Shadowplay

Susannah maintained that the concept of normalcy was little more than a shared delusion, but she was also fairly certain that finding a small, wild-eyed boy curled up under her hedge was not part of that delusion. She stopped, one hand halfway in the mailbox, and looked down at the ball of grey rags and dirty blonde hair barely visible in the shadow of the streetlights until it coughed and she realized it was alive. The boy sat up, eyes unfocused, and shrank into the shrubbery as though it would swallow him whole.

Withdrawing her mail, Susannah shut the mailbox and tucked the letters under her arm without looking at them. She shifted her weight to her back foot and considered going right back inside and calling the police. The boy looked maybe nineteen and even in the dark she could see his bones jutting from his skin. He was probably a junkie.

"Hey," she heard herself say to him. "Having fun under there?"

The boy drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his spindly arms around his legs. Crickets chirped like a fire alarm in the awkward silence that followed until the grumble of a car engine approached from the east. Then the boy gave a strangled gasp and scuttled into the densest part of the hedge, managing to get half a foot off the ground before the black pickup swept the lawn with its headlights and continued on its way. Again, Susannah contemplated calling the police and having them extricate the obviously delirious young man from her shrubbery.

Absently, she patted the outline of the folding knife in her pocket. She could have it out and open in maybe five seconds—not fast enough should he lunge at her, but quick enough to change the outcome of that fight. Meanwhile, the boy's bare feet scrabbled at the branches of the evergreen that only barely held his weight, and Susannah's tea kettle began to whistle through the open kitchen window.

"So are you going to come in or not?" Susannah asked him. "You look like you could use a cup of tea, and I'm tired of standing out here."

Unfolding himself to leave the shrub, the boy was even smaller than Susannah had first thought. Small enough that, had he not been so gaunt and had there not been several days' worth of facial hair along his jaw, she would have assumed him to be at best thirteen years old. The grey rags revealed themselves to be a tattered sweatshirt and jeans that might as well have been cutoffs at that point. Susannah waited for him to stand before she gestured to her front door.

She almost laughed when the boy, instead of backing toward the door or just turning and walking to it, turned sideways and began inching past her. When he got to the door, he fumbled at the knob and flinched when Susannah opened it for him. Susannah ushered him down the hall into her kitchen before locking the door behind her and palming her knife in her left hand as she moved to join him.

"So what's your name?" she asked him, knife hidden at her side while she reached for the tea kettle.

"T-t-Thomas."

Great, Susannah thought. He stutters. But she smiled at him anyway and fetched a pair of tea mugs from the cupboard.

"I'm Susannah. Green tea okay?"

Thomas nodded, gaze following her right hand while she poured the water and dropped the tea bags into the mugs. She figured she looked suspicious with her one hand stiffly at her side, but he seemed more concerned with the movements of the tea kettle. It was plain steel, and it reflected his eyes upside-down and grossly warped. He must've found something calming in that, because even before she set the mug of tea in front of him on the table and took a seat across from him, his hunched shoulders relaxed and he settled into a chair looking like any other houseguest. Albeit a houseguest missing shoes and caked with plant matter.

"Sorry I don't have anything to sweeten it with," Susannah said to break the silence. "But you probably don't care any—you might want to let that steep awhile before you drink it."

She watched him down the tea in one go before reaching for the kettle behind him and pouring himself another cup. He set the kettle on a flat rock Susannah had found and left on the table for just such a purpose and downed the second cup with hardly a wince at the scalding water.

"You're either really thirsty or off your rocker," Susannah chuckled, knife hidden in her lap now. "Want to tell me which it is? No? Then would you like to clean yourself up a bit? You're half hedge."

Thomas downed a third cup of tea and regarded Susannah like one would a particularly humanlike animal. She flipped the knife open under the table, smiling, waiting for his answer. Eventually he stood and allowed her to direct him to the bathroom down the hall, which she did without getting up. Taps running half a minute later prompted a sigh and a quick search for alcohol, which yielded a half-empty bottle of vodka and a souvenir shot glass from the Rio de Janeiro.

Susannah was two shots in and downing a green tea chaser when the taps stopped and a dull silence fell over the house. She stowed the bottle and rinsed out the shot glass before palming the open knife again in preparation to retrieve her guest should he not remember to wander back to the kitchen. The vodka simultaneously sharpened her senses and dulled her unease; she supposed it was good she had stopped before she got enough alcohol in her to impair her judgment, but damned if she didn't need a bit of liquid courage for this one.

