by Cara Bristol
“If I could, I’d have a heck of a business as a matchmaker.” He shook his head. “I pick up psychic energy—I can’t analyze DNA sequencing.” He paused. “At the risk of getting my head snapped off again, I’m getting the impression you wanted to talk to me?”
“I do need your help,” he said, relieved Psy had broached the subject. “First, let me apologize for my bad behavior. I shouldn’t have accused you of invading my privacy.”
“Apology accepted. How can I help?”
“I need you to invade my privacy.”
Tigre cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh, leave you two to work things out.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Psy moved to a chair.
Wingman sank onto the couch. “I’m having flashbacks and dreams. When they occur, I…react. I can’t stop myself. My wings sharpen. I had a nightmare, and, in my sleep, I cut Delia. I’m a danger to her and Izzy.” He gripped the sofa arm. “I need you to erase the memory of the bombardment. Can you do that?”
“Possibly, although I’ve never done a mind wipe on an Avian. And, I must warn you, some memories can be too deep-rooted to extract. Memories are built upon memories. If you remove the foundation, you lose everything constructed on top of it. The amnesia might be more disturbing than the memories, as you struggle to remember something that is always out of your grasp. It drives some people crazy. Literally.”
The risks were worse than he’d thought. I have to do it.
“However, since the bombardment occurred recently, the memories shouldn’t be linked to too many others, yet.” Psy narrowed his eyes. “What is the desired outcome? Do you want the dreams to stop? The flashbacks to disappear?”
“Yes and yes. Erasing the knowledge of my parents’ deaths and Lissa’s feels like I’m dishonoring them, but I can’t continue to lose control.”
“We must honor the dead but live for the living,” Psy said. “When do you want to do this?”
“Now.”
“Why don’t we go to your room where we won’t be interrupted?” Psy suggested.
“Sounds like a good idea.”
Psy followed him to his bedroom. His phone rested in its dock on the dresser. When he’d tried to call Delia earlier to explain he might be late, he’d discovered the battery was dead. Odd, because he could have sworn he’d charged it the other day. So much for Earth “technology.”
“Where do you want me?” he asked.
“Why don’t you sit down?”
Wingman scooped his laundry from the easy chair, threw it on the unmade bed, and sat.
Psy straddled a footstool, and Wingman forced himself to hold the Verital’s gaze. If the eyes were the windows to the mind, what was going on in Psy’s head caused his pinfeathers to stand up and his blades threaten to extend.
“Try to relax,” Psy said.
“Twinkle, twinkle little star…”
Wingman jumped as his phone played an unfamiliar tune—it wasn’t the one he’d assigned to Delia or any of the castaways. “Ignore it. Let’s do this.”
Psy scooted closer and reached out to touch Wingman’s head.
The phone chirped with a text then rang again. “Twinkle, twinkle little star…”
“Do you mind if I turn your phone off while we do this?” Psy stood up.
“Go ahead.” It was hard enough to relax without his phone going nuts.
Psy switched off the device and returned to the stool. With splayed fingers, he bracketed Wingman’s skull, his fingers resting against his forehead and crown. “Let’s begin.” Psy closed his eyes.
At first he felt nothing, but then a shaft of ice knifed through his skull, the cold spreading like a brain freeze. He squeezed his eyelids shut and gripped the arms of the chair. Instead of his parents and Lissa, he thought of Delia. I love you. You’re my genmate. I love you, Izzy. No one had ever given him a gift—it wasn’t something Avians did. His parents and Lissa—they were his past. His future lay with Delia and Izzy. The cold receded to a slight chill, and then Psy removed his hands.
He opened his eyes and probed his memories. He recalled leaving the house the morning of the bombardment…the firestorm…meeting up with Tigre and the others. He widened his eyes. “I still remember…everything.”
“Unfortunately, your memories were already so deeply imbedded. I couldn’t erase anything without causing significant amnesia. I did implant a few suggestions to help you manage the memories.”
