MORTAL COILS (16 page)

“Run,”
Eliot whispered. “We can make it. We’re almost home.”

They
had less than half a block to get to the apartment building. They could slam
the steel security door in that thing’s face.

Fiona
nodded and they broke into a sprint.

The
dog scrambled to find purchase on the concrete and ran after them.

It
was faster than Eliot thought it would be, closing the distance like a
greyhound. As it crossed from light to shadow, it seemed to flicker, brown fur
blending in perfectly with the dark as if it vanished and then reappeared.

Eliot
stumbled and landed on one knee, scraping his skin. The knee exploded with
pain. The rest of his leg went numb.

Fiona
grabbed him and, without pausing, pulled him to his feet.

The
dog was forty feet behind them. It would be impossible to outrun it now.

“Go,”
he told Fiona. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“No
way.”

The
dog accelerated, growling as it sensed the end of its chase—and its prize.

But
then it skidded on the concrete, claws screeching and scrabbling for purchase,
and came to a halt.

The
dog sniffed the air, bobbing its massive head about.

“Shoo!”
Fiona shouted.

It
glared at her, eyes flashing red as they caught and reflected the light.

Eliot
couldn’t believe his sister had the nerve to do that. But if she could, then so
could he.

“Go
home!” Eliot yelled.

The
dog stared at him, too—seeming to stare through Eliot—but then it blinked,
woofed once, and quickly turned and trotted away.

Eliot
watched it go and exhaled, not believing it had given up so easily. Relief
flooded through his limbs. He and Fiona turned and he half walked, half limped
toward their building.

A
dozen steps and he could stand on his own. His knee hurt with each step, but it
was getting better.

Then
Eliot noticed an odd car parked in the shadow of the building. He hadn’t seen
it at first because it was midnight black. It was as big as a limousine—not
that Eliot had ever seen one for real—but it also had the low-slung, stylized
curves of a racing car. His eyes slid off its mirror finish. The motor purred,
idling.

The
tinted back window hummed and thunked closed.

Had
someone been watching them?

“Come
on,” Fiona told him, “let’s get inside.”

Eliot
realized that maybe he and Fiona hadn’t been the ones to halt the charging dog,
after all. Maybe the person inside that car had somehow stopped it.

And
for some reason, that worried him.

11

THE
SILVER UNCLE

The,
instant Fiona opened the door to the apartment, she forgot about Mike, the dog,
and the old man in the alley. Something was different in here.

When
Fiona was three years old, Cecilia had brought home a stack of magazines filled
with nearly identical side-by-side pictures and captions that read, Spot the
difference.

Eliot
could always find the missing elements, but Fiona had a talent for spotting
objects that had been altered—the stripes on a curtain that had changed to
spots, for example.

She
stood, staring, sensing something similarly “off” in the apartment.

Fiona
called out, “Cee?”

There
was no answer.

There
was no answer.

The
dining table had been cleared. The cake, tablecloth, banner, and books that had
been there this morning were gone. The surface, even the hardwood floors around
it, had recently been polished.

High
on the bookcase by the window, however, was a glob of birthday-cake icing. It
had dried there, no longer looking strawberry pink, instead now ruby red.

Odd
that Cee would miss something like that.

Fiona
carefully approached the offending particle and reached out to touch it.

Cee
entered from the kitchen, huffing with exertion as she carried a large
cardboard box.

“Oh,”
Cee said, blinking at them. “You’re home.”

“Let
me help you.” Eliot took the box from her and buckled, barely able to turn and
set it with a thud on the table. Inside were books.

“We’re
late,” Fiona admitted. “Sorry.”

They
were supposed to have been home at four thirty. It was five now. But Cee was so
distracted that she hadn’t even noticed their oil-soaked clothes.

Cecilia
glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway, then at the still open door.
“Oh, yes, of course, you’re late.” She moved to the door, closed and locked it,
then turned to them and clapped her hands together. “Your grandmother and I
have another surprise for you.” A smile fluttered to life on her thin lips.

“What’s
that?” Fiona asked.

“A
trip. We’re going away for a tiny bit.”

“Where?”
Eliot asked. “What about work?”

Cee’s
smile faltered. “Ah . . . where is a birthday surprise. You’ll enjoy this. And
we won’t be gone too long.” She left his question about work unanswered.

Fiona’s
feeling of something “changed” here sharpened. She concentrated as if this were
one of the old spot-the-difference pictures, and she realized it felt as if
something had been cut from the picture with surgical precision.

She
blinked and the feeling vanished . . . but she did see one thing that didn’t
fit: a cake crumb on the floor.

