Chapter Two
We stopped for gas somewhere in the Oklahoma panhandle at a dinky Mom and Pop convenience store. It was about three in the morning. The only sounds we could hear was the hum of electricity and the moths beating themselves senseless against the lights.
I did the purchasing like always. I covered myself with a blanket that I had found in the backseat, and later cleaned up as best as I could in the bathroom. Dad didn't want to use the credit cards because the purchase history could be tracked, but there was lots of cash in the wallets, so we used that. I bought an overpriced Oklahoma sweatshirt and looked for men's coats while I was in there. Yeah, yeah, I know it was summer, but little stores in little towns have strange stock. You know, like a flock of resin sheep sitting on a shelf over a bundle of garden hoses. A coat might actually make sense.
There was no coat. There were some shitty resin cattle with googly eyes, though.
I was walking back out to the car with my third round of supplies—two cases of Gatorade and a bag full of instant Campbell's soup—when a motorcycle purred up beside the curb. My reflection stared blankly at me from the motorcyclist's visor: the strange flat nose, the patchy skin, the broad jaws and underdeveloped chin, the thin black hair tied back into a knot. I pass for human, all right, as long as I claim to have some kind of disorder.
The rider tipped his visor up and I stopped cold. I was looking right into a pair of eyes exactly like my father's. The body shape—small and bulky and compact—just like my father's. And the three-fingered hands…
When he spoke, I recognized his voice from the phone call earlier that afternoon.
"Hey there, kid," said the rider. "I thought I'd find you here."
I glanced past the rider to the car. Dad was already staring, and there was a horrible look on his face—the look he reserved for sadists and junkyard dogs.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Raphael, your uncle," said the rider. "I'll bet Leo told you lots of shit about me. I won't lie; most of it's true."
I felt warily interested. I liked Raphael. Just the idea of him, I mean. All I know are censored stories, but I think Raphael was the only person who could tell Dad to go to hell and then follow through with the threat.
Dad stepped out, wrapping a scarf around his face.
"Uh-oh," Raphael said, but he didn't sound too concerned. "Here comes the boss. Whew, look at all the blood. Shouldn'ta killed those two back there; the police are going crazy."
I felt cold. "You're with them."
"Not quite." Raphael saluted Dad with a lazy flourish. "Evening."
"How did you find us?" Dad asked.
"Some douchebag in a podunk town recorded you two and posted it online with snarky commentary," Raphael said. "You gotta admit, nobody wears clothes quite like we do. Like stuffing a pumpkin in a tube sock. Anyway, it was easy to catch up after that."
"So you're on her payroll?" Dad asked. His voice was quiet.
"Sure," Raphael said. "Not everyone can live a quiet life in the country like you."
I didn't dare look at Dad. "So you're here to take me back to New York."
Raphael turned to me, eyes crinkling. "You bet. The city that never sleeps. Back to Karai and the Foot Clan."
"I can't allow you to do that." Dad's hand fell on Raph's shoulder.
"Leo, you selfish prick," Raph said, shrugging him off. "Maybe you can abandon the whole family like they're nothing, but not me. I do this, I get Karai off of all our backs."
"Selfish?" Dad's eyes blazed. "Saya is my family, Raphael. For that matter, she's yours. If Karai got her hands on her…"
"She'd what, give her a good education? Keep her in a penthouse apartment, eating cake all day long? Goddamn, you look at your kid and tell me what kinda good you've done for her. Can she even read?"
"Yes," I snapped.
"She can do everything that she needs to do," Dad said. There was pride in his voice, and I won't lie: I basked in it. "She's a capable survivor and fighter."
"She looks like she was hit by a car," Raphael said.
I didn't like Raphael.
Dad's tone dropped. "I suggest you keep your beauty tips to yourself."
"Can we go?" I asked, and stepped around the back of the motorcycle. Suddenly Raph's hand clamped around my shoulder.
"Nope, not unless it's with me," he said. "Sorry, kid. I've got a debt to pay."
"Not my problem," I said, and yanked back. His grip only tightened. I glanced at Dad. Should I get my knife?
He shook his head. "Raphael, please. Drop her."
"Or you'll what?" Raphael raked Dad with his eyes. "You look pretty bad yourself, buddy. What've you been living off, cat food?"
Dad took a deep breath. "Raph. If we're going to have any kind of useful conversation, you've got to calm down."
"Calm down? Calm down?" Raphael's fingers sank into my shoulder and I buckled, gaping in pain. "Do you know what happened to Casey and April, Leo? They lost the apartment complex because of you. They can't settle down for three seconds before the Foot's on them, and naturally, Mike and Shadow are along for the whole shitty ride. You shoulda known Karai would take this personally. You shoulda known she wouldn't just come after you. She won't give up until the day she dies."
"And hand-deliver Saya to the Bunker?" Dad said. "I know what they do down there, Raph."
"Yeah, so do I, but if you think Karai is gonna let them do that to her kid, you're nuts."
"It's nuts that she'd make Saya in the first place."
