And he liked that feeling just fine.
He relocated to the rocking chair by the window, lit a cigarette, and pondered his situation as he stared at the flashing heavens beyond the trees. Michael and how strongly the boy resembled his mother came to mind. He thought of Claudia and the way her body had once fit so perfectly within his arms, and how easily their minds had been able to communicate using the softest of telepathic voices.
Do you promise me, Louie?
I promise. I’ll find him and protect him, Claudia. I swear it.
Will you love him?
Yes.
Even though…
Yes. Yes, Claudia. I promise. Now kiss me…
Abruptly standing, he put the cigarette out on the windowsill and darted over to the closet. He grabbed every pack of cigarettes inside—nine in total—stalked over to the window, heaved it open with a forceful grunt, and threw them all into the rain.
Thunder roared over the mountains. He closed the window, sat in the chair, and sighed, an action that almost brought on a series of painful coughs. Almost.
“Lord, just give me a few more years to do this,” he said, though he was not a religious man.
Sometimes, he wished he was.
On Apple Orchard Road, John Meacham was wide awake and sitting behind the broad, mahogany desk in his personal study. With his back to the window and candles lit all around him, he wore a tank top that showed off his massive arms and thick, hairy neck. He was scowling at the two men seated in front of him.
Warren and Elkin sat next to each other on separate wooden chairs. The chairs were uncomfortable, and Elkin kept fidgeting, making his creak.
Warren shushed him without sparing him a glance.
“So that’s the plan,” Meacham said, spreading his large hands over the desk. “It’s foolproof. You’d tell me if it wasn’t.” Leaning over his desk, he eyed them. “Am I right?”
“You betcha,” Elkin said, smoothing his ratty hair and glancing at Warren. “You tell him. Whatever he wants to do.”
“I told you to shut’cher mouth,” Warren said, glowering.
“You told me to shut the chair from creaking—”
Warren got up suddenly, silencing Elkin. He paced back and forth before the desk.
“Only thing I don’t get is why we gotta jump through all those hoops,” Warren said.
Meacham settled into his chair, releasing a heavy sigh. “It’s Blake. You saw what happened the last time he stood against me. Almost split the town in half. I can’t have that happen again.”
“You think this time you’d get less than half?” Warren said.
Elkin stopped fidgeting with his hair, but now scratched his Adam’s apple. He did that when he got anxious.
“Warren,” Elkin said, “take it easy now.”
Warren smacked Elkin’s hand away from his neck. “I told you to sheddap.”
“Boys,” John Meacham said, opening a desk drawer and reaching in. He pulled out a glass bottle of single-malt Scotch with the label still intact. It looked brand-new, not like the brown sludge in plastic cartons they often got off the caravans.
Warren and Elkin stared at it, mouths agape.
“I’m sorry to say this…” Meacham pulled out three glass tumblers, sat them on the desk, then unscrewed the bottle cap with a series of pleasant squeaks. “But I’ve been holding out on you two. There’s a lot more luxury in this town than people know. Enough for us men to live like kings. And when I say men, I don’t mean those ment queers like Dominic and Blake. You hear what I’m saying?”
Warren and Elkin watched him pour the golden-brown liquid into the tumblers. It was like watching diamonds slip from his fingers.
“Just stay out of the boy’s way for now,” Meacham said, “and be ready when I give you the word.”
He stood, moved around the desk, and handed each a drink. In the candlelight, they clinked their glasses together. A flash of lightning brightened the room, followed by a series of deep cracks, as if the sky itself were splitting open.
“How long do we have to wait?” Warren said when it was quiet again. After a sip of his whisky, he grimaced.
“Not long,” Meacham said. “The boy doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Getting rid of him will be easy.”
The rain falling into the mountains thickened. The slopes flashed a bright electric blue, and the ensuing thunder was like bombs going off in the night.
Across town, in the backyard of the boys’ house on Silo Street, Michael came to a stop on a patch of soaked grass. His knees gave out, as he’d just ran all the way from the café. He fell to the grass, his pants immediately soaking up the water, ice-cold rivulets running down his neck and back.
“Arielle,” he said. “Thank you.”
Lightning whipped across the sky. Pushing to his feet, Michael trudged toward the house, only to find the front door locked. It didn’t matter. He checked a few of the windows. Locked.
Then he got lucky. One of the garage doors was unlocked. He slid it open a few feet, managing to wiggle his big body inside. Making sure not to bump into the motorcycles, he found an empty corner and fell asleep sitting upright, comforted by the smell of engine oil.
Michael had a purpose now. He knew what he had to do. Who he had to kill.
And it was all thanks to her.
Chapter 9
The next day was spoiled by the kind of humid rainfall that made bodies feel sticky. It was even worse inside Blake’s office. The air was as thick and pungent as if someone had spent the day boiling a thousand cigarettes in water with the windows shut.
“You’re late,” Blake said as Michael followed Dominic inside. Reggie was sitting on the faded couch, one leg crossed over the other, an arm extended along the topmost edge. He dropped his gaze when Dominic came in.
“It’s his fault.” Dominic tipped his head toward Michael.
