Dangerous Calling (The Shadowminds) (24 page)

“
So you don’t forget.
”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The last time I’d left, I’d done it without telling anyone. This way was much, much harder.

Mina asked me why as though I’d physically hurt her. Diana understood better than anyone why I had to go, but even she went somber and silent when she saw me. Ian cornered me in the hallway and told me I was making a mistake.

“You don’t go through something like this alone,” he said. “You need him.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I could kill him, Ian. I’m not taking that risk. It’s safer for everyone if I do this by myself.”

He shook his head. “That’s not the way it works. You’re letting it control you.”

“I know what I’m doing.” I pushed past him, brushing his wings as I went. He stayed where he was and let me go.

Shane and I weren’t speaking, not because we were angry, but because there was nothing more to say. We packed our things together. Him for Texas, me for isolation. I refused to tell him where I was going, but he made me promise to find a way to send a message once a week. “Or I will come looking for you, I swear to God, Cass, I will.”

It was a compromise. I hoped it would be enough to keep him alive.

I wouldn’t let him see me off. I didn’t want to watch him get smaller in the rearview mirror. But as I drove away in the beater, I regretted it. If my plan didn’t work, I’d never let myself near him again. Part of me was selfish enough to want one last kiss.

* * *

The sun was just setting when I made it to Bucktown.

I waited in Lance Carter’s condo. His dog freaked out for a minute or two until I found her treats, but after that, we were friends. I sat down on Carter’s lumpy couch and scratched her belly while I waited for him to get home.

I heard his mental stream of consciousness before I heard his keys in the door.
—fucking hell why do I always get the ones they dump in the lake Jesus Christ might as well stamp it a cold case now—wonder if I still have that pizza in the freezer—why isn’t Penelope barking—wait—wait—

He opened the door, and I stopped scratching the dog—Penelope? Really?—so she could run up and slobber all over his legs. He threw his keys on the counter and walked into the kitchen while he rubbed her head.

I had to give him credit—he had skills. If I hadn’t been a mind-reader, I would’ve had no idea he’d seen me. He reached into the cabinet for a box of bargain-brand cereal and opened it just as if he were hungry. I engaged the safety on his gun by the time he’d drawn it and spun around to point it at me.

“You!” He lowered the gun.

“Hi, Lance.”

“What the hell happened to your face?” He stared openly at my scars, my nearly bald head.

“Uh...” I should have come up with a plausible lie for this. “Kitchen accident. I’m fine now.”

He didn’t look like he believed me. I didn’t blame him. “What are you doing here?” He looked out the peephole in his front door. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused in that jail? There’s a group down there now thinks the damn place is the site of the second coming. Jesus come to free the prisoners.”

I laughed, but Lance only glared.

“It’s not funny. The whole place is in chaos. They’ve covered the whole thing up. Said it wasn’t even him—mistaken identity or something. So that’s good, I guess—but—how did you even do it?”

“You probably don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, well, whatever you did, next time maybe you could do it the old-fashioned way, huh? Bake a file in a cake or some shit.” He walked back to the door and looked through the peephole again, then readjusted the mini blinds covering his living room window. “Why are you here?” He looked down, noticing my hand for the first time. “Holy hell, what happened there?”

I ignored the question and threw the stills of Buddy and Annette on his coffee table. I’d printed them at a kiosk in a twenty-four-hour drugstore. They weren’t great quality, but they got the job done.

“What the hell is this?”

“You want Ian’s name cleared, right? Here you go.”

He picked up the top picture between his thumb and forefinger. It was a shot we’d pulled from the camera footage of Buddy banging on the front door of Annette’s house. He flipped to the next one—the two of them talking at the park, Diana cropped out of the frame.

“I don’t get it.”

“That’s Buddy Broussard,” I said, and he laughed.

“I might not be the smartest guy on the force, but I know who that dipshit is. Who’s the woman?”

“Her name is Annette Perrin. She died in a vehicle fire last week. Gated subdivision Uptown.”

He eyed me warily. “I heard something about that.”

“He was paying her to cover up kickbacks from casino operators. Well, among other things.” I had his interest, now.

