Disappeared Read online

  No, it would be better to try a different tack altogether.

  “Or I'll go call the cops,” she answered, raising her chin defiantly.

  The guy's wheezy chuckles ceased abruptly. Staggering forward, he grabbed Sydney's wrist and yanked her toward him. “You are in way over your head,” he growled.

  Something snapped in Sydney's mind, like a harness breaking. Before she realized it, she'd wrenched herself out of his grasp and whirled her leg around as hard as she could. She felt her shinbone collide with something, but the movement sent her spinning around wildly.

  Eventually she stopped turning. She fixed her gaze forward and blinked a few times, as if hitting a mental tracking button. Her surroundings zoomed back into focus, but there was no sign of the big guy. She stepped forward to investigate and promptly stumbled on something. Looking down, she saw that it was him. The jerk had apparently fallen flat against the brick pavers and was knocked out cold.

  All of a sudden, a piercing scream sounded next to her, searing her nerves like a heavy dose of electricity. The girl sat rocking back and forth, hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes were glued to the guy's unconscious form and her mouth was wide open, letting forth a series of high-decibel shrieks.

  Sydney glanced around wildly. The porch lights had been switched on, and already a few confused-looking party-goers were stepping onto the terrace and squinting into the darkness.

  Now what? How would she explain? She glanced about her, hoping a brilliant idea would hit her head-on.

  Her eyes locked onto the ivy-covered chain-link fence. She charged forward and leaped onto it, pulling herself up and over. The sharp tines of the top knots pinched her palms and she could hear the lining of her dress rip, but she forced herself to keep on.

  A second later, she plummeted to the sidewalk below. Sydney looked around her, grabbed a shoe in each hand, and took off running.

  4

  Sydney glanced down at her silver-tone Bugs Bunny watch. According to Bugs's gloved hands, it was almost midnight.

  She should be home in bed dreaming in Romanian after having spent hours studying vocabulary like a dutiful secret agent. But she hadn't done that. And she wasn't dutiful. She was a sorry, drunken excuse for an operative.

  She couldn't believe she'd actually done Krav Maga on the jerk at the party. Not that he didn't deserve it, but still. There must have been a better way of handling it. Maybe Noah was right about her reacting without thinking.

  She wondered what had happened after she left. Maybe the hysterical girl gave a detailed account of the entire episode. Maybe the cops were after her. She hoped they'd be more interested in locking up the sleazeball guy. Or maybe they'd want to track her down to give her a medal? Either way, it could end up being a gigantic breach of SD-6 security. And from what she understood, breaches were dealt with severely. In other words, permanently.

  And what about Francie? Did she know what had happened? If so, how would Sydney explain it? If not, what reason could she give for having deserted her at the party? She could only hope Francie was okay and not too mad at her.

  Unnh. Sydney massaged her temples. Her brain hurt from thinking, and her mouth was completely dry. All she wanted was to feel normal again. What she really needed, what she'd give just about anything for at that moment, was a hot, steaming cup of coffee.

  She rounded the corner and came to a complete halt. There, fifteen yards in front of her, stood a small, brightly lit convenience store. She squinted at the glowing, molded red plastic lettering over the entrance. THE STOP-BUY, it read. Venturing closer, she could see the hours of operation sign next to the door. Closing time was midnight, and according to Bugs, it was five minutes till.

  Sydney dashed inside. “Excuse me,” she said to the person behind the counter. “Do you have—?”

  The cashier rose to face her and she stopped short, the words dissolving in her throat. Burke Wells was smiling at her from the other side of the laminate countertop.

  “Hey,” he said. “Sydney, isn't it?”

  She closed her eyes for a split second and then reopened them, as if the picture might change if she just blinked hard enough. But he was still there. Still grinning. Deep dimples appeared just below his sideburns.

  “Um . . . I was just . . .” She swallowed hard. How to begin? “I was wondering if you had some coffee,” she finished finally.

  His blue-green eyes sagged apologetically. “Sorry. We're about to close and I just finished cleaning the machine.”

