Afterimage

by Naomi Hughes

  I stare at the screen. It worked. Our ridiculous, one-in-a-million, doomed-from-the-start idea actually worked.

  Quint nods and straightens. “Okay,” he says, “great. So from here, what’s the—”

  I hold up a finger. “Say plan to me one more time and you will not like the results.” I exhale and bend over the computer. “And for your information, I’ve already figured this part out. We need to unlock the files so they can be read from anywhere and then email them to my account. Tomorrow morning we can find a library or something and open them from there.”

  “Good plan,” he says. His face is straight but there’s traces of a smirk in his voice.

  I roll my eyes, then click on a random file in the medical records folder and right click for options. It’s a bit of a workaround, Kyle said in the train station. He wasn’t kidding. There’s got to be twenty choices here, and none of them say “unlock.”

  Quint’s humor evaporates like it never existed and he leans over the keyboard with an intense expression, stabbing a finger at the screen. “Try Security.” I click on it, but no dice. It only offers a list of antivirus software and an option to scan the drive.

  I glance at the door. How long do we have till the janitor gets to this floor? If we can’t figure out how to unlock the info, we’ll have no choice but to speed-read as much as we can right here and pray we don’t get caught.

  “Network options?” Quint suggests.

  I double click on the tab as directed and there it is, in tiny red font at the bottom of the screen. Allow users to access from outside the network.

  Mouth dry, I click the checkbox.

  The computer chirps. File unlocked.

  Jackpot.

  Quint and I stare at each other. The moment stretches between us like taffy in the sun: we did it. No more secrets. No more begging for information. No more being one step behind.

  A grin spreads over my face. Quint smiles back—then his gaze slips to the computer and the smile melts away, his brow crinkling. He opens his mouth.

  Ding! Down the hall, the elevator slides open to tuneless whistling. A mop slaps against the tile.

  My hand flies to the mouse. “Is he coming this way?” I hiss to Quint. The window to the hall has no curtains. If the janitor spots the screen’s glow, he’ll investigate. If he investigates, we’re as good as caught.

  Quint is across the room with his head through the wall. “We’ll have to make a run for it,” he calls, voice tight. “He’s headed straight for us. Twenty seconds.”

  I clutch the mouse. How many files can I unlock in twenty seconds? I hover between Medical records and Special projects—no time to figure out which documents are about Mom and Quint, I’ll have to unlock at random and hope for the best. Click, options, click, network options, click, unlock. Again. Again.

  Project Sigma. Is that important? Unlock one file there and move to the next. The Incident, that’s what they call the base explosion. Risk the time to unlock a file there, then on to session logs.

  My throat tightens with every choice. All the files I’m leaving behind, all the answers I don’t have time to open—I should’ve been quicker. I should’ve come up with a better plan.

  “He’s turned around to put his mop away, let’s go!” Quint calls from the doorway.

  One more file. One more. I lean in, huddling over the computer. Click, click, click. I open a browser, frantically type in my email address, attach the files.

  Quint takes two long steps toward me. “Leave it and run!”

  I hit send, log out, stuff the tablet beneath the desk and snatch up my shoes—but I only make it three steps into the hall before the janitor spots me.

  He drops the mop, pulls his headphones off, and straightens. “Hey! You can’t be in there!”

  I take off. My bare feet slip on the floor as I skid around the corner. I search for stairs, an elevator, an open window, anything, but it’s just another row of locked offices and the janitor’s heavy footfalls are way too close already.

  “Left!” Quint shouts, and I take the turn blindly. It’s a bathroom, a smaller private one with—oh thank God—a locking door. I throw myself inside and flip the bolt. The janitor pounds into the door half a second later and it flexes under the assault. Breathing hard, I back away and search for an exit.

  Nothing. No windows, no other doors, not even a person-sized vent.

  Quint throws his hands in the air. “I meant ‘left at the next hallway, where there’s a stairwell,’ not ‘left, the tiny bathroom with no alternate escape route!’”

  “Well you should’ve been more specific!” I shout back.

