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Blurb
BOOK TWO OF THE GRAVE IMAGES SERIES
Jarron would be the first to admit his perspective is twisted, and his outlook skewed. He's suffered some brain damage, but it hasn't affected his intellect, or his motor skills. Instead, it has opened the doors to a world he's never known - a world he doesn’t want to know. One where the dead walk with the living, and the difficulty lies in keeping them apart.
He’s doing his best to deal with it. To keep his questionable abilities sequestered, and his ghostly visitors from getting out of hand. It’s all just a matter of control.
Control he still doesn’t have.
Graven Image
Book Two of The Grave Images Series
by N. D. Hansen-Hill
Dedication
To Patsy and Mabel
***
Splinters
Splinters of you
Pierced my eyes.
You blinded me.
Now I bleed your lies
In visions only I can see -
Colouring what is left in slivers of you.
*
You touched my skin,
And it burned like ice
A fixative passion
With a rime-frost price
And no breath of sun -
Hoarfrosting my soul in shivers of you.
*
The taste of you,
Lingered on my lips
As bitter-sharp acid;
Gashing soul-deep rips,
Heart-fissures of which I'll never be rid,
Spasm-etched scarring in quivers of you.
*
You've broken me,
I lie in a shatter
Of fractured beliefs,
And twisted matter,
Adrift on the wind like a dead season's leaves.
A-wash and drowning in rivers of you.
*
By N. D. Hansen-Hill
***
Foreword
Jarron Marshall was working hard - had been working hard for months. It was his way of seeing past the shadows that lurked in his vision, the voices that rattled his thinking, the spectres that danced through his dreams. It was no small effort to overlook his inner distractions, and concentrate on getting his research done.
For, Jarron had made a scientific discovery, that could be a boon to mankind. He'd found a universal endophyte, with a potential for reducing world hunger.
The discovery had nearly cost him his life.
Now, he was the first to admit his perspective was twisted, and his outlook skewed. He'd suffered some brain damage, but it hadn't affected his intellect, or his motor skills. Instead, it had opened the doors to a world he'd never known - a world he didn't want to know. One where the dead walked with the living, and the difficulty lay in keeping them apart.
He was doing his best to deal with it. To keep his questionable abilities sequestered, and his ghostly visitors from getting out of hand. It was all just a matter of control.
Control he still didn't have.
***
Prologue
The air-conditioned room held the taint of something ancient - a hint of must, the tang of mould. Museum smells. Odours designed to be picked up by the cycling air, filtered, then spread throughout the building, to minimise their impact.
The artificial atmosphere failed to mask a lingering foulness: a scented remnant of humanity as harsh and enduring as the freeze-dried flesh, carved stones, and chilling metal effigies that rested in the display cases.
The museum portrayed the artefacts as tributes to survival - examples of human fortitude against the elements. They could do nothing about the darker elements: the stench of blood, mingled with the waste of human existence. What had been selected as a model of endurance, with a taste of longevity, was little more than a misguided deceit of human folly, mixed loyalties, and death.
A certain tension lingered in the air. Eventually, it resolved into a shimmering hoarfrost that dusted the insides of the display cases. Museum curators tried to correct it by adjusting the thermostat.
That did little to improve the situation, for the cold lay not in the climate control, but in the objects themselves.
They remained cold.
Colder than the surrounding air. Certainly chillier than the glass that held them trapped.
Colder than death.
***
Chapter One
Jarron was barely out of the car before Nick had the doors slammed, locked, and the alarm set. He pocketed the key as though it were a major triumph.
Something was definitely up, and Jarron didn't need any of his itching intuition to tell him so. Nicholas Acklin was being sneaky - and he was looking far too pleased with himself.
"Why'd we park way out here?" Jarron asked. He glanced around at the picnic benches and big trees. "You're allergic to picnics."
"We're going for a walk."
Jarron reminded him, "You don't believe in walking."
"I'm sucking up inspiration." Nick took a deep breath. "Writer's block," he lied. "Nothing else's worked." He did his best to sound dismal.
It sounded fake to Jarron, but if Nick was suffering one of his rare bouts of writer's block, he probably needed to talk. Jarron felt a twang of guilt. Nick had gone to a lot of trouble to orchestrate this - to make sure Jarron Marshall would take the time to listen.
Jarron hadn't made much time for Nick, or any of his friends, recently. He'd had too many things to think through. No - too many things he didn't want to think through but was afraid they'd insist on talking about.
Jarron glanced at Nick. He didn't seem to be suffering too badly. In fact, despite his supposed dejection he still looked damned pleased with himself.
Chances are, Jarron thought, whatever he's up to doesn't have anything to do with you, or your problems. It's probably some new mathematical theory that would bore anyone else to tears.
Which meant it would be unrelated to Jarron Marshall, and his weird psyche. Jarron let out his pent-up breath, and felt himself begin to relax. Nick was right - he needed to get out more. He was beginning to jump at shadows.
Nick heard the sigh. "All this fresh air," he said. "Good for the brain cells."
"How would you know?" Jarron retorted with a grin. He gestured toward the car. "What was all that speedy-lock stuff about? With Paul at our heels, you probably didn't even need to lock it."
Nick's expression showed a flicker of guilt, and Jarron looked at him curiously. "What's up?"
"Nothing. Just making sure you can't change your mind."
Uh-oh. The twinge of suspicion came back. Whatever Nick was about to do, he'd be sure it was in Jarron's best interests, but that didn't mean Jarron was going to like it.
Jarron told him slowly, with exaggerated patience, "We already know I'm not here because I want to be."
"Ingrate. After all I've done for you -"
"I'll do a few things to you, too, if you don't tell me what's going on." Jarron's smile took the sting out of the words. "Odds are, you're hiding something."
"Odds are, you're right," Nick told him quickly. "Hey - I'm entitled to my little secrets. Besides, suspicion's a product of warped minds."
Jarron looked amused. "Warped, you know about."
"Relax, Jar. The museum's that way." Nick emphasised his words with a push in that direction.
Jarron groaned. "Not the museum -"
"Oh, yeah."
"Don't tell me: Leif Ericson's back in town -"
"Shut up and enjoy the outing. You've been spending way too much time in the lab. It's not healthy."
Jarron sobered. "Says who?" He was so tired of being watch-dogged, with every move on record.
"Says me." Nick glanced at him. "Don't be so damned sensitive."
Jarron felt like a fool. Suspicion is a product of warped minds, Jarron. And nobody's could get more warped than yours. He forced a smile. "So, instead, you drag me out to see a bunch of musty old crud -"
"'Crud?!' Just because it's not your field -" Nick almost managed to sound indignant.
"It's not your field, either. Admit it, Acklin. You and I both know what this is about."
No, you don't, Jarron. Or you would've already left. "I'm telling you it's research," Nick insisted. "You, of all people, should understand research."
"You're right. Which is why I know that's not what we're doing," Jarron replied patiently. "Not even you can confuse a bunch of Viking trash with space travel."
"It's not trash. We're talking major artefacts."
"It is so trash. Where do you think they find this stuff? In rubbish heaps," Jarron said reasonably. "What's that saying? 'One person's trash - another person's treasure?'"
"And what was that crack, about 'not even me'?"
Jarron went on as though he hadn't spoken. "Did you ever think there might be a good reason someone threw that stuff away?"
Nick muttered derisively, "What else can I expect from someone whose fame is fungus?"
*
"According to Marshall, the universal aspect's only part of it. The test results have been good so far," Robart went on cautiously, "but he's still trying to find the means for natural transfer. It doesn't seem to be through the seed."
"Why is it so important?" Caraldy asked, a little belligerently. "Can't they just inject it or something?"
"Not with a hundred percent success. It'd be much easier if there were some method of natural transfer."
"So, how close is he on that?"
"It's coming along. He's working on -" Robart glanced down at the file, "- 'any potential for toxicity' first. He says the chemistry looks good, but they have to know whether there are problems in juvenile stages, or as the fungus ages - things like that. He's talking feeding trials, but he says that's still down the line. Not his area."
"Feeding trials could take months," Caraldy complained. "Can't they tell by sticking it into test samples, then checking the chemistry?"
"It all takes time, John. He thinks the fungus used to be a pathogen, and there's always the chance it could revert. May be why it can spread into other plants so easily."
"Can't they just -"
Colin Robart interrupted him, a little angrily. "It could be only the survivors - of the fungal attacks - carry it. D'you want to be the one to stick this stuff into millions of seedlings, then watch eighty percent of 'em die?"
Caraldy decided it wouldn't do him any good to get Robart's back up any more over this. "You've learned a lot about this stuff," Caraldy said. He almost - but not quite - managed the congenial tone he was aiming for. "Looks like we're in it for the long haul. Do you think he needs more help?"
Robart tried to picture Marshall's response if anyone else urged more help on him. They were nagging him to death as it was.
"All he needs is time - to get the test results in," Robart said firmly. He met John Caraldy's eyes squarely.
Caraldy changed tactics. "Have there been any more 'incidents'?" he probed, wondering if he looked as foolish as he sounded. His office usually dealt with more concrete issues. This esoteric shit made him feel like an ass.
To Robart, it was a warning bell. Nothing more had been said, so he'd assumed his reports had been accepted - anything questionable lost in the confusion of that night. So much shit had been flying, and so much departmental dirt dragged out, that Robart had begun to think Marshall's behaviour had gone unremarked, if not unnoticed. Now, it seemed that Caraldy was being pressured by someone to find out more.
Disappointing. Robart had hoped Marshall was in the clear.
Kris Chandler had warned him. Now it seemed he'd been right. They weren't going to let it go, no matter how much Robart claimed exaggeration and hearsay. Someone had plans for Jarron Marshall's unique abilities.
"Incidents of what? Overwork?" Robart picked up another file from his desk. "The man's been putting in seventy-hour weeks. What else does he have to do for his grant money?" he asked sarcastically. "Maybe you'd like him to sleep at the lab, too."
"I'm not talking about his work habits. You and I both know the endophyte research is going great, and I think we have you to thank -"
Greaser. That's not what you were saying a few minutes ago.
"It's the other aspects of Marshall's personality we're talking about now."
Robart snorted derisively. "Investing a lot in a bunch of hearsay, aren't we?"
