Текст книги "UnSouled"

Автор книги: Neal Shusterman

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

26 • Lev

Lev knows staying on the rez ticks off Connor—but hasn’t he earned the right to be selfish just this once?

“You can stay as long as you want to,” Elina had told him.

Pivane, on the other hand, was a little more practical. “You can stay as long as you need.” So the question is—how much of Lev’s desire to stay is need, and how much is want?

His side is still badly bruised, and without speed-healing agents—which the Arápache don’t use—his ribs and bruised organs will take time to heal. He can make an argument that he needs to stay that entire time, but he knows Connor won’t hear of it—and his frustration would be justified. They have a mission and can’t be sidetracked by the lures of comfort. What Lev needs is a mission of equal magnitude.

Then, toward the end of their second week on the rez, the entire situation takes a sharp turn that leaves everyone more than a little shell-shocked.

It’s dinnertime. A small gathering tonight—just the three guests, joined at the table by Elina, Kele, and Chal, Elina’s husband, who is finally back from his court case. From the moment he arrives, he treats Lev with lawyerly reserve and courtesy, as if he’s afraid to commit to any specific action or emotion with regards to Lev. “Elina told me everything. I’m glad you’re here,” Chal says when he greets Lev—but whether he means it or is just being obliging is something Lev can’t read in his voice. The man’s response to Connor and Grace is also reserved and measured.

Pivane arrives late for dinner today, wearing a look of concern that diffuses Elina’s irritation. “You need to see this,” he says. First to Elina and Chal, but then he turns to Lev and Connor. “All of you need to see this.”

As everyone rises from the dinner table, Pivane turns on the TV across the great room. He flips through channels until finding a news station.

If there was any question as to what kind of evening this will be, all doubts are chased away by what they see:

Connor’s face is on a screen behind the news anchorman.

“ . . . and the Juvenile Authority, putting an end to rumors and wild speculation, has confirmed that Connor Lassiter, presumed dead for over a year, is actually alive. Lassiter, also known as the ‘Akron AWOL’ was a key figure in the Happy Jack Harvest Camp revolt that resulted in nineteen deaths and the escape of hundreds of Unwinds.”

Connor and Lev can only stare in disbelief. The anchorman continues.

“It is believed that he may be traveling with Lev Calder and Risa Ward, both of whom played prominently in the revolt.”

Risa and Lev’s pictures appear on the screen as well. Not Lev as he is now, but as he was in the old days. Clean-cut, innocent, and ignorant.

“Is this bad?” Grace asks, then answers her own question. “Yeah, this is bad.”

The news cuts to an interview with a pompous representative of the Juvenile Authority, holding a picture of Connor with a grungy-looking guy, who Lev assumes is Grace’s brother. The Juvey rep appears irritated that he must divulge this information, yet needy for the public’s help.

“Our analysts have determined that this picture is authentic and taken a little over two weeks ago. The young man in this picture, Argent Skinner, and his sister, Grace Skinner, are now missing, and we believe Lassiter either kidnapped them or killed them.”

“What!” It comes out of Connor like a quack.

“Anyone who has any information on this fugitive should contact the authorities immediately. Do not try to approach him as he is considered armed and dangerous.”

Lev turns his attention from the TV to Connor, who is quickly slipping into fury mode. To anyone who doesn’t know him, he would look pretty dangerous at this moment.

“Take it easy, Connor,” Lev says. “They want you to be angry. The angrier you are, the more mistakes you’ll make and the easier you’ll be to catch. The fact that they felt a need to go public with it means they have no clue where you’ve gone, which means you’re still safe.”

But right now, it seems Connor won’t hear anything but the turmoil in his own head. “Damn them! If they could pin the whole goddamn Heartland War on me, they would. Sure, I wasn’t even born then, but they’d find a way to blame me for it!” Connor punches the wall with his grafted arm and grimaces from the pain of it.

“A lie,” Elina says calmly, “is a powerful weapon that the Juvenile Authority certainly knows how to wield.”

