by J. S. Bailey
“Dang it, I still don’t have enough tickets to get anything good!” a familiar voice said beside her. “Come on, let’s go play the UFO game again.”
Carly blinked. Standing at her side was her sister Jackie, who had a huge wad of pink tickets bunched up in her hand. “You go play the UFO game,” Carly said. “I want to go try something else.”
Carly’s pulse raced with the realization that she was two Carly Jovingos at the same time: a twenty-one-year-old trapped inside a thirteen-year-old’s body.
Together she and Jackie turned to go back to the gaming area. Several yards away a man and his young children stood in front of an arcade with flashing lights.
“Daddy, show me how to play!” a little girl in pigtails said, standing on her tiptoes to better see the arcade screen. A boy who must have been her younger brother stood beside her wearing a Spiderman shirt and yellow Crocs.
Their father appeared distracted as he dug around in the pockets of his cargo pants. “Hang on a minute, baby. Daddy needs to see how many tokens he has left.”
“Aw, they’re so cute,” Jackie commented, then halted. “Hold on a sec. I want to ask Mom something.”
No. No. Don’t do it.
But there was no stopping it, because this was the past and the past could not be changed.
Jackie let out a funny little noise. Confused, the thirteen-year-old Carly made an about-face to see what the matter was, and her blood ran cold.
A thirtyish woman with dark hair was standing with a gun pointed at the man accompanying the children at the arcade, blind to everything else but them.
“Oh, no,” Jackie whispered as a glint of determination shined in her eyes, so much like their father’s. Then, at the same moment the gun fired, Jackie leapt in front of the woman and collapsed to the floor with the wad of tickets still clutched in her twitching hand.
The memory ended, and Carly was back in the hallway at the nursing home. Beside her, Kevin was sobbing, Lupe was trembling like she’d just faced down a monster, and Phil’s face had gone deathly white.
They were still outside of room 35.
“What happened?” Carly whispered.
Phil cleared his throat, making a visible effort to regain his composure. “Something just made me relive the day Martin died.”
Lupe’s jaw quivered. “I betrayed Randy again.”
“I saw the alley,” Kevin said somewhat enigmatically, though Carly knew that whatever he saw had hurt him, too.
Lupe shook her head as if to clear it and glanced back up at the numbers over the doors. Room 39 was two doors down, and it sat open about an inch, seeming to beckon them. Together, they continued to the door and pushed it open.
I must have no fear.
Carly’s first impression was one of comfort. Faint strains of classical music issued from an iPod dock sitting on a table beside an empty bed. The walls were painted lilac, and here and there copies of famous pieces of art hung on them, including Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
The wide window at the end of the room opposite the door offered a view of a lush courtyard. A fortyish, auburn-haired man in an electric wheelchair sat in front of it facing away from them. “Come in and close the door,” he said, his tone soft.
Phil hesitated, but he clicked the door into place anyway.
Then, ever so slowly, the wheelchair turned to face them.
The man’s limbs appeared frail and immobile, his head leaned back at an odd angle, and Carly saw that he wore some kind of black earpiece like a Bluetooth.
It was Thane.
His eyes shot daggers at them.
Carly saw that his tongue was pierced when he next spoke. “You’ll regret coming here.”
“I don’t understand,” Phil said to Lupe, looking shaken. “How did you know where to find him?”
Lupe cleared her throat. “Graham told me he used to visit this nursing home to keep the residents company. He said he made a new friend here named Nate Bagdasarian. He told me Nate couldn’t stand people who can’t mind their own business.”
Hadn’t Bobby asked about a Nate while they drove to the house where he and Randy subsequently disappeared? “That’s funny,” Carly said, having trouble reconciling the man in the wheelchair with the Thane who’d been haunting her in recent days. “He can’t stay out of ours.”
Lupe continued, speaking to Thane this time. “Your full name is Nathaniel, isn’t it? Nate and Thane are your nicknames.”
