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Blurb
BOOK ONE OF THE ELF CHRONICLES
EPPIE AWARD FINALIST!
For the first time in months, Jarron Marshall is beginning to think of himself as gifted, rather than cursed. If he can act on his visions, to stop disaster before it strikes, he can largely preclude his ghostly (and ghastly) manifestations. His success depends on finding the means to amend his dreams - and challenge their Grave Imagery.
Grave Imagery
Book Three in The Grave Images Series
by N. D. Hansen-Hill
Dedication
To all my brothers and sisters...
***
Grave Imagery
Delude affection to prey on dreams
That infiltrate with fetid schemes,
To assault the mind and wound the soul,
To displace the id that makes you whole.
*
Mangled truth adrift in lust
That pilfers hope and slanders trust.
Obsidian knives, rent body parts,
A shattering gore in gouged-out hearts.
*
Misplaced visions midst skulls in glass,
Dirging chants contrived en masse;
Viper's bite and scorpion thrust,
Uprooted evil from hallowed dust.
*
Dislodge the fiend from innocent's soul,
Return the horror to hellbound hole;
'twixt hope and help a fiend to banish,
Depravity routed, as illusions vanish.
*
by N. D. Hansen-Hill
***
Foreword
Jarron Marshall had hoped his discovery would be a big step forward, toward feeding a hungry world. He'd found a "universal" endophyte: a fungal symbiont which could enhance plant growth and reduce pesticide use.
It didn't occur to him that some people would consider his endophyte a threat - that the results of his "find" would be tallied in lost revenue and forfeited lives. Jarron is brutally assaulted, in an attempt to steal his research.
It changes his life forever. Jarron embarks on a horrifying journey of self-discovery, and uncovers things about himself he never wanted to know. Among his unsuspected "talents" is an unwelcome ability to raise the dead. Unfortunately, he can also empower them enough to raze the living.
He is learning a lot about the tenacity of the human spirit. How that spirit can cling to a place - or a person - and not let go. His work with the endophyte may have brought him to the attention of a government agency (Investigative Security and Operations), but his other, unwanted abilities have kept him under their scrutiny.
Jarron still has hopes he can learn to control his psychic "gift" - that he can select the method of his madness. If he can concentrate on outracing his precognitive dreams, and salvaging the sick, he may yet alter his destiny to one he can endure.
Only time will tell...
***
Prologue
They'd caught him at a bad time. He'd been neither softened, nor enlightened, by his experiences beyond the grave. If anything, the incendiary flames of his hellish hiatus had honed his personality like a jagged blade. The snags were still there, and they were all razor sharp.
But, he was also confused. One moment, he had lingered, powerless - the next, he'd acquired some degree of substance. So, too, was his inner vision muddled, his self-perception distorted in a haze of heroic past versus ignominious present. However notorious his misdeeds, his sequestered body now knew only disintegration and decay; his warped spirit, disillusionment and defeat.
Yet, he was back. It reinforced the secret yearning he had always possessed - the yearning to be a god, in the way of his ancestors. Men had bowed before them and temples had been erected in their honour.
If not a god, then why - and how - had he returned?
These others wanted him to do their will, but they had no idea of his power. Whatever their will, they'd soon be doing his.
***
Chapter One
A particularly nasty gust of wind blasted foul-scented soil off the top of the backhoe bucket and scattered it in the eyes of the restless watchers. More tears were shed in those few minutes of near blindness than had been shed by the man's grave during the past three months.
In Colby Maxwell's mind, it was a warning. His streaming eyes warily searched the uneven dark beyond their lights. After his experiences with Jarron Marshall, a graveyard at night was the last place on Earth he wanted to be.
Still, it was the way his employers operated. In their labs it was all stats and controls - but give them a field trip and they reverted to stealth and skulduggery. They seemed to think that skulking in the dark was the only way to get this job done.
Or maybe they just think the object of all this attention will feel more comfortable in the dark. Colby gave an uncontrolled shudder.
The soil stank, like fouled water. This grave's still pretty new. Shouldn't smell this bad.
It's his grave. What did you expect?
Colby glanced around - sure that he saw more movement in the neighbouring monuments than their concrete and stone content should allow. There were liquid shadows everywhere, that shifted whenever he did. Tricks of the light, tricks of the eyes. Everything in motion, with the silence thick and loud - crowding the tractor's roar and rattle. It was the kind of place you didn't want to visit anyway - even in daylight - with its forced peace and morose overtones. It was definitely the last place to traipse through on a moon-challenged night. All charming memorials on the top, and hard-packed earth beneath your feet.
Earth that sheathed concrete, caskets, rotting corpses, and yellowing bones. Damn it! he swore silently, then instantly wished he hadn't.
It would have been smarter to do this in the daytime. To camouflage it as an interment. No questions that way. Nobody wanted to take on someone else's sorrow.
But no, they had to be out here in the dark, with only their flashlights and the tractor's jouncing light for company.
Makes us look like a bunch of graverobbers.
We are robbing a grave.
No. Colby Maxwell did a rapid mental turnaround. We are not robbing, he assured anything within reach of his mental wavelengths. We are merely resituating, to a choicer piece of real estate.
It was a mind game. Chances were it wouldn't psyche out even the most stupid of spectres. People liked to think of spirits in the "ether" having some kind of eternal knowledge, but Colby believed otherwise. Some ghosts were so lacking in knowledge that they couldn't even figure out they were dead.
He also began to realise he was carrying excess baggage; residue from his religious upbringing. Despite any of his efforts to rationalise what they were doing here, he knew he was about to aid and abet in something that could earn him a spectator seat on the hotter side of Hell. Playing with the unholy tended to lead to that kind of thing.
Get a handle on it, Maxwell. This isn't the Middle Ages. There are natural laws governing both sides of the "veil" - we just haven't discovered them all yet. There's nothing here that math and science won't eventually label. Stats and formulas - that's what it's all about.
It's what he wanted to believe - that he might have some control over his destiny. That what he did in this plane wouldn't eternally taint his existence on another. But - if all else failed - he also clung to what he'd been taught: that forgiveness at the end of his days could redress most of the wrongdoing, and a good deal of the wickedness. What he wasn't able to balance with the occasional good act during the herein, he damn well would confess away in his last hour, before he hit the hereafter.
But it was going to take a surfeit of good acts, and a darn glib confession, to counter tonight's little field trip.
Don't look at the shadows. The stones and crosses were bad enough, but throw in the carved angels, and the odd obelisk or two -
This is the last goddamn place I want to be, Colby thought again, then mentally kicked himself for thinking in profanities on hallowed ground.
"Hallowed" nothing. One piece of ground's the same as any other.
Don't knock it, Colby. The "hallowing" may be the only thing that's keeping Him here.
They'd wanted Colby along for verification. He didn't see why they'd chosen him. There must be a dozen other psychics in the programme who could have done the job for them.
Hell, who needed a psychic anyway? All they had to do was open their eyes. The air was so thick it was clogging his trachea.
He could think of only one reason why they'd selected him.
It was because he'd seen the other one. That unhappy event had somehow made him an expert. The dubious privilege of holding hands with a ghost child - and surviving - had upped his value in the wrong circles. Nice to be needed, but damned uncomfortable at moments like this.
The tractor chugged smoothly in a reassuring background timbre that was comfortingly loud. Colby had a feeling the noise covered a lot of sins - not the least of which was their effort here tonight. The volume of activity hid any extraneous sounds that might issue from the earth beneath their feet.
At that moment, the tractor operator misjudged his distance, and the backhoe clanged, then did a rattling scrape across the box in the hole. The driver withdrew the bucket and rolled backwards, then sat with it idling while they checked his work with their lights.
Colby wondered whether he was the one to notice it first, or whether the horror descended with equal rapidity on them all, like darkness during an eclipse. The even chugging of the idling machine developed a stutter, and then a deep throbbing rumble.
The machine was having problems, but they weren't mechanical. The engine rasped, with a harshly staccatoed death-rattle, "Go to hell." The voice may have been machine generated, and drawn from such manmade objects as manifolds, and cylinders, and pistons, but the result was far from the machine-tongued smoothness of computers or answering machines. Having made its statement, the backhoe's engine choked and died. The operator jumped clear as the tractor - against all gravitational laws - toppled over onto its side.
Colby stood stiff and stunned in the mass silence that followed. He was the first to recover, though. After all, I've heard - and seen - worse, he thought.
He moved cautiously to the lip of the hole and peered in, at the box below. For just an instant, as he could have sworn there was movement in the soil: writhing, slithering, coiling. Gooseflesh roughened his skin, and a sheen of moist terror blurred his eyes. It took a moment for him to get control.
Get it done, and get out of here, Colby.
With something remarkably like resignation, he broke the silence. "This is definitely it," he said, surprised that he could sound so calm. There was even a trace of amusement in his voice as he added, "And I can verify the site is active."
*
Jarron Marshall hadn't been doing much of anything, and once again, he was amazed at how tired it could make you. Correction. Hungry and tired. He kicked idly at the fishing pole that was leaning against the chair.
I hate fishing. Three weeks ago, when he'd first begun to run out of food, fishing had seemed like the ideal solution. Until he could get a job, that is. He'd always considered himself eminently employable. He'd never thought he'd still be eating fish, three weeks later.
Jarron picked up one of the candy wrappers littering the floor. He sniffed it, and the chocolate smell made him salivate. If they could see you now, he thought, drooling over a candy wrapper. "I should pick you all up and toss you away," he mumbled to the ancient litter. But then Kris or Nick might notice the absence of Jarron-type rubbish. Leave it. "Local colour," he muttered.
The fishing was boring as hell, and the walk back and forth was killing him. His Investigative Security and Operations (ISO) guardians must think he was a real health nut. Every day he'd lead them on these bracing walks, and while Werner or Jenkil or one of the other ISO people would chow down on a big beefy sandwich, Jarron Marshall would prop his pole, get out his edible native plants book, and munch on greens. Then he'd harvest a bag of the hateful foliage to take back to his house.
Think about something else. It was too easy, in the darkish room, to dream of beefy sandwiches and chocolate-covered chews. There were more important things to concern him at the moment, though, not the least of which was finding a way to explain his little electrical problem. "On the 'bright' side, at least we don't have to worry any more about the electricity being turned off," he told Con-man glumly.
