by S. D. Perry
“What? What did I miss?” he asked, and the guy with the cane called him a dumbshit, and his fat wife agreed, her frightened face bobbing on a couple of chins. Henderson didn’t disagree. He pressed with them at the doors. There weren’t enough people for anyone to get squashed so long as they kept walking, and he found himself ducking a little; he was a tall man, and he wondered if all those myths were true about not hearing the shot that killed you.
He was outside then, all of them were, and he headed for the parking lot at the side of the building. At least it was a wall between whatever was going to happen and—
The shots were sudden and terrible. Henderson automatically counted, and lost count before he’d gone two steps; there were at least four or five weapons firing: 9 mm rounds punctuated by heavier thunder, had to be the .357 Smith and Wesson revolver Rusch liked to carry. Around him, the herd of civilians ducked, shouted, ran faster for the possible safety of anywhere else.
Henderson headed for his patrol car in the lot. More shots were fired. Nothing more from the .357.
“Get down! Get down!” Dawes screamed from the front of the building, his courtroom voice carrying. “Keep low!”
Henderson didn’t duck now that he was out of the direct line of fire. He’d been too late, after all.. He was going to go home, pack a bag, and he was going to get out of town for a while, until this shit was resolved. He was officially on vacation until further notice.
In the low, ugly square hedge that separated the parking lot from the station, a woman crouched, her eyes rolling in her head like a rearing horse’s. She was so terrified that she’d frozen in an unlovely squat, clutching her purse with both hands, nothing about her moving but her eyes, her teeth gritted in a weird parody of a smile.
Henderson sighed.
“Ma’am? Come with me, please,” he said, and reached down and helped her to her feet. She let herself be pulled, a middle-aged woman who might have looked nice, it was impossible to tell through her rictus of fright. She clutched her purse tighter, and Henderson looked back and saw that at least four of the people from inside had followed him.
“This way,” he said, steering away from his car. He’d at least have to get them out of harm’s way, establish a safe perimeter. Inside, three shots from a Beretta 92FS, the M9, weapon of choice for most of the county sheriff’s office—Henderson had one himself—and then there was nothing. In front of the station, people were shouting.
“I haven’t even had coffee yet,” the middle-aged woman said. He still held her arm and thought that if he let go, she might fall. She’d fixed on him with her stunned expression, but he was noting the time on his watch. Last shots fired at 7:48. Maybe. Henderson finally heard what she’d said, and nodded.
“Tell me about it,” he said, passionately.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Amanda didn’t sleep well, was half-awake when the explosion rolled up the hill in the very early morning. In her half sleep she was sure that she was hearing the effects of her young-man-at-fire dream, but when she woke up a little, she wasn’t so sure. She also thought that if she was still at John’s, closer to their tourist, she might be certain; she was way more calm and focused around him, she thought, although maybe she was just freaking because she’d seen Eric Hess blown to shit; Eric, poor, lost Eric, murdered, and she knew she was supposed to be afraid of their tourist but the more she thought about him, the more she wasn’t.
She and John had stayed at Big Blue, which had been every bit as lacey and self-conscious as she’d expected, and Sarah had lent her some clothes, and she’d finally passed out for a couple of hours before she heard someone get up and start a shower. She had dreamed that she was very small in a land of screaming giants, where every time she tried to move, she was kicked down into the mud. When she finally ventured out and saw Karen Haley for just a moment, heading down the hall, she thought she knew who’d influenced her sleep…but maybe not; maybe the dream was her subconscious reaction to seeing Eric gunned down practically on top of her or knowing that for the rest of her life, she’d remember clearly that splitsecond when she realized what Leary was going to do; she’d remember screaming at him to stop and knowing what was going to happen, anyway. That had been far more traumatizing than the actual bloodbath, and that had been fucking horrible. Amanda felt like she was an old woman already, the things she would have to think about and talk about and know for the rest of her life, whatever else she did.
