“Alex,” KJ says. “I know who Mariko is. I’m asking why you would want to go back to the Center.”
The clouds drift back over the sun.
“To talk to the other spinners,” I say. “If we tell them the truth about Aclisote, they can stop taking it and then they’ll be able to escape.”
“You want to sneak out of Portland, on public transit, with twenty-four kids?”
KJ’s doubts fall over me like a second shadow.
“We can’t just leave them behind.”
Shannon, who has remained quiet the last few minutes, chooses this moment to join the conversation.
“Have you considered that some of the kids might not want to leave the Center?”
“Have you considered,” I snap, “that they are all going to die?”
“Whoa, whoa, calm down.” KJ waves his hand. “It’s not that I don’t want to help our friends, but there’s no point surviving the sickness just to turn around and get caught again. Our plan was always to get ourselves out of town and settled somewhere before we even think about helping anyone else.”
“Yeah, but that was before we knew the Center was closing!”
“Not for another two weeks.”
A silver sedan cruises past us, moving more slowly than seems natural. I watch it glide by from the corner of my eye. A similar car passed us earlier—or could it be the same one?
“You sound like Jack,” I say.
“Then Jack is being reasonable.”
Is Jack reasonable or is he heartless? I veer left, guiding our path away from the sidewalk and into the park. Except for the distant barking of dogs, the place is empty.
“To rent a place for a couple weeks, we’ll definitely need more money,” KJ says. “How did you and Jack knock over an armored truck, anyway?”
His tone is conciliatory, but I’m not feeling appeased. The grass we’re walking over is speckled with dandelions. I kick at one of the overblown blooms. A cloud of white seeds floats into the air like an entire corps of twirling ballerinas.
“We just froze time when the truck’s door was open,” I say, “and took whatever we wanted.”
I kick another flower and release another puff of white. Once, when I still lived in a Children’s Home, one of the matrons told me that if I blew all the seeds off a dandelion, my wish would come true. I wish no one was chasing us. Kick. I wish we were safe. Kick. I wish the KJ I imagined when he was sick was the same person I’m walking with now. Kick.
“Talk about the perfect crime,” KJ says. “No witnesses or video evidence. The only way to make it better would be to rob some place that’s closed for a few days so no one can rewind it.”
Cold washes over me, like I walked through an icy waterfall. A hundred news reports flash though my brain, the words overlapping in a chorus of proof: I locked the safe, and when I came back the money was gone. No one entered the building while we were out. Video surveillance showed no one in the area at the time the crime occurred. The air in the wide open park seems to grow thin. How could I not have thought of this?
“KJ?” I step on some delicate white puffs, tramping over the seeds I so recently released. “What if Matt Thompson…what if Sikes…is a spinner?”
KJ stops walking. We stare at each other.
“Oh, my god,” he says.
Sikes is a spinner. A grown-up, adult spinner. It seems so obvious. Jack called Sikes a criminal genius, but it wouldn’t take that much intellect if he was one of us. All he’d have to do was wait until a door was almost shut, then stop time and take what he wanted. Sikes’s only brilliance was timing his crimes so they couldn’t be rewound.
“That’s terrible,” Shannon says. “If he’s a spinner, he’s never going to get caught.”
Dots dance in front of my eyes. The green park fades, replaced by the memory of me in the squat, my hand wrapped around my phone as I spill Matt Thompson’s secrets. A spinner’s secrets.
“Yes, he will,” I say. “I turned him in.”
My face must be doing something weird, because KJ and Shannon are both staring at me with worried expressions.
“They’re going to arrest him.” I clutch KJ’s arm. “Matt Thompson is a spinner and he’s going to spend his life in jail because of what I did.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Shannon asks. “I thought you always wanted him arrested?”
“He’s a spinner.”
“He’s a thief, Alex,” KJ says. “And a killer.”
But is it his fault? Sikes and Shea worked together. What if Matt Thompson was merely a tool in Shea’s hand, just like Ross used me as a tool in his?
