Emerson leaned closer and placed his free hand near her lower back. His fingers knotted around the source of the light, twisting her color back to the natural contented Ruby. Back to Emerson’s favorite color. It was a trick he’d learned a few months ago. It calmed her enough to stop her from smoking. It made Mom happy again.
The cigarette fell from her lips to the ground. Mom tamped it into the grass with the toe of her sneaker. She smiled as she looked at the diner, her light back to the color of cherry Ring Pops. Emerson smiled too. Mom’s light shone calm now. Whatever was upsetting her, it wasn’t anymore. The trick worked. It worked every time.
“Can we go help now?” Emerson asked.
Mom’s gaze broke from the Silverleaf and fell to his face. Her smile beamed through the Scarlets and Reds bursting from her in steady waves. “I don’t see why not, sweetness.” She shrugged. She took his hand again, and they walked up the steps to the annex. Mom opened the door and led him inside.
The smile faded from Emerson’s face as a well of fear overflowed in him.
That man. The one from the diner. The empty, lightless man. He sat in a chair in Jaime’s office. Emerson turned away, to the open door. He pulled toward the yard, but couldn’t move. Mom had a hand on his shirt. She held him in place. In the shrinking space around the closing door, Emerson saw Barfly panting in the sun.
Chapter 63
Irene
“Is that it?” Irene asked. “Is that the place?”
Neither Dietrick nor Leo answered her. The Challenger ground to a stop across the open parking spaces in front of the restaurant. The sheriff was moving out of the car before the engine was off, her deputy following. Irene spilled out of the backseat to the dusty road. Her eyes scoured the outside of the restaurant. The rusted metal sign read silverleaf, and it hung from the covered porch of a clapboard building. A few chomping faces stared from the windows—diners concerned at the commotion. None of them were Dad.
Irene turned south. The road pierced the town, then disappeared into a curve a few miles away. Mature maple trees obstructed the longer view. A few figures milled about, none of them Dad either. Over her throbbing pulse, Irene heard the fading siren of the ambulance they’d followed here as it raced away to save her brother before he bled out.
Had her father made it here already? She turned back to find the stern face of Sheriff Dietrick between her and the diner.
“Irene, you need to wait here.” Her hand landed on Irene’s shoulder as she tried to push past the officer. “Let us take stock of the situation first. For your own safety.”
“Well, you can fuck that idea, because I’m going with you.” She tried to slide around Dietrick.
“Irene, please!” the sheriff pleaded. Deputy Leo moved ahead of them, opening the door as he reached a hand around his boss to block Irene.
Irene gripped the deputy’s wrist, ready to remove his arm to get inside that building. Her dad might be in there. After the last two days, nothing would keep her from finding him.
“Ah, shit.” The words eased from Leo’s mouth, his eyes looking at the street behind her. She turned around. Three highway patrol cruisers screeched to a stop on the road. They blocked the entire intersection. Irene hadn’t noticed them on the way here. She hadn’t realized the sound of their sirens was getting louder. They must have been following Leo here from the accident.
The deputy reversed his force against her, yanking Irene into the diner. He slammed the door closed behind them. Irene combed the patrons for her father. She found only blank stares from concerned strangers. Leo kept her moving across the floor, where Sheriff Dietrick was holding court.
“Everyone, I need your help.” Her voice filled the tense space. Despite her compact form, the sheriff captured the room in her gravity. Leo released Irene’s wrist with a reassuring squeeze and went to stand behind his boss.
“We’re looking for a man named Caleb Allard. Caucasian, fifty-nine years old, he’s very sick.” She turned to Irene. “Pull up a photo, please.”
Irene pulled out her phone, struggling to find the photo-gallery app she used every day.
“Leo,” the sheriff grumbled, lowering her voice, “get the staff from the kitchen in here too.” The deputy nodded and moved behind the service counter.
“Irene?” Dietrick held out a hand for the phone. Irene found the last photo she had taken of her dad. His thin frame sat at his dining room table. They had been working through a stack of Final Release paperwork. His eyes were tired, but calm. Or resigned. Things were in their places then. As Dietrick’s callused fingers took the phone from her, Irene noted the date in the photograph's corner. Less than a week ago now. A few days with Wes had turned the serenity in that photo on its ass.
