“Play the martyr all you like, dear,” said the tiny old woman through a sneer. “We just need your testimony.”
Who did these people think they were to use her in this way? Waverly looked from face to face, all of them staring at her, impervious, betraying not a hint of concern for her situation—all except Selma, who worried at her bottom lip with stained teeth as she watched Waverly. At least one of them is human, Waverly thought ruefully.
“Well?” Dr. Carver prompted her.
“I’m no martyr,” Waverly said through slitted eyes. If they’re going to use me, she decided, I’ll use them, too. “I want something in exchange.”
“We already have an agreement,” Dr. Carver said menacingly.
“So you found an antidote?”
“Antidote to what?” Selma asked with surprise.
“Selma,” the doctor said irritably. “Let me.”
The old woman squinted angrily at him, but she closed her mouth.
“I’m still working on it, Waverly,” Dr. Carver said. “I need more time.”
“Then I’m amending our agreement. I want to know what happened to Sarah Wheeler and Randy Ortega. I want to talk to them.”
“That can be arranged—” Dr. Carver began, but Waverly cut him off.
“And I want to talk to Captain Jones. Alone.”
Glances flew around the room, from eye to rheumy eye.
“Why?” The doctor finally asked.
“I have my reasons.”
“That could be difficult,” Deacon Maddox said.
“Not impossible,” Jared volunteered, only to earn a furious glare from his … employer? Father? He sank back into his chair, angry but cowed.
“You’ll find him changed,” warned Miranda. “He won’t be useful for anything you might have planned.”
“This trial”—Waverly lifted her arms to indicate the council themselves and what they were about to do—“is my only plan.”
“You’ll give us what we’re looking for,” Dr. Carver asked, pointing his chin at her, “if we promise to let you see him?”
“I’ll say what you want me to say,” Waverly said quietly. Anne Mather was as guilty as anyone could be. Waverly knew it in her bones, and she didn’t care what she had to do to convince the rest of the crew, even if it meant bending the truth. If I can’t kill her with my bare hands, Waverly thought bitterly, I’ll have to settle for this.
The doctor looked at Jared. “Can you arrange this?”
Jared nodded.
“You’ll see your Captain,” the old man said. “And your little friends.”
“Okay, then,” Waverly said with a grim smile, “I’ll give you what you want.”
Dr. Carver smiled. “Jared, erase what we have thus far and begin the recording again,” he said with a lift of his finger.
With a grim sigh, Jared limped to the com station and did what he was told.
AGITATOR
Seth crouched in his cramped hiding space in the janitor’s closet. He was taking a chance being here, but there wasn’t room enough to turn his head in the maintenance passage behind the apartments, let alone work on a stencil. He cut another letter out of the cardboard he’d torn from a box of cleaning solution. It was difficult with only one hand and no better tool than the dull kitchen knife he’d managed to steal from someone’s apartment last night, but it was worth it; the stencil would enable him to paint his graffiti much more quickly.
Since the night Thomas raided Maya’s home, Seth had hidden in the tight passageway, entering apartments when no one was home, and only for minutes at a time, to steal clothes and food. Once a day he’d dart into the corridors to quickly paint graffiti on the walls before slipping back into this janitor’s closet, always ready to disappear behind the wall panel if need be. As on the Empyrean, there was no camera trained on the closet door, but when he was in a corridor he was exposed. He quickly wrote his messages, spending only about thirty seconds in the hallway before he ran back to his hiding place. Any more time and he was certain to register on the surveillance system, but still, it was only a matter of time before they caught him. He’d already taken too many chances.
He didn’t even know how long he’d been hiding back here; he had no clocks, no corridor lights to help him gauge the passage of time. Judging from the effect on his body, he’d been hiding out for at least a week. His back ached horribly from being squeezed between the ductwork, but that pain was nothing compared to the agony of his hand. Already his gauze bandage was gray with dirt and grime, and Seth was tempted to unwrap it to see if the wound on his finger had gotten worse, but he didn’t dare. He wished he could somehow get to Anthony for more antibiotics, but that would be too dangerous, not only for Seth but for everyone else as well. Though he burned to know if Maya was okay, he knew he could never contact her or her friends again.
