Flicker & Burn: A Cold Fury Novel (17 page)

Instead he listened with a goofy smile and random giggles while glancing at buzzing text messages. To get his attention, I reminded him vigorously that I’d been whistled in for a sit-down with the
Boss of the entire effing Outfit!
His response was a nod, texting thumbs, and a burble of laughter. I wondered if a slap across the face would snap him back to the moment, but before I could make a move, his eyes darted to mine as he licked his lips. “By the way!” he said excitedly. “I met your cousin! I can’t believe the original Becky is in
my
history class! God, is she hot! A genuine L.A. firecracker!”

I paused. “Did you hear about Max and me?”

“No. What . . . ,” he said, but his phone buzzed again and he glanced at it, chuckling and saying, “Oh, you dirty little . . . ,” while texting back, and then looked up, surprised that I was there. “What were we talking about? Wait . . . Max, right?”

“Right,” I said. “We—”

“Yeah, I saw him the other day. He had on the coolest T-shirt! It was this vintage motorcycle thing! I’ve got to get me one! Ask him where he bought it, okay?”

I nodded, taken aback at Sec-C’s infiltration of the part of Doug’s brain that allowed him to be impressed by the original Becky and cool T-shirts. I wanted to shake him until he became the old Doug again, but I couldn’t. Not yet. Not until after the Cubs game on Saturday. All I could do is say good night as he rolled onto the couch and instantly began to make buzz saw noises. Harry tilted his head, looking at Doug’s diminished physique, the body warmth minimized, and turned toward my bedroom. I rose from the control center and walked onto the terrace, where the city was disappearing behind waves of fog. I inhaled the atmospheric ice, feeling it burn my lungs.

Twenty-seven floors below, Frank Sinatra tinkle-crooned about Chicago through wet clouds, and I gritted my teeth, thinking,
We’ll see whose kind of town it is.

I WAS CAUGHT BY THE THROAT, TRAPPED BY
rough fingers as the stench of rotten animal flesh—that sweet stink of maggot-covered meat—infiltrated my nose, lungs, and mouth. Trying to move only forced his grip to tighten, the angry thumbs digging harder against my pulsating arteries. I gaped at a pair of eyes inside woolen holes, expecting to see pinwheels of lunacy, but instead they blinked back like two cherries on fire. The ski mask lifted by a force unseen, lightly levitating. Beneath was a severe, angular face with a line of scarlet blood cutting across a cheek as white as a snow-covered field. Teardrop’s head attached to Poor Kevin’s bulky body seemed like a natural occurrence in that nightmare world. Its taut, gray lips parted, like slicing open a freshly caught eel, and the blackened, infected tongue uncoiled as it spoke.

“Answer me! Answer me! Answer me!”

One of the most paralyzing sensations hardwired into the human psyche is groggily waking up, assuming you’re alone, and then realizing that someone is lurking nearby. My brain was still in dreamland Thursday morning, where everything loomed large and heart-stopping, and I froze, sure that a bleached-face mutant in a ski mask—a combination of one who haunts my night terrors long after his death and one who pursues me through the streets of Chicago—would materialize at my bedside. Both of my eyes opened at once, focused on the ceiling, and the only sound was me swallowing. It was quiet, and then the high-pitched, girlish tone spoke again, demanding answers through the keyhole, right outside my room.

“Answer me! Answer me!”
it demanded, and of course I would. I always did.

Rolling from the mattress, I grabbed the sap and yanked open the door to nothing—no hybrid freak, face behind the voice, or Doug on the couch, only dust motes doing pliés through morning sunlight. Harry and his leash were gone, which meant Doug had taken him around the block. As I turned to my room, the voice spoke again, vibrating beneath a pile of papers on the control center. I remembered then that my (thirty-ninth) disposable phone had died. I’d activated a replacement, but no one had called until now. The ringtone was an actual voice, saccharine and babyish, like something you’d hear on an anime cartoon. I then spoke a cautious hello into the receiver, listening to a voice tinged with just enough whispery pain to make it sound suffering but sexy.

“SJ?” Heather mewled, each letter drawn out half a beat.

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

She took a deep breath. “I need help. Right now. Badly.”

I waited, listening to static. “Help with what?”

“With what’s going on inside my head. I have a terrible headache, behind my eyes. It started last night and hasn’t let up. I thought . . . maybe you could help me.”

“Headache,” I repeated, breathing a little easier. “Maybe a migraine?”

“Rancho Salud. My capoeira therapist, remember? He . . .
ow!
Shit, that
kills
!” she spit like being touched by a live wire, as warning bells went off in my gut. “He told me it would hurt like hell when my mind and brain finally cleared themselves of years of toxins and chemicals. I thought it was the usual rehab BS,” she said, her voice pressed down by pain. “The old ‘power comes with freedom from drugs’ line. But guess what? He was right. Because as bad as it hurts, I’ve been having these, like, flashes of clarity, where I understand myself. It feels like I can . . . well . . .”

