Dreamveil (28 page)

The driver gave him a quick glance. “Do the others know, sir?”

“That I can sometimes envision the future as well as the past?” He shook his head. “The temptation to use me as an oracle would be too great.” He sighed. “Although I must say, you’ve adapted to my eccentricities rather well.”

“You saved my life, sir,” Findley reminded him. “If not for you, I would have been blown to bits along with that mob boss who hired me from the car service in Chicago. That’s all I ever needed to know.”

Taske had never looked along his driver’s timeline, but after that particular intervention he had glimpsed it stretching steadily alongside his own for many years to come. It was the reason he had confided in his driver so freely. “I appreciate that, Findley. And if you have time tomorrow, please do me a favor.” He glanced at the rearview mirror. “Arrange for a new car.”

Rowan tried again. “I’ve got this disease and in a few weeks I’ll be dead, so I’m going into the hospital.” That didn’t even work on soap operas. “I’ve met someone else and I’m moving in with him.” That made her into an instant slut; effective but not to her taste. “I’ve fallen in love with Dansant.” At least that was half of the truth.

Despair settled over her as she braced her hands against the edge of the sink. No matter what kind of lie or truth she thought would work, she wasn’t going to be able to say it, not to his face. It was too hard. She’d have to leave D’Anges today, find the kid, and hunker down somewhere else until it was time to move.

A clean break, no calls, no face time. There was only one way to do that.

Back in her apartment, Rowan grabbed a pen and some notepaper, sat down at the dinette, and began writing.

Hey,

Sorry I won’t be around to tell you this in person, but I’m leaving. I messed up last night and got into it with Dansant, and now I think I’m in love with both of you.

Rowan gnawed at the end of the pen. She should cross out
I think
; she knew she was in love with both of them.
Jesus, just get on with it.

I don’t want to hurt either of you, and I can’t pick. I don’t think you guys are up for a ménage, either. So I’m taking off with a friend. I’m sorry, Farm Boy. Sell my bike when it’s fixed and use the money to cover the repair bills. Take care and have a good life.

Love,

Cupcake

She read it over three times, resisting the urge to tear it into a thousand pieces. It sounded stupid and wimpy and utterly inadequate, but it would have to do. She folded it and walked out to stick it under his door, then swore, stuck the note between her teeth, reached up over his door frame, and felt around until her fingers found the spare key.

She wouldn’t take anything important, she thought as she let herself in. Just something small that he wouldn’t miss; something she could have to remember him on all the lonely nights to come. Maybe one of his flannel shirts, one he hadn’t washed yet that still smelled of him. Then she’d go downstairs and steal one of Dansant’s jackets so that she’d have that, too.

I keep falling in love, people are going to think I’m a cross-dresser.

Rowan went to his bedroom, sat on the bed, and drew the tangled sheets up to her face. His scent was all over them, just as hers was. They smelled good together, she thought, and then she felt the tears coming on and jumped off the bed. She couldn’t sit in here crying for what would never be. She had to pack, and she had to get the hell out before he came home.

She’d seen one of his shirts hanging on the back of the chair by his desk, and after carefully placing the note on his pillow, she went out to retrieve it. As she put it on over her own shirt, she noticed a photo sitting on his desk beside a file folder. It was the picture of a little girl with blond hair and blue eyes.

Rowan’s hand shook as she picked up the photo, holding it the same way she might a grenade. She turned it over to check for a date mark, and saw the faintest series of marks along the edge. The photo had been cropped, so only the bottom half of the numbers showed, but Rowan already knew what they were.

11-7-1997.

Slowly she opened the file folder, and read the top page, a missing persons report filed in 2008 for a runaway teenager named Alana King. She was reported as being sixteen years old. As soon as she saw the girl’s age, she picked up the file and began flipping through it, reading everything: the medical records, the police reports, the witness statements. Alana King had been undergoing psychiatric treatment. She’d also had several elective surgeries.

“You sick bastard,” Rowan whispered, throwing the file down on the desk as if it were covered with maggots.

Meriden had told her he moonlighted as a bounty hunter. The old man must have hired him to look for Alana.
He doesn’t know
, Rowan thought.
If he did he would never have taken the job.

She saw the blinking light on his phone, and picked it up to access his voice mail.

“Mr. Meriden,” a wheezing, querulous voice said. “I trust by now you are close to locating Alana. I thought I would remind you of the stakes involved. If you are entertaining some notion of going to the police, you should know that I am keeping Ms. Dietrich under constant surveillance. Deliver Alana to me by tomorrow morning, or I will have your lady friend killed before I deal with you.”

Rowan switched off the phone. She had always known there would be consequences for what she had done eleven years ago. She just never imagined he would do this. And now she had to finish it.

She switched on the phone and dialed 411.

“What city and state?” the automated voice asked her.

“Manhattan, New York.” Rowan closed her eyes. “Gerald King, three-seven-one Riverside Drive.”

“One moment, please.” A moment later the automated voice recited a number, and offered to dial it for her for a small charge.

Rowan hung up and dialed it herself.

The voice that answered was female, pleasant but professional. “King residence, Selah Baker speaking.”

