Part 14 (1/2)

I need to go, Brandon wrote. You've been very kind to me, but I can't stay here.

”What?” Rene said, frowning. ”Why not?”

They're looking for me, Brandon said. They'll be angry when they find me. He closed his eyes momentarily as Caine's words echoed in his mind. We followed your scent, little brother. The stink of your weakness clings to you-pathetic and unmistakable.

He thought of Lina's horrified reaction to Caine's transformation from man into monster, how she'd screamed to see his eyes blacken over, his jaw snap loose of its moorings, his teeth fully extended.

His teeth... Brandon felt his heart suddenly shudder, and his breath stilled. Oh, Christ, he thought, remembering what he'd forgotten-for far too long, he'd forgotten it now. My pills. Holy s.h.i.+t, my pills are at Jackson's apartment.

He glanced at Rene and then quickly wrote again, I need to go.

What do you mean, you got the prescription for him? Lina typed to Jackson. She'd returned to his apartment under the pretense of informing him about the ”break-in,” and Sun Ying, the landlady, had only been too happy to let her inside. What the h.e.l.l is that stuff, Jackie, and why does Brandon need it?

She had gone to the bus station and airport already, showing as many attendants and ticket agents as she could find both the photograph of Brandon she'd found in his bag, and her police badge, if only to further prompt their memories. n.o.body had recalled seeing a young man even remotely resembling Brandon. She'd gone back and forth between the two sites periodically, quizzing the same employees over and over again, hoping she was somehow simply crossing paths with Brandon, missing him along the way, but still no luck. He hadn't been to the bus depot or the airport. She'd even called the company who had towed his car, but the Audi remained present and accounted for-and as yet, not paid for-in their impound lot.

Where could he be? she thought, desperate with worry. She'd gone back to the Bluebell Inn and tried to retrace his steps from there, walking to neighboring businesses and stores, showing his picture, asking if anyone recognized him. It was as if Brandon had stepped out their motel room door and simply vanished off the face of the earth. That his family might have found him, intercepted him somehow, was a horrifying yet all-too-real possibility-one that Lina refused to consider for too long.

If they have, I will kick Jude's a.s.s, she thought. He won't walk without a G.o.dd.a.m.n limp ever again-I swear to G.o.d.

She hadn't told Jackie any of this, much less that Brandon was gone and his apartment had been trashed. She'd only said she'd discovered the pills in Brandon's knapsack and wanted to know what was going on. She didn't know what else to do, what other course to follow. She had nothing to go on-absolutely nothing, except for those pills. She hoped like h.e.l.l she might be able to squeeze an answer out there somehow.

I'm trying to help him, Jackson typed back. It's an antidepressant, Lina, and I got the prescription for him because Christ knows he needs it, living at that place, that G.o.dforsaken farm. You don't know his family, what it's like for him there.

”Oh, I'm starting to get a really good idea, Jackie,” Lina muttered under her breath.

I had the Rx written in my name, Jackie said. Sent to the farm once a month. Brandon always picks up the mail, so I knew he'd get it. But I also knew if it was in my name, they'd think it was an outdated delivery if someone else intercepted it first, something from when I used, to live there.

Lina pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, thinking. It didn't make sense. Brandon had been nearly frantic to take those pills. She had a suspicion that part of the reason he'd tried to run away from Joe's Wok on Friday-and why he'd kissed her on such an impa.s.sioned impulse-was because he'd either forgotten or been delayed in taking them. He'd brought the pills with him ever since, and had made it a point to take them, even if it meant doing so in front of her, and risking her notice. He'd lied to her about what they were for. Why, Brandon? What are you trying to hide?

Jackie, he said something to me about having broken his hands, she typed. Do you know about that?

She couldn't imagine that he wouldn't; with something that devastating and potentially crippling to Brandon, surely word would have reached Jackson somehow, if not at the time of the occurrence, then certainly in the aftermath.

WHAT? Jackson typed, all caps to emphasize his surprise. For a moment, that remained stark and startled on the screen, and then he continued, his words flying. What are you talking about, broke his hands? Jesus Christ, when was this? How did he break his hands? Both of them, Lina-hands, not hand? Jesus Christ, did that son of a b.i.t.c.h Augustus n.o.ble do something to him? Did he- Jackie, I don't know, she typed quickly, cutting him off. I don't know what happened. His hands are fine now, and he mentioned it in pa.s.sing, like it was no big deal. I caught him taking those pills-the ones you got for him-and he told me they were painkillers, something for his hands. He must have been lying.

But somehow, she knew that wasn't true. My grandfather broke my hands when he found out I'd applied to Gallaudet, he'd told her, and Lina understood that if she told this to her brother, it would more than break Jackson's heart. It would see him on the first plane out of Florida for Kentucky, where he would promptly introduce Augustus n.o.ble head-first to his own a.s.s.

Brandon doesn't lie, Jackson wrote. He was upset, nearly distraught by her revelation. She didn't need to see his face, or hear any vocal inflections to understand this plainly. Jackson loved Brandon. He still suffered a tremendous amount of personal guilt over having left the boy alone in Kentucky, as if his dismissal had been of his own choosing, and he'd abandoned Brandon somehow.

Jackie, he's fine, Lina typed, wanting to rea.s.sure him. His hands are fine. Whatever happened, it's over now and behind him.

That wasn't true, either, and she knew it. She thought about his brother Caine, speared to the wall, the length of a katana shoved through his gut, as he'd thrashed and screamed at them.There's no corner of this earth, no measure of time that can hide you! We'll find you! We'll come for you! We'll never stop coming for you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

She knew that however Brandon's hands had been injured, it would be nothing compared to what would happen to him if his family found him again. G.o.d help him, she thought. It's far from over.

