Touch: A Trilogy

by A. G. Carpenter

  “I suppose.”

  He slips one arm around me, tight and sudden-like, the other hand still clutching a can of cheap beer. “I was real surprised to see what happened to you. Not at all what I had planned.”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles. “Planned?”

  “Here.” He pulls me away from the tunnel and the fireflies, waves his hand at the wall.

  It’s all crisscrossed with lines carved in the dirt, little bits of glass at every point they cross. I frown and squint a little closer. Not just bits of glass. Something moves on each dull surface.

  I pull away from Daddy and step closer to the wall, nose almost mashed against the dirt as I look at that flicker of movement. Suck my breath in sharp as I see me and Percy sittin’ in the observation room at Greenhaven. Follow one of the lines away from it and see me sitting on the edge of my bed waiting. Another line leads to Percy makin’ up his mind he needs to get me out.

  But those lines are thin. There are a different set, carved deep and marked all around with chalk. I lick my lips and take a peek at the reflections of what might have been.

  Me breakin’ a dozen threads so I can walk out the front door of Greenhaven by my lonesome. Me takin’ Percy by the hand and leading him into the woods and letting him touch the thing called The Salesman. Letting him suck the fire right out of it. Letting him remember things about himself that are best forgot.

  “See?” Daddy jabs a finger against the wall hard enough to knock a clot of dirt loose. “Why ain’t you done this?”

  “Percy isn’t a monster.” I stare at him hard with my green eye. “Neither am I.”

  “Not when you get soft like this.” He shakes his head. “I thought I raised you better than that, Biscuit.”

  “I don’t want to hurt no one, Daddy.”

  He laughs like I done said somethin’ funny. Doublin’ over and poundin’ one fist on his thigh as he splutters for breath. Finally straightens back up, drinks the last of his beer, and rubs his arm across his stubbly chin. “You’re a Power, Biscuit. You’re gonna hurt folks whether you want to or not.”

  I look at the wall again, at that deep chalk-rimmed line. Follow it back through a dozen different turning points. Find a piece of glass with the chalk laid thick around it.

  The shape that moves on the surface ain’t me, but Percy. Mouthin’ off to his team in the middle of an investigation. I twitch back, heart bangin’ hard against my ribs. I’ve seen that moment before. It marked the start of his journey to me, the start of his path toward The Salesman. It weren’t the first time I seen him, but it were the first I realized what might happen if he went into that clearing and faced poor Jack Green’s burning bones.

  I force my feet to move again. Follow that line further back, finding more points circled in chalk.

  The backroom deal that left me locked in Greenhaven.

  The time I saved Nurse Pratt’s life and they put electricity in my brain to try and shock the magic out of me.

  Momma slamming the door on the tool shed and settin’ me and my dead sisters alight.

  I turn and glare at Daddy, even though my innards are shiverin’ like I’m about to fly into a million pieces. “You been pullin’ at my future?”

  He grins that grin I seen too many times, like a shark circlin’ around and me just a bit of chum about to be et. “Don’t look so sour, Biscuit. You didn’t think you were the only one layin’ hands on what could be, did you?”

  “You hurt Percy.” I blink away tears. “You hurt me.”

  “Aw, now.” He lays a hand on my shoulder. “I ain’t never done what didn’t need to be done. But you were meant for something better than growin’ old and dyin’ quiet.”

  “No.” I shake my head, even though I feel that truth in every inch of me. Brush my hands over that muddy wall, feeling for the way he has turned the future. Feeling for the threads that will change it.

  They’re still there, quivering with heartache and loss. With my fingers dug into the dirt, I can see a way forward that doesn’t end with me or Percy breaking the world to pieces, but it is, by far, the hardest path. I bite my lip, trying to lock away each of the choices so that when the time comes, I can follow this path and not some other.

  “I won’t become a monster for you, Daddy. Neither will Percy.”

  “Yes, you will.” He leans close and the beer stink on his breath makes my stomach churn. “Once you see the future, you can change it. Your momma may have cut my path short, but I’ve worked hard to make sure your road is different. You and Percy, see? Powers. Like your mother and I were meant to be.”

