by Lisa Amowitz
Bobby wanted to laugh when Pete sauntered in on a leash held by Max.
“I’m helping to train him!” Aaron crowed. “Well, not officially, but we already know he can fetch remotes and stuff. He can help you until you’re better and when you are, he’s going to be able to help Dad. That’s why they let him in here!”
When Pete jumped up on the bed and licked Bobby’s face like a Popsicle, he knew everything was going to be just fine.
CHAPTER
30
It took two grueling months in rehab and another two months at home to get back on his feet, to walk smoothly, speak clearly. Still, there was probably always going to be a slight shuffle in his step, and a hesitation when he spoke.
But the guitar—that he’d picked up easily, and right away.
No matter. Bobby was lucky, and he knew it. He could see out of the good eye, and had learned to compensate. Soon, he’d been told, after some adjustments, he’d be able to drive again.
Today, on a crisp day in late September, he stood at the end of their long driveway, Pete by his side, gazing at the reds, yellows, and oranges that painted the Catskills in a vivid blend of wild colors, grateful for every last leaf.
The house they’d rented in Massachusetts was almost ready, equipped with ramps for Dad and special, easy on the eyes lighting for him. The renovation of the old homestead behind their ramshackle modular was underway so they’d always have a home in Graxton.
Most light bothered his blind right eye, but the special contact lens helped. They’d discussed removing the damaged eye altogether, but Bobby had fought that.
Gabe had left early for Morton Academy. Bobby wasn’t scheduled to go for a few more weeks.
The day before, Dad had given him one last item—a pair of earrings he had scrimped and saved to buy for Mom as a way of apologizing for making her life a living hell after he’d come home disabled. He’d never had the chance to give them to her.
All these years, he’d kept them in a box, believing she’d rejected him, believing his wife had walked away from him and her family.
Now, he wanted her to have them.
Bobby cradled the earrings in his hand, silver and green malachite teardrops. They would have looked beautiful against Gabe’s fiery hair. But they belonged to Mom.
They’d held a memorial on the banks of Scratch Lake to say goodbye, and left her to rest in her home beneath the water. It was a fitting grave, Bobby thought, a place of restful beauty, a place he’d always felt at peace.
This last visit to Scratch Lake, Bobby wasn’t planning on fishing. He was going to ask Mongo the giant bass to watch out for Mom, and say goodbye one last time.
The autumn air like sunshine in his lungs, Bobby hiked down to the dock, Pete scampering happily ahead. Plumes of red, gold, and orange were reflected in the silver water. Jerry had rescued the old boat and cleaned it up, but the motor was a loss. Bobby planned to row out to the lake’s shining center and give the earrings to Mom.
Except sitting on the dock was a pair of bright yellow gloves.
Yellow children’s gloves.
His heart beating wildly, Bobby picked them up.
It couldn’t be.
Images tore into his mind, a tempest of wild horror.
A small child, lifted from her bed, taken away in the night. Terrified screams as the man carried her away to his waiting car.
Bobby crouched on the dock, squeezing his eyes closed against the onslaught. As soon as he remembered to drop the gloves, the visions stopped.
No headache, no red blindness followed. Just the same gray blankness in the right of his field of vision, vivid color and detail to the left. He stared down at the gloves, their cheerful yellow challenging him.
He turned quickly, tears in his eyes. The tumor was still inside him, his freakish ability as active as ever.
A black sedan rolled smoothly into the sandy parking area.
A trim blond man in a suit, his arm looped in that of a regal woman with short auburn hair, a dark skirt suit, and dark glasses, approached him, her cane shifting to and fro across the sand.
Arm in arm, they walked to the dock and stopped. Bobby remained crouched, looking up at them.
The man whispered in Agent Reston’s ear. She extended her hand downward to him. “Bobby Pendell. I’m guessing you thought we were done with you.”
“You could say that,” Bobby snapped, rising to his feet. He left the yellow gloves where he’d dropped them. His Alternative Functional Sight told him the gloves had come from very far away, and that they’d been planted there especially for him to find.
