Текст книги "Visions"

Автор книги: Kelley Armstrong

Соавторы: Kelley Armstrong,Kelley Armstrong
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

CHAPTER SIXTY

I went in to work with Gabriel. I didn’t have an official shift, but I’d sent out some feelers, building those victim profiles for my parents’ case, and I hoped one of them might have paid off in the form of a possible interview. Calls would come to Lydia. I didn’t even get a chance to ask her about them. As soon as we walked in, she stood, motioning that she needed to speak to me. Gabriel continued on to his office.

Once the door closed behind him, Lydia picked up an envelope off her desk. “This came for you.”

It was a letter-sized white envelope. On the front, it said OLIVIA TAYLOR-JONES in careful block letters. As soon as I saw those letters, I went still. I saw that handwriting, and I flashed to a Christmas gift label. My name on it, in the same printed letters. TO EDEN. LOVE DADDY.

“Todd,” I whispered.

My gaze shot to the return address on the back, which confirmed it. Lydia caught my elbow, and I realized it was shaking. She nodded toward the meeting room door. I let her usher me inside. I made my way blindly to the table, dropped the letter on it, and sat there staring at it.

“I could call Gabriel in, if you’d like,” she said. When I shook my head vehemently, she said, “That’s what I thought. Not exactly Mr. Empathy. He means well…” She trailed off, then checked that the door was closed before sitting beside me.

“Todd’s probably telling me why he won’t see me,” I said, indicating the envelope. “He doesn’t think it’s wise. Or he just doesn’t want to, after all these years.”

I thought of what Gabriel had said, that Todd had kept looking for me long after Pamela had given up. Now that I’d turned up, had he realized he wasn’t going to get that fantasy reunion with his little girl? That I wasn’t his little girl anymore, but a grown woman, a stranger?

I remembered going to a state fair with my adoptive dad when I was eight. It was magical—all bright lights and whirling rides and delicious treats. I’d returned at eighteen and wished I hadn’t—the lights had been garish, the rides dilapidated, the treats seeming to guarantee food poisoning. Memories forever tainted. Is that what Todd feared?

“That might not be why he’s writing,” Lydia said.

I nodded and dropped the envelope, unopened, into my bag. “I’ll read it later.”

“If you want to talk about it…”

I smiled wanly. “Thanks. I might take you up on that. Not a lot…” I trailed off. Not a lot of people I can talk to about it these days. That sounded sad. Pathetic, even. The truth was that I’d never had a lot of people I could unload on. I was the shoulder to cry on. I’d never needed that myself, because I’d always had it, with my dad. Then he was gone, and …

And no one was there to replace him, and maybe I was looking for that in Todd. Which was the worst possible thing I could do. Not because he was a convicted serial killer, but because it wasn’t fair to Todd. Expecting him to take the role of my beloved dad would be like him expecting me to take that of his two-year-old daughter.

“I’ll let you know what it says tomorrow,” I said. “If he doesn’t want to see me, you can stop trying.”

“If you want to talk before that…”

I smiled at her, more genuine now. “Thanks.”

With the arrival of that letter, my enthusiasm for work soured. There were no calls on my leads, and I wasn’t sure I’d have set up an interview even if I could. I finished what I could do, and at eleven I was rapping on Gabriel’s office door.

“Come in,” he called.

He was at his desk, surrounded by papers.

“I’m taking off.”

He looked up, as if startled, and checked his watch.

“I wasn’t scheduled to work today,” I said. “If you need me to do something, I’m happy to stay another hour or so, but otherwise I wouldn’t mind getting home and grabbing a nap before my diner shift.”

“Yes, of course.”

I turned to leave.

“Olivia?”

When I looked back, he waved me in. I closed the door and he said, “Have you given any more thought to quitting the diner?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to be considering it.”

“I’d like you to. Yes, you don’t want to depend on me for your income, but your trust fund comes due in a few months. Your expenses are low. I suspect that, in a crunch, you would be fine until then.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “You also mentioned applying for your private investigator license.”

I made a face. “I was just talking. I’ll get it if this works out, but I’m not in any rush. The real issue is those few months until my trust fund. I’d rather keep my job at the diner. It’s not interfering, is it?”

