Graven Image
Book Two of The Grave Images Series
by N. D. Hansen-Hill
Dedication
To Patsy and Mabel
***
Splinters
Splinters of you
Pierced my eyes.
You blinded me.
Now I bleed your lies
In visions only I can see -
Colouring what is left in slivers of you.
*
You touched my skin,
And it burned like ice
A fixative passion
With a rime-frost price
And no breath of sun -
Hoarfrosting my soul in shivers of you.
*
The taste of you,
Lingered on my lips
As bitter-sharp acid;
Gashing soul-deep rips,
Heart-fissures of which I'll never be rid,
Spasm-etched scarring in quivers of you.
*
You've broken me,
I lie in a shatter
Of fractured beliefs,
And twisted matter,
Adrift on the wind like a dead season's leaves.
A-wash and drowning in rivers of you.
*
By N. D. Hansen-Hill
***
Foreword
Jarron Marshall was working hard - had been working hard for months. It was his way of seeing past the shadows that lurked in his vision, the voices that rattled his thinking, the spectres that danced through his dreams. It was no small effort to overlook his inner distractions, and concentrate on getting his research done.
For, Jarron had made a scientific discovery, that could be a boon to mankind. He'd found a universal endophyte, with a potential for reducing world hunger.
The discovery had nearly cost him his life.
Now, he was the first to admit his perspective was twisted, and his outlook skewed. He'd suffered some brain damage, but it hadn't affected his intellect, or his motor skills. Instead, it had opened the doors to a world he'd never known - a world he didn't want to know. One where the dead walked with the living, and the difficulty lay in keeping them apart.
He was doing his best to deal with it. To keep his questionable abilities sequestered, and his ghostly visitors from getting out of hand. It was all just a matter of control.
Control he still didn't have.
***
Prologue
The air-conditioned room held the taint of something ancient - a hint of must, the tang of mould. Museum smells. Odours designed to be picked up by the cycling air, filtered, then spread throughout the building, to minimise their impact.
The artificial atmosphere failed to mask a lingering foulness: a scented remnant of humanity as harsh and enduring as the freeze-dried flesh, carved stones, and chilling metal effigies that rested in the display cases.
The museum portrayed the artefacts as tributes to survival - examples of human fortitude against the elements. They could do nothing about the darker elements: the stench of blood, mingled with the waste of human existence. What had been selected as a model of endurance, with a taste of longevity, was little more than a misguided deceit of human folly, mixed loyalties, and death.
A certain tension lingered in the air. Eventually, it resolved into a shimmering hoarfrost that dusted the insides of the display cases. Museum curators tried to correct it by adjusting the thermostat.
That did little to improve the situation, for the cold lay not in the climate control, but in the objects themselves.
They remained cold.
Colder than the surrounding air. Certainly chillier than the glass that held them trapped.
Colder than death.
***
Chapter One
Jarron was barely out of the car before Nick had the doors slammed, locked, and the alarm set. He pocketed the key as though it were a major triumph.
Something was definitely up, and Jarron didn't need any of his itching intuition to tell him so. Nicholas Acklin was being sneaky - and he was looking far too pleased with himself.
"Why'd we park way out here?" Jarron asked. He glanced around at the picnic benches and big trees. "You're allergic to picnics."
"We're going for a walk."
Jarron reminded him, "You don't believe in walking."
"I'm sucking up inspiration." Nick took a deep breath. "Writer's block," he lied. "Nothing else's worked." He did his best to sound dismal.
It sounded fake to Jarron, but if Nick was suffering one of his rare bouts of writer's block, he probably needed to talk. Jarron felt a twang of guilt. Nick had gone to a lot of trouble to orchestrate this - to make sure Jarron Marshall would take the time to listen.
Jarron hadn't made much time for Nick, or any of his friends, recently. He'd had too many things to think through. No - too many things he didn't want to think through but was afraid they'd insist on talking about.
Jarron glanced at Nick. He didn't seem to be suffering too badly. In fact, despite his supposed dejection he still looked damned pleased with himself.
Chances are, Jarron thought, whatever he's up to doesn't have anything to do with you, or your problems. It's probably some new mathematical theory that would bore anyone else to tears.
Which meant it would be unrelated to Jarron Marshall, and his weird psyche. Jarron let out his pent-up breath, and felt himself begin to relax. Nick was right - he needed to get out more. He was beginning to jump at shadows.
Nick heard the sigh. "All this fresh air," he said. "Good for the brain cells."
"How would you know?" Jarron retorted with a grin. He gestured toward the car. "What was all that speedy-lock stuff about? With Paul at our heels, you probably didn't even need to lock it."
Nick's expression showed a flicker of guilt, and Jarron looked at him curiously. "What's up?"
"Nothing. Just making sure you can't change your mind."
Uh-oh. The twinge of suspicion came back. Whatever Nick was about to do, he'd be sure it was in Jarron's best interests, but that didn't mean Jarron was going to like it.
Jarron told him slowly, with exaggerated patience, "We already know I'm not here because I want to be."
"Ingrate. After all I've done for you -"
"I'll do a few things to you, too, if you don't tell me what's going on." Jarron's smile took the sting out of the words. "Odds are, you're hiding something."
"Odds are, you're right," Nick told him quickly. "Hey - I'm entitled to my little secrets. Besides, suspicion's a product of warped minds."
Jarron looked amused. "Warped, you know about."
"Relax, Jar. The museum's that way." Nick emphasised his words with a push in that direction.
Jarron groaned. "Not the museum -"
"Oh, yeah."
"Don't tell me: Leif Ericson's back in town -"
"Shut up and enjoy the outing. You've been spending way too much time in the lab. It's not healthy."
Jarron sobered. "Says who?" He was so tired of being watch-dogged, with every move on record.
"Says me." Nick glanced at him. "Don't be so damned sensitive."
Jarron felt like a fool. Suspicion is a product of warped minds, Jarron. And nobody's could get more warped than yours. He forced a smile. "So, instead, you drag me out to see a bunch of musty old crud -"
"'Crud?!' Just because it's not your field -" Nick almost managed to sound indignant.
"It's not your field, either. Admit it, Acklin. You and I both know what this is about."
No, you don't, Jarron. Or you would've already left. "I'm telling you it's research," Nick insisted. "You, of all people, should understand research."
"You're right. Which is why I know that's not what we're doing," Jarron replied patiently. "Not even you can confuse a bunch of Viking trash with space travel."
"It's not trash. We're talking major artefacts."
"It is so trash. Where do you think they find this stuff? In rubbish heaps," Jarron said reasonably. "What's that saying? 'One person's trash - another person's treasure?'"
"And what was that crack, about 'not even me'?"
Jarron went on as though he hadn't spoken. "Did you ever think there might be a good reason someone threw that stuff away?"
Nick muttered derisively, "What else can I expect from someone whose fame is fungus?"
*
"According to Marshall, the universal aspect's only part of it. The test results have been good so far," Robart went on cautiously, "but he's still trying to find the means for natural transfer. It doesn't seem to be through the seed."
"Why is it so important?" Caraldy asked, a little belligerently. "Can't they just inject it or something?"
"Not with a hundred percent success. It'd be much easier if there were some method of natural transfer."
"So, how close is he on that?"
"It's coming along. He's working on -" Robart glanced down at the file, "- 'any potential for toxicity' first. He says the chemistry looks good, but they have to know whether there are problems in juvenile stages, or as the fungus ages - things like that. He's talking feeding trials, but he says that's still down the line. Not his area."
"Feeding trials could take months," Caraldy complained. "Can't they tell by sticking it into test samples, then checking the chemistry?"
"It all takes time, John. He thinks the fungus used to be a pathogen, and there's always the chance it could revert. May be why it can spread into other plants so easily."
"Can't they just -"
Colin Robart interrupted him, a little angrily. "It could be only the survivors - of the fungal attacks - carry it. D'you want to be the one to stick this stuff into millions of seedlings, then watch eighty percent of 'em die?"
Caraldy decided it wouldn't do him any good to get Robart's back up any more over this. "You've learned a lot about this stuff," Caraldy said. He almost - but not quite - managed the congenial tone he was aiming for. "Looks like we're in it for the long haul. Do you think he needs more help?"
Robart tried to picture Marshall's response if anyone else urged more help on him. They were nagging him to death as it was.
"All he needs is time - to get the test results in," Robart said firmly. He met John Caraldy's eyes squarely.
Caraldy changed tactics. "Have there been any more 'incidents'?" he probed, wondering if he looked as foolish as he sounded. His office usually dealt with more concrete issues. This esoteric shit made him feel like an ass.
To Robart, it was a warning bell. Nothing more had been said, so he'd assumed his reports had been accepted - anything questionable lost in the confusion of that night. So much shit had been flying, and so much departmental dirt dragged out, that Robart had begun to think Marshall's behaviour had gone unremarked, if not unnoticed. Now, it seemed that Caraldy was being pressured by someone to find out more.
Disappointing. Robart had hoped Marshall was in the clear.
Kris Chandler had warned him. Now it seemed he'd been right. They weren't going to let it go, no matter how much Robart claimed exaggeration and hearsay. Someone had plans for Jarron Marshall's unique abilities.
"Incidents of what? Overwork?" Robart picked up another file from his desk. "The man's been putting in seventy-hour weeks. What else does he have to do for his grant money?" he asked sarcastically. "Maybe you'd like him to sleep at the lab, too."
"I'm not talking about his work habits. You and I both know the endophyte research is going great, and I think we have you to thank -"
Greaser. That's not what you were saying a few minutes ago.
"It's the other aspects of Marshall's personality we're talking about now."
Robart snorted derisively. "Investing a lot in a bunch of hearsay, aren't we?"
A flicker of anger showed in Caraldy's eyes. "We have the doctors' reports."
Robart idly flipped through Jarron's file. "The brain damage doesn't seem to have affected his labwork," he said. "We've had some of his methods assessed by -"
"I'm not talking about his labwork!" Caraldy interrupted angrily. "Weird bullet wounds with no entry hole. Suddenly, he's a Da Vinci, with no formal training. Agents chased out of his home by some unknown 'entity'. Puts on a light show, that takes out a trained assassin - with no lights, and no weapons. The latest is his uncanny ability to detect things before they happen. We have videos of him going to the phone, just before it rings. An e-mail thanks for a package that didn't arrive - till the next day."
"Flimsy," Robart retorted, and did his best to sound incredulous. "He's being watched," he said casually. "Wakeman has his people on it."
"The same Wakeman who didn't mention any of these incidents in his reports?"
"Andy doesn't invent stories to explain away his inadequacies," Robart retorted coolly. "Some of these things you've mentioned - did you ever think that maybe it's why Marshall's so good in his field? They don't label a man 'brilliant' for nothing. Maybe he's just insightful. It could be what gives him the edge."
"And maybe it's what's gonna take him down," Caraldy warned him. "He's working on multi-million dollar research. Wakeman's not the only one watching him. A certain reticence in his reports has some people wondering."
"Wakeman's a good man -"
"That's not what they're questioning. They're beginning to wonder which is more valuable: Jarron Marshall's research, or the extraordinary things he's able to do."
*
Jarron grinned. "Research, huh? I can see your next book now: 'Vikings from Venus'. Should be a big seller."
"Fuck you," Nick retorted calmly.
"That's in the sequel: 'Those Viking Venutian Vixens' -"
Nick grinned. "If I needed that kind of research, I'd bring someone better looking than you along." His smile faded as he tried to remember where he was in his argument. "Oh, yeah." He cleared his throat, and embarked on a rehearsed speech. "Historical research gives depth to a manuscript. Ornamentation. Realism. Hints of past glory."
Jarron looked at him in disbelief. "Bullshit. This is just one of those 'I'm-a-leftover-Viking' trips you go on every few years. The ones where I'm stuck playing audience to your wanna-be glory."
Nick clapped Jarron across the shoulder. "Don't let it bother you, Jar," he told him with mock sympathy, "not everyone can be a Viking." He gave Jarron another shove. "Move it. Maybe if we're lucky, we'll find some Cro-Magnon or Neanderthal in there you're related to."
"Not even a warmed-up leftover," Jarron muttered derisively.
"The word's 'descendant' - not 'leftover'," Nick complained. "I knew I should have brought Kris. Or Andy. They at least appreciate this stuff."
"Yeah," Jarron whispered. "Andy wouldn't know a Norse dagger from a Celt belt, and Kris would 'appreciate' it right off the walls."
Nick grinned. "Do you want me to put it to Kris that way, or should I be a little more subtle?"
"You wouldn't know subtle if it punched you in the face, Acklin," Jarron told him. "And, as to the artefacts, Kris would be the first to agree with me." But he trailed along as Nick moved enthusiastically up the path.
Something was missing. Nick didn't usually go to these elaborate lengths to get his co-operation. The elaborate would've been done already, on Nick's computer, as he tried out different scenarios, and calculated their rates of success.
No, there was another factor here. Something Nick wasn't saying. Jarron wondered what it was.
He glanced at the museum a little dubiously. Is he that anxious for me to see this stuff? It wasn't Jarron's first choice for an afternoon's entertainment, but it wasn't the worst way to spend the day, either. Their argument was strictly show. Nick expected him to argue - it was what they always did, when Nick wanted to visit his Vikings.
Besides, it's not like we haven't done this before. It was an innocent, non-threatening expedition. Nothing unknown. Nothing that Jarron Marshall could possibly turn into some second-rate horror film.
"It doesn't matter anyway," Nick told him, grinning. There was a trace of excitement in his eyes. They were a long way from the car now. "The idea was to get you here," he admitted.
Oh, no. "The truth comes out." Jarron looked at him nervously. "Why me?" he asked flatly.
"Because the museum's next door to the art place."
"The gallery."
"You got it. I promised Gill I'd get you here."
"That's it," Jarron told him firmly. He turned around and started walking back the way they'd come. "Not a chance."
Nick grinned. "Kris and Andy are meeting us here in -" he glanced at his watch, "- one minute. Wanna know the odds? Of you making it out of the lot?"
Jarron was angry. The four of them had arranged it so he wouldn't have a choice. Timed their arrival to stop him from leaving. "I think I have a say in this," he whispered through gritted teeth.
"'Course you do," Nick told him. "Just don't expect anyone to listen."
*
Gillian Margaret McGee waited until Tony Almard, the gallery director, had gone back to his office. Then, she cleared her throat and tried to empty her mind. She didn't want her enthusiasm, or her involvement in Jarron's cause, to affect her vision. She wanted to see the exhibit the way a stranger would.
She blinked her eyes several times to clear them, counted to three, then stepped into the room.
And was instantly rocked to her core. Somehow, in a gallery setting, the paintings were even more powerful than they'd been in Jarron's house. There, they'd been crowded, and with so much content, the result had been a dizzying confusion. Here - in a setting designed to emphasise each one, the impact was nearly overwhelming.
Gill found that she was holding her breath, and forced herself to relax. It suddenly occurred to her how painful it must have been for Jarron to restrain this kind of intense energy - to hold it back. She recalled Jarron's openness, and wondered how he'd managed it. It was one of the questions she would have liked to ask him, but she knew it wouldn't do any good. Because he'd be the last one to admit to any rationale for his art - or even take credit for it. Kris had said Jarron claimed to be the idiot savant, but with a paintbrush in his hand.
She just hoped Jarron would understand why they were doing this. It was obvious he was terrified of his "gift": he refused to talk about it, and he'd stopped painting several months ago. Now, whenever she saw him, he looked weary. More than tired - almost careworn. As though he had no outlet for the worries that sat on his shoulders other than his work - and he was grinding himself down to nothing. Gill suspected he needed the outlet that his painting provided - the channelling of his energies and fears - more than he realised, or would ever admit.
Once, she'd asked him, "Do you miss it?"
In that discerning way of his, he'd known exactly what she meant. He'd given her a wistful smile. "Only the time away." His eyes had become distant then, but there had been an element of peace in them she hadn't seen for a while.
For a while, the phrase had puzzled her, but now Gill thought she knew what he meant. It was the focus, the concentration - the time outside yourself as you solved a problem. That's what Jarron needed - the respite, from his own existence.
Now, if Jarron can just learn to paint the living, Gill thought, looking once more at the paintings, maybe his troubles will be over.
*
He knew Nick didn't understand. Despite his mathematical mind - despite their experiences - Nick didn't know what it was like to wake up every morning afraid. To be scared of your own body, and what you were capable of doing.
Jarron was still being watched by Investigative Security and Operations - the ISO - and he had a feeling it had nothing to do with endophytes, or the research he was doing in the lab. It had more to do with what had happened that night. With what he'd been able to do.
That was what was getting him: the uncertainty about his explosive nether half, and what might set it off.
He'd gone into a painting frenzy for a week after he'd recovered, then thrown away his paints and never looked back. It'd been over two months now, and he was "clean". His intuition might be keener than most, but any spectral visitors left as quietly as they came. Quietly enough, anyway, so he could almost pretend nothing had happened.
Only the guards on his house reminded him he wasn't the same Jarron Marshall he used to be. So he'd worked hard at convincing himself they were still there because of the hype over the endophyte. He'd worked so hard at it, that he'd almost believed it.
Until now. They wanted him to come to the gallery, and they must have a reason. Jarron was terrified. What would it do to him to see those paintings again? Would it affect him the way it had before? Make him itch to have a brush back between his fingers? There'd been something addictive in the intensity of the experience. And nothing could match those brief moments of total peace that completing a painting gave him -
Stop it, Jarron! Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he unconsciously began to walk faster. No - those paintings were the last thing he needed to see - no matter what good intentions lingered behind his friends' efforts. They belonged to the past, and he didn't care if he ever inhaled the scent of turpentine again. This was now, and Jarron wanted to move on.
Because he was terrified to look back.
"I have a sudden yen for history." Without waiting for Nick, Jarron turned around and headed for the museum at a trot.
"Jarron, wait!"
"Can't!" Jarron called back over his shoulder. "Those artefacts aren't getting any younger."
Nick glanced back, and saw Paul Warren coming up the path. Damn it! Jarron would be even more upset if they called out the troops. "Slow down, Jar!" Nick yelled. "You're gonna make Paul work for a living!"
To Warren he yelled, "I'll take care of it -" Nick took off after Jarron at a jog.
Kris pulled into the gallery lot just in time to see Warren racing up the steps of the museum next door. "Trouble," he sighed.
Andy jumped out and started up the steps. "What do you think it was?" he called back, annoyed that Nick had mishandled the situation. "'Odds' against him? Or his temper just get out of hand?" He was surprised when Kris caught up with him. "Leg's that good?" he asked, pleased.
"If it isn't, I'll get some therapy for it later," Kris told him.
"I'll bet you will," Andy replied, grinning. They both knew Kris was referring to Gill.
"Didn't see you volunteer to get Jarron here," Kris remarked.
Andy's smile held a hint of embarrassment. "Truth is, I'm amazed Nick got him this far. Don't think I could have," he admitted.
Kris nodded. "'Odds are' Jarron figured it out." Kris looked amused. "He's good at that."
*
Tony Almard had wanted an opening night, complete with ads, fanfare, and press on hand. Jarron Marshall was a well-known figure in his field, which would draw in a number of people who wouldn't normally visit the gallery. Gill had protested against the publicity, Almard had argued, but in the end, Gill had won. No party, no reporters, no advance notice. For Jarron's sake.
Because it would be hard enough to get him in here as it was.
Almard had initially agreed to the exhibition because he knew Gill. She'd procured a piece or two for him in the past that he'd been unable to access any other way. He owed her.
He also knew she wouldn't waste her time, or his, with substandard material. If Gill was excited - enthusiastic, even - then Marshall's stuff must be out of the ordinary.
Then he'd seen the paintings. Gill hadn't bothered with photos - she'd brought three of the paintings in. And Almard was hooked.
He'd never seen anything like them. Each one seemed to glow with the personality of its subject. No - more than that. In Almard's experience, most personalities were dulled by years of tradition, habit, and convention. Dulled or strangled. What was left was usually an obscure blend of the uninteresting, masked by the acceptable. Most people, to Almard's way of thinking, were damn boring.
It was why he worked with artists. Occasionally, an original mind would surface. It never took take him long, either, to detect an original, from the artfully manufactured.
Jarron Marshall was an original. He'd manipulated his subjects - ripped them apart somehow, and re-synthesised them. Converged all the distal bits and pieces of individual essence into a cohesive unit. What he painted wasn't a figure - it was the faint gloss of flesh over a living soul.
Almard hadn't been expecting this - could never have expected this. When Gill had turned the first painting his way, Almard could only stare in a kind of shaken awe. He was physically moved. Gut-wrenched, goosepimply, tears filling his eyes. It was the first time in years a piece of art had done that to him. The first time he'd ever been moved to this extent. It was also damn disturbing. Had he painted these, the synthesis would have been so much darker - using a touch of evil to lend interest. Jarron Marshall, however, apparently saw things differently. The darkness was there, all right - as shading for the bright translucence of the soul. The shaded glimmerings produced a 3-D image, delicately overladen with a patina of flesh.
Almard would have agreed to anything - paid anything - to get the paintings then. In a moment of clarity, he had suddenly realised no one could own them - it would be like trying to own another human being. But they belonged where people could see them. Where some of that disturbing impact could ride their souls a little - remind them just how precious "life" was.
