The Dysasters

by P. C. Cast

  “It’s pretty. Who lives here?”

  When Foster didn’t say anything he looked at her, automatically annoyed at her typical silence, and then he felt like a total turd when he saw tears dripping down her cheeks.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “It says Strawberry Fields.” She smiled through her tears and wiped her cheeks with the dirty sleeve of her shirt.

  “Yeah, like I said, it’s pretty. Why are you crying?”

  She shook her head. “I’m okay. It’s nothing. You asked who lives here? We do. Come on, let’s go check it out.” Foster slung the satchel over her shoulder and left the truck, heading for the front door of the tidy-looking farmhouse.

  “Is this where you lived with Cora?” Tate limped up the front stairs just behind Foster.

  “No. I’ve never been to Sauvie Island before. Cora and I used to have a brownstone in Portland—right in the Pearl District.” Tate heard her voice soften with nostalgia. “Man, I loved that place. It had the coolest rooftop ever. Cora and I used to sit up there and gawk at people all the time. There was a game we used to play where we guessed how many dogs we could count walking by. The loser had to do the dishes.”

  “Dogs?” Tate asked softly. He was hesitant to say anything. He didn’t want to mess up this version of Foster. She seemed so much nicer than the girl he’d just spent twenty plus hours with in the cab of that truck.

  She’d pulled the piece of paper from the leather coin purse again and was punching numbers into the keypad on the front door.

  “Yeah, dogs. Portland is majorly dog friendly. We were going to get a dog. I wanted a mastiff. Cora wanted a Scottie. We were arguing about it when everything changed a year ago.”

  Foster opened the door and they both stood there, peering inside. Tate immediately thought it was a nice house. Not mansion nice. Not even rich nice. Homey nice, with a big fireplace, comfy couch, a couple of recliners, and even a beanbag chair plopped in front of the big-screen TV. From the front door he could see the dining room table and got a peek into the cheery kitchen painted a happy yellow.

  He was just going to ask why they were still on the porch when Foster unfroze and walked into the living room, heading straight to the wide stone fireplace mantel and the row of framed family pictures there. He followed her more slowly, taking in the nice details—there were pretty pictures, mostly of landscapes and city scenes—plus lots of bridges.

  A small, choked sound returned his attention to Foster, who had stopped in front of the fireplace. Her hand was lifted toward one of the framed pictures, as if she wanted to touch it, but couldn’t make herself. He knew she was crying, but only because she kept wiping at her face with short, angry swipes, and when he looked at the picture, he understood why.

  It was of a younger, smiley-er version of Foster. She was sitting on the stoop of a two-story brownstone town house beside a big black woman Tate had no difficulty recognizing as Cora. Cora had her arm around Foster and was kissing her cheek while Foster cheesed for what was obviously a selfie. Tate scanned the rest of the pictures on the mantel. They were all of Foster and Cora—younger versions of the two of them. The joy that filled their faces reminded Tate of his family, and he felt his own eyes fill with tears.

  “She did all of this for me,” Foster’s voice shook as she spoke through her tears. “These pictures—the paintings—even the furniture. They’re all from our house.”

  “Foster, did you lose your house last year?”

  She turned liquid eyes to him. “No. We left our house last year.”

  “What do you mean ‘left’?”

  He could see her struggling to hold on to her temper. She wiped her eyes again and squared her shoulders. “Exactly one year ago yesterday, on my seventeenth birthday—Cora packed two bags. Locked our house. We got in our car. And we left—left our life, our credit cards, our everything. Since then we’ve never stayed in one place more than a week.”

  “You’ve been homeless for a year? On purpose?”

  “We weren’t homeless. We were flying under the radar,” Foster said.

  “Why? You gotta explain.”

  “The truth? All I know is that Cora said I was in danger, and that we had to leave before they took me, and now I have to keep you safe, too.”

  Then Tate processed all of what Foster had told him. “Hey! Our birthdays are on the same day.”

