Trance (37 page)

The pretty façade didn’t hint at the volatile underbelly. I couldn’t judge the Bacons by a file, so I didn’t know if they were ill prepared to handle Ethan’s particular condition, or if the other children simply adjusted and never told about the Bacons’ methods of “straightening them out.” Police reports said Ethan first ran away six months after arriving at the Bacon household. He was found two days later, living beneath an overpass, and sent back. He ran away again the following year. He made a complaint—later lost from his file—about his treatment by the Bacons. An investigation turned up nothing and the matter was dropped.

He asked to be given to someone else. The Bacons fought to keep him. For four years he lived under their roof, until he turned eighteen. He filed criminal charges of negligence and abuse, which were later dropped by the DA for lack of evidence. No medical reports, no broken bones, no bruises, no corroborating complaints. Just two upstanding adults who tried their best to raise a troubled boy with authority issues.

The file ended there. Marco had dug a little deeper and—with Dr. Seward’s help—discovered the names of two other children fostered with him during that time. One of them, a boy named Charles Abbott, lived in New Hampshire and worked for a car dealership. The second, a girl named Alicia Monroe, had a California driver’s license and a current
address in Burbank. Quick phone calls turned up two more tidbits—she managed a restaurant called Totino’s, and she had left work early yesterday and taken sick time for the rest of the week.

Gage exited the 405. We circled around and passed an apartment complex on the right, down past an abandoned movie studio lot, and further into Burbank. As one of the few remaining “nice” neighborhoods in Los Angeles, the cleanliness was striking. Paved streets, living palms, painted buildings. The battle scars worn by the rest of the city had been expertly covered up.

Renee beeped my Vox while we were still a few blocks away. “Go ahead.”

she said.

My mind spun with the influx of data. I tried to pick out the pertinent information and store the rest. She sounded like a decent girl, the kind of person you could count on when in trouble, and the only person from Ethan’s past currently on the West Coast. He may have gone to her for help. It was our best hope, and our one shot at finding him.

Gage located the apartment building easily enough,
tucked away on a quiet side street near old downtown Burbank. Five stories, stucco roof and adobe walls, it screamed of a style no longer popular, yet still timeless. Outdoor staircases ascended to the upper floors, and long walkways connected the separate bungalows, probably six or eight to each level.

We parked in a private lot across the street. Didn’t get out right away. Gage closed his eyes and concentrated. I scooted forward between the front seats, watching his face as he listened to the apartment life. His eyes scrunched. The corners of his mouth drooped. Minutes passed.

“I think I found the apartment,” he said, eyes flying open. “No voices, but I heard two distinct heartbeats and a television program.”

“If they’re home, then they are likely distracted by the television,” Marco said. “They should not see us sneaking up.”

“Let’s hope,” I said.

We exited the van and crossed the street. A teenage girl walking a dog abruptly changed sides when she saw us. Otherwise, we went undisturbed. Everything felt different in this part of town. Quieter, more relaxed. Far away from the hustle and boom of the ravaged, more industrial parts of the city.

Ethan knew how to pick a hideout.

Alicia lived on the third floor, number 5, nestled in a corner that would have made me jumpy, wondering who was lurking in the shadows by my front door. Two windows were shuttered on the inside. A straw welcome mat lay on the stoop, decorated with daisies and faded grass. Homey and girlish, rolled into one.

Gage turned one ear toward the door, listening. “Still
watching television, I think,” he said softly. “The heartbeats are at rest, close together. About twenty feet from the front door, in another room. The bedroom, maybe.”

Made sense for someone still recovering from surgery to be in bed. This Alicia must be a special person to take off work at the drop of a hat for someone she’d known as a child, unless they’d maintained contact over the years, which was entirely possible. It only reminded me of how little I still knew about Ethan.

“Should we knock?” Marco asked.

“Well, I hadn’t intended to break the door down,” I said.

Marco quirked an eyebrow. He was on the verge of retorting when my Vox beeped. I grabbed it.

“That’s great, Renee, but we’re kind of busy here.”

“Shit.” Helpful and also terrifying on some basic level.

Static interfered with the rest of her statement. I tapped the side of the Vox. “Flex? Can you hear me? Flex?”

Marco pulled out his Vox and tried. “Flex, it is Onyx, come in. Flex, Onyx. Hello?” Same static. “Strange.”

More than strange. Downright unsettling. Psystorm saw a face, someone he knew I would recognize. Was it the same face the female Warden had seen before she died? We had to keep this visit short.

“Someone’s moving in the front room,” Gage said. “A woman just asked if he wanted anything to drink.” His entire face lit up when he smiled. “Ethan just said he wanted some apple juice. He’s here.”

I fisted my good hand to stop from throwing my arms around Gage and settled for a face-aching grin. Relief settled over me, calming some of my queasiness. Only a small niggle of worry remained, slanted toward the loss of Vox communication with HQ.

Ethan was here, and he was safe, and that was what was important. I pressed the doorbell. Gage winced. Damn, I should have warned him to dial back his hearing before I rang. I caught his eye and mouthed
I’m sorry.

He shrugged it off, centered himself. “She’s coming. At the door. Walking away. She’s telling him who’s here.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Nothing yet.” He grinned. “He asked if a guy with silver eyes was outside, and she said yes. He said no use in pretending we aren’t home, they know.” A pause. “Here she comes.”

The front door swung open. Alicia Monroe moved into the doorway, arms folded across her ample chest. She was
a stocky woman, big-boned without being overweight, with close-cropped black hair and piercing blue eyes. Tattoos covered her neck and peeked out from the sleeves of her T-shirt. If I hadn’t known she was a restaurant manager, I would have pegged her for a bouncer.

