The Silent Sounds of Chaos (16 page)

The set of her jaw and narrowed bloodshot eyes as she stared at him in confusion gave him his answer. Finn pushed his mother out of the way and dragged Tommy by the wrist out the door, to the car, ignoring the string of profanity being shouted at his back.

Only when they were away from the trailer and stopped at a gas station, having loaded up on snacks, did Finn finally let himself breathe. It was now or never.

Retrieving his wallet from his back pocket, Finn thumbed through the few cards and folded-up bills until he found the card he needed. One he’d had for years, never able to throw away, never able to explain why he kept it.

His mother’s voice filtered into his head.
We don’t ask for help. We are better than that. You got that, you little shit?
Pride battled with common sense, years-old mantras stuck in his head after being beaten into his body. Memories of those fists, those bitterly spoken words, had him all but punching numbers into the phone.

“Hi,” he greeted when a man’s voice picked up on the other end. “You probably don’t remember me, but I’m calling in that favor now.”

TOMMY COMPLAINED THE entire drive. “Why do I have to go to some old person’s house? Why can’t I stay home?”

“Because I need to make sure someone is actually taking care of you while I’m out of town,” Finn replied, though he didn’t voice the second part—that while he’d told Charlie he only needed a week, and while that was all his boss had allowed, he was planning on being gone as long as it took, and guessed his search for Snow would take longer than seven days.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, really?” Finn spared his brother a sarcastic glance. “What kind of medicine do you take? When do you take it? Are you supposed to eat before you take it?” The boy’s silence was rewarded with a sarcastic laugh. “That’s what I thought. Besides, you’ll like it there.”

It felt wrong, a little dirty even, to be entrusting his little brother’s care to two virtual strangers. But Finn considered himself a good judge of character—a trait he’d picked up after working with Charlie for so long—and he’d heard many stories of these people straight from the one who knew them best.

Besides
, he added to himself,
there is no one else in this shithole state I can trust. Might as well be them.

His earlier phone call led him to a ritzy neighborhood far too stuffy and glamorous for his tastes. His black Mustang was out of place against the rows of perfectly manicured boxwoods and flowing green seas of grass, well-maintained streets and long driveways with intricate paver designs.

Speeding through wide-landed streets, Finn finally reached his destination: a narrow road tucked away in the deepest part of the neighborhood away from prying neighbors. At the end of that road, a black metal gate opened for him as he approached. Finn drove through slowly, winding down the long drive to a house that might as well have been a palace for all he knew. Tommy’s eyes were wide, his expression filled with awe and envy, though Finn merely shook his head. All these people had was money, didn’t make them any better than him.

The man who greeted him at the front door was familiar, one of two faces burned in his memory. He never forgot the old couple who called him off the front stoop of his trailer, showing concern for a child clearly in need of help but too proud and stubborn to ask for it. For a while he told himself he remembered them out of anger—how dare those old people act like he needed them and all their money, he’d think—but as he got older he realized a big part of him wished he’d gone with them all those years ago.

They couldn’t save him now, but, maybe, Tommy would have the chance meant for Finn.

Stepping up to the front door, Finn found himself face to face with old man Stone, as so many kids in his neighborhood called him when referencing Annette Stone’s father. Others knew him by a name Finn had always found ridiculous—“Top Pop,” a moniker that spoke of his prominent standing in town.

No matter his name or his success, Finn saw old man Stone as any other person and spoke to him as he would a business partner. “You said once that if I needed you, you’d be there to help,” he said evenly. “Well, it may be a few years too late, but I need that help now, and I need it to be taking care of Tommy until I get back.”

Curious and concerned eyes stared back at him. Before the other man could argue, Finn continued, “I know who you are, and I know you know who I am. If you agree to take care of Tommy, then you can’t tell anyone you have him. I can’t have my mother finding out where he is and doing something stupid like she always does. I don’t know is how long I’ll be gone, but I promise I’ll be back. I won’t leave him behind.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Tommy sat on the front step, already bored by the conversation. Old man Stone remained in the doorway, peering across the threshold at Finn with an odd expression of sadness. “What’s going on, son?”

“Nothing I want to concern you with.” The
why
wasn’t what mattered, and he had neither the time or desire to explain it. “I just need someone to be with Tommy, someone I can trust. I know I don’t really know you, but I know of you, and that has to be good enough.”

Waiting for a response nearly had Finn lashing out in anger, impatience brimming beneath the surface of his skin. Finally, old man Stone nodded. “My wife and I offered you help when we knew you needed it, but you refused. If helping you now is what you need, then the offer still stands, for as long as you need it. You don’t have to worry about Tommy.”

“Good. Thank you.” It felt awkward, thanking someone for doing him a kindness.

“…Are you sure there’s nothing more you need? Something I should know about?”

Finn pulled out his keys and forced himself not to think about what he was doing, the risk he was taking in leaving his little brother in the hands of a man he’d barely met. “You can take care of Tommy. That’s all I need.”

Not waiting for a reply, Finn knelt down at the step and nudged his brother, trying to coax a grin out of him. “Hey,” he said quietly, waiting until Tommy looked up at him, hesitation and sadness in his big blue eyes. “I made this for you.” Finn pulled a palm-sized figure out of his pocket and held it out to his brother. Carved of wood, the little boy was a replica of the seven-year-old, painted with blond hair and a silver shirt etched to look like armor. A tiny sword twisted out of wiring was wrapped around the wooden boy’s hand.