It was when Thomas finally stepped into view at the mouth of the kitchen that Susannah began to wonder whether there was something more going on than just a bad batch of acid. He hadn't been able to clean his clothes, and in the light of the hall Susannah saw that some of the stains on his sweatshirt were rust-colored and spreading. She moved to help him, forgetting the knife in her hand, and at that moment the door opened to admit her housemate, Sammy.

"Suze, how did the tweaker get in?" Sammy spat, drawing her own blade.

Thomas looked from Susannah's pocket knife to Sammy's machete and paled. Susannah had just enough time to take a step toward him before he uttered a low cry of terror and fled back into the hall.

"The hell did you do that for?" sighed Susannah, closing the knife and stowing it in her pocket. "Found him hiding in the hedge. I think he's hurt."

"Not as hurt as you'll be when he freaks out on you," Sammy grumbled.

Susannah rolled her eyes. A clatter from the bedroom had her waving Sammy aside with one hand and the other reaching for the nearest appealing-looking bit of food. A childhood spent charming a succession of escaped tabbies from trees had taught her that fear did not trump treats. Unwrapping a chocolate bar while she walked, she sauntered down the hall to the den that had become her bedroom two years prior.

She found Thomas hiding under the bed. Hardly an original refuge, but as the only other furniture in the room was a wooden trunk and a bookcase, he had little choice in the matter once he crossed the threshold. Sammy followed her in, machete at her side and muttering all the while. Susannah knelt at the foot of the bed and waved the chocolate bar at what would be eye-level for Thomas.

"You must be hungry," she insisted, ignoring the snicker it earned her from Sammy. "Why don't you scoot on out from under there and have a bite of this?"

"D-d-do you think I'm s-stupid?" Thomas' hand snaked out to bat the candy bar away. "I d-don't even like that shit."

"Well," Susannah replied once she had suppressed the urge to laugh hysterically at his question, "you're hiding under my bed. So I'm not sure what to think. Are you coming out or what?"

There was a silence, during which Sammy started to pick the dirt out from under her fingernails with her machete. Susannah glared at her but waited for Thomas to answer.

"If y-you're going to k-kill me, m-m-make sure you b-burn the body," he told them at last.

"We were planning to eat you," Sammy chuckled. "That okay?"

"B-burn the head, at least."

Sammy shook with laughter, nearly dropping her knife. Susannah attempted to keep a straight face but was ultimately overcome with giggles when Sammy mimed tearing meat from a drumstick. She was still laughing when Sammy knelt, thrust a hand under the bed, and dragged Thomas out by one bony wrist.

"Stop squirming," she snapped. "You want to give me one reason why I shouldn't call the cops on your tweaker ass?"

"They'll find me."

"Sammy, let him go," Susannah sighed before Sammy could interrogate him further. "He needs sleep. If he's on something, he'll be over it in the morning. In the meantime, do you really think he'll pose a threat to either of us?"

Sammy sheathed her machete with a smirk. At half a meter taller and more than double the boy's weight, she certainly didn't look like she had much to worry about. Thomas, released from her grip, sat with his knees at his chest and back pressed against the bed. He watched her with what Susannah half-believed was defiance but was more likely wariness.

"I gotta get up in six hours, so if the tweaker keeps me awake, I'm liable to shank him." Sammy stood and turned to leave, then added "Safety word is 'get this fucker off me,' by the way. Have fun playing mama bear."

Sammy shut the door behind her, rattling the bookshelf and making Thomas cringe further into the side of the bed. The dark red stains on his clothes were indeed spreading, and the longer he sat there the greater the chance that Susannah would be cleaning blood out of her bed sheets in the morning, so she beckoned him closer with what she hoped was a friendly smile.

"Sammy's just not good with people," she explained when it became apparent that her beckoning had about as much chance of getting him away from the bed as she had of spontaneously developing telekinesis. "Now get up. I know you're injured, and Sammy would be even madder if you bled to death on our floorboards."

"Sh-she threatened to s-stab me hers-self," he pointed out.

"Get up or I'll call the police on you."

Thomas' face twisted into an ugly snarl for just a moment before he did as he was told. Susannah could see him shivering, though with cold or fear or weakness she did not know. Ashen, he took a step toward her before he stumbled and collapsed. Susannah caught him and was struck by how light he was—like a bird, she thought before she noticed that Thomas had lost consciousness. Then, trying not to jostle him, she carried the limp body into the bathroom. His eyelids fluttered, but otherwise he did not stir as she propped him up and tugged his shirt over his head.

