Shimmer: A Novel (6 page)

“Okay,” she said quietly, then wrenched her handlebars from his weakened grip. Two revolutions of her tires later, she glanced over her shoulder and called, “If you ask me, you need medication.”

Not her fault, not her fault,
Logan chided himself.
She’s a victim—will be a victim.
He staggered a few steps after her. “Wait, I’m sorry.”

“Asshole,” she yelled, pedaling faster.

“Damn it,” Logan said, shaking his head. “We have to follow her?”

“Are you nuts?” Fallon said. “She’ll call the police.”

“They can’t help her.”

“Shit, you
are
nuts!” Fallon tossed her hands in the air. “I’m walking home with a psychopath.”

Logan ran his hands through his hair. “Damn it,” he whispered again. “Damn, damn, damn!” He started to run after the bike, hoping only to keep her in sight, but he was losing ground fast. He dropped the backpacks in the middle of the street.

“Hey!”

Logan pulled up short, paused for a moment, then walked back toward Fallon.

“Never mind,” Fallon said, backing away from him, hands upraised. “Forget I said anything. Have your psychotic break without me.”

“You know where she lives, right?”

“Sure, but I—no!” Fallon shook her head. “Ain’t gonna happen, pal. I won’t be your accomplice.”

“Fallon…”

She stopped backing away, realization dawning. “It happened back there, didn’t it? Your…bad vibes.”

Logan’s shoulders slumped. He nodded. “It’s getting worse.”

“You saw something,” Fallon guessed. “When you looked at Chelsea.” Logan nodded. Fallon gulped, carefully weighing her next question. “What did you see?”

“You really want to know?”

“Chelsea’s a friend,” Fallon said. “You have to tell me.”

“No,” Logan said, bending down to grab the backpacks by their padded straps. “I can spare you.”

“I don’t want to be spared!”

“She’s…” Logan looked away from her intense gaze. “She died…
will
die, violently, unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless I stop it?”

“This is what you were talking about?”

“Yeah.” Logan became distracted, looking up and down the street, along the sidewalks and lawns, up the sides of houses.

“What are you looking for?”

“The darkness,” Logan said absently. “Any sign of the rift.” He shook his head. “I hate this. Never knowing…”

“What?”

“Wrong question,” Logan said with a bitter smirk. “The right question is ‘When?’ That’s what I never know. Could be three days from now… or it could already be too late.”

“She was fine a few minutes ago.”

“Things can change”—Logan snapped his fingers—“like that.”

“So what are you—are
we
gonna do?”

“Call for reinforcements.”

Logan shoved a hand into a side pouch on his backpack and removed his cell phone. He already had the new Walker home number on speed dial. Liana answered on the third ring. “I saw something,” Logan said without preamble. “Better send Barrett.”

Chapter 10

Ambrose had converted the downstairs office into a library, but was displeased with the result. Liana offered to help him decorate, but already knew it was hopeless, even with all the computers and office equipment upstairs. If Ambrose had only needed space for the large mahogany desk and three matching burgundy leather wing armchairs, the office would have sufficed, even sacrificing some wall space for several freestanding bookshelves. But Ambrose had thirty or more book-filled boxes scattered across the hard wood floor, and more than a half dozen paintings leaning against the desk, old masters in ornate frames impatient for wall space of their own.

“Had I the luxury of actually planning this trip, I would have found a sprawling mansion for us.”

“Lot of those on the market, are there?” Liana asked with a wry grin, but he ignored her comment.

“This—” He gestured at the chaos with both hands. “This is what happens when one relocates on a whim.”

Momentarily out of the way on the far windowsill, a police scanner produced occasional background chatter, the low-key, law-abiding pulse of a suburban town. Ambrose, illogically, took offense at the lack of useful rift-murder information the device had provided so far.

“I wouldn’t call it a whim,” Liana said. “Logan’s premonition was—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “The boy is unfailingly accurate and, in the grand scheme, this is no more than a minor nuisance. We shall, inevitably, manage.”

“Right,” Liana said. “We can scatter the bookcases all around the house.”

“Besides, I’m too old to fall prey to Barrett’s aversion to inaction.”

“You’re not too old.”

“If I’m not, then
who
is?” Ambrose asked with a twinkle in his eyes. “Never mind,” he added, shaking his head. “Scatter the bookcases, you say? Yes, I suppose we must.”

