Chapter Five
“Carlos, she's wearing one of my nightgowns!”
Oh God, Kayla thought, burying her face in the pillows. It's the Dragon Lady again. It was too late to pretend to be asleep, and besides, no one could sleep with that lady's shrill voice screaming in their ear. She sat up, pulling the covers more tightly around her.
Roberta was still going on about the puta who was wearing her clothes, with Carlos standing there taking it all in. She wondered why he put up with her. Sure, the woman was pretty, but that voice!
“Why are you wearing her nightgown, girl?” Carlos asked mildly, as Roberta paused to inhale between sentences.
“Because I don't have anything of my own!” Kayla said furiously. “And what I've got is covered with blood!” It was true; her jeans, draped over a chair, looked like someone had painted them with blood. Her blood.
“Ramon!” Carlos called through the open bedroom door. The younger man appeared a few seconds later. He was wearing a black leather jacket over yet another plaid shirt, which Kayla thought looked rather good on him.
“I want you to take the girl to buy some clothes,” Carlos continued, taking a large wad of money from his pocket and peeling off several bills. “Get her anything she needs. Roberta, we can't let her go out wearing her own clothes now, there's too much blood on them. The policía might see her, then there'd be trouble. Let her wear something of yours just for today, all right?”
Roberta gave Kayla a sullen look and said something fast in Spanish. From the expression on her face, Kayla decided she was glad she didn't understand that particular phrase. Carlos gave her a very sharp look, and Roberta visibly flinched. “She can wear my clothes to go shopping,” she said in a flat voice.
Carlos handed Ramon a handful of bills. Ramon looked at the money, then at his brother. “I don't know, Carlos, she doesn't have any clothes at all, and this isn't very much money. . . .” Ramon gave Kayla a wink. Carlos hesitated, then fished in his pocket for more money. Kayla blinked as Carlos gave Ramon several hundred‑dollar bills. “Just try to bring back some change, heh?” Carlos grumbled. “I hope you're worth it, girl,” he said, giving a direct look.
“Well, you could just let me leave, then I wouldn't cost you anything at all,” she retorted.<T>
He laughed and clapped her on the shoulder. “I think I'll like having you around, after a few weeks of getting used to it,” he said, then glanced at Roberta's sour face. “Maybe it'll take longer than a few weeks,” he added morosely. Carlos walked toward the door. “Get dressed now, and Ramon will take you shopping. Make him buy you a hamburger or something, too. He said you didn't eat any dinner last night.”
Kayla watched silently as the three left the room. It didn't make any sense. Were Carlos and Ramon trying to be . . . nice? . . . to her? Kidnapers weren't supposed to be nice to the people they kidnaped. They were supposed to treat them awfully, threatening to kill them, maybe starving them or keeping them tied up. At least, that's the way it was in the movies.
What they never did was offer to take you out for shopping and a hamburger.
It just didn't make sense.
She turned to the closet and dresser and thought about which of Roberta's clothes she was going to borrow for the day. The best, she decided. She found a lovely matching black skirt and blouse, decorated with red ribbons. It looked a little odd with her sneakers, but Roberta's shoes didn't fit her feet—they were too small. She found a hairbrush on the dresser and brushed her hair until it crackled against her fingers.
Ramon was waiting for her in the living room. There was no sign of Carlos or Roberta, which Kayla thought was unfortunate, since she really wanted to see the look on Roberta's face when she saw Kayla wearing her nicest clothes. Two dark‑haired young women were in the kitchen, talking to each other in Spanish.
“You look very pretty, querida,” Ramon said, opening the front door for her.
“Thanks, I guess,” she said, as they walked down the stairs. Two of the young men she recognized from last night were waiting for them, leaning against a car. “Don't you guys wear anything but plaid shirts?” she asked.
Ramon laughed and said something in Spanish to the two men. They smiled at her. Kayla smiled back, but wished she knew why they thought what she'd said was funny.
She climbed into the back seat of the car next to Ramon and sat silently as they drove away from the apartment building. She looked out the window, trying to memorize the route in case she had a chance to run away later. A few minutes later, they parked in a lot on Van Nuys Boulevard. The street was already busy, with slow‑moving cars driving past the stores and the Van Nuys courthouse and police station.
The police station!
Kayla glanced longingly down the street at the large white building, wondering if she ought to take a chance and run for it now. If she could just get close enough to call for help . . .
