Will glares at me from across the room, but I ignore him while tugging on my sneakers. My father needs me today, and no matter what Will wants, I’ll be there. Dad’s been working with the other non-combat refugees in Martha’s sweatshop, as Jax so aptly nicknamed the preserve trade we’ve apparently been using to finance this base. With supplies from the farm cut off, we needed to up the output and, according to Lilly, they’ve done a mighty fine job of upping sales as well. Beau thinks getting out will be good for Dad and might help spur on his recovery which seems to have stagnated again. And something so important isn’t going down without me by his side. I finish knotting the laces and spear my best friend with a look. “Beau mightn’t be worried, but I sure as heck am and that’s why I’m doing this.”
“They’ve got security on the stall, Mae, he’ll be just fine.”
“Yeah, but there was agent interference at the hospital just yesterday and it’s right next door. This is his first trip out, so it’s important I’m there. Besides, we won’t lose any time. I’ll swing by CityBoy on the way and make sure it is the one I remember.”
Will sighs. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
A pillow thumps into my head. Yeah, I deserved that. I don’t pick up the fight though, it’s time to go. “You coming?”
“Do you need to ask?” He pulls on the black baseball cap that seems to have become his signature item for incognito outings.
“Come on then.” I stalk toward the door, and jog to the staircase then down to the basement. Cool air hits my bare arms when we emerge into the room, and this is nothing like the basement at the farm; older, but more custom-made, like the bricks around the edges were placed to last forever. The space is wide and long and Martha has it set up exactly like a factory, with long tables and rows of chairs behind them. Produce all over the place. Dad looks up from placing small jars into a satchel. “Hi,” I say, beating him to speaking first. It’s less awkward that way. He doesn’t have to remember my name right off the mark.
He grins in return and holds out the bag, which I cross the room and take from him, slinging it over my shoulder. He grabs a second one that seems to be already packed and smiles again. It’s almost too much, like he’s overcompensating or something. He looks good today though, dressed in clothes he would have worn before all this when he worked as a college professor: tailored jeans, smart polo, and loafers.
“You ready?” I ask.
“Sure thing, kiddo.”
Now I’m the one smiling. Not sure if the use of that pet name was intentional or not, but gosh, it’s nice to hear him sounding like himself, even if it’s just in small snippets. I catch Will’s attention from where he stands swiping a finger through mustard colored goo, and motion time to go.
“Richard,” Will says, as we walk up the stairs, “How are you?”
“Just fine,” Dad answers.
“Got a decent-sized load today.” Will nods toward the bag over my father’s shoulder.
He grunts and Will shrugs. Some days pulling conversation out of him is hard, so we make our way outside in companionable silence, walking the two blocks to the subway. Not really necessary when the produce markets are only a twenty minute walk, but I need to check out CityBoy to be sure it is her.
There’s a train on the platform already, so we climb aboard and take the short ride into Central Park. Dad never asks any questions, just follows us without complaint. Will tries to engage him in conversation, but there’s not a lot to talk about outside of our work and this is no place to talk shop. Asking about the salve he’s carrying seems to have a better result. Surprisingly, the biggest portion of income comes from Lilly’s salve, and the other herbal remedies she and Martha have made for years. Dad knows so much about that stuff it’s like it has been his life’s work. I suppose his short-term memory wasn’t affected, only the long. As selfish as it makes me, I’m glad the tech they used on Jax and I was less damaging.
When we get off at Central Park Station, I loop my arm through Dad’s to keep him close in the crowd. Will hovers somewhere behind us and it only takes a few minutes to reach the open air upstairs. My memory is a little vague, but I’m certain CityBoy used to have a food cart, so we set off for the northern end of the park. The place not too far from where Jax and I holed up after we found Al and Bertie in the Collective’s council chambers. Although he’s been gone a while now the hurt is still raw and I miss his stupid smirk like crazy.
Avenue of Elms, which cuts through the park, looks a lot different than it was then. New leaves are sprouting on the trees now, rather than falling. The edge of the park comes into view, the street visible just beyond the gorgeous shade trees and although a couple of vendors line the sidewalk, none of them appear to be selling beverages.
