The World Gives Way: A Novel Page 6

  She remembered the night Cora tried to make her escape. It was a spontaneous, stupid attempt. Myrra woke one night to see Cora’s legs poking out of a high, small window as she struggled to push herself through. She remembered seeing Cora’s feet disappear through the window, the shouts outside. Then the crack of a gunshot. Myrra had been nauseous, had assumed they’d killed her, but the next day another girl told her that the guards only used tranquilizer darts. “The Contract Workers Rights Alliance pushed through legislation,” she said. “They only use darts now.”

  No telling where Cora was now, if she was even still alive. She had been old when Myrra knew her, and that was so many years ago. Myrra didn’t know exactly what happened to people when they broke contract. There were the whispers the kids used to tell each other in the dorm bunks at night.

  Like: If they catch you and bring you back, they feed you to a great big machine that grinds you up into pulp and repurposes you into dog food for the rich.

  Or: When they catch you, they bring you to a laboratory where they take out parts of your brain. Not your whole brain, just the parts that make you you, so that for the rest of your life you’ll be a zombie drone who never thinks of running away. Then they put you to work in the sewers and chain you to the walls at night. Every contract kid had a fear of the New London sewer drains thanks to that one.

  Myrra wondered, not for the first time, if that was what had happened to her mother. It was a stupid, hopeful thought—her mother was most likely dead, and any other possibility, even if it meant she was chained alive in a sewer somewhere, denoted hope. Then a truly insidious notion slithered through Myrra—maybe, now that she was free to go where she pleased, she might find her mother again, see her one last time before everything came crashing down. It was dangerous, Myrra knew, because there was no way that a quest like that ended well. And yet the thought was in her head now, like a melody playing on repeat.

  The only real things Myrra knew about penalties for breaking contract were that the people who tried it disappeared, but they (probably) weren’t killed. The CWRA had lobbied against the death penalty and won, years ago, before Myrra was born. They were also the ones who’d allowed for the marriage loopholes—if you could find someone to marry you, someone who could buy out your contract, you could be free. Heavily restricted, but it was a way out. All that work with Jake, it all felt moot now. He was nice enough, but she couldn’t fathom spending the remaining months with him.

  Still, he might yet be useful. Once, during a rendezvous in the grocery stockroom, he’d told her the story of him and his school buddies getting their IDs altered to get into bars. She had Imogene’s ID now, but they’d flag it immediately if it stayed in her name. Jake was bound to know someone. He was bound to help her, if she could phrase it right… but how to explain the baby? She’d have to figure it out.

  Myrra was well acquainted with this route. She passed the place where you could get a few free croissants or laddu if you knew the assistant cook at the bakery, or leftover dumplings from Jorge’s Dim Sum if you’d done a few select favors for the dishwasher. She took in the smells coming from the back kitchen doors: she was hungry. The smells hit Charlotte at the same time, made her pause midshriek, then cry out even louder. She must be hungry too. Myrra made a right turn after passing the dumpsters for the Kurry ’n Kebab House, taking in smells of cumin and coriander and rotting onions, then wound her way behind a block-long line of garment shops. Myrra could see through the open back doors, bolts of fabric rolled around long cylinders, standing in rows against the workshop walls: silk and wool, satin and burlap. Five more blocks, another right turn, and she’d be behind McCann’s.

  There were mounds of plastic crates stacked near the back door, waiting for recycling pickup. It must be a stock day, she thought. Myrra waited for her moment—she needed to catch Jake alone. He usually ended up by the dumpsters once every few hours, for a smoke break. She was very familiar with this alcove by now. Recessed from the alley, it had just enough space for the dumpsters and an occasional delivery truck, but the layout of the buildings also allowed for a few darker out-of-the-way corners, pockets of privacy that Myrra had taken advantage of time and again with Jake.

