03 Saints (13 page)

“It’s not the fact that it was searched by someone else…it’s physically off. It’s too small.”

“Too small?” I eyed the large room.

“Compared to the length of the hall outside and the size of the kitchen, yes. There should be an extra five feet in here.”

“Huh...” I said.

“This wall,” Reaper said, pointing at the wall behind me.

With long strides he walked right at the wall. He turned into a misty vapor right before he smashed into the wall. I stared at the spot he had disappeared, impressed by his ability.

I jumped when Reaper’s foot appeared through the wall in a much different way than vapor. He kicked again, widening the hole. He bent down to look at me through the hole he had created in the wall.

“There’s a room back here,” he told me.

“Yeah, and there’s a hole in my wall. Couldn’t you have just taken me through?” I asked.

He rubbed at his neck in embarrassment. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

“Uh-huh.” I bent down and stepped through the hole in the wall. “Got a light?” I asked.

His lighter was silver, with two wings on either side. It illuminated a couple feet in front of us, not that there was a lot to see. The room was mostly empty, except for an empty sword stand, a few books along the edge of the wall and one book in the center of the room. The book was massive and was decorated in red and gold. I went to it, wondering why it was hidden and propped up on a pedestal. I picked it up, grunting from the effort, and took it back to the study.

I set it on the desk and started scanning through its pages. The words were elegant and carefully written; it was obvious someone had taken a great deal of time to make sure they were perfect. Designs decorated the pages and hand-colored art was on the top of every page.

As I flipped through the pages, I was able to understand its contents – it was a complete makeup of the Michaels’ family history. It was comprehensive – with stories, daily dealings of the family members, and handwritten letters from throughout the generations. A couple of torn pages in the middle of the book let me know that the pages I had found on my grandfather’s desk had been torn from this book.

“What is it?” Reaper asked.

“My history,” I said in a reverential whisper.

“It must be quite history to go to such an extent to hide it,” Reaper said.

“Yeah…” I agreed.

Reaper looked at his watch. “We should go,” he said.

I sighed. “Okay.”

He pulled his phone out to call Sara, and I picked the book up. I didn’t understand why it had been hidden, but I was going to figure it out. Maybe it would answer some of the questions I harbored of my grandfather. If not, then at least I could write him off as a crazy person who hid books in his study.

Before we left, I threw some of my clothes in one of Ellen’s bags and picked up the guitar, unwilling, and unable, to leave it to rot. There was a chance I would never come back; it wasn’t a chance I was willing to take.

Significantly more weighted down with belongings than when I had arrived, I walked with Reaper back to the woods. He offered to take the book or the guitar, one of the two heaviest things. I allowed him neither.

Sara was already waiting when we reached the treehouse. She eyed my new belongings curiously, but didn’t comment. As soon as we touched, I saw the world of moving darkness again. More distracted by the curiosity of the book and the guitar Ellen had left for me, I didn’t focus on the whispering voices, or the way the dark moved around us. I refocused when light came back to the world and we arrived back at the school.

“Sara, can you take this stuff upstairs, then come back and take us somewhere else?” Reaper asked.

“Sure.” Sara took the book, guitar, and clothes from us and disappeared. She was back in a matter of seconds. “Ready?” she asked us.

We nodded and she took my hand again, searching for a destination. When she was certain of the place we were headed to, we took a walk in the dark again.

Santa Monica hadn’t changed much since my last visit. People shopped in the stores, bums were in the parks, using their bags as pillows, and people hung out at the water, half dressed and way too tan. Sara had dropped us off in a bathroom, to keep anyone from noticing our arrival; it was different than my original destination, but I understood why she did it. Appearing in thin air was never a good way to go unnoticed. The stall she landed us in, however, was not big enough for the three of us. I pushed Reaper’s elbow out of my face as Sara disappeared with a mischievous smile.

“Where we are going now?” Reaper asked as he opened the stall, choosing to ignore the indignity of our arrival. The other men in the bathroom smiled when they saw us, their thoughts in very gross places.

“This way,” I told Reaper as we stepped out on to the relative openness of the boardwalk. “It’s not far.”

The sun was starting to sink below the horizon, touching the water with its light. The crowd on the peer had started to shift as the dinner crowd mingled with the beach crowd. Focused on my destination, I ignored the familiar sights and sounds, though seeing them again made me feel more relaxed. Santa Monica would always be my first home; it would always be the place I associated with peace.

Naomi’s house was on the beach. It was a smaller house, but cute; perfect in the way Naomi made things perfect – through happy chaos. She had bought in the 90s with money her grandmother had left her in her will. It had been under constant construction ever since. The outside was perfect, an illusion of normalcy, but I knew the interior was always undergoing change. The last time we had visited, it had been the kitchen. I knew something would be under construction now.

I tried the entrance on the beach side of her house first. It was locked, but I was able to look through the glass doors to the inside. The interior had changed since our last visit; the sofa and large comfortable chair had shifted places, the TV was angled in a new direction. New curtains and an overall nautical theme decorated the place, instead of the Goth theme I had come to know and love. It was the same kind of messy I had witnessed at my house, from Ellen’s doing, only Naomi was the queen of messes. Her messes had order, meaning, steaming from a creative mind that organized best in chaos.

I tapped on the glass and waited, expectant and nervous. Through the glass I had felt a presence. It was dimmed by the walls separating and by something else…sleep? But there was definitely someone there. I tapped again, my impatience starting to make me irritable. When my gentle tap didn’t work, I hammered on the glass with my fist. I hoped the sound would wake whoever was inside and make them come to me.

My pounding worked. The first voice I heard was low and terrified, “Wake up! Listen! Someone is trying to get in!”

