Spellbent (17 page)

I shrugged. “Before I knew I had Talent, I grew up like almost everybody else in my town. In my school, we had a few kids from richer families who rubbed it in our faces all the time that they were better than anyone else because they had cool toys and designer clothes their parents bought for them. I thought at the time that it was a load of crap to feel proud and superior about something you got handed to you as a matter of blind, dumb luck. And I still feel that way. My having magical Talent was just a roll of the dice. I can’t take credit for it, and I’m an asshole if I start acting like I can.”

“But you can take credit for what you
do
with what God gave you.”

“Sure. I try to do the best I can with what I’ve been given. But almost everybody feels that way, don’t they?” I asked. “I read this article in
Forbes
about women who are supposed to be the ten most accomplished heiresses in the world. One of the women won a bunch of awards for riding horses in steeple- chases. Another woman is an actress who’s won a couple of Emmys for a show she was on. And the rest are magazine models, or manufactured pop stars, or they’re presidents of some company or other their families founded.

“And so I’m reading the article, thinking that these women come from families that are worth billions of dollars, families that have huge financial and political power.
Huge.
They could afford the best education, the best of everything. For the amount of knowledge and sheer opportunity they had at their disposal growing up, you’d think some of them could have become important inventors, or doctors, or renowned poets, or
something
really cool. But the most radical thing any of them has done is become a moderately successful TV actress. As a group, they’re mostly good at being decorative and spending money to maintain their family’s power and
Forbes
is hailing them as heroines for this? That’s some real gold-plated bullshit they’re selling. Other people might buy it, but I sure don’t.”

“You real opinionated today,” Bo observed as he turned right onto High Street.

“I get ranty when I’m in pain,” I replied, rubbing my stump lightly through the sling.

Bo pulled into a tree-shaded parking spot by the tall brick bank building.

“Speaking of rich movie stars, think I got time to go see what kinda DVDs they got on the shelves?” Bo asked, nodding toward the Old Worthington Library across the parking lot.

“You don’t need to wait for me, so you’ve got as much time as you want. I’m not going back to the apartment,” I replied, “and I’ll catch a bus or take a cab to wherever I go after this.”

“I couldn’t just leave you here. . . ,“ he said.

“No, really, I’ll be fine. You and Gee and your boys are better off this way. And if everything goes okay, I’ll see you guys again really soon.”

I gave Bo a light hug and opened the truck’s door. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Take care, okay?”

I got out
,
shut the truck’s door, and went around to the side of the bank to their ATM with Pal riding on my shoulder like a pirate’s parrot. Nobody else was in sight.

“I bet they’ve already nuked my credit union bank card,” I said to Pal as I set my jar down on the sidewalk, then pulled my small leather change purse out of my front jeans pocket. I awkwardly worked the bank card out of its pocket with my thumb, stuck it in the ATM, and punched in my PIN. Rejected.

“Figures.” I sighed, shoving the card back into the pocket on the side of the purse. I got out my MasterCard. “Maybe I’ll luck out with this one?”

The credit card was still good; I took out a four- hundred-dollar cash advance and stashed everything in my change purse. “That’s not much, and if I survive all this my credit’s probably wrecked forever, but if I’m careful it’ll do for now,” I told Pal.

I picked up my jar, and Pal and I went back around to the front of the bank and went inside. A security guard stared at me and stepped forward.

“Miss, you can’t bring pets in here,” he said sternly. “He’s a service animal, like a guide dog,” I replied smoothly. “If I was blind instead of a cripple, you wouldn’t make me leave my guide dog outside, would you?”

The guard blanched when I said “cripple.” “I, uh, but . . . but it’s a
rat.”

“It’s a ferret, not a rodent.” I set my jar down on the carpeted floor. “He
eats
rats.”

“I do?” asked Pal. “That’s right, I do. How revolting. I must speak to my overseer about this business of being assigned to the bodies of small verminovores.”

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my ATM receipt, squished it into a ball, and tossed it on the floor.

“Fetch,” I told Pal.

He climbed down from my shoulder, humped over to the receipt, took it in his jaws, and returned to my shoulder. When I held my hand out, he obligingly dropped the paper in my palm.

“See? He’s very helpful.” I stuck the wad in my pocket and picked up my jar.

“Well, I suppose it’s okay,” the guard mumbled, uncertainly hitching up his gun belt, “but if it starts running around in here bothering people, you’ll have to take it and leave.”

“No problem; he’ll stay put on my shoulder unless I tell him otherwise,” I replied.

I went over to the couches beside the glass cubicles holding the empty banker’s stations and sat down. A woman in a dark suit, who’d watched the entire exchange between me and the guard, hurried over, her hard heels tut-tutting across the polished floor.

“Can we help you?” the woman asked, eyeing my bandaged face, faded clothes, mystery jar, and ferret with a mixture of bafflement and distaste.

“Why yes. I need to rent a safe-deposit box,” I replied.

“We require a cash deposit—”

“I have cash. Look, the sooner you help me get the box, the sooner you’ll have my unattractive, proletarian self Out of here and never see me again,” I said, suddenly feeling too tired for tact.

The woman’s tone turned wooden. “One of our banking specialists will help you soon.” She turned on her Ann Taylor stilettos and strode toward the offices in the back.

A short time later a young man about my age in a brown suit came out of the back offices, smoothing his tie. He put on a nervous smile and held out his hand to me, although he didn’t manage eye contact. “Hello, I’m Philip. My manager said you want to rent a safe-deposit box?”

I shook his sweaty hand. “Yes, I do.”

My anathema must be tweaking these people out something fierce,
I thought to Pal.

“I’d say so,” my familiar agreed.

“Please follow me over to my desk,” Philip said, gesturing toward the first banker’s cube.

