by Kelly Meding
“For giving Landon a chance today, and for bringing Teresa in.”
“I didn’t do it for you.” The comment came out harsher than I’d intended, and I didn’t miss the way his lips pressed together.
“I know that, Renee. But thank you, anyway. You and your friends are in a very tough spot right now.”
“Tough seems to define every spot we’re in, with occasional upgrades to deadly and impossible.”
“But this time you’re deliberately withholding information from the state police. You could face charges for that.”
“So could you.”
“What are they going to do? Put me in jail?”
I started to reply, then realized a beat too late that he was teasing me. Only it wasn’t funny. “They could deny you parole, like, forever.”
“There are worse things. As long as Landon is safe, I don’t care as much what happens to me.”
I’d care.
Only I wasn’t supposed to care—when the hell had that changed? “You’re sharp and you’re smart, Thatcher. You’d make a good addition to our teams.”
He smiled warmly. It must have been the glow of the sunset on his face, but I swear I saw something else in that smile—something gentle that made my insides go a little soft. “I appreciate the compliments. And please, call me Derek.”
“Derek.”
We reached the Sport and stopped at the back door. Neither one of us opened it right away. Something strange and awkward was hanging between us, holding us in place. I didn’t know what it was, but it scared me to death.
“I haven’t given the future any real thought for a long time,” he said. “I fought for other people, but not for myself.”
“You have Landon to fight for.”
“I do. That’s enough for now.” His hand brushed mine, just a gentle ghost of a touch. “Everything else I’ll have to play by ear.”
My heart pounded. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t pulling away or shutting him down. I could list a hundred reasons why I should have taken a step back, or told him he’d be playing with himself for the foreseeable future unless he wanted to go keep Bethany entertained. Logic refused to accept this was happening—I was blue, I was scarred up, I was an emotional train wreck, take your pick.
Instinct and biology told logic to go fuck itself.
“Playing it by ear is a good start,” I said.
He smiled, and that same warmth flitted through my insides. His hand brushed mine again . . . and then he popped open the back door. I stepped away and the spell was broken. We grabbed the spare blankets from the storage bin, as well as two flashlights. I hadn’t seen a bathroom at the shack, and if I was going to pee outdoors tonight, I wasn’t doing it in the dark.
We walked back to the shack a little more slowly, not chatting about anything in particular, just enjoying the twilight stroll. On our first trip through the park, Thatcher’s attention had wandered, his gaze moving everywhere, observing everything. This time, he watched me—not in a creepy way, but in an I-see-you way. Like no one had watched me since William died.
And for the first time since William died, I felt the faint stirring of hope.
Eleven
Community Cards
Sleeping on an air mattress on the floor of a chilly cabin in the mountains wasn’t an ideal arrangement for a good night’s sleep. Add on that I was less than ten feet from two kids who could incapacitate us and flee at any moment, and that Bethany redefined the word erratic, and I couldn’t relax enough to doze off.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that fucking platform. Sometimes I was tied to the center post; sometimes it was a faceless teenage girl sobbing as her hands were broken. I spent most of the night staring at the shack’s ceiling, listening to Bethany’s persistent snoring. I doubted Ethan and Thatcher were getting much sleep, either, with a jackhammer in the room.
Landon left at some point during the night to go meet Teresa. My phone was gone, and the shack didn’t have a clock, so I had no idea of the time. Bethany finally snored herself into utter silence, and the shack fell quiet. I lay there until the first gray smudges of dawn brightened the window, then I got up.
The fact that the place didn’t have a toilet was frustrating and embarrassing, so I jogged over to the tree line to have a squat. A light fog floated on the ground, and the air was cool, but the sun would warm it up soon. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the scents of the forest around me. It reminded me of my foster parents’ farm.
Yes, I grew up on a farm. Not a working farm, like with milk cows and egg-laying hens. The farm was for injured animals who might have otherwise been put down—lame horses, three-legged dogs, a few mangy cats missing an eye or an ear. My foster parents took in more strays than just a traumatized blue girl with serious trust issues, and I loved them for it.
Down the hill a bit, the platform became a solid figure in the dim morning. The damn thing stood between me and town, and I wanted to snoop around a bit before too many people woke up. I’d walked past it twice last night without incident—with Thatcher next to me both times. I didn’t need a shield. I could do it on my own.
I got about six steps down the road before I stopped, skin cold and heart skipping beats. Nails and wood. Two very stupid things to be afraid of, but it wasn’t the materials. It was the symbol they’d been carved into—a symbol of anger and pain and cruelty. Deep down I understood having a “zero tolerance” policy. But understanding the logic of something and actually using it were two entirely different things.
The shack door opened. Thatcher stepped out, and his attention landed right on me. He walked over, his footsteps soft in the morning stillness. His smile was warm and friendly, despite what must have been a horrendous night on the floor.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, his deep voice barely a whisper.
“Not a wink.” I desperately wanted a hairbrush or toothbrush, or something else to make me feel less gross and dirty. My clothes were filthy, and I probably still had last night’s beef stew stuck in my teeth. Maybe he was smiling like that because I looked like crap and it amused him.
