Sleight

by Tom Twitchel

  My knowledge of Sonja, and her three attempts to steal my knack was also new to him. His awareness of Mr. G was hazier than I had thought based on his fanboy comments. In his mind Mr. G really was a legend. He knew he was a significant figure in the aberrant world, knew some stories, but was totally unaware of his advanced age, and knew absolutely nothing about his life in Germany or what he had been up to in Seattle.

  I decided not to share what I had learned about Mr. Goodturn’s past or the internet research I’d conducted. It was becoming clear that Kenwoode had more information about Mr. G than anyone else. I wondered why.

  The stories Sawyer shared about the Mad Dwarf in Philadelphia and Boston were odd, and didn’t sound like the Mr. G I knew. The Mad Dwarf was believed to have been involved in all sorts of quasi-illegal business. It didn’t compute for me but my knack sense of Sawyer while he was talking was that he believed everything he was saying. The most disturbing thing he had shared was that this Mad Dwarf had supposedly been waging a war against the Shade community and it had resulted in many deaths.

  Because so much of what he had to say was information that had been handed down through many retellings, I decided to withhold judgement, not to mention belief, until I’d had a chance to talk it over with Mr. Goodturn. All of the stories I’d been getting bombarded with over the last several days were beginning to get overwhelming.

  When it got to the lunch hour our conversation slowed down and my phone buzzed.

  The caller ID flashed Kenwoode’s avatar. His response to my greeting was typical.

  “Benjamin, we’re back from the airport and I’d like to introduce you to my associate.”

  That’d be new Natural friend number three. “Yeah, so I’m over here chatting with Sawyer. And I already met Brock too,” I said edgily.

  “Good, good. Bring Sawyer along with you. Brock can wait. We need him keeping up the appearance of Mr. Giacomo being at home.”

  “Sure. Uh, we’ll come right over.”

  “Excellent.” He disconnected.

  My having met Brock and Sawyer hadn’t fazed him one bit. Whether it was him being just plain rude, insensitive or entitled I couldn’t tell, but it rankled.

  “That Mr. K?” asked Sawyer from his seat on the couch.

  “Yeah. He wants us.”

  We went next door and made the trek through the shop and up to the top floor quickly. Sawyer was casually interested in the pawnshop, but surprised at the marked difference between the shop and the fancy entrance to Mr. Goodturn’s with its evergreen topiary and multiple flower pots.

  He looked up at the high ceiling and the skylight set into it. “Sort of a palace hidden in a shack, huh?” he said.

  “Wait until you see the inside,” I said, as I knacked the lock and let us in and we headed straight to the library. Sawyer had his head on a swivel as we walked through the halls, gawking at the wood paneling, antique furnishings, high ceilings and renaissance art. He whistled softly in appreciation.

  We walked up to the large entrance flanked by wood-wrapped glass doors and into the library, its interior cast in soft light from the cloudy sky outside. The slightly musty smells from the carpet and books that hung in the air, which I usually found comforting, felt oppressive. Kenwoode and a woman were standing at the far end of the library in front of the large wall of windows that faced the street, their backs to us. Although they were standing close to each other, there was a palpable negative tension between them. The woman’s posture, the way her knee-length dress clung to her form and her body language made my neck tingle with apprehension. I felt that I’d seen that silhouette before.

  “Hey Mr. Kenwoode.” I said uncertainly as we approached them.

  Looking back over his shoulder he nodded at Sawyer and lifted his hand, indicating the woman at his side.

  “Benjamin. Let me introduce my colleague, the estimable Constance Santome, PHD.”

  She turned, the light from the window behind her making it difficult to see her face; but as we got closer her features became more distinct. I could see her smile clearly, and my heart stopped. I had seen her auburn hair, large blue eyes, dimpled cheeks and long neck before. My first spark of recognition had been as true as an arrow finding its mark.

  I did know her.

  I’d known her my entire life.

  Mom.

