Truth and Consequences

by Sarah Madison

  “So what do these boxes do? And if they are so powerful, why hasn’t there been any mention of them throughout history?”

  Hal shrugged. “Each box was supposed to do something different. No one is exactly sure what, as the accounts differ. But one box was supposed to make you able to read minds, which is supposedly how she defeated the local legion in the first place. One box made you see things from someone else’s point of view, which sounds completely useless to me. One was supposed to let you see the future, which is probably why Boudica killed herself when she realized defeat was unavoidable. She didn’t want to be tortured as an example to the other rebels. Not sure what the last box was supposed to do. Some say it stopped time, others say it was neutral and did nothing, while others think it nullified the other boxes.”

  “You don’t really think these things are real?” It strained belief, and I knew I was wearing my skepticism like a medal of honor.

  “Dude, someone believes it. Maybe they’re trying to put the whole collection together too. Maybe there’s more power in the group than in each individual box.”

  Oh, wasn’t that a pleasant thought. Thank God, this was all in cloud-cuckoo land.

  “If these boxes are real and they possess magical abilities, how come every person that runs across them isn’t affected by them? I’m pretty sure I held the one I had and nothing happened to me.”

  “Pretty sure?” Hal fell on my phrasing like a pit bull on a steak dropped on the floor.

  I hesitated. I remembered fragments of the afternoon Nancy showed us the box at the museum. Mostly the discussion as to what it was. But there were those odd—I don’t want to call them memories—but odd impressions of seeing things outside my perspective, as though I were looking at myself. Every time that happened, I felt a weird sense of vertigo. But nothing magical, for chrissake. “I got hit in the head. I have partial amnesia.”

  Hal sat up. “So, it’s possible you do know where the box is, but you don’t remember it.”

  I shook my head. “No. No way.”

  But John might.

  The thought snuck in like a traitor, knifing me in the gut when I least expected it. I shoved it aside and went back to the subject at hand. “Anyway, I held the box.” I could suddenly see it in my hands as I turned it from side to side, looking for some kind of means of opening it. “Nothing happened.”

  Hal laughed, sounding almost like a teenaged boy. “Well, you’re not Celtic, are you?”

  “Huh?” His question took me by surprise.

  “The druids made the boxes for Boudica. Most people think that it was some kind of whatchamacall’em—a placebo effect. A talisman, if you will. She thought they were magic so, as long as she had them, she kept winning out of sheer guts and confidence. When the boxes fell into the hands of the Romans, they couldn’t make them work, so they wrote them off as a pretty story. But I think they were keyed into Boudica being Celtic. They didn’t work for the Romans because they weren’t Celtic—they didn’t have the right genetic code. So if we’re talking about today, they would work for people from Ireland, Wales, Scotland, and some parts of Britain, like Cornwall. That sort of thing. I bet if you were Irish, something would have happened.” He grinned as though it was so simple, even I should be able to see it.

  If I were Irish? Maybe with a last name like Flynn?

  As if on cue, a text came through on my phone. It was John.

  Can’t make it back tonight. Probably home by tomorrow evening. Everything okay?

  Hah. No. Everything was not okay. It might never be okay again. I put the phone down. “Gotta go, Hal. I appreciate the info. Don’t know what I’ll do with it, but I appreciate it all the same.”

  “You just be careful. Sounds like a lot of people out there want those boxes. Dude, think how bad it would be if the FBI got their hands on them?”

  Or a criminal organization. The thought was sickening. “If I need to speak to you again?”

  “Leave a message on the forum. I’m canceling this e-mail account when we’re done here.”

  Funny. Twenty minutes ago, I would have called him paranoid.

  I disconnected the call and texted John back. We need to talk.

  Chapter Sixteen

  WHEN I get home.

  That was John’s response to the text I sent, and I had to be content with that. It didn’t mean I had to like it.

  I made good on my promise of rejoining the book club, despite wanting nothing more than to keep searching for anything I could find on the Boudica Boxes, spelled according to my friend Hal. The ladies welcomed me and made room for me on the sofa. There were even a few pastries left, though I no longer had an appetite. I was distracted at first, and it took me longer than usual to realize that not everyone was there.

  “Where’s Jill?” I asked. I was seated on the couch beside Elsie, who patted me comfortably on the knee.

  A stillness descended on the room. Jean took a breath and said, with admirable control, “She couldn’t stay.”

  Color must have rushed into my face then. I certainly felt the heat.

  Hazel—God bless her—didn’t miss a beat. “Lee, we’ve just been talking about the effect that modern crime dramas have had on the expectations of the mystery reader. How today’s reader wants a story that reads like a forty-five minute television show, complete with chapters that end with a hook, and short scenes with greater impact. No one wants to read something like Brat Farrar today. In fact, I was just saying I don’t think Agatha Christie would have made it as a mystery writer if she were starting out now. And I like her stuff.”

  And we were off, delving into a lively discussion of what made for a good mystery, whether our own fascination with social media and electronic devices had given us all the attention span of gerbils, and did that impact the length and format of modern novels. It was a good conversation, and it had been a long time since I’d done anything like it. Between the stimulating discussion, the women begging for details about real cases, the way they hung on my every word, and their utter delight in discovering my gift for remembering things, I was able to put John and the Boudica Boxes on the back burner.

