by Anna Elias
The one gunman had smiled at Tal with vicious intent before Jake pushed her to safety. Perhaps she’d been the target all along.
“You may never know.”
Tal spun to see the drunken, overweight bum leaning against the brick wall next to her. The smell of sweat, booze, and filth burned her nose. “Excuse me?”
“People make choices based on their situations, Tal—”
“How do you know my name?”
“... or on what they perceive those situations to be.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The choices are not always wise, as you know. Nor do they always reflect the person making them.”
Tal flashed to her attempted suicide. She’d never considered taking her life before, and that choice didn’t reflect the person she really was. It had somehow become the one option that made sense at the time.
“We need your decision.”
“What decision? What in God’s name are you—?”
The bum’s large belly shrank in front of her eyes, his chest and shoulders broadened, and he grew several inches. His ruddy complexion darkened; a trimmed beard covered his face and red-stained eyes brightened to liquid gold. A familiar green ring flashed.
“Sweet Jesus.” Tal jerked back. “How did ... you just ... you were serious about that?”
The rings shimmered.
Rage and indignation erupted, consuming all other emotions. “But what about ratting out this asshole who got my partner killed? I can prove what he’s done and make him pay.”
“That’s not up to you.”
“Like hell.”
Liam moved closer, unblinking. “The only way to make him pay, Tal, is to guide him from his darkness.”
Tal stepped back and glared. “Right. And straight to death row.”
“Forcing him from one darkness into another won’t solve anything. Work from within the Program. Illuminate those involved. Reveal what they did and give them a chance to redeem themselves, to walk from darkness on their own.” His voice was calm and steady, like a mountain stream.
“But what if they don’t? I can bring Tucker down right now and give him and that dealer exactly what they deserve.”
“Not with your memories erased.”
The words hit Tal like a bus. “Whaaaat? But that’s blackmail.”
“It’s salvation, Tallulah, for you and for them. You will be in a better place, and they will ‘get what they deserve,’ only not in a way you can yet understand.”
Anger burned from her toes to her ears, but the air around Liam suddenly smelled crisp and clean, like spray from a waterfall, or a mountain breeze after a rain. It diffused her anger. “So, if I stay here, I lose my mind.”
“Your memories.”
“All of them, right? The good, the bad. Darden, Owen, Jake, all of it.”
He nodded.
“But if I go back, I’m a slave to souls who don’t deserve a—”
Darden appeared behind Liam’s legs, ice cream accenting his smile.
“That’s not up to you.”
“Darden? Baby?”
Darden’s image began to fade.
“No, baby. Please. Don’t go.” She reached for him, but her arms wrapped around thin air. She collapsed to her knees. “W-will I ever see him again?”
Liam helped her up. “We need your answer.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LINK
Sweat dripped from Link’s chin as he lifted the full-face welding shield. He sent grateful thoughts to Sam for buying it when simple welding goggles would have worked. He wiped his face and lowered the torch’s blue-hot flame. This third and final hinge had melted to embrace its new pin, so the entry gate no longer threatened to pull off its frame. Link smiled. His welds would hold for decades, the last this shelter would ever need.
Shelter.
Link took a deep breath, his lungs filtering the cool night air. In the mere three weeks or so since his arrival, this place and these people had become more home and family than he’d ever known, and he wanted to stay. He didn’t even mind becoming a Vessel, whatever that was. In fact, the idea kind of excited him, like being a spirit superhero. But if he were recognized, it would put everyone in jeopardy. Sam and Doc might go to jail for harboring a fugitive. Tal and Avani, too. Even if none of them knew. He exhaled sharply.
But if he did not become a Vessel ... his mind flashed to the endless rows of dark empty jail cells he’d seen earlier, through the swirling portal that had appeared when Tal tried to leave the clinic. They had vaporized the moment she’d stormed out and almost plowed into the handyman. Had Liam created that vision? Was jail guaranteed if he did not become a Vessel?
