Echoes

by Marissa Lete

“For less life-threatening situations, it works pretty well. Just aim for the eyes.”

  I nod, pocketing it. “I’ll have no problem putting this one to good use.”

  He lets out a laugh, then starts back toward the house. I trail behind, watching the way he walks, surely and steadily, with purpose.

  When we get inside, Maverick leads me into the dining room. The same place where we’d had that difficult conversation, barely two weeks ago. “What would you like for dinner?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Is there a menu?”

  “The menu is whatever you want,” he replies, serious.

  I contemplate his words for a second, realizing that he’s probably telling the truth—with all the money he has, he could just get whatever he wants. I decide not to test my limits, though. “Honestly, I’m kind of just in the mood for some French fries.”

  “I can do that. Better than Tony’s, too. Come on,” he tells me, then starts for a door at the opposite side of the room. I follow him, staring at the sparkling chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The echoes in this house are so quiet; it feels empty. Lonely.

  Through the door, there’s a restaurant size kitchen. Maverick opens the storage room, pulls out a sack of potatoes, then walks over to one of the many clean counters. He flips a switch on a deep fryer, and I watch as he carefully starts peeling the potatoes, then slides each one through a French fry cutter.

  “Don’t you have, like, people who cook for you?” I ask him, his back facing me.

  He turns his head just enough so he can look at me. “Sometimes, yeah.”

  I nod. “It must be nice.” I watch his shoulders moving under his shirt as he lifts the potatoes into the basket of the deep fryer, admiring his frame. This guy was my boyfriend at one point? Grace would have been so jealous.

  “It’s… weird. I prefer to cook on my own, honestly. But the people here, this is their job. They get paid to cook, and clean, and take care of the yard. I don’t want to take that from them.”

  I ponder it. “I guess that is weird.”

  He nods, sliding the full basket of fries into the deep fryer. He turns to face me, leaning back and resting his elbows on the counter. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve all of this,” he waves his hand in the air, gesturing at the room vaguely.

  I glance at all of the stainless steel around me, the spotless tile floors. I shrug. “You just got really lucky, I guess.”

  A half-smile crosses his face, but it looks more sad than happy. “It doesn’t feel like that.”

  I try to imagine Maverick’s life. Struggling with his ability. Fighting with his family about it. It all seems too similar to my own experience with the echoes, except Maverick’s ability actually caused irreversible damage to his family. And now both of his parents are gone. I can’t even imagine having to deal with so much.

  The deep fryer beeps, and Maverick turns away, lifting the basket of fries out of the oil. He pulls a plate out of a cabinet, shakes the pile of French fries onto it, then slides it over to me. “All yours.”

  Chapter 29

  Two hours later, we wait in a parking lot in Maverick’s Corolla, watching the doorway of the building. I shiver from the cold. We didn’t leave the car on, since we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, and twenty minutes later the bitter cold from outside has already made its way into the car. It’s freezing, but the gun burns hot against my hip. Maverick had assured me that I most likely won’t need it tonight, but he wanted me to have it just in case.

  Twelve minutes after seven, Alice comes walking out of the building. I shiver at the sight of her, dressed in a pantsuit and carrying a briefcase. So normal in appearance. She hops into a shiny white Porsche and peels out of the parking lot. I start to move after it’s gone, but Maverick holds his hand up.

  “Let’s wait a few minutes, just to make sure,” he says.

  I nod, my breath coming out in clouds of mist. We wait in silence as a few other people dressed in business clothes leave the building. Ten minutes later, Maverick pushes the door open.

  We walk inside into a small waiting room where a receptionist is sitting behind a glass window, typing into her computer. When we get closer to her, she opens the window, looking at us expectantly. “Can I help you?”

  Maverick ignores her. He steps past the window, opening a door just to the left of it, and I follow closely behind him. “Excuse me? You need to check in before you can go back there. Your doctor will come and get you when they are ready,” the receptionist is saying as we pass through the door. On the other side, a hallway is in front of us and the backside of the receptionist’s desk is to our right.

  “Hold on, please go back around the other way,” she says, standing up from her chair. She steps forward as if to guide us back through the door, but Maverick reaches out and grabs her wrist. I watch as her eyes widen for a half-second, then glaze over. Maverick grabs her other arm, guiding her back into her seat. She sits down, then he turns her forward to face the front door again. When he lets go of her, he goes to the wall behind her, searching for something. He snatches a key chain off a hook, then looks at me.

  “Let’s go,” he says, avoiding my gaze. “She won’t remember seeing us.” Then he starts down the hallway.

  I pause for a long moment, realizing that I’ve just witnessed Maverick use his ability. The same ability he used on me. I shiver at the thought; it had been so easy. It only took a second. Pushing my fears to the side, I follow him down the hall, taking long strides to keep up with his pace.

  Finally, we come to an office, and Maverick uses a key from the keychain he took to unlock the door. It slides open, revealing a homey-looking office with a red sofa across from a desk. It’s quiet, probably because it’s so late in the evening and even last year no one was here at the time.

  My eyes immediately go to the filing cabinet in the corner.

  Maverick closes the door and locks it.

