But William was no rat. He would endure the painful noogies, wedgies, and squashies (the last of which involved Aidan squashing you-know-what) until he was older and stronger, and then he would fight back, and they would be sorry.
Aidan pushed him down to the pavement.
“Squashie time,” he said, and jabbed his heel between William’s legs.
William clenched his thighs together in agony. The inside of his swim trunks was scratchy and uncomfortable, and the rash he would most certainly develop later in the day was already prickling his skin.
He grit his teeth to keep from screaming. This wouldn’t be like the first time, when Aidan and his friends had done this to him; when he had wailed like a little baby, hoping they would spare him out of pity for his “devil’s foot,” as his mother liked to call it when she was angry.
He kicked Aidan in the shin with his good foot and managed to break free. As William crawled away on his hands and knees, Aidan landed a kick squarely against his backside, sending him sprawling across the sidewalk. His chin scraped the pavement, drawing blood with a feeling like a cold kiss.
William lay curled up, waiting for more abuse. But instead of stomping on him like he usually did, Aidan backed away, eyes pointed straight ahead at a tall, solemn figure approaching along the shady sidewalk. He turned and ran without a moment’s hesitation.
“You okay?”
It was the man William had seen outside the house, the one who had walked with his mother down the street. He stood over William, tall and skinny with straight black hair that rippled across his forehead as the wind blew it this way and that. His face was narrow and serious, and he had thin, dark eyes that were drawn into a squint.
He helped William to his feet and brushed dirt off his shirt.
“My name’s Michael. You’re William, right?”
William looked around to see if his mother was watching. The street was empty.
“Uh huh.”
Michael gave a little smile. “You’re pretty strong, you know that?”
“What do you mean?” William said, squinting up at him.
“You didn’t cry or say anything to that kid. He’s bigger than you, but up here”—he tapped his own forehead—“you’re much stronger. What’s his name?”
“Aidan.”
“Well, if I did that to Aidan, I’m sure he would cry like a little girl. But you took it like a man.”
William’s face warmed. It was true, he had cried like a little girl once, but after that, he never did it again. And he never would, either.
“Come on,” Michael said. “Let’s get some lunch in our bellies.”
William lifted his right hand, and then, realizing how childish he must seem, he lowered it. Michael gave him a warm smile—it was William’s lucky day, apparently—and took his hand before leading him toward the café.
Soon it was time for Michael’s empathic healing session with Arielle.
Feeling like a gentleman for having helped William earlier, he decided to meet Arielle at her house and offer to walk with her into town.
He knocked on the screen door, stared past the wide-open inner door into a shady hallway with a light coming from a window at the other end. Charlotte filled the frame, having emerged from a side room like a pale body surfacing in dark water. She was naked except for a huge white towel wrapped around her midsection, falling only a few inches below her hips, leaving her thighs visible. Her hair was down and hung in heavy brown tresses over her breasts, which were tucked neatly inside the towel. He tried not to stare.
“Is Arielle home?”
Charlotte held his gaze as she fixed her hair up into a loose bun, using hard, jerking movements that made her body shiver in a way he couldn’t ignore. This had to be some sort of a test, and if he looked at her breasts or legs, he would fail. He could smell the freshness of her recent shower.
“Okay if I ask what this is about?” Charlotte said as she arrived at the screen door.
Before he could answer, Charlotte’s eyes snapped open as someone shoved her gently aside. Arielle appeared, fully dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and white sandals. She was still brushing her hair.
“Hi, Michael.”
“Hey, Arielle.” Michael shoved his hands into his pockets and smiled at her.
Charlotte gave them both a look of contempt. She took a step back and adjusted her towel, then turned and walked back down the hall. Just before she turned the corner, Michael caught a glimpse as she whipped off the towel, leaving little more than a silhouette to reveal the fullness of her naked curves. Then she was gone, a door slamming shut after her. Michael could tell Arielle hadn’t noticed the towel slip off her sister’s hips at the last second.
“Don’t worry about her,” she said, tossing the hairbrush onto the floor. She opened the screen door all the way. “She’s been a little moody lately. What’s wrong?”
Michael stuttered for a bit before he found the right words. “I’m just getting used to this place.”
She nodded. “I totally understand. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Anyway, I thought I’d walk you to work.”
“Okay, great!” She stepped outside, letting the screen door swing shut behind her.
Michael looked back over his shoulder as they crossed the yard. A curtain moved in one of the windows on the second floor as someone slipped out of sight.
Arielle made tea and brought out homemade crackers. They sat across from each other in a booth halfway between the kitchen door and front windows. Michael insisted on facing the front of the café so he would have a view of the main entrance.
“You’re paranoid,” she said.
He frowned. “I know.”
The only light in the café was the dim, reflected sunshine coming in through the windows, enough so they could see each other, but not enough to keep Michael from feeling that all of this was somehow inappropriate. His own reproachful voice rang in his head.
Relax. Don’t be so paranoid. She’ll think you have emotional problems.
