Those That Wake 02: What We Become (26 page)

Roarke didn’t register the blow. He feinted with an open-handed strike toward Mal’s chin, and when Mal moved in one direction, Roarke’s knee came up to cut him off. The knee caught Mal in the side of his torso, and Rose saw his body rock from the impact, heard him cough out a jolt of pain. He recovered instantly, snapping out two jabs, both deflected by Roarke’s viper-quick hands. Roarke threw back a strike that cracked into Mal’s chest and sent him backpedaling. Roarke pressed in.

Mal threw three humming punches; Roarke beat them all aside with his open hands and struck back with another hammering blow that caught Mal in the chest. Mal backpedaled again, threw a retreating strike, had it deflected, and took a blow to the gut. Roarke, despite his girth and the wedges of muscle straining at the material of his suit, was too quick; inhumanly quick.

Mal flicked his head to the side, tossing off the pain. He threw a strike, but instead of backing up farther, he moved to Roarke’s side. Roarke immediately matched the move, keeping Mal to his front, circling.

They circled, looking for openings, their feet moving carefully, carrying them in slow loops as their hands sped up, flickering. Mal’s shoulders and head darted down, up, under, around. Then, when the circling brought Roarke’s back to Rose, Mal scored a stinging jab off Roarke’s face, followed with a hammering cross.

They continued to circle, probing, striking, parrying, dodging. Again, when Roarke’s back was to her, Mal landed, twice, on Roarke’s head. She could see Roarke working harder to shake it off, trying to stop the circling. But Mal slipped too quickly around, pressed his advantage, forced Roarke’s back to Rose a third time, and landed again.

Rose realized only now what Mal was doing. He kept putting Roarke between the two of them. What had the Old Man said? Fighting to her was a fiction, a story she could scarcely wonder at. Mal knew that, of course. But Roarke did not. Every time his back was to her, he had to take her into account, and his attention would slip just far enough for Mal to come in.

The last blow had shaken Roarke enough that his ripostes were wider, larger. His fist swung, the force of his entire body behind it, a heavy whoosh of wind cutting over Mal’s darting head. Mal came back with two quick jabs, splitting Roarke’s lip and reddening his jaw with blood. But Roarke’s next attack was already set up, and his stiffened hand swept down and chopped into the junction between Mal’s neck and shoulder, bludgeoning him to the ground.

Mal went down but caught himself on hands and knees, immediately rolling forward to avoid Roarke’s kick, then came up so that, once again, Roarke was forced between him and Rose. Mal looked dead in her eyes for just an instant, just long enough to give her a nod.

Her body stiffened; she imagined grabbing a chair, a vase, something to attack Roarke with. But in the end, all she could do was imagine it.

Roarke imagined it, too, though; saw Mal’s signal and imagined her sweeping up from behind with the killing blow. He was forced to split his attention down the middle and blocked Mal’s head strike, but couldn’t stop the pile-driving uppercut from landing in his gut.

Roarke coughed loud, spat blood, and took another shot to the head, and another, three, four. His hands came up to block, made it only halfway. The machine-gun sound of the punches ricocheted off the walls of the hall.

Roarke stumbled and found his balance just in time to catch Mal’s fist, cracking against his temple. He lurched forward, grabbing at Mal’s sweatshirt, looking for an anchor to drag his opponent closer. Mal grabbed the hand, twisted it so that Roarke’s arm was locked in an awkward line. Then Mal brought his fist hammering down on Roarke’s elbow.

The flesh-muffled snapping of arm bone made Rose shriek. Roarke did not. No sound issued from him. He sank to his knees, his eyes holding on to Mal as the arm dropped and dangled uselessly.

Mal’s fist cocked back, ready to shatter Roarke’s face in an explosion of red. He held it there and gave his own somber gaze back to Roarke. Their eyes held each other for just a moment. What, Rose wondered, were they finding in each other?

Mal dropped his fist.

He looked up to find Rose but instead looked past her. She followed his line of sight. The Old Man was standing in the doorway now, close enough to reach out and clutch.

“Run, Mal.” She ran forward and grabbed his hand, pulled him out the door they had entered through. They raced down the tidy hallway, out into the service entrance. Two men in coveralls looked up as Rose and Mal came barreling out.

