Fox Forever

  “Not without getting me into deep trouble with Carver. I wasn’t supposed to call you. He’s afraid the Secretary might track my calls once I’m on his radar.”

  “How could he do that? It’s quite illegal and he’s—”

  “Keeping secret prisoners is illegal. If he’s doing one, the other isn’t much of a reach. That’s why I’m talking to you on a disposable.”

  We hear the one-minute warning beep on the phone tab and our words become hurried overlapping last reminders.

  Say hi to Miesha and Allys. Bone too.

  Try to call me again.

  And Kayla, give her a hug for me.

  As soon as you can.

  I miss you, Jenna.

  We know you’re where you need to be.

  And tell Allys the chocolate peach was gone in the first five minutes.

  Be careful, Locke.

  Always.

  And one more thing, this girl Raine. Be careful about collateral damage, even for a noble cause. She’s only a girl.

  I wi—

  The phone goes dead. Our time has run out. Like it always seems to.

  I close my eyes, crumpling the phone tab in my fist.

  “Hey. You gotta move. We bring supplies in this way.”

  A kid looking around a stack of boxes in his arms waits for me to move. I leave, squeezing past him, and throw the tab into a trash can I pass out on the market mall.

  Collateral damage. What does Jenna think I’m doing? And talk about collateral damage? What does she think I was for 260 years? Kara and I were the price of progress. And I’m still paying that price.

  I would never hurt Raine, not the way I’ve been hurt, but nothing is going to stop me from getting this Favor done, one way or another. I’m not going to carry illegal ID forever and this is one step to get me where I want to be.

  I pass a basket of the government issue charity coats near a recycle chute. The small cylinders that contain each coat look dusty and old, which isn’t surprising. Most citizens won’t touch them and a Non-pact could never pick one up here because it’s restricted public space. I remember the first time I put one on and saw my reflection in the train station window. I saw someone I didn’t recognize. Someone I needed to be. Someone dark and dangerous.

  I reach down and grab one of the coat cylinders from the basket and throw it into my pack. I know I can’t wear it, but I want it just the same, maybe as a talisman like the green glass of Liberty, a reminder of why I’m here in the first place.

  Carver calls twice about nothing in particular, just checking on me. It’s clear he’s on edge when he sees I’m not at the apartment, but he doesn’t lose his cool. He never seems to. Everything about him seems neatly tucked and squared away. Still, I see the hunger in his face again. The eagerness. That he can’t hide. I guess the things you want the most aren’t so easy to disguise. I need to remember that.

  I ask him about Karden and the lack of images in the file.

  “We don’t have any,” he says, and cuts off suddenly. I don’t know if the cutting out was deliberate or if modern communications still suffer from dropped calls. He seemed agitated so I will assume the former. It’s hard to believe there are no images of Karden, considering his notoriety and role in the Resistance. On the other hand, he did keep an extremely low profile in order to avoid detection. He would have avoided recorded images at all cost. I can always get a physical description from someone, maybe from Jenna. I don’t want Xavier to know that I plan to take over his role in getting Karden.

  In the afternoon I take what appears to be a slow leisurely walk along where I think the green line used to run. A lot of the buildings have changed and that skews my point of reference, but I remember walking the streets and knowing where the tunnels ran beneath the city. I walk the distance between the Old Library Building and the public gardens looking for anything that hints of a detainment complex under the streets but see nothing suspicious so I go to the public gardens where Xavier said there was a hidden entry point to the tunnels. It’s not that hidden, only a few overgrown bushes cover a makeshift stairway made of rocks and rubble, but I guess with sightings of body parts, no one would venture down there even if there were flashing neon signs pointing to the entrance.