The sheriff scurried to the closest table, holding out the photo to the patrons and repeating Dad’s full name. They shook their heads, the man balancing a forkful of pasta in front of his face, the woman clutching her purse tight to her chest. Impatience gnawed at Irene’s bones. She jumped at the sound of the kitchen door banging open. Leo corralled two tense cooks and a waitress into the dining area.
Dietrick moved to the next table. The lone man chomped on his sandwich and played with his fries, giving the photo a cursory shake of his head. “This is Caleb Allard. Are you sure you haven’t seen him?” the sheriff asked.
Movement caught Irene’s eye. Behind the service bar, a small view of the kitchen was visible. A house of a man padded past the stove tops. Based on his sharp clothing, he could have been the manager. Or the owner.
Dietrick turned to the cooks and waitress, holding up the phone. “We are looking for this man, have you seen him?” she asked. “His name is Caleb Allard.”
Irene flushed. The gigantic man in the kitchen froze. His eyes saucered. His brow clenched. His neutral face opened in surprise.
He had recognized her father’s name.
Chapter 64
Emerson
The man’s empty eyes bored into Emerson. His face carried no smile. No frown. His skin yellowed and thin. How could skin have a color without light? And the man smelled. The way Barfly stunk after Uncle Terry’s. Like the deer on the road. Metallic, sour. The smell of broken halos and death.
Emerson turned away and buried his face into his mother’s standing lap. His arms clamped around her waist. Mom backed away, but Emerson pushed harder until she stumbled against Jaime’s desk. She put her hands on his shoulders, and Emerson dug deeper into her belly.
“Dammit, Em, what’s wrong?” she asked.
Emerson shook his head, afraid to let his voice into the room. Mom’s hands tightened on him, her movements becoming harsh. She pulled his face away from her warmth. “Emerson Hunt!” she scolded. “What is the matter with you?”
Mom was angry now. Her light became fire. Orange, Yellows whipping out from her chest, bleeding over the Ruby calm he’d created in her earlier. Mom’s colors scared Emerson when she was mad. But that terror was nothing next to what he felt standing this close to the lightless man. Mom stooped as tears formed in Emerson’s eyes, and he pushed his head back into her.
Her hand slunk between them, her arms prying him out of his safety. His face clenched, his body trying to fold into a ball. Mom held him tight, one hand on his chest and the other on his back. Emerson opened his eyes, and his tears ran for their chance to escape. Her face met his, her eyes bright and fierce. It froze Emerson. He sucked in a lip as she spoke through gritted teeth, her warm spittle spraying his cheeks. “What the hell is wrong with you?” As she finished the question, Mom shoved him once, and the room rattled as Emerson’s head bounced back and forth.
She didn’t want an answer. Emerson knew he should stay quiet. He spoke anyway. “I want to go,” he whispered. It was as loud as he could make his voice. It hurt like a scream, but it barely moved the air between them. “I don’t think I can help him.”
Mom’s face tightened around her eyes. They shot up to the man sitting b
ehind him, softening into an apology. When she turned back to Emerson, her mouth and eyes were firm and cold.
She hissed, low enough so the empty man wouldn’t hear. “Well, he helped us, okay? And in return we have to help him back.” Mom whipped Emerson around on his feet, so he faced the lightless thing in the chair. Her warm cheek brushed his, her voice turning bright. “All you gotta do is try, sweetness.”
The man’s face blanked, blurred from Emerson’s tears. Mom stood up behind Emerson, and the lap he had run to for safety now shoved him into danger.
“I’m sorry, he’s never been like this before.” Ochre flares of her annoyance betrayed the calm tone of her voice. Emerson planted his feet, but the thin carpet offered no traction as Mom pushed him closer.
The man stared at him. After a boundless moment, the man’s gaze lifted to Mom, and then fell to the floor at Emerson’s feet.
