Rust: Two Page 2

  "Don't worry," she said. "Think I'm getting used to it."

  They'd spent the past week living out of a stolen Audi 5000, eating bad takeaway and flinching away from the distant howl of police sirens, all while Fitch waited for the right time to introduce her to this Rosenfeld woman. Fitch had a safehouse somewhere to on the south side of town but he refused to take the risk of leading another clicker back there, not while he still had the stink of the dead creature on his skin. That meant parking in dank alleys, Kimberly curling up on the back seat at night with a blanket pulled over her head while Fitch kept watch.

  Fitch called the stolen car 'appropriated'. A cute word that turned Kimberly's stomach. Stolen cars meant police attention. Police attention meant being dragged back to her fake husband. Worse again, her fake baby. Bawling all night, staring up at her from its crib with all too familiar eyes...

  If she had to choose between the two, she'd take the car.

  The Audi was too small to stretch out in and her dreams were always laced with acid. New York, Aaron, the C-Train bearing down and crushing her into the tracks. Voices without mouths. She'd wake sweating in the middle of the night and find Fitch still staring out the windscreen, eyes twitching left-right, right-left as he scanned the shadows for movement.

  Sometimes she wondered whether the ragged man needed to sleep, or whether his anger sustained him. He was always vibrating, hands tensing into white-knuckle fists. His left leg pistoned up and down when they pulled over to fill up with gas - although maybe that was because he was terrified of someone at the pumps recognising the stolen Audi. Sometimes she saw him blinking furiously, as if trying to get a speck of dirt out from beneath his eyelid, dirt that itched so bad it was burning.

  Once, Kimberly caught him dreaming with his eyes open. He sat in the front seat, hands by his sides, watching the rain pounding on the hood. There was no life in his pupils, no spark. His tongue protruded over his lips, spittle shining on his tongue, and when she'd asked if he was awake he'd only grunted in reply.

  Even dreaming, his legs jerked. He was chasing something, she figured.

  Or being chased.

  But now, as they inched out into the road once more, preparing to dash toward the Rosenfeld Mission, Fitch was very much awake. He was jacked up like he'd taken amphetamines, checking over his shoulder, shoving his left hand into his coat pocket like he was squeezing some special totem.

  "I think we're clear," he whispered.

  "Scared?"

  "Cautious. That Goodwell, he's smart. Bet he's the one sending the patrol cars. Folk like him are the worst. Think they're doing good when they're really working for the beast." Fitch shuddered. "Hardest thing in the world, fighting a man who thinks he's being noble."

  He waved her into the rain, and Kimberly couldn't help but stare at that extra finger. The little nub of pink flesh on his left hand, about the length of a bean sprout. It was growing, she was sure. In the few weeks since she'd met him that finger had gained maybe a tenth of an inch. She could see the beginnings of a second joint forming.

  The urge to ask about it was almost as maddening as the dust in Fitch's eye, but she couldn't bring herself to blurt out the words. Instead she bit her lip and took the lead, dragging Fitch through the tumult, between pools of light cast by street lamps and beneath the awnings of the Rosenfeld Mission.

  By the time they were safely sheltered, Kimberly was soaked to the skin. The winter jacket she'd taken from Peter's closet - the one that had a waterproof tag on the sleeve - was as useful as a tissue against the storm. Her jeans clung to her thighs and her hair was plastered down across her eyes, blinding her as she spluttered in the sheltered doorway.

  "Fuck this town," she managed, in between spitting mouthfuls of rainwater. "Fuck the weather, fuck the bad parking, fuck everything. This better be worth it-"

  "Get inside!"

  More lights were sweeping down from the far end of the street, the familiar silhouette of the patrol car returning. Kimberly threw herself at the door, bounced off uselessly, realised she was pushing instead of pulling, and tumbled into the safety of the Rosenfeld Mission. Fitch slammed the door behind them and they sagged against the wall together.

  The lights passed down the street. Kimberly found herself grinning. "Not bad. Very Mission Impossible. You can be Rollin Hand and I'll be Cinnamon."

  "I never watched it." Fitch shook the water from his hair, shivering like a dog. "You see Rosenfeld?"

  "I don't know what she looks like!"

