‘It’s got to be here, Blackie.’ She leads me this time across the tracks and to the pitted junkyard where we had sheltered. ‘The ledger AD wanted. I ran with it, I remember, despite its size. I thought – never mind what I thought. I was thinking more of a weapon than of what the thing actually was. But maybe that was smart of me.’ She pauses. ‘Or maybe I got Tick in deeper because of this. Maybe.’ She stops and wipes her face with her hand as if to block out the memory of betrayal. ‘Maybe this is all my fault.’
I do not understand her logic. I can, however, see the pain in her, the wincing need that brings tears into her eyes again, and I react, leaning into her now with the affection I withheld before. I relax her, I can feel that, the way my superior warmth and the softness of my fur cause her to unclench just a little. I wait, even, for her to lift me, and will myself not to fight the loss of agency in service of a greater good.
She kneels, her palm flat against my back, fingers curling to where my side still aches and it is my turn to tense, to anticipate what pain she may unknowingly cause.
I need not worry. One touch and she has stood again, craning her face around as if to memorize this patch of dirt and refuse. Or, no, to recall it.
‘Here,’ she says as much to herself as to me. The rusting shell where we had stopped looks much the same, its detached door still propped against its trunk. She walks up to it but I leap ahead. Our foes have been vicious rather than wily, but I will take no chances.
As she pokes around the wreck, I examine the stony ground where we once sat – the cold metal the girl had leaned back on – letting the damp air bring me all its mingled traces. She soon begins emitting the sounds of frustration: a grunt, a sigh, even as she lies belly-down on the earth to peer beneath the rotted chassis.
Although her search appears to be fruitless, mine is less so. There is much to record here: grubs and rot and a decay of a more alchemical sort as this giant machine breaks down. The rain and cold of the previous night have washed away the scent of our earlier sojourn – all I get of the girl is from her close presence, still sweating from our run. There has been another human here, though, and someone close – familiar. A clean, sweet scent, like that of a child but with a hint of something bitter. The breakdown of rust mixed with motor oil, perhaps, or …
‘Tick!’ Care’s voice startles me more than I care to acknowledge. I have not heard the boy, nor been aware of another presence. However, there he is – hanging back by the train track, as if he still might consider a run. ‘It’s OK, Tick.’ The girl calls out to him, using the soft cadences one does with a spooked animal. ‘Come here.’
The boy looks up, hopeful, at the entreaty, but an animal wariness remains and he approaches slowly. Head down, he kicks the ground as he walks, like the child he is. A dangerous child.
Care waits, sitting back on a rock. I circle, not trusting this unfaithful friend, but for the life of me I get no sense of any others. No sense of the villains who would make quick work of us here, with no civilians to witness.
‘How’d you find me, Tick?’
The question surprises me. I had thought her focused on the book – Fat Peter’s ledger – and I am gratified to hear that she shares my curiosity about the boy.
‘I followed you.’ The boy looks up, a glimmer of pride lighting his face. ‘I’ve been doing it for a while. Same way I found the old man’s place.’
The girl blinks, the surprise knocking her head back. She hadn’t thought to question his appearance the other morning. The boy doesn’t seem to notice, so desperate is he to make his case. ‘I started doing it just to prove I could,’ he says, a pleading note creeping into his voice. ‘That I’d be good at detecting, too, you know? I wanted you to see that I could do this, and—’ He pauses, his face dropping to the dirt. ‘I didn’t like that you left me behind.’
He is lying, of course. Prevaricating as all good dissemblers do, confusing the scent with a dollop of truth. That he did not wish to be excluded, I believe. That wish, in fact, may have ensnared him into AD’s plans. However, he did not follow Care – not this time – and I wrack my brain for the means to tell her so. A low growl begins to rumble deep inside me, involuntary but to the point. If I were to approach this boy I would frighten him, and so I hold back, waiting. I have other goals than revenge, and terror will not win me them. Observation, on the other hand …
‘You got here awfully fast.’ Care tilts her head, as if to signal that her statement requires an answer, and my growl subsides. This girl knows something of interrogation, though her senses lack the acuity of mine. I start forward, creeping slowly. I would get the scent of this young traitor. Read for myself his recent travels and abode.
‘I had a head start.’ The boy flushes, his pale face turning red as his contradiction catches up to him. ‘I mean, I followed you the other day – when you left Fat Peter’s. I knew you were going there, Care. You’d just left AD’s—’