“Ms. Baker, I have a message for Gerald King. Listen carefully.” Rowan told her everything she needed to know, and hung up before the woman could reply. Then she called Paracelsus’s number and left a modified version of the same message without giving him names or details.

“Don’t try to come after me,” she told her friend. “The old man’s place is like a military stockade. His policy is to shoot first and ask questions later.” She hesitated, and then added, “It’s time I faced him. I guess I always knew I would in the end. So let me do this by myself, okay? People I love are going to die if I don’t.”

Outside the open door of Sean’s apartment, the stairs creaked. Rowan went over to the door, expecting to see him climbing up, but no one was there. She did hear the back kitchen door, and wondered if he’d been standing outside, listening to her give the message to Ms. Baker.

He wouldn’t have left if he had
, she thought as she went to her apartment.

She ignored the bag she had been packing and instead took all the cash she had and stuffed it into her pocket. By the time she walked downstairs and out to the end of the alley, the cab she’d called for was waiting for her.

“Where to, hon?” the cabbie asked her.

The old man had waited all this time; he could go another couple of hours. Before she faced him, she would go and see the sisters, the only real family she’d ever had. “Riverpark Cemetery.”

The long ride across the city took less time than she expected. She paid the cabbie, asked him to wait, and bribed him with a twenty to overcome his reluctance to keep the meter running. Then she walked into the little cemetery, past the modest headstones and plaques to a quiet spot back in the corner.

The headstone was, like everything in the sisters’ lives, shared between the two of them. Rowan crouched down to trace the letters of Annette’s name, and then Deborah’s, which were wreathed by flowers. She’d paid the stone company to chisel in the extra line on the stone:
Beloved mother and aunt of Rowan.

“I know last time I was here I said I wouldn’t be back,” she told the stone as she brushed a couple of dead leaves from the edge. “But shit—” She paused, imagining Deborah’s frown. “I mean, stuff, happens.”

She sat down beside the stone and leaned against it, looking out at the other graves. “I did pretty good after I left. I made friends, helped take care of some other people. Fell for the wrong guy, of course, but even that was okay. I didn’t think it would happen for me, you know? And now, believe it or not, I’m in love again. You were right, Deborah. There was someone out there for me. Just turned out to be two of them.”

She reached down and rested her hand against the grass. “I wanted you to know that I was happy, like you wanted me to be. I’m going to stop running now. It’s time. If things don’t go okay, well, then I’ll be seeing you sooner than later. That’s why I’m not going to say good-bye.”

A bird flew down to perch on the headstone, cocking its head to stare at her. It chirped twice.

Rowan smiled. “Don’t try to talk me out of it, either, Mom.”

The bird flew off as she got to her feet, gave the headstone a final touch, and took out her phone to make one final call.

“Skylight Farm; this is Annabelle,” Jessa answered.

“Annabelle?” Rowan laughed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Di, my God, where are you? Are you all right? We’ve been so worried.” She took a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, Di—I mean, Rowan. I’m all hormones this month.”

“Honestly, I liked it better when we were Di and Jez.” She didn’t want to do this, but she couldn’t go, not until she cleared her conscience. “Listen, I need to tell you something important.”

“Paracelsus said he was getting you out of the city,” Jessa said. “You can come to the farm now. Wait ’til you get here.”

“This can’t wait.” She tightened her grip on the phone. “Matthias had me infiltrate the Takyn group so we could identify the members. It’s the reason I pretended to be your friend. To make you trust me enough to bring me into the group and start gathering information about you and all the others. I used you, Jessa.”

“Oh.” She was silent for a moment. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“I stopped after a while—you remember, that night in the chat room when we started talking about our families.” Aka the worst and best night of her life. “I didn’t lie when I told you about my mother, and how she tried to kill me before she committed suicide.”

Jessa made a soft sound. “Rowan, it wasn’t your fault. You were just a little girl, and she was a very sick woman who didn’t understand what we are.”

“I know.” Rowan smiled sadly. “Even though I was still gathering info, well, that was the night I stopped pretending to be your friend and became the real thing.” She bit her lip. “Jessa, what happened after we took you from Atlanta . . . I thought I was in love with Matthias. That’s why I used my ability on him, and I turned into you. And then when I saw you for the first time, and you were everything he wanted, the woman I knew he would love . . .” she sighed. “That’s why I was so hateful to you in Savannah, and why I didn’t tell you who I was. I know I’m a liar and a bitch and I used you, but can you forgive me for all of that?”

Jessa’s voice came over the line like soft, sweet music. “Rowan, you’re my best friend. I love you, honey. I’d forgive you anything.”

“Thank you.” She released a slow, shaky breath. “I’ve got to go and take care of some old business. If I don’t get a chance to see you again, I just wanted you to know that I love you, and I’m happy for you and Matt. And please, God, make him change your name to something besides Annabelle.”

“Rowan—”

She switched off the phone and pocketed it before walking back to the cab. The peace she felt settled over her, as warm as the sun, as tough as armour. She was ready.

“That was quick,” the driver said. “Where you wanna go now?”

She didn’t want to go, but she had to. “Riverside and a Hundred and ninth,” she told him. “The King estate.”