Incognita

by Kristen Lippert-Martin

  Since I’d have to shout to be heard over the noise, I don’t say anything to Thomas. I just nudge him and then nod toward the far left wall, where there’s a row of orange and red lockers. The red is the same color as the barrel attached to the locker key.

  Thomas follows my gaze, then leans close to talk in my ear. “Stay here while I go find the locker.”

  “No thanks. Stop trying to protect me.”

  “I’m not. I want you to stay clear in the event someone jumps me and I need you to come to my aid. Keep your eyes on me the whole time.”

  I use two fingers to point at my eyes and then at him. “Like a hawk.”

  “A very sexy hawk.”

  He gives me a quick peck on the cheek and then heads toward the lockers, dodging rowdy patrons and waitresses with trays full of beer and fries.

  I find a bench next to a rack of fluorescent loaner balls, sit down, and watch Thomas from across the room. Turns out I’m not the only person watching Thomas because the moment he finds the right locker and opens it up, two guys emerge from the VIP section. They take long, purposeful strides toward Thomas.

  Before I can make my way over to them, they’re escorting Thomas away from the lockers, back toward the VIP area.

  Thomas does not look my way. I take that as a sign that he doesn’t want to draw attention to my presence or have me get involved. I also take it as a sign that he doesn’t know me very well.

  They lead Thomas into the roped-off area and force him to sit down between two huge guys whose thin hair, hulking arms, and spotty skin say “steroids.”

  I march over, unhook the rope, and barge into the VIP section. “Hello.”

  Everyone—Thomas included—looks up at me in irritated surprise.

  “Hey, honey. These nice gentlemen have invited me to bowl with them,” Thomas says.

  I scan the group surrounding Thomas. There are eight guys—some young, some old—all similarly slouched into a U-shaped booth next to the VIP lanes. These “nice gentlemen” certainly don’t look happy to see me. The ball return spits out a couple of balls, one of which says THE ENFORCER.

  “Guys, this is my girlfriend,” Thomas says and then fake whispers while rolling his eyes. “She keeps me on a short leash, you know?”

  I cross my arms. Of all the ruses he might have chosen, “possessive girlfriend” is what I have to work with now?

  Okay then. Here goes.

  “Where have you been? You said you were going out with your friends! Who even are these guys? What’s going on?”

  “Sit down and have some cheese fries, honey,” Thomas says. “This will just take a few minutes to sort out.”

  As I sit down, the guy closest to Thomas, who smells like a barrel of cologne, pulls an empty syringe out of his pocket.

  Crap. We’ve gone to all this trouble just to retrieve an empty syringe? I try not to show my disappointment and confusion.

  “So,” Cologne Guy says to Thomas, “you’re the third guy tonight we saw messing with that same locker. You buying or selling?”

  Thomas does a good job of pretending to look both guilty and flustered. “You guys aren’t undercover cops or something, right?”

  The guys all titter in a manly, menacing way. “No worries there, son.”

  “Okay, then fine. I’m buying. Guy told me on the phone where to come to make the pickup. That’s all I know.”

  “Good for you. ’Cause if you were selling then we were going to have a problem.”

  I put my hand to my heart, near the point of fainting. “Thomas! How could you?”

  “Take it easy, baby,” says Thomas. He looks back at his new buddies. “So . . . we’re cool?”

  “Yeah, no harm, no foul. When we saw you go for that locker, we thought you were one of those idiots—Jimmy, what are their names again?”

  Jimmy answers with a very communicative shrug.

  Another guy blurts the answer out like he’s on a game show. “Radical Pacifists!”

  “Yeah. That’s it. They hang out here a lot lately. They said they were all about their political cause, but I guess they’re thinking about moving in on our territory. Bunch of losers and rotten bowlers on top of that.”

  Thomas gives a laugh and urges me to do the same by elbowing me in the ribs. I manage one “ha!” before the mood changes, and Cologne Guy again puts his arm around Thomas’s shoulders.

  “Nice suit,” he says to Thomas as he touches the silk edge of Thomas’s lapel.

  “Thanks.”

  “Looks like you got some money to spend.”

  Thomas shrugs.

  Cologne Guy rolls the syringe between his fingers like it’s a cigar. “If you’re looking for some fun, you’ll need to deal with us. Those other jokers will be taking their business elsewhere. We’re gonna have a little talk with them next time they’re here. Right, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy makes a face that makes me think he will gladly rise to the occasion of teaching someone a lesson.

  “Hold on,” I say. “You just said these Radical Pacifist guys claim to be focused on a political cause, not on—um—whatever your business is. Are they some kind of,” I whisper the words, “terrorist group?”

  Cologne Guy responds with a patronizing chuckle. “Who knows what their deal is? We don’t like getting involved in politics, you know?” Cologne Guy turns back to Thomas. “How much you pay for this empty syringe?”

  Thomas runs his hand through his hair. “Fifty bucks.”

  “Shame. You paid good money and they cheated you, but that’s what happens when you’re dealing with clowns rather than professionals. Next time, buy from people you trust. You got it?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Can I hook you up with anything? What you in the mood for tonight?”

