The MisFit Series (Book 2): The Lost Days

by Plum, AB

  When I raised my head to signal I was okay, he stopped and met my gaze as he had always done. No judgment. No fear. No pity.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s find that damn cabin.”

  Chapter 34

  Eureka! Or, Paranoia

  The cabin sat in a clearing an endless walk from where Baseball Cap had dumped Dimitri and me. It belonged in a Walt Disney movie. Or a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale. The blue tin roof reflected the sun’s long rays. The light cast a rosy glow on the two-story pine exterior.

  Even in my exhaustion, I half expected to see seven dwarves dancing around the ancient rocking chair on the wraparound porch.

  “A setup, right?” Dimitri stood outside the low, wooden fence painted a gleaming white.

  “Uh-huh. We open the door half an inch, and the whole place blows up.”

  “No, we open the gate and KERBANG!” He clapped. “The whole place blows up.”

  “What if a band of gypsies charges out here and drags us inside?” I asked, my ears ringing, my head swimming. God, I was too tired to think.

  “No. Wait.” Dimitri shook his head. “What if a band of gypsies charges out here and hauls us off into white slavery?”

  “Not funny.” Shoulders tense, I approached the fence, searching for tripwires.

  Dimitri started for the side of house. “Let’s see if the fence goes all the way around. You take that side, I’ll take—”

  “No!” I grabbed his elbow. “We stick together. Together we’re stronger.”

  The lie rang hollow. Being together hadn’t equated to being stronger so far, but couldn’t Dimitri figure out that going our separate ways left us more exposed?

  We walked in silence around the cabin. The back faced a placid lake extending to the horizon. We pointed at the boathouse at the same time. Our exhaustion vanished. We ran toward the ramshackle structure, our nervousness about gypsies and bombs forgotten. We barely skidded to a stop before we tried the door.

  It swung open.

  “Oh, min gud,” we whispered in unison like trained parrots.

  “It’s a trap,” Dimitri said. “They wouldn’t leave … a boat.”

  Chapter 35

  Managing Expectations

  A hole the size of Denmark gaped in the bottom of the wooden dinghy. Stored facedown on a cradle, the boat was—when operable—big enough for one person. The stink of dead fish seeped out of it. Impulsively, I kicked the cradle. The boat teetered and toppled onto its side.

  Pain shot through my foot, but I kicked again.

  “God … damn.” I wanted to smash the thing into a thousand pieces. I charged with my hands in front of me.

  Dimitri grabbed my wrists. “Let’s check out the other side of the house.”

  “Why?” I jerked away from his grasp and shoved my face into his space. “Whatta you expect to find? A yacht?”

  He shrugged. “Probably nothing. But who knows?”

  He turned and left the shed. He didn’t look back.

  “Fuck you, Dimitri,” I muttered, then repeated it louder as he disappeared around the side of the house.

  “Michael! C’mere.” He reappeared at the corner of the house and waved me toward him. “Come and look at this.”

  “What?” My tone was sullen. I wasn’t at his beck and call.

  He jogged back toward the shed. “A bike. There’s a bike parked against the house.”

  “Are the tires flat?” Mr. Optimist, I picked up the boat cradle, slammed it into the rowboat, and sauntered out of the shed.

  “One tire needs air, but I think it’s rideable.”

  Unwilling to let hope emerge, I said, “Is it a kiddie bike?”

  “See for yourself.” He pointed at a red touring bike.

  “Gotta be something wrong,” I growled.

  Dimitri pulled the bike away from the wall, took hold of the handle bars, stepped on the pedal, and threw his leg across the seat. The height forced him to stretch on his toes. He leaned over the handlebars and pumped the pedals, gliding forward a few yards. He turned at the end of the cabin and came back.

  “It’s light compared to our bikes. Look at all these gears.” He squeezed the hand brake, and I felt a flash of resentment.

  Did he think because he’d found the bike that it was his?

  “Wanna try it?” he asked as if offering me a favor.

  “Sure.”

