Текст книги "Undivided"

Автор книги: Neal Shusterman

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“Where am I going, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks the more intelligent-looking of the two guards as the elevator rises toward the rooftop heliport.

“Uh . . . from what I understand, you’re going lots of places.”

Which is fine with Starkey. He could get used to traveling in style.

31 • Grace

There are simply too many envelopes to mail for this to be a single postal excursion. Grace decides to make three trips—and not all to the same place. She plans multiple trips to multiple zip codes and finds an oversize unmarked shopping bag to carry them in—big enough and sturdy enough to get it done in three trips.

“Less suspicious this way,” she tells Sonia. “So’s if the postmaster general or something gets it into his head to trace all these letters back to a single place, they won’t know where to look ’cept Akron in general, and Akron in general is big—not New York big, but big enough.”

Sonia waves her hand. “Just get it done and don’t talk my ear off.” Which is fine with Grace, who likes being left to her own devices, as long as those devices don’t have too much electronics, like that organ printer. She knows it will take her all day, but that’s okay. It’s something to do, something important, and it gets her out of the basement for a whole day.

Her first two sets of drops go off without a hitch. It’s Sunday, so post offices are closed, but that hasn’t stopped her from paying visits to various mailboxes in strategically random locations. By dusk, she’s hit twelve mailboxes in three different zip codes.

It’s while on her way back to empty out the trunk and mail the last batch of letters that things take a turn. It’s already dusk, closer to the night side than the day, and she begins to think that the third batch will have to wait until tomorrow. The streetlights come on, making the dusk plunge into night—and there beneath a streetlight at the corner, just a few doors away from Sonia’s shop, stands someone who looks familiar. Very familiar. She can see only his profile, but it’s enough.

“Argie?” she says, before she can stop herself. “Argie, is that you?”

At first she’s excited, but then she remembers how things were when she last saw her brother. He won’t have forgiven her. Argent is not the forgiving type. As she gets closer, she can sense that there’s something off about him. Something different in the way he carries himself, like it’s not Argent at all . . . and yet clearly it’s him. She only has to look at his face to know. . . .

Then he turns to her and smiles. “Hello, Grace.”

And she begins to scream. Not because of what she sees but because of what she doesn’t. She doesn’t even feel the tranq dart hit her, because she’s so committed to the scream. She’s still screaming as her legs buckle beneath her and she hits the pavement. Still screaming as her peripheral vision fades. Still screaming as the tranqs drag her down into unconsciousness.

Because when he turned to look at her, Grace didn’t see the other half of Argent’s face. That other half was someone else entirely.

32 • Sonia

She’s absorbed with her favorite playlist of prewar rock, and doesn’t hear Grace’s screams from just twenty yards down the street.

It’s one song later—just after dark—that a man comes into the shop. Sonia takes out her earphones, immediately sizing up the man as a strange one. Strange in an unpleasant sort of way. She’s been repositioning paintings so that they don’t topple over every time some fool customer brushes up against them, and finds herself at a disadvantage being so far from her sales counter. She keeps a revolver beneath that counter. She only had to use it once, when a low-life thug demanded the cash in her register. She pulled out the revolver, and he headed for the hills. She didn’t even have to use it. Right now, the man is standing between her and that revolver.

Putting down the picture she’s holding, she tries to stand as straight as she can, considering her aggravated hip. “Can I help you?”

As he approaches, and comes into clearer focus, she sees what it is about him that’s so disturbing. The left side of his face is that of a middle-aged man. But the right, from just above the jawline, is someone else’s. Someone younger. Facial grafts are not entirely uncommon, but rarely do they preserve the integrity of the donor face. For whatever reason, this man intentionally took not just the skin, but the underlying bone structure of the donor as well. The sight of him is deeply unnerving, which was clearly his intent.

“I hope you can help me,” he says, continuing to saunter toward her. “I’m looking for a very specific chair to complete a set. Solid frame, but a bit unbalanced. Firm, but overstuffed. That is to say, a little full of itself.”

“Dining chairs are down aisle three,” Sonia tells him, but she already knows he’s not really looking for a chair.

“It won’t be down aisle three,” he says, holding her eye contact with two markedly mismatching eyes—one that clearly came with the grafted half of his face. “But I think it’s here somewhere. The piece of flotsam I’m looking for goes by the name of Connor Lassiter.”

“Hmph,” says Sonia, keeping her poker face and pushing past him without any sense of urgency or terror. “Why would the Akron AWOL be in an antique shop? Wherever he is, I’m sure he has better things to do than polish my furniture.”

“Perhaps I should ask Grace Skinner, then,” he says. “Once she regains consciousness.”

