Grave Imagery
Book Three in The Grave Images Series
by N. D. Hansen-Hill
Dedication
To all my brothers and sisters...
***
Grave Imagery
Delude affection to prey on dreams
That infiltrate with fetid schemes,
To assault the mind and wound the soul,
To displace the id that makes you whole.
*
Mangled truth adrift in lust
That pilfers hope and slanders trust.
Obsidian knives, rent body parts,
A shattering gore in gouged-out hearts.
*
Misplaced visions midst skulls in glass,
Dirging chants contrived en masse;
Viper's bite and scorpion thrust,
Uprooted evil from hallowed dust.
*
Dislodge the fiend from innocent's soul,
Return the horror to hellbound hole;
'twixt hope and help a fiend to banish,
Depravity routed, as illusions vanish.
*
by N. D. Hansen-Hill
***
Foreword
Jarron Marshall had hoped his discovery would be a big step forward, toward feeding a hungry world. He'd found a "universal" endophyte: a fungal symbiont which could enhance plant growth and reduce pesticide use.
It didn't occur to him that some people would consider his endophyte a threat - that the results of his "find" would be tallied in lost revenue and forfeited lives. Jarron is brutally assaulted, in an attempt to steal his research.
It changes his life forever. Jarron embarks on a horrifying journey of self-discovery, and uncovers things about himself he never wanted to know. Among his unsuspected "talents" is an unwelcome ability to raise the dead. Unfortunately, he can also empower them enough to raze the living.
He is learning a lot about the tenacity of the human spirit. How that spirit can cling to a place - or a person - and not let go. His work with the endophyte may have brought him to the attention of a government agency (Investigative Security and Operations), but his other, unwanted abilities have kept him under their scrutiny.
Jarron still has hopes he can learn to control his psychic "gift" - that he can select the method of his madness. If he can concentrate on outracing his precognitive dreams, and salvaging the sick, he may yet alter his destiny to one he can endure.
Only time will tell...
***
Prologue
They'd caught him at a bad time. He'd been neither softened, nor enlightened, by his experiences beyond the grave. If anything, the incendiary flames of his hellish hiatus had honed his personality like a jagged blade. The snags were still there, and they were all razor sharp.
But, he was also confused. One moment, he had lingered, powerless - the next, he'd acquired some degree of substance. So, too, was his inner vision muddled, his self-perception distorted in a haze of heroic past versus ignominious present. However notorious his misdeeds, his sequestered body now knew only disintegration and decay; his warped spirit, disillusionment and defeat.
Yet, he was back. It reinforced the secret yearning he had always possessed - the yearning to be a god, in the way of his ancestors. Men had bowed before them and temples had been erected in their honour.
If not a god, then why - and how - had he returned?
These others wanted him to do their will, but they had no idea of his power. Whatever their will, they'd soon be doing his.
***
Chapter One
A particularly nasty gust of wind blasted foul-scented soil off the top of the backhoe bucket and scattered it in the eyes of the restless watchers. More tears were shed in those few minutes of near blindness than had been shed by the man's grave during the past three months.
In Colby Maxwell's mind, it was a warning. His streaming eyes warily searched the uneven dark beyond their lights. After his experiences with Jarron Marshall, a graveyard at night was the last place on Earth he wanted to be.
Still, it was the way his employers operated. In their labs it was all stats and controls - but give them a field trip and they reverted to stealth and skulduggery. They seemed to think that skulking in the dark was the only way to get this job done.
Or maybe they just think the object of all this attention will feel more comfortable in the dark. Colby gave an uncontrolled shudder.
The soil stank, like fouled water. This grave's still pretty new. Shouldn't smell this bad.
It's his grave. What did you expect?
Colby glanced around - sure that he saw more movement in the neighbouring monuments than their concrete and stone content should allow. There were liquid shadows everywhere, that shifted whenever he did. Tricks of the light, tricks of the eyes. Everything in motion, with the silence thick and loud - crowding the tractor's roar and rattle. It was the kind of place you didn't want to visit anyway - even in daylight - with its forced peace and morose overtones. It was definitely the last place to traipse through on a moon-challenged night. All charming memorials on the top, and hard-packed earth beneath your feet.
Earth that sheathed concrete, caskets, rotting corpses, and yellowing bones. Damn it! he swore silently, then instantly wished he hadn't.
It would have been smarter to do this in the daytime. To camouflage it as an interment. No questions that way. Nobody wanted to take on someone else's sorrow.
But no, they had to be out here in the dark, with only their flashlights and the tractor's jouncing light for company.
Makes us look like a bunch of graverobbers.
We are robbing a grave.
No. Colby Maxwell did a rapid mental turnaround. We are not robbing, he assured anything within reach of his mental wavelengths. We are merely resituating, to a choicer piece of real estate.
It was a mind game. Chances were it wouldn't psyche out even the most stupid of spectres. People liked to think of spirits in the "ether" having some kind of eternal knowledge, but Colby believed otherwise. Some ghosts were so lacking in knowledge that they couldn't even figure out they were dead.
He also began to realise he was carrying excess baggage; residue from his religious upbringing. Despite any of his efforts to rationalise what they were doing here, he knew he was about to aid and abet in something that could earn him a spectator seat on the hotter side of Hell. Playing with the unholy tended to lead to that kind of thing.
Get a handle on it, Maxwell. This isn't the Middle Ages. There are natural laws governing both sides of the "veil" - we just haven't discovered them all yet. There's nothing here that math and science won't eventually label. Stats and formulas - that's what it's all about.
It's what he wanted to believe - that he might have some control over his destiny. That what he did in this plane wouldn't eternally taint his existence on another. But - if all else failed - he also clung to what he'd been taught: that forgiveness at the end of his days could redress most of the wrongdoing, and a good deal of the wickedness. What he wasn't able to balance with the occasional good act during the herein, he damn well would confess away in his last hour, before he hit the hereafter.
But it was going to take a surfeit of good acts, and a darn glib confession, to counter tonight's little field trip.
Don't look at the shadows. The stones and crosses were bad enough, but throw in the carved angels, and the odd obelisk or two -
This is the last goddamn place I want to be, Colby thought again, then mentally kicked himself for thinking in profanities on hallowed ground.
"Hallowed" nothing. One piece of ground's the same as any other.
Don't knock it, Colby. The "hallowing" may be the only thing that's keeping Him here.
They'd wanted Colby along for verification. He didn't see why they'd chosen him. There must be a dozen other psychics in the programme who could have done the job for them.
Hell, who needed a psychic anyway? All they had to do was open their eyes. The air was so thick it was clogging his trachea.
He could think of only one reason why they'd selected him.
It was because he'd seen the other one. That unhappy event had somehow made him an expert. The dubious privilege of holding hands with a ghost child - and surviving - had upped his value in the wrong circles. Nice to be needed, but damned uncomfortable at moments like this.
The tractor chugged smoothly in a reassuring background timbre that was comfortingly loud. Colby had a feeling the noise covered a lot of sins - not the least of which was their effort here tonight. The volume of activity hid any extraneous sounds that might issue from the earth beneath their feet.
At that moment, the tractor operator misjudged his distance, and the backhoe clanged, then did a rattling scrape across the box in the hole. The driver withdrew the bucket and rolled backwards, then sat with it idling while they checked his work with their lights.
Colby wondered whether he was the one to notice it first, or whether the horror descended with equal rapidity on them all, like darkness during an eclipse. The even chugging of the idling machine developed a stutter, and then a deep throbbing rumble.
The machine was having problems, but they weren't mechanical. The engine rasped, with a harshly staccatoed death-rattle, "Go to hell." The voice may have been machine generated, and drawn from such manmade objects as manifolds, and cylinders, and pistons, but the result was far from the machine-tongued smoothness of computers or answering machines. Having made its statement, the backhoe's engine choked and died. The operator jumped clear as the tractor - against all gravitational laws - toppled over onto its side.
Colby stood stiff and stunned in the mass silence that followed. He was the first to recover, though. After all, I've heard - and seen - worse, he thought.
He moved cautiously to the lip of the hole and peered in, at the box below. For just an instant, as he could have sworn there was movement in the soil: writhing, slithering, coiling. Gooseflesh roughened his skin, and a sheen of moist terror blurred his eyes. It took a moment for him to get control.
Get it done, and get out of here, Colby.
With something remarkably like resignation, he broke the silence. "This is definitely it," he said, surprised that he could sound so calm. There was even a trace of amusement in his voice as he added, "And I can verify the site is active."
*
Jarron Marshall hadn't been doing much of anything, and once again, he was amazed at how tired it could make you. Correction. Hungry and tired. He kicked idly at the fishing pole that was leaning against the chair.
I hate fishing. Three weeks ago, when he'd first begun to run out of food, fishing had seemed like the ideal solution. Until he could get a job, that is. He'd always considered himself eminently employable. He'd never thought he'd still be eating fish, three weeks later.
Jarron picked up one of the candy wrappers littering the floor. He sniffed it, and the chocolate smell made him salivate. If they could see you now, he thought, drooling over a candy wrapper. "I should pick you all up and toss you away," he mumbled to the ancient litter. But then Kris or Nick might notice the absence of Jarron-type rubbish. Leave it. "Local colour," he muttered.
The fishing was boring as hell, and the walk back and forth was killing him. His Investigative Security and Operations (ISO) guardians must think he was a real health nut. Every day he'd lead them on these bracing walks, and while Werner or Jenkil or one of the other ISO people would chow down on a big beefy sandwich, Jarron Marshall would prop his pole, get out his edible native plants book, and munch on greens. Then he'd harvest a bag of the hateful foliage to take back to his house.
Think about something else. It was too easy, in the darkish room, to dream of beefy sandwiches and chocolate-covered chews. There were more important things to concern him at the moment, though, not the least of which was finding a way to explain his little electrical problem. "On the 'bright' side, at least we don't have to worry any more about the electricity being turned off," he told Con-man glumly.
The ferret glanced at him, wriggled his nose, then went back to savaging his bootlaces. When Jarron and his ISO bodyguards had returned from the latest fishing expedition, he'd discovered he didn't have any lights. "It's gonna totally screw their security systems," he muttered.
And make Colin Robart raise hell. Robart, the boss man, who didn't need any more reasons to eliminate him.
Jarron realised he was more embarrassed about the feeble explanations he'd been forced to give his bodyguards, than concerned about any outfall from Robart. Right now, discouraged, alone, and sitting there in the light of his only candle, he couldn't bring himself to care very much.
The ferret snatched the old candy wrapper out of Jarron's hand and began to lick and chew it. "Don't think I'm not tempted to do that myself," Jarron muttered.
It had been nearly a month now, and he'd played his part. Pretended he was brain-fried, with little memory of the endophyte, and no knowledge of its location. Burnt out from his Viking encounter, with no psychic residue left. He was sure any reports of his current weirdness only added to the illusion: lost causes, lost mind.
He was an unemployed scientist, with no special gifts to recommend him, save his reputation. Even that had been tarnished by some nasty rumours about addiction and drug abuse.
Jarron was sure the rumours were a deliberate effort, calculated to apply pressure. Just in case Jarron Marshall still had some tricks up his sleeve. Maybe even to see whether he'd get hungry enough to go knocking on Colby Maxwell's door.
No, Jarron. They don't know you're hungry enough to eat your damned endophyte. Nobody does.
Stop thinking in terms of food.
After all that had happened, with snow coating the ground in summer, and the aurora borealis decorating the temperate skies, no one was going to totally let it drop. Colby Maxwell and his gang probably had plans to see if they could get him going again with LSD, or some other hallucinogen. Jarron was prepared for it now, though. And, unless they spiked his tap water, there wasn't much they could tamper with in his house. No mind-altering anything on the menu.
He was closely watched, which should have been comforting, but sometimes drove him crazy. It made him feel he had to explain all his movements, or exaggerate them so no one could possibly misunderstand what he was doing. Jarron wondered how "free" he really was; whether the wrong move would get him locked up somewhere - some place where "jailers" would once again replace "bodyguards".
A few weeks ago, when he was really beginning to feel the frustration of being under constant observation, Jarron had tried telling his ISO guardians to take off. It had worked once before - Robart himself had broken off the surveillance, at Jarron's request.
Not this time, though. It made Jarron question whether the goal was to protect Jarron Marshall from the world, or the world from Jarron Marshall. Since all of his current guardians were strangers he'd never seen prior to a month ago, Jarron suspected it was the latter. His guardians would be ready to act, all right: for or against him, depending on how Robart called it.
They would never have understood - and Robart would never have tolerated - what Jarron did in his free time.
*
Perry Gervois knew it was a mistake. He knew it all the way down the hall, and all the way into the boy's room. He even knew it as he picked up the limp hand, and stared into the pinched face.
Just a short time ago that face had been smiling, happy. Cheerful. Perry, and most of the nurses on the ward, had been the recipients of his endlessly repetitious childish jokes. His eyes had been bright with giggling laughter - and trust.
Trust, that Dr. Perry could somehow make the hurting stop. Trusting those feeble explanations, that by inflicting more pain they could somehow make the sickness go away.
Perry's memories were rapidly being overlain by visions of the child's pain. By feelings of futility and frustration. By acknowledgement of his own inadequacy.
It doesn't have to be this way. He didn't know exactly when the thought had trickled in, but he guessed it was some time between his first sight of the parents' anguish, and the child's tears.
He'd tried to banish it. Pain was part of his practice, he'd told himself. But all the telling in the world couldn't counter his own despair at holding back. At depriving the boy of his last chance because it somehow violated Perry Gervois' ethics.
He couldn't even say specifically why it was "unethical" - just that it made his conscience tingle. It was too easy, in a world where even an antibiotic needed to be grown and filtered and purified and diluted and packaged and prescribed and distributed. Where food gathering usually entailed a trip to the supermarket to garner edibles whose origins were far away. Where transport was reliant on computer chips and metal work and plastic moulding and the interaction of manufactured bits and pieces.
Where nothing was simple.
That's the problem. Life and death weren't simple any more. They were as complex as everything else in this multi-layered existence. So complex that it would seem wrong to take this child home, away from the machinery that might keep him in existence a while longer. So complex that curing him without the machinery and medication seemed something too primitive, too archaic, too mystical to be trusted.
The child's skin was already bluish, and his pulse thready. If it's his time, who is Perry Gervois to say differently?
Only, wasn't that what he did every day? Make an earnest effort to save lives - to steal back a few more days, weeks, years in the human form? If humanity was meant to surrender gracefully to death, why was it endowed with glands producing adrenaline, for "fight or flight"? With self-defence mechanisms, and that persuasive urge to battle for survival?
Why do I use every weapon I possess - from cutting, to radiation, to chemical assault, to poisoning - to help the human body prevail over disaster, natural and otherwise? Over viruses and bacteria and cancers and physical calamities?
Gervois' eyes were moist as the measured the short length in the long bed. A child. A soul that hadn't even begun to experience the world around him.
A soul who never would, unless Perry could utilise the final tool in his arsenal.
He had one more chance of keeping this small soul in its present surroundings - that of flesh and blood, beating heart, and respiring lungs.
One more chance, but it would involve setting aside the complex, and relying on the mystical.
Or, one mystic, who would have laughed at the term.
His name was Jarron Marshall.
*
He didn't even realise he'd dozed off, until the dream dragged him into alertness. The scent of blood - God, how he hated that smell - lingered in the air. Jarron glanced at his watch, then frowned.
What if I'm too early? he thought.
What if I'm too late?
What he couldn't do was sit here, and not know.
This is insane, he told himself. Compulsive. You don't have to check it out.
Yes, I do.
It was a monologue he had with himself every couple of days now. It seemed the more he gave in to impulse, the more the demand for his response.
Hurry up, Jarron. This voice wasn't his own, but he knew it had sense behind it. Carry on the monologue much longer, and there wouldn't be anything left to save.
With a wry grin, Jarron dug out his darkest clothes. This was going to be the easiest one of all: no alarms to trigger - merely his guardians to evade.
"See, Con-man," he whispered, thinking about how much easier the lack of electricity was going to make things. "There's a reason for everything."
Jarron gave the ferret a final pat on the head, then disappeared out the laundry room window.
*
"We want to test him." John Caraldy sounded stressed, and Colin Robart suspected the man had company.
"He's shown no signs of psychic activity in nearly a month."
"You can't impede this kind of investigation, Robart. If he's burned out, we'll find that out, too."
"He's going to object."
Caraldy's laugh was genuine, and Robart knew he found it amusing that - at this point - Jarron Marshall would actually think he had a choice. "Then don't tell him what it's about." He was silent for a moment, and Robart was sure the next words were his own - derived from whatever loyalties Caraldy thought he owed him. "Don't object on his behalf, Robart." It was a warning. "Your job is to keep him alive."
They know. Sweat broke out on Robart's brow. His efforts may have been applauded in some circles, but not in this one. They'd given him one job in the Marshall case, and he'd failed. Deliberately.
This was not good. Tolerance wasn't a common trait among his supervisors.
Neither was forgiveness.
*
He could understand Robart's attitude. Jarron could neither forgive nor forget the things he'd done - and in his darker moments, it was still too damn easy to see himself as some kind of aberration. A monster. It must be how Robart saw him, too, when he wasn't evaluating him for his other potentialities: as a tool or weapon. Jarron knew he couldn't trust the man, either way.
So, all day long Jarron worked hard at being innocuous, and innocent, and non-threatening. When he wasn't fishing, he read stacks of books, and spent hours at the university library, pouring over journal articles. If he couldn't find work in his field right now, he wanted to be sure he'd be up-to-date when opportunity came knocking.
He also tried to ignore all the eyes boring into his back, and get himself together - back on task, complete with goals and motivation. It was a darn sight harder than he'd thought. Not only did he have no work to focus on - to use to tune out the world - but he had no money coming in.
And he'd be damned if he'd ask for help. It was the last thing he wanted. Kris, Nick, Andy, and Gill had saved his ass - and Gill had more or less saved his research. They'd stuck out their necks, and Nick had nearly lost his life. Jarron figured they'd had a surfeit of his company for now.
Besides, they were all busy. Kris had hinted that he and Gill were going to be out of the country, and Nick had complained about being immersed in rewrite hell. Nick's publisher wanted his latest book - now. Nick was still being watched, too - part of the fallout of going through a psychic episode with Jarron - but he was too engrossed in his rewrite, and his new-found relationship with Alys Gunter, to care very much. Jarron was sure he'd hear more grumbling - and some bragging - as soon as Nick came up for air.
Andy was the enigma now. Jarron suspected Robart had assigned him elsewhere. He knew Andy kept tabs on him, because Andy trusted Robart even less than Jarron did. Andy had reasoned that Jarron was safe, though, as long as Robart was the one handling his security. There was no Kris Chandler or Andrew Wakeman working in-between, who might conceivably countermand Robart's orders. And a dead Jarron Marshall would look bad on Robart's record. That meant he wouldn't take Jarron out unless Jarron gave him a good reason.
Andy had pleaded with Jarron not to give Robart any reason - to do anything.
As Jarron ran along the darkened streets, he tried not to think what Andy would say, if he knew about his extracurricular activities.
*
What started as a hiss-pang on the hot roof exploded in a torrent of heavy metal drumming. It pounded the galvanised sheeting in a reverberating discord of metallic twang and pummelling rattle, while ridge-channelled mini-cataracts cascaded in loud splatters down the exterior of the building.
Andy Wakeman jumped awake, his heart racing. There was a battle going on, but it took him a moment to realise the only war being waged was between his own rank sweat and the underlying scents of mould and overly wet earth. He sat there, numb and confused, a surfeit of adrenaline making him shake as he tried to remember where he was. He'd spent yesterday - was it only yesterday? - in Piccadilly, at some place belonging to the British Museum. To gain some expertise, they'd said. In the last three days he'd practically circumnavigated the globe.
Where am I now?
Andy readjusted his thinking. Time to sweat and swear - and panic - in Spanish.
He'd been a fool to come. It'd be damned convenient for Robart if he ended up rotting in one of the local jails, or getting caught and skinned by the local guerrillas. What he couldn't figure out was why Robart had gone to so much trouble. He could have taken him out with a well-placed bullet, and disposed of his body. No dangling ends, no expensive airfares to recoup.
And if he'd wanted him dead, Robart wouldn't have let Kris Chandler stop him. Any more than he'd allowed Wakeman or Chandler to stop him when he'd decided to take out Jarron Marshall.
As an effort to keep Andy away from Jarron - to ensure that he wouldn't know what Robart had arranged or planned - it was a failure. Robart must realise Andy had his own sources for information. It was one of the things he was best at: finding out what people were trying to hide.
Was this a test of loyalty? Or an effort to oust him from the ISO - to make him quit rather than fail? You didn't take an agent fluent in Russian and Arabic and stick him in the tropics, where his drawl and habits would give him away. Any more than you'd order him to chat up the locals, so they'd be forced to acknowledge his existence. His schoolyard Spanish was likely to get him killed - if his ignorance of customs didn't do it for him.
Andy wiped sweat from his forehead. His head ached, and his stomach was sour from the long flights, and too little sleep. The last part of his flight had been by parachute. Then he'd hiked in through the jungle, wondering constantly whether a snake or a crocodile would take over where Robart's arrangements had left off.
