01. weird, world.
NORMANDY, FRANCE
1:32 A.M.
Shock.
Numbing and cold.
Then the burn of true terror. Like lightning in the bones.
The cloying taste of hopeless resignation, thick and chalky on the tongue. The bile of betrayal, sharp enough to make the eyes water.
Then-
Blinding,
sharp,
staccato
blast of pain speeding from temple to temple.
She woke on a choked gasp that became a dry and racking cough. Shaking, clammy hands lifted to clutch at her head, still reverberating with that terrible last echo. Her eyes stung with tears-she clenched them closed and focused on her breathing. If she kept coughing like this, the bile in her throat would rise and she would be sick all over the bed. She held onto this thought-I musn’t be sick-as a drowning sailor would cling to a raft.
When the worst of the shaking had subsided, she fumbled for the bedside lamp. She needed light. Had to see the room with her own physical eyes, touch the sweat-dampened sheets with hands that still trembled fitfully. Had to reorient herself on what was real, what was now, and not just inside her head-inside his head.
Her chest started to tighten until breath became a painful effort. He was gone. No amount of wishful thinking was going to change that cold, hard fact. And there was no questioning it. She knew it the way she knew her name. For the first time, her gift had become a curse.
And she knew what she had to do now.
The sheets flew off the mattress and crumpled on the floor with the force of her kick. She stripped out of her damp camisole and sweatpants, left them puddled by the sheets. Yanked open the dresser drawers and pulled out a pair of jeans, a blouse, fresh socks and a bra. Dressed in swift, robotic silence before sweeping back her dark hair into a tight bun and dropping to her knees beside the bed, reaching beneath the frilled skirt to draw out a nondescript black duffel bag.
Enough clothes for a week, a decorative jade box containing her mother’s jewelry, a photo album, her laptop, a bag of toiletries grabbed from the bathroom sink-all shoved inside the bag in a matter of minutes. She hurried from the bedroom, ignoring the still-lit bedside lamp, and dropped the bag beside the front door. Hurried down the hall to his office-what had been his office, she corrected herself ruthlessly-and yanked the large framed photo of a stooping bird of prey off the wall, revealing the safe underneath. The combination took a moment to put in correctly; her hands had begun to shiver again, partly from the after effects, partly from the enormity of what she had to do now. But then the tumblers clicked and she yanked the door open. Five tight stacks of bills, a cell phone, a passport, and a small red address book went straight into her messenger bag.
She turned back to survey the room: the wooden desk and swivel chair that were barren and naked without him, the Hokusai prints that had been gifts from her grandfather, the bookcase that was perpetually overflowing until the stacks of estate sale finds were piled haphazardly against the wall on either side. This was the warmest, most lived-in room in the entire house. But then they’d only been here for four months, ever since he found the book in the leather-strapped trunk. Since he’d started digging and prying and looking into things that had been buried for years…
It would be painful to see it go. But there was nothing else for it. Not now. Not after tonight.
The strap of her messenger bag firmly over one shoulder, she sat down and turned on his laptop. Entered his password and clicked into the files. Deleted everything. Emptied the trash. Pulled up the mainframe and opened the backdoor to do a hard wipe. When the ticker hit zero and the screen went blank, she slammed the laptop closed, picked it up with both hands, and brought it violently against the edge of the desk until the plastic and metal cracked and shattered into splintered pieces.
Abandoning the ruined computer, she gathered up the notebooks from the drawers, dumped them into the trash can, and emptied the file cabinet in the same fashion. Out came the box of matches he had once used for his pipe. She didn’t pause to admire the flickering orange flame before dropping it into the can, but she did watch as the paper blackened and curled, determined to make certain that every bit of it was ash.
The last of the pages were disintegrating when the doorbell rang.
She jolted, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. The clock on the wall read 1:45 A.M.. What reason could anyone have to visit tonight? Unless they were connected-
The doorbell rang again. And this time a voice called out as the ring faded. “Express delivery! I know it’s late, but this was marked a priority-had to come tonight. Name on the package is ‘Tigs’?”
It was like a switch being flipped. Her limbs unthawed and she could breathe again. “Sorry, yes, I’m coming.”
