The Ebony Finches: A Transition Magic Thriller

by J. E. Hopkins

  “Can you give me enough slack so that I can get to the bathroom and pee?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but I’ll still want you to measure the volume. Fluids in, fluids out, like we talked.”

  Shin climbed into the bed, stretched the offered tubing over his ears, and slipped the hard plastic tips of the cannula into his nostrils. He breathed deeply and lay back against the pillow. Dark smudges underlined his eyes and his skin was pale, his breathing shallow and rapid.

  His gaze hadn’t shifted from Stony. “Who’re you guys?”

  She and John moved to the side of the bed opposite PJ.

  “I’m Stony, this is John. We’re working with Doc PJ to help figure out what’s up with your dark and mysterious eyes.”

  Shin laughed. “Are you a doctor? I don’t think you’re a doctor. Not with a nose stud.” He shifted his gaze to John. “You could be, though.”

  “Nope, neither of us,” John said. “We’re agents for The Department of Transition Security. You know, the TW people.”

  “Secret agents? You have badges? Or don’t you need no stinkin’ badges?”

  “You’re quoting The Treasure of the Sierra Madre?” John asked. “That movie’s older than me.”

  “Which is saying something,” Stony said.

  Shin shook his head. “Never heard of it, but I watched Blazing Saddles last night for the fifth time. It’s in there.”

  John nodded. “Another good movie. Especially the campfire scene.” He took his creds from his back pocket and opened the leather folder to show a small gold badge opposite his identification.

  Shin giggled. “Fart jokes are always funny.”

  “For guys.” Stony offered her creds. Shin studied them—and her, much longer than he had John.

  “You feel like answering some questions?” she asked.

  “Sure.” The answer came easily, but Shin squirmed in the bed and his face tightened, like he was apprehensive.

  John looked over at PJ. “Would you leave us alone for a bit?”

  PJ looked surprised, then nodded. “I’ll be at the nurses’ station.”

  John waited until the door closed. “I thought it might be easier for you to answer our questions if we were alone.”

  The apprehension on Shin’s face slid into a grimace and his eyes focused on a spot over John’s left shoulder. “Okay.”

  Huh. Maybe he just doesn’t like questions.

  “You know Natalie Forrest, right?” Stony asked.

  Shin returned his attention to Stony. “Yeah. My dad works for her dad. Our families get together every so often for a picnic or something like that.”

  “How long since you’ve seen her?” Stony asked.

  “I told Doc PJ,” Shin said. “It’s been a couple of months. My dad would know for sure.”

  “You probably told the doctor this, too,” Stony said. “But have you, your dad, or your mom been sick at all? Say, during the weeks before your eyes changed?”

  “Doc PJ just asked me.” He paused a moment. “But, nah, no one’s been sick, unless you count my dad’s bloodshot eyes.”

  Stony smiled. “If we included bloodshot eyes, half the population would be considered sick, especially on Monday mornings.”

  “Shin,” John said, “have you tried to use magic since your eyes changed?”

  It was a long-shot question, designed to provoke a response, and the answer was almost certainly no. But even if the odds of a positive response were vanishingly small, the danger from magic was so great that DTS agents were trained to ask it. And trained to spot deception.

  Shin’s eyes shifted to the same invisible spot over John’s shoulder. “Huh-uh. It’s too dangerous. And my mom and dad would kill me if they found out.”

  A full minute passed before Stony broke the strained silence. “You have our word. We won’t tell your parents about this conversation.”

  Shin glanced at her and then back over John’s shoulder. “I don’t care what you tell them.” His voice was angry. ”I haven’t done anything bad.”

  John’s temples throbbed.

  He’s lying, sure as hell.

  “You know what I think?” John asked.

  Shin ignored the question.

  “I think it would only be natural for a smart kid like you to be curious. Your eyes are different. Maybe using magic would be different.”

  Shin stared at John. “I’m tired and don’t want to answer any more questions.” He pushed his head back into the pillow and closed his eyes.

