Dangerous (26 page)

“I wasn’t there for the kidnapping part. GT called me to

that warehouse this evening. He had a creepy video of my fa-

ther talking about me. Then I found my father and GT there,

and GT had Jacques cut off my father’s arm.” My voice cracked,

completely without my permission. But it probably aided the

bewildered teenager schtick. It wasn’t too hard to pretend.

One of the cops gave me a glass of water, which I gulped

down. My stomach growled.

“I’m real hungry,” I said. Yes indeed, just like a little lost

orphan child.

“Maisie, how did your father get from the warehouse to the

hospital?” the older one asked.

“I carried him.” There were witnesses. No fudging this one.

“Probably adrenaline helped? Like when people can suddenly

lift a van off a trapped child?”

The doctor came in to talk to me, so the cops started to leave.

“Hey, GT’s son, Jonathan Wilder?” I said. “He’s . . . abnor-

mally smart. And involved somehow. You should keep an eye

out for him.”

The Wild Card. Brutus said he’d killed Mi-sun. Jacques

confirmed it. And he was the thinker—wouldn’t he have known

that sinking Ruth would kill her? Maybe he designed GT’s

chamber himself and sent me there to get caught. Maybe the

tokens had messed him up as much as Ruth and Jacques and

he’d just been better at hiding it.

And where was Mom? There were too many worries bang-

ing together in my brain, but I tried to shake some extra space

for hearing what the doctor told me about Dad. I felt myself

sinking when he used words like “critical” and “blood loss” and

“shock.” It’s pretty sad when “viable limb” and “clean severing”

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are a conversation’s high points.

My body ached and shivered with hunger. I went to the

cafeteria. Since joining with Wilder, I always carried emergen-

cy cash in my pocket, and I spent a chunk of it on dinner. The

cashier seemed so alarmed by my piled-high tray, I had to offer

an explanation.

“I have a parasite,” I said.

She looked down as if my eye contact might be contagious.

The cafeteria was mostly dark and empty. I dialed Mom’s

number over and over. Mom was the one who used to put cool

cloths on my head when I had a fever and bring me cold soda

and soup. And sing me Spanish songs. And cuddle with me on

the couch.

O Mami, me siento tan sola.

By ten in the morning they had reattached Dad’s arm, and

I was asleep on the hard little couch in his recovery room.

I was dreaming. I was falling. Sleep was not rest.

“Maisie . . .”

I woke up fast. His eyes were barely slits.

“Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”

“Your mom?”

“Not answering her phone. Did GT have her?”

His eyelids lowered, but he swallowed and spoke. “I don’t

think so. They got me at the apartment. Your mom was at work.

If she went home and found me gone, she would run.”

“How do we find her?” I asked.

He grimaced with pain. “I don’t know.”

His eyes closed for a few seconds and opened again.

“My arm?”

“They’re both here.”

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Shannon Hale

“Did you . . .” He tried to swallow, his mouth dry. I swabbed

his lips and tongue with a sponge-tipped thing the nurse had left.

He squinted up at me, his voice a crackling whisper. “Did you

hear about the man who lost his left arm? He’s all right now.”

I smiled. “It was your right arm, Dad. Just like me.”

“Oh.” His eyes shut. I thought he’d fallen asleep until he

spoke again. “Did you hear about the guy who lost his right

arm? He’s left with the left.”

“Yeah, work on that one.”

“I will.”

His words were barely an exhale when he said, “Maisie, I

love you. And this isn’t . . . don’t worry . . .”

“I love you too, Dad.”

I watched him sleep, like maybe he used to watch me. I

imagined my infant self, unaware that anything was wrong, and

my parents, crying over their baby born without an arm.

Or maybe they really hadn’t minded. Maybe they were

surprised that first day of kindergarten to see the other kids

mocking me. And Mom—or Dad maybe—said, never mind

then. We’ll just keep her home.

