Gideon

by Alex Gordon

  Maybe they hadn’t bothered. Maybe they had already begun to shed old practices, their Master simply providing that little extra push.

  “Or maybe he spelled them so they forgot.” Lauren didn’t even know if such a thing was possible—could a single man spell the population of an entire town, however shocked, stressed, or afraid they were? She thought back to the convocation, the stream of people who abandoned Waycross to cast their lot with Hiram Cateman’s grandson.

  I don’t think he had to spell them. Lauren closed the books and pushed them away, then laid her head on the desk. Fear is a marvelous aid to discipline. And of course, her presence hadn’t helped. I was the icing on the cake. That extra push that Leaf Cateman needed to cement his authority.

  Lauren closed her eyes. Her night’s sleep on the air mattress had been fitful at best, and the sounds of Corey’s snoring emanating from the living room lulled her. Just a few minutes. A short nap. A little blessed quiet. Just a few—

  She opened her eyes to find herself walking along the river, the same murky path she had followed days before. The water bubbled thick as tar now, complete with the eye-watering stink of molten asphalt. No one could drink that water and live.

  That’s because nothing living is meant to drink it.

  Lauren looked to the side. The diminutive figure walking beside her should have rattled her, but nothing Connie Petersbury did could surprise her anymore. “You got out. Of the river.”

  That’s because I’m dreaming, too. Petersbury looked up, offered a crooked grin. Didn’t think I could sleep anymore. Guess there’s enough left of me alive to need it. She gave Lauren’s arm a gentle punch. How ya doing?

  “How do you think?” Lauren looked to the bank opposite, where bushes and low tree limbs rustled as whatever followed them kept pace. “A few of the women tried to kill me after I got out of the woods.”

  Which ones?

  “Deena. Brittany. Ruthie. Betty Joan. Amanda Petrie provided encouragement.”

  Heh. Doesn’t surprise me.

  “Nicholas Blaine has visited me a few times. I’ve told him I won’t help him, but I don’t think he’ll take no for an answer.” Lauren coughed as the tarry stink of the river burned her throat. Conditions had worsened since she had last walked here, and it worried her. It’s getting closer. Whatever it was. “And tonight I’m going to dinner at Leaf Cateman’s.”

  Oh, that should be fun. Petersbury screwed up her face in a sour lemon frown. Once Jorie took over the kitchen, things went downhill. Lotta salads, from what I heard. Raw vegetables.

  “It’s not the menu that concerns me.”

  No. Petersbury paused to pick up a stone. You found another Book, I see. An old one. She tossed the stone across the river into one of the bushes, then smiled as branches shuddered and something yelped.

  Lauren watched the rustling path as whatever Petersbury hit scuttled away from the riverbank and out of range. “You saw me?”

  Word gets around.

  They walked in silence for a time.

  “Can I ask you something?” Lauren waited until the woman looked up at her, took note of the pale face, lips tinged with blue. “Virginia Waycross is your—was—your best friend. Do you ever visit her?”

  Does she talk about me?

  “Quite a bit.”

  Petersbury nodded. I miss her, too. But there’s not enough of me left that I can afford to spread it too thin, and she’s not the most important piece of this puzzle. The woman hung her head. She’s not the person for this. It’s your baby, I’m afraid.

  “Because I’m a Mullin.”

  Yup. Petersbury tugged her jacket more tightly around her. Her brow furrowed. Her step slowed. He’s getting impatient. More than you realize. He’s waited a long time, and now you’re here and he wants out. She stopped, and without warning took hold of Lauren’s hand. It’s getting harder to find the good parts of the river. They’re getting thinner and weaker. Feel like I have to keep moving most all the time now. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen if I don’t move fast enough, or close my eyes at the wrong moment. She swallowed hard. You don’t have much time, is what I’m trying to say. Petersbury gave Lauren’s hand a squeeze, then released her. You know what to do.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know anything.”

