by Anne McAneny
Zoey realized that for Eva and Susan, it must have been like watching a movie in their heads, and then waiting for it to happen in real life, wondering all along if they were responsible. The scarier foretellings must have terrified the two of them, yet they knew they’d be punished if they tried to warn people.
“So most of Susan’s came true?” Zoey didn’t really need the clarification. She just needed to say it out loud, to skewer the last iota of skepticism she was harboring about Dora’s letter. Hope for her own future suddenly dimmed, but the lights didn’t completely darken.
Eva yawned and leaned her head back. She looked like she might doze off, but then she jerked her head back to her visitor. “I think Susan got so good at the stories because the well water happened to her when she was younger. For her, it was just the way life was, a regular thing.”
“Probably, Peach,” Zoey said in a soothing tone that belied the tangled mess of emotions churning within her.
Eva yawned again. She pressed her scant frame into the back of the chair, causing it to recline more fully. A slight indent in the cushion marked the spot where Eva’s head probably made contact every day. Without another word, the old woman pulled her legs into a curled position and closed her eyes. Having withered away to half of her former self, she looked like a sickly child, vulnerable and tiny in such a large chair. The peaceful rise and fall of her chest hopefully reflected an inner peace, achieved by banishing her demons in the conversation with Magda.
Zoey tried to release the tension gripping her own body. She leaned back, letting her head find support against her own chair. All these years she’d despised Aunt Eva for her drinking, deeming her weak and bitter. She’d never considered how Eva got that way, or why. Not that it would have helped to ask. Grandma would have shut her down immediately, and Eva wouldn’t have been sober enough to answer. But if Zoey had dug a little, maybe peeked under a few of the rocks weighing down her family history, she might have been able to empathize with this woman, a frightened little girl with misunderstood abilities. No wonder Eva had gotten so angry at the mention of those old model rockets of Grandpa’s. She’d been jealous of NASA’s desire to investigate Susan, but not her.
Zoey grew angry with herself. How had she so readily accepted the false, warped image of her mother created by Grandma Magda? Then again, she’d had no reason to distrust the old woman. Everyone respected Magda, a church-going, neighborly woman who’d raised her granddaughter without complaint. Zoey could hear the neighbors now: What a saint for putting up with that hard-drinking daughter of hers all these years… That poor Eva, born crazy, I heard, but did Magda complain? Nope, she shouldered it all… Never remarried… Never gossiped… A real saint, that Magda.
A muted grunt from Eva interrupted Zoey’s thoughts. She glanced at her aunt whose jaw had gone slack and whose head had tilted to the side. Then Eva’s shoulders gave a slight quiver as she mumbled something in her sleep. Zoey got up and tiptoed toward the bed. She grabbed a thick blanket and covered her aunt with it. A wave of regret washed over Zoey as she thought of all the years she could have spent learning more from Eva, gleaning the truth about her family and its convoluted origins. She might even have been able to help Eva get sober sooner, to help her un-blur the voices and visions.
Zoey reached down and stroked her aunt’s unruly mane.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Aunt Eva screamed as she whipped her head around in the chair, the wiliness and strength of a much younger woman springing forth. She grabbed Zoey’s arm as if to push it away, but her bony hand latched on tight and would not release its prey. With glazed, distant eyes, Eva stared, trancelike, focused but unseeing. Her breathing grew erratic, her face stricken with panic.
Zoey could not escape as the brittle, sharp nails pierced her skin and drew blood. “Eva, stop!”
“Look out, Mother!” Eva shouted, still fixated on some mysterious middle distance. “Run! Why aren’t you running? He’s got a knife! My God, he looks like—run, Mother! He’s going to kill you!” A piercing shriek filled the room, slicing through Zoey’s eardrums, its shrillness reaching the halls of the senior center and causing other residents to scream in response.
“No, Eva! Stop!” Zoey screamed. She tore her arm away, turning the perforations in the skin into a series of vicious scratches.
Eva whipped her eyes over to Zoey, demons practically crawling out of them. “You!” she shouted with a visceral hatred that penetrated Zoey’s core. “What are you doing here, you ungrateful bitch?”