“He’s a superhero, like you.” Finn tried to get Tommy to take the figure; when his offering was refused, he set it down on the step next to his brother. “Take it when you’re ready. He’ll keep you company until I get back. And I will be back, okay? I promise.”

Then he turned on his heel and stalked down the stone steps, wondering if he’d be able to keep his promise.

FINN’S LAST STOP was his apartment. It didn’t take him long to pack, although to him it felt like the entire day had passed before he was finally ready to make the long drive to Georgia. In one large duffle bag he packed a few changes of clothes and an extra pair of boots, what little toiletry items he actually owned, and three guns—one a gift from Charlie on his eighteenth birthday, one a weapon he’d taken from a junkie who overdosed right in front of him, and the third one of Joe’s rejects that would have otherwise gone to the scrapyard. He wasn’t a great shot and didn’t have any weaponry skills to boast about, but Finn knew the game. It wasn’t always about the shot, but about who fired first.

When he was finally ready, his bag filled with nothing but necessities, he grabbed his keys from the counter and an energy drink from the fridge. It was going to be a long drive. He couldn’t risk flying, not with everything he’d packed beneath the messily folded clothes.

Locking the door behind him, Finn turned to jog out to his car, pausing when he saw the man leaning against the hood. “So you’re actually coming along, huh?”

Joe pushed himself off the car, arms crossed. With his black shirt stretched across hard muscle decorated with tattoos, dark jeans, and thick boots worn with age, he looked every bit the part of town thug. “Not like I was given a choice in comin’ along for the ride.”

“Or we could both agree to go our separate ways now and keep it between us. Consider it a vacation.” When the man only stared, Finn continued, “What, you don’t trust me or something?”

“Or somethin’,” Joe replied casually. “We goin’ or what?” he asked when Finn just stood there staring at him. Neither moved for a moment, a silent war of wills.

“Get in,” Finn finally said on a sigh, knowing this was not a battle he would win. So he would agree and bring Joe along, then ditch him as soon as he could.

“Where we goin’, anyway?”

Where
, Finn repeated to himself. Wasn’t that just the question? To a state he’d never been to, a city he was only guessing at, and a girl he still wasn’t convinced actually existed. He must have been out of his goddamn mind.

“Atlanta,” he answered. The reply came from nowhere, surprising even him. Until this moment he hadn’t actually thought of a destination other than Georgia. Atlanta worked, though. It was a big enough city, well known, and would hopefully serve as a good starting point for his search.

“Atlanta? And we’re driving?” Joe shot a grimace over at Finn, then nodded when realization dawned. “Gotcha, kid. Ain’t travelin’ with plane-approved cargo.”

The man’s easy acceptance surprised Finn, though he didn’t comment. Instead he glanced down at his phone, angling the screen away from Joe as he scrolled through Georgia news stations, hoping for more updates, but either he couldn’t find the right website or there was nothing new to know.

“The hell you doing?” Joe asked, annoyance clear in his tone. “Thought you were in a hurry and here you are dickin’ around online.”

Frustrated, Finn dropped his phone in his lap and moved to start the car, only to be hit with a wave of nausea that started behind his eyes, racing through his head and hitting his gut like a sucker punch. Instantly he was leaning over the steering wheel, torn between trying not to hurl and hoping, praying, this rushing sensation coursing through him was the return he’d been waiting for.

“Hey—what’s wrong? What’s goin’ on?” At his side, Joe shoved at his shoulder, appearing genuinely concerned for the first time, but Finn could only concentrate on the pulsing of sickness jumbled with relief.

He smelled mustiness and mold, tasted blood, so much so he checked to make sure his mouth wasn’t bleeding. And he hurt. Everywhere, he hurt, feeling like he’d had the shit beaten out of him. His head snapped up at the thought, his vision blurring. This was what she felt, how she must be feeling now in the aftermath of the attack.

Snow
.

A flickering sensation fluttered in the back of his head. A hint of a weak presence, a thought trying to slip into the forefront of his mind. He tried again.
Snow
.
Please, Snow, let me know you’re still there. Tell me—

Finn
.

It was only one word, one whispered name mixed with tears before his world went silent again, but it was enough. Now he had proof; he knew he was right to start his search. Snow was alive, somewhere, somehow, and he could only imagine what was happening to her as she tried so hard to reach him.

I’m coming, Snow.

Water stains crisscrossed a worn ceiling, the steady dripping a grim lullaby to the girl sleeping fitfully on a dirty bed in the corner of a chilly room. Night air whistled in through a crack in the boarded-up window, slowly waking the young woman, coaxing her bruised and bloodshot eyes to open and take in their new reality.

Her first awareness was pounding. A hard, excruciating pounding deep in her head that made it feel as though her eyes would soon burst from her skull. Snow struggled to sit up, bracing herself with one shaky hand as the other went to her forehead. A wave of nausea swept through her, starting in her stomach and burning its way up to her throat. Her vision swam as she swallowed back the sickness.

Sitting perfectly still, Snow let her consciousness travel from head to toe, taking stock of her injuries and her surroundings. Cold air. Small, boxed-in room. Bed that smelled like death. Skin aching from the inside out. That was as far as she got before her body revolted against her and she vomited over the side of the mattress, tears building and a pathetic whimper escaping dry lips. For a moment all she could focus on was the nausea and pain, before flashes of the beating she’d endured pushed through the agony.