by T. G. Ayer
No, I refuse to spend even a second thinking about the past.
The future is now and Gray is going to take all of it that she can get.
The bus slows and the engine grunts and rumbles, signaling the end of the line. I gather my things and pass my eyes over the people seated behind and in front. No one acknowledges me or even looks in my direction. Most people wouldn't appreciate being ignored. It is a sign of insignificance and these days nobody wants to be insignificant. Except for me, of course.
There is a spring in my step as I reach the stairs of the bus, and wait to alight into the warm Santa Barbara night. It's just before eight and despite the darkness the air is still heated from the day's hot sun. I take a deep breath and feel my muscles relax at last.
There is a long way to go yet but I feel as if I've finally put enough distance between myself and the past. The first thing on my list is dinner and then a place to stay.
Jumping off the bus, I head to a diner on the corner. I'm nervous and my eyes flick everywhere, the sparsely occupied tables, the waitress with a pen stuck behind her ear, the busboy slipping crumbs off a dirty table with a wet rag. My stomach tightens and my suspicion tells me that any one of them could be the one following me.
I want to laugh because logic implies I am being ridiculous. I'd just stepped off the bus. There is no way someone is already planted in Santa Barbara unless he could read my mind or see the future.
Still, I remain wary.
Everyone around me lived their lives in the normal world. It's such a joke, that a person can spend a lifetime without ever knowing the seedier side of life exists. But it happens.
And it happened to me. I'd gone years without seeing it, even when it lived right there in my apartment, sat at the dinner table with me, even slapped me around a few times. But my eyes are open now. It had taken a terror that I still ran from to open my eyes.
But now I know.
I order a burger and fries and an iced tea from the waitress and am thankful she isn't the over-friendly type. She has pleasant eyes, blue I think but these days you can never tell. People change their eye color like the color of their lipstick. I love burgers and now it totally hits the spot and I sit back, replete at last. I sigh, feeling my muscles begin to relax.
But I warn myself that it isn't over yet. I still have a few things to do before I can stop worrying, before I dare to stop running. I slide from the booth, the skin of my thighs smarting as I rip them off the old vinyl seat. The air-conditioning is humming but it's doing little in the heat of the building. Already I'm sticky, a drop of sweat making its way down my back, and I want to pull my hair up into a ponytail or find a beach to dive into.
But now, with the backs of my legs stinging, I fetch a newspaper from the ragged pile by the door, making sure it's today's. While I sip my cold tea, I scan the rentals praying I'll find something near the university.
I find four.
I've always been the kind of person to get things done straight away. Anthony always said it's OCD but I just think it means that I'm focused. Get it done, get it out of the way, on to the next task. That's the way I tackle life. So I tackle the rentals immediately, using the diner's pay-phone. The first two are already taken and I feel frustration and disappointment rise as I dial the third on automatic.
My luck's been shitty these past few years and it's probably stupid to hope, especially when Lady Luck seems to have taken a permanent vacation from her duty to me. But, I persist and stay on the line as the phone rings. An old man answers, Marcus something, and I take down the details, address, rent and deposit. I agree to meet him in half an hour, all the while keeping my fingers crossed.
Maybe Luck's vacation is over?
I forgo calling the fourth place and gather my stuff, leaving my payment on the table plus a small tip for the not-so-nosy waitress. Then I head out into the warm Santa Barbara night.
CHAPTER SIX
Watcher
I sit at the back of the bus, watching her as she stares out of the window. I'm irritable, grumpy even. The last few days I managed on barely an hour's sleep each night. Explains why my eyes are gritty and my mood shitty.
I mold my body into the seat as if it could swallow me whole just by that one action. The seats are covered in a weirdly patterned navy fabric, comfortable enough so you didn't get cranky after five minutes. Yeah, so I'd groaned when I saw her get onto the bus but my job was to tail her, no choice in it. I'd drifted past her to the backseat, kept my eyes off her face and headed for the shadowed rear of the bus to settle down and watch.
