Death Omen

by Amber Foxx

  The children held still but shook as if stifling laughter. Gasser had probably passed wind over them. The cat’s distinctive one-syllable inquiring “Mer?” was followed by Jamie’s “What is it, mate? What are you doing back there?”

  The sound of a jingly cat toy followed, and many more pokes from the twenty-pound cat’s feet.

  “Playing? Good onya, mate. Getting your workout.”

  Mae let go of the vision. The situation was bad, but it could have been much worse. She called Hubert. “The girls are in Jamie’s van.”

  “Thank God. I never thought I’d be glad you can do what you did, but I am. I’ll see if Nick or Olympia can loan me a car and then head to Damariscotta and ... I don’t know what. Have a real long talk with ’em, I guess.”

  “I think they’d listen. I heard them talking, and they feel bad about what they’re putting you through.” It sounded like he intended to make this trip without Jen, a good plan if he could have done it. “But that’s not where they are.”

  Mae shared what Niall had told her.

  Hubert said nothing for a while. Mae imagined the thoughts that must be running through his head. Probably the same ones spinning through hers. What if Jamie didn’t take a break for hours, or made quick stops without checking messages? The further he got before he found he had stowaways, the harder it would be on everyone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rain came down in torrents that would have made Jamie rejoice in New Mexico, but in the wooded, townless nowhere of upstate New York, the storm was torture. Scarcely able to see, he had to drive at a maddening snail’s pace, when he wanted to cover as much distance as possible before his energy flagged or the fever came back. Perhaps due to the mood boost from heading home, he felt close to well. He’d packed a cooler full of vegan food from the co-op in Damariscotta and had eaten a sandwich and a cookie with actual enjoyment. The nourishment energized him, as did the tank of coffee he’d consumed. Of course, that meant he desperately wanted to take a piss and brush his teeth, and if he didn’t find a rest stop soon he would have to relieve himself on the side of the road and brush his teeth with rainwater. He tried not to think about gum disease, tooth decay, dentists, or the feeling of bad breath, but his mind wouldn’t release the obsession.

  Finally, a rest area. As soon as Jamie parked, he rummaged in the glove box for the plastic zipper-bag that held his dental hygiene supplies. His wallet was open. Fuck. He counted his cards and thumbed through his cash. He thought he’d had more money than that, but maybe not. He closed his wallet in the glove box again and told Gasser to go do his business. “I’m cleaning your litter when I get back and I hate it when you crap in it afterward. I know you like it clean, but just use it now, will you?”

  Gasser blinked.

  Jamie rushed through the rain, past a sign that said “Stormville,” and into the men’s room. Relief. After urinating, he checked his groin nodes. Maybe Mae wouldn’t notice the lumps if they made love in the dark. Assuming he had the energy for sex. Idiot. What was he thinking? She would notice his fever before they got that far, and she would fuss over him. Worry about him. Dr. Farrow had to call with the results before Jamie reached T or C, so he could tell her it was only cat scratch disease. It had to be that. It had to be.

  Bogged down in thoughts, he took a long time to wash his hands, brush and floss his teeth, and rinse with a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash. Afterward, he examined his teeth and was satisfied he’d been thorough. Sometimes he had the urge to push on his gold tooth to be certain it wasn’t loose, but he wondered if that actually loosened it, and stopped short of giving in to the urge. Then he pulled his hair back and studied his neck. Bad idea. It undid all the soothing effects of dental hygiene. Why in bloody hell did he keep looking at it? It wasn’t going to make him well.

  In three days, he would have to endure Sierra and her claims about his karma and making himself sick. Jeezus. If only he could recover miraculously before he arrived. That was the one thing he wished she was right about. Making yourself well.

  He dashed to the van and opened the side door to clean Gasser’s litter box. The back seats were folded flat to make a roomy cargo space. Gasser’s box sat behind the passenger seat, along with a supply of plastic bags, rubber gloves, and a litter scoop. The cat had obligingly made a deposit. Jamie scooped, the rain soaking his lower half, and glanced into the back of the van. It looked rumpled. Gasser, who had resumed his usual spot, had been playing earlier. Must have messed up the blankets. Jamie didn’t want to open the rear gate to fix them, though, and get rain on his instruments.

