Aftershocks (14 page)

And dammit, she’d forgotten to call him. Hadn’t even thought about the number inked on her hand when she washed up.

She stabbed the button to accept the call. “Hello?”

“So you’re okay.” His voice was as stony as his expression could be.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath, a little shaky from the adrenaline rush. “I totally forgot to call you.”

“I hoped that was it.”

Zoe realized she could hear music in the background on the other end of the line. The same music she heard outside her window.

“Where are you?”

A few beats went by before he answered. “Outside the hotel.”

“Why? Why didn’t you call me first?”

He didn’t answer, and Zoe had a feeling the reason was a lot like the reason she’d forgotten. He, too, felt what was between them and didn’t want to acknowledge it. So he’d avoided talking to her.

“The bike place said you’d returned the bike, but the hotel clerk wouldn’t confirm you’d checked in, so… Sorry I bothered you.”

“It’s no bother, Grant.” The words came out husky and gentle, and she cursed herself. That was the last signal she wanted to send. She tried to sound more businesslike when she continued, “I’m sorry I made you worry. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

“Night.”

“Night.”

The line stayed open for several seconds, the music playing in stereo, before Zoe finally ended the call.

* * *

The next two days weren’t exactly the torture she’d dreaded. She spent most of the next day in the café, nursing lattes and blowing too much of her cash reserves on the Internet, trying to find information about the totems as well as Pat and Freddie. She’d never realized how much her perspective was still that of a twelve-year-old. Her therapy had always focused on herself, healing, building a safe future. Now she could review that time as an adult and see them as human, with goals and motivations that made sense, twisted as it was. Freddie thought Pat had given Zoe to her as a present, a “baby” to mother. But it was clear now that he’d used Zoe to distract his wife, to keep her satisfied and happy while he strove to achieve the kind of power that didn’t really exist.

Thank God for Henricksen. His access to the old records, including interviews with Pat’s associates, and his preliminary research when all this first started had saved her a lot of time. There was no easy place to begin looking if she didn’t have the links he’d provided as a jumping-off point.

She and Grant talked on the phone a few times. He was using his contacts to track their nemeses and try to pinpoint where the totems had gone after she threw them on the train, using copies of the schedules from the FBI file—again, thanks to Henricksen. She remembered little about it, but the location of the rail yard and track number, plus the time of year and time of day, had helped Grant determine the likely chain of cars.

They agreed to meet the third morning to compare notes and try to come up with a plan of action. Zoe rented a bike again and rode down to Grant’s shack, a bag of food from the restaurant next to the hotel tied above the back wheel.

Their phone conversations hadn’t been awkward or tense, but Grant stood on the deck waiting for her, his posture a study in wariness. Zoe wheeled up the crushed-shell walkway and hopped off, propping the bike against the wall. He wore a ball cap today, his blond hair sticking out the sides and back, but even though it shadowed his eyes, she could still feel his laser stare.

“I brought lunch,” she offered, raising the bag in the air.

“Good.” Grant turned and went into the shack. When Zoe rounded the corner and stepped up onto the deck, she saw he’d left the door open for her.

“Thoughtful,” she muttered. Maybe all her worries the other night had been for naught. One-sided attraction was much easier to handle than the mutual kind. On the other hand, maybe she’d pissed him off about something. When she stepped inside, he was standing next to the paper-strewn table. His arms were folded, his stance wide, and the beach bum was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t sure it was a good trade. He seemed like he’d be scary when he was pissed off.

“Do you want to eat, or should I put it in the fridge?” She waved the bag at the papers on the table.

“Put it on the counter. We’ll eat in a minute.”

She complied, then hung her sling bag over the back of one of the chairs. She scanned the papers, half recognizing some as charts or maps, but couldn’t see enough of any of the rest to tell what they were.

“Is there a problem?” she finally asked when the silence dragged on.

Grant seemed to do battle with himself, but finally dropped his arms and the tension he was holding onto like a security blanket.

Zoe’s optimism popped. He’d gone mercenary on her as a self-protective barrier, and there was only one reason he’d do that. Her hope that things would be easier, that the attraction was all on her side, dried up.

Focus on business
. She struggled to think of a good opener, but all the information she’d gathered swam in her head, and she didn’t know how to make the shift.

But Grant took over. “I didn’t know you’d bring lunch. These are laid out in a kind of order, so let’s eat on the deck.”

“Okay.” She grabbed the bag and two beers and followed him out. He dragged a beat-up plastic table over from the far corner of the deck, set two plates, forks, and napkins on it, then went inside for another chair. When he came back out, Zoe had balanced the plates side by side and was laying out the sandwiches she’d gotten.

“I hope you still like turkey and smoked cheddar.”

He didn’t smile, but she thought he wanted to. “Yeah. Zinger’s has good stuff. Thanks for picking it up.”

“No problem.” She pried the top off a tub of three-bean salad and forked some onto each plate. “I ate there last night and thought it was the least I could do—” A thought struck her and she jerked her head up. “Um…I didn’t ask before. About your fees.”

He smirked. “If I cared about fees, I’d have brought that up first thing.” He picked up his plate and sat in the deck chair. Zoe got up from her crouch by the table and settled on the hard-back chair, crossing her feet up under her so she could cradle the plate in her lap.

He eyed her position. “Sorry. Not the most comfortable arrangement.”

“No, it’s fine.” She bit into her ham-and-cheese pretzel sandwich and watched the small waves rolling in, far away at low tide. “I think I’ll go for a swim later.” She’d worn her bathing suit out of a craving for normality and escape. If she was going to be in such a gorgeous place, she might as well take a few minutes to enjoy it. Who knew when, or if, she could again? The beach down here was far less crowded than the other end of the island.

When Grant didn’t say anything, she started to turn to look at him. “Is that okay? Do you want to join—me?”

