by Fiona Quinn
Axel nodded, and I went into the kitchen to get a cup of tea. I’m unsettled, I thought, and my stomach sloshed violently in response. I burst into the bathroom, vomiting up my anxiety. When I sheepishly exited, I lay down on the couch for a few minutes with a cold cloth over my eyes, but it didn’t help anything.
Heebie-jeebies sparked under my skin and across my scalp—my early warning system. But could I trust it? Before the attack, I experienced this specific prickle—this urgent need to move, run, get out—only when imminent danger hovered close. I’d been having the heebie-jeebies off and on since I’d arrived at the safe house.
At first, I thought it was a symptom of my brain injury. But when I thought it through, I realized this didn’t happen at the hospital—only since I came to the house. Odd. This was day five. Nothing had happened to me yet—only poor Jack and Gater. According to Striker, Gater and Jack got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just bad luck.
I tried to meditate and center myself. Big flop. I couldn’t exercise to burn off this frenzied energy … I ended up looking out the window, pacing the floor, and vomiting again, only to move toward the window and start the cycle over. I was driving poor Axel nuts. He kept peering over his computer at me with scrutinizing intensity.
“Ma’am, are you alright?”
“I feel weird, Axel.” I moved one hand over the other, like I was peeling off gloves.
“Do you need medical assistance?”
“I’ll be fine. A little stir crazy, maybe.” I picked up the channel changer and tried to find something on TV to distract my attention away from the despair my sixth sense was picking up from the woman and her child.
The phone rang. I had been waiting for it with so much tension that I jumped.
Axel gave me a sideways glance and answered it. “Striker’s coming up the drive, ma’am.” He spoke in a placating voice as if he were trying to coax me off a ledge.
When Striker strode in, he studied me with his hands on his hips. I stood in the middle of the room, digging my thumb into my palm. He glanced at Axel. “Has she been doing this long?”
“Since she woke up this morning.” Axel stood to gather his paperwork. “She hasn’t eaten anything either—just tea, and she vomited it back up.”
Striker walked into the kitchen and looked around. “Did you make something for lunch, Lexi?” I shook my head. Eyes wide. Panting.
Striker took cold cuts out of the fridge, made me a sandwich and a bowl of fruit, and brought them to the sofa. “Can you try to eat something?” he asked.
I nodded and put the food mechanically in my mouth, not tasting a thing.
“What needs to be done?” Striker’s low tone ensured only I would hear.
“I don’t know. Trouble. Bad people. A lot of fear. Pain.”
“Who?”
“The woman and child I told you about last night—It’s a little girl, very little, three years old? … Men—some good, some bad, then some who are good, but who have done something bad and don’t know it.”
“Do you recognize them?” he asked.
I hesitated before I said, “I’ve never met them before.” I put the plate on the coffee table and closed my eyes against the storm kicking up under my lungs.
When I blinked my lids back open, Striker seemed to be holding his breath. A muscle ticked under his left eye. “Do I know them?”
“Yes. Well, some of them, anyway. Certainly the woman and the child. I think this is the woman you’ve been looking for, Lynda.”
His gaze bore into me. Commander Striker Rheas. “What should I do?”
I spread my hands palms up and shook my head. “I can’t get hold of anything. I’ve had fleeting images all day long. The sense of desperation … I get something, and then it drifts out of my reach. The more I grasp at it, the farther away it goes. It’s awful. If only I had a photo, I could get some answers.” I put my fists to the sides of my head. “This is unbearable.”
Striker reached out and held my elbows. “Are they in danger right now?” he asked.
I tried to sense, tried very hard to get an answer for him. “The best I can tell you is that at this moment, things are calmer.” Who was this woman to Striker? Obviously someone important. Then it came to me with clarity. “Your sister Lynda and her child haven’t been hurt.”
Striker looked at me hard then nodded. His nod told me I had the name and relationship right, and he believed what I said about their safety. He pulled out his phone, pressed a button and said, “Anything? … I have information this might be coming to a head. Put Bonz in the field with Clay.” Then he hung up.
