Trouble Bruin (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

Charlie had wrapped the blanket around her as a sort of itchy sarong, and Art had yanked on his jeans. They stood staring down at Titch, who was perched casually on a rock, munching nonchalantly on a granola bar. She’d obviously bathed and been given clean clothes to wear. Her hair was clean and fluffy-looking, though still a dark dishwater blonde. The too-long jeans had been rolled up and the hems were already grubby, and she was wearing a pink T-shirt with frilled sleeves that seemed very un-Titch-like.

Art put his hands on his narrow hips. “What the fu—” Charlie smacked him on the arm and shot him a warning look. “What the…fiddle are you doing here?” he demanded. He obviously felt some of the impact had been ruined, so he added, “Young lady.”

Titch just rolled her eyes at him and continued to gnaw at her granola bar.

He strode over and snatched it out of her hand. “Hey,” he said. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. Why aren’t you back in Cottonwood with your folks? Did you run away
again
? Are you
trying
to show me up in front of the Chief?”

Titch glared at him with hurt in her eyes, then shrugged and said, in a chipper, cheerful voice that wasn’t fooling anyone, “I decided to join the travelling circus. They said no thanks. They said they’d already got one and it was too difficult to train.”

He pointed a commanding finger at her and brought out the big guns. “Indica Indigo-Ch—”

She threw up her hands. “Okay, okay. No need to fight dirty.” She looked at her granola bar, sighed, and set the rest of it down on the rock. She was a picture of misery.

Art sat on the rock next to her. He looked weary, Charlie noticed, with faint purple shadows under his dark eyes. “Titch,” he said, “we’re not stupid. And you’re not crazy – at least not the kind of crazy that would make you prefer sleeping in an alley full of rats in No Man’s Land to a nice warm bed in Cottonwood.”

Charlie knotted the blanket to secure it, and took the girl’s hand. The look on Titch’s face was mutinous, and from her body language she looked absolutely furious – which Charlie thought meant she was probably on the verge of tears. “You didn’t run away, did you?” she said. “When your mom met her mate and they had cubs, they moved to Cottonwood and left you alone in Darwin.”

Titch pulled her hand away and wiped angrily at her eyes. “They don’t want me and I don’t want them, okay? I’m better off without them.”

Charlie could have cried for her – except she knew that would just hurt her pride. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Titch jumped to her feet. “Tell you what? That as soon as my mom got married, she wasn’t interested in me anymore? She just wanted to move to Cottonwood and live happily ever after with the new babies. Marco – that’s the loser she married – said he didn’t want some human kid hanging around, eating him out of house and home. Well, I guess you know how he feels, because you don’t want me either.”

Charlie and Art exchanged dismayed glances.

“Hey now,” said Art. “Let’s not be hasty. What happened in Cottonwood?” His voice was gentle, but he added, “And I don’t mean pirates or mer-sharks or circuses. There’s only one dancing bear in these parts.” He did a little bop on the spot.

Titch smiled bleakly. “More like a clown,” she said, unable to resist the easy jab, but there wasn’t a lot of spirit in it.

“So what happened?” Art prompted her.

Titch shook her head. “That lady, Sarah – the one who looked like she ironed her undies” – Charlie had to grin; it described the Chief’s secretary perfectly – “pulled some strings. She found out Marco’s in jail, for DUI or A&B or being an asshole or something.”

“I don’t think that’s a crime,” said Art.

“Well it should be,” said Titch. Charlie couldn’t disagree. “Mom left the Badlands with the babies – or left Cottonwood, anyway. Didn’t even leave a forwarding address.” She kicked the rock she was sitting on, viciously. “At least she took them with her. Until the next handsome asshole comes along and wants her to get rid of them, anyway.”

Art frowned. “Does the Chief know about this?” he asked.

“Oh yeah,” Titch replied. “And Sarah said he’ll keep on looking for my mom. Well actually, she said” —she adopted a high-pitched, nasal voice— “‘I can assure you Chief Brown is
highly
competent and will bring
every
resource to bear,’ but that’s what she meant.”

“Well then why—”

“Weren’t you listening? She doesn’t
want
me.” The scorn in Titch’s voice should have withered Art on the spot, but it wasn’t directed at him. “
Nobody
wants me. They’d palm me off on some crummy care home. They’d trot me out every time foster parents came ’round, and they’d look at me with these big, sad eyes, then take home some pretty blue-eyed baby who doesn’t have a smart mouth and is still young enough to fix.”

“Oh, Titch,” said Charlie. “You don’t need fixing.”

Charlie knew what it could be like in the system. For older kids – especially kids like Titch who’d developed a spiky protective shell – it didn’t offer many prospects. But what was the alternative?