Now that he’s behind her, and the counter is in front of her, she bolts toward it, but even with her cane, she can only move so fast.

Suddenly a gunshot rings out. The bullet hits her cane, splintering it to pieces, and she goes down sideways, hitting the hardwood floor. Pain explodes in her hip. She’s sure that it’s broken. What happens next comes with blinding speed, yet somehow in slow motion at the same time, her pain baffling the impetus of time.

She’s dragged into the back room, and before she knows what has happened she finds herself slumped at her desk chair unable to move, her hip screaming in agony. He’s used the chain from an old hanging lamp to secure her, wrapping it around her until it would take cable shears to free her.

Her attacker, with nothing but time on his hands now, saunters out into the shop again, whistling a tune she doesn’t know. He locks the front door and returns, sitting on the edge of the old steamer trunk. Did they hear the gunshot down below? Sonia wonders. Are they smart enough to stay silent? For it’s not her life she’s worried about; it’s theirs.

“Now then,” say both sides of the man’s awful face, “let’s talk about the friends we have in common.”

33 • Nelson

With the infected, sun-scarred side of his face replaced, Jasper Thomas Nelson feels like a new man. Argent Skinner wasn’t exactly a cooperative donor, of course.

“You said it yourself,” he had told Argent before the undamaged side of the young man’s face was harvested by Divan. “My left half and your right half make a whole.” And although Argent insisted this is not what he meant, the complaints of a donor really don’t matter.

Seeing the look on Grace Skinner’s face when she saw him was an added perk. It will be even more rewarding to capture Lassiter’s expression when they meet.

He had used a fast-acting, short-term tranq on Grace. Good thing, too. A stronger, slower tranq would have left her screaming long enough to attract plenty of attention. As it was, no one came to her aid. Nelson was able to throw her into a dense hedge, to keep her out of sight and out of mind. Then he proceeded to the antique shop where the tracking chip showed she was spending all of her time—that is, until today, when she went on an excursion all over Akron.

The moment he saw the old woman in the shop, Nelson read in her face a solid preview of all the things he needed to know. Lassiter is there, or has been there, or is hidden somewhere nearby—and Nelson is willing to wager that that stinking tithe-turned-clapper is here too. He doesn’t know which will be more satisfying—taking the Akron AWOL to be unwound, or slowly killing Lev Calder for what he did at the Graveyard. Punishment for stealing Lassiter away from him, and leaving Nelson tranq’d by the side of the road for flesh-eating predators and the fiery eye of the Arizona sun.

Everything Nelson said to the old woman in the front room of her shop was to throw her off-balance, to probe her to see what she might unintentionally give away. Her reaction told him that he had hit a bull’s-eye.

Now, here in the back room, he has her at his gentle mercy. All that remains is to extract the information he needs. This will certainly be easier than catching Lassiter at the airplane Graveyard. This will be a cakewalk, and after all he’s been through, heaven knows, he deserves it.

34 • Sonia

This man is no Juvey-cop. He’s not even a proper parts pirate. Sonia knows there is something fundamentally wrong with him. Something internally disfigured far worse than is revealed by his horrible face.

“If the media has it right, the triple threat has come together again,” he says. “Connor Lassiter, Lev Calder, and Risa Ward. I’m hoping you can confirm that for me.”

Sonia catches him eying the groceries stacked around the back room. She curses herself for not bringing them downstairs.

“Clearly, you’re feeding a horde, and this is an ADR safe house. I didn’t know there were any left.”

Sonia says nothing. The trunk is on the rug, and the rug is smoothed out, leaving no hint that either has been moved. Not hint of the trapdoor beneath. He might suspect that she’s harboring AWOLs, but he has no idea where.

When she doesn’t answer him, he sighs and stands up, approaching her. “Don’t assume I’m going to enjoy what I’m about to do,” he says. “I do it only because it’s necessary.” Then he reaches out to her and presses his thumb against her broken left hip, with more force than anyone should be capable of delivering.

Beyond unbearable, the pain is unthinkable. She tries to bite it back, but it comes warbling out as a feeble wail between her gritted teeth. Dark worms squirm across her eyesight, threatening to overtake her, but then they recede to the periphery as he removes his thumb and backs away, assessing her. The pain remains and she feels weaker than she’s ever felt. She wishes she could take the splintered end of her shattered cane and jam it through his stolen eye.

“Once again . . . Connor Lassiter.”

Still Sonia says nothing. Let him kill her, she will still not speak. She thinks he may step forward again and cause her even more pain, but instead he turns to the trunk and, without the slightest hesitation, kicks it to the side, then flips back the rug to reveal the trapdoor beneath.

