Places Between

by Nat Kennedy

  In polite society, outside of the cults, a mentalist never read another's mind without permission. For one, you could never hide what you were doing, the Tracer always gave the mentalist away. And second, it was illegal. Outside of the cult, Bethany would demand such action cease, but here Bethany was not a BWS agent, but a geologist vying for a face-to-face with their leader. She didn't blame April for checking on Bethany. But April had shown her hand. Bethany knew this woman's power and Tracer.

  The older woman nodded and pointed. “Over there. She's gathering the young ones, telling them about their unique snowflakeness and how with power and numbers come strength. You know.” April smiled thin-lipped, closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “Why are you here if you don't…?” Bethany, embracing her shy-girl persona, didn't feel it prudent to finish.

  April cast a far-off gaze that lost itself somewhere over Bethany's shoulder, then she sighed the sigh of the weary. “It's nice to be with other Wielders. Those without the ability shield themselves behind a certain caution—if they know about you—that gets tiring after a while. I'm no little girl; I'm tired of pretending.”

  Bethany understood. Whether with her husband, or her non-Wielder friends, her 'otherness' dominated the atmosphere. Non-Wielders treated those who could pluck the Nerve with equal parts awe and distrust. But at her job, where over half of the agents Wielded the Nerve, she had purpose and a sisterhood. It was easy for her to understand why these women would join up with one of the cults.

  The two women walked into an open area within the warehouse. About fifty yards away in yellow plastic lawn chairs sat a woman with three teenage girls. Rena waited nearby patiently, her back to the approaching women.

  Cynthia, the leader of the Martinique gang, was a round, unassuming woman with dark skin and indeterminate heritage. Bethany had never met her, since she wasn't on the gang task force, but recognized her instantly. If someone was kidnapping her girls, using her power on them, Cynthia was the woman to go to for intel.

  Unless Cynthia was the one behind the acts.

  Cynthia said something, and the young women all looked at each other, eyes wide. They were the faces of hope, opportunity, and belonging. Bethany watched the gathering, something fluttering in her imagination—the image of her own daughter inserted into this group of women. Young Melanie, perhaps just finding out she could Wield—luckily that was a few years off—worried how her parents would take it, but optimistic, looking for acceptance, for fun, joining up with a gang.

  Indigestion bubbled solidly in Bethany’s gut. No, her daughter would never feel the need to join a cult; Bethany would support her every step of the way.

  Cynthia rubbed a young woman’s shoulder, supportive. Bethany shook her head, letting reality assert itself. Cynthia wasn’t behind this; it made no sense for this advocate of Wielders to kill the very people she was trying to influence.

  A woman in a ponytail rushed in from another warehouse door. Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath. “Someone from BWS is here.”

  The teens gasped. Cynthia adopted a sly smirk.

  Beth’s jaw clenched. Did Jameson get caught? He wasn't due to storm the castle yet.

  “Shall we go greet our guest?” Cynthia asked, and she and Rena followed the other woman out the door. The girls trailed after, huddled close and whispering. Left alone with April, Bethany let her muscles ease, relaxed her hold on the Nerve she'd gathered up.

  April turned toward Bethany, her smile mild. “So, why are you here, BWS?”

  Bethany's heart pounded once, then seemed to backfire in her chest. She shored up her shield an instant before she heard that same hole punch stamp.

  April narrowed her gaze, viper sharp. “You're a formidable mentalist,” she said. “I didn't get it off your mind, but I'm very good at picking out the feds. The shoes, the glasses, the act you put on, attempting to diminish yourself, but you're obviously focused. Why are you here?”

  Bethany took in a breath, offered a tight smile. They were alone in the warehouse, but a commotion outside suggested their solitude wouldn't last long. Jeers and curses split the air. Threats and goosebumps skittered up Bethany's arms.

  “I'm looking for a murderer. Someone who is killing Wielders. Young women.”

  April's hard façade faltered. So, she hadn't expected that.

  “We're missing girls,” April said.

  Bethany dropped her pleasant, blasé act. “I was told the Sierras were missing some too.”

  April studied Bethany once more and shook her head. “Killer's not anyone here. I check everyone over.”

