The Blazing Bridge

by Carter Roy

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Dawkins replied. “And that is what terrifies me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  HOME IS WHERE THE HURT IS

  Sammy was the first to notice the change in the light. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  The inside of the car had filled with a soft orange glow, and when we looked out the window, the night was gone and the sky had turned tangerine.

  “It’s that artist,” Diz said, waving her hand at the world outside the windshield. “Krisco. He’s wrapping up the Brooklyn Bridge in silk.”

  “But why is this Krisco guy covering up the bridge?” I asked. The silk stretched in solid, carrot-colored panels from below the roadway all the way up to the suspension cables. Even the stone support towers had been wrapped up. The only uncovered thing was the three-lane roadway. I couldn’t see the city, the East River, or the traffic going the other way—just orange and more orange everywhere I looked.

  “Does there have to be a reason?” Diz asked. “I think it looks kind of cool.”

  “What about the Manhattan side?” I asked. “That half of the bridge was normal. Isn’t that part of the art project?”

  “The artwork isn’t finished yet,” Diz said. “I guess it takes a long time to wrap up an entire bridge.”

  “And a lot of silk,” I said.

  “How is wrapping something up art?” Sammy asked.

  Normally, this was the sort of question that would unlock the know-it-all nerd within Greta and get her talking, but her mind must have been on her mom. She didn’t even acknowledge Sammy’s question, just quietly stared out the window.

  Sammy shook his head. “I mean, I could wrap up things—and do a better job. Look at that raggedy stuff dangling down behind us!”

  I looked back. Along the unfinished edge of the project, loose panels of silk fluttered in the wind.

  Art or not, I was glad to be on the Brooklyn Bridge. Even wrapped in pumpkin-colored silk, it was unmistakable. It looked like the gateway to my old neighborhood, like a giant signpost the world had put up to let me know that I was coming home at last.

  Dawkins had been quiet the whole time we were crossing the bridge. Now, as we came off the end of it, he muttered, “We’ve overlooked something.”

  “The artwork?” I asked, looking back over my shoulder. “Is there more to it?”

  “No, no—forget the orange silk; that’s not important. I want to solve this puzzle. What are so many of the Bend Sinister doing here? First, we need to identify the pieces. Ronan, you’ll recall that Ms. Hand and her team were only one of several pursuing you and your mother last spring.”

  “That’s true,” I said, remembering that strange day in Stanhope when my mother picked me up from school and forever changed my life. “There were probably three or four groups after us.”

  “Far more than necessary to capture a thirteen-year-old boy. But not if the Bend Sinister were already in the area. So that’s one piece of the puzzle: they were here for some other reason.”

  “And Ms. Hand was hauling weapons,” Greta said, suddenly snapping back to attention. “Lots of guns, with Tesla modifications.” During our escape, Greta and I had dumped a crate full of their weapons into a river.

  “That’s the second piece,” Dawkins said, raising two fingers. “They were bringing armaments to someone. Probably in this very city. For what purpose?”

  Diz turned the cab down my old street. We passed the space where my family’s brownstone used to be, but there was nothing to see—just shadow and a patch of stars between the buildings on either side.

  “And then Truelove”—Dawkins glanced back at me—“sorry, Ronan. And then Truelove actually brought the Pure soul he’d captured to Agatha Glass’ estate. Why? That’s hardly a sensible thing to do with such a valuable prize. We’ll call that action the third puzzle piece.”

  I thought about my recurring nightmare. Was that one of the puzzle pieces, too?

  Greta sighed. “And what about how the Bend Sinister knew we were coming—they were waiting at the heliport. So they must know we’re going to my mom’s house.”

  Dawkins faced her. “Greta, that would be my conclusion, too, but there’s one thing those agents said that gives me hope.”

  “The stuff about my dad,” I said.

  “Precisely. It sounds as though Mr. Truelove is on the outs with his old cronies.”

  “Which could mean,” I finished, “that the Bend Sinister don’t know that Greta is helping the Blood Guard, and they might not be going after her mom.”

  “I think it’s time I call her,” Greta said. “You said once we got close, and we’re almost there.”

