Thief of Souls (11 page)

“Do you mind?” said Winston, taking the defensive.

“Can't I sit here?”

Tory shrugged. “Sit wherever you want.”

The intruder seemed far more comfortable than they were.

“You both seem excited but worried at the same time,” Okoya noted. “I wonder what that could be about?”

Winston shrugged. “What, do you poke your way into everyone else's business?”

“Only when it's interesting,” said Okoya, pushing a ketchup-covered plate of fries to share with them. “The truth is, I'm just passing through town. I was hoping I could travel with some interesting people.”

“I don't think so,” said Winston uneasily. But Tory touched Winston's hand, a signal for him to step down from red alert.

“Where are you headed?” asked Tory, beginning to munch on the fries.

Okoya looked out the window, gazing into the dim, dusty street. “Wherever you are.”

Great,
thought Winston.
The last thing we need is some creep tagging along on our trip to find Dillon.
And yet . . . Winston suddenly felt a pang of loneliness—as if this Okoya person had all at once created a space in their company that needed to be filled. Having a third party to talk to—to take their minds off of things for a short part of the journey might make the trek more interesting. And then again, this stranger might want nothing more than to rob them, or kill them, or both. But considering where they had been, and where they were headed, such a threat seemed minuscule and easily dealt with.

“We're not leaving until morning,” Winston explained.

Okoya shook his head. “Why not leave now?”

Because we're exhausted,
Winston was about to answer, but suddenly he didn't feel tired at all.

Tory turned to Winston. “We really don't
have
to stay overnight.”

When their meal was done, they left together, to gather what little they had from their motel. As they slipped their keys into the night drop, Winston turned to Tory.

“Interesting guy. Do you think he's Navajo or Hopi?”

Okoya stood by the curb, looking west; as if knowing their
direction better than they did. Tory stared at Winston as if he were out of his mind.

“What do you mean ‘he'?” said Tory. “Okoya is a girl!”

Winston took a second look. The Indian's long hair blew with the night wind—but long hair didn't mean anything these days. Okoya's voice was a gentle tenor . . . could it have been contralto instead? “Try again!” said Winston. “He's a guy. You think I can't tell the difference?”

“Apparently not,” said Tory. And so to prove it, Winston ran up to Okoya, fully prepared to ask the question point-blank:
What the hell are you?

But when Okoya turned to him, Winston found that he didn't have the nerve to ask. “Uh . . . Okoya,” stammered Winston. “That's a very interesting name.”

Okoya smiled proudly. “It's Hualapai,” Okoya said. “It means ‘Bringer of Fire.' ”

E
IGHT HUNDRED MILES TO
the west, the Newport Beach Festival of Dead Fish had attracted massive media attention, but even as the media crews were arriving at the beach that night, Michael, Lourdes, and Drew were racing toward the marina to Michael's boat.

It wasn't all that spectacular a craft compared to the million-dollar yachts that graced the Newport marina, but the price was right.

“I made a suicidal lawyer see the joys of life,” Michael explained to Lourdes. “He was so thrilled that he gave me his boat, turned his house into a bed-and-breakfast, and now he serves poached eggs instead of lawsuits.”

Lourdes was amused, and Drew could only shake his head in utter amazement. “If you can do all that, why work at the Dog Kabob?” Drew asked.

“Because it's normal,” answered Michael, and normality was something in short supply in Michael's life.

He powered up the boat and piloted it out of Newport Channel to the open sea. As Michael suspected, a cold ocean current ran down the coastline about a half mile from shore. It was like a river in the middle of the ocean. Waves died as they hit the smooth ribbon of water, only to be reborn on the “river's” other side—and all the while the mid-ocean stream remained so flat, you could see every detail of the moon reflected in its glassy surface.

“Dillon's order,” Lourdes commented when she saw it. The ill-fated fish had traveled down this serene thread of water from somewhere up north. They could follow this ocean river straight to Dillon, if it lasted long enough. It was as easy as tracing the ashen trail of a burnt fuse.

