Deadfall

by Anna Carey

  You let out a small laugh. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  One of his hands hangs over his knee. You take it, letting your thumb run along the inside of his palm, squeezing. He turns, looking into your face. You’re the one who leans in first. You’re the one who first closes your eyes, pressing your mouth to his.

  His hands come up to your jaw, his lips pressing against yours. Moments come back as you kiss. Images, one after the next, like you’re flipping through a photo album. Rafe kneeling at the edge of the ocean, where the waves hit the shore. Rafe tying a ripped T-shirt around your left hand. Rafe sharpening the end of a branch with his knife, the wood shavings falling around his feet in tiny, delicate curls.

  Rafe, Rafe, Rafe . . .

  When he pulls away he runs his finger over your eyebrow.

  “It’s coming back. A little bit more is coming back.”

  Then he pulls you to him, arms wrapped tight around your shoulders. “Good,” he says, “because I’ve missed you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  YOU DON’T HEAR Rafe until he’s at the top of the fire escape, climbing back over the brick ledge. He went out this morning to get you a new phone while you stayed behind on the roof, mapping the route to the other spot Connor told Rafe about.

  “I got it,” he says, putting the disposable cell in your hand. “But if we’re together now, it affects me, too. I need to know who you’re calling.”

  You pull your knife from your pack and cut the phone out of the plastic. “When I was in LA, I told a woman, a police officer, about the hunters. How they set me up, how they were trying to kill me. She was the only one who believed what I was saying,” you tell him.

  “Whoa.” Rafe laughs. “You’re kidding. What made you think you could trust some cop?”

  “Everything,” you say. “Everything she did made me think I could trust her. She’s looking into AAE, gathering evidence for me.”

  Rafe leans back against the low wall. “Why do you have to call her now?”

  “I want to.” There are still questions. Izzy. Goss. The envelope you left at the hospital for her. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Don’t mention me.” His face has changed, to a look of . . . what? Fear? Vulnerability?

  “I won’t. Promise.”

  You walk to the edge of the roof, pacing. You’re just out of earshot as you turn on the phone and dial Celia’s number. As it rings and rings, you can almost see her looking at her screen, the blocked number, wondering if it’s you.

  “Hello?”

  “Celia?” You recognize her voice, but you ask anyway.

  “Sunny,” she says, sounding relieved. It’s strange to hear her call you that—the name you used for the past couple weeks, before you knew your real one.

  There’s the sound of a phone ringing in the background, a voice yelling down the hall. She must be at the police station. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you. You’re okay?”

  “I’m okay, yeah. How is Izzy? What happened?”

  Celia takes a breath. “Izzy is . . . She’s alive. She’s recovering. It’s not the easiest thing to explain to someone, but she knows I’m working on the case. Goss was taken into custody Sunday afternoon. She ID’d him as the person who shot her.”

  You let out a long, slow breath. Your shoulders relax. “Thank god,” you manage. “It’s almost over.”

  The other end of the line is silent. You have to look at the screen to make sure you didn’t lose her.

  “What?” you ask. “What’s wrong?”

  “We don’t have enough of a case yet. Right now his lawyers are saying Izzy was breaking into his house. That he shot her in self-defense. The back door was broken and the scene—well, the scene indicates that. It’s going to be hard to keep him in custody. I don’t have enough on him.”

  You stop pacing. “What? I don’t understand. . . .”

  “We don’t have a case,” Celia says. “We can’t prove anything. Even the notes you sent me, it’s not enough. He’s got the best lawyers money can buy; he’ll be able to get out of it.”

  “But his house. Didn’t they go to his house? Didn’t they find anything?”

  “Nothing.” She sighs. “I searched for the papers, but he must have cleaned up before I got there. But I’m still working on this, working every angle. I have another lead in Seattle—a body of a girl was found there with a tattoo just like yours. I’m trying to get something together to prove this is bigger than just Goss. . . . Look, Sunny, where are you? Can you meet me sometime today?”

