So, this was the Underground Railroad, Johnny realized as he introduced himself and shook his hosts’ hands. Like abolitionists fighting slavery in their own quiet way in the 1800s, Caitlin’s network took in fleeing strangers. Johnny couldn’t imagine what it had felt like to be a runaway slave who’d found food and shelter after a long, harrowing journey, but he was plenty grateful now. Even the cool air in the house was a welcome change; Caitlin had left the AC off in the car to save gas. At six bucks a gallon, she’d said they couldn’t afford to waste a drop.
“I’m Beatrice, but my friends call me Bea-Bea,” Fana said quietly. She looked sick again; her hand was pressed to her stomach. “Is there anywhere I can just?…”
Johnny moved toward her, feeling an instinct to scoop her up and carry her into the house. Caitlin beat him, hugging Fana with one arm and guiding her out of his reach.
“Sorry,” Caitlin said. “She gets carsick.”
“Poor baby,” Sheila Rolfson said, about to whirl away. “Nate, too. I’ve got Dramamine.”
“No need. Sleep will do it,” Caitlin said. “Mitch, can you take us down to the beds? I’ll come right back. Why don’t you guys go to the table? Don’t wait for me.”
When Johnny started to protest, Caitlin gestured that he should go with the Rolfsons. Caitlin followed Mitchell, leading Fana across the kitchen and around the corner, out of Johnny’s view.
Alone in a stranger’s kitchen, Johnny felt self-conscious and nervous. He noticed a pea-green phone mounted on the kitchen wall. Three or four days might go by before his roommate missed him, but his parents had expected him to call yesterday. They must be worried even if Zach wasn’t.
“Can I use your phone?” Johnny said. “I have a calling card.”
Sheila Rolfson’s expression soured. Her bright eyes held his. “We’re not big fans of phones here, hon,” she said with an iron smile. “Let’s grab a bite while it’s hot.”
Sheila gently took his arm like a nun with a wayward student and led him out of the kitchen, toward a hallway. Johnny was startled, then angry. What kind of hospitality was this? But he didn’t pull away. It was her house, after all, so he’d have to abide by her rules. After breakfast, he’d find a phone somewhere else. God, I miss my cell.
“Whoa—about time!” a teenager’s voice said as they reached the family room.
It was a sunken room, one steep step down to pile carpeting and dark wood-paneled walls. Antique lanterns and typewriters were set on shelves beside the CD player, game consoles and recorders. There was a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, playing morning network news at a low volume; a weather map. Above the TV hung a painting of religious symbols—a cross, a Star of David and a Buddhist yin-yang symbol, side by side. The rest of the room was lined with books, with one wall dedicated to DVD cases with their covers displayed: Pulp Fiction. The Seven Samurai. The Exorcist. Johnny and his dad could spend days in this room.
Two teenage boys sat at the scarred, round wooden table big enough for six behind the sofa. The lanky, older boy, about Johnny’s age, was studying a faded road map. He had deeply tanned skin and curly jet-black hair cropped short in back, a military-style contrast to his leather biker jacket. The younger boy was about fourteen, but it was hard to see his face past his GamePort goggles. All of Johnny’s cousins were GamePorters, too, engaged in wireless medieval quests and deep space battles with other addicts around the globe.
The older boy shifted position, leaning on one elbow to get a better look at the map. “I’m Charlie,” he said, a grunt. He only glanced up toward Johnny.
“Nate,” the younger boy said, not lifting his goggles to show his eyes. “Let’s eat.”
“Excuse Nate’s bad table manners,” Sheila said, embarrassed.
“I’m in a tournament,” the boy said. “Me and two Maori guys. It’s dinnertime in New Zealand, but the sore losers won’t pause the game. I’m finally beating Tama.”
“And such a good excuse it is,” his mother said, rolling her eyes. Then she smiled at Johnny, probably trying to make up for practically yanking him away from her phone.
Johnny gave her a thin smile as he took his seat. Sheila Rolfson bit her bottom lip as she leaned over to offer Johnny a bottle of syrup, and he realized they were all scared. Charlie’s laserlike eyes were fixed on his maps. Nate’s leg bounced beneath the table nervously, making the milk in their glasses quiver. Maybe I should be scared, too.
