Relic (5 page)

I remembered how I'd seen Mr. Cosler's car dealership badge and how that had helped track him down.

“What they're wearing will give you clues,” Archer continued. “Look closely. Are they in pajamas or tuxedos? Are there name tags, bracelets, or tattoos? Do they—”

“Dean?” My mom's voice came from behind us, and Lisa, Colin, and I leaped to our feet like we'd been caught doing something awful. Archer, though, went about his pretend business, completely unfazed. He leaned into his rag and scrubbed a section of the floor. My mom's gaze didn't even flick to him. I really needed to learn how to be that cool.

“Um, yeah, Mom?”

She raised an eyebrow, not missing our guilty faces. “You three better not be getting into trouble over there.” She nodded quickly. “C'mon, they're ready for you.”

 

The doctor laughed when he saw my cast. Then he called in the ortho-tech, and the two of them laughed together. A couple of nurses poked their heads around the door, and before I knew it, the room was filled with people who thought that getting tackled by museum security after fighting a monk was hilarious. Perhaps if the situation had been different—like if it had happened to someone else—I'd be laughing too. But somehow, meeting Archer and having everything finally confirmed made me less ready to laugh.

I shivered for the zillionth time that day as images of past visions assaulted my mind. I'd just discovered that every person I touched was a potential nightmare. I tried to think of how many people I'd touched since the mugging that started the whole thing. Too many. Way too many. Then it hit me. The answer was so simple I wasn't sure why it had taken me so long to think of it. If touching someone connected me to them, then I just needed to make sure I didn't touch anyone.

“Ha!” The laugh burst from my lips before I realized it was coming, and the ortho-tech quickly turned off the circular saw he was using to cut the plaster off my leg. The tech gave me a concerned look, which drew a similarly worried glance from my mom. “Just tickles a bit,” I said, gesturing to the saw. As he finished up, I smiled to myself. I had a plan, and by the time the last scrap of cast was off, I'd solidified my resolve: just don't touch people.

It felt strange to walk again. My leg was weak and the air seemed extra chilly against my skin. It made dodging people in the hospital corridors a bit of a challenge. Not that there were a lot of people, just that my leg seemed to move half a second slower than usual, so quick movements didn't go so well.

I managed to put some distance between me and my mom, and when I met up with Colin and Lisa I quickly told them about my no-contact plan. Lisa looked like she wanted to say something, but I cut her off with a shake of my head as my mom caught up.

Becky complained the whole way home that I'd ruined her trip to the museum. If you're an older brother to a girl, you probably realize what an amazing accomplishment that is. Score one for me. Plus, since Becky wouldn't shut up, my mom didn't pepper me with questions—another win-win. Still, she tossed an occasional glance at the rearview mirror, and I could tell she was worried. My avoidance issues would certainly be a topic she'd bring up later, probably sometime after we dropped off Colin and Lisa. I chewed my lip and decided that as long as Becky didn't bring it up, and I kept the conversation during dinner on something else, something not monk or crazy-kid related, I might have a chance at avoiding the discussion altogether.

 

***

 

Becky shoved another spoonful of rice into her mouth and kept on talking. “And then, after he beat up the poor monk and got his cast all busted up by the security guards, I had to sit in the parking lot for an hour while he got the rest of his cast removed.”

To my dad's credit, he didn't even pause between bites as Becky recounted the events of the day, not until the very end anyway. At that point, he glanced up and gave my mom his one-raised-brow look that meant, “Is any part of that true?” My mom puckered her lips and gave an almost indistinguishable nod. Translation: “Yep, your son is a certifiable nut-job.”

“That sounds like quite the day.” He turned to me. “I'm sure your sister exaggerated things a bit, but is there anything you'd care to add?”

I shrugged. “It sounds bad, but it was just a stupid misunderstanding. I didn't beat anyone up. It was an accident.” I gestured with my spoon across the table at my sister. “The part that you should really focus on is that your daughter is upset that she didn't get enough time with a giant piece of poop.” I nodded. “That should be a bigger red flag than anything that happened to me today.”

