It was difficult to care about Will. But the other half of the story was different. With a terrible weight in my stomach, I prompted, “And my mom?”
She hid her face in her hands. “Her body is still in her bed.”
Item Seventeen
Title of book published by anonymous author, copyright 1924.
A Survey of Casualties Caused by Powered Americans 1900-1922
17
“The last thing I remember after Beau burning me with the kettle is a smelly rag over my nose. I don’t remember going in the trunk. I woke up when we got to your house. It wasn’t snowing then, but I remember seeing snow from the guest room window a little later.”
“We pulled into Baltimore not long after that.”
Jillian stroked her ponytail. “Beau dragged me inside and called for your mom. He introduced me as her ‘new daughter,’ and oh my God, she lost her mind, Benjamin. She slapped me and told your brother and Will to work me over before the questioning began. They took me into one of the guest rooms.”
She lowered her gaze. “That was the first beating. I thought they were going to break my spine. They told me afterward that they’d taped everything and were going to send you the tapes after I was dead. I…I wasn’t very brave,” she whispered. “And I hated that you were going to see me pleading for them to stop.”
I caressed her cheek. “I know Beau, so I figured he’d do that. But I checked the deep web and didn’t find anything. Thanks to Berenice, nobody will ever see.”
She cleared her throat. “After they’d had their fun, they took me downstairs to your mom and Alysia. They asked the questions. That’s how it went the whole time. Your mom and Alysia asked about the JM-104, while your brother and Will just took out their anger on me. Back and forth.” She paused, and then broke into yet another round of heavy, wet coughs. “Water, please,” she croaked between coughs.
I was at the fridge in a second, filling up a glass of fruit-infused water. I walked back to the living room and handed it to her, noticing for the first time how cracked her lips were. She chugged it down.
“What happened last night?” I said as I took the glass and placed it on the coffee table.
“Your mom was questioning me and I passed out, but she must have realized it was from fever, because when I woke up I was in a different cell with a mattress and a blanket. Beau gave me a shot of something, and said I wasn’t allowed to die.”
She took a shuddering breath, but her face smoothed over and I saw a hint, just a bare glimmer in her eyes, of the courageous woman I’d fallen in love with.
“The fever went down and my powers came back a few hours after that. I could actually feel my muscles strengthening. When that happened, I realized that I had a chance, though I needed to get as many of them away from me as possible. I waited until Beau came in to check on me, and told him that I was tired of torture and was ready to tell confess where the JM-104 was.”
I wrapped my arms around my knees. “Where did you say it was?” She started to speak, then broke into heavy coughs again, this time using the edge of my old bathrobe to catch the expectorant. The robe reminded me of the silk bathrobe she’d been wearing earlier. “Actually, skip ahead to when you got out. What happened?”
“I was sleeping. The power went out and the door slid open. It was dark, but I could see just like normal. I ran upstairs and grabbed the biggest knife from the block. I only had my blanket on. I followed your mom’s scent and found her in bed. She sat up, and I threw the knife into her forehead. After that, I grabbed the robe from the back of her door and ran downstairs to where Will was sleeping. I don’t know how many times I stabbed him, but cleaning it up is going to be gross.” She sighed. “I was so angry at him. Your mother simply asked questions. Will was sadistic.”
“What did my mom question you about?” I asked quietly.
Though my heart hurt to speak of my mother, I was not angry at Jillian for killing her. I didn’t know what I felt. Certainly betrayed by the woman who’d raised me. Sad that we’d never had a chance to speak just one more time after my father’s death. Horrified that her cooling corpse was still indecently exposed in her bedroom. Worried that Marco would irrationally take out his unslaked thirst for vengeance another way, possibly against the nearest blood-born Trent: me.
Did such a combination of emotions have a name?
