Chapter Four
We crawled across the country, only stopping when we needed gas. I wish I could say that Dad punched the pedal to the floor, that we had roared up to Northampton like the devil himself pursued us, but he had to take several breaks a day, and he had to sleep all night. His color was terrible, and when he got tired he started weaving. We couldn't afford to get pulled over.
His paranoia finally got the best of him somewhere near Chicago, and we stole the plates off of a parked car to replace our Florida ones. Now we were an Illinois vehicle, complete with Lincoln's disembodied head. We stopped by a ravine to dispose of our old plates. I skipped the dust-dimmed double oranges into the brush.
The flat plains began to roll, and the corn and wheat gave way to hills of bushy trees and pasturage. Lakes and rivers glinted like silver between hills. The further north we went, the more peaked the roofs grew, the better to shrug off snow. Dad changed the route on the GPS several times so that we would keep off of the larger highways where the police and our pursuers were more likely to keep watch. When we grew tired, we pulled off behind abandoned buildings and slept. Once we stopped by a river for a quick bath. We needed it; we stank like death.
We didn't talk all that much. Dad listened to the radio most of the time—classical music when he was feeling well, Top 40 when he needed help staying alert. At first, I didn't mind. During the quick clean-up, I had found a few scuffed-up paperbacks beneath my seat—a collection of short stories about a barbarian and three dog-eared Deadpool trades.
But eventually I was sick of the books and I'd seen everything of humanity that I'd cared to, and the truth of our journey started settling in the pit of my stomach. I started seeing images of Mom in my head: Mom striding down the street in her sunglasses, tall and straight and indomitable. Mom reclining in a witness stand as elegantly as a Queen on her throne, somehow larger than the judge beside her. Mom at the end of a table in a board meeting, her lackeys bent around her, her eyes blazing down at the photographer.
And then I imagined the scene back at the rest stop, but instead of the PI bleeding out beneath me, it was Mom with her tigress eyes. My knife was in her throat, and my hand held her down, and her blood pooled around us as she gasped for breath. Sick empty horror tightened in my stomach. I twisted around in my seat, thrust my knuckles into my mouth, and stared at my reflection in the window. It was with a start that I realized I had the curve of her jaw and her high cheekbones.
Only a second afterward, it occurred to me that she was no doughy private eye to roll over in shock, that I might not even have the chance to draw a knife before she had thrown me or broken my back or thrust some hidden blade through my throat. That way she lounged in pictures, perfectly poised—that was no mistake. And the suits around her… all Elites, I realized, with weapons and skills of their own. Somehow I would have to pass through a wall of Elites and then best her own formidable skills.
I gnawed my knuckles until I tasted blood. The only way, perhaps, was to be captured. And then I would have to get close, earn her trust. And if you get close, you get emotionally compromised, and you start feeling companionship, you can't follow through, and when you can't follow through, you are the one who dies. There's a reason Dad told me not to look at my opponents in the face when I killed them.
The miles and the hours ticked by, the sun and the moon sweeping overhead in eternal pursuit. Signs and cars and signs and cars, a hundred little identical towns where normal people crept and slept. I went through one thousand murders in my head, and died horribly in all of them.
It couldn't have been more than four days later that I looked up and saw the exit sign for Northampton. Down a winding set of roads, into the deep green trees, over fairytale stone bridges and plashing brooks, the ground freckled with gold, the undergrowth so thick with ferns, saplings, and bushes that you couldn't see five feet in. I pressed my nose against the window and became hyperaware of my own heartbeat.
At last, Dad began to slow down, peering into the underbrush. Traffic wasn't too heavy, but cars tailgated us, their drivers making faces and mouthing oaths, and when they were finally able to pass they roared past us in a huff. Dad didn't seem to see them.
He finally pulled off onto a gravel drive, overgrown with weeds. A barbed-wire fence surrounded the property, some of the posts broken or bent down. A faded sign proclaimed, "Private Property: No Trespassing." There was a lopsided gate hanging on one hinge, and a leaning mailbox that looked like it had been struck by a bat. The drive wound off between the elms and disappeared in a riot of greenery. Even through the window, I could hear the buzz of cicadas and the chattering of birds.
