The Yanti (7 page)

“I told you, Hector hardly knows me. He’s not going to drive over here just because I ask him to.”

“He will when you tell him that you’re afraid to let Nira go back to Sheri Smith.”

“Why do you say that? She’s her mother.”

“When he spoke to you about Nira, his face brightened, didn’t it?”

“Maybe, sort of, I don’t know. That still doesn’t mean he’s going to drive over here to see her at the drop of a hat.”

“He has to come. I need him.”

“What for?”

“To take care of Nira while we’re at the police station.”

“The man builds houses for a living. He’s not a nanny.”

Ali pointed to the phone. “When I scanned your memories, I saw that you and Steve got his number from information. He’s listed. Get his number again, and call him and explain the situation. I think he’ll agree to help with Nira.”

“But how do you know this?” Cindy insisted.

“I don’t know it for sure. But . . . think of it as a test.”

“What kind of test?”

“A test of his devotion to Nira.”

“I think you scanned your fish in your fish tank—their brains, not mine—when you had me in your bedroom.”

“You would be amazed at what I saw.”

Cindy gave her a look. “Even if he does agree to come—when he gets here—I won’t be here. I’ll be at home, and then I’ll be at the police station.”

“It doesn’t matter, he’s coming for Nira.” Ali added, “Plus I need to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“Many things,” Ali said.

In the end, Cindy agreed to call Hector Wells. She was on the phone two minutes with the contractor before she set down the phone and nodded—bewildered—in Ali’s direction. It appeared Hector was driving to Breakwater to help with Nira.

Before Cindy left, she told Ali she would be the one to call Steve’s parents and tell them—without question—that their son was dead. Ali protested, said to her friend that it was too much to ask. But, with a tear in her eye, Cindy insisted.

“It should be me. I was there when he died,” Cindy said.

B
reakwater’s police station was located at the far end of the town’s Main Street, near Harry’s Haircuts. The latter spot was significant to Ali because just before entering the elemental kingdom, she had bumped into an odd customer sitting in Harry Idaho’s place of business. At the time, Harry had been asleep in one of his chairs—which was strange since Harry was not known for sleeping on the job—and the customer had been sitting in the rear of the place waiting for Harry to wake up and give him a haircut.

The old guy certainly needed one. His hair and beard were so long and white, he looked like a wizard. Extremely thin, almost to the point of emaciation, he had cold blue eyes that appeared to see right through her—once they started talking. Plus he wore long white gloves, which he explained he needed to protect his hands.

“I don’t wear them to keep warm or cool. No, I hurt my hands some time ago, burned them actually. Now I have to wear these to keep away infections.”

The man said his name was Shane Bumpston, and they were not talking long when he brought up a gentleman Ali had
healed from a serious injury not long after she had learned she was a fairy—a certain Ted Wilson. The reference was strange because Ali had healed Ted while he was unconscious—even Ted had not known who had helped him. But Shane Bumpston seemed to know all about her abilities.

Then, out of the blue, he asked to see her Yanti.

“I see the string. You must be wearing . . . something. Please, Ali, let me see it.”

When she said no, and asked for some type of identification, he got angry and vanished—in a blinding flash of light, that literally knocked her to the floor. Later, when she came to understand Sheri Smith’s ability to hide her scarred figure, she assumed the wizard was Ms. Smith in disguise. Yet she was never a hundred percent sure of the fact.

But as Ali neared the police station, on foot, it reassured her to think that she had survived at least one encounter with the witch. Also, her talk with Hector Wells had given her what she felt was ammunition she could use against the woman. Right now, Hector was fixing Nira breakfast.

Hector had been everything she hoped for and more.

It relaxed Ali to know Nira was in safe hands.

Nevertheless, her heart continued to pound in her chest.

Only minutes now . . . and she would be face-to-face with the enemy.

The police station was as tiny as the town. The building housed only three law enforcement officers: Sheriff Terry Mackey, Deputy Brent Houser, and Deputy Mike Garten. Not so long ago the structure had been a meeting place for the Women’s Club, but it had been converted into the station when the aforementioned club’s membership had shrunk to less than five members. Apparently the ladies of Breakwater had better things to do than sit around, play bridge, drink coffee, and gossip.

Yet the building’s conversion had been poorly executed. It was a local joke that anyone locked in the station’s jail cell could escape by standing on a chair and forcing open a rear window. Walking toward the station, Ali hoped she would not have to leave the place through that same window. There was always the possibility that Garten would try to arrest her for
something
. She really should try to be nicer to him, she told herself. At least for an hour.

Ali was fifteen minutes early and was surprised to see only one person present, standing outside the station. It was Mike Havor, the most unlikely of all candidates, she thought, to be early. He worked as a software designer for Sheri Smith’s company, and he was totally blind. He stood alone near the south corner of the redbrick building, with his white cane in hand, his dark sunglasses on his pale face, his dark wavy hair badly combed. He couldn’t have been more than thirty.

Recalling his gentle smile and kind manner, Ali was pleased to see him, although puzzled at his lack of an escort. She could only assume he had arrived on the bus. There was a bus stop ten feet from where he stood.

Ali had enjoyed the time they had spent talking in his office in Toule, arguing about the different direction they imagined mankind was heading in. Havor believed that human beings—to survive as a species—had to radically improve themselves by boosting their physical and mental capabilities with
implanted
technologies. He was convinced that in the next generation, every person on Earth would be walking around with microchips in their brains—to squeeze IQ points out of their craniums.

