My finger hovers over the doorbell ringer. The door here is always locked. Ringing is the only way in, and then the door will only open if you’re recognized and expected. While they’re definitely not expecting me, I’m not worried about being unwelcome. What I am worried about is the wave of shit pursuing me. Last thing I want is for it to crash down on more people who don’t deserve to have their world undone. The van full of unconscious people, and my shredded back, urge my finger forward.
Inside, I hear gentle bells chime.
I look up at the camera mounted to the porch’s ceiling and try to smile.
Three locks unlatch before the large wooden door swings inward. A smiling woman with long, braided white hair and blue eyes steps onto the porch, arms open wide to embrace me. “Daniel!”
Sheba—that’s not her real name—is dressed in tight jeans and a colorful flannel shirt. She looks more like a farmer than…what she is, but the garb matches her unassuming and caring personality.
Before she reaches me, I hold up my hands, stopping her short and preventing her from wrapping her arms around my tacky, blood-soaked back.
“What’s wrong?” she says, eyes already scouring the parking lot for trouble.
“Need your help,” I tell her.
“Anything,” she says. “You know that.”
After a gracious nod, I say, “Clear the building.”
She scans the parking lot again, this time spotting the VW van. “This is serious?”
I make a slow turn so she can see my back. “Why I didn’t let you hug me.”
“Shit, Daniel. Okay. Hold on.” She hustles back inside and a moment later, an alarm is blaring. Thumping footsteps resound from different parts of the building. Raised voices. Rising confusion. Several men and a few women in various states of redressing file out of the front door. Some are together, but most of them avoid each other’s gaze, and mine. They’re all here for the same thing, but that doesn’t keep them from feeling shame.
I don’t judge them for it. Being alone for five years, I understand the temptation, and that most people are here for the affection rather than pure sex. Sheba once told me that while sex is almost always part of the deal, most of her girls’ time is spent talking and cuddling. The clients are sad, lonely people who, for some reason, can’t make an intimate connection without paying for it. I don’t subscribe to their methods, and I look forward to the day when Sheba decides to close shop, but we’ve all got our hang-ups. Some people’s are just more obvious…and illegal in most of the country.
A man who couldn’t be bothered to dress, is the last out the door, holding his clothing, front and back, to conceal himself. He all but dives into an open convertible before speeding off without dressing.
“What did you say to them?” I ask when Sheba returns.
“Only that a private investigator was here asking questions.” With a chuckle, she steps toward the door, waving for me to follow.
“Actually,” I say. “I could use a hand. Or a few.”
She looks back to the VW van, which is now alone in the lot. “What’s going on, Daniel? I want to help you, but I need to have some kind of idea of what we’re getting involved in. Same way you did when I first approached you.”
How do I answer this question? The truth isn’t going to put anyone at ease and could put Sheba and her staff in trouble. But I can’t lie to her, either. “It’s not very different from what I helped you with, except…it’s children.”
“You have kids in that van?”
I nod. “And there are still people hunting them down. Violent people.”
She looks at my back. “They did that to you?”
“Did worse to the kids, and if they find them… Look, if I tell you more than that—”
She holds up a hand, silencing me. “We’ll take care of it.” Then she moves in close and puts a hand on my chest. “How are you doing, aside from all this? It was two days ago, right?”
I can’t help but smile. I haven’t spoken to Sheba since the last time I stepped down from this porch, but she still remembers what we talked about. Other than Wini, she’s the only person I ever opened up to about Kailyn. That she remembers the date is impressive.
“I’m okay,” I tell her. “Better this time around.”
“You have friends?”
“New ones,” I say. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
She slides her hand from my chest to my hip. It’s not seductive at all, but it still makes me uncomfortable. Her fingers push against the envelope tucked inside. “Still there.”
I don’t need to answer.
“Still closed.”
She stares up into my eyes, unflinching. I’m not sure what to say. Any response is going to sting. “We should get them inside. And I could use a patch up before it starts to hurt.”
Her disappointment over my inability to let go of the past shifts to astonishment. “It doesn’t hurt now?” She looks at my ruddy-brown stained back and shakes her head. “I’ve got a few clean rooms. And mine. And the lounge. How many are we bringing in?”
“Three of them are conscious…”
Sheba reels back. “How many are unconscious?
“Eight. Four children, four adults. One of them is a sheriff…” I wait, part of me expecting a negative reaction.
“I’m not doing anything illegal,” she says, throwing some sass into the statement.
“One of them is Wini.”
Sass becomes concern. “Is she okay?”
“I think so, but…” I look to the night sky and see only stars. “We need to get them inside.”
Sheba gives a quick nod and heads for the door.
“Sheba,” I say, and she hangs back, “just…some of these kids might look a little off.”
A single raised eyebrow rebukes me. “You remember where you are, right? ‘A little off’ pretty much describes our clientele. We’ll treat them right.” Then she’s gone and barking directions at the people inside, who are no doubt slipping into a change of clothes and hiding the non-child friendly décor and accessories.