  “Oh, Daddy.” My throat hurts, and I swallow hard, tryin’ to clear the way for words.

  His hand tightens on my shoulder. “But you’ve gone and changed things, haven’t you? All that work I done, and you’re here, dead. And Percy still don’t remember what he’s supposed to be.” He reaches down and starts unbucklin’ his belt. “I ought whup you good for all the trouble you’ve caused.”

  I turn my hand, pullin’ Baby’s string across my palm and grabbin’ hold of it, tight. “I guess Momma did the right thing after all.”

  His face turns red, and he lets go of my shoulder, haulin’ back with that hand ready to belt me. But I’m grown now and, while I might be scared, I sure ain’t stupid.

  “Baby.” I yank at that piece of string as hard as I can.

  Daddy grabs at me, but I’m already flyin’ back toward the tunnel, which gets momentarily bigger, suckin’ me in so that I slide along, one arm stretched out and holdin’ onto that string and the other one tucked over my head as I scrape over and under those hairy roots I squeezed past earlier.

  The fireflies are comin’, too. Their wings crackle and buzz as they try to keep up, their butts blinkin’ on and off as they go. And behind them…

  “Faster, Baby.” My shriek brings dirt showering down.

  Or maybe it’s Daddy makin’ the tunnel crumble around me. He’s thicker than I am, so his shoulders stick at all the skinny places, but he keeps comin’. Hands grabbin’ hold of the ground and tearin’ it away as he roars after me. “Delaney Priscilla Green. You come back here.” His hand closes around one ankle, stoppin’ me just short of the splintery mouth of the tree.

  I look up and see Baby starin’ down at me, face as white as a China doll. See her little fingers just about rubbed raw with the strain of tryin’ to hold onto that string with both me and Daddy hangin’ from it.

  “You think you can run away from me, Biscuit?” He digs his fingernails in, clawing his way up my leg.

  I pull my free leg up toward my chest, then slam my heel down into his face. Determined to give him at least one good lick for all the times he hit me.

  He splutters and lets go.

  And Baby, wheezing with the effort, pulls me free so hard I tumble past her and sprawl in the leaf mold.

  For a minute we just stay there, me laid out on the ground and her swayin’ on the edge of the tree, breathin’ hard.

  “You’ve gotten heavy,” she says finally.

  I smile, weak. “That’s what happens when you grow up.”

  “Hah.” She shows off her gums in a toothless grin. “Like I would—” She staggers and slips toward the ragged maw between the two halves of the tree.

  Daddy, clingin’ to a bit of the string still danglin’ from Baby’s wrist, starts wigglin’ out. Pantin’ and cussin’ as he works his way through that narrow gap, but the whole time grinnin’ that shark-like way.

  And Baby just stands there, watchin’ him come.

  I done the same when I was little. But now I’ve faced worse and lived to tell about. So to speak.

  I grab Baby ‘round the waist and tuck her up under one arm. Slap my other hand against that sundered oak and remind it that it once stood tall. These might not be my woods, but they ain’t so different than the ones I grew in my head.

  The tree groans and shakes its branches, like a dog wakin’ up from a nap.

  Daddy pauses. He�
��s still half in and half out of the hole in the ground, and all those splinters are startin’ to quiver and dig at him. “Biscuit,” he says, and his voice is all soft and friendly again. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

  Baby shivers, but I stare at him, first with my brown eye, then with my green one. Overhead, the moon peeks out from behind the clouds, nervous.

  “Come on, now. You know I wouldn’t really hurt you. I just got mad is all.”

  The tree groans again, the two halves startin’ to sit up.

  Daddy’s eyes get wide and his mouth opens up real big. “Damn it, Biscuit. I only wanted you to get what I never did. You can still have it. I can fix it. You just have to get back out. Back to the living.” The whole time he’s wiggling, squirming back down into the ground as the splinters start coming together like two halves of a zipper. “I can fix it. You can still be a Power. If you just let me—”

  The last words get cut off as the tree comes back together like a thunderclap.