A flicker of anger showed in Caraldy's eyes. "We have the doctors' reports."
Robart idly flipped through Jarron's file. "The brain damage doesn't seem to have affected his labwork," he said. "We've had some of his methods assessed by -"
"I'm not talking about his labwork!" Caraldy interrupted angrily. "Weird bullet wounds with no entry hole. Suddenly, he's a Da Vinci, with no formal training. Agents chased out of his home by some unknown 'entity'. Puts on a light show, that takes out a trained assassin - with no lights, and no weapons. The latest is his uncanny ability to detect things before they happen. We have videos of him going to the phone, just before it rings. An e-mail thanks for a package that didn't arrive - till the next day."
"Flimsy," Robart retorted, and did his best to sound incredulous. "He's being watched," he said casually. "Wakeman has his people on it."
"The same Wakeman who didn't mention any of these incidents in his reports?"
"Andy doesn't invent stories to explain away his inadequacies," Robart retorted coolly. "Some of these things you've mentioned - did you ever think that maybe it's why Marshall's so good in his field? They don't label a man 'brilliant' for nothing. Maybe he's just insightful. It could be what gives him the edge."
"And maybe it's what's gonna take him down," Caraldy warned him. "He's working on multi-million dollar research. Wakeman's not the only one watching him. A certain reticence in his reports has some people wondering."
"Wakeman's a good man -"
"That's not what they're questioning. They're beginning to wonder which is more valuable: Jarron Marshall's research, or the extraordinary things he's able to do."
*
Jarron grinned. "Research, huh? I can see your next book now: 'Vikings from Venus'. Should be a big seller."
"Fuck you," Nick retorted calmly.
"That's in the sequel: 'Those Viking Venutian Vixens' -"
Nick grinned. "If I needed that kind of research, I'd bring someone better looking than you along." His smile faded as he tried to remember where he was in his argument. "Oh, yeah." He cleared his throat, and embarked on a rehearsed speech. "Historical research gives depth to a manuscript. Ornamentation. Realism. Hints of past glory."
Jarron looked at him in disbelief. "Bullshit. This is just one of those 'I'm-a-leftover-Viking' trips you go on every few years. The ones where I'm stuck playing audience to your wanna-be glory."
Nick clapped Jarron across the shoulder. "Don't let it bother you, Jar," he told him with mock sympathy, "not everyone can be a Viking." He gave Jarron another shove. "Move it. Maybe if we're lucky, we'll find some Cro-Magnon or Neanderthal in there you're related to."
"Not even a warmed-up leftover," Jarron muttered derisively.
"The word's 'descendant' - not 'leftover'," Nick complained. "I knew I should have brought Kris. Or Andy. They at least appreciate this stuff."
"Yeah," Jarron whispered. "Andy wouldn't know a Norse dagger from a Celt belt, and Kris would 'appreciate' it right off the walls."
Nick grinned. "Do you want me to put it to Kris that way, or should I be a little more subtle?"
"You wouldn't know subtle if it punched you in the face, Acklin," Jarron told him. "And, as to the artefacts, Kris would be the first to agree with me." But he trailed along as Nick moved enthusiastically up the path.
Something was missing. Nick didn't usually go to these elaborate lengths to get his co-operation. The elaborate would've been done already, on Nick's computer, as he tried out different scenarios, and calculated their rates of success.
No, there was another factor here. Something Nick wasn't saying. Jarron wondered what it was.
He glanced at the museum a little dubiously. Is he that anxious for me to see this stuff? It wasn't Jarron's first choice for an afternoon's entertainment, but it wasn't the worst way to spend the day, either. Their argument was strictly show. Nick expected him to argue - it was what they always did, when Nick wanted to visit his Vikings.
Besides, it's not like we haven't done this before. It was an innocent, non-threatening expedition. Nothing unknown. Nothing that Jarron Marshall could possibly turn into some second-rate horror film.
"It doesn't matter anyway," Nick told him, grinning. There was a trace of excitement in his eyes. They were a long way from the car now. "The idea was to get you here," he admitted.
Oh, no. "The truth comes out." Jarron looked at him nervously. "Why me?" he asked flatly.
"Because the museum's next door to the art place."
"The gallery."
"You got it. I promised Gill I'd get you here."
"That's it," Jarron told him firmly. He turned around and started walking back the way they'd come. "Not a chance."
Nick grinned. "Kris and Andy are meeting us here in -" he glanced at his watch, "- one minute. Wanna know the odds? Of you making it out of the lot?"
Jarron was angry. The four of them had arranged it so he wouldn't have a choice. Timed their arrival to stop him from leaving. "I think I have a say in this," he whispered through gritted teeth.
"'Course you do," Nick told him. "Just don't expect anyone to listen."
*
Gillian Margaret McGee waited until Tony Almard, the gallery director, had gone back to his office. Then, she cleared her throat and tried to empty her mind. She didn't want her enthusiasm, or her involvement in Jarron's cause, to affect her vision. She wanted to see the exhibit the way a stranger would.
She blinked her eyes several times to clear them, counted to three, then stepped into the room.
And was instantly rocked to her core. Somehow, in a gallery setting, the paintings were even more powerful than they'd been in Jarron's house. There, they'd been crowded, and with so much content, the result had been a dizzying confusion. Here - in a setting designed to emphasise each one, the impact was nearly overwhelming.
Gill found that she was holding her breath, and forced herself to relax. It suddenly occurred to her how painful it must have been for Jarron to restrain this kind of intense energy - to hold it back. She recalled Jarron's openness, and wondered how he'd managed it. It was one of the questions she would have liked to ask him, but she knew it wouldn't do any good. Because he'd be the last one to admit to any rationale for his art - or even take credit for it. Kris had said Jarron claimed to be the idiot savant, but with a paintbrush in his hand.
She just hoped Jarron would understand why they were doing this. It was obvious he was terrified of his "gift": he refused to talk about it, and he'd stopped painting several months ago. Now, whenever she saw him, he looked weary. More than tired - almost careworn. As though he had no outlet for the worries that sat on his shoulders other than his work - and he was grinding himself down to nothing. Gill suspected he needed the outlet that his painting provided - the channelling of his energies and fears - more than he realised, or would ever admit.
Once, she'd asked him, "Do you miss it?"
In that discerning way of his, he'd known exactly what she meant. He'd given her a wistful smile. "Only the time away." His eyes had become distant then, but there had been an element of peace in them she hadn't seen for a while.
For a while, the phrase had puzzled her, but now Gill thought she knew what he meant. It was the focus, the concentration - the time outside yourself as you solved a problem. That's what Jarron needed - the respite, from his own existence.
Now, if Jarron can just learn to paint the living, Gill thought, looking once more at the paintings, maybe his troubles will be over.
*
He knew Nick didn't understand. Despite his mathematical mind - despite their experiences - Nick didn't know what it was like to wake up every morning afraid. To be scared of your own body, and what you were capable of doing.
Jarron was still being watched by Investigative Security and Operations - the ISO - and he had a feeling it had nothing to do with endophytes, or the research he was doing in the lab. It had more to do with what had happened that night. With what he'd been able to do.
That was what was getting him: the uncertainty about his explosive nether half, and what might set it off.
He'd gone into a painting frenzy for a week after he'd recovered, then thrown away his paints and never looked back. It'd been over two months now, and he was "clean". His intuition might be keener than most, but any spectral visitors left as quietly as they came. Quietly enough, anyway, so he could almost pretend nothing had happened.
Only the guards on his house reminded him he wasn't the same Jarron Marshall he used to be. So he'd worked hard at convincing himself they were still there because of the hype over the endophyte. He'd worked so hard at it, that he'd almost believed it.
Until now. They wanted him to come to the gallery, and they must have a reason. Jarron was terrified. What would it do to him to see those paintings again? Would it affect him the way it had before? Make him itch to have a brush back between his fingers? There'd been something addictive in the intensity of the experience. And nothing could match those brief moments of total peace that completing a painting gave him -
Stop it, Jarron! Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he unconsciously began to walk faster. No - those paintings were the last thing he needed to see - no matter what good intentions lingered behind his friends' efforts. They belonged to the past, and he didn't care if he ever inhaled the scent of turpentine again. This was now, and Jarron wanted to move on.
Because he was terrified to look back.
"I have a sudden yen for history." Without waiting for Nick, Jarron turned around and headed for the museum at a trot.
"Jarron, wait!"
"Can't!" Jarron called back over his shoulder. "Those artefacts aren't getting any younger."
Nick glanced back, and saw Paul Warren coming up the path. Damn it! Jarron would be even more upset if they called out the troops. "Slow down, Jar!" Nick yelled. "You're gonna make Paul work for a living!"
To Warren he yelled, "I'll take care of it -" Nick took off after Jarron at a jog.
Kris pulled into the gallery lot just in time to see Warren racing up the steps of the museum next door. "Trouble," he sighed.
Andy jumped out and started up the steps. "What do you think it was?" he called back, annoyed that Nick had mishandled the situation. "'Odds' against him? Or his temper just get out of hand?" He was surprised when Kris caught up with him. "Leg's that good?" he asked, pleased.
"If it isn't, I'll get some therapy for it later," Kris told him.
"I'll bet you will," Andy replied, grinning. They both knew Kris was referring to Gill.
"Didn't see you volunteer to get Jarron here," Kris remarked.
Andy's smile held a hint of embarrassment. "Truth is, I'm amazed Nick got him this far. Don't think I could have," he admitted.
Kris nodded. "'Odds are' Jarron figured it out." Kris looked amused. "He's good at that."
*
Tony Almard had wanted an opening night, complete with ads, fanfare, and press on hand. Jarron Marshall was a well-known figure in his field, which would draw in a number of people who wouldn't normally visit the gallery. Gill had protested against the publicity, Almard had argued, but in the end, Gill had won. No party, no reporters, no advance notice. For Jarron's sake.
Because it would be hard enough to get him in here as it was.
Almard had initially agreed to the exhibition because he knew Gill. She'd procured a piece or two for him in the past that he'd been unable to access any other way. He owed her.
He also knew she wouldn't waste her time, or his, with substandard material. If Gill was excited - enthusiastic, even - then Marshall's stuff must be out of the ordinary.