“It's not funny, Dean,” Mom said.

“I'm not trying to be.” I rolled my eyes. “Mom, I promise you, it was an accident. I blame the doctors for making me keep that stupid cast on my leg for longer than I needed it.”

“Accident or not,” my mom began, “you'll be going back there tomorrow.”

I nearly choked on my spoon. “What?”

“You need to apologize to that young man.”

“Who? The monk?”

“Of course the monk. That little scuffle of yours made it so he can't see the Buddha anymore.” I moved to protest, but she held up a warning finger. “You should have been more respectful. After you apologize, I think you can talk to Mr. Overton, apologize to him too, and see if he'll let you and that young man into the museum again.”

“But it was just an accident.”

“People do apologize for accidents, Dean,” my dad said. “I think it's a great idea.” My mom gave an approving smile and winked at my dad.

“Ha!” Becky looked like she'd just won a contest. “Can I go too? I really want to watch Dean get beat up by a monk.”

“I don't want to go back into the museum again,” I mumbled.

My mom ignored my mutterings. “Plus, I think the last few weeks being cooped up indoors, away from people, has made you a little, well, socially rusty.” Becky laughed again, and my mom added, “I think it would be good to re-connect with all your friends before school starts up again.”

“He'd have to make some first,” Becky said under her breath.

My mom gestured to my plate. “Finish your dinner. And Dean?” She tilted her head and eyed me tiredly. “No more acting out, okay?”

Acting out?
As if I was the type to act out. Heck, I wouldn't act out if I was actually acting in a play and my character was told to “act out.” I thought about arguing, but what would be the point? I couldn't tell them the truth, and any half-truth was just going to make my parents think I was even more nuts.

I shoved another couple of bites of food into my mouth, drained my glass of water, and smiled the most insincere, mocking smile I could manage. “I'm pretty tired. It's been a long day, and I guess I have a longer day coming my way tomorrow. I think I'll take a shower and go to bed.”

I stood in the shower for a long time, thinking about the Society, thinking about Archer Astley, thinking about all the questions I had for him. How many people were in the Society? Where had it originated? How did it start? Why me? I could call Archer and set up a meeting. Or maybe he'd be waiting somewhere to talk with me. I didn't want to seem desperate, or like I was a needy little kid who couldn't cope. I didn't want them to kick me out, if that was even possible.

I walked past my parents' room after my shower and overheard my dad discussing yet another acronymic condition that I might have.

“It's possible his trauma is manifesting itself in some kind of OCD.”

“Obsessive-compulsive disorder?” my mom asked.

“A mild, very treatable type,” Dad said. “It'll probably resolve on its own. Dean's going to be fine. Remember that he's still just a kid too. Some of what he's going though has nothing to do with…”

I drew a breath and stopped listening, continuing to my room. Great! OCD, PTSD, ADHD, just a couple more and I'd have the whole alphabet.

Despite it all, when I hit the lights and climbed into bed, I couldn't stop myself from smiling. Sure my mom and dad thought I was nuts, and maybe my psychologist thought so too. But for the first time since the mugging that started it all, things were starting to make sense. Archer had finally made contact, and he'd explain it. I'd be part of something. Something ancient. Something important. I was still scared, but not like before. I didn't have to figure this out on my own, and that fact alone gave me hope.

Nothing could dampen my spirits.

Well, almost nothing.

 

I woke up in the pitch-dark, feeling like someone was watching me. “Becky, if you're in my room, so help me…” I lunged to my right and slapped the switch on the bedside lamp. My room had faded blue walls, but as my eyes adjusted to the new light, I realized the blue had gone gray. Colin had given me a movie poster of
Attack of the 50 Ft. Woman
. It was mostly yellow, with a fifty-foot woman scooping up cars from a freeway. When I noticed the gray walls, my eyes shot to the poster; it was gray too.

Something moved to my right. My heart surged, and I turned slowly. A man in a security uniform shuffled forward and I realized it was the guard we'd met at the T. rex exhibit.

