Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams (34 page)

McMahon shouted
as he pulled on his headset, “Agent Wheatley … You worked comms on
the Salt Lake cell with us a few months back right?”

Danielle
Wheatley slapped the side of her headset, “No need to shout about
it.”

Carmichael
yelled back, “Don’t be so modest Danielle! We would have been
literally lost without you.”

She shook her
head and pointed at her ears, her voice coming calmly through the
relative quiet of the headsets, “You don’t need to yell.” She
looked down at the tablet on her lap and adjusted the volume levels
on the other agents microphones, “Is this it?” she looked to Brad
Cobb for confirmation.

“Affirmative.
We’re grouping with three from NYFO when we touch down.”

Danielle
nodded, pulling up the updated roster from the case file, “I’m
pushing their dossiers to you as we speak.”

Cobb pulled his
cell phone from his pocket and started to thumb through the
contents of the three dossiers. He handed his phone off to
Carmichael, “You two worked with any of them?”

Carmichael held
the phone out to agent McMahon and allowed him to flick through the
screens. McMahon avoided making eye contact with Carmichael as his
voice came over the headset, “We’ve worked with them. They’re
thorough.”

Cobb smiled
inwardly, confident that he was working with a strong team. He
patted the roof of the cab to signal to the pilot that they were
all ready, then he allowed his head to fall back into the padded
seat back as the helicopter lurched into motion. He loved his
job.

Charlene pulled a
polythene cap over her wet hair and rinsed out the bath, “Twenty
minutes.”

Stanwick set
the timer on her watch, “You know, this will probably be the last
time you need to dye your hair.”

Charlene
laughed as she tossed her gloves into the waste basket by the sink,
“You clearly don’t know me.” She checked herself in the mirror, and
satisfied that she hadn’t spilled any dye on her blouse, she picked
up a towel from the wall rack and headed out of the bathroom, “I’m
pretty sure I’ll be changing my hair as often as I change my face,
now that I can.”

Stanwick stood
up from the tiled floor and followed her host, “It’s not as easy as
all that. Even that first regression takes most people a long time.
It’s impressive that you’ve found your face so quickly.”

Charlene
tutted, “Hush now.”

Stanwick
watched as Charlene headed towards the bedroom, “Seriously
Charlene, it’s no disservice to you, but I’d be surprised if you
can alter yourself that easily.”

Charlene turned
as she opened her bedroom door, her eyes narrowing in
concentration, focusing on Stanwick’s face. To Stanwick’s shock,
she could see the contours of Charlene’s cheeks change subtly, her
brow line altering, the bows of her lips filling out just a little
until she looked unnervingly familiar. Stanwick folded her arms,
her mouth falling open as she stared at a woman who could now
easily pass as her twin, “Well shit.”

Charlene
grinned, “Indeed.” She stepped into the bedroom and threw open her
closet doors, “Now dear sister, this is something you probably
can
help me with.”

Stanwick
followed her inside and sat on the edge of the bed, “I hate to
break it to you Charlene, but as much as I’d enjoy watching you
throw yourself into the brink in a turquoise dress, you might want
to dig out something more practical.”

Charlene looked
at the small stained rings on Stanwick’s knees, the remnants of her
first meeting with David and she imagined that slipping in David’s
vomit with bare legs would have been a low point. She turned back
to the wardrobe and started throwing dresses, skirts and blouses on
the bed beside Stanwick, “You know the last time I fit a pant
suite?”

“Nineteen
ninety something…” Stanwick tried, trailing off awkwardly.

“Bitch!”
Charlene turned on Stanwick suddenly, joining in her laughter. “You
know I don’t have anything quite that,” she pointed to Stanwick’s
pants, “functional.” She threw Stanwick’s word back at her, raising
her eyebrows in riposte.

“Here, let me
look.” Stanwick stood up from the bed and shouldered past Charlene,
who stepped aside, jumping past the pile of clothes on the bed and
slumping into the comfort of the blanket. She leaned her head into
a fat pillow and watched Stanwick clatter through the hangers,
“Good luck in there.”