Link still wrestled with the meaning. Maybe those empty cells represented his life, his mind, his thoughts if he refused. He’d lose his identity and wander the streets of Reno, blank as paper, until some police officer hauled him back to prison for a crime he couldn’t remember.
Homeless regulars shuffled past and Link lowered his shield. Dinner was about to start and the line had already grown long enough to turn the corner and come within sight of the front entry. The bounty on him had increased to fifty thousand dollars—a lottery to some. Though he stayed to himself, and remained inside most of the time, more and more of the homeless guests were starting to take another look around.
He had also discovered recent internet research about his arrest, trial, and conviction on the office computer. If Sam knew, Link feared the money and mounting pressure might even tempt him to call the police. And if Tal found out, she may have some kind of cop’s obligation to turn him in.
Two new men joined the line and Link’s breath turned to icy shards in his lungs. Their hands and faces were dirty, and their clothes were soiled, but they were not homeless. Their undercover police status hung like badges around their necks. The men looked around, and one paused to watch Link work. Link quickly lowered his shield and feigned more welding, praying they’d turn away.
A rock hit the gate near his head.
Link jerked up to see a young Latin teenage boy in gang colors. His face drained. “Alejo?”
The boy laughed and motioned for him to come.
Link was stunned to see his former cellmate out of juvie, unless he’d been released early. Or escaped. Even more shocking was how Alejo knew where to find him.
The feisty teen eyed the undercover cops ten yards away. He grinned and motioned again.
Link shook his head, a subtle twist of the shield back and forth.
Alejo picked up another rock and aimed for the cops. He motioned a third time.
Link’s heart pounded, but he looked away and forced his hands to the torch.
This rock slammed the gate even closer to his head. Link ducked and turned. No one else seemed to hear it.
Alejo giggled. He pointed to the cops with his left hand and motioned for Link to come with his right. He alternated gestures, giving Link the option.
Anger boiled at this fellow gang member forcing him into life-changing chaos again. Link pointed a furious finger toward the back of the shelter, and Alejo skipped off in that direction.
Link took his time going inside, careful not to give the cops any wrong ideas. He shed his welding mask and torch in the back office then went to his room to change out of his sweat-soaked shirt.
Alejo had joined their gang at thirteen, same as Link, and he’d arrived soon after. But the boy was cocky, arrogant, and stuffed with contempt. Link, then Javier, had detested him until he learned Alejo’s story of sexual abuse by both parents, plus other adults who had paid for the privilege, and his father’s crystal-meth-fueled beatings. The streets were Alejo’s safety net and the gang had become home. That one compassionate thread was all that kept Javier from wringing Alejo’s neck.
Link slipped on black jeans and black tennis shoes to go with his black sweatshirt. Maybe that show of restraint made him good enough to become a Vessel. Well, that and trying to save the young b
oy who had died in his arms. But were those two efforts enough? If a spirit like Alejo came back, or worse, Alejo’s father, asking forgiveness, Link would rather see him burn in Hell than help him find pardon.
He slipped out the back door by the office, stashing the key in his pocket as he crossed the dark grounds by the empty, cracked pool. Sam wanted to rebuild the inside of this old hotel before starting any significant repairs to the outside, especially in the back. A tall fence separated street from shelter out there, and it kept most of the drunks and derelicts out, so Sam could afford to wait a little longer.
Link snuck through a hole in the fence and skirted streetlights to reach a dark corner behind the shelter. Smells from the kitchen filled the air, and Link wondered if the cops had made it inside and were enjoying a hot meal while they scanned all the faces. Link’s stomach grumbled. He hadn’t eaten a single bite since breakfast.
He glanced around. Alejo should have been here already. Unless he’d decided to rat him out for the money. Oh, God. Link ran a clammy hand through his hair and scanned for cops. He started back for the shelter when a form darted past and threw another rock. The stone glanced off his arm.
“Alejo?”
Alejo giggled, then sprinted down the street.
“Alejo. Wait.”
Link ran after him, sticking to darkened side streets and alleys as Alejo disappeared deeper into the maze of downtown. “Alejo! Come on, man.” Link chased him around the next corner.
