Indigo Springs (20 page)

“I don’t have a new girlfriend, okay? I’m miserably single, unlike you two.”

“Pardon?”

He sneered. “You finally get her on her back, or are you just borrowing her pajamas?”

“What do you care?” Astrid’s stomach leapt again, but this time the room wasn’t spinning.

“Fine. Be her exotic rebound fling. Just don’t be surprised when she finds an excuse to toss you away.”

“Excuse? You cheated on her.”

“And I quote, what do you care? I just want the car and an apology, okay? Then I’m out of here.”

“Apology for what?” Clapping a hand over her mouth, Astrid coughed. Blue ice sprayed her palm, melting into her skin. She put it behind her back.

Ev had bent to pick up the sheet on the living room floor. Now she straightened, folding the fabric. “Excuse me, son. Am I to understand you came all the way across the country to hear Sahara Knax say she’s sorry for something?”

He scowled at Astrid. “Tell her.”

“It’s Mark’s car, Ma. Sahara took it.”

He was looking at her expectantly, tapping the toe of one dirty running shoe. “Tell her the rest.”

“Rest of what?” She fought another cough.

“You help her do it? You bitch.”

“Son, you’re not staying if you can’t be civil.” Ev caught Mark by the shoulder and pushed him into a chair.

He started to rise. “I—”

“Young man.” There was no Everett Burke in Ma’s tone—just the old steel. Mark stayed put.

“Honestly, Mark,” Astrid said. “I don’t know what else you’re talking about.”

“She didn’t gloat?”

She shook her head.

“Little Miss Busyfingers has a vengeful streak. She gets out here and decides she doesn’t like the deal we made over the ‘Ask Suzu’ page. She goes on the Web, spreads rumors—an impostor’s writing the advice column—”

Astrid interrupted. “You did put new columns up.”

“Then she gets cute. She hints around the newsgroups that Suzu is missing. Suddenly Sahara’s fans are calling Boston Homicide, claiming someone’s killed their guru.”

Ev frowned. “Surely the police could determine that Sahara wasn’t dead.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Mark said. “But guess what my neighbors told ’em? ‘Mark had a fight with his girlfriend and nobody’s seen her since.’ ‘Mark’s car’s missing and my dog found her hair in his trash.’”

“Why didn’t you just have her call them?” Ev asked.

“She won’t answer my e-mails,” Mark said.

“She wouldn’t do that,” Astrid said.

“Then why are the cops convinced I’m Jack the Ripper?”

“Sounds like you should have gotten to know your neighbors,” Ev said. “If they’d come to like you—”

“Why didn’t you just call?” Astrid interrupted. The ache in her chest was getting worse.

“Because he’s hooked on melodrama.” Sahara stepped through the back door, a nasty gleam in her eyes that hinted she’d been eavesdropping for a while. “You blew town, huh? Way to convince them you’re innocent, moron.”

Always the big entrance, Astrid thought tiredly as Sahara and Mark began to shout. Rising voices battered her ear drums, and all Astrid could do was wheeze.

Finally Mark began stamping his feet, drumming the floor with his boot heels until everyone shut up. “The cops think I killed you.”

Sahara laughed. “Honey, you’re in no danger. You’re innocent, remember? They can trace my credit history.”

Head sick. Astrid thought uneasily of the vitagua contamination. “Sahara, you didn’t.”

“Mark, as long as you don’t confess or run, they’ll work it out. Oh wait…you ran.”

“I want the car.”

“Too bad. I crashed it.”

“What?”

“It’s slag, Mark. Wrecked it on my way out West. Had to bus here from Chicago. Right, Astrid?”

No.
The word rose to her lips. Then Sahara’s amused mask slipped. Desperation flickered in its place—a plea for solidarity. “Yes,” she said. “She hit a tree. She still had a shiner when she arrived.”

Ma coughed, disappointment stamped on her face. Sometimes, Astrid thought, you couldn’t win.

Mark’s jaw worked furiously. “Wrecked. Sure.”