Susannah had expected to find something, of course. One does not typically lose blood in massive quantities for no reason. The boy's torso and arms were covered in scratches, both neat rows and haphazard lacerations present. These had mostly congealed, though, and were not what initially drew Susannah's gaze. The something that caught her attention was the pair of gauze pads taped to the left side of his chest and the right side of his stomach, respectively. They were soaked through with blood, and when she pulled them off, they revealed wounds so awful she imagined Thomas must have been gored by a monster.

Thomas gave a hoarse cry when Susannah, despairing of what to do, began to clean the wounds with water. She had to catch him again when he flailed and fell, almost cracking his head open on the sink. Red rivulets formed and ran into the waistband of his jeans, which were already darkened with dried blood. Susannah winced but steeled herself to continue cleaning, hoping that whatever had hurt him was at least semi-sterile. When she felt she had done all she could, she fetched a roll of non-stick gauze and taped impromptu pads over the holes. She was about to look for plastic wrap to cover them with, having recalled something about keeping the air out, when Thomas regained his wits enough to lay a hand on her wrist.

"I'm fine," he insisted, despite all evidence to the contrary. "It's n-not as b-b-bad as it looks."

"I damn well hope you're right." Susannah let out a hysterical giggle. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I m-made someone angry," he replied and laughed. "I j-just need w-w-water. And m-maybe food."

"And sleep," Susannah added. "Or is that something you're not supposed to do for stabbing victims?"

"I w-wasn't stabbed."

"Whatever. I'll get a pitcher of water and whatever food is left in the kitchen. Do you want to stay here, or should I take you back to my room?"

"If I d-didn't know better, I'd s-say you w-w-were flirting with me."

Susannah rolled her eyes and helped him back to the bedroom. Thomas clutched his sweatshirt, swiped from the floor, like a teddy bear in one hand. He'd picked it up after the injury, Susannah figured, since there were no holes corresponding with the wounds. But thinking more than about just exhausted her, so she busied herself with making him comfortable before she went to fetch supplies. Sammy had disappeared into her room and was likely asleep, for which Susannah was thankful.

Ten seconds located a pitcher that Susannah set under the faucet to fill, and another five determined that the only edible matter in the kitchen—besides the alcohol and a box of spaghetti noodles—was a tin of biscuits and a handful of granola bars. She grabbed them both along with the water and a plastic cup and headed back, mentally prepping herself to find a dying or dead male on her bedroom floor.

Thomas smiled at her when she opened the door. Leaning against the bookcase and not against the bed where she had left him, he had his sweatshirt on again and was paging through an old fantasy novel. Aside from the way his hands trembled and the lack of color in his face, he looked almost healthy to Susannah's relieved scrutiny. He set the book aside when she approached and accepted the water gratefully, downing a glass of it before he noticed that she had food as well.

"Thanks," he mumbled between mouthfuls of biscuit.

"You're looking better," Susannah told him, and indeed his hands trembled less and his eyes lost some of the glazed-over quality that had made him so wild and frightening not an hour earlier. "Want to tell me what happened to you now?"

"I t-t-told you. I made someone v-very angry." He smiled again and set the biscuits down. "I'm sorry. You've been kind to m-m-me and I s-sound ungrateful. But I r-really can't tell you."

"Do you need me to call someone for you?"

Thomas shook his head and continued eating. Susannah, torn between annoyance and pity, left him to it and began to rummage in the trunk at the foot of her bed. Papers, CDs, DVDs, and miscellaneous electronics oozed onto the floor while Thomas watched, impassive. He had eaten all the biscuits and two of the granola bars before she found what she was looking for and sat up with a triumphant exhalation.

"I'm going to check the medical sites and see if there's anything else we can do for your injuries," she told him and opened her battered laptop.

Food hit the floor just after Thomas disappeared. Susannah looked around the room, unable to process what had just happened, while her laptop chirped hello and opened her internet browser. For one wild moment she wondered whether she was going crazy, and then something clattered to the ground on her left. Her closet door stood ajar, and already a small pile of clothes and shoes had accumulated at its mouth.

"Thomas? What are you—"

"Turn that goddamned thing off before you kill us all," hissed Thomas from the closet, who to Susannah's consternation had made it to the shelf above the clothes rack.

"Turn what off?" Susannah spotted one dark eye peering at her from the shadows among boxes of old school things and stuffed animals. "The computer? You're not a Luddite, are you?"

"It's how They tracked me down last time."

Thomas's voice took on a frantic, low edge. Susannah closed her eyes and counted to ten, then turned off her laptop and set it aside. When she glanced back to the closet, Thomas had vanished entirely onto the top shelf and from the sound of things was inspecting the latch on the trapdoor that led to the attic.

