The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (8 page)

It all seemed so idyllic. So peaceful and slow-paced. But I was learning fairly quickly that those idyllic moments could be swept away in a flash, like a wink of sun slicing off the side of a Model T.

“Shit.”

Out of nowhere, Blue seized my elbow, his thumb digging in, and steered me down an alley on our right. When he saw the alley was closed off by a fence halfway down, chained and padlocked shut, he added, “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What is it?” I whipped my head around, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

He kept pushing me toward the fence at the end of the alley, his expression grim. “Hide,” he said, giving me a push in the direction of a rusted-out dumpster.

“Behind it?”

“No, inside. Quick.”

He wore the same look he had when we ran from Hansen, so I obeyed. I pulled myself up and threw a leg over the edge. I only had time to glance at the mound of garbage I was about to fall onto before Blue took the liberty to flip me over the rest of the way. I landed hard on an uneven surface of broken crates, empty milk bottles, and something gooey that smelled like rotten bananas and diapers.

“Not a word,” he whispered. I heard his boots scuff the brick stones as he stepped away from the dumpster. I could tell he had his back to me. “Don't show yourself. Don't even move. No matter what happens to me, no matter what you hear, don't move. Promise me.”

“I promise,” I said, so soft I almost didn't hear it myself.

A thick lump of fear lodged in my throat. I couldn't swallow. I couldn't breathe. I simply huddled on that mound of garbage, so rigid my muscles trembled, staring out a small hole in the corner of the dumpster, eaten away by rust. I saw brick stones, but I couldn't see Blue.

Then I heard them.

More footsteps, slow and purposeful, making their way down the alley toward us. My heart seized, but the blood still thumped through my head like a bass drum.

“Well, lookie here, fellas,” came a man's voice. “It's Nicky boy. Just the fellah we wanted to see.”

I cringed at the bright joy in the man's tone. I cringed at the laughter of his cohorts that followed. There had to be half a dozen of them.

They had to be the Cafferelli thugs.

I shifted silently in my hideaway and peered out the hole at a different angle. I saw him – the leader of the pack. Twice the size of Blue, tall, broad-shouldered, black hair, dark circles under his dark eyes, and a nose that looked like it had been broken one too many times. He wore trousers with suspenders, a white undershirt, and an unbuttoned wool coat. The others were dressed in similar clothes. They didn't look as menacing as modern street thugs, but something about the hungry, sadistic looks on their faces told me they were just as dangerous.

I still couldn't see Blue, but I heard him reply. “Loogie.”

I guessed that was the leader's name.

“Hansen said he saw you at Sloan's today,” said Loogie. “What were you doing up there, Nicky boy? Long way from home.”

“Just making a delivery for Old Man Nowicki.”

“Is that so?” Loogie took a few steps forward. His lips stretched wide across crooked teeth. “Wrong place, wrong time?”

“That's right.”

He took another step closer. He rubbed his knuckles with his other hand, warming up his fist. “So you weren't keeping an eye out for Sloan? He didn't pay you to keep watch?”

Blue was silent. I shifted again, trying to get a look at his face. He wouldn't have taken a job for Sloan or any other gangster, no matter how much money his brother owed. Blue was too good. I knew it in my gut.

So why was he so quiet?

Loogie stepped all the way up to Blue, out of my eyesight. The others moved in closer. I chewed on my lip.

“You didn't do a very good job, Nicky boy,” Loogie said. “Sloan pays you to watch his back, and what do you do in return? You let him bleed to death.” He chuckled, his laughter light as foam. “One would think you were on our side.”

“If it were up to me,” Blue said, teeth clenched, “I'd let the whole lot of you bleed to death.”

I heard one of the guys spit. Maybe it was Loogie. Maybe that's how he got his nickname.

“Boys,” said Loogie, “I think we have ourselves a threat.”

They all moved out of my eyesight, closing in around Blue like a pack of wolves. Then I heard the first blow, sounding like a low thump right in the gut. Blue groaned. I craned my neck to see better through the rusted hole, and I watched as the barrage came. A few loud thwacks to the jaw. Several more fists to the gut. Blue's face turned reddish-purple. Spittle hung from his bottom lip.