He held the stencil up to look at it in the narrow shaft of light that shone around the edges of the door. He’d gotten the idea to do the graffiti this way when he’d stumbled into the apartment of a model maker. The apartment was stuffed with small trains, airplanes, frigates, and battleships, and the guy who lived there had tubs of paints lying around. Seth had taken a large pot of black paint that he hoped wouldn’t be missed, along with a wide paintbrush. He’d also nabbed a loaf of bread along with a big hooded jacket and slunk back into the passageway. He’d managed to do it all in less than five minutes, but every second he spent in someone’s apartment was another second his life was on the line.
He’d made rules to protect himself from being impulsive. Before entering any apartment, he’d listen from behind the closet walls, straining his ears for any sound at all. Even when people were alone in an apartment, they made some noise eventually. Most of them talked to themselves, or sang, or whistled. When he found a quiet apartment, he’d wait a long time, and if he didn’t hear anything, he’d slowly work the back paneling open and steal into the closet. There he’d crouch, looking through a crack in the door until he was certain no one was home.
My days are numbered doing this, he told himself. It was true. Sooner or later he’d walk in on someone. Or Mather’s people would simply figure out where he was.
That was why it was important to get as much graffiti done as he could.
He’d almost completed the stencil. When it was finished, he’d only have to press it against the wall and run the paintbrush over it quickly, leaving behind the cut-out letters. MURDER IN OUR NAMES was the slogan he’d chosen. He thought it might cause guilty feelings among the crew, make them think about how they’d created their families at the expense of so many others.
His stomach rumbled. He remembered the delicious aroma of roasting chicken he’d smelled the night before on the other end of the corridor. It had been a salty, garlicky, greasy scent, and his mouth had watered. That’s what he needed—some good protein. He’d heard only two muffled voices talking in the apartment as they ate the chicken—a man and a woman. Two people couldn’t have eaten that entire bird in one night. It was worth checking out.
Now was a particularly quiet time on the ship, so he folded up the stencil and started squirming toward the apartment. A cramp cinched between his shoulder blades as he worked his way over, and his hips ached from lifting his legs over pipes for toilets and sinks. Twice he banged his foot against the wall and froze, listening, but he never heard anyone.
When finally he reached the apartment, he could still smell the garlicky chicken lingering in the air. He waited as long as he could stand, listening to the silence. Then, with his good hand, he worked his fingernails into the groove in the paneling and carefully pried it open. He poked his head into the closet, which was neatly ordered with somber-colored clothing, and waited. Not a peep from anyone.
Quickly, he stumbled into the apartment. It smelled of the chicken, garlic, lemon peel, and a chemical odor that he couldn’t identify. He dashed to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The chicken was sitting dead center, and there was still so m
uch delicious-looking meat on the bird he groaned. He knew he should take only a small quantity that might not be missed, but he couldn’t help himself. He took the entire bird, grabbed a decanter of what looked like orange juice, a loaf of bread, wrapped it all in a dish towel he found, and turned to leave.
When he reentered the living room, a familiar pair of deep eyes peered at him from over the couch. He froze, blinking at the unreality of it.
Waverly. It was the perfect image of her, those luminous brown eyes, her strong fingers, her long neck. She was looking at him from a painting that hung on the wall.
“How?” he said out loud.
“Who the hell are you?” someone yelled.
Seth whirled. He was standing face-to-face with a slight man holding what looked like a guitar, loose metal strings twirling away from it, quivering.
“How did you get in here?” the man demanded as he glanced at the locked front door.
“I’m sorry,” Seth stalled. The man was smaller than Seth, and skinny, but that guitar looked heavy enough to do serious damage. And with his hand this way, it was all over, unless … “Why do you have a picture of Waverly?”
The man tilted his head. “You know Waverly?” He gave the guitar a little shake as though judging its potential as a bludgeon.
“Yes. She’s my…,” Seth began, but he didn’t know the word he was looking for.
