by Rysa Walker
For the moment however, my gut seems to be prevailing. So I just nod and shift my gaze out the window. We pass a few small shopping centers, one with a Starbucks that is screaming my name, but I don’t say anything. The sun is inching down toward the horizon, as sporadic prisms of orange light break through the branches of trees that are beginning to lose their leaves in earnest.
Aaron eventually turns right into a mostly residential area, then pulls into a lot surrounded by a square of two-story brick townhomes. He stops the car under a canopy near the middle of the parking lot and comes around to my side, I guess to open the door for me. I beat him to it, though. I was out of the car almost before we were fully stopped, once again contemplating making a run for it.
Molly must feel my panic, because she surges to the front, almost like she’s trying to take control. That only ramps up my fear, and she quickly pulls back.
Sorry. I . . . I just . . . Aaron’s okay, Anna. I’ve known him forever. You can trust him.
She’s pushing thoughts toward me. Nothing coherent, just a fleeting slide show of memories. A summer afternoon in someone’s backyard. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair sitting across from Porter at a picnic table, drinking beer, watching a group of kids playing . . . badminton, I think. A younger girl with the same reddish-brown hair as Aaron running around in a profusely pink bedroom with a frilly canopy bed. The sensation of jumping on the bed with that same little girl, then diving beneath a Disney Princesses comforter, giggling, when a boy around seven in what appear to be Iron Man underwear—is that Aaron?—runs past the door.
I shake my head to clear away the barrage of images and sounds, but I still get the emotions behind them. Happy. Safe. Secure. Loved.
Molly’s been through a lot, and that’s why I try to pull back my first thought, which is that the circumstances of her death suggest she might not have been the best judge of character. And I also try to restrain my second thought—that I really hope her judgment in this case doesn’t get me killed as well.
I apparently don’t succeed in hiding either of those feelings, but Molly doesn’t take offense. She just snorts.
Aaron is not Craig. He’s not Lucas. If anything, he’s too polite.
So was Norman Bates.
Hmph.
And then Molly curls back up in her corner of my head.
Aaron is staring at me. I’ve been standing here in the middle of the parking lot during my little internal dialogue with Molly. And yes, it was probably only a couple of seconds, but I’m sure I looked like a total idiot. I wipe the side of my mouth with one hand, relieved to find it’s dry. At least I wasn’t a drooling idiot.
“It’s . . . this one,” he says awkwardly, motioning toward a unit on the end, with a neat square of grass and one rather anemic-looking tree in front. He fumbles with a ring of keys, settling on one that’s neon green. Then he scoops up the small stack of community papers from the stoop and tosses them into the empty recycling bin next to the door.
Empty except for water, that is. It splashes onto his jeans and soaks his Nikes. A large wet maple leaf clings to the toe of his left shoe. I stifle a laugh as he tries, unsuccessfully, to shake it off, before finally scraping it loose against the top step.
Once the door is open, Aaron stashes his messenger bag under the small bench near the door, then sits down to pull off his wet shoes. “You can leave yours on if you want,” he says, when he sees I’m following suit. “These are soaked.”
I shrug and put my shoes and backpack next to his bag. “I’m fine with socks.”
Aaron opens a door to the right of the kitchen, tosses his sneakers into the washer, and adjusts the thermostat. The place is much more open than many townhomes I’ve seen. This floor is basically one big space, with a bar dividing the kitchen from the large living room.
“You want coffee?” he asks.
“So you are a mind reader.”
“Not exactly—but I did notice you lusting after the Starbucks we passed.” Aaron has spent a good deal of time in this kitchen, because he locates the coffee in one try. He seems more relaxed too, and flashes me a quick smile as he fills the pot.
Molly sighs.
That smile hasn’t changed one little bit.
“Coffee would be nice,” I say as a blur of gray fur whizzes past me and starts doing figure eights around Aaron’s ankles. “But maybe you could answer—”
“Yes, yes. I know, Dax. Could you give me a minute?”