Then he'd seen the paintings. Gill hadn't bothered with photos - she'd brought three of the paintings in. And Almard was hooked.
He'd never seen anything like them. Each one seemed to glow with the personality of its subject. No - more than that. In Almard's experience, most personalities were dulled by years of tradition, habit, and convention. Dulled or strangled. What was left was usually an obscure blend of the uninteresting, masked by the acceptable. Most people, to Almard's way of thinking, were damn boring.
It was why he worked with artists. Occasionally, an original mind would surface. It never took take him long, either, to detect an original, from the artfully manufactured.
Jarron Marshall was an original. He'd manipulated his subjects - ripped them apart somehow, and re-synthesised them. Converged all the distal bits and pieces of individual essence into a cohesive unit. What he painted wasn't a figure - it was the faint gloss of flesh over a living soul.
Almard hadn't been expecting this - could never have expected this. When Gill had turned the first painting his way, Almard could only stare in a kind of shaken awe. He was physically moved. Gut-wrenched, goosepimply, tears filling his eyes. It was the first time in years a piece of art had done that to him. The first time he'd ever been moved to this extent. It was also damn disturbing. Had he painted these, the synthesis would have been so much darker - using a touch of evil to lend interest. Jarron Marshall, however, apparently saw things differently. The darkness was there, all right - as shading for the bright translucence of the soul. The shaded glimmerings produced a 3-D image, delicately overladen with a patina of flesh.
Almard would have agreed to anything - paid anything - to get the paintings then. In a moment of clarity, he had suddenly realised no one could own them - it would be like trying to own another human being. But they belonged where people could see them. Where some of that disturbing impact could ride their souls a little - remind them just how precious "life" was.
He'd also realised he wouldn't need the fanfare - the ads, the big opening, the reporters. All he'd need was one person to see them - and be moved by the experience.
As he'd been moved. Tony Almard had a sudden feeling his life would never be the same again.
*
Jarron knew there'd be a parade of people behind him, but right now he didn't care. Suddenly, the dark, musty museum seemed like a good place to be - a good place to hide from all the attentive concern. A good place to get away. From everybody. He tried to remember what it had been like to have time to himself - with nobody watching or listening - and was appalled because it had been so long. Before Nick could catch up with him, he dodged into the museum, and disappeared into the darkest corner he could find.
*
The museum was nearly empty at this time of day. Lunchtime had passed, and the after-school crowd was still several hours away. The only feet that echoed on the glossy wooden floors were his own.
The museum had been built nearly a hundred years before. It was one of those neo-classically ornate buildings, complete with Corinthian columns and Greco-Roman statuary gracing the entrance.
Inside, however, the structure had been modernised. Temperature and humidity were closely monitored, video surveillance systems and laser-triggered alarms protected the exhibits, and the old-fashioned, somewhat meagre external light - from windows set high in the walls - had been supplemented by adjustable lighting systems.
Jarron had always felt comfortable here. There was enough of the ultra modern to remind him of his lab, but the slightly shabby dinge of the ages - due in part to the structure, and part to what it housed - gave the place a noble, yet homey, feel. This building was like a revered grandparent: wisdom and familiarity in one.
He'd come here frequently as a kid, but about the only time he visited now was when Nick dragged him in for one of his Viking helmet displays. Nick could never get enough of the shields and the swords and the helmets.
The atmosphere relaxed Jarron a little, and he realised he'd overreacted. It seemed like that's all he was able to do any more: work and overreact. And he worked almost all the time so he wouldn't accidentally stumble across anything he could overreact to. So, by the time he got home, he'd either be too absorbed in a lab problem, or too damn tired, to do anything but focus on his research or sleep.
The time was coming for a reckoning. His body was telling him that. It was why Nick's comment - about working too much - had hit him so hard. He was afraid, if they noticed he was overworked, they'd send him on a vacation. Give him free time. Not time to himself, but time away. Away from the things he needed to occupy his mind.
When the reckoning came, he'd have to face it. What he was, what he could do, what might happen if he let down his guard. It was unavoidable. Jarron just wanted to have enough safe days and nights - enough pure sleeps and untainted dreams - to deal with it. So he could face it without terror. So he could emerge feeling sane.
He didn't remember much about the night he'd gone for the endophyte. He'd been too far gone. For a long time after he'd awoken in the hospital, he'd been too sick to worry about it. Then had come the time of restoration, when it felt good just to be alive, and healthy, and not working under a cloud any more.
Things were still good. Much too good to allow some residual fear to dispel the confidence he was beginning to regain. No setbacks allowed. If he were ever to reach that point where he could face his demons and win, he couldn't allow something like this to get to him.
They wouldn't have done it unless they were sure I could handle it. The thought inspired new confidence, and Jarron clung to it. Maybe his friends were right: maybe it was time. He could never really put the paintings - or his fear of them - behind him if he couldn't face what he'd done. See what thou has wrought, Jarron.
They'd all be there to back him up. It wasn't like he was doing it alone. Hell, Kris and Nick, Andy and Gill - they'd risked their lives for him. They damn well wouldn't do anything to set him back.
He suddenly realised they were right. It was time. Now, on a sunny day, with friends by his side.
Jarron smiled at his own foolishness; happy in his new resolve. Anticipation was part of what made fear so powerful. He'd been anticipating this day for too long now. Just the realisation that he was getting it over with made him feel a heck of a lot better.
Jarron took a deep breath of air-conditioned atmosphere tinged with a hint of must. Good. Food for memories - for the soul. Good for what ails you, Jarron.
In a few minutes, he'd go out there and face them. But, first, he'd take a look at Nick's Vikings. That way, they could all go along with the fallacy that he'd come here because he was annoyed with Nick, and wanted to beat him to it. They wouldn't have to know that it was terror driving him. Kris might suspect, but he'd never ask.
Jarron followed the signs, but after a moment, he realised he didn't need them. The musty scent in the air had increased, and low background music hinted at ancient mystery ahead. Jarron grinned, passed under a large banner, and entered the room.
*
And promptly forgot the reason he'd come.
There was thunder in here; a background rumble that owed nothing to the speaker system. The low frequency vibration shivered through his internal organs, leaving him with a feeling of menace. Intense and dark, billowing clouds patterned the panelled walls. As he stepped forward, the rumbling grew in intensity. His body was shivering with the sound waves. How much sound does it take to shatter an eardrum? he wondered. Or scramble a brain?
Withdraw! The tone of it was as odd and eerie as the word itself. It didn't seep into Jarron's consciousness - it pounded there, burning the word into the forefront of his thoughts. It was as though some of the thunder had found its way into his head, displacing all his other concerns, and forcing him to focus on the king-size command.
The intensity of it left Jarron feeling giddy, and out of control. It wants me to leave. He snorted - suddenly filled with irrational and misplaced humour. His grin widened, and some part of his brain struggled to control his lips, to turn them down in a semblance of respectful submission.
It was the same part of him that was panicking at his inability to control his response.
He stumbled forward, nearly blind now from the pounding in his head. Clouds, doing a fever dance; the lights receding on flickering fluorescence; the gloss of the floor becoming an undulating obstacle of glacial ice. The wind whipped his clothing, and he recognised the chilling blasts of arctic cold. It was the shortest day of winter and daylight had fled. Only a faint light remained on the horizon.
The first of the stinging ice hit him. It bit into his exposed skin - skin that was dressed for a temperate autumn - that had no covering for a winter storm. No protection from the glacial weather, no obstacle to block the wind. He narrowed his eyes to slits as the sharp shards ripped tiny slices in his face, his arms. Slices that bled just a little - enough to form a crystalline crust on the surface of his skin.
Ice was building on him now, layer upon layer as the initial shafts melted, then re-froze against his flesh. Still, he trudged on. There was something ahead; something Jarron needed to see.
He was there, dressed even more inadequately than Jarron himself. There, where they'd left him, as sacrificial offering to the gods. A sacrificial offering who had never, in a thousand years, been content with his role as a sacrifice.
Jarron pushed his way past the barricades, as a shrilly screaming icy blast shattered the display's sheltering glass. Shards of glass. Shards of ice.
He lay there now exposed to the elements, just as he had a thousand years before. Huddled against the chilling cold, held fast by the ice that pinned him.
Jarron reached out to touch him, and watched the brittle tissues break away beneath his fingertips; watched the freeze-dried flesh disperse like so much ash. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, dust to ice? The next time Jarron tried to raise his arm - to take a step - he was so laden with ice, so heavy with the weight of it, that he could barely move.
*
"You on video?" Kris asked him. Andy nodded and dashed away, towards the office.
Kris took off in the opposite direction. He knew, better than Jarron realised, how much Jarron Marshall wanted to avoid the kind of confrontation they'd forced on him.
It made Kris wonder if maybe they'd blown it. They hadn't left him with any outs: no one to run to, or discuss this with. Because they'd all been in it together.
They were trying to save him, but Kris didn't think Jarron would see it that way. He was still too scared, and too damn tired. His running had nothing to do with facing them - he didn't want to face himself.
Kris knew where he'd go. In a few minutes, when he calmed down, he'd start working on his excuse. Not for his friends - but for the others. Something Paul Warren could credibly repeat to his employers.
Jarron would be at the Viking exhibit. On the premise of going along with some of what Nick had planned, but not the rest. Kris grinned. He had no doubt Jarron was planning the best way to tell Nick - and the rest of us - to fuck off.
*
Andy was systematic in his video scan. Room to room and watching the hallways in-between. What Kris couldn't find by instinct, Andy would find by elimination.
Their loose collaboration was gradually evolving into the partnership Kris had once talked to him about. Andy rubbed his shoulder and grunted, as he flexed the muscles. He was learning a whole new bunch of tricks under Kris Chandler's tutelage.
He was pleased that he'd been able to teach Chandler a few things, too. Kris tended to rely too much on instinct, Andy felt. He was damned good at research, but he'd take the odd clue and run with it. Flying high - literally, sometimes, when it came to buildings - on a softly-grounded whim. Andy had a different approach, and his footwork had already paid off. He guessed his less-than-agile ability in the air was balanced by the fact that his insight had more than once saved Chandler's butt - giving him time to fly away while Andy provided the distraction he needed.
