The Vessels

by Anna Elias

  “He has a Spirit?” Doc asked, incredulous.

  Blaze’s speedy, trembling fingers punched Aaron’s code into his device. The GPS kicked in and, seconds later, Aaron’s yellow dot blinked on-screen.

  Sam held his breath. The map filled in underneath. “Memphis?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  “Perhaps he has family there,” Doc offered.

  “Or maybe he got cold feet and split.” Blaze knew better. His inner voice was screaming, like Sam’s.

  “If either were true, I would not sense his mark,” Liam said. “Chief Black feels it, too. We believe it’s the Rogue who recently escaped two Spirit Guard in San Francisco.”

  “Rogue?” Doc asked.

  “An unfettered Spirit,” Liam replied. “They tracked him here, but he disappeared inside another body.”

  Sam sagged. “Aaron’s?”

  Liam nodded. “The Spirit Guard lost sight of him again.”

  Blaze touched the counter and false desk Aaron had just built. His stomach knotted.

  “Lost sight? Of a Vessel?” Alarm sharpened the worried edges of Doc’s voice.

  “One without the proper blessing and the coin, yes.”

  She indicated Blaze’s device. “But now you know where he is.”

  “Capturing this Spirit inside a Vessel would be like netting the wind. He would transport Aaron away the moment he felt us getting close.”

  Sam removed his glasses, fingers trembling. “Then how will you stop him?”

  “Keep an eye on that dot,” Liam told Blaze. “Let us know where he goes. And keep trying his phone.”

  He tugged at Sam and they hurried off.

  Rotating blades from the ceiling fan thundered in Blaze’s ear as he tried Aaron’s cell again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  THE ROGUE

  When the swirling stopped, and Aaron’s head cleared again, music thumped, and smells of barbecue filled the air. People flocked along a short, busy street lined with clubs and restaurants. Beale Street.

  Aaron recognized it from the one time he’d been to Memphis with Shellie and Joe. She’d wanted to visit Graceland, Elvis’s home. He’d wanted to hear legendary live music on Beale Street, and Joe had wanted to eat his fill of world-famous barbecue.

  Joe.

  Aaron soured with regret for having abandoned his best friend at the gas station, especially after Joe had worked so hard to find him. He wondered now if facing his dead wife’s brother and admitting his failed attempt at suicide would have been the wiser choice.

  Come on. Eric trampled his thoughts. We’re not far.

  Aaron’s cell phone rang as they walked. He reached for it, hurrying to connect before the Spirit could stop him. But Eric squeezed his hand until the bones ground together. Aaron screamed and doubled over in pain.

  You can’t keep doing this. They know where I am. They’ll send help.

  Shut up. The Spirit led them deeper into a poor neighborhood several blocks south of Beale. A neon cross blinked atop a homeless mission, scattered gunshots cracked the hot sticky night, and a few slicked-up cars rumbled past. Aaron’s heart hammered. He ran nervous fingers through his short blond hair. His was the only white face in sight.

  Eric guided them to a small, wooden, shotgun-style house on a pothole-filled road. Most of the streetlights had been shot out, and the remaining few cast long shadows across dirt drives. A few cars without tires straddled concrete blocks. Big dogs barked from neighboring yards.

  Eric walked them onto a rickety porch and approached the front door. The wood appeared grainy in the moonlight.

  Another girl?

  Eric laughed and made Aaron knock. Her family. Then we’re done.

  Dread rose like a Kraken, weaving tentacles throughout Aaron’s gut. Whatever remorse Eric might have had when he’d started this whole Spirit journey had since been shredded and shoved aside. He was now doing this for some other reason entirely.

  The door opened, and a huge African-American man glared down. His mitt-like hand clutched a pint-sized can of beer.

  “Whaddya want?” He scanned Aaron’s smaller frame. “I’m clean if that’s what you’re after.”

  “No, not that,” Aaron mumbled, trying to step back. Eric rooted him.

  “Mr. Robert Davis?” Eric’s voice deepened Aaron’s.

  The man frowned at the change. “What’s it to ya?”

  “I’ve come to apologize. About Noella.”