The ferret glanced at him, wriggled his nose, then went back to savaging his bootlaces. When Jarron and his ISO bodyguards had returned from the latest fishing expedition, he'd discovered he didn't have any lights. "It's gonna totally screw their security systems," he muttered.
And make Colin Robart raise hell. Robart, the boss man, who didn't need any more reasons to eliminate him.
Jarron realised he was more embarrassed about the feeble explanations he'd been forced to give his bodyguards, than concerned about any outfall from Robart. Right now, discouraged, alone, and sitting there in the light of his only candle, he couldn't bring himself to care very much.
The ferret snatched the old candy wrapper out of Jarron's hand and began to lick and chew it. "Don't think I'm not tempted to do that myself," Jarron muttered.
It had been nearly a month now, and he'd played his part. Pretended he was brain-fried, with little memory of the endophyte, and no knowledge of its location. Burnt out from his Viking encounter, with no psychic residue left. He was sure any reports of his current weirdness only added to the illusion: lost causes, lost mind.
He was an unemployed scientist, with no special gifts to recommend him, save his reputation. Even that had been tarnished by some nasty rumours about addiction and drug abuse.
Jarron was sure the rumours were a deliberate effort, calculated to apply pressure. Just in case Jarron Marshall still had some tricks up his sleeve. Maybe even to see whether he'd get hungry enough to go knocking on Colby Maxwell's door.
No, Jarron. They don't know you're hungry enough to eat your damned endophyte. Nobody does.
Stop thinking in terms of food.
After all that had happened, with snow coating the ground in summer, and the aurora borealis decorating the temperate skies, no one was going to totally let it drop. Colby Maxwell and his gang probably had plans to see if they could get him going again with LSD, or some other hallucinogen. Jarron was prepared for it now, though. And, unless they spiked his tap water, there wasn't much they could tamper with in his house. No mind-altering anything on the menu.
He was closely watched, which should have been comforting, but sometimes drove him crazy. It made him feel he had to explain all his movements, or exaggerate them so no one could possibly misunderstand what he was doing. Jarron wondered how "free" he really was; whether the wrong move would get him locked up somewhere - some place where "jailers" would once again replace "bodyguards".
A few weeks ago, when he was really beginning to feel the frustration of being under constant observation, Jarron had tried telling his ISO guardians to take off. It had worked once before - Robart himself had broken off the surveillance, at Jarron's request.
Not this time, though. It made Jarron question whether the goal was to protect Jarron Marshall from the world, or the world from Jarron Marshall. Since all of his current guardians were strangers he'd never seen prior to a month ago, Jarron suspected it was the latter. His guardians would be ready to act, all right: for or against him, depending on how Robart called it.
They would never have understood - and Robart would never have tolerated - what Jarron did in his free time.
*
Perry Gervois knew it was a mistake. He knew it all the way down the hall, and all the way into the boy's room. He even knew it as he picked up the limp hand, and stared into the pinched face.
Just a short time ago that face had been smiling, happy. Cheerful. Perry, and most of the nurses on the ward, had been the recipients of his endlessly repetitious childish jokes. His eyes had been bright with giggling laughter - and trust.
Trust, that Dr. Perry could somehow make the hurting stop. Trusting those feeble explanations, that by inflicting more pain they could somehow make the sickness go away.
Perry's memories were rapidly being overlain by visions of the child's pain. By feelings of futility and frustration. By acknowledgement of his own inadequacy.
It doesn't have to be this way. He didn't know exactly when the thought had trickled in, but he guessed it was some time between his first sight of the parents' anguish, and the child's tears.
He'd tried to banish it. Pain was part of his practice, he'd told himself. But all the telling in the world couldn't counter his own despair at holding back. At depriving the boy of his last chance because it somehow violated Perry Gervois' ethics.
He couldn't even say specifically why it was "unethical" - just that it made his conscience tingle. It was too easy, in a world where even an antibiotic needed to be grown and filtered and purified and diluted and packaged and prescribed and distributed. Where food gathering usually entailed a trip to the supermarket to garner edibles whose origins were far away. Where transport was reliant on computer chips and metal work and plastic moulding and the interaction of manufactured bits and pieces.
Where nothing was simple.
That's the problem. Life and death weren't simple any more. They were as complex as everything else in this multi-layered existence. So complex that it would seem wrong to take this child home, away from the machinery that might keep him in existence a while longer. So complex that curing him without the machinery and medication seemed something too primitive, too archaic, too mystical to be trusted.
The child's skin was already bluish, and his pulse thready. If it's his time, who is Perry Gervois to say differently?
Only, wasn't that what he did every day? Make an earnest effort to save lives - to steal back a few more days, weeks, years in the human form? If humanity was meant to surrender gracefully to death, why was it endowed with glands producing adrenaline, for "fight or flight"? With self-defence mechanisms, and that persuasive urge to battle for survival?
Why do I use every weapon I possess - from cutting, to radiation, to chemical assault, to poisoning - to help the human body prevail over disaster, natural and otherwise? Over viruses and bacteria and cancers and physical calamities?
Gervois' eyes were moist as the measured the short length in the long bed. A child. A soul that hadn't even begun to experience the world around him.
A soul who never would, unless Perry could utilise the final tool in his arsenal.
He had one more chance of keeping this small soul in its present surroundings - that of flesh and blood, beating heart, and respiring lungs.
One more chance, but it would involve setting aside the complex, and relying on the mystical.
Or, one mystic, who would have laughed at the term.
His name was Jarron Marshall.
*
He didn't even realise he'd dozed off, until the dream dragged him into alertness. The scent of blood - God, how he hated that smell - lingered in the air. Jarron glanced at his watch, then frowned.
What if I'm too early? he thought.
What if I'm too late?
What he couldn't do was sit here, and not know.
This is insane, he told himself. Compulsive. You don't have to check it out.
Yes, I do.
It was a monologue he had with himself every couple of days now. It seemed the more he gave in to impulse, the more the demand for his response.
Hurry up, Jarron. This voice wasn't his own, but he knew it had sense behind it. Carry on the monologue much longer, and there wouldn't be anything left to save.
With a wry grin, Jarron dug out his darkest clothes. This was going to be the easiest one of all: no alarms to trigger - merely his guardians to evade.
"See, Con-man," he whispered, thinking about how much easier the lack of electricity was going to make things. "There's a reason for everything."
Jarron gave the ferret a final pat on the head, then disappeared out the laundry room window.
*
"We want to test him." John Caraldy sounded stressed, and Colin Robart suspected the man had company.
"He's shown no signs of psychic activity in nearly a month."
"You can't impede this kind of investigation, Robart. If he's burned out, we'll find that out, too."
"He's going to object."
Caraldy's laugh was genuine, and Robart knew he found it amusing that - at this point - Jarron Marshall would actually think he had a choice. "Then don't tell him what it's about." He was silent for a moment, and Robart was sure the next words were his own - derived from whatever loyalties Caraldy thought he owed him. "Don't object on his behalf, Robart." It was a warning. "Your job is to keep him alive."
They know. Sweat broke out on Robart's brow. His efforts may have been applauded in some circles, but not in this one. They'd given him one job in the Marshall case, and he'd failed. Deliberately.
This was not good. Tolerance wasn't a common trait among his supervisors.
Neither was forgiveness.
*
He could understand Robart's attitude. Jarron could neither forgive nor forget the things he'd done - and in his darker moments, it was still too damn easy to see himself as some kind of aberration. A monster. It must be how Robart saw him, too, when he wasn't evaluating him for his other potentialities: as a tool or weapon. Jarron knew he couldn't trust the man, either way.
So, all day long Jarron worked hard at being innocuous, and innocent, and non-threatening. When he wasn't fishing, he read stacks of books, and spent hours at the university library, pouring over journal articles. If he couldn't find work in his field right now, he wanted to be sure he'd be up-to-date when opportunity came knocking.
He also tried to ignore all the eyes boring into his back, and get himself together - back on task, complete with goals and motivation. It was a darn sight harder than he'd thought. Not only did he have no work to focus on - to use to tune out the world - but he had no money coming in.
And he'd be damned if he'd ask for help. It was the last thing he wanted. Kris, Nick, Andy, and Gill had saved his ass - and Gill had more or less saved his research. They'd stuck out their necks, and Nick had nearly lost his life. Jarron figured they'd had a surfeit of his company for now.
Besides, they were all busy. Kris had hinted that he and Gill were going to be out of the country, and Nick had complained about being immersed in rewrite hell. Nick's publisher wanted his latest book - now. Nick was still being watched, too - part of the fallout of going through a psychic episode with Jarron - but he was too engrossed in his rewrite, and his new-found relationship with Alys Gunter, to care very much. Jarron was sure he'd hear more grumbling - and some bragging - as soon as Nick came up for air.
Andy was the enigma now. Jarron suspected Robart had assigned him elsewhere. He knew Andy kept tabs on him, because Andy trusted Robart even less than Jarron did. Andy had reasoned that Jarron was safe, though, as long as Robart was the one handling his security. There was no Kris Chandler or Andrew Wakeman working in-between, who might conceivably countermand Robart's orders. And a dead Jarron Marshall would look bad on Robart's record. That meant he wouldn't take Jarron out unless Jarron gave him a good reason.
Andy had pleaded with Jarron not to give Robart any reason - to do anything.
As Jarron ran along the darkened streets, he tried not to think what Andy would say, if he knew about his extracurricular activities.
*
What started as a hiss-pang on the hot roof exploded in a torrent of heavy metal drumming. It pounded the galvanised sheeting in a reverberating discord of metallic twang and pummelling rattle, while ridge-channelled mini-cataracts cascaded in loud splatters down the exterior of the building.
Andy Wakeman jumped awake, his heart racing. There was a battle going on, but it took him a moment to realise the only war being waged was between his own rank sweat and the underlying scents of mould and overly wet earth. He sat there, numb and confused, a surfeit of adrenaline making him shake as he tried to remember where he was. He'd spent yesterday - was it only yesterday? - in Piccadilly, at some place belonging to the British Museum. To gain some expertise, they'd said. In the last three days he'd practically circumnavigated the globe.
Where am I now?
