by Rysa Walker
It takes me a moment to place Sariah as Ashley’s sister. Given our deal about trying to avoid picking at each other’s thoughts, I’m not inclined to push the issue, but I can tell that Daniel realizes he’s let something slip. If he’s going to be annoyed anyway, I might as well get a definitive answer.
So . . . the kid in Room 81 is Sariah’s son? Ashley’s nephew?
Yes, Anna. Happy now?
I’m tempted to tell him no, because I’d really like the boy’s name and maybe a glimpse of a face to add to the voice I still recall in my mind’s ear, telling me to run. It feels weird to keep calling him the kid in Room 81.
But Daniel has already retreated to the back of my head, sulking about his lack of privacy. Welcome to my world, Daniel.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Deo.
Achievement unlocked.
The words are followed by a picture of a tiny brown-and-black puppy. I don’t recognize the pink plaid fabric he’s resting on, so the pup is either in Taylor’s lap or Deo has lost all sense of fashion. At first, I’m not sure what the message means, but then I realize that the puppy’s eyes are now open.
It was touch-and-go as to whether the puppy would make it last night. The little guy is tough, but his survival is at least partly due to Deo and Taylor’s sheer determination. They came out of Walmart with not only puppy formula, a puppy bottle, and a heating pad, but also a tiny dog bed, training pads, way too many puppy toys, and a bag of treats that the pup won’t be able to eat for at least a month or two. Aside from Taylor wrinkling her nose at the instructions for coaxing him to pee and poop, she and Deo have both eagerly taken on the feeding and cleaning tasks. In fact, the heating pad might have been unnecessary. The puppy has been in someone’s hands or pocket pretty much nonstop since they found him—although Aaron and I are equally guilty on that front.
Kelsey would probably say we’re all trying to compensate in some small fashion for the kids we saw in that room at Overhills, kids who were beyond saving. And she would be right. But it’s also just really hard to resist a cute baby pup.
The scenery we’re passing has begun to look very familiar. It’s not simply that we drove by here on the way to the Pecks’ house. It’s the angle, and also the number and position of cars on US 280 up ahead, that is ringing my memory bells.
“You’ve seen those hummingbird feeders, right? The ones that look like they have flowers around the bottom?”
I try to force myself to say something different than what I said in the vision. To say yes or maybe or anything other than the word sure.
“Sure,” I say.
The scene from the movie Groundhog Day flashes into my mind, the one where Bill Murray’s character smashes the clock over and over. But no matter what he does, the thing still flips to six a.m., stuck in an endless loop.
Aaron slows down so that we can merge with the traffic on the highway, and then says, “Well, this feeder had a nail straight through one of those flowers. Looked like somebody pounded it in with a hammer, but Peck swears it flew straight out of that tree house and lodged in the feeder. And the house itself—there’s an indentation in the siding shaped exactly like a two-by-four. Assuming the old guy’s telling the truth, it’s a miracle no one was killed.”
I glance down at the scrap of green notepaper in my hand, and the sense of relief I feel isn’t diminished at all by the fact that I’ve experienced all of this before. And while one part of my brain is still trying to experiment, still trying to see if I can change some small element of the way the vision pans out, my mouth just rolls right along with the words I remember saying before.
“At least we can find them now,” I say. “Let the parents—the little girl, too—know they’re not alone. Doreen said that wasn’t the only time she’d done something like that. And the dad . . . like Peck said, he’s not stable. They could be in serious trouble right now, and we’re—what? At least twelve hours away. Maybe more.”
“Yeah. If we leave now, we can be there by tomorrow morning. I just wish I knew what we’re supposed to do when we get there. It’s not like we have a safe place to take her, or a magic potion we can give her to make her normal. All we can do is turn over the Hawkins’s information to Magda, and I’m pretty sure all she can do is throw money at the problem.”
“Money’s not a bad thing,” I say, even though I know he’s mostly right. “They probably need the money.”