“Things turned out very nicely for you, I hear,” Agent Reston said. “You have perfect sight in one eye.” After an uncomfortable pause, she finally pulled back her hand. “How very, very fortunate you are. But even more so than you realize. It just so happens we received a copy of your pathology report.”
Bobby felt his cheeks color. “Aren’t you guys under investigation for snooping around in people’s personal medical stuff?”
“We get a slap on the wrist,” Maura Reston said, laughing mildly, “then we go ahead and do whatever needs doing. It’s all in the name of national security, Bobby. All in the name of the greater good.”
“Greater good, my blind eye. You’re a pack of liars. You were willing to let me go blind so you could make me your psychic slave.”
Maura Reston raised her chin. “I’m sorry you see it that way. Certainly you understand a good deal of my own motivation is personal.”
“Misery loves company,” Bobby said forcefully. He’d never been one to speak out of turn to a person of authority, but ever since his speech had come back, he’d been looser and freer with his words. Less tongue-tied, rather than more so.
“I envy you, Bobby. You are a rare one, in that you have a choice. You can lead your life for your own fulfillment, or choose to serve the voices that will never leave you in peace. A small portion of the tumor was deemed too risky to remove. As luck would have it, that small bit of growth is the source of your AFS.”
Agent Reston reached into a pocket of her suit jacket and pulled out a slim silver box. Slipping out a white card, she held it between two manicured fingers.
Bobby took it. One side of the card was printed in plain black type, the other side embossed with raised bumps. Braille.
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Special Psychic Unit
Agent Maura Reston
He flicked the card into the water.
The tall blond man whispered in her ear again. Agent Reston nodded. “No matter. While that remnant of your tumor remains in your brain, the voices and the cries for justice will never stop. The killers will never stop killing. You’re very lucky, in that you still have part of your sight. You don’t need to depend on anyone. You don’t need us. You can go on with your life.”
Bobby pulled in a deep breath and studied the bright red leaves reflected in Maura Reston’s dark glasses.
“But ask yourself, Bobby,” she continued, “do you have it in you to simply walk away? What happens if the tumor starts to grow again?”
Bobby remained silent. Agent Reston and her guide returned to their car.
The yellow gloves sat where he’d dropped them, like an unanswered question.
THE END
Acknowledgments
I first want to acknowledge the author, psychologist, and blogger, Carolyn Kaufman, who passed away suddenly on Saturday, September 7, 2013, from a brain aneurysm. I knew Carolyn from back in the very early days of my writing career, when a bunch of us used to hang out incessantly on the Querytracker forum. I was called Justwrite. Carolyn called herself Archtype, which we shortened to Archie. Though I was not close with Carolyn, per se, she was accessible and made herself available to help anyone who needed it. So, when I approached her with questions about my ideas for a serial killer in Vision, she came to the rescue, advising, suggesting further reading, etc. I purchased her indispensible book, The Writer
’s Guide To Psychology.
Carolyn, you are missed in the writing community. I’m certain your students and colleagues at the Columbus State Community College are feeling a great loss.
Thank you to the entire team at Spencer Hill Press, including, of course, my editor, Vikki Ciaffone, my fellow “squirrel on crack,” editor-in-chief Kate Kaynak, and my amazing publicist, the tireless Brooke DelVecchio. To the Closer, Eagle-Eye Rich Storrs, who misses nothing, and to the wonderful Jessica Porteous, Vision’s “book mommy” who is assisting with the “birth.”
Thank you to all my writer buddies for reading and suggesting: The Cudas, Heidi, Christine, Cyndy, Dhonielle, Lindsay, Linda, Cathy, Pippa, Trish, and Kate. To Colleen Kozinski for reading whatever I write, and to Michele McLean, my fellow hamster, for just listening to me whine. And thanks to my fellow authors at SHP—you guys are a whole bunch of awesome!
About the Author
Lisa Amowitz is an author, cover designer and graphic design professor living in New York City. Her YA noir ghost story Breaking Glass was released in 2013. Her next book for Spencer Hill Press, the YA urban fantasy Life and Beth is due out in 2015. Visit her at lisaamowitz.com