  After a run to the trash can and another trip inside for handwashing, he got back in the van. “Jeezus. Bloody fucking weather. Stormville.” He would have to drive with a wet arse for the rest of the night. Stop whingeing. Maybe it’ll cool the fever. This thought reminded him to check his messages. He reached into the side pocket of the door for his phone.

  No phone. Scrambling in dismay, he checked the floor under both seats. How long had it been missing? The mysterious business with his keys came back. And his wallet being open. Spirits? They had always messed with electrical things, not moved objects, back when they’d tried to reach him. Gasser could conceivably have knocked things around and maybe even found the keys. Jamie’s key ring was light, with few keys and no decorative tags. But the cat couldn’t have moved the phone.

  Jamie must have dropped it. Or put it in his pocket and lost it like his keys. He felt his right pocket to see if it had a hole—it didn’t—and found himself checking his groin nodes again, just as a woman with a huge umbrella walked past, dry and leisurely. She glanced at him and sped up. Not a wanker, really. He checked the other pocket, not that he ever used his left pocket, and of course it was empty. He now remembered exactly where he had last put the phone. Not in the door’s side pocket where it belonged. After talking to Jen in Portland, he had placed the phone between Gasser’s front paws in his lap. After that, he hadn’t touched it. It should have fallen to the floor or under his seat while he was napping or when he got out. Jen and Hubert would have noticed if it fell on the street. Even Jamie would have noticed that.

  Someone had to have opened the van with the spare key, raided his wallet and stolen his phone, and given Gasser the keys. A strange person who didn’t take all the money and yet made his or her passage obvious by moving the keys and keeping the spare. Jeezus. It reminded Jamie of the bizarre harassment that had plagued his previous tour. “No. Not again. I’m a bloody fucking crap magnet.”

  After all the effort he’d put into being stress-free on this tour, stress had still found him. It was like he gave off a scent that attracted bad luck. Sierra’s voice echoed in his head. Your bad luck is your karma. To keep from yelling or crying, he beat his head back against the head rest. Time to check another box on Gorman’s stress quiz. Not that he needed to. Its prediction that a fucked-up life could make you sick had come true.

  What would Gorman think of how Jamie was coping, sitting here in Stormville on the edge of a total meltdown? Or Gwen? Or Mae? The first two would have respectful compassion, but Mae, with all the love in her heart, would mother him. He needed to prove to her that he could keep his act together by proving it to himself.

  Jamie petted Gasser, did his breathing exercises, put in a zydeco CD, and started the van with the heat on high to dry his pants.

  At sunrise he pulled into the parking lot of a service plaza in order to rest. It was noisy with diesel rigs’ deep humming, doors slamming, and people talking, but there was something about dawn light that let him relax and fall asleep more easily than darkness. He settled Gasser in his lap, tilted the seat back and closed his eyes. Within seconds, he was dreaming. Dreaming about taking his parrots flying in Orlando Fernandez Park, sending them back and forth with Ezra Yahnaki.

  Twice, he was half-awakened by a door closing so nearby he momentarily thought it was the back of the van, but he didn’t look to see. Sleep was too precious, too rare, and he was too exhauste
d. All he wanted was to go back to the parrots and Santa Fe and Ezra.

  William’s ghost was what finally stirred him. Jamie had his right arm resting on Gasser, cushioning the damaged nerve, and his left hand dangling by the side of the seat. William kept shoving his wet nose into Jamie’s left hand, rubbing his forehead and cheeks, then nose-shoving again. Demanding attention.

  Jamie tried to bring himself to pet the ghost, but he couldn’t. At first, he’d thought William had come to comfort him when Jamie had given his all as a healer, but now he suspected his late cat had shown up because of his sparkles. The parrot-flying dream didn’t seem so peaceful anymore. That day in the park, Ezra had talked about his sisters making themselves sick, and that night, he’d dreamed the manifestation of Jamie’s illness.

