MORTAL COILS (88 page)

Fiona
was sure this was serious. A sensation of wrongness crystallized inside her.
She didn’t know why . . . but she knew it was there.

“If
we’re not back in half an hour, call Grandmother.”

Cee
set a hand on her chest and started to breathe heavily. Her eyes widened and
she took a step closer to Fiona. “You can’t just leave.”

Fiona
let go of one end of the rubber band. It recoiled into her hand with a sharp
snap.

Cee’s
hand reflexively jumped to her throat.

“Yes,
we can,” Fiona told her with a finality that sounded just like Grandmother.

She
regretted using that tone with Cee, but nonetheless moved past her into the
dining room.

Eliot
was there, waiting, pack draped over his shoulder.

Without
looking back, they raced down the hall, then spiraled down the stairs.

“So
what did Robert say?” Eliot asked. “What’s this all about?”

“If
I had to guess,” Fiona told him, “ . . . it’s trouble.”

68

A
DOOR TO THE NEW YEAR

Eliot
sat in the back of Uncle Henry’s Maybach Exelero and mulled the “wrongness” of
this situation.

It
wasn’t the you’re-about-to-die kind of wrong that he and Fiona had dealt with
recently, but rather the kind of wrong as in those spot-the-difference
pictures.

When
Robert had picked him and Fiona up, the race-car/limousine hybrid looked a
little off. The mirror-chrome finish was dull, and mud spattered the back
panels. And most curious, a yellow smiley-face ball capped the antenna. Eliot
was sure the car hadn’t had this ornament before . . . or even had an external
antenna.

Fiona
sat up front, of course. She tried to talk to Robert, but he told her he had to
focus on driving. He would explain everything when they got there.

Watching
him, Eliot thought he could drive, if he had to. Not that Grandmother had ever
let him try. He and Fiona had, however, studied automobiles and knew everything
there was to know about motors and transmissions. He saw how Robert worked the
gear selector, accelerator, and brake. It should be easy.

Eliot
looked out the window. Highway 1 rolled by, and golden California sunlight
sparkled on the ocean.

Why
weren’t they there yet? Robert had been driving for ten minutes, and he had
said it was close. In Uncle Henry’s car they should’ve been across the state by
now.

The
smell of the car was wrong, too. Before it had smelled of leather, whiskey, and
cigar smoke. Now, only a sour scent permeated the car.

Fiona
hadn’t said anything, though, so maybe it was just his imagination.

The
“wrongness,” real or not, was a welcome thing. It kept Eliot busy trying to
puzzle the mystery out, kept him from thinking about last night . . . his music
and the fog . . . and all those people screaming and getting hurt inside the
mist.

No,
not just hurt. He was sure it had been a lot more than hurt. People had been
killed.

That
had been his fault. It was his choice, and ultimately his responsibility.

But
if he hadn’t done it, Fiona would be dead. How would he feel if he had had a
way to save her and hadn’t used it? Wouldn’t that be killing, too?

He
sighed. He’d never feel good about this—either way, he was guilty of killing
someone. Better strangers, though, than his sister.

“Ah,”
Robert said. “We’re here.”

The
car turned into a gravel driveway. A neon sign proclaimed Last SUNSET TAVERN.

Eliot
craned his head and saw a dilapidated building with a red metal roof. A few
beat-up cars and a row of motorcycles were by the front door. Bottles and trash
littered the parking lot.

“Looks
like lots of people are here,” Fiona said. “Do they serve breakfast?”

“Not
really,” Robert muttered. He backed into a spot far away from the other cars
and bikes. “There’s something inside you have to see.”

“Wait.”
Fiona looked uncomfortable and set her hand on Robert’s arm. “No one’s
listening over a phone line now. Tell me what this is all about. Is it
dangerous?”

Robert
patted her hand. He looked at it, took it in his, then kissed it. “Dangerous?
Yes and no, my darling. It’s about your father.”

She
made a face. “Oh, you should’ve told us that before we got here.” She withdrew
her hand from his.

“You
wouldn’t help him if he needed you?” Robert asked.

“I
don’t know. He’s so weird.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Besides,
what’s he ever done for Eliot or me, besides stalking us and being a creep?”

“I’ll
help him,” Eliot said, and opened the car door.

Eliot
wanted to give Louis a chance. Bum or not, crazy or not, part of the Infernal
family or not—he had shown Eliot more trust and warmth than any of his other
so-called relatives.

“He’s
not here,” Robert said to Eliot. “Not exactly, anyway. But he is in trouble,
and you can help him . . . if you want.” He glanced at Fiona and frowned. “It’s
going to be easier to show you, though.”

“So
show us,” Eliot said, impatience creeping into his voice. He grabbed his pack
and waited for Robert.

Robert
turned to Fiona. “Well?”

