The Indigo Thief Page 7

  “What about Phoenix?” I asked. “Is he wearing a skirt too?”

  I heard him and Mila snicker as they left the room.

  “Not possible,” said Kindred. “He’s six-foot-two and built like a god. He’d never pass as a forty-nine-year-old woman. Chin down, dear. Stop flinching.”

  “A forty-nine-year-old woman?”

  Kindred pulled a card from my bag and read it aloud. “Nancy Perkins, forty-nine years old. Former executive assistant to the president of Renzo Enterprises. Resident of the Maui province. Visiting Newla to celebrate the last night of her life in Club 49.” She paused. “The three of you will collect her identification cards and proceed to Club 49 this evening.”

  Dove smashed the blond wig on my head and traced its edges along my scalp before adding glue. “Can’t have it flying off your head on the dance floor,” he said. “It’d blow your cover.”

  When Mila and Phoenix returned, they were already dressed in full costume. Mila wore a black velvet cocktail dress with an open back, her curls hidden in a tight bun. She puckered her lips, applied a coat of red lipstick, and slid on a pair of large silver sunglasses. Phoenix was dressed in tortoiseshell spectacles, a black suit, and a thin tie. He’d covered his blond hair in brown goop and had it slicked to the side.

  “Ready?” asked Mila. She slid the tube of lipstick into my hand and winked. “For you, Ms. Perkins. If it’s any consolation, you make a pretty girl.”

  “It’s not,” I muttered, “but thanks anyway.”

  It took me ten minutes to put on my blouse and skirt, then another five to get my bosoms on straight. Yes, they made me wear bosoms. Bertha especially enjoyed that.

  Kindred applied a final layer of powder to my face before stepping back to marvel at her creation. “You look wonderful, dear!” She glanced over at Bertha. “The bosoms were a nice touch.”

  In the kitchen, she briefed me on Phoenix’s and Mila’s respective covers. They were Parker Chester, a recent university grad, and Maria Lalone, a travel writer from Kauai, respectively. I wondered again how I’d gotten stuck being Nancy.

  “The Wet Pockets are ready, dears,” Kindred called to the others. “Meet at the main dock in ten minutes. And don’t forget your lunches! It’s going to be a busy, busy night.”

  At the dock, I learned that Wet Pockets were four-foot-long pouches made of military-grade cellophane wrap—the kind that was, ironically, used by the Feds to catch criminals. Upon seeing the Pockets in person, I realized they were just clear, thin bags sewn together by Bertha. Propellers had been strapped to their tops, and they were pumped full of air.

  I’d seen sturdier sand castles.

  Dove pushed us toward the contraptions. “Come on, little sardines,” he said gleefully. “Into your cans you go!”

  The Wet Pocket wrapped itself around me like… a wet pocket.

  Phoenix and Mila hopped into the pouches next to me. I sucked in a deep breath as Dove rolled us into the water. The Pockets sank immediately, weighed down by their heavy propellers. Water spurted behind us as the propellers fired up. Through the clear plastic casing, I saw Phoenix’s Pocket lead the way. His must’ve been armed with a tracking device—maybe even a GPS.

  The Pockets dove down fifty feet. Schools of fish scurried in fear from our paths as we shot through the water. We turned sharply, and my Pocket slammed against a rock. Its jagged edge ripped my Pocket’s cellophane seam. Water immediately began to stream in, and mascara ran into my eyes.

  Crap. Kindred had put on mascara.

  I grabbed the Wet Pocket’s edges as they tore and fluttered apart, their seam undone. Water slammed into my face. I squeezed my eyes shut. My skirt billowed in the currents. If I’d been on land, at least it would’ve felt breezy.

  My fingers slipped, and the cellophane fabric danced along the tips of my fingers. I wasn’t going to make it to Newla. Not this way, at least.

  Dorsal fins hurried past my feet. A school of fish, I figured. Large ones, by the feel of it. I squinted my eyes open. Rays of sunlight broke the water.

  Suddenly something stabbed my shoulder hard, plunging into the deep tissue. Had I not been holding my breath, I would have screamed. Whatever stabbed me lodged itself in my flesh and yanked me upward. The Pocket’s tattered remains flew from my hands as I was pulled toward the surface. Blood from my shoulder poured into the water.

