Fractured (2 page)

The holiday party had taken place, despite the absence of the deceased man of the house. At least I'd hoped he'd been absent.

The theme for the tree this year had been aid for Ebola victims in Africa. It was decorated with surgical masks and miniature Hazmat suits in typically taste-free fashion.

Thinking of Ebola, I'd become severely nauseated watching my Dad sucking face under the mistletoe with the Widow Morgan.

Worse yet, I thought I'd glimpsed the ghost of her dead husband, Patrick Morgan, slinking in the shadows. This was his house, after all. And his wife—with my dad's mouth all over hers.

But since Dad was so preoccupied with Celia Morgan, I was free from his surveillance. Last winter I'd depleted his entire stock of vodka, and he still didn't fully trust me.

And there was the pity. I saw it in their eyes. Despite the fact that I was pulling a 3.8 at Duke and was the star runner on the track team, back home in Riverton I was still poor Jeremy Glass, the pathetic boy with one leg.

Who could blame me for wanting a drink?

So, hell yeah, I drank. Then I pulled down the lights, knocked over the tree, and don't remember the rest. And since Marisa had stopped talking to me, I never found out.

At the Awesome Cow, I stared from my over-sweetened latte to my own face reflected in the blind woman's black glasses. For all I knew she was looking right at me from behind them. Her partner glared at me like he wanted to eat my head.

She smelled like cinnamon, expensive perfume, and upset stomach. None of
them
ever smell like anything at all.

So I knew she was real
.

I pretended to have a twitch in my left eye to see if she noticed, but stopped when her partner slid five crisp $100 bills toward me.

“We have a job for you,” the blind woman said.

I glanced down at my phone. Marisa still hadn't answered, so I had no idea where to meet her. I could feel Bobby Pendell's gaze pinned to me. Agent Reston had instructed me to “locate persons of interest” in New York City. It seemed, according to Agent Reston, that there had been a string of unsolved rapes and murders spanning seven states, and they needed all the help they could get.

Apparently they believed I was a Sensitive, someone who can not only see the dead, but detect people with other strange abilities like my own. I had no idea how or why they knew this, and with my head pounding and the nice, new $100 bills staring up at me, I may have forgotten to ask.

I had no idea what this Pendell kid meant to them. It wasn't like I was turning him over to Al Qaeda or anything. It was the FBI. Homeland Security. The people who protect us. For all I knew they were protecting us from people like Bobby Pendell.

But I kind of doubted that.

Right then all I cared about was why it was now 11:40 PM and my girlfriend hadn't called or answered my last text to tell me where to meet her. You'd think that after Veronica and I had taken the cattle run from North Carolina to New York, she'd at least try to make herself available.

No, I didn't bother to mention that Agent Reston had paid for the bus fare and the cool apartment in Harlem. I'd guessed there might have been strings attached, but I was pretty good at untangling knots.

◆

Bobby Pendell's face had gone milky pale. I glanced back at my silent phone.

“I don't know what the hell you want from me,” Pendell blurted, “but I'd better get back inside.”

“Sure, sure,” I said. The agent had only said to find him. Nothing more. “Yeah. Forget we met. I just have to—uh… Look, it's fine. Nice meeting you, okay?”

The kid looked at me long and hard, soft blue eyes gone frosty. He shrugged and pushed back inside the club. Maybe there was a spine under that hillbilly flannel. Good for him.

I walked down Broadway, then turned west onto LaSalle and limped over to Claremont Avenue, occasionally stopping to text Marisa again. My stump ached miserably inside of Veronica. Still no answer.

Finally, I heaved myself onto some grimy steps that led up to a walled park across from an old church. Marisa's dorm was only a few blocks south, but I needed to rest. Again, I dialed. Again, no answer. I was fuming.

A woman approached me. Her skin and dress seemed to be made of some fragile substance, diaphanous as a fly wing. By the way the streetlight shone through her arms, I knew she was one of
them
. Also, the fact that she was blurred around the edges.

But I kept on obsessing over my phone, checking Instagram and Twitter for some sign of Marisa, and paid her no mind. I did have the keys to Marisa's dorm, so if worst came to worst I could just crash on her bed and wait—then chew her out when she came in.

