A crooked mark, p.5
A Crooked Mark, page 5
If they do, it’s going to be Mrs. Polly all over again.
Still, Juan and Moose are right about one thing: I need to be careful. Marked or not, Rae doesn’t deserve more pain if I can avoid it.
Besides, I think I just made a promise.
* * *
Saturday should bring a lazy morning, especially after staying up late last night to finish my first weekly report for the Sweep. It took hours to summarize the week in Mills Creek and my observations about Rae, though the idea of strangers analyzing her actions makes something inside me squirm. Maybe that’s why my eyes pop open hours before I’m supposed to meet her at the Wallflower, and any hope of sleep escapes through cracks in the shack’s walls.
I head out on a run.
The cold air slaps me awake, though silence rules the streets at this early hour. My feet choose the direction, and buildings glide past until the Winters’ house lies just ahead, the swing hanging from its tree. Rae and Cady must be fast asleep, and Mrs. Winter too, with an empty space beside her where her husband once slept. I speed up, my gaze locked straight ahead, and a soft clink stops me.
I whirl around, but no one appears. Instead, the noise comes from a homemade wind chime hanging beneath the eaves of the house. Heavy string connects four clay pieces to an upside-down flowerpot whose paint has faded from time and weather. Still, a faint “R” decorates its center. I tiptoe up the neighbor’s driveway for a better look, and sure enough, there’s the rest of Rae’s name in little-kid letters. More names decorate each shape: Cady’s diamond is pink, and Rae gave herself a green circle. “Mommy” is written on a purple triangle, but that’s not the one that makes me slip a little inside. The “Daddy” painted on a blue square does that.
I retreat to the sidewalk before anyone notices me, and my feet find their pace as I leave the Winters’ house behind. Each step feels a bit harder, however, and a new heaviness weighs me down.
That home holds so much pain.
Mr. Winter’s blue square will forever swing from that wind chime, and every clink, every glimpse of it, now serves as a memorial. Other reminders of him must crowd their house—the sofa where he used to sit, the photographs with his smile, the beds and bookcases he built for his daughters. Walking through that space must feel so different than it once did, and finances can’t be easy either. A lost parent means a lost income, and child support doesn’t rain down from above.
That family is already hurting. But if Lucifer chose Rae in that awful moment, if He reached for her as cars collided and metal screamed, their grief is far from over.
“Something chasing you?” Mr. Garrett frowns as I come tearing down the sidewalk, my lungs on fire as if I’m trying to outrun Lucifer Himself. My landlord wears a ratty gray bathrobe over his pajamas, and a folded newspaper sticks out from under one arm. I think he’s retired, but I’m not sure what he does all day besides glare at people, especially me.
“Just running,” I gasp.
“Stop kicking so high. It wastes energy. And you look absurd. Do it like that guy over there.”
He jerks his head, and I turn to see Toshi crossing the street, his morning jog far slower than mine. If he really is a Sweeper here to monitor my test, he’s doing a much better job maintaining his cover as the tortoise of the cross-country team. Any hope he didn’t notice me crumbles when he waves at us before plodding on his way.
Mr. Garrett’s narrowed eyes rake over me. “How’d you get that?”
My mind is so stuck on Toshi—Did he see me outside Rae’s house? Would he report me as being too reckless on my morning runs?—that it takes a moment to realize Mr. Garrett’s finger points at my scar. The thin white line starts below my left knee and traces a jagged path halfway to my ankle, and it’s been with me so long I usually forget about it. Except, of course, when some grouchy old man points it out.
“I was playing in the park when I was little,” I tell him. “Dad says I slipped and fell off a rock.”
That’s the truth, but Mr. Garrett’s lips purse knowingly. No doubt the image of tiny Matthew terrorizing the neighborhood is running through his withered brain. Just another detail to stash away as he hides behind his windows, watching me every chance he gets.
A sudden thought turns the sweat on the back of my neck cold. The Sweep doesn’t provide housing—Dad found Mr. Garrett’s rental ad on his own—but if someone knew the details of my project, it wouldn’t have been hard to make the shack seem like the optimal choice.
