The Taking

by Kimberly Derting

  I took the phone apart, removing the battery in hopes that once all the parts had dried, it might power up again, at least enough so I could get Simon’s number off it.

  “Dream big,” my dad always told me.

  Most the things, though—the photos, the missing-person flyer, the map—were a soggy mess. I did my best with them, but I finally gave up, tossing everything but the map into the wastebasket. The map I’d painstakingly spread over a table until it looked a little less like something “my brother” had chewed up and spit out. I could still make out some of the diagrams my dad had drawn on it, but most were smudged beyond recognition.

  I had no idea whether the USB stick had survived being plunged into the river; but like the phone, I hoped it would dry out and might eventually be useful, so I set it aside with the CDs.

  The last thing I pulled from the fanny pack was the last thing I’d expected to find in there: the giant button of my fourth-grade picture that my dad used to wear. I hadn’t even seen it in the mess at my dad’s place.

  “I couldn’t resist,” Tyler said from behind me.

  I turned and saw him scrutinizing me from the bathroom, a towel wrapped strategically around his waist, blocking all the interesting stuff. Well, most of the interesting stuff.

  My eyes traveled over the defined planes of his chest and down his muscled arms. His skin was damp still, and my fingers itched to dry him off the rest of the way. Any red-blooded American girl would’ve had the exact same thought.

  “Um, yeah,” I said, averting my gaze back to the plastic-coated button in my hand. “It’s me, when I was little.” I smiled coyly, feeling silly that a trinket from my past had made me so happy.

  He grinned. “Yeah, I know. I sorta recognized you.”

  A flush burned my cheeks and made me hot all over again. “Thanks. That was sweet of you.”

  Tyler coughed, and at first I thought I’d just made him uncomfortable with my praise and he was trying to cover it up by clearing his throat. But then he kept on coughing.

  “Shit, Tyler. Your nose.”

  And then there was that. He was bleeding again.

  Snatching up the box of tissues from the nightstand, I rushed over to him with a wad already in my hand. He was as stunned as I was and pressed the tissues to his nose.

  I knew then that something was wrong. Tyler had said it himself; he hadn’t had a bloody nose since he was a kid, yet this was his third one today.

  My mom’s words rose up in my head: He says you were infected with whatever that guy from Skagit General Hospital had. He says you’re contagious.

  This was the second time Agent Truman had brought up that lab tech from the hospital—first sending me his picture and then telling my mom I’d been infected by him. But now the lab guy was dead; that’s what it said on the news, right? That he’d been found dead in his apartment, and the cause of death hadn’t been determined yet.

  But what if it had been?

  I tried to make sense of it. What if I really was contagious, like Agent Truman said I was?

  It would explain what was happening to Tyler, wouldn’t it?

  And then I thought about that other guy—that agent at the bookstore. I’d seen the look on his face when he saw the blood trickling down my wrist. The way his hands shook, and his eyes had been filled with indecision and panic.

  The lab guy had been exposed to my blood too.

  I lifted my hand to my mouth. “Oh my god. It’s me, isn’t it? I’m the reason all those agents were suited up in biohazard gear.”

  Tyler fumbled for me, his hand finding my cheek. Even behind the tissue I saw his lips quirk. “Don’t do this. Seriously, Kyr.”

  My heart raced over the way he said my name.

  “Think about it. I wasn’t infected, Tyler—I am the infection. Remember that agent? He was all set to shoot you, right up until I cut myself. What if it’s something in me that makes people sick—something about my blood? What if he shot himself because of me?” I was frowning so hard my head hurt, but I needed Tyler to take me seriously. “And what if that same thing is causing your nosebleeds?”

  “Stop it,” he said through the filter of the tissues. “You’re making way too big a deal about this. It’s a nosebleed.”

  But I stood there, watching him as he held the compress to his nose. I’d been so focused on drooling over his pecs and abs that I hadn’t really noticed the shadows beneath his eyes.