  "Big black lady. Gleam in her eyes like she's gonna put her boot up your ass."

  Kimberly took in the expanse of the Rosenfeld Mission. A huge hall with a ragged collection of trestle tables at one end and the kitchen at the other, where men in fingerless gloves and mud-stained jeans waited patiently for a bowl of soup. She could smell it from the door: salty beef and potato, leek and broth. Toasted bread. The rich, heady aroma of meatballs and canned spaghetti, machine-made tomato sauce bubbling in huge stock-pots.

  After so many days and nights spent in the Audi, living on mushy takeaway chicken and drive-thru Cola, Kimberly was ravenous. One big breath left her salivating.

  "If anyone knows what we should do, it's Rosenfeld," Fitch continued. "She's a guru, honest to God."

  Kimberly barely heard him. She grabbed Fitch's sleeve, the plastic raincoat crinkling beneath her fingers. "Get me a bowl of that, now."

  "Lady, we're not here for the food-"

  She was already angling for the end of the line, keeping her head down and her hands folded before her as she joined the queue.

  New York had taught Kimberly to be wary of the homeless. Ninety-nine percent friendly pan-handlers and desperate veterans, one percent drug-fucked schizophrenics. She'd gotten to know a couple, like the one-legged man on the corner of Broadway and Worth who always complimented her shoes. She had no issue with him. It was the ones you weren't watching that'd jump up off the sidewalk and grab your handbag or your ass and whisper in your ear about all the things they were gonna do to you once they had you alone.

  But if she had to choose between feeling safe and hungry, or joining the line and getting some hot food in her stomach, the food won every time. Anyway, after so long in the stolen Audi, steaming inside her mouldy clothes, she bet she smelled the worst out of anyone in the Mission.

  Fitch shuffled into line behind her, looking sheepish. "What're you doing? You and me, we can meet Rosenfeld and she'll feed you 'til you explode."

  "It's rude to skip the line." In truth, she could've kicked everyone in the line to the floor and stomped across their backs to get her hands on a bowl of soup, but there was something oddly satisfying in putting Fitch in his place. She'd spent six and a half days folded into the front seat of a stolen sedan, peeing in bushes on the side of the coastal road when Fitch decided it was safe, waiting for answers that'd been far too long coming. Now she was on her feet again, finally able to feel her toes, and goddamned if he was going to stop her from getting a square meal.

  The line moved fast. Two young women served soup behind the counter, pale from lack of sun, hair pulled back into tight buns as they lifted and poured, lifted and poured. They looked half-asleep from the monotony.

  "I thought you said Mrs Rosenfeld was black," she whispered to Fitch. "Where is she?"

  "You don't hurry a woman like her," Fitch said. "She'll be out when she wants to be."

  The line jerked forward. One of the pale girls pressed a porcelain bowl into Kimberly's hands, still hot from the sink, soap suds clinging to the clean white curve. The second girl - so similar they had to be sisters, Kimberly thought - poured her a dripping ladleful of watery brown soup. Chunks of mushy carrot and potato bobbed to the surface, breaking the skin of beef grease.

  Fitch watched her very closely as she took her first sip.

  It was a salty punch in the face. Beef falling apart in strings, celery so soft she could crush it with her tongue against her palate. After a week of bad takeaway it might as well
have been foie gras. "You should have some, Fitch," she mumbled through a mouthful of soup. "High-class stuff."

  "Better than crackers and fried chicken?"

  "That chicken was a crime against taste."

  "Smart mouth for a lady who came beggin' for my help."

  "Excuse me? You're the one who kept turning up outside my bedroom window-"

  "You needed me then and you need me now-"

  "No arguing in my soup hall!"

  Kimberly spun. A small, dark woman had appeared as if from nowhere, broom clenched in both hands like a staff. The bandanna pulled tight across her brow was set at a jaunty angle, like a classic sea-captain's cap, and the shawl wrapped around her shoulders was a rainbow of 70's earth tones. It reminded her of some British TV show... Yes, that was it. A tiny, scowling, elderly Doctor Who.

  It had to be Rosenfeld.

  "You enjoying the soup?" The woman swept the floor without taking her eyes off Kimberly, gathering up cigarette butts and dirty napkins in a great filthy ball. "Better finish that bowl. We don't make it so you can waste it."