Forget Toshi. Having a Sweeper as my landlord would make it even easier for the organization to monitor my progress.
I edge toward the backyard. “I’ll see you later—”
“Your dad still gone?” Mr. Garrett snaps.
Surely we’re not this desperate for members. “Yes. Do you need something?”
“Not me. There’s some guy here to see you. He’s waiting in the yard.”
No wonder the dented blue truck in front of the neighbor’s house looked familiar. The worries haunting me slip away, and I call a quick “Thanks!” before hurrying through the gate.
Bobby Kendrick sits on the shack’s cardboard mat, his back resting against the door and his cowboy hat tipped forward like he’s asleep. His black polo shirt, neatly embroidered with the logo of his home security firm, stretches across his broad chest, and its sleeves cling to biceps that make me momentarily consider going to a gym. When I was little, he could toss me in the air so high it felt like I was flying. Those days are long past, but I still feel lighter as I tiptoe toward him.
Kendrick’s head jerks up. “Matthew!” He jumps to his feet, grabs my hand, and pumps it with enthusiasm. “Good grief, you’ve grown. How’ve you been?”
“Great.” His calloused hand dwarfs mine, and it’s like a patch of warm sunshine suddenly appeared in Mr. Garrett’s yard. “Come on in.”
I lead the way inside, Kendrick ducking under the doorframe, and the shack shrinks as he enters. The scratches on the floor that never mattered before seem dark and ugly now, and the mattress looks even sadder than usual. I smooth the blanket, as if that might make it better.
“Don’t worry about it.” Kendrick settles in the lone chair. “I’ve stayed in worse.”
He probably has, since he’ll do whatever it takes to get a project done. Dad told me Lucifer messed with the wrong man when one of the Marked killed Kendrick’s new wife years ago. The Sweeper who acted too late to save her told the grieving husband the truth, and the Sweep gained its best recruit. Kendrick and his new mentor tracked down a woman who had survived a deadly roller coaster derailment seven months prior and who happened to be near the construction site when a nail gun misfired, shooting Elaine Kendrick through the heart.
He did his first burning that night, and he hasn’t stopped since.
“Do you want to see my notebook?” I take it from under my mattress, every entry dated and double-checked. “I see the project almost every day. I can tell you about her.”
Kendrick’s laugh rumbles. “Relax, Matthew. I was just passing through. Heard you were out here and figured I’d drop by. Though I did promise Jonathan I’d let him know how you were doing.”
He looks me over, eyes twinkling, and Dad’s warning suddenly feels silly. Kendrick might be here to inspect my work, but he’s also been a friend for as long as I can remember. No project can change that.
“Well?” I turn in a slow circle. “Do I pass?”
Kendrick gives a satisfied nod. “I shall report you haven’t wasted away from eating nothing but cereal, and you don’t seem to have spent the night partying at some delinquent location.”
“Thanks. Good thing you can’t see my tattoos.”
He laughs, and then his face sobers. “First solo project, right? That’s a big step.”
I tell him about the assignment, and he listens quietly, stroking his chin every so often. The project slides into focus as I speak, and it’s a comfortable return to the old days spent learning and listening beside him. When I finish, he reads my notebook and the weekly report, and the smile on his face as he finishes makes up for the time I spent laboring over each word.
“You’re doing good work, Matthew,” Kendrick says. “You talk to your father lately?”
I nod. “Last night. He said you’d come by.”
“How’s he doing? You’re out here by yourself, he’s got his own project . . . things are pretty different.”
“Yeah. I think he’s worried.” I leave out the part where Dad warned me about him, though it would probably give his old mentor a good laugh. “He calls a lot.”