Cee
followed her gaze. “Oh, clumsy me.” She bent down and plucked it up. “Now, you
two go pack. You’ll need clothes for three days. And don’t forget your
toothbrushes.” She handed a paper grocery bag to each of them.

Fiona
unfolded hers. The bag would be her luggage.

“When
are we leaving?” Eliot asked.

“And
where’s Grandmother?” Fiona said.

“Soon,”
Cee told Eliot. “And your grandmother is just making a few final arrangements.”

“I’ve
got to take a shower,” Eliot muttered, and started toward the bathroom.

Fiona
gave her great-grandmother a glance, searching for answers, but Cee’s smile
brightened and deflected the stare. Fiona turned and caught up to her brother.

“Subtraction,”
Fiona told him.

Eliot
halted. “Even,” he said with a sigh.

“Okay,
one, two, three—”

“Seven,”
he said.

At
the same time Fiona blurted out, “Three.”

Eliot
smirked. The difference was four, an even number. He’d won. Humming, he entered
the bathroom. “I’ll make it quick,” he called back.

She
wondered if any hot water would be left.

From
the closet she grabbed their worst towel, so worn you could see through it, and
ran it through her oil-smeared hair, sponging out the worst of it.

Inside
her bedroom, Fiona closed the door and flipped on the single shaded lamp in the
corner. The one window in her room had been built over with bookcases. Usually
her books gave her a measure of comfort, but tonight they felt smothering. She
passed by her globe and gave it a spin.

Fiona
stripped off the apron and T-shirt, then removed her birthday dress. The pink
fabric peeled off her skin, clinging with a layer of semi-congealed grease. She
wiped it off with the towel.

A
mirror sat on her dresser and she caught a glimpse of herself. Her skin glowed.
Her hair, normally a mass of frizz, curled into ringlets around her face.

For
an instant, at this particular angle, she thought she looked normal—not a geek
supreme at all.

She
turned this way and that, fascinated at the way her hair looked. It was dark
and glossy like black ribbons, and set against her pale olive skin, her face
didn’t seem too long, either.

She
almost looked beautiful. Even for an instant in just the right light, was that
possible?

Before
she could decide, her hair fell into her face, ruining the look.

Fiona
changed into clean underwear and a new bra and slipped on gray sweatpants and
shirt.

She
carefully avoided looking into the mirror again. She wanted to remember the
moment when she had fooled herself into thinking she looked normal.

With
a deep sigh she gathered clothes and set them into her paper bag.

She
also grabbed the rubber band stretched over the dresser handle. She had
liberated this from a bundle of asparagus. The purple band looked good against
her skin. She had to be careful though; there was RULE 49 to remember.

   
RULE 49: No rings, earrings, chains, medallions, amulets, or any ornamentation
of metal, wood, bone, or likewise contemporary polymers classified as “jewelry”
(piercings are also similarly forbidden unless proscribed by a licensed
acupuncturist).

Sometimes
she took the rubber band to work and wore it like a bracelet, fully aware that
she was breaking a rule. It made her feel like a rebel, flaunting one of
Grandmother’s rules for the entire world to see.

Fiona
wrapped the band around a bundle of socks to secure them—just in case
Grandmother asked, she wouldn’t have to lie what it was for . . . just not tell
her the entire truth.

But
where were they going? Would she even have a chance to wear the rubber band?

Fiona
drifted to her antique globe. It was old with yellowed oceans and faded polar
ice caps. Alaska was called “Russian America,” Hawaii the “Sandwich Islands,”
and Texas was half-filled with stripes showing it as “disputed territory”
before it had officially joined the States in 1845.

She
loved her globe. Her fingers smoothed over its curve, hoping this surprise
birthday trip would take her far away. She brushed over Africa and landed in
southern Europe. So unlikely.

Cecilia
and Grandmother probably had a weekend trip to San Francisco in mind. Still, it
would be different from stale old Del Sombra.

She
needed her toothbrush, so she marched into the hall and saw that Eliot had
uncharacteristically vacated the bathroom in a timely fashion. A cloud of steam
roiled along the ceiling, leaving little hope there was hot water left. She
grabbed her toothbrush and tossed it into her bag.

From
the front door came a knock: four polite taps.

Fiona
stopped and waited for Cecilia to come out and answer it as she usually did.

“Cee?”
she called.

Four
knocks again.

Fiona
went to the door, threw the dead bolt, and opened it.

A
man stood before her. He was tall and lean and wore a gray sports jacket and
black turtleneck. He was as old as Grandmother with silver hair shorn along the
sides and a thick wave across his brow.

He
smiled at Fiona as if he knew her.