I was still stuck with a choice: I could run and hide, or I could keep looking for others like me.
Mr. Ulrich said they’d used genetic testing to find me, but I didn’t have access to that kind of technology. I had a built-in radar for other hosts of the fallen angels, but I would have to be very close to sense them. I wouldn’t know whether they were part of the Grigori organization, or on their own like me, until it was too late.
I didn’t know how I was going to find any others, but I spent the next hour going over different possibilities.
The last thought I had that night was my father might still have a locker at the fire station. The key looked similar to one I had used for my padlock at school.
I knew Chief Vogel had spoken with Mr. Ulrich. If I just showed up, the fire chief would probably turn me in. I would have to sneak in and look around, somehow, and rely on my supernatural intuition to keep me from being caught.
I decided I would have to risk going there tomorrow.
Tonight, I was far too tired. Wrapped in my father’s blanket, I let sleep claim me.
I was plagued with nightmares of being chased and hunted like an animal. Once caught, I was gutted and…
A sharp cramp woke me, and I shot up. The ability was warning me of danger.
I got out of bed and into the hall, holding my breath and listening.
Someone knocked on the apartment door, and I just about jumped out of my skin.
“Mr. Dawson? It’s Nelly McGuire from next door. Are you home? When did you get back from Arizona?”
A moment later, as I raced toward the back door, heading for the fire escape, I heard her ask, “And why do you have my tomato plant on your patio?”
Chapter Fifteen
I waited across the street from the fire station at a public park.
Even in the small hours of the night, the station had a lot of people inside on the night shift. There were several lights on in various windows, and quite often, I saw people moving about.
There was no way I was going to be able to sneak inside without someone noticing me.
Starting to feel my frustration level rising, I convinced myself that I would have to take a chance that no one on the night shift knew who I was. Maybe I could talk my way into getting into the locker area.
I stood up, but then stopped before going toward the station. Every story I came up with either would sound lame or would come across as an obvious lie. No one would believe I wanted a tour at this time of night, and if I told them I was in danger, they might end up calling the police.
A tingle on the back of my neck caught my attention. I didn’t know what kind of opportunity was opening up, but I was determined to take advantage of it the moment I knew what it was.
The lights in the fire station all turned on, and the garage door rattled as it rolled open. Inside, one of the trucks rumbled to life as half a dozen fire fighters scrambled aboard.
The siren wailed as the truck pulled out of the garage and drove off.
I crossed the street, watchful for anyone looking in my direction. Less than a minute after the fire truck had exited, the garage door began to close. I couldn’t see anyone inside; it must have been on an automatic timer.
I quickened my pace and ducked in well before the door closed.
Careful to remain silent, I hurried to the back of the large garage area, spying the locker room.
I could feel the rush of blood pumping through my heart, and the roaring in my ears. It was all I could do to slow my breathing and calm myself.
When I was certain no one else was around, I read the names on the lockers. Toward the back, I found one that was labeled, ‘Dawson’.
I took the key out of my pocket and tried it in the lock. It slid in without resistance. With a quick twist, I opened the padlock and removed it. The locker door swung open.
Aside from a fire fighter’s jacket, pants, boots, and hat, the only other object I saw was a small folder on the top shelf. I drew it out and looked inside.
It was filled with reports and charts. As I flipped through them, I ground my teeth. All this effort and I had come to another dead end.
My hands were shaking with frustration, and I almost dropped the folder. Then I spotted the last piece of paper at the back. It was a little grayer than the others, and when I pulled it out, I realized it was a newspaper clipping.
My stomach churned when I read it.
It was a ten-year-old article about a house fire in Middleton. A middle-aged couple had been killed, and the only survivor was their daughter, who was arrested for setting the fire. There was a picture of the redheaded woman I had seen with my father when he’d been shot by the sheriff. Darcy Anderson was her name, according to the article.
Suddenly, it all snapped into place. I remembered all the talk I’d overheard about the ‘firebug’—Darcy—the burned-down motel, and the garage fire.
Under any other circumstances, I would have come to the conclusion that she was what everyone else thought, an arsonist. Why would my father come to her aid, then? There had to be something extraordinary about her.
I remembered the fiery explosion that came moments after my father had been shot, which had prompted the river water to erupt and form a protective shield around me.
Was it possible that it hadn’t been a gas leak, that it was the woman who had caused it? Did she have a power like me, like Jenny, like Thomas and all the other Grigori? Was that why my father had an article about her in his locker?
I had decided to avoid Middleton after escaping Anak Acres, but now I realized that if I wanted more answers, I would have to go there and ask, not about my father, but about Darcy Anderson.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a deep voice roared, shocking me out of my thoughts.
My stomach had been rumbling the entire time I was in the fire station. There wasn’t any way for me to know the source of danger. The intuition didn’t give me clear signals.
Chief Vogel, eyes puffy from sleep, his hair still wet from a shower, stood in the doorway to the locker room. In one hand, he held a tall paper cup of coffee; in the other he had a set of keys.