“Did you think I was stupid? I was a Juvey-Cop long enough to smell a hiding place the second I walk into a room. I wonder how many stinking AWOLs you have down there. Ten? Twenty?”

It’s a far more effective tactic than pain as far as Sonia is concerned, and this bastard knows it. “Leave them alone! You’re not here for them,” Sonia reminds him.

“Indeed not.” Now he sits on the edge of her desk, close to her. On her desk is a bowlful of old-fashioned cigarette lighters she was polishing and preparing to display in the shop. He pulls one out, silver with a red enameled rose, petals like flames.

“I truly pity you,” he says. “You’re the old woman who feeds the pigeons and allows them to propagate and spread disease.” He flicks the lighter and watches the flame as it dances. “You’re the misguided soul who lets rats overrun the city because you think they’re an endangered species.” He waves it before her, dangerously close, taunting, and she can do nothing about it. “You’re certainly old enough to remember what it used to be like. People afraid to leave their homes for fear of feral teenagers, while other people suffered needlessly with everything from heart failure to lung cancer!” He flips the lighter closed, snuffing the flame, but doesn’t put it down. “People like you baffle me. How could you not see the good in unwinding?”

And although Sonia does not want to dignify him with a response, she can’t stop herself. “Those kids are human beings!”

“Were,” he corrects. “Each has been deemed by society, and even by their own parents, to be worthless. What makes you think you know better?”

“Are you done?”

“That depends. Is Connor Lassiter down there with the rest of your pigeons?”

Sonia considers how she might respond, and decides that a half-truth may set them free.

“He’s flown the coop. Here and gone. He won’t stay anywhere for long.”

“Then you won’t mind if I check downstairs, will you?” He pockets the lighter and pulls out his gun—then a second pistol, checking the clips. One must be loaded with tranqs, the other with bullets. By the way in which he had shattered her cane, she knows those bullets are the deadly hollow-tipped kind. Miniature grenades exploding on contact. Her AWOLs won’t stand a chance.

And then Sonia has a desperate idea.

“Connor left . . . but Lev Calder is here. I’ll get him to come up . . . if you leave the rest of my AWOLs alone.”

He smiles. “You see—that wasn’t so hard. I had faith you could be reasoned with.” He goes over to the trapdoor and reaches down toward it. “Be good,” he tells Sonia. “And be convincing. If I leave here with Lev, I promise the rest of your brood will be safe.” Then he pulls the trapdoor open and nods to Sonia.

“Lev!” she calls out. “Lev, can you come up? I need your help up here.”

No response.

“You can do better than that,” whispers the split-faced man.

“Lev! Get your ass up here!” Sonia calls, much louder. “I don’t have all day.” And Sonia closes her eyes, silently praying that those kids down there are smart enough to figure it out, and to do what needs to be done.

35 • Risa

Four minutes before the trapdoor opens, Risa hears a gunshot, and the sound of something—or someone—thudding to the floor. They all hear it, and it freezes them in the middle of whatever they’re doing.

“Shh! Nobody move,” says Beau. Then quieter: “And nobody talk.”

Suddenly it’s as if the floor beneath them—or, more accurately, the floor above them—has turned to ice that could fracture with the slightest shift of weight. The first thing that Risa does is reflexively look for Connor, then an instant later realizes he’s not there. According to Sonia, he went to take care of “unfinished business,” and although Sonia wouldn’t say specifically, Risa knows what that business is. Just like the time he rescued Didi from the doorstep, Connor has impulsively chosen the wrong time to do the right thing. She curses him and prays for him at the same time, because at least he’s away from here.

Everyone looks up, following the sound of something heavy being dragged from the shop and into the back room. Is it Sonia being dragged? Is it Grace? She was out taking care of “unfinished business” as well, wasn’t she? What if one of them was shot? What if one of them is dead?

Beau turns off all the lights except for the single dim dangling one in the middle of the basement, because without it the darkness would be unbearable.

“What do we do?” asks Ellie, a girl who’s always looking to Risa for guidance.

“Listen to Beau,” she whispers. “Stay still, and stay quiet!”

Risa, however, is the first to break their terrified tableau, and looks for something she can use as a weapon. She finds a claw hammer. Other kids, seeing what she’s doing, move quietly to find their own makeshift weapons.

Risa sees Beau eying the one window in the basement. It’s a small thing positioned high up the wall, in a far corner. The glass is smudged with grease that makes it impossible to see out, or in.

“Never open that window,” Sonia always told them. “You never know who will be in the alley out there.” And just to make sure none of them was ever tempted, the window frame has been nailed shut.

