“He was blurry.”
“What? Blurry?”
“Well, that was my first impression,” Fallon said. “But when I looked closer, it seemed as if his skin was… vibrating.”
“You must be sensitive.”
“I’ve always thought so,” Fallon said, clutching her hands comically against her chest. “Care to read some of my poetry? My personal favorite is ‘Ode to an Abandoned Gym Locker Sock.’”
“Psychically sensitive,” Logan explained. “Barrett has hyperaesthesia and hyperacuity. Senses and reflexes off the charts. That muscle tone comes in handy, but I think there’s also sensory prescience involved in his abilities.”
“Meaning?”
“He reacts a split-second before something happens.”
“Handy guy to have in an emergency.”
“In theory.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Logan said. “Sour grapes.”
Fallon chuckled. “Does he do that swoon-tingle kiss?”
“No!” Logan said too quickly. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but I doubt it. Not part of the package.”
“Probably too old for me anyway,” Fallon mused, watching for Logan’s reaction out of the corner of her eye.
“Way too old,” Logan said. “Already touching up the gray.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am not.”
“Relax, I’m kidding.”
“I know.”
Fallon pursed her lips. “Back there at the Jeep, you said ‘she’s… like one of us.’ What’s that mean, exactly?”
“A Walker.”
“Guess you weren’t listening? My last name’s Maguire.”
“A rose by any other name.”
“We’re studying Milton, not Shakespeare.”
“I know.”
“So you think I’m a rose?” Fallon said, grinning ear to ear. “That’s sweet.”
With a sidelong glance, he muttered, “Because of all the thorns.”
She poked him with her elbow. “I heard that!”
“I know.”
Chapter 12
Soon after Logan and Fallon left him alone to watch Chelsea Conrad’s house from the relative comfort of his Jeep Liberty, Barrett opened a map of southern New Jersey and draped it across the dashboard. Casual passersby would assume he was lost and checking his route. While he waited and occasionally glanced at the unfolded map, he worked his way through a bag of pistachios, tossing the half-shells in the Jeep’s ashtray.
Ten uneventful minutes passed.
Maybe Logan’s wrong this time, he thought. Ambrose once said the kid’s premonitions worked on a sliding temporal scale. In other words, Barrett might have to wait five hours or five days. But Logan hadn’t kept them waiting long the night before. Unbidden, the gruesome image from the interior of the white Mustang flashed in Barrett’s mind. Despite his resolve, Barrett shuddered at the thought of what could have done so much damage to two human bodies in such a brief amount of time. This one’s bad, Gideon, he thought, as if he could send the message telepathically to his absent brother. Maybe worse than what you faced.
Movement in the periphery of his vision grabbed his attention. Side view mirror. Black and white Crown Vic. No roof lights. Slow approach. Terrific, he thought, fifteen minutes into the stakeout and I’m about to be rousted by the local constabulary.
On the chance that Logan’s grim prediction might transpire at any minute, Barrett had to stall for time. He scooped the cell phone off the passenger seat, flipped it open and held it to his right ear.
The police cruiser slowed to a stop beside Barrett’s Jeep. A quick glance at the white door panel revealed the words “Police Chief” painted in black letters. “Keeps getting better,” Barrett muttered to himself, as if talking into the cell phone.
The police chief had stepped out of the cruiser and was motioning to Barrett across the hood. Tall and lean, the Hadenford chief of police sported a severe buzz cut that revealed pale scalp underneath and wore a crisp black uniform with the radio microphone clipped to his left epaulet. Barrett glimpsed the name engraved in the brass name badge over his left shirt pocket: Grainger.
He flashed the cell phone. “Pulled over to make a call, Chief Grainger.”
“Lost?”
“Not anymore,” Barrett said. “Calling to tell them I’ll be a bit late.”
“Long drive.”
“How’s that?” Barrett asked, confused.
Chief Grainger nodded toward the rear bumper. “California plates.”
“Oh, right,” Barrett said, wondering if Grainger had already run the plates. “I’ve recently relocated to Hadenford.”
