Angel Fire

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 6

 

  No survivors, no survivors. The words beat through my skull as we walked to the parking lot, holding hands. The only people in sight were a couple unloading their things from a car; neither of them looked at us. As we reached the motorcycle, Alex handed me the helmet and shoved the plastic bag in the storage compartment. My fingers felt thick and clumsy as I worked the helmet’s straps.

  A police car was just coming down the street as we roared off in the other direction. I hardly noticed. I clung tightly to Alex; over and over, I kept seeing the two body bags. Had Mom come out of her dream world before it happened? Had she known what was going on? Oh please, no. The thought of her being scared and trapped, unable to get away, hurt so much I thought it might kill me. I huddled against Alex’s back as the cold mountain air rushed past, keeping my eyes closed and trying not to throw up.

  I’m not sure how much time passed; it could have been minutes or hours. But sometime later, once we’d crossed the state line into New Mexico, Alex turned off the highway and into a small town. When we came to a service station, he pulled in and parked the bike out of sight behind it. My legs felt stiff and unreal as I climbed off, as if I were a zombie just crawled from the grave.

  Alex’s face was tight with sympathy as he put his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, we’ve got to talk,” he said. He steered me into the restroom.

  Talk. The word seemed alien; I found myself turning it over for different possible meanings. I stood hugging myself as he locked the door behind us. Somewhere deep within, I could feel the tears waiting like a tidal wave. If I gave into them, they’d sweep me away, drown me for ever.

  Alex’s hair was ruffled from the wind as he turned to me; his hands gripped mine, feeling warm and strong. “Willow, listen,” he said urgently. “The more I think about it, the more this doesn’t make sense. I mean, yeah, the Church of Angels might want your mother dead, but why would they target your aunt, too? Everyone in Pawntucket knew that the two of you didn’t get along, right?”

  I shook my head, too shell-shocked to get where he was going with this. He was right, though. It was a small town, and Aunt Jo wasn’t the type to keep her complaints to herself. Everybody had known how put-upon she felt having to support the two of us, even with the money I sometimes brought in from my psychic readings.

  “Plus, your aunt believed what the Church said about you running off with a secret boyfriend, so why have her killed?” Alex went on. “It helps their story if she’s around. And if the target was your mother, it would make more sense to just stick her in a home somewhere and then quietly get rid of her. You don’t do away with people by burning their house down – there’s too many ways it could go wrong. ”

  A headache spiked my temples; I could hardly take in the meaning of his words. “Alex, what are you saying?”

  He hesitated, his hands still holding mine. Finally he said, “This may sound weird, but can you try to sense your mother?”

  The realization thundered through me. “You. . . you don’t think they’re really dead. ”

  I could see the conflict in his eyes: his reluctance to get my hopes up versus whatever he was thinking. “I don’t know,” he said. “But this doesn’t feel right. The house burning down that way just seems too convenient, somehow. Almost like something you’d do for show. ”

  I swallowed hard, barely daring to hope. “It could have been a – an unruly mob, though. People do burn places down sometimes. And people die because of it. ”

  “Yeah, they do. Look, I could be totally wrong. But just try it, okay? Try to sense them. ”

  I almost didn’t want to try; didn’t want to allow myself even this small amount of hope, only to be disappointed. I took a deep, shuddering breath, attempting to clear my mind enough to focus.

  Mom.

  I envisioned her soft blonde hair, so like my own natural shade; her green eyes that used to sparkle with recognition when they saw me. The smell of her, which wasn’t shampoo and wasn’t body lotion but a mixture of both, plus something else that was just her, my mother – a smell that when I was little I wanted to curl up in for ever. Even later, when she’d stopped responding to anyone at all, I’d still sit close to her sometimes as she sat lost in her dreams, breathing in that scent and wishing for things to be different.

  It didn’t take long for Mom to be firmly in my head; she was never far from my thoughts. I stretched my mind out, drifting, searching. Was she out there, anywhere? Please?

  Endless minutes went past. I stood against the cool porcelain sink with my eyes closed, trying not to force things, despite the thudding of my heart – the tiny agony of hope that had sprung up within me. Don’t push, just relax. . . drift. . . Mom, are you there?

  Nothing. Darkness. My throat tightened as the hope flickered and died.

  And then, somewhere in the emptiness, I thought I caught something – the faintest hint of a presence. I reached out, exploring it cautiously. . . and in a rush, a wild jumble of sensation swept over me. Mom’s smell; her voice; her essence.

  She was content. She was safe.

  “Alex, she’s alive, she’s okay!” I cried. “I can feel her!” I flung myself at him, hugging him hard; he caught me up, laughing, and lifted me briefly off the floor. At first I thought I was laughing too, but then I realized the tears had come after all – that now, when everything was all right, something in me had snapped like a frayed rubber band and I was crying as if I’d never be able to stop.

  Alex’s arms tightened around me. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his lips moving in my hair as he rocked me. “Shh, it’s all right, everything’s okay. . . ”

  I tried to answer and couldn’t. I’d thought she was dead. Oh god, I had really thought my mother was dead. Distantly, I felt Alex pick me up and sink to the cracked tiled floor, his arms still firm around me. He didn’t say anything else; just held me close and let me cry, stroking my back and occasionally kissing the top of my head.

  Finally something resembling calm started to return. I pulled away, swiping at my damp cheeks. “How did you know?” I asked shakily. “How?”

  He brushed a strand of hair from my temple. I could see the depth of his relief. “I didn’t – I just really, really hoped I was right. Is your Aunt Jo okay, too?”

  Shame scorched me like a flame-thrower; I’d forgotten all about her. But when I checked, she was fine. Actually, better than fine – she seemed happier than I’d ever sensed her. I let out a breath. Aunt Jo and I had lived in the same run-down, full-of-clutter house for years without becoming close – in fact, there’d been times when I hated her – but knowing she was all right made me go limp all over again.

  I felt battered as we stood up, as if I’d been pummelled by a hundred fists. I reached into the cubicle for some toilet paper to mop my face. “So was the fire just a cover, then? Someone must really want the world to believe that Mom and Aunt Jo are dead. ”

  Alex nodded, resting a firm-looking shoulder against the wall. “I think it might have been the CIA. ”

  I looked up from wiping my eyes. “You mean Sophie?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Nate told you that another department was sheltering Project Angel, now that it’s been infiltrated. She could have gotten their help to set the fire and get your mother and aunt out of there – keep them both safe, so the angels can’t use them to get to you. ”