Thane’s lip curled. “I can paralyze you the same as I did to him.”
Alarm bells went off in Carly’s head. At one point Phil had mentioned that Graham had been so damaged by his aneurysm that he couldn’t even speak. “We need to get out of here,” she said, wanting to put as much ground between her and Thane as possible.
A spark of amusement lit up Thane’s face. “I can hurt you from anywhere. It’s part of my gift.”
“And what exactly do you call this ‘gift’ of yours?” Phil asked, reaching for his gun.
A non-paralyzed version of Thane appeared two yards in front of the one in the wheelchair. “We call it the gift of Thought.”
Kevin swayed where he stood. “I was right. God help us, I was right.”
Phil pointed the gun at the real Thane’s head. “Tell us where Randy and Bobby have gone.”
Thane’s apparition gave a little sniff. The actual Thane’s eyes were scrunched shut in concentration. “Why should I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you.”
“And risk going to prison for murder? You’ll probably get the chair for that, murdering a poor, innocent cripple who can’t even lift a finger to defend himself.”
Phil seemed to weigh this. Then he lowered the gun and put it back in the holster he hid under his shirt.
“That’s better,” the apparition said with a smile before vanishing.
The real Thane opened his eyes. “So there you have it. I can make you see whatever I want.”
Even though every cell in her body urged her to make a beeline back out to the car, Carly boldly stepped forward. “Why do you do this to people? You have this ability. Why not use it to help people?”
“Because that’s not what it’s for.” A glimmer of malice shined in Thane’s eyes. “You want to know where your friends are? Have the fat one heal me, and I’ll tell you.”
Kevin blanched. “Me? No. I won’t do that. Not for someone like you.”
“I didn’t think you would,” Thane said. “What a pity. That’s fine, though, because my father made me a promise. I’ll walk again when my work here is done.”
At the same moment Carly said, “Your father?” Phil said, “What work?”
Thane just laughed. “I didn’t realize you’d be so eager to learn from me. Very well. Sit down, and I’ll tell you a little story.”
FARLEY—THE GUARD with the gun—ordered Bobby, Randy, and Adrian to take seats in front of the television. Then he moved to the door, blocking their only means of escape.
“Troy made everyone watch a video like this when screening them for membership in this little club,” Jack explained as the DVD began to play. “It was to gauge their reactions and make sure they weren’t undercover. If they were, they would have been killed.”
Bobby’s palms grew sweaty.
Be strong, the Spirit urged.
A bird’s eye view of a bedroom like the one in which they’d found Lily appeared on the screen. A young girl—not Lily—sat on the edge of the bed, and a middle-aged woman came into view holding a knife. The woman swung the knife back and plunged it into the girl’s arm, pinning it to the bed.
Bobby scrunched his eyes shut and received a prompt slap on the back of the head. “None of that,” Jack said. “You’re going to watch this.”
Figuring it was best to obey since doing so might preserve his life, Bobby forced his eyes open and watched the woman tugging the knife out of the girl’s arm. The girl shuddered as blood pooled on the bedclothes, but she put up little r
esistance.
The woman proceeded to stab the girl again, and again after that. Adrian retched, and Randy’s face deepened to a shade of crimson.
Then, abruptly, the video clip ended.
“What are you trying to prove to us?” Bobby managed to say. The image of the suffering child was going to be forever branded in his mind like a burning scar.
“I’m not proving anything. I’m explaining what we do.” Jack folded his hands together in front of him. “Carol, who you just saw in the video, always struggled to contain her violent tendencies. When my dear late boss founded this club, he offered Carol a way to release that energy. Nobody even has to die.”
“Because Vincent heals them,” Bobby said.
“Obviously. You might say this club provides a valuable service. It keeps the violent contained since they can let it all out here without repercussions.”
Randy had murder in his eyes. “Has violent crime gone down since this club opened its doors?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, nor do I care. But I wasn’t finished. Some members are simply voyeurs. That’s what the shows are for. They sit in a theater and watch other members vent their energy onto our subjects.”