“Damn,” I say, “looks like it’s not here anymore.”
“Well, Starbucks kinda did the small guys out of business. Besides, I assumed CityBoy would be the place he went yesterday,” Will says.
“Maybe . . . either of you hungry?”
“Why not?” Dad answers, eyeing the fresh pretzels at the closest cart. And damn, they smelled pretty good too. Both of them follow me without question and after placing an order, I ask the vendor, “Does CityBoy sell from here?”
He holds out a twisted bread stick which Will takes and passes off to Dad. “You mean the café over on sixth?”
“Yeah,” Will answers for me, “that’s the one.”
“Not since they moved into the storefront. Must be two years by now.”
“But they did, right?”
“Sure,” the man answers, passing off another pretzel. Will keeps this one for himself and I take the last, paying and thanking the man for his help.
“It’s definitely the same place,” I tell Will. “I recognized the logo and she used to buy it right here every time we came to the park. I might have only been nine, but I remember it like it was this morning.”
“What’s the same? I could use a drink about now,” Dad says around a mouthful of gooey dough.
“The coffee Mom used to love. CityBoy, wasn’t it?” He stares at me like I haven’t finished the sentence. Clearly he’s got no idea. Maybe he never knew in the first place though . . . he would have been at work when she and I came to the city for our regular outings. “We’d better get these to market.” I gesture toward his bag. “Wanna grab a drink there?”
“Perfect plan,” Dad answers.
As we walk back through the park, I say to Will, “There’s no doubt it’s her. Now we just have to figure how to get inside.”
“Get inside where?” Dad asks.
“Later,” Will says, and he’s right. We shouldn’t be making plans right now and talking over dad’s head isn’t right.
We ride the train home, getting off one stop before we originally got on which means the walk to market takes five minutes instead of the usual twenty. The marketplace bustles with people, even though it’s now later than the rush hour.
“Ana, Ana . . .” There’s a tug on my blouse and I turn to meet my father’s almost vacant stare. Although that burns, it is getting better. At least he remembers I’m not her now.
“What is it?” I smile at him encouragingly.
Dad points toward a stand across the way that boasts more jewelry than empty space dangling from the top of the stall. “It’s pretty, hey? Those blue earrings would look special with your . . .” He points toward the forget-me-not pendant hanging at my neck. It’s funny that some things he has no problem with, yet others seem to be a complete struggle.
“Great idea, but not for me,” I say. “It’s my friend’s birthday soon.”
I loop my arm through his and veer off toward the stand. Lilly’s birthday’s next week and with everything going on, I almost forgot to get her a gift. She loves anything girly, so handmade jewelry would be perfect. Pity I don’t have a lot of money; my stash from working at Joe’s before being reefed from my old life is dwindling. Still, we take a look anyway. And they’re gorgeous. Handcrafted beads, metal manipulated into tiny animals, and an array of pretty stones. I let my fingers run over a beautiful pink rock attached to a braided leather cord. Something about the piece reminds me of her. Maybe it’s the color or the intricacy in the leatherwork.
“You need healing?”
I look up at the woman behind the stall. A middle-aged lady with feathers hanging in her hair. “No, I’m good,” I say. “I’m looking for a gift.”
“That rock works to mend a broken soul. The energy in the crystal will rejuvenate what was lost. It’s a good choice.”
“It sounds perfect.”
Lilly’s into herbal remedies, so this would be right up her path, and even without the healing powers of crystal she’d love it for the way it looks. But I don’t have enough money on me, or anything to offer as barter, so I walk away, smiling my thanks at the stallholder.
“See something you wanted?” Will asks.
“I was thinking about Lil’s birthday.”
He nods.
After half an aisle Dad tugs on my sleeve again. The frown crinkling his forehead makes me realize I wasn’t paying attention, which isn’t good enough. I flaked out in class today too—not that there’s much left to tell the newbies—but still, it’s been such a struggle to pay attention all day. I keep thinking that CityBoy coffee at an apartment which Manvyke frequents is just too much of a coincidence. He has to be holding her there. Doing something with her.
