The Memory Key (20 page)

“I know that can't be true,” I say. “But could it?”

“Are you serious? This is a magazine that claims werewolves are living secretly among us. Why would the Citizen Army help Keep Corp take power?”

“Maybe they don't know about Keep Corp's plans.”

“They'll know once they read this article.” Tim smirks.

“My mom discovered something bad about the new keys. This is bad, isn't it?”

“Sure it's bad, but seriously, Lora, it makes no sense.”

I scowl at him. “Well, let's hear some of your ideas then.”

“Glad you asked. I think we should talk to that journalist.”

“Who? Carlos Cruz? But we can't trust him!”

“Why not?” he asks.

I point out the inconsistencies in his story: how Carlos said he knew nothing about Keep Corp anymore, but then talked about their new line of keys. I describe his unexpected visit to our house and his interest in the blue-jacketed strangers.

“Honestly, it sounds like he's just doing his job,” says Tim.

“No. It's more than just his job,” I say.

“You really don't like this guy, huh.”

“He's too handsome for his own good.”

“So am I, and you like me, don't you?”

I roll my eyes. “You're cute and all, Tim, but Carlos Cruz is really, really handsome. Like movie-star handsome.”

“I knew it! You think I'm cute!” He grins triumphantly.

“I don't! I was just being nice. Anyway, this is about Carlos.”

“Right, Carlos. I've got an idea, an amazing idea.”

We bike over to Tim's house so he can get his car. I tell him I'll wait for him outside. He looks at me with confusion. “It might take a couple minutes,” he says. “Wouldn't you rather come in?”

“It's better if I wait here,” I say.

His expression clears. “Wendy's not home, if that's what you're worried about. She's with her new boyfriend.”

“That's not what I'm worried about.”

“Right. Whatever you say.”

“And who's this new boyfriend, anyway? The football player?”

He shrugs. “How should I know?”

“She's your sister.”

“Exactly. She's my sister. I want to know
nothing
about her love life. Gross,” he says. “Anyway, if you're so curious, why don't you ask her?”

I make a face. But when he motions for me to follow him inside, I follow. We go into the living room, where his parents are watching television.

“Lora!” they say. “Wendy's not home, but she should be back soon.”

“Oh, good.” I wonder how soon.

The evening news is on and they're showing scenes from Senator Finney's memorial service. The president gives a speech about how this is a personal tragedy for every citizen, as well as a tragedy for the country as a whole. He says we must unite across party lines to fight the radical extremist groups that are threatening our nation and our freedom.

“Nice talk, now let's see some action,” says Mr. Laskey. His wife shushes him as the camera shifts to people nodding in sorrowful agreement. Suddenly, it's Austin nodding in sorrowful agreement.

“My aunt!” I say. She looks tired, her mouth tight with grief, her face pale above her black suit. Then the camera pans, and she's gone.

“It's so very sad,” says the news anchor.

“Yes, a life and a career cut tragically short. Who knows what impact the senator would have had,” says the other news anchor.

They segue into a segment about new opposition to the proposed economic bill, specifically the defense budget. A conservative commentator talks about how the liberals are destroying everything the nation has worked so hard to accomplish.

“I can't believe this guy. What an idiot,” says Mrs. Laskey.

“You're not even listening to him,” says Mr. Laskey.

“I
am
listening, and it's outrageous,” says Mrs. Laskey.

I stare at the television. The program goes to commercial. On the screen, it's a dreary day and people are gloomy until a dozen women come running down the street, tossing yellow umbrellas to everyone. The umbrellas glow as they open, and soon everything is glowing: the street, the sky, the formerly gloomy people. Then it all fades into the Keep Corp logo and the caption
BRINGING YOU A BRIGHTER YESTERDAY
.

I glance pointedly at Tim. He glances pointedly back. But I'm not sure we're glancing about the same thing. His parents' conversation is getting louder.

“You think protecting our country is wrong? You think supporting our troops is wrong? Really?” Mr. Laskey scowls at his wife.

“I think it's wrong that we're spending billions on these useless wars when there are so many people unemployed and hungry here.” Mrs. Laskey scowls at her husband.

Tim glances pointedly at me. I glance pointedly back. This time we are definitely glancing about the same thing. We escape outside and get into his car. “They're just enjoying some spirited debate,” I say.

“If you say so.” He sighs as he turns on the engine.

There's a tap-tap-tap on his side of the car, and we both turn toward the sound.

It's Wendy.

Tim rolls down his window. “Hey. What's up?”

“What are you doing?” she asks her brother.

I don't know whether to look at her or not. So I don't. Then I do. She is with a handsome hulk of a guy, the football player, presumably. His arms really
are
impressive. But after my cursory inspection (of his biceps), I look only at Wendy. I look at the familiar tilt of her chin, the familiar slant of her mouth. She does not look back at me.

