Figment. Part 9

"Zoe, I have to say it. I'm worried about you." Oliver touched my back.

I nodded without taking my face out of my hands. My nose dripped. "Can you get me a tissue?" I asked, still not looking up. My heart was pounding against my chest like the hooves of a spooked pony.

"Yeah, yeah, of course." He patted my shoulder, then stood up. I raised my head and watched him weave his way through the crowd, stopping every few feet to accept congratulations from people.

I stared blankly at a couple of the sketches nearby that I'd missed before-a series of the London Bridge done at different times of the day: sunrise, midday, sunset, with gulls flying across the river.

A girl who had been examining the sunrise picture turned around. "Zoe!" she said with surprise. It was Elisa, Oliver's friend from the Enterprise, wearing gorgeous leather pants and a plain white T-shirt.

"Oh, hi." I straightened up, swiping at my cheeks and running my fingers through my hair.

She gave me a hug and a double cheek-kiss. "I haven't seen you since that night at the pub. Have you been hanging out with Oliver?"

"Yeah, some," I replied. Over her shoulder, I could see Oliver standing at the drinks table, talking to someone who was blocked by a pillar. Then they moved a few steps to the side, and my heart skipped a beat. He was talking to my parents.

Elisa was still talking. ". . . going to this outdoor music festival next week . . ."

I dragged my attention back to her. "I'm sorry, what?"

She gave me an odd look. "I said, we're all going to this great outdoor music festival next week, if you want to come."

Oliver was gesturing now, still talking. My father threw a concerned glance in my direction. I had a horrible flashback to the night Becca betrayed me, then quickly banished that thought. Oliver would never do that to me-would he?

Elisa was still talking. I nodded automatically, half watching her pink mouth forming meaningless words, half watching Oliver. My parents were doing most of the talking, it seemed. I strained to hear them, but there was no way I could over the din of the crowd.

"Well, nice to run into you," Elisa said. My inattention must have finally gotten to her, because the words had a hollow ring. "See you around." She moved off without another hug or kiss.

"See you around," I called after her belatedly, then immediately began wending my way through the crowded room to get to the drinks table. I was too late, though. Oliver hadn't come back with my tissues, and my parents were bearing down on me with an intent I couldn't mistake.

"Zoe . . ." My mother whisked me off into a corner. "Your father and I want to talk to you."

I looked from one to the other, trying to gauge what Oliver had told them. Everything? Nothing? Did they know he'd been covering for me?

"Oliver was just chatting with us a bit." She twisted a bracelet on her wrist.

My chest tightened immediately. "Yeah, I saw." I forced myself to breathe. Antagonizing them would get me nowhere, especially if Oliver had betrayed me.

"He said you've been a bit on edge, Zoe." My father pinned me to the wall with his stare.

I exhaled sharply. Never would I get out of this situation. Never would I convince them I was better. They'd given me the phone, and everything had been peachy, and now-we were right back where we'd started.

"I'm feeling less anxious since we talked a few days ago." I kept my voice supremely neutral. The music pounded in my head, and on every side, faces loomed and voices babbled. I had to get out of there. The walls were going to crush me at any second. "I just think about the accident sometimes, and it upsets me." My voice wavered, and I steadied it with an effort.

My mother nodded. "That's what I was telling Dad, but he's worried there might be something . . . more." She cut her eyes over at my father. He stared at me, his face set in hard lines.

Crazy. They were still saying I was crazy. Suddenly I couldn't bear it anymore-couldn't bear their moon faces staring at me, couldn't bear the pressure to act normal, act casual, couldn't bear not knowing if the boy I loved was alive or dead. I wanted to scream as loudly as I could until my lungs gave out, but instead I murmured, "I think I'll just get a little fresh air." I pasted on a smile and slipped past them, scurrying out the door.

I leaned against a light pole on the sidewalk, thankfully inhaling the soft night air. I could hear my pulse beating in my ears. I ground my forehead slowly against the cool metal of the pole, then looked up to see a knot of smokers staring at me strangely. I moved around the side of the building where a narrow alley stretched through to the block behind us. Somewhere quiet where I could think.