  He dismounted and held the handlebars while I got on. The pain in my hip flared. I bit my bottom lip. Wobbling, swallowing a moan, I leaned forward and rode to where Dimitri had stopped. He was, truthfully, the better rider. I preferred walking and rarely rode except for an occasional tour in a Copenhagen park. On the turn back, I cut too close to the corner of the house. The front wheel banged the foundation. The bike tilted before I could recover.

  Dimitri jogged up to me. “The bike’s so light it’s hard to judge the turning ratio.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” I booted the damn thing away and got to my feet. “I don’t need your quasi-engineering opinions.”

  “No, you need a kick in the ass.” He picked up the bike and walked it toward the boathouse.

  Small rocks and twigs and debris stuck to my palms. I rubbed my hands together. I imagined bending, picking up a rock, and taking aim at Dimitri’s skull. On the other hand, if he apologized …

  His apology never came, and my fingers never stopped twitching.

  Without warning, he dropped the bike, shaded his eyes, focused on the lake, and yelled, “Someone’s out there! In the middle. See? Maybe they can see us.”

  Chapter 36

  Facing a Harsh Reality

  “Here! Over here! Help!” Hands over our heads, yelling loud enough to scatter the birds in the nearby trees, Dimitri and I jumped up and down on the rocky shore.

  Our voices should’ve carried across the calm, crystalline water. And at first we thought someone on the boat had heard us.

  “They’re coming this way!” Dimitri screamed, still waving his hands.

  My heart pounded from jumping and screeching—and from lack of food for the past day. Trying to hold on to logic, I said, “They must have binoculars. They must realize we’re humans and not animals.”

  “Maybe they think we’re playing.” Dimitri waved his hands more frantically. He said, “Take off your shirt. A white flag’s a universal sign of distress.”

  Irritation fumbled my fingers, and I tore the shirt over my head. I was the idea person. Why hadn’t I thought of using the shirt as a signal? I waved it and yelled as if pursued by demons.

  The boat remained in the same spot. Impossible to say whether anyone was watching us. Dimitri’s voice cracked. While I wielded the shirt, he picked up several large stones and threw them in a high arc across the lake. Stupid. I stared. I had stopped shouting a few minutes earlier. My throat burned as if I’d scoured my tonsils with sandpaper.

  “We might as well give up,” I croaked. “They’re not responding.”

  “It’s the kidnappers.” Dimitri spoke as if could see the sailors. He kicked at the sand. “Who else would just happen by except those bastards?”

  My neck muscles flinched in response to his flat, detached voice. His eyes, devoid of any spark, stared at the horizon. His shoulders slumped as if his lungs had collapsed.

  A little unnerved by his behavior, I squinted at the boat. It hadn’t moved. Being anchored so far from shore made no sense. I tried to ignore the chill crawling through my sweaty hair. I punched his bicep. “Dammit, you’re not giving up, are you? You’re not letting them win.”

  His laugh hit me in the solar plexus like an iceberg. “They’ve already won.”

  Chapter 37

  Making Choices

  Watching the boat—a speck on the glittering water—stoked my sense of helplessness. Impotence. Depression. My neck muscles bunched, and my fingers twitched with the impulse to hit Dimitri. Instead, I buttoned my shirt, turned and stalked back to the bicycle.

  “Stop whining,” I called
over my shoulder. “Let’s use our biggest advantage—our brains.”

  Silence greeted my challenge, but I picked up my pace. Let him sulk. I’d figure out some way to get us out of this mess. Where would we end up surrendering to pessimism? We had to examine our options.

  Forget the boating party on the lake as our rescuers. The bike offered our best hope. Still shiny with little wear on the tires, it looked ready to ride for miles. Dimitri had said something about one of the tires, though. I bent to examine the front one, and suddenly he loomed over me, still gripping a smooth stone.

  “It’s the back one.” He pressed the tire between his thumb and index finger. “It’s low.”

  “Maybe the owner keeps it low.” I imitated his touch even though I felt nothing that supported his opinion. Of the two of us, he was the engineer—able to put together anything we destroyed. Still, maybe he was wrong.

