Outcasts (22 page)

“He was a gift from … um, I mean, the Safe Lands Guild gave him to me to make up for taking Elyot.”

“Who’s Elyot?” Omar asked.

Shaylinn stepped beside Omar. “He’s her — ”

“It’s doesn’t matter,” Kendall said, shooting Shaylinn a look that seemed to say, “Shut up.” Then she turned her bossy expression his way. “What are you doing here, Omar?”

“Yeah.” Shay crossed her arms and mirrored Kendall’s angst.

“I need to talk to you about the messages,” he said.

Shay stared at him as if she might deny knowing what he was talking about. Omar stared back — at burnt umber eyes with specks of cinnamon — and Shay was the first to look away. She sighed and sat down on a kitchen chair. “Rewl talked to you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Omar lied. “He’s worried about you. And so am I. You’re supposed to stay in the cabin. Enforcers are looking for you.”

“I look different since Red did my hair. They don’t recognize me.”

“You don’t look
that
different.”

She flinched, as if his comment had been a slap.

“Budgie. Basil’s a budgie. You’re a shell!”

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Omar pulled out a chair and sat beside her. Kendall walked around the table, watching them. “I didn’t mean that as an insult. Shay, look at me.”

She did, but there was fire in her eyes. “I’m going crazy locked up in that cabin, Omar. I want to do something that helps people. My messages — ”

“Are wonderful,” he said. “I got one.”

She blinked long and dark lashes, and, when she opened her eyes, she was looking at her lap.

“Shay, you have to be more careful. Rewl has been following you, trying to figure out where Levi moved everyone. Plus, Rewl … he’s different. I don’t trust him and I think — ”

“I’ll be more careful. I’ll wear a hood or something.”

“I’ll help her find a better disguise,” Kendall said.

Omar wanted to tell Kendall to stay out of this, but before he got his chance, Shay said, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Her plea melted him. “I’m just worried about you. I don’t think it’s safe for you to — ”

“Don’t take this away from me, Omar. I haven’t told anyone about you.”

Me?
He frowned and searched her eyes. “What about me?”

“The
Messenger Owl
speaks the truth?” She pursed her lips and cocked one eyebrow.

Omar’s lips parted in a gaping stare. How did she know? He’d only done one broadcast.

“You’re the Owl?” Kendall sat down in the chair on Omar’s right. “But you’re so young!”

“Uh …” Omar ran his hand through his hair. “How did you know, Shay?”

She grinned, and her whole face shone like a ColorCast model. “You love owls. And you got the wetsuit from me, silly. It turned out gorgeous. But how did you change your voice?”

“And how did you hack the ColorCast like that?” Kendall asked.

“Budgie. Budgie. Basil’s a budgie,” the bird rasped.

Omar rubbed the scar on the bridge of his nose. This was terrible! If Shaylinn knew, who else? Kendall now. And Basil the budgie.

“Hey.” Shay pulled his hand away from his face and continued to hold it. “You always rub your scar when you’re upset. Someday you’ll have to tell me why.”

Omar pulled his hand from hers. He’d never told anyone what his father had said that day. He certainly wasn’t going to tell a girl.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Shay said. “I didn’t tell anyone about you being the Owl, and I won’t. I promise. Who would I tell?”

He looked pointedly at Kendall, who grinned like this was all a big joke, so he looked back to Shay. “Naomi, Jordan, Jemma, Levi. Levi can’t know, Shay. Please.”

“I think he’d be proud of you,” Shay said. “You’re helping.”

“Oh, no. You don’t know Levi. He wouldn’t see it that way. He’s pretty straight-lined.”

Shaylinn’s lips curved into a small smile. “And you’re a curvy line?”

Yeah, right. “I’m a knot.”

She giggled, which made everything about her shine. “I like knots.”

“What time is it? Give me a kiss. Tch tch tch.”

“Oh, be quiet, you!” Kendall walked to the cage and pulled a blanket over it.

Shay kept her gaze on Kendall. “I need to write those messages, Omar. It’s important to me. I need something to do.”

The fabric! This was his fault. “I’m sorry I haven’t brought you your fabric. I got some. I just never brought it to you.”

The confession brought her focus back to him. “I’d like to have it.”

