Bronx New York, the man made her practice and she felt like a Crusader for the first time, repeating Bronx New York over and over. She showed him the address, hiding the ring, and he led her into a small car.
The nice man was taking her right there. She almost wished she could ride on the trains rumbling overhead, but the car was also warm and he played soft music and she fell asleep, this time for much longer. When she woke, the man had parked the car in an underground garage and was fixing her jacket. She flinched, uneasy. He gestured it was cold outside. She let him zip up her coat but didn’t like the way his mouth went wet as he zipped right to her neck.
He took her hand onto the street. It was almost dark and he pointed to a building two blocks away and she understood that was his home. He gestured about eating and she nodded warily. His hand got wet and his lips got wet and she thought of the Allahs with their wet lips and wet hands. He wasn’t an Allah but he kept looking down at her as if imagining.
Clary knelt to tie her shoe. She balanced on her hands and kicked back into the man’s knee. He yelled and bent over. She kicked his face and he fell. She didn’t stop to see if he got up because she was running so fast.
She was proud of finding the right building without any more Crusaders trying to rape her. It was very dark by the time she curled up on the steps, deciding to wait until morning before breaking in. But these Crusaders never slept and someone was always stepping over her; she shoved the name and address at them, but they shook their heads. No one even offered her a blanket.
Someone shook her awake. Clary jumped up, claws out.
The chubby African frowned. “You can’t sleep here.”
Clary handed her the address and name. The woman looked whiter.
“Who gave this to you?”
Clary studied her carefully. She’d come all this way. She wanted to get it right. Crusaders weren’t trustworthy.
“Zelda Jones?”
Zelda nodded and, when Clary just stared doubtfully, she handed over her Lifecard. Clary compared the ID and note a few times; the African grumbled.
“I’m fucking Zelda Jones and I really have to pee so tell me what’s going on.”
Clary tugged at the woman’s coat, but she slapped her hand away. Clary slapped back, sticking out her stomach. The stupido African suddenly understood and slowly unbuttoned her coat. Satisfied, Clary handed Zelda the jewelry box.
“New York Bronx,” Clary said.
33
Zelda closed the bathroom door and slipped on the ring, crying as Clary warily searched the apartment, opening doors and closets and drawers. After she had no more tears, Zelda replaced the ring in the box and found the child cradling a plate piled high with AG cold cuts, drinking milk from the bottle.
Zelda made tea and sat across from Clary, whose bandage had fallen off.
“What happened?” She touched her cheek.
“Allahu Akbar,” Clary said casually, wrapping bologna around cheese and then ham around both, happily dipping the concoction into mustard.
Zelda sighed and pointed. “English?”
“Espanol.” The girl made another breadless sandwich.
“Espanol.”
“Si.” Clary peered hopefully. “Hablas Espanol?”
Zelda shook her head. “Hablas Ingles?”
Clary shook her head and they continued chewing and sipping. Finally, Zelda couldn’t stall anymore and held out the slip of paper. “Dead? No more?”
Zelda collapsed on the couch, miming choking noises, then fell still. Clary nodded, applauding.
“Boat?” Zelda tooted a horn and shuffled around the living room. When the best response was Clary staring dimly, Zelda waved a sheet from the linen closet as a sail. Another dim stare. You couldn’t find someone smarter to die around, Diego?
Zelda made salmon sounds, flapping her gills. Clary smiled.
“Pescardo.”
That she gets?
“Diego estaba en el barco.”
Zelda frowned. Clary emulated the sail-waving. “Diego. Barco.”
“Si. Barco, barco.”
“Diego murio en la playa.” Clary made rowing gestures, dragging a couch pillow along the floor before cradling it. “Muerte. Diego.”
Zelda started crying again; the girl coldly ignored her grief, holding out the empty plate, which Zelda refilled with the last of the cold cuts. She returned from the kitchen and tapped her chest. “Zelda.”
The girl brightened. “Clary.”
“Diego on barco.” Zelda made an exaggerated face of wonderment, palms up, then traced a question mark in the air.
The girl raced around the room wildly re-enacting Diego and the barco, popping her mouth with loud explosions, keeling over as if dead and pointing wildly to the sky. Zelda brought out Della’s cookies so Clary could, a bit slower, tell the story again. She slumped onto the couch and held up ten fingers twice, tapping her face.
Zelda pointed up. “Airplane?” Clary frowned and Zelda buzzed around, arms extended in wings. Clary countered by rotating her hand upward, whirring.
Whirring? She repeated her ‘copter impression; Clary whistled approvingly and finished the milk.
Zelda really wished she had given up alcohol tomorrow. “Allahu Akbar?” She stood on the chair, miming shooting.
Clary shook her head. “Crusaders.”
Zelda swallowed, something clicking. “Crusaders?”
The girl angrily babbled in Spanish. All Zelda got was her repeating Crusaders again and again.
Clary fought sleep for a while, eyelids drooping and bulging open in fear before a glance at Zelda comforted her enough to drift off. Zelda covered her with several blankets until sweat beaded on the child’s forehead.
She made more tea, carefully pulling out four kitchen knives protruding from Clary’s pockets.
• • • •
LIEUTENANT YASAKI WAS deathly pale. He swallowed, unable to respond until Captain Parnassa poked him again.
“She just disappeared, sir.”
Tomas pressed his lips together. “That’s not a report, soldier.”
Parnassa shoved Yasaki.
“Grandma turned south ten feet out of the Stanton’s supper club. I, I was on her left.”
The Captain added, “I was five feet ahead.”
Tomas nodded for Yasaki to continue.
“And she vanished.”
“Any sounds?”
“She didn’t scream.”
That wasn’t what Stilton needed, but he couldn’t push it. “How much time did it take for Grandma to disappear?”
Yasaki made as if
