Kiss

by Ted Dekker

  A breeze came in off the lake, and Shauna looked around at the other diners on the open-air patio with them. Was anyone here a threat?

  “Is Rudy in danger?”

  “I doubt it. The McAllister property is a fortress, especially with the elections so close. And we had Pam Riley checked out. She’s square. I’m thinking we’re lucky, that whoever is responsible for this is satisfied with the damage he’s already caused.”

  “What about Smith’s film noir behavior?”

  “You know what I think of that.”

  “The guy with the knife at Barton Springs?”

  “Nothing but a nutcase.”

  Wayne took a sip of water.

  “My freaky visions?”

  Wayne paused. “You having more?”

  “A couple.”

  “Did Dr. Harding help with that at all?”

  “Not in a way that makes me feel in control. I feel disembodied. Like—have you ever had anyone pull a gun on you?”

  “I’m an ex-Marine, of course I have.”

  “Not in a combat situation.”

  “Noncombat? Once or twice.”

  “Once or twice? Wayne! That’s crazy! What happened?”

  “In Thailand . . . look, it’s nothing worth recounting. We’re talking about you. Are you saying the visions make you feel threatened?”

  “Not exactly. I’m really fumbling with this.” Was looking down the bar-rel of a pistol so inconsequential to him? Shauna didn’t know what to make of it.

  “You sound stressed. Did the spa help at all?”

  “I didn’t go to a spa today.”

  He winked at her and stroked the back of her hand. “I know.”

  He did? “Then why are you asking me leading questions?”

  “It’s hard to know what’s best, Shauna. I’m sorry if that was wrong. But I didn’t want you to feel imprisoned, or babysat.”

  “I’m sorry for lying.”

  He picked up his butter knife and tipped it onto its point, turning the handle under his forefinger. “Well, you’ve exposed a few lies of my own that I should apologize for too.”

  For several seconds, they focused on the knife he was playing with. “Well, it’s good to have all that out in the open,” she said.

  Wayne sighed. “I do agree. No more secrets?”

  “No more.” Relief washed over her. All her suspicions about Wayne had finally been put to rest.

  “So what was so urgent at the Statesman?” Wayne said.

  “The staff writer who’s been following our story. I thought he could con-nect me to Rick Bond.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The truck driver who sued Landon after the accident.”

  “Right. Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “I’m looking for someone who knows what really happened.”

  “Still looking for your ghost.”

  “I’m looking for someone who remembers.”

  “Let’s ask the attorney—”

  “Why? He wasn’t there. He knows less than I do about what happened.”

  Wayne sighed. “You might be looking in the wrong place. If your accident was planned, a killer wouldn’t have put himself—or herself—in the car with you.”

  Shauna nodded. “It was a dead end anyway.”

  “How about your venture to the bridge?”

  “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “I didn’t, since we’re being honest. I only followed you to Bee Cave. Thought you’d want to see the bridge by yourself.”

  “There isn’t much to say about that. Except . . . did you know the delivery truck didn’t leave any skid marks?”

  Wayne nodded. “The driver told deputies he didn’t even have time to hit the brakes. Wasn’t that in the report?”

  “Maybe. That sort of move is kind of reflexive, isn’t it? Even after the impact?”

  “That would be my guess. But I don’t know much about that kind of thing.”

  “There’s probably some obvious explanation. So far I’ve been making federal cases out of nothing.”

  “Cut yourself some slack. Anyone in your shoes would feel the way you do.”

  “Oh—you’ll never guess. I ran into Smith at the Statesman.”

  Wayne laid down the knife he was playing with.

  “The reporter? His name is really Smith?”

  “Yes, and he’s a photographer.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was very private eye, kind of paranoid. Scott Norris says he has some kind of emotional issues.”

  “Did he recognize you?”

  “Yes. He wouldn’t speak to me at the office. But he asked me to meet him tomorrow morning. Early. At my old place.”

  “The loft downtown?”

  “If I understand his cryptic note correctly.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone. In fact, maybe you shouldn’t go at all.”

  The waitress returned, and Shauna picked up her menu and scanned it quickly. “I’m hoping you’ll come with me,” she said.

  “You couldn’t keep me away.”

  15

  Shauna made another attempt to get into the house to see her brother. With any luck, she might slip under the radar of some night-shift agent who hadn’t gotten the memo on her lockout. Or some softhearted fellow willing to bend the rules while Landon was gone.

  An empty hope. The burly agent on duty didn’t even speak to her, just shook his head when she approached.

  Back at the bungalow Shauna dressed for bed with a heavy heart, tossed out another dose of pills, and turned back the sheets when Khai knocked on the door that led into their shared bathroom.

  “You weren’t already asleep?” she asked when Shauna called her in. Khai was carrying an oversized manila envelope that was bulky and open at the top.

  “Not yet.”

  “Wayne says you won’t need breakfast tomorrow.”

  “That’s right. We’ve got a meeting early.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for today at the newspaper office?”

  “Not exactly. But it was informative.”

