Deadfall (3 page)

WHEN YOU GET
back from the shower Rafe is gone. It’s past eight, the sky beyond the window dark. The seats are folded back against the wall and there’s a piece of paper sitting on your chair. He’s scribbled it on the formal Amtrak stationery, the complimentary notepad that came with the room.

LAST NIGHT OF FREEDOM. MEET ME AT THE BAR CAR.

You fumble through your knapsack, looking for the fake ID you bought in LA. Then you study yourself in the tiny mirror above the sink. Your hair is still wet, the ends soaking your T-shirt. You move a thick tangle to one side to cover the scar. You pinch color into your cheeks, press your lips together, and smooth back your brows.

You start into the hall, locking the compartment behind you. The bar car is four away, and you keep your head down,
your hair covering the side of your face. When you get inside you see Rafe in a booth at the far end.

You slip into the bench across from him. His glass is half filled with a watery caramel-colored liquid. He picks it up and drains the last of it, setting it back down on the table. You lean in, noticing the way his smile keeps appearing and disappearing from his lips, like he’s fighting it back. He can’t seem to keep his gaze in one place.

“You’re drunk,” you say.

“And you’re behind.” He reaches into his pocket and slides something across the table. A tiny plastic bottle of Jack Daniel’s. You twist off the cap, the smell familiar. You take it down in two sips.

When you’re done, you look around, scanning the tables behind you. There are two older couples with white hair, each one with a martini glass in front of them, the drinks barely touched. A twentysomething guy with thick glasses and a beard is scribbling in a notebook.

“Relax,” Rafe says. “If someone got on in Chicago this morning, they would’ve found us already. We’re off the radar . . . at least for now.”

“I was more concerned with someone recognizing me from that video.”

“Lena the big bad burglar.” When Rafe smiles he rubs the side of his jaw, the black stubble that makes him look a few years older than he is. “It’s kind of hot.”

The blood rushes to your face. “You’re the pickpocket,” you say. “Maybe I should be more worried about people recognizing you.”

Rafe spreads his hands out on the table, the tips of his fingers just inches from yours. When he leans in you can smell the whiskey on his breath. “You never have to worry about me,” he says. “Because I never get caught.”

“How’d you learn?”

“This old guy who hung out at the boxing gym. He’d done it for forty years—he did it in New York, mostly on the subways. He taught me.”

You comb your hair out with your fingers, working at a few wet knots. A waiter comes by and brings two more drinks—one for you, one for Rafe. It’s some kind of ginger ale mix, and you sip it, enjoying a little at a time. You look down the aisle, to where a man with red hair and freckles is leaning over a booth, talking to the woman sitting inside. He says something and she laughs, tucking a thick black curl behind her ear.

“Show me.” You nod in their direction.

He cranes his neck, watching them. “That’s easy.”

He’s already getting out of the booth before you can stop him. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, the cotton hugging his body, and you can see the muscles in his back as he moves, walking through the crowded car. When he gets to the redheaded man he bumps into him, apologizes. It’s not until
he gets to the very end of the car, by the bathrooms, that he turns back to you.

He holds out his hand. In it is the man’s brown leather wallet. You’re in on the joke, watching him like you would a magician.

He comes toward you, smiling the whole time. When he passes the man he doesn’t bump him. It’s impossible to even notice his hand as he returns the wallet to the man’s back pocket. But you can see it there, the outline of it at least, when Rafe sits back down across from you.

“Did he notice?” This time, when he smiles, you can see his teeth—square and bright white. The front one is chipped in the corner, but it somehow makes him even more attractive.

“He didn’t notice.” You stare past his shoulder. The man is still talking to the woman. He sits down next to her, showing her something on his phone.

“They never do—not until it’s too late.” Rafe takes down his drink in a few sips and pushes the glass around.

“Show me how to do it,” you say. “I want to learn.”

“Can’t learn in one night.”

“I can try.”

He stands, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket. He drops two twenties on the table, setting a container of sugar on top of it. “Ambitious.” He laughs. “Let’s go. I can’t show you here.”

You follow him back toward the sleeping car, the whiskey warming you from the inside. You close your eyes for a minute and you can see his face above yours, that moment on the island when he kissed you, when he ran his thumb across your lips.

