Messenger 93 Page 11

  For some reason, the word Deerhead rung in my head like a bell.

  “Deerhead,” I said. “She might be in Deerhead.”

  And then I remembered — he had said it to the man in the music hall. I need to get up to Deerhead.

  “Are you serious?” he said.

  I had no idea where Deerhead even was.

  I started to say something, but an odd, familiar shape on the far side of City Hall caught my eye. A person was standing near a pedestrian corridor that ran between the two City Hall towers. She had her head turned my way, possibly looking at me.

  “Who is she, your sister?” the boy said, cautiously interested. “What’s her name?”

  But I was fixed in space — because the person was definitely a girl of medium height with dark blond hair. “Krista?” I said out loud. She was definitely watching me. “Oh my god, Krista!” My arm reached instinctively towards her, and then I was running.

  Advocates and onlookers streamed in and out, picketing my way, my view. The girl was still too far away for me to be sure of anything. I called out as I ran — “Krista! Wait!” The girl didn’t react, just kept her head turned my way.

  The circle dancers looped across the square and formed a wall between us. People dancing to drum music, whirling in and out of my way. It was Krista / It wasn’t Krista.

  I was forced to dodge left. When I looked again through the crowds for the girl, instead of her face, there was a fan of loose flying hair. Was it finer and lighter than Krista’s? And then there was the briefest flash of a pink coat. Wait — was it Dell?

  I had to slow down, had to weave and push through the crowd. The girl in the distance seemed to morph and split: one girl / two girls / Krista / Dell / a woman I’d never seen before / a girl I once went to camp with.

  Someone else cut in front of me and I had to dodge around them. By the time I righted my course, the girl — whoever it was — had disappeared. I ran up to the spot where she’d been standing. The girl wasn’t there. I scanned the crowd but didn’t see her. No pink coat, no one with blond hair running away from me. I got to the pedestrian corridor that split the City Hall towers. The walkway extended for a full block to another street behind the buildings, but there wasn’t a single person down the entire length of it.

  Who was she? Krista? Dell? Somebody who was nobody?

  I ran full-tilt down the walkway. I had to be sure. Had to see it through.

  I was running so fast, the passage so narrow, that the other end came at me like a snapped elastic. I burst out onto the back street. And was stopped by a shearing force.

  My stomach heaved inwards, my shoulders pitched forward. My body dropped to the ground like a dead weight.

  I tried to breathe but my lungs had compressed. Not a wisp of air seeped in. My eyes stared up, then rolled back. The overhead view of the city — nondescript high-rise towers, short rectangle of hazy sky — glinted briefly then faded to black.

  I HEARD A VOICE speak very close to my ear. Extremely close. So close I could feel the warm breath of its words.

  “She will fall. Only you can save her.”

  I tried to answer but my lips wouldn’t move, my mouth wouldn’t open.

  Then the same voice again. Neither loud nor soft. Neither female nor male.

  “Follow him. He will take you.”

  The crow.

  “You will go where you would not go. You will see what you would not see.”

  And then I flew away. Soared into deepest dark.

  WHEN I CAME TO, I was looking down the length of my body. Lying on concrete, surrounded by concrete.

  “Hey,” a quiet male voice said from above.

  I broke into a cold sweat and surged to escape, but my gut heaved with agonizing pain. I buckled and clutched my stomach.

  “You okay?” the voice said.

  I managed to look up. It was him. He was kneeling on the pavement. My head was on his lap. He looked so different as he gazed down at me. Like all his guards were down and I was seeing the truer version of him. The him who had once lain on a chair while an artist inked a precise tattoo of a feather on the skin under his ear. The him who had once pushed aside hanger after hanger of hooded sweatshirts in some clothing shop before he landed on this one, the one with the crow on the back.

  I started to say something but winced and gasped instead.

  He said, “We gotta get you to a hospital.”