The teen cut into an alley and stood beneath an intersection of chain-link fences. Dogs barked from a neighboring junkyard as Link caught up and blocked the alley entrance, panting for breath. “Bastard. I should ... tear you to pieces ... right now.”
Alejo scaled a high fence like a spider. He dropped to the other side, laughed, and ran.
“Shit.” Link bolted after him, lunging as high as he could over the same fence while the dogs snarled and snapped. He was not as fast, or as effortless, but he got over the top and hit the ground running.
Link chased Alejo into a small modest neighborhood. They ran through a park, past a playground, and into the woods beyond.
“Stop. Wait,” Link said. His legs cramped, and his lungs burned.
He ducked through trees and jumped small branches before emerging in an overgrown yard behind a vacant house. Neighborhood homes anchored it on either side, lining a quiet street. Vines crept through one of the broken windows, rain gutters sagged from the roof, and a weathered “For Sale” sign leaned at an angle in the front yard. Link sank to his knees, gasping for air. This was Old Lady Sutton’s house. He and Alejo had robbed this place three years ago, almost to the night.
Another giggle and Alejo stepped out from behind a bush. His eyes sparkled.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Link asked, catching the last of his breath. “How’d you get out? Who told you where to find me?”
An owl hooted nearby, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves. Alejo smiled and stepped closer to the back door. It had been double-locked that night, and the two of them had splintered the wood trying to break in. But now, that same door hung limp and warped on its jamb, the lock barely able to bite. Alejo’s teeth flashed in a grin.
“What are you doing, man? There’s nothing here anymore. Guards told me the old lady moved out right after. She couldn’t take what happened to ... Trevor.” His gut squeezed at the name.
Alejo’s smile widened.
“What is wrong with you, cabrón?”
Another cackle.
Link saw red and rushed to tackle this idiot, hoping to knock sense into him or force answers out of him. But when he dove at Alejo, the boy disappeared. Link slammed onto the ground by the door, fists full of empty air. He jumped up. “Alejo?”
The owl hooted again. Link called louder. “Alejo.”
The breeze shook the door handle and whistled through broken glass. Alejo had vanished. Link plopped onto the cracked stoop. Maybe he’d made the whole thing up to begin with. He grew furious at himself for being so stupid and easily lured, and at Alejo for that taunting, cackling laugh. Fear swirled up in wisps of memory, and his anger shifted to pain and sadness as visions of that night flooded back.
Link saw himself as fifteen-year-old Javier, breaking in this door with Alejo, handguns stuffed in their jeans. Their Latin gang had not hit this poor white neighborhood before but had made it a target once they learned how many widows and single moms lived along this street. Mrs. Sutton had been a widow and hard of hearing—an easy mark for the boys doing this part of their initiation. They’d snuck through the house, searching drawers and stealing jewelry from the woman’s bedroom while she slept.
Alejo had taken a Polaroid photo for proof and tucked it in Javier’s coat pocket. They’d snuck out the same door and ran toward a waiting car two houses down. A rival gang had driven by at that moment and opened fire. None of his gang members had bothered to tell Javier and Alejo that this street marked enemy turf. Evidently surviving was part of the initiation, as well.
Alejo had fired back and killed the driver. The car had slammed into a tree, injuring the front seat passenger. The two gangsters in back had jumped out and continued shooting.
Something moved and Javier had caught sight of a young white boy emerging from a side door of the house next door. He’d worn footed pajamas and clutched a teddy bear.
“Go back, kid,” Javier had yelled.
But the child had frozen, eyes like saucers, as pistols blasted in front of him. Thank God no one had had automatic weapons that night.
“Kid. Go!” Javier had fired at a rival gang member, shattering his thighbone. The gangster had hit the ground, screaming.
The little boy had stared.
“Shit.” Javier had run over and scooped the child into his arms. He’d carried him toward the house, planning to stick him back inside. “Get out of here. You could get kil—”
Another blast had dropped Javier to his knees, pain searing his shoulder. The boy had gone limp in his arms, blood spreading across his chest and staining the toy trucks on his pajamas.