  TWENTY-FOUR: WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

  WHILE I WAS trying to unswallow my tongue and attempting to dredge up something to say, the conversation continued on without me.

  “Hi Constance, I’m Sawyer,” Sawyer said, as he stepped forward, setting down his backpack and offering her his hand.

  She looked down. “Forgive me if I don’t shake hands. My gift requires careful management.”

  Her voice had an odd accent and her word choice was off but still...there was no doubt that she was my mother: the woman who had raised me and my brother, and then abandoned us; the woman who had run away from her abusive husband, but left her children behind; the woman who hadn’t cared enough to tell us in person, leaving only a dry and uncaring note addressed to my father.

  I guess I still had some unresolved issues.

  Staring at me with a questioning look on his face Kenwoode spoke up. “Yes, exactly so. Benjamin, are you going to greet Dr. Santome?”

  She looked at me without any sign of recognition. Overcome with shock I probed her consciousness. No remorse, no guilt, and no apprehension at seeing me. All of the negative energy I could still pick up from her had something to do with Kenwoode. What the hell was going on?

  Less certain but still shaken at seeing her I started to offer her my hand and then remembered her rebuff of Sawyer.

  “Good afternoon Dr. Santome. You look familiar to me. Have we met before?” I asked, knowing damn well we had met before.

  Chin raised and a single eyebrow delicately arched she gave me a long appraising glance. It struck me as clinical, not motherly in the slightest.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve never been to Seattle before.” Her hands brushed at her dress in a prissy and fastidious gesture that wasn’t unlike the woman I had known. Why was she pretending not to recognize me? I reached out mentally, wondering if she would be able to hear it:

  Where have you been?

  I could tell that she had ‘heard’ me because there was an immediate widening of her eyes that corresponded to my mental contact, but she didn’t respond on the silent-speak frequency.

  I was left to communicate with her in the traditional way. “Oh,” I responded out loud. “I was sure that we’d met. I must have been thinking of someone else. The woman I’m thinking of would have recognized me right away.” I couldn’t have kept the snarky-ness out of my voice if I’d tried, and I didn’t try.

  “Benjamin. Don’t be rude. If the good doctor says she hasn’t met you I’m sure she is correct,” said Kenwoode, irritation coloring his tone.

  For her part, ‘Dr. Santome’, squared her shoulders and waved off Kenwoode’s concern. “Not at all Preston. It happens. We all have doppelgangers somewhere. Nothing to get up in arms about.” She turned to more directly face me. “Preston has told me a great deal about you and your friend. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

  I was completely at a loss. I wanted to speak to her in private, but any more thinly veiled insults were going to create other problems. Sawyer and Kenwoode were both giving me confused looks.

  “Sorry ma’am.” I ducked my head, feigning an apology I didn’t really feel.

  “No apology necessary. Preston has spoken highly of you. I feel a modicum of respect is due you based upon that alone,” she said, implying that she deserved the same. A brittle smile briefly lit her face.

  Sawyer was trying to hide a smirk and Kenwoode, apparently uncomfortable with our exchange, frowned at her.

  “Yes, well let’s get settled and begin discussing the particulars of why I have arranged to bring us all together,” began Kenwoode, “But first, Sawyer let me show yo
u to your room. Constance, you and Benjamin may take a few moments to get better acquainted.” He gave me a stern look that I was certain was meant to convey his expectations about my behavior while he was out of the room.

  Sawyer swung his backpack over his shoulder and offered a salute to Kenwoode, who shook his head and walked out of the library. Sawyer threw a wink at me and ambled after him. I turned back to my mother.

  She glanced over my shoulder to insure that Kenwoode and Sawyer were out of earshot, and took a step toward me.

  “All right, let’s get this sorted out before they come back,” she whispered tersely.

  Taken aback but still angry, I said, “Good! Let’s do that.”

  Giving me a piercing stare she said, “First, don’t communicate mentally in front of Preston unless you want him to hear it too; and second why do you think I should know you?”