  Bethany believed that, the old, suspicious matriarch. She wondered at the position this unassuming woman had in the gang.

  “But the killer’s hunting your girls.” Bethany stood tall, eagerly sloughing off the act. “I must talk to Cynthia.”

  “Yes, you should.”

  ~~~

  “Mandy.” A photo of a shy brunette with braces slid across the plastic desktop. “Sara.” A picture of an older teenage girl with a short bob of dark hair and a sassy grin. “Coraly.” A pale Scandinavian girl with a cocky smirk. “Eva.” A Hispanic girl with thick black hair and dimples. “Tora.” A brunette with freckles and bright blue eyes. “Cindy.” A young Asian woman, early twenties, shyly glancing at the camera.

  “These are our missing friends,” Cynthia finished, her flat and unimpressed tone aimed at Bethany.

  “Why didn't you report any of this to the police?” Jameson asked, holding a cold compress to his cheek where a metal barrel had been thrown into his face.

  Cynthia gave Jameson a look of disbelief.

  Bethany dropped her 'why don't we all get along' attitude. “Women are missing—girls—and you're worried about coming to us? You're worried about your little tower of power here and not about the people who are a part of it. Ridiculous.”

  She seethed. Each face, each smile, she'd seen them before. Seen them desiccated and green. Seen them on the morgue slab with a toe tag for decoration.

  Her phone buzzed in her pants pocket, the vibration rubbing against her leg. It'd been buzzing for twenty minutes now, off and on. She wondered what item was missing on her daily planner today and wanted to curse at the wackjobs of the world who got off on hurting people so she couldn’t be at home with her family.

  Cynthia sneered, but she couldn’t intimidate Bethany. “You never—”

  “Setting blame isn't the important thing right now,” Bethany said. Cynthia inhaled, puffing out her ample chest like a crowing cock.

  “We need all the information you can give us about these girls,” Jameson said. “Who they hung out with, where they might have been. If you know, where they were last seen, or taken.”

  April leaned over and whispered something into Cynthia's ear. Cynthia's face darkened. She nodded, then slammed her fist against the desk, scattering the printed snapshots of the dead girls.

  “Yeah. Fine.” She slowly dribbled information to them, every piece like some precious jewel callously given away. Bethany jotted down the notes on each girl, wishing discovering ways to appease Paul were as easy.

  ~~~

  Flack vest strapped on, weapon readied. Stationed in the crowded back of a surveillance van, Bethany stared down at her phone. It'd stopped buzzing hours ago, but this was her first breather since her truce with Martinique. She picked up the phone and hit a button. It rang once. Twice.

  “Beth. Thanks for calling me back.” Paul didn't sound happy.

  “I'm in the middle of a huge case, Hon.” Which he knew.

  “I know you can't make it to any of our counseling meetings, so I'm telling you over the phone. I'm done. I've had enough. I love you, Beth, but I can't live like this anymore.”

  Paul hung up.

  Beth stared at her cell, numb. A piercing ringing echoed in her ears.

  Jameson cleared his throat. “Wolfe,” —he never did use her full last name— “they're ready to roll. Waiting on you.”

  Be
thany pressed her lips together, tore her eyes away from the phone. She would fix it later. Go to every session. Be home at a reasonable hour every night. Right now, she needed to catch this killer. She nodded once. “Yeah, I'm ready.”

  Seven agents huddled with the equipment in the cramped space. Police back-up had been stationed around the neighborhood. After pulling the information from Cynthia—worse than taking Ricky's coffee away—they'd found a common factor. The girls all gathered or hung out at Perky Press, a small independent bookstore meets coffee joint. With the agents was a young woman, a member of the Martinique gang who'd just began to figure out her powers. Cynthia had insisted on joining, but April had talked her out of it. Instead, the much calmer April leaned towards the girl, Penny, comforting her with words.

  Penny didn't seem too worried; in fact, she seemed to be treating the entire operation as an exciting outing. Bethany couldn't look at her. She had long dirty blond hair and high cheeks. She reminded her too much of an older Melanie. Melanie, who Paul would take away from her. The map of the area in Beth's hand wrinkled in her fist.