He needed to say more. To make everything right, somehow, even though it was impossible. “Look, Shay … I’m sorry. About …” He reached for her, toward her stomach, then pulled his hand back. “What I’m trying to say is … I’ve really messed up my life. And everybody else’s. I’ve been thinking that those … kids. They’re probably the only kids I’m ever going to have. So, uh … Please, protect them. Stay in the cabin? I’ll bring you anything you want, I swear.”

Her brows sank as if she were considering his offer.

Please say yes, Shay.

“Will you deliver my messages? As the Owl?”

“Sure,” he said before thinking it through. What would Zane have to say about that? Likely something about fingerprints. “You’ll have to wear gloves when you write them. There can’t be any fingerprints.”

“I have been wearing gloves.” She sat up straight and bounced in her chair, proud of herself. “I’m smarter than you think, Omar. But if you’ll bring me fabric and deliver my messages, I’ll stay in the cabin. For you.”

For him. He sighed and smiled, relieved that he’d convinced her to listen. “Thank you.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “No, thank you.”

Emotions raced through him. Not a desire for her body, but something else. Something foreign. He wanted to please her. To impress her. To bring her joy. To make her proud of him. None of it seemed at all likely to happen, but with an icy certainty that surprised him, he knew he would die trying.

He was going to die anyway. He may as well make the time he had left worthwhile.

A
s Zane had suggested, Mason text tapped Ciddah on Sunday to thank her for coming with him Friday. Then he waited until Monday to ask her to dinner the following Saturday. She said yes and challenged him to come up with at least four non-argumentative conversation topics.

So Mason spent the rest of the week brainstorming topics and planning a way to trump last week’s outing. Would she expect something similar? He specified dinner this time, not an entire day of entertainment. Might that disappoint her? And what might it take to get her to open up about her time in the boarding school?

Mason had settled on ordering a meal to be delivered from Le Nuit, a fancy Highlands restaurant. The chef owed Zane a favor, and for whatever reason, Zane was willing to donate his favor to Mason’s cause. Once the meal was taken care of, Mason went out and rented a fancy black suit. It looked similar to the suits men had worn before the Great Pandemic, except that the jacket only reached his waist and the shirt had a ruffly red fringe than ran down the front. He also bought some ornate dishes, a vase, and a tablecloth so that he could take their meal to the roof for an evening picnic.

He figured red roses and picnics was a safe theme to repeat, and the roof would offer the opportunity for private conversation away from the MiniComm she’d left in his apartment.

Friday morning before his task shift at Pharmco, he was sitting on the couch in his apartment eating a plate of scrambled eggs for breakfast and wondering whether or not Ciddah’s friends would be a safe conversation topic if she mentioned
Lawten
, when there was a knock at his door.

“S.L.E., open up.”

Mason stared at the door for a moment, then got up and looked out the peephole. Enforcers. At least three of them standing in the hall outside his apartment.

What did they want? Should he answer the door? Pretend not to be home?

An enforcer pounded on the door again, which made Mason jump. “Mr. Elias, we tracked your SimTag and know you’re home. Open the door.”

SimTag, right. Since he’d been about to leave to task his shift at Pharmco, he’d already showered this morning and used the small round adhesive bandage to attach his SimTag.

Mason opened the door. “Yes?”

“Safe Lands Enforcers, sir,” an enforcer said. Bron, according to the name on his patch. He looked the definition of “brawn” as well with a muscular build and a short beard. “We have a warrant to search your apartment and your person.”

A warrant. Mason stepped back from the door, and the men filed inside. There were five enforcers and a plain-clothed bald man with brown SimArt “hair” that looked more like some kind of helmet.

General Otley was the last to enter, making Bron look like a child. The man had to be six and a half feet tall with shoulders that rivaled the old bull Mason used to feed each day back in Glenrock. He wore yellow contacts and had several lip and eyebrow piercings, including a golden tusk through his nasal septum. Mason could barely see the
number eight that glowed on his cheek beneath his bushy moustache and beard.

A surge of anger and fear twisted Mason’s stomach. He gritted his teeth in the presence of the man who’d killed his father, his uncle, and Papa Eli. Yet he didn’t dare speak, knowing he had no power in this moment. Otley always had the power.