He'd also realised he wouldn't need the fanfare - the ads, the big opening, the reporters. All he'd need was one person to see them - and be moved by the experience.
As he'd been moved. Tony Almard had a sudden feeling his life would never be the same again.
*
Jarron knew there'd be a parade of people behind him, but right now he didn't care. Suddenly, the dark, musty museum seemed like a good place to be - a good place to hide from all the attentive concern. A good place to get away. From everybody. He tried to remember what it had been like to have time to himself - with nobody watching or listening - and was appalled because it had been so long. Before Nick could catch up with him, he dodged into the museum, and disappeared into the darkest corner he could find.
*
The museum was nearly empty at this time of day. Lunchtime had passed, and the after-school crowd was still several hours away. The only feet that echoed on the glossy wooden floors were his own.
The museum had been built nearly a hundred years before. It was one of those neo-classically ornate buildings, complete with Corinthian columns and Greco-Roman statuary gracing the entrance.
Inside, however, the structure had been modernised. Temperature and humidity were closely monitored, video surveillance systems and laser-triggered alarms protected the exhibits, and the old-fashioned, somewhat meagre external light - from windows set high in the walls - had been supplemented by adjustable lighting systems.
Jarron had always felt comfortable here. There was enough of the ultra modern to remind him of his lab, but the slightly shabby dinge of the ages - due in part to the structure, and part to what it housed - gave the place a noble, yet homey, feel. This building was like a revered grandparent: wisdom and familiarity in one.
He'd come here frequently as a kid, but about the only time he visited now was when Nick dragged him in for one of his Viking helmet displays. Nick could never get enough of the shields and the swords and the helmets.
The atmosphere relaxed Jarron a little, and he realised he'd overreacted. It seemed like that's all he was able to do any more: work and overreact. And he worked almost all the time so he wouldn't accidentally stumble across anything he could overreact to. So, by the time he got home, he'd either be too absorbed in a lab problem, or too damn tired, to do anything but focus on his research or sleep.
The time was coming for a reckoning. His body was telling him that. It was why Nick's comment - about working too much - had hit him so hard. He was afraid, if they noticed he was overworked, they'd send him on a vacation. Give him free time. Not time to himself, but time away. Away from the things he needed to occupy his mind.
When the reckoning came, he'd have to face it. What he was, what he could do, what might happen if he let down his guard. It was unavoidable. Jarron just wanted to have enough safe days and nights - enough pure sleeps and untainted dreams - to deal with it. So he could face it without terror. So he could emerge feeling sane.
He didn't remember much about the night he'd gone for the endophyte. He'd been too far gone. For a long time after he'd awoken in the hospital, he'd been too sick to worry about it. Then had come the time of restoration, when it felt good just to be alive, and healthy, and not working under a cloud any more.
Things were still good. Much too good to allow some residual fear to dispel the confidence he was beginning to regain. No setbacks allowed. If he were ever to reach that point where he could face his demons and win, he couldn't allow something like this to get to him.
They wouldn't have done it unless they were sure I could handle it. The thought inspired new confidence, and Jarron clung to it. Maybe his friends were right: maybe it was time. He could never really put the paintings - or his fear of them - behind him if he couldn't face what he'd done. See what thou has wrought, Jarron.
They'd all be there to back him up. It wasn't like he was doing it alone. Hell, Kris and Nick, Andy and Gill - they'd risked their lives for him. They damn well wouldn't do anything to set him back.
He suddenly realised they were right. It was time. Now, on a sunny day, with friends by his side.
Jarron smiled at his own foolishness; happy in his new resolve. Anticipation was part of what made fear so powerful. He'd been anticipating this day for too long now. Just the realisation that he was getting it over with made him feel a heck of a lot better.
Jarron took a deep breath of air-conditioned atmosphere tinged with a hint of must. Good. Food for memories - for the soul. Good for what ails you, Jarron.
In a few minutes, he'd go out there and face them. But, first, he'd take a look at Nick's Vikings. That way, they could all go along with the fallacy that he'd come here because he was annoyed with Nick, and wanted to beat him to it. They wouldn't have to know that it was terror driving him. Kris might suspect, but he'd never ask.
Jarron followed the signs, but after a moment, he realised he didn't need them. The musty scent in the air had increased, and low background music hinted at ancient mystery ahead. Jarron grinned, passed under a large banner, and entered the room.
*
And promptly forgot the reason he'd come.
There was thunder in here; a background rumble that owed nothing to the speaker system. The low frequency vibration shivered through his internal organs, leaving him with a feeling of menace. Intense and dark, billowing clouds patterned the panelled walls. As he stepped forward, the rumbling grew in intensity. His body was shivering with the sound waves. How much sound does it take to shatter an eardrum? he wondered. Or scramble a brain?
Withdraw! The tone of it was as odd and eerie as the word itself. It didn't seep into Jarron's consciousness - it pounded there, burning the word into the forefront of his thoughts. It was as though some of the thunder had found its way into his head, displacing all his other concerns, and forcing him to focus on the king-size command.
The intensity of it left Jarron feeling giddy, and out of control. It wants me to leave. He snorted - suddenly filled with irrational and misplaced humour. His grin widened, and some part of his brain struggled to control his lips, to turn them down in a semblance of respectful submission.
It was the same part of him that was panicking at his inability to control his response.
He stumbled forward, nearly blind now from the pounding in his head. Clouds, doing a fever dance; the lights receding on flickering fluorescence; the gloss of the floor becoming an undulating obstacle of glacial ice. The wind whipped his clothing, and he recognised the chilling blasts of arctic cold. It was the shortest day of winter and daylight had fled. Only a faint light remained on the horizon.
The first of the stinging ice hit him. It bit into his exposed skin - skin that was dressed for a temperate autumn - that had no covering for a winter storm. No protection from the glacial weather, no obstacle to block the wind. He narrowed his eyes to slits as the sharp shards ripped tiny slices in his face, his arms. Slices that bled just a little - enough to form a crystalline crust on the surface of his skin.
Ice was building on him now, layer upon layer as the initial shafts melted, then re-froze against his flesh. Still, he trudged on. There was something ahead; something Jarron needed to see.
He was there, dressed even more inadequately than Jarron himself. There, where they'd left him, as sacrificial offering to the gods. A sacrificial offering who had never, in a thousand years, been content with his role as a sacrifice.
Jarron pushed his way past the barricades, as a shrilly screaming icy blast shattered the display's sheltering glass. Shards of glass. Shards of ice.
He lay there now exposed to the elements, just as he had a thousand years before. Huddled against the chilling cold, held fast by the ice that pinned him.
Jarron reached out to touch him, and watched the brittle tissues break away beneath his fingertips; watched the freeze-dried flesh disperse like so much ash. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, dust to ice? The next time Jarron tried to raise his arm - to take a step - he was so laden with ice, so heavy with the weight of it, that he could barely move.
*
"You on video?" Kris asked him. Andy nodded and dashed away, towards the office.
Kris took off in the opposite direction. He knew, better than Jarron realised, how much Jarron Marshall wanted to avoid the kind of confrontation they'd forced on him.
It made Kris wonder if maybe they'd blown it. They hadn't left him with any outs: no one to run to, or discuss this with. Because they'd all been in it together.
They were trying to save him, but Kris didn't think Jarron would see it that way. He was still too scared, and too damn tired. His running had nothing to do with facing them - he didn't want to face himself.
Kris knew where he'd go. In a few minutes, when he calmed down, he'd start working on his excuse. Not for his friends - but for the others. Something Paul Warren could credibly repeat to his employers.
Jarron would be at the Viking exhibit. On the premise of going along with some of what Nick had planned, but not the rest. Kris grinned. He had no doubt Jarron was planning the best way to tell Nick - and the rest of us - to fuck off.
*
Andy was systematic in his video scan. Room to room and watching the hallways in-between. What Kris couldn't find by instinct, Andy would find by elimination.
Their loose collaboration was gradually evolving into the partnership Kris had once talked to him about. Andy rubbed his shoulder and grunted, as he flexed the muscles. He was learning a whole new bunch of tricks under Kris Chandler's tutelage.
He was pleased that he'd been able to teach Chandler a few things, too. Kris tended to rely too much on instinct, Andy felt. He was damned good at research, but he'd take the odd clue and run with it. Flying high - literally, sometimes, when it came to buildings - on a softly-grounded whim. Andy had a different approach, and his footwork had already paid off. He guessed his less-than-agile ability in the air was balanced by the fact that his insight had more than once saved Chandler's butt - giving him time to fly away while Andy provided the distraction he needed.
For a while, Andy had wondered why Kris had chosen him as a partner, instead of Gill, his "Wraith". Their skill levels were more on a par, he'd felt, than his and Kris'. It had made him question whether he was Chandler's poor second choice as a partner, perhaps because the Wraith had refused him.
Until there'd come a night when he'd had to bail Gill out of trouble, much the same way he'd done Kris. That was when he'd realised: Kris and Gill were two of a kind. What could work singularly would be disastrous in a duet. Andy was just glad that Kris and Gill were sharp enough to realise it. Because of their romantic involvement, one would never have wanted the other take the chances their jobs required, and - sooner rather than later - they would have been at each other's throats. That is, if either of them survived long enough. The instincts that guided them might be similar, but they weren't identical. If those instincts clashed in the field - or up on the rooftops - they could both end up dead, or in jail.
Besides, Kris and Gill were hopeless romantics - caught up in illusion. Andy thought it was great. The love, the illusion - the two of them thrived on it.
It's a good thing one of this team has his feet on the ground, he thought, satisfied with his contribution.
Andy's slow smile surfaced. Here he was, moonlighting his so-called straight job at the ISO with risky cavorts across the rooftops. That's when he wasn't tailing his friend Jarron, who had an unfortunate affinity for phantoms. Who needed illusion? Hell, his daily "grind" had about as much illusion as anyone could take. He was still grinning as he flicked the screen to the hallway outside the Viking exhibit.
*
It was so damn cold. Nick couldn't figure it out. It can't be good for the exhibits to have everything frozen.
Of course, this was the Viking exhibit they were talking about. Maybe they were really going for the realism bit - emphasising the hardiness of their Viking forebears. Nick was nearly there when the first of the alarms went off.
Fire? Nick didn't think so - not when some parts of the place were as cold as an Eskimo's ass. Burglary? Maybe - Kris was in the building. Lately, Andy had made him wonder, too.
If it wasn't either of those things, there was only one other that came to mind. Process of elimination. Stacking up those factors and seeing how they added up.
Odds were it was Jarron.
*
As soon as the alarm sounded, Andy turned to the security guard. "Where?"
The woman punched in the co-ordinates. In the next moment, the computer screen revealed a confusing tableau of blurred images. Andy thought he could see someone in the background, but the lens was clouded, and he couldn't be sure.
His eyes might not be able to confirm it, but something told Andy he was right. Chandler wasn't the only one with instincts. He spoke into the phone. "Kris? Try the Creighton Room in the west wing."
*
The cracking sound of the ice seemed to open a fissure in Jarron's brain. Sense returned, and he stared guiltily at the broken display case. Did I do that? It took longer for his eyes to clear - for the visions of clouds and snow and ice storms to give way to panelled walls, and wooden floors.
"What the hell are you doing, Jar?" Nick's voice. Incredulous.
But, at the moment, it was still no more real to Jarron than that other voice had been. The present had no more substance than the fragments of the past that had crumbled beneath his fingers.
Nick grabbed his arm. "Jar! You okay?" He turned over Jarron's hands, to look at his bloodied fingers. His flesh felt frozen, and he had tiny cuts all over the surface of his skin - his arms, his face - but he didn't seem aware of any of it. "Snap out of it!"
Jarron looked at him then, and wobbled a little on his feet.
"Whoa -" Nick tightened his grip as Jarron sagged. Then Kris was there, to take Jarron's other arm.
"Andy's on video," Kris said calmly. "What're the odds he'll be here before we leave the room?"
"One million four hundred seventy-two thousand twenty-three to one."
"For or against?"
Nick knew Kris was just making conversation - trying to distract Jarron till they could get him out of here. "For," Nick replied. "In fact, they just got even better. Here he comes now."
"Jarron had a run-in with a display case," Kris explained when Andy came closer.
"Must've rolled in it," Nick muttered sarcastically, dissatisfied with the way they were avoiding the subject.
Andy looked at the tiny cuts all over Jarron's skin, and his brow furrowed. The display case had broken in jagged shards. There was nothing else here, from what he could see, to cause this kind of damage.
"Slipped in a puddle, and fell against the case," Kris went on.
Through a barricade and up a step - But it was as good an explanation as any. The museum could come up with its own reason for the puddled water that covered the floor. And Andy would make sure any video footage was less than revealing. But, first, he wanted to take a better look at the tapes - to see what had really gone on here.
Nick was clearly upset. Of course, he'd been the one to find Jarron first, but Andy suspected he also wasn't too happy about the way they were handling things. That was the problem with these mathematical types: they seemed to see everything as black or white. Lay out the equations, take everything into account, and there's your solution. Logic dictated they approach Jarron about this openly. After all, they'd already decided to be open with him about the paintings. To force him to confront his abilities, and learn to deal with it.
Only, Andy thought, looking at Jarron's white, exhausted expression, the man was in no shape to be approached about anything right now. Whatever had happened in that room had taken something out of him, and what was left was borderline collapse. Overwork had just been capped off with some kind of physical trauma.
Jarron's teeth were chattering by the time they hit the hall. "I-I'm f-fin-ne," he told them stubbornly, yanking his arm away from Nick. He would have toppled then, if it hadn't been for Kris.
"Sit down, Jar," Kris ordered.
Paul Warren came up the hall at a run.
"Go down to the coffee shop and bring back something hot for him to drink," Andy ordered. He took off his jacket and threw it over Jarron's shoulders. "What happened?" he asked.
Jarron's eyes lit up. Some of that misplaced hilarity was still with him. "I-ice st-to-r-r-rm," he chuckled. "F-found your Vi-ikings-s, N-Nick." He shuddered.
"Ya didn't have to fall on 'em," Nick told him, mopping off some of the blood with his handkerchief. Now that Jarron's skin was beginning to warm, the cuts were starting to bleed in earnest. "For all you know, that could have been my great-uncle-fourteen-times-removed Knute."
Andy stepped aside to make a call. His eyes met Kris' as he strolled back over. "Gonna sue the museum, Jar, for damages? All that water?"
Obviously, Andy didn't believe in the ice storm explanation. Jarron fought to keep from laughing out loud. The entire thing seemed so ludicrous now. He didn't know if it was relief, or just hysteria. "In oth-ther words-s, is-s it th-their f-fault-t, or m-mine?"
"Well, since you put it that way, I would kinda like to know."
Jarron looked bemused. He sagged a little more, and Kris held him up. "N-neith-ther-r," he whispered, the trace of humour still there in his voice. He turned his head, to look back at the room, where the ancient corpse lay half-in, half-out of its display. He shuddered again, and his eyes grew dark - and not a little sad. "I-it was-s H-His-s."
*
"If you're thinking Jarron did this - to himself - you're wrong," Nick told them a little belligerently. The paramedics had just taken Jarron downstairs, to load him into the ambulance.
Kris looked amused. Nick had already thought ahead, decided on the logical explanation, and was making sure to counter it before they could begin to believe it. "The thought never crossed my mind," Kris said.
"It crossed his," Nick retorted angrily, jerking his thumb in Andy's direction.
"Nope." Andy's slow grin surfaced. "Anyone else - yes. Jarron - no."
"I'm more worried about Jarron's explanation," Kris admitted. "What did you see when you came in the room, Nick?"
"Clouds," Nick told them. "Like fog, but dense - and cold. Then they seemed to lift, and I thought it was just my eyes. Until Jarron mentioned the ice storm." He hesitated, uncertain how to put it. "When I first saw Jarron - standing next to the case - I could swear he was coated with ice."
***
Chapter Two
I'm back. Not a happy thought. The hospital room seemed dark and sombre and full of movement. Jarron wanted some company, but of his own choosing - preferably from among the living. He rang the bell for the nurse.
Paul Warren answered it first. "You look better," he remarked.
Jarron was embarrassed. "Does foolish look any better wrapped?" he asked guiltily.
Paul glanced at the bandages. "Not really," he said, grinning.
"Sorry I ran off like that," Jarron blurted. He'd been feeling guilty about it, ever since he'd thought about how it would reflect on Paul. Despite Andy's moonlighting activities with Kris, he was still Paul Warren's boss.
"It was all in the equation," Paul reassured him. His lips were twitching, but he kept a straight face.
"Nick."
"You got it," Paul replied. "I don't think he counted on this, though," he went on, gesturing at the bandages. "What d'you need?"
Jarron looked momentarily blank.
"The bell," Paul reminded him.
"Company," Jarron blurted. And instantly regretted it. If Warren had thought he was foolish before, he'd be sure he was downright stupid now.
There was no derision in Paul's expression, however. He was deciding how much Jarron's request went against policy. There were rules about fraternising with clients. It could only result in dissension, resentment, and regret.
Only, Jarron Marshall wasn't like their usual "client". If anything, he fit more into the role of victim, than victimiser, and he'd gone out of his way to make things easy on the people who were watching over him. Until today - and Paul was sure Jarron had a good reason for running. Paul had seen far too much action not to be able to recognise fear on a man's face.
In Paul's mind, Jarron's fear was misplaced. The time for fear had been later, in the museum. When his skin was coated with blood and his eyes were - there was no other way to describe it - haunted.
Still, Jarron was a good man, who didn't ask for very much. Right now, all he wanted was a little company, so he wouldn't have to be alone. Wouldn't have to think about what had happened.
Paul pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket. "Company?" he repeated with a smile. "You got it," he said.
*
"What the hell is this, Andy?" Robart asked grimly. He waved the file in Andy's face. "'Frostbite on his extremities'. He was in a museum. How are we going to keep this quiet?"
"He's only going to be in overnight. Maybe they won't notice."
"Not funny." Colin sank back into the chair. "It's what they make of it that has me worried."
Andy looked at him sharply. "A minor accident at a local museum. There shouldn't be any problem."
"That's because you don't know what's going on. I'm surprised your friend Chandler hasn't briefed you on it." Colin saw Andy's expression and grinned. "What did you think? That your extracurricular activities would go unnoticed?" He chuckled. "Chandler's giving you the kind of training the agency doesn't supply. I figure we'll be the ones to benefit." He smile dimmed slightly. "Besides, by the time this endophyte nonsense is over with, you may be the only one with job security."
"What do they suspect?"
"The truth - that Marshall's 'brain damage' has triggered some kind of massive psychic reaction. It could be that he's always had it, but just didn't know it was there."
"I don't get it," Andy said. "So what? It's not like they can use it. Jarron can't even control it."
"How well do you think Marshall would take to being a lab rat? To having electrodes attached to his skull, and his movements electronically monitored, for months at a time?"
Andy gave a low whistle. "I didn't think it was anywhere near that bad."
"That bad, or worse. Cell cultures, electrical stimulation of the brain to trigger specific responses."
"It would kill him," Andy said quietly. "He doesn't have enough control."
"That's what I think," Colin admitted. "Either that, or his goblins would go crazy."
"Same thing," Andy told him. "He still isn't over Torres' death, even though the man was trying to kill him. If some of his ghosties threatened to take out someone else, Jarron would end it any way he could - even if it meant taking out himself."
*
Perry Gervois hesitated so long outside Jarron's room that Dave Chavez was prompted to ask, "Something wrong, Doc?"
Gervois jerked, and replied, a little abruptly, "No - just side-tracked. How's Mr. Marshall doing tonight?"
"Bored."
Gervois nodded. He didn't say anything else - just frowned and went into the room.
Dave Chavez looked after him strangely.
*
Every time Jarron closed his eyes, he'd see the same thing: grey sky, sheets of ice, and his fingers brushing against the crumbling tissues…
One moment it would be unreal, like some kind of weird dream. Less real, in fact, than some of the dreams he'd had. At other times, the shrill blasts of wind and frozen wastes were his reality. Strange. His scientific side tried to puzzle it out. He had this oddly disjointed feeling of being caught between two worlds, two lifetimes.
Gervois had asked if he was feeling light-headed. His blood loss hadn't been severe, but enough to add to his exhaustion. Maybe this is just part of that, Jarron reasoned. A little lost blood and a lot of lost sleep. What bothered him most was that his disorientation made him feel even less in control than usual.
Maybe Gervois will give me something, so I can sleep. The moment he thought it, Jarron was filled with aversion. Relying on drugs again, are we, Jarron? He was disgusted at how easily his mind had drifted to it as a solution.
Gervois wouldn't be too forthcoming with any, either, he guessed. For the same reason, but without any background as to how it had happened or why. This afternoon, when Jarron had been brought in, Gervois had barely controlled his annoyance. Apparently, he'd thought Jarron had gone out of his way to self-inflict his injuries, merely to aggravate his doctor. A doctor who didn't take well to having his work watched closely by the ISO. Jarron had a feeling Perry Gervois would gladly have turned him over to someone else, if it wouldn't have reflected so negatively on his public image. After all, no matter what a psycho Jarron Marshall might be, he was still a respected, and well-known, figure.
