Kronos

4

Portsmouth, New Hampshire

She knew the men behind her had been following closely for two blocks, maybe longer, mimicking every turn, every pause. Giona could smell the tobacco from the cigarettes they lit, three each in the last ten minutes. Probably nervous. She could also hear their shuffled footfalls on the centuries-old brick sidewalks. Portsmouth was an old town, one of the original East Coast ports and home of the Portsmouth Navy Yard-also home to sound-conductive sidewalks and a few less-than-honest residents.

She wasn’t sure exactly how long they’d been following her. She’d been engaged with her “inner voice,” as she liked to call her. It was her private devil’s advocate, conjured up by her mind when there was no one else to talk to, and had recently become a mainstay in her thought processes. Some people might call it a conscience, but it only seemed to appear with certain subjects, and none were moral questions. While she totally disagreed with the opinions of her “inner voice,” it at least helped her firm up her opinions on issues she faced. She knew it was weird, but she didn’t have a ton of people to talk to.

Since her mom died, she’d rarely talked to anyone, including her father. He was nice enough. A good guy. Kind. Loving. Smart. She admired him and his work. Not all girls have an ex-Navy SEAL-turned-oceanographer for a father. But the day he’d come home from the hospital, eyes burnt red from crying, and just looked at her with those sad eyes, she knew two things. Her mother was dead, and she wouldn’t let herself get that close to anyone every again. Not even her father. And to let the world know to stay away, she changed everything about herself.

Her colorful wardrobe disappeared, replaced by black ill-fitting clothes purchased at the Salvation Army. She knew that might not be enough to keep everyone at bay, so she accentuated the black by dyeing her hair a variety of colors. The ridiculous number of silver bracelets on her wrists, the black-and-white-striped stockings she wore, and the piercings in her eyebrow, nose, and ears completed the look and achieved her desired goal: solitude. The only people inclined to spend any time with her were fellow recluses, who similarly had little use for close relationships.

Though she would never admit it, loneliness had become a problem; but she ignored it, fought against it, unwilling to suffer the loss that would eventually come. A few months ago, the “inner voice” had emerged. She knew the voice was slightly insane, borderline schizophrenic, but she didn’t care. It didn’t tell her to do things. Instead it spoke with her-argued with her, really-and oddly enough instilled a sense of peace in her; she wasn’t totally alone anymore. The one drawback was that she became oblivious to the outside world when arguing internally. She’d been distracted enough that the two guys had got within twenty feet of her and, if she hadn’t been snapped out of her thought processes by their overpowering odor, they could’ve snuck up right behind her with ease.

She had yet to look back at the two men following her. She didn’t want them to realize she was aware of their presence. But she could narrow down their identities to a handful of people. She’d met many unsavory people in the last year, socializing with large groups of teens who hung around downtown. Most were rich kids playing tough, wearing ratty clothes while clutching their iPods and smoking pot. But a few were the real deal, nasty people best to be avoided-something Giona typically excelled at. But friends of friends had made introductions, and she’d found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

To look at her, with her purple-dyed hair, jet-black clothes, and array of ear piercings, she fit right in. But her pleasant smile and charming wit set her apart. More than that, her genius-level intelligence allowed her to talk her way out of trouble. It was her stance on drugs that really made her stand out. She was well-known for attending antidrug meetings at the high school. While many of her in-town friends were petitioning their local senators to legalize marijuana, she was testifying before a New Hampshire Senate subcommittee about how it, and even alcohol, should be banned. She wasn’t a Holy Roller or ex-user, just someone who had seen too many friends’ crisp minds rot and slow. Conversations that once involved quantum singularities or deep-sea creatures instead focused on Zippo lighters, Twinkies, bowl-packing procedure, and who had taken a hit from the longest bong.

Her friends had tolerated, even encouraged, Giona’s antidrug crusade-drug users were easily impressed with anyone doing something more than sitting on a couch. One had even said with a slur, “You even think about…doin’ drugs…and I’ll kick your ass.”

