Anodyne Eyes
Page 8
Did he have to pee? Not too much for social graces, was she? Reminded him of . . . Who? It was on the tip of his tongue.
There was a tiny bladder urge, but he was still very thirsty. He shrugged and said, “Not really,” then took the water and started drinking before he even thought. Abruptly, he stopped and closed his eyes tight, feeling like a little boy wishing before blowing out the candles of his birthday cake, Please, let there be no poison.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s really fresh and pure water. There’s a spring in the basement. Turns out, this place has been here forever. The original wood and stone are what make it a good fortress.”
He rubbed his temple with his right hand, eyes still closed, trying to decide. Should he jump up and leave? But, wait a sec.
He opened his eyes and his hand was—shit! It felt great. No more redness or swelling from the dog bite. Gripping his hand a couple of times, he marveled at it.
“Yep. It’s an old antibiotic, Stone Age they tell me, but I get it fresh from a good friend and it works on dog bites. You’re going to be fine, Jeff.”
He had told her his name. Dumb. Then he remembered hers: Alexis. Pretty.
“Thanks for helping me. I don’t want to impose, though. Maybe I could take a few bottles of water and get on down the road.”
He heard a sound like blinds rattling closed and the light was out of his eyes. She had drawn the blinds over the window and was walking back toward him. She smiled. “You really should drink that. I made breakfast, too.”
It was like a switch clicked after her sentence and he chugged the rest of the quart bottle of water. Totally fabulous. He hadn’t tasted water that good since Colorado.
He stopped and stared into space. That’s where his home was: Denver. Another memory. Just like that.
“What are you grinning at?” She sat on a straight back chair in front of him, one eyebrow frowning lower than the other, lower lip puckered.
“I know where I’m going, now.”
“Yeah. You said north last night.”
“No, I mean exactly where: Denver, Colorado.”
“You’re going to walk there? You’ll need way more bottles of water than I have.”
It was weird. He felt like she already knew what he was going to say, and the way she looked, the corner of her beautifully green eyes raised a miniscule amount, but enough to say, That’s wonderful that you remember. She didn’t have to say it. It was there, pressing a warmth into his forehead that eased his anxiety.
“How far is it, you think? I mean to—”
“Dallas to Denver is a little over a thousand miles. You’ll get there in about four months on foot, if,” and she paused, “if you have no problems along the way.”
She held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s eat. There’s fresh scrambled eggs and milk and OJ.”
He grabbed her hand and let her pull on him enough to feel her strength. Standing was like the easiest thing he’d ever done. And walking with her, holding onto her hand as long as he dared was . . .
The memory of another young woman with blond hair, French-kissing him in the back of a bus made him drop her hand quickly. What was her name? He could never see her face. The memory kept coming back, but never the face. Or the name.
Alexis moved on ahead of him, but a one-eyed glance told him she knew. And she knew even more; he was sure of it.
“Do you know me?” He blurted it. What the hell. She seemed so familiar.
“Nope. Here, you sit on this side of the table. I’ll get the food.”
The table was old, burnished and scarred wood, oak he thought, with a thick and solid pedestal flowing from the center to the floor. The wooden chairs were mismatched, straight-backed, like the one she sat in earlier, a whitish wood and not very substantial, though when he sat on one it was not rickety.
She had two plates on the table and jars of juice and milk poured before he could get comfortable. “Dig in.” But she didn’t need to say anything. He already had a mouthful. The scrambled eggs were divine. My God. He hadn’t had this for—another memory popped up: a man, balding, slight, but kind and loving, serving him scrambled eggs and hotcakes. It felt right. He was the guy who lacked social graces. Is that you, Dad?
“You’re going back to your family, then?” She said it between bites, casual, like she didn’t already know what he was thinking. It was not fair. He wanted to know her thoughts, too.
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
Chapter 12
She didn’t smile with her mouth and kept chewing. But her eyes, those peaceful green aspen leaves fluttering in a spring breeze, said it all. She was toying with him. And enjoying it.
