Raising Stony Mayhall by Daryl Gregory Page B

savings, hisemergency fund, his ticket out of Easterly. And also, he knew, completely inadequate. The plan had called for getting to Chicago and hiding out with Alice. He’d planned on driving there, but that was out now. He didn’t think he’d ever drive again.
    He had only a few hours until daylight. By then he had to be miles away.
    He walked to an expanse of wood-paneled wall covered by his old Kiss poster, put a finger into the small hole next to Paul Stanley’s star-painted eye, and pulled. The panel slid out from the wall. Behind it was a thick metal door that Mr. Cho had rescued from salvage for him. He pulled open the door to reveal a narrow closet lined with sheet metal. There was just enough room for a pallet of old blankets and a small bookshelf that held his favorite books and two flashlights. It was his secret vault. His fortress of solitude.
    Jesus, what had he been thinking?
    Hanging from a hook above the pallet was a long overcoat with high lapels, and a broad-brimmed hat—a costume straight out of Jack Gore’s closet in Deadtown. He put the hat into the suitcase. Then he shrugged into the coat, forcing his dead arm into the sleeve.
    He heard the distant sound of helicopter blades. From the floor above him, a door slammed open, and a voice called his name.
    He didn’t climb up through the trapdoor—he didn’t want anyone to know about that route—but went out through the cellar door. Outside, the sound of the helicopters was thunderous. A chopper had passed over the house and was flying in the direction of the hospital. He hurried around to the front of thehouse and saw the lights of a second helicopter, a few hundred yards away, rising up out of the dark. It had set down in the yard in front of the Chos’ house and now it had nosed forward, heading toward him. He pressed himself against the wall of the house—and miraculously, it passed overhead, barely clearing the roof. He watched the lights of the two aircraft disappear in the distance.
    A motorcycle sat in front of his house, a Triumph with a bottle-green gas tank. He edged up to the front door and leaned in. In the living room, a man in jeans and a brown leather jacket stood with his back to Stony, a black motorcycle helmet still on his head. He was listening to someone in the kitchen. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the house.
    Stony pushed through the door. The rider turned at the sound. The helmet had a full, black-tinted visor, masking the face, but something in that movement made him realize it was a woman. Behind her, a taller figure stepped out of the kitchen.
    She was dressed in white painter’s pants, and a black, formfitting top, and a purple, frayed scarf. Her hair was longer than he’d ever seen it, frizzed out, wild, windblown and electrified.
    “Stony!” Crystal pushed past the motorcyclist and threw her arms around him. “Oh my God, we thought you’d been hurt.” A crazy thing to say. He was the last person who could be hurt. She told him she’d called home, but the phone was busy, and then when she called back Mom was leaving for the hospital. Junie and Kwang had been in an accident.
    “Are they okay?” Stony asked.
    “I don’t know. Mom was going to find out. Were you there?”
    He told her what had happened, but rushed and jumbled,and without detail: Kwang drunk, the accident, the fight at the party, Junie high on something. How the firemen saw him. How he’d run.
    The motorcyclist had gone into the kitchen and returned carrying a blue metallic helmet. “Crystal,” she said. “We’ve got to go.”
    “Who the hell are you?” Stony said.
    “This is Delia,” Crystal said. “You can trust her. There are other people looking for you, Stony, government people. We’ve heard them on the radio. Delia will get you out of here.”
    Stenciled on the front of her helmet in small type were the letters LDA. She flipped up her visor. Stony blinked at her, amazed.
    “See?” Crystal said. “You can trust