Andy readjusted his thinking. Time to sweat and swear - and panic - in Spanish.
He'd been a fool to come. It'd be damned convenient for Robart if he ended up rotting in one of the local jails, or getting caught and skinned by the local guerrillas. What he couldn't figure out was why Robart had gone to so much trouble. He could have taken him out with a well-placed bullet, and disposed of his body. No dangling ends, no expensive airfares to recoup.
And if he'd wanted him dead, Robart wouldn't have let Kris Chandler stop him. Any more than he'd allowed Wakeman or Chandler to stop him when he'd decided to take out Jarron Marshall.
As an effort to keep Andy away from Jarron - to ensure that he wouldn't know what Robart had arranged or planned - it was a failure. Robart must realise Andy had his own sources for information. It was one of the things he was best at: finding out what people were trying to hide.
Was this a test of loyalty? Or an effort to oust him from the ISO - to make him quit rather than fail? You didn't take an agent fluent in Russian and Arabic and stick him in the tropics, where his drawl and habits would give him away. Any more than you'd order him to chat up the locals, so they'd be forced to acknowledge his existence. His schoolyard Spanish was likely to get him killed - if his ignorance of customs didn't do it for him.
Andy wiped sweat from his forehead. His head ached, and his stomach was sour from the long flights, and too little sleep. The last part of his flight had been by parachute. Then he'd hiked in through the jungle, wondering constantly whether a snake or a crocodile would take over where Robart's arrangements had left off.
It was a stupid mission through hostile territory. No more hostile than the days he'd spent in the Middle East, but a lot more visible. Andy knew there was no way he could maintain his disguise - it was time to admit to being a foreigner, rather than make a farce of being a native.
Because there was no way he was going to blend.
*
They were going to kill him. It wasn't complex, or convoluted - just messy. And Jarron was nearly as terrified as the victim would be, when the boy finally figured it out.
It worked with Nick. That's what gave him the confidence to try, and he always repeated the words like a mantra. And each time he did this, the visions of those other victims - the sci-fi fans who'd died in a bloodbath - were just a little bit dimmer.
It was what drove him, too. The convention dream had warned him, and he'd saved Nick, but he should have found a way to save the others. Now, when he had a dream that stunk of blood or burning flesh or left echoing screams in his ears, he couldn't ignore it. Because ignoring it wouldn't make it go away.
These were people he knew, which seemed to be the trigger. Not friends, exactly, but acquaintances - the clerk at the grocery store, the teller at the bank. People who'd had contact with him at some time, for some reason. It was enough to motivate him; to get him up off the couch, or out of his bed, and into the night.
This time it was knives. A gang thing, and the victim was the teenager who'd served him his cheeseburger the last time he'd eaten out. They'd be breaking into a drugstore when the boy exited the bus. He'd accidentally catch them at it, and catch a knife in the side in the process.
Like Nick. Nick had almost died trying to save him. Jarron wasn't going to let anyone else endure that kind of suffering - not if he could stop it.
How're you gonna stop it, Jarron? There'd been no time to plan this. No chance to stop the boy from boarding the bus. No time to plan how to outwit Fate.
Right now, he'd be lucky just to get there, before the boy ran out of time.
*
The bus box was empty. It was either too early - or too late. Jarron's eyes unwillingly searched the ground - seeking the dark splotches that would mark his failure. All he could see was rubbish, dirt, dried spit, and squished gum. His hands were shaking with nerves as he sat on the corner of the bench, and listened to the complaining rumble of his empty - and nervous - stomach.
They're coming. Jarron felt a flicker of the old pain in the centre of his gut: a phantom of his injuries. I hate pain, he thought dismally. It was one of the reasons he'd come - to spare someone else the same suffering - but he was filled with dread. If he went down, for any reason, he'd never get up again. Robart or his cohorts wouldn't let him. They'd lock him up for good, if they didn't kill him outright.
The gang members were making no move to be quiet. This was their street, and they wanted everyone to know it. Their street, and their part of the neighbourhood. And what it wouldn't willingly supply, they were determined to take.
Jarron could smell the alcohol fumes over the stench of the bus exhaust.
Stay on the bus, he thought forcefully. Maybe, if he was lucky, his psi extended to telepathy.
He wasn't, and it didn't.
The bus had stopped beyond the box. He could hear the thunk-squeak of the steps as the burger boy descended. It was echoed by a frustrated thunk of metal prybar in the alley.
"This isn't your stop, Man." It was starting.
"Leave him alone." Jarron stepped out of the bus box. The vision behind his eyes, of the boy lying bleeding on the sidewalk, did a lot to strengthen his resolve. He shoved through, until he was at the boy's side. "Let him go."
It wavered then. Jarron blinked, and tried to focus. He was confused - caught between night and nightmare. In one instant, the burger boy was whole - in the next, there was a dark patch spreading across his shirt.
His eyes met the burger boy's - to see some of his own terror reflected there. The boy might not have his vision, but he had enough imagination to guess what was coming next. "Get outa here!" Jarron yelled. He placed his hand on the bloodied patch of his nightmare, and gave the boy a shove. "Before it's too late."
"Too late for what?" The voice was a growl in his ear.
The knives were out now. Jarron could sense their alcoholic confusion, mingled with alcoholic bravado. But only one among them had darker thoughts, and a bloodied knife in his hand.
No, Jarron - not bloody yet.
The burger boy wasn't going. He didn't have the sense to fear the knife - he was more afraid of running, and being gunned down in flight.
He can't see it.
Couldn't see the dark liquid that stained the shiny steel.
So much blood. Jarron had eyes only for the knife.
It was coming his way now. Only now, the blood on the shaft looked suspiciously like his own. At that moment, Jarron would have given a lot to have one-tenth of Kris Chandler's skills.
The killer - not much older than the burger boy - was grinning. The scent of blood filled Jarron's nostrils - impossibly mingled with the sour smells of sweat and cannabis, alcohol and tobacco. At his back, the burger boy was retching, losing his employee meal by the wayside.
It was all a tangle - scents and sensations. Hate, anger, fear, terror.
And then they had him. As the metal shaft touched Jarron's skin, a stream of technicolor images exploded in his head: pools of spreading blood. Nick, the burger boy. Slit throats and severed tongues. Bullet-ripped bodies. Ice-gashed streams. The scenes played to an underscore tremor of hatred and vengeance. As the knife nicked his skin, adding his blood to the stained panorama, the weapon's own history spilled out and over - until Jarron felt he was drowning in blood. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe.
And then the screams began. Jarron didn't know that he was screaming, too. That the howl he'd started had been picked up by the wielder of the knife. That his horrifying visions had just been claimed by the man at his side. The difference was, the knifer's victims wore faces - the faces of people he'd killed. Bathed in hate; now bathed in blood.
Hands shoved him away in sudden revulsion, and Jarron dropped to his knees. The metallic clank, as the knife clanged to the ground, seemed to echo through his head. The ground shook with thunder - the vibration of running feet. Jarron shook his head to clear it, then slowly, cautiously, lifted his eyes to look.
Burger boy, and alcoholic gang members - all were gone.
Jarron was alone.
The knife lay there, so stained with its past that Jarron could hardly bear to look at it. Still shaking, he stood up and kicked it, hard - sending it spinning onto the storm drain cover. For just a moment it gyrated, twirling flashes of silvery metal. Then, with a loud thunk, it slid between the bars, and vanished into the depths below.
*
It was wrong. On the balance of life or death, the child had only his newness to recommend him. Jarron had knowledge, and ability, and - let's face it, Perry thought - power enough to throw the scales.
Plus, if they were to find out Jarron still had "It" - if they got confirmation of what they no doubt suspected - Jarron would either be more moribund than the child in that bed, or conscripted to do God-only-knew what kind of work for them.
Knowing Jarron, the description would stop at moribund. Because Jarron was forewarned, and he wouldn't willingly do their work. Suicide? Maybe. If nothing else, there'd be a huge battle. Jarron's adversaries had money and lack of conscience on their side. Perry wondered how long Jarron could prevail against that kind of assault.
I don't have to do this. I don't need to involve him.
He has nothing to do with this boy, or his problems.
But if I knew an expert - a medical expert - I wouldn't hesitate to call him in. Can I do any less now?
Perry had already made up his mind. He was just trying to reckon it with his conscience. Unless Jarron had changed a lot in the last few weeks, he'd put his compassion first and his skin last.
It was time to pay him a visit.
*
When Jarron climbed back in through the window, all he could think about was food. All the exercise and adrenaline had stirred up a powerful appetite, and any visions of mayhem had been replaced by dreams about dinner. Recognising it as a fruitless enterprise, he fished around for a towel instead, to mop up the blood that was leaking through his shirt. He probed the slice a trifle gingerly with his fingers, pleased to find it was little more than a nick.
"Knife cuts always bleed like all get-out," he told Con-man, surprised at how casual he sounded. It wasn't his first knife slice in the last few weeks, but it was probably the worst. A little deeper and he might have needed stitches.
He felt around in the dark till he located the soap. Infection was the enemy. If the cut got infected, he'd be stuck explaining how it had happened. He didn't think Perry Gervois would be any more sympathetic about his extracurricular activities than Andy, or Robart. The man had invested too many hours in saving his hide.
Not to mention risking his neck to heal me.
The funny thing, to Jarron's way of thinking, was the way everybody tended to overlook the commonplace. They'd all been so busy searching for signs of extraordinary behaviour, or trying to protect him from the behaviour of others, that they'd forgotten about the ordinary things like eating, and paying the utility bills. In a way, Jarron was glad, because his pride was already smarting. The last thing he wanted was more "help". He needed to do this on his own - to rebuild himself in a different image. If he was stuck with this psychic shit, then it was his business how he used it.
No - getting himself together meant being self-sufficient. Doing it himself. Earning back his place in the world.
*
Lys Gunter put down the receiver, and stared thoughtfully at the phone. "You should go see Jarron," she said.
Nick Acklin was staring at the computer screen, his face like thunder. It took him a moment to respond. "Jar can't bail me out of this hole," he muttered, distracted. "I ejected him into space already, and now he's back. Why the hell that know-it-all Larry didn't spot this, I don't know. He's supposed to be my editor, for crissakes…"
"Jarron must be bored out of his mind."
