I decided the safest course was not to answer. I picked up the picture and stared at it, trying to read its secrets. My mother. What had she been like? Had she been protective? Proud? Absent? Abusive? So many questions, and I knew I wouldn't get the answers here. Not out of Eamon, anyway.
"Not that I'm unsympathetic to your current stroll down Memory Lane, love, but there's a deal on the table," Eamon said. "And you know how much I like to close deals."
Some dark, velvet tone of amusement in that made me put the picture down and turn to look at him. I hadn't, right? Oh, tell me I hadn't slept with my sister's skanky, possibly homicidal boyfriend.
Man, I was changing my ways if that was the case. Possibly joining a nunnery.
"You show me where you want the weather changed," I said, "and I'll make it happen."
He smiled slowly. "I know you will. Because you're not stupid enough to double-cross me twice."
I wasn't too surprised to find that while Eamon and I had been trading threats and barely concealed attacks, Sarah had taken the opportunity of self-medicating herself into oblivion. Not surprised, but sad. I found out what her poison of choice was, because it was in plain sight on the nightstand...an orange-brown prescription bottle of OxyContin. At least, I thought, it wasn't meth. But Sarah would have found meth too low class, no doubt. To me, high was high; it didn't really matter whether you blissed out from prescription drugs or something a toothless wonder cooked up in a pot on his stove. The problem was the same.
I got her out of bed. She opened her eyes, and the pupils were hugely dilated. She yawned as I tossed clothes at her. There were bruises on her arms and legs, and I felt a newly sick sensation bubbling deep in my stomach. Those were not exactly the signs of a loving relationship, but then, what had I really expected? Consideration? Dependent personality, he said, and although I hated him for it, Eamon was right. Sarah had hooked up with a guy who'd treat her like crap, because deep down that was what she expected to get. And maybe he was what she needed to continue eroding her own nonexistent self-worth.
How could two sisters be so damn different?
"Where are we going?" she mumbled. I helped her put on a floral shirt with ruffles down the front; it would have looked like crap on me, but on her it looked fresh and pretty. It offset the haggard lines in her face, anyway. She needed sleep, and not the kind induced by chemicals. And an environment where she could find out just how powerful she could be, if given the chance.
"We're going on a little trip," I said. "Sarah, look at me. Look at me. You recognize me, right?"
Her wandering eyes focused on me. I was eerily reminded of Cherise's time-delayed attention, but this was different; Sarah had at least chosen this. "Of course I know who you are," Sarah said, and put a hand to my cheek. Her skin felt cool and clammy. "You're my sister. You're all I've got. Sometimes I hate you, though. But mostly I love you."
I felt that artlessly cruel statement lodge between my ribs, sharp and cold, and felt tears sting my eyes. I loved her. I had no reason to, but I loved her anyway.
And now I'd made myself responsible for her, and right now I wasn't sure that was such a great idea... I hardly could take care of myself. But I couldn't exactly leave her with Eamon.
"That's right," I said, and managed a smile. I put my hand over hers, holding it to my cheek. "I love you, too. You and me against the world, Sarah. But I'm going to need your help now." I reached for the prescription bottle and checked the label. Unless her name was Mabel Thornton, they weren't her pills. I rattled them in front of her until she focused on them. "You're going to have to stop taking these."
She blinked, and then she grabbed for them. I easily pulled them out of reach. "Those are mine!" she said, and set that sharp chin of hers in a hard, stubborn line. "Jo, give them back! I only take them when I need them! I take them for pain!"
Her life was full of that right now, starting with being in a relationship with the asshole in the other room, and ending with the fact she was living in a trailer in Ares, Nevada, with nothing to look forward to but more abuse. But it could all be fixed. It would all be fixed.
"I'll hang onto them for you," I said, and slipped them into the pocket of my jeans with a mental promise to ditch them in the first trash can I passed. "Up and at 'em, kid."
She giggled drunkenly. "I'm not the kid! You're the kid!"