  I take a few steps down. In the light of day, I can see the pathway ahead easily. I assume the body parts were a ruse but I’m not foolish either and I listen for any kind of sound. It’s quiet, not even the rush of a fleeing rat. I proceed down a few more steps until I can see into the cavern. It’s dark but there’s still enough daytime light filtering down the stairway for me to see that it’s the old Arlington station. A few of the turnstiles are still there and some of the white tiles that used to cover the walls are there too, but most of it’s a grim decaying mess smelling of waste and neglect. I can’t imagine the very fastidious LeGru walking five steps into this rathole, much less all the way down one of the tunnels.

  My eyes adjust to the dim light, and I take a few more steps in until I’m on the edge of where the real blackness begins, the original green line tunnel, and miles of other tunnels that could go anywhere.

  I hear movement, a faint skitter, something small, maybe a mouse or a rat. I take another step and a loud screech blasts the air around me seeming to come from all directions, bouncing off walls so it sounds like a hundred screeches. I bolt for the entrance and scramble up the steps as fast as I can, stones tumbling down behind me. In seconds I’m back in the gardens and I breathe deeply, telling myself I was just spooked with all of Xavier’s talk of body parts and half-dogs. It was probably just an owl. Lots of normal creatures could live down there. They probably do. Their noises may be what started the rumors of half-dogs in the first place. Still, next time before I go down, I think I’ll have Karden’s knife out of my pack and ready in my hand—with the largest blade extended.

  When I’m almost back to the apartment, Xavier calls. He wants to make sure I’m staying in tonight. I tell him I plan to do some reviewing. “There’s always more to learn.”

  “Good idea,” he says.

  Last but not least, Livvy checks in with me. She offers to come over and cook something hot for dinner. “Thanks, Livvy, but no. I think I’m going to turn in early tonight. I didn’t sleep well last night. I’ll fix myself something simple.”

  She tells me to rest up.

  “I will.”

  “Locke,” she adds, and then hesitates. “Be careful.”

  * * *

  The moon is barely a sliver, peeking from behind clouds that drift past so slowly they look like they’re painted across the sky. There is no startling tonight. Everything is slow. I’m in plain sight sitting on the tree root. She’s in plain sight as she approaches.

  Locke, be careful. Livvy knew I was leaving. Did she see it on my face? The lie? Or maybe it was in my voice? What was I not able to disguise?

  Raine’s not in a hurry as she walks toward me. She must be confident that no one is watching her from above, or maybe she just doesn’t care.

  No. She cares.

  I’ve seen it in her eyes over and over again, quick furtive glances, but she knows her moves well—when it’s safe to sit on a rooftop, or climb down a rope, or talk to me. Maybe that’s where her study of chess comes in handy. I think about what she said that first night, about feeling like the smallest speck on the face of the planet. Was it a slip? Or did she just feel safe with me? I guess that’s my job. To make her feel safe. To get information. I don’t like this part of the Favor.

  She stops a few feet away from me. “Couldn’t sleep again?” she asks.

  I look at her, taking in every aspect, her voice, her hair, the way her hands hang loose and relaxed at her sides, the color of her skin under a sliver of moonlight. I’ve been studying her files day after day. So much is missing, so much the files don’t tell. The disturbed feeling I had when I first saw her has grown into something else. An intense curiosity. She’s more than just the Secretary’s daughter. More than my in, but wh
at the more is, I’m not sure. “No. Still can’t sleep.”

  She steps closer, her knees nearly touching mine, and she stares at me. I try to adjust my position on the tree root to escape her close scrutiny, but she doesn’t waver.

  I swallow. “Something on your mind?”

  “Volumes. There’s always a lot on my mind, but right now it’s you and wondering why you really come. I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  “Only a week ago I saved your life, remember? Doesn’t that give me some sort of Level Ten trust status?”

  She smiles. “You saved me from falling off a low bridge and getting wet. That’s all. Level Two status only.”

  I watch the smile fade from her lips, but not entirely from her eyes. There’s definitely still a glimmer and it empowers me to know I put it there. “Only Level Two.” I sigh. “Looks like I have a long way to go.”