She spent better than an hour lying in the clean, comfortable bed with her eyes closed, thinking, half dozing, seeing things. By the time she finally got up to go downstairs, she thought she had some idea of what was coming. Maybe. She wasn’t sure if she was ready.
Bob arrived just before eight, pale and wrapped snugly in an uncomfortable-looking sling. He insisted that they go to John’s house first for his gun, over John’s protests that the gun had surely been found and confiscated, and that the police might not let him inside, anyway. The two ducked off into another room to discuss the matter, as if there was any doubt where they were going or what they were going to do.
Amanda drank two cups of coffee with straight heavy whipping cream and ate a plain roll that Sarah gave her, to keep herself from monster acid indigestion. And to fortify herself a little, anyway. She didn’t know what was going to happen when they knocked on their tourist’s door—
Prisoner, shadows, shell…sea?
—but she thought it would be important, a very important day in her life, and she didn’t want to throw up because she’d been living on coffee and nothing for two days. Plus, she’d thrown up already in the shower at the hospital—when they’d finally let her wash Eric’s blood off her after swabbing her thoroughly in embarrassing places—when she’d watched the pink water swirl down the drain. She’d cried and puked and cried some more.
The thing was, since shortly after Eric’s death, when they’d taken her to the hospital, she’d had this very strange feeling of…of having choices. There were paths that lay in front of her, unexplored…not just paths, but an infinite array of steps in every direction, and she had only to take a first to understand how absolutely free she was. She could see herself, fairly clearly, the person she was, if she could let go of the things that had sheltered her from the casual brutality of her life until now…her defenses, her beliefs, her selfishness; her right to bemoan her fate. There was a higher ground, and lying in bed this morning she had actually seen it, had seen that if she wanted to be, she was strong enough to face her life without attaching herself to its drama.
This is so fucking out there, she told herself, stuffing the tasteless roll down her throat, waiting for John and Bob to come back and act like they knew what they were doing, like they were in charge. She was like a grown-up or some shit, the things she was thinking, the way she was thinking them…but she also suspected that most adults didn’t think like this, or not much. Not that she’d ever noticed. It was frightening, but only a little because she could decide whether to run from the fear or let it pass, whether to follow the emotional rules she’d invented for herself or try something new. The world was shifting from the black and white she’d always known and counted on, to know how to act and what to think, to a continuum of endless gray consideration, and she was also scared because she didn’t know if she was ready to be something else.
It’s a perspective shift, that’s all, she told herself. Sarah decided to stay at Big Blue, which seemed appropriate for some reason. Amanda realized, as John’s girlfriend started talking about wanting to be home when her son returned, that if Sarah had wanted to go, Amanda would have had to tell her no. It was only supposed to be her and John and Bob, that was just the right thing. She was glad it didn’t come up.
Amanda felt herself looking for their tourist’s influence as John drove Bob and herself back to his house, to park in his drive, which had been cordoned off with police tape…and finding it, finding his gentle, tortured thread of energy easily. He was there, in the gray house next
to John’s. There’d been enough shock in her life this summer for the wow factor of the coincidence to be a little thin; she’d already accepted that some things were fated to be, which meant that of course John lived next door to the guy, it just figured. She was a little surprised she hadn’t pinned it down already, but it made sense to her that Bob and John had been necessary to put all the pieces together. Fuck if she knew why.
“Leave the gun,” she said, as they got out of the car. There were no police in front of John’s house, but there was a county van parked at the side and a government-issue sedan. Amanda couldn’t imagine why there weren’t reporters standing around…although maybe they’d been distracted by one of her dream images come to life. The fire that had exploded, killing the young arsonist, perhaps. Her thoughtful, dozing half sleep this morning had been laced with conclusions, of knowing things that might be true, but she hadn’t said anything to them yet, not sure if it was important anymore. It was crazy; the shit she’d been tripping on all summer suddenly didn’t even seem relevant. Important, but not the way they thought. Being here, so close to him, she felt like…like her channels were expanding, receiving things more clearly.