“So, I’m no better off than I was before?”
“We’ll have to see. I’m not giving up. We might be able to resolve this incrementally. Let’s wait a few days and see how you react to the suggestions. Then I can do another reading and tweak it.”
“What suggestions did you implant?” He combed his thoughts, but nothing seemed any different. He didn’t feel changed or transformed. I’m the same.
“That you have control.”
That was it? That was the problem! He had no control. The bombardment had occurred, and he’d been unable to do anything, except watch everyone die. Now those memories were destroying his future.
Like most people, he’d feared Veritals and their powerful psychic abilities. The only positive to come from this session was that he had lost his wariness of Psy. However, the session had demonstrated that this pursuit only led to a dead end. “Thanks for trying.” While he appreciated the sincerity of the effort, he would not be back for “tweaking.” What good would it do?
Psy blinked and squinted like he had a headache. “If there’s nothing else, I’m going to lie down.”
The Verital departed, and Wingman went to call Delia to tell her he was on his way. After turning on the device, he found a text message from her phone number. Where are you? Call me now!
He hit call.
She picked up on the first ring. “Izzy! Oh my god!”
“No…it’s Wingman. What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Where’s Izzy?”
“Isn’t she with you?” he asked.
“No, she’s not with me. Why do you have her phone?”
“I don’t have Izzy’s phone.”
“You’re calling from her number!”
“I am?” He was confused—then he remembered—the table flying, Izzy picking up his phone, handing it to him. Their devices looked identical. “We must have switched phones the other night. What’s wrong?”
“Izzy is gone.” She started to cry.
“Gone? Gone where?”
“I went to pick her up at the school, and s-s-she wasn’t here. The police are here now. Somebody k-k-kidnapped my baby.”
A chill worse than the brain freeze he’d gotten from Psy’s exploration spread through his entire body. “I’m on my way. You’re still at the school?”
“Yes. Please hurry.”
“I will.”
He ran down the stairs. Tigre and Inferno were watching television as he burst into the living room.
“I have to leave,” he explained. “Something happened to Izzy!”
“What?” Tigre said. “How?”
“Don’t know. She was at camp, and somebody took her. Gotta go. Delia needs me. Izzy needs me. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“I’m coming with you.” Tigre leaped out of the chair.
Inferno was already on his feet. “Me, too.”
He didn’t know what they could do—what he could do—but he was grateful for the support. If something bad had happened to Izzy…he couldn’t stand to think about it. He bolted out the door and leaped into the sky.
Chapter Seventeen
Digging her fingernails into her palms, Delia paced outside the gym. Inside, the authorities had set up a command post. She had been interviewed and re-interviewed for any and all information that might help them locate Izzy. Searchers were canvassing the neighborhood, but she’d been advised to remain at the school in case she returned on her own.
Everyone knew that wouldn’t happen. She could see it in their eyes. M
olly had reported that Izzy had gotten into a car with a man. After giving a statement to police, Ramona had left to take Molly home. “Call me if you need anything,” she’d said.
“Mrs. Mason?” A police officer approached.
She scanned his face for a sign of hope, for good news, but could read nothing in his professional demeanor. She dug her fingernails harder into her palms.
“The sergeant asked me to update you. Colson, your ex-boss, has been located in Pittsburgh.”
Not him, then. She’d told the police about the texts, the stalking, the restraining order. If Colson was two thousand miles away, he couldn’t have abducted Izzy. “Anything on the ice cream man?”
“We’re still looking into vehicle rentals that could have been used as an ice cream truck. When your friend gets here, bring him into the gym right away.” The police wanted to talk to Wingman, hoping he might remember something useful.
“I will.” A drop of wetness landed on her arm. Then another. Even the sky was crying.
He patted her shoulder. “We’re doing everything we can.” Yeah, now they were! They’d blown her off before when she’d reported the attempted kidnapping. If they’d paid more attention to them… She tamped down the anger. It wasn’t this man’s fault.
