by David Wright
Katya came back into the apartment, looking steamed.
“What’s wrong?” Abigail asked.
“Nothing,” Katya said, clearly lying. It was weird to see Katya annoyed; she was always so happy. Abigail couldn’t remember a time when Katya wasn’t bubbly and smiling, save for the scare Abigail gave her at the restaurant.
It was weird to see her smile go missing.
“Is Derek mad?”
“He’ll get over it,” Katya said sinking deep into an almost matching red leather couch.
“What are you watching?” Katya asked.
“‘Gravity Falls.’ Ever see it?”
“No,” Katya shook her head. “I don’t watch much TV. When I used to work for the Radleys, I didn’t see anything other than Nick Jr., Sprout, and Disney Jr. Honestly, I don’t even know why I have cable.”
“What do you do if you don’t watch TV?”
“Sometimes I try to draw clothing designs and stuff, but mostly, lately, I’ve been writing.”
“Writing what? Books?”
“I suppose they would be books if I ever made it past 10 pages,” Katya laughed. “They’re pretty awful.”
“I doubt that,” Abigail said. “Could I read something?”
“Oh, no, they’re truly, truly awful. I swear.”
“They can’t be that bad.”
“That bad and worse,” Katya smiled. “Guaranteed.”
Abigail wondered if they were really that awful, or if maybe Katya’s stories were romantic, or something else that might embarrass her. Abigail changed the subject.
“So, what else do you do?”
“I play a little guitar.”
“Really?” Abigail said. “I’ve never met anyone who plays guitar.”
“I’m not very good at that, either,” Katya said.
Abigail frowned.
Katya pursed her lips, then stood from the sofa. “Want me to play something?”
“Yeah!” Abigail said, smiling.
Katya went to her bedroom then returned a few minutes later with a large, black leather-looking case with four large metal latches on the side. The case was covered with stickers of bands Abigail had never heard of.
Katya set the guitar case on top of the coffee table then sat on the couch. Katya popped the four latches open and pulled the guitar from its home. Abigail watched, utterly fascinated as Katya started plucking at the strings and adjusting knobs at the guitar’s top. There was something almost magical in the ritualistic process that filled Abigail with a sense of awe.
“Any requests?” Katya asked after a few minutes spent tuning her guitar.
“I don’t know,” Abigail said. “Play your favorite song.”
Katya thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know what my favorite song is since there are too many good ones to choose from, but this is one I liked a lot a few years ago. It’s called ‘Elsewhere’ by Sarah McLachlan. Ever hear it?”
“No,” Abigail said, leaning forward in the chair, hands folded in her lap as Katya began to play.
Katya started to sing. Abigail immediately felt tears start to swell in her eyes. The music, lyrics, and Katya’s voice were all beautiful by themselves, but magical together. The song was so sad, yet uplifting. Abigail felt as if it were written just for her, and Katya was the first ever to sing it.
As Katya finished, Abigail broke down in tears. “Oh, my God,” she said, wiping her eyes. “That’s so beautiful.”
Katya’s cheeks turned salmon. “Really?”
“Yeah, I love it. What was it called again?”
Katya told her, and Abigail said, “I have to have Larry get that for me.”
“Hold on.” Katya set the guitar back in its case and ran to her room. She took longer than last time, but returned, clutching a CD in her hands.
“Here,” Katya said. “You can have my CD. I have, like, three copies!”
Katya reached out to hand the CD to Abigail, who absentmindedly reached out to take it. Only as their fingers drew close, did Abigail remember the curse of her touch. A spark shot from her hand to Katya’s, causing the woman to jump back with a yelp as the CD fell to the carpet.
Abigail yanked her hand back before she could lock onto her friend.
Katya fell back on the carpet and landed on her butt crying out in pain. Abigail curled on the chair, shaking: covering her eyes with her fingers, afraid to see what damage she might have done.
The world was entirely dark behind her closed eyes as the room grew painfully silent. She couldn’t bear to look.
Oh, God, she’s dead. I killed her.
Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please —
“Ow,” Katya said. “Are you OK?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Abigail repeated as she blinked her eyes to Katya standing and staring at her hand. The fingers on her right hand were swollen and red, almost burnt-looking.
Katya closed her fingers around her burnt hand, wincing, looking at Abigail to see if she were also hurt. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” Abigail said. “Are you?”
“I don’t know,” Katya said, running to the kitchen, probably to grab ice from the freezer. Abigail hopped up from the floor and followed, eager to make sure Katya was OK, and that the damage wasn’t spreading up her arm or into her body.
Abigail kept a safe distance as Katya dropped her hand it into a bowl of ice-cold water. She stood in front of the sink, staring at Abigail with fear in her eyes.
“What happened?” Katya asked.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Why do you keep saying you’re sorry?” Katya asked. “You didn’t do anything.”
Something in Abigail’s eyes must have given her away — maybe the guilt. She stared at Katya as everything in her friend’s body started to shift, from her eyes to her mouth to the look of understanding dawning in Katya’s eyes.