But my spectral stalker did not take the hint and get lost. Instead, she leaned in close and said, soft as the wind that whispered past my face, “Jeremy.”

An electric prickle shot up my neck, followed by a cold sweat. I wanted nothing more than to get up and run. But my stump balked.

“Can I help you?” I asked in the most blandly detached voice I could manage.

“Jeremy,” she repeated. Instead of backing up, she walked clear through me. For a split second I thought my insides had been flash frozen. I turned and watched her climb the steps up to the entrance to the park, then slip through the gate like vapor.

I limped after her, straddled the gate, and then landed in such a graceless fall that Veronica partly detached from my thigh.

As I struggled to secure the prosthetic, the figure glided across the empty park. Occasionally, she stopped and turned as if waiting for me to follow. By the time I got to my feet, she'd made it across the walkway to the large gazebo at the other end and had faded to little more than a moving smear, her form blending with the shadows.

“Look,” she said in a voice like the crackle of dried leaves, then scattered into the cold night air.

It was the first time any of them had tried to communicate directly with me since Susannah. I stood alone in the vacant park and wondered if these spirits had some kind of afterlife Twitter—like
#findJeremyGlass
—
you can talk to that guy
.

Despite my attempts to brush it off, I was trembling. The woman had been standing on a grate beside the gazebo, Marilyn Monroe style, her flywing skirt whipping up around her. I got to my knees and searched the area. The ground smelled like dog crap.

Something glinted in a patch of wet leaves. I kneeled and leaned in close, trying not to inhale the rank fumes. A bit of gold was wedged in the clogged-up drainage grate. It took a bit of effort, but I was finally able to pry the thing free.

It was a gold men's ring, intricately carved and set with a garnet circled by diamond chips. I rolled the ring around in my hand. It looked expensive. I scrutinized the smooth inside of the band to see if there were any inscriptions. Nothing.

The wind whipped around me, scattering bits of leaves and dirt. I tucked the ring in my pocket.

There was only one other person who might be able to figure out the ring's significance and why the flywing woman wanted me to find it. Agent Reston had hinted that Bobby Pendell was a Tactile, someone who could sense an object's history by touching it.

And if I hurried, I could catch him before he left the club. It was better than waiting around for a girlfriend who was too busy studying to bother calling me.

3

Bobby

Saturday: 12:03 AM

O
utside the Smoke and Jazz Lounge a small cluster of hyper-excited people buzzed around us. Occasionally someone slapped me on the back and complimented my playing, but they spoke too fast for me to answer. I kept my eyes fixed on Gabe and on my watch. I knew she was enjoying the attention, but all I could think of was getting her alone and kissing her neck.

I scanned the crowd, telling myself that the hollow-eyed thing was really gone. Then a taxi pulled up to the curb, and Jeremy Glass popped out. I groaned and tried to duck behind some people. Gabe was too busy talking to the other musicians to notice, but Glass had spotted me and was already limping right toward me.

“Thank God you're still here,” he said, breathless and rumpled.

“Did Agent Reston offer you more to come back?”

He frowned, but then smiled and nodded. “Quick on your feet, aren't you, Pendell? That's not why I came. I'm not in that blind chick's pocket.” He reached into his jacket and produced a large men's ring. “But this was in mine.”

My gaze snagged on the gleaming ring that rested on Glass's palm. I couldn't look away.

“Can you tell me anything about this?”

“No,” I muttered. The ring seemed illuminated, the only bright thing in my line of sight. I wanted to touch it.

I was afraid to touch it.

“Did—did she give this to you as a sort of—as a test?” I stammered, my gaze still fixed on the ring. I was light-headed.

I felt—no—I
smelled
Gabe by my side—sweat and lilac and patchouli oil.

“Who is this guy?” she snapped. Her voice had that New York edge I could never master. I was numb. Floating. I must have looked like I was insane, but I couldn't look away. I wanted to run screaming down the deserted streets of this city of a million murders. I was crazy to come here. Crazy to think I was safe—it wasn't Agent Reston I had to fear. It was myself.

“Just another fan,” said Jeremy Glass. I could hear the social grease slide between them. They came from the same smart world—the one I'd never really be a part of. “I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed the performance. That's all.”

