Trapped (Here Trilogy) (16 page)

I was opening my mouth to reply when we heard footsteps just outside the door. West moved like lightning, grabbing the doorknob and holding it with both hands. Half a second later, the knob jiggled, just so. We heard a sigh, then footsteps. My heart hammered between my ribs as we listened to what sounded like clomping boots.

West slowly turned to me, and I realized there was no lock on the door.

“How'd you do that?”

He smiled tightly. “Hold it tight. Learned that one busting into houses.”

I gaped, aghast. “You did what!”

He shrugged. “Only once or twice.”

“But you're well-off,” I said.

“That wasn't the point.”

“What was?”

“What do you want me to say? Life’s got to have a little edge.”

“Yeah. I guess it does.”

He surprised me by ruffling my hair. “Thanks, Milo.”

“For what?”

“For providing the edge.”

WE DECIDED TO stay in the area a little longer to link up with Nick and Vera. We didn’t talk about what we’d do if they didn’t show. I had no idea.

“Give them a chance,” West told me. “If they're everything you say they are, they've probably already found you.”

I nodded. “Hopefully.”

West pressed his palm against the supply closet’s door. “I'm gonna look out. Cool?”

“Yeah.”

He opened it slowly, and I could see a sliver of the pale vinyl siding on the other side of the patio. I held my breath as he eased his torso out. A few seconds later, he came back in and pressed his back against the door. “Looks clear.”

I flexed my leg, which was scraped and bruised during my clumsy exit down the rope ladder. “I guess we probably can’t go back to your apartment?”

West snorted. “No way. C'mon, Milo, I know you used to watch that crime show—”

“What crime show?”

“The one with Claire Danes.”

“‘Homeland?’”

He nodded.

“It's not a crime show.”

“Well, terrorism, whatever, the point is they'll be watching that place. But I know somewhere we can go and get cleaned up. Not far from here, so if your buddies use their seventh sense, they'll find you close to where they left you.”

“Okay, I guess, but...what will you do?” I asked. “I mean, you don't want to…get involved with this, right?”

“I'm already involved. Even if I wasn't, this is the kind of shit I love. The crazy.” He thumped my arm. “Stop feeling guilty, Milo. I can see it on your face.”

I took his hand, but I wouldn't meet his eyes, because I did feel guilty. Very much so. I'd screwed up West's life.

When I looked back up, his lips were twisted and his pale blue eyes were earnest. “So the place I mentioned—it happens to be right across the street. You can see the door to my building and everything. If we run, I think we can make it.”

We didn't run. West was right—the DoD was still here and there and everywhere, wearing dark clothes and sitting in Where is Waldo type places: under an umbrella at a sidewalk table, smoking in a hoodie outside West's apartment building, holding several bulging shopping bags outside a nearby boutique, even standing behind a hot dog stand. They were men and women, young and old, and somehow they'd managed to work the area without using any yellow tape or alerting anyone to their presence.

Even West didn’t notice them until I pointed them out.

We moved slowly, avoiding the shadowy areas between buildings and parking lots, and sticking to the sidewalk, under the piercing light of storefronts.

“They're not looking for two normal people walking together,” he said, swinging my hand.

Before we'd left the closet, we dug through an icky, mildewed bag of ski clothes, and I'd donned a red beanie, tucking my long, mahogany locks under the woolly fabric. I'd stripped out of my sparkly leggings, figuring they'd make me easily recognizable, and pulled on the deep purple overalls of a girls' ski suit. Width-wise, I fit into it fine, but the thing came up past my ankles, emphasizing my lack of socks; they'd both been lost somewhere along the way.

West wore his same cozy PJ outfit, plus a seriously mildewed green beanie and a fluffy, black down coat.

After less than half a block out in the open, and approximately zero funny looks, we walked around a two-story cement building with a royal blue awning I forgot to read, and West punched a number into the keypad beside an industrial-sized back door with a sticker: 105.9 FM.