  The blood drained from Jamie’s head and his breath caught. William’s ghost. Ezra’s dream. Spirit guides wouldn’t work that hard to alert him to cat scratch fever. He opened the window and clung to Gasser. I’m dying. Panic always sent that message, and the weak, breathless, sweating creature he became always believed it, though a small dimming corner of his rational mind knew it wasn’t true. This time, that corner was as dark as the rest of him.

  The passenger door opened. Before Jamie understood what was happening, Brook and Stream crawled toward him, shedding a plastic shopping bag onto the floor near Gasser’s bowls. Stream crossed the center console and edged her skinny little rear into the driver’s seat next to Jamie as best she could, placing her hand on top of his on Gasser’s back. The cat tensed and laid his ears back. Brook knelt on the console, patting Jamie’s shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” Stream said. “We’ll take care of you.”

  Jamie covered his face. “Bloody hell.” He pressed his palms to his eyes and dug his fingers into the roots of his hair. “It was you.”

  Brook tapped his shoulder with a small hard object. His phone.

  Jamie took it from her. It was turned on. He opened the slide and navigated to his messages. He had seven waiting. Jeezus. Mae and Hubert must have been calling him all night.

  “You didn’t listen to my voicemail, did you?” he asked.

  “No,” Stream said, “We couldn’t guess your password. And it’s hard to type words on that phone, anyway. How come you have an old-fashioned one?”

  “I hate touch screens. They get fingerprints on them.” His voice was shaky from his near-panic, and he took a moment to breathe and pull himself together. He had to act like a grown-up. Couldn’t have little kids trying to take care of him. “Did you call your parents?”

  Brook and Stream made eye contact with each other. Jamie looked back and forth between the twins. Their thin faces with strong jaws and piercing dark brown eyes briefly struck him as unchildlike, as if they were secretly adults. But no, they were just strange, fierce, passionate little girls. Little girls with an agenda.

  He turned toward them as best he could in the tight space. “You didn’t want me to talk with them yet? Is that it? So you could hide longer?”

  Stream nodded, avoiding his eyes.

  “Give me the key you took.”

  She murmured, “We put it back in the doovalacky.”

  “You’re lying, darl. You just unlocked the door.”

  With a sideways glance and a tentative smile, she asked, “Did you know we can drive?”

  “You cannot drive. Your legs don’t reach the pedals. Give me the key.”

  Brook sighed, unrolled the cuff of her sweater, took the key out and gave it to Jamie. “We can drive. Want us to show you?”

  “No. Bloody hell, it’s bad enough you were rattling around in the back like luggage all night. Aren’t you supposed to be in some kind of special seat at your age? Jeezus. That was dangerous. I have to go buy those seats now. And ...” His mind stalled midway in figuring out how to reorganize the van so his didg still fit while the children were strapped in properly in the back seat. “Where am I even taking you?”

  “To Mama. Where else?”

  “Or so you hope. Stay put while I check my messages. See what your mum and dad want.”

  “Wait,” Brook said, reaching for the phone. Jamie held it away from her. She pleaded, “Don’t tell them we stole anything. Your change is in the bag. We thought you wouldn’t mind if we bought food and toothbrushes. And we’re fining you a quarter for each bad word, so that covers what we spent. Or it will.”

  “Too right. And if I have to feed you for three days, I get free swearing and cursing for the rest of the drive. Just don’t start doing it yourselves.”

  Stream visibly relaxed and leaned her head into his side while he listened to his messages. Brook clambered into the passenger seat and began to rifle through the bag, taking out both bills and coins. She opened the glove box and tucked the bills into his wallet, then dropped the coins into the middle cup holder.

  Mae’s first message said she suspected where the girls were. Her next one confirmed it. Hubert’s first message asked Jamie if he was close enough to turn around. Hubert’s next message, confused and emotional, full of hesitations and backtracks, told him not to do it. “Sit tight if you can. Call me back if you get this.”

  Then there was a message from Jen, tearful and chaotic. “I always used to want little girls. I thought I’d be the best mother, that I’d have girls just like me and Olympia when we were kids. But I’m no good at it. And they’re awful. They hate me.”

  Brook glowered. “I can hear her all the way over here.”

  Jamie paused before listening to the next message. “Were you awful to Jen?”

  “Are you taking her side?”