“Seriously,” she added, off Bob’s expression. “We just need to meet him. He’s not armed.”
“How do you know? Do you know that?” Bob looked like death. The bright, hazy sun made him look like a vampire. Amanda wore her shades, her arms folded tightly although it was already warm, and the car had been warm.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Any other useful tidbits?” Bob snapped. “Like what’s going to happen? Like who this guy is? Like how we’re going to get him to come to the door?”
“Chelsea,” Amanda said. She looked at the small, gray house, so quiet and still. He was thinking about the girl even now, the little girl in the pink dress from the picture she’d seen in her dreams, when she’d first thought the words shell-sea. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore, and it wasn’t shell-sea; it was Chelsea. “We tell him it’s Chelsea. He thinks about her name. She’s important to him.”
John was looking at her with a careful eye. He and Sarah had made love after they’d thought everyone was asleep, long and slow, and he was trying not to think about it, he was trying extremely hard, and so it kept coming back; she could hear him.
“Amanda,” he began. He was going to question her further, try to find out what she knew about everything forever, but she didn’t want to talk about it anymore, she wanted to meet him. She wanted to see his face; she wanted to explore the mysterious chaos that cloaked his thoughts; she wanted to know what he knew, just for a moment. She wanted to know his real name.
“Seriously, John, enough,” she said. “Bob should be in bed. We need to see him to get this over with. I need to see him. Bob’s right; things are clearer here. Or less clear, depending on who you are, I guess.”
“What do you mean? Why are you in such a rush?”
“Because I want to know how it turns out,” she said. “Because I saw some things this morning, and I feel…I feel like this is part of it, what we’re doing right now. Maybe even the whole point. Probably the whole point, at least for me. Let’s just please go, OK?”
She turned and started for the rental, and they fell in behind her, Bob walking slowly. He wasn’t as doped as he needed to be to feel no pain, and John was still trying to ask questions. She went to the back door, sure that he was closer to the kitchen, that there was a basement there, and started knocking, and saying that it was Chelsea, would he please open the door, and after a minute she was banging at the door with the heel of her hand, her voice breaking as she called herself by a stranger’s name. She could feel light burst inside his head each time she said it; she felt him walk up the stairs on numb legs, and the expectation she was generating made her cry, it was so sad and lonely and, and hopeful. When he opened the door and saw her he thought she was the girl, older and taller than he’d expected but still her, his niece, and when he gathered her up, she let him, wishing she was the girl, he was so happy, his relief like a cool, sweeping wave.
“Hey there,” Bob said, alarmed, but Amanda was feeling his heartbeat against her face beneath his thin tee—
—and she made her decision, accepting what was going to happen. I can do this, she thought. I’m supposed to do this.
She slipped her arms around him and pulled him close. Held him. And knew him intimately in their embrace, her understanding of another human being so far past friendship or sex or the few sad family ties she’d experienced in her short life that she was engulfed, filled to overflowing. She heard what he’d heard, saw what he’d seen. The feelings were those from a dream, intense and raw, bigger than life. His mind was unguarded and full and incredible and sad, and he couldn’t see himself anymore; he was a knot of self-doubt and inconceivable, stretching loneliness. The shapes of his thoughts as he held her were enchanting in their starkness, in their honesty…and they were not for her.
“Let her go,” John said, from light-years away. “Amanda?”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said. “It’s not me. I’m sorry.”
She felt him pull back from her, the sudden intimacy cut off a second before he managed to extricate himself physically, stepping away, confused. She knew that he had to pull back, just as she had to tell him who she was; she couldn’t know him like that and lie for one more second.
He felt it, too, part of it. Something between them. She saw that he was younger than she’d imagined, pale, his eyes dark with doubt and fear. She’d seen him before…drinking coffee by himself, that day in the restaurant. Outside the theater, for poetry night. Always alone.
