Blood Memories

CHAPTER 17
This time I broke off first.
“Don’t stop,” Wade said, grabbing my hand.
“No more. When you’re inside my head, I see his face like he’s in the room.”
Visions of Edward hurt far more than I’d imagined they would. He’d been so alive, so original.
But Wade’s questions kept coming. “So, you went to Portland?”
“Yeah,” I managed to answer. “Edward followed two years later. He stayed in different hotels until 1937, then bought a house. He’d just grown too used to company.”
“You lived with him in New York for seventy-three years?”
“I’d almost forgotten. Seems like another lifetime.”
I needed to stop talking about this, and I noticed Wade’s eyelids flutter. How long had it been since he’d really slept? The previous night he’d been up playing Superman, and then he probably stood guard over me all day.
“Maybe you should rest.”
I thought he might argue—still burning with curiosity—but he pointed to the door. “Not yet. There’s another whole room out there.”
“What . . . You rented a suite?”
“Seemed appropriate.”
Walking out into the living room of a modern hotel suite surprised me, as if Wade had been kidding and I’d find myself in a hallway. The decor was sterile, predictable: a gray sleeper couch, dried blue flowers in a vase from Tiffany’s, two assembly-line paintings of seascapes. But this probably cost six hundred dollars a night. Why would Wade spend that kind of money? To impress me? Maybe he just thought I was used to places like this? What a guy.
My mind needed a break. How long had it been since Edward jumped off his porch? Only six weeks. Couldn’t be. The memories shook me more than I wanted to admit. That’s why I pushed Wade out of my head. What if the three of us had simply stayed in New York? Would Edward still have lost it? He’d never liked Portland, but his attachment to me kept him from being happy alone in Manhattan. Was it love? Maybe. He could have cut and run that first night in Southampton, left us to die in ignorance, but he didn’t. How much did we owe him? I didn’t even have a photo, not even a photo.
And my William . . .
Stop it.
I wasn’t ready to deal with his death. I wasn’t prepared to mourn. Trying to mull over that loss and figure out my next move would only bring hysteria. What was my purpose now? Even if I did escape Julian and manage to live—which was doubtful—what was I supposed to do?
“We need to go out for a little while,” Wade said from behind me.
“Aren’t we supposed to be hiding out?”
“We’re in Kirkland—miles from Seattle, and we’ll go on foot. It’ll be okay.”
“I think you need some sleep. What’s so important?”
“You’ll see. First I want to go someplace and get a hamburger.”
“Really? You always sort of struck me as the health-food type.”
He smiled slightly. “Used to be. Back at the institute they served whole grain and greens three meals a day. Dominick got me hooked on beer, pizza, and burgers.”
The mention of Dominick sent my mood into the shadows again. Wade turned away. “Sorry, I just don’t have any other friends. Kind of sad, huh?”
“No, I don’t have many friends either.”
Getting out of the hotel turned out to be a good idea. The night was clear and cool. We walked in comfortable silence to a small diner called Ernie’s and slid into a cushy booth where a matronly waitress who bore an astonishing resemblance to Alice on The Brady Bunch took our order.
“I feel like a kid on my first date,” Wade said, holding his cheese-burger in one hand.
“Really? Maybe I should giggle a lot?”
He threw a French fry across the table. “Hey, is the room okay?”
“Room? The suite? Of course, it’s fine.” Why would he worry about something like that? “Listen, you should let me pay you back for all this. The hotel. The rental car. Everything.”
“You don’t need to. Anyway, where would you get that kind of money?”
“Me? Jesus, Wade, I thought you’d have figured that out by now. I’m . . . pretty well off: three rotating CD accounts in Portland, an account in Zurich, stock in Coca-Cola, Starbucks, Hewlett-Packard . . . Boeing.”
He stopped eating. “How did you manage all that?”
“Accountants and stockbrokers. Money is the only thing that matters here. Julian has joint control of my Portland accounts, though. He doesn’t care how much I spend, but if I’d pulled out four hundred thousand to buy a new house, he’d want to know why.”
“Your accountants work with you at night?”
“Sure. If you’re poor and strange, people call you mad. If you’re rich and strange, they call you eccentric.”
He finished his dinner without another word and paid the check. Somehow, our exchange seemed to have upset him. We walked down the street awhile in silence. “You think you’ve got us all figured out, don’t you?” he said finally.
“No.”
“Yes, you do. You take mortals at face value and then put them into neat little categories so you won’t have to deal with anyone.”
“Where are we going?” I ignored his statement, which struck me as pointless anyway since our relationship went far beyond face value, and I was certainly dealing with him. We turned into a park with green grass, slides, and a large swing set.
“Why are we here?” I asked.
“You’ll see.” His momentary annoyance faded, and he led me through the park until we found a patch of forest near the back. “Here, this is a good place.”
“For what?”