He moved another step, half a step really, and dropped his shoulder. His head jerked one way, then another, and his spine cracked as his torso bent unnaturally to the right. It was happening again, and even though not a day went by that I didn't think about my visions, I never seemed to feel fully prepared for them. I knew a scream was coming and I clenched my teeth to keep my own voice in check. Then it happened, and as the guard shrieked, my bones rattled and a muffled groan slipped past my lips.

Then, in a blink, he was gone. My gaze stayed locked where he had been, and I drew a series of deep breaths to try to calm my heart. I counted to ten, and when the color in the walls didn't return, my stomach lurched for the second time. Another person, concealed until now in the shadows, lunged forward. He was dressed entirely in black and even had one of those ski masks where you can see only eyes. I didn't have any time to gather my thoughts. The person struck the side of my bed, lunged again, and screamed at least twice as loud as the security guard. The whole time his head pivoted on its axis much farther than a human head is supposed to pivot. It was like a scene out of one of the horror movies Colin was always forcing me to watch.

I knew it wasn't real—part of me did anyway—but I didn't have time to prepare. Two visions in a matter of seconds were more than my already rattled senses could handle. And when his scream started, so did mine. His hooded face was so close that I thought I could feel his breath, which I knew was impossible given that he was a vision, but I was sure I felt it.

His shriek seemed to last longer than the others and I gathered some strength and threw myself away from the apparition and onto the floor. He was gone as suddenly as the security guard had been, and I pulled myself to my feet and leaned against my dresser. I managed two breaths before the door to my room burst open.

It was my mom. Well, I know that now, but she had on this green face mask, and her hair had pieces of cloth sticking out all over the place. She looked horrifying, so of course, I thought I was having another vision, and I screamed again. And then, to make matters even worse, she screamed, so then I was sure she was a vision. If I hadn't staggered to the side and tripped over my laundry hamper, I probably wouldn't have stopped screaming, either.

But I did—thank God—and that's when I realized the walls in my room were light blue again. I looked up from my position on the floor and saw three faces peering in from the doorway. My mom was still clutching her housecoat, my dad looked more puzzled than ever, and Becky was shaking her head.

“I'm fine!” I jumped to my feet and tried to push the image of the security guard and the guy dressed in black from my head. “I just had a nightmare, and then Mom opened the door and I thought she was some kind of swamp creature.”

She drew back with a grimace and looked at my dad, who shrugged and said, “You do look rather horrifying, dear.”

“It's a night mask,” she said. “You were screaming and—”

“Look,” I said, “just don't read into this, okay? I know what you're thinking.”

“That you need a straightjacket?” Becky suggested. “And maybe a tranquilizer?”

“It was just a stupid dream about…er…” I suddenly didn't know what to say. My dad was looking at me with his psychologist eyes, so any nightmare I mentioned needed to be not too scary or he'd probably be able to twist it into some deeper meaning. “Mr. Utlet,” I finally said. When my mom and dad nodded, I relaxed. Nightmares about a neighbor who'd been shot a million times by the police right in front of me were expected. They'd probably have thought I was nuts if I didn't have nightmares about it.

“Are you sure you're okay, son?” my dad asked.

“I'm fine. Really.”

My mom took a few steps toward me, and I stepped back involuntarily. She stopped mid-step and said, “It's just a face mask!”

“Okay,” I said, still keeping my distance.

“You're sure you're okay?” she asked.

“I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry about me.”

She closed the distance between us, gave me a hug, and then said something I wish she hadn't: “If you get scared again, you can sleep in our room.”

“Ewww, gross.” Becky cringed. “Oh my gosh, that would be the most disturbing thing ever. The whole family would need therapy. I know I would.”

For the first time ever, Becky was right. “I'm fourteen, Mom. That means I'm like thirteen and a half years too old to be sleeping in your room. Please, I'm fine. I just want to go back to bed.”

Becky shivered. “Dad, do you know where the camera is? I'm going to need a picture to show the therapist if he ends up sneaking into your room.” She turned to me. “Maybe I'll put it on the Internet too.”