  I reached up and pressed the back of my hand to his forehead.

  Tyler grinned. “On second thought.” This time when he coughed it was totally and completely fake. He grinned some more. “If you want to play nurse, I’m all in.”

  I didn’t share his enthusiasm, though. Because when I felt him, the moment I laid my hand on his skin, I knew . . . Tyler was sick.

  “You’re burning up.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I need medical attention.” He refused to give it up. “See what I did there? I made you all worried, and now you sorta have to be nice to me.”

  “Tyler. Don’t. This is serious. What you need is to lay down and stop acting like this is no big deal. I don’t know what’s going on or why this is happening, but we have a problem. I need to figure out how to get us some help. I think Simon might know what to do; I just have to find a way to get ahold of him.” I went to the bed and peeled back the tacky orange covers and gave him my best I’m-serious face, waiting for him to quit pretending this was some sort of game.

  He tried. He wasn’t great at it, but at least he tried, pasting on a solemn expression for my benefit. He still held the tissues, but with one hand he reached out and stroked my arm. “It’ll be okay, Kyr. I really believe that. Everything’ll work out. I’ll get some rest, and I’ll feel better in the morning. And then we can find your dad, and you can explain your side of things to him, and you two will work things out. Your mom . . . well,” He winced. “I’m not sure about her. But everything else . . . things always have a way of working themselves out. You’ll see.”

  He eased down onto the bed, getting beneath the covers. “How ’bout this? I’ll make you a deal. I’ll stay in bed if you promise not to worry.” He stretched out. “Come here,” he said, reaching for me, and I flushed all over again. When I hesitated, he grinned. “I know you don’t need much sleep or anything, but it’ll make me feel better just having you next to me. Humor me. Pretend you’re tired too.” He yawned, and I ached to feel that way again. To feel my eyelids grow sleepy and let my thoughts drift until dream was impossible to differentiate from reality.

  I missed dreaming.

  More than anything, though, I wanted Tyler to be right. I wanted whatever was wrong with him just to be exhaustion and for him to wake up feeling refreshed.

  I frowned at him as I settled onto the side of the bed, testing the feel of it. “Just sleep,” I insisted, ignoring the way my body reacted to being so near him. To knowing what he was, or wasn’t, rather, wearing beneath the covers.

  He caught me the second I was within reach and hauled me against him. I was hyperaware of every single thing about this moment. His skin, which was too hot and too dry and too tempting, and how badly I wanted to run my fingers over every inch of it. The tang of motel soap that clung to him, and the way it smelled different on him than it did on me. The itchy comforter I was lying on top of and how it kept us apart. The thrum of my heart and the sound of his breathing.

  “See? This isn’t so bad.”

  I grinned reluctantly, shifting my gaze to his, and he tightened his grip on me. “How’s your nose?” I asked.

  He peeled back the tissues and checked it. “What did I tell you; nothing to worry about? Just a bloody nose.”

  I didn’t know how to tell him I thought he was wrong.

  Tyler talked in his sleep.

  Like talk-talked. In full, coherent sentences.

  Of course everything he said was out of context and made no sense, but it was more amusing than any late-night talk show or infomercial
on TV.

  He talked about washing his car, something about “wrong soap.” and “scratching the paint.” And later there was muttering about a dog. Whose dog, I didn’t know. He just said, “You can’t bring that dog in here.” He must’ve been serious about it, because he repeated it more than once, each time more forcefully than before.

  I bit back my laughter, not wanting to wake him, until he said the one thing that made me freeze. Just a single word, but it sent shivers racing up my spine.

  “Kyra.”

  I stayed where I was, wanting desperately—so damned desperately—for him to say my name again. I probably would’ve waited all night, except that was about the time he started to shiver. The same way I had shivered after we’d climbed out of the river. I forgot all about my name on his lips and slipped back into Florence Nightingale mode, jumping up from where I’d been lying next to him, and pressed my hand against the side of his cheek.