The man smiled. Why? Was he happy? Excited because he thought Emerson could fix him? Was he thinking about a joke? Or was that a frowny-face that looked like a smile? Was the man angry? At Emerson for not being able to fix him?
Without the light to guide him, Emerson was blind.
Chapter 65
Caleb
The mother wrestled the boy toward him. “I’m sorry,” she said with an apologetic nod. “He’s never been like this before.”
Caleb’s heart pounded against his ribs. The boy was here, terrified. The kid’s face was slick with tears. Snot bubbled from his nostrils as he resisted his mother. Caleb leaned into the hard plastic chair. Resignation pushed down on his shoulders. The mother inched the kid forward as the little boy’s arms flailed out to brace himself. This was all so wrong.
Motion behind the woman drew Caleb’s gaze. In the far corner of the room, the white of the wall fell away in a gentle wave. Wisps of gray from the carpet joined the stream. Like living smoke, the colors wrapped around the ficus tree, pulling out the plastic greens and browns. The color drained in swirls, leaving a taupe blankness that explored the space like a dozen curious fingers.
Caleb’s chest tightened, a slice of pain radiating down his arm and through his back. The weight of the thick canvas jacket pressed him into his seat. It wouldn’t be long now. Death was here, in the room.
He looked down at the floor. The carpet beneath his feet. The jacket was heavy, holding him in the chair. Caleb wanted to remove it. To stand. He wasn’t sure he had it in him.
Something was next to his shoe. A tiny black thing. Was it … was that a toy?
Caleb smiled. It was a toy. Another car. He bent down, the pain in his back thrusting through his belly and ribs. His fingers found the toy as the tumor jabbed into his liver. He crawled back up with small movements, the toy car in his hand.
He waited a breath before opening his eyes. The tendrils of color consumed the far half of the room now. The space behind Blair dissolved into a watery wall of pigment. He looked to the mother and found her scowling frown. She shoved Emerson again with a frustrated grunt. Caleb turned to Emerson. The boy thrashed, as terrified as his mother was angry.
Caleb swallowed. He hoped his voice would work. “Is this yours?”
The boy twisted his face away, pushing back against his mother’s torso. She secured him with her hands, nudging him with her legs as she said, “Don’t be rude, Em.”
“Em,” Caleb repeated. “Short for Emerson, right?” The boy’s face pivoted, just enough to reveal his chin. A nearly imperceptible nod confirmed Caleb’s memory. “I think,” he said, raising the car in his trembling hand, “this is yours.” The boy’s eyes shot from the wall to the car and back. The boy nodded, sucking in the stream of snot dangling from his nose.
“This must be important to you,” Caleb offered. He moved the car toward the boy, but Emerson made no move to take it.
Caleb reached out with his braced hand, taking Emerson’s forearm and easing it out straight. The kid’s eyes clenched closed as he sucked in a breath. Caleb pulled the kid’s hand open, resting the Batmobile in his open palm. The boy relaxed into his mother. And she relaxed as well, stroking the boy’s hair.
As he closed Emerson’s fingers around his toy, the kid let go of the breath he held. In a single staccato huff, Emerson gasped, “I don’t know how to fix you.” He sucked in another breath, bracing his body as if expecting a blow. The mother mumbled something Caleb couldn’t hear.
As the waves scoured the color from the walls and the floor, Caleb released a shuddering sigh. The searching fingers of smoke flowed his way, locking the scene as they went. He moved his hand from the boy’s fist, reaching into the pocket of the rotted coat. His fingers landed on the slick and cool metal of the pistol barrel.
Caleb looked into the boy’s bulging eyes. The kid must have sensed it. Terror erupted across Emerson’s face as he pulled away. His mother cursed and pushed him forward. None of this was okay.
“It’s all right, Emerson,” Caleb whispered. He tightened his grip around the boy’s arm as Emerson yanked it back.
Was it all right? Was anything that happened these last days right? Caleb closed his eyes around his tears. The rough embossing on the gun’s wooden handle brushed the tips of his fingers. Life throbbed in his deaf ear.
Caleb?
Words fell from Caleb’s lips like a late apology. “There’s been a change of plans.”
