Devon Monk - Magic to the Bone

These long legs of mine can do a lot with six seconds. Instead of turning and running—a great way to get shot in the back—I dodged past her and ducked into an alley, found a side door of a building open, and ran into the fluorescence of what looked and smelled like a print shop. I thought about grabbing a bottle of toner to rub over myself so I could throw her off my smell, but that kind of trick wouldn’t fool a good Hound.

I didn’t know how hard those pain pills had rattled her brain, or how good a Hound Bonnie still was, and I had no desire to find out.

I looked through the windows at the street, didn’t see Bonnie, and figured she was halfway down the alley by now. I needed to get somewhere, anywhere, fast.

I pushed through the door and stepped into the flow of foot traffic. With a silent apology to Nola, I dumped my neon pink-and-green backpack in a trash can, moved my leather book and my cash from my coat pocket to my jeans pocket, and threw my coat into the first doorway to my left. I crossed the street, ran down a few side roads and jogged through a collection of shops, including a drugstore, candy store, and knitting shop.

How had my life suddenly gotten so complicated, and why hadn’t I just taken up knitting as a hobby?

I caught a glimpse of short-and-blonde—she’d taken off her ski cap, probably to use it to wipe the blood off her nose. She was on the corner a block away. I ducked into the next shop—stationery and cards.

I hurried over to the older man behind the counter. I was wet enough that my shoes squished water when I walked. Must have hit some puddles on my run over here.

“Could you call me a cab?” I asked with all the pretty-please I could manage.

He gave me a considering look over his bifocals, and I realized I was a mess. His eyes strayed to the newspaper on the countertop, then back to me. He pulled a phone out from somewhere behind him—I was a little iffy on the details because I was keeping my eyes on the street beyond the windows.

“Sure you don’t want me to call the police?” he asked.

Just then a black-and-white cab pulled up and stopped at the light.

“Yes. No. I got it—there’s a cab. Thanks.”

I ran out of the store and ducked into the backseat of the taxi.

The cabbie was a heavy man with bloodshot brown eyes and a knitted hat with a red pom-pom on top. “What’s your hurry, miss?”

“Just trying to stay out of the rain,” I said, a little out of breath.

“Doesn’t look like you’re doing a very good job of it.” He pulled out into traffic. “Don’t you own a coat, young lady?”

“Forgot it at home,” I said. “It’s been a day of disappointments.”

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”

“What? Oh.” I had no idea. Where should I go? I had no safe harbor in this town. “Do you go outside city limits?”

“I do if you show me your two hundred dollars in cash.”

“Right.” I only had about fifty left on me. I so should have pulled all my money out while I had the chance. Something to remember the next time I was being chased by a crazy gun-toting tackle-back sore-loser drug-sucking cheerleader. I rubbed at my eyes.

“Okay, how much to get me to St. John’s?”

“Fifteen bucks should get you there.”

“Best offer I’ve had all day.” I leaned back and watched the city go by. I tried not to think too much but my mind kept returning to my dad’s death. Every time it did I went sort of numb and random bits of conversations and fragments of my childhood drifted through my thoughts. I tried to think of happy times we had together, and honestly couldn’t drag even one image forward. Even the pancake breakfast hadn’t turned out well.

He had always been a distant, foreboding figure in my life, and when he loomed near he was the voice of judgment, of disapproval. A figure of authority and fear. The only time I saw him smile was when he was trying to get someone to do something his way. And, of course, people always did.

Except me. I’d done anything I could to not follow his wishes. And now, here I was, running for my life, cold and miserable and hoping I could beg one more day of refuge on the worst side of town. I’d done a bang-up job of making a success of myself, hadn’t I?

Maybe I should have gone back and been a part of his company like he said. Maybe I could have been a better daughter. I pushed those thoughts away. It wouldn’t have changed what happened today. Nothing I could have done would have changed it.

Or at least that’s what I tried to tell myself.

The taxi came to a smooth stop.

“Here it is, miss. As far as I go.”

Seemed like I’d been hearing that a lot lately. I unlocked my arms from over my chest. I was wet. Cold. Wearing nothing but a thin sweater and jeans. What had I been thinking, throwing away my coat? Sure it would make it a little harder for Bonnie to spot me in a crowd, but if she tripped over me because I passed out from pneumonia, it was going to be a dead giveaway.

I dug in my pocket for cash, found a twenty. I knew I was overpaying him, but didn’t want to take the time to ask for change.

“Thanks.”

The driver took my money without ever looking away from the rearview mirror. “You gonna be okay?”

I nodded. “Got family down here. I’m good,” I lied. I got out of the car, and into the rain. The taxi was already driving away by the time I’d taken two steps.

I wasn’t kidding about the pneumonia thing. I felt all shaky and cold inside, and my head was stuffed and numb. Maybe I really was getting sick.

Maybe I grieved a death in the family by going catatonic. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

North Portland is no place to wander around while confused or injured. Why then, I wondered, had I been making a point of doing just that?

Because I had no one in my life I could trust. And the one sure thing—the hate-hate relationship between my father and me—was gone now too. I wanted to run from town and curl up in front of Nola’s fireplace so bad, it hurt. Instead, I kept my ears and nose open, and headed toward Mama’s place. She had a phone. I could call Nola. Call the police. And if not that, at least Mama had a gun.

A man strolled out from under the overhang of a half-plaster, half-brick bar, and made good time crossing the distance to me. The heavy odor of pine wafted through the rain. Zayvion.

He fell into step beside me, and I didn’t even look over at him. I didn’t know how he knew to find me, or that I’d be here right now, but I was glad.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I sniffed. “About what?”

“Your father.”

Silence.

“Allie, I don’t think it’s safe for you in the city right now. Do you have somewhere else you can be for a while?”

I stopped, turned to look at him. “You don’t think it’s safe? What do you know, Zayvion Jones? What do you know about my father, what do you know about me, what do you know about that bitch who’s trying to kill me?”

He tipped his head a little to the side. “Which bitch?”

“A whacked-out Hound named Bonnie who thinks it’s fun to mess with people who have just had family members die on them.” I was angry, frustrated. I wanted to scream. Wanted to hit someone. I wanted to cry. And if Zayvion knew stuff I didn’t—if he had an idea how my father died, or why Bonnie wanted me, I needed to know.

He shrugged off his coat—a dark blue ski-appropriate thing with ratty edges and cuffs—and held it out for me. “Why don’t we start by getting you warm.”

“I’d rather have answers.”

“Mmm.” He walked around behind me and I slid my arms into the coat while he held it for me. “You can have both.”