Tether

by Jeremy Robinson

  “C’mon,” I say, and then realize I’m talking to 1) a woman, and 2) the woman that is with Bjorn. “Really?”

  “I don’t see why this matters,” Rain says.

  “He’s trying to distract himself,” Reggie says, cutting through to my emotional core with a hot laser knife.

  “From what?” Rain says. “We should be focusing.”

  “Well,” Bjorn says. “His wife died last night, right?”

  Bjorn opens Reggie’s cut wider and dumps salt in it. Man, smart people can be socially awkward. As I sink in on myself, I’m only vaguely aware of the group discussing all the things weighing me down. Instead of listening, I picture Morgan’s face.

  For now, the freshness of her memory will keep me going. The mystery of her death. The giant monsters somehow connected to it. Distraction is the balm for my wounds.

  So I remember her instead.

  Sunday morning is the best time to go see a movie. The only other people at our local theater are a church group that rents one of the rooms for their service.

  Two years ago, we went to see a Marvel movie. I don’t remember which one. They’re all kind of the same. We passed on the early morning popcorn—honestly, movie theater popcorn makes me feel depressed when there’s a bucket of it in my gut, no matter what time of day it is—and I think that made us look like churchgoers. Or maybe it’s that Morgan greeted everyone we encountered with a smile.

  Despite pre-ordering our tickets and reserving seats, we arrived thirty minutes early—an old habit to ensure getting prime locations. Feeling mischievous, we decided to infiltrate the service, which turned out to be a simulcast of some church in California. As weird as that was, the music was great—old hymns made modern. When Amazing Grace played, Morgan was moved to tears. At the time, I didn’t see why she would react strongly to ‘Amazing Grace, How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me,’ but now I’ve got some perspective. Her life wasn’t as blameless as I believed.

  I push thoughts about what Morgan might have been involved in out of my mind and focus on the memory.

  We still made it to our movie with fifteen minutes to spare—thirty if you count the inordinate number of trailers, but those fifteen minutes of praise music to a God we didn’t believe in remain one of the highlights of our marriage. There was something about it…some kind of connection between us that wasn’t normal. Something I might now call supernatural, since I know it’s not all smoke and mirrors.

  Smoke and mirrors can’t destroy cities and suck people’s souls into the sky.

  And with that thought, I’m back in the present, in time to hear Bjorn say, “It’s amazing he’s still functioning.”

  I know he’s talking about me, that I should feel something, or say something, but mostly I just agree with him.

  Why haven’t I cracked up yet?

  Because, as crazy as it sounds, I can still feel her with me. It’s not a physical thing, like with the other ghosts we’ve encountered. It’s more like a feeling. An instinct. Some kind of M. Night Shyamalan sixth sense. But I’m not about to say that, and I’m happy to let the conversation fizzle.

  “Out of respect for your friend in the back seat,” the FBI agent says, “I think you should probably shut the hell up.” She turns her face toward Bjorn and looks at him over the sunglasses that have slid down her nose.

  “Has she been awake for long?” I ask, bewildered that I was so far gone down memory lane that I missed her waking.

  “I woke up about an hour ago,” she says.

  “We’ve been driving for an hour,” I point out.

  She raises her eyebrows at me.

  “You’ve been listening to us this whole time?” Bjorn asks, sounding somewhat offended by the idea.

  “Gathering intel on multiple suspected terrorists,” she says. “Yeah, that’s kind of my job.”

  “And why are you talking to us now?” I ask.

  “Because you’re clearly not terrorists.” She motions to Rain with her head, “Aside from this little firecracker—nice moves by the way—I doubt any of you could last ten seconds in a fight with Minnie Mouse.”

  “Well, yeah,” Bjorn says. “She’s a cartoon.”

  “Quiet, wizard,” the agent says, revealing she knows a lot more about us than I would have guessed. I mentally run through the last hour’s conversation and realize she knows a lot. Really, everything there is to know about us, about last night, and the situation we’re in.

