by Rysa Walker
What’s very clear is that Deo and Daniel both thought one of their deep, dark fears was down that tunnel. Maybe not the deepest and darkest, but at least in Deo’s case, I think Patrick drunk and angry with a lit cigarette comes pretty damn close.
“I don’t know,” Deo says. “Didn’t ask him. We were too busy arguing over whether we were running from fire or water. But . . . it didn’t really matter. Neither of us was eager to go back in there. Then Taylor’s text came through, so we decided to take the route she and Anna found. That made me nervous. And some girl starts screaming for us to let her out. Daniel did his Jedi thing, and we found out she was Cregg’s daughter. He thought she might be . . . useful . . . if we had to negotiate, but she was really freaked out when we saw that guy’s body. That was Abbott?”
Aaron says, “It’s a good thing Sam showed up. Otherwise Taylor might have had to take the shot. Don’t tell her I said that,” he adds quickly. “I’m not saying she couldn’t have or wouldn’t have done it. It’s just . . . this isn’t the first time Sam has had to shoot someone to save a life. He won’t lose a lot of sleep over it.”
I get a touch of déjà vu—for once, the entirely normal kind—thinking back to Joe’s comment this morning at the deli about sparing me the pain of taking a life. It’s not all that strange that both Abbott and Costello died violently, given their chosen profession, but it is odd that they went down under very similar circumstances. I froze this morning, and I’m not at all sure I would have pulled the trigger in time if Joe hadn’t been there.
Would Taylor have frozen, too? I doubt it. She’s spent her entire life around people who have to make split-second life-and-death decisions. The gun felt natural in her hand, a tool that she’d been taught to use effectively and safely.
But all the same, I’m glad she didn’t have to find out.
Winchester, Virginia
April 25, 2020, 2:33 a.m.
The waitress tops off my coffee for the second time. “Can always tell who’s doin’ the drivin’,” she says with a wink.
I smile. No point in telling her she’s wrong. She heads back to the kitchen to grab the to-go order for Sophie and Daniel, who are waiting in the Kia with my father. He hasn’t stirred since we left Port Deposit two hours ago. We were all close to starving by the time we hit Winchester, especially Sophie, who seems to have Taylor’s ravenous appetite when using her Delphi ability. Daniel convinced Sam to stop here at the Waffle House. It’s not haute cuisine, but it’s filling and at least a slight improvement over the fast food of the past few days.
Taylor mops up the last of her eggs with the crust of her raisin toast and munches reflectively as she stares out the window. The parking lot is mostly empty, just an 18-wheeler and our two vehicles.
“Wonder what they’re talking about?”
I’m pretty sure I know, but I just shrug.
“Knowing Daniel, he’s probably trying to nudge her,” Aaron says. “He can’t stand the thought that there’s someone he can’t push around.”
“He does like a challenge,” Sam says.
“Still can’t believe none of you bothered to tell me.” Aaron lowers his voice. “I mean, Daniel gives me all kinds of grief for my ability, which I rarely use on purpose, and he’s been actively bending people to his own will all these years.”
“Not actively,” Sam says. “And not family. We had a talk about that and he stopped.”
“But . . . how would you know?” Deo asks. “Maybe he used it all the time and made you forget.”
Taylor shakes her head. “Doesn’t make sense. Daniel pisses everyone off. Always has. He always got into more trouble than Aaron and I did. Remember that time when he was—what?—in eleventh grade, I think. The deal with the car. Mom grounded him for two solid months.”
Deo shrugs. “Maybe she’d have grounded him for four months if he hadn’t . . . tweaked her memory.”
I catch Deo’s eye halfway through the comment and give him a pleading look. I’m pretty sure it’s just a logic problem to him, like the one in the movie Labyrinth where you have one guard who always lies and another who always tells the truth and you have to figure out which is which. Or, in this case, how do you know if someone is altering your perception of reality?