“We're going on an adventure. Want to come?” asks Tim, and as I wait for her answer I realize I want her to say yes. I realize I miss my friend, I miss her fiercely.

“Well . . .” Wendy glances at me as if she has just noticed I'm in the car. Her eyes are dead cold. And even though she is standing right there, she seems hopelessly far away. “No, thanks,” she says.

“Okay, see you later!” Tim backs out of his parking space and drives down a couple blocks. Then he pulls over to the side of the road.

“Are you all right?” he asks me.

“I'm fine,” I say.

“If you're fine then why are you crying?”

“I'm not crying. Not really. Not a lot.”

“Just talk to her,” he says.

“I called her a bitch,” I say.

“Well, she
can
be kind of bitchy sometimes.” Tim hands me a tissue.

I wipe my eyes and tell him I'm impressed he has tissues in his car.

He mutters something about allergies. “Anyway, I know she misses you,” he says, patting my shoulder.

“Yeah? How do you know?”

“I know her. I know.”

“Thanks, Tim. You're a good friend.” I smile at him. He smiles at me. Then his hand stops patting, but stays carefully balanced on my shoulder. We look at each other, no longer smiling. We look at each other until Tim looks away.

“Thanks for not making fun of my allergies,” he says.

“To be honest, I would if I could think of a witty way to do it.”

“Well, thanks for not being able to think of a witty way to do it.”

“You're welcome,” I say because that is what good friends say.

Tim slows the car as we approach Carlos Cruz's apartment building, then we circle around, looking up and down the
street. There are no silver sedans. “So much for your amazing idea,” I tell him.

“Could it be in the back?” he says.

We get out of the car and sneak down the alleyway that cuts through the center of the block. There's a small parking lot behind the building, with room for just four cars. There are three cars, none of them silver sedans.

“Maybe he's not home?” I say.

“Let's look. Which is his apartment?”

“That one, I think.”

We creep closer, breathing softly, moving slowly, stepping carefully, though the gravel still spatters and sputters under our shoes. The window is open and a breeze flutters the curtains apart, just far enough apart so we can peer inside.

“See anything?” I whisper.

“A light? Is that a light there?” Tim whispers.

“I think it's a mirror,” I whisper.

“No, it's a light,” Tim whispers.

“No, it's a mirror,” says Carlos Cruz as he yanks back the curtains and stares at us through the screen, his handsome face darkened by shadow, and as I stare back at him I remember another handsome face, another attractive man, sitting on a bench, reading a magazine, except that other man was not another man, that man was actually this man.

It was Carlos Cruz I saw that day at Keep Corp.

“MISS MINT, HOW NICE OF YOU TO VISIT! PLEASE, WON'T YOU
come in? It's a little awkward talking like this, don't you think?” Carlos smiles hospitably, as if we had come knocking on his door, not peeking through his curtains.

“I'm sorry, it's not what you think,” says Tim, and I elbow him. Carlos Cruz deserves no apologies, no excuses or explanations.

“I saw you at Keep Corp,” I say, pointing rudely so there can be no mistake. “What were you doing there if you don't have any contacts anymore?”

“Let's have this conversation inside. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. You kids drink coffee?” Carlos is not fazed, not even a little.

“No way,” I say.

He sighs. “If you don't like coffee we can go to the bakery down the street.”

Tim tugs my arm, pulling me back from the window. “Let's talk to him, Lora. We have nothing to lose,” he says into my ear.

“What if he's involved?” I hiss.

“You know he's not involved. You know that you know.”

“The bakery makes really good sandwiches,” Carlos croons through the screen.

“I
am
kind of hungry,” says Tim.

“Fine,” I snap. “Let's go.”

We sit on the bench outside of the bakery, and before anyone can unwind their really good sandwich from the waxed paper, before anyone can take that anticipated first bite, I turn to Carlos and say: “What were you doing at Keep Corp the other day? I know it was you.”

“Well, perhaps I wasn't being completely honest when I said I had no contacts there. The truth is, I've been cultivating a new source in the company,” he says, then pauses to smile charmingly. “And why were
you
at Keep Corp?”

“None of your business,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow. The message is clear: if I won't, he won't.

“I had a problem with my memory key. I had to get it replaced,” I say. “So what kind of information have you gotten from your new source?”

“Your mother's death was no accident.”

“What do you mean?”

“According to my source, Keep Corp hired a ‘specialty firm' to take care of the problem she posed. I'm sorry to have to tell you this.”

“But—” says Tim.

I interrupt. “Why? Why did they do it?”

“I was hoping you'd have some ideas,” says Carlos.

“All I know is that she discovered something strange about the new line of memory keys, but I have no idea what it was.”