  She didn’t want to stay with him, she couldn’t fathom settling in such a way anymore, but there were some fond memories here. He had always been very tender with her, had always looked at her as if she was some wonderful glowing discovery. It would be wrong to take that kind of devotion for granted.

  She shoved some debris off a crate lying next to a wall and sat down with Charlotte on her knee. Charlotte balled her fingers into fists and rubbed them against her squinched-up eyes. She was still crying, a hungry cry. The noise was starting to give Myrra a headache.

  There was a banana in her bag; that would be soft enough for Charlotte to eat. The cries quieted the second she pulled it out of her pack. She peeled it and broke it into small chunks, raising each to Charlotte’s open and expectant mouth. Charlotte mashed her face against the food in Myrra’s hands, smearing mush across her cheeks and onto Myrra’s fingers. Myrra wiped the slime onto her skirt and stared at the messy carnage of saliva and fruit splattered around Charlotte’s mouth. Had she actually eaten any of the banana, or just painted her face with it? Gnats hovered around her cheeks, already attracted to the scent. She should have left her behind before coming to Jake; things would be easier that way. But not yet; she wasn’t ready yet. Instead she propped Charlotte against her shoulder, patting her back lightly until she heard a burp.

  Ten minutes later Jake appeared at the back door, and without even looking up at his surroundings, he immediately produced a lighter and a small metal cigarette case. The spring-loaded door slammed behind him. Myrra waited to catch his attention until he’d had a drag. She lifted a hand to her mess of hair—after the insanity of the last few hours, she couldn’t be sure what she looked like. But then, she figured, looking a little bedraggled might help her cause.

  “Jake—” Myrra called out, trying to keep her voice more on the side of timid.

  Jake looked up and smiled in surprise. A clean, sunshine smile. He didn’t seem to register that she was holding a baby.

  “Myrra, what are you doing here? It’s not Sunday, is it—?” He raised his cigarette case to offer her a smoke. Genuinely happy to see her, as always.

  “No thanks,” she said, and he lowered the case, looking a little confused. Under most circumstances, if there was something that Myrra could have for free, she took it. But right now, she didn’t want anything slowing down her words. She struggled with how to begin.

  “It’s good to see you,” she said, and smiled back at him. He still looked confused. “It’s not Sunday,” she continued. “I came early.”

  Jake tilted his head and looked at her with affection. “Aw,” he said, “I missed you too.”

  He lowered his cigarette and bent his face closer to hers for a kiss, but then noticed Charlotte and paused.

  “Is that—?”

  “This is Charlotte.” Myrra bounced her on her hip. Over the past year, she’d told Jake many stories about Charlotte, but she wondered how much he actually remembered.

  “What’s she doing here?” Jake reached a finger out toward the baby, and Charlotte grabbed on with both hands, pulling Jake’s knuckle into her mouth, covering it with drool and banana bits. He pulled back and wiped his fingers on his shirt. He kept his eyes on Myrra, questioning. She took a breath.

  “Jake, something’s happened—” Myrra said.

  “Do the Carlyles know you’ve got her?” Jake asked. He took another drag, looking again at the baby. His voice held the weight of suspicion now. Maybe this had been a bad idea. Myrra needed to turn this back in her favor. She needed pity.

  “They’re dead,” Myrra blurted. Maybe just the truth was best.

  The cigarette nearly dropped out of Jake’s mouth.

  “Dead?” he asked. “What happened?”

  Myrra stared at Jake’s wide, square f
ace. He’d had a haircut since she saw him last; neatly combed, cut close on the sides. His face was a mess of shattered confusion. Myrra didn’t think he’d ever really experienced death in his life.

  “I watched Imogene jump off a building. Marcus slit his wrists in the bath.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. Truth was good, but not the whole truth. Jake wouldn’t believe it anyway.

  “This is insane.”

  Jake paced. He snubbed out his cigarette and discarded it, even though it was only half-finished, and immediately lit a second one.

  “I didn’t know what to do—I couldn’t stay in there with the bodies, I couldn’t leave Charlotte…”

  “Why didn’t you call Security?”

