This guy had that look. Cracked, broken. The broken man held a gun, and his arm was swinging it around like some kind of hose with the water turned up too high, thrashing at the end of his shoulder without control. The gun went off, and there was a spray of red followed by a thud as a man was shot in the back, tumbling down against the edge of a table. The arm swung again, another shot, this one a miss. Val took another halting step forward, watching the broken man’s arm swing again. Another shot, and a woman’s body tumbled as the side of her face was torn away in a shower of gore. The smell of blood hung heavy on the air, but people were getting out of the way, hiding now, ducked down below tables, under chairs, one man disappearing through the doorway to the ladies’ room.
Silence settled for a moment, fragile and tentative. A cough, a whisper to shut the fuck up Jesus shut the fuck up following it. The broken man’s eyes tracked around the room, the gun held at the end of his arm like a forgotten thing. His gaze turned, catching here on a piece of broken glass, there on a barstool tumbled over, until it found—
NO.
—John, still standing up. He wasn’t alone, the bar girl still held behind him, but there was no one else to stand against what was to come. The broken man’s gun arm pulled itself around to point the gun at John, the movements jerky like he had Parkinson’s — hell who knows, he might, just add it to the list — before holding steady, still, a rock in a storm of crazy. Pointed right at John.
Val saw it then, the light come on in the broken man’s eyes, the childish glee as his hand tensed around the gun. Val saw as John turned away, his arms coming up around the bar girl, tugging her close to shield her with his body, his eyes squeezing shut and waiting for the hammer to fall against a round in the chamber.
The chair spun across the room, smashing against the broken man, the gun going off but the shot going wild. Val looked down at his hand, the hand that had thrown the chair without a thought. John’s eyes opened, surprise on his face, and he looked up at Val. Val ignored him, stepping forward to the front of the bar. The broken man was trying to stand, tugging his gun arm free of the chair.
Val stood over him, and the man stopped moving, his eyes wide and wild. “Stop it.”
The broken man giggled, a scattered sound full of rough edges. “Must find. Must kill.”
“Kill who?” Val leaned down. “Find what?”
The broken man giggled again, then pulled the weapon free. Val caught the man’s wrist, thumb against the other man’s hand, twisting it around so the barrel pointed at the broken man.
“Set you free,” said the broken man. “Set me free.”
“Free from—” said Val, but the broken man pulled the trigger of the gun, shooting himself. The bullet hit him in the chest, and red started to well from the front of his hoodie. The writing on the front became indistinct as blood colored it over, the letters vanishing one by one. Val felt the life draining from the man as he held his wrist. At the end, the man’s eyes cleared and he looked up at Val.
“Where am I?”
“What?”
The broken man looked down at himself. “I’ve been shot.”
“You—” said Val, wanting to say you shot yourself. Instead he said, “Yeah.”
“Am I going to die?”
Val nodded. “I’m pretty sure.”
“Okay,” said the man. “Can you get a message to Louis?”
“Who is Louis?”
“He’s the man I was going to marry,” said the broken man, as the light faded from his eyes.
“Well, shit,” said John, standing behind Val. “That was unexpected.”
“Yeah,” said Val.
“Guy was crazy,” said John.
“No,” said Val. “I don’t think so.”
“He came in here and started shooting,” said John. “He shot himself and didn’t remember doing it.”
“Right,” said Val. “That’s not crazy.”
“You’ll need to help me with that,” said John. He reached an arm out, and Val took it, standing up. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“I know someone else who does things without remembering them,” said Val. “Terrible things. Or used to.”
“That’s different,” said John.
“How so?”
“Uh,” said John.
“Do you want to phone a friend?” Val looked around the bar, then caught the eye of the bar girl who John had stood in front of. “Hey.”
She took a cautious step forward. “Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
“Marlie,” she said.
“Marlie, I need you to call 911. Get an ambulance.”
Marlie blinked at him. “Why? He’s dead.” She almost spat the last word.
“It’s not for him,” said Val. He jerked a thumb at the man who’d fallen against the edge of a table, blood still pooling around him. “That guy.”
“Oh,” said Marlie. “Right.” She stood there, staring at the blood.
“Marlie,” said Val.
“Yeah?”
“Now,” said Val. “Because if you don’t, he will die.”
Marlie gave a short, nervous nod, then scurried away. Val watched her go, then cocked his head. “You hear that?”
John nodded, both of them looking to the front of the bar. There was the sound of screaming outside, a horn followed by the screech of tires. A crash of something large and metal against stone. Gun shots, the distance making them sound like pop, pop, pop.
Val shrugged. “Want to go take a look?”
“No,” said John.
“Me neither,” said Val. He—
The day brings terrors.
—shrugged. Hell with it. They stepped through the front door of the bar and into the broken world beyond.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Where are we going?
