Phoenix (9 page)

Guess
Mort
was
right
.
Lucky
us
.

That guy signaled his partner, who’d been
badgering Mort, and together they stomped to their car and left.
The ambulance had been gone for some time, and now Brad and his
mentor were standing alone on the sidewalk outside Mort’s. They
stared at the house across the street, specifically the upstairs
window.

"Can you believe that just happened?" Brad
whispered.

Mort grunted.

"That old bastard killed them."

Mort grunted again.

"What do we do now?"

Mort considered this a moment, then shuffled
off without a word. Brad turned and watched him head toward his
front door.

"Mort?" When Mort didn’t answer, Brad hurried
to catch up. "Hey, I’m talking to you." He threw his hand up to
catch the door before it shut in his face. "What the hell’s gotten
into you?" He kicked his shoes off, locked the door, and scrambled
to the kitchen.

Mort was standing inside the pantry, all the
way in the back, moving can after can of carrots to one side. The
shelf was almost too high for him to reach.

"What the–" Brad stood just outside the small
doorway and wondered if his friend had lost his mind. Mort
apparently didn’t find what he was looking for behind the carrots,
because he moved to the next shelf over and started scattering cans
of Chef Boyardee. He was also mumbling to himself.

Brad shook his head. "Okay, that’s enough."
He reached inside to grab Mort’s arm, but before he could, Mort
yanked a small, yellow piece of crumpled paper out from behind the
Beefaroni.

"Here it is," Mort said. He pushed past Brad
and went straight to the phone. Then he turned around, went back to
the pantry, and spent several minutes reorganizing all the canned
food he had moved around. Once everything was lined up with labels
out, he returned to the phone.

Brad gritted his teeth. "You can tell me
what’s going on any day now."

Mort poked in numbers as he glanced back and
forth between it and the paper. "Calling in the cavalry."

* * *

The cavalry showed up exactly three hours and
forty-seven minutes later in an old, beat up Chevy pickup coated
with so much dried mud it was impossible to tell the true color. At
first, Brad thought the two men were both there to help, but after
the passenger slid out of the cab, spoke a few words to the driver,
grabbed a bag from the bed, and headed toward Mort, Brad realized
the cavalry was a hitchhiker and the Chevy man was either very
stupid or very brave.

Who’s
crazy
enough
to
pick
up
hitchers
these
days
?

Brad stared at the taillights with his nose
screwed up until they disappeared around the corner. His confusion
mounted when he turned his attention back to their guest. The man
was shaking hands with Mort, trading words back and forth quietly
enough that Brad couldn’t make them out. It wouldn’t have mattered
if he could. Just the look of the guy had Brad’s head tilted.
Cowboy hat, boots, spurs, jeans older than Brad. A cigarette
dangled from the man’s lips, and Brad swore the guy had to have
stepped right out of a Western.

And a bad one at that.

Brad blinked and brought up the image of his
danger radar, probing the man for trouble. Mort wouldn’t have
called this man if he’d been a threat, and he must hold some sort
of importance for Mort to have had his number stashed away in his
pantry. But Brad didn’t want to take any chances. He didn’t know
this guy. If the events of the past year had taught him anything,
it was second guess everything.

"Brad," Mort called out. He was waving Brad
over.

This distraction shattered the radar and it
disappeared, leaving only Mort and the stranger standing before
him. Brad glanced down the street one more time before heading
over. He stopped off to Mort’s right, slightly behind him, and
shoved his hands in his pockets. The cowboy’s eyes met his and held
them a second too long. Brad couldn’t avert his gaze. He tried. It
was like Clint Eastwood had him in a tractor beam or something.
Brad opened his mouth to ask the cowboy what the hell he thought he
was doing, then quickly found his lips were as immovable as his
eyes.

Almost a full minute later, the stranger
broke contact and flicked his cigarette out into the street. Brad
shook his head and rubbed his eyes, immediately looking to his
mentor for an explanation.

Mort grinned. He didn’t have a name, a
classification, for what his dusty friend from the southwest could
do, but he’d seen it in action a few different times. Enough to
know the cowboy was quite proficient in what he did. Mort supposed,
if he had to give him a title, it would be something like a
tracker. He thumped Brad’s shoulder and said, "Brad, this is Jonah.
Jonah, Brad. Now, c’mon. Let’s get inside."

