The Bodies We Wear (5 page)

I stand across the street from my favorite bar and watch the doors, wondering how long I’ll be waiting tonight before I see my prey.

The dead man inside the bar is Montague Rufus. Most everyone calls him Rufus, never Monty. He’s forty-three years old. His hair is blond, he likes to slick it back with gel, and his eyes are dark buttons that sink deep into his head. His eye twitches constantly and his hands sometimes shake from years of drug abuse. He doesn’t touch Heam but sticks mostly to the weaker drugs. He drinks constantly. His blotchy red nose is a testament to his disease.

He likes to wear an old leather jacket that has burn holes on the sleeves and a pair of cowboy boots that have broken more than their share of fingers. He never fights fair.

I know everything there is to know about this man. I’ve spent a long time watching him. He’s the man who, six years ago, destroyed my soul.

He’s not an important person but he likes to believe he is. A middleman, his job is to regulate the Heam dealers for the neighborhood and report back to his boss. He is trusted enough to pass on the money but not trusted enough to be given more power. Sometimes he’s given jobs that require a little more nastiness. Like going after the children of people who owe money. He likes to drug them, ensuring they will become addicts, gutter rats. I also know he’s been responsible for making people disappear now and then.

He does his job well and lives in a nice house in a good neighborhood. He has no family but has no problem giving prostitutes regular business.

There were four men there the night I saw hell. I have made it my life’s goal to personally destroy each and every one of them.

I will leave Rufus for last. My plan is to go through the list, eliminating every single one until Montague Rufus is the only one left. I want him to know I’m coming. I want him to fear me.

But not just yet. Not until I feel I’m ready. I don’t want to screw up. Until then, I will continue to watch and wait, taking notes, following their moves, and learning everything there is to know about my enemies.

“I see you’re predictable, at least.”

The words make me jump and I spin around with my one arm raised in defense, and my other gripping the knife hidden behind my back. Chael stands a few feet behind me, an amused expression on his face.

This is the second time I didn’t hear him.

“You scared the hell out of me,” I snap.

“Sorry,” he says, but he’s not.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hanging out. You?” He tugs at a stray strand of hair that’s fallen into his eyes. He reaches back and pulls up the hood of his jacket until his already- wet hair is covered. He tugs at the sleeves, pulling them down and over his fingers, which look cold and wet.

“I’m beginning to think you’re following me.” I remember how he winked at me this morning as he pulled the child from the burning building. It’s a bit too coincidental that he’s here again.

“Or perhaps you’re following me,” he says. “Or it’s just a small world and we can’t help but bump elbows every now and then.”

“Why would I follow you?” I ask.

“Why not?”

I shake my head and beads of water drip down my cheeks. Being elusive and avoiding the question only means he doesn’t want to answer.

“You were a real hero this morning,” I say. Maybe if I ask the right questions I can get some answers. “Why did you save that child?”

He shrugs. “I couldn’t not save her. Building was burning. Nasty stuff. You would have done the same thing.”

“Maybe.”

He smiles. He knows I’m lying. “I’d bet you would have gone in, flames or not, if I hadn’t come out when I did. You could never stand by and let a child die.”

“Oh, so you talk to me for a whole total of five minutes in two days and now you’ve got me all figured out?”

“Yep. Pretty much.” He winks again.

“I could eat babies for breakfast. Or stab old ladies on the train for all you know.” I’m annoyed now. Yes, he’s saying nice things about me but I don’t like the fact that he’s so smug about it. He thinks he knows me. He doesn’t. I want to make this perfectly clear.

“Sure you could.” Chael picks up the drawstring of his hoodie and twirls it around in his fingers. He wraps it tightly around his pinkie until the finger turns bright pink; then he releases it and starts up the process again, with his ring finger this time.

“I’m not a good person,” I say to him finally. “So stop pretending like you know otherwise.”

“Okay, miss, whatever you say.”

From down the street I hear a familiar voice.

“Excuse me? Have you seen my brother?”

The little girl is still handing out her flyers. She’s got her red umbrella and she struggles with it while trying to hold the papers with her cold fingers. People hurriedly walk past her as if she’s contagious or something. No one wants what she’s selling. As if sensing my stare, she looks up and spots me. She turns and starts walking toward us.