  Foster sighed sadly, still staring at the pictures. “Happy birthday to us,” she said unconvincingly.

  Tate opened his mouth to ask one more of the zillion questions spilling from his overwhelmed mind, but Foster spoke before he could.

  “Look, I have to get cleaned up. And I want some real food—like more than nasty drive-through. Something green and alive. And you look like crap. I mean, worse than me, and that’s bad.”

  Tate glanced down at himself. He had on the stained T-shirt Foster had got in Missouri, a pair of baggy gray sweatpants they’d bought at a truck stop somewhere in Utah, and a pair of dad slippers that had IDAHO? NO YOU DA HO written across the top of them. They’d found them outside Boise. Foster was right. He looked like crap.

  “A shower sounds good,” he said. “Then food.”

  “Agreed. Let’s shower then forage. Then talk.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  The bathrooms were big and all three of them were stocked with necessities. Tate stood under a fat stream of water as hot as he could stand and tried to wash away his pain—his homesickness—his shock, along with the dirt and blood. But all he actually wanted to do was to bolt for the front door and start driving west. Toward home.

  He couldn’t, though. Not yet. Tate had to find out how those tornadoes had been caused—and how to stop them from ever happening again.

  He decided that the shower did make him feel a little better, and towel dried his hair then put his pieced-together outfit back on. The cut on his leg was sore, but it didn’t look infected, which was at least a small relief.

  Foster wasn’t in the living room, so Tate made his way to the kitchen and scavenged through the empty fridge. The kitchen cabinets were filled with dishes and pots and pans and such, and there were even some canned foods in the pantry, but there was definitely nothing “green” anywhere.

  Tate made his way back to the stairway that Foster had taken to the upstairs bathroom she’d claimed. He was trying to decide whether he should go up there and knock on the door—or if he should just call out her name—when he heard it. Somewhere just down the hallway in front of him a girl was sobbing as if her heart was shattered.

  Tate followed the sound until he came to a little room that was obviously an office. The door was partially open. Foster’s back was to him. She was holding something in both of her hands, and was bent around it like someone had gut punched her while she sobbed.

  His mom hadn’t been a crier, so the times when she did cry it always made Tate’s heart hurt. He heard his mom’s voice as if she were standing beside him, Tate, you’re a smart, educated, white man. Don’t be an entitled jerk. Be unexpectedly kind—you’ll never go wrong if you err on the side of kindness. Oh, and also be a feminist—that’ll really baffle them.

  Tate moved on an instinct that had been drilled into him by his kind, woke mother. Foster was a bitchy pain in the ass, but Tate had been raised right. So, he went to her. Later, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d been intending to do. Not only was Foster not the crying kind, but she also didn’t seem like the “give me a hug and make me feel better” kind. He didn’t get the opportunity to find out for sure because the picture she was holding snagged his attention. Over her shoulder he saw that it showed a group of five people. Four looked like they were in their late twenties–early thirties. They surrounded a tall, older man who looked distinguished and serious. They were in front of a medium-sized boat that was docked, but was obviously ready to go out to sea.

  There was something about the picture … Tate sucked in a surprised breath, which caused Foster to spin around and gl
are at him.

  “What do you think you’re doing sneaking up on me like that?”

  “I wasn’t sneaking. I just walked in here. The door was open.” He pointed at the picture she still clutched. “Those men. Three of them are the guys who came after us.”

  “This is Cora’s office—Cora’s stuff. Don’t ever come in here again.” Foster’s voice was hard and angry. All signs of the sobbing, broken girl evaporated before his eyes.

  And Tate snapped, “Look, I’ve been trying to be nice to you, even though you’ve made it pretty damn hard. But I’m done with that. My parents died because of something going on with the two of us. You owe me an explanation. Now!”

