by Steven James
Pale streetlight seeped through the curtains, giving her just enough light to see.
From the other room, a light rustling sound. Someone rolling over in the night.
Tessa froze.
Waited.
Silence.
She slipped out of bed and padded over to the dresser, grabbed her purse, and pulled out the small case. Then, gently, softly, she slipped into the bathroom. Over the last ten months she’d become an expert at doing things soundlessly in the night, finding her way in the dark.
Tessa closed the bathroom door. Even if Martha or Conor did wake up and decide to check on her, they wouldn’t bother her in there. But she didn’t want to take any chances. So she locked it. Just in case.
She pulled up the sleeve of her pajamas and stared for a moment at the set of straight scars descending the inside of her right arm.
Last summer she’d thought her grandparents might ask her why she always wore long-sleeve pajamas and even long-sleeve T-shirts, but they hadn’t. They’d pretty much left her alone to dress the way she wanted to. So had Patrick. He was as clueless as they were.
She opened up the case and pulled out the razor blade.
At first, when she’d heard about self-inflicting, or “self-mutilation” as some people called it, she thought it sounded weird. Why would anyone purposely cut herself? What good could that possibly do? Then, one night when she was sleeping over at her best friend Cherise’s house—back when she used to live in New York City, of course—Tessa found out Cherise was into cutting and had been doing it for two months ever since breaking up with Adam Schoeneck, who’d dumped her for that sophomore cheerleader from East Side High. “It’s like, when you have all this pain inside you,” Cherise had told her, “it’s a way to let it out, you know?”
Tessa had no idea, but she’d said, “Yeah, I know.” What kind of pain could Cherise have? She was popular. She had both her parents. She had everything.
“The cut only stings for like a second, and then it’s over.” Cherise was watching herself brush her rich, cinnamon-colored hair in the mirror. “You have to be careful not to go too deep, though, or you’ll start leaving scars. Did you see that new guy at school? Oh! Totally gorgeous. Anyway, want some pizza? I’m starved.” Cherise had a way of making the most exotic things sound ordinary and the most commonplace things sound exciting.
Still, for a long time Tessa hadn’t even thought about cutting herself. Hadn’t even considered it. But then when her mom was first admitted to the hospital, she’d gotten scared and tried to figure out what to do. It all happened so fast. The doctors weren’t saying much, but she could tell it was serious. She never expected Mom to get sick, not like that. Things like that only happened to other people, not to people like her mom. Not to families like hers.
But then she found out that sometimes they did.
When the treatments didn’t help and Mom got weaker and weaker, Tessa had even tried to talk to Patrick—but that didn’t help much. It wasn’t that he was mean or anything, just distracted. Besides, they’d only known each other for like a year before that, and she’d grown up without a dad anyway, so it’d always been kind of hard for them to talk to each other—to really talk. Then when he got so wrapped up taking care of Mom, well, she had to do something on her own.
So the night her mom started chemo, Tessa had taken an X-acto knife and held it against the inside of her right thigh. Cherise told her the best spots to do it so no one would see, so no one could tell.
“Isn’t it kind of weird, hurting yourself like that?” Tessa had asked.
“It’s not like you want to hurt yourself or anything,” Cherise had explained. “It’s more like the opposite. You’re actually trying to find a way to let the pain out. Try it. You’ll see. It hurts more when you don’t do it.”
That first time had been the hardest. Tessa wasn’t even sure she’d be able to go through with it. Even now she could remember how nervous she was touching the cold steel to her skin, trembling a little, wondering if it would really help, if anything could really help—and then at last pressing the blade hard enough to draw blood and how it hurt more than she thought it would and how her leg twitched and she ended up dropping the knife, just barely missing her foot.
But somehow it did help. Yes. Somehow seeing that small streak of blood made the way she felt inside seem less out of control, less desperate, less awkwardly, gnawingly painful. Even if she couldn’t make her mom feel better, even if she couldn’t talk to Patrick, at least she could do something. At least she could do this.
Of course, it got worse after Mom died. That’s when she moved from her leg to her arm. Everything spun out of control then. Really bad for a while. But Tessa knew she was just doing it to cope. She could stop anytime she wanted to. She knew that much.
So now that she was alone again and her grandparents were asleep in the other room and she had that terrible roaring pain rising in her heart, Tessa fingered the blade and looked at the scars riding up her arm.
She saw her reflection, distorted and angular on the side of the razor blade.
Her heart was racing just like it always did.
How else were you supposed to deal with all this loneliness, this brokenness, this pain that you couldn’t put your finger on or hold back or control? You stuff it down, hoping it’ll all go away, but it doesn’t. It just gets bigger and uglier.
Cutting.
Like burrowing out of your own private little prison one slice at a time. But in this case the prison is you.
It was almost like crying or screaming but without all the tears and noise. That was the best way she could describe it, really. What was that phrase Cherise had used? Oh yeah. Crimson tears.
Crying your way out of prison, scar by scar.
When life spun out of control, you had to do something about it. Something. Even if it hurt for a little while. Even if it left scars.