  Even I have a flattery threshold, however, and around ten o’clock, I pleaded fatigue to head back downstairs. At least you knew where you stood with cats.

  Once I was alone, save for Oliver and Phoenix, I thought about the boxes. Though I may have been able to put it out of my mind for a little bit, the suspicion that John had been lying to me simmered along in the background, coming to a slow boil. He had to have more knowledge of the boxes than he’d let on to Drover and Harris. Had to.

  It was impossible to believe they could actually possess magical powers. On the other hand, it was likely someone out there believed they did and was trying to collect them all as a result. Or perhaps they were interested in them in terms of their historical value. Yeah, that was it. Some rabid collector who prided himself on obtaining bizarre and little-known artifacts. It didn’t matter that he could never show them off to the world because, although he’d acquired them illegally, they gave him a thrill when he looked at them.

  Why would John lie about that?

  That’s what my brain kept circling around—that six word sentence. If John still had one of the boxes, why would he lie about it? Why not turn it over to Drover and Harris? Was he hoping to sell it to the highest bidder? Was he investigating the thefts on his own? Did he really have one of the boxes in his possession? The more I thought about it, the more certain I felt he did.

  If John had one of the boxes and was keeping it secret, then his reasons were not likely to be good. And yet I couldn’t believe anything bad of John. Not really. But it didn’t make any sense.

  Maybe he didn’t have the box anymore. Maybe someone just thought he did.

  Jean came downstairs after her friends left. I’d known she would, though I’d hoped she wouldn’t.

  “Do you know why those men were after you today?” She stood on the bottom stair and seemed
reluctant to come all the way into the room. It was as though there were a force field blocking her, and she could only speak to me from the other side of it.

  “Not really.” I realized I’d snapped at her, and I softened my tone. “I think it has something to do with one of our old cases, but I don’t remember enough to know for sure.”

  “Is John in danger?”

  Of course, that would be her biggest concern.

  “John can take care of himself,” I assured her, aware of the irony there. “But until we know what these guys want, we should all be careful. John will be home tomorrow. We’ll figure it out then. In the meantime, don’t go anywhere without me, okay?”

  She lifted her chin. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll see that no one grabs you.”

  I think I fell in love with John’s mother at that moment. I’d been getting the warm fuzzies about her for a while, and her open acceptance of me and John before her friends had made my Grinch-like heart grow three times in size. But this? Only Jean would see herself as my protector, and not the other way around.

  “Is everything all right between you two? You seem a little… upset.”

  How the hell was I supposed to answer that? “John and I have some things we need to talk about.”

  She nodded slowly, recognizing the code for “no, things aren’t okay.” She opened her mouth to say something but then thought better of it and started back up the stairs. I stopped her.

  “Mrs. F?”

  She turned with an attempt at a smile. Her worry made it more of a grimace. “Yes, dear?”

  “What you did tonight… when you introduced me to your friends… about me and John….” I found myself floundering, not certain where I was going.

  Her brow puckered. “Did I get that wrong? Oh dear, I just assumed—I mean—” Her hands fluttered like agitated birds taking flight.

  “No, no. You got… that is to say—” I broke off with a cough. When I cleared my throat, I hurried on. “Your son and I have been in a relationship for about six months now.”

  She nodded, and a genuine smile made a tentative appearance. “I thought as much.”

  “John…. John’s not really sure how he feels about people knowing.”

  “Oh, honey.”

  She infused the word with so much sympathy, I was startled at the sting of my tears.

  It took me a second to gather my thoughts. I could hardly tell her that my relationship with her son was a tiny boat headed down the rapids toward a major waterfall, now could I?

  “I’m sure we’ll sort things out, but I just wanted you to know, he’s still coming to terms with the whole idea himself.”

  “Of course you will, dear. And Lee? Thank you for letting me know.” She came all the way down the stairs to kiss me on the forehead, as though I were twelve years old. She left me, blinking once more.

  Alone again, I went back to stewing about the boxes and John’s role in everything. The whole thing festered with me, and I kept picking at it like a scab that needed to come off to let the infection out. Unfortunately instead of answers, I began seeing wavering lines out of the corner of my eye and my head started to pound. Great. A fucking migraine.

  I took my pain meds and thought longingly of a nice glass of Merlot. Or maybe a whole bottle. I was supposed to limit my alcohol intake because of the head trauma, but I resented the fact that the Flynn household was dry. I knew it was mean and petty of me. Most days I couldn’t have cared less, but that night I couldn’t let it go. Just as I couldn’t set aside my suspicions of John.

  Because there was no way the boxes actually did what Hal said they could do. Right?

  I didn’t get much sleep that night. I shifted so much, trying to get comfortable, that the cats finally left in a huff to sleep on one of the chairs.