“Anamae!” I spin to face my father’s glower, but break into a full-fledged grin because, my gosh, he just called me by my actual name, not some version of hers or close to hers, like Ana.
I throw my arms around his neck and ask, “What did you want to say?”
He pulls back, confused, no doubt, at my sudden outburst. “You were about to walk right past.”
Sure enough, Martha stands behind a long table that’s covered in a hand-embroidered cloth and set out with the wares we sell to make a little income to keep the resistance crew at the base fed. Dad’s scowl turns into a grin, and he extends his hand to the woman straightening out jars of preserves. After a hearty hello, he walks behind and dumps his shoulder satchel on the chair. It’s good to see him happy. I guess he feels like he has a purpose.
“How was the walk?” Martha asks.
“Good,” I answer before Dad can tattle.
Her gaze shifts to Will who I can see has frozen, his eyes locked on the stall two up and across from us. Alert energy rolls off him by the bucketload and, by the way his hand is hidden under his shirt, I’d bet he’s going for his slingshot with the tasing pellets. I follow the line of his gaze and, holy hell, there’re two of them; both green agents by the empty stars on their sleeves and, shit, I know that guy. It’s Jax’s old partner, Kalon. I don’t know the other dude. Although they are giving off the appearance of laidback browsers, the sharpness of their stares prevents them from blending into the crowd to anyone who is more than a casual observer.
“Is that . . .” Martha trails off.
“Richard,” I say to Dad, “can you sort out those jars—”
“Yes,” Martha says, “there’s a box down here somewhere.”
“Get under the table,” Will hisses to me.
“I know that guy.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not hiding, Will. He might know if Xane’s all right.”
“Under,” Will orders, and the tone of his voice leaves no room for argument, so I scoot around behind the table and crouch with dad. Martha shifts a box to the front of the hanging tablecloth and motions me to get all the way under, whispering, “Good girl.”
I don’t feel good. I feel like a total coward, running away at the first sign of danger and leaving Will and Martha up there to deal with it alone, but I’m not an idiot. Kalon would recognize me for sure, then we’d all be in real danger. The question I want answered though, is why are they here? Are they searching for resistance, or is it merely a coincidence? Maybe this is because I used the cover-up yesterday at the apartments. I hope there’s no way to trace its movement after use or we’re screwed.
“What is this?” I suck in a breath at the sound of Kalon’s voice.
“A healing salve,” Martha answers. “It helps speed the recovery process by drawing out any swelling. Quite a good buy that one, at ten dollars a jar.”
“Ten dollars! You’re kidding yourself, lady.” The tips of a pair of Collective boots appear under the cloth mere inches from my face. And even though they’ve stopped talking, the shoes don’t move. Nor do I breathe.
Dad shuffles back and I clamp a hand around his arm. He can’t be seen, he can’t make a freaking sound. “What?” he says.
Oh my god. Does he not understand how much danger we’re in right now? I shove a hand against his mouth and everything above remains deathly silent. His eyes bug out and he’d better not start screaming. My other hand shoots to my pendant as if I can hide whatever trace the tech might put out. The minutes drag. The feet don’t move, until finally . . . they do.
Nothing more happens except my father staring into my eyes like I’m the crazy one.
It takes a full twenty minutes before I hear Martha say, “All clear.”
Backing out of the hidey-hole, I position myself in the corner with my back to the busy aisle and tell them, “I think it’s time we got home.”
“Go on without me,” Will says. “I’ll stay with Martha.”
She points across the way to a blond girl sipping a can of soda. “It’s okay love, I’m covered.”
Will crosses his arms over his chest. “An extra set of eyes won’t hurt.”
“Let’s go then,” Dad says and I couldn’t agree more. It’s well past time he was back in the safe house. As we walk home, and I scan behind us every few seconds, I know that coffee cup or not, Manvyke’s hiding something in that building from the rest of the Collective and that’s not good. She’s there, but the proof is pretty flimsy, so I can’t ask Beau to authorize a full-on assault team. We’re going to have to hedge our bets and break in without his consent.