“Who Vincent then heals,” Randy said.
Bobby could no longer contain his growing anger. “This is torture you’re talking about! Don’t you even think about what those kids go through?” The girl in the suite acted like part of her was missing. Like she was an empty shell of a person without a life and without hope.
Jack shrugged. “Why should I care?”
Bobby wanted to hurt him. To throw something heavy at him, to put his hands around his neck and squeeze the life out of him.
To shut him in a room like Lily and have a creep come and put an end to him so he could never hurt another soul.
“So what happens now?” Bobby asked, struggling to maintain his composure. Since Jack had admitted what went on here, they would never be allowed to leave.
Jack paced casually back and forth as he spoke. “Troy and I didn’t always see eye to eye. Not everyone here is satisfied with the services offered because they just aren’t quite what some of the clients want.” He turned to the guard. “Farley? Take them to one of the confinement rooms. I have some things to work on.”
The giant guard gave a curt nod and stepped toward Bobby, who flew out of the chair before the guy could get hold of him.
As if he’d been planning it the whole time, Randy jumped up, grabbed his chair, and swung it hard at Farley, who let out a surprised “Oof!” when the chair slammed into him. Farley staggered to the side and pointed his gun at Randy, his finger moving toward the trigger.
“Don’t kill them, you idiot!” Jack screeched as he reached for his own gun. “Our clients can pay us ten grand to do it themselves!”
Not trusting Farley to obey Jack’s command, Bobby dropped to his stomach and crawled around to the other side of the desk, praying that he would find a phone, and fast.
In the front part of the room, Adrian was grunting and huffing as she joined the fray. Another gun fired, nearly making Bobby empty his bladder. Chips of plaster and dust drifted down from the ceiling, and Bobby sneezed.
Crouching behind the desk, Bobby yanked open drawers. Papers, binders, lewd magazines, handcuffs, a packet of Q-tips. Nothing useful here. He forced back the panic that threatened to overtake him, and as he did, a sense of peace trickled into its place like a soothing balm.
Thanks, he thought, feeling strangely detached from the fight occurring only yards away.
All at once he knew he had to reach his arm up above the top of the desk.
Without the slightest bit of worry, he blindly patted around on the smooth surface and felt a box.
He pulled it down and set it in his lap.
It was an old King Edward cigar box. Bobby lifted the lid and blinked.
Nestled inside were his and Randy’s phones as well as the two knives they’d brought with them to the house behind St. Paul’s, all of which must have been confiscated when he and Randy arrived.
Bobby dialed 911 on both cell phones and set them on the floor in the space beneath the desk. Hopefully the cops would be able to trace the origins of the calls, because Bobby didn’t have the faintest idea where the Domus was.
Still maintaining his newfound inner peace, Bobby took a knife in each hand and stood up to assess the situation.
Randy had a struggling Jack in a headlock, and Farley had shoved Adrian up against a wall, his hands squeezing her neck.
Her hands had a death grip on the man’s wrists as she tried to force him off of her.
She might as well have been fighting off a mountain.
Bobby’s vision narrowed to a point. Feeling no fear, he passed Randy and Jack, snuck up behind Farley, and plunged both knives into his back, pulling them out again just as quickly.
The man let go of Adrian with an animal yell and flailed around as blood splattered on the floor.
Adrian rubbed at her neck, which showed signs of bruising.
Bobby ducked a blow from Farley and dashed to one side. He’d thought that stabbing Farley might put him out of action, but it only made him madder. Farley’s eyes blazed, and he lunged at Bobby again with his hands out to choke him, too.
Just as Farley was onto him, Bobby eyed the man’s abandoned gun lying on the floor—it seemed to have been left there just for him.
His stomach squirmed. He didn’t have a problem with hurting someone, but killing them?
No.
Unfortunately, he could see no alternative. Farley was a big guy, and even though he was dripping blood everywhere, he might still have the strength to kill Bobby.