Even so, she grabbed the poker from the fireplace rack and held it close to her side as she cracked the door open to peer out. The man on the front step was in a dark blue uniform with red stripes down the sleeves of his jacket, hair buzzed short and face pale behind large glasses. She extended a feeler, let her gift reach out to brush him, and felt only exasperation from a frustrating job. “Sorry,” she repeated, keeping the poker hidden behind the door as she pulled it open. “It’s just-this late, a girl alone-you know.”
“Yeah. So you’re Tigs, huh? I’m under strict orders to give this directly to Tigs. The man was pretty adamant about it.”
“It’s a nickname. Short for Tigger.”
“The cartoon character?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not a local, are you? The accent, I mean.”
“Sorry, but can I have the package?”
“Oh, sure, sorry. Hope the rest of your night goes well, miss.”
The padded envelope was heavy in her hands, and not simply in the physical sense. She could still feel his fear, his panic, his blind determination like an indelible stamp in the paper. She tried not to show her own unease as she closed and locked the door. Pressed her back to the wood and counted her heartbeats until she heard the car roll away, crunching over the gravel and dirt. Waited until the soft screech of crickets began again, and the loudest sound was the wind rustling the trees along the drive.
She knew what would be inside before she ripped the envelope open. What else could he have sent to her tonight, at this time, under such secrecy? And there it was: the book. The damnable book that had started all this; had taken him away from her for the last time. And attached to it, held in place by a series of rubber bands, was his battered Moleskine. Everything important he’d ferreted out over the past four months. Notes, names, addresses, dates.
This was why he was dead. She held the motive in her hands. And it would only be a matter of hours before his killer realized that his prize had slipped out of his grasp… And moved the emptied crosshairs to her forehead.
A piece of paper was tucked beneath the rubber bands. She tugged it free and unfolded it, half-dreading, half-hoping.
Tigs:
I’m so, so sorry. You know it, but I still needed to say it. It falls to you now. I know you’ll do the right thing.
TRUST ONLY YOUR BLOOD.
“Sure,” she said, bowing her head and crumpling the note in her shaking fist. “Of course.”
The book and Moleskine went into her messenger bag. She pulled a coat from the closet, grabbed the duffel bag, and walked through the kitchen towards the back door. As she went, she twisted the oven’s burners with sharp, decisive clicks. It would take several minutes for the gas to fill the house, to hit the pilot light in the utility closet.
She was already in her car, at the end of the long, twisting, country driveway when the house exploded behind her, sending long flumes of acrid smoke and red flames into the velvet night sky. By the time the distant firehouse sent out trucks, she was at the airport. And by the time anyone started to trace her steps, she would already be invisible.
She’d always been a quick learner. And she’d had four months to plan.
OKLAHOMA, U.S.A.
8:32 A.M.
A flickering streetlight, concrete slick with rain, mirrored reflections of green and red lights. An alley, behind a bar or restaurant. The smell of fried food and beer was thick in the air.
And then running footsteps, splashing through the pools of water and disrupting the reflections. Sounds of pursuit, heavy breathing, the distinctive whine of panic in a throat already strained.
Voices. Distorted and garbled, as if echoing underwater or filtered through a machine. Both male. One accusatory, the other calm and flat. And then-
The pop and flash of a gun.
The sound of a body falling with a splash.
Steady footsteps withdrawing at a nonchalant pace.
Silence.
Robbie Beechum lurched forward with a strangled cry to find himself alone. The other side of the bed was cold. Soft, yellow sunlight filled the corners and outlined the furniture in stark relief. He’d somehow overslept, utterly unconscious to both alarm and Charlie’s typically loud morning routine. If the vivid tangibility of the dream hadn’t been enough to convince him it was actually a vision-that did.
He fumbled with his clothes, hands clumsy and eyes stinging. There was something pressing at him, trying to attract his attention, but he knew that whatever it was would be unpleasant and stubbornly ignored it. A vision like that, it surely wouldn’t be a reminder to pick up milk today. After the third try, he finally managed to button his jeans. Then he dropped down on the couch to pull on his boots.