  “I’m not in LA anymore,” you say, wondering now if it was a mistake to travel so far away. Celia can’t help you if you’re across the country.

  “Where are you, then?” she says. “We’re only on the surface of this. They’re still looking for you, especially now. They must know you were involved with bringing Goss in.”

  “I know. I’m in New York. I’m working on getting more information on AAE. I’ll have more for you soon.”

  She pauses, taking this in. “What kind of information?”

  “Other targets,” you say. “There are more of us out there—alive. I already have a lead on one of them.”

  “What else? Anything concrete?”

  “Look up Lena Marcus. A girl who went missing outside Cabazon. You’ll recognize her.”

  “That’s your real name? How’d you find that out?”

  You look out toward the other side of the roof, where Rafe is kneeling, rearranging the items in his pack. You can’t tell her about him. You promised.

  “I met someone who knew me. I can’t say more than that. I’ll call you soon—as soon as I can. Hopefully I’ll have more.”

  “Be safe,” she says, then waits for you to hang up. You separate the battery from the phone, slipping them in your pocket. When you walk back, Rafe is changing into a fresh T-shirt, his smooth, bare chest exposed for a moment.

  “What’s the plan?” he asks.

  They’re still looking for you, especially now.

  “We need to find Connor as soon as we can. Come on, I’ll lead the way.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  WHEN THE SUBWAY doors open, Rafe slips out first. He scans the platform. You’re right behind him, pushing through the turnstile and up the stairs, into the sun.

  You head west. One Hundred Tenth Street is completely different from the stops downtown. The curb is lined with crushed coffee cups, dead leaves, and fast-food bags. A man is sleeping along a garage door, a piece of cardboard covering his face. You’re only a few blocks from Morningside Park, the other meeting place Connor told Rafe about.

  Inside the park, you head north to the pond. It’s midday, but the grass is mostly clear. No one sits along the benches by the water. You look up the bank and see why.

  A body is lying at the edge of the water, under a white sheet. Police are everywhere. Walking along the dock, combing the area beneath a nearby bridge. One officer ties yellow tape around a tree trunk and asks people to move back.

  Rafe sees it at the same time as you. You’re not looking at him, but you hear the sharp intake of breath, the word on his lips: No. One of the officers has lifted up the sheet. The boy’s face is visible. A black Mohawk, a bullet wound in the side of his neck.

  “It’s him,” Rafe says. “It’s Connor.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  YOU GRAB RAFE’S hand and yank him back, but he won’t stop staring at the body. You’re too exposed here in the crowd. You force him away from the scene, trying to get a better vantage point.

  You exit the park and walk several buildings down, finding a perch on the top stair of an apartment stoop. “The Stager didn’t get here in time,” you say. “There’s no way they’d just leave him there. Maybe someone saw it happen—maybe we could find them.”

  Rafe remains silent. He grabs the top of a window ledge and hoists himself onto it, trying to see the scene from above. It’s enough to draw attention. “Rafe, come down,” you say. “They could still be he
re somewhere.”

  “Do you see that mark?” Rafe points to a stone wall thirty feet from the body. The graffiti looks fresh. Glossy red paint. You can just make out the lettering. WBD + WY.

  “There was that similar one downtown,” you say. “Also red. He’s communicating with the targets.”

  Rafe scans the street signs, the stoplights. “There’s some logic to it. . . .”

  You watch the crowd across the street. One person has turned toward you, a woman in her early forties. She has short blond hair, thick bangs that cover her brows. She might just be noticing a boy balancing on a window ledge, worried he’ll fall. Or she might not.

  “Come on, get down,” you say, keeping an eye on her. You reach out and grab Rafe’s leg. “We gotta go.”

  The woman pulls out her phone. Before you can react, she’s aimed it at you and Rafe. It’s clear she’s taken your picture.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Rafe says, finally seeing her. He jumps back onto the steps and onto the street. Together, you start to move away.

