by Jeff Altabef
“You certainly do,” he grumbles.
“I’ll leave you to your friends, Juliet.” Ayden turns and leaves.
“I wonder how he got that scar,” Marlon says.
Ella stomps down hard on his foot. “Ouch,” he says and hops on one foot. “Why’d you do that?”
“I imagine he got that scar in prison,” I say.
“Well, he seems nice to me. It’s great that he’s back and wants to connect.” Ella shoots Marlon a dangerous look, and he retreats a step back. “When are you going to be sprung?”
“I don’t know. I still have a little fever. And you know my mom. She quarantined me last year, thinking I had the chicken pox when a few freckles showed up.” I would probably be leaving tonight if it weren’t for the voices.
How long do they lock you up for hearing voices?
Locked up might be a little dramatic, but that’s what it feels like.
We chat for a few minutes, but Ella gets antsy, shifting her weight on her feet and looking around. I can’t blame her. I hate hospitals too, so I take pity on her and fake a yawn. “I’m getting a little tired. The doctor gave me some sleeping pills a little while ago, and they seem to be kicking in.”
Ella jumps at the bait. “We’d better roll.” She leans toward me and rubs my arm. “Besides, you don’t have any more food left for Marlon. If we stay much longer, he’ll be forced to eat the tray.”
Marlon waves and they rush from the room.
After Ella and Marlon leave, Troy slides to my bedside. “I’m sorry I jumped on Ayden. He helped us, but that’s not enough for me to trust him.” Troy frowns and looks at me with wide, soft eyes. “Some guys just aren’t meant to be dads.”
He’s talking about his own father. “Is your dad still hassling you?” I don’t know when we agreed hassling was our code word for beating, but I can’t say beating and I thought things had improved between them.
Troy shakes his head, but his eyes are sad. “He hasn’t touched me since my fourteenth birthday. You remember the rock climbing accident when I broke my arm.”
I nod. I’m the only one besides Troy who knows the truth.
“Birthdays were always the worst for me. I don’t know why. Maybe they remind him that I was born. He thinks I’m just a leech that sucks away his money and his life. I’ve heard him argue with my mom enough times about it when he’s drunk. I’ll leave that house soon, maybe live above my uncle’s garage. I’d have left already if it wasn’t for my mom. She’s begged me to stay.”
He shrugs. “Jake spoke to my dad the day after my fourteenth birthday. They were sitting close together in my living room, and since then he hasn’t hit me once. I don’t know what he said or did, but that was the last time my father’s hassled me or my mom.”
My heart swells. I had no idea Sicheii spoke to Troy’s dad. He does many things as a medicine man, but that’s his world, not mine. “I wonder what he told him.”
“Maybe he threatened him with an antique hatchet?” Troy shoots me a half smile. “Just go slow with Ayden. Not all dads are good.”
Troy is only being protective, and I love him for it. “Ayden was a drug dealer and has a slippery past. I’ll take it snail like slow with him. He has to earn my trust also.”
Troy nods, and his eyes widen and moisten. A thick silence separates us. “I should have done a better job of protecting you. I don’t want to think about what could’ve happened.” He reaches over and sweeps a strand of hair from my eyes. When his fingers brush against my forehead, a jolt of electricity pricks me.
Does he feel the same thing?
“I can’t believe that guy flattened me with one swing of the flashlight. I’m such a loser.”
“He hit you on your weak spot. You’ve always had a glass nose.” I smile and suddenly wish I looked better and straighten the blanket again. “Did you meet Sicheii at Slippery River like he said in the note?”
Troy shakes his head. “When they released me from the hospital, they were worried I might have had a concussion. Mom went all smothery on me. She wouldn’t let me leave her sight until my uncle grabbed me at two to work in his garage. He promised to keep an eye on me for the rest of the day. By the time I got to the garage, it was too late to go to the river.”
