Tara

CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nearly Saint Nick Santos had a large tent all to himself. The front, largest area of the tent was dedicated to his “store front”. There he sold or bartered with refugees for their valuables, in exchange for a questionable variety of goods and services. He lived in the room behind the tent’s partition, and kept guards stationed out front at all times, in addition to the agents that roved the Shanties all day and late into the night.

  No one knew for certain what happened to the valuables, after. Tara suspected he had contacts outside the park that helped him smuggle things in and out.

  It was the guards Tara faced down now. “I need to see him.”

  “What about?” one of them demanded, sneering.

  Tara rolled her eyes and tucked her hands into pockets. “What else? Business.”

  They shrugged at one another, and one of them ducked inside. Tara jiggled on the balls of her feet to keep warm while she waited. She looked up at the other guard. “So, how about that local sports team?” she asked gamely.

  There was no response.

  Finally, the first guard reappeared. “He’ll see you now.”

  “Imagine my delight.” But she shook the snow from her boots and entered the tent.

  Nick was waiting for her, a broad grin spread across his face like the more diabolical sort of Jack o’ Lantern. “I thought I might be seeing you here before too long,” he said. “Your friend still sick?”

  “You know he is, else I wouldn’t be here.” Tara huffed, sending a cloud of warm breath into the chill air. “Stephen and I need to leave the park, temporarily. How much will it cost?”

  He scratched at his chin, pretending to consider it. “Two people in and out, as soon as possible, I take it?”

  Tara gritted her teeth. “By close of business tomorrow. I’m hoping we’ll only need a few hours.”

  “But you’re not sure, are you?” He dropped the act, turning shrewd. “Where are you going?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course. The price in the way of briberies depends on the gate you’ll be using.”

  “Fine.” Tara stamped her feet and tried to force her teeth from chattering. “I need to get him to the hospital.”

  “Ah, so the one-oh-two. It’s closer, but still not as obvious as 97th.” He nodded. “Twice a week at ten a.m. the Dante Foundation makes a delivery of donated goods to Mt. Sinai. Medicines from outside the city and the like, while they can still get in.”

  Tara perked up. “That’s our way out of the park?”

  “No, that’s what your little jaunt will cost. Liberate me some of the good stuff—insulin, flu vaccinations, that sort of thing—and I’ll get you and your boyfriend outta dodge for the day.”

  “And by ‘liberate’ you mean ‘steal.” Tara sighed. “And what happens to the people who are waiting for that stuff?”

  “Oh, you mean people like your precious Stephen?” He scowled at her. “The people that stuff is meant for have homes and can still get around the city if they have to. They’ll get more. Our supplies can’t keep up with demand.”

  Tara hated to admit it, but the foul little weasel had a point. “I’ll still need to get past the gate.”

  He grinned again. “Leave that to me.”

  At nine o’clock the next morning, Tara laid in wait for the soup kitchen vans that arrived with donated food supplies every day. The Dante Foundation had not yet gotten around to the Parkies, but the Red Cross and several other local organizations were doing all they could, difficult as it was to keep up with demand.

  One of the vans slowed, forcing the one behind it to slow as well. It was this last van that Tara bolted towards, keeping low. The back door bounced open, and she dived inside, shutting it behind her. She remained huddled there while the van trundled toward the gate at 102nd, and slowed at the checkpoint.

  Tara’s heart thundered in her chest, and she wondered what would happen if the guards happened to check the back.

  But it seemed she needn’t have worried—the van barely came to a stop when it was off again, turning left onto the street. When the van reached its first stoplight, she tumbled out of the back once more, shutting the back door behind her. She jogged to the curb and ducked into a handy doorway until she was certain she hadn’t been seen.

  She was around the corner from the hospital, on the same side of the street. She pulled her hood up to obscure her face, hunched her shoulders to further her disguise, and maintained a casual pace. She passed the hospital without giving it a single glance, continuing on another block or until she came upon the stoop of an abandoned building. There she sat on the concrete that resembled a solid block of ice and numbed her posterior within seconds while she waited for her mark.

  Time passed so slowly Tara had begun to wonder if Nick had managed to dupe her after all: without her protection, he might go after the other kids, including Stephen. But, no. The prospect of ill-gotten gains would be much more valuable to him than anything he could get out of the Children’s Shanties. So she waited, and slowly froze in place.

  Just as she was about to give up a black van pulled up, emblazoned with the Dante Foundation logo. When it stopped, several people piled out. Foundation employees, then men in uniforms, carrying weapons. Private security. Nick had neglected to mention that little tidbit. She speculated what else he “forgot” to tell her.

  Tara hunched back on her stoop, pulling her hood far enough forward to hide her face. You don’t see me, she thought. I’m not here.

  His eyes skated past her. Not once, but twice. The third time it happened, she had to wonder just what sort of training the great Vincent Dante provided his men.

  She focused on that feeling, that all-important, near-prayer-like quality of invisibility. She stood slowly, willing feeling back in her numbed limbs. Fully upright, she waited to be spotted by the armed guards, and wasn’t. She took one step down the stoop, then two, all the way down to the sidewalk. With each tentative step she paused, expecting to be noticed at any moment. She stooped to pick up a handful of broken concrete, the size of pebbles. This really couldn’t work. The idea was ridiculous.

  But one of the van doors was wide open. She had to try.

  Keeping low, she darted out to duck behind a blasted out bus stop shelter. Then she flung one of her pebbles high in the air. It landed a ways down the road with an echoing plink. The guard immediately turned in the direction of the sound. “Did you hear that?” he asked his comrade at the front of the van.

  Another pebble, this one hitting a street light and shattering the bulb. Whoops. Nothing to see here but your garden variety vandalism.

  That got the back guard to join his buddy at the front. They debated for a few moments, then one of them went to check out the noise. But Tara was already burrowing into the back of the van. She had shot there so fast she was surprised her feet actually touched solid ground.

  She didn’t stop to see what she took—she just grabbed a little of everything within reach, stuffing everything in her pack. Then she zipped it the pack shut, and made off like the bandit she was.

  “Hey!”

  She put on a burst of speed, dodged an oncoming car with an agility of instinct and muscle she hadn’t thought she possessed, not even in the scarier moments of her exodus to Central Park. Another car came from the opposite direction. She hopped on the hood, and she and the driver shared a surreal instance of mutual shock before she was away again.

  A bullet seared over her shoulder. She ducked.

  “Are you crazy?” she heard behind her. “She’s just a kid!”

  A kid who’s faster than you are. Tara grinned to herself, and began her mantra once more. You can’t see me. I’m not here.

  One problem. How in hell was she supposed to get back into the park?

  She roared past the gate, pounding past the shocked guards. Damn.

  She wasn’t certain where the idea came from. She was certain it wouldn’t work, that she’d be torn to shreds. But something
told her to try anyway, that it really wasn’t as difficult as it looked.

  Instinct took over. She ran for the fence. She stuck her boot on one of the rungs and propelled herself up. Her next boot went in higher up, and, before she could lose momentum, she took another step and flung herself bodily over the razor wire. The pack threw her off balance as she pivoted in midair, and her ankle threatened to turn on her landing. She rolled and tumbled, protecting her precious cargo as she sent up a spray of snow. Glorious soft snow.

  “What in the— Did you see that?!”

  Tara didn’t hesitate. She scrambled to her feet and bolted for Nearly Nick’s.

  She almost made it.