Harmless (22 page)

I climbed.

What else was there
to do?

At the top, the door
swung open with a gentle push.

I stepped through,
into an expansive room with more light pouring through the windows out front,
what had likely been filled with rows of shelving and conveyor belts for
sorting, employees with the enviable job of stacking and processing and loading
all those dreams of good news and nightmares of the bad. 

Sadly, you can’t have
good without bad, Heaven without Hell, and I’ve accepted this as part of the
mail system.  And who’s to say that getting terrible news in the mail doesn’t
lead to different decisions that make the world a better place? 

The future is
uncertain.

It was bare bones
empty except for a long counter that hadn’t been removed, so spacious and quiet
that I could almost hear my heartbeat echoing off the walls.  White tiled
floors, white paint.  A row of clear glass lined the sides, up near the ceiling,
to let in natural light during the day, now glowing with the yellow tint from
the streetlights out front.

I turned off the
flashlight to prevent a passerby from spotting it and took another step deeper
into my land of salvation.  For the first time in hours I felt calm, relaxed,
and at peace.  I could do it.  I could stay there for two days.  No big deal. 
I’d read Kerry’s diary again.  I’d catch up on some lost sleep.  Maybe do some
jumping jacks and pushups to get the blood flowing in unused muscles. 
Everything would be okay.

And, since I was in
my version of church, I’d pray.

I’d pray that Thomas
wouldn’t change his mind, that he wouldn’t decide I wasn’t worth the effort. 
I’d pray that he would come up with something to exonerate me, something to
lead us down the path of finding Kerry’s murderer.

I’d pray, but it
wouldn’t be necessary.

In Thomas I trusted.

I took another step
forward, had enough time to spot an unrolled sleeping bag at the counter’s
base, and for the second time in a week, I felt the sharp crack of something
hard against my temple.

***

When I came to my hat
was missing, as were my shoes and Thomas’s t-shirt.  I winced at the pain in my
skull and tried to move, feeling my arms bound behind me with wet, cotton
material—likely the absent shirt—used to keep me secure.

I got a brief glimpse
of a shadowy figure in front of me before the flashlight flicked on, blinding
me and sending another blast of pain ricocheting around inside my head.

A female voice, soft
but singed with distrust and anger said, “Who the fuck’re you?”

“Can you turn that
light off?  It hurts.  Somebody might see us.”

She held it closer. 
“You’re trespassing.”

“Me?  What’re
you
doing, then, playing house?”

“I asked who you
were.”

“Like I’d tell you. 
Seriously, turn that damn flashlight off before we both get arrested.”

“No,” she said. 
Forceful, indignant, like a child stamping its foot and yelling, “You’re not my
daddy, you can’t tell me what to do.”  It reminded me of Smoke and Shade.  I’d
heard them say it before.  What lies had Shayna been telling them about me?

“What’re you doing
here?” I asked.  I could feel dried blood caked against the side of my cheek. 
It pulled at the skin when I spoke.

“Living.  Who are
you?  Answer me.”

“Okay, okay, if I
tell you my name, will you turn that light off?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s Dave.  I’m Dave
Berringer.”

She didn’t turn the
flashlight off.  “What’re you doing in my home?”

“
Your
home? 
It’s the post office.”

“Semantics.  Tell me
what you’re doing here.”  Light flashed around the room, out of my eyes, as she
reached over and popped my forehead with the flashlight.

“
Oww
, damn
it.  Stop.”  I made something up on the fly.  “I got kicked out of my
apartment, all right?”

“What about the five
hundred bucks in your wallet?  Go get a hotel room.”

“You went through my
bag?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You can have the
money.  Say it’s rent.”

“I don’t want it—not
from a guy that decides to hide in a shithole like this instead of checking in
down at the Holiday Inn.”

“Don’t call it a
shithole.  This is my—never mind.  That’s all the money I have, and I need to
save it.  You know, for later.”  Another lie.  I could’ve attempted to rent a
room for a night or two, but I couldn’t risk being identified by a hotel
clerk.  “I just need a place to stay, for a couple of days, that’s all.”

“It won’t be here. 
Not with me.”  The beam pierced my retinas again.

“You sure about
that?”

“Yes.” 

“You haven’t thought
this through very well, have you?”

“Shut up.”  Another
pop on the forehead.  Harder this time.

I recoiled, angled a
shoulder toward her, like it would actually prevent another beating.  “You run
me out of here, I go straight to the cops, tell them there’s some trespassing bum
over at the old post office.”  Which was a complete and total lie.  I wasn’t
going anywhere near the police.