“Worried?”
“I’m always worried. Look at my life.”
“I meant, are you worried about Teresa coming out here to speak with Landon and Bethany?”
“Of course I am. Bethany’s powerful and impulsive. She’s also got all the wild cards and she knows it. She doesn’t have to play nice with us, and sometimes I think the only reason she does is Landon.”
“So you’ve noticed that, too?” His eyebrows furrowed into a deep V. “He steadies her. This Uncle was smart in pairing them together.”
“Or lucky.”
“I’d put my money on smart. Something tells me the people who oversee this whole operation don’t rely much on luck.”
“Good point.”
He glanced down the road toward town. “Would you like to take a walk? See what this place is about?”
I met his gaze, and I saw something kind and understanding in his eyes. I tried to ignore it. “Sure. I was going to, anyway.”
We wandered down the road like the previous night: him on my left, a walking protection from the platform. We didn’t cut through the park this time. The road meandered into a residential area of old homes and sagging front porches. The windows were dark everywhere, no signs that folks were awake yet.
The town looked like any other small town I’d visited or seen in pictures—quaint, dirty, poor, and falling apart at the seams. The residents had survived here when the government turned its back on them, but at what price? At physical torture over a minor crime? At supporting repeated felonies for the sake of food?
On the northern side of town, we stumbled across a trio of people standing in the street. They surrounded a pickup truck, which had a fifteen-foot flat-bottom boat attached to a hitch on the back. Two older men carried a few fishing poles apiece. A young woman had a tackle box and a bucket of something. The woman gave a start when she noticed us, then waved.
&nb
sp; Thatcher walked over like he belonged here, and I had no choice but to follow.
“Good morning,” he said.
“You the folks staying up with Bethany and Landon?” she asked. Like we could be anybody else. I did not roll my eyes, even though I really wanted to.
“Yes, we are.”
“Welcome, then.”
“Thank you.”
We all introduced ourselves, and I made the acquaintance of Evelyn Bogart, her father Sydney, and her uncle Floyd.
“We’re heading up to the river to fish,” Evelyn said, as if the fishing poles and boat hadn’t given that game away. “You wanna join us?”
“No, thank you,” Thatcher said. “I’ve never been, so I’d be useless.”
Evelyn’s eyes brightened up, and I swear she batted her eyelashes at him. “Oh, but it’s easy to learn. As long as you aren’t afraid to hook a night crawler.” She gave me a pointed look that clearly said I was too girlie to manage such a task.
This time I did roll my eyes. “Night crawlers are easy,” I said. “It’s hooking a cricket without breaking it in half that’s the trick.”
She blinked hard.
That’s right, honey, I can bait a line and catch a fish.
Thatcher smiled, amused. “What do you catch?”
“Smallmouth bass, usually,” Sydney replied. “Sometimes catfish or walleyes. Canned chicken and dried beef aren’t the same as fresh fish on the supper table. Plus, we all gotta do our part for the town.”
“So you’re the town’s fishermen?”
“Not all, but some. We rotate weeks with a few other families, so’s there’s always fish around.”
“Do you hunt, as well?”
“The Schulbergs do most of the hunting. They bring in a lot of venison, plus some ducks and raccoons.”
I really didn’t want to know what a raccoon tasted like. Ever.
Landon had told us the town also had a vegetable garden and springwater. They were fairly self-sufficient, so why continue to steal groceries?
Of course, toothpaste and multivitamins didn’t grow on trees, now, did they?
“Our family’s been fishing these banks forever and then some,” Sydney said. “Got six generations of Bogarts buried in the town cemetery. I’ll be the seventh, one of these days, but Evvie there’s already working on the ninth.”
Evelyn ducked her head and blushed. I glanced down at her belly, which didn’t look swollen. Sydney’s words were pretty clear, though. “Congratulations,” I said with the faintest question attached.
“Thank you,” she replied with a subtle nod. Yeah, it was good news.
Thatcher had gone silent, his expression intent. Maybe even a little intense. He got that same look whenever kids were mentioned, like his sole goal in life was to make sure every child was taken care of and happy. Big job for one guy. He’d already failed a couple million. What were a few more? I could see him getting protective over Evelyn’s unborn baby, and the kid wasn’t even the size of a walnut yet.
“You have any kids, young folks?” Sydney asked.
“No,” I said right away. Partly because I knew my answer, and partly to give Thatcher a moment to consider his. “Don’t have any, and I can’t say I’ve ever wanted any of my own.”
“Motherhood’s a blessing,” Evelyn said.
“Maybe so, but it’s not for everyone.” And I wouldn’t wish my life on any kid, especially one I was responsible for.
Evelyn shook her head like I was a dumb student she’d work one-on-one with later (as if), then turned to Thatcher. “And you, Mr. Thatcher?”
“I have a son,” he replied with a fondness in his voice I’d never heard before. “He’s grown now, though, and we don’t see each other much.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yes, it is.”
We made small talk a while longer, and then Thatcher and I excused ourselves. The sun was fully up and at least an hour had passed since we’d come into town. We wandered around a little more in silence before heading toward the shack. Bethany would be up at some point, and I didn’t like the idea of leaving Ethan alone with her for too long.
