Broken Souls (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 2) (13 page)

Melanie had quickly shaken off the effects of Mara’s reading and walked over to where her husband talked to the last of the gathering. She was trying to get him to wrap things up.

Bohannon hobbled up to Mara and said, “That was quite the show she put on there. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I think so.” Mara glared at Ping as he walked up to them. “No thanks to Ping’s bright idea.
It felt enlightening, like my perspective had been expanded
.”

“I didn’t say it was particularly pleasant,” he said, reaching up to Mara’s forehead and brushing away a strand of hair. “But you have to admit Melanie definitely gave you something to think about.”

“I did not find the experience ‘enlightening’ in the least. As a matter of fact, it completely creeped me out. What’s enlightening about being told I’m stalked by an adversary in the voice of a child. It’s like something out of a Chucky, the slasher doll, movie.”

“Well, I think it’s better to be forewarned than to be surprised,” Ping said.

“You’re assuming Melanie actually has an ability. Maybe she’s delusional.”

“I think you mentioned something about hearing a child’s voice saying those exact words before. That might be an indicator of the veracity of Melanie’s talents. Plus my own experience persuades me that she is genuine.”

Bohannon leaned in. “You heard that voice before?”

Mara ignored the question and continued glaring at Ping. “Well, there is that. But what about all that other stuff? Do you think any of that is true, or maybe she made it up?”

“If I understand what is going on when Melanie does a reading, I think she’s reflecting what’s in our subconscious, those parts of us that we have not come to grips with—our doubts, our fears, those things we’re not even aware that we are pondering.”

“I’m sorry, but where did you hear that voice before?” Bohannon asked.

Mara turned to him and said, “I heard it come out of a radio at the shop.”

“Oh, well, that could be a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Mara half-frowned and said, “Given all that we’ve seen in the past couple months, how much credence are you putting in coincidences these days?”

Bohannon shrugged. “Sorry I asked. I think I’ve gotten all the information I can from this particular outing. I’m going to head out. You guys have a good evening.” He tipped his head in a little salute and turned to walk back toward Yamhill Street.

Mara raised an arm after him, pointed to the ground with her other arm and yelled, “Hey, you forgot your crutches.”

The detective pivoted and retrieved them. “Guess I got something more than information from this experience, didn’t I?” He continued on his way.

Ping watched him walk across the square for a few minutes, waiting for Mara to say something. When she failed to continue the conversation, he turned toward her.

With a look of concern, she stared at the small group of people gathered around Denton Proctor.

“What is it?” Ping said.

Mara tilted her head forward, indicating a blonde head bobbing out of sight, making an effort to stay behind the thinning crowd. “Why would Abby be hanging out over there, trying to hide behind those people?”

“I’m not sure. Did you mention to her that we would be coming down here this afternoon?”

“No, why would I?”

“Maybe it is a coincidence. Does she have a condition that Mr. Proctor can help her with?”

“I don’t think even the talented Mr. Proctor can cure terminal nosiness.”

“You don’t think she followed us down here, do you?”

“I’m not sure. She showed up at the shop yesterday, and that was kind of odd. I figured she was angling to get Bruce to notice her, but maybe there’s something else on her mind.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Sam’s sudden appearance and weirdness probably caught her eye, and now she’s curious about what’s going on. She’s like a bloodhound. Once she catches a scent of something interesting, she won’t let it go until you spill every detail.”

“Sounds like she should consider a career in journalism.”

“You might be right, but this is one scoop she’s not going to get.”

“Maybe you should have a talk with her.”

“Oh, I plan on it, but I’m not sure how much good it will do.”

The antiquated cell phone lay on the counter of Mason’s Fix-It Shop in what Mara could only describe as three clumps. One was a gray plastic casing, cracked nearly in half with the bottom portion—designed to cover the large oval keys—hanging loosely from its fractured hinge. The second was a knot of wires mounted onto a circuit board, and the third was a battery casing, a mounting and more wires.

Mara’s middle-school friend Buddy had been waiting in front of the shop when she had arrived to open up. Now he loomed over the mess with a worried look and said, “Do you think you can fix it?”