* * *

Brad stood in the doorway separating the
kitchen from the dining room and peered around the corner, keeping
a sharp eye on Jonah, who was currently poking around in the living
room.

He glanced back at Mort. "He’s moving your
shit in there, you know."

"
What
?" Mort scurried out of the
kitchen.

Brad looked around the corner again.

Mort snatched a small, glass figurine from
Jonah’s hands and put it back in its proper place. Then he fussed
with it, turning it this way and that a fraction of an inch at a
time, until he was satisfied. He nodded to himself, glared at
Jonah, and returned to the kitchen.

"I can’t believe you let this guy in here,"
Brad said.

Mort finished pouring the iced tea and picked
up the tray holding three glasses. "He’s a friend. I trust him." He
brushed past Brad, tray in hand, and headed back into the living
room.

"Wait," Brad hissed, then whispered, "shit,"
before following.

"Jonah, I want to thank you again for getting
here so fast." Mort set the tray on the coffee table and motioned
toward the chair. "Sit down and rest a while."

Jonah nodded and waved his hand. "No need to
thank me. I’d’ve been here sooner, but it’s a real bitch tryin’ to
hitch a ride these days."

That’s
what
I
was
thinking
, Brad thought.

Mort handed Jonah a glass of tea as the man
sat and stretched his legs. He pulled his hat off, hung it on his
knee, and nodded his thanks. Mort then placed a coaster on the
stand next to Jonah’s chair and pointed to it. Jonah chuckled and
bowed his head.

Mort placed two more coasters on the coffee
table, so Brad took his place on the couch and stayed quiet. He
took the glass when Mort offered it, but he was too intent on
studying Jonah to drink.

"To be honest, I didn’t think I’d be able to
reach you. You’re always moving around," Mort said between
sips.

Jonah smirked. "Yeah. Never stay in one place
too long." He looked around the room. "Kinda surprised you’re still
here."

Mort spread his hands. "Where would I
go?"

Brad saw there were smiles on both men’s
faces, but they covered something unspoken between them. Something
that had happened in the past, maybe? A reason behind such a
pointed comment? Clint Eastwood always moving around, never staying
in one place, surprised Mort was still… still what? Still in one
place.

"Hey, kid."

Brad jerked his head up, realizing that he
had been zoned out with his radar, blinking as though he’d
developed one hell of a nervous tic. He wasn’t sure how much time
had passed, but Jonah was now leaning forward and glaring at
him.

Jonah pointed a finger at Brad. "Keep
yourself to yourself. Go pokin’ at me again, and I’ll have to teach
ya some manners."

"He didn’t mean anything by it," Mort said to
Jonah while his eyes were fixed on Brad. "He’s still learning
control."

"Oh, he’ll learn it alright," Jonah said,
then paused a beat before leaning back and resuming his tea
drinking.

Brad started to sputter out an apology, then
thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut. He hadn’t even
realized what he’d been doing. That wasn’t good. Or maybe it was.
Mort was always nagging at him to use his abilities more, to use
them until they came as naturally as breathing.

Mort scooted to the edge of the couch and
cleared his throat. "I asked you to come because we need your help.
Really didn’t have anyone else to call."

Jonah raised an eyebrow. "You know better
folk than me, Mort. More skilled."

"Yeah, well," Mort said, waving one hand.
"None of them can do what you can do. You see what others don’t.
Like a juiced-up Sherlock Holmes. And you know I only called you as
a last resort."

Brad thought that was a pretty shitty thing
to say. His body stiffened and he waited for Jonah to pull a
six-shooter. Or spit in Mort’s eye. Something gritty was about to
happen, he was sure.

Jonah let loose a long laugh.

Brad twitched again, not sure what was
happening. He slid back on the couch, pressing into the corner, his
head turning first one way and then the other as Mort started
laughing as well.

Jonah’s laughs softened and he patted his
shirt pocket. "Last resort, huh?" He pulled a pack of cigarettes
and tapped one out, then pulled a lighter from somewhere and lit up
right there in Mort’s living room.