“I don’t know, Troy. The evidence is starting to pile up against Sicheii. The twisted arrows seem like trouble to me. Whatever secrets they’re hiding, they seem willing to kill to protect them.”
A nurse walks past the empty doorway.
“I hope he hasn’t done something we’ll all regret.”
The time on the television reads nine forty-five. I chased Mom and Ayden from the hospital for the night a few minutes earlier. She wanted to stay, but I threw her out. I really don’t need her hovering over me, fussing about what I’ve eaten or haven’t eaten, and she could use the rest. Besides, every time I look at her, I think about those letters she hid from me and my blood heats up. She started to protest, but Ayden took my side and we teamed up against her.
“Let’s talk about these noises you’ve been hearing, Juliet.” Doctor Dan sits with his back toward the window, his clipboard flat on his lap. A brown crumb probably left over from his dinner is tangled in his beard, hanging precariously on the left side of his mouth.
“When are the noises loudest?” Doctor Dan slides his chair next to my bed by shuffling his feet forward. The chair scratches against the floor.
“Usually when I’m angry.”
Doctor Dan scribbles on his clipboard. “Good. That should narrow it down.”
I smile. “Not so much. I’m angry a lot.”
“Oh.” He frowns and the sudden downturn of his lips frees the crumb. “Are they louder when you’re near other people or when you’re alone?”
I hesitate for a second, having never thought about that before. “Always when other people are around. Usually the more people, the louder they get.” They were blood spurting from my eardrums loud the other day when plenty of people crowded around me.
I want to ask him why he calls these sounds noises instead of voices, but I’m uncertain what rules govern our relationship. He must have recognized the expression on my face because he pauses and leans back in his chair. His green eyes are flecked with gray. They seem intelligent and earnest at the same time. “This is a two-way conversation. You are allowed to ask questions.”
“I notice you don’t refer to these sounds as voices. You call them noises. Why?”
He tugs on his beard. “That’s because I don’t know what they are yet. Usually when people hear voices, the voices are their subconscious telling them to do something, like some course of action they really want to take, but are afraid to. In your case, the sounds are not decipherable. Therefore your subconscious isn’t suggesting you do anything. Your situation doesn’t fit the normal scenario. These noises might not be voices at all. I’m not quite sure what they are yet.”
“Is that really bad?” I whisper.
“It is neither bad nor good at this point. We will have to discover what’s going on together.”
“Argh. I just want to fit in and be normal.”
“Normal how?” He fiddles with his beard. “Bartens normal, or the normal life you had before you went to the private school?”
That’s a great question. I wish I knew. “Beats me. I just want the noises to go away and for me to be normal like everyone else.”
“There is no such thing as normal, Juliet. It’s a fallacy, a fiction created by Hollywood or school or church or whatever. I’m sure a normal teenaged girl would never have escaped that van. Let’s do away with normal as our goal, shall we. We are all unique. It’s important we embrace our uniqueness and understand who we are.”
Funny, but I could imagine Sicheii saying the same thing.
He leans forward. “Let’s try something different. Accept the noises in your head. Don’t try to make them into voices, but listen closely and tell me if any ideas form in your mind.”
I nod, al
though my skin turns clammy. It seems strange to make the noises louder. I want them to disappear, and this feels like we’re headed the wrong way on a one-way street. Still, I follow his instructions and concentrate on the sounds in my mind. The noise is not particularly loud, so I attempt to turn up the volume. It feels weird trying to understand the sounds as opposed to stifling them. The harder I concentrate, the louder the noise gets. I pinch my forehead tight and start sweating. The noise is just outside of my comprehension. It’s maddening.
“Don’t try to make the sounds into a voice, Juliet. Envelop them and embrace them.”
I do just that. I stop turning up the volume and start sculpting the sounds in my head as if they’re made of clay. I mold them, playing with them, probing them, twisting them. The number eight flashes in my mind, and I open my eyes. I didn’t even realize they were shut.