So, Jarron was left with nothing to do. Kris and Nick had supplied him with books and magazines, but Jarron couldn't concentrate. Not when every blink heralded a return to the Arctic Circle. Sleep would have at least allowed him to hide in his dreams.
Only, sleep was as distant as the polar ice pack. Jarron had slept hard this afternoon, but he had a feeling that had more to do with shock. The cold had hit him in a way he hadn't expected.
No - sleep was about the furthest thing from his mind tonight. There was nothing restful about the wintry scenes he kept picturing - nothing like the peaceful snow scenes on the Christmas cards: the still trees coated in glassy icicles. The scenes in Jarron's head were all turmoil and slicing ice and hard-packed, glaciated snow under painfully sharp winds. Full of action and movement. Only slightly less active than the undercurrents in his hospital room.
By the time Perry Gervois reluctantly poked his head through the door, Jarron was actually glad to see him.
*
A speaking silence. Jarron didn't say much of anything while Gervois poked and prodded him. Didn't even complain when the man examined some of those stinging cuts. Didn't ask for painkillers or sleeping tablets or any help at all.
Because he was too busy trying to figure out what was bothering Perry Gervois. And what he was trying not to say.
"It's my sister," Gervois finally blurted out. Jarron was glad, because for once it reduced the doctor to a man, instead of an occupation. "She's been having some problems." His eyes were a little desperate now. "I don't know if you know anything about -" He hesitated, and his face glossed over with that veneer of professionalism once more. Dr. Perry Gervois had just realised how foolish he sounded.
Jarron didn't try to second-guess him, though he had a good idea where all this was leading. He also realised Gervois must be pretty desperate to approach him. In Gervois' mind, Jarron Marshall was a pampered debutante, who got himself into trouble again and again, in some crazed bid for attention. He'd left the hospital against doctor's advice, he'd gone on binges with drugs, he'd tried some other daredevil antics that had led to injuries - even getting himself shot in the process.
The truth was, Gervois would have preferred to have nothing to do with Jarron Marshall, and his so-called problems. He was only here because he'd heard something. Something that had made him turn to Jarron, as a kind of last resort.
Gervois cleared his throat. "It's coming to a head," he admitted. "She's worried about her kids -"
"Let's go," Jarron told him calmly.
Gervois' eyes jumped to his in startled surprise. "Just like that?" he asked in a whisper.
Jarron grinned at him. "Just like that," he said.
*
A few minutes later, Dave was shaking his head and talking into his phone. "We're going out," he was explaining.
"You don't have to come," Jarron said loudly.
Dave listened for a moment then grinned. "Andy wants to know where. He says he doesn't give a fuck for the why." He listened some more. "He just needs to know whether to bring a tux, a machine gun, or an ice pick -"
Jarron glanced at Gervois and saw the fear in the other man's face. "Tell him none of the above, Dave," Jarron reassured him. "Just a crucifix -"
They didn't need Dave's translation, because Andy's exclamation came across tinny and clear. The "Oh, shit!" echoed loudly in the corridor. Jarron was still chuckling as he and Dave trailed Gervois down the hall.
*
"It's talking to her kids," Perry said, in a kind of horrified whisper. Jarron knew that a few short months ago, he would have had the same reaction: choked voice, gooseflesh, moist eyes. Terror barely under control. He was surprised to find that he wasn't scared - only somewhat nervous.
Is this progress, then, Jarron? Or are you just so perverse, so blasé - so 'been there, done that' - that you aren't fazed by this kind of thing any more? Too familiar with the unfathomable?
For just a second, he let himself believe he'd progressed. That his attitude represented a forward step. But, he knew he couldn't go into this kind of encounter either cocky, or with a lie on his lips. Not when he might be facing someone like Jack Halloran, or Angelo Torres.
The truth was, he could do it because it was for someone else. Because it gave him an excuse for what he found unforgivable in himself. Gave him a reason to go against all that stiff core of self-defensive religious ritualism, that had been designed to keep the living separated from the dead. This was the eleventh commandment - the one no one ever mentioned, because the afterlife was supposed to reassure, not intrude - thou shalt not dabble with the dead. Jarron could dabble because someone desperately needed him to. And - after today, and the weird disconnection with reality that he'd experienced - this little jaunt seemed almost normal.
He was standing in front of the house before it hit him. He blanched - whitening all the way to his lips. What was he thinking of? He was going in, totally unprepared - to do what? He'd had only one method of fighting things like this, and he'd thrown it away, weeks before.
"Marshall, are you okay?"
Jarron didn't realise Gervois had been watching him. He should have known Gervois would be aware that he'd gone against his own recommendations, and would be taking care to cover his ass.
"Consider your ass covered, Gervois," Jarron told him, then realised how harsh it sounded. He grimaced. "Sorry," he said. "Just a little tense."
Another car came tearing up the street, and Jarron found himself grinning widely as he spotted Andy climbing out of the driver's seat. Without any prelude, Andy handed him a paintbrush. "Not exactly a cross," he said, "but maybe it'll do."
Jarron's smile faded. The brush was worn - the tip dulled and rounded - the paint of the handle worn with finger marks. His finger marks. "You saved them," he said, simply. Andy had several more brushes and some partially squished tubes of paint in his right hand; a piece of hardboard in his left.
"Souvenir."
"Remind me to find a big rock and a dark alley on the way back," Jarron told him.
Dave Chavez gave an amused snort. When he saw Andy looking at him, he turned it into a cough. "Sinuses," he explained.
"I don't get it!" Gervois said, clearly displeased. "There's nothing to joke about -"
Their humour clashed with his nerves. His response to Marshall's claims about his new-found painting ability had been to transfer him to the neurosurgeon for assessment - but it had been a hard decision whether to go for the neurologist, or a psychiatrist. At the time, he'd considered it unfortunate that the report from that damned flake of a physiotherapist, Angela Tieman, had made it nearly impossible to justify the psychiatric angle - considering the derogatory effect it might have had on the famed Jarron Marshall's career. Marshall would never know it, but it had actually given Gervois a guilty niggle of satisfaction to tell him he'd suffered some brain damage. And, as unworthy as it made him feel after Jarron's quick response this evening, he was a lot more comfortable in his present anger, that in any kind of alliance with the man.
*
Nick stopped outside Jarron's hospital room. No guard. The scene was all too reminiscent of one a few months back, where he'd walked in to find Jarron being smothered by Jack Halloran.
"Damn!" he muttered under his breath. He wondered if he should call Andy, or the police. Or maybe just stop at the nurses' station to advise them of what was happening.
But if it's like before, Nick, there's no time.
As his muscles tightened in preparation, his side gave a phantom ache of sympathy. Flinching, with his thumb flexed to punch in the emergency code on his phone - and wielding the big box of chocolates like a club - Nick put his shoulder to the door and ran into the room.
*
"And this is - Jarron Marshall," Perry Gervois introduced him to his sister.
It annoyed Andy. He'd met jerks like Gervois before. He noticed how the man hesitated, then deliberately left off Jarron's title. In Gervois' mind, the only "doctors" were those who worked in a hospital. Andy knew Jarron wouldn't care, but it bothered Andy on his behalf. He glanced at Jarron, and realised he not only didn't care - he didn't even realise he was being introduced.
"Jarron!" Andy elbowed him.
Jarron was looking a little vague. "Sorry -" He gave a distracted smile. "Nice to meet you," he muttered, a little absently. His eyes scanned the room, and finally focused on the stairs.
It was enough to make Gervois realise his patient wasn't looking all that healthy. Some of his cuts had been bandaged, but the ones that weren't stood out red against Marshall's paling skin. But when Gervois reached out a hand, to check Marshall's pulse, Andy stopped him.
"Don't!" he whispered. Dave had briefed him outside. "You got him into this. Now just let him do it."
Jarron was already heading up the stairs. "Get them out," he said tensely. "'specially the kids -" The last was slightly slurred.
Andy nodded to Dave. The children were asleep on the couch - top and tail, with the mother's sleeping bag on the floor. Andy suspected it had been a last-ditch effort to avoid leaving the house altogether.
Dave gathered up one child, while the mother - what was her name? - Karen - picked up the other. Dave grabbed Perry Gervois' arm with his other hand, to usher him out.
"No. Go on, Karen," Perry urged. "He's my patient. I have to stay."
Karen opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, there was a sudden loud scraping sound, followed by a crash, as something was flung violently across the floor upstairs. There was another thud, and the tinkling shatter of broken glass. "May God be with you!" she whispered. "I love you, Perry!" Cradling the little girl protectively against her chest, she turned and ran out of the house.
"Andy?" Dave looked at him questioningly. Something heavy fell above them, making the lamp above their heads shiver. "You want back-up?" he asked.
Andy glanced at Gervois.
"I'm staying," Gervois insisted, gawking nervously at the ceiling.
For the first time, Andy felt a grudging respect for the man. "Take the boy out, Dave," Andy ordered. He gave his slow smile. "Screams or howls of pain - come running." He started for the stairs, then turned back, his foot on the lowest tread. "Have an ambulance standing by," he warned, scrunching his face as he heard a wailing din begin upstairs. "Just in case." He glanced down at Jarron's paints and board - tightly gripped in his hands - as though to reassure himself they were still there. Then, sucking in a deep breath, he turned and raced up the stairs, two at a time.
*
Just as he'd thought, Jarron wasn't alone. And whoever it was, he was up to no good - he was searching the drawer by the bed.
Nick didn't give himself time to reconsider. Do it, Nick! The man had just barely lifted his head when Nick caught him in a tackling dive. The two of them bashed against the bed, sending it screeching across the floor, then flipped across the blankets in a clumsy roll that dumped them both onto the floor under the window.
"Get off me, Nick!" Kris grunted angrily.
Nick, caught up in his adrenaline rush, continued bashing Kris on the top of the head with the chocolate box. Kris, in a flush of anger, grabbed some of the spilled chocolates and smashed them against Nick's face, smearing the creamy centres onto his cheek and ear.
"Cut - it - out!" Kris said again. Nick, in his enthusiasm, was all flailing fists and kicks. It was all Kris could do not to hurt him as he tried to stop him.
Suddenly, it registered, and Nick's fists dropped. "Oops," he muttered.
"Oops?" Kris shoved Nick away. "Is that all you have to say - oops?"
Nick stood up anxiously. "We must've creamed Jarron when we rolled over the -" He stood up and looked at the empty bed, then over onto the floor. "Where's Jar?"
"That's what I was trying to find out when you stopped to say hello."
Nick frowned as he tried to wipe off a gooey chunk of orange centre. "God, that's disgusting," he muttered, rubbing it on Jarron's sheet. "Anyone ever tell you ya fight dirty?" he asked, grinning at his own joke.
Kris was rummaging some more in Jarron's stuff.
"Why don't you just call Andy?" Nick asked him.
"Why don't I just sound all the alarms before I find out if anything's even wrong? Jarron's clothes are gone, Dave's not around, and the nurses said Gervois escorted Jarron out of here. Sounds like they went on a mission to me."
"I get it," Nick said sarcastically. "You want to figure it out before you call Andy. So you can awe him with your amazing insight -"
Kris grinned at him. "How well you know me," he admitted. He handed Nick his phone.
"I have my own -"
"Just punch two," Kris told him.
As it was ringing, Nick asked. "Who's one?"
"Jarron," Kris replied.
"Then what number am I?"
Kris went back to searching the drawer.
"Now, I'm not even on his phone," Nick muttered. He held Kris' phone against his ear with his shoulder, and pulled out his own cellphone. "Let me see," he went on. "Erase, erase, erase. We'll just get rid of all these superfluous, nonuser-friendly type numbers in here. People who answer their phones with machines every time because they're too damn sneaky to - oh, hi, Andy," he interrupted himself. "Whe -" He looked at the phone a little blankly. "He said he can't talk right now. There were all kinds of weird noises in the background. Almost like a party."
Kris snatched back his phone and started punching in buttons.
"What're you doing?"
"Tracing it," Kris said.
"Don't you need more time?" Nick asked.
"Trust me," Kris told him. He grabbed Nick's arm and tugged him out the door.
*
It was a woman. Jarron inhaled deeply, caught momentarily by the scent of her perfume. Her perfume, her body. Sweet - until an acrid smell cut the air. Tainted it, with the potent, gorge-rising sourness of those unwashed crevices in the human body.
It was a scent he'd come to associate with hate. Sour, repelling. The other - the perfume that yet lingered in the air - was a disguise. "Enough to fool the kids?" Jarron asked aloud.
The air darkened, and Jarron could feel her all around him. Desks were tipped, wardrobes toppled. A chair skidded down the hall to slam into his leg. And always, the unrelenting pressure of her against his skin. Still, he stood his ground. "Is this what you were going to do to them?" he asked, letting his disgust show.
It was the trigger. The next moment he was tossed across the room, to slam into a mirror.
This is wrong, Jarron thought, confused and dazed. She can't hurt me. But then he remembered another time, in his house, when Kris had been tossed backwards, much as he had just been.
Correction, Jarron. She can't kill you - but she sure as hell can hurt you. Because of what you are. The truth cut him nearly as much as the mirror had done. It was something about him that fed them - lured them in - gave them their strength. Something in the link between them. And if, like this one, they were strong enough, or angry enough, or unfinished enough, to find their own way here, they wouldn't hesitate to use him.
He realised what a fool he'd been. He'd come here, totally unprepared. Tool-less, thoughtless, clueless. A stupidly noble knight with no armour, no weapons. No paints, no brush, no help. Not the kind he needed, anyway. No small angels or unseen hands to guide his steps. He'd spent weeks now trying to deny their existence, and determined to live this new life without help. Because he was afraid that he couldn't be selective - couldn't let in the angels and lock out the demons.
Like this one.
He'd locked them out for so long that now, he didn't know how to let them in. Didn't know how to break down the barriers he'd erected in his heart.
Andy had brought his paints. Had assumed it would be the same as before - that good ol' Jar would bash the bad ghost lady and paint her away. Andy, and whoever came with him, might well get crunched for their efforts.
And it's all my fault. Because I'm somehow giving them the strength - channelling in the energy - for them to do it. There was a chance he might be wrong about the killing, too. If she could draw energy through a living source, didn't that somehow overstep the bounds? Empowering her beyond the limits of her existence, so she could destroy life as well? As indomitable as the human spirit might be, the body that encased it was a frail thing. Jarron knew, because he was feeling a little frail himself right now. How many steps was it beyond injury, to death?
I need help. But if what he suspected was true, he didn't know if he could muster up the mindset he needed to get it. What if it only empowers her more? In the background - or maybe it was just in his head - he could hear the cackling coarseness of her laughter.
Chances are, she won't kill me. Unless she's insane, of course. Why cut off her source of supply? Jarron pushed himself to his feet. He needed to get the others out of here, away from him, away from her, or someone was going to die.
*
Andy's quick ascent had slowed, and he hesitated near the top. Jarron would let him know when he was ready.
That's if he can. There was another loud thud from above his head. Andy flinched. He'd heard that sound before. Someone had just landed on the floor. Jarron's gonna be bruised as hell, he thought.
"What's he doing up there?" Gervois hissed.
Andy held the board before him like a shield. The eyes he turned toward Gervois were dark and dilated. "His best."
"Sounds like he's throwing the furniture around." Gervois was frowning. He half-suspected the debutante was making a show out of all this.
"He's not doing the throwing." Andy looked worried as another rattling crash came from behind the door. "And it's not only the furniture." Andy didn't hesitate any longer. He wouldn't have waited this long if it had been any other kind of altercation. He'd be damned if he'd hide here while Jarron was beaten to a pulp. He put his shoulder to the door and gave it a shove.
And was promptly thrown back down the stairs on top of Gervois. "What the hell -?" Gervois complained.
"Shut up," Andy said tensely. He tore back up the stairs and slammed against the door. "Jarron!" he yelled. "Get us in!"
He could hear Jarron's voice, but it was muffled by distance. He must be on the other side of the room, Andy thought. That meant it wasn't Jarron holding the door. The thought made gooseflesh dance down his arms and legs.
"No!" Jarron yelled. "Get o-" His voice was abruptly cut off mid-sentence, but the words weren't. A shrilly hollow female voice picked up where he'd left off. The "out" seemed to echo on and on, picking up strength and resounding down the staircase.
"Shit!" The face Perry turned to Andy was white and strained. "What now?"
But Andy wasn't listening. This was too reminiscent of another time. The time with the priest. Only, Jarron was the one pinned to the wall. Why?
Something was wrong. Something had changed. With Jarron. Andy realised how much he'd been relying on Jarron's "magic". Assuming that Jarron could see this through, as easily as he'd dispossessed Jack Halloran's claims for existence. Assuming that the confidence Jarron had shown, that day in his house, was still with him.
Yet he'd come here, for all the right reasons. To help. What was wrong?
"Are you just gonna stand there?" Perry asked him shrilly.
Andy's confusion showed in his eyes. Things were out of control, and Jarron was the only one he knew who might be able to fix them. "The paints," he whispered, frowning at the squished tubes in his hand. "Maybe they'll help." He charged back up the stairs and slammed against the door. This time Gervois came with him. Together, they bashed into the door, and knocked it halfway off the hinges. One more bash, and they were in.
*
"No-o!" Jarron groaned. He didn't know how he was going to protect them. He didn't even know how he was going to protect himself. At that moment, Andy was picked up and slammed against the wall, much as he had been. The paints went flying, like so much rubbish. What was I thinking? Jarron wondered. Such feeble weapons against - this?
She came at Jarron again, spiking him with non-existent high heels.
Gervois was knocked backwards, to roll down the stairs.
*
Kris parked outside the house, then stood for a minute, watching the lights upstairs. It looked like a wild party, with flashes and flickers, shadows and weird globs of glowing luminescence. Instead of music, there was a series of shrill howls that seemed to echo in the trees. "Some party," he muttered sarcastically to Nick.
Nick twitched nervously, blinked heavily, then stared at the open front door. "Let's get it over with," he said unhappily.
Kris' expression held a glimmer of amusement. "That the logical approach?" he asked.
"Logic dictates I hop in the car, drive home as fast as I can and dive under the bed. Any more questions?" He stomped away, then glanced back at Kris. "I could use some company," he suggested, frowning.
"Then Dave's your man," Kris told him, giving Chavez a wave. "I'm gonna wing it." Kris headed for a trellis and started up.
"Always gotta be the sneak," Nick muttered. But as he watched Kris ascend, he remembered how close Kris had come to dying, just a short time before. At least he wouldn't have so far to fall this time. Concern prompted him to call, "Watch your back, you sneaky bastard!"
The look Kris shot him was full of amusement. "Why don't you hurry?" he hissed back. "Then maybe you'll be there to help me watch my front." As Nick dashed away, Kris moved silently up on to the roof.
*
Andy's eyes sought Jarron. There was blood running down Jarron's face and arms - some from cuts that had re-opened - some from the jagged glass on the floor that also bore his signature, in rusty red splatters. Their eyes met, and Andy knew Jarron was in pain, but most of it wasn't physical - in all the time he'd known him, Jarron had never looked this despairing. In the past he'd seemed to have some kind of inner knowledge that had buoyed him up, against all the manipulation and terror they'd encountered. Tonight, though, Jarron just looked like he wanted to throw it all in. Like he'd run out of solutions and didn't know where to go. Andy nudged a paintbrush in his direction, then realised he'd made a mistake. He suddenly saw the paints and brushes and board as Jarron was seeing them: these were no weapons - they were feebly flimsy bits of wood and nylon and oil; a synthetically impossible opposition to an ungodly foe.
Andy could feel her in the room. Like Jarron, he knew it was a woman. He was suddenly terrified because she was about to test her wiles on him. It was in the feel of her brushing against him, the scent of her in his nostrils, his lungs; the taste of her on his tongue. His body reacted, even though his mind screamed bestial; abhorrent. What made it worse was that he knew it was what she was waiting for.
*
Jarron realised what was happening. What he couldn't see he could sense - and he could sense enough to know Andy's danger. It filled him with some of the old righteous anger - dispelling some of the despair that had almost, but not quite, made him accept his impotence. Andy was here to help him. Jarron would be damned if he'd let him suffer for it. He pushed himself up on hands and knees and began to crawl. Ignoring glass and nails and shards of wood; flickering lights and screams of anger; pinches, slaps, and blows - Jarron kept moving until he'd reached Andy's side.
"It's gone," Jarron puffed out, when he'd reached him. Shut up, Jarron. Call that reassurance?
"I know," Andy said. His face was tight as he tried to fight her influence. Tried to deny the fondling fingers and scraping nails. Andy grunted. "Like the priest -"
Jarron stared at him - surprised at his perceptiveness.
Kris' voice came from close at hand - startling them both. "Now we've just gotta get it back -"
Andy grinned, relieved.
Kris reached out a hand, and Jarron gripped it like a lifeline.
"What d'you need?" Andy asked. "Paints, we've got." His light tone couldn't conceal the desperation in his eyes.
But for the first time, there was a trace of hope in Jarron's. "Confidence - that I'm not gonna blow it," he admitted.
"What'd you do to Gervois?" Nick's voice asked loudly. His head poked around the corner of the stairs.
"Messed up?" Andy asked.
But Nick was staring at Jarron, whose smile was white through the blood caking his face. "Comparatively speaking? No," he muttered. He looked warily around the room. "This your fault?" he asked Jarron.
