Torched Read online

  “This is pretty cool,” I said, leaning down to look at a cherub’s head.

  “I like castaways,” she said. She pulled out an old upholstered chair with claw feet, arms turned out like wings and a back that spread like a fan. It looked like animals had been eating and/or living in it. And it smelled like they had been peeing on it, too. Blue didn’t seem fazed. “I’m going to tear this down to the wood and springs and reupholster it with this fabric.”

  “Wow,” I said as she took the bolt of velvet from my arms. “This makes what I do with clothes look like nothing. How do you know how to do all those things?”

  She shrugged. “I just figured it out. After all, if I make a mistake, I’m not out very much. And I never try to make it look new. That would be boring. Like, I’m going to turn that window into a series of picture frames, but I’ll leave the hinges on. It’s like a reminder of what something used to be.”

  I nodded. I could already see the window through her eyes.

  “It takes garbage out of the landfill and gives people something that they like. I’m hoping that people will look at my stuff and realize that you don’t need to throw everything away. It’s surprising what you see if you just keep your eyes open.” From a shelf, Blue pulled down an open shoe box filled with plastic bags. “Want to see some of my finds?”

  She put the box on an old wooden table and began spreading out her treasures: a detailed Art Deco hinge, vintage typewriter keys, pale-pink and baby-blue doorknobs and a colorful bag of broken glass.

  “What’s that for?” I asked. The glass was a jumble of colors—mostly green, but also red, yellow and blue.

  “I’m going to make a mosaic for a tabletop.”

  “Didn’t you cut yourself picking it up?”

  She shrugged. “Not too badly. Sometimes you have to be willing to put your own safety at risk for the greater good.” Her expression was serious. Clearly, Blue wasn’t just talking about a mosaic tabletop. I made myself meet her gaze. Much as I was starting to like Blue, I had to be fake with her, too, so she wouldn’t doubt my sincerity. After a long second, I asked, “How do you carry some of the heavy stuff home on your bike?”

  “Oh, I’ve gotten pretty good at balancing stuff. But I’ve also got an old car. That orange Volvo parked on the street. Yesterday I brought home that dresser strapped on top.”

  “What do you do with this stuff when you’re done?” I ran my hand across the battered surface of the dresser.

  “I sell it at a consignment store downtown. They call it shabby chic.” She winked as if she was putting something over on them. “Sometimes I give it to friends.”

  I wondered if Blue thought of me as a friend. Part of me wished she did. But another part of me wondered what she would think of me if she really knew everything.

  I just hoped she never found out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  At 1:17 A.M. on Wednesday, I walked down a sidewalk in South-east Portland. Two blocks away was a brightly lit 7-Eleven, but all the other businesses along the street were closed.

  Dressed in the dark clothes from the Bins, I had never felt more conspicuous in my life. Why would someone be out at this time of night and on foot? I just hoped no one could tell I was a girl. If people knew you were a girl wandering around in the middle of the night, it opened up to a whole new set of problems.

  My heart was beating as fast as if I had been running. But I wasn’t supposed to run; I wasn’t supposed to draw attention to myself. I tried to remember the things Coyote had told me: to plan what to say if a cop or security guy spotted me, to have at least two exit strategies mapped out, to strip off my top layer as soon as I could after I was finished.

  I was also supposed to assume that a camera was following my every move, even if I couldn’t see one. That’s why my hood was pulled up. It made a little cave, and in it my breathing echoed, too fast and too shallow. I was freaking out, even though I had made a dry run two nights ago. Real MEDics made dry runs. Real MEDics cased their targets. Real MEDICS were professionals.

  Tonight, I was fully aware that I was only pretending to be a MEDic.

  The street was so quiet that my footsteps echoed down the block. My eyes scanned the area, but I was too anxious to tell if anything looked different from when I had done my dry runs. In my pocket was a tube of glue with BBs mixed in. Coyote had explained that, combined with glue, the BBs would make the building’s locks impenetrable.

