Fish Out of Water

chapter Ten

Cookies and Visitors


Cleedaline’s Apartment, Williamstown

I looked around the beautiful room once more, at the blue-green sea of love and peace, and for the first time, I consciously tried to will myself into a vision.

I focused on her face.

I tried to see it as it would have been in life, mobile and beautiful, rather the cold mask I’d known. I tried to imagine her distress as she heard about Imogen. My eyes flashed open and settled again on the canvasses she had painted, the images of her beloved friend. I focused on one of them, a watercolor of Imogen, swimming naked amid a shimmering mass of tiny blue fish, her face half turned, the long sinews of her back and neck dominating the scene.

My, how Cleedaline had loved her.

Then the vision came. But this time it was different. I wasn’t overwhelmed and pulled under by it. It settled into the private places of my brain. I was in control, not swept away.

In the eye of my mind, I saw a book, leather-bound, with a note sticking out of it.

My mouth dropped open. Everyone knows the cardinal rule of watch-keeping. Keep no records. The vigil must be secret. No-one must know what we are, or from where we come.

For some reason, Cleedaline broke the rule.

I concentrated again, hoping like hell I wouldn’t have to tear this place apart to find that book. I turned my mind inward, focusing on it. The caramel leather was worn. I focused on the fuzzy edges of the picture I could see inside my head. What was near it? Where was it?

The indistinct lines started to take shape, forming and re-forming as I concentrated on them with all I had. And then it was clear. The book was here, in her apartment.

So simple. Deceptively so.

Just where a woman would stash a treasured, private thing.

In the cookie jar.

Men never get how women feel about cookies. Even mermaids.

I dashed to her cupboards and started flipping doors and pushing tins and boxes aside, suddenly desperate to read what she had written. I found the cookie jar and there it was, nestled inside like a hidden treasure. The book. I gazed stupidly at its cover.

An Anthology of Mermaids.

So she had a sense of humor, too. Oh, Cleedaline. I would have liked you, I know it.

I extracted the note, and I could see how little text there was even before I began to read. My heart sank so far inside my chest I could hardly focus my eyes.

Just one page.

I started to read, my eyes flicking down the words. So few of them, so little to go on. I read again, slower, taking in Cleedaline’s full, deliberate script. It must have been hard for her to write. It’s not a skill Aegirans have, not being a paper people. My respect for her swelled.

I focused on her words. The note was dated, written four days ago. The day she came to me. The day she died. I skimmed it. There seemed to be two entries:

C came. Imogen. Gone ??? The second one.

He thought I might know something.

How could I not have known?

I had another vision. Rania of land and sea. The Warrior.

I see her. She’s close, in Dirtwater.

She can help me.

The second entry:

They’re coming for me, I can feel it.

What if they find me before I get to her?

I must find a way to bring her in. She will help me, I know it.

2pm. Harry’s Tattoos.

And that was it. All Cleedaline had to offer me. But at least it was something.

I pieced it together.

The first entry. Carragheen’s visit, telling her about Imogen. And she was having visions too. Is it possible? She saw me in her visions? Saw something that made her think I could help?

Then, the next entry. Somehow she knew they were coming for her. Was it the visions again? They must have found out she knew about Imogen, whoever they were. And the only way they could have known that was if they knew about Carragheen’s visit.

Which meant they also knew that Carragheen knew.

My heart froze inside my chest, and every instinct told me to hurl myself at the nearest body of water and sing my way back to him. To protect him. But what if he didn’t need protecting? What if he was somehow involved? Part of my mind wanted to reject the thought, like a failed donor kidney, but another part clung to it doggedly.

I turned back to the note. What else?

She was worried, worried about them getting to her before she could get to me. Looks like she stumbled upon the tattoo idea, thought if anything happened to her, I’d be tracked down. And tattooed on her skin, so it wouldn’t matter if they found her on earth or sea, they would still know to come looking for me. Clever girl. Clever, clever girl.

There was only one thing I didn’t get. The second one. Is this the second time something’s happened to Imogen? Then a darker thought occurred to me. Maybe it was the second person to go missing. And if Cleedaline had heard about Imogen from Carragheen, she must have heard about the second one from him too.

So had there been another abduction? And if there had, why didn’t he tell me? My mind skipped to Mom’s prevarication about Carragheen, her uncertainty about him. What was he hiding? What else hadn’t he told me?

