Vain sat on a wide, three-person bench, eating a bag of barbecue potato chips and considering her next move. It was dusk, and the sun dipped below the skyline. After the hospital encounter, she followed the Wyatts and the jogger, reasoning that Roman would want to know what happened. For narrative closure. Roman, she reflected, was obsessed with narrative closure. So, here she was, in a quiet part of the city with shoulder-to-shoulder, pencil-thin houses that competed for the largest amount of white trim to circle a window. Most of the pedestrians seemed to be students, judging by the backpacks and oversized headphones.
Vain wondered if she had ever gone to school. She had no real memory of anything before Arthur's Hotel. It was as if her life started the day she woke up in that horrible place, scared, alone, and confused.
She and Roman weren't sure of either of their ages, but they estimated she was somewhere in her late twenties and he was somewhere in his early thirties. There was no way to tell for sure, though. Time didn't work right in the Hotel, and aside from eyeballing it, they had nothing else to go on.
She had a small scar on her elbow, about an inch long, that she would play with anytime she was distracted. The scar didn't have stitch marks; it was a raw, ragged line. She thought the lack of stitch marks was a clue and she tugged at that fact, trying to wring it for every piece of data. Whoever she had been in her previous life, she had cut herself badly enough to leave a scar, but she hadn't gotten it stitched. That meant something. That had to mean something. Did she not have parents who could care for her? Had she not lived close to a hospital? Did she get the scar going to school, like these naïve, shiny-faced kids who walked by, unaware of the world that existed in the shadows?
Roman was, for sure, educated. He was smart and wise, and Vain imagined that was the temperament you got from going to college. She pictured Roman in a school setting, surrounded by kids, learning important things like how to drive a car and how taxes worked. Would he be smoking a pipe? That felt right.
It was time to get back to him. His absence had become an ache, a persistent stitch in her side. No matter how many breaths she took, it never went away. Plus, there seemed to be a great deal of humidity in the air, given how often her eyes filled up at the thought of him, alone and afraid. Boston was apparently a wet hellscape of airborne moisture.
Following a pack of hunting Wyatts was beyond dangerous. And besides, she'd already done more than could be expected by providing the jogger with a precise warning and concrete next steps. Done and done.
The problem was, Roman's world was exclusively made up of things to protect; the thought of leaving a person defenseless would be an anathema to him. Oh, he'd say that he understood and that he was glad Vain was safe. He'd also get that Roman look on his face; the horrible one that said he still loved you, but he was so, so disappointed in you. Damn it.
She slapped her thigh and stood up. She'd have to live with Roman's displeasure, because there was no way to stop that. Across the street, two Wyatts headed into the brownstone building, while one waited out front, leaning against the passenger side of the vehicle.
Within moments, the two Wyatts came back out, the woman sandwiched between them, her legs not quite touching the ground. The one who had stayed outside opened the back door and they threw her into the car. The whole thing took seconds, and unless you were watching as closely as she was, you would have missed it.
Her legs shook and she couldn't seem to catch her breath. That was it, then. Wyatts one, un-kidnapped women, zero. Now they'd take her to the Hotel, wipe her memory, and keep her captive. Like they'd done to Vain. Another life thrown into the garbage. She rubbed her face, unable to look away.
A cab drove by and she surprised herself by raising her arm and flagging it down. It slowed to a stop, and she hopped in the back seat as the red SUV pulled away from the curb.
"Where to?" said the driver.
"Follow that red SUV," she said, pointing.
He arched his eyebrow. "Are you kidding me?"
"My money says I'm not." She showed him the rest of her cash. He considered her for a few beats before shrugging and pulling away from the curb.
"So, do I keep a distance, or can I follow behind them? Is this a spy thing?"
"Just follow it, man, I don't know. I'm not an expert in car-following techniques. Isn't this something you cover in cab school?"
"I got my license in the mail after filling out a form online. It took eight minutes. Why are you following them?"
She rubbed her temples. "Do you need my life story? Is that a prerequisite for this ride? Stay behind them and keep quiet."