“Yes, Juliet?” One of his bushy eyebrows arches upward.
“I don’t know, Doctor Dan, it’s probably nothing.” I feel stupid. What does the number eight have to do with anything?
“Tell me what you saw. There’s no wrong answer.”
“The number eight flashed in my mind.” I shake my head, confident I sound foolish. “I must have imagined it.”
Doctor Dan’s eyes twinkle brighter. He slowly reaches into his lab coat and pulls out an origami swan matching the one Sicheii had left for me at home the other day. He holds the paper steady in the palm of his hand.
“This is for you.”
I look at the paper bird and back at him. “Where’d you get the swan?”
“An old friend gave it to me. It’s for you. Take it.” He slides his hand closer to me.
I don’t want it. “How do you know Sicheii?”
“That’s not important.” He nods at the swan and encourages me to grab it.
I reach out and take the paper bird softly between my fingers.
He immediately rises. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns and leaves me alone without waiting for me to open the message and without giving me a chance to ask any more questions.
I stare hard at the figure in my hand. I’m not sure what to expect. Part of me imagines that the stupid thing will start moving on its own, but the laws of nature still hold. There’s no magic at work here. The bird just sits uncomfortably in my hand, unreasonably heavy.
I start to feel foolish. It’s just a note from my grandfather. It cannot harm me. Perhaps it will offer some new evidence or explanation about the murders. Maybe the message proves his innocence.
Just staring at the thing is not an option, so I unfold it and find Sicheii’s fine handwriting on the inside of the white paper.
Little Bird:
The Great Wind Spirit has blown. It is up to us to understand what she wants and to do her bidding. Our time has come.
The correct answer is eight.
Love,
Sicheii
The correct answer is eight.
How did he know the number eight would flash in my mind? What is he talking about with the Great Wind Spirit? He looks to many spirits as guides. The one he thinks is most powerful is the Wind Spirit. But what does that particular spirit have to do with these murders and me?
I read the note again and my gaze sticks on the dime-sized circle with twisted lines after his name. I move the paper close to my eyes. I’m certain it’s meant to be the twisted arrows. What type of weird society did Sicheii join, and why am I in the middle of it? I crumple up the swan in my hand. I had expected, even hoped for some answers, and all I get are more questions.
The time for questions runs short. Whether Sicheii likes it or not, I’m going to find some answers.
Dreams scare me. Not like clowns for some people or spiders or close spaces or heights, but they still scare me. The idea that my subconscious lives a separate life while I sleep freaks me out. It’s hard enough to manage one life. Do I really need another?
Hospital rooms are a fertile ground for dreams. The same nightmare keeps replaying in my mind in a freakish loop.
I’m late for class. When I enter the classroom, everyone is sitting at his desk. Ms. Arnold points to a seat up front, her face angry and tight. She hands me a test. I forgot about the exam and didn’t study. Morgan and Tiffany snicker from the back row. I slouch and glance at the paper. The words are written in an ancient Native American language I don’t understand. Katie sits next to me and she’s busy filling in the bubbles. I don’t know what to do. That’s when I wake in a sweat, feeling unprepared for upcoming events.
When I open my eyes, Katie is standing by my bed. She stares at me, holding the string for a Mylar Dora the Explorer Get Well balloon. For a second, I think I’m still dreaming. She waves at me with a stiff shake of her hand, looking painfully nervous. The balloon bobs up and down with each flick of her hand. Her Bartens uniform fits snugly, as if she’s gained a few pounds since I last saw her.
“I guess they let anybody in here.” I sit up.
She smiles shyly and ties the balloon to the foot of the bed.
“You brought me a Dora balloon?”
“I remembered those pictures of you with a Dora backpack when you were a kid. When I saw it at the gift shop, it seemed perfect.” Katie beams at me.
“You’re the best!” I smile. “It is perfect!”
“They almost didn’t let me in.” Katie brings her hands to her hips. “One nurse wasn’t too happy about me visiting you.”