Not at the moment, I wasn't.
Getting Sarah dressed was an effort. While she figured out the complexities of pants, I ransacked her closet, shoved what passed for her wardrobe into a bag-Louis Vuitton, evidently a souvenir of better days-and added the few personal touches she had around the trailer. Especially the photographs. I lingered over the one of our mother, and I ached to ask...but I didn't dare. So far, I thought I'd danced around the subject of memory pretty well with her, but one false move and everything could fall apart.
It was depressingly easy to remove all traces of Sarah from what was supposed to be her home. I supposed it was possible to look on it as freewheeling independence, but it just seemed really creepy as hell. A reminder of just how easily a life could be erased from the world.
Eamon didn't help, literally or figuratively. When I ushered Sarah back out into the living room and got her sitting on the couch, weaving and blinking, Eamon was finishing off a fresh glass of whiskey. "Ah," he said with that slow, all-knowing smile. "I see you're ready."
"Yes," I said, and thumped the suitcase down next to the door. "Where are we going?"
"California," he said. "Land of fruits and nuts, they say. You ought to be right at home."
I thought, somehow, that Sarah would have looked pleased-after all, pretty much anywhere in California had to be an improvement over the current situation, and she'd talked about living in the same zip code with Mel Gibson. But instead she looked mortified. Scared, even. "No," she said. "No, I don't want to go to California. Jo, why can't we go back to Florida? I liked Florida. It was nice, and-"
Eamon interrupted as if she hadn't even opened her mouth. "I suppose you could do this from anywhere, but I'd like to actually be there to see it, if you don't mind. Not that I don't trust you, but...well, I don't trust you."
"Ditto," I said grimly. "Oh, and you're not driving, jerk. Give me the keys."
"But I don't want to go to California!" Sarah repeated, half a wail.
"Okay," I said. "Want to stay here? Alone?"
She looked from me to Eamon, back to me. Eyes wide and still medically dilated.
And she burst into an addict's helpless tears.
"I'll take that as a no," I said, and got her under the arm to help her up. "So let's get moving."
The instant I banged open the rickety front door of the trailer and stepped down onto the cinder-block steps, Louis Vuitton suitcase in hand, I knew something was wrong out there. There was a sense of stillness, of the world not quite breathing. No birds in the sky, no wind. It was the weightless moment before the ground crumbles under your feet, and you fall, screaming.
I froze. Maybe the old me would have known what to do, but the new, not-so-improved me had no earthly idea what the right move might be. I just waited for the hammer to fall.
She's looking for me. I held myself completely still, completely silent, until I felt the shadow drift away. Maybe this was how the rabbit felt when the shadow of the hawk moved overhead. It was humbling and horrifying, and I had no idea how I was supposed to react except that I had a deep, burning desire to get the hell out. Come on, Venna, I thought. If you're not too busy braiding your hair.
I finally let myself draw in a breath, blinked, and came down the two unstable steps to the soft, sandy ground. It still felt strange, but maybe it was just me. Maybe I was just paranoid.
You're not paranoid. Somebody's out to get you, remember? Several somebodies, maybe, but certainly including that evil doppelgänger back at the clinic. And if the Joanne back at the clinic had her way-somehow I was almost sure she was managing it-she'd have convinced Lewis of her sincerity by now. And, though it turned my stomach to think about it, she might have even fooled David. In which case it wouldn't be her getting her hands dirty, coming after me. She'd have plenty of shock troops available, and all the eyes and ears of the Wardens.
A breath of wind touched me from the west. It blew hair across my eyes, and I reached up to push it away. In the half second of partial vision, something flickered across my line of sight, and was gone.
"David?" I whispered. I felt nothing, and if it was David, he didn't show himself. I don't know why I wanted it to be him; he was trouble, and nothing but. Especially now.
And I still missed him, as stupid and shallow as that might be.