Ramon took her arm, leading her down the street. The two other guys walked beside them. The taller of the two hitched up his jacket, and Kayla glimpsed a small handgun tucked into the back of his jeans.
“Ramon, he's—”
“Shhh, Kayla, I know.” Ramon glanced around nervously. “Jose is just being careful,” he said. “We've had some trouble here lately; we have to be very careful now.”
They walked past one of those inexpensive haircutting shops, and Kayla saw a glimpse of herself in the store window, the long curly brown hair falling over her shoulders and into her eyes. She caught Ramon's hand. “Can I get a haircut?”
He looked at her curiously. “But your hair is very pretty. Why do you want to cut it?”
“Come on, Carlos gave you lots of bucks. Can't I get a haircut, too?”
She walked into the store, before he could say no, and up to the counter.
“So, what would you like? A trim?” The blond young woman behind the counter looked very bored.
“Shampoo and haircut,” Kayla said, as Ramon and the two guys joined her at the counter. The blonde took her back to the sinks where she scrubbed Kayla's hair with some strange fruit‑scented shampoo, then sat her down in one of the barber's chairs.
“How much do you want me to take off?”
Kayla thought about it for a moment. “How 'bout everything?” she asked.
“What?”
“I want it real short. Like, a couple inches in the front, kinda shaved along the sides. All punked out. You know, something really different.”
“Hey, it's your life, sweetheart,” the blonde said, and started cutting. Ramon and their two silent escorts sat down by the door to wait. Twenty minutes later, after a long one‑sided conversation in which the woman talked about her ambition to work as a hairdresser for an undertaker, because the money was good and the clients never complained about her work, the haircut was finished. Kayla looked at herself in the mirror and grinned.
“I don't like it,” Ramon said as he paid the woman and they left the shop. “Too short. A woman should have long hair.”
“Well, this one doesn't,” Kayla said, feeling better than she had since this entire awful experience had started. I look like Annie Lennox now, she thought with glee. Except that she's blond. Well, maybe I can try that next. “How 'bout a pair of leather pants?” she asked Ramon as they walked past a store with mannequins in skintight black and red leather in the window. “It would look great with my haircut.”
“Absolutely not,” Ramon said in a tone that didn't allow room for arguing.
“Oh, you're no fun,” she said, still looking at the clothing in the window. A heavy weight landed on her shoulders, and she saw that Ramon had draped his black leather jacket over her. “What?”
“For you, vida mia, since you want some leather clothes.” As Kayla stared at the jacket in shock, Ramon turned away quickly and started walking down the street.
Jose said something in Spanish, and the other man laughed. Kayla followed Ramon down the street, wishing the men had spoken in English so she could understand them.
Then again, maybe I'm better off not knowing what these guys are saying about me. . . .
She caught up with Ramon in front of a department store. “Hey, take your jacket back, I don't want it!”
“You don't?” He looked at her, surprised. “But I thought you wanted a leather jacket.”
“Yes, but . . . but I can't accept this from you!” She held it out to him.
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” She found herself blushing, and willed herself to stop. “Because I don't know what you want in exchange for it.”
He stared at her blankly, then grinned. “Oh, I see. No, not to worry . . . you're too young for me. I like older women, like Roberta. The jacket is a gift, nothing more. Like the rest of the clothes we'll buy for you today.” He pointed at a pretty white blouse in the window. “Would you like one of those, Kayla? It would look very nice on you, I think.”
“Yeah, sure,” she said, feeling strangely shy. “Thanks for the jacket, Ramon.”
He smiled, not looking at her. “I'm glad you like it. Come on, we need to buy you some more clothes.”
All I seem to be doing this week is nearly getting killed and buying clothes, Kayla thought as she looked through the racks of women's clothes in the store. Jose took up a position by the door, glancing out at the street every few seconds, as Ramon and the other man—Fernando, his name was—took clothes down from the racks and shelves and held them out for Kayla to inspect.
Ramon was weighted down with an armful of clothing by the time they were finished and ready to pay for it all. Kayla stood looking at a display of earrings by the cash register as they waited for the clerk to tally up their purchases. Now she was wearing a pair of new jeans, a skin‑tight black shirt sewn with silvery threads, and the leather jacket.
“You should buy some new earrings,” Ramon said, watching her look at the earrings.