“Don’t worry,”
Stanwick started to pull some of the clothes off their hangers, “I
think I already hit the jackpot. There appears to be some sort of
secret portal to the seventies in here.” Stanwick stepped away from
the doors with several pairs of faded jeans slung over her left
arm. She dropped the pile on the edge of the bed and walked towards
the other side of the bedroom, “Try some of those on. You want
something with plenty of movement okay?”

Charlene sighed
and saluted as she clambered out of her comfortable nest, “Your
wish is my command.” She fished out her new lingerie from the
shopping and hid behind the wardrobe door, “Excuse me.”

“You want me to
…” she pointed towards the bedroom door, but Charlene held a hand
out and twirled it in the air. Stanwick turned her back to
Charlene, leaned against the wall and she listened to her shuffle
out of her clothes.

“You should
throw the rest in a case or something if you have one.”

Charlene
grunted as she pulled a navy blue blouse on over her head, “We’ll
be leaving that soon?”

“We should have
left already, but needs must.”

Charlene
buttoned the front of the jeans and pulled up their awkward little
zipper, “You can turn around now.”

Stanwick smiled
approvingly, “You look like you’re ready for a Led Zeppelin
concert.”

“I wish.”

“Okay, now drop
and give me twenty.”

Charlene looked
dubious, “You’re kidding right?

“You have to
make sure you can move in them … jumping jacks at least.”

Charlene
laughed and jumped up and down on the spot a few times, throwing
her arms and legs out to the sides, “Satisfied? Plenty of movement
for you?”

Stanwick’s eyes
widened, “You’ll thank me later.” She glanced at the wardrobe,
“What about shoes?”

Charlene knelt
down and pushed her hands into the depths of the wardrobe’s bottom,
rummaging through the cluttered pile of foot-ware that had amassed
over the years. Going by touch alone, she judged the strata until
near the bottom of the pile she felt the aged rubber and cloth,
pulling out a pair of slightly battered looking converse. She held
them out triumphantly, “The shoe for all seasons.”

“Except rain,
or really anything involving water.”

Charlene
pouted, “So I don’t need to worry about bullets, or nightmare
crossbreeds, but wet feet are a serious hazard?”

Stanwick pushed
the clothes aside and returned to her seat on the edge of the bed,
“Honestly you can go barefoot for all I care.”

Charlene looked
for a moment as if she was seriously considering the possibility,
but eventually she turned back to the wardrobe and started
rummaging again. She pushed aside mounds of orthopedic shoes,
slippers, clogs and moccasins, finally dredging up a couple of
pairs of thigh highs and ankle boots. Stanwick extended a foot
towards the ankle boots, nudging them towards Charlene.

“You know,”
Charlene began, arching her knee so that she could pull on one of
the boots, “I’m pretty sure I was wearing these boots in that
photo.”

“The one from
the farm?”

Charlene
grunted as she laced up the boot, “Mhmm. I definitely wore them to
Carina’s funeral. I remember looking down at my feet at the
graveside and thinking how ashamed Carina would have been. ‘Clod
hoppers are not appropriate attire for a church,’ she’d have said.
Bless her soul.”

“You believe in
the soul?”

Charlene
paused, holding the other boot to her chest in contemplation, “You
know, if you’d asked me a couple of days ago, I’d have said no for
certain.”

“What’s
changed?”

“Everything. I
mean, I’ve got nothing but questions now.” She pushed her foot into
the other boot and laced it up, “I used to live in a world where
dead presidents stayed dead.” She pushed herself up off the floor,
shoving the other boots out of her way with her feet, “There, how
do I look?”

Stanwick
grimaced, “Honestly, it’s a little creepy that you still look like
me.”

Charlene
grabbed the cupboard door to check herself in the mirror. She
squinted at her features, and summoned the best mental image she
could of her own face. It was odd, she thought, that she was never
actually going to look completely like herself again, but rather
she would be an approximation of a memory. Close enough she
thought, pushing the door aside and presenting herself for
Stanwick’s appraisal again.

“Much better.”
Stanwick smiled, glancing at her watch, “Six minutes left.”