And
that
was why I lived a tight little life with nothing

much beyond our front yard. Not what GT said, not because my

mother was somebody else.

Dad always called Mom
cariña
, which meant sweetheart.

He never called her by her name, I realized. He never called

her Inocencia.

I lightly touched his bandaged arm. The tips of his fingers

were a pale, grayish color and corpse cold. The doctor had said

it would take time to see if the reattachment worked.

I dialed Mom again. And again.

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Luther.

I woke with his name on my tongue and drool from my

open mouth wetting my cheek.

A nurse was coming in to check Dad’s blood pressure, so I

went into his bathroom. Luther’s phone number had sat behind

my eyes every day, a forbidden string of numbers. I dialed them

now. One of his sisters answered. I tried to disguise my voice

when I asked for Luther.

“Hello?”

Luther. My heart buzzed.

“Luthe, don’t—”

“Maisie! What the frak—”

“Shut up! Questions later. Listen now. Stuff a backpack

with some changes of clothing and as much money as you can—

quarters, bills, whatever, but try to get a few hundred dollars.

Leave your parents a standard ‘don’t worry and I’ll come home

when I can’ note with no mention of me and ride your bike to

that one pay phone. I’ll call you there.”

“Okay,” he said.

No argument? No demands? Luther rocked!

“Hurry,” I said and hung up.

GT hadn’t taken Luther yet. Maybe that meant he didn’t

know what Luther meant to me. But Wilder did. I’d been vague

about the pay phone just in case his phone was bugged. We

used to ride our bikes to the corner market to buy Laffy Taffys

and would check that pay phone for spare coins.

Shannon Hale

Seven minutes later I called the pay phone and he answered.

“Maisie?”

“Oh man, Luthe, it’s so great to hear your voice.”

“What’s going on?”

“Bad guys got my dad and maybe my mom, and I don’t

want them to get you.”

I told him to ride his bike to the downtown bus station,

take a bus to Philadelphia and meet me at the hospital.

“Okay,” he said again.

“You’re taking this very well,” I said.

“Naturally I’d been expecting this sort of a thing ever since

you left. Sudden disappearance is the price I pay for being a

superhero’s best friend.”

Best friend. He’d said it. I pinched the top of my nose to

keep from crying.

“Be careful, okay? I really don’t want you to die.”

“Affirmative.”

“I missed you, Luthe.”

“Yeah, me too.”

When I came out of the bathroom, the nurse was gone.

Dad was awake.

“Mom?” he asked.

I shook my head. Her phone no longer rang when I called.

No way to contact her, and she wouldn’t know where to contact

us. I only just stopped myself from punching through the wall.

“What is the Yellow Flag?” I asked.

He sighed. “
La Bandera Amarilla
. A militant group. They

live in
el Gran Chaco
, a desert wilderness between Paraguay

and Bolivia. Your mom grew up with them. Her parents . . .”

“Were soldiers?” I asked.

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Dangerous

“In a way.” He adjusted in bed, wincing. “Paraguay was

controlled by a dictator for a long time. Your grandfather saw

his brother tortured. Your grandmother’s farm was seized by the

government, much of her family shot. They joined an opposi-

tion group. That’s where your mother was born. Her parents

were killed trying to raid an armory when your mom was eigh-

teen. She was wanted too, so she had to leave.”

“She’d . . . she’d killed?”

Dad winced. “I don’t think so. But whatever she did, she

was just a kid.”

Like me, I thought.

Did that mean I was innocent of Ruth’s and Mi-sun’s

blood? If I, oh I don’t know, murdered Wilder, in twenty years

would people say, “Sure she killed the guy, but hey, she was just

a kid!”

Dad was saying, “After her parents’ death, her community

managed to get her falsified papers and into a university in New

Mexico. That was where we met. But she was wanted. After

we had you, she became even more cautious. She worked from

home, made no friends, did nothing to draw notice. She lived in

fear of being taken from us and dying in a Paraguayan prison.”