I licked at my dry lips, feeling grit on my tongue. “What?”

“It sounds crazy, but . . . it feels as though I can make people do whatever I want them to do. Especially, well, like me.”

“Uh . . . really?”

“Yeah, really. It’s as if, somewhere in my mind, I command them to like me, not just in the moment, but forever. Ken and Kendra, for example,” she said. “They called me this morning, literally both on the line, to make sure I’d meet them at Bump ‘N’ Grind. When I told them I wasn’t going to school, it was like I’d canceled Christmas. They kept asking, ‘Why? But why?’” She made me jump when she laughed, full and throaty, and then she was silent a moment. “It feels like it’s coming through my eyes.”

“Oh? Um . . . how through your eyes?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and paused, the phone crackling impatiently. “Do you?”

“Me?” I said, never sounding guiltier in my life. “How would I?”

I could almost hear her shrug. “Because we’re cousins. Because we have the exact same color of eyes, with the gold thingies in them. No one on my dad’s side of the family has them,” she said, her voice dropping. “And because you promised that you’d always tell me the truth . . . if there’s a truth to tell, that is. Because you’re not a liar.”

Nervy pinpricks attacked my body. “Really, there’s nothing . . .”

“But it takes someone with secrets of her own to recognize a soul mate . . . sorry, that was a little
too
L.A. What I mean is, I felt a connection the first time we met, so indulge me, okay? Let’s do the ‘Trust Test,’ and instead of my mom, you’ll be you.”

“Heather . . .”

“What do you know about my headache, SJ? What do you know about the power I feel? Can I control people? Can I, SJ?”

“There’s nothing I can tell you.”

“You have to tell me!” she shrieked. “I have a
right
to know!”

I didn’t respond, since my denial would be obvious. The air was dense between us. She coughed once, clearing her throat of agony, saying, “Silence isn’t an answer.”

“You’re tired. Headaches are . . . the pain makes people think things that . . .”

“Aren’t true?” Heather said in a voice cut between anguish and determination. “Because I’d be, like,
totally
unhappy if I thought you were holding out on me.”

I shook my head all alone in my room, relieved the conversation was taking place on the phone instead of eye to eye. “It’s . . . sorry, it’s a mystery to me. Really.”

Her pause was so full of disbelief that all I could do was bite at the inside my cheek until she sighed. “It’s probably a migraine, complete with hallucinations. I’m staying in a dark room with a blanket over my head. No school for me, which means I can’t bring the cookies you asked for,” she said dully. “You’ll have to stop by the bakery. Who are they for, by the way?”

Three dozen of Rispoli & Sons’ famous molasses concoctions.

A direct order from the Boss of the Outfit.

My sit-down with Lucky at noon felt like a hurricane about to reach shore.

“Oh, uh . . . my doctor,” I said, “I have an appointment today. I’m not going to school either. So I guess I’ll see you Friday.”

“Sure. Well, good luck at the doctor,” she said remotely. “It’s important to know
exactly
what’s going on inside yourself.” She hung up without a good-bye.

I looked at the phone and then stared into a mirror, blinking my eyes, summoning and dismissing the blue flame. Heather wasn’t in control of the phenomenon, but she was aware of it and suspicious of me. What struck me was her age, nearly eighteen and only now experiencing cold fury. I wondered if her therapist had been unintentionally correct, that part of Heather’s brain had been clogged by chemicals and only now, more than a month drug-free, cold fury was able to trickle into her eyes.

It occurred to me then that it wasn’t only cruel not to tell her who and what she really was, but potentially dangerous, if Juan Kone discovered she was a carrier. But then, danger was at the heart of all of my relationships; forced to weigh the safety of anyone else against the priority of finding my family, I’d decided long ago that my mom, dad, and Lou would always win. It was this dynamic that forced me to cut Max loose; the closer he got and the more he knew, the more he’d be in danger and slow me down. The same applied to Heather. Explaining cold fury meant revealing everything about my family and our life in the Outfit—
and, and, and
—with each fact more hazardous than the next. Divulging those things would put her in the same type of jeopardy as Max, and I didn’t have the time or energy to worry about her, either. All I could hope for was that her use of cold fury remained unfocused and harmless, safely contained within the walls of Fep Prep, and didn’t interfere in the quest to find my family.

Thinking of them reminded me of my sit-down with Lucky at noon.

I opened the notebook to the seventh chapter,
“Procedimenti”
(“Procedures”), for guidance on the meeting and came upon three blunt paragraphs:

Being whistled in for a sit-down with an Outfit superior should be taken with the utmost seriousness, as there are only two reasons for such a meeting—you have failed to do something or a request will be made that you do something.