He recognized me a split-second later, and pointed at me with the hand holding the coffee.
There was only one exit, and he was blocking it.
I concentrated on the cup in his hand. The plastic lid popped open under the pressure of the coffee, and the hot liquid splashed over his fingers.
The chief yelped and dropped the cup. Coffee spilled everywhere.
I burst into action, trying to run past him and out the door, but he reacted too fast. Reaching out with his other arm, he grabbed me around the waist and lifted me off my feet.
Though I kicked and pried at his arm, I couldn’t break his hold on me.
He dragged me to a bench and threw me down onto it.
“You stay right there,” he said, holding a hand out in front of me.
I had no way to escape. He was too big and too strong.
When I let out a deep sigh and let my shoulders slump, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in three digits.
* * *
My powers were useless to me unless I learned how to interpret them.
Sitting in the cage at the police station with five other women the rest of the night and most of the morning, I had plenty of time to think.
There were obvious limits to my ability. The intuition would not predict the future for me; it seemed to give me a nudge in one direction or the other, and only for things that were happening at the moment. There wasn’t a lot of lead-time, either; sometimes I only had moments to make a decision.
In Middleton, the stomach cramp happened a few seconds before Mr. Ulrich showed up at the bathroom door in the medical center. At Anak Acres, I felt the warning before I got into the truck—the conflict between the Anakim and Jethro was already happening. In my father’s apartment, the cramp woke me from sleep just as his neighbor knocked on the door.
When the tickling sensation let me know which semi truck was heading for Denver, it must have been already scheduled for the trip.
It was easy to misunderstand the sensations. At the locker in the fire station, I was in constant danger of being caught. There was no way to tell what, specifically, was going to happen. I had stopped paying attention to the sensation; that was when the fire chief showed up.
I couldn’t rely too much on the ability. If I got a warning, I would still have to use my brain to figure out what it was trying to tell me.
While the intuition was at times unclear, the other ability was very controllable. I could manipulate water and, as with the coffee, anything that had a lot of water in it.
That ability wasn’t going to do me much good in jail. Even if I wanted to cause the one shared toilet in the cage to overflow, or direct the water to pour into the lock on the door and open it, the last thing I wanted was five witnesses. Besides, there were security cameras all over the place, and a cop just down the hall.
I didn’t want to make the news; not like Darcy Anderson. Obviously, her reputation had stayed with her over the past ten years. On the other hand, that reputation had helped my father find her.
What had happened in the days before their deaths? What had they done to cause the sheriff to shoot my father? Why had Darcy Anderson blown herself up like that?
There were too many questions. If I wanted answers, I would have to figure out a way to escape from the police and make my way back to Middleton.
It was near noon when the young police officer on watch appeared. I’d hoped he was bringing lunch, but all he carried in his hands was a clipboard. He tapped the edge of it against one of the bars.
“Serena Rogers.”
The other girls ignored him, but I looked up at the mention of my name.
The officer grabbed a key from the chain hanging off his belt and unlocked the door.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Where?” I asked.
“Out.” Waving his hand at me to step out of the cell, he said. “The charges have been dropped. You’re free to go.”
“How?” I stood up. “Who?”
“Don’t know; don’t care. Now, are you going to come with me, or do you want to spend the rest of the day socializing?”
Had the fire chief changed his mind? He’d been very upset about me breaking into the station and rifling through the lockers. When the police had arrested me, his look of disapproval seemed very real. Maybe someone had let him know that I was Neil Dawson’s daughter, and he’d decided to cut me a break.
As I stepped out of the cell and waited for the officer to lock it behind us, my breath caught in my throat. My stomach twisted in warning, and I knew it wasn’t Chief Vogel who’d had the charges dropped.
I could only think of one other possibility. Mr. Ulrich had tracked me down, somehow. He was here to collect me.
Suddenly, I didn’t want to find out who was waiting for me. I wanted to run in the opposite direction.
As if sensing my intention, the officer wrapped a strong hand around my arm.
“What’s the matter with you? You’re free to go.”
“Then let me go,” I said. “Let me go out the back, or something.”
“You need to be processed out,” he said.
“You don’t understand.” I tried to twist my arm out of his grip, but he held on tighter. “I can’t go back there.”
“Back where?”
“The camp.”
The officer gave me a confused look. “What are you talking about?”
Then he said something I never expected: “Your father is here to pick you up and take you back home.”
Chapter Sixteen
I must have heard the officer wrong. My father was dead. I’d seen him die right in front of my eyes.
Numbly, I let the cop drag me out of the jail area and into the front room. It was then that I realized I should have fought tooth and claw to escape.
Leaning on the counter in the waiting room, looking like he’d spent the night sleeping in his clothes and forgotten to take a shower, my stepfather raised his head and smiled when he spotted me.
“Here she is, Mr. Channing,” the officer said. “She’s all yours.”