  “Oh.” A feeling of disappointment so intense spilled through her, she actually felt like crying. She had so wanted that coffee. But it wasn't just the coffee. It was the running and the tequila and Noah's harsh words and her quite possible looming execution. It was so unfair. After all, if she was going to be put to death soon, didn't she at least deserve coffee?

  “Are you okay?” Burke asked, his red-blond eyebrows bunching together.

  Sydney glanced down at herself. She was pretty pitiful. Muddy high heels, bedraggled hair, and a jagged piece of lining poking out from under the hem of her dress. She looked like a transient parade queen.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Hot date gone bad?”

  Sydney gave a quick shrug. She couldn't talk. She was afraid if she tried to utter a word, she might end up blubbering right there in front of him.

  “You sure you're going to be all right?” Burke asked softly.

  His concern disarmed her. Hot tears swam in front of her eyes and her lips began an involuntary quiver. Sydney quickly clapped her hands over her face and pretended to yawn. “I'm okay,” she mumbled into her palms. She rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “I just need something to . . . clear my head,” she added.

  Burke regarded her for a moment. “You know,” he said, “I've got just the thing.” He nimbly leaped over the counter, keys and loose change jingling in the pockets of his faded utility pants, and walked to the front of the store. There he locked the door, partially lowered the outer steel gate, and pulled the short chain of the neon Open sign, switching it off.

  Sydney leaned against the checkout counter, watching Burke head down the center aisle toward the back of the store. Whatever magical cure Burke has in store for me, I sure hope it's strong, she prayed silently. Images of some green, herbal sludge popped up in her head, causing her to scrunch her nose instinctively. Still, she'd try anything at this point.

  “You're in luck,” he called out from behind a tall, pyramid-shaped stack of soft drink cases. “We got a fresh shipment in today.” A second later he rounded the corner.

  He held up his hand and Sydney was relieved to see that it wasn't some holistic, vegetable-based elixir at all, but a round, pint-sized container of . . .

  “Ice cream?” she exclaimed as he set the frost-covered carton on the counter beside her.

  “The perfect remedy for a night of overindulgence,” he said, patting the lid. “Am I right in guessing you've let yourself . . . get a little carried away with stuff?”

  You have no idea, she thought. “Maybe,” she conceded aloud. “But ice cream won't work. It'll melt before I get home.”

  “Then eat it now.”

  “Here?”

  “Why not?” His shoulders lifted, grazing the bottom of his hair.

  “But . . . but . . .” She took a breath and waited for some obvious, primary-level logic to smack her upside the head. “But I have nothing to eat it with,” she finished lamely.

  “I can fix that.” He walked past her toward the fountain drink and condiment area and grabbed a thick plastic spoon. “Problem solved,” he said, holding it up.

  Sydney could feel her defenses caving, withering from the lack of electrolytes in her blood. Besides, she had to admit, chocolate ice cream did sound really, really good.

  “Okay,” she said, sounding like a six-year-old agreeing to eat her lima beans. “How much is it?” She absently reached for her purse and realized, in horror, that Francie still had it.


  Burke waved a hand. “Don't worry about it. It's on me. In fact,” he added, pulling out another spoon. “How about I join you?”

  * * *

  “It's '62.”

  “No, it's '60.”

  “I'm telling you, I've seen Lawrence of Arabia twelve times and it came out in '62.”

  They sat on the floor with their backs against the front counter. Sydney's legs were curled underneath her, her shoes in a heap by the candy display. Burke's frayed sneaker bounced on his raised left knee as he cupped the ice cream carton in one hand while scooping out a large spoonful with the other.

  He deposited it in his mouth and pointed the empty spoon at her. “Are you sure?” he asked between chews. “I always thought it was 1960.”

  Sydney smiled. After scarfing down over two and a half pints of chocolate chocolate-chip with Burke, the storm clouds in her head had finally dispersed—along with the nagging pounding. It felt good being able to access her intelligence again. “I'm positive. It premiered in the U.S. and Great Britain in December 1962. Although David Lean was probably doing preproduction work in '60,” she added generously.