Kneeling down, he lifted his shirt and pulled a thin box from the back of his jeans. “We’re going to bury William.”
My skin went cold. “What?”
“Don’t look so surprised. When I was a kid, I had only one pet, an orange cat named Meesha. She got hit by a car, and I couldn’t deal with it. My dad got disgusted, but my mom put her body in a box and took me for a long walk. She said, ‘You can’t put this behind you or go on with tomorrow until Meesha’s safe in the ground, and you know where to visit should you need to.’ That’s the only thing my mother ever did for me that mattered.”
“What’s in that box?”
“Some of William’s ashes. I got them while you were changing upstairs last night.”
He began digging in the dirt with his hands. My knees sank down of their own accord, and I reached out to help him. Night wind blew through the leaves above us, and it seemed right to forget who we were, what we were caught in the middle of, and instead pretend to be just two people laying a ghost to rest.
“Do you believe in heaven, Wade?”
“I don’t know.”
The box fit neatly in its hole, and we gently patted the loose dirt back in place.
“We can’t leave a marker,” he said.
“It’s all right.”
For a long time we sat together, gathering our thoughts, thinking of the past, blanking out the future. Though still unable to mourn, I felt different now that perhaps William had found rest or even lived in a better place than this world.
“Thank you,” I said, the words sounding inadequate.
Instead of answering, Wade stood up to leave. Our work here was done, and he wanted understanding, not thanks. The dirt beneath our feet changed swiftly into grass as we emerged from the forest patch into the park, walking in solemn silence like people leaving a funeral.
It was over halfway through April, and sweet scents of summer blossoms drifted on the air. Western Washington is a rainy place, often cloudy and wet, but the few clear spring nights Mother Nature doles out are a paradise of green leaves and bursting flowers.
My mind was almost at peace, drifting in several different directions, when I heard the first whimper. Wade stopped, listening. His expression went blank for a moment, and then twisted slightly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Here, over here.” He ducked away and pushed aside a shrub to our right. To my surprise, a small boy practically boiled out from underneath and darted in a beeline for the trees.
“Leisha, help me get him.”
Gliding into instant motion, I flew past Wade, whose long strides were actually quite fast, and I focused on the spot the boy had disappeared into. Once inside the forested area, I was running blind and stopped to listen. Wade’s voice blew past me.
“It’s all right, Raymond. If you come out we’ll get you something warm to eat.”
Raymond?
How had he managed to pick so much out of a fleeing target’s mind? Perhaps children are more open than adults.
“We should leave this place,” I called. “When he gets tired, he’ll go home.”
“No, he can’t go home. Go to your left. He’s right ahead of you.”
Children are an alien species. Hunting them for life force wasn’t my style, and I couldn’t remember ever having spoken to one. But Wade seemed dead set on catching this boy. Small shuffling sounds in the bushes ahead caught my attention, and I sprang forward, the tips of my fingers grasping a small arm. I struggled for a better grip.
He bit me. The little shit sank his teeth into my hand, hard enough to break skin. It didn’t really hurt. Lifting his kicking feet off the ground, I whispered, “You wouldn’t like it if I bit you back.”
Wade bounded up beside me, his nearly white hair glowing like a beacon. “Here,” I said. “You take him.”
My companion’s arms were more adept at holding children than mine. “It’s all right, Raymond. No one’s going to hurt you.”
The boy stilled as Wade kept whispering soft words in his ear. The poor kid was a mess. About five or six years old, with dirty clothes and long, filthy hair. His eyes were wild, and low grunting sounds escaped his mouth. He seemed incapable of speech.
His short legs wrapped around Wade’s waist. Wade put one arm around the child’s back and the other beneath his bottom for support. Somehow the sight of Wade holding him moved me. Edward used to say it takes all kinds of people to make a world.
“What now?” I asked.
“He’s been neglected. We need to get our car from the hotel and drive him to the authorities.”
“Are you crazy? You’re talking about cops, right? Cops?”
“It’s eleven o’clock at night. Social Health and Welfare closed down hours ago. We don’t have a choice.”
“Sure we do. I’m not going near a police station.”
“You have to! Dominick may be able to block his thoughts from me, but I can still feel him coming. This won’t take long. We’re just going to feed him and then find someone else to take over.”
What was he thinking? We could now be linked to three bizarre deaths, and he wanted to walk right into a Seattle precinct to turn in a lost child? No way.

“You aren’t listening to me!” Wade spat at Sergeant Ben Cordova of Precinct Seventeen in west Seattle. “He hasn’t been beaten. He lives with his father and his father’s girlfriend. They leave him alone for days at a time, with no food in the house. No one’s ever changed his bedsheets as far back as he can remember. He hasn’t attended any school. They don’t wash his clothes.”
Sergeant Cordova looked back with the eyes of a dead fish. “Are there any physical marks of abuse?”
