Hold the Light (33 page)

"Why couldn't we have just surrendered to the cops?" Amber asked. "They would have figured out the convict killed everyone and that we are innocent. And we'd be in their protection."

"How would I describe him? A huge dead guy? No way. And I wouldn't be free. We'd be forced by everyone involved to be where they told us to be. They'd all ask too many questions that I didn't have answers to. And, the second we were separated, the convict would pounce on one of us. No, we're sticking together. It's safer."

"Well maybe they'd be able to catch and detain him. Then he'd be locked away."

"I thought about that, and it might work. Except that we can sense each other and he'd always know where I am. I know he'd find a way to me as long as I have the gift. He escaped death; he could escape prison. This has to end with me."

"Then let's end it. We have to find a way to beat him George."

"Well, I'm all ears," I spat, staring out the front window into the parking lot. At each crumbling old motel, we managed to avoid him. And we'd continue until I concocted a plan that would end him. I'd sit in every hotel room in every state, from sun up to sun down, until I found an idea if I had to.

This room was dark and dusty. Dust particles floated in the illuminated air and twinkled down to the bed.

"We have to stop this. We have to go to the cops."

"What don't you understand? He is waiting, I know it."

"I can't watch this any longer," her hair flopped about her face as she stood up and turned off the television.

I hadn't notice how grown up my sister had become. Her auburn eyes and hair shone with a wonderful radiance that must've mimicked our mother, but I couldn't remember anything about her that was radiant. Something else caught my attention about Amber though, something extra that was familiar that I couldn't place. Maybe she reminded me of the sister I could've had instead of this woman who was cold and tired of running for her life.

"What can we do?" she asked.

"I don't know. Every time I face him, I lose,"

"Well, he doesn't seem to be healing much from all the wounds you've given him," Amber said.

"That's because he's dead," I quipped, "but you're right. He's not healing at all."

"What can we do to trick him? Or even trap him?" she probed.

"He wants the gift so he can get his wife back. The hatred he feels for me is based on that. He thinks I am holding him back, pushing him further away from her. I don't think we can change his mind."

"Come on," Amber said as she got her coat, "we need food and fresh air to think. This place stinks."

We walked out into the glowing afternoon and down the street to the convenient store. I pondered the whole time about what we could do. Carrying food back in our arms with eyes over our shoulders, we crashed on our beds, tearing into the plastic packaging of our sandwiches. After charging into half her meal, Amber looked at me.

"Hey, try this one for size. If you know his memories maybe you could use them?"

"How?"

"I don't know, dive into them," she said, "explore the convict's memories that you have and find something that we can use against him."

"I don't know how to," I answered, "I only know what Randy told me and what the gift lets me know. The memories from his life come to me at strange and random times. They come..."

"Ah shit George, you said you've gotten impressions from it before. Maybe it can't tell you, maybe it doesn't want to, but it still lets you know things. It's trying to tell you something, dammit - just listen or ask more forcefully. Delve into the memories and go further."

"I don't know how."

"Meditate or something, figure it out," she pushed. "Randy must have done it, from what you said. It sounds like he knew more about the convict than he should have from only sharing a cell with him for a few days."

"True." I whispered. "It seems the memories from Randy's and the convict's lives came to me when I'm experiencing something similar to what they went through. If they were scared, I received a memory related to when they were scared."

The catch was whose memories would I get the convict's or Randy's? And what could I think of now that would reveal a weakness of the convict from the past? Even though it was a pedestrian plan, it was the best we had. It was time to find out the gift's potential and use it for my benefit.

I had to get a grip on life for once and not death.

Chapter 64

I sat on my bed and attempted to clear my mind. All that happened was I was whisked off to take more souls. I grew frustrated and went into more convulsions. I began to count the ceiling tiles. Amber rustled about on the neat bed and the sound caught and held me in a methodical pattern. The faucet in the bathroom dripped loudly and provided another sound pattern.

My body began to feel weightless and tingly as the light inside me stirred and hummed.