Jackie, I need to go, she typed. She didn't know what she would do next, but every moment she wasted being idle was another in which Brandon could be in terrible danger. I'll call you later, OK? Give Mom a kiss.

She locked the padlocks back into place over the plywood at Jackson's doorway and took the stairs down to the main floor.

She could have used Jackson's computer to access the Internet instead of going all of the way back home, but the idea of being alone in the apartment after nightfall was definitely unsettling to her. It was dark outside, and the clouds that had hung low in the sky, spilling rain upon the city for the better part of the day had at last thinned out, allowing the bright sphere of the moon to s.h.i.+ne. She glanced at her watch as she walked out the front doors of Jackson's apartment building. It was a quarter after eight.

Brandon was hiding something from her, and it had to do with those pills, the Wellbutrin, Jackson sent to him. Lina felt sure of it.

But what? she wondered. She figured that yes, Brandon probably was d.a.m.n-near clinically depressed, given what she'd seen and learned of his family, but she didn't think that was the reason he took the medicine. She wanted to search online, to find out what else Wellbutrin was used for; what else it could do. I have a feeling Brandon is using it to control something, she thought, thinking of his kiss outside the Chinese restaurant, of the wondrous, immense pa.s.sion in his mouth. And I'm willing to bet it's not depression.

”Excuse me?”

Lina looked up, stumbling to a halt inches before plowing headlong into a young woman. The girl had dark hair and alabaster skin, with large, hesitant eyes and a slight, waiflike frame. ”Excuse me,” she said again. ”Do you know what time it is?”

Lina glanced at her watch again. ”Uh, yeah. It's eight-seventeen.”

The young woman smiled, her thin mouth unfurling slightly, politely. ”Thank you.”

”No problem.” Lina brushed past her, walking again, scanning the street for a cab. Caine n.o.ble's threats specifically to her were still fresh in her mind...

I will bleed you dry.

... and she didn't particularly feel like hoofing it back to her apartment, being vulnerable and open out on the street as she was.

”Excuse me?” the young woman called after her, and Lina turned.

The girl had a sc.r.a.p of paper in her hands, and she squinted to read it by the glow of a nearby streetlight. ”Can you tell me where I might find twelve twenty-three Oakton?”

”Sure,” Lina said. ”That's it right there.” She pointed to Jackson's apartment building.

The girl glanced over her shoulder and then back at Lina, hunching her shoulders and smiling somewhat sheepishly. Her dark hair was cropped evenly with her chin, her bangs worn bluntly cut across her brow to lend her face a heart shape. She wore a lightweight pea coat hemmed at mid-thigh, with a plaid skirt beneath that was short enough to show off her strong but slender legs, long like a ballerina's. She wore a pair of wedge-heeled boots that, at least to Lina's observation, sure as h.e.l.l weren't made for walking. She wasn't the least bit surprised to see the girl fidgeting from one foot to the other, as if her feet ached her.

Welcome to the big city, she thought.

”Oh,” the girl said. ”Oh, uh, thank you again.””You're welcome again,” Lina said, and as a cab approached, she darted for the curb, her hand outstretched. ”Hey!” she shouted, and the taxi slowed, pulling over for her. That's how you get around here, sweetheart, she thought, ducking in and closing the door behind her as the cab drove off.

Brandon wished like h.e.l.l he'd taken a cab to Jackson's apartment building instead of accepting Rene's offer of a lift. Brandon hadn't told Rene why he wanted to go, only that he needed to, and Rene had been more than happy to oblige. He'd led Brandon from the loft, at last showing him where a heavy steel door opened out onto a steep stairwell hidden in a distant corner. They rode a freight elevator down together. Brandon counted at least a dozen floors pa.s.sing them en route, and he'd turned to Rene, bewildered. What is this place? he'd written.

Rene had laughed as the elevator rumbled to a stop. ”It's home, pet.i.t,” he'd said, leaning over and raising the metal grate of the elevator door. He stepped aside to let Brandon exit first. ”Home, sweet home.”

He'd brought Brandon to an underground garage where he kept a colorful a.s.sortment of new and vintage sportscars and roadsters. He fished a set of keys out of his pocket and thumbed off the alarm on a low-slung, sleek, silver Mercedes SLK 280.

”Hop in,” he said to Brandon, grinning broadly.

By that point, Rene had polished off the better part of a fifth of vodka, and Brandon hesitated. Granted, in all likelihood, Rene's metabolism was as accelerated as Brandon's, and the effects of the alcohol would be short lived. Still, he felt uncertain. Should you be driving? he wrote.

Rene had only laughed, but apparently should and could were mutually exclusive terms in his vocabulary. Brandon wrapped his hand around the door handle and clung so tightly, his knuckles blanched. It hurt his arm, and sent stabbing pain through his right side, but he didn't have much choice. He couldn't hear the engine scream as Rene launched the car from the garage, up and out onto the city streets, but he could feel it thrumming around and within him, a deep and penetrating vibration that shuddered through his seat. Rene had dropped the convertible top, despite the chilly night air, and Brandon's hair whipped about his face in the wind.

”Some fun, eh, pet.i.t?” Rene asked, as they came to a stop at a light. He turned to Brandon, his blond hair windswept and disheveled, his mouth stretched in a broad, delighted grin.

Where the f.u.c.k did you learn to drive? Brandon wrote, his hand shaking.