Again, she could see a hundred ways this could go, ways she could choose to handle this unprecedented meeting…but she already had a sense of the outcome and didn’t feel any urge to rebel against what she now believed would happen, what she mostly understood. Chelsea was his niece, by his brother who was dead, who’d killed himself.
“You’re David Abbey,” she said. “Invite us in, please.”
He gazed out at them, his face closed, his heart aching. “Who are you?” he asked, looking at her.
What a fucking trip. She was aware of all of them, Bob’s aches and John’s fears and David Abbey’s need for her, for what she could provide, and there was no hesitation, no fucking fear at all. She didn’t have to be coy or manipulate, she didn’t have to be what anyone expected. What she expected. There was nothing to win here, just what would eventually be acknowledged, by all of them.
“Fate, if you can believe it,” she said.
John was hopelessly adrift. He’d felt the chemistry between Amanda and David Mallon—Abbey?—when they’d embraced, not sexual but electric nonetheless, and now Amanda was talking about fate, and they were walking through the kitchen of the bland, gray rental. His neighbor, all this time. His goddamn neighbor.
Their host led them to the living room where he awkwardly offered them seats before sitting in the room’s one nice piece, a wing-backed chair. He nodded acknowledgment at John as they sat.
“Doctor,” he said, his voice low and even. He looked composed, but barely. Whoever Chelsea was—and how well could he know her, if he’d mistaken Amanda for her?—she was extremely important to him.
“Right,” Amanda said. “Excuse me. I’m Amanda. Young. You’ve met John; this is Bob Sayers, he’s a reporter. This is David Abbey.”
Abbey nodded. “So you say. And you know this because…”
“Because when you came to town, I went psychic,” she said. “Like, see the future, feel people’s feelings psychic. You came in mid-June, right? Like a week and a half in? I started seeing things. And Bob knew something was going on in town, and he found some things, and John’s our brains guy who happens to live next door, and we figured it out.”
Abbey’s expression was as carefully noncommittal as he could make it, a blank, but anyone looking at him would have seen his eyes. He was mortified.
Sh
e looked back at John. “He can’t help it,” she said. “He knows, but he can’t help it.”
“You knew this would happen,” Bob asked, not really a question. “You came here knowing that people would die.”
Abbey shifted in his chair. He held his head up. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m leaving, tonight.”
“Maybe that’s not good enough,” Bob said.
“Different angle, Bob,” Amanda said. “Did you not hear me? He can’t help what he does.”
“He can sure as hell help where he goes.” He shot a look at Abbey. “Why here? Why did you come here?”
Abbey only stared at him, his gaze unreadable but infinitely sad.
John cleared his throat. “What is it you do? Do you know?”
Abbey’s voice was soft and careful. “I don’t, not exactly. People around me change. I don’t know the cause, but it propagates genetically; my brother had it, too. This influence. There’s a history in our line. What exists in the people around me is magnified and reflected. Things they might normally hide, I believe. Jung’s Shadow. I’m a…catalyst. A random element, or a deliberate design. Arguments could be made either way.”
He looked at Amanda. “Is there something about Chelsea? Is she all right? Did you see her?”
Amanda shook her head. “Not yet. But you’re going to see her, and I’m coming with you.”
They all stared at her. The look she wore was patient and ready.
“Hang on a second,” John said.
“Over my dead body,” Bob said.
Abbey’s cheeks had flushed. “I—that’s not going to happen.”
Amanda sighed, looking at Abbey. “Listen to me,” she said. “Look at me. I know about your brother, about Matthew.”
“What?” Abbey was transfixed, the word a dumb whisper.
“Before Chelsea was born, before he even knew about her, he killed himself. Before he knew that you had it, too. And you’re afraid she might be a carrier, and you’re afraid…you’re just afraid. But I can tell you what you need to know.”