  I pull Baby more comfortably in my arms. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She sticks her fingers in her mouth and leans her head on my shoulder. A moment later and she’s asleep.

  The oak moans and sighs, the two halves settling back together. Another moan, so faint I might just be imagining, drifts up from the ground. Biscuit.

  I swallow hard and march around the tree ‘til I find the path running off the other side, walking quick to put some distance between me and the clearing.

  I’m grown now, and I ain’t scared. But I’m not stupid either.

  6

  Elliot drives Percy to the hospital to examine the latest victim. “The SPD specialist is supposed to meet us here.”

  He nods, flicking through the files on his tablet, pausing to look closely at the photos of the girls before and after they were attacked. And the grimmer autopsy photos. The after photos are strange, almost fuzzy. He squints, tilting the screen back and forth. “That’s weird.”

  “What?” Elliot cranes her neck, trying to get a good look while still keeping one eye on the road.

  “It’s like there’s a double exposure almost. The girls are there, pretty clear. But…” He tilts the tablet again. “Like another image there.”

  “A glitch in the files, maybe?”

  “Don’t think so. The rest of it all looks normal.” He waves his hand at the pillow and sheets visible around the young woman in the photo.

  She nods. “I’ll run some analysis on those while you talk to the specialist. What’s his name again?”

  “Franklin Jones.” He flips through to the next file. “Psychic. Tracker. Warlock.” He chuckles. “Really?”

  “So he’s a Sensitive, too?”

  “No. Just skilled. Probably a magician who uses objects to help him detect the things I feel in my gut.” He clicks the tablet off and folds the cover over it. “Bet he has a bunch of crap hanging from his belt.”

  Elliot frowns as she pulls into the parking garage next to the hospital. “You are going to play nice, right?”

  “Of course. It’s just…” He stops, rubs his temple to ease the dull ache that has lingered ever since Delaney passed. Ever since he’s been taking the meds.

  The ache isn’t so bad. A couple of aspirin and a cup of coffee usually chase it away long enough for him to get his work done. But the memories that come with it are less pleasant and harder to shake. Long halls and cold beds. Days and nights of dreamless sleep that isn’t sleeping or waking. And the brilliant fire that is the electroshock. Burning and burning ‘til the things in his head wither into nothing.

  “Hey.” Elliot grabs his wrist. “Are you all right?”

  He twitches, forces a smile with the next breath. “Yeah. I fell asleep on the plane and it left me a little fuzzy is all.” He shakes his head to clear the last of the memories. “I’ll be better once I get out and move around some more.”

  “You sure?”

  “Come on. Don’t want to keep Mr. Jones waiting.” He slides the tablet into his shoulder bag and steps out of the car before she can protest. A part of him thinks he should talk to someone about what he’s feeling. But he knows it can’t be Elliot or anyone else on his team. She wouldn’t understand.

  The glass doors between the parking deck and hospital lobby slide open as he approaches, cool air wafting out to meet the humid exterior. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he rubs it with his hand, irritable as the ache in his head gets sharper. The vague smell of disinfectant is familiar. Frightening.

  “Give me a second. I’ll ask for Jones at the desk.” Elliot brushes past him, threading her way between the neat rows of vinyl chairs and blocky end tables.

  Percy adjusts his satchel, smooths his hair across his forehead. Takes a breath, then another. There are whispers in the back of his head, almost as if someone is having a conversation just behind him, just out of earshot. He hears the murmur of voices, but can’t understand the words.

  “Excuse me?” A lean man with twilight skin approaches. His hair is braided into precise rows along his scalp, the ends falling down past his shoulders. “Are you the folks from Atlanta?”

  Percy holds his hand out. “Agent Percival Cox.”

  “Franklin Jones. I’m the Savannah Police Department consultant.” His voice is deep and warm, but there’s an echo within it. A whisper of hidden knowledge.

  Percy nods. “Not what I was expecting.”

  Jones raises an eyebrow, and his voice is a degree or two cooler. “Oh?”