Beau grabs the hammer from Risa, giving her a wrench instead. Risa nods her understanding, and Beau makes his way to window, taking the claw end of the hammer to the nails, trying to wrest them free from the wood.

While Beau works the window, Risa quietly makes her way to the stairs. A kid tries to stop her, but she gives him an evil enough eye to make him back away. She climbs the stairs to the dark recesses just beneath the trapdoor. She knows she’ll have warning before that door is pulled open. She’ll hear the sliding of the trunk.

Risa tilts her head, focusing all her attention on any sounds coming from upstairs. The violent noises of just a few moments ago have ended. Now there’s just talking. A man in conversation with Sonia. Risa takes a deep breath of relief just to know that the old woman’s still alive. She wants to go up there and help her, but there’s nothing Risa can do; the trapdoor can only be opened from the other side. She looks down the stairs to see the kids all armed with various basement items: pipes, scissors, bricks, and boards.

And then Sonia screams.

It’s muffled, but there’s no denying that it’s a scream of pain. Then the trunk is slid away. Risa feels more than hears it: a vibration in the wood of the stairs that resonates in her bones. She scrambles down to the bottom of the stairs, backing into shadows with everyone else.

Beau steps away from the basement window. He was able to remove only one nail. “This is it,” he tells Risa “This is the end for all of us if we don’t play this right.”

She wants to challenge that fatalistic view—but she can’t, because he’s right. Maybe Connor will come back just in time, she thinks. He’ll see what’s going on upstairs and do something about it. After all, Connor does have a talent for falling smack in the middle of bad situations.

“Whatever it is, we’ll fight,” Beau says.

The trapdoor opens, shedding harsh yellow light from above down the stairs, so much brighter than the single dangling bulb. And then up above, Sonia says the strangest thing.

“Lev!” she calls out. “Lev, can you come up? I need your help up here.”

It takes a moment for Risa to even process what she’s said. Lev? Why would she be calling for Lev? Beau looks at her, shaking his head, not getting it either.

“Lev! Get your ass up here!” Sonia calls, much louder. “I don’t have all day.”

And then it dawns on Risa exactly what Sonia is doing. I’m giving you the advantage, Sonia is saying. Something is horribly wrong, but I’m giving you the advantage. Take it!

Risa searches the group, and zeroes in on Jack, the blond, mousy kid who could pass for Lev for a whole of five seconds. She grabs him, and his eyes go manga-wide in surprise.

“Tell her you’ll be right up!”

“What?”

“Just tell her!”

Jack clears his throat and calls up the stairs. “Coming! I’ll be right up.” Then he looks at Risa, begging with his eyes, pleading, but Risa puts her hands on his shoulders. “You’ll be fine,” she tells him. “I promise. I’ll be right behind you!”

Beau nods to her and signals to all the others to stay hidden in shadows, then he gets behind Risa. “You’ve got his back, and I’ve got yours,” he says.

With Jack in the lead, they go up the stairs to face whatever is in store for them.

36 • Nelson

He has every intention of honoring their bargain. He is, after all, a man of conscience. A man of his word. As the boy he assumes is Lev comes up the stairs, Nelson allows himself a small moment to relish this half victory. He will tranq Lev, then he will take Lev to a place where no one will hear him scream, and he will make him divulge where Lassiter has gone, because he surely knows, even if the old woman doesn’t. Then, once Nelson has the information he needs, he will kill Lev in a most painful way—one he has yet to devise, because vengeance is best when experienced creatively and in the moment.

“You called for me, ma’am?” the boy says—and when he turns to face Nelson, Nelson immediately realizes he’s been duped—just as someone else coming up from below swings a wrench at his legs. Pain explodes in his shin the moment the wrench connects with it, and Nelson immediately realizes his mistake. Of course they would have known it was a ruse! They must have heard the gunshot. His pain is a measure of his miscalculation.

He reaches down to disarm the girl attacking him, but she pulls her arm back and swings again, this time catching the back of his hand. More pain, but Nelson can handle pain, and the damage isn’t enough to impair him. The third time she swings, he succeeds in grabbing the wrench from the girl and hurling it away—but there’s someone else coming up the stairs behind her, and he’s swinging a hammer. Nelson deflects the blow, backs away, and kicks the trunk toward the hammer-wielding AWOL to block him, but the trunk flips open and dumps at least a hundred envelopes on the floor. The kid takes one step forward, and begins slipping on the envelopes like they’re banana peels. It’s just the opening Nelson needs. He thrusts his palm to the imbalanced kid’s chest, and it sends him tumbling down the hole and into the basement. Nelson quickly kicks the trapdoor closed behind him, then tugs on a heavy bookshelf, which comes crashing down over the trapdoor, spilling its load of books. No one’s coming up that way anymore.

