Ribbons (23 page)

He never called the number. By the time they started hunting for him, he was already three states away.

32

The paths were becoming more and more familiar. Foster almost didn’t need her help anymore. Somehow, the Woman in the Garden knew all about the city he lived in or at least how to get from one place to another. That seemed odd since she never left the garden. In fact, Foster didn’t think she
could
leave the garden. That’s why she needed Foster. Maybe she had a map. One that used something other than GPS to tell you where you were. The paths she had him walk were never the same, but they did seem to follow a certain logic.

He was also starting to recognize landmarks. It’s just that the landmarks were relative. When he saw a dog peeing on a tree or a bush, he knew to turn right. If the dog was peeing on a fire hydrant or a streetlight, he took a left. If a red car drove past, Foster knew to stop and wait until it turned, then go in the opposite direction. If a homeless person asked him for spare change, he gave it and would wait one minute for each coin he’d given. If the homeless person got freaked out and left, Foster knew that danger was near, and he should step out of sight. If somebody offered Foster some spare change, he knew he could take a shortcut.

He still followed her instructions, though. He had to finish this tonight, and he didn’t want to waste any more time. That woman Erica had ruined everything. Foster should have just used a chair to keep her quiet like he did with Candice, but that seemed a bit cold. He had been hoping to have some time to explain what he was doing. She would have thanked him. Now he had to improvise. Thanks to Erica, he was heading someplace new. The Woman in the Garden had given him clear instructions:

6:36 p.m. – Turn toward the North Star and walk along the path of Paradise.

6:43 p.m. – A bus shall pass bearing the image of a great and meaty sandwich with fried potato sticks. Follow its direction along the Saharan road.

6:46 p.m. – Pass by Saint Clara, giving her no heed.

6:47 p.m. – Pass Saint Paula also giving her no heed.

6:48 p.m. – But pay heed to Saint Rita, who will, in turn, lead you to the Saint of Roses.

6:54 p.m. – Humble thyself and extend thy hands. Take the gift offered. Three coins of silver, each a different size.

6:56 p.m. – Step sideways between shadows and onto the forest path.

6:57 p.m. – Inspect the nearest tree for moss. Follow the path in the direction the moss grows.

7:07 p.m. – You will see strings of fairy lights settled onto a small cottage. This is not a house of good humor and merriment, but instead a house where men of common purpose form alliances.

7:08 p.m. – Knock thrice and enter, blade drawn, for it is guarded. There you shall find a prize most desired by a worthy daughter.

All of which made complete sense to Foster.

When he saw the bus, the hamburger ad made him realize how hungry he was. Luckily, he still had that pudding cup. No time to stop, so he ate it as he walked. He found it funny that there were so many streets named after saints so close to the Strip. At exactly 6:54 p.m. he kneeled down on the sidewalk and held his hands cupped above his head, as though he was hoping it would rain and they would fill up with water. A man about to pass by was so startled that he took a quick step back and looked at Foster. Then the man reached into his pocket and practically threw change into Foster’s hand as he hurried by. One quarter, one nickel, and one dime.

Foster saw the shadows flicker. The sun had set, and this street was far enough from the lights of the casinos that there were dark patches between streetlights. The patch to his right shifted. One second the shadow of a struggling tree was hiding a garbage can, the next it was hiding the mailbox on the opposite side. Foster didn’t turn, but he sidestepped toward the tree. The tree changed. It was no longer surrounded by concrete, struggling to find water. Now it was an ancient sycamore, thick and strong. Everything got darker. There were no more streetlights, and the moon was hidden by the canopy of a forest. The street was gone, too, replaced by a narrow dirt path choked with weeds.

The moss on the tree pointed behind Foster, so he turned around and started walking. It looked similar to the path he had taken earlier that evening, but then these trails always looked similar. The forest seemed endless, and none of his walks ever took him to the edge or even to a clearing. It seemed like the kind of forest where fairy tales grew up to become nightmares. It made Foster nervous, and he started walking faster. He wasn’t sure if that would mess up the timing of his schedule, or if the schedule knew that he would be walking faster at this point. He was relieved when he saw the lights right on time.

They weren’t actually fairies, which was a little bit disappointing. Instead, they looked like Christmas tree lights drizzled over a forgotten shack. And calling it a
shack
was being generous. It stood just off the path. The lights didn’t do much more than highlight its shape, and the trees growing closest to it seemed to bend slightly away from it, as if they were afraid to touch it. There was a flag out front, a smiley-face pirate flag. Foster wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he did pause before stepping toward the door. His hand shook a little as he extended the blade on his box cutter.