Arielle looked as pretty as ever in the low light, with her hair down around her shoulders and her bright blue eyes blinking innocently at him. He felt there was something pure about her that was missing from Charlotte.
“Now,” she said, “you have to let me in, okay? Your mind isn’t going to allow it at first, but you have to overcome that part of you. I can’t walk through a closed door. Got it?”
“How do I open it?”
She mused over the answer. “Once I start, it’s going to feel like a finger is poking you in the forehead. Then it’s going to feel like hands are wrapped around your head and squeezing. But it’s not going to hurt, so don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not. I feel strangely comfortable around you.”
“Most people do.” She shrugged. “I have an easy demeanor. Lay your hands flat against the table, like this.”
She showed him. He laid his hands flat against the tabletop the way she had done. Arielle covered them with her own, warm fingers around his wrists. She winced a little.
“Cold,” she said.
“You have no idea.”
“I’m about to, Michael Cairne.”
She closed her eyes and instructed him to do the same.
Lightning flashed, followed by the boom of thunder, as rain fell into the canyon.
It was a bad night to be alone. Dominic knew this. He lay beneath the covers, curled up and dreaming of his own fist pounding John Meacham’s face into a bloody pulp. His older brother Paul was in the dream, howling in agony, his neck gushing blood. The dream chilled Dominic to such an extent that he awoke with a sudden gasp.
He hadn’t wanted to be alone tonight, which is why he had allowed Reggie to come in, dressed in a black raincoat, his hair still wet from the rain, a set of dry pajamas bundled in the crook of his arm. Reggie had smiled like a nervous boy, still unsure as to why Dominic had summoned him.
Now Reggie lay curled up next to him, sn
oring as softly as a child. His pajamas lay scattered across the floor.
“God damn it,” Dominic said, sitting up.
Reggie came out of sleep with a murmur. “What’s wrong?”
Dominic sat on the edge of the bed, bent over his knees and massaging both temples. “I’m getting some interference.”
“Maybe it’s that kid. The new boy.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Reggie put his hand on Dominic’s lower back. “Get back in bed.”
Dominic got up, visibly naked for a brief second as lightning flashed, illuminating the room. He went about picking Reggie’s pajamas off the floor.
“What are you doing?”
Dominic flung the pajamas onto the bed.
“Get the hell out,” he said.
Louis Blake lay awake in the bedroom of his shack, where he’d been sent to live after being kicked off the Council. The mansions were only for Meacham and his cronies, all of whom lived next to each other on Apple Orchard Road. The sprawling house Blake had once inhabited remained empty, and here he was in a leaking shack at the ass end of town, rejected and despised by the men he was forced to serve.
He didn’t mind so much anymore. His shack—it was really a dilapidated old bungalow with brown siding that made it look like a shack—was far enough away from Apple Orchard Road, and the rest of town, that sometimes, when he closed his eyes and smoked, he felt like he was alone in the world.
And he liked that feeling just fine.
He relocated to the rocking chair by the window, lit a cigarette, and pondered his situation as he looked out at the flashing heavens beyond the trees. He thought of Michael and how strongly the boy resembled his mother. He thought of Claudia and the way her body had once fit so perfectly within his arms, and how comfortably their minds had been able to communicate using the softest of telepathic voices.
Do you promise me, Louie?
I promise. I’ll find him and protect him, Claudia. I swear it.
Will you love him?
The answer evaded him then, as it did now.
He stood up, put the cigarette out on the windowsill, and darted over to the closet. He grabbed every pack of cigarettes inside—nine in total—walked over to the window, heaved it open with a forceful grunt, and threw them all out into the rain.
Thunder roared over the mountains. He closed the window, sat back in the chair, and sighed, an action that almost brought out a series of painful coughs. Almost.
“Lord, just give me a few more years to do this,” he said, though he was not a religious man.
Sometimes he wished he were.
On Apple Orchard Road, John Meacham was wide awake and sitting behind the broad, mahogany desk of his personal study. He sat with his back to the window, candles lit all around him, wearing a tank top that showed off his massive arms and thick, hairy neck. He was scowling at the two men sitting before him.
Warren and Elkin sat next to each other on separate wooden chairs. The chairs were uncomfortable and Elkin kept fidgeting, making the chair creak.
Warren shushed him without looking over.
“So that’s the plan,” Meacham said, spreading his large hands over the desk. “It’s fool-proof. You’d tell me if it wasn’t”—he leaned over his desk and eyed them both—“am I right?”
“You betcha,” Elkin said, smoothing back his ratty hair and glancing at Warren. “You tell him. Whatever he wants to do.”
“I told you to shutcher mouth,” Warren said, glowering at him.
“You told me to shut the chair from creaking—”
Warren got up suddenly, silencing Elkin. He paced back and forth before the desk.
“Only thing I don’t get is why we gotta jump through all those hoops,” Warren said.
Meacham sat back in his chair, released a heavy sigh. “It’s Blake. You saw what happened the last time he stood against me. Almost split the town in half. I can’t have that happen again.”
“You think this time you’d get less than half?” Warren said.