  Robert dropped his beer. The liquid poured across the bare wooden floor. “How do you know about my little girl?”

  “She was nineteen,” Eric’s voice rumbled, sinister, chilling. “Her friends said she went home with some guy from a bar. Police never found her body. Am I right?”

  Aaron gagged at the words, but even more at Eric’s joy in saying them.

  Robert’s shoulders tensed. He took a step back. “Noella wouldn’t do that. That man took my little girl and—”

  “My name is Simon Porter,” Eric continued.

  “What?” Aaron blurted. “You said your name was Eric.”

  “Shut up,” the Spirit hissed aloud.

  Robert’s eyes widened.

  “I killed her on July 3, 1996,” Eric stated. “I can tell you where she is.”

  Robert’s fear contorted to fury. He bashed Aaron to the ground, then grabbed his shirt to haul him up for more.

  Eric beat him to the punch. He shoved the man backward with Sisyphean strength. Robert crashed into his living room furniture and toppled on the floor, shaking the house on its elevated brick pillars. Eric stormed in after him and slammed the door.

  Aaron fought to make Eric stop, but this Spirit twisted his insides like a wet rag and soldiered on with even greater strength.

  “Don’t do that again,” he snarled at Robert, yanking the terrified man to his feet and stuffing him into a chair. Eric perched Aaron on a small table next to him and brushed dirt from Robert’s sleeve.

  The man’s huge hands trembled against the armrests.

  “Noella had been drinking and dancing, mostly with me. The bartender discovered her real age and told her to leave, so I offered a ride. Her friends told her not to do it, but she was just drunk enough to let me.” Eric shifted to get comfortable. Aaron shivered at the cruelty in his voice. “I planned to bring Noella home, I really did, but her skin was soft and warm as melted chocolate, and she smelled so sweet. I kissed her, but she pushed away.”

  Robert began to cry.

  Aaron gritted his teeth. Captain Hugh had said the Spirit’s purpose came first, no matter what pain it caused, because the result served everyone. Or it was supposed to. Eric had long stopped serving anyone but himself, and he made it impossible for Aaron to do anything but go along. At least this father would learn the truth and have some closure.

  Eric leaned toward Robert, his gaze sharp as steel. “Her young, ripe body intoxicated me. When she tried to pull away—I snapped.”

  Robert sobbed.

  Aaron swallowed back the rising sick.

  “I threw Noella into the back seat, ripped off her dress, and I raped her over and over until she just lay there, bloody and silent.”

  Aaron would have peeled off his own skin if it meant being free from this creature.

  “I felt awful for what I’d done,” Eric continued, flippant and insincere. “And I thought about driving her home, but Noella was smart. She would tell the cops, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

  Robert roared in anguish and lunged from the chair.

  Eric leaped to his feet and dropped the man with one kick. He made Aaron pin Robert’s meaty arms to the floor over his head, then hovered above the man’s face. “I started to put her body in a culvert at the new mall. Then I realized someone might find it, and my DNA with it. So I cut off those parts that could identify me and buried the rest.”

  “You animal,” Robert roared, struggling to wrench free.

  Eric held him in place.

  Aaron’s breath heavy and thick, stuck
in this throat. Whatever had driven Eric or Simon to do these horrible things in life was still in there—because he was enjoying this.

  “Shh,” Eric said. “I have to finish this. For both of us.” He looked at the devastated man with half-hearted sincerity and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, and I ask your forgiveness.”

  Robert howled.

  Eric’s contrition was gone. His apology had become even more meaningless than what he’d offered the Fishers, and his efforts seemed to be nothing more than a game. But why? And how many levels of hell would he plunge them into before it was over?

  Aaron kicked and scraped, trying to reclaim some kind of control, but Eric shoved him down and hammered his thoughts into silence.

  “Most of her is buried in Tillman’s Pond, north of Milledgeville,” Eric told Robert. “In a box filled with concrete.”

  “And the rest?” Robert was barely able to ask.

  “I worked at the zoo then. Your daughter helped me feed the tigers and lions.”