“How?”

“These are her financial records.” I took out a final picture. “He paid her close to half a million dollars over the last few months in exchange for various...activities.” I’d snapped a photograph of her ledger open to one of Buddy Broussard’s pages. It was a long list.

“As you can see, he also paid her for two contract killings.” Emily Sanchez was first, written in Annette’s neat hand. Ian was a few lines down, where we’d found space to add him in. Seemed like an easy way to get him out from under suspicion. The five grand in cash with Buddy’s fingerprints all over it wouldn’t hurt, either. We’d found his manila envelope along with the ledger, and we’d made sure it stayed put.

Carter’s eyes went wide. His head was full of possibilities. “How did you get this?” His voice was serious.

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me. Did you plant it?”

“No.”

He looked doubtful.

“I swear, it’s real.”
Mostly.
“You’ll find it on the Perrin property, locked in a desk in the northwest corner of the house. Call it a tip from a confidential informant.” I waited while he processed everything, thought about who he’d contact and how he’d get the photographs to the right people.

“It won’t be enough to convict Broussard,” he said. “Not with this Perrin woman dead.”

“If it takes the heat off Ian, it’s worth trying.”

“Yeah.” He set the pictures down and looked at me steadily. “What are you really?” His head fired off possibilities.
—Insane?
Spy?
Alien?—

“You probably don’t want to know that, either.”

* * *

I left Lance’s condo and took the Causeway to the Northshore, and every mile I put between me and Shane felt like pain and relief twined together. The beater made whirring noises if I took it above fifty miles per hour, so I kept it slow, praying I’d make it over the bridge before the thing broke down. I had to grow accustomed to driving one-handed. I couldn’t get a grip with my left.

I stopped at an outdoor supply store just off the highway. Fishing tackle and lures, a sleeping bag, a crate full of MREs, a lantern and fuel, a field water purification pail that promised to filter a thousand gallons of swamp water into something drinkable. I got a camouflage baseball cap to cover my head. I also got duct tape. You never knew.

I still had a couple hundred bucks in cash left from my savings account. I tucked it in my back pocket. One stop left.

Every little town along the Northshore had a marina, and this one was no exception. I drove until I saw sailboat masts and turned down the narrow drive.

It was a nice day, and even though it was a weekday, there were plenty of people around, most of them docking their boats after a day out on the water. A lot of families with little ones—not what I was looking for. I waited until I saw what I wanted—a lone fishermen coming back from a long day on the lake. I walked up as he stepped onto the dock from his powerboat.

“I need a ride across the lake.”

He cocked his head at me. “I ain’t in the water taxi business, darlin’.” He lifted a big blue ice chest and set it on the dock. I could hear fish flapping inside.

“I can make it worth your while.” I pulled out a stack of twenties. I didn’t bother counting them. It didn’t matter. He stared at my left hand while I showed him the stack.

“You all right?” He caught sight of my face and frowned.

I didn’t answer his question. “Is that enough?”

“I reckon so. You sure—”

I started loading my gear onto the deck. “Where are your life vests?”

He tried to make conversation while we rode across the lake. I shut him down. I didn’t want to tell him where I was from; I didn’t want to give any clues about my identity by mistake. I stared straight ahead at the approaching shoreline while the boat skipped over the waves.

“You gotta tell me where to turn, sweetheart!” he called over the noise of the wind. “I ain’t a mind reader!”

I almost laughed.

I pointed up the Amite River. He took the turn at full speed and brought us down once we got to the buoy at the mouth of the river. A cluster of boats was anchored in the deep part just past the first bend, and he idled past them. People were swimming and playing on inner tubes in the fading light, and I had a flashback to the last time I’d hung out on the water with Shane and Mina. It seemed like another life.

I pointed the way until the Tooleys’ camp came into view.

“There,” I said. “Just pull up to the dock.”

He glanced over the peeling paint and the strange dead zone surrounding the camp. “Ain’t nobody been here in a long time, sweetheart. I can take you right on back. No charge.” There was genuine concern in his voice.

“Just pull up right there.”