“What about those people? The ones in the sketches you showed me, and in that photograph with your father. Who are they?” Carlos asks.

“They're the ones who took her away. They must have worked for that specialty firm.” I describe my memory of that night, of watching the two strangers lead my mother out the kitchen door.

Carlos frowns. “And your father knows them?”

“No. That photograph was from a Keep Corp fund-raiser. He doesn't remember who they are. We still haven't figured it out.”

Carlos Cruz strokes his chin as he thinks. He narrows his eyes. “Will you lend me that photo? I'll try to identify those people for you.”

I pull the picture from my bag and rip it in two—feeling a little guilty since it doesn't exactly belong to me—and hand over the piece with the strangers. I keep the piece with my dad. “Will you tell me? As soon as you find out?”

“If I can find out, yes,” says Carlos.

“Can we eat our sandwiches now?” asks Tim.

We eat our sandwiches now. Tim bolts his down, as if he hadn't been eating pizza at the pizza place just an hour ago.
After gulping his last bite, he gazes pleadingly at me. Or, to be precise, he gazes pleadingly at my sandwich. I continue eating. With pleasure.

“Hey.” Tim looks reluctantly away from my food, to Carlos Cruz. “If you have a source at Keep Corp, why would you go there looking for him? Wouldn't that put him in danger?”

Carlos nods. “The problem is, I haven't been able to get ahold of my guy recently. I set up a meeting and he didn't show. I've called him and he hasn't returned my calls. I was worried, so I went by to check out the situation.”

“And what did you find?”

“I didn't see him but it seems like he's all right. Still coming to work. I suspect it's a case of cold feet—he said he'd get me some documents that would prove Keep Corp's involvement in your mother's death, but now I think he's scared to deliver.”

“What documents?” I ask.

Carlos Cruz shrugs and keeps chewing.

And even though he didn't answer my question, I smile. Because I'm thinking this could be the solid evidence that Jon said we needed. Solid evidence that would give us leverage over Keep Corp. Solid evidence that would make it possible for my mother to stay here. With me.

By the time the baker rattles down the metal grate, closing shop, our sandwiches are finished and our talk is finished too, for the time being. We gather ourselves up from the bench, brush our clothes clean of crumbs, discard the greasy scraps of waxed paper, and exchange some surprisingly cordial
good-byes. Carlos promises he'll tell me if he learns anything about the two strangers in the photograph. I promise I'll tell him if I learn anything about what my mother discovered.

“By the way,” I say. “What kind of car do you drive?”

He answers in exquisite detail but all I register is that he does not drive a silver sedan, that he would never drive such an uninspired car. “Why do you ask?” he asks.

“Just curious.”

“All right, I admit he's good-looking. Like, unnaturally good-looking,” Tim says as he drives us home. “Why didn't you tell him your mother's alive?”

“You think I should have?”

“He could probably help her.”

“He doesn't have to know in order to help her. Once he gets those documents from his source, I can do the rest,” I say.

“
You
can do the rest?”

“I mean,
we
. Jon Harmon has connections, and I'm sure my parents . . .” I stare out the car window, at the sky bruised purple by the setting sun.

“Yeah?” prompts Tim.

“You know what doesn't make sense? If Keep Corp hired people to kill her, how'd she end up in that fancy retirement home?” I say.

“Maybe they had second thoughts? Developed a conscience?”

“For some reason I doubt it.”

“Same here,” he says.

“I hope this stuff isn't messing up your internship for you.”

“I'm actually not surprised there's something shady going on. I majored in medical technology because I'm into tech, and I want to help people. But at Keep Corp, it's so easy to forget the helping people part. Everything is about business and the bottom line.”

“Have you thought about working at a med-tech hospital instead?”

“I interned at a hospital last summer and honestly, it wasn't that different.” Tim sighs. “Not that I'm complaining when we should be figuring out what happens next. So what happens next?”

“I'll talk to my parents and Jon tonight.”

“Then I'll talk to my friends in the key department tomorrow.”

“And maybe . . .” I don't finish my sentence. Because what I was going to say was that Wendy might have some helpful ideas, too.

Tim parks in front of my house—windows dark, no one home—and we swivel subtly in our seats, searching for black SUVs and silver sedans. There's nothing noticeably suspicious, but I wonder if this fact is suspicious in itself.

“Maybe I better stay till your dad gets back,” says Tim.

“You think? You don't have to.”

“Do you not want me to?”

“I want you to. If you want to.”

We go inside and turn on every lamp downstairs, blaze the rooms up in light, banishing darkness and shadow, banishing a few of my worries, a little of my fear, though I still wonder where my father is and what he's doing, whether he's all right, whether they are
all
all right.

“Do you have anything to eat?” asks Tim.

