Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (3 page)

“We’ve all seen this photograph,” Cameron said. “One of very few images of Matthew, and a snapshot of particular importance, in terms of life events, right?” Next slide. “Equally familiar, we have the shot of a surely sweltering Matthew in Kenya, alongside a few archaeologists, holding the shovel he’d only moments before used to unearth the first of hundreds of metal domes—unequivocal evidence of a pre-human civilization of intelligent beings dubbed ‘Narok People.’ For those who’ve read
A Field of Domes
by Matthew and his late friend and mentor, Dr. Jon Meier, you may know this society by their real name:
Pwin-T
People.”

He cycled through photos of the fully excavated sites and visitors’ center, the woven metal armor on a giant-eyed Pwin-T man statue, an unopened metal sarcophagus, a model of a glass light tube filled with blue liquid, and case after case of weapons, tools, and other artifacts.

“Certainly hundreds of dedicated individuals have contributed to the knowledge we now enjoy of our humanoid predecessors, but everyone knows who deserves all the credit. Without Matthew, this fantastic past—and many others now added to the history books—would’ve remained forever buried.”

Cameron reached another note penciled on his script. He continued to the next slide and turned with
DEEP SORROW
to observe the slowly zooming image.

“But not without a cost.”

The audience buzzed quietly at the dramatic telephoto-captured image of a gaunt, ruined Matthew Turner outside his North Carolina home. A navy-blue turtleneck does little to hide his pointy frame, nor do the jeans that presumably fit him sometime long ago. Caught taking a bag of trash to his garbage bins, Matthew glares at the photographer with exhausted eyes. The dark circles, the sunken cheeks and wrinkles—all would seem better suited on a homeless, forty-something meth addict.

“This is the last known photo of Matthew Turner, snapped outside his home nearly three years ago. Since then, he’s presumed to have continued living a hermitic life, cut off from the world. The clothing which protected his skin from unwanted psychometric energies eventually proved ineffective. Matthew has never been able to
turn off
his sense—a tragic consequence of unusually high sensitivity to imprints. Ever since the death of his father in Cuba, a devastated Matthew has avoided using his ability at all. He has groceries delivered weekly by a private service, and when they’re asked how he’s doing, or if a message could be delivered, the couriers always reply with the same rehearsed line: ‘Our client values his privacy.’

“During this most recent phase of his life, and prior to the death of coauthor Dr. Meier, Matthew released two books: first
Southland
, about the New World Viking colonies, and then
Domes
, both of which will be available in the lobby after the presentation.

“Sadly …” Cameron cleared his throat, as if choked up. “… the rumors of Matthew’s death have increased this past year, and not only because no one’s caught a glimpse of him. Frequent visits from relatives ended some time ago, and while the grocery delivery service continues, not a single piece of trash has entered the garbage bins. One of the remaining Turner devotees that still watches the house recently posted a note to her popular blog.”

The excerpt from the blog appeared on the big screen.

Grocery man #2 dropped one of the bags on way into side door. A string of those inflated packing pouch things fell out. Guys … Food may not have entered the house in MONTHS. I don’t want to believe this.

“I’m the last one who’d give up on Matthew, but I’ve had to accept the reality that his body was giving up on him.”

Cameron clicked to the next slide—the same shot of emaciated Matthew with a trash bag in hand—and cast a doleful gaze on it. He began counting in his head, allowing the audience their time to grieve. It felt uncomfortably long. He thought five seconds was more than enough, but
somebody
insisted otherwise.

… 8 … 9 … 10.

He
“snapped”
out of it, and spun back round. “But we’re not here to mourn a great loss to the world! We should celebrate what he was able to accomplish in such limited time, and we should look forward to the future he illuminated for us … because while Matthew may have been the most famous psychometrist to date, I can say with some certainty that he is not the last!”

Applause. They needed that.

“But before we get there, let me share with you the parts of Matthew’s life that aren’t already known to the public, not accessible via a simple Google search, and actually,” he mock whispered, “not even found in
my
book,
Psychometry and Matthew Turner
,
also available later. Autographed, if so desired. After we share our secrets, I’ll introduce you to today’s special guest, someone from Mr. Turner’s past. And finally, I’ll bring one of
you
up onto
this
stage to psychometrically
read
an object!”