"You don't know Jarron. Give him a stack of plant books and he won't even know I'm not there."
Lys was silent.
"Are you bored?" Nick suddenly asked worriedly. "Is that what this is about?"
She frowned in frustration. For an intelligent man, he could be so dense at times. "I - have - a - job," she enunciated slowly. "Jarron doesn't."
"Are you kidding? If he wanted a job, all he'd have to do is pick up a phone." Nick grinned. "He's almost more famous than I am."
She ruffled his hair and pulled his head against her breasts. "Egomaniac," she complained. She thought about it some more. "Does Jarron like to fish?" she asked.
Nick lifted his head. "What's this sudden fascination with Jarron?" he asked. "Am I about to be replaced?"
"If I could find anyone better. Should take upwards of three-point-seven-five seconds."
"Give me some credit. Eight-point-two seconds, at least."
She made a point of looking at her watch - ignoring the things he was doing with his hands.
"Going somewhere? Or are you starting the replacement process already?" His voice sounded muffled - lost somewhere in her shirt.
"Just waiting. Experience has taught me it takes you just under four minutes to begin to listen in any conversation you don't initiate."
"How much under?" he asked, nuzzling against her.
She grinned. "Thirteen seconds, more or less."
"There you go: 'more or less'. Shows how flexible I am."
She snorted derisively. "This is bothering me," she told him seriously. "Look at it from my perspective: he's your friend, who's put up with you forever." She grinned at his expression. "You almost killed yourself trying to save him, yet now you won't even give him the time of day."
"'Time of day', huh?" He kissed her cleavage. "God save me from horologists." He shook his head. "Jarron's used to it. He knows I'm on a deadline. I'll call him when I finish this chapter."
"It doesn't make sense, Nick," she insisted. "Maybe I should put it in terms you can understand: it doesn't add up. It's not logical."
That got to him. "This is the way it works, Lys," Nick told her, beginning to glower. "We all have stuff to do. Jarron knows it as much as I do." He went back to the computer. "You don't see Kris hanging out here. He'll turn up when he's through with whatever he's doing -"
She interrupted him. "Then I'll go see it myself."
"What?" he asked impatiently.
"The trout."
Nick looked confused. "Trout?"
"That's - why - Jarron - rang," she said with exaggerated patience. "Just to tell me about some big trout he's after -"
Nick frowned. "A trout? He called about a trout?"
She nodded. "Elaborated on it, in fact. Made a big deal of how tricky it was, how he planned on catching it, and how many other fish he'd caught today." Her eyes met Nick's. "Sounded pretty lonely, if you ask me."
"What else did he say?" She had Nick's full attention now.
"He wanted you to know that if you came by tomorrow, he wouldn't be home. He'd be out -"
"- fishing," Nick finished, frowning. "What's that dumbass up to now?" He stood up and pulled her into his arms. "You're right, Alys-Erin," he said. "I'll go see the jerk." He grinned. "The man has no gift for dissemblance. And the whole thing sounds entirely too fishy to me."
***
Chapter Two
Jarron cringed a little as he thought about just how soon he was going to have to defend his self-sufficiency. He'd already had to admit to Charlie Reddy and Kurt Jenkil - his ISO guardians for tonight - that he'd "forgotten" to pay the electrical bill. Tomorrow he'd have to admit that he'd also neglected to earn any money to cover the shortage. And if it came to a battle between Jarron Marshall's self-sufficiency, and Colin Robart's security measures, Jarron had no doubt the ISO would win.
And once they'd paid his electrical bill, or stocked his cupboards, they'd own him.
His stomach grumbled again, but it was no louder than the voices in his head. He wasn't the only one who objected to him "working" for the ISO. "Starvation's so much better when you're in company," Jarron complained aloud, trying to silence his unembodied visitors.
The sound of his voice prompted Con-man to crawl up his pants leg, and onto his lap. When he tried to burrow under his shirt, though, Jarron stopped him. "I'm gonna have ferret for dinner one of these nights," he threatened. In response, Con-man contentedly gnawed Jarron's thumb. Jarron sat there, wishing he had something to gnaw on, too.
He'd tried for a few jobs in his field, but the response had been lousy. It had been downright painful to his pride to see how readily everyone had accepted the rumours about drug addiction, and common sense had told him he'd be better off lying low for a while. If things got really bad, he could apply for a job in another town, but the grapevine was a little too efficient, and Jarron was beginning to find out fame was a double-edged sword. Where it had once made it damned easy to be published, and get grants, now it seemed that e-mail was ahead of him every step of the way. The few phone interviews he'd had - with people he knew - had been painfully circumspect. Everyone dancing around everything, and promising they'd "keep him in mind". He was beginning to wish they'd just forget him for a while, so he could make a fresh start. At this point, he couldn't even get a job as a technician. He knew, because he'd tried.
He'd also tried not to let it get to him. He'd told himself that all he needed to do was maintain, until tongues and memories grew short. In the meantime, the important thing was to eat. So, with basics in mind, he'd discreetly tried for jobs at the local burger stands, and the grocery stores. They'd all had waiting lists of people. He knew Steve Werner, that day's ISO watchdog, had wondered why he was going from stand to stand, and store to store, but Jarron hadn't enlightened him. Werner kept his distance, so Jarron did, too.
That was another thing that bothered him: he missed the chats he used to have with his guards. He'd felt a lot less guarded when they were friendly. He used to have them in, to offer them coffee, snacks, candy. Just to shoot the bull and use his voice on someone besides his ferret. As he'd run out of funds - and food - he'd had to cut back on the social sessions. He couldn't afford them, and he could afford even less for them to tell Robart how things stood. Not only did Jarron not want to be dependent on the ISO - he didn't want to be beholden to a man who'd tried to kill him.
Robart hadn't admitted anything, and Jarron knew that he and Andy and Kris could be wrong. But with so many people he couldn't trust out there, it didn't help that his "protector" might be at the head of the list. He was well aware that Robart didn't intend to repeat the mistakes he'd made with Andy Wakeman, and Dave Chavez, and Paul Warren - that of letting them get too close. If Jarron'd had the opportunity to get too friendly with his bodyguards, he realised now that they probably would have been replaced.
His circumstances were so "straitened" now he was actually glad he didn't have to explain himself to concerned parties. And, if he could find a way around his little electrical problem, he might yet have a chance to handle things on his own. Still, he wondered whether Colin Robart knew how well his strategies had succeeded. Not only would his "guardians" be receptive to any orders Robart might give them - by the time they'd followed him back and forth to his fishing spots a few times, they were no doubt ready to take the initiative of shooting Jarron Marshall themselves.
*
Colin Robart was lost in the dark morass of his thoughts. His fingers unconsciously traced the intricate metalwork on Marjie's latest acquisition, but he stared at it unseeing.
He would have derived a lot of comfort from familiarity right now - from the stability of being surrounded by things he knew and recognised. Instead, his house was beginning to look like its decor was courtesy of leftovers from a garage sale. His mother-in-law had discovered some kind of import shop for cheap Mexican replicas, and was flooding them with her overflow purchases. In themselves, and in the right surroundings, they may well have been things of beauty, but mingled with his other furnishings, they succeeded in making either themselves or his furniture look cheap. Gaudy. It wasn't the first time his mother-in-law had inundated them like this, but her timing couldn't have been worse. Colin needed security right now - a lot. Instead, all these glaring faces, bright colours, and garish gilded designs only added to his sense of alienation.
"Like that one?" Marjie asked him. Her voice was strained, but he didn't notice. He was too busy trying to conceal his other concerns from her knowing eyes.
He dropped his hand and took at good look at the face jutting from the small, sun-shaped disc. Then he gave Marjie a wry smile. "I like you - which is why I let your mother do this to us. When's she coming? I don't think I can tolerate the suspense."
"What are you - psychic?" she joked.
He smirked. Hiding things from her had become a habit, but it wasn't one he was happy with. She had only a glimmering of the true state of affairs - enough so he could blow off a little of his simmering anger. The Jarron Marshall situation made him angry in a way he'd never been before - or, at least, not since his early days on the job. Since then, he'd learned control, and to divert his emotional responses elsewhere. Except for humour, of course. Humour had seen him, and his agents, through some circumstances that might otherwise have daunted them.
Black humour. He was having trouble summoning it now. Marjie could joke, even tease him a little out of ignorance. But it was Colin's own ignorance - the way everyone, from his supervisors to his underlings, had kept him in the dark - that bothered him the most. Proportionally, Colin felt he was working on as little information as Marjie, considering he was supposedly the one doing the decision-making. In a sense, he was stuck operating on instinct.
He didn't like operating on instinct: that was for agents in the field. At his level, he needed to have some confirmation of the things he suspected. So he could apply a degree of logic to them. So he could take in all the potential ramifications of his decision, and act accordingly.
He kissed her forehead. "Call me suspicious, but you're not tacky by nature. Your mother's a different story: either tacky or wacky. Tell me you're not going to be like her when you get to be that age."
She grinned. "Nobody makes promises they can't keep."
Yes, they do. Colin knew that better than anyone. How the pressures of a situation could become untenable, so that even the smallest incident could turn a match flare into an incendiary blaze. Nothing could be guaranteed to alter a decision faster than a lethal incident or two.
Or a potential hazard to his own people.
He'd spoken with his usual note of levity, and Marjorie hadn't noticed anything amiss. Didn't know that he'd been left speechless - that her words had triggered off another attack of guilt, and something like regret. Regret was an emotion he could ill afford.
He'd suddenly seen himself as Marjie would see him, if she knew how easily he could do just that: alter a decision, even if it meant having someone killed as a result. Someone like Jarron Marshall. It made him realise how damned uncomfortable he was in his own skin now - and just how poor his self-perception had become.
*
The phone rang, but Jarron wasn't in the mood. It was probably Nick ringing back, and he didn't know if he could deceive Nick the way he had Lys. Nick had known him a lot longer. It'd be better if Nick thought he was out - and busy. He unplugged the phone, then turned down the volume on the answering machine - unwilling to know what he might be missing. "I'm just too busy," he smirked at the empty room. "No time for fun and games."