Chael pulls his hoodie further down over his face. “Hey, you want to go get a cup of coffee? My treat.”

My first thought is to say no because part of me thinks he’s really missing a few brain cells, considering his behavior, and the other part is still half-convinced that he’s following me. But, if I look past the constant fidgeting and drawstring twisting, there’s something in his eyes that makes me reconsider. His eyebrows are deeply furrowed and he’s chewing on the inside of his lip. He’s hiding something. And I want to know what.

The little girl is closing the distance when he turns his back to her. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and gives me a grin.

It’s cold out and a cup of coffee really does sound good. It’ll give me a chance to dry out a bit before returning to my street corner. I was planning on following Rufus home tonight. I do that at least once a week to keep my stealth tactics updated. He’s never once seen me and you learn the most about a man when he doesn’t realize he’s being watched.

And I have to admit, I’m very curious about Chael.

“Okay,” I say.

Chael reaches over and takes my elbow and heads me down the street away from the little girl, her depressing flyers, and red umbrella. In a way, I’m glad. I didn’t want to tell her I haven’t seen her brother tonight. She gets enough bad news from everyone else. I don’t want to add to it. I hear her voice but whatever she’s saying is lost in the sound of the rain.

We go to the little fifties diner a few blocks away. It’s an okay place. I’ve been here a few times before. It has these little working jukeboxes on every table. If you pop in a quarter, it’ll play a song. Mostly stuff from the fifties. Elvis. The Big Bopper. Ricky Nelson. Pat Boone. Personally, I don’t like the music of that generation. It’s too damn cheerful.

But we squeeze into a booth. My pants stick to the faded vinyl seats and a small farting sound escapes when I unstick myself, forcing me to fake-cough to cover the sound. Chael doesn’t notice or he pretends not to. Instead, he focuses on the jukebox and I hope that he doesn’t play anything because it’ll only make me roll my eyes and probably dislike him.

Thankfully, he spares me. He picks up the sugar dispenser and twirls it around in his fingers and then starts stacking some of the little creamers, keeping himself busy until the waitress comes by to take our order.

I get coffee. Black.

Chael orders coffee and a piece of cherry pie. No ice cream.

I keep the menu and flip through the pages, looking at the pictures, not really seeing them. Most of the items have stupid names that reflect past celebrities. The Big Bopper Double Whopper Tuna Melt. Marilyn Monroe Milk Shakes. James Dean Chicken Tacos. Chael starts ripping apart a napkin with his fingers. When he’s got a tiny pile of shredded paper, he starts tearing apart a second one. And then a third.

The waitress brings our coffee. She goes back for the pie.

I wait.

Chael has a large pile of destroyed napkins. He pauses only to start opening creamers and dump them in his coffee. The brown liquid quickly grows lighter. Then he adds a large amount of sugar. Coffee sloshes over the side of the cup and he cleans it up with a fresh napkin.

This is turning out to be the most boring coffee date I’ve ever been on. Of course, considering I don’t socialize, it’s also technically the first coffee date I’ve ever been on. Definitely not memorable. I would have expected there to be a little more talking.

“You must drink a lot of coffee,” I say when he first lifts his cup up to his lips. He pauses, watches me with bright green eyes that look a little puzzled. I smile.

“No, why?”

“The caffeine? You fidget enough,” I say, nodding in the direction of the shredded napkins and stacked creamers. “You can’t seem to sit still.”

“Nervous energy,” he says.

“And you play with yourself a lot.”

“What?” He looks seriously alarmed and it takes me a few seconds to realize how my comment must have sounded.

“I don’t mean that way. I mean you’re always touching yourself. Oh crap, I don’t mean that either.” I’m blushing now, my cheeks burning. I can’t seem to get my words out properly. “It’s like you’re always pulling your hair or wiggling your fingers.” I point to his hand, which is beating a rhythm on the table. “You’re doing it right now. It’s like you’re not comfortable with your body.”

He leans forward, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “That’s an odd thing to say. Why would you say that?”

I shrug. “I don’t mean anything nasty. Sometimes I don’t think enough before I speak. No filter between brain and mouth.”