A traumatized Zoey tried to speak but her voice was so shaky. It finally came out as a panicked whisper. “It was me, wasn’t it? Whatever you saw, just now. He was coming after me, wasn’t he, Eva? You saw it, too. Who was it? Who was going to kill me?” Zoey thrust her arm back toward Eva. “Here! Touch me again.”
Eva reared back, pulling her hands into curled, claw-like fists, holding them as far from Zoey as she could. “Get out!”
Zoey leaned into Eva’s face, her arm still extended, the blood dripping freely now. “Finish it, Eva. Tell me who it was. ”
Nurse Mackenzie burst into the room. “What’s going on? Everyone okay? Did you touch her?” Mackenzie planted herself firmly between Eva and Zoey.
“She saw the foretelling,” Zoey whispered, dazed.
At the mention of the foretelling, Eva gasped and then released a screeching moan of horror and grief. Then she yelled out, “No! Not Mother! Motherrrrr!” She held the last syllable, allowing it to grow and mutate into a grating manifestation of deep pain as she mourned anew the death of her long-dead mother.
Zoey fainted into Mackenzie’s sure arms as her purse careened to the floor. This time, the lights went out completely.
Unheard by Zoey, her cell phone began to ring with the sound of a siren, the tone she’d programmed for Detective Farnham. It was the only noise on the entire floor as Eva’s final scream had silenced the cacophony of frightened squeals from the other residents.
#
Farnham grew frustrated after the fifth ring and nearly hung up, but Zoey’s voice mail kicked in, so he left a message: “Hi, Zoey. Farnham here. Sure, I can help you with that stalker situation. We have a computer forensics guy here that’s top notch. But I’m, uh, calling for another reason. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Call as soon as you get this. And don’t worry, we’ll protect you.”
Chapter 28
Zoey awoke surrounded by whiteness. Thick white curtains hung from transportable metal posts on three sides. A white wall brought up the rear. A blinding, fluorescent light, bolted to a white ceiling, glared down at her from above. The white sheet covering her, smooth and unwrinkled, was tucked securely at the sides and base. Was she dead? If so, at least her surroundings weren’t black, or fiery.
She became aware of a beeping noise, then several of them, out of sync from one another. Some sort of mechanical cricket chorus.
Finally, reality returned. Oh my God. The foretelling. Aunt Eva saw it. The same as my mother’s. I haven’t changed a damn thing to avoid it yet. Some madman is still planning to come at me with a knife! Her stomach lurched and she suddenly felt trapped by the sheet. She thrashed at it like a netted lion, desperate to escape.
“Yo, Mac,” a deep, male voice said. “Sounds like someone’s awake in two.”
The voice calmed her. She still had no idea what was going on, but at least she wasn’t alone. The quiet plunk of thick-soled shoes approached her bleached-out enclave, sounding vaguely familiar. The curtain then whooshed back with a flourish to reveal a recognizable face.
“Nurse Mackenzie,” Zoey said as if to a long-awaited superhero come to save her from a locked tower.
“Hey, Sweet-ums,” Mackenzie said, raising the automatic bed and straightening the sheet at the same time. “You must have touched Eva. That’s okay. Took me a long time to get used to it. Bit of a touchy-feely person I am. Hope she didn’t upset you too bad, but from the look of it, she did. Never saw a person go down faster or paler than you! L
ike death come-and-gone three days ago.” Mackenzie gave a hearty chuckle.
“How long have I been out?”
“Couple hours. But most of it was much-needed sleep, not lack of consciousness.” Again with the chuckle. “You were pretty dehydrated, and by the look of things, a touch anemic. Bound to faint sooner or later. Lucky for you it happened here.”
Mackenzie grabbed an I.V. bag hanging on the side of Zoey’s bed. She gave it a small shake, and put a stethoscope to Zoey’s heart. Zoey hadn’t even noticed the fluid entering her arm intravenously. She shook her head and let out a big exhale. “It’s all been too much.”
“What has, sweetie?”
“I couldn’t possibly explain.”
