Blackwood (18 page)

  "Heavy machinery," Polly echoed. "That sounds like a good idea."

17

Connections

The minutes crept by with Phillips wishing he could make them pass more quickly. He drummed on the legs of his jeans, struggling to subdue the brittle voices in his head while he waited.

  His mom might be scared, but that just left him to sort this out on his own. So he waited (and waited) for the noise in the station to die down. They'd take everyone they could spare to manage the crowd and check the identities of the returned at the 'cattle call.' There'd probably be just one or two guys left behind at the jail.

  By the time it finally got quiet, he was more than ready to put his plan into action.

  He stood, took a deep breath, and then launched his body forward. His knees hit the cell floor near the bars, and he shouted in real pain. He banged his fists on the floor, hard enough to bruise his knuckles. He raised his hands and tore at his hair.

  He dove so deep into the performance that he barely noticed when the officer appeared outside the cell.

  "Are you OK, son? Your father's not here."

  He turned his head toward the voice. He didn't know this particular officer, some younger guy who couldn't have been on the force that long.

  Phillips shouted again, his cry fading when he heard the officer curse and start to walk away. "Wait…" Phillips choked out the word. The choking part came easy, given how little he'd had to drink and the fact he really had spent the night moaning in agony. "Meds," Phillips said. "Need Roswell meds. Call doctor."

  "I don't know," the officer said. "I can call your father and ask–"

  Phillips cut him off with another roar of pain. "Meds," he said, "call Roswell."

  He doubled over in what he hoped was a realistic imitation of pain. At the corner of his vision, he saw the guy nod quickly. "Hang on," the officer said. He was talking to himself as he walked away, "Sure, Chief, I'm the one who let your son go crazy. Sorry about that. Maybe you should just never promote me in return… Crap!"

  Phillips moaned some more, settling in to a pattern of pitiful cries, lowering onto his back on the bench. He kept the pitiful low enough that if he strained to block out the voices – they seemed less agitated at the moment, or was he imagining that? – he could hear the officer's return. It didn't take nearly as long as he expected.

  "Uh, Phillips," the officer said, "your dad actually had the doctor leave these."

  
I bet he did.

  Phillips moaned louder and fought his limbs into an elaborate sit. He jerked to his feet. The officer had a small cup of water and a handful of several pills. This would be the hard part. The part he had to pull off or be stuck in here while whatever bad thing had come to town went after Miranda.

  "Thank you, officer." Phillips forced out the words like a sleeptalker, tone loud and broken. He stumbled to the bars, then bounced off them and fell down onto the floor. He watched through slitted eyes as the officer realised he didn't have a free hand to unlock the cell door with and then maneuvered the styrofoam cup between two fingers of the hand that held the pills, angling the key smoothly with his left hand.

  
Not a fumbler then.

  Phillips waited for him to get close, and reached up for the pills and the water. Looking skeptical, the officer guided the cup to his hand. Phillips had a flash of insight. He needed to convince this guy. So, he did the last thing the guy would expect based on his reputation. He cooperated.

  Phillips opened his mouth and extended his tongue. The officer hesitated, then dropped the pills into his mouth.
Gel-coated. Finally, a break.

  He took a sip of water and spilled the rest on the floor, making sure it looked like clumsiness. He grabbed the officer's arm before he could leave. "Can you… Can you…" The officer had to believe it was hard for him to get the words out. "Take me to the bathroom."

  The officer's eyes narrowed again, and Phillips let his own become flying-saucer huge. He hoped he looked like he'd been taking acid or smoking pot. Huge pupils disconcerted people, and his should do the trick. He noted the last name on the guy's tag, Warren, without recognition – he didn't remember any Warrens, so maybe this guy's family had moved here after Phillips was sent away. Maybe he hadn't gotten the full dossier.

  The officer shook his head. "The chief said to keep an eye on you, but leave you put."