A vase sailed through the air and exploded near Jarron's head, showering them all in porcelain chips and stale water; making them all jump.
Jarron lifted his head. "It'd be better if you all left," he told them abruptly.
"Safer, maybe," Andy said. "But not better."
"I hate this shit," Nick complained.
"You don't get it," Jarron told them seriously. "There's only one way -"
"Not here," Kris interrupted. "Outside." He grinned reassuringly at Jarron. "Better, and a whole lot safer." He didn't wait for him to answer - just put a hand under his arm and hauled him to his feet. "Let's go."
*
Gervois was sitting outside with Dave Chavez and his sister when the four of them stumbled out the front door. A paramedic was putting an ice pack on the doctor's head. "What the hell -?" Gervois exclaimed.
"Lovely night for a get-together, isn't it, Doc?" Nick asked. "Don't let this bother you. Wait till later, when we dance around naked under the moon."
"Marshall, are you okay?" Gervois asked worriedly. He stared in dismay at the blood beginning to dry on the other man's face. Spectres of malpractice suits waltzed with Nick's naked dancers in his head.
Jarron glanced at him distractedly. "Sure," he mumbled. He shook off Kris' support, and limped away, into the shadows. "Need to think," he explained.
"He's not really being rude," Nick explained. "It's just his way." But when one of the paramedics moved in Jarron's direction, Nick sobered and grabbed his arm. "Not now," he said.
*
It's okay, Jarron. You're with friends.
But that was at least part of what was holding him back. He hadn't only sought the dark for concentration - it was just another way of hiding. Of avoiding letting everyone know just how bizarre Jarron Marshall had really become.
Something about this misadventure had stirred up memories of the night he'd gone for the endophyte. Stumbling through the woods, rolling from roof to roof - things associated with pain, mostly. But a couple of other recollections had filtered in, as well: of gyrating faces in searing light; of clinging to Kris Chandler's hand - a hand that was already growing cold - because Kris had been dead.
What kind of monster am I? Jarron was appalled. Perhaps the worst of the memories was one of himself, with his skin emitting a soft luminescence like some of the fungi he studied. Of himself forcing some of that luminosity into Kris Chandler's lifeless body.
Jarron surreptitiously glanced at the others, who were trying, just as surreptitiously, to watch him. How could any of them still act like friends, after what they'd seen? After what he'd done? Was it because he'd tried so hard to act like the old Jarron since then, that maybe he'd had them fooled?
Until you took a trip to the museum, Jarron, he thought derisively. That was a nice touch -
Suddenly, as much as Jarron had avoided talking about the night he'd gone for the endophyte - had gone seventy-hour work weeks out of his way to avoid talking about it - it bothered him because nobody else had brought it up. Was that because everyone hoped it was a one-off event? And they were as eager as he was for things to get back to normal? To pretend that nothing had changed?
Ignore it and it'll go away?
But it wasn't just that one time. What about Halloran?
Jarron hadn't examined it before - had been afraid to think too hard about it. But the answer was so obvious it hurt.
Andy? It's orders. Andy's paid to protect you. Maybe he thinks putting up with your shit is all just part of keeping Jarron Marshall alive.
And, of course, there was the guilt factor. Halloran had worked for the ISO. Andy's friendliness might be his way of making things right.
Nick had the right idea when he walked away. But Jarron had no idea why he'd come back. Except that Nick was a creature of habit. He liked things done a certain way. Maybe Jarron Marshall was just one more piece in the pattern of his life.
And Kris. What about Kris? Was he just grateful, for getting a second chance? All this must be in big conflict with Kris' superstitious side.
I guess Kris doesn't have any choice but be grateful to the poor bugger who dragged him back from the dead.
In that moment, Jarron hated himself more than he'd ever hated anyone.
Self-pity doesn't alleviate responsibility, Jarron.
"You don't have to do this." Kris' voice spoke at his back.
"Yes, I do." Jarron's eyes were dark. "If it was bad before," he said bitterly, "I've only made it worse." Jarron had a sudden flash of the museum, and the desiccated corpse lying half-in, half-out of its display.
Oh, shit! What have I done? If he'd complicated things here, what had he done there?
"Jarron -" Kris was shaking his arm.
Jarron's eyes slowly focused.
"Can I help?" There was tension in Kris' voice. The light show was mounting upstairs. Loud wails were interspersed with the chilling shrillness of a woman's screams.
"Nobody can," Jarron admitted, giving him a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He shrugged, and Kris thought he was shrugging off his arm and pulled it back. Jarron didn't bother to explain.
There's a big difference between accidentally admitting a ghost - and actively summoning one. After tonight, none of them will talk to me ever again.
But since he couldn't figure out why any of his friends still wanted to talk to him anyway, he couldn't think of a valid reason to hide any more. Ashamed and somewhat mortified at being the focus of all their staring eyes, he turned away, and braced both hands against a tree. "Better stand back," he warned Kris flippantly.
Kris didn't listen. Instead, he placed a bracing hand on Jarron's shoulder. "You're not alone," he said quietly.
Jarron could have cried. Instead, he leaned his head against his arms, closed his eyes, and let himself go.
*
"What's happening?" Gervois asked. The night sky was full of glitter. Bright flickers and flashes of light drifted around them.
"It's Jarron," Nick whispered, awed. There was one particular patch of night sky, that had developed a wavery thickness. As they watched, the thickness began to take on a definite shape. "Like Stephanie," Nick murmured. At his words, he could swear there was a giggle near his ear.
Andy could only nod. He was staring fixedly at the translucent figure floating eerily against the dark sky.
Jarron dropped his arms and turned, his expression resigned. But when he saw the extent of the light show that had been going on behind his back, he looked shocked, and more than a little embarrassed. "Guess I overdid it a bit," he said lamely.
"That's an understatement." The words were out before Nick had time to think, and once again, a giggle sounded near his ear. Whether it was the sound of laughter, or the expression on Jarron's face that broke the tension for him, Nick didn't know. But all of a sudden, the entire situation seemed hilarious. Nick found he was actually smiling - laughing almost. Here he was, surrounded by wavery ghost ladies and God-knows-what-else, and he was grinning like some kind of moron.
Because I'm not afraid, he realised.
But Jarron is. Nick recognised the signs of tension in Jarron's expression. He's afraid that by doing this, he's made himself look like some kind of freak. Someone that nobody in his right mind would ever want to know.
Because it was one thing operating a way-station for displaced ghosts, and another intentionally summoning them.
We've seen worse, Jarron, Nick thought. Tonight seemed tame compared to Jack Halloran's knife competitions. Or that night when they'd all gone endophyte hunting.
But that's not what Jarron needed to hear. Right now, Jar just needed some reassurance. So, what do you do, Nick? Act like nothing's happened?
No - like it's no big deal. So he knows you're not afraid -
The thought made him want to laugh all over again. And, as the ghost lady floated into his peripheral vision, he thought, You're out of your fuckin' mind, Acklin.. But all he said - his smile still in place - was an impatient, "You gonna take all night, Jar? I've got chocolates waiting in your room."
"You've got some on your face, too. What'd you do? Leave him the leftovers?" Andy looked like he'd come out of a trance, but he'd guessed what Nick was trying to do. "There's a TV show I want to see," Andy added, glancing at his watch.
"Plot for your next book?" Kris' voice held a trace of humour.
Nick laughed.
Andy turned to Dave Chavez. "Still got your gun, Dave?" he asked loudly. "Make it just low enough so Chandler won't need that 'therapy' session -"
Jarron stared at them incredulously. "And I thought I was nuts," he said.
Perry Gervois gestured fearfully at the spectral images surrounding them. In a voice quivering with terror, he gasped out, "Are you blind?!"
Jarron turned to the doctor, his expression confused, but more hopeful than it'd been for hours. "Deaf, blind, and stupid," he replied. He reached out a hand, and gripped Gervois' arm. "It'll be okay now -" he started to say.
Gervois recoiled. "Don't touch me -"
Nick could have punched him.
Jarron's eyes dimmed a little, but he was still riding high on relief. He knew Gervois' reaction was no more than he might have felt himself. Damned if he could figure out why Kris, Nick, Andy, and - yeah, Dave - felt any differently, but right now, he didn't care. He was just glad they did.
He was staggering, and he only vaguely noticed when Andy came up under one arm to take some of his weight. Someone shoved some smelling salts under his nose and his head jerked up.
"Ready to do some painting?" Andy was asking him.
Jarron looked around, seeing the vast amount of support that was here to back him up. He felt like a fighter, going into the ring. Go for a knock-out, Jarron.
A small hand slipped into his, and a giggle sounded in his ear.
Jarron smiled. "Yeah," he said, squeezing that unseen hand reassuringly. "I'm ready."
***
Chapter Three
It had been over an hour. Long enough, anyway, for Perry Gervois to feel like a whinging ass.
He'd spent the first fifteen minutes stomping around with the icepack on his head, while his sister cried softly in the background. If he'd known what Marshall was capable of, he never would have taken him on as a patient. The ISO was offering him a nice bonus for Marshall's care, and now Perry knew why. They were trying to buy his silence - and maybe his dedication. Trying to solidify their hold on him so he'd continue to treat the freak, no matter how weird he became.
Once Gervois' anger faded, desperation took its place. What the hell had he been thinking of? To even hint to the man that he might be able to "help"? And - what was worse - to ask for it?
I asked for this, Perry thought, looking at the flickering lights upstairs. Listening to rumour, about Marshall, and looking for an out. It appalled him that he could have been so stupid.
But I didn't actually ask, he tried to absolve his conscience. And that led to a memory of Marshall's response - his no-strings-attached offer to help. Perry hadn't exactly asked, but Jarron Marshall hadn't hesitated, either.
But I would have. If I'd known what was coming, I never would have done something like this for Marshall.
He's a pervert. Gets off on necrotica. Likes playing with the unholy, just to see how far he can go -
But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't true. He remembered how scared Marshall had been when the "hallucinations" - that weren't hallucinations - had begun. How terrified.
"We take what we get, and do the best with it we can." It was his dad's saying, and for a moment, Perry felt like his dad was standing at his side. Jarron Marshall hadn't liked what he was getting - in fact, he'd hated it - but he was doing the best with it he could.
Perry Gervois suddenly felt like a fool. He recalled how he'd jerked away from Marshall's hand. The man had just been trying to reassure him -
Reassure me! It made him feel like more of an ass than ever. There's Marshall, going back upstairs to face God-knows-what, and he's offering me reassurance -
Perry Gervois tossed the ice pack into the back of the ambulance.
"Where're you going?" one of the paramedics asked him.
"To see if I can help," he replied.
"Just like that?" The paramedic remembered how Gervois had been stomping around a few minutes past.
But, Gervois was recalling using those same words to Jarron Marshall, and how the man had responded without hesitation. "Yeah," Perry said, grinning. "Just like that."
*
He was painting. Gervois had heard them talk about it, joke about it. Had even noticed the odd smell of turpentine in Marshall's room, one of the first times he'd been admitted to the hospital. Seen the paint streaks on the man's fingers, during his check-ups. Gervois had thought it was a hobby, until tonight. A way of easing tension. Something he'd taken up, after he'd discovered he could do it.
Now, Perry recalled how Angela Tieman, Jarron's physiotherapist, had been shocked. Her report had been an addled epistle of apologies and compliments.
But, then, Angela Tieman had totally blown it. Kept Marshall standing at the easel till he collapsed. She would have raved on about anything if it had kept her employed.
Gervois had discounted it all - as inconsequential gibberish. A joke. Something to calm Marshall down. Art was something he tended to discount anyway. In his opinion, when you dealt with muscles and nerves and flesh and blood, art was too obscure, too insubstantial, to have much meaning. His attention was focused on keeping Marshall alive, and getting them both out of here in a minimal number of pieces.
The first thing he'd noticed was a difference in the feel of the house. He hadn't even realised it had been hostile; only uncomfortable. Now, the absence of hostility let him name what was missing. Not peaceful yet - still stirring. But definitely more liveable.
He sighed with relief, and tiptoed up the stairs. The off-balance feeling that had been with him all night was beginning to right itself. Sanity was just a step away. Get Marshall, and get out. Sell the house, burn it. He'd find a way to buy his sister another -
He'd no sooner left the safety of the stairwell than someone grabbed him. It was Chandler, and he looked dangerous. The man tugged him forward - close enough so they could both watch, but also close enough to the stairwell so Chandler could guard Jarron's back.
Jarron Marshall was painting. No - not just painting: creating. A woman's face was appearing on the whitewashed board. Perry looked at the squashed tubes of paint in disbelief. How had the man created this vision from those smears of oily colour?
He'd started with her eyes. Somehow, his rendering of them had captured her and held her in place.
Perry cursed himself for being fanciful.
The eyes smouldered with anger, and something else - something remarkably like desperation. There was a wicked glint in them, too - hate, maybe. Something not quite right. Jarron hadn't spared any of her personality flaws.
But the man was painting hope in there, too. And as he formed the curve of her jaw, Perry found that he, like the others, was losing track of time. Because there was a timelessness - an agelessness - in Jarron's vision.
Gervois didn't even realise how active the room had been until Jarron had captured her further. The busyness of his surroundings was fading, into a blessed numbness. Gervois shook himself out of his trancelike absorption, and recalled himself to the present.
Acklin was on Jarron's right, holding his brushes and paints; clinging to a makeshift palette where Jarron mixed his colours. Wakeman was on Jarron's left, and was taking most of his weight now. Jarron's strength was fading, and Perry had the sudden impression he was painting part of it away. Of them all, Chandler was the most alert. He stood between his friends and the stairs, to guard Jarron's back.
Because Jarron was vulnerable. Perry Gervois realised he'd never seen him more so, even when he'd been unconscious. Because as much as his hand moved the paintbrush, his mind was on another plane. The world could crash down around his ears right now, and Marshall wouldn't have noticed. He was intent; absorbed.
He was also something else: driven. He wouldn't let go of this until it was finished.
But he wasn't going to finish unless he had some help. The man was nearly as white as one of the ghosts he'd summoned, and the hand that held the brush was shaking. Even with Wakeman's help, Marshall was beginning to sag.
But he wasn't ready to give up.
Gervois caught Chandler's eye, then tiptoed down the stairs. When he came back, he had a glass of juice in his hand. He didn't hesitate. Ignoring the others, he went over and tapped Jarron on the shoulder. "Break," he ordered. He shook Jarron's shoulder. "Take a break, Jar," he repeated. "Get him a chair," he told Nick.
When Jarron's eyes finally focused, he avoided looking at the painting. "You called me 'Jar'," he mumbled. Last thing he remembered, Gervois hated him - or was repulsed by him, anyway, which was pretty much the same thing.
Perry Gervois seemed nearly as surprised by his use of the nickname as Jarron himself. He grinned. "You're right, Jar," he said, gripping the other man's arm. "I guess I did."
*
Later, as they were leaving, Andy pulled Kris to one side.
"Don't mind me," Nick yelled to Kris, out the car window. "I could be home now, writing a best-selling novel, but don't let it worry you -"
Andy was tired and annoyed enough to comment. He knew it was an ego thing - that Nick's novels sold so well and his didn't - but he couldn't seem to stop himself. "One more word and I'll be at your home, bashing a best-selling novelist. But don't let it worry you -"
"He won't," Kris assured him. He glanced at his watch. "We'd better hurry or you're gonna miss your programme," he said with false enthusiasm. "What was it? An old Gunsmoke? Rerun of The Lone Ranger?"
"Better than those Popeye cartoons you study," Andy replied. Enough small talk. "I thought this was a partnership," he said abruptly.
"What's bugging you?"
"Lack of trust." Andy shook his head. "I've had enough of it, Kris. I'm not gonna put up with it any more." He was serious.
The amusement faded from Kris' voice. "What?"
"Something you should've told me," Andy said angrily. "About Jarron being wired. Made into specimen material. Dissected."
"Robart."
"The point is: it shouldn't have come from him." Andy knew he was over-reacting. He thought he'd come to terms with the way the ISO had misled him - more or less made a fool of him. The stiff to play the part of straight man, while all the real action took place covertly.
But the tension of tonight's ghostly episode, combined with his concern about how he was going to conceal it from the rest of the ISO, was eating at him. Then Nick had made his comment about his book, which had hit Andy right in his ego.
Kris Chandler, whom he'd thought he could trust, was playing games with him, just like his employers had. No - it was worse. Kris was playing games with his employer - his direct supervisor, for crissakes - without Andy's knowledge.
Good old steady, easy-going Andy. A stupid, easily-circumvented tool, for anyone and everyone to use. Point him in the right direction, give him a list to follow, and he'll focus on it to the exclusion of all else - while everyone does the dirty around him.
Andy didn't say any more. He was smouldering, and it wouldn't have taken much for him to punch Chandler out. But he had to be honest with himself, even if no one else was honest with him. Kris Chandler was only responsible for part of his frustration. It wouldn't be right to punish him for the rest. Andy spat out, "We need to cover Jarron - for tonight."
"No problem." The amusement was back in Chandler's voice.
No problem. No discussion. No information. Andrew Wakeman would be the last to know how it was being handled. And then he'd find out from Robart, or Jarron, or maybe even Nick. It was obvious his so-called partner had never really intended a partnership. It was an arrangement more like knight and pawn.
And Andy didn't intend to be anyone's pawn. Not the ISO's. Not Kris Chandler's.
Andy's eyes met Kris'.
Kris sucked in a quick breath. He had a terrible feeling he'd really blown it. "Can we talk about this?" he asked.
Andy didn't say anything. He climbed into his car and drove away, without another word.
*
At the hospital the next morning, there was a stranger guarding Jarron's door. It took a few minutes for Kris and Nick to convince him they weren't there to harm "Dr. Jarron Marshall". Kris wondered if this might be Andy's way of getting back at him. "Seen Andy?" Kris asked the man casually.
"Mr. Wakeman will be in later. I can take a message."
Kris shook his head. "I'll call him."
Jarron was asleep when they entered. Kris went over to the window, and peered a little distractedly down at the parking lot. How the hell could I have blown it so badly? he wondered. Nick's right. I am a sneak. I never let one hand know what the other one's doing.
Kris suddenly realised Nick was talking to him.
"How does he do it?" Nick complained.
"Do what?" Kris asked patiently, but his smile was forced. "I know I shouldn't ask - in fact, I don't even need to. The man of a million words will spout off -"
"Shut up, Kris." Nick fluffed Jarron's pillow so roughly that even Kris looked pained.
"I'm awa-ake," Jarron said. "Now."
Nick asked Jarron, "How do you take a tight ass like Gervois and open his anal sphincter like that? He was almost human last night."
"Why don't you ask him yourself, Nick?" Kris asked pointedly. Perry Gervois had just come in the door. He couldn't have missed what Nick was saying.
"It's a delicate procedure, Mr. Acklin," Gervois said, but there was a hint of laughter in his eyes. "I'll schedule you in with the proctologist, if you think you need some treatment."
"No thanks," Nick retorted hurriedly. "I was just leaving." He gave Jarron's pillow one final punch. Jarron's head bounced and he cringed.
"Nick?" Jarron called him back.
Nick eyed Gervois warily, but merely asked, "What?"
"Before you come back, I want you to mathematically calculate the mass of the pillow, angle of trajectory, force, and the fact I have a headache -"
Nick was silent for three seconds as he did just that. Then, he grinned. "Oh, I see. Sorry, Jar."
"Sorry yourself. See ya."
"See ya."
*
After Gervois had left, Kris asked, "You going home today?"
"Yeah. Andy's picking me up later."
Kris nodded. "Gill and I'll drop by tonight. See ya."
"Kris - wait. We need to talk."
Kris pulled up a chair next to Jarron's bed and straddled it. "I'm waiting."
"What's wrong?"
Kris knew it was a waste of time to try to hide anything from Jarron. "I blew it with Andy. Went behind his back to Robart."
Jarron frowned. "He still isn't over all that other ISO stuff."
"I know," Kris admitted. "'Kris Chandler and his big mouth'. So busy trying to out-wit everyone else that he doesn't bother thinking how some people might take it -"
"You like having him as a partner." Jarron sounded surprised.
Kris grinned. "Yeah. Andy doesn't see his own potential."
"Not surprising the way everyone keeps going behind his back."
"If that was meant to cut me to the quick, it worked."
"So what're you gonna do?"
Kris sighed. "Don't know. I don't think he'll listen to me right now. Maybe never."
"Ulterior motives behind every word?" Jarron said.
"Sounds bad, doesn't it?" Kris looked depressed. "Put that way, I wouldn't listen to me, either." Gone was the confidence Kris always seemed to exude. "What am I gonna do, Jar?" he asked. "He thinks I played him for a fool, just like the ISO." Kris rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Maybe I did. Stupid mistake, with a guy as sharp as Andy."
"What're you going to do?"
Kris shook his head. "I've been so clever, I've outwitted even myself," he said bitterly. "It's like the liar, whose every word might be just another lie. I can't think of anything to say that would convince him -"
A voice came from behind Kris' back. "Try telling him you'll trust his judgement."
Andy.
Jarron was grinning.
"How long have you been here, Wakeman?" Kris asked roughly.