Savoring every
mouthful, chewing slowly, closing her eyes and humming, Stephanie
hadn’t made it half way through her meal by the time West started
to clear up after David and himself. She pulled her plate close,
wrapping a protective arm around it, concerned that West might not
realize that she hadn’t finished eating. Even if she hadn’t been
cherishing the food though, Stephanie wouldn’t have had time to
finish the meal, because she was deeply contemplative. She had
noticed small exchanges of glances between her dad and West. She
had noticed it while they ate their meal, and she was still aware
of it while they busied themselves about the kitchen. Something was
clearly up with them, and she was sure that it concerned her

Stephanie had
been told that she had a propensity towards imagining that
everything was about her. Propensity. She allowed the word to
canter proudly about her brain, parading itself in front of lesser
words. Not long before Christmas, Stephanie had overheard her
father discussing her Christmas presents with Aunt Hannah, and this
had occasioned her aunt to explain that not everything was about
her. Whether or not she had a propensity for it, Stephanie knew
some things were definitely about her.

The door to the
apartment rattled, and Stephanie looked up from her plate
expectantly. Torn between her desire to be social, and the best
steak she had ever eaten, she was forced to greet Stanwick and
Charlene with a mumbled mouthful.

“Well hello
Stephanie.” Charlene twirled on the hard wood floor, booted feet
clapping less than dainty footsteps, “What do you think of my new
look?”

Stephanie
turned in her chair and leaned over its back; pointing her fork
towards her own head, she tried not to open her mouth as she
grinned her approval of Charlene’s hair. She chewed quickly, trying
to gulp down her food as she made to stand up from her chair.

“Stephanie
Beach! What do you say?” Her dad’s voice froze her in her
tracks.

She swallowed
hard, and a little out of breath she asked politely, “Please may I
leave the table?”

David leaned
over the kitchen counter to examine her plate, “You may not leave
the table. Finish your meal.”

“But I’m
full!”

David looked
about for support, but West walked straight past him, oblivious,
his eyes fixed on Charlene.

“You like?”
Charlene batted her eyelids as she tossed her hair from side to
side, “I think I could pass as human now.”

“You definitely
look more at ease with yourself.” West agreed.

Unable to
contain herself any longer, Stephanie got up from the table and ran
to Charlene’s side, “Can I touch it?”

“Sure you can.”
Charlene laughed, crouching down to the child’s level. Stephanie
wiped her greasy hands on her own top and stroked Charlene’s head,
“It’s so lovely and smooth.”

“That’s because
I always finish my meals.”

“Is not!”
Stephanie protested.

“Is so.”

“You see
Stephanie? It’s for your own good.” David called over from the
kitchen as he placed the last of the plates in the drying rack.

Stanwick glared
at Stephanie in jest, “You better have left some for us!”

“We did.” She
looked up at West, “We did right?”

Before West
could answer, Stanwick lunged forward and picked Stephanie up
easily, running with her towards the couch in the living room, “You
can’t have any more. It’s all for me.”

“Stop it!”
Stephanie giggled, clawing at the soft couch cushions as she tried
to escape.

“Nope, you’re
going to keep me company until my steak is on the table, ready for
me to eat.”

Stephanie gave
up easily and leaned back against her captor, resting her hands on
Stanwick’s wrists, “Those two are up to something.” She
whispered.

“Who?” Stanwick
joined in Stephanie’s conspiratorial tone.

“Dad and West.
They were talking about me, I’m sure they were.”

Stanwick could
well imagine the conversation that must have taken place. They
needed to move. West knew what had to be done. She took Stephanie’s
hands in hers and closed her eyes, looking for the child’s unspoken
voice. She knew the thought would be there, a hand set in motion
against the tide of time. Stephanie was on the outside of something
magical, something otherworldly and she wanted in. Stanwick could
could feel it, on the tip of her tongue, the question in
waiting.

Say it.

Stephanie’s
lips moved gently, unspeaking, her eyes shut slow.

Say it.

Stephanie
gripped Stanwick’s hand tightly, suddenly too afraid to open her
mouth.

It’s time.

“Dad.”

“What’s up
hon?” He asked, walking over from the kitchen.

“I’m
scared.”

David stared at
Stanwick, her turquoise eyes wide and expectant, “What are you
afraid of Spiff?”