Black hair, dark makeup, tats. I'd seen her transform a few times before and I had to hand it to her. She knows what she is doing in the disguise department. Pity she's so far out of her league she might as well have a bulls-eye painted on her forehead. And she doesn't even know it.
Now I watch as she turns her head a little more to her right, tilts it at the afternoon sun. There is a desperation to the way she holds her shoulders. A familiar feeling. I am reluctantly impressed with her. Not every runaway manages to elude her family this well. I also see determination in the way she juts out her chin. That must be it. Desperation and determination; keys to a certain kind of success.
I know them well.
But she's slipped up somewhere, somehow.
I watch the beefy guy, two rows behind her. I watch him as he watches her. He'd followed her onto the bus, taking a seat a careful distance behind her. But my mind is now a hurricane of thoughts and possibilities. Was he sent by her family or did someone have a hit out on her? The other worry is how long has he been tailing her that I haven't noticed? I'd only spotted him at the bus station, but there was still the possibility that he'd only just swapped places with someone else. Someone who I hadn't noticed in all the time I'd been watching her.
The thought did not sit well with me. I made a mental not to check it out with my CO. For now I pay attention to the lowlife following Sara.
Boris Ivanoff. I know his face off by heart. Don't need to look at him to see the high forehead, thick nose, wide mouth, dead grey eyes. Boris is not known for his scintillating personality. I know he works for the highest bidder, and I know he won't hesitate to put a bullet in the back of her head right now if he has to.
Sure she isn't innocent, but given what she's done to help, she doesn't deserve death by assassination. Although that would probably be better than if Boris managed to get his meaty hands on her. The ugly Russian is known to get creative in his kills. I'm told he has a thing for pain.
Other people's pain.
My fingers have rolled into tight fists, so tight my knuckles are white. Now I stretch them wide, flex my hands, keeping my muscles limber just in case. I'll happily end his sorry life. All he has to do is make a move. Just one move.
But as I watch, he watches too.
He wears a Laker's cap, and a large Nike jacket zipped up in front despite the heat. Definitely packing and from what I know of Boris he usually packs a variety. All loaded, all silent, all deadly. I frown and wonder who'd hire him to babysit the girl. Her family could certainly do better than Karloff. But who knows what goes on in their heads anyway.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable in clothes I'm still wearing after more than two days. Watching isn't all it's cracked up to be but I had a special interest in the girl, so I endured the sweat-stained tee, the scratchy jeans, the body odor that even repeated swipes with deodorant doesn't hide, and whatever else came with twenty four hours a day, seven days a week surveillance.
Now I have two to watch. And the one thing I know more than anything else is that if Boris puts a foot wrong I won't hesitate to put a bullet in him. The girl, though, is a different story altogether.
I grit my teeth wondering when I'd gotten so soft. Just because she'd helped in one small way didn't mean she is entirely innocent.
She gets to her feet and Boris stiffens. My hand slides to my piece. It's in the holster, hidden well under my jacket, safety on, easy to draw an
d shoot if necessary, but I have to force myself to calm the hell down. She is going to the damned toilet. Unless she plans to launch herself out of a window the size of a paperback novel, she is safe enough.
I settle back, lifting the copy of Men's Health to my face and watch the toilet door. A little while later, and as expected, someone else left the toilet. Hot redhead, strappy sandals, summery dress so short that if she bent over you'd get an eyeful. Playful and cute. And she fit the part to a T. She slides into a seat behind Boris without making a sound and I watch, amused, wondering how he'll handle the mysterious disappearance of the sombre goth girl.
She opens a book and keeps her head down while the muscles in Boris' neck gradually tighten. The longer he waits for her to return the more tense he gets. At last he jerks to his feet and heads down the aisle, his barely contained frustration rolling off him in waves. For an assassin he lets his emotions get the better of him. Not a good move. He arrives at the toilet, slams the door open, his eyes flicking around the space to find it empty.