If Blue had been hired to keep watch for Sloan, he'd given it all up to save my life instead. He'd traded Sloan's life for mine. I couldn't watch him get beaten to a pulp after he'd risked his life for me. I had to stop it.

My body snapped into action, quick, like it had been itching for it the whole time. I reached down and curled my fingers around a broken milk bottle. I pushed myself up, the garbage beneath me shifting with a great deal of noise. I leaned over the edge of the dumpster and hauled myself over the side, landing somewhat clumsily on the balls of my feet. All six of Cafferellis' thugs jolted around, one freezing mid-kick. Blue was on the ground, clutching at his ribs. Blood trailed from his nose. It dripped on the brick stones.

“What have we here?” Loogie said, his startled expression morphing into a grin. He rose up from kneeling beside Blue and ran a hand through his glossy black hair. His eyes slid over me. His lips stretched thin, almost white.

Back home, I would've run for my life if I'd come face-to-face with a guy like him in an alley. But in this body, I wasn't scared.

Why the hell wasn't I scared?

“Attack dogs are all well and good, Nicky boy,” said Loogie, “but you should ask for your money back. This one's a poodle.” The others laughed as they slinked toward me.

Six to one. I didn't know a damn thing about fighting, but I knew those weren't good odds. For a split second I remembered the pepper spray Dad always tried to get me to take to school. The pepper spray I kept in my work bench drawer at home because I thought it was stupid.

Yeah. Not anymore.

Blue shot me the fiercest look. I knew he wanted me to run – and if I had, I could've probably outrun them in this body – but my feet were planted. And my fists craved contact.

It was a wild feeling, oddly overpowering, like before when I discovered I could run like an Olympic athlete. It was like this body had fought its way through scrapes like this many times over. Like it had trained for this very moment. I was hungry for a fight, and somehow I knew I could hold my own.

I lunged forward to meet them. I sliced the broken glass bottle across the chest of the guy closest to me, the short one with his front teeth missing, then swept his feet out from under him. He clawed at me to keep his balance, but I shouldered him off. Down he went, eyes wide. He clutched at the smear of blood on his shirtfront.

Thick fingers grabbed hold of me – they were everywhere, grappling, pinching, squeezing. I kicked and swung the bottle, slicing flesh every chance I could, but there were too many of them. I was tangled and twisted, caught in a net of groping hands. They swore at me. Called me a bearcat and other names I won't dare repeat.

By that time Blue was at my side, swinging punches, hacking through the net to free me. But even though I felt trapped, I never felt defeated. I kept going, lashing out like a cornered badger. I buried the bottle in one guy's stomach, then crushed his nose with the back of my elbow. I landed a fist in another guy's eye.

I was feral. I was strong. I couldn't be stopped.

Until I heard the cock of a pistol.

That unmistakable click.

I froze. So did Blue. The mouth of the gun kissed the stubble on Blue's jaw, right below his ear. I dropped the milk bottle and raised my hands in surrender, and Loogie nodded at his boys to grab me.

They were bruised and bleeding, but they seized my arms anyway and pulled me back. My eyes never left Blue's. A stream of blood traced a red line down the side of his face from a gash above his temple. His bottom lip was swollen and purple. He still clutched at his ribs. A violent shudder tore through him, like it was the dead of winter.

For me, fire blazed through my body. The need for revenge coursed through my veins. Blue had saved my life and here I was, unable to save his. A million attack plans rushed through my head, but none were a match for a bullet.

Loogie scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping blood and sweat from his eyes. He breathed in and out of his nose like a bull. “I was going to let you off with a few bruises, Nicky boy. Maybe a few broken ribs. But I think this calls for something more permanent.”

He jerked his head at the toothless guy, who let go of my arm and loped over to Blue. He pulled a knife from his boot, then he and Loogie pushed Blue down to his knees.

“Giuseppe said to make sure you don't squeal about what you saw at Sloan's.” Loogie grabbed Blue's hair and yanked his head back. He moved the gun to Blue's chest. “I think that can be arranged. Open his mouth, Teeth.”

