“This is a surprise, Percy,” she says by way of hello. “How are those books working out?”
“Impressively dull.” He glances down the hall to make sure no one else is around. “Listen, I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”
“Anything to solve this case and get you all back home.”
“Well, this is more of a personal favor.”
“Oh.” Her tone changes from bantering to curious. “And what exactly is this personal favor?”
“I was wondering if you could get me the black files on these meds. Aripiprazole.”
There’s a long pause. “You know I’m not supposed to give those out without signed clearance. Especially not to… you know.”
“Yeah. It’s just, I was talking to one of the doctors here, and he noticed I was taking it and asked if I was aware of the higher risk for early onset dementia.” He prefers to tell the truth, but he’s good at lying. The back of his neck barely gets hot. “He said the risk varied and that some meds were better than others. I just thought… but it’s okay. I’ll just wait and ask Dr. Carver when I get back.”
There’s a faint rattle of computer keys on the other end. “Well. The black file on the aripiprazole won’t do you any good without your files to compare.” Another rattle of keys. “Not that you’ll find much there. Looks like most of it’s been redacted.”
“Like that’s surprising.” He waits a beat or two. “I guess I can wait. Not like I can do anything about it now if I’m at risk.”
Connie is silent for a moment, breathing heavy on the end of the phone. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt for you to look through this. But you can’t tell anyone where you got it, understand?”
“Never.”
“Okay. I’ll send it to your private email.”
“You’re the best, Connie. I owe you one.”
“You be careful down there, all right?”
He nods. “I’m trying my best.” Martinez steps out in the hall and waves at him. “Oh. Got to go.” He barely hears her saying goodbye, already punching the phone off and sliding it back into the pocket on his belt.
Martinez comes down the hall, quick. “Hey. I’ve been looking for you.”
“Did you find something?” He says it automatic, knowing that crackle of energy from Martinez means a break in the case.
“Yeah. And you’ll want to see this.”
MacKenzie is bent over the table, trying to get a cable plugged into her laptop. “Come on.” The screen on the conference room wall flickers to life. “There.” She taps a few keys and the image of a photo ID pops up. “This is Alexander John Michaels. Eighteen years old. There’s a missing person’s report from a little over three weeks ago.”
Percy leans on the back of a chair. “Kidnapped?”
“Maybe, but police suspected he had run away. There’s a brief note here about some sort of argument with his parents.” Elliot passes out sheets of paper, still warm from the printer. “No specifics. Also an attached file about an assault from two years ago.”
Percy flips through the pages, mostly the detailed little boxes indicating the time the report was made and where and by whom. “He got in a fight?”
“No. Looks like he was attacked. There’s not much in here, but I’ve got a call out to the investigating officer, Matt Burns. Going to see if we can get him to come in and share his case notes. But there is a note here that may be important.” She taps her finger on the last line on the page.
“Hate crime?” Percy rubs his forehead. “Michaels is not an obvious minority. So… homosexual, maybe?”
Elliot nods. “Queer of some sort, I’d guess. Especially given the circumstances. With the young women. And in that other image, he has long hair.”
Martinez leans in the door and tosses Percy his jacket. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“We’re going to talk to the parents. See if they can give us anything else.”
Percy hesitates. “And if Officer Burns comes in while we’re gone?”
“He’ll stay ‘til you get back.” Elliot makes a shooing motion. “Now go. We don’t have much time left to figure this out.”
13
Franklin is still sitting in the basement, staring at the burned-out salt circle when the phone rings. He gropes around the edge of the table, then taps the button to accept the call. “Hello?”
“Mr. Jones? This is Agent Elliot with the FBI special investigations team.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He starts getting his feet under him. “Has something happened?”
“We have a new lead. The image that you and Agent Cox uncovered is of Alexander John Michaels.”
Franklin blinks. “Alexander?”
“Yes. We were surprised as well, but there’s not a lot of ambiguity about the visual match. And he’s been missing for close to a month.”
“Since before the first girl was attacked.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you need me to come in?”
There’s a pause; he can almost see the faint smile she’d given him at the hospital. “Not just yet. We would like you to continue your efforts to see if you can find us any leads within the community.”
“Yes. Of course. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”
He sits for a moment in silence, wondering if there is something he’s missed. Wondering what to do next.
He gets to his feet with an irritable murmur. He’s going to need a long night’s sleep when all this is over. Most of the salt and ash has burned away, but he gets the push broom and sweeps up the last remnants and dumps them in the garbage can in the corner.
Now that he has a name, it should be easy enough to figure out what sort of role Alexander Michaels has in the attacks. It would be simpler if he were the perpetrator, but somehow Franklin doesn’t think that’s the case. The shadow on Emily Grant looked asleep. Or dead. Certainly not someone in a position to be stalking the city and taking souls.
And Percy Cox said he saw someone else.
He pours fresh salt into a bowl, crouches on the floor, and, for the second time in nearly as many hours, begins forming a summoning ring.