  The next day passed with interminable slowness. Both Jean and I hung around the house, waiting for John to come home. I got a text from him in the morning saying he’d be tied up most of the day. And then nothing. My mind ran in circles about the problem like a hamster on a wheel. I was irritable and restless. I wanted to take a long bath without having to protect my arm with plastic wrap. I’d have given anything to be able to unzip my skin and step out of my body for even half an hour, just to be free of the ever-present headache and the dull pain that radiated out from my neck and down my arm. It was constant but not enough to incapacitate me. Just enough to make me cranky, like mice chewing on my bones.

  For the first time, I could understand stories about people who sold their souls to the devil. Not that I believed in the devil. I wasn’t sure I believed in the concept of souls, for that matter. But if I could have bargained with Satan for a little relief, I’d have done it.

  Half a dozen times, I started to go out to the store or even just take a walk around the neighborhood, only to realize I couldn’t. At least not then. Not with thugs potentially looking to grab me. Not until John explained what was really going on.

  If I were home in my own apartment, I would have access to my books, my music, my things. Sure, I could look up almost anything I wanted online. But in my own place, I could look around and know what it was I loved and enjoyed. That I was stuck prowling around Jean’s basement was making me as surly as an alley cat who was forced to stay indoors.

  How well did I really know John? Sure, we’d been together over six months, but in my mind, it was just over a week. Up until then, I’d have said I could trust him with my life… and my heart. Now doubt tainted every memory. Whenever I decided John couldn’t possibly be the villain I was making him out to be, I came back to not having an explanation for his behavior in the face of recent events. I wanted to believe in him. Believe the best of him. But people rarely live up to our hopes and expectations.

  But it was John. If I didn’t believe in him, then the very foundations of my world were cracking.

  By quarter to seven that evening, I was certain John probably wouldn’t get in until very late, after midnight even. Lord knows we’d worked enough cases where we got home when we got home. It was one of the reasons I’d never gotten a dog. At least with cats, you don’t have to get home by a set time or face the consequences.

  This felt like John was avoiding me. I knew I was being unreasonable. He could have texted with an ETA, damn it. I wasn’t about to text him and ask when he’d be home. I hoped he was both relieved and worried by my silence.

  I also wasn’t going to sit around waiting for him. I saw no reason Jean and I couldn’t attend the cooking class. We could leave John a note, on the off chance he got home before we returned. Jean happily agreed, despite my black mood. When it was time to go, I came upstairs to find Jean gathering her keys and purse.

  “Wow,” I said. “Looking good, Mrs. F.”

  She looked great. She always had a suggestion of Jackie O’s style about her, but that evening she was channeling Audrey Hepburn. She was wearing black slacks that had been ironed to have a sharp crease, and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The outfit was complemented by a splash of color in the form of a small red scarf, à la Roman Holiday. She was adorable. For about two seconds, I could forget how mad I was at her son.

  Just then, we heard the front door open and close.

  “John’s home.” The relief in Jean’s voice was palpable, as though she were a farmer spotting the first storm clouds after a long dry season without rain. I was the only one who could hear the thunder.

  It rumbled beneath the surface, just waiting for John to enter the room. I wasn’t surprised at the icy calm that descended around me. All my shields were up. I was prepared for the fallout.

  John came into the kitchen, pulled his tie askew, and deposited a briefcase on the counter. He gave his mother a kiss on the check. “Don’t you look nice?”

  Jean preened just a little. “Lee and I were just getting ready to go to that cooking class I mentioned. Did you have a good trip?” she asked. “You look tired. Have you had anything to eat?”

  “I got something
on the road.” He didn’t take his eyes off me. I thought there might be a hint of pleading in those hazel eyes, but I wasn’t buying any of it.

  “Well, it looks like you boys have a lot to talk about. I’ll just go to the class by myself, Lee. I’m sure Richard will understand you couldn’t make it.”

  “Whoa. No, Mom. I don’t think that’s such a hot idea. Lee and I do have some things to talk about, but I think it’s kind of important that we all stay together until we sort out who’s been following you and why.”

  “Who’s been following Lee, you mean.” She very clearly intended on going to the class. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with me.”

  “But I’m not sure. Seriously, Mom. It’s just this one night. Just until we get things figured out.”

  “Now, John, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I carry a gun for a reason. I’ve been living in this city by myself for years, and I haven’t let it stop me from doing the things I wanted to do. I’m certainly not about to start now. I’m going, and that’s final.”

  “But Mom—”

  “Don’t ‘but Mom’ me. I’m old enough to know my own mind, and I can take care of myself. You boys need some privacy to hash some things out.”

  And with that, she left.

  “You should have stopped her.” The words left my mouth, even as I knew how unfair I was being.

  “I tried. Short of disarming her and throwing her in a holding cell, I don’t see how I could have kept her from going. Besides, I didn’t see you chiming in to keep her here.”

  “She’s not my mother.” No sooner had I said it than I realized I wished she were.

  John stared at me, as though he couldn’t believe what I’d said. Which was pretty rich, coming from him.

  “You fucking bastard,” I said without heat. I was calm. Cool. Cold in fact. Freezing. “The guys that were following me—it’s that museum piece they want, right? You still have it.”

  “I’m sorry,” John said, but not like he really meant it. I guess two could play with absolute zero.