I looked up from the little book and the apartment suddenly felt small and hot. I remembered The Link’s words, about them following me, and I decided this was really not such a great place to be hanging out while I pieced all this together.

I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes ’til I was due with Doug.

I moved quickly, hitting the busy street with ten minutes to rendezvous with Doug. I’d made it two blocks when I felt the presence coming towards me in the crowd.

My hand went to my Glock, tucked neatly in the front of my jeans. It felt good, a much more reliable security blanket than the bag with the fish scales.

I ducked swiftly into the next alley that came up, barely more than a hidey-hole on my right. I slammed my body against an exposed concrete wall and waited for the trouble, whatever it was, to come to me. I looked down at the tangle of veins in my wrist, watched the alorha fish dart past like it was escaping from something. Trouble.

I waited two breaths, three.

All my senses were charged and I didn’t even need to see the street to know the next passing body was my target.

But who was pricking my psychic antennae?

I flashed my hand out, grabbed a handful of clothing and dragged it into the hidey-hole.

But when I did, I was knocked off course. It was Zorax the Choirmaster.

One of Aegira’s leaders and the jolly little Santa Claus who perfected my voice. He was here. In Williamstown. Heading toward Cleedaline’s apartment. Why?

He was looking as surprised as me, but there was something else too. Something behind the Santa blush and the twinkly eyes. Something that was gone by the time I tried to pin it down.

“What are you doing here?” I was hissing rather than speaking. My adrenaline wa pumping and whether it was Zorax or Mother Teresa I was seconds away from unleashing a tidal wave of fear and fury. The scar on my arm felt itchy and I was no longer sure which way was up.

Could it really be Zorax? Was he the baddy?

What was he doing here in Williamstown if he wasn’t?

Zorax looked afraid, and I realized with a slick gearshift that he was afraid of me. I wondered if I had my crazy eyes on. That’s what my old boss used to call my game face, when I was out and sharp and on the trail of something mean. When I was much, much keener to hurt someone else than to be hurt. My crazy eyes.

I tuned in to Zorax. “I’m looking for Cleedaline, Rania. Do you know where she is?”

I studied his face, still holding on to a bunch of his clothes, a collar and some sweater, I think. But I wasn’t letting go, not yet. Was he playing me? Was he the one who’d taken Imogen, killed Cleedaline? I couldn’t tell. No matter how long I stared at a face which now seemed less Santa Claus and more Porky Pig. I wondered if I was so mixed up because I didn’t expect to see him here, because he’d messed with my sense of how the world works. I couldn’t have felt more surprised if I was walking down the street and got mugged by Santa himself.

You just don’t meet Aegirans walking down the street every day.

And no-one is supposed to come looking for a watch-keeper. Sure, Cleedaline was a song-maker, here to study song. But that in itself is no reason why The Choirmaster would pop in on her. He’d better have some really convincing story to tell.

I wasn’t getting much from his face, so I tried shock tactics.

“She’s dead,” I whispered, straight into his face. “Killed. What did you want with her?”

He looked surprised, his chin shaky, but I couldn’t tell if he was faking. And I wasn’t totally sure if he looked surprised enough. Aegirans are like babes in the wood when it comes to violence. It’s what Aegir and Ran were trying to take their people away from. So Zorax should be really shocked. Feel really sick. Did he seem shocked enough? I wasn’t sure.

He started to speak. “Oh, no. The dear girl. What happened to her?”

He looked sad, but something about his little cherubic face was starting to get to me. I remembered his odd behaviour at the wedding.

“I’m asking the questions here. And I have a gun.”

He looked surprised as I waved my Glock at him, and I felt a reassuring surge of relief.

Okay, so he gets guns.

I let go of his clothing. “Okay, first question. Why were you looking for Cleedaline?”

He hesitated, and I motioned with my gun again. When he spoke, his face was inscrutable. “I just found out. Carragheen told me, about Imogen. He wanted to find out whether anyone in the leadership grouping knew.”

My brain rejected the story. I could not think of a single good reason Carragheen would have shared this with Zorax. Especially not after he had just found about what happened to Cleedaline. I knew that, whatever else he might be hiding, Carragheen was trying to get to the bottom of this, in his own way, and was also trying hard to keep anyone else out of it.

Zorax went on. “I still can’t believe it. Can’t believe that I could not have missed her. She is so brilliant. But no-one has. No-one’s noticed that she’s gone. How is that possible?”

