A Keeper's Truth (31 page)

Thomas
recalls a previous run-in with the police. It was at a hospital in Spain, the
first time his wife tried to commit suicide. The cops refused Thomas entry to
her hospital room because he’d been involved in an altercation with his wife’s
ex-husband the week before. It got out of hand and the guy was killed. Thomas
swore it was an accident, that the guy didn’t die by his hands, and the
authorities had the evidence to back Thomas’s story. But Thomas’s wife wouldn’t
believe them. She went ballistic, blaming Thomas, and slit her wrists in the
tub. The next time she attempted to end her life, she was better prepared. She
made sure Thomas was out of the country. And she went straight to the morgue.

“What are
you hiding?” says Thomas. “Are you gonna tell me or do I find out the hard
way?”

I work the
wrinkles out of my shirt, trying not to smile. “Hard for whom?”

Thomas
studies me, his expression as impassive as stone. “Why do you need to call
Dad?” He leans close.

“I don’t,”
I lie, suddenly remembering Gertrude’s threat.

“What does
Maples have to do with . . .?” He stares at the silver numbers
screwed to the door. “You didn’t.” He turns toward me, face hard. “She told
you!”

“I don’t
know what you’re blathering about.”

Thomas
grabs me by the shoulders. “Shit, Bryce. Tell me you didn’t.”

I
surrender the game. We never could keep secrets from each other.

“I did.” I
smile, big, showing my teeth. “And it worked.”

“Fuck!”
Thomas throws his hands up, pacing on the spot. “Dad is gonna to kill you!”

“Won’t
that make your day.”

“You know
what this means, don’t you? Gertrude must have told you—”

I stand
tall. “I don’t care.”

“You’ll
never be the same, Bryce. It isn’t like bleeding from a cut or injury.”

Thomas
stops to stare at me, and for the first time in a long time, I feel the love he
had for me when we were kids.

“When my
wife was in the hospital, when she’d cut her wrists, Gertrude told me how to
infuse my blood, how to control it, manipulate the healing process.”

This I
knew, this is why I thought to call Mrs. Maples. The term is
bon pa
,
which means to recite magical formulas, or mantras, that can manipulate sound
to influence energy patterns. Father was livid when he found out what Thomas
had considered, what he’d almost sacrificed for his wife to survive.

Almost.
He hadn’t gone through with it.

“I
couldn’t,” says Thomas, obviously privy to the lack of a blockade in my mind.
“The consequences were . . . Shit, Bryce, we’re Keepers. We
can’t sacrifice our gifts for others. Not ever. Not for any reason.”

“I love
her, Thomas.”

Thomas
groans and looks away. “When the Keepers find out—and you know they
will—they are going to rip you a new one. Bro, you’re in a ton of shit.”

“I know.”

Thomas
slumps forward. “Are you all right?”

“I’m
fine.”

Actually,
I’m tired and hungry. And I feel like I’ve got cotton balls stuffed in my ears.

“Shit,
Bryce.”

“I’ve
lived over three thousand lifetimes, Thomas. Twenty-two of my best were spent
with the soul residing in Tess.” I can’t seem to stifle the grin plastered on
my face. “She was dying. Now she’s not.”

“Now she’s
not,” Thomas repeats, staring at the door. “You’ve never done this before,
saved her soul.”

“Maybe
that’s why I’ve always lost her.”

One of the
police officers wanders past, pretending not to notice us. Chocolate jelly is
stuck to his chin. Thomas huffs his disapproval, watching the cop as he rounds
the corner. “You might get your hearing back. That and the fatigue are probably
temporary. We’ll have to test your mind later. I doubt you’ll be helping
anything inhuman for a while.”

He means I
won’t have the power to change into an animal, which means I won’t be
counseling any lost souls who have chosen to experience life as another one of
Earth’s creatures.

“Pity,” I
say, “can’t say I’ll miss that talent.” I’ve lived a couple of dozen lives as
something other than human, and there is a lot to be said for being top of the
food chain.

The door
inches open, in need of oil, and Stephen steps into the hallway.

“My sister
was awake for a few minutes, but she’s burning up, so the doctor gave her
something to make her sleep. He’s never seen a fever so high, but she seems to
be handling it. He doesn’t seem worried. He thinks this new medication is some
sort of wonder drug.” He smiles. “Anyway, Tess will be out for a while, so I’m
heading home to spend time with Abby, maybe get some sleep.”

I nod. The
fever is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do, kill infection. Tess has
figured it out. She’s controlling her body heat, manipulating the cells. The
smile on my face grows in increments, and Thomas rolls his eyes.

I yell out
to Stephen slowly dragging himself down the hall. “Tell Abby her mother is
invincible!”

“I will,”
he bellows over his shoulder.

And
amazing and strong and beautiful and alive.

No matter
the cost.