  “What?” says the janitor, muffled by the door.

  “Go away!” I yell at him. My voice cracks and I huddle into myself. Trapped. I’m trapped by the agency again. The panic starts low in my gut and I swallow a whimper, trying to beat it back down. I will not have an attack. I can’t afford one, not here, not now. Come on, stupid brain, work with me.

  The pounding stops. “That’s it, I’m calling the cops.”

  “No!” I yelp, jerking upright. There’s no way the police—or Dr. Lila, for that matter—will let me off this time. Maybe if I come up with some sort of convincing, less incriminating story, the janitor will have mercy and let me go.

  A plan takes shape. I press my forehead hard against the door and the pain grounds me, letting me squash the panic into a manageable background hum. “Wait a second! I’m coming out, okay?”

  “Okay,” the janitor says, his bass voice rumbling through the thin door. “Come out, then.”

  I slide my sneakers on one by one, giving myself plenty of time to think of another option that has even a slightly smaller chance of ending in my arrest, but nothing comes to mind. I take a deep breath and glance at Quint, who shakes his head and says nothing. Then, with trembling fingers, I unlock the bolt and step into the hall.

  The janitor crosses his arms and glares at me. He’s got his baseball cap clutched in one hand and he’s still panting from his run, his bushy mustache bristling with each breath. He eyes me up and down. “How did you get in here?” he demands, stabbing a finger at me. “What were you doing? And don’t try to say you were lost, ‘cause lost people don’t run.”

  I clear my throat. Here goes. “I was going to … uh, do graffiti.”

  Quint rubs his temple. “You are seriously the worst criminal ever.”

  The janitor raises an eyebrow, equally skeptical. “You were gonna do graffiti.”

  I nod.

  “Where’s your paint?”

  “I dropped it down the trash chute.” Please let there be a trash chute.

  His lips twitch. Time to sell it. What was it Kyle used to tell me about how he always got away with stuff? A touch of the truth makes a lie easier to swallow.

  I raise my chin and look him in the eye. “My mother was an agency researcher. She died at the base.” The words roil in my stomach like acid but I force them out anyway. “And now they won’t tell us what happened or even what projects she was working on. They won’t listen and I … I wanted to make them answer me, make them see me. That’s all. I’m sorry. Please don’t call the cops.”

  His rubs his moustache, eyes narrowed. I look at Quint. He holds my gaze, keeping me steady while the janitor considers my words.

  “Two of my cousins died at the base too,” he tells me, his voice gruff. “Half the city lost someone. You don’t see everyone else out tagging offices, making some underpaid custodian clean up their mess.” He digs in his pocket and comes up with a cell phone and I tense to run, but instead of dialing 911, he holds it out to me. “I’ll make you a deal. You call someone—a responsible adult—to come get you. Everyone goes home, you forget about ‘doing graffiti,’ you don’t get in trouble with the cops and I don’t get in trouble with my boss for letting a tagger sneak in. Okay?”

  I take the phone gingerly, buying myself time to think. It’s a fair offer … but who am I supposed to call? I already tried Dad a
nd Kyle’s work phone, and my grandparents live out of state.

  I only know one other number. Slowly, I dial it.

  It rings twice, because Dad can’t bear to disconnect it. I stare at the floor and count my heartbeats and brace myself.

  Voicemail picks up. The janitor motions at me to put it on speakerphone and I obey, holding the phone out between us.

  “You’ve reached Marianne Kingfisher,” says the voice on the other end, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I’m at the base; I’m standing at the gate and talking to my mother and she’s alive and helping me and I have a life, I have a family, I have a future. “Leave me a message and I’ll call you back. Unless I don’t. In which case, just text me.” Beep.

  And she’s gone again.

  The seconds stretch out. The janitor is staring at me and I need to say something before he gets suspicious, but I can barely manage to inhale.

  “Camryn,” Quint says gently, and it’s enough to jar me into action.