  "Please." Phillips trembled. "The meds. They knock me out cold. Haven't been–"

  "There's a toilet in the cell," Officer Warren pointed at the corner. Phillips knew almost no one was ever made to use that thing. In a town this size, that'd be tantamount to treason against a fellow citizen. Tourists, on the other hand…

  "Not the tourist toilet." Phillips grabbed his arm again, struggling to his feet. "I don't have long. The meds. Take me."

  Officer Warren's attention flicked back and forth between the cell toilet and Phillips. "Crap. All right. But don't tell your dad, OK?"

  Phillips closed his eyes, flicked them back and forth behind closed lids with a moan. He popped them open. "I'll tell him you
helped
me."

  A satisfied smile transformed the officer back to high school age.
God, he looks younger than me. In all the ways that count, he seems to
be
younger than me
. Phillips gave a moment's regret to the trouble this guy would be in when his dad came back.
Maybe they'll bond over it – I've tricked my dad enough times.

  First, he had to get out of here though. He bent as he stood, enough to dump the pills in his hand with a casual tired swipe across his mouth.

  He leaned his weight against the officer, heavily. His timing had to be perfect.

  They walked – the officer normally, Phillips half-stumbling – up the hall and into the station. The bathrooms were on the far side of the large open room, on the other side of the break area.

  Officer Warren wasn't the only one left after all. A vaguely familiar man in a black suit that screamed FBI sat at the big coffee table in the break area. His head was tipped back to watch the muted ceiling-mounted TV.

  The man's presence complicated things. Phillips traced the consequences – of both success and failure. Once he took the next step in this plan, he'd be in the kind of trouble he'd always avoided. The kind that wasn't so easy to get away from. The decision was his to make.

  And in that moment, wrecking his future didn't matter. Only today mattered. Only tomorrow mattered.

  The rest could storm down afterward and ruin his life. He'd take the chance.

  The FBI guy was drinking coffee. Another cup rested in front of the vacant chair next to him. So he and the officer had been watching the coverage together, drinking coffee. Phillips had banked on both. After all, who wanted to miss the action? That guaranteed the TV'd be on. And all these guys had been working since the disappearances were reported, which meant the need for even more caffeine than normal.

  On the TV, the brittle blonde reporter he'd watched Miranda dismiss so perfectly was beaming. The scene behind her was of crowded chaos in the courthouse square.

  Phillips raised his hand toward the screen. "Oh my god," he said.

  The weight of Phillips' extended hand carried him forward, the FBI agent spinning with a moment's surprise.

  "What is the kid doing out here?" The agent got up, agitated.

  Phillips kept his eyes trained on the small square of TV, his hand shaking like an arthritic old man's. Officer Warren grabbed his other elbow to steady him, and said, "He's the chief's son and he's having a hard time of it."

  Phillips really would have to put in a good word for Officer Warren. This guy wanted to stay local. He wasn't courting the fed's favor a bit. He was loyal to Phillips' dad.

  The FBI guy must have reached the same conclusion. "That's not your call – that boy may have murdered an innocent man just because his girlfriend wanted him to. And your chief promised we could question him after the head count. Take him back."

  The officer's shoulders squared. "Not yet."

  The fed took a couple of steps toward them and Phillips knew the time had come. Act fast, or go back and wait for John Dee's main event. The voices in his head kicked up a notch in volume, roaring like they wanted him to act.

  Phillips ignored the fed. He blinked like he was dazed by the images on the screen. He powered forward, breaking free from the distracted officer's grip. He slipped a hand into his pocket and then back out as he crashed into the table – hard enough to rattle the cups, but not hard enough to upend them. "Oh god, so sorry – can't control…" he said.

  "Grab him," the FBI guy said.

  Phillips reached out quickly, innocently, to slide the cups back into place. His hands floated over their tops before he released them, trailing the powder from the sedative capsules he'd crushed in his palms into the coffee cups.

  The FBI guy moved forward to shoulder him away from the table. Phillips turned and gratefully grabbed the officer's hand.

  "You think this kid's trying something, Agent Walker?" Officer Warren said, disgust in his tone, as he led Phillips toward the bathroom. "He's suffering is all. And I seriously doubt he's the murderer, since he has an airtight alibi. Down here, we require you to back up accusations with facts."