  “Bethany, pull yourself together.” Jameson's harsh words tickled against her ear. “Can you do this?”

  She glared at Jameson. He had a wife and kids; how did he make it work? His overtime matched her own. How did he live in these two worlds?

  “Of course.”

  They held each other's gaze for a moment, then Jameson nodded once and looked away.

  Bethany turned to the girl. “Penny, you understand what you have to do?”

  Penny rolled her eyes. “'course. Just act normal. Get my coffee, play on my tablet for an hour, then leave.”

  “Yes. Remember, you might be followed tonight, or you might not. Just walk the directed route and people will be there waiting for you. You'll be watched at all times.”

  “Eww, as bad as the NSA.”

  Bethany took a relaxing breath. Melanie was never this flippant.

  “And keep your tablet on and we'll monitor you through that, got it?”

  She made a face but nodded in acknowledgment.

  “All right, Penny,” Jameson said. “Time for you to go. Our people are already in place.”

  “Got it.” Penny hugged April, then hopped out of the van and walked the few blocks to Perky Press.

  Then they waited.

  “You have kids,” April said. It wasn't a question, and Bethany itched knowing that this gang woman knew personal details about her.

  “Why do you say that?”

  April smiled, the wrinkles on her face deepening. “Got a hint from your thoughts, but really, it’s the way you watch Penny. It's like you're some aloof protective hawk. Watching, but never getting too close. It's a motherly instinct, but not the coddling kind.”

  Jameson leaned against the van wall next to Bethany, keeping quiet.

  “I'm not a coddler,” was all Bethany could come up with.

  “It must be hard,” April said. Bethany lifted her brows at the woman, not going in for the bait. “Having such a demanding job and raising children,” April continued. “It's a difficult life you've chosen, this place between work and home.”

  Ah, little did this woman know. She probably raised her kids in the era of stay-at-home dads keeping the house for the wife while she brought home the paycheck. Or even the stay-at-home moms; a lot of women did that until their children went to school. Of course, Bethany couldn't do that. She loved her job. Loved doing good things for the community. Too bad Paul didn't want to be a stay-at-home dad. Bethany snorted bitter laughter at herself. Every other agent's husband seemed to accept their wives' determination and duty. If their positions were changed, she would probably put up with his absence knowing he was working hard to keep the world safe.

  Bastard.

  “Package is in place,” informed an agent camped in a folding chair before a bank of video monitors erected in the back of the van.

  Time oozed by like growing mildew and all Bethany wanted was to act. To do something. She hoped the Wielder moved soon, so they could go in and nab the bitch and send her to prison for a very, very long time. Then she could go home and fix this thing with Paul. Let Melanie know she was the most precious thing in Bethany's life.

  The hour allotment hit and Penny left the cafe, beginning her solo walk back to the van. Nobody moved for her. Damn. They'd have to do this again.

  Static and then through the mics, “Someone's on her. Tall, dressed in a long black coat. Male.”

  Everyone in the van shared a look. A man? A male Wielder? Unpredictable, often imbalanced in the brain, Bethany had arrested enough in her days. Male Wielders were scorned by society, so much so that her brother kept his status as a Wielder a secret. Most of the sane ones did.

  “She turned down Herald Lane.”

  “Jameson, you take Mitchel and Zereph. McPhearson and Dabby, you're with me.” They jumped out of the van. “This could be the Green Killer. We don't know how physical Wielding works. Be careful. And it might not be him. Keep your eyes open for any women trailing them as well.”

  She took her team to the left, around the block so they'd have a good view of Penny as she came down Herald.

  They crouched behind cars—cats on the hunt, silent in the dark. McPhearson and Dabby were force Wielders; two women who had watched her back for years.

  Penny came into view. She was on her phone, chatting with someone. Good cover. Bethany reached out, the distance challenging, to get a sense of her mindset. Tickling a Nerve, she knew the girl was scared. A tenor chime tinkled in the air, low and steady as Bethany kept her touch to the Nerve. Penny had realized she was being followed. Bethany didn't dare try for more, the sound would be too loud in the silent night.

  They had to wait until the tail made a move. Penny knew that too.