  The two-story building was dark inside. Through the gold lettering on the old-fashioned, wood-trimmed glass door, I could just make out a counter, with two desks in the shadows beyond it. The lock was inside the doorknob. I looked both ways. The street was deserted. As I pulled the tube of glue free, I stepped close to the door, shielding the knob with my body. One more look around. I was still alone. I inserted the tip of the tube into the lock and squeezed until I felt resistance. When I pulled back the tube, a drop of glue oozed from the lock.

  I took out the cheapest, reddest lipstick I had been able to find at Target. As fast as possible, I scrawled THE MEDICS ARE WATCHING! on the glass of the door, one word per line, writing over the gold letters that were already there. I even used my left hand so the handwriting couldn’t be matched up with me later. Then I pulled out Matt’s digital camera, held it out at arm’s length and snapped a picture of me and the door. The flash made me flinch. No matter how bad the quality was, it would have to be proof enough. I put the camera in my pocket and started walking rapidly down the street.

  “Hey, kid! What are you doing?”

  I jumped about a foot, then looked back. Through the open window of an old, metallic green car slowly moving down the street, a bald guy with a cigarette between his lips was staring at me.

  Immediately forgetting all I had been taught, I ran. The rumble of the car’s engine speeded up. My two escape routes both led to a MAX station a couple of blocks away, where a train was due in seven minutes. But waiting at the station, I would be too easy to find. I needed a new getaway plan. I risked a look behind me. The car was only about forty feet away.

  Crap! I had to lose him. But how? At the end of the block, I darted around the corner and put on an even bigger burst of speed, trying to get to the end of the next block so that I could cut right or left before he came around the corner. Maybe I could make turns faster than he could follow.

  But the low growl of his engine was right behind me, his headlights illuminating the street.

  There! A narrow, dark passage between a bar and a shuttered store. On the far side, I saw the soft glow of a streetlight. It looked like the passageway ran all the way back to the street behind. I hurried down it, praying my black sweatshirt would blend into the shadows.

  Wham! I crashed into a metal gate. If I hadn’t had my hands outstretched, I would have hit it face-first. Behind me, I heard the car slow to a stop, then a rusty car door creaking open.

  The gate was about seven feet tall, but there weren’t any spikes on top. I spied a blue rubber garbage can and dragged it over. Holding on to the bars, I managed to clamber onto the garbage can and then over the top of the gate. I put one leg over just as the plastic lid of the garbage can gave way. With a sideways lurch, I tumbled over the gate, landing hard on my shoulder and hip. Even though it hurt to move, I got up immediately and half ran, half limped away down the alley.

  “Come back here, kid!” the man shouted behind me. I heard his footsteps stop at the gate. I expected to hear him trying to vault over the fence himself, but apparently he wasn’t willing to risk it.

  As soon as I was around the corner, I yanked off my black sweatshirt. Underneath I had on an orange T-shirt. The sweatshirt got tossed in the first Dumpster I passed. The lipstick went into a second, and the glue into a third. Every time I came to an intersection, I picked the street that looked the darkest and most deserted.

  I ran when I could, but had to stop and walk more and more as I got tired. My breath came in gasps, and my hip and shoulder ached. I walked across the Steel B
ridge into downtown, but it was too dark to see the river below. Finally, I made it to the bus mall. At that time of night, it was only me and a few homeless guys muttering to themselves. Luckily, they didn’t try to talk to me before the bus finally came forty-five minutes later.

  It was after three in the morning when I finally walked up my driveway. It was hard to put one foot in front of the other. My legs felt heavy as lead, and my hip was throbbing. I couldn’t wait to take a warm shower and crawl into bed.

  I turned the key in the lock and eased myself in the front door. As I walked through the living room, I jumped, the last bit of adrenaline I had jolting through my veins. Laurel was sitting in Matt’s recliner, dressed in a long, white night-gown, her iron-gray hair loose down her back. I had told her earlier in the day that I would be out late, without spelling out it was for MED. But she must have guessed, and now here she was.

