by A C Spahn
It was him. That voice, saying those words, belonged to a man who had seen me staggering in a parking lot, struggling to control a nasty wave of confusion magic. The magic that I’d contained in a drawing of my tattoo. The drawing that would scream my identity to the fleshwriters if the wrong people saw it.
This man had seen it.
“Hello?” Zach asked when I didn’t speak.
I cleared my throat and tried to lower my voice. “Yes, hi, I’m calling from a consumer research group investigating how painters in your area acquire and use their supplies. Would you be willing to answer some questions? It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Sure. I’m not the owner of the company, though.”
“That’s all right, these are just general questions about your work.” I ran him through a set of basic questions about the sorts of art supplies the company used, where they bought them, and anything they wished they could use but were unable to find at affordable prices. Then I came to the true reason for the call. “Have you experienced any unusual problems with any of your paint supplies lately? Particularly in green colors?”
Zach paused, which was more than many of my prospects did. After a moment he said, “No, I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? No separation, no dripping, no thin coating?”
“No. Is there a problem with a green paint supply? Is that why you’re doing research?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to disclose the reasons for our project.” Ah, well. It had been too much to hope reaching the same guy had been some sort of divine guidepost. I started to say thanks for your time but my tongue paused over the words.
Could it hurt to ask a few questions? To see if anything had come of that day months ago when he’d seen my drawing? That day still lay burrowed in the back of my mind like a splinter, and this was a chance to pluck it out for good.
Trying to sound casual, I asked, “By the way, are you the guy from the gas station parking lot a couple months ago? The one who helped a woman having an anxiety attack?”
His voice piqued with interest. “Oh wow, was that you?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I remembered the name of your company, and I thought I’d ask about it when I called.”
“You’re a researcher?”
“No, just temping for the agency for this one project.” I’d blocked my number, so Zach would have no reason to disbelieve the lie. “I’m really grateful for your help.”
“I didn’t do much. You were fine a minute after I got there.”
“Still. You didn’t have to stop.” I wish you hadn’t stopped.
“It wasn’t a big deal. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine now. I’m on a new medication that helps control the attacks.”
“Oh, good. You know, it’s funny you should call just now. I think a lot of people were worried about you.”
Ice rushed down my spine. “What do you mean?”
“About a week ago, the police came by my house. They wanted to know about the parking lot incident.”
“The ... police?”
“Yeah. Two of them. The younger guy waited in their car. It was an unmarked car, and they didn’t have uniforms, so I figured they might be detectives. The older cop showed me his badge and asked if I’d witnessed anything strange over the last few months, so I told him.”
“What did you say?”
“That I helped a woman having an anxiety attack in the parking lot. That’s all.”
That couldn’t be all. Heart racing, I pressed, “Did they say why they were asking?”
“No. I figured somebody else in the parking lot must have called the cops and told them I tried to help you, and they were just following up. Making sure it wasn’t anything shady, you know?” He paused. “It wasn’t, was it? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No, nothing like that.” My gut started to unclench. This was probably just what he said, a concerned citizen calling about the weirdo shambling around the parking lot mumbling to herself. Why the cops waited months to follow up with Zach, I had no idea. Maybe they had a backlog.
He laughed, tension easing in his voice. “Good. Hey, since I have you on the phone, can I ask you about your art?”
How could he possibly know I was an artist? “Uh ...”
“Because I saw that drawing you did, this circular design, like some tribal thing. It was really cool. I wanted to know where it came from, so I drew it from memory and searched for it online, posted it a couple different places, but nothing came up. Can you tell me what it is?”
The room started spinning. I grabbed the edge of the counter, swaying.
He’d searched for my tattoo’s design. Probably right after we met in that parking lot.
Which meant those cops weren’t cops. At some point recently, the cult had happened upon one of Zach’s posts. They’d recognized the design, and tracked him down.
They knew he’d talked to me.
They knew I was here.
“No,” I said faintly.
Concern returned to Zach’s voice. “Are you okay?”
“You drew the design?”
“Yeah. I, uh, I have a photographic memory. Helps with matching paint colors and stuff.”
“Photographic.”
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re not in trouble? Because if you are, you should probably turn yourself in. I, um, I gave the police your license plate number.”
Bile surged up my throat. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t draw enough breath.
“Hello?” He sounded truly worried now. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was only trying to help.”
I hung up on him. Clutching my phone in white-knuckled fingers, I stared at the wall.
I had to do something. Run. Hide. Barricade myself in my workshop. Something. But my brain was busy running in panicked circles, and my body felt stuck in sludge. They’d found me.
They’d found me.
They’d found me.
They’d found ...
“Adrienne?”
I jumped three feet in the air and spun so fast I knocked the few remaining sticks off the counter to the floor. Sam stood there, a pair of scissors in her hand, mouth open in surprise. “Are you ...”
I ducked and began rifling through the bottom drawer of my craft supplies, throwing things aside as I dug. The enchanted maze lay at the very bottom, and I jammed my fingers in my haste to get to it. I yanked it out, then pushed past Sam and snatched my purse from beneath the work counter. “Stay here.”