“I have to warn him.”
There’s a bench a few feet away, tucked behind the shelter of a large hedge. I stumble over and plop down on the seat. How can I judge Matt when I’ve done the same things? If he goes to jail, it will be because my actions have hurt yet another spinner. I can’t do that again. I can’t. We spinners have to stick together. I grab my phone and pull up the search engine.
KJ and Shannon come join me on the bench. They both move warily, like I’m a bomb they’re afraid might explode if they touch the wrong wire.
“What are you doing?” KJ asks.
I type a question into the waiting box.
“I’m going to tell Matt Thompson the cops know he’s Sikes.”
“He’s a really dangerous man, Alex.”
Is he? My finger hovers over the phone’s keyboard. I shake my head. He’s a spinner.
“I won’t do it in person,” I say. “I’ll just leave him a note. I’ll put it in his office.”
“That’s a crazy idea. Going to Sikes’s office is ridiculously risky.”
“He won’t be there.” I hold up my phone. Tom’s Bar has a downloadable menu and a basic website with a few photos that make it appear nicer than it is. Across the bottom, its address and business hours are prominently displayed. “They don’t open until four in the afternoon, and they stay open until two a.m. If I go now, no one will be there.”
Shannon’s mouth drops open. “You’re really considering breaking into a bar to warn the guy you’ve always wanted to arrest?”
“I’m not considering it,” I say. “I’m doing it. Today. Now.”
“Alex,” KJ says. “I admire your principles, I really do, but we have to stay focused. Forget Sikes. Let’s work on finding a safe place to live.”
Echoes of all the other times KJ asked me to stop worrying about Sikes reverberate in my brain. Am I making a mistake? I stare down at the image on the phone. Portland’s Friendliest Bar shouts a tagline near a photo of wholesome-looking people laughing around a sundappled table. When KJ and I planned to leave the Center together, everything seemed so simple. We’d been given a chance for a new life, and I was going to make sure I did things right this time. But what does “right” mean? Does it mean making sure the friends I rescued stay safe? Or risking even more to make sure other spinners have a chance to survive, too? Is it stopping a criminal, or warning one of our own? The picture on the phone dims as the screen heads toward sleep mode. When I was in that bar, it seemed dingy, and the floors were sticky. Which version of Tom’s Bar is the real one? The phone winks out, the flashy pictures replaced by a reflection of a girl with eyes so haunted I barely recognize them as my own.
“Come on,” KJ says. “Let’s see if we can find something on that house rental site.”
He reaches for the phone, and I let him slide it out from my limp fingers. The screen lights up again, and KJ starts typing.
“What do you think?” he asks. “The coast or the mountains? I bet Mount Hood’s pretty quiet this time of year.”
Out on the street, on the far side of the sheltering hedge, brakes squeal. I flinch, primed to grab for time even before I jerk my head around.
Shannon leans against KJ’s sho
ulder. “I’ve never been to the beach.”
I peer through dark leaves, one piece of my mind on the verge of stopping time. A police car is cruising down the street, slowly, like it’s trolling for something. My throat tightens. The windows are tinted, and I can’t tell if the driver is looking this way.
“How about that one,” Shannon says. “It’s got a hot tub!”
The car rolls down the street and turns the corner. I rub my arm. I’m wearing another wool sweater, and the fibers bite like little pinpricks against my skin.
“I think we should freeze time and move somewhere else,” I say.
KJ looks up.
“I don’t get why you’re so worried about getting caught all the time.” He’s speaking carefully, like he knows he’s going to piss me off. “It’s not like we’re sitting ducks. If anyone comes near you, you can just freeze time and run away.”
The ache in my head twitches. “You make it sound easy.”
KJ frowns. It’s a concerned frown, but I can tell he’s not concerned about us getting caught. He’s concerned about me. I take a deep breath, making an effort to sound calm and rational, even though my chest feels like someone stuffed it with frantic butterflies.