Something was wrong with Abigail, and Katya knew it.
* * * *
CHAPTER 4 — Hannah
Hannah was confused.
She’d been sitting in a county jail cell for a few hours, and yet nobody had said a word to her. The arresting officer escorted her to a cell, and that was that. No mug shot, no fingerprints, no anything. She’d just been told to sit, then left alone.
Don’t they have to charge me with something? They can’t just hold me and not tell me what I’m being charged with!
Hannah decided to say something the second she saw someone. Problem was, her row of cells was empty of both prisoners and guards. It was as if the jail was a ghost town, too.
Something wasn’t right.
“I told you to run,” that other inner voice started to harp.
Not now.
It was easy to lose track of time in the tiny cell without any windows. Hannah was exhausted, and wanted to sleep on the cell’s only cot, but didn’t dare close her eyes.
She had to stay awake — had to see what was going to happen.
Finally, sleep won, and Hannah nodded off while sitting up and trying to stay awake.
She woke to the sound of her cell door opening. Greg stood beside another officer Hannah had not seen before, a stern looking man in his 50s.
Despite being afraid of Greg just hours before, she melted with relief as he stepped into her cell. “I’m so sorry, Greg,” she said, feeling ashamed and foolish.
He hugged her tight, and his hug felt good: comfort without judgment. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “I think it must be from the accident. I was confused and, I don’t…”
“It’s OK,” he said, stroking Hannah’s hair, “Everything is fine now. Don’t worry.”
The officer asked, “Everything good here, Agent Overton?”
“Yes,” Greg said. “Thank you, Gene.”
“No problem, sir.”
Agent? Why is he calling him an agent? Why is he talking to Greg as though Greg is some sort of authority?
“I told you. He’s not who he s
aid he is.”
Hannah kept her mouth shut as the officer escorted them out from the cell and handed Hannah the purse they’d taken when she was arrested. Her heart pounded, and confusion swirled through her head as she followed Greg outside the station and over to his car, waiting beneath the soft, early-morning light. Something inside Hannah screamed for her to run, but where in the hell could she go when her boyfriend was friendly with the cops? Might even be a cop, or something.
Agent? Who the hell is he?
He opened her door and said, “Get in.” Hannah wasn’t sure if she imagined the sharp edge in his voice, but didn’t think so.
She got into the car, and Greg closed the door hard behind her.
Greg got in on his side, adjusted the seat, and put the car into drive. The doors autolocked as they left the county jail.
They drove in silence, Hannah wanting to ask him why the officer called him “agent,” what was going on, and even confront him about his phone call back at the cabin. She thought of the phone in her purse, and though she didn’t dare check to see if it was still there, Hannah wondered if the police had listened to the recording, and whether they had played it for Greg?
Hannah stared out the window at the passing greenery, afraid to meet his eyes. He stared at the road with gritted teeth, more pissed than she’d ever seen him.
When he finally spoke, it was so loud and abrupt that Hannah made a tiny leap in her seat. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” he shouted. “You really fucked things up, you know that, don’t you?”
Hannah’s heart was in her throat, as her body trembled through his verbal assault. Greg had never been so rude. Had never said “fuck,” even in bed. His new words were a punch to the gut. If he was dropping all pretense of kindness, then Hannah figured anything was possible.
“He’s going to kill you,” her other voice warned.
“What’s happening, Greg?” Hannah finally asked, her voice cracking. “Why did that man call you agent?”
“Because I’m with the FBI,” he said.
“What? I thought you were some kind of business analyst?” She couldn’t believe her ears. Hannah wanted to know why the FBI would be interested in her, but that meant admitting to recording his call, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. She’d play stupid — which didn’t seem too difficult considering how in the dark she felt.
“I’m with the FBI, and I’ve been assigned to you.”
“Assigned to me?” So, their whole relationship was a ruse from the beginning? He’d been lying to her for two years? She felt like she was going to puke, burst into tears, or just melt down right there. “Why?”
“I’ve been assigned to protect you. But you just fucked things up for both of us.”
“What are you talking about? Protect me from what?”
“The man you’ve been dreaming of, John. Does that ring a bell?”
“No,” Hannah lied, flashes of the dark-haired man racing through her mind.
“I know you remember him.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice at the edge of a whine. While she was lying about not remembering John at all, Hannah had little more than a few scraps of scattered memory, nothing other than Sergei’s conversation, which suggested he was actually real.
“Whatever,” Greg said, returning his gaze to the road.
Hannah stared back out the window, wanting to speak, but at the same time, pissed at Greg for being so rude. Finally, she asked, “Who is he?”
“He’s trying to kill you,” Greg said. “That’s all you need to know.”
Kill me? What? Sergei said we were in love.
“Why is he trying to kill me?”
“I said that was all you needed to know, now sit back, shut up, and don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
“Make what difficult?”