He was staring at her as if trying to see her bikini through her t-shirt. A wave of heat loosened her body, and she fought not to smile. Dammit. She wasn’t supposed to be pleased at his appreciation. He wasn’t some construction worker whistling at her as she walked down the street. She took another bite of her sandwich and chewed, watching the endless ocean.

“No, thanks,” he said long enough later that it took her a second to remember what he was responding to.

“Okay.”

They finished eating in silence, Grant well before Zoe. He stood as soon as she forked up the last bean, and took their plates to the sink. She dragged the chair back inside and sat.

“Did you find anything about the totems?” he asked immediately. “Their origin?”

“Boy, did I.” She grinned. “Henricksen’s stuff was a fraction of what’s out there. There’s a buttload of information, considering these things are far from famous or anything.”

Grant raised his eyebrows. Zoe paused in reaching for the notes in her bag. “What?”

“Buttload?”

She shrugged. “I guess I’m regressing a little.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Is plethora better?”

He just rolled his eyes.

“Anyway.” She pulled the folder out and set it on the table, dropping her bag to the floor. “There really isn’t much historical value. They’re not ancient. Antique, I guess. What’s the age limit? A hundred years?”

“That’s your world’s thing, not mine.”

The words could have stung if he hadn’t said them so matter-of-factly and if they weren’t so basically true. “I haven’t exactly gotten into that part of ‘my world.’ Anyway, they were made by a metallurgist-slash-artist in the late eighteen hundreds. They’re not solid gold or even an alloy, but gold molded over iron.”

“Cuts the monetary value, then.”

“Right. So Pat and Freddie are all about the mystical stuff.”

“What did you find on that?”

She flipped open the folder. “Tons of different things. The guy who made them—Jacob Farmer—was an American mutt. He had ancestry from a couple of Native American tribes, a powerful Gypsy clan, and even what his mother claimed was an African shaman, though he wouldn’t have been called that. He had some bland Caucasian blood, too, but that’s less significant. One legend said he was obsessed with his heritage, with uniting it, and that he created the totems as a way to do that. He supposedly infused the totems with power that gave strength to whoever brought them together and unlocked their secrets.”

“As opposed to just sticking them in the same bag.”

“Right. They do nothing by themselves. There are a few different stories about how they work, most telling the same basics but with different outcomes. Shapeshifting, magical power, control over the elements, a wide range.”

“Do they all say they need the key?”

“Yes.” She flipped through her printed pages. “I only found one description of the key itself.” She found the page and flipped it around for Grant to see the picture on it. It was a hand-drawn rendition of what looked like a diagram painted on leather. Four squares connected in a diamond pattern by filigree-style chains, with a few symbols in the center.

“So you’d obviously put the totems on each of the squares.” He pointed with a long finger. “Any idea what the symbols mean?”

“None at the moment. We should talk to someone who’s expert in pictorial languages.”

“Or magical arts.”

He said it with such a straight face she thought he meant it. Then she glimpsed the twinkle in his eye. She said, “There are plenty of people who claim to be. Never know who might help.”

“If you say so. Where the hell will we find someone like that?”

“I have some leads. Which one we follow depends on what you found.”

“We’ll get to that. Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Zoe hadn’t been thinking about this part, but when she remembered, a spot in the pit of her stomach went cold. It explained a lot she hadn’t understood of the situation she’d been pulled into so long ago. “One source I found cited a set of rituals to do with the totems. I don’t think they have any connection to the original maker. Anything that mentions his name talks about power of different sorts, but not…this kind of thing.”

“What kind of thing?” His voice was kind, as if he’d guessed already.

“Sacrifices. Rape. Carving the symbols into living flesh. I think with Jordie…” She couldn’t say it, not to Grant. But he had no qualms.

“They were practicing.” It came out flat and emotionless, but Zoe recognized the pain behind his blue eyes.

“Right,” she whispered. “And I was probably going to be part of the final ritual. That one required purity and innocence. Me at twelve…or Olivia now.” She cleared her throat. “That’s why they didn’t abuse me—much.”

Grant’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t show any emotion. Stone face, again. “What’s this ritual supposed to get them?”

“Access to all kinds of things. Knowledge of true history, which will help them find lost objects.”

“Treasure.”

“A window to the spirit world, which can cloak them in darkness and stealth.”

“To steal treasure.”

“And a portal to other dimensions. Not to travel to, but to summon from.”

“Summon what?”

She shrugged. The ridiculousness of it all didn’t diminish her anxiety over the stupid things. “It was a little vague, but it sounded like, I don’t know, weapons of some sort? Ways to kill without risk. Something like that.”

Grant shoved to his feet. The chair scraped harshly across the floor. He kicked it back under the table as he started to pace the wide room.

“So basically, this set of rituals would make them all-powerful.” He glared at her. “If the story is true.”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” she protested. “I’m not going mystical on you. I’m just reporting what some people believe. As far as I’m concerned, the end result they’re going for is irrelevant. It’s the killing and raping people part I want to stop.”

“And the forcing-you-to-help part.”

She shook her head but couldn’t meet his eyes. As she’d read about this stuff and it clicked more and more with what she remembered, the harder it had been not to slip back there. So many years fighting to be strong, decisive, balanced—so ridiculously easy to lose what she’d gained. It was fine during the day, but at night, in the dark hotel room, with people whooping and hollering outside her window, the past had pushed its way out. Every set of footsteps past her door had been someone coming to drag her somewhere she didn’t want to be, and her dreams had been swirling nightmares of anxiety and helplessness. Worse were the ones where Olivia was the girl in the dirty bedroom, curled into a ball, frantic breaths puffing into sobs. Zoe always tried to reach her and could never move. Tried to scream for help, the sound no bigger than a high rasp.