  Khai approached the bed and held out the envelope. “Maybe this will be of help.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  Shauna took the package and looked inside. A haphazard collection of newspaper clippings, a CD in a green jewel case, and white sheets of copy paper tested the seams.

  “It’s from your loft.”

  “Where did you find this?”

  “I found it the day we packed.”

  Shauna tipped the contents out onto the bed. “So far, Khai, I haven’t understood anything you’ve said.”

  Khai sat down, her slight form barely depressing the mattress.

  “Mrs. McAllister and I went to your home the day before the movers arrived. She assigned me to the bathroom and kitchen. I was to pack up as much as I could that wasn’t breakable. She wanted to do your bedroom and living room. In particular she was interested in your desk.”

  “She wanted my computer.”

  “Yes. But I think she wanted more than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “She didn’t tell me what she was looking for, but she was aggravated not to find it. Information of some kind. The woman put her nose into every-thing, even the microwave, the tank of the toilet. Then she decided to sweep all the contents of your desk into a box. She did the same with each drawer in the house that did not contain clothing. Three large boxes. These she set aside before she left, and when I came back the next morning to let the movers in, they were gone.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “I have not seen them since.”

  “And what is the connection to this?” Shauna spread the papers out.

  “I found it above the cabinets. I was dusting.”

  “You think this is what Patrice was looking for?”

  “I don’t know what Patrice was looking for. But this looked like something y
ou wanted to stay hidden. Of course, I didn’t anticipate that you wouldn’t remember what it is.”

  “Why didn’t you give it to Patrice?”

  Khai held Shauna’s eyes with her own, the brown and the hazel, for a few intense seconds before she settled on saying, “I understand how it would feel to have my personal secrets invaded.”

  “You have secrets?” Shauna smiled at her.

  “As we all do.”

  Shauna glanced at the headlines of the newspaper clippings. They seemed to focus on her father’s campaign, dating mostly within the current year. The white papers were photocopies of similar articles, with a few e-mails from someone whose handle was Sabueso. Short and cryptic one-liners. Like:

  The problem is in the profit-sharing structure. And,

  Subsidiary on page 72 has no public record—can you research?

  The CD was not labeled.

  “May I use your computer again?” Shauna asked. “Tomorrow sometime?”

  “Yes. Any time you need. I will be out again for much of the day.” She watched Shauna scan a few more sheets of paper. “I was able to see your brother today. Ms. Riley says he is well, that we should all hope for his improvement.”

  Shauna looked up and found herself tempted to simply agree with the nurse’s optimistic sentiment. Instead, when she opened her mouth she heard herself say, “I don’t think he’ll ever recover.”

  Khai folded her hands around her knee and nodded, somber.

  “You understand this,” Shauna said. It was not a question. “I don’t think anyone else in my family does. Certainly not Landon.”

  “Some fathers hope in the impossible,” Khai said. “Sometimes it makes them better fathers.”

  “Not always.”

  Khai shook her head. “No. Not always. But my brother is a father, and he does this.”

  “Is he a good dad?”

  “Yes.” Khai took a deep breath. “His cancer is back. It has metastasized to his brain.”

  “Oh, Khai. I’m sorry.”

  She reached across the blue and brown pinwheel-pattern bedspread to touch Khai’s arm. Later she would remember the sensation of static that rose off Khai’s skin, the fine hairs lifting themselves to stand tall as if magnetically drawn to Shauna’s fingers. In her dreams she would believe she heard a snap-ping and hissing, a sizzle of energy arcing through some invisible space.

  But then, she only heard the electric crack, felt the sting of a simple shock, and saw Khai jump up off the bed.

  It was happening again.

  The room disappeared and she sensed that she was collapsing on the ground, crying hysterically, screaming and yelling, screaming and yelling, at the side of an empty bassinet—little more than a basket—in a tiny room lit by gray morning light. Her raw throat hurt. She had been crying for hours.

  She clutched at a blanket hanging off the side, a striped cotton cloth, green and yellow, that smelled like a baby. Her baby.

  Shauna opened her eyes and realized she was doubled over on the bed, clutching her stomach, groaning.

  She raised her head and saw Khai, several steps away from the bed now, staring at her, eyes wide.

  “Darn, that’s embarrassing,” Shauna said, planting her face in the bed-spread. One joint at a time, she unfolded her body, which behaved as if it had been contorted for hours. Every stiff limb cried out.

  “Can I help you?”

  “No.”

  Khai did not move.

  “You lost a baby,” Shauna said.

  Khai covered her mouth with one hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” Shauna said, trying to recover her composure, not sure if she was apologizing about the child or her behavior. “Please, can I ask you what happened? I need to understand this thing that is affecting me.” She immediately regretted what she’d said. How could she dare take advantage of someone else’s tragedy in the name of solving her own mystery?

  She tried to take back her request. “No, no. I shouldn’t have—”

  “My daughter,” Khai said. “I lost my daughter. She was three months old. How did you know?”