“Do you think it’s…them?” another voice asked.

I hammered on the door again, my excitement barreling out of control. I knew those voices. I knew them like I knew my heart.

“Mom! It’s me, Clare! Open up! I got your message!”

She heard my call; her terror disappeared in an instant. I heard her climb out of the bed and throw clothes on. “Clare! Oh my God, it’s Clare. Sam, it’s Clare.”

“Yes, I got that much,” Sam said dryly to her, excited despite his appearance of calm.

Pulling on a robe, Ellen ran out from her room and to the sliding glass door. She fumbled with the lock in her haste to get to me. Sam followed after her, pulling a shirt on over his bare chest. Ellen had to stop herself mid-fumble, take a deep breath, and carefully undo the lock, before she could manage to open the door. When she did, she threw it back and pulled me into her arms. She kissed my cheek and neck as she hugged me.

“I’ve been so worried, sweetie! Oh, God…” Ellen said.

She pulled away from me to stare at my face. She wiped at the tears leaking down my face, and her fingers lingered on the bruises and cuts that were a reminder of my time in hell. Then, she noticed the bandage on my shoulder.

“You tell me right this minute what’s happened,” she demanded.

“Condensed or…” I started to ask.

“Everything,” she said.

“May we come inside?” Reaper asked politely.

Ellen eyed him, blushing slightly when they connected eyes. She obviously noticed his good looks and strangely appealing wildness. She looked at me in confusion, but she held her questions back.

“Yes, of course, come in,” Ellen said, gesturing us in.

Reaper slid the glass door behind him and carefully locked it. When Sam saw we were alone, he had a question.

“Clare…where is my daughter? Where’s Alex?” Sam asked. His eyes were full of worry.

“She hasn’t been here?” I asked, some of the excitement draining out of me.

“No,” Sam said, sitting on the arm of the chair, his thoughts terrified at what I meant. He asked his question anyway. “What happened? Why isn’t she with you?”

I took a deep breath and told them as much as I could. The only part I downplayed was my time in the prison and the truths Reaper shouldn’t know yet. Ellen’s eyes were wise, and she let me keep some truths to myself. She knew I wasn’t telling her everything, but she knew I was telling her what I could. Her warm eyes kept me talking around the pain of rehashing the past.

“…and then I found the guitar with the movie, and knew you were here,” I finished.

Sam had grown increasingly angry throughout the story. His thoughts turned into a battering ram, saying things I had thought a million times since I had gotten separated from Alex, things I didn’t blame him for thinking. I knew he wasn’t really mad at me, but I was the closest person he had to blame. His words finally spilled over as I stopped talking.

“I should have driven down there and dragged her back home. This is your fault!” he yelled. “You let her stay! You should have sent her back! You had no right to risk her life, because you wanted to risk yours! What kind of friend are you?!”

“A bad one!” I yelled back. “And you don’t have to tell me it’s my fault! You think I’m happy about any of this?! You think I want it to be this way?! You think I haven’t been kicking myself for the risk I put her in?! It’s not fair to anybody! Especially Alex! She’s my best friend and now…” I choked up at the words. “I’m sorry! I’m freaking sorry!”

I fought the tears, afraid they would have me out of control again.

Sam’s anger faded at the look on my face. He pulled me into his arms and hugged me close. He put his chin on the top of my head and sighed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” he said.

“Me either,” I said.

He gently pushed me away then went to the bathroom to deal with overwhelming emotions in private. He was upset with himself that he had yelled when I was obviously traumatized, but he was also angry he had nowhere to direct his emotions. It was a tough place to be in. Ellen bit her lip as he shut the bathroom door. She locked eyes with me and hurried to explain.

“He’s just worried. We’ve had nothing but ‘worried’ for a while now,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Oh, sweetie, I don’t blame you,” she said.

I avoided her eyes. “How’d you guys get here anyways? Why are you here? Do you know what happened to the Adamses?”

Ellen rushed to explain. “Han and Beatrice were watching out for us, protecting us like they promised they would, but I got a bad feeling, you know? It was wicked bad. As bad as that time in Denver.”

“I remember,” I said.

That was right before a man with the shotgun walked into the bank we had been in. He had killed everyone in the bank then had killed himself.

“Right…so, with that kind of feeling, you have only one choice. Get out. I convinced Sam we should go. Han and Beatrice were going to come…but the morning we were supposed to leave, they didn’t show up. I couldn’t wait. The feeling was so bad…”

“You left the guitar for me?” I asked.

“Yeah. In…in my father’s study. I knew you would know it didn’t belong in there.”

“Do you know anything about a book he kept in there?” I asked.

“His family history?” she asked.

I nodded.

“He was obsessed with it. He would spend hours locked in his study writing in that stupid book…” She sighed at the memory.

“How’d you get here?” I asked, figuring the memory was hard to face.

She took my hand and continued the story. “We got picked up at the house by a cab, caught the first flight out of the airport and eventually found our way here. I made poor Sam spend about three days on different airplanes to make sure we weren’t followed. We’ve been here ever since.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay. How’s Naomi?” I asked, breaking away from the serious things.

“Crazy, wild, weird, and totally cracked in the head,” Ellen said with a smile.

“About the same, then.”

“Yep,” she agreed.

“So, you haven’t had any word on the others? None at all?” I asked quietly.

“Sorry, sweetie, we have been off the grid. It’s driving Sam nuts. He misses work. He’s been watching C-Span, it’s so bad.”

“Oh, no!” I mocked.

Ellen laughed and touched my face. “You are so beautiful,” she told me. “And so brave. I don’t think I could have dealt with all the things you’ve dealt with in the past three months.”