She comes back out a moment later with the shotgun in her hands as Mains and his deputies pile out of their cars and spread out across the yard.
He pauses, one hand dropping to his sidearm, the other held out as if he can stop her with the gesture. “Easy, Lydia. We don't want to hurt anybody.”
She snugs the shotgun against her shoulder. “Ain't nobody left to be hurt.”
His eyes get hard, even though he's still got that one hand outstretched. “Lydia. Where are your girls?”
“Go to hell.”
Percy flinches at the thump of the shotgun, puts his arms around me as bullets sing past in response and Mama goes headfirst down the steps.
I squeeze his hand, reassuring. “Those won't hurt us.”
The firetruck rumbles to a stop, half the tomato plants crushed under the front tires. The volunteers spill out. They ain't had time to dress in their special overcoats, so a couple of 'em just grab up a wet piece of burlap to cover their heads and take off toward the shed. They bust it down with their shoulders in spite of the flames tickling at their arms and legs.
I've seen it a hundred times. Mr. Feller and Mr. Barnsley go in through that doorway with the steam curling up off them. Barnsley, a big man with a bigger smile, comes back out with the baby in his arms. She's so still and small, tiny fingers untouched by the fire, but her mouth all lavender from the smoke stealing her breath.
Barnsley sits down on the ground and cries, rockin' back and forth and smoothing the dark wisps of hair on the baby's head. We had a cat once and her kittens got sick and she done the same thing when they died. Fussin’ and lickin' them over and over as if that love could put some spark back in them.
I've seen it a hundred times. Still makes my throat get tight and hot, and the tears that wouldn't come that day slip out and curl across my cheeks. Usually I just stand here and cry 'til I'm all emptied out, but today is different because Percy is here.
His arms get so tight around me I wonder that he doesn't crush the air right out of me. He looks down at me and his eyes are a reflection of the storm around my heart.
I'm used to the pity. Everyone's always real sorry about what happened to my family. But it don't change the fact that no matter how terrible they think it all is, they're still scared of me.
But Percy don't look scared. And the sorrow on his face is something more than pity.
There's a crash in the house and raised voices. Mama and Daddy yelling at each other while Addie comes scooting out the front door and takes off across the yard. Headed for the sunny field where we started.
The screen door bangs shut behind her and Percy takes a deep breath. “This is where you spend your time, Delaney?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
The house breaks apart, twisting into the tall columns of oaks and beeches. A carpet of moss and the dark mould of last year’s leaves washes out across the yard and buries the squalling and blinking cars. The silence that follows is dizzying.
Then a mockingbird sings in the distance, the leaves overhead shimmer in a thousand shades of green, and the tension melts away. “This is the place I come to think.”
He loosens his arms around me, reaches out to touch the rough bark of the nearest oak. “This place is real, too?”
“Real enough.” I've looked at plenty of pictures to make this one in my head, but the details are of my own making. “But it's quiet here. And there is no one to look at me. Or whisper.”
He nods. “Do they know?”
I shake my head. Watch him careful-like. If he tells them what has happened, they will do something about it. More drugs. The unhappy kind that make me limp and weak. The kind that break my focus so that I cannot come here where it’s quiet and no one can look at me.
If he tells them what I've shown him, what I've done, I will be at the mercy of the dreams, unable to wake as the world flows through my poor head.
“And now?” His mouth curls with concern. “We have been... gone for some time.”
“It is different here. Our solid selves have only been quiet for a few heartbeats.”
“We should go back.” He drops my hand, but the woods remain. “Delaney. Please.” Fear touches his voice. Not for himself.
For me.
“You aren't going to tell them.” I can't keep the relief bottled up.
“No. Now take us back.”
“Why?”
“Because I know what they will do if they know you still have the Touch. More drugs to put it to sleep. Or you. And if they are not certain about the drugs...”
A shiver creeps down my spine. I'd made the mistake of letting the Touch show once before.
There had been a terrible storm coming. A bridge would wash out and Mrs. Pratt and her grumbling pickup truck would be swept away and she would drown—a slow and miserable death as the river rose without mercy. I'd had seen it as sure as anything and told Mrs. Pratt not to go home. When she didn't listen, I made the mistake of pulling every thread I could find to keep her from leaving.
I saved her life, and for that she's always made the effort to be kind to me in spite of her fear, but the others—Dr. Everley and Ms. Drowner—said I had to be controlled.
They answered the Touch with electricity. Even now my hands shake at the memory.
“They will try and scramble it out of me.”
“I don't want that to happen to you.” His voice is flat. He wants me to think he is compassionate enough to not wish such an ill on anyone. And that is not a lie. But the flicker in his eyes tells me it is not the whole truth either.
“All right.” I take a breath and the woods peel away like sheets of paper caught in the wind.
Click. Tock.
He moves his hand to collect the photos. “I appreciate your help, Miss Green.” He closes the folder. “If I have any further questions...” A pause as the ridiculousness of it sinks in on him.
I smile. “I will be here, Agent Percival Cox.”