I realize that to the outside world, this is probably the last place a responsible adult should bring a handful of children rescued from slave-traders, but that’s also why it’s the perfect place to bring them. Unless we were tracked somehow, no one is going to sleuth their way here.
Twenty minutes later, everyone is inside. The kids are all on the first floor, which has a southwestern vibe, and with the removal of a few art pieces, is actually quite homey. Young, Wini, Godin, and Lindo are laid out in bedrooms whose décor remains questionable. I’m actually looking forward to Wini waking up in a brothel. Should be fun.
But first, I need to bid our new friend a fond farewell, or attempt to.
“Sure you don’t need any more help?” Harley asks, eyeing the brothel from the driver’s seat of his van. He’s a good guy, but I’m not about to risk another person’s life, no matter how much he’d like to spend time getting to know Sheba’s girls.
“You can help by not telling anyone about this.” When I sense his disappointment, I double down. “The people looking for us are dangerous. If they connect you to us—”
“Then let me stay, man. I can help.”
Damn it. I was hoping Harley’s mellow personality and willingness to please would make him amenable to moving on, but he’s intrigued by the mystery of what’s happening…and the brothel.
Before I can think of another tactic to take, Jacob startles me. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Harley.”
Our hippie rescuer starts to talk, but Jacob stops him short, placing a hand on the man’s bare arm and saying, “You’re relieved to be leaving because it’s dangerous with us, and even more dangerous to talk about anything you’ve seen. It’s okay to be afraid, but it will fade as long as you don’t think about us. Thanks again for helping, and drive safe.”
Jacob pulls his hand away and steps back.
Harley’s eyes are wide and no longer looking at the brothel wi
th any kind of interest. He offers a frantic nod and puts the van in reverse. “Right on, man. Just…” Harley looks me in the eyes, the fear in his reflecting my own. “…be careful.”
We watch Harley drive away into the night. When he’s out of sight, I ask, “Does putting emphasis on words help…you know…influence people’s emotions?”
“That was for you,” Jacob says. “So you’d know what I was doing.”
I smile. “Thanks for the—”
A scream cuts me short.
It’s Lindo, shrieking the way someone does when they’re dying, slowly and horribly. When I charge through the house, crash into his room, and see him twisting on the floor, that’s exactly what I think is happening.
27
“Hey!” I drop to my knees, the room’s red shag carpet softening the impact. “Lindo!”
He’s lost in a frenzy. Teeth gnash. Eyes rolled back. It’s like a seizure, but his muscles aren’t twitching. He’s flailing, clutched by some nightmare he’s trying to fight against.
“Wake up!” I shout, but there’s no reaching the man.
When the door swings open, I’m surprised to find Jacob. This isn’t the kind of scene a normal kid runs toward. But Jacob is far from normal. He’s absorbing the mass of emotions roiling from Lindo. I doubt there’s anywhere in the house he could hide from them.
Sheba arrives at the door, out of breath, too slow to stop Jacob. “Sorry, I—is he tripping?”
“He’s lost,” Jacob says. “Terrified.”
A shiver runs through Jacob’s body. He’s dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of sandals now, thanks to the collection of clothing Sheba keeps, just in case a client’s gets soiled. It’s all a little loose on him, but it looks far better than the coveralls the other kids are still wearing.
Jacob falls to his knees beside Lindo’s torso while I hold the man’s arms down. The kid is so preoccupied with the cascades of emotion that he’s oblivious to the room around him, decorated with neon breasts, a rotating bed, and a couch shaped like a part of a woman that I doubt he’s seen, or would recognize.
“Hold him still,” Jacob says.
I manage to pin Lindo’s right arm under my leg and hold his left against the floor. He goes nearly still when Sheba puts her weight on Lindo’s legs and kicks the door shut behind her.
Jacob reaches out and clutches the sides of Lindo’s head. “Ready?”
I give a nod and Lindo’s body reacts to Jacob’s emotional manipulation by arching up and nearly pulling free from my grasp.
“What are you doing to him?” Sheba looks about ready to leave her post and tackle Jacob.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, and after a silent argument with our eyes, she decides to trust me and doubles her efforts.
Jacob sighs. He’s in pain. Starting to shake. “He feels lost.”
“Can you help him?” I ask.
“I…think…” Jacob’s shaking starts to match Lindo’s.
Seeing the kid suffer triggers a reaction with no thought. I reach out and put my hand on his, instantly becoming a conduit for the emotion flowing between the two. On one side I feel the calm Jacob is trying to project. On the other is Lindo’s chaos.
My presence in the loop lets me experience it, but does nothing to change it. Because I’m doing nothing to help, I decide, and I focus my thoughts. Not on Jacob. Or on Lindo. Or on anything else that I’ve experienced over the past few days.
I think about Kailyn.
About the day we met.
I was already a police officer. New to the job. Stressed out by it. Not because it was dangerous, but because I was handing out speeding tickets when my ambitions were so much greater.
Kailyn had been going 66 in a 55. Took her five full minutes to pull over. She hadn’t seen the lights or heard the siren’s whoop because she was on the phone. When she did pull over, I approached her window expecting to find a teenager or a belligerent adult. Instead, I was greeted by a woman in tears that had nothing to do with being pulled over or getting a ticket.
