Tainted Waters Read online

  He still refused to move, or to try and save himself. It wasn’t time.

  “Cassie will be okay?” Jalal asked.

  Hunter grunted and nodded. He hadn’t seen it. There had only been that one dream/vision. But he had to believe it. Had to trust that she would be okay. That she could get out of the hands of the cops on her own.

  It burned deep inside him that he had to sit and do nothing, at least for now.

  Hopefully, she’d let him make it up to her later.

  Now came the silent cars. One parking at either end of the block, and a third cruising up in front of the halfway house. All of them were that special brand of government–funded electric car, souped up to reach unmatched speeds on the highway and completely silent when moving slowly.

  The black helicopters that some of his fellow vets feared, or even the government drones, were nothing compared to the actual cars and equipment that were in use by law enforcement every day.

  However, Hunter still nearly laughed. They didn’t have a clue about him, about his abilities. What the ghosts had trained him to do, along with their own US military.

  They didn’t understand about the shadows, either. That despite the bright spotlights they’d attached to the outside of their cars, he’d still be able to vanish right before their eyes.

  Not that he was going to.

  “Don’t know when I’ll be back,” Hunter told Jalal as he stood slowly, raising his hands above his head. “Don’t let them touch my room,” he added as the cops came out of the car, sidearms already drawn, though pointed at the ground.

  He knew it was a pointless statement. The first thing that the cops would do would be to toss his room.

  It was clean. Hunter was clean.

  They’d still find drugs, though. Drugs he hadn’t placed there. Drugs that one of Erik’s disciples had hidden there while Hunter had talked with Cassie.

  It hadn’t mattered that Hunter had kept his enemies closer than his friends. They’d still found ways to betray him. Reporting him to the police for things he hadn’t done, for drugs that he hadn’t bought or taken.

  But Hunter couldn’t allow himself to be too upset about that. He could always break out of jail later.

  Ξ

  Erik watched Hunter from the shadows, watched him get taken away in the silent police car.

  Dude was good. Too good to get taken in by the regular cops. Erik would have lost money betting that Hunter wouldn’t go peacefully. Or at all.

  Why had Hunter gone? Why hadn’t he fought the cops off? He could have disappeared. Erik had seen him do it. Watched Hunter fade from sight, into shadows, in the middle of the freaking day.

  There must be some other game Hunter was playing. Had his ghosts advised him to stay still? Erik had probed as much as he dared about them, but he’d never gotten a clear answer from Hunter about who or what his ghosts were.

  Or perhaps Hunter had seen this outcome? Erik had worked hard at influencing Hunter’s visions, though Hunter didn’t use his abilities very often. But Erik had persisted, so that every future Hunter saw was sure to be the worst one instead of the truest.

  But Erik didn’t have to worry about Hunter anymore. He’d done as the Old Ones had directed, seen that Hunter was put away, out of reach, at least for a while.

  Just like he’d put that lamp up for sale, the Light of Tsantha, making sure those patsies would find it, buy it, and set it up in the perfect location, fueling the Old Ones with their fantasies.

  Now, it was time for the next step. To return the Old Ones to their ancient and terrible rule. To remind humanity of the terror that was always just a sleep away.

  To raise R’lyeh, where the sleeping Cthulhu dreamed.

  To begin his own rule as the single savior of humanity.

  Ξ

  Steve woke from his nightmare, sitting up in bed abruptly.

  Holy shit. That was what he got for gaming so late. For listening to Gary. And that creepy Pat.

  Steve turned on the light in his bedroom, willing it to banish the shadows not just in his room, but in his head.

  He shivered. Grotesque architecture still lurked behind his eyes, buildings that didn’t connect at right angles, that didn’t even understand right angles. Or squares. Or entrances or exits. No, they were all wrong, with doorways coming out of nowhere, leading to unspeakable places.

  Like an Escher painting. On a bad trip.