“What line of work?”
“I’m involved in security,” Barrett said. Vague but true.
“Private?”
“Looking for work, actually,” Barrett said to ward off questions about his employer. “Staying with relatives.”
“Best of luck, then,” Chief Grainger said. “Have a good day.”
Reading between the pleasantries, Barrett heard, “Move along now.”
“Thank you,” Barrett said. While Chief Grainger climbed back into his police cruiser, Barrett made a show of talking into the cell phone cradled against his ear, while simultaneously refolding the map on the dashboard with his free hand. He fumbled with the map long enough for the Crown Vic to turn a corner, out of sight.
Barrett wondered how convincing his patter had been and how much time he’d have before Chief Grainger decided to make another sweep along Maple Lane.
He glanced at the Conrad homestead and hoped it would be long enough.
Chapter 13
Chelsea had tossed her tiger-striped bicycle helmet on the living room sofa, an act of random sloppiness sure to annoy her mother when she came home in a few hours. At the moment, Chelsea had more pressing concerns than her mother’s eventual displeasure. With a half-dozen textbooks spread in a semicircle around her three-ring binder on the dining room table, Chelsea attempted to wade through her considerable homework, but found her attention wondering from AP calculus to the front windows.
Normally she would be studying in her bedroom, sitting at the scuffed student desk crammed between her dresser and the window, within headphone distance of her stereo. Today, unfortunately, had taken a turn from normal, courtesy of Fallon Maguire and the new kid who had at first seemed cute in a distracted way but who now seemed weird in a neurotic way. Yelling and cursing at her for no reason. After she’d offered to help, to call a doctor. She’d thought, Whoa, some major issues here… or drugs. Maybe drugs. Same thing, when you came right down to it. Now he seemed fixated on Chelsea for some reason. She hadn’t been bluffing when she threatened to call the cops. Too many nut-jobs running around loose, she thought. Fallon was Chelsea’s friend, but maybe her judgment had lapsed. How long had Fallon known this guy? A few hours. More trusting than I am, Chelsea thought as she tapped her pencil eraser against the blank page.
After trying to wrap her brain around a particularly vexing calculus problem, she glanced toward the window and saw a police car stopped in the middle of her street. She pushed back her chair and walked over to the window, peering through the white lace curtains as the chief of police stood outside his cruiser talking to a tanned, buff guy in a dark gray Jeep. Guy had a map open over his dashboard, looking confident but lost.
Chelsea looked up and down the street, but saw no sign of Fallon or Weird Boy. Probably ran when they saw the cop car, she thought with a smile. Regardless, she wasn’t as nervous with Chief Grainger nearby. She hadn’t called the police yet, but was glad Grainger had chosen this particular moment to make a pass along her street. It would certainly look as if she’d carried out her threat, and should convince Fallon and—what was his name?—Logan, to take a hint and get lost.
Maybe now she could lug her books upstairs and finish her school work with the accompaniment of some choice tunes. Something to help pass the time. I
f she was being honest with herself, she had to admit that staying in the house alone had added to her anxiety. Her older brother, Chad wouldn’t be home from work for another hour or so, long enough to change his clothes, eat dinner with Chelsea and their mother, then rush off to his evening college courses. For now, she was alone. And sometimes the house seemed too big a place for one teenaged girl.
The thought sent a chill down her spine.
Chief Grainger, however, seemed satisfied with the situation outside. He climbed back into his cruiser and pulled away. The guy in the Jeep examined his map again, trying to regain his bearings. Chelsea noticed the out of state license plate on the back of the Jeep and it all made sense. With a sigh, she felt the tension easing out of her neck and shoulders.
She stepped away from the window, trusting in the competence of Hadenford’s finest, and decided to head upstairs. She stacked the books, capped the uneven pile with an unopened can of diet soda, and mounted the stairs to her bedroom. She hoped a return to routine would instill the sense of normalcy she’d lost.
Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a flicker of shadow slide down the wall of the stairwell. She turned her head, like a startled bird, but saw nothing to account for the shadow. My imagination’s running wild, she thought. I’m a little spooked. That’s all.
