by Jen Blood
“Thank you,” Ren said. Wendy left the room again, presumably to get them food. Ren took Bear’s arm and tried to help him up, but a jagged bolt of pain ran through him the second he moved. A cry of pain escaped his lips before he could stop it. Ren’s forehead furrowed in sympathy. She crouched beside him. He’d never felt more out of control in his life, and he fought to get himself back where he needed to be. He couldn’t fall apart in front of her.
“Just take it easy,” she said. Her hand moved to his good arm, but she remained facing him so he could look her in the eye. “We’ll move on the count of three. Can you do that?”
He nodded.
Just as he rose, he caught sight of something out the window—a flash of red that remained hazy for a second before it came into focus. A girl stood staring in at him, her face pale, her eyes wide. She wore a red sweater. The red-haired man looked in that direction at the same time, his own eyes widening at sight of the girl.
“That’s her!” the man shouted. He lurched toward the window, so unsteady on his feet that Bear thought he would fall. Dean followed his movement with a frown.
“For Christ’s sake, I’ve had enough of you,” Dean said. His voice rose as his gaze fell on the window, where the girl in the red sweater remained. The girl recoiled, but Dean wasn’t focused on her. Instead, he pulled the red-haired man away. “I don’t want to hear anything else about these woods, or the people who talk to you or the things they say. You think we don’t have enough to worry about right now?”
“She’s there,” the man insisted. “Look there—just look. She’s got brown hair and a red sweater. She’s there. She knows where Ariel is, but she won’t tell me.”
“Shut the hell up, Claude,” Dean shouted. “She’s not there, all right? You want me to go out there and show you just how not there she is? She’s not fucking there.”
While this was happening, Ren looked at Bear. Her eyes followed his to the window and she pressed her lips together in a firm line, though she didn’t say anything.
“Come on,” another of the men said to Bear, while Dean was dealing with the red-haired man freaking out by the window. This one was tall and dark-haired. There was a strong resemblance to Dean, but he was considerably younger. A lot better looking, too; Bear got the sense he knew it. Another brother? How big was this family, anyway?
The man took Ren’s arm to pull her forward, but she jerked it away. Bear didn’t care for the way the man’s eyes darkened at the movement. He struggled to his feet, ignoring the pain or the knowledge that there was a ghost just outside the window—and someone other than himself could actually see her for a change.
“It’s all right,” Bear said to the man. “We’ll go. Just keep your hands off her, and everything’s fine.”
The man smiled. “Said like a boy who believes he’s in charge.”
Bear glanced toward Dean. Claude had backed down, and the pale face outside the window was gone. To Bear’s relief, the old man’s attention returned to him and Ren.
“Leave them to me, Barrett,” Dean said. “You just keep an eye on the searchers, make sure we’ve got everybody out there looking for Ariel.”
Barrett scowled, but he backed away and Dean took his place.Bear sat down once more, before he fell down.
Outside, the rain had returned and there was a strong wind blowing outside the cabin walls. It was pitch black out there. Bear thought about the girl he’d seen outside the window. He knew it wasn’t Ariel Redfield—they’d all seen photos of her before taking up the search so there wouldn’t be any confusion if and when she was found. There was the story about the girl who’d gone missing out here back in the 1940s. That girl had been wearing a red sweater. It made sense that her spirit might still be here, he supposed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she had something to tell him, though.
He thought back to the redheaded man’s words. She knows where Ariel is, but she won’t tell me. Was that really what it was? And how was Claude able to see her, when so far Bear had never met anyone able to see the dead the way he could?
“You’re too quiet,” Dean said, breaking into his reverie. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs. How are you holding up?”
Bear looked at his arm. Dean had wrapped it with a rough bandage as soon as they’d taken him and Ren from the clearing, but it still leaked blood and hurt like hell. He frowned when he met Dean’s eyes again, but Ren cut in before he could say anything.