  And that thing in Gary’s basement. That whispered and slobbered. It had grown as well in his nightmare. Seeped into the walls of Gary’s house, oozing out of the stupid “Keep Calm and Roll the Dice” poster he stubbornly kept above his bed, dribbling down and stealing Gary’s brain.

  No. No. It was just a nightmare. Nothing more.

  Steve was grateful for his tiny room for the first time, for no hidden corners, for the brash overhead light that let him see everything he owned: the scratched up particle–board dresser pushed hard against the corner so nothing could slip behind it, the tiny desk that held his laptop and piece–of–shit mp3 player and speakers, the trunk that held his winter stuff.

  Was there something in the closet? Or under the bed? Steve listened for a moment. But nothing howled on the wind outside the house or panted in the corner.

  He was alone. He was sure of it. Mostly.

  Still, Steve picked up his phone quickly, too scared to stick any part of his body off the sanctuary of his bed for too long. He texted Gary.

  U there? Awake?

  He called himself all kinds of idiot for being as scared as a ten–year–old. Hell, his younger brother had probably been braver than this when he was five.

  Steve still jumped a foot off the bed when his phone chirped.

  Yup. Nightmares?

  Steve let go of a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Gary was still there. And hadn’t gone insane. Yet.

  Yes. Fucker. I blame you.

  At least this time when Steve’s phone chirped he didn’t jump. Much.

  Mwahahahahaha.

  That made Steve feel even better. If they could joke about it, it made it less real, less likely.

  Less scary, though he still wasn’t sure he’d admit to being so scared.

  Maybe he could get out of his bed and check the closet soon.

  The Old Ones are real, you know.

  Steve did a double–take. Had Gary just sent that? Or had some doppelganger taken over Gary’s phone?

  He remembered that darkness in Gary’s eyes—that look that didn’t belong on his friend.

  But he’d just imagined that too, hadn’t he?

  WTF? Not you too? Steve texted back.

  The silence of the night—and Steve’s phone—wrapped sweaty hands around him. Why wasn’t Gary replying? Had that thing in his basement already gotten to him? The seconds dragged on. Steve found himself counting his heartbeats.

  Fuck Gary. Reply.

  Finally, Gary did.

  Ha ha. Got you too. See you Friday?

  Steve replied immediately.

  Sure thing. Night.

  But there was no way in hell he was going back into Gary’s basement. Not until they performed an exorcism or something. Maybe on Gary too, just to be safe.

  Steve would meet with Gary beforehand. Maybe offer to take him out to coffee or happy hour or something. Away from the house. So Steve could talk some sense into him.

  If there was any sense left in Gary.

  Chapter Four

  Two goons waited for me, sitting behind a table in a windowless room at the PA office. At least the AC was cranked up. They weren’t there to make me sweat, at least, not like that.

  Maybe I should have taken Michael John Adams up on his offer of representation.

  Then I threw my shoulders back and marched into the room. Fuck ’em. If I couldn’t take these assholes I didn’t deserve to be here on my own.

  Though knowing my luck, I’d just continue to live up to my name.

  The room was deliberately featureless, like a motel
room where no one actually lived or worked. The walls were a non–confrontational beige, the carpet an inoffensive dark stripe, the chairs and table all deliberately picked to take away any personality you might bring to them.

  They weren’t about to strip me down. Let ’em have messy layers of personality to deal with.

  At least I was going to be able to tell the two guys across the table apart. They both wore office shirts, button–downs, with ties of different colors. One was light blue, the other was dark blue.

  Was one going to play bad cop while the other played good cop? I couldn’t wait to get started.

  Really.

  The dark tie guy kicked it all off. “Good morning Ms. Lewis. Please, have a seat. I’m Theodore Johnson, this is Oliver Swenson.”

  “Cassandra,” I said, nodding as I sat down. Since we were using full names and shit.

  “You understand why you’re here?” Theodore continued.

  “Why don’t you enlighten me?” I said as I pulled out a cigarette, just to watch them both flinch.

  “You can’t smoke in here. This is a public building,” Oliver said. He seemed like he was about to wet his panties.