I was just unlocking the door when I heard a rustle of fabric. Dad was pulling Raph's leather jacket carefully over his wounded arm.
"What are you doing?" I whispered. "I can get it."
"Donatello wouldn't recognize you," he said, wiggling into his pants and boots, "and he's probably got a camera trained on us right now." He grabbed a ball-cap and pulled it low over his head, then stepped out slowly and limped to the gate. He left the door open.
I jumped out anyway and trotted alongside him.
"You should get back in the car," Dad whispered.
"You might need help lifting the gate," I said. "You're still hurt."
He rested his hand on my shoulder.
We had just grabbed and lifted the gate when a voice crackled out of the bushes.
"I know exactly who you are," the voice said, "and unless you are bringing good news, such as the obituary of a particular crime lord, I suggest turning around directly and driving right back to wherever you came from."
"I'm bringing something like good news," Dad said. "If you'd care to listen."
"And that would be…?"
"I am going to kill her, and I need all of the help I can get," he said.
Silence.
"That," said the voice, "will be one hell of a job. Come on in."
A pneumatic pump hissed, and with a plaintive squeal, the gate lifted up out of our hands and swung wide.
"Quickly!" the voice snapped.
We jumped into the car and drove beneath the arms of the trees, the gate swinging shut behind us. We curved through golden pools of light, beneath shimmering leaves, and then the edges of the forest bent away and we broke into a clearing.
There was the farmhouse and the barn, just as I imagined them—peaked roofs, peeling paint, the weather vane topped with a rusty rooster. A windmill creaked in the breeze. The lawn was a riot of weeds—hadn't been mowed in weeks. I could barely see the twinkle of the pond behind the house for the wild growth of bramble bushes. If someone had told me that the place had been abandoned, I would have believed them.
The barn door opened by itself, and Dad pulled in. I gaped: the walls were hung with tools, bins heaped with mechanical parts squeezed up against the walls, and a rack of servers blinked against the wall with an industrial fan blowing on them. Standing at the end of the building was a mutant turtle in a tattered trenchcoat and welder's gloves, a bo staff strapped to his back. One touch on his phone and the barn doors groaned shut, cutting out the sunlight.
Dad turned off the car, took a deep breath, and stepped out. For the first time in my life, I felt like shrinking beneath the dashboard. I was suddenly a little too aware of my shell and half-baked plastron.
"Greetings to the prodigal son," said Donatello, slipping the phone into his pocket. "I had a feeling you'd come back someday." His eye fell on me.
"So there's our little biological anomaly!" he said. "Come on out—don't be afraid. I'm not going to dissect you." He laughed like he had told a joke.
Dad frowned, but gestured at me anyway. I slid out of the door, books crushed against my chest like a breastplate.
"Adorable!" Donatello said. "You have matching contusions."
"Yes," Dad said shortly. "Thank you for letting us in. Do you know where Mike is?"
"That I do," said Donatello, kneeling and lifting a trapdoor. "As luck would have it, he's here, as are April and Shadow. You should feel grateful that Casey is traveling. He would crucify you on the lawn."
"Ah," Dad said.
"Well, if the social niceties have been concluded, I suggest we leave this place," Donatello said, patting the trapdoor. "Follow me." He dropped beneath the floorboards. Dad and I followed.
We descended into a humid cement tunnel lit with faint yellow LED lamps, and the trapdoor clapped shut above us with a note of finality. Several passages weaved away from our own, but Donatello's step never faltered. I swallowed. The walls were folding over me like clenching fingers.
"I built this back when the farm was more exposed to the road," Donatello said, rubbing his hands together. "Never would have thought it would come in so handy. A little skullduggery for power and internet access, and a few alterations on our public records, and whallah! Our own personal fort. Now, I don't mean to brag, but we could hold off a dozen attackers quite easily. I haven't set traps—much more likely to harm us than the Foot, alas—but I've got the whole place bugged. I know when so much as a grasshopper steps on a leaf."