But it’s not an idle question for the Quinn family. And that’s why, as tempted as I am to defend Daniel on this issue, I keep quiet. They have to work this out themselves, although in some sense, I may understand Daniel better than anyone at this table. Sure, they’ve known him his entire life, but they’ve only seen the face he chooses to show them. No matter how close the friend or family, we all wear masks. They slip sometimes and reveal our inner selves, or at least the mask behind the mask. Most of the time, though, we keep our true face hidden. Protected.
It was harder for Daniel to hide his true self when he was inside my head. He could block facts most of the time, but he found it difficult to block his emotions. I know how deeply he feels about his family, even Aaron. He feels responsible for them, too. I’d say it goes beyond the normal older-sibling sense of responsibility, but then I’m the same way about Deo, and I didn’t even know him for the first half of his life.
To my surprise, it’s Aaron who comes to his brother’s defense. Sort of.
“No. Daniel wouldn’t do that. I’m tired and grumpy, and I’m not being fair. My ability was more visible than Daniel’s or Taylor’s, so, yeah . . . you were both right to tell me to keep it under wraps. And even if I don’t like it, Daniel had a good reason in the few cases I know of where he nudged me and Taylor.” He shoots me a little smile, knowing that I’m not a fan of Daniel’s euphemism. It’s a lot more than a nudge. “I do wish you’d trusted me with the information earlier, but I get that it wasn’t your secret to tell. At some point, Daniel and I will talk it out. Clear the air.”
I make a mental note to be somewhere else when that happens. Normal Quinn family discussions are explosive. This one will probably register on the Richter scale. And, as usual, ten minutes later they’ll be fine.
The waitress comes over with the take-out order and starts to top off my coffee again, then raises one penciled-in eyebrow. She’s looking down at my leg, twitching to the rapid beat of a nonexistent tune.
“You sure?” she asks.
A horn honks out in the parking lot. I guess this was the sign Daniel and Sam agreed upon, because Sam slides out of the booth.
“Actually,” I say, “could you put it in a to-go cup?”
Sam goes to the register to pay. “Everybody hit the bathroom again. We’ve got over an hour before we reach the cabin, and I don’t know if there are rest areas between here and there.”
I’ve had three coffees, so I heed his warning. Taylor, however, snorts and mimics him as she heads outside. “I’m not stopping forty times on this trip, so you kids better quit drinking those sodas.”
It’s a pretty good imitation.
When I exit the bathroom, I collide with Daniel.
“Sorry!” I say. “I didn’t . . . see you.”
Daniel doesn’t respond. He just keeps his head down and pushes past me.
I get a clear look at his face, though. He’s crying.
NEWS ITEM FROM THE SAN ANGELO STANDARD-TIMES
April 25, 2020
The bodies of the two 16-year-old girls found late Wednesday in the woods near Glenmore Park have been identified as Regina Pelter and Amber Whelow, both of San Angelo. Drug overdose has been verified as the cause of death.
A third teen who was with the girls earlier that day told authorities that they were planning to purchase a packet of “freak,” the street name for a synthetic drug that allegedly unleashes psychic abilities. Instead, they were sold a prescription opiate. A preliminary coroner’s report revealed approximately three times the lethal dose of fentanyl in the girls’ systems.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mathias, West Virginia
April 25, 2020, 8:27 a.m.
The room is so tiny that the gurne
y takes up all the space between the two twin beds. Sophie lashed her wrist to my father’s with what appears to be one of Taylor’s scrunchies. She doesn’t look comfortable, but she’s sleeping.
So is Scott Pfeifer.
Jasper Hawkins was right. I look much more like my mother, except for my nose. Hers was rounder, and it turned up a bit at the end. Mine is a smaller version of my father’s—straight, narrow, slightly square at the tip.
Should I be angry at him? Probably. But what I feel is numb. Empty. So I stand in the doorway, just watching him. Almost hypnotized by his nose, which is so much like mine, flaring out with each exhale. Aside from this, the steady in and out of his breathing, Pfeifer hasn’t stirred since we left The Warren.
