Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(27)
Our first conversation in ten years was considerably different from our last regarding sidekicks and sand-castles, heroes and horses. Right then I was more than ready, cowardly enough, for the grown-up in Michael to be gone and the child to reappear. The child I could handle, but this unwavering brick wall of a young man—I wasn’t sure I could. I wasn’t even sure I could see him . . . truly see him at all, not as he really was. That would involve letting go of the vision of a seven-year-old tag-along who had shadowed me silently into adulthood. I didn’t think I would ever be willing to do that.
Beside me I could see him chew his bottom lip, leaving a smear of chocolate. The motion didn’t last long, not with this self-possessed kid. His mouth relaxed as his jaw conversely tightened. He was tired; with the night he’d had it wasn’t any surprise. The one thing, the only thing, he needed now was to rest. No one had accused me of having a soft heart . . . not the ex-girlfriends and not the men who’d ended up on the wrong side of my fists or gun. But this was my brother, no matter what he thought. For him I had a number of emotions. They were ancient ones and rusty from disuse, but they were there and chief among them was a mile-wide protective streak.
“Go to sleep, Michael,” I directed, not ungently. “It’s a long drive.” Especially when you had no idea where you were going. I’d picked a direction and gone with it, not that I had much choice in that. There weren’t many options this far down in the state. For now I was simply running. Determining the destination would come when I was positive there was no pursuit.
He opened his eyes to give me a searching glance. There was no fear, but there was no trust either. “Come on, Freud,” I assured with rueful patience. “You’ve been kidnapped, shot at, and fed cookies. What else could possibly happen? Take a nap already.”
From the skeptical narrowing of his eyes I realized he thought that argument lacking, but he slid down in the seat, twisted onto his side as much as the seat belt would allow, and rested his head against the door. It wasn’t long before I heard the deep and regular respiration of sleep. Looking away from the road, I took in the sight of his loose shoulders and the lax line of his spine under the white cloth.
He was here. He was really here. I could stretch out a hand if I wanted and lay it on his arm. I could touch him, flesh and blood that held genetic hands with my own. I could, but I didn’t. He might have woken up or he might have disappeared . . . a soap bubble popping under reality’s touch. I wasn’t willing to risk either option.
I drove for nearly half the night. Around four a.m. I pulled off the interstate and checked us into a cheap little motel. Shabby and run-down, it had about twelve rooms and a night desk guy a few short chromosomes away from Norman Bates. He grunted, took my money, and didn’t bother to ask for the fake ID I was prepared to fork over with the registration. Within ten minutes Michael and I were behind a locked door and at the visual mercy of ancient shag carpeting and orange and turquoise striped bedspreads. I dumped the duffel bag on the bed nearest the door and asked, “You want something to drink? There’s a machine outside.”
He shook his head and sat on the other bed, his toes digging curiously into the long strands of the carpet. His toes were uncovered. Frowning, I switched on the bedside light for a better look. Was that . . . ? “Ah, shit.” Kneeling on the floor in front of him, I took his ankle firmly in one hand and lifted his foot for a better look. He was in bare feet, not that I’d given that consideration even once as we’d run across dirt and sand, gravel, and shards of rock. The sole of the foot I held was crisscrossed with cuts and abrasions and colored a dark rust by dried blood.
Giving a pained hiss under my breath, I demanded, “You should’ve said something. Jesus.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that his hand was hovering by my head. It was palm down in a fairly harmless position, so I ignored it. He very likely felt threatened; I would’ve in his shoes. This time I moved more slowly as to not startle him further and his hand slowly dropped back to his side. Lifting his other foot with painstaking care, I saw that it was in the same shape.
“Why?” he asked blankly.
He had no idea, literally none, as to why he should’ve called attention to his discomfort. “Because hurting you was never part of the plan,” I snapped despite myself, guilt and self-annoyance bubbling up within. “And neither were feet that look like roadkill.”
Setting the foot down gently, I headed straight into the bathroom and started water running in the tub. Taking one of the tiny shampoo bottles, I dumped the contents in as well. After seven inches of warm and soapy water filled the bottom, I turned off the tap and went back out to retrieve Michael.
As he sat gingerly on the edge of the tub, I had him roll up his pant legs and immerse his feet in the water. “Soak them for a while. I’ll be right back.” Out in the room I opened up the first aid kit and spread it out on my bed. I’d packed the kit before I’d packed anything else, but I had no idea I’d be using it so soon. Shaking out two ibuprofen into my palm, I took them back in the bathroom and handed them to Michael. Running a plastic cup of water, I offered that as well. “Take those. It’ll help with the pain.”
He studied the pills side by side in his palm while I held the cup. Finally, I nudged his shoulder. “Michael,” I prompted, “take the pills.”
“I don’t like pills.” He looked up at me, a mutinous set to his mouth. I could tell that if I’d pushed the issue, he would’ve given in and taken them. He was shockingly obedient for a teenager, at least in comparison to the one I had been. Still, I decided pushing was not the way to go—not on an issue so small. After seeing that basement room, it was easy to believe he had every reason to dislike pills or anything remotely medically related.