“Sheesh, Bud. I don’t know. It’s pretty much destroyed. What happened to it?”

“I was riding my bike and talking to my dad, and it slipped out of my hand, and a big truck ran over it. I tried to put it back together to make it easier for you, but I couldn’t.”

Mara turned over the casing and scratched away what looked like dried white glue. “Oh, Buddy.”

Anguish swept over his face. “You gotta fix it, Mara. It’s the only phone my dad can call.” Tears rolled down his face, dripped off his unshaven chin and painted a couple darkened streaks on his gray hoodie.

“Don’t cry, Buddy. Let me think for a minute.”

Mara’s mother had lectured her about feeding into Buddy’s belief that he could talk to his dead father through the archaic cell phone, and now she had to finally face telling him the phone was gone. She considered trying to convince him that another phone would do the job, but that would be dishonest and would be perpetuating the problem. Fixing the old phone was out of the question; it was a mess.

Buddy make a loud snuffling sound, tried to catch his breath and sounded as if he were about to hyperventilate. With his face reddening, he leaned on the counter for support.

“Please, Buddy, calm down.”

The bell above the door jangled. Sam stood in the doorway carrying a cup of coffee and a Danish. “Ping told me to drop this off.” He held the items up in the air as he closed the door with his hip. He noticed Mara’s frustration immediately. “What’s wrong, sis?” he said.

“Buddy’s upset about his phone, and I think he’s about to pass out.”

Sam moved over to the counter, and set down the cup and plate. He turned to Buddy and patted him on the back. “Hey, Buddy, are you all right?”

Buddy squeezed his eyes closed, forcing out more tears, and made a whimpering, mewing sound.

Sam grabbed both of Buddy’s shoulders and ducked down in front of him to catch his eye. “Hey, man. Mara’s going to fix you right up, I promise.”

“Sam—” Mara tried to interject.

Buddy shook his head back and forth. “She can’t fix it!

“Stop crying, Buddy,” Sam prompted. “You believe that Mara can fix your phone.”

Buddy’s face relaxed, blinked away the tears and smiled. “You’re right. I know she’ll fix it. Huh, Mara?”

Mara slouched over the counter, holding herself over the tangle of technology with two outstretched arms locked at the elbow. Without looking up, she said, “Sure, Buddy. I’ll give it a shot.”

Buddy grinned goofily and wiped his nose with his sleeve and turned toward the door to leave, but Mara looked up and said, “Hold up, Buddy. Let me give you a substitute phone until I get this one repaired. It will probably be a few days.”

She grabbed a pair of tweezers, lifted the piece with the motherboard attached and plucked out the SIM card. Reaching below the counter, she opened a drawer and took out a scuffed-up flip-phone—a newer model than Buddy’s but still dated—popped off the back cover and slipped in the SIM card. She punched the Power button, and it emitted a tone.

“Here, use this one until I get back to you.”

Buddy looked down suspiciously. “What number do you dial for it?”

“It’s the same as your other phone. I put your SIM card into this phone, so people can dial your number, and it will ring this phone,” Mara said.

“You can do that? Will my dad be able to call me?” Buddy said, wide-eyed.

“I don’t know if your dad will be able to call you on this phone, but, if he does, I want you to call and tell me right away. Okay?”

He grabbed the phone and slipped it into his pants pocket. “Okay,” he said and left the shop.

Mara turned and glared at her brother.

He stepped back from the counter, holding up his hands. “What?”

“Did you prompt him to get him to stop crying?”

“Yes, so?”

“Why did you have to make him think that I could fix this cell phone? Look at it. There is no way it can be repaired.” She waved her hand at the mess on the counter.

“I felt bad for the guy and wanted him to stop crying. From the looks of things, so did you.”

“Well, I did, but I think we might have missed an opportunity to get him to accept that his father is dead, and he won’t be able to talk to him anymore. Why didn’t you prompt him to think that instead?”

“It wouldn’t work,” Sam said.

“Why not?”

“When I prompt someone, the thought only stays with them temporarily.”

“So, in a few minutes, he’s going to start crying again and think I can’t fix his phone?”