“Everywhere I go,” I say, “I can feel people watching me. Like the other day, I was at this farmers market, and there was this woman who wanted me to sign her petition. When I did, she started asking questions. And then later, this guy followed me onto the bus. I’m pretty sure she called him.”
KJ’s frown deepens. My words falter. I can tell I’ve failed the rationality test.
“And you think this man was after you?” KJ prods.
“He knew my name!”
The look on Shannon’s face is hard to read—worry? Amusement? Does she pity me?
KJ puts a hand on my knee. “I understand that you’re freaked out. You’ve been through so much in the past couple weeks, it’s a miracle you’re functioning at all. But I’m worried about you.” He gestures to my fingers, at the nails, scabbed and chewed to the quick. “You’re all over the place. Shannon says you get really mad at the drop of a hat, and you’re twitchy and scared of everything. Why don’t we spend a quiet day in the squat? Let’s look through these listings and find a place we can stay for a while, away from all this. Like a vacation.”
I stare down at the hand resting on my jeans-covered knee. KJ, my best friend and the guy I thought would always be there for me, believes I’m crazy.
Shannon tilts her head, peering over at me from KJ’s other side.
“Alex, I know we don’t completely agree about the Center, but have you considered that maybe some of your reactions have to do with the fact that you’re not taking Aclisote anymore?”
“What? Like some kind of withdrawal?”
“It’s possible,” KJ says. “We don’t know anyone who’s been off it as long as you have.”
Suspicion tingles the back of my neck. KJ and Shannon are holding hands. What if one of them froze time while we were sitting here? Neither of them can change anything. They could stop time for ages, and I’d have no way to tell. I imagine their heads bent close together, the two of them discussing how to deal with me, while my own inert body sits beside them, nothing but a silent statue in their private conference. I search their faces for signs of guilt. Strain pinches the skin on KJ’s cheeks. Is he tired from our outing? Or is it the beginning of a headache?
I stand up, letting KJ’s hand fall from my leg. I no longer think there are two versions of the world. There is only one, and it’s not benign. The world is a terrifying place, full of people who want me dead, and friends I can’t be sure of. If KJ doesn’t understand that, then how can he judge if what I’m doing is right?
“Take my hands,” I say, holding one palm out to each of them.
KJ curls his free hand against his chest. “Why?”
I scan the park. There’s no one in sight. Leaning forward, I brush two fingers against each of their cheeks and stop time.
“So you can get back without being seen,” I say. “In fifteen minutes, I’ll find somewhere to melt time. You can get to the squat by then, can’t you?”
“Where are you going?” KJ asks.
I step away from them. “Tom’s Bar.”
Shannon’s mouth drops open in a silent oh.
“Are you serious?” she asks.
I nod. The security of a frozen world fills me with strength. I snatch the cell phone back from KJ and start walking away.
“I’ll see you at the squat in a couple hours.”
“Wait.” KJ’s attempt to stand is thwarted by Shannon, who hangs onto his arm like an anchor.
“Don’t do this,” he says. “It’s a huge risk and for what? To save a murderer?”
My foot catches on an exposed root, and I stumble. A small voice in the back of my head whispers that KJ is right and I’m being stupid and reckless. I shush it. KJ and Shannon both think the world is bright and sunny; they don’t see the shadows hiding just beneath the surface. I regain my balance and walk away. A restful “vacation” can wait. I’m going to make sure my actions don’t destroy another spinner’s life.
15
IT TAKES ME OVER AN HOUR TO PICK UP SUPPLIES AND get across town, even with three freezes when I suspect someone is watching me, which means it’s well after eleven by the time I’m cruising the sidewalk outside Tom’s Bar. The place takes up part of the ground floor of a low-rise brick apartment building, next to a secondhand clothing store. The inside is dark, with a CLOSED sign hanging crookedly behind the window on the front door. Dusty, unlit neon decorates the windows above taped-up flyers announcing that a band called The Hungry Carnivores is playing at the Crystal Ballroom Thursday night.