  If I’d thought he’d been burning up before, he was downright sizzling now.

  Panic overrode logic, and I tried shaking him awake. “Tyler. Wake up. Your fever . . . it’s worse.”

  He mumbled something less coherent than his dream babbling had been, something I couldn’t make out, and I shook him again. “Wake up,” I demanded, getting right in his face now. “I need you to wake up!”

  When he didn’t respond, I went to the bathroom and ran a washcloth under cold water. I brought it back and laid it across his forehead. I wouldn’t have been surprised if steam had risen from the compress. It didn’t, but it also didn’t rouse him.

  “Dammit.”

  I grabbed the key and the ice bucket, not bothering with pants, and hurried out of the room.

  When I came back, he was in the exact same state as when I’d left him: burning up and delirious. He responded, at least, to the ice.

  “What the hell!” He shoved at me lethargically, but at least I could understand him. “Stop. I’m fine.” His “I’m fine,” however, was less than convincing, and I was stronger than he was in his fevered state.

  “Here . . . ,” I said, my voice gentler as I wrapped the cubes in the washcloth and pressed them against his neck.

  With the ice buffered by the cloth, he stopped thrashing against me and let me leave it. When the ice melted, I replaced it.

  But I needed to do more.

  “I’ll be back,” I whispered against his ear, and felt the heat coming off him in rippling waves.

  The lady who staffed the office for the overnight shift was nice enough, if a little hard of hearing. Apparently they sold T-shirts but not Tylenol. Go figure. She didn’t “believe in the stuff,” she explained, so she couldn’t help me out.

  I did my best not to roll my eyes, but it took every ounce of self-control to stop myself. Who didn’t believe in Tylenol?

  She did, however, point out that there was an all-night gas station just “down the way a bit,” and she aimed a crooked finger indecisively. I assumed she knew by then I was on foot since there weren’t any cars in the parking lot, so I started jogging in the direction she’d indicated.

  She was right. It didn’t take long to find the small, four-pump station, which was good since by the time I got there my not-yet-dry jeans were starting to chafe. Also because I was out of my mind with worry over Tyler.

  The station was open but deserted at this hour. And it wasn’t the convenience store kind of place that had aisles of snack foods and miscellaneous household supplies and motor oil and beer. Instead there was one lone attendant’s stand in a center island that overlooked all four gas pumps. Behind the glass there was a limited assortment of sundries: cigarettes, condoms, cough drops—that sort of thing. I could see the display rack of individual packets of pain relievers sitting plain as day on the back counter.

  Problem was, the attendant was nowhere to be seen.

  If I’d wanted breath spray or condoms, I’d have been in luck. I could have busted out the BACK IN FIVE sign that blocked the small opening where people passed their cash and made a run for it. No such luck.

  “Hello?” I called out, hoping that the cashier was right around the corner, maybe taking a smoke break or something; and when no one answered, I tried again, louder this time. “Hello!”

  I paced nervously, chewing on my lip and then on my fingernail, trying to decide what I should do.

  I didn’t want to go back there empty-handed. Tyler needed this medicine.

  I went to the glass and pressed my face against it. It was right there. Right in front of me. If I had the balls—or the ovaries, in my case—I’d break the damn glass. I was already on the run from the law, wasn’t I? How much worse could my situation get?

  Just one packet of Tylenol or Excedrin or ibuprofen. I wasn’t choosy.

  I pounded my fists helplessly against the glass because I knew I’d never do it, even if it had been right where the breath spray was. I wasn’t a thief.

  “Hello?” I yelled again, anxiety making my voice crack. “Is anyone here?”

  And that’s when it happened.

  The display of pain relievers . . .

  . . . it moved.

  Moved, as in wiggled. Enough that all the packets swayed side to side. A miniature earthquake.

  Except it was only the pain reliever rack that was affected. Nothing else. Not the ground beneath my feet or the counters inside the booth or the condoms or the cough drops.

  Just the pain relievers I’d been staring at longingly.