"You're the boss." He smiled and drove in silence for ten seconds before turning back to her. "Are they going somewhere?"
"Jesus Christ. Listen... Pranav," she said, reading the license hanging on the back of the seat. "They stole my wallet, okay? I was sitting there, minding my own business, when they stole my wallet."
"How is it you still have money?" asked Pranav, cheerful now that he had drawn her into a conversation.
"Because I keep my money in my bra. They're getting further away, don't lose them."
"Should we go to the police? Wallet stealing is a serious offense. I can radio it in right now." He picked up his CB and wiggled it.
Shit. The last thing she wanted was the police.
"Actually, it's their wallet," she blurted. "I found it after they dropped it. Like I said, I keep my money in my bra, like a normal person." She emphasized by pointing at her chest. "So now I'm returning a wallet I found. Did I say stole? I often get the words 'found' and 'stole' mixed up. Honest mistake."
"Sure," he said. "But wouldn't it be easier to mail it to them? Is there any identification inside? This seems like the hardest possible way to return a wallet to someone."
Vain gave him an irritated glare. "What the shit, Pranav? Are you a taxi driver or Carey Mahoney?"
"Who is Carey Mahoney? Is he the owner of the wallet?"
"No, he was in 'Police Academy'. Never mind. Keep driving."
"All I'm saying, miss," said Pranav, apparently the nosiest cab driver in the world, "is that your story isn't particularly good and if I'm going to follow another car, I'd like to know the reason. I don't want to get mixed up in anything. Especially not drugs, although you don't look like you're high." He smiled at her through the rear-view mirror.
She exhaled sharply. "Fine, you wanna know why we're following them? They're human monsters from an alternate universe, brought here by a violent, unstable megalomaniac named Arthur. They've kidnapped a woman who they are bringing back to his Hotel—which isn't like a normal Hotel, mind you, it's more of a waypoint between all time and space—that sits on a floating island made of rocks surrounded by red lightning. Once they get there, they'll wipe her memory, connect her mentally to another person, and make her channel energy for some inexplicable, fathomless purpose. Good? Is that enough of an answer? Have I earned the right to this cab ride now?" She flopped back in her seat and crossed her arms. Pranav seemed entertained by the whole thing.
"That's a spectacular story," he laughed. "Very, very good. You tell better stories than most of my passengers. Driving is boring, and I drive for many hours, so stories help the day go faster. What will you do when you catch up to these men, these supposed kidnappers?"
"That's a great question, Pranav. I have no idea. I'm making this up as I go."
He turned on to the highway and Vain thumbed through her stack of cash while eying the meter. Dollars and cents ticked by on the counter with alarming speed.
"I won't be able to follow them indefinitely," said Pranav. "Unless you have a great deal more money."
"When we get to where they're going, I'll give you a thousand dollars. They should go past my, um, Uncle's house. He's rich and owns a moose." That sounded like something a rich person would own. "Don't sweat it Pranav, I'll take care of you."
Pranav gestured to the meter. "The ride is already at twenty dollars, miss...?"
"Vain," she said.
"What?"
"My name is Vain."
"Are you with the circus or something?" Vain shook her head and Pranav continued, "I am not as familiar with American names, but that does not seem like one. Once, I drove a woman who told me her name was Matthew. I pointed out that was a man's name and she called me a misogynist, chained to antiquated notions of fixed gender. I learned a lot that day about how gender is an arbitrary social construct, which was helpful, although I didn't get a tip. I should learn my lesson and stop commenting on people's names, but I can't help it. They're becoming more bizarre. Everyone is named after a state now. Montana, Dakota, Alabama, Iowa."
"Come on, no one is named Iowa."
"Maybe not," Pranav agreed, "but names are strange and hard to remember now. Vain, for example. Is that a new trend, to name people based on personality traits? Are your millennial friends called Entitled and Lazy and Addicted?"
"Your prejudice is showing there, Pranav. Focus. You're all over the map conversationally, and we're losing them. Look, they're pulling off at that exit. Stay close behind."
Vain cracked her knuckles. It was time to continue tonot get involved.