Bruno rolled his eyes. "Are you out of your fucking mind? No, don't answer that. It was a rhetorical question. The answer is, fuck no, and over my dead body! Any more questions?"
"Aw, come on. Does this place have WiFi?"
Bruno's eyes narrowed. "You want to look at that photo again? The one that made you black out for twenty-eight hours?" He glanced at his watch. "And thirty-four minutes? Forget it!"
Kev blinked. "That long?" He rotated his shoulders, rolled his head on his neck. "No wonder I'm so stiff. All the more reason to get right to it. Come on. Be a pal. Hand over that laptop, buddy."
"No!" Bruno yelled.
Kev sighed. This was going to take more finessing, and Christ knew he didn't have the energy. "I've remembered some more," he offered. "About Osterman. I was right. He was doing experiments on me. That was why I jumped Patil. He looked exactly like the guy."
"I saw the picture," Bruno growled. "I figured that out for myself."
"Experiments?" Tony grunted, unimpressed. "Fuckin' scientists."
"Mind control stuff," Kev said. "Shutting down my brain was the way I used to fight the mind control thing. That's why I'm going into these comas. It's a defensive reflex."
"That's all great, but Osterman's dead," Bruno snapped. "And no one around here is trying to control your mind. So there's no point in dwelling on this guy, and putting yourself in another coma. OK?"
Kev shook his head. "There have to be other people who knew what he was doing. I'll start with the other people in that photograph. Hand over the iTouch. I know you always have your toys on you."
"Yesterday, I dragged you in here, bleeding out your eyes," Bruno hissed. "You think I'm up for a repeat performance? Fuck that!"
Kev massaged the ropy scars on his head. They throbbed uncomfortably. "It won't happen again," he assured Bruno.
"Oh, what a comfort! Guess what? I do not trust your judgment!"
"No, really," Kev wheedled. "I remember Osterman's face. It blindsided me before, but it won't take me by surprise again. I'm picturing that photo in my head right now, every last pixel, and my head is not exploding. I swear to you. It won't get me again."
Bruno harrumped. "In any case, I've already done it."
"Done what?"
"Researched the picture," Bruno said, with a long-suffering air. "I identified everyone in it. Scraped together whatever I could find on the Internet about each one. If that's what you meant to do, it's done."
Kev realized his mouth was open. "Uh, wow. Thanks."
Bruno looked uncomfortable. "Shut up." He dragged an accordian folder out of a duffle at his feet. "The guys with Osterman were Giles Laurent, and Desmond Marr. Do those names burst any blood vessels?"
The names fell like stones into the deep waters of his mind, encountering nothing. No reaction. He shook his head.
Bruno opened the file. "Laurent you can cross off your list, because he's dead."
"Why am I not surprised," Tony muttered. "There'll be lots of dead guys in this story by the time it's told. Maybe one of 'em'll be you."
"Maybe." Kev was unperturbed. "Dead how?"
"Suicide. Six years ago. Software designer. Went to Stanford after his stint at the Haven. Started a company, was doing real well. Shot himself in the head. Left a wife, two-year-old kid. Real tragic."
"And the other guy?"
"Desmond Marr. Another high achiever," Bruno said. "Harvard undergrad, Harvard business. Being groomed to take over his daddy's pharmaceutical company, Helix. Medical technology, nanotechnology. Red-hot stock. They just moved down to the Silicon Forest in Hillboro a few years ago. This guy's doing great. Hot shit on a silver platter."
"Let me see that picture." Kev reached for it.
Bruno snatched the folder back. "Fuck, no. I found another picture of Marr for you. One without Osterman in it." He rummaged through his printouts, and pulled out a photocopy of an eight-by-ten.
Kev took it. Blood drained from his face. His ears began to roar.
There were four people in the photo, sitting at a table in front of a red drapery. A white haired man was beaming, holding up a plaque, but Kev's eyes fastened on the other one; the long, distinguished face, the hawklike nose. He'd dreamed that face, thousands of times. The man was older, but it was the man from his dream. The one he'd run to, pleading for help.
No. Not a dream. A memory. That man was real, and from Kev's past. From before the wall in his mind. And Kev remembered him.
Oh, fuck. Excitement began to build. His heart pounded heavily.
