Halcyon

by Rio Youers

  There were cries for blood (or at the very least, justice), but these went unanswered; Valerie was in no condition to answer for her crimes. This prompted extensive debate as to whether or not she was faking her mental deterioration. How could she go from being the Mind Witch, to having no real mind at all?

  “Tiger,” she’d wail, her hands raised as if to ward someone off. “Pig … rooster.”

  She screamed a lot.

  “I went to see her again,” Martin said to Daisy, looking from the swaying trees to her inviting eyes. He splashed around for a moment, then swam. “They didn’t want to let me in, but my lawyer pulled some strings.”

  “Once for closure,” Daisy said. “That was my advice.”

  “I know. It was an impetuous decision, but I don’t regret it.” Martin shook his head. “The first time I went, I was angry; I needed to see the woman who killed my wife. I know she didn’t pull the trigger, but she played her part. And yeah, seeing her helped. I don’t know if it gave me closure—or if such a thing even exists—but it put me in a better position to move forward.

  “The second time was … different. I’d had several months to evaluate my feelings, and I got thinking about the terrible ordeal Valerie went through as a young woman, and how that made her what she is.”

  “You needed to see her,” Daisy said, “not as a monster, but as a victim.”

  “Being…” Martin reached for the right word, one finger pressed to his temple. “Being empathetic has given me some peace. I don’t forgive Valerie, but I get that she has … grievances.”

  “Did you tell her as much?”

  “No, but it was in my energy. I projected it.” Martin looked at the whispering trees again. “Laura would be proud.”

  He’d told Daisy about the nightmarish events at the White Lantern, but not the authorities. This was one piece of information he kept to himself. Calm Dumas had an incredible mind that was tuned in to frequencies Martin couldn’t fathom. He trusted her absolutely, but not everybody would. Most, in fact, would not, which could dilute his own and the other victims’ credibility. In the end, he decided to let the shrinks and experts draw their own conclusions about Valerie Kemp, and her reasons for doing what she did. Whatever they unearthed wouldn’t change the diagnosis: the woman was batshit crazy.

  Also, he had no desire to involve Calm in the investigation, not when he didn’t have to. Or Sasha, either. Sasha had called him shortly after the story broke, and requested that, if possible, her name be left out of the mix. She’d recently put the restaurant up for sale and didn’t want any complications. “I haven’t opened the doors since you and your friend came,” she said. “I can’t stand to be in the place.” She and her wife were relocating to Asbury Park, and she didn’t want to be hounded by people thinking she had assisted or enabled Valerie Kemp.

  Martin had wished Sasha well, and assured her that he’d already made the decision not to involve her. Eight months later, she had not been named, questioned, or implicated in any way.

  Others were not so fortunate: three lawyers pinned to a reverse money laundering scheme using legitimate funds provided by islanders (this exposed after Angela Byrne’s name emerged, and her bank activity was investigated). And an eyelash gummed to the plastic explosive they’d recovered from the well was tracked to a black-market weapons dealer who’d been on the FBI’s watch list since 2012.

  * * *

  “Six weeks, you say?”

  “I’m coming back … definitely.” Martin sat up in his chair, hands folded across his chest. He wondered if Daisy had a name for his expression, which was warm, yet shadowed. A sunset expression, perhaps. “We need a moment to rediscover ourselves. It’ll be good for us.”

  “Know where you’re going?”

  They’d discussed this, and decided to see where the road led them. The west coast, the Rockies, the deep south … it didn’t matter; they’d run without rein or bridle, like manic horses.

  “Anywhere and everywhere,” Martin replied, and shrugged. “From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters. And yeah, it’s about rediscovering ourselves, but it’s also about rediscovering America. I lost my way for a while there. I got scared—fell out of love with my country. But you don’t fix things by running away. You have to integrate yourself, become a part of the structure. You have to get closer.”

  Martin’s gaze tracked from a wasp tapping at the window to a painting on the wall—a Picasso-esque meeting of color and angles that could probably be interpreted a thousand different ways. There were several such curios in Daisy’s office, all designed to encourage openness and conversation: bright plants, sculpture, odd little toys and trinkets … but not one lousy picture of Burt Reynolds.

  Daisy blinked slowly. Martin took a deep breath, then stepped out of the pool. He experienced a moment’s vulnerability—a nakedness, almost—then warmed to the air.

  “A wise woman once told me,” he said, “that you can’t nurture your soul from a distance.”

  “Wise indeed. When do you leave?”

  “How long do we have left?”

  Daisy lifted her sleeve, peeked at her watch. “About three minutes.”

  Martin smiled again and said, “There’s your answer.”

  * * *

  A newish Ford Escape idled in the parking lot, its trunk loaded with bags and cases. Alyssa sat behind the wheel, her window down, singing along to the radio. Shirley was in the backseat looking at her phone.

  “Excuse me,” Martin said as he approached. “You think I could hitch a ride to love and absolution?”

  “What a coincidence,” Alyssa said, grinning. “That’s exactly where we’re going.”

  “Well, all right!” Martin jumped in on the passenger side. He leaned over and kissed Alyssa firmly on the lips. She placed her hand on his face. Her eyes shone.