T
homas,
suddenly the attentive sibling, insists I get some food into me. So after
checking on Tess, we head two floors down to the cafeteria. The thought of
eating processed food has my stomach curdling, but I need water and something
with a bit of substance. Thomas stands beside me in line, his tray stacked with
freeze-dried, gas-flushed, preservative-packed junk. Mother would go nuts. Not
a single item looks appealing to me.

“Are you
going to eat that?” I deadpan.

Thomas
assures me he is, and the lady at the counter tallies his stash. “He’s paying,”
Thomas says to the woman. He gestures to me then lifts his tray over the cash
register and heads for the condiments counter.

Nice. He
hasn’t changed in years.

I’m better
looking.

I pay for
the food and follow Thomas toward a quiet table in the far corner.

Four feet
from the table Thomas stops. “Listen,” he says.

Instantly
the tray is gone from my hands and we’re standing on the other side of the
cafeteria. A flat screen television mounted to the wall blasts the news, and a
small mass has gathered to watch the local anchorwoman.

“Live,
from the steps of
Palais
PD.” The wind blows her hair
as she tries to grip the microphone and keep the hem of her skirt down at the
same time. “I repeat,” she says. “The Jane Doe Butcher is dead. Only moments
ago, the body of Adrien
Rimkin
was found here—”
The camera pans to steep stone steps leading to a set of glass doors covered
with graffiti. “—on the steps of the old Prefecture of Police building,
gunshot wound to the head.” Yellow tape marks the parameter corralling a dozen
officers milling around a white tarp. “It appears that
Rimkin
climbed the steps, confession in hand, and shot himself, unable to live with
what he’d done the night of February sixteenth, to Tess Morgan, no longer our
Jane Doe.” A picture of Tess materializes in the left corner of the screen.
She’s wearing the red dress she wore to Karen’s New Year’s party, but her hair
is shorter.

I close my
eyes, just for a second, and a nurse nudges me in the side. “She’s here, in
ICU,” she whispers.

Another
photo pops onto the screen and Thomas says, “That’s him, the guy from the café.
That’s the guy I saw on the café’s security video.”

I look
around us but no one is listening. They’re all riveted to the television.

The
reporter clears her throat. “
Rimkin
, a
twenty-six-year-old Spanish born American, has only one prior
involving—oddly enough—tax evasion. According to police,
Rimkin’s
hand written note describes how he met Tess
Morgan, less than forty-eight hours ago, at the
Roissy
airport. Smitten, he followed her to an apartment on Rue Nicolas
Houel
, where she and her daughter were visiting family.
While trying to talk to her at the
Jardin
des
Plantes
, he—and I quote—lost control. Police
say the note is clearly the ramblings of a deranged mind, and they are relieved
to see he’s off the streets.”

Rimkin’s
photo
disappears and the one of Tess dominates the entire screen.

“Mrs.
Morgan is now in a stable condition at
Pitie-Salpetriere
Hospital, where doctors believe a new drug called
Leudifor
saved her from what should have been fatal injuries.” The reporter comes back
into view, now with the
Leudifor
logo scrolling
across the top of the scene. “What else is this miracle drug capable of? Next,
we’ll talk to the head chemist at Rideau, the makers of
Leudifor
.”

“Holy
shit,” I say, eyes glazed over. “I didn’t see that coming.”

Thomas
drags his hands slowly down his face. “Me neither. And I’m not handicapped.”

I ignore
the jab and try to concentrate on the facts. The lost soul is dead. This is
good. This is very good. Tess is safe. I should be relieved. Why am I not
relieved? After what this guy did to Tess, I wanted him hurt, killed,
obliterated. I got my wish, and without dirty hands. But this isn’t right. Lost
souls don’t commit suicide. Few ever feel remorse, never mind put it to paper.

Am I’m
missing something?

By the
time my focus returns, the news has ended and the crowd has dispersed. I turn
to speak to Thomas but beside me is nothing but space.

Over here
, he says
without using his voice.

I look to
the table in the far corner. I’m there in a heartbeat.

“You’re
eating?” I say, stunned.

Thomas
shrugs, dipping fries into mayonnaise. “I’m hungry.”

I’m
starving, but I can’t eat. Not now. My thoughts are jumbled as I try to
decipher the puzzle. I don’t see why this guy would turn himself in, never mind
commit suicide. The police had no idea who he was, and we weren’t onto him, not
yet anyway. Why wouldn’t he just flee?

“Does it
really matter?” says Thomas, slurring around a mouthful of food.

“Well,
yeah. I’m elated he’s no longer capable of hurting Tess, but his death matters.
And it means there is someone else, someone higher up the chain, someone
capable of controlling a lost soul. Who killed him and why?”

Thomas has
shoved too much into his mouth to speak.
So the guy had enemies. I don’t
really care who popped the fucker. As long as he’s gone, that’s one mighty big
project off my hands.

