forward.
Luke, the skinny black kid who’d led us here a day ago, slumped on the toilet. I recognized him despite the plastic garbage bag cinched tight over his face like a superhero mask.
The chemjet was gone. The wire crates still sat on the floor of the shower stall, and a few remnant plastic tubes coiled around the drain, but the printer was gone, along with the boxes of c-packs.
“It’s got to be here!” I left the bathroom and slammed open the door to the office, but the printer wasn’t there either. I headed for the sanctuary. Ollie grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around. I was still shaking.
“It’s not here,” she said. “And we have to go .”
“Wait. Where are his clothes?”
“The naked guy’s?”
I found them in the warehouse: shoes, jeans, and T-shirt folded neatly and stacked on one of the wire shelves. I set aside the shirt and turned out the pants pockets, discovering keys, a smart pen, a wallet. I opened the wallet. Ollie watched me, confused. “What are you looking for?”
In the wallet was the usual: cash, credit cards, receipts. I handed her all the loose paper. “Check for rice paper,” I said. “Anything that looks like designer print.”
I marched back to the bathroom. I crouched beside Luke, trying not to look up at his face, and pushed a hand into his front pocket. It was empty. I reached across him to the other pocket. He gave off an earthy smell. How long had he been dead: an hour, a day?
There was nothing in the other pocket but some loose change. So, the back pockets, then. I took a breath, held it, then leaned hard into him, shifting him off one butt cheek. I worked a hand into his back pocket, and pulled out a square of stiff plastic like a miniature wallet.
I let go, and Luke slid off the toilet with a sickening thud.
I opened the plastic holder. Inside was a strip of paper with a single word printed on it. “Logos.”
Ollie appeared in the doorway. “Got it,” I said.
“Good,” Ollie said. “Let’s go.”
She pushed me to the back door, then said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“A little cleanup.” She disappeared back into the building.
I stepped outside, and the back parking lot was empty. Where the hell was Bobby? I went down the steps, spun around stupidly. I put the mini-wallet into my pocket and reached for Fayza’s flip phone. I was about to dial when a pair of headlights turned the corner.
I backed up to the wall of the store. Bobby’s hybrid whined to a halt. “Where the fuck did you go?” I asked him.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! You guys were taking so long, then I saw a car and I thought it was the cops, so I—”
“Never mind.” I jumped in the back. “Shut off the lights.”
“What happened? Where’s Ollie? Where’s the printer?”
“Somebody got there first,” I said.
A minute passed, then two. Finally Ollie appeared. She shut the door behind her and climbed into the car. “Did you have to touch everything ?” she said. But she was smiling.
“Drive,” I told Bobby.
* * *
“So what does it mean?” Bobby asked. “That word on the paper?”
We were the only three people in the harshly lit dining room of a twenty-four-hour Lebanese restaurant. Ollie sat on my side of the booth, her arm against mine, her hand on my knee. With her free hand she rummaged through a plate of falafel, three different dishes of fried vegetables, and a bowl of hummus. Driving the hospital food out of her system, she said. Bobby was deconstructing his baklava, eating it layer by layer like an archeologist. Me, I was just gripping a coffee, braced for the approach of sirens. I had no appetite. I kept picturing the awl in Pastor Rudy’s neck, the bag over Luke’s head …
“Lyda?” Bobby said. “What logos are they talking about?”
“Log- ose ,” Ollie said. “It’s Greek.”
“Ding. Two points,” I said.
“For Gryffindor!” Bobby said.
“Gryffindor doesn’t play
Luke, the skinny black kid who’d led us here a day ago, slumped on the toilet. I recognized him despite the plastic garbage bag cinched tight over his face like a superhero mask.
The chemjet was gone. The wire crates still sat on the floor of the shower stall, and a few remnant plastic tubes coiled around the drain, but the printer was gone, along with the boxes of c-packs.
“It’s got to be here!” I left the bathroom and slammed open the door to the office, but the printer wasn’t there either. I headed for the sanctuary. Ollie grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around. I was still shaking.
“It’s not here,” she said. “And we have to go .”
“Wait. Where are his clothes?”
“The naked guy’s?”
I found them in the warehouse: shoes, jeans, and T-shirt folded neatly and stacked on one of the wire shelves. I set aside the shirt and turned out the pants pockets, discovering keys, a smart pen, a wallet. I opened the wallet. Ollie watched me, confused. “What are you looking for?”
In the wallet was the usual: cash, credit cards, receipts. I handed her all the loose paper. “Check for rice paper,” I said. “Anything that looks like designer print.”
I marched back to the bathroom. I crouched beside Luke, trying not to look up at his face, and pushed a hand into his front pocket. It was empty. I reached across him to the other pocket. He gave off an earthy smell. How long had he been dead: an hour, a day?
There was nothing in the other pocket but some loose change. So, the back pockets, then. I took a breath, held it, then leaned hard into him, shifting him off one butt cheek. I worked a hand into his back pocket, and pulled out a square of stiff plastic like a miniature wallet.
I let go, and Luke slid off the toilet with a sickening thud.
I opened the plastic holder. Inside was a strip of paper with a single word printed on it. “Logos.”
Ollie appeared in the doorway. “Got it,” I said.
“Good,” Ollie said. “Let’s go.”
She pushed me to the back door, then said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“A little cleanup.” She disappeared back into the building.
I stepped outside, and the back parking lot was empty. Where the hell was Bobby? I went down the steps, spun around stupidly. I put the mini-wallet into my pocket and reached for Fayza’s flip phone. I was about to dial when a pair of headlights turned the corner.
I backed up to the wall of the store. Bobby’s hybrid whined to a halt. “Where the fuck did you go?” I asked him.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! You guys were taking so long, then I saw a car and I thought it was the cops, so I—”
“Never mind.” I jumped in the back. “Shut off the lights.”
“What happened? Where’s Ollie? Where’s the printer?”
“Somebody got there first,” I said.
A minute passed, then two. Finally Ollie appeared. She shut the door behind her and climbed into the car. “Did you have to touch everything ?” she said. But she was smiling.
“Drive,” I told Bobby.
* * *
“So what does it mean?” Bobby asked. “That word on the paper?”
We were the only three people in the harshly lit dining room of a twenty-four-hour Lebanese restaurant. Ollie sat on my side of the booth, her arm against mine, her hand on my knee. With her free hand she rummaged through a plate of falafel, three different dishes of fried vegetables, and a bowl of hummus. Driving the hospital food out of her system, she said. Bobby was deconstructing his baklava, eating it layer by layer like an archeologist. Me, I was just gripping a coffee, braced for the approach of sirens. I had no appetite. I kept picturing the awl in Pastor Rudy’s neck, the bag over Luke’s head …
“Lyda?” Bobby said. “What logos are they talking about?”
“Log- ose ,” Ollie said. “It’s Greek.”
“Ding. Two points,” I said.
“For Gryffindor!” Bobby said.
“Gryffindor doesn’t play
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