Why did he feel so relaxed? He didn’t remember feeling that way since he had woken up months ago. Was the food drugged?
He stopped eating and inspected the room more carefully. If he was drugged he might have to get out quickly, and he wanted to know where her henchmen were coming from.
The front door was about thirty feet away, a typical service station glass door with an aluminum frame, but with plywood instead of glass. The large front window had also been boarded up except the very top two feet, about seven feet up. On the wall hung a black phone, the old kind with a square, punch-button dial and yellow, equally old, curlicue line twisted on itself, so long the loop of it touched the floor. The stove was white with black, cast iron grates over each of the four burners. One large cast iron frying pan sat on top, scrambled eggs inside. The chair he’d slept in was down the hallway, and the back door was gray-painted steel with a few streaks of rust. A metal crossbar of probably half-inch by two-inch latched it shut. That’s what had clanged after the door shut last night. The place was indeed a fortress. There was no sign of henchmen, henchwomen, trolls, little evil Chucky. No sounds of someone sharpening an axe in another room. He began to feel foolish.
Next to the stove was a white fridge with rounded corners and many black smudges and yellow scuffs. On one side was an old three-by-five paper photo partially curled, one corner held to the fridge by a quarter-sized magnet, shaped like a red apple. The photo showed snowcapped mountains as backdrop to a man and woman, one arm around the other, smiling, obviously in love. The man’s eyes were green, exactly like Alexis’s.
He studied her again. She wore a coffee-colored, long-sleeved pullover, worn, loose-fitting jeans and white running shoes. She was not looking, only chewing and pushing food around her plate with her fork. No. She was a good person. No drugs. No henchmen. She had a family for Christ’s sake. He could trust her. She must think him some kind of joke, a coward in uniform.
He started eating again. She looked up and smiled. “You’re an Army guy, going north to Denver after a God-awful war. I’d say the draw is your family. I can’t read your mind. But that seems logical.”
He stuck a finger in one ear, pretending to clean out the wax, but really wanting to dig out the stupid. “Sorry. It seemed like you knew exactly what I was thinking. Guess I’ve been dodging weird people too long.” He smiled back, not a great smile, but friendly, he thought.
He nodded to the picture on the fridge. “That your mom and dad?”
Her grin broadened and she sighed deeply. “Yeah. I miss them a lot.”
“They live in Colorado, too?”
“No, that’s . . .” She stopped and her eyes got flat, almost suspicious. “Somewhere else.”
He ate more eggs, swallowed the milk, and almost lost his thought, tasting that cold, sweet, creamy, goddamn delicious milk. “How’d you get milk out here?”
She shrugged. The humor came back in her eyes. “There’s a farm down the road.”
He choked. Maybe it’s not pasteurized? What did that mean? He remembered reading something about tuberculosis and other weird diseases from unpasteurized milk.
“You are pretty filled with worry about everything, aren’t you?” She put a hand on his, a warm, lovely hand. “It’s okay. The milk is safe. No diseases. You’re good.”
He hung his head. That had to be Dad. And his name was . . . ?
“Really.” She sounded concerned. “The milk is fine. You don’t have to worry.”
He popped his head up. “I believe you. Funny, but I believe everything you tell me. It’s like I already know you. Are you sure we haven’t met?”
She shook her head. “I’d remember someone like you.”
He finished his milk and OJ; the sweet nectar was so good he sighed after he put the empty glass down. “I haven’t had a meal like this, well, not since before.”
He frowned at her. “Why are you out here in the middle of nowhere? You must not be over sixteen.”
She started cleaning up the dishes. He stood up and followed her to the sink, on the other side of the refrigerator from the stove. On the way he scooped up the last of the eggs in his fingers and tossed them in his mouth.
“Do that at home, do you? I’m much older than I look.” It felt so comfortable for her to say these things, like they had lived together for ages. Her back was to him, lean and long, blond hair in waves as fresh as last night, her clean soapy smell strong.