I stalked out the gate, dragging the designer luggage ruthlessly across gravel and sand, and popped the trunk of the black sedan. I heaved the suitcase up to dump it inside, and staggered backward, off balance, in shock. Because the trunk was already occupied.
Dead guy. Dead guy in the luggage area, and recently dead, too. There was very little blood, and just one neat hole in the center of his forehead and a thin trickle, but I didn't want to examine the exit wound, which was luckily facing away from me.
I didn't recognize him, naturally.
I was still staring at the body, frozen in shock, when Eamon reached over and slammed the trunk lid closed. "Full up. Suitcase in the backseat," he said. "There's a love."
I dropped the suitcase and backed away from him. He looked surprised. Well, not really surprised, but as if he wanted to look surprised. Eamon was a master at putting on emotions like outfits.
"Something wrong?" he asked. "You're not one to shy away from violence; I know that for a fact."
"You killed him," I said. "Who is he?"
"You don't know?" He studied my face, and I felt naked. Way too exposed. "I know you're not generally popular with your peers, but I'm surprised you don't at least know the ones who want you dead."
"This isn't about me. This is about the dead man in your trunk." I was clenching my teeth now, and wishing I had a weapon. A big one. Large-caliber. "What the hell is going on?"
"No idea," Eamon said. "He was waiting for you outside of the prison with a rather nice three-eighty, which would have put a large and bloody hole in your back, shredded your lungs, and blown your heart halfway to hell. I say your back because of where he'd stationed himself. Because of the angle."
I felt sick, and a little bit relieved. Okay, so it's a bad guy dead in the trunk. That's better, right? Of course it wasn't, and just because the psychopath went after other villains didn't make him any less of a psychopath, did it? Besides, I had no idea if Eamon was telling the truth. He seemed sincere, but he seemed a lot of things he wasn't-nothing if not facile.
"Oh, don't look so worried," Eamon said, and opened the back door of the car for Sarah. She moved as if she were missing some bones, folding like wet cardboard when she was finally in the seat. I opened the other side and put her suitcase inside. She promptly used it as a pillow, and went right to sleep. "I doubt he'll be missed. Contract killers rarely have what you might call an extensive social circle."
Eamon had brought out a cheap-looking velour blanket. He spread it over Sarah as he spoke. It was an odd gesture of kindness from a guy who thought nothing of loading up the trunk with corpses, and his contradictions were starting to make my head hurt.
"What are you going to do with him?" I asked.
"Let's just say he won't be accompanying us all the way to California," Eamon replied. "There's plenty of desert between here and there."
"Do you know who he is?" I asked.
"Not a fucking clue," he said, and reached in his pocket. He took out a slim black wallet, which he flipped over the car's roof to me. I caught it, startled. "Perhaps you'll see something that rings a bell, eh?"
I opened it and checked for ID. There was a driver's license for a guy named John T. Hunter. I wondered if that was a joke of some kind: John The Hunter. Like, assassin. But why would I have a professional assassin on my case? Then again, why wouldn't I? Given the gigantic mountain of nothing that I knew about my life, I supposed I couldn't rule it out.
Other than the license, his wallet was empty except for a fat stash of cash, which I felt sick about taking, but hey, I needed it.
"Well?" Eamon asked, staring at me over the top of the black car. "His chances of recovery aren't improving, I assure you. So I'd suggest we roll along."
"What if I just walk away?" I asked. "What if I go to the police?" I darted a look into the backseat. Sarah slept on peacefully.
"Well, two things will happen. First, you'll be arrested, because of course I'll have to give a statement that you shot this poor man and stole his money. Second, your sister will be dead, and it'll look as if you had quite a bit to do with it. Did you know that statistically most murders are committed by a person close to the victim? Shocking." He said it flatly, without any emphasis, but I believed him. "All right, even if you've lost your memory, you know exactly who I am and what I can do, because there's ample evidence in the trunk with a bullet in his head. So let's stop dancing around the proprieties and get on with it, shall we? I need your particular talents for one thing and one thing only, and then, as far as I'm concerned, you can go to hell and take Sarah with you. Are we clear?"