I got up and carried my jar and Pal to the chair on the other side of his desk. Philip was staring squarely at the blotter in the middle of his desk, as if he was afraid he might accidentally start staring at my face or arm.

“So, is. . . is that some kind of raccoon?” Philip asked.

“No, he’s a ferret. Weasel family.”

“Oh. He’s got that little bandit mask, and, uh... well.” He cleared his throat helplessly. “What size box do you want to rent?”

“Big enough to hold this.” I set the jar on his desk. “Plus some smaller stuff like a change purse and a set of keys.”

“Oh.” He eyed the jar as if it might be a bomb. “What’s that?”

“Personal effects.” I shrugged. “Nothing explosive, poisonous, illegal, or contagious.”

“Oh. Well, we have a five-by-five-by-twenty-four box that should hold that. It’s forty dollars per year, payable in full in advance. We only take cash if you don’t have an account with us. And I’ll need to see your ID.”

“That’s fine.” I dug out my change purse, and he got out the paperwork for me to fill out and sign. I paused at the home address and telephone number blanks, then proceeded to write in Mother Karen’s information.

After I paid the rental fee, the young man went into the vault and returned shortly with a long, narrow box. It had keys in two locks in the top.

“Here you go,” he said. “It takes both keys to unlock this. We keep one key here, and I’ll give the other to you. If you lose your key, we have to drill out the lock, and that’s pretty expensive. I think it’s like a hundred dollars.”

“Gotcha.” I finished the form, signed it, and pushed it across the table to him. He undid both locks on top of the box, opened the lid, and passed the second key to me. I put the jar, my car keys, and my cell phone in the box, then pulled all the credit, ID, and bank cards out of my change purse and laid everything but my driver’s license alongside the jar. I shut the lid; it locked automatically with a hollow click.

“Is there anything else I can do for you before I take this to the vault?” Philip asked.

“Do you have a blank envelope and a regular stamp I could buy from you? And maybe a blank piece of notepaper?”

“Uh, sure.” Philip opened his desk drawer and found an envelope and stamp, then pulled a piece of paper out of the feed tray of his printer. He glanced at my bandaged arm and bit his lip. “Don’t worry about paying me; it’s just a stump—I mean
stamp!
Stamp.”

He looked utterly mortified as he carefully set the items down on the desk in front of me.

“Thanks.” I licked the stamp and stuck it on the envelope, shook his trembling hand, and took the envelope and paper over to the stand that held the deposit slips. After I addressed the envelope to Mother Karen, I began to write a note:

Karen,

I realize you can’t do anything on my behalf until this is over with, but hopefully you can hang on to the key and ID until I can see you again. If I die or get put in prison or disappear for more than half a year, please go to the Ohioana on High to get the contents of my safe-deposit box. What’s in there will need some expanding, but there are some movies and books your kids might enjoy. One of the teens might like the TV and stereo. If not, have a garage sale!

Otherwise, I will see you soon to get this back from you.

Thanks and all my best, Jessie

P.S. If you go get my stuff, make sure you look like me!

I folded the key and my driver’s license inside the letter and sealed it all inside the envelope.

“Do you think that’s safe?” Pal asked.

Not a hundred percent, no. But if something happens she has to have some way of getting to this stuff, right?

“But your driver’s license—”

—is kinda useless at this point. It’s a pain for me to drive one-armed right now, and it’s not like I can write a check or use my credit card again until this is over. All the license is gonna do is tell the local cops who Jam. I’d rather just be able to smile sweetly, tell them I’m Jane Smith and I lost my cards in whatever horrible accident mangled me.

I stuck the envelope in my back pocket and went outside. I stood on the sidewalk, feeling—and probably looking—a bit lost.

“What’s the matter?” Pal asked.

I guess it’s time for me to disappear,
I replied.
And I’m wondering where I can find a blood sample from a nasty woman.

“Well, your other option besides finding an unpleasant person who deserves a bit of bad luck is to find someone so well off that a bit of bad luck won’t matter to them,” Pal said. “And this looks like a well-to-do neighborhood.”

It is,
I agreed.
Old Worthington residents mostly aren’t hurting for money.

“Well, surely the library over there has public restrooms, doesn’t it? You might as well take a look inside. And really, you should do this as soon as you can. No doubt Jordan’s agents know your current location because you used your cards at the ATM.”

All right.
. .
I suppose I’m bound to find something with blood on it one way or the other in the women’s room. I guess if the Fates don’t hand me a bitch, I’ll just have to look for the fanciest napkin in the bin and hope I’ve chosen correctly.

I looked skyward and said a brief prayer to whichever friendly spirits might be nearby:
Okay, I don’t want to have to poop all over a decent person’s day. And after the shitty few days
I’ve
had, is it too much to ask for a break here? I hope not. Amen.

I paused.
P.S. It’d be swell if I didn’t have to handle a stranger’s tampon. Thanks much.

I crossed the bank’s parking lot to the library’s lot, which was full of Volvos and SUVs of one sort or another. I fell in behind a group of middle school students and went into the building. The restrooms were past some short stairs to my left by the classrooms.

I was up the stairs and nearly to the door when I heard a little girl start throwing a tantrum inside.

“No! I want SpongeBob!” the little girl shrieked. I heard the hollow rap of small shoes kicking the counter.

I pushed open the restroom door and cautiously stepped inside. A well-dressed woman was trying to tend to a three-year-old girl in denim shortalls with a nasty scrape on her knee who was sitting by one of the sinks. A damp paper towel, pink with the little girl’s blood, lay on the counter nearby. The woman held a tan fabric first-aid strip; the girl was pushing the woman’s arm away indignantly.

“I want SpongeBob!” the child demanded.