* * *
Moments after she closed her bedroom door, an ill-defined shadow rippled across the dining room floor, slipping over the furniture like an oil slick, oozing across the living room sofa, passing over the tiger-striped helmet—and settling there for a moment. Then the shadow shimmered out of existence, and the helmet was gone.
Chapter 14
“This is where we live now,” Logan said, pointing to a large, sprawling gray stone house set back from a wide lawn and obscured by a haphazard assortment of deciduous and coniferous trees.
“I know this place,” Fallon said. “Old lady Kemper used to live here.”
Logan nodded. “Wilhelmina Kemper. Died last August. Her granddaughter, Margaret, handled the estate. Seemed this house was a bit much for the average family. But my, uh, great grandfather thought it was a real bargain.”
Fallon spoke absently as they followed the path of circular walking stones that wound a leisurely path to the double front doors. “Heard she had a big family long ago. Outlived most of them, and the rest moved away.”
“West coast and Florida,” Logan said, distracted. He paused at the two steps leading up to the landing in front of the double doors, and turned to face her. He seemed unusually nervous. “Look, you don’t have to come inside.”
“Why? Do I embarrass you?” Fallon asked mischievously.
“Only when you try,” Logan said. “But it’s not you I’m worried about, it’s my family. They can be a bit…”
“Unusual?”
“Yes, but…”
“Bizarre?”
“Yes, definitely,” Logan said. “But also a bit intense.”
“Barrett seemed cool.”
“Yeah, well he was showing off,” Logan said. “And he’s got that California casual vibe. But he can be as intense as the rest of them.”
Fallon shrugged. “Forewarned, right?”
“As long as you remember that ‘normal’ to the Walkers isn’t normal to the rest of the world. Because, honestly, sometimes they forget.”
“My friend Sadie Bennett says, ‘normal is a code word for boring.’”
The right side door behind Logan swung open to reveal an attractive young woman in a flowing white dress cinched at the waist with a golden cloth belt. Fallon guessed that she was in her mid-twenties. She had blond hair and compelling, dark brown eyes. Fallon caught a glimpse at what looked like golden tattoos on the woman’s forearms. “Logan, where have you—? Oh, who’s your friend?”
“Fallon Maguire,” Fallon said, stepping forward to offer her hand.
“Liana Walker,” the young woman said with a wide smile as she took Fallon’s hand in a dry, warm grip. Whereas Barrett’s skin had seemed to blur before Fallon’s eyes, Liana’s seemed almost feverish to the touch. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Without releasing Fallon’s hand, Liana said, “Logan, is Fallon someone Ambrose should meet?”
Logan rolled his eyes. “Real subtle, sis,” he said as he shifted the backpacks on his shoulders. “But, yes, it’s fine. She knows.”
“Wonderful,” Liana said, descending the remaining step and taking Fallon’s other hand in hers as she gazed into Fallon’s eyes. Intense, Fallon thought. Can’t say Logan didn’t warn me. “What can she—? Oops, sorry, Fallon. Talking as if you’re not standing right here in front of me. What have you experienced in your life?”
“I—” Fallon’s jaw had become unhinged.
“Let’s save it for Ambrose,” Logan suggested. “And do this once.”
“Fair enough,” Liana said. “I am getting ahead of myself. Logan. How’s Barrett.”
“Smug as ever.”
“Besides that?”
“Sitting outside the house, waiting.”
“Stalking,” Fallon amended.
“If you want to get all technical about it,” Logan said. “But he’s not stalking your friend, he’s…”
“What? Stalking what?” Fallon asked.
“Logan’s right,” Liana said with a fragile smile. “Let’s do this once, with Ambrose. We may not have a lot of time.”
“Your family has a real flair for the dramatic,” Fallon said, but her stomach was starting to twist into knots. She had the sensation of standing over a trap door, waiting for it to fall away and drop her into the dark unknown. All that was missing was a hangman’s noose around her neck. But if she were to believe them—Logan, specifically—then it was Chelsea not Fallon herself who was in danger. So why am I so nervous?