But not everyone within her circle appreciated her opinion, and a nickname had cropped up-nark. Everyone knew she’d never said a word to the police about who did drugs, but a few nights ago she’d found herself sitting in one of Portsmouth’s alleys. Unlike many cities, Portsmouth’s alleys were nicely decorated and home to frequently visited shops. But it would seem that alleys everywhere, even those with an attractive decor, invited trouble. She had been sitting on a bench, writing down the details of a strange dream from the night before. Whispered words took her attention from the page just in time to see a large cellophane-wrapped object being handed from a stranger’s hand to one of the local dealers she’d done so well avoiding. The dealer went by the name Bazooka Joe, in part because of his penchant for chewing gum but also because of the large bazooka-wielding figure shooting a rocket, which trailed from his biceps to his forearm.

She instantly recognized the wrapped object as a brick of marijuana and was quick to her feet. Wrong place, wrong time. But in her haste to retreat, she tripped and fell to the sidewalk. As she quickly picked herself up, she gave a glance back, meeting the deep-set eyes of the dealer. He was rubbing his hand over his shaved head and staring at her, seeming indecisive about what to do. The man selling the brick said a few words, distracting Joe for only a moment. When he looked up, Giona was gone. But he’d already seen and recognized her face. He knew who she was…and what she believed.

The footsteps were sounding louder behind her, more frantic. Then she realized why. She was about to pass the entrance to one of Portsmouth’s parking garages. Odds were that the stairwell was empty. She glanced across the street, looking for somewhere to go, but on Sunday afternoon, all of the shops were closed. Out of options, she began to run.

She’d taken three strides when two viselike arms wrapped around her waist, hoisted her into the air, and heaved her sideways into the stairwell. She caught herself just inches from cracking her skull on the concrete steps. As she turned around to face her attackers, she momentarily wondered if she’d have been better off being knocked unconscious. Having no memory of what was to come next might be a blessing.

Bazooka Joe and a man she’d never seen before were smiling widely. Their yellow tainted teeth seemed more like wolves’ fangs than human teeth. As Joe leaned closer, she realized that his teeth were in fact far from normal. They’d been filed to sharp points. As he opened his mouth to talk, she felt as though she was staring into the jaws of a shark.

Joe noticed her focus on his teeth. “I won’t bite if you’re good.”

Giona kept her mouth shut. To speak at all would only incite the man.

Joe turned to the other man, whose filthy clothes and rank odor spoke more of a quickly hired homeless man than a true compatriot. “You watch the upstairs door. No one comes through.”

The man nodded nervously and ascended the stairs. Joe turned back to Giona, rubbing his hand over his shaved head. “You know why we’re here, right?”

Giona nodded.

“Tell me.”

“I saw your deal the other night.”

Joe made a loud buzzing noise. “Wrong. Everyone knows you’re not a nark. But you dropped something when you ran away.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a four-by-six sheet of paper. Giona knew what it was before he turned it around. Taken a month before while she and her father were snorkeling…the one and only thing they’d done together all year, Giona had posed for a picture with her father. The camera, set on the captain’s chair, had captured a photo that none of her punk friends would have believed. Under the dark, baggy clothes there was a bronze-skinned, fit body that could have belonged to any number of Hollywood starlets. Her body and smiling face were in stark contrast to the shaggy purple hair, but there was no denying she was a hidden beauty.

“A real diamond in the rough,” Joe said, spittle flinging from his mouth. The man was all but drooling.

As Joe unbuckled his belt, she realized what was going to happen next. Her mind raced for some kind of plan, some way to escape. Joe removed his belt and looped it around the door handle and a nearby pipe, fastening it tight. Her only chance was to head up the stairs and take the other man by surprise. She began to shuffle up, ready to run, but Joe sensed the movement and lunged.

