As we walk away, I give him a sideways glance. “You really didn’t know he was dead? You didn’t just make this whole crazy bargain to distract me or something?”
Michael stops and reaches for my arm to stop me too. He comes around to face me. “No. I didn’t know he was dead. I promise. Why would I go to all this trouble? Basically running away to Congo? I could have taken Boyboy’s computer a long time ago. Or had you both fed to sharks.” He waits, trying for a smile.
My shoulders slump. I’m so tired. I feel a corner of my mouth lift without my permission. “All right,” I finally concede, “I believe you. Mostly.”
Michael returns my smile. “Come on.”
We’ve only gone a few meters when I feel it. My smile fades as I get that weird prickly sensation like someone’s watching me, and when I look up, I swear I see Ketchup duck into an alley. My heart pounding, I race to the gap between the buildings, but no one is there except a woman washing pots behind a restaurant.
“What?” Michael asks, catching up with me.
“Nothing,” I mutter. “Thought I saw someone.”
“Who?”
“No one. It wasn’t him.”
Ketchup is not here, I tell myself. You’ve just got him on the brain. I wish he were here. At least that way I wouldn’t have to worry about how close he is to Kiki.
The breeze has picked up and whorls of dust go flinging through the narrow lanes between the goods. Clouds are gathering, the clear skies of the morning a distant memory. Shoppers and hawkers start to take note of the change in weather. Women adjust their wrappers and fuss with their wares. They eye the sky, not wanting to pull plastic over their stacks until the last minute.
Suddenly Michael grabs my hand and lurches into a stall with blue tarpaulin walls.
“What are you doing?”
He pulls me past disemboweled electronics on the vendor’s tables and through to the other side. The vendor stares at us as we peer back around the corner.
“I—nothing.”
“Look, I didn’t see anyone back there,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
He continues to scan the shoppers. “Yeah, I know. It’s just that, right before you said you saw someone, I was trying to figure out if a couple of guys were following us.” He looks down and notices he’s still holding my hand. “Sorry,” he says, and drops it quickly, which for some stupid reason makes me blush and wish I’d pulled my hand away first.
I look around too, avoiding his eyes. “Do you see them now?”
“No.”
“There are plenty of people around. Nothing’s going to happen to us here.”
Michael gives me a look. “You say that like you’re expecting something to happen.”
I don’t respond. “Come on, let’s get back before the storm starts.”
We hurry, following the crowds toward the street. The purple sky looks like it’s about to explode. In the distance I see sheets of gray where rain is already coming down.
We aim for the spot we found piki-piki the day before. A drop plops down on my face, and I see the ground ahead freckle with rain. I look back at Michael, who’s still checking over his shoulder. “It’s nothing,” he says.
We start to jog. I can see the piki-piki in the distance, but they’re quickly disbanding, either taking on riders or going to seek shelter. I curse under my breath.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a hard-core street kid or something? Can’t take a little rain?” Michael asks. His tone is light, but I can hear the worry underneath.
“The guy in the blue shirt and his buddy in the hat?” I ask.
“Yeah, how did you—?”
“Stop looking. They’ll know we’re on to them.”
“Pickpockets maybe?”
We pick up our pace, and I’m holding out hope for the last motorcycle, which is idling and ready, but then a plump woman bustles over and scoots on sidesaddle. The piki-piki driver buzzes off.
“Same guys you saw in the market?” I ask. The rain is starting in earnest now. Tap, tap on my skull.
“Yeah.”
“Then probably not pickpockets. They would have got you there.”
“Me? Why me?”
“You’re obviously the one with cash.” Before he can protest, I add, “Next street corner, turn fast to the right and follow me. Don’t speed up until then. Act normal. Don’t look back,” I add as he starts to turn his head. “Okay, one, two, three, now.”
We pop sideways, sliding a little on the mud, and Michael follows my lead when I take off in a sprint. I swerve around a corner, and we’re suddenly in a maze of tin-shack homes. The sky opens. The rain comes too hard to hear footsteps, but I’m pretty sure I hear a shout behind us.
I duck between two shacks and send a flock of wet chickens scattering. An old man protests toothlessly from a doorway. I’m totally drenched now, and little rivers of mud are starting to fill the pathways. I glance behind and can’t see anyone, but hear another yell. Michael is right at my heels. We dodge between wet laundry flapping on lines, leap over a pushcart, wrench a turn, and come suddenly to a dead end.
“Here!” Michael says, and webs his hands for me to step into and launch over the rickety wall.