Blackbird (16 page)

As Celia says it, she wonders if she should tell her the other piece, the one that she’s been thinking about herself. One of the kids is still in juvenile hall outside the Bay Area. A boy who was living there at the same time. She’s thought of going there to speak to him. It might not be anything, though. And it’s not the type of thing she wants the girl exploring on her own. It’s probably too risky to share.

When she looks up the girl is backing away from her, setting out across the empty lot. “Let me drive you somewhere,” Celia says. “It’s late.”

“I’ll be okay,” the girl says. “The tracking device is gone; they haven’t been able to find me for a few days. Please just go to Parillo. Please just find him.”

“I will, I promise. But be safe.” Celia opens the car door, setting the milk down on the passenger side. She doesn’t get in. Instead she watches the girl circle around the back of the store, disappearing through a neighboring yard.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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“
I’M GETTING POOL
ADD,” Izzy says, pulling her iPhone from her sweatshirt. She turns onto her stomach, then turns back, punching at the screen.

“It’s only been an hour.” You know because you’ve been keeping track. An hour since Izzy came over, another two until Ben’s back from school, then another three until you’ll be getting to Cabazon—the town Celia, the cop, told you about last night. When Izzy knocked on the pool house this afternoon you tried to seem light, breezy even, excusing the last few days away (you were back at your parents’, you told her). But it’s hard to make conversation now, hard to seem normal.

Izzy points the phone at the vines that have grown over the top of the fence, zooming
in on a hummingbird hovering there. She takes video for a few seconds, then sits up, pulling a T-shirt on over her bathing suit.

“I need to do something,” she says. “Let’s walk to those shops on Hillhurst.”

“I’m supposed to wait here until Ben gets back.” As soon as you say it you know how it sounds—like you’re some pathetic girl who lives for her boyfriend. There’s no way to explain to Izzy what’s been going on. Last night you and Ben made a plan. You’d go to Cabazon for a couple days and see if you could find anything. If you did grow up there, something about it might trigger your memory.

Izzy smirks. “Okay . . . Sunny Stockholm Syndrome.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Stop acting like some brainwashed hostage! I don’t want to lie around another day—I’m turning into a banana slug. Come on, we’ll be back within an hour.”

She steps into her jean shorts and pulls them up, then tosses you your pants and T-shirt, which are piled on the lounge chair. You get up, knowing there’s no convincing her. You’ll just have to be quick, and you’ll have to be careful.

By the time you’ve dressed, Izzy is already out the gate. You follow her down Franklin, the traffic moving beside you. You’re wearing the sunglasses Ben lent you, your hair down and obscuring your face, but you can’t help but turn back, glancing over your shoulder every now and then.

Izzy walks beside you, stopping for a second to take a picture of a heart-shaped crack in the sidewalk. “So”—she says, tucking her phone back into her pocket—“are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“What’s going on?”

“You’ve been zoned out all day. Something happened . . . I just want to know what. Hot, steamy night?” Izzy reaches for your hair but you pull away, your hand jumping to the scar on your neck.

“Izzy . . . stop.”

“I was just going to check for hickeys.”

“Ben’s just a friend.”

The question brings back a rush from the night before, and you’re worried your face will betray you. You fell asleep on the couch beside him, his arm underneath your head, the other wrapped around your waist. As much as you know you shouldn’t, you can feel yourself getting attached to him. The house felt empty today without him there.

“I have friends like that, too. . . .” Izzy laughs.

You pass a street lined with palm trees, their fronds towering high above. Row after row of condominiums. A woman on a balcony is smoking a cigarette, her feet crossed over the stone ledge.

Up ahead you notice the street sign—
VERMONT
. The subway station you woke up in is just south of here, and it’s another reminder of how you’ve lied to Izzy. How can you possibly explain who Ben is? How could she possibly understand?

“It’s just . . . complicated,” you say.

“It always is. Start from the beginning. Where’d you guys meet?”