  There was something about Rosenfeld that made Kimberly feel very young again. She slurped down the rest of the bowl, soggy potato falling apart on her tongue. Beside her, Fitch said, "Didn't mean to turn up unannounced, but we need some advice if you're in the mood to give it. This is-"

  "Yes, I know. Kimberly Archer. You keep thinking I'm slow, Fitch, but you're gonna be smirking out the other side of your face before this is done." She nodded at Kimberly, who'd frozen with the spoon half-way to her mouth. "You look like a fish, gawping like that. Stack your bowl and come with me."

  It wasn't a voice you argued with. Kimberly set her bowl atop the already-teetering pile of porcelain beside the kitchen counter, shying away from the blank stares of the two blonde sisters, and followed Rosenfeld to the back of the dining hall. Rosenfeld muttered the whole way. "Kids turnin' up through the front door. Got half the town looking for you and you don't even think to sneak in the back..."

  "Figured you'd keep the door locked, after what happened last time."

  Rosenfeld smirked. "Maybe you're not so daft after all."

  Mrs Rosenfeld might've been old, but she wasn't weak. It wasn't just the steel in her voice that made Kimberly wary, but the muscle banded under those bat-wings, the sort honed through years of repetitive sweeping, lifting and stirring. She glanced around the hall but couldn't see any assistants besides the twins serving soup. Rosenfeld was obviously all the handywoman the place needed.

  Easy to see why the lady didn't scare easily. And if Fitch trusted her...

  "No sense of occasion," Rosenfeld continued. "Did you bring me a bottle of wine this time, at least? No? Fitch, you're the world's worst houseguest."

  Fitch shrugged. "I'm a wanted man. Didn't think it was right to stop by the liquor store to buy you a nice Pinot. Will a hug do alright?"

  "I don't want your damn hugs, Fitch. I want you out of my place before you bring the wrong sort of attention down on my head."

  Fitch froze with his mouth open, then ducked his head like a shamed puppy. "Sorry."

  "Damn right. Nothing but trouble, you are." Mrs Rosenfeld undid her bandanna, revealing neat black curls, and wiped her hands clean. "And as for you, lady. Come all this way, even with the police and the beast's little soldiers looking for you. Way I see it, you're either getting ready to quit town, or throw yourself into some dark places. So, which is it? This man asked you to die for him yet, Miss Archer?"

  To that, Kimberly found she had nothing to say.

  It wasn't until Rosenfeld took them into a back room and locked the door that Fitch felt secure enough to speak. "It's getting bad out there," he whispered. "You know what we had to kill?"

  Rosenfeld had yet to let go of her broom. She leaned on it like a wizard's staff, and Kimberly had to admit she pulled off the look. The way her fingers twitched on the wooden shaft made her feel like the old woman would start casting spells at any moment.

  "I don't want to know," she said. "Told you so many times, I'm not getting involved. I keep quiet and nobody pokes their nose in my business. Hell, you shouldn't even be here. Police came looking for you. Not just any police. He knew things. Talked about the public baths."

  It was hard to miss how Fitch stiffened. "Nobody talks about that."

  "That's because nobody remembers. But he did, you understand? He's special. Been touched by something big."

  "But he's not here now, is he? You can still help-"

  "I make soup, Fitch! I make soup and I keep people warm. That's a good life! Why do you keep dragging trouble to my door?"

  "This isn't for me!" He jabbed one finger at Kimberly. "This is for her! She's gotta get home, you understand?"

  "Does she? Is that what you're really after?" Rosenfeld whirled, staring Kimberly down. "You think he's gonna get you out of this town, young lady?"

  "I..." Kimberly swallowed hard, held in place by those dark eyes. They weren't eyes you could lie to, not unless you wanted to be bent over one knee and paddled. The back room scared her as well. Concrete walls, concrete floor. Only a thin mattress in one corner for comfort. Less of a storage closet and more of a cell. Was this where Fitch spent his time away from home? Hiding from monsters in a prison of his own choosing?

  Or was it a prison Rosenfeld chose to lock him inside?

  "I think so," Kimberly finally said. "I'm not sure, but... I know he'll try."