I could tell Gabe was tense, but I couldn't look at her. I couldn't break my focus on that ring.

“Take it,” Glass snapped. “You know you want it.”

“Don't, Bobby.” Gabe had me by the arm. The street was a swirl of dirty color. I reached for it, but Gabe grabbed it first. “Can't you see he's exhausted? We're both tired.”

“I understand,” said Glass. “Take my card. Hold onto it. If you get any inspiration, let me know.”

With the ring safely out of sight, my equilibrium returned. Gabe was looking at me with worried hazel eyes, but she was addressing Glass. “Right,” she said dismissively.

“You okay?” Gabe asked. “Who was that jerk?”

I glanced over her shoulder and shuddered as Jeremy Glass shuffled painfully to the curb. I hoped he never came back. But Gabe still had the ring.

“Never mind him.” Gabe's lips were nuzzled against my jaw. She murmured in my ear. “You were amazing tonight, baby.”

“Who, me? You were a blazing comet of amazing yourself.”

Gabe laughed. “You can't fool me. You hate this.”

I pressed my nose to her hair. I still had my eye on Glass as he shuffled back and forth trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab. I wondered if he was drunk. And then he was down, his head slamming against the pavement with a wicked
thud
, his leg bent at an unnatural angle.

“Shit,” we both said in unison and ran to help. He was bleeding from a cut on his head, but he'd already pulled himself up to a sitting position.

“I'm okay. It's just Veronica acting up again.” Jeremy Glass nodded toward the awkwardly angled leg.

Then his phone rang. Ignoring us, he spoke into it. “Where've you been? What? What happened? Oh God. Shit. Where are you? Okay. Okay. Stay there. I'll be right there.”

He tried to stand, but between the cut on his head and the wobbly fake leg, it was clear he wasn't getting too far.

“It's my girlfriend,” he said. Again, he tried to stand. I caught him as he fell. “She's— Oh
shit
.”

Sitting on the pavement, he began to hyperventilate. I wanted get out of this unfolding drama. I wanted to undo the moment I'd ever met Jeremy Glass.

“What happened to your girlfriend?” Gabe asked softly. “Do you want us to take you to her?”

Numerous cabs drove past. Figured they'd all show up then. All I wanted was to stuff Jeremy Glass in one of them and be done with him. But I knew Gabe would never go for that. And I wasn't brought up that way. We couldn't just leave an injured guy with one leg alone on the streets of Manhattan. As much as I wanted to.

“Where is she?” Gabe spoke to him gently, as if to a hurt child. I cringed just a little.

“He seems kind of out of it,” I said. “I think he needs to go to the ER.”

“Look who's talking,” Gabe said. “Mr. Medical Precaution himself.”

“No!” Jeremy wailed. “I've got to get to Marisa. She was attacked!”

“Did she call the police?” I asked.

“She doesn't trust them,” Jeremy said.

“Brilliant,” I muttered, though I'd had my own problems with the cops back home.

I glanced at Gabe and shook my head. She shrugged.

◆

The dorm-room door opened on a petite dark-haired girl in a yellow sweater. The fragile bruised skin around her right eye was already beginning to swell.

Propped up between us, Jeremy sagged on one leg, the blood dripping down his face in a steady stream. I held his high-tech contraption of a leg in my free hand. It was surprisingly light. We helped him onto the bed and I set the leg down on the floor. It stood erect on its own like a monument.

“I'm not drunk, if that's what you think,” Jeremy mumbled. “Because that's usually what everyone thinks.”

“He was with us,” Gabe said helpfully to the girl, “at the club where we performed. He fell trying to hail a cab to see you. We wanted to take him to the hospital, but he insisted on coming here.”

The girl sat primly on the bed beside Jeremy and pushed the blood-soaked hair away from his eyes. “Poor baby,” she cooed. “I missed you so much. Never a dull moment when you're around.”

He looked up at her with a worried gaze. “What happened to you, Marisa? I should have been with you. I should have been there.”

My dead eye twitched and I had to wonder if it was just nerves or if it was registering something the other eye was missing. I glanced at Gabe. She looked as uncomfortable as I felt.