STARSCAPE BOOKS(24)

But I had to go. Fear, bad memories, whatever complex mess of emotions was holding me back, it didn’t matter. I had to go. It was like going to the doctor for a shot. You fear it. You go. You do it. It’s done.





elsewhere …


THURSDAY MORNING, FEELING so hungry that the hunger didn’t even seem real anymore, Martin only had to walk for two hours before he reached the outskirts of Sayerton. After another hour of wandering, he found the right street.

A yellow bus rolled past, filled with singing kids. “You guys don’t know how lucky you are,” Martin muttered as he headed up the street. When he reached the house, he paused on the porch, is this too weird? How would Trash’s parents feel about him showing up? Would it bring back painful memories?

He pressed the bell. Nobody answered. Martin waited, rang the bell again, waited some more, then sighed and walked back to the sidewalk. He figured he had two choices—go see Cheater, or crawl back home.

“Cheater,” he said out loud. That was the better choice. Martin figured he’d traveled close to twenty miles already. So Cheater probably only lived ten or fifteen miles away. Even if he didn’t catch a ride, he could make it in three or four hours. Or five. Or ten. Because walking was what he did. That was his new life. He walked. And he thirsted. And he hungered. And he walked some more. Life on the road definitely stunk.

“Hold on there.”

Martin spun around as someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was a guy in a dark blue suit wearing sunglasses and an unreadable expression. His blue necktie was speckled with yellow dots. Across the street, the driver’s door of a parked car hung open. “Are you a friend of the family?” the guy asked.

Martin skittered away a step. The guy’s greatest shame was that he had failed the written exam for a promotion to division chief three times. Eventually, he’d quit to go into business for himself. Martin didn’t care about that, and he certainly wasn’t going to use the knowledge to spit out an insult, because the guy’s greatest pride spooked him. The guy was proud that he’d carried out seventeen successful assassinations in his career, along with countless kidnappings, acts of sabotage, and a whole slew of violent activities. He was proud that he’d do anything for the right price, and do it well. Recently, he even helped fake the death of a teenage boy.

“You’re kind of skittish,” the guy said.

“I’ve been having a rough day,” Martin said. He couldn’t help staring at the guy’s tie. Close up, the yellow dots on it turned out to be tiny smiley faces.

“So, like I said, are you a friend of the family?”

Am I a friend of the family?

A dozen lies shot through Martin’s head. He figured he could pretend he’d gone to the wrong house. But if the guy spotted the lie, Martin knew he’d end up in trouble. Or at the bottom of a river with his neck snapped, his arms broken, and fifty pounds of iron chain wrapped around his body. The truth seemed harmless.

He nodded. “Sort of. I don’t know the parents, but I went to school with their son, Eddie. He’s dead.”

“So why are you here?”

So you can kill me and still not get promoted.

“I ran away from home.” As he heard his own words, Martin was hit by the reality of his situation for the first time.

The guy stared at him for a moment, then reached inside his jacket. Martin tensed, wondering whether there was any chance he could get away. He relaxed when he saw the guy wasn’t pulling out a gun or a knife.

“You look hungry.” The guy took a twenty out of his wallet. “I ran off when I was thirteen. Probably a mistake, but I survived.”

Martin took the money. “Thanks.” It was strange feeling grateful to someone who had killed seventeen people. He turned to walk off.

“Kid,” the guy called.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. There are a lot of dangerous folks out there.” Yeah, there sure are, Martin thought. I hope I don’t meet any more of them for a while.





desperate steps


AS I WAS paying my check at the coffee house, I reached out with my mind and pressed the doorbell at the lab. Nobody answered the ring. I stood on the sidewalk for several more minutes, trying to think of a good reason not to go back into that place. Fear was the best reason I came up with, but I knew it wasn’t good enough.

Finally, I crossed the street, walked up the steps, and opened the lock. At first, the doorknob wouldn’t turn. I realized my palm was sweaty. I wiped my hand on my pants, then opened the door.

It was definitely creepy going back inside. I closed the door behind me, then listened carefully for any sounds. Except for the ticking of a clock from the room to my left, and faint traffic noises from outside, there was nothing.