You step into the car and he closes the door behind you. He folds a few bills in half and puts a piece of notepaper around them, trying to make something that resembles a wallet. “It’s not the best,” he says. “But it’ll do. It’s all about creating space in the pocket. You push the top of the pocket out with your thumb and pull the wallet up and out with two fingers.”

He holds up his pointer and middle finger, then curls them in toward his palm. When he turns you around, he puts his hand on your waist, moving your hips toward the wall. You let out a small laugh, feeling the bit of his hand that touches the bare skin by your belt. He slips the wad of money into the back pocket of your jeans. When he takes it out you don’t even feel it.

“Your turn,” he says, dropping it into his back pocket. “You can probably get away with more because you’re a girl. First you wait until they’re distracted. Then you bump into them, squeeze past, that sort of thing. It makes it harder to notice.”

He pretends to just stand there, looking out the window. You bump into him, but it’s hard to get the angle of
your hand right. You fumble and he grabs your wrist. It’s so obvious.

“Don’t rush. . . .” When he says it you’re aware of how close his mouth is to yours. He’s staring at your lips. “Try it again.”

You do. You try it six more times, and each time you get closer to getting it out, but not quite. “You make it look easy,” you finally say, collapsing into the seat. “I bet I’d be better if I wasn’t drunk.”

“Maybe.” Then he leans down, putting a hand on each of your armrests. “We’ll have time to practice. You’ll get better.”

You let your head rest back against the seat. He’s going to kiss you, you’re certain of it, as he stays there a few breaths. But then he turns away and falls back into the other chair.

WHEN CONNOR WALKS
into the deli he’s aware of each security camera. One’s at the end of the first aisle, pointing out toward the door. Another is behind the cash register. They’re both rectangular and black, aimed down at him like guns.

He adjusts his hat so the brim is just above his eyes. It hides the Mohawk beneath. His hair is still dyed black, though the color has faded since he ran away.

He goes to the metal rack by the cashier, grabbing a
New York Times
, a
Daily News
, and a
New York Post
. The
Post
is usually his best bet. That’s how he’s found Salto: There was a police sketch of her at the bottom of the second page. A woman had claimed Salto’d attacked her with a knife. Aggy and Devon, the other targets, were shown robbing two different ATMs in the city. If the kid from Craigslist shows tonight, by the High Line, that’ll make five of them in all. It won’t be long
before they’re a unit, working as one—an army of targets fighting against the game.

“Just these,” he says.

“Four fifty.” The cashier is a young guy, not much older than Connor, with a thin polyester shirt and an accent he can’t quite place. Connor keeps his head down as he digs the money from the front pocket of his jeans. He’s taken out all his piercings—the ones in his nose and lip, the three in his eyebrow. But there are still scars where they were, his ears still stretched out from the gauges.

He puts the exact amount of change on the counter and tucks the newspapers under his arm. The High Line entrance is on Twenty-Sixth Street. The kid promised he’d meet him either tonight or tomorrow morning, at a different park uptown. Connor made him send him a picture of his tattoo to verify he was who he said he was. The boy was thirteen, with cracked glasses and the thin, dark beginnings of a mustache. He seemed terrified.

Connor walks west, toward the staircase to the elevated park. A few days ago he figured out that there’s a hidden space behind the steps, just a few feet high and six feet across. He’ll have it to himself for the next two hours. A man named Milt sleeps there every night—he keeps some of his things in a plastic bag hidden under the first step.

Connor spent the day leaving codes for the others, spray-painting the messages in two locations so the targets couldn’t
miss them. Telling them where to meet. Salto was the one who’d discovered the raves in the subway. People would be there this week, after dark. The spot was desolate enough that it would be easy to notice someone following you down there. And the tunnels made for a good escape route.

He ducks underneath the staircase and sets up camp. He spreads the newspapers out before him, scanning the headlines. The
Post
has an article about another troubled kid. It could be a lead.

He flips through the last paper, scans down each page looking for anything that seems suspicious. There’s no one else. At least not today. But maybe there will be another tomorrow.
We’re getting somewhere.
That’s what Salto would say.

He misses her, wishes she were with him now. That they didn’t have to wait another five hours to meet up. He knows it isn’t safe for them to stay together. They both have hunters after them; it would only draw more attention.