“You knew this all along?” I asked.

He nodded. “But I loved her so much.” His voice cracked.

“I
love
her . . .”

I climbed onto his bed, curling up on his left side, as may-

be I used to when I was little. He put his left hand on my cheek,

pressing my head to his, and I could feel the wet of his tears.

“We’ll find her,” I said.

I could feel him nod but he didn’t speak. We lay there for

a time.

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Shannon Hale

“What’s her real name?” I whispered.

“Let’s wait until she’s back, okay? Let her explain.” He shift-

ed in his pillow and groaned with pain. “It can wait.”

I hated the word “wait.”

I could go to Florida, but how would I find her if she was

hiding? Every time I left just to go to the cafeteria, I worried

GT’s guys would take Dad again, or Jacques would come claim

another limb. And who knew what Wilder’s plans were? At night

I barely slept on my cot, footsteps in the hall bolting me upright.

But at least one knot of worry relaxed when, two days later,

Luther stepped into Dad’s room.

Late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, slic-

ing dust motes in the air. The dust animated with the motion

of his entry, dancing around his shoulders, and I imagined they

were giddy-happy he was here too.

Personified dust motes, Maisie? I was more tired than I

realized.

“Miss,” the police sentry started.

“He’s okay,” I said. “He’s family.”

The officer shut the door.

Luther was wearing sunglasses. He had Laelaps. I dropped

to my knees to pet him. Pet the dog, that is. Not Luther.

“Pretending to be blind so you can bring a dog into a hos-

pital?” I asked.

“And onto a bus. Surprisingly effective.”

Dad was asleep. Luther took off his sunglasses, and we

stared at each other. I wondered if he thought I looked changed.

Luther seemed the same. He wore his puffy orange parka and

green knit cap, and with his cheeks ruddy from the cold outside,

he looked like an alarmed pumpkin.

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Dangerous

He said, “You think I look like a pumpkin.”

“No I don’t.”

“You do. You always make fun of this coat.”

I laughed without meaning to.

“Maybe I
want
to look like a pumpkin, did you ever think

of that?”

I play punched him on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“My parental units are probably freaked out.”

“They’d better be.”

Luther’s mom once told me that even as a baby Luther

didn’t like to be hugged or kissed. I gathered that once she had

some snuggly little girls, she just kind of gave up on her son. He

was smart enough to do his homeschool work on his own, and

she let him. His dad kept long hours at work, his mom took her

girls shopping, and Luther just hung out with me.

My mom wasn’t thrilled with Luther’s parents. Every time

Mom saw Luther, she kissed him on each cheek. She called

him
mi hijo
. She stocked our kitchen with his favorite foods.

Thinking about Mom hurt my throat. I blinked rapidly

and looked up.

“So tell me what in the frak is going on.”

That conversation took us through dinner. We were eating

nachos in the back booth of the cafeteria, and I found myself

smiling. Despite my dad’s arm, my missing mom, my general

dead-or-alive status, Luther was here.

The newspaper certainly wasn’t giggle-inspiring. A full-

color photo of Jacques in a havoc helmet graced the front page

under the headline: “BLADE RUNNER” ROBS SECOND BANK. The

reporter described a young man in a shiny bodysuit who carried

two swords. Jacques must have been on his own. GT would

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never let him be so sloppy.

“Blade Runner,” Luther said. “Clever.”

“I called him Jack Havoc.”

Luther shrugged. “I like Blade Runner better. It’s the name

of that old sci-fi movie, and you know, Jacques has blades and

he’s on the run.”

“Whatever.”

“If we’re seeing this then Wilder is too.”

“If Wilder gets to Jacques, he’ll either kill him for his token

or convince him to help take me out. I wouldn’t have a chance

against both of them.”

“But cutting off your dad’s arm? It seems extreme.”

I shivered. “I keep thinking about how Jacques was unbeat-