"Not that I'm unsympathetic to your current stroll down Memory Lane, love, but there's a deal on the table," Eamon said. "And you know how much I like to close deals."
Some dark, velvet tone of amusement in that made me put the picture down and turn to look at him. I hadn't, right? Oh, tell me I hadn't slept with my sister's skanky, possibly homicidal boyfriend.
Man, I was changing my ways if that was the case. Possibly joining a nunnery.
"You show me where you want the weather changed," I said, "and I'll make it happen."
He smiled slowly. "I know you will. Because you're not stupid enough to double-cross me twice."
I wasn't too surprised to find that while Eamon and I had been trading threats and barely concealed attacks, Sarah had taken the opportunity of self-medicating herself into oblivion. Not surprised, but sad. I found out what her poison of choice was, because it was in plain sight on the nightstand...an orange-brown prescription bottle of OxyContin. At least, I thought, it wasn't meth. But Sarah would have found meth too low class, no doubt. To me, high was high; it didn't really matter whether you blissed out from prescription drugs or something a toothless wonder cooked up in a pot on his stove. The problem was the same.
I got her out of bed. She opened her eyes, and the pupils were hugely dilated. She yawned as I tossed clothes at her. There were bruises on her arms and legs, and I felt a newly sick sensation bubbling deep in my stomach. Those were not exactly the signs of a loving relationship, but then, what had I really expected? Consideration? Dependent personality, he said, and although I hated him for it, Eamon was right. Sarah had hooked up with a guy who'd treat her like crap, because deep down that was what she expected to get. And maybe he was what she needed to continue eroding her own nonexistent self-worth.
How could two sisters be so damn different?
"Where are we going?" she mumbled. I helped her put on a floral shirt with ruffles down the front; it would have looked like crap on me, but on her it looked fresh and pretty. It offset the haggard lines in her face, anyway. She needed sleep, and not the kind induced by chemicals. And an environment where she could find out just how powerful she could be, if given the chance.
"We're going on a little trip," I said. "Sarah, look at me. Look at me. You recognize me, right?"
Her wandering eyes focused on me. I was eerily reminded of Cherise's time-delayed attention, but this was different; Sarah had at least chosen this. "Of course I know who you are," Sarah said, and put a hand to my cheek. Her skin felt cool and clammy. "You're my sister. You're all I've got. Sometimes I hate you, though. But mostly I love you."
I felt that artlessly cruel statement lodge between my ribs, sharp and cold, and felt tears sting my eyes. I loved her. I had no reason to, but I loved her anyway.
And now I'd made myself responsible for her, and right now I wasn't sure that was such a great idea... I hardly could take care of myself. But I couldn't exactly leave her with Eamon.
"That's right," I said, and managed a smile. I put my hand over hers, holding it to my cheek. "I love you, too. You and me against the world, Sarah. But I'm going to need your help now." I reached for the prescription bottle and checked the label. Unless her name was Mabel Thornton, they weren't her pills. I rattled them in front of her until she focused on them. "You're going to have to stop taking these."
She blinked, and then she grabbed for them. I easily pulled them out of reach. "Those are mine!" she said, and set that sharp chin of hers in a hard, stubborn line. "Jo, give them back! I only take them when I need them! I take them for pain!"
Her life was full of that right now, starting with being in a relationship with the asshole in the other room, and ending with the fact she was living in a trailer in Ares, Nevada, with nothing to look forward to but more abuse. But it could all be fixed. It would all be fixed.
"I'll hang onto them for you," I said, and slipped them into the pocket of my jeans with a mental promise to ditch them in the first trash can I passed. "Up and at 'em, kid."
She giggled drunkenly. "I'm not the kid! You're the kid!"
Not at the moment, I wasn't.