He considered her remark. “Yeah. I guess I did. It’s just . . .”
She put the dishes in the sink and turned around, peering at him. “What?”
“I only remember tiny pieces like that. I hate it. Sometimes I want to scream.” He stared at the floor.
“So scream. I won’t care.” Then she laughed. He hadn’t laughed in so long he joined in right away and before long felt like hugging her for making him feel so good.
He wiped the happy tears from the corners of his eyes. “Thank you.”
She lowered her eyes and tilted her head down slightly. “Glad I could help.”
He wanted to gently raise her chin in his hand and kiss her. She looked up at him, and her eyes said okay. So he did.
Chapter 13
Her lips were full, and he felt pleasantly lost on a beautiful beach, waves washing over him, sun melting his fear. Love flowed into his heart so strong he wanted to cry and cheer all at once, but instead he relaxed and soaked in every second.
He wasn’t aware of time, or how long they kissed, but felt her break the bond. He opened his eyes and fell into hers, eyes as deep as the ocean. The sensation of floating in a warm bath massaged him, and knowing he could stay there forever if he wanted.
She touched his cheek with her hand. “I think I love you, Jeff.”
Without looking away—how could he, this was heaven—he placed his hand over hers on his cheek. “I’m not sure how this can happen. We . . . You . . . ?”
“Shh. I know. You’ve been filled with technology, hate for others, war. That’s done. You must find your father, and I’ll help. We’ll do it together.”
Memories flooded him. A key turned and a door opened. He’d been a star basketball player in his high school, shared the back seat of a ski bus with a girl named Krista—more than shared. He’d run away from that responsibility, volunteered to serve in the Oil War and was sent to East Texas, where a crazy sergeant tried to kill him. He’d seen the slaughter of men on a battlefield, heard the aftermath of ravens and coyotes tearing at human flesh, and fought a final battle sloshing through tea-colored Louisiana bayous. And then came the explosion.
Before the War, his dad had been there. He was in some secret outfit, writing computer programs and gone most of the time. But Jeff loved him. His dad was . . . Dan Trotter.
“That’s it!” He blurted. She backed off, let her hand fall from touching him and he felt the memory floodgate close. The spell was broken.
“What?”
“My dad’s name is Dan Trotter. He worked for the CIA or something like that. We lived in Colorado, and that’s where I’m going. I think I have a sister, too.” He frowned at her. “Are you like a magician or a witch or something? I mean like the Harry Potter kind of magician, or Glenda the Good Witch in Oz?”
“No.” She turned away, her voice low and soft, definitely unhappy and hurt.
“I meant it in a good way. You gave me back memories in two minutes that I’ve been pushing to find for months. That’s more than good. It’s fantastic. It seemed like you had some kind of—I don’t know—Magic. There’s no other word for it.”
She turned and faced him. “Yes there is. It’s called empathy.”
He didn’t want to feel the suspicion, and even though he did feel good about her, even better than good, an ingrained suspicion about anyone new, especially as weird as this, overpowered him. He could feel his eyes widening and his head shaking. “There was more to it than that. I know when someone feels for me, and that was much more. You opened a pitcher inside me and poured everything back into the right place. I haven’t felt this . . . this whole since before the explosion.”
She met his gaze again, and he wanted to climb back into the bath and float away, only now he wanted to be in the warm water with her, naked.
She said, “I have special talents I inherited from my father. Kind of weird DNA. It allows me to help others.”
He jumped up. “I knew it!”
Then he shook his head to release the grip of her gaze, worried that her look was hypnotizing him, but once again feeling like a foolish little boy with stupid thoughts. “That’s like, not possible. I may have had my cage rattled, but I know there are no such things as witches, and there’s no way you can read my mind. I don’t care who your dad is. I did a paper on that once—my science teacher wanted us to look at government conspiracy theories. There’ve been lots of experiments in the government, but never anything proven.”