Striker’s expression shifted. He covered over his hard edge with a layer of concern. Concern for me. I lowered my lashes self-consciously.
“Maybe we should distract you.” Striker stood. “Do you want to tell me about the craziness on the table?” he asked.
We walked over to the display.
“Spyder McGraw brought me this case a year and a half ago,” I said. “It was difficult to puzzle out. As I told you before, the day I gave him the name of the kingpin, Marcos Sylanos, Spyder went off-grid. I thought he had delivered this information to your team.” I launched into my explanation, more than slightly guilty about how glad I was for the distraction.
Striker held up a hand to stop me. “I need to document this,” he said.
Striker took pictures of the table, standing on a chair to get the names and words clearly in the shot. Then, Striker videotaped me while Axel took notes on the computer, making a record of the information. I explained each person represented on the papers and their role. Then I went back through and described their connections in the web and their involvement with the crime.
At the end of my description, I listed what evidence they could gather to prove Sylanos’s culpability. Wow. It sure looked easy spread out on the table, but this was the result of years of data gathering by various agents and months of puzzling on my part.
“That’s amazing, ma’am. How do you know these people?” Axel’s arms crossed over his chest as he stood, feet wide and stable, studying me.
“Sorry. I can’t tell you that, Axel.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The phone rang, and Axel went to answer it.
Striker leaned over and whispered softly in my ear. “I’m heading out, unless you need me here. I can stay if you want me to.”
“I’m not sure how that would help.” I spoke quietly, moving my head so I could see his eyes. They were gleaming bottle green. As sharp as glass. “It might actually be making things worse. I’ll call you if I pick up anything I think will help.”
Striker’s jaw worked back and forth. He seemed to be weighing the choices. Finally, he gave me a curt nod. “Deep will be with you this afternoon, and Jack will be here after dinner. Don’t expect the rest of the men today. They’re all out in the field, following up on a Travis Wilson lead.”
“There’s new information?” My breath caught. I squeezed down hard on my emotions so hope wouldn’t bloom. Hope made me vulnerable.
“Apparently, Wilson has a little addiction issue—nose candy and PCP. We’ve got several positive IDs.”
Striker left Deep in charge of my care. I went on having a day from hell. My body felt like it was the wrong size, and my mind like it wanted to flee the scene. My stomach churned up green bile. Hell in a handbasket, my psychic station played on repeat, volume turned up full blast.
Deep reported periodically to Striker throughout the day. He thought I needed to be under medical supervision. He seemed relieved when Jack showed up with takeout.
I stood blindly at the window. Jack came and led me by my elbow to the table, sat me in the chair, and put a plate in front of me. Crouching beside me, he tried to get me to eat, but I just couldn’t. I knew it would come right back up. He took my temperature, my pulse, my blood pressure. With a little pen light, he checked the dilation of my eyes. I wasn’t exhibiting any outward signs of a medical crisis, but I sure felt like one.
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“Lexi, does your head hurt? Are you dizzy?” He ran through the same list of questions and checks he performed every thirty minutes, and then called the results in to Striker, reporting that I seemed to be getting worse.
True. I was. Much worse. But I had no context for the pull and draw like waves trying to drag me out to sea, other than that these sensations had something to do with Striker’s sister and possibly with the suspect I helped to find in a photo album. I had no crime. No information. Before, when I was training to go behind the Veil for police searches, I had always initiated the sequence. Not this time. This time, something or someone was manipulating me.
The Veil was a painful, terrifying space. I didn’t want to go. Yet I did. For a teammate. For Striker. Gah! If only Miriam were here to support me, this decision would be easier. It was my choice, after all—I reminded myself emphatically—no matter how strong the call.
I heard drums, chanting. At first, they were remote—distant, like a game of hide and seek. My mind ran ahead, but the music followed me, twisted inside me, and entwined me with its … conviction? I wasn’t sure what the music tried to convey.