The boy looked up from where he sat on the edge of the box between the front seats, his feet on the transmission tunnel. It hurt Adalia’s head to look at him, because he shouldn’t have fit there. There wasn’t enough room, not for a boy to sit there in among all of them, but there he was. Impossible. Perfect.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Chicago.”
You don’t know, or Chicago? Her fingers moved faster on her phone, practice with this way of talking giving her speed. There’s a big difference.
“I don’t know,” he said, “because I’ve never been to Chicago.” His long lashes curled a little at the end, and Adalia wanted to reach out and touch him. “I guess my mom’s there.”
Adalia tipped her head sideways, looking at him. Your mom?
“Yeah.” He looked confused. “I … I’m sorry. I don’t know.” The confusion turned to frustration, and he sighed.
Adalia thought for a moment. The trick, he’d explained, was asking the questions in a way that … allowed him to answer. He’d told her before that he didn’t always know until he knew, and he only knew when questions were asked that didn’t break the rules.
It helped him to remember.
She spun her phone between her fingers for a moment. What happened in Chicago? She looked at the text for a moment, not showing it to him, then deleted all but the first word. What is going to happen in Chicago?
He looked down at his hands. “I don’t know.”
Can’t you see?
“I’m here,” he said. “Of course I can’t see. Chicago is miles away.”
Her stomach growled, and she nodded. It was approaching dawn, and they’d been driving most of the night without stopping. She needed a shower. She needed breakfast. She needed sleep.
She needed to pee.
I don’t understand you at all.
He laughed. “You’re not supposed to. I’m a boy.”
You seem much older than any boys our age.
He turned sombre. “I’m … older.” He turned to look over his shoulder at the road the Yukon was lapping up, a big animal pacing fast and sure through the night, tearing the distance up and turning it
into dawn. He turned to look back at her. “I think I’m a lot older.”
How much older?
His brow furrowed. “I … that doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Time doesn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing.
Time doesn’t work that way where you are?
“It doesn’t exist,” he said. “I don’t think it does. It’s a little confusing.”
You’re confused?!?!?!
He laughed. “I’m going to miss you.”
She sat back, feeling cold in her stomach. She typed fast into her phone, then deleted the whole line, replacing it with a single word. Why?
“Because everything ends,” he said. “I come out from time to time, and then I have to go again. The people I see are always different. It’s just…” He sighed.
You want to stay?
“No,” he said. “I never want to come back at all.” He looked down, his dark lashes lowering. He looked so vulnerable that she wanted to grab him, shake him, tell him it was going to be okay. She knew it would be a lie.
Adalia looked up at her mom, saw the tension in her shoulders, her eyes staring out the window. Saw how her fingers clenched and unclenched like restless animals on her lap. I don’t want to stay either.
“Yeah you do,” he said. “The thing is … since I met you, I want to stay as well.”
Her heart gave a tiny skip. She started to type, slower this time, afraid to scare him away. Do we have to do something?
He looked at the words on her phone. “No,” he said, then, “Well, yes. But that’s not why I want to stay. I want to stay because you make me miss this world.”
She wanted to type a thousand things, but settled for one line. What do you miss about it?
“I don’t remember,” he said, “but you make me want to. The rest of them never do. They always want something from me.”
I might want something from you.
“But that’s the thing,” he said. “I know you don’t.”
How do you know?
“Because you’ve never asked for anything,” he said. He tapped the edge of her phone. “Not with this.” He reached a finger out, tentative, almost touching her chest above her heart. “Only with this.” He pulled his hand back as if it had been burned, closing his fist around it and putting it between his knees.
I’m sorry, she typed.
“You don’t need to be sorry,” he said. “Hey, this conversation’s taken a morbid turn. Let’s talk about something light-hearted, like child labor in China.”
She hid a smile behind her hand. You were talking about your mom before.
He nodded. “I don’t know why.”
Something about Chicago. The Yukon started up an incline, the engine’s note changing a little, the big motor eager for the challenge.
“Was it? I can’t tell.”
You said she was there.
“I said I thought Chicago had something to do with my mom,” he said. “Most of the places I go have something to do with her.”
Do you know why?
“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he admitted. “I think it’s because she misses me.”
She can’t see you?
“Most people can’t see me,” he said. His mouth pulled down a little. “Most people don’t want to see me.”
What’s your mom doing in Chicago?
She saw it by the look on his face, the look of recognition, chased away by fear. No, not fear — horror. She’d asked the wrong question, but she’d asked it in the right way. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.” He laughed, then it choked into a sob. “Oh, Adalia. I see it now.”
Adalia fought to keep her calm. She felt the presence of her mom and Carlisle, and the two men in the front, all close around her in the cabin. What do you see?
“Madness,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And its twin, death.”
She had so many questions. What about Val? And John? But she had to ask the questions … right. Can you see your mom?
“Yes.” He shuffled on his seat. “She’ll be right in the middle of it. At the beginning, at least.”