He pauses to look down the length of the bus and I'm positive he'll make her soon enough. Then he gets inside and closes the door. I snort. At least he's together enough to keep up the pretense.
I actually feel sorry for her. The ruse would have worked had Boris not been two rows behind her. Boris is a killer and he isn't dumb. He'd put it together soon enough. She is safe enough for now. I'm not planning on leaving her alone with him. Not even for a single second.
She is my ticket to Roshkov and I don't plan to let her slip through my fingers just because some dumb asshole can't keep his finger off the trigger. She means way too much to lose.
I settle in for the rest of the ride, keeping one on Red and the other on the stone-cold killer.
It's going to be a long ride.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gray
A million thoughts run through my head as I hurry through the tree-lined streets, checking the map every few minutes when I get to the next street light going from the map in my hand to the street names. The map flutters on a breeze, now much cooler than when I'd arrived. I stare at it, wanting to laugh. What a face palm moment.
What better way to get noticed than to use a freaking paper map? What am I thinking? My phone has GPS, it's new and untraceable. I should have used it instead of revealing to all and sundry how lame I am. I bite my lip and figure what the heck. Let people think I hail from some hick town in the middle of nowhere. And hopefully nobody's watching anyways since it's dark out.
My heart thuds as I take the corner and catch a glimpse of a row of neat little two-story houses. It thuds even harder when I notice how close the place is to the university campus. Virtually on the doorstep. My stomach tightens as I wonder if it's possible that I could be so lucky.
I reach the address and look up at the house. Then the suspicious part of my brain kicks in. What if the old man is dangerous, what if he takes advantage of the fact that I'm alone? What if the other renters in the building are creepy?
Shaking the paranoia from my mind, I smooth my hair down nervously as I walk to the glass paneled door. I'd removed the wig and brushed my hair out in the diner's ladies room. Hard to keep up the red hair pretense if I intend to have a normal and relaxed life.
I knock and wait, glancing around me just in case. No answer. I knock again, wait longer and just when I'm sure nobody is home and I'm turning to leave I hear shuffling. Scrape, shuffle, scrape, shuffle. I wait and listen, and at last the door opens to reveal the face of an old man who reminds me far too much of Albert Einstein, right down to the shock of unruly white hair and the wrinkles lining his face.
"Hello. You here for the room?" he asks, squinting at me, lifting his chin so I can see the hair in his nostrils were gray too.
"Yes, my name is Gray." I struggle not to laugh. So much gray and now he has me as well.
"Good, good. I'm Marcus Wright. Come along and tell me what you think. Oh, and you'd better be quick about it too or someone else will snatch it up faster than you can blink."
I nod but he's gone ahead, leading the way and sees nothing. I follow in silence, studying gleaming wooden banisters and polished floors. The house seems out of place in Santa Barbara but what do I know? The old man heads up one floor, shuffling slowly up each riser. His back has a strange curve to it and I wonder how he ever gets comfortable. At the top of the stairs he heads left to the first door and bends to stick a key in the lock.
His hands are large and wide, speckled with dark liver spots. At one time he would have been a strong man. Now his fingers quiver and my hands itch to take over and give him a rest, but I swallow the urge and force myself to pay attention even as the excitement rises within me. "I only just put the ad out today." His voice is shaky as if the tremors from his hands had migrated to his throat.
"Has there been any interest?" I ask hesitantly, but what I really mean is did I have any competition for the place.
The shivering key finally finds the lock and slips in, clicking as he turns it. "A fair amount but too many of them couldn't make it to see the place today. They're all coming tomorrow so if you like it, it's yours." His voice is raspy as he sucks the air into his ancient lungs.
He pushes the door open and waves me inside. "Look around and tell me if you like it."