Jillian resumed stroking her hair. “Just the JM-104. That was the hardest part. There were…” she trailed off and rubbed away tears. “…times when I would’ve told her anything else she wanted to know, but if I told her that I didn’t know where it was, she’d kill me. Also, I…” Jillian looked up at me. Firelight reflected in the tears pooled in her eyes. “I wanted her to think I was as brave as my grandma.”
She broke down.
I pulled Jillian into my arms and held her for several minutes, never speaking, just rubbing her back and staring into the fire.
My wife had spoken often of Battlecry I, the late, great leader of the 1960s Philadelphia team. It was difficult to parse through the various accounts of the martyred heroine and her teammates, since their glorious era had ended so ignobly.
Or had it been glorious? As far as I knew, they’d lived and fought just as every other team had at that time. Perhaps their tragic deaths had cast a certain glow on their tenure for certain modern heroes, and an ugly tarnish in the eyes of others.
Now that I had lived with superheroes, I believed that Jillian St. James and her team had been no more or less than brave, flawed people who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fifty years wouldn’t have changed human nature, nor would any ridiculous list of principles.
But my wife’s grandmother had died bravely. Nobody, not even the grandson of her killers, could argue that.
Jillian mumbled something.
“What was that?” I said, giving her a squeeze. “You’ll have to forgive me, since my hearing isn’t the best right now.”
“I said my hands hurt,” she repeated, sitting up and laying her hands palms-up on her lap. “I think your healing power doesn’t work as well anymore. And my chest and feet hurt, too.” She flexed her fingers again. “I need a medic.”
“You’re in luck,” I said as I arranged myself so I was sitting across from her on the couch. I lifted up her right hand in my own. Her skin was dry and warm, but unharmed. Her bones were strong, and the muscle tone firm. “Tell me where it hurts,” I said, gently massaging her hand.
She pulled her hand away and cradled it to her chest. “All over. They’ve hurt since the needles. My feet have hurt since they were burned. My chest has hurt since the first beating.”
I took her hands into my own again and kissed her knuckles. “I think you’ve got psychogenic pain. There’s no physical source, but it doesn’t make it any less real. When we’re back in Saint Catherine, and if you’re still hurting, ask your therapist to refer you to a colleague who can prescribe you something for it.”
Jillian’s therapist, Erica, was going to be seeing a lot more of her. Grew up in a cult, suffered from depression, was kidnapped and tortured? Jillian was going to be in therapy for the next thirty years. I had half a mind to root around in the house’s medicine cabinets and see if I could find any sedatives. Heck, I’d give Jillian an opioid if better options weren’t available.
But right now, I didn’t want to leave her to find pills. I wanted to be close to her and feel her body heat. We wouldn’t be having sex for a long time, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy each other’s company for a few minutes right here in the living room. What could we do that would cheer her up?
The answer came immediately. “Hey, guess what I brought.”
“What?”
I pulled the small velvet box out of my pocket. The fact that it had survived a fight with Daisy, the confrontation with Buck, the explosion at the substation, and storming the house seemed like a small miracle.
When I opened it, the flickering light from the fireplace made the wh
ite gold heart appear all the warm colors of fire. The peridot and blue topaz gemstones threw beautiful sparkles into her eyes.
I lifted it from the box and held it up. “I thought you’d want to wear this.”
“Oh, yeah,” she breathed, clearly charmed. I hooked it around her neck, and she gently stroked it. “It’s so pretty.”
Yep, my wife was still there. What else could I do that would cheer her up?
“Mrs. Trent?”
“Mmm.”
“Would you like to dance?”
She rubbed under her nose. “What?”
I stood up and walked to the huge speaker system in the corner. I fiddled around with it, hooking it up to my phone, and quickly scrolled through my music until I found the song I wanted. I’d downloaded it last summer.
Frank Sinatra’s croon wrapped around us, filling the room with romance. I held out my hands to Jillian, whose mouth had opened slightly in surprise. She let me pull her up, though her face fell. “I think I’ve forgotten how to dance,” she said softly.