He nods and stands. “Thank you.” His lips tremble, but we are both aware that others are watching us. So he just nods again. “Thank you.”
I tuck my hands inside my sweater sleeves and wait for the orderly to come and take me back to my room where the dinner tray will be waiting since I've missed the regular supper time.
My fingers tingle with the memory of Percy's hand holding mine. I stare at the tabletop, letting my hair hide me from Dr. Everley, still watching from behind the mirror, before I let the smile touch my lips again.
Oh, Percival Cox. You'll be the death of me.
8
The sun is sinking behind the horizon as Percy and Martinez walk to the SUV. Still hot, but the light is soft and soothing.
Martinez stops to pull his keys from his pocket. “You all right?”
Percy frowns. “Fine.”
“I saw her touch you.”
He rubs his lower lip remembering the woods and the madhouse full of memories. Touch was right, but no word of that would come from his tongue.
Percy had spent a few years in an institution, in the care of folks that were less understanding. Three years of electro-shock therapy and heavy doses of the magic-suppressing drugs before they'd realized those with the Sense didn't have the power to change anything and would be better put to use finding those who could. He still remembers how much worse it had all been on the meds. The magic is always there but no longer controlled. He still remembers the shock therapy burning new holes in his mind 'til he almost laughed when they tried to tell him he had magic of any sort. Almost.
“Cox.” Martinez gets up in his face.
Percy manages to coax his lips into a smile. “I'm fine. She's just lonely. Flirting, I think.”
“Why?”
“Why not? She is young and has little else to do.”
“I don't like it. How do I know she hasn't tweaked something in you?”
“You don't. Except that I'm telling you she hasn't.” Percy tries to keep hold of his inner calm.
Martinez is skilled at provoking a response. “And you're certain she's not manipulating you?”
“Yes.” He smiles more broadly to assure him of the lie. There is little he is certain about with Delaney, but he clings to the idea that Mains told him the girl would not cause deliberate harm. “Perhaps we should make an agreement that you will stop asking me if I'm all right and if I'm not, I'll tell you.”
Martinez crosses his arms, considering. “I don't know, Cox.”
“It would be easier.”
“Yes. But will you do it? Harold...”
“I'm not Harold.” He says it as gently as he can, but Martinez still flinches. Percy sighs. “If I need help, I will ask for it.”
“Right.” Martinez nods reluctantly. “Don't forget that.”
“I won't.”
“And the girl?”
Percy struggles to keep his voice casual. “What about her?”
“She said she didn't know what was murdering those other women.”
“Yes.” Percy glances back at Greenhaven. “It seems true enough. I think she might have a better sense of it than I do, but she can't see it clearly enough to add anything useful.”
Martinez opens his mouth then shuts it again.
Percy grins. “I'm sure of it.”
“Then we'll have to hope Elliot and MacKenzie have turned up something concrete.”
“They will. Or we will.”
“How do you know?”
He taps his fingers against the folder in his hands. “She said these women had the Touch. But in a small way.”
Martinez raises an eyebrow. “All twelve?”
“I only showed her two. Lily Blackwell and Charlotte Camstock. But if they had the Touch, there's a good chance the others did too.”
“We can check on that. Get a list of other women in the area who might be the next target.” Martinez is buzzing with purpose. This is what makes him happy, the work that leads to a break in the investigation. He pulls his phone out. “I'll call Elliot and let her know.”
“All right.” Percy rolls his shoulders. “I'll be there in a minute.”
His head is no longer throbbing, but there's a twist in his chest, subtle but slowly growing. A catch when he breathes too deep, a deeper ache like a bruise. He stretches, shakes one hand and then the other to get the blood flowing.
Remembers Delaney's warning.
This is something dangerous.
He glances over his shoulder as if he can catch a glimpse of her, but there is only the sprawling building and the tall iron fence.
“Hey, Cox.” Martinez is waiting by the SUV. “You coming?”
“Be right there.” Percy takes another deep breath and pushes the thoughts and concerns for Miss Green to the back of his mind. Something wicked is waiting for them.
9
The funny thing about the future is once you see it, you can change it.
This is the second thing my daddy taught me.
Most folks think it's the other way around. That seeing what will happen means it has to be. But it ain't so.
I never saw the tool shed and the fire. Never saw Addie melting in the heat nor the baby getting so quiet in my arms.
I did burn more dinners than you can count on three hands 'cause Mama had put something in the meat. Slept cold and huddled up with Addie because it was better to turn the heater off than breathe in the fumes from a damaged vent. Locked us in a closet rather than get in the car to go run errands and maybe wind up at the bottom of the lake.
Lots of things I saw. Lots of things I changed.
But I never saw the tool shed and the fire.
The trickiest part is knowing what is still to happen, what is happening, and what has already happened. The visions don't always say.
I saw Daddy die a hundred different ways before he disappeared, and a few times after. I still don't know if it was poison or the shotgun Mama got him with. Only that he never was found.
The terrible thing about the future is if you see it, you can change it.
But the past... you can't change that no matter how much you try.