  I grabbed at my shoulder, trying to dislodge whatever had pierced the skin. My fingers probed the wound, and I felt a sharp prick as they encountered a barbed piece of metal sticking out of the skin.

  A fishing hook. And I was being reeled in.

  More fins brushed against my legs, this time larger ones. I swallowed hard, reminding myself to remain calm. The fins didn’t belong to fish at all.

  They belonged to sharks.

  Chapter 9

  The hook in my shoulder pulled me up in spurts. Each new pull yanked me farther from the swarm of frenzying sharks, while simultaneously dousing them in blood.

  Blood.

  There was blood in the water. The smaller sharks were here—hammers, tigers, great whites—but where were the megalodons? They should’ve been here by now. I realized I must be back in Federal waters, and for once the nets were working.

  I was pulled rapidly upward. The hook’s line went slack as I surfaced. I gasped for air.

  A bald, old man with the wrinkled face of a mastiff stared at me from the deck of a medium-sized fishing boat. “The Retired Lobster” was painted along its side in faded letters. I clambered over the side and threw myself onto the ship’s deck.

  The old man shrieked and fell backward. I grabbed his fishing pole and yanked the line loose.

  My vision went spotty. I was going to pass out. White patches moved everywhere I looked. I lay on my stomach to keep the blood flowing to my brain. My back was warm with blood. I wasn’t going to save Mom or Charlie.

  The old man stood, catching his breath. “You scared the bloody hell out of me.”

  “Can’t say getting stabbed by a giant hook did me a lot of good, either.”

  He nodded. “I can see that.”

  My breathing slowed to wheezes. “You should probably get a bandage or a towel or, uh, something.”

  “It’d have to be a hell of a bandage,” he muttered. He moved his fingers along my shoulder, examining the hook’s entry and exit points. “Old Jimmy never fails to do the trick.”

  “Old Jimmy?”

  He poked at the hook in my shoulder, and I winced.

  “Old Jimmy sliced the head straight off a shark once,” he said. “Like a little bloody guillotine.”

  He pressed his weight against my back, then in one swift motion, yanked out the hook.

  I screamed.

  The old man joined me. “Ah!” he sang. “Isn’t it great to be alive?”

  “I’ll let you know, if I still am in a few minutes.” The spots in my vision melted together. A storm of white gathered from all directions. I took a deep breath.

  The man doused my back with rubbing alcohol. “Bollocks,” he said. “Old Churchill will have you up to snuff in no time, miss. Can’t let a beautiful woman like you die on me.”

  I’d forgotten I was still wearing the wig. Most of the makeup had surely washed off in the water, but the wig was still stuck to my head like glue—good old Nancy Perkins.

  The man draped several cloths over my wound. “Right as rain,” he said. He glanced at my legs. “God, you’re hairy.”

  “Because I’m a man,” I said. I pointed to the wig. “It’s a disguise.” Churchill stared at me blankly. “I swear I can explain.”

  “You’re a strange creature,” he said. “Over the years, however, I’ve found that if we are to truly understand one another, we must not think of ourselves as a species apart from the rest. We must think of ourselves as ugly monkeys.” He smiled. “Really ugly monkeys with guns and knives and hooks and all sorts of shit. Then everything makes sense.”

  He seated himself in a red lawn
chair, and began reattaching Old Jimmy to his line. “How about a cup of tea?”

  “Thanks,” I said, still breathing heavily. “I’d like that.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t offering you one,” he said. “I was asking you to make me one. I did just save your life. Pulled the hook from your shoulder and all that.”

  “You were the one who put it there! You should’ve just left me to the sharks.”

  “Probably would’ve if I hadn’t needed Old Jimmy back.”

  “You’re insane. You’re absolutely crazy and insane.”

  His eyes flashed. “You think I’m a lunatic? Just some crazy bloke on a boat? I’ll have you know I have incredible wit and lightning-fast reflexes.” He snatched something from the air and held it between two fingers. “Lightning-fast reflexes,” he said again. “I just caught a fly. Out. Of. Thin. Air. Look at the fly!”