“We're going into a radio station?” I asked.

West grinned as the door clicked open. He peeked inside, then pulled me into a long hall with green tile walls, rough brown carpet, and a stale coffee smell that overpowered even the mildewed scent we carried with us.

“Welcome to Rock 106.”

Not even two steps down—just beyond a wall clock in the shape of Shrek's face—was another door with another keypad. I watched West punch in '6-0-6', and the door clicked open. He held a finger to his lips, cracked the door, and listened for several seconds. When no one made a noise inside the room, he pulled me in.

The room was dark, with just one small window with plastic blinds; two sets of metal bunk beds with worn, Sesame Street bedding; a huge, black speaker mounted on the wall; and a scratched, faux wood dresser with an iPod MP3 player bolted to its top.

West nodded at a small Keurig on a card table directly behind me, and I felt my stomach go sour. “What are we doing here?”

“Laying low for a bit, Milo. Resting. Getting some liquid crack.”

“I know, but I need to find Nick.”

He cracked the blinds and pointed across the street. “This is the side entrance to the second building of The Edge. See the guy pacing in front of it?”

“Yeah, so if Nick comes back, he'll walk into a trap.”

“You really think that? That he wouldn't notice?”

“I guess not,” I murmured, and West ruffled my beanie, which I pulled off.

“You need to take a chill pill. Lay down for a while,” he said, pushing the dresser in front of the door.

“Like that's going to keep them out,” I said hollowly.

He wiggled his eyebrows. “My girl Lisa used to work here. Dresser up against the door is code for 'stay away.' At this time of night, there’s only one or two people on staff anyway, and they’re in the sound room.”

“That’s good I guess. Thanks for bringing me here, West.” I gave him a small smile, then climbed onto the top bunk nearest to the window, so I had a clear view out the cracked blinds, and held my stomach, feeling irritated and upset.

West stood beside me. “Let's just give them time to clear the street. Move on. We'll go back out and look for your friends. How does that sound?” he asked softly.

“It's fine. Thanks, West. I'm sorry I'm in such a mood. I have no right to be, I know.” I was the one who'd gotten him into this, after all.

He pushed the dresser into the door again and flopped down on the bunk below me. “Milo, you can feel however you feel.” I heard a rustling sound, like he was repositioning himself. “Didn't your parents ever send you to therapy?”

I nodded. “You know it. Yours, too, right?” I'd heard this from Aerie years before.

West confirmed: “Only since I was twelve.”

I stared up at the ceiling: large, industrial-type tiling that was probably laced with asbestos. I thought about reaching up and smacking it. If I inhaled poison, would I live long enough to feel the effects? What was Vera thinking now? Was there any possible way humanity could charm her into making a decision that would hurt her own people? Now that I thought about it without Nick’s reassuring voice in my ear, it seemed pretty improbable. Which would have been scary if I wasn’t so god awful exhausted.

And still, my mind raced on.

What if I never saw them again? What if the DoD had already caught them, and they ended up having to issue another summons to keep from…I don’t know…getting hurt or even killed? Could they get killed? Nick had implied that he could. If Nick somehow died, Vera would definitely choose the gold. Vera would choose the gold anyway. Geez, I was going to die
young
. Would I see Dad again? What about Mom?

At that second, West swung out of his bunk and leaned against my bed.

“You okay up there?”

I shrugged. I didn’t have the energy to lie to him.

I expected…I don’t know what. Questions or something. West being West, the consummate class clown. Instead, he just nodded. In the quiet of the room, I could hear a faint buzzing through the walls: a kind of garbled static that obviously had something to do with broadcasting radio.

“Holy crap, West. Duh!” I shot up, gaping down at him as he stuck a worn-out looking Garfield mug in front of the Keurig. “Nick can like, read radio waves. Hear radio waves. I don’t know, but we’re at a radio station! Maybe we could call in. Like…dedicate a song or something. I could say I wanted them to play…I don’t know, something—from Milo to Nick. With a secret message. ‘You can find me right here.’ Maybe Nick would ‘hear’ it somehow and come here to find me.”