  Robert’s cry tore Aaron apart. The Vessel yanked and fought, desperate to pull free, but his will no longer mattered and his actions were no longer his own. In fact, the angrier he grew and the harder he fought, the stronger Eric became. Aaron forced himself to let go.

  Eric smiled and walked to the door.

  “You’re just going to leave him like that?” Aaron snarled.

  We each have to heal in our own way, Eric retorted. He walked out, closed the door, and stepped off the porch into the moonlight. Besides, you and I have one more thing to do before the ship returns.

  Aaron planted his feet. You said this was the last.

  I lied. Eric shoved him forward.

  Eric started to whisk them away, but Aaron tapped every fiber of his strength and ground his body to a stop. The resilience startled Eric.

  How many more are there, Eric or Simon or whatever the hell your name is? How many girls did you kill? How many more families do we have to unburden with your worthless confessions?

  This is my journey, Vessel, and we are not done until I say.

  Some neighboring dogs barked as two large African-American men emerged from the darkness. Their eyes locked on Aaron’s.

  Aaron swallowed hard and reached for his phone. I’m going to check in. He pulled it from his pocket and found Blaze’s message. See? They wonder where I am.

  The two men drew closer. Their eyes flashed. Spirit Guard.

  Not now.

  Crushing pain helmeted Aaron’s head. He dropped the phone, streetlights and shadows swirling overhead, and fell to his knees in Robert’s gravel drive. Pain shot up both legs as the gusty green wind kicked up. The Spirit Guard rushed over. Aaron had just enough time to grab the cell before Eric spun his body into molecules and transported them away, leaving bits of dirt and trash swirling in their wake.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  TAL

  Tal had no idea where to go, but Darleen sure did. She opened Tom’s small closet filled with stained work shirts and pants and spotted two of her dresses and a pair of her shoes tucked in among them. Darleen looked up in surprise.

  Grace, too.

  Tom blushed. “I, um, I gave away the rest.”

  For a fleeting moment, Tal spied a flicker of the man Darleen had loved, his sweetness stored like rusting barrels under the brutish facade. Tal glimpsed the innocent boy Tom had once been, and the man he might have become under different circumstances, with different life experiences, friendships, and opportunities. He had the same start as Owen, or Jake, the same blank soul all children have before family, friends, religion, culture, and society cover them with labels and stuff them full of beliefs. She shuddered. Parents were a Dr. Frankenstein of sorts, with the choice of stitching their children together around fear, hate, bias, and judgment, or allowing them to remain the open, clear beacons of love and light God sent over. All children change as they grow, leaving certain parts of their innocence behind, but parents are culpable in what that change is and how soon it begins.

  Darleen’s pulsing warmth brought Tal back.

  Tom’s look did, too, his momentary sweetness replaced by rekindled skepticism and doubt.

  Tal rolled the knots from her shoulders as Darleen made her slide apart thin metal hangars of Tom’s clothes, then move aside folded blankets and stacked boxes on the floor. Tal coughed at the dust but kept searching until she touched a hidden door built into the closet wall. The wooden seams created an almost imperceptible opening. Her heart raced.

  “What the hell you diggin’ for?” Tom asked.

  Tal could hear the fear beneath his anger. She couldn’t help but feel a touch of the same. What were they looking for?

  Darleen pulsed gently to calm Tal, and led her fingers to a shallow niche on the door’s upper edge. One firm tug pulled it away from a magnetic closure, and the door creaked open. Tal reached inside the wall and removed a thin wooden frame covered in canvas.

  Grace staggered back. “Momma.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Tom muttered.

  Tal’s jaw dropped at the stunning acrylic painting in her hand—a golden sunrise over dewy cotton fields. Morning rays ignited the fluffy white balls, and black birds took wing overhead.

  Tal produced another painting, this one an open magnolia blossom surrounded by a nest of two-toned green and brown leaves. That followed with a mixed media showcasing pastel colors splashed over actual cotton fluff. Tal’s hand quivered against the canvas—she had only seen art this great in books or galleries.

  Tal pulled out piece after piece until she covered the bed and the surrounding floor with Darleen’s unframed work, each new canvas more beautiful than the last. The bulk featured landscapes and still lifes, but a handful of portraits dotted the collection. Most focused on Grace and a few featured Tom, but one lone self-portrait stood out. The woman’s head tilted down, and her cloudy, sad eyes lifted up to the viewer like a shy doe. Darleen.

