Omens
Page 28
“Maybe.” She peered into the bag and pulled out the scone. “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”
I stood there as she took a bite, gray eyes closing in rapture.
“He said she called him.” I waved toward the fortune-teller’s house. “Tipped him off about me.”
She opened one eye, then the other, piqued at the interruption. “If you think it was me, say so. Don’t beat around the bush. Makes you look weak.”
“Okay. So you called him.”
“I wouldn’t call Gabriel Walsh if I was on fire.” She pursed her lips. “No, I might. To sue everyone responsible—from the person who lit the match to those who made my clothes. But I’d wait until the fire was out. Otherwise, he’d just stand there until I was burned enough for a sizable settlement.”
“So he’s an ambulance chaser.”
“He’s a money chaser, doesn’t matter where it comes from. Young as he is, he runs his own practice. Makes him look like some kind of prodigy, but the truth is with his reputation, even the sleaziest firm in Chicago wouldn’t hire him. He is honest, though, in his own way. If he said Rose called him, I’m sure she did, because she called me about you, too. The part Gabriel left out? That old gossip is his great-aunt.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. Gabriel Walsh comes from a long line of hustlers. He’s just the first one to go to law school and get a license for it.”
So the last lawyer to represent Pamela Larsen had an aunt who just happened to live across from my new apartment? Seems my luck in finding Cainsville came with a price. I supposed I should have expected as much. Fate is capricious. Nothing comes free. And Gabriel Walsh was an irritation I could deal with.
Grace took another bite of her scone and sighed with pleasure. “Damn. You must have made a good impression on Larry if you got him to bake me up a fresh batch.”
“You knew . . . ?”
“That you brought me this? Course I did.”
“But you thanked—”
“He got it from you. You let him. You need to pay more attention, girl. Especially around that one.”
“In other words, keep my distance.”
“Never said that. Men like Gabriel have their uses. You just need to keep your eyes open and your hand on your wallet.”
Thunder cracked. Lightning split the sky. When I looked up, the clouds had rolled in again.
“Huh, looks like we’re getting a storm,” she said.
She stood and walked to the door, then waved impatiently at her chair. I folded it and carried it inside just as the downpour started.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I returned to my apartment only to realize there was nothing for me there. No food, no drink, and most urgently, no cleaning products. So I waited for a break in the rain, then jogged to the grocery store a block over. I spent an hour there. Ten minutes to grab basic foodstuffs. Fifty minutes reading every freaking label in the cleaning supply section to figure out what I needed.
After three hours of scrubbing, I collapsed onto the bed . . . only to realize I’d left sheets off my shopping list. I managed to struggle to my feet, considered the likelihood that any shop in town was still open, and fell back onto the bare mattress.
I woke on a rocky plain. Bitter wind whipped my hair into my eyes. A salty mist sprinkled my face, but I couldn’t see or hear the ocean, just looked out over an endless dark field of fog and rock and gnarled trees.
I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. I was barefoot and dressed only in a thin shift, the wind cutting through it as if it was nothing.
Someone raced past me and I caught a glimpse of a girl with long blond hair before she disappeared into the swirling mist. I took a few tentative steps across the ice-cold rock and damp moss, and I saw her there, still shadowy against the darkness but turned now, watching me. She didn’t speak or smile, just waited until I drew close, then ran into the fog again, only to stop and wait until I got closer.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
My voice echoed. She lifted a finger to her lips, then scampered off.
At last I stepped through the fog to see her crouched in the middle of a mist-shrouded circle of misshapen dead trees.
I looked around. Did I know this place?
Familiar yet unfamiliar.
Same with the girl.
I walked over. She was throwing something onto the ground, like jacks. The mist curled around her face, shrouding it.
When she saw me, she nodded solemnly and moved back, as if to give me room. I walked over and bent down. She picked up what looked like a stubby piece of wood and held it out.
“I don’t know how to play,” I said.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I’m sorry, I—”
“Shhh. Don’t wake them.”
“Who?”
When she said nothing, I looked around, but saw only the gnarled, fog-misted trees. I started to rise. She caught my hand and tried to tug me down.
“They’re resting,” she said.
“Who’s resting?”
The croak of a raven answered. I looked over my shoulder to see one perched on a branch, pecking at the pale bark. The girl leapt to her feet and waved her arms.
“Shoo! You aren’t supposed to be here.”
The raven fixed her with one beady eye and croaked in protest, but took flight, soaring off over our heads.
The girl sat again and threw her sticks, and I saw that the sticks were bones. Polished white finger bones.
White bones against black rock.
Black rock on the edge of a pit filled with murky water, stinking like a swamp. More rocks piled above it. A waterfall. A dry waterfall.
My garden.
The raven swooped past. The girl waved her fist at it. “Ewch i ffwrdd, bran!”
She turned to me. “The bran know better,” she said. “They aren’t to disturb the dead. It’s disrespectful.”
“The dead?”
She waved at the tree and the mist began to clear, as if swept away, and I saw that the gnarled trunk wasn’t a trunk at all. It was a corpse. Bound to a dead tree, arms spread, naked and bald, empty eye sockets, skin an oddly marbled red and white.
Then the last of the mist cleared and I saw the marble surface wasn’t skin. There was no skin.
I stumbled back and wheeled to see that every tree was the crucifix for a flayed corpse. That’s when I started to scream.