For a while, Andy had wondered why Kris had chosen him as a partner, instead of Gill, his "Wraith". Their skill levels were more on a par, he'd felt, than his and Kris'. It had made him question whether he was Chandler's poor second choice as a partner, perhaps because the Wraith had refused him.
Until there'd come a night when he'd had to bail Gill out of trouble, much the same way he'd done Kris. That was when he'd realised: Kris and Gill were two of a kind. What could work singularly would be disastrous in a duet. Andy was just glad that Kris and Gill were sharp enough to realise it. Because of their romantic involvement, one would never have wanted the other take the chances their jobs required, and - sooner rather than later - they would have been at each other's throats. That is, if either of them survived long enough. The instincts that guided them might be similar, but they weren't identical. If those instincts clashed in the field - or up on the rooftops - they could both end up dead, or in jail.
Besides, Kris and Gill were hopeless romantics - caught up in illusion. Andy thought it was great. The love, the illusion - the two of them thrived on it.
It's a good thing one of this team has his feet on the ground, he thought, satisfied with his contribution.
Andy's slow smile surfaced. Here he was, moonlighting his so-called straight job at the ISO with risky cavorts across the rooftops. That's when he wasn't tailing his friend Jarron, who had an unfortunate affinity for phantoms. Who needed illusion? Hell, his daily "grind" had about as much illusion as anyone could take. He was still grinning as he flicked the screen to the hallway outside the Viking exhibit.
*
It was so damn cold. Nick couldn't figure it out. It can't be good for the exhibits to have everything frozen.
Of course, this was the Viking exhibit they were talking about. Maybe they were really going for the realism bit - emphasising the hardiness of their Viking forebears. Nick was nearly there when the first of the alarms went off.
Fire? Nick didn't think so - not when some parts of the place were as cold as an Eskimo's ass. Burglary? Maybe - Kris was in the building. Lately, Andy had made him wonder, too.
If it wasn't either of those things, there was only one other that came to mind. Process of elimination. Stacking up those factors and seeing how they added up.
Odds were it was Jarron.
*
As soon as the alarm sounded, Andy turned to the security guard. "Where?"
The woman punched in the co-ordinates. In the next moment, the computer screen revealed a confusing tableau of blurred images. Andy thought he could see someone in the background, but the lens was clouded, and he couldn't be sure.
His eyes might not be able to confirm it, but something told Andy he was right. Chandler wasn't the only one with instincts. He spoke into the phone. "Kris? Try the Creighton Room in the west wing."
*
The cracking sound of the ice seemed to open a fissure in Jarron's brain. Sense returned, and he stared guiltily at the broken display case. Did I do that? It took longer for his eyes to clear - for the visions of clouds and snow and ice storms to give way to panelled walls, and wooden floors.
"What the hell are you doing, Jar?" Nick's voice. Incredulous.
But, at the moment, it was still no more real to Jarron than that other voice had been. The present had no more substance than the fragments of the past that had crumbled beneath his fingers.
Nick grabbed his arm. "Jar! You okay?" He turned over Jarron's hands, to look at his bloodied fingers. His flesh felt frozen, and he had tiny cuts all over the surface of his skin - his arms, his face - but he didn't seem aware of any of it. "Snap out of it!"
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Jarron looked at him then, and wobbled a little on his feet.
"Whoa -" Nick tightened his grip as Jarron sagged. Then Kris was there, to take Jarron's other arm.
"Andy's on video," Kris said calmly. "What're the odds he'll be here before we leave the room?"
"One million four hundred seventy-two thousand twenty-three to one."
"For or against?"
Nick knew Kris was just making conversation - trying to distract Jarron till they could get him out of here. "For," Nick replied. "In fact, they just got even better. Here he comes now."
"Jarron had a run-in with a display case," Kris explained when Andy came closer.
"Must've rolled in it," Nick muttered sarcastically, dissatisfied with the way they were avoiding the subject.
Andy looked at the tiny cuts all over Jarron's skin, and his brow furrowed. The display case had broken in jagged shards. There was nothing else here, from what he could see, to cause this kind of damage.
"Slipped in a puddle, and fell against the case," Kris went on.
Through a barricade and up a step - But it was as good an explanation as any. The museum could come up with its own reason for the puddled water that covered the floor. And Andy would make sure any video footage was less than revealing. But, first, he wanted to take a better look at the tapes - to see what had really gone on here.
Nick was clearly upset. Of course, he'd been the one to find Jarron first, but Andy suspected he also wasn't too happy about the way they were handling things. That was the problem with these mathematical types: they seemed to see everything as black or white. Lay out the equations, take everything into account, and there's your solution. Logic dictated they approach Jarron about this openly. After all, they'd already decided to be open with him about the paintings. To force him to confront his abilities, and learn to deal with it.
Only, Andy thought, looking at Jarron's white, exhausted expression, the man was in no shape to be approached about anything right now. Whatever had happened in that room had taken something out of him, and what was left was borderline collapse. Overwork had just been capped off with some kind of physical trauma.
Jarron's teeth were chattering by the time they hit the hall. "I-I'm f-fin-ne," he told them stubbornly, yanking his arm away from Nick. He would have toppled then, if it hadn't been for Kris.
"Sit down, Jar," Kris ordered.
Paul Warren came up the hall at a run.
"Go down to the coffee shop and bring back something hot for him to drink," Andy ordered. He took off his jacket and threw it over Jarron's shoulders. "What happened?" he asked.
Jarron's eyes lit up. Some of that misplaced hilarity was still with him. "I-ice st-to-r-r-rm," he chuckled. "F-found your Vi-ikings-s, N-Nick." He shuddered.
"Ya didn't have to fall on 'em," Nick told him, mopping off some of the blood with his handkerchief. Now that Jarron's skin was beginning to warm, the cuts were starting to bleed in earnest. "For all you know, that could have been my great-uncle-fourteen-times-removed Knute."
Andy stepped aside to make a call. His eyes met Kris' as he strolled back over. "Gonna sue the museum, Jar, for damages? All that water?"
Obviously, Andy didn't believe in the ice storm explanation. Jarron fought to keep from laughing out loud. The entire thing seemed so ludicrous now. He didn't know if it was relief, or just hysteria. "In oth-ther words-s, is-s it th-their f-fault-t, or m-mine?"
"Well, since you put it that way, I would kinda like to know."
Jarron looked bemused. He sagged a little more, and Kris held him up. "N-neith-ther-r," he whispered, the trace of humour still there in his voice. He turned his head, to look back at the room, where the ancient corpse lay half-in, half-out of its display. He shuddered again, and his eyes grew dark - and not a little sad. "I-it was-s H-His-s."
*
"If you're thinking Jarron did this - to himself - you're wrong," Nick told them a little belligerently. The paramedics had just taken Jarron downstairs, to load him into the ambulance.
Kris looked amused. Nick had already thought ahead, decided on the logical explanation, and was making sure to counter it before they could begin to believe it. "The thought never crossed my mind," Kris said.
"It crossed his," Nick retorted angrily, jerking his thumb in Andy's direction.
"Nope." Andy's slow grin surfaced. "Anyone else - yes. Jarron - no."
"I'm more worried about Jarron's explanation," Kris admitted. "What did you see when you came in the room, Nick?"
"Clouds," Nick told them. "Like fog, but dense - and cold. Then they seemed to lift, and I thought it was just my eyes. Until Jarron mentioned the ice storm." He hesitated, uncertain how to put it. "When I first saw Jarron - standing next to the case - I could swear he was coated with ice."
***
Chapter Two
I'm back. Not a happy thought. The hospital room seemed dark and sombre and full of movement. Jarron wanted some company, but of his own choosing - preferably from among the living. He rang the bell for the nurse.
Paul Warren answered it first. "You look better," he remarked.
Jarron was embarrassed. "Does foolish look any better wrapped?" he asked guiltily.
Paul glanced at the bandages. "Not really," he said, grinning.
"Sorry I ran off like that," Jarron blurted. He'd been feeling guilty about it, ever since he'd thought about how it would reflect on Paul. Despite Andy's moonlighting activities with Kris, he was still Paul Warren's boss.
"It was all in the equation," Paul reassured him. His lips were twitching, but he kept a straight face.
"Nick."
"You got it," Paul replied. "I don't think he counted on this, though," he went on, gesturing at the bandages. "What d'you need?"
Jarron looked momentarily blank.
"The bell," Paul reminded him.
"Company," Jarron blurted. And instantly regretted it. If Warren had thought he was foolish before, he'd be sure he was downright stupid now.
There was no derision in Paul's expression, however. He was deciding how much Jarron's request went against policy. There were rules about fraternising with clients. It could only result in dissension, resentment, and regret.
Only, Jarron Marshall wasn't like their usual "client". If anything, he fit more into the role of victim, than victimiser, and he'd gone out of his way to make things easy on the people who were watching over him. Until today - and Paul was sure Jarron had a good reason for running. Paul had seen far too much action not to be able to recognise fear on a man's face.
In Paul's mind, Jarron's fear was misplaced. The time for fear had been later, in the museum. When his skin was coated with blood and his eyes were - there was no other way to describe it - haunted.
Still, Jarron was a good man, who didn't ask for very much. Right now, all he wanted was a little company, so he wouldn't have to be alone. Wouldn't have to think about what had happened.
Paul pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket. "Company?" he repeated with a smile. "You got it," he said.
*
"What the hell is this, Andy?" Robart asked grimly. He waved the file in Andy's face. "'Frostbite on his extremities'. He was in a museum. How are we going to keep this quiet?"
"He's only going to be in overnight. Maybe they won't notice."
"Not funny." Colin sank back into the chair. "It's what they make of it that has me worried."
Andy looked at him sharply. "A minor accident at a local museum. There shouldn't be any problem."
"That's because you don't know what's going on. I'm surprised your friend Chandler hasn't briefed you on it." Colin saw Andy's expression and grinned. "What did you think? That your extracurricular activities would go unnoticed?" He chuckled. "Chandler's giving you the kind of training the agency doesn't supply. I figure we'll be the ones to benefit." He smile dimmed slightly. "Besides, by the time this endophyte nonsense is over with, you may be the only one with job security."
"What do they suspect?"