He knocked one minute late. The first was just a tap that he barely heard himself. Then he clenched his teeth and put a little more force behind his knuckles for the remaining two. He almost took a step back when he heard a voice from behind the door.

“The-Lord-is-my-light-and-my-stronghold-Of-whom-shall-I-be-afraid?”

Foster remembered that voice. It was the boy from the path. The Woman in the Garden hadn’t known who he was when Foster had mentioned seeing him before. Did she know he would be here? Was he the guardian, or was he the prize? Foster opened the door and stepped in.

The boy stood by the far wall with his back to Foster. The wall was covered with lines. The designs were similar to the patterns he had been taught to draw, but the style was different. So were some of the symbols.

As Foster was trying to take it all in, the boy spun around. He looked surprised to see Foster, which didn’t make sense. He did knock, after all, didn’t he?

“You’re not Matt,” said the boy.

“No,” said Foster. “I’m not.”

Foster looked around the room. There wasn’t much to it. There was a table with some strange toy army men, paints, and brushes. The boy must have been working on them. One of the brushes still looked wet.

The boy’s eyes darted around a couple of times and then focused on Foster again. “You were on that trail in the forest . . . But that wasn’t real.”

Foster stepped over to the table. One of the little pots of paint was open. Foster picked it up. Apparently, it was called Apocalypse Sunrise Orange. He spoke without looking at the boy. “That trail led me here.”

The boy took a step back, pressing himself up against the wall. “I thought that was a dream. Why did I say those things to you?”

That was weird. Foster set down the paint. “I don’t know.
You’re
the one who said them.”

“I don’t think I did,” said the boy.

Patterns and lines swirled all around on the wall behind the boy. Foster traced one in the air with his finger. “Did you draw those lines?”

The boy tilted his head back to look over one shoulder. “Yeah. I think so.”

“What kind of pen do you use?”

There was a sharp hissing sound followed by a low growl. At first Foster couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Then he looked down. A scruffy cat was trying to make itself look twice as big as it actually was. Maybe that was the guardian.

Foster raised his blade and looked at the cat.
Really, cat?

The cat lunged. It was all claws, and teeth, and guttural sounds. It crashed into Foster like a gladiator. Before Foster could react, the cat raked his leg with a series of lightning-fast blows. It followed that up with a savage bite, its ears pinned back and its fur standing up.

Foster was wearing jeans, so he barely felt any of it. He reached down and grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck. He had to give a couple of tugs before the cat’s grip finally gave way. Foster pointed his blade at the boy and backed up a couple of steps. The boy was frozen in place. Foster opened the door. The forest and path were gone, replaced by the heat and stink of the city. He lobbed the cat outside. It landed on most of its feet and immediately ran off into the shadows of a nearby house. There were lights on in the house, and Foster heard music. He stepped back into the shack and closed the door.

“I know who you are,” said the boy. “You’re that killer on TV.”

“No,” said Foster. “I’m the killer in your playhouse.” He looked down at his leg. No real damage. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to kill you, though.”

“It’s . . . it’s a clubhouse.”

“Right. Not a house of good humor or merriment.”

The boy’s eyes were glassy. “Why are you doing this?”

Foster didn’t like the look he was giving him. “I just want to go home.”

“So go.” The boy sounded like he was pleading.

“I need somebody to go with me,” said Foster. “Somebody I think you might know.”

33

Christy had forgotten to ask for one of those cardboard drink trays, so she had to juggle three milkshakes and a bag of hamburgers as she made her way into the house. Her purse hung from one shoulder, and it kept getting in the way as she tried to open the door. If she ended up dropping one of the shakes, that could be Matt’s. Amber must have been keeping an eye on the foyer and rushed over to help, but by then Christy had already made it inside.

Amber closed the door as she eyed the armload of fast-food. “Your eyes might be bigger than your stomach.”

“I sure hope so,” said Christy. “If I eat one of these things, I’ll just want to sit on the couch all night and binge-watch teen dramedies.” She offered the bag to Amber. “Can you help me out and eat a handful of fries?”

Amber took the bag and looked inside. “Of course.”

Christy rearranged the drinks in her arms to improve the odds that they might all survive the trip to the break room. “I’m sure Adam’s starving. Things went a bit late with Erica.”

Between fries, Amber asked, “How is she? Is she coming in?”

“I don’t think so. Not tonight. Is it busy?”

“Not too bad. No requests for latex yet. Are you working?”