Can we help?
A smile broke through on his face, soft as sun peeking through on a cloudy day. “Always trying to help,” he said. “Sometimes things aren’t your problem.”
She shook her head, angry. Val is in Chicago. John is in Chicago.
“They’re not your problem,” he said. “They’re adults. You’re a kid.”
Adalia wanted to reach out and slap him. I’m 14!
He looked at the text on her phone, then back up at her. “Are you … are you trying to make my point for me?”
She crossed her arms, sitting back in the seat, and glared at him. After a moment she started typing again. We’re the same age. We’re the same.
He held up his fingers, counting them off. “First, we’re not the same age. Second, we’re not the same.”
We are the same.
“I remember when life seemed that black and white.”
It’s good you can remember something.
He read the text, then looked sad. “I know. It’s not fair. I don’t understand it either.”
Adalia felt something in her chest release its grip. I’m sorry. I just want to help.
“I’m not your problem. I guess, in a way, you’re my problem.” He looked around the Yukon, stretching out his arms. Her brain skittered away from the motion, didn’t want to see how he could move like that in the small space. “I get sent to solve problems.”
Well, you can help me solve the problem sitting in the front seat.
“Ajay?” He frowned, his voice changing, the cadence becoming deliberate. “Ajay Lewiss. The blind soldier. The forgotten child. A weapon of faith and hope, tarnished and rusty. He fights for someone else, and the faithless contract makes his purpose weak.”
Adalia stared at him for a moment. Wow.
“What? What did I say?”
A bunch of weird shit. She paused, then deleted the last word. Stuff.
“No, really,” he said. “I don’t always know what I’m going to say. The words come from … somewhere else. It’s like … I don’t know. It’s like I’m a megaphone.”
What’s a megaphone?
“You don’t watch cartoons?” He ran a hand through his hair, the black strands falling through his fingers. She wanted to reach out, straighten a stray lock that fell back across his eye.
I’m 14. I’m not a child.
“I watch cartoons,” he said. “Anyway, they’re always drawn like a big red cone. You talk through, it makes your voice louder on the other end.”
Have you ever wondered?
“Wondered what?”
Whose voice you’re making louder?
He stared at the tiny light of her phone screen, then sat back. “Yes.”
And??!?!?!
“I think it’s the Universe,” he said. “It’s everything, and everyone, all the time. It wants to speak to us. It tries all the time, you know.”
Like God?
“God’s just a name for something a lot of people don’t understand,” he said. “I’ve never met God. I … I wanted to, for a long time. To ask him why.”
She frowned. Why what?
He looked angry. “I don’t remember.”
You said it tries to speak to us. I’ve never heard it.
He smiled at her, something gentle in it. “Yes, you have. You hear it in me. You see it in Carlisle. You feel its strength in your mom. You sense its purpose, dragging us in this gas guzzling Yukon to Chicago.”
Carlisle? My mom? They’re just people.
He cocked an eyebrow at her.
Okay, I mean, not “just” — they’re the best people. But … they’re people. Not like comets or stars or a planet or … whatever you are.
“What makes you think that a tired, broken down cop’s affection for a lonely 14 year old girl is less miraculous than the birth of a star? And seriously, your mom turns into a freakin’ werewolf. How cool
is that?”
She’s not tired. She’s not broken.
Something gentle and sad moved across his face. “Ah,” he said. “There it is.”
What?
He faded from view, leaving the scent of fresh mowed grass, at odds with the new car smell of the Yukon. As he left, she heard him say, “How miraculous is it that a 14 year old girl feels the need to protect her much older, world-weary friend? I find you miraculous, Adalia Kendrick.”
Adalia stared through the space where he’d sat, the night ahead giving way to the gentle touch of dawn. She looked down at her phone, then typed — even though no one was there to see it — Shit.
CHAPTER SIXTY
“That’s the thing,” said Rex. “I dunno, right? I work out. I eat right. Like the song.”
His driver looked back at him through the rear view mirror. Cute, nice nose. “What song?”
“Huey Lewis.”
“Huey Lewis and the News?” She turned back to the front, watching the traffic.
“I guess. There any other bands called something like that?” Rex ran a finger under the edge of his strapping. Damn thing was itching like a poison ivy rash. He didn’t like bandages as a general rule, but after the … accident, well, after that he’d needed one. Paramedic had said two sprained wrists, but he’d talked them down to just one. 30 years in the Fire Department meant he knew when someone needed a good bandage, and for damn sure he wasn’t walking around with two oven mitts on. They’d said it might hurt bad, as if there was a good kind of hurt.
“Joan Jett and the Blackhearts,” she said.
“What?”
“That’s a band called something like that,” she said. “What you asked.”
“Fine,” said Rex. “They sing a song called Hip to Be Square?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. Definitely a cute nose. If he was 20 years younger… “Not really my speed, though.”
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