He was working the whole confused thing quite well but my cop sense was screaming obscenities at me. No way did he just find out about Imogen.

“Okay, so question two. How did you know where to find Cleedaline? The information is secret, even from you. That old gossip Carragheen tell you that too?”

I was surprised by the force of the protective wave that welled up inside me, threatening to drown Zorax and me alike with its potency. I wanted to protect Carragheen, even with all the reasons I had to hate him racing around my subconscious. Zorax hesitated, and I considered using my Glock again to remind him to keep going.

When he spoke, it wasn’t to answer me, but to turn the interrogation on its head. “Why are you so worried about Kraken’s son?” Suddenly, out of nowhere, he assumed a look befitting his station, as one of the leaders of the most technologically advanced and impressive species on the planet. He looked old, potent and shrewd.

But he didn’t scare me. “I worry about a lot of things. It’s the cop in me.”

But he could see through me, and I realized I’d given myself away. I was sure I detected a trill of victory in the half-curl of his lip. He knew he had me. “You can’t trust him, you know.”

The words shocked me. Weird, really. I’ve spent my whole life not trusting anyone, and I’ve forged my suspicion into a career. But, for some reason, all the various, contrary pieces of me really wanted to trust this one. Carragheen.

Despite the marriage thing.

Despite Mom’s oblique mutterings.

Despite only knowing him five minutes.

My body wanted to trust him. My cells wanted to trust him. But it seemed nothing was what it was supposed to be anymore. Maybe I couldn’t rely on anything, not even my own cells.

I didn’t want to know more, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s like all those things you shouldn’t do. Pick a scab. Buy another packet of cigarettes when you swore you were giving up after the last. French kiss your Mom’s assistant in the mayoral chambers. We shouldn’t do these things, but they suck us in like moths to the flame.

‘Cause we’re only human. Even those of us that are half-fish.

“Why shouldn’t I trust him? Sounds like you guys are bosom buddies if he’s cutting you in on all his secrets.” My words caused the little curl of triumph to inch higher.

“Dear girl, I might find him useful, but I’m not a woman, with a vulnerable heart. You see, he may not have told you this, but he’s married.”

I laughed, and the curl dipped fractionally. “Yeah, yeah, Zorax old news.”

But he could see he was losing me, and changed tack. “The woman is just the beginning. What about the little girl? Is she old news too? What did Carragheen tell her mother, I wonder, before he took little Tila away?” He was purring, and his words were like a sucker punch to my solar plexus. He could sniff blood, and pressed home his advantage. “You know he sent the mother away, of course? But why did he take the girl? Why does he make her mother grieve?”

The words were out before I could stop them. “Tila? She loves him.” I was remembering Axel Rose and lullabies.

“Perhaps, Rania,” he staked my heart softly. “But her mother asks for her every day. He sent his wife away, but he took the girl. Because he could. Because of who he is.”

I couldn’t work out why my mind wanted to believe this. I knew it was a red herring, a diversion thrown up to lead me away from the question I’d been asking Zorax.

The real question, “why did you come?” And “how did you know where to come?”

I was remembering Carragheen’s face when Lecanora told me about his situation. I’d known there was more. But Zorax wasn’t finished with me yet.

“Don’t trust him.” Zorax was wrapping me up in his silky voice, and I was drowning in the sensation of those tones. His voice was a powerful weapon, his trade tool. He saw the doubt, curdling like sour milk at the back of my eyes. I thought about the entry in Cleedaline’s journal.

The second one.

How did Carragheen know about a second one? And why hadn’t he mentioned the second one to me? He said he’d heard of Imogen’s disappearance from the girls.

But the girls didn’t mention a second one.

My mind was suddenly scanning the things Carragheen had told me, holding them up under my internal microscope for spotting deception. He’d stopped the Throaty Three from telling anyone about Imogen. He’d told them he would deal with it. Why? Why hadn’t he gone straight to the Queen, or one of her advisers?

Then I remembered. He’d disappeared. Carragheen. Just before I’d gone down, near the cave, just before the weapon had gotten me. I hadn’t been able to see him, just before it happened, and I hadn’t seen him again until he’d come back, with Rick.

Had he really even been sick at all? Where had he been in the interim?

I was vaguely aware that Zorax was still standing in front of me, and I was still holding the Glock dangerously close to him. I needed to get back on track.

I needed to forget about this distraction he was using. Forget about Carragheen for now.

Zorax knew things he shouldn’t and I needed to know how.