I pulled her close. “Don’t think about your feet,” I said, my lips brushing her forehead. “Just feel the music and let it move you.”
She shivered, then laid her head on my shoulder.
We swayed in a slow circle while the song played, our hearts beating in unison. I closed my eyes and reveled in her heat, her soapy smell, her soft skin and damp hair.
My wife was with me.
She was alive, and that meant she’d won. We’d won. The sun would come up before too long and she’d see another day. We were all different people now than we’d been at the start of this mission, but for once in my life, I was at peace with who I was and what I had.
I held her tighter.
The song ended and Jillian stepped back, her lips turned up in a tiny smile. “Just once I’d like to dance with you without having a migraine.”
And there goes the moment. Jillian was still sick, and she needed sleep more than dancing and conversation right now. I kissed her forehead again. “Let’s get you into bed.”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you.” The same shimmer of the old Jillian appeared, then disappeared behind a coughing fit.
“Right now, I’d love for you to sleep for twelve hours,” I said, tucking the afghan around her shoulders.
She followed me up the wide, curved staircase to the landing, at which I could hear voices and laughter from the rec room. Laughter? Shaking my head, I continued to lead her down the hall, though she stopped at a display of family photos.
She pointed to one. “Is that you?”
My face heated up. “Yeah, that’s me. That was taken at my tenth birthday party.”
In the picture, I was sitting at a large table surrounded by other young boys and a veritable mountain of presents. I’d grinned at the camera, my smile giving my rather large face even more roundness.
“You were so chubby,” she said, another small smile lifting her lips. “I want to kiss those round cheeks.”
“You sound like my mom.” The words came out without thought, and immediately I regretted speaking as pain gripped my heart—and Jillian closed her eyes and hid her face from me in her hands. “Let’s get you to bed,” I said, pulling her gently through the door at the end of the hall.
My old bedroom was untouched by time or other Trents, though someone had dusted regularly in my absence. Perhaps my mother had truly believed I’d return one day. The vase on the side table next to the couch contained roses that were only a little dry instead of mummified, as they should’ve been. She’d left up the posters of various female athletes and lady action stars, though I knew she’d preferred I’d decorated some other way.
Saint Catherine was never meant to be our permanent home. We’d moved there merely to facilitate a large contract with the Howards, always intending on returning to the family seat: here. As such, I hadn’t even packed. Georgia was a different climate, so I’d bought all new clothes. The few treasures I’d taken with me had fit into a backpack, which itself had fit perfectly underneath the seat on the airplane.
Jillian didn’t wait for an invitation to crawl into my plush queen bed. She sighed in contentment when I pulled the down-filled duvet over her, and then mumbled something about “so soft” before rolling over.
All I could do was sit in the edge of the bed and watch her fall asleep while I stroked her hair.
When she was asleep, I got up and followed the giggles and voices coming from the rec room. I opened the door and paused, unable to process the scene before me.
Marco was propped up in a leather easy chair that nearly swallowed him. Reid was sitting cross-legged on the other. Lark, Berenice, Abby, and Ember all easily fit onto the leather couch, and they were passing a huge bowl of popcorn between them, which had been popped in the microwave that sat on the counter in the corner.
Bags of candy were scattered on the floor next to empty dinner bowls. Cans of soda, many more than people there to drink them, littered the carpet. All eyes were fixed on the six-foot curved flat screen television on the wall, itself above a crackling fire.
And—holy crap—they were watching the Danger series.
Berenice didn’t look away from the cheesy rescue scene as she said, “You did tell us to make ourselves at home.” She lazily draped her arm on the back of the couch and turned her head in my direction. “I found the DVD set in your closet while I was looking for a bathrobe. Nice poster of Streamline, by the way. I’d never seen a picture of my great-uncle.”
“I wonder if there are any posters of us,” Lark said. “I bet Reuben would be popular. Ole Tiger here would sell a million copies if she were in her kitty cat form.” She gave Abbie a noogie.