“But ...”
“Kendall!” My voice rose to a near-shriek on the second syllable. “Kendall, I need your help.”
Kendall stopped in the middle of ringing up an old man buying packs of gum from the display in front of the checkout. “What’s wrong?”
“Get in your car. Follow me.” I wrenched open the front door. The cheerful jingle of the bells made me flinch.
Kendall took half a step toward me. “Can I finish–”
I ran to the checkout, grabbed the gum, and pressed it into the old man’s hands. “It’s free. Get out.” Ignoring his surprised smile, I rushed back to the door. “Sam, get Desmond to watch the registers. And stay here!” Without waiting for more questions, I sprinted across the parking lot to my car.
Kendall caught me in the act of hurling myself into the driver’s seat. “What happened?”
“They found me.”
She gasped, one hand rising to cover her mouth.
“I have to hide my car. I need you to follow me and give me a ride back.”
“Of course.” She darted toward her own pickup truck. I jammed the keys into the ignition, missing three times in my haste. Finally I got the car started and peeled out of the parking lot, praying I wasn’t already too late.
I drove for over an hour into the dry California interior, passing suburb after suburb until finally I pulled off the freeway into a medium-sized city surrounded by farmland. I found a str
eet with metered parking and hopped out just as Kendall pulled in next to me. My purse went onto her front seat. With regret I bid farewell to my bobble-head wizard and rows of buttons decorating the rear deck. I couldn’t take them without making it obvious I’d abandoned my car on purpose. If this had any chance of fooling the cult, they had to think I’d been towed for real.
Wordlessly I climbed into the cab of Kendall’s truck. I refused to look back as we pulled out to return to the city.
On the way home I tried to call Bane Harrow. He didn’t answer. I left him a message telling him to call me, and that it was urgent.
Kendall stopped by my studio apartment, where I hid the enchanted maze beneath little-used bakeware in my tiny kitchen. It wasn’t a perfect hiding spot, but it would do until I could move the drawing again. At least now it wasn’t in the store, where any fleshwriters looking for it might hurt innocent people.
Back at Haven, I gathered Desmond and Sam and told them everything that had happened. When I finished, Sam looked sick. Kendall fidgeted her feet, as if on the brink of running away. Desmond just looked determined. “Have you seen anyone following you the last few days?”
“No.” I forced myself to breathe.
“You said the fake cops only talked to Vince last week. They haven’t had time to locate your car yet. They’re probably searching through online sale records, or trying to get hold of your registration.”
“It’s not registered with my real address,” I said, clasping my hands to stop their trembling. “I used a lawyer’s office up in Marin. I pay for my apartment in cash, and never gave the landlords my real name.”
“What about Haven?” asked Kendall. “Does your car link you to the store?”
“No. I’ve been careful. No part of my life has an obvious paper trail to any other.” Saying the words out loud reminded me of their truth. The shaking in my arms started to subside. “That’s why I hid my car out in the suburbs. When the cult finds it, they’ll search for me out there instead of in the city.”
Kendall nodded. “You did good. You know how hard it is to track people down through just a single piece of information? You have to get into official government records, which are not easy to hack. If there are decoy measures in place, like how you registered your car up in Marin, it’s even harder.” She paused. “Not that I’ve tried tracking someone like this before.”
“There is one more link to me,” I said. “The graveyard. If the fleshwriters saw us there when they were chasing that boy ...”
“Kendall scouted,” said Desmond. “She didn’t see anyone.”
“It was dark. We can’t know for certain.” I shivered. “If they’re here, and they know I’m in the area, they won’t stop until they find me.”
“We should call the Union. They can keep you safe.”
“I already tried. Harrow isn’t answering.”
“I’ll try. He has to pick up if we pester him enough.”
My eyes closed. Deep breath in, deep breath out. The discussion repeated what I already knew. The cult wouldn’t be able to find me too quickly, not without attracting more attention than they’d want in Union territory. I had some time. Too bad the facts didn’t stop the fear writhing in my stomach.
When I opened my eyes, they fell on the art show flyer from Harrow, which I’d left on my counter. “I need to make something,” I said. “I need to calm down. To think. I need to do art.”
Desmond released my shoulders, but he gave them a comforting rub first. “Good. Go create something beautiful.”
I rubbed my palms on my jeans. “What, no snide comments about my art medium?”
“Not today. Go create something, beautiful.” This time I heard the pause between words. I pecked him on the cheek and hurried to my workspace, to the piles of art supplies stored there.
A piece of twisted wire I’d dug out of an industrial dumpster caught my eye, giving physicality to the writhing emotions within me. I grabbed it like a life preserver and turned it this way and that, letting my mind sink into the half-conscious trance in which I did my best work. Nothing existed besides me and the wire, me and the art. Armed with a pair of wire cutters and a hammer, I began to create.
A few minutes later Sam returned to the workspace, but she kept silent. From the corner of my eye I saw her stare at her tire, then pick up a box cutter and start slashing at it. Finally, I thought, the girl was making an actual go of the project. Soon she faded from my thoughts like everything else, as I opened a bag of beads and began stringing them onto the wires.