But West was already shaking his head. “Not with a name like Milo. If you were Jane,” he shrugged, “yeah. But everybody knows there’s a missing girl named Milo.”

I blew out the breath I’d been holding. “Ugh. You’re right.”

I rolled over on my side, watching as he filled the Keurig with water from a dingy-looking porcelain sink in the corner, loaded a little plastic container of coffee into the machine’s lift top, and pressed a glowing blue button.

The machine’s violent, frenzied sound as it did its work matched my mood just fine. I inhaled deeply with my eyes shut, waiting for the familiar smell of coffee, but a few minutes later, West stepped over to me, bearing a piping cup of cocoa.

“For you.”

I sat cross-legged with my back against the wall beside the beds and sipped it quietly while he repeated the process. His coffee mug was pale blue, and when it was ready, he took a long sip and sighed.

I slurped my cocoa down. It had been a while since I’d eaten, and even though I lacked an appetite, my body wanted calories. West was hungry too. He stepped over to the dresser barring the door, opened a drawer, and pulled out two bags of barbecue potato chips. He tossed one at me, and I abandoned the idea of denying myself food. I devoured the chips in handfuls I crammed into my mouth.

“Hungry?” he laughed.

“Yeah.”

“Here, have some more.” I tossed back two more bags of chips before I started feeling clear-headed again—and my anxiety increased tenfold.

I leaned around the headboard of my bunk bed, craning my neck so I could see through a small slit in the blinds.

“Do you think they’re still around?” I asked. “The men in black?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

I nodded. “Probably so. But I’m not sure how long I can handle sitting here. If Nick and Vera don’t find us in the next hour or so, I think I may want to go to Golden. If they aren’t back by then…” I pressed my lips together, not wanting to say what I feared. “West, I’ll totally understand if you don’t want to—”

“Go with you?” He shook his head. “Woman, how many times do I have to tell you, I’m in.”

“Thank you. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

“Ah, it ain’t no thing.”

I stretched out on the bed, trying to feel nothing, to think nothing. “I think I’m going to sleep for a little while,” I murmured.

“Knock yourself out,” he said.

I turned my back to him, tucked a magenta fleece blanket around myself, and folded my arm over my head.

The hour crept by painfully slow.

When the little alarm clock perched on the edge of my mattress showed that it was ten after two a.m., I sat up. Within seconds, West popped up.

He laid his chin on the side of my mattress, so close I could smell his soap. “How ya doing?”

I shrugged. “I’m fine.”

He gave me a look I couldn’t read—one that might have been worried—before holding up a money clip. “Counted it up. I’ve got a hundred and twelve dollars. I think it’ll get us to Golden if we use that nasty ass cab service on 18
th
.”

I was not familiar with it, but I smiled and nodded. “Okay. That’s good I guess.”

He produced a tablet from somewhere and touched the screen, revealing a map. “Looks like we should be okay if we take Highway 6 until it intersects with I-70. There’s a barricade around there somewhere. The news reports weren’t too specific.”

That didn’t sound pleasant. I took a deep breath and prayed Vera and Nick would find us like…right now. “Okay. Could you tell how many miles we’d have to walk to get to Golden?
”

“I’m guessing three or four, at least.”

I nodded again. That seriously sucked, but there was no way was I complaining to West.

“I’m wanted for drug trafficking, by the way,” he said.

“What!”

He nodded and rubbed his head. “Saw a story about it online. They’ve got a warrant out and everything.”

“Oh my God, West, I’m so sorry!”

He shrugged. “Not like it’s a lie.”

“I know, but—”a“C’mon, you didn’t ask to get caught up in all this either, did you.” He stepped back over to the desk and put his hand on a landline phone. “I’m gonna call the cab, okay?”