by Thomas Locke
She released some of her tension in a single long breath. Sean loved how he could stand up close to her and look, absorb her beauty. Her hair was not red and it was not blonde. It was both. Same with the eyes, not grey, not green, but some amazing mix. On her, the freckles that swept across the upper part of her cheeks and nose were perfect. Like her lips. There was just one problem with the whole mix.
She only had eyes for Dillon.
She asked, “So where will you live?”
“Excellent question,” Sean replied.
“Our parents are getting a divorce,” Dillon announced.
Her empathy was so genuine, tears formed. “You poor guys.”
Dillon shrugged both handfuls of shopping bags. “It’s not really a surprise.”
“Well, it is and it isn’t,” Sean said.
“It’s not like they fought or anything,” his brother agreed.
“But things haven’t been great for a long time.”
They walked back out to the car, where the driver helped them deposit the bags in the trunk, then they returned to the mall. They took turns trying to describe what it was like around their home. Or rather, former home. Carey was amazingly easy to talk with. And her concentration was total. When a trio of school friends called to her, she either didn’t hear or chose to ignore them entirely. The girls laughed in that mocking way that normally would have left Sean’s face burning. But today it was just part of the background noise.
They entered a café and ordered, and Carey excused herself, saying she needed to call her father. They took a table by the front window and checked off all the items they had bought.
Carey returned to the table, saw what they were doing, and said, “I hate shopping worse than anything.”
“You can’t,” Dillon replied. “You’re a girl. You’re beautiful. Shopping is part of your genetic makeup.”
“I hate makeup more than shopping.”
“Careful,” Dillon said. “The mall patrol is going to swoop down and lock you up.”
“My dad’s best friend teaches business law. He’ll get me out.”
“They’ll put you on mall probation. Make you go to night school. How to become a cosmetic whatever.”
“Cosmetician,” she supplied. “Double yuck.”
Sean listened to the exchange, then watched them back off and dive into their respective cups. Like they needed a breather. He sipped at his own drink, which had gone cold, and tasted nothing. In the space of that exchange, he had become the outsider.
Carey asked, “Are you guys okay?”
“Define okay,” Dillon said.
“Where are you staying?”
“Homewood Suites. We’re supposed to meet the folks this evening, decide where we’re going to live. You know, who with.” Dillon glanced at Sean. “I guess we better talk that one through.”
Sean just nodded. There was a sullen lump in his chest. He was jealous and there was nothing he could do about it. Carey was becoming Dillon’s girl. It was only a matter of time.
Dillon turned back to Carey and asked, “How do you tell us apart?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You always knew who was who. From the very first time we met. Almost nobody can. I was just wondering.”
“I don’t . . . You’re very different people.”
“That’s right. We are,” Dillon said. “That’s the amazing thing about you. You see people. You notice things.”
Carey wore her hair back behind her ears, but one strand had worked out of the clip and wandered loose over her left eye. Sean wanted to reach out and brush it away, get in close enough to breathe her clean scent. But he couldn’t. That was Dillon’s job now.
He was brought back around by Carey saying, “Maybe you could come live with us.”
Dillon’s mouth opened and shut, but all he managed was, “What?”
“Four years ago, Dad’s brother went through a bad breakup. My aunt . . .” She waved that away. Another time. “He came to live with us. He and my dad fixed up the garage loft into this really cool place. Last fall he took a job in Seattle. The loft has been empty ever since.”
“What about your dad?”
“He never liked Eric. Not even a little bit. I guess in a way he was waiting for the bad thing to happen. When he heard what you did, he . . .”
“What?” Dillon pressed.
She showed them a beautiful crimson blush. “He said it was nice to know there were still some white knights in this crazy world.”
Dillon looked at Sean. As if he would ever object to this. When Sean did not say anything, Dillon said, “So your dad is okay with two strangers moving in.”
“You’re not strangers. He said to tell you that you’d be welcome.” She looked from one to the other. Appearing anxious now in a completely new way. “That is, if you want.”
21
School the next day held a surreal quality. The principal insisted on meeting with them and spent twenty minutes basically saying nothing of any importance. They were passed on to the counselor, who danced around the unspoken question, which was, were they in some form of well-hidden shock? They listened to both of the women invite them to skip the final few days of school. But Carver’s instructions had been very clear. They were to find a new normal and stick to it.
The other students didn’t help, the way they kept coming up between classes and surrounding them with comments meant to claim the events as their own.
“My folks drove us past the place yesterday. We were amazed you walked away.”
“I looked at that, and it was like, which terrorist did you get mixed up with.”
“I was so scared. I mean, this is little Raleigh.”
“My dad said it looked like Beirut.”
“It was wild, looking down into your cellar. I thought, it had to be a bomb, right . . .”
The comments swiftly grew old.
They had to endure a second session with the counselor and principal after their last class. Neither Sean nor Dillon said much, basically because they had no idea what would get them out of the offices faster than silence. When they emerged that afternoon, Carver was there standing beside a white Malibu that shouted rental. He wore a buttoned-down version of civilian gear—navy jacket and summer-weight grey trousers and blue shirt and striped tie. The second sleeve was filled and the scar was gone.