It was a stupid mission through hostile territory. No more hostile than the days he'd spent in the Middle East, but a lot more visible. Andy knew there was no way he could maintain his disguise - it was time to admit to being a foreigner, rather than make a farce of being a native.
Because there was no way he was going to blend.
*
They were going to kill him. It wasn't complex, or convoluted - just messy. And Jarron was nearly as terrified as the victim would be, when the boy finally figured it out.
It worked with Nick. That's what gave him the confidence to try, and he always repeated the words like a mantra. And each time he did this, the visions of those other victims - the sci-fi fans who'd died in a bloodbath - were just a little bit dimmer.
It was what drove him, too. The convention dream had warned him, and he'd saved Nick, but he should have found a way to save the others. Now, when he had a dream that stunk of blood or burning flesh or left echoing screams in his ears, he couldn't ignore it. Because ignoring it wouldn't make it go away.
These were people he knew, which seemed to be the trigger. Not friends, exactly, but acquaintances - the clerk at the grocery store, the teller at the bank. People who'd had contact with him at some time, for some reason. It was enough to motivate him; to get him up off the couch, or out of his bed, and into the night.
This time it was knives. A gang thing, and the victim was the teenager who'd served him his cheeseburger the last time he'd eaten out. They'd be breaking into a drugstore when the boy exited the bus. He'd accidentally catch them at it, and catch a knife in the side in the process.
Like Nick. Nick had almost died trying to save him. Jarron wasn't going to let anyone else endure that kind of suffering - not if he could stop it.
How're you gonna stop it, Jarron? There'd been no time to plan this. No chance to stop the boy from boarding the bus. No time to plan how to outwit Fate.
Right now, he'd be lucky just to get there, before the boy ran out of time.
*
The bus box was empty. It was either too early - or too late. Jarron's eyes unwillingly searched the ground - seeking the dark splotches that would mark his failure. All he could see was rubbish, dirt, dried spit, and squished gum. His hands were shaking with nerves as he sat on the corner of the bench, and listened to the complaining rumble of his empty - and nervous - stomach.
They're coming. Jarron felt a flicker of the old pain in the centre of his gut: a phantom of his injuries. I hate pain, he thought dismally. It was one of the reasons he'd come - to spare someone else the same suffering - but he was filled with dread. If he went down, for any reason, he'd never get up again. Robart or his cohorts wouldn't let him. They'd lock him up for good, if they didn't kill him outright.
The gang members were making no move to be quiet. This was their street, and they wanted everyone to know it. Their street, and their part of the neighbourhood. And what it wouldn't willingly supply, they were determined to take.
Jarron could smell the alcohol fumes over the stench of the bus exhaust.
Stay on the bus, he thought forcefully. Maybe, if he was lucky, his psi extended to telepathy.
He wasn't, and it didn't.
The bus had stopped beyond the box. He could hear the thunk-squeak of the steps as the burger boy descended. It was echoed by a frustrated thunk of metal prybar in the alley.
"This isn't your stop, Man." It was starting.
"Leave him alone." Jarron stepped out of the bus box. The vision behind his eyes, of the boy lying bleeding on the sidewalk, did a lot to strengthen his resolve. He shoved through, until he was at the boy's side. "Let him go."
It wavered then. Jarron blinked, and tried to focus. He was confused - caught between night and nightmare. In one instant, the burger boy was whole - in the next, there was a dark patch spreading across his shirt.
His eyes met the burger boy's - to see some of his own terror reflected there. The boy might not have his vision, but he had enough imagination to guess what was coming next. "Get outa here!" Jarron yelled. He placed his hand on the bloodied patch of his nightmare, and gave the boy a shove. "Before it's too late."
"Too late for what?" The voice was a growl in his ear.
The knives were out now. Jarron could sense their alcoholic confusion, mingled with alcoholic bravado. But only one among them had darker thoughts, and a bloodied knife in his hand.
No, Jarron - not bloody yet.
The burger boy wasn't going. He didn't have the sense to fear the knife - he was more afraid of running, and being gunned down in flight.
He can't see it.
Couldn't see the dark liquid that stained the shiny steel.
So much blood. Jarron had eyes only for the knife.
It was coming his way now. Only now, the blood on the shaft looked suspiciously like his own. At that moment, Jarron would have given a lot to have one-tenth of Kris Chandler's skills.
The killer - not much older than the burger boy - was grinning. The scent of blood filled Jarron's nostrils - impossibly mingled with the sour smells of sweat and cannabis, alcohol and tobacco. At his back, the burger boy was retching, losing his employee meal by the wayside.
It was all a tangle - scents and sensations. Hate, anger, fear, terror.
And then they had him. As the metal shaft touched Jarron's skin, a stream of technicolor images exploded in his head: pools of spreading blood. Nick, the burger boy. Slit throats and severed tongues. Bullet-ripped bodies. Ice-gashed streams. The scenes played to an underscore tremor of hatred and vengeance. As the knife nicked his skin, adding his blood to the stained panorama, the weapon's own history spilled out and over - until Jarron felt he was drowning in blood. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe.
And then the screams began. Jarron didn't know that he was screaming, too. That the howl he'd started had been picked up by the wielder of the knife. That his horrifying visions had just been claimed by the man at his side. The difference was, the knifer's victims wore faces - the faces of people he'd killed. Bathed in hate; now bathed in blood.
Hands shoved him away in sudden revulsion, and Jarron dropped to his knees. The metallic clank, as the knife clanged to the ground, seemed to echo through his head. The ground shook with thunder - the vibration of running feet. Jarron shook his head to clear it, then slowly, cautiously, lifted his eyes to look.
Burger boy, and alcoholic gang members - all were gone.
Jarron was alone.
The knife lay there, so stained with its past that Jarron could hardly bear to look at it. Still shaking, he stood up and kicked it, hard - sending it spinning onto the storm drain cover. For just a moment it gyrated, twirling flashes of silvery metal. Then, with a loud thunk, it slid between the bars, and vanished into the depths below.
*
It was wrong. On the balance of life or death, the child had only his newness to recommend him. Jarron had knowledge, and ability, and - let's face it, Perry thought - power enough to throw the scales.
Plus, if they were to find out Jarron still had "It" - if they got confirmation of what they no doubt suspected - Jarron would either be more moribund than the child in that bed, or conscripted to do God-only-knew what kind of work for them.
Knowing Jarron, the description would stop at moribund. Because Jarron was forewarned, and he wouldn't willingly do their work. Suicide? Maybe. If nothing else, there'd be a huge battle. Jarron's adversaries had money and lack of conscience on their side. Perry wondered how long Jarron could prevail against that kind of assault.
I don't have to do this. I don't need to involve him.
He has nothing to do with this boy, or his problems.
But if I knew an expert - a medical expert - I wouldn't hesitate to call him in. Can I do any less now?
Perry had already made up his mind. He was just trying to reckon it with his conscience. Unless Jarron had changed a lot in the last few weeks, he'd put his compassion first and his skin last.
It was time to pay him a visit.
*
When Jarron climbed back in through the window, all he could think about was food. All the exercise and adrenaline had stirred up a powerful appetite, and any visions of mayhem had been replaced by dreams about dinner. Recognising it as a fruitless enterprise, he fished around for a towel instead, to mop up the blood that was leaking through his shirt. He probed the slice a trifle gingerly with his fingers, pleased to find it was little more than a nick.
"Knife cuts always bleed like all get-out," he told Con-man, surprised at how casual he sounded. It wasn't his first knife slice in the last few weeks, but it was probably the worst. A little deeper and he might have needed stitches.
He felt around in the dark till he located the soap. Infection was the enemy. If the cut got infected, he'd be stuck explaining how it had happened. He didn't think Perry Gervois would be any more sympathetic about his extracurricular activities than Andy, or Robart. The man had invested too many hours in saving his hide.
Not to mention risking his neck to heal me.
The funny thing, to Jarron's way of thinking, was the way everybody tended to overlook the commonplace. They'd all been so busy searching for signs of extraordinary behaviour, or trying to protect him from the behaviour of others, that they'd forgotten about the ordinary things like eating, and paying the utility bills. In a way, Jarron was glad, because his pride was already smarting. The last thing he wanted was more "help". He needed to do this on his own - to rebuild himself in a different image. If he was stuck with this psychic shit, then it was his business how he used it.
No - getting himself together meant being self-sufficient. Doing it himself. Earning back his place in the world.
*
Lys Gunter put down the receiver, and stared thoughtfully at the phone. "You should go see Jarron," she said.
Nick Acklin was staring at the computer screen, his face like thunder. It took him a moment to respond. "Jar can't bail me out of this hole," he muttered, distracted. "I ejected him into space already, and now he's back. Why the hell that know-it-all Larry didn't spot this, I don't know. He's supposed to be my editor, for crissakes…"
"Jarron must be bored out of his mind."
"You don't know Jarron. Give him a stack of plant books and he won't even know I'm not there."
Lys was silent.
"Are you bored?" Nick suddenly asked worriedly. "Is that what this is about?"
She frowned in frustration. For an intelligent man, he could be so dense at times. "I - have - a - job," she enunciated slowly. "Jarron doesn't."
"Are you kidding? If he wanted a job, all he'd have to do is pick up a phone." Nick grinned. "He's almost more famous than I am."
She ruffled his hair and pulled his head against her breasts. "Egomaniac," she complained. She thought about it some more. "Does Jarron like to fish?" she asked.
Nick lifted his head. "What's this sudden fascination with Jarron?" he asked. "Am I about to be replaced?"
"If I could find anyone better. Should take upwards of three-point-seven-five seconds."
"Give me some credit. Eight-point-two seconds, at least."
She made a point of looking at her watch - ignoring the things he was doing with his hands.
"Going somewhere? Or are you starting the replacement process already?" His voice sounded muffled - lost somewhere in her shirt.
"Just waiting. Experience has taught me it takes you just under four minutes to begin to listen in any conversation you don't initiate."
"How much under?" he asked, nuzzling against her.
She grinned. "Thirteen seconds, more or less."
"There you go: 'more or less'. Shows how flexible I am."
She snorted derisively. "This is bothering me," she told him seriously. "Look at it from my perspective: he's your friend, who's put up with you forever." She grinned at his expression. "You almost killed yourself trying to save him, yet now you won't even give him the time of day."
"'Time of day', huh?" He kissed her cleavage. "God save me from horologists." He shook his head. "Jarron's used to it. He knows I'm on a deadline. I'll call him when I finish this chapter."
"It doesn't make sense, Nick," she insisted. "Maybe I should put it in terms you can understand: it doesn't add up. It's not logical."
That got to him. "This is the way it works, Lys," Nick told her, beginning to glower. "We all have stuff to do. Jarron knows it as much as I do." He went back to the computer. "You don't see Kris hanging out here. He'll turn up when he's through with whatever he's doing -"
She interrupted him. "Then I'll go see it myself."
"What?" he asked impatiently.
"The trout."
Nick looked confused. "Trout?"
"That's - why - Jarron - rang," she said with exaggerated patience. "Just to tell me about some big trout he's after -"
Nick frowned. "A trout? He called about a trout?"
She nodded. "Elaborated on it, in fact. Made a big deal of how tricky it was, how he planned on catching it, and how many other fish he'd caught today." Her eyes met Nick's. "Sounded pretty lonely, if you ask me."
"What else did he say?" She had Nick's full attention now.
"He wanted you to know that if you came by tomorrow, he wouldn't be home. He'd be out -"
"- fishing," Nick finished, frowning. "What's that dumbass up to now?" He stood up and pulled her into his arms. "You're right, Alys-Erin," he said. "I'll go see the jerk." He grinned. "The man has no gift for dissemblance. And the whole thing sounds entirely too fishy to me."
***
Chapter Two
Jarron cringed a little as he thought about just how soon he was going to have to defend his self-sufficiency. He'd already had to admit to Charlie Reddy and Kurt Jenkil - his ISO guardians for tonight - that he'd "forgotten" to pay the electrical bill. Tomorrow he'd have to admit that he'd also neglected to earn any money to cover the shortage. And if it came to a battle between Jarron Marshall's self-sufficiency, and Colin Robart's security measures, Jarron had no doubt the ISO would win.
And once they'd paid his electrical bill, or stocked his cupboards, they'd own him.
His stomach grumbled again, but it was no louder than the voices in his head. He wasn't the only one who objected to him "working" for the ISO. "Starvation's so much better when you're in company," Jarron complained aloud, trying to silence his unembodied visitors.
The sound of his voice prompted Con-man to crawl up his pants leg, and onto his lap. When he tried to burrow under his shirt, though, Jarron stopped him. "I'm gonna have ferret for dinner one of these nights," he threatened. In response, Con-man contentedly gnawed Jarron's thumb. Jarron sat there, wishing he had something to gnaw on, too.
He'd tried for a few jobs in his field, but the response had been lousy. It had been downright painful to his pride to see how readily everyone had accepted the rumours about drug addiction, and common sense had told him he'd be better off lying low for a while. If things got really bad, he could apply for a job in another town, but the grapevine was a little too efficient, and Jarron was beginning to find out fame was a double-edged sword. Where it had once made it damned easy to be published, and get grants, now it seemed that e-mail was ahead of him every step of the way. The few phone interviews he'd had - with people he knew - had been painfully circumspect. Everyone dancing around everything, and promising they'd "keep him in mind". He was beginning to wish they'd just forget him for a while, so he could make a fresh start. At this point, he couldn't even get a job as a technician. He knew, because he'd tried.
He'd also tried not to let it get to him. He'd told himself that all he needed to do was maintain, until tongues and memories grew short. In the meantime, the important thing was to eat. So, with basics in mind, he'd discreetly tried for jobs at the local burger stands, and the grocery stores. They'd all had waiting lists of people. He knew Steve Werner, that day's ISO watchdog, had wondered why he was going from stand to stand, and store to store, but Jarron hadn't enlightened him. Werner kept his distance, so Jarron did, too.
That was another thing that bothered him: he missed the chats he used to have with his guards. He'd felt a lot less guarded when they were friendly. He used to have them in, to offer them coffee, snacks, candy. Just to shoot the bull and use his voice on someone besides his ferret. As he'd run out of funds - and food - he'd had to cut back on the social sessions. He couldn't afford them, and he could afford even less for them to tell Robart how things stood. Not only did Jarron not want to be dependent on the ISO - he didn't want to be beholden to a man who'd tried to kill him.
Robart hadn't admitted anything, and Jarron knew that he and Andy and Kris could be wrong. But with so many people he couldn't trust out there, it didn't help that his "protector" might be at the head of the list. He was well aware that Robart didn't intend to repeat the mistakes he'd made with Andy Wakeman, and Dave Chavez, and Paul Warren - that of letting them get too close. If Jarron'd had the opportunity to get too friendly with his bodyguards, he realised now that they probably would have been replaced.
His circumstances were so "straitened" now he was actually glad he didn't have to explain himself to concerned parties. And, if he could find a way around his little electrical problem, he might yet have a chance to handle things on his own. Still, he wondered whether Colin Robart knew how well his strategies had succeeded. Not only would his "guardians" be receptive to any orders Robart might give them - by the time they'd followed him back and forth to his fishing spots a few times, they were no doubt ready to take the initiative of shooting Jarron Marshall themselves.
*
Colin Robart was lost in the dark morass of his thoughts. His fingers unconsciously traced the intricate metalwork on Marjie's latest acquisition, but he stared at it unseeing.
He would have derived a lot of comfort from familiarity right now - from the stability of being surrounded by things he knew and recognised. Instead, his house was beginning to look like its decor was courtesy of leftovers from a garage sale. His mother-in-law had discovered some kind of import shop for cheap Mexican replicas, and was flooding them with her overflow purchases. In themselves, and in the right surroundings, they may well have been things of beauty, but mingled with his other furnishings, they succeeded in making either themselves or his furniture look cheap. Gaudy. It wasn't the first time his mother-in-law had inundated them like this, but her timing couldn't have been worse. Colin needed security right now - a lot. Instead, all these glaring faces, bright colours, and garish gilded designs only added to his sense of alienation.
"Like that one?" Marjie asked him. Her voice was strained, but he didn't notice. He was too busy trying to conceal his other concerns from her knowing eyes.
He dropped his hand and took at good look at the face jutting from the small, sun-shaped disc. Then he gave Marjie a wry smile. "I like you - which is why I let your mother do this to us. When's she coming? I don't think I can tolerate the suspense."
"What are you - psychic?" she joked.
He smirked. Hiding things from her had become a habit, but it wasn't one he was happy with. She had only a glimmering of the true state of affairs - enough so he could blow off a little of his simmering anger. The Jarron Marshall situation made him angry in a way he'd never been before - or, at least, not since his early days on the job. Since then, he'd learned control, and to divert his emotional responses elsewhere. Except for humour, of course. Humour had seen him, and his agents, through some circumstances that might otherwise have daunted them.
Black humour. He was having trouble summoning it now. Marjie could joke, even tease him a little out of ignorance. But it was Colin's own ignorance - the way everyone, from his supervisors to his underlings, had kept him in the dark - that bothered him the most. Proportionally, Colin felt he was working on as little information as Marjie, considering he was supposedly the one doing the decision-making. In a sense, he was stuck operating on instinct.
He didn't like operating on instinct: that was for agents in the field. At his level, he needed to have some confirmation of the things he suspected. So he could apply a degree of logic to them. So he could take in all the potential ramifications of his decision, and act accordingly.
He kissed her forehead. "Call me suspicious, but you're not tacky by nature. Your mother's a different story: either tacky or wacky. Tell me you're not going to be like her when you get to be that age."
She grinned. "Nobody makes promises they can't keep."
Yes, they do. Colin knew that better than anyone. How the pressures of a situation could become untenable, so that even the smallest incident could turn a match flare into an incendiary blaze. Nothing could be guaranteed to alter a decision faster than a lethal incident or two.
Or a potential hazard to his own people.
He'd spoken with his usual note of levity, and Marjorie hadn't noticed anything amiss. Didn't know that he'd been left speechless - that her words had triggered off another attack of guilt, and something like regret. Regret was an emotion he could ill afford.
He'd suddenly seen himself as Marjie would see him, if she knew how easily he could do just that: alter a decision, even if it meant having someone killed as a result. Someone like Jarron Marshall. It made him realise how damned uncomfortable he was in his own skin now - and just how poor his self-perception had become.
*
The phone rang, but Jarron wasn't in the mood. It was probably Nick ringing back, and he didn't know if he could deceive Nick the way he had Lys. Nick had known him a lot longer. It'd be better if Nick thought he was out - and busy. He unplugged the phone, then turned down the volume on the answering machine - unwilling to know what he might be missing. "I'm just too busy," he smirked at the empty room. "No time for fun and games."
The last time he'd seen Kris and Nick and Andy together had been a few weeks ago. He'd had some beer left in the laundry room, and a package of crackers. With popcorn on the side, none of them had known the difference. They'd talked to him on the phone since, and he'd done his best to bore them stiff with his fanaticism for fishing. It was the best way to ensure that they wouldn't be around to pay him a visit. Besides, with the amount of time it took him to walk to his fishing hole and back, and his dream-generated forays out into the darkness, he didn't have much time for visiting anyway.
Jarron's stomach grumbled again.
He wandered into the kitchen and automatically searched the cupboards, then forced himself to drink a glass of water. Not exactly a filler. He snuffed the candle, clanging the waxy plate on the counter in disgust. If he didn't get a job soon, he'd be so skinny they'd think he was sick - or worse - on drugs again. What worried him more was something he'd read - about people fasting to promote psychic experiences. It might be why the dreams had increased in frequency.
Not a happy thought. Jarron didn't want hunger to take up where drugs had left off.
He trudged out of the kitchen, walked into a table, then tripped his way toward the front door. Someone was about to knock. He opened it just before Perry Gervois' hand contacted the wood.
Dammit! he thought. He was really losing it. Opening doors before someone knocked was one of the no-nos. "Thought I heard someone," Jarron explained lamely.
"Mind if I come in?" Perry asked.
Jarron hesitated. "I was just on my way out," he said.
"Where're you going?" Perry asked. "I could drop you." He was nervous, but Jarron didn't notice. He was too busy shuffling around, so Gervois wouldn't hear his stomach rumbling.
"Fishing," Jarron blurted.
That's it, Jarron - your reason's gone. What an idiot. All he could think of was how he didn't want the man to invite himself in - and how much he didn't want to mention the other things he'd been doing tonight.
Maybe fishing's not such a bad idea. At this point, I'd even consider sushi - right off the hook.
"Fishing?" Perry repeated in disbelief.
"Yeah," Jarron answered. "You got it." He tried to instil a little enthusiasm into his voice. "Best time of day."
"I thought dawn was best."
"It's good, too." Jarron turned around and went back into the house. "Have to get my rod."
Perry listened, as Jarron thumped and bumped his way back into the house.
"Be right out, Perry," he said cheerfully. "Just gotta find Con-man."
Perry stepped inside, and heard Jarron's frustrated "Where are you, you little demon?"
He tried the light in the entry. Burnt bulb? Tripping into the lounge, he tried the wall switch there. Nothing. "Need some help with the circuit breakers, Jar?" he asked.