Sahara spun abruptly, emptying her purse onto the counter. Her fist closed on the mermaid pendant.

“Wait,” Astrid said. “We don’t need to go crazy here.”

But Sahara had already dropped the pendant over her head. “Mark, we’re not going to argue.” Her voice thrummed, and Astrid’s skin buzzed with vibrations. A glass beside the sink shivered and cracked. “Mark, go back to Elaine’s for the night. Hang out, eat dinner at McMurdy’s, do whatever, but keep your mouth shut.”

Mark’s chest jerked, shoulders rolling inward as if he’d been punched just below the throat. “Shut,” he mumbled, pushing his glasses up on his face.

“Talk to anyone you want, just don’t go whining about me,” Sahara clarified. “Come back in the morning and we’ll discuss the car. Okay?”

“’Kay.” He lurched into the hall.

Astrid glanced at her mother, only to find her watching Sahara vacantly.

“Ev?” Sahara asked. The buzz in her tone lessened. “How you doing?”

“Fine,” Ma said distantly.

“Listen, why don’t you go too? Help Mark get home to his sister’s. Then go about your day.”

Ma followed Mark without another word.

“How could you let him in?” Sahara swooned against the counter. She pulled an energy shake from the fridge and struggled to open the can.

“Did you really set the police on him?” Astrid said.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Sahara, you…zapped him. Zapped them both.”

“Mark resigned from my life. Guest appearances are not allowed.”

“But if the police think he killed you—”

“Cheating, fickle piece of…If I had any guts, I’d have set him on fire.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?”

“You framed him for murder!” She fought down a cough, pain sparking through her chest. She was freezing.

“It just worked out that way.”

“That’s…”

“Crazy? I’m not contaminated anymore, remember?”

Residue, Astrid thought, but the anger in her friend’s eyes kept her from saying it.

“Maybe you just think I’m a bitch.”

“Mark won’t back off just because you used the mermaid on him. You have to talk to him every day now, remember?”

“Ah, sweet wizard.” Drawing composure around herself like a shawl, Sahara kissed Astrid’s head. “Our situation has improved since you fell into your enchanted sleep.”

“Meaning?”

There was a thump from the direction of the bathroom.

Sahara groaned. “Idiot. He went the wrong way down the hall.”

Mark and Ma emerged from the hallway before Astrid could intercept them. Ev had Mark by the arm, leading him back toward the kitchen and Sahara.

Astrid rushed to the front door. “This way, Ma,” she wheezed.

She threw the door open…and was startled to catch Jacks’s father out on the porch, his fist raised. He’d been about to knock.

She squeaked in surprise and Chief Lee jerked back a step. He hadn’t been expecting her either, she guessed.

“Hey, Astie.” He glared down at her, face red, as if she’d popped out just to scare him.

Before she could reply, Ev and Mark trooped past. Ev gave the Chief a quick and very sane smile as she guided her young charge down the steps. “We’ll get you to your sister’s,” she said, and Mark grunted.

“Jacks isn’t here, Chief,” Astrid said. It was practically a reflex. The fireman was staring after Ma and Sahara’s ex as they departed.

“That the Clumber boy?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s visiting from out of town.”

He nodded, visibly filing the gossip but suddenly far away.

“Chief? Jacks isn’t here.”

He glowered, then stepped through the doorway. “Late in the day for your pj’s, innit?”

She blushed, realizing how tight and short the orange T-shirt was. Its buttons gapped at the front—she was broader across the shoulders than Sahara. “I’ve been sick.”

“I heard. Where’s your furniture?” He looked past her into the living room, taking in the tacky blue fireplace. Astrid couldn’t help glancing at the ceiling, with its vitagua stain. What would he make of that?

But the stain was gone.

Sahara painted again while I was ill, she thought, remembering the sheet that had been laid out across the rug. It was hanging on the back of a chair now, folded and inconspicuous—Ma’s doing.

She felt a glimmer of gratitude, relief that Sahara had covered up the blue stain, that she was working to keep the secret without Astrid’s having to watch and nag.

