by Aric Davis
CHAPTER 34
“I got a job,” announced Mom as she walked into Mrs. Martin’s, and they shrieked and shouted for her.
Mom was beaming as she questioned Mrs. Martin about how her daughter had been, and though Cynthia could have easily eavesdropped, she chose not to. There had been too much to learn that afternoon, too much to process to listen to the boring patter of chatty adults.
All Cynthia could think about was what Mrs. Martin had explained about her map, and about how Cynthia could make her own maps with enough experience.
“Scientists call the flying part an ‘out-of-body experience,’” Mrs. Martin had explained, and she made it sound like a pretty common thing. What made weavers different, though, was that they could initiate such a feeling and then use it in concert with their other skills. Mrs. Martin had been able to mark her own map of the North Harbor Apartments after a great deal of practice.
“It cannot be rushed, dear,” she said. “It’s absolutely essential to mark your map correctly. There’s no point in having any information on a map if it isn’t correct. Entering an improperly marked space can be even more dangerous than walking in blindly.”
Cynthia let the last parts of the lesson run through her mind as she gathered her things and the two chatting women wound their conversation down. She stuffed her color chart into a bag. All of those mysteries had been revealed at least, even if Mrs. Martin had avoided most of the rest of her questions. In fact, the only thing Mrs. Martin had cleared up aside from mapmaking and the colors was when Cynthia asked her if there are any bad weavers. “No,” Mrs. Martin had assured her with a shake of her head, “there’s no one out there like that,” and Cynthia had sighed in relief.
When she and Mom had said their good-byes and opened the apartment door to leave, Cynthia could hear the sound of a guitar. Across the parking lot, she could see a smiling Patrick plucking away at a battered six-string. / You did that / You saved him / Mrs. Martin said in her head, and Cynthia just smiled to herself as she took the steps two at a time after her mother. Patrick definitely did look happy. Maybe Mrs. Martin was right. Maybe I did fix him.
If Cynthia could fix Patrick with a little help from Mrs. Martin, why couldn’t she fix Dad? She had her doubts that she could convince her parents to reconcile, but if she could make it so they were both happier, that would be better for everyone involved. I could do it, maybe even without Mrs. Martin. Though the work would be hard, she truly believed she could. Patrick’s purple lines had been a lot darker than Dad’s, and he had a lot of black in there, too. Dad was in great shape by comparison. He just needed someone like her to help him. He needed a weaver.
“Don’t you want to hear about my job?” Mom asked as she locked the door behind Cynthia.
“Yes,” replied Cynthia dutifully. “What are you going to be doing?”
“Well, it’s not the most exciting thing in the world,” said Mom, but Cynthia could tell by her mannerisms and the glowing green strands coming from her head that Mom was fibbing. She thinks it’s exciting, but she knows that I’ll think it sounds boring. “I met with an old friend of mine, from high school, and she’s managing a clothing store downtown. I’ll start on the floor, helping ladies look for clothes, but she says the company she works for is thinking of opening another location, so there could be lots of opportunities to move up soon, assuming I can handle working with a bunch of catty women.”
“It should be a lot different than the store,” said Cynthia, and she knew just seconds later that it had been the wrong thing to say. Mom didn’t want to think about the store or Dad, or about the little yellow house. Mom wanted the new life they had to be so good that they forgot all of those things had ever happened.
“It will be different,” said Mom a few pregnant moments later. “In this case, however, different will be good. I was tired of having to deal with all of those gross guys smelling like beer all of the time.”
Cynthia set her bag on the table—still the only piece of furniture in the apartment—and then walked into the bathroom and closed the door after her. She wanted to tell Mom about Patrick, to explain to her that the reason that man could play guitar was because of her, but she knew she couldn’t. Cynthia flushed the toilet without going, glad for the quick break from Mom’s fragility, and then washed her hands and left the bathroom.
“What do you want for dinner, Cyn?”
“You can pick. It doesn’t matter to me.”
