The Brokenhearted (14 page)

I bite the insides of my cheeks and suck air through my nostrils. There’s no way I can get the rest of the money—not even close to that amount—by Sunday. My father was right. They’re just going to keep asking for more. I think longingly about my trust fund, but it’s locked away until I’m eighteen, which isn’t for another seven months.

I wrap the robe tighter around me and stand up on shaky legs, my mind racing. The only solution is to find him, I realize, my fingernails digging into my fisted palms. To find him and take him from them by force. But how? My thoughts spin to Serge. We have a tacit understanding now. But Serge won’t let me anywhere near the kidnappers alone. And I can’t let him risk his life again—next time, I might not be able to swoop in and pull him out.

I drift out of the pool room, pausing in front of my father’s half-open office door. An enlarged aerial photograph of Bedlam fills a whole wall, all of North Bedlam shaded green—for renewal, for hope, for money—and the rest of the city the dull gray of pigeons, cement, and guns.

To find people in the South Side, I realize as I study the winding streets on my father’s map, I have to get help from a South Sider. And if I have any hope of forcing Miss Roach to give up Gavin, I’ll need help from someone who’s not afraid to play dirty.

I know only one person who fits the job description.

An hour later, I’m sitting in a cab with my Seven Swans bag next to me on the seat, headed over the Bridge of Sighs. I told my father I was headed to the studio to try to get back in the groove, and he patted me absently on the head, saying
atta girl, there’s the old work ethic I know and love
. Luckily, my mother is having one of her weeks where she doesn’t rise until noon.

“You sure you want to go there?” the driver says. He’s missing both front teeth, and the identification card reads Ishmael Green. I nod as my eyes scan the twisting knot of streets ahead of us. I have no idea how to find Ford, but I’m pretty sure I remember how to get to Jax’s lab, and I’m hoping she will lead me to him. Not that I relish the idea of visiting the lab. The thought of setting foot in there again makes my skin feel too tight for my body.

When we’re just a few blocks away, I actually
see
Ford. He’s in his usual sportswear, a black vinyl windbreaker with white piping on the sleeves and matching pants, ducking into a MegaMart.

“Stop here,” I say, and hastily shove a crumpled wad of bills into the cab’s Plexiglas money slot. “Keep the change.” I dash from the cab toward the sliding glass doors.

Inside the MegaMart, I’m greeted by a pimpled guard no older than I am, an Uzi strapped to his chest. He looks me up and down and yawns, then passes me a flier with today’s specials on it.

“Welcome to MegaMart,” he says listlessly. “Keep it moving.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and nod, then head into the cavernous aisles to find Ford. I have no idea what I’ll say to him. The aisles of the MegaMart are narrow and grimy, everything coated in a thin layer of dust, packed to the rafters with crates of goods sold in bulk. All around me, squabbling families are piling their carts with blocks of cheez product, cases of beer, cans of beans the size of oil drums. A bent old woman sorts through an enormous bin of tube socks marked
THREE FOR THREE, FIVE FOR FOUR
.

I’ve seen commercials and billboards for MegaMart—the chain has been spreading like kudzu through the South Side—but I’ve never been near one before. At the end of each aisle is another guard, another preposterously large Uzi at the ready.

As I round the end of the aisle past a pyramid of fifty-pound bags of Hound Healthy dog food, I spot Ford. He’s near the pharmacy, studying a wall of BuffShake canisters. I move to stand next to him, careful to keep a few feet between us.

“Bulking up?” I ask.

He whirls around, his face carved into a tough-guy mask until he recognizes me. “Anthem!” he says, breaking into a wide grin. “You came back! Jax’ll be so happy I found you.”

“I think it’s me who found you,” I correct him.

“Whatever.” Ford shrugs. Then his face darkens a little. “You shouldn’t have run off so soon. It’s dangerous. For your, you know.” He looks down at my chest, waving his hand in an embarrassed circle. “For that whole . . . situation.”

“Well, I’m fine. Good as new,” I mutter, my face turning purple.

A guard approaches us. “Keep it moving,” he says. Ford nods, eyeing the Uzi.
Keep it moving
must be MegaMart’s slogan.

“This place is the worst,” he says under his breath. “They think people are going to riot over shaving cream and tuna fish.”