"Nope." Jarron gave a muffled, but triumphant, "Got you!" There was another thump, a crash as something toppled, then the slamming of a door. Jarron's voice, "I'll worry about it when I get back." Perry didn't know whether he was referring to whatever had been knocked over, or the electricity.
"From fishing?" Perry repeated, frowning. Jarron was acting damned erratic -downright weird. Could they be doping him with something again? As Jarron's doctor, Perry should have been informed about the behavioural change. Could it be Robart didn't realise?
Or - maybe - Robart's the one responsible. Perry's anger flared. No matter what, if he could get him as far as the hospital, he was going to insist on giving Jarron a check-up - and it was going to include some drug tests.
"Yeah." Jarron came back into the room, and felt around till he found his pole. Picking it up, he headed in the general direction of the entryway. Just before he got to Perry he stopped. "Perry?" he whispered, a little tensely.
"In the flesh," Perry replied, somewhat amused by Jarron's reaction.
Jarron gave a sigh of relief. "Good," he said.
"Don't you need bait?" Perry asked.
If I had bait, I'd probably eat it. "I'll dig up a few worms when I get there," Jarron said blithely. Maybe I'll eat them, too.
Perry wondered if maybe he was reading this wrong. He was suddenly sure Jarron was hiding something. Could Jarron actually be endophyte hunting? If so, it was a foolish thing to do in front of Robart's people.
"You don't need to come, Perry. Probably better if you don't."
Perry grabbed Jarron's arm, before he reached the front door. "Is your house bugged?" Perry asked.
Jarron shook his head, then remembered Perry couldn't see it in the dark. "No-o," he said slowly. "What's wrong, Perry?"
"One of my patients. A little boy." Perry's voice was choked as he recalled that feeble form in the big bed. "He won't be able to wait till you finish your 'fishing' trip," he added, with a trace of bitterness.
"You want to try to heal him," Jarron said, slightly awed. The voices in his head were singing. This is it. My calling. Healing people. Excited now, he flung the fishing rod across the hall. "Let's go."
"Wait -" Perry grabbed his arm again. "What about them?"
Perry sensed, rather than saw, Jarron's smile.
"Let's find out -" Jarron yanked open the door. "We're going -"
"Let me guess," Charlie Reddy said sarcastically. "Fishing."
"Nope." Jarron's grin widened. "For tonight at least - you guys are 'off the hook'."
*
Colin Robart's decision hadn't come lightly. Marshall's contributions to science, including his discovery of the endophyte and his plans to salve world hunger, meant his heart was in the right place. Unfortunately, since Halloran's assault, the man's head had been screwed on half-assed backwards.
If self-defence could be considered a valid argument for murder, then Robart should have been commended for his efforts. Because it hadn't been in defence of himself, or his family, or even his country - he'd sought to eliminate a potential threat against large numbers of the general population. That was the way he'd seen Marshall - as someone who was capable of controlling situations and people - who could coerce, confuse, and overwhelm using weapons for which there was no defence. It was why they wanted Marshall so badly, and it outweighed any other contributions he may have made. If he could learn to control his abilities - or if they were able to control them on his behalf - there was no defensible means of combating them. Jarron Marshall was like a bomb with the timer ticking, and no disarmament in sight.
So, Colin had employed a bomb squad. To eliminate the problem. He just hadn't expected Marshall to fight back.
Now, they had an uneasy truce going. Marshall was back in his care, which meant - for the time being - Colin had an illusion of control. The man was also insisting that he was psychically burnt out, though Colin had his doubts. Burnt out and exhausted; a victim of physical abuse and psychic trauma. As long as he sustained the pose, Colin had decided to let him live. It was easier to justify to his employers - and went a long way towards casting doubt over any who would have credited the assassination attempt to him.
But the uneasiness was still with him. In all his years working for the ISO, he'd never been this concerned about his family. The tension was mounting, and he had to admit he was scared. There was something going on, and he didn't know what he could do about it - because he didn't know where it was coming from.
Marjie's redecorating binge didn't help. He needed the familiarity of his home turf in order to feel less vulnerable. He kept thinking bomb, and assassination. Guns and knives and clubs. Things that he'd never get the chance to see coming.
Because he knew how vulnerable he was. He loved his wife, his daughters. He needed them to see him a certain way, too - and these days it was all too easy to perceive things through a dark vision.
It had always been difficult to reconcile his dark side - the side that condoned assassination - with his role as a family man. It was even harder now, because he wasn't sure that either the ends, or the means, could be justified.
*
Andy Wakeman forced himself to focus. Get your head on straight, Wakeman, or you'll be dead. The stench of high humidity - of overly-saturated foliage and dank soil - hung in the air. Andy swatted at flies that were drawn in by the promise of a protein meal.
I might as well have a sign "eat me" tattooed on my forehead. The bloodsucking flies were trying to dine on the flat spots between last night's lumpy mosquito bites.
The heat was having a weird effect on him, and he blamed it on the shock value of their recent escapades in the Arctic Circle. As the temperature went up, his brain would flash him pictures of snowscapes and glacial fissures - of wind-roughened snow and stiffened ice. Relief from the dripping heat, that soddened his clothing and salted his eyes, was just a Jarron Marshall indiscretion away.
Andy must have relived that night a dozen times: the snow, the thunder, the Northern Lights that had stained the skies. He wondered if it'd been a mistake to release Colby Maxwell - to set him free so he blab his head off.
The man wouldn't hesitate to talk. He had too much to gain by it, in a "profession" that had few verifiable protocols. Andy had done quite a bit of reading about the Anomalous Cognition Sector (ACS) and their methods. Very little of his information had been "privileged" - they tended to keep their case studies locked up tight. What he did find out, though, indicated that Jarron would be an ideal subject, by their standards. Many of their efforts involved verification of other agencies' reports: satrap and agent locations, weapons installations, satellite instrument packages, terrorist activities. Even Jarron's precognitive dreams would have some value, and any psychokinetic potential would be assessed. PK was the big focus of the ACS' published research: mind-over-matter experiments using machines, so that any differential could be recorded and analysed. Andy grinned. It was the kind of stuff Nick Acklin would probably have been crazy about, if it hadn't involved Jarron.
These were the more public aspects of ACS research, but the others were the ones that really worried Andy. Jarron's ability - to bridge life and death - offered all kinds of horrifying possibilities. Information-gathering beyond the flatline was the least of these. Possession and coercion were the worst. Neither Nick nor Jarron had been able to prevent a bodily takeover, and necrotic influence, by one such as Jack Halloran, could well be enough to bring a government to its knees. This was a weapon for which there was no defence: the ultimate terrorist tactic. What couldn't be controlled through possession, could be dictated by terror.
It made Robart's decision to assassinate Jarron reasonable, but not acceptable. Because Andy knew a few things Robart didn't. Jarron had other gifts - like the ability to heal.
Andy had spent a lot of hours wondering what it must be like for Jarron: to spend years training in science, make a whopping discovery, and be mutilated for your efforts. Then, to discover you had other abilities that, in themselves, should have distinguished you for life - and, instead, had come close to extinguishing you.
What everyone should have looked at harder was Jarron's personality. His housekeeping might be shoddy as hell, but in his work he was a perfectionist. Andy could testify that it extended to his painting: the man would stand there for hours, if that's what it took to get it right. Plus, if something went wrong, he had a compulsion to fix what he'd messed up. To lay the dead to rest and heal the damaged. Whether the "wrongness" was the result of his own misguided efforts, or somebody else's effort to manipulate him, Jarron would be the first to try to set it right - and his perfectionist streak would make him stick with it, whatever it took, until he managed the "fix". To Andy's way of thinking, that meant his usefulness would be limited to those incidences where he could be either tricked or coerced.
It was a wonder Jarron hadn't been driven insane by his experiences, and maybe he owed this, too, to his "gift" - that he was able to put things into a kind of perspective he could handle. There was a core of strength in the man that Andy could admire, but that sometimes worried him most of all. If Jarron ever became convinced that he was being used for evil - that he'd been subverted somehow - nothing anyone could say would stop him from doing his damnedest to set things right - even if it meant putting an untimely end to himself. That was something Andy didn't want to happen, and it wasn't only the injustice of it. Part of it was personal. Andy didn't know exactly how or when it had happened - all he knew was that when he thought "friends", Jarron was near the top of the list.
Jarron wasn't the only one in danger, either. Despite any precautions Robart had taken, there'd been too many loose ends that night, and it was likely somebody at the ISO knew what Robart had done. If so, Robart might find himself, quite literally, at a dead end. And, despite their differences, that was something Andy didn't want to happen, either.
Another big leaf dumped a deluge on Andy as he trudged underneath. He sighed, discouraged. So far, the only things his covert digital survey had turned up were some questionable boot prints, a whole lot of mosquitoes and flies, and water, dripping heavily off every large, green, and leafy bush in sight.
If Robart had wanted him out of the action, he'd certainly succeeded. Andy Wakeman was smack in the middle of nowhere, somewhere close to the ends of the Earth.
A damn sight too far away to be of much help to anyone.
*
When they got to the hospital, Perry took one look at Jarron and headed straight for the cafeteria. "Want a coffee, Jar?" Perry asked him.
"That'd be great," Jar replied, trying not to sound too eager. Coffee. He'd run out of coffee two weeks ago. He hoped Perry couldn't guess how much he was salivating.
Perry had noticed something. When he came back, he not only had a coffee, but two sandwiches and a slab of chocolate cake. He also looked pointedly at Jarron's shirt. "What's that?"
Uh-oh. There was no mistaking the brownish-red patch - at least not for Perry. He'd seen too much of it.
"Shaving cut," Jarron told him.
"Always shave your chest?"
Jarron grinned. "Only when I'm bored," he replied distractedly, his eyes on the food now. Unable to wait any longer, Jarron picked up a sandwich, and took a big bite.
Perry opened his mouth to say something more, but instinct warned him to stop. "We'll discuss it later," he promised in a whisper. "Right now, I'll go check on the boy."
Jarron barely noticed. "Thanks," he mumbled through a mouthful of pastrami.
*
"And here I thought he was one of those vegans," Charlie Reddy said later to another ISO man, Kurt Jenkil. Kurt had watched over Marshall's house while Charlie and a back-up team had watched over Marshall. Charlie's tone was derisive. "You should've seen the way he wolfed down that sandwich, though."
"Yeah," Kurt said thoughtfully. With the electricity off in Marshall's house, he'd been more than usually diligent. The lack of electronics had made the place indefensible, from his point of view.
But it had also made him more observant. One of the things he'd observed had been Marshall's empty cupboards and fridge.
"Ever had your power turned off?" he asked Charlie.
"Once." Charlie shrugged. "Stupid oversight."
"He's broke."
"He's famous," Charlie argued.
"Werner said he'd been job hunting - at Thriftmart. I didn't believe him."
"I still don't believe him."
"I went through his cupboards. Nothing. Nada. Bare."
"What about his fridge?"
"No point even plugging it in."
"Do we tell Robart?"
"If it were you, would you want Robart to know?"
"Hell, no."
Kurt thought about the way the fishing rod had been flung recklessly against the wall. "Know something else?"
"Not sure I want to." It had been a lot easier for Charlie to think Marshall was a jerk, than find out the guy was so down on his luck, and he hadn't even noticed.
Kurt smiled ruefully. "I bet he hates fishing almost as much as we do," he said.
*
Jarron couldn't believe it. He'd only made it through one sandwich and half the cake when he'd run out of room. He was wrapping the rest up, to take with him, when Perry returned.
Perry was no dummy. He saw how much was left and had already guessed the reason. "Been that long, huh?"
Jarron changed the subject. "How is he?"
"It'll be close," Perry murmured. He sat down and spoke quietly while Jarron finished wrapping up his meal. "Last time, I managed to divert it into a tree," he whispered.
Jarron looked blank. "Divert what?"
"The healing energy, or whatever it is. Maybe I need a plant to send the sickness into -"
Jarron looked at him doubtfully. "Sounds weird to me -"
"Considering the source of that comment -" Perry left it hanging.
Jarron grinned.
"I'm just wondering if maybe I should buy a plant or something." Perry added doubtfully, "Unless you think I should aim for the wall -"
But Jarron was already thinking ahead. "Then I could analyse it, to check for novel proteins," he said excitedly. "The physiological effects of healing -"
Perry smiled. "Glad to see your brain's working again. Let's hit the gift shop." He remembered what Jarron had said, and whispered, "Hate to burst your bubble, but you don't have a lab. I was there when it blew up, remember?"
"I don't," Jarron admitted.
"Remember?"
"No - have a lab," Jarron said with a grin. "But I know a few people who do."
*
Perry stopped outside the boy's door. He was very conscious of Charlie Reddy's bulk at his back. Reddy wasn't the only one here, either. They'd been followed by a second ISO car. That meant there was at least one other man in the building.
How does Jarron stand it? All these people around him all the time.
Use your head, Perry. He puts up with it because he doesn't have a choice.
What will happen to him if they find out? About this? If word got out, Jarron would be crucified. "Are you sure, Jarron?" Perry asked seriously, suddenly worried he was making a terrible mistake.
Jarron's eyes grew momentarily distant. Am I doing the right thing? he asked. Or am I just making more trouble for everyone concerned? This little trek was so much more visible than those he undertook around town.
For once, the voices in his head were silent.
His decision.
Jarron nodded to Perry, then followed him into the room.
*
Andy heard a rustle off to the left somewhere and froze. Stupid to be wandering around this place in the dimming light. He recalled something from his jungle training: dawn and dusk were dangerous times - too many creatures came out to feed. He moved stealthily forward, hoping that his presence appeared as much of a threat to unseen predators, as their unseen presences did to him.
He took a deep breath - planning on holding it in silence while he stole away into the darkening night. Gagging, he expelled it, and wiped his mouth across the sleeve of his shirt. The stench of decay was just too thick here.
It was one of the features that had bothered him most about this settlement, and his first forays had been to track the source. The high humidity and frequent heavy rains had defeated him, though. Now, after a couple of days, his nose had become too acclimated to discern more than the occasional waft of decomposition from the underlying odour of rot.
A dark shape in the shrubbery made him freeze. In the near-dark, it could have been a big cat, or a wild boar, or a cayman up from the river. Something dangerous, come to eat him up.
It was dangerous, but not in the way he'd suspected. Andy drew nearer - hesitantly, but gaining confidence with each step. No predator would have stayed so motionless after he'd placed such temptation in its path. Surely, a predator would have gone for the gusto, in the form of Wakeman tartare.
More confidently - now that he knew he wasn't going to be eaten - Andy moved right up to the dark object. Wary of snakes, which might hunt the day's residual heat in the recesses beneath the rough stone, he crouched down. When nothing moved or objected to his presence, he reached out a hand, to brush his fingers across the object; to trace the outline with his hands.
It was stone, but the shape spoke of bone.
It's too big, Wakeman. Don't let your imagination run away with you.
Still, the curvature of the head, the hollows where the eyes should have been, the cavity for the nose -
It's a skull -
A giant skull, carved of stone. Andy forced himself to stay calm; to try to remember what he'd learned at the museum. It'd be limestone. That's what they'd used to build their cities. White limestone.
Just an artefact.
Andy traced the contours of the head, searching for distinguishing marks that would determine the reason for its presence. It was obvious to him, from the crunched foliage underfoot, that this statue hadn't been excavated - it had been moved here, recently. A warning? To stop intrepid travellers from going any further?
It stopped me. The statue stunk, of putrefaction. Death and decay.
Not your average tourist landmark. Andy's eyes were watering, as he fought to keep from gagging.
He forced himself to finish his exploration - wishing he could take a chance on using his flashlight. His hands followed the jutting contours of the cheekbones, and down along the jaw…
There was something in the mouth. Something chill and flabby, with the smoothly visceral texture of organ meat. Andy felt his gorge rise again. He jerked back his fingers as though meeting the snake he'd feared.
He didn't wait any longer. The night had gone silent; dead.
As dead as you're going to be if you don't get out of here, Wakeman.
Every nerve in his body was sending screaming synapses to his muscles: run! He twitched with the effort, but he made himself back slowly away - going first into a crouch, then a stealthy walk, and then, finally, a near-run.
When he got back to his rented house, he looked at his fingers. They bore a rusty red tinge to the tips - the sign of his explorations.
Andy went inside, and hurriedly bolted the door.
*
They hate me.
It wasn't the first time Colin Robart had thought the words - merely the first time they'd been reinforced. They'd maintained a truce over dinner, but the moment he'd entered the living room, his two daughters had stood up and left.
Pre-arranged. They were becoming more like him every day, and they didn't even realise it - would have rejected the idea if they had. Plotting and planning to bring him down; to make him notice their rejection. They despised him, and everything he stood for.
Some day, they might see things differently.
But by then it'll be too late.
He frowned - his anger close to the surface. Where the hell had that thought come from? In his job, he couldn't afford such luxuries as self-condemnation or remorse. Anxiety, yes, but regret, never.
They wanted freedom. Only, their ideas of freedom - to go unescorted to parties, to walk into the house without having their boyfriends searched, to take a solitary walk along the beach - were open invitations to torture and death. Cassandra, his elder daughter? What she wanted most was a chance to be free of him, and the restrictions his occupation had placed on her life. She'd broken free, but he'd used a mixture of guilt and logic to overcome her resistance. She was back at home, because he'd portrayed it as the only reasonable step to take.
She didn't realise that he was an expert at delineating the boundaries; at presenting choices as though people really had a choice.
He remembered how she'd left the room, and frowned. Something inside him tightened. Maybe she did know.
He wished he could tell her he wasn't just being a manipulative bastard - that her dad was doing his damnedest to save her life.
The problem was that both girls were too much like him. As much as they wanted change, they also wanted to be the ones to initiate it. Colin was in the same job he'd been in for years, and they didn't see why they couldn't have the same freedoms they'd had before - why all this extra regimen, and suffocating structure, had suddenly come into their lives. They knew it was in reaction to something, but they misjudged the cause. Joy, at least, thought he was reacting to her rebellion.
They couldn't figure out that he was merely acting to keep them alive.
And he wasn't about to tell them. It was easier to accept their hatred, than make any admissions that might earn their disgust - their revulsion.
Like admitting to them that his attempt to assassinate Jarron Marshall, might very well get them killed.
***
Chapter Three
Like Stephanie.
Whatever Jarron had been expecting when they'd come through that door, it wasn't this. He'd been clinging to the nobility of what they were about to do - never thinking too deeply about the person behind his gesture.
I've seen too much death. No - not death - the dead. The dead walking by his side. Little dancing ghost girls who were more friend than phantom. Lively, determined, even skipping - like Stephanie.
This is what it must have been like for her.
And why she skipped away, just outside the door. Because being dead was nothing like dying.
Jarron had been in pain himself - enough so he could recognise its manifestations in someone else. To see those marks of trauma, in the unlined pallor of the child's face, was almost more than he could take. Perry was right: the boy was dying. So close to it, in fact, that Jarron could almost feel it happening.
Like Kris. The memory of Kris' dying, and the terrible sense of desolation it had brought him, flooded his mind.
John Courtney's fading spirit. I couldn't stop it, John. I'm sorry -
" - better move fast." Perry. Perry was talking. Jarron forced himself to focus, to listen.
This is it. For just a moment, Jarron felt a qualm. Once again, he was tinkering with the supernatural - playing with God's plan. Should we be doing this?
Jarron stared at the boy's face, wondering if his answers were written there. What he saw made him turn any more questions aside. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was more guilt. Perry was a doctor. Saving lives was his business. If he saw this as a useful method of saving a life, then it was enough for Jarron. Plus, it was one of the few times when using his ability actually felt like the right thing to do.
"You okay, Jarron?" Perry was asking him worriedly.
"It's just - just that I haven't seen this side of it," he tried to explain.
Perry nodded. His smile held no humour. "I see it way too often," he admitted. He turned off the monitor, so it wouldn't accidentally get triggered. "Any ideas?" he asked, and Jarron sensed how uneasy the man was. All the way here he'd been confident - excited, even - but now he was just plain nervous.
It's up to me.
You're not alone, Jarron.
The voiced support relaxed him a little; enough for Jarron to flash Perry a reassuring smile. He put the Chrysanthemum on the bedside table. "There's your target," he whispered. "Need a bullseye?"
Perry grinned, some of his excitement coming back. "Trust me," he said.
Jarron grew momentarily serious. "I intend to," he said. "Take his other hand." Jarron sucked in a deep breath, then released a somewhat ragged sigh. "Here we go," he whispered. Jarron took one last look at the boy, then closed his eyes.
*
Perry kept his eyes open, determined to keep track of what was happening. This time things were different, and he knew he had to be on guard. When they'd done this before, it had been Jarron who was being healed, and Perry had come out of it feeling as though all his nerve ends were singed. This time, though, it wasn't a matter of Jarron healing himself.
It was a matter of Jarron being able to re-direct the illness away.
Jarron doesn't need me to heal. What he did need was someone to be there for him - to stop him from going too far, or taking it into his own body. Perry found himself watching Jarron at least as closely as he watched the boy.
He wasn't sure exactly how he was going to stop him. They hadn't discussed it - mostly because both of them were clueless. Neither wanted to admit he had no idea what he was doing.
Because the doing itself was just too damned important. Any negative concerns might stop them before they even got started.