  If you didn’t know anything, you’d be dead. Really dead. Dead dead. Petersbury started walking again, shaking her head when Lauren tried to follow. Keep reading. It’s all here. She held up her hands, bare and gloved, and waggled her fingers. You know when things are right. It’s not something that can be taught. Gloom swallowed her, until only her voice remained. I’ll do what I can from this end. But I’m not the one with the touch.

  “Neither am I.” Lauren stood, alone in the gathering dark; the chittering from across the river resumed, then grew louder and nearer.

  Then she heard footsteps coming up from behind and turned—

  Lauren opened her eyes, and looked up to find Corey standing over her.

  “It’s almost four thirty. We should probably start getting ready.” He reached into his pocket. “I’m surprised Mistress let me sleep so long.” He pulled out a quarter, then held it out so Lauren could see both sides. “Heads or tails?” He flipped the coin in the air, then caught it and slapped it on the desk, keeping it covered with his hand.

  “How can it be that late?” Lauren pushed back from the desk and stood. The stench of the river still filled her nose, so real that she wondered how it was possible for Corey not to smell it. “What are we tossing for?”

  “Bathroom. Second person to shower’s going to find conditions a little chilly.” Corey shrugged apology.

  Lauren checked her watch, then looked toward the living room windows to find the first hints of fading light as Connie Petersbury’s words replayed in her head. You don’t have much time.

  “Lauren?”

  “Yeah.” She shook her head. “Right. Shower.” The room tilted, and she grabbed the edge of the desk. “Tails.”

  Corey pulled away his hand, then stood back so Lauren could see George Washington’s shiny profile. “Sorry. I’ll keep it short—don’t worry.”

  “I’m not.” Lauren fell back into the old wooden office chair, which squealed in protest. “I’m fine.” She massaged the back of her neck as the never-ending buzz in her head escalated to a humming.

  “You sure?” Corey crouched at her feet. “You look like you’re coming down with something.”

  “Just a little woozy.” Lauren took a deep breath. Another.

  One knee crackled as Corey stood. “We’re both in good shape.” He bent down and kissed her. “Just be a couple minutes.”

  “Thanks.” Lauren listened to the wood creak as he climbed the stairs, caught a whiff of his scent, stale sweat and the faded remains of deodorant. Human, at least. Normal. She sat unmoving until he called down that he had finished. Then she stood and headed upstairs, Connie Petersbury’s warning still sounding in her ears.

  “WHERE’S MISTRESS WAYCROSS?” Lauren pulled on her coat, then checked in her handbag for her wallet and phone. Force of habit. She had turned off her phone the previous day because what was the point, but now she turned it back on. Petersbury had essentially told her to trust her instincts, and however vague, it was all the direction she had.

  “Been out in the barn all day.” Corey stood before the entryway mirror and fingered the collar of his white shirt. “Kermit’s been off his feed, so she’s been sitting with him. Personally, I think he’s fine. It’s just when things get anxious, Mistress would rather be with horses than people.” He tugged at the red-and-black-striped tie that Waycross had found among her late husband’s things. “Do I look as stupid as I feel?”

  Lauren took a step back and looked him over. He had returned to his house to collect a pair of dark gray dress slacks, but had drawn the line at his Mistress’s offer of one of her late husband’s suit coats. Instead, he opted for a battered leather jacket he excavated from behind the seat
of his truck. “You look fine. Better than fine.” She pointed to his tie, then to her own outfit. “We match.”

  “That was the plan.” Corey ran a hand through his hair, then dug his truck keys out of his pocket. “Call Jorie ‘Mistress’ even though she isn’t Mistress of Gideon. Otherwise, she’ll crab at you all night. Leaf interrupts her constantly. Calls her ‘young, silly.’ She sticks her tongue out at him when he turns his back. It can get uncomfortable. Food’s decent as long as she isn’t on one of her fad diet kicks.”

  “That’s what I—” Lauren swallowed the word “heard” just in time. “That’s what I wanted to ask.” She followed Corey out of the house, once again fought the urge to lock the door. “Is Amanda Petrie the cook?” She suppressed an image of what could happen if Petrie prepared food the same way she prepared her ointment.