“This. THIS!” he said, waving his hands as if she was supposed to understand what in the hell he was talking about.
“What?” Hannah repeated, trying not to cry. She hated crying almost as much as she hated whining.
Greg didn’t respond.
What’s he planning to do?
Hannah looked down at the door, remembering that it locked when they started driving. She wondered if she could open the door, jump out, and survive the fall, let alone escape into the woods running alongside the highway. She looked at the speedometer. Greg was driving more than 80 mph.
Why’s he in such a rush? Where are we going?
“Greg, tell me what the hell is happening. You’re scaring me.” Hannah finally found some force in her voice.
“I’m protecting you.”
“From what?” she screamed.
Greg turned to her, his eyes wild, like he might reach out from the steering wheel and strike her at any second. Instead, he lowered his voice to one breath above a whisper and asked, “You really don’t remember any of it?”
“No,” she whispered back.
“You were the victim of a serial killer. He tried to kill you more than 10 years ago. You told me all of this when we met.”
She stared at Greg as if he’d just told her the sky was purple and would be dropping flying saucers by sundown.
“What?” was all she could manage.
“When we met, you told me that you changed your identity, and said that you were in hiding because he was still out there. So I’ve been investigating the killer and trying to keep you safe. And no, I didn’t tell you I was FBI because I’m part of a secret division. Most people think I’m an analyst, and while I wanted to tell you the truth, I couldn’t.”
“Why don’t I remember any of this, the stuff about the serial killer?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Maybe the amnesia from your accident runs deeper than the doctors thought.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “I would remember something like that. And I don’t have amnesia. I remember my family, my friends, and … ”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Hannah tried to remember her mother, or her college friends, but again came up fuzzy, and more confused than before. She could remember something, but wasn’t sure if that something was honest memory, or fabrication.
She shook her head, waiting for her other voice to chime in and give her some direction. Unfortunately, the silence said she was on her own — just her and her confusion.
“I don’t know,” Hannah said, swallowing her rising fear. It was one thing to be uncertain of Greg and his motives, another to suspect the candor in her memory.
Greg moved his hand from the steering wheel and opened his fingers, waiting for Hannah to take his hand as it hovered above the center console. She did, shivering as his fingers wrapped tightly around hers. She swallowed her throat’s climbing knot while trying to bury tears she didn’t want to lose.
Hannah fought the growing urge to ask Greg about the phone call. She wanted to know who he was talking to and what he was trying to do to her. Now she could barely remember what he’d said in the recording. Everything felt fuzzy, like a blur.
“Don’t ask him,” her other voice warned. “You need to play dumb until you get another chance to run.”
Another chance to run? Run to where? He’s working with the FBI! He’s trying to protect me.
“No, he’s not, Hope. Don’t trust him. He told you a lie — John wasn’t trying to kill you. Don’t you think Sergei would’ve said something?”
Maybe Sergei didn’t know. Or — what if the man who answered the phone was John? He was pretending to be someone else so he can find me now?
“You would know if it was John. Trust me, Hope. Trust yourself.”
Hope. There’s that name again.
She asked Greg, “Hannah’s not my real name is it?”
“No, your name was Hope Barnett,” Greg said. “Like I said, you changed your name about 10 years ago, but no one else knows. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. We have to put you in
hiding. I’ve gotten word that he’s looking for you, and that he’s in town.”
“The killer?”
“Yes. His name is John Sullivan. Does that name ring a bell?”
“No,” Hannah said, lying.
Greg got off an exit roughly halfway between the vineyard and home, then pulled into an apartment building she’d never seen in a city whose name she didn’t know.
“What is this place?”
“Somewhere safe,” he said, as if it was. “We’re going to stay here, ride things out until I hear something.”
“Something about what?” she asked.
“That John is dead.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 5 — John and Larry
Larry raced to Mike Mathews’ apartment, wobbling the van with too much velocity the entire way there. Neither spoke of Tiny’s death, not that either needed to. They would grieve when the war was over. For now, they had to focus on finding Hope, which they’d only do if they found Mathews.
As the van hit a pothole hard, and seemed like it might rip in half, Larry looked over at John and said, “I really ought to get a fucking sports car, as much racing around as I’m doing for you. We got that in the budget? Maybe somethin’ like the Batmobile! That shit would be rad.”
“I left you a ton of money,” John said. “Don’t even tell me you blew it all already!”
“Well, not all of it,” Larry said grinning and shrugging.
“Jesus, how much Mountain Dew do you drink?”
“Enough to piss green, but that could also be because of that stripper chick I was bangin.’”
John laughed.
It felt good to laugh before dealing with Mathews. With Duncan and Cromwell both dead, Mathews would be exactly the type of loose cannon they couldn’t risk working with. John had to get out from under Omega’s thumb while he still had a chance to save Hope. Unlike killing Cromwell, he had no compunctions about killing Mathews. The man was on a power trip and didn’t care whom he killed on the way to accomplishing his mission.