Getting Sarah dressed was an effort. While she figured out the complexities of pants, I ransacked her closet, shoved what passed for her wardrobe into a bag-Louis Vuitton, evidently a souvenir of better days-and added the few personal touches she had around the trailer. Especially the photographs. I lingered over the one of our mother, and I ached to ask...but I didn't dare. So far, I thought I'd danced around the subject of memory pretty well with her, but one false move and everything could fall apart.
It was depressingly easy to remove all traces of Sarah from what was supposed to be her home. I supposed it was possible to look on it as freewheeling independence, but it just seemed really creepy as hell. A reminder of just how easily a life could be erased from the world.
Eamon didn't help, literally or figuratively. When I ushered Sarah back out into the living room and got her sitting on the couch, weaving and blinking, Eamon was finishing off a fresh glass of whiskey. "Ah," he said with that slow, all-knowing smile. "I see you're ready."
"Yes," I said, and thumped the suitcase down next to the door. "Where are we going?"
"California," he said. "Land of fruits and nuts, they say. You ought to be right at home."
I thought, somehow, that Sarah would have looked pleased-after all, pretty much anywhere in California had to be an improvement over the current situation, and she'd talked about living in the same zip code with Mel Gibson. But instead she looked mortified. Scared, even. "No," she said. "No, I don't want to go to California. Jo, why can't we go back to Florida? I liked Florida. It was nice, and-"
Eamon interrupted as if she hadn't even opened her mouth. "I suppose you could do this from anywhere, but I'd like to actually be there to see it, if you don't mind. Not that I don't trust you, but...well, I don't trust you."
"Ditto," I said grimly. "Oh, and you're not driving, jerk. Give me the keys."
"But I don't want to go to California!" Sarah repeated, half a wail.
"Okay," I said. "Want to stay here? Alone?"
She looked from me to Eamon, back to me. Eyes wide and still medically dilated.
And she burst into an addict's helpless tears.
"I'll take that as a no," I said, and got her under the arm to help her up. "So let's get moving."
The instant I banged open the rickety front door of the trailer and stepped down onto the cinder-block steps, Louis Vuitton suitcase in hand, I knew something was wrong out there. There was a sense of stillness, of the world not quite breathing. No birds in the sky, no wind. It was the weightless moment before the ground crumbles under your feet, and you fall, screaming.
I froze. Maybe the old me would have known what to do, but the new, not-so-improved me had no earthly idea what the right move might be. I just waited for the hammer to fall.
She's looking for me. I held myself completely still, completely silent, until I felt the shadow drift away. Maybe this was how the rabbit felt when the shadow of the hawk moved overhead. It was humbling and horrifying, and I had no idea how I was supposed to react except that I had a deep, burning desire to get the hell out. Come on, Venna, I thought. If you're not too busy braiding your hair.
I finally let myself draw in a breath, blinked, and came down the two unstable steps to the soft, sandy ground. It still felt strange, but maybe it was just me. Maybe I was just paranoid.
You're not paranoid. Somebody's out to get you, remember? Several somebodies, maybe, but certainly including that evil doppelgänger back at the clinic. And if the Joanne back at the clinic had her way-somehow I was almost sure she was managing it-she'd have convinced Lewis of her sincerity by now. And, though it turned my stomach to think about it, she might have even fooled David. In which case it wouldn't be her getting her hands dirty, coming after me. She'd have plenty of shock troops available, and all the eyes and ears of the Wardens.
A breath of wind touched me from the west. It blew hair across my eyes, and I reached up to push it away. In the half second of partial vision, something flickered across my line of sight, and was gone.
"David?" I whispered. I felt nothing, and if it was David, he didn't show himself. I don't know why I wanted it to be him; he was trouble, and nothing but. Especially now.
And I still missed him, as stupid and shallow as that might be.
I stalked out the gate, dragging the designer luggage ruthlessly across gravel and sand, and popped the trunk of the black sedan. I heaved the suitcase up to dump it inside, and staggered backward, off balance, in shock. Because the trunk was already occupied.
