A Penny's Worth (The Cephas Bourdon Series) (22 page)

I gasped and jumped off of the crate. I walked toward the door, grabbing onto the metal shelves to aid my unstable feet. He killed him! Cephas killed him and I had watched him do it! I sank onto the floor and leaned against the brick wall. My arms instinctively wrapped around my knees and I felt a tear slip down my cheek.

The door swung open and Cephas appeared in its entrance. Shock must have overtaken my face, because
Cephas’
softened and he shut the door behind him. He crouched down next to me and surrounded my body with his arms. My body went limp under his hold and I began crying softly. His thumb traced the line of my hair. I buried my face in his chest. Stifling my tears, I shut my eyes and concentrated on breathing. His arms around my back were sweating, reminding me of the scene I had witnessed just a moment ago. I tried to push it all away, to forget that Cephas was a trained killer. Rough hands ran through my hair.

“Is he dead?” I whispered, not really wanting to know the answer. Cephas bit his lower lip.

CHAPTER 13

“No,” he replied, his voice still cold, though warming a bit. “Em, I don't
—
” he paused, still running his hand through my hair. “There's something you should know. I never
—
” He lifted his head suddenly, shifting his attention to the open window. Sirens sounded in the distance. I heard them
—
how did he hear them so much sooner than I heard them?

“We have to go,” he stated flatly, releasing me and walking to a shelf. He grabbed a few rags and wiped off his hands. I stood still, unable to move, unable to think. Cephas picked up his bag and walked past me, opening the door. I was motionless. He turned around.

“Emma, we have to go,” he repeated, gesturing toward the door. I tried to move but I couldn't. My eyes traveled to his hands, up his arms, and to his face. There was so much blood. He nodded in understanding, then grabbed my hand. He pulled me out of the room, placing his arm around my shoulder.

“Just try not to draw attention to us for a moment.” He guided me down an isle and around the corner. A librarian walked past us and Cephas buried his face in my neck to hide the blood, pretending to whisper something into my ear.

“Laugh,” he whispered. I giggled systematically and the librarian looked away, pushing his glasses further up his nose. We continued down the hall. The tall book shelves disappeared and were replaced by filing cabinets. Cephas kept a firm hold around me. I had to walk quickly to keep up with his pace. A set of four tables sat in the center of the room. Cephas pulled out a chair and sat me down on the unforgiving, wooden seat.

“Wait here,” he demanded. I nodded obediently and watched as he walked to a filing cabinet a few feet away. He rifled through the files a moment and then returned to the table. Opening the file, he flipped quickly through the pages until he found a double folded paper. It was a map of some sort. He unfolded it and spread it flat on the tabletop. His mouth pulled the lid off of a sharpie and he began making marks on the paper.

“Shouldn't you make a copy to mark on?” I asked, holding onto the seat of the wooden chair. I nervously pulled my feet up onto the bar between the legs of the chair. He chuckled a little.

“What are you, a saint?” he muttered. I narrowed my eyes, not very entertained by his comment. He continued drawing on the map, marking an x here and a circle there. He tapped the marker against his chin.

“Stumped?” I asked.

“Hmm?” he glanced up, then smirked. He looked back to the paper. “Never.” I rolled my eyes,
Cephas’
cocky attitude temporarily relieved the horrid scene from my thoughts. He folded up the map, stuffed it into his backpack, and then nodded his head toward the exit.

“Ready?” he asked. I stood and pushed the chair back into place.

“One day, somebody's gonna need that, and it won't be here, thanks to you,” I said, picking up my backpack and following him down the hall.

“I promise nobody will need this map,” he replied.

“How can you be so sure?” I questioned.

“Trust me,” he responded.

“What a line.” Cephas cast his eyes down and bit his lower lip. I shouldn't have said that. It hurt him
—
I could tell. Even though he was a murderer
—
and a liar
—
I felt awful for intentionally hurting anyone.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I didn't mean
—
”

“It's fine,” he said, finishing the conversation. “When we go outside, stay close to my side.”

“Why?” I asked, looking up at him. He glared at me, and I smiled in return. “Just kidding,” I said. He shook his head.

“And to think, James said you weren't a woman. You sure seem to fit the typical description,” he whispered before pushing open the door. My instinct bid my legs to quit moving, indignant at his sexist comment. Cephas was too quick, though. His hand wrapped quickly around my waist, pushing me outside. Walking out of a library is a strange experience. The transition between perfectly sustained silence to the uncontrollable noise of life can be very shocking to one's ears. Even the wind seems obnoxiously loud. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and shook my head to accustom my ears to what the librarian might consider obscene noises. Car engines revved as lights turned green, and more revved as lights turned yellow. We walked behind the building to where the motorcycle was parked. I watched Cephas fiddle with the wires until they sparked. The motorcycle came alive and I hopped on.

We rode down the street, passing hundreds of cars and small businesses until we got to the freeway. The trip seemed long, especially at eighty miles per hour on a bike with no helmet. My hair blew in the wind and my eyes began to water against the merciless dry air. We were leaving the city. Hills started to appear around us, grass and trees creating a light green blanket across the valley. The sun was beginning to move toward the mountains. I closed my eyes and relaxed my body against Cephas'.