Rain splatters darkened the cement.
“Why don’t you come inside, wait in the gym?” the officer said.
“No, I can’t.” She couldn’t stay inside while Izzy was out…out…somewhere. Besides, she needed to wait for Wingman.
“All right.” He strode away. He’d no sooner disappeared inside than Wingman landed in front of her.
Seeing him there, so strong, so sturdy, she couldn’t hold it together anymore. “They c-can’t find her. They can’t find her…” She fell into his arms.
He wrapped his wings around her and rocked. “I’m so sorry. I should have been here.”
“I was l-l-late picking her up…”
His arms and wings tightened. “It’s not your fault.”
All of this was her fault. She was a terrible mother. She should have been on time! “They want to talk to you about the ice cream man, about what happened. Get a description, information.”
“Of course.”
An explosive clap of thunder reverberated, and Wingman flinched. The sky opened up, and rain fell in earnest. “Let’s go talk to the police,” she suggested.
As they headed for the gym, there was a whoosh of wind, and then the air shimmered. A vehicle resembling a Jetsons cartoon motorcycle materialized and settled to the concrete. Two men, one with facial stripes and a tail and one with red skin and horns, dismounted. She remembered them both from the lavender fest. The horned man had made the balloon tiara. She pressed a knuckle to her mouth.
“These are my friends, Tigre and Inferno,” Wingman said.
She managed a wan smile and a hello.
“We’re going to talk to the police. We’ll be right back.” Wingman placed his palm low on her back and urged her toward the gym. She clutched his arm, wondering how she’d gotten through the past couple of hours without him.
Fear fogged her brain, and she struggled to form coherent thoughts. They’d asked what Izzy had been wearing, and even though she’d set her clothes out that morning, she couldn’t remember what she had on. She had to pull herself together. Disintegrating into a basket case wouldn’t help. She had to believe her daughter would be found. She would! She had to be!
“Thank you for being here,” she said. Such stilted, inadequate words.
“Nothing could have kept me away.”
“I texted you earlier in the day to find out when you’d be coming, but I guess you didn’t get the message, since you had Izzy’s phone—oh my god, that was her answering me.” She choked. “She texted me on your phone.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Your phone! She has your phone!” Her hands shook as she called his number. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring… “She’s not answering!”
“Maybe she turned it off.”
Or someone else had. Or had even thrown the phone away. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.
Tigre, accompanied by Inferno, jogged over. “Your daughter has Wingman’s phone? We can track it. I can tell you where the phone is.”
“Oh my god. Oh my god.” Tears of hope mingled with the rain streaking her face.
“Remember, Shadow installed an app so we could locate each other when we needed to?” Tigre swiped his screen. “The phone is here.” He turned the device to show a blinking, moving red dot. He handed his device to Wingman.
“She’s in a vehicle,” he said.
“Appears so.” Tigre nodded.
“I’m going to get her back,” Wingman promised Delia and then looked at Tigre. “Can you make it possible for the police to track Izzy’s phone?”
Tigre nodded. “Shadow showed me how. Why?”
“So the authorities can follow. I’ll track Izzy, and they can track me.”
Tigre worked his techno magic in less than thirty seconds, but the time seemed interminable. Delia shivered. She was soaked now. They all were. Raindrops beaded on Wingman’s feathers.
As soon as Tigre finished downloading and activating the app, Wingman grasped her shoulders. “I will bring her back to you. I promise.” He sprinted several steps and leaped into the air.
* * * *
Rain pelted him from every direction. A crack of lightning lit up the gunmetal-gray sky, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. Wingman recoiled as visions of firebombs exploded behind his eyes. What is past is past. What is now is now. The words came from deep inside his brain and echoed throughout his head.
Now meant saving Izzy. Nothing else mattered. He loved that little girl, and he’d promised Delia. There could be no failure. What is past is past. What is now is now.