  I tried to protest but only a pathetic whimper came out. I shook my head hard, staring at him to make my point: no hospital.

  “Home?” he said.

  I flinched and shook my head: no home.

  The boy’s eyes scanned across mine as if he were reading subtitles. Then he reached down and took my wrist.

  He wound his hand lightly around my wrist.

  I was extremely conscious of the light pressure of his fingers on my wrist.

  “Your pulse is okay,” he said.

  I almost smiled, even though I felt like one giant, weltering bruise.

  “Can you get up?”

  There was no clear thought process, only pain ripping from the center of my body and outward to all my edges. But I was becoming too aware of my head on his knees, of the warmth of his body underneath mine. I jerked to get up, then winged back in pain. He put his hand on my shoulder to support me, but I jerked forward and grabbed my backpack to avoid his touch. That’s when I noticed that my bag was unzipped and bits of fluff and spent wrappers were sticking out.

  I heard a high-pitched screech and was horrified to realize it was me. Because I could see — my wallet was gone.

  I think I began to cry as I checked and rechecked. Nothing else was taken — my bus pass was still there, my water bottle, the newly purchased toothbrush, underwear, socks, and sweatshirts were all still there, even the phone had been left behind.

  “Did someone jump you?” he said.

  I scanned the area. We were in a narrow back street. There was no traffic, no people walking around, no random girl, no Dell, no Krista.

  “My money,” was all I could say, a hoarse, gaspy whisper.

  “They stole your money?”

  I pressed my palms against my eyes and nodded.

  My head was so fuzzy. But a clear thought was dropping in: It couldn’t have been Krista in the plaza. Krista didn’t need my money. There was Clio and her sumptuous princess castle. Money for days. But someone was trying to stop me. Who was it?

  Only six days left.

  “Do you need to get somewhere safe?” he said.

  I did need to get somewhere safe. Away from attackers. Away from Krista. Away from anyone who knew me, who might be looking for me. Somewhere where I could think. Yes, somewhere safe.

  I nodded.

  “Okay, come on.” He carefully looped my arm around his neck and lifted me gently off the ground. He waited patiently for me to take some weight on my feet, and because my arm was linked over his shoulder, I managed to stay upright. My breath was bursting in and out, a hyperventilating mess.

  The memory of the crow’s voice reassured me. He will take you where you need to go.

  Somehow we made it to the main street with its bustle of drivers and pedestrians. Somehow we made it to a bus stop. I didn’t ask him where we were going. Every step was excruciating, and the more we walked, the more I relied on him to support me. He never complained. Didn’t even groan. He made it easy.

  We waited for a bus to pull up — I didn’t pay attention to which one. We showed the driver our passes — a good thing I never kept my bus pass in my wallet — and the boy helped me on and eased me into a seat. I collapsed against the window and focused on breathing, and he sat down beside me, pulling off the blank mask that had been dangling around his neck and stuffing it into his backpack.

  I didn’t want to look at him. The way his chin
tucked into the tied collar of his hoodie. How his skinny legs curved over his backpack on the floor and his knees pressed against the seat in front of him. His free hand lying on and protecting the Jocelyn poster that he’d rolled over his lap.

  After a few minutes, he took out his cellphone and made a call. It was obvious there was no answer, so he made another call. When that didn’t connect, he dialed another number. I pretended not to notice how his jaw clenched, his shoulders squeezed, as he waited for it to connect. This time they answered.

  The boy cupped his hand over the phone. “Hey, Lily, it’s Gray.” Then he added quickly, “Sorry, I mean Gordon … Are you still at the march?” He listened for a bit then said, “No. But I need your help.” He listened for a bit more then said, “I have a girl with me. She’s hurt.” I closed my eyes. “It’s a long story — but I’m bringing her to your place.” He listened, then said, “Because there might be a connection between her and Jocelyn.” There was another listening-pause, then he said, “Yeah, we’re on our way right now.” He hung up.