If something happened to Jarron, as a result of this, Perry would hold himself responsible - even though he knew Jarron wouldn't. I should have done some research into healing, before I asked him to come.
There just wasn't enough time.
Jarron's past experiences didn't exactly fill Perry with confidence. If there was any consistent quality to Jarron's psychic episodes, it was in the way they were overplayed - no subtlety at all. Like comparing a game of football to a chess match. The latter could see you "mated"; the former could see you crunched.
Jarron had levelled with him after the mini Ice Age. Perry had already known a lot of it - after all, he'd seen Jarron paint away a she-devil in his own sister's house - but he was still stunned by the strength of Jarron's "gift". He'd also recognised the reason for Jarron's confession. Jarron had wanted Perry to be able to make an informed choice. To get out while he still could. "Knowing me isn't good for your health, Perry," he'd warned. "Just ask Nick."
Jarron's self-esteem was shot to hell. The man didn't realise how revealing his words had been. Jarron couldn't figure out why any of his friends would willingly take on the nightmare that his life had become. He didn't see why anyone else should have to. As he'd told Perry: "I have to live with this, but I don't expect you to."
Perry knew that, in some ways, it would have been easier for Jarron if they'd all abandoned him. Not best for him, but easier. The man was close to the edge, and there were probably a lot of times he considered joining his ghosts on the "other side", rather than risking anyone else's life. Jarron needed some positive feedback - to see his ability as something worthwhile, rather than a curse. To see himself as someone with potential for helping the human race, instead of harming it. He must be well aware of the military implications - the possibilities that Robart, and others of his ilk, were considering. He needed to know that he was good for something besides causing trouble.
That's one of the reasons we're doing this.
Liar. You're doing it because you're hooked, Perry. You're every bit as much of a junkie on this healing shit, as Jarron was on those pills he was popping.
One incident does not a junkie make.
After he'd let his defences down - and accepted the possibility that they might be able to heal the boy, Perry had been slightly shocked by how badly he wanted it. By how the thought had ridden him until he'd given it credence. It had made him examine his reasons closely - not wanting it to be the power that was driving him. Not wanting it to be the knowledge that he had a bigger weapon in his medical arsenal than all the other medical personnel in the hospital combined.
It took a lot of self-examination before he got it. Before he figured out why. It had nothing to do with power or knowledge or besting the boasters. It was the memory of those moments of intensity, and the exhilaration.
But, mostly, it was the joy. It snagged him as tightly as the damned hook Jarron used to catch his fish.
He imagined it was a lot like what Jarron felt on finishing one of his portraits. There had been something in his pose, his posture, when he'd finished the painting at Perry's sister's. Some glint of inner peace in his eyes, and a measure of tranquillity that had warred with the exhaustion in his face.
At the end of Jarron's healing, Perry had felt weak, fried, and somehow altered. He'd realised then that he'd known a lot of satisfaction in his life, but very little pure joy. Something about the healing had given him that. Whether it was the selflessness of it, or the touching of that other plane, Perry didn't know, but having once experienced it, he wanted it again. The chance to squeeze the last few drops of hope out of a hopeless situation.
The decision - to use this unorthodox means of healing - had seemed like a last resort. Now Perry realised it had actually been his first choice, but out of rationality and a trace of scepticism, he'd set it firmly aside. Gooseflesh danced along his skin as he watched Jarron's expression. Jarron needed the optimism this gave him, as much as Perry needed the ebullience of hope.
A junkie would risk anything, just to experience it one more time...
It was going to be damn hard for Perry to ever set aside this method again.
And just as hard for him to use it.
*
Cassandra Robart had recently begun to see her parents' house through adult - and liberated - eyes.
Not just your parents' house now: yours.
She was back and hating it. It wasn't only the capitulation of her pride to her father's demands; it was the feeling that somehow, in the last two years, the atmosphere had changed. This was the first time she had ever felt afraid in this house.
She wanted to blame it on the tension. The air was thick with it. In most social situations, it only took one person to change the dynamics. Well, one person had changed it here. Her dad was so tightly wound he was ready to explode. The rest of them were too busy reacting to do much more than complain.
All she wanted at this point was for her father to resolve whatever situation had brought them to this, and for him to set her free once more. To avoid hemming her in with logic, or familial concerns. To let her get on with her life.
Because she refused to get on with hers, at the expense of theirs.
*
He doesn't need me. Perry had repeated it so many times now that it should have been reassuring - should have made him feel as though he could exit at any time, with no detrimental consequences to himself. Residual fear of both Jarron's "gift", and his own response to it, made him want to believe he was merely an intermediary, acting out of goodwill and a sense of humanity - a medical man who might be thrilled by the experience, but was nevertheless approaching this as a legitimate therapeutic activity -
Bullshit. If you're going to do this, Perry, do it right.
His resistance - his effort to distance himself from the action - was merely slowing things down.
Unless I let myself get "involved", I'm not gonna be able to control any of this.
Jarron was halfway gone already. Perry could see it in his face. Lost in whatever place he went to when he did his healing.
Perry checked the boy. Colour was good, respiration better. Under his fingers, the boy's pulse was strengthening.
Unless he - Perry - was able to counter things soon, the boy would be dancing on Jarron's grave. Yet Perry felt none of the synchrony he'd felt before - with either the boy, or Jarron. He tried to fight through his feelings of frustration. If Jarron could do his bit, why couldn't he?
Because - obviously - something's wrong, you jerk. Is it your attitude? Perry ran a quick inner evaluation. Nope - it was all go. He was ready - to get involved, to commit himself - whatever it took.
Your methods? Last time, he'd held Jarron's hand. Maybe he needed some actual contact with the healer - some communion of flesh on flesh.
Yeah - and all I need is for Charlie Reddy to come in here, and see me holding Jarron's hand, Perry thought disparagingly.
Get past it, Perry. Or Jarron's gonna die -
Perry kept a firm grasp of the boy's fingers, then, a little hesitantly, placed the fingertips of his right hand onto Jarron's wrist.
His arm jolted - the muscles inadvertently contracting, as a burst of static electricity sought to fry his skin. He wanted to pull away, but he couldn't. In that instant, it was as though his and Jarron's skin had melded at the spot - he was as stuck as anyone who'd ever touched a live wire.
And he felt as though he were having a seizure.
Perry's teeth were rattling in his head, and his hands were on fire. Still, he couldn't pull away. He could hear voices now, and he wondered if they were the ones Jarron heard in his head. At first he thought they were singing, and then he realised they were screaming.
At Jarron.
Telling him to stop.
Perry forced open his eyes, surprised at finding them closed. He squinted, appalled at how impossibly bright the dim hospital room lighting suddenly appeared. He was shaking so much he could barely focus on the gaudy yellow petals of the bedside Chrysanthemum.
"Need a bullseye?" Jarron had asked.
Perry tried to remember how it had gone before - recall what he'd done, to make it happen. But somehow, the only image that came to him was a frozen graphic, of his own mind-boggling terror.
A terror that was a lot like what he was feeling now.
Suddenly, one of the screaming voices was directed at him, and he never knew whether he'd stolen the voice from Jarron's head, or whether it was own subconscious mind acting in self-preservation.
Coil it like a spring, Perry. Tighter and tighter -
His throat was contracting, so that his gag reflex made him feel like he was choking. His trachea was so tight now that he could barely breathe. Any more and it would tighten his chest -
I don't want to die -
Perry let it go.
The Chrysanthemum exploded in a shower of petals and leaf fragments. Uprooted from its pot, it slammed against the wall, leaving a long dirty streak of debris. The pot spun from the force, then toppled over onto the floor.
The dust hadn't even settled before Charlie Reddy slammed into the room, nearly springing the door with the force of his entry. What Perry noticed most, however, was the gun in his hand, which was levelled directly at him.
"What's going on?" Reddy asked.
Jarron sat in the chair by the bed, his back to the door. His head was bowed, and Perry hoped Reddy would think he was overcome with emotion, and trying to hide it. Perry attempted to reinforce the little scenario with a sympathetic, "It's okay, Jarron." He prayed Reddy wouldn't realise that the hand on Jarron's shoulder was actually propping him up. "My fault," Perry admitted, a little ruefully. "I knocked over the plant."
The man didn't look convinced, but like most people who pride themselves on their strength, the sight of suffering - be it the child's or the people who were mourning him - was enough of a deterrent to urge him out the door. "Frustration can do that to you," he muttered. It was obvious the doctor was upset about losing his patient. "Try not to be too long, Jarron," he added gruffly, turning away from the small body in the bed.
Perry's arm was shaking by the time the ISO man exited. He took one look at Jarron and wondered just what the hell they were going to do.
*
Tyson and Mackay were waiting, guns drawn, when Charlie exited the room. "It's nothing," he was quick to reassure them. "Gervois bought a planter for the sick kid, then threw it at the wall." His frown deepened. "He knows the kid's not gonna make it."
"And Doctor Marshall?" Tyson's eyes were dark and unreadable.
I sure as hell wouldn't want him guarding me, Charlie thought. It was bad enough having him as back-up.
"Marshall's fine," Charlie assured them quickly. "Real upset, but fine."
"You're sure there's nothing else going on." Tyson's words came out flat, but Charlie had no doubt it was a question. "Maybe I should check it out."
"Take a lot of reassurance, don't you, Tyson?" Charlie didn't want to admit it, but the sight of the child in that bed had touched him. His own son was two years old. A terminal illness was every parent's nightmare.
Quint Mackay looked at him as though he were nuts. Earl Tyson wasn't mangy-dog mean, and he never killed without cause, but he was as close to an ISO assassin as you could get without actually being employed as one. Tyson was usually brought in on assignments with perceived hazards, because he could be counted on to follow through the orders that other agents might balk at. In Mackay's mind, it wasn't a good idea to rile the man, especially since Mackay was going to be stuck working with him for the rest of the night.
Tyson, however, wasn't riled. Or upset. Or anything. It was what Charlie had counted on - that the man was never emotional. He'd decided a long time ago that Earl's psyche profile was probably less than a page in length, and no doubt read a lot like an ad Charlie had once seen for a delivery company. "Will not bend, fold or mutilate under pressure. Guaranteed to deliver the goods as ordered. Same day service if required. Reliable, punctual, uniform." In his own way, Tyson was disabled - emotionally dysfunctional.
And his presence in the ranks, of those watchdogging Jarron Marshall, was all the warning most of them had needed, that Marshall might not be everything he seemed.
*
It began as a raspy rustle. Irregular, spasmodic. A sound that didn't belong in his living room.
Dried leaves?
Colin Robart's brain automatically went into defence mode - sorting, analysing, cataloguing the sound. Determining the level of threat.
It was moving. Soundless now, but not motionless.
I'm asleep. I can't know what it's doing because I can't see it.
You can't see it anyway, because it doesn't exist. This is all a dream -
A nightmare.
The rasping sound came again, in sibilant defiance. At the same moment there was a stinging pang, in the centre of his chest.
Colin jerked awake. He was alone, on the couch, his eyes focused on the fire. A wet log was frothing; ejecting steam with a hissing sizzle.
Somehow, though, it did little to ease his mind. When the fire spat again, he yanked the log out of the blaze, and shoved it to one side.
He wished he could resolve his other fears as easily.
*
It was ten minutes before Jarron so much as stirred.
Perry's sigh of relief was gusty. "Thought I was gonna have to tell them you were overcome with grief," he whispered.
"Why?" Jarron's eyes went quickly to the boy's face. "Is he dead?" he asked, distressed.
Perry grinned. "Doing much better," he admitted. "You did good."
Jarron straightened up and rubbed his eyes. "We did good," he said. He stared at the boy for a long moment, his face filled with wonder.
We did it. Riding alongside his amazement, was a rushing wave of satisfaction - and a giddy flush remarkably close to exultation. He'd finally done something really positive with his "gift" - positive enough, anyway, to see it as potentially beneficial, instead of getting stuck dwelling on the lethal consequences.
The urge to do it again was almost overwhelming. He felt like he was surfing some kind of wavecrest, and he couldn't bear for it to wind down - yet. There were too many people out there who could use his help.
A big part of it had to do with redressing the balance; of giving back enough to make up for all the trouble he'd caused. Maybe, if he worked at it hard enough, all the death and destruction, the pain and anguish, could be countered by compassion and healing.
Besides, healing the boy had made him feel good. In a way that nothing - not even his efforts to thwart his nightmares - had for months. There was a thrill to it, an excitement, and - a rightness. He didn't know how else to describe it. He had a nearly irresistible impulse to repeat the effort. To do for someone else what they'd somehow managed to do for the small soul lying in that bed.
He couldn't get the thought of Stephanie out of his head - and how it must have been for her family. How they must have mourned the loss of that small, bright personality.
Save the others, Jarron.
His scientific side, and memories of recent past experiences, intruded.
Be cautious, Jarron. These are people you're playing with. You can't take chances. You don't even know how you and Perry did it - only that it worked.
Correction: seems to have worked.
To be considered successful, an experiment must be repeatable.
Impulse struck him again. So let's repeat it, and see what we can find out -
"Jarron?" Perry's voice. The concern in it dampened a little of Jarron's sudden zeal.
Good thing. Be logical, you fool.
Another rush of tingling excitement hit him.
Okay - if you can't be logical right now, at least be reasonable.
Try to figure out how you did it.
He had very little memory of the healing episode itself. He remembered giving himself over to it, and then it just sort of "happening".
He made a conscious effort. Focus, Jarron. You've seen too many examples of your own psychic mismanagement. Are you going to trust a repeat performance?
"Jarron."
That was Perry again, and Jarron gave him a huge smile, realised it was overdone, and tried to tone it down. Forcing his lips into what he hoped would pass for a serious expression, he cleared his throat and said sternly, "We ought to do this again some time." His words seemed to disturb Perry, so Jarron added a hasty, "As a last resort, of course." He had to bite his lips to keep from grinning.
Stop it, you dumbass. Think about something else.
His eyes lit up, as he remembered the potted Chrysanthemum. "How's my plant?" he asked.
It was obvious the question took Perry by surprise. He'd been expecting more questions about the boy, or the healing - not an inquiry about a plant.
Noticing his reaction, Jarron felt slightly embarrassed, and wondered if he'd blown it again - if maybe his question had been out of place. Most people wouldn't have felt so enthusiastic about a damaged Chrysanthemum, in light of what they'd experienced. It was just that the thought of actually analysing the healing process, as an expression of plant wounding, fascinated him.
And it would also go a long way toward making him feel that he was less of a freak, and more part of some natural - rather than supernatural - activity.
"You mean, 'our' plant?" Perry asked. He looked at the Chrysanthemum doubtfully. "On second thought, you can have it. It's all yours." He plopped the pot onto Jarron's lap. "You left part of it on the wall," he added, grinning. "Don't believe in discretion, do you?"
Jarron fingered a shredded leaf. His voice was nearly as awed as it had been at the boy's recovery. "Do you know how incredible this is?" he murmured. It wasn't until he'd examined the wizened stem that Jarron recalled Perry's part in all this. He looked up at him quickly, an expression of concern on his face. "What the hell am I thinking of! I didn't fry you, did I?" Jarron asked worriedly.
"Nope. A little frayed around the edges, but that's my fault. I didn't jump in until you were already on 'high'. Should have started venting the steam back at 'simmer'."
Jarron grinned. "Hey - at least you kept me from boiling over."
Perry looked dismally at the plant. "Just barely," he said sarcastically. He helped Jarron to his feet. "If I don't get you out of here soon, your bodyguards are going to come in after you."
Jarron knew his feet were there, but everything was rubbery. Rubbery and giddy. It made him want to laugh out loud. The entire thing - from his wobbly knees to the wriggly plant in his hand, was just so damn funny.
Reprehensible. If Perry thought your interest in the plant was inappropriate, what's he going to think about this? Jarron started to chuckle, then turned it into a cough.
Perry was giving him that look again. "You okay, Jarron?"
Jarron snorted, then tried to pretend it was a sneeze. "Just fine, Perry," he replied brightly.
Too brightly. Ground yourself, Jar.
Look at the boy. That'll do it.
Jarron reached out and brushed his fingers across the back of the boy's hand, much as he'd fingered the plant's damaged leaf. "Just had to convince myself he's real," he explained solemnly. His own words made him want to crack up all over again. He turned away quickly, before the laughter could escape.
Look at Perry. He's serious enough for both of you.
And he was, too. Perry was frowning now, and Jarron wondered if he'd made another gaffe. He frowned back, struggling to hide his mirth. For nearly half a minute, he returned Perry's intent stare, then gave into compulsion, and punched him in the arm. "So are you," he said, snorting with amusement. "Real, that is. Just had to check."
Perry rubbed his arm. "Damn it, Jarron! What d'you think you're doing?"
"Celebrating!" Jarron explained gleefully. "Isn't this great!"
Perry was really beginning to look alarmed. "I think it's time we got you home."
Jarron stuck his face in Perry's, so their noses practically touched. Then he crossed his eyes. "Don't - you - get - it?" he said loudly. "We did it!"
Oh, shit! Perry thought. He looked warily at the door. "Keep it down, Jar!" he hissed.
Jarron went to rap Perry on the back, missed, and nearly fell on his face. He chuckled. "Oops. Feel like I'm drunk."
"Look like it, too," Perry remarked, a hint of exasperation in his tone. He watched the other man teetering back and forth, and his exasperation changed to concern. "Why don't I make up some excuse for you to stay -"
"Like what? Tripped over my feet and broke myself?" Jarron shook his head. "Nope. You know what your problem is? No discretion." He wriggled his fingers, then stared at them thoughtfully, a wicked grin on his face. "I've got a plan," he said excitedly, tugging Perry towards the door. "There must be someone else out there we can heal -"
Perry was horrified. "We'll be lucky to get out of this one -"
Jarron stopped. His shoulders drooped, and he gave an exaggerated sigh. "I was just kidding."
Perry visibly relaxed. "You had me worried for a minute -"
"Gullible!" Jarron's laughter erupted again, and he dove for the door.
In this mood, there was no telling what he would do. Perry yanked him back and pinned him against the wall. "They're gonna expect you to be sad, Marshall," he said firmly.
Jarron's face sobered, but his lips twitched.
Perry saw it. "Maybe even grieving," he went on harshly.
Jarron nodded and his eyes narrowed. "Gotcha, Gervois," he replied, with mock severity.
Perry was ready to throttle him. In fact, throttling him was beginning to sound better with every second. At least then, he'd be silent. "This is no time for levity," he growled.
Jarron's eyebrows went up. "What time is it, then?" he asked, then burst out laughing again. In his efforts to keep quiet, it came out in a kind of squeaking wheeze, interspersed with the occasional loud snort.
Perry shook his head, and tried to still his panic. "Time to get you home," he said with forced calm. "Can you walk?"
Jarron snorted rudely. "Like an expert."
Perry rolled his eyes. "Good, because we're going to walk on out of here." He reached out and latched onto Jarron's shirt with his fist. "Just remember," he told him angrily, "if you go down, you're gonna take me with you."
His words of warning got them all the way out to Perry's car. They even lasted until Charlie Reddy was standing in front of Perry, telling him coolly, "Jarron and I'll take it from here." Only, Reddy couldn't see what Perry could: the sight of Jarron nodding wisely, then jumping around like a madman. He was crossing his eyes, yanking on the sides of his mouth, and doing ape imitations for Perry's benefit. He even did an impromptu tango with his wilted leaves, then cha-chaed around with the pot on his head.
But it was when he V'ed his fingers above Charlie Reddy's head, that Perry faked a massive coughing fit. He didn't know what else to do.
And he realised there was no way the ISO people in the other car could have missed Jarron's gestures.
Charlie hit him repeatedly across the back. "You okay, Doc?"
Jarron just looked on with unholy amusement.
"Fine." Perry cleared his throat and tugged the agent aside. "I'd like to see him home. In case he needs something to help him sleep."
Like my fist on his jaw.
*
"What's wrong, Tyson?" Mackay stared at Tyson's face. It was contorted, as though in pain. "You okay?"
Tyson was watching Jarron Marshall's antics behind Reddy's back. His shoulders began to shake, and then his laugh shot out abruptly - sounding almost like a bark. Mackay jumped at the force of it.
He didn't realise at first what it was - and he didn't think Tyson did, either. The man seemed a little stunned by his own reaction. What started like a surprise belch, became a full-fledged set of hiccuping snorts.
It was like that all the way to Marshall's house. Mackay sat there like a stone, afraid to move. Tyson had tears dripping unheeded out of his eyes now, and he couldn't seem to stop laughing. Every time he'd seem to be getting over it, he must have remembered Marshall bouncing around like an idiot, and it would set him off again.
After Marshall went into his house, it was nearly a quarter of an hour before Tyson was back to his old self.
Or nearly. For the next few hours, as he sat behind the wheel, there was a look of something remarkably like amusement creasing his lips.
*
Somewhere between the hospital and his house, Jarron's lunacy faded, to be replaced by exhaustion. There were dark circles under his eyes now, and he was shaking as he climbed out of the car.
"Just a few more feet, Jarron," Perry urged in a hiss.
Jarron walked like a zombie, but he made it in through the door. Once there, he leaned against the wall, glad that Perry couldn't see him in the dark. "G'night, Perry," he said.
"Sure," Perry said sarcastically. He pulled Jarron's arm over his shoulder. "Your bed or the couch?" he asked.