  She wasn't sure how they'd gotten on this topic. She'd made some hyperbolic statement about her throat being as dry as the desert, which led to him making some vague reference to the movie, at which she disclosed that it was her favorite film of all time, which began a whole spate of reenactments of scenes and dialogue, and then eventually his argument about the release date.

  He passed her the carton and licked a stray drop from his finger. “That's cool that you know so much about movies.”

  “Well . . .” She cocked a shoulder and grinned in spite of herself. “I'm not exactly an expert.”

  “I once mentioned David Lean to this friend of mine, and he thought I was talking about the guy who made Blue Velvet. Then, when I pointed out that was actually David Lynch, he just looked at me and said, ‘Whatever.' Like they were interchangeable or something. As if a first name is close enough. Michael Jordan or Michael Jackson? Whatever. George Bush or George Burns? Whatever.”

  Sydney leaned her head against the counter wall and laughed.

  “I mean, I don't mean to sound like a snob, but I do believe in accuracy.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  They lapsed into an easy silence. She continued to scrape the ice cream with the tip of her spoon, trying to uncover hidden chocolate chunks, while he checked his fingers for more drips.

  It was as if she were with Francie, only different. Maybe it was the traces of liquor in her system. Or maybe it was the way Burke reminded her of Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Whatever it was, she felt an undeniable snugness that allowed her to be more open than usual. There was even a moment, while giggling at one of his stories, when she'd had the urge to lay her head against his shoulder. Nothing brazen or flirtatious, just a need to make the connection she was feeling physical in some way. She'd probably have wanted to grab his hand if hers wasn't so sticky.

  What exactly was happening? What was behind all this? Did she like him? Well, of course she liked him. But did she like him?

  She discreetly studied his profile as she scraped the side of the container. Burke was definitely gorgeous. Smart, too. Not to mention fun, in a goofy sort of way. And yet her heart didn't exactly do calisthenics around him. She did feel something, though. Something she couldn't quite identify.

  Maybe she should just investigate further, use some of her hard-earned covert-ops training.

  “So . . . why do you like Lawrence of Arabia so much?” she asked, handing back the ice cream.

  Burke frowned slightly as he considered. “I don't know. I guess I always liked how T. E. Lawrence did things on his own terms.”

  “Yeah, I know. That's exactly why I like it,” she said, nodding. “Well, that and seeing young Peter O'Toole with a desert tan.”

  He burst out laughing. “Aha! The truth comes out!”

  Sydney watched him, smiling. Every time Burke laughed it surprised her. Not because he found her funny—which was surprising in itself—but because it made him seem so . . . normal. She'd always thought of Burke as a figurehead, the radical campus archetype. But his laugh exposed him as being completely, adorably human.

  Burke's laugh was more guttural than vocal. His chin lifted, his shoulders jiggled, and seal-like sounds rose from his throat. It was a naked sort of laugh; the type of laugh a person only used with lifelong best friends. Sydney could feel herself melting along with the chocolate chocolate-chip.

  She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it and shook her head.

  “What?” he asked, noticing.

  “Nothing.” She glanced down at the gold-flecked floor tiles.

  “No, really,” he added, scooting around to face her. “Say anything. I believe in total honesty. It's why I'm so down on governments and corporations all the time. They're always lying to people.” He opened his arms as if presenting himself. “Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide. Tell me whatever it was you were thinking.”

  “When do you have time to do something as frivolous as see a movie? I assumed you'd be too busy staging sit-ins and circulating petitions.”

  He laughed again. “No, I do have a sliver of a social life,” he said. “I mean, no one can be all about work or school or fighting for good causes, right?”

  Sydney's grin faltered slightly. “Right,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Inwardly, though, she couldn't help wondering: What else did she have? Other than her best friendship with Francie, her life was pretty much defined by events at work and school.

