Don't Look Now

by Michelle Gagnon

“We lost Turk.”

  “Lost?” Monica’s eyebrows shot up with alarm.

  “Not like that, he’s okay. At least, he was the last time we saw him, but . . . it’s a long story.” The thought of Turk brought exhaustion rushing back in.

  “Oh, dear.” Monica examined her closely. “You look like you’re about to keel over, Noa. When was the last time you slept?”

  It was a good question—Noa tried to remember. She hadn’t had one of her “real” sleeps in a few days. And she needed those; if she didn’t recharge at some point, she turned into the walking dead. She’d been staving off fatigue with mass amounts of caffeine, but she could feel the repercussions; her whole body seemed to be growing heavier and heavier. If she stayed upright much longer, it felt like she might start literally sinking into the ground.

  Aside from Zeke and Peter, the Forsythes were the only ones who knew about Noa’s “condition.” Thanks to their science and medical backgrounds, they’d been trying to find a way to alleviate her symptoms and get her back to normal. If such a thing is even possible, Noa thought darkly.

  “We’ve got a patient for you,” Zeke said. He’d slung his army duffel over one shoulder, and was still studiously avoiding Noa’s eyes.

  “I can see that.” Monica pulled on her glasses, her expression somber as she watched Remo and Danny carefully carry the girl from the van toward the house. “How bad?”

  “She’s been out cold since we got her last night,” Noa said.

  Monica’s lips pursed. “That could just be from the medication. Remo, please take her to the back bedroom. I’ll examine her immediately.”

  As they shuffled off toward the house with the girl, Monica’s eyes flicked over Taylor and Matt. She walked forward, beaming as she said, “Well, hello.”

  “This is Taylor and Matt,” Zeke explained. “We found them last night, too.”

  They rarely shared the exact details of their raids with the Forsythes. It was something they’d agreed upon on the outset; the less they knew, the safer they’d be if anything ever happened.

  “Hi,” Taylor said brightly. “Love your place.”

  “Why, thank you.” Monica smiled.

  Matt half hid shyly behind Taylor. Monica bent down and winked at him. “You know, I just took a pie out of the oven. It would be terribly naughty to have a piece before dinner, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  Matt hesitated, then squeaked, “Pie?”

  “Apple pie. I hope that’s all right,” Monica said.

  He nodded gravely, and she extended a hand. He took it and allowed her to lead him into the house. “Taylor, why don’t you help me get Matt settled, then I’ll check on your friend.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Taylor said brightly.

  Noa saw Monica’s eyebrows shoot up at that. Not many of the kids they brought here started out with “ma’am.” Half of them basically ended up calling her Mom, which was understandable. Noa had never heard an unkind word come out of the woman’s mouth. Monica Forsythe’s warmth, empathy, and overt goodness had a way of bringing around the most resentful and withdrawn kids.

  She and Zeke watched Monica hustle Matt and Taylor into the house.

  “It’s good to be back, huh?” she asked tentatively.

  Zeke merely grunted in response. Without looking at her, he stomped after them.

  Noa glowered at his retreating back. She’d be happy to clear the air, and discuss the whole gun thing like rational human beings. But if Zeke insisted on sulking, that was his choice. Maybe Monica could talk some sense into him. The older woman liked guns even less than she did.

  Exhausted though she was, Noa decided to walk down to the water. It would be total chaos for the next half hour as everyone got settled. Zeke would be assigning everyone to bedrooms in the main house and outlying buildings, Monica would be setting out food and examining her newest patient, the house would be buzzing with noise and activity. . . . The thought of it made Noa shudder.

  The chance for a few minutes to herself sounded like heaven. Ignoring the heaviness in her limbs, Noa ambled past the house and down the narrow sandy path that led to the water. The solar lights surrounding it gleamed faintly, illuminating swaying sea grass on either side, fields that the Forsythes had allowed to go wild. A slight breeze teased Noa’s hair, which had grown long; she’d borrow some scissors to cut it while she was here. Spend a few days resting up. Eat as much as she could whenever she was hungry. Among her many talents, Monica was a terrific cook. Despite the short notice, she’d probably set out a spread that would put Martha Stewart to shame.