They settled in, each taking a chair in front of Blake’s desk. Michael sensed a cloud of tension between Dominic and Reggie. He had no idea what it was about, and he didn’t want.
Louis Blake picked a small brown nut out of a bowl, then popped it in his mouth. He chewed rapidly, almost too fast. And he kept rubbing his fingers against his palms and fidgeting.
Dominic leaned forward, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Did you quit smoking again?”
Blake waved away the question, turning his attention to Michael.
“Let’s get to the point, Mike. You mind if I call you that?”
Michael shrugged.
“Good. There’s something you need to know about Gulch. We can’t be caught training you in telepathy. It goes against the town’s training equality laws. No person can receive training in a skill that is, by nature, exclusive to that particular person or to a minority. In other words—”
Frowning, Michael interrupted him. “Are you serious? Training equality?”
Dominic smacked his shoulder. “Don’t interrupt him, kid.”
Michael’s mood darkened.
“No one’s saying you can’t practice it,” Blake said, “but I can’t teach it to you. You’ll have to work just like everyone else, while keeping your mouth shut about any telepathic training you might ‘unofficially’ be receiving. You catch my wind?”
“Catch my drift,” Michael said, raising an eyebrow.
“I know that. Catch my drift. That’s what I meant. You try living in the mountains for fifteen years, see how many meaningless catchphrases you remember.” Blake extended a hand to indicate Reggie. “So, I’ve worked out a schedule for you. Every day, for about two hours, you’ll meet with Reggie at the shooting range to practice marksmanship. It’s a necessary skill out here, so quit looking at me like that. Then, for an hour before lunch, either Dominic or I will guide you through some mental techniques meant to help you keep calm in tense situations. Of course, you can’t tell anyone about this, not even Peter and the other boys.”
“An hour?” Michael said. “That�
�s all I get?”
Picking up another nut, Blake flicked it into his mouth. Chewing loudly, he tapped his fingers on the desk and darted anxious eyes around, obviously desperate for a cigarette.
Reggie got up, moving across the room to the window. The sky’s gray light brightened his face, illuminating the fine threads of his sweater.
“Mike, I understand you’re new here,” Reggie said. “You probably grew up thinking the East was some sort of fantasy land where every man was free to do as he pleased. Am I close?”
Michael shrugged, still frowning. Reggie sat on the windowsill and crossed his arms, facing him now. Despite his fine clothing, he gave off the tough vibe of a seasoned veteran of these mountains.
“The freedom part might be true in some places, but Gulch is a civilized town. We don’t rely on slaves or the drug trade to make our money. We do things the hard way. People understand if they want to be safe, they might have to give up certain rights.”
“Of course,” Michael said, gaze on his hands. “I’ve been hearing Harris Kole say that on the radio all my life.”
Dominic nudged him. “Here, you walk and talk like everybody else, or John Meacham will outcast you, got it? We’re trying to help your sorry ass, God knows why.”
“I know that,” Michael said, feeling like a scolded child in a room full of adults. “I just don’t get it. You said you wanted to teach me how to protect myself against the men who killed my mother, but now you’re telling me I’m going to learn how to meditate? That’s it?”
Blake crunched a nut with his molars. The noise was starting to get on Michael’s nerves. “How many hours do you sleep each night, Mike?”
“The normal amount, I guess. I don’t know, maybe six, seven hours.”
“How many of those hours do you actually spend lying awake in bed?”
“A couple.”
“Of course.” Blake got up, moving around the desk. “How often did you only get two or three hours a night back home?”
“All the time,” Michael said, almost laughing. “I used to work triple shifts for my parents. The dinner shift ended at ten and clean up took about two hours, so I’d be in bed by twelve-thirty or one o’clock. Then morning prep started at four and—”
“And,” Blake said, “were you ever tired?”
“Of course. I hated it.”
Blake and Reggie stared at Michael now, like scientists waiting for a chemical reaction to take place in a beaker.
“I’m not asking if you were bored,” Blake said. “That much is obvious. I’m asking if you were ever exhausted from lack of sleep.”
Michael wrung his hands as he tried to remember. “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably not. I mean, I was usually all right if I could just get a few hours.”
Blake smiled, exposing dark yellow teeth. Over by the window, Reggie sighed and stepped toward the center of the room.
“This is risky,” he said.
Blake waved away the comment. “Not if we do it at night. We could take him to the old observatory.” His face brightened. “Let’s get the other boys in on it.”
“Peter and Eli?” Dominic said, getting up from his chair.
Now all three were standing in front of Michael, arms crossed like men discussing tactics before a battle.
“Ian Meacham can’t be a part of this,” Reggie said. “He’ll rat us out to his father.”
Dominic shook his head. “He hates his father. If he sees it as an act of rebellion, he’ll follow along, no questions asked. Weren’t you ever a teenager?”
“If Peter and Eli even agree in the first place,” Blake said. “They know being outcast is no way to live.”
Michael watched the men converse, excitement welling in his chest. It was true he didn’t need to sleep that much. If he could use those hours to train his ability instead of wasting them just lying in bed, then he’d be getting somewhere.