"Came in right after 'I blew it with Andy'. Out of politeness, I only listened to the parts like 'potential', and 'guy as sharp as Andy'. Oh - and those bits like 'Kris Chandler and his big mouth'. That one was especially choice." Andy cleared his throat. "I'm surprised you didn't hear me come in," he said, a big grin on his face. "I think we're going to have to work on your training."
"I'll work on your -"
"Trust and respect -" Andy interrupted. "Important in a partnership."
Kris grinned. But, "Yes, Mr. Wakeman," was all he said.
*
Jarron couldn't let it go. Not after his bout of self-examination the night before. As he limped around his house - unable to sit still - he kept thinking about his mistake. How he'd gone in unprepared, and the problems he may have caused. Now that it was quiet, the glacial visions were back, too. Chilling scenes of a foreign landscape that was even more frightening because, in some ways, it wasn't as foreign as it should have been.
Race memories, Jarron.
Yeah, right. Except your ancestors never lived anywhere near the frozen North.
What bothered him more was the voice that had pounded in his head. It had power behind it. Power enough to hold the other man's soul hostage? Jarron didn't know.
Still, it wouldn't have been so bad if Nick hadn't thoughtfully provided the local paper. On the front page was a picture of the Viking exhibit - or, rather, what was left of it. But the thing that really got to Jarron was the report: "Mysterious Leak and Unexplained Noises have Museum Officials Baffled". The subheading was worse: "Continuous Water Seepage Causing Havoc on Second Floor."
What have I done? Jarron asked himself, much as he had the night before. His mistakes at the museum were more excusable than those at the house, because he hadn't been trying to play hero. He'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong mindset.
But, it was still his fault. Jarron couldn't dispel the lingering guilt, any more than he could the lingering traces of sadness. Touching that withered corpse - that pathetic remnant of a human form - had touched him somewhere deep inside. He couldn't rest comfortably, any more than the man's unsettled spirit could.
Jarron knew he was getting off easy. He'd only had to suffer a day or two; the other man had been suffering a thousand years in his quest to find peace.
It suddenly occurred to Jarron that this might be how it was meant to be. That maybe he'd needed to rediscover and appreciate his psychic side, so he could help the man find his way "home".
The man's anger - his fury - was locked to him, as much as the sadness. There was more to it, too - some ritualism involved that Jarron had sensed - like a bolt and padlock on a door. Some ritualism linked to the pounding voice that had tried to rattle Jarron's brain. Whether it actually held the man or not, the man believed it did. Believed it so strongly that Jarron didn't think a mere paint job would be enough to wish it all away.
This one was going to take some work - and some research. Mostly, though, it was going to take some time, and Jarron was worried about that. There'd been hints in the newspaper that the exhibition might close because of the damage. That the artefacts might be shipped out. Jarron had unleashed something yesterday, and he didn't think it was going to be mended on its own. He couldn't let the corpse leave without at least trying to set things right.
Now, he just had to figure out how.
*
Jarron was surprised when Perry Gervois turned up at his door. "House call?" he asked.
"That's right," Perry told him. "I didn't want to release you till tomorrow. Your friend at the ISO insisted."
"I'm fine," Jarron assured him.
"Looks to me like you've been up most of the day."
Jarron grinned. "Only the part since I got home."
"What can I say to convince you to relax a little?"
In answer, Jarron limped over to the couch and put his leg up. "See me relaxed."
"It's no good being the one man who can do the job if you're not up to doing it, Jarron," Perry told him. "Last night, you didn't go in ready for it, did you?" At the look on Jarron's face, Perry quickly assured him, "I'm grateful, my sister's grateful, even her dog's grateful. What I'm saying is, if you want to keep on top of it all, you're gonna have to take some breaks."
"Will do," Jarron insisted.
Perry looked at him for a long moment. He'd learned a lot about Jarron Marshall last night. It had explained some things about the man that had made him wonder. The difference was, before last night, he didn't really give a damn.
Now he did.
"I know that look," Perry told him. "You will, but not any time soon. Sort of like the way my nephew swears he'll brush his teeth - next week."
Jarron said honestly, "We all have to fix - or pay for - what we've broken, Perry. Before I can relax, there's something I really have to fix."
*
But he did what Perry wanted, and dropped on to his bed. He didn't wake up till three hours later.
When he limped back into his living room, there was someone waiting for him in the shadows. "Hi, Gill," he said, grinning. With her arms crossed, and the frown on her face, it didn't take a psychic to recognise her mood.
She took his arm and led him over to the couch, then sat down on the armrest. "How are you?"
"Fine. Labwork's not the same without you."
She smiled. "Glad to know I'm missed. I missed you at the gallery." Gill's words were half-chiding, half-regretful.
Jarron gave her an embarrassed grin. "What can I say? I panicked. You oughta know how it works: wind Jarron up and watch him run into a wall -"
"Is that what happened?"
Jarron blessed Kris for his reticence. "Actually, it wasn't a wall. It was more like a glass display case."
She frowned as she looked at the multitude of tiny cuts all over his skin. "Does it hurt much?"
"Only when I bleed," he replied with a smile. As he sat there smiling, he was also thinking. Gill might well be the answer to his problem. She was a brilliant thief - one of the best. He drew in a deep breath, then blurted, "Gill, there's something that needs doing."
She looked at him - noticing his quick, nervous movements, hearing the earnestness in his voice - and didn't hesitate. "What is it?" she asked.
Jarron sighed with relief. The idea had come to him just as he'd awoken, almost like the aftermath of a dream. "I want us to steal a body," he said.
She looked taken aback. "Why?" she asked flatly.
He frowned - suddenly realising how it must look to her. "There's a ritual -" he mumbled.
"A ritual," she repeated.
"I need to set him free."
"Can't you just paint him?" she asked. He'd never admitted it to her, but she'd guessed. Whatever Jarron did with his paintings gave the subjects of them peace.
Then, she recalled the figure who'd hovered at her back. Correction - gave some of his subjects peace. It sent others where they belonged.
"It's old religious stuff. Besides, he's too angry."
Angrier than the man who'd haunted Jarron's house? Gill shuddered. Not a happy thought.
"He won't hurt you," Jarron assured her quickly. "I'd never, ever risk that, Gill. Besides, I'm coming. You won't have to touch him at all. I promise."
"Why didn't you ask Kris?" Kris would be really hurt if he knew. Did Jarron think Kris wasn't up to it? "He's back at work, you know."
"I know," Jarron told her with a grin. His smile faded. The nervousness was back. "If he or Andy knew, they'd say no. That it wasn't worth the risk." He looked a little embarrassed. "And they sure wouldn't let me come along."
Her eyes met his, and she saw the pain there.
"I can't explain it, Gill. It's like an ache that won't go away."
She still looked doubtful.
He blurted, "He's had a thousand years of it -"
She sighed. She hated the thought of deceiving Kris, and she knew Jarron did, too. Plus, Jarron had no talent for deception. "I don't like it," she said.
"Neither do I," he admitted. "I'd do the thing myself, if I could." Jarron watched her a while longer, waiting silently while she thought things out. There was a trace of anxiety in her face that bothered him, and made him double-think what he was asking. Gill had a lot to lose if things went wrong. He suddenly realised he'd placed her in a terrible position: to please him, she'd have to deceive Kris.
It's just not worth the risk. Jarron began to wish he hadn't brought it up. He did his best to cover. "Sorry, Gill," he said, giving her hand a quick squeeze, "I don't know what I was thinking! Forget I asked." He smiled, a little foolishly. "Sometimes when I'm tired, I blow things all out of proportion." He changed the subject. "Where's Kris tonight?"
"He refused to stick around and listen to you snore," she told him with a smile. "Actually, he was called away. Work," she explained.
Jarron grinned at that. "Nothing like a man who loves his job. I'm just glad, if he had to work, that he left you here." He pushed himself to his feet. "Gives me a chance to show you what a perfect host I can be. Chocolate milk okay?" he asked, as he limped toward the kitchen.
"Fine," she said, overtaking him. "But I'll get it," she said firmly.
"I'm doing great, Gill," Jarron insisted. "I can get you a beer instead."
"Is the beer warm?"
Jarron grinned. "Con-man's guarding it in the laundry room."
"There's your answer."
"I'll get the chocolate milk," Jarron said firmly. "Rummaging in my cupboards might put you off, if you know what I mean."
"Please - don't enlighten me."
Jarron grinned. "While you're waiting," he said excitedly, "take a look at the test results in that folder. I've been altering the medium, to try to force sporangiophore production." He grinned. "Could be we're close - there's been significant thickening in the cell walls."
"If it sporulates, do you have someone to follow the infection process? Trace the progression through tissues?"
"Me, myself, and I. If we get that far, I won't be able to stand supervising - it'll have to be hands-on. I'll need lots of help, though," Jarron hinted. "Want to re-think your line of work - again? Assistants always welcome." He was smiling as he limped out of the room.
Gill watched him go, her expression worried. Despite his attempts to distract her, Gill wasn't fooled. Jarron might want her to forget about his little request, but she didn't think he was about to. She'd noticed he'd avoided telling her where this "body" was, but she had a feeling Kris would know.
And for Jarron's sake, Kris was going to know before too much longer.
***
Chapter Four
Gill had barely slipped onto the ledge when the man stepped silently from the shadows. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back against him. She stiffened, then relaxed against his chest.
"Surprise," he whispered huskily in her ear.
She twisted and nibbled his ear lobe. "Devil," she said. "You scared me -"
"Good," he remarked, but she could hear the note of satisfaction in his voice. "What? No struggle?"
"You gave yourself away."
"How?" he whispered.
She reached out and squeezed his left buttock. "Like this," she whispered. "Next time, grab - don't fondle."
"I hope all my conquests aren't so perceptive -"
"'Conquest' implies defeat," she murmured, rubbing against him. "I don't recall any challenge," she told him dismissively.
He growled, then peered into the distant darkness. "Company," he whispered. He felt her muscles tighten, and she didn't argue when he clipped their harnesses together. Without another word - moving as one - they both stepped backwards, and slipped over the edge.
"Nice car," she remarked, a few minutes later. He was driving a beat-up Chevy.
"Everyone's a critic," he complained. "Nobody'll look at us twice in this." He glanced her way and gave a wolfish smile. "Well - one of us, anyway," he said.
She didn't mention Jarron until they back at Kris' house, away from distractions. "Had an interesting talk with Jarron the other day - after you left," she began.
"How's he doing?" Kris asked. "Stiff, I'll bet."
She chuckled, caught by the word. "'Stiff's' part of his problem." The thought triggered her sense of humour. The memory of Jarron's expression as he'd made his request made her laugh until tears were running down her face.
Kris rolled his eyes. "Oh, God," he said, almost painfully. "What's he up to now?"
Gill fought for control. "Oh, he's all right," she said casually. "He just needed some help."
Kris gripped her arms and nibbled her neck. "What?"
"Not much," she said, chuckling. "Just wanted me to steal a body."
"What!" He looked at her incredulously.
At his expression, she burst out laughing again. It sounded insane. "You - you had to be there -"
Kris no longer looked amused.
Gill sobered, but her lips twitched. "He doesn't want you or Andy," she went on, her eyes bright with amusement, "because you might not think it's worth the effort."
Kris frowned. It bothered him more than he liked to admit that Jarron had gone to Gill - the Wraith - first.
What did he think? That I couldn't handle it?
Not only that. Jarron - his best friend - had circumvented him entirely. Intentionally.
Had encouraged Gill to circumvent him.
"Why did he think you'd do it?" The words sounded angry, even to his ears.
"You mean, why me and not you?"
Kris didn't answer.
"Because I already admire his brilliance?" She grinned. "He thought I'd be more sympathetic." Her smile faded. "I am, too. Jar said the man's been suffering for a thousand years."
Suddenly, it all fell into place. It wasn't a question of ability, or deceit. Jarron was right - neither he nor Andy would've been too keen to pursue this particular line of reasoning. Not after the way the last museum visit had turned out.
"I should've known!" Kris looked pained. "The museum! I should've known he couldn't just let it go."
Gill sighed. The look on Kris' face had dispelled the last of her amusement. "He has some ritual to do. Painting isn't enough -"
Kris looked at her. "Did he say why?"
She nodded. "Yeah. He's too angry."
Kris looked confused. "Jarron?"
"No. The dead man." She snuggled against him, her expression worried. "He told me to forget it, Kris - that it wasn't worth the risk."
Kris relaxed a little. "Of moving the body?"
"No - of losing your trust." She gave him a smile. "The bad part is: I think he's going to try to do it alone."
*
Some things can be overplanned.
It was probably the hundredth time he'd told himself that - and ten of 'em had been in the last hour. Whenever he got to the planning part, his mind went blank. He just didn't know enough about security systems, or locks, or alarms. The guards were a different matter - at least he could sense where they were.
Despite his ignorance - or, maybe, because of it, Jarron thought - he was feeling pretty confident. The intuition and sensitivity he'd been trying so hard to deny were back, and he realised how much he'd missed them. The biggest problem was the way his existence suddenly seemed so "full", but he was working on that, too. Like someone who works in a busy office, with dozens of other people, yet manages to concentrate and get the job done. After all, his "visitors" didn't have the solidity of real people, or even the amount of physical presence that Jack Halloran had developed.
The pressure was gone. When he'd been working so hard at damming up the lines of communication, he'd constantly felt like something was working every bit as hard at opening them up. The backpressure had been enormous. Now, he felt accompanied, but not besieged.
He was also hopeful that he'd be able to keep his personal space intact. When he'd been trying so hard to cover everything up, it had been next to impossible. The stress - both internal and external - had been nearly overwhelming. Now that he was more "open", a lot of the strain was taken off. If he could only remember to keep his "esp" at acceptable levels, he was sure he'd be able to get along, without attracting an overdose of attention from the living or the dead. Could get on with the business of living.
Objectively, he knew he should be worried about this expedition he was about to undertake. But, the feeling of well-being remained with him. Whatever he planned, he wouldn't be working alone. Unseen hands would be helping him.
There was more to it than that. He wanted a fresh start, but he couldn't have it as long as there was unfinished business to take care of. The glacial visions were robbing him of the peace he should otherwise be experiencing, at coming to terms with his existence. He'd discovered unfinished business wasn't limited to uneasy spectres - it could be shared by those who'd mistakenly aroused them. Jarron wanted neither guilt nor anger to disturb the uneasy pact he'd made with his subconscious, and until he could resolve this, he had a feeling ice and frozen winds and glacial tundras would continue to haunt his vision.
Besides, there are things you have to do - no matter what. It was part of living, that you couldn't pass through without having some effect on the rest of the human race. It was just Jarron's misfortune that his effect could sometimes be felt beyond the grave.
It was time to act - not to worry. If he'd been honest with himself, he'd have admitted that he was so anxious to find peace that he refused to worry. Jarron, riding on the wave of his returned intuition, was confident this would work. After all, he had a prayer on his lips, and someone by his side to guide his steps. He had no doubt that somehow, he'd be able to put things right.
*
He made it all the way to the museum's front door before he started thinking logistics. It was one thing hauling a corpse out of here, and another getting it all the way to the car. Jarron suddenly realised he was going to need help.
He couldn't approach any of the logical choices, because they'd be sure to stop him. No - there was only one person he might be able to convince, and it was going to take some doing. With this kind of risk involved, Nick would have to believe it was the only logical step to take, given the circumstances.
Or, he'd have to believe he was launching a major coup for his Viking brotherhood. That, by abetting Jarron in a criminal act, he was in some way emulating the Vikings of old. Setting himself up for his one-day trek to Valhalla.
Jarron climbed back in his car and headed for Nick's house.
*
"Word is Jarron just left the museum," Andy said into his cellphone. "Think he's given up?"
"Do you?" Kris asked him.
Andy chuckled. "No. Maybe he's gone in search of some equipment. I wonder if he has any idea what he's going to need."
"I think he's gone for help."
"Should I be home?"
"Are you kidding? You might stop him." Kris added, "By the way, that was a stroke of genius replacing the guards with ISO. He doesn't know any of them, does he?"
"No. All strangers," Andy assured him. "If it was someone he knew he'd be on to us right away."
"And here I thought you might decide to stop him." There was a question in Kris' voice.
"Hey - I'm not here to stop him from committing burglaries," Andy told him. "I'm just supposed to keep him from getting caught - or killed."
"So why didn't you just help him?"
"Why didn't you?"
There was a smile in Kris' voice. "What? And spoil his fun? This is Jarron all over, Andy. He's on a mission - a noble quest. Why do you think he likes his labwork so much?"
"His way of saving the world?" Andy said.
"At least his small piece of it."
"And he'll get Nick to help him."
"Right. If he doesn't convince him it's logical somehow, he'll go for the Viking hero angle. Nick's so in love with being a Viking, I gave him a horned helmet for Christmas one year."
Andy was silent for a moment, then asked the question that was bothering them both. "Do you think it's safe?"
"He handled the ghost lady all right. I think he'll be okay, as long as he's 'prepared'."
"Somebody's gotta do something about the museum," Andy added, a smile in his voice. "It makes it damn hard to cover for him when he leaves behind so many dissatisfied customers."
"Is it suppressed?"
"You didn't see the papers?"
"I've been in the country less than six hours."
"Let's just say it's not suppressed. Banshees and dripping taps. Nothing definite, but definitely suggestive." He snorted. "Everybody loves a ghost story."
"Were you able to hide the connection to Jarron?"
"Fortunately, yes. Colin cleverly replaced 'museum' with 'gallery' in his original reports. Unless they interview the gallery director, all bases are covered. No relationship between what happened here, and Jarron's supposed trip to the gallery. Gill was going to talk to Almard, the director, too. Did she tell you?"
Kris said silkily, "We only had time for a short visit."
"You're obscene," Andy told him.
Kris chuckled. "Thank you," he said.
Andy glanced at his watch. "How long should we give 'em, before we start looking for Jarron?"
"An hour. Twenty minutes for Nick to argue, thirty minutes for him to look up burglaries on the Net to see what information he can find, and ten minutes to get back."
*
It was so easy.
Too easy, Jarron. There was a smile in the voice.
Jarron relaxed. I'm among friends, he realised, suddenly aware that Kris and Andy were nearby. It made him feel a little foolish, that he hadn't trusted them enough to tell them what he'd planned. Still, they'd gone to a lot of trouble to engineer this, so he could pull it off without interference.
At his side, Nick looked tense and wary. His eyes were down to slits, and his hands in fists. He was ready for action. Jarron tried to hide his smile. The only thing Nick was missing was a shield and horned helmet. "It's okay, Nick," Jarron told him in a loud whisper.
"No it's not," Nick replied. "Odds are we've been on their damned video since we walked in."
"My guess is the video's turned off."
Nick looked at him darkly. "What is it you're not telling me?"
For a moment, Jarron was tempted to tell him the truth, but he decided against it. If Nick did this because he truly believed it was a noble quest, then it really was noble. If he knew they were being watched over - protected even - by the ISO, then it suddenly became a sordid bit of vandalism. Jarron didn't feel that way, but then, he'd already had one close encounter with the man's angry spirit, and his ritualistic antagonist. He didn't mind knowing there was a small army to back him up, if things got out of hand.
But things won't, he thought confidently. Not with so many friends by my side.
Jarron grinned at Nick. "If anyone was watching us - whether it was by video or in-person - I think I'd know it, Nick."
"This is the craziest thing you've ever made me do," Nick complained.
"Uh-uh," Jarron said, "The crazy stuff doesn't happen till later."
*
There was nobody in the hallway upstairs. Jarron didn't even bother with subterfuge any more; he walked quickly but quietly down the hall. At one point, Nick grabbed his arm. "Can't you at least pretend to be cautious?" he asked anxiously.
"Okay," Jarron said. He tiptoed ostentatiously for about a metre, then struck off walking again in long strides.
"Nobody likes a smart ass," Nick hissed at him.
The exhibition door was lightly barricaded, but not locked. By this time, Jarron didn't really expect it to be. But instead of the gratitude he told himself he should be feeling, Jarron was disgusted. Couldn't they at least have attempted to lock it? His gratitude had faded as his embarrassment had grown. Why didn't they just come out of hiding? Why play these games? He'd look like the world's worst idiot when Kris or Andy turned up. Jarron was frowning now; tempted to abandon the whole damn thing.
Let them do the body snatching, if they're so good at it.
It might not be safe for them. Because you were here first -
So put up, and shut up, Jarron.
He glanced at Nick, who gave him a reassuring smile. Once again, he was glad he hadn't mentioned anything to Nick. But he was beginning to feel slightly ashamed that he'd used him. "I'm sorry, Nick," Jarron whispered. "You can leave if you want. I've been using you -"
"I know," Nick replied calmly. "And I've been using you."
Jarron looked surprised.
Nick went on, "Remember how I argued? The truth is," he admitted excitedly - rubbing his hands together, "I wouldn't have missed this in a million years."
*
"We move," Andy said. His words were simultaneously picked up by twelve agents in the building.
"How are you going to cover this with so many people involved?" Kris asked him.
"How could I have covered Jarron with less?" Andy replied sarcastically. "If they see Jarron, some of 'em might recognise him from the briefings, but it's pretty dark in here." There was a caustic note as he added, "They think they're on the trail of some international art thief."