“So who's Dillon?” Drew had asked.

There was the long answer and the short answer, and Michael had no patience for long answers. “He's the best of us, and the worst of us,” Michael said. Drew, who was generally too cool to admit cluelessness, accepted the answer, and didn't ask again.

A day later, nightfall found them off the central California coast. They fueled in Morro Bay, and dropped anchor in the shadow of Morro Rock, its massive dome growing out of the ocean like the skull of a giant.

The boat had only one cabin, with a single, triangular bed beneath the bow. It was comfortable for one, livable for two, and impossible for three. Their ears practically touched as they all lay face-up, looking at the low ceiling of the cabin.

“I've never slept in a boat,” said Lourdes, to Michael's right.

“It's kind of cozy,” said Drew, to his left.

“It's like a coffin,” said Michael, the only one who seemed bothered by the tight space. To him it felt like trying to sleep in the tip of a pointed shoe.

Outside, a mild wind blew, gently rocking the boat.

Lourdes sighed contentedly, and the sound irritated Michael no end. There was nothing about this journey that was the least bit blissful, but to listen to Lourdes, you'd think they were all on a pleasure cruise.

“I'm really starting to worry about how unworried
you
are,” Michael told her.

“What's to worry about?” she said gently. “You and I can beat anything.” She kissed him on the cheek, and a few minutes later, Michael heard her breathing slip into the relaxed whistle of a deep sleep, leaving Drew and Michael to stare at the beige-carpeted ceiling.

“So,” whispered Drew with a sly smile. “Is she the mystery woman you've been saving your moves for?”

“I don't have any moves,” answered Michael.

“But she is your girlfriend, right?”

Michael had to consider the question. He had never thought of Lourdes as a girlfriend. More like cell mates than soul mates. “I don't know,” said Michael, glancing at her to make sure she was still asleep. “I guess.”

Drew shifted so he could look at Michael. “You must love her a lot.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Michael, wishing he would just shut up about it.

“That's good,” said Drew. “There are guys I know on the track team that think girls are only good for one thing—and love is only as big as their hard-ons. Which in most cases offers no wind resistance, if you know what I mean.”

Michael laughed in spite of himself. “You have all the answers, don't you, Drew?” he said. “I wish I had my head together half as well as you do.”

“You must
really
be screwed up if you think
my
head's
together.” They laughed a bit longer, and when it got quiet once more, Drew slid out of the cramped space.

“You'll never sleep while I'm in your face,” said Drew. “I'll go up and pilot the boat. No sense losing a night of travel time.”

Michael quickly filled the space where Drew had been, and was already dozing when he noticed that Drew had not yet left. He was still standing there, watching Michael and Lourdes sleep, like he had nothing better to do.

“Not that it really matters,” Drew said in that offhand way of his. “But you remember that baseball story I told you? . . . Well, it wasn't really about baseball.”

Michael yawned. “That's nice,” he said absently.

Drew lingered a moment longer. Then Michael heard him up on deck as he raised the anchor, and started the engine. In a few moments, Michael was asleep, his back toward Lourdes, and his face to the windowless wall.

T
ORY AWOKE TO AN
unsteady world, uncertain of where she was or why she was there. It was a large space around her, rectangular and rusty. Light poured in from an open door, and the whole world rattled.

A boxcar. Yes, that was it.
They were heading west from New Mexico. It had been past midnight when they had reached the train yard, and found a train bound in their general direction. The white noise of the rolling stock had lulled her to sleep. The boxcar had been filled with the stench of decay and urine when they had hopped on, but now any unpleasant odor was gone, washed away by more than just the wind pouring in through the huge open door.

Curled up beside her, still in the deepest of sleeps, was Winston. And a few yards away sat the stranger, Okoya. She
was staring at Tory, as if she could have been staring that way throughout the night.

“Sleep well?” Okoya asked.

Tory rolled the kink out of her neck. “Better than I expected.”