Mom nodded, the same sad look on her face. “All right, I’ll pick, but you’re going to have to help one of these days.” Cynthia had sat at the table, and Mom joined her. “It won’t always be like this, Cynthia,” she said. “I’ll talk to Dad soon, and we’ll work out a schedule. I’m sure you miss him like crazy.”
Cynthia nodded, as she knew she was expected to do, but she was thinking something else entirely: If Mom makes me go, then I might have to help him. That wouldn’t be my fault.
“Well, I can tell by the smile that sounds good to you,” said Mom, “or is there something else that I’m missing? If it’s a joke and it’s not about me, you better share. I could use a good laugh after two days in heels.”
Cynthia shook her head. “Not a joke, Mrs. Martin’s dogs. They look really funny when they sleep—funny and cute.”
Mom smiled. “That Mrs. Martin is a wonder. We’re lucky to have such a good new friend. You make sure you listen to her, Cynthia.”
Cynthia nodded. Mom had no idea.
CHAPTER 35
Lem Stimson leaned a cheek off of his stool and farted loudly. He let the stink ease out of his jeans and off of the plastic seat and then said to himself with some satisfaction, “That’s sauerkraut and beer right there.”
That Lem knew the contents of his dinner made the detection no less impressive. He would have known that smell from a stranger. His mom had been Polish and his dad German, and sauerkraut and beer were staples in the Stimson household.
While he was almost up, Lem leaned over the counter and grabbed a copy of Guns & Ammo off of the rack and plopped back down to give it another look. The TV was still down, the gas station was as dead as could be, and the radio had said that the storms out on the west side of the state had finally let up.
Lem didn’t see the headlights pull up—he was too busy reading some quotes from Jeff Cooper and chuckling to himself—but he did hear the door ding as someone walked into the station. Lem gave the man the sort of annoyed glance he’d perfected over ten years of holding down a stool at the Amoco, but the man didn’t notice, just headed straight for the pop coolers.
Lem turned back to the magazine. Pretty soon the guy would come to the counter, buy some soda and maybe some food, and then possibly make some small talk. Lem had done the dance enough to know the particulars, and if the guy wanted more than that, Lem had a .357 tucked under the counter. It had been two years since he’d pulled it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t looking forward to doing it again.
The man didn’t seem like he harbored any ill intentions, however, and it looked like Lem was going to have to wait for another customer before he could fulfill his wish of becoming a gas station hero all over again. Lem watched over the magazine as the guy gathered sodas in his arms, and finally a case of Miller Lite. Lem gave him another glance as the guy hesitated by the coffee machine, thinking as the man goggled at it, Come on, man, your arms are full. If you want some joe, just set that shit down up here and let’s get this over with.
The man didn’t set anything down, though. He just kept staring at the coffee, until Lem shook his head and started looking at pictures again.
When Lem looked up again to check on his customer’s progress, he was startled to find the man clattering his sodas onto the counter.
“Sorry,” said the man at Lem’s reflexive shudder.
“No problem. Just caught me a little off guard is all. You need any gas?”
The man
nodded as he threw the case of beer on the counter. “Yeah, twenty dollars on pump one.”
“All right,” said Lem as he turned to the machine to access the pump. The man had brown hair, average build, and looked plain as the day is long but for some reason seemed eminently familiar to Lem. “Do I know you?” Lem asked as he turned back from the pump controls.
The man shrugged and said, “I don’t know, it’s possible. Did you grow up in Florida?”
Lem shook his head. Hell no, I didn’t grow up in Florida. What he said, though, was, “No, I grew up right here in the asshole between Cedar Rapids and Illinois. I do think I know you, though. You look damn famil—” Lem nearly choked on his own spit as his eyes fell on the stack of newspapers next to the stranger’s Cokes.
The picture on the front of the paper was in black and white and a little blurry, but Lem knew exactly where the resemblance came from now. The headline above the photo read, “Cop Killer.”
“Just a case of mistaken identity, I suppose,” said Lem, his fingers finding the gun under the counter. “Cop Killer Brought to Justice by Hero” seemed like a good fit for tomorrow’s headline.