"Bed," Jarron muttered. He stumbled along at Perry's side, but by the time they'd hit his bedroom, Perry was practically carrying him. It was damned embarrassing, but the floor would have been more so. Jarron knew that's where he'd have ended up if Perry hadn't been there.
He sensed Perry was worried, and he knew it was his fault. Perry had risked a lot on this little escapade - his reputation being highest on the list. Jarron knew what it was like to have your reputation slandered, and how impossible it was to amend public opinion. The last thing he wanted was for Perry to be in the same boat he was in: unemployed, and apparently unemployable.
He owed the man an explanation, but he couldn't seem to come up with one. The truth was, he'd enjoyed himself - really enjoyed himself - for the first time in months. And he was too damn tired to make sense of it for himself, let alone sense of it for someone else.
Nevertheless, he tried. "About the punch -" he began, then realised it was going nowhere. He was so exhausted he was practically incoherent.
You fool, Jarron.
You're just going to make it worse. In the end, he dropped it, except for an embarrassingly repetitious chorus of "Sorry, Perry", that he couldn't seem to control.
It was all so mortifying. What he really wanted now was for Perry to leave, so he could get some sleep. Only, after he'd helped him into bed, Perry didn't seem all that keen on leaving. "Better go, Perry," he urged.
"Telling me to get lost?"
Jarron could hear the amusement in the other man's voice.
At least it's amusement - not anger.
"I'm not that rude," Jarron retorted. "But feel free to go - please."
The crack seemed to alleviate some of Perry's concerns. He'd almost reached the door when Jarron called him back.
"Perry?"
"What?"
"It was great, wasn't it?"
Perry couldn't see Jarron's smile, but he knew it was there. He grinned. "Yeah, Jarron. It sure was."
Jarron didn't say anything else. But Perry could hear his soft snores in the background, as he quietly exited the house.
***
Chapter Four
The next morning, Ben Tomkins stopped Perry before he reached Jarron's door. Perry had come early - worried about Jarron's weird mood of the night before. His elation over the boy's recovery was now being tempered with a heavy dose of guilt. He kept thinking about what Kris Chandler had said: that Jarron healed by taking on injuries. Could that be what had happened in this case? Jarron had been positively bleary-eyed when they'd returned. Was I stupid to take this chance?
The boy's parents had, of course, been ecstatically grateful. With every embrace and "bless you, Doctor", though, Perry had felt a little more uncomfortable. He'd tried to play the miracle down - make it seem as though modern medicine was now cropping up with the miraculous on a regular basis - anything rather than have them label the miracle with his name.
The word was dangerous, especially since Jarron had been a visitor in the boy's room. Any "miracles" belonged to him. His miracle, and his life, that were at risk.
And it was only a combination of chance, and dumb luck, that they hadn't been caught out. Perry realised now that he and Jarron had been so excited about the possibilities that they hadn't fully thought through the consequences.
The ISO agent in his face was one such consequence, and Perry tensed. They'd have to be a damn sight more careful in the future if they decided to do this again.
Perry froze. What the hell am I thinking? "In the future"? I better be grateful if we both survive this one.
Ben Tomkins eyed Perry's basket warily. Robart had told him to trust no one. With someone like Colby Maxwell running around loose, everyone - from Andy Wakeman to Robart himself - was suspect.
Tomkins, though, had been given a pretty thorough briefing this morning by Kurt Jenkil. It wasn't Jenkil's words that had penetrated, so much as Charlie Reddy's. Charlie had been insistent - really insistent - that he and Hank Rennet take a look at Jarron's kitchen. All of it, including the cupboards and fridge. Then he'd gone on to mention how some people would be happy to burn their fishing poles if they knew some other way to feed their faces. That some people were so broke they didn't have any lights, and would have to start adding a daily swim to that fishing expedition if they couldn't get the hot water heater going again.
It was damned annoying. Guarding Jarron Marshall hadn't been so onerous at first, because it had seemed Jarron was going out of his way to alleviate the boredom. Ben now realised the man's socialising had dwindled with his food supply. At the time, Ben had thought Jarron was merely getting frustrated with being under nearly constant observation. He didn't know exactly when it had happened, but the easy camaraderie between Jarron and his guards had gradually faded to a kind of uncomfortable silence on Jarron's part - and a lot of cool and distant ridicule on theirs. Jarron's insistence on what they'd seen as a ridiculous hobby - that addiction to fishing - had been the brunt of jokes. The damned inconvenience of following him on foot, or trailing him with monotonous slowness because he refused all offers of a ride, was seen as a form of self-centred indulgence. If he was going to inflict his hobbies on someone else, he should at least have made it easy for them to participate.
Perry didn't realise that, had he arrived the morning before, Ben Tomkin's reaction would have been a lot different. The sight of a tackle box, with the day's entertainment it implied, would have stirred more than a few coarse comments. Now, though, Ben was looking at things a little differently. He merely greeted its unwelcome presence with a sigh, and a rather disgusted, "What's in the box, Doc?"
Perry hesitated, as he anticipated the man's reaction. He cleared his throat, then fumbled with the latch. "Bait," he said.
Ben took a look at the sandwiches, chocolate milk, fruit pie, cake, and cookies that were crammed into the box. He raised one eyebrow doubtfully, then muttered, "Either damn rotten fish food, or one helluva good bribe." He grinned, and Perry relaxed.
"Want some pie?" Perry asked him.
Ben shook his head. "Hey - don't waste it." His grin widened. "Tell Jarron if he'll lay off the fishing for a day, the next batch of chocolate milk's on me." He opened the door and ushered Perry into the house.
*
Jarron was dreaming about chocolate. Lush, mouth-droolingly sweet, creamy, rich chocolate. It was there, just beyond his reach - so close he could smell it. But it was just so damn hard to wake up. He couldn't seem to rouse himself enough to reach out for it. With a sigh, he started to sink back into oblivion.
Suddenly, there was a sharp, acrid scent in his nose, his mouth. Ammonia. He jerked awake, involuntarily sucking in a quick breath, then coughing and choking, as he fought to push himself up.
"Hold it, Jarron," someone was saying. "Relax. You'll feel better in a moment."
He didn't hear anything after the "relax". The next moment he was sinking back into slumber. The damned ammonia smell came again, so sharply this time that tears sprang to his eyes. Then someone was forcing him to sit up, and sticking that stinking capsule under his nose.
"Damn it!" he choked out. "Cut it out -" He flailed weakly, but didn't seem to contact whoever it was enough to do damage. He shook his head to clear it, and tried to force open his eyes.
He peered at Perry through the slit, and saw the capsule coming his way again. He was awake enough this time to push it back. "Cold water would've worked, too," he muttered, glaring.
"Think so, huh?" Perry commented. "I would've drowned you first." He tugged Jarron back against the headboard, then said, "If you can manage to stay awake for half a minute, I'll feed you something."
"Don't need you to feed me." Jarron's eyes were drifting closed again. He knew it was going to annoy Perry - maybe even make him go after the smelling salts again, but he couldn't seem to help it. "Damn tsetse flies," he complained, then nearly managed to startle himself awake with the sound of his own snoring.
"What's wrong with him?" This voice was loud. Nick. Jarron wanted to say hi, but he couldn't seem to get past that urge to sleep.
"Low blood sugar - I think," Perry grunted, annoyed that he hadn't prepared for this. He'd have a damn hard time getting cake - or anything else he had in the basket - down Jarron in this state. "See if he has any sugar, Coke, soft candy - anything like that -"
Nick hit the kitchen at a run. He was back less than a minute later, his expression appalled. "No sugar - no nothing," he said.
Perry nodded, and tossed Nick his keys. "Get my other bag out of the car. Stroll, Nick. I mean it. I don't want them to know anything's wrong."
"I have some cans of Coke in my car -"
"Bring them, too."
Nick frowned. "What's going on, Perry?"
"Just do it."
When he came back in, Perry propped Jarron up and tried the inhalant capsule again.
Ammonia. Squid. It was coming to eat him. Jarron jerked, and was suddenly dreaming he was the one eating the squid. "Calamari," he muttered.
"Drink this, Jarron," someone ordered. Jarron took a sip, then spluttered. The drink tasted like ammonia, too.
"Give me back the squid," he said.
"More," the voice demanded. This time, it tasted like Coke. In fact, it tasted great.
Jarron gulped it down, then opened his eyes directly into Nick's. "Back off, Acklin," he said.
"He's better," Nick said, relieved.
Perry nodded. "Give him a minute."
Jarron was shaking now. It was embarrassing, but he couldn't seem to stop it. He was shivery and sweating and his head ached. "Wish I stayed asleep," he grumbled.
"No, you don't," Perry told him practically. He dug in his tackle box and pulled out a piece of cake. "Eat," he commanded.
Jarron didn't argue until after he'd downed three or four mouthfuls. Then he said, "Anyone ever tell you you're damn bossy?" he asked, still chewing.
Perry ignored it. Jarron finished the cake, then sighed loudly. He was still feeling damn shaky - and ridiculous. Nick was wearing his thunder face, which meant he was about to raise hell about this, and Perry was looking guilty. "It's not your fault, Perry," Jarron told him.
"I'm not so sure about that," Perry said regretfully.
Jarron frowned. Saving that little boy had been one of the highlights of his brief psychic career. It had shown him he might have something to offer the world, besides grief and terror. But without Perry to control the healing process -?
"I'll do it with or without you, Perry," Jarron told him. It would have sounded a lot more resolute if he'd been able to stop the quivering of his jaw.
"Do what?" asked Mr. Thunder loudly.
"Go fishing," Jarron told him tiredly.
"Shut up, Jar. I want to know what's going on, and why you've got no food in your kitchen - and what stupid move you're planning on making now." He turned to Gervois. "And why you're sneaky and sly all of a sudden."
"Patient confidentiality," Perry told him.
"None of your damn business," Jarron said. "But thanks, anyway." He sighed. "Can I go back to sleep now?"
"No," Perry told him. "Not until you eat some more." He gave Jarron a sandwich, and Nick stared at him while he ate it.
"Go home, Nick," Jarron told him. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Yeah - right. Busy being a horse's hind end. Did you know you don't have any lights?"
"I thrive in the dark. Suits my mood." Jarron finished the sandwich. "I'm taking a nap," he announced, crawling back under the covers. "If all the uninvited guests would get the hell out -" The last ended on a yawn. "But thanks for coming," he offered, his voice muffled by the blankets. "See ya." In the next moment he was asleep.
Nick tugged Perry out of the room. "What's wrong with him?" he asked.
"I told you - hypoglycaemia," Perry said. "Most likely brought on by -" he thought quickly, "- excessive exertion."
"Let me guess: marlin fishing," Nick retorted sarcastically.
Perry grinned. "Something like that."
"If it's any of his psychic shit, you're not doing him any favours," Nick warned him angrily. "You're gonna get him killed."
Perry didn't reply. It was what he was worried about - in more ways than one. What if Jarron's symptoms this morning weren't due to the energy he'd expended the night before? Or what if they were - because he'd inadvertently inflicted himself with some of the boy's illness? The night before Perry had been fairly confident that he and Jarron had managed it right. This morning he wasn't so sure.
He realised Nick was still talking. "- no food in the kitchen? Don't tell me: the numbskull was just too proud to ask."
Perry sank down on the couch. It had been a long night for him, too. "Eating out?" he suggested.
"Try not eating at all," Nick replied. "Pig-headed fool."
Perry looked at him pointedly. "What're the odds he'll welcome your help?" he asked.
"Ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine-point-two to one - against," Nick told him. He grinned. "What're the odds he has a choice?"
Perry grinned back. It was good to know Jarron's friends had stuck by him. He'd been beginning to wonder, when he'd discovered something was wrong. "I couldn't begin to guess," he said.
*
When morning came, Andy unlocked the door, and tried to put his panicky reaction of the night before into perspective. The jungle was full of dark recesses, that bred everything from blood-sucking mosquitoes, to carnivorous caymans, to venomous vipers. There was an undeniable beauty to the lushness, the undulating greens of the canopy, the occasional splashes of bright colour in the sultry undergrowth - but it was a beauty he couldn't trust.
There was something here - something that the locals didn't want to talk about. Something that frightened them in the way only the ungodly can. Andy had witnessed the products of economic and racial strife, political tension and guerrilla warfare before, but none of it fit the situation here. What astounded him most was the level of fear. Pervasive. Invasive.
Like a stench you can't avoid.
His fingers involuntarily clenched, as he recalled the flabby slime, and decaying ordure of that disintegrating organ.
Nobody said it was human. It could have been a monkey's liver - or a boar's heart.
But it wasn't. Any more than the stone was a natural wonder, with an accidental similarity to a skull. Andy didn't know why he was so certain.
Or why he knew it was evil. Bad karma. Dark. Wicked. Wrong. It would have been easier to deny it, than to seek a way to explain it. It also would have been easier to lie to himself - to tell himself he wasn't afraid.
But, his fear was too glazed with horror, and Andy couldn't help it: he was reminded of his encounters with Jack Halloran - with the man's malignant spirit. No matter how hard he tried to deny it, so he wouldn't be setting himself up to dread his surroundings, the memories wouldn't go away. It made him wonder if he was, in truth, still scenting something - of death and decay, mould and rot - that was triggering his revulsion. He hoped so. It was a lot easier to accept a physical repugnance, than a parapsychological one.
The smell brain remembers.
Then you'd better train yours to forget, Wakeman. He had to get past that elusive shadow on his consciousness - that debilitating fear in his gut - if he was ever going to take the next step. As he opened his door to admit the wan sunlight, he realised he'd misinterpreted the reaction of the locals. Given the location, he'd originally thought their wariness had to do with his trespass, onto their artefact grounds. That they'd considered him a threat to a profitable cottage industry.
Now he was sure he'd been wrong.
People weren't jumping at his appearance, hiding their children, and running away in the dead of night because they were worried about some filthy pieces of metal or stone, that had been in the ground for centuries. There was some kind of violation going on, and it involved antiquities, but Andy suspected the violation wasn't in their theft.
It was in their use.
*
Jarron woke up in the dark - unable to believe he'd slept the day away. Almost automatically, he reached for the light switch, then jumped in startled surprise when it actually produced some light. Cringing inwardly, but already guessing the worst, he padded on bare feet up the hall, directly to the kitchen.
His cupboards were no longer bare. He guessed Nick had left out of deference to his feelings - or maybe, he just didn't want to be the recipient of Jarron Marshall's wrath. Nick had probably worked out how many cubic centimetres he'd lost, and exactly how many calories he needed to restore him to his former glory. Then, he'd tossed in a few extras to coax him, just in case he felt reluctant. Half of one shelf was filled with candy bars.
Jarron knew it was Nick, just as he knew the vampire who'd sucked blood from the hole in his arm was Perry. What Jarron couldn't believe, was that he'd slept through it all.
I should call. Otherwise, one - or both of them - would turn up again, just to make sure he was still alive. He reached for the phone, but his pride was still sort of crunched, so Jarron did the next best thing: he raided his own fridge. After all, if he didn't snap out of it, Perry would never help him do a healing again. Grabbing a sandwich, he released Con-man from laundry room bondage and headed for his lounge. "We feast, Ferret," he said cheerfully.
He was still feeling drained, but it no longer felt bad. More like the day after some heavy-duty exercise, where exhaustion almost feels good - and normal. He finished the sandwich, some potato chips, and a jug of chocolate milk. He had every intention of picking up the phone, but he was just too damn comfortable to move.
When Nick came by, Perry was already there. Jarron never saw them: he was sound asleep once more, the litter of his meal surrounding him, and Con-man curled up on his shoulder.
What Nick noticed, though - and what pleased him the most - was the chocolate milk smile on Jarron's face.
*
Colin Robart stared at the statue, his expression appalled. "What the hell?" The ugly thing was perched in the flower bed, right next to the house.
"'What the hell' is right," Dave Chavez told him with a grin. "Latest acquisition from your mother-in-law." He chuckled. "Does it do her justice?"
Colin looked pained. "If a bomb does turn up on my doorstep, don't bother disarming it. Just shift it over there." He glared at this latest monstrosity. It was female, judging from the giant, bulging breasts. Other than that, it was hard to tell exactly what it was, except that the artist had had a fascination for death. Beneath the double snake heads, which sat where the face should have been, there was a superbly ugly necklace made of skulls and hands. And, unless he was mistaken, the chain on the necklace was derived from intestines. "Grotesque," he muttered, shaking his head.
"Takes away my appetite," Dave replied, chuckling. "And here I was thinking of having a hot dog for dinner." He grimaced. "I'll order pizza instead. Vegetarian pizza."
"I wonder if Angela stuck a matching version in her yard."
"Like mother, like daughter?"
Colin nodded.
"I don't think it was supposed to be in the yard," Dave admitted. "Marjie told me to stick it out here, to take advantage of the acid rain. She wanted to donate it to charity, but none of us could come up with a charity that wouldn't be embarrassed to take it." He grinned. "So she hid it among the flowers in hopes you wouldn't notice."
Colin smiled. That sounded like Marjie. "I think my wife has temporarily lost her mind." He shook his head. "Any of you guys heading for the dump?"
"Is that an order?"
Colin sighed tiredly. "Let me put it this way: the next time any of you head for the shooting range, take 'It' along for company."
"No problem," Dave assured him. "In the meanwhile, though, think of 'It' this way: couple more statues like that, and you wouldn't even need us. If someone made it past them, as far as the front door, you could just shoot him outright. You'd know he was up to no good."
*
The boy crouched recklessly in the leafy undergrowth, certain that the stranger would never see him, camouflaged as he was within the lush foliage and meagre light. He assumed that his familiarity would give him some advantage over the stranger's wariness, but he'd forgotten that familiarity could also breed obliviousness - that the squish of moisture and scraping of leaves were all too obvious to one who was watching his back, intent upon the slightest trace of order amidst the chaos. For, that was how Andy saw it: the jungle was chaotic, restless; a constantly shifting uncertainty of nattering birds and chattering simians, splatting droplets and hovering insects. Anything that brought a pattern of order to the relative disorder was suspect - and the sounds of a predator in pursuit were the most suspect of all. Andy had no desire to leave part of himself behind on the jungle floor, dangling from the jaws of ancient artefacts - or in the stomach of some feral cat.
The boy watched him with squinted eyes as Andy moved stealthily along the trail. Narrowing his vision made Diego feel more secure - as though it would reduce any chance that the man might somehow sense the eyes boring into his back. He couldn't detect anything untoward in his own movements that could give him away, and he relaxed a little, sure that any disruption would be lost in the jungle noises - bird and rodent and reptile and insect - that surrounded them.
Diego's nostrils flared, and his jaw tightened, as he continued to watch Andy with near disdain. If he'd known how revealing his expression was - how much his contempt emphasised his Mayan heritage, he would have schooled his features to relax, too. His heritage was a sore point at present. It somehow gave him a place in all this, that he'd much rather deny.
But, some machismo stirring wouldn't allow him to deny his contempt for the stranger. This man hadn't joined the Others - that other group of hunters who fed on human flesh. The boy knew. He'd been watching. In his mind, it was a sign of failure; somehow equating with a lack of training, even a lack of interest. They didn't want him because he wasn't good enough - or bad enough.
Not up to their standards.
It made Diego lax. Made him think of the man as unprepared; a victim. The boy, as survivor, possessed both cynicism and scorn. Trust had passed away with the members of his family. Only his abuela - his grandmother - remained. She was too old to entice them. Too old and too damn noble. Killing her might be an effort; might stir the odd conscience.
Just as he was too young.
He wanted to live, but at the same time, it made him angry that his youth, rather than any effort on his part, had sustained him. It denigrated his existence somehow, and he scorned himself nearly as much as he did his abuela for her age.
Nearly as much as he scorned the man on the trail, who'd been stupid enough to arrive in ignorance, and tramp in the teeth of death. As much as the boy abhorred the bloodshed, some part of him gloated over his knowledge and the man's naiveté. God knows there was little enough glory or satisfaction in this place. There was only fear and hate and the smell of carnage. Only the certainty that evil existed - and the defence of it to his abuela. Just enough to make her wonder which way he'd go, when it was his turn. Enough to make her hate him, just a little.
It helped to ease his pain. He refused to think of the ones he had lost; the ones who had gone before. Who'd vanished to the sounds of foreign voices chanting barely understood phrases, that belonged to his heritage - not theirs.
He refused to consider the stench - the stink of death.
Refused to wonder whether any of that pervasive odour bore the familiarity of his father's touch, or his mother's smile.
It was much easier to feel hate, than hurt.
*
The boy had been trailing him through the undergrowth, and never even realised he'd given himself away. Andy had stood there for a few moments, watching him - noting the beginnings of panic as he realised he'd lost his prey. It was a dangerous thing to do in these parts. The prey could so often turn on you, to become the predator.
Little terrors, little terrorists. There were too many children out there with a motivation to murder - who'd been indoctrinated into politics they could never begin to understand. This boy was no different. He looked angry, then scared, then furious that he'd let his fear overcome his anger. He was no child, either. Andy pegged him as fourteen, maybe fifteen. Old enough to know better. Old enough to know how to use the machete in his hand.
