“It won’t hurt. You’ll simply go to sleep.” The priest reached into his pants pocket and removed a vial. He lifted the stopper and then reached for Gran’s head, propping her up enough to receive his poison. “Open your mouth for me, and it will all be over.”
Move. Move. Move. Stop him. Isleen willed her body to lunge, to grab the poison away before one drop could hit Gran’s tongue. She strained, tried run to him, to hit him, tackle him, jump on him. Something—anything—to keep him from killing Gran. Sweat dripped into her eyes, burning and blurring her vision.
But she didn’t move.
She just stood there without making a sound and watched. Her vision went watery, her tears warm on her cheeks. She’d never forgive herself for letting this happen.
Gran winced as the clear liquid from the vial spilled into her mouth.
“I’m sorry.” The priest’s words were muffled with his own bizarre sorrow. “So sorry.” He reached out and tenderly caressed Gran’s wrinkled cheek. “For all of it. But it had to be done. Just as this has to be done.”
“Thank you.” Gran’s eyes drifted up inside her head. Her lids slid shut, but stalled halfway. As if the scene were playing out like a bizarre slow-motion movie, Isleen watched Gran’s jaw slowly, so slowly, fall open in death.
*
The truck’s headlights blazed across the road, the parallel yellow lines a hypnotic path leading Xander home. About time. The day had gone in the shitter the moment Kent showed up with Camille way back in the morning. After that, there was the hour to get all the paperwork for his new truck completed, then a three-hour drive across the state to visit the trailer and question Simon Smith, then three hours back to question William Goodspeed.
And the only thing he learned was that Isleen had no connection to Simon Smith or William Goodspeed. Which meant she was likely dreaming about the crimes. And researching that kind of shit—dream phenomenon—was the reason Gale and Dad had established the Ohio Institute of Oneirology in the first place.
The carved bear totem at the top of the hill came into view. The thing had stood there for centuries and yet always looked good as new, like someone had just applied fresh coat of lacquer. Xander had passed this carving his entire life and yet somehow had never really seen it until a few days ago when he’d been compelled to drive across Ohio to find Isleen. For the majority of his life, he’d consciously ignored the totem because of his father. The thing represented all that was wrong with his dad—that his father believed in some secret legend more than he loved his son.
He saw the bike—flat black paint, skull on the tank—before he saw Lathan. What was the dude’s obsession with the totem?
Xander whipped the truck over to the shoulder to get some answers.
Lathan was a statue in the headlights, unmoving as the truck bore down on him, almost like he dared Xander to plow right through him. It reminded him of what he must’ve looked like standing in front of his truck, holding Isleen’s body—primed and ready to confront death head-on—when the crazy bitch tried to mow them down.
The truck skid in the loose gravel before coming to a halt. Xander leaped out of the vehicle.
Lathan just stood there, looking at Xander with flat, expressionless eyes. Paired with the tattoo on his cheek, they made him look like an escapee from a maximum-security prison. Not someone you’d have a friendly chat with in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.
“Hey, man.” Xander raised his hand in a half wave. “What’s going on? Why do you keep stopping here?” His voice was loud compared to the murmurings of night sounds.
Lathan’s heart rate tweaked a bit, then settled back to normal. He gave Xander a hard stare. Not an if-looks-could-kill stare, but more of an apologetic look. He didn’t say anything. And the frequency connection didn’t open. Didn’t fucking open.
One of the universal rules of Xander’s ability was that when he asked a question, a person’s brain couldn’t help but answer. He waited. But Lathan gave a big, fat doughnut hole of nothing.
Okay. There was definitely a level of not-normal going on. Not that Xander was the poster boy for normal consultants. Maybe that was the reason he and Lathan were consultants—they weren’t normal.
Without a word, a wave, or a one-finger salute, the guy turned and walked to his bike.
“What’s with the silent treatment?” They weren’t besties and about to paint each other’s toenails, but Xander had thought they were at least at the level of civil communication.
No response.
“Do you know the story behind this carving?” Xander called. Shit. He half hated himself for being curious about it.
The bike roared to life with a growl of pipes that was both obscene and thrilling to any man with balls. Lathan didn’t glance back as he pulled out onto the road and sped off down the hill.
What the fuck was that all about? The guy never said a word. The frequency connection never opened. And Xander was left with even more questions. He’d have to ask Kent to pry into the guy. If for no other reason than Xander wanted—no, needed—to find out why the guy kept visiting the totem.