“Yes, run,” one of them said, with the Old Man’s vibrant voice. “Run if you want to live just a little longer.”

They were out on the sidewalk, careening through crowds of suited people talking on cells, attending their own concerns.

“Run,” said a tall, thin brunette, looking up at them from her cell conversation. “Run to a place where I am not.”

“Soon,” said a child, holding his mother’s hand, “I will be everywhere.”

They ran.

UNDER THE BLUISH LIGHT OF
an overcast morning, Laura and Aaron walked up to the door of a small house set at the edge of the road. Behind the house was a tangle of brush and plants leading toward a distant mountain. Laura tapped the door with her knuckles.

Footsteps approached from the other side and, without the customary questions, the door opened. A girl, barely older than Laura, stood on the other side. Her pert, pretty face was framed by short blond hair. She had five silver rings in her left ear.

“Hi,” she said, in a lively voice that suggested she was eager to receive visitors out in this fairly solitary place.

Aaron opened his mouth to speak, but Laura spoke quickly, to head him off.

“Hi,” she returned brightly. “My name’s Laura Westlake. This is Aaron. Is this Tommy Jericho’s house? Are you Annie?”

“It is and I am,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“That’s kind of complicated, actually,” Laura answered with an exasperated smile. “We’re looking for someone, and I think you might be able to help us. Kind of.”

“Well, why don’t you come in, and we can find out?” Was there a note of apprehensive hopefulness in such quick hospitality, or was this just the country way?

“Thank you so much,” Laura said with sincere weight as they followed Annie the few steps it took to get to a small kitchen table.

Drink offers were politely refused, and Annie settled down across from them at the table. Aaron fidgeted in his chair, uncomfortable in the spare rural setting of the house.

“Are you two from New York?” Annie asked.

“How did you know that?” Aaron shot back, immediately suspicious.

Annie tapped her own forehead, then pointed at Laura, indicating the Mets cap that sat snugly on her head.

“I’m from New York, too,” Annie said. “Tommy is a Yankees fan, but you’re welcome here, anyway,” she said with an irresistible gleam in her eye. Laura felt instinctive warmth for Annie and searched her face, looking for a long-lost friend. There was humor and hope there, but melancholy as well, a fluttery gratitude for unexpected company. Such a large field with such a small house and a small girl in the middle of it.

“So, who is it you’re looking for?” Annie asked, finding the scrutiny just the slightest bit unnerving, perhaps.

“Mal,” Laura said, short, sharp, and direct.

“Uh . . .” Annie was obviously hesitant to dash anyone’s hopes. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize that name. Do you know a last name?”

Laura hesitated, chewing on the word as though letting it go might cost too much.

“Jericho,” Aaron said in a terse voice that matched his impatient look. “Mal Jericho.”

“Well, that’s Tommy last name. Is that why you came here? I’m sorry, I don’t think he knows anyone named Mal. You don’t mean Max, do you? That was his father.”

“Well, that’s about it for here,” Aaron said, setting his body to stand up. “Can we get going now, Laura?”

“Doesn’t Tommy”—Laura pressed on, ignoring her companion—“have a brother?”

“No,” Annie said, becoming more unnerved by the second. “No brother. Tommy works at the garage in town. You could certainly go down and ask him about this. But, honestly, there’s no way he’s kept a brother from me. He doesn’t even speak with his mother anymore, and his father’s gone. I’m basically what he’s got now.” She offered a quick, self-deprecating smile.

Laura leaned back in her chair, suddenly exhausted. Despite her unease, Annie did not seem ready to let them go yet.

“Did you guys come all the way from the city to speak to us?”

“Poughkeepsie,” Aaron answered.

“Do you live there?”

“No.” Aaron’s face made it clear that he couldn’t have imagined anything more distasteful.

“College,” Laura said. “I go to college there.”

“Vassar, right?” Annie said. “What do you study?”

“Psychology.”

“Aren’t classes in session right now?”

“They are. But finding this person is”—she cleared her throat gently—“really, really important. I took a leave of absence.”

“You left college on purpose,” Annie said, unable to keep the quiet sorrow out of her voice.

“Are you looking at colleges?” Laura asked, a soft interest coming into her face and dismissing the fatigue of a moment before.