  Foster held up the picture, and for a second Tate thought she was going to hit him with it. Instead she pointed at it, and in a voice filled with fury said, “Owe you an explanation? I don’t owe you shit! Cora and I saved your life when we showed up at that football game and got you out of there. You’re right. These three men are the ones who came after us. That woman was with them. I saw her at the edge of the field right after Cora died. And this man, Doctor Rick”—her finger poked the glass of the picture so hard Tate was surprised it didn’t crack. “He was my adoptive father, Cora’s husband. This was the last picture of him. It was taken before they killed him. Only on the football field Cora told me they didn’t kill him. That he’s working with them and that they’re after me and they’re after you. No, I don’t know why, but if you could manage to quit whining and leave me alone I might be able to figure it out!” Thunder cracked overhead in time with her shout. She threw up her arms. “Great. Now look what you’ve done.”

  “Foster, you are a bitch. Worse than that—you’re a mean, insensitive bitch.” He said the words slowly, deliberately, before he spun on his heel and stalked from the room.

  “Where are you going?” she called after him.

  Tate turned in the doorway. “I’m going to get food. Then I’m going to eat. Then I’m going to sleep. And then I’m going to figure out how to go home.”

  “Fine. Do what you want.”

  “Fine.” He paused and hated the next words that he had to speak. “I need money.”

  Foster reached into the satchel she seemed to always have with her and pulled out a wad of cash, tossing it at him. “Get something green. The code to the gate’s 9662. Close the door on your way out.”

  Tate slammed the door to the office and stomped from the farmhouse. The sky looked ominous, pregnant with rain that had just started to change from drizzle to downpour. Wind wailed around him, lifting his hair and making him shiver. He scanned the darkening sky for a wall cloud. Fog obscured the green ridge of distant mountains and he couldn’t see shit. Ah, to hell with it! I got rid of a tornado once—I can do it again. Head tucked against the wind and rain, Tate ran to the pickup.

  He started the truck easily. Foster had made him do it over and over again on their trip. He floored it, getting spiteful pleasure from hearing the gravel spray the porch. He paused at the gate, but it sensed the truck and opened soundlessly.

  It wasn’t until he got all the way back to the little store that sat beside the bridge that led to the mainland that Tate’s temper cooled. He parked the truck and sighed, rubbing his face and trying to get his thoughts together. What was he doing here? He should’ve stayed in Homer, no matter what crazy-ass Foster had said.

  Then, as if he was watching a movie replay from his memory, Tate saw the two of them—Foster and him—standing side by side as that tornado plowed down the football field. He heard his shout again, YOU WILL NOT COME THIS WAY! He felt the rush of electricity that swept over him as he literally hurled that huge twister away from them.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Tate muttered to himself. “We did that. I have to figure out how, and I can’t go home until I do.”

  Tate rubbed his face again, thinking he’d never felt this tired in his life as he stared blankly into the distance … until he realized what it was he was staring at.

  “Yes! Things might just be looking up for me!”

  Tate hurried from the truck, taking the stairs to the little clapboard-sided store two at a time. Moving quickly, he filled his arms with food—remembering to grab some green stuff—then he piled everything up before the only cash register.

  “Looks like you’re camping this weekend,” said the old guy who sported a long, scraggly beard and a man bun as he rang up and bagged Tate’s groceries.

  “Yes, sir,” Tate said automatically.

  “Well, I hope the weather gets better for you. It’s been a mess lately.”

  “Me too. Hey, does that pay phone out there work?” Tate jerked his thumb toward the side of the parking lot where the old aluminum and glass booth sat like something out of a seventies movie.

  “Well, yes son, it sure does. It’s probably the last one in this part of the country that works. It even takes quarters.”

  “Cool. Could you give me a bunch of quarters with my change, please?”

  “Sure, kid.” The guy handed him a handful of quarters with his change. “Hey, you’re not going to turn into Superman or anything, are you?”

  “No, sir. I’m a different kind of superhero.”