At some point Desmond came to my worktable and told me the other Voids were giving him the runaround on reaching Harrow. The most he’d been able to gather was that Harrow was tied up on some important business and would get back to us when he could. I tried calling again, leaving another message when Harrow didn’t pick up.
Hours passed. I didn’t count them. By the time I reached a stopping point on my art, the flighty panic had left me. Slowly I returned to awareness of my surroundings, like coming up for air after a long, solitary dive. I saw Kendall ringing up the last few customers of the day, smiling and joking with them as she bagged their purchases. I saw Desmond straightening a table display of how-to craft books, glancing surreptitiously at me every few minutes. I saw Sam a few feet away, humming as she twisted strips of rubber into braids. Her tire now resembled a pot of spaghetti, with long strips slashed out of one side, yet still connected to an uncut chunk of rubber. I had no idea what she was doing, but I liked it.
My eyes returned to my own project. I’d bent most of the wire into a jumble, an intersecting tangle threading through itself again and again until it was almost impossible to trace with the eye. Beads studded the knot, dark crimson red and somber black, with a small sampling of the deep purple of a fresh bruise. I’d scratched the beads with a needle, leaving scars, and I’d made sure some rust on the metal wire was prominently displayed. From this aggressive, disturbing mess emerged a single line of wire, bent to form spikes like the readout of a heart monitor. Beads were strung along this part, too, starting in the same red and black, but slowly emerging into blue, green, and yellow. The beads were strung closer together as the wire traced each heartbeat, until the final beat was alive with a vivid rainbow of color. Better, I’d decided to call it.
“It’s good,” Desmond said.
I looked up, surprised at how easily he’d snuck up on me. “Thanks. I still have some work to do. I don’t like the placement of these few beads, and that bit of wire is uneven, and ...” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to enter it in the art contest.”
He flashed a pleased smile. “You are?”
“Yes. Under the fake name Harrow gives me.”
“That’s only wise.”
“And I won’t let them publish any photos of me.”
“Of course not.”
“And it’s more a token gesture than anything else. It’s not a big deal. I can do this.”
“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?”
I sighed. “This feels like something I need to do. Every time the cult’s come near me in the past, I’ve packed up and run. Abandoned every scrap of the lives I tried to build. But here ... this is different. My shop, the store, the Union, Kendall, Sam, you ... I can’t just let all that go. Entering the contest is symbolic. Even though it probably won’t go anywhere, it’s a commitment. An attempt at living, at creating, no matter how close they come. It’s a way of holding onto the life I’ve made here.”
“Under a fake name?”
“It still counts. And as you said, that’s only wise. When the cult loses track of me with my car, the contest won’t give them another lead.” I traced a finger along the wire of my sculpture. “The rules say you can submit photos of up to three pieces of your work. Tomorrow I’ll pick the other two.”
“I know a photographer who owes me a favor. I can ask him to take the pictures for you.”
“Thanks.” Photography was one artistic medium I’d ne
ver pursued myself.
Desmond leaned down and kissed my forehead. “You’re so strong, Adrienne.”
I didn’t feel that way. This felt more like a desperate bid to hang onto normalcy than an act of bold defiance. But something in me screamed that if I let fear control me now, I’d never be able to fully face it. I couldn’t let the panic win.
Behind Desmond, Kendall hopped over the checkout stand and flipped the store sign from open to closed. “Night-night, kids.”
Sam blinked, looking up from her braiding. “Already?”
I smiled. “Having fun?”
“No. Er. Yes. Kinda.” She glanced at her tire braids, then back at me. “Don’t ask me to say you were right.”
“I won’t.”
“But she was,” said Kendall. “Just saying.”
Sam huffed and set the tire project aside.
I dug my phone out of my purse. “Before we go, I should try to reach Harrow again.” I dialed and waited for the Standard Systems Ltd. automated phone system to pick up. Once it did, I entered Harrow’s extension. A pleasant lady’s voice told me Standard Systems Ltd. could provide innovative solutions and forward-thinking strategies for my business. I’d once asked Desmond if the Union’s front company ever received actual calls from business owners. To my surprise, they did, and they even had a consultant on staff to handle such inquiries. They somehow always managed to corporate-speak their way around having to actually do anything for the companies that hired them.
Finally Harrow’s voicemail answered. I sighed and hung up. If he didn’t respond to two “call me, it’s urgent” messages, a third wouldn’t change anything.
I was about to put my phone away when Desmond’s pocket started ringing. Frowning, he pulled his phone out and answered. “Axel? We’ve been trying to reach Harrow all day. Is he ...”
He paused. “What does ‘busy’ mean? There’s something he needs to know. Yes, it’s urgent.” He covered the phone with his hand and looked at me. “Can we tell Axel?”
I was already shaking my head before he finished the question. Harrow might let his right-hand man in on my predicament, but considering all his secrecy, and the threats he made to keep those secrets, I wasn’t about to bet on it.