Grace looks at each of them, a little bit frightened. “Why’s Argent missing? What happened to him?”

And then from behind them. “Who’s Argent? Is he really dead? Did Connor kill him?”

They turn to see Kele, who, in these reeling moments, had been forgotten.

Lev and Elina’s logic could not calm Connor down, but apparently the fearful look on Kele’s face does the trick.

“No, he’s not, and no, I didn’t,” Connor tells him, his voice a little more under control. “Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Kele seems only half-convinced, and that worries Lev. He knows the kid is a bit of a loose cannon. While Lev’s presence here is “unofficially” known, no one knows that the infamous Akron AWOL is here as well. Kele had promised to keep his presence here a secret, but could he still, now that the secret looms so large?

“So what do we do?” Lev asks Elina, knowing what she’ll say—or at least hoping.

“You’ll stay in our care, of course,” Elina says.

Lev releases his breath. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it.

“Like hell we will!” snaps Connor.

Lev grabs his shoulder to keep him from storming away. “It’s the smart thing to do. No one out there knows we’re here. We can lie low until we’re out of the news.”

“We’ll never be out of the news, Lev! You know that.”

“But it won’t always be the big story like it is today. Give it a few weeks. And maybe by then we can keep under the radar. Taking off now is the stupidest thing we could possibly do.”

“While we’re sitting here, kids from the Graveyard are being unwound!”

“And how much will it crush their spirit if you’re caught?” Lev points out. “As long as you’re free, they have hope.”

“Cowards hide!” says Connor.

“But warriors lie in wait,” Elina says. “The only difference is whether you’re motivated by fear or purpose.”

That shuts Connor up, at least for the moment. Elina is always good at choking people on food for thought. His eyes burn for a moment more; then Connor drops into a dining room chair, resigned. He looks at his knuckles—Roland’s knuckles—which are bleeding and raw. It must hurt, but he seems to draw some satisfaction from the pain.

“They think we’re with Risa,” Connor says. “I wish we were that lucky.”

“If she’s sees the report,” Lev points out, “then she’ll know that you’re still alive—so that’s a good thing.”

Connor throws him a quick and mildly disgusted glance. “Your ability to see the bright side of everything makes me sick.”

The news has gone on to the clapper attack of the week, and Pivane turns off the TV. “How long can we realistically keep Connor’s presence here a secret?”

Lev notices that Kele has taken on a growing look of silent guilt, so Lev asks him point-blank. “Who did you tell, Kele?”

“No one,” he says, and when Lev doesn’t look away, Kele tells the truth. “Just Nova. But she promised not to tell, and I trust her.” Then he adds, “I figured he was safe, since it’s the Juvenile Authority that’s after him, and Connor’s not juvenile anymore, right?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Chal explains. “His so-called crimes happened when he was under their jurisdiction, which means they can chase him into old age.”

Pivane begins pacing, Elina rubs her forehead, as if getting a headache, and Kele looks miserable and forlorn like his dog just died. Lev can already see this beginning to cascade like a rock slide.

“If word does get out,” Chal says, “and the Juvenile Authority calls for us to give him and Lev over, we can refuse. I can make a case for political asylum—and without an extradition treaty, there’s nothing the Juvenile Authority can do.”

Elina shakes her head. “They’ll put pressure on the Tribal Council and the council will give in, like they always do.”

“But it will buy time—and I can keep throwing up roadblocks to stall things.”

And then Grace chimes in. “You know what’s better than roadblocks?” she says. “Detours!”

Lev and the others take it as Grace being obtuse, but Connor, who knows her better, takes it seriously.

“Explain what you mean, Grace.”

Now that she’s the center of attention, she gets animated and excited, gesturing with her hands so much, it almost resembles old-world sign language. “See, if you stop them with roadblocks, they’ll break through each one soon enough. A better strategy would be to send them down some winding path that goes on and on, so’s they think they’re makin’ progress, but really they’re just spinnin’ their wheels.”

Stunned silence for a moment, and Pivane grins. “That actually makes sense.”