  “Can’t trust them—”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” Jake walked back and forth, back and forth. He stared at the ground, his brow furrowed.

  Myrra didn’t want to have to explain herself any further. With her free hand, she reached out and touched his elbow. He stopped and looked up at her.

  “Listen,” she said, looking deeply at him with what she hoped was a needful expression. “I am asking for your help.”

  Jake’s face softened. Good.

  “I know I didn’t handle this the way I should,” she said. “But you’ve shown me so many wonderful things these past few months: the book you bought me, the stories you’ve told me, a life full of good memories and good people…”

  Jake took her free hand in his. Myrra readjusted Charlotte on her hip and took a step closer to him.

  “You taught me to want more from life—so when I saw the opportunity to leave, I took it.” She looked down, took a breath. Give him the choice. Don’t rush it.

  “I don’t know what I’ve been to you, and it doesn’t matter. I haven’t had that many people care about me in my life, and I just wanted to say that you’ve meant more to me than anyone.” She looked up at his face again. His eyes were glistening. Good.

  “I have to leave now, and I really don’t want to put you in the middle of this or get you involved in any way, but you’re the only person I can go to.” She meant this.

  He leaned into her. He was very close now. Charlotte squirmed a little—Myrra had a feeling she didn’t like the smell of the cigarette.

  Jake bent down and kissed her, and she leaned into him sideways, keeping Charlotte at bay on her other side. It seemed that Jake had forgotten about Charlotte again, and that worked fine for Myrra’s purposes. He parted his lips and the kiss deepened, with Myrra following his lead. For a moment she felt the shock of sense memory, of Imogene kissing her just hours before. Imogene had been softer, much less insistent. Jake pulled back and looked at her, put his hand on her cheek.

  “What do you need?” he asked. He gave her a small smile.

  “Do you still know someone who can alter IDs?” she asked. “I need to get out of New London. I have Imogene’s card, but I need to change the name.”

  Jake’s expression faltered as he ran a hand through his hair. She knew what he must be thinking—teenage high jinks were one thing, but aiding and abetting a fugitive was a different matter entirely.

  “You don’t have to come along… you don’t have to be a part of it at all. I just need a name and a phone number. I don’t want to get you in any trouble.”

  Jake took a step back and dropped another cigarette butt, grinding it beneath his heel. He stayed silent, staring off toward the dumpsters. Myrra watched him. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but she sensed that if she pleaded her case any further, it would start to feel forced. Jake had a simple view of the world, but he wasn’t altogether stupid.

  After another moment he gave a slight decisive nod with his chin, as though ending a conversation.

  “The truth,” he said. “Imogene and Marcus really killed themselves? I know you were in a desperate situation…” His voice trailed off. He was skeptical enough to ask the question, but too nice to come right out and accuse her of anything.

  “I watched Imogene jump off a roof. I saw Marcus dead in his bathtub,” she repeated. She couldn’t help feeling a little frustrated, but she kept it in.

  He gave another nod. He believed her.

  “Then what kind of person would I be,” he started, “if I didn’t help you?” He broke into another grin. She smiled back at him, relieved.

  His smile grew wider and his eyes lit up with inspiration.

  “What if I came with you?” He turned fully back to her, propelled by the confidence of his convictions. Oh no. Myrra kept the smile screwed onto her face. “I mean, we were headed this direction anyway. I want to marry you. I’ve said as much almost a dozen times. The only thing stopping me was my dad, I know he wouldn’t—” Jake fell silent, but Myrra finished the thought in her head. Approve. Allow. Always needing permission. Still a boy.

  “Anyway, we wouldn’t need to worry about that if we started over together, somewhere new. You’re important to me too. I love you, and I want to make you a part of my life.” His face was lit up like a light bulb. There was no way he would help her if she refused him now.