"Is it working?" Amber asked.

I didn't respond. I was thinking of when I attacked my father. That time, over any other in my life, had to jog the gift into action and reveal something. Nothing.

My concentration faded. I thought of when the convict killed Randy and I caught a small glimpse of the convict slicing the neck of a woman and fire all around. But that quickly disappeared. I took a deep breath and struggled to think of the worst thing to happen to me. Jessica came to mind instantly but released vague impressions of a blurry dark hair woman Then nothing more. My thoughts spun like a roulette wheel. I aimed to land my bouncing concentration on wherever drew me. On something that destroyed me. My mind spun, hitting a multitude of incidents, and then abruptly stopped on betrayal. The room and everything in it melted away in an instant. The sound of the dripping faucet was the only remaining element of reality.

A blue haze veiled my eyes.
Drip
. Slipping away into a memory, the world swirled and immersed itself into another time but the same place. The city felt the same, the bustle and the noise was recognizable but was stale with two hundred years of dust. There were cobblestone streets and stocky brick buildings that weren't lit by electricity. Horse dung scented the air faintly and the salty tang of the sea breathed out over everything.

As blue as the world was to my eyes, I could see yellow torch flames dance brightly along the sidewalks as the nightlife bustled about in this living memory from the convict.

A light delicate touch brushed my arm and clung to it.

Drip, drip
. She was his wife. She played with long brown hair and gazed at me with deep loving eyes. She wore a white collared dress that flowed all around her in a breeze as gentle as she moved. The cloth brushed up and tickled my forearm. She looked up and smiled. I felt the warmth of love. Every sensation was mine; I was living his memory. The world was so blue, the night sky, the buildings, the people - only certain lights shone their true colors and her, oh her, she glowed a blinding white and her eyes a capturing hazel. She could easily be chased over centuries.

We entered a hall, some assembly hall, with dozens of mulling people all draped in fancy dress, no different than themselves. We sat in the second row after greeting friends. Crosses hung all around, candlelight draped the high walls and lit every red bow and green wreath littering the walls.

An organ sang. This was a church. I was confused, but everyone seemed to be in place. The wooden pew creaked as I situated myself during the Father's speech; his robe was as blue as the deep sea.

He preached about Christmas. We must have been at a midnight mass of sorts. Not a single word spoken calmed me as something plagued the convict's mind. That something stole my attention as well. It was a nagging sense of insecurity that originated from a lanky, older, blonde man that gazed enviously at the woman at my side. He was swathed a glowing violent navy flame.

The congregation stood and the huge body of the convict walked up to the front of the church, knelt, and took communion. His wife Veronica followed gracefully, capturing all my attention, smiling at me with all her love.

Yellow hair covered the face of the fiery sapphire-tinted man. He peered through it and coveted the raven-haired beauty at my side. A supple anger bent around my head as the massive muscles inside the convict's black long coat strained against the fabric.
Drip, drip, drip.

Walking back to our seats, I towered over everyone and sat with a moan of the pew. Church ended and we filed out into a Christmas morning, dark and new with fat snowflakes waddling down onto our faces and feet. She hugged my arm, enjoying the magical snowfall with a puerile smirk across her face. Her feet jittered as she wanted to run and play.
Drip, drip, drip,
drip
. All the parishioners spilled onto the old street and spoke of all that touched their minds, needing to be out and enjoy the gorgeous Christmas morn. The tall blonde man was peaking over his shoulder, still coveting his wife. Catching my glance, he turned away to avoid my anger.

"I love Christmas," she said up at me.

"I love you, Veronica," his voice rumbled.

"I love you, Mural."

She leaned her head against my arm and sighed. It was strange to hear a human voice come from the convict. Strange to hear his name.
Drip, drip,
drip, drip, drip
.

People strolled merrily along the streets, their cares abandoned in the soft snow. They smiled and hoped for the first time in ages in appeared, but that calm was quickly quelled with the distant clamor of violence.