"I only lost Them awhile ago," he continued, less frantic now than determined. "And They know I'm injured. You start doing suspicious internet searches, They could bust in here in sixty seconds."

"And I assume you can't tell me who this mysterious They is?" Susannah retrieved the leftover food from the floor and set it on top of the trunk. "Or why you're no longer stuttering?"

"Of course not, you twit." More scraping and a muffled curse. "Is it only beams and insulation in the attic, or do you have a proper floor?"

"I never checked. You're not planning to hide up there, are you?"

"Just keeping tabs on exits." A click. "Proper floors. Lots of dust, though. Does your friend have a computer?"

"She's sleeping. Much more rattling, though, and she'll be in here with guns blazing."

"I take it that's not a figure of speech with her."

Susannah smiled and opened her mouth to tell him about the Magnum Sammy kept stuffed down her jeans or the Derringer she had in her own boot, but Thomas already knew about the machete. Probably best not to let him know just how well-armed they were in that house, she figured.

"Come down," she said instead. "We'll get a pallet set up for you and you can get some rest."

"I think I'll stay up here, thanks. It's safer."

"Safer? What if I wake up tomorrow and you're dead of blood loss?"

"I'm fine."

Susannah sighed and counted to ten. Halfway between seven and eight, she giggled.

"Fine, but if you die, I think we really might eat you."

"I wouldn't blame you. Goodnight."

Susannah peered into the darkness awhile longer, trying to discern movements and wondering whether she should haul him out of the closet. The very idea triggered a fresh wave of giggles; ultimately, she removed her boots and stashed the Derringer in her bra in lieu of undressing properly. Then, biting her lip, she stripped one of the blankets from her bed and left it folded at the mouth of the closet in case her guest should become uncomfortable folded up on the shelf.

"You try anything funny and I'll stab you in the face," she warned Thomas before she shut off the light and crawled into bed.

She didn't sleep, of course. No sound came from the closet, not even breathing, but at the back of her mind Susannah couldn't help but feel like he was watching her. Susannah laid awake and listened to the sounds of traffic and the hum of the air conditioner until the birds began to chatter outside her window. She scowled at the feel of the pistol against her chest; no chance of even getting comfortable with that hunk of metal digging into her ribs.

Absently, she took the knife from her pocket and sawed at the loose threads on her jeans. Creaking in the next room announced Sammy's awakening and subsequent hunt for clothing. Still no sound from the closet. Susannah sighed and looked at her wristwatch; the face showed quarter past four. Her limbs ached with exhaustion and her head felt like a proverbial washer on spin. Dimly, she remembered she'd skipped dinner the night before. Maybe Sammy would make something before she left.

A pair of brown eyes and a mess of blonde hair appeared above Susannah's head. Her own eyes widened, and she thrust her hand up automatically, blade held flat against Thomas' throat. He smiled at her and moved back.

"M-m-morning," he greeted her.

"The hell did you get down here without me noticing?" Susannah sat up, glaring. "You're lucky I didn't slit your damn throat, boy."

Thomas chuckled and gestured to his side. When he moved, his sweatshirt showed the faint outline of something that made Susannah very nervous. She would never be able to get the Derringer out in time.

"M-mind if I borrow this?" Thomas asked her. "I f-found it in th-the closet."

"Er, sure. Which one is it?" Best not to argue with a gun-toting lunatic, Susannah thought.

"Magnum. Where d-d-do you keep the am-m-mo?"

"I'll get it for you."

Susannah got up and moved to the bookcase, careful not to let Thomas out of her sight. Her hand ran over a trio of thick textbooks; she pulled out the middle one and opened it to reveal that it had been hollowed out. One last glance at Thomas, and she removed a small box that she tossed to him with only minimal reluctance.

"Twenty enough for you?" Susannah managed a smile. "You better bring that back, by the way."

"I can't g-g-guarantee I'll l-live long enough, b-but I'll do m-my best."

Thomas opened the box, which as promised was half-empty, and sighed. He loaded the Magnum slowly, not from inexperience but from what Susannah could only call fatigue. The rest of the bullets he stuffed into his pockets, the box he set awkwardly on the bed. His eyes looked old, she thought. Old and sad.

"Tell me what's going on," she insisted.

"I made someone very angry. Is that so hard to believe?"

"You don't go hiding in a stranger's closet because you made someone angry."

"Is that so. I'm sorry." He yawned. "How's this: I meddled in the affairs of monsters, and one of them did not take kindly to it."

"Not much better, I'm afraid. Do you want breakfast before you leave?"