Kris was conspicuously silent.
Andy snickered. "If they only knew -"
*
They weren't alone. Jarron knew it the moment he entered. The air was so thick in here; so congested with cold and animosity and death.
Get out, Jarron!
His voices were talking to him now but he couldn't respond. Their faint cries were lost in the feverish clamour of shrieks and yells. The sacrifice was about to begin.
Don't notice me, he pleaded. His insides were tightening; his gut shrinking away from the resonating chant - the demanding thunder shivering the floor beneath his feet.
For a short while, it seemed his prayer would be answered. He suddenly realised the focus was no longer on him: it was on another - the one with Viking blood. How could he ever have been so stupid to believe that the victim was one of their own -
Jarron turned slowly, fighting the wind that was already rising against them. Turned and saw Nick, who - in his innocence - still thought Jarron could protect him. Get out, Nick! His brain was shrieking the words, but it took a moment before he realised he had yet to speak them aloud. Jarron grabbed Nick's arm, and yanked him out of the room.
"Why'd you do that?"
Jarron stared at him dumbly. He couldn't believe Nick hadn't noticed what was happening. "It's not gonna work," he managed to get out.
Nick frowned, and headed back toward the door. "Get outa here, Jar! I didn't take all these risks for nothing!"
"Andy and Kris are here."
"What!"
"Playing us for fools, Nick," he said, forcing a smile. Make it a joke, Jarron. "I just don't wanta be caught out."
"So what do you want to do?"
"Find 'em. Then they can help us, instead of playing games." He led Nick away from the exhibit. Something had to be done, but not with Nick here, as a focus for all that anger. "You go that way. I'll take this hall. We'll meet downstairs, near the statue."
Nick started out, but something made him turn back. "Jar -"
"What?" Jarron asked innocently.
Nick stared at him for a minute then shrugged. "Nothing. Stay out of trouble, okay?"
"Sure. Odds are I find 'em first." Jarron grinned.
It was all the inspiration Nick needed. He calculated the odds. "Maybe - but if I calculate in your susceptibility to distraction, you don't have a chance."
*
How many times do you have to play the fool today, Jarron? He knew what he had to do, and dreaded it. Going back in that room was insane.
But letting someone else go in there was unthinkable. Ignorance wouldn't provide any excuse. Or any protection. What the hell do I do?
He would have felt better if he understood it. The anger, the regret, the animosity - these he could understand, even if he couldn't condone them. A thousand years was a long time for hate to build. It certainly hadn't dissipated.
What Jarron couldn't understand was how to combat it. He hadn't researched it enough - hadn't found enough information. He didn't really believe in totems or good luck charms, and he wouldn't know how to use them if he did. When he'd dreamed up this plan he'd thought he had it handled: take the body, keep it in a protected place, free the spirit, return the body. In his naivete, he'd assumed that this man's fury could be no worse than Jack Halloran's - or the woman's he'd put to rest several days before. His intuition had told him there was some ritualistic binding, that he didn't really understand, but he'd believed he could put that right, too - just by wishing it so. Fool! No wonder Kris and Andy let him play at his stupidly heroic games. They didn't realise what a mess he could make of things.
Nick had been in the room and he hadn't realised it.
The thought gave Jarron hope. In those few minutes, most of the malice had been directed at Nick, but Nick wasn't here. He'd be downstairs, causing a ruckus. He wouldn't let Kris or Andy get away with playing him for a fool. He'd want to play the game right back.
Jarron's fingers brushed the small cross he'd dropped in his pocket. Foolish; merely another good luck charm, unless you believed in it. Jarron was pretty sure the man in the display case wasn't a believer. Still, he gripped it tightly while he retraced his steps. Gripped it even harder as he stepped into the room.
*
Andy listened to the voice on his cellphone.
"They're back downstairs," he told Kris.
"Jarron must've figured out we were here."
"Maybe. Caswell's holding them in the front lobby."
"They won't be too happy about it."
"Which - the holding or the catching?"
"Neither."
"Played for fools?"
Kris nodded.
Andy shrugged. "If Jarron's going to play stunts like this, he has to expect to get caught. Anyone else would be in jail."
"Anyone else would have a different reason for doing it."
Andy's slow smile brightened his eyes. "No kidding. Sometimes, thinking about you guys, I wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into."
*
Cold. Was this how it had been? Jarron's brain seemed to be as frozen as his body. He struggled to remember. Had death come first, or later, as he lay curled upon the frozen ground? Had his warmth slowly leached out, into the ice surrounding him, or had it bled away, taking his command over his body with it?
The last thought triggered his anger - his fury. It was almost enough to burn through the numbness to his memories. Flashes of the past flickered behind his eyes - eyes that were closed against the merciless onslaught of ice.
It was the ice that had brought him to this. The violence of the ice storms that had rattled his captors, and made them fear for their lives. Made them seek to expiate their god, with someone else's flesh.
He lay there, naked to the elements, oppressed and shamed. Silent, because they'd taken his tongue first - separated it from his person as they would later separate his head from his body. Naked before his adversaries. Scorned. Vilified by the final act - by their use of him as sacrificial fodder.
It was the lack of honour that ate at him. Their tribute had been refuse, for that was how they had seen him. Refuse for a god they had hated - who'd brought them nothing but pain. An unworthy gift, to fool an unworthy deity.
Dishonour - shame - fury. As chilling as the ice and much deeper in his soul. So deep, in fact, that it had locked him here - to a freeze-dried carcass that hadn't known a human breath in over a thousand years.
He was not of their kind, which had made him expendable. So they'd sacrificed him to an obscenity. Used his death to feed their survival - used his life force to sustain their bloated god.
No honour. Only shame, and anger.
I will not yield. Not in a thousand years.
Not in ten thousand years.
There would be a reckoning. What had been given could not easily be taken back. Even now he could hear the rumble. His inability to challenge held him fast - but his death had nevertheless paid the price. Now, to take back the offering - to wrest it from the death grip of their god - would require more power than he retained. The gods did not take opposition lightly.
Unless he could offer another in his place.
*
"Where's Jarron?" Andy asked Nick.
"Looking for you," Nick told him. "He's around here somewhere."
Andy didn't waste any more time. He ran to the control room and switched on the lights. Then he turned back on the video.
"Where'd you last see him, Nick?" Kris asked.
"On two. The east wing."
Kris nodded and took off. Nick shrugged off the ISO agent's arm and stood there for a moment. Why wasn't Jarron here? Despite his words to Jarron, Nick knew his friend should have beat him here. Should have been standing here with Kris and Andy before he'd even turned up.
That meant Jarron was distracted. But where?
Doing what he came here to do.
Nick's temper flared. Jarron had sent him on a wild goose chase to get him out of the way. So he could do the thing himself. They'd gone into the room, and Jarron had found it wasn't as scary or intimidating as he'd thought, so he'd gone to do it alone. By the time Nick's foot was on the first step, his temper was fuming.
*
The whine of the wind went up a pitch, and Jarron could hear the screaming in his ears.
It's not the wind.
It was a human wail, untutored by a human tongue - contoured only by the shape of the gaping jaw. They were going to cut him - they were already cutting him. He could feel it in a hundred tiny spicules of daggerlike ice.
Withdraw!
The voice pounded again, destroying the visions that lurked behind his eyes - replacing them with spotty visions of pain. The dark moment passed, and he was filled with laughter - the whole damned thing was so out-of-context amusing. Not funny, Jarron! his reason argued, but that didn't stop the shuddery laughter exploding from his lips. Jarron tried to shake his head to clear it, then realised he could barely move.
Amusement fled - and panic took its place. His pulse began to pound, and his breath came in quick, cold-tortured gasps. Get out! He looked at the corpse - seeing it now for what it was. He jerked away - appalled at how the weighty grip of the ice slowed him down. The crackle of his movements was loud in his ears - even louder than the screaming howl that still filled the room.
Jarron tried to move his feet - but his shoes were iced to the floor. He pounded his pants legs to crack the surface, then yanked his feet out of his shoes. For just a moment he was free - unanchored by the gripping ice.
In the next instant he was captured in the grasp of the arctic wind. It stole his breath away, in a single chilling gasp, then sent his body following after. In a sudden thrust of movement, Jarron was flung across the floor - to land on a hundred jagged shards of upturned ice. The last thing he remembered was the sight of his blood leaking freely across the glacial mat - the colour so at odds with the blue-white crust on which he lay. Blood that pulsed, and leaked, and froze.
He wondered why the sight was so familiar.
***
Chapter Five
Andy located Jarron on the video, just as Jarron yanked his legs free of the ice. A second later, he saw him flung violently across the room. "Holy shit!" Andy gasped.
He picked up the phone. "He went back!" he yelled to Kris. "The fuckin' idiot went back!" He could hear the note of hysteria in his own voice, and hoped it'd induce a trace of caution in his partner. "For crissakes, Kris," he bellowed. "Wait for me! Whatever you do, don't go in there alone!" Andy turned around, and raced out of the room.
*
When Nick entered the room, he was stunned. At first, he just didn't get it. Now that the lights were on, he was stunned by how much it had all changed. In a daze of unreality, his mind equated the ice and wind with some elaborate display, like the new zoo enclosures that emulated real-life savannahs and jungles. These were Vikings, and snow and ice had been part of their habitat.
Snow and ice - but not blood.
The chilling winds were dying out. Ice storms had evolved into gentle snows. Jarron was buried now - immersed in a powdery coating of snow. Nick couldn't know that this was how it had been, a thousand years before. The man frozen in ice; his remains smothered in a snowy blanket.
The snow was all Nick saw - at first. The air was warming, and the fluffy clots of clumping snow only stuck to his skin for a moment, before melting into artificial raindrops. The pooled blood was melting, too - a river of it running atop a miniature glacier, to puddle at his feet. His mind clicked in - and Nick realised what he was seeing. "Jesus Christ!" he gasped. Hesitantly at first, then a little desperately, Nick began to dig at the mini mountain of snow.
Jarron was lying there in the ice. His skin was blue, and there were icicles clinging to his lips, his brows.
*
Through his darkness, Jarron could hear them coming. Coming back for more. To inflict more suffering. More blood.
Shame. Degradation. Disgrace.
Feed me to your gods - so they can wallow in my blood.
But your gods are pigs. Pigs rooting at my body - a negligible sacrifice for fools and cowards.
The anger built inside, became a small inferno that warmed his fury, but failed to reach his heart. Failed to reach limbs that were frozen to the floor.
Jarron's internal vision was a confused turmoil of images. In that moment, his memory seemed to stretch back a thousand years. Always, though, there was the ice. The cold.
It was Nick's touch that told him the truth: his anger - his hate - the fury that drove him - were not his own.
*
Kris was no fool. Not many situations would affect Andy that way. He hadn't imagined the hysteria in the other man's voice.
But it wasn't until he peered cautiously through the doorway that he fully understood. As he stumbled into the room, his usual imperturbability was gone. No one could confront a tonne of snow and ice like this without being affected. For the moment, Kris could only stare, trying to come to terms with it.
It was the sound of Nick's panicky panting, and the scraping of his fingers on the ice that woke Kris out of his reverie. Then, he looked down, and saw a river of red cutting through the miniature glacier.
Andy was still on the phone, yelling as he tore through the building. The squawking tinny notes were cut short as Kris said brusquely, "Get an ambulance, paramedics - somebody! Then call Gervois, and make sure he has help standing by -"
*
The warmth of a human hand on his frozen skin seemed to burn, and Jarron wondered if that was what it had been like for that other - the one whose skin had disintegrated beneath his fingers.
When his lids unfroze enough so he could lift them, Nick was there, rubbing his arms to warm them. Then he began to wish Nick had left him cold - with the return of feeling came the gut-crunching pain.
Jarron tried to tell him to leave him alone - to let him sleep in the cold, where nothing could hurt him any more. Someone had something against his middle now - and the press of it made him feel like he'd been skewered. When he was thawed enough, he tried to push those helpful hands away, but he couldn't make his arms work the way he wanted.
Then they were hauling him out of there, and Jarron's body temperature shot up - sending every nerve ending screaming in agony. For a few seconds, the pain cleared his head - enough, anyway, for him to realise he was alive - and wanted to stay that way. He was swept with a sense of relief. Much longer in there, and the cold would have been with him forever.
Just as it had for the sacrificial victim they'd left behind.
*
"Hold it there, Nick!" Kris told him, pressing Nick's hand into place against Jarron's gaping wound. "Keep the pressure on. I'm gonna see if the ambulance is here -"
Nick looked at him blankly.
Shock, Kris thought.
"Nick, snap out of it!" he said roughly. He watched for a second, to make sure Nick was doing it, then assured him, "I'll be right back." Kris tore down the hall.
*
The snow - the ice. So much of it. He remembered a time when they had farmed this place - grown millet and stored it under shelter. When the layers of fat on their bodies had offered some insulation from the endless cold. When there wasn't a need to challenge the seas, or ravage the lands of others. When survival hadn't meant glorifying theft and assault, in the name of gods who had no honour.
It seemed to him there had once been other ways to spend the day. Things beyond survival and hunger, frozen lungs and frost-bitten limbs.
The children were dying. It was enough to justify this sacrifice. He refused to make it one of their own. It was why he had selected this man, who wasn't of their clan.
But, the truth was, there was too little to eat. Certainly not enough to feed the foreigner. Once again it struck him - how thin the line was: between noble, and ignoble. Between honour, and what reality honour would support.
The man would have died anyway. He was unaccustomed to the ways of survival here, and he would have been frozen in the ice before many days had passed. At least this way, his death would have some meaning.
It was reason enough. Honourable enough to satisfy his qualm at sacrificing a guest. Perhaps even honourable enough to appeal to a god, who'd allowed his people to suffer for much too long…
*
Wake up, Jarron!
No. Awake was synonymous with pain. Jarron preferred to sink further into his would-be slumber.
But the voice was insistent - trying to warn him. Wake up -
Jarron slowly opened his eyes. He was staring into the face of a stranger. All hard lines and anger. No weakness. No compassion.
It's not a stranger, he told himself. It's Nick.
Jarron felt as though he was still caught in some weird transitional zone. This was Nicholas Acklin, but it was as though he'd never seen him before. Hadn't looked at him in so long that he was no longer sure the image stored in his brain related to the man before him.
Like the image in your mirror versus your image in a photograph. So very different.
Then, the man moved, and something in his facial structure made Jarron even more confused.
It's not Nick - it's someone else. His confusion began to give way to dread - and then to mute terror.
Because this wasn't Nick - and yet he recognised him, too.
Jarron's eyes met Nick's. His eyes were bluer than Jarron had ever realised. An arctic blue that chilled the blood in Jarron's veins. Nick said something, and the words were guttural; meaningless to untutored ears. But his intent was clear. He didn't like the task he was about to undertake, but he wouldn't let that sway him.
Nick lifted one hand, staring at the blood staining his fingers. He said something then, and from Jarron's dazed viewpoint, it sounded oddly poetic. Then he looked at Jarron's blood flowing freely once more and grunted in satisfaction.
This time, he wouldn't have to do the killing himself.
Nick lifted him up, and headed back into the room. Jarron was numb - and as mute as he'd been a millennium before.
Fight it, Jarron! But he couldn't - he was too weak, and there was a sluggishness now that seemed to encompass everything: darkening his vision, clogging his ears, stilling his tongue.
Die with dignity, Jarron.
I don't want to die! He pressed a hand against his middle in a feeble attempt to staunch his own blood.
Nick carried him easily across the slippery ice. It seemed to take little effort, even though there was an ice storm building, and the air was getting too thick and frozen to breathe. Jarron realised he was no more burden than many of the other carcasses the man had hauled through these wastelands: carcasses of caribou and seal; polar bear and walrus. Nick was sure-footed as he carried out his unwelcome task.
Jarron could see the outline of his headgear now: the horned helmet gave the scene a kind of ritualistic honour. He hadn't been with these people long, but he already realised that only the holy men - the priests - wore the horned helmets.
It should have warned me, he thought.
They were still moving, but the trek was becoming more difficult. It was uphill now, and there were deep crevasses in the ice. An unwary step in this jagged terrain could end it for them both.
The one called Nick trudged on, head bowed against the elements - or in obeisance to his gods. In all these centuries, Jarron had never been able to decide which took precedent - but he had a feeling this one was too much of a realist to bow in submission, even though he wore the garb of priest.
The crevasse loomed. Jarron could see the sheer drop - the painfully cold blue and white disappearing in a depth of indigo. Jarron already knew how it would go: slit his throat, sever his head, send him down into the iceclad horror of Viking Hel.
But as the man extended his arms, he saw they were already coated in blood. His eyes were almost sad as he stared unblinking at his victim. He spoke once more, his words a guttural vibration that rattled deep in Jarron's brain. Then, with thunder pounding in their ears, and ice pelting them from above, the priest released his grip and let Jarron plummet.
It was a long way to the bottom. The last thing Jarron remembered was a crash like glass, as he hit. It shook some sense into him and he realised it was the display case - its newly restored cover shattered from the force of his fall.
He had the sudden sensation he wasn't alone. In his anguish, he thought only of rescue. He forced open his eyes.
He wasn't alone. He was face-to-face with the freeze-dried features of a millennium-old corpse.
*
"You're going the wrong way!" Andy yelled. There was Nick, with Jarron in his arms, but he was carrying him in the wrong direction. Andy started out, across the slippery ice, but the wind caught him and knocked him back against the wall.
Nick paused, and turned to look at him then. Andy sucked in a breath, and promptly wished he hadn't. Frozen air wasn't meant to be inhaled in great gasps.
It wasn't Nick. Andy cursed himself for being fanciful. The figure balanced easily on a small rise seemed almost impervious to the wind. He stood there, glaring, while Jarron's blood coated them both.
"Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Andy muttered, appalled.
The man carried on. Andy watched helplessly while he moved through the icy wilderness. Watched as he stopped on a small knoll.
The man extended his arms, and in that moment, Andy was no longer within the confines of the city museum. He was somewhere in a rugged land - a land eclipsed in cold, where howling winds and thunderous echoes danced along stiffened ice. Where softer snow had been whipped into moguls, then frozen firmly into mini mountains.
The figure, standing now upon one such rise, was as much a part of this environ as the hard-packed snow. He stood there boldly, a monument to the harsh land, while his cape flapped and his helmet rocked in the howling wind.
The horned helmet - that idiosyncratic ornament so associated with the North - should have looked foolish here. Bizarre and unwieldy, it should have made the wearer look absurd. But there was nothing foolish in either the stature nor the bearing of the man who stood there so stalwartly. There was too much intrinsic dignity; too much undeterrable purpose. Whatever decision had prompted his actions had not been arrived at lightly.
The man extended his arms. He mumbled some words, but Andy could hear them. They rumbled in his ears like thunder.
The man lifted Jarron higher, and in that brief moment Andy knew that Jarron was awake. Awake and seeing it all.
Andy was still pinned in place by the force of the wind. He could only stare in squinty-eyed horror as the man withdrew his arms. The thud and crash of Jarron's body seemed to echo in the room - resounding far beyond the limits of human hearing.
The helmeted man closed his eyes as though in pain. When he turned away, to trudge back across the rough terrain, he did so with bent shoulders and bowed head. Andy lost sight of him, as grey clouds swirled thickly through the room.
Almost at once, the wind ceased, and in the sudden silence, the slipping and sliding of Andy's feet on the ice seemed abnormally loud. Shaking, he stumbled, slid and crawled over to where he'd seen Jarron fall.
*
Kris ran alongside the paramedics as they raced up the front steps. "He's lost a lot of blood," he warned them.
They were in the entryway when Nick came down the stairs. He was covered with blood, and his expression was dark. For a moment, Kris thought it might be too late. "Nick!" he asked worriedly. "How's Jarron?"
But Nick didn't seem to hear him. It was then Kris noticed how strangely he was walking - trudging almost, as though heavily burdened. Nick ignored him - ignored the paramedics, and kept on walking.
Whatever had happened, it was obvious that Nick needed a helping hand, but now was not the time. Not when Jarron was bleeding to death upstairs. Kris turned away, and continued up the steps.
One of Andy's men tried to stop Nick at the door. Kris was halfway up the stairs when he saw Nick pick up the man, and fling him far across the floor. "What the -" Kris exclaimed. He ushered the paramedics on their way, then went slowly back down the steps.
He was just in time to see Nicholas Acklin, who'd never been trained in any of the martial arts, fling, bash, and roll half a dozen well-trained ISO agents down the front steps.
Then just keep walking. Impervious to the ruckus he'd left behind.
Shock. Whatever Nick's problem was, it was going to get him shot if he didn't snap out of it. Kris ran down the steps and lunged for Nick, sending him rolling down to the ground.
But when Kris yanked Nick to his feet - he suddenly found himself somewhere else. There was a disjointed unreality to it as Kris tuned into Nick's reality. Tuned into ice and cold and wind that pelted him with hard, hail-like chunks.
Kris stood there stunned, and for a few seconds, thought Nick recognised him. Nick spoke, and the words were garbled - guttural. It took a moment for Kris to understand - to realise Nick was speaking some odd form of Norwegian.