14
I can’t say Mama ever taught me much.
Maybe she was busy trying to take care of Daddy. Or maybe she just didn’t care.
Maybe she meant to and it never happened. But one way or another, she never taught me much.
Not like Daddy, always pulling me into his lap and whispering things in my ear. Not like Addie, showing me how to button my dress up right and brush my teeth so they wouldn’t fall out of my head.
Some things though, you learn in between the spaces of what you’re taught.
Daddy told me the heart always wins. He told me it was the candle flame in the darkness and a warm embrace on a cold night. Daddy taught me that love was both end and means.
From Mama, I learned sometimes love is not enough, at least not in this world.
Not that it isn’t powerful. Not that the pouring out of love like blood or breath or life is ever wasted. But sometimes there are scars that never fade and wounds that never heal.
Maybe it would have been different if she had known Daddy when he was little. Maybe their path could have been different if they had always loved and laughed with each other. But when Mama met Daddy, he already had scars—visible and invisible.
By the time Mama met Daddy, there were some things he couldn’t change. Some things he didn’t want to change.
There, but for the grace of God, go I.
It was Daddy who taught me the magic of lips and tongue. The way that words and voice give rise to magic big and small. The way a storyteller decides the hero and the villain in the words they speak, making shadows comforting or fearsome as they will.
But it was from watching Mama that I learned the magic of what is said fades unless it is supported by what is done.
I’m not sure I ever remember Mama apologizing for what she tried to do to me and Addie. Ma
ybe because she didn’t regret it. Maybe because she knew those actions were deliberate and no matter how soft her voice, she couldn’t undo it with words. She couldn’t turn it into a story where things were okay.
Not like Daddy. He always said he was sorry, always begged her not to tell anyone, and promised he would be different.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It won’t ever happen again.
Never again, he always said.
It was always a lie.
Maybe if Mama had met Daddy when he was younger, it would have been different. Because she certainly tried hard to save him, even as she got more scars—visible and invisible.
Daddy taught me the heart always wins, but I learned from Mama that sometimes in life, love isn’t enough to save those who don’t want to be saved.
15
Percy looks at the house warily. It’s a faded little bungalow with a tired porch covering the front. There are screens to keep the bugs away from the yellowed light, but the door sags, letting the moths in to batter against the glass cover anyway. “You sure this is the place?”
Martinez glances at his phone. “This is the address on the license.” He looks at Percy intently. “Why?”
Percy shrugs. How does he explain the creeping tension? The coldness drifting like threads of fog from the house. “It doesn’t matter.” He shoves the door of the car open, trying to smother his irritability. This lead will only end in sadness. He would rather be reading the files Connie has sent, but it would be suspicious if he didn’t give Martinez a hand after pointing them all in the right direction.
Martinez leads the way to the door, rings the bell firmly. Almost immediately, a woman answers.
“Yes? Can I help you?” Her eyes are shadowed, face lined with worry.
Martinez glances at the note in his hand. “We’re looking for Letitia Michaels.”
“That’s me.” She folds the front of her housecoat in one trembling hand and pats her tousled hair into place with the other. “I’m Letitia. Who are you?”
Martinez shows his badge. “I’m Agent Martinez and this is Agent Cox with the FBI. May we speak with you?”
“Is this about Alex?” Already she is opening the door and ushering them in. “Have you found him? Is he safe?”
“No ma’am. I’m afraid we haven’t found him.” Martinez steps into the living room smoothly. “But we have some questions. About him. About his disappearance.”
“Of course. Would you like something to drink?” She waves a hand at the solid man getting up from the couch. “Jonathan. These men are here about Alex.”
“Mr. Michaels.” Martinez nods solemnly. “I know it’s late. We just have a few questions.”
“Sure.” He pushes a button on the remote, and the TV falls silent, the image still flickering in the dim room. “Have a seat.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Michaels asks again, her hands still fluttering from housecoat to hair, smoothing wrinkles and subduing stray curls.
Martinez shakes his head and settles on the edge of the couch. “No, thank you.”
“A glass of water? If it’s not too much trouble.” Percy sits down in a chair closer to the window.
“Yes. Just a moment.” She hurries toward the back of the house.
Mr. Michaels sits back down, a heavy furrow across his broad forehead. “You said this was about Alex?”
“Yes, sir.” Percy pulls a copy of the shadow image from his pocket, leans forward to pass it across the narrow room. “Does this look like your son?”
Michaels looks at it. “Yes.” He tilts the photo back and forth. “Weird, isn’t it? This some kind of double exposure? Or reflection?” A nod at the TV. “We seen a few of those investigation shows. Always finding some little detail that helps them solve the case once they look hard enough.”
Martinez pulls his pen and notebook from his pocket. “Those shows are not—”
“Yes,” Percy says quickly. “It is a reflection of sorts.”