  “After that welcoming party at the heliport, we can’t risk it. If the Bend Sinister are laying a trap, then they will have tapped her phone.” Dawkins said. “For safety’s sake, it is best we just show up and spirit her away.”

  “This is my mom, Jack,” Greta said, her voice gravelly. “She’s not like Ronan’s mom, and she’s not like my dad. She’s just a regular person.”

  Dawkins reached back and rested a hand on Greta’s shoulder. “Nothing bad will happen to her, Greta. I give you my word.” He faced forward again and whispered to Diz, “Hurry.”

  Diz turned down the street before Greta’s, scanning the sidewalks with her modified sunglasses, making sure no agents were lurking in the neighborhood. We rolled past a pair of familiar half-white, half-green globe lampposts—a staircase into the subway.

  After circling around for a good five minutes, Diz finally took us down Greta’s old street. “There’s not a soul out that I can see,” Diz said. She stopped the cab alongside a line of parked cars. “We’re sitting ducks, double-parked like this in front of the house, so make it snappy. I’ll cover you from the street.”

  “Here we are, Greta,” Dawkins said. “Home sweet home.”

  I looked out at Greta’s house. She and I hadn’t been friends when I lived in Brooklyn, but a kid I knew from the ILZ gamer boards lived near the corner, and I’d walk past Greta’s on the way to his place. The Sustermanns lived in a brownstone, like the one my family had, but theirs just looked happier somehow. Her mom or dad had built a lush little garden in the front yard, with a bench and a fountain in the corner, and there were flowerboxes on the windowsills, and all sorts of little touches that said home. Like the white light glowing over the porch now.

  As I stared at it, the light blinked off, plunging the front of the house into darkness.

  “That was … unexpected,” Dawkins said, wrapping his right hand around the hilt of his sword.

  “Very.” Diz studied the house and yard. “But I don’t see anything amiss. Maybe she’s going to bed early?”

  “What do you think, Greta?” Dawkins turned in his seat, that crazy smile of his on his face. “Is your mum the sort to turn in at nine—hey now, what’s that for?”

  None of us had noticed that Greta had silently been crying. Diz handed back a fistful of tissues, and Greta wiped her face and blew her nose. “I’m not sad,” she said. “Really. I’m just … I really missed my mom.” She hiccupped a laugh. “I sort of didn’t believe I’d ever see her again.”

  “Well, you won’t if you just sit here bawling,” Dawkins said, opening his door. “Pull yourself together. It’s time for your homecoming.”

  Greta’s house wasn’t all that nice anymore.

  It almost looked like no one lived there. In the dim light of the streetlamp, I could see that the plants were all dry and dead looking. The fountain was still noisily burbling, but even it looked pretty gross—mossy and green and overflowing because the basin was clogged or something.

  Greta frowned. “It’s not like my mom to let her plants die. Unless she was really depressed.”

  “Maybe she had a busy summer,” Dawkins replied quietly. “Me, I’ve never been able to keep a plant alive for longer than an hour or two.”

  We followed Greta from the gate along a stone path, past the basement stairs, and silen
tly climbed the flight of steps that led up to the now-dark front door.

  Sammy and I waited to one side behind Dawkins, while Greta stretched her finger toward the doorbell button. “Feels weird to ring the bell at my own house.”

  “You don’t have a key?” Sammy asked.

  “Sure,” Greta said. “I mean, I did, but I left it back in Wilson Peak along with the rest of my stuff.”

  “Probably buried in ash and burnt trees,” Sammy said.

  “Probably,” Greta agreed.

  “Bummer,” I said. Even though I’d hated spending my summer in the ghost town of Wilson Peak, training with Sammy and Greta to join the Blood Guard, I still felt a pang thinking about how the Bend Sinister had burned the place to the ground.

  I listened to the water splash in the fountain below us, wary all of a sudden. It had been stupid for all of us to come up the stairs; Sammy and I should have stayed in the cab with Diz. And I should have brought a weapon, too. Up on these stone steps, ten feet above the ground, we could be trapped.

  Greta pressed the bell. A pleasant chiming came from inside. But no lights turned on, and no one came to the door.