“Really? You're hungry?” I say, but I lead him into the kitchen and we make ice cream sundaes with chocolate sauce and whipped cream fizzed from the can. I dig out the ancient jar of maraschino cherries from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. I know they're Tim's favorite.

“Lora,” he says. “About what happened the other day. In the parking garage.”

“What?” I almost drop the jar of cherries. “I mean, I'm sorry.”

“No,
I'm
sorry. You're with Raul. I shouldn't have presumed.”

“You don't have to apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Good.” He takes the jar from me. “These are my favorite.”

I blurt it out before I think it out: “Anyway, I broke up with Raul.”

“You did?” He sets the cherries on the countertop.

“Yeah, so what's the deal with you and Becky?” I ask.

“Becky? We—we're just friends.” Tim seems suddenly confused, as if he can't recall how he got here: into this house, into this kitchen, into this conversation; and I'm embarrassed, so
embarrassed, about my blurting and my asking. I turn away from him, but before I am completely away he catches my wrist and spins me back around.

Then he kisses me.

It's not the fever of mashing mouths that was two days ago, but something less desperate, more tender. Neither is it the tentative touch of lips that was two years ago, but something more honest. Though we briefly part to smile, and briefly part so he can whisper that my hair smells good, and I can whisper that he has the nicest mouth, our bodies are always resting together, our fingers always entwined.

For a long time we stay like this, and only separate when we remember our melting ice cream. But once separated, I'm immediately uncomfortable. I'm thinking about just-friends Becky.

“Is something wrong?” asks Tim.

And I can no longer ignore what I've been conveniently ignoring: even if Tim was the reason I ended things with Raul, Raul was not the only reason keeping me from Tim. “We shouldn't . . . That was a mistake,” I say.

“Because of what happened before?”

I wish I could say no. I say yes.

“You don't trust me,” he says.

“No, I trust you,” I say, and I do. I do believe him when he tells me there's nothing between him and Becky. But it's not enough.

“Then what's the problem?” He's upset. Of course he's
upset. Because this is how it works, this cycle of hurt and anger, our cycle of hurt and anger. And the only way I can think of stopping it is by telling him the humiliating truth. So I do.

“The problem is I don't trust myself,” I say.

For I now understand that what happened before wasn't only his fault: I had been the one to carefully keep his careless rejection, I had been the one to let it sink me down for far too long. And I'm afraid it will happen again. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise. I tell him this, all of this.

Then I wait for Tim to smirk or thunder or inform me I'm overreacting. But he says, “I think I get it,” and his face is serious but not angry. His voice is regretful but not hurt.

“Yeah?” I say.

“As long as we can still be friends—we can, right?”

“If your allergies don't interfere.”

“Very funny.”

Then we eat our melted ice cream and joke about what good friends—no,
great
friends—we'll be. “We should probably have a secret handshake,” he says.

“And a password.”

“And a special code.”

“And a coordinated dance routine.”

He groans. “You mean an uncoordinated dance routine.”

We smile at each other and I know this is the sensible thing. Still, if I'm going to be totally, absolutely, and completely honest, I have to admit the sensible thing pretty much sucks.

Tim and I are watching TV when my father gets home. He comes into the den to sit with us, still wearing his T-shirt and gym shorts, but now his white socks are sagging around his ankles. He looks exhausted.

“Is everything okay?” I leap up from the couch.

“Yes, everything's fine.” Dad flops into his armchair.

“Good,” I say, and sit slowly back down.

“How are you, Timothy? Haven't seen you in a while.”

“Except for at the graduation party, Mr. Mint.”

“Ah, that's right. That was a nice party, wasn't it?” My father removes his glasses, rubs his eyes, then puts his glasses back on, crookedly.

“It was, but, um, I should probably go now. I have work early tomorrow.” Tim stands up and says good-bye, good night, and thanks for the ice cream.

I walk him to the door to see him safely to his car.

“Sorry that was uncomfortable,” he says. “I had to get out before I congratulated your dad on the fact his wife is alive. Would that have been inappropriate? You think they make greeting cards for this kind of occasion?”

“If they don't, they should,” I say.

We linger awkwardly on the front step, as if we don't know how to say good-bye to each other, though we've said good-bye to each other a thousand times before, but now it seems that we've both forgotten how to do this simplest thing.

Then, simultaneously, we remember: secret handshake.

When I come back into the den, the television is still on but my father is asleep in his chair. I turn off the TV and he jerks awake. I apologize.

“What? I wasn't sleeping,” he sputters.

“Sure, Dad.”

“Really!”

“Okay. But we need to talk.” I tell him about our meeting with Carlos Cruz, and the possibility of getting some definite proof of Keep Corp's crimes.

My father looks bewildered. I had hoped he would have overcome his bewilderment by now, but apparently he has not. “Who is this guy? How do we know we can trust him?” he says.