“Maybe this isn’t my body,” he says, and then he laughs a bit too hard. “It could be a loaner.” The waitress brings over his pie and he immediately digs in, breaking apart the crust with his fork. Cherry filling sticks to his lips.

“You’re weird,” I say, my cheeks slowly growing less flushed. “But that’s not an insult. It’s a compliment. I like weird.”

He gives me a half smile. His green eyes sparkle underneath all that dark hair.

“Where are you from?” I ask, trying to remain nonchalant. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

He pushes his pie plate out of the way. He seems to have lost interest in it after a few bites. “I grew up here but I’ve been away for a long time. Just recently came back.”

I take a sip of coffee. “Where did you go?” A few gutter rats walk by outside, their eyes hollow. Everything about them attracts the darkness. Even the shop light won’t touch their skin. One of them looks in and stares right at me without seeing. So young. It’s not fair.

“Just away,” Chael says. “Nowhere special.”

“Why did you come back?” I ask, still looking out the diner window. A car with a busted back window slowly drives by, splashing the sidewalk with rainwater. “I mean, if I managed to get away from this city, I’d never come back.”

“Where would you go?”

I shrug and take a sip of coffee, still looking out the window. “I dunno. Somewhere warm? Somewhere I’m not going to be judged for who I am. Maybe Africa. Or New Zealand. I hear things are better there.”

“Not really,” he says. “Heam is everywhere. Even the warm places.”

“Oh? You’re an expert on Heam? You learned this during all your travels but you still don’t know why you came back?”

Chael doesn’t say anything for a long time and finally I tear my gaze away from outside and look at him. He’s watching me carefully. His head tilts to the side and he runs his fingers absently through his drying hair again.

“I’m not sure why I came back,” he finally says. “It wasn’t my choice but at the same time it was my only chance.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I’m complicated that way.”

Chael reaches into his pocket and pulls out some cash, which he tosses on the table. Standing, he smiles down at me but shakes his head when I make a motion to stand.

“Stick around, why don’t you?” he says. “Take a break tonight. Let the bad guys rest. No one will die tonight if you’re not around. I promise.”

I give a short choking laugh. “What makes you think I’m after bad guys?”

“You’re after Rufus and his friends,” Chael says. “That’s why you’re always outside the bar. You’re studying him. Waiting for him to make a mistake. Maybe even waiting for the perfect opportunity. But you’re not going to get them first. They’re mine.”

I’m halfway out of my seat but he pushes me back down with his arm. I’m so surprised that I let him do it. “How do you know—”

“I know a lot about you, Faye,” he says as he heads over toward the door. “You don’t want to go down this path. Trust someone who knows. Leave Rufus to me. You don’t need that revenge. It’s not your salvation.”

“Who are you?” I scream after him. A few other patrons look up from their dinner stupor in shock.

Chael stops, his hand resting on the door handle. “Blue skies. You’ll figure it out. It’s okay, honey bunny.”

And he’s gone. Just like that.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. I can’t stop thinking about Chael. How does he know so much about me? Have I been wrong all along? Do they know who I am? Have they been waiting for me to slip up all this time? If so, why are they sending Chael after me and not coming themselves? Surely, I’m not so intimidating that they’ve had to hire someone to take me out. Rufus may be a coward but I know from experience that he likes to deal the death blow himself. Especially when it comes to young girls. Didn’t he already prove that six years ago?

So why Chael?

I’m a wreck when I finally drag myself out of bed for school the next morning. There are dark marks under my eyes and my cheeks look more hollow than usual. I can barely keep my brain focused as I pour my morning coffee. Half of it ends up on the floor and I have to hunt around for some towels. It’s mornings like this that I wish either Gazer or I were a little more practical in the cleaning department.

The church feels damper than usual this morning if that’s even possible and I’m shivering in my workout clothes as I start my warm-ups. Gazer is still mad at me and he shows that anger through our workout, forcing me to do the most mundane and physically challenging tasks. Push-ups. Sit-ups. One hundred squats and then a five-mile run before I’m allowed breakfast. I do it all without complaining and I don’t say more than a few words to him. Our anger works both ways.

I barely make it back in time to have a quick shower and head off to school.

Paige is waiting by my locker. I spot her in the distance and immediately look around guiltily to see if any teachers have noticed. No adults in sight. That’s a good sign but at the same time I’m wondering why I’ve bothered being so careful these past few years. No one seems to be paying attention to me in the slightest. It’s been a complete waste of time being in this paranoid state.