10
Neeny Johnson lives about three miles outside town. Her house is old, perched on top of a hand-stacked stone foundation that boasts a Civil War cannon ball on one corner. A tired little building with floors that groan in protest as Neeny trudges back and forth.
She has a little sign hung from the front porch. Painted it herself—a crystal ball and a couple of tarot cards, and Fortunes Read block lettered underneath. The money isn't much, but it keeps the lights on and pays for a bottle of wine now and again. A few years back she was offered a job telling fortunes over the phone. Pay was a lot more steady, but there was a lot of guesswork involved. Neeny don't like to guess when it comes to folk’s futures.
So she keeps on doing things her way, laying out cards, peering into the glass orb, and reading tea leaves or coffee grounds for the older women that like to have a proper visit and chit-chat while they have their fortune told. She pays attention to the details and she ain't never steered no one far wrong.
She creaks around the little house and sets it right for the evening. Puts the tarot cards back in their wooden box, polishes the glass ball, and wraps it up before putting it in its case, too. She had one she used to leave out on the table, but the cats got to rubbin' on it one night and it cracked clean in half when it hit the floor.
She brushes a few crumbs off the tablecloth and plants her hands on her hips. “There.” All neat and ready for the morning.
The cats are sitting near the back door. When she turns on the light in the kitchen, they sing a little chorus, reminding her that it's dinner time and they have not eaten in oh-so-long.
“Hold on now. Don't get your tails in a knot.” Neeny lets them in, then opens the bucket with the cat biscuits and portions some out into the row of saucers along the wall beside the fridge. Touches each of the furry heads and murmurs their names. “Marble. Black Spot. Chester. Magnolia.”
It's Wednesday night and that means tomato soup and crackers for dinner. She empties the can into a saucepan, adds water, and sets it on the burner to heat up.
Out the front there's a thump. Sounds like a car door, but it's too late for any clients to be dropping in.
Neeny frowns. Trudges into the front room and peers out the window.
It's dark as dirt outside, but there's a truck parked in her driveway—engine running and the headlights shining right on her porch.
She squints through the window. Two men stand out there, one on either side of the truck. Not moving. Just watching her house. She pauses, glances toward the yellow-lit kitchen where the phone is. Maybe she should call down to the Tanners and ask their mister to bring his shotgun up to check things out.
But it's Wednesday and she knows they won't likely be back from church yet. “Probably just looking for directions.” She runs her hand across her hair and opens the front door. “Can I help you?”
The men come a few steps closer. The headlights illuminate them in halves, but their faces are still unfamiliar. The one on the left clears his throat. “We're lookin' for Miss Johnson.”
“You've found her.” Normally she gets a flush from that. A wave of satisfaction from helping someone out, even in something so small. But something about this just don't seem right. Neeny puts her hand back on the doorknob, reassuring herself that she can go back inside and shut the door behind her. “If you're wantin' your fortunes told, you'll have to come back tomorrow. I'm done for the day.”
The one on the right shakes his head. “We ain't here for no fortune telling.” And somethin' in his voice—flat and desperate—makes the hair on her arms stand straight up in alarm.
She yanks the door open and scurries back into the house. Just gets the bolt across as they start pushing on it. The old frame creaks under the stress, and she turns and runs for the back door. Ain't got time to pick up the phone. The windows are all open. Another minute and they'll be climbin
g through the screens.
Neeny busts out the kitchen door, the cats swarming her all bristle-tailed and trying to figure out what the hell is goin' on. She don't have much time to think. Her feet already running and running across the back yard toward the trail that leads behind the cornfields over to the Tanner's place. Certain that if she can just get there, she'll be safe.
The trail is dark and she doesn't get very far before her foot catches on the ground and she goes down. Panting and struggling to get back to her feet.
Something slips over her head, cloth sticking to her face, but it don't keep her from screamin'. Loud. Always did have a big voice. For a moment the men let go, and she stumbles a little farther, trying to run and pull the pillowcase off at the same time. Still screaming like the devil in church.
They grab her again, push her down on the ground. One of them tries to push more of the pillowcase into her mouth, and she bites down on his fingers like they're celery, producing a screech to rival her cats. Something hits the side of her head real hard and it all gets fuzzy.
One of the men is jumping around, clutching his hand to his chest and cussing a blue streak. “Bitch bit me.”
“Shut up, Merv. Help me with her hands.” The other fellow has a piece of rope, twisting it around Neeny's wrists a few times before knotting it.
“I think she broke ‘em.” Merv pulls his foot back to kick her again.
“Stop it. Can't use her if she's already dead.”
They look at each other nervous-like. Merv swallows hard and pokes her.
Neeny groans.
“She's all right, Luke.”
“Better be.” He touches his arm, wrapped up with bandages and smellin' of antiseptic. “Help me now.”
They roll her up in a tarp, then twist more rope around the ends so she's wrapped up like a fat blue sausage.
“Good. Wait here while I get the truck,” Luke says.
Neeny tries to move, but her arms are pinned in front of her, the pillowcase pushed against her face. She sucks a breath and puts everything she's got into her voice. “Help.”
Touch: A Trilogy Page 5