Someone touches my shoulder, and I jump. Sam is behind me, looking very worried. How long has he been there?
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to say there’s cereal in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
I’m not. I am slightly embarrassed to have been caught in stalker mode, however, so I follow him into the kitchen. Although follow isn’t exactly right, since Sam has taken my arm and is more or less pulling me in that direction.
Deo and Taylor are at the table, looking exactly the way people who got four hours of sleep should look. Taylor is following her usual morning routine, however, iPad in hand, browsing the news as she talks.
“Can you believe this kitchen?” Deo says. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m getting a major Brady Bunch vibe.”
“Yeah,” Taylor says. “I’m pretty sure avocado-green appliances went out of style around the same time as leisure suits. You can ask Sam about those. We’ve got photographic evidence somewhere. I think it was baby blue, and it had bell-bottoms and a fake silk shirt and—”
“It was the seventies,” Sam says. “We had style back then.”
“Oh, I’m not arguing with you. I’m going to buy Deo one just like it for his birthday.”
“No, you’re not,” Deo says and then stops, considering. “Not baby blue, at any rate.”
Despite the retro color scheme, the kitchen is cozy. It’s warm, too, courtesy of the woodstove in the nearby living room. Unfortunately, if I stay in here, my eyes are going to close. I pour a cup of coffee, pull on my sneakers, and step outside into a clear blue cloudless morning. There’s still a hint of morning chill, and the breeze carries the scent of evergreens and smoke from the woodstove.
I walk to the far side of the property, which is easily ten times the size of the suburban backyards I’m used to. You could plop a high school football field in this clearing and still have room left over. A wooden picnic table sits near a small open shelter that houses extra firewood, a wheelbarrow, and an ancient push mower.
The table, like the shed, has seen better days. Flecks of paint, the same barn red as the cabin, cling to the sides. On top, the boards have warped and faded to a gray with pinkish-brown streaks. They look a bit like strips of raw bacon past their expiration date.
It seems sturdy enough to hold me, however, so I perch on top and take in the view. We’re in the foothills, overlooking a small meadow, and you can see mountains off in the distance. It’s pretty. Peaceful. A different kind of peace than I find watching the ocean near Sandalford. That’s more about embracing the chaotic churn of the waves meeting the shore—rhythmic, but never quite predictable. Here, it’s the sameness that’s relaxing. Nothing but the faint sough of the wind and the monotonous buzz of insects in the field.
That should probably make me sleepy, but it has a bracing effect. Maybe it’s the cool air on my skin, but I feel more awake now than I have since we arrived a little after four o’clock this morning.
I hear a door close and look over at the cabin. A small porch shadows the doorway, and all I can tell is that it’s a tall guy in jeans, standing next to the stack of firewood. Ordinary denim, not black or purple or whatever, which rules out Deo. So, one of the Brothers Quinn. He watches me for a moment, hands in his front pockets, then finally decides to step off the porch.
Daniel. He crosses the lawn slowly, not exactly limping, but definitely favoring his right leg. When he gets closer, he looks down at my coffee. “You going for the Guinness Record?”
“It’s only my second cup.”
I’m not actually lying, if I count cups since sunrise. If, however, I count from the last time I woke up, then gallons would be the correct unit of measurement, and I’m probably on my third or fourth.
“I meant consecutive hours awake, not caffeine consumption. Did you even try to sleep last night?”
“No. I’m doing okay, though.”
He doesn’t argue the point, just sits at the other end of the table cradling his mug of tea. We’re silent for several minutes. It’s a comfortable silence at first, but as it stretches out, it becomes awkward.
I finally break the ice. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Maybe. That’s what I’m trying to decide. How about you go first? Tell me what’s been happening since I checked out of the Hotel Anna.”
“You probably know as much as I do. Apparently, you knew Graham Cregg was in here long before I did.”
“I didn’t know for certain. That whole scene, from the confrontation at the airport until we were back in my hospital room, is kind of a blur to me. I was in and out of consciousness on the drive to the airport. It barely registered when Jaden left. He said good-bye and I wanted to say something. To thank him for . . . I guess mostly for being a buffer between me and you, and for teaching me how to mellow out a bit.”