  “That’s fine,” John said. “Thanks for helping us. Get some rest and feel better. And if you think of anything else, just let the nurses or Doc PJ know and we’ll come back.”

  John and Stony left the room and turned toward the nurses’ station half way down the hallway.

  John stopped after they’d walked a few yards. “Hang on a second, before we join up with PJ. What just happened in there?” He nodded back in the direction of Shin’s room.

  “There’s something he’s not telling us,” Stony said, “But he couldn’t have used magic or he’d be dead.”

  “Could be nothing more than he tried and chickened out before he finished the ritual.”

  “You’re the best I’ve ever known when it comes to reading people, Dish. You think there’s more to it than that, don’t you?”

  “Maybe. Wouldn’t it be interesting if he went through the ritual and nothing happened—no magic, no death. Maybe this bastard form of Transition doesn’t work. Would be great to know that.”

  “Or maybe it’s just some new disease and not Transition at all,” Stony said.

  “You believe that?”

  “No.”

  They rejoined PJ at the nurses’ station. He closed a bright blue three-ring binder, shelved it on a mobile rack, and led them to the end of the hall.

  Natalie lay asleep under an ivory blanket in the dimmed room, her bare arms by her side, the hiss of oxygen the only sound. Long, soft waves of sandy blonde hair framed her alabaster face. Her mouth was parted, as if she couldn’t get enough air, even with the oxygen. Her breathing, shallow and frequent, was wet and rough.

  So small. So vulnerable. Like Molly.

  A sixty-year old memory catapulted him from the hospital room to an open grave at a barren, wind-swept cemetery. Tears filled his eyes.

  Molly Ann Ross had been his best friend growing up in Missoula, Montana. When he was eleven, she’d gotten sick. He didn’t understand it at the time, but she’d developed leukemia. His mom had talked the doctors into letting John visit her in the hospital. She’d been asleep, so he’d stood next to the bed and held her hand, whispering stories about what they’d do together when she got well. She’d died two days later. He remembered sitting on a folding chair at Molly’s burial, shivering, promising her memory that he was going to help kids like her when he grew up.

  I’m just as helpless now as I was then.

  “I sent her father to the cafeteria,” PJ whispered. “You can talk with him there, if you wish.”

  John reached out and softly patted Natalie’s hand, turned, and left the room.

  On Monday morning, John and Stony again met in the motel parking lot and drove to Blake’s grill for breakfast. They’d spent the day before talking with Natalie’s father and Shin’s parents, but had learned nothing new.

  They settled onto the round chrome and blue vinyl stools at the counter and ordered—waffle with fresh strawberries and whipped cream for Stony, home-made granola for John.

  When their food was delivered, John shifted the conversation from his essay on the historical importance of Fort Ticonderoga to their plans for the day.

  “I want to look at eyes on every kid in this county that’s in Transition,” he said. “We need to confirm that none of them have black irises. I’d expect the parents of a kid whose eyes turned black to yell for help, but you never know. Let’s be thorough.”

  “That’ll also give us the opportunity to see who knew Natalie or Shin and when t
hey saw them last.”

  John nodded. “We’ll be stepping on the CDC’s toes, but I had an email waiting for me this morning from Karpov’s office. His investigator is going to be delayed until Wednesday. So he’s got no right to piss and moan if we overlap a bit.”

  Stony pulled a piece of paper from her purse. “Did a little research last night. There are twenty-seven public and eight private schools in Essex County. I pulled the latest data from our system and totaled the number of kids between nine and thirteen. Round numbers, there are 2,500 kids in the Transition age range. Based on national stats, twenty to thirty of them should be in Transition.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “The damn odds are bugging me again,” John said. “Twenty kids is a small number. What are the chances that two of them have this crazy—”

  John’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, checked the display, and took the call. “Benoit.”

  He listened for a few seconds, his face darkening. “Thanks for letting us know. We’ll be right over.”

