by Rachel Lee
"I'm not sure I can, either. Maybe I could save it for sandwiches?"
She didn't know how to answer that. She had the eerie feeling that over the last couple of hours she had been dealing with someone else, someone other than Gary. It was as if he had switched personalities.
"Whatever," she said, feeling cold deep inside. "Throw it away, for all I care. Give it to somebody's dog."
If she'd hoped to make him become stern again, she failed. He took the two plates from the table and sat across from her. She wondered if he even remembered the last couple of hours.
"We've got to find out how those words got on the tape," he said.
So he remembered that much. She wondered about the rest.
"Your automatic writing didn't tell us much."
"No." She remembered the golden eyes and wondered what she had been seeing. Even the memory of them spooked her, and she wasn't easily spooked.
Gary rubbed his eyes. "God, I'm tired. I feel like I just ran up and down the mountain."
She was tired, too, but everything was so suddenly off-kilter that she didn't know if she would be able to sleep.
She wondered what she had been in touch with earlier. Had it been some kind of remote viewing? Had she been getting something from someone else's mind? If so, she wasn't sure she ever wanted to be in touch with it again. It was powerful, and, in retrospect, it had been evil, although at the time she had noted only power and the exhilaration of using it.
Then something inside her began to collapse, filling her with fatigue and sadness. All of a sudden she just plain didn't care. The adrenaline rush was gone.
Gary touched her shoulder. "Come on, honey. Let's go to bed."
For the first time in a long time, she was grateful for his gentleness.
* * *
Markie made coffee, and joined Pedro and Dec at the counter. Kato paced around for a few minutes, then curled up on the rug beneath the breakfast table.
Dec was beginning to feel sheepish. In the bright light, surrounded by friends, he was beginning to wonder if he'd imagined everything, if he'd just pushed the panic button. If, in fact, he'd acted like the superstitious kid he'd once been. A kid with a mother who told him not to open an umbrella in the house because it would bring bad luck, not to step on cracks and to never, ever make an important decision on Friday the thirteenth. To this day, he had to fight an urge to knock on wood.
"Why didn't you wake me?" Markie asked Dec.
Her eyes were ringed from fatigue, and the sight made his heart squeeze. Whatever his late-night fears, she had needed her sleep.
"It was over before I was sure I saw anything."
She nodded. "Okay."
She didn't believe him. That was obvious. But he left it there. The alternative would be to admit to protective feelings that frightened him as much as anything he'd seen in the past week.
Pedro seemed to read her eyes, and Dec's, and said, in his best and most enigmatic clerical tone, "You have a good watchdog, Markie."
Markie smiled, then paused a moment and made her way to the coffeepot. "Can I get you anything, Father? Do you guys want breakfast?"
"How could I say no?" Pedro asked. "Your culinary skills are legendary."
"And here I thought you only cooked for me," Dec said, hoping his voice carried the levity he intended.
"Dr. Cross is a cherished participant in our potluck dinners," Pedro said. "They mob her in the parking lot. She's lucky if she can get a dish into the parish hall before it's empty."
"Now that's a bit over the top, Father," Markie said, blushing.
"Perhaps," he said. "But only a little."
Twenty minutes later, their mugs were filled with steaming coffee, and she had transformed a few eggs and some leftover ham and vegetables into an omelet to die for. In the process, Kato's bowl had been filled with and then emptied of kibble, and he lay contented on the floor as they ate.
"How well do you know Loleen Cathan?" Dec asked as he lifted a fluffy forkful of eggs to his mouth.
Pedro sipped his coffee. "Loleen is one of the most fascinating women I have ever met. If I had half her wisdom, I would think myself blessed."
"But you know about her…other beliefs?" Dec asked.
"Of course," Pedro replied, smiling. He paused, as if to weigh his words carefully before continuing. "I am a priest, Declan. I know the sacred scriptures and church tradition. I can find the dogmatically correct answers in the Catechism, in paper encyclicals, in the writings of the saints. I believe in the tangible grace of the sacraments and the intangible truth of the Nicene Creed. I know I can and have found God in the church. Or, more accurately, God finds me there.
