by Sara Clancy
Without taking his eyes from the small, concealed window, Benton backed out of the room, retreating to the warmth and safety of the kitchen. Once there, he closed the door dividing the two spaces and fumbled with the small hook latch that held it in place.
“Benton?”
It baffled him how she could repeat his name on end without ever becoming increasingly annoyed.
“Huh?”
“I’m calling Mr. Smoke to come over and check on you,” Nicole declared.
The neighbor might have been pushing into ‘elderly’ territory, and his face showed it, but he still had the kind of fatty muscle that old boxers always seemed to have. Physically, he was far more intimidating than a scrawny seventeen-year-old.
“Don’t do that,” Benton sighed. “It’s late. I’m sure he’s asleep.”
“If it’s a coyote, you’re going to want Mr. Smoke to drive it off.”
Jamming the phone between his ear and shoulder, he got himself a glass of water. More to have something to do with his hands rather than any need for it.
“You think there’s a coyote in your backyard?”
Nicole was silent for a moment before sighing. “You’re such a city boy.”
Before he could ask any follow-up questions, she continued, “If it’s a badger, leave it alone. I repeat, don’t tick off a badger.”
“Even I know that one, Nic,” he said.
Glass in hand, he decided to just call it a night and head to bed. With any luck, he might be able to get a few good hours sleep before the nightmares kicked in. It was still easier to think of them as nightmares. Knowing that he was drawn into a killer’s flesh, forced to become them as they brutally murdered someone, was harder to take.
“Everything’s fine,” he assured Nicole as he flicked off the light. “I’m just feeling a little weird. You were right, yet again.”
“Are you sure?”
He raked a hand over his face as he mulled over the question. It was easy enough to say the words. Far harder to believe them. The squirming sensation still lingered in the pit of his gut. Constant, but not strong enough that he could truly put his faith behind it.
“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m headed to bed.”
He flicked the kitchen light off as he passed. A soft rattling made him pause. Snapping around, he glanced back at the latched door. He stared at it for a long moment, the sound replaying in his mind. It could have easily been the wind knocking something around. It also could have been someone rattling the laundry door handle. His eyes focused on the latch, as if it could be the deciding factor.
Real or paranoid?
Nothing more came.
Paranoia.
Still, he turned on every light he passed on his way to his upstairs bedroom.
Chapter 2
“So,” Logan Rider’s voice was almost as deep and rumbling as the police cruiser’s engine.
After a heartbeat, Nicole realized that her father was trying to pull her into the conversation. Her parents had been happily chatting amongst themselves since they had piled into the car, leaving Nicole alone to recheck her history essay. It was due in the morning.
Lifting her gaze, she found her father looking at her over the top of the front passenger seat. He looked like the Incredible Hulk trying to squeeze into a kiddy chair. With a lot of contortions, he had managed to slump enough to keep his head from smacking against the ceiling.
“His parents seriously never told him he was adopted?” Logan continued as if they were already in mid-conversation. For once, she actually knew what he was talking about. “I mean, I get how it might not come up in casual conversation. But when you suspect your kid’s genetic history is why he’s taking a leap off of the sanity bridge, ya mention it, right?”
“I guess not,” Nicole said.
“You guess?” he taunted more than asked.
Nicole puffed out her cheeks in annoyance. “Mrs. Bertrand doesn’t talk to me. She doesn’t like me all that much.”
Logan gasped, throwing one beefy hand dramatically over his mouth. “But you’re adorable.”
“I know,” she squealed in frustration.
“Everyone loves you.”
“Thank you!” Nicole flung her arms wide, making the beam of her flashlight wiggle around the car’s interior.
“Nic,” Dorothy warned from the driver’s seat.
Nicole quickly brought her arms back down, smothering the light against the palm of her hand. A straight slab of asphalt connected the entrance of the reservation to Fort Wayward. While it took on patches of black ice, the deep grooves on either side kept the snow from building up. Essentially, it was the easiest road in the world to drive, but Dorothy always took it on as if it were a twisting mountain pass. Having light flashing around in the backseat was a big no-no. Especially tonight.
The elevation of the road kept them just above the sea of towering grass for the majority of the trip. Normally, the moonlight compensated for the lack of streetlights, drenching the world in silver, and highlighting the road. Tonight, thick clouds heavily smothered the sky. Everything beyond the reach of the headlights was a flawless wall of onyx, and the swirling flurries reduced their vision all the more. It had Dorothy on edge.
“There’s still a question over whether he’s adopted or not,” Dorothy said, restlessly checking the side view mirrors as she tried to gain control over the conversation.
“How so, gorgeous?” Logan asked.
Dorothy huffed a long-suffering sigh at her husband’s flirtatious tone but couldn’t stop a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“They claim that they hadn’t known he wasn’t their blood until he was ten,” Dorothy said.
“I recall someone mentioning that he got into a bad fight and they found out he wasn’t theirs at the hospital. Something about his blood type,” Logan cut in.