  “I’m not looking at the fly.”

  “LOOK AT THE BLOODY FLY!”

  I squinted hard at his hand, but didn’t see anything. “You didn’t really catch one, did you?”

  “Of course I didn’t! The buggers are damn near impossible to catch, and look at me—I’m ancient. I’d be lucky to catch regular bowel movements at my age.”

  I stared at him for a while. He jabbed a finger into his ear, and then wiped the wax he found on his pants.

  I sucked in a breath. “So who are you, then?”

  “Churchill,” he said. “Churchill Wingnut. And don’t you say a word about me being a wing nut, you bugger. The great Wingnut Clan joined the Caravan generations ago. We were one of the last families to flee the fallen English empire.”

  “The Caravan?”

  He gave me a look. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Never heard of it,” I said. “Is it a neighborhood in the Suburban Islands?”

  He scoffed. “It might as well be Manhattan, if you really don’t know.”

  “Manhattan?”

  “Christ, you’re dense,” he said. “The Caravan is a bunch of bloody boats that circle the Federation and send old buggers like me out into Federal waters to fish for food. Tuna, turtles, and, it seems, the occasional tourist.” He cackled at his own joke.

  “So it’s like a boat club? You all have yachts or something?”

  “It’s practically another nation, my boy! A world unto itself!”

  “But the Hawaiian Federation is supposed to be the last—”

  “Sovereign nation. I’ve heard the rubbish before, and I’m sure I’ll hear it again.”

  “Does it—the Caravan—have anything to do with the Lost Boys?” The question slipped before I’d had time to think. I prayed Churchill was too mad to recognize me.

  His voice grew grave. “What do you know about the Lost Boys?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “Nothing at all.”

  “Liar! You think me a fool? Tell me the truth right now or I’ll feed you to the sharks.” He grabbed Old Jimmy and sliced the air with the edge of its sharp hook.

  “I’m one of them!” I said quickly. “One of the Lost Boys! Sort of…”

  He pushed me in the chest. “Go to hell.” I stumbled onto the deck, and my back burned as it slapped wood. “If that were true,” he said, “Feds would be focusing their snipers on this boat right now.”

  “I know Phoenix,” I said quickly. “And Mila and Bertha and Dove and Kindred and everyone else on New Texas and please don’t slice my head off with Old Jimmy.”

  Churchill cocked his head. “You know New Texas?”

  I nodded. “Just left there ten minutes ago.”