  “Let’s walk.”

  We walk toward the far end of the Commons near the burial grounds. She says she likes the fact that she can talk to everyone there and they don’t talk back, they just listen.

  “Are you sure they’re listening?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “I’ll listen. Why don’t you tell me what you tell them?”

  “Those are very private things,” she says. She looks at me sideways. “I think you’re probably the type that’s good at keeping secrets—but not as good as dead people.”

  “You’d be surprised. I haven’t told anyone about your rooftop walks or our nightly visits.”

  “Not even your mother?”

  “Especially not her. That should elevate me to Level Three trust status.”

  “Two and a half.”

  “That’s something. I’ll take what I can get.”

  I ask her about the Collective meeting in two days. She tells me two of the members won’t be there because they’re traveling out of the country. “Only six of us. Besides you and me, Vina, Shane LeGru, Cece Carrington, and Ian Dvorak will be there.”

  “It’s at your house this time, right?” I already know this but I don’t want to let on that I have every detail of her life memorized—at least the details the Network has been able to gather.

  “Nearly all the meetings are at my house. That’s the way Father prefers it.”

  “And the others don’t mind?”

  “If they do, they keep it to themselves.”

  “Because he’s important?”

  She reaches out and plucks an elm leaf from an overhead branch as we pass and twirls the stem in her fingers. “That’s right.”

  “So tell me about him. What makes him so important?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t know already. Everyone else seems to. My father’s Secretary of Security for the DSA, fourth in line to the president. It’s his job to keep us all safe.”

  All? Hardly. I don’t think she has a clue about his dirty dealings or secret detainment centers. “Really? That does sound like an important job.”

  She looks at me sharply. “Are you mocking him?”

  I thought I said it sincerely, but maybe some of my cynicism seeped out. I note, however, that she’s defensive of him, loyal even. I make a mental note that it’s a subject to broach very carefully with her. “I don’t even know him. How could I mock him? I told you about my parents last night. Tell me about yours.”

  She tosses the leaf in her fingers aside. “It’s only me and my father. My mother died when I was twelve. She was…” She shakes her head and I see the hardening of her face, like she’s blocking out the memory.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “I was adopted. My mother and I were very close. She was the best mother anyone could hope for.”

  “You were adopted?”

  “Yes. I didn’t find out about it until I was eight years old. I started asking questions, wondering why I didn’t look like either of my parents. My mother overruled my father’s dictum and told me. She had always wanted to be honest with me and never understood why he wanted to keep it a secret. My father was furious with her.”

  “Do you get along with him?”

  “He’s my father—and I’m his daughter. We deal with it. What else is there to say?” And then in a softer voice, “It’s been hard for him since my mother died. He was very close to her too, and he depended on her for a lot of things. I don’t think he quite knows what to do with me now.” She shakes her head and her eyes narrow as she looks into the distance. “Actually, he probably never did know what to do with me. I don’t think fatherhood was a role he was comfortable with. Now that he has to play both mother and father, he tends to go a bit overboard.”

  I know I’m walking on shaky ground but I ask anyway. “Overboard?”

  She’s careful with her reply. “Because of his position, he has certain … expectations for how his daughter should conduct herself in public—and private too for that matter. But I suppose I’m better off than most.”

  Than most what? Non-pacts? But I don’t say it. I hear the strain in her voice. This sharing is pushing her limits.

  I change the subject with more than enough new information to chew on. Like how the Network didn’t know she was adopted. “How did you ever find a rope ladder long enough to reach down nine stories?”

  “Hap made it. From twine no less. He’s quite resourceful.” I remember his grip around my neck. Resourceful isn’t quite how I would describe him. Shrewd maybe. Is this part of the way he pays for Raine’s silence about his Netlog activity?