  The fed stalked back to the chair, yanked it out and swung back into place. Phillips' teeth pressed into the flesh below his bottom lip to stave off a grin as the fed picked up the cup and drank from it.
Like a horse to water.

  He crossed his fingers that the pills didn't taste too strong or work so fast that Officer Warren caught on before the plan worked. After all, the officer had to suck down some coffee too, if this was going to work.

  Phillips made it to the bathroom with a smoother step, indulging in a few deep breaths, as if the meds were kicking in. "The pills are working," he said, keeping his voice weak. He went inside, counted off an eternity of fifteen seconds, then flushed and opened the door.

  The officer nodded. "Back to the cell."

  He wasn't half-bad at his job. Phillips checked on the FBI agent as they passed, afraid he'd already be slumped over and the officer would bust him. But Agent Walker was upright, freshening his coffee cup from the half-full pot and eyeing the screen. He refused to look at them.

  They reached the hallway with the two cells the jail possessed. The drugs had put Phillips out in only a few minutes, but he'd been in much worse shape. Still, not much time.

  The officer removed his keys and opened the cell, hooking them back onto his belt. Phillips' hand spasmed as he grabbed a bar. He gave Officer Warren an embarrassed look. "I hate this," Phillips said. "Being weak."

  The officer said, "Just lie down and wait for your father to come back. He'll get you out of this."

  
No one can get me out of this
. Phillips grabbed the man in a clumsy hug. "Thank you," he said, meaning it.

  Officer Warren frowned. "Well, not a pleasure, but… I hope you're better. And you'll tell your dad like you said."

  "Bet on it." Phillips went inside and eased back onto his bench. "You better go check on Agent Moron."

  The officer's face split in a quarterback grin, despite himself. "Babysitting detail," he said. "Not sure who I'm supposed to watch more – you or him."

  He rolled his eyes and left, the cell door clicking into place. Phillips echoed the gesture, rolling his own eyes and laying his head against the cinderblock wall to wait. A key was needed to open the cell, but not one to close it. All part of Phillips' plan. The key warmed in his palm, and he slid it into his jeans pocket.

  
You just dosed an FBI agent. And, soon enough, that nice cop.

  But he would have sworn that the voices seemed upbeat. The chattering had taken on an energy that felt like approval. He'd never noticed the spirits reacting to anything he did or that was going on around him before. The voices had only talked
at
him.

  Maybe, just maybe, the spirits would keep behaving while Dr Roswell's bad medicine did its trick.

Hanging out with Polly and her friends was nothing like it had been a few days earlier, Miranda discovered. Polly had always been chatty and warm, but with a serious undertone that made her competent and good at her job. Now the serious had overtaken the warmth. The other girls weren't much for the BFF giggles anymore either. Miranda never would have thought she could miss their endless in-jokes. She did.

  Miranda hesitated before starting Polly's Taurus. "Are you sure Sidekick will be all right here?"

  Sitting in the passenger seat beside Miranda, Polly didn't answer. Miranda had casually placed her messenger bag between them, the strange concealed weapon inside. No way was she leaving it behind again.

  Kirsten had insisted on bringing the few remaining donuts along, the sagging box propped on her knees in the backseat. Polly's head whipped around at the sound of the donut box opening. She frowned at Kirsten, "Get control of yourself."

  Gretchen reached out to grab the last donut for herself, frowning too.
Like she doesn't know what she's doing.
Gretchen had complained in the house that the sugar in the donuts made her stomach hurt. Miranda told her that was because she usually refused to eat either carbs or refined sugar. Gretchen's reaction then had been like the one now, disapproval tinged with confusion. Miranda had felt the urge to explain what carbs and refined sugar were. Which was ridiculous.

  The day the overly skinny and obsessed Gretchen Wolcott didn't know the definition of these things – along with descriptions of every diet popular in the last five years – was the day that Miranda's ancestors turned out to be witches, people who'd sold their souls to some weirdo with an Elizabethan mad science lab.
Oh.