"The truth - that Marshall's 'brain damage' has triggered some kind of massive psychic reaction. It could be that he's always had it, but just didn't know it was there."
"I don't get it," Andy said. "So what? It's not like they can use it. Jarron can't even control it."
"How well do you think Marshall would take to being a lab rat? To having electrodes attached to his skull, and his movements electronically monitored, for months at a time?"
Andy gave a low whistle. "I didn't think it was anywhere near that bad."
"That bad, or worse. Cell cultures, electrical stimulation of the brain to trigger specific responses."
"It would kill him," Andy said quietly. "He doesn't have enough control."
"That's what I think," Colin admitted. "Either that, or his goblins would go crazy."
"Same thing," Andy told him. "He still isn't over Torres' death, even though the man was trying to kill him. If some of his ghosties threatened to take out someone else, Jarron would end it any way he could - even if it meant taking out himself."
*
Perry Gervois hesitated so long outside Jarron's room that Dave Chavez was prompted to ask, "Something wrong, Doc?"
Gervois jerked, and replied, a little abruptly, "No - just side-tracked. How's Mr. Marshall doing tonight?"
"Bored."
Gervois nodded. He didn't say anything else - just frowned and went into the room.
Dave Chavez looked after him strangely.
*
Every time Jarron closed his eyes, he'd see the same thing: grey sky, sheets of ice, and his fingers brushing against the crumbling tissues…
One moment it would be unreal, like some kind of weird dream. Less real, in fact, than some of the dreams he'd had. At other times, the shrill blasts of wind and frozen wastes were his reality. Strange. His scientific side tried to puzzle it out. He had this oddly disjointed feeling of being caught between two worlds, two lifetimes.
Gervois had asked if he was feeling light-headed. His blood loss hadn't been severe, but enough to add to his exhaustion. Maybe this is just part of that, Jarron reasoned. A little lost blood and a lot of lost sleep. What bothered him most was that his disorientation made him feel even less in control than usual.
Maybe Gervois will give me something, so I can sleep. The moment he thought it, Jarron was filled with aversion. Relying on drugs again, are we, Jarron? He was disgusted at how easily his mind had drifted to it as a solution.
Gervois wouldn't be too forthcoming with any, either, he guessed. For the same reason, but without any background as to how it had happened or why. This afternoon, when Jarron had been brought in, Gervois had barely controlled his annoyance. Apparently, he'd thought Jarron had gone out of his way to self-inflict his injuries, merely to aggravate his doctor. A doctor who didn't take well to having his work watched closely by the ISO. Jarron had a feeling Perry Gervois would gladly have turned him over to someone else, if it wouldn't have reflected so negatively on his public image. After all, no matter what a psycho Jarron Marshall might be, he was still a respected, and well-known, figure.
So, Jarron was left with nothing to do. Kris and Nick had supplied him with books and magazines, but Jarron couldn't concentrate. Not when every blink heralded a return to the Arctic Circle. Sleep would have at least allowed him to hide in his dreams.
Only, sleep was as distant as the polar ice pack. Jarron had slept hard this afternoon, but he had a feeling that had more to do with shock. The cold had hit him in a way he hadn't expected.
No - sleep was about the furthest thing from his mind tonight. There was nothing restful about the wintry scenes he kept picturing - nothing like the peaceful snow scenes on the Christmas cards: the still trees coated in glassy icicles. The scenes in Jarron's head were all turmoil and slicing ice and hard-packed, glaciated snow under painfully sharp winds. Full of action and movement. Only slightly less active than the undercurrents in his hospital room.
By the time Perry Gervois reluctantly poked his head through the door, Jarron was actually glad to see him.
*
A speaking silence. Jarron didn't say much of anything while Gervois poked and prodded him. Didn't even complain when the man examined some of those stinging cuts. Didn't ask for painkillers or sleeping tablets or any help at all.
Because he was too busy trying to figure out what was bothering Perry Gervois. And what he was trying not to say.
"It's my sister," Gervois finally blurted out. Jarron was glad, because for once it reduced the doctor to a man, instead of an occupation. "She's been having some problems." His eyes were a little desperate now. "I don't know if you know anything about -" He hesitated, and his face glossed over with that veneer of professionalism once more. Dr. Perry Gervois had just realised how foolish he sounded.
Jarron didn't try to second-guess him, though he had a good idea where all this was leading. He also realised Gervois must be pretty desperate to approach him. In Gervois' mind, Jarron Marshall was a pampered debutante, who got himself into trouble again and again, in some crazed bid for attention. He'd left the hospital against doctor's advice, he'd gone on binges with drugs, he'd tried some other daredevil antics that had led to injuries - even getting himself shot in the process.
The truth was, Gervois would have preferred to have nothing to do with Jarron Marshall, and his so-called problems. He was only here because he'd heard something. Something that had made him turn to Jarron, as a kind of last resort.
Gervois cleared his throat. "It's coming to a head," he admitted. "She's worried about her kids -"
"Let's go," Jarron told him calmly.
Gervois' eyes jumped to his in startled surprise. "Just like that?" he asked in a whisper.
Jarron grinned at him. "Just like that," he said.
*
A few minutes later, Dave was shaking his head and talking into his phone. "We're going out," he was explaining.
"You don't have to come," Jarron said loudly.
Dave listened for a moment then grinned. "Andy wants to know where. He says he doesn't give a fuck for the why." He listened some more. "He just needs to know whether to bring a tux, a machine gun, or an ice pick -"
Jarron glanced at Gervois and saw the fear in the other man's face. "Tell him none of the above, Dave," Jarron reassured him. "Just a crucifix -"
They didn't need Dave's translation, because Andy's exclamation came across tinny and clear. The "Oh, shit!" echoed loudly in the corridor. Jarron was still chuckling as he and Dave trailed Gervois down the hall.
*
"It's talking to her kids," Perry said, in a kind of horrified whisper. Jarron knew that a few short months ago, he would have had the same reaction: choked voice, gooseflesh, moist eyes. Terror barely under control. He was surprised to find that he wasn't scared - only somewhat nervous.
Is this progress, then, Jarron? Or are you just so perverse, so blasé - so 'been there, done that' - that you aren't fazed by this kind of thing any more? Too familiar with the unfathomable?
For just a second, he let himself believe he'd progressed. That his attitude represented a forward step. But, he knew he couldn't go into this kind of encounter either cocky, or with a lie on his lips. Not when he might be facing someone like Jack Halloran, or Angelo Torres.
The truth was, he could do it because it was for someone else. Because it gave him an excuse for what he found unforgivable in himself. Gave him a reason to go against all that stiff core of self-defensive religious ritualism, that had been designed to keep the living separated from the dead. This was the eleventh commandment - the one no one ever mentioned, because the afterlife was supposed to reassure, not intrude - thou shalt not dabble with the dead. Jarron could dabble because someone desperately needed him to. And - after today, and the weird disconnection with reality that he'd experienced - this little jaunt seemed almost normal.
He was standing in front of the house before it hit him. He blanched - whitening all the way to his lips. What was he thinking of? He was going in, totally unprepared - to do what? He'd had only one method of fighting things like this, and he'd thrown it away, weeks before.
"Marshall, are you okay?"
Jarron didn't realise Gervois had been watching him. He should have known Gervois would be aware that he'd gone against his own recommendations, and would be taking care to cover his ass.
"Consider your ass covered, Gervois," Jarron told him, then realised how harsh it sounded. He grimaced. "Sorry," he said. "Just a little tense."
Another car came tearing up the street, and Jarron found himself grinning widely as he spotted Andy climbing out of the driver's seat. Without any prelude, Andy handed him a paintbrush. "Not exactly a cross," he said, "but maybe it'll do."
Jarron's smile faded. The brush was worn - the tip dulled and rounded - the paint of the handle worn with finger marks. His finger marks. "You saved them," he said, simply. Andy had several more brushes and some partially squished tubes of paint in his right hand; a piece of hardboard in his left.
"Souvenir."
"Remind me to find a big rock and a dark alley on the way back," Jarron told him.
Dave Chavez gave an amused snort. When he saw Andy looking at him, he turned it into a cough. "Sinuses," he explained.
"I don't get it!" Gervois said, clearly displeased. "There's nothing to joke about -"
Their humour clashed with his nerves. His response to Marshall's claims about his new-found painting ability had been to transfer him to the neurosurgeon for assessment - but it had been a hard decision whether to go for the neurologist, or a psychiatrist. At the time, he'd considered it unfortunate that the report from that damned flake of a physiotherapist, Angela Tieman, had made it nearly impossible to justify the psychiatric angle - considering the derogatory effect it might have had on the famed Jarron Marshall's career. Marshall would never know it, but it had actually given Gervois a guilty niggle of satisfaction to tell him he'd suffered some brain damage. And, as unworthy as it made him feel after Jarron's quick response this evening, he was a lot more comfortable in his present anger, that in any kind of alliance with the man.
*
Nick stopped outside Jarron's hospital room. No guard. The scene was all too reminiscent of one a few months back, where he'd walked in to find Jarron being smothered by Jack Halloran.
"Damn!" he muttered under his breath. He wondered if he should call Andy, or the police. Or maybe just stop at the nurses' station to advise them of what was happening.
But if it's like before, Nick, there's no time.
As his muscles tightened in preparation, his side gave a phantom ache of sympathy. Flinching, with his thumb flexed to punch in the emergency code on his phone - and wielding the big box of chocolates like a club - Nick put his shoulder to the door and ran into the room.
*
"And this is - Jarron Marshall," Perry Gervois introduced him to his sister.
It annoyed Andy. He'd met jerks like Gervois before. He noticed how the man hesitated, then deliberately left off Jarron's title. In Gervois' mind, the only "doctors" were those who worked in a hospital. Andy knew Jarron wouldn't care, but it bothered Andy on his behalf. He glanced at Jarron, and realised he not only didn't care - he didn't even realise he was being introduced.
"Jarron!" Andy elbowed him.
Jarron was looking a little vague. "Sorry -" He gave a distracted smile. "Nice to meet you," he muttered, a little absently. His eyes scanned the room, and finally focused on the stairs.
