Starr Gone Page 8

  They got away. They got away. Of course I smile. I have to.

  He leans over me. The vein on his forehead pulses wildly. “Answer the question,” he bellows.

  “I don’t know,” I smile.

  “Where. Did. They. Go?”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “You expect me to believe you don’t know where they went? I know you.”

  “I was here, remember?”

  His cruel, knowing smile crosses his face. “And that’s exactly where you’re staying. Thomas.”

  Suddenly, my right arm’s twisted behind my back. Pain shoots down my shoulder. I wonder dully if he’s torn my rotator cuff. My swimming career would be over with that type of injury. Then I laugh. Manically laugh. My swimming career was over the day I showed up for the test.

  General Clone twists harder.

  More pain, but nothing compared to my broken heart.

  He jerks my other arm behind my back.

  I grit my teeth. I will not lose this battle. I will not.

  Finally, when both shoulders are about to detach from their sockets Treadwell says, “That’s enough. We don’t want her meeting her grandparents in double slings.”

  Thomas releases me. I sense his reluctance. He enjoys these games of torture.

  Treadwell paces back and forth in front of me. “I must say I am impressed with your ability to align yourself with such talented people. Frank would fit into the Organization perfectly if I chose to diversify—though I won’t. Diversification goes against everything I believe in, but still, talent is talent. And Di? Well, I admit I hugely underestimated her abilities, but her complete disregard for the church and authority make her a huge liability. And your Cherokee friends... computer wiz and medic? What a lovely little team you assembled.” He laces his words with a mixture of appreciation and regret, but I know what he’s really doing—he’s trying to lull me into telling him where they are. He doesn’t know me half as well as he thinks he does. “Too bad you’ll never see them again.” He stops and looks at me. “Never.” He waits one, two, three heartbeats. He’s building up for something. Something big. Something impactful. “Tell me where they are.”

  I laugh again. When your heart’s been ripped out and stomped on, you can either shrivel up and die or be pushed round the bend. “Do you even need to ask that question?”

  He reaches down and fingers the excess plastic of the zip-tie around my ankles.

  This will not be good.

  He yanks. Hard. The thin plastic digs into my leg. He hasn’t drawn blood. Not yet anyway. He can’t ruin his winning horse before he’s cashed in his chips. “Where are they?”

  His hawk eyes watch me waiting for a crack, an opening, but he won’t find one. This new pain gives me focus. A new source of resolve to draw from.

  He crosses his arms as he shakes his head. “If only you stayed exam day, you could be running a team of your own.” He clicks his mouth. “The Organization would have greatly benefited from your numerous talents, but alas, it all comes down to money, doesn’t it?” He transitions from the torturous dictator to the mind-playing benefactor with such precision and ease, most people would miss it. “I’ve found some replacements that are working out for the moment.”

  He plays roulette with two bullets.

  “Sami and Jody?”

  “Yes, actually. I was planning to eliminate them on test day as I told you, but then you never came back from the bathroom. While we searched for you, I sent someone to pick them up. I had no real desire to keep them or train them myself. Neither one impressed me, although Sami has always been very cooperative. After all, she’s the one who told you about the leadership exam.”

  It was Sami. It was always Sami. I’m beyond being surprised, but I won’t show the bastard—he’ll think he won and he didn’t win. He’s not winning anything as long as I’m around. When I don’t give him his desired emotional reaction, he tugs again on the zip-tie. It cuts into my ankles, but I refuse to reveal weakness. Any weakness. “I’m impressed with what they’ve learned and their eagerness to please me. I was extremely upset with them for acting on their own the other night, but last night,” he smiles at me, “well, last night they executed their roles perfectly.”

  Before I can fight them, tears roll down my cheeks. Damn Treadwell. Finally satisfied with my reaction, he continues, “The other night when Sami mistakenly shot Frank instead of you—that was an unfortunate incident I did not anticipate. I had no idea her hate for you ran so deep. Luckily, one of my men on the police force brought them to me before they were processed. I punished them accordingly. The standard methods of no food, no water, and light deprivation.”