Dead guy. Dead guy in the luggage area, and recently dead, too. There was very little blood, and just one neat hole in the center of his forehead and a thin trickle, but I didn't want to examine the exit wound, which was luckily facing away from me.
I didn't recognize him, naturally.
I was still staring at the body, frozen in shock, when Eamon reached over and slammed the trunk lid closed. "Full up. Suitcase in the backseat," he said. "There's a love."
I dropped the suitcase and backed away from him. He looked surprised. Well, not really surprised, but as if he wanted to look surprised. Eamon was a master at putting on emotions like outfits.
"Something wrong?" he asked. "You're not one to shy away from violence; I know that for a fact."
"You killed him," I said. "Who is he?"
"You don't know?" He studied my face, and I felt naked. Way too exposed. "I know you're not generally popular with your peers, but I'm surprised you don't at least know the ones who want you dead."
"This isn't about me. This is about the dead man in your trunk." I was clenching my teeth now, and wishing I had a weapon. A big one. Large-caliber. "What the hell is going on?"
"No idea," Eamon said. "He was waiting for you outside of the prison with a rather nice three-eighty, which would have put a large and bloody hole in your back, shredded your lungs, and blown your heart halfway to hell. I say your back because of where he'd stationed himself. Because of the angle."
I felt sick, and a little bit relieved. Okay, so it's a bad guy dead in the trunk. That's better, right? Of course it wasn't, and just because the psychopath went after other villains didn't make him any less of a psychopath, did it? Besides, I had no idea if Eamon was telling the truth. He seemed sincere, but he seemed a lot of things he wasn't-nothing if not facile.
"Oh, don't look so worried," Eamon said, and opened the back door of the car for Sarah. She moved as if she were missing some bones, folding like wet cardboard when she was finally in the seat. I opened the other side and put her suitcase inside. She promptly used it as a pillow, and went right to sleep. "I doubt he'll be missed. Contract killers rarely have what you might call an extensive social circle."
Eamon had brought out a cheap-looking velour blanket. He spread it over Sarah as he spoke. It was an odd gesture of kindness from a guy who thought nothing of loading up the trunk with corpses, and his contradictions were starting to make my head hurt.
"What are you going to do with him?" I asked.
"Let's just say he won't be accompanying us all the way to California," Eamon replied. "There's plenty of desert between here and there."
"Do you know who he is?" I asked.
"Not a fucking clue," he said, and reached in his pocket. He took out a slim black wallet, which he flipped over the car's roof to me. I caught it, startled. "Perhaps you'll see something that rings a bell, eh?"
I opened it and checked for ID. There was a driver's license for a guy named John T. Hunter. I wondered if that was a joke of some kind: John The Hunter. Like, assassin. But why would I have a professional assassin on my case? Then again, why wouldn't I? Given the gigantic mountain of nothing that I knew about my life, I supposed I couldn't rule it out.
Other than the license, his wallet was empty except for a fat stash of cash, which I felt sick about taking, but hey, I needed it.
"Well?" Eamon asked, staring at me over the top of the black car. "His chances of recovery aren't improving, I assure you. So I'd suggest we roll along."
"What if I just walk away?" I asked. "What if I go to the police?" I darted a look into the backseat. Sarah slept on peacefully.
"Well, two things will happen. First, you'll be arrested, because of course I'll have to give a statement that you shot this poor man and stole his money. Second, your sister will be dead, and it'll look as if you had quite a bit to do with it. Did you know that statistically most murders are committed by a person close to the victim? Shocking." He said it flatly, without any emphasis, but I believed him. "All right, even if you've lost your memory, you know exactly who I am and what I can do, because there's ample evidence in the trunk with a bullet in his head. So let's stop dancing around the proprieties and get on with it, shall we? I need your particular talents for one thing and one thing only, and then, as far as I'm concerned, you can go to hell and take Sarah with you. Are we clear?"
