by A. J. Aalto
Silence dropped like a bomb in my kitchen, and I reeled back in the chair. Point: Sherlock, that bitch. Again I had to hold the phone away from my head, this time so I wouldn't take her head off. All my objections died in my mouth; my jaw worked around a hundred of them, but my pinched lips were a fortress of reluctant compliance. There was no way I could let my inability to keep my knees together get Chapel and Batten fired.
“It'll take me about fifty minutes to drive in,” I growled, not believing what I was hearing myself say. “Do you have clary sage?”
“What for?”
“I'll bring the sage,” I told her, going to the pantry to pull down my big yellow Tupperware box. Not all psychics practice green magic of an herb-and-gemstone sort. Most did, simply because once you witnessed magic in one form, you believed, and belief is a potent ingredient. “Go take a bath, saltwater if you can find salt, and as cold as you can stand. That should slow down the vibration of your psi signature. If they're using that to track you, he might miss you on a first pass. Stay chilly. I'll be there as soon as I can.”
“And then?” she asked.
I was supposed to have an answer. I didn't. I had a glimmer of several rotten ideas that no doubt would get us both killed, I had sage and I had my mini gun. I was hoping when I got there, Batten would be back. I could turn the problem over to the law and just forget this whole shit day had ever happened. The lovebirds (ex-lovebirds?) could catch a flight out of Colorado to a safe house wherever, and I could wake my Cold Company for his nighttime feed and an old black and white movie with popcorn before bed.
“Then we end it,” I promised her with far more bravery than I felt. “We figure our shit out, and deal with the rogue together. Like adults. Like professionals. I'm sure we can work it out.”
“Yes,” she said, dreadful relief flooding through the phone. Her disgust had been replaced by hope. “You and me. We end it. Together.”
I hung up by chucking the phone clear across the room, where it smashed and the battery pack went spinning across the floor. I slipped my glove back on angrily. As if Batten were standing in front of me, I muttered, “I knew your dick was going to come back and bite me in the ass.”
SIX
When I was seventeen, I had inherited the care and feeding of Lord Guy “Harry” Harrick Dreppenstedt on the recommendation of my grandma Vi's last will and testament. Sharing his psychic Talents wasn't a conscious decision on Harry's part, not a gift or an honor bestowed on his caregiver. It was more like living in the same house as a chain-smoker: one day you realize that, never mind your clothes or your hair, even your flesh is embedded with their stink.
Being as my power was his, that he effortlessly feels my intentions through our Bond, you'd think Harry never has to ask me anything, never mind stupid questions like: “just where is it you think you are going?”, which is what his text message read. I could practically hear the disdain.
I hurtled down the ice-slicked Interstate in my old reliable Buick Century, the bumpy ride barely felt by the mammoth car, hugging curves and charging uphill and plunging in and out of dim mountain pass tunnels. The sun was full-strength now at winter's distance, brilliant without warmth, glinting off crumbled frost shards and salt patches. The car's heat was cranked. Fat heavy clouds warned that the sunny moment was fleeting; I'd be needing my headlights and wipers soon. Daft Punk was thudding my car's old speakers. I didn't have the time or attention to take one hand off the wheel and thumb-in a reply; Half-Asleep Harry could just figure it out for himself. I didn't know what had roused him early from his rest—I'd been too far away to feel him wake—but I did know he wouldn't be overjoyed about me riding to Danika's rescue, regardless of the reason. I was not in the mood to hear bleated objections in his lofty Londoner's tongue.
For half the ride, my thoughts revolved around Batten. OK, more like ninety percent. Should I call him, tell him about the rogue DaySitter and the blackmail? He was the capital-L Law. He was the big tough FBI dude, the PCU's preternatural crimes expert (if there was such a thing). Mr. Guns Ablazin’ with the bulletproof vest stamped with big white letters and a license to kill misbehaving monsters, a hundred and five kill-notch tattoos on his left pectoral to prove it.
I'd never had bad reception in the area, not even out at the lake at Shaw's Fist, but I hadn't felt a lie from within Sherlock's transmitted goulash of disgust and desperation. Had Chapel turned off his phone? I thought FBI dudes shouldn't be allowed to do that. Had Batten had more pressing matters this morning? What could be more important than a crazy-scary telekinetic after your fiancée? Certainly not coming to my cabin to flap pictures of dead people at me, mock me with stupid nicknames and take potshots at my living arrangements. That, we both could have skipped.