Kayla contemplated her reflection in a small mirror. “No, I don't think so.” She picked up two metal safety pins from the shop counter, and fastened them in her ears. “There. That looks better with the leather jacket, I think.”
“Carlos won't like it,” Ramon said definitively.
“Well, that's another great reason to wear them,” Kayla said. “Anything that pisses off Carlos is fine in my book.” Ramon gave her a doubtful look, but didn't argue. “Hey, how 'bout some lunch?” she asked. “I didn't eat any breakfast, y'know. Or any dinner,” she added after a moment.
Ramon gestured to Fernando and said something quickly in Spanish. Fernando nodded, picked up the bags of Kayla's clothing, and headed for the door. “He'll meet us at Fastburger,” Ramon said.
As they walked down the street, Jose walking watchfully ahead of them, Kayla glanced again at where Jose's gun was hidden. “You didn't tell me why Jose is carrying a gun,” she said to Ramon, quietly enough that none of the other pedestrians could hear them.
“It's because we've had some trouble here lately,” Ramon said after a long pause. “Bad trouble.”
“Is it with the police, or another street gang?”
“How did you know that we're a gang?”
“I figured it out for myself,” she said, a little sarcastically. “The bandannas and identical plaid shirts kinda give it away, you know.
“We don't think of ourselves like that,” Ramon said. “I mean, I'm a homeboy, and this is mi barrio. We all hang out together, go to parties and all that, maybe make a little money together, but we're not really a gang. It's those bastardos from the city, they're the real gang. The T‑Men. They're trying to move in here and sell drugs, take our money away from us.”
“You sell drugs?” Kayla asked.
He shrugged. “They want our neighborhood. They already did this to another gang, the guys that live over by Fulton Street. Killed maybe ten of their guys; the rest are too scared to even go out on the street now. They just got started with us, a few weeks ago. So far, they've hurt one of our guys real bad. Reynaldo is still in the hospital. We got even, Carlos stabbed one of their guys, so now it's a war.”
“Carlos is really good at stabbing people,” Kayla said, rubbing her gut, which still ached a little as she walked. “Did he study how to do that in high school or what?”
“You could make a real difference,” Ramon continued, as if she hadn't spoken. “A bruja, a real witch, to use against them . . . maybe you could change them all into frogs or something, eh?”
“If I could, I'd start with your brother,” Kayla said under her breath.
“What did you say?” Ramon wanted to know.
“I doubt I can change anybody into a frog,” Kayla said, a little louder. “I don't think it exactly works that way. I mean, I don't know how it works, this is all as weird to me as it is to you. I never knew that magic was real until two days ago.”
“I didn't believe in it, until I saw you—” Ramon grabbed her suddenly by the arm, looking back at the street. Kayla twisted to see what he was looking at; a white Mercedes convertible was driving very slowly along the street, maybe thirty feet away. Inside were four young black men wearing blue sweatshirts and baseball caps, all watching Ramon, Kayla, and Jose.
Ramon pushed Kayla ahead of him. “Walk faster,” he said quietly. The white convertible accelerated past them, one of the guys turning to look back at Kayla and Ramon. The car disappeared around the corner. Ramon spoke quickly to Jose in Spanish; the other man nodded and took off at a run in the direction of the parking lot.
“Keep walking,” Ramon said. “The Fastburger is up ahead, another block or so. Just keep walking.”
This is my best chance, she suddenly realized. Jose and Fernando aren't here, Ramon doesn't have a gun—I think—now it's just the two of us walking along the street . . . “Ramon, look!” she said, pointing across the street.
“What?” he asked.
Kayla shoved him, hard enough that he fell against a trash can, and took off running. The police station was only two blocks away . . . she could make it, she knew she could make it. . . .
She risked a glance backward to see Ramon staggering to his feet, then starting to run after her. “Kayla!”
She felt like she was flying, her feet barely touching the pavement. Her gut hurt, but she ignored it, concentrating on running as fast as she could. Another block, only another block . . . she could see the glass doors of the courthouse, the men and women in business suits walking in and out of the building . . . almost there, almost there . . .
A car screamed to a stop on the street next to her. The white convertible.
Oh, shit!
Kayla dived for the closest doorway, a bookstore. The startled proprietor stepped back as she ran past him, going straight for the back door. A moment later, she was out in the back alley, looking up and down the narrow street. Which way to go, which way . . . ? She could see the street off to her left—another left turn, run across the intersection, and she'd be in front of the police station. Her gut began aching again as she gasped for breath, putting everything she had into running.