Here, my only company was a Dumpster with a couch poking from the top and a few scurrying creatures I told myself were mice. I leaned against the rough brick wall and tried to empty my mind. The alley was silent, but I could hear the noise of the party down at the end. And something else, I realized. Footsteps, coming toward me.

Then a hand fell on my shoulder.

I gasped and whirled around. A small, slender man was standing in front of me, wearing a well-cut gray suit. He had buzzed blond hair and eyes that looked both sleepy and alert, like those of a lizard basking in the sun.

"Zoe." The man smiled, as if pleased to see me. His hand reached out and squeezed my shoulder again. The touch was unpleasantly intimate.

I recoiled, backing up a step until my shoulder blades touched the brick wall. "Who-who are you?"

But even before the words were out of my mouth, I already knew. It was the man who had been following us. The man the Dubai ring had sent to track Davis.

Fear filled me, and, with adrenaline pumping through my body, I turned to run down the alley, call for Oliver, my father, somebody. But the man grabbed my wrist, jerking me back. I half fell against the brick wall with the unused scream caught in my throat.

With his hand still encircling my wrist like a hard bracelet, he brought his face close to mine. I could smell his breath-stale tobacco. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

"Zoe, I'm so glad we ran into each other. I'm Jeremiah." He sounded as if we'd met each other at a party. "Did your felon boyfriend Davis tell you I'd be coming?"

"He's not a felon," I whispered. Sweat slicked my palms.

Jeremiah released my wrist. "Whatever you say, dear." He smiled broadly. His teeth were yellow.

"What do you want?" I kept the trembling from my voice.

"What do I want?" Jeremiah traced the side of my face with one finger. Sour spit filled my mouth, and I swallowed hard. "What I want isn't the question. What my colleagues in Dubai want, on the other hand, is the pa.s.sword." He paused and watched me alertly.

"What pa.s.sword?" I glanced up and down the alley. The lights from the gallery glowed at one end. I saw a merry group pa.s.s by, talking loudly, but I didn't dare scream for help. Jeremiah saw my gaze shift.

"That's right, Zoe. Best not to say anything." His hand went around my wrist again, and the way he squeezed it sent a bolt of pain up my arm.

I cried out, doubling over, pressing my elbow into my belly. The fear was thick in my throat like vomit. "Please," I whimpered. "What pa.s.sword?"

Jeremiah bent down so that his face was once again close to mine. "The pa.s.sword to the account, Zoe. Davis told you everything, didn't he? Well, now we want to know it. Just to get the money-the money that is rightfully ours." He squeezed my wrist again.

I groaned. "I don't know it." I was crying now, and my breath was coming in tight gasps. "I don't know it. Please, you have to believe me. He never told me." A shadowy figure appeared at the end of the alley-my father, but he was looking the wrong way, toward the street. Jeremiah glanced toward him. I opened my mouth to scream, but he twisted my arm behind my back. I fell to my knees in the dirt.

Jeremiah leaned down. "This isn't over." His breath was hot in my ear. Then he abruptly released me, and I heard his footsteps crunching as he ran the other way out of the alley.

"Zoe," my father called, hurrying toward me. "What are you doing down here? I've been searching everywhere for you." He reached me and pulled me up. All our tension from earlier dissolved, and I fell into his arms, struggling not to sob out the whole story. Instead, I just pressed my face to his crisp shirt, inhaling his familiar scent of Old Spice and cigars, just as I used to when I was little.

"I-I'm okay," I managed after a moment. "I just . . . fell. On my arm." I held it out, and we both looked at the bright bruise on my wrist.

"Here, let's get you some ice." My father guided me out of the alley and back into the noisy, glittering gallery.

