Michael Grant - Lies

She thought of a place and, like tapping a button on the remote control, suddenly she was there.

The day care.

The beach.

Clifftop-but not Lana’s room. The word was out that the Healer was extremely cranky since she’d been practically sucked into the gaiaphage. And no one in her right mind wanted to piss off the Healer.

Finally, it occurred to Taylor where Sam might go to crash on a couch if he was fighting with Astrid.

Quinn was awake, getting dressed in the dark. He seemed strangely unperturbed by Taylor popping in.

“He’s here,” Quinn said without preamble. “The bedroom at the top of the stairs.”

“You’re up early,” Taylor said.

“Four a.m. Fishing is a job for early risers. Which I am. Now.”

“Well, good luck. Get a tuna or something.”

“Hey, you talking to Sam? Is this some kind of life-and-death emergency? I need to know if I’m going to get killed on my way down to the marina,” Quinn said.

“No.” Taylor waved a dismissive hand. “Not life and death. More like death and life.”

She bounced to the top of the stairs and then, with unusual consideration, knocked on the door.

No answer.

“Oh, well.”

She bounced. Sam, asleep, tangled in a mess of sheets and blankets, facedown in a pillow like he was trying to dig his way through the bed and escape the room.

She grabbed an exposed heel and shook his leg.

“Unh?”

He rolled over fast, hand raised, palm out, ready for trouble.

Taylor was not too worried. She’d done this many times before. At least half the time Sam woke up ready to fire.

“Chill, big boy,” Taylor said.

Sam sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, trying to banish sleep. Definitely nice chest and shoulders. And arms. A little skinnier than he used to be, and not as tan as he’d been back when he was a serious beach rat.

But, oh yeah, Taylor thought: he’d do.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“Oh, nothing too big,” Taylor said. She examined her nails, having fun with the moment. “I was just out spreading the word. You know, talking to kids who were heading out to see Orsay. It’s all way nocturnal, you know?”

“And?”

“Oh, a little something came up that I thought might be more important than trashing Orsay for Astrid.”

“You mind just telling me what’s going on?” Sam grated.

So much, Sam, Taylor thought. Sooo much. But there was no point complicating things by recounting some crazy kid’s story about Drake. It could only distract from the excellence of her main piece of news.

“Remember Brittney?”

His head snapped up. “What about her?”

“She’s sitting in Howard and Orc’s living room.”

THIRTEEN

45 HOURS, 16 MINUTES

ORC HAD ENDEDup crushing every couch or bed Howard had ever found for him. Not immediately, not as soon as he sat down, but within a few days.

That had never stopped Howard. He just kept on trying. The current arrangement was more bed than couch or chair. Three king-size mattresses piled one atop the other and pushed into a corner so that Orc could sit up if he chose by leaning against the walls. A plastic tarp went over the top of the mattress pile. Orc liked to drink. And sometimes when Orc had enough to drink, he might wet the bed. Sometimes he vomited all over it. And then Howard would gather the corners of the tarp and drag it into the backyard to join the pile of similar fouled sheets, broken furniture, puke-reeking mattress pads, and so on that covered most of the yard.

No one had any real idea how much Orc weighed, but he was not light, that was for sure. But not fat, either.

Orc had suffered one of the strangest and most disturbing of mutations. He’d been attacked and very badly hurt by coyotes. Very badly. Large portions of him had been eaten by the ravenous wild beasts.

But he had not died. The torn, mangled, massacred portions of his body had been replaced by a substance that looked like damp gravel. It made a soft slurry sound when he moved.

All that was left of Orc’s own skin was a patch around his mouth and one cheek. It seemed unbearably delicate to Howard. Howard could see it, pink flesh turned putty-colored in the unnatural green light.

Orc was awake but just barely. And only because Howard had lied to him and told him he was out of booze.

Orc watched balefully from his perch in the corner as the girl sat in the chair Howard had dragged in from the kitchen.

“You want some water?” Howard asked her.

“Yes, please,” the girl said.

Howard, hands shaking, filled a glass from the gallon jug. He handed it to her. She took it with both dirt-caked hands and raised it to her puffy lips.

She drank it all.

Normal. Perfectly normal except for the fact that there was absolutely nothing normal about this.

“You want more?” Howard asked her.

Brittney handed the glass back. “No, thank you.”

Howard steadied his breath and shaking fingers and took it. Almost dropped it. Set it down and then it did topple off the edge of the table. It didn’t smash, it bounced on the wood, but the sound seemed very loud, anyway. Howard flinched.

The knock at the door was comforting by contrast.

“Thank God,” Howard muttered, and ran to answer it.

Sam, with Taylor. Sam looking grim. Well, that was normal enough. Poor Sammy had lost some of his happy-go-lucky surfer boy sparkle.

“Howard,” Sam said in that voice he used when he was trying to hide his contempt.

But there was more going on with Sam. Even shaking with fear, Howard saw it. Something strange about the way he was reacting.

“Hey, thanks for stopping by,” Howard said. “I’d offer you some tea and cookies, but all we have is boiled mole and artichokes. Plus, we kind of have a dead girl in the living room.”

“A dead girl?” Sam said, and there it was again. The wrong reaction. Sam was too calm and too grim.

Of course Taylor had told him. Duh. Of course. That’s why Sam wasn’t surprised. Except there was something still off about Sam’s reaction. Howard had maintained his position by being able to read people pretty well. He’d kept on Orc’s good side for a long time, and managed, despite everything, to wrangle a place on the town council. Despite the fact that Sam surely suspected Howard was the one selling most of the illegal substances in Perdido Beach.

Sam stood there looking at Brittney. Who looked right back at him. Like maybe Sam was a teacher getting ready to ask her a question.

Brittney, can you explain the significance of the Missouri Compromise?

No? Well, then, young lady, you need to go back and reread the assignment.

Oh, and by the way: why are you not dead?

“Hello, Brittney,” Sam said.

“Hi, Sam,” Brittney said.

There was mud even in her braces, Howard noticed. Washed out only a little by the water. He could see a tiny piece of gravel wedged between chrome wires next to Brittney’s left canine.

Weird thing to notice, Howard thought.

Yeah, that’s what’s weird. Not that she’s sitting here chatting.

“How did you get here?” Sam asked.

Brittney shrugged. “I guess I walked. I don’t remember.”

Orc spoke for the first time in his low grumble. “She was standing on the porch when I stepped out to take a whiz.”

Sam glanced at Howard, who nodded.

“Do you know where you are?” Sam asked her.

“Sure. I’m…,” Brittney began. She frowned. Then the frown line disappeared. “I’m here.”

“You know all of us?”

She nodded slowly. “Sam. Howard. Taylor. Orc. Tanner.”

“Tanner?” Taylor blurted.

That rocked Sam back on his heels. Howard was perplexed.