  “Hi,” I croak out at last. “It’s … me. Um, I need you to come pick me up when you get this. I’m at the temporary agency offices on the east side.” My throat closes up, and I know I’m talking to a ghost, but I say it anyway: “I love you.”

  The janitor grabs the phone. “And she’s in some serious trouble too, so I’d appreciate you getting here as soon as possible so I don’t have to call the police. Thanks.” He hangs up and looks at me. “Who was that, your aunt or something?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. My eyes are stinging, but hopefully he’ll think I’m only emotional about getting caught. I clear my throat. “I’ll wait for her outside.”

  Actually, I’ll run like hell the second I hit fresh air, but he doesn’t need to know that yet.

  “Good thinking,” Quint says. I don’t meet his eyes though, because I know what he’d look like to me at this moment: rubble and ash, soot and silence, force and fire. But now, now that he’s become—what? An ally? A frenemy?—the thought of seeing him that way again, as a representation of what I’ve lost … it’s suddenly unbearable. So, eyes firmly fixed on the corridor, I scoot past and pray the janitor buys my story.

  No luck. His beefy hand closes around my shoulder before I get two steps. “We’ll wait right here,” he says, eyes narrowed.

  I swallow. With no other option, I stand still and wait for him to realize I’m lying.

  The minutes tick by. Every time he checks his silent phone, my blood pressure goes up a few more notches. No one’s going to call and no one’s going to come. Sooner or later, he’s either going to have to let me go or call the cops.

  At the ten minute mark he makes his decision. “Time’s up, kid. Either your aunt’s asleep or you’re lying.” He thumbs his phone on and starts dialing 911.

  A few years ago, Kyle gave me a very short but effective lesson in self-defense. This feels like the right time to test it out.

  I take a long step sideways, whirl around, and knee the janitor hard in the crotch.

  He folds in on himself like a house of cards and I dart down the hall, wincing in sympathy. Hopefully I’ve bought myself enough time for a clean getaway, because part two of Kyle’s lesson made it clear that if this guy catches up with me he’s not going to be in a forgiving mood.

  I tear around the corner and nearly trip over the abandoned mop bucket, losing several precious seconds while I regain my footing. An incensed bellow ricochets off the walls behind me. My head start is over.

  “Stairs, stairs!” Quint shouts, and I veer to the right and bound down the steps three at a time—but instead of taking me to a first floor landing, they end in a brown door with a bright red bar across it. EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY, it says. Alarm will sound. It’s a little late to worry about stealth, so I plow into it at full speed and stumble out onto a sidewalk. The fire alarm’s shrill screech heralds my exit and I cringe, covering my ears.

  The movement costs me a second too long. A brawny hand snaps shut around my wrist and the janitor hauls me back toward the door, his face red and twisted with pain. Ice shoots through my veins and pools in my stomach. Once he turns me over to the cops, I’m done for. I try to wrench my arm away, but his grip is ironclad and a row of tall bushes separate me from the street, from anyone who might see and help. He twists hard, and I’m up on my tiptoes, trying to catch my breath, trying frantically to think of a way out of this—

  —and then there’s a low, electric buzz, and the janitor freezes. His hand tightens and releases, tightens and releases, a spasm that nearly jerks my arm out of its socket. I cry out and finally manage to pull away, landing hard on the sidewalk. I stare up at him, spellbound, as his spine arcs and his face tilts upward like a drowning man straining for the surface.

  Then he lets out a long breath and sags, swaying. In the second before he hits the ground he lowers his eyes to meet mine and something is …

  Wrong. Missing.

  Just like the trainmaster.

  He crumbles to the sidewalk, twitching like a fresh-caught fish. I’m sitting, staring, breathless—so it takes me longer than it should to see the person who was standing behind him.

  The gun slides out of the shadows first.

  Time slows down and pulls apart, spreading the moment like dough under a rolling pin. The weapon is modified, something out of a steampunk show: gleaming silver wires twine around the barrel and meet at the handle, which is fashioned from a chunk of the same shimmery metal. The weapon is clunky, heavy, but the hand that holds it isn’t shaking.