It was enough to make Gervois realise his patient wasn't looking all that healthy. Some of his cuts had been bandaged, but the ones that weren't stood out red against Marshall's paling skin. But when Gervois reached out a hand, to check Marshall's pulse, Andy stopped him.
"Don't!" he whispered. Dave had briefed him outside. "You got him into this. Now just let him do it."
Jarron was already heading up the stairs. "Get them out," he said tensely. "'specially the kids -" The last was slightly slurred.
Andy nodded to Dave. The children were asleep on the couch - top and tail, with the mother's sleeping bag on the floor. Andy suspected it had been a last-ditch effort to avoid leaving the house altogether.
Dave gathered up one child, while the mother - what was her name? - Karen - picked up the other. Dave grabbed Perry Gervois' arm with his other hand, to usher him out.
"No. Go on, Karen," Perry urged. "He's my patient. I have to stay."
Karen opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, there was a sudden loud scraping sound, followed by a crash, as something was flung violently across the floor upstairs. There was another thud, and the tinkling shatter of broken glass. "May God be with you!" she whispered. "I love you, Perry!" Cradling the little girl protectively against her chest, she turned and ran out of the house.
"Andy?" Dave looked at him questioningly. Something heavy fell above them, making the lamp above their heads shiver. "You want back-up?" he asked.
Andy glanced at Gervois.
"I'm staying," Gervois insisted, gawking nervously at the ceiling.
For the first time, Andy felt a grudging respect for the man. "Take the boy out, Dave," Andy ordered. He gave his slow smile. "Screams or howls of pain - come running." He started for the stairs, then turned back, his foot on the lowest tread. "Have an ambulance standing by," he warned, scrunching his face as he heard a wailing din begin upstairs. "Just in case." He glanced down at Jarron's paints and board - tightly gripped in his hands - as though to reassure himself they were still there. Then, sucking in a deep breath, he turned and raced up the stairs, two at a time.
*
Just as he'd thought, Jarron wasn't alone. And whoever it was, he was up to no good - he was searching the drawer by the bed.
Nick didn't give himself time to reconsider. Do it, Nick! The man had just barely lifted his head when Nick caught him in a tackling dive. The two of them bashed against the bed, sending it screeching across the floor, then flipped across the blankets in a clumsy roll that dumped them both onto the floor under the window.
"Get off me, Nick!" Kris grunted angrily.
Nick, caught up in his adrenaline rush, continued bashing Kris on the top of the head with the chocolate box. Kris, in a flush of anger, grabbed some of the spilled chocolates and smashed them against Nick's face, smearing the creamy centres onto his cheek and ear.
"Cut - it - out!" Kris said again. Nick, in his enthusiasm, was all flailing fists and kicks. It was all Kris could do not to hurt him as he tried to stop him.
Suddenly, it registered, and Nick's fists dropped. "Oops," he muttered.
"Oops?" Kris shoved Nick away. "Is that all you have to say - oops?"
Nick stood up anxiously. "We must've creamed Jarron when we rolled over the -" He stood up and looked at the empty bed, then over onto the floor. "Where's Jar?"
"That's what I was trying to find out when you stopped to say hello."
Nick frowned as he tried to wipe off a gooey chunk of orange centre. "God, that's disgusting," he muttered, rubbing it on Jarron's sheet. "Anyone ever tell you ya fight dirty?" he asked, grinning at his own joke.
Kris was rummaging some more in Jarron's stuff.
"Why don't you just call Andy?" Nick asked him.
"Why don't I just sound all the alarms before I find out if anything's even wrong? Jarron's clothes are gone, Dave's not around, and the nurses said Gervois escorted Jarron out of here. Sounds like they went on a mission to me."
"I get it," Nick said sarcastically. "You want to figure it out before you call Andy. So you can awe him with your amazing insight -"
Kris grinned at him. "How well you know me," he admitted. He handed Nick his phone.
"I have my own -"
"Just punch two," Kris told him.
As it was ringing, Nick asked. "Who's one?"
"Jarron," Kris replied.
"Then what number am I?"
Kris went back to searching the drawer.
"Now, I'm not even on his phone," Nick muttered. He held Kris' phone against his ear with his shoulder, and pulled out his own cellphone. "Let me see," he went on. "Erase, erase, erase. We'll just get rid of all these superfluous, nonuser-friendly type numbers in here. People who answer their phones with machines every time because they're too damn sneaky to - oh, hi, Andy," he interrupted himself. "Whe -" He looked at the phone a little blankly. "He said he can't talk right now. There were all kinds of weird noises in the background. Almost like a party."
Kris snatched back his phone and started punching in buttons.
"What're you doing?"
"Tracing it," Kris said.
"Don't you need more time?" Nick asked.
"Trust me," Kris told him. He grabbed Nick's arm and tugged him out the door.
*
It was a woman. Jarron inhaled deeply, caught momentarily by the scent of her perfume. Her perfume, her body. Sweet - until an acrid smell cut the air. Tainted it, with the potent, gorge-rising sourness of those unwashed crevices in the human body.
It was a scent he'd come to associate with hate. Sour, repelling. The other - the perfume that yet lingered in the air - was a disguise. "Enough to fool the kids?" Jarron asked aloud.
The air darkened, and Jarron could feel her all around him. Desks were tipped, wardrobes toppled. A chair skidded down the hall to slam into his leg. And always, the unrelenting pressure of her against his skin. Still, he stood his ground. "Is this what you were going to do to them?" he asked, letting his disgust show.
It was the trigger. The next moment he was tossed across the room, to slam into a mirror.
This is wrong, Jarron thought, confused and dazed. She can't hurt me. But then he remembered another time, in his house, when Kris had been tossed backwards, much as he had just been.
Correction, Jarron. She can't kill you - but she sure as hell can hurt you. Because of what you are. The truth cut him nearly as much as the mirror had done. It was something about him that fed them - lured them in - gave them their strength. Something in the link between them. And if, like this one, they were strong enough, or angry enough, or unfinished enough, to find their own way here, they wouldn't hesitate to use him.
He realised what a fool he'd been. He'd come here, totally unprepared. Tool-less, thoughtless, clueless. A stupidly noble knight with no armour, no weapons. No paints, no brush, no help. Not the kind he needed, anyway. No small angels or unseen hands to guide his steps. He'd spent weeks now trying to deny their existence, and determined to live this new life without help. Because he was afraid that he couldn't be selective - couldn't let in the angels and lock out the demons.
Like this one.
He'd locked them out for so long that now, he didn't know how to let them in. Didn't know how to break down the barriers he'd erected in his heart.
Andy had brought his paints. Had assumed it would be the same as before - that good ol' Jar would bash the bad ghost lady and paint her away. Andy, and whoever came with him, might well get crunched for their efforts.
And it's all my fault. Because I'm somehow giving them the strength - channelling in the energy - for them to do it. There was a chance he might be wrong about the killing, too. If she could draw energy through a living source, didn't that somehow overstep the bounds? Empowering her beyond the limits of her existence, so she could destroy life as well? As indomitable as the human spirit might be, the body that encased it was a frail thing. Jarron knew, because he was feeling a little frail himself right now. How many steps was it beyond injury, to death?
I need help. But if what he suspected was true, he didn't know if he could muster up the mindset he needed to get it. What if it only empowers her more? In the background - or maybe it was just in his head - he could hear the cackling coarseness of her laughter.
Chances are, she won't kill me. Unless she's insane, of course. Why cut off her source of supply? Jarron pushed himself to his feet. He needed to get the others out of here, away from him, away from her, or someone was going to die.
*
Andy's quick ascent had slowed, and he hesitated near the top. Jarron would let him know when he was ready.
That's if he can. There was another loud thud from above his head. Andy flinched. He'd heard that sound before. Someone had just landed on the floor. Jarron's gonna be bruised as hell, he thought.
"What's he doing up there?" Gervois hissed.
Andy held the board before him like a shield. The eyes he turned toward Gervois were dark and dilated. "His best."
"Sounds like he's throwing the furniture around." Gervois was frowning. He half-suspected the debutante was making a show out of all this.
"He's not doing the throwing." Andy looked worried as another rattling crash came from behind the door. "And it's not only the furniture." Andy didn't hesitate any longer. He wouldn't have waited this long if it had been any other kind of altercation. He'd be damned if he'd hide here while Jarron was beaten to a pulp. He put his shoulder to the door and gave it a shove.
And was promptly thrown back down the stairs on top of Gervois. "What the hell -?" Gervois complained.
"Shut up," Andy said tensely. He tore back up the stairs and slammed against the door. "Jarron!" he yelled. "Get us in!"
He could hear Jarron's voice, but it was muffled by distance. He must be on the other side of the room, Andy thought. That meant it wasn't Jarron holding the door. The thought made gooseflesh dance down his arms and legs.
"No!" Jarron yelled. "Get o-" His voice was abruptly cut off mid-sentence, but the words weren't. A shrilly hollow female voice picked up where he'd left off. The "out" seemed to echo on and on, picking up strength and resounding down the staircase.
"Shit!" The face Perry turned to Andy was white and strained. "What now?"
But Andy wasn't listening. This was too reminiscent of another time. The time with the priest. Only, Jarron was the one pinned to the wall. Why?
Something was wrong. Something had changed. With Jarron. Andy realised how much he'd been relying on Jarron's "magic". Assuming that Jarron could see this through, as easily as he'd dispossessed Jack Halloran's claims for existence. Assuming that the confidence Jarron had shown, that day in his house, was still with him.
Yet he'd come here, for all the right reasons. To help. What was wrong?
"Are you just gonna stand there?" Perry asked him shrilly.
Andy's confusion showed in his eyes. Things were out of control, and Jarron was the only one he knew who might be able to fix them. "The paints," he whispered, frowning at the squished tubes in his hand. "Maybe they'll help." He charged back up the stairs and slammed against the door. This time Gervois came with him. Together, they bashed into the door, and knocked it halfway off the hinges. One more bash, and they were in.
*
"No-o!" Jarron groaned. He didn't know how he was going to protect them. He didn't even know how he was going to protect himself. At that moment, Andy was picked up and slammed against the wall, much as he had been. The paints went flying, like so much rubbish. What was I thinking? Jarron wondered. Such feeble weapons against - this?
She came at Jarron again, spiking him with non-existent high heels.
