by Aric Davis
“They wouldn’t know what to do with it,” said Darryl. “It would be like reporting real information on ghosts or aliens—a huge scoop that would cause mass hysteria. They couldn’t let it out. They’d lose their whole viewing audience in minutes while the rest of the country stocked up on canned goods and ammunition and everybody took cover in their basements. Can you imagine how fast ad revenue would dry up?”
Terry shook his head. “Like there’s anything they could do. I mean, they couldn’t even get to you, much less manage to say a bad word around you with you in the same room. You’d carve their heads out like pumpkins and walk away, dude. They wouldn’t even know what hit them.”
The thought hit Darryl like a jolt: We’ve been playing this wrong the whole time. The idea had always been to fly under the radar, to live off of the grid as much as possible, but this computer shit was a game changer. The days of bilking some drunk rube out of his bank account were long gone. Darryl hadn’t had a failure yet on the computer. Even if he was having trouble finding another kid who could bend, he was certain there were plenty of other ways he could ply these newfound abilities.
“I don’t think they’d know what to do with either one of us, Terry,” said Darryl finally, his mind still racing. “Probably best that they never find out.”
“That’s all right by me,” said Terry, his attention already wandering back to the ugliness on the television, but all Darryl could think about was finding another bent kid. You’ve spent your whole life playing the short game, taking the money and running whenever you got two nickels to rub together. But what if the next time you found a kid like Vincent you used him for the long term?
It was an interesting thought. Make the kid into some sort of remote-operating device. You might still leave a footprint, thought Darryl. But did that even matter? A bent kid, one who knew of his own abilities, would already be covering up for himself.
Darryl stood, walked to the computer, and fired it up. There was no reason to let this downtime spoil what could be a productive few weeks. You thought you’d be drunk for a month, thought Darryl, but that idea felt like it had come from another person. Right now he wanted an outlet, and if he had to search every kid out there, he was going to find it. Vincent was proof: there were still kids in the wild like him. Kids who were strong mentally, had the power to bend, and were born with criminal minds.
Darryl listened as the modem sang its screeching song, and then got to digging.
CHAPTER 27
“It’s not exactly what we were looking for, but have any of you guys heard about this mass shooting in Santa Cruz?” Pat asked the room. He knew they were only supposed to be working on Des Moines, but the killings in Cali just smacked to him of something more, just like the thievery and then nonsensical suicide by Vincent Taggio had.
“Heard about it,” said Jessica, “don’t care. All I care about is Des Moines and crimes there.”
“Hear me out just for a second,” begged Pat. “This shit doesn’t make any sense. Two kids are home with their folks, then decide to kill them for no reason—literally everyone who knew them says the family was very close—and then they go shoot up a day care that these boys had absolutely no gripe with.”
“It happens,” said Geoff. “These kids see all of these crime shows, think they’ll just get caught if they go the ‘normal’ serial killer route. They want to be famous now. Want it so bad they don’t care if they’re both dead twenty minutes later. Being famous is worth it for them, like it’s worth it for jihadists to blow themselves up just to get to those virgins waiting for them.”
“No way. This isn’t that,” said Pat. “These kids were normal—completely normal—and they just go off their nuts? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t need to,” said Brinn. “We’re looking for telekinetics, remember? Jessica said they don’t commit suicide, that they have that god complex that makes them think they can always find a way out. Those two shot each other to death. TKs wouldn’t do that, just like if your other kid had been a TK he wouldn’t have jumped off of a chair.” Brinn paused, typed furiously for a moment, then turned her gaze back to Pat. “Come back to us, Pat, back to the world of the living. There’s enough bad stuff out there that we can’t comb through it all. I need you on crimes in Des Moines.”
“I’m on it,” said Pat, “and I have been this whole time. I’m just suggesting that maybe there’s more to that thing in California than any of us realize right now.”
“Here’s a thought,” said Geoff. “What if one of these TKs made those kids off their parents and then go shoot up the day care?”
“Why in the hell would they do that?” Rick asked.