  “I know,” I said. I didn’t pull out my Bic. Just having the cigarette in my hand, rolling it across the table, being able to catch a whiff of that tobacco was soothing.

  The fact that it disturbed the two nutters across the table from me was just a bonus.

  “According to Samantha Monroe—” Theodore started.

  “My girlfriend,” I supplied. Fuck if I cared about outing her at this point.

  “According to Ms. Monroe, you have been able to identify the suspect who placed the bomb on University Avenue last Saturday, correct?” Theodore continued.

  “Yup. Told her. Showed her. Shared the image of the fucker,” I said. “Figured she’d take it to the police. Claim the reward for herself.”

  All of which was the truth.

  “You know that isn’t legal, right?” Oliver said. “That you were required by law to come to the police yourself?”

  I snorted. “I do now.” Why hadn’t Sam told me that it wasn’t legal? Or had she not known as well?

  I didn’t want to give her the benefit of the doubt. But I might have to. Sharing between PAs wasn’t a regular thing.

  “Can you describe how you identified the perpetrator?” Theodore asked.

  I sighed. This was where it was going to get tricky. Though I didn’t want to involve Hunter, I knew I had to.

  He hadn’t stood up for me, or run away with me, helped me hide from the cops. Maybe he knew that they wouldn’t hold me, maybe he’d seen it.

  Fucker still should have told me, not left me dangling in the wind.

  “There’s this vet I know. Hunter,” I said.

  “First name? Last name?” Oliver said.

  “Hell if I know. I just know him as Hunter.” Which was also the truth. Mostly. I hadn’t seen his driver’s license, knew he didn’t have one.

  Had seen his dog tags, though. Knew they had a different name on them, though I deliberately hadn’t looked.

  Didn’t want to know his real name, just in case something like this came up.

  Maybe his paranoia had rubbed off on me a bit.

  “Hunter moves freaky like,” I told them.

  “Freaky like,” Theodore asked in his most deadpan.

  I was impressed. Bet that guy was a joy at parties. “Yup. Faster than a normal human. Smooth. Graceful. You should see him practice. Every little movement, over and over again. Until it’s automatically perfect. Not a wasted motion.”

  “Okay,” Oliver said.

  I could tell he didn’t believe me. He’d have to see it for himself.

  Luckily, there wasn’t anything I could show him. Or I might have been tempted to at that point.

  “So I wondered if this guy who planted the first bomb could also move fast. At super speed. Like Hunter.”

  “And could he?” Theodore asked.

  I shrugged. “That was how I found him. Why every other post–cog missed him. He wasn’t in the area long enough to register.”

  It was one of the theories about how post–cognition actually worked—that we weren’t seeing a timeline or the actual past as much as we were able to assemble the memory of everyone else who was in the area.

  “Is this him?” Theodore asked, sliding a picture across the table.

  I barely glanced at it. “Nope. Not at all.” The guy I’d seen had been skinny and white. Like Hunter. With acne. The mug shot they had was of a chubby black guy, with wild eyes and ’70s style afro.

  The two of them looked at each other.

  Oliver slowly said, “We can tell you’re not lying. But this man confessed to the crime.”

  Shit. Were they telepaths? Something had made me drop my guard.

  Hunter would be ashamed of me.

  Three times three is nine. I knew reciting the multiplication tables at this point was too little, too late. They already had a good read on me, were already firmly inside my skull.

  Theodore threw me an amused grin, as if he could tell what I was doing.

  Shithead. I had to throw them off. Not because I was guilty of anything, but for the principle of the matter.

  Nobody should be rooting around in my head except me.

  “The guy’s lying,” I told Oliver as I pushed the picture back with the butt of my cigarette.

  Theodore’s eyes glanced at my smoke and then back up to me.

  Got you, sucker.

  I took a deep breath, imagining that full sweet drag of the first cigarette of the morning, that blessed hit of nicotine jackhammering my system awake.

  Theodore looked away, distressed.

  Ex–smoker? Or just wannabe?