Even if the teachers have become more relaxed, I will continue to follow the rules. I don’t want to get kicked out of school. It’s important to me. It’s the only link to normalcy that I have. Without it, I’m not sure who I’d be left with.

A monster.

“Hey,” she says when I approach.

I nod at her, brushing past to get to my locker. There could be security cameras. I ignore her as she waits for me, hovering at my back to get a peek at the contents. There’s nothing there to impress her. No mirror. No token gifts from boys. No stickers, pictures, or any of that crap that the other girls seem to love. My locker is like a prison cell, bare and lifeless.

“You don’t like me much, do you?” Paige asks as I slam the door closed.

“Never said that,” I said.

“Then what is it?”

“What’s what?”

“Why do you act like you can’t stand to be around me? Is it because of Trevor? I told you already. He’s a major jerk and I don’t have anything to do with him.”

“It’s not Trevor,” I say. “He’s a nobody. I just don’t want friends.”

Paige’s mouth draws itself into a surprised O. She’s wearing a very nice lip gloss that makes her lips a perfect pale pink. “Everyone wants friends.”

“Not me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I shrug. “Suit yourself.” I turn and start walking to class.

She struggles to catch up. “Come to my party.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to come.”

I spin around, hoping to catch her off guard, and it works. She takes a step back cautiously. “I’m not interested in your games. If you want to go slumming, find someone else. I’m sure Trevor has friends who will be more than happy to entertain you.”

“Is that it?” She rolls her eyes, showing off her lovely blue eyeliner. “I’m not slumming. I could care less who you are or what your parents do. I’m not a snotty little rich princess and I have no intentions of becoming a gutter rat either.”

I shrug. We’ve arrived at my English classroom, a class she’s thankfully not a part of.

“Come have lunch with us,” she calls out. “Make up your own mind about us first. You’ll see. We’re a lot of fun to hang out with.”

She’s determined, that’s for sure. Ignoring her, I head into class. Maybe I will have lunch with them. It could be nice to have someone to talk to for once, even if I do have to monitor everything that comes out of my mouth. Sitting at my desk, I glance up to see Mr. Erikson, the English teacher, staring at me suspiciously.

Maybe not.

Besides, what would I say to them? It’s not like I can tell them anything about myself. The school warned me against these things. I’m not even supposed to mention Gazer. Originally the administration put together a backstory for me, featuring good wholesome parents who had excellent-paying jobs and loved me to death. But they abandoned the idea, deciding it would be too complicated for me to remember, and that it was better if I just ignored everything and everyone.

Never tell.

My motto.

The bell rings and everyone gets settled. Mr. Erikson begins to talk and I immediately lose all focus. I’m too tired to listen to him drone. I’ve already read the book, a modern-day love story. She eventually leaves him to go live in the woods like a wild animal. I remember being fascinated with it when I was younger. I’ve never seen a forest. I couldn’t imagine what living in one would feel like.

Peaceful.

I wish I’d gotten more sleep last night but I just couldn’t stop thinking about Chael and the comment he made to me before he left.

“Honey bunny.”

Not the world’s most original term of endearment. My dad used to call me that when I was little. I used to hate it and get angry, puffing out my cheeks and telling Daddy to stop teasing me. Christian overheard my father once and he used that expression every chance he had. Outwardly I used to get angry but inwardly, well, I loved it.

Honey bunny. A sign of affection. Teasing. Something you’d see on a greeting card. Something even a sarcastic stranger might use.

Chael really does have nice green eyes. It would be a shame if he turned out to be the enemy.

Trying to stifle a yawn, I rest my chin on my hands, letting my hair fall into my eyes so I won’t look so obvious.

It would be easier if I weren’t so tired.

I’m in a very small room. No, correction, I’m in an elevator but it’s not moving. I can see the buttons on the wall, ranging from numbers one to twenty-three. The emergency phone is there but it’s not working. There isn’t any power except for a small light at the ceiling above my head. I pick up the phone but only hear dead air. I press some of the buttons but nothing happens. I seem to be stuck between floors.