  Shauna spread out her arms over the top of the paper-strewn bed. “I’m seeing visions.” That was the only explanation she could come up with. “I saw you . . . I was you, screaming and crying by her bassinet. You were in a small room, gray, furnished with a bed and a dresser and an empty bassinet. A yellow and green blanket.”

  Khai shook her head. “I don’t remember that.”

  She didn’t remember? How could someone not remember that kind of event?

  Well, how could Shauna not remember her own crisis?

  Khai’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t understand this. All I remember is pain. I feel like I have had a dream and forgotten it on waking.”

  Shauna’s head was still spinning. This encounter challenged everything Shauna had processed so far. These dreams and visions weren’t only from men, not only triggered by a kiss or a flirtation. Something else was at the center of these encounters—

  “You describe our room. And her blanket. I still have it.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Not dead,” Khai whispered. Tears collecting in her eyes reflected the light from the nightstand lamp. “Taken.”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “Sold. On the black market.”

  Shauna thought that if it had been her baby, death might have been the lesser evil. “How? Who?”

  “By her father. He fixated on the impossible, and it turned him into a monster.”

  16

  In spite of the emotional extremes of her day, Shauna experienced a merciful, dreamless sleep and woke Sunday morning one minute before her alarm was supposed to go off at five thirty.

  October 21. One week since her awakening. It seemed like a year.

  Her phone was beeping again.

  She flipped it open. Three text messages from the same number. A local number that she didn’t recognize.

  3:25 > red room in the morning, Shauna take warning

  3:27 > Tis better to 4get and b happy

  3:40 > R U happy?

  Hands shaking, Shauna punched in a reply.

  > Who are you?

  She waited. No answer. Had she expected one? She dropped the phone into her purse and rushed to clean up the papers and CDs that were still spread across the mattress. She pushed them into the back of her bottom dresser drawer, under her clothes. If she had wanted them hidden before, chances were she should keep them hidden now. Until she knew what they were.

  Until she knew whom she was hiding them from.

  She threw on a pair of jeans and a black turtleneck, ran her fingers through her hair, and decided to do without makeup. She didn’t have a steady hand to apply it.

  In Wayne’s car, Shauna’s put the messages behind her. Her head was a jumble of anticipation for the meeting with Smith, reflection on her conversation with Khai the night before, and confusion over the mystery of how these visions were working. She didn’t talk much, which seemed okay with Wayne, preoccupied with his own thoughts as he pointed the truck toward the dawn.

  As best Shauna could tell, she was tapping other people’s memories. Most of them seemed to involve physical pain or some kind of misery, tragedy. Maybe people were sharing them with her? Reaching out subconsciously to alleviate the hurt?

  “Do you remember getting a spinal cord concussion during a football game?” she asked.

  Wayne blinked as if his mind had been whiplashed out of wherever it was.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I dreamed it, remember? You told me at the time you had a similar injury.”

  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I? I guess I didn’t think . . . I mean, it seems really coincidental.”

  “Maybe it is only coincidence. I don’t mean to make more of it than it is. I was curious if you remember what happened.”

  “I don’t, actually. I remember parts of that night—the first half of the game, the hospital stay afterward.
But not the actual hit. Not even the play, now that I think about it.”

  He didn’t even remember the play.

  Her dream was the play.

  She wasn’t sharing memories, she was taking them somehow.

  Stealing memories.

  How? What was happening to her to make this possible?

  She took a deep breath and a risk.

  “How could you have joined the Marines with an injury like that?”

  “When you’re young and determined, there are ways.”

  “Like changing your name?”

  “No. That came later. I thought I explained that last night.” He seemed slightly annoyed.

  “All that trouble, just to go AWOL?” she asked.

  He laughed, but the tone set Shauna on edge. He waved a finger in her direction. “All what trouble? Like I said before, the desertion thing is a total fiction.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “How can I remember what never happened?”

  Maybe so. He might remember going AWOL and be ashamed to admit it. He might not remember the night he left.

  It might never have happened, though she felt pretty sure it did.

  She would try to find out. How could one find out that sort of thing?

  For the duration of the drive into downtown Austin, Shauna pondered this strange ability she had acquired and wondered if there was a way for her to con-trol it. What were the circumstances that allowed her to access the memories of others? Could she create them at will? How did she get this bizarre skill? And when? Could other people do the same thing?

  Then, if she could determine how the memory stealing—what an unattractive label, but she couldn’t think of anything else—if the memory stealing worked, could she influence which memories she had access to?

  Could she use other people’s memories to help reconstruct her own past?

  With access to the right people, could she find the answers to her questions about what happened that fall night, about who was trying to hurt her, about what she was really guilty of?

  Did her thieving hurt people? Was she causing invisible injury in an attempt to save herself?

  Wayne followed the Colorado River down to Barton Springs Road and then took South Congress Avenue across Town Lake. Shauna involuntarily closed her eyes and held her breath across the bridge, though this one was wider than the bridge on 71, with sidewalks and substantial guardrails. The capitol and down-town high-rises—the stair-stepped Chessboard Palace, the multifaceted Frost Bank Building—framed their drive toward her former home on Ninth Street.