“I ran into him at the supermarket. Literally . . . we bumped into each other.”

As Izzy walks she holds up her phone, filming the back of the cars as they drive past. “How long ago was that?”

You can’t tell her the truth. You’ve known Ben for a week, and you’re staying in his house. “About a year ago. I used to go to his school. Then we moved to the other side of town. Things with my mom got messed up, so I’m looking for a place to stay more permanently.”

“Where’s your dad?”

You think of the memory from the church, the coffin covered in white cloth. “He died a while ago.”

Izzy stops on the sidewalk. She studies you, her head tilted to the side. “I thought your parents have been fighting a lot?”

For a moment you can’t speak. You take a thin breath, not looking at her. Thankfully a few stores come into view ahead. There’s a 7-Eleven across the street, a children’s clothing boutique to your right. A woman stands on the corner near some health-food place, her smile oppressively cheerful. “Free smoothie?” she asks. “Promotion runs all week!”

She offers you each a coupon. Izzy studies it, then slips it into the pocket of her sweatshirt. You’re hoping the distraction will be enough to draw her out of the conversation, but she keeps glancing sideways at you, waiting for your response.

“I meant my stepdad. He’s been with my mom for a while. It’s not that interesting. . . .”

“It’s not that interesting? Or you don’t want to talk about it?” Izzy shakes her head, sending the tuft of black hair away from her face. The piercing in her cheek catches the light.

There’s no chance of getting anything past her. You like that about her, but another part of you wishes she wouldn’t ask questions, that whatever friendship you’re forming can remain on the surface of things.

You follow her down the street, passing the diner you met Ben at, then continuing on toward some clothing stores. A few moments pass before you remember the question and realize you haven’t answered her. Isn’t that answer enough?

“I guess I don’t want to talk about it,” you say.

“I’m starting to think there are the people who like to deal with things head-on and talk
them out until they can’t talk anymore, and then there are the people who don’t say anything and just wish it all away,” Izzy says. “I’ve always been the first kind. I can’t be any other way, even if I wanted to.”

“Maybe I’m the second,” you say. “I’m not sure.”

“But don’t all those feelings eat you alive? How is your brain not attacking itself? I just don’t understand how you people—that second kind—exist.”

“‘You people’? You make it sound like I’m some kind of monster.”

“You are. It’s not healthy,” Izzy laughs. “And I’m not going to psychoanalyze you and stuff, but whatever you’re going through right now: You probably should talk to someone about it. What happened to me at school? That wasn’t even my fault, and still, every night me and Mims sit down and try to sort through it.”

“You talk about it like it’s a choice,” you say. “Like you either deal with it or you don’t.” You can barely think about what happened to Ivan, let alone say it to someone else.

“Isn’t everything a choice?”

She doesn’t ask you directly. Instead the question is flung into the air, and in that way the conversation doesn’t seem as threatening. You head down Hillhurst, two steps behind Izzy, thinking about it—how what she’s said is wrong. Not everything is a choice. Some things choose you.

The light at the intersection is red. You pull your hair around the sides of your face, hiding your profile. You scan the sidewalk out of habit, watching two men across the street. They’re in medical scrubs, one carrying a manila folder, and the way they talk seems so casual, so unaffected, it’s almost comforting.

“Look, Scientologists,” Izzy whispers, pointing to two women standing in the doorway of a short gray building. A man sits in front of a sign that says
FREE STRESS TEST
. He gestures to the folding chair across from him.

“Free stress test?” he asks.

You’re about to walk away when Izzy steps toward him, studying the small table of books set out under the awning. She picks one up, asking something about aliens.

“We should go,” you say, noticing the outdoor café directly across the street. There are sixty or more people there. They have a perfect view of you, and you look to the opposite corner, trying to gauge the best way to leave.

“You have to check this out, seriously. . . .” Izzy picks up another book and turns it over, pointing to the erupting volcano on the cover.

