MORTAL COILS (34 page)

And
if Welmann had been killed, why wasn’t Grandmother worried about the police?
For that matter, why hadn’t anyone suggested going to the police to protect
them from the rest of the family? They were acting as if the law didn’t apply
to Grandmother or the family. And this from the woman who demanded they wait
for green lights and use crosswalks when going to work.

Fiona
decided to test this curiosity on Robert. “Do you think the police will get
involved?”

“The
cops?” He stopped on the second-floor landing, looking at her as if she had
just told a joke. “No way. What could they do?”

Fiona
didn’t want to seem completely ignorant, so she just nodded, and they continued
their descent. She trusted Robert’s answer. Uncle Henry was rich and likely
influential, but how could anyone be entirely above the law? And how could
Grandmother, who was just an apartment manager?

“What’s
it like working for Uncle Henry?”

Robert’s
features clouded. “It’s hard sometimes. Dangerous.” He smirked. “And it’s a
nonstop roller coaster that I wouldn’t give up for anything in the world.”

That
sounded like the complete opposite of her existence . . . well, until recently.
Fiona wasn’t sure she could handle a “nonstop roller coaster” for the rest of
her life. Her knees trembled as she took another step, and she felt drained.

The
sugar from her chocolates had worn off. She’d eaten so many this morning as
she’d distilled the last of Machiavelli’s private thoughts onto index cards.
Each time she ate another truffle or caramel, the flush and rush from it was
smaller.

But
she couldn’t falter now. Not when she was alone with Robert. Not when she had
some control of her life and for once felt confident.

It
wasn’t just the chocolate, was it? Part of this had to be her.

“So
you’re Uncle Henry’s driver?”

Robert
glanced up the stairwell and all traces of his smile evaporated. “I guess I am
now.”

Fiona
walked closer to him, brushing against his leather sleeve so lightly that he
didn’t notice. She ran her fingertips over the grain, thrilled at the rough
texture.

“Maybe
you could teach me? How to drive?”

She
couldn’t believe she had dared say such a thing. No—she could have kicked
herself for being such a coward. She had meant to say exactly that.

Fiona
flushed but didn’t look down the way she had been doing all her life. She
wasn’t embarrassed. She was emboldened.

This
felt exactly like when she had eaten that first chocolate yesterday.

Was
Robert the “secret admirer” who had sent the box of chocolates in the first
place? She didn’t want to ask . . . not yet. She wanted to keep the secret a
mystery a bit longer.

Robert
looked at her appraisingly and his simple smile returned. “I could teach you,
but I don’t think you’ll ever have to drive for yourself when you grow up.”

She
returned his smile, but inside, she turned cold.

When
she grew up? She was almost as old as he was.

He
pushed open the outer steel security door for her. “Ladies first.”

Outside,
sunlight washed over concrete and asphalt and made the California air waver
with heat.

She
and Eliot were going to be late for Ringo’s, but for the first time in her life
she didn’t truly care.

Fiona
glanced up and down Midway Avenue. Uncle Henry’s limousine was nowhere in
sight.

Robert
nodded to a motorcycle angled against the sidewalk. “That’s my ride.”

The
bike’s frame was a sinuous curve of matte black that ended with dual chrome
pipes. Cradled in the center were twin-V pistons that radiated power even
still. Stenciled on the gas tank were silver wings.

Of
course Robert rode a motorcycle. She imagined herself on the back of that bike,
her arms encircled around his leather-clad waist, the wind rushing through her
hair.

“Thanks,”
she whispered, then blinked the fantasy away. “For coming. It couldn’t have
been much fun to sit with Grandmother.”

She
wanted to say so much more. And she wanted to ask a million questions, starting
with his phone number—but her energy waned . . . and she felt like the old
Fiona.

It
took all her willpower to keep from looking down at the sidewalk, to keep her
gaze locked onto Robert’s eyes.

“We’ll
study those urban legends like you said. It’s kind of hard, though, not knowing
what the family expects. Kind of hard not to be scared.”

Robert
studied her face and took a step closer.

Fiona’s
heart fluttered.

Robert
looked up at her third-story apartment, then turned back to her and whispered,
“Be ready for water—get waders, wool clothing, that kind of stuff. It’ll be
dark, too. You’ll need flashlights. Get a gun if you can.” He glanced up at the
sky. “I could get in a lot of trouble if anyone found out what I just told
you.”

She
took his hand and squeezed it. “No one will know. I promise.”

He
gave her a tiny squeeze back, held her hand a second, then let go. He held up
both hands in a “surrender” gesture. “I’ve got to go. Me alone with you: not
such a great idea.”

Robert
mounted his bike. He pressed the ignition and thunder rumbled along the streets
of Del Sombra.

“What
do you mean?” Fiona said, raising her voice over the noise.

“There
are rules about a guy like me with a girl like you.” Robert opened the throttle
and revved the engine. “I’m just a Driver. But your mother was a goddess.
That’s what this is all about. They think you might be one, too.”

