by B D Grant
“I’ll stick around until your life needs saving. At which time, presumably, I’ll save you.”
“Sounds real simple,” I mutter. The two women who had been close to us are saying their goodbyes. The shorter of the two women heads in our direction toward the main staircase as the other one trots off through the remaining lingerers toward the other courtrooms or maybe for the other set of stairs.
Kelly chuckles a bit, not seeming to care that the woman walking to the staircase leading to the first floor can hear him. “With your track record I give it a month, tops.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say, watching the woman as she rests a hand on the bannister before starting down the steps.
Seeing her silhouette disappear down the stairs I’m left staring at the start, or maybe the end of the pretty bannister. That’s when I hear it. A soft voice pulls my attention from the stairs. I look around the corridor, not sure which end of the short corridor it’s coming from. When I look back toward the stairs there she is descending the steps from the third floor. Kemma strolls past us with two Dynamar flanking her. She’s tied her dark hair up in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. There’s no way her hair can feel as soft as it looks.
She turns and looks at me. She gives me a quick wink before disappearing around the corner. I feel special for the brief exchange, even though I look around and realize that besides Kelly it’s just me paying any attention to her.
Mom and Dad still haven’t returned from downstairs when one of the courtroom doors finally opens. A few others have returned to the courtroom and have waited in the lobby, but otherwise the space is oddly empty.
I move closer to the doors, hoping that I’ll be seen first when Uncle Will emerges. The prosecutor exits the courtroom. A guard follows him but stops just outside of the door. He looks past me with a big smile on his face. The man who works for the Department of Defense hurries past me to greet him, matching his enthusiasm. The two embrace. I glance behind me to see if Kelly is just as surprised to see them hugging as I am, but he isn’t paying attention to me or the two men. He’s staring down at his feet frowning.
When the two part, the prosecutor says, “Man, I’m whooped. I hope you’re not wanting to go out to eat.”
“Neh,” the Department of Defense guy tells him. “We can just pick something up.”
“Long day,” the prosecutor says as they head toward the stairs.
Kelly waits a minute before joining me. Leaning down, he says in my ear, “I did not see that coming.”
I stare at the closed courtroom doors. “I didn’t think you were paying attention.”
“I wasn’t staring at them like you were.”
“I wasn’t staring,” I insist. “Did you see how happy he looked?”
Kelly goes up to the guard standing at his station next to the courtroom doors. “Sir, do they normally let the prosecutor out first if the defendant was found guilty?”
“Couldn’t tell you. This is the first trial I’ve worked.”
I drop my face into my hands, letting out a loud exhale. My impatience is starting to get the best of me. I don’t want to have to go downstairs and give my mom bad news.
I feel a gush of air and glance up.
Both doors are opening. The guard catches the one closest to him and slides a doorstopper under it. Kauffman walks out, looking fairly exhausted.
I turn away from the doors, crestfallen, when I hear Uncle Will’s voice. I turn to see him walking out a short distance behind Kauffman. Two big strides, and I’m standing right next to him. He shakes Kauffman’s hand.
“Is it over?” I ask.
“It is for me.”
“You did great in there,” I say looking at both of them.
“My client hadn’t broken any laws,” Kauffman says, stepping away from us to join the small band of lawyers. “I’ll get you those dates. Don’t lose that charger,” he tells Uncle Will pointing to Uncle Will’s ankle.
Uncle Will shakes the side of his pants leg, covering up a small, plastic box attached to his ankle. “Don’t plan on it.”
“They’re making you keep that thing on your ankle?” I ask, staring at the awkward shape under his khakis.
He glances down at it, wiggling his foot a little as if it will make the bulge less obvious. “The Council has placed me under house arrest until the trials are all complete, or until they feel that I’m no longer a flight risk.”
“So this amendment thing with Mom having to testify made your punishment worse,” I surmise.
“I think that, if anything, she proved what I’ve been saying this whole time. And with Cassidy still in the wind, they’ve decided to track me.”