  “Let me have a look.” Dawkins gently pushed Greta aside, pressed his face against the glass of the door, and peered inside. “I don’t see any sign of your mum or of struggle. Still, you can never be too safe.” He drew his sword.

  We were all watching Dawkins—which is why none of us noticed the person behind us until it was too late.

  A figure in a black hoodie rushed up the stairs, shoved Dawkins against the door, rammed the muzzle of a pistol into the back of his skull, and growled, “Drop the sword or I’ll kill you.”

  “Mom?” Greta said. “Mom, it’s me! These are my friends!”

  The figure stepped back, still pointing the gun at Dawkins, and with her other hand pulled back her hood. Underneath was a face I knew: Greta’s mother, but somehow looking a lot different than the last time I’d seen her. The long blond hair was gone; it was jaw length now, and she’d lost a lot of weight. She’d always been about the same height as her daughter, but now she was skinny like her, too—on the dark porch, they almost looked like sisters.

  “Greta?” she whispered, staring at her. She cast quick glances at me, Sammy, and Dawkins, and the unsheathed sword in his hand. “You’re supposed to be in witness protection. What are you doing here?”

  But that was all she managed to get out before Greta crushed her in a fierce hug.

  Her mom hugged her right back while the rest of us just stood there awkwardly watching. I looked away—down the stone steps and over the little fence at Diz’s taxi idling on the street. The cab’s flat screens glowed with an advertisement for M: The Musical. But other than Diz, there were no cars driving by, no people on the sidewalks, no Bend Sinister agents, and no sign of my dad. We’d been worrying ourselves sick over nothing.

  Greta made a sobbing noise. “I missed you so much.”

  “Oh, Greta,” her mom mumbled into her shoulder. She stopped and held Greta at arm’s length. “I’m thrilled you came home, but is it safe? Did they lock up the criminals who were after you and your dad?”

  We’d been so preoccupied with how we’d explain the Blood Guard to Mrs. Sustermann that we completely forgot about the phony story Greta’s dad had told her—that he and Greta had been placed in witness protection by the FBI because of threats of violence from a bunch of gangsters. No wonder she was sneaking around in the dark and pulling pistols on people.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Greta said, wrinkling her brow. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “I’m sure it’s a good story,” Mrs. Sustermann said, wagging the pistol at the front door. “Come on inside.”

  “Please stop waving that around,” Dawkins said, pushing the muzzle toward the ground.

  “Oh, this fake thing.” Mrs. Sustermann dropped it onto the dirty welcome mat. “It’s just a paperweight.” She dug around in her pocket for her keys. “I don’t like guns, but what with Gaspar and Greta in witness protection, and then that cab idling there for so long, I needed some way to defend myself.” She looked at Dawkins and raised an eyebrow. “What’s the sword for?”

  “Stabbing and slashing, mostly,” he said, raising it up, then guiding it back into his scabbard.

  “Wouldn’t be much help against a gun,” Mrs. Sustermann said.

  “You’d be surprised.” Dawkins broke out into a huge smile. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs. Sustermann. My name is Jack Dawkins, and we are here on an urgent matter. We need you to immediately—”

  “Hello, Ronan,” Mrs. Sustermann interrupted, frowning at me. “Surprised to see you here. I suppose you’re in witness protection, too?”

  “Um, no,” I said.

  “None of us are in witness protection,” Greta said.

  “So your father lied.”

  “Dad didn’t exactly lie,” Greta said. “It’s complicated.”

  “I bet,” said her mom.

  “Please, Mrs. Sustermann,” Dawkins said, stepping in front of her. “As I was saying, I am working with your husband, Gaspar. He sent us to fetch you to join him and your daughter, as Brooklyn is no longer safe.”

  Mrs. Sustermann unlocked the door. “You can tell me all about it over coffee.”

  “Alas,” Dawkins said, taking her elbow, “there’s no time. We will collect your things later, when it’s less dangerous.”

  Mrs. Sustermann swept her arm out at the nighttime street. “Do you see any threats out there? I don’t—aside from that cab you four came here in.”

  “The danger isn’t one you’ll see coming,” Dawkins said.

