And Tate snapped, “Look, I’ve been trying to be nice to you, even though you’ve made it pretty damn hard. But I’m done with that. My parents died because of something going on with the two of us. You owe me an explanation. Now!”
Foster held up the picture, and for a second Tate thought she was going to hit him with it. Instead she pointed at it, and in a voice filled with fury said, “Owe you an explanation? I don’t owe you shit! Cora and I saved your life when we showed up at that football game and got you out of there. You’re right. These three men are the ones who came after us. That woman was with them. I saw her at the edge of the field right after Cora died. And this man, Doctor Rick”—her finger poked the glass of the picture so hard Tate was surprised it didn’t crack. “He was my adoptive father, Cora’s husband. This was the last picture of him. It was taken before they killed him. Only on the football field Cora told me they didn’t kill him. That he’s working with them and that they’re after me and they’re after you. No, I don’t know why, but if you could manage to quit whining and leave me alone I might be able to figure it out!” Thunder cracked overhead in time with her shout. She threw up her arms. “Great. Now look what you’ve done.”
“Foster, you are a bitch. Worse than that—you’re a mean, insensitive bitch.” He said the words slowly, deliberately, before he spun on his heel and stalked from the room.
“Where are you going?” she called after him.
Tate turned in the doorway. “I’m going to get food. Then I’m going to eat. Then I’m going to sleep. And then I’m going to figure out how to go home.”
“Fine. Do what you want.”
“Fine.” He paused and hated the next words that he had to speak. “I need money.”
Foster reached into the satchel she seemed to always have with her and pulled out a wad of cash, tossing it at him. “Get something green. The code to the gate’s 9662. Close the door on your way out.”
Tate slammed the door to the office and stomped from the farmhouse. The sky looked ominous, pregnant with rain that had just started to change from drizzle to downpour. Wind wailed around him, lifting his hair and making him shiver. He scanned the darkening sky for a wall cloud. Fog obscured the green ridge of distant mountains and he couldn’t see shit. Ah, to hell with it! I got rid of a tornado once—I can do it again. Head tucked against the wind and rain, Tate ran to the pickup.
He started the truck easily. Foster had made him do it over and over again on their trip. He floored it, getting spiteful pleasure from hearing the gravel spray the porch. He paused at the gate, but it sensed the truck and opened soundlessly.
It wasn’t until he got all the way back to the little store that sat beside the bridge that led to the mainland that Tate’s temper cooled. He parked the truck and sighed, rubbing his face and trying to get his thoughts together. What was he doing here? He should’ve stayed in Homer, no matter what crazy-ass Foster had said.
Then, as if he was watching a movie replay from his memory, Tate saw the two of them—Foster and him—standing side by side as that tornado plowed down the football field. He heard his shout again, YOU WILL NOT COME THIS WAY! He felt the rush of electricity that swept over him as he literally hurled that huge twister away from them.
“That’s why I’m here,” Tate muttered to himself. “We did that. I have to figure out how, and I can’t go home until I do.”
Tate rubbed his face again, thinking he’d never felt this tired in his life as he stared blankly into the distance … until he realized what it was he was staring at.
“Yes! Things might just be looking up for me!”
Tate hurried from the truck, taking the stairs to the little clapboard-sided store two at a time. Moving quickly, he filled his arms with food—remembering to grab some green stuff—then he piled everything up before the only cash register.
“Looks like you’re camping this weekend,” said the old guy who sported a long, scraggly beard and a man bun as he rang up and bagged Tate’s groceries.
“Yes, sir,” Tate said automatically.
“Well, I hope the weather gets better for you. It’s been a mess lately.”
“Me too. Hey, does that pay phone out there work?” Tate jerked his thumb toward the side of the parking lot where the old aluminum and glass booth sat like something out of a seventies movie.
“Well, yes son, it sure does. It’s probably the last one in this part of the country that works. It even takes quarters.”
“Cool. Could you give me a bunch of quarters with my change, please?”
“Sure, kid.” The guy handed him a handful of quarters with his change. “Hey, you’re not going to turn into Superman or anything, are you?”
“No, sir. I’m a different kind of superhero.”
Tate left the store in a wash of the man’s chuckles. He put the groceries in the cab of the truck and went to the phone booth. Feeling like he’d stepped back in time, Tate dialed the number he’d memorized when he was five years old. The gruff old voice answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“G-pa it’s me, Tate. I’m not dead.” And then Tate Nighthawk Taylor began to sob.
9
TATE
“Look, before you yell at me, I’m not technically in the room. I also brought you something green.” Tate extended a grocery bag. “Truce?”
“I found something. Put the bags down and come here,” Foster said, barely glancing up at him from the papers she’d been studying on the desk.
Tate grunted, “So, am I allowed in or what?”