He hesitated.

“You don’t want me working at the diner,” I said. “Why?”

“Because it puts you at their mercy and under their watch.”

“The elders, you mean.”

“Yes. I know they don’t pay your wages, but I’ve seen the way Larry treats them. If they wished you gone, he’d do it. Of course, that would leave you no worse off than if you quit, but … The balance of power makes me uneasy.”

I wasn’t eager to quit the diner. It felt like saying two months as a server was as much “real-person life” as this former socialite could bear.

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Do you want me to check in later—?”

His phone rang, Lydia patching in a call. He glanced at it.

“Take that,” I said. “Just call me later if—”

“Hold on.”

He answered. It was a short call. His end was just “Yes” and “No” and “Are you certain?” and “Please send the results to my office.”

“That was the laboratory,” he said.

“With the results already?”

“I put a rush on them.”

Which would have cost extra. Another time, I’d have joked about him docking it from my wages, but now that seemed uncharitable.

“Your theory was correct,” he said. “Macy and Ciara were, indeed, switched at birth.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Using hairs from Macy’s brush and from one in her parents’ room, the lab confirmed that the familial match was reversed. Macy was the Conways’ daughter. Ciara was the Shaws’. As for how that happened, it did no good to speculate. We had the information. Now I had to figure out how to act on it.

I went home to think. And to nap, though I got little sleep. I tossed and turned until I gave up and went to my laptop and started punching in terms.

It took nearly two hours of searching before I found it. Not a connection. Not a direct one, anyway. But another case, pulled from the archives of a Chicago newspaper. In the late sixties, a family claimed their young son was a changeling. The boy was “severely troubled,” according to his grandmother. The child told intricate stories of “another world,” a fairy realm, ergo he must be a changeling.

People had been sensible enough to dismiss the idea as amusingly primitive. The boy’s grandmother was a first-generation Irish immigrant. Clearly, she’d brought some of that old-world nonsense over with her. After all, she was the one who made the claims by taking the child to the local priest. The priest had refused to help, so she’d found another, and somehow—to the parents’ shock and dismay—the story leaked to the paper, where it seemed to have been included merely for entertainment. Or to show how much more progressive Americans were, dismissing old-world nonsense and superstition.

So what caught my attention in this tale? The grandmother claimed that her real grandson had been switched with a fairy child from Cainsville. Her daughter-in-law had family there, and the parents visited often. That, she said, was where it happened. And her proof? Well, she had none. Only that there was “something wrong with that town.” Something she felt every time she visited. The town took far too great an interest in her grandson and his problems, and the old folks there went out of their way to convince her that the boy was fine, and that if she loved him and raised him well, he would grow into a strong and capable young man.

Of course, all of that was dismissed, with the columnist waxing poetic about the tight bonds and loving care that a small town bestows on its own. How much different was life in the bustling, impersonal city? How much better might troubled children like this one be if they were instead raised in the pastoral perfection of the countryside?

I read that article and I saw that my blossoming theory, however mad it seemed, might actually be right. I just needed to prove it.

When Macy called me shortly before my diner shift, I swear there was a moment, after she introduced herself, where I was unable to find my voice, certain that … I don’t know. That the universe had prodded her to call me, knowing I had information that could change her life? It was merely coincidence, of course, given that I’d handed her my card only twenty-four hours earlier and asked her to call if she remembered anything.

“The man who took me said something else,” she said. “Something weird. One of those things that you think you’ve heard wrong, but then you can’t figure out what else it could have been.”

“What’s that?”

“He asked if I’d had any tests done.”

“Tests?”

“That’s what I thought. I figured…” A pause, and when her voice came back, it was lowered, as if sharing a secret. “I don’t sleep around, Ms. Jones. I really don’t, and I don’t want you to get the wrong impression when I say this.”

“Okay.”

“I thought he meant STD tests. I thought—” She swallowed. “I thought he was taking me somewhere for sex, and I was okay with that, which is why I think I must have been drugged.”

“It did seem like it when I met you.”

“It did?” An exhale of relief. “Good. So I thought he was asking if I’d been tested recently. I said I hadn’t … been with anyone in a while. He laughed and said that wasn’t what he meant. And then he asked if we’d had other tests, me and my parents, and I was so embarrassed about the STD thing that I figured I was hearing wrong and said no. He said we should.” Macy paused. “Do you know what he meant?”