Oh
,
sweet
Jesus
.
Stay
calm
,
Mort
, Brad thought.

Mort gasped.

Jonah raised an eyebrow. "Take it easy,
Napoleon. I know better than to ash all over your rug."

"But—"

Jonah drew his eyebrows together and released
a slow breath.

"Right." Mort fidgeted. "More important
things." He took the pen from his shirt pocket and started rubbing
it.

"That’s right," Jonah agreed. "More important
things."

Mort cleared his throat. "We’re all in a heap
of shit, Jonah. You, me, the kid," he stabbed the pen in Brad’s
direction, "and everyone else we know. Last resort? Yeah, you could
say that. I waited as long as I could before dragging you into
this. It’s big and it’s serious." Mort shook his head. "We’ve been
doing what we can, but we hit a wall."

"I get it," Jonah said. "You got someone
after ya." He took a long drag. "Stayed in one place too damn
long."

Mort nodded and hung his head.

Jonah snorted. "And now they got ya."

"Let’s just back up here," Brad interrupted.
"You know what the problem is before we’ve even told you, and it’s
because we’re not drifters?" He frowned and waited for either man
to answer. Both simply waited him out. Brad finally fixed his
growing anger on Jonah. "Just who the hell
are
you?"

"Brad," Mort said, one hand reaching for his
young friend’s arm.

"No, no." Brad stood and pulled away. "You’re
his friend, right?" he asked Jonah.

Without moving his head, Jonah looked at Mort
and gave a stiff nod.

Brad poked his own chest. "Well, you’re not
mine
. I don’t
know
you, man. You blow in here from
who knows where, start giving him hell about living here for too
long? What’s that even supposed to mean!" Brad was emphasizing his
words with both hands now as he spoke. "And you sit there and act
like I’m not even here."

Jonah remained perfectly still and slid his
gaze from Mort to Brad.

"Brad," Mort warned again.

"You’re the freaking cavalry? Really? Telling
us we
should’ve
done this or we
should’ve
done tha–"
Brad abruptly cut himself off with a choke. A high-pitched whistle
filled his ears, loud enough to bring on a case of vertigo so
strong he thought he’d been hit by a truck.

"Whoa, hey, easy," Mort was saying, but to
Brad it was muffled. Jonah sat, unmoved, watching him.

Except Jonah didn’t look like Clint Eastwood
anymore.

He looked like a dead man.

Brad’s arms pinwheeled as he tried to get
away from the corpse sitting in front of him. His leg caught the
arm of the couch and he fell against it, and there was Mort trying
to grab any part of his friend’s body he could to keep him upright.
But Brad fought against Mort. He jerked himself backwards and
tripped over his feet. Jonah remained still, only his head moving
to follow the scene playing out before him.

"Brad!" Mort fell to his knees next to him
and grabbed his shoulders. "Brad, look at me." He shook him. "Look
at
me
."

The firmness of Mort’s words got through to
him and Brad looked up. He gasped for air. His limbs shook, muscles
clenched. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead.

"There you go. Just look at me and listen,"
Mort continued in a lowered voice. "You know what this is. Don’t
let it control you. Remember?"

Brad nodded and started taking slow, deep
breaths. In and out. In and out.

"That’s it, boy." He smiled and patted Brad’s
shoulders, talking his young friend through the fear and having to
restrain his own impulse to grab for the pen he’d dropped on the
floor. "Slow breaths. See what’s really there."

Jonah raised a brow and tapped the ashes from
his cigarette into his shirt pocket.

The whistle began to subside, and the room
felt less and less like it was spinning. Brad glanced at Jonah. He
was two things, one superimposed on the other. Part Eastwood, part
zombie. The two images swam back and forth.

"Deep breaths, Brad. C’mon," Mort said.

"Help me up," Brad replied. His voice was
husky.

Mort looked over his shoulder; Jonah seemed
very casual, even nodding for Mort to help the boy up. Mort grunted
and turned his attention back on Brad. They locked arms and the
older man pulled while the younger struggled to get his feet under
him. Mort took an arm and draped it over his shoulder.