Landing (9 page)

Chapter 12

Gabe helps hurry the first five
hours of travel along with new fantastic adventures starring himself. One
involves a scene that I’m pretty sure came directly out of
Indiana Jones and
the Temple of Doom.
Between the stories, we move through his angel hunting
soundtracks.

Gabe’s energy is the deep, clear
blue that only he possesses. He lays one hand casually on top of the wheel and
puts the car on cruise control whenever we break out of traffic knots into the
long desolate stretches between civilization.

We’ve just crossed the state line
into New Mexico, which, unsurprisingly, looks and smells just like Arizona. The
sun is lifting itself slowly up and over the horizon, and I turn my face toward
the window to greet the first blush of morning.

“Welcome to the Land of
Enchantment,” Gabe reads the sign with a dramatic flair. “Are you enchanted yet
Maya?”

“So enchanted.”

Tarren has his eyes closed in the
back, but he’s not asleep.

I open up the glove compartment,
pull out the extra Glock 9 mm semi-automatic and lay it in my lap as I sift
through the CDs and other junk haphazardly stashed in back. A little matchbook
falls into my hands. I notice shaky cursive on the inside flap.

Love Me Tender, Veronica.
Followed
by sloppy, looping numbers.

I read the statement out loud and
Gabe laughs.

“I’d almost forgotten about that.”
He brushes his bangs out of his eyes. “Yeah, we were staking out this club.
Classy place. Had bowls with little matchbooks in ‘em. Veronica’s best friend
was getting married. Bachelorette party. She’d been drinking and gotten herself
all upset about dying an old maid. So, you know, being the gentleman that I am,
I gave her a shoulder to cry on.” Gabe’s grin has this way of getting all the
way up into his eyes. He’s not handsome, but that smile is all charm and
promises. I get how a girl with a few drinks in her could fall for that.

“That all you give her?” I ask

“Unfortunately. Work came between
our love, but I kept that matchbook in case we ever drove through that town
again. Now I can’t even remember where it was. Maybe Richmond? Definitely east
coast. I’ll have to Google the club name.”

“Hmmm.” I drop the matchbook in the
growing pile on my lap and start digging through the CDs.

“I think we’re on volume five,”
Gabe tells me.

“No more of your stupid angel
hunting soundtracks. We’ve listened to them all a thousand times.” I pull out
the
CATS
CD that I’ve recently added to the collection.

Gabe groans dramatically. “Nah-ah,
no lame Broadway crap when we’re on a mission.”

“Says who?”

“Me. New rule of the car. Only
awesome music allowed when saving the world.”

“
CATS
was the longest
running show on Broadway. It’s delighted the hearts of millions,” I object.

“Millions of pretentious douche
bags.” Gabe blocks the CD player with his hand as I move to insert the CD.
“We’re superheroes, and superheroes do not listen to show tunes. Do’ya think
Batman rocks out to
Evita
in the Batmobile on his way to demolish the
Joker?”

“That depends, is he a refined and
sensitive bat?” I slap Gabe’s hand away from the CD player. “Plus, I don’t see
you wearing any little black superhero tights, so we’re listening to
CATS
.”

I push the CD into the player.
After a bit of churning, angry guitar riffs pour out of the speakers. It sounds
like someone is playing the chords with a mallet. A high, screechy voice
battles the noise, and then a second. They scream together like their feet are
being held over a fire. Electric guitars are mightily abused in the background.

Gabe turns to look at me and breaks
out into a proud grin.

“You son of a bitch!” I yell at
him. The grunge hammers my sensitive ear drums.

“Oh god, your face right now. That
was priceless.” Gabe throws his head back and laughs. Emerald green hues glow
across his aura. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for that.”

“Meeemmmmooorrryyyy, all alone in
the moonlightttttt!” I screech over the music.

Tarren leans between us from the
backseat and turns off the CD.

“I can smilllee at the old days. I
was beau—” I am abruptly silenced by Tarren’s scowl.

“No more music,” he says. “Gabe,
let’s switch up at the next exit.”

“Come on, that was good though
right?” Gabe looks at his brother in the rearview mirror.

A smile twitches on Tarren’s lips.

“No it wasn’t,” I snap at him. I
turn back to Gabe. “It was childish and foolish.”