When Kris failed to respond, Nick grew frustrated. His eyes narrowed and some of his despair translated into anger. Anger that all this should be for naught. A sacrifice - a sin - that nobody cared about - that had done no one any good save to rob him of his peace. Nick grabbed Kris roughly, and lifted him above his head.
A shot rang out. Kris felt Nick jerk, but then it was all a whirling confusion as Nick flung him far out across the driveway. When he landed, it took Kris a moment to orient himself - to go from wintry day to summery night - from air to crusty tarseal. By the time Kris was himself once more, Nick was on his knees.
And the jerk with the gun was at Nick's side - the gun pressed hard against Nick's head.
But this was still the twilight zone Nick. The one who had no idea what the twenty-first century was like. No idea what constituted a weapon in this day and age.
Guns. He won't know about guns. Won't know what that small piece of metal can do to him.
Then Kris remembered how Nick had jerked. Maybe he does know, Kris thought worriedly.
Nick's muscles were tensing. He was going to try to shake off this marauder, just as he had the others.
And the man would blow Nick's head off.
Kris didn't wait. He ploughed into the ISO man, and pounded the gun out of his hands. The extra punch, that flattened him, was for Nick. "Thanks for the help," Kris said sarcastically, rubbing his fist.
"Nick -" he said, turning - anxious to see how badly he was hurt.
No Nick.
Ignoring the moans and groans behind him, Kris went over and rummaged in the agent's pockets, until he found a small flashlight. He shone it over the ground - and discovered what he'd been afraid to find: blood. Not smears, that might have been from Nick's clothing - drops. A lot of them.
He turned to one of the other agents, who was pushing himself to his feet. "Did you see where he went?"
The man pinched his bleeding nose with one hand, and pulled out his gun with the other. "If I had," he said nasally, "he wouldn't 'uv left." He pointed the gun at Kris. "Going anywhere?" he asked.
Kris ignored him. Squinting, he scanned the perimeter of the parking lot, searching for some sign of movement.
"Nick!" he bellowed. In that moment, he guessed that a different name, from a different reality, might well have summoned a response.
Kris Chandler just had no idea what it was.
*
Kris raced up the stairs two and three at a time.
The paramedics were busy with Jarron. Kris took one look, and paled. "Andy Wakeman?" he managed to get out.
"The other guy?"
Kris nodded.
"He's in the Men's, trying to thaw out his hands. Thirty minutes warm - not hot. Bring him to the hospital when you're finished." The paramedic turned away.
Andy was crouched by the basin, head resting on his arm while he kept his hands submerged. He was nearly as bloody as Nick had been. It hadn't been easy extricating Jarron. Andy looked up wearily as Kris entered. "He still alive?"
Kris nodded. "Yeah." He went out and came back with a chair. "Have a seat."
He didn't want to talk about Jarron. Correction: he wanted to talk about everything but Jarron. "I beat up one of your agents," Kris began.
Andy grunted.
"We need to find Nick."
"If I do, I'll have to arrest him," Andy said grimly. "Attempted murder."
Kris looked stunned. "Jarron?" he asked.
Andy nodded. "Threw him into a hole. Thought it was an ice crevasse, but tossed him in anyway. Nice guy," he added sarcastically.
"It's not Nick."
Andy was quiet for a moment. "I didn't think so. Don't take this wrong, but I saw the ice crevasse, too."
"Don't let it bother you. I just got back from the frozen tundra myself."
Andy squirmed and scrunched up his face.
"What's wrong?"
"My forehead itches. Right over my left eyebrow. No - you dumbass - my left."
"I'd like to pass the time, but we have to move on the 'Nick' issue," Kris said anxiously.
"D'you think he's dangerous?" Andy asked.
"I think he's shot," Kris explained. "One of yours."
Andy's eyes widened. "How bad?"
"I don't know. He's bleeding. Plus, he's not exactly inconspicuous right now."
"I'll come with you -"
Kris' eyes narrowed to a squint. "To arrest him?" he asked suspiciously.
"You out of your mind? If I were gonna arrest anyone it'd be you."
Andy started to pull his hands out of the water. Kris stopped him. "They told me thirty minutes."
"Margin for error -"
"Uh-uh."
"You can take some men - that's if you didn't beat 'em all up."
"I didn't. But Nick did. Half of 'em, anyway." He stood up and patted Andy on the shoulder. "See ya at the hospital."
"Kris?"
Kris turned, one hand on the door handle. "Speak."
"Be careful. That damned tundra is a lot more lethal than it looks."
Kris grinned, and ran out the door.
*
He'd had to cover his trail before, so the polar bear wouldn't hunt him down. It seemed so long ago, and his memories were so dim. The important thing now was to keep moving. The beast would be on his track as soon as it scented the blood.
His clothes were covered with it. The smell stuck in his nostrils - in itself a punishment. He shouldn't be able to smell the blood in the chill wind. The cold should have frozen the fluid just as it froze everything else. This was justice, then. That the scent of his crime should stay with him. To taunt him. To ignoble him further.
A spasm of pain knotted his side, and he bent, gasping - one hand clasping his middle. He forced himself to relax; forced the muscles to unknot, and the pain to ease. His hand came away wet; a dark wetness that was warm and sticky. It was then he realised that some of the blood he had scented was his.
With clenched teeth, he probed the spot. It was a hole - no, two holes. One in front, another in back. He was leaking sluggishly from both.
A spear? A slow death, sent by the gods to punish him? Or was this, perhaps, a chance to prove himself once more?
Fresh blood would mean fresh meat to the carnivores lurking in the wilderness. This was his quest, then: to evade the hunter and find his way home. With one last look at the distant horizon, he stumbled forward. There were many empty steps ahead before he neared home. Many treacherous predators to evade. Many painful paces to take before he found oblivion - and peace.
*
Andy's hands were bandaged when Kris turned up at the hospital. To the question in his eyes Kris replied, "No luck - yet." His face was expressionless, but Andy could read the frustration in his voice.
"I'm thinking you need help."
"I'm thinking you're right," Kris admitted with a sigh. "Maybe some of that high tech stuff Robart's so proud of."
"Consider it done."
Kris hesitated, then asked, "How's Jar?"
"Not good. Gervois is really pissed. You'd think I threw him into that hole."
"How're you gonna cover this?"
"I'm wondering whether we should," Andy said quietly. "There's no way Jarron can have any kind of life with shit like this going on. Maybe they can find a way to help him."
"Maybe. Or use him."
Andy sighed. "I know. That's the part that worries me, too." He looked depressed. "Like I said, he's not doing well, Kris. Worrying might be a waste of time." He stood up, determined to put it out of his mind. "Let's find Nick."
Kris nodded. "First I'm going to buy us a quick breakfast. Walrus steak and seal soup okay?"
"Better 'n the cow hide they usually serve." He trailed Kris tiredly down the hall.
*
It was hot now and he was glad. As he'd weakened, the ice had begun to invade his limbs. It took a while for him to realise that the heat had begun within. That the burning began in his belly, and was spreading through him.
It was the flame of sickness. His body was trying to best the beast; to wrestle the evil out of him. If it hadn't made his head pound with every step, he would have been glad for the comfort - the heated solace that reminded him of his home fires.
His eyes scanned the distance, seeing only the endless reaches of ice, and for the first time, his determination faltered. It was so far, and he had so little strength left.
The ice storm had ceased for the moment, but the endless journey remained before him. That had been the purpose of it, then. Not the chance to survive, and repent, but a slow death upon the ice.
Some part of him rejected it, just as his mind frequently rejected the gods he worshipped. There was as little honour in this as in casting a friendly stranger into a crevasse. He would be twice doomed to an empty afterlife. No Valhalla for him.
He could have sobbed with frustration. All he wanted in this moment was to have a last chance for redemption. To sacrifice himself, if need be, in order to gain some honour back. A sacrificial gift in order to garner some goodwill. To die with pride.
He stood bent, one arm clenched to his side, and scanned the landscape. It was then he saw it, and it fed his hopes.
A fire burned, unattended, along the shore. A shore that should have been thickly sealed with ice, but was miraculously free of the white masses that would have bound him to shore. At its edge - its prow facing proudly to the open sea - was a small boat.
A ship, a fire, and the open sea. One last sacrifice to satisfy honour. He mumbled a prayer to the gods he'd thought were toying with him.
But, a knowledge of Loki's pranks made him keep his eyes firmly fixed on his goal, as he moved resolutely in that direction.
*
"What happened to you?" Dave Chavez asked, looking at the bandages on Andy's hands. "Burn yourself?"
They'd climbed into the helicopter before Andy answered. "Wrong element. Frostbite," he said casually.
"This have anything to do with endophytes?"
Andy smiled. "Only distantly."
They were in the air before Dave spoke to them again. "Heard a rumour," he said through the headphones, "about a ruckus at the museum. Someone pounded our people last night. Granted, most of 'em were new, but they were trained." He twisted quickly to look directly, and a little suspiciously, at Kris. "Made me wonder."
"Hey, don't look at me," Kris told him. "I was nearly an innocent bystander."
"He only beat up one of 'em," Andy explained. "Besides, we're on the track of the felon now."
"Anybody I know?"
"Yep," Andy told him. "When he's not masquerading as a Norseman, he goes by the name of 'Acklin'."
The helicopter took an unexpected dip.
*
It was the time she liked the city best - dawn barely cracked, and all the commuters still firmly in their beds. The dull background hum of heat pumps and industrial traffic subdued enough to let her hear the splashing cycle of the waves.
This was, ostensibly, her morning jog, but she was only prepared to run if someone chased her. There was a purpose to her movements - an effort to keep them casual. As much as her feet itched to keep pace with the beating of her heart, she denied her response, and kept her steps irregular. Out of pace, out of sync.
You're not a machine, Gunter. Don't act like one.
The near-quiet helped. Reminded her there were other things besides haste and hustle. Non-mechanistic things that didn't involve watching the clock. Out here, with only a flock of scavenging seagulls for company, she could force herself to relax. No feet would be splashing in the surf for another three or four hours.
Someone - maybe several someones - had spent the night here. It wasn't too long ago, either, because they'd left a fire burning. She watched, a little warily, for people behind the concrete bulwarks as she walked hurriedly past. She felt a little resentful that someone had intruded on her stretch of beach enough to make her wary. Intruded enough to destroy her peaceful morning walk.
Her resentment increased when she saw a figure in the distance. When the man stumbled, and nearly fell, she assumed he was some drunk back from a night's revelry. He lurched to a halt, then bent over, grabbing his side. Even at this distance, he looked sick.
Sick from too much of a good thing, she decided derisively, then berated herself for her cynicism. She was punching in the emergency number on her cellphone, when she hesitated. Calling in false alarms could be a serious offence. The man didn't exactly look like he wanted help, anyway.
Curious now, Alys Erin Gunter glanced distractedly at her absent Timex, then sat down on the sand to watch.
*
"Anything else happen last night, that I should know about?"
"I thought the ISO had a strict Three Monkey Policy," Kris complained.
It took a moment, then Andy told him, "Nope. Only the 'hear-no-evil' bit. Means I'm not gonna listen to you any more."
Dave was chuckling in the front. It came through the headphones as breathy gasps interspersed with static. "You, Kris, Nick. Where was Jarron when all this was going on?"
The humour faded from Andy's voice. "You don't want to know. He's back in the hospital."
Dave frowned. "How bad?"
"Bad enough."
Dave gave a low whistle. Andy had a gift for understatement. That meant Jarron was none too good. Dave decided to change the subject. "What's all this gear for?" He thumbed over his shoulder to the boxes he'd loaded before their arrival. Survival and rescue gear, first aid equipment. "Where d'you expect the city boy to be? Climbing Mount Everest?"
Andy sighed. "You'd be amazed."
*
He was methodical - and so determined. He trudged through the sand, collecting small bits of driftwood. From time to time he'd place a piece - almost reverently, it seemed from this distance - upon the fire to keep it blazing. The remainder he stacked, just as carefully, into the small boat that was tethered to the jetty.
She didn't know at what point it went from being strange to interesting. Every once in a while he'd stop, and nearly double up, but she no longer let it bother her. She'd felt like that herself a few times.
It must be his boat. She didn't know what the wood was for, but maybe it was for some new way of fishing. She glanced at the brightening sky. The timing was right, anyway. Wasn't this when the fish were supposed to run?
It wasn't until he patiently held some of the wood into the flames that she began to wonder once more. He came away with a burning branch, and headed for the boat. It was obvious what he was doing now - just another vandal, like the hundreds that tagged, thrashed, and burned stuff around town.
"Stop!" she yelled at him, but she doubted he'd make much sense of it at this distance. She ran toward him, waving her phone. "I called the police!" she lied. Some part of her still wanted to offer him a chance to do the right thing. "Put it down!"
She wasn't worried that he'd come after her. The way he was stumbling around, she was surprised he wasn't still passed out drunk somewhere. She ran his way, brandishing her phone like a weapon. "They're on their way!" she yelled again.
He looked at her - seeing her for the first time. She was close enough now to see the agony in his face as he stumbled, and went down on his knees. To see the rusty brown covering his clothes, overladen with the rich red oozing out his front. She could also see the desperation in his look as the branch landed on the sand, and nearly went out.
*
She'd come. At first, unworthily, he'd thought this was more of the torture: that the gods had sent him a vision, to taunt his last moments. But as he saw the icy snow fly at her heels - saw her running toward him, yelling - he realised this was his final boon. The gods had magically whisked her here, to farewell his final journey. One last touch, one last word, to set him on his way. He reached out his hand, tears in his eyes. "Sigrid!" he gasped.
*
He was unshaven, and there was anguish in his face. He peered at her with eyes that were tormented, and wet with emotion. He muttered something to her in a voice she couldn't understand, and reached out a hand - a hand that was coated in sticky blood and sand.
Don't touch the blood, Lys. Never touch anyone's blood. It was society's lesson: the one that had been drummed into her head for years.
But it was obvious the man needed help. He had his hand outstretched, almost pleadingly. She bypassed his hand, and grabbed his arm.
And was instantly lost, somewhere in a frozen wasteland. Lys jerked upright, shocked - unable to come to terms with the illusion. The sudden onslaught of cold in her bronchial tubes burned like fire.
I'm hallucinating -
But she wasn't hallucinating the choking, rasping irritation in her throat and lungs - that made her gasp and gag. Wasn't imagining the slippery movements of her feet as she fought to keep her balance.
Somehow, their roles had just become horribly reversed. A moment before, she'd been offering help. Now, terrified, she clung to the man's arm in desperation - afraid to let go. She shivered with cold, with reaction. He reacted, too - by pulling her down, against his chest, to shelter her from the cold.
He spoke to her then, whispering against her ear. The language was unfamiliar, but the tone was not. She knew instinctively that he was speaking words of love, of passion.
Words that had no place between strangers on what should have been a sunlit beach. Words that had even less place in this frozen hell.
He retrieved his fiery brand, and pushed himself to his feet. Then, in a last burst of strength, he pulled her up beside him. The hand that held the burning branch gestured, and she saw the boat through his eyes now. This wasn't some little rowboat, waiting for a lone fisherman. This was a longboat, with serpentine front and rear - bravely challenging the icy waves. At its centre, he'd built a pyre, and some instinct told her what it was - a funeral pyre. A final journey, in blood and fire, to end his inner anguish.
"No!" she told him. She clung to his arm, reluctant to release him. Terrified of being abandoned in this Arctic desert; terrified of finding herself alone. Unwilling to release him to a death that could only be agonising. She tried to pull him back, away from the water.
*
He should have known how it would be. He would have been the same, had he been watching her demise. Perhaps the gods were taunting him after all.
He had to make her understand. Had to make her know that he loved her, but would not be worthy of her love unless he did this. The gods might yet be satisfied with the ignoble sacrifice lying in that distant crevasse, but he could never be. And, until it was put right, and some price had been paid, he would never rest.
He spoke to her again, of their love, and the price of honour. Of the way he would miss the warmth of her against him in the long nights. Of the life that had sprung into being between them, and must be brought to fruition. He spoke swiftly of the sacrifice - made in dishonour, but with an honourable cause - for the children: for their child, that it might survive the days to come.
*
He was speaking to her again, but the odd words were no more strange than the world in which they stood. His voice was hoarse from the cold, or from the pain, and at times she had to strain to listen. Somehow, it was important that she listen - that she find meaning in what he was trying to tell her.
Body language explained what words could not. The way his eyes crinkled, with warmth and humour, as they gazed into hers. The anger that made his expression seem as rock hard as the ice on which they stood. The despair of his failure - the nobility of his final quest. Here - in a blue-white nothingness bordered by water and ice - she was now holding him upright, even as he fought to shield her from the force of the wind.
But the worst of it was his sadness, as he tried to console her. It triggered a well of pathos deep inside that she hadn't even known was there. Her eyes began to tear again, but it wasn't the cold affecting them now. The salty drops overflowed and clung, crystalline, to her cheeks. A feeling of desolation seeped into her spirit, that had nothing to do with the wasteland into which they'd been dropped. "Don't go," she whispered.
*
He looked at her, a little sadly, then pulled her, once again, into his arms. Crooning something into her ear, he offered her comfort, then lowered his lips to hers. It was the taste of him that she was to carry with her for eternity. He detached her hands, and gave her a gentle push away. Then, he turned, and headed for his ship.
*
She stood there, stunned; unable to make sense of the sun in her eyes or the sand beneath her feet. She stared at him - watched as he released the rope, gathered up the oars and began to row. He'd balanced his bit of fire in the bow.
Of course, she thought, he'll wait until he's far at sea before he starts the blaze. For a moment she was tempted to fling herself into the sea - to follow him into the watery depths.
I can't, she mourned. The child. His honour lay in death. Hers lay in life.
Detachedly, she stared at the phone that lay upon the sand. She studied it in confusion, unable to decide what it was. It took maybe five minutes longer before her numbed mind came to grips with her numbed body. Before her non-existent foetus ceased to occupy her thoughts. Before the pain of re-warmed limbs snapped her back to life.
And in that moment, she knew she couldn't let him die. Not for honour. Not for anything.
She picked up the phone and rang for the police.
***
Chapter Six
"A call just came into the police," Dave told them. "Paul says they're treating it as a joke: something about a man rowing out to sea, to set his boat on fire. That sound like our man?" he asked doubtfully.
"Viking funeral," Kris told Andy brusquely.
"Shit!" Andy said. "That's gotta be him. Step on it, Dave," he urged. "We've gotta catch him before he - quite literally - burns all his boats -"
*
The ocean stretched before him - aqueous desolation nearly as rugged as the crusted ice shelves. Bits of broken ice flotsam nudged his small ship; the rigidly thick pieces breaking against each other, then clogging up the crystallising water like chunky soup. From time to time, some of the ice would jump slightly, as it was rocked by creatures within the depths. Walruses, whales, sharks - they would all be waiting for him below.
He had no wish to be devoured. Almost automatically, he lighted another piece of wood, and knocked the fading flare into the sea. He had hoped, that when the time came for the burning, he would be too far gone to suffer long.
His mind drifted back a dozen years, to a time when he'd burned his hand in the dying coals. It had been a desperate moment, because the fire could not be allowed to go out. It was before he'd developed the foresight that guided him now - and he was ill-prepared for the darkness and cold that faced him. In his desperation, he'd thrown twigs and fat desperately onto the coals, and stirred it with his fingers. The fat had clung to his digits, and his fingers were soon a blazing torch, that sent him screaming into the snow.
He stared at the fire he'd just rekindled, and wondered whether he'd have the courage to endure the pain. You don't have to live with it, he reminded himself - merely die with it.
Either way, it would end in the sea. Either he'd burn, and sink as one more piece of charred timber, or he'd leap overboard, into the icy water. With luck, the cold would eat his warmth almost instantly - before he could be eaten by toothsome jaws. With luck, his last memory - the one that would sustain him into eternity - would be of his Sigrid, rather than flesh-charred memories of his own death.
*
Alys watched. He'd rowed out a long way, which surprised her. She hadn't thought he'd have the strength. She wondered if she should have headed out after him - whether she'd really done her best by expecting the police to follow through on this. Nervously, her eyes shifted up and down the beach, searching for another boat to steal. If the police didn't come, she'd need to act.
Why? He's just a stranger.
No, he's not. She looked down at his blood staining her front. He'd shaken her out of her complacency, and he needed help. He'd made her care.
And that, to her way of thinking, was good. You weren't supposed to care about other people, except objectively. There were just too many of them, and it crowded your thinking; left you open to too much rejection and hurt. It was why society trained you to avert your eyes in crowds - to protect yourself. Hide.
She didn't know what had happened - how she'd suddenly been transported thousands of miles away. It was a kind of miracle, in a world where most miracles were technological. Maybe this was technological, too, but she didn't think so.
She glanced his way again nervously, just to assure herself he was still afloat. Anxiously, she scanned the skies, searching for some sign that the police, or the Coast Guard, were going to help.
This time, when she looked, a plume of smoke rose into the air. "Oh my God!" He was going to do it - he was actually going to do it. For a moment the image of his face - strong yet loving - superimposed itself on her vision.
She didn't think any more. Alys Erin Gunter ran into the water, and began a desperate crawl toward the horizon.
*
"Smoke!" Andy shouted.
Dave flinched as the sound pounded through his headphones.
"Over there!" Andy rapped heavily on Dave's shoulder and pointed off to the west. "See it?!"