Geoff shrugged. “How the hell would I know? I’m just trying not to push a possibility away. We’re supposed to look everywhere and at everything.”
“Guys, come on,” said Brinn. “Let’s get back to work. I’m in charge, and we’re working Des Moines. I don’t think there’s much room for debate.”
The three men nodded and got back to their tasks involving the Greater Des Moines area, but Pat kept a thought to himself. Jessica never mentioned what they were supposed to be doing after work, and his home rig was nearly identical to the one before him now. He even had an idea of why the kids might have snapped: What if Darryl or Terry got to them?
Jessica had said that was impossible to do over the phone, but she’d been talking about via voice transmission. What if there was something different about data firing over a modem? Pat knew it was a long shot, but hell, so was everything. Nobody knew anything about this crazy shit when it came down to it. And God knew he didn’t have anything else going on at home, anyways.
CHAPTER 28
Cynthia waited for Mom to hurry up and get dressed as she colored at the dining room table. She was being careful not to break the tips on the crayons her mother had bought her the day before—not that she really thought it mattered, but she wanted them to be in good condition when she saw Mrs. Martin again. Finally, Mom appeared from the bathroom, dressed just as fancy as the day before.
“Let’s get that stuff picked up if you want to bring it,” said Mom as she brushed past the table.
The words might have once stung Cynthia, but now she could read her mother so much better. Mom wasn’t mad at her; she was mad at Dad and stressed out about trying to get a job. Mom wants to show him still, whatever that means.
Cynthia ignored Mom as she raced around the apartment, instead focusing on boxing up her crayons. Cynthia was excited to see Mrs. Martin again, but nowhere near as excited as she’d been the day before, now that so much of the mystery had been revealed. Cynthia knew that Mrs. Martin would tell her more about the secret little world that she’d happened upon, but also that it wouldn’t be enough. Cynthia wanted to know how to keep her father safe, how to make the purple go away, and how to make her parents fall in love again, but she knew that they weren’t going to discuss any of that.
“Are you ready?” Mom asked, but even without her gift, Cynthia wouldn’t have recognized the query as an actual question. Mom wanted to hear that she was ready so that she could deposit her somewhere safe and be on her way.
“Yes,” said Cynthia as she loaded the last of her crayons into the box and then stood.
“Well, let’s go then, silly,” said Mom, trying to be funny and not succeeding.
Cynthia followed her mother out the door and then watched as she locked it before the two of them made their way downstairs. Mom rapped twice on Mrs. Martin’s door, and the two of them could hear the dogs long before the older woman appeared.
“I was starting to get a little anxious,” said Mrs. Martin.
Cynthia just grinned and slid past her, bidden by a voice in her head that told her to take a seat at the table.
“Are you sure this will still work for you, Henrietta?”
“Of course it will,” said Mrs. Mar
tin, her voice glistening with honey. “Like I told you yesterday, having her here is a blessing for me. I don’t get many visitors, and you can see how the dogs have taken to her.”
“All right,” said Mom, and Cynthia could hear the questions she wasn’t saying in her voice, as well as see the threads in the air interacting between the two women. The strands were of varying thickness, gold, red, blue, and green.
Cynthia watched them talk and considered trying to see their conversation the way she had the knot at the store, but she didn’t want to be a thief in their minds, and she knew that somehow Mrs. Martin would know. Finally, Mom was walking out the door, and Mrs. Martin latched it after her.
Cynthia leaned down from her seat to pet Stanley on his little brown-and-white head, and Mrs. Martin took the seat across from her.
“What are we going to do today?” Cynthia asked. “I brought my crayons in case you want to help me write down a color list.”
“No, not right now,” said Mrs. Martin. “Today we’re going to weave. I can practically smell purple from where I’m sitting. Someone who lives nearby is going to need our help, and we’re going to give it to him, whether he wants it or not.”
Cynthia had to all but pick up her chin from her chest. This was the last thing she’d expected. Mrs. Martin wanted her to help get into the head of a stranger, and who knew what else she’d need her to do once that was done?