Giona struggled for a moment, but was pulled back down, landing hard on the stairs. Joe’s strong right hand, which featured the projectile flung forth from the biceps bazooka, wrapped around her throat. “Make a noise, and I squeeze. Fight, and I’ll gut you quick.” He punctuated his last words with the flick of his left hand, revealing a switchblade.

Her body went rigid; she couldn’t fight, but she could resist. With every ounce of strength in her body, she would not allow the man to take her easily. Her only hope was that he would tire and give up, but the sculpted muscles on his exposed arms told her the effort would be futile.

Joe placed the knife under her shirt and moved it up her body, allowing his hand to graze across her flesh. He was going to cut her clothes off.

Before the blade could be pulled back, a loud thump sounded from above. Joe hesitated. “Zack. What’s going on?”

When no response came, Joe withdrew the knife but kept his hand planted firmly on Giona’s neck. “Zack, what the hell are you doing, man?”

Shuffling footsteps made their way down the stairs. A man, sniffling and wheezing, was coming down the steps. As he came into view, Giona saw a withered-looking form in disheveled clothes and sporting one of the most scraggly beards she had ever seen. Despite his scruffiness, she had to work hard to hide a smile.

“Who the hell are you?” Joe shouted. “Zack! You have about five seconds to-”

“Zack took a break man…I’m taking his place.”

Joe seethed. He was clearly going to hurt Zack at some point in the future, but his options at the moment were few. “How do you know Zack?”

“Used to fish together.” The words came out slurred and breathy.

Joe seemed satisfied by the answer. Apparently Zack had once been a fisherman. Joe shook his head and pointed the knife blade at the scraggly drunk. “Anyone gets by you, you’re dead. Got it?”

The man nodded, then tripped, descending several stairs at once so that his feet were next to Giona’s head and his face only a foot from Joe’s blade. “Whoa…close one.”

Joe was about to shout something when, like a blur, the drunk’s hand latched on to Joe’s wrist. A quick twist brought about a loud crack, which was followed by a ferocious scream. Joe followed the scream with, “You f-”

But before the flow of obscenities could issue forth, a rigid hand chopped through the air and caught Joe in the Adam’s apple. The once-savage attacker was instantly reduced to a sad little man, writhing on the floor, gasping for breath. With Joe on the floor, clearly incapacitated, the drunk stood straighter, descended the remaining stairs, and pulled out a cell phone. After a quickly dialed call and brief discussion with a 911 operator, the man turned around, clearly relieved at the girl’s safety.

“You okay?” Atticus asked.

Giona longed to run to her father’s arms and be held within his safe embrace, but charade or not, the tough exterior she had built over the past two years forbade it. She wouldn’t show weakness, especially not to her father. “Fine,” she said, picking herself up and straightening her shirt.

It was obvious her father longed to hold her as well. He must have been petrified. The best he could muster was a pat on her shoulder. “Lucky I came by.”

“You’re late.”

“Sorry.”

“You called the cops?”

“Yes.”

Giona sighed. She’d be marked as a real nark from here on.

“You won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

The relief Giona felt when she’d first seen her father was being consumed by years of barriers built between the two. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure,” Atticus said, a tinge of sarcasm entering his voice as he grew impatient with his ungrateful daughter. He quickly undid the belt around the door, and with a seriousness that could not be ignored-even by an angry seventeen-year-old-said, “Wait outside.”

Giona headed for the door and paused before leaving. “You’re not going to…”

“In another life I would have. But not today.”

Giona stepped outside, and the door clicked shut behind her. A few moments later she could hear the wheezing screams of Joe. She had no idea what her father was doing, or even what he was capable of doing (though she had her suspicions), but it was clearly something Joe would not forget. Good, Giona thought, the bastard deserves whatever he gets. But then she regretted that in some roundabout way she was responsible for bringing out demons her father had long ago buried. She crossed her arms, leaned against a mailbox, and waited for the screaming to stop.