  TWENTY-FIVE: MISTAKEN IDENTITY

  OF ALL THE things I could have imagined her saying that was nowhere near the top of my list.

  “You’re saying that you really don’t know me?” I demanded.

  Glancing at the library entrance first, she then led me over to a couple of chairs in a far corner away from the windows. She sat down and waited for me to sit as well.

  Smoothing out the material of her dress she looked expectantly at me. “Well?”

  “I asked you a question. You didn’t answer it. Are you really going to sit here and tell me that you don’t recognize me?” I blustered.

  Her blue eyes narrowed and a small smile curled the right side of her lips. It was something I’d seen her do hundreds of times. “Let’s look at this from a different perspective. Who do you think I am?”

  It felt like I was playing a video game where the rules kept changing. “Who...who do I think you are? I know who you are!”

  Giving her head a shake, a strand of hair falling in her eyes, she brushed it away with another familiar gesture. “So you’ve said. And who exactly would I be?”

  Exasperated I blurted out, “My mother!”

  That she had been anticipating a different reply was obvious. Her eyes widened and while her jaw didn’t drop, her mouth did open and form an ‘O’.

  “My. That is...surprising.”

  “Surprising? What are you doing here? Why did you...where have you been?” I stammered.

  A gentle smile curved her lips and she reached out a hand to lightly touch my knee. “Benjamin, I am most definitely not your mother. I have a family back in Kentucky. I’ve run a medical practice there for almost twenty years. It’s obvious that I must look a little like your mother, but believe me when I say I’ve never met you before.”

  I was stunned. Either chance had placed my mother’s double in front of me, or she was lying. I let my knack sense flow through her and all I got was confusion, nothing subversive or hidden.

  “How could that be?” I asked. “You don’t resemble her; you look exactly like her. Exactly.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled more easily. Shaking her head she said, “I’m so sorry. It must be upsetting. I didn’t understand at first. I thought it was...the way you reacted to me at first...something Preston might have told you.”

  I felt sick. My emotions careening from high to low. How could this possibly be?

  Looking at me with honest concern, she frowned. “Not to confuse things any more than they already are, but what do you know about your mother’s upbringing?”

  My head was still spinning. “What?”

  “Her upbringing. Where was she raised? Where was she born?”

  “Uh...um, she spent her whole life in Southern California. I think she was born in San Diego somewhere.”

  “Mmm. Was she adopted?” she asked.

  The crazy ride my insides were on took a wild turn. Adopted? “Uh I don’t think so. I mean, no. My grandparents lived in San Diego County their whole lives too. They’re farmers.”

  Grimacing she waved her hand in the air as though trying to wipe away the confusion. “I was adopted, but the agency that placed me was based in Massachusetts. My parents live in Kentucky.”

  I could tell we were both thinking the same thing. Twins? It didn’t seem likely but the resemblance was beyond uncanny. She was what my mother would have called her own ‘spittin’ image’.

  “I’m sorry I was rude,” I mumbled. I felt abandoned all over again.

  “You might want to ask your grandparents, although if you weren’t already aware of it, it’s unlikely they would tell you. Their generation can be very private when it comes to family history and personal matters.”

  Yeah, that was probably true, but it wouldn’t matter. In my present situation there was no way I could reach out to anyone on either side of the family. It would land me back in the middle of my abusive father’s life. No way was I going to risk that or share it with this woman who I had just met. No matter how much she looked like my mother.

  “They aren’t alive anymore,” I said. True. Their other daughter, my aunt Barbara would probably know but I wasn’t willing to discuss that.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered.

  “Thanks.” Struggling to get my head straight I deliberately changed the topic. “What did you mean about Kenwoode? About his being able to hear my speaking to you mentally?”

  “I’m not going to ask what you know about him because it’s obvious that you don’t have the full picture. Preston has at least two gifts that I’m aware of...one that is unique...and the other is full band mental telepathy. Any projected thoughts that occur in his presence are easily received by him.” She paused. “I don’t think there’s any harm in confiding that to you, but I thought you should know regardless.”