"Good," Dad said. "By the way, I see you have your bo. Have you been practicing?"
"Dusk and dawn, every day, even when it's raining," Donatello said, flicking the staff. He turned to grin at Dad. "Mike is another story."
Dad grimaced.
"He's more of a peacenik these days," Donatello said, shrugging. "You don't need to be fit and trim to publish books, anyway."
"Really?" Dad's face lit up.
"Really. Hit the bestseller list six months ago and they're already making a movie. We've practically been living off of the guy. Shadow's the one who's been taking all the credit—you know, because April and Casey would be recognized in a heartbeat."
"Wait. How old is she again?" Dad asked.
"Fifteen. Girl wonder." Donatello swept his hand in a broad arc, making a dramatic face. "But she doesn't go by Shadow in public, naturally. She goes by Evelyn G. Winslow. She wanted to be 'Gabriella,' but we had to nix that idea."
"Does she… leave the farm often?"
"Oh, all the time. Don't worry. It's a calculated risk." Don stopped at a ladder and pointed up, toward another trapdoor. "After you."
Dad and I took it three rungs at a time, and Don followed. We rolled out into a linoleum-tiled kitchen. Ragged shades drooped in the windows. On the wall was a whiteboard with a grid drawn on it, the days of the week on the top row and names on the left: Donatello and April switched out cooking and laundry, Mike and Shadow alternated on dusting and vacuuming, and everyone took turns on the dishes. At the very bottom was a blank row labeled "Casey." Someone had written there: "See you in June, chumps!" Just below that line was another sentence in different handwriting: "We saved the lawn for you! Happy birthday."
I took a deep breath: air conditioning. The hum of a refrigerator. The smell of disinfectant. Clean, orderly. My eyes lit on a bowl of fruit sitting on the table.
"Where's April?" Dad asked.
"She went shopping," Donatello said. "She's grabbing a few necessities in town. But she should be back late tonight, maybe around … whoah, kid, wait, wait!"
He lunged for me. Too late. I had grabbed an apple and stuffed it into my mouth. But the texture was all wrong and the taste was vile. One crunch and I was spitting plastic pieces on the floor. Donatello laughed and gently wiped my mouth off with the heel of his glove.
"Never seen fake fruit before, have you?" he said, and slapped me on the back. "Here, let me get you some real food. Sit down. Take a load off. Leo, do you need anything?" He sniffed. "Do you have an infection?"
"I may have gotten river water into a wound," Dad said. He was swaying on his feet.
"Well, go get a shower, then. Nothing's changed—towels are where they were last time, all of our medical supplies are in the cabinet, blah, blah, blah. We'll talk murder once you get back." Donatello threw his arm around Dad's shoulder and pushed him, and then Dad was hobbling out of the room. Suddenly he was gone, and I was alone.
Donatello threw his gloves beside the trapdoor. "Now," he said. "How about some sustenance, eh?"
"You sounded so much meaner over the intercom," I said, setting my books on the table.
"I thought I was angry," he said. "But I can't stay that way. It's a curse." He opened the refrigerator and whipped out a real apple, tossing it to me. I snatched it out of the air and brushed it with my lips before biting down. It was real this time. Wrinkly, juicy, and sweet.
"So tell me," he said, ducking into a cabinet. "What made you two decide to come this way?"
"I'm tired of running," I said, crunching.
"And Leo?"
"I think he's tired, too. He hasn't been right since we fought Raphael."
"Oh, is that what happened?" Donatello pulled out a pan. "I can't believe he beat him. Ah… did he beat him?"
"We sort of… didn't fight him head on."
"Good strategy. Raphael whipped us all at once one day and that was when we were all at peak form." He stood over the stove, matches in hand. "So… he's still working for the Foot?"
"Yes. He was going to return me so the Foot would leave you all alone."
Donatello struck a match and lit the burner. I wished I could see his expression. He still had his back to me. It occurred to me that if anyone had something to gain by turning me in, it was him.
