Chapter Eleven
Hours later, I woke to the soft music of a gently strummed guitar. I couldn’t place the song right away—I hadn’t slept much, and I was groggy as hell—but I noticed right off that it wasn’t anything mournful. I rubbed my eyes and sat up, blinking against the sunlight peering in around the curtains, not at all surprised to find Brian still unconscious beside me.
London stopped playing and looked up at me. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
I shook my head, struggling to disentangle myself from the bedcovers. “What time is it?” I asked as I stumbled out of bed and headed toward the bathroom.
“Nearly noon.”
I swore under my breath and was about to ask why he hadn’t woken Brian and me, but I remembered all that had happened the night before—false hope, meltdown, sleeping pills. Yeah, I’d have let us sleep, too. Still, we needed to find Dylan, and we couldn’t do that while cavorting with the Sandman.
I went through my morning routine and got dressed, and by the time I was done I felt a little more human. Stepping out of the bathroom to find breakfast and coffee waiting helped a little more. London was sitting on the edge of the bed by Brian, cup of coffee in hand, trying to lure his friend awake. It was working pretty well, too.
While demolishing a bagel smothered in honey-walnut cream cheese—whoever came up with that combination deserves to be nominated for sainthood or something—I went back over the information London and I had compiled. The results came out the same—the combination of stores where Dylan’s card had been used were right where we thought they were, and we’d searched the areas with no luck.
“Don’t kill me for asking this,” London said, “but if Dylan was kidnapped—”
“Why would someone use her card?” I finished, cutting him off. He nodded, and I shrugged in response. “Maybe she lost the saddlebag she calls a purse and some kid’s having a field day with her bank account.”
“Or maybe the kidnapper is just really stupid,” London suggested.
“How dumb would you have to be to leave a trail pointing right at you? I can’t imagine that being the case.”
“I don’t know,” Brian said, licking cream cheese off his finger, “There are some really stupid people in the world. Like that girl. What’s her name? The one who got into some of Dylan’s online accounts. Bought a bunch of stuff and had it sent to her address?”
“Oh, God. Vanessa,” I said. “Sad thing is, she’s not dumb. She just doesn’t bother to think. And, oh yeah, she’s a freaking psychopath.”
London looked thoughtful. “Who’s this Vanessa?”
“An ex-friend of Dylan’s. Dylan swears she was a decent person once upon a time, but I’ve never seen it. And I met the loony bitch over a decade ago.”
Brian and London did that whole annoying communicating-with-nothing-but-eye-contact thing, and I shook my head.
“No way. Vanessa is psycho enough to kidnap Dylan, sure, but she couldn’t have planned it, pulled it off, and disappeared. Her mind just doesn’t work that way. Or at all, sometimes.”
“What if she had help?” London asked between sips of coffee.
I considered it. “I’d say it’s possible that she could have done it if she was working with someone else but still not likely.”
“Is there any way to find out where she is?” Brian asked.
“I don’t know. She’s not in our circle anymore. She still tries to play friends with Dylan sometimes, but that’s about it.” I finished off my bagel and chased it with a few sips of coffee. Then a light bulb went on in my head. “Hand me my cell?”
Brian passed me my phone, and I tapped out a text message to Vanessa’s ex-boyfriend, asking if he’d heard from her lately. He answered right away, just like I figured he would. His phone might as well be super-glued to his hand. Yes, he’d talked to her the night before.
I thought for a moment, trying to come up with a justification for wanting to know her whereabouts. Dave knew I couldn’t stand Vanessa and that I thought he was an idiot for still talking to her. Then, epiphany: I told him that Dylan had gotten a weird email from her and was worried about her state of mind, concerned for her safety. The phone rang in my hand, startling all of us.
“Hey, Dave,” I answered. “Aren’t you at work?”
“On my lunch break,” he told me. “What’s up?”
I fed him a line of utter bullshit, making it up as I went along. I kept it as close to the truth as possible, basing the imaginary email from Vanessa on some of the ones she’d sent to Dylan in the past. Dave believed every word.
“She’s fine,” he said. “She called to brag about her new boyfriend and rub it in how happy she’s been since I dumped her.”
“What a pal.”
“I’m glad she’s doing so well,” Dave said. He even meant it, poor guy.