“I have furniture everywhere else,” she said. “It’s just this room’s empty. Want the grand tour?”

“No, I won’t wear you out.” He peered down at her. “So, what is it? The flu?”

“Guess so.” Self-conscious, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“When’s Jacks coming back?”

“I wasn’t up when he left.”

Sahara chose that moment to appear, a bathrobe in her arms and—thankfully—no mermaid pendant in sight. “You should go back to bed,” she said. “Chief, Jacks ran into Lorry Hamilton downtown and got conned into taking him home. I don’t figure he’ll be back anytime soon.”

The Chief’s expression soured.

“You can wait in the kitchen if you like. I’ll fix some tea.” She slipped the robe over Astrid’s shoulders. “I think we have some vegan muffins.”

He sighed. “You don’t want me around all afternoon.”

“I doubt the town could do without you that long,” Sahara said sweetly.

“I’ll tell Jacks you came by,” Astrid added.

“Right.” With a curt nod, he jogged down the steps and was gone.

Sahara shut the door loudly, throwing the dead bolt. “I thought for a second he was gonna force his way in.”

“And then you’d have zapped him?”

“Ha,” she said. “Wonder how Jacks would take that?”

“Was it true?”

“What?”

“Where Jacks went.”

“Yep. Lorry had a painting to show our resident artiste. Way Jacks’s luck has been running, I figured it’s probably a lost van Gogh. Plus he was drunk.”

“Jacks?”

“Lorry. Jacks had to see he got home safe. Hey, you’re awake!” She swept Astrid into a hug, setting off painful shivers in her midsection and triggering an inexplicable urge to cry.

Astrid pulled free. “Speaking of brainwashed elders—how come Ma’s so improved?”

“Ta da,” Sahara sang. “I’ve been practicing. You said the more you practice magic, the better you get?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Speaking of which, I drained her. With luck we won’t have to zap her very often now.”

“Wonderful,” Sahara said, but her expression clouded.

“What’s wrong?”

“What if Ev likes knowing what’s in the mail?”

“You ought to be glad,” Astrid said. “The less you need to use Siren on her, the better.”

“I don’t mind.”

She reached for Sahara’s hand, but her friend pulled away. “I know you want to recontaminate yourself.”

“If I did, I’d have jumped in that puddle in the unreal, wouldn’t I?”

Jacks was watching you like a hawk, Astrid thought, but it wasn’t worth arguing.

“Astrid, I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“You know I’m setting up a new advice column online, marketing myself as a psychic. I’ll open an e-store, sell books, Tarot cards, crystals…”

“Did you make a lot from your old site?”

“No. But I was thinking—what if I did some public appearances? At psychic conferences, music festivals, Renaissance faires…”

“What—oh. Appearances with Siren?”

“I’d just use it here and there, on people with cash they’re gonna spend anyway.”

“No,” she said. “It’ll get noticed. We’re supposed to be under everyone’s radar, remember?”

“Please. Even with inflation, Web self-help gurus are still only a dollar a dozen. This could help people, Astrid, and we could use it to cover up our cash flow.”

Sahara on the road with Siren. She tried to stand straighter, and was dismayed by the pain. Her stomach cramped.

“Your dad hid what he was doing by pretending to be a shiftless mooch. You can’t do that.”

“If anyone realizes you’re using chantments to make people buy stuff, they’ll trace the money here.”

“So I’ll move—”

“No!” It came out too loud, and Sahara’s brows quirked in astonishment. Astrid folded her arms over her chest to keep from trembling.

“I’ll move the company address,” Sahara finished.

“Eventually the money comes here,” Astrid said dully.

“We’re not hiding from Homeland Security. An ancient cult of witch-burners, that’s who Albert said to watch for.”

“We can’t,” Astrid said. “Make things right with Mark and get rid of him, okay?”

“Make things right?” Sahara repeated scornfully.

She struggled to find the right words, gentle words. “He’s suspected of murder, Sahara. I know he was unfaithful, but that’s pretty mean.”