The last time he'd seen Kris and Nick and Andy together had been a few weeks ago. He'd had some beer left in the laundry room, and a package of crackers. With popcorn on the side, none of them had known the difference. They'd talked to him on the phone since, and he'd done his best to bore them stiff with his fanaticism for fishing. It was the best way to ensure that they wouldn't be around to pay him a visit. Besides, with the amount of time it took him to walk to his fishing hole and back, and his dream-generated forays out into the darkness, he didn't have much time for visiting anyway.
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Jarron's stomach grumbled again.
He wandered into the kitchen and automatically searched the cupboards, then forced himself to drink a glass of water. Not exactly a filler. He snuffed the candle, clanging the waxy plate on the counter in disgust. If he didn't get a job soon, he'd be so skinny they'd think he was sick - or worse - on drugs again. What worried him more was something he'd read - about people fasting to promote psychic experiences. It might be why the dreams had increased in frequency.
Not a happy thought. Jarron didn't want hunger to take up where drugs had left off.
He trudged out of the kitchen, walked into a table, then tripped his way toward the front door. Someone was about to knock. He opened it just before Perry Gervois' hand contacted the wood.
Dammit! he thought. He was really losing it. Opening doors before someone knocked was one of the no-nos. "Thought I heard someone," Jarron explained lamely.
"Mind if I come in?" Perry asked.
Jarron hesitated. "I was just on my way out," he said.
"Where're you going?" Perry asked. "I could drop you." He was nervous, but Jarron didn't notice. He was too busy shuffling around, so Gervois wouldn't hear his stomach rumbling.
"Fishing," Jarron blurted.
That's it, Jarron - your reason's gone. What an idiot. All he could think of was how he didn't want the man to invite himself in - and how much he didn't want to mention the other things he'd been doing tonight.
Maybe fishing's not such a bad idea. At this point, I'd even consider sushi - right off the hook.
"Fishing?" Perry repeated in disbelief.
"Yeah," Jarron answered. "You got it." He tried to instil a little enthusiasm into his voice. "Best time of day."
"I thought dawn was best."
"It's good, too." Jarron turned around and went back into the house. "Have to get my rod."
Perry listened, as Jarron thumped and bumped his way back into the house.
"Be right out, Perry," he said cheerfully. "Just gotta find Con-man."
Perry stepped inside, and heard Jarron's frustrated "Where are you, you little demon?"
He tried the light in the entry. Burnt bulb? Tripping into the lounge, he tried the wall switch there. Nothing. "Need some help with the circuit breakers, Jar?" he asked.
"Nope." Jarron gave a muffled, but triumphant, "Got you!" There was another thump, a crash as something toppled, then the slamming of a door. Jarron's voice, "I'll worry about it when I get back." Perry didn't know whether he was referring to whatever had been knocked over, or the electricity.
"From fishing?" Perry repeated, frowning. Jarron was acting damned erratic -downright weird. Could they be doping him with something again? As Jarron's doctor, Perry should have been informed about the behavioural change. Could it be Robart didn't realise?
Or - maybe - Robart's the one responsible. Perry's anger flared. No matter what, if he could get him as far as the hospital, he was going to insist on giving Jarron a check-up - and it was going to include some drug tests.
"Yeah." Jarron came back into the room, and felt around till he found his pole. Picking it up, he headed in the general direction of the entryway. Just before he got to Perry he stopped. "Perry?" he whispered, a little tensely.
"In the flesh," Perry replied, somewhat amused by Jarron's reaction.
Jarron gave a sigh of relief. "Good," he said.
"Don't you need bait?" Perry asked.
If I had bait, I'd probably eat it. "I'll dig up a few worms when I get there," Jarron said blithely. Maybe I'll eat them, too.
Perry wondered if maybe he was reading this wrong. He was suddenly sure Jarron was hiding something. Could Jarron actually be endophyte hunting? If so, it was a foolish thing to do in front of Robart's people.
"You don't need to come, Perry. Probably better if you don't."
Perry grabbed Jarron's arm, before he reached the front door. "Is your house bugged?" Perry asked.
Jarron shook his head, then remembered Perry couldn't see it in the dark. "No-o," he said slowly. "What's wrong, Perry?"
"One of my patients. A little boy." Perry's voice was choked as he recalled that feeble form in the big bed. "He won't be able to wait till you finish your 'fishing' trip," he added, with a trace of bitterness.
"You want to try to heal him," Jarron said, slightly awed. The voices in his head were singing. This is it. My calling. Healing people. Excited now, he flung the fishing rod across the hall. "Let's go."
"Wait -" Perry grabbed his arm again. "What about them?"
Perry sensed, rather than saw, Jarron's smile.
"Let's find out -" Jarron yanked open the door. "We're going -"
"Let me guess," Charlie Reddy said sarcastically. "Fishing."
"Nope." Jarron's grin widened. "For tonight at least - you guys are 'off the hook'."
*
Colin Robart's decision hadn't come lightly. Marshall's contributions to science, including his discovery of the endophyte and his plans to salve world hunger, meant his heart was in the right place. Unfortunately, since Halloran's assault, the man's head had been screwed on half-assed backwards.
If self-defence could be considered a valid argument for murder, then Robart should have been commended for his efforts. Because it hadn't been in defence of himself, or his family, or even his country - he'd sought to eliminate a potential threat against large numbers of the general population. That was the way he'd seen Marshall - as someone who was capable of controlling situations and people - who could coerce, confuse, and overwhelm using weapons for which there was no defence. It was why they wanted Marshall so badly, and it outweighed any other contributions he may have made. If he could learn to control his abilities - or if they were able to control them on his behalf - there was no defensible means of combating them. Jarron Marshall was like a bomb with the timer ticking, and no disarmament in sight.
So, Colin had employed a bomb squad. To eliminate the problem. He just hadn't expected Marshall to fight back.
Now, they had an uneasy truce going. Marshall was back in his care, which meant - for the time being - Colin had an illusion of control. The man was also insisting that he was psychically burnt out, though Colin had his doubts. Burnt out and exhausted; a victim of physical abuse and psychic trauma. As long as he sustained the pose, Colin had decided to let him live. It was easier to justify to his employers - and went a long way towards casting doubt over any who would have credited the assassination attempt to him.
But the uneasiness was still with him. In all his years working for the ISO, he'd never been this concerned about his family. The tension was mounting, and he had to admit he was scared. There was something going on, and he didn't know what he could do about it - because he didn't know where it was coming from.
Marjie's redecorating binge didn't help. He needed the familiarity of his home turf in order to feel less vulnerable. He kept thinking bomb, and assassination. Guns and knives and clubs. Things that he'd never get the chance to see coming.
Because he knew how vulnerable he was. He loved his wife, his daughters. He needed them to see him a certain way, too - and these days it was all too easy to perceive things through a dark vision.
It had always been difficult to reconcile his dark side - the side that condoned assassination - with his role as a family man. It was even harder now, because he wasn't sure that either the ends, or the means, could be justified.
*
Andy Wakeman forced himself to focus. Get your head on straight, Wakeman, or you'll be dead. The stench of high humidity - of overly-saturated foliage and dank soil - hung in the air. Andy swatted at flies that were drawn in by the promise of a protein meal.
I might as well have a sign "eat me" tattooed on my forehead. The bloodsucking flies were trying to dine on the flat spots between last night's lumpy mosquito bites.
The heat was having a weird effect on him, and he blamed it on the shock value of their recent escapades in the Arctic Circle. As the temperature went up, his brain would flash him pictures of snowscapes and glacial fissures - of wind-roughened snow and stiffened ice. Relief from the dripping heat, that soddened his clothing and salted his eyes, was just a Jarron Marshall indiscretion away.
Andy must have relived that night a dozen times: the snow, the thunder, the Northern Lights that had stained the skies. He wondered if it'd been a mistake to release Colby Maxwell - to set him free so he blab his head off.
The man wouldn't hesitate to talk. He had too much to gain by it, in a "profession" that had few verifiable protocols. Andy had done quite a bit of reading about the Anomalous Cognition Sector (ACS) and their methods. Very little of his information had been "privileged" - they tended to keep their case studies locked up tight. What he did find out, though, indicated that Jarron would be an ideal subject, by their standards. Many of their efforts involved verification of other agencies' reports: satrap and agent locations, weapons installations, satellite instrument packages, terrorist activities. Even Jarron's precognitive dreams would have some value, and any psychokinetic potential would be assessed. PK was the big focus of the ACS' published research: mind-over-matter experiments using machines, so that any differential could be recorded and analysed. Andy grinned. It was the kind of stuff Nick Acklin would probably have been crazy about, if it hadn't involved Jarron.
These were the more public aspects of ACS research, but the others were the ones that really worried Andy. Jarron's ability - to bridge life and death - offered all kinds of horrifying possibilities. Information-gathering beyond the flatline was the least of these. Possession and coercion were the worst. Neither Nick nor Jarron had been able to prevent a bodily takeover, and necrotic influence, by one such as Jack Halloran, could well be enough to bring a government to its knees. This was a weapon for which there was no defence: the ultimate terrorist tactic. What couldn't be controlled through possession, could be dictated by terror.
It made Robart's decision to assassinate Jarron reasonable, but not acceptable. Because Andy knew a few things Robart didn't. Jarron had other gifts - like the ability to heal.
Andy had spent a lot of hours wondering what it must be like for Jarron: to spend years training in science, make a whopping discovery, and be mutilated for your efforts. Then, to discover you had other abilities that, in themselves, should have distinguished you for life - and, instead, had come close to extinguishing you.
What everyone should have looked at harder was Jarron's personality. His housekeeping might be shoddy as hell, but in his work he was a perfectionist. Andy could testify that it extended to his painting: the man would stand there for hours, if that's what it took to get it right. Plus, if something went wrong, he had a compulsion to fix what he'd messed up. To lay the dead to rest and heal the damaged. Whether the "wrongness" was the result of his own misguided efforts, or somebody else's effort to manipulate him, Jarron would be the first to try to set it right - and his perfectionist streak would make him stick with it, whatever it took, until he managed the "fix". To Andy's way of thinking, that meant his usefulness would be limited to those incidences where he could be either tricked or coerced.