“Tough. I’m happy you’re here.”
She tentatively walks to the side of the bed, her eyes curious. She’s studying me, wondering if anything is seriously wrong. You can’t see voices from the outside, so I figure I’ll pass her inspection.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice quiet.
“I’m fine.” I shrug. “I should be released in no time.”
“Did someone really try to kidnap you?” Katie’s eyes widen and her skin turns pale. When her father was first suspected of fraud, many death threats were levied against her family. They hired the best private security team, but the money ran dry. Now only one bodyguard follows her dad around all day.
I nod and tell her about the murders, the ill-advised trip to Roundtree’s house, Ayden’s rescue, the letters, and even my conversation with Ayden about his drug dealing past.
Her skin becomes paler as the story goes on. When I finish, she’s turned ghost white. “I can’t believe your mom hid those letters from you. That’s awful.”
I eagerly agree with her. After a series of questions about my father, most of which I can’t answer, she says, “At school, they told us Mr. Cordingly died during a robbery attempt. They’re having a memorial for him today. They didn’t say it was connected to what happened to you.”
“That’s a shame. I wish I could go. He died protecting me.... He was a true hero.”
“I guess you never really know about people. Sometimes they do surprising things.” A faraway look settles in her eyes. She could be talking about Mr. Cordingly or my mother, but she’s thinking about her father.
She starts gnawing on her nails. “You know how I tell everyone that my dad is innocent?” She glances at me and I nod my head. “Truth is, I don’t know. Lots of evidence is piling up against him, and I overheard him talking to his lawyer last week.”
She looks up at me. Her hands shake, and I grab them. They’re ice cold. “And he said—”
Her eyes moisten. “They were talking about countries without extradition treaties.” She pulls her hands from mine and wrings them together. “My dad’s thinking about running to Croatia.”
I want to say something to lessen the hurt, but my mind is a blank. After all, what do I know about fathers? I just stare at her quietly instead and wait. Sometimes just being there is all you can do. I hope it’s enough.
It takes a minute for her to return to the present when she wipes the tears from her eyes with the back of her hands and refocuses on me. “I found the article you wanted.” She removes a folded piece of
paper from her pocket and hands it to me. “Someone deleted it from The Sentinel’s server after it was posted in the archives. I hacked into their system and retrieved the original article. It’s not long.”
I had forgotten she was going to dig it up. I unfold the sheet of paper.
“A secret society among the local Native American population has long been rumored to exist. The above photograph was taken at one of their secret meetings. The leader of the society is apparently Charles Roundtree or “Old Man Roundtree,” as he is called among his followers. The existence of the society is not surprising, as rumors go back for decades about their organization, but their purpose is truly shocking. They call themselves the Order of the Twisted Arrows. Stay tuned to my column as I detail their history and their dark purpose in the days ahead.”
The article is nothing more than a teaser, but my eyes focus on the words “their purpose is truly shocking.” Cold sweat breaks out on my face.
What did Dent uncover, and did the secret kill him?
I glance up at Katie. “It looks like there was more to this story. Did you find anything else?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing else shows up on their server about this society or on the Internet. Apparently, only this article was ever reported.”
“I’m not surprised. The reporter died in a car crash the day after it was published.”
Katie’s mouth momentarily flutters open. “You don’t think this secret society really exists, do you?”
I consider telling Katie about the tattoos and the twisted arrows symbol that keeps popping up, but I don’t want to involve her so directly in this mess. Besides, I have no idea what the symbol means, and she has so many other things to worry about with her dad. I simply say, “I’m not sure. With Sicheii anything is possible.”
“You don’t think your grandfather has anything to do with these murders, do you? He owns the most successful gallery in Old Town.” Katie is always very conscious of what people do. She still has a hard time believing successful people can be criminals. I’m sure it’s her upbringing. Mine is very different. Sicheii taught me to look past appearances and focus on the person underneath.