“Then why are you laughing?”

“I’m not.” I cross my arms over my
chest and turn to the window.

“Yes you are,” Gabe says, then
sings to me. “You’re laaauuugggghing, you’re laaaauggghing, Maya’s
laaaugggghhhhing.”

“Fuck,” I say, and then I am
laughing, and Gabe is laughing, and Tarren shakes his head, but he’s smiling
too. We’re all crazy tired.

***

We shave off a corner of New Mexico
and then plunge into Texas. The air is different here — dry in a new way. The
landscape subtly shifts into shades of brown and lots of wide, ruddy expanses
decorated by rusted highway exits that point us to one-light towns. Traffic
ebbs and flows, but mostly ebbs.

Tarren quizzes me on Diana’s rules,
and I dutifully regurgitate the answers: Always drive the speed limit, wear
gloves when breaking and entering, collect all bullet casings after firing,
file inside the gun barrel to change the striation pattern on bullets, switch
license plates after committing a felony, bury all the bodies, yadda, yadda,
yadda.

Next up are the code words, all
taken from Greek mythology. I’ve memorized them all, but Tarren makes me go
through them twice anyway.

After I give him the last correct
answer, we lapse into silence. I wonder if they’ll ever let me drive, but I
don’t ask. Even with no threat in sight save for the possibility of a flat
tire, Tarren’s got both hands on the wheel, eyes glued to the windshield, and
his back straight as a pin. I’m pretty sure the thought of engaging cruise
control has never even crossed his mind. I study the choppy flow of his energy
— muddy blues threaded with pale strands of brown and bronze and pink. Hidden
inside that tapestry are all the mysterious pains and emotions that he holds at
bay.

By the time we make it to Dallas,
our tires have rolled across the entire day. The short-tempered sun abdicated
its throne to the night hours ago, and the temperature has cooled dramatically.

Tarren pulls us off the highway.
“We only have two hours until the show starts,” he says.

Gabe dozes in the backseat, head on
arm, legs bent.

Nonchalantly, I open up the glove
compartment, put the gun into my lap again, and rummage around until my fingers
find the half-empty box of Tic Tacs. I tap a few of the white pellets into my
gloved palm and line up my first shot. Tarren glances at me then turns back to
the road. His mouth twitches.

With this tacit approval, I
commence with my mission. It takes exactly one well-aimed Tic Tac to rouse Gabe
from his nap. I flick two more at his forehead before he can throw a protective
arm in front of his face.

“Ah, what? Maya, goddammit, stop!”
he cries, trying to scramble up but restrained by the seatbelt around his
waist.

I take this opportunity to twist
back around in my seat, tuck my hands innocently in my lap, and stare straight
ahead out the windshield.

“We’re here,” Tarren says.

“Tarren, don’t let her do that
shit!” Gabe complains, sitting up. His hair is flattened on the right side of
his head.

“Oh, morning sunshine.” I turn
around and smile. “You got a little drool.” I tap my chin.

“You suck royally right now. What
was that?” Gabe wipes his mouth and checks the sleeve of his coat to see if I
was lying. I was.

“Tic Tacs, for your breath.”

“I brought those for you, so you’d
stop giving us away during stakeouts,” Gabe taunts back.

“Alright,” Tarren says. “Gabe, find
us a motel.”

“Already got one.” Gabe combs a Tic
Tac out of his hair with his fingers. “Fuck,” he mumbles.

***

The acrobatic show,
The Lamp of
Destiny,
is playing in a shrubby park just south of Dallas. Gabe finds us a
relatively clean motel nearby. The room offers pale gray carpeting and a
polished granite table in the corner. An abstract art piece hangs between the
beds depicting colorful humanoid shapes embracing in front of a green-splashed
background.

Gabe sets up shop at the table, and
Tarren leans over his shoulder. They survey a Google Earth image of the park
where the show is located as well as the surrounding area.

“Don’t know what the actual tent is
going to look like,” Gabe says, “but I already tagged all the entrances and
exits to the park.” They begin another episode of rapid fire planning. In the
background, I put the cage of rats in the corner and set up their food and
water. Then I sit on one of the beds and watch. The boys mutter amongst
themselves, developing a few quick scenarios. I’m starting to understand the
pattern of their thoughts, the playbook they both have perfectly memorized in
their heads.