“Is she okay?” the man asked. He was beginning to relax a little.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“Sit. And keep your hands where I can see them.”
Embarrassed to be caught stealing, Seth held up the chicken to show he carried only food, no weapons. He moved slowly toward the couch, keeping his hands and the greasy bundle on his lap as he sat.
The two men looked at each other, neither one moving or making a sound.
“You’re the fugitive,” the man finally said.
“Yes,” Seth said.
“I should turn you in.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I should,” the man said again.
Suddenly the front door opened and in walked a tall middle-aged woman with a baby wrapped in a swath of fabric around her middle. She stopped short. “Seth!”
“Amanda!” Seth cried. It was Maya’s tall friend, the one who said she’d helped Waverly escape. The puzzle pieces fell into place, and Seth sighed with relief.
“Where have you been?” she hissed as she closed the door behind her.
“Hiding out.”
Seth turned to see that the man was again holding the guitar like a club, keeping one eye on Seth as he asked his wife, “How do you know this kid?”
“He was staying with Maya.” Amanda noticed the chicken Seth held in his lap. “You’re hungry.”
Seth shifted the chicken in his lap, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Amanda said. “Josiah, put that down. It’s okay.”
Reluctantly, her husband lowered his weapon.
“Is Maya okay?” Seth asked her.
The couple exchanged a glance, and Amanda said, “I can’t find out anything.”
“Why didn’t they arrest you?”
“Anne use to take care of me when I was little. She cares for me a great deal,” Amanda said. “So she tolerates my misbehavior.”
“To a point,” Josiah growled.
The couple watched Seth appraisingly, then looked at each other, seeming to have an entire conversation in a glance.
Finally, Josiah spoke. “We can’t help you.”
Amanda didn’t seem as certain as her husband, but she held the baby closer to her chest and looked down at the tiny face. Seth could hear little sucking noises as the baby worked its lips against a tiny fist.
“All I ask is that you pretend you never saw me,” Seth said to the couple.
“How did you get in here?” Josiah asked him again.
Seth paused, eyeing him, and said, “I really can’t say.”
“Not the front door,” Josiah said slowly.
Seth simply looked at him, revealing nothing.
“I heard something in the master bedroom,” he said. “I thought Amanda had come home.”
“The back conduits?” Amanda said.
“No,” Josiah said. “No one could possibly fit back there.”
“It’s tight,” Seth agreed, “but I’m skinny.”
Josiah stomped into the master bedroom. Seth could hear him moving clothes aside in the closet and pulling out the back panel to look. He came back in, shaking his head. “You’re right. There’s just enough room to squeeze in. I doubt anyone actually goes in there, but they’ll figure it out. Sooner or later.”
“I know,” Seth said, his heart sinking. He shouldn’t have come here. “I’m just trying to stay out of the brig as long as I can.”
“There’s an unoccupied apartment,” Amanda said all in a rush, pointing. “That way, three doors down.”
“Amanda,” Josiah said under his breath.
“Okay,” Seth said, standing up.
“Don’t come here again,” Josiah warned. He was angry, his lips pulled tight against his teeth.
“I won’t.” Seth tucked the chicken under his arm again and got up to leave.
Amanda stood, too.
“I’ll leave some food for you in the closet,” she said to Seth. “Every day.”
“It’s too risky,” Josiah said to his wife.
“He’s still growing!” Amanda said.
“He’s tall enough,” the short man said resentfully. Seth almost laughed. “We’ve already got a child to take care of,” Josiah said to her, more softly.
They stared at each other. Seth watched them. Amanda was soft and sweet-tempered, he could tell. Her fingernails were stained with blue and green pigments. He figured she was the artist who’d painted Waverly’s portrait, and her paint must be the chemical smell he’d detected. She looked pleadingly at her husband, and Seth liked her for that. The baby she held made a little cooing noise. The tiny face was scrunched, and fat fists pressed against a little mouth, perfect ruby lips curled around plump fingers.
He recognized the shapes of the face, the eyes, the lips, the fingertips.
“Is that…?” Seth pointed at the child, then looked at Waverly’s portrait again.