Charlie had scrawled something across the whiteboard on the fridge. In blocky red letters: AMARI’S B-DAY SKYPE 6 PM DON’T FORGET, the last two words dramatically underlined for emphasis. And beneath that, slightly smaller: WITH DAVID ALL DAY.
Well, that was helpful. At least he wouldn’t have to call her to find out which garage she’d be at. It suddenly felt very important to see Charlie-as soon as possible. He’d only been back for a few weeks, and now it seemed he’d soon be haring off after another crime. Better get his quality time in while he could. It was properly exhausting, this so-called ‘career’. Too bad he couldn’t request vacation time or call in sick when it all got too much.
The Impala had just crossed the reservation line when the thing that had been trying to announce itself burst across his mind. A face; no longer blurred and indistinct and half-hidden in shadow, but brilliantly outlined and three dimensional. A face he hadn’t seen for half his life, but still instantly recognizable. And in that second he knew his vision hadn’t been a premonition-it had already happened. There was nothing he could do to stop it.
His foot slammed onto the brakes so sharply the tires squealed shrilly against the asphalt, the car shuddering to a stop that flung him towards the dashboard. Only his seatbelt kept him from crashing his forehead with the steering wheel. He sat, dazed and shivering, utterly blind to the handful of people who had crept out onto their porches to investigate.
A full minute ticked past before he became aware of the sound of tapping. He looked up blearily, eyes half-focused, to stare at the finger rapping the glass of his window. Then the rest of the arm. And finally the face peering in at him, the forehead creased with visible concern, the dark brown eyes earnest in a way only a mother can manage, the pepper hair liberally streaked with salt and hanging in a braid as thick as his wrist over one tanned shoulder.
Robbie managed to roll the window down, hands slick against the handle. “Jane. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Robbie. No harm done. But are you alright? Here, come and sit down in the fresh air for a moment.”
He slipped the car into park and fumbled the keys from the ignition. It took three tries to manage the clasp of the seatbelt before he opened the door and climbed unsteadily out. Jane’s hand was immediately at his elbow.
“What is it? Can you talk about it?”
“I need Charlie,” he muttered. “I gotta get to the garage.”
“Alright. I’ll walk with you.”
The warm rush of gratitude must have showed on his face; Jane only smiled in an encouraging, bracing way and took a firmer grip of his arm. Of course, she grew up with things like this. Two great uncles who experienced things others could only imagine, in a tight-knit community that held such things as solid fact, not mere fantasy. She had seen others in the throes of visions. Recognized the dazed after effects. Knew how to support without coddling, and when to lend her physical aid when the spiritual world became overwhelming. Not for the first time, Robbie realized how lucky he and Charlie were-and Ben and Olivia-to have found such incredible people.
He focused on this, on Jane’s dependability and this place of outsiders that had come to feel like a real home, rather than on the painful truth he had just found. Acceptance and acknowledgement of that would come soon enough…
And yes, there was the garage. Formerly JOHNNIE’S GARAGE, now TWELVE HAWKS & HAWTHORNE, the stylized dragonfly bracketed by screaming hawks just beneath the bright red legend. The corrugated door was rolled up. A pair of stained red Chucks protruded from beneath a raised Ford truck, the toes bouncing to the rhythm of the AC/DC song blaring over the stereo.
Jane helped Robbie to the doorframe and pulled away to press the power button, abruptly cutting Angus Young off mid-solo.
“Hey! Who the fuck killed the tunes?” Charlie complained, voice echoing metallically against the undercarriage. She rolled out with a scowl already firmly in place before her eyes landed on Jane. “Oh. God. Sorry, Jane.”
“Robbie needs to talk to you,” the woman said, her tone only faintly disapproving.
“Okay, yeah, sure.” Charlie stood, smearing her blackened hands down her overalls without a second thought. “So what’s-Jesus Christ, Rob, what happened?”
He must look more sickened than he felt. No doubt the soreness around his eyes had translated into puffy black rings and bloodshot whites. He was still shaking fitfully, as if in the throes of a bad flu, and his stomach was threatening to toss up his previous meal. He swallowed thickly, tamping back the nausea, and finally let out the truth he’d been holding back.
“My dad, Charlie,” he said faintly. “He’s dead. Not just dead-murdered. Someone shot him. Ten minutes ago.”