“You looked like you needed it.” Okoya grinned, but only slightly. It was unsettling, because Tory couldn't discern what the grin meant.

“It's been a long few days.”

“It's more than just a few days, isn't it?” Okoya asked. “There's weight on the two of you far heavier than this journey.”

“Long story.”

Then that grin again. “I imagine it would be.”

Tory looked to her fingers. They were still numb from the cold night. The skin around her cuticles was frayed. She had been picking at them in her sleep again. Her hands, her whole body felt sticky, unpleasant, and unclean; even though she knew the feeling was only in her imagination, it didn't make her feel any less uncomfortable.

“What I wouldn't give for a nice hot bath,” said Okoya, practically reading her mind.

“Same here.” But Okoya couldn't know how much Tory longed for that bath, especially now that the thought had been put in her head.

Okoya glanced over at Winston, who still slept, fine slashes of morning light cutting across his face from the many cracks in the boxcar panels.

“This Winston,” said Okoya. “He always has a chip on his shoulder, doesn't he? Always negative.”

Tory shrugged. “All show. He's a real sweetheart once you get to know him.”

Okoya considered this. “Maybe,” she said. “Still, you could do better.”

The train began a wide turn. Tory felt her whole body shift to the left with inertia. “Better than what? Winston and I are just friends.”

Okoya reached for her pack, then fished for something inside. “Yes, I can see that.” She pulled out a small bottle of cologne. “But friends can often bring you down.”

Tory found herself bristling. “Not my friends.”

“Really? And how about this friend you travel toward?”

“Dillon?” Tory looked away. “That's different.”

Okoya turned the bottle in her fingers. The pale fluid within refracted a crescent of light across the wall. “Are you friends by choice, or by circumstance?”

“Why should that matter?”

“Best not to put your trust in circumstantial friendships,” Okoya said. “Because circumstances change.”

“I can trust Winston . . .” But as she said it, she felt her own conviction waver.

Okoya stood and moved toward the open boxcar door. The bright rugged terrain of the Arizona desert sped past, a red dusty blur. Okoya opened the bottle of cologne and dabbed some on the nape of her neck. The wind caught the scent, and brought it back to Tory, who breathed in the scent deeply. It was an aroma that Tory could not identify. Neither flowery nor musky. It simply smelled . . . clean.

“We'll be in California soon,” Okoya said.

Tory tried to get another whiff of the cologne, but could not, and found herself angry that the scent seemed to fade so quickly. When Okoya came back from the open door, Tory could not even smell it on her, even when Tory moved closer. She thought to ask Okoya if she could try some herself, but
thought better of it. Tory had never been one to wear perfume. Okoya slipped the vial into the dark hole of her pack, and pulled the drawstring tight.

“You said your story was long.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your story. Your reason for this journey. You said it was long, but as far as I can see, we've got nothing but time.”

Tory shook her head. “You wouldn't believe it.”

“Then that will make it all the more enjoyable to hear.” Okoya tossed back her flood of black hair, revealing high, square cheekbones. Tory thought for a moment that perhaps Winston was right about the gender of their traveling companion. Then Tory laughed, more at herself than anything else. Why would it matter what Okoya was, when they would part ways in just a few short hours, once the novelty of each other's company wore thin. And did it matter what Tory told this stranger they would never see again?

“Sure I'll tell you,” said Tory. And maybe confessing all of it to this drifter might unburden her own soul. She began with her days as an untouchable in Alabama, when her flesh-sores were so virulent you could tell neither her sex nor the color of her skin. “The Scorpion star went nova the moment each of us were conceived,” she explained, “but it took sixteen years for its light to reach the earth. When we finally saw its light, it made each of us realize our connection to one another . . . that we were luminous in a way we never knew . . . and that same brightness had attracted parasites like a flame attracts insects . . .” Then Tory told of all they had endured since the supernova lit up the sky. It was remarkable how easy it was to unload the tale on a patient, receptive ear. And Okoya was nothing if not receptive.