"Decaffeinated?" he asked cautiously.
"Nah—I like my caffeine." She made a face. "Why have a cola without caffeine? You might as well not bother."
He answered her face with one of his own. "Whereas I like to sleep at night. No, really, I'm allergic to caffeine. Daiquiris will be fine."
She pointed out the bag on the TV cabinet. "So. Pick the movie you want to see and get it ready—I'll do the daiquiris."
She vanished into the little apartment kitchen. Mac pulled three clear plastic boxes out of the paper bag she'd indicated and studied the titles. He grinned as he peered at the first label. The Man With One Red Shoe.
He'd seen that one at least a dozen times. He closed his eyes, replayed the opening credits, recalled the slinking, skullduggerous beat of the score, and chuckled softly. Tom Hanks, Lori Singer, Carrie Fisher, Dabney Coleman, Charles Durning and Jim Belushi. A casting miracle, and a great script, and hilarious, too; elvish nominee for an all-time Oscar. He put the movie on top of Lianne's VCR. Probably that one, he decided.
Violent machinery sounds ground out from the kitchen. Mac's smile took on a bemused air. What was she doing in there? Was that making daiquiris? It sounded more like chainsawing down a Buick. He shrugged. The ways of humans were inscrutable.
He glanced at the next title she'd rented. He liked Bette Midler a lot, and Danny DeVito—nasty little man, in this one at least—was well cast. Ruthless People wasn't quite in the same league as her first choice, but on the whole, he approved.
When he saw what her third pick was, though, he dropped the other two movies back in the bag without another thought. He put that cassette into the VCR's slot, checked to make sure it was rewound—gloating all the while at his competence with human machinery—and flashed a Cheshire grin at Lianne when she came out of the kitchen with a mammoth bowl of popcorn balanced in the crook of her elbow and a bright pink daiquiri in either hand.
"Strawberry," she said. "Fresh strawberries my mom picked and dropped off yesterday."
"Sounds tasty." It did—and it smelled tasty, as well. The fresh strawberry-smell was mouthwatering.
She smiled at his expression. "I already tried mine. It's pretty good. I can't think of a better combination than strawberries and popcorn. So—what are we watching?"
He set the bowl of popcorn and one of the frothy pink drinks on her coffee table, and hit the on button of the remote. "Just wait and see." He favored her with a sly smile.
"I rented them, you doofus. I already know what the choices are." When he still wouldn't tell her, she rolled her eyes and snorted. "Mysterious men just give me goosebumps."
* * *
Belinda sat on the berm of the dark, lonely road, reloading the chamber of her handgun and wishing Mac were standing in front of her so she would have a target. Reloading was mostly an excuse to sit down for a minute. After all, she'd only used the one bullet. But she'd been hiking along the road for nearly an hour and a half. Her feet hurt, she was tired, she was pissed off, and she really would have liked to have taken time for a good long scream, but that wasn't practical.
Besides, police training had left an indelible mark on her subconscious when it came to firearms. She firmly believed that one empty chamber would be the one she needed—so it would never, never stay empty.
I hate him, she thought, rage coloring everything she did. If he wasn't worth a ruddy fortune to me alive, I'd kill that two-bit jock just for the fun of it.
But he'd proven to her that he was exactly the person she was looking for. His psychic tricks verged on the magical—that vanishing act, even more than the business he'd pulled with his car doors—had guaranteed his fate in Belinda's book. That slimy little shit Tanbridge would be willing to pay through the nose for Mac Lynn. And soon. Real soon—because her patience wasn't going to hold out much longer.
She sighed and got up. She was spending a lot of time walking on this job—something she would pay Mac Lynn back for. At least this time when he stranded her, she hadn't been wearing high heels and tight leather pants.
Ten minutes further down the road, after a wide detour past an abandoned house that would have to be repaired before it would even be suitable for ghosts, she spotted a gleam of silver off to her right, reflected in the moonlight. As she drew nearer, the gleam resolved into the shape of a Sunbird.
My car! she thought. I don't believe it!
Suspecting a ruse, she dropped into the woods and edged up to the vehicle from the passenger side, working her way through grass and weeds that reached to the Sunbird's door handles. He hadn't locked the car. She checked for booby traps, held her breath as she opened the passenger door, and—heart racing—eased herself onto the passenger seat and across to the driver's side.
My God, the keys are in it. And the tank still shows half full. She smiled, bemused. I'll be damned. Maybe I won't have to skin the soles of his feet with a rusty knife after all.
She turned the key in the ignition, and the motor kicked right over. She put the car in gear and gave it some gas. It moved—sluggishly—onto the pavement.
Flop-flop-flop-flop, flop-flop-flop-flop.
She hit the brake, turned the motor off, and leapt out.
She stared for a full minute at the car's tires, tires that had been completely hidden by the tall grass. Her anger grew to monumental proportions. In a blind fury, she kicked the door, and screamed "You son-of-a-bitch!" into the empty night.
"I'll kill you," she ranted. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you! I don't need the money this bad—I don't need anything this bad. You bastard! You rotten, stinking, stupid, sneaking bastard!"