  “Nah. No sides. I like her and I like you. Just asking, y’know?”

  Stream said, “We fought with her and got mad at her. But we weren’t mean.”

  “I know what that’s like. Say all sorts of things when I get mad. Then I have to apologize. A lot.”

  Brook tucked her feet under her and folded her arms. “But only if you’re actually sorry. I hate to apologize when I’m not wrong.”

  Jamie considered this. He usually regretted his outbursts, but not always. “Yeah. Sometimes I’m mad at someone and they deserve it. Like Sierra.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Moo. The lady who thinks she knew me—”

  The girls mooed together, “When you weren’t yoooo.”

  “Yeah. That’s the one.”

  Stream said, “Mama made us apologize for making fun of her name.”

  “Reckon you should have. I’m the one she’s done all that crap to, not you.” Jamie managed to get back on track after the distraction. “Jen’s not bad, y’know. She may piss you off but she’s not a bully like Mrs. Moo. Jen’s got a good heart. She’s just not good at being a mum yet.”

  “Yet?” Brook grumbled. “Not ever.”

  Gasser rose with a particularly vile fart and plodded into the back of the van to nestle into the blankets. The twins made gagging noises and Brook opened her window.

  Jamie sighed. “He can’t help it. Try not to make fun of him, all right? He’s sensitive, kind of an introvert. I’m the only person he really feels safe with.”

  The children fell silent and regarded Jamie thoughtfully. Stream turned around and said, “Sorry, Gasser,” and then giggled. “Maybe Jamie should change your name to Flower.”

  Jamie resumed listening to his messages. The next was another from Hubert. “I talked with Jen. And Mae.” A long pause. “We think Brook and Stream will be better off spending a few months with Mae. She’ll bring ’em back when she comes to see Arnie for Christmas.” Another silence. “Mae says the girls like you real well, but you’ve never taken care of kids before. This is a lot to ask of you. And the girls put it on you. I’m sorry. Call me as soon as you can.” His voice was tight with pain. “I have to talk with ’em.”

  Hubert seemed to think that having the twins along would be a burden, but Jamie wanted to take care of them. He listened to his final message. It was from Mae.

  “Hey, s
ugar. Hubert says he told you what’s up. If you need help, just ask. I can meet you halfway.” She gave him a list of things he would need to buy for the girls, as if he couldn’t think of it himself, and promised that she and Hubert would repay him. She gave him advice, too. “Let ’em feel useful and helpful. They’re smart as the dickens and good with numbers, so you can make ’em work out a budget for their trip or something like that. They’ll think it’s interesting. And let’ em check the oil and the tranny fluid. They’re kinda know-it-alls, but if you let ’em show off for you a little, I don’t think they’ll give you much trouble. If they do, call me or Hubert and we’ll straighten ’em out.”

  We? This sounded as if Mae and her ex-husband were a couple. Not Hubert and Jen. Not Mae and Jamie. And Mae thought he couldn’t handle the responsibility, that he didn’t have the instincts to be a father, as if Jen’s failure to take on her stepmother role meant he too would be inept, ineffective, and overwhelmed. He wouldn’t be.

  “You’re hot,” Stream said. “Are you sick?”

  “Nah. Ask your mum.” He almost said that Mae found him hard to sleep with because of the heat, but he wasn’t sure the children knew he and Mae sometimes slept together. “Always been warmer than other people.”

  “Like having hot hands because you’re a healer?”

  “Yeah. Guess it’s related.” He’d just called them out for lying, and now he was doing it. But they could hardly feel confident in him if they knew how unwell he was. “I’m not a normal healer. I have to hug people.” Jamie dug the cat’s leash and harness out from under the seat and urged the girls to get out. “You can walk Gasser for me while I call your parents, all right?”

  The cat refused to let Stream buckle him into his harness, hissing and batting at her, so Jamie had to do the honors, but Gasser walked with her, perhaps because Brook kept trying to pet him and he wanted to get away from her. Leaning against the van, Jamie hoped they didn’t notice how exhausted he was. I have to feel better. If only Sierra’s crap about healing yourself was true. He needed a fast-acting miracle to zap whatever was wrong with him.