Glow (7 page)

Raleigh had his right arm hooked up to an IV attached to a couple of bags of fluid hanging from the pole beside the bed. A blood pressure cuff that routinely expanded and contracted was strapped to his other arm.

Raleigh looked better. Raleigh looked more than half alive.

Avery washed his hands in the stainless steel sink, grabbed a paper towel from the automatic dispenser and walked over to me.

“We’d better get going. We’re gonna be an hour late as it is.”

I threaded my arms around his waist and pulled him close to me. “Sorry this is how you had to spend your birthday. Amanda invited us to go swimming later at the lake. You could go with Jason or something if you want, but I need to stay clear of her for a while.”

He shook his head and put his lips to mine. I still always felt sparks. “Nah. All I wanted to do today was spend time with you and that’s what I got.” He chuckled. “Life with you is an adventure, Zel. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Still, I’m sure this isn’t what you had in mind,” I said, grinning. “I’ll have to make it up to you.”

Avery licked his lips, his eyes devouring me. “Oh, I’m sure you will.”

Chapter Eight

The general consensus was that Ben had too much on his mind to drive, and that maybe he would take Christopher and Frank hostage and force them to go to San Francisco.

So, he sat in the backseat and put together all the San Diego files while Christopher played chauffeur. This also meant that they had to listen to Christian rock for over an hour.

During the past few months Ben had discovered that Christopher had never actually been ordained as a Lutheran pastor. However, he’d spent so much time in church growing up and while formulating his plan to destroy Ben and Zellie that lots of pastorly things had rubbed off on him. He’d actually read the Bible several times and had written some of his own sermons. He’d enjoyed leading youth group, but wasn’t so keen on having to wake up early on Sundays. And he loved Christian rock...way too much.

Usually Ben would have given him a ration of shit about the music, but Christopher had been on his side about the whole dad thing.

Maybe he would understand. Maybe he would help him. Ben wasn’t going to wait for his mom to be out of limbo to make his move, or to find out more about his dad. Once he latched on to an idea, he persisted until it either worked out or blew up in his face. His mom might never escape. He might never have the chance to rescue her.
No.
He had to change Frank’s mind. Tonight, after their last case. After dinner. Ben was gonna get his mind control on.

“Are we there yet?” Ben asked, a smirk on his face.

“Like ten more minutes and we will be,” Christopher answered. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and bobbed his head.

“I’ve got the file all ready. I gotta say, I’m not feeling this one.”

Frank turned in his seat toward Ben, but didn’t make eye contact. “How so?”

Ben passed the open file to Frank. The guy’s picture was paper clipped to the front of the profile. “I think he’s probably gay. He’s a year younger than me, good looking and popular. There are a couple of notes stating that he’s never had a girlfriend. But I just don’t get Retroact from him. Something about his eyes. He seems too happy.”

Christopher snorted. “You don’t think he has powers because he seems too
happy
? Ben, I studied you for years and I was convinced that you were one of the happiest and luckiest guys on the whole planet.”

“Meanwhile, I’m one of the most fucked up people on the planet. Is that what you mean?”

“Well, yeah.” Christopher shrugged. “If you can hide behind your appearance, so can someone else. It’s not like you’re an Oscar-winning actor or anything.”

Frank handed the file back to him and he studied the picture again. The guy was named Reagan Cho. His dad was a fourth generation Chinese dude from the O.C. and his mom was a white chick from Iowa. Reagan’s parents had divorced when he was eight, supposedly because his mom had a drug problem. Dad had full custody and had moved his son to San Diego when Reagan was twelve. The picture attached to the file was taken when he was sixteen, about a year ago. It had been taken from across the boardwalk while he was playing volleyball with some friends at the beach. The friends were all guys, Ben noted. There wasn’t even the usual pod of girls hanging around on the sidelines working on their tans. Reagan looked confident and popular. He didn’t look like he was hiding anything, much less secret powers.

Christopher cranked the radio up, rocking out to the break-it-down part of a truly cheesy song with the word disciple being chanted in the background.

He’s on my side. He’s on my side.