  I sense it’s time to end this conversation. “Ugh!” I burst out, flipping back into character. “Take me home right this minute.”

  Thomas stands up. “You know, actually this whole experience has made me see the error of my ways. I think I’ll just, you know, stay away from that stuff from now on.”

  “Good luck,” the guy says, clapping Thomas on the shoulder as he nods toward me. “And if you talk to those Pacifist guys again, you tell them we need to have a chat.”

  “I will. Sorry for the, uh, mix-up.”

  “No problem.” Cologne Guy winks at him and then cracks his knuckles. “This time.”

  Thomas puts his arm around my waist, and I let him whisk me past the velvet rope out the front door. I want to stop once we’re outside, but Thomas keeps walking up the block until we’re back at the van. Then he starts shaking his head.

  “So much for getting the upper hand,” he says. “Somebody got to the locker before we did and emptied the syringe. Whoever’s behind this—they must have hustled over here as soon as they realized I’d escaped with the key.”

  “But how could they have known you’d actually be able to find this place?”

  “Obviously they have great faith in my intelligence. Justifiably so.”

  “You seem awfully cheerful about this.”

  “At least we’ve got a lead now.”

  I nod. “The Radical Pacifists. Your kidnappers. And the same group Mikey mentioned earlier.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy,” Thomas warns.

  “Not necessarily,” I agree. “But it does mean he’s somehow connected to what’s going on, even if we don’t know how. And that could be useful to us.”

  Thomas jumps into the passenger side of the van and starts pecking the keys of the laptop. “I’m still putting more faith in the Internet than in Mikey. Time to get in touch with these guys. Push comes to shove, I can fake some data to upload in exchange for the antidote.”

  “And how are you going to figure out how to contact them?”

  He shrugs. “These guys, they’re all the same. I can find them.”

  I say casually, “Sure. It’s easy to find anonymous bad guys on the Internet. How silly of me.”r />
  “You just have to know where to go. Which I do. Tracing these kinds of people is like placing a personal ad bulletin board where only a very small group of people will see, and they’ll know that it’s you and your beautiful green eyes they saw last week on the F train.”

  “This isn’t funny, Thomas.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “Yeah, I’m drawing a blank on that too. Even if you figure out how to reach them, you don’t even know what data they want, so how can you fake it?”

  The sheepish look he gives me tells me all I need to know.

  “They are after the Velocius information, aren’t they?”

  His gaze drops away, which is an admission as loud and clear as if he’d just shouted “I’ve been holding out on you, Angel.” I try not to show how outraged I am. There’s not much point in losing my temper now. But this sucks. Not being able to trust the one person who’s ever completely earned my trust completely sucks.

  “Angel . . .”

  “What’s your real last name?” I ask abruptly.

  He gives me a blank look. “You know what my last name is.”

  “I thought I did. But we tried to look up your name when we were tracking the ankle transmitter. There was no one listed by that name.”

  “So you think I lied to you? Seriously? Why would I even do that?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Angel, you can do any basic Internet search for my parents and confirm their surname.”

  He’s right, of course. I can just feel how paranoid I must sound. “Then why wasn’t your name in the security company’s system?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe because I’m a minor? Or maybe . . .”

  Before Thomas can say more, I hear panicked shouts coming from the direction of the amusement park.

  Someone nearby yells, “Look! The Banshee tower!”

  A moment later, several other people are screaming and pointing and I’m hearing, “Call 9-1-1!” interspersed with, “He’s gonna jump!”

  My eyes dart to the top of the ride. I see a figure at the very top—hardly more than a human-shaped shadow, only slightly darker than the night. But I know who it is.

  I immediately start toward the park entrance. Thomas takes me by my arm. “Angel, hold up. You’re not really a cop, you know. You don’t have to respond.”

  “Yes, I do! That’s Mikey up there!”

  Chapter 12

  I run up the block, Thomas trailing behind me, and push through the crowd of agitated people milling around, not sure if they want to watch or look away. Thomas and I take advantage of everyone’s distraction to jump the turnstiles and get inside. The Banshee is right next to the fence, right across from the Cyclone. There’s a piece of clothing lying on the ground nearby. I grab it and see the silver name tag face up: V. ABRAMS.

  I can see exactly how Mikey got up on the tower. Sure, there’s a gate. Yes, there’s a fence—a good one, too, with that kind of top that angles inward. That type of fence is supposed to be extra hard to get over.

  It’s not.

  I search for a few handholds where I can balance a moment to pull myself up and over. Once I glance at these kinds of barriers, all I see are ways to get myself past them. I must have done these calculations hundreds of times.

  I climb and pull and strain my way up. Two climbs tonight. My hands are raw. Worse, I’m feeling another surge of memory take over my body. Damn.

  What I’m remembering doesn’t even make sense. This memory is so . . . sweet?

  “Come over here, honey, I want to give you a hug.”

  That voice belonged to Mrs. Claymore—Sarah Claymore, my grandmother, though I didn’t know it at the time. I’d gone to the nursing home where she was living, hoping to find a chink in the Claymore armor, anything I could use against Erskine Claymore. Instead I’d found this kind old lady. She doesn’t know what’s going on right now, but she sure seems to remember things from long ago like they were yesterday.