Now it’s just him, the girl, the blond kid, and the old woman, who’s telling them to run, but they’re not smart enough to save themselves. The girl scrambles on the floor for the wrench, and the blond kid is parrying toward Nelson with a letter opener he found on the desk. Nelson pulls out one of his guns, taking aim at the blond kid, because he’s closest, and because Nelson is profoundly pissed off at the kid’s lack of Lev-ness.

He meant to pull out the gun loaded with tranqs, but in the commotion, who could blame him for pulling the wrong gun?

He fires, and the kid’s chest shreds into a screaming red Rorschach. Blood splatters everywhere. He’s dead before he hits the floor.

“No!” yells the girl. “You bastard!”

It’s in that moment, with Nelson holding his gun, and her ready to strike with the wrench, that he realizes who she is. In spite of the hair, in spite of the eye color, he recognizes her—and knows he’ll have a new prize today. A very useful one. He wonders how much Risa Ward will be worth to Divan.

Risa comes toward him just as he reaches for his other gun with his free hand. She gets in a swing at his head. It connects with his ear. A solid strike, but survivable, just like all the other blows. He shoves the tranq gun into her gut and pulls the trigger, and she grunts as the tranq embeds deep. He holds her as she slips helplessly from consciousness, the wrench falling from her hand, thudding onto the floor.

Nelson gently eases her to the ground beside the dead boy. Then he turns to the old woman, who sobs from the chair to which she’s chained. “Your fault,” Nelson tells her. “Entirely your fault. That boy’s life is on your head for lying to me!”

The woman can only sob.

Now that the battle is over, he assesses the damage from the wrench. His shin may be fractured. It’s swelling and he can feel his pulse in it. His right ear is hot, and the back of his hand is turning purple and swelling. All in a day’s work. The pain will be good for him. It will release endorphins. Make him more alert.

“Please go . . .” wails the woman. “Just go . . .”

And he will . . . but not until he finishes his business here.

There’s a torn envelope on the desk and a cigarette lighter in his pocket. He notes that everything around the basement, from the felled bookshelf and its pile of books, to the stacks of paperwork on the desk, to the various wooden antiques—everything in this room—everything in this shop, in fact—is highly flammable.

He grabs the envelope, takes out the lighter, and flicks it until it releases its tiny controlled flame.

“Stop!” yells the woman through her tears. “I’ll give you Lassiter! I’ll give him to you if you stop this and let the others go!”

He hesitates. He knows this is just another game, but he’s willing to play, if only to give him a moment to contemplate the severity of what he’s about to do.

“God forgive me,” she says. “God forgive me. . . .”

“At this moment,” Nelson reminds her, “it’s my forgiveness that you need.”

She nods, unable to look at him, and that’s how he knows she’s going to tell him the truth. But will it be truth enough?

“He’s in your hand,” she says. “He’s in your hand, and you don’t even know it.” Then she lowers her head in defeat, and perhaps some self-loathing.

Nelson has no idea what she means . . . until he looks at the empty envelope he’s holding and reads the handwritten address:

Claire & Kirk Lassiter

3048 Rosenstock Road

Columbus, Ohio 43017

He looks down to the other envelopes on the ground, and he can tell by the handwriting that they were all written by kids.

“You had your AWOLs write letters to their parents?”

She nods.

“What a pointless thing to do.”

She nods.

“And our friend Connor went to deliver his personally?”

Then she finally looks to him, and the hatred on her face is a thing to see: as powerful as a smoldering volcano. “You have what you need. Now get the hell out of here.”

There have been many times in Jasper Nelson’s life when choice was taken from him. He did not choose to be tranq’d that fateful day two years ago by Connor Lassiter. He did not choose to get hurled out of the Juvenile force in humiliation. He did not choose to lose his ordinary, respectable life. He does have a choice here however, and it’s an awe-inspiring moment—because he knows his choice today will be a defining one.

He could walk away from here and go find Lassiter . . . or he could bring on a little suffering first.

In the end, his sense of social consciousness prevails. Because as a good citizen, isn’t it his responsibility to help rid the world of vermin?

Nelson memorizes the address, sets the envelope on fire, then drops it on the pile of envelopes on the ground.

“No! What have you done! What have you done!” cries the old woman, as the fire takes and the flames begin to rise.

“Only what necessity and my conscience dictate,” he tells her. Then he grabs Risa Ward’s limp, unconscious body, and carries her out the back door without a stitch of remorse.