Lev looks to Connor, raising his eyebrows. Clearly there’s more to Grace than meets the eye.

Chal gets a far-off, but intense look, like he’s pondering an equation. “The Hopi are desperate for me to represent them in a major land dispute. I could agree to do it, and in return, the Hopi council could agree to announce that they’re giving Connor and Lev asylum.”

“So,” says Connor, putting it all together, “even if people around here start talking, the Juvies won’t hear it, because they’ll be all over the Hopi—and when they finally find out we’re not there, they’ll be back to square one!”

The mood, which just a moment ago lay flat with despair, is quickly rebounding toward hope. Lev, however, feels a sizeable lump in his throat. “Would you go out on that much of a limb for us?” he asks his hosts.

They don’t answer for a moment. Pivane won’t meet his eye, and Elina defers to Chal. Finally Chal speaks for all of them. “We did wrong by you before, Lev. This is a chance to make things right.”

Pivane grasps Lev’s shoulder hard enough that it hurts, but Lev doesn’t let it show. “I must admit I take a little bit of pride to be harboring modern folk heroes.”

“We’re not heroes,” Lev tells him.

At that Elina smiles. “No true hero ever believes that they are one,” she tells him. “So you go ahead, Lev, and keep denying it with every fiber of your being.”

27 • Starkey

Mason Starkey knows he’s a hero. He knows this beyond any shadow of doubt. The many lives he’s saved proves it. The evidence is all around him—his storks, all spirited from the death throes of the airplane graveyard, kept alive and safe through cleverness and well-placed sleight of hand. But it’s only a beginning. The groundwork has been laid for a great work—and for his own personal greatness, which he will more than earn. Starkey knows that there’s a grand destiny waiting for him, and his first foray into the limelight of history is about to begin.

“The Egret Academy,” says the pleasant woman, reading the logo on his forest-green T-shirt, as Starkey signs the guest registry. “Is that a parochial school?”

“Nondenominational,” Starkey tells her. “I’m the youth minister.”

She smiles at him, taking him at his word. How could she not? His clean-cut, blond, well-groomed appearance reeks of honesty and integrity.

“Is the school here in Lake Tahoe?”

“Reno,” he says without hesitation.

“Too bad. I’m looking for a good school for my own kids. One with the right moral values.”

Starkey gives her his most winning smile. He knows the names of her kids and her home address. Not that he’ll need the information this time, but it’s turned out to be a solid protective policy for the storks.

This time it’s not a campground but a high-end retreat. The Egret Academy has rented all ten cabins for the next four days. It’s an expense, but Jeevan has managed to squeeze even more money from the storks’ parental accounts, more than enough to pay for four days of comfort . . . and considering what’s coming next, his storks deserve it.

While the storks explore their new environment themselves, all in their new Egret Academy shirts, the woman gives Starkey the grand tour.

“The dining hall is to the left—you provide your own food of course, but the kitchen is fully stocked with cookware, dinnerware, and everything you’ll need. Tennis court and pool is up the hill. Come. I’ll show you the clubhouse. It’s down by the lake. We have a theater-quality TV, a classic arcade—even a bowling alley.”

“And a cloud connection?” Starkey asks. “We have to have a high-speed connection to the public nimbus.”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

BROCHURE

For more than twenty years, The Egret Academy has brought together knowledge and character in order to inspire our students to be leaders of the future. Our strong academic program is designed to pull information from the widest variety of sources and impart learning through experiential hands-on experience. At the Egret Academy, we strive to give every student a unique and personal education.

Through spiritual retreats and eye-opening field trips, we expose our students to the past, present, and future—all in a nurturing environment that encourages self-reliance as well as trust and camaraderie among fellow egrets.

Our emphasis on personal accountability and social responsibility is exemplified in our Peer Leadership Program, in which our youth ministers organize and run retreats of up to a hundred students at a time. By combining traditional education with special programs, projects, and activities, our faculty is dedicated to creating well-educated, well-rounded, ethically responsible students with the ability and the confidence to take on the world!