The guy called Teeth pulled on Blue's jaw, and Blue struggled to keep his lips shut.

“No use fighting it,” said Loogie. “He'll cut your mouth open if he has to.”

Teeth dug his fingernails into Blue's mouth, prying until his jaw started to open.

“No,” I screamed. I wrestled against the arms that held me back. They were like iron shackles, unyielding. “No. Please.”

Teeth angled the knife into Blue's mouth, and Blue sucked in a ragged breath around the blade. My heart collided against my ribs.

I couldn't let this happen.

I swung my head to the side with all my might, smacking one of the guys in the nose. He let out a yell, and the moment he dropped my arm to cover his face with his hands, I took my chance. With two less guys holding me back, I had enough momentum to twist my way free.

I flung myself at Teeth, aiming at his waist, and tackled him to the ground. The knife clattered on the brick stones and spun out of reach. I drew back my fist, ready to pummel Teeth's face into the pavement, when I heard it.

The gun shot.

Then everything went black.

CHAPTER 6

 

 

Within seconds, light and sound rushes in around me, and I'm back in Mr Draper's class, sitting at my desk. All that emotion, all that adrenaline still flows through me.

I can't help it. I swear. Out loud.

And it isn't pretty.

Mr Draper stops lecturing and stares at me, his arms still in the air like he's conducting a symphony. All eyes in the class turn to me. Tabitha's giggle comes from the back of the room, accompanied by her trademark, “Freak.” Someone else, I think it was Robbie Duncan, calls me Wayspaz. I hear Jensen tell them both to shut up.

I barely take time to notice.

With one sweep of my arm, my books topple into my backpack, and I'm out the door before Mr Draper can find the words to object. I sprint down the hall and burst out the double doors to the parking lot, stopping only when I realize I have no transportation home.

But home isn't where I need to be. I need to be back in Chicago.

Now.

I hurry from the school grounds before a teacher tries to wrangle me back inside. I have to find a place to be alone – a place to hide where no one can bother me. I can't be distracted – I have to find my way back to Blue. Even if it is just a stupid hallucination, there's no way I can just let it go now. Just forget everything that happened. I have to know if he got shot.

If I caused him to get shot.

Halfway back to my house I remember there's an abandoned auto garage a few blocks ahead. The kind that looks like an old gas station, with rusted out pumps in front and weeds reaching up through cracks in the pavement. I pass it every day on the way to school, and every day there seems to be more amateur graffiti painted on the building's faded bricks or another window broken out.

Broken windows mean I can get inside.

Four more blocks and I'm there, jogging right up to the overhead garage doors. Several glass panes at the bottom are busted out. I toss my backpack inside and crawl in, taking care not to snag my clothes on the jagged frame.

Inside, shafts of light spill across an empty concrete floor, stained almost black from years of oil and grease and grime. A rodent scurries behind a stack of spiderweb-covered boxes in the corner, swollen from water damage. Two pigeons flutter and coo at me from a nest in the rafters. More graffiti covers the walls like wallpaper, each angsty statement vying for center position. I smile when I see For a good time call scrawled above Tabitha's name and number.

I drop my backpack against the wall under Tabitha's number, and it echoes throughout the vacant room. I sit beside it, resting my back against the cool concrete block wall.

It's so quiet. I only hear the whoosh of the occasional passing car, the rustling of the pigeons above me, and the random squeak of the old JOHNSON'S AUTO sign outside.

I close my eyes and tip my head back against the wall, only to feel a sharp pain when I do. My hand flies to the back of my head, right to that blasted bruised knot beneath my ponytail. It's smaller than in my vision, but it's there. A little bit of dried blood is tangled in my hair. I feel my ribs for more bruises and every last one is accounted for. The slice inside my lip still gives off that salty tang. Even my right fist aches. Not broken – I can flex it – but the longer I focus on it, the more it hurts. Luckily I didn't take a fist or elbow to the face. I can't imagine having to explain that to Mom and Dad. A few bruises I can hide. A busted jaw? Not so much.