She stared at her car again, and hot tears of pure rage rolled down her cheeks. The tires—all four of them—were flatter than soggy pancakes.
* * *
After the ordeals of the day, Stranger watched the children with apprehension. They huddled, separate and isolated, in the darkness of the beautiful little-girl room and wept in silent, tearless rage. Her heart went out to them.
Och, if there was but a way to show them each that they are not alone—she thought.
She knew all of them—Anne, battered and abused, always angry, who lived only to deal with the Father in all his giant horror; Abbey, the sheltered, the brilliant, charming scholar who loved learning; Alice, the repressive puritan who hated everything that failed to meet her impossible standards of righteousness—and the silent, frozen, tortured husk that was all that remained of the original Amanda. Each of the first three would acknowledge her presence—none would admit that their "sisters" existed. The three-year-old Amanda was unreachable, hiding forever inside her frozen shell of fear. Amanda would never come out, without a miracle.
But they need each other sa' badly—if they could only come t'gether, they'd be whole again. And then—Stranger stared up at the milky reflection of moonlight on the wall—then they could fight back, couldn't they? For all that they're only children.
Well, then, it's up to me to introduce them, isn't it? A bloody nightmare that's likely to be, but best begun is soonest done.
Abbey was the easiest to reach. She stayed in the frilly pink bedroom, and did not ring her world with guards and traps. Alone of all the girls, she still retained the childish wish to please. She would listen to the ancient voice of Stranger.
:Abbey, can you hear me?:
Abbey, blue-eyed and blond, sniffled and nodded. :Yes, Stranger. Wh-what do you w-w-want?:
Cethlenn made her thoughts as gentle and persuasive as she could. :I have a surprise for you.:
Abbey perked up a little. :Is it good?: she asked hopefully. She alone of all of them retained the ability to hope.
Stranger reflected on the answer to that and sighed. Was it good that there were four little girls and one ancient Celtic witch living in the body of one child? Probably not—but it felt necessary. Stranger had come late to this little drama. She had her own ideas about what had shaped the weirdling child in whom she found her own spirit suddenly awakened
. She had ideas, too, of what cures there might be.
:Och, it's good enough, I suppose. I've a giftie for you, little Abbey. Secret sisters, hidden from all the world save you. Would you like to be meeting them, then?:
The child pondered. :Are they little kids like Sharon?:
:Not at all,: Stranger assured her. :They are like you—almost magical.:
That was the key word. Abbey's eyes widened. :Oh, yes, Stranger. When can I meet them?:
Cethlenn, the Stranger, smiled grimly. :Come with me, child. I think now would be a good time.: She enveloped Abbey's spirit in her own, and with some difficulty slipped both of them through tiny cracks in the barrier that grew between the children. On the other side, Anne curled in a ball, silent, rocking back and forth, staring at nothing. Anne's world was unremitting gray, with all the shifting featurelessness of unformed nightmare—except for the walls. Everywhere in Anne's world, walls crawled up and up and up until the eye couldn't see any further. They were brick or stone or shiny black glass, but they were everywhere.
When Stranger and Abbey appeared, Anne looked up and shrieked with fear. Her eyes dilated, and she jammed herself up against one of her omnipresent walls.
:Anne, I've brought a friend for you,: Stranger said, her voice soothing. :You don't have to be alone anymore.:
Anne cowered and stared. :A-lone,: she crooned. :A-lone, a-lone, a-lone . . .: Objects materialized in the hazy space that surrounded the three of them and began to spin through the air. Lit cigarettes and burning matches, ropes and riding crops—all took up a stately waltz around Abbey's thin body, then darted in one by one, charging closer and closer to the other child's face. Abbey winced away.
:Stop it, Anne,: Stranger demanded, and moved next to the child under attack. :This is Abbey, your sister.:
:Sis-ter, sis-ter, sis-ter,: the green-eyed child chanted. :I—don't—want—a—sis-ter.:
The flames grew bigger, the coals at the ends of the cigarettes brighter and more menacing. The riding crops became bullwhips that cracked like thunder. The ropes coiled and struck out, serpents of hemp. All of them wove around Stranger and Abbey in a tighter and more lethal dance, faster and faster, until Abbey began to scream.
:Out!: Cethlenn commanded, and with the flick of her fingers, she and Abbey were through the barrier, back in Abbey's safe haven.
Abbey sat on her bed and sobbed, while Cethlenn sat next to her and stroked her hair. :I don't want any more surprises, Stranger,: the child told her gravely.
:No,: Stranger replied softly, :I rather imagine you don't.:
Cethlenn sat, the tearful child cradled in her arms, and stared off into space. Well then, lassie, she thought to herself, will ye be havin' any more bright ideas this evenin'? Let's hope not.
* * *
"I love The Princess Bride. I could watch the sword fight scene all by itself a million times." Lianne snuggled deeper into Mac's shoulder and munched popcorn. On the screen, the fight raged. Inigo made a remark about Bonetti's defense. The Man In Black laughed. The swordsmen battled across the rocks, near the cliff—Inigo switched the sword from his left hand to his right, and the tide of battle turned.
"Probably reminds you of your job," Mac drawled.