  He ended the call and placed the phone on the counter with great care, as if it were made of fragile crystal.

  “Who—”

  “PJ. Natalie died a half hour ago.”

  “Jesus,” Stony said. She took her phone from her purse and tapped the screen several times. “Dish, today is a lunar month from the day she woke up with the eyes.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think we’re in the land of coincidence any more.” He paused and wiped his eyes. “One more thing. Shin sent a message: he wants to talk to us. PJ said we’d better hurry.”

  John’s phone buzzed again, vibrating sharply against the Formica countertop. He grabbed it after two rings and answered without looking at the display. “Benoit.”

  John slid off the stool and walked out of the diner to the parking lot. Stony kept pace at his side.

  “George Karpov at the CDC, Agent Benoit. I’m sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but—“

  “Just cut to the chase Dr. Karpov. One of the two kids in New York just died and the second is not far behind. Why the call?”

  “I’m very sorry,” Karpov said. “I’m afraid I have more bad news. We’ve just learned of three cases in Switzerland. Two children are dead, one is critically ill. The Swiss Tabloid The Truth has just published a story about the deaths, calling the condition the ‘T-Plague.’”

  12

  Pecos, Texas

  Gary Thomas Wells rode in the shotgun seat of the old Dodge Shadow, staring out the side window into the shadows of the passing desert illuminated by the weak yellow light of an off-kilter headlight. “The Old Rugged Cross” was playing softly on the radio, broadcast from the fifty-thousand watt station in Acuña, Mexico, three hundred miles south.

  He glanced at his mom. She was staring through the windshield like a zombie. He wished for the thousandth time that she hadn’t forced him to come along on the trip to pick up her husband at the state pen. They’d left Pecos at eleven p.m., after his mom got off work at Bush’s Diner, and were five hours into the nine hour drive.

  “You awake?” he asked. “There’s no traffic. I could drive for a couple hours while you get a some sleep.”

  His mother’s rusty laugh filled the car. “You think I’m so tired that I’ve lost my senses? You’re twelve, for God’s sake. Just because I let you practice a little out in the boonies doesn’t mean you’re ready to drive.”

  “Just trying to help. Besides, I’m almost thirteen.”

  “Almost thirteen. Right. That makes a huge difference.”

  He turned back to the flickering desert tableau at the side of the road. The radio had moved on to “Go Down, Moses.” He liked gospel, but he’d never admit that to his mother.

  They rode in silence for another half-hour, when his mother cleared her throat. “Tommy? There is something you can do for me.”

  Uh oh. She sounds like she’s apologizing already. I’m not going to like this.

  “I want you to call Robert Lee ‘father.’”

  Tommy’s heart started pounding in his chest and his face grew hot.

  “Why? He’s not my father, he’s my step-father. I’ve never even met him. Calling him that would be creepy.”

  “Don’t make this a big deal, Tommy. It’s a little thing and it would make him happy. It would make me happy.”

  He picked at the cracked vinyl seat, tearing off a tiny section of green. “Why are you bringing him to our home? You told me he used to get drunk and hit you. Aren’t you afraid of him? He’s going to mess up everything!”

  They rode in silence for several minutes.

  “People change.” His mom’s voice was soft, almost like she was talking to herself. “Robert Lee has changed.” She glanced at Tommy and her voice strengthened. “I’m certain of it or I wouldn’t be taking him back.”

  Tommy snorted. “How do you know he’s changed? You only went to see him three times in the last ten years.”

  “I had to work and Pecos is a long way from New Boston. You know that. I have his letters and they’re sweet and loving. He wants to be a father to you.”

  “I was two when he went into prison, mom. He’s a stranger.”

  His mother’s eyes filled. “I don’t ask you for much. Please do this small thing for me.”

  “We’re here. You can quit pretending that you’re asleep.”

  Tommy opened his eyes and looked around. His mother turned from Texas Highway 98 onto the road that led into the prison.

