I reached the far room first. It stank of decaying cardboard and rotted upholstery. Two windows let the sun knife into the gloom of an open room used for storage, mostly boxes and furniture. One of the items stored there must’ve been a cage for wild animals, or maybe it was a well-built stage prop. Whatever it had been, it had been turned into a cage for Mickey, Goldy, and Florida. There were blankets on the floor for them, and a wooden table with tin mugs and a jar of reddish water. By the Rats’ standards, these prisoners were being treated very well.
The door to the cage was open; the three prisoners were filing out, Florida first, Mickey last. Goldy’s hands were fastened behind his back, and his shirt was dirty and torn, but no more than Mickey’s or Florida’s clothing.
Two Wharf Rats were ordering them out of the cage. I recognized one. Doritos, a wiry black girl who might’ve been my best friend when I was Gone, held a twenty-two rifle. A tall white guy carried a spear made out of a broomstick and a Bowie knife.
Doritos, turning toward me, began to lift her rifle. I dove behind a pile of decaying sofas and chairs. Milo, two steps behind me, mumbled something. I thought, I should tell him to wait, that we should try to talk first, but how can I tell him anything before he finishes what he’s begun?
As my fur tingled, I looked up to see the effect of his magic.
This is the picture I will carry with me always:
Goldy leans forward, his face distorted as he screams something, his elbows wide to his sides as if he thinks he can tear his bonds apart with only a little more effort than he has managed so far.
Mickey mirrors him. The empty sleeves of her dirty dress shirt have come unpinned. They trail behind her like streamers or scarves or some strange holiday garb.
The boy with the homemade spear holds it in front of him like a quarterstaff or a shield. He looks over his shoulder, perhaps to see if more intruders are coming that way, perhaps to see if there’s any escape.
Doritos has her rifle butt to her shoulder and the barrel at a sixty-degree angle to the floor. Her lips are taut, as if she’s about to cry or laugh or both.
Florida— Well, Florida is leaping toward Doritos. Around her waist, cinching her oversized T-shirt, is a thin beaded belt. From it hangs the empty sheath for the Bowie knife that makes the point of her guard’s spear. Florida’s hands are empty. Her fingers are spread like talons or a cat’s claws as she grabs at Doritos’s rifle. I cannot see her face.
And from Milo’s hands, something shimmers through the air like heat above the highway on a summer’s day.
I screamed, “’Ow’!” as I started to sign, Get down! I didn’t even have time to begin the gesture properly.
When Milo’s spell struck her, Florida vanished, not with a bang or a whimper, but as if she had never existed.
Milo said, very quietly, “Oh, dear God.”
Doritos stared at the place where Florida had been, then placed her rifle against a box and raised her hands over her head.
The other Rat threw the spear aside and raced into the back of the room. I don’t know if he hid there or if he scrambled down a drain or a fire escape. No one went to find him.
Goldy looked from where Florida had been to where Milo stood crying. Goldy twisted from side to side, wrenching madly at whatever held his wrists together. “You—”
Mickey put her shoulder against his and said his name over and over again, quietly: “Goldy. Goldy. Goldy.”
Sai said, “Shit. Oh, shit.”
Milo said, “I didn’t—I mean, I didn’t—”
I walked into the middle of the room to meet Mickey and Goldy. Steel handcuffs held Goldy’s arms. I gripped the cuffs and pulled, and I pulled, and I pulled, and a steel link broke. That strength was one of the gifts that Leda had given me when she made me Wolfboy and took my voice.
Mickey said, “Ron?”
I walked around the room quite slowly, looking back into the shadows, up into the rafters. Then I went again, a little more quickly, with my nose high, trying to smell everything that was in the room, everything that had been in the room.
“Ron,” Mickey said, stepping in front of me.
I ran around her. Sai and Mickey and Goldy all stood in the middle of the room, watching me. I raced back and forth, only pausing to sniff deeply before running again.
Mickey said, “She’s not here, Ron.”
I picked up the Rat’s spear, tore the Bowie knife free of the broomstick shaft, and sniffed the blade and handle. It smelled of wood and steel, adhesive tape, the hands of the boy who had fastened it to the broomstick. I dropped it and ran back to the far end of the building, sniffing, sniffing.
