Sheryl Nantus - Battle Scars

We surveyed the pack in front of the church. Lunch had been served not too long ago and cellophane wrappers blew by our feet as the kids munched on prepackaged hard cookies.

“Don’t see them here.” Bran studied the faces around us. “Damn they’re young,” he whispered.

“So were we.” An unfamiliar voice came from behind us.

I spun around to see a woman smiling at Bran who stood there with his mouth open, catching flies.

She was in her mid-twenties and tall, close to six feet with long blond hair trailing down past her waist in a ponytail. The light gray T-shirt with a giant black spot in the center hugged her form tight enough for me to see she wasn’t wearing a bra—and she should have been.

“Been a long time.” She flung her arms around him in a deep bear hug that would have squeezed the stuffing out of lesser men. Her hands rubbed up and down his back before resting on his hips, pulling him so close I wondered if Bran would be facing a paternity suit within the year.

This wasn’t a friendly glad-to-see-you-old-friend hug.

This was a bloody sexual assault.

My lips curled away from my teeth. I stepped forward and lifted one hand, ready to grab this bitch by the scruff of her neck and toss her into the street where, God willing, she’d be hit by a truck.

A movement to the side caught my eye, disrupting my homicidal thoughts.

A young woman, somewhere between eighteen and a hundred, stood nearly hidden in the shadows of a nearby doorway. She nibbled on a cheese sandwich, watching me. The fading black eye reminded me the woman wrapped around Bran, despite her good taste in men and her apparent death wish, was helping these kids survive.

I stopped still and waited.

“Angie,” Bran replied, either not seeing or ignoring my reaction. “My god, how are you?”

The tall woman laughed. “Fine, fine.” She waved a hand at the scattered kids. “Working on the other side of the fence now. And you?”

“Still writing.” He hadn’t let go of her waist.

Her hands stayed on his shoulders, fingers kneading the strong, stiff muscles.

The tea curdled in my belly.

Bran stepped back a safe distance. “Rebecca, this is Angie. Angie Degas.” He gave a soft chuckle and turned back to her. “You look exactly like you did the last time I saw you.”

“Something every woman wants to hear. Pleased to meet you.”

She hadn’t even looked at me. Her hands moved down off Bran’s shoulder with his retreat, now brushing the front of his shirt with her fingertips.

“Angie here used to be one of the group I worked with and wrote about.” There was something in Bran’s voice, something I couldn’t place. “You were gone when I came back. You all were.”

Her hands dropped to her side, releasing him. “The gang, we saw that article—it was all over the streets. The television crews came out looking for us, people wanted to talk to us and we just...” She wriggled her fingers in the air. “We just split. Broke up and went away.”

A shadow crossed Bran’s face. “You heard about DJ?”

Angie swallowed hard. “Yeah. That was crazy. They should have known better than to buy from Elvis, he never sold straight.” She shook her head. “Everyone was pissed. Shouldn’t have happened.”

“Should have stopped them.” The steel in Bran’s voice made me flinch.

Angie didn’t buckle. “You know it was impossible to stop those two once they got on a binge. They disappeared, they came back. We all did. You remember.”

“Yeah, I do.” Bran tilted his head to one side. “Where did you go?”

“Don’t ask.” A shadow crossed her features, vanishing a second later. “I might have to go there again if this deal goes south.” Angie took a step back and turned toward me. “So what brings you downtown?”

I took the initiative. “We’re looking for two kids. Hit the streets in the last day or so.”

“Yours?” Her attention went back to Bran. The single word held a bookful of questions.

“No.” He moved to stand beside me. “Pair of lovebirds ran away together. Parents want them home, you know the routine.”

“I’m familiar with that tune.” She nodded toward the thinning group of young men and women. “Romeo and Juliet. Never goes out of style. You got some pictures?”

I pulled out the two photographs.

Angie studied them for a long minute, her forehead furrowed in thought. Finally she shook her head.

“Can’t say they’re familiar. Of course we’re getting more in every day with the economy crashing and burning...” She waved toward the teenagers already wandering off as the food disappeared. “They might not have even made it here or gotten the word we exist yet. There’s other outreach programs they could have tripped into.”

“How many times a day do you distribute?” I asked.

“Only once, lunch from eleven until eleven-thirty. We do a clothing exchange from four until five and a street van cruises around with first aid supplies overnight from midnight until three. Front door stays open all day for a drop-in center for free counseling and temporary shelter from bad weather but we don’t let them hang out. They come in and go before we end up with a mob scene. Plenty of gangs looking to score new members or expand their territory. I don’t let them get a foothold.” Angie sighed. “We used to run twenty-four hours a day but across the board government grants have been cut back and we had to do the same. A month ago we started hustling for food donations from the local restaurants with the promise that the kids won’t hang out in front of them and beg off their customers.”

“Extortion,” I said.

She glared at me. “Efficient use of resources. Do you know how much food goes to waste because of silly regulations preventing it from being resold?”

“Tell me.” I suddenly realized I’d stepped closer to the tall woman, almost hitting the edge of her running shoes with my own.

Her eyes narrowed. I spotted the steel under the silk, the hardness from living on the streets simmering under the surface. This wasn’t some kid playing at being a street tough. This was a woman who, if she’d been born Felis, would be brawling her way to the top of any Pride she belonged to.

Her thin nostrils flared, drawing more oxygen in. I imagined her pulse accelerating, the blood pounding in her ears as she prepared to fight.

“Angie,” Bran interrupted, “where’s the hot spots to crash at night? Don Heights still good?”

He touched the small of my back, pinching my jacket, and tugged me back an inch, just enough to break the connection.

She turned her attention back to him with a wide smile, dropping her battle stance. “Still the best place to be. Remember how we used to sleep in the trees at night?” The hopeful lilt in her voice sent my blood pressure soaring.

“My back remembers,” he replied with a laugh. “Maybe we’ll head on over there when it gets dark and see what we can find. The Commons still good?”

She paused and chewed on her lower lip before answering. “Controlled now by the Bloor Street Boys. But it’s still safe during daylight hours if you’re looking for a place to crash.”

He pulled out one of his business cards and handed it to her. “Call us if you see either one of them. Still underage and parents want them home. You know the story.”

Angie giggled before stuffing the card into a front pocket. “You got it. Show me the pics one more time.”

I handed copies over. “Keep them. Feel free to pass them around, see if anyone’s seen them on their travels.”

She scrutinized them for a few seconds more before adding them to Bran’s card. “I’ll call if they show up here or at the overnight shelter down at the church.” One hand gestured down the street. “St. Mary’s opens a few beds every night down at Church and King. Not too many spots and it fills fast but you never know.” She smiled at Bran. “Hot summer nights are great to sleep out under the stars. Remember?”