  Greta grabbed her mother’s hand. “Jack’s telling the truth. He’s my friend, and Dad’s friend, and you have to trust him.”

  “We really must go right away,” Dawkins said.

  Mrs. Sustermann stared at him, smiled at Greta, and said, “Okay.” Then she opened the door, reached in to grab her purse, and made some kissing noises. A gray-and-white cat trotted out of the shadows. It was wearing a chunky jeweled collar that didn’t really match up with anything I knew about Mrs. Sustermann—but then, people and their cats are something I’ve never understood.

  “Come on, Grendel,” Mrs. Sustermann said, scooping the cat up and slinging him over her shoulder. “We’re going for a little ride.”

  “Hi, Grendel!” Greta said, reaching forward and scratching the fur on either side of his snout. He purred. “I’ve missed you, little man!”

  The cat pressed his head into her hand.

  “Must we bring the cat?” Dawkins asked, hooking the collar with his pinkie and examining it.

  “You have the Dobermans,” Greta said. “Why shouldn’t we have Grendel?”

  “Fair enough,” Dawkins said, nodding. “We can’t leave behind family members, even when they’re animals. Grab the animal’s carrying case and let’s go.”

  “Oh, Grendel can’t be caged,” Mrs. Sustermann said. “He’s a free spirit.”

  “Of course he is,” Dawkins said, sighing. “Please: we really are in a hurry.”

  Greta and her mom descended the steps, followed by me and Sammy. Dawkins brought up the rear, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  As we closed the front gate, Diz suddenly stepped on the gas. The taxi rocketed away.

  “There’s your danger,” Mrs. Sustermann said, clucking her tongue. “New York taxi drivers.”

  “Where’s she going?” Sammy asked.

  “Oh, for the love of all that’s good,” Dawkins said, dragging us down behind a parked van. “She must have spotted a threat.” At the far end of the street, the taxi braked hard and spun sideways, blocking the road.

  But nothing happened. The cab just sat like that, the advertisements playing brightly across the flat screens on the doors and top.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s th—” I started to say when two black SUVs pulled to a halt on the other side of the cab. I didn’t need to look thro
ugh a Verity Glass to know who was driving.

  Dawkins’ sword scraped loose from its scabbard. “The Bend Sinister.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE DOOR BETWEEN WORLDS

  With a deafening whuuuuuup! Diz’s cab exploded into light.

  The burst was so dazzlingly bright that I fell back on my butt and blinked for a second before I could see again. “Did she— Is she—?”

  “Did her cab just blow up?” Sammy asked.

  “Not a chance,” Dawkins said. “Diz is not one for that whole kamikaze thing. No, that was a strategic overload of those flat screen panels on her cab—doubtless one of the defense mechanisms she installed.”

  “Why would a cab do that?” Mrs. Sustermann asked, rising up for a better look.

  Dawkins yanked her back down. “That blast of light and sound was an attempt to incapacitate our enemies and buy us time to escape.” He took our hands and linked them together. “Everyone stay behind these parked cars. If we can get away without being seen, they may think we’re still in the house.” Bent low, he swiftly led us along the sidewalk away from Greta’s house.

  “The subway!” Greta said. “It’s on the next block over! We can get there easy.”

  Dawkins suddenly raised his arms. We stopped behind a parked pickup truck.

  “Two more vehicles. One there on that corner—” He pointed at a dark red SUV illegally idling in front of a fire hydrant. Shadowy figures sat inside it. “And a second, farther down the street.” Another SUV, with another three figures inside. “I’m afraid we’re surrounded. There may be no way out but to fight.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, recognizing the house to our left. “Just follow me. And be nice.”

  ArmaGideon opened the basement door himself. It’s where his console games were set up, and I figured he’d be there like usual. He was a big kid but not in a way anyone would find threatening; he was just a little overweight. He was wearing a Fallout T-shirt and shorts and holding a wad of bills.

  “DorkLord?” he said. “I mean, Ronan—Ronan Truelove?” I almost laughed at the look on his face—that whole dropped-jaw, wide-eyes expression that you never believe happens in real life until someone does it in front of you. “You totally vanished, dude—not just from ILZ but from school and the neighborhood, too!”