She
expelled a great breath. “Okay. I can’t let my brother go into that place by
himself.” She fingered the rubber band about her wrist, then opened her door
and got out.

Together,
the three of them strode onto the Last Sunset Tavern’s porch and through its
double swinging doors.

The
place was dark, punctuated by neon beer signs, a jukebox in the corner, three
spotlights over pool tables, and a flickering television in the corner. The
floor was covered with sawdust and peanut shells. It smelled of beer.

Unshaved
men in denim and leather stopped what they were doing (mostly drinking beer)
and their gazes gravitated toward Fiona.

Robert
stepped in front of her and gave a nod to the bartender.

The
bartender nodded back and then at the rear of the room.

The
customers returned to talking and drinking and ignored them . . . mostly. A few
continued to stare at Fiona.

“Don’t
let these jerks rile you,” Robert whispered. “This way.” He moved to the door
in back.

Eliot
and Fiona followed, trying not to make eye contact, but these people were so
interesting that Eliot found it hard not to look. There were so many different
tattoos. He imagined his arms covered with Celtic knots, flames, and tribal
spirals . . . and liked this new tougher version of himself.

They
got to the back door and Robert slid a key into its dead-bolt lock. He opened
it, and they filed through. Robert found the light switch and a single
fluorescent bulb strobed on overhead.

They
were in a storage room with beer kegs and boxes half-filled with bottles. It
was cold. A steel door to the left led to a refrigerated compartment. Another
door at the back was chained and padlocked and had a darkened EXIT sign over
it.

Robert
locked the door to the bar behind them.

“And
this is where you want to take me alone?” Fiona whispered to him.

“Alone?”
Eliot asked.

“Never
mind that. What you have to see is over here.” Robert pushed aside boxes to
make a path.

Old
calendars littered the floor. Eliot got his flashlight, turned it on, and took
a closer look. One had pictures of bass fish on it from 1979, another featured
hot rods from 1963, and a third showed various covered bridges in 1932. They
were all folded back to December.

Robert
rolled aside one last keg. “Here it is.”

A
doorway stood in the brick wall.

It
wasn’t a real door, though. It had been painted there, and not very well
painted. It had a black outline sketched with a marker. The body was
red-brown—slashes and splashes that gave it the texture of roughly hewn wood.

Eliot
took a step closer. It was difficult to tell, but that could be dried blood.

A
brass doorknob had been stuck into the wall as well—literally just stuck there,
rammed into the brick. It hung at a precarious angle, ready to fall out.

“Is
this a joke?” Eliot asked.

“Not
at all.” Robert wiped sweat from his brow. “This leads to the Valley of the New
Year. I think it’s where your father has gone. It’s a very dangerous place.
You’ll have to go in and look for him.”

Fiona
made a rude noise. “We’ve just survived three life-or-death tests. I’m not
about to risk myself or Eliot for a man who couldn’t bother to tell us the
truth about being our father.”

Robert
looked astonished at her words, hurt, too.

“Wait
a second,” Eliot said. “Maybe there was a good reason he never told us.”

“Like
what?” Fiona asked.

“Well,
Grandmother for starters. I bet she’s been scaring him off.”

Fiona
pursed her lips. “So he was just clandestinely watching over us, making sure we
were okay? I don’t believe that. He’s with the other family. I bet he wants
something.”

Robert
leaned against the wall and glared at her, although Fiona didn’t see him.

Something
was “off” with Robert. Like the wrongness that permeated Uncle Henry’s car,
Eliot sensed Robert wasn’t quite himself today.

“We
should at least give Louis a chance to explain,” Eliot told her.

He
waited for Fiona to reply and watched as she stared at the painted door,
thinking. She could be so cold, like Grandmother sometimes, then other times
she surprised Eliot and was almost decent.

“Okay,
you’re right,” she finally whispered. “Open it. Let’s see this valley.”

Robert
brightened. “You’re doing the right thing, Fiona. Family is the most important
thing.” He held up a warning hand. “Back up a bit, though. This might get
tricky.”

He
faced the doorway and grasped the knob.

The
paint crackled over the brick like water suddenly freezing. The wavering marker
edges snapped straight. Bricks in the wall popped and compressed, and tiny
shards of stone exploded and bit into the flesh of Eliot’s exposed arms.

The
fluorescent light in the room went dead, and a dim illumination appeared from
the door’s edges.

Robert
jiggled the doorknob, straining to open it. He set one foot alongside the wall
and pulled.

Eliot
felt his perspective tilt as if the room slanted downward . . . toward the door
. . . pitching steeper until his inner ear was sure that he stood at the mouth
of a deep hole.

Fiona
stepped closer to him, one hand grasping her rubber band.

Eliot
felt vibrations as if a thousand microscopic strings twanged in the air about
them. He could almost see space blurring.

“Threads,”
Fiona whispered to him. “Do you see them all?”

“No,”
he whispered back. “But I do feel them.”