I get the feeling that the comment is aimed as much at me as at the hungry cat, and I guess my questions can wait until I’m fortified with caffeine. Curling into one of the wicker tub chairs arranged around the kitchen table, I stare at the scenery outside the sliding glass door. There’s a wooded ravine just beyond the deck, with a small creek winding through it. I watch for a few minutes as the creek carries leaves and assorted debris toward a metal culvert about a hundred yards away.
The deck is a possible escape route if I need it. There was a bus stop a block or so back, and I think I could drop from the deck to the ground if I had to.
Jesus Christ, Anna! Would you just relax?
I don’t know if it’s the force of Molly’s suggestion or a delayed stress reaction to nearly being shot, but I actually do feel myself starting to relax as my eyes follow the path of the leaves floating down the creek.
The sound of a mug being placed on the table in front of me yanks me back to the present. Dax the Cat is now eating out of a bowl near the refrigerator. Aaron is in the chair opposite me, with his own cup, a large bottle of Baileys Irish Cream, and a tin of shortbread cookies, which he pushes to the center of the table.
“No milk,” he says, tipping a bit of the liqueur into his cup. “Would you like some of this instead?”
“I take it black. I’m not legal yet anyway.”
He laughs. “Technically, neither am I—not until June. I’ve yet to see anyone get plastered on Baileys, though. I think you’d barf before you even came close.”
I sip the coffee, which is still a bit too hot to drink, and take one of the cookies. “So . . . how did you really know about the van? And to call for an ambulance in advance? Because I’m not buying the story about how you happened to be hanging around and those guys looked suspicious.”
“It would be so much easier if you would buy that story.”
I just stare at him. He holds my gaze for a moment, then looks down at his mug, shoulders slumping.
“Sometimes, I . . . sense things. When there’s going to be trouble. People planning violence, mostly, but occasionally it’s more . . . vague. A bad vibe, a feeling that someone is in danger.”
“You’re saying you have spidey sense? Can you also shoot webs out of your wrist to swing from building to building?”
He raises an eyebrow. “No, Anna. I cannot. And I really can’t believe I’m taking crap from the girl who speaks to dead people.”
Now it’s my turn to give him a questioning look. “First, I don’t speak to them. It’s more like they . . . hitch a ride for a while when they can’t move on. When they have something they need to finish. And second, how do you know about that?”
He shrugs. “My grandfather was a cop in Silver Spring, but he started up his own detective agency a few years back. He and Porter were partners when he was on the force. They’re still close. Porter’s like family. And my brother is on the police force in DC now. Porter called a few weeks back, wanting us to check up on some crazy girl—his words, not mine,” he adds when he sees my expression, “who was stalking him and claiming she was in contact with Molly’s ghost.”
A solemn look spreads over his face. “So, is it true? Molly’s hitching a ride with you now?”
I nod, running my finger around the edge of my mug. “I’m not sure for how much longer, though. She needed to talk to Porter and we finally managed to do that this afternoon, so . . . I doubt she’ll stick around.”
“I don’t suppose I could . . . talk to her?”
M
olly surges to the front for a moment, then fades back before I can respond. She wants to talk to him, but she won’t ask. Probably because she knows what my answer would be.
Aaron seems to know as well, so it must be written all over my face. “It’s okay. It’s just . . . I wanted to tell her I’m sorry I wasn’t around. Maybe I could have sensed something in time to . . .” He trails off, shaking his head.
Tell him it’s not his fault. Craig’s fault, Lucas’s fault, maybe even a little my mom’s fault. My fault for not listening to Pa and staying home with him and Mimmy. But not his fault.
“She says you shouldn’t blame yourself.”
He looks up, surprised. “Just like that? You heard me, so Molly heard me?”
“Yeah. Two for the price of one, at least for the time being.”