As I stood in the back, waiting for my towel full of ice, the scene in the alley seemed unreal, as if it had never happened. Surely, in this throng of happy, beautifully dressed people, there were no men named Jeremiah with stale breath and a pincer grasp. There was no alley, no dirt, no darkness. But I knew that wasn't true. It had happened. And Jeremiah wanted something very specific. The pa.s.sword to Davis's account. The pa.s.sword that would unlock the money.

My legs felt weak. I felt for a chair behind me and slowly sank down. A pa.s.sword. He wanted a pa.s.sword. I didn't know a pa.s.sword. This guy could hurt Davis-and me. Badly, if he wanted to. "What am I going to do?" I moaned to myself. I wrapped my arms around my middle and rocked myself slowly back and forth, back and forth.

FIFTEEN.

The metal door ricocheted off the wall as I banged into the empty bathroom stall. I fumbled the phone from my pocket and pressed the power b.u.t.ton. I had to talk to Davis. I perched on the toilet and gripped the phone, the case sweaty in my hand, as the screen came gradually to life. I held my breath, stupidly, as the icons for voice mails and texts appeared. Nothing, of course. Davis didn't have this international number. But maybe, just maybe . . . I thumbed rapidly to the Internet and logged on to my e-mail. Please. Please let him have sent an e-mail. Holding my breath, I scanned the list of new messages. I saw it halfway down-a message with no subject. The sender was Dana. I didn't know a Dana. I clicked it open.

There was nothing in it but a phone number. Joy seared through my heart.

With my breath whistling in and out of my nose, with my fingers trembling, I dialed the number. It rang once, twice, three times-then a generic voice-mail message.

"Call me," I whispered. Was someone listening in? How could I know it was safe? I hung up quickly. My mouth was dry.

I waited. The seconds ticked by endlessly. Then it came-the bing of a message. I thumbed the screen, my fingers skidding across the surface, leaving sweaty fingerprints. A text.

Hey, babe, I'm okay. Sleeping on the beach. Can't say much more. You know why. But I love you always.

Thank G.o.d. He was safe. I sagged back against the toilet tank in momentary relief. Big problems here, I wrote. The guy found me. He wants a pa.s.sword. What should we do?

After a few seconds, the reply came. Don't say anything to anyone, Zo. Got to go. Will write later.

I love you, I wrote back. Though I waited almost twenty minutes, no reply came. Finally, reluctantly, I stood up. I tried to shake the creeping feeling that I'd been blown off by the very person I'd hoped would save me.

Two hours later, the big gallery s.p.a.ce was almost empty. The drinks table was littered with discarded gla.s.ses and crumpled c.o.c.ktail napkins, and Oliver's mother was packing wine bottles into a big cardboard box. She closed the flaps on the last one and hefted the box. "I'll just take this one out to the car, Ollie," she called.

"Right, thanks, Mum!" Oliver was circulating around the gallery, stuffing scattered fliers into a trash can.

"Zoe, are you ready to go?" My mother slung her purse over her shoulder. "Is your wrist feeling better?"

I turned from a side table where I was collecting cups. "I'm fine. I think I'll stay, if that's okay, Mom. Help Oliver clean up." I glanced at Oliver.

He nodded. "Yeah, that would be great."

My father hesitated. "All right, then. Have Oliver see you home."

"Of course." I maintained my smile until they disappeared out the door and down the sidewalk.

Oliver and I were the only two left in the gallery now. I circulated slowly through the big room, straightening stacks of catalogs left scattered here and there.

Oliver was at the other end of the gallery, taking down his sketches and stacking the frames at the back of the room.

"So, how do you think it went?" I called down to him. My voice sounded loud in the echoing s.p.a.ce.

He looked up and smiled at me. "Not bad. I sold a bunch of the pieces. So that'll help with school this fall."

"That's so awesome." His steady, cheerful presence suddenly felt very welcome, after Jeremiah in the alley and the brush-off from Davis on the phone. "Does it feel weird to think that your drawings are going to be in someone else's home?" I stooped and swept a handful of stepped-on fliers from beneath one of the benches.

"Sort of. It's kind of like selling one of your fingers or something." Oliver was zipping up his portfolio very slowly. "I miss them when they're gone." He laughed a little. "Does that sound stupid?"