“How do you think he’s holding up?” she demanded. “You shoot him, kidnap us, don’t tell us anything about what’s happening. Bring us to this house in the middle of nowhere and then you don’t even let me take care of him. He is in shock. We are both afraid. Neither of us are doing well.”
Her accent got stronger when she was angry, Bear noted—he’d never really heard that before. Of course, so far he’d managed to avoid pissing her off. Based on the temper she was showing now, he decided that was a good precedent to follow.
“I’m sorry it had to happen that way,” Dean said. And he did look sorry, Bear had to give the guy that. The rest of the group had gone off to separate corners, though Barrett remained at the door, watching Dean with Bear and Ren. “I didn’t care for the way that dog was looking at me, though. He was getting ready to take me or my family out if I didn’t act.”
“You’re wrong,” Bear said. The words came out terse, impatient. Ren glanced at him—warning him to stay calm. Around Flint K-9, he was known for being agreeable, quiet. He rarely talked back, almost never lost his temper. Right now, though, he wasn’t feeling all that charitable. He didn’t try to conceal the disdain in his voice. “The dog was just reacting to the energy you were putting out. He wouldn’t have acted unless he knew we were in danger. Which, it turns out, was pretty accurate.”
Instead of being annoyed at the words, Dean smiled. He continued studying Bear for another few seconds, giving the impression that he was in some other place, thinking of something else completely.
“Your mum’s old boss—Brock Campbell. I knew him, you know,” Dean said.
Bear stilled. He tried to read the man’s thoughts as another cadre of black threads began dancing around the room, but it was hard to focus.
“Good for you,” Bear said. He kept his voice even.
“I was sorry to hear about him passing,” Dean continued. Still watching Bear, poking at him with the words. “It was pretty sudden, wasn’t it?”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t remember much.”
“Brock and your mum were pretty close, then?” Dean continued, undeterred. “How close were they, exactly?”
Ren had wrapped a blanket around him, but Bear was still shivering. His skin was tight with pain and fear, brittle with cold.
When he was little, he used to think maybe he had superpowers that he hadn’t discovered yet. Sometimes he could read people’s thoughts, right? Did that mean he could do other things that other kids couldn’t? Start fires? Throw furniture across the room with the power of his own mind?
He couldn’t do anything like that, though. All he could do was see things others couldn’t see; sense things they didn’t sense. Sometimes, hear things they couldn’t hear.
More often than not, he wished the powers—or sensitivity, as Ren called it—would just disappear.
Before he could respond, Ren interrupted.
“Can we talk about this later? Unless you want him to die, you need to let me take care of him. Now.”
Normally Bear would have piped up, told her it was okay—done anything to keep this asshole from fixing his attention on her. Right now, though, he could barely think straight, let alone come up with the power of speech.
“You’re right,” Dean said with a nod. He actually looked chastened. “I’m sorry, let’s get you two upstairs. Wendy will check on you through the night to make sure you don’t need anything.”
“Thank you,” Ren said. Once more, she helped Bear to his feet. He hadn’t prepared himself for the move, and pain rocked
through him. He felt himself go pale, a barrel rolling in his gut. Ren caught him before he could sit back down again, and he leaned heavily against her.
They made their slow, painful way up the stairs.
* * *
Chapter 13
I GAVE UP ON SLEEPING by three-thirty the next morning. We were staying in the Serenity Motel in Shaftsbury, a place that was clean, quiet, and cheap… Clean and quiet were a nice bonus, but the biggest selling point had definitely been the price—along with the fact that they allowed dogs, which was obviously key. I got up, took a shower, and then sat by the window and stared into the darkness, waiting for sunrise. Phantom slept peacefully at my feet. Minion and Casper were both in their crates, finally asleep after hours of pacing and whining. Neither of them were happy to be without their people for the night.