  “No. She’s the housekeeper, so she doesn’t actually get her hands dirty.” Corey helped Lauren into the truck, then waited as she tucked her skirt out of range of the door. “That’s according to Millie Chatham, who is the actual cook.”

  “Good to know.” Lauren hugged her handbag as she waited for Corey, patted it when it struck her that it seemed lighter than usual. The books. She had left them in Waycross’s office. No reason to take them. Besides, she wouldn’t want Leaf Cateman touching them, seeing the drawings that Matthew Mullin had made of Emma. No, that would not be good. They were better where they were. Safer.

  A light drizzle started to fall as they pulled out of the driveway, and Corey flipped on the wipers and lights. “Just another crappy night in Gideon.” An oncoming truck flickered its headlights, and he switched to low beams.

  As the truck passed them, Lauren caught sight of rusty red through the gloom. An iron-gray crew cut. “That’s Zeke.” She turned around and watched as the man pulled into the Waycross driveway.

  Corey slowed until Zeke disappeared around the back of the house. “He stops by sometimes, when Mistress has tools or whatnot that she wants to get rid of.”

  “I’m sorry I missed him.” Lauren faced front. “He’s nice.”

  “Yeah, he’s a good ol’ guy.” Corey veered closer to the edge of the road as another set of headlights became visible. “Rush hour.”

  “That looks like Phil in the passenger seat.” Lauren craned her neck to try to see who was driving. “He’s with Beth—I’m wearing her skirt.” She turned, and watched the car until she saw it turn into the Waycross driveway. “Did Mistress Waycross call a convocation?”

  “If she did, we wouldn’t be headed out to dinner at Leaf’s.” Corey shifted in his seat. “Sometimes the elders meet informally, just to talk.” He tapped the gas pedal for emphasis. “Isn’t like they don’t have a lot to talk about, with all that’s been going on.”

  Lauren focused on the view out the window, which resembled every other view of Gideon she had seen since her arrival. Mist obscuring bare trees. A crumbling road, with no other vehicles in sight.

  “This is Old Main,” Corey said after a time. “They found Dr. Hoard’s car here.” He pointed out the passenger window to the muddy roadside.

  Lauren picked out the deep ruts left by the tow truck, the tamped-down grass. “Can you stop?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  Corey grumbled under his breath as he brought the truck to a stop, then slowly reversed until he drew even with the spot where Hoard’s car had been parked. “I want you to stay within arm’s reach at all times.”

  If you insist. Lauren got out of the truck, then waited for Corey to join her. “It was raining that night.”

  “Yes.” Corey stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders as a light gust shook droplets from the trees and sent them spattering down.

  Lauren looked over the place where the car had been parked, but nothing about it touched her in any way. “It’s just weird that he would stop and get out of the car in the rain, yet leave behind his coat and umbrella.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Something lured him out.” Lauren walked out to the middle of the road, and felt—

  —evil for the impure joy of it. A sick shudder of fear. “It got him out of his car, and fixed it so he couldn’t get back in.” She crouched and touched the road, ran her fingers over cracked asphalt. “Then whatever happened, happened.”

  Corey stayed by her side, every so often checking the road in one direction or the other. “So he isn’t just . . . missing. You think he’s dead.”

  “Or as good as.” Lauren straightened. “Or worse.” She brushed dirt from her hands. “You live near here?”

  “Not really.” Corey jerked his thumb in the direction opposite. “Two miles, that way.”

  “Not far enough.” Lauren took a few steps toward the other side of the road, stopped when she heard Corey’s warning grouse. She could just detect it, the rustling in the bushes. The flicker of leaves, and movement of shadows. “It’s no good out here.”

  “That’s why I moved back to the Mistress’s.” Corey nudged her elbow. “Now could we please get back in the nice, warm truck so we can go eat rabbit food?”

  Lauren walked back to the truck, Waycross’s boots clicking on the asphalt. Got in, locked the door, buckled herself in. Yanked down the visor and watched in the mirror as the place where Jerome Hoard had met his fate receded until it was swallowed by the dark.