“Oh, God no. Please. No.”
As Javier had clutched the child, a tiny, misty pearl had floated up from the boy’s mouth. It had hovered in the air at eye level and pulsed with a bright, calming sense of peace.
Sirens had broken the stillness, but Javier hadn’t been able to move. He’d watched, wide-eyed, as the ball of mist rose higher and disappeared.
A door had slammed and screams had shattered the night. “Oh my God. Trevor!” A woman had knocked Javier aside and grabbed the body of her limp child. “No, no, no. My baby. Please, God. Noooooo.” She’d rocked and wailed as Javier had watched. He hadn’t been able to move, think, or run.
Laughter had pierced like nails and Javier had turned to see Alejo watching from the street. He’d looked at the boy and his wailing mom, and then at Javier, the one who would take the biggest fall. He’d giggled harder.
Javier had never known he could hate so deeply, and so fast, but Alejo’s glee at this boy’s violent end launched him into orbit. He’d struggled to stand, to wring Alejo’s neck and silence that wretched cackle for good, but a dozen or more police cars had squealed up. Alejo had run, but two cops had been on him before he hit the woods. Four more had grabbed Javier and yanked him to his feet. The picture Alejo had taken from Mrs. Sutton’s had fallen out of his pocket and incensed them even more. The cops had thrown him against their car, spitting his rights and cuffing his wrists so hard they almost broke his hands. The bullet hole in his shoulder had split open and bled more, but they hadn’t noticed. Or cared. Two officers had shoved him in back of one cruiser, two more had pushed Alejo in back of another, and both cars had sped away. Paramedics had screeched in, but Javier had known it was too late—for the boy, for the dead gang members, for him, for Alejo, for everyone.
Link blinked back tears as he eyed the spot where Trevor had died, where the boy’s mom, Tricia, had run out screaming, and where he... Well,
where Javier had lost his life, liberties, and pursuit of happiness.
A sickly engine broke the stillness as a car rumbled toward Tricia’s house. Link turned to dodge the headlights and when he looked back, a small child stood in the driveway. He clutched a teddy bear and wore toy truck pajamas.
Panic shot through him. Link lunged to his feet. “Trevor?”
The boy turned to him and smiled.
“Trevor.” Link sprinted over and shoved the child out of harm’s way as the car pulled in and lurched to a stop. The rumbling engine shut off.
Tricia Martin jumped out. “What the hell are you doing? I almost hit you.”
Link looked around. Trevor was gone. His heart jumped in his throat. “I, um, I thought ...” He eyed her vintage, paint-chipped Toyota. All four hubcaps were missing, and one tire was nearly bald. “Your car needs work.”
She grabbed a bag of groceries from the back seat and shut the door. “You a mechanic or something?”
She sounded brave, but the keys in her hand trembled. She clutched a cell phone and, somehow, 911 was already entered.
Link stood and brushed off the grass and dirt. “I’m good with engines.”
The car’s sputtering indicated its desperate need for an oil change, if not a full engine flush. An old stain marked a spot where fluids had leaked before. Cleaning out the old and pouring in new would give it thousands more miles of life.
Like people, he thought. Open the heart, flush out whatever crud clogged the pipes, and pour in much-needed grace, love, and trust. We’d all run a whole lot better.
Link ran fingers through his cropped hair, tilting his head down to hide his face. Tricia looked younger than he remembered, maybe mid-thirties or so. A few gray hairs sprouted at the roots where blonde coloring grew out, and laugh lines softened her eyes. It surprised him. All he’d ever seen in her was grief, hate, and revenge.
“I can fix it,” he said. “But ...”
Tricia dropped the groceries. Her face went as white as the spilling milk. “It’s you.” She backed toward her house.
Link stepped closer. “I didn’t kill him.” He talked fast to keep her from placing the call. “Trevor wandered out. I was taking him back inside when the bullet hit. I swear to God. I wrote you a million letters but—”