Izzy says something else, talking to the man, but you’re not listening. Something’s off. You can feel it, that strange sensation you’re being watched.

You look down the street, and your eyes lock. This time there’s no hat, no sunglasses. He looks like any other runner in a simple T-shirt and shorts, gray running
shoes. But it’s the same man who followed you from Griffith Park. Pale, angular face. You can’t see the gun but you know it’s there.

“I have to go . . .” you say, starting down the street. In just a few steps you’ve broken into a run. You don’t look back as Izzy calls after you.

You sprint across the street, not waiting for the light to change. Someone leans on their horn. Another car screeches to a stop. You keep going, taking in long, slow sips of air. You want to believe he won’t kill you here, that he can’t, there’s too many witnesses. But as he picks up pace fear rips through you. No matter how fast you run he’s still there.

The intersection just south feeds five different roads. You make a quick decision, turning right behind a few sprawling parking lots. Within a block you’re in a neighborhood. Small, squat apartment buildings line the road. When you turn back the man is gone. He took a different turn . . . but how long until he finds you?

You move along the edge of the buildings, starting up the sidewalk, where the trees and brush are thicker, providing more cover. Not a single person is outside. There’s a busier intersection just a block north. In the sudden shade you feel calmer, more clearheaded. You just have to make it to the corner.

As you pass another apartment complex you’re uneasy. You turn, catching sight of him out of the corner of your eye. He’s hiding on the second flight of stairs. His forearm rests on the metal balcony, the gun aimed at your head. He fires once, the bullet coming so close you feel the air change in front of you. It buries itself in a nearby car.

The car windshield shatters. The alarm screeches. You break into a sprint but he is already coming down the stairs. You can hear his steps on the concrete, the quick rhythm of them as he runs, skipping some, landing hard on the ground.

Just make it to the corner,
you think.
You’re almost there.
It’s so close but there isn’t enough space between you. You hear him coming from behind. In just seconds he knocks you down, your palms skidding across the sidewalk. You’re on your side, hidden behind a hedge.

You flip onto your back, pulling your legs to your chest. He looks down at you, reaching for the weapon at his waist, and you use that half second to kick as hard as you can with both legs. The blow lands just below his stomach. He folds forward, a wheezing sound escaping his lips.

You get to your feet, sprinting the next few yards to the corner. When you turn back, looking at him one last time, he’s bent on the sidewalk, his hand still on his side. The gun fell when you kicked him. He grabs for it but you’re already on the main street, a few cars speeding past. A service lets out of a nearby church. People linger by the front doors.

Your eyes meet his. You notice the strange, crooked scar that cuts down the front of his chin, his deep-set blue eyes. You realize, in a flash, that you recognize him . . . you know him from somewhere.

A yellow taxi comes speeding down the street and without a second thought you jump in front of it, palms outstretched. The driver slams on his brakes, swearing and honking his horn. It’s enough to draw everyone’s attention. The crowd on the steps of the church is staring at you now. When you look across the street, the man has pocketed his gun.

You open the taxi door, jump into the backseat, and offer to pay any price for the driver to take you back home.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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THE DOCTOR SEES
a black sedan approaching, but it’s hard to make out the license plates in the rain. They said to look for AX9. A few cars pass, and as he reaches the end of the crosswalk he raises his arm to hail it.

It’s coming down harder now, hitting his face, stinging his eyes. He holds up his hand, waiting as the sedan comes closer. He is only a few blocks from the West Side Highway and the streets are quiet except for the cars, speeding along, ripping into puddles, sending dirty water splashing over the curb. A woman stands under the awning of an apartment building, her umbrella flipped inside out. A few other people run back toward the subway station.

As the sedan slows he can make out the plates.
AX9.
The first few digits are the same. There’s a sheet of paper behind the windshield, some sort of fake gypsy cab license, but it’s a new guy.

The driver rolls down the window. He’s older, with wiry gray hair. He wears a black polo shirt, a gold cross visible under the collar.