  Without a word, Laurel stood up and held her arms out to me. She had put me in this position, and now she wanted to hold me? I pushed past her, shaking off her hand when she tried to touch me. “I’m going to bed,” I said, in a voice that made it clear that I didn’t want to be bothered by her.

  As I entered the hall, I heard a small, strangled noise. Turning, I saw the shine of tear tracks on her cheeks. My mother, crying?

  “I’m sorry, honey, so sorry,” she choked out. I noticed she kept her voice low, so she could still keep Matt in the dark. “This is all our fault.”

  “You know what, Mom?” I said. “I don’t care if you’re sorry. It’s too late for that.” I went into my room, but instead of slamming the door, I closed it very, very gently.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Did anyone see you?” Cedar asked. It was three days later, and the MEDics were passing around the blurry photo I had taken. We were back on the picnic bench in the same rundown park we had met in earlier. Coyote sat next to Cedar, and just his presence eased a little of my nervousness.

  I wasn’t sure how to answer Cedar’s question. The paper had never run a story about the glued lock, much less that there had been a witness. Under the table, Blue, who was sitting next to me, patted my knee.

  Liberty watched me, her face alert. Meadow chewed her thumbnail, looking at me from underneath her bangs. Hawk stared at me with his creepy pop-out eyes, expressionless. The others seemed to take it for granted that I was already in. Jack Rabbit had high-fived me when I arrived, and Grizz had given me a hug that lifted me off my feet.

  I thought about lying, but what if Cedar had had someone watching me? If this was some kind of final test, I didn’t want to screw it up. “A guy saw me after I was done, but I took evasive action.” I tried to sound professional.

  “How do you know you weren’t followed?” Liberty demanded. “How do we know you haven’t compromised us all?”

  She looked around, as if expecting the others to chime in, but no one else said anything.

  “Because I lost him,” I said. “Besides, when he yelled at me, he called me ‘kid.’ I’m pretty sure he thought I was a guy. And I was far away and had my hood pulled up.”

  Cedar looked at me for a long time, expressionless. Finally, he nodded and said, “You did well.”

  I let out my breath. “So I’m in?”

  For an answer, Blue clapped her hands and asked, “What would you like your MED name to be?”

  Everyone turned to me, waiting for an answer. But I didn’t want to surrender Ellie.

  “How about something for the color of your eyes?” Coyote suggested. “Of course, Blue’s taken, but you could be Ocean. Or Lake. Or Sky.”

  “Sky,” I said, trying it on for size. And then more confidently. “Sky. I like that.”

  “All right, Sky,” Hawk said. “We have another mission for you. Do you know where the Hummer dealership is in Beaverton?”

  MOTHER EARTH DEFENDERS—CLAIM FOR HUMMER ARSON

  Symbolizing consumer decadence at its worst,

  $1 million worth of Hummers were torched last night in

  Beaverton. The firebombing of the Beaverton Hummer

  dealership was meant to punish carmakers and consumers

  for their love affairs with these shamelessly gas-guzzling

  behemoths that destroy everything they encounter. They are

  a status symbol for rich American consumers, who are killing

  more people on this planet than anyone else. Sucking the

  land dry, these oversized toys are at the forefront of this vile,

  imperialistic culture’s caravan toward self-destruction.

  We can no longer allow the rich to parade around in their

  armored existence, leaving a wasteland behind in their tire

  tracks. The time is right to fight back.

  We must strike out against what destroys us before we

  choke to death on smog or are silenced by the state.

  Take the power into your own hands.

  It’s your life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It had been four days since we had set the fire at the Hummer dealership. Four days since Coyote had dropped me off at my house and then taken Meadow home. Four days of longing to see Coyote, knowing that I couldn’t see him or even call him. The MEDics had made it clear we must all avoid contact after an action, stick to our everyday routines.