“Do they think you’re going to join her? Wherever she’s hiding out?” Kelly asks.
Uncle Will steals a glance at the last few stragglers who waited outside of the courtroom who are now splitting off in different directions to go about their day, none are paying us any mind. Still, he lowers his voice. “From what it sounds like, she isn’t hiding.” I look over at Kelly and then at Kauffman. “The Council knows where she is?” Kauffman gives me a grim shake of the head.
“They won’t tell us anything else,” Uncle Will says, adjusting his waistband as he glances down at the bulge around his ankle. When he looks back up, I can’t believe he’s as calm as he is. I’d be furious if I were him. Why isn’t she here if the Council knows where she is? “The Council isn’t going to chance me changing my mind about being cooperative and returning for the Rogue trials.” He looks around at the now empty space surrounding us. “Where’re your folks?”
I nod in the direction of the stairs. “Jake needed them downstairs.”
Kelly adds, “He locked himself in one of the therapy rooms.”
Uncle Will shuts his eyes. “Always something,” he says as he takes a slow breath.
“I’m going to head off,” Kauffman says. “I’ve got my own fires to put out.”
“Thanks again,” he says, opening his eyes. Kauffman heads for the offices as Uncle Will turns toward the staircase. “Shall we?”
We arrive at the corridor that leads to the therapy rooms to find that Detective Susan and a male detective are stopping people from going any farther down the hall. The detective with Susan is one of the guys I saw at the Rogue complex with the SWAT team.
The male detective raises a hand at Uncle Will as he steps up with Kelly and I behind him. They must know each other because Uncle Will doesn’t have to tell them what he’s there for. “The Jameson’s just walked in there,” the male detective tells him. “Don’t worry,” he says as my uncle tries to look over the man’s shoulder to see down the hall, “he hasn’t hurt anybody so it’s not like we’re going to arrest him. We’re just waiting on the Jameson’s to bring him out. It sounded like he calmed down in there once we got more Tempero over here, but we’re going to have to escort him out.”
Uncle Will shoves his hands in his pockets. “That’s understandable. I’m really sorry he did this.”
I tug on Kelly’s arm. “Arresting him,” I whisper up at him.
He ducks his head toward me. “He said they weren’t going to.”
“There’s a coaching position at The Southern Academy we plan to offer him,” Uncle Will tells both of the detectives. “It’s right up his alley, and at the school we’ll be able to keep a watchful eye on him.”
Detective Susan dips her chin giving my uncle a hard look. “That young man is going to need more than a watchful eye.” Uncle Will turns to her, giving me a clear view down the hall as the male detective turns toward his colleague as well.
“My staff is thin since the raid,” Uncle Will admits, “but they are supportive, and what they can’t help him with the therapist I have joining the ranks will.”
I look over at Kelly as I move toward the opening. He sees where I’m going and to his credit he makes a bit of a show moving in the opposite direction to lean against the wall. It causes a thud as his shoulder meets the wall. For the second
that the detectives’ eyes are on Kelly, I slip past.
I can just make out the sound of my dad’s voice coming from down the hall. I follow the sound of his voice to the partially open door. Mom and Dad’s backs are to me as I peer inside. They’re huddled next to the only desk in the room kneeling in front of Jake, who is sitting on the floor against the far wall.
I step inside, listening to my parents take turns trying to soothe him. The floor is littered with papers, pens, a penholder, and some books. The only book laying face up is on family trauma. Jake must have shoved everything else off of the desk. There’s a small hole in the wall next to the desk. The only thing still on the desk is a lamp that is laying on its side.
None of them notice me when I step inside. I get down on all fours and begin pushing the stuff on the floor together to form one big pile. The corner of a paper catches on the carpet as I slide it to the pile. It’s thicker than a regular sheet of paper. Mom glances back to give me an approving nod before turning back to Jake. I smile turning the paper over to see that it is a large photograph. My smile fades as I look at it. Aunt Beth is almost exactly as Mom had described in the photo; she looks like she’s sleeping. I could almost believe it if there were a pillow under her head and not a metal table. There are bags under her eyes, which I don’t remember ever seeing on her before, even after the nights of her staying up late waiting for Jake to return home from a friend’s party. They make her look like she needed the sleep all the more. I set her on top of the pile and reach for the next photograph laying face down on the floor.