“I know this is a weird question, but do you know where she is? I mean, I heard she moved back to El Paso.”
“Yeah, she did. Moved back in with her parents and went back to school. But she’s apparently ditching classes this week to hang out with the new boyfriend. Brian, I think? She was bragging about how he’s taking her to Disney World—and bitching about how I never cared enough to take her.”
I shivered, but it wasn’t from cold. I mumbled something about how it sounded like she really was okay and I guessed the email was nothing to be worried about, was probably just another of Vanessa’s ploys to try to get Dylan interested in being friends again. He said he had to go so he could actually eat during his lunch break, and we hung up.
With shaking hands, I reached out to lay the cell on the desk. I missed. My head spun a little and everything started to look grey around the edges. I closed my eyes, trying to make the world steady itself again. I could hear movement, and then warm, strong hands took mine.
“Em?” London’s voice sounded far away, though he was kneeling right in front of me.
“I think you guys were right,” I said. “And I think Vanessa’s lost what was left of her mind.” I pulled my hands free from London’s. Touching me had to be hell on him right now, feeling what I was feeling. “Brian, how much did Dylan tell you about Vanessa?”
Brian’s brow furrowed in concentration as he dredged up memories. “She told me Vanessa screwed her boyfriend. Previous boyfriend. And she told me about the crazy emails.”
“She tell you that Vanessa thought her boyfriend, Dave, was cheating on her with Dylan?”
“Yeah.”
“Wasn’t true.”
“Of course not. She was projecting. Somewhere in her subconscious, she felt shitty about screwing the boyfriend and so she imagined that Dylan paid back the favor.”
I leaned back in the chair. “He wasn’t really Dylan’s boyfriend, but yeah. Same idea.” I watched London push himself upright and move to sit on the bed. “Vanessa has always been jealous of Dylan, always wanted what Dylan has, wanted to be better than Dylan, wanted Dylan to depend on her.”
“Sounds like an awesome person,” London said.
I gave him a wry smile. “Oh, yeah. A real peach. The thing is, I think, from what Dave said, it’s gone beyond that. I think she’s delusional.” I took a deep breath and then repeated what Dave had said about Vanessa skipping school to spend a few days at Disney World with her boyfriend—a boyfriend who Dave thought might be named Brian.
“It’s a common name,” London said. I gave him a look. “Yeah, okay, it sounds like she’s snapped.”
“Yeah, anyway,” I turned back toward the desk and woke up the sleeping laptop. “I’m going to see if there have been any more charges on the card, and then we’re going to go drive around in circles until we find Dylan.”
“I know it seems hopeless, Brian,” I heard London say. “But unless they move her every single day, we’ll find her soon.”
With my back to the boys, I could only imagine what had prompted London’s sudden need to reassure his friend. Maybe he’d sensed something, or maybe it had been wr
itten all over Brian’s face.
“It’d be a damned sight sooner if anyone in this city knew how to drive,” I added, aiming for levity and not quite making it. Vanessa—if that’s who had Dylan’s card—hadn’t spent any more money. Maybe someone had pointed out how dumb it had been. Maybe they’d moved Dylan because of it. That would explain why last night’s search had been fruitless. I shared this insight with the guys, and we discussed where to start the day’s search.
We chose to look again in the parts of town where we believed the card to have been used but expanded our search area this time. Again we drove for hours, rarely speaking, with breaks for lunch and to stretch our legs. I made a point of staying close to Brian during those breaks, offering tangible moral support. I don’t know if it helped, but I had to try.
Traffic seemed even worse than it had been the day before, going from inching along to deadlock. I realized that it was Friday rush hour traffic. We’d been in Orlando for three damned days. I wondered if Dylan was near giving up hope of someone finding her.
We kept up the search until well after dark. Around ten o’clock, London slumped, letting his head fall back against the seat.
“I can’t,” he said, pulling his hand out of mine. “I’m sorry. I just can’t anymore right now.”
I reached out to pat his leg but thought better of it. He flexed his fingers for a moment, and then took my hand again, giving me a tired smile. I tried to think positive thoughts, for his sake.
We grabbed fast food for dinner, and London amazed me by programming the GPS on Brian’s phone with one hand while scarfing down a burger with the other. I can’t do much on a phone without both hands, a user’s guide, and a whole lot of luck.