  He paces the room, glowing with admiration. I’m glad his new recruits make him proud. “It is truly amazing what one can accomplish in a few short days with the correct amount of persuasion. When I sent them out the last night, well you witnessed their work. Although I must say that your ‘boyfriend’ was more than willing....” He shakes his head. “The girls have proven quite capable. They will become your bodyguards. Sami’s not especially thrilled with the idea, but she’s been instructed not to kill you,” he says this as if offering some sort of consolation to me. “I’ve never seen such a violent streak in a female.”

  Someone bangs on the door.

  Treadwell glances at Thomas. General Clone opens the door. A head peeks in. Male, mid-twenties.

  “General, it’s urgent.”

  “Jessica, we’re not through with this conversation.”

  “The name is Starr,” I snarl.

  He stops and smiles at me. A smile that touches his eyes. “Not anymore.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Di

  Finding an oversized van in a crowded commercial district should be easy. It should be as simple as walking in the right direction, but Asheville roadways don’t run like an organized grid system the way most cities do. There are side streets and buildings blocking avenues, and ramps—ramps in a city to get from one block to the next. Starr would have a field day figuring why the streets were designed in such a way. All I want to do is find the van and get the fuck out of Asheville.

  There are cops everywhere—directing traffic, talking into their little handheld walkie-talkies, probably looking for a white female wearing a motorcycle helmet. Not one so much as glances in my direction. This is new to me, a novelty I kind of enjoy—at least for today Ever since I dyed my hair black and became a daily consumer of Elmer’s Glue, I can’t get rid of law enforcement officials—they’re always wanting to know where I’m going, who am I meeting, why am I loitering—just constant, never-ending harassment. Today though, dressed mostly hipster, I’m ignored. I can’t say I didn’t die a little when I traded my anarchy shirt for a flannel, but today, anonymity is priceless.

  The GPS walking directions meander around the square on the way to the courthouse. I remember Starr salivating over the yellow brick courthouse. It’s ranked one of the nicest in the country for its architectural detail. Her architectural-nerd session reminded me of our eighth-grade field trip to Albany. Even as a fourteen-year-old, Starr possessed knowledge of the building that far surpassed our tour guide, but her sights weren’t on the governor’s quarters. Even then, her focus was the White House.

  Along Broadway and East Walnut Street, I spot the van sitting among the sedans and SUVs. Relief passes through me. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the “I got my shit together” act—the bolts to the wheel hubs are coming loose, and I’m inches from smashing headfirst into the effing concrete divider. The five police officers stationed between the van and me are also something of a challenge. Without planning to, I pick up my pace. I keep my head down as I pass the first police officer. One down. Four to go. My phone jingles in my pocket. The second officer snaps his head in my direction.

  Act casual Di. Act like you’re supposed to be here. Act like you’re a zen-inspired hipster with a groovy Hollister flannel.

  And don’t forget to answ
er the fucking phone.

  “Hello?”

  “I see you coming. Slow down. Coda’s going to swing the van into the other lane,” Frank says. The left turn signal switches on. Two police officers move in the direction of the van.

  “Frank, in-coming.”

  “I see them. Hold on.” He rolls down his window and motions to the police officers. They glance at each other and walk up to the window. Whatever he says to them makes them step back and talk to each other. One motions to the side alley about fifteen feet in front of me on the opposite side of the road. The other monitors the area. His eyes rest on me. My stomach drops. I clutch the phone. Does he recognize me? Is he one of the cops who chased me? Did I almost hit him with the Ninja?

  I backpedal. He fingers the walkie-talkie at his waist. My muscles tense. A horn in front of the van redirects his attention. I cut to the alley. It’s too crowded here.

  “Hey you!” A commanding voice says. A voice used to being listened to.

  I speed up, slipping between the bumpers of two cars caught in traffic.

  “Stop!” he yells.