  My stomach churned. Too much. Too many new contacts, too much information and weird crap to keep track of, let alone count.

  She looked at me, an air of caution about her. “Preston is not a Shade, if you know what that is, but he did consort with them in his early life. He is...not altruistic. Anyone associating with him should be so advised.”

  Her speech had veered from friendly to overly formal in an instant. Was it because she had started speaking about Kenwoode? And her revelation bothered me. Kenwoode had been forthright about not revealing his knacks, but hiding the fact that he had probably overheard my telepathic conversation with Mr. Goodturn felt more than a little dishonest. “What exactly does that mean?”

  Checking the entrance of the library once more she sighed heavily. “Preston cares about two things: Preston and what Preston believes is important. Most of the time that works out fine.”

  The hair on my arm prickled. “What does that—”

  “Well, have the two of you finished exchanging pleasantries, and prepared to discuss business?” asked Kenwoode as he and Sawyer reentered the library.

  Constance rose from her chair giving me a brief meaningful glance.

  “Yes, I believe so,” she said.

  TWENTY-SIX: PLAYERS

  WE SPENT THE next two hours seated in the library, exchanging information related to Sonja, her henchmen, Mr. Goodturn’s condition, and Justine. I’d taken the opportunity to bring up the pawn shop and whether we should hire someone to run it until Mr. Goodturn was fully recovered. Kenwoode had dismissed it as wasting his time and told me that leaving it closed or not was up to me. My anger at his offhanded dismissal of Mr. G’s business was muted by being faced with Constance and her eerie resemblance to my mother.

  Kenwoode touched on Constance’s and Sawyer’s areas of expertise, skirting any specifics about their knacks, then moved on to the Shade alliance and Sonja.

  Sawyer and I were sitting in two bulky leather chairs that faced matching seats occupied by Kenwoode and Constance. Kenwoode dominated the conversation. My mind drifted more than once as I struggled with Constance’s resemblance to my mother. I was continually distracted by her movements and small gestures. Many of them were identical to my mother’s, and it caused me to reflect on our earlier conversation. Kenwoode knew th
at something had occurred between us but chose to ignore it. I wondered when he would choose to address it, or if she would mention it to him.

  “I appreciate being informed Preston but I’m not here to participate in one of your projects. I’m here, at your insistence, to meet and assess the young lady’s developing gift,” she said.

  He formed a steeple with his fingers and looked at her, his face expressionless. “Of course Constance, and I appreciate you agreeing to come. I only provide this background so that you may have a fully dimensional understanding of Miss Winters’ relationship to our community and her connection to Benjamin. Knowing Benjamin’s story may provide you some insight. Or not. However, there is the other issue we need help with.”

  She simply nodded in reply.

  Sawyer had been shifting and squirming in his seat non-stop. He hadn’t seemed to be disengaged, but it was obvious that he was unhappy sitting in one spot for such an extended period of time. He hadn’t spoken at all so that when he cleared his throat we all immediately looked in his direction.

  “So, is there anything else you want me to know? ‘Cause otherwise I need a secure connection so I can get started.”

  Kenwoode wrinkled his nose. “Nothing more than I have already discussed with you. There is a hard line connection in your room. You’re excused.”

  Sawyer rubbed his bony hands together, static electricity crackling, as he stood up. “Good to go.”

  “I’m going to check on Breno then, unless you need me for anything,” I said, as I stood, eager to leave.

  Hesitating, Kenwoode glanced at Constance and then at me. “I think not. You may leave as well if you wish.”

  Sawyer offered his hand to Kenwoode. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

  “I believe you know that Brock Faraday is here as well. At some point you will need to interact with him. See that it is positive. Your tendency for improvisation is a concern. Don’t give me a reason to regret my reaching out to you,” Kenwoode said as he shook Sawyer’s hand.