I should call him. Could I bring myself to say her name to him? Had Batten told his fiancée about us, even if there was really no “us”? Confession, full disclosure? Or had she found out on her own? Had she confronted him? It niggled at my conscience when I should have been paying more attention to navigating sharp turns. I fishtailed once and nearly went off on the runaway truck ramp, had to crank the wheel and yelp a quick prayer. When the Buick was back under control and I had called myself all the synonyms for moron I could scrounge up, I went back to obsessing. The Buick sailed into a murky mountain tunnel. The overhead lights strobed across the long hood rhythmically.
When I showed up and Danika opened the motel door, I'd be facing a woman who knew I'd boffed her man behind her back, a woman who didn't sound too pleased about it. To be fair, when I was with him in Cheektowaga, up against that bathroom door breathless with lust, thinking I might just be the luckiest/stupidest woman on Earth, I didn't have any idea he was engaged. He gave me no reason to believe so. I like to think it would have stopped me.
I could tell her that. It would be my only defense. But stuff like hindsight didn't mean much when a man swapped bodily fluids with more than one woman. I mean, it wasn't like I was planning to fuck him again, right? (“Don't ever doubt that you're needed, Baranuik.”) With a sick heart, I managed the last sharp turn near the gas bar and barreled downhill into town in my civilian tank.
Ten Springs, Colorado, population 540, was forty-five minutes northwest of Denver, nestled between two small mountain lakes, Shaw's Fist and Cleaver's Rest, named after two of the three founding families. The town was entered from the north by a one-way bridge that had no official name but which locals called Lambert's Crossing, named after the third.
Ten Springs is the kind of place where proprietors ran shops like “Bobbi-Sue's Classi Hair” right next to the head-scratching combination of “Indian Gourmet and Saloon” featuring “town-famous Tikka Masala”. In front of the Salon and the Saloon was a scuffed budgie-yellow emergency phone that was a direct line to the Lambert County sheriff's office, presumably in case of a butchered haircut or hot curry attack. It was sort of redundant; the sheriff's office was across the street and you could stand at the phone waving at the bored dispatcher through the plate glass window.
The town had the distinction of boasting the best breakfast-only cafe in the state, Claire's Early Bird. Claire's was open at midnight and through the moonlit hours for truckers passing through on US-36, and closed at 1:30 pm. I'd never understood why Claire kept undead hours when she was human, and hadn't yet summoned the courage to ask anyone.
I was the last customer of the day to grab a couple of coffees and a cherry Danish to settle my growling tummy. Claire herself was there, a serious woman of wiry hair and indeterminate age, manning the cash register while a waitress finished spritz-cleaning the tables. Claire was a rare gem; she knew who I was and what I was, and didn't give a crap. I appreciated that. In a tiny speck of a town where it was an unwritten law that people know their neighbors’ business, Claire held the opinion that we were all on an even playing field. As such, I deserved the same flat crocodilian stare she gave everyone, no more, no less.
I took my coffee black, and left Danika's black because I didn
't know how she took it. Claire packed me some creamer and sugar packets and off I went, cramming the Danish in my cheek and sucking clean my fingers. Harry would have a conniption fit if he saw it: gasp, me without my serviette.
As I cruised the only street through Ten Springs, I wondered why Batten and Sherlock (and I assumed Chapel) had come to stay here of all places, when Denver had better hotels closer to the crime scene. I knew they were still together, I'd seen her ankles in those pictures, dammit. Maybe they chose Ten Springs because they had to come see me? How did Danika feel about that? Why did they come to me at all? They had her, a clairvoyant, a Witness; even with her ability to focus psi fading-out, a Witness still trumped a Groper like me any day. Danika really was better than me in every way. Lovely thought.
And then I thought of the only compromise that made sense for me. I dialed Chapel's cell and waited for his pleasant, business-casual reply.
“Gary, it's Marnie. I've got an issue, here. Your psychic is in trouble.” I explained what Danika had seen, and how she needed me, but left out the blackmail part and any mention of Batten. “I'm pulling up to your motel now.”
“We're halfway to Denver,” Chapel replied, said something hurried that I didn't catch to someone off the phone, and I heard Batten's gruff, unintelligible reply. Then he came back with, “We'll be at the hotel ASAP. Hang tight, Marnie.”