Don blew out the match. "That wouldn't happen."
I lowered my apple. "What?"
"Forgiveness. Karai is not known for her magnanimity, let's just say that."
"Mag… mag what?"
"Her kindness." Donatello laughed. "She forgave us once, but she was out of her mind with grief about the murder of her daughter, and her position with the New York Foot wasn't completely solid. She'll murder the hell out of us the first chance she gets." Donatello grinned at me as he cracked open a can of tomato soup. "Therefore, Karai's assassination might be the best answer. This is her personal vendetta, not a company-wide one."
"Can I ask you a weird question?" I asked.
"Weird is my specialty," he said.
"Do… do you know why she would make me?" I asked.
"Ah. Well, I know the official reason," Donatello said. "It was our ability to heal. The ooze that transformed us had some nice side effects, one of which is that we recover quickly from wounds and illness, including those that would kill lesser men. Specifically, you're closer to a human than we are, so it's easier to use your biology as a way to piggyback to a healing serum—perhaps one for a specific person who you're directly related to." He laughed humorlessly. "Guess who."
"Mom," I whispered.
"You'll figure out eventually that humans can't fight constantly," Don said. "They wear out. Their joints go to hell. Before you were born, Karai was limping around with a cane. She had at least a dozen surgeries during the time I knew her. Then bam. Overnight, she could bounce around like she was 20 again."
I thought of Dad lying against the wall, then rising as though from the dead.
He looked over his shoulder with a gap-toothed grimace. "Well, that was the official explanation, anyway. I always figured she wanted a kid who could take a couple of knife-thrusts. Sort of useful in her occupation."
"She could've just gotten some ooze. Would've been simpler."
"I don't think the Utroms are just handing that out," Donatello said, stirring. "They left Earth a long time ago. Besides, I think the two idiots, ah… had plans long-term. For example, before everything went wrong, Leo dropped some hints about going to Japan for a few years. 'For training,' he said. 'To get closer to our roots.' We joked with him about stowing away in crates with wild animals, but I suppose Karai would have taken him in her jet."
"You mean he could've lied?" I asked. "He could've been planning something with her?"
Donatello looked up at me with narrowed eyes. "What'd he tell you?"
"That M… Karai didn't tell him anything about me."
"She may not have," he said. "Something went catastrophically wrong near the end. I couldn't get Leo to tell me what it was, but…" He whistled. "Let's just say that it makes sense to me that you would have been conceived sometime before everything imploded."
"Like a surprise." I swallowed.
"Maybe so. Your parents genuinely liked each other and, dare I say it? They were a good match, if you look at personality, background, personal philosophy. For a while there, they were practically attached at the hip." Donatello's grin became furtive and he hurriedly began stirring at the soup. "Uh, that is, they were in similar positions and had similar views."
I groaned. "Similar views! That's all? Really?"
"What do you think makes people like each other? Fireworks? Dramatic music? Scenic backdrops?" Donatello raised an eyebrow. "You've got to understand something about your father: he doesn't feel like he can open up to anyone. He never has. If he's got a personal problem, he'll die before he'll tell you what it is. Karai is similar, although for different reasons—she's surrounded by cutthroats. She can't afford to admit anything that could be construed as weakness. Well, from I've been able to infer, they turned into confidantes and honest friends, and then everything went downhill after that. Once we had to go on a mission with Karai—she was undercover and we didn't really understand why she would come personally at the time—and we were waiting for a target and had a little downtime. My god. Those two talked about hypothetical battles for three hours straight. I thought Raphael was going to shove them both off of the roof."
"Dad never talks that long to me," I said, sitting back in my chair.
"He's obviously depressed." Rapid stirring. "Ah, I can't stay mad at the guy. God knows I should be; he erred spectacularly enough." He started laughing. "Leo, a Romeo! Can't say I saw it coming, no, no. Michelangelo, probably. Raphael, maybe. Leo? I voted him most likely to become a celibate old hermit. Ah, well. It makes me sad, honestly. In some other life, underneath other circumstances, they might've made it."