For her part, Ali had found his views too unnatural, yet his vision fascinated her just the same. From everything she had heard about how demanding Sheri Smith was of her employees,
she had no idea why such a nice man worked for her—except for the fact that she probably paid him a ton. Ali knew it had been Havor who had designed the company’s bestselling game—Omega Overlord.

She called to him as she approached. She used her fake name just for fun.

“Mike Havor, it’s me, Lisa Morgan. How are you doing?”

He smiled as he heard her speak, turned in her direction. His glasses were so dark, she could not actually see his eyes, and she recalled that he had not always been blind. He had told her something about an accident that had struck at an early age, but had not gone into detail. Like when they had first met, he stared in her direction, but was just an inch or two off with his aim, so that she was left with the impression he was talking to the air, and not exactly to her.

“Now come on, Lisa, your secret’s out of the bag. I know your real name, Alison Warner. And I must say, I like the real one better. But I’ve heard you like to go by Ali. Is that true?”

“Yes, call me Ali. All my friends do. May I still call you Mike? Even though I lied to you when we first met?”

He nodded, pulled his dark coat tighter around his long-sleeved white shirt, although the morning was not cold. “Sure. I hope you don’t feel I’m here to prosecute you. To be honest, I didn’t want to come at all, but Sheri Smith said I had to appear and testify that you entered Omega Overtures under ‘false pretenses.’ I know, I hate the phrase as much as you, it sounds silly.” He paused and added, “Understand, it’s not my desire to get anyone in trouble here.”

Ali shook her head, although she knew the gesture was wasted on him.

“I’m afraid there’s going to be plenty of trouble at this meeting. My friend, Cindy Franken, will be along in a few minutes,
with her parents. She’s here to testify that your boss, Sheri Smith, stabbed and killed a close friend of ours, Steve Fender.”

Havor lost his smile, then he shook his head. “That’s where you guys are wrong. As I told you in Toule, I’ve known Sheri Smith for years. She’s not that kind of person.” Havor paused, then asked, “You didn’t actually see this murder, did you? Nor have you seen your friend’s body? At least this is what I’ve been told.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Ali lied. “But I know Cindy—know her better than you know your boss. I assure you that when the truth comes out, Sheri Smith will be found guilty. I realize this must be hard for you to believe, but she’s not the woman you think she is. Everything about her is false.”

Havor looked grim, and yet, not as shaken as she would have imagined. Did he secretly harbor doubts about the woman, Ali asked herself. When he spoke next, it was in a rather calm voice.

“If this crime did happen, then why are the police saying there’s no evidence? I hear there’s no body, no bloodstains, no weapons.” He paused. “This murder—it’s supposed to have occurred in Ms. Smith’s home, right?”

“No. There’s a maze of caves beneath Toule. They’re related to the old power plant you guys used to have, and the gas mining that went on before the explosion burned down the plant. Cindy says Steve died in one of those mines—one beneath Sheri Smith’s house.” Realizing she was altering their agreed upon story, Ali added, “But Cindy had a bag over her head a lot of the time she was captive, so she’s not exactly sure where they were when Steve died. Only that Sheri Smith committed the murder.”

“But why would she murder your friend?”

Ali hesitated. “I don’t know the answer to that.”

“Why did you visit our firm that afternoon?”

“I wanted to find out more about you guys.”

“But why us in particular?”

“Because your boss came out of nowhere, and, in five years, turned a tiny software company into a billion-dollar conglomerate. It made me wonder what kind of person could do that.”

“So you were doing more than writing a paper for a class?”

“Yes.”

“You have to admit, that sounds pretty thin.” When she didn’t answer, he added, “You’re old enough to know that being successful doesn’t automatically make one guilty. Certainly not of murder.”

He was saying all the right things to defend his boss, but there was no passion in his voice. He had brought up the fact that she had used a false name when she had visited his company, but had not
jumped
on her for it, like one would expect.

Ali decided to take a chance on him. If he could support her even a little in the upcoming meeting, then it might make her life easier over the next few days. From what she could gather, he was the creative backbone of Omega Overtures. Sheri Smith might lighten up on her legal attacks on Ali—if only on a superficial level—to appease him. Having any type of ally at the firm would be a plus.

Ali still had no idea why Ms. Smith—the human part of the Shaktra—felt the need to own a software company. It couldn’t be for monetary reasons. Using her fairy powers, Ali could walk into any Vegas casino and make millions in an hour—that is, if the pit bosses would let her play.

Ali spoke carefully. “The last time we spoke, in your office, you did not come out and say it, but you hinted at what a slave
driver Ms. Smith was. You said nothing could stop her from getting what she wanted—once she’d made up her mind.” Ali paused. “Doesn’t that sound like a ruthless person to you?”

Mike Havor did not answer her question directly, which she took to be a yes. But he did alter the direction of his head, and soon he had narrowed his hidden eyes upon her.

Nevertheless, his expression remained troubled.

“This whole situation is very confusing,” he said.

Ali nodded. “I agree with that.”

Sheriff Terry Mackey and Officer Mike Garten arrived a minute later and let them inside the station. Sheriff Mackey had brought a large box of assorted doughnuts, scones, and muffins—he had a bulging gut that testified this was a typical breakfast for him—and two pots of steaming coffee. No doubt he had swung by the local pastry shop that Steve had been addicted to . . . when he had been alive . . .

Seeing the pastries and thinking of Steve made Ali lose her appetite. The room they were put in was depressing. It was the station’s conference center, but it looked like a classroom that had been swiped from a rundown elementary school. There was a plastic desk at the center, surrounded by a dozen cheap folding metal chairs. At the far end was a chalkboard where someone—it was probably Garten, the handwriting was lousy—had sketched a crude schematic of the bottom floor of Sheri Smith’s mansion.