“I know who you are,” Alicia said. A gentle lilt remained in her voice, softening it and creating a mismatch with her tough appearance. “Come on inside.”

She stepped back and allowed us entry. The apartment was small, clean. Tan walls, checked navy curtains, a collection of matching catalogue furniture that completed a very country style. It smelled like apples and patchouli—two more things defying me to categorize her.

“How is he?” I asked.

“I’m not a nurse, but I think he’s good. I don’t have anything stronger than ibuprofen for the pain he’s in. He won’t complain, though. He’s keeping down fluids, and he had some tomato soup last night.”

My eyes flickered toward the bedroom door, half open to reveal a slab of sunlight on the chocolate-brown carpeting. The quiet murmur of a television set trickled out.

“Thank you for taking care of him, Ms. Monroe,” Gage said.

“It’s Alicia, please. I wanted to call you guys when he showed up. He made me promise not to. I kind of owed him, so I didn’t.”

I shook my head. “It’s okay, Alicia. He was with someone who could take care of him, and that’s all that matters.”

A bell dinged in the other room. Alicia smiled, showing
rows of perfect teeth. The first left incisor had a jewel embedded in it. “He’s calling for you. I’ll wait out here.”

Gage and Marco remained still, and it took a moment to realize they were staring at me; deferring to their leader the task of talking to Ethan. I squared my shoulders, nerves twisting my stomach into knots for no good reason. It was only Ethan, for crying out loud.

I stuck my head in through the door. The bed was angled away, toward the room’s single window. A tall, narrow chest occupied the space between the suede-covered headboard and the door. I pushed, allowing myself room to enter. A longer dresser that matched the chest stood against the opposite wall, covered with bottles and compacts and jewelry boxes overflowing with baubles. Skeins of red fabric draped the walls and gave the room a calm, meditative quality. No drapes covered the open window, allowing a perfect view of Mt. Wilson.

The television was mounted on the wall, its volume now muted. A bedside table—an obvious match to the rest of the room’s stuff—held an array of cups, bowls, pill bottles, and a damp washrag. I tore my eyes away from the details, finally giving Ethan my full attention. He lay in the middle of the bed, surrounded by pillows and a rich-looking satin coverlet. All of the red in the room made his hair look more orange than usual, contrasting sharply to the pallor of his face. Pale or not, he looked ten times better than the last time I’d seen him. Stronger, more capable.

He blinked rapidly, like an animal expecting to be hit at any moment. I anticipated defiance, to be on the receiving
end of a defensive rant, or even to get a snarled demand to go away and leave him alone. Instead, I saw a pool of shame in his eyes.

The nervous swirling in my stomach faded quickly. My shoulders relaxed. A dozen different thoughts raced through my mind, a dozen questions and demands. He didn’t give me a chance to speak first.

“Geez, Teresa, you look like shit on toast.”

A
so do you
response died on my lips. I surprised myself (and probably him, too) by replying with, “Do you know how much it’s going to cost to fix the hole you put in the Medical Center wall?”

Ethan’s lips parted. His brow furrowed. He didn’t seem to know if I was joking or serious, and for a brief moment, neither did I. “Are you going to bill me for it?” he asked, hesitation in his voice.

I pursed my lips and pretended to mull it over. “I suppose I could just have it taken out of your paycheck for the next couple of months.”

He stared.

“Or …” I drew out the alternative for effect. His face was priceless. “Or, you could come home, get better, and promise to never run away like this again. That kind of repayment appeals to me more.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. I didn’t speak, didn’t even blink until the twitch became a complete smile.

“I was a coward for running away. I’m sorry, Teresa. But I kept thinking about Janel and William, and I just couldn’t stand the idea of Specter hurting anyone through me. I panicked.”

I climbed onto the bed, stretched out next to him, and slipped my arm through his, mindful of the still-fresh wounds on his chest.

“Careful. If Gage sees us, he might get jealous.”

“We all feel that way, you know,” I said, ignoring his tease.

To which he responded, “What? Jealous?”

“Dork.” I pinched his arm lightly. “You never want to hurt people you care about, Ethan, and it’s worse when you can’t even make the choice; when someone takes that control away. I can’t promise it won’t happen, and I can’t promise a happy ending to all of this.”

He snickered, resting his head against my shoulder. “You really need to work on your pep talks, if you’re trying to sell me on coming back.”

“If you want pep, get a pill.”

“There’s the Teresa I know and love.”

“Hah. So, Alicia seems nice, in an I’ll-beat-you-up-if-you-hurt-my-friend kind of way.”

“She’s great, really great. How did you find her, anyway?”

“Are you questioning my detective skills, Wind Master?”

“No, just your present deductive reasoning skills. That hand looks sore, and it wasn’t broken two days ago, which means you’ve been sidelined by both injury and pain pills recently.”

“Good call. Marco found her, with a little help from Dahlia.”

He twisted his neck and stared blankly. “The reporter?”

“Yes.” So Renee told him about William’s death, but not our newest club member? It shouldn’t have surprised me, given Renee’s dislike of Dahlia, but it did.

“Just part of a very long story, which includes a few more fires and a Specter impersonator who’s the real person bent on killing us all in a violent manner. How about we start the story on the way home, where there are nice, happy drugs waiting for you in Medical.”

“Yeah, okay.” He smiled. “Let’s go home.”

Getting Ethan downstairs without jostling his wounds too much took some gentle maneuvering from Gage and Alicia. The backseat of the SUV wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was all we had for transportation. We stepped away to give Ethan and Alicia a few private moments.

Marco slipped over to me, eyebrows knotted, tense. “I have been unable to contact Flex,” he said softly. “I receive only static on my Vox.”

“Did you try Dr. Seward?”

“Yes, but I cannot get through to anyone.”