“I doubt it. People go back to their normal way of thinking when the prompting wears off. Unless he has a tendency to cry all the time, he probably won’t cry unless something else sets him off. As far as him thinking you can fix the phone, he’s probably more inclined to think you can fix it than not. I mean, that’s why he brings it to you, right?”

“Still, I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this mess.”

“You can fix it, if you set your mind to it.”

“This is not a repair job. This will be complete fabrication. I’d essentially have to build a new phone from scratch.”

“Well, you better get started. I’ve got to get over to Mrs. Zimmerman’s for tutoring. If I’m late again, she’ll make me write another essay on historic tragedies brought about by tardiness and that means I won’t get out early for Friday afternoon basketball.”

* * *

Bruce jogged up to the shop’s door, reached around Mara and pushed it open for her. Mara looked relieved and smiled as she struggled with carrying the Philco 90 radio and her keys at the same time.

“Thanks,” she said, walking outside onto the sidewalk and turning back to the door. She noticed that Bruce was wearing a light-blue oxford shirt and khaki slacks instead his usual jeans or shorts with a bicycle-themed T-shirt. His hair seemed combed as well. “Please tell me that you are not going out looking for another job. I don’t think I could run this place without you.”

“No, I like the job I have. I’m going to a meeting with some potential sponsors of the ride we do down the coast every spring. I have been informed that I needed to look a little more presentable.”

“Well, you do. Thanks again,” she said as she turned to walk next door to Ping’s Bakery. From the corner of her eye, she swore she saw Abby’s Nissan Sentra turn right at the end of the block and disappear. She looked back at Bruce, who was leaning in the doorway. “Have you talked to Abby today?”

“No, should I have? She’s probably in school. It’s the middle of the day,” Bruce said.

Maybe Mara was being paranoid. Of course Abby would be in school. “I was wondering if she had stopped in when I was preoccupied in the office or something.”

“Not today.”

“Okay, thanks again.” Mara sort of waved with an elbow.

Bruce cocked his head. “Are you all right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“That’s the third time you’ve said
thanks
in about fifteen seconds.”

“A lot on my mind, I guess. Good luck with your meeting. Could you lock up when you leave? I’m going to a late lunch with Ping. I should be back by 2:30 or so.”

“You bet,” he said.

“Thank—See you later.” Mara grimaced and continued to the bakery.

* * *

Mara fiddled with her napkin and silverware as she sat at the large round table in the back of Anda!—a Spanish tapas restaurant that she and Ping had taken to frequenting, largely because it was a quiet place, especially after one o’clock when their short lunch rush appeared to end. Ping spoke into a cell phone, apparently to a vendor who provided some finished baked goods of one kind or another. Lost in her own thoughts, she wasn’t really paying attention. She was starting to get the sense that life was spiraling out of control again, as it had after the crash of Flight 559. Not that life had ever gotten back to normal, but things did quiet down for a couple weeks. At least until a child’s voice starting coming out of the radio casing and out of Melanie Proctor.
That was bizarre
.

Ping tapped the face of his phone with a finger and put it down on the table. “Sorry about that. Now, where were we? Oh, right, I don’t think me keeping that old radio shell is going to do anything to resolve anything.”

“Ping, keep it for the time being. The last thing I need to deal with right now are disembodied voices coming from who-knows-where.”

“Eat your food,” Ping said. He picked up a grilled shrimp impaled on a toothpick and waved it at her. “Hiding the radio is not going to help you figure out what is going on. More likely than not, the voice is associated with you, not the radio. After all, the voice we heard come out of Mrs. Proctor was the same, was it not?”

“Yes.” Mara sulked and pushed some paella around on her plate. “But why should I have to figure out what it wants?”

“It sounded to me like the child was calling to you.”

“It was calling to Mar-ree, not Mara,” she said.

“I got the impression it was a childish mispronunciation.”

“But you don’t know that.”

“No, but it’s as good a guess as any, don’t you think?”

“Whatever. I suppose.”

“Mara, don’t stick your head in the sand. You need to figure out what this is. It could be very important. These things don’t just happen. There’s usually a reason for them. Something is going on, and you may need to be prepared to address it.”