Goldy asked, “What happened?”
Milo said, “The spell, it’s, um, to—oh, hell, it’s supposed to take ten years away from someone, to make them younger, and I thought I could make a Rat helpless that way without hurting anyone, only—”
“Florida didn’t have ten years to take,” said Mickey.
“I know,” said Milo. “I’m not, I’m not—” He licked his lips and started backing away. “It said, ‘enemy’s’ life, meaning you can’t hope to reverse the effect, and I didn’t think she’d jump in the way, I never thought she’d—” He bumped into the door and gasped. “I’ve got to go home. I’m sorry. I’ve got to. I really am sorry. I am.”
I wrenched open one of the painted-over windows to smell Bordertown. I smelled elves and humans and halfies and dogs and cats and squirrels and pigeons and hawks. I smelled bread baking and meat roasting and soup simmering and garbage rotting and wood burning. I smelled trees and grass and rainwater and Mad River water and mud and earth. I smelled the smells of things living and things dying. Maybe I smelled a small part of life itself.
I didn’t smell Florida.
I howled with all my heart and lungs and guts. Still howling, I turned and ran for the stairs. Goldy tackled me. “No, you don’t!” he whispered in my ear. He held me until Mickey could come and press herself against us. We cried until we stopped.
Chapter 11—The Roses of Elfland
I don’t know if Sai marched Doritos downstairs or if she let Doritos go. All I know is they went down before we did. Sai met us on the second floor with a goatskin bag of water. Goldy squirted some into Mickey’s mouth, then some into his own.
“Better?”
She nodded. “Makes it easier to cry again when I need to.”
He looked at her.
“Which isn’t yet.” She opened her mouth like a goldfish. “More.”
Sai half said, half asked, “You guys only had River water with you, too.”
Mickey said, “We didn’t drink any.”
Goldy squirted more clear water into his mouth, then said while Mickey drank, “You ask yourself if you’d rather become an addict or drink urine to put off the decision. Seems a tough choice until you have to make it.”
Sai said, “What do we tell people about Florida?”
Mickey looked at Goldy and me. “That we haven’t found her.”
Goldy said, “And Milo?”
Mickey said, “He’s suffering, like us. I don’t think we could make it better or worse for him.”
An ambulance showed up from the Free Clinic. Leander was loaded in and gone before I could approach him. The kid on the roof whose gun had exploded had lost several fingers; he went in the ambulance, too. The people from the clinic said we could keep Orient, as long as we got someone to look at him soon.
I followed a wad of electrical tape and a few coils of wire and a number of small mechanical pieces across the yard to where Tick-Tick was pouring something out of a small bottle. As I approached, she tossed the bottle aside, then said, “No matter how badly you need a cigarette, don’t light it here for at least a minute.”
She looked at the Bowie knife in my hands, then looked at my face. She handed me the canvas pouch in which she had carried her two bombs. I nodded my thanks, put the Bowie knife in it, and slung it over my shoulder.
Tick-Tick, Ca
ramel, and a few others carried Orient off on a stretcher. They decided that’d be easier on him than stuffing him into Milo’s Mustang and bouncing him through the streets. He looked like he’d decided to live but was reconsidering the decision. He gave me a weak smile with a weak thumbs-up, and I returned them as best I could. No one had told him about Florida.
They carried Orient’s stretcher past a tree where two people sat. They both lifted their hands to wave at Orient, and I saw Milo hadn’t gone home after all. Sparks was with him, holding his hand, saying nothing. Her head rested against his. I went to find something to do where I couldn’t see them.
After a lot of arguing, we let the Rats go, except for the three that Caramel said had helped kill Tejorinin Yorl. Specs had been the fourth, and the fifth was the one in the ambulance. I was glad Doritos wasn’t one of them. I looked for her, but she was gone, probably already seeking another gang of Wharf Rats so she could stay near the River.
Laid out on a table in the Rats’ house for the return of the clinic’s ambulance were the bodies of Specs and the kid who had dropped his pistol instead of shooting Tick-Tick. I wrote a note and pinned it to Specs’s shirt: HE WAS CALLED THE KING OF SPECTACLES. IF YOU CREMATE HIM, POUR HIS ASHES IN THE RIVER. HE’D LIKE THAT. For the little kid, I wrote, HE DIED AFTER SPARING AT LEAST ONE LIFE. TELL HIS FRIENDS AND FAMILY THAT, IF YOU FIND THEM.