“Well, he’s your dad. It’s his job to worry about you.” Kendrick scratches his shoulder, and his shirt lifts enough for the gun holstered inside his waistband to peek out. A bullet won’t stop the Marked—only fire can do that—but it can incapacitate long enough to strike a flame. Kendrick’s been in a tight spot often enough for him to stay prepared, even if it means occasionally ignoring a state’s laws on concealed weapons, and his choice of a silver lighter over Dad’s more ceremonial matches reveals a preference for single-handed efficiency.
He goes on. “Did your father mention anything special about this project?”
“Dad called it a test. The Sweep wants to see if I can work alone.” I nearly ask if other Sweepers are watching me, but that feels like cheating. Instead, I raise the other question keeping me up at night. “Uncle Kendrick, how come my project’s so young? It’s fine, I just didn’t think . . . I mean, Dad and I never had one my age before. Have you?”
Kendrick nods, his mouth tightening. “The younger ones are harder, that’s for sure. But their age doesn’t make the Mark any less dangerous. That’s probably why the Sweep gave her to you. You need to prove yourself, Matthew. I’d say once that worry starts tickling, reach for those matches. The worst mistake you can make would be to wait too long.”
“How will I know for sure it’s the Mark?” The questions that haunted my morning run come rushing back. “Accidents happen all on their own. I could just be missing something.”
“One accident perhaps. Maybe two. But then . . .” Kendrick’s blue eyes turn cloudy. “You’ll know it, Matthew. You’ve seen it before.”
“What happens if I don’t? If I fail?” My voice falters, and I cover my worry with a cough. “Would I go back to working with Dad?”
“Well, once you accept the solo project, that ship’s kind of sailed.” He scratches his chin. “The goal is to build more Sweepers, not keep the ones who aren’t cut out for the job. And it’s not like we could let you go wandering off to talk about us, right?” His eyes take me in as I wait for him to laugh, to tell me he’s teasing.
He doesn’t.
Instead, Kendrick shrugs. “Don’t worry, Matthew. You’re doing great. Besides, if your father didn’t think you would pass, he wouldn’t have let you take the project in the first place.” He rises. “How about grabbing breakfast?”
If I ate any food right now, my stomach would probably heave it right back up. Dad hadn’t told me what would happen if I failed, though I suppose he did warn me I wouldn’t get a second chance. Still, he could have made the consequences clearer. Might have made me think a bit more before saying yes.
“Breakfast?” Kendrick prods.
I shake my head. “I’m meeting the project soon. How about dinner?” Maybe by then, I’ll be able to keep my food down.
“Wish I could, but I can’t stay. Got a training to run. We’re opening a new center nearby, and I’ve just hired a crew.” Kendrick’s security firm beats even Dad’s photography as the best job for a Sweeper. No one can get into houses as easily as the person who installed the system to keep others out. He eyes my door. “Why don’t I put on a new lock for you? That one seems like an invitation for robbery.”
I manage a laugh. “Thanks, but I’ve got nothing worth stealing.”
“You sure?”
His gaze slides to my notebook, and Dad’s warning comes screeching back. “Maybe a new lock is a good idea.”
“Smart boy. I’ll bring it next time I’m here.” He pulls me into a bear hug, and I inhale the scent of his peppermint aftershave. I gave him a bottle for Christmas last year, and he swears it’s the best he’s found. “Don’t worry, Matthew. When you see the signs, you’ll know what to do.”
When. Not if.
I don’t correct him. “Thanks. And thanks for coming by.”
He leaves with a quick wave, and his long strides carry him out of the yard before I notice the shirt he left on the table. The cheerful My Friend Went to Cancún and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt makes me smile, and the old certainty washes over me, calming the queasiness that rises whenever I look at my red notebook. This might be a solo test, but Dad and Kendrick have been preparing me for more than half my life. If they think I can pass, I will.
I’d better, because the alternative doesn’t sound good.
CHAPTER
9
I take a quick shower and drive to the Wallflower, pausing a minute after I park for my usual scan of the streets. Mills Creek is small enough that faces are already turning familiar, and I recognize a woman lingering in the shade. Her eyes dart my way, and I’m almost certain I’ve uncovered the Sweeper watching me when she waves to a man pushing a stroller. He greets her with a kiss, and they disappear into a café without a backward glance.