“Is it safe?” Cynthia asked, and Mrs. Martin shook her head.
“Very few things worth doing ever are, my dear, but it will be safe enough. I’ll make sure of that.” Mrs. Martin laid her arms down on the table, her palms up, and said, “Now, I want you to take my hands, and we’re going to figure out who’s aching. With the two of us, it ought to be like searching a shoebox with a flashlight. Just let me lead, Cynthia, and we’ll be to the root of it soon enough.”
Cynthia took Mrs. Martin’s hands, her heart thumping in her chest. She could feel their breathing become as one, and then it was as though she were looking down on the apartment complex from the belly of a low-flying airplane. There were dots of color flecked over some apartments, and Cynthia realized with a start that the building she lived in had a star marked over it. / I started adding color a few years ago / It helps me remember where my people are / Mrs. Martin’s voice was in her head, but when Cynthia whipped her head back and forth she could see no sign of her friend.
“Where are you?” Cynthia asked, but her voice had no sound.
/ I’m right here with you, dear / Neither of us is above the North Harbor Apartments. We’re both still in my little place with the dogs / Now, the purple man / Can you find him? /
Cynthia accepted Mrs. Martin’s words without argument, not because she didn’t have any questions, but because she didn’t even know where to begin. Instead, she began studying the dotted apartments, looking for any sign of what was happening inside. She wasn’t sure what she was seeking, beyond purple. She was just hoping that she would recognize whatever she was supposed to be searching for when she found it. Cynthia started by concentrating on one of the apartments with a red dot on top of it—red was close to purple, she supposed—and in an eyeblink she was there, floating near its ceiling like she had in the liquor store.
A man sat in the apartment watching TV and drinking beer. He was drumming his hands on his knees and talking under his breath, and atop his head was a violent curl of writhing red and pink string.
The phone began to ring, and the man turned toward it and shouted, “Nobody home, Mick, so just leave me the hell alone!” The words were audible—a surprise to Cynthia—but when she thought about it, that made sense. Here, the man was actually speaking, but at her father’s store the voices she heard were thoughts.
Cynthia knew the man was in trouble. She didn’t know what kind of trouble but also had a feeling this wasn’t the place she was looking for. She didn’t know if Mrs. Martin would have spoken up if she was wrong, but Cynthia knew she wasn’t. Cynthia pictured the apartments again, and once again found herself above them.
Next, Cynthia picked another red dot, this one at the far end of the complex, far from where she stayed with Mom. Cynthia barely focused on the dot this time, and she was inside. Here there was a woman instead of a man, but she looked just as miserable as the man had. Red curls poured from her head, rising high enough to brush the ceiling, and she was flitting about the apartment getting ready to leave, though Cynthia had a hard time imagining where she would need to go dressed like she was. The woman looked like a living version of one of the Barbie dolls Mom always griped about buying for Cynthia, and despite the woman’s rage, the only thought blaring from her was / Hope Reg is happy / Hope Reg is happy / The words were like an assault, a constant siren in the building, and Cynthia jettisoned once again and found herself staring down at the North Harbor Apartments from somewhere in the sky.
“It’s harder than I thought,” said Cynthia to herself, and then Mrs. Martin’s voice was in her head again: / You’re doing fine / Just keep looking / If you try, you should be able to feel it, to smell it /
Cynthia tried that, tried to make herself feel anything besides fear over floating high above North Harbor, but there was nothing there. There was nothing to scent up in the sky, either. As far as Cynthia could tell, the air above the complex smelled a little like one of Mrs. Martin’s cigarettes. / Reach out / Reach out / Cynthia had no idea what Mrs. Martin meant, but she concentrated on the top of the building next to the one she lived in, and all at once she understood what Mrs. Martin meant.