Christopher turned onto a residential street, driving toward Reagan’s house. As they got closer he stopped mid-headbang and slowed the car.

Gathered in front of the Cho residence, a small yellow bungalow with a neat blacktop-paved front yard, were a bunch of teenagers. Some held pictures or bouquets of flowers, with the clear plastic wrapping still around their lower halves, scrunched up in sweaty, trembling hands. Most of the kids were crying. Someone had leaned a Styrofoam cross against the porch railing for people to pin remembrances to. A white guy in his mid-forties, dressed in khakis and a white button-down shirt, was passing out little stubby candles stuffed into circular cardboard holders.

“This isn’t good,” Christopher said, driving past the vigil and parking at the end of the block.

They got out of the car and walked back up the street. Ben kept his eye out for spirits. Clearly Reagan wasn’t among the living anymore, and Ben couldn’t see how any normal spirit wouldn’t want to be present for their own big to-do if they had the chance.

“I’m looking too,” Christopher whispered, keeping his gaze lowered. “Damn, I wish I had my collar. We’d get more answers that way.”

“I’ll go talk to the teacher-type guy who’s passing out candles. You two keep doing what you’re doing,” Frank said, breaking from their trio and making his way through the small crowd.

Ben and Christopher hung back, nonchalantly scanning the grief-stricken faces of the kids.

“Reagan’s not here,” Ben said after a moment.

Christopher nodded in agreement. “I also don’t see a guy that looks like he’s more devastated than the other kids. Like he lost his boyfriend.”

Ben evaluated the crowd again. No, it was true. There were a few guys among the mourners, but ninety percent of the people crying were girls.

“Let’s split up and see what we can find out.”

“Roger that.”

He walked over to the group closest to him, a pod of four girls huddled together with their hands clasped and heads bent, softly praying.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

The girls all looked at him with tears streaming down their faces, their eyes puffy and red, mascara and glittery eye shadow smeared.

“You all were good friends of Reagan’s?” he asked.

One of the girls inhaled deeply and swiped at her nose with her bare wrist. “Are you a reporter or something? From Costa? You don’t go to Seaside, that’s for sure.”

Ben went with it. “Yeah. I’m investigating Reagan’s death.”

“What’s your angle?” another girl sneered. “’Cause if you say one...” She looked Ben up and down, taking in his appearance and then shook her head. “You’re gay, right?”

Subtle.
He smiled.

Apparently, that was all the girl needed to know to let Ben into her little clique. “Reags and his boyfriend Carlos were beaten to death this morning.” She pointed to an area down the side of the house that was blocked off with crime scene tape. “Over there.”

Where the hell were their spirits?
Even kids without powers should’ve sensed that they needed to stick around. If they were murdered, surely they’d want to see their killer brought to justice.

“Did the cops catch the person that did it?”

“It was two guys,” a third girl piped up. “They turned themselves in a few hours later. Gave the cops the bloody baseball bats and everything.”

“Yeah,” the fourth girl said, putting a hand on her hip, indignant. “I heard that they told the cops that they didn’t know why they did it.”

“I know why,” the sneery one said. “They were a couple of gay-bashing asshats. One of them, Derek or whatever, spray painted “fag” on Carlos’ van last fall. Remember?”

The girls launched into reciting a list of all the mean things Derek and his friend had done.

Ben crossed his arms in front of him, the sick-to-his-stomach feeling from earlier returning. If this kid Derek had violent
intentions
toward Carlos, who was most likely Reagan’s trigger, then someone could’ve very easily used mind control on Derek to get him to kill.

He turned away from the girls and caught Christopher’s eye. He was talking to a group of adults, probably parents. Christopher nodded slightly in his direction and shook hands with one of the men.

“Thanks, ladies. I’m really sorry for the loss of your friend,” Ben said, interrupting their communal “I hate Derek” tirade.

They all gave him a polite smile and then went back to talking to each other.

Ben, Christopher, and Frank all met up under a bottle brush tree in the neighbor’s front yard.