“Listen, I need to talk to you about something—” I start.

“Not here,” Ford interrupts, grabbing me by the arm. “There are cameras everywhere, and these little punks are trigger happy. Let me just pay for this”—he holds up a canister of shaving cream—“and we’ll talk somewhere else.”

I walk with him toward the cashier, who looks even younger than the guard, and wait while Ford counts out $23.59 in singles and change. When we’re finally out the door, he exhales, jogging a few paces and doing neck rolls as if he’s just finished a workout. “I hate that place, but it’s so damned cheap.”

“So anyway,” I try again, conscious of the four security cameras bolted above the MegaMart doors, turning my face away from them. “I need some information.”

“Not here. I know a place,” he mutters, zipping up his sweatshirt. “It’s just up the block.”

“Not the lab,” I say. “I’m not going back there.”

He nods and takes off, walking fast. I have no choice but to follow. He crosses the street and makes two quick rights, then stops at a pockmarked green door.

“Try to look older,” he mutters, then pushes the door open with his shoulder. “And uglier.”

Like anyone can see me in here
, I think when I cross the doorway’s threshold into the barely-lit space. The room is dominated by a large bar, at least a dozen stools already occupied by slouching boozehounds even though it’s only 10
A.M
. The place is so dark that I need to wait for my eyes to adjust before I keep walking. Ford pulls me by the sleeve of my coat toward a booth in back, past the bar. The smell of grain alcohol, beer, and rollies is thick.

The bartender, a buxom girl with bad skin and a blue bouffant, smiles brightly at Ford. She scowls when she catches sight of me, but I hustle past her.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says after we slide into a wooden booth toward the back. “Lemme buy you an EnergyFizz or something.”

“No thanks,” I say, taking a breath and preparing to state my case. “I’m actually here for a favor.”

“You name it.”

“So, they still have Gavin.”

Ford nods and rubs his stubbly chin with his hand, but his brown eyes are blank. “Who?”

“Gavin? My boyfriend. The reason I was running across the bridge. He’s the person who gave me this, by the way,” I add, grabbing the pendant and holding it away from my neck. I give Ford a pointed look.

“Hey, slow down. I remember all that. I was asking
who
still has him,” Ford says, sitting back in the booth and crossing his arms.

“Right. Sorry.” I go on to describe the kidnappers using the few details I have. The way they spoke, their reaction to Serge. Their guns, their masks, their car.

After I finish, Ford leans back in the booth. My eyes are fully adjusted to the light now, and I can see a small scar on the right side of his chin. Probably from a bar brawl. “I don’t know these people, but they sound like Syndicate professionals,” he says. “Have you considered the possibility that you’re in over your head?”

“Pretty much every minute of every day,” I admit. “But I can’t afford to believe it. I don’t care who they are. I just want them to let my boyfriend go. Can you help me?”

Ford sighs and presses his lips together in thought, a crease forming between his perfectly straight, thick eyebrows. “If I had to put money on it, I’d guess they’re somewhere in Hades. But that’s not going to help you any.”

“Why not?” I ask. “Where is Hades?”

“It’s what we call the old mall, out past the stadium. The bottom floor is all black-market traders. Everyone with a stake in the Bedlam scum community has a guy there. But you can’t just
show up
there, Anthem.”

“Of course I can,” I say, though I don’t sound very convincing, even to myself. “I found you, didn’t I?”

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” Ford insists. “A girl like you? They’ll eat you alive. You won’t last ten minutes in there.”

“Don’t be so sure of what a girl like me can do.” I lean across the booth, my voice rising in pitch and volume. “I’ll be fine. Especially if you come with me.”

“Not going to happen,” Ford says quietly. “I stay as far away from the Syndicate as I can.” He looks past me toward the bar, his mouth pressed into a line.

“Me and the Syndicate . . . there’s a history. It’s a bad history.”

“Please,” I say. “I have no choice.”

He grabs at the back of his neck as if massaging a knot of tension. Then he sighs, which I take as a good sign. “You must have really liked him,” he says finally.

“I did. I mean, I do.” A silence opens up between us. “I can’t just sit back and let him die,” I add quietly. “Haven’t you ever gotten in over your head for someone you loved?”