  You glance back as you reach the corner. The woman has stepped out of the crowd and has the phone up. She’s still aiming it at you as you start into a run, keeping your head down, your hair covering your profile. You need to get as far away from here as possible.

  You round the first corner and go south so you don’t have to wait for the light. Rafe is right behind you. When you look back she hasn’t followed, but you keep heading toward the subway.

  The sidewalks are full. People stare as you race past them. It must look like you’ve done something wrong, with your stained clothes, messy hair. You’re frantic. When you’re several blocks from the park, Rafe turns into a side alley and waits with you, hands on knees, drawing long, thin breaths.

  “Who was she? You’ve seen her before?” you ask.

  “No clue,” he says. “Maybe she thought we were someone else.”

  You laugh. “I like your optimism.”

  You go to the edge of the wall and peek out, scanning the street. An elderly couple is talking in front of their steps. A middle-aged man has just turned the corner and is walking toward you, holding his suit jacket over his arm. “We have to get out of here,” you say. “If they found Connor they must know about the meeting spot.”

  Rafe follows you down the block. You can see the subway entrance up ahead, the green globe atop a post. Beneath the grates, you hear a train coming.

  You’re thirty feet away when you notice a man behind you. He’s picked up speed, and his jacket looks clumsily placed, covering something in his right hand. “He has a gun,” you whisper to Rafe.

  A girl with a green stripe in her hair passes, pushing a double stroller. Rafe stares straight ahead, pretending he hasn’t heard what you told him. Then a woman turns the corner, walking toward you. She’s wearing a sweatshirt, sunglasses, and cargo pants. Her shoulder-length red hair spills out underneath her purple baseball cap. Her hand is on something attached to her belt.

  “The hunters. They’re here,” Rafe says, his voice low.

  “We need to draw them apart,” you say, knowing it’s only a matter of seconds before they’ve got you on both sides. “I’ll go into the subway, you cut through the park. Go east.”

  You take off toward the stairs as Rafe crosses the street. You realize a moment too late that you haven’t made a plan of where to meet up next. You want to call out to him, but it’s too dangerous. From the sound of his footsteps, you can tell that the man behind you has doubled his pace.

  The wind from the oncoming train rushes up the stairs, tangling your hair. You glance up once more before you’re underground. The woman is coming toward the subway stop.

  She notices Rafe but keeps going, heading toward you instead. You take the remaining stairs two at a time, landing hard at the bottom. The information booth is empty. You press your hands flat on both sides of the turnstile and sling your legs over.

  Just hearing the noise of the train, the screeching stop of the brakes, brings back the panic of the day you woke up. Your muscles tense up. As the train pulls into the station you run to the end of the platform.

  You can’t see the hunters—you hope they were slowed down at the turnstiles. You head for the back of the train. Behind the last car there’s a metal ledge just a foot deep. Three chains, waist-high, run across it. There’s just enough room for you to stand there, hiding behind the back door.

  This is a Brooklyn-bound C train. The next stop is One Hundred Third Street. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.

  You grab on to the chains and swing your leg over. You press yourself against the back door, duck beneath the window, and take a deep breath.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE TRAIN RUSHES forward, the platform disappearing from view. You don’t see the hunters in the station or coming down the stairs, but you know they were right behind you. They may have already made it onto the train.

  You grip the chains and peek through the square window into the last car. The hunter is at the opposite end of the subway car, his hand on the metal door that leads into the next compartment. Nothing about him looks familiar. His light blue dress shirt is tucked in, his dark brown hair is combed in place, the jacket still over his right arm. He looks to be in his thirties. He slides back the door and continues through the train.

  He’s searching for you.

  You pull the knapsack off and drop down, getting the knife that’s hidden in the bottom of it. No matter how many times you’ve washed it the handle is still stained with Goss’s blood, the brownish-red flecks dried into the grooves. You hold it in your hand. If both hunters made it on board it’ll be useless against two of them.

