Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(62)
“What are we looking for?” Michael asked curiously. “I haven’t had a chance to finish the ones we bought at the drugstore.”
“This is for work, not fun.” I dug out a sheaf of bills and passed it over to him. “I want you to pick up something on genetics. Anything that might help us understand more about Jericho and what he’s done to you and the other kids.”
He didn’t exactly brighten—that wasn’t the right term—but his focus definitely sharpened. “You want me to do research?”
“Who better than a smart-ass . . . I mean, a smart guy like you?” I grinned. “I’m going to grab a chair and take a break. Come and get me when you’re done. Then we need to haul some ass.” I’d wanted to buy him some more clothes, but with the miniature golf excursion setting us back, we really didn’t have the time. And leaving Michael alone in the store while I shopped elsewhere wasn’t something I was willing to do. The chip was gone and Jericho was hopefully down for a few days at least, but it didn’t matter. Life had taught me all about careless moments. I wasn’t going to have another.
The road to Hell . . . shit.
I fell asleep. It wasn’t hard to understand how it could happen. Hard to forgive, but not hard to understand. The physical trauma of being shot the day before combined with a full stomach and an hour of swinging at golf balls took me down like a Mack truck. When I woke up ensconced in an overstuffed armchair close to the front windows, I felt a momentary ripple of confusion. It was one of those where-am-I flashes that bounce through your brain like a manic Ping-Pong ball. It was similar to the mornings when the alarm clock rang shrilly and you couldn’t begin to comprehend what was screaming at you.
But there was no alarm this time—only low voices, glossy covers, and a chair beneath me that was patterned with roses and hummingbirds. The smell of cinnamon and coffee hung in the air and a sports magazine was lying across my knees. That same magazine slid to the floor in a heap when the world abruptly slid into place and the confusion disappeared in the face of stomach-plummeting fear. I’d fallen asleep and left Michael unguarded. I’d . . . Jesus Christ.
Before I headed into complete panic, the gleam of a familiar head of blond hair had my head whipping toward the window. Michael was outside. Talking to another kid who was about thirteen or fourteen, he appeared to be in one piece. Safe. He was safe. The air was just air again, not heavy unbreathable chunks, and I headed for the door with a chest that ached only slightly. Although it took only seconds, by the time I reached Michael, the other boy was already gone. But he’d left something behind.
“What the hell is that?”
He’d given me one damn good scare and it put a snap in the question that I ordinarily would never have used with him. Then again considering what he held in his hand, I couldn’t be one hundred percent positive about that.
“A ferret.” Hoisting the cage to eye level, he gazed fascinated at the creature through the crosshatch of wire. “That boy sold him to me for only thirty dollars.”
“Only?” Beady black eyes and a glimmer of pointed ivory teeth turned in my direction to regard me with an ill-favored stare. “It’s like the fairy tale. I send you out for a cow and you come back with magic beans. Worse yet, stinky magic beans with sharp teeth.”
Another ill-favored glare came my way, this one blue-green. “Are you saying he smells bad?”
“He doesn’t exactly smell good, now does he?”
“And you’re making the assumption that you do?”
This was getting us nowhere in a hurry. Switching topics, I said more harshly than I intended, “I told you to get me when you were done with the books. I can see how that might sound like ‘traipse up and down the sidewalk like a bulls-eye with legs,’ but use some goddamn common sense, would you?” Immediately, I regretted lashing out. These past few days had been Michael’s first taste of freedom. It was easy to see that he would want to do some exploring on his own, and he hadn’t strayed far.
The faintest wash of dull red stained his neck as he said stiffly, “You were tired. I thought I’d let you rest for a few more minutes.”
Suddenly, regret was kissing cousins with the sudden unshakable belief that I was an utter *. “Ah, damn it.” Morosely, I rang a blunt fingernail off the metal of the cage. “Welcome to the family, Stinky.” Jerking my finger back, I barely avoided a nasty bite.
Michael recognized it for the apology it was and unbent enough to correct me. “His name is Godzilla.”
I groaned aloud. “That’s encouraging.”
He tilted his head curiously. “Why is that?”
That must be one of the movies that hadn’t made it to the Institute. “Godzilla is the big lizard that ate Tokyo. Famous movie monster, and from what I can tell, he had nothing on this little fur ball.” There was a bag of books at Michael’s feet and I retrieved them. While I did so, I offered gruffly, “I’m sorry for snapping, kiddo. I was worried.”
“I know.” He gave me one of his rare smiles. It took a lot of imagination to call the stoic quirk of lips a smile, but I saw it for what it was. “Babushka.”
“Granny, my ass.” I grumbled on in that vein as I steered him through the parking lot, stopping only to swipe another license plate for our car. Michael didn’t hear a word of it. He was too involved in a mutually rapturous conversation with his weiner-shaped weasel. It would chitter happily at him while he clucked a musical tongue back. For me it had nothing but murder in its tiny brain, but apparently my brother passed some sort of muster known only to plague-carrying ankle-biters.