Chapter 66
Blair
For fuck’s sake, Emerson needed to calm down. Blair had never seen him react this way. He was always tentative, sure. Em was very sensitive, especially around people who were sick or distraught. But he never openly defied her like this. If they were alone, she would whip him with a drop cord.
But they weren’t alone. And Emerson needed to earn his keep. He should at least try to help their customer. Blair stroked her son’s thick hair, finding it matted with sweat, her hand coming away sticky and wet. Emerson continued to push against her, trying to move away from the man.
What the hell had gotten into him? Caleb looked sick—even a child would see it. And his odor was off-putting, but Christ Almighty, Em had seen and touched a lot worse, all on his own. Her boy stilled, leaning into her as he stopped flailing his arms. Blair adjusted her hips to square the boy up in front of Caleb. Her son’s body went rigid, but his panting grew raspy, as if he were out of breath from running from something.
Blair looked up to Caleb, shrugging a smile. But Caleb was looking past her, his face detached. An anxious twitch pulled on her lip. She was losing him. He would want his money back.
Blair dropped her eyes down to her son again. His face turned to the wall, as if Caleb’s stink was too much to take straight on. He sniffled and shuddered against her legs. Her mouth trembled again. The kid needed to pull it together, to toughen up.
Caleb grunted, and Blair found him stooped. His wrecked fingers wagged at something just out of his reach on the ground. It was Emerson’s toy. Em must have dropped it when he was throwing his tantrum. Straining, Caleb moaned as he grabbed up the toy. As he sat up, his eyes clenched tight and his face grew dour as he breathed in uneven sighs.
His eyes opened, tracing from the ceiling, past Blair, and landing on Emerson. Blair eased her fingers through Em’s hair, feeling him flinch when the man held out an open hand, the toy resting on his palm.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
Emerson tightened against her. “Don’t be rude, Em,” Blair nudged.
Caleb smiled at her boy. The knot in her chest relaxed. As long as he remained hopeful, still held some anticipation at the prospect of leaving this sickness and pain behind him, this could work out. But she needed to get Emerson to work his goddamned magic.
“Em. Emerson, right?” The man’s eyes betrayed a longing, but he engaged Em with patience. This was a team effort now, the two of them working Emerson to get the job done. Caleb held the toy closer. “This must be important to you.”
Emerson quaked, pushing into her leg. Blair shifted one leg
back, her stance too solid for him to move. She ran her fingers through his hair again as Caleb placed the car in her son’s hand. Emerson froze for a heavy moment.
The moment ended as Em heaved in a gasp, and words sputtered from his sloppy mouth. “I don’t know how to fix you.”
Goddammit! Blair groaned, exasperated. Her hand fell from Em’s head to her side as she mumbled through her tensed lips, “Dammit, Emerson, you haven’t even tried.” She pulled in a calming breath and looked around in frustration. She needed to turn this around.
“That’s okay, Emerson.” Caleb’s words surprised her, his tone dark. Her brow curled in confusion. She wanted to tell the man that it was not okay, that Emerson needed to fulfill their part of the arrangement. Before she could, Caleb stammered, “There’s been a change of plans.”
Puzzled, Blair watched as he leaned to the side. His free hand disappeared into the pocket of the coat while the other held her son’s arm. “How do you mean?” Blair asked.
He paused, his hand finding whatever it was looking for. His eyes shifted to the corner of the room, searching for a long moment before they came back to hers. Caleb shook his head, a wry smile stretching across his face. Swallowing, he replied, “I wasn’t talking to you.”
He pulled his hand from the coat pocket, the shifting weight sliding the jacket across his torso. Blair’s eyes widened at the sight of the man's shirt. Spatters of dark and rusty stains dotted his torso. She followed the pattern to his pants, where the spots turned into long organic streaks.
Blair sucked in a breath. “Is that … blood?” she heard herself ask. As the duster moved off Caleb’s legs, the extent of the stains became evident. Blood covered him, from top to bottom. Her arms moved around her son’s chest in a protective clutch. She reversed her stance, pulling Emerson toward her. Away from Caleb.
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