I signed off, feeling a thousand times better. Hooray, the knights in Kevlar armor are on their way. Now, to shuffle my feet through the inevitable me-Danika-Batten moment in the same room, but only briefly, because once they arrived, I could probably scram. I'm no super hero. I don't have kickass fighting skills. Like I told Danika, I'm just a Groper-Feeler.
Wait, did he say hotel or motel? Probably it meant nothing. The Ten Springs Motor Inn came into view, eight rooms in a long L-shape, each room shaded from behind by stands of Blue Spruce and Bosnian Pine. An Aspen with ghostly branches, leaves lost two months ago, scratched at the weathered shingles with grey talons, a hibernating monster looming over the dark lot. She'd said room 4, and by the looks of the parking lot, it was the only one occupied. Obscene fluorescent lights gleamed in the office, under the sign that said v can y. I mentally filled one missing letter and thought the resulting “v-candy” sounded vaguely pornographic.
Then, because my brain hates me, I wondered how many times Mark and Danika had made love in Room 4. Did he turn on the charm for her, award her those rare Mark Batten smiles that carved unexpected, deep-secret laugh lines in the corners of his eyes and hit you below the belt? The ones he shared one night with everyone on his team but me? Did he buy her flowers? Did he know what her favorites were? My favorites were tulips, followed closely by peonies, the rose's voluptuous cousin; I was pretty sure he didn't know that, and probably he didn't care.
I never got flowers from Batten. I got frantic, panting animal sex (baby, oh baby, don't stop, oh fuck yes) followed by a jaw-clenched silence, as though it had been all my fault, even though he (soon baby, oh God) was the one who had… I grit my teeth. If only I could safely jam a fork up behind my eye and dig around until all my memories of Buffalo and Kill-Notch were destroyed.
Wearily, I took off my knit cap and whipped it into the back seat. I tightened my ponytail. Yep, back to basics. I was sick of spitting out stray hairs and didn't care what I looked like. When you're putting yourself between a telekinetic and a person whose life you don't honestly want to save, looks no longer matter; the coroner isn't going to stall your Y-incision to rate your style.
I paused for a moment to take notes, something I am admittedly obsessive about. In the glove box, next to my gun, under a pair of chocolate brown leather gloves, was a pale aquamarine Moleskine notebook and half a dozen No. 2 pencils. I had switched from pens because Batten once told me (on one of our boring Prost stake-outs) you could use a sharp No. 2 pencil as a weapon in a pinch, if you jammed it up into someone's soft under-jaw area. He had a word for that, but I didn't remember it. My word for it was owies.
I took note of the psychic impressions I'd gotten from Sherlock over the phone: distrust, suspicion, fury, disgust, fear. I jotted them down with my makeshift weapon, indicating time, date and circumstance, then threw the notebook and pencil on the dash.
It was amazing how effortlessly the empathic impressions came from Danika; even from the parking space I could feel her anxiety thrumming through the frigid air. I'd love to say it was because I was badass (the Great White Shark bites off more than she can chew), but the truth was I didn't care about her feelings. I wasn't sure I cared about her life either, but then why was I here? Oh yeah. If saving her life wasn't the capital-R Right thing to do, saving Batten's and Chapel's careers was. One day, my stupid morals are going to get me killed.
Balancing the cardboard tray of coffees, I hip-bumped the door closed on the Buick, pondered locking it. If the rogue DaySitter showed up in broad daylight with his revenant companion huddled in his trunk, they weren't going to steal my shitty car and go for a joyride, were they? I almost hoped they would. The Buick's brakes were touchy. Maybe they'd careen off a cliff.
My cell phone again encouraged me to put on the Ritz from the back pocket of my jeans. I turned it to vibrate so I could ignore Harry. He should have been resting anyway.
I knocked on the door to Room 4 and waited, letting her see I was alone and I'd come bearing hot coffee. I shouldn't have another; this would be my fourth? Fifth! It was barely 1:45. Caffeine poisoning anyone? Waiting gave me cramps, and the anxiety of not knowing if I was about to have a yelling-shouting-screaming match about Jerkface and his meandering dick made me wish I'd used the bathroom at Claire's. I was pretty sure one hefty scowl out of Sherlock and I'd pee my pants. Wonder woman, I am not.