  It went quiet around us like we were in a bubble. We didn’t speak again as the bus drove us to the other side of the city, to another place I didn’t know.

  5

  WE GOT OFF THE bus in a quiet neighborhood packed with low apartment buildings and brick rowhouses. I was woozy and dazed and he offered to brace me, but I was okay enough to walk and basically hobbled after him for the next few blocks. When he turned us down one of the walkways that led to one of the rowhouses, I was breathlessly relieved.

  The windows of the house were already projecting artificial light. I realized it was getting dark out. The front window revealed the living room, and it looked warm and inviting. High shelves against the back wall were crammed with books. A faded, overstuffed couch was on one side of the room, a well-worn recliner on the other.

  The boy helped me up the stairs to the landing and rang the doorbell.

  “What’s your name? I need a name,” he said to me. He was lightly sarcastic when he added, “And not Messenger 93.”

  I hesitated and the door opened before I could answer. A stern-faced, solid-bodied older man nodded at the boy. “Hey, Gordon. Been a while.”

  He hung his head. “Yeah. I’m sorry. It’s Gray now.”

  “Gray?” the man repeated.

  “Yeah, I’m going by Gray now.” The boy — Gray or Gordon or whoever he was — nudged his chin in my direction. “And this is M.” Then he nudged his chin from me to the man. “M, this is Walter.”

  I tried to wave at him but it came out a pain-wince. The man stepped back to invite us in and Gray guided me up and over the stoop.

  M.

  My new name sent a small shiver through me and I smiled despite everything.

  THE HOUSE SMELLED DELICIOUS, like sauce and cinnamon. But I didn’t want to be hungry — I never wanted to eat food again. Just thinking of my stomach made me buckle at the knees.

  Walter led us down a narrow hall and into the living room that I’d seen from outside. There were pamphlets and placards for the march piled in a corner on the floor. Gray showed me to the overstuffed couch and I collapsed onto it. A striking woman, older and warm-featured like Walter, stepped into the doorway and observed me from a distance. I clutched my stomach and hoped that would buy me some mute-time.

  Gray turned to her expectantly. Guiltily. “Hey, Lily.”

  Lily kept her expression neutral. “Four years since we saw you,” she said.

  Gray gave a grim nod. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Your birth community. They were waiting for you.”

  Gray slumped. “Yeah, I know.”

  Lily crossed her arms. “We were at the march today.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you didn’t find us? Didn’t come by to say hello?”

  “There was too much going on. It wasn’t my place.”

  “Of course it’s your place, Gordon.”

  “Gray,” he said. “I’m Gray now.”

  Lily bristled, then nudged her chin in my direction. “What happened here?”

  Gray said, “I don’t know. I found her lying on one of those small streets behind City Hall. I think she got jumped.”

  “You think?”

  “I didn’t see it. We were talking and she ran off and I followed her. When I came around the corner, she was out.”

  I tried not to get too caught up in visualizations of him following me.

  Lily looked at me. “Did you get jumped?”

  I nodded.

  “They stole her money,” Gray said.

  “And why not go to the police? Or a hospital?”

  Gray’s head dipped guiltily. “She said no.”

  My eyes shifted over to Lily. I couldn’t unhook from her penetrating gaze. My story — whatever it was going to be — would have to be exceptional.

  Gray said, “Her sister is missing. That’s why we met.”

  My sister. Even though it was my fault — I’d been the one to own Krista — it made bile crawl up the back of my mouth. Still, I was grateful he didn’t mention Messenger 93 and my terrible accusations.

  Walter gave me a serious look. “Your sister is missing?”

  I nodded.

  Gray said, “Last seen in Deerhead.”

  Had I told him that? I remembered almost nothing of anything that had come out of my mouth. Lily and Walter looked at me, instantly astonished.

  Gray said, “Missing for two days. Right, M?” Then he checked with me. He looked so trusting, and I was a liar lying on a couch that wasn’t mine. I clutched my stomach and nodded.

