The Season of Risks
Chapter Twenty-three

That night, when my father brought in my supper, I said, "I've thought of a way to prove him wrong."
He set down the tray and looked at me. His green eyes looked grey in the light filtered through the lace curtains on the window. On those June nights in Dublin, the sky darkened gradually, staying light until nearly half past ten.
I said, "We can ask Malcolm to testify."
"No." His response came the second I stopped speaking. "That's unthinkable."
"But he was part of it. He's the only one besides Roche who knows all that happened."
"Malcolm isn't to be trusted."
My father turned to face the window. For the first time, I imagined what it might have been like to be him during the last four days-to watch his daughter ignore his advice and compromise the family reputation, be wounded and carried back to him in the arms of his old enemy, and recover only to challenge him again. What I'd done hurt him, more than the knife entering my chest had hurt me.
"Maybe Sloan would be willing to testify." I said it reluctantly. I didn't know how I felt about Sloan, even if we could manage to find him. "You know, the boy who helped me come back."
"I doubt any friend of yours would be considered a credible witness." His tone was as formal as if we were strangers.
I said, "I know how much I've disappointed you."
"'Parents,'" he said, "'are sometimes a bit of a disappointment to their children.'" He turned toward me. "Anthony Powell wrote that. Have you read Powell?"
I said I hadn't, and I admired how he'd changed the subject. I changed it again. "Father, we can't let Roche get away with this. Did Malcolm tell you all the dirty work he's done?"
"Probably not all of it." His voice sounded dryly amused. "He did ask me to be sure you didn't tell any humans what happened. I assured him that media attention is the last thing our family wants.
"We didn't talk that long, after we patched you up. He said he had to get back to his place in Sandycove."
I didn't know where that might be.
"By the way, Sandra Cho was magnificent that night. I don't know what we would have done without her. She went to a local hospital, brought back the equipment and supplies we needed for the surgery. We took a risk by not rushing you to the emergency room-but Dr. Cho said the wound wasn't life-threatening. The hospital would have notified the gardai, and once the police were involved, things would have been completely out of our control. Most likely you-that is, Sylvia Montero-would have been charged with breaking and entering, and Elizabeth Roche charged with attempted manslaughter. How the court would have treated you, we'll never know, thankfully."
He shook his head. "An utter shambles. All because you had a whim to turn invisible. I hope you'll never do anything so risky again."
Though I told him I wouldn't, I could tell he wasn't convinced.
"I forgot to mention one thing," I said. "Just after I turned invisible, I saw the blind man. Our harbinger. He was walking through the crowds, and he smiled at me."
He didn't seem surprised. "Yesterday I took a walk through St. Stephen's Green, and I saw him myself."
A memorable week, that one. I lost my father's trust that day, and my mother's the next.
I must have been dozing after lunch when a voice awoke me.
"Yes, of course, madam." An Irish voice outside the door. Then the door opened and my mother stepped into the room, carrying a travel bag, looking very businesslike in a black suit. Her face registered joy when she saw me, quickly followed by shock.
She rushed to my bedside, bent to feel my forehead. "You're ill!" she said.
"Better than I was," I said.
She gave me a sudden hug, so fierce that I gasped with pain.
"You're hurt!"
"I'm on the mend," I said, making my voice more cheerful than I felt.
"What happened?" She wanted to touch me, but she was afraid she'd hurt me again.
The prospect of telling her daunted me. I'd rather have testified before COVE again. "Well," I said, "it began this way."
I told her about the hearings and about overhearing a councilor's cell phone conversation. "So I turned invisible," I said.
"Ari." Her voice sounded defeated.
"And I followed him. His name is Truckler. And he met up with Dr. Roche. And Malcolm showed up, and they all were talking about the vampire mafia-"
"Tell me who hurt you."
It's rude to interrupt, I wanted to say. "Roche's wife," I said. "At least I think she's his wife. One of them."
My mother shook her head. "What did she do?"
"Um," I said. "Stabbed me in the chest." I didn't mention that her gift, the triskele amulet, helped Elizabeth locate me.
"What?"
"I'm healing really fast," I said. "Not quite as fast as a one hundred percent vampire might, but much faster than any human could."
She didn't say a word. Her silence frightened me more than if she'd burst into curses.
"Mae, I had to do it," I said. "Roche had a consent form I signed that would have destroyed the case we made against him. I tried to steal it."
"So did you steal it?" Her voice was unfamiliar, low and terse.
"No. Roche's wife, or whatever she is, caught me. And now Roche is saying that Father and I are the liars, the ones who brought down Cameron and caused the plane crash. Our family's reputation is being destroyed."
"Can't your father do something about that?"
"Well, he could. But he won't."
I told her how Malcolm's testimony could save us.
"Where is Malcolm?" The pitch of her voice rose slightly, began to sound more like hers again.