Ford takes a deep breath and holds the air in his mouth so his cheeks puff out, then lets the air out slowly, like a deflating balloon. “Yeah.”

“So you understand,” I say gently.

“He’s a lucky guy,” he says quietly, shooting me an unreadable look. “I hope he knows it.”

Then he shoves his body out of the booth and stands next to me, offering his hand. I look down at the thick calluses on his knuckles, then tentatively take it.

“Thanks,” I start. “I know this isn’t exactly—”

“Let’s just get going before I change my mind,” he says, pulling me to my feet.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

.....................................................................

CHAPTER 18

Outside the bar, I keep pace next to Ford and pull my scarf over my mouth to escape the fumes from a garbage truck rumbling by. Our heads are bent against the wind as we head southeast, mist and damp coating our faces.

I start lagging a pace or two behind Ford, staring at the back of his head, his buzzed hair in a gray beanie above his wide shoulders. I’m grateful he’s willing to help me. But what if he’s right? What if I’m in way over my head? Then I take a surreptitious look at the picture of Gavin on my phone, wincing at his blue-black bruise. The gash in his chin. The newspaper dripping blood.

There is no choice. No decision. I can’t leave Gavin to die. I’m already suffering, I tell myself as I tighten the strap of my bag over my chest and catch up with Ford. May as well do it in hell.

After we walk in silence for ten blocks or so and I catch back up with him, Ford clears his throat. “I gotta ask, what’s it like?”

“What’s
what
like?”

“Your new heart!” he says, too loud for comfort. I duck my head, furtively looking around to see if anyone heard us. Luckily, the block is deserted. There’s nothing moving here except a feral-looking jackrabbit nibbling the tall grass growing around the perimeter of a derelict building.

“It’s pretty weird,” I say vaguely. “I mean, I don’t recommend letting Jax near you with a scalpel anytime soon.”

“I saw you running,” he whispers, moving closer to me. “When you left the lab. I saw you speeding down the alley like a . . . I mean, I couldn’t see your legs. That’s how fast you were going.”

I blush, embarrassed that he saw me without my knowing it. “It feels easy, running like that. All part of the weirdness.” I touch my sternum through my shirt, feel the slight rise of the skin around my scar.

“Tell me more. I mean, you don’t
have
to tell me, but ever since I saw you run, I’ve been thinking about . . . like . . . what if you’re part hummingbird? How cool would that be?”

I smile tightly, my face still warm. “I’m pretty sure I’m not
actually
part hummingbird. The heart is mostly mechanical. I guess there’s tissue around it, but I notice it whirring like a hard drive all the time. Especially if I’m nervous or moving fast. I keep thinking it’s going to burn out on me.”

“Jax says it won’t. I grilled her about it,” Ford says, suddenly looking shy.

“You did?” I’m surprised he cares so much.

“I was worried.” He shrugs. “Especially after I failed epically as a surgical assistant.”

“Oh god,” I squeak, realizing Ford was probably in the room when Jax cut my chest open. “I, um, we don’t have to talk abou—”

“I passed out,” he interrupts with an embarrassed grimace. He looks pale and queasy just thinking about it. “The second she picked up the scalpel, I was on the floor.”

“So you didn’t . . .”

“I missed the entire operation,” he admits sheepishly.

We walk in silence along the snaking shore of the Crime Line until we pass the southernmost bridge of Bedlam, the Bridge of Peace. Brotherhood is the roughest part of the city, the place most often cited in the
Dilemma
’s crime blotter.

A few blocks south of the bridge, Ford hangs a right underneath a freeway overpass leaking green water onto the street below, though it isn’t raining out, just cold and dreary like it has been for weeks.

“Running fast isn’t the only thing I can do,” I say, surprising myself. I start to tell him about what happened with Serge. Being able to maneuver around bullets. The insane strength I was able to find when I needed it. His walking slows to a halt when I describe the way time seems to slow down whenever my adrenaline kicks in.

“You dodged bullets? That is
sick
,” he breathes, shaking his head in wonder. “I’d give anything to be able to do something like that.”

“Don’t say that. Trust me, there are a million things you wouldn’t want to give up.”
Like Gavin, I
think. For one.