  Lily noticed my hands on my belly. “They hit you in the stomach?”

  I nodded.

  “And you passed out?”

  I nodded again.

  “That’s a pretty nifty trick,” she said, approaching me. “Hitting you in the exact spot to stop you breathing.” She crouched at my feet. “Taking you out like that. They either knew what they were doing, or it was a lucky strike.” She grabbed my legs and lifted them onto the couch so I was lying down. “You nauseous at all?”

  I shook my head.

  She laid her hands on my stomach and pressed down ever so slightly. She looked up to check with me. It felt okay, so I nodded. She moved her hands and palpated softly. “Does it hurt worse when I press?”

  I shook my head. The truth was, it was already feeling better.

  “Your stomach isn’t hard,” she said. “Which is good.”

  She moved her hands up and felt around my ribs. I tried not to read anything into her touch. You know, like maternal attention.

  “Does this hurt?” she said.

  I shook my head.

  “So your ribs are okay. That’s good … Okay. You’ll live.” She sat back. “You have family we can call?”

  A jolt of regret went through me, but I shook my head. No family.

  She registered that, took a hard look at Gray, glanced at Walter, then looked back at me. It was impossible to read her expression. “Okay,” she said. “Lie here. Rest up.” She extended her hand in Gray’s direction. “You. Come with me.” Gray bowed his head and followed her down the hall.

  Lily’s voice came at me as they retreated, hushed as if she didn’t want me to hear, but also gentler, “You can’t save every girl who crosses your path, Gordon.” And then they were in another room and I couldn’t hear them anymore.

  I listened for the crow, for another message — this was its chance to speak. But nothing came. It was utterly quiet the way peaceful homes are quiet.

  I settled into the cushions and wondered what I was supposed to do next.

  I WAS STARTLED AWAKE to find Gray in the doorway, holding a glass of water and looking at me. I pulled my legs off the couch and sat up.

  “You okay?” he said.

  �
��Yeah. Much better. Thank you.” Beads of shame-sweat pricked up over my body, and I tried to cover by smoothing the wrinkles in my top.

  We stayed like that for a few awkward moments, him holding the glass of water and me stupidly primping. Finally, he stepped closer and put the glass on the coffee table in front of me and then he sat on the opposite end of the couch. I picked up the glass and took a long haul. It actually felt good to drink. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was.

  We sat in awkward silence again. Gray pulled off his tweed cap and ran his hand over the short stubbles of hair on the back of his neck. His hair looked velvety soft. I swirled the glass and focused on the leftover drops at the bottom.

  “Why did you run away from me at City Hall?” he said. “What did you see?”

  “I thought it was her.” I tried to make sense of it. The girl, or girls, the flash of pink, getting knocked out. “Wishful thinking, I guess. You know when you want something so badly?” Gray gave a somber, thoughtful nod. I put the glass down. “I think someone is trying to stop me.”

  “Who would do that?”

  If preaching crows existed, did its counterpart? Some kind of evil, violent thing?

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Someone who doesn’t want me to find her?”

  “Huh …” He glanced over at his backpack. “And how do you know Jocelyn?” He stared at the poster board that was balanced on top, the picture of Jocelyn’s face rolled inside.

  “I don’t know her.”

  “Does your sister know her?”

  Did Krista know Jocelyn? Were they somehow connected?

  It was too complicated, too weird, to explain. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out,” he said, “if it’s possible they both went to Deerhead for the same reason.”

  “Yeah, I’m trying to figure that out too.”

  We both thought for a minute. I noticed how his hands played nervous beats on his knees. How they looked like musician’s hands.

  I said, “How do they know Jocelyn went to Deerhead?”

  “Somebody saw her hitchhiking up there a few weeks ago.”

  I didn’t know anything about Deerhead. Didn’t even know where it was. “There’s not much around there, right?” My lame/obvious attempt to get more information.