Carey’s home was between the Oberlin Road shopping district and the main NCSU campus. The one-story ranch was set a full two hundred feet from the road, surrounded by pines that whispered a soft welcome. Two massive oaks rose from the backyard, like they were peering over the roof, wanting to have a good look at these newcomers.
When they pulled into the curved drive and rose from the car, Sean realized that the home hid a unique beauty in plain sight. The whole place had a slightly Oriental cast. The cedar-shingle roof was peaked at both ends and ended in stubby carved arms that curved up slightly. The windows were oversized and topped by little copies of the cedar roof. The doorway was peaked and the door bound by ornately carved iron. The drive curved around and ended by a shield of huge magnolias that welcomed them with the fragrance of late spring blossoms. The front walk was slightly raised and shaped from raw planks that grew into a broad open patio, framed by the same carved wood as the roof. A second walk connected to the garage, which had been built to model the home. The walks and the patio were bordered by bonsai gardens and lights shaped like Japanese lanterns.
Carey crossed the patio accompanied by her father, whom she introduced by his first name. John Havilland looked every inch a professor, from his scattered and unruly thatch of grey hair right down to his blue socks and open-toed sandals. He was tall like his daughter and would probably have been handsome, except for how he carried himself in a slight stoop. Sean thought his face had been permanently creased through the effort of bearing his loss.
Professor Havilland shook their hands and said, “Carey tells me I owe you a very great debt.”
Dillon had never handled praise well, and today he played the mute. So Sean said, “We’re just glad we were there, sir.”
“As am I. Believe you me.” The professor gave their car a pointed look. “Your parents aren’t with you?”
Carey protested quietly, “Dad.”
Sean knew Dillon wouldn’t say the words, so he did. “Things around our home haven’t been great for a while.”
“Longer,” Dillon said to the ground at his feet.
“Losing the house basically gave them a reason to get a divorce. When we told them we wanted to find a place of our own, they seemed to expect it.”
There followed an awkward silence, until Carver said, “I understand you recently lost your wife. Please accept my sincere condolences.”
“Mom was an art historian,” Carey said. “Her specialty was the Orient. We see her everywhere, so we’ll never move. Right, Pop?”
Professor Havilland nodded and asked, “What brings you here, Colonel?”
“These young men will be serving as my research assistants this summer. We have also become friends. I thought it would be appropriate if we met.”
Whatever the professor was about to ask next was cut off by his daughter asking, “Dillon, what’s wrong?” When Dillon remained silent, she pressed, “Won’t you tell me?”
But Dillon just kicked the earth at his feet. So Sean said, “We’re surrounded by everything we’ve never had.”
It just tore Sean up inside, saying those words. He was so ashamed. But then Dillon lifted his head and shot him a look of pure gratitude. And he knew he had done the right thing.
Carey looked confused. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not the place,” Sean said.
“Well, it is in a way,” Dillon corrected.
“Sure. But what I mean is . . . your family made this a home. You stay here because your mom’s still here.”
“We’ve never had that,” Dillon said, still kicking at a root. “Not one single day.”
The moment was captured by Carver settling his hand on Dillon’s shoulder. “This is your life now. Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s not about where you sleep. It’s about the life you build for yourself. It’s the perspective you take on tomorrow.”
Sean felt like he was both deeply involved and able to take a mental step back, far enough to see the professor smile softly and Carey reach for her father’s hand. They stood like that for a timeless moment, the wind humming through the pines overhead, the tall cane chattering a soft agreement.
Then the professor said, “Why don’t we show you your new home.”
The loft was one grand room, emphasis on the word grand. The cathedral ceiling was blond cedar planks, same as the floor, all tongue and groove and hand-finished, or so John Havilland explained to Carver. The twin beds were sectioned off by painted screens that slid shut or could be shunted over to one side. The living area ran into the kitchen, which opened onto a rear balcony. Sean and Dillon did a gingerly walk-around, having trouble taking in the fact that this might be theirs. Their home. All the while, the professor continued his gentle probing of Carver.
“What is the subject matter of your study, Colonel?”
“Special forces.”
“You were involved in this branch?”
“I still am, to an extent. I serve as consultant on military matters to several groups.”
“Including the government?”
Carver did not respond.
“I see. Well. May I ask why you selected these two young men?”
“In my initial meeting with them, I perceived a special aptitude.” Carver chose his words very carefully. “I gave them a chance, and they excelled. Their work to date has been of exceptional quality. They show great potential.”
Sean watched as Carey glowed with pride over Dillon being praised. Her father saw it too. Sean knew the professor was aware of Carey’s feelings for his brother. And the man wasn’t certain how he felt about it. But all he said was, “Boys, do your plans include careers in the military?”
“I’m more interested in investigative sciences,” Dillon replied.
Professor Havilland was clearly not expecting that sort of precise response from a seventeen-year-old. He took a moment for that, then asked Sean, “What about you?”
“I’m thinking more of a role in government,” Sean replied.
“Like your father, then.”