Gervois was knocked backwards, to roll down the stairs.
*
Kris parked outside the house, then stood for a minute, watching the lights upstairs. It looked like a wild party, with flashes and flickers, shadows and weird globs of glowing luminescence. Instead of music, there was a series of shrill howls that seemed to echo in the trees. "Some party," he muttered sarcastically to Nick.
Nick twitched nervously, blinked heavily, then stared at the open front door. "Let's get it over with," he said unhappily.
Kris' expression held a glimmer of amusement. "That the logical approach?" he asked.
"Logic dictates I hop in the car, drive home as fast as I can and dive under the bed. Any more questions?" He stomped away, then glanced back at Kris. "I could use some company," he suggested, frowning.
"Then Dave's your man," Kris told him, giving Chavez a wave. "I'm gonna wing it." Kris headed for a trellis and started up.
"Always gotta be the sneak," Nick muttered. But as he watched Kris ascend, he remembered how close Kris had come to dying, just a short time before. At least he wouldn't have so far to fall this time. Concern prompted him to call, "Watch your back, you sneaky bastard!"
The look Kris shot him was full of amusement. "Why don't you hurry?" he hissed back. "Then maybe you'll be there to help me watch my front." As Nick dashed away, Kris moved silently up on to the roof.
*
Andy's eyes sought Jarron. There was blood running down Jarron's face and arms - some from cuts that had re-opened - some from the jagged glass on the floor that also bore his signature, in rusty red splatters. Their eyes met, and Andy knew Jarron was in pain, but most of it wasn't physical - in all the time he'd known him, Jarron had never looked this despairing. In the past he'd seemed to have some kind of inner knowledge that had buoyed him up, against all the manipulation and terror they'd encountered. Tonight, though, Jarron just looked like he wanted to throw it all in. Like he'd run out of solutions and didn't know where to go. Andy nudged a paintbrush in his direction, then realised he'd made a mistake. He suddenly saw the paints and brushes and board as Jarron was seeing them: these were no weapons - they were feebly flimsy bits of wood and nylon and oil; a synthetically impossible opposition to an ungodly foe.
Andy could feel her in the room. Like Jarron, he knew it was a woman. He was suddenly terrified because she was about to test her wiles on him. It was in the feel of her brushing against him, the scent of her in his nostrils, his lungs; the taste of her on his tongue. His body reacted, even though his mind screamed bestial; abhorrent. What made it worse was that he knew it was what she was waiting for.
*
Jarron realised what was happening. What he couldn't see he could sense - and he could sense enough to know Andy's danger. It filled him with some of the old righteous anger - dispelling some of the despair that had almost, but not quite, made him accept his impotence. Andy was here to help him. Jarron would be damned if he'd let him suffer for it. He pushed himself up on hands and knees and began to crawl. Ignoring glass and nails and shards of wood; flickering lights and screams of anger; pinches, slaps, and blows - Jarron kept moving until he'd reached Andy's side.
"It's gone," Jarron puffed out, when he'd reached him. Shut up, Jarron. Call that reassurance?
"I know," Andy said. His face was tight as he tried to fight her influence. Tried to deny the fondling fingers and scraping nails. Andy grunted. "Like the priest -"
Jarron stared at him - surprised at his perceptiveness.
Kris' voice came from close at hand - startling them both. "Now we've just gotta get it back -"
Andy grinned, relieved.
Kris reached out a hand, and Jarron gripped it like a lifeline.
"What d'you need?" Andy asked. "Paints, we've got." His light tone couldn't conceal the desperation in his eyes.
But for the first time, there was a trace of hope in Jarron's. "Confidence - that I'm not gonna blow it," he admitted.
"What'd you do to Gervois?" Nick's voice asked loudly. His head poked around the corner of the stairs.
"Messed up?" Andy asked.
But Nick was staring at Jarron, whose smile was white through the blood caking his face. "Comparatively speaking? No," he muttered. He looked warily around the room. "This your fault?" he asked Jarron.
A vase sailed through the air and exploded near Jarron's head, showering them all in porcelain chips and stale water; making them all jump.
Jarron lifted his head. "It'd be better if you all left," he told them abruptly.
"Safer, maybe," Andy said. "But not better."
"I hate this shit," Nick complained.
"You don't get it," Jarron told them seriously. "There's only one way -"
"Not here," Kris interrupted. "Outside." He grinned reassuringly at Jarron. "Better, and a whole lot safer." He didn't wait for him to answer - just put a hand under his arm and hauled him to his feet. "Let's go."
*
Gervois was sitting outside with Dave Chavez and his sister when the four of them stumbled out the front door. A paramedic was putting an ice pack on the doctor's head. "What the hell -?" Gervois exclaimed.
"Lovely night for a get-together, isn't it, Doc?" Nick asked. "Don't let this bother you. Wait till later, when we dance around naked under the moon."
"Marshall, are you okay?" Gervois asked worriedly. He stared in dismay at the blood beginning to dry on the other man's face. Spectres of malpractice suits waltzed with Nick's naked dancers in his head.
Jarron glanced at him distractedly. "Sure," he mumbled. He shook off Kris' support, and limped away, into the shadows. "Need to think," he explained.
"He's not really being rude," Nick explained. "It's just his way." But when one of the paramedics moved in Jarron's direction, Nick sobered and grabbed his arm. "Not now," he said.
*
It's okay, Jarron. You're with friends.
But that was at least part of what was holding him back. He hadn't only sought the dark for concentration - it was just another way of hiding. Of avoiding letting everyone know just how bizarre Jarron Marshall had really become.
Something about this misadventure had stirred up memories of the night he'd gone for the endophyte. Stumbling through the woods, rolling from roof to roof - things associated with pain, mostly. But a couple of other recollections had filtered in, as well: of gyrating faces in searing light; of clinging to Kris Chandler's hand - a hand that was already growing cold - because Kris had been dead.
What kind of monster am I? Jarron was appalled. Perhaps the worst of the memories was one of himself, with his skin emitting a soft luminescence like some of the fungi he studied. Of himself forcing some of that luminosity into Kris Chandler's lifeless body.
Jarron surreptitiously glanced at the others, who were trying, just as surreptitiously, to watch him. How could any of them still act like friends, after what they'd seen? After what he'd done? Was it because he'd tried so hard to act like the old Jarron since then, that maybe he'd had them fooled?
Until you took a trip to the museum, Jarron, he thought derisively. That was a nice touch -
Suddenly, as much as Jarron had avoided talking about the night he'd gone for the endophyte - had gone seventy-hour work weeks out of his way to avoid talking about it - it bothered him because nobody else had brought it up. Was that because everyone hoped it was a one-off event? And they were as eager as he was for things to get back to normal? To pretend that nothing had changed?
Ignore it and it'll go away?
But it wasn't just that one time. What about Halloran?
Jarron hadn't examined it before - had been afraid to think too hard about it. But the answer was so obvious it hurt.
Andy? It's orders. Andy's paid to protect you. Maybe he thinks putting up with your shit is all just part of keeping Jarron Marshall alive.
And, of course, there was the guilt factor. Halloran had worked for the ISO. Andy's friendliness might be his way of making things right.
Nick had the right idea when he walked away. But Jarron had no idea why he'd come back. Except that Nick was a creature of habit. He liked things done a certain way. Maybe Jarron Marshall was just one more piece in the pattern of his life.
And Kris. What about Kris? Was he just grateful, for getting a second chance? All this must be in big conflict with Kris' superstitious side.
I guess Kris doesn't have any choice but be grateful to the poor bugger who dragged him back from the dead.
In that moment, Jarron hated himself more than he'd ever hated anyone.
Self-pity doesn't alleviate responsibility, Jarron.
"You don't have to do this." Kris' voice spoke at his back.
"Yes, I do." Jarron's eyes were dark. "If it was bad before," he said bitterly, "I've only made it worse." Jarron had a sudden flash of the museum, and the desiccated corpse lying half-in, half-out of its display.
Oh, shit! What have I done? If he'd complicated things here, what had he done there?
"Jarron -" Kris was shaking his arm.
Jarron's eyes slowly focused.
"Can I help?" There was tension in Kris' voice. The light show was mounting upstairs. Loud wails were interspersed with the chilling shrillness of a woman's screams.
"Nobody can," Jarron admitted, giving him a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He shrugged, and Kris thought he was shrugging off his arm and pulled it back. Jarron didn't bother to explain.
There's a big difference between accidentally admitting a ghost - and actively summoning one. After tonight, none of them will talk to me ever again.
But since he couldn't figure out why any of his friends still wanted to talk to him anyway, he couldn't think of a valid reason to hide any more. Ashamed and somewhat mortified at being the focus of all their staring eyes, he turned away, and braced both hands against a tree. "Better stand back," he warned Kris flippantly.
Kris didn't listen. Instead, he placed a bracing hand on Jarron's shoulder. "You're not alone," he said quietly.
Jarron could have cried. Instead, he leaned his head against his arms, closed his eyes, and let himself go.
*
"What's happening?" Gervois asked. The night sky was full of glitter. Bright flickers and flashes of light drifted around them.
"It's Jarron," Nick whispered, awed. There was one particular patch of night sky, that had developed a wavery thickness. As they watched, the thickness began to take on a definite shape. "Like Stephanie," Nick murmured. At his words, he could swear there was a giggle near his ear.
Andy could only nod. He was staring fixedly at the translucent figure floating eerily against the dark sky.
Jarron dropped his arms and turned, his expression resigned. But when he saw the extent of the light show that had been going on behind his back, he looked shocked, and more than a little embarrassed. "Guess I overdid it a bit," he said lamely.
"That's an understatement." The words were out before Nick had time to think, and once again, a giggle sounded near his ear. Whether it was the sound of laughter, or the expression on Jarron's face that broke the tension for him, Nick didn't know. But all of a sudden, the entire situation seemed hilarious. Nick found he was actually smiling - laughing almost. Here he was, surrounded by wavery ghost ladies and God-knows-what-else, and he was grinning like some kind of moron.
Because I'm not afraid, he realised.
But Jarron is. Nick recognised the signs of tension in Jarron's expression. He's afraid that by doing this, he's made himself look like some kind of freak. Someone that nobody in his right mind would ever want to know.