I searched my memory, and the word came to me like a gift: "Sandycove."
"Sandycove," she repeated. "It's a Dublin suburb."
The bedroom door opened. My father stood on the threshold, Dr. Cho behind him. They both were smiling, as if they'd just shared a joke.
My mother looked away, toward the window. My father stared at her.
For several seconds we all seemed frozen, waiting for her explosion.
But it didn't come. She rose, picked up her travel bag, and headed for the door. Dr. Cho quickly stepped aside to let her pass, and my father turned sideways to watch her go.
"How did she find the right room?" Dr. Cho said. She and my father were inside now, sitting in chairs upholstered in vintage chintz. "The desk isn't supposed to give out the numbers."
"Sara has her ways," my father said. He looked morose.
"Don't you think you should go after her?" I asked him.
"No. Better to let her cool off. You told her everything?"
"Yes."
"Well, it had to be done, I guess. I should have told her the truth when you were injured. I thought it better to spare her the worry."
"You did exactly the right thing." Dr. Cho sat with perfect posture, looking unfortunately pretty in a yellow linen dress and pink lipstick. "She tends to be overemotional, doesn't she?"
"Sandra, please," my father said. "You're talking about my wife."
The silence in the room felt awkward, but I couldn't think of how to interrupt it. Then Dr. Cho abruptly stood up and left.
I said, "How's the hearing going?"
"Not well. Roche seems to have won over the independent councilors now, with the possible exception of the chair, and the Colonists as well. I'm not even sure we can count on the Sanguinists' votes, much less the Nebulists'."
"Can't you discredit Truckler?" I asked. "After all, he was working behind the scenes with Roche. Some independent representative he is."
"I intend to try."
"And I thought of something else I forgot to tell you before: Roche was bragging about making a simbo assassin to kill the president of Mexico. He said simbos will help his side win the next war."
My father frowned. "Malcolm didn't mention that. I can report it tomorrow, but it would be only hearsay. We have no proof, and you're the only witness."
He rested his chin on his hand and looked at me. "Are you angry with me, too, Ari?"
Actually, I felt sorry for him.
And, later, I felt sorry for my mother.
After I'd finished dinner and my father had told me good night, someone knocked at my door. Then I heard a key turn its lock, and Mae came in.
She tried to smile at me, but it was a struggle-her face, even the way she moved, looked defeated.
She sank into the same chair Dr. Cho had left hours ago, and I tried not to compare them.
"I did my best, Ari," Mae said.
She told me she'd taken the bus to Sandycove and tracked down Malcolm.
"It's a pretty village," she said. "Has your father taken you to visit the Joyce Tower yet?"
I said we hadn't had time for much sightseeing. "How did you find Malcolm?"
"It wasn't hard. I went into a few pubs. One of the bars had three bottles of Picardo on display, so I ordered a drink, talked to the barman. Sandycove's a small place. I told him Malcolm was my cousin. Once I'd described him, the barman told me the name of his hotel."
For some reason I hadn't expected my mother to be a good detective.
She went on. "It was a funny little hotel called Hennessey's. Malcolm wasn't in when I got there, so I sat in the lobby-more an entryway, really. The old woman who owns it told me he'd gone to lunch with a lady friend.
"Nearly an hour went by. We chatted. Then Malcolm came in. It felt strange; I hadn't seen him since-you know."
Since he'd made her a vampire. "It must have been hard for you," I said.
"I wanted to help." She rested her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands. "The woman with him was stunning, but something about her gave me the creeps. And no manners. 'Who's that?' she said to Malcolm. Her voice was like ice.
"Malcolm didn't look at all happy to see me. Mrs. Hennessey said, 'What sort of greeting is that? Here's your cousin, come all the way from America to pay a call.'
"'Cousin Sara!' Malcolm gave me a big fake grin.
"The other woman said, 'I'll call you later,' and left. We were never even introduced."
"Tell me more about what she looked like," I said.
My mother squinted, as if she were seeing the woman from a distance. "Tall. Thin. Dark, wavy hair. Beautiful, as I said. But so cold. And a voice like granite."
Her description brought me the name. "Was she called Tamryn?"
Mae's eyes opened wide. "How did you know that?"
Maybe I wasn't such a bad detective myself, I thought smugly. It was the first positive thought about myself I'd had for some time. But what would Tamryn want with Malcolm?
"She was one of Cameron's aides. So then what happened?"
Mae stretched her arms, then wrapped them around herself. "We went out, sat on a bench across from the beach. I told him what you'd said: that he's the only one who could convince the council of your innocence. But he said I was wrong. He said he couldn't do it, even if he wanted to. And it's clear he doesn't want to. 'I might incriminate myself,' he said.