He shook his head in that way people do when they’re thinking,
your funeral.
I almost dipped into his mind to see if I was right, but I stopped myself in time.

He pulled up to the little dock and looped a rope around one of the posts without tying it off. He offered a hand to help me step from the boat to the platform, but I ignored it. I took the wad of twenties out of my pocket and tossed it to him. He caught it easily.

“I don’t mean to pry, darlin’, but...how you planning on getting back?”

“Thanks for the ride.” I unloaded my gear onto the unsteady dock. It was going to take me a while to haul it up.

“You got somebody coming for you later?”

The crooked platform swayed under the weight of my supplies. It was clear he wasn’t going to leave until I answered him. “Yes.” I let myself believe it for a brief, blissful moment.

He frowned, but he had to be satisfied. I watched while he started the motor. The wake lapped the dead cypress trees as he rode away. I looked at the rickety ladder.

It had been a long time since I’d had to do something like this without telekinesis. It was difficult. I had to bring nearly everything up one item at a time. The water purification pail I tied around my waist. One of the rungs broke under my weight, and I nearly tumbled into the swamp, dangling from my good hand, heart racing. My scream of surprise was swallowed by the trees.

I finally got everything up and arranged it in what passed for the camp’s kitchen. The place itself was still reasonably well-stocked. There were fishing supplies, a handful of tools and cleaning supplies, buckets and rags and life jackets. The batteries in every flashlight I found were corroded and dead, but there were a few candles and a working lantern. I sorted everything and laid out my own purchases, then went to check the soundness of the structure.

I climbed the roof using only my body. It was hard to get much of a grip with my crippled hand, and twice I almost slipped and fell into the swamp. I made it up there, though, and balanced on the crest of the roof.

I could see for miles. The swamp stretched out to the south, acres and acres of uninhabited marsh and cypress forest. The region I’d killed off was a sharp gray spot in a sea of bright green. The river was to the north, wide and lazy, and I could make out my neighbors along the bank. The places I could see looked empty. I hoped they’d stay that way. At least I could count on folks not stopping by to borrow eggs and sugar.

It was getting dark, so I climbed back down, checking out the roof cistern as I did. It was empty and cracked, but not too badly. Good thing I’d brought the duct tape.

Besides the main room and the kitchen, there was a small bedroom with a cot. The mattress was upholstered in thick plastic and spotted with black stains that didn’t rub off. I was glad for the bleach I’d found earlier. I sat on it and closed my eyes. I thought of Shane. The only way I had left myself to get back to him was through my powers.

I reached into the place where my shadowmind tangled through my consciousness. I thought of the drugs Annette had given me, of the impotent way they’d made me feel. I had to create that feeling again—but this time, all on my own. It was the only chance I had.

* * *

It took me a week to fall into a pattern.

When I thought of Shane, I made myself think of the vision. When I wanted to be near him, I made myself remember the image of me hopelessly beating against his chest.

Sometimes it worked better than others.

The worst of it was when the sun went down. Out here, without curtains or insulation, I woke up with the dawn and the birds, so by the time the sun set, I was exhausted enough to want to lie down. But my body remembered lying next to Shane, and the lumpy mattress was a cruel substitute. I lay awake every night for hours, trying to chase the memory of him away.

I wouldn’t let myself use my powers for anything. Not to turn off a light switch, not to repair the cracked water reservoir on the roof, not even to retrieve my one and only pair of pliers when they slipped from my grasp and landed in the swamp. I didn’t even listen for the mental signatures of passing fisherman.

It didn’t help. My desire for a pull was sharper than ever.

I dreamed. Sometimes it was the same dream, the one of the plane, and I’d wake up to find my possessions strewn around the room, window screens torn, precious food supplies ruined. If the trees behind the camp hadn’t already been dead, I was sure I would’ve killed them in my sleep. Sometimes I dreamed Shane was next to me, and I woke up with an ache in my chest when I found myself alone.

It wasn’t getting easier. I marked off the days on the wooden wall with a pocketknife. At the end of the first week, I ate an MRE that tasted like flour paste and cardboard and sobbed uncontrollably until I passed out. It was the first time I’d let myself cry.