I stood there as she took a bite, gray eyes closing in rapture.
“He said she called him.” I waved toward the fortune-teller’s house. “Tipped him off about me.”
She opened one eye, then the other, piqued at the interruption. “If you think it was me, say so. Don’t beat around the bush. Makes you look weak.”
“Okay. So you called him.”
“I wouldn’t call Gabriel Walsh if I was on fire.” She pursed her lips. “No, I might. To sue everyone responsible—from the person who lit the match to those who made my clothes. But I’d wait until the fire was out. Otherwise, he’d just stand there until I was burned enough for a sizable settlement.”
“So he’s an ambulance chaser.”
“He’s a money chaser, doesn’t matter where it comes from. Young as he is, he runs his own practice. Makes him look like some kind of prodigy, but the truth is with his reputation, even the sleaziest firm in Chicago wouldn’t hire him. He is honest, though, in his own way. If he said Rose called him, I’m sure she did, because she called me about you, too. The part Gabriel left out? That old gossip is his great-aunt.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. Gabriel Walsh comes from a long line of hustlers. He’s just the first one to go to law school and get a license for it.”
So the last lawyer to represent Pamela Larsen had an aunt who just happened to live across from my new apartment? Seems my luck in finding Cainsville came with a price. I supposed I should have expected as much. Fate is capricious. Nothing comes free. And Gabriel Walsh was an irritation I could deal with.
Grace took another bite of her scone and sighed with pleasure. “Damn. You must have made a good impression on Larry if you got him to bake me up a fresh batch.”
“You knew . . . ?”
“That you brought me this? Course I did.”
“But you thanked—”
“He got it from you. You let him. You need to pay more attention, girl. Especially around that one.”
“In other words, keep my distance.”
“Never said that. Men like Gabriel have their uses. You just need to keep your eyes open and your hand on your wallet.”
Thunder cracked. Lightning split the sky. When I looked up, the clouds had rolled in again.
“Huh, looks like we’re getting a storm,” she said.
She stood and walked to the door, then waved impatiently at her chair. I folded it and carried it inside just as the downpour started.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I returned to my apartment only to realize there was nothing for me there. No food, no drink, and most urgently, no cleaning products. So I waited for a break in the rain, then jogged to the grocery store a block over. I spent an hour there. Ten minutes to grab basic foodstuffs. Fifty minutes reading every freaking label in the cleaning supply section to figure out what I needed.
After three hours of scrubbing, I collapsed onto the bed . . . only to realize I’d left sheets off my shopping list. I managed to struggle to my feet, considered the likelihood that any shop in town was still open, and fell back onto the bare mattress.
I woke on a rocky plain. Bitter wind whipped my hair into my eyes. A salty mist sprinkled my face, but I couldn’t see or hear the ocean, just looked out over an endless dark field of fog and rock and gnarled trees.
I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. I was barefoot and dressed only in a thin shift, the wind cutting through it as if it was nothing.
Someone raced past me and I caught a glimpse of a girl with long blond hair before she disappeared into the swirling mist. I took a few tentative steps across the ice-cold rock and damp moss, and I saw her there, still shadowy against the darkness but turned now, watching me. She didn’t speak or smile, just waited until I drew close, then ran into the fog again, only to stop and wait until I got closer.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
My voice echoed. She lifted a finger to her lips, then scampered off.
At last I stepped through the fog to see her crouched in the middle of a mist-shrouded circle of misshapen dead trees.
I looked around. Did I know this place?
Familiar yet unfamiliar.
Same with the girl.
I walked over. She was throwing something onto the ground, like jacks. The mist curled around her face, shrouding it.
When she saw me, she nodded solemnly and moved back, as if to give me room. I walked over and bent down. She picked up what looked like a stubby piece of wood and held it out.
“I don’t know how to play,” I said.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I’m sorry, I—”
“Shhh. Don’t wake them.”
“Who?”
When she said nothing, I looked around, but saw only the gnarled, fog-misted trees. I started to rise. She caught my hand and tried to tug me down.
“They’re resting,” she said.
“Who’s resting?”
The croak of a raven answered. I looked over my shoulder to see one perched on a branch, pecking at the pale bark. The girl leapt to her feet and waved her arms.
“Shoo! You aren’t supposed to be here.”
The raven fixed her with one beady eye and croaked in protest, but took flight, soaring off over our heads.
The girl sat again and threw her sticks, and I saw that the sticks were bones. Polished white finger bones.
White bones against black rock.
Black rock on the edge of a pit filled with murky water, stinking like a swamp. More rocks piled above it. A waterfall. A dry waterfall.
My garden.
The raven swooped past. The girl waved her fist at it. “Ewch i ffwrdd, bran!”
She turned to me. “The bran know better,” she said. “They aren’t to disturb the dead. It’s disrespectful.”
“The dead?”
She waved at the tree and the mist began to clear, as if swept away, and I saw that the gnarled trunk wasn’t a trunk at all. It was a corpse. Bound to a dead tree, arms spread, naked and bald, empty eye sockets, skin an oddly marbled red and white.
Then the last of the mist cleared and I saw the marble surface wasn’t skin. There was no skin.
I stumbled back and wheeled to see that every tree was the crucifix for a flayed corpse. That’s when I started to scream.