Cars parked along the curb offer little in the way of shelter to hide in while freezing time. I shove my hands into my pockets and keep walking. The neighborhood is a few blocks east of the river that splits Portland in half, and leans toward light industrial, which means that while there are lots of blank-faced warehouses, there aren’t a lot of quiet corners to duck into. I end up walking five blocks before I find a sufficiently sheltered hiding place. Time skids to a halt. I jog all the way back to Tom’s.
The door to the bar is, as I expected, locked. I press my face against the window and peer into the darkened interior, which looks completely unchanged from when Ross and I visited a couple weeks ago. Colorful liquor bottles line the mirror-backed shelves behind a long wooden bar. The space in front is filled with chairs that are stacked, legs up, on a dozen different small tables. The memory of being here with Ross is so strong I almost expect to see him reflected by my side in the glass.
With the aid of my supplies—a thin pair of gloves and a set of lock picks—it takes only a few minutes before I’m inside. The stink of spilled beer and deep-fry oil hovers in the bar’s stuffy interior, mixed with a rancid burnt smell that makes me wonder about the chef’s cooking skills. I relock the deadbolt and head toward the short hall leading to Sikes’s office. The burnt smell grows stronger the closer I get. It’s not really a food smell, more like the sharp bite of singed plastic. I reach the hall. To my left, the kitchen echoes with emptiness, and to my right…I skid to a halt. The door to Matt’s office is ajar, emitting wafts of the bitter stench, along with the glow of turned-on lights. My glove-covered palms grow damp. Is someone here? Very carefully, I push the office door the rest of the way open and step inside.
The room is empty. My breath whooshes through my nose as I release it. I shut the door, lean back against it, and survey the space.
The first time I came here, I was impressed by how pristine the office was, especially in contrast to the casual grime of the bar. The room is square, with a second door in the back that Ross said led to additional storage. Sleek, Scandinavian-style furniture hints at the occupant’s access to money.
Today, however, the o
ffice is in shambles. Piles of paper litter the desk’s glossy surface. Books list sideways on half-emptied shelves. A knee-high paper shredder sits beside the desk, encircled by tiny bits of fragmented documents. The safe, the one that held the incriminating painting, hangs open, its interior black with smoke and the charred remains of Matt Thompson’s secrets.
I put my finger in my mouth before remembering that my nails are covered with gloves. Does Sikes know the cops are after him, or is he just closing shop now that his partner is dead? I spit out a snippet of glove-thread. I need to warn him—make sure he gets out of town fast and never returns. But how? Given the state of his office, he may not be coming back here, so he would never see a note. I scan the room, seeking inspiration, and my eyes land on the computer. Perfect. I’ll send him an email from his own account telling him what I know. The oddness of the sender will surely make him read it.
I pull up the leather office chair and release time so I can use the computer. It’s in sleep mode, but Ross and I found the password during our original break-in, and I type it into the sign-in box from memory—Impervious, spelled backward and mangled with symbols: $-U-O-!-V-R-E-p-m-1. The empty blue screen is replaced by an image of a tropical beach. I study it. The Center didn’t allow us much computer access. Where do I find emails?
The bottom of the screen has a row of little icons. I click on five before I find the right one. Messages populate the screen, some in bold font and others not. I click on one and read what looks like a confirmation for a food order, which is neither interesting nor helpful, as the message doesn’t show an obvious place for the sender’s address. I kick the underside of the desk. How do you send an email to yourself?
Something in the wall at my back rattles. My heart slams in my chest like I just mainlined six cups of coffee. The computer mouse skids onto the floor as I spin the chair around, stopping time before I’ve even circled halfway. The only thing behind me is the storage room. Hesitantly, I try the handle. It’s locked. My heart slows from an all-out sprint to a fast gallop. The noise was probably rats, a sound I should recognize without freaking out, after so many days of living at the squat.
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