Gemini Cell

by Myke Cole

  Schweitzer shivered as the echoes of Sarah’s voice reverberated through him. He had heard her. The scent of her perfume hadn’t been his imagination. His sense of her was no phantom limb. There was a trail through the void. Perhaps it was nothing more than the magical equivalent of a homing pigeon’s instinct.

  But Schweitzer knew it was more than that. He felt their love like a physical thing, a rope, infinitely long, infinitely strong, linking them wherever they were, soul to soul. He realized now that he had always felt it, that it had taken losing her to see this thing that had been a part of him since the day he’d first watched her sleeping beside him, head on his shoulder, and realized it would be her and no other. He had always felt this thing that the magic had made into a compass needle, unerringly pointing the way to the love of his life.

  He knew he was defining something that he didn’t understand, trying to bound it in a way he could grasp. The truth was that he didn’t know what to call this thing, this certainty, this sense of direction.

  But whatever it was, it was something he could follow. It was a way back to her.

  Schweitzer stopped rising before their head broke the water’s surface. He was following instinct, doing what a living man would. They had no need to breathe. Slowly, he let the dead, airless weight of their body sink to the bottom, until their feet touched down on trash-strewn silt. Precious little light penetrated here. The thickness of the water jealously guarded its secrets, shutting out all senses, sound and smell and sight all exiled to the air-breathing world.

  But there were two things it couldn’t obstruct.

  The first was the smell of Sarah’s rosewater perfume, so strong it was nearly cloying, so clear Schweitzer felt he could reach out and touch it.

  The second was the feeling of Sarah’s presence, a light that was her glimmering soul, distant and focused and shining like a polar star.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  REUNION

  Drew was as good as his word.

  Sarah guessed the house needed tens of thousands of dollars in repairs. The paint was so patchy and peeled that there was more siding exposed to the elements than not, and the slate roof had gone to mold in such spectacular fashion that it practically glowed green under the moonlight. The foundation sagged so badly that the windows on the upper story were canted, giving the house the look of a stroke victim, one side of the face slack and sagging. A tractor shed leaned drunkenly against the house. Sara didn’t doubt it would have fallen over but for the support of its sagging neighbor.

  But a candle burned in each window, and the walk up to the entrance was lined with ceramic pots bright with flowers. The grass was neatly mowed for a solid twenty feet around the house, then immediately gave over into overgrown fields dotted with big, gray shapes that she guessed were round bales.

  Martha stood in the doorway in a pair of sweatpants and stained T-shirt. She looked a few years younger than Drew, and smelled of old perfume hastily applied. But her smile was genuine and she hugged Sara as if she’d known her for years before turning to Patrick with a warmth that could only belong to someone who’d raised children herself. The boy buried his face in his mother’s shoulder with a forced shyness that Sarah knew meant he was delighted.

  Drew made introductions, then led the way into a scene from an Architectural Digest shoot of folksy Americana. The wide-planked wooden floor gleamed under soft light from iron floor lamps. A wooden American eagle stretched over the fireplace above a sword, its gold paint covering it considerably better than the exterior of the house. The fireplace was dark, but the iron grate held a planter stuffed with herbs.

  An ancient yellow Lab thumped his tail against the floor, too lazy to lift his head from his paws.

  “It’s beautiful,” Sarah said. “It’s like something out of a movie.”

  “Oh, that’s very sweet,” Martha said. “We’ve been here since we got married. My grandfather built it back before the Civil War.” They stood in silence for a moment before she said, “I’ll put some tea on, and let me pour Patrick a glass of milk. Do you let him have sweets?”

  “Thanks for asking. Not normally, but I figure a night stuck out in”—she stopped herself before she said in the middle of nowhere—“unfamiliar territory warrants a treat.”

  “Cookies it is,” Martha said. “Are you hungry?”

  “’Course she’s hungry,” Drew said, guiding her to a dark, wooden kitchen table that looked as old as the house but considerably better maintained. “We got any of that brisket left?”