  “We should look for a pump.” His broad, Slavic face remained impassive, but a note of contempt rode the words.

  “You should knock off acting like my asshole brother.”

  Something dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes, and he took a step back, fist tightening on the rock, whole body tense from the insult. “You’re the one acting like your asshole brother. You think you know every damn thing. So take the fucking bike and see how far you get.”

  He spun around and marched up the back steps to the cabin door. From the few yards separating us, I studied his rigid stance as he peered through the glass and tried the knob.

  Locked. He rattled the knob. Once. Then he raised the rock, slamming it into the glass.

  A crack broke the silence, and the door swung open.

  No alarm.

  No explosion.

  Nothing but pulsating silence.

  Dimitri stepped across the shards of glass and disappeared into the shadows without a backward glance.

  Chapter 38

  Striking a Truce

  Deep in my reptile brain, a rubber band snapped. What the hell was he thinking? Someone could be hiding. Waiting. Ready to …

  “Goddamn you, Dimitri.” I dropped the bike and charged toward the cabin.

  The sun hammered the back of my head like a blow torch. I missed the bottom step and stumbled up the rest, landing on my arms. For a minute, I lay there silently cursing.

  Christ, what an idiot. An idiot with two left feet.

  Naturally, Dimitri emerged from the house yelling my name loud enough to wake the dead. He stampeded through the open door, stopped, and frowned. “You hurt?”

  Of course I’m hurt, you idiot. “From all your noise, I thought someone was killing you.”

  He shook his head and extended a hand. “Wait until you see. The fridge is stocked with cheese and cold meats and milk. All fresh. Ready to eat.”

  On my feet, the sudden flashes of each of those foods overrode the twinges in my arms and knees. “What are we waiting for?”

  He threw an arm in front of me. “We’ll have to go slow. Can’t eat too much right away. We’ll get sick.”

  “Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Dimitri.” I brushed past him and entered a large, light-filled kitchen with open shelves laden with cans and jars. My mouth watered.

  Dimitri grabbed my shoulder and whirled me to face him. “What the hell is it with you? Can I say a fuckin’ word without you blowing up like your father?”

  “I’m nothing like my father.”

  “And I’m nothing like Brother Alexei.”

  We stood glaring at each other, chins out, breathing hard. On the table behind him sat a small loaf cake next to a bowl of green apples. Their combined smell of sweetness and tartness wrapped around us and brought up a memory of the cinnamon-baked apples our maid Emma often served with thick cream. Saliva flooded my mouth. My stomach growled. Refusing to give in to my hunger, to show weakness, I clenched my fists.

  “If we’re gonna tear each other’s heads off, let’s go outside,” Dimitri said, his lips a tight, white line, his swollen eye twitching.

  A fight meant delaying our first meal in fifteen hours. The sugar granules on top of the cake’s sparkled like small diamonds.

  Or finely ground glass.

  “What if everything’s poisoned?”

  “I don’t care.” Dimitri jammed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “At least I’d die satisfied.”

  “We can always fight later.” I glanced around the room for a knife.

  “Or we can forget it. You’re nothing like your father.”

  “And you’re nothing like Alexei.” If he heard my grudging tone, he chose to ignore it and strode across the room where a knife rack sat next to the gas cooking ring.

  Personally, I itched to tear the cake apart with my bare hands.

  Tension between us still hummed, but we’d averted a first in our long history—a physical fight. I, for one, was relieved we’d proved we weren’t savages.

  Chapter 39

  Treading Carefully

  “You get glasses. Pour the milk.” I blocked Dimitri’s path to the knives, reclaiming my role as leader. The order spilled out of my mouth involuntarily. “I’ll cut the cake.”

  For a brief moment—a split second, he hesitated—but finally nodded. “Cut me a big piece.”

  “Make sure the milk’s fresh.” I picked up a knife.

  “Way ahead of you.” He turned his back and opened the fridge. His arrogance echoed in the open space between us.