  The path meandered past spindly trees bent nearly double from the wind, their long branches pointed accusingly inland. Noa wound through them, then came to a stop. She was at the top of a cliff, where the grassy slope ended in a sheer rocky precipice. Down below was a narrow strip of sand, a tiny private beach hidden on both sides by jagged rocks. It was only accessible by a set of wooden stairs carefully painted to match the dark gray rock face they rode down. The Forsythes had constructed them that way to guard against surfers who might try to sneak in and ride the point break. Not that they minded sharing, they explained, but once they’d gotten involved in the movement, they couldn’t risk strangers roaming the property. Noa eyed the stairs, debating whether she had the energy to make it down to the water in the dark. She’d love to take off her shoes and feel her feet sink into the sand as waves rushed over her ankles. But even if she could get down, the thought of climbing back up was daunting.

  Instead Noa plunked down on the grass, crossed her hands over her knees, and stared out at the water. It must be low tide; waves whispered faintly against the shore. Out at sea, the lights of fishing boats and sunset cruises bobbed up and down as they headed back to port. It was a rare clear night; the past few times she’d been here, the property had been shrouded by fog. Tonight she could see the stars plainly. She picked out the few constellations she knew: Orion, the Big Dipper. . . . She had a dim memory of her father pointing them out when she was a kid. They’d been lying in a field a lot like this one, but on the opposite side of the country, in Vermont. She’d nestled against the crook of his shoulder, her eyes drooping as he traced invisible lines across the night sky with his fingertips. . . .

  The next thing she knew, there were hands on her shoulders. Reflexively, Noa rolled away, struggling into a fighting stance. It was dark and cold, and she felt disoriented. Consequently, it took a second to register that the shadowy figure facing her was Roy Forsythe. His hands glowed in the moonlight as he held them out reassuringly. “Sorry, kiddo. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Roy,” Noa said with relief. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” His teeth flashed white in the gloom. “Did you decide that a bed would just be too darn comfortable?”

  “No, I just . . . I needed a minute alone. I must have fallen asleep.” Noa tried to shake away the cobwebs. That was the biggest problem—ever since the surgery, even though she needed far less sleep, when she finally drifted off it was incredibly hard to snap out of; Zeke had nicknamed it her “Noa coma.” Even now, her eyelids threatened to close. “What time is it?”

  “Late,” Roy declared. “Past ten. Monica was ready to mount a full search party, but I figured I’d check here first. Noticed that it seems to be your spot.”

  “Yeah,” Noa said, slightly embarrassed. “It’s nice here.”

  They stood in silence for a minute. The waves had picked up while she slept, and the tide had inundated the small beach, each wave chomping fresh bites out of the sand. Standing here, it was almost possible to pretend that all the ugliness in the outside world didn’t exist.

  “Let’s get you to the house,” Roy finally said. “I don’t want to have to worry about you rolling off the cliff in the middle of the night.”

  Noa smiled weakly and fell in step behind him, carefully picking her way back to the path. The solar lights were dimmer now; Monica always grumbled about how they barely held a few hours’ worth of charge, but
Roy refused to install anything that would drain more power from their generator. They lived almost completely off the grid, thanks to solar panels and a small windmill perched precariously farther along the cliff top. Noa had a lot of respect for that—she knew a thing or two about living off the grid.

  “So. Any changes?” Roy asked as they made their way back to the house.

  “Not really,” Noa said. “The sleeping and eating are pretty much the same.”

  “But no new symptoms?” he pressed.

  Noa shrugged, forgetting he wouldn’t be able to see that in the dark. “My eyes are getting worse, bright light really hurts now. But other than that, no. I haven’t tried to climb any buildings lately, so maybe my spider powers kicked in and I just don’t know it.”

  He chuckled at that. They walked in companionable silence back to the house. Noa knew from past experience that unless she chose to bring it up again, this was the last they would discuss it.

  When she and Zeke had first arrived months ago, she’d told the Forsythes the whole story. How she’d woken up on a table with an incision in her chest, how Peter’s doctor friend had taken an X-ray that proved she’d been given an extra thymus. How for some reason, that had resulted in a variety of weird symptoms, from healing superfast to the eating and sleeping thing. She’d appreciated the way that Monica and Roy had just listened, their faces filled with sympathy, backing off from questions when it was clear they made her uncomfortable.