More applause, whistles. If there were a thrill meter in the crowd, the needle would be pointed to max.

* * *

Cameron strode back onto the stage after the final break, and stepped behind the lectern. As the house lights slowly dimmed, the last few returning attendees re-found their seats. The din hushed to silence, and Cameron began.

“More than two decades ago, a young girl of only eight years, named Joss Lynn, was walking home from her New Jersey daycare. She carried her backpack and her favorite lunchbox, and was humming a summer camp song she’d learned a few weeks earlier. A car pulled up, someone she knew but hadn’t seen in a while—a family friend. ‘Don’t talk to strangers’ didn’t seem to apply here, and she got into the car. An hour later, instead of being in her home, she sat on the side of this person’s bed and watched with confusion as they packed for what appeared to be a long journey. Fifteen minutes later, the kidnapper was dead, police were talking to Joss Lynn’s traumatized parents, and she was holding hands outside with a kid her age—a strange boy named Matty Turner. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Joss Lynn Leland.”

Joss’s childhood photos played on the big screen as she strode from side-stage, waving and smiling at the applauding audience. She wore one of her nice conservative dresses with short heels, her bleach-blonde hair ironed and curved into a bob. Cameron handed her a microphone.

“Thank you for taking the time to be with us today.”

“Thank you,” she said, squinting and shielding the stage lights with one hand to see the audience. A charming, humanizing display, Cameron thought. “It’s an honor.”

“The honor is ours. Am I right, people?”

Joss shrunk and smiled bashfully at the ovation.

Cameron knit his brow into solemn mode, and lowered his voice. “How’re you holding up these days?” He touched her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m good, real good!” she said. “I just feel so lucky to be here, and I think about Matthew Turner every day. He gave me the gift of a normal life.”

“Or perhaps simply ‘life.’ Great to hear you’re doing so well. If it’s not too traumatic, would you mind taking us through that day?”

Joss nodded, and looked toward the audience, somber. “Of course.”

So brave,
Cameron snickered inside.

As Joss Lynn spoke, Cameron watched her from the side, gazing from her ankles, slowly past her well-toned calves, and up. So utterly engrossed was he with her pleasing form, Cameron failed to notice the theater’s back door swing open as an attendee walked out.

*
* *

The final cluster of guests left through the lobby’s glass doors, each carrying at least one autographed book. Cameron sighed and slid his last carton of books out from under the table. He counted six empty boxes, and began tallying sales in his head. Not the strongest day of the tour, but far from the slowest. Still, quite low for these Saturday attendance numbers. Maybe weekdays were better for the on-campus events.

He gathered his pens and mailing list clipboard, depositing them into his laptop bag along with the tablet he used for credit card processing. One of these days he’d get a merch person to handle the transactions. He wondered if it came off unprofessional or down-to-earth, him running the table solo. The idea of having to
pay
someone, though: shudder. Perhaps he could—

“Are you able to sign one more?” A man’s voice startled Cameron.

Cameron looked up to see a fit, bearded man in cargo shorts and a thin, button-down flannel with the sleeves rolled up. He was flipping through a paperback copy of
Psychometry and Matthew Turner
.

“Didn’t see you there,” Cameron said.
Or hear you,
he thought. He resumed packing up his things. “Thought everyone had gone. I closed out my register, but if you have cash-”

The man cut him off. “Yes, I have cash. Do you sign the other books, too?” He gestured at the stacks of Meier/Turner books at the edge of the table.

Cameron thought,
Hmm, four more books would be a nice finish to the day.

“Generally not—I mean, I obviously didn’t write them—but if you want to bundle all the books together, I suppose I could sign them, if you wish. I may even have a couple more of my two in hardcover.”

“Perfect. I’ll take them all.” The man dropped a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the table.

“Great. There’s actually sales tax on top of that. I think it works out to one-eleven and change, but let me start getting these signed for you. I do have to get out of here. Would you like these dedicated, or only signed?”