“Yeah,” said Christy, “in just a bit. I need to make sure Adam eats at least one of these burgers. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Amber handed the bag back and licked the salt off her fingers. “Okay, I’ll let the girls know. Thanks for the lard.”

Christy continued her balancing act down the hallway. She felt a little self-conscious as she passed by the open doorway to the parlor. Smuggling in that many calories might ruin the illusion of a sophisticated house of ill repute. As promised, it wasn’t too crowded and nobody saw her sneak by. When she got to the break room, she pushed down on the handle with her elbow and then bumped the door open with her hip.

Instead of finding Adam pretending to do homework in front of the TV, she found Matt’s new partner. Actually, they had never been properly introduced. Matt just referred to him as Thug Guy. Right now, Thug Guy had a magnifying glass held up to one eye that made it look freakishly huge. He was using it to look at the tip of a hot-glue gun.

Christy started to back out the door again, hoping he hadn’t noticed her.

He did notice her. “You are not looking for me, I guess?”

Christy stopped backing out and put on a fake smile. “No. Have you seen Matt? I’m running a bit late.”

Thug Guy looked over the rim of his magnifying glass at her. “Late for dinner?”

“I’m covering for Erica,” Christy said. “She’s out . . . sick.”

A bead of glue was starting to form at the tip of the glue gun. “I’m sure she is out sick a lot,” said Thug Guy. “Have not seen him. Maybe is hiding in playhouse again.”

“He was looking in on Adam for me.”

“Like good pimp.”

Thug Guy brought the tip of the glue gun down to something on the table. Something covered in black feathers.

“He’s trying to take care of us, so we can do our jobs,” said Christy. That’s when she realized what the thing on the table was. The body of a large black bird lay on its side. Thug Guy was placing a drop of glue in its empty eye socket. Christy’s fake smile melted into disgust. “What are you doing?”

Thug Guy answered without looking up. “Arts and crafts.” He carefully pressed a black glass ball into the glue. He lifted the bird a little so she could see its new eye. “The eyes give it life.”

“You didn’t have to kill it in the first place,” she said.

“No,” said Thug Guy. “But now it is . . . uh . . . immortal?”

“We eat in here, you know. And Adam does his homework at that table. Your hobby isn’t exactly kid-friendly.”

Thug Guy turned the body over and angled his glue gun down at the other eye socket.

“My father taught me when I was boy,” he said. “We spent summers in cabin. We would hunt and collect mushrooms. It remind me of him.”

“Oh,” said Christy. “Where is he now?”

“He is buried behind cabin,” said Thug Guy. He tapped in the other glass eye and stood the bird up to look at it. He gave a slight nod and turned the bird toward her. “Is not creepy. His heart gave up. He would want to rest there.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the smell of the glue or the smell of the bird, but she was quickly losing her appetite.

“Okay,” she said. “Well, if you see Matt, tell him I’m looking for him.”

Thug Guy put down his glue gun as Christy backed out into the hallway. Adam was probably still out in his clubhouse, so she figured she would check there first. If Matt wasn’t there, she would head up to his office.

She made it as far as the VIP room before she felt a hand on her shoulder. She could tell by the meaty grip that it was Thug Guy’s.

“You leave so quick,” he said. “Let me help carry things.”

His accent made it hard to tell whether he was actually concerned or just looking for an excuse to touch her. She turned to look at him, and it became pretty clear it was the latter.

“That’s all right. I got it,” said Christy.

He didn’t move his hand. “So you only need Matt’s help?”

She shrugged out of his grip and took a step back. “I can manage on my own.”

That made him mad, and he stopped pretending to be helpful. He shot out an arm and grabbed her wrist. One of the drinks fell to the ground, and the lid popped off. There was a slosh of thick white liquid as vanilla shake pooled on the floor.

“To me, it seems you should take all help you can get,” said Thug Guy.

Her bag dropped as she tried to pull away. It didn’t work. “Let go!”

He leaned in close until he was almost nose to nose with her. Now he looked more amused than angry. “You know, me and Matt, we like partners. This make me your boss, too.”

Christy met his gaze. She was sure
she
looked angry. “He never said that.”

“I am saying that.” He cocked his head slightly.

Christy stopped trying to pull his wrist away. Instead, she let her hand drop down by her purse. She kept staring at him while she reached inside and felt around for her can of pepper spray.

“That’s not the way it works,” she said.

The last two drinks hit the floor as he pushed her up against the VIP room door. He pressed his body against her, pinning her in place. When she felt a bulge grind up against her hip, she pulled out the spray.