  My thighs tensed. I shifted my weight toward the cake. Surprised by a faint tremble in my hand, I waited until he set the milk and glasses on the counter. The knife felt like nothing in my hand. How easy to slide it between his ribs. He poured the milk, slopping it on the counter, eyeing the cake like a starving dog. My own self-control wavered and my hand shook harder.

  Make one more smart-ass comment—

  “Trying to decide how much to serve?” Dimitri’s raised eyebrows punctuated the question.

  “No, I’m waiting for plates.” Since you’re way ahead of me.

  He smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Plates? Jesus, what was I thinking?” Saliva stuck in the corners of his mouth. “Who the hell needs plates? Your mother’s not here to disown us.”

  He spun around and jogged to the open cabinet with plates and saucers. He glanced over his shoulder and spoke in a mincing tone. “Since Mummy’s not here, can we pass on napkins if we use forks?”

  His references to my mother fueled a familiar surge of rage. “My dearly departed mother would probably think we got what we deserved from those three thugs.”

  “She’d vote for worse.” Dimitri returned, pinched off a hunk of cake, and stuffed it in his mouth. Crumbs trickled onto his shirt. He swiped his arm across his lips and grabbed his glass.

  Christ, what a pig. His disgusting lack of self-control overrode my instinct to react like a heathen. Baseball Cap had reinforced my beliefs about self-control.

  Self-control and smart thinking would get us out of this mess.

  Slowly, deliberately, ignoring the rumble in my belly, I cut two small pieces of cake. The fragrance of butter made me lightheaded. Dimitri grabbed his plate as if the smell had overtaken the last vestige of his self-discipline.

  Mentally, I counted to ten and raised my glass and inhaled the faint scent of vanilla. “Here’s to making those assholes pay.”

  Chapter 40

  Resuming Control

  Diffused sunshine filled the kitchen where we ate and drank in silence—not unlike young lions at the watering hole. Heads down, we watched each other, raising our eyes at the same time with finely tuned synchronicity, lowering our gaze with the same perfect attunement. The choreography extended to picking up crumbs of cake and popping them into our mouths. We mirrored body language and body functions, our chests rising up and down to the same heart rhythm.

  We’d joked about our ESP for years. I always thought I read Dimitri’s mind, but I never really believed he read mine. Could read mine.
He and I shared many of the same convictions—such as, my mother was a slut—but as alike as we were, I was different. Profoundly different.

  My mother’s suicide, orchestrated by me, trumped his accidental killing of the old shopkeeper in Copenhagen. So, he knew in his guts I was different. What better time to remind him?

  I swallowed my last tidbit of cake and caught him studying the uncut portion. The sugary sweetness lingered on my tongue. I resisted the impulse to grab what was left of the cake and tear into it. After all, I deserved it. Hadn’t I demonstrated my superiority? Would Dimitri fight me for that sweet symbol of control?

  I said, “We need a plan.”

  His eyes remained focused on the cake. “For what? When to eat next?”

  “That, and how to get out of here. How to get back home.”

  He opened his mouth, but I talked over him. “You should take the bike. Ride until you meet someone or find that hostel. I’ll stay here.”

  He stared. “I’m not sure going separate ways is a good idea.”

  “It’s the only idea that makes sense.”

  His posture stiffened. “Why? Because you say it makes sense?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Like it made sense to target the Finn at Tivoli?” His bottom lip curled so fleetingly I narrowed my eyes. Had I imagined the expression?

  Maybe, but I hadn’t imagined his tone of contempt.

  “I thought—and you agreed—that the Finn was the perfect target. But I’m fine with accepting blame. Does that make you feel better? They did beat you pretty severely.”

  He tapped the table in a staccato rhythm. “I’m surprised you noticed.”

  “Do you expect me to say I’m sorry?”

  “When hell rivals Tivoli as an amusement park.”

  I laughed—surprised to hear no hint of antipathy. “Smart comeback.”

  He pushed his chair away from the table, but remained seated. “You should remember one thing, Michael. I am smart. Damned smart. Smarter than you give me credit.”