  I ignore him. The van’s creeping toward me. I could jump in it now, but that’s not a getaway. I full-out sprint across the street and down the alley.

  “Di!” Frank shouts into the phone. “Di! Slow down.”

  “I’ll meet you at the next intersection. Hurry!” I click off my phone before I hear his reply. My boots thunder through the alley. I never slow down. I never look back. In a race, you can’t. In a race, if you look back you lose. I learned that from Starr. She always yelled, “Don’t look back! Keep going!”

  I imagine her cheering for me now. Sweat pours down my neck, the tail of the flannel shirt whipping behind me.

  “Breathe! Don’t forget to breathe,” she’d say.

  The van swings the curve. Frank’s waving for me from the side door. He must have moved to the back after the cops.

  “Dive in,” Starr always says.

  And I do.

  My lips find his. I pour all the scared, all the panic, all the adrenaline rushing through me into that kiss. Instead of emptying me, it fills me with the desire for more. More of Frank. More of the kiss. More of everything.

  Never in all my kisses have I kissed like this or been kissed like this. It’s like fire exploding into an inferno with enough fuel to keep it burning for fifty lifetimes. I wrap my legs around him. He flinches. It’s the only negative reaction he’s given, but it’s enough to douse the flames, enough to remind me that I’m me and he’s Frank, and that’s how it is.

  I recede back into the bench seat, keeping my eyes down.

  “Oh no...,” he says. “You’re not shutting us off. We’re just getting started. You just touched the dressing.”

  Forgot about his GSW.

  I am an asshole.

  He nuzzles my neck. “Di, kiss me.”

  I don’t. Of course, I don’t.

  “Di,” he whispers, low and needy. It’s almost enough to crack the armor I put back on. His hands cradle my face. I fight them. I fight him.

  But he’s stronger. His lips touch mine. A shock riffles through me. I pinch mine shut. I am a warrior. A mighty, powerful warrior.

  His lips, so gently, so softly, open and close, open and close—wanting, asking, begging me to join him. I am overloaded with stimulation. Today. Last night. Yesterday. These past few weeks have ruined me. Tiny fissures erupt. A crack. An opening. His tongue slips in, and I yield. I am not strong enough to fight it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Starr

  Sitting by myself, all alone except for one uncommunicative General Clone gives me too much time to think. Too much time to remember. Treadwell spouts about delivering the death stroke with a pen, a heart attack with a handheld electric charge, an explosion with a leaky gas line and a toaster, but he hasn’t mentioned anything about the ability to erase memory and that’s what I need. Not all my memories mind you—I’d like to remember happy times in my childhood when Dad was alive and the three of us would have picnics on top of Mt. Waxwell. I’d also like to remember my time with Di and Frank when we’d hang out in my room after school and watch movies and talk about stuff. I’d like to erase all my memories of Sami and Jody. Times I thought we were sharing our most intimate secrets as the best of friends, but really, it only fed their hate for me. Most of all I’d like to erase my time with Christian. All the arguments, the dirty looks, the mean, off-handed remarks, I want to keep. Those memories I can hold on to, turn the pain to anger.

  I’m might be a prisoner, but my friends aren’t. They got away. They’re free of the Organization. They’re free of me. A giant burden they’re no longer forced to bear. That’s something.

  I wonder how long they waited at the Asheville Courthouse. I know I worried that they would abandon me and return to their pre-Starr life but Frank wouldn’t. Frank would wait for me as long as he could. Di would wait too. I may not have known Sami and Jody anywhere near as well as I thought I did, but I know Frank and Di, and they would wait for me.

  My mind drifts to Christian again. I can’t help it. I can’t help feeling this incredible loss, like a piece of me died. I thought I knew him. I thought I knew him as well as I know Frank and Di. Our time together could be measured in weeks instead of years, but still, I thought I knew him. Does he feel anything at all or is he as heartless as those pictures make it seem? Stupid tears spring from my eyes. I swipe them off. Sentimental thoughts will do me no good.

  A knock comes at the door. “Come in,” Thomas grunts.