“Dedicated would be great,” the man said as he placed the rest of the cash on the table. “Just put ‘Dear Matt,’ and then whatever you’d care to say.”

Cameron snorted and began to write the salutation, trying to think of some clever line about the name. He paused after the
r
in
Dear
.

Staring at the tip of his pen, the ink dot slowly expanding, he began writhing in his chair. His neck and back felt as though a heating lamp had just switched on behind him. His eyes rolled upward until they found the man’s face, a small smile behind the light-brown beard.

Turner. Alive. Oh God, oh God—

“Whatever you want to say there,” Turner said. “Doesn’t have to be fancy. Or remorseful. Or pleading. Or a longwinded explanation. Really, anything.”

Cameron closed the book and slid his chair back to put some distance between them. He could see it now, even with the beard and shorter hair. The bright eyes, the shape of his ears, the facial structure. Matthew Turner was actually standing a few feet away from him. And he was goddamned
huge
—not remotely the withering skeleton from the photo. “You’re-”

“Doing much better, yes. Listen, while you’re signing my books, could you answer some questions for me?”

Cameron peered around for another soul, but they were the only two in the echoing lobby. Through the glass doors he could see a lone student walking across the grassy court, and no sign of campus security. What would he do if he were attacked? Was that a possibility? If Turner wanted him hurt, couldn’t he just pay someone else to handle it? Actually, would that be preferable?

“Questions?” was all Cameron could spit out as he reopened the book cover. He needed water. His mouth felt like left-out bread. He mindlessly stacked the books in front of him, as if building a wall of protection. Was Turner truly buying these books? Did he really want him to write in them? Surely a lawsuit was in the works.

“Yes. In the book with my name emblazoned across the cover in such a way as to suggest that I wrote a book called
Psychometry
, you mentioned communicating with the First Lady of Kenya, my ex-girlfriend, Tuni. Was that true?”

Cameron’s mouth and hand stuttered in sync as he tried to draw a comma after
Dear Matt
inside a copy of the book in question. He lifted the pen, observing that he’d actually written
Dear Dear.
“Well, the wording … It doesn’t …
precisely
state that an
exchange of words
took place … so much as
express
what must be her feelings on−”

“Okay, so it wasn’t true. A simple yes or no will suffice for the rest of these questions.”

“Cam?” Joss called from the ticket office door at the far end of the lobby. “Can I come out?”

Cameron exhaled. Had he been holding his breath?

“Yes, of course!” Cameron blurted. “You can help me pack all this up.” Joss began walking toward them. “And look who’s here, Joss! Mr. Turner, you remember Joss Lynn Leland, right?”

A skeptical snort, then a stunned Joss’s face lit up. “Are you kidding me?” She rushed toward Turner. “Are you flippin’ kidding me? Holy shit … Is it really—Are you really …
you?
”

Turner appeared pleased to see her, but thrown off, awkward. She moved to embrace him, but stopped herself, recalling his vulnerability. “Oh, sorry! It’s just so … Wow, right? It’s so great to see you! How the hell are you? Other than
alive?
”

Turner smiled, shrugged, and stretched out his arms. “It’s fine, actually. And I’m doing well.”

They hugged and Cameron’s transfixed eyes caught Joss’s sleeve graze Turner’s bare forearm. Her hoop earring bounced and then pressed against his cheek. No reaction. They separated and just smiled at each other, searching for more words.

“I like the beard,” Joss offered, her eyes trying to take in all of him at once. “And you’re so … healthy.”

“Could we talk a minute?” Turner took her gently by the arm. As they headed toward the exit doors, he peered back and set cold eyes on Cameron. “You can keep signing all those books. Remember, ‘Dear Matt,’ okay? I look forward to reading whatever strikes you.”

* * *

It was a particularly hot day for early June in Pennsylvania. Matt and Joss moved off the wide concrete path and into the shade of a red maple. Matt gazed past her shoulder to the auditorium lobby. Her con artist boss was watching them, then caught Matt’s eyes on him, and shot his focus down to the books on the table.

“You
work
for that guy.” Matt rubbed his head.