"No, not at all. I get it." I needlessly arranged three stacks of catalogs into one and squared the edges.

Now he moved a few steps closer so we were facing each other over the long table. "I'm really sorry to cause more drama with you and your parents, by the way. I hope you don't think I snitched on you or anything like that."

"No, I don't." I knew the doubt was coming through in my voice. I fiddled with the top catalog in the stack, not meeting his eyes.

"They asked me how I thought you were doing, and I just said I thought you seemed stressed, and they started freaking out, asking me all sorts of questions, like, were you in touch with reality, and did you ever hallucinate . . ." He trailed off tactfully, but I could see the questions in his eyes.

I knew I owed him some kind of explanation. I sighed. "Look, Oliver, I can't go into details, but my parents and I had a gigantic misunderstanding not too long ago. It was pretty crazy, actually, and I was mad for a long time. We're kind of okay now, but basically, they're asking stuff like that because they don't know everything I do. And I can't tell them, or worse things could happen." I paused. "I'm sorry, that's really vague." I smiled at him rea.s.suringly. "I'm actually fine. Really." I thought of Jeremiah, and the fear swamped me again, but I swallowed hard, stuffing it down.

Oliver nodded slowly. "I just worry about you sometimes, heading off into the city on your own and coming back so late at night." His voice was gentle, and his eyes were clear as they held my gaze. He was so kind and sympathetic that I felt the whole, awful story bubbling up within me: my nightmares, Davis hiding out and blowing me off, the pa.s.sword I didn't know, and especially Jeremiah and his threats.

"Oliver, there is something . . ." Then Davis's words echoed in my head: Don't say anything to anyone. I forced myself to stop, but it was like using a cork to stem a flowing spigot. Oliver was watching me.

"What? What is it?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Trust me, if I ever need someone, you'll be the first person I come to."

He exhaled, nodding. "Okay. And if I ever need someone, say, to do some nude modeling, you'll be the first person I come to." He grinned, and, in spite of myself, I laughed-for the first time that night, I realized.

"Not very likely," I said.

Oliver slung the portfolio over his shoulder, and we walked companionably toward the front, side by side. At the entrance, though, I hesitated. The darkness pressed in on us. Jeremiah could be out there, waiting just out of sight. I felt my heart pick up speed.

Oliver was watching me. "You ready?"

I nodded. Thank you. Thank you for not asking why I'm suddenly afraid of the dark. He had to be the most tactful guy in all of England.

We stepped out of the gallery, and I quickly cast my gaze left and right. No Jeremiah. I clutched Oliver's hand tighter anyway as we walked down the empty sidewalk toward the Tube station. Our footsteps tapped on the concrete and echoed against the dark, shuttered shop fronts we pa.s.sed. The streetlamps made pools of light on the pavement stretching ahead of us. I was afraid of the patches of darkness in between. That was where Jeremiah could hide.

"So, what are you doing tomorrow?" Oliver asked, clearly trying to make conversation. He could feel me trembling, I knew.

"Um, I don't know." I was trying to see down the alleys as we pa.s.sed each one. Hiding out. But I didn't say that.

"Have you been in here?" Oliver gestured to the ma.s.sive gates of Kensington Gardens as we pa.s.sed them.

"Yeah, once. My mom and I took a shortcut through there the other day." With an effort, I kept my voice even.

Oliver took my hand again and squeezed it rea.s.suringly. "Did you see the Peter Pan statue?"

"Um, no. Peter Pan?" I could see the Tube entrance now. The bright white lights of the station were like a mecca.

"Yeah, there's a famous statue in the gardens. It was my favorite place when I was a kid. You want to maybe go see it tomorrow?"

"Sure." I barely heard him. We were at the smeary gla.s.s entrance doors. Made it. I exhaled, then glanced at Oliver. His warm hand was still entwined with mine. I knew I should let it go, but in that moment, I realized, I didn't want to. Reluctantly, I let his fingers slip from mine.