Liana led them back into the house, with Logan bringing up the rear and closing the door behind them. Fallon noticed boxes waiting to be unpacked scattered around the foyer, dining room, and living room before Liana steered them toward the downstairs office, also littered with boxes, dozens of them, brimming with old, leather-bound tomes. Of all the rooms she’d glimpsed since entering the old Kemper home, the downstairs office had the best furniture-to-packing-box ratio. Here there was a mahogany desk, three burgundy leather armchairs, and two towering bookshelves. Between the boxes of books, leaning against the desk, shelves, and walls, were several ornately framed paintings. Nightmares captured on canvas, she thought.
Before giving the dark collection the closer inspection it deserved, she turned her attention to the old man absently filing books on the shelves with a muttered commentary meant for his ears alone. His full head of hair and bushy eyebrows looked like wild tufts of cotton. He wore a rumpled dress shirt with a blue, checkered pattern tucked into equally rumpled khakis and, improbably, blue and white Nike running shoes.
“Ambrose,” Liana said. “We have company.”
“Company, you say?” Ambrose—Logan’s great grandfather—looked up, and blinked a few times as he focused on Fallon. “Ah, yes. But we haven’t met. I’m sure of it.” He placed the moldy old tome up on the nearest shelf, paying no mind to the location. “No, I would never forget such a lovely young woman.”
“Thanks,” Fallon said, feeling the first tinge of a blush creeping up her neck and cheeks.
He dusted his palms against his rumpled khakis before offering his hand. “I’m Ambrose,” he said. “Ambrose Walker. Delighted to make your acquaintance Miss…?”
“Maguire,” she said. “Fallon Maguire. I have English Lit with Logan.”
Ambrose clasped her hand in both of his. His palms were cool and soft with a texture that made her think of rice paper. Peering out of a prodigiously wrinkled face, his watery blue eyes seemed out of place. They were youthful and vibrant and ever so aware as he stared at her with unexpected intensity, almost as if he could judge her character with nothing more than focused concentration. He smiled and relea
sed her hand. “Welcome to our new home. Please excuse the clutter. We’re settling in.”
“My room’s much worse, and I’ve lived there for years,” Fallon said. She indicated the paintings propped up around the room. “But your taste in artwork is kinda… dark.”
Ambrose flicked a glance at Liana. “Hmm. So I’ve been told.”
Fallon approached a painting of a scarred landscape littered with fish heads, which had swarms of insects carrying what looked like gray, bloated organs. “This one looks like a Bosch.”
“Good eye,” Ambrose said, beaming.
Another painting, in the surrealist style, had a tall, grotesquely thin golden man, in the foreground of a barren landscape, facing a vibrant blue sky dotted with white, puffy clouds and circular holes which revealed other landscapes. One such hole spilled a stream of brackish green water and a mass of suckered tentacles. “And this one looks like a Dali,” Fallon said. She glanced at the others and shrugged. “Don’t recognize the others.”
“Bruegel, and Grunewald,” Ambrose said.
“They’re fine reproductions, except…”
“You think so?” Ambrose inquired playfully, one bushy eyebrow raised dramatically for effect.
She was missing something. Inside joke maybe, she thought. “I’ve never come across any of these particular works—the Bosch or the Dali, anyway—in any art books or online galleys. I’m sure I’ve never seen either of them before.”
“That’s because they’ve never been exhibited anywhere,” Ambrose said. “Not publicly.”
“But how…”
“Private collection.”
“Whose?”
Ambrose cleared his throat and spread his hands.
“Wait… They aren’t reproductions? They’re—originals? But that’s—they must be worth a fortune.”
“Possibly,” Ambrose said. “Probably. But I have no intention of selling them. They have sentimental value.”
“Wow,” Fallon said breathlessly. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then why not tell us why Logan brought you to us today?”
Logan cleared his throat. “She, um, mostly brought herself,” he said, then hefted the backpacks. “I’m just the pack mule.”
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