Robert
rocketed away, leaving a cloud of dust and exhaust . . . and a bewildered Fiona

25

MOSTLY
LIES

Fiona
stepped over moldering cardboard and tiptoed around a tangle of rusted
rattraps. She waved her flashlight, illuminating stacks of turn-of-the-century
magazines, jars of tomatoes, and porcelain doll heads that stared back.

An
overabundance of treasure, junk, and “treasured junk” was in the basement of
Oakwood Apartments. The room stretched the length of the building.

They’d
found flashlights and rubber boots by the door on the workbenches, but the more
interesting stuff was deeper inside.

Fiona
glanced back and saw Eliot as he high-stepped over marble slabs encrusted with
fossilized fish.

“Did
you believe him?” he asked her.

“No
way. How could our mother be a goddess?” Fiona covered her mouth, gagging on
the dust she’d kicked up. “I’d be more likely to believe it if Robert said she
was a pink elephant.”

Besides,
if their mother was a goddess, that meant Fiona’s brother could be a young god.
Eliot tripped on a mound of Navajo blankets, and a cloud of moths took wing.
There was no way—Eliot was barely human.

And
Fiona felt even less than that. The sugar rush from this morning’s chocolates
was gone. Everything itched, and she wanted to punch someone.

Waving
away fluttering insects, Eliot said, “What about RULE fifty-five? All
references to the fantastic, to gods and goddesses, erased from our books.”

“That’s
so we’re not distracted with that kid stuff. That makes a whole lot more sense
than our mother having been divine.”

Of
course they knew what a god was, RULE 55 or not. Grandmother couldn’t remove
every reference. There were passages in Hamlet such as:

   
What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In
form, in moving, how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In
apprehension how like a god!

There
was no escaping the capital-G God, either. Every day they passed Disciples of
Light, a Christian-studies store on Midway Avenue, and a Unitarian church was
on Vintner Street. Eliot and Fiona had long ago filled in the blanks of what a
god was: a divine superbeing, part legend and the foundation of
human-controlled religious power bases throughout history.

“Let’s
just get the stuff Robert told us to and get out of here,” Fiona said. “I can
barely breathe.”

“That’s
one thing we agree on,” Eliot muttered. “We’re going to be late.”

Fiona
had stopped caring about Ringo’s. Why Grandmother insisted they still go to
work while trying to pass the family’s potentially fatal tests was beyond
understanding.

Eliot
still cared about work, though. And Fiona felt bad about shutting him out of
her room last night, so she was going to make it up to him.

She
pushed farther into the basement and spotted a dog sled and rotten silk
parasols. She pulled out a cracked whaling harpoon.

“I
can see us dragging this into Ringo’s,” she said, experimentally hefting it.

“We’ll
stash the boots and flashlights in this.” Eliot held up a canvas backpack
covered with faded Boy Scout patches. He frowned. “What Robert said does make
some sense, though. A family that ignores the police? Uncle Henry’s car
violating the laws of physics? That all seems beyond normal, doesn’t it?”

“Uh-huh,”
Fiona said, ignoring him now. Her brother was entering his own personal
daydream world.

“You
think this is part of the trial? Robert dropping hints? Us finding what we
need?”

“Or
a trick.”

Fiona
wanted to believe Robert’s comment about goddesses wasn’t a joke. He had seemed
so serious, but it couldn’t possibly be true. Or could goddess be slang for
something else?

A
glint of metal flashed in her light.

She
pulled out a steel tube wrapped in oilcloth. It was a sawed-off shotgun and a
bandolier of shells. The gun was a break-action model, barrels side by side,
with tarnished silver plates riveted between the triggers and strike box.
Engraved was a faded name: WESTLEY.

Holding
the gun sent an electric thrill up Fiona’s hands. She checked and then
doubled-checked that it wasn’t loaded.

Eliot
and Fiona had written a report on the history of firearms last year. They knew
how to load, clean, aim, and fire a wide variety of pistols and long arms . . .
at least in theory.

“Put
it in that sack of yours,” she told Eliot.

He
stared at the shotgun as if it were a writhing viper. “What’s the matter with
your book bag?”

“Fine.”
She swung her bag around and slid the shotgun snugly next to the box of
chocolates. She smoothed her thumb over the red satin. All she had to do was
make it to Ringo’s, then she could eat a few more. Fiona picked her way over
wagon wheels and broken garden statuary toward the light of the open door.

Eliot,
however, remained where he was. His flashlight pointed into the corner
illuminating a shrouded shelf.

“This
is something,” he whispered so softly that Fiona barely heard him.

She
moved to her brother’s side. She felt something, too; her skin prickled as she
neared the covered shape.

Eliot
reached for the tarp. A geological layer of dust shuddered free. Whatever was
under there had been undisturbed for ages.

Fiona
felt an odd urge to take out the shotgun, but resisted. It wasn’t loaded, and
if it were, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t blow off her own foot.