The two figures approached, not even blinking from the rain. Devin briefly wondered which was Jake and which was Nick, then realized he didn’t care. Cody shivered in a weird way, like he was trying to shake any fear out of his face.
He opened the door, hopped out, and cast an angry look back inside at Devin.
“Come on!”
Devin thought seriously about calling the cops, but the Slits could kill both of them in the time it would take a squad car to get here. He wanted to drive off, but Cody was already out of the car. So, gritting his teeth and trying to keep his terrified body in control, Devin stepped out of the SUV and stood on the other side.
Seeing him, the short one (Nick? Jake?) veered and took a step toward Devin, but the other stopped him. His hand sported a big, gaudy ring on a finger that looked more muscular than some arms. He jabbed it at Devin like a knife.
“Stay out of this. It’s not your problem unless you want it to be,” the Slit said. “You just stand there and watch.”
When Devin didn’t move or speak, the Slit turned to Cody. “We want our money.”
“I told you back at the club, I haven’t got it,” Cody said. “I don’t know when I will.”
The Slit shook his head. “That’s not good.”
“No,” Cody answered. “It’s not.”
The two took another step closer. Cody moved his feet apart for better balance. The change in stance only made the Slit with the twitchy shoulder grin. He took one more step. In a totally defensive move, born out of fear, Devin raised the crowbar slightly.
The taller Slit looked at him. “You seem like a good kid. Close your eyes if you don’t want to watch. It won’t take long. That way you’ll still be conscious, so you can drive your friend to the hospital.”
“Put that crowbar through his skull, Devin,” Cody said.
“Aren’t you already in enough trouble?” the Slit asked.
“See?” Cody said, not taking his eyes from the Slit. “I told you they’re all talk.”
The taller Slit took a step toward Devin. His eyes were calm. Blank. All business. Devin felt his grip on the crowbar weaken, his shoulders slump. He moved his hand to wipe the moist rain from his eyes.
“Come on, Devin!” Cody said. “Gotta get off that fence sometime. Now would be good.”
“Yeah, Devin, what’s it going to be? I don’t have all night,” the Slit said, grinning.
In a flash, the grin vanished. Something hit him hard from the side, sending the Slit down and out of Devin’s field of vision. Devin turned, confused. Cody was down on the Slit, pummeling him, hitting him again and again in the face and the chest, really wailing on him.
The twitchy Slit was stunned by the sudden attack, but recovering. Any second, he’d jump Cody and it’d be two-on-one.
Whatever happened next was up to Devin. But why? How far was friendship supposed to go? If crazy Cody was stupid enough to borrow money from thugs, why should Devin risk his neck?
“Devin! Do
The other Slit shifted.
The car door was less than a foot away. Devin could get in quickly, then wait and watch. Like he always did.
“Devin!” Cody bellowed. He turned his head. When he did, the Slit landed a blow to the side of his face. Cody was mean and fast, but no street fighter and not very heavy. He went sideways. In seconds, the two reversed positions, the Slit on top, ready to get medieval.
Shaking, frightened, Devin tightened his grip and held the crowbar up, hoping he could have it both ways and scare them off without actually doing anything. He took a step, but his foot found something slick on the rain-wet road. His foot flew back and he flew forward.
The shorter Slit raised his arm as the crowbar came down. It hit him in the center of his forearm, with all Devin’s falling weight behind it. There was a loud sound, a crack like a thick branch splitting. Devin hit the ground and ate some street. Badly scraped, he managed to stumble back to standing in time to still see the look of surprise on the Slit’s face.
A voice in the back of Devin’s brain said,
Numbly, he raised the crowbar again. The Slit, arm folded in a funny way, moved back. Devin turned toward the one atop Cody. The cracking sound had turned him around, too, long enough for Cody to pull back and slam him full on in the crotch.
In pain, the Slit moved sideways a bit and snarled. The mask of calm he’d worn previously vanished, revealing something savage and animal.
Moving like a caffeinated maniac, Cody rolled out and up onto the balls of his feet. The Slit, grabbing his crotch, looked around and saw his partner cradling his arm and moaning. He stumbled back to their car, pulling his friend along. Just before he vanished into the driver’s side, he said, “This isn’t over.”
With a squeal of tires on the wet asphalt, the small car spun and zoomed off into the darkness.
Devin watched it go, catching his breath a moment. He turned back to Cody, who was laughing, harder and harder, and saying, “That was great! That was amazing! We are Torn!”
Devin looked at him, shocked. How could he be laughing? What could be more stupid?
Then he started laughing himself. He was relieved. Happy, like he’d won something, like maybe, even though it was an accident, even though he hadn’t really decided anything, he was now bad enough to be in a rock and roll band.
3
Hours later, Devin McCloud lay in his comfortable bedroom, waiting for sunrise. The house was quiet, his parents fast asleep. He was exhausted. By rights he should have been unconscious, but his brain was locked—and not on Cody and the Slits. Though the nervous energy that propelled his thoughts was probably a leftover from that encounter, his focus was on the fact that Torn was getting together in less than twelve hours to record “Face” in Devin’s garage, and sometime before then, he would have to fire Karston.
Grateful though Cody had seemed because Devin had fought by his side, he had not given up on that point. Karston’s bass was supposed to be there; Karston was not.
When the Slits had fled, Devin had felt exhilarated. Now he just felt tired and kind of sick. Shifting up onto his elbow on the soft mattress, he stared out his large round window at the manicured lawns and squared hedges of the gated Meadowcrest Farms housing development. As far as he could tell, the development had nothing to do with a meadow, a crest, or a farm. It had more to do with tiny, well-tended yards, and neighbors who seemed to pose as they stopped and smiled and waved. The squares, rectangles, and circles that made up the houses were tight and perfect. Everything seemed held together by money.
But even in the dim light of early morning, Devin could see exactly where the lawn mowers and hedge clippers stopped and something else began, something jagged and unkempt: a dark forest that went on for miles. As a child he hadn’t been allowed to go in there; now he just didn’t want to, as if all the years of comfort and security had left him too comfortable and secure.
He wasn’t like Cody. He wasn’t a natural. He wasn’t driven. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know if he could write any decent songs. What was “Face,” anyway? What did it mean?
As his eyes half closed, a line from the lullaby drifted back to him. It was his grandma’s song; Namana, he used to call her.
It was a pretty thing, the tune. Even the small bit playing in his mind relaxed him. The rest of the words and the melody licked at the edge of memory, teasing, just out of reach, like the woods. As he reached for more words with his mind, they dissipated, like ghosts.
Half awake, he found that strong images came to him more easily. He remembered being curled up