"But I also know that God is too vast to be encapsulated, His power too great to be contained within a single building or set of beliefs. God loves us enough to reach down and find us on many paths. And for that reason, I can say this: God finds Loleen in the church, and also in every grace-filled prayer she offers. Her heart is good and pure, purer than many priests I've known. And what she says comes from that pure heart. So I listen, and hope that in the listening I will glean even a fragment of what life has taught her."
"So I should listen to her," Dec said quietly.
Pedro laughed. "Declan Quinn, sometimes you are entirely too Irish for your own good. Maybe it's your cultural legacy, coming from an island where outsiders too seldom brought hope and too often brought tragedy, but you are the most suspicious people I've ever known. That's probably why so many of you become cops."
"Probably so," Dec agreed. "Skepticism runs deep in our blood."
"And so does mysticism, Dec. Never forget that. To deny it is to deny part of who you are. And that, my dear doctor, is the worst of folly." The mirth had gone from Pedro's eyes. "If Loleen Cathan speaks to you, you listen. And pray that you hear."
* * *
Tim had never before called the group together. Steve and Gary knew of each other, of course, and each had some sense of the other's involvement. But this was the first time he'd met with both of them at the same time. The first time he'd been able to watch their faces and read their eyes as each felt out the other's presence and sphere of influence.
The boat rocked gently with the rising midmorning tide. Gary sometimes seemed to glance at the hatch to the cabin below, as if sensing the lingering presence of his wife. But for the most part, his eyes spoke of a new and clearer focus. A strength that Tim found more than a bit disturbing. Tim had chosen his conspirators with purpose. Men who held useful positions without strong convictions. Men whom he could bend as necessary, without wondering if they would break. Gary now seemed to have more spine than Tim had anticipated. That could become a problem.
Steve's demeanor gave Tim entirely different concerns. He was more than malleable. He had become fragile, growing more cautious, more skittish, with each new death. He would never have cut it as a crewman on one of Tim's boats. The man had no taste for blood. No taste for true power.
No, Steve still clung to the delusion of power that came with his political position, when Tim knew for a fact that the Senate was little more than a legitimizing gloss for his father's own plans and designs. Steve Chase had no understanding of what power really meant. Like most paper tigers, he quailed at the prospect of real prey. And that was as dangerous as Gary's nascent resolve.
"Too many bodies are piling up," Steve was saying. "None of us knows why. I just think it's dangerous to continue until we do. That's all I'm saying. Pick a time when there isn't quite so bright a light on everything that happens on the island."
A typical Steve-ism. In another situation, another context, it might make sense. But Tim was that close to a prize he'd spent months working toward. Years, even. He was not about to back away because of "bright lights." In any campaign, there were casualties. How long had he been a casualty of his father's business campaigns? He knew what it meant to be collateral damage. That was the price of all success. A bigger slice of the pie for one meant a smaller slice for s
omeone else. That was life.
"Oh, we know what's killing these people," Gary said softly. "One of the advantages of teaching history is that life happens in context. Patterns emerge."
Steve looked at him quizzically.
"In 1969," Gary continued, "a bored army lance corporal with an interest in folklore started sniffing around the Annie Black legend."
"And?" Steve asked.
"And seven soldiers died in a month," Tim said. "After three died in one night, the post commander made a midnight call to the Pentagon. The next morning, the army closed the fort and left."
Steve's face was turning ashen. He turned to Gary. "This is true?"
Gary nodded. "Yes."
"My God! Why hasn't anyone heard about this? I've lived here…twenty years. How did you…when did you know?"
"As I said, there are advantages to teaching history. The army kept it quiet. No one else on the island has been affected. A small team from USAMRIID came in afterward and went over the fort with a fine-tooth comb. They found nothing. It was written off as a fluke."
"But…seven soldiers!" Steve said.