"They use children as the first line of defence." Andy had heard it said before. It made a sick kind of sense: most people would resist the idea of killing a child. Andy was no exception. The boy might be no more innocent than the jungle which had bred him, but there was no way Andy Wakeman was going to give him the opportunity to add to his list of crimes. Andy pinned him, and snatched the machete out of his grip. Then, he asked the boy what he wanted.
Diego spat at him, then told him angrily, "To rip out your heart, and dance in your blood. To feed your corpse to the flies, and let the maggots dance in your eyes…" Andy was sickened by the sentiments, but he knew he'd be doing the boy no favours by dismantling his hatred - or encouraging him to pick sides. He looked at Diego for a long moment, then yanked him to his feet, and gave him a shove.
"Go home," he ordered harshly. "Find your people. Use some of that hate to keep yourselves alive." Almost as an afterthought, Andy rummaged around in his pack, then pulled out a gun and a grenade, and placed them, along with the machete, in the boy's hands. "And, if that fails, use these." His slow grin popped out at the astonished expression on Diego's face. In the next moment, Andy had turned away and vanished into the green expanse beneath the trees.
*
"Rotten camouflage job," he told Marjie, a few minutes later.
She knew exactly what he was talking about. "I think the flowers did wonders. Hey - to some people it's a work of art. The girls love it."
"That's because they know we'll hate it." Colin kissed her, then held her at arms' length. "You seem rational enough. When I first saw our new garden ornament, I wondered for a moment if you'd lost your mind."
She snorted. "Would you rather I stick It in the house?" she asked, exasperated. He ought to know, as well as she did, that there was no stopping her mother once she got into "send" mode. Angela was like an e-mail programme gone awry: she'd just keep going until she'd worked the bug out of her system, or run out of money. "I could put it in the bedroom," she suggested sarcastically. "Or maybe it'd give you more inspiration sandwiched between the toilet and the tub -"
He chuckled at that. "Can't you stop her? I have a reputation to maintain -"
"Speaking of reputations," she began, "it's all very well having a discreet bodyguard, but I can't even go to work alone any more."
"Better than not going to work at all."
It was the wrong thing to say. "Excuse me? What was that?"
"Merely an observation." His smile was forced.
"You may be God to your underlings, but around here, you're just another workhorse - like me."
"Workhorse, huh? Want to take me for a ride?" he whispered in her ear.
"Slut. Quit trying to distract me." She pulled his head down, and shoved her tongue into his mouth. Then she undid his zipper and slid her hand inside his pants. He was gasping by the time she'd finished.
He pinned her against the wall and growled in her ear. "Quit fondling my gun," he warned her. "Might go off."
"A misfire?" she asked roughly. "You're just getting what you deserve," she told him silkily. "Any more cracks about my work, and I won't be responsible for the consequences." She emphasised her words with a tug.
No matter what happened, he needed to keep her safe. She was his life - the only life he had that mattered. He wouldn't be whole without her.
Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. There were so many things he wanted to say, about his fears, and his guilt, and - most of all - the regrets he wasn't supposed to have. But he'd only endanger her more if he told her, and what was worse, she might even hate him, for the things he'd done.
So, he kept it light. "Consequences, huh? Then it's damn good I have a bodyguard to protect me," he said.
*
Jarron woke up happy. No - more than happy - elated. It struck him, because it seemed so long since he'd greeted the morning this way. P.H., in fact. Pre-Halloran: a time when every morning had held a hint of promise. When he'd had no reason to wake up worried, or tense - or scared.
And today - today was going to be great. Yesterday, he'd had no goals other than fending off his nightmares - eating - and surviving till the next job came along. Today, he couldn't care less whether he had a job - in fact, a job would just have gotten in the way.
There were two things that needed doing. Those weeks of hunger had taught him something: a taste of what it was like to go hungry - the gnawing, nearly painful emptiness; the huge effort when you were weak and starving to procure your next meal - or to produce anything else worthwhile.
Out in the bush there was an endophyte that might do a lot to remedy the situation for a whole lot of people. He couldn't believe he'd let so many weeks go by without doing something about it. In retrospect, it seemed damned irresponsible - reprehensible, even - to be so overly protective of his own skin. Too scared to save children who were dying for their next meal…
The other thing had to do with death - and dying. He'd come close, but he'd never actually been there - although he now knew a lot of people who had. Dead people were just that - people. Many of them seemed to have a preoccupation with both the living, and their former lives: memories, relationships, concerns. Therefore, it only made sense that any attempt to prolong life - to extend lives that had been cut short by illness or accident - would give the dead more to occupy them once they'd "passed over". It was the rationalisation he'd been subconsciously seeking, during his long hours of sleep: a way to justify saving people's lives. His mother's words - "God wanted him" - that she'd used to explain the death of an acquaintance, had been returning to haunt him. He had no desire - or intention - of defying whatever Being ruled their destiny.
But God wouldn't have given me this "gift", unless He intended me to use it.
And humans wouldn't have such a strong sense of self-preservation unless there was something worth preserving.
Jarron grinned. The sun was pouring through his window, and he went to stand among the dust motes. It had been a long time since he'd been this happy.
It was so great to wake up feeling that - just maybe - you were gifted, instead of cursed.
*
Nick picked up the phone on the first ring. "Hi, Jar," he said confidently. Jarron wasn't the only one who could predict the future. A lot of it could be worked out through logic.
Besides, he'd known Jarron a long time. Long enough to know that he'd go for the phone, as soon as he worked past his squelched pride. Nick had already worked out the scenario: Jarron would mumble a few words about the weather, maybe even the odd comment or two about fishing - then, eventually, he'd get around to Nick's grocery shopping spree, and to an overly robust assurance that he was once again fit and ready for action.
He'd be less embarrassed by phone than in person, so he'd be calling as soon as he got up - just so he wouldn't have to explain anything face-to-face. With so little else to occupy him, yesterday's fiasco would undoubtedly be preying on his mind.
*
But Jarron wasn't in the least bit subdued, or squelched. Instead of being embarrassed, he sounded both amazingly cheerful, and preoccupied. It made Nick realise how much Jarron had changed. There was a time not too long ago when "subdued" and "Jarron" would have been opposites. When his friends wouldn't have expected excuses. When Jar wouldn't have felt he had to explain anything, or divert the conversation into innocuous channels.
It also made Nick realise that it had also been a heck of a long time since Jar had had any fun. He made a mental note to do something about it. All esp and no fun would make Jar a dull boy.
"How'd you know it was me?" Jarron asked him cheerfully. "How many times did you guess wrong?"
"Only once, you fool - and that was because you slept in late."
"Question for you: have you seen my car?"
Enough with the social preliminaries. This was so like the old Jarron that Nick hooted with laughter. "What'd you do: forget it somewhere?"
There was a smile in Jarron's voice. "Hey - I know exactly where it broke down. Not to denigrate human nature, but I think somebody 'nicked' it."
Nick snorted. "Not unless they needed a second toilet. More likely, the police impounded it. Andy might know -"
"No!" Jarron said quickly.
Too quickly.
"What's up?" Nick asked suspiciously.
Jarron changed the subject. "Ever notice how the word 'nick' refers to negative things: like gouges, theft, Acklins?"
"Better than being named after a container or a jolt - Jar."
Jarron chuckled, then lowered his voice. "Here's the deal, Acklin," Jarron whispered into the phone. "I need you to find it."
"A jar?" Nick kidded, grinning.
"No, you dumbass - my lost voiture. My auto. My car." He added, "In your spare time, of course."
Nick grinned. "Thoughtful of you."
Jarron hesitated. "You'll recognise it, won't you?"
"Your beast? Should I be honest, or spare your feelings?" He hesitated, not wanting to crunch Jarron's pride again. "Do you want me to drop it at a mechanic's?"
"Nope. I've decided to trade it in."
"On what?"
"Tell you later," Jarron whispered, side-stepping the question. "Oh, by the way, thanks for the eats. Pay you back sometime." Nick could almost hear him thinking. "How's Alys?" he asked brightly.
"Great. Now, about your car -"
"Gotta go," Jarron told him hurriedly. He hesitated, not wanting to be rude. After all, Nick was doing him a big favour. "I've got a plan," he hissed. "Just let me know where you find it, and I'll take care of everything else. Talk to you tomorrow." He hung up, then picked up the receiver again and added a quick "Thanks". He'd slammed it down again before Nick could ask him anything else.
Nick stared at the receiver for a long time, before he finally laid it in his cradle. His expression went from amused, to a kind of frowning concern.
There'd been a trace of excitement in Jarron's voice that Nick hadn't heard in months. Jarron "excited" was good. Jarron "excited" and "sneaky" was hopeless. And - whatever it was - Jarron had, more or less, admitted Andy wasn't going to like it.
Nick made himself sit down at the computer and re-read the chapter he'd just edited. Thinking about the kind of trouble Jarron could stir up made even voracious brain-eating space monsters seem dull.
What the hell was he up to now?
Nick decided his first stop wouldn't be to the police, or the impound yard. It'd be a detour to visit Perry Gervois.
*
"What's up?"
Earl Tyson's question made Quint Mackay tense. He didn't like working with Tyson; didn't like having the man at his back.
A few nights ago, when Tyson had actually broken down and done the Tyson equivalent of laughing his head off, Mackay had started to relax. Tyson might act subhuman, but his momentary aberration had proven he had a personality in there somewhere. His mood had only lasted a few hours, though. By the time they'd gone off-duty, Tyson had been back to his former stilted self. He'd gone off-shift as silently as he'd come on.
His personality made Tyson a lousy choice for any kind of undercover work - unless the job description was thug. His only other convincing role was bodyguard, and he played it with an assassin's edge. He'd done a damn good job of convincing his co-workers that he'd shoot first, and ask questions later.
"Marshall wants to go fishing."
"At this time of night?" Kurt Jenkil asked. He looked over at Jarron, who was clearly agitated. Every once in a while he'd realise he was giving himself away, and make an effort to look calm. But, in the next moment, he'd be pacing again. "It's not fishing," he said.
Charlie Reddy nodded. "He's lying." He glanced at his watch. "Robart didn't say anything about stopping him." He sighed. "I say we go along with it." He met Tyson's eyes. "What d'you think, Tyson?"
Nobody bothered to ask why Charlie had queried Tyson. If there were objections, Tyson's was the only one that really mattered - his veto might be backed up by hardware.
"He wants a ride," Jenkil added. It made him feel a little foolish - almost as though he was working for Marshall - trying to coax the others into doing what the man wanted.
"Then he rides with me," Tyson said.
*
"What's he up to?"
"Hey - I told you: patient confidentiality."
"Bullshit. Jarron's no ordinary 'patient', and you know it." Nick glowered. "Trying to up your paycheque, Doc?" he asked nastily. "You'd be able to draw it out a lot longer by keeping your patient alive."
Perry's eyes narrowed. "I resent that, Acklin. Did you ever think Jarron needs to do some of these things, to redress the balance? That maybe it's his way of evening things out?" Christ, I sound like a prick, Perry thought. Be honest, at least with yourself. You got as much of a thrill out of that healing session as Jarron did. It disgusted Perry to admit that his concerns were more over Jarron's timing, than the fact the man wanted to run right out and heal somebody else.
Nick nodded, a little grudgingly. "Logic dictates that most people are reward-driven, be it for money, or status, or power. Jarron's got a lot of guilt driving him. I just don't want to see anybody taking advantage of him - for any reason."
Perry nodded stiffly. Nick had a point. Still, he couldn't resist asking, "What's in it for you?"
Nick gave a wry grin. "Peace of mind," he admitted. "In all defiance of logic, the damn fool's my friend. Not knowing what he's up to keeps me awake nights."
*
Stupid move, Jarron.
Jarron didn't know if it was one of the voices in his head, or just his common sense echoing agreement. Taking the ISO along for the ride was one of the stupidest things he could have done.
It was also the only thing he could have done - if he wanted to get there on time. It would have been more foolish to try to secretly order a cab he couldn't pay for, or attempt to hitch his way to the scene.
And there's no time.
He couldn't believe he'd be flashed a vision, then given no time to deal with it. If things kept going like this, pretty soon the visions would be retroactive, so he'd get all the horror, but no opportunity for prevention.
No, Jarron. The visions were coming more frequently, as though somehow summoned by his willingness to act. But they tended to visit his dreams. It was only an unexpected catnap that had given him warning this time. Otherwise, he would have missed his chance.
I hate fires. He kept thinking about John Courtney, and the way he'd died.
He died in an explosion, Jarron. Not the fire.
But at the moment, with fire looming in his future, Jarron could only recall the stench of burnt hair.
This had to look like an accident - like they'd accidentally stumbled across the building.
Sure, Jar. Just "tripped" over it, on your circuitous way to some new fishing hole - that you have yet to invent.
Earl Tyson was grim and silent as they rounded the corner. They were close, now.
Jarron swore he could already smell the smoke.
***
Chapter Five
Kris Chandler deftly caught the gem the Wraith tossed over the top of the laser beams. Then he held his breath as she winked, dove over one, and did a back flip over the other.
He acted instinctively; his arm barring her path so she wouldn't topple over, into the path of the next beam. He was seething now, and he could feel her quiver with amusement. As soon as they'd cleared the building, Kris yanked her into his arms. "You damn fool!" he swore. "Why?"
"For the same reason you did an Evel Knieval on the roof."
Kris scoffed. "It's not the same -"
Gill grinned. "Of course it isn't. But only because you were the stunter - not me."
"Speaking of stunters, I'm making a career change. Falling off buildings, flipping cars, getting blown up…after working with you," he said derisively, "they're a piece o' cake."
She kissed him. "I don't want to work with you, Kris."
His eyes were dark, and she sensed she'd hurt him. "Not up to your standards?" he asked, with attempted lightness.
She'd hurt his pride. "Of course not," she told him, grinning. "But that has nothing to do with it."
"I feel so much better."
"You know damn well you're good, Kris. Very nearly the best." She paused.
"Now who's opinion needs squelching?"
"But when we work together we compete, which makes us take stupid chances."
"Speak for yourself." But the amusement was back in Kris' voice. "Why don't you just admit you can't control yourself when I'm around?"
She snuggled against him. "You're right - for once."
"I have my moments." He kissed the top of her head. "Tell you what: I'll loan you Andy if you ever need him."
She chuckled. "How generous. I'll tell him you gave your permission."
They hugged the shadows until they reached a doorway. Then Kris pulled her inside, and kissed her till she felt soft and melting - her eyes dark and dilated. "You know what?" he whispered huskily.
She shook her head. "Tell me," she urged him.
She could see his grin flash white in the dim light. "If we ever really did compete? Odds are -" he kissed her again, "- I'd win."
*
How am I going to make him stop?
Tyson didn't exactly seem like the altruistic type, and Jarron doubted whether the sight of human distress would sway him much. Not only that, but Jar had Quint Mackay in the seat behind him. Ready and willing to grab him if he made a run for it.
Jarron's hand quivered near the door handle.
And jerked back as Tyson slammed on the brakes. Kurt Jenkil and Charlie Reddy were in front, and they were pulling recklessly off the road.
*
Jenkil was already in motion, tearing through the crowds of smoke-stained residents, searching. He was yelling - screaming now - and it didn't take a crystal ball for Jarron to make the connection. Kurt Jenkil's family. They were still in the building. Lost in the smoke. Trapped by the flames.
Charlie latched onto Kurt's arm. "You can't go in there!" he yelled, over the roar of the fire.
Kurt was panicked - his eyes wide and dilated. "It's Marie! Th-the kids!" he sobbed. He yanked away, but Charlie pinned him, and signalled to Quint to help. "I've gotta try!" Kurt screamed. Charlie looked at Quint, then nodded, and the three of them went first for the door - and then a window - but the flames beat them back.
Jarron looked at the building, then closed his eyes. Five. There were five in all. Three had Kurt's shadow to them - he didn't know how else to describe it - they were some extension to his being: wife or child, sibling or parent. The others were strangers, but they didn't deserve to die.
Tell them, Jarron.
Tell them what? That you know where the people are?
The fire engines were coming - he could hear the wails in the distance.
Too late. They'll never be here in time.
In his heart, he could also hear the wails of the terrified.
Don't, Jarron - you'll give yourself away -
Jarron didn't listen. Or, maybe, he just couldn't hear over the screams in his head.
With a resigned mumble, "I hate fire," he twisted, and tore away from Earl Tyson's grasp. Tyson was after him in an instant, but Jarron's adrenaline was already running - had been running since he'd seen the first flicker of flame. He sprinted for the tree - the one he'd seen in his dream. It was one of those times when everything seemed to come together: his adrenaline, his timing, and his desire to put things right, all seemed to mesh.
The tree was no problem - he'd done his Master's on tree diseases. He'd been up and down dozens of trees. He hated the heights, but tonight, his mind was elsewhere.
Tyson might be trained and agile, but Jarron was a whole lot lighter. As Tyson climbed a little clumsily behind him, Jarron nimbly scurried up along the branches, till he was within metres of a window.
You can't make it, Jar. It was the old fear of heights, returning to haunt him. There was another scream, and Jarron realised he wasn't hearing this one in his head - it was a child, and it was muffled by glass. He refused to look down. Instead, he focused on the window and the smooth wall.
Why the hell don't these buildings have rain gutters or pipework or ledges or anything like that? he thought, a little desperately.
The screams were blinding him now. And Tyson was at his back. If he didn't act now, Tyson would latch onto him, and keep him from acting at all.
Jarron climbed up a little higher, so his dive would have more force. Then, in a spring that owed a lot to the tree's resilience - but would have done an Olympian proud - Jarron dove through the window in a shattering of glass.
*
"What the hell!" Quint Mackay swore. "He's gonna do it!"
Hopeful words. Kurt lifted his head, following Mackay's line of sight. He was just in time to see Marshall dive in through an upstairs window. Shoving away the restraining hands, he took off in that direction at a run.
*
I should have picked his brains. The boy was smart, and angry enough to blurt out his list of woes. But he was also too damn vulnerable. Andy had been afraid that pushing him - and making him explain his rather cryptic curse - would have been the same as killing him. It could well have had the same result. A kid who was defiant enough to take on one stranger, and live to tell about it, would be stupid enough to take on another. No knowledge he possessed could be bought at the price of his life.
Andy knew a lot about vulnerability - it was what he was feeling himself. There was something here that stirred the hairs on his neck, like the bristles on a mastiff's back. Something was terrifying these people. In the boy's case, his fear had been displaced by anger.
Andy's Spanish might not be fluent, but his understanding was good. The people's fear was based on the dark, the immoral, the barbarous. Pride of heritage, overlain with an agony of regret. Of trying to mingle the present with the past.
Andy did his best to avoid being spooked. He'd seen too many past events come within haunting range recently, and it had taught him a new respect for the unfathomable.
It made him glad, for the moment, that Jarron was far away. There was no way he could accidentally be dragged into this mess; no way he could unwittingly magnify it out of control.
But, if things get out of control, Andy, you may damn well be wishing you had Jarron at your back -
Andy put the thought out of his mind. However much these events might be inspired by the dire and necrotic undertones of past tragedy, they were very much in the present.
Nothing you can't handle -
Robart had positioned Andy here so he'd stand out - so the natives would wonder about his role.
He'd been told to talk to the locals, and make them acknowledge his existence. To make them fear him enough to respond, when he asked his stilted questions. Robart had smelled something rotten, but he just hadn't known how vile it would stink from Andy's vantage point.
It hadn't taken long for Andy to realise that it required little effort to make them fear him. That his presence here was enough. His incongruous appearance and laboured speech were apparently far more common features here than Andy would have expected - certainly far more frequent than the backcountry tourist industry would suggest. It also wasn't hard to figure out that his presence carried dubious, even fearful connotations for the locals. That there had been an uncomfortable number of similar travellers through these parts, with much darker intentions than photographing ancient buildings.
Andy had been expecting something tame, like theft or drugs.
Well, Andy had found out more than he wanted to know; certainly enough to terrify him.
The worst of it was, the ISO was involved.
*
For just a moment, Jarron could see. The dense smoke swirled, as a breeze swept in the window, clearing his path across the room. Jarron stumbled to his feet, ignoring the sting of glass in his hands and arms, and searched for the small voice, that had been screaming for his help.
He rested a hand on the wall. It was seething, and coils of smoke were escaping into the room.
I'm in the dragon's mouth. There was an undercurrent of red to everything, and Jarron realised he was seeing the glare of refracted fire.
Hurry, Jarron!
He shook his head, and ducked below the smoke. Much longer, and it'd be eating at his brain, the way it was eating at his throat.
He jumped a foot when his hand contacted something soft - and warm. Living warmth - not the oven-baked heat of the dragon's tongue.
Think, Jarron -
He crawled back to the room with the broken window.
I can break other windows, too.
No, Jarron. There'll be help there -
He crawled headfirst into Earl Tyson. A Tyson who was pissed off, because his spring hadn't the sproing that Jarron's had had. He'd come close to landing face first on the concrete.
Jarron passed him the child, who passed it off to Kurt. But when Jarron turned to crawl back into the smoke, Tyson grabbed his leg. "Get out!" he said harshly.
Jarron looked at him, astounded that he could ignore it when there were others to save - others still alive.
He doesn't know that, Jarron. Tell him -
"The others -" he said. Then, he began to cough.