They were silent for a long moment, then Titch sighed and said, “It’s okay. I know you probably don’t want some stupid kid hanging around and cramping your style either. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” And she started to pick up her stuff.

Art grabbed her arm, gently but firmly. “Ah, but I’ve seen through your cunning disguise, remember? You’re not a kid at all, you’re a wolverine. You’d better stay with us for the time being, for safety.” He grinned. “For the safety of absolutely everyone else in the world, that is. Come on.”

As he got to his feet, his leg buckled and he stumbled and went down to one knee. He quickly regained his feet, brushing dust from the knees of his jeans, hoping Charlie wouldn’t make the connection. But she did.

Chapter Twelve

Charlie dabbed Art’s brow with a damp cloth and wrung it out. He tried, irritably, to knock her hand away, but he was clumsy.

It was frightening how quickly he’d deteriorated. Hard to believe this was the man who’d torn the door off an airplane with his bare hands and carried her to safety. That one telltale stumble had been the start, and now…

He insisted that he didn’t need to lie down, but he was hunched miserably in on himself, shivering. It was only the fact that he still had enough energy to be bad-tempered that kept her hoping. She had to believe there was still a chance to save him. Because if he died, it would be her fault.

Titch was pacing anxiously, and every so often she offered up a suggestion – Tylenol, water, calling the air ambulance, voodoo magic – or a question – Was he any cooler? Was he getting any worse? Was he going to die? If he died, could she have his stuff? After she’d kicked his ass for dying on her, that was. Her eyes never left him, and she all but vibrated with nervous tension.

“He’s going to be okay,” Charlie told her for the umpteenth time. “I won’t be gone for long. Just keep him in the shade and give him plenty of water.”

“He’s not a begonia!” Titch snapped. “He doesn’t need a botanist – he needs a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” Art croaked. “I need Starweed.”

“You shouldn’t have burned it then!” Titch seethed. “I’d smack you upside the head, but I don’t want to damage your tiny brain.”

“Titch,” Charlie said finally. “Please sit down – you’re making me dizzy.”

The girl huffed and flumped down next to her. “Why did you let him burn the Starweed?” she asked Charlie. “He told you he needed it.”

“I know,” Charlie said miserably. “It was already on fire when I woke up.” She felt a pang of guilt. That was true, as far as it went, but even though she hadn’t asked him to – had been horrified and angry when she’d seen the bonfire – Art had burned the Starweed to convince her that he was a decent man. As if he hadn’t proved that already with his kindness to Titch; his patience with Charlie.

“I’ll be back,” she told Titch. “I won’t let him die.”

Titch studied her face for a long time, blinking solemnly. She suddenly looked very young. “I don’t know how to make him better,” she told Charlie. “I don’t know what to do.”

Charlie wrapped her arm around Titch’s skinny shoulders. Her bones felt fragile, like a bird’s. She tensed at first, but then relaxed against Charlie’s side. “This isn’t your responsibility,” Charlie told her. “It’s not your job to make him better. All you have to do is be here with him until I come back. Keep him safe. Keep yourself safe.”

Titch thought for a while. She took a deep, shuddering breath, then nodded briskly. Charlie could
feel
her pulling herself together. She marveled again at how much bloody-minded determination was contained in that skinny little frame.

Then Titch got to her feet and brushed the dust from the baggy seat of her jeans with her palms. She unscrewed the lid off a bottle of water and crouched to hold it to Art’s lips. “Here,” she said. “Charlie says I have to water you or you’ll never win the blue ribbon in the prettiest blossom contest.”

Art smiled weakly. His eyelids were swollen, his eyes glittering and fever-bright. “Nice bedside manner, Florence Nightingale,” he husked. Then his head jerked, knocking the bottle of water from Titch’s hand. The water glugged out into the dust and sank into the thirsty ground.

At first Charlie didn’t know what had startled him, and wondered if perhaps he was seeing things that weren’t there again. But then she heard it. The thwap-thwap-thwap of rotor blades somewhere overhead. His shifter hearing must have picked up the sound before it was audible to her or Titch. A helicopter.

“It must be the team from Dynamic Earth,” Charlie said. “I think it would be best if you two weren’t here when they land.” She looked at Titch. “Can you get him to the cave where we spent that first night, after I crashed?”

Titch nodded, her face set in lines of determination. “Yep,” she said. “Just help me get him on his feet.”

“I can get myself on my feet,” Art grumbled.

Titch just rolled her eyes. “Okay, Mr. Big Strong Bear,” she said. “We get it. You don’t need help from a little girl.”