"It was 1969," Tim answered. "The height of Vietnam. Seven dead soldiers were a blip on the radar."
Steve nodded. He looked over at Gary. "Okay, so how did you find out about this?"
Gary laughed. It was a hard laugh with a razor edge. "It was in the turd file."
"Turd file?" Steve asked.
"Odd as it may seem," Gary replied, "even history professors have a sense of humor. Every once in a while, some student turns in a paper that is truly outstanding. The kind of paper the professor wishes he'd written when he was in college. The kind that makes him think maybe he's accomplishing something more than bouncing words off the classroom walls. We save them, in the department. We call it the Greatest Hits file. So that if someone wins a Nobel Prize someday, we can pull out the paper and say 'I knew him when…'"
"And this paper was in that file?" Steve asked.
Gary smiled. "Hardly. But we also keep another file. There are papers we read and just can't stop shaking our heads. If their authors own a dictionary or a spell checker, they'll be able to return it when they graduate, still in its original packaging. They think the MLA is a government agency and a source is someone to buy drugs from. Their papers, the worst of the worst, go in the turd file…to amuse and bemuse bored professors long after the students have gone on to careers in politics."
Tim chuckled at that remark. Steve cast a warning glance, but Gary ignored it and continued.
"A year ago, I got one of those papers. A dreadful pile of verbal diarrhea that advanced the stunningly original hypothesis that the twentieth century saw the rise of capitalism as the only viable economic system." Sarcasm dripped from every word. "It could have been a mildly interesting if shopworn argument if the student hadn't based it on Internet chat logs. Complete with emoticons and flame wars. Hardly what I'd call scholarship."
"And your point is?" Steve asked, clearly growing impatient with Gary's pedantry.
If Gary noticed, he gave no indication. "I felt that paper was deserving of inclusion in the turd file. And as I often do when I tuck a paper in there, I thumbed through the other exhibits in our little hall of shame. And that's when I tumbled across a student's paper from the autumn of 1969. There were no verifiable sources, only overheard snippets of conversations between soldiers in bars. To the professor, it seemed ridiculous. As it turns out, it was surprisingly accurate. You might say it proved the adage that even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and then."
"Gary and I had talked about Annie Black and her treasure," Tim said. "He brought the paper to me. It was…something we factored into our plans from the start."
Steve's mouth fell open. "You…you knew people could die? And you went on with this anyway?"
Such a wimp, Tim thought, though he kept his face neutral. "It was a possibility, Steve. Death happens."
It helped, of course, that there was even a sliver of evidence suggesting that Annie Black's treasure might lie beneath Carter Shippey's house. Carter had long been a thorn in Tim's side, a competitor who more than once had reported Tim's crews for ignoring catch limits. Siccing Annie on the old man had been a test of her potency. That it had also removed a barnacle-crusted pain in the ass was icing on the cake.
Tim hadn't foreseen that Annie would kill Carter's wife, of course. He hadn't realized she was that vicious. But if you happened to snag a sea turtle while dragging for shrimp, hey, things happen. As for Alice Wheatley, well, Annie had done that on her own. Alice had seen her, for crying out loud. Annie was just acting in self-defense.
"I can't be a part of this anymore," Steve said. "I won't. Treasure is one thing, but human life…"
Tim caught Gary's eye and saw his own thoughts reflected with chilling clarity.
Yes. Death happens.
* * *
Kato stretched languidly as he watched Declan napping. Markie was working on a sick cat, and Declan had come to work with her, hovering protectively for a while, before his body finally gave in to exhaustion.
Humans were strange creatures. They seemed to take pride in denying themselves that most basic of pleasures, sleep. Kato knew better. There was a time to hunt, a time to play, a time to train pups, a time to reinforce roles in the pack. All of that was important. But sleep…sleep was where life really happened. Sleep was where he could curl up in the souls of his pack mates, share minds, roam far and wide over pristine meadows and dense woods, noses in the breeze, scenting leaf and loam and the essence of life itself. In awake times, he lived mostly within himself, save for those all-too-rare times when Markie opened herself to him. But in sleep, he was whole.