Dave nodded, and aimed for the distant flare.
*
The boat was burning quickly. I should have expected that, he thought. He'd always made an excuse to turn away, at these funereal rituals: to somehow detach himself from the blend of burnt wood and charred flesh. He'd found it distasteful, and slightly abhorrent. Which made the means of his own death almost laughable.
He was sure the gods were finding it a fine jest.
The fire was repellent. He was so hot that he was already burning alive, and the flames had yet to touch him. His head was spinning, and he was becoming confused - sometimes losing track of where he was and why he needed to do this. The sky kept jumping, making him flinch. Going from grey, low-hanging cloudiness, to eye-burning blues and bright puffy clouds.
The sea was playing games with him, too. Instead of the nearly iced-in, leaden smoothness onto which he'd launched his boat, there were moments with rich blue, stomach-churning waves.
As his fever grew, he gazed at the water with longing, but he wouldn't let himself acquiesce. There was a reason for the flames, and why they needed to touch him. Something to do with purification. With atonement.
The flames were coming. With a shift of the wind, smoke ate at his eyes and filled his lungs. Nick coughed and choked, then doubled up with the agony of it. You're about to lose it, Nick, he thought. His world was narrowing, and growing dark. More than the smoke was obscuring the bright blues of the morning sky.
I'm so damn tired, he thought, shuddering in the hot sun. Why am I so tired?
He was just closing his eyes to rest when a shrill scream jerked him awake.
*
It came at her out of nowhere. She never saw it: no fin, no splash of water, no churning of whitewashed foam. And, at first, she had no idea what it was.
It hit her, hard. Ploughed into her roughly - tossing her aloft - nearly airborne.
Her mind couldn't accept it. It tried to tell her it was a rogue wave, a chunk of wood caught in the current, a piece of wave-flung refuse. But deep down she knew what it was. Because humans live with monsters. And those they don't see, and can't experience, they invent.
When the second bump came, Lys had no trouble inventing her terror. No trouble visualising what was about to happen. The grey ghost in the water beneath her was more horrifying than any movie or book or vision of her imaginings.
Because this one was real. And our most retching, repugnant, bowel-wrenching repulsion lies in the image of ourselves being torn apart - and consumed.
The blood. It's the blood.
Like the centre page on a pop-up book, the thought sprang into her head. She'd still been half dazed when she'd embarked on her swim. She hadn't stopped to worry about bloodstained clothes.
I might as well have been wearing a sign saying, "Eat me."
She stripped off the shirt, and tossed it as hard as she could across the surface. But it hadn't even fully left her hand when the shark snatched it from her grip, tugging the bloodied clothing down into the depths.
Alys screamed again.
*
Stop it! he thought. The neighbours - having another go at each other.
The scream came again, and this time, he couldn't tune it out. It was a piercing cry of terror, and Nick turned to look.
It was a woman, in the water. There was something in the water with her, and she knew it. Something drawn by the vibration of her, swimming tiredly through the choppy waves.
It was coming for her. Nick grabbed the oars and began to awkwardly guide his sinking, burning boat in her direction. Odds are neither one of us stands a chance, he thought.
He glanced her way, to make sure she was still afloat. At that moment, she lifted her head and looked at him - her eyes meeting his.
And suddenly Nick remembered. All of it. His head cleared, and he knew why she'd come. Because that shared moment of intimacy had given each of them a value more than mere strangers - and she couldn't bare to watch him die.
Any more than he could her.
Nick didn't hesitate any longer. The boat had too much drag now, and he knew there'd never be time. He looked down at the blood coating him.
Odds are the shark'll come for me, now.
He didn't let it stop him. Grabbing an oar as a weapon, he stood up, and launched himself into the sea.
*
Kris had the side door open, and was balancing on the struts. He was staring, in a kind of dim horror, down at a patch of blue water.
Andy slid down beside him. "He's over there," he said pointedly.
"What's the biggest gun you have?" Kris asked.
"That's one way of putting him out of his misery," Andy retorted. "We've got to do this fast," Andy went on. "Boat's gonna sink any minute."
"He's not alone," Kris muttered.
Andy's eyes had been glued to the burning boat. Now, he saw a second figure bobbing on the sea. He seemed to be in some kind of distress. "We may have to pick up that guy first," he said. He spoke into the mike. "Dave, there's a swimmer in distress. Can we pick him up first?"
Kris never lifted his eyes from the water. His voice was shaking. "If you've got that gun, now would be a good time -"
"What is it with you and guns -"
Kris cut him off, fury in his eyes. "Fuck it all, Andy! Take a look at the fuckin' water!"
Andy looked where he was pointing and blanched. "Holy shittin' fuckin' hell! Dave, we've got sharks! Big ones -" He scrambled back up and hunted in the boxes. "Where's a fuckin' flare gun when you need it!" he muttered, dumping out neatly stacked boxes of first aid and rescue gear - his bandaged hands fumbling and catching. He pawed through, then nearly fell out the door as Dave seemed to drop the helicopter out of the sky.
Kris grabbed Andy's arm as he started to sail out the door. He did it almost absently, while his eyes stayed glued to the scene below. Nick's safe - for the moment - in the boat. Kris didn't relish the idea of watching anyone else being eaten, but at least the swimmer was a stranger. If Nick got in the water, with all that blood he was wearing, he'd be a dead man.
But he didn't know which Nick he was looking at. If this was the Nick who'd taken on the ISO agents, then he might think he could walk on water - or ice, as he saw it. Kris watched him nervously. "Got it?" he asked Andy anxiously.
"Yeah." Andy's eyes went from the figure in the water, to Nick in the boat. They could see him clearly now. They were also close enough to see the huge silhouette approaching the swimmer through the water. "Oh, Jesus!" Andy muttered. He tried to take aim, but the wind had them. The helicopter bumped and jolted as Dave tried to bring it in closer.
Nick was rowing clumsily toward the swimmer. "He'll never make it," Kris said.
Andy's eyes switched to Nick - just in time to see him grab an oar and dive into the water. "Holy shit!" he shouted. Kris involuntarily lunged, as though he could somehow keep Nick from committing that fatal error from ten metres away. "Watch it!" Andy said, grabbing Kris this time.
Kris searched the water for the shark. It'd been headed for the swimmer. His mouth went dry as he watched it slow, change course, then speed in Nick's direction. "Oh my God!" he gasped, his eyes wet.
Nick was treading water, and Andy wondered why he didn't head toward the swimmer. Then he understood. Nick knew he was bleeding. Knew it would lure the shark away. Andy started shaking, which made it harder to aim.
"Fuckin' hell!" Dave's voice was muffled but distinct. It was his first view of the monster below.
Andy sat down on the strut, and wrapped one arm around the metal. He squinted, aiming down the barrel of the flare gun. At his left, Kris was firing, shooting repeated rounds into the finned silhouette below. The damned shark didn't even slow down.
Andy fired the flare, and at the same moment, the wind - which Kris had been blocking - struck him in the face. He didn't need the slight wobble of the helicopter to tell him there'd been a sudden weight change. The strut next to him was empty. Andy watched as Kris hit the water, and sank beneath the waves.
"Did you get him?"
It was loud in Andy's ears, and he realised it wasn't the first time Dave had asked. It was just the first time Andy had noticed. He didn't answer now, either - he was too busy watching for Kris' head to hit the surface. He loaded the flare gun again, and scanned the water tensely.
*
Kris was terrified. The worst of it was, when he'd landed in the water, he'd taking a pretty heavy jarring against some unseen object. Kris was almost sure he'd landed butt-first on the back of a great white shark.
"Jaws" music sang through his head as he wondered just how much they really went in for vengeance. He could tell himself it was absurd, but out here - where all the water in all directions looked dark and impenetrable, rational and irrational didn't matter. His eyes swept the surface, looking for a telltale fin, but there was nothing.
It'll come at you out of the dark. It's the ones you don't see that get you -
Kris unconsciously scrunched up his legs, then realised that wasn't exactly getting any of them out of the water. And he couldn't swim with folded knees.
I've been in tight places before. Only, if it'd been tight, he would have felt a lot better. This was too loose - too many kilometres of not-empty ocean, with too many hungry predators.
He heard a splash behind him, and spun, as fast as the water would let him. He saw Nick, then, and recalled the reason he'd played ride 'em bronco with the shark in the first place.
Nick was barely conscious. He was still brandishing his oar, but he was having trouble staying afloat. He was trying to yell something - apparently to the other swimmer - about staying back.
It didn't exactly come out like a yell. It was more like a gargled "go 'way", and "bait". Kris was already heading his way when Nick choked on a mouthful of sea water and started to sink.
*
It's got me!
Nick had thought he was ready. He was so tired now that he'd thought it'd be easy. Give in, give up, die the way men had for centuries - at sea. Somehow, it seemed fitting - more in keeping with the Norse traditions that had been filling his head all night.
But when the shark grabbed him, he had to fight. He swung his oar like a club, thrashing and beating at his giant adversary.
They let you go if you can poke 'em in the eyes. Nick punched the shark in the face, and tried to gouge its eyes. But the shark was too quick for him. It rolled him on his back and began to tow him.
Like a crocodile, Nick thought confusedly. Jarron would be interested in this one, he thought. A new species. Stores its food for later.
I'll tell him sometime.
The water he'd swallowed churned in his stomach, and he knew he was going to be sick.
Go ahead, Nick. Shark doesn't care.
The sickness came, and with it the pain. It had hurt before, but now he felt like he was being turned inside out.
It's eating me, he thought.
He stopped fighting, and let the blackness come.
*
Andy was watching nervously as Kris surfaced and swam in Nick's direction. He was gripping the flare gun so tightly that his knuckles were white. He was almost afraid to blink - afraid to miss his one opportunity to intercept the monster.
But Andy's tension broke a little when Nick began bashing Kris vigorously with the oar. Kris finally managed to grab Nick's arm, and roll him on to his back. He towed him in the direction of the lone swimmer.
"Any sign of It?" Dave yelled.
Andy was lowering the winch now, but he took a moment to quickly scan the waves. "Not yet."
He could hear Dave's sigh of relief through the headphones. "Rescues with you are just impossible," he complained. "I load up all the standard stuff: you know - first aid, rescue gear, paintbrushes, crosses. But now you're going in for the exotic. Where the hell am I gonna find a cannon?"
*
"That has to be the stupidest thing I've ever seen you do." Kris was practically yelling over the roar of the helicopter's engine, but it wasn't the noise that drew Nick's attention. It was the fact that Kris sounded distraught. His voice was still shaking, and it wasn't from the dunking he'd had.
"You're actually upset," Nick said in hoarse surprise. He'd seldom seen Kris upset about anything.
"Damn right he's upset," Andy grunted. "That was a twenty-foot shark." Kris seemed to be having a little trouble finding a comfortable seat, so Andy asked him, "Hurt yourself?"
Kris twisted and showed him his ripped pants. The skin was raw and bleeding. "I think I landed on the damned thing," Kris admitted. At the expression on Andy's face and added, "Don't even bother. I'll get my first aid somewhere else."
Nick chuckled, then groaned.
"If I'd known you were that good with your butt," Andy retorted, "I wouldn't've bothered with the flare gun."
*
Lys was wrapped in a blanket in the back, trying to stay out of the way. She was so shaky that she knew it wouldn't take much to shake out some tears. She bit her lip and fought down the lump in her throat. Right now, inconspicuous suited her fine.
*
Dave yelled back over the sound of the motor. "Would you still have done it, Acklin?" he asked, "if you'd known how big that muther was?"
"I did know," Nick replied. "Enough, anyway." He caught Alys' eye, and gave her a weak smile. "Some things are worth fighting for."
"He did know," Andy yelled to Dave.
He put the headphones against Nick's head so he could hear Dave's muttered, "Crazy bastard."
To Alys, Andy said loudly, "Nick says you're worth fighting for." He winked. "The wink's from me - not Nick," he added.
"Tell Dave to look for 'nother shark," Nick retorted, his words beginning to slur, "so I c'n push yo'verboard -"
Andy grinned.
Kris was silent, and Nick knew it was still bothering him. He reached out and grabbed Kris' arm. "S'okay, Kris," he said.
Kris' smile was forced. "I know. It was just so damn close."
"T'll me 'bout it," he muttered. He was silent for a moment, then murmured, "'onna pass out now -" His voice trailed off.
"Is he okay?" Andy asked.
Kris was checking Nick's pulse. "Yeah," he murmured, pulling the blanket closer around Nick's shoulders. "For now."
*
"No, I'm not gonna let it go. I want to know who she is." He sounded annoyed.
Kris smiled. He was glad to hear Nick getting mad again. He'd been so damned polite for days now, that it was starting to get on Kris' nerves.
It had been a week since Nick's boating "accident", and he hadn't done much talking. Which was unusual for Nick. If he couldn't write it out of his system, he'd talk it out instead.
But Nick wasn't talking about anything. To anyone. Kris didn't even know whether Nick remembered what had happened - or why he was out on a burning boat in the middle of nowhere. If he did wonder, he certainly didn't ask.
Most conspicuous, though, was the way he avoided mentioning Jarron. Once, Kris had deliberately told him that Jarron was doing better - that they'd finally taken him out of intensive care. Nick's eyes had brightened, but he hadn't commented. "Any messages?" Kris had pushed.
Nick had just looked at him, a little grimly. "No. Nothing."
"Nick -"
Nick had rolled away, onto his side. "Don't, Kris. Go away and let me sleep."
But when he'd checked on him a few minutes later, Nick was staring out the window. Kris wondered what he was seeing: sunny landscape, or Arctic wastes?
*
"He'll read you, Maxwell."
"You think so?"
"Just don't take any chances. I don't want his back up. Any more on the defensive, and he'll take off, just from the pressure."
"You should learn to relax," Maxwell said.
"I'm telling you: Jarron Marshall's not only 'psychic' - he's smart."
"But he's also a novice, and you've told me yourself - he's out of control. You don't know what it's like, Caraldy." There was a dark shade to Maxwell's eyes. "Ever seen one of those cartoons, where the tap breaks, and water shoots all over the place? You can't catch it, can't control it, can't turn it off? That's what it's like. Except in Marshall's case, he's drowning other people as he goes."
"Don't start to feel sorry for him," Caraldy warned. "He doesn't need another convert."
Maxwell's eyes hardened. "That won't be a problem. The first lesson Marshall's gonna learn is how to take it. Because according to this -" he pointed to the files on Caraldy's desk, "- he sure as hell can dish it out."
*
I tried to kill him. Nick couldn't get it out of his head.
But he didn't want to talk about it, either. Kris would give him some explanation, and Andy would be reasonable, but Nick needed to deal with it alone.
Because he remembered it all.
For days he'd been terrified that if he closed his eyes, the other man would be back. He'd tried logic - telling himself that the museum had been the source of it all, and that distance would protect him, but he knew better. Because distance hadn't protected him before. Because he'd gone all the way to the beach, and out into the fuckin' water, before he'd "woken up". Even then, it had only been his proximity to death that had brought him out of it.
The urge was still with him, but subdued. The need to find that other man, and sacrifice him all over again. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he'd see the blood running thickly between his fingers.
The guilt was the worst, and he had a feeling it was the reason for all this. His guilt had a duality, which was almost unbearable: guilty in the past, guilty in the present. Nick didn't know how he'd ever learn to live with it. Or control it. What would it do to him, to see Jarron? Would he have to enact the thing all over again? He knew, from the questions Kris and Andy had asked him, that they wondered how much he remembered. What they didn't wonder - and should have - was whether he'd have the motivation to act on that memory.
Over and over and over, until he finally got it right.
*
When Andy looked up, Kris was leaning against the doorjamb.
"Aren't you needed overseas?" Andy asked pointedly.
Kris said, with a trace of amusement, "'Wanted', maybe, but not needed. Besides," he yawned, "what's happening here is much more interesting."
"I assume you mean Gill." Andy went back to sorting through the stack of files in the folder. "All this stuff's on the computer. Why didn't they just download it to my laptop?" he complained.
"Quit trying to divert me."
"Wouldn't think of it. Now go away." Andy glanced at his watch. "Moonlighting doesn't begin for another six hours. Figure ten, the way my day's going."
"It's not Jarron's fault, Andy."
Andy gave Kris a patient look. "We all know he doesn't do it intentionally. Even Robart accepts that." Andy pulled Kris into the room and shut the door. "We overlooked what happened to Torres because it was a clear case of attempted murder. Jarron was defending himself. He's out of control, Kris," he said unhappily. "Nick nearly got himself killed."
"Nearly killed Jarron, too -"
"Through no fault of his own," Andy finished. "Jarron's my friend, too, Kris. You've known him a lot longer, but I bet he'd be the first to insist we do something to stop him." He frowned. "He's not handling it - wasn't handling it before this happened. Seventy-hour-work-weeks smack of denial to me. He made himself too busy, or too exhausted, to deal with it."
"Maybe that was his way of dealing with it."
"It didn't work," Andy said abruptly.
Kris nodded. He knew most of Andy's concern had nothing to do with work. Jarron was a friend, and he wanted to help him through this. "All I'm saying, Andy, is that Jarron isn't totally to blame for what happened."
"Someone else conjured up a snowstorm?" Andy said sarcastically. "Give me a description, so I can put out an APB."
"Tsk, tsk. Such a poor attitude for a lawless enforcement officer."
"Shut up, before I arrest your ass."
"Your problem is you're no magician." Kris grinned. "All that training, and not a lick of it has leached through."
"I've got the 'saw the man in half' part down. Stretch out on the desk and I'll give you a demo."
"You're only looking at what one hand's doing."
Andy rubbed his eyes tiredly, all traces of levity gone from his voice. "Just tell me, Kris. I'm not in the mood."
"You've been thinking about what happened at the museum, and what to do about Jarron, but none of you checked out the exhibit, to see if something set him off."
"How do you know?"
"Checked Robart's personal files."
"Nick's right - you are a sneaky bastard. I guess that means everybody else can waltz in and out of 'em, too."
"Not any more," Kris assured him. "Anyway, I did some research on the pieces in that exhibit. First of all, I thought it was weird that the pieces always travel together."
"Probably came from the same place. Or the same time. Speaking of time," he said, looking pointedly at his watch, "you're wasting mine."
"Right on all counts except the last. All the artefacts were found in or near the same settlement. All dated from the same century. Here's where you start listening: none of 'em are ever loaned out individually."
"Never thought I'd want to be deaf," Andy mumbled.
Kris ignored it. "And even though their home museum's in Oslo, they're never there. They're kept in storage in a small town in Finnmark."
"Never heard of it," Andy grumbled. "Don't want to hear it now."
"It's where the Saamis live," Kris told him with a grin.
"How enlightening," Andy said sarcastically. "So what?"
"So, they have a long history of bad karma." Kris handed him a print-out.
"More paper," Andy muttered, but he took it.
"Take a look at this." Kris pointed to a highlighted area. "At least a hundred and fifty years of notoriety."
Kris waited while Andy skimmed through several of the articles. Then Kris said, "Jarron may have brought things to a head, but the situation was already there. It's probably why our little local museum was able to score the corpse and other paraphernalia. Usually they're lucky if they get the odd helmet or two."
Andy gave a low whistle. "Bad karma's right: look at this bit, about 'dead men walking'."
Kris nodded. "Old Norse mythology. According to the literature, it was one way of protecting the remaining family, after the house leader had died. If the research is right, Jarron's attempted murderer - the leader -"
"Nick," Andy interrupted.
"Nick's alter ego," Kris corrected him, "- may even have been buried standing up, under the front door step - sort of a zombie security system."
Andy grimaced. "That's disgusting." His slow smile surfaced. "I think we ought to tell Nick. Assure him it's a cure for what ails him."
"He's so worried at this point he'd take you seriously," Kris said. His voice was concerned as he added, "He hasn't been too talkative. I don't know how much he remembers."
"What? Sneaky Bastard can't get under his skin?"
"You need a coffee," Kris told him. "You do better as a cheerful moron."
Andy ignored him. He was thinking about Nick. "It can't be fun to have somebody else take out a rental on your body."
"Especially when that somebody would rather be dead."
"What about Jarron? Does he remember?"
"What?" Kris retorted. "Interrogation methods not working?"
"Not funny." Andy's voice was surly.
"He's talking even less than Nick." Kris took back the print-out. "This should help him," he said. He studied Andy for a moment, then shook his head in disgust. "If this is the way the law looks on the job, give me lawlessness any day. How long have you been here?"
"Remember when I saw you yesterday?"
Kris nodded.
Andy yawned. "That was today's morning shift - I think."
"You sound like a man who needs a double espresso."
Andy nodded, and led the way toward the elevator. "Kris, my files are off limits."
"I know that," Kris told him impatiently. "We wouldn't want Robart to know about the new novel that's in the works -"
Andy frowned at him.
Kris held up his hands innocently. "Just guessing. Remember, a partnership is based on mutual trust -"
"In that case, I trust you're buying. I'm broke." Andy stared absently at the papers in Kris' hands. He said seriously, "If that research is accurate, then Jarron needs to know it's not all his doing. That the ghosties were already getting up and doing some dancing, before he ever set foot inside the door." Andy gave a wry smile. "Dancing ghosts, he's learned to live with."
***