“Ma’am,” I said. “Are you okay?”
She exited her car, wrapped her arms around me, and wept into my chest. That was how we met, and despite her broken heart, I felt lighter. I felt whole. When we separated ten minutes later, she smiled up at me, thanked me, and apologized for speeding. She began to explain that her father had been in the hospital, that things had taken a turn for the worse. She was headed to see him when she received the call: her father had passed.
When she began to weep again, I pulled her against me again, infusing her with the calm that she somehow made me feel. We didn’t speak. Not during the embrace. And not during the remainder of the day as I escorted her to the hospital, and then to her home. At the day’s end, she parted with a final embrace and my card. The following day, she called and asked for my help. I was a stranger to the family, but I helped with the funeral prep, and stood beside Kailyn during the wake, infusing her with all the strength I could muster. Until her own death, we were together every day thereafter.
With my hand on Jacob’s, I try to find the same calm and strength that healed Kailyn. I try to do the same for Jacob and the far less deserving Lindo.
Jacob stops shaking first and his own calm starts winning the battle. Thirty seconds later, Lindo’s body falls still. When all sense of his mania has faded, Jacob draws his hands back.
He turns to me. The tears in his eyes match mine. “I didn’t know that was possible.”
I wipe my eyes. “Neither did I.”
We both laugh, but Sheba isn’t amused. “What the fuck was that?”
“I’m an empath,” Jacob answers the same way a plumber might say, ‘I’m a plumber.’
Sheba raises a single eyebrow. She’s not buying it, but also doesn’t press. She nods her head to Lindo and then directs her gaze toward me. “And him? If he’s epileptic—”
“We can ask him,” Jacob says. “He’s waking up.”
Lindo groans. His eyes blink open and shift from Jacob to me, and then to Sheba. He looks confused at her presence, but addresses me. “You can let go.”
I release his arms and Sheba rolls off his legs. He pushes himself up, rubbing the wrist I had pinned beneath my knee. “Thank you,” he says to Jacob. “I don’t think I could have come out of that on my own.”
Jacob gives a nod and a grin, a trace of pride in his otherworldly eyes.
Lindo turns his attention to me. “You handled yourself well. Thanks for saving me.”
“Wasn’t just you,” I point out, not wanting him to think we’re buddies.
“You could have left me behind,” he points out, and he’s right. Part of me thinks I should have.
“How much did you see?” I ask.
“Enough. But mostly ceilings and floors. I saw what they sent after you, though. They’re new to me. Don’t think I could have done any better.”
“What happened to you?” I ask. It’s just the first of many questions in my personal queue, and one I think he’ll answer without a filter.
“The missile that missed us…” He glances at Sheba again.
“She’s okay,” I tell him. “I trust her.”
He considers that for a moment and then says, “It was an EMP.”
“EM-what?” Sheba asks. “And who was shooting missiles at you?”
“It was just one missile,” I say, trying to sound like it was no big deal. “And it missed.”
“Clearly,” she says.
Lindo leans against the circular bed and seems to notice his surroundings for the first time. His face screws up in confusion, but then he just rolls with it like he’s seen stranger before, and I’m fairly certain he has. “Actually, it did exactly what it was designed to. EMP. Electromagnetic pulse. The explosion kicked off a burst of electromagnetic energy powerful enough to knock out electronics.”
“Including the stuff in your head,” I add.
“And yours,” he says, and I understand what he’s really telling m
e: I am no longer protected from the Others.
“Why not the van?” I ask. “I thought those things took out vehicles, too.”
“In theory, with some models, it’s possible,” Lindo says. “But most vehicle electronics are surrounded by lots of metal, which acts like a Faraday cage, hardening them from things like EMPs. The human head is far less protected.”
“So you no longer have all that…” I swirl my finger around his head. “…stuff going on. No satellite feeds. No night vision. No one listening or watching?”
He touches his right eye. “Can’t see out of this side at all.”
“Good,” I say. “About no one listening. Sorry about the eye.”
He studies me for a moment and then says, “You might never be safe again.”
“I’m neck deep already,” I say, “and we both know I’m not giving up these kids. To you, or to Aeron. I think I’ve earned some answers.”
He gives a nod. “Before the missile, I was telling you about the UFO crashes and reverse engi—”
“Not that,” I say. “And not anything else our agreement allowed you to tell me. I want to know what you’re still not supposed to tell me. What the people you work for have to know, but will do nothing about.”
“That’s…” Lindo turns to Sheba. “You should leave.”
Sheba crosses her arms. “This is my house.”
“Sheba,” I say, apologetic. “It’s for your own safety, and for everyone else who works here.” It’s twisted to anyone outside Sheba’s world, but she really does think of her girls as family. She’s protects them, even as she arranges for their bodies to be rented out. It’s a strange dichotomy, but it gets her to her feet and the door.
She pauses in the doorway. “Is anyone else going to wake up shrieking?”
“No,” I say, and then I offer a more honest, “I don’t think so.”
She rolls her eyes, leaves the room, and closes the door behind her.
The Others Page 17