He sighs. “Yeah. But they’re probably not stupid. Someone dangles money in front of you, there’s usually a catch. I think Magda’s legitimately interested in helping these kids, but I also don’t think that’s her only motive. I’m guessing Peyton’s parents are going to have quite a few questions. And her dad is former military—not to mention a former Delphi subject—so there’s a pretty good chance that he’s going to be asking those questions while pointing a gun at us.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Outer Banks, North Carolina
November 5, 2019, 10:14 a.m.
The Outer Banks is a nearly two-hundred-mile archipelago that spans the coast of North Carolina, pretty much from top to bottom. Our destination is at the northernmost tip, where an eleven-mile unpaved stretch of beach suitable only for four-wheel-drive vehicles separates the Atlantic Ocean from Currituck Sound. It ends at the Carolina-Virginia border, thus the name CaroVA Beach.
The last RV park was back in Kitty Hawk, well over an hour from Carova. We dropped the camper in an overpriced and undersized slot there, unhooked the truck, and hit the road again. Deo, Taylor, and the pup are with us, despite Aaron’s best efforts to convince them to stay behind. I could probably have done more to back him up, but I’m a little ambivalent on this point. On the one hand, Aaron is correct. Peyton’s parents are likely to be armed and dangerous unless we manage to convince them that we’re here to help, and I’d rather keep Deo out of that sort of danger. On the other hand, after the trip to Overhills, Deo can justifiably claim he’s an asset. It’s unlikely that Aaron would have sensed Dacia coming in time for us to get away if not for Deo’s amp ability.
My opinion on the matter probably wouldn’t have done much to sway the tide anyway. Deo is nearly as stubborn as Taylor.
It doesn’t take us long to see why RVs aren’t encouraged beyond Kitty Hawk. In some places, like the oddly named town of Duck, the strip of land is barely wide enough for a two-lane road. In others, the road whips and winds in a fashion that would probably have made me carsick if I hadn’t insisted on riding shotgun.
The town of Corolla is the last bit of civilization before the road ends, so we scout out a gas station and a pizza place with decent reviews and fuel up. Our waiter is a helpful sort who gives Aaron some tips for driving on the beach, like letting some of the air out of the tires, and says we’re lucky it’s off-season, because traffic is murder in the summer.
It’s still slowgoing. I don’t mind the slower pace, though, because the view is absolutely gorgeous.
To our right, the waves are so close they’re practically lapping at the tires. On our left, it’s sand dunes as far as the eye can see, punctuated by the occasional house. Some of them are gargantuan, more like hotels than homes, with acres of land between them and the nearest neighbor. Almost all of the houses are clearly empty, many with realtor signs out front. This part of the island might be busy when the weather is warm, but right now it reminds me of a town in one of the zombie games I played with Deo a few times. I can almost picture a line of animated corpses shambling down one of the wooden walkways leading to the ocean.
Imaginary zombies aside, it’s a relaxing ride. The sound and smell of the ocean chills me out. It seems to have a similar effect on the others, since we all fall silent and just soak up the scenery.
About a half an hour after we first enter the four-wheel-drive area, the navigation app tells us to turn left on one of the dirt trails to reach the address that Doreen gave me. We pull into the driveway of the “fishing cottage” and find that it is indeed a tiny cottage, ev
en smaller than the boathouse at the end of the long pier extending out into the greenish-brown water of Currituck Sound. A white truck that looks very much like the one we’re driving is parked outside.
We spent the past fifteen minutes or so of the drive debating who would knock on the door. I eventually drew the short straw, over Aaron’s objections, based on Taylor’s probably valid argument that I’m the least threatening person in the car. Deo and Aaron both hover around six feet, and while Deo is thin—too thin, after his illness—Aaron is muscular enough to be intimidating, at least at first glance. And although Taylor is shorter than I am, she exudes an energy that reminds me of an angry Chihuahua. The worst those little yappers can do is take a tiny chunk out of your ankle, but you still avoid getting too close. At least she’s self-aware enough to realize this.