  The hand is followed by a hoodie sleeve: black, wrinkled. The sleeve is followed by an arm, and the arm is followed by a boy.

  Ash blond hair falling over his glasses. Bright green eyes hooded by shadows. No lab coat. And no transparency.

  The gun lowers. “It’s about time,” says the solid version of Quint. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  UNABLE TO PROCESS THE SCENE as a whole, my mind breaks it into fragments.

  The solid-looking Quint, reaching down to help me up. I flinch away, because I’m terrified his hand will go right through mine and terrified it won’t.

  My see-through Quint a few yards away, silent as the stillness at the center of the universe. His lab coat is a splash of brilliance against the shadows, and it makes me think of the too-bright paint behind my family portrait: an afterimage, just a false-color remnant of life.

  The janitor, twitching and gasping on the concrete as if he’s been electrified. His eyes are rolled up in his head, but I can still see that awful emptiness.

  They’re empty because he’s dying. And he’s dying because someone shot him.

  I scrabble backwards on the sidewalk. The solid Quint is still standing in front of the janitor, free hand held out to help me up. “I’m sorry about your brother,” he says. “I didn’t intend that kind of collateral damage.”

  And this is how my blackmailer chooses to introduce himself. Not with a name. With an apology. With a gleaming quicksilver gun that I’ve seen once before, bright and blurry in a snapshot of his hoodie pocket. With a too-familiar frown pulling at one corner of his mouth as his hand touches mine—warm, solid, wrong—and closes around it, and tightens, and pulls me to my feet.

  My lips are tingling and my hands feel clammy and my thoughts are tumbling and slippery. I’ve been through too many impossible things tonight and my brain is putting on the brakes. But there is one thing I know: I know how to read Quint’s expressions, and right now they’re showcased on this strange boy’s face. He’s apologizing for his bomb’s “collateral damage” while ignoring the dying man right behind him—and I think he means it. I think he is sorry. And I think he’d do it again.

  Fury pounds through my veins, hard and dark, energizing and sickening and potent. I want him to hurt. I want him to pay. I want him to understand.

  I snatch my hand from his. I back away.

  The janitor is still twitching on the sidewalk. Beneath the wailing fire alarm, his fingernails scrape a spastic
rhythm against the concrete, reminding me that I should be starting CPR, I should be looking for help, I should be trying to save him. But I tried to save the trainmaster, and I failed. Because it was a trap.

  “How did you find me?” I demand. I’m still moving away, putting space between us, terrified and tempted by the rage that’s shrieking through me. A few hours ago I punched a man just because he called my mom a terrorist bitch. If I don’t control myself right now, what will I do to my brother’s murderer?

  I know what I want to do.

  I clench my hands. Unclench them. If I can distract him long enough, someone will come, someone will see, someone will arrest him. They’ll arrest me too, but I don’t think I care anymore.

  The solid Quint is preoccupied, leaning sideways to glance at the street beyond the bushes. “I traced the calls to your parents’ phones. Look, we’ll play twenty questions later. We’re about to get tossed in jail in approximately three minutes, and we should probably spend that time running for our lives. Come on.”

  “Like hell I’m going anywhere with you,” I spit out. But, oh God, he looks just like my Quint, reaching out to me with that exasperated look on his face—and my damn instincts run in circles, telling me trust him and run and make him pay, make him pay, make him pay.

  He takes a step closer. “You’re looking for answers,” he says. “I can give them to you. But we have to go now.”

  Layered beneath the still-screeching fire alarm, a new siren takes up the call. Cops are headed this way, and through the hedge I can already make out people spilling onto the sidewalks to see what’s going on. My fingernails dig into my palms with the effort of staying put—I have to hold on just a little longer. “Who are you?”

  He throws out his arms, exasperated. “Dr. Matthew Lerato, okay? And you’re Camryn Kingfisher. Can we run away now or are there any more pleasantries you’d like to exchange while we wait for the police?”

  The fury roars and thunders, making my hands shake. “You killed my brother, you son of a bitch, and now you want—”