Tribe, page 4
On the surface, Henry didn’t look like a threat. Sarah could beat him in arm wrestling with just a pinkie. But he was unpredictable and fearless, which the police seemed to know. She didn’t know him, but still felt bad leaving while he was still being questioned. Then she realized that she was a black woman leaving the scene of a crime before a white man.
Small victories, she thought, and headed for the exit.
Before leaving, she turned back and said, “Thanks, Henry. For everything today. I owe you.”
It was a bit of a show. She didn’t really feel like she owed anyone anything. As far as she was concerned, boosting his positivity rating with the cops made them even.
She was ready for the summer heat. Ready for the white noise of car engines, and the sharp reports of honking horns and wailing sirens. What she wasn’t ready for were the flashing bulbs and shouting voices.
Human piranha swarmed in around her, working in tandem to swallow her whole. She heard bits and pieces of questions…
“How did you stop—”
“When did you realize the men were—”
“How proud do you think your parents—”
Sarah flinched back from the chaos, tripping on her own foot. Cameras clicked. The shouting grew frantic.
Anger boiled up, scalding Sarah’s insides, propelling her toward lashing out. Her eyes flicked between targets. A camera. A microphone. A face. One man was in front of the others, big teeth gnashing as he shouted over the other reports. It was like Gary Busey had invaded a nightmare—but all of this was real.
She stood up, predatory eyes on Gary. While most people entered a fight with fists raised, Sarah kept hers open. He’d be on his back, stretched out in an arm bar before he knew what had happened.
Gary’s mouth clamped shut when she stood. He understood the look in her eyes.
She took a step toward him, about to ruin her life on camera. She knew, but for that one moment, didn’t care.
A firm hand on Sarah’s shoulder stopped her progress—and pissed her off. This time, she made a fist. She didn’t like to punch people, because when she did they got hurt really bad, really fast, but she wasn’t thinking.
“Thank you, Sarah,” said a calm voice.
Helen’s almost black eyes looked down at her, a smile on the woman’s face.
Tension melted away from Sarah, all of her anger gone.
“I’ll handle this lot,” Helen said with a wink, and then stepped past Sarah, soaking up the limelight like a black hole.
Not a single eye or camera remained on Sarah.
Helen was everything Sarah wanted to be, and part of her wanted to join the powerful woman now center stage. But as usual, she was left in the shadows, forgotten and alone.
6
Henry listened with indifference to a myriad of aggressive questions. He wasn’t worried, and this wasn’t his first run-in with the law. He’d never been jailed. Never sent to juvey. Most judges took pity on him because he’d watched his parents die—chalked up his deviant behavior to a broken heart. Others felt sorry for him because no foster family wanted to keep him—not because he was a bad kid. Until today, breaking the law was never pre-meditated, simply a knee jerk reaction. People just couldn’t handle the unpredictability that came with fearlessness. Whether he was doing something dangerous, or bluntly speaking his opinion without a filter, he just wore people down.
Like he was doing now.
The officer—‘Jones’ on the nametag—was growing more and more flustered by Henry’s lack of interest. The man had been kind at first. Thankful, even. But after Henry had been ID’d, and his long, convictionless rap sheet uncovered, Jones had unleashed a series of veiled threats, trying to get Henry to slip up. To admit to some kind of wrongdoing. Police—Henry believed—didn’t like it when people beat the system, even if the system had failed them.
So far, Jones hadn’t asked whether Henry had intended to rob the bank, which was good. Henry couldn’t help but tell the truth, damn the consequences.
“So you didn’t intend to hurt anyone today?” Jones asked.
Henry looked the man in the eyes, lingered until he looked away. “I already answered that question.”
“I didn’t like your answer.”
“I never intend to hurt anyone,” Henry said. “And if I did, it wouldn’t be with a pen.”
“Right. The pen. That you…” He looked at his notes. “…that you used to puncture the man’s chin…and wrist…and lung. A pen.”