He was breathing hard by the time they had him upright, and Charlie could see the pain in his dark eyes, like shards of black glass. His jaw was clenched, a muscle twitching there, and his cheekbones looked sharper and higher than they had before. Titch put her arm around his waist, and he leaned heavily on her shoulder. His legs shook with every step, his feet scuffing clumsily over the ground. She could see only a shadow of his strength and his prowling, predatory grace in the ferocious willpower with which he put one foot in front of the other.

Charlie turned away from them, telling herself she wouldn’t look back. She squinted at the sky, shading her eyes with her hand, and started to walk, with a fast pace, towards the downed Cessna.

She wouldn’t look back.

The chopper touched down, its rotors kicking up dust. Immediately, three men in navy blue jumpsuits scrambled out, ran over to the Cessna and started an urgent triage, crawling underneath her belly, tinkering with things, taking notes and gesticulating urgently at each other. A fourth man, dressed the same, stood apart, burly arms folded across his chest. He was dressed as an engineer, but Charlie immediately marked him down as security.

Her skin prickled. This kind of urgency wasn’t natural for a project to wean junkies off a drug – and even if she’d still thought it could have some innocent purpose, what she saw next would have disabused her of the notion.

Striding towards her, ties blown back by the wind from the helicopter’s slowing rotors were two of Dynamic Earth’s major head honchos.

She broke her promise to herself and looked back towards the cave, hoping Art and Titch had made it safely inside. She thought she was going to throw up. Art had fallen to his knees in the dust. He was crawling painfully towards the cave, every movement slow and agonized. Titch was urging him along, alternately tugging ineffectually at his shirt, and crouching to whisper urgently in his ear.

Charlie turned quickly back to the approaching men, knowing her face was completely drained of color and hoping it might be masked by the sunburn on her nose and cheeks. She plastered a broad, manic grin on her face and prayed they wouldn’t glance past her and see the bear shifter and the teenage girl making their slow progress towards shelter.

The CEO of Dynamic Earth, Dr. Atkins, was a big man – not fat, just solid, like a granite block in a suit. She’d heard he was a jackal shifter. Should that have tipped her off that he might not be all he seemed? She supposed even jackals probably had mothers who loved them. He was smooth, projecting a balance of polished charm and bluff amiability that made him instantly appealing. His suit had probably cost more than she earned in a year. She was pretty sure his doctorate was honorary.

Professor Stanhope, on the other hand, was the real deal. He looked it, too. He’d almost certainly got more degrees than he’d had girlfriends. He was head of research for Dynamic Earth, overseeing half a dozen different projects. His personal pet project was something to do with DNA cloning, but he was involved in everything, and equally brilliant in every scientific field. He was skinny, bespectacled, and dressed in a labcoat. Next to Dr. Atkins, he almost faded into the background. He was a charisma pit, but a nice one. Charlie had always found his nerdy enthusiasm for science rather endearing.

Dr. Atkins extended a large, square hand with beautifully manicured fingernails and said, “Charlotte. We’re so pleased to see you safe and well.” His touch was warm, firm and reassuring, and Charlie found herself relaxing in his affable presence. He projected an aura of having everything under control.

And he did, she reminded herself with a brief chill. He was in charge of everything Dynamic Earth did, and that meant he was the one responsible for a plot to eliminate all the Starweed in the Badlands, leaving Art and others like him to die a slow, painful death. And all so they could harness that incredible strength and resilience, distill it into a pill or a shot, and use it to grab more power, more money; buy more designer suits and glossy manicures and hired muscle.

Professor Stanhope hung back a little. The pulsing wind from the rotor blades had mussed his sparse hair, and sweat patches bloomed under the arms of his labcoat. “I’m excited to hear about the data points you’ve generated—” he began.

“But there’ll be plenty of time for that,” Dr. Atkins interrupted smoothly. “Charlotte has been through quite an ordeal, and I’m sure she’d like the opportunity for a cool shower and some clean clothes before we interrogate her.”

He said it with a jovial twinkle in his eye, but knowing what she did, Charlie thought being hooked up to a polygraph would be child’s play compared to persuading Dr. Atkins she was still marching to Dynamic Earth’s rhythm. She’d do it, though, for the man she loved.

Dr. Atkins swept his arm out towards the helicopter in a courteous gesture that invited her to walk with them. Charlie didn’t miss the fact that this left her flanked by the two Dynamic Earth bosses. The large, muscular man she’d previously marked down as security walked behind her. She was being, very politely and without a lot of fuss,
escorted
to the helicopter.

She didn’t dare look over to where she’d last seen Art and Titch – she’d give them away.

Then her heart stuttered in her chest as she realized what she’d just thought.

The man she loved.

Art.