  In her stress Myrra squeezed Charlotte a little too hard, and she started crying. No. Not now. Myrra switched her to the other arm, bouncing her again. She was used to carrying Charlotte for long stretches, but even her arms were aching at this point.

  Jake’s smile faded a little as he was reminded of the baby, but he soldiered on.

  “First thing we have to do is drop her off at a hospital or something. I know you love her, and she’s really sweet, but I don’t think we’ll be able to take her with us.” He spoke in a firm tone, as a father would to a child. Though she had been thinking the same thing just minutes ago, it sounded repugnant coming from him.

  “If you think it’s best,” she said, keeping her voice sweet.

  Jake went on, his grand plan coming together piece by piece. “When we got our IDs changed last time, we went to this guy named Boots. He moves around a lot, but I’ve got his number.” Myrra nodded along with him. “We can drop off Charlotte, head over there, get your ID changed, and catch a train out. Could head to Troy. Or Palmer would be cool…”

  The fool. He didn’t even know to avoid trains. She kept nodding at each aural cue, tuning him out. Still, he had good intentions. Her brain had trouble holding on to the idea of the finite amount of time before her, but she could focus enough to know that she didn’t want Jake dictating the time that was left. Her bag was sitting on the ground by the plastic crate. Opening the zipper, she made a nest in the clothes and nestled Charlotte in the bag.

  Jake was talking, thinking out the particulars of their escape. She walked back to him, keeping the bag in her sight line. She could see one of their favorite dark nooks behind Jake’s shoulder. This next part would go better with her hands free.

  8

  TOBIAS

  We wouldn’t have to deal with this shit if they’d followed through on tagging.” Simpson tapped through the crime scene images at such lightning speed, Tobias was unsure if he was absorbing any information at all. They were on a metro line suspended high above the city, zooming so fast that the trains emitted a moaning whirr as the cars displaced the air. Tobias always enjoyed watching these trains from the ground, not so much riding on them. From so far below, the heavy steel tracks became thin gossamer, the trains blinking across at such speeds they looked like a bright electric ping traveling down a wire.

  “Courts said it wasn’t ethical,” Tobias replied. Simpson was slouched in one of the green plastic benches, but Tobias had to stand. He’d been allowed a few hours’ sleep before heading out, but his body had rejected such stillness, nervous energy frequently jolting him awake. Tobias took a few deep barrel-chest breaths in an attempt to slow his heart rate. When that didn’t work, he began tapping his foot against the hard floor to give his muscles an outlet for their freneticism.

  “What’s unethical about it? She chose to go under contract.”
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  “Well, technically, her great-grandmother chose.”

  Tobias watched as Simpson cycled through the pictures again. Myrra Dal’s sharp face flashed across the screen in the carousel of interior shots, bodies, blood, and wounds. There was an optical trick to the photograph; every time Tobias saw the frame of her face, it felt as if she were looking directly at him. Her eyes burrowed into his like needles, injecting judgment and anger. He recognized that Barnes was trying to start him out with an easy one—this girl barely topped fifty kilograms, and, despite the bodies, she wasn’t especially threatening on paper. But something in her photograph made Tobias recoil.

  “Please.” Simpson rolled his eyes at Tobias’s argument. “All I know is seventy percent of our cases would be solved a lot quicker if we tagged these people. Do you know how much time I’ve spent chasing down runaways?”

  “Well, hopefully, with your experience, this one won’t take too long,” Tobias said, trying to stay pragmatic. He couldn’t deny that the gleaming newness of his first case had been tarnished a little once he realized he was partnered with Simpson. He couldn’t fault Barnes for the choice; Ray Simpson had years of built-up practical knowledge and well-honed instincts. Unfortunately, this left him with a personality that vehemently rejected nuance.

  When Simpson had knocked on Tobias’s door earlier that day to go over the case, he’d barged in past Tobias without a word, helped himself to the fruit salad lying out on Tobias’s kitchen counter, and told his new partner to pack a bag.