So Taylor and Deo are hanging in the cab with the pup. Aaron waits behind the truck, on alert, as my apparently nonthreatening self mounts the three concrete steps to the cottage.
My hand is raised in midknock when the door swings open to reveal a tall, very thin woman in jeans and a loose flannel shirt. Beyond her, in the small living room, a boy of around eight is playing a video game. The woman’s forehead is marked by a wide bruise. A nasty cut, held together by a neat row of stitches, peeks out from under her dark curls. She looks exhausted.
“You’ve got the wrong address. This cabin isn’t for rent.”
“Are you Miranda Hawkins?” I ask.
As soon as she hears the name, her expression hardens, and she yells back over her shoulder. “TJ! Go to your room. Right now!”
The boy doesn’t argue. He drops the game controller instantly, giving one quick nervous look toward the door before disappearing into the back of the cabin.
Aaron takes a couple of steps around the front of the truck.
“You need to get back in your truck and go. No one by that name lives here.”
That doesn’t make any sense. If she didn’t recognize the name, why send her son out of the room?
“Mrs. Hawkins, I just want to—”
The door slams in my face.
I knock again. No response.
On the third knock, the door opens, and Miranda Hawkins is back, this time with a gun. I gulp and take a step back, nearly tumbling off the side of the steps. Why didn’t Aaron pick up on the threat of violence?
The thought barely has time to register before I catch the fear in Miranda’s dark eyes. I glance back at the truck, and sure enough, Aaron’s gun is pointed at her.
I feel Hunter’s panic rising, so I pull my eyes away from the guns. The last thing Hunter needs to see is another damn gun aimed at him . . . well, at me, but right now, that’s pretty much the same thing. Instead, I focus on Miranda’s face.
“In case you didn’t hear,” Miranda says in a shaky voice, “I told you to get off of my property.”
“Mrs. Hawkins, we are not here to harm you or your family.” I open my hand and show her the frog-shaped note.
There’s a very long pause as what I’m holding registers, and then Miranda lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Doreen. Damn it. I should never have let her know where we were going. Jasper’s gonna kill me.”
“No, no. Listen, please. We’re on the same side. The people who tried to snatch your daughter before? They snatched my brother, who’s over there in the truck. We were lucky enough to get away, but all four of us are like Peyton. Well . . . not exactly. We have different abilities. But all of them are the result of the same project your husband took part in.”
Even though I carefully planned what I would say while I was in the truck, I find myself stumbling over the words. Miranda watches me, not responding. Then again, she also hasn’t shot me or shoved me off the steps, so I continue.
“Doreen was very reluctant to give me your information, Mrs. Hawkins. But she’s your friend, and she said you sounded desperate, at the end of your rope. We can offer you resources. People who can help Peyton learn to handle her ability. And we’re working on a drug to control or reverse the effects.”
The only part that is completely true is the bit about resources. We have money that we could give her right this minute. Not enough to start a new life somewhere but maybe enough to pay a few bills. The part about an anti-Delphi drug is a long way from being reality, however. To the best of my knowledge, Magda still hasn’t gotten the vial to the researcher she mentioned, and I have no earthly idea how long it would take to create any sort of antidote or even a drug to block or reduce psychic abilities. And though we don’t have anyone lined up to help Peyton yet, I realize that could easily be remedied. Kelsey helped me learn to wall off my hitchers. Maybe she can help Peyton and these other kids, too. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it before.
Miranda’s gaze jumps nervously between my face and Aaron’s pistol. “You come here with a gun and expect me to believe that you want to help us?”
Aaron speaks up for the first time. “We didn’t lead with the gun, Mrs. Hawkins. I only pulled it when I thought Anna might be in danger.”
As Aaron is talking, I feel Daniel move toward the front of my head. And even though I know Daniel means well, I give him a firm push backward. I’m not entirely sure he could nudge Miranda right now. Daniel himself isn’t even sure it would work. I can sense that without him saying a word.