  At the end of her first week, Roy had offered to perform some tests. He made it clear that neither of them wanted to put Noa through any more suffering, but there was a chance that with their expertise, they might be able to glean some answers. By then, Noa trusted them more than anyone she’d met in years, with the exception of Peter and Zeke. She’d given them blood samples, and DNA scrapings from the inside of her cheek. They didn’t have anything as advanced as an X-ray machine on their property, but they’d done an ultrasound.

  In the end, they hadn’t been able to draw any more conclusions than Cody had. But they’d promised to keep working on it.

  Noa wondered if any of that work had produced anything. It had been months now; on the last visit, she’d been too afraid to ask.

  Roy suddenly spoke up. “Monica mentioned that you and Zeke had some sort of fight.”

  “More of a disagreement,” Noa said, wondering how much Zeke had told them and how he’d framed it. She debated coming clean about the gun, but hesitated. She didn’t feel right about ratting him out, not before she’d had a chance to talk to him first.

  “Well, I hope you smooth it over. Hate to see you fighting,” Roy said diplomatically. “You know that boy’s crazy about you.”

  Noa shifted uncomfortably, glad he couldn’t see her face in the dim light. She mumbled something unintelligible.

  “The need not to look foolish is one of youth’s many burdens,” Roy said with a sigh. Seeing her raised eyebrows, he explained, “Updike.”

  “Who?” Noa asked. Roy was always doing that, quoting people she’d never heard of. And the quotes never made sense, either. But he was a nice guy, so she let it slide.

  “Never mind,” he said, sounding amused. “Just thinking out loud.”

  As they approached the house, a series of motion-detecting lights automatically clicked on. Caught in their beam, Roy turned to face her. He had the weather-beaten face of a farmer, despite his advanced degrees. A battered Grateful Dead baseball cap covered his close-cropped gray hair, and he was wearing a fleece jacket, jeans that were probably decades old, and battered black clogs.

  He was pretty much indistinguishable from every other middle-aged guy who strolled the streets of Santa Cruz sipping a fair-trade latte. But Noa knew better. Roy and Monica were special. She hadn’t met many people in her life who were truly good, all the way down to their core. The two of them had almost restored her faith in the rest of humanity. Almost. “It’s really good to be back,” she blurted out.

  Roy smiled warmly at her. “Well, it’s good to have you back, Noa. Too damn quiet around here with you kids gone. And Monica rides me something fierce when she doesn’t have anything to occupy her. You know she’s actually trying to get me to rebuild the old barn by hand? I swear, that woman will be the death of me. . . .”

  He chattered on as they approached the house. Despite the late hour, warm light spilled from the windows. The smell of roasted meat and potatoes wafted out the door as Roy held it open, setting Noa’s mouth watering and raising unexpected tears to her eyes. It looked and smelled like home, she realized. And she’d never expected to feel that way about a place again. Right on the heels of that thought came another, one conditioned in her by a lifetime of disappointments: It can’t last.

  Amanda fought back a yawn. After her confrontation with Mrs. Latimar, she’d almost skipped the two-hour study group for cultural anthropology class. But there was a test coming up in a few days, and she was woefully behind on the syllabus. She was hoping that one of her classmates would be willing to share notes, and then maybe she wouldn’t disgrace herself with another bad grade.

  She was regretting that decision now, though. They were sitting in a corner of the library, plopped in overstuffed chairs dragged into a rough circle. The heat was cranking, making it stiflingly hot. She’d stopped for green tea on the way here, but the caffeine had barely made a dent; she should have had an espresso, maybe even a double. Anything to help keep her eyes open.

  No one else seemed to notice that she was barely participating, though. For the past ten minutes the group had been engaged in a heated debate. Amanda had lost the thread of the discussion a few minutes in, focusing all her energy on staying awake. She should have skipped this, and emailed Jessica for her notes; she took the best ones anyway, and wouldn’t mind sharing if Amanda offered to trade last semester’s psych flash cards. She would’ve been better off getting a good night’s sleep; after all, tomorrow she had to figure out a long-term plan for Mrs. Latimar.