At the same time, there was a sensation of despair. Kurt's despair. This wasn't Kurt's child. "Tell Kurt -"
Kurt was at his side. "Tell me what?" It was strained, but hopeful. He yanked Tyson's hand off Jarron's foot, then handed Tyson the kid, before giving him a shove toward the window. "Get her down," he ordered. "I'm going with Jarron."
A minute later, they were lost in the smoke. At least, Kurt was lost. He'd thought he knew every inch of the building, but somehow, in the choking blackness, it was all different.
So, Jarron led him. If Kurt hadn't known better, he would have thought Jarron had a guide - so unerringly did he find his way to Kurt's apartment.
Beat the fire, Jarron.
Time. It was all time.
Good thing Nick loves a horologist, he thought, confused.
The fire was louder here. Huffs and puffs of poisonous smoke, interspersed with loud roars as it ate at wood, paint, and plaster. The heat was intensifying.
It had reached this level and was coming their way. He could see the glow in the distance that heralded its arrival.
"Jarron!" Someone was shaking him. There was a sob in the man's voice, and Jarron remembered. Kurt. Kurt's family.
He slammed his hand flat against a door. "Here -" he choked out.
Stay with it, Jarron. Don't fail them now.
They were trapped inside. Trapped and latched by the bars, locks, and bolts Kurt had installed to keep them safe.
Kurt didn't hesitate. With two kicks, he booted in the door.
The smoke was even worse in here. It must have been coming up all along, through the heating vents.
The fire's coming, Jarron.
Kurt's wife was there, on the floor.
For just a moment, Jarron didn't know where he was. The scene, of the woman lying there, overlapped with another scene, in some other part of the building. Where another woman was fighting - fighting the flames.
Jarron was blinded by the intensity of the vision. The fire - it was all around him. He was saturated in fire, and the roar was drowning out his screams. Jarron was drowning in his panic, till somebody - he later realised it was Kurt - knocked him over just to shut him up.
He hit the ground with a thud, but it shook some sense back into him. The smoke was so thick he could barely breath, and as the sensations from the dying woman ebbed, he could sense the fading life in here.
The kids. Kurt's kids. Jarron fought down his panic as he struggled to concentrate.
Find them now - before they're gone. Before it's too late to sense them, Jarron.
He crawled through, into the bedroom.
Kurt's son was curled up on the bed. Jarron yanked him down, onto the floor. Then he felt around, for the small body that he knew was in the crib.
Jarron's chest was on fire. The air was so hot, and there was so little to breathe. Dimly, Jarron heard a crash in the other room.
Fighting the dragon, Jarron thought. It's Kurt fighting the dragon. There was a swift sweet rush of fresh air, and Jarron's brain came back. Kurt's breaking the window, to get them out.
Get them out. Jarron grabbed the boy by the back of the pyjamas, and lifted the baby into his arms, then stumbled back into the other room.
Kurt was handing his wife to someone outside. Firemen. Kurt flashed him a quick smile, as Jarron passed him the baby.
But the next moment his smile faded, when he saw his son's face. "Mike!" Kurt shook the boy, then put his ear against his chest. Nothing. "Mike!" He bent over and started giving him mouth-to-mouth. He'd forgotten Jarron was even there.
There were floodlights on them now, and firemen struggling in through the window. The fire, fed by the oxygen, was spitting and sparking at their backs.
Jarron stared at the small hand that was curled up, so close to Kurt's heart. The boy was nearly done. Too much of the acrid smoke had eaten its way into his young body.
One of the fireman threw an oxygen mask over the boy's face, and hauled him down the ladder.
Not just smoke, Jarron. Plastic smoke. Killing him.
It'll be too late -
Jarron pushed Kurt aside and tore after the fireman. He dove through the window and slid down the ladder. "Wait!" he rasped.
Too late. Too late. It had already been too late for someone else in the building. He wasn't going to let Kurt's boy die, too.
The fireman was halfway to the ground when Jarron caught up with them. The fireman tried to tug away, but Jarron ignored him. He reached down and grasped Mike's limp fingers.
Kurt was on his way down, too. His eyes were streaming, from smoke and despair, and he wanted to pound Jarron when he saw him impeding the fireman's movements. In Kurt's mind, a quick descent was his son's only hope.
In a moment, he realised he was wrong. He saw it all: the fierce look of concentration on Jarron's face, and the limp look on his son's. The fireman's anger that gradually changed to confusion.
His son, Michael Steven Jenkil, suddenly sucked in a deep breath, then jerked and twisted in the fireman's arms. Jarron, on the other hand, wasn't breathing at all. As Kurt's son twisted, and tugged his fingers from Jarron's grasp, Jarron's fingers went as limp as the boy's had been a moment before.
And, as his protectors watched, Jarron did a slow-motion topple, onto the concrete below.
*
Robart knew he wasn't going to sleep that night. The thought didn't particularly bother him - he hadn't slept well in weeks.
I can always quit. For just a moment, the thought gave him a feeling of relief, like a rush of cold water on a hot day. Only for a moment, though. The reality mocked him, drenching him in nervous sweat.
No one quit his job. They were "replaced", or eliminated, but they didn't quit. There was too much knowledge stored outside his computer - and in the recesses of his brain.
It was expected. The hidden files were strictly precautionary: ammunition against coercion; material for the occasional manipulation. They were as much a part of his security arrangements as the guards on the door or the silent alarms in his office. There'd been a few times in the last month, when it was all too obvious he was being squeezed, that he'd been tempted to pull out a little dirt, and pull in some favours.
Colby Maxwell was a symptom of the problem, but he wasn't the source. He didn't exist in the computers, which meant that his real identity had probably been lost years before. He jumped around so much between agencies that it was difficult to pinpoint his employer - making Robart wonder whether he was on the right track in assuming he was part of the Anomalous Cognition Sector - or whether he was funded by someone else altogether. Someone even higher. Someone who could pull strings at his or her discretion.
Maxwell was hardly a threatening individual. Not like the assassins Robart occasionally employed, or the seasoned agents under his command. He was like the people Robart used for tails: neutral and innocuous. Yet he could infiltrate anywhere, and stir up hell. His presence seemed to bring things to a climax. Somehow, in the space of weeks, the man had escalated a situation that might have remained tenuous - and tentative - for years.
There was always a tension in this kind of work. The world order could be shaken by a single mission, given the right information. Robart's branch of the ISO had practically been shaken apart, as a result of Jarron Marshall's antics and Colby Maxwell's infiltration.
Colby Maxwell had gotten to him, too - to the extent that Robart doubted himself. Doubted himself, doubted Caraldy and his other supervisors - and wondered just what they were working toward. If the ISO had altered its mission statement from security issues to militant enforcement, Robart was no longer sure he was comfortable issuing orders. There was a hidden agenda underlying this Jarron Marshall situation, and its relationship to Colby Maxwell.
Robart was really beginning to wish he'd finished what his hired assassins had begun.
*
All Andy's instincts were telling him to get out. Take what he knew and run with it.
No, don't run. Stroll, for the benefit of all those watching eyes. Act as though the ISO "connection" gets your tacit approval. If it's ISO, it must be okay...
Then go out on another hike, drop out of sight and run like hell...
They'd have no trouble monitoring his transmissions. After all, he could hardly scramble messages from people who used the same code. Which meant the stuff Robart would really value from - ranging from his estimate for numbers of victims, to his suspicions about his lethal counterparts - couldn't be sent. The moment they intercepted it he was a dead man.
His ISO affiliation was probably all that was keeping him alive. He wasn't a serious threat, because they didn't realise how much he knew, and they figured that, in the end, he wouldn't betray his own employers. So, they were using him, to see how well he could penetrate their camouflage.
Andy could have told them their camouflage sucked. They'd become too enthralled with creating an atmosphere of occult terror to cover their tracks very well. The odd boot prints had been only the beginning. Andy had discovered a lot more that had made him wonder: everything from sunglasses hot off the chilly ski slopes, to candy wrappers, a very soggy ATM receipt, car keys, and a designer shirt. Fingerprints, bank records and label information could have told him more, if he'd dared to try an electronic access.
He didn't. Doing it now would be the same as putting a gun to his head.
If his "co-workers" had left the imprint of their visit on the terrain, they'd done an even better job of leaving the imprint of their activities on the locals. It didn't taken Andy long to learn that the locals hated him. It wasn't a general distrust for tourists - it was a very specific abhorrence for the activities the tourists undertook while they were here. That abhorrence was mingled with a superstitious dread, that stagnated the air. Andy could feel it himself: dread. Anticipation of the worst. A morbid desperation.
There were only a few people who were willing to talk. He'd had several discussions with the priest, before the man had made himself scarce. He'd suggested that Andy talk to Carmen. "She knows everyone," he'd said. Andy guessed she was the only one Father Lopez felt safe in naming, too. Apparently, the priest considered Carmen's calling better protection than his own white collar.
Andy had done a little exploration in the town records. It turned out Carmen was Diego's abuela.
Hard to live down in a place this small. No wonder the kid's resentful...
She and Diego lived in a stone cottage, just beyond the church. Andy headed that way.
Any action to relieve the tension.
Still, he couldn't help but wonder whether he was about to get his head blown off - with one of his own guns.
*
Perry Gervois stopped outside Jarron's hospital room and looked meaningfully at Charlie Reddy. "Jarron and I have some things to discuss," he said. There was a smouldering anger to his tone that made Charlie glad he wasn't the one on Gervois' hit list.
Charlie and the others had been watching, when Jarron had come down the ladder. What they hadn't seen, they'd guessed at. Now, Charlie leapt to Jarron's defence. "He saved the kid's life."
It didn't help. If anything, Perry looked grimmer. As Charlie stepped aside, Perry nodded curtly, then pushed open the door.
*
Colin sat in front of the fire for a long time. There was a feeling of threat in the darker corners of the room, and he cursed himself for letting his nerves get the better of him. He didn't know what, specifically, he was afraid of; he only knew that having opened the door to fear, he couldn't seem to close it - any more than he could shut down the adrenaline that was coursing through his veins, or the pounding of his heart.
As long as the fire spat and hissed, it camouflaged those rustling noises that were beginning to haunt his waking moments. At first, they'd been a product of the night: as alien as the bleakly-shadowed silhouettes that graced his walls and tables - the masks, and sundials, and obscure instruments of God-knows-what. Quite probable, he'd thought, that they were a product of his guilty conscience: just one more sign that he was losing control - of everything from his workforce to his mind.
Whatever the cause, Colin had fought to maintain the illusion, that all was as it should be. He'd treated his very localised disturbance logically, even to the extent of having his hearing checked. He'd been in a few explosions during his time with the ISO - maybe that annoying rustle was a product of nerve damage, or deterioration. It was reasonable, and he'd taken the rational steps toward finding the solution.
Only, his hearing was fine. What wasn't fine was the way that hissing rustle, which had once seemed so foreign to his surroundings, now seemed to belong - at times, more than he did. Now, all he wanted was to blame it on something else - the plumbing, mice, termites, the settling earth - or find a way to hide it from his hearing, so it wouldn't prey on his mind. If the fire hadn't been cheerily sizzling away tonight, Colin knew he would have substituted with the TV, or the stereo.
Marjie hadn't mentioned it, but he guessed Joy had heard it once or twice. There were times when she seemed abnormally giddy or loud - almost as though she were trying to cover up her fear.
Colin wanted nothing more than to leave his house at moments like this. To seek the safety of his car, or the sterility of his office. Some part of him wanted to believe that since he was, perhaps, the only one hearing it, then removing him would also remove the source. Just as distancing himself from his job might, at one time, have saved his family from the other dangers that lurked outside his windows.
It was too late, though, and part of him recognised it. Removing himself now wouldn't spare them. It would only leave them with one less protector - the one who cared about them the most.
So, Colin sat back in his chair, and - with a glance around to ensure no one was watching - lifted his feet off the floor and curled them under him. Safer.
As he hunched into the cushioned chair back, he wondered - once again - if he was beginning to lose his mind.
*
If Andy hadn't known better, he'd have guessed she knew he was coming. Carmen, Diego's abuela, met him at the door.
Andy couldn't help himself. He'd meant to conduct this interview sternly; perhaps, even, with an element of harshness, but he couldn't in the face of her amusement. It was the glimmer in her eyes that threw him - untutored intelligence and confidence. This was a woman who'd been beautiful in her time, and still knew how to manage men. She pulled her fist from behind her back, and showed him the grenade. "Should I trust you?" she asked.
Andy's slow smile emerged. "I think the question," he drawled in his rough Spanish, "is whether I should trust you."
If he'd known what trouble his visit was going to rouse among the locals, he never would have set foot inside the door.
*
Colin Robart met Dave Chavez' eyes. "An accident?"
"That's what Charlie Reddy claims. Jenkil backs him up."
"What did Tyson have to say?"
"Just that Marshall insisted on entering the building - despite protest." There was a glimmer of amused admiration in Dave's eyes that he tried to conceal from Colin's acute gaze. "Tyson also said that - if it weren't for Jarron's efforts -"
Colin frowned at Dave's easy use of Marshall's first name.
Dave noticed and cleared his throat. "If it weren't for Marshall's efforts, those people would've died."
"IDs on the victims yet?"
"Sally Doohan, thirty-five."
"No," Colin said impatiently. "The ones Marshall saved."
"One of them was just a kid. Got separated from her family in the smoke."
"The others?"
Dave wouldn't look at him. The answer gave him gooseflesh. He didn't know what effect it would have on Robart - he was a little unpredictable these days. Whatever the effect, it wasn't likely to have a good outcome for Jarron.
"Who were they?"
Dave sighed. In a quiet voice he replied. "Kurt's family. If Jarron hadn't been there, they'd all be dead."
*
"You fuckin' idiot! You could have been killed -"
"Or brain-damaged?" Jarron said, giving him a wry grin. He was finding it hard not to smile this morning. Whether it was a post-healing high, or just the thrill of saving someone who mattered so much to Kurt, he didn't know.
But Perry wasn't finished being angry. "It's not funny, Jarron. What did you think? That we'd just turn around and heal you? Ship you out within hours?"
"The thought never crossed my mind," Jarron admitted. "I didn't plan on falling off the ladder -"
"What did you think would happen? Couldn't you at least have waited till you were on the ground?"
Jarron tried to explain. "He was dying, Perry." Perry crossed his arms and stood there expectantly. It made Jarron squirm - as though all his excuses were lame ones. "It was no different from that time we -"
"Yes, it was!" Perry roared.
Charlie poked his head in the door, and they both yelled, "Get out!" Jarron was angry now, too.
"Are you telling me, that if you'd known he was dying, you wouldn't have done the same?"
"He wouldn't have died any more in the ten seconds it took him to reach the ground! You did it in front of everyone! Jenkil asked me about it - did you know that? Said he was sure you'd done something to his son, but he wasn't sure what."
Jarron looked alarmed. "He didn't think I hurt him, did he?"
"Hell, no!" Perry roared. "He seems to think you healed him somehow! Did a trade of your good for his bad -"
Outside the door, Charlie whistled loudly, stomped his feet, and scraped a chair with grating loudness across the lino. Perry lowered his voice. "He also said there was a floodlight on you, Jar! What were you thinking?" He paused, then sucked in a deep breath for another blast. "Or were you just showing off? Is that what your fuckin' gift's become? A chance to show off - to play God - for everyone to see?"
"It wasn't like that -" Jarron retorted angrily. "Are you sure you aren't just pissed off because you weren't there to 'help'?"
"To stop you from killing yourself, you mean? That's what my role is, Jarron - or haven't you thought about that?" His eyes narrowed to a slit as he hissed, "I don't have much patience with gloryhounds - or suicides, Jarron."
Jarron was silent. Some of his anger had faded at Gervois' words. Perry wouldn't have brought this up without good reason.
Could Perry be right? Had he been "performing" for the crowds? If that was the case, he needed to seriously rethink his actions.
The other part - the suicidal part - he refused to think about. Truth was, he'd thought about it too much already. One thing he knew, though. If he went that way, he sure as hell wouldn't expect Perry to save him.
"Jarron -"
He realised Perry had been repeatedly saying his name.
Jarron looked up. "Just thinking," he admitted. "About what you said."
He leaned back against the pillows, and said tiredly, "Is there any way I can go home?" He might be under guard at home, but at least he had the illusion there of being on his own. If you were going to be in a cage, it was better to be where you could let yourself out at will. Besides, if he went home now, there was a chance he could recapture some of that euphoria he'd woken up with.
Perry misinterpreted his request. "How do you plan to explain your insta-cure to them? To your 'entourage'?" he said derisively.
Explain. Explain your life away, Jarron. He was never going to do the right thing because somebody was always going to call it wrong.
He was on the verge of figuring out where his life was going. He had a chance to retrieve it now - to make something of his existence.
It bothered him more than he liked to admit that Perry could think he was in it for the glory - that he would risk all because he always knew he could turn around and go for the cure. Sort of like a drunk, who goes on a binge, dries out, then binges again.
He must think I like pain.
They'd all be watching him closer now, which was really annoying. Robart had told him someone wanted to "run" some tests: the psychic kind. At one point, Jarron may have welcomed it, because it might have given him some control. Now, he knew what he wanted - had his goals - and he didn't want to become anybody's psychic toy.
Any more than he wanted anyone else feeling sorry for him or "watching out" for him. Something about those weeks of toughing it out had taught him self-sufficiency. He'd had years of soft living, and it had given him a grain of pride to try to make it on his own.
Jarron climbed out of bed and went to the closet. He gave up on the shirt, but pulled on his pants and went to the door. Perry was saying something - a lot of somethings - but Jarron did what he'd once been adept at: tuned him out.
Don't be rude, Jarron. He's only mad because he cares.
Jarron turned back to meet Perry's gaze, his own eyes dark and unfathomable. He sighed. Farewells were always painful - whether they were to the living, or the dead.
"Good-bye, Perry," he said.
He limped over to the door. "Thanks - for everything."
The next moment, he was gone.
***
Chapter Six
She was terribly naïve. Andy hadn't expected that - she'd admitted to having been the local whore in her time, but Andy realised the community had protected her, rather than repulsed her. Whores, in a community of God-fearing righteousness, had their place, too. Men had always gone to her, and she'd acquired, over time, a kind of rough respect from everyone.
It helped to explain Diego's resentment. He didn't like the idea of his abuela being community property, any more than he liked the idea of her being old or naive. What bothered Andy the most was Carmen's ignorant assumption that either her age or community status would protect her. She was afraid, but it was more for Diego than herself. She refused to think - much less discuss - where Diego's parents had gone. Only Diego's resentful comments, spat in a sullen staccato, told Andy there'd been anything untoward about their disappearance.
Nevertheless, she'd revealed far more than she should. Andy had listened, and marvelled - and been horrified - that she would tell him so much. He wondered if part of it was the admiration he displayed. Andy couldn't help it: he liked women, and Carmen, despite her age, was still beautiful. Her strong bone structure, flashing eyes, and proud expression were distinctive. Andy's time with Jarron's paintings had given him a new appreciation for art, and Andy felt as though he were admiring one of the finer examples of Mayan sculpture. There was a time, Andy was sure, when no man could have resisted her.
When he left, it was with a trace of regret - and more than a modicum of fear. Her revelations may have left her open to the worst kind of retribution. Now, he needed some proof of her statements. Get it, and get the three of them out. He needed proof, but the last thing he wanted was for her to be the one to provide it.
*
She'd almost gone back, to apologise. Sorry, Dad, for being the world's biggest bitch.
Only then, he would have yelled at her more. No - that was wrong. He didn't yell. Not any more. How could he, with so many people crawling around the house? None of them could yell, or be themselves. She felt as though every bodily noise or movement was witnessed by a thousand hidden video cameras; magnified and played repeatedly for two thousand ears.
I have rights, too. The right to dream about meeting somebody at the mall, and not have people crawl out of the woodwork to tackle him. The right to have someone see her eyes, or her smile, or her bod first, without straying to the bodies at her back.
It's dangerous, he'd said.
If it is, Dad, it's all your fault. Why should I have to suffer? Or Cassandra? Or Mom? Mom was getting irritable about agents coming with her to work.
It made Joy want to do something bad, and daring, and totally unexpected. To throw them off, and make them wonder. She was tired of being patronised - of people treating her very real and justifiable anger as though it was just another byproduct of teen rebellion.
She was still in her room when the knock came, a few minutes later.
"Joy, it's me - Mike." It was Mike Erlenberg. For a moment she considered not answering, but that would give him a reason to barge on in.
Mike might be the nicest of her bodyguards, but what if she'd been in her underwear? Or in the bathroom? A person should only have to take so many indignities.
"Hi, Mike," she said, unenthusiastically opening the door.
"This came," he said, handing her a box. "From your grandma." He grinned. "Don't worry - it's not a sweater."
"So nice to have privacy," she muttered, a little sullenly.
"Actually," Mike admitted, "it came addressed to the generic you - as in your family. I kind of detoured it in your direction."
She smiled, pleased by the gesture. "Thanks, Mike."
"Be careful - it's fragile."
She dug through the polystyrene stuffing, spreading bits across the bed. "It's glass," she muttered, getting excited. Very cautiously, she lifted it, then set it on the bed so she could look at it. "It's a skull!" she said in surprise. "Leave it to Gran to come up with the weirdness."
