Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) (20 page)
The door’s halfway open. Tired of knocking, Jake pushes inside. Marco’s there, lying on his bed, staring at a book draped across his pillow. At first Jake thinks it’s Ali’s journal, but this book’s too big, too thick. Looks an awful lot like a Bible, actually.
“Hey,” Jake says, not wanting to startle him.
Marco lurches anyway. “Jake? You’re here.” He swings his feet over the side of the bed and stands. “And Elle? You’re both okay?”
“We are. We’re both okay. What about you?”
“I’m . . . yeah, you know. My wrists are great, thank you, by the way. And Kaylee’s been helping, answering questions.” His face colors. “Anyway. Where’s Damien? What happened in Danakil?”
Jake hasn’t figured out how to answer these questions. The truth is, until Brielle wakes up, he won’t really know what
happened, and that embarrasses him. He still can’t believe they left her behind. Can’t believe God willed it.
“I’m still trying to sort it all out, to be honest.”
But Marco’s eyes are relentless—like Kaylee’s—and Jake turns his face away. The room is small, and there’s not much to look at. Wood paneling covers the walls. Overhead, a dirty skylight drops a circle of sunlight into the room, brightening it some. There’s a bed and a doily-covered dresser. A high-back wicker chair sits in the corner. His eyes find Marco’s again. Still staring. Still questioning.
“Actually, Marco, could we . . . I wanted to talk to you about something else.”
“Sure.” Marco turns his back on Jake and closes the Bible. “You, uh, you want to talk about when we were kids, don’t you?”
The sweat on Jake’s back and neck goes cold, his hands clammy. “How long have you known?”
Marco drops onto the bed, looking again at Jake. “Not until last night.”
“What happened last night?”
Marco taps his temple.
“You had another dream,” Jake says.
“It was a lot like the dream I had of the school fire, actually. The one where Liv’s mom died.”
“How so?”
“I’ve had other dreams since the halo. Images that are new. Events I’ve never seen, things that aren’t at all familiar. But this one—I think the memories have always been there. You know, in my head. Just buried or . . . hiding, maybe& only owpD;.”
Jake can’t help but notice that Marco seems far less disturbed
than he did at Bellwether. Like he’s grown accustomed to the dreams. Like he’s found some level of comfort with them.
Marco shrugs. “I don’t know. This is all new to me, man.
When did
you
figure it out?”
“Just a couple hours ago.” Jake stands and pulls a small plastic action figure from his pocket. He passes it to Marco.
Marco smiles. “Professor X,” he says. “Haven’t seen this guy in forever. Have you had it all this time?”
“No,” Jake says. “But it’s hard to explain.”
Marco purses his lips, nods. “Showed up in Canaan’s chest, then.”
“You know about the chest?”
“Kaylee attempted an explanation.”
“That’s a conversation I’d have loved to hear. Even I have trouble explaining it. You’ll have to give her credit for trying.”
“She deserves more credit than I could ever give her.” Marco’s voice is quiet, his eyes on Professor X. “He’s still in really good shape.”
“You gave him to me when I was a kid. Do you remember that?”
“I do now,” Marco says, handing it back.
“What else do you remember?” Jake asks.
Marco takes the Bible in his hand, runs his fingers over the cover. “You want to know about my dream.”
“Yeah,” Jake says. “I do.”
“Better sit then,” Marco says, gesturing to the wicker chair.
Jake takes a seat, the chair bending under his weight. He waits, but Marco’s quiet, his index finger tracing the golden letters engraved on the leather cover.
Holy
Bible.
Jake leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “Look, Marco. If my childhood is involved, your dream couldn’t have been pleasant. I don’t remember a lot, but I remember enough to know that. I need to know what you saw though. It . . . matters.”
It’s another second, but Marco’s face lifts and the actor in him pushes through. “Okay then. I saw your mom.”
“My mom?” It’s not entirely unexpected, but in this moment Jake envies Marco. There are days he can’t quite remember her face.