  “We’ll be quick. You start with the filing cabinets,” he says as I make my way toward them. “I’ll see if I can get into her computer.”

  I open the first drawer, sifting through folders. I find copies of different types of paperwork: questionnaires, medical history forms, insurance forms. All of them blank. I close the drawer, moving to the second one. This one has more forms, but these ones are filled out. They’re in alphabetical order, and I scan a few of them, but there isn’t anything that stands out as odd or incriminating.

  I’m putting a folder back into the cabinet when I notice a paper laying face down at the bottom of the drawer. I reach in, flipping it over in my hand. It’s a photograph.

  “This is Dave, that guy that was working for Alice,” I say. Next to him in the photo is a woman holding a young child. It’s a studio-quality photo, all three of them smiling at the camera and standing in front of a backdrop of a field of flowers.

  I hold the photo out to Maverick, still sitting in front of the computer. “I know them,” he says, looking at it.

  “You do?”

  “That’s his wife, Amy, and his son, Garrett. They were some of the people Alice had me erase the memories of. They don’t remember Dave at all. I didn’t know it at the time, but I guess she was using me to get Dave to work for her.”

  “Does he remember them?” I ask.

  Maverick shakes his head. “I had to make him forget them, too.”

  I look at the photo for a long moment, a sadness creeping into my throat. A beautiful family, torn apart. And they don’t even know it.

  I fold the photo up and slide it into my back pocket, then go back to the filing cabinet. In the third drawer, I finally find what I’m looking for: patient records. These are in alphabetical order, too, and I pull one out at random. The name on the tab of the folder says “Veronica Starnes.”

  The top page has basic information: she’s nineteen, from Garysburg—a City about twenty minutes away from Shorewick—and has been a patient for four years. There’s even a photo of the
slender, dark-haired girl. She’s beautiful.

  I flip the page, taking in the words typed across the second paper in the file:

  Veronica Starnes

  Anomaly ID#: 52

  Status: Contained

  Danger: 3

  Classification: Involuntary, sporadic

  Description: Displays an ability to manipulate emotions. Those in the subject’s vicinity are compelled to assume whatever emotional state the subject is in at the time. If the subject is in an emotionally heightened state, the decisions of bystanders can be severely impacted. Ability is unpredictable and uncontrollable.

  I flick my eyes across the page, trying to absorb as much information as I can. This is one of the anomalies Maverick had mentioned. But what do all the terms mean? Status? Classification? It seems like Alice has come up with a way of labeling us.

  I close the file, then reach into the bin, pulling out another.

  This one is of a sixteen-year-old boy named Gabe, from Shorewick.

  Gabe Jackson

  Anomaly ID#: 41

  Status: Contained

  Danger: 2

  Classification: Involuntary, constant

  Description: Subject hears the constant thoughts of everyone around him. This ability causes immense stress to the subject himself because he cannot stop it, though it has no impact on those around him. May be able to use the ability to gather secret information and hurt others with it.

  With hungry eyes, I open another.

  Gregory Black

  Anomaly ID#: 27

  Status: Controlled

  Danger: 1

  Classification: Voluntary

  Description: Subject can move small objects without touching them. Can’t create high enough velocity or large enough distance to harm another person.

  I run my fingers across the edges of the folders. There must be over a hundred of them. One of them catches my eye.

  “Maverick, you have to see this.” He appears next to me as I open the folder with his name on it. “There are patient files on the anomalies she’s dealt with. This one’s yours.” We both stare at the page intently.

  Maverick Schall

  Anomaly ID#: 36

  Status: Unresolved

  Danger: 5

  Classification: Voluntary

  Description: Subject can permanently erase memories through skin contact with the victim. Victims show no sign of amnesia, but some experience a period of confusion or extreme fatigue after the subject has erased their memories. We cannot detect when this power has been used on someone.

  When I finish reading, Maverick is reaching into the cabinet. “There’s one on you, too,” he says, surprised.

  I snatch it out of his hand. “What? How? I thought she didn’t know about my ability?”

  “I didn’t think so, either.”

  Laura Jones

  Anomaly ID#: 124

  Status: Unresolved

  Danger: 1

  Classification: Involuntary, constant

  Description: Subject hears sounds from the past.

  “Mine is so short,” I say.

  “She probably doesn’t know much. I wonder how she even found out?” Maverick replies.

  “I don’t know.” I scan the folders again, and just as I’m about to look away, I spot one that grabs my interest. “Look,” I say, snatching it and sliding it out.

  At the top, the name “Alice Wight” is typed in bold script. The folder is darker and worn at the edges more than the rest. I open it.

  Alice Wight

  Anomaly ID#: 1

  I only have time to read the first two lines before the sound of the lock sliding out of place grabs our attention.

  We both watch in horror as the door swings open.

  Maverick has me under the desk before the light from the hallway touches us. He crouches low next to me, our bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip.

  The door swings open and from under the desk, I can see a pair of feet in the doorway. The light flips on and a deep, gruff voice says, “Show yourself.”

  Maverick’s eyes meet mine. “Stay down,” he mouths to me, and then he stands up from behind the desk.

  “Put your hands where I can see them,” the voice says.