Johnny remembered the kitchen phone again. But he was hungry, so he reached for the stack of pancakes. He smelled bacon, but there was none in sight. Too bad. Johnny’s mother was Muslim and didn’t serve pork, but he’d discovered bacon in college and liked it.
“Did you hear about this? It’s awful,” Sheila said suddenly. She snatched up the television’s remote on the table. “Someone stole that poor man’s body.”
“Stole a body?” Johnny said, confused. “From where?”
“From a morgue,” Charlie mumbled, dismissive. Like it was obvious.
The TV screen showed a Catholic mass at a large church. The pews were full. The television’s volume was suddenly loud with a crisp female announcer’s voice: “…still no clues or explanations in the theft of a priest’s corpse from the King County Medical Examiner’s Office on Tuesday night, leaving parishioners reeling. Father Arturo Bragga—”
“Jesus,” Caitlin’s voice said suddenly.
Johnny hadn’t seen Caitlin and Mitchell come back to the family room. Caitlin walked until she stood two feet in front of the TV screen, blocking it.
The announcer’s voice went on: “The first shock came Monday night, when parishioners at Saint Mary Magdalene Parish learned that a beloved assistant pastor had been murdered at their church-run shelter for battered women.” The screen showed a photograph of a grinning dark-haired priest in his collar; about thirty, with a long face.
“Twenty-four hours later, a cruel twist: An intruder killed a King Medical Examiner’s Office security guard, Heath Crowley, in the cooler where Father Bragga’s body was stored, then removed the priest’s body. Now investigators are wrestling with a question even more puzzling than the murder of a priest: Why did a killer steal a priest’s body from the morgue?”
“Oh, God,” Caitlin said. Her hands trembled at her sides.
“Cat?” Mitch said.
“Shhhhhh,” Caitlin said. The room hushed. Even the tinny sounds of battle from Nate’s headset were gone. Nate slowly lifted his goggles to stare at the television set.
An older, white-haired priest appeared on-camera, barely composed as he read from a statement with unsteady hands. “To endure one senseless crime and then another even harder to understand…is a great deal to bear,” he said, blinking fast. “But we rejoice that our friend’s soul is safe. He is not lost. He is found.”
“Amen,” Sheila Rolfson said.
Caitlin didn’t move even after the story was over and a cereal commercial came on.
Sheila zapped off the television. Her skin had gone gray. “Cat?”
Caitlin turned around, her face red and tear-streaked. “F-Father Arturo,” she said, swatting tears from her cheeks. “I w-was…” Caitlin didn’t finish, sobbing.
Mitchell and Sheila encircled Caitlin while Johnny stood. Charlie and Nate both came to their feet. Nate’s goggles lay on the table, forgotten.
“Was that guy one of ours?” Charlie said.
Mitchell held up his hand, a gentle gesture for quiet. Mitchell and Sheila led Caitlin to the sofa, sitting on either side of her. Sheila hushed her, stroking Caitlin’s hair while she sobbed on her shoulder. Mitchell patted her knee. They could have been her parents.
The sight of Caitlin melting like a rag doll scared the shit out of Johnny. He’d ignored all of the other reasons to be worried as long as Caitlin had seemed so sure of herself. He had trusted her all the way to Arizona. Now what? He didn’t want to be even slightly involved in whatever Caitlin O’Neal had dragged him into, Glow or not.
Caitlin
shrieked, a sound of inconsolable sorrow that made Johnny’s toes go rigid.
“That’s right, let go of it…,” Sheila said, rocking with Caitlin. “It’s all right, Cat. You’re here. You’re with friends now.”
Johnny knelt on the carpeted floor at Cat’s feet, afraid to hear more.
“I’ll get water,” Nate said, sprinting toward the kitchen. His voice had aged a decade. Johnny wished he had thought of it first. His brain was only working at a crawl.
After two minutes, Caitlin’s crying calmed. She accepted the water from Nate and nearly emptied the glass. Then she bowed and shook her head. “I was there,” she said. “Father Arturo was supposed to meet me, but someone else was waiting. I saw him get killed. It was because of Glow. I th-think the same people killed Maritza.”
Johnny was surprised he was the first one to speak. “Did you go to the police?”