Tessa pressed the razor blade against her skin and pulled.
23
Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid had barely laid his head on the pillow before the dream came. It was the same dream. The one he always had. The one that climbed out of the nightmares of his past and became the backdrop of life for him even when he was awake.
That’s how some dreams are. Whether you’re awake or asleep they just won’t let you go. They grow thick roots, threading their way through your hopes and desires, your past and your pain, your future and your days, becoming a deep and certain part of you. And even though he’d been dreaming the dream for nearly thirty years, the images hadn’t become foggy or clouded by time, just clearer and somehow more distinct. Sharper and more focused than ever.
He was ten when it happened.
The crack of gunshots rang in the air, echoing through the muddy compound before being swallowed by the nearby jungle. Following each blast came a burst of squawks and squeals erupting from the canopy of branches high overhead.
The boy ran with the sound of gunshots all around him. Ran. Trying to forget what he’d seen, what no one should ever see.
Ran. Ran. Ran.
So that’s how the dream started—with the gunshots by the jungle. He was out of breath. He heard the loud, loud guns. But those were nothing compared to the shrieks of the children. Mostly it was the younger children screaming. The little ones. The babies. Their cries intermingled with the slow music playing over the sound system; the humming, throbbing music almost like a death march, almost like a church service gone horribly wrong. Some of the people sang along, others were hugging and comforting each other. A few of the mothers cried. But it was the babies he remembered the most. The sound of the little ones crying in the dusk.
He ran, and the shrieks chased after him as he clambered over the fence and hit the ground running on the other side. Behind him, the two guards were yelling for him to stop. That everything was going to be okay! That he should just come back and join the others! That things would be better now! If he would just stop running!
B
ut he didn’t stop. He ran like he’d never run before, eyes frozen in terror, down the road and toward the jungle where he could hide. Like an animal he ran. The trees loomed high above him now. He’d reached the edge of the world. He dove into the shadows, a thousand shades of green flashing past his face. Even the sting of branches lashing against his face didn’t slow him down.
The branch next to his left ear exploded.
In his dream, Aaron could almost feel the spray of splinters bite into his neck and face, just like they had in the jungle so many years ago. But he didn’t stop running. The crack of another gunshot cut through the dusk. Shrieks. Music. Babies. The river.
Just a little farther. Make it to the river.
He was almost out of reach now. Almost to safety. Just a little farther and everything will be okay.
Whatever you do, don’t stop running.
The boy hadn’t been there when it started. Instead he was off playing by himself as he often did, by one of the many rivers that threaded through the jungle surrounding the compound. He liked watching the waves ripple along, easing toward some distant village—toward the roaming sea out of sight somewhere. He would dream of all the places the river might flow, all the shores the ocean might touch. Faraway, exotic lands. Lands he could only visit in his imagination. Because once you came to this town in the jungle, you never left. Everyone knew that. Everyone said so. It became your home forever.
Even though no one was supposed to leave the compound, his parents didn’t seem to mind his treks into the jungle. They let him explore down by the river because they loved him. And because he wasn’t like the other children. He was different. Special. Destined for great things. He knew it was true. They’d told him so. He would follow in Father’s footsteps one day.
Even Father said so.
So they’d let him go to the river earlier in the day when the rumors started.
Everything was so tense, everyone so anxious. Whispering. Shaking their heads and then looking around to see if anyone was watching. And usually someone was. Someone was always watching. Or listening. Things would be different now that the congressman had visited, everyone knew that. The government was coming. It was just a matter of time.
So he’d gone off to be alone for a while. But then the music started and the screams started and that’s what brought him back.
It was already happening when he arrived at the pavilion. There were so many people lying in still rows on the floor that at first he thought maybe they’d been ordered to take a nap, and dutifully, unquestionably, they’d obeyed, positioning themselves on the ground.
To go to sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Then he saw his baby brother and his parents on the ground. But they weren’t sleeping. They weren’t moving.
He watched for a while, trying to figure out what was going on, why the ones who lay down didn’t get up again. Some people lay down quietly and hardly moved again, others shook in ways that frightened him before they stopped moving for good. But none of the ones who drank the medication or accepted the needle got up again.
None of them. Ever again.
Run.
Keep running.
Have to keep running.
He jumped over a log on the edge of the jungle, and a bullet caught him in the left shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground in a stunning burst of pain. He cried out but then caught himself, clamping his hand over his mouth, tears burning in his eyes as he lay on the jungle floor for a moment and tried to decide what to do. Panting. Breathing. Watching. If he didn’t move, they might think he was dead. Yes, that might work. But then again, they might check, just to make sure. What should he do? He wanted to wake up from the nightmare, but he was stuck inside it. You can’t wake up when you’re not asleep. And he wasn’t asleep. He wished he was, but the jungle was real, and so were the tears and the babies and the bodies. So many bodies. You can’t leave the nightmare when you’re living inside it. When it’s living inside you.
If he stood up, they’d shoot him again. Yes, he knew that much. He knew they would. They’d kill him. But he had to get up. He had to! He had to keep going to get away from it all. Away from the screaming babies. Away from the quiet corpses.