My mind was racing with all that had happened, but his body was so warm and inviting. I nuzzled my face against his back and subconsciously began running my fingers along his stomach. I felt tension leave my body with each stroke. The lines in each muscle were easy to trace, and my breathing slowed. The slight vibration of the bike on the open freeway lulled my mind almost to sleep. I breathed in the scent of his cologne. A drop of water fell on my face, and my eyes fluttered open. Pulling my face away from its place of rest, my gaze rested
on Cephas'
shirt. A spot of blood glared at me from his shoulder. I shuddered, no longer detached from reality, and sat back in my seat just as the bike slowed at an off ramp. Exiting the freeway to an old highway, we traveled for a few minutes until the asphalt met a dirt road. We drove a little slower on the bumpy dirt and rocks.

“Where are we going?” I asked, disregarding his annoyance that was bound to follow.

“You've got a tracking device inside of you,” he began. “They can't be tracked underground, especially in mines. California is filled with underground mines and caverns. We'll be safe there for a little while.” I thought a moment.

“But won't they be able to track us to the mine, just not inside?” I asked, somewhat worried.

“Yes. So we don't have that much time. If, during pursuit, I don't report back every hour, on the hour, they'll send another group of agents after me for backup.”

“Pursuit of what?” I asked.

“You,” he stated, easing the bike up to a hole in the rocks. I peered into the dark entrance, unable to see more than two feet inside. Cephas flipped on the headlights and we began our journey into the dark cave. I wasn't sure why we needed the bike, especially if we were going at such a slow pace. The light illuminated part of the dreary walls, with their water dripping down the rocks. The tunnel seemed to go on forever, the dampness increasing as we drove deeper. I saw bats hanging from the ceiling and I shivered, unsure if the reaction was caused by them or the cold temperature. We seemed to journey relatively deep below the earth's surface. Cephas maneuvered the bike through another opening, pushing the bike along with his legs. The motor idled low as we inched into a cramped alcove. He shut off the engine and silence surrounded us. Cephas got off of the bike, leaving the headlights on. Unzipping his backpack, he pulled out the map he had stolen and spread it on the ground in front of us. We both crouched down and looked at the markings.

“All we have to do is set a stick here, here, and here, and connect a wire between these three points. If we light it from this alcove here, we should be able to get out of this hole here.” Cephas pointed to various marks he had made on the map.

“Should?” I asked, weary of his makeshift plan.

“Well, based on the air flow, this shaft should be clear of methane. I'm banking on methane aiding the explosion, but if it's in this shaft . . .” his voice trailed off.

“We might die?” I offered, smiling sarcastically at him. He touched my chin playfully.

“Not might—
we would definitely die,” he replied.

“Does that scare you?” I asked.

“Not really.”

“You're not scared to die?”

“Are you?”

“Well, I don't know,” I responded, caught off guard by his question. “Then everything is
—
over, kind of.”

“It's been over for a long time,” he said, his voice cold once more, just like when he nearly killed James.

“What has?” I asked. He didn't respond, just stared at the map.

“So we probably won't die, but we might,” I finally concluded.

“Nah, I'm pretty sure that shaft will be clear of methane.”

“But what if you're wrong?”

“I'm never wrong. At least, I haven't been in twenty
-
two years.”

“Is that how old you are?” I asked. I
didn't know anything about him,
not really, anyways. I couldn’t even be sure of the few things I did know
—
everything had been a lie.

“Yeah. Last December,” he mumbled. I took a deep breath before asking my next question.

“Are you going to kill me?” I asked, nearly choking on the words.

“Of course not,” he said in all seriousness while he studied the map. He acted like it was a stupid question, barely acknowledging my concern. Indignation rose in my throat, but I simmered my emotions
. A
more important quest for information was at hand.

“Cephas, we're
—
we're safe now, right?” I asked.

“Why, are you scared?” he asked, still perusing the map.

“No, but you said you'd explain everything as soon as we were safe.” He glanced over at me and sat resolutely on the ground.

“I guess you do deserve some answers,” he acquiesced, crossing his legs and resting his arms on his knees.

“Finally,” I answered dramatically. He laughed uneasily and stared off into the dark cave, looking anywhere but into my face.

“I work for a company without a name,” he began, as if telling a fairy tale bedtime story. “They don't have a name, because they don't exist. If they did, they'd be put in prison.”

“Why?” I asked, glad he was finally telling me some truth.

“They do horrible things,” he replied, still refusing to look me in the eyes.

“Like, take care of problems?” I replied.

“Yes, and I'm their number one man.”

“So you're like, their assassin.”

“That's what they think.”

“What do you mean? You're speaking in riddles, Cephas. Just say what you mean to say.” I was getting frustrated
.
I didn't know where my dad was, I didn't know who I was with, and I was cold. Being cold always makes everything worse. Cephas looked at me for the first time since we had arrived in the damp cave of death, or so I was choosing to call it.

“I never killed anybody.”

“What are you talking about? You
—
you killed my mom!” I exclaimed.

“No, I didn't. She's alive.”

“Cephas, don't screw with my head. I was at her funeral. I just visited her grave a few days ago!”

“Was it a closed casket?” he asked, shooting very serious daggers across the distance between our eyes. The room was dark, but I could imagine the light blue color of his eyes
—
the color they turned when he knew he was right.

“Well, yes, but
—
”

“She's alive . . . and I know her.”

“But my dad said he saw her die with his own eyes!”

“No he didn't; we staged the whole thing.”

“You what!” Now I was furious. He wasn't making any sense.

“Calm down, or I won't tell you anymore.”

“Fine,” I said, trying to control my rapid breathing. Why did every moment with him have to be so dramatic?

“They said I had to kill her
—
had to rip her out of his hands and kill her. She knew too much.” His voice was low and somber. “I couldn't do it. But if I didn't, they would kill me.”