“We can go in the back way,” London said. “It’s closer.”
“And we can avoid some of the idiot drivers,” Brian added. “I’m in.”
London tapped a few keys and handed the phone back to Brian, using his now free hand to take mine. I hadn’t tried to manage a sandwich and drink while holding hands since high school. Turns out, it’s like falling off a bike: you never forget how to do it.
Brian headed toward the outskirts of Orlando and London’s back way to the hotel. We had gone less than five miles, crawling along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, when London sat bolt upright in the seat.
“Stop the car,” he said. Brian started looking around, angling toward a nearby parking lot, but that wasn’t good enough for London. “Stop the fucking car.”
“In the middle of the street?” Brian snapped.
London pounded on the back of Brian’s seat with his fists. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw my own alarm mirrored in Brian’s face. Brian cut across traffic, hopped a curb, and parked the car in a deserted lot. Before the car had even stopped, London had his seatbelt off and his door open. Brian and I piled out after him, and he reached for both of us.
“Don’t watch me,” London said. “Keep an eye out for company.” He closed his eyes and leaned back against the car, holding on to Brian and me. Brian and I turned away, watching around us and hoping we weren’t drawing any unwanted attention.
“Dammit, Dylan, where’d you go?” London muttered. Then, a minute or two later, “Good girl.” He drew his hands out of ours. “She’s that way,” he said, pointing farther down the street we’d been on.
We scrambled back into the car, and Brian eased out into traffic. He passed our turnoff toward the hotel and drove another mile or so before London told him to turn. Brian wove through traffic to take the next left and then followed London’s intermittent directions, meandering through an area filled with pretentious houses and even more pretentious condominiums.
“Slow down,” London said, and we crept past house after house until he said, “Here! Here! Stop!”
Brian kept driving. He turned around and drove back to a nearby condo complex that, lucky for us, didn’t have a gate or guard to restrict access. He parked in the lot, took off his belt, and turned to look at us.
“You’re sure?” he asked. London nodded. “What do we do now? We can’t just walk up, knock, and ask whoever answers to give Dylan back.”
“Maybe we should wait, watch for the lights to go out,” I suggested.
London shook his head and reached for the door handle. “We need to move now. Dylan’s scared—really scared.” Brian was out of the car before London finished talking. I was right behind him.
“Pop the trunk,” I said. Brian didn’t hesitate or ask why. I rooted around until I found what I was looking for. I’d have given a lot for a good, heavy, four-way tire iron right then instead of the wimpy compact one that came with the car, but beggars and horses and all that. It was the only weapon available, and I felt better with it in my hands.
We started down the street, London leading the charge, Brian bringing up the rear, and me in the middle, tire iron held down against my leg so it wouldn’t be noticeable to any nosy neighbors. None of us had the first, slightest clue how to go about rescuing anyone. Everything we knew about it we’d gotten from movies or books or video games. I prayed it would be enough.
London slowed as we neared the house where he’d felt Dylan’s presence. He waited for Brian and me to catch up and pulled us into another huddle. “I want to try something Ashe showed me,” he said, closing his eyes.
Again, Brian and I kept watch while London worked his mojo. For a moment, we just stood. Then a smile crossed London’s face. The next second, I heard Dylan yelling at the top of her lungs; she sounded angry and triumphant. The three of us sprinted for the house. I hoped no one inside had a gun.
London stopped without warning, and I plowed into him. He pulled me aside and took the tire iron from my hand. The sound of something shattering joined the shouts coming from the house. London took advantage of the noise to cover the explosion of glass as he bashed in a front window with the tire iron. He looked at the jagged shards left behind and hesitated.
“Give me your shirt,” I said. The words didn’t seem to sink in right away, at least as far as London was concerned, but Brian dragged off his t-shirt. He must have seen the same movies I had, because he knew what I was going to do—he wrapped the shirt around his hand for protection and pushed the shards aside.
London handed me the tire iron and clambered through the window frame to let me and Brian in the front door. We turned together and headed toward the stairs; the sounds of struggle were coming from above us. London’s mile-long legs had him up the stairs a few steps ahead of Brian who was more than a few steps ahead of me. I saw London gain the landing and freeze. Brian came to a stop right behind him, and I couldn’t see past the two of them. But I could hear just fine when a cultured female voice spoke.