Mrs. Michaels returns from the kitchen and hands Percy a glass of ice water. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Cox?”
“This is fine. Thank you.” He takes a couple of sips while she sits down on the end of the couch next to her husband.
“You said you hadn’t found Alex?” She looks back and forth between them.
“No, ma’am.” Martinez shakes his head. “But there is a possibility his disappearance is connected to another case we are working, and we were hoping you could tell us a little more about him.”
Percy leans forward in his chair. “The missing person’s report said that he lived here.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Michaels nods.
“May I see his room?”
“I’ll take him.” Mr. Michaels stands up. “This way Agent Cox.”
Percy takes another quick sip of water, sets the glass on an end table, and follows Mr. Michaels into a short hallway. “How old is Alex?”
“Just turned eighteen a few months ago.” He opens a door, fumbles on the wall for the light switch. “This is his room.”
Percy moves into the room, cautious. There’s an uncomfortable tickle on the back of his neck, so faint he’s certain it’s not the presence of magic within this house, but there’s something else, too. An echo of grief that he is not eager to step inside.
It’s neater than the rest of the house. The books on the shelves beside the closet are arranged in meticulous order—smallest on the top, larger on the bottom. The covers on the bed are completely smooth, the single pillow laid precisely at the headboard.
He opens the closet, pulls the string to turn on the light. It, too, is orderly. Almost clinical. “Is this how he left things?”
“Yes.” Michaels shoves his hands in his pockets. “We haven’t touched anything.”
“There was an attached file on the missing person’s report. Of an assault and battery?”
He nods. “That was… a couple years ago.”
“One of the notations indicated the police thought it might be a hate crime, but the charges were dropped because you didn’t wish to pursue it.” Percy turns and looks at Michaels. “Is Alex gay?”
Michaels twitches, glances toward the door. “Yes. But not… not like you’re thinking.” He moves across the room, pushing the door nearly closed. “Alex is trans. That is… he told us he was a girl.”
Percy looks around the stark bedroom. “This doesn’t look like a girl’s room, Mr. Michaels.”
“Jonathan. Please.” He flashes a weak smile. “He told us after he was attacked. Before that…” He stares at a worn spot on the carpet for a moment. “He would go out and change into different clothes. Dresses. Or a skirt and blouse. Go to these places where there were other people like him.”
“Places. Like a club of some sort?”
“Maybe. I think so.”
“Do you remember a name?”
“No.” He shakes his head, miserable. “We only found out later and then… then we weren’t interested in specifics. We just wanted to fix him.”
The hair on Percy’s arms stands up, and something hot and sick pinches at his stomach. “Fix him?”
“We didn’t know what to do. Alex was our little boy. He played baseball. He liked helping me work on the car. And he was telling us that his body was wrong. That he was supposed to be a woman and wear dresses and date men.” He rubs his mouth. “Our pastor said was our fault. My fault. I hadn’t taught him the proper way to be a man and that we’d let him come in contact with perverts. But there was a program that we could send him to. That we could fix him. Make him our little boy again.”
His eyes are wild as he looks at Percy. “They told us it was therapy. That it would help him. With his confusion. With his depression.”
“Conversion therapy.” Percy can barely get the words out without growling.
“Yes. That’s it.” He shuffles to the dresser, staring at the photos laid under the glass top. “But when he came back… Lettie thought he was
better at first. They’d cut his hair real short, not long like he used to wear it. And he only wore strong colors, nothing feminine. But he was silent all the time.”
“Silent?”
“Alex had always been quiet. Not so much awkward as just a little shy. But this was different. This was… he said almost nothing, and when he did, it was like he was afraid he would say the wrong thing.”
Percy swallows hard. Remembering dinners in silence where he didn’t dare to say anything, afraid that he would somehow mention something that might be related to magic. Equally afraid to talk about the institution and risk screaming at Mom about what had happened there. Forcing himself into silence because that was safest. “Alex was afraid.”
“Yes.” Michaels nods. “And I knew something was wrong, so I started reading. About trans. Not the book our pastor gave us. But articles on the actual science of it. I still didn’t understand, really, how Alex could look like a boy and not be one, but I realized that Lettie and I had not saved our son. We had only hurt our daughter.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to talk to her. But she thought it was some kind of trick.”
“Yes.” Percy is familiar with that as well. The suspicion that it is just a test. That Mom is still afraid of him, ready to send him back to the cold lonely room at the institution.
“And then, one day while her mother and I were gone, she just left. Didn’t take clothes or money or…” He gestured to the room, everything neat and in its place.
“Alex didn’t leave a note? Or give you any sign of where she might have gone? A friend?”
“No.” Michaels shook his head. “She was just gone. I did—”
A shriek from the living room interrupts anything else.
Percy follows Michaels back down the hall.
Martinez is on his feet again, one hand patting the air as he tries to calm Mrs. Michaels. “Please sit down, ma’am.”
Touch: A Trilogy Page 16