“What will happen when she . . . leaves?”
“I won’t hear her thoughts anymore. But I’ll know what she knew, or at least a lot of it. I can already feel it starting. I don’t know how to describe it—sort of like there’s a data dump going on in the background right now. If I seem sluggish, it’s probably because part of my processor is working on another task.”
“So you have memories that aren’t yours? How many different sets?”
“Nine that I can remember, but I think there were a few others when I was younger and . . . maybe those memories didn’t get processed very well. They’re muddled, in the same way my own early childhood memories are. I’d probably have a lot more sets, but I’ve gotten better at protecting myself. Molly caught me at a weak moment, when my defenses were down. Hard to be on alert 24/7.”
“How do you keep all of those lives straight?”
“Well, accessing their memories isn’t quite the same as actually living through something, at least not after a while. I mean, about half of these people were married and had kids, but I don’t think of their family as my family, you know? I remember how they felt about being married and about being parents, but it’s more like a book I’ve read or a movie I’ve seen. Just a lot more vivid at first. Facts and skills I pick up from them seem to be a bit more permanent, but even they seem to . . . I don’t know . . . atrophy a bit over time, especially if I don’t use them.” I take another sip of the coffee, then add, “And yes, I know how freaky it sounds.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, the guy with spidey sense doesn’t get to say other people’s superpowers are weird.”
The cat seems to be in a much mellower mood with a full belly. And it clearly lacks a sense of stranger danger, because all I get is one quick investigative sniff before it crawls into my lap and curls up, purring as I stroke its fur.
“It’s so not a superpower. I never know when I’m going to pick someone up. They aren’t always nice. It can take a very long time to make them go away. And when they do go . . .” A small shudder runs through me. “Well, let’s just say that I have to process the bad memories, too. How they died. All combined, it makes it tough to lead a normal life. It makes you a freak.”
Aaron’s eyes are sympathetic. “I get it. Really, I do, Anna. Do you have any idea how many people in the average high school are actively thinking about punching, maiming, or murdering someone at any given moment? I mean, they don’t usually act on it—ten minutes later they might even be friends again. But I spent most of ninth grade in a state of hyperalert, nervously watching the girl who was thinking about stabbing her rival with a nail file, or the guy who was thinking about pummeling me for staring at the girl with the nail file. Or the pissed-off teacher who was thinking how nice the vice principal’s head would look mounted on his wall. I quit school at sixteen, over major objections from my mom, and took the GED. You could not pay me to walk back into one of those asylums.”
“You’ll get no argument from me. Unfortunately, I have to finish up two more classes this year before they’ll let me es . . . cape.”
How have I managed, in the space of a few minutes, to go from glancing around for possible exit routes to petting a sleeping cat while I chat with this guy I barely know about our shared freakdom? Especially when he hasn’t answered several important questions.
I yank myself back on track. “You still haven’t explained why you were watching the building today. Or how you knew about the van last week. I mean, you aren’t picking up danger vibes at random from all over the Metro area, are you? Did Porter ask you to keep an eye out?”
“No. Porter doesn’t even know about my premonitions. My grandfather knows. In fact, he’s probably where I got it from, although he gets these . . . I guess you’d call them hunches, gut feelings, whatever. My dad did, too. And Taylor—she’s my younger sister—she has . . . something going on herself. I’m surprised Molly didn’t already know that about me, because anything my sister knew, Molly knew. They were really close, so you’re probably going to get a lot of strange stories coming through once your ‘data dump’ is complete. My mom knows. My brother—technically, my half brother—he knows, but doesn’t admit he knows, if that makes sense? He’s kind of like Porter in that respect. Doesn’t exactly embrace anything he can’t pin a name on. Daniel just likes to believe that I’m really, really observant.
“And,” he continues, “that’s exactly what my grandfather tells people who hire us if they ask. He thinks people will be more comfortable with the idea that I’m freakishly attentive to details than with the notion that I can freakishly sense when someone’s about to go medieval.”
