Chapter 2: Making Plans
I take Cassel to a mob doctor who resides in a fairly unalarming first-floor apartment in suburban Ottawa. As I wait for the treatment to finish, I sit in a chair in the "doctor"'s living room, scuffing my booted feet on the threadbare rug, and consider the obvious worries. We have no car, the police are on our heels, and Cassel's thigh injury is going to take a few weeks, minimum, to heal. After getting Cassel patched up (he gets a fancy pair of crutches and a high-five from the doctor, who apparently likes people sassing police officers), we return to the Hôtel Legrand, where we have been staying for the past week. The Legrand is not very big, more of a cozy inn, contrary to its grandiose name. Our room has two beds, a TV, an instant-coffee maker, and more importantly, it has a convenient escape route, which is not easily identifiable from the outside of the hotel.
The escape begins from the bathroom window; you hang on to the drainage pipe and slide down, and from there it's only a short run to the section of the garage where our car is... was parked. Which reminds me that we'll have to steal another vehicle now. All because my Jaguar was boosted in Toronto.
I'll admit, it was a careless mistake on our part: we were expecting all kinds of trouble in the days following Agent Jones's murder, like mob retribution, police discovery and more. But grand theft auto was not high on that list. Prioritising's a bitch.
"Lila?" Cassel says, holding up two porcelain mugs of steaming black coffee bringing me back to reality. "Want some?"
I look at him, smiling, and notice his cheeks, rosy from the evening chill. "Not now," I decline. Then it hits me. "Wait, you made coffee?" I say, shocked. "you shouldn't be walking around, Cassel, your leg-"
"Will hold up," he cuts in. Then he smiles, as if he's letting me in on a secret, that smile that girls everywhere kill for. "Actually, I managed repair my leg. I kind of... transformed the broken bone. Made it whole again."
"That's interesting," I mull. I see that he isn't using the crutches the doctor gave him. Transformation workers can heal themselves? I never knew that. But then again, before this remarkable, crookedly-grinning, sweet-on-the-eye, good-hearted con artist arrived, I didn't know anything about them at all.
He gives his trademark crooked grin, which always makes me smile. "I had to do it after we saw the doctor, or else we would have had to answer the awkward question of how my leg miraculously healed from a bullet wound."
Unlikely. In the crime world, people know when to shut their mouth. But, "Hah. They'd just think you were some sort of self-healing physical worker," I laugh, his good humour infectious.
His expression turns a gut-wrenching melancholy and I know what he's thinking: sometimes I wish I were one. At times like this it hits me right in the gut, driving the point right home, that having the most coveted magic of our time isn't all fun and games. It has cost Cassel a lot of heartache and manipulation. First during the three years when he thought he'd killed me, then afterwards when the government was snapping at his heels, it's been trying for my Cassel. He only just escaped from the deadly, spiderweb games of the law and the mob.
I try not to think of what Cassel will have to do when I return to New York. Will he come? Will he risk the clutches of the government?
The most unappetising thought, though, is that I might have to force him back into working for my father. He would do it, I think.
He would do it for me.
As I think these horrible thoughts, while staring into the open, trusting face of the boy who loves me, the boy I love, the boy I may betray, all the stress of the past few days just becomes too much.
I collapse to the carpeted floor.
I wake up to Cassel gently shaking my arm, as I lie propped up against the soft pillows of my comfortable bed. His eyes light up as he sees me awake, setting that already luminous chocolate-brown colour aflame. "Want that coffee now?" he says, with a soft smile on his lips.
"Hell, yes," I say, running my tongue against the dry palate of my mouth. I see one cup of coffee on the wooden side-table, where Cassel left it while we were talking. The other lies shattered on the floor, seeping dark stains into the carpet.
He doesn't inquire into my collapse, which makes me so relieved that it's unbelievable. He offers me the coffee and I take it, drinking it all in one gulp, welcoming the scalding heat in my throat. It's perfect; strong and sweet, the way I love it. I wonder how he knew. And I wish to God that it was worse. Because coffee has nothing to do with the sick feeling in my gut.
After night falls, we set out deeper into the city of Ottawa. We were originally going to wait a few days, but with Cassel pulling his healing trick, he assures me he can go around fine. We need several things, most importantly, we need to find the mole who ratted us out to the police. We've been going along using only my family's contacts. One of those has tipped the police with information leading to the arrest of Ivan Zacharov's daughter. It's only logical that he has to be found... and dealt with. Cassel is not happy about it. He wanted to hire someone to memory work the man, but I convinced him that it was the only way, that memory work was unreliable, that he could discover our attempts, that my father will kill him anyway. The last bit is not strictly true; Dad doesn't know about this, yet. I know that, and so does Cassel. But it is irrefutable that as soon as this news gets to him, this man will quickly wish he were dead.
I feel absolutely terrible; I'm convincing my boyfriend as to the benefits of killing someone. I might not feel this way usually- I kill without compunction- but Cassel brings that out in people. His simple goodness, though he doesn't realise it, is like a brilliant diamond displayed to the world. Some, like me, admire him, for being better than them, and some, like his brothers, despise him, for the exact same reason, but everyone has to sit up and notice.
He makes you notice little things about yourself. Not physically, but maybe about how you bullied that stuttering kid. Or how you kicked a stray dog that was following you the other time.
Or how you wanted to kill a man in cold blood simply to hide your identity.
We also need a new car and false ID. Both are simple to obtain, especially when one happens to be a transformation worker. We'll steal another car and get forged ID, Also, transformation work could do the job easy, but Cassel avoids working as much as possible, mainly because of blowback.
As we exit the hotel, I walk arm-in-arm with Cassel, which is an inconvenience when trying to navigate the crowd on the sidewalks which lessens only slightly after dark. There are fluorescent, incandescent and neon lights shining everywhere, from stores, streetlamps, and headlights and that, the pedestrian babble, and the periodic engine honks all contribute to giving the scene a certain surreal sense as we stroll down the sidewalk. It's cold; one of the perks of Canada is that the cold gives you a chance to dress warmly, perhaps using a scarf to cover a certain line of scars across one's throat.
Cassel offered to transform my keloid necklace for me, but I declined. I need the second smile when dealing with my father's- and my own- contacts. I am careful not to let the scarf slip and reveal it to any curious passersby.
Me and Cassel take a taxi into the inner parts of the city. Throughout the ride, we don't talk: we just sit, and enjoy the company. We don't get many moments like this, when we can relax, without fear of the government, the police, whatever. I thought that leaving New York would be simple, that no one would know who killed the FBI agent, and I could live a few months peacefully. Maybe I would run a con or two on the side. I underestimated the persistence of the government in finding us. We haven't discussed this before, me and Cassel, but it is clear as day that the reason they are so desperate to find us is him. He wasn't supposed to come with me, but now that he has, the sharks are blood-crazy. Of course. They either want to kill him or make him work for them. Both are unacceptable.
So we stay ahead, running and hiding. But it won't last forever.
In fact, it won't last even close.
But I don't yet know that it won't even last another hour.