Elkin had stopped fidgeting with his hair and was now scratching his Adam’s apple. He did that when he got anxious.
“Warren,” Elkin said, “take it easy, now.”
Warren smacked Elkin’s hand away from his neck.
“I told you to sheddap.”
“Boys,” John Meacham said, opening a desk drawer and reaching in. He pulled out a glass bottle of single-malt Scotch with the label still intact. It looked brand-new, not like the brown sludge in plastic cartons you got off the caravans.
Warren and Elkin stared at it, mouths frozen open.
“I’m sorry to say this”—Meacham pulled out three glass tumblers and sat them on the desk. He unscrewed the cap with a series of pleasant squeaks—“but I’ve been holding out on you two. There’s a lot more luxury in this town than people know. Enough for us men to live like kings. And I say men now, not those ment queers like Dominic and Blake. You hear what I’m saying?”
Warren and Elkin watched him pour the golden-brown liquid into the tumblers. It was like watching diamonds slip from his fingers.
“All I’m asking is that you stay out of the boy’s way for now, and be ready when I give you the word.”
He stood and handed Warren and Elkin each a drink. The men clinked their glasses together in the candlelight. A flash of lightning brightened the room, followed by a series of deep cracks, as if the sky itself were splitting open.
“How long do we have to wait?” Warren said when it was quiet again. He sipped his whisky and grimaced.
“Not long,” Meacham said. “That boy Michael doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Getting rid of him will be easy.”
The rain falling into the mountains thickened. The slopes flashed a bright electric blue, and the ensuing thunder was like bombs going off in the night.
Across town, in the back yard of the boys’ house on Silo Street, Michael lifted his arms and tipped his head back so the rain could land on his face. He laughed at the surrounding mountains, because tonight they were so dead and meaningless, and he was so alive, with nothing but possibility ahead of him.
And it was all thanks to her.
Arielle Casmas.
He howled at the flashing sky like a madman.
Chapter 9
The next day was rainy and quiet.
“You’re late,” Blake said as Michael followed Dominic into the office above the Matinee. Reggie was sitting on the faded couch, one leg crossed over the other, an arm extended along the couch’s topmost edge. He looked away when Dominic walked in.
“It’s his fault.” Dominic tipped his head toward Michael.
They settled in, each taking a chair in front of Blake’s desk. Michael sensed a cloud of tension between Dominic and Reggie. He had no idea what it was about, and he didn’t want to know.
The night before, he’d fallen into a pleasant sleep and had woken up with Arielle’s parting words still in his ears.
Your past shouldn’t be as painful anymore.
Louis Blake picked a small, brown nut out of a bowl and popped it into his mouth. He chewed rapidly, almost too fast. And he kept rubbing his fingers against his palms and fidgeting.
Dominic leaned forward, a puzzled look on his face.
“Did you quit smoking again?”
Blake waved away the question and turned his attention to Michael.
“Let’s get to the point, Mike. You mind if I call you that?” Michael shrugged. “Good. There’s something you need to know about Gulch. We can’t be caught training you in telepathy. It goes against the town’s training equality laws. No person can receive training in a skill that is, by nature, exclusive to that particular person or to a minority. In other words—”
Frowning, Michael interrupted him. “Are you serious? Training equality?”
Dominic smacked his shoulder. “Don’t interrupt him, kid.”
Michael’s frown deepened.
“No one’s saying you can’t p
ractice it,” Blake said, “but I can’t teach it to you. You’ll have to work just like everyone else, and keep your mouth shut about any telepathic training you might ‘unofficially’ be receiving. You catch my wind?”
“Catch my drift,” Michael said, shaking his head.
“I know that. Catch my drift. That’s what I meant. You try living in the mountains for twenty years and see how many meaningless catchphrases you remember.” Blake extended a hand to indicate Reggie. “So, I’ve worked out a schedule for you. Every day, for about two hours, you’ll meet with Reggie at the shooting range to practice marksmanship. It’s a necessary skill out here, so quit looking at me like that. Then, for an hour before lunch, either Dominic or I will guide you through some mental techniques meant to help you keep calm in tense situations. Of course, you can’t tell anyone about this, not even Peter and the other boys.”
Michael tried not to whine. “An hour? That’s all I get?”
Blake picked up another nut and flicked it into his mouth. Chewing loudly, he tapped his fingers on the desk and looked around, obviously desperate for a cigarette.
Reggie got up and walked across the room to the window. The sky’s gray light brightened his face and illuminated the fine threads of his sweater.
“Mike, I understand you’re new here. You probably grew up thinking the East was some sort of fantasy land where every man was free to do as he pleased. Am I right?”
Michael shrugged, still frowning. Reggie sat on the windowsill and crossed his arms. Despite his fine clothing, he looked tough, like a seasoned veteran of these mountains.
“The freedom part might be true in some of the more desolate areas, but Gulch is a civilized town. We don’t rely on slaves or the drug trade to make our money. We do things the hard way, and people understand that if they want to be safe, they might have to give up certain rights.”
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