  The Spirit warmed.

  Her beauty took Tal’s breath—tall and lean, with creamy white skin, long black hair, and eyes dark as blueberries.

  “It’s like God painted these, Momma.”

  “He did, honey. Just through me.”

  “When did you ... how did ...?” Tom struggled to form his thoughts. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I tried, but ...”

  A sharp pain hit Tal’s arm as Darleen remembered Tom’s angry strike years ago, and the broken wrist that had resulted. Tal cradled her hand, waiting for Darleen’s anger to rise, but the Spirit never changed. Tal’s pain reduced to a tingle then disappeared. She looked at Tom.

  He looked away. “I’m sorry.”

  Grace staggered, hearing his apology. “Why? What happened?”

  The big man stood silent.

  Darleen’s Spirit shimmered green in Tal’s eyes until Tom answered.

  “Your momma sketched a picture of me and the field hands pickin’ cotton one evening.” He paused, toying with a metal button on his overalls. “It was good, really good, like these here, but it also meant dinner wasn’t ready, and I was hungry.” He paused again, his voice softer and more contrite. “So, I knocked the drawing aside as a waste of time and made her get in the kitchen and cook.”

  Tal glowered.

  Tom shifted. “I knocked her down, too, and the fall broke her wrist. It was an accident, but Darleen couldn’t draw again. Or, so I thought.” He looked at Grace.

  His daughter turned away.

  Darleen, on the other hand, beamed. “I’m proud of you, Tom.”

  He jerked back at her praise.

  Grace did, too.

  “Truth is the hardest to admit.”

  Tom nodded at Tal before catching himself.

  “What’s it like, Momma?” Grace’s question burst out. “To make art like that, I mean?”

  Tal sensed a kindred soul in the girl.

  “It’s like you’re holding the brush but something inside you is doing the work.”

  Grace lit up. “A
lot of musicians say the same thing when they play, like the music comes from somewhere else and flows through. Sometimes they don’t even know what they’re going to play next.”

  Darleen put her arm around her daughter.

  A sour frown cut Tom’s face and he crossed his thick arms over his chest. “Where’d you get that malarkey?” he snapped.

  Grace shut up and studied her short, bitten fingernails.

  “Answer me.”

  “Tom,” Darleen scolded.

  He snorted and leaned back.

  Darleen put a hand on Grace’s arm for support. The girl gazed at the floor. “The preacher’s wife,” she answered, soft and meek. “All those Sundays I went over to babysit, she taught me how to play piano, too.”

  “What?” Tom yelled. “You lied to me?”

  Grace cringed and drew back. “No, Daddy. She just taught me a little more each time. And she let me practice some before I left.”

  “I needed you here, keeping house and helping me,” he snapped. “And you were off playing tiddlywinks on the piano with the preacher’s wife?”

  Grace squeezed her eyes shut and braced for his slap.

  Tal’s police instincts flared and she stepped between them.

  “Easy, Tom.” Darleen’s voice deepened, loving but firm.

  “Where’s music gonna get ya?” he shouted. “It’s a waste of time. You need to be here, learning how to—”

  “Tom.”

  He jerked back as Darleen cut him off.

  Tal stiffened. The Spirit’s cavernous strength could have thrown Tom through the wall, but Darleen swelled with peace, instead. “Music is art, Tom, the same as drawing, sewing, making pottery, and writing stories. And being an artist is a calling, God’s way of speaking to us and through us. People who get the tug to do it can’t do anything else, just like you with farming, or someone else with doctoring or auto mechanics or accounting. It’s their gift, their purpose. And it serves the world just as much. Painting was my gift. Music is Gracie’s. You need to accept that.”

  Tom snorted.

  Grace, on the other hand, glowed like the sun.

  Darleen stroked her daughter’s cheek. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Gracie,” she said, “and I’m sorry I never heard you play. But I’m here now, honey, to give you my art so you can sell it and use the money to follow your heart. You may not get much, but every bit helps.”