  Martha smiled an affirmative and set herself to bustling in the kitchen while Sarah and Drew made small talk, Patrick staring at the old man in fascination. From what Sarah could glean from the conversation, Drew and Martha had both been federal bureaucrats in DC before retiring to open a bed-and-breakfast that turned out to be more work than either of them were interested in. Instead, they rented the acreage out as a hay mowing, and that income combined with their retirement allowed them a nice place from which to watch the sunset.

  Patrick ate and drank his body weight in milk, chocolate chip cookies, and tiny bits of the best brisket Sarah had ever tasted. She talked with Drew and watched in amazement as Patrick nestled in Martha’s arms while she sang softly to him, staring up at her until he nodded off once again.

  “That’s amazing,” Sarah said. “I’ve never seen him that comfortable with a stranger . . . well, ever.”

  Martha’s smile showed genuine pleasure. “Well, I’ve raised three of my own, you know. Got some practice.”

  “Got five grandchildren so far,” Drew said. “Our cup runneth over, truly.”

  “Any of them coming tomorrow?” Sarah asked.

  “The middle one,” Drew said. “The boy. He’s in the army. You’ll like him.”

  “My husband was navy,” Sarah said without thinking.

  Drew and Martha exchanged a glance before Drew turned to her. “Was. He got out?”

  “No,” Sarah said, “he was killed.” You’re lying, she thought. He’s alive and he’s coming. You know it in your bones.

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah added quickly, “I didn’t want to make this personal. I know you don’t know me.”

  “Afghanistan?” Martha asked.

  “No . . . he was here. I’m sorry, this is so personal.”

  “We don’t mean to pry,” Drew said. “We were just wondering what really brought you out here in the middle of the night with your boy in the car. You’ve got a hatchback, Sarah. I didn’t see a suitcase in there.”

  “I keep a change of clothes at my friend’s.” Sarah could feel the lie in her words, could see that Drew and Martha felt it, too. They exchanged another glance, and Drew looked at his lap.

  “As I said, I don’t want to push you here,” he said, “and I promise we won’t turn you out or call the law, but we’re bedding down under the same roof, and I think Martha and I have a right to know what kind of trouble it is you’re in.”

  “I’m not in any trouble.”

  “Sweetheart,” Martha said, her voice taking on the firm tone of a schoolteacher, “Drew told you we take in strays. This isn’t our first rodeo. We know trouble when we see it, and there’s trouble here.”

  Sarah stood, reached out to gather Patrick. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, thanks very much for the hospitality. I’m feeling awake now, and I’m sure I can make it the rest of the way . . .”

  Drew stood, patted the air with his palms. “Hold on, now. There’s no need to . . .”

  But Sarah wasn’t listening. Her eyes were locked on Martha, who had turned her torso, holding Patrick away from Sarah as she bent at the waist to pick him up.

  The kindly old woman vanished. All Sarah saw now was a blurred enemy curled around her child. She vaguely wondered if this was how James saw the world when he ran ops. Her hands twitched, her heartbeat seemed to slow.

  “G
ive. Me. My. Son.”

  “All right,” Martha said, fear blossoming behind her eyes. “Wasn’t going to keep him from you. Just caught me by surprise is all.”

  Sarah collected Patrick, held him in one arm, kept the other hand free and hovering over the pocketknife hidden in her pants. “I should go,” she said again.

  “Please don’t,” Drew said. “I’m sorry, we were prying. If you want to go, that’s fine, but we’d really prefer it if you stayed. You’re tired and in the middle of nowhere. We’ll lay off the questions. Think of your son.”

  “I am thinking of my son,” Sarah said. “I am always thinking of my son. That’s why I am out here, that’s why I’m driving in the middle of the night. For my son. Because no matter how many cookies you give me and no matter what nice things you say, I’m still the one who has to take care of him.” The words tumbled out, petulant and nonsensical. Her stomach fluttered, her veins felt like fire flowed in them, a jittery rush rising in her, as if she’d been funneling espresso instead of sipping hot tea.