I head to
the stairs, pausing only to see what channel the news was on.

I need to
see Tess. When she wakes, she’ll want to know what’s going on, and if the lost
soul will return for her. She has to know he won’t come back, that the lost
soul is dead. The news should calm her soul, help her sleep, allow her to heal.

And I
won’t give her any reason to worry.

Not yet
anyway.

Pausing
outside her hospital door, the silver numbers blur as exhaustion clouds my
vision. The past twenty-four hours have passed in a whirlwind. The thought of
Tess’s family watching over her on the other side of this door makes me think
of my family, my life, my future. I take a deep breath. I love Tess. I think she
loves me, the Keeper and the man. She’s alive, she’ll heal, and I’ll give her
the time she needs. I’ll give her everything. She’ll love me someday, I hope.
We’ll figure it out and be together. Again.

Someone
says my name, and startled, I look up to see Mrs. Morgan propping the door with
a rubber stopper. She smiles. “Are you coming in?” she says.

I step
into the room, and it looks different. Brighter. Tidier. It even smells better.

“How is
she?” I say.

Even Tess
looks different. Her hair curls around her shoulders, clean and combed. The
tube taped to her mouth is gone, and not a speck of blood shows on the white
gauze squares.

“She’s
good.” Mrs. Morgan rests a warm hand on my arm. “She’s been asking for you.”

I rush to
the bed. “I’m here.”

Tess’s
eyes remain closed, but a tiny smile inches up the right ride side of her lip.

A
heartfelt sigh catches my attention and I turn to see Grams leaving the room,
guiding her husband’s wheelchair through the doorway. “We’re going to check on
Abby,” she says. “You take care of our girl now.”

Mr. Morgan
gives me a simple wave and I return the gesture. I hadn’t even noticed he was
in the room.

“Oh,
wait,” I say, diving after them. “There is no television in here, so you
wouldn’t have seen the news. He’s dead. The man who did this, he can’t hurt her
again.”

Mrs.
Morgan just sighs. “The police told us before they left.” She kicks the stopper
from the door. “We’ll be back soon.” As the door closes I catch a trace of her
thoughts. She aims to find Thomas and distract him, giving me time alone with
Tess.

“I really
like Grams,” I murmur, carefully sitting on the side of the bed.

Tess runs
air over her vocal cords, obviously happy to see me. I’m surprised to see she’s
awake. Her mind is still murky, I think. Maybe it’s me, maybe I can’t see
through the stuffing in my head.

“He’s
gone,” I say, “really gone—the lost soul won’t return. Now you don’t need
to worry, just rest.”

I don’t
mention the lack of lost soul suicide statistics or the feeling I have, the
sensation I’m missing something, that this was all too easy. I ignore the fact
that the lost soul’s death seems more like a concluded loose end than a
suicide, and how I suspect there is someone worse lurking in the shadows.
Instead, I push doubt from my mind and rummage through the blankets for Tess’s
hand.

I hold
tight and a wave of calm falls over me.

Studying
Tess’s hand, I recall all the times I’ve wanted to touch her, to hold her. All
the times I’ve had to show restraint and keep my feelings at bay. My fingertips
follow the lines in her palm, the many lives she’s lived. I refuse to lose her
again. She’s not ready for me to love her the way I do, but we’ll take things
slow.

“Your
ring.”

The gold
wedding band she wears is missing. It’s the first time I’ve noticed. I reach
for the drawer beside her bed, assuming her personal belongings are tucked
inside. There is a bag, the contents obviously Tess’s. The glass face of her
watch is shattered, a silver key tainted with blood. Her ring slides along the
bottom of the bag, beside a pen and folded sheet of paper.

“This
belongs here.” I slide the gold band onto her finger. It only fits halfway, but
Tess attempts to close her hand around mine.

I can see
the paper through the plastic, the blue ink in Tess’s handwriting.

Dear Bryce
, it says.
I should have stayed. I wanted to stay. I’m sorry I didn’t call before
leaving for Paris, but I knew if I heard your voice I’d change my mind. What
you said to me, how you feel, I feel the same. But I need time. Abby needs
time.

Blood
splatters cover the remaining words within view and I want to tear the paper
from the bag and read more, but I won’t invade Tess’s privacy any more than I
already have. These are her private thoughts, things she wanted to say to me
herself. And I’ll wait. I’ll patiently wait until she’s ready to tell me how
she feels.

Leaning in
close, I dust my lips over her forehead.

“We have
all the time in the world.”

Our
connection is still laced with fog and nothing but a general sense of
contentment comes through.

I start to
panic. She’s recovering quickly. Her mind will be crisp and clear soon.

“I love
you,” I say impetuously. “I’m so in love with you I’ve lost my mind.” I chuckle
and sit back, suddenly hot.

A smile
slinks across Tess’s lips.

I could
love you too.

END OF BOOK ONE