Yes. And I can’t tell you. Not until I’ve figured it all out, and even then I don’t know if I will. If I can. Despite what a difference it could make to your life.

“No, I don’t know,” I said. “Did he say anything else about it?”

“That was it. I should have asked, but it didn’t seem important.”

“It probably wasn’t. But if I find out what he meant, I’ll let you know.”

“Please.”

At the diner, I got a text from Ricky saying he needed to talk as soon as I got a moment. I called him back between orders.

“You know how I mentioned my dad was taking off to Florida for a few days?” Ricky said.

“Miami, on business.”

“He just told me he has other obligations, and I need to take his place.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, huh. Any other time, I’d be thrilled at the chance to prove myself. But this is because I promised him our relationship wasn’t going to interfere with my club duties…”

“He’s testing you.”

“Right.”

“Go,” I said.

“I’d rather not. This shit with James … I feel like I should be here, in case you need me.”

I hesitated, thinking of what the Huntsman had said about keeping Ricky close. I dismissed it. The man wanted something from me and would say whatever was needed to make me run to him for protection and answers.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Go.”

During my shift, I passed a note to Patrick, asking him to meet me after work. He agreed with a smug smile.

He was waiting in the park for me.

“Changelings,” I said as I walked over.

He blinked, then recovered as he smiled and said, “Good evening to you, too.”

“Tell me about changelings.”

“Mmm.” He waved for me to join him on the bench. “That’s a very old piece of folklore, used to explain children who weren’t quite right. A mentally challenged child. A mentally ill child. A wild and uncontrollable child. No parent wants to believe they’ve created such a thing. So according to the folklore—”

“I know the folklore. I want to know how it works in Cainsville.”

He paused, then said slowly, “How it works?”

“How you do it. Why you do it. You and the other elders.”

It took him a moment to find the proper look of confusion and shock, and even when he did, he took no great pains to make it genuine, the expression underneath one of pleasure and pride. Like a parent secretly delighted that their child is clever enough to have deduced there is no Santa Claus.

“I have no idea what you’re—”

“Robert Sheehan,” I said, naming the boy from the newspaper. “Ciara Conway. Macy Shaw.”

“Conway … That’s the girl whose body you found, isn’t it?”

“Not really. Ciara Conway is alive. Macy Shaw is the one who died. The real Macy Shaw, that is. They were switched at birth. Changelings of a sort.”

“That’s quite a tale. I’ve heard of such mix-ups—”

“The elders got rid of Ciara’s body—the switched Ciara, that is. I don’t know how. As for why—that’s obvious. They were worried the truth would be discovered. They just weren’t savvy enough to realize the techs had already taken DNA samples. Someone advised the Conways to have their DNA tested. Ostensibly to be sure the dead girl was Ciara. Now they know she isn’t their daughter. I know who is—a young woman who was kidnapped and used to lure me to an abandoned mental hospital. She was taken by a man named Tristan. Well, not a man, I’m sure. No more than you are.”

“I don’t know—”

“What are you? Bòcan? Bogart? Some kind of hobgoblin? That’s my guess. Mischievous. Dangerous if you get on his bad side. Helpful if you stay on his good, and if you understand the rules. Tit for tat. Fair trade.”

He opened his mouth, but before he got a word out, I said, “Patrick Rice. Patricia Rees. Patrice Rhys. I can show you the photograph of Patrick Rice. Just for kicks, of course, because I don’t expect you to confirm any of this. What I want from you is another answer. A trade-off. You don’t confirm this, but you do confirm that. Tit for tat.”

A pause. Then, “Perhaps. If I can.” He met my gaze. “You understand that, I hope, Olivia. There are things I cannot do. Things I cannot tell you.”

“Whatever. For now, I have a hypothetical about the changelings, to help me figure out what’s going on, why a girl died and why I’m being targeted in relation to that death.”

“By this Tristan? If you tell me more about him, I might be able to help.”

“Gabriel and I will handle him. For now, hypothetically, if babies were being switched, babies that are connected to a small town populated by fairies—”

“Tylwyth Teg. Hypothetically.”

