The first time the black motorcycle followed Ann on her way to school was a Wednesday in early May.
She noticed it immediately because of the red logo on the front fender, and also on the driver's helmet. It was a striking logo, and she knew she had seen it somewhere before, though she couldn't remember where. But the logo made it easy for her to be sure it was the same black motorcycle she had seen—also just behind her—a block or so before, and another time before that. That logo, and the very expensive silver-studded black leather jacket the driver wore.
The red logo was egg-shaped, made up of three reptilian curvy creatures swirling around each other forming the egg. She didn't like it, and she felt afraid that the motorcycle really did seem to be following her.
She brooded about it in school all day. She was able to hide her preoccupation at lunch with her friends, but not in Mr. Wells's English class in the afternoon. Wells, who always seemed to be dressed in gray, and always had a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his forehead, noticed that she was preoccupied, even as he was ranting at the class about the upcoming XCAS test, and how low their practice test scores were. He stopped pacing and turned on her. "You'd better concentrate on what I'm saying, young lady," he said to her. "Or haven't you noticed that your test prep scores have been going down?"
The entire class turned and looked at her, which made her angry and embarrassed. The strange foreign boy, Lep, was the only one who had a sympathetic look on his face.
Wells caught that too. "Don't waste your time feeling sorry for her, Fingernail," Wells taunted him. At the beginning of the year Wells had made him explain that his nickname, Lep, meant "fingernail" in whatever language they spoke in the country he came from, and Wells used it to make fun of him when he was in a bad mood. "You may think you're doing better, but you're not nearly good enough yet to pass XCAS yourself."
Lep looked down at his desk.
Ann was nervous about the motorcycle on her way home from school. She always walked to and from school, even after she'd been hanging out with her friends. Walking was just so much faster than taking the bus, or riding in somebody's car. Because of the traffic, of course. The traffic that was always there, except for at three A.M. The traffic that oozed along agonizingly, inch by sluggish, groaning inch. The traffic that sat forever at red lights too far away to be seen. And then moved slowly forward. And then stopped again, many times, before it even reached the light.
She'd been walking home from school for the last few years, and yet she still never failed to appreciate how lucky she was that she lived close enough to be able to walk, instead of being trapped in a car like so many of the other kids. Yes, on good days it took her just over an hour, and on bad days in the winter even longer. But that was still so much better than the four or even more hours other kids had to suffer through in cramped vehicles, trying to do their homework and study for the XCAS test and getting carsick.
She knew what it was like. Until a few years ago she had been relegated to the school buses herself, because of the gangs on the street. Walking hadn't been safe. But that was before the new government took over, with their heightened security. Of course there had always been security at school. Now all the cars had to go through security checkpoints too, at regular intervals, which slowed things down even more.
But she was free. She had to wear a mask, of course; everybody did in the pollution. But she could go at her own pace; she wasn't under the total control of the traffic like people in buses and cars. She could even jog when she felt like it, though actually running would have been too suspicious. She was seventeen, after all, and not a little girl anymore.
She checked behind her and there was that motorcycle again, with the red reptilian logo. It was closer behind her than it had been on her way to school. It had been very odd before. Now it was scary.
Logos were everywhere, of course, representing every company, blurring together indiscriminately. And yet somehow this one stood out. She thought she had seen it only one other place before now. But where?
She quickly turned away from the motorcycle and started walking faster. She wanted to get home! She looked at her watch. At least another half hour to go.
If it had been a car it wouldn't have been able to follow her; it would have been stuck in traffic and she would have zipped past it ages ago. But motorcycles had more mobility; they could weave in and out between the trapped cars. Motorcycles always thrummed at the head of the cars at every traffic light. The instant the light turned green they were the first ones to zoom roaring ahead in clouds of exhaust. Only because it was a motorcycle was it able to follow her.
But how could she be so sure it was really following her? Maybe she was just being paranoid. She turned back and looked again to check.
And when she did, the driver—whose face was completely hidden by the dark helmet with the red reptilian logo on it—made the unmistakable gesture of zipping his gloved hand across his throat and then pointing directly at her.
She felt a terrible icy shock through her whole body. She instantly turned away again, fighting the impulse to run. He wasn't just following her, he was threatening her! But motorcycle or not, he was in traffic and she wasn't. Evasion was still possible. She had just come to a small, one-way street she didn't know, but it was worth turning right onto it, going the opposite way from the one lane of oncoming traffic. He'd have to stop following her now. She didn't look back—she didn't have to. She was walking toward the standing traffic and could easily see that the motorcycle was not daring to fight it and go the wrong way. She was going out of her way now; it would take her longer to get home. But she had managed to evade the motorcycle. For today.
Supper didn't happen at the same time every day—her household couldn't be that organized. Because of the traffic, there was no knowing when Mom or Dad would get home from work, even though neither of their jobs was far from their apartment. Mom worked the day nursing shift at a nearby hospital, and Dad worked as a home health aide. Her brother, Spencer, was five years behind her in school, and there was no knowing when he'd get home either. But by the time she did get home that day, they were all there already, which was a little bit unusual. They were all sitting down at the table before she told them anything about what had happened with the motorcycle.