He squinted at her. “Did you give me LSD or something? Is this all a weird acid trip?”
She laughed again, and he wanted to dance with her. That laugh made him so happy.
“No drugs. It’s just me. But,” she held his gaze. “You love another woman.”
He closed his eyes, tight, to shut out her power, and scratched the back of his neck. Did he love Krista? He opened his eyes. Alexis still stared at him. “I’m not sure. I think there might be a . . . complication.”
“You got her pregnant.” It wasn’t a question, or an accusation, but more a tender statement of something that just happened. And that’s the way he felt, too. He didn’t really love Krista. It just happened. What kind of shit had he been?
He dropped his head. “You sure you want to love me? I’m a jackass.”
Then she was there: her arms pressing his head to her firm breasts, one finger caressing his ear. “That was then. This is now.”
The phone on the wall rang, the old-time jangling echoed in the room and reminded Jeff of even further back, his childhood and a young father with dark hair in a small house.
Alexis broke their embrace and ran to the phone. Jeff frowned, started to reach out and pull her back, but then worried. This must be an important call.
She picked up the phone. “Hi, Daddy.”
She listened, then glanced at Jeff. “Maybe on the way I can help a friend.” She paused and smiled. “I love you, too. See you soon.” She hung up.
When she looked at him, the previous love and caring seemed to have flown, replaced by a mission. He squinted at her.
She donned a gray hoodie and grabbed a small black duffel bag by the door. “That was my dad. Grab your stuff. We have to go.”
Chapter 14
Rachel rose early, showered, and dressed in the same clothes. Sam and Rocca did the same; they all grabbed a few bites of the complimentary continental breakfast and piled into the Beemer. She drove at the usual 80 MPH, happy at the speed and glad to arrive at Chicago O’Hare airport by six-thirty. I-80 / 294 would have been more direct, but there was too much construction, so she had opted for 90 / 94, which
took them close to Lake Michigan. Whitecaps speckled the lake in an unusual southeasterly wind. Almost instantly, the happiness dropped out of her stomach like she was driving off a cliff.
Rocca stared out the passenger window. “Weird wind, huh?”
“Yeah.” No. It was more than just weird. It felt like a dark pall had been pulled over the sun. Maybe she should tell Rocca about Alex’s feeling that Jabril was closer than Pensacola. Then again, if Jabril was coming after her, how would he know they were here? If he was here, she could use Rocca’s help. The three of them might have a chance against Jabril. If she let Rocca go to Pensacola and Jabril was there, Rocca would be all alone. Rachel loved Rocca’s daughter, Stephanie, as much as Rocca loved Alexis. And she couldn’t wait to attend Stephanie’s wedding, Rocca beaming at his lovely daughter, birdseed being thrown, Alex, Alexis and Rachel drinking champagne, dancing the night away. How cool would that be?
She glanced at Rocca. “Maybe you should stay with us. We’re a pretty good team.”
Rocca smiled at her. “Hey, all I’m going to do is watch him leave, make sure he’s out of our hair.”
They had arrived at Terminal 2, Delta’s terminal, as it had been for over a decade. Rocca’s Delta flight left in just over two hours. She wanted to keep driving.
“Rachel, I have lots of friends in P’cola. Don’t worry.”
“You won’t do anything stupid?”
“No chance. I won’t risk missing Stephanie’s wedding.”
She stopped the car. He got out, grabbed his duffel out of the back, shut the doors. Gave a cutesy finger wave to her, like some adolescent girl waving to her friend. She opened the passenger window to say goodbye, but Sam had jumped out and was standing in front of Rocca. He punched the larger man on the upper arm.
“You remember our conversation in D.C.? He’s still in his twenties. You’re in great shape, but he would have you for breakfast. Nothing more than follow and find out which plane he’s on. Got it?” He punched again, but Rocca caught Sam’s fist in his hand before it touched him. He held it, eyes determined, lips flat.