I’m appalled as soon as I flip it over.
I glance up at my parents before looking down at it again. The mass of soft tissue and blood is definitely human. I set it down beside Aunt Beth’s photo to finish picking up Jake’s mess. Suddenly, I freeze.
No, I say silently. I look around the floor frantically searching for another photograph. I can’t find one. “No,” I whisper. I place a hand on either photo. I cover the upper-left section of the head that is missing or was too bashed in for the camera to see. The right side of the face is a heap of bulges With Aunt Beth’s photo next to this one, I know who the other must be. I want to be wrong so badly that I can’t even bring myself to think Uncle Chuck’s name. I catch sight of what looks like another thick, blank page close to the bottom of the pile. I grasp for it, hoping and fearing that I’ll find another photo.
I pull it out and see that it’s only paper. The therapist had time to jot down a few notes on Jake before Jake locked himself in here.
“Looking for this?”
Jake is suddenly standing over me, his voice hoarse. I don’t immediately reach for what he’s holding out, so he drops it in front of me.
“Don’t, Jake,” Mom says behind him. She’s still on the floor, kneeling with my dad next to where Jake had been sitting against the wall.
His voice is cold, and he doesn’t glance back at her. “She should see everything too, shouldn’t she?”
Two close-ups are printed out on the same sheet Jake dropped. I recognize one of them—it’s Mr. Thomas—but I’ve never seen the other man. They are both equally dead.
Jake starts talking above me. “It was Mr. Thomas’s brother who I met that day that I was used as bait. The file from the basement on the both of them was two sentences long,” Jake says gruffly. “They didn’t last a full day.”
“Rogues didn’t get anything out of them,” Dad tells him, his tone gentle. “They died heroes.”
“No,” Jake sneers, looking down at the pile I put together, “they died because I was weak.”
“Enough, Jake,” Dad says sharply.
I glance up to see Jake turning around to face him. I move the sheet over and line it up beside the other two. A breeze sweeps down my back. I don’t have to look to know that a Tempero has entered the room.
I hear Kemma’s feathery voice. “May I be of any assistance?” My mom walks around Jake and me to greet her.
“We’re fine,” Mom tells her. “It’s been a rough twenty-four hours.”
Jake steps past me. “Having a stranger bombard me with questions didn’t help—”
Dad quickly moves to his side. “His parents were among those who didn’t make it out of the basement,” Dad interjects over him.
There’s a pause. I don’t look away from the photos. “I’ll be on my way then,” Kemma tells them as I hear her step back from the room.
“Maybe you can help,” Mom says quickly. Kemma doesn’t speak. “We’d like to have a funeral, for Jake’s parents.”
“And Mr. Thomas and his brother,” Jake adds.
“And them,” Mom amends. “We don’t know if there were any bodies recovered or where to go to claim them. Do you know?”
Kemma’s silence is our answer. I move all three sheets closer together so that they are touching. Mr. Thomas looks younger than his brother. His hair is as gray as his brother’s but not nearly as thin. Mr. Thomas had never mentioned having a brother while we were neighbors, but in death, he looks like a good person.
“There are no bodies if they died in the basement before the raid,” Kemma finally says.
“They were dead before,” Jake mumbles, sounding like he expected as much.
“Is there a mass grave maybe that we could visit?” Dad asks.
“No,” Kemma says softly. There’s another silence followed by a soft footstep and then another. I look over my shoulder to see Kemma stepping back into the room shutting the door gently behind herself. “What I can tell you is not pleasant. Are you absolutely sure you want to hear it?”
“Yes,” they all agree. I remain silent, turning back to look at the faces on the floor.