Bruno leaned over his shoulder, pointing to a younger guy in the corner. "Here's Desmond Marr, all grown up. This is from Helix's corporate Web site. I picked it because it had the best close-up of Desmond that I could find, besides the portrait in his Web site bio. This is an awards ceremony from last year, where daddy Raymond received a lifetime achievement award from the American Medical Association for his contributions to...hey. Kev? What's wrong?" He jerked Kev's chin up, peered into his eyes. "Don't start with that crazy shit!"
"I won't," Kev said, jerking his chin away. "Relax."
"Hah," Bruno muttered. "So you know Raymond Marr?"
Kev shook his head, and pointed at the hawk-faced man. "No. This one." His cold finger shook as it touched the paper.
Bruno leaned over the photo. "Oh, him. Another big cheese. The CEO of Helix. Founded the company along with Desmond's daddy. His name is...hold on..." He rifled through the printouts. "Charles Parrish." Bruno waited expectantly, but Kev just shook his head.
"No broken blood vessels? How undramatic," Bruno muttered. "So, is this guy a white hat or a black hat? Is he your long lost dad?"
"I went to him for help," Kev said simply. "That's all I remember."
Tony hawked, and spat into a tissue. "And did he give it to you?"
Kev squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head. "I don't think he did. I remember pleading with him." He struggled to pull the dreamlike memories into focus. "I think he threw me to the wolves. I scared the shit out of him. That was after the torture, so I was all fucked up. He called security. I threw one through a window. I remember that much."
Tony grunted sourly. "Of course you threw one through a window. That's your specialty. Can't just be a discreet knife through the eye, oh, no. It's gotta be loud, it's gotta draw attention, it's gotta cost money."
Kev ignored him. "Tell me more about Parrish."
Bruno rifled through his printouts again, scowling, and pulled out a sheet of paper. "I don't have a whole lot on him yet. According to his corporate bio, he worked for Flaxon for twelve years, based out of Seattle. Flaxon had warehouses not far from where Tony found you. He worked his way up the ranks, and twelve years ago, he left Flaxon and founded Helix, along with Marr. They made obscene amounts of money. Guy's worth billions." Bruno handed him another photo. "Here he is again. This is two years ago. Right after the move. They'd just inaugurated the building."
Kev held the picture closer to his face. This was a snapshot, taken at a table at some other banquet. Parrish raised his glass, mouth open. An elegant, bony woman with dark hair smiled for the camera. A young woman sat on his other side, shoulders hunched. Her face was veiled with long hair. Her shoulders were bare in a beaded sheath dress. Her spaghetti strap had fallen down. That, and the long, wavy mane made her look disheveled. Her arm clasped the shoulders of a little girl.
Bruno pointed at the older woman. "Late wife. Died a year ago." He pointed at the child. "Younger daughter, Veronica. Thirteen." He touched the young woman. "Older daughter, Edith. Twenty-nine, lives here in Portland. Unmarried. She's a Haven alum, too. Funny, huh?"
Kev looked at her more closely. "Is she on Facebook?"
"She doesn't have a profile, but I found her in some photos. She was there the same time as Marr and Laurent. Only fourteen back then. She was a nerd. Glasses and braces. Back in Parrish's Flaxon days."
"What is she, a socialite?" He studied her more closely, but all there was to be seen of her face wa
s the tip of a nose and the flash of a pale cheek. Those hunched shoulders said get me the fuck out of here.
"Graphic artist. I checked out her site. Just had a book come out. Some noir, urban fantasy comic book thing. Lots of hoo hah about it. Message forums, rabid fans. Her stuff's popular with the college crowd."
Kev touched the photograph with his fingertip, tracing the outline of her shoulder. As if he could shove up the delicate beige strap that had fallen down over her arm. "Got any other pictures of her?"
Bruno rummaged. "I printed out the photo on her Web site. Didn't come out real well, but here." He passed the picture to Kev.
It was black and white. Edith Parrish looked into the camera with a diffident smile. Heavy wings of hair left only a narrow strip of her face visible. Horn-rimmed glasses shadowed her eyes. Her chin rested on her fists. Pretty mouth. Soft. She looked nervous, like she'd dart off like a fawn at the slightest provocation. "Not a socialite," Kev said.