“And the paintings…”

Ambrose held up his hand. “We shall not scatter my paintings. I only permit myself a few as it is.” He flipped through the upright stack of paintings, a thoughtful expression creasing his brow.

“What have you got there?”

“So many in storage, so hard to decide,” Ambrose said with another head shake. “I’ve stuck with the classics. One of Bosch’s studies of Hell, Schongauer’s demons, a Bruegel, and Grunewald, ah, and the Dalis.”

“Why not choose something a little more…uplifting? Might brighten the place a bit.”

“Oh, Liana, these works are testaments,” Ambrose said with a slow shake of his head. “When I hang these, our home becomes a hall of remembrance. We must never forget what we have fought, and what we must continue to fight.”

“With you here to remind us,” Liana said, smiling, “I doubt that will ever be a problem.”

“Good to be appreciated,” Ambrose said. He stared off into the distance for a moment, but then his gaze returned to Liana. “Anything more from Thalia on the current situation?”

Liana shook her head. “She keeps saying it’s
the Dark
again. Not just darkness, but
the Dark
.”

Ambrose scratched his jaw. “Is it possible she has specific knowledge of this rift?”

“Clairvoyance? Sure, why not?”

“Perhaps not clairvoyance. Perhaps something else…”

“What are you thinking?”

“Cryptomnesia.”

“But how—when? She hasn’t crossed a rift since last year, since she lost…”

“Exactly,” Ambrose said. “Lost knowledge resurfacing from her subconscious and manifesting through her art. She went into that rift alone”—he sighed wearily—“and has never been the same.”

Liana shuddered. If the rift that had crippled Thalia’s mind was the same rift they were chasing in Hadenford, all of them were at severe risk.

Ambrose took hold of her upper arm. “Fear is natural, Liana, but you mustn’t let it control you.”

“I know.”

“There are more… sides to this rift,” Ambrose said. “More threats.”

“Logan’s right. Your pep talks need work.”

“We have the luxury of speculation now,” Ambrose reminded her. “But speculation is all that it is. We must study the unknown, rather than dread it.”

“Marginally better,” Liana said with a dry chuckle. “But it still needs work.” She glanced down at the nightmarish imagery Bosch had captured in oil on canvas. “Think I’ll be shopping for some flower arrangements this afternoon.”

“You bring flowers into our home to die and call that uplifting?”

“At least they’re colorful,” Liana said with a defensive frown. “Fine, I’ll buy some potted plants. Better?”

“Yes,” Ambrose said with a nod as he considered the Bosch. “Now, where shall I display the torments of Hell?”

On the corner of his desk, the telephone rang.

“Wherever your little heart desires,” Liana said, patting him on the shoulder as she reached for the phone.

Chapter 11

“Logan, we can’t stand here outside her house.”

“I doubt she’ll invite us in.”

Fallon rolled her eyes in exasperation. “No, but she’ll call the cops. She thinks you’re a psycho.”

“Besides,” Logan said from the shade of a maple tree. “Technically, we’re sitting outside her house, not standing. Well, I’m sitting. You’re pacing.”

“Maybe she has a point,” Fallon said. “You are psycho.”

“Psychic, psycho,” Logan shrugged. “It’s a fine distinction.”

“Shut up!” Fallon yelled, took a step toward him, and kicked his thigh hard. Without another word, she turned and walked away.

“Hey, that hurt!” Logan said, rubbing his thigh.

“Good!”

Logan climbed to his feet and followed her, sparing a nervous sideways glance at the sprawling Tudor home. Chelsea’s green hybrid bike leaned against the porch railing. “What just happened?” Logan called after Fallon.

“Didn’t see that coming, huh?”

“No…”

“So you don’t know everything.”

“Of course not,” Logan said dejectedly. “I never know… enough.”

Fallon stopped abruptly.

Logan paused behind her, wondering what had caused her sudden mood swing. “Look, whatever I said that upset you, I’m sorry. Sometimes… if not for gallows humor, my whole family would…” He sighed. “Sometimes that’s not even enough.”

She turned to face him and he could see the beginning of tears in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think?” Logan said bitterly, walking back to the maple tree and the two backpacks propped on either side of it. The pain in his thigh made him wince, but he clenched his jaw and ignored it.