  At night, I slept in snatches, waking from dreams where I tripped and the fire consumed me, or an explosion sent my body cartwheeling through the air.

  Without having any idea of my involvement, Matt talked to Laurel about the fire at the Hummer dealership, speaking obliquely about “our friends.” The night after the Hummer action, Laurel had come into my room to wish me good night. She leaned down to kiss me on the forehead, which she hadn’t done since I was in grade school. I thought about turning my head away, but instead I just closed my eyes while her cool lips briefly touched my skin. Something about the tears I had seen the night of my first action had been eating at me. I knew she was sorry.

  When my parents weren’t around, I compulsively checked news sites. The FBI must have known who was behind it, known all our names and exactly where to find us, but they fed the media a different story, one in which the fire had burned up any clues and they were completely in the dark.

  I wondered how the FBI really felt about what happened. Gluing locks was one thing, but I didn’t think they had wanted me to cause a million dollars’ worth of damage.

  Then Agent Richter left a message on my cell phone, asking me to meet him in a service hallway at the Washington Square Mall.

  Inside the mall, I walked past the drinking fountain, past the doors for the restrooms. At the end of the hall, I turned to look at the streams of shoppers shuffling by. They seemed like zombies, hypnotized by all the choices. My end of the hallway was shadowed, with unmarked doors on either side.

  I had the creepy feeling that I was invisible.

  I knocked three times on the second door on the left, just as Richter had instructed me to. He half opened the door, I slipped inside and he closed it behind me. He gave me a tired smile that did nothing to ease my anxiety. The long, narrow room seemed to be a storeroom for mall decorations, with boxes labeled XMAS LIGHTS AND HALLOWEEN SKELETONS. The animatronic bear I had been photographed with every Christmas when I was little was probably in here someplace.

  “I don’t like this,” I said as Richter leaned against a box marked CORNUCOPIA. “I don’t like this at all.”

  “Why?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “You wanted me to prove myself. I thought it would be something little. Not . . .” My voice faltered as I thought again of the fire.

  “You did exactly what we wanted you to do, and you did it well,” Richter said.

  “Better than we expected.” The new voice made me jump.

  I turned to face the new speaker, who had appeared from behind a pile of boxes. Dressed in jeans and an old Pendleton shirt, he looked like one of my parents’ friends. His grizzled hair was caught back
in a thin ponytail, as if his ability to grow hair on the back of his head made up for the receding hairline in front.

  “Who are you?” For a second I wondered if there were people behind every pile of boxes. Was I being watched? Was this being videotaped? Anything seemed possible.

  He regarded me calmly. “A friend.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  He shrugged. “You can call me anything you want.”

  Richter nodded like it was okay. But it wasn’t okay. What had I gotten myself into?

  Deciding to ignore Ponytail, I turned back to Richter. “How can you say that I did a good job?” I protested. “That fire caused a million dollars’ worth of damage.”

  “Gluing locks was something anyone could do. Torching that car dealership was your first real test. They know you’re willing to go all the way. They’ll trust you more now. You helped them create something that got them headlines across the nation.”

  I snorted in frustration. “Helped them create something? Because of what I did—something you wanted me to do—this guy got his car lot burned down. All I did was help them destroy a million dollars’ worth of cars.”

  “He has insurance,” Ponytail said dismissively. “I hear he might even be claiming a few things burned up that didn’t. And the day after the fire, he even sold two Hummers from the far end of the lot.” He gave me a mirthless grin. “You should tell those MEDic people that they got it bass-ackwards. That fire put tons of pollution into the air, and putting it out meant a bunch of dirty water went straight into the river and then the ocean.”

  His words just made my head hurt even more.

  Richter touched my arm. “Look, if you hadn’t lit the match, someone else would have. Remember, our priority is to stop them before they kill someone. And by getting even deeper inside, now you’ll be able to help us do that.”