“Her name was Jessie, right?”
“It was,” Jake says. “I forgot people called her that.”
“You lived across the hall, I think, and in my dream she was banging on the door. Our door. It was early in the morning—like still-dark-outside early. She was panicked, half dressed. Said your father’d been arrested.” Marco stops. “Do you remember that? Your father being arrested?”
“I don’t remember it, no. But it happened. I know it did.”
Marco nods. “Your mom needed someone to watch you for a couple hours. Asked my mom if she could help.”
Jake remembers Marco’s mother, but just barely. He tries to picture her now, but the image is nothing but soft, round shadows.
“Mom babysat every kid in the neighborhood in those days. Told your mom to bring you right over, to take her time, do what she needed to do.” Marco’s words fall away, and they sit in silence for a moment. “And that . . . that’s what she did. She brought you over.”
He hasn’t said everything. Jake can tell. “What else, Marco?”
“It wasn’t a long dream.”
“But there’s more. What else?”
Marco’s hands are still on the gold letters. “Just you. She
brought you over—your mom did—put you on the couch with an old blanket. You were all . . . you were messed up. Blood dried on your face, black eye.”
“My dad,” Jake says. “He drank. Had a temper. Bad combination.”
“I’m sorry, man. It made for a pretty awful dream. I can’t imagine living it. We were broke half the time, but no one ever hit me.”
“It’s okay,” Jake says.
“It’s
not
okay.”
“What I mean is, I don’t remember it. Not much, anyway.” But he remembers the fear. He rubs his damp hands against the rough wicker chair. “Go on. What else?”
“That was it. It was a short dream. Repeated itself a couple times before . . .”
“Before what?”
Marco drops his gaze to the floor. “I’ve been having this other dream. A good dream. Better than the one about you, anyway.” His fingers resume their circuit.
H
O
L
Y.
“That dream cut in, pushed yours out. But you were with us most afternoons after that, weren’t you? For a couple years. Until my mom had to get a real job.”
“It sounds right, what you’re saying, but I don’t remember.” He stands and reaches a hand out for the Bible. Marco hands it over. Jake talks while he flips through the tissue-thin pages. “I do remember the day you gave me Professor X. You said he could find anybody, anywhere. Do you remember that? You said if I ever needed him to, he could find you.”
Marco laughs. “I’ve always been dramatic.”
There’s a ribbon sewn into the Bible. Jake slides it between
two pages and continues flipping. “Do you remember why my dad was arrested?”
Marco exhales, leans back on his elbows. “I don’t. I’m not sure I ever knew.”
“He was arrested for arson,” Jake says, looking up.
“For arson?”
Jake weighs his next sentence. Tries to decide how best to deliver it. But there’s only the honest thing, the right thing. And there’s no use dragging it out any further.
“My dad burned down Benson Elementary.”
Marco shoots off the bed, his eyes on Jake. His hands hang out in front of him, awkward, curled like they’re grasping for something. “Your dad started the fire that killed Liv’s mom?”
“Yeah.” Jake clears his throat. “He did.”
Marco sits, the bed frame protesting. He twists his hands into the comforter. “Where is he now? Did he . . . Was he convicted?”
“He died in custody six weeks after he was arrested. Before the case went to trial.”
“Dead.” Slowly, Marco’s body starts to unclench. His shoulders drop, his hands relax. “I had no idea the arsonist died. It’s weird that I never knew, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Jake says. “We were kids.”
“But I was ten when that happened. And Liv was my friend.”
“All the more reason for your parents to keep the gory details from you. It’s easier to tell a kid it was all an accident. Easier for a kid to believe that.”
“But how do you . . . how did you . . .”
Jake pulls a gum wrapper from his pocket, flattens it.
“I’ve been looking for a tie between the two of us for months.”
That surprises Marco. “Between you and me? Why?”
“I recognized you. When you showed up last fall, I knew we’d met before, but I couldn’t figure it out. I hadn’t made any progress, not really, until the day you left Stratus with Liv. I went in the Prince’s halo2 for ato the city that day, talked to a guy. A tattoo artist. He knew my father.”