Sai thanked everyone who had shown up, and the Gathering of the Gangs dispersed. Sai, Goldy, King O’Beer, Taz, Q. Paul, and Gorty marched the three Rats to the C Street Station while the rest of us followed.
Sai told the copper in charge that they’d only give the Rats to Sunny Rico. Rico came out after a couple of minutes, looked at the three Rats, and said, “For me? How thoughtful. What’d they do?”
Sai said, “Killed Yorl. Let Strider go.”
Goldy said, “You get more than you see. A fourth is at the Free Clinic, and a fifth is dead in a Rat nest at Riverside and Morrison.”
Rico looked at the three Rats. “Did you kill Yorl?”
One Rat said, “No way.”
Another said, “Aren’t you going to read us our rights?”
Rico said, “You’ve got the right to hope you get a smart lawyer or a stupid judge. You’ve got the right to be polite so people might treat you the same way. You’ve got the right to tell me the truth, so I won’t be pissed that you think I’m simple enough to believe your lies. Want more rights?”
Caramel said, “I saw them do it.”
One Rat said, “She’s lying,” as another said, “It wasn’t our fault.”
“Oh?” said Rico.
“Specs told us to do it. The elf attacked first.”
“Who’s Specs?”
Sai said, “The one who won’t need to go to trial.”
Rico said, “Or be able to tell us why he ordered this.”
Sai said, “Add kidnapping to the list.” She ticked off the names on her fingers: “Caramel, Orient, Goldy, Mickey, and Florida.”
“Why?” Rico asked the Rat who’d confessed.
He said, “Specs told us to.”
Rico shook her head and frowned. “So, if this story stands, we’ll have who, but not why.” She shrugged. “I should be grateful. That’s more than we usually get.”
Caramel told her story. When she mentioned the ring, Sai said, “It’s somewhere safe.”
Rico listened through it all, then said, “Look, this’ll probably free your friend. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to hear what a judge says. As for the ring, if it’s Linden’s, there’s nothing to prove Specs didn’t steal it. Bring it to me tomorrow, and I’ll pursue it when we’ve got some free time. Which means never, unless you can give me more than this.”
We headed outside. Gorty, Taz, and Q. Paul left us then. Taz said, “Good luck finding the little elf. She’s a good kid.”
I nodded, hooked a thumb in the strap of the canvas satchel at my side, and lifted the other hand in farewell as the three Packers drove away.
Mickey told Goldy she wanted to check on the cats, asked me if I was okay, and walked off when I nodded. As she walked away, Goldy signed, She needs some privacy. You?
I signed, I’m fine. Linden won’t be.
Sai, Goldy, and I walked without talking to Orient’s apartment. A couple members of the Horn Dance had fetched Doc. She had cleaned and splinted and bandaged Orient, and was preparing to leave when we arrived.
“What do we owe?” Tick-Tick asked.
“Ah, forget it. Wasn’t interesting enough to charge you for.”
I fetched Doc’s coat. Next time she put her hand in her pocket, she’d find seven four-leaf clovers.
•
We all went out and sat on the steps so we wouldn’t disturb Orient. No one spoke. Tick-Tick’s face was drawn and tired, almost gray. One pointed ear was bruised and slightly bloody. Sai squinted in the distance, her eyes very Asian and very elfin at the same time. She wasn’t watching anything I could see. Goldy rubbed his hands over his metallic hair and stared at the sidewalk. It was just after noon of a beautiful day. We needed to celebrate, and we needed to mourn, and we couldn’t do either until we finished this.
Caramel stood nearby, looking like she didn’t know whether to stay or leave. Sai called, “Hey, c’mon. Sit and rest. You could use it. We all could.”
“Thanks.” Caramel sat cross-legged beside me, glanced at Sai, and then at the rest of us. “What’re you going to do?”
“We’re going to talk too much,” Goldy said. “As usual.”