  I take a step back. I really don’t want a hug. From her or anyone else. I’m pretty sure my hugging days are over.

  “You’re so kind,” she says.

  “It’s no big deal. I just, you know, saw them and thought you might like them.”

  Is that the truth?

  Yeah, I think it really is that simple. I sought Mrs. Claymore out because I thought she was someone who could give me answers, but by now I know she can’t tell me anything useful that I could use against her husband. And yet I still come. And there’s something about her that won’t allow me to be anything but respectful and gentle.

  I feel sorry for her.

  Imagine that. After all I’ve lost, here I am feeling sorry for Sarah Claymore. She has to be one of the richest women in the country. Maybe even the world.

  And here she is, so ecstatic over such a small gift. I brought her a lousy box of cheap chocolates. I bought them because they came in this box that was shaped like a house, yellow with a red door. Mrs. Claymore had described her childhood home to me, and I was just walking down the street and happened to notice this box of chocolates in a store window and was like, Wow, that box looks a lot like what she described. I bought them on impulse, just because I was struck by the coincidence.

  And now she’s thanking me like I’ve actually brought her the house itself. Like I’ve given her something no one else could.

  “Funny how the small things make you remember the big things,” she says. Her voice is sad and somehow a little angry. “Do you ever wish you could get a fresh start?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “There are so many things I would do over, my dear. So many. Don’t let it happen to you.”

  And then she starts crying and I don’t know what to say or do. I don’t even know how to handle my own tears when they ambush me—how am I supposed to comfort this rich lady?

  This rich lady I feel so sorry for.

  We cry for the things we’ve lost in exactly the same way.

  I want to scream. I feel like I’m remembering important moments, but I have no idea what makes them meaningful. It’s almost like I’m hitting the outer rings of a target but never the bull’s-eye. Last time I climbed, I thought of a person whose name and face I can’t recall but who I know had something to do with my arrest, and now—now I get Sarah Claymore, who’s still locked away in some luxury nursing home, somewhere in Manhattan. And no doubt the keys to her prison are still dangling from Erskine Claymore’s keychain.

  Fortunately, even though these memories have overtaken my mind, my body has just carried on out of habit, climbing and climbing, finding a way up. Now I’m at the top of the ride. With Mikey. This Banshee is just like the tower cranes I used to climb. It sways with every gust of wind. I feel like I’m on a boat, trying not to lose my balance.

  Mikey leans forward and back again, holding onto the bars on either side of him. He looks almost as if he’s swinging between the opposing points of a pendulum—only those two points are Live and Die. The way his arms and shoulders are tensing each time he pushes himself forward, I have the impression that he’s fighting with himself, like he’s testing which urge inside him is stronger.

  I’m not happy to be up here with him, and I don’t know why life keeps asking of me what I don’t want to give. But maybe that’s what it does with everyone and I shouldn’t take it so personally.

  “Mikey,” I say gently.

  “You shouldn’t be up here.”

  “Neither should you. Come on back down with me.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. For you or for me.”

  “You don’t really want to be up here at all,” I say.

  “What do you know about me?” He turns his head and makes eye contact. This is good. I’m going to use that eye contact like it’s a lifeline. I’m going to pull him back with it.

  “There was a time I didn’t think I wanted to live anymore either,” I say, inching
closer to him. “They did something to you in that hospital, and maybe now you get these thoughts that scare you or make you think you deserve what happened, but the way you’re looking at me right now, this is the guy I think you are deep down. And I think that guy deserves another chance. I think that guy deserves to live.”

  I can almost touch him, but if I make a quick grab for his shirt, I might startle him. I’ve got to keep him talking.

  “You don’t understand. I don’t want to be up here right now. Something’s making me . . . I can’t stop myself.”

  His face tells me he’s bewildered and terrified. Maybe that’s a good sign. He understands what he’s doing, and he doesn’t want to succumb to what his brain is telling him.

  “That’s why I’m here. I know what it’s like for your mind to turn against you. But we’re going to figure it out, okay? Come on.” I hold my hand out to him. “Come with me, okay?”

  He nods.

  There it is. I’ve got him. I simultaneously grab his hand and his belt, which is probably stupid of me because if he jumps now, I’m going down with him. But then I feel him lean toward me a little. He slides one foot away from the edge, then the other. I think he’s beaten it now, whatever pulled him up here, but I don’t want to spook him by rushing him to move back.

  “Good job,” I say. “Keep coming.”

  I let go of his hand for a moment so I can put my arms around his chest and pull him the rest of the way. He’s shaking now, tremors racking his whole body.

  I make him climb down the ladder first and I follow. I don’t want him changing his mind and bolting back for the top of the tower. As we slowly make our way down, I can see that his hands are now practically curled into claws and he’s having trouble gripping the ladder rungs. I keep telling him he’s doing great, but I know he’s not. His jaw is tightening as if he’s trying to swallow back vomit and his neck muscles are taut. He makes a strange noise as his feet touch the ground.

  Right away Thomas can see there’s still something really wrong with Mikey. “Is he having a seizure or something?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s just get him out of here.”