“It wasn’t a fight,” Nicole snapped. “The dirtbags he called his friends attacked him.”
Logan twisted around enough to arch an eyebrow at her.
“Yeah, I said dirtbag. If there’s a stronger insult I can use without getting grounded again, let me know.”
Logan smiled but quickly returned to the topic at hand. “And they attacked him because,” he drew the word out into a hiss as he thought, “he’s a Harpy?”
“Banshee,” Nicole corrected.
“There’s a difference?”
“Banshees are omens of death,” Nicole said. “He dreams through the eyes of a killer. And, when he wakes up, he knows the victim’s name and how to get in contact with them.”
“Right,” Logan said slowly.
Dorothy checked the mirrors again, sneaking a quick glance at her husband.
“When he was ten, he started dreaming of one specific serial killer. A child murderer operating within a ten-block radius. All of the victims went to his primary school.”
“So, he knew how these kids were going to die but lacked any real explanation of how he got that information?” Logan said. “Oh, yeah. That doesn’t seem suspicious. They thought he was killing them?”
“Not for long,” Dorothy said.
“He was tiny for his age. There was no way he had the upper body strength to pull off the causes of death,” Nicole elaborated.
The car swerved slightly as Dorothy twisted to glare at the backseat.
“How do you know the causes of death?”
“Newspapers,” Nicole replied quickly.
It wasn’t a lie. Her research would have been incomplete without checking the media. Of course, the particulars came from using the station computers to access classified police records. Logan shared a knowing look with his daughter but didn’t ruin her cover story.
Sighing wearily, Dorothy dropped that particular line of questioning. “The working theory is that Benton knows the identity of the perp and is actively protecting him.”
“Actively?” Logan asked.
“Officially, the cases are still open,” Dorothy said.
&nbs
p; Logan hummed thoughtfully. “So, it wasn’t really an attack?”
“How can they say that?” Nicole gasped. “He was a child.”
Before she could say any more, he continued, “Well, they didn’t want him, right? They wanted the killer. I bet you anything that they had asked him a question or two between punches. Call a spade a spade; they tortured that boy, or used ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’ if you want to sound all book-smart and fancy.”
“Oh, God,” Nicole whimpered. “How did I never think of that?”
It hadn’t taken much for the police to piece together what had happened that day. All of the kids had been ready with an explanation as to why Mr. Bertrand had seen them when he had dropped Benton off. According to them, Benton had just left without a word of explanation, and they hadn’t seen him since. The bowling alley’s security cameras quickly revealed the lie. Not an hour after Benton had arrived, they had all snuck out of the fire doors that lead to the back alley he was found in. And not one of them could explain the blood on their clothes.
While the reports were kept professional, Nicole had clearly seen how frustrated the officers were that they couldn’t press charges. The first hurdle had been public opinion. Everyone wanted to believe that Benton had been brutalized by the killer he was supposedly protecting. There was a sick kind of justice in that scenario. One that the traumatized public could take comfort in. They didn’t have the man killing their children, but at least someone had been punished. It also spared them from having to confront the depths of depravity kids were capable of.
Mostly, however, it was Benton himself that had derailed the investigation. He was as horrible a liar as the rest of them. No one believed that he couldn’t remember what had happened. But it didn’t matter what they said. Benton kept the secret. And, without his cooperation, the case slowly died. Because of his ‘friends’, Benton had a metal plate holding his skull together. Because of him, they kept their freedom. Every time she thought about it, Nicole hoped that the contrast still tormented them. She wanted their guilt to eat them alive.
“I’m still confused as to how the Bertrands didn’t know he was adopted,” Logan said, snapping Nicole from her thoughts.
“There’s no record that he was,” Dorothy said.
Logan shuffled to get into a more comfortable position. “Don’t people generally report if their babies are stolen?” He cast a quick glance into the back seat and grinned at Nicole. “I’d report it if someone took you.”
“Aw, thanks, dad.”
“You know, if they don’t put me on hold or something. Because that’s annoying.” His wide goofy grin kept the words from getting anywhere near hurtful.
“What if they play 80’s pop songs?” she asked.
“Well, daddy does have to get his groove on,” he considered. Without warning, he once again switched back to being serious. “Are you thinking illegal adoption or black-market shenanigans?”
“They claim he must have been switched at birth,” Dorothy said.
“And you believe them?”
“There’s no record of any infants going missing around the time of Benton’s birth. If they’re not lying about where and when that happened.”
“There had to have been an investigation,” Logan said.
“It’s sealed by court order,” Nicole said.
Again, Dorothy shot her a dark, suspicious look.
“Or so I assume,” Nicole back peddled. “Otherwise, you would have told him, right? And he would have told me.”
“Okay, so, assuming that the Bertrands are telling the truth,” Logan spoke slowly, like he was still testing the theory out in his head before he let it leave his mouth. “Somewhere out there, there’s a Banshee family wondering why their son just can’t scream right?”
“I guess so,” Dorothy said.
“I’ve checked other sites to see if they’re looking,” Nicole added.