But this time Gabe throws up a new
maneuver on his mental chalkboard. I see it first in his aura—hard, dark blues.
Then he tilts his head just a little and turns to look at me.

“Tarren, this is going to be a
tricky one. Lots of people. Lights. Costumes. Movement. I think it’s time we deploy
our secret weapon.”

It takes a moment to realize that
he means me.

“Maya can find the angel faster
than either of us. We can sneak into the show, have her scan all the acrobats
and those freaky bendy people, and she can tell us right away if we’ve got
wings or not.”

Tarren shakes his head. “The show
will be crowded. It’ll be too much…”

“Of a strain?” I finish his
sentence, trying to emulate his droll voice. “Don’t you think I should make
that decision?”

“Maya,” Tarren begins, and those
skeptical blue eyes cut right through my facade.

“I can do it.” As I look from
Tarren’s doubt to Gabe’s open, believing-in-me-like-a-gullible-dolt face, I
realize that I have to do this. Not just to show Tarren up, which, of course,
is a big motivator, or even to justify Gabe’s trust, an even bigger motivator,
but to prove to myself that my human half is stronger than the monster. That I
can overcome and shit.

“See, she’s fine,” Gabe says.

I meet Tarren’s critical stare.
“Are you sure?” he asks.

I keep my face relaxed into an
expression that says,
la de dah, I wouldn’t dream of snapping into a demonic
blood rage
. “Of course,” I answer. I believe this, I really do. Mostly.

“Settled.” Gabe closes his laptop
and fishes the room keys out of his pocket. He lays two down on the table and
turns to leave with the other. “I’ll dump my stuff in the other room, and we
can get going.”

“What?” I jump off the bed and
start after him.

“Nope, I call single room.” Gabe
shoulders his stained duffle bag and picks up Sir Hopsalot’s carrying case.
Mischief green hues comb through his aura. “Oh, and thanks again for the Tic
Tacs.”

I open my mouth to cry out, “You
can’t leave me with
him
!” but Tarren is standing right behind me, so I
swallow my words.

“Five minutes Gabe,” Tarren calls.
We stand together awkwardly for a while. I pretend to study the blobby artwork,
but I’ve already decided that I hate it.

Tarren says, “You like to be next
to the window,” and lays his bag on the other bed. He unzips a small side
compartment, palms something—I only catch a hint of black—and puts it in his
jacket pocket. 

I’m getting all jittery and itchy,
and it just kills me that Tarren can be so considerate sometimes. For no reason
at all, I suddenly wonder what would happen if I confessed all my secrets to him.

I could start with the second
injection Grand pumped into me. Then the fact that I can run much faster than
Tarren knows; that I purposefully underperformed in all the strength tests he
put me through. I could tell him how the hunger howls inside my brain even when
Gabe and I are just watching TV, or we’re all riding in the car. I’d admit just
how much of their feelings and emotions I can see in the auras around their
bodies. Like how I always notice that Tarren’s energy spikes in painful reds
when Gabe carefully skims over Tammy’s parts in the family stories he tells. Or
that I hear Tarren start awake every couple of nights, constantly plagued by
his nightmares; that I can feel the rush of his energy—so angry and
anguished—when he studies his scarred body in his cracked bedroom mirror after
he showers every morning.

I look at Tarren, at his strong,
wide shoulders. It would be so easy to lay my secrets—all these heavy black
bricks—on them. Of course he’d probably kill me. That second injection means I’m
even more of an angel than I claim; even greater of a danger. He’d likely
consider it due prudence to put me down.

“Let’s go,” Tarren says with that
granite look on his face. I follow him out of the room. As soon as we get to
the car, I realize, too late, that I should have drained all the rats I have
left.

Chapter 13

We park on a suburban street a few
blocks from where
The Lamp of Destiny
is playing beneath an expansive
tent that has been erected in the middle of the park. The sun is gone, and the
night leeches away the day’s warmth.

I wait for Tarren to ask me one
more time if I can handle this. Little Mousey Maya begs,
Please, Please,
Please,
but no. The boys are in mission mode now. They exude smooth,
focused auras. Our steps are soft on the weedy field, but they sound loud as
drums to me, because, hell, I’m already starting to freak out a little.