“Definitely not,” Sean said.
Carey’s father just nodded, like Sean’s response made all the sense in the world.
Dillon was still zoned out, so Sean decided it was his role to say, “We want to pay rent for this.”
“I appreciate the thought, boys, but it’s not necessary.”
“Sir, we’re getting money from the company as well as our folks.” They had worked out the strategy with Carver on the way over. “We want a place we can call home. Not just for a couple of weeks. For good.”
The declaration caught the professor off guard, particularly when he saw the glow to his daughter’s features. “What about your parents?”
Dillon repeated Sean’s words, more forceful this time. “We want a place we can call home.”
“I see. Or rather, I think I do.” He met his daughter’s gaze, saw the entreaty, and said, “Tell you what. Let’s give it a month’s trial run, then we’ll have this discussion for real. All right?”
22
Moving in took all of ten minutes. Carver, Carey, and her father helped. They shook hands all around, then the Havillands returned to their home with the professor’s arm around his daughter’s shoulders.
Carver announced, “I’ve rented a place nearby that you can use for transiting. If you do it here, vanishing when people expect you to be home, it could raise questions we don’t want.”
Dillon was still watching the space that Carey had last occupied. His voice was not dreamy, but it came close. “What kinds of questions?” Which earned him exasperated looks from both Sean and Carver. Dillon blushed. “Oh. Right.”
“Pay attention,” Carver said. “This is the only time I will be around to show you.”
When Carver started toward the stairs, Sean said to his brother, “Yeah, pay attention, why don’t you.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re so not good,” Sean countered. “This is important, Dillon.”
They drove past the shopping area and entered the district known as Cameron Village. The rental car smelled of stale perfume and somebody else’s sweat. But Sean didn’t miss the Charger at all.
The Cameron Apartments were square, red-brick structures dating from the fifties, four dwellings to each building. The units were rented mostly to young families and grad students and newly singles and hourly wagers who worked in local stores and didn’t want a long commute. Most of the cars were either Korean or older models with big snouts and fading paint jobs. The streets were a maze that forced the traffic down to a crawl.
They parked in front of a building that was showing its age. Carver removed a For Rent sign from a ground-floor screen door and let them inside. “If anyone asks, you know the drill. The phone number for me will continue to work. But call only if the need is critical.”
The living room held three desks, chairs, laptops, and a half-dozen shelves with books on military stuff. Enough to satisfy a casual visitor. The kitchen had the same new IKEA basics. The lone bedroom held a futon and dresser. As empty as a theater stage and just as welcoming. The AC in the living room window gave off a constant metallic cough.
Carver said, “You need to buy bicycles. Come here, transit out. That’s the norm. But we’ll practice transits to and from your loft as well.”
Dillon broke in with, “Are Carey and her father safe?”
“Yes. They are.”
“I need to know you’re not blowing smoke here.”
Carver was clearly not accustomed to being questioned by his recruits. “Blowing smoke?”
“Some lit
tle song and dance you’re giving us. A few words to fill the moment.” Dillon sounded as hard as Sean had ever heard. “I’m not accepting a level of safety like how we were supposed to be safe before. I don’t want to wake up some morning and see a hole in the ground where their home was.”
“There are Watchers on duty around the clock,” Carver said. “A squad of Praetorians on full alert.”
“For how long?”
“As long as I say. Probably until we locate the Examiner.”
“And if it isn’t the Examiner who’s behind this?”
Carver did not reply. Sean found himself unable to say who had the harder gaze, his brother or their instructor.
Dillon finally said, “I guess that’s okay.”
Carver remained as he was, focused fully on his brother. “You care for her. This young woman.”
“Carey,” Dillon replied. “Her name is Carey.”
“What have you told her?”
“Nothing. Yet. Why, is that good for a mind-wipe?”
“I told you. That phase of training is over.”
“So what are the rules on telling somebody?”
“The rules are . . . vague.”
“Then I can do it?”
“In theory, it is your decision. You should have my approval. But it is not absolutely necessary . . . Will you tell me?”
“Okay.”
“Before you tell her?”
“I’ll think about it.” Dillon waved aside Carver’s protest, the gesture right from their instructor’s book. “Enough. Let’s get started here.”
The practice session took them well past midnight. Carver shunted them around, their instructor in full military mode. Intent on bringing them to a point where the actions came without thought. When they stopped for infrequent breaks, he hammered on the same core themes. They were moving from what came natural. They were no longer heading out to a place they had chosen during childhood. This was a crucial juncture, being able to transit to destinations that were assigned to them. This was the first step to becoming Messengers. And Messengers formed the backbone of the service . . .
On and on it went. They transited together, alone, roped, unlinked, loft to this apartment, loft to the Examiner’s school, school to the loft, over and over until they could do it in their sleep, and almost did. All they saw of the school was a windowless transit chamber painted matte grey with some monochrome symbol on one wall, about as interesting as the principal’s waiting room. Sean grew so exhausted he forgot to ask what Carver and the Counselor thought of their joining the Examiner’s school. And by the time they called it quits, he no longer cared.