Veronica's merriment vanished and her nails dug into my arm.

"To the stock-house," one man yelled and ran away. I followed, looking over my shoulder at the women gathering in fright. A firefight just outside the city raged. I ran through the blue world of the convict's past to a large shed guarded by four men.

"Come on brother, get a musket and powder. We are off," a voice said.

Those words originated from a very light blue, almost white body. Everyone in the party, all dressed in their best clothes for Christmas day, ran across blue grassy fields towards a patch of forest where the skirmish seethed.

"Nathaniel," the convict's voice sang from my lips. "To me brother."

We ran, muskets clanking until we crashed behind a small hill not more than fifty yards from the intensifying fight. Glaring at me with a face that I can only imagine resembled the convict's, Mura's, so long ago, Nathaniel raised his musket over the top of the hill, panting heavily, not listening to what was said.

"Listen," the convict said. "Look at me."

"What?" Nathaniel asked hastily.

"Be careful. I am sick of losing family in this war."

"Do not worry about me big brother," he said, packing his musket with a smirk.

My hands loaded my musket, gaining speed as to not be beaten by my younger brother. I finished seconds before Nathaniel and he grimaced when he realized it. But the childishness was quickly traded for somber contemplation.

"All right, you remember the chicken round-ups right?" Mural's lips blurted, "you stay low and flank them."

"See you in the middle, brother," Nathaniel said and ran off.

The convict grunted in displeasure as his feet carried me towards the front of the battle. His brother swooped in from behind the invaders with his small group. The convict's body swiftly scanned the battlefield and halted on one man. This man stood out like a beacon as he followed behind Nathaniel. Blonde hair, skinny frame; it was the man that was eyeing Veronica. Benjamin. The convict despised the idea of that blonde bastard backing up his brother, but there was little time to protest; time was of the essence. Our small band had to save the militia from the redcoats.

The group behind me sat patiently for my order, itching to thicken the dwindling ranks of the dying militia.
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip.
With a flick of my wrist, the convict's group charged the fight, screaming and with muskets blaring. Nathaniel's unit stormed the blue battlefield. A shot blasted from my musket as I rushed into the night, bayonet gleaming before me. I sunk the sharp point into one redcoat after another.

Running at them crazed, my stained blade rammed into a neck, a ribcage, a shoulder, a gut, another gut, until I met Nathaniel's group. Redcoats fell all around me, baying their woeful death cries to God above. They brought a smile to my face as I knelt to pack my musket.

The dark night and the battle flashed a bright blue. British troops struggled to regroup, but found Nathaniel's pack instead. Nathaniel slashed through them and toward me, cutting the squad to ribbons, his group closing in from all sides. He turned the tide.

Mural hurriedly packed down the last of the powder, not about to be shown up by his little brother. He was nearly reloaded when Nathaniel came up next to him reloading his as well. Both brothers stood, taking their sights on separate targets as the remaining redcoats fled.

"Oh no," Nathaniel taunted and gave chase. "Not going to ruin Christmas and get away with it."

"Wait!" Mural shouted and followed.

With the youngest Smithe brother hot on their heels and the oldest brother right behind, a group of a half dozen redcoats ran east, covering the distance to Boston in short order. Supplies and powder horns fell in their wake as they cried their surrender in concordance. They were mere boys, Mural thought, none of them over twenty by their voices. They cared less for dishonor and more for their hides, but Nathaniel didn't care for either as he ran them down, his short legs cutting up twice the distance Mural's long ones managed. Nathaniel's bayonet sunk between the slowest boys shoulder blades. His body fell forward immediately and Nathaniel barely pulled the blade free before the force wrenched the musket out of his hands.

Mural slowed his approach and watched the crimson blur. Between the redcoats and the blood there was no other color apparent. It was everywhere. I watched as Nathaniel turned, brandished a knife and managed to pierce the chests of two more boys with each hand. Mere seconds had passed and already half of their party was slain.