“You really outdid yourself this time, Mason. This place is fantastic.” Bam peers over Starkey’s shoulder at the computer screen that he and Jeevan strategize over. “I mean a bowling alley? I can’t even remember the last time I bowled.”

Starkey can’t help but be irritated by Bam’s intrusion, but he tries not to show it. “Enjoy it while you can,” he tells her. That sobers her up a bit.

“When are we going to tell the others the whole plan?”

“Tomorrow,” he tells her. “It will give them time to prepare themselves.”

Yet another clatter of bowling pins from the other side of the clubhouse sets Starkey’s nerves on end. The clubhouse is one big open space. He would much prefer quiet privacy right now.

“Bowl a game for me,” he tells Bam. I would but”—he holds up his stiff hand—“I bowl lefty.” It isn’t true, but it gets her to leave them alone.

On screen is a schematic of Cold Springs Harvest Camp, north of Reno. “I think I’ve figured out a way to jam communications,” Jeevan says. “I’ll need a few kids to help me out, though. Smart ones.”

“Choose whoever you want for your team,” Starkey tells him. “And anything you need, just let me know.”

Jeevan nods but, as always, seems nervous, concerned. He’s a kid who can never just relax and go with the flow.

“I’ve been thinking of after,” he says, “and how, after we hit Cold Springs, we won’t be able to be out in public anymore. At all.”

“So give me options.”

Jeevan pecks at the computer, swipes various windows off the screen, and pulls up a map covered in blinking red dots. “I’ve isolated a few possibilities.”

Starkey clasps him on his shoulder with his good hand. “Excellent! Find us a new home, Jeevan. I have every faith in you.”

Which only makes Jeevan squirm.

As Starkey strolls through the clubhouse, the cacophony of his storks enjoying themselves transforms from a distraction to a testimony of all he has accomplished for them. But it’s only a glimpse of what he has planned for their future.

Yes, Mason Starkey is a hero. And in just a few days, the entire world will know.

28 • Risa

“Close your eyes,” Risa says. “I don’t want to get soap in them.”

The woman leans back, her Pomeranian in her lap. “Check the water first. I don’t like it too hot.”

This is Risa’s fourth day residing in Audrey’s salon. Each day she tells herself she’s going to leave, yet each day she doesn’t.

“And make sure you use the shampoo for dry hair,” the woman commands. “Not the kind for very dry hair, the kind for mild to moderately dry hair.”

It all stems from that first night. Audrey had spent the night there in the shop with Risa, because “a girl shouldn’t be alone after a thing like that.” Which she supposes is true for girls who have the luxury of not being alone. Risa rarely has that luxury, so she was glad for the company. Apparently, the attack in the alley affected Risa much more deeply than she thought, because she had a string of nightmares all night. The only one she can recall is her recurring dream of countless pale faces looming over her and a sense that she could not escape them. On that night, dawn could not come soon enough.

“You’re not the usual shampoo girl, are you? I can tell because the other one has the most hideous breath.”

“I’m new. Please keep your eyes closed while I lather you up.”

Until today, Risa had paid for Audrey’s kindness by organizing the stockroom, but when one of her stylists called in sick today, she begged Risa to man the shampoo sink in a back alcove.

“What if someone recognizes me?”

“Oh, please!” Audrey had said. “You have a totally new look. And besides, these women don’t see anything past their own reflections.”

So far Risa has found that to be true. But washing the hair of wealthy women is not exactly her job of choice and is even more thankless than dispensing first aid at the Graveyard.

“Let me smell that conditioner. I don’t like it. Get me another.”

Tonight I’ll leave, Risa tells herself. But nighttime comes and, again, she doesn’t. She’s not quite sure if her inertia is a problem or a blessing. Even though she didn’t have a specific destination before arriving here, she always had a vector—a direction to be moving. True it changed from day to day depending on what seemed the most likely direction of survival, but at least there was momentum. Now her momentum is gone. If she leaves here, where will she go? A place of greater safety? She doubts there is one.