Thug Guy glanced down toward his crotch and then back up at her. “I can feel it working—”

Suddenly she was falling backward. Thug Guy fell with her and seemed just as surprised as she was. They landed on the VIP room floor. She probably would have been fine if there hadn’t been a big pile of thug on top of her. As it was, she landed hard, and her breath was knocked out of her. Thug Guy recovered more quickly and was up on one knee before Christy could see straight again.

The door closed them in the room. Thug Guy stood up, and Christy took the opportunity to scoot away from him. Somehow, she managed to keep hold of the pepper spray. The lights were on but they were dim, casting the corners of the room in shadows, which is how most clients liked it. She didn’t see any clients or any of the other girls in here, though. Instead, she saw Adam. He was standing by the closed door, and he had a blade to his throat. Panic rushed through her in a sickening pulse.

“Hi,” said a voice. “Is this yours?”

Behind Adam was a man that Christy thought she must know. He seemed so familiar.

Adam swallowed hard. “Mom. It’s him. That guy they’re looking for.”

Christy’s stomach roiled. This was the nightmare that crept into parents’ minds when they watched their children sleeping:
What if my child was in an accident? What if he was abducted? What if his life was threatened? What would I do?

The fear flooding through her body wouldn’t let her think of any answers.

The man looked at Christy. “We heard you two bickering out in the hallway. Adam, here, said you were his mother.”

Thug Guy straightened himself up and stared at the man. “Who is this?”

“His name’s Foster,” said Adam. “He’s—”

Foster tightened his grip on Adam and held the box cutter up to his nose. “Shh.”

“Okay,” said Thug Guy. “Foster, is it? You are making mistake. My name is—”

Foster cut him off, too. “You aren’t needed here.”

Thug Guy’s hands turned into fists. “Oh? Is this true?” He tipped his head from one side to the other, his neck making popping sounds. He looked like a boxer about to step into the ring. Before Christy could tell him not to, Thug Guy moved forward.

“Yes,” said Foster. The simple word was punctuated by his hand slashing out with the box cutter.

At first Christy thought he’d missed. Thug Guy stopped moving and looked confused. She didn’t see the cut until he tried to turn his head. Then a gush of blood sprayed up at an angle into the air. Thug Guy watched it with fascination. A second gush shot out before Thug Guy thought to cover his neck with his hands. Christy watched as blood flooded out between his fingers. He took a step back. Then a step forward. He tried to say something, but that just made bubbles come out of his neck. His hat fell off as he collapsed to the floor. The pale bird skull attached to it stared up at Christy.

“That was . . . easy,” said Foster.

“What did you do?” asked Christy.

Foster looked at her. He gestured with his knife as he talked. “He didn’t matter. You. You matter.”

Adam was staring wide-eyed at the body on the ground. There was a line of blood splatter across his cheek.

Christy held out her hands in front of her. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

Foster pointed his box cutter at one of her hands. “Well, you can start by dropping
that
. It looks dangerous.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about at first, but then she realized he was pointing to the pepper spray she was holding in a trembling hand. It seemed like a toy now. She dropped it, and it rolled away into the shadows.

Foster nodded toward the black leather bench in front of the St. Andrew’s Cross. “Is that a bed?”

“Kind of,” said Christy.

“Please have a seat,” said Foster.

The pool of blood around Thug Guy was starting to spread out across the floor. Foster shuffled Adam a couple of steps to the side to avoid getting it on their shoes.

Christy stood up on shaking legs. It took her a second to get her balance before she made her way to the bench. “Look, you can have anything you want. Just let him go.”

Foster returned the blade to the soft spot under Adam’s chin. “I think the only way I’m going to get what I want is by keeping him here. Now take off your clothes.”

“Please,” said Christy. “Not with him here.”

“It will be worse if I have to cut them off you.”

Christy forced herself to look at Adam and tried to sound reassuring. “Don’t look, honey.”

Adam’s eyes drifted across the room like he was taking it in for the first time. “He’s not alone.”

“Shh. Honey, don’t make him mad.”

Foster looked down at Adam. He didn’t seem mad. He seemed curious. “No. It’s all right. Who do you see?”

“That woman,” said Adam. “Your mother. Only . . .”

Adam didn’t finish. His eyes started to flutter like they did before one of his episodes. Christy felt a tear sting her cheek.
Not now!
But then she thought,
Maybe it’s for the best.

Foster took away the knife and turned Adam’s chin to look at him. “Only what?”

Adam’s eyes stopped fluttering. They snapped wide open. “She doesn’t look at you the way my mom looks at me.”

“How does she look at me?”

“The same way men do when they see the women here. She looks hungry.”