The wind blows all shifty, and
there’s this dark, spooky clutch of woods bordering the park. I imagine glowing
eyes peering from the trees and hear a dry little laugh that is actually just
the wind rustling fallen leaves. Also, the banners for the show are just plain
creepy; featuring oddly-dressed performers with black pebble eyes embedded in
brightly painted faces.

Strange, willowy music emanates
from the tent, and the wind carries the heavy musk of hot dogs and popcorn to
my nose.
We begin to mingle with the tail end of the crowd. Voices join
the music coming from the tent, and the night is lit with the wavering glow of
new auras. A young boy skips in front of us, his energy pulsing bright with
excited, happy greens.

I take a step closer to Tarren and
shove my hands into the pockets of my coat.

“Scalper,” Gabe says and ducks into
the crowd. Tarren and I stay to the far edge of the gathering. I feel his eyes
on me but refuse to acknowledge his concern. People stream past us. I take in a
slow, steady breath, but the skin on my palms rolls back, and the feeding bulbs
lift out their curious faces.

“Voila.” Gabe with his blue, blue
aura is suddenly behind me. I bite my tongue and taste blood. He fans out a
fistful of tickets. “Fell off the back of a truck, I swear, though we might
want to head inside pronto.”

We start walking. Closer and closer
to the straggling line at the front of the tent. Sharp light spills from the
entrance, and the whole complex hums with energy.

But I’m fine.
Fine, fine, fine.
Tarren’s broad shoulders. Gabe’s lucky hat. His long, brown duster.

“These are all pairs or singles,”
Gabe says, studying his windfall of tickets. “No threes.”

“Maya is with me,” Tarren decides.
“Gabe, you watch for hands.”

Thankfully, Tarren takes both our
tickets. I keep my hands curled into tight fists in my pockets and press them
hard into each side of my leg. We go through a turnstile, and there are more people
inside.

Lots and lots of people. People
waiting in line for snacks, people wandering among posters and cheap mugs and
other gift shop apparel. People dashing to the bathroom with urgent, ticking
auras. I glance back down again, focusing on my checkered sneakers.

Shoelaces, knots….

The song ratchets up. Its secret
notes plow from neuron to neuron growing louder, more powerful—a vortex sucking
in everything around it.

I’m fine.
Fine, fine, fine.
Divine. Colors shine, shine, shine.

We’re walking again, moving closer
to the crowd. The chatter of English and Spanish mixes and amplifies and pulses
over me in waves. Gabe says something I don’t hear. He looks at me, and I give
him a smile and a tight nod. Then he is gone, a flash of brown duster swallowed
in the throbbing veil of color.

I concentrate on Tarren’s shoulder,
keep pace with his steps, and fix my eyes to his recognizable energy. We walk
through a hallway toward the main arena and emerge into… a terrifying rush of
sensory input.

Bright, flaring lights.

Music climbing into high, blunt
pitches.

The crush of a thousand voices all
stacked on top of each other. And the energy. All the colors meld together into
a great vortex of…of…

Need.

Tarren’s shoulder is moving away,
and I lurch forward, forcing my eyes to his cobalt energy. I’m supposed to be
doing something. Yes, angel sweeps. Searching for anyone without an energy
field. Instead, I stick to breathing.

One breath, two breath, red
fish, blue fish…

An old man brushes my arm, and I
flinch away from him.

Step, step, Jack be nimble, Jack
be quick…

Tarren turns down a row. Knees
jutting out. Popcorn under my shoes. We stop. I sit down, put my hands between
my thighs and press my legs tightly together. Trap them there. Try to push
everything away: noise, smells, the vibrating ocean of color.

Candle stick, candle stick. Miss
Scarlet, in the library…

Bulbs straining against my gloves.
Waves of heat lapping down to my fingertips, up into the crooks of my elbows.

My name. Called far away.

Head so heavy. I turn it degree by
degree toward Tarren. The lights dim. The crowd hushes. Green suffuses the grid
of energy.

Great peal of thunder. How? No, the
speakers in the tent. Not thunder. Cymbals. A burst of smoke from the center of
the stage. The crowd responds, collectively releasing a pulse of energy
that…that….fire…inferno…

No words.

No thoughts.

Monster Maya purrs.