“No,” Annie said wistfully. “There’s a nursing school over in Oneonta. We’re saving up for it now.” An idea seemed to bloom in her brain. “Us and a mysterious benefactor,” she said to herself.

“Sorry?” Laura said.

“Listen,” Annie said, suddenly energized with excitement. “This is going to sound crazy, but there’s someone doing us favors now and then, and we sort of don’t really know who he is, not his name or anything.”

“What do you mean?” Laura asked, her voice vibrating with anticipation.

“Someone wires us money. It’s inconsistent, different amounts, no schedule, but it’s been happening for more than a year.”

“But you don’t have a name,” Laura said, working the facts through.

“I could . . .” Annie hesitated, her desire to help struggling with her common sense. “I could put you in touch with the bank. I mean, if I vouched for you, they might be able to—”

“Can you give me your cell number?” Aaron broke in, his patience just about worn out.

“Pardon?”

“Your cell has a number that people use to call you, right? Give it to me.”

“Social cues, Aaron,” Laura chided with a sidelong glare. “Social cues.”

Aaron’s eyes swiveled from Laura, back to Annie.

“
Please
give it to me,” he corrected himself melodramatically.

Annie recited her number.

“Is that going to . . .” She watched Aaron’s eyes glaze over, stare into nothing.

“It’s coming in through a floating code,” Aaron reported, his gaze distant and ghostly. “But it’s underwritten by a fake LLC, but it’s got Silven Holdings code styles all over it.” Laura’s eyes were riveted to him, as were Annie’s. “The deposits are being made—whoa, in
cash,
do you believe that?—in New York City, at an ATM on Twenty- Third and—”

“Stop,” Annie said, louder than she needed to. “Stop, please. I don’t want to— It’s just that . . . things are working okay for us. I don’t want to push it off balance or anything.”

“Of course, Annie,” Laura said. “Of course.” She stood up. “Thank you so much for helping us.”

“I barely did anything.” That same self-deprecating smile passed across her face.

“You did, Annie. You trusted us.”

Annie looked down, her face growing hot for some reason.

Laura had to nudge Aaron, still working something in his head, to get him up and to the door. Annie opened it for them, and Laura propelled Aaron toward the car sitting in the driveway. Before she followed, Laura turned to Annie, seemed to be searching for something to say. Their eyes found each other, some understanding, some strength flowed between them, and Laura swept her into a hug that nearly stole the breath from Annie’s chest. Annie hugged back as hard as she could.

“Good luck,” Annie said, strangely fighting back tears.

“I’d wish you luck, too, Annie, but I know you don’t need it. I can see you’re strong enough to make it through.”

She took in Annie’s face for a last moment, then turned and went to the car.

“They made the transfer at an ATM on Twenty-Third Street and Eighth Avenue in Manhattan,” Aaron told her as she got into the driver’s seat.

“Will you be able to find out what we need if we get to the ATM itself?” Laura asked, doing a poor job of remaining calm and collected.

“If I don’t have an address for this Mal guy before we hit the highway,” Aaron said, “you can kick me out of the car without stopping.”

“Are you—”

“Drive.”

She did, pulling away from the small house and onto the street. In her rearview mirror, she could see Annie standing in the doorway, watching them go.

“MCT surveillance cams picked up the spot at the date and time the transfer was made,” Aaron told her as they moved through the town. Laura noted the garage and the thin young man in the stained overalls bent into an open hood. “I’ve got him crossing Twenty-Third and going down into a subway. The subway cam has him going downtown.”

There was quiet as they passed out of the town and headed for the highway entrance in the distance. Laura’s fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel, her hands becoming damp. Her eyes kept flickering to Aaron, his face slack, all the effort happening within him.

She steered them onto the highway, heading south to New York.

“Well?” she said hotly.

“I picked him up on five different MCT cameras all the way home,” Aaron said, his eyes refocused and a grin breaking on his face. He’d had it minutes ago but was making her wait just to amuse himself. “He’s at an apartment building on Orchard and Delancey.”

“Which—”

“Number 17C. Registered to someone named Rose Santoro.”

Why did it drive a pit into Laura’s stomach to hear that?

“I could send you a capture of him,” Aaron taunted, “
if
you still had your cell.”

“You could do something else for me, instead.”

“Oh, please tell me. I’m dying to do something else for you.”