“I’m sure the other witnesses will tell you the same thing.”
“Uh-huh. And where is this pen?”
Henry was about to answer truthfully, but Jones continued.
“I don’t see it anywhere? Do you?”
Henry looked around. “No. I don’t see it.”
“Right…”
“Is this how you normally treat heroes?” Henry asked.
The man huffed. “Kid, you’re about as far from being a hero as your left nut is from dropping.”
Henry’s cold logic judged the man. He was overweight to a degree. No ring on his finger. His skin was oily and pocked with old scars. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and his coffee breath stank like day-old dog shit. He wasn’t winning over the ladies, and Henry doubted any Tinder hook-ups went farther than, ‘Oh, dear God.’
“At least I don’t sleep with prostitutes,” Henry said. “How many STDs do you have? I hope you’ve been tested.”
Jones’s face slowly turned red. His eyes lowered to his notes, pretending to ignore and read, but shame radiated from the man.
Henry was about to take his painfully accurate insult storm a bit farther, because why stop? But the man closed his notebook, said, “Heroes aren’t douchebags,” and walked away.
“A lesson for both of us,” Henry said, his eyes traveling from Jones to Sarah, headed toward the exit. Something in him stirred. It wasn’t attraction, not in a sexual—or even a cerebral—sense. But he felt a connection with her. Like they shared a heart.
He had her back.
She had his.
He’d never felt a connection like that before, even if it was short-lived.
Sarah exited and was caught off guard by a crowd of reporters—from the newspapers and TV networks. Images of her falling would be live on TV and maybe even on the front page in the morning.
Henry sprang to his feet, and then staggered.
What was that?
His heart pounded like he’d just run.
He looked back at the seat. Brow furrowed, he considered, Was that fear?
Am I worried about her?
He looked back to Sarah and felt it again, this time more clearly.
It was anger.
And he knew what to do with that.
Henry headed for the door, but made it only a few steps before the woman named Helen beat him to it, no concern for the cameras or the blood on her dress.
Still moving, he watched the older woman—perhaps in her forties—pause to help Sarah up. His anger abated, but just by a little. The horde was still there, hungry to get the scoop, to find the right angle, to ask the first question.
I’ll give them something to report, Henry thought, fists clenched.
Summer heat tingled his skin as he exited. Even with the broken window, the bank’s interior was a good fifteen degrees cooler. Not a camera or eye shifted toward him. The mob was focused on Helen. She commanded their attention.
Good, he thought. They won’t see me coming.
“The four men who entered this bank had no intention of robbing it,” Helen said into the growing blossom of microphones and cellphones.
Interest slowed Henry’s approach.
He glanced at Sarah, on her feet, watching the crowd as they watched Helen. She was okay.
“They were here for me,” Helen said, and when reporters started shouting questions, she spoke louder. “They were here for this.”
Helen held her hand up, revealing a diamond ring. A large stone in the middle was surrounded by two rows of smaller rocks. Henry wasn’t an expert on diamonds. He wondered why people cared about them at all, outside of their practical uses. Diamonds were far less pretty than most everything else in the natural world, and their rarity was a scam to keep prices inflated. But it did look big and sparkly, and if four men had tried to steal it…
He eyed the ring, wondering where something like that could be sold.
“A family heirloom,” Helen said.
“How old is it?” a reporter shouted above the din.
Helen lowered her hand, turning it around so the diamonds faced out and she was looking at her own palm. “Too old...” She looked up. “Long before Boston—”
“How much is it worth?” a young woman in a beanie asked, thrusting her cellphone forward. Henry couldn’t tell if she was a reporter or a pushy passer-by who got thrown into the mix.
“Priceless,” Helen said. “One of a kind.”
Is she trying to get robbed? Henry wondered, cocking his fist back to strike the nearest reporter. It would make Jones’s day, Henry committing a crime on camera, but…
Whatevs.