  She'd assumed Burke was just like her—perpetually on a mission. But even he managed to fit into social scenes. He probably never ran away terrified from a party, either. Burke was, in fact, nothing like she had thought. She got the feeling that he was actually revealing his true self, that he truly did believe in complete honesty. People like him were rare.

  “So . . . what happened?” he asked, tilting his head toward her.

  “What?”

  “Why'd you abandon your date tonight?”

  “Oh.” Sydney's cheeks suddenly felt sunburned. “Things didn't turn out the way I hoped.” She grasped the torn piece of lining sticking out from her skirt and slowly twisted it.

  “Hmm.” Burke nodded solemnly. He set the ice cream down on the floor and tilted his head close to hers. “Are you going to be okay?”

  A crop of tiny goose bumps sprouted along her arm. “Yeah,” she said, looking over at him. “I will.”

  “If there's anything I can do, just say it. I don't believe in violence, but I do believe in justice. With one phone call I can have twelve guys camped out on his front lawn with picket signs.”

  Sydney chuckled. “No. That won't be necessary. But thanks anyway.”

  She glanced down at her torn lining and began winding it up in the other direction. It was funny how Burke assumed she'd been having boyfriend trouble. After all, to have boyfriend trouble, one needed a boyfriend. Which she didn't have. Which she never did. She was, however, in lots of trouble. The type of trouble that couldn't be solved by protesters with signs.

  “Well, one thing's for sure,” Burke said, tossing the empty ice cream container into the nearby trash can.

  “What's that?” she asked, accepting his hand and letting him pull her to a standing position.

  “You need a ride home.”

  “No, that's all right. I can walk.” She grabbed hold of the counter while slipping her feet into her shoes.

  Burke shook his head. “I don't think so. It's late and dark. Besides, there's lots of frat houses in this area and their parties can get kind of out of hand.”

  Sydney opened her mouth to protest and then quickly shut it. What could she say? Don't worry. I know how to handle those guys. I just clip them so hard they end up drooling on the pavement.

  “Come on,” Burke insisted. “Let me give you a ride.”

  She paused, pr
etending to adjust her outfit as she considered. Why exactly was she hesitating? It wasn't as if she wanted to walk twelve blocks in her two-inch heels. And it wasn't that she didn't trust Burke. She somehow did—completely. So was it because letting a guy take you home usually stood for something? Would it mean something to Burke? To her?

  She reached up and rubbed the skin between her brows. What exactly was she doing? Was she thinking about her feelings or deciding how she felt about her thoughts? She didn't know anymore. She was just very, very tired.

  All the more reason to get home as soon as possible.

  “Sure. I'll take a ride,” she replied, smiling. “Thanks.”

  She rubbed her upper arms as she stood on the sidewalk waiting for him to lock the doors. The wind had picked up speed and was now the same temperature as the ice cream in the pit of her stomach. As they walked down the sidewalk, Burke gave her his battered army-green windbreaker. He didn't turn it into a grand gesture of chivalry—simply dropped it on her shoulders and draped it over her arms. She accepted it without argument. Wondering if it was a big deal might make it a big deal, and she really didn't want to overanalyze anything. Besides, she was cold.

  They veered around the corner of the store. “My chariot awaits,” Burke said, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. Under the glow of a bug-swarmed streetlamp stood a dark blue bike.

  “You're giving me a ride on a bicycle?” she asked incredulously.

  “Sure. Why not?” He loped over to the bike and unlocked the chain holding it to the light pole. He slipped the chain into his backpack; then he shouldered the pack and kicked off. After a slow circle around the empty parking lot, he coasted toward Sydney and stopped inches from her feet. “Hop on,” he said, patting the crossbar.

  He's got to be kidding, she thought, eyeing the hard metal pole.

  Burke let out one of his deep, throaty laughs. “Come on. I promise I won't go too fast. Here, look.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a yellow T-shirt that read Corporate Subsidies—the Real Welfare and wrapped it around the bar. “There. Now you'll have some extra padding.”