Tick-Tick nodded. “And maybe we’ll figure it all out. What’ve we got?” Sai brought the ring from her pocket. “We have the ring,” Tick-Tick said. “And a witness.” She nodded at Caramel. “We’ve cleared Strider.”
“It’s not enough,” Sai said.
“It frees him,” Tick-Tick said.
“It’s not enough,” Sai repeated with a shake of her hair.
Goldy nodded. “We’ve lost Florida. Crystaviel would’ve let the rest of us die. The Rats were just Rats, but she’s the one who used them.”
Sai said, “Strider’s friend Leander will have a limp. If he doesn’t lose his leg. If he lives.”
“Even if we do nothing,” Tick-Tick said, “Crystaviel will have to live with it. If she lives long enough, she will see that someday. And even if she never sees it, what she has done will color her life.” I wondered if Tick-Tick was remembering Specs. When is someone too far gone for redemption? What do you do when you don’t have time to ask that question?
I raised my hand, then started scribbling while they waited: WHY IS RING IMPORTANT? IF LINDEN IS CRYSTAVIEL—& I THINK SHE IS—WHY KILL PARTNER? IF SHE’S NOT C., WHY KILL SOMEONE WHO MEANS LITTLE TO HER? WHY WERE RATS AT DANCELAND FRI. NIGHT IN 1ST PLACE?
“Very good questions,” Goldy said. “But do you have very good answers?”
WHY WAS YORL AT DANCELAND? WHO IS LINDEN? I underlined who at least three times.
Goldy said, “No, no, no, my friend. Good answers.”
No one laughed.
“I doubt she’s in Rico’s files,” Tick-Tick said.
I agreed with a nod. Records in B-town are pretty thin.
WHERE IS LINDEN? I wrote last.
Before I could underline where, Tick-Tick sighed. “We’re going to have to wake poor Orient.”
He woke slightly hysterical, scattering his bedcovers. Tick-Tick put her hand on his brow and he settled down.
“Sorry, kid,” he whispered.
“It’s all right. Lobo’s got some questions.”
Orient nodded sleepily. “You guys can’t do anything without me.” He looked pale enough to be an elf, but he sounded pleased.
I wrote, WHERE’S LINDEN, WILD HUNT’S SINGER?
He closed his eyes, which turned into a wince. After a second, he waved his hand as if feeling for a breeze, then snapped his finger toward the hotel area in midtown. “Thataway,” he croaked.
WHERE’S CRYSTAVIEL?
He closed his
eyes, then pointed in the same direction. “Ditto.”
After that, back sitting in the street, we talked more. Everyone liked my theory; no one liked my plan. No one came up with a better one, so finally we scattered to the various bikes. Tick-Tick stayed with Orient because someone had to—and because she thought this was unnecessary, I think. Or maybe she didn’t want to get in a position where she might have to hurt someone else. Caramel was willing to play the part I wanted Tick-Tick to take. The Theatre of the Wolf set out for its first bit of improv.
•
We asked at a few places in midtown for the lead singer of Wild Hunt. Somebody said she was staying at the Roses of Elfland. Sai and Goldy weren’t happy about waiting in the street, but they agreed. They thought they were there in case the plan fell apart. They were there because I didn’t trust them to keep to the script when faced with Linden.
The desk clerk at the Roses of Elfland was a professional; her face never showed us that she knew we couldn’t afford to rent a broom closet here for a half-hour nap. She smiled and said, “May I help you?”
I nudged Caramel, who had been gawking at the expensive furniture decorating the lobby and the expensive clothes decorating its occupants. Caramel said, “Uh, what’s Ms. Linden’s room, please?”
“Do you have an appointment with her?”
“Well, uh, sort of.”
“Oh?” There was nothing judgmental in that ‘oh.’ There was almost something hopeful in it, as if the desk clerk wanted Caramel to say the thing that would free the clerk so she could help us.
“We, uh, have something for her.”
“Oh?” This was the first “oh,” repeated perfectly.
“She, uh, lost it.”
The clerk nodded. “You may leave it with us, and we’ll see she gets it.”
“Yeah, right,” Caramel said, then added quickly, “Uh, I mean, we need to see she gets it. Not that we don’t trust you or anything, honest, but, uh, we need to see she gets it.”
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