“No locking yourself in a room?” she asks, presumably Jake.
“Promise.”
“Doherty’s people have unearthed a veterinary clinic not far from the Rogue school. It was bought by Seraphim several years ago. It was never reopened after the purchase. But some of our officers conducted interviews with the locals, and it sounds like the crematory off the back of the clinic never stopped running.”
I stare hard at the four faces on the floor. I distinctly remember a conversation a year or so back that my parents had with Mr. Thomas at the fence separating our two backyards. The woman across the street, an elderly lady, had cremated her beagle after it was put down, and she’d scattered the ashes around the neighborhood. Everyone had seen her do it—she’d gone on a walk with the small urn, taking the path where she used to walk the dog. I don’t remember his name, just that the dog was small and loud. I do remember Mr. Thomas’s disapproval—“That old bat complains anytime I cut my yard on a dry day because she says the dust clouds are what’s causing her asthma. How does she think tossing that soot around is any better? Dog or not, it’s an abomination,” he spouted to my dad. “Our souls are connected to our physical selves. If you destroy one, one you destroy the other.” He had rarely appeared happy, so hearing him complain didn’t faze me, but I remember that particular conversation. If you destroy one than you destroy the other.
My anger boils inside of me. It turns into a rage I’ve never experienced before. It’s so hot that I feel cold. They ended these peoples’ lives, and for what? I cover my face with my hands. My breath is hot against my face. “Why?”
“I can give the address of the clinic if you’d like?” Kemma is saying behind me. I take the photos and move them up to the desk. “You have to drive past the clinic and pull into the neighborhood behind it to get to the parking lot,” Kemma is telling them. I lay them out on top of the desk, standing the lamp up so that it doesn’t take up so much space.
I go over and over each face, and the knot in my chest tightens. I grip the edge of the desk. I want to flip the desk over. I want to pick the whole thing up and throw it against the wall. I want to scream. Instead, I ball my hands into fists and pound the soft, fleshy sides of them against the corner of the desk hard enough to send tinges of pain to my brain. The sensation isn’t enough
. It doesn’t loosen the knot in my chest, but it’s something.
I set my sights on the wall that one side of the desk is sitting against. I don’t look over my shoulder, but I can hear Kemma going to the door.
I move to the wall, wiping away snot from my nose with the back of my hand as my other arm retracts. I can feel the relief that it’s going to give me before I’ve even done it. Someone behind me says my name, but it’s too late. My fist breaks through the drywall as if it’s tissue.
I feel Kemma amping up her ability as people rush towards me. I get in one more punch, but it doesn’t land before hands clamp down on my arms and shoulders. I push whoever’s behind me away, but stronger arms latch on and pull me away from the wall.
I blindly turn and deliver the blow intended for the wall. For a split second the arms wrapped around me loosen, but it’s too short of a moment to break away. The arms tighten around my chest with greater force than before, and suddenly the knot of rage disintegrates.
Tears fill my eyes. Jake’s parents, Mr. Thomas, his brother, Kelly’s friend, Anne—they are deserved so much better than what they got. With my arms trapped, I can’t use either hand to whip the tears rolling down my cheeks. I lean into the chest in front of me. I wipe my snotty, tear-soaked face on their shirt.
Turning from the chest, the first person I see through my tears is my mom. Her cheeks are flushed and her lower lip is quivering. Dad is at her side. His hand goes to her stomach. Mom’s hand shoots out to grab it before he’s touched her protruding belly.
Did I just hit her? Fear spreads through me as I realize what that force could do to a pregnant woman.
“I’m so sorry,” I say as I suck in more snot.
“It’s okay, honey,” she says moving closer.
“Yeah, well,” Kelly grumbles against me, “I’m the one that got socked right in the moneymaker.”
I look up at Kelly, who lightly traces his jaw with his fingertips. He’s the one that pulled me away from the wall. There’s a trail of snot smeared on his shirt. His lower lip is already starting to swell.