  “I’m not a wizard,” Bjorn says. “I’m a war—”

  “Qu-i-et,” Garcia says, lifting a hand and pinching her fingers together.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning forward. Her hands are untied, the extension cord lying on her lap. “How’d—”

  “You’re all horrible abductors,” she says, and she quickly unties her feet.

  When she sits back up, looking somewhat casual, I say, “You don’t seem angry.”

  “I’m not thrilled about being knocked out,” she says. “But you’re not who I thought you were. Not who I was told you were.”

  “Maybe we knew you were awake this whole time,” Reggie says, “and have been manipulating you with—”

  Garcia twists around in her seat. “None of you are smart enough to pull that off.”

  “I’m a professor at M.I.T.,” Reggie complains.

  “I know,” Garcia says, showing her first sign of true impatience. “You’ve mentioned it like five times in the last hour. And here’s the thing, all of your time in a lab…” She motions to Bjorn, “or his time selling false hope…”

  “Hey,” Bjorn says.

  She ignores him, turning toward me, “Or your time being a washed-up crime reporter…”

  Ouch.

  “…isn’t going to help you out of this mess. If the people responsible for Boston really are after you, they have deep pockets, and that dead assassin in the apartment won’t be the last.”

  I feel like I’ve just been part of a Comedy Central roast, except it wasn’t funny, and no one’s watching. I don’t think Garcia was even trying to be mean. She’s just laying out the cold, hard facts. She could have just as easily said, “You’re screwed,” but someone would have argued.

  “What about me?” Rain asks.

  “You…” Garcia looks Rain up and down. “You don’t even know your own name.”

  “But the things she can do,” Reggie says.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Garcia says. “She glows, right? Talks to the dead?”

  “I talk to them,” I say. “She…” Garcia’s lone raised eyebrow of doubt takes the fight out of me. “Never mind.”

  “I’m afraid that horseshit falls squarely in the ‘I’ll believe it when I see it’ category. But…I believe you’re not terrorists. I believe you saw something you weren’t supposed to, and that people—powerful people—are hunting you down. And I believe your wife died last night.” She loses a trace of her edge. “Sorry about that.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You can thank me by telling me what you’re planning to do about it,” she says. “It’s the only damn thing you all haven’t talked about.”

  “We’re going to my place,” I say. “To get my phone.”

  “Your place,” she says, cracking a smile. “Funny.”

  When I don’t grin or even blink, she frowns. “You’re serious?” A long sigh. “Your house is cordoned off.” To Reggie. “Your lab, too.” Back to me. “Why do you need your phone? You were in Cambridge last night. It’s a brick, right?”

  “The data is still on it,” Reggie says.

  “What data?”

  “A video of what happened,” I say.

  “You mean the big blue explosion and the light shooting up into the sky?”

  “You saw it?” I ask.

  “I heard about it,” she says. “In a briefing.”

  “And Boston?” I asked.

  “The chemical attack,” she says.

  Reggie and I share an aghast look. Not even the FBI knows the trut
h about what happened? I decide to not discuss the kaiju, which we’ve apparently also left out of the conversation for the past hour. “The video is a screen capture of a FaceTime with my wife, from inside SpecTek when it exploded.”

  Garcia stares at me. “You’re serious?”

  “If we get the phone, we can clear our names and show the world that we didn’t do what everyone thinks we did. And maybe we can figure out what happened to my wife.”

  “And who I am,” Rain adds.

  Garcia takes several moments to process, sighing several times. “Near as I can tell, the worst thing you’ve done is abduct me. Given the circumstances, I can’t say I blame you. And if everything you said is true, the real bad guys are still out there.”

  “Are you going to help us?” Reggie asks. “It sounds like she’s going to help us.”

  Garcia takes a moment to look each of us in the eyes. She lingers on me, and says, “I’m going to try. But the moment any one of you steps out of line, doesn’t do what I say, or turns out to be anything more than good people in the wrong place at the wrong time…” She glances at Rain. “I will take you down.” A second glance at Rain. “From a distance.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and the earnestness of my gratitude seems to take her by surprise.

  She gives a subtle nod. “Now, assuming at least one of you was smart enough to bring my badge and gun…” She reaches over the seat and holds out her hands. “I’m going to need them back.”