It was a wonder Jarron hadn't been driven insane by his experiences, and maybe he owed this, too, to his "gift" - that he was able to put things into a kind of perspective he could handle. There was a core of strength in the man that Andy could admire, but that sometimes worried him most of all. If Jarron ever became convinced that he was being used for evil - that he'd been subverted somehow - nothing anyone could say would stop him from doing his damnedest to set things right - even if it meant putting an untimely end to himself. That was something Andy didn't want to happen, and it wasn't only the injustice of it. Part of it was personal. Andy didn't know exactly how or when it had happened - all he knew was that when he thought "friends", Jarron was near the top of the list.
Jarron wasn't the only one in danger, either. Despite any precautions Robart had taken, there'd been too many loose ends that night, and it was likely somebody at the ISO knew what Robart had done. If so, Robart might find himself, quite literally, at a dead end. And, despite their differences, that was something Andy didn't want to happen, either.
Another big leaf dumped a deluge on Andy as he trudged underneath. He sighed, discouraged. So far, the only things his covert digital survey had turned up were some questionable boot prints, a whole lot of mosquitoes and flies, and water, dripping heavily off every large, green, and leafy bush in sight.
If Robart had wanted him out of the action, he'd certainly succeeded. Andy Wakeman was smack in the middle of nowhere, somewhere close to the ends of the Earth.
A damn sight too far away to be of much help to anyone.
*
When they got to the hospital, Perry took one look at Jarron and headed straight for the cafeteria. "Want a coffee, Jar?" Perry asked him.
"That'd be great," Jar replied, trying not to sound too eager. Coffee. He'd run out of coffee two weeks ago. He hoped Perry couldn't guess how much he was salivating.
Perry had noticed something. When he came back, he not only had a coffee, but two sandwiches and a slab of chocolate cake. He also looked pointedly at Jarron's shirt. "What's that?"
Uh-oh. There was no mistaking the brownish-red patch - at least not for Perry. He'd seen too much of it.
"Shaving cut," Jarron told him.
"Always shave your chest?"
Jarron grinned. "Only when I'm bored," he replied distractedly, his eyes on the food now. Unable to wait any longer, Jarron picked up a sandwich, and took a big bite.
Perry opened his mouth to say something more, but instinct warned him to stop. "We'll discuss it later," he promised in a whisper. "Right now, I'll go check on the boy."
Jarron barely noticed. "Thanks," he mumbled through a mouthful of pastrami.
*
"And here I thought he was one of those vegans," Charlie Reddy said later to another ISO man, Kurt Jenkil. Kurt had watched over Marshall's house while Charlie and a back-up team had watched over Marshall. Charlie's tone was derisive. "You should've seen the way he wolfed down that sandwich, though."
"Yeah," Kurt said thoughtfully. With the electricity off in Marshall's house, he'd been more than usually diligent. The lack of electronics had made the place indefensible, from his point of view.
But it had also made him more observant. One of the things he'd observed had been Marshall's empty cupboards and fridge.
"Ever had your power turned off?" he asked Charlie.
"Once." Charlie shrugged. "Stupid oversight."
"He's broke."
"He's famous," Charlie argued.
"Werner said he'd been job hunting - at Thriftmart. I didn't believe him."
"I still don't believe him."
"I went through his cupboards. Nothing. Nada. Bare."
"What about his fridge?"
"No point even plugging it in."
"Do we tell Robart?"
"If it were you, would you want Robart to know?"
"Hell, no."
Kurt thought about the way the fishing rod had been flung recklessly against the wall. "Know something else?"
"Not sure I want to." It had been a lot easier for Charlie to think Marshall was a jerk, than find out the guy was so down on his luck, and he hadn't even noticed.
Kurt smiled ruefully. "I bet he hates fishing almost as much as we do," he said.
*
Jarron couldn't believe it. He'd only made it through one sandwich and half the cake when he'd run out of room. He was wrapping the rest up, to take with him, when Perry returned.
Perry was no dummy. He saw how much was left and had already guessed the reason. "Been that long, huh?"
Jarron changed the subject. "How is he?"
"It'll be close," Perry murmured. He sat down and spoke quietly while Jarron finished wrapping up his meal. "Last time, I managed to divert it into a tree," he whispered.
Jarron looked blank. "Divert what?"
"The healing energy, or whatever it is. Maybe I need a plant to send the sickness into -"
Jarron looked at him doubtfully. "Sounds weird to me -"
"Considering the source of that comment -" Perry left it hanging.
Jarron grinned.
"I'm just wondering if maybe I should buy a plant or something." Perry added doubtfully, "Unless you think I should aim for the wall -"
But Jarron was already thinking ahead. "Then I could analyse it, to check for novel proteins," he said excitedly. "The physiological effects of healing -"
Perry smiled. "Glad to see your brain's working again. Let's hit the gift shop." He remembered what Jarron had said, and whispered, "Hate to burst your bubble, but you don't have a lab. I was there when it blew up, remember?"
"I don't," Jarron admitted.
"Remember?"
"No - have a lab," Jarron said with a grin. "But I know a few people who do."
*
Perry stopped outside the boy's door. He was very conscious of Charlie Reddy's bulk at his back. Reddy wasn't the only one here, either. They'd been followed by a second ISO car. That meant there was at least one other man in the building.
How does Jarron stand it? All these people around him all the time.
Use your head, Perry. He puts up with it because he doesn't have a choice.
What will happen to him if they find out? About this? If word got out, Jarron would be crucified. "Are you sure, Jarron?" Perry asked seriously, suddenly worried he was making a terrible mistake.
Jarron's eyes grew momentarily distant. Am I doing the right thing? he asked. Or am I just making more trouble for everyone concerned? This little trek was so much more visible than those he undertook around town.
For once, the voices in his head were silent.
His decision.
Jarron nodded to Perry, then followed him into the room.
*
Andy heard a rustle off to the left somewhere and froze. Stupid to be wandering around this place in the dimming light. He recalled something from his jungle training: dawn and dusk were dangerous times - too many creatures came out to feed. He moved stealthily forward, hoping that his presence appeared as much of a threat to unseen predators, as their unseen presences did to him.
He took a deep breath - planning on holding it in silence while he stole away into the darkening night. Gagging, he expelled it, and wiped his mouth across the sleeve of his shirt. The stench of decay was just too thick here.
It was one of the features that had bothered him most about this settlement, and his first forays had been to track the source. The high humidity and frequent heavy rains had defeated him, though. Now, after a couple of days, his nose had become too acclimated to discern more than the occasional waft of decomposition from the underlying odour of rot.
A dark shape in the shrubbery made him freeze. In the near-dark, it could have been a big cat, or a wild boar, or a cayman up from the river. Something dangerous, come to eat him up.
It was dangerous, but not in the way he'd suspected. Andy drew nearer - hesitantly, but gaining confidence with each step. No predator would have stayed so motionless after he'd placed such temptation in its path. Surely, a predator would have gone for the gusto, in the form of Wakeman tartare.
More confidently - now that he knew he wasn't going to be eaten - Andy moved right up to the dark object. Wary of snakes, which might hunt the day's residual heat in the recesses beneath the rough stone, he crouched down. When nothing moved or objected to his presence, he reached out a hand, to brush his fingers across the object; to trace the outline with his hands.
It was stone, but the shape spoke of bone.
It's too big, Wakeman. Don't let your imagination run away with you.
Still, the curvature of the head, the hollows where the eyes should have been, the cavity for the nose -
It's a skull -
A giant skull, carved of stone. Andy forced himself to stay calm; to try to remember what he'd learned at the museum. It'd be limestone. That's what they'd used to build their cities. White limestone.
Just an artefact.
Andy traced the contours of the head, searching for distinguishing marks that would determine the reason for its presence. It was obvious to him, from the crunched foliage underfoot, that this statue hadn't been excavated - it had been moved here, recently. A warning? To stop intrepid travellers from going any further?
It stopped me. The statue stunk, of putrefaction. Death and decay.
Not your average tourist landmark. Andy's eyes were watering, as he fought to keep from gagging.
He forced himself to finish his exploration - wishing he could take a chance on using his flashlight. His hands followed the jutting contours of the cheekbones, and down along the jaw…
There was something in the mouth. Something chill and flabby, with the smoothly visceral texture of organ meat. Andy felt his gorge rise again. He jerked back his fingers as though meeting the snake he'd feared.
He didn't wait any longer. The night had gone silent; dead.
As dead as you're going to be if you don't get out of here, Wakeman.
Every nerve in his body was sending screaming synapses to his muscles: run! He twitched with the effort, but he made himself back slowly away - going first into a crouch, then a stealthy walk, and then, finally, a near-run.
When he got back to his rented house, he looked at his fingers. They bore a rusty red tinge to the tips - the sign of his explorations.
Andy went inside, and hurriedly bolted the door.
*
They hate me.
It wasn't the first time Colin Robart had thought the words - merely the first time they'd been reinforced. They'd maintained a truce over dinner, but the moment he'd entered the living room, his two daughters had stood up and left.
Pre-arranged. They were becoming more like him every day, and they didn't even realise it - would have rejected the idea if they had. Plotting and planning to bring him down; to make him notice their rejection. They despised him, and everything he stood for.
Some day, they might see things differently.
But by then it'll be too late.
He frowned - his anger close to the surface. Where the hell had that thought come from? In his job, he couldn't afford such luxuries as self-condemnation or remorse. Anxiety, yes, but regret, never.
They wanted freedom. Only, their ideas of freedom - to go unescorted to parties, to walk into the house without having their boyfriends searched, to take a solitary walk along the beach - were open invitations to torture and death. Cassandra, his elder daughter? What she wanted most was a chance to be free of him, and the restrictions his occupation had placed on her life. She'd broken free, but he'd used a mixture of guilt and logic to overcome her resistance. She was back at home, because he'd portrayed it as the only reasonable step to take.
She didn't realise that he was an expert at delineating the boundaries; at presenting choices as though people really had a choice.
He remembered how she'd left the room, and frowned. Something inside him tightened. Maybe she did know.
He wished he could tell her he wasn't just being a manipulative bastard - that her dad was doing his damnedest to save her life.
The problem was that both girls were too much like him. As much as they wanted change, they also wanted to be the ones to initiate it. Colin was in the same job he'd been in for years, and they didn't see why they couldn't have the same freedoms they'd had before - why all this extra regimen, and suffocating structure, had suddenly come into their lives. They knew it was in reaction to something, but they misjudged the cause. Joy, at least, thought he was reacting to her rebellion.