  After a few silent minutes, Corey touched her arm.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Lauren pressed a hand to the back of her neck, felt a tingle sharp as an electric shock. Something had watched her as she examined the last known location of Dr. Jerome Hoard, physician and son of Gideon. Something that would kill for the sheer joy of it, slash you with its claws and laugh while you bled.

  “You don’t look okay.” Corey held out his arm. “Come here.”

  Lauren unbuckled her safety belt and scooted across the bench seat, pressed close to Corey as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Reached up and took hold of his hand—the chill startled her. “Cold hands—you know what they say?”

  Corey stiffened. “What?”

  “When you introduced yourself in the diner, you shook my hand. I read your thoughts, I guess. Sensed them. Cold hands, warm heart. That’s what you were thinking.”

  “Right.” Corey frowned. “I’m not sure I like that.”

  “Mistress Waycross said it was a nasty talent. It’s not something I’d have chosen.”

  “But you didn’t have a choice.” Corey shook his head. “There are times when I hate this place. It would be different if we had a choice. Maybe. I don’t know. Like the army, or something.”

  “It is like an army.” Lauren looked out the window as they entered Gideon, drove past Lolly’s darkened garage, the blinking neon of Hoard’s Diner. “We’re fighting a war.”

  “But we should have a choice whether to fight or not. How long.” Corey rounded the town square, past the memorial to his dead ancestor. “If we could just put in a few years and then out. If you wanted to spend your entire life here, fine, but if not—” He jerked his head in the direction of the desolate square. “I mean, look at this place. There’s nothing here.”

  “Jerome Hoard said pretty much the same thing to me. But he came when his Mistress asked him.”

  “And look what it got him.” Corey turned into the cul-de-sac and stopped at the edge of the street, across from the Catemans’ Victorian sprawl. “Well, here we are.” He shut off the truck, killed the lights. “Kiss for luck?”

  “Yes, please.” Lauren’s heart stuttered as their lips met. Corey tasted like coffee and spice and mint. His hair felt soft and his body warm through his clothes, and she unzipped his jacket and snaked her arms around him and pulled him close. They broke apart eventually and she said, “We better get going.” But he continued to hold her and she buried her head in the crook of his neck and closed her eyes and wished that if time had to stop, it could stop at that moment.

 
; And yet . . .

  “You buzz like a wasp nest when I touch you.” Lauren wiggled her fingers until the prickling subsided.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Corey kissed Lauren’s forehead, stroked her hair. “I wish things were different.”

  “I know.” Lauren nodded, felt the cotton shirt collar rough against her cheek. Through the drizzle that webbed across the windshield, she saw the Catemans’ porch light shine, the brightness in the windows. “It’s showtime.” She gave Corey one last squeeze, then let him go.

  Have you been here before?” Lauren held on to Corey’s arm as they mounted the steps to the sweeping columned porch.

  “A few times. Diplomatic courier service behind enemy lines.” Corey wiped away his smile when a middle-aged woman in a maid’s black dress and white apron opened the front door. “Good evening, Sharon.”

  “Mr. Corey.” Sharon’s smile wavered when she turned to Lauren. “Ma’am.” She ushered them inside, took their coats. “Mistress is in the green parlor with the other guests.”

  “Other guests.” Lauren whispered as she and Corey negotiated one overstuffed room after the other. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “Guess it depends if they’re all here because of you.” Corey stroked the silky sleeve of Lauren’s blouse. “I wish I had taken up Mistress’s offer of that suit coat.”

  “You look fine.”

  “I look like a waiter.”

  “Leaf Cateman wears black jeans to dinner.”

  “It’s his house.” Corey stopped in the doorway of a high-ceilinged salon decorated in eye-watering shades of green: sea-silk walls, viridian curtains, carpets in emerald and forest. Not one but two crystal chandeliers. A half-dozen people turned as they entered, the three men in dinner jackets, the three women in varying degrees of evening dress.

  Lauren felt a stab of irritation. “The invitation didn’t specify dress code.”