“He’s right, Caitlin,” Mitchell Rolfson said. He flipped his hair out of his face, tying it into a ponytail so he could meet Caitlin’s eyes. “You have to say what you know. How else will the killings be stopped?”
“Who is it?” Sheila said. “Who’s doing this?”
Caitlin shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?” Sheila asked, looking shocked. And hurt.
“They have Dad. He’s a prisoner. Fana helped me get away, but…” This time, Caitlin stuffed a sob back into her throat.
Sheila Rolfson shot to her feet. Her hand rested on her throat, her eyes horrified. “Cat, where’s Justin? We have to help him. Whatever it takes, that’s what we’ll have to do.”
Caitlin shook her head. “I don’t even know if we can help ourselves,” she whispered.
Johnny was sure he had heard wrong, because Caitlin O’Neal would never say that.
“That’s bullshit,” Charlie said, and Johnny noticed his Hispanic accent. “They tore out my friend Ethan’s guts like a pig, and he was only sixteen! If you know where they are, let’s take out the fuckers and get Glow back on the streets. We can do it ourselves.”
Johnny felt a dreamy sensation, like eavesdropping on someone else’s life. How could he be standing anywhere near this conversation?
“The Railroad is a nonviolent organization,” Mitchell said.
“Yeah, and see what it’s getting us?” Charlie said. “They’re picking us off!”
“Charlie?” Sheila said. “Keep your composure, kid. Theatrics won’t help right now.”
Charlie paced beside Johnny, his face angry. His biker jacket reeked of cigarettes.
“I don’t understand why I’m here,” Johnny said. “I never met that guy. I don’t know anything about any murders. I just want to call my parents and tell them I’m OK.”
He sounded like a pussy, but so be it. The situation had felt wrong from the first time Caitlin had appeared in Berkeley in a stolen car.
“Grow up, man,” Charlie muttered behind him.
“I’m sorry your friend died,” Johnny said, “but mind your fucking business.”
“Boys…,” Sheila warned, “we’re a family when we’re under this roof.”
Caitlin reached out for Johnny’s hand, and he took it. She squeezed his fingers. “I’m sorry, Johnny. You’ll implicate your parents if you call them,” she said. “Like I did my father.”
“Why did you bring me here?” Johnny said. He hated how close to tears he sounded.
Caitlin leaned closer to Johnny. Her lips grazed his earlobe as she finally told him the truth: “That guy Ryan you told me about last year? The football player? Fana knew his name, Johnny. She sees things sometimes. She has premonitions.”
Johnny shook his head to clear his hearing. Her words were a jumble. “What?”
Caitlin’s grip tightened. “Fana said Ryan was going to get drunk and try to make you tell where you got the Glow. That’s why we had to get you. We only wanted to help you. The others would have come after you next, and they’re worse than Ryan. I’ve seen what they do.”
Caitlin’s eyes were strangely emptied, like Dad said his uncle Reggie’s had been after he’d come back from Vietnam. All Johnny could think about were those first confusing words Caitlin had spoken to him after he’d climbed into the PT Cruiser in Berkeley on the road to Arizona.
Maybe Caitlin had been right.
Maybe everything he thought he knew was a lie.
Fourteen
The Underground Railroad would have fresh blood for the first time in three years.
Fana and Caitlin found their retreat from the others in the tiny basement bathroom. Fana sat on the toilet, seat down, while Caitlin stood over her beside the plastic shower stall with the half-filled bag of blood cupped in her palms. A tube hung between them, flushed crimson. Fana’s mother had told her that she and Aunt Alex used to hide away from everyone when it was time to refresh their blood supply in their little clinics in South Africa and Botswana.
That tradition would be preserved.
The hidden basement wasn’t pretty, or even finished: The ceiling was low, with unpainted concrete block walls and bare floors. But it was sanctuary. The basement was large, almost a thousand square feet, and the Rolfsons had built a concrete wall to separate the genders, for added privacy. A door at the top of the stairs was hidden behind a bookcase in the house. The bookshelf was crammed with books, mostly paperbacks, which made the door hard to open; but if the police ever raided the Rolfsons, no cursory search would detect the door.