From behind him, Fallon said softly, “Tell me.”

He sat on the curb and plucked a blade of grass. “In my family, part of the job description… Let’s just say that death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you.”

Fallon sighed, sat close beside him, allowing her thigh to brush against his. “Sorry about the kicking.”

“No problem.”

She twirled an amethyst ring around her left index finger, staring absently at the silver band and lavender stone. “Sometimes I worry… about my dreams.”

“Why?”

“My mother,” Fallon said, looking briefly into his eyes before returning her gaze to the ring. “She had them too.”

“Kind of thing runs in the family.”

“Naturally,” Fallon said with a wry grin. “My worst fear. Ever since she left.” Fallon was silent for a while; Logan sat quietly beside her without prodding. Eventually, she continued. “Been happening to me for a while now,” she said as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Guess I’ve been living in denial. And I can’t talk to my father about it. He’d think I was… Sometimes I feel so alone”—her voice caught in her throat—“but that’s when I imagine how she must have felt before…before…”

“Before she left you and your father?”

Fallon nodded, swallowed hard.

Logan peeled the blade of grass into strips, head hanging. “Maybe you should call her. She might be able to help you get through this.”

Fallon laughed bitterly. “Could someone in your family arrange that call?”

“What—?”

“She left us for the Great Beyond,” Fallon said, swinging her right arm up and away. “Two years ago.”

“Oh…” Logan said softly, feeling supremely stupid. “I… Fallon, I’m sorry.”

“Everybody is,” Fallon said. With the tip of her index finger, she wiped a tear from her eye, and looked at him with a brave smile. “So, what do you think? Any hope for someone like me?”

Beneath the flippant question, Logan sensed the great burden Fallon carried with her. He opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by an angry shout.

“Hey!”

They both looked up as Chelsea strode down the walkway that divided her front yard and crossed the street toward them.

After an embarrassed little wave, Fallon said, “Hi, Chelsea.”

“What the hell’s going on, Fallon?” Chelsea’s gaze flashed at Logan for a moment, then returned to Fallon. “Take Freak Boy and get away from my house or I’m calling the police.”

“We were just resting—” Logan protested, but Fallon jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.
Right,
Logan thought,
lame excuse.

“Two minutes,” Chelsea said. “Got it?”

Logan nodded absently as he examined her face, waiting for a return of the gruesome death image… but no vision came. He’d like nothing better than to dismiss his premonition and leave to avoid the threat of arrest for stalking. But Ambrose would advise him to defuse the situation in order to remain in the game. As Chelsea turned indignantly on her heel and walked back toward her house, Logan rose and took a few steps after her. “Chelsea! Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. I get these really bad headaches—migraines—and I—”

“Save it!”

Logan shrugged and sighed.

Fallon quirked a sympathetic smile. “Least you tried.”

“For all the—” He saw a slate-gray Jeep approaching. “Good! Barrett’s here.”

“Good? Stalking by the dozen? More is
not
merrier, Logan.”

Barrett made a U-turn in the middle of the street and pulled up to the curb near where they had been sitting. “Status?” Barrett asked, tilting his head out the window. “Wait—who’s your friend?”

“This is Fallon…” He turned to her. “Don’t know your last name.”

“Correct,” she said.

Logan sighed, turned back to Barrett. “She has this thing about not giving out her name.”

“It’s Maguire, okay?” Fallon said, rolling her eyes.

“Hello, Fallon Maguire,” Barrett said, flashing a high-wattage smile at her before directing a frown at Logan. “Maybe we should talk in private.”

“Little late for that,” Logan said. “She’s a dreamer. I mean, like one of us. A prescient dreamer.”

“Kid, you’re a fast operator, I’ll give you that.”

Logan felt a flush rise to his cheeks. “It’s just…”

“Forget it,” Barrett said, holding up a hand to forestall Logan’s explanations. “What’s the status here?”

“She freaked,” Logan said. “Thinks I’m a stalker. Chelsea, that is, not Fallon.” He nodded toward the Tudor-style home. “She spotted us out here and is about to call the cops in, what—?” Logan looked the question at Fallon. “About a minute.”

“Knowing Chelsea Conrad,” Fallon said with a mischievous smile. “Thirty seconds, if you’re lucky.”