“I didn’t expect it to go so far—how could I? You’ve got to admit there’s a funny side.”

Astrid smiled, pretending she agreed it was funny. “Just now, the way you hit him with the mermaid—”

“Astrid, nobody is going to notice us.”

Astrid winced. Maybe they’d be better off if Jacks made good on his threat to blowtorch the mermaid pendant. “Let’s talk about this when Jacks gets home.”

“Why? We’re pretending this is a democracy, but you’re the chantment maker, you own the house, you get the instructions from Dear Dead Dad. I’m your minion. If you’re going to veto me, have the guts to admit it.”

Astrid raised her gaze to the ceiling. Now that she looked again, the paint job wasn’t perfect. A blue shadow was just barely visible through the white. She eyed the fireplace uneasily. Had Albert painted it to hide a vitagua stain? Was that why he’d painted the chimney?

The frozen expanse of the unreal rose in her memory, silent, waiting, and reproachful. The trapped treedwellers…how long were they supposed to wait to be freed?

“Astrid, where are you going?”

She hadn’t realized she was moving. “I need to think.”

“Think here! You’re sick—you’re not even dressed.”

Tightening the bathrobe around her waist, she stepped into her sandals and shuffled out to her truck.

“Astrid, I wasn’t trying to upset you, it’s just…you
can’t
go.”

“Stop me,” she rasped, getting in. The sun-baked cab of her truck was a furnace, and she felt the internal chills subside a little as she started the engine. Sahara’s protests blew away in the wind as she drove off.

She turned onto Ravine Road, then right at Penance Way. Trees rolled by on either side of the road, blurring green in the windows.

Maybe if I just keep turning randomly, I’ll find Albert’s favorite old flea market. Then she was bouncing down the gravel maintenance road that ran behind the cottages at Great Blue Reservoir.

Astrid had been ten back when Albert started working as a gardener for the resort. In the summers he’d take her with him to work. Sometimes she found kids to play with on the beach, children whose parents had rented the cabins. Mostly, though, she roamed the woods around the Reservoir.

Parking at the back, she cinched the bathrobe again and staggered along a trail at the edge of the property, following it down a spruce-covered hill. Grass rubbed her exposed ankles, and she broke through cobwebs with every step. Twice she got so out of breath, she had to stop. The third time she succumbed to a coughing fit so severe that her vision fogged over.

The land had been bought at the turn of the century by an eccentric coal baron with ideas about building a castle on the riverbank. He’d left the place to a daughter with a more practical turn of mind, and in the fifties she had built the cabins, opening the lake to summer tourists. Astrid remembered her, a little—she taught grade school in town for over forty years. When she died, the cabins went to a cousin who hired a manager to handle the business.

Springers had always claimed Mrs. Voltone was a legendary pack rat, that she kept every student gift, every lesson plan, every program from school recitals. Astrid was probably the only one who knew this legend was true. The house the old teacher lived in—and the junk collection—had been untouched since she died.

The abandoned house looked the same as when she’d prowled it as a kid—guarded by garden gnomes with smashed-in faces, swaddled in overgrown hedges, its windows oily. Pushing on a cracked window frame to gain access to the latch, she found the gap was too small for her adult-sized hand. She had to knock out the glass with a rock instead.

Then she was reaching in to unlatch the rusted door, raising dustclouds as she pushed her way inside and stared at the shelves of school trophies and bric-a-brac—ceramic cats, child-crafted clay mushrooms, a coffee can that had been covered in glued-on macaroni and then spray-painted gold, wooden flutes, a lumpy plastic doll, a horseshoe, rubber flies—all of it on garish random display.

“A little sparkle,” Astrid said, retrieving a shard of broken glass from the floor. She inched over to the nearest likely item, a necklace hanging on a crooked shelf. Then she sliced into the back of her hand with the shard.

Red blood and blinding pain. Vitagua pushed toward her arm, eager to bond with the necklace but too slushy to flow freely. It tried anyway, dragging—at least it felt that way—her internal organs with it.