“No, I don’t think so, Lem,” said the customer identified in the paper as Darryl Livingston. “I think you know exactly where you know me from.”
“I don’t know you.” Lem’s fingers were wrapped around the butt of the .357, but the gun felt like it weighed a few thousand pounds. Lem was no stranger to this in a dream—the gun that just couldn’t be fired—but this was a new variation. Even in his sleep the gun had never been so damn heavy.
“Sure you know me,” said Darryl. “I’m the man on that newspaper. I have to admit, though, that I’m not much of a fan of that headline. It’s a bit loud for the circumstances, in my opinion. I was simply trying to help a friend, and things went a little sideways.” Darryl cocked his head. “Is there a problem, Lem?”
“No, and I don’t know you,” said Lem, still struggling to bring his damn two-ton gun to bear on the fucker. “Why don’t you just gas up and get the fuck out of here? Take all that soda and beer and shit, too. Take the whole store—I don’t give a fuck.”
Darryl shook his head, and then Lem felt his own hand rising from under the counter, the revolver gripped in it. “Careful,” said Darryl as he lifted his hands palms-up between them, laughing as he pretended to be scared. “You don’t want to shoot me, do you, Lem?”
“No,” said Lem, perhaps the biggest lie he’d ever told. He wanted to shoot this customer more than anything he’d ever wanted in his entire life, but he could no more point his weapon at him than fly to the moon. Worse than that, as Lem rolled his eyes down toward the gun—for some reason he couldn’t turn his head now, even an inch—his hand was turning the barrel toward him. As he watched in horror, his arm rose with the pistol until it slipped out of sight at the side of his head, which was still locked in place on his neck. Lem could feel the muzzle denting his temple, but no one else was holding the gun. He was shoving it into his own head.
“Please just . . . please leave.”
“I can’t do that, Lem,” said Darryl. “You recognized me, and besides, that truck outside is about as hot as a car can get right now. Give me your keys.” Lem felt his other hand go into his pocket, pull the keys free, and then lay them on the counter. “Thanks,” said Darryl as he took them off the counter. “Now make a mess.”
Lem’s truck was filthy with food trash and cigarette packs, reeked of body odor and tobacco, and would be easier to scrap than clean, but it wasn’t connected with the death of an Iowa State Trooper. After unloading their truck into Lem’s and then stashing the rental behind the service station, Darryl and Terry pulled out of the gas station and got back to moving east.
All the folks on the radio wanted to talk about was the storm. Having driven through it, Terry and Darryl couldn’t blame them a bit. The death toll stood at just over a hundred, and more than three hundred homes had been destroyed. It was odd. Hearing this put a lump in Darryl’s throat. Even though the storm had nothing to do with him—his powers didn’t rise to that level—he felt a little guilty over it. After all, they never could have gotten away without the insane weather.
Darryl was smiling as they crossed the state border into Illinois, and when he looked at Terry he could see that his friend was grinning ear to ear.
“Not out of the fire just yet,” said Darryl, “but a good sight better off than we were two days ago.”
Terry nodded. Des Moines had been bad, and leaving had been worse, but there was no disputing that getting free of Iowa felt fucking fantastic.
“What are we going to do now?” Terry asked, and Darryl took a moment to answer him.
“I’ve been thinking we might head to Chicago, but now I wonder if that’s just what they’ll expect us to do,” said Darryl. “So instead, I’d like to head north of the city and get into Wisconsin. I read about this years earlier. I have no clue if it even still runs, but there’s supposed to be a big-ass car ferry that motors across Lake Michigan. We can hit that, cross the lake, and then be in Canada a few hours earlier than we would be otherwise. Worst case, the ferry’s closed and we just keep working north. It’ll take longer, but the same eventual end.”
“What about when we get to Canada?”
“We ditch the truck and go to ground,” said Darryl, “though hopefully not for long. I have no intention of spending any more time there than I need to in order to bleed off some of this heat. As soon as we can, we’re going to a sunny, warm island or something. Somewhere with beaches, white sand visible in the window, you know?”