Cynthia was in all four of the building’s apartments all at once, though she knew she was really in none of them. Looking at the building felt sort of like watching a television that had several different programs running on the screen. Two of the apartments were empty. In the third the heavyset woman she’d seen doing laundry that first day was whistling and making breakfast for her kids, and in the fourth a man sat at his kitchen table looking at a gun. Atop his head was a thick purple-and-black knot, and he was sitting and staring at the gun as if in a trance. Cynthia focused on him, and the split-screen view she had was gone, and she pushed herself so that she was floating above the man.
/ Stop being a bitch. Just do it / Do it / Do it / DO IT /
The words were a wall, and Cynthia knew that something bad was going to happen. She wanted to be home. She wanted to be back in Mrs. Martin’s little apartment, petting the dogs. She wanted to forget any of this ever happened. She wanted to be home with her parents and have all of this be a dream. Instead, Cynthia stretched her arms out and, with fingers she could neither see nor feel, took hold of one of the purple strands. Cynthia felt electricity flowing through her, the same way she’d felt it when she took Mrs. Martin’s hands, but this was different. She knew everything.
The man’s name was Patrick Kettle, and he was sad because he’d always been sad. All he wanted was for the pain to end. He hated his work, he couldn’t get a date, and he had no friends to confide in. He felt alone because he was alone, and the weight of it was killing him as sure as if it were a tangible thing. Patrick didn’t know where he was supposed to fit. He felt like a puzzle with a matching picture but all of the wrong pieces. He was alone and unhappy, and he wanted to die.
Not sure of what to do but hating the way Patrick was looking at the gun, Cynthia gave the purple strand a tug. She could see where it was catching on another thread a foot or so below the ceiling, and she slowly pried the two apart, letting them swing freely. / You have a lot to live for / The voice was Mrs. Martin’s, and Cynthia could see yellow strands grasping at the freed pieces she had just released from the stranglehold of the knot.
Cynthia went to work at another of the strings, a black one this time, and when she took hold of it she could see silhouettes of her fingers against the murky color of the thread. Cynthia could feel the black thread in a way that didn’t make sense; she couldn’t feel anything else here.
Taking hold of it sent a memory like a lightning bolt through her, a young Patrick running from a group of children, bullies who always caught him. Cynthia tugged at the strand, ripping it free from the ones next to it, and then was shocked to see that it had torn free from Patrick entirely, like a dead branch on a tree. Cynthia stared at it in her there-but-not-there fist, and then the strand began to dissolve in her grip until it was a shadow, and then gone entirely.
/ Now do the rest / Cynthia could see yellow strands grabbing the broken piece, and she did as she had been told, reaching deep into the knot, then twisting and pulling to spread them apart. She could feel Mrs. Martin there with her, not in the same way that Cynthia was, but there all the same. Patrick was quiet, but Cynthia could see him, stone-faced, below them, paused like one of her DVDs as she worked. The threads came apart more easily the longer she pulled at them, the blackened and dead ones dropping off and dissipating, while the swirling purple ones were enveloped by the yellow threads from Cynthia and Mrs. Martin.
It was impossible to know how long the job took to do, but Cynthia felt a weird elation as she released the last of the threads from each other. She felt tired and exhilarated all at once, and as she looked through the threads, she was happy to see that a good many of them had changed from purple to blue, though there were several strands that had transformed to red. Cynthia felt her focus changing. Patrick’s hands were moving, but he was ignoring the gun on the table. Cynthia felt the world blink out, and then there was darkness.
CHAPTER 29
1945
While the world around us crumbles, Katarina and I train. The only shame of it is that we are forced to train only in the camp. Katarina is a powerful woman, and the guards respect and fear her, but I don’t think even the Führer would be allowed to leave Dachau with a prisoner. Since the little joke I played on the two guards with my imaginary Sherman tank and American soldiers, the camp has been on edge, and the commandant has doubled the practice drills that the soldiers run through daily. All the guards do now is worry about the Americans, about what will happen when they come, and about what will happen to them after the war is over. Of course, I have come by these musings by being a bandit of their minds. No guard at Dachau would ever talk about his fears in front of a Jew.