But even if we were both certain, it’s too risky on several levels. She’s holding a gun, and who knows how Miranda would react if she sensed someone was trying to influence her actions. Also, if we’re going to help Peyton, we’ll be in contact with her mom. If Miranda feels like she’s been tricked in any way at the outset, it’s going to complicate things tremendously.
Finally, I can’t shake the sense that Miranda Hawkins really hates holding that weapon. Yes, she’d probably shoot me if I tried to jump her, and I’m certain she’d shoot me if she thought her son was in danger. But she’s not looking for a fight. If her thoughts had been violent, Aaron would have picked up on them before she pulled the gun.
So back Daniel goes. The fact that he does go, without any sort of argument, confirms that this is the right decision, but it also has me more than a little worried about Daniel’s state of mind.
I turn my attention back to Miranda. “All we want to do is help, Mrs. Hawkins—”
“Stop calling me that! It’s Miranda, just Miranda,” she says, her expression unchanging. “Mrs. Hawkins is my mother-in-law.”
“Okay. Miranda, then. I’m Anna. The guy over there with the gun—and he’s actually a really nice guy—is Aaron. My brother, Deo, Aaron’s sister, Taylor, and a still-to-be named puppy are in the truck. If you lower your gun, Aaron will lower his. And after that, if you really want us to, we’ll go. But . . .”
I glance up at the bruise on her forehead and lower my voice. This is definitely not something I’m ready to discuss with Aaron. Deo doesn’t even know the full story. I even steer clear of talking about Myron with Kelsey. The wounds he left were deep, and I don’t pick at that particular scab if I can avoid it.
But those memories could be the key to reaching Peyton’s mom, so I pull in a deep breath and go on. “When I was a little older than Peyton, I hurt someone. It wasn’t exactly me doing it, and I couldn’t control what happened, but it took me a very long time to move past it. And the person I hurt was a stranger. Someone I didn’t even know. From what your neighbors back in Georgia told us, Peyton loves you. Loves her brother, too. Knowing that she’s hurt either of you must be tearing her up inside. She needs help coping with this ability, and with her emotions.”
My eyes water as I speak. It seems to be contagious, because a tear sneaks down Miranda’s cheek, and her lower lip starts to quiver. I’m a little concerned that this shakiness will spread to her trigger finger, so it’s a relief when she moves the gun away from me . . . until I realize she’s pointing it at Aaron.
“Here’s how it’s gonna go,” Miranda says. “You toss that gun into your truck. The kids i
n the back get out. All four of you turn your pockets inside out and whatever else I decide is necessary to prove you’re not armed. Then you lock the truck, and I get the key. After that, I will give you a chance to show that you’re on the level. That’s all I’m gonna promise. And if those terms don’t work for you, then crawl back in your truck and get the hell out of here.”
Aaron slowly lowers his pistol, and we follow her instructions. When she’s satisfied that we’re not carrying any other weapons, Miranda motions with her gun toward a picnic table near the dock. “Toss the keys on the grass, then you three head on over there. We’ll call you if we need you.”
I retrieve the keys and bring them back to Miranda, who’s now sitting on the concrete stoop. She nods to the lower step, and I sit down.
“Mama?” The voice is faint and tentative.
“TJ, you need to stay in your room.”
“I know, but it’s just that I heard her say somethin’ about a puppy and I thought maybe—”
“Tomás José, do as you’re told.”
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”
“He’s bored,” Miranda says, looking down at her sneakers. “I should have taken him across the Sound for school this morning, but he wanted to stay here with me. This whole thing scared him pretty bad. When he and his dad found me on the kitchen floor, there was blood all over. And Jasper couldn’t take me to the emergency room because he had to get Peyton out of here. He grabbed two of our bug-out bags and took the skiff over to the island. Nothing much over there she can destroy, and she was so upset after she realized I was hurt that I half expected her to explode this cabin the same way she did her brother’s tree house. So TJ and I waited until the next morning when I was seeing straight to drive into Kitty Hawk to get my head stitched up. Had to tell them I fell, which nobody ever believes, but they’d lock me up in a mental ward if I told them the truth.”