Connor folds up the papers and checks the time. The kid was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. He stands, peering out beyond the staircase, wondering if there’s a chance he could have missed him.

Or worse, if he’s not showing because he’s dead.

A group of teenagers runs down the stairs, laughing. They’re right above him, the metal steps clanging with their boots and heels. A few girls spill into the street. One holds a bottle covered in a paper bag, the other two walk with their
arms threaded together. The boy behind them wears one of those stupid polo shirts with an alligator on it, and Connor has never wanted anything more in his life: to be like him—to be normal.

YOU LOOK DOWN
at the basketball courts below. Men in sweat-soaked T-shirts pass the ball back and forth. He shoots, he misses. He shoots, he scores. A few people have paused by the fence to watch, their fingers threaded through the chain link. From the second floor of the McDonald’s you can see up the block, all the way to the corner.

You’re watching, waiting. You jot down a few details on the notepad you took from the train,
Amtrak
printed across the top. The corner (West Third Street, Avenue of the Americas), the names of the stores on the block (Papaya Dog, IFC Theater, Village Pop). There are two teenagers below, lingering at the edge of the fence. Neither fits the description of Connor that Rafe gave you, but you take notes anyway. There’s a fresh graffiti tag on the brick wall behind them,
FK’LIN
scrawled in glossy red spray paint.

Rafe comes up from behind you, setting a Coke on the table.

“No boy with a Mohawk,” you report. “I’ve looked at every person who passed.”

Rafe glances out the window, scanning the area. “He told me that he only meets them there for five minutes to check in, then they meet up later somewhere else. I feel like it’d be clear to us.”

Your train arrived in New York early this morning, and since then you’ve spent most of the day navigating Penn Station, traversing the subway, and finding the locations Connor had mentioned on the map. It’s almost evening now.

“They could catch us if we stay here too long,” you say. A thought suddenly occurs to you. “How did they catch us on the island? At the end, I mean. Before they brought us here, to the cities.”

“It was after about a month,” Rafe says. “It had been pretty straightforward before that—one target, one hunter. Then one day, they came for us. It was obvious something had changed, there were so many of them, but we tried to run anyway. They shot at you first. The dart hit you in the leg. But you just kept going until you couldn’t.”

You nod, grateful for once you don’t remember it. “How’d they catch you?”

“I stopped,” he says. “I wasn’t going to leave you there.”

That stops you, a sudden jolt of emotion. You look away. “You should have.”

“You wouldn’t have left me.”

Maybe he’s right. But what does that mean? If someone came after him now, would you stay?

You keep your eyes on the basketball court below. A man in a black baseball hat is by the courts now, across the street. He paces the length of the fence, looking up in your direction.

You wait, letting a few minutes pass, but he stays there. His face is half hidden by the cap but he hardly turns away. He’s watching you.

“There’s a man by the courts,” you say, staring down at the table. “He’s watching us. We should move.”

Rafe actually smiles when he talks, pretending to be casual, faking a laugh. “You’re sure it’s not Connor?”

“No chance. He’s in his forties. Black baseball cap. Gray hoodie.”

“Okay, you go first. I’ll follow.”

You grab your pack from the floor, keeping it in front of you as you wind down the stairs. The bottom of the McDonald’s is crowded. A few people head past with trays piled with fries. You weave through them, pushing out the front door as two boys in football jerseys walk in.

You don’t look at the man until you’re at the corner. Just a quick sideways glance. He’s still staring. Have they really
found you already? How? Without the tracking device, they have no way of knowing you’re in New York.

A minute passes, and you wonder if Rafe is actually coming. He might have been cut off inside the McDonald’s, trapped by another hunter before he could get out. The man in the baseball cap moves to the edge of the sidewalk, turning to look at the oncoming traffic.

Rafe shoves through the door, racing toward you. You don’t stop walking as he approaches. The man fixes his gaze on Rafe and immediately starts to cross the street, toward you. He darts in front of a cab, quickening his steps.

You put your pack on your shoulders and double your pace, moving as fast as you can without drawing too much attention. “He’s following us,” you say when Rafe catches up. You go half a block but the man’s still right behind you. “When we get to the corner, we sprint.”

Neither of you look back. You’re focused on the street sign ahead, preparing to run.