“I miss him. Hope he found what he was looking for on the other side.”
“Me, too. I wonder how much having those visions shaped his personality? It might be easier to go with the flow if you know you can’t change anything.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Jaden wasn’t a fatalist, though. It’s not like he sat back and let the world roll past. He had a strong sense of right and wrong, and he acted on that. But once he saw something he knew he couldn’t change, he tried to make the best of it.”
“Like those grant me serenity posters.”
“Not exactly. Jaden’s world view was more like if the grant me serenity poster and the when life gives you lemons, make lemonade poster had a baby.”
“That works. Anyway, I sensed he was leaving, but I couldn’t . . . I don’t know. Form a good-bye thought, I guess? And then the next thing I remember, everything went crazy. It was like a dark curtain—although that’s not quite the right word—just enveloped the inside of your head. I don’t blame Hunter for bailing. I might have done the same thing if I’d had the opportunity.”
A wave of cold washes over me. I hadn’t even thought about the possibility that Hunter Bieler simply left, the same way that Will and the Furies did. That would explain why there’s no file cabinet in my head marked Hunter. But it would also mean that there’s a small, very lonely ghost in an airplane hangar in Upstate New York. I think a strong argument can be made that he’s much better off there than in my head with a murderous spider-rat, but it makes me sad.
That could be why Kelsey kept changing the subject when I mentioned Hunter. Maybe she didn’t think I was ready to deal with the fact that I abandoned him. Because, even though I didn’t do it on purpose, and even if he chose it, she would know it still feels like I abandoned him.
“But even if the invitation had included me,” Daniel said, “I wasn’t in any shape to make that journey twice. Being stuck inside your head was challenging enough. I can’t even imagine sharing consciousness with a little kid.”
“What?”
“Bree Bieler? His sister? That’s where Hunter went, right?”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. “I don’t know. Maybe. At first I thought he moved on, but . . . it wasn’t like the other departures. No dreams, no memories. I can’t short out electrical equipment anymore. I tried, just out of curiosity, but the lamp kept right on glowing. Is Bree a . . .” I hesitate, not wanting to use the Creggs’
word, but not sure what else to call my ability. Medium? Host? Ghost whisperer? “Is Bree a vessel?”
“No clue,” Daniel says. “Hunter said she had a couple of talents, and they had that twin connection. She wouldn’t be the only adept with more than one ability. Maria is both a Peeper and a Sender. Some of the Movers are also Zippos. And I don’t even know for certain that’s what happened. I’m just basing this on what I sensed from Hunter as he was leaving. For the first time since you picked him up, he was genuinely happy.”
“Maybe because he was able to let go and move on? All of the hitchers feel happy when they go.”
“Well, except Myron.”
Yes, it’s what I was thinking. I just chose not to say it.
And I guess Daniel can tell that his decision to fill in the blank annoys me, because he doesn’t press. He just says, “That would have been astonishingly quick closure for Hunter, don’t you think? Everyone he loved was still alive. Unlike Jaden, he didn’t have anyone waiting in the Great Beyond.”
I can hear Daniel’s ironic caps on the phrase and smile at his skepticism. I’m not sure what waits on the other side of death either, but I have to believe that something does. Otherwise, all of my hitchers simply walked into nothingness on the strength of a delusion. They existed, here in my head, after death. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to me that they still exist, somewhere beyond.
Daniel is right, though. Hunter was nowhere near the point of moving on. And Bree Bieler avoids me whenever possible. I’d thought it was because she was still angry about Hunter’s death, somehow blamed me for it. But I didn’t think much about it. After all, it’s not too surprising for a seven-year-old girl to have a bit of irrational anger, especially when she’s recently lost the person she loves most in all the world.
But it would make a lot more sense if she’s worried that I know what really happened. If she’s scared someone will try to take Hunter away from her again.