  Tate left the store in a wash of the man’s chuckles. He put the groceries in the cab of the truck and went to the phone booth. Feeling like he’d stepped back in time, Tate dialed the number he’d memorized when he was five years old. The gruff old voice answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “G-pa it’s me, Tate. I’m not dead.” And then Tate Nighthawk Taylor began to sob.

  9

  TATE

  “Look, before you yell at me, I’m not technically in the room. I also brought you something green.” Tate extended a grocery bag. “Truce?”

  “I found something. Put the bags down and come here,” Foster said, barely glancing up at him from the papers she’d been studying on the desk.

  Tate grunted, “So, am I allowed in or what?”

  “Look, Tate, this is me trucing. If you think I’m going to offer some apology, I’m not because I’m not sorry. People shouldn’t apologize if they don’t mean it. So take it or leave it.” Pulling her damp, freshly washed hair off her shoulders, she did look up at him then. “Or you can eat and leave. Like you said you would. Just make up your mind.”

  Tate put the grocery bags down and went to stand before the desk. “I made up my mind. I’m staying, but I’m going to be as honest about it as you. I’m only staying because I have to find out what we are. I have to know if I caused that tornado and my parents’ death. When I figure this weird crap out I’m going to leave and do whatever I can to make sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else’s family, whether you want to stay here with your head stuck in the sand or not. Deal?”

  Foster shrugged. “Sounds fair.”

  “One more thing.”

  Her sigh was long-suffering as she brushed curling scarlet hair from her face. “Yes?”

  “Stop being so hateful. I know you hurt. So do I, but being mean to me—the only person who’s in this with you, is just stupid.”

  “Are you calling me stupid?”

  “If you keep being hateful, yes, I am. Because it’d be true. And I agree with you—I won’t apologize for saying that because I wouldn’t mean it.” Tate’s gaze locked with hers.

  “What if what you consider being hateful is what I consider being honest?” she said.

  “Well, as my mom would say, then you need to do better.”

  “And what about you?”

  Tate tilted his head to the side, considering. “I’ll try not to bait you, even though you’re damn easy to bait. I’ll also work as hard as you to figure out what’s going on. So, real truce?” He offered his hand to her.

  Foster hesitated. Tate could see her mind working and had no clue if she was going to react like a rational person or a lunatic. So he waited, hand extended, practicing that kindness his mom would be proud of him for.


  Finally, Foster stood and took his hand, shaking it with a firm grip. “Deal. Follow me.” She moved from behind the desk to the near side of the office and the wall of bookshelves there. “Here,” Foster pointed to one of the shelves.

  “You found books. In an office.” He wondered, not for the first time, if Foster might be more than a little crazy. Like, seriously and literally in need of meds and counseling.

  “No,” Foster’s lips pursed. “I found this.” She pressed the left edge of the middle bookshelf and stepped back as it swung open.

  “Narnia,” Tate breathed.

  “What? No. It’s not Narnia. It’s where Cora kept all of her … stuff.”

  “No, Cora kept all of her stuff in the rest of the house where people’s stuff belongs.” He peered into what was obviously a well-built, expertly stocked safe room lined with metal file cabinets. “This is a Batcave. Why did Cora need a Batcave?”

  “Gah, Tate, I’m trying not to be mean. Really, I am, but you make it difficult. Cora needed a Batcave because we’re in danger.” Foster walked back to the desk, motioning for Tate to follow her. She pointed at three soggy yellow legal pages filled with neat cursive writing that had bled blue ink all over. “And, sadly, being on this island isn’t enough to keep us safe.”

  “What’s this letter?” Tate bent over the desk, trying to decipher the washed-out writing on the soaked pages.

  “It’s from Cora.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “My fault.” Foster sighed and sounded truly miserable. “It was in her satchel. Before she died she told me to come here and that she’d written a letter explaining everything, but that I should wait until we got here to read it.” She shook her head, clearly pissed at herself. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve checked to be sure it was safe and dry. I found it in the outside pocket, totally soaked.”