“What? The word ‘fairies’ offends you?”

“Hypothetically. Fae if you must.”

“Fine. So these babies get switched. Why?”

He seemed to consider this, and I was bracing for him to refuse to answer when he said, “Take a look at the families involved. What do you see?”

“Well, the children don’t resemble the parents—”

“Look deeper, Olivia. There is a very marked difference in the families.”

“They come from different sides of the track, so to speak. One is upper-middle-class. The other is lower. The income level—”

“Deeper.”

I considered. “The Conways are solid citizens. Well educated, no trouble with the law, and so on. The Shaws are none of the above. Criminal records. Addictions. A family with deep-rooted problems.”

“Hmm.”

“And the point is? So you took—”

“I did nothing.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically or not, I did nothing.”

“Fine. So someone takes a girl from a good family and switches her—”

“Reverse the situation.”

“Someone takes a girl from a troubled family and—” I looked up sharply. “And gives her a better chance.”

“Perhaps.”

“Why would—?” I stopped myself. “Because she’s the one who matters. The girl born to the Shaws, who grew up as Ciara Conway.”

To collect my thoughts, I got up and walked to the fence. I absently rubbed one of the chimeras, and when I did, I imagined the shrieks of children, delighted shrieks, and even if I don’t have a maternal bone in my body, I felt what a parent must feel, that burst of pleasure and of pride and of something else—the instinct to keep their children happy, to keep them safe, to mow down every obstacle in their path to do it.

When I looked out again, I saw something on the grass, glowing in the moonlight. A ring of mushrooms.

A fairy ring.

I opened the gate.

“Olivia?” Patrick called.

I ignored him and walked to the ring and knelt beside it. Mushrooms, perfectly arranged in a circle. No, not quite perfectly—there were a few stray ones in the middle. Small ones, lost in the grass. Protected within the circle.

I reached to touch one … and the ring vanished. Gone in a blink, because it had never been there. It was a vision, a nudge in the direction I already knew was correct.

Patrick stood outside the gate, watching me.

“They’re your children,” I said. “Fae children. They’re Tylwyth Teg.”

“Not Tylwyth—”

“Partly,” I said. “You built this place. Cainsville is yours. Yet not quite. Not at first. There were other settlers. Humans. You needed that to be accepted as a community. But the danger of allowing others into your sanctuary is that they outnumber you. When a native population is in danger of being engulfed by the newcomers, their best choice for survival is co-breeding.”

Patrick moved aside to let me back into the park. I sat on the bench. He stayed where he was, facing me.

“Depending on the subtype, the descendants inherit both gifts and curses,” I said. “Sometimes more one than the other. A hobgoblin, for example, might bestow on his children a knack for mischief and trouble, one that could serve them well in life … or see them serving a life sentence in prison. Every now and then, when things get too badly out of hand, action must be taken to safeguard the children. Take one from a troubled family and give her a better chance in life. Switch her into a family untainted by the blood but with ties to Cainsville, a family that the Tylwyth Teg can be certain will give their descendant the best possible chance at life.” I looked up at Patrick. “Is that a reasonable theory? Hypothetically speaking?”

“Adjacent to reasonable,” he said. “Hypothetically speaking. Was that your question, then?”

“No. The question is more specific and more personal.” I rose and took a step toward him. “What are you to Gabriel?”

His lips twitched, and in that familiar ghost of a smile I saw my answer. I’d always seen my answer. But I asked the question again, and he said, “I believe the solution to that mystery lies in your hypothetical, Olivia.”

“The Walsh family is descended from your kind. Well, Tylwyth Teg, that is. And it’s more complicated than a single ancestor from a single type. The Walshes are gifted. The Walshes are royally fucked up. Some one or the other. Some both. That’s not the result of a single hobgoblin screwing a Walsh girl two hundred years ago. It’s more complicated than that. And with Gabriel, it’s much more complicated, because the screwing happened relatively recently. About thirty years ago, I’d guess.”

As I looked for a reaction, I realized how eerily still he was. People are rarely still. They blink or they shift or they twitch or they tap. Patrick stood perfectly motionless. No sign to tell me that I was on the right path. But no denial, either. He just waited.