They couldn't figure out that he was merely acting to keep them alive.
And he wasn't about to tell them. It was easier to accept their hatred, than make any admissions that might earn their disgust - their revulsion.
Like admitting to them that his attempt to assassinate Jarron Marshall, might very well get them killed.
***
Chapter Three
Like Stephanie.
Whatever Jarron had been expecting when they'd come through that door, it wasn't this. He'd been clinging to the nobility of what they were about to do - never thinking too deeply about the person behind his gesture.
I've seen too much death. No - not death - the dead. The dead walking by his side. Little dancing ghost girls who were more friend than phantom. Lively, determined, even skipping - like Stephanie.
This is what it must have been like for her.
And why she skipped away, just outside the door. Because being dead was nothing like dying.
Jarron had been in pain himself - enough so he could recognise its manifestations in someone else. To see those marks of trauma, in the unlined pallor of the child's face, was almost more than he could take. Perry was right: the boy was dying. So close to it, in fact, that Jarron could almost feel it happening.
Like Kris. The memory of Kris' dying, and the terrible sense of desolation it had brought him, flooded his mind.
John Courtney's fading spirit. I couldn't stop it, John. I'm sorry -
" - better move fast." Perry. Perry was talking. Jarron forced himself to focus, to listen.
This is it. For just a moment, Jarron felt a qualm. Once again, he was tinkering with the supernatural - playing with God's plan. Should we be doing this?
Jarron stared at the boy's face, wondering if his answers were written there. What he saw made him turn any more questions aside. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was more guilt. Perry was a doctor. Saving lives was his business. If he saw this as a useful method of saving a life, then it was enough for Jarron. Plus, it was one of the few times when using his ability actually felt like the right thing to do.
"You okay, Jarron?" Perry was asking him worriedly.
"It's just - just that I haven't seen this side of it," he tried to explain.
Perry nodded. His smile held no humour. "I see it way too often," he admitted. He turned off the monitor, so it wouldn't accidentally get triggered. "Any ideas?" he asked, and Jarron sensed how uneasy the man was. All the way here he'd been confident - excited, even - but now he was just plain nervous.
It's up to me.
You're not alone, Jarron.
The voiced support relaxed him a little; enough for Jarron to flash Perry a reassuring smile. He put the Chrysanthemum on the bedside table. "There's your target," he whispered. "Need a bullseye?"
Perry grinned, some of his excitement coming back. "Trust me," he said.
Jarron grew momentarily serious. "I intend to," he said. "Take his other hand." Jarron sucked in a deep breath, then released a somewhat ragged sigh. "Here we go," he whispered. Jarron took one last look at the boy, then closed his eyes.
*
Perry kept his eyes open, determined to keep track of what was happening. This time things were different, and he knew he had to be on guard. When they'd done this before, it had been Jarron who was being healed, and Perry had come out of it feeling as though all his nerve ends were singed. This time, though, it wasn't a matter of Jarron healing himself.
It was a matter of Jarron being able to re-direct the illness away.
Jarron doesn't need me to heal. What he did need was someone to be there for him - to stop him from going too far, or taking it into his own body. Perry found himself watching Jarron at least as closely as he watched the boy.
He wasn't sure exactly how he was going to stop him. They hadn't discussed it - mostly because both of them were clueless. Neither wanted to admit he had no idea what he was doing.
Because the doing itself was just too damned important. Any negative concerns might stop them before they even got started.
If something happened to Jarron, as a result of this, Perry would hold himself responsible - even though he knew Jarron wouldn't. I should have done some research into healing, before I asked him to come.
There just wasn't enough time.
Jarron's past experiences didn't exactly fill Perry with confidence. If there was any consistent quality to Jarron's psychic episodes, it was in the way they were overplayed - no subtlety at all. Like comparing a game of football to a chess match. The latter could see you "mated"; the former could see you crunched.
Jarron had levelled with him after the mini Ice Age. Perry had already known a lot of it - after all, he'd seen Jarron paint away a she-devil in his own sister's house - but he was still stunned by the strength of Jarron's "gift". He'd also recognised the reason for Jarron's confession. Jarron had wanted Perry to be able to make an informed choice. To get out while he still could. "Knowing me isn't good for your health, Perry," he'd warned. "Just ask Nick."
Jarron's self-esteem was shot to hell. The man didn't realise how revealing his words had been. Jarron couldn't figure out why any of his friends would willingly take on the nightmare that his life had become. He didn't see why anyone else should have to. As he'd told Perry: "I have to live with this, but I don't expect you to."
Perry knew that, in some ways, it would have been easier for Jarron if they'd all abandoned him. Not best for him, but easier. The man was close to the edge, and there were probably a lot of times he considered joining his ghosts on the "other side", rather than risking anyone else's life. Jarron needed some positive feedback - to see his ability as something worthwhile, rather than a curse. To see himself as someone with potential for helping the human race, instead of harming it. He must be well aware of the military implications - the possibilities that Robart, and others of his ilk, were considering. He needed to know that he was good for something besides causing trouble.
That's one of the reasons we're doing this.
Liar. You're doing it because you're hooked, Perry. You're every bit as much of a junkie on this healing shit, as Jarron was on those pills he was popping.
One incident does not a junkie make.
After he'd let his defences down - and accepted the possibility that they might be able to heal the boy, Perry had been slightly shocked by how badly he wanted it. By how the thought had ridden him until he'd given it credence. It had made him examine his reasons closely - not wanting it to be the power that was driving him. Not wanting it to be the knowledge that he had a bigger weapon in his medical arsenal than all the other medical personnel in the hospital combined.
It took a lot of self-examination before he got it. Before he figured out why. It had nothing to do with power or knowledge or besting the boasters. It was the memory of those moments of intensity, and the exhilaration.
But, mostly, it was the joy. It snagged him as tightly as the damned hook Jarron used to catch his fish.
He imagined it was a lot like what Jarron felt on finishing one of his portraits. There had been something in his pose, his posture, when he'd finished the painting at Perry's sister's. Some glint of inner peace in his eyes, and a measure of tranquillity that had warred with the exhaustion in his face.
At the end of Jarron's healing, Perry had felt weak, fried, and somehow altered. He'd realised then that he'd known a lot of satisfaction in his life, but very little pure joy. Something about the healing had given him that. Whether it was the selflessness of it, or the touching of that other plane, Perry didn't know, but having once experienced it, he wanted it again. The chance to squeeze the last few drops of hope out of a hopeless situation.
The decision - to use this unorthodox means of healing - had seemed like a last resort. Now Perry realised it had actually been his first choice, but out of rationality and a trace of scepticism, he'd set it firmly aside. Gooseflesh danced along his skin as he watched Jarron's expression. Jarron needed the optimism this gave him, as much as Perry needed the ebullience of hope.
A junkie would risk anything, just to experience it one more time...
It was going to be damn hard for Perry to ever set aside this method again.
And just as hard for him to use it.
*
Cassandra Robart had recently begun to see her parents' house through adult - and liberated - eyes.
Not just your parents' house now: yours.
She was back and hating it. It wasn't only the capitulation of her pride to her father's demands; it was the feeling that somehow, in the last two years, the atmosphere had changed. This was the first time she had ever felt afraid in this house.
She wanted to blame it on the tension. The air was thick with it. In most social situations, it only took one person to change the dynamics. Well, one person had changed it here. Her dad was so tightly wound he was ready to explode. The rest of them were too busy reacting to do much more than complain.
All she wanted at this point was for her father to resolve whatever situation had brought them to this, and for him to set her free once more. To avoid hemming her in with logic, or familial concerns. To let her get on with her life.
Because she refused to get on with hers, at the expense of theirs.
*
He doesn't need me. Perry had repeated it so many times now that it should have been reassuring - should have made him feel as though he could exit at any time, with no detrimental consequences to himself. Residual fear of both Jarron's "gift", and his own response to it, made him want to believe he was merely an intermediary, acting out of goodwill and a sense of humanity - a medical man who might be thrilled by the experience, but was nevertheless approaching this as a legitimate therapeutic activity -
Bullshit. If you're going to do this, Perry, do it right.
His resistance - his effort to distance himself from the action - was merely slowing things down.
Unless I let myself get "involved", I'm not gonna be able to control any of this.
Jarron was halfway gone already. Perry could see it in his face. Lost in whatever place he went to when he did his healing.
Perry checked the boy. Colour was good, respiration better. Under his fingers, the boy's pulse was strengthening.
Unless he - Perry - was able to counter things soon, the boy would be dancing on Jarron's grave. Yet Perry felt none of the synchrony he'd felt before - with either the boy, or Jarron. He tried to fight through his feelings of frustration. If Jarron could do his bit, why couldn't he?
Because - obviously - something's wrong, you jerk. Is it your attitude? Perry ran a quick inner evaluation. Nope - it was all go. He was ready - to get involved, to commit himself - whatever it took.
Your methods? Last time, he'd held Jarron's hand. Maybe he needed some actual contact with the healer - some communion of flesh on flesh.
Yeah - and all I need is for Charlie Reddy to come in here, and see me holding Jarron's hand, Perry thought disparagingly.
Get past it, Perry. Or Jarron's gonna die -
Perry kept a firm grasp of the boy's fingers, then, a little hesitantly, placed the fingertips of his right hand onto Jarron's wrist.
His arm jolted - the muscles inadvertently contracting, as a burst of static electricity sought to fry his skin. He wanted to pull away, but he couldn't. In that instant, it was as though his and Jarron's skin had melded at the spot - he was as stuck as anyone who'd ever touched a live wire.
And he felt as though he were having a seizure.
Perry's teeth were rattling in his head, and his hands were on fire. Still, he couldn't pull away. He could hear voices now, and he wondered if they were the ones Jarron heard in his head. At first he thought they were singing, and then he realised they were screaming.
At Jarron.
Telling him to stop.
Perry forced open his eyes, surprised at finding them closed. He squinted, appalled at how impossibly bright the dim hospital room lighting suddenly appeared. He was shaking so much he could barely focus on the gaudy yellow petals of the bedside Chrysanthemum.
"Need a bullseye?" Jarron had asked.