Because it was one thing operating a way-station for displaced ghosts, and another intentionally summoning them.
We've seen worse, Jarron, Nick thought. Tonight seemed tame compared to Jack Halloran's knife competitions. Or that night when they'd all gone endophyte hunting.
But that's not what Jarron needed to hear. Right now, Jar just needed some reassurance. So, what do you do, Nick? Act like nothing's happened?
No - like it's no big deal. So he knows you're not afraid -
The thought made him want to laugh all over again. And, as the ghost lady floated into his peripheral vision, he thought, You're out of your fuckin' mind, Acklin.. But all he said - his smile still in place - was an impatient, "You gonna take all night, Jar? I've got chocolates waiting in your room."
"You've got some on your face, too. What'd you do? Leave him the leftovers?" Andy looked like he'd come out of a trance, but he'd guessed what Nick was trying to do. "There's a TV show I want to see," Andy added, glancing at his watch.
"Plot for your next book?" Kris' voice held a trace of humour.
Nick laughed.
Andy turned to Dave Chavez. "Still got your gun, Dave?" he asked loudly. "Make it just low enough so Chandler won't need that 'therapy' session -"
Jarron stared at them incredulously. "And I thought I was nuts," he said.
Perry Gervois gestured fearfully at the spectral images surrounding them. In a voice quivering with terror, he gasped out, "Are you blind?!"
Jarron turned to the doctor, his expression confused, but more hopeful than it'd been for hours. "Deaf, blind, and stupid," he replied. He reached out a hand, and gripped Gervois' arm. "It'll be okay now -" he started to say.
Gervois recoiled. "Don't touch me -"
Nick could have punched him.
Jarron's eyes dimmed a little, but he was still riding high on relief. He knew Gervois' reaction was no more than he might have felt himself. Damned if he could figure out why Kris, Nick, Andy, and - yeah, Dave - felt any differently, but right now, he didn't care. He was just glad they did.
He was staggering, and he only vaguely noticed when Andy came up under one arm to take some of his weight. Someone shoved some smelling salts under his nose and his head jerked up.
"Ready to do some painting?" Andy was asking him.
Jarron looked around, seeing the vast amount of support that was here to back him up. He felt like a fighter, going into the ring. Go for a knock-out, Jarron.
A small hand slipped into his, and a giggle sounded in his ear.
Jarron smiled. "Yeah," he said, squeezing that unseen hand reassuringly. "I'm ready."
***
Chapter Three
It had been over an hour. Long enough, anyway, for Perry Gervois to feel like a whinging ass.
He'd spent the first fifteen minutes stomping around with the icepack on his head, while his sister cried softly in the background. If he'd known what Marshall was capable of, he never would have taken him on as a patient. The ISO was offering him a nice bonus for Marshall's care, and now Perry knew why. They were trying to buy his silence - and maybe his dedication. Trying to solidify their hold on him so he'd continue to treat the freak, no matter how weird he became.
Once Gervois' anger faded, desperation took its place. What the hell had he been thinking of? To even hint to the man that he might be able to "help"? And - what was worse - to ask for it?
I asked for this, Perry thought, looking at the flickering lights upstairs. Listening to rumour, about Marshall, and looking for an out. It appalled him that he could have been so stupid.
But I didn't actually ask, he tried to absolve his conscience. And that led to a memory of Marshall's response - his no-strings-attached offer to help. Perry hadn't exactly asked, but Jarron Marshall hadn't hesitated, either.
But I would have. If I'd known what was coming, I never would have done something like this for Marshall.
He's a pervert. Gets off on necrotica. Likes playing with the unholy, just to see how far he can go -
But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't true. He remembered how scared Marshall had been when the "hallucinations" - that weren't hallucinations - had begun. How terrified.
"We take what we get, and do the best with it we can." It was his dad's saying, and for a moment, Perry felt like his dad was standing at his side. Jarron Marshall hadn't liked what he was getting - in fact, he'd hated it - but he was doing the best with it he could.
Perry Gervois suddenly felt like a fool. He recalled how he'd jerked away from Marshall's hand. The man had just been trying to reassure him -
Reassure me! It made him feel like more of an ass than ever. There's Marshall, going back upstairs to face God-knows-what, and he's offering me reassurance -
Perry Gervois tossed the ice pack into the back of the ambulance.
"Where're you going?" one of the paramedics asked him.
"To see if I can help," he replied.
"Just like that?" The paramedic remembered how Gervois had been stomping around a few minutes past.
But, Gervois was recalling using those same words to Jarron Marshall, and how the man had responded without hesitation. "Yeah," Perry said, grinning. "Just like that."
*
He was painting. Gervois had heard them talk about it, joke about it. Had even noticed the odd smell of turpentine in Marshall's room, one of the first times he'd been admitted to the hospital. Seen the paint streaks on the man's fingers, during his check-ups. Gervois had thought it was a hobby, until tonight. A way of easing tension. Something he'd taken up, after he'd discovered he could do it.
Now, Perry recalled how Angela Tieman, Jarron's physiotherapist, had been shocked. Her report had been an addled epistle of apologies and compliments.
But, then, Angela Tieman had totally blown it. Kept Marshall standing at the easel till he collapsed. She would have raved on about anything if it had kept her employed.
Gervois had discounted it all - as inconsequential gibberish. A joke. Something to calm Marshall down. Art was something he tended to discount anyway. In his opinion, when you dealt with muscles and nerves and flesh and blood, art was too obscure, too insubstantial, to have much meaning. His attention was focused on keeping Marshall alive, and getting them both out of here in a minimal number of pieces.
The first thing he'd noticed was a difference in the feel of the house. He hadn't even realised it had been hostile; only uncomfortable. Now, the absence of hostility let him name what was missing. Not peaceful yet - still stirring. But definitely more liveable.
He sighed with relief, and tiptoed up the stairs. The off-balance feeling that had been with him all night was beginning to right itself. Sanity was just a step away. Get Marshall, and get out. Sell the house, burn it. He'd find a way to buy his sister another -
He'd no sooner left the safety of the stairwell than someone grabbed him. It was Chandler, and he looked dangerous. The man tugged him forward - close enough so they could both watch, but also close enough to the stairwell so Chandler could guard Jarron's back.
Jarron Marshall was painting. No - not just painting: creating. A woman's face was appearing on the whitewashed board. Perry looked at the squashed tubes of paint in disbelief. How had the man created this vision from those smears of oily colour?
He'd started with her eyes. Somehow, his rendering of them had captured her and held her in place.
Perry cursed himself for being fanciful.
The eyes smouldered with anger, and something else - something remarkably like desperation. There was a wicked glint in them, too - hate, maybe. Something not quite right. Jarron hadn't spared any of her personality flaws.
But the man was painting hope in there, too. And as he formed the curve of her jaw, Perry found that he, like the others, was losing track of time. Because there was a timelessness - an agelessness - in Jarron's vision.
Gervois didn't even realise how active the room had been until Jarron had captured her further. The busyness of his surroundings was fading, into a blessed numbness. Gervois shook himself out of his trancelike absorption, and recalled himself to the present.
Acklin was on Jarron's right, holding his brushes and paints; clinging to a makeshift palette where Jarron mixed his colours. Wakeman was on Jarron's left, and was taking most of his weight now. Jarron's strength was fading, and Perry had the sudden impression he was painting part of it away. Of them all, Chandler was the most alert. He stood between his friends and the stairs, to guard Jarron's back.
Because Jarron was vulnerable. Perry Gervois realised he'd never seen him more so, even when he'd been unconscious. Because as much as his hand moved the paintbrush, his mind was on another plane. The world could crash down around his ears right now, and Marshall wouldn't have noticed. He was intent; absorbed.
He was also something else: driven. He wouldn't let go of this until it was finished.
But he wasn't going to finish unless he had some help. The man was nearly as white as one of the ghosts he'd summoned, and the hand that held the brush was shaking. Even with Wakeman's help, Marshall was beginning to sag.
But he wasn't ready to give up.
Gervois caught Chandler's eye, then tiptoed down the stairs. When he came back, he had a glass of juice in his hand. He didn't hesitate. Ignoring the others, he went over and tapped Jarron on the shoulder. "Break," he ordered. He shook Jarron's shoulder. "Take a break, Jar," he repeated. "Get him a chair," he told Nick.
When Jarron's eyes finally focused, he avoided looking at the painting. "You called me 'Jar'," he mumbled. Last thing he remembered, Gervois hated him - or was repulsed by him, anyway, which was pretty much the same thing.
Perry Gervois seemed nearly as surprised by his use of the nickname as Jarron himself. He grinned. "You're right, Jar," he said, gripping the other man's arm. "I guess I did."
*
Later, as they were leaving, Andy pulled Kris to one side.
"Don't mind me," Nick yelled to Kris, out the car window. "I could be home now, writing a best-selling novel, but don't let it worry you -"
Andy was tired and annoyed enough to comment. He knew it was an ego thing - that Nick's novels sold so well and his didn't - but he couldn't seem to stop himself. "One more word and I'll be at your home, bashing a best-selling novelist. But don't let it worry you -"
"He won't," Kris assured him. He glanced at his watch. "We'd better hurry or you're gonna miss your programme," he said with false enthusiasm. "What was it? An old Gunsmoke? Rerun of The Lone Ranger?"
"Better than those Popeye cartoons you study," Andy replied. Enough small talk. "I thought this was a partnership," he said abruptly.
"What's bugging you?"
"Lack of trust." Andy shook his head. "I've had enough of it, Kris. I'm not gonna put up with it any more." He was serious.
The amusement faded from Kris' voice. "What?"
"Something you should've told me," Andy said angrily. "About Jarron being wired. Made into specimen material. Dissected."
"Robart."
"The point is: it shouldn't have come from him." Andy knew he was over-reacting. He thought he'd come to terms with the way the ISO had misled him - more or less made a fool of him. The stiff to play the part of straight man, while all the real action took place covertly.
But the tension of tonight's ghostly episode, combined with his concern about how he was going to conceal it from the rest of the ISO, was eating at him. Then Nick had made his comment about his book, which had hit Andy right in his ego.
Kris Chandler, whom he'd thought he could trust, was playing games with him, just l