"By no means," Bruno agreed. "A Goth art nerd. Wonder what Daddy Dearest thinks of that."
Kev kept staring. Edie Parrish's photo stirred him, but gave him no hard data to crunch. Sometimes he could trace phantom emotions to their source, make something of them. Usually not. Which was why emotions seemed so useless to him. More trouble than they were worth. But this feeling wasn't bad. It felt...well, fuck it. Almost good.
"I want to meet her," he said.
Bruno looked startled. "Edith Parrish? What for?"
He shrugged, defensive. "I just do."
Bruno dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "Forget her. She's too young to have anything to do with what happened to you. She was only eleven years old when Tony found you. Start with the dad."
"Of course I'll go after the dad. But I still want to meet her."
Bruno's eyes narrowed. "Why?" His voice had a challenging ring.
Kev didn't answer. Bruno let out an expressive grunt. "She's too young for you, you slobbering perv. Pick on somebody your own size."
"I didn't say I wanted to sleep with her," Kev snapped. "I just said I wanted to meet her. And besides, how do you know how old I am?"
"You weren't twelve when I found you," Tony pointed out darkly.
Bruno's cell phone chirped. He pulled it out, and stared at it. His dark eyes flicked up to Kev's face. He looked unnerved.
"What?" Kev demanded. "What the hell is it?"
Bruno hesitated. "When I visited Edie Parrish's Web site, I signed up for her mailing list," he finally admitted. "It sends me an automatic SMS when she's having an author appearance in my area."
The excitement was disorienting in its intensity. "Where?"
Bruno didn't answer. Kev lunged for the cell in Bruno's hand, and grabbed the IV rack to steady himself when Bruno whipped it out of his reach. The dangling bottle of sugar water rattled and swung crazily.
"Where?" he said, more sharply. "When? What bookstore?"
"Calm down," Bruno said. "I haven't seen you this excited since you destroyed Patil's face. Leave that babe alone. She's irrelevant. You've got no business chasing her just because you think she's cute."
Kev lunged again. "Give me that fucking phone!"
Bruno darted back. "What do you think you can learn from her?"
Kev waved his arms. "I don't know. But it feels like a sign. Or the closest thing I've ever had to one."
Bruno looked worried. "What, you mean, like, from God? You mean, you actually believe in that stuff?"
Kev finally captured the telephone. "Fucked if I know. But there's one thing I don't believe in."
Bruno looked apprehensive. "And that is?"
Kev opened up the text message, memorized its contents, and handed the phone back to his brother. "Coincidences."
CHAPTER 5
Kev's legs felt rubbery as he walked into Pirelli's, the hip independent bookstore that had recently opened up downtown. He was early for the two-thirty meet-the-author event. He'd been too anxious to wait at home, and he wanted to stay out of Bruno's reach.
They'd worked out a shaky truce. Or rather, Kev had made Bruno understand that if he tried to stop Kev from going to the book signing, or if he showed up to police him there, one or both of them would end up in jail, or hospitalized. They'd fought in the hospital room two days ago, they'd fought this morning. They fought on the phone whenever they spoke. There was no middle ground.
He understood his brother's point of view. Pursuing Edith Parrish was a big waste of time. Potentially embarrassing, possibly dangerous. She was too young to have anything to do with his past. This was indisputable. But checking out Edith Parrish was not a decision. It was a compulsion. A clawing, roaring need that could not be reasoned with.
Bruno had tried, in the hospital room, but his efforts had soon degenerated into shouting, a frequent occurrence in the Ranieri household. Tony had gotten into the fray, and after the IV rack got knocked over, the bottle of fluid smashed, and a table full of medical equipment upended, two big male nurses had come in and thrown Bruno and Tony out. And Kev had been made to understand that he was no longer welcome as a patient at Legacy Emanual Hospital. Now, or ever.
But hey. A guy had to do what a guy had to do.
He looked around, gut vibrating in that weird, tight way he couldn't get used to, and strolled down the magazine aisle. Motorcycles, Men's Health, Fine Art & Furnishings. He caught sight of himself reflected in the coffee bar machine, and winced. The wraparound sunglasses looked dumb, but he couldn't tolerate flourescent lights without them, and they hid the scarlet spot in his eye. And that hair, God. He went back and forth between long hair and buzzed off, it being a toss-up which took less maintenance, but he'd worn it long before the waterfall accident. When he wore it loose, it shielded him from a good forty percent of the stares that he caught for the scarring.
