even from a distance, I can tell they don't just wear them for protection. They wear them for a purpose.

Chapter 53

The forest is eerily quiet, except for the twigs and eucalyptus bark that snap and crunch beneath my feet. Occasionally the creek gurgles over a rock or a bird screeches somewhere high above, startling me. I've never been in a forest like this. The ones back home were thick and green with pine, spruce, and maple. This one has tall, thin trees with gray mottled trunks and branches that hang like the thin bones of skeletons. Large chunks of their bark peel away like cheeks that need to be smoothed back into place.

I follow the creek, since Bone said that would lead me back to the house. I'm still bare-chested, and feel the fingers of cool shade sliding through the forest.

A
snap.

A
screech.

I look up and see the shadow of a wing flying away.

And then a
hmmm.

I stop. A chill tickles my neck. I look around.

Hmmm.

I turn my head, listening.

"Is someone there?"

Only silence.

Was it just a breeze quivering the leaves that I heard?

I look to either side of me, through the hundreds of shadows of thin, bony trees. The forest is empty, but it doesn't feel like I'm alone.

"Hello?" I call. "Bone?"

There is no answer. I decide not to ditch the knife in my pack. I hurry along the edge of the creek, kicking up rocks and leaves so there is plenty of noise to distract me.

Hmmm.

The last fifty yards, at the first glimpse of the house through the trees, I run.

Chapter 54

Twilight. I feel like my dad coming home from work, sore, tired, and hungry, and way dirtier. Except this isn't my home. I have no home.

It's a strange thought to belong nowhere and to no one. This past year I thought of Gatsbro's estate as my new home. Why didn't I question it sooner like Kara did? Maybe I just wanted to avoid the obvious for as long as I could. For now, Jenna's home is my home, and even though it's probably temporary, right now it looks pretty good--even the sagging porch.

I walk up the back steps and hear commotion inside. Jenna yelling,
Oh, no
, Kayla squealing. In two steps, I leap through the back door, already pulling my pack from my shoulder and reaching inside for the knife. One step into the kitchen and I freeze. I release my fingers on the knife still inside my pack.

"Ole!"

"About time!"

"Look what the cat dragged in."

Jenna, Allys, and Kayla are seated around the kitchen table--and so are Dot and Miesha. Dot sits in a high-tech assistance chair and wears a sombrero. Miesha is draped in a red and green serape, and her hair is now black. They look just as surprised to see me as I am to see them. Jenna jumps up from her chair and comes toward me. "What in the world happened to you?"