“How about malnutrition, you stupid f*ck?”
Oh, great, there it went. I’d been standing in the back of a crowded police office, watching Wade argue with this dispassionate sergeant for nearly twenty minutes. The more intensely bored Cordova appeared, the higher Wade’s voice rose. And now he was swearing.
“There’s no need for that, sir. This falls between social services and the boy’s father.”
“No, you can’t send him back home for a few days. Not for five minutes.”
I moved up behind them. “Leave the boy here. They’ll know what to do.”
“They don’t. That’s the point. The minute we walk out that door, this joker’s going to call his father.” He whirled back to Cordova. “Get your captain out here.”
“He’s not available, sir.”
“Get him out here, now!”
“Is there a problem?” a deep voice asked from behind me. I turned to see an enormous man wearing a suit and tie.
“Yes, there’s a problem,” Wade snapped. “Your sergeant has his head up his ass.”
“I’m Captain Baker. Can I help you?”
“No, you can help this boy. He needs a clean place to sleep.”
“And you are?”
Until that point, my angry friend had avoided discussing himself, even though Cordova had asked for ID three times. “My name is Dr. Wade Sheffield. I’ve been the staff psychologist at Captain Joseph McNickel’s Eighth Precinct in Portland, Oregon, for the past four years. If you like, we can call him at home and wake him up for verification.”
That sounded dangerous to me since Wade had resigned under such odd circumstances, but maybe McNickel would back him up.
Captain Baker crouched down and smiled at Raymond, who pulled deeper into Wade’s chest. “And how much do you know about this little guy?”
“Not much. His name is Raymond Olson. His father’s name is Robert Olson. They live somewhere in Kirkland at an apartment complex called Greenwich Village—at least that’s what the sign out front says. He’s been starved and neglected . . . He can’t even talk.”
“How did you become involved?”
“I found him in the park a few hours ago.”
The captain’s brow wrinkled. “So how did you learn this much information if he can’t speak?”
Wonderful. This kept getting better by the moment. Not only was Wade irrational, but he’d just backed himself into a corner. “Please, just check my story without sending him home. If you have any pity at all.”
The room fell quiet for a moment. Then Baker said, “A friend of mine—well, my wife—works for social services. Let me go call her and have her come down.”
Wade looked into the man’s eyes for a few seconds, and then he relaxed. Turning to me, he nodded and said, “It’s okay. He’s not lying.”
I’d never seen him like this, not quite this worked up. In all other aspects of his own self-image, he was sometimes unsure, often timid. But when it came to trusting his psychic ability, he exuded a confidence that made other people listen. Was he even aware how angry, how aggressive, he sounded?
We waited quietly together on a bench for nearly an hour—Wade still holding Raymond in his lap—until a middle-aged woman who looked overworked, underpaid, and slightly frazzled walked in. I didn’t have to be psychic to figure out she was Baker’s wife.
She spotted us in a hurry and flashed a tired smile. Wade’s tight muscles unclenched. Even with her hair flying all over, this woman had kind eyes and a tough expression. Good combination.
I pulled back to let her speak alone with Wade. He took her phone number, said a few words to Raymond, and then handed him to Mrs. Baker. There was a moment of panic on the boy’s part, but it passed. He was probably so lost by then that up from down didn’t matter.
As we walked back outside to our car, Wade still didn’t look happy. “I feel bad leaving him there.”
“There’s nothing else you can do. He’s got even less chance with us right now than with his own family.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“You can’t save the world. It’s already lost.”
What an unexpected chain of events. How selfish I’d been. The boy, of course, meant nothing. Children have been starving since the inception of time. Raymond was as common as dirt.
But Wade had offered his help, his services, to me so easily it seemed he almost wanted to be caught up in this horror. Not true. Had he wanted to spend half the night fighting with tired cops in a police station? No, but some part of his mental makeup drove him on. He could do something no one else could, and that responsibility pushed him past his own physical limits. That’s why he had worked night and day for the Portland police. That’s why he continued helping me. Was it pride, or some unfulfilled need?
In silence, we drove back to the hotel, parked the car, and went up to our suite. Blue and gray decor greeted us with its sterile cheerful-ness, and Wade switched on the lamp.
“Do you miss your job?” I blurted out.
The question didn’t surprise him. Perhaps he’d been thinking about it himself. “Sometimes. I need to be . . . useful. Pathetic really.”
“No, it isn’t. At least you contribute.”
With William gone, what would my contribution be now?
“Maybe.” He sighed. “I’m tired, but I don’t want to sleep.”
“What should we do?”
He picked up the TV Guide. “Captain Blood is just starting on HBO. Do you like Errol Flynn?”
“Sure, he’s my hero.”
“I thought I was your hero?”
“Fat chance.”
He cracked a grin and looked around for the television remote. Two minutes later we were sacked out on the couch, watching pirates swashbuckle in shades of black and white.