Abby grinned and squirmed away. “Where Miss Stabby, Trent?”
I was still taking in the scene. “Don’t you think we should, I don’t know, watch out for Beau and Alysia?” I was fine with them relaxing, but now? All at once? And they were actually enjoying the schlockiest dreck to ever be put on the small screen?
“I’m listening for them,” Ember said calmly. “In the meantime, we’re having our first break in forever.” She pointed to the screen. “No wonder you wanted to be a superhero. This guy has rescued five people in thirty minutes, and they’re all leggy babes.”
“I think Cassandra is the bad guy,” Marco said while sipping his soda. “The orchestra played the song from the opening theme when Danger rescued the other ladies, but the music got all low and weird when he rescued her.”
“Also, who randomly ends up down a well while wearing stilettos and a negligee?” Berenice said with a frown. “I mean, that would make my day more interesting, but it is suspicious.”
“Stop talking,” Reid ordered, leaning forward on his elbows. “That guy in the trench coat and sunglasses is spying on Danger again. I want to know who he’s working for.”
“Stick out,” Abby said, her mouth twisting. “L.A. people wear tiny clothes. Danger not see Trench Coat. Danger dumb.”
I shut the door.
If my friends were relaxing, I would not bother them for the next step.
My mother’s body needed burial, and though I could not be the son she wanted in life, I would be the son she needed in death. I could give her a respectable burial, though it would be difficult in the frozen ground. Additionally, I wanted to get this task out of the way while Marco was distracted.
I was halfway down the hall towards my mother’s room when the rec room door opened and shut. Abby jogged up to my side. “Red say Little Reuben bury bodies. Trent no bury. Sleep next Miss Stabby.”
I sighed. Fine, Ember. “I’m not tired. Well, not tired enough to sleep. Also, can you please think of a different nickname for Jill? ‘Miss Stabby’ hurts her feelings. Maybe just ‘Jill’ or ‘Battlecry.’”
Abby appeared to think for several seconds. “Sweetheart,” she said with an air of finality. “Trent call wife Sweetheart.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m the only one who’s going
to be calling her that.”
Abby lolled her head and crossed her eyes at me. “Sweetheart, Sweetheart, Sweetheart.”
“Oh, stop that. You’re not dumb. You’re doing this just to annoy me.”
She straightened, her face smoothing out. “Abby not dumb,” she said, suddenly serious. “Peter say Abby dumb for everything. Mom say Abby dumb for want Eddy. Ozark camp say Abby dumb for talk bad. Abby not dumb. Abby…” She trailed off, lost in thought. “Little Trent might think Abby mean.” She shook her head. “Artemis never say Abby dumb. But Jen say Artemis dumb. Abby make Jen go. Abby not mean. Abby protect Artemis.”
I had the feeling she’d been wanting to share this with someone for a while. Why else would she divulge such personal feelings with me? And who was Eddy?
But now wasn’t the time or place. There were still chores that needed doing while we had the house to ourselves before the inevitable battle.
Still, I was curious to hear about the inner workings of the Baltimore team, and to find out who this Eddy guy was. “Would you like to talk about it more with me later?” I asked. “I need to go down to the basement and do something. Maybe after that?”
Abby looked surprised. “We get cameras in basement.”
“I know,” I said, my stomach twisting at the thought of someone like her down there. “How many did you get?”
She held up five fingers.
“Did you open the door at the end of the hall? The one with the padlock?”
“No. Door shut. Bird say probably booby trap.”
“What about the guest room by the basement door?”
“Abby smell dead body, we stay away.”
“That’s fine,” I said, relieved. I didn’t care what happened to Will’s corpse, but I didn’t want Jillian’s violence on display to people who might judge her for it. “Why don’t you go back and enjoy the show?”
Abby looked surprised. “Where Sweetheart?”
Mercury Page 18