  “Cute,” Shirley said from the backseat, looking up from her phone.

  “We can go from cute to gross in zero-point-five seconds,” Martin assured her. “No problem whatsoever.”

  Shirley rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth had perked upward.

  The last few months had been easier, but Shirley’s personal journey, since leaving the island, had been emotionally demanding. It didn’t help that there had been confusion as to whether she should be treated as a victim or a suspect, at least until the investigation deepened and numerous psychoanalysts had the opportunity to spool through her brain. The fact that she volunteered information (she told the authorities what she’d been “programmed” to do and where she’d discarded the bomb) counted in her favor. Her silver-tongued Uncle Jimmy, who’d been present for questioning while Martin was at the hospital, demanded she be treated like a hero. She had resisted the Mind Witch’s hoodoo, after all, where so many others had succumbed, and had nullified an act of terror that would have killed a lot of people.

  But Shirley became neither hero nor villain. At no point was she placed under arrest, and her name was never released to the press. In regard to the attempted bombing of the Onondaga Mall on Black Friday, 2018, limited details were shared with the public.

  She spent three months at a mental health care facility. Her behavior was monitored, with particular attention given to any “latent or subliminal influence” from Valerie Kemp. It was a campus-based facility in the Adirondacks, surrounded by natural beauty, with twenty-four-hour crisis support, art and education services, and various interactions designed to encourage behavioral and emotional growth. It was a good facility (paid for by Jimmy—bless him), where Shirley was able to continue the healing she’d started when she dumped the bomb down the well.

  “Because it wasn’t just the bomb,” she’d said to Martin during one of his visits. “It was every bad thing.”

  She still had dark episodes: mood swings, nightmares, bouts of anxiety … These grew less frequent as the weeks turned to months, and Martin knew they would never heal completely. Her commitment never waned, though. She showed new strength every day
.

  The road trip had been her idea—to go wherever, to find peace and remedy in their environment. “I want to snowboard in the Rockies, catch a tube in Malibu, eat peyote buttons in the desert.” Her eyes had been wide, daring, and totally serious. “I’ll benefit more from living than I will from sitting at home popping antidepressants.”

  “We all will,” Martin had said. “Let’s do it. Let’s just go.”

  The Escape cruised through town. Alyssa drove with her sunglasses on, tapping her hands on the wheel in time with the music. Martin watched the buildings scroll by—the post office, Chase bank, Starbucks. They were all familiar to him, a part of the everyday fabric, but soon he’d be looking at farmland, rivers, and vistas he’d never seen before. Every view would be a new experience. He smiled and looked over his left shoulder. The sunlight flashed across Shirley’s face, highlighting her freckles, making her hair shimmer—blond again now, shoulder length. She glanced at him. Her expression was every bit as illuminating and searching as her mom’s. That was a good thing.

  “Check out this restaurant,” she said, turning her phone to Martin. “It’s in New Jersey. The owner is this crazy lady who thinks her cat is a reincarnation of Michael Jackson.”

  “We’re totally going,” Alyssa said. “We can be there for dinner.”

  “What kind of restaurant?” Martin asked, recalling a certain establishment in Engine City, where he had no wish to go, not yet and not ever.

  “Homestyle,” Shirley replied. “It’s in Green Ridge, wherever that is.”

  “Sounds good,” Martin said. “Can you call ahead, make a reservation?”

  Shirley nodded eagerly, already dialing. Alyssa smiled and placed her hand on Martin’s thigh. He saw himself reflected in her sunglasses. Older, trimmer, altogether happier than the man who’d set out for Halcyon almost ten months before. His life had been a blur since then—really since Laura died. There’d been no easy days, but he was learning to manage his pain more effectively.

  They drove across Makers Bridge, then east on Sparrow Road. A short time later, Alyssa made a right turn into the Heritage Home parking lot. She found a space within view of the south garden and main entrance.

  “Booked,” Shirley said, hanging up. “Table for four. Seven o’clock.”

  “Great,” Martin said. “Now call your sister. Tell her we’re waiting.”

  “No need,” Alyssa said. “Here she comes.”

  An eleven-year-old girl, tall for her age, with flowing blond hair and clear eyes, walked across the south garden, her face turned to the sky. She moved unsteadily, in part because of the injury, but also because of the guitar case she carried. Every two weeks, she played for the old folks at Heritage Home—classic (but cool) songs from a golden era: The Beatles, Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash. She had quite the fan club, apparently.

  Edith stepped out of the shade of a sprawling willow tree. She saw them and waved.

  * * *

  “Edith suffered thirty-four percent blood loss. During such trauma, the body adopts numerous defense mechanisms—a kind of ‘red alert’ to preserve vital functions. Blood pressure drops, hormones and neurotransmitters are released, and the heart rate increases. In the case of a class-three hemorrhage, it can increase to a hundred and twenty beats per minute.” Dr. Johnny Pride—Edith’s trauma surgeon—made an elevator out of his right hand and had it ride to an imaginary upper floor. He was a stocky man, but with long, thin fingers that appeared designed for exact work. “This was not the case with Edith. Her heart rate was abnormally slow when she arrived—I’m talking one beat every five or six seconds. She was breathing, but slowly, like someone meditating. Now, I’ve been doing this eighteen years and have seen pretty much everything, but I’ve never seen that. One of our nurses described her as ‘not present,’ and I’d say that’s a perfect description.”