That caught her
attention.  My false threat worked.

A short silence,
followed by a disgusted, “Shit.”  Mercifully, the flashlight went off.

Blue and red and
purple blotches danced around the room until my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

From what I could
make out, she was blonde, maybe close to my age, hair pulled back into a
ponytail.  She was wearing a gray hoodie with GIANTS written across her chest,
immediately leading to a miniscule fraction of Stockholm Syndrome.  Earned her
some bonus points, if you will. 

She backed away, sat
down a safe distance from me, and pulled her knees up to her chest.  “Just a
couple of days?”

“That’s it.  No
more.”

“If I let you stay—
if
—you
can’t tell anyone I’m here, all right?  I don’t—I don’t have anywhere else to
go.”

“Loose lips sink
ships.  I’ll keep yours afloat.”

“What?”

“I mean I won’t say
anything.  Not a word.  Promise.”

She turned her head
away, toward the front of the building, and from the low light coming through
the upper windows, I got a good look at her profile.  She was prettier than I
expected. 

I can’t really put a
finger on what I
did
expect.  I guess I assumed that someone brutal
enough to knock a man out and tie him up would be…uglier. 

“One rule,” she said.

“It’s your house.”

“You stay on your
side, I’ll stay on mine.  You don’t come anywhere near me.  In two days, you’re
gone.  We’ll draw a line.  You try to come across it, just know that I’ve got
weapons.”

“Whatever you say,
I’ll do it.  I’m honorable.”  Untrue, obviously.  As soon as she had her back
turned or left to get supplies, anything as a distraction, I planned to procure
whatever she had to be on the safe side.

I suppose that
neither one of us expected to be disarmed in an entirely different manner.

CHAPTER
24

It took another hour
of coaxing to convince her that I was harmless, that I was really and truly a
nice guy in a bad predicament, with as little detail as possible. 

We agreed not to
share stories.  It was better that way.

I wouldn’t say I
convinced her, not wholly, but she grew a smidge less wary.

Enough so that she
untied the strips of t-shirt at my wrists, then “gave” me a nice, cozy spot on
the south side of the building, where the dark was full and good for sleeping. 
In a moment of unnecessary kindness, she lifted up her sleeping bag and pulled
the sheet of cardboard from underneath, carrying it over to me, saying, “Here,
you can have this.  Tile’s not very comfortable.”

I thanked her, multiple
times, to the point where she said it was enough, it really wasn’t a big deal,
and to remember the line she’d drawn across the floor, a line made of about
twenty beer bottles from downstairs that had satisfied us both.

I watched her walk
away—more like glide away, because she moved so quietly in her socked feet. 
Thin as straw, it was a miracle that gravity kept her from floating up to the
ceiling.  The sweatshirt hung limply around her shoulders while the cargo
pants, which might’ve fit once, billowed around her legs like a parachute. 

Yes, I got that from
MC Hammer—his parachute pants—that’s what hers reminded me of.  Did I get that
catchy beat from “U Can’t Touch This” stuck in your brain?  If you’re anything
like me, it’ll carom around inside your head for a week.  You can thank me, or
I can apologize, either one.

She may not have
eaten in days.

I said, “Hey,” and
she turned around.  “You want something to eat?  No offense, but you look like
you could use it.”

She laughed.  It
sounded like a nice laugh, or it had been, once.  It disintegrated into a
coughing fit that bent her at the waist and jarred her whole body.  She covered
her mouth with a sleeved arm and I waited patiently for her to finish.  I even
turned my head to give her a modicum of privacy, in case she was embarrassed.

“I hit you over the
head with a two-by-four and you want to
give me
food?  That’s what I’m
hearing?”

“I’ve been accused of
being too nice.”

“You’ll never make it
out here if that’s the case.”

“You want the food or
not?”

“If you can spare
it.  Meals are hard to come by—you’ll learn that soon enough.”

“I’m going back to
the real world in a couple of days.  I think I can last.”  And as soon as I
heard those two sentences escape my mouth, I instantly regretted it.  For me, as
long as Thomas managed to come through, I could return to my old life.  And if
he didn’t—as much as I abhorred the idea—at least I’d be headed to prison,
where I’d have protection from the elements, three meals a day and a real bed. 
How long I’d survive
in there
, instead of
out here
, was a
different question.

For her, this was
probably it.  She probably didn’t have anything to go back to.

For her, this was the
real world.