  “What time is it?” The sun was fully above the horizon.

  “A little after eight.”

  After their early morning confrontation, Tommy had spent the rest of the night with his eyes closed, his head leaning against the window. He’d searched for answers on how to deal with the man coming into their lives and found none, his apprehension growing with each passing mile.

  The two-lane access road led to a small guard shack, where a uniformed officer stopped them. “You here to visit?”

  “No,” Tommy’s mother said. “My husband is being released this morning. I’m here to pick him up.”

  “His name?”

  “Robert E. Lee Wells.”

  The guard studied his clipboard for a couple of seconds before nodding. “Employee and visitor lot is up there about a quarter mile.” He pointed southeast, where the morning heat shimmered from the tops of cars and pickups. “You’ll see a processing building on the other side. You can wait for your man inside the building or stay in your car. Don’t matter.” He waved them on.

  The parking lot was an asphalt island in the desert, twenty feet from a fence topped with glittering coiled wire. A gap just wide enough for the road was blocked by a bright-yellow drop arm as thick as a telephone pole. Tommy was disappointed. He’d wanted to see the prison, but it was just a smudge on the horizon.

  His mom parked in a visitor’s space to the right of a white, one-story brick building that hugged the road between the fence and the lot. She shut off the engine and checked her watch. “It’s going to be a couple of hours before your father gets out. His license has expired, so I’ve got to get some sleep for the drive home. You should do the same.”

  She got out of the two-door car, tipped the driver’s seat forward, and crawled into the back.

  No way Tommy could sleep. He stared at the twin glass doors that were tucked back under the flat roof of the processing center. The place was about the size of a Chipotle Mexican restaurant.

  What do they do in there? Does he get his old clothes back?

  His thoughts grew darker as he tried to imagine how he and his mother’s life was about to change.

  Why would she let a man who beat her back into our home? What’s going to happen to us?

  His mind teased him, not offering any answers, only more questions. He’d finally started to doze when a man walked through the doors and scanned the parking lot. Tommy jerked awake.

  “Mom, wake up. Is this him?”

/>   His mother sat up and looked around like a frightened deer, then spotted the man standing alone at the curb. “Yes, that’s Robert Lee!”

  She sounded excited and happy.

  “Let’s go meet your father.”

  She leaned over the seat, opened the door, and scrambled out. “Robert Lee! Over here.” She ran to the man and threw her arms around him, kissing him.

  Tommy climbed slowly from the car and hung back. The man was as pale as a ghost, tall, and wiry. He was wearing dark blue chinos and a khaki shirt.

  They must have given him new clothes.

  The man’s voice carried across the lot. “Claire Wells, you’re more beautiful than you were ten years ago. I can’t wait to get you home and into bed.”

  Tommy’s face flamed with embarrassment.

  “Hush, Robert Lee. Not in front of Tommy.”

  The stubble of hair on the man’s head and face was white, his eyes an almost colorless pale blue.

  He’s albino. Mom never told me that.

  Tommy shuffled from one foot to the other as the man kissed his mom again, then hugged her. As they hugged, Wells stared at Tommy over her shoulder, like he was studying a funny-colored bug.

  They walked arm in arm to the car.

  “Say hello to your son.” His mother stared at Tommy as she said it, with a clear warning in her eyes.

  Tommy extended his hand. “Hello, Mr. Wells.”

  The warning in his mom’s eyes darkened to a thunderstorm. “Tommy—”

  “Mr. Wells?” Robert Lee laughed. “That’s a strange thing for a boy to call his old man.”

  Tommy stared at him, silent.

  That’s the best I’ve got. Didn’t think I could get away with ‘asshole.’

  “Tell you what,” Robert Lee said. “Until we get better acquainted, why don’t we keep it simple. Call me ‘General,’ like my buddies do.”

  You’re no more a general than you’re my father. But it’s a way out of this mess.

  “Yes. General.” Tommy smiled.

  I’ll say General, but I’ll think Asshole.