But they'd buzzed him to the scalp for the surgeries. It was barely two inches long, which meant that as it grew, it stuck up in spiky, crazy cowlicked whorls that made him look like an overgrown Sting wannabe. Even the long canvas coat, chosen for bland neutrality, seemed like a costume piece, with that hair, those glasses. And he was so fucking tall. He fought the urge to slump. That didn't make a tall guy inconspicuous.
He forced himself to straighten, and noticed the cute blonde scoping him from the other side of the magazine rack. He turned his head as if checking out the bookstore map, letting her get a good long look at the scars. Her gaze darted away. She strode off. Bingo. One down, three billion to go. He weeded out the pointless ones out a priori as quickly as possible.
He had discovered, to his cost, that girls fell mostly into two camps. The ones who were repelled by the scars, and the ones who were intrigued. He wasn't sure which category was worse.
He hated explaining the story to them. He didn't like to lie, but he hated telling the truth, too. Dealing with the girls' wonder, their speculation, their sympathy, their heebie-jeebies. And the worst; their tender fantasies about soothing his ravaged soul and healing his inner wounds. Hell with that shit. It exhausted him. Celibacy was preferable.
Then he saw the photograph.
The image wiped his mind clean. Those eyes, looking out from the photograph, solemn and calm and compassionate. Full of light.
His angel. The force of those eyes, the shock of seeing her there, it hit him in the stomach like a bull's head, knocking out all his air.
His lungs were sending him signals of distress. He reminded himself to breathe, got oxygen. He lurched forward. Read the name.
MEET THE AUTHOR. EDIE PARRISH. 2:30 PM.
The table was heaped with graphic novels. He locked his knees, tried to stop the drunken swaying. Another black and white head-shot, but in this one, her hair was flung back and she wore no glasses. She gazed straight at him. The look in her eyes was a quiet, level challenge.
He had no idea how long he stood in the aisle. If his mouth hung open. People jostled by, inconvenienced by his large body blocking the aisle. He registered their annoyance but he was una
ble to move.
Edie Parrish was his white-clad angel. No wonder she'd been so small. She'd just been a child, eighteen years ago. Eleven years old.
A beautiful child. Grown up into a beautiful woman.
He stared into those eyes, his brain revving into a strange, altered state. Fear, laced with a strange, unbelieving joy. Dread, too. He would no longer have his magical talisman, so crucial for negotiating the maze of his jerry-rigged mind. If his angel was a flesh and blood person, he could not expect protection from the powers of darkness from her. He couldn't use her like a magic penny if she was a real, live woman, with her own problems, her own bullshit and baggage.
A woman. So fucking beautiful. His hands shook. He was taking this too seriously. He could see that, feel it. But he could not stop it.
How could he have met her? Where? How had he known her? Would she recognize him? Could she know something about him?
No, dumbass. Don't go there. Don't hope that. She couldn't. She was just a child. She was tiny. She could have no clue. None.
A muffled cough caught his attention, and he caught the nervous, gaze of one of the bookstore personnel. Fake normal, butthead. He moved closer to the table, picked up a book. He glanced at the cover, felt the delayed jolt to his system. That was a drawing of...himself.
Wait. What in the flying fuck? Kev rubbed his eyes and lifted the lenses of his sunglasses to peer at the drawing, his body thrumming.
Fade Shadowseeker, Book IV, Midnight's Curse.
Midnight's Curse. The name reverberated inside him like a gong. Whorls of spiky dirt-blond hair, pale green eyes, thin face, flat mouth. His face was scarred, on the right side. No. Not possible. Get a grip.
Hallucinations? Was he messed up enough to justify even this? Maybe he should get stronger meds. Dope his out-of-control imagination into submission. Or get checked out for schizophrenia. Only crazy people thought everything in the world referred to them. Only crazy people heard personal messages in popular songs, TV shows. Or found portraits of themselves on bestselling graphic novels.
Fade to Midnight Page 9