“You’re a private detective?”
“Yeah. Although in Maryland, I’m technically a detective’s assistant—too young for a license. Plus I generally try to stay well below the radar.”
“So, you’re sort of like a reverse Shawn Spencer? The guy on that show from a while back who claimed to be psychic, but he’s really just seeing the stuff other people could see, if they paid closer attention?”
“Sort of.”
“Do you have a cool black sidekick who’s actually smarter than you and keeps you grounded in reality?”
He smiles. “You aren’t the first to make the Psych connection. Taylor suggested Molly for the Guster role, before . . .” He clears his throat and continues. “But, no, I fly solo on investigations and then just hand whatever I find over to Sam. I’m . . . not exactly a people person.”
“And who exactly is Sam?”
“My granddad.”
“Oh. So, Porter hired you and your grandfather to watch me?”
“Nooo, not quite. First off, Sam would never take Porter’s money. He’s too close to being family. Ever since Molly’s body was found, this case has been priority one for all of us. It isn’t making us any money, but it’s never been put on a back burner, and it won’t be until we get the bastard. Sam did agree to do some checking around for him as a favor, though. Porter may have called other people who work in the area as well—you make a lot of connections when you spend thirty years as a cop. I don’t know what his other friends came up with, but Sam asked Baker—the guy who was his partner after Porter retired—to give Porter your information.” My expression must convey exactly how I feel about that, because he tacks on a sheepish, “Sorry.”
Part of me wants to let him off the hook, but I stomp that part down without the tiniest shred of mercy. I’m not going to pretend I don’t resent strangers poking around in my records even if their intentions may have been good. Now I’m wondering how much Aaron knows about my past. For that matter, what the hell is even in my record?
“Anyway,” he says, after a few seconds. “I’ve been out of the area for the past few weeks. I was up in Philly, doing some surveillance, when I got the flash about the van.”
I’m totally confused now. “But you said you only pick up on these things when you’re in the vicinity. So . . . how?”
“The guy who hired the van—Franco Lucas—is the one I was watching in Philadelphia. I don’t know how he knew about your connection to Porter. My first guess was that they had Porter’s place bugged, but I sear
ched it really well yesterday. It’s clean. The only thing I can figure is that there’s someone on the inside at one of the places Porter called, someone who was watching for any mention of this case. Whoever it is must have known that you told Porter you were in contact with Molly. I didn’t pick up on exact facts—places, times, and so forth, but I knew Lucas was going to use the van to try and scare you away from Porter. And he clearly wanted you to think Porter was behind it. Otherwise, why leave the note?”
I nod. “But why did you have to be so cryptic? I mean, Deo and I were positive Porter was behind the entire thing, given that the call came in before the van nearly hit us.”
“Would you have believed me?”
“Actually, yes—I would have. Molly wouldn’t have given me any choice.”
He twists his mouth to the side. “I didn’t know for certain that you were channeling Molly. All I had to go on was what Porter and Sam told me. Believe it or not, there are actually jerks out there who will prey on people who are grieving.”
He gives me a pleading look. “You understand, right? And then yesterday morning, I’m outside the apartment where Lucas stays when he’s in DC, and it’s like alarms going off in my head. Sam called Porter and asked him to stop by the office. I practically begged him not to go to this meeting. Told him I had a bad vibe about it. Sam even told him the same thing, and you’d think he’d listen to his former partner, especially when Sam’s intuition kept his ass out of trouble so many times. But he’s a stubborn old cuss.”
“Ha! Tell me about it. It took me nearly a month to get through to him. And, to be honest, even if I had believed your warning, I’m not sure I could have kept Molly away from Porter much longer. Not if he was willing to meet. I mean, I usually have control in these situations, but Molly is as obstinate as her grandfather. She was determined to give him the information he needed to stop anyone else from ending up like she did.”