"I'm still here," I hissed through my teeth.
"Who cares? It's what she wanted to do with her time and money and whatever-the-hell else," said Raphael. "Not our problem. You should've left the kid where you found her."
"Left her?" Dad's eyes blazed up. "They vivisect things down there, Raph. They keep intelligent creatures in isolation until they crack. They have no regard for life at all. Saya is my responsibility, and I'm not going to let them hurt her."
"Numbers, bro, numbers. One miserable person or seven?" Raph leaned back in his seat and released me; I backed away, rubbing at my arm. "Besides, if she were just an experiment, do you really think they'd go to this much trouble to get her back?"
"Even if their intentions were respectable, I don't want Saya involved with organized crime."
"Come on! Both of you are covered in the blood of dead men and you want to start arguing morality with me? Don and Mike got it right: get out or turn into the monster. The thing Master Splinter taught us wasn't about love and peace, that's all I gotta say." Raphael laughed. It wasn't a cheerful sound. "Admit it, Leo: this is about control. You hate it when you can't be the one calling the shots."
Dad ground his teeth. "Do you have a point, Raphael, or are you just here to insult me?"
Raphael lifted his helmet, exposing his inhuman face just as plain as day, and gave Dad the biggest stink-eye I'd ever seen.
"Are you stupid on purpose?" he said.
"There's people here!" I hissed.
"I'm done with this conversation," Dad said. "We are gaining absolutely nothing by it. Saya, get in the car."
"People are looking!" I said, backing away. "People can see your face!"
"Let 'em see it." Raphael sneered at the gaping cashier, who skittered away from the door and disappeared behind the counter. "So. Saya. Honest question. Do you like living on the run?"
Dad's eyes met mine. I knew what he was thinking. But when I looked back at Raphael, the truth came out anyway.
"No," I whispered.
Dad flinched as though I had cut him. Raphael grinned, relaxing back into his seat.
"Here's how I see it, Saya. If you're as mature as Leo says you are, you get to make choices of your own. You're smart, right? You're a good little fighter? That's one thing Leo does right—training, I mean. Perhaps the only thing. He's kind of a one-trick pony."
"Better than an undisciplined goon," Dad said.
"Oh, Leo, you wound me, you do," Raphael said. "Now, kid, if you want, you can jump on this motorcycle with me and I'll take you straight to your mother. You'll help a lot of good people if you do this, even your worthless father. Nobody else'll have to suffer, and Karai will call off her hounds. I guess if you don't like the Foot you can just leave anytime you want, long as you don't make Karai think that any of us are behind your disappearance… you get me? Because then I'd have to come after you again and believe me, you don't want that."
I knotted my hands into fists.
"Are you threatening her?" Dad asked quietly.
"You know what?" Raphael asked, rocking back on his motorcycle and thrusting out the kickstand. "I've just about had it with you."
He swaggered to his feet, ripping off his leather jacket and gloves and throwing them on the seat beside his helmet. I immediately knew we were in trouble. I'd always thought of Dad as thickset, but he had nothing on Raphael. Raphael was as broad-shouldered as an ox, and just one of his arms was as wide around as my waist. He was pocked by scars; his shell was so battered that it looked like he'd weathered a meteor strike. The stained hilts of his sai jutted out of his belt, but he didn't grab for them. He curled his hands into fists and cracked his knuckles. They were taped up like a boxer's.
Dad took a few steps away, settling into a shallow back stance, statue-still. His eyes flicked to mine. They were tired, really tired. He'd been walking all month in the hot sun. He hadn't eaten a decent meal in two weeks and was as lean as a stray dog.
So maybe it's crazy, but I nodded to Dad. Almost immediately, the weariness on his face faded away and was replaced by that emotionless expression he always wore in a fight, his blank space, the place where he went when it was a matter of life or death. He shrugged off the old blood-stained coat and threw it behind him, then loosened the ill-fitting pants and kicked them aside. Right there where there were cameras, where passing cars could see us, where any random passersby could gawk. Thank god it was so late.
"This," said Raphael, shaking out his fists, "this is for Casey, you ungrateful bastard." And then he plunged toward him.
Dad stepped aside and Raphael's first strike hissed over his shoulder. I fully expected Dad to punch in that split second where Raph had overextended, but he didn't. He stepped back and offered Raphael an opening to his throat.
Raph laughed and took a step back. "You think I'm gonna fall for that?" he asked, and charged.
Dad spun around him, beautifully swift. Not swift enough. There was a brutal pop, and then Dad was bent over his knees, hand over his mouth. Blood dribbled between his fingers. Raph stood over him and laughed.
"You've slowed down, bro," he said, shoving him back toward the street. "Too bad, too bad."
Dad nodded, spat, and rose back into fighting form. His cheek was already swelling up.
Panic panged in my stomach. No street punk we had ever fought had actually hit Dad. Shot him? Yes. But hit him, in hand-to-hand combat? Even when we had faced packs of assailants, he had come through without so much as a scratch.