  Good girl, Bethany thought. Stay strong.

  “Hey, excuse me.” A man in a long coat came running up to Penny. Bethany held up her hand, ready to signal her team. “You left this in the cafe.”

  Penny turned around, said something into her phone, then louder, “What?”

  The man drew closer. Bethany was flooded by Penny's anxiety. Her mind flitted to Melanie and hoped her daughter never had to be in such a situation. Penny's thoughts rushed through where to run, where the agents were, and if she had left anything behind.

  He held something out. Penny stepped towards him. Bethany held her breath.

  “My wallet?” Penny's thoughts questioned if she'd actually left it behind or if he'd lifted it off her. Bethany approved.

  “It's yours, right?”

  Penny turned it over in her hands and nodded.

  “Good. Be safe, it's dark out.” Then the man turned away and left.

  Bethany remained in position.

  “Any read on him, Wolfe-Martin?” Dabby asked.

  With a curse under her breath, Bethany dropped her connection to Penny and reached out for the man. She tickled the Nerve, but he was too far. She got no read.

  Radio in her ear, she ticked Jameson with it. “Looks like he's going. Keep on Penny.”

  “Roger,” came Jameson's quiet, clear voice.

  She should have realized this wasn't their culprit when they'd discovered it was a man. Maybe a pervert or a stalker, but not their killer. Still, Penny was safe, and that eased something within Bethany that had grown tight and hard.

  A few cars passed by and nobody else seemed to be following their bait. The perp wasn't taking it tonight. They'd do it again in a few nights, but keep the place under surveillance. She'd be able to go home tonight and talk to Paul, work this thing out. Salvage a marriage that she'd once cherished.

  The squeal of tires ripped through the air. Then Jameson in her ear. “Penny's been taken. Sedan. Toyota. Light brown.” As Jameson rattled off breathless details into their ears, Bethany hit the road, pistol aimed at the ground, her support right behind her.

  Around the corner the sedan squealed, burned rubber spewing up from the tires, a stinky
dark cloud.

  “Stop the car,” Bethany ordered McPhearson and Dabby. “Be careful of the passengers,”

  McPhearson stood tall, head bowed. Her hand contorted into a claw at her side as she began plucking the Nerve. Dabby pressed her palms together in front of her. Both force Wielders strummed the Nerve in their own ways. From her past experience with these Agents, Bethany knew that Dabby was creating a bubble within the vehicle to protect the passengers from the collision, while McPhearson was creating that very collision.

  Before Bethany's eyes, the sedan slowed, the front end folding in like an accordion, the rear end hopping up and then dribbling onto the pavement once the momentum was brought to a stop. On the air, the scent of pine needles and scorched plastic mixed with the burned rubber causing her eyes to water. Bethany charged forward, gun ready. All around agents swarmed out of the suburban landscape, behind cars, from around RVs and hedges. One acrobatic woman dropped from an oak tree.

  Another force Wielder ripped the passenger door off the sedan. Guns clicked, each one aimed at the inside.

  A person slumped behind the wheel; another was limp in the passenger seat. Bethany gestured to an agent on the far side of the car as she kept her gun on the driver. The agent leaned into the car and pulled out Penny, limp like a doll.

  “She clear?” Bethany asked into her mic.

  From the bud in her ear, “Target is clear. One individual left inside. Looks to be coming to.”

  Bethany called, voice commanding, cool, “This is the Bureau of Wielder Services. You are surrounded. Put your hands on the steering wheel.”

  The door banged open and an individual rolled from the car into a nearby bush.

  “Do we shoot? Agent Wolfe-Martin?”

  Again, Bethany ordered the kidnapper down. “We will shoot if you do not come forward, arms up. Do not Wield or we will be forced to shoot.” Into her mic, she said, “Do not shoot unless she proves a threat. I repeat. Keep the kidnapper alive.”

  A bang ate through the anticipation. Her first thought was: Tracer or gunshot? But the spear of heat punching through her thigh, throwing her back, cleared up that confusion instantly. Instinct overrode all logical thought as she dodged to the ground, reaching out her mind to pluck the Nerve, diving into the psyche hiding in the bush.