But he was at me again, more diversion.

“Why are you involved in this, Rania? Aegira isn’t even your place.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “A better question,” I suggested. “Why haven’t you told anyone? You are a leader. Why didn’t you raise the alarm when you realized about Imogen?”

And then he said what everyone had said, one way or another, over the previous few days. “These are strange times. I don’t know why it’s being covered up, but if it is, there must be a reason. I was trying to find out more first. I need to think about how to proceed.”

He wasn’t the only one.

And then I saw it, glinting through the sun on his chest. He didn’t even try to hide it. Thought I wouldn’t remember.

But I remember everything.

A delicate pearl necklace, fashioned into a turtle. Imogen’s necklace. The shock registered in my eyes and he saw it. Before I could say put your goddamn hands in the air, something happened.

I only had time to register a single low, perfect note, before everything inside me froze. There was no pain, only a creeping bliss. But it was a powerful, numbing bliss, and I lost a few seconds of awareness, wrapped in its silky chains. Like I was in a waking coma.

When I snapped back, he was gone.

What had just happened?

That wasn’t the thing, the horrible sound weapon, but it had felt like I was… hypnotized or something, by Zorax’s song. He got away. And I didn’t get answers to the questions I’d asked. How did he know where Cleedaline lived? And why was he there?

I glanced quickly at my watch, and realized I was already five minutes late for Doug. I started to run, trying to get to him before he decided he needed to come looking for me. But as I did, I couldn’t lose the feeling that I hadn’t shaken off everyone following me.

As I reach Fatso’s, still at a gallop, my brain was going wild.

He had the necklace. Zorax had Imogen’s necklace. Why? And how?

I saw Doug out front, behind the wheel of his van, working his big arms on the stick-shift, about to come for me. I let out a high whistle, and vaulted across the street to join him, wrenching open the door and sliding in next to him.

His hard, sexy face looked relieved to see me. “Nice of you to drop by, Sheriff,” he purred. “And what the hell time do you call this?”

“Don’t ask,” I groaned, buckling up and automatically grabbing the little larbra scale bag that was still where I’d left it, between the seats and behind the stick-shift. I gave it a few reassuring strokes, and Doug noticed. He notices everything.

“That thing’s kinda girly for you, ain’t it?” He seemed intrigued. Like he was expecting me to whip out a prom dress or maybe start singing tunes from the Sound of Music.

“Long story,” I said.

“Not so much the way you tell it,” he countered.

True. I never was one for small talk.

He looked at me again, and I clocked him noticing the strain between my eyes, and the sheen of sweat on my lip. “Everything go okay?”

“Just peachy,” I insisted. “You done with your dog?”

He grinned, knowing I’d told him to butt out. “Yes, Ma’am,” he confirmed, motioning into the back.

I swivelled around, and took in the view. On the floor of Doug’s van, where I’d lain vomiting a couple of nights before, was the biggest, ugliest mutt I’d ever seen. I had no idea what manner of dog it was, but it looked friendly. And smart. I raised an eyebrow at Doug.

“A gift,” he explained. “For you. And your Mom.”

“Oh, no,” I corrected him. “We don’t need a dog. You can have him, pal.”

“Gee, thanks, Rania,” he continued. “But it’s not your birthday. You need him. He’s specially bred for the hearing impaired. Great ears. He’s gonna be your early warning system.”

I thought about persisting, and then I thought about Mom. And my plans to head to Aegira. And about what might be happening in three weeks. “Does he double as a guard dog?”

“Uh-huh,” says Doug, and by way of demonstration snapped, “Benito, kill.”

The friendly looking pooch was suddenly transformed into a slick killer. His teeth bared as he dropped to his haunches and uttered a really vile-sounding snarl. I was impressed.

“Great, Doug,” I said, touching his arm. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said.

We spent the rest of the trip in companionable silence, listening to Benito’s snorting and drooling. I was turning over all the things that had happened, my tummy doing cartwheels. That prickly thing at the back of my neck hadn’t gone away, and my ears were starting to hurt. Probably just the after-effects of two recent blasts with whatever that goddamn weapon is, but I also noticed that Benito had started doing this low growl thing in the back. Whatever, I was assailed by memories of the night at the morgue, and the crippling attack on the ocean floor.

I wasn’t taking any chances.

I rummaged quickly in my pockets and pulled out a tiny package, motioning to Doug.

“You got yours?”