I dug my heels in and tried to break my arm free. “No. He’s not my father. You don’t understand. He tried to kill me.”
The officer held on to me, his grip tight. “Stop it.”
“I told you,” my stepfather said. “She’s off her meds.”
“You can’t let him take me,” I said. “He killed my mother.”
“Oh,” the officer snapped back, “which is it? Did he try to kill you, or your mother? Who else did he try to kill?”
“It’s all right, officer.” My stepfather motioned for him to bring me closer. “As soon as I get her back to the Center, she’ll calm right down.”
I cried, “Why don’t you believe me?”
Instead of answering, the officer pulled me the rest of the way through the office to the front counter. I leaned over and bit his hand.
With a yowl, he pulled his hand away. I turned to run, but he was faster. He wrapped his arm around my waist and picked me up off the floor.
“Try that again,” he said in a growl, “and I’ll throw you back.”
“Do it! Please!”
He shook his head. “Crazy.”
Two other officers approached. One of them had a smirk on his face. “You need help with the little kid, Officer Wayne?”
My stepfather put up a hand to stop everyone. “Maybe if you let me have a moment with her, I can get her to calm down.”
The third cop pointed to a door off to the side. “You can use the interview room. If she doesn’t cooperate, we’ll have to restrain her.”
“That won’t be necessary. I just need a few minutes.”
The young officer who still had me in his arms off the ground carried me to the room. He shoved me inside so hard I was barely able to catch myself from falling against a table.
Before I could recover and try to race back out, my stepfather filled the doorway with his bulky frame.
The officer glanced at my stepfather. “If you need assistance, just knock.”
“I’m sure we’ll be just fine.” My stepfather stepped inside and closed the door.
“You here to finish the job?” I said accusingly, my eyes brimming with tears of rage and fear.
Several seconds passed before he slowly shook his head. “Not at all. As a matter of fact, I care very much about keeping you alive and healthy. After all, I’m now your legal guardian.”
“What?”
“With your poor mother gone, your only living relatives are her parents. Well, they’re too old to take care of you, and they’ve both signed the documents.”
“What documents? Why aren’t you in jail for killing my mother?”
“I didn’t kill your mother,” he said, in an oddly patient voice. “It was an accident. I’ve been cleared of all charges.”
“How is that possible?” The hatred I had for the man doubled, now that he’d gotten away with it. Maybe he hadn’t set out to kill her, but when he’d been coming after me, the only thing that stopped him was my mother. It had happened fast, but I was more than familiar with my stepfather’s temper. It was in his nature to lash out first and be sorry later.
That the police had decided he wasn’t at fault only made me realize how stupid and corrupt they were.
“After the cops arrested me,” Dwight said, “a lawyer I never seen before showed up and said he was going to fix everything for me. All I had to do was help them with you. They got me set up as your legal guardian and everything. This morning, I got a call that you’d run away—again!—but they knew where you were. I just had to come and get you.”
“What lawyer?” I knew the answer before he said it.
“He works for some company named Grigori Ventures. Whatever the hell that means. I don’t really give a shit. You
see, all I got to do is deliver you, and they’ll pay me ten grand.”
“Now you’re going to sell me to them?”
“That’s what the deal was,” he said. “But that’s not what I’m gonna do.”
I felt a chill run through me. “What are you going to do?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about you ever since I got out of jail and got my good name cleared. I keep checking in with that Aaron Ulrich of yours—turns out, he works for them, too—and I overheard him on the phone when he was reporting in. It seems there’s a reason him and his friends want you.” The smile stretched across his face. “Scratch tickets, huh? You got a system, do you?”
“And you want me to work with you?”
“You need a partner. We could make a lot more than ten grand,” he said, cocking his head in question. “Whadya say? Can we put the past behind us? Help each other out, here?”
I waited for my gut to clench, or my neck to tickle, but my powers were silent. I would have to rely on my own intuition.
If there was anything I could count on when it came to my stepfather, it was his greed.
I nodded. “Fine.” I folded my arms across my chest. Dwight could think whatever he wanted, that I was going to go along with his lame plan, but I was going to make a break for it the first chance I got. “But if you lay a hand on me ever again, you’ll be sorry.”
Smiling, he knocked on the interview room door for the officers to let us out.
* * *
Once we left the station, we got into a beige sedan that had a rental sticker on the back bumper. I caught a faint whiff of alcohol and stale fast food, and cracked open the window as Dwight pulled the car away.
It only took us an hour to get through Denver’s traffic, and when I realized we were heading west, I asked, “Where are we going?”
“Where else?” he said. “Vegas.”
“Why?”
Dwight put the car on cruise control. He seemed to recline into the seat as if it were his favorite chair from back in the trailer.
“Can you do anything else besides scratch tickets?” he asked. “I think there’s more to this scam of yours besides being a good guesser.”
“What makes you say that?”
The Complete Book Of Fallen Angels Page 70