  24

  “Do you think we can trust her?” Bjorn asks.

  “I’m not sure I trust you,” I say, watching Garcia walk down the street toward my house, gun on her hip, badge in her pocket, Red Sox cap on her head to cover the lump from when Rain slammed her into the wall. If all goes well, she’ll be allowed past the guarded police tape and find the phone, where I left it. In the bedroom. Somewhere. Honestly, I can’t remember where I left it.

  “I have done nothing to warrant your distrust,” Bjorn complains.

  “Guess I just have a thing against warlocks,” I say. I don’t really mean it. I’m fairly inclusive. I’m just not interested.

  “I’m not a real—”

  “I also have a thing against hacks.”

  Bjorn clamps his mouth shut. Reggie gives him a pat. “He has other things on his mind.”

  That seems to sink in to the bubbling cauldron that is his mind. He turns around to face me. “Sorry. I’m being selfish.”

  “You’re fine,” I say, leaning to look around him, as Garcia reaches the police line, flashes her badge, and strikes up a conversation with one of the police officers guarding it.

  Any second now, she’s going to turn around, point out the Mini-Cooper, and send an army of cops after us. I’m sure of it.

  And if that happens, we’ll be running away on foot. She took her badge, wallet, and the car keys.

  Then again, she could have turned her gun on us right away. Could have single-handedly subdued the terrorists. Could have built a career atop our captures.

  When the officer lifts the yellow tape, giving Garcia access to my house, I remember to breathe.

  “This is ridiculous,” Rain says. Seated behind Bjorn, whose seat is all the way back, forcing her knees against the seatback. She might not have any memories, but she’s come to understand that she is, and was, a woman of action. Sitting in this tiny car, waiting for someone else to do what needs doing is driving her nuts. More than the kaiju creatures, the supernatural revelations, or the fact that she is without history, this inaction triggers her ire.

  “I don’t disagree,” I say.

  “You let her go,” Rain says.

  “I…” It’s then that I realize I’m in charge of this little band of would-be terrorists. The realization makes my heart skip a beat. Not because I have a fear of leadership, but because if something bad happens to any of them, I’m responsible. “I didn’t see any other—”

  “There’re always options,” she says in a way that suggests she’s quoting someone she can’t remember.

  “I didn’t see a better option,” I say.

  Rain’s response is a grunt, so I ignore her and focus on the road ahead, hoping to see Garcia heading back our way. Though that seems unrealistic. She needs to sell that she’s there for the investigation. Running in and out of the house might raise suspicions.

  Stop overthinking it, I tell myself, annoyed at my own frantic thought process. Just shut up and wait.

  When Rain grunts again, I nearly bark at her. Then I remember the other times I’ve heard her make that same uncomfortable groan.

  I spin toward her, knowing what I’m going to see, but hoping I’m wrong.

  Her fingertips are glowing.

  “That’s new,” Reggie says, looking past me.

  “Is there a ghost here?” I ask, looking around the car like we might have a stowaway.

  “Maybe it’s Joseph White, hitching a ride out of Salem?” Reggie says, and then counters with, “Can spirits do that? Don’t be silly. They stay where they died.” She turns to Bjorn. “Right?”

  “Most often,” Bjorn says, twisted around, wide eyes on Rain’s glowing fingers. “But there are several documented cases of spirits returning home, to where they feel most connected to the world. It’s like a chain…no, that’s too strong. Like a tether. They’re bound to where they feel the strongest connection. It fuels them.”

  “Like an umbilical,” Reggie says. “But, gross. ‘Tether’ is better.”

  A flare of light from Rain’s fingers, coupled with another grunt, refocuses me. “It’s not…them is it?”

  She shakes her head, but says, “It is…but, not here. Not in Boston. I can feel them pulling me.”

  “A human ghost-compass?” Reggie said, sounding doubtful.

  “I need a map,” Rain says.

  Bjorn digs his phone from his pocket. “I have Google maps.”

  “A real map,” she says, grunting again. She’s working hard at holding back the glow. “Before I lose them.”