  “No charms,” Percy says mildly. “Last warlock I met jangled and clattered louder than a janitor’s keys he had so much stuff hanging from his belt.”

  “Ah. Right. The charms.” Jones relaxes. “The part of town I work, I wouldn’t last a day walking around with animal feet or the bones of dead saints hangin’ off me.” A sly grin. “I keep all that shit back in my basement.”

  Elliot returns from the desk. “Mr. Jones?”

  “Yes.”

  “Agent Margaret Elliot.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” He shakes her hand, hooks his thumbs into his pockets. “Have you been up to see Miss Grant yet?”

  “Not yet. You told the PD you thought there was something… magic involved?” She glances at Percy, seeking confirmation that magic is the appropriate term.

  Jones crosses his arms over his chest. “There’s no thought about it. Something is deeply wrong with Miss Grant. Something supernatural, if not something magic. Has been with the other two as well. Even the untrained can feel it.” He tilts his head at Elliot. “You’ll see.”

  Elliot frowns. “But how…”

  Percy holds his hand up. “I think we should see Miss Grant first. And then we’ll try and find answers to our questions.”

  She purses her lips, but nods, reluctant. “Right. Of course.” She flicks her fingers at Jones. “Care to lead the way?”

  “Sure.” He strides toward the bank of elevators. “This way.”

  7

  Emily Grant has been placed in a restricted room on a hall that has locked doors at either end. There is an officer seated in a chair by her door. His head is bent over a magazine, but he looks up alertly when the door opens.

  “Can I help you?” His words are casual, but his hand drops to his side, to the gun holstered on his belt.

  “I’m Agent Elliot with the FBI. This is Agent Cox.” Elliot holds out her badge, waits for him to inspect it.

  “Officer Sullivan. Savannah PD.” He stands up and drops the magazine into his chair. “You’re here to see Miss Grant, then?”

  “Yes.”

  He nods, hitches his belt with his fingers, his holster creaking under the weight of his gun. “Go on in. I’ll just get someone from the nurses’ desk.” He strides down the hall.

  Elliot frowns and glances at the door, apprehensive.

  Jones makes a face. “You’ll understand in a minute.” He squares his own shoulders, opens the door, and leads the way in.

  The curtains
are pushed back to let in as much daylight as possible. The fluorescent lights overhead and in the little bathroom are all on. But the room whispers with the impression of something hidden, something watching.

  “Jesus.” Elliot moves toward the wall opposite the bed.

  “Yes.” Jones nods. “I don’t know if it’s some shadow of the magic that was used against her. Or just the unnaturalness of a person without a soul.”

  Percy edges closer, stooping so that he can look across the figure lying in the bed. Then holds his hand out, slowly moving it back and forth over the still limbs like a diviner search for water.

  “Not the shadow of magic, Mr. Jones. This is still active.”

  “Active how?” Jones leans over Percy’s shoulder, as though trying to see what he sees.

  Cautiously, Percy lays his hand over Emily’s, and the hospital room fades to a pinpoint of light and sound. His heart beats once and a different reality fills his senses.

  Crushing pain. She is being twisted and bent into a shape that is both familiar and alien. Screaming. Trying to claw her way free, but the thing that holds her prisoner is the body that is not her own.

  “Let me go. Please, let me go. Please. Please.”

  “Cox.” Elliot grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him backward, breaking the connection with Emily’s distant consciousness. “Cox.”

  “Ugh.” He staggers, shaking almost uncontrollably.

  Elliot gets her arms around his waist, trying to steady him. “What’s wrong?”

  Percy shakes his head. “Gonna be sick.”

  “Great.” She drags him toward the bathroom.

  He shrugs free, doubles over, and pukes into the toilet. It’s been a few hours since he ate, so not much comes out but coffee and bile, sour enough to make him shiver. He spits. Pulls a handful of toilet paper from the dispenser and wipes his mouth.

  “You all right? Do I need to call the nurse in here?” Elliot rubs his back the way a mother might with a child.

  “No. I’m okay.” He spits again and flushes the toilet. “Caught me by surprise is all.”