  Amanda had almost called Peter as she was leaving the Coalition, figuring he might have some thoughts. And also, she admitted to herself, because hearing his voice would steady her.

  Mason had already proved that he could get to her if he wanted to. But as the months had passed, that danger had become more of an abstract concept.

  Not anymore. Mrs. Latimar was plainly terrified. And somehow, the responsibility for extricating her and her granddaughter from this mess had landed squarely on Amanda’s shoulders.

  Still, in the end, she’d held off on calling. After the way they’d left things in the diner, she worried that the conversation would turn into another fight. And right now, just thinking about him made her feel like crying.

  Amanda sighed and surreptitiously checked her watch, repressing a groan when she saw that it was nearly eleven o’clock. She had a nine a.m. class, and she’d already missed it once this week. Plus she hadn’t done any of the reading for her feminist history class. . . .

  The mountain of obligations towering over her was overwhelming. Everything seemed to be slipping; she was falling so far behind, she might never catch up. A raw ball of panic formed in her stomach. She could feel it growing, slowly rising up her throat to choke her. . . .

  “Amanda? Are you okay?”

  Amanda tried to focus, but her vision had suddenly blurred. She opened her mouth to form the words I’m fine, but nothing came out. I have to get out of here, she thought, suddenly frantic. The walls were closing in, she was . . .

  Amanda dropped to the floor, twitching. Horrified faces faded in and out, gradually replaced by others: men in dark jackets, hunched over her. She kept trying to say that she was okay, she just needed a minute to rest, but no one seemed to understand her.

  She was lifted onto a stretcher and carried out into the night, a chorus of agitated voices following her. Amanda tried to protest, but her whole body felt rigid and locked, like it had suddenly become a prison she couldn’t escape.

  Red lights panned past overhe
ad, and she dimly realized they were putting her in an ambulance. Which was so absurd, it made her wonder if she was dreaming. They didn’t call an ambulance for people unless they were sick, and she was fine, just a little tired. Yes, that was it—this was only a nightmare.

  Which was why she thought nothing of it when the ambulance doors closed and Mason’s face appeared directly above her.

  Peter lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. According to his phone it was nearly three a.m., and he had to be up in four hours for school. But the weird conversation with Mason was playing over and over in his mind.

  Initially, he’d thought that Mason was threatening Noa. You’ll never find her! he’d typed, simultaneously wishing he could believe that was true.

  I’M NO LONGER INTERESTED IN FINDING HER, Mason wrote. I MERELY WANT ACCESS TO THE RESEARCH.

  Which was unexpected, and probably total bull. This had to be Mason’s twisted way of getting Peter to give Noa up. But he’d never let that happen; he wouldn’t contact her again, if that’s what it took. Even though the thought of it made him cringe. Why?

  THERE IS QUITE A BIT AT STAKE, PETER, AND IT DOESN’T JUST INVOLVE YOU, Mason wrote.

  Peter shook his head as he retorted, You’re Pike’s lapdog. You want the research, just ask him for it.

  Another beat, then Mason replied, I’M DISAPPOINTED IN YOU, PETER. IF YOU’D DUG DEEPER INTO MY FINANCIALS, YOU’D REALIZE THAT I WAS RELEASED FROM MY OBLIGATIONS TO PIKE & DOLAN FOUR MONTHS AGO.

  Released? In spite of everything, Peter’s face split in a grin. Mason had been fired? Something occurred to him, and he wrote, Really hoping I had something to do with that.

  APPARENTLY MR. PIKE WAS LESS THAN THRILLED BY THE WAY THE SITUATION WITH YOUR PARENTS WAS HANDLED.

  “Ha!” Peter said out loud. So he and Noa had accomplished something. Although if that was true, then why was Mason still following Peter? And why did he want those files? A suspicion formed in his mind. So, what? You want to blackmail Charles Pike?

  IF THAT’S WHAT I HAD IN MIND, PETER, I ALREADY HAVE AN EXTENSIVE ARSENAL AT MY DISPOSAL.