He patted the front of his coat. “I have him, but he’s not happy.”
The weasel could join the crowd. Our circumstances didn’t have me jumping for joy either. I slung the strap of the bag over my shoulder, moved up the street away from the cars, and scanned the area around us. We were in an industrial area with warehouses, chain-link fences, and empty lots. Everyone had left early trying to beat the weather; the parking lots were deserted. It’s an often-overlooked yet basic fact of the car theft business: It’s hard to steal what isn’t there. I didn’t see any alternative; we were in for a walk.
“We have to get moving, kid. You up for it?”
Barely ten feet away from me, he was nearly lost to sight behind a veil of white, but I saw his nod. He joined me with head down against the gusting wind. As he reached my side, I saw he had a bag from the mall in his hand. “Misha.” I shook my head, hating to deliver more bad news. “You’ll have to leave it. We have to move fast and you’re already hurt.”
He gave an obstinate thrust of his jaw. “No. I can handle it. It doesn’t weigh much.”
True, it was only clothes. It couldn’t weigh more than five pounds. But trek a mile or so through knee-deep snow in whiteout conditions and those five pounds would soon feel like fifty. On the other hand, I all too easily saw that pile of mall trash through his eyes. Aside from the ferret, it was the first thing he’d bought just for himself. It was the first step on a road that led to independence, something he hadn’t dared imagine for himself back in the Institute. And now I wanted him to throw proof of that treasured step aside. Michael had lost so much in his life. Damned if I wanted to add one more thing to that list, no matter how much of a burden it was at the moment.
“Goddamn, you’re stubborn.” I snatched the bag from his hand and scowled at his knowing expression, wise beyond his years. When it came to Michael, I had sucker written all over me. In a few years, if we survived, I’d undoubtedly be signing over everything I owned to the kid with a glazed and sappy look in my eye. “I’ll take Einstein and Freud. You just concentrate on staying upright. Now come on.” I took a step, then looked over my shoulder and ordered seriously, “Hang on to me. I don’t want to lose you in this. Popsicles don’t make good brothers.”
His hand fastened on to the back of my coat. “You won’t lose me.”
There was a promise I intended to hold him to.
We’d taken only a few steps when I heard the faint groan and bellow of our Good Samaritan coming around. I increased my speed while monitoring the tension of Michael’s hold on me. Within seconds we were out of sight in the whiteout conditions. Safe from discovery from Bunyan or any cops that would soon arrive, I concentrated on slogging through the snow. Murderous colleagues aside, I missed Miami. I missed the sun. I missed the warm air. Here there was only what felt like the next ice age. It abraded skin and numbed face and limbs.
I followed the walls of the looming buildings when I could. They shielded us to a certain extent, but not enough. We had coats and gloves, but we were still in jeans. The snow pushed its way up my pant legs to pack tightly against my skin, and sneakers did nothing to keep my feet from aching fiercely before losing feeling altogether. We kept moving for nearly thirty minutes before the district began to change from industrial to residential.
“You still kicking, kiddo?” Michael’s grip on my jacket hadn’t wavered, but the weight of it had increased. I’d slowed accordingly, as much as I could, but taking a break had been out of the question. The weather had deteriorated rapidly. The snow was falling harder than a warm-blooded creature like me thought possible; it was knee-deep and drifting dramatically in the fierce wind. Boston seemed determined to give the Antarctic a run for its money.
“Walking is hard enough.” He sounded winded. “Kicking . . . out of . . . the question.”
I looked back at him to see his face drawn with cold but resolute. He was shorter than I by a few inches and was having a more difficult time. What was knee-deep for me was almost thigh high on him. I stopped walking and turned to face him. “Seriously, Misha, you okay?” I lifted his hood an inch or two to see that his cut had scabbed over. It was like time-lapse photography; I could practically see the healing taking place.
“I’m fine. Just tired.” He made an aggrieved face. “And cold. It was never cold at the Institute.” He was waxing nostalgic for his prison; that couldn’t be a positive sign.
“Yeah, I hear that place was like a Caribbean resort.” I pulled his hood back into place and hefted the plastic bag with a leaden grip. “Buck up. We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?”