Frank spoke first. “The man I talked to is the guidance counselor over at Seaside High. He said that Reagan was a good student and the junior class treasurer. Also of note, Reagan was the president of the LGBT club, which he started when he was a freshman just after he came out. I guess Carlos has been his boyfriend since around that time.” He looked at Ben. “I know you said you didn’t get a Retro vibe from this kid, but the counselor made it sound like Carlos and Reagan were complete opposites with nothing in common and no one could ever figure out why they were together.”

Christopher stubbed the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “Drawn together and killed together.”

“It’s gotta be Mildred or someone that’s working with her. She laid some mind control on a couple of homophobes, had them kill Reagan and Carlos, and then what? Took their spirits? Shoved them in limbo?”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Frank said. “She knew we would come looking for them and she got to them first.”

“Oh my God,” Christopher said, pulling the car keys from his pocket. “How many more kids did we have to check up on here?”

Ben banged his fist on the palm tree. “Fuck.”

They all took off running for the car.

Christopher reached the car first, got in and hurried to unlock Frank and Ben’s doors.

Ben scrambled into the backseat, snatching up the two remaining San Diego files and flipped them both open. “Aaron Larter. 4439 Spring Street.”

Christopher typed the address into the GPS on his phone. The sound of all three of them breathing hard filled the car as they waited for directions.

“Okay, got it. It’s across town. Give me the other kid’s address.”

“Stephen Ang. 9025 Kelton Avenue.”

They waited.

Christopher tossed his phone into Frank’s lap and started up the car. “Kelton’s closer. We go there and then Spring.” His eyes flicked to the side mirror and he pulled out of the parking spot, speeding down the street.

Every stop sign and traffic light was excruciating. Ben concentrated on the files, hoping for any indication that these two boys were straight and powerless. Maybe they were safe from Mildred because they were of no use to her.

Not for the first time, Ben cursed the dumbass who’d put these paltry files together. Addresses, sure, but why no phone numbers?

Christopher ran through the last red light and the tires screeched as he gunned the car onto Kelton. The street was a maze of apartment buildings and townhouses. “There’s no unit number?” he asked.

“No,” Ben replied.

“Damn it!” Christopher chose the first driveway he came to and pulled in, searching for the house numbers.

“Stop,” Frank said. Christopher slammed on the brakes. “Up ahead.”

They all looked forward. Ben was so amped he’d practically crawled into the front seat.

“See the red flashing light that’s reflected in that window?”

Christopher eased the car down the road and slowly rounded the corner. A police officer was standing in the middle of the street. He put his hand out and motioned for Christopher to stop the car and roll down the window.

The cop leaned in the window, giving them all the obligatory once-over. “You folks live here?”

Christopher cleared his throat. “Visiting a friend.”

“Well, I’m going to have to ask you to turn around. No one’s allowed in or out of here for at least another hour. Sorry, gentlemen.” He stood up, tapping the hood of the car, and returned to his post in the middle of the street.

Christopher started backing up the way he’d come in when two ambulances passed them. The cop allowed them to go through.

“Two ambulances? Two dead bodies?” Ben said.

Frank sighed, “That’s the way it works.”

Christopher cursed. “Spring Street. We might still have time.”

They raced across the city in stunned silence.

When they got near Spring Street, they saw that it was in a gated community. Christopher drove up to the guard station.

“Can I help you?” asked the guard who was leaning against the doorway. He drew his hand from a bag of Cheetos and wiped it off on the front of his navy blue slacks.

“Yes,” Christopher said. “We’re here to see Aaron Larter. Can you buzz us in, or do you have to call the residence--”

“Ain’t nobody there,” the guard interrupted. “Mr. Larter and his
acquaintance
were taken to the morgue earlier today.”

The way he’d said acquaintance gave Ben goosebumps.

The guard picked up his bag of Cheetos and resumed his snacking.

“Uh, thanks,” Christopher said.

“No problemo.”

Ben slumped back in his seat.

“We should probably call Hazel,” Frank said, “to see if this is happening with the girls too.” He took out his phone and started punching in her number.

Christopher reversed away from the gate and drove around aimlessly.