The Impossible Fortress(14)

“I’ll be right out,” I said.

By the time we reached Market Street, it was nearing eleven o’clock and all of the stores and restaurants were closed. The sidewalks were empty, and there were few cars on the road. At Alf’s direction, we ditched our bikes behind the bank because we’d look cooler meeting Tyler on foot. Motorcycles were badass, but pedal power was for little kids.

Tyler was slouched on a bench in front of the train station. The illustration on his T-shirt depicted a toilet bowl with a dagger emerging from the water; a caption in a satanic typeface read “Metal Up Your Ass.” He didn’t say anything when we approached, just stood up and walked around the side of the train station. It was the tallest building in Wetbridge—a three-story structure ornamented with multiple roofs and gables and balconies.

Tyler stopped in the shadows of the building, a narrow gap between a Dumpster and a chain-link fence.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

I realized he meant me.

“This is Billy,” Alf said. “He’s cool.”

Tyler seemed skeptical. “You look familiar,” he told me. “How do I know you?”

“My locker’s next to yours. You’re A29. I’m A28.”

“You’re shitting me. Seriously?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I always thought that locker was empty, no offense.”

None taken. I tried to make myself invisible around guys like Tyler Bell, and apparently I’d been successful.

Alf held out a twenty-dollar bill. “Where’s the magazine?”

Tyler pocketed the money but ignored the question. “If anybody comes, I want you guys to scatter. Everyone run in different directions. The cops can’t catch all four of us, understand?”

No, I did not understand, not really. The train station was deserted. The ticket office was closed. No one was waiting on any of the platforms.

“The coast is clear,” Alf assured him. “Just give us the magazine.”

Tyler scowled. “I never said I’d bring you the magazine. I said I’d show you how to get it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Watch and learn.”

Tyler stepped onto the chain-link fence, wedged his boot into the diamond mesh, and started to climb. For all of his size and bulk, he moved quietly and gracefully, scaling the fence like Spider-Man. When he was eight feet off the ground, he swung a leg over the top rail, straddling it. Then he grabbed an overhanging tree branch, pulling himself into standing position, balancing himself on top of the fence like a trapeze artist.

“What are you doing?” Alf asked.

Holding the branch to steady himself, Tyler sidestepped across the top of the fence, then crossed onto the roof of the train station.

“Come on, ladies,” he said. “Let’s get moving. I don’t have all night.”

Alf didn’t need to be told twice. He leapt onto the fence, trying to mimic Tyler’s graceful movements, but he didn’t have any of Tyler’s strength or coordination. He thrashed and flailed like the coils were electrocuting him, and Clark and I had to push up on his ass to help him reach the top.

“I’ll go next,” Clark volunteered.

“What the hell are we doing?” I whispered.

“Just stay cool,” he told me. “Tyler doesn’t have all night.”

Clark squeezed his claw through the fence, anchoring the left half of his body, then used his good arm to pull himself up. Over the years he’d learned to compensate for his weaker side; he did nightly push-ups to keep his body symmetrical, and he was easily the strongest and most athletic of our group (which admittedly wasn’t saying very much). Clark could have been a varsity athlete in track, soccer, tennis, wrestling, maybe even baseball—but insecurity over the Claw kept him from attending tryouts. He hated any activity that drew attention to his hands.

One by one, we joined Tyler on the roof of the train station, and then followed him up a fire ladder to a second, higher rooftop. From there we scaled a steep gable on our hands and knees. This brought us to the very top of the train station—a small eave overlooking Market Street. We were fifty feet off the ground, lying flat on roof tiles that were cracked and spotted with bird shit. The rain gutter was full of stagnant water and smelled like farts.

“This place is awesome!” Alf whispered. “How’d you find it?”

Tyler shrugged. “My brother showed me. We bring girls here sometimes.”

“For sex?” Alf asked. He was practically salivating.

I was embarrassed by his question, but Tyler just laughed. “I’ve had more ass on this roof than you’ll see in a lifetime.” He gestured up at the night sky. “Girls see all these stars and it’s like their belts unbuckle themselves.”

I wriggled forward, peering out over the gutter. The top of the train station offered a bird’s-eye view of all the neighboring buildings.

“So where’s the magazine?” I asked.

“Look across the street,” Tyler said. “You see General Tso’s? The Chinese restaurant on the corner?”

General Tso’s Mount Everest was the nicest restaurant in town, and the only place to take a girl if you didn’t have a car. Every item on the menu came served in pint-sized or quart-sized containers.

“There’s a fire escape ladder in the back of the restaurant,” Tyler explained. “What you want to do is climb the ladder to his roof. You need to be quiet because the General lives above the restaurant. He’s got the apartment on the second floor.”