  A guy, early twenties, buzzed hair, carries a tray over. “Eat,” he says to me. His voice doesn’t have the depth or callousness of Thomas’s but there’s the “obey or pay” rhythm to it.

  I raise my chin. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Eat,” he orders.

  “I might be Treadwell’s prisoner, but he can’t make me eat, and neither can you.” To prove my resolve, I stare out the window. The field and the mountains beyond are my only escape from this prison.

  He lifts up the tray and carries it over to Thomas. “Suit yourself. Put it outside the door. I’ll pick it up later.”

  Thomas doesn’t waste time trying to make me eat. In fact, after he shovels his food in his uncommunicative trap, he finishes mine as well. I’m glad he realizes there’s no point fighting with me. I find this redeemable of him, and in a world filled with betrayal and hurt, I need these small consolations to survive.

  ***

  Di

  “My god, get a room,” Christian says.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Coda replies.

  “Starr and I weren’t that bad.”

  Coda laughs. “You were worse.”

  I’ve never given so much of myself in a first kiss. Well, technically our second. Fears, anxieties, warnings poke around inside my head.

  “Stupid,” they jeer.

  “Weak,” they hiss.

  “Mistake,” they cackle.

  But Frank’s warm, strong hands cradle my face as if I am a vintage Robert Smith poster.

  My phone buzzes. My first impulse is to answer it. My second is to ignore it and cherish the feeling of being wanted. My third impulse arrives when Christian yanks the phone out of my pocket and answers it.

  “Hey Ben,” he says. His greeting enough to bring me back to the interior of the van. “We’re on our way.”

  He’s quiet as he listens to whatever Ben’s saying. “Why didn’t Di answer? She got a bit distracted with Frank.”

  My cheeks burn scarlet. An unfortunate side effect of no makeup. Frank drags his finger along my jawline. My breath catches. No one’s ever touched me so tenderly. I cannot be that person. I cannot.

  “Any word on Starr?” We all hear the hope in his voice, and the pin that pops it. “I’m going to have Coda drop me back off at headquarters. I’m questioning the neighbors.”

  Frank and I turn to him. He’s insane. That has to be it.

  He scowls at us as he listens t
o Ben. “Oh, I didn’t know that.” The color drains from his face. His eyes meet mine. A storm brews. “It doesn’t matter. I’m still going. I have to find her, Ben. I have to.”

  He might be talking to Ben, but the words are for all of us. I pry the phone from him. “Ben, it’s me. We’ll be at your parents’ place in about an hour.”

  Christian reaches for the phone, but I move between the seats—far from his reach.

  “Di, you need to get here as soon as possible but don’t draw attention to yourselves. They just released the van and car descriptions, along with the license plate numbers,” Ben says.

  The Organization works faster than I thought. I always knew that corruption existed in government, especially at the local level, but I had no idea that the newspapers and news stations were in on it too.

  “I’ll let everyone know. See you soon.” I slip the phone back into my pocket.

  “We’ve got another problem. They’ve got the van description and the license plate.”

  “I’m going back to headquarters to question the neighbors. Fucking Jude. He screwed everything up.” Venom fills the van. Coda glances in the rearview mirror at his prone body. Christian doesn’t swear.

  I draw upon my What Would Starr Do—WWSD—for inspiration. I take in a deep breath—which by the way is helpful, especially if you haven’t breathed at all for about four hours—and reflect his words back to him. “Yes, he did, but Christian, I don’t think it would do you any good asking the neighbors if they’ve seen Starr. I didn’t see one neighbor or helpful pedestrian during my escape and believe me, I wish I did. I climbed down the fire escape. I took down the Hulk’s nephew with my Taser. I drove away on the Ninja. If anyone was going to help, they would have done it. Your picture’s all over the news and the internet too. People eat this sort of thing up. If you get arrested, you aren’t doing Starr any good.”

  His blue eyes get watery. He blinks them away. “I just can’t sit around and do nothing. I have to find her.”