  Next to me, Maverick’s palms go up in front of him. He steps forward, past the desk, and then I can only see his feet, too. Silently, I start to slide the pepper spray out of my pocket.

  “Now isn’t it convenient that I find you here? Alice will be pleased.”

  Maverick doesn’t respond, but a beat later he moves, rushing at the guy.

  Then there’s a click: the sound of a gun being loaded. “Stop,” the voice says, but Maverick is already frozen. “You come out too.”

  I wait.

  “Right. Now.”

  Shakily, I stand up, sliding the pepper spray back into my pocket and facing the guy. He’s big. Burly. He’s wearing long, dark clothes and a pair of black leather gloves. And he has a gun pointed directly at me.

  “Two birds, right in the palm of my hand. What a nice surprise,” his lips curl into a snarl.

  I glance to Maverick, who’s staring at the guy, sizing him up.

  “I’m going to tell you how this is going to go. You”—he flicks the gun towards Maverick—“are going to walk in front.” The gun goes back to me. “She’s next. Any sign either of you is going to run, and I’ll shoot.”

  Maverick and I just stand there, waiting.

  “Move,” he says, making a little flick with his gun to show us that he’s serious. Maverick glances at me then steps forward calmly. As he passes, the guy points the gun directly at him. Then, in one second, Maverick turns on the guy, grabbing his wrist and shoving the gun out of the way. It goes off, the sound punching through the room and startling me, but no one is hit. It topples to the ground.

  After recovering from hearing the shot, I spring into action, too, ripping the pepper spray from my back pocket and aiming it at the guy's face. It hits, and he stumbles, gasping, his eyes scrunched up in pain.

  Maverick grips my arm. “Let’s go.”

  We turn, exit the room, and race down the hallway. The receptionist from earlier is blocking our path, walking in our direction hesitantly, a concerned expression on her face.

  “What is going on—” she starts, but Maverick reaches her before she finishes and touches her arm. She blinks, and he shoves her toward her seat. Then he turns to me and pushes me through the door, glancing behind us as he does.

  When we get outside, we tear through the parking lot toward his car. About halfway there, a gunshot rackets through the air. I turn my head around, looking back at the building. There’s a dark figure in the window of Alice’s office.

  “Watch out!” Maverick’s voice rings out, and just as I’m turning my head to look back at him, he crashes into me, knocking me down onto the ground. At the same moment, a gunshot rings through the air.

  We land, a tangle of limbs on the cold pavement. “Stay low. Get to the car,” Maverick hisses once we’ve recovered from the fall. I get back up on my feet, crouched to the ground. I shuffle, squeezing between two cars, edging around them. I look behind me to see Maverick following, but I notice he’s moving slower. Clutching his left arm.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, reaching for him. My hand touches his sleeved arm, and when I pull it back it’s wet.

  Blood.

  Chapter 30

  “You’ve been shot,” I say as we sit there, crouched behind a car.

  Maverick meets my eyes. “I know.” In any other situation, I think he might have rolled his eyes. “We need to leave.”

  So we do, moving as fast as we can behind cars, past lampposts. When we get to the Corolla, Maverick throws me the keys. “You’re gonna need to drive,” he says, grimacing.

  We climb in and I put the car in gear, tearing out of the parking lot as fast as the engine will let me.

  Maverick starts giving me directions. “Where are we going?” I ask.
<
br />   “My house,” he replies.

  “You’ve been shot. You need a doctor.”

  “No. It’s not that bad. We can take care of it ourselves.”

  I glance over at him as he clutches his arm, face taut. I check my mirrors to make sure no one is following us, then I pull onto the side of the road, shifting the car into park.

  “We need to at least stop the bleeding.”

  I turn to him and reach for his arm. Reluctantly, he lets go, wincing as I touch him. There’s a small hole torn through his black, long-sleeved shirt, and blood oozes out, wetting the dark fabric. I can’t tell how much blood there is because it blends into his sleeve. “I need to get your sleeve off so I can see the wound.”

  His eyes flash at me, filled with pain. “There’s a knife in there,” he lifts his chin towards the glove box. I reach over him, my arm brushing against his knee as I sift through the glove box, then pull out a small pocket knife. I get to work, sawing at the fabric of his shirt just beneath his shoulder. I peel the sleeve back, cutting a line down the length of his arm, trying to be gentle as I pull the fabric away from the wound. He winces but doesn’t protest.

  Finally, his sleeve is gone, and there’s a large patch of skin covered in blood. I reach for his arm, ready to grab it and pull it closer so I can examine it better, but then I stop. Before, I’d been touching his shirt sleeve, so I hadn’t been worried about it, but now, staring at his bare skin, I remember how quickly and easily he’d erased the receptionist’s memory.

  “You don’t have to touch me,” Maverick croaks out as I sit there, gaping at his arm.

  My hand hovers there, above his skin. Certainly he won’t try to erase my memory right now if I touch him, I know that. But something about knowing he can makes me nervous.

  I push the feeling away. Maverick had pushed me out of the bullet’s path, even when it meant risking getting shot himself. Without even thinking about it. Without even hesitating. If that doesn’t say something about him, then I don’t know what will.