Perry tried to remember how it had gone before - recall what he'd done, to make it happen. But somehow, the only image that came to him was a frozen graphic, of his own mind-boggling terror.
A terror that was a lot like what he was feeling now.
Suddenly, one of the screaming voices was directed at him, and he never knew whether he'd stolen the voice from Jarron's head, or whether it was own subconscious mind acting in self-preservation.
Coil it like a spring, Perry. Tighter and tighter -
His throat was contracting, so that his gag reflex made him feel like he was choking. His trachea was so tight now that he could barely breathe. Any more and it would tighten his chest -
I don't want to die -
Perry let it go.
The Chrysanthemum exploded in a shower of petals and leaf fragments. Uprooted from its pot, it slammed against the wall, leaving a long dirty streak of debris. The pot spun from the force, then toppled over onto the floor.
The dust hadn't even settled before Charlie Reddy slammed into the room, nearly springing the door with the force of his entry. What Perry noticed most, however, was the gun in his hand, which was levelled directly at him.
"What's going on?" Reddy asked.
Jarron sat in the chair by the bed, his back to the door. His head was bowed, and Perry hoped Reddy would think he was overcome with emotion, and trying to hide it. Perry attempted to reinforce the little scenario with a sympathetic, "It's okay, Jarron." He prayed Reddy wouldn't realise that the hand on Jarron's shoulder was actually propping him up. "My fault," Perry admitted, a little ruefully. "I knocked over the plant."
The man didn't look convinced, but like most people who pride themselves on their strength, the sight of suffering - be it the child's or the people who were mourning him - was enough of a deterrent to urge him out the door. "Frustration can do that to you," he muttered. It was obvious the doctor was upset about losing his patient. "Try not to be too long, Jarron," he added gruffly, turning away from the small body in the bed.
Perry's arm was shaking by the time the ISO man exited. He took one look at Jarron and wondered just what the hell they were going to do.
*
Tyson and Mackay were waiting, guns drawn, when Charlie exited the room. "It's nothing," he was quick to reassure them. "Gervois bought a planter for the sick kid, then threw it at the wall." His frown deepened. "He knows the kid's not gonna make it."
"And Doctor Marshall?" Tyson's eyes were dark and unreadable.
I sure as hell wouldn't want him guarding me, Charlie thought. It was bad enough having him as back-up.
"Marshall's fine," Charlie assured them quickly. "Real upset, but fine."
"You're sure there's nothing else going on." Tyson's words came out flat, but Charlie had no doubt it was a question. "Maybe I should check it out."
"Take a lot of reassurance, don't you, Tyson?" Charlie didn't want to admit it, but the sight of the child in that bed had touched him. His own son was two years old. A terminal illness was every parent's nightmare.
Quint Mackay looked at him as though he were nuts. Earl Tyson wasn't mangy-dog mean, and he never killed without cause, but he was as close to an ISO assassin as you could get without actually being employed as one. Tyson was usually brought in on assignments with perceived hazards, because he could be counted on to follow through the orders that other agents might balk at. In Mackay's mind, it wasn't a good idea to rile the man, especially since Mackay was going to be stuck working with him for the rest of the night.
Tyson, however, wasn't riled. Or upset. Or anything. It was what Charlie had counted on - that the man was never emotional. He'd decided a long time ago that Earl's psyche profile was probably less than a page in length, and no doubt read a lot like an ad Charlie had once seen for a delivery company. "Will not bend, fold or mutilate under pressure. Guaranteed to deliver the goods as ordered. Same day service if required. Reliable, punctual, uniform." In his own way, Tyson was disabled - emotionally dysfunctional.
And his presence in the ranks, of those watchdogging Jarron Marshall, was all the warning most of them had needed, that Marshall might not be everything he seemed.
*
It began as a raspy rustle. Irregular, spasmodic. A sound that didn't belong in his living room.
Dried leaves?
Colin Robart's brain automatically went into defence mode - sorting, analysing, cataloguing the sound. Determining the level of threat.
It was moving. Soundless now, but not motionless.
I'm asleep. I can't know what it's doing because I can't see it.
You can't see it anyway, because it doesn't exist. This is all a dream -
A nightmare.
The rasping sound came again, in sibilant defiance. At the same moment there was a stinging pang, in the centre of his chest.
Colin jerked awake. He was alone, on the couch, his eyes focused on the fire. A wet log was frothing; ejecting steam with a hissing sizzle.
Somehow, though, it did little to ease his mind. When the fire spat again, he yanked the log out of the blaze, and shoved it to one side.
He wished he could resolve his other fears as easily.
*
It was ten minutes before Jarron so much as stirred.
Perry's sigh of relief was gusty. "Thought I was gonna have to tell them you were overcome with grief," he whispered.
"Why?" Jarron's eyes went quickly to the boy's face. "Is he dead?" he asked, distressed.
Perry grinned. "Doing much better," he admitted. "You did good."
Jarron straightened up and rubbed his eyes. "We did good," he said. He stared at the boy for a long moment, his face filled with wonder.
We did it. Riding alongside his amazement, was a rushing wave of satisfaction - and a giddy flush remarkably close to exultation. He'd finally done something really positive with his "gift" - positive enough, anyway, to see it as potentially beneficial, instead of getting stuck dwelling on the lethal consequences.
The urge to do it again was almost overwhelming. He felt like he was surfing some kind of wavecrest, and he couldn't bear for it to wind down - yet. There were too many people out there who could use his help.
A big part of it had to do with redressing the balance; of giving back enough to make up for all the trouble he'd caused. Maybe, if he worked at it hard enough, all the death and destruction, the pain and anguish, could be countered by compassion and healing.
Besides, healing the boy had made him feel good. In a way that nothing - not even his efforts to thwart his nightmares - had for months. There was a thrill to it, an excitement, and - a rightness. He didn't know how else to describe it. He had a nearly irresistible impulse to repeat the effort. To do for someone else what they'd somehow managed to do for the small soul lying in that bed.
He couldn't get the thought of Stephanie out of his head - and how it must have been for her family. How they must have mourned the loss of that small, bright personality.
Save the others, Jarron.
His scientific side, and memories of recent past experiences, intruded.
Be cautious, Jarron. These are people you're playing with. You can't take chances. You don't even know how you and Perry did it - only that it worked.
Correction: seems to have worked.
To be considered successful, an experiment must be repeatable.
Impulse struck him again. So let's repeat it, and see what we can find out -
"Jarron?" Perry's voice. The concern in it dampened a little of Jarron's sudden zeal.
Good thing. Be logical, you fool.
Another rush of tingling excitement hit him.
Okay - if you can't be logical right now, at least be reasonable.
Try to figure out how you did it.
He had very little memory of the healing episode itself. He remembered giving himself over to it, and then it just sort of "happening".
He made a conscious effort. Focus, Jarron. You've seen too many examples of your own psychic mismanagement. Are you going to trust a repeat performance?
"Jarron."
That was Perry again, and Jarron gave him a huge smile, realised it was overdone, and tried to tone it down. Forcing his lips into what he hoped would pass for a serious expression, he cleared his throat and said sternly, "We ought to do this again some time." His words seemed to disturb Perry, so Jarron added a hasty, "As a last resort, of course." He had to bite his lips to keep from grinning.
Stop it, you dumbass. Think about something else.
His eyes lit up, as he remembered the potted Chrysanthemum. "How's my plant?" he asked.
It was obvious the question took Perry by surprise. He'd been expecting more questions about the boy, or the healing - not an inquiry about a plant.
Noticing his reaction, Jarron felt slightly embarrassed, and wondered if he'd blown it again - if maybe his question had been out of place. Most people wouldn't have felt so enthusiastic about a damaged Chrysanthemum, in light of what they'd experienced. It was just that the thought of actually analysing the healing process, as an expression of plant wounding, fascinated him.
And it would also go a long way toward making him feel that he was less of a freak, and more part of some natural - rather than supernatural - activity.
"You mean, 'our' plant?" Perry asked. He looked at the Chrysanthemum doubtfully. "On second thought, you can have it. It's all yours." He plopped the pot onto Jarron's lap. "You left part of it on the wall," he added, grinning. "Don't believe in discretion, do you?"
Jarron fingered a shredded leaf. His voice was nearly as awed as it had been at the boy's recovery. "Do you know how incredible this is?" he murmured. It wasn't until he'd examined the wizened stem that Jarron recalled Perry's part in all this. He looked up at him quickly, an expression of concern on his face. "What the hell am I thinking of! I didn't fry you, did I?" Jarron asked worriedly.
"Nope. A little frayed around the edges, but that's my fault. I didn't jump in until you were already on 'high'. Should have started venting the steam back at 'simmer'."
Jarron grinned. "Hey - at least you kept me from boiling over."
Perry looked dismally at the plant. "Just barely," he said sarcastically. He helped Jarron to his feet. "If I don't get you out of here soon, your bodyguards are going to come in after you."
Jarron knew his feet were there, but everything was rubbery. Rubbery and giddy. It made him want to laugh out loud. The entire thing - from his wobbly knees to the wriggly plant in his hand, was just so damn funny.
Reprehensible. If Perry thought your interest in the plant was inappropriate, what's he going to think about this? Jarron started to chuckle, then turned it into a cough.
Perry was giving him that look again. "You okay, Jarron?"
Jarron snorted, then tried to pretend it was a sneeze. "Just fine, Perry," he replied brightly.
Too brightly. Ground yourself, Jar.
Look at the boy. That'll do it.
Jarron reached out and brushed his fingers across the back of the boy's hand, much as he'd fingered the plant's damaged leaf. "Just had to convince myself he's real," he explained solemnly. His own words made him want to crack up all over again. He turned away quickly, before the laughter could escape.
Look at Perry. He's serious enough for both of you.
And he was, too. Perry was frowning now, and Jarron wondered if he'd made another gaffe. He frowned back, struggling to hide his mirth. For nearly half a minute, he returned Perry's intent stare, then gave into compulsion, and punched him in the arm. "So are you," he said, snorting with amusement. "Real, that is. Just had to check."
Perry rubbed his arm. "Damn it, Jarron! What d'you think you're doing?"
"Celebrating!" Jarron explained gleefully. "Isn't this great!"
Perry was really beginning to look alarmed. "I