Messenger of Fear
Page 11

THE CHANGE OF SCENERY WAS SUDDEN AND extreme. One moment we were standing over Samantha Early’s body, and the next we were in the backseat of a car. The transfer was carried out by no usual earthly means and was testament to the fact that I never felt even the slightest acceleration, though we had gone in a flash from stationary to sixty-four miles an hour.
A boy and a girl were in the front seat. The girl was driving. The boy was clowning, doing a duck-face rendition of a Rihanna song. The girl laughed.
“What is this?” I asked in a whisper. It was a natural human instinct to whisper, though I had slowly begun to realize that nothing I did would be seen, and nothing I said would be heard by the people we watched.
“This is Emma and Liam,” Messenger said.
Liam was a ginger, so Irish-looking he could have been the poster boy for an Irish tourism ad campaign. Emma was very nearly his opposite. She was Latina, with extraordinarily voluminous brown hair, dark eyes, and smooth skin that I admired.
“Is that the place?” Liam asked as they drove past a narrow, rutted driveway marked by a mailbox that had not seen a delivery in a very long time. He was rubbing Emma’s neck and she was enjoying it.
You can sense when a couple is a couple, when they are so close that silence is as good as talking, and when talking is a series of sentences left dangling because you know the other person knows what you mean. A couple is close when most of what passes between them is tacit, unvoiced, not for display, not for signaling to outsiders. I had the vague feeling that perhaps my parents had been like that once. I had the definite feeling that I had never known that kind of relationship.
“Yep. Missed it.” The road was two-lane, trees on both sides, trees arching overhead, blocking the rapidly failing light of a cold sun. Emma pulled the car into a U-turn and winced when she heard the bumper scrape over branches. “I cannot have a mark on the car. You know my dad.”
“Sadly, yes, I do know your dad.”
“He’s actually—”
“A good guy. Yeah, Emma, I know. Someday I’ll be a father with a daughter and—”
“You’ll be just like him.”
“Well, much hotter, of course.”
“Don’t say the word ‘hot’ anywhere near the words ‘your dad,’” Emma said.
“The word ‘hot’ is all about me,” Liam said. “And you.”
“There’s the road.”
They drove back to the missed pull-off, then at walking speed followed the overgrown path until it reached a clearing. In the clearing was a barn with a collapsed roof and a tiny house that must once have been loved. The sagging porch had long ago been painted in bright colors, and someone had carved gingerbread appliqué to give the place a quaint, almost fairy-tale look.
“You sure no one’s here?” Liam asked, looking dubious.
“It belongs to my grandmother,” Emma said, and drove the car around the back so that even if someone did happen down the road, it would not be seen.
“The grandmother—”
“Yes, the one in the nursing home. Granny Batista. She hasn’t been here in, like, a year, and I’ve been watering her plants.”
“I’m going to water your plants.”
“Really, Liam? That’s your sexual innuendo? Water my plants?”
They both laughed, Liam as much as Emma, taking pleasure in the silliness of the exchange.
They climbed out and Liam came around to the driver’s side and leaned Emma back against the car. They kissed and this went on for quite a while and was clearly becoming a prelude to more.
Messenger watched impassively, but I was feeling most uncomfortable. “Do we have to be Peeping Toms?”
“We can move forward.”
Suddenly, as though the two young lovers were a video, they began to move faster, faster, a video on fast-forward. They kissed, broke apart, moved like manic robots to the door, out the door.
Messenger stood waiting. He glanced around at the trees. “Dogwood and hemlock,” he said as though answering a question. “Oak as well, of course.”
“Hemlock. Isn’t that poisonous?” Seriously, this he would discuss with me? Botany?
“It can be. It’s a favorite of witches.”
I played that back in my head, wondering if there had been irony surrounding the word “witches.” I heard no hint of humor. And suddenly we were in a hallway in the house, outside a closed and locked door.
We didn’t wait long before Emma and Liam came out, somewhat less fully dressed than they had been, but decent, arms around each other.
“There are chips and cookies downstairs,” Emma said. “You need to keep your strength up.”
That earned a laugh and they rushed downstairs to feed. By the time they reached the kitchen, Messenger and I were waiting for them.
“Remind me to check the car for scratches or anything. The mileage will look like I went to the Walgreens, but if it’s scraped up or has crushed green leaves or whatever . . .”
“Your dad,” Liam said.
“He’s just . . . you know, old. I mean, your mom and dad are what, thirty-two?”
“Thirty-three and four,” Liam said, ripping open a bag of chips.
“And my dad is sixty,” Emma said. “Sixty and raised in a little mountain village in Nowhere, Guatemala. He thinks different.”
“He hates love,” Liam joked.
“No, he just hates sex if it involves his daughter.”