Finally she opened the door, and if the backdraft of wind from that action didn't blow her strawberry tresses in a perfect whirl from her shoulders… it was a honeyed Hollywood moment. I felt like we were being filmed. Consummate TV star, she was made-up perfectly but underdressed; black track pants showed under a brown terry cloth bathrobe. No jewelry. Her eyes were red. Had she been crying? Blackmailing a rival wouldn't make me weepy, just saying. Her hand shook midair as she motioned for me to come in.
“Coffee, gosh that smells good,” she said. Relief radiated off her in waves. She was glad I was here. Jittery. The Blue Sense prickled back to life in response, sending an uncomfortable zing of electricity up my spine. I suddenly wanted my Moleskine and No. 2 to capture it.
She stepped back to let me in, gave a sob-hiccup-hysterical giggle. “Look, I'm sorry. I've been such a bitch. I've been out of my mind. You don't know how much I wanted you to come.”
But I did know; usually my empathic powers worked better on remnants of emotions, traces left by the recently dead, but the room was so filled with emotion that it choked me. It felt like she'd been waiting for this a lot longer than an hour, like the culmination of something huge. I told myself: panic amplifies emotions. I wouldn't be familiar with that; the dead don't panic.
Again it struck me as odd that no one was here for her—too odd, in fact. If anyone was in mortal danger, Batten would be there, especially the love of his life. Even if they'd had a knock-down drag-out break-up fight. Of course he'd be here. What was I thinking? If he knew, he'd slay dragons to be here. Kill-Notch Batten was a dyed-in-the-wool uberdouche, but he was damn good at his job.
She shut the door behind me with a solid click. The motel room was pristine; no smell of Mark's weak cologne lingering under old third-hand smoke, no shirt slung across the bed or folded on the dresser; I felt nothing of him here, or her, for that matter. The bed hadn't been touched.
No jewelry. No engagement ring.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
SEVEN
Something cold and sharp sank into my back. The coffee tray tilted and went spilling from my hand, lashing the cheap beige Berber carpeting with a bloodbath of hot caffeine. I opened my mouth to demand what the fuck?; what came out was a terr
ified mewl. I was on my knees before I knew what was happening. I gave over to instinct, rolled onto my back to face her just in time to see her rush me, her beautiful face screwed into a tight grimace of hatred. She had a knife.
I threw my gloved hands up, palms out in front of my neck, angling my body away from her. She slashed through calf skin, slicing into the meat of my right hand. The gun, need the gun. I tried to whip to the side, hit the rusted bed frame. The gun. Her arm was coming down again. All I could see was the tart-bright blade edge arching through grimy motel air. I blocked with crossed forearms, she snarled her frustration. Kicking out to keep her at a distance, I shoved my right hand under me for the gun. She closed in fast, ignoring my efforts, pinning my hand under my weight, straddling my hips. The knife came up again, and my gun hand floundered, empty. Where is it whereisitwhereisit? Instead, with my other hand, I grabbed the sea salt baggy from my pocket, gouged into it with all my fingers in one big squeeze, and flung it at her eyes.
She shrieked, swiping her face with the back of her hand. I bucked to throw her off, but her thighs were unyielding. Taking a chance, I aimed a left-handed punch at her throat, but it glanced, and that's when the knife shot through my guard; it hit me in the gut and sank in deep.
I grunted, felt hot bile sting the back of my throat. Bitchratfuck! The next few seconds were a blur of rage and steel, tears and the thin roping splatter of blood. Then everything went black.
When I opened my eyes it could have been minutes later or hours; I had no concept. Shaking uncontrollably, I inched my fingers around my hip for the Beretta. It wasn't there. I rolled just my eyeballs around. It wasn't anywhere. Oh God, I finally remembered, it's in the car.
The motel room had been redecorated by a frenzied tantrum. Motel. Not hotel. I thought with sinking dread. Chapel said hotel. He meant Denver. The flat-screen lay disemboweled, ripped right off its bolted stand. A disheveled, hollow-eyed version of Danika sat splay-legged on the floor by the door beside an overturned table, staring at what she'd done to me. She didn't look particularly upset about it. The knife was held loosely. I could have kicked it out of her hand but I was in no condition to fight off a second wave if she got going again. Chapel's not coming. Batten's not coming. No one knows I'm here.