“And it would have been lost forever if not for—” Helen took Henry’s fist as it came forward, twisting the punch into a victorious air thrust. “This fearless young man.” She gave Henry a very brief, very serious glance that said, ‘Don’t screw this up,’ and then motioned to Sarah. “And this powerful young woman. Together they subdued two killers armed with shotguns. Without them, I would not be standing here.”
“That’s laying it on a little thick,” Henry blurted, hand still raised. “You were—”
“Fortunate you were there,” Helen said.
The cameras shifted to Henry and Sarah for just a moment, long enough to capture their awkward smiles, and then zeroed back in on Helen.
“The police are saying that it was you who—”
“I was lucky,” Helen said, and before Henry could say otherwise, Helen gave his arm a painful squeeze. “And I am grateful to my two rescuers…who are leaving now.” She released Henry’s arm and looked into his eyes. “With me.” She turned to Sarah, who still looked befuddled and lost. “Now.”
Sarah gave a slow nod. “O-okay…”
Henry’s natural instinct was to resist, insult, and be on his merry way, a loner until the end. Instead he gave a simple nod and fell in line behind Helen, as she parted the sea of reporters like Moses and strolled across the old brick sidewalk.
He had never been a follower. Not once in his life. He pretty much swam upstream while everyone else just coasted along. But he was intrigued, and his schedule was clear.
He glanced back at Sarah as she followed him, the crowd reforming behind her, watching their retreat. The reporters continued shouting, but it was just white noise now.
“You okay?” he asked.
She smiled. “You worried?” He opened his mouth to respond in the negative, but she beat him to it. “But that’s not possible for you, is it?”
“No,” he said, irritation growing. His lack of concern for anything and everything was his identity. He looked down on other people’s fear. Saw it as a weakness. That was part of the connection to Sarah—her ability to overcome the crippling emotion. It was also his willingness to follow Helen—whose control over dread seemed absolute. But Sarah was pushing it…which, he had to admit, was also brave. She’d seen what he could do.
Sarah gave a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Admit it. You were worried.”
Henry was about to do… Well, he didn’t yet know what he’d do, but it wasn’t going to be good. Then Sarah’s eyes widened and looked past him.
“Holy shit,” she said.
Henry turned forward and found Helen climbing into a purple McLaren, her dress sliding up a little as she slipped into the seat. Her leg was muscular, had a gleam about it, like she’d been polished. A tattoo—some kind of symbol—was on her thigh, but he only saw part of it.
She smiled up at the two of them. “Other side.”
“It’s a two-seat car,” Sarah complained.
Helen lifted her head toward Henry. “He’s skinny. Skooch together.”
The vertically open door closed on its own. Helen started the car and gave the engine a rev. The rumble of it shook Henry’s chest. Then a cloud slipped between the car and the sun. The paint shifted to a dark blue and the crowd let out a collective “Oooh.”
The window lowered as Helen donned a pair of designer sunglasses. “Last chance.”
Henry stood his ground. Unsure. No one had ever invited him anywhere. Not that he knew where she was going. But the destination, and Helen’s intentions, didn’t really matter. He just didn’t like being told what to do.
Then he was moving. Against his will. Sarah took his hand and pulled him around the car. Oddly enough, he let her. Then they were inside the car, squished into the front seat beside a woman neither of them knew.
Helen revved the engine again. The path ahead, full of reporters and onlookers, cleared. “Better buckle up.”
Henry shrugged, but Sarah wrapped the belt around them both, clipping it into place just before Helen put the pedal to the floor.
7
Sarah reached for the ‘Oh shit’ handle, but grasped only air. Despite having a top speed of over 200 mph, the vehicle wasn’t built for people who hold on in fear. It was made for people willing to push the limits.
Like Henry, who was smiling.
And their mysterious driver. She wasn’t smiling, but the look in her eyes was pure satisfaction.
Low to the ground, doubled up in a front seat barely big enough for one person, never mind two, Sarah felt vulnerable.