“I won’t fuck it up this time,” said Terry, and Darryl nodded, knowing in his heart that it was true. I know you won’t, thought Darryl, but either way I’m going to have to kill you. He didn’t like killing and liked the idea of killing Terry even less, but his patience had been worn thin. Killing that cop might not have been Terry’s fault, not exactly, but there was no denying the man had an itch, and when it didn’t get scratched it was impossible to know what might happen.
“I know you won’t fuck it up,” said Darryl, aloud this time. “It’s going to be smooth sailing from here on out. I’ll drive until dusk, we’ll get a hotel room, and then we’ll do it all over again tomorrow. Does that sound good to you?”
“Yeah, it sounds great,” said Terry as he turned to the window.
Glancing at his friend, Darryl felt his eyes drawn to Terry’s topknot. Terry was all green, blue, and yellow now. No signs of any impending violence. But Darryl knew that was just a matter of time, just like it had always been ever since he’d begun using his friend like a psychic garbage can.
Sorry, Terry, but we’re only going to be buying one plane ticket this time.
Darryl flipped on the radio, and “Livin’ la Vida Loca” roared up. Twisting the dial with a grimace, Darryl smiled as the familiar sounds of Bob Seger came pouring through the speakers. He began to drum his thumbs on the wheel, the smile sticking. None of it had gone perfectly, but they were still alive and free.
CHAPTER 36
“I need a word,” said Pat, and Jessica turned toward him in the hallway. Pat felt stuck, his tongue lodged against the bottom of his mouth as though it had been glued there, and he felt certain he was going to stand in the hall staring at her until she eventually walked away. But Jessica just smiled at him warmly, and Pat was able to swallow and say, “I have a hunch that I need to play out.”
“I’m all for a hunch, as long as it’s low risk for the TRC and has at least a chance of getting us somewhere,” said Jessica. “Does this have to do with your IP thing?”
“IP address search—and yes,” said Pat. “There have been two cases in the last little bit that have stuck out to me. The first one was a teenager from St. Louis named Vincent Taggio who liquidated his dad’s and his dad’s mob buddies’ Grand Cayman bank accounts, and the other is a pair of brother
s named Tom and Henry Nichols. They shot up—”
“A day care in Santa Cruz. Am I right?”
“Yes, they killed a bunch of people in Santa Cruz after offing their parents,” said Pat. “No motive, at least not from what I could find. The press went nuts over the shooting—no surprise there. But I wonder if there wasn’t more to it.”
“More meaning a TK?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Here’s the thing, Pat,” said Jessica. “You’ve got a great lead on these two guys, and I need you focused on that. It would be great to bring this thing down and solve some collateral stuff at the same time, but I think you might be overreaching. It will be a very big deal if we can bring Darryl and Terry in unharmed, OK?”
“If I’m right, it’s going to make it a lot easier to get them.”
“How so? Make me understand.”
“All right, I’ll try,” said Pat. “First off, this is about as unscientific as it gets. Since that’s out of the way, the baseline is that I think these guys have been accosting kids on the Internet, using them and then destroying them so there’s no evidence.”
“Keep going.”
“The Taggio kid made half a million disappear, but half a million bucks fell off the face of the earth, and I really doubt it’s coming back anytime soon. I think Darryl or Terry or both of them met him online in a chat room, did their TK shit, and told him exactly what to do and how to do it, then put him down like a sick dog.”
“There’s a problem with that,” said Jessica. “TK stuff doesn’t work over a phone line. No exceptions, even with really powerful folks.”
“Yes, I know. You told us that,” said Pat, “and I believe you, but what if an Internet connection is somehow different? I hate talking on the phone—like, hate it, even when someone I want to talk to calls. On the Internet, though, it’s different. I can talk to complete strangers for hours at a time and feel like we could go hang out in real life without a hitch. What if it’s not the physical connection that stops TKs from working over the phone, but the—I don’t know . . . the emotional connection? Because I swear, the connection in the wall may be the same as with a phone, but it’s way more personal online, even with all of the anonymity.”