So he did. He stood. His breath ragged, a streak of bright pain clutching his arm, he shoved himself to his feet while the gunshot wound screamed at him from his shoulder.
“There he is!” called a voice from somewhere behind him.
The boy flew toward the underbrush as another bullet ripped into the shadows that seemed to be growing all around him. The sounds of the night were beginning to envelop the jungle now that the sun had sunk into the trees. Strange and primal sounds surrounded him: rare insects and wild birds and the haunting cries of the predators who preferred to hunt only in the dark. Heavy clouds hung on the horizon, dark and distant and swollen in the sky, growing more and more gray by the second.
He stumbled to the shore of the river and collapsed, dizzy with pain, the water gently whirling around him, taking his lifeblood downstream toward some distant, unnamed shore.
The voices of the men reached him, but they were fainter now, floating on air. “I got him. C’mon. Let’s get back. There might be others who try to run.”
He heard the words echo somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, somewhere between sleep and death, between night and day. The boy couldn’t tell anymore where reality ended and the dreaming began.
And then, with the sky darkening above him, he closed his eyes and let the night climb in with its tawny fingers, sliding back the curtain and worming its way deep into the secret part of his soul.
That’s where the dream ended. That’s where he woke up every night now, dying beside the river, soaked in muddy, bloody water, as the night climbed into his heart.
He lay in bed, shivering despite himself. He wasn’t a ten-year-old boy anymore. He was a forty-year-old man. He listened. No gunshots. No screams. Just the gentle sounds of the house settling and sleeping all around him. And the autumn wind outside the house, prowling through the night.
He eased the covers down. A sliver of waning moon hung outside his window, but in the glimmering starlight his eyes found the evidence of the bullet hole on his left shoulder. The scar that told him it was all so much more than a dream. It was a memory.
“Soon,” he said to the darkness, “the circle will be complete.” With his fingertip he traced the ridge of the scar where the bullet had ripped into him. And to him it felt like evidence of his destiny. After all, he was bound for great things, and nothing could stop destiny. His parents had taught him that much, long ago. And Father himself had told him he was special; told him that he would carry on the work when the time was right.
Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid didn’t bother to close his eyes again. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore that night anyway. Not after the dream.
He rolled out of bed and sat by the window, letting the starlight caress him, inspire him, complete him. In just a few days, everything that he had worked for would be fulfilled. The message would reverberate around the world. Until then, all he had to do was stay alert and aware.
Alert and aware.
Sharper and more focused than ever.
24
“He called your room!” I had to hold the cell phone away from my ear. When Ralph gets upset, his voice is as unwieldy as his left hook. “How in the name of all that is holy did he get the phone number?”
“Well”—I was holding the phone at arm’s length by then—“I imagine it’s not too tough to call up a hotel operator and get connected to a room if you know the guest’s name.”
“How did he know you were there?”
“I don’t know. He might have followed us from Mindy’s crime scene on Thursday, if he was in the crowd.”
Ralph cussed under his breath. “Why didn’t you call me last night?”
I wasn’t really up for this. I rubbed my eyes. I hadn’t slept much. Again. “Ralph, it wouldn’t have done
any good. I called the tech guys; they couldn’t trace it. I’m moving into the hotel across the street from the fed building this morning. Wallace is sending some guys to pick me up. He’s getting me a car.”
Ralph grunted. “’Bout time.” He’d calmed down enough for me to slide the phone under my ear as I shoved a sheaf of papers into one of the manila folders on the desk beside me. He must have been processing what I’d just said because after a moment he added, “That mean what I think it does?”
I glanced at the suitcase and the backpack that had been waiting for me when I arrived at the hotel last night. True to his word, Ralph had sent for them. The suitcase was for work, the backpack was for play. I’d been planning for months to spend a couple days climbing in Linville Gorge after that law enforcement conference. Didn’t look like I’d get a chance now, though.
“Yeah. I think I’ll stick around for a few more days. Nothing pressing on my calendar. And this guy has already made two mistakes—waiting for us at the mall and calling me at the hotel. He’s overconfident. We might still be able to save Jolene.”
“If she’s still alive.” His voice sounded grim.
I wasn’t sure if I should tell him the killer had mentioned my daughter, wasn’t sure if he’d want me off the case. I decided to risk it; after all, this was Ralph. “He knows I have a daughter, Ralph. He mentioned her by name. He might know where she is. I need to make sure Tessa and my parents are safe.”
“We’ll get them to a safe house out in Denver.”
That was Ralph for you. A good man.
“Thing is, Ralph, I need to see her.” I’d had a lot of time to think things through last night after talking with the Illusionist. My adrenaline had been pumping so hard I’d needed to do twenty minutes of pull-ups on the door frame of the hotel room just to calm down. It’s great exercise. Of course, you can only use your fingertips though. Back when I started working out it took me two years before I was able to do just one fingertip pull-up; another year before I could do ten. That was a decade ago. I’ve gotten a little better since then.