  As the train rolls into the next stop you stay completely still, wondering if the hunters will get off here.

  The next stop is Ninety-Sixth Street. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.

  When the train pulls back out, they aren’t on the platform. They’re still somewhere inside the cars. You stay pressed against the back of the subway car. Two more stops go past, then four. At each stop, you check the platform and they aren’t there. They’re still somewhere inside the train.

  They’ll find you if they keep looking. You grab the handle on the back door. It’s locked from the outside. When you look through the window again the female hunter is in the next car, and you catch a glimpse of her profile as she surveys the passengers. She ignores the young man reading his Kindle, and the mother who rolls a stroller back and forth, trying to soothe her baby. But as she pushes open the door to the next compartment, she looks back one last time. You duck down, but it’s too late. She’s seen you.

  The train barrels on into darkness. You crouch down, and pray for the pressure of the brakes, signaling the next stop. Another train rushes past, all sound and air, and you make yourself as small as you can, pressing into the cold metal platform. You’re expecting a bullet to come through the door at any second. If she has a silencer, she might aim directly in the center of it, expecting the train to cover any noise.

  Instead the door opens. She wedges the barrel of the gun into the gap and nearly gets her hand through before you jab it up, hoping you’ve broken her wrist. She winces in pain and pulls her hand back. You slide the door shut and press your sneaker against the handle to leverage it shut.

  You can feel her struggling against the door. You straighten your leg, putting all the weight of your body against the handle to keep it closed. Someone inside the car says something, and then there’s the welcome sound of brakes. The fluorescent light from the platform is a relief.

  This is Forty-Second Street.

  In the ten seconds between the train stopping and the doors opening, you tuck the knife back in your belt and climb over the chains. You jump the three feet to the platform. Before she’s even off the train you’re lost in the crowd.

  Someone is playing reggae music. The keyboard creates a strange, cheerful melody. When you get to the stairs you take them two at a time, flying past
people on their way up. A pack of tourists in Church of Bethlehem T-shirts. A homeless man with two carts behind him, piled high with plastic bags. Your legs are burning as you reach the top of the steps, but you take a deep breath and head toward one of the exits. A group is gathered around a steel-drum band. A dozen or so people have their cameras aimed at the singer. You shield your face, making sure there’s no record of you.

  You spot the female hunter first, emerging under a glittering sign that reads SUBWAY. You have a thirty-foot lead on her, but she’s coming in the same direction, moving down Forty-Second Street. There’s a movie theater, rows of restaurants—towering, cartoonish places with glowing marquees. It’ll draw attention, you know that, but you start into a sprint, betting you have a better chance of outrunning them than hiding.

  You head east, and within a few minutes you’re in Times Square. The area is packed. Every five feet someone is trying to hand you something. “Come to our restaurant, try our lunch special.” “Can I ask you a question about your hair?” “Do you like comedy?”

  When you’re close to the corner you glance back. She’s coming after you. She weaves in and around people, offering hurried, flustered apologies as she tries to catch up.

  You make a left down a wide street. There’s an alley up ahead. Before she turns the corner you tear down it, looking for a way into the back of a building. There’s a rusted fire escape behind a Dumpster. You grab the end of the ladder and climb to the third floor.

  Down on the street, you see her run past. She checks the alley, then moves on. You go up another story, then another, your palms burning from gripping the metal. When you reach the roof you’re exhausted. There’s a billboard advertising some financial group named LeMarc Brothers. You ease out behind the sign and let the heavy, spinning feeling of vertigo take you as you peer down.

  She’s stopped at the corner. From five stories up she’s just a shock of red hair, a purple cap. She paces, frantic. Even when the light changes she doesn’t go anywhere. It’s hard to tell if she’s on the phone, but one hand is up, her head tilted. She’s lost you. You’re about to sit back, to wait the rest of the hour out, when a man joins her from across the street.