The white convertible turned into the alley ahead of her, blocking her path. She stumbled to a stop, looking for another direction to run. She yanked at the back door of the closest store, but it was locked. Before she could run to another door, the young men were out of the car and surrounding her. She tried to dive past them; someone caught her by the arm and spun her around. She fell against the wall, sliding in the garbage and mud. She saw the pistol in one guy's hand, saw him pull back the hammer with his thumb.
Oh God, he's going to kill me, he's going to—
Fernando's car screamed to a stop at the end of the alley. Jose was leaning halfway through the window, firing his pistol. The other guys dived for cover, pulling out handguns and shooting wildly. Kayla crouched with her back pressed against the wall as Fernando's car crashed into the front of the Mercedes with a sickening crunch of metal, shoving it backward.
Ramon leaped out of the car, grabbing Kayla by the arm and yanking her back toward Fernando's car. The car's engine shrieked with the strain as Fernando reversed direction, accelerating backwards out of the alley. Ramon pushed her into the back seat of the moving car, pulling himself in after her. “Go, go!” Ramon shouted, shoving Kayla down and firing his handgun through the open car window. The car skidded backwards into the street, then raced forward in a hard turn, leaving the Mercedes behind in the alley.
At the next intersection, Fernando turned left, driving very fast through the residential streets. Ramon stared out through the back window for several blocks, then turned to Kayla. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, too scared to speak. A hot pain hit her; every nerve in her arm was screaming at her, as the blood dripped down over her fingers. She looked at her own arms in shock; no, it wasn't her, she wasn't hurt at all.
“Jose, mi hermano!” Ramon's horrified voice startled her. She looked up to see Jose pressing a handkerchief to his arm. The cloth was already bright with blood, a widening stain of red.
Jose said something in Spanish, his voice weak. His lips were tight, and he was very pale. Kayla fought the impulse to touch him—she knew he must be in incredible pain already, and her touch couldn't help . . . wouldn't help . . .
A blue spark flickered over her palm, then another. Her hands moved forward as if by themselves, drawn to that pain that she could feel, the pain that was calling out to her. Her hands brushed against Jose's face, his skin cold and damp to her touch. She could feel the magic welling inside her like an irresistible tide, higher and higher . . . she closed her eyes, caught up in something she couldn't understand. Beneath her hands, she could feel the magic coursing into him, flowing down to the source of the pain and washing it away.
She opened her eyes to see Ramon staring at her. His dark eyes were wide with surprise and something she didn't understand. He raised his hand to touch her face. . . .
His hand paused, a fingertip's distance from her cheek, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of it. She felt as though she was within his thoughts, caught up in his astonishment and delight. She couldn't tell her thoughts from his, everything was too close and strange and tinted with the bright glow of the magic.
:¿Querida, que tipo de magica es eso?: he asked silently, and she could feel his joy like a tangible thing, singing inside her mind. It was overwhelming, too many thoughts and emotions that weren't hers, catching her up and spinning her around faster and faster until she couldn't think or feel for herself. She felt like she was falling, lost within his mind and the magic.
“Oh my,” she said, and fainted.
Someone was carrying her. That was her first thought. Her second thought was that everything hurt. She shivered, pulling closer to whoever it was who was carrying her.
There were voices above her, speaking quickly in Spanish and English. One loud voice overrode the others. She recognized Carlos' strident tones without even needing to open her eyes. “What happened, Ramon?” he demanded.
Ramon's voice. “I don't know. Jose was hurt and she helped him, and then she fainted—”
“Is she going to die?”
No, I'm not going to die, I just want to, Kayla thought, feeling as though every inch of her was on fire. Then she was lying on something soft; she felt someone gently take off her sneakers and leather jacket. She opened her eyes to see Roberta, a concerned look in her dark eyes, pulling a blanket over her. To her annoyance, Kayla saw that Roberta was wearing the silver hoop earrings.
Bitch, Kayla thought, and would have said that aloud to her, but for some reason her voice wasn't working quite right. “She's awake,” Roberta said to someone out of her sight.
Carlos' face appeared above her. “What happened?”
She could feel the intensity of his thoughts, his love for his brother mixed in with terror over their near escape. There was something else, a distant memory of believing that Ramon was going to die, and the furious frustration of being able to do nothing to stop it. She saw herself through his eyes, a fear of losing something of value, something that he desperately needed. Not a person, but a thing, something to be guarded and used carefully.