That evening when Audrey closes shop, she treats Risa to something special.

“I’ve noticed your nails are in pretty bad shape. I’d like to give you a manicure.”

That makes Risa laugh. “Am I your Barbie doll now?”

“I run a beauty shop,” Audrey says. “It comes with the territory.” Then she does the oddest thing. She comes to Risa with scissors, snips off an inconspicuous lock of hair and shoves it into the compartment of a small machine that looks like an electric pencil sharpener. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

“What is it?”

“Electronic nail builder. Hair and nails are basically made of the same stuff. This device breaks down the hair, then applies it in fine layers on top of your nails. Put your finger in.” The hole, Risa now realizes, is not pencil-sized, but large enough for a woman’s fingertip. She’s hesitant, as putting one’s finger into a dark hole is a very counterintuitive thing, but in the end she acquiesces, and Audrey turns it on. It buzzes, vibrates, and tickles for a minute or two, and when she pulls her finger out, her nail, which had been uneven and ragged, is now smooth with a perfect curve.

“I programmed it for the shortest setting,” Audrey tells her. “Somehow I can’t imagine you with long nails.”

“Neither can I.”

Risa endures the process for all ten nails. It takes almost an hour.

“Not very efficient, is it?”

“No. You’d think they’d make one that can do a whole hand at once, but they don’t. Something to do with limitations on the patent. Anyway, I use it only when someone has patience and can actually appreciate the thing.”

“So it doesn’t get much use at all, does it?”

“Nope.”

Audrey, Risa realizes, is probably around the same age as her own birth mother, whoever she is. She wonders if a mother-daughter relationship would be something like this. She has no way to judge. All the kids she knew growing up didn’t have parents, and after she left the state home, she only knew kids whose parents had thrown them away.

Audrey leaves for the night, and Risa settles in the comfortable niche she’s made herself in the storeroom, complete with a bedroll and comforter that Audrey provided. Audrey has offered her the foldout in her apartment, and even the stylists, who are all as kind as Audrey, have offered to take her in, but there’s only so much hospitality Risa’s willing to accept.

That night she dreams of the cold, impassive multitude again. She’s playing a Bach étude much too fast on a piano that’s hopelessly out of tune, and right in front of her are the countless looming faces lined up and stacked like shelves of trophies. Deathly pale. Disembodied. Alive and yet not alive. They open their mouths but they don’t speak. They would reach for her but they don’t have hands. She can’t tell if they mean her ill, but they certainly don’t mean her well. They reek of need, and the deepest terror of the dream is not knowing what it is they so desperately desire from her.

When she pulls herself out of it, her fingers, new nails and all, are drumming against her blanket, still struggling to play the étude. She has to turn on the light and leave it on for the rest of the night. When she closes her eyes, she can still see those faces like afterimages on her retina. Is it possible to have the afterimage of a dream? She can’t help but feel she’s seen these faces before, and not just in a dream. It’s something real, something tangible that she can’t place. Whatever it is, she hopes she never sees it—never sees them again.

•   •   •

First thing in the morning—just five minutes after opening, two Juvey-cops come into the salon, and Risa’s heart nearly stops. Audrey’s already there, but none of her stylists are. Risa, knowing that turning and running will not go over well, hangs her hair in her face and turns her back to them, pretending to stock one of the stylist’s stations.

“You open for business?” one of them asks.

“That depends,” says Audrey. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

“It’s my partner’s birthday. I’m giving her a makeover.”

Now Risa dares to look. One of the Juvies is a woman. Neither of them takes much notice of her.

“Perhaps you could come back when my stylists arrive.”

He shakes his head. “Shift starts in an hour. Gotta do it now.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to work with that, then.” Audrey comes over to Risa, speaking sotto voce. “Here’s some money; go get us doughnuts. Go out the back way and don’t come back until they’re gone.”

“No,” Risa says, not realizing she would say it until she does. “I want to do her shampoo.”