This project is making me paranoid.
I send Dad a text: Saw Kendrick. All good. Meeting project now.
Gritting my teeth, I wait. Sure enough, a flurry of texts pops up, each bursting with unwanted advice.
Good job with Kendrick. Stay careful.
Maybe keep project as tutor? Need to get closer.
Take notes on everything. And mail weekly report.
I’ll call tonight.
That last one sounds like a threat. Nothing he wrote deserves a response, but if I ignore him, his messages will keep coming. I suppose this project is partly his test as well, since he’s my mentor, but he’s starting to drive me crazy.
OK, I punch in, and shove the phone into my pocket.
The Wallflower already buzzes with activity when I enter. Sahana stands at the register helping Ms. Timmult, who nearly smacks her forehead on the glass as she scrunches her face against the display case.
“Is that cranberry?” she asks.
“Yes,” Sahana says politely, rolling her eyes at me. Her neon green nails flash against her black outfit as she plays with the tongs. “And the scones next to those are blueberry.”
“Hmm. And you said those were apple?”
Sahana nods.
Ms. Timmult taps her fingers against her chin the way she does in class when she’s thinking. “I’ll take . . . maple.”
“Great choice!” Sahana drops the scone in a bag so fast, Ms. Timmult doesn’t have time to change her mind if she wanted. “That’ll be two dollars.”
“What kinds of teas do you have?” Ms. Timmult asks, and Sahana practically wilts.
I can’t hide my grin. The thought of Ms. Timmult being a Sweeper is still on my mind, but if she is, I’m fairly certain I can handle her. At last, she collects her drink and scone, giving me a surprised “Oh, hello, Matt!” as she leaves.
Sahana collapses across the counter with a groan.
“So,” I say as I approach, “what kinds of scones do you have?”
She points the tongs at me. “Don’t even start.”
I laugh. “I need coffee. What’ll wake me up for math?”
“I’ll surprise you.” Her eyes brighten. “Hey, Rae!”
I turn to see Rae hurrying toward us. Her red T-shirt fits perfectly over dark jeans, and even the bike helmet dangling from her hand looks great. She reaches up to cover a yawn as she nears.
“Let me guess,” Sahana says. “Double mocha for you?”
Rae nods. “With extra whipped cream, please. I need it.”
Sahana’s brow wrinkles. “Everything okay?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Rae lifts one shoulder in a tired shrug. “And Cady’s having another rough morning. She won’t even get out of bed. I went to see her, and she just kept crying—” Her voice breaks off, and Sahana reaches over to squeeze her hand.
“It’ll get better,” she says softly. “She just needs time. You both do.”
Rae nods, her lips pressed together, and I touch her elbow gently. “Juan and Moose told me. I’m really sorry.”
She ducks her head, and Sahana holds out the canister of whipped cream. “You can just take the whole thing,” she offers, and Rae’s lips curve in the smallest grin.
“Go sit down.” Sahana gives her a final squeeze as I pay for our coffees. “I’ll bring the drinks when they’re ready.”
We head for an empty table, and Rae slips into the chair across from me. She rubs her cheeks with both palms, her expression bleak, and digs out her math book without a word.
“You missed Timmult,” I tell her and replay the morning, doing my best imitation of our teacher’s indecisiveness and Sahana’s fracturing patience. The smallest sparkle lights Rae’s eyes as I finish, and something inside me glows.
“Wish I could have seen that.” Rae glances at where her friend hovers over the bottles of flavored syrups like a witch concocting a brew. “Sahana loves making the drinks, but if she could get rid of the customers, I think she would.”
“I believe that.” After a week with our little lunch group, it’s clear patience isn’t one of Sahana’s strengths. Protectiveness, however, ranks high on her list, and her appraising stare whenever I sit beside Rae lets me know I need to work harder to gain approval. “Thanks again for meeting me. I’m pretty sure I’m going to fail McNally’s test.”