Doug looked at me, and the tiny ear plugs in my hands. “They got you spooked, huh?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, I got mine.” He indicated the center console with his head.

Doug used the moment when my eyes were cast down, fiddling with the package and extracting the plugs, to touch my hand softly. “Sheriff, I tried to tell you this before, you know, that night. And I’m worried if I don’t do it soon, I might miss my chance.”

Uh-oh. Sentences that begin like that are never good.

I sneaked a quick look at that patrician face and it was soft and serious.

“I worry about you. And not just ‘cause you do some damn crazy things.”

He smiled. I smiled. Okay, so it wasn’t love talk.

I felt a cool blast of relief, and kept fiddling with the plugs so neither of us had to be embarrassed about the intimate turn the conversation had taken.

“You see, I never told you this. But you remind me of my sister.”

My head snapped up to meet his eyes. Double uh-oh. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I don’t.” His face was hard, and it took me a moment to register his meaning. When I did, I took his hand, and the electricity shooting between us was more than comfort.

“Yeah, she’s dead. She was my twin. And she was a lot like you.”

Triple uh-oh. I didn’t want to be some sister replacement. Some dead sister replacement.

I tried to make it look like I needed my hand to extract the plugs.

“Don’t look like that.” He laughed, breaking the tension of the moment. “She didn’t look like you. Or shoot like you. Or drink like you. She was… sweet.”

“Um, should I be insulted right about now?”

“No way, Sheriff. It was her… spirit, I guess, that was like you. She was brave, like you.” I smiled. “But she did some really stupid things.” I waited for the like you before deciding he was gonna leave it unspoken. “And she had real bad taste in guys.” I didn’t need the third like you. “And she ended up following one of them too far.” Doug’s voice broke, and he retrieved his hand from mine and rubbed it across his eyes, shaking his head. “I knew he was bad news. Goddammit, I knew it. Tried to tell her. But she was so damn independent.” The way he said it made it sound like a really bad thing.

I covered his hand again.

“After it happened, that’s when Mom started to… Well, Ma’s never been the same. I coulda helped her. Jessie, I mean. That was her name. But she never wanted me to. Never wanted to need anyone. Crazy little thing. From the time she was five or six, she always said I can do it by myself, Dougie.” I smiled at his pretty neat impression of a little girl. “Just like that. By. My. Self.” He squeezed my hand. “I want to help, Rania. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

He reached out and touched the side of my face and he was so darkly beautiful and good and kind I just wanted to melt into him. I wanted to say yes, I do need some help and maybe not just with this thing right now but maybe with everything. Maybe with my whole crazy life.

But something stopped me. Something told me it wasn’t right. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I was buying some time to think about what to say by fitting my plugs and fishing in the console to retrieve Doug’s plugs for him when it happened. I didn’t feel or hear anything, but Doug’s head suddenly snapped back like he’d been pistol whipped. His hands flew off the steering wheel and onto his ears, and then the van was a careening, spinning mass of metal and sound. It crashed off the narrow road and into the shallow ditch, rolling as it collected a barrier.

Despite the rolling, I unhooked my belt and clambered across into Doug’s seat to ram the little pieces of plastic into his ears. But I couldn’t get purchase. I kept sliding off him, and then we made contact with the ground and both went sprawling. Doug’s head smacked into the windscreen, leaving an angry red splatter mark, and the plugs went flying.

I knew there was no point calling an ambulance, or other emergency. I knew I could get him to help faster. My adrenalin was working overtime. We’ve already established that I’m strong but really, any other time and I’d have even impressed myself with how I managed to pull Doug from the van, tip it back up the right way and get us all going in no time at all.

The muscles in my arms were on a low burn, but all I could think was faster faster faster.

I drove Doug’s half-dead van at lightning speed. The attack took place about 20 minutes from home, and I had to watch him writhing in agony as I careened down the highway like a madwoman. I managed to get the plugs in his ears, but it didn’t stop the pain. His pretty face was tight and twisted, like it was made of play doh and some kid just mashed their fist into it.

I knew what he was going through. Except both times it had happened to me the sound had been blocked pretty quickly, maybe within seconds. Doug must have been on the receiving end of a good five minutes of agony before I got the plugs in his ears. I had no idea what that kind of pain could do to you, but I had a feeling I was about to find out.

Doug didn’t want me to take him to the hospital. He communicated that through a series of tortured groans.

But really, he was in no position to argue.