The Juvie doesn’t have a dog on her lap, but she does have a chip on her shoulder. “I don’t go for nothing foo-foo,” she says. “Just keep it simple.”

“I intend to.” Risa drapes her with a smock and leans her back toward the sink. She turns on the water, making sure it’s nice and hot.

“I’d like to personally thank you,” Risa says. “For keeping the streets safe from all those bad boys and girls.”

“Safe and clean,” says the Juvey-cop. “Safe and clean.”

Risa glances out to the waiting area, where her partner obliviously reads a magazine. Audrey peers in at Risa nervously, wondering what she’s up to. With this woman leaning her head back, totally at Risa’s mercy, Risa feels like the Demon Barber of Omaha, ready to slit her throat and bake her into pies. But instead she just dribbles shampoo into the corners of her closed eyes.

“Ah! That stings.”

“Sorry. Just keep your eyes closed. You’ll be fine.”

Risa then proceeds to wash her hair with water so hot she can barely stand it herself, but the woman doesn’t complain.

“Catch any AWOLs yesterday?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Usually we just patrol the detention facility, but a kid slated for unwinding went AWOL on our watch. We brought him down, though. Tranq’d him from fifty feet.”

“My, that must have been . . . thrilling.” It’s all Risa can do not to strangle her. Instead she opts for concentrated bleaching solution, rubbing it unevenly into her dark hair after rinsing out the shampoo. That’s when Audrey intercedes, a moment too late to stop her.

“Darlene! What are you doing?” Darlene is Risa’s salon pseudonym. Not her choice, but it works.

“Nothing,” she says innocently. “I just put in some conditioner.”

“That wasn’t conditioner.”

“Oops.”

The Juvie tries to open her eyes, but they still sting too much. “Oops? What kind of Oops?”

“It’s nothing,” Audrey says. “Why don’t I take over from here?”

Risa snaps off her gloves and drops them in the trash. “Guess I’ll go get those doughnuts now.” And she’s gone just as the woman begins to complain about her scalp burning.

•   •   •

“What were you thinking?”

Risa doesn’t try to explain herself to Audrey, and she knows Audrey really doesn’t expect her to. It’s a motherly question though, and Risa actually appreciates it.

“I was thinking that it’s time for me to go.”

“You don’t have to,” Audrey tells her. “Forget about this morning. We’ll pretend it never happened.”

“No!” It would be so easy for Risa to do that, but being that close to a Juvey-cop—hearing what she had to say, the blatant disregard for the fate of the AWOL they took down—it’s knocked Risa out of this local eddy and given her a vector again. “I need to find whatever’s left of the ADR and do what I can to save kids from cops like the ones we saw this morning.”

Audrey sighs and nods reluctantly, already knowing Risa well enough to know that she can’t be dissuaded.

Now Risa understands her awful recurring dream of the disembodied faces. It is the faces of the unwound that haunt her, forever separated from everything that they were, looming over her in desperate supplication, begging her, if not to avenge them, then to make sure their numbers do not increase. She’s been complacent for too long. She can’t deny their pleas anymore. The mere fact that she’s alive—that she survived—bonds her to their service. And giving a spiteful hairdo to a Juvey-cop, while satisfying to her, does nothing to save anyone from unwinding. Her place is not in Audrey’s salon.

That afternoon Risa says her good-bye, and Audrey insists on stocking Risa up with supplies and money and a sturdy new backpack that has neither hearts nor pandas.

“I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you,” Audrey says, just before she leaves.

“Tell me what?”

“It was just on the news. They announced that your friend Connor is still alive.”

It’s the best news Risa’s gotten in a long time . . . but then she quickly comes to realize the announcement is not a good thing at all. Now that the Juvenile Authority knows he’s alive, they’ll be beating every bush for him.

“Do they have any idea where he is?” Risa asks.

Audrey shakes her head. “No clue. In fact, they think he’s with you.”

If only that were true. But even when Connor shows up in her dreams, he’s not with her. He’s running. He’s always running.