I pressed my hands against my eyes. I tried to imagine Mom and Dad lounging across the table from each other and I couldn't do it.
"You know what?" Donatello said softly. "I honestly don't think that Karai wanted to send Leo away. I think someone caught their affair and that she was trying to save her position in the Foot."
"But… she said she wanted to take off my shell."
"To protect you, probably. Have her cake and eat it, too." He leaned over the stovetop, clinking the spoon against the counter. Bright red slashes on the white countertop. "She couldn't have him, but she could have you."
I sagged against the back of the chair.
"Please keep in mind that this is just a hypothesis," Donatello said. "There could be other factors that I am unaware of." He lifted the spoon, dripping red, and stuck it in his mouth.
Donatello had just handed me the bowl of soup with saltine crackers when a tousle-headed girl slouched into the kitchen and ducked into the refrigerator. She was wearing pajama pants and a tank top, and her hair was snipped short and dyed black. There was a hoop in her nose. I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth, and my eyes flew to Donatello's. His eyebrows waggled.
"Good morning, milady," Donatello said. "Do you want some lunch? I'm making grilled cheese."
"That sounds good," the girl said. Her voice was thick from sleep. She pushed out of the refrigerator, carton of orange juice in hand, and turned to the table. Her eyes flew open when she saw me.
"Oh my god!" she said.
The carton slipped out of her hand, but before it could hit the ground, Donatello swung his leg out and caught it in the crook of his foot.
"Here, Shadow," Don said, handing it back to her. "You dropped this."
She grabbed at it numbly, her eyes still fastened on my face. "What happened to you?" she asked. "Are you okay?"
I stabbed the spoon into my mouth very deliberately.
Donatello hissed and slapped her on the back. "Nothing's wrong with her. She's my niece."
"Ohhh." Shadow looked back at him, then at me. "Then… you're Leonardo's little girl. That means…"
"Leonardo's back, yes. Do you want any lunchmeat on your grilled cheese?"
"Sure, ham, whatever," she said, and sat across from me. "I never thought I'd actually see you." She extended a hand. "My name is Shadow."
I touched the tips of her fingers and swiftly withdrew. "I'm Saya."
She smiled and leaned over the table. "What are you doing here?"
Donatello busily pushed between us, setting two glasses on the table. "We're going on an excursion to the city soon," he said.
"What for?" Shadow asked. "The minute the Foot know you're in town, you'll be walking pincushions."
"We're going to assassinate Karai," Donatello said. "Leonardo's idea."
I did not dare meet his eyes.
Shadow whistled. "One of the most powerful people in the Foot? Isn't she surrounded by an army?"
"Most indubitably."
"Good luck getting Mikey to come with," said Shadow. "He's under a deadline. Where is he, anyway?"
"He's not in the attic?"
"No."
There was a loud shout from the back of the house, then a gale of laughter, and someone talking rapidly. I caught a word that sounded like "finally."
Donatello nodded sagely. "Ah, he found Leo."
"Wow. We've nearly got the whole gang here." Shadow took a long swig of orange juice. "What if Raphael shows up?"
"We pretend Leo and Saya aren't here," said Donatello. "And hopefully the Foot don't follow him."
"I feel like I should be angry, but at this point I'm too tired to care." Shadow slumped onto her elbows. Her eyes rose to mine. "You're awfully quiet. Is it about your mom?"
I glanced up from licking my soup bowl. "No," I said. "I just don't feel like talking right now, that's all."
"Damn, you're intense for a kid," Shadow said.
"I'm not a kid," I snapped.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm not trying to insult you or anything," Shadow said. "I just got up and I am so incredibly stupid right now." She rubbed her eyes. "Uh… so, you've been traveling, huh?"
"Yeah."
"So… a lot of sightseeing?"
I shrugged and looked at my lap.
"Have any hobbies? Any favorite cartoons, video games?"
"I like to read. I do katas." I set the bowl down and wracked my brain. There was a long and uncomfortable silence.