Amanda stared at Seth, her face locked in an unreadable expression. Then she relaxed and finally said, “Our daughter came from Waverly. That’s why I want to help you.”
Seth looked at the infant, her tender mouth as she worked at her soft, little fingers. Seth indicated the bundle of food he held. “You’ve already done enough.”
“You need help,” Amanda insisted.
“You need to be safe.” Seth nodded toward the baby she held. Waverly’s baby.
Amanda looked at the child, studying the little face with an attentiveness that made him miss his own mother, whom he hardly remembered. With her ring finger, barely touching, the woman stroked a thin lock of brown hair that rested against the baby’s forehead and whispered. “Yes. Okay.” She looked at Seth’s hands, which were stained with model paint, and she brightened. “You’re the graffiti artist. I thought so.”
Seth said nothing.
“You know, they’re cleaning your paint off pretty easily. It just takes a good scrub. None of your stuff stays up for more than a night.”
“People see it, though, right?”
“You should use a metal patina,” she said with a mischievous gleam.
“Amanda,” her husband warned.
“I’ve got some. I went through a metal sculpture phase. It’ll oxidize the metal walls, make them black. They won’t be able to erase it.”
In her excitement, she rushed from the couch and went to the back bedroom, holding the baby to her shoulder, a protective hand on her tiny head. Josiah glared angrily at the floor, his fist clenched around the neck of his guitar. Quickly she came back carrying a small metal can in one hand and offered it to Seth. “It�
��ll last if you use it sparingly. A thin coat will do.”
“Thank you!” Seth took the can from her.
“What if he’s caught?” Josiah fumed.
“I’ll say I stole it.” Seth got up to leave, but with a start, he turned back to Amanda. “Did you ever find out where Waverly is?”
“Oh! Yes.” Amanda smiled. “She’s with her mother, thank goodness, and they’re being kept one level above us, in a wing of unoccupied apartments.”
Seth nodded, grateful to finally have a lead.
“I don’t want to see your face again.” Josiah’s hands balled into fists, his jaw set, seething with fury.
“You won’t,” Seth assured him, looking him in the eye to show he meant it.
“Now leave,” Josiah said. “Go the way you came.”
Seth got up and went back to the bedroom closet.
He could hear the couple quietly arguing as he sidled along the passage toward the vacant apartment Amanda had mentioned.
He broke through the back paneling of the bare closet and stepped into a bedroom with only a bed and a dresser in it. He crouched on the floor and ate every last scrap of meat, skin, and gristle off the chicken, followed by the entire loaf of bread and the decanter of juice. With a full belly, he became suddenly exhausted. He crawled onto the bare mattress and stretched out, every joint in his body loosening. Much better than the floor of a janitor’s closet.
I’ll just sleep a little while, he told himself. And when I wake up, I’ll find Waverly.
THE CAPTAIN
Waverly hadn’t expected the doctor to let her see Captain Jones, yet here she was, on her way to the brig, standing in the elevator with Jared on one side of her and one of Mather’s guards on the other. After the violence she’d witnessed on her way to testify, she was amazed that they let Jared and her walk the halls at all.
Choice tidbits of her testimony had been released to the crew only minutes after she had finished. The doctor had called Anne Mather to inform her that Waverly was now a protected witness of the church elders, and Mather had accepted this news with a single, chilling sentence: “So be it.” Jared had escorted Waverly back to her apartment, where a thinner, more disciplined guard was posted outside her door, and their lives had resumed as if the violence before her testimony had never happened. Days passed with the same monotony she’d grown accustomed to, until Jared appeared at her door this morning to pick her up. Mather’s guard let them leave without comment. Some of the New Horizon crew members they passed in the hallway had glared at her venomously, but most of them pretended not to see her at all. The day of her testimony had taken on a dreamlike quality in her mind, as though Jared hadn’t beaten those men in front of her, and as though she hadn’t testified at all. The only remaining vestiges of the incident were the fevered nightmares that vanished the moment she opened her eyes.
Flame: A Sky Chasers Novel Page 12