“Let’s do it,” Michael said, almost jumping to his feet. “I’m ready to fight. Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Blake studied Michael for a moment, then raised his eyebrows at Dominic and sighed.
“Teenagers,” he said with a dismissive wave. “All right, let’s do it.”
Chapter 10
The only light in the darkened hallway came from the stars beyond the window, which trembled as a blast of wind shook the glass.
William crouched behind the door of the bathroom, where he could see anyone who came up the stairs to his mother’s bedroom. He would always hear the creak of the back door first, and that was how he knew to get into position. Always he felt ashamed after snooping, yet his curiosity got the best of him each time he heard that creak.
Tonight it was Ian, as usual, wearing a sweatshirt with a hood covering his head. Sometimes other men visited, but Ian came most often. Despite the hood, William knew who it was by his long legs and big, loose-fitting boots, not to mention the awkward way he walked with one hand in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, the other wielding a flashlight.
After checking the hallway, Ian went to the bedroom door and knocked twice, softly, so it barely made a sound. When the door opened, candlelight from inside dimly lit up his face. He whispered something and was allowed in. Once the door had been shut—the lock clicking firmly into place—William scampered over, favoring his bad foot as he tried not to make a sound, so he could peek through the keyhole.
He could just see the corner of his mother’s bed. Above it, the bottom corner of the window. Charlotte sat on the bed and stared up at Ian, a bit scared judging by her wide-eyed expression.
William listened.
“…outcasted if you ever so much as go near him again,” Ian said, bending over so he could speak into her face.
Charlotte lowered her eyes, saying nothing. With her head tilted downward and to the side like that, her hair draped over her shoulders and nightgown, she looked like a sad little girl getting yelled at by an overbearing father.
William felt his chest go tight with anger. He gritted his teeth.
“I see how you look at him. Why am I even wasting my time with you, Charlotte? Huh? You should hear how Pete and the rest talk about you. No one wants to be with you except me. They all want Arielle. Even Michael wants Arielle. Don’t you get that?”
“So, if no one wants me,” Charlotte said, “I guess I’m stuck with you. Is that how it is?”
William lost sight of his mother as Ian blocked the keyhole with his pacing. A shiver ran through William. For a moment, he thought Ian would open the door and find him there.
“I knew getting involved with you was a bad idea from the start,” Ian said. “I don’t need this.”
He started toward the door. William drew back, ready to bolt down the hallway. Then his mother whispered something that sounded like “Come here,” and the bedsprings made a creaking sound as she got up.
William peered through the keyhole again. His mother glanced at him, or at least she appeared to—a flash of her dark eyes in his direction—before pulling Ian toward her and kissing him on the lips with a sucking sound.
A cold, slimy unraveling took place in William’s belly. His mouth went dry as he watched.
“Blow out the candles,” Ian said.
The room went dark. William crept back to his bedroom, his mind stewing with emotions that made his stomach feel sick. His dreams that night were scary ones.
Chapter 11
Arielle had loved this song since childhood. She knew every word and could even match the singer’s voice if she put some effort into it. It was “I’m Making Believe” by Ella Fitzgerald and The Ink Spots.
In the half-lit café, as the music drifted out of the ancient jukebox, she felt slightly more at ease. Her talk with Peter had gone well. He’d accepted the fact she wasn’t ready to take the next step in their relationship—though not without his usual dramatic display of masculinity, which involved starting his motorcycle and driving it away as loudly as possible.
But Peter wasn’t the onl
y boy on her mind. That rainy evening with Michael still haunted her. She hadn’t exactly seen the memory that had traumatized him as a child, but she had heard the voices, the screams, even smelled the blood. Michael had hurt someone very badly, though it hadn’t been his fault. He’d probably hurt lots of people.
So angry. He was the angriest person she’d ever connected with. But it must have been why Blake brought him here—to help him grow out of that. Arielle would help him, too, just as she had helped so many others around town. A person’s past was just memories, and she knew—having spent way too much time around telepaths—that memories could be suppressed, altered, and overcome. No matter what those men had done to him, Michael could still be happy.
“I’m making believe,” she sang as she wiped down the back counter, “that you’re in my arms…”
A violent rapping noise came at the front door, a set of knuckles against a loose pane of glass that needed to be repaired. Arielle’s breath caught in her throat. It was Warren and Elkin, grinning like a couple of teenage punks, probably drunk off moonshine from the still they ran in one of the barns.
“We’re closed,” she shouted.
Warren knocked again, slowly and deliberately, eyeing her the whole time without blinking. He was going to break that pane of glass if he kept it up. His face twisted into a sinister smile.
“Go away,” Arielle said, taking a few steps toward the back door. But running would prove useless. If they wanted, they could always dash around the building and catch up to her. She might as well face them. “Please, just go away.”
Warren took something out of his pocket. It was starting to get dark outside, and she could barely see what he was doing. At this hour, only a few streetlamps were lit. The dim light inside the café was the single bulb she kept alive with leftover energy drawn from the generator out back. The bulb cast an eerie glow over the glass in the door, making Elkin and Warren seem to shimmer as Warren did something to the door handle that made it rattle. Was he picking the lock?
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