"Only a replica," Mike grinned. "Of a skull - not your Gran," he joked.
She jiggled the jaw up and down. "How do you think I look?" she puppeted.
"You'd look better with the polystyrene out of your eye," Mike answered.
Joy giggled, and fished the offending piece out of the eye socket. "This is great! Candy's gonna be so pissed -" Joy thought about how much Cassandra had changed, since she'd moved away. "Well, maybe she won't," she said, discouraged. As she wiggled the glass jaw some more, her eyes brightened again. "This'll make me some points. Maybe even enough to make up for having you guys around me all the time," she told Mike disparagingly. At his expression, she muttered, "Sorry. Remember, if anyone asks, it came to me."
"No problem," Mike replied, heading for the door. "I used to have one, too."
"When you were my age?"
"Thereabouts. Only, mine was made of plastic."
It suddenly occurred to her how Mike and the other agents were risking their lives for her and her family. At moments like this, her resentment did seem like a stupid act of rebellion. "Mike?" she said.
"Yeah?"
"What would you do if someone came after one of us? Not only Dad, but Candy or Mom or me?"
His expression sobered. "Stop them. Or get you out of the way."
Why? Why would he risk his life - the only life he had - for someone he couldn't even call a friend?
"My dad must pay you awfully well," she blurted, then blushed darkly when she realised how it must sound.
He saw the blush and smiled. "Not well enough," he told her. "But money's not the only thing that matters." At the door he turned and met her eyes. "Sometimes it's a little hard to figure out where your dad's coming from, but he doesn't make decisions lightly. If he thinks there's a reason for the extra security, chances are he's right. I think we both should give him the benefit of the doubt."
*
When he returned to his rough dwelling, it was already night. Andy had entered in the dark - unwilling to make himself a target in the doorway. Once inside, with the door locked, he'd flicked the light switch.
It was dead. Bulb, fuse, tampering - Andy didn't know which. He froze, listening. It was then he heard it: the skittering of little feet.
So innocuous.
Cockroaches.
Something crawled across the back of his hand - the hand that was on the light switch.
Andy jerked his hand back from the switch, wondering what the hell was creeping around his house.
Not a cockroach.
There were lots of them, and his flesh began to crawl. Spiders. He moved his feet, and heard a soft crunch.
Hell! They were crawling up his shoes! Andy did an impromptu jig, then fumbled with the door lock, bitterly wishing he'd left it open. As he swung it back on its hinges, the slight wind caught some of the lurkers on the ceiling. Andy felt a thud, as one landed on his shoulder. A scratching jiggle as one hit his arm. It was the one on his head, though, that freaked him the most.
Andy, was jerking and twisting now - slapping and ripping the thing out of his hair - trying to swack the one off his right shoulder. It seemed determined to join its brethren on his head - to creepy-crawl its lousy little legs up the side of his neck.
At first, Andy had wanted to keep his cool, in case some of the locals were watching for his reaction. Now, he damn well didn't care. As he snatched the last - and largest - spider out of his hair, he felt a burning sting in the centre of his palm.
He also felt the shape of the things that had filled up his dwelling.
Not a spider. The whiplike tail gave it away.
Fuck it! A scorpion.
Remain calm, Andy, he tried to tell himself.
But himself decided not to listen. It was all very well to worry about spreading the poison - but if he got stung again, the poison would be spread for him.
Just then he felt it: in his ankle.
Holy shit! Andy slammed his fist against his leg in fury, then peeled the dying scorpion out of his pants leg. Stay calm. Starting at the top, he brushed himself down, shaking at the thought of encountering another stinger. He had a nasty moment of panic when it came to his back, but he grabbed a broken branch and did some rough sweeps over the back of his shirt. Nothing could hang on with that kind of abuse, he assured himself shakily.
The fire in his hand was spreading.
Light. You need light. Andy went to the electrical box, and yanked it open. He'd examined it already, during the daytime - one of the first things he'd done, when he'd arrived. The layout was clear in his mind. Andy squinted his eyes, straining to match the dim glow from the moonlight to the circuit breakers and mains switches of his memory.
Chances are, all they've done is trip the main.
His hand jerked back. What if there's one in there, too?
You've already been stung, you jerk. What difference does it make?
Andy scrunched up his face, then reached in and flipped the main.
Only one light came on - the one he'd switched on, in the entry. Andy was shaking as he stuck his already aching hand in his pocket, did a quick visual scan for intruders, then limped painfully back toward the house.
*
Marjorie Ashford-Robart wore the smile all the way in the door - no, Mike, I am not being coerced; yes, Dave, everything's fine. Look behind me, and you'll see Rob Larity is following, the way he's supposed to.
She even wore the smile as she greeted Joy - only to be met with a sarcastic look. Joy didn't bother smiling her reassurances any more - she didn't have to. A sullen, teenage registration of anger was much more appropriate. Marjorie wished she could be as open.
Cassandra, her elder daughter, however, was more sensitive to her mother's frustration. She didn't say anything - just nudged Joy out of the way, smiled, and gave her mother a hug.
*
Cassandra was caught in the middle. She was back at home - at her dad's insistence. She was finishing her Masters this year, and Colin didn't think her flat was secure enough to accommodate her irregular hours. The only reason she'd agreed to his request had been the stress in her father's face - and the fact that she was hardly ever at home anyway. Between classes, her project, and work, she barely had time to do more than flop on the bed each night. Plus, Dad had been so reasonable about it all. Any resistance on her part would have looked like some immature form of rebellion.
I'm past that now. Too old to rebel, and way too old to live with my parents. It was damn frustrating to be able to see both sides, and not be able to do anything about it. The only times Cassandra felt comfortable now were during the long hours working on her project, when she could tune everything out. She had no time for dates, and fun seemed like a thing of the past. Which, in its own way, was a good thing. No man she knew would have put up with the kind of security her dad had foisted on them recently.
The increased security was enough to make her scared to get too far from her family - as though she'd be leaving them defenceless. It was stupid, she knew, to think that her presence could have any bearing when a squad of armed defenders couldn't, but somehow, she felt that she was needed; that she contributed in some small way to her mother's peace of mind, and her father's sense of security. Ridiculous to feel so needed at a time in her life when what she wanted more than anything was to leave them all behind, and go her own way. She could list a dozen reasons why her father's demands were unnatural - and should be unnecessary. It's just that none of her reasons could outweigh the dread she saw in his eyes. Recently, she'd seen it echoed in Joy's. Joy was no longer the Joyful Girl her parents had always claimed.
Her dad should get out of this. From an adult perspective, she saw him as something of a fool for allowing himself to be trapped in this position; for loyalty that went beyond what was called for. Where should his loyalties lie? Certainly, not with the kind of people who jerked him around, and allowed threats to be made on his life.
Once she'd returned - once her dad had out-argued her about the logic of giving up a place that not only cost her money, but was no closer to work - she'd seen how things were. Now, she wouldn't have left if they'd offered her the flat free. She wanted to be here for her family, in case they needed her. In all the time she was growing up, she'd never seen her father this tense. Whatever was causing it, was coming to a head.
Her mother was angry, too, and it wasn't hard to see why. Joy was being a pain in the ass, and they were under almost constant supervision. Her dad was handling his tension the way he always did: lying about everything, and withdrawing, as he tried to work things through. He was never cold - just distant. Cassandra suspected a lot of it revolved around Jarron Marshall. She'd never met the man, but according to her mother, he'd been at the forefront of her father's problems for months. His case had given her dad more trouble than all his others put together. From small things Mom had said, Cassandra knew her dad was getting pressure both from his supervisors, and other agencies.
She couldn't see why Dad didn't just turn Marshall over to the people who wanted him. The man was dangerous - she'd heard Dad say that himself. It was certain he was dangerous for her family. Tempers were frayed, and both her parents were edgy. It was obvious Dad thought all of them were in some kind of deadly danger. In Cassandra's mind, hazard to her family constituted enough of a reason to relinquish Marshall's protection to someone else.
Cassandra might be ignorant of the details, but she wasn't naïve. She'd met enough agents, and been privy to enough information, to be a realist. If Marshall was a hazard, then why protect him? Turn him over, and let him get what he deserved. The endophyte scandal had been in all the newspapers, and Marshall had been a suspect in the explosion that had destroyed his lab - in which one of his co-workers had died. It was a little too convenient that his research had been discredited such a short time before.
Cassandra knew the type - she'd met other "famous" figures at the University: egotistical, self-centred; the "I" complex. Like many of her dad's other "clients", he'd be desperate for protection at whatever cost. Add to it her dad's words in a phone call, about the man being "potentially lethal", and Cassandra was disgusted, that Colin Robart would consider putting Jarron Marshall's well-being ahead of his family's.
*
There was no mistaking Nick's voice. "Why don't you check the doughnuts?" he was telling Ben Tomkins loudly. "I'm sure that cruller's got you covered." He lowered his voice a decibel, but Jarron could still hear him. "And I swear one of the bakers said the buns were bugged."
"In that case -" Ben began. He gave one of the raspberry buns a squeeze, squirting jelly onto his finger. As he licked it off, he told Nick, "S'okay, Mochaccino Man. She's disarmed."
"You're disgusting," Nick told him. "Didn't they teach you any manners at that spy school?"
"It's weird how so-called geniuses can be so brainy in one thing and stupid in everything else."
"Just for that," Nick told him, "next time I'll bring a suspect plate of pig trotters. You can inspect 'em all personally."
Ben just gave him a sour look and let him in the door.
"Knew you were here," Jarron told him. "My God!" he said, grinning in mock surprise. "D'you think maybe I'm psychic?"
"I think you're insane to mention it. But don't tell anyone I said so."
Jarron was sitting on his couch, leafing through the yellow pages.
"You are desperate for something to read. Here -" Nick tossed a gooey bag in his direction. Jarron caught it, and peeked inside. "Tomkins' fingers already did the walking through the raspberry doughnut. I'd skip it if I were you." He craned his neck to see what Jarron was reading. "Whatcha looking up?"
Jarron slammed the phone book closed. "Things."
"You been taking lessons from Kris?"
"Okay - I'm looking at this and that."
"So much clearer," Nick growled. "What did you do to Tomkins? He came this close to acting human today. I always figured his genome came with protruding teeth and a bright red butt."
"Don't criticise the help. You should see the looks I get when I strut through town, bodyguards at my back."
Nick studied him for a moment, then made a big point of sniffing the air. "Hm-m. Smells like smoke in here."
"I don't smell anything."
"I lied about the smoke. All I can really smell is ferret." He looked a little cautiously under the couch. "Is the little devil around here somewhere?"
"It's my cologne. I'm going for the musky smell."
"Well, I need fresh air." Nick nudged him. "Let's blow this dive. How does pizza sound?"
"Great - except I'm already eating," Jarron told him, digging out a jelly doughnut. A moment later, his mouth full, he asked, "Speaking of Con-man's whereabouts, could you let him out of the laundry room?"
"Why don't you?"
Jarron didn't say anything. He didn't get up, either.
Nick snorted. "That's what I thought." He pulled a folded newspaper out of his back pocket. "Got a call from Kris this morning. He also faxed me something he saw on a back page - in Madrid." Nick flopped into a chair. "It made me take a good look at our local paper." He tossed it on the table. "Didn't have to look far - it's on the front page."
Jarron froze mid-chew when he saw the photos. His eyes widened. "Oh, hell."
"Surprisingly photogenic, considering the soot on your face. Kris was especially impressed by that second one." The photographer had caught him mid-flight, clearly on his way to the ground. "Never knew you could fly, Jar."
Jarron went back to chewing - loudly.
"Kris wants to know whether to send chocolates - or a wreath. Told him I'd come over here and find out."
Nick leaned back in the chair and stuck his feet on the coffee table. "All right, Jar - tell Uncle Nick all about it. Just this once, I'm damn well gonna know more about something than Kris."
*
"Gran, you've flipped." Cassandra decided to spare her mother her private opinion that her grandmother was suffering from senility. The latest offering was a grotesque skull necklace, that looked as though it had been carved from bone. But, it wasn't even the sight of it that made gooseflesh tighten almost painfully along her arms. It was the way it was packed.
As she dug in the small box, there was a dry rasping noise, that ended in a rattle as she stirred the contents. It reminded her of the sound maracas make - only softer. On impulse, she shook the box, then dumped the contents out onto the bed.
At least a third of the polystyrene balls weren't polystyrene at all. The remainder of the packing was composed of what looked to be dried-out rattlesnake rattles.
She stared at them thoughtfully, then picked one up to look at it more closely. "How bizarre," she whispered. She was no longer frightened; merely repelled. Having these packed into the box with a piece of jewellery was odd, to say the least. Knowing the kinds of backroad shops her grandmother like to frequent, she couldn't say she was really surprised. She wondered if this was some new form of smuggling - like elephant tusks or panda skins.
If so, she smiled, they picked the wrong house. She made a mental note to mention it to her dad.
It was only later, when the rest of the family had gone to bed, that she recalled something that, once again, made the flesh creep along her arms and legs.
Several times now, when she was the only one awake, she'd heard sounds - like the rattle in that box. These were soft rustles, that came and went - so uncertain that she could never really focus on what she was hearing, or where in the room they'd originated. It was as if the moment she tried to listen, the sounds would disappear.
She'd blamed the plumbing, the settling of the house, or the activity of some of the agents on duty outside. Now that was no longer possible.
Once she'd heard the sound, there was no mistaking it. But, this was one time knowledge did little to relieve her mind - even though she could now give the noises a name. What she'd heard had been the intermittent, and sometimes rapidly repetitious, rasping of a snake's rattle.
*
"That's why." Jarron was obviously distraught. "Now I wish I'd listened to him."
"You're obviously disturbed." Nick snickered. "By something, I mean."
"No - you don't get it. I walked out on Perry - just tuned out and did a runner."
"So?"
"So, I was pissed off because he accused me of showing off. Now I know why," he said, slapping his forehead with the newspaper. He groaned in embarrassment. "Bet he thought I did it for the cameras." Pushing himself to his feet, he headed for the phone. "I've gotta give him a call -" He'd gone only two steps when his leg gave out.
Nick caught him. "Good going, Hero."
"Shut up." Jarron rammed his fist into the sore spot, trying to loosen the knot in the muscle. "Bloody hell," he complained. "Must have stiffened up. I walked out of the stinking hospital -"
"Sit down, and shut up yourself. Didn't he give you any medication?" The look on Jarron's face told the story. "You didn't wait to ask, right?" Nick pulled out his phone, and handed it to Jarron. "Use this. Odds are he's real happy with you now. Robart's probably giving him no end of shit."
Jarron groaned again and handed back the phone. "No way. I'll ring him tomorrow."
"Bet the spymaster's happy with his crews, too - letting you take flying lessons without a net."
Jarron looked at him sourly. "You do know how to rub it in."
Nick thought about that for a moment, then grinned. "Lys hasn't complained."
"God, you're disgusting."
Nick snatched the phone book away from Jarron's grip.
Tears sprang to Jarron's eyes and he sucked in a quick breath. It was a moment before he managed "Ow-w."
"Damn fool," Nick said, with little sympathy. "Shoulder, too, huh? Tsk, tsk."
"If that was meant to be sympathetic," Jarron told him through gritted teeth, "it failed."
Nick propped some cushions behind him, then lifted his sore leg up onto the couch. By the time he'd finished, Jarron was in tears. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. "Just g-go a-way, Nick," he groaned. He was so white Nick was afraid he was going to pass out. "You're (sniff) ki-illing m-me -"
"Sorry, Jar," Nick said, genuinely concerned. "I don't think we should wait till tomorrow." He flipped open the phone. "I was gonna take you back to my place," he babbled, "but not like this. No matter what you say, I'm gonna call him now."
There was a scraping sound in the doorway. Nick looked up. Perry Gervois was standing there, and he had an overnight bag in his hand. Apparently, he planned on staying. What Jarron noticed, however, was the amusement behind his resigned expression. "Don't bother, Nick," Perry said. "I'm already here."
*
Some of them had scurried away from the light, but it didn't even put a dent in the numbers. Andy, keeping his distance, took a careful look through the doorway. Walls, ceiling, floor - all thick with scorpions.
A certain migration might be expected in the dark, but not to this extent. Unless he'd been remarkably obtuse, and had somehow managed to live unscathed in a scorpion's nest for the last couple of days.
He tried to think. First aid for scorpion stings. It was in the crash course they'd given him, but he seemed to have dropped that little titbit out of his brain, somewhere over the Atlantic.
Something in my pack. Something about it.
He'd ditched his pack on the floor. He watched dismally as some of the scorpions - seeking a dark place to hide - did their crawly bit up the side of his pack, and under the flap.
The rest were seeking similar shelter: couch, chairs, drawers, bed. He swiped idly at one that scurried across the doorjamb; sending it flying. Not enough places to accommodate them all. That meant these were imports - brought in and dumped here for his benefit.
Welcome Wagon, he thought. His arm was burning all the way to his elbow now, while his leg was throbbing heavily south of his knee.
Or a challenge.
There were a few other lights nearby. Bungalows and small houses, similar to his. Only, none of the lights looked friendly. Andy could already guess what they'd say - and just how willing they'd be to stick their necks out, for a stranger. Hospitality had disappeared with trust. Now there was nothing left but suspicion, and danger.
Still, it was the best chance he had. He hobbled toward the closest set of lights. He hadn't gone far when it occurred to him that he may have been wrong about the source of the scorpion plague. It was the kind of thing that was too unreliable for practical application - not typical ISO modus operandi.
No, this was more in line with a weird kind of religious fervour - or of killing without the guilt. Provide the means, but leave whatever comes to pass in the hands of the Creator.
If I die, it'll be nobody's fault but my own. No guilt. I was the one stupid enough to get stung.
Andy turned around and limped back the way he'd come. The more he thought about it, the more likely it was that one of his neighbours - maybe all his neighbours - had brought him the lovely Welcome gift.
*
"I didn't know there were cameras, Perry," Jarron told him earnestly, a few minutes later.
"I know."
"He's a paragon of virtue," Nick assured Perry. "Or maybe that was a 'pair of gone virtues'. I'm not sure which." He tucked in the blanket around Jarron with a vigour that left both Jarron and Perry looking pained. "What gave him away? His simple mind, or his simpleton face?"
"Neither. It was the way he tuned me out, at the hospital. Didn't hear a word I said." Perry grinned. "Thought he had a concussion for a minute, but then I recalled it had happened before."
"It is his way," Nick said with false reverence. "He gets his brain stuck in something, and that's it." He looked at Jarron and shook his head. "Don't feel bad, Perry. He's tuned me out for a piece of fungus."
"I'd tune you out for a wad of used gum," Jarron muttered. "Leave the damned blanket alone."
"Anyway, I took another glance at the newspaper and recognised the look," Perry went on. He stared at Jarron a little pityingly, as though he were observing someone who was mentally deficient. "Did you even think about where you were? Or what the consequences could have been?"
"I could feel him dying," Jarron whispered, recalling the intensity of the moment. "I knew it was a risk," he admitted, "but I needed to stop it - before it was too late."
"Deja vu," Nick muttered.
They both looked at him.
"That's what Kris said."
"Robart," Jarron sighed.
"Yep. Kris said to tell you you're the world's greatest dumbass, Jar." Nick added, "He's been around the world - he oughta know." He gave Jarron a roughly consoling pat on the back, which made Jarron cringe under the assault of his helpful hands. "But he also wanted you to know that he's flying back in tonight."
*
I need a phone. He pressed his lips tightly closed and squinted his eyes - as though that could somehow stop the scorpions from taking advantage. It was about as effective as hiding himself under his covers in the dark, but at least it made Andy feel a little better. He wouldn't get stung in the eye, and none of them would try to tunnel into his mouth.
Are you sure you want to do this, Wakeman? He wondered if it was self-defeating; if his attempt to get to his phone would only earn him another sting for his efforts. He'd already realised, from the way he was feeling, that he must be sensitive to the poison. If he didn't act soon, he wouldn't be able to act at all.
He'd just reached for his pack, when he felt a new sting - this time on his back. Fuck it! He fumbled the scorpion out of his clothes, and made a second lunge for his bag. Cautiously, he undid the flap and flung it back.
There was a huge straw-yellow scorpion perched on the inside flap. Andy jerked his hand away as the tail flipped forward, trying to get him with the stinger. There were others heading for his feet now - intent on using him for shelter from the glaring bulb light. Andy kicked at the bag, thinking he'd upend it, and snatch up the phone. When he extended his hand, though, he felt another tickle inside his shirt, travelling across his ribs. Andy froze, trying to ignore the creepies that were starting to crawl across his feet.
Pinching the fabric of his shirt together, Andy captured the stinger, then extricated the scorpion from out of his shirt - ripping off the tail, and flinging both parts to the ground. Another big one was crawling up the seam of his pants.
Andy panicked. At this rate he'd be dead before he could punch in his first button. He stomped and crunched his way to the door, swiping and swacking the livestock off his clothes. Then he turned and stumbled desperately towards the nearest house, no longer worried about whether they were feeling neighbourly. If they wouldn't open the door, he'd make his own way in.
He just hoped he'd be lucky enough to hit one of the few houses in town that had a phone.
***