I could hardly blame them; I felt the same way. The double bed beside mine was disturbingly empty, Bear’s things strewn across the cheap polyester comforter. He’d had just enough time to drop his backpack before we dove into the search earlier that day. I kept staring at that backpack. Ren had sewn patches on it, most of them related to animals: pit bulls and SAR, animal rescue, vegetarian slogans—Bear embraced vegetarianism by the time he was six, forcing me along with him, and Ren had taken things a step further by going vegan not long after she and Carl began working with us.
The backpack was open, a lighter jacket than he’d worn today peeking out the top. I hadn’t gone through the rest of the bag. It wouldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know about my son, anyway. There would be no iPad, no laptop, no books or journals… Bear has always been a child of action, not contemplation. Part of that is the dyslexia he was diagnosed with at nine, but I think it’s also his natural inclination. At three years old, long before we were fighting about schoolwork, he would invariably choose being with the dogs over watching TV or being read to. That inclination has continued over the years, meaning he pays little attention to the technology so many of his peers are obsessed with.
Lately, Bear had been complaining about sharing a room with me when we were out on searches. No one else has to share a room, he’d said the last time we had the discussion. Look at it this way, I said. At least we’re not sharing a bed the way we did when you were little. He hadn’t been impressed with my response, but it had effectively shut down the discussion. That time.
At four o’clock, with the world still pitch dark outside, I got up and went outside with the dogs. The air was cold and damp after heavy rains the night before, and there was a stillness that didn’t sit well with me. Instead of the calm I usually feel when I’m outside, all I felt was claustrophobia and unease—the trees too close, the world too quiet.
Normally, this would be the time when I’d take the dogs for a run, something I’ve been doing since Bear was small. By five a.m. most mornings, we have the whole pack out running trails together. By the time he was four or five, Bear was running with us—not always able to keep pace with me, but never far behind.
“Come,” I called to Casper and Phantom once we were out in Serenity’s parklike grounds. So far, Minion had been velcroed to me since we set foot outside. Phantom returned to my side readily, but Casper didn’t budge. He stood at the edge of the woods with his nose up, scenting the air. “Caz, come.” I slapped my hand on my thigh. He whined, staring into the woods. His white fur was as good as a beacon in all that darkness, and I turned my flashlight in his direction.
“He’ll be back soon, Casper. We’ll get him back.”
Phantom and Minion sat back on their haunches, their attention directed at Casper. If there was something out in the woods, my shepherd at least would still be on her feet—which meant Bear’s pit bull was just being difficult. Not an uncommon problem where Casper is concerned.
“Casper!” I said. More sharply this time. He glanced at me, then turned back toward the woods. Rather than stepping into the trees, he started with a slow, loping gait along the tree line.
Annoyed, I looked at Phantom. I’d been wrong about her having no interest in the woods, though—her ears were pricked forward, her body on alert despite being seated, a steadfast gaze directed into those trees. Minion got to her feet. I took a step forward. Instantly, Phantom was up. She put her body in front of mine without a sound, blocking my way.
“Heel, Phan.” She didn’t move. When I tried to take another step forward, her body block became more aggressive, until she was actively herding me away from the woods. “Casper!” I said, louder this time. Frustration was fast being overridden by fear, though fear isn’t something I usually associate with the wilderness. “Damn it, come.”
The pit bull took one last look into the woods, whimpered once more, and then turned toward me. The tension still in his compact, muscled body, he returned to my side.
“Have we got bogeymen we should be worrying about out here on top of everything else?” I heard a familiar voice ask behind me. Festus joined the pack with surprising enthusiasm considering the amount of restraint he’d shown around Phantom earlier, and I turned to greet Cheryl. To my surprise, Wade was with her. Both of them still in flannel pajamas. Hmm.
“I don’t know about bogeymen,” I said. “But something doesn’t feel right out there.”
Too dignified to join in, Phantom remained beside me while the other dogs played. Minion and Casper were both young dogs roughly the same size, and I was pleased to see how well they got along with the newcomer.