  With my house so close, I mentally rummage through the closets, cabinets, and drawers. We could sneak in the back, maybe. Or send Garcia back for one. But like most of the modern world, I gave up on impossible-to-fold paper maps about a decade ago.

  But my neighbor didn’t. I reach past Rain, tug the door handle, and shove the door open.

  “Where are you going?” Reggie asks.

  “Randy’s house,” I say.

  “Who is Randy?” Bjorn asks.

  I slide to the open door, as Rain climbs out. “A friend.”

  “A good friend?” Reggie asks.

  “I think so.” I close the door and turn away from the police at the end of the road. To Rain I say, “Keep your head down and your hands covered.”

  She tucks her hands into her pockets. The light shines through the fabric, but it’s muted enough in the daylight to go unnoticed by men two hundred feet away.

  “Just act natural,” I tell her, leading her toward the front door of a home, whose owners I’ve never met or even seen. “Like you’re supposed to be here.”

  “Are you talking to me,” Rain says, “or yourself? Because you don’t look natural, or like you’re supposed to be here.”

  I glance at her, about to form a rebuttal, when I see how calm and casual she looks. I’m moving more like Elmer Fudd on a hunt for wabbits. I try to mimic her, but by the time I get it close to right, we’re out of sight on the house’s side. After a quick look around, to see if we’re being watched, I crouch-walk to the back yard and head toward Randy’s house.

  The good thing about this part of Cambridge is that everyone has a back yard, most of them sporting big, leafy oak or maple trees. Our path to Randy’s yard is clear of prying eyes. The bad thing is that each and every one of the yards is divided by a collection of fences. Some of them are short wooden affairs. Some are chain link. And two of them are six feet tall. Rain makes short work of them all, leaping the shorter fences, and climbing over the taller two
by jumping onto the central support beam and heaving herself over the top. I’m somewhat more clumsy, but I run the gauntlet without falling or giving us away.

  It takes a good five minutes, but we reach Randy’s back door without being seen. Hands cupped, face to glass, I look through the living room window. Empty. There would normally be a sports game on the TV, even if no one is watching, but there isn’t a single light on in the house. Then again, the power is still out.

  I’m about to verbalize my debate over whether or not someone is home when Rain grunts again. Her cheeks crackle with light. We need to do this now.

  Randy keeps a spare key hidden in his bird bath. It’s under an inch of water and a ‘smooth layer of bird turd.’ He’d said so, when he showed it to me. Not even the most desperate criminal would look for it there. Looks like he was wrong about that. My fingers slip through the sludge, but after plucking the key up and giving it a shake in the water, we’re good to go.

  The key slips into the deadbolt. It snaps open, when I give it a twist. The volume of it gives me a start, but it’s nothing compared to the high-pitched wail that nearly escapes my throat when Randy whips open the door and shoves a shotgun in my face.

  For a split second, I’m sure he’s going to kill me.

  Then his eyes go wide, and the weapon lowers. “Saul, holy shit!” He embraces me, giving my back a hearty slap that knocks the wind out of me. “What they’re saying about you, it’s not true. I was with you last night. I didn’t tell the suits that, but I can testify if you need it. For both of y—”

  He’s seen Rain. Seen her inner light shining through.

  “The hell?”

  “Long story,” I say. “You still have your map up?”

  “M-map? Yeah, but she’s—”

  I slip past him, tugging Rain behind me.

  The home is strangely quiet. “Family is away?”

  “My sister’s,” he says. “In Revere.”

  “Good,” I say, and I push into Randy’s ‘office.’ He doesn’t work from home. I’m not sure he does any actual work in this room aside from yearly taxes and bill paying. It’s wall-to-wall Boston sports memorabilia. Signed baseballs, footballs, and hockey pucks. Framed jerseys. Wall-mounted bats and hockey sticks. A football helmet worn by Tom Brady under glass. It’s like a museum to Boston sports legacy, with the exception of a U.S. map mounted on corkboard and hung on the wall. It’s covered in bright tacks representing all of the sports stadiums visited during the family’s yearly RV trips.