  He clenched his jaw. “So you are one of them, then.” He glanced in either direction. “Get in the cabin. Quick. Before I change my mind.”

  ~~~~~~

  The cabin’s walls stank of rust, and its floors were stained red. A wooden desk stood parallel to a gray steering wheel. A potted bird of paradise stood wilting in the corner.

  “Where are the rest of them?” asked Churchill.

  Could I trust him? I guess I didn’t have much of a choice. “On their way to Newla,” I said. “They should be there by now.”

  “Shit,” he muttered, “how in the bloody hell did they manage that?”

  “Wet Pockets,” I said. “I had one too, but it ripped.”

  “Wet Pocket? What the—? That’s the dumbest name I’ve ever heard. Must be Bertha’s invention. She was always terrible with names. Well, I can get you to Newla—help you join the others.”

  “You can? Into the harbor? That’s where they said the Wet Pockets would drop us off.”

  He shook his head. “Not the harbor. The Navy would capture me. Then torture and kill me, if they discovered I was a Caravite.”

  I still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the Caravan. It didn’t seem real. Like the Federation’s very own Narnia.

  “But I do have something else that might get you there,” he said. “We’ve gotta be quick though. The others won’t be able to wait long once they’re on the mainland. And if you’re without Phoenix for too much time, you’re as good as dead.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “What can I say, it’s the truth.”

  “Look, I don’t even know where I’m supposed to go.”

  “They didn’t tell you?”

  “They barely told me I was wearing a skirt.”

  “And for good reason.” He paused. “Have you been to the city before?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m from Moku Lani.”

  “Christ,” he muttered. “The bloody boondocks. Never been to Newla myself, but I’ve an idea where you ought to be going. You ever heard of the Skelewick district?”

  I nodded—it was the city’s oldest district. We’d briefly gone over its history in the eighth grade.

  “You’ll want to go to the Morier Mansion,” he said. “That’s where Phoenix will be, I’m sure. The Caravites have a base there. I’ve heard it’s a big house at the end of the street. You can’t miss it.”

  “Do you have its address?”

  “Do I have its address? I’ve been out at sea my whole bloody life! I wouldn’t know an address if it looked me in the eye!”

  So, Churchill expected me to wander into the world’s busiest city, a wanted terrorist nonetheless, with my only direction being “a big house at the end of the street.” I was a dead man.

  “How fast can you swim?” he asked.

  I pointed to my back, wrapped in bandages. “Not fast enough, apparently.”

  Churchill rummaged through his desk and pulled out a metallic cylinder the size of a vase. Then he pulled out a knife. “Give me your arm.”

  Reluctantly, I stuck out my arm. Without a word of warning, he sliced a patch of skin from it. I yanked it back. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “We need bait,” he said. “Thank me later.” He stuck the skin to the cylinder’s edge and motioned for me to follow him to the deck. He pushed a few buttons, and then tied the cylinder to a fishing line before tossing it into the water.

  “When I pull it out,” he said, “I’m gonna need you to grab on to the shark and squeeze like hell.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Three loud beeps is your signal to let go. It should place you at the south sewer’s entrance. Crawl through the pipe, then swim until you get to a fork. Take the left path—it’ll smell far worse—and swim until you find a tent pitched on an inspection platform. There’ll be a man there named Reggie. He’ll have horrible halitosis and be in a miserable mood. Tell him you’re with the Lost Boys, and he’ll help you find your way to the Morier Mansion. It’s a long shot, but it’s your best bloody bet.”

  It was too much at once. I took a deep breath. “Could you, uh, maybe repeat that? Like one more time? I could write it down or something? It seems like a lot—”

  “No time,” he interrupted. The line next to him quivered. He yanked the rod, and an eight-foot-long shark thrashed at the water’s surface. The cylinder had attached itself to the monster�
��s side, just below its chest.

  “That’s your ride, lad,” said Churchill. “Remember: let go after the three beeps.” He pushed me from the deck. “Or you’ll blow yourself to pieces!”

  “To pieces?” I yelled.

  “Quick, lad! Grab the beast now! It’s just a little great white!”

  I wrapped my arms around its thrashing body. Its gills pulsed frantically and its beady eyes twitched.

  “Safe travels!” Churchill shouted. “May God have mercy on your SOUL!” He cackled loudly. “Just kidding! I’m an atheist.”

  He sliced the line, and the cylinder moaned in the water as it fired up. The shark’s skin rubbed me like sandpaper as we throttled off through the water.

  Toward Newla. Toward Phoenix. Toward Mom.

  Toward Charlie.

  Chapter 10

  I tightened my grip as the shark snapped its snout back and forth. The muscles in my arms burned. The cylinder—a torpedo—yanked us effortlessly through the water. I wondered why it needed to be attached to a shark at all. Probably just another crazy idea of Churchill’s—he seemed the type to go for the theatrics.

  We cruised ten feet below the surface. Again I was grateful for my large lung capacity. The cylinder beeped once, twice, and then three times as we sailed through the water. I loosened my grip on the shark. It darted from my arms. The cylinder beeped several more times, then shot off the shark’s skin and burst apart at the surface.

  A metal shard from the explosion drifted past me in the water. I grabbed it and shoved it in my skirt’s pocket. It was a far cry from being well armed, but it was better than nothing.

  Farther ahead, I saw the rocky edge of the Hawaiian Quartile. HQ was the Federation’s largest island, and Newla was its largest city.

  At the surface, I saw the remains of a partially submerged pipe, not wider than my shoulders, blown apart by the cylinder’s explosion. The device had managed to track and destroy the sewer’s entrance. The explosion’s noise, however, would undoubtedly draw the attention of the sewer’s personnel. I had to move quickly to avoid detection.