"Spaghetti isn't exactly breakfast food. I'll manage."

Thomas lifted the sweatshirt to stow the gun, and Susannah noticed that her makeshift bandages had soaked through. She started to ask him if he needed to change them, but he waved the question away and stretched. In the hall, Sammy's footsteps traveled from kitchen to bathroom and then to the bedroom door.

"You still alive in there?" she called before opening the door. "Oh. Did I interrupt something?"

"I w-w-was just l-leaving," Thomas told her. "Thanks f-for not k-killing me."

"Next time, you might not be so lucky, tweaker. Get out of here."

Thomas smirked but offered his hand to Sammy. She looked at it, looked back to his face, and rolled her eyes. He received a smack on the hand with the butt of Sammy's pistol for his trouble, but his expression did not change.

"I'm s-sorry I a-angered you," he laughed. "You have my d-deepest gratitude for l-letting me stay h-h-here. Be well."

He tried to move past her, but she threw out an arm to stop him. Sammy bit her lip, switched on the safety on her pistol, and sighed.

"We gotta get you to a hospital, tweaker," she told him in the closest thing to gentle Susannah had seen in a long time. "I saw the bandages. Stabbing, right? Medical sites say you need immediate treatment or you're begging for infection."

"Medical sites?" Thomas paled. "Oh, Sammy. You didn't."

"Didn't what? I ran a search on—"

"Well, shit."

Thomas disappeared again, much to Sammy's disconcertion. She took her pistol off of safety and stalked back into the hall, cursing under her breath. Susannah knew better than to look for him and instead fetched more bandages from the bathroom for when he decided to show himself again. Sammy cursed again in the kitchen; what sounded like Satan's Harley was approaching from the south.

"Your friend is stupid," Thomas snapped a moment later, near the closet again and holding a wicked little stiletto. "Going to borrow this as well if you don't mind."

He accepted the bandages, stuffing them in one pocket while he laced up a pair of disintegrating combat boots with the other. Any shoes were better than no shoes, Susannah figured, but she couldn't help wondering how ill-fitting they must be and whether they would really help him at all. Thomas tucked the knife into one of them before standing and giving her another smile.

"Sorry you had to get into this," he sighed.  "With any luck, They'll see I'm gone and chase me instead of sticking around to interrogate you."

"Organized crime, right?"

"Sure. We'll go with that."

Thomas gave a small bow and was gone. Meanwhile, Sammy had the door cracked and was addressing someone outside.

"You lost, stranger?" she asked.

Susannah strode down the hall and to the front door to see Sammy trembling. In the doorway stood a slight, light-eyed redhead in a black duster and horn-rimmed glasses. The stranger held a large semi-automatic rifle in one hand like it was an umbrella and a lit cigarette in the other. She took a drag on the cigarette before answering.

"I'm looking for a young man. Blonde hair, brown eyes." The woman took another drag. "He stutters. Poor thing escaped his handlers yesterday and our sources say he's in the area."

"Handlers?"

"He's a bit bonkers," the woman confessed with a smile. "It's imperative he gets back to therapy as soon as possible."

"I ain't seen jack shit, ma'am," Sammy drawled. "But if you don't mind, I'd best be getting my ass to work. Foreman don't like it when I'm late."

The stranger's smile contorted into a sneer.

"I smell blood in this place," she hissed. "You keep lying to my face, child, and I will pump your brains full of lead before you so much as cock your weapon."

Sammy's legs shook, and the hand holding her pistol clenched until the knuckles went white.

"I threw a meth-head out of my hedge awhile ago." Susannah stepped forward, drawing a cool gaze from the stranger. "I don't know if that was the one you're looking for, but I think he went east. Now I'm sorry, but my friend really needs to get to work."

For a long time, no one spoke. The stranger's finger twitched on the trigger of her weapon, but she kept it pointed at the ground. Her bike, which was indeed a Harley, lurked behind her like a mechanical monster. She took a drag off of her cigarette and stubbed it out on the ground.

"East, eh? Thank you for the information. It is our hope to return him to safety within the next few hours." The stranger turned. "If you think of anything else, give me a call."

The woman holstered her weapon across her back and kick-started the motorbike. Without another glance, she drove off into the sunrise.

"Shit," Sammy breathed when the motor died away. "The tweaker's running from that chick?"

"I really don't think he's going to give my gun back," Susannah sighed.

"You gave him a gun?"

"He found one in the closet."

"He kills anyone, they'll think it was you."

"It was unregistered."

"I'm going to work. Try not to get yourself killed."

Sammy left the house, and Susannah, smiling, headed back to bed.