  Shut. Up.

  My eyes widened, and my fists fell to my sides. My throat tightened as I tried to make sense of what I’d seen. I looked behind me to see if anyone else had noticed it, but I was still alone.

  All alone.

  I turned back.

  Nuh-uh . . . not me . . .

  It wasn’t . . .

  I glanced down at my hands—ordinary, normal hands. No way!

  I curled my fingers back into fists and lifted them to the glass, mimicking my previous actions.

  Nothing happened. There was nothing but me and the empty booth and all those pain relievers I couldn’t reach.

  I stared. I stared hard.

  I concentrated.

  And then . . .

  . . . still nothing.

  I banged my fist on the glass, releasing a gust of frustration as I swore under my breath. “Dammit. Dammit!”

  All at once the entire pain reliever display shot across the booth and crashed against the glass, scaring the crap out of me.

  I jerked away from the explosion, my heart crammed in my throat and my eyes so wide I felt like they’d pop out of my head. “Holy . . .” I gasped. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god . . .”

  But there was no one there to see. I checked.

  I almost wished there had been. Someone to say, “I saw it too.” Or “Holy crap.” Or “Dude, you did it.”

  Somehow, someway, by some freaking miracle I had just managed to move—like levitate or something—that whole entire rack across the attendant booth.

  With my new superpowers.

  When I finally recovered from what I’d done, when I’d accepted it was real and come to terms with it, and when I realized I’d better get the hell out of there before someone else showed up and figured out I was the one responsible for all that damage, I jumped into action.

  It was all there, all the medicine I needed; I just had to shove—fine, break—the BACK IN FIVE sign to get it out of my way. It was a small feat after what I’d accomplished with the display stand, and it only took me a second. Hard to believe the cashier had left this place unattended in the first place.

  After I’d filled my pockets with as many packets as I could carry, I laid three twenty-dollar bills on the counter inside, more than enough to pay for what I’d taken and to make up for the mess I’d made. Because, I might not be exactly human, but I certainly wasn’t a thief.

  I ran the entire way back, anxious to get out of there before someone spotted me, and even more anxious to get back to Tyl
er. I stopped running, though, almost tripping over my own feet, the moment the Asplund Motor Inn came into view.

  Not because I was winded or because I was no longer in a hurry to get back, but because of the car in the parking lot. The one that hadn’t been there before.

  Black. Nice and shiny, polished black.

  I felt sick. Not like Tyler, all fevered and nosebleedy, but straight-up, gut-puking sick.

  If it hadn’t been for Tyler—Tyler who was still in there, still burning up, probably all because of me—I’d would’ve turned tail and run. Right back to the gas station, past it, and into the woods.

  I would have disappeared forever this time.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my fists into the hollows of my sockets, and did my best to come up with some sort of plan. But there was no good plan for how to get Tyler out of there. Not now.

  As I passed the office on my way back, the old lady inside met me at the door. “Oh good, you’re back. Nice man’s been waitin’ on you.”

  I ignored the woman, my stomach roiling as I kept walking. I glanced toward the black car parked right in front of room #110.

  It was empty, I noted. Whoever was here was probably already inside the room. Waiting for me.

  My heart climbed into my throat as I stood outside. My key felt heavy and my fingers too clumsy to work it. It took me forever to screw up the courage to slip it into the lock. Closing my eyes, I knew this was probably my last chance to change my mind.

  I could still run.

  I could still disappear and be Bridget Hollingsworth.

  Instead, I turned the key.

  The room was dark, but I could see everything clearly.

  Tyler was out on the bed, curled in a ball, delirious and shivering. I wanted to shout at him to run, but it was no use. All our things were exactly where I’d left them, untouched and spread out to dry. The light from the bathroom was on, and the door was ajar.

  The agent was in there.

  The silence was palpable; each second I stood there waiting for him to make his appearance was physically painful.

  When I couldn’t take it any longer, I finally let the door close behind me. “I know you’re here.”