Fana felt almost like herself for the first time since leaving home, thanks to two hours’ sleep and a fat soy butter sandwich on homemade multigrain bread. For now, she was no longer reeling from the maelstrom in her head. But a sick, doomed feeling followed her. She hoped it was only the shock of being away from home, but she was afraid it was something bigger than her silly adventures. Something to do with the priest.
Fana heard the boys’ muffled voices from their bunk area outside of the bathroom door. Johnny and the other boy, Dominguez, had been talking about nothing except the priest since breakfast. Fana had heard their chatter during her nap, at the fringes of consciousness.
Fana just wished she felt safe here. She didn’t. Dad, Mom and Teka had told her not to tell anyone—not anyone—what flowed in her veins. Trusting Caitlin didn’t make Fana feel any less vulnerable. What if someone was spying on them? She didn’t sense any cameras in the bathroom, but she was learning the hard way that her perceptions were unreliable. She hadn’t sensed Aunt Alex only a few feet from her two nights ago.
Take it an hour at a time, Fana reminded herself. Teka had warned her that immersion in the outer world would take practice, and her flight with Caitlin was a crash course. She had to be patient, like Mom was always saying.
Caitlin needed to learn patience too. Since the newscast, Caitlin hadn’t given Fana a direct glance. Fana wished Caitlin would learn the difference between truth and appearances.
“If you’re thinking my father took that priest’s body, you’re wrong,” Fana said quietly. When Caitlin gave Fana an icy look, Fana realized she sounded like she was snooping. “That’s just a guess,” Fana said. “I don’t always know your thoughts, unless I try.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Caitlin said, eyes on her task. “Tell me about Dominguez. Can you read him?”
“It’s harder to read someone who isn’t right in front of me.”
“That isn’t what I asked.” Caitlin’s tone was snappish, but Fana forgave her. Caitlin reserved her greatest reproofs for herself, constantly calling herself names and chastising herself. How could she be more kind to others?
Fana imagined herself walking through the bathroom’s closed door, around the corner and to the side of the room where Dominguez and Johnny were talking. Their voices became amplified, bypassing her ears.
“Fifteen hours straight.” Johnny.
“That’s nothing. Try three days on a bike. Oh yeah, and one whole night in freezing fucking rain.” Dominguez.
Boys were always in
competition, Fana thought. Her probe grazed Johnny, and she saw a mossy tree above a cedar deck. His backyard? Faces appeared, eyes wide and worried: an olive-skinned woman with long, dark hair and a black man with a gray moustache.
GOTTACALLGOTTACALLGOTTACALLGOTTACALL
As usual, Johnny was thinking about his parents. His desperation made Fana feel misplaced, too. Did either of them belong here?
Quickly, Fana withdrew and redirected her probe at Dominguez. Usually probing caused a prick, but her mind slipped into his like a knife through soft butter. Easy. Warm.
Fana saw Charlie astride his motorcycle, speeding through a rainstorm. Worn, brown leather biker boots. A silver cross on a chain hanging beneath his shirt, across a nearly hairless chest. The image shifted: She saw his face distorted by tears as he hugged a rail-thin white woman whose mouth hung open in agonized shock. They were both mourning a teenage boy lying on the ground, covered to his shoulders by a sheet soaked with blood. Dead.
She smelled Charlie then: sweet perspiration. Tobacco-scented breath. Earthy clothes.
“He’s brave,” Fana said. “Committed. More scared than he wants to show anyone.”
“Join the club,” Caitlin muttered. “Anything else?”
Fana shook her head. There was plenty more, but nothing Fana felt it was her right to learn. Charlie’s raging heart moved her, and she wanted to squeeze his hand. Or press herself against him in a hug? Fana smiled. Her sudden longing to hug Charlie surprised her. She was glad to have something to think about besides Aunt Alex, her parents and Caitlin.
Charlie’s mind was fascinating. Soothing. She didn’t want to leave. But she had to.
“Are we giving him blood?” Fana said.
“As much as you can spare. Can you do another pint now?”
Fana felt dizzy, but she knew it didn’t have anything to do with her blood. Sometimes withdrawing a probe too quickly jarred her. “I’m fine.”
“Good. Mitch has just enough saline to get us by. Charlie’ll have to carry about thirty bags of Glow, but he looks like he’s up for it.”