I have no idea how I got here. The last thing I remember is my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest and the man who gave me the liquid that tasted like strawberries. He gave me Heam. I know this. I may be young but I’m not stupid. I’ve heard my mother talking about it and I know my father went to jail because of it. You’re supposed to see Heaven. I heard about Heaven from stories my grandmother told me.

“Don’t tell her that,” my mother used to say. “You’re filling her head with nonsense. There’s no such thing. I’m not raising her to believe in that crap.”

“She has a free will and mind,” my grandmother would respond. “She can think for herself. Look at her life. A bit of goodness won’t hurt her.”

“There is no God,” my mother would say.

“The world is full of opinions. That is yours. I have mine. Let her reach hers on her own.”

They would argue this back and forth and eventually my mother would throw up her arms in disgust and go somewhere. The bar. The store. The kitchen to finish the dishes. Anywhere but near her mother, who was too old-fashioned to tolerate. Grandmother would pick me up and I’d curl into a ball in her lap and listen to her stories.

Heaven was supposed to be a place where angels floated on clouds and played harps. There was no sadness and everyone was peaceful and happy. I always figured it would have lots of ice cream and every bed would be warm and soft.

I look around but I don’t see any angels. Maybe this elevator will take me up to the clouds. But it’s not moving. Why isn’t it moving?

And why am I so cold?

I try calling out, my voice tiny and hollow, the feeble sound bouncing around the confines of my cell. I call out Christian’s name. My mother’s. I hear something and immediately shut my mouth to listen.

The noise starts small. A scratch. Faint. Then again. Louder this time.

I press my ear up against the smooth doors.

I listen.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

A whisper.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

Something smashes against the door, denting the metal. I scream and back up against the opposite wall, my back pressed against the chrome railing. The walls are made of mirrored glass and I can suddenly see my own horrified expression staring back at me a thousand times.

A sharp spike breaks through the metal with incredible speed. I dodge the rod and it breaks through the mirror, sending bits of silver glass raining down around me. Another pole slices through; the sound of metal scraping against metal fills my ears and I scream again. There is something on the other side of those doors and it screams back at me, denting the metal with its claws. My heart slams against my chest, threatening to rip itself out of my body.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

I’m so cold. Icy water flows down my back, my spine. My fingers are so frosty I can’t feel them. My feet have frozen to the floor; they won’t move. My entire body won’t move. I can’t breathe. There’s no air inside of me. The room grows hot and the metal turns red and begins to sweat in front of my eyes. But I still can’t move and my hands are shaking so badly I’m positive icicles are going to form on my fingertips and break off, smashing to the floor.

Another pole. This one strikes me, piercing my wrist and hand. I drop to my knees, reaching for my wound with my good arm, trying to pull myself free. The pain is enormous. It fills my body; I can’t think or even see properly. Everything around me turns bright red. I want to scream but I can’t. I am beyond words. Beyond breath.

And then the shadows come.

They crawl up along the walls, their eyes reflecting in the bits of broken mirror that surround me. Long and black, they have no form, but I can see the claws on their fingertips and the tails that trail behind them. They laugh and whisper obscenities. When I open my mouth to scream again, one of them slips into my mouth, coating my throat. I begin to choke, unable to fight against the darkness that tears its way into my chest.

Another pole pierces my stomach. I can feel the blood pouring out of my body, dripping along my legs and pooling in my shoes. My hands are covered with the stuff and I start pressing the elevator buttons in panic, but my fingers only manage to leave behind sticky prints and accomplish nothing else.

The walls break away, opening up to complete darkness. I’m not falling but I’m not moving either. I curl up the best I can with the metal rods piercing me, trying to make myself as small as possible. Blood drips away from my body into nothingness.

Then in the distance I see my father. He looks the way he did the day they led him away to prison. He’s tied to a cross and bleeding everywhere. His eyes roll around in his skull until he’s looking right at me. His mouth opens but no sound comes out.

I try to scream but just like him, my own voice has been stolen.

The shadows dance around me, whipping my body with their darkened arms and scaly tails. They cover me completely until there is nothing.

“You’re a pretty little piece of sunshine,” something whispers in my right ear. “I’m going to swallow your soul and devour you for all eternity.”

I open my mouth and try to scream again. Scream forever because no one is going to hear me.