Often at dinner Dad and Mom would tell stories about their patients. Many of the poor people Dad took care of lived in a pair of substandard high-rise buildings called the Grand Diamond and the Grand Emerald. A number of his patients were bedridden, and Dad had to do a lot of things to take care of them, including changing them. It made for lip-smacking dinnertime conversation.
Dad winced a little as he sat down at the dinner table, clutching at his back. "I don't know what I'm going to do about Mr. Hanumano," he said, shaking his head and sighing. "How much longer can I deal with him?"
"He's the one who weighs four hundred twenty-five pounds, right?" said Spencer.
"Just ask my back," Dad said. "And does he ever even try to move a muscle when I have to hoist him over with his swollen dirigible of a tum-tum to get at his loaded diapers? Not on your life! I'll end up crippling myself. And I hate having anything to do with a place owned by that Warren creep."
"Yeah, and who else is going to do it?" Mom said. That was the problem. If Dad refused to take on any patient, it was likely he'd lose his job—and the patient might die. And with the little training he'd had, this was the best-paying job he could get.
They had all heard a lot about Mr. Warren, the rich businessman who owned Grand Diamond. Mr. Warren didn't just own Grand Diamond, he owned lots of other, bigger companies; Grand Diamond was just like a little hobby of his.
Ann knew how much Dad hated rich businessmen like Mr. Warren. He was always telling the poor people who lived there that the rent was too high, that the apartments weren't maintained enough, that they should refuse to pay their rent until repairs were done. But most of the people were too afraid of being thrown out to do anything to anger the landlord. Ann was tired of hearing about it.
"Something weird happened to me on the way home from school," she said, thinking she would be changing the subject.
They all turned to look at her. "Yeah?" Mom said, a smile flickering around her lips. Mom wanted some comic relief. She had a great sense of humor, and when she and Ann were getting along they laughed a lot together. Once when Mom was driving late at night, and the car could actually move, the two of them were laughing so hard Mom had to pull the car over to the side of the road until their laughter subsided enough for her to start driving again.
"I wish it was something funny, Mom, but it's not," Ann said. "It's creepy. A motorcycle was following me on the way to and from school today."
"Oh, come on. How could you be sure?" Mom could also be skeptical.
"Yeah. So many motorcycles look alike," Spencer said.
"He made a throat-slitting gesture and pointed at me," Ann said, her voice rising.
"What!" Mom put her hands on the table and almost stood up.
"How could you be sure it was the same guy?" Spencer repeated the question to try to stop Mom and Ann from going off the handle.
"I was sure for two reasons," Ann said, angry that they didn't believe her. "The driver was wearing an expensive leather jacket with a pattern of silver studs on it. It was really easy to recognize. But even more than that… the bike and the driver's helmet had a weird red logo on it. Not a familiar one that you see everywhere. Somehow I know I've only seen that logo one other place."
"What did it look like?" Dad asked her.
"It was egg-shaped. And the egg was made up of three, like, squirming shapes that sort of looked like… like lizards or something."
Dad went pale and put down his knife and fork. "Replico…" he said softly, meeting eyes with Mom.
"Replico?" Mom snapped. "Oh, come on, Steve! You don't think…"
Then they both turned and looked at Ann.
"What's the matter?" she almost shouted. "What are you talking about? What's Replico?"
"It's Warren's company. Or his group of companies."
"Warren? You mean the same Mr. Warren who owns Grand Diamond?"
"Yeah. But Grand Diamond is nothing compared to the other pots he's got his fingers into. Oil, mainly. That's the big one. Think of all the traffic. He's also into publishing. Big government publishing. Warren's a good buddy with the government. He and the president are both big into oil."
"But why would anybody with his company's logo—" Mom started to say.
"Yeah, that's the weird thing," Dad interrupted her. "He doesn't flash that logo around much. He doesn't want to advertise the fact that all his companies are connected. The only reason I know the logo at all—and the only place I've ever seen it—is on the notices he puts up at Grand Diamond. He's not afraid the poor jerks who live there can do anything to get in his way. So why is he advertising it to threaten you?"
Now Mom was getting that hard, angry expression. "Because of your meddling, Steve. And now you're putting your own child in danger because of it."
"You mean because I sometimes try to tell those people to not keep letting him ruin their lives? How could he even know I exist? He's almost never there. He's too much of a big shot."
"That manager you dislike so much is there," Mom said. "The manager's responsible for making sure the building makes a big enough profit. The manager would know of anything that might interfere with that. That's what his job's all about. It's not about making sure the plumbing works or anything trivial like that. It's about making sure nothing interferes with the rent coming in. You've already said the manager treats you like dirt."
"It might have been the manager on the motorcycle!" Spencer said, as if it were a thrilling game. He was practically hopping in his chair with excitement. "And he wants to kill Ann so Dad will stop telling the tenants not to pay their rent!"
"No, not kill her—not yet," Mom said slowly. "This was a warning—the first one." She turned to Dad. "Maybe Mr. Hanumano is too much for your back, Steve. Maybe you ought to refuse to take care of him—and let somebody else get involved in that place and the crook who owns it." She sighed, and looked hopeless. "Except… what would we do without the money?"
And then Ann remembered where she'd seen the logo before. On a T-shirt. A black T-shirt with the red reptilian egg shape on it.
And the person who wore it was the strange—and yet somehow hot—foreign boy, Lep.