  Martin had spoken with Shirley and found out what had happened, so knew exactly why Edith wasn’t present. There was no reasonable way to explain this to Dr. Pride, though, so he didn’t try. Instead, he asked if Edith’s atypical state had presented a complication.

  “On the contrary,” Dr. Pride replied. “With Edith’s body—improbably—on pause, we were able to administer fluids and stabilize her quickly. I mean, she still lost a lot of blood, but not nearly as much as she might have. I will add that your friend’s intervention was critical.”

  Martin had looked at Alyssa, who sat in the waiting room with her head down and her hands between her knees. She looked up and their eyes met. Their matching smiles were weary but warm.

  “Make no mistake,” Dr. Pride said. “She saved your daughter’s life.”

  The bullet had deflected twice, first off the thick wing of Edith’s left hip bone—causing numerous fractures—and again off her left femur, exiting her thigh an inch from her femoral artery. Dr. Pride told Martin that wound ballistics was a fascinating science, because bullets had a tendency to do their own thing. “I once removed a bullet from a patient’s small intestine after he’d been shot in the knee,” he said colorfully. “And I’ve seen numerous non-lethal shots to the head, including a close-range effort where the bullet skated around the skull, leaving nothing but a headache and a nasty scratch.” He avoided the word luck. Taking a bullet was never lucky, he said, but for Edith, it could have been much worse. Along with muscle, tissue, and ligament damage, she’d suffered extensive (but reparable) nerve trauma, as well as multiple fractures to the ilium and femur. Definitely not lucky, but the same bullet could easily have shattered her pelvis and sent bone fragments through her abdominal cavity and reproductive organs—or deflected to her heart and killed her almost instantly. It was also worth noting that had the bullet entered two inches to the right she would almost certainly have been paralyzed, and had it exited an inch to the left she would have bled to death.

  “Studies suggest,” Dr. Pride had said, “that women feel pain more acutely than men, but they’re also more likely to survive a traumatic injury.”

  “Just goes to show how strong they are,” Martin said.

  “Strong, yes, although in my professional medical opinion”—he couldn’t keep the smile from his lips—“your daughter is a total badass.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Martin said.

  * * *

  Edith hoisted her guitar into the trunk—she didn’t need any help—then hopped in beside Shirley.

  “Do we know where we’re going yet?” she asked, fastening her seatbelt.

  “First stop: New Jersey,” Shirley said. “To meet Michael Jackson.”

  “Right,” Martin said. “After that … everywhere else.”

  Alyssa cranked the ignition. “Let’s hit the road.”

  Two hundred miles that first day with many more to go, bopping along to the radio as the scenery changed and the sun crept west. Every now and then the signal would fade, or another radio station would ghost in, but they didn’t touch the dial. On those occasions they sat in a content, thoughtful silence and listened to the crossover—the place between—knowing that, with time and distance, it would clear.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, my thanks to the people who made Halcyon possible, before a single word was written: Jaime Levine, who acquired it (in a display of breathtaking faith) as part of a two-book deal for Thomas Dunne Books, and the late Mickey Choate, who agented said deal. I owe them both so much, and will never forget what they have done for me. Thanks also to Will Anderson, formerly of Thomas Dunne Books, who helped me develop the pitch, and to Pete Wolverton and Thomas Dunne for giving me a shot to begin with.

  The team at St. Martin’s Press deserve a standing ovation. No doubt about it: Joe Brosnan, Justin Velella, my brilliant editor Michael Homler, and the seriously awesome Lauren Jablonski. Thank you all so much. Working with you has been a pleasure and an honor.

  Deepest thanks to my agents: Laurel Choate, for whom I have nothing but gratitude and admiration; Howard Morhaim, who has demonstrated such pat
ience, wisdom, and generosity; and Sean Daily at Hotchkiss & Associates, whose enthusiasm has never faltered.

  My thanks to the friends, family, and members of the community—too many to mention—who have shown their love and support in endless ways. And to the nameless thousands, in books, in person, and online, whose photographs, stories, and articles helped in the (extensive and sometimes heartbreaking) research for this novel.

  And as always, my love and thanks to my wife, Emily, and our children, Lily and Charlie, who give me all the light and healing I need.

  ALSO BY RIO YOUERS

  END TIMES

  WESTLAKE SOUL

  POINT HOLLOW

  THE FORGOTTEN GIRL

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  RIO YOUERS is the British Fantasy Award-nominated author of The Forgotten Girl, End Times, and Point Hollow. His short fiction has been published in many notable anthologies, and his novel Westlake Soul was nominated for Canada’s prestigious Sunburst Award. Rio lives in southwestern Ontario with his wife, Emily, and their children, Lily and Charlie. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Part I: Pavor Nocturnus

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II: Halcyon

  Chapter 10