“When I mentioned the man that Seanna wanted Gabriel to stay away from, you said, ‘Perhaps he gave her a gift she didn’t want. It happens, between men and women.’ That was my hint, wasn’t it? Or maybe you were just amusing yourself, presuming I was too clueless to get it.”

“I would never underestimate you, Olivia.”

“But you won’t tell me anything, either. You fear the others.”

Did I hope that would spur him to talk, like a child proving he isn’t afraid of the bullies? If so, I needed to remind myself that he wasn’t human. I couldn’t expect him to act like one.

He shrugged. “I fear the loss of a comfortable life. But I do believe there are exceptions to rules, times when rules ought to be broken. It would be better for all if you understood more. Safer. For you, in particular.”

“No, for Gabriel in particular, because you’re the one who gave Seanna that so-called gift. You gave her a son.”

He said nothing.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” I said.

“Is that your question?”

Yes, it was, and he didn’t even need to answer. I could see it in his reaction—or his lack of one.

“How old was she?” I said.

“Old enough.”

“So you impregnated a drug-addled—”

“Seanna’s problems came later. At the time, she was a promising young woman.”

“Until she was, what, eighteen and saddled with a baby?”

He eased back. “Yes, I seduced her. For my own amusement. The outcome was not intended, but it’s the risk you take. And there were signs.”

“Signs?”

“Yes, signs. Portents, your area of expertise. And I’ll say no more on the matter or I really will get myself in trouble. I seduced Seanna. She became pregnant. While charms were enough for her to forget exactly who the father was, she clearly retained enough awareness to not want Gabriel associating with me.” He got to his feet. “And with that, I should take my leave—”

“Like you took your leave of Gabriel?”

He looked at me.

“You abandoned him,” I said. “You watched him grow up. You had to know what happened later, when she died and he was alone. And you did nothing.”

“What would you have me do, Olivia? Find him a better family? That’s what they wanted. The other elders. I refused. He needed to stay with his mother.”

“The drug addict who neglected him. Who made his life such a hell that when she disappeared, he never even thought she might be dead. How bad does a mother need to be for her fifteen-year-old to presume she’d abandon him?”

“So you think I should have let them switch him?” His brows lifted. “We are monsters for what we did to the Conways’ child, giving her to a troubled family to make way for our own, but if it was Gabriel who’d have gotten a better life…?”

“I only meant that you should have done something. You were responsible for him, Patrick. For creating him. For creating the situation. And when it all went to hell, you turned your back—”

“Do you know how they temper steel, Olivia?”

“I don’t care—”

“The application of controlled heat. As strong as the metal will withstand. That produces the most resilient steel. Too much and it will break. It must be tough, yet slightly malleable. Adaptable to the greatest number of situations. That’s Gabriel. He’s been tested and tempered and—”

“And he is a person!” I roared, unable to hold back any longer. “He is not a sword. Not a tool. I don’t care what the hell you had in mind for him. You screwed him over, and now you tell me you were tempering—”

The sound of footsteps cut me short. They came from the walkway to my apartment, as a figure ran down the path. It was too dark to see more than a shape, but there was no question who it was. Gabriel didn’t slow until he’d emerged into the moonlight and saw who I was with.

“Sorry,” I called. “Everything’s fine.”

He glanced at Patrick, then at me again. “I’ll wait…” He motioned back toward the path.

I nodded, and he retreated between the buildings, far enough for privacy but not letting me out of his sight, either.

I started walking away. I had what I’d come for. The rest was just anger, futile rage.

Before I could open the gate, Patrick caught my arm.

“Look at him, Olivia,” he whispered.

I did, in spite of myself, glancing at Gabriel, backed into the shadows now but still visible, the set of his shoulders and his jaw, the glitter of his pale eyes, fixed on us, watching for trouble.

“You know what kind of man he is,” Patrick said, his voice low. “You know what he’s capable of. His intelligence. His strength. His resourcefulness. That is the result of the choices I made. Would you really have him any other way?”

“Yes.” I met Patrick’s gaze. “I would have him happy.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Maybe that part is up to you.”

“No, I don’t think it is.”

I pulled away and walked to Gabriel.