As quietly as I could, I set our purchases on the pavement and padded behind them, just out of Raphael's sight. I didn't jump in at once. Raphael was three times my size and could have laid me flat with one hit. God, he was vicious. Swift jagged strikes at the face and kidneys, low kicks aimed at the knees and ankles. Dad never went on the offensive, but he couldn't dodge everything: he would slip up, he would hesitate one moment too long, the weariness would flicker over his face. Then there would be a flurry of strikes, violent impacts. Dad would tear away in terrible shape—once with a blackening arm, another time dodging a broken ankle by mere inches, and at one point bowled over into the street. I held my breath.
Raphael laughed and laughed. "Goddamn, Leo," he said. "Are you even going to try?"
Panting, Dad dropped his arms just enough to bare his throat. It was a split-second movement, not the blatant feint from the beginning of the fight. I held my breath.
Laughing, Raph plunged for the opening. Just as quickly it was gone and the punch whiffed harmlessly through the air. Dad stumbled away—his knee was oddly twisted one moment, his stance off-balance the next. Gloating, Raph struck for each easy target, and just as quickly missed. It almost looked like a dance. Dad darted under Raph's blows, dodged his kicks and punches, and backed away or turned circles around him. At one point he jumped aside just for Raphael to clip one of the gas pumps, gashing his knuckle all the way to his wrist.
Raph hissed. "Shit!"
"Who have you been practicing with?" Dad asked, bent over his knees. "Have you been practicing?"
"Fuck you!" Raphael huffed, shaking his hand. Dark blood gushed out, spattering on the pavement. His wavering eye lit on me.
I was only a couple of yards away, hands in my pockets.
I froze. But without hesitating he sized me up, looked down at me over the curve of his snout, and turned his back. Resentment rushed up in my chest. I thrust my hands into my pockets for the throwing knives, but when I looked up it was to see Dad quietly shaking his head.
Raph's eyes flashed. "You got something to say?" he said, and struck.
He had expected Dad to dodge again. He was wrong. Dad darted underneath his punch and seized his outstretched arm. Raph saw it coming and twisted, but he wasn't fast enough: one expert thrust of Dad's hand and Raph's elbow snapped like dry spaghetti. Screaming with rage, Raphael smashed his good fist into the back of Dad's skull, dropping him to the asphalt.
A fountain of profanity pouring between his teeth, Raph ripped a sai out of his belt. The sharpened points glinted in the artificial light.
Dazed, Dad zigzagged to his feet. He had barely turned around when Raphael crashed into him from the side. At the same time, I sprang: lunged across the distance between us, drew my knife, and thrust it into the back of Raph's knee with every ounce of strength I possessed. Metal crunched into bone and twanged on tendons. Left leg buckling, Raph collapsed onto his hip.
Even as Raphael went down, he rolled, slinging his broken fist at me. I dropped chest-first to the pavement, but I was not fast enough. A burst of agony, a flash behind my eyelids, and I crashed onto my cheek. As I struggled to my feet, tasting blood, Dad slung his arms around Raph's neck and his legs around his waist, then strained back. Raph rolled and pawed uselessly, spitting, his face dark with fury. Minutes ticked by as long as hours. At first I thought that Raph's neck was just that thick, too thick for Dad to snap. But when Raph's eyes fluttered shut, and the wild writhing slowed, I understood.
I picked up Raphael's sai. "Should we kill him?"
Dad, still holding Raph in a sleeper hold, shook his head.
"Why not?" I asked.
Far away, a police siren wailed.
"Get the car loaded," Dad hissed between his teeth. "Get back into the store. Grab a case of bottled water and all the First Aid kits you can get your hands on."
"But Dad, he's going to come back!"
Dad's look was so murderous that I ducked my head and ran back into the store. The clerk hid behind the counter when I pushed through the door. I considered throwing money on the counter, but then shrugged and lugged the goods out to the car. Dad had laid Raphael on the ground, flat on his face, and was picking up the ill-fitting pants and Raphael's jacket and boots. At first I was confused as to why he was just throwing them in the back seat and not putting them on.
That's when I saw the blood dripping down his left side.
"Oh my god! Where did he hit you?"
"Just get in the car," Dad said, limping to the driver's side. He pressed his old winter coat up under his arm, but it was slick polyester and the blood just rolled over it.
I threw the goods in the back seat. Dad picked up Raph's sai and raided his bags, tossing them on the floorboards. Then he grabbed the keys to his motorcycle and threw them to me.
"Hold onto these," he said.
We pulled out of the gas station, Dad punching the gas. I looked out the back window for the cop cars' blinking lights, but we were long gone before the cavalry arrived. One of the detectives' phones started ringing down on the floorboards. I toed it out from underneath a pile of maps to look at the screen. Unknown number. I glanced up at Dad. He was focused on the road, one finger on the GPS. When he drew his finger away, a spot of blood was left glistening against the screen.
"Can you wipe that off?" Dad said.
As I nosed around for a Kleenex, I saw that his hands were shaking on the wheel.