“Something hasn’t felt right here since this whole thing started,” Cheryl said.
“I’ll be glad when we get your kids back and can put this whole thing to bed,” Wade said.
“Amen to that,” Cheryl agreed.
Festus, as second-most senior dog in the group, left the younger dogs and came over to join Phantom. They touched noses in a brief greeting and then settled down together. Meanwhile, Casper and Minion chased each other through the darkness, Minion having pulled herself out of her funk, at least for the moment. Neither of them seemed even tempted to go into the woods now.
“Did you talk to Ren’s father?” Cheryl asked me.
“Yeah,” I said. The conversation hadn’t been a good one. I thought again of the fear and anger in his voice—anger I knew was directed at me, though he said nothing. I had let something happen to his little girl. In his place, I knew I wouldn’t be nearly as calm. “He said to keep him posted.”
“He’s not coming here?” Wade asked.
“Not unless he’s needed. His choice,” I added at Wade’s expression. “I think if he stays on the island he has enough to distract him that maybe he won’t let this eat him up.” I paused. “Or maybe he just doesn’t trust himself to be near me after I let this happen.”
“You didn’t let anything happen,” Cheryl said. “Last I checked, you weren’t the sons of bitches roaming the woods with shotguns and not enough sense to keep the thing holstered. Bear and Ren both wanted to be here. I just spent the morning with them, and that came through loud and clear. They both trained to be here.”
Behind us, the parking lot’s motion-sensitive light came on before I could respond. All three of us fell silent, watching as one of the big black federal SUVs pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine. I couldn’t see who got out of the driver’s side, but a woman got out of the passenger’s side.
Rita Paulsen, I realized after a minute.
Her voice was raised, though we weren’t close enough to make out her words. The driver came around to her side of the vehicle, and I came to attention. It was Agent McDonough. The two walked together to the same motel room, voices still raised.
“Hmm,” Cheryl whispered to me, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I would’ve thought the Feds weren’t so cheap they’d make their agents bunk together.”
“Ssh,” I hushed her. The two agents went into the room together, still apparently arguing. McDonough shut the door behind them.
“Same old same old,” Wade said, dismissing what we’d seen with a sh
rug. “Birds and bees do it, why shouldn’t up-tight federal agents?”
Cheryl’s lips tightened, but she didn’t offer any further commentary.
We were on our way back to our rooms, the dogs worn out and the chill of the night settled into my bones, when the same motel door opened again. Our entire party hung back, though there was no way we hadn’t been seen. I watched as Rita left the room, saying something to McDonough before she turned her back on him and walked away. What caught me, though, was the way he watched her go. Something unmistakably human, almost heartbreaking, in his eyes before he closed his door once more.
#
The girl in the red sweater returned a few times over the course of the night, her pale face appearing in the bedroom’s second-story window. Every time she did, Bear heard the rattling at the windows. He saw her just outside, caught in the rain, her mouth open in a silent scream. He’d seen the pictures of Ariel and Melanie Redfield; just as he’d thought, this girl was neither of them. She was older, for one thing. There was something about her, though, that went beyond that—a timelessness that suggested to him that she wasn’t part of the search they were doing now.
The third time she returned, it was 4:22 according to the battery-powered clock on the bedside table. Ren was asleep, her breathing even and her body heavy against him. It was uncomfortable, especially with the pain in his arm, but he’d slept most of his life with something beside him—everything from bear cubs to pit bulls to a litter of skunk kits, once. He was just grateful not to be alone.
“Mary,” he said when the girl appeared again, recalling the name of the girl who had gone missing years before. She stared at him, half quizzical, half shocked. She hadn’t expected to be heard, he realized. That happened a lot. People, spirits...whatever you wanted to call them, would appear to him. Throw things, scream in frustration, or simply walk past, and when he acknowledged them, it invariably set them back as much as—if not more than—it did him.