“Sorry,” I said. 
“That was—”

“Insensitive?”

“I’ve been accused of
that, too.”

“Don’t worry about
it.  You grow some pretty thick skin the first time you fight another bum for a
half-eaten chicken leg.  After that, everything seems like small potatoes. 
Pride doesn’t matter so much.”

“Right.”  I’d lost
count of how many times I’d been rendered speechless over the last few days. 
Before Kerry’s death, I could count them on a single finger.  I nodded and did
the only thing I could think of: I reached inside the bug out bag, grabbed an
unopened package of calorie blocks, and tossed it to her.

She held it up to the
light and read the label.  “What the hell are these things?  I thought you had
food.”

“I didn’t say I had
filet mignon.  Those are calorie blocks—five hundred apiece—you know, just so
your body doesn’t shut down.”

She wasn’t impressed
and let me know by saying, “I bet they taste like shit.”

I couldn’t argue. 
She was right.  “Yeah, they do, but if you ration it like you’re supposed to,
you can last a whole week on that package by itself.”

“Thanks,” she said. 
I could tell she meant it.  She walked away, disappeared around a far wall, and
a couple of minutes later I could hear the zip of a sleeping bag and the
crinkling sounds of a package being opened.

The sheet of
cardboard was limp enough, and large enough, for me to grab an edge and roll onto
my side, like I was wrapping myself into a cocoon.  I couldn’t imagine the
nastiness it’d seen in its days, but by then I was too exhausted to care.

I heard her call out
from her side of the building, voice bouncing and reverberating off bare
walls.  “I’d rather eat from the trash next time!”

I fell asleep with a
smile on my face.

And then dreamed
another unsettling dream.  In it, Kerry and I were running across a wind-blown
desert, toward each other, some distance away but we were happy and
excited—blissfully elated, really—and then it happened.  An invisible
something
grabbed her by the ankle and yanked.  Smiles and laughter changed to clanging,
guttural screams as she was dragged backward across the sand, grasping and
clawing, trying to latch onto anything that might stop her.  I ran and ran,
chasing and chasing, at least until I felt the grip on my own ankle.  And the
pulling.  That frightening pulling away.

I don’t think I’ve
ever been so thankful to wake up.  I shuddered and rubbed my arms, trying to
swipe away the sticky remnants of the dream.  Nonexistent remnants that felt
like sand clinging to my skin, the way it does after a day at the beach when
you’re coated in sweat and baby oil. 

Sunscreen?  Not a
chance.  How’re you supposed to achieve a deep, golden brown if you attempt to
block the sun?

Dawn revealed nothing
new about the barren room.  I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and put on my spare
shirt.  I’d been so exhausted the night before that I’d fallen asleep in my wet
jeans, and when I stood up to change out of them, I heard, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. 
I don’t need to see that.”  I held onto both sides of my unbuttoned waistband
and glanced toward the room’s center.

She walked toward our
makeshift demarcation line, the row of empty beer bottles lying on their sides,
end to end.  She covered her eyes, holding something in her hand.  She was
still in her “GIANTS” hoodie but had changed into soiled jeans that were ripped
at the knees.

“Then don’t look,” I
said.  “I need to get out of these wet clothes.” 

It reminded me of a
sleazy pickup line that I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve used before—with success,
once—and I couldn’t believe it’d actually worked.  One drunken night at a party
during my freshman year of college, I’d licked my finger and swiped it on the
t-shirt of a Chi Omega sorority girl, a senior, then said, “Let’s get you out
of those wet clothes.” 

It could’ve been the
alcohol, it could’ve been hormones, or perhaps she was attracted to my stupid
audacity, but twenty minutes later we were naked, above the sheets, on the
bottom half of her dorm room bunk bed while her roommate watched.  “Legendary”
was the word used by my fellow baseball teammates.  I preferred to think of it
as “epic,” but now it just seems…beneath me.

She spun around and
faced the far wall as I peeled the wet pants off, skin shriveled and puckered
in a couple of spots the way your fingertips are after an extended soak in the
tub.  With a new set of clothes on, I walked over to meet her in the room’s center,
staying back about ten feet because I still couldn’t see what she held.  Afraid
that maybe she was pulling some sort of switcheroo move and intended to dispose
of her unwelcome guest.  I’d tried to earn her trust the night before, with
some small amount of triumph, but I hadn’t yet been willing to give her mine.

“Morning,” I said,
because I couldn’t think of anything cleverer, couldn’t think of anything that
might prevent her from shooting, stabbing or hitting me.