“Hello, London. So glad you could join my little party,” it said.
I had no idea who the voice belonged to, but it sure as hell wasn’t Dylan, or Vanessa. I crept up the remaining stairs, switching my grip on the tire iron as I climbed so that I could strike if the opportunity presented itself.
“I felt you calling the little whore,” the woman said. “You’ve gotten stronger. Imagine how much more powerful you’d be if you’d stayed in practice.”
I could only guess what the woman meant about feeling London calling, but I was sure she’d just called my best friend a whore, and you just don’t do that. Seething, I stepped onto the landing and peered around the boys to see who I was going to have to hurt.
The first thing I noticed about the woman was that she was tall. Really tall. Amazonian, even. With the high-heeled boots she wore, she could almost look London in the eye. She was willowy, but not needs-to-eat-a-sandwich skinny. She had curves.
Tall and built? Yet another reason to want to hurt her.
But it didn’t stop there. Oh, no. Fate had decided to throw all my flaws in my face by presenting me with this woman. Appearance-wise, she was everything I wasn’t. Tall, thin, perfect skin, full lips, lustrous auburn hair down to her waist. About the only thing we had in
common was an over-expanded bust line.
Of course, she was also an evil psycho hose beast, and there are some things you just can’t cover up with makeup and designer clothes.
“Julia,” London breathed. “What...?”
The Jessica Rabbit lookalike threw back her head and laughed. “You should see yourself, London. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She stepped forward to lay one leather-gloved hand against London’s cheek. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
Jealousy hit me like a freight train. I pushed past London and Brian, who seemed to be frozen in shock, and stared up at the evil bitch. “You had your chance at him, Jessica,” I said.
“Julia,” she corrected with a little frown.
“Whatever,” I said. “The jig’s up, honey. Give us Dylan, and we might let you walk away.” Damned if I didn’t sound like the badass I was pretending to be. Go me.
“‘The jig is up’?” Julia repeated. “Who talks like that?”
“Besides,” a familiar voice said from behind her, “It’s ‘the gig’ is up.”
I rolled my eyes. Vanessa always did think she knew more than everyone else, especially when she had no clue what she was talking about.
“No, fuckwit, it really is ‘the jig is up.’ You, we’re not letting walk away, not unless it’s to a loony bin.”
Vanessa started to say something, but Julia held up a hand to silence her. To my surprise, Vanessa actually held her tongue.
“This is all very amusing,” Julia said, “but it’s getting us nowhere. London, we have so much to talk about.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” London replied, “and there is nothing you can say that I want to hear.”
I looked from Vanessa to Julia and back. The two of them blocked the door to the room where Dylan was trapped. I hadn’t heard a sound from her since we’d gotten upstairs, and it worried me more than I dared let show. We had to get past them, or through them, and soon. It would be easy enough for the boys to overpower either one or both of the women, but they still seemed to be in shock. Besides, I figured they’d have a little bit of a problem overcoming the idea that it’s wrong for a guy to hit a woman.
Something brushed at my mind, like mental cobwebs, and I felt a wave of calm wash over me. I knew, then, what Julia had meant about London calling out to Dylan, and I understood what he’d wanted to try when we’d stopped outside the house. He could project emotions as well as take them in. Creepy, but useful.
“Brian,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Time to play Prince Charming,” I said.
Julia seemed to know what I meant. She held her arms up in front of her chest and face, expecting me to swing the tire iron up at her, but I had other ideas.
One thing I learned from years of live-action role-play games is to use my height—or lack thereof—to my advantage. I pitched forward, grabbed her around the calves, and pulled her shiny boots out from under her.
Around me, I heard sounds of struggle and raised voices. Julia stripped off one of her leather gloves and grabbed my face with her bare hand. Her face contorted in rage, and then I knew nothing but pain. An electric shock ran through me, more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t even scream.
Just as quickly as it’d come, the pain vanished, leaving me weak and shaky. I forced my eyes open to see London grappling with Julia. Either she wasn’t using the Taser trick on him or he had some kind of defense against it. Either way, they struggled hand-to-hand, though as the fuzz cleared from my brain I began to realize their fight wasn’t physical at all. No punches were thrown, no hair pulled, no chokeholds given or received. Instead, the two merely circled, touching one another when they had an opening.