Lianne's left eyebrow flickered upward, and she snorted. "I should have it so easy. Even the Fire Swamp and the Rodents of Unusual Size would be a piece of cake compared to fifth grade at Loyd E. Auman."
Mac punched a button on the remote and the TV went off.
"Hey," Lianne yelped. "You can't turn off The Princess Bride!"
He turned to her wearing the most serious expression he could muster. "We've already watched the whole movie once and the sword fight three times. Lianne, I want to hear about what happened in your class today. This is important."
Lianne sighed. "I know, but . . ."
He shook his head. "No `buts'."
She considered his expression, then stiffened her shoulders. "Okay. It just sounds ridiculous, but it was real. Stuff was flying around the room, Mac—books, chalk, pens and pencils, paper—it couldn't have been a draft or a breeze. I don't know what it could have been. I have no logical explanation for what happened."
"Life doesn't require a logical explanation, Lianne," he replied as persuasively as he could.
But she shook her head, violently. "Yes, it does. I refuse to sink to the level of the Shirley MacLaines of the world. I don't flitter after every goofball anti-intellectual guru who promises the keys to universe—no math required. I don't approve of all this New Age mumbo-jumbo. The real world doesn't need it. The real world needs mathematicians, scientists, artists, builders, writers, teachers, nurses—the real world doesn't need any more flakes." She drew a deep breath. "There are already enough of those."
Mac grinned wryly and hugged her closer. "Oh, I don't know, baby. I think the real world could use a bit of magic. You know, a few elves and fairies, some bogans to play the bad guys, some ghosties and ghoulies. . . ."
"Life's too short to waste on fantasy," she said, but he could tell she was weakening.
This, from a woman who watches The Princess Bride? "Life's too short to waste on math. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling something." He grinned.
She frowned. "You'd make a great fifth-grader."
"The world will never know." Mac kissed her cheerfully on her nose, then took a more serious tone. "This morning you were as upset by your student, Amanda, as you were by the stuff flying around in your room. Why?"
Lianne rolled over and looked directly into Mac's eyes. "I want to understand what's the matter with her. As a matter of fact, I'm going out to her house on Friday to talk with her folks. You'd know the place, I'll bet. Kendrick's Bal-A-Shar Arabian Stables. I know it is going to sound silly—but you know what bothered me most today? I just had the craziest feeling, with that poltergeist business going on in my classroom, that Amanda was really the one responsible." She stopped and pursed her lips. She was watching him for a reaction. "Now I really sound nuts, huh?"
Mac brushed his finger along the line of her eyebrows and slowly shook his head. "Nope—you sound like you have good instincts."
"You think Amanda might have had something to do with—oh. Stupid me. You're humoring me." She turned her back to him, grabbed the remote control, and turned the TV back on. The Man In Black leapt from the cliff, did one great swing from a vine, followed up with a back-flip, and landed next to the sword he'd tossed point-down into the sand.
"Who are you?" Inigo pleaded.
The Man In Black smiled. "No one of im—"
—Click.
"Don't turn the TV off, Mac," Lianne snapped. "I want to watch this."
He snapped back. "Don't pout. I can't talk to you with the TV on, and I want to discuss this."
She rounded on him, fury in her eyes. "Well, I don't! I don't want to be patronized, I don't want to be humored—I don't want to be remembered as that amusing little schoolteacher you dated once upon a time who had a problem with poltergeists in her classroom and bats in her belfry! I'm going to watch the movie. If you don't want to do that, you can just leave."
I don't want to leave. I had a lot of other plans for this evening, Mac thought, and sighed, mentally. Give up on the child for a moment. Now that I know who and where she is, there are other ways of reaching her.
He slipped his hands under her giant t-shirt and nibbled gently along one side of her neck. He felt her shiver, then start to pull away.
"I wasn't making fun of you. I believe in poltergeists and fairies and—" he dropped his voice to a low whisper "—even elves. I think that part of the universe is real, even if you don't. But you're tired, and you probably want to forget about work for a while. I'm sorry I brought it up. Let's find something else to talk about."
"Like what?" she asked, suspiciously.
He breathed into her ear. "Oh, you—and me—and maybe a little snuggling."
Lianne smiled and rolled over against him. "I have a better idea," she whispered. "Let's
skip the talking entirely."
* * *
It was painfully early. Mac stared at the dull green glow of the alarm clock, then rolled over to look at the woman asleep by his side. She slept on her stomach, the sheet tangled around her knees, her face buried in the crook of her left arm. Her breathing was soft and regular, almost inaudible. Even asleep, she glowed with vitality.
Fascinated, Mac stroked the soft skin of her back and lightly caressed the smooth curves of her buttocks.
She wriggled against his touch, moved closer—and her breathing told him she was awake.
"Hi, there," he chuckled.
She squinched one eye open, smiled at him, and sighed. "Hi, yourself," she said softly. "It isn't time to get up yet, surely?"
"Not really. And don't call me Shirley."
"Oh gawd. It's too early for Zucker jokes."
Lackey, Mercedes - Serrated Edge 04 - When The Bough Breaks Page 7