Jake’s eyes trail to the carpet. Brian Hughes was his father’s name. Before Professor X showed up in the chest that morning, Jake had been on the computer reading through every news article he could find on the fire at Benson Elementary.
“You okay, man?”
“Yeah, I just . . . Anyway, this tattoo artist told me my father set the fire. Once I’d made the connection, it was easy. Terrible, but easy. Professor X brought back my memories of you, and the Internet gave me everything else.”
Jake slides the flattened gum wrapper into the Bible, marking a second passage.
“Have you told Liv?”
“I haven’t even told Brielle. There’s just . . . there’s so much more.”
Marco drags his hands through his hair. “Do I want to know?”
“
Want
has so little to do with any of this,” Jake says, closing the Bible. “It was Brielle’s mom you saw disappearing into the fire that day.”
“What?”
“The woman you saw through the window. The woman you thought was Brielle. It wasn’t. She was three years old at the time. It was her mom, Hannah. She dragged Liv out of the building that day. Saved her life.”
“Wha—I don’t . . .” Marco’s face freezes, a computer given
too many commands. “There was only one body found in that building—I know that much—and it was Liv’s mom.”
Jake hands the Bible back to him. “What happened to Elle’s mom is a bit of a mystery after that.”
Marco’s eyes go wide. “An angel mystery?”
“Most likely. Brielle’s been trying to figure it out for a few weeks now.”
“How?”
“You’re not the only one having dreams, Marco.”
Jake leans against the door frame. He can hear Kaylee from here. She’s singing somewhere down the hall. It reminds him that he needs to see her one more time before he goes.
“What’s this?” Marco asks, his fingers falling on the first bookmark.
“It’s a story. Thought you’d like it. It’s about a guy named Jacob.”
“Jake, huh?” Marco says. “Cool name.”
“Yeah, well, this guy didn’t keep it long.”
“No? Why?”
“It’s all there.” Jake nods at the book. “The second story—yeah, the one with the gum wrapper—that’s an entire book dedicated to a man named Daniel.”
“Another story I’ll like? Why?”
“Because they were dreamers,” Jake says. “Like you.&r it took to g
W
hen I wake, the venetian blinds that cover my windows are yellow with afternoon light. Sand and salt scratch the soft skin between my toes and scrape at my back. I desperately need a shower, but I flip onto my side, facing the
Les Misérables
poster over my desk. I stare into the eyes of Cosette, trying to understand why I feel so awake, so light. My arms and legs are exhausted, but I feel rested.
And then I realize: no nightmare.
Neither my burning mother nor the child Olivia visited me while I slept. For the first time in forever, I’m more concerned about myself and my own choices than about others and theirs. I find a sense of freedom in that.
Sulfur clings to my clothes, and a ratted lock of hair is pasted to my face in some sort of crusty concoction. I lift a hand to free my cheek of it and then reach beneath my pillow. Both halos are there. One still warm. The other cool.
I pull them both out and sit up. They’ve reformed into cuffs, and I place one on each knee. Within seconds my right leg is warmed through. And my left? Well, it’s not cold. Not really. Not
uncomfortable at least. And yet . . . images dance in the mirrored surface of the dark halo. My father’s truck slipping, sliding down the grassy incline, the Prince’s eyes sparkling as he offers help, my own hand trembling as I accept his crown.
No. Not accepted. I didn’t choose his crown. I ended up with it.
He disappeared, and I ended up with it.
I scratch the hair from my face and sit up. I’m rested and completely unprepared to confront the big questions Danakil left me with. So I won’t. Not yet. I grab both halos and set them side by side on top of Mom’s Bible on my bedside table. Briefly I envision Mom’s Bible singeing a hole through the dark halo, like the Ark of the Covenant burning through that Nazi crate in
Raiders
of
the
Lost
Ark
. But nothing so dramatic happens.