He wondered if humans experienced this wholeness in their sleep, or if they simply frittered away their dreams still isolated within their own thoughts and fears. They certainly didn't seem to emerge from sleep with the sense of connectedness that he felt. Perhaps that was why Declan hadn't slept with Markie last night. Perhaps humans didn't understand or experience the dreams that a pack shared when its members curled up as one. He felt Markie's dreams, sometimes, when they lay together in the bed, her feet tucked beneath his neck, her toes occasionally wiggling in his fur. But Markie was special. Or maybe she just shared that with him. Maybe humans couldn't share that together.
Regardless, it seemed absurd that Declan hadn't slept with Markie. They were pack mates. That much was obvious, to him if not to them. And pack mates slept together. He would have to work on that.
The cat sagged on the table, and Markie's face collapsed. She had lost. He had seen this before, and it hurt every time. He padded silently into the room and sat with his flank against her leg. It was all he could do.
"I'm sorry, Kato," she whispered.
She always said that. As if she had let him down by the death of the patient. As if anything she could do with her needles and pills and instruments could stand in the way of the eternal cycle. Kato had known the cat was dying from the moment he'd scented it as it was brought in. Its soul was struggling to escape, to fly forever into the land of dreams. Its pain stung his nostrils, and that was why he'd gone in to check on Declan. But he'd known. There was nothing Markie could have done.
And in truth, nothing she should have done. It was time for that soul to leave. Time to be free. Time to be connected with all of the other souls, forever. While he ached for Markie's pain, he also celebrated the liberation of a tired soul. A soul exhausted from the isolation of living in a body. A soul needing to breathe.
The cat's owner came in. Markie spoke a few words, although words didn't matter. There were times when even humans let go of words and simply experienced. The woman broke into tears, sagging against a wall. Markie reached out to touch her, just a hand on a shoulder, but Kato knew with utter clarity how much more that said than all the words humans could ever speak. The woman fought to compose herself, finally managing a brief nod that lied about a strength she would not feel for days or we
eks. She bent over and kissed the cat's body.
If only she could have kissed the soul.
Kato saw the soul hovering and opened himself to it. She loves you.
I know, the soul answered.
The air in the room went cold, and the soul fled. Kato smelled it an instant before he saw it.
Staring at Markie.
Smiling an evil smile.
The growl rose in his throat, and he leapt.
21
Markie fell to the floor as Kato jumped on her. A chill swept above her as she fell, and she looked up as, for an instant, Caroline Fletcher shuddered. Kato's low growl was directed upward, but his weight kept Markie pinned to the floor. Then the chill passed.
"What the hell?" Caroline asked.
"I'm sorry," Markie answered, trying to roll out from under eighty pounds of wolf. "He's not usually like this."
But Caroline wasn't looking at Kato. Instead, she raised a finger to her lip. It came away red and wet. Her nose was bleeding.
"I'll get you a tissue," Markie said. "Sit down and tip your head back. Kato, get off!"
The dog moved away reluctantly, and Markie grabbed a handful of sterile gauze pads. Caroline had sunk into a chair and was now looking up at the ceiling. Markie pressed the gauze against her upper lip, both to catch the blood and to compress the blood vessel, slowing the flow.
"Did Kato hit you?" she asked.
"No," Caroline answered. "I don't think so. I don't know what it was. It was like…a punch from inside."
"I'm so sorry," Markie said. "Just sit for a moment. I'll get some ice."
"No. No. I'm okay. It's just a nosebleed."
Kato had left the room and now returned with Declan. A thought flitted through Markie's concentration on Caroline like a snake in the grass: Kato and Declan have learned how to read each other remarkably well. She shoved the thought and what it meant aside, and focused on the task at hand.
"Kato knocked me down," she said. "I might have bumped her, or he might have. I don't know."
"Let me take a look," he said, turning to Caroline. His face softened into a bedside manner smile. "I'm Dr. Quinn. I do humans."