If it’s a failure, apologize profusely, swear on your mother, wife, or children (never a pet) that you will make it right, quickly remove yourself from the premises, and make it right!

If you’re requested to do something, say yes. Immediately.

I had no idea which one it could be, failure or request. I’d already gone far beyond my moral boundaries in deciding the fates of depraved criminals; being asked to do even more was unimaginable. I dressed in my standard counselor-at-large outfit of businesslike blouse and skirt, pinned back my hair, and sighed. I had so much grinding stress in my life, from sit-downs to cousins with cold fury to dementia-ridden great-uncles—and then I remembered the molasses cookies! I knew I’d be a fool to show up without them, so I left the Bird Cage Club without waiting for Doug to return. Traffic flowed quickly, the battered Lincoln roared over the pavement, and although the creatures seemed to be nowhere, I parked behind the bakery just to be safe. I glanced at the electrical box, tempted to enter via alley-vator, but chose the back door instead. I unlocked it with my key and stepped quietly inside.

First I heard the industrial stainless steel refrigerator humming.

Then I heard a whispering voice.

No—voices, plural, I was sure of it.

Moving with velvet steps, I peeked around the refrigerator into the white-tiled kitchen. I’d perfected the art of eavesdropping by listening to my parents’ whispered conversations, and I stood perfectly still, barely breathing. Annabelle’s back was to me, and Uncle Jack faced her, nodding, eyes troubled, but what struck me was that her hands were on her hips. She wasn’t using them to talk. Uncle Jack spoke quietly, saying, “I told you, I
can’t
remember. It’s buried . . . too deeply to reach . . .”

“Try
harder
!” Annabelle said, and I realized that she wasn’t whispering as much as shoving words out her mouth with a jagged, breathy effort.

“Too deep . . .” Uncle Jack whimpered, putting a hand over his face.

Quickly, with a boxer’s speed, Annabelle grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked him close, giving him a hard shake to punctuate her words. “No, you listen to me,
old man
! I didn’t drag my
druggy kid
across the country to screw around in some musty old bakery, whipping up cookies for your
great-niece
!” she rasped. “
You
said there was something
incredibly valuable
here that would take care of Heather and me for
life
! You said coming all the way to Chicago would help you
find it
!”

“Remembra and my mind.” He gasped. “They’re failing me!”

“And you’re failing
me
!” she said, shoving him away, stalking over to the baking table. I peeked around at the Xeroxed pages of
“Volta”
spread out on it, covered in Uncle Jack’s translated scribbles. “All day long you stare at this fairy tale she gave you!”

“I—I think it’s helping me . . . maybe,” he said weakly.

“It’s bullshit!” she croak-whispered, spinning toward him just as I pulled back behind the refrigerator. “Instead of doing her damn homework, rack that swiss cheese brain of yours for . . . what the hell did you say it was? Ultimate power?”

Hearing the words, everything stopped—my heart, my mind, time itself.

The secret inside
“Volta,”
the one Uncle Jack was digging for with Buondiavolese, unaware of what he was doing.

The one that I hoped and prayed could free my family.

At some point the old man had known ultimate power existed—he just didn’t remember what it was or where it was located. Now the answer was literally at his fingertips, on those copied pages, and I peeked back as Annabelle gathered them up. Slowly, deliberately, she shredded them into thin, babble-covered strips. Uncle Jack started toward her, but she stuffed the paper down the garbage disposal and a whirring second later, it was all gone. I should’ve attacked her or shrieked like a madwoman or wept bitter tears, but instead I stood motionless, hearing her spit, “From now on, you think about the past, when you were a
Rispoli
instead of a
Richards
! You think about what you learned from your mobster father about ultimate power!”

It was silent for heavy seconds until Uncle Jack said, “I was a bad father. I should’ve given you . . . more.”

“Oh, but Detective Keegan, you were far too
busy
with police work,” Annabelle said in a tone so acidic it cut through the garble of her voice. “Besides,” she said, pulling the scarf from her neck, lifting her chin defiantly, “you gave me this!” I peeked at a ragged line of tissue scarring her throat; once revealed, it screamed for attention.

Uncle Jack’s face darkened, and then went blank. “I did . . . something . . . but I can’t remember . . .”

“Let me remind you for the hundredth time,” Annabelle said wearily. “You were full of whiskey. ‘Drowning old secrets,’ as you used to say.” She put the scarf in place, wrapping it in delicate folds. “You passed out with a cigarette between your fingers. Somehow you escaped the house unharmed. I wasn’t so fortunate.”

“There was . . . a fire,” he said, his brown eyes welling up. “A terrible accident.”

“With booze and drugs, there are no accidents,” she said matter-of-factly. “Only things that conclude with blood or someone dead. That’s it. No Hollywood endings.”

“Annabelle,” Uncle Jack said, opening his arms, looking lost and desperate.