She turned around
slowly, looking at me over her shoulder, like she might’ve been worried that I
was standing there pantsless, or worse, in the nude.  I could almost see the
visible relief when she realized that I was neither.  “Uh, don’t take this the
wrong way, but thanks for not trying to kill me in my sleep.” 

From the looks of it,
she hadn’t gotten much.  The heavy, dark sacks under her eyes reminded me of
the black duffle bags Kerry had stuffed with the two million dollars.  The
whites were bloodshot and tinted pink.

She said, “Actually,
I’m pretty sure I didn’t sleep at all.”

“Not that the thought
would’ve ever crossed my mind, but it’s understandable.  Thanks for letting me
stay—and, you know, for not killing me either.  I went out like a light.”

“Who’s Kerry?”  She
moved a step closer to the line of bottles.

“How’d you know—”

“You were dreaming, I
guess.  Screaming something like, ‘Kerry!  I’m sorry, Kerry!’  Sounded like a
pretty bad nightmare.”

I nodded.  “Haven’t
had a dream like that in a while.  I’m sorry if it kept you awake.”

“Nah, being worried
you might kill me kept me awake—hearing you scream was just a side effect.  Who
is she?”

Who, indeed? 

Launching into
Kerry’s story, my story—telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth—seemed like it wouldn’t be such a good idea.  I had time to tell it,
plenty of time—two days’ worth, in fact—but telling her I was wanted for the
murder of an angel, and was completely innocent of the accusations, would not
be wise.

No more silly
mistakes.  Eliminate the variables.

I lied.  “Just some
woman in a dream.”  It wasn’t so much of a lie if you wanted to break it down
and really analyze it.  Kerry, the woman
in
my dreams, the woman
of
my dreams.

I got an unconvinced,
“Uh huh,” in response. 

She held out a hand
and in it were two small, wrapped packages.  One green, one red.  “You can have
one of these.  You shared whatever that thing was that you called food, so I
thought maybe I’d return the favor.”

“Really?”  I was
starving.  My stomach growled—the timing impeccable—the roar so loud I pictured
a lion eating itself.  “What are they?”

“Breakfast bars.  I
found a whole box of them yesterday.”

“Found them where?”

She responded to my
upturned lip and cocked head by saying, “In the trash behind the Kwik-Mart, you
judgmental prick.  If you don’t want them, more for me.  I don’t have to
share.”

“Hey, no, sorry.  I
wasn’t judging.  I’m—I’m a little new to this.”

“This what?”

“This…lifestyle?” I
answered, twisting it into a question, praying the response wasn’t as offensive
as it sounded.

“Whatever.  Do you
want one or not?  They’re clean and unopened.  I checked.  Yes or no?”

“Yes.”  (No.)  I
stepped over to her and reached for the green package.

“Not that one.  The
green one’s mine.”

“But you said to
take—”

“Green. 
Mine
.” 

Now, I’m not calling
her a dog—that couldn’t be further from my intent here—but the way she growled the
words reminded me of the way an overly possessive pooch growls if you get too
close to its food dish.

I took the red one
with a forced smile.  And I’m not ashamed to admit that I became the first
Pendragon
ever
to accept trashcan food from a proffered hand.

But, I didn’t eat it
because—“Ugh, Cherry Celebration?”

“What’s wrong with
it?”

“Nothing, well,
everything.  Cherries.”  I feigned a shudder.

“You don’t like cherries?”

I handed the bar back
to her.  “Nature’s abomination.”

“What’re the odds,”
she said, smiling faintly, taking the unfortunately flavored breakfast bar from
me, stuffing it in her back pocket. 

“Odds?”

“I can’t stand the
damn things either, like to the point where I’m not
that
hungry, you
know?  Makes me gag if I even smell one.  I hate to let them go to waste, so I
was hoping you’d eat the cherry ones so I didn’t have to.  Maybe I can trade
them with somebody.”

Have you ever opened
a set of blinds just wide enough to let a sliver of light inside?  Just enough
to remind yourself that there’s light out there in the world beyond your
darkened room?  I felt the same about her miniature revelation.  A connection,
however small it may have been.  A kinship.  The last week and a half had
thrown me down and walked across my back like I had a bold, black “WELCOME”
tattoo across my shoulder blades, but that tiny connection reminded me that
light existed.

“Hang on,” she said. 
“I’ll get you a different one.  Apple okay?”

I nodded, told her
that I’d eat a dead rat from down in the basement as long as it wasn’t
cherry-coated.