  I didn’t blow him a kiss, though I did imagine blowing a smoke ring in my head.

  “Can’t you probe him? Or something?” I asked innocently enough.

  “No,” Oliver said with a grimace. He didn’t seem to realize that his partner had kind of checked out, transported on my sweet smoky haze. “He’s already declared his guilt. We don’t have probable cause.”

  “Playing by the rules is a bitch sometimes,” I said, sympathizing.

  “You have no idea,” Theodore said darkly.

  Oliver finally clued in that something was off. But Theodore wasn’t saying anything, and I didn’t want to let either of them off the hook.

  “So I wasn’t knowingly obstructing justice,” I told Oliver seriously. “But what about that other charge?” That was the one that got to me. “Spoilage of evidence? What the hell is that, anyway?”

  Oliver waved his hand at me, sitting back in his chair. “We don’t have any evidence that you did that,” he admitted.

  “What?” Theodore asked, glancing at Oliver, then back at me. “Unless you’d like to enlighten us how now, no post–cog can get a good reading at the site. It’s all muddy with other visions, other timelines. Or something.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t me,” I protested.

  Three times four is twelve. Twelve smokes remaining in my pack. Delicious, cool, nerve–soothing cigarettes.

  Oliver smirked. “Having met you, I can see that now. You don’t have the power,” he said casually. “Untrained as you are, I’m surprised you could even get a reading.”

  I knew he said that to get at me. To get me angry, maybe to deny it, or try to prove something to him, some level of power.

  Fucker knew I didn’t like backing down from a challenge.

  “I can’t help it if you boys missed it,” I said, trying to stay sweet. “However, I do know who could mess up timelines like that.”

  “Really? Who?” Theodore said. Guess he’d fought off his own demons enough to rejoin the party.

  “You won’t like it. Or believe me,” I told them truthfully.

  “Try us,” Oliver said.

  “Loki.”

  Ξ

  Unsurprisingly, once I started bringing the Norse gods into the
conversation, Theodore and Oliver decided they’d had enough and let me go with the warning that I still needed to create a composite sketch of the guy I had seen.

  They didn’t seem too enthused, though, or insisting that I come back right away. I made an appointment for the next day and took off, back into that oh–so–perfect–looking Minnesota day that was still hot enough to melt the tires on an old sedan.

  Fuck if I was going to walk up to Park Avenue, though it wasn’t too far away, just down Lake Street. I took yet another bus, this one feeling like a sweat mobile, with all the windows cracked open a bare two inches and the AC on the bus broken.

  Felt like I’d been stuck in a sauna by the time I exited the bus.

  It was another few long city blocks to walk down to the Swedish Institute.

  I didn’t know where else I could look for clues about Odin. Or how to contact him. I mean, I knew he wasn’t Swedish. But he was, as they said in Minnesota, “Scandihoovian.” They were all related, right? And it wasn’t the kind of question I could ask any of my friends. They were all well–meaning, but not necessarily well–read.

  The huge mansion that contained the Swedish museum looked cool enough on the outside, with a huge round tower in the front, stupidly immaculate gardens behind the iron gate, and a wide fountain with bronze turtles spouting water that looked good enough to go skinny dipping in.

  I resented paying the admission price, but I knew I’d have to. Price of doing business.

  Inside, I couldn’t believe all the wood and carvings. The two dudes holding up the huge fireplace mantel in the grand entrance room looked kind of like they were a cross between the Greek and Norse gods. Carved panels in the ceiling had the typical blue–and–red Norwegian style flowers. Some of the rooms still held the original 1800s décor, with iron daybeds and kids’ toys, while the others were some weird art installation filled with carved blocks and springs.

  Damn it. Where could I find information about Odin?

  I wandered back to the main hallway, not wanting to wait for the official tour, then headed into the little gift shop at the back.

  I made the mistake of asking the snooty woman standing behind the counter for a book on Odin. She was dressed in a white shirt that looked too stiff, with a red apron tied over a plain brown skirt.