I tried to pull myself to my feet so I could help, but my muscles didn’t want to respond. I could move, but standing was out of the question just then. Glancing around, I saw the tire iron I had dropped, and I began to pull myself toward it, inch by agonizing inch. Maybe by the time I had it in my hand again I’d be able to use it.
Thumps and shouts came from the room beyond, but I couldn’t spare more than a thought for Dylan and Brian right now. Vanessa might cause a little trouble, but I knew who the real threat was here.
A year later, my hand closed around the tire iron, and I turned to check on London and his evil ex-girlfriend. She glanced at me, smiled, and then stepped in closer to London. She had him up against a wall; he couldn’t back away. She pressed the advantage, stepping in closer to him and cradling his face in her hands. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his, and when she pulled away, his face was a study in anguish.
The bitch was using his own powers against him somehow. I was sure of it.
Brian appeared in the doorway, a glassy-eyed Dylan leaning heavily against his side. Once again, Julia was between him and where he needed to be. This time, though, I knew how dangerous she could be to my friends. London still stood like a statue, frozen with shock and doubt. I had no doubts.
I struggled to my feet, the tire iron clutched in one hand.
“Get her out of here, Brian,” I said.
“You take her, and get out,” Brian told me.
I shook my head. “I can’t. Go, Brian. Please.” Praying for strength, I faced Julia again. She laughed.
“You’re as weak as a kitten,” she said. “You can’t fight me. But lucky for you, I don’t want to fight. All I want is London. If he stays, of his own accord, the rest of you can do whatever you like.”
I didn’t believe her, but London did.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said. “Just let them go.”
I rolled my eyes. Obviously, London hadn’t watched the right movies. The bad guy never means it when she says she’ll let people go free. It just doesn’t work that way.
“Fuck the dumb shit,” I muttered. It was as good a battle cry as anything, I guess.
I staggered across the landing and swung the tire iron. Julia caught it on her forearm; I doubted she’d even have a bruise. The swing had served its purpose, though; it bought Brian time and space to get Dylan safely past.
Julia snatched the weapon from my hand and sent it sailing toward Brian’s head. Accurate aim was not one of her superpowers. In fact, she threw like a girl. The iron missed its mark by more than a foot, falling short to bounce harmlessly off the banister.
For a moment, Julia stared after Brian and Dylan. Then she turned toward me, her face twisted with anger and hate. She reached for me with her gloveless hand, and I backpedalled, trying to get away. My muscles were still sluggish, though, and she caught me easily, sending me back into a world made of pure pain.
An eternity later, the pain vanished, just as it had before. I could hear shrieking, tinny and hollow, like voices over a cardboard-tube-telephone. Another hollow, echoing voice sounded near my ear. After a minute, I realized it was London, begging me to be okay.
I forced my eyes open, but they didn’t want to focus. Somehow, London got me to my feet and moving. Vision came to me in jumbled bits that made no sense: stucco walls, a gilded banister, hardwood flooring, a woman with flames dancing over her skin.
I shook my head and turned to look behind. The woman was real. So were the flames, but they didn’t act like normal fire. Though Julia lay on the floor, beating at the flames, they didn’t go out. They just kept dancing over her skin, first reddening then blackening it.
London turned me away, and I let him. But some things stay etched on your brain. Some things you can’t forget, no matter how many brain cells you kill with whiskey or weed or prescription drugs. I had a feeling this would be one of them.
I don’t know how London got me down the stairs, or out of the house, but we stumbled to the street just as Brian pulled up. They got me into the backseat, where I lay with my head in London’s lap. Not the safest way to travel, but I didn’t have the strength to sit up.
I slipped in and out of reality for a while, but
soon enough the fog began to clear. I heard Brian say “hospital’ and forced the word “no” out of my mouth.
“How you feeling, hon,” Dylan asked, turning to look back at me.
I’ve seen a lot of beautiful sights in my life: Caribbean waters and Texas sunsets, white sand beaches and purple mountains, newborn babies and sex-god rock stars. But none of them could rival the sight of Dylan’s face there, in that moment. She was okay. We were all okay.
“How do I feel?” I croaked. “Like a million fucking bucks.”