  Something was coming.

  Her body was amping up in preparation. Her gut sank with the same dead certainty she’d felt so often over the last few days. The sense of pending arrival was mixed, dreadful and joyous, equal parts exultation and foreboding. Martha and Drew were already fading into the background, Sarah’s senses alert to the windows and the door, the darkness pressing against them like a physical thing made of purple black mist.

  “Sarah,” Drew was saying. “Before you go, will you do one thing for me? Call it payback for the food.”

  “Sure,” Sarah said, distracted. The front door seemed far away, her vision of it fish-eyed, a bulbous, distorted tunnel. The door’s edges seemed to vibrate almost imperceptibly.

  “Will you pray with me?” Drew asked. “That’s all, just a few minutes with your head bowed. You don’t even have to believe it, just indulge an old man who’s worried about you.”

  “Pray?” Sarah moved to the window. There was a low growl sounding in the distance, so faint that it might have been mistaken for wind, but Sarah’s hearing had changed, had tapped into the currents in the air around her, the tiny hairs in her ears vibrating madly, pushing the air down, bouncing it off the onionskin of her eardrums below.

  A low, throaty growl. At first she thought it a roaring lion. Her mind accepted this without a moment’s cognitive dissonance. The bullet that had felled Jim had taken reality with him, leaving Sarah to float in this weird miasma of tangible dreams, precognition, and the shimmering tinctures of her past. In this world, roaring lions could charge up a deserted country road in the middle of the night.

  “Sarah?” Drew asked, standing.

  He stiffened, Martha’s eyes narrowed, and Sarah knew they heard it, too.

  The roaring lion resolved into a rumbling bass. An engine, a loud big twin.

  “Someone’s coming for you, aren’t they?” Martha asked. She turned to Drew, her eyes pleading.

  He shook his head. “If whoever is coming is dangerous, now would be a good time to tell us.”

  Sarah could feel him inching backward, elbow brushing a sagging bookcase and fumbling for the closet door beside it.

  But it didn’t matter because whatever it was had arrived. Sarah’s vision contracted to a pinhole, the rest of the world vanishing, time slowing to a crawl inside the tiny circle before her.

  Through it, she saw a thin, insectile chopper rolling slowly to the foot of the driveway, easing to a stop, narrow front tire crunching on the shattered gravel. The gas tank was badly dented, the chrome refracting the starlight where it should have glittered, signs that the motorcycle had fallen at speed, skidded on its side for a few feet before coming to a stop. The metal funnel of the exhaust had turned a deep indigo from the heat of the sliding friction.

  The rider lent credence to the idea. He was a big man, the large bike looking comically small between his thick legs. He swung one over, didn’t bother with the kickstand, let the motorcycle topple over and flop on its side with a crunch. His clothing was tattered, the evidence of a long scrape on the pavement written across him in melted leather and frayed denim.

  His head was hidden behind a red motorcycle helmet, a long white stripe showing where it had scraped along the pavement until the curved surface had been sanded flat. The man took a shuffling step toward her, a zombie shamble, and two things happened.

  First, a low buzzing click outside the pinhole focus of her senses told her that Drew had thrown open the closet door, pulled something out.

  Second, the dread vanished, the joy consumed her, making her giddy, rising behind her breastbone until she felt her shoulders pin back and her breasts lift, as if she would float off the ground. She took a step forward, banged her knees against the wall below the window, turned to the door. Drew and Martha were both talking at once, a low rumble in the far distance. She heard a mechanical click-clack, a gun’s action working, but it didn’t matter, she was to the door, opening it, stepping out into the thick night air.

  The man did his zombie shuffle up to the base of the front steps. The porchlight fell on him and she saw why. The boots were at least a size too small, unzipped only a few inches before the protrusion of his anklebone punched out over the metal teeth. The leather jacket was likewise a size too small, the cured surface bulging and stretching to accommodate his muscular arms. It hung open, revealing skin so pale it reflected the light, the blue-gray of fish scales. His belly and chest were crisscrossed with rough white scars, the evidence of ham-fisted surgical stitching. His head had been forced into the helmet, the thick pillar of his neck bulging comically out below the lower edge.