I remembered reading Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces. And that was exactly how this felt … The call to adventure, my refusal to go, and now supernatural aid presenting itself to help me along my path.
I got the impression of a group of women—foreign, distant, indebted to Striker for some act of heroism he had performed. They wanted to intervene in his crisis but needed help. My help. God, this was so damned uncomfortable! Unnerving. I hated this feeling of compulsion, leading me nowhere. Nothing I did relieved the sensation. I panted, trying to work through the commotion to find cogent thoughts.
If I hadn’t trekked Campbell’s hero’s path—traveling behind the Veil to save the woman with Miriam—I wouldn’t have recognized any of this. I’d be begging for a trip to the hospital and some drugs to make it all go away. I wished this was the result of my head trauma, because this extrasensory connection made me fear for my sanity. The music. The chanting. The summons.
The next step in a hero’s journey was to cross over the threshold and enter the heart of the story. This meant I’d have to move behind the Veil to understand what was really happening. I didn’t want to go yet. Convinced that Striker needed to be here with me, I fought the pull and call. I stood alone in the middle of the room, gasping from the effort to wait.
The chime on the clock sounded eight. I brought my head up with a snap. Jack sat on a kitchen stool, watching me like I was an alien from a distant galaxy.
“Striker,” I muttered.
An engine roared up the drive, then Striker burst through the door without the warning phone call. He gripped a pile of photos in his hand, his eyes intense. Focused.
I pointed at the pile of pictures. “That’s them.”
“Can you help me?” Warrior Striker stood before me.
I pulled bottles of water from the fridge, set them on the table, then tugged the kitchen trash can over, as well. I fetched a pad of paper and pen.
“I need a big map of the area,” I said, grabbing a pillow off the sofa, and sat down on the dining room chair with the pillow in my lap. The Veil sucked and dragged at me. Now! Now! Now! It insisted. I slipped right out of my body.
“Listen to me and heed every word.” My voice sang out rich and mature, with a slightly foreign accent. It echoed in my head, as the words flowed from my mouth in a different woman’s tone and pitch. One of the women, the Shaman in their group, was using me as a conduit. I became a container—a vessel. “I hold the fates of your loved ones. Their survival depends on your right action. Obey, or they will suffer, as will I. If you touch me, the rip you would create is a fate worse than death to me. Do not touch! Swear it!” I hissed.
Striker and Jack looked at me with the utmost seriousness; they both stared, unblinking, and said, “I swear.”
“Do you understand? No matter what you see or hear, you will not touch me. Striker, you will have to leave at some point, and you may come back.” I cleared my throat and tried to use my own voice. I didn’t like to feel taken over and possessed like the victim in a horror flick. But still, it was the Shaman’s voice that said, “Jack, you must not go. And until I can walk out of here on my own two feet, I am not to leave this house.” She was reciting her rules. Not the same rules Miriam and I used, but this woman seemed to know what she was doing. Maybe if I stopped struggling against her, it would be easier. Quicker. Over and done. That’s what I wanted more than anything, right now. This to be over and done.
Jack stood rigidly in full military posture. “Understood,” he said.
While I had explained a little of this to Striker last night, Jack was working in the dark. Hell. I had never experienced the Veil this way myself. I was blind, too. I stepped back from rational thought, deciding to trust and allow the energy to use me. I felt lives on the cusp. Despair. Striker’s family was in danger—and I knew all too well what it was like to lose family. I was determined to save them.
My fingers gripped the edge of the table. Staying even partially in the here and now was painful. I spoke through gritted teeth. “Make sure everyone else stays away until the connection is severed.”
“I swear,” Striker said.
I reached for the photos and looked at Striker. “I will tell you things. You will have the team working for you on the outside. They will confirm what I say to you. You will say ‘confirmed’ or ‘refuted.’ This is all you are to say unless I ask for something more.”