Caleb had warned Bobby to preserve his life at any cost.
Had Caleb known things would come to this?
Eyes stinging, Bobby ducked away from the massive guard, snatched the gun off the floor, and turned it on him.
He pulled the trigger the second Farley’s hand touched his throat. Farley jerked backward, then sat down hard on the floor as blood oozed from the front of his muscle shirt.
Something began ringing far away inside Bobby’s head. This was a terrible mistake. He shouldn’t have done that. He could have just darted past the man and run out into the hallway to get away from him. Nobody should have had to die.
Bobby hunched over and threw up, but it had been so long since he’d eaten that the only thing that came out was acid.
Randy was still struggling with Jack, whose livid eyes bulged out of his head. “A little help here?”
Bobby felt cold inside. “I’m not going to shoot him, too.”
“Why not?”
“I—I can’t.” Bobby was shaking so badly he almost couldn’t get the words out.
“Then don’t, but for the love of God, do something.”
Jack managed to spit out a swear word that only made him appear juvenile.
“Wait a minute,” Bobby said, remembering the handcuffs he’d seen in the desk. He retrieved them, and together he and Randy shoved Jack onto his stomach and wrenched his arms behind him. Bobby forced the cuffs onto Jack’s wrists and clicked them into place.
Randy sat on his back, looking as satisfied as a cat who’d finally caught his prey.
“You realize,” Jack said, his voice muffled, “that Farley and I aren’t the only people who worked for Troy? As soon as you open that door you’ll have to face the others.”
“I’m not too concerned about them right now.” Bobby thought of the phones still hidden under the desk. His gaze traveled to Adrian, who had backed into a corner and held her head in her hands. His chest lightened a little. He may not have felt any love for his mother—how could he, when he didn’t even know her?—but he was glad to see that for the moment, she was okay.
She lifted her head, wearing a faint smile. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Bobby tried not to look at the body of the man he’d just killed. If he’d had any innocence left wi
thin him, it was surely gone now.
A languid whisper filled his head. You asked for this, Servant. We wanted you to leave and never come back.
On the floor, Jack snickered, and the shadowy aura in Bobby’s mind fluttered as if laughing with him.
“It was you,” Adrian said, looking at Jack. “I remember now. Someone must have drugged me and made me forget.”
“What is it you remember?” Randy asked, still sitting on Jack’s back with no apparent desire to stand up.
“That man.” She pointed. “He said he was going to find me a job since the money I brought with me was running out.”
“I hate to break it to you,” Randy said, “but he lies.”
Bobby decided to search the room for his shoes (if his phone had been in here, surely they’d be here, too) and came across a black wardrobe-sized cabinet behind the desk. He opened the doors and felt himself deflate.
The wardrobe contained five shelves. Each was heaped high with personal items—everything from plastic jewelry and brightly-colored hair accessories to wristwatches and shoes, most of which were quite small.
Bobby grabbed his gym shoes and Randy’s Doc Martens off the top of the stack, then saw a pair of women’s Nikes sitting with them and took them, too. “Here,” he said. “I found our stuff.”
As everyone put on their respective pairs of shoes, Jack let out a little sigh that made Bobby want to kick him in the head.
Ignoring him, Bobby went to the other side of the desk and retrieved the cell phones, then pocketed them. “Okay,” he said as he returned to the front and plucked the bloody knives off the floor. “We should head out.”
“If I stand up,” Randy said, “this little punk is going to get up and try to stop us.”
Bobby let out a huff of frustration. “Fine. Club him in the head with the gun.”
“Gladly,” Randy said, cutting off Jack’s immediate objection. Bobby handed Randy the gun, and he smashed the butt of it into Jack’s temple. Jack’s body went slack.
A cruel little voice inside Bobby’s mind hoped Jack was dead. Better Randy to kill him than Bobby, who couldn’t stomach two kills in one lifetime, much less two in one day.