Zoey gazed at her superhero. Mackenzie looked like she could make everything all right again, like she could fix things so that Zoey could return home, organize her next expedition, and call Jake to get him on board with the baby. Maybe she could even make the ghosts in the family closet evaporate. Zoey sure wouldn’t mind the intervention, but she stayed mum. This wasn’t some magical fairy land. Even someone as goodhearted as Mackenzie couldn’t turn back time, or slow the death march of Zoey’s approaching future.
“Why don’t you rest up here for a bit?” Mackenzie said. “You’re welcome to spend the night, or, if you’re feeling up to it, there’s a small hotel a mile and a half down the road. Bernie makes great omelets—serves ‘em up free every morning to all the guests.”
“That sounds perfect. I don’t want to trouble you here.”
“No trouble at all. We’ve got the seniors in and out of here all the time. Just happened to have a few free beds tonight.”
“Thank you, but the hotel sounds wonderful.” A new anxiety overtook Zoey. She lifted the sheet and peered down at her abdomen.
“What is it, hon?”
Zoey popped her head back up, her forehead creased. “The baby. Is everything all right with the baby?”
A smile wider than the moon spread across Mackenzie’s face. “Well, that certainly helps explain things. Why didn’t you say so?”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of women in the early stages of pregnancy feel faint—or even do faint. Have you been taking your prenatal vitamins?” A strict, maternal look crossed Mackenzie’s face.
“No.”
“Got to. Should have started before you got pregnant. But don’t worry. I’m sure everything’s fine. Just to be safe, you should get in to see your doctor soon. When’s your next appointment?”
“I don’t have one.”
“What? How far along are you?”
“Only a few weeks.”
“Well, congratulations!”
Zoey realized it was the only positive response the poor baby had received in this world. She made a vow to change that. “Thank you.”
“Now promise me you’ll get a doc,” Mackenzie said. “Let them know what happened today, okay?”
“Definitely. Thanks.”
An hour later, Zoey felt refreshed and renewed. She thanked her caretaker with a hug and headed to her car. She closed the door and welcomed the silence. Only then did she notice the short beep of her cell phone indicating a waiting voice mail message. She retrieved the phone from her purse, happy to see a missed call from Jake, but still no voice mail. She called him back, her stomach churning with nervous anticipation, but no answer. Like him, she didn’t know what to say in a voice mail message, so she disconnected, knowing he’d at least see that she called. She pushed another button and listened to a message from Detective Farnham. Her earlier frown returned.
Protect her? Protect her from what?
Chapter 29
Silicon Valley, California
Cesar Descutner didn’t look good. He’d forgotten at least three meals over the past two days and his complexion matched that of a hospice patient nearing the end. A few hours earlier, Aviva had grown frantic with worry, an interesting emotion to observe when it combusted with her Greek wrath, so Cesar had fabricated a last-minute trip out of town. He traveled regularly enough that she almost looked relieved when he headed out the door, suitcase in hand. Had she known he’d merely checked into a Hilton a few miles away, under an assumed name, her relief would have turned to vexation, and the remnants of several expensive vases would now be embedded in his skull.
The deception didn’t bother him. He either had to deal with the voice in his head or check himself into a psych ward. And CEO’s of powerful companies didn’t do shrink shacks—not if they wanted stock prices to stay high.
Cesar had thought he was over Kyra Collette long ago. Hell, a woman like Aviva could occupy the full attention and sexual energies of several men. But the voice, the same one that had plagued him in college, would not stop. It carried startling urgency now, and came through clearly. Back in college, he’d written it all off as a strong crush on a lively, funny girl. He loved how she didn’t care about the looks she’d been blessed with, and how she didn’t fuss over what she wore. Where other girls went to great lengths to emphasize assets and minimize weaknesses, Kyra did whatever she wanted, oblivious to others’ perceptions. He’d once run into her on campus; she was muddy and sweaty after a run in the woods, and carrying a Styrofoam container of plump worms. She’d flashed fingernails cut to the quick, explaining how they allowed for faster digging and procurement of the premium bait.