Once we hit the dirt track, Thatcher broke the pleasant nontalking we had going on. “You don’t believe things will ever get better for Metas, do you?” he asked.
“Do you?” I countered. Not terribly mature, but whatever.
“I don’t know. I want to believe it will, for Landon and Caleb and Andrew. I’m not psychic, though, so I can’t know for sure.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a realist. And no, I don’t think things will get better for us. We’ll never be accepted, and it will never be okay to walk around in public with blue skin, or bat wings, or whatever freakish deformity prevents some of us from blending in.”
He stopped walking, and I made it three more steps before I clued in and turned around. He stared at me with his lips parted, his thick eyebrows once again furrowed. His eyes blazed with intensity.
“What?” I asked, challenging him with my tone and hands on my hips.
“Do you think you’re deformed?”
My insides rolled unpleasantly. “Don’t you?” Before he could answer that, I steamrolled him. “I look like an alien from some cheesy sci-fi show, and that’s not even counting the bazillion burn scars you can’t see. Even my eyes are blue where yours are white, Derek, so don’t pretend that any part of how I look is normal.”
“You are not deformed, Renee.”
“Sure I am. People don’t see me when they look at me, they see what’s wrong with me. They see blue skin.” I snorted so hard it actually hurt my nose. “Do you know why I got these fucking implants?” I cupped my hands around my perfectly shaped, stupidly large boobs just to make my point. “So at least men would notice something else first, before my fucking blue skin. That, and the tips I got in Vegas doubled.”
His eyebrows jumped at the Vegas comment, and I could almost see him wondering just what I’d done there. Not that I had any intention of telling him. He could assume anything he wanted. Funny thing was, he never looked away from my face. Not even when I made my breasts the topic of conversation.
“You’re not deformed,” he said again. “You’re beautiful.”
My mind stuttered at the perfunctory way he made that statement, like there was no arguing the matter. I wanted to punch him for saying it, for arguing with me about it. My fingers even curled into a fist. I didn’t swing, though, much as I wanted to. I spun on my heel and stormed up the track to the cabin.
“Hey!” He chased me up the road, then cut me off, the jerk.
“Move.”
“No. Renee—”
“Move.” This time, I did swing at him. More out of frustration than anger, so he deflected the punch like he was swatting a bug away from his face. “You’re a bastard.”
“Why? Because I tell the truth?”
“It isn’t truthful if you think it’s what I want to hear.”
“I’ve never lied to you, not once since our first meeting in the interrogation room. Why would I start lying now?”
“You tell me.”
He made a frustrated noise. “Fine. Apparently I’m not changing your mind.”
“Smart man.”
I stormed away again, and this time he didn’t try to catch me. I wasn’t sure where I was storming off to, since I didn’t really want to be inside that cabin with Bethany. I just wanted away from Thatcher.
The cabin door swung open and Ethan scurried outside like he was being chased. We nearly collided in the yard, and he jumped back with a surprised shout.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he replied.
“You running from Bethany?”
“That obvious?”
“A tad.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the door, which had fallen closed. “She scares me.” He hooked my elbow and tugged me a few yards away from the building. “And not just because she keeps eyeing me like she’s imagining me in f
uzzy handcuffs.”
“Sorry we left you alone for so long.”
Ethan looked around, and I realized Thatcher had disappeared. “Where’d you go, anyway?”
“Walked around in town. Talked to some locals.” I told him about our chat with the Bogarts. “It sounds like they’re really working toward being self-sustaining.”
“Which is a good thing, if they want to survive here. I can’t imagine having roots in one place for so long.”
I made a face. “Well, we all had roots in Los Angeles until the mayor had it all flattened.” The two buildings still standing at the old Rangers HQ in Los Angeles had been demolished during the after-earthquake cleanup. Not that they could have stood up much longer on their own, after the combined destruction of the earthquake and our battles with the Recombinant clones.
“You know what I meant, Stretch.”
“I do. They all seem happy here.”
“They seem to have what most of us want.”
“Fresh catfish for dinner?”
He pulled a face. “No. They have a place where they feel safe. A place to raise their families and have a community.”
“You’ve got that sound in your voice again.”
“What sound?”
“The sound of old arguments, Windy, like the one about making Manhattan a place for all of us to live in peace.”
“It could be that.”
“Until it isn’t anymore.”
Ethan opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. Good. I didn’t feel like having the same old argument again, either. We used to see eye to eye on the issue of the Manhattan Banes. Now we weren’t even looking at the same thing anymore, and it frustrated me to no end. Just like Thatcher and his skewed view of history frustrated me.
“Can we get through this without fighting?” I asked. “Please?”
“But I live for fighting with you, Stretch.”
Oddly, it was the right thing to say.
“Breakfast is ready,” Thatcher said, scaring the life out of me. He stood in the cabin doorway as if he’d been in there the entire time slaving over the meal.
Ethan and I went inside to find Bethany slopping grayish oatmeal into a plastic bowl. She scooped honey out of a jar, then went to sit at the table without a word or gesture in our direction.