Kayla tried to push it all away, not wanting to know any more, but she could still sense Carlos, the heat of his thoughts only a few feet away. And Roberta, a seething pool of different emotions: love, hatred, fear, and even concern for the girl lying on the bed in front of her.
And beyond both of them, a sensation of a dark pool, a place of warm emotion that lifted her up and sang within the confusion of her mind. She saw herself through Ramon's eyes, a beautiful girl with bright green eyes and the magic coiling and dancing around her hands.
No, I don't want this, she thought fuzzily, trying to focus on Ramon's face, which was too blurry for her to see. I don't want you to care about me, I want to hate you, I just want to get away, run a thousand miles from here.
Somebody, please, get me out of here!
Elizabet blinked, trying to keep her eyes open. She'd been at the police station for too many hours, waiting to hear the lab reports from what they'd found at her house. Too many hours without sleep, ever since she'd come home and found the pool of wet blood on her living room floor. . . .
Searching with the police, they'd found some physical evidence, but there was no way to know anything until the lab reports returned. Searching magically, she had found nothing. Kayla had vanished into the city without a trace.
Something brushed against her thoughts, a distant sense of magic. Then she heard the echo of a young girl's voice, a cry of desperation and pain: “Somebody, please, get me out of here!”
Kayla!
She closed her eyes, hoping that no one else in the police station would notice her odd behavior, and cast her mind out in widening circles, searching.
There! She found it almost immediately, the residue of major magic, somewhere in the San Fernando Valley; traces of magic fading away even as she reached out to track it, disappearing into the eddying, drifting thoughts of one million Valley residents. Damn!
“Elizabet?”
She opened to her eyes, startled out of her near‑trance. Nichelle Cable was standing by her desk, a folder tucked under her arm. “Are you okay?”
Elizabet nodded. “Just . . . just very tired. Do you have anything new?”
Nichelle shook her head. “Fibers and prints came up negative, except for that print on the broken dolphin which is, unfortunately, a match to your left thumb. I'm sorry, Elizabet.”
“Anything new on a connection between the double homicide and this kidnaping?” Elizabet asked.
“William Kennison III is a nutcase. Long history of mental instability. He was fired from his job earlier that day, apparently went home and loaded his assault rifle, then went hunting for his boss. Couldn't find the boss, so he went after those people in the convenience store. He doesn't have any connection to the kidnaping that we can find; he's just a dead end.” The homicide detective smiled grimly. “At least we got a full confession out of him this morning, so even if your missing kid never turns up, we have this guy nailed down tight.”
“But he has no connection to Kayla's kidnaping.” Elizabet clenched her fists in her lap.
“Maybe your kid will turn up on her own,” Nichelle said. “I mean, we don't have much evidence that this was a kidnaping, except for the fact that there was blood on your living room floor. Maybe the blood was from an accident of some kind, and she called her friends to help her out. Maybe she just went off with friends. If she ends up back on the street, we'll find her again eventually.”
I know that Kayla was taken against her will, Nichelle, but if I tell you how I know that, you'll think I'm insane. Elizabet unclenched her fists and said, “Thank you for your help on this, Nichelle. I appreciate it.”
“I'm sorry it turned out this way,” Nichelle said. “I'll let you know if anything else turns up. Here's the lab folder, by the way. If any of this gives you ideas, let me know. The rest of us are drawing a blank right now.”
Elizabet opened the folder and leafed through the printed pages. The blood was Type A Positive, which matched Kayla's medical records. No sign of the weapon that had caused the wounds; the perpetrators must have taken it with them. Some mud on the floor corresponded to a partial footprint in the flowerbed beside Elizabet's front door. Not enough to make any identification, though, or even a guess as to shoe size. Some hairs that were identified as Elizabet's.
In short, nothing.
She left the folder on Nichelle's desk and slowly walked out to her car. There was nothing in that folder that the police could use to track down the kidnapers. If anyone was going to find Kayla, it would be by luck or magic.
I'll keep trying, Elizabet thought. Every time she uses magic, it leaves a trace that I can follow. I'll keep searching until I find her.
She's out there somewhere . . . I know she is. . . .
An awful thought occurred to her then, chilling her blood: I can sense her, know what she's doing, that she's out there somewhere . . .
What if someone else is tracking her?