"Ari, I begged him." She hugged herself more tightly, and her eyes filled with tears. "It was so humiliating, to have to do that. He handed me his handkerchief, told me not to cry." She pulled a linen handkerchief from her pocket. Its edge had been embroidered with crimson initials: MAL.
"Malcolm Lynch," I said. "What's his middle name?"
"Albert, I think. Does it matter? He said he didn't have time to talk further, but he told me not to worry. 'Things are in good hands,' he said. What can that mean?"
I didn't know, but the words made me nervous. I wished I felt stronger and could go talk to him on my own.
My mother heard that thought. "Not a chance. You're staying in bed until you're completely recovered. Then I'm taking you home. Back to Florida."
To change the subject, I told her about the exchange between my father and Dr. Cho earlier that day. She didn't say anything, but I saw that my father's words pleased her.
Sometime in the night, I stirred and opened my eyes, sensing I wasn't alone.
Pale moonlight from the open window pooled on the carpeted floor. In the dim light, the chaise made a gray outline against the wall. It was empty.
I noticed a wisp of smoke. First, it eddied along the floor. Then it began to spin. I smelled mold and dead leaves. The room felt cold, but I didn't want to leave my bed to shut the window.
Then I saw her: a grey figure in motion, now a woman, becoming more distinct with each swirl. She wore jeans, a torn T-shirt. Her feet were bare. I didn't want to look at her face, but I did.
"Kathleen." I whispered the name. It sounded loud in the stillness of the room.
Her smile looked lopsided.
"Ari? You couldn't come to me, so I came to you." Her voice had a peculiar pitch, sounding soft and steely at the same time.
"I don't like the smell of you." I hadn't planned to say that.
Her smile disappeared. "Is it really bad?"
"Not too bad." I was lying, but quickly I became used to the odor. It wasn't that different from Florida air on a damp November night.
The smoke dissipated, but the form-the thing that was her-remained. She stood with her hands outstretched, her head tilted, watching me. "Do you hate me for what I did?"
"No."
Her smile returned. "I couldn't stand it if you did."
"I got over it." Suddenly I had a hundred questions for her. "Why did you do it? How did it happen?"
Her form became smoke again. What had Dr. Roche called her? Eidolon.
"They called me back. I had to come." Her voice sounded like a record played at the wrong speed. "First I haunted you. Studied the way you lived, watched you with your friends. I'm ashamed to admit it-I even stole your mail and read it, looking for clues.
"Then they gave me a body, taught me to be you. I loved that part." Her voice broke, as if she might weep. "Autumn wanted to do it, but they chose me.
"But I never was you. They lied to me. I did everything they said, but it didn't happen the way they promised. The whole time it was only me, acting. I never became you. And I wanted to, more than anything else in the world. Remember that game we used to play?"
I shook my head. "Who are they?" I felt like one of the COVE councilors now.
"Dr. Roche. Diana." She shook her arms, as if willing them to become real. "Diana texted me lots of instructions."
For a moment, I fantasized that Kathleen-this eidolon-could go before the council, give testimony, make our case. But my father had already told me that COVE didn't want to hear about ghosts. Even he wasn't comfortable believing in them.
I pulled the bedspread closer, around my neck. "Did you carry a bomb onto the plane?"
The question seemed to confuse her. Her image began to blur, vibrating slightly. "I don't understand." Her voice sounded faint.
"Don't you remember how you died?"
"Oh yes. I remember that." Her voice grew stronger now. "I was role-playing a game, outside, at night. A man came up to me. 'Why are you always around?' he asked me. I didn't know who he was, but I had my suspicions. 'I want to be a vampire,' I told him."
I shivered. She was talking about Malcolm on the night he killed her, back in Saratoga Springs.
"No," I said. I didn't want to hear that story now. "I mean what happened after you got on the plane to Ireland. Don't you remember that?"
Her substance began to settle again. "Of course I remember. It was my first plane trip. The attendant brought me drinks. He was cute."
"You don't remember what happened on the flight?"
"He brought me another drink. And he said he'd tell me a joke if I got scared."
"And then?" The room had grown uncomfortably chilly.
She moved her head from side to side, in a gesture I interpreted as denial. "Nothing." The pitch of her voice undulated between a scream and a sigh. "Nothing."
The door clicked. A key turned in its lock.
My father came in. His eyes went from me to her, and then he suddenly seemed taller.
"Go!" His voice was soft but powerful. "Go back to your grave."
Not yet! But no one was listening to my thoughts.
The smoke swirled rapidly. Already she'd begun to disappear. She was leaving, and I had so many more questions. And I hadn't had a chance to say good-bye.
"I forgive you," I said, hoping she could hear me.
And then she was gone. The room grew warmer. The scent of decay evaporated.
"We do not consort with the dead." My father's voice chilled me again.
A moment later, he left, shutting the door silently behind him.