  * * *

  We enter the cemetery. She seems to know where she’s going. She heads for the center, gracefully hopping over graves and markers and tiptoeing between others. She should be a dancer, not scaling walls at two in the morning. My dislike for the Secretary grows. She stops at a large memorial and presses her palms against it, her fingers sliding into the recessed letters. She stands there stone still for the longest time. “Tell me, Locke, what did you think of the gathering at the Somerset Club?” she finally says.

  I’m surprised she would bring it up, considering it didn’t go well between us, but I try to put a positive spin on it. “I didn’t think it was as boring as you did.”

  She turns to face me. “It wasn’t completely dull. I was especially curious about that dance you did with Vina.”

  “I would have shown you but … someone cut me off.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Which I regret.”

  Is she asking me to dance with her now? “It’s really pretty simple. I can show you.”

  “I suppose that would be all right.”

  It seems wrong to dance on someone’s grave, so I suggest we step over to a small clearing between graves. She stands in front of me waiting for instructions. “First of all, you keep your arms loose and relaxed, not stiff and straight. And you place them, well, really anywhere that feels comfortable. There aren’t rules.”

  “It’s odd for a dance not to have rules.”

  “Maybe, but that’s what keeps it interesting.”

  I reach out, wishing that maybe there were rules so placing my hands would be less awkward. I place one hand on each side of her waist. “Now you put your hands where they feel comfortable.”

  She lifts her hands, holding them up in the air, uncertain where to put them. Finally she brings them down so they’re resting on each of my arms. “There. That feels comfortable. Is this right?”

  “There’s no right or wrong.”

  “Now what?”

  “Relax. Pretend there’s music. Soft music. And sway to it. Like this.”

  She steps on my foot and grimaces. She may be graceful most of the time, but not when there isn’t a game plan to follow. “Our feet are so close,” she complains. “How can you dance so close to another person with no rules?”

  “You’re trying too hard.” I slide my hands around her back and pull her closer. Her hands are forced to slide farther up my arms, until they’re resting on my shoulders. “Now, don’t lift your feet so high
. Just let them glide along the ground. Like mine.”

  She looks to the side trying to see our feet like she’s memorizing each step. “Relax,” I repeat. “Just go with it.”

  We fall into step and I feel her arms grow softer, the angles disappearing, molding to me like she’s finally getting the hang of moving without a plan. Not her specialty, but she’s a quick learner.

  She looks up at me. “I’m not sure what to think of a dance without rules.”

  I look at her, caught off guard at how close her face is. I can’t study it, can’t examine planes and lines and what expressions she may be hiding. I can’t see anything but her chin, her nose, her mouth, her eyes. I can’t see anything but Raine. I swallow. I quickly swing her away from me and throw her back in a dip. “And you have to watch out.” I bring her back to her feet. “Because you never know what might happen in a dance without rules.”

  She laughs. “Like you said, that’s what keeps it interesting.” I let go of her and step back, bumping into a gravestone. “Thanks for the lesson,” she says. “I guess Vina has nothing up on me now. She can be rather annoying that way.”

  “Right.”

  We talk for another minute or so, but none of her words really sink in until she says good-bye and leaves.

  Good-bye. Was it only a petty competition with Vina that made her want to dance? She’s right. Vina has nothing up on her. I watch her walk away and decide that this will be my last time visiting her in the middle of the night. I’ve probably learned enough. And I think I’m “in” as far as I should be.

  Slipping

  She doesn’t show and she doesn’t show, and just when I think she’s not coming at all, I see a glimmer of white at the rooftop edge. She’s wearing a nightgown, which means she doesn’t plan on coming down, but then she lowers the rope ladder anyway and begins her descent, her nightgown flapping in the breeze against her bare legs.

  It’s both a frightening and strangely beautiful thing to watch, an eerie marriage of freedom, desperation, and insane risk. I hate that she’s coming down, and yet that’s what I was waiting for. Why am I here? I spent all day telling myself I wasn’t going to come tonight, but then I did. Maybe I really am developing a sleeping problem.