The firebombs disappeared, his vision cleared, and he checked his location. The screen of Tigre’s phone fogged, and he wiped it against his damp shirt. He had gained on the dot, but whoever had abducted her was still on the move. How many miles had he flown? Ten? Twenty? For a while, the dot had followed Highway 95, the north-south highway, but then veered off to an arterial, and now moved on a dirt road winding among the trees.
Rain rolled off his feathers, but the beads of water weighed on his wings, exacting more effort to stay aloft. He peeked at the screen again before returning his gaze to the ribbon of road. The dot’s location indicated he was getting close, but between the foggy rain and the thickness of the woods, he’d have to come right up on the vehicle to see it.
A zigzag of light burst in his eyes a split second before agony scorched his right wing.
CRACK! BOOM!
Firebombs exploded, hurtling him into a village engulfed by flames. Lissa! His parents! He had to warn them, save them. He pushed himself harder through the air, the burning in his wing increasing with every stroke.
His feathers were on fire! He’d beat at the flames, and an object fell from his hand. He had no idea what it was, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He had to put out flames, get to Lissa, his parents—
The past is past. Now is now.
The past is past. Now is now. The calming thought centered in his brain.
The burning village faded into trees and a winding dirt road. Not ’Topia. Not the bombardment. Earth during a thunderstorm. But the pain searing his right wing was real. It was on fire! He’d been struck by lightning, catching his wing on fire despite the rain. Beating at the flames, he tumbled from the sky.
Chapter Eighteen
Queasy with worry, sicker with hope, Delia huddled on the gym bleachers. Somebody had wrapped a blanket around her and pushed a cup of vending machine coffee into her shaking hands. It was black, and she always added cream, but she wasn’t going to drink it anyway—just hold it. It was warm, and her fingers were like ice.
Please, please. Let Wingman find her. Let her be safe and unharmed. He had a ten-minute head start on the police who were none too pleased to discover Wingman had g
one after the vehicle. Well, too bad. The police were doing everything they could, but she put her faith in Wingman. He’d promised to bring Izzy home safe and sound. He wouldn’t let her down.
Find Izzy. Please find Izzy.
Her phone rang, and she jerked, spilling coffee all over herself. She blinked at the local number, not recognizing it. What if it was the kidnappers demanding ransom? Heart in her throat, she answered it. “Hello?”
“Delia, this is Ramona.”
Not the kidnapper. “Yes, Ramona?”
“Molly remembered something. A name.”
“A name?” She repeated dumbly.
“Trudy.”
For a moment, the name meant nothing. “Trudy Beckman?” she burst out, drawing the attention of the officers clustered in the gym.
“She didn’t hear a last name or most of the conversation, but she remembers the man saying the name Trudy as Izzy was getting into his car.”
“Oh my god!” She couldn’t comprehend what she was hearing.
She waved at the officers, but the sergeant was already making his way over. “Molly remembered hearing the man who abducted Izzy say the name Trudy. Trudy Beckman is my daughter’s babysitter.”
“Is that the little girl on the phone?” he asked.
“Her mother. Ramona Attison.”
“Let me speak to her.”
Delia could tell from his changes in tone that he spoke to Molly and to Ramona. “If she remembers anything else, let us know,” he said and handed the phone back.
“Thank you for…calling, for everything,” she said and hung up. She could tell the sergeant wanted to speak to her some more. They had a lead now, and every second counted.
“We’ve already questioned Trudy Beckman,” the sergeant said. “We were at her house. We didn’t hear of a Mr. Beckman.”
“She’s widowed. She has…a son.” Her blood froze. “Scott. He…he…doesn’t live with her. He was visiting this week. He left today…just before Izzy disappeared.”
Oh my god. Oh my god. The few details Trudy had shared of Scott rolled through her mind. The bad breakup. My Scotty is a good boy, she’d said defensively, as if his moral character had been called into question. Oh god, Izzy. She couldn’t even voice her fears. “His ex won’t allow him to see their children,” she said.