Cars and pedestrians whizzed past. Their shouts and honking horns Dopplered in and went away an audio blur.
“How fast can you go?” Henry asked.
“How fast do you want me to go?” Helen asked.
“Pedal to the metal,” Henry said.
“That doesn’t sound safe,” Sarah said. “I don’t think that’s safe!”
“But it’d be fun,” Helen said.
Who is this lady? First she busts out with the kung fu. Now she’s taking us on a death race?!
“It would be stupid,” Sarah said.
Helen looked at her, eyes intense. Sarah didn’t back down. Not from idiots in line, and not from shockingly good looking and confident women.
Fuck that shit.
“And I don’t think Henry, who feels no fear by the way, is the best person to ask about life and death choices. He is literally incapable of empathizing with how his choices will affect other people.”
She expected Henry to get angry. It wasn’t a nice thing to say. But he just looked a little dumbstruck.
Then he shrugged. “She’s right.”
“You think I should slow down?” Helen asked Henry.
He nodded his head at Sarah. “If she thinks so.”
“Huh,” Helen said, hitting the brakes. The car came to a sudden stop, but the tires never locked. Not the slightest squeal. Sarah looked forward, chest heaving, heart pounding. They’d stopped at a red light, perfectly aligned.
Would Helen have driven straight through?
Sarah wasn’t sure.
Didn’t want to find out.
Her hand wrapped around the door handle.
“That would be a mistake,” Helen said.
Is she threatening me?
Before Sarah could exert her practiced defiance of authority figures, a big black truck roared up beside the McClaren.
“See?” Helen said. “Not safe.”
Sarah looked up at the truck, intending to flip the driver off, but the man was already hanging out of his window with a smile on his face. The Red Sox cap on his head and his casual demeanor—despite driving in the city—painted him as a local. He motioned for her to roll down the window. Curiosity guided Sarah’s finger to the window’s controls. She pushed the button. The window descended.
“Nice cah,” the man said.
Definitely local. Sarah had heard that Bostonians had the sexiest accent in the United States. She disagreed. Hell, everyone in Boston disagreed. “Jay, check out this fuckin’ sweet cah.”
A second man, presumably Jay, leaned over from the passenger’s side of the truck. The smile on his face was awkward. Forced.
Something in Sarah tweaked. If the man had been walking toward her on the sidewalk, smiling like that, she’d have crossed the road to avoid him.
“What is it?” Helen asked, voice cool. Somehow, she’d picked up on Sarah’s tension.
Sarah didn’t reply. She just watched Jay.
“Fuckin’ A, guy.” The accent was off. A lot of people think they can fake a Boston accent. Pahk the cah in Havid yahd and all that. But Bostonians don’t just have an accent, there’s a whole lot of ‘Who gives a shit’ that goes behind it.
‘Jay’ was butchering it.
Even the local cringed a bit.
Helen leaned over Henry, glancing up at the two men. Then she sat back. “Roll up the window.”
“What?” Sarah asked. “Why?”
“We’re not done yet.”
“Not done with what?” Sarah asked, finger on the window button, but holding back. She still wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in the high speed coffin, no matter how sexy it looked.
“They’re with the guys from the bank,” Henry said, leaning over to look at the men. “Hi! You’re with the guys from the bank, right?”
The two men went wide-eyed.
Then Jay lifted a shotgun.
Sarah looked down the barrel.
Pain and pressure moved through her head.
I’m shot, she thought. I’m dead. And then she realized that was impossible, because she was thinking. When her senses pushed through her shock, she saw the city moving past her in a blur and heard the engine’s roar once more. Helen had hit the gas before the man could fire.
Henry twisted around, looking out the back window. “Cool. They’re chasing us.”
“Stop moving,” Sarah said, pushing Henry back to his side of the seat, where his bony butt couldn’t give her a charley horse. The side view mirror showed the truck gaining on them.