Four of the enforcers instantly began their search: two went to his bedroom on the other side of his apartment; one rushed to the living room, which was on the opposite side of the wall that divided the living space from the kitchen; and the last remained in the kitchen, not far from the apartment entry. This left Bron, the man with the SimArt hair, and Otley standing inside the open entry door.

Otley jerked his head toward Mason’s kitchen table. “Sit, little rat.”

Mason walked to the chair and sat. Kitchen cupboards slammed as the enforcer opened one after another, rummaging through Mason’s meager possessions.

“Mr. Elias, sir, my name is Webb Bron. I’m an investigator with the Safe Lands Enforcers. We’re looking into the theft of pharmaceutical products that disappeared from the City Hall Pharmco last Wednesday. We have reason to suspect your involvement.”

“Seriously?” Mason said. “Why me?”

“The meds were stolen the day you started at the City Hall Pharmco,” Bron said.

“And that makes me guilty?”

Bron pulled out a chair and sat beside Mason. “That makes you a suspect.”

“Well, I didn’t take anything.”

Another kitchen cupboard slammed and dishes clanked together.

“We’ll see, Mr. Elias.” Bron waved the bald man over. “This is Reed Yarel. He’s an enforcer field medic. He’s authorized to test your blood.”

“For what?” The bald man set his case on the table and opened it. “What was stolen from Pharmco, anyway?” And was it really worth a search of his apartment?

“ACT treatments.”

That was all? “I don’t have the thin plague,” Mason said. “Why would I steal treatment?”

This gave Bron pause. He looked to Otley.

“He’s an outsider,” Otley said, looming over them like a monster about to pounce. “Outsiders are usually clean.”

“I see,” Bron said. “Well, a blood test will confirm that.”

How could Mason get out of this? “I don’t consent.”

Bron’s eyes narrowed. “You have something to hide?”

“The thin plague is blood-borne,” Mason said, watching the enforcer in the living room pull cushions off the couch. “How can I be certain you haven’t come to infect me with the virus?”

“Mr. Elias,” Yarel, the enforcer medic, said. “I am a professional and quite capable of taking a blood sample without contaminating my patient. If you’re concerned, inspect my equipment yourself.” Yarel handed Mason a standard blood test kit, still in its sanitized packaging. Mason supposed there was no way for that to be contaminated.

“I still don’t understand why you need to test my blood.”

“It’s standard procedure in a theft of this type,” Bron said. “To verify that you haven’t used the stolen goods.”

Then there was no option but to let his blood prove his innocence. Mason nodded, and Yarel proceeded to take a sample of Mason’s blood and test it with a blood meter. Mason perceived nothing subversive in the medic’s actions. He used the same tools when he worked in the Surrogacy Center, so he was able to understand the readings when the machine finally stopped whirring.

The test was negative.

Though he knew this already, relief filled him to see Yarel corroborate his word.

“No sign of ACT, General Otley,” Yarel said. “He’s stim free as well. And there is no indication of the thin plague.”

Otley growled and paced to the table. “My turn, little rat. Hook him up.”

Medic Yarel removed another device and held it out to Mason. “SimTag, please?”

Mason froze, terrified that things were about to go badly. The bandage holding his SimTag in place was small, but if Yarel saw it …

Mason twisted his hand so the bandage faced him, then reached out and set his fist against the screen, trying to look calm, praying Yarel had no reason to inspect his implant location. Might a question be distraction enough? “What does this do?”

“It’s a lie detector, Mr. Elias,” Yarel said, eyes blessedly focused on the machine and not Mason’s hand. “So be sure to tell the truth.”

Mason pulled back his hand and clasped it with his other, then put them on his lap under the table.
Thanks
,
God.
He eyed the little black box, curious how it worked. It consisted of the SimPad and three tiny bulbs that were dark.

Otley stepped up to the table on Mason’s left. “When did you leave the Pharmco last night?”

“A little after six o’clock, just after we closed.” Mason looked at the lie detector. A green light flashed in the bulb on the far right.

“And you went where?” Otley asked.

“Here. To my apartment. And I haven’t left.” The green light flashed again. Green must mean truth. Mason stopped looking at the lie detector. He knew he was telling the truth, after all. Instead he glanced at the enforcer who was rummaging through his refrigerator, saw him put something in his mouth. He was eating Mason’s food?