I know I'm not about to be fussy. A place to live that was decent, that's all I ask for. Just something without roaches threatening to take over, or crawl into bed with me at night. But I keep silent and enter the apartment. There's a tiny hall with an equally tiny hall table on the left wall. A small galley kitchen is to my right, complete with dishwasher, washing machine and dryer. Awesome.
The hall leads into a nice open plan living area. On the far right, beyond the kitchen are three doors.
"There's two rooms but you can't sublet without my permission," he says from the doorway, squinting at me.
I shake my head "I don't intend to share with anyone," I say softly and realize it's probably what all the kids say. When I see his expression it's clear that's what he is thinking.
"Oh, and you are allowed visitors, just don't get too loud," he says, the smirk on his wrinkled face making me want to laugh. Dirty old man. But then he is probably used to the college scene by now if he let rooms out to kids.
I don't bother to answer, figuring he won't listen anyway. I check the rooms, each sparsely furnished with minimal bedding. One room has an ensuite and as I peek inside I hear Marcus say, "There is another bathroom down the hall."
He's out of breath now, and he walks to the couch nearest to him. He sinks in, his face revealing the same relief that his sigh does.
I'm done looking so I face him and smile. "I'll take it," I say as I drop my backpack onto the barstool nearest to me.
"You'd be stupid not to," he says, a little impatiently, his bushy grey eyebrows waggling. My smile falters at his mood but I remind myself that this can't be all that easy for him. He looks too old to be a building manager.
"Okay, so the deposit," I say as I begin to dig inside my backpack.
He waves a hand and grunts and pushes himself off the sofa. "You get settled and you can give it to me in the morning. I'll have cash if you don't mind. All these kids keep asking to direct deposit. I don't have the time or the patience for this newfangled crap. It's apartment 1A by the front door. Just put it under the door."
With that he walks to the kitchen drops the keys on the counter and heads out of the apartment closing the door behind him. But I find I'm unaffected by his crotchety mood.
The knowledge that I have a place to stay is exhilarating. I stare around the room and grin, knowing I probably look clownish. Moonlight is streaming in through the windows in the living room. A glance into the large bedroom, and its west-facing window tells me it gets the late afternoon sun. Perfect, since I am so not a morning person.
I head to the front door, put on the chain and lock it. There is no deadbolt but somehow I'm okay with that. Satisfied I'm locked up tight f
or the night, I wander slowly around the apartment, the silly smile still pasted on my face. I grab my backpack and take it to the main bedroom. Dump it on the bed, I begin to unpack my meager belongings. The promise of a shower teases my senses but there are a couple things I need to do first. The passport and ID's and my other stuff need a safe hiding place within the apartment.
I give my watch a quick glance. It's almost nine and I'd need to get moving if I intended to go to the grocery store. Hurrying back into the living room I begin my search. There is a small bookshelf that stands between the lounge and dining room windows. It's high legs and generous space beneath it is just perfect. I kneel and feel my way along the floor, pressing as I go.
One board gives a little and I almost whoop with excitement. I'd learned long ago that hiding things under floorboards don't work well if people can walk over it and feel it's loose. Now, my hiding places are more along the lines of inside walls and under well-placed furniture, like sofas and, of course, bookshelves.
A part of me is filled with a hollow sadness. When will I ever see the day when I don't need a hiding place? When will I ever see the day when I don't have to hide?
I shake the negativity off. I have so much to be thankful for. It seems like I'm in the clear, I've reached Santa Barbara and I have a decent place to stay. Scratch that. I have a wonderful place to stay. I'd made it in time for the late September registrations and I planned on signing on at the campus and get on with my new life.
Before I'd run I'd made sure to fetch all my paperwork. I wasn't the best at forgery but I used what I had at my disposal. I'd attended a school called F. Hunter High School for a year before enrolling at Highbrooke Senior High. I still had my paperwork from F. Hunter and was, with some imaginative cutting and pasting, able to forge the final year results and other paperwork including my letter of recommendation.