I breathed in jaggedly. My center shifted, and I stood in the middle of an African village. Sharp grass crushed under my feet; there was incredible heat and the smell of decay and dirt. As I looked around, I saw no men, only women. Round huts stood between a river and the fire pit. The women sat in a circle; flames leaping up in the center. They swayed and chanted. Brilliant white smiles flashed at me and nodded encouragement as they drummed. These were the women that Striker saved. I relayed this information to the men.
“Confirmed.” Striker’s voice startled me back to the dining room table and the pictures in my hand.
“These women perform rituals daily, and have cast a prayer of protection over you and yours. This ritual is what calls me through the Veil. Striker, your service to these women is being repaid.” Ah, I had my voice back.
I spread the photos on the table, picking out one of Lynda. “Your half sister.” With the picture in my hand, my nerves bristled. At first I was terrified I was having an adrenaline dump, and I wouldn’t be able to help. But the fear sweat drenching my shirt came from Lynda’s distress, not mine. I was thankful that my cuts had healed together and the salt no longer tortured me. Still, when I lay the picture aside, I was relieved to get it out of my hands.
The next picture I picked up was of a toddler. “This is your daughter? … No, not your daughter. Your niece.” This little girl’s connection to Striker was confusing; it rumbled around in my head until I caught the meaning. “The biological father never saw the baby, and you have taken on the role of her father financially and emotionally. You are her uncle, but the energy is father energy.” I raised my head for confirmation. Striker stood fists balled, and lips pressed together, color drained from his face, leaving him ashen.
“Confirmed,” said Jack.
Twenty-Eight
I picked up a picture of a Latino man and woman; I ripped it in half and set the woman’s picture away from me. “This man was married to your stepsister.” I pointed at the picture of the woman I had pushed to the side. “Your stepsister died years ago. Names?” I saw Striker through cloudy eyes. I tingled electrically. There was no room for me here—I was a tool.
“My half sister is Lynda. My niece is Camille; we call her Cammy. My brother-in-law is Juan. My stepsister, Mercedes; she died in a car accident.”
I picked through the photos and pulled out a picture of a house and a photo that had a car in it. I tore the picture so that I held
only the car. I found another picture of a man that made me moan.
“This is Lynda’s boyfriend.” I looked at Striker.
“His name is Greg.”
I pulled one more photo out of the pile. “And this is the devil.”
I gave the rest of the photos to Striker and asked him to take them out of the room. He moved toward the garage. The phone rang; Jack answered. He told the Iniquus man on the line to park at the end of the drive and not approach; they were to contact the team and put them on standby. He hung up.
I took the picture of the house. “This is the place where it all began. Lynda, Camille, and Greg lived in this house and drove this car.” I pointed to the picture of the green SUV.
“Confirmed,” Striker said.
The safe house dining room oscillated and disappeared. I stood in a kitchen, a sink full of dirty dishes on my left. My slippers were wet—slick from the blood puddled on the linoleum under my feet. A mangled form lay to my right. It was hard to make out many details in this dim, windowless room. The mouth gaped as if in midscream. Eyes wide and staring. Urine and feces. Dead. This had been Greg.
The Shaman reached for my hand and gently lead me up a stairway, down the hall, to the open door of a child’s pink princess bedroom. Cammy’s bedroom. I reached up and took hold of a purple lamb sitting on the shelf. I waited to gather impressions. I always found this part difficult. Miriam gleaned the most with shadows where I got little by way of information. I understood nothing of what happened, just the present moment.
The image wavered in and out making me dizzy. But the Shaman pet a soothing hand over my head, down my back, and whispered in my ear, “This was a gift but not truly a gift. A curse. The insides hold the answer. Only one person knows about this lamb, Greg’s friend, Manuel. Manuel believes that if he reveals the secret, he will die. If he can resist telling, he might live. These are his thoughts, but he is doomed. He will be dead soon.”
I nodded my understanding to the Shaman, hopeful that I told the story out loud for Striker and Jack to hear. The Shaman wavered away, and I found myself back in the dining room.