“There are sites for that?” Logan asked, turning to look at his daughter, stopping when Dorothy pushed him away from the gearshift.
“There are sites for everything, dad.”
“What do you put on it? Lost Banshee found, please call for more details?” His eyes widened slightly. “Good Lord, that’s exactly what you did, isn’t it?”
“I added a brief description,” Nicole protested.
“Of what? Teenaged white male. Formally a baby?”
“I think his birth parents will know.”
“Right. Because Caucasian, blond males with light eyes are so rare these days.”
“How do you know what he looks like?” Dorothy asked.
“Nicole has described him a few times,” Logan muttered.
Dorothy chuckled. “Well, in her defense, it’s just one of those things that can’t be described. And you don’t really notice it at first. But once you see it, it can’t be unseen.”
“Babe, you’re incredible and look awesome in that top, but you make no sense.”
Dorothy rolled her eyes at the praise and struggled to find the words. After starting a few times, she just huffed. “He’s got an ‘uncanny valley’ aesthetic going on.”
“What does that even mean?” Logan wailed, throwing his head back for added dramatics. He grunted when the back of his skull hit the car roof.
“It’s a term used to describe the unease or revulsion people feel when viewing something that nearly looks human but not quite,” Nicole offered. “You know, like dolls or robots or computer generated−”
“He looks like a doll?” Logan cut in.
“No,” Nicole said.
“It’s not that simple,” Dorothy said. “Okay, he’s a blond, but he hasn’t got blond hair.”
“What a brilliant example, love of my life and mother of my child.”
“Honey, even after you throw that other stuff in, I still know you’re insulting me,” Dorothy said in a sickly-sweet tone.
Logan cringed. “No, you don’t.”
“Just wait until you see him,” Dorothy dismissed.
Reaching back, Logan wiggled his fingers in Nicole’s general direction. “You got any pics on your phone, Angel?”
“Oh, of course, hold on.”
As he waited for her to organize herself, he asked Dorothy why no one had pushed the ‘possible abduction’ issue with Benton’s parents yet.
“Benton’s clearly not ready to hear it,” Dorothy said. “That whole weekend was a nightmare. Benton’s still got the tribal Elders on him about his connection to the spirit world. They keep asking him questions he doesn’t know how to answer. You’d think they’d give up after hearing ‘I don’t know’ for the hundredth time. And he’s still convinced his sweat lodge vision was telling him he’s going to die soon. I’m just giving him a moment to breathe.”
“Oh, hey, look at that. I now understand why you refused to talk about him until we got in the car,” he replied.
A metal mesh separated the back of the police cruiser from the front. It took a little effort to thread her phone through the gap and into her father’s waiting palm. She made a slight noise of protest when he began to swipe through the gallery instead of studying the picture she had selected.
“Okay. Next question,” he said, clearly distracted. “Why has no one had problems with him staying at our house for so long?”
“It hasn’t been that long,” Nicole protested.
“Approaching a month now,” Logan noted, still swiping.
“I’ve had a few run-ins with the Bertrands,” Dorothy said. “I’ve told them to stay away from Benton until he’s ready.”
Logan’s thick finger paused midair. “Honey, stop me if I’m wrong, but this sounds awfully close to kidnapping.”
“He wants to be with us,” Nicole insisted, only to be ignored.
“They agreed it was for the best,” Dorothy said. “Benton’s first reaction is sarcasm, but he’s loud when you get him going.”
“Is that a Banshee joke?” Logan chuckled.
Dorothy
bit down a smile. “No. Of course not.”
“Right.” After wiggling his eyebrows a bit, he held up the phone.
Nicole shuffled forward, curling her fingers around the bars as she peered at the screen. It was one of the few candid photos she had managed to sneak of Benton and probably didn’t show him in the best light. Fort Wayward wasn’t really large enough to offer many extra-curricular activities, and the ones they had weren’t exactly that impressive.
“Okay, you have to know that Kimberly was being a real pain,” Nicole rushed to say. “She’s the only one that can do the splits and kept making fun of all the girls that didn’t get into the cheer-squad, saying that they weren’t of ‘high enough quality’ to share a stage with her. This was Benton’s way of sticking up for them. And it was in free period, so he wasn’t disrupting the class.”
Logan looked at the screen again. It glowed in the darkness, showing Benton lying on his stomach, prompted up by his elbows. His feet were resting on the seats either side of him, pulling him into a deep split.
“He spent the whole period like that?”
“Yes.”
“Just flipping her off?”
Nicole smiled nervously. “He might have also told her to ‘choke on her own mediocrity’ a few times.”
“I’m in danger of liking this kid,” Logan chuckled. “He’s kind of a pretty boy, ain’t he? But I get what you mean. There’s something off about him. I just can’t put my finger on what.”
“It’s worse when you see him in person,” Dorothy whispered.
Nicole reached for her phone back, but her dad started skipping through the photos again.
“He’s a scrawny little ball of bitterness, isn’t he? Does he ever smile?”