  "Hmph." Mrs Rosenfeld pursed her lips like she'd tasted something foul. "Put too much faith in someone and you'll end up burned. And why do you think I can help, anyway? You think I've got a private jet in my garage? Nobody gets out of here." She took Kimberly's hand. "Where're you from? New York, I bet."

  A cold finger ran down Kimberly's spine. She jerked back. "How'd you know?"

  "The accent, dear. Thick as butter."

  Kimberly, on the other hand, couldn't place Rosenfeld's accent. Bible belt, perhaps, or even further south. Mexico? Peru? Christ, she didn't even know where Rustwood was. Virginia? Georgia? Oregon, maybe, judging by the rain. She'd meant to ask so many times, but it always slid away from her, like something was pushing the question into the furthest corner of her mind.

  Get it out now, she thought, before you forget again. She blurted, "Where-"

  "I don't know what that man's told you," Rosenfeld said, "but I'm nothing special. You're welcome to stay, long as you need, but don't be expectin' favours or magic tricks. I don't go poking my nose in places I don't belong and I expect you'll be happier if you do the same."

  She turned to leave, chin thrust high, like a legionnaire on the march, and was almost out the door when Fitch grabbed her arm. "Please-"

  Rosenfeld whirled, eyes wide, lips drawn back over her teeth. "You best let go of that if you don't want to lose your hand, Fitch."

  "You think I'd be here if I didn't have to? You're the only family I've got. Information, I swear, that's all we need. A bit of blood, a bit of guidance, and we're out of your hair." He gripped tighter, not breaking Mrs Rosenfeld's gaze. "Please."

  Rosenfeld jerked her arm free. "Boy, you don't know when to roll over, do you? Trouble from head to toe."

  "You have to-"

  "I do what the hell I choose, and nobody commands me. Not you, not the Queen, not-"

  At that, Mrs Rosenfeld's face fell. She stumbled backward through the open door, one hand up to her throat.

  "That man's gonna get you killed," she whispered, and slammed the door.

  An awkward silence settled in the room. Kimberly coughed. "She sure knows how to make a girl feel welcome."

  Fitch didn't reply. His eyes were squeezed shut to slits, focused on a point somewhere far beyond the walls of the Mission.

  "Hey, Fitch. You in there?" Kimberly sat on the old mattress, wincing as springs dug into her butt. "Be straight with me. She was scared, yeah?"

  "What? Yeah, yeah. Suppose she was."

  "That's bad, right?"

  Fitch didn't meet
her eyes. "Very bad. Worse than the clicker, worse than the bodies in that basement. When Rosenfeld's too scared to tell you something... Well. You'll figure it out."

  When Kimberly closed her eyes she could hear the patter of rain on the roof, faint but ever present like radio static. The distant grumble of the soup-line in the hall outside. The hundreds of shuffling feet, men and women clothed in rags and loneliness.

  It wasn't home. Then again, what was home these days? Her little New York apartment, or the Rustwood bungalow where she'd endured the wails of her fake child, her lie of a husband? At the very least, it was better than sleeping in the Audi

  Something tickled at the base of her skull. She'd meant to ask Rosenfeld an important question. It was on the tip of her tongue, but for the life of her she couldn't recall what it was.

  It'd come back to her in time.

  Chapter 3

  The girl behind the bakery counter gave Goodwell his paper bag of croissants and flashed the sort of smile that'd melt the flinty heart of Ebenezer Scrooge. "Have a nice day!"

  Detective Goodwell couldn't remember the last time he'd had what anyone could call "a nice day," but he still made the right noises, mirrored her sentiments, and left his change as a tip. He tugged his suit jacket over his head as he dashed between the bakery and his car, protecting his lunch as best he could from the rain, then gnawed one of the croissants down to flakes as he drove to the Rustwood PD.

  He barely noticed the turns he took, the red light he almost ran through. He steered on autopilot, the streets of Rustwood blurring past until he found himself outside the iron spires and red-brick peaks of the faux Victorian edifice that was the police department. Arched windows banded in black iron, stone drain-funnels radiating at every corner. Old Glory hanging faded and waterlogged from the flagpole beside the parking lot, where four battered cruisers waited in a neat row, tail-lights like dead glass eyes.