College had been a mere formality for Cesar, his IQ so over the top that he could have passed all his finals on the first day of freshman year. Still, he’d been more than happy to join Kyra in a private study group of two. In retrospect, he couldn’t blame her for disappearing. He’d behaved like a lunatic once the voice started, and he often regretted not being honest with her about what was going on, but if he had been, she might have transferred even sooner. Either way, he’d moved on.
Now, inexplicably, that same, very specific voice had zeroed in on an open channel in his head, and he was at its mercy.
He’d convinced himself that he had to find Kyra and to listen to the voice’s commands. Maybe if he obeyed, he could satisfy and silence it forever. To achieve his objective, he’d created a probability program similar to the one his company used to predict the sales and popularity of new games. But this one told him the probability of the names and email addresses Kyra Collette might be using now. He had entered the most likely syllable and sound combinations that Kyra, without consciously realizing it, would have chosen for a new name. Cesar knew that human beings became attached to the syllabic stresses of their name, and the last name of Collette followed the much less common pattern of an accent on the second syllable. People also latched onto certain consonant sounds, like the hard “c” in the last name. His initial searches had covered all female names that included two-syllable first and last names with a hard “c” sound, and a last name with a second syllable stress. The results were decent, but not nearly specific enough.
After abandoning Aviva, he’d pulled out his sporadic research and narrowed the results again. He’d fed the program all the data he could remember about Kyra, such as age, gender, family history (what little he knew of it), passwords she’d used in college (she’d been trusting enough to share them with him and he was geeky enough to remember), her freshman register photo, her physical stats, preferences, interests, and last known destination (her grandmother’s funeral). He’d run it all against one of the world’s most comprehensive databases—his own company’s.
Ultraquest collected loads of personal information about its players—securely guarded, of course. Almost half the world played one of his games, or electronically connected with someone who did. If a teenage boy in China connected to the live version of the bestselling game, PhenomJustice, he might play for four hours and connect with a hundred other people who connected via their cell phones or tablets or laptops. Ultraquest temporarily retained the information for every session played by every customer, gathering data that would both surprise and dismay the customers. It captured their pr
eferences, email addresses, profiles, and so much more. The overwhelming amount of information was processed for statistical purposes and then discarded after forty-eight hours. But in Cesar’s world, similar to the voice in his head, nothing ever completely vanished.
Last night, he had done the unthinkable. He’d hacked his own company’s security system. It had not been easy, but he was no average geek. It occurred to him that he needed to perform hack attempts more often to test the veracity of his company’s safeguards because clearly, the chipheads doing it now weren’t up to par. In a mere six hours of non-stop hacking—child’s play for a determined data seeker—he had tapped into the database and run it against Kyra’s newly formed profile, resulting in 372 email addresses with an 85% probability match or higher. To those 372, he had sent an email asking if the person reading it might be Kyra Collette.
After a few hours, Cesar had logged onto his email and checked for responses. What he saw shocked him. He’d received 54 responses. After reading the first few, he understood what he’d done. The first read, “I’ll be whoever you want me to be, Big Boy. Forget that wench you knew in college and come play professor with me. This student could teach you a thing or two.” The writer of this particular trash had included a photo—a nude pose that inflicted pendulous breasts and a flabby stomach on Cesar’s screen. He cursed his monitor for its clarity.
Of the 54 messages, 15 offered sexual solicitations, representing some sort of desperate, lonely subculture out there. Another 30 were surprisingly polite messages saying they wished they could help, but they were not the person he sought. The final nine were nasty reprimands for writing to strangers in this day and age when women were already the constant victims of physical and cyber crimes. How dare he write to them?
Cesar calculated his 14.5% response rate and realized it wasn’t bad for a three hour window. He’d check for more responses later and then run the one statistic that mattered. His goal was not a friendly response from Kyra, inviting him to join her for a microbrew and a plate of nachos. He wasn’t that deluded—yet. His interest lay in who didn’t respond. And with the advanced, almost undetectable tracers he’d put on the message, he planned to go after the one person whose behavior he felt he could predict.