Don slipped two plates in front of us. "Bon appétit, miladies."
Shadow picked up her grilled cheese. "Reading and katas? That's all?"
"She is her father's child," Donatello said from the cabinets.
"I… like food, I guess," I said. "And… and baths."
The silence was really uncomfortable now. I clamped my lips together. Donatello was looking at me with a crooked smile, something like pity in his face. Shadow's brows were beetling. For once, I couldn't think of anything to say. I didn't even know what to feel. So instead of looking at Shadow or Don, I stuffed the grilled cheese in my mouth and concentrated on chewing it as long as I possibly could.
"Okay, today is officially Mission: Fun," Shadow said, sitting straight up. "I'm going to show Saya the Xbox."
"Maybe electronics are her preference," said Donatello, sliding a chair up to the table and sitting between us. "Or mathematics." His eyes lit up. "I have some old breadboards in the back."
Shadow laughed and rapped her knuckles on his temple. "I said 'fun,' genius."
I glanced at both of the visible doorways and wondered how quickly I could flee through them. Before I could move, there was a burst of laughter from the living room. A turtle with a fat, jolly face like a Buddha's trotted into the kitchen. A bright green plastic flash drive dangled around his neck, and an artist's smock splashed with paint was tied 'round his ample waist. Dad was limping behind him, freshly wrapped in bandages and stinking of antiseptic, and to my shock, there was a grin on his face. An honest-to-god grin!
This should have made me happy, but for some reason, it completely unsettled me. Somehow, suddenly, and without warning, I was an outsider looking in.
"There she is!" Michelangelo said—for it had to be Michelangelo—and without a word of warning he swept down and threw his arms around me. He smelled like acrylic paint and mothballs. I stiffened like someone had thrown spiders on me, my eyes bugging out. It felt like every muscle in my body had been replaced with wet cement.
Shadow grimaced and mouthed, "Sorry."
"Long time no see," Mike said, standing back and grinning at me. "Last time I saw you, you were just a little burrito."
I glanced wordlessly at Dad. Oh, please, get me out of here.
Dad's smile fell. "Ah, Saya. Do you need to use the shower?" he said. "Come on. I'll show you where it is."
I pushed the chair back and rushed to his side, chin on my chest.
"Aw, I'm sorry," Mike said. "Did I scare her?"
"No, no, you're fine!" Dad said. "She's just overwhelmed. We've had a long day."
We slipped into the living room just in time. Tears started pouring out of my eyes. I couldn't stop them, and god, did I try. I held my breath, I pressed my fists against my eyes, I tried every single psychological trick I knew. I only sobbed louder and harder. I didn't want the people in the kitchen to hear me and yet there was no way they couldn't have. I thrust my arm through Dad's, and he curled his hand protectively around my head and let me cry into his side. When had I last cried like that? When Dad was teaching me how to kill rabbits? I had to practically be a baby.
When we stopped at the bathroom door, he knelt in front of me.
"Are you going to be all right?" he asked. "They didn't say anything to hurt you, did they?"
"N-no!" I tried to think of Dad's photo, the four brothers laughing knee-to-knee, and suddenly the memory of it was terrible. They were too close. They were way too close. There needed to be a room's length between all of them.
He drew me into a hug and I buried my face into his throat. The sound of his heartbeat was comforting.
"Look," he said. "We don't have to do this. We can leave if you want."
"It's not that!" I said.
"Then what is it?"
"There's too many people!" I said. "And… and I feel stupid."
"Stupid?" He rocked back on his heels. "Why?"
I rubbed furiously at my face. "I don't know!"
He sucked on the insides of his cheeks a moment, then stood.
"I'll take care of it," he said. "Get cleaned up. I can wash your clothes for you. Just set them outside of the door."
I slipped into the bathroom and closed the door. The air was still moist and warm from Dad's shower, and golden motes of light danced at the high-set window. I turned the water on full blast, the better to cut myself off from the rest of the house, and stood beneath the showerhead scowling as dirt and old blood swirled down the drain.