  She set Patrick gently down, felt the boy scramble away. The sensations came as if from a long distance, actions taken by another person who looked like her. Her attention was locked in the pinhole, watching the man at the foot of the steps.

  Sarah could smell him as he shambled closer, the pungent odor of chemical preservative, engine oil, dirty leather. But the smells were like the rising panic in Drew and Martha’s voices, background noise, outside the tunnel of exultation that linked her to this strange man. The tunnel’s edges widened to accommodate him as he came up the steps, taking on a pinkish cast, until Sarah imagined that they stood together on a path of rose petals, echoes of her dream made real.

  He was a slab of tortured muscle stretching beneath skin the color of a fish’s underbelly. He shambled like a zombie. But it was Jim. The thing that bound them was undeniable. She could feel it coursing through her, eddying across the space between them. Not bound at the hip, but at the soul. It was the same way she’d known he was coming. He could have been walking on all fours and had a tail, she would still have known it was him.

  At last, she let go of the idea that she was crazy and gave what linked them a new name.

  Magic.

  Their love, their history, their bond was magic. Somehow, it linked them, over any distance. It didn’t make sense, but it didn’t have to. He was here.

  She gathered him into her arms, letting the tears come now, nestling her head against the cold, waxy surface of his chest, wrapping one arm around him, feeling the jacket sink unnaturally over his spine, as if he was split there.

  “Oh, Jim. Oh, baby. I knew you were alive. I knew it I knew it I knew it.”

  He stiffened, froze. For an instant, she felt doubt gnaw at her, fear beginning to bloom in its shadow. But no, the certainty was there, her stomach still doing cartwheels of joy. It was Jim. She’d known he was alive and here he was and she was holding him and so what if it didn’t make sense and was crazy. So what. He was here. That was enough for now.

  She heard the leather creak, felt his arm rise behind her.

  Felt his thick, gray hand find the back of her neck, gently grasp it, pushing her into him.

  Like Jim had done, and only Jim. He’d said it was the one thing he liked abou
t her preference for shorter hair. It gave him a better grip. The tears came fresh, with such force that she shook, steadying herself against the solidity of him, a pillar, as he’d always been.

  Her forehead knocked against the lower lip of his helmet and she leaned back, reaching up to lift the visor.

  His hand moved again, quickly now, grabbing her wrist, painfully at first, but letting up immediately.

  “Babe . . .” she began. I don’t care what you look like under there. It doesn’t matter. I want to see you.

  But his hand was a vise supported by an iron bar. The helmet inclined, and she could tell he was looking at her, thought she saw just the faintest shimmer of dancing lights behind the visor, as if candle flames flickered there. More strangeness that wasn’t strange. Not in the rose-tinted tunnel they shared.

  His neck began to flex, air whistling up and drawing her attention to a badly patched wound in his throat. Air whistled out of it as a breathy word sounded from inside the helmet, echoing out to her, a rasping grunt that gave no hint of the voice she’d known. It didn’t sound like Jim at all, but the word was unmistakable.

  “No.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, and suddenly she was being pulled away from him, a hand on her shoulder hauling her backward. Something long and dark was sliding past her vision, invading the sacred space she shared with Jim. She shook the hand off and the tunnel went with it, her vision suddenly expanding into the harsh corners of the world, flooding her with the sickly light of the porch lamp, clouded with insects questing for its false moon.

  Martha was pulling her back into the house, yelling at Jim to get back. Drew was moving forward, his body inexpertly hunched behind a fowling piece, the wide barrels chipped and rusting, pointed out at Jim.

  “No!” she shouted. “Drew, don’t!”

  The old man ignored her. His face was purple, his terror congealing into a shaking anger that made wide veins stand out on his forehead and nose. He was shouting incomprehensibly at Jim, thrusting the old gun at him as if it were a spear.