The Enchanter Heir (7 page)

Why not? Jonah thought. Why aren’t we more of a threat? “If they’re planning a massacre, you can bet we’re not the targets, or at least we shouldn’t be,” Jonah said. “After all—if they wait a while, we’ll die off on our own.”

He strode to the door and yanked it open, then turned to fire a parting shot. “You know what I think? I think you’re scared they’ll come after you. I think you’ve lost your nerve.” And he slammed out of the office.

Chapter Six
Kenzie

Safe Harbor—the skilled care unit at the Anchorage—was homey in a warehouse kind of way, with exposed bricks and beams and battered wooden floors polished to a warm shine. Next to each of the “residences” was a brass nameplate. Permanent. Those who lived at Safe Harbor rarely ever moved to a different building.

“Safe Harbor,” Kenzie liked to say. “Where nobody gets out alive.”

Jonah came in through the back door—the one with the disabled alarm. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, only to find Kenzie’s room empty. Jonah swore softly. He’d hoped to find his brother at home. The tablet display outside his door said,
I’m in the gym. Rescue me.

So it was back down the stairs, toward the skylighted gymnasium. Residents at Safe Harbor generally used the specialized gym located in their own building, since it was too hard to transport them to the main gym.

Jonah heard raised voices, clear down the hall.

“Kenzie, could you
just
give it a try.” The therapist sounded pissed. “We need to loosen up those tight muscles.”

“Let’s not and say we did,” Kenzie said. “I’ll never tell.”

“You know as well as I do that we need to stretch out

those legs. Now. Let me know if you feel any pain, all right?”

When Jonah walked into the gym, he found Kenzie strapped into a chairlike device designed to stretch out his arms and legs. The therapist stood beside Kenzie, coaching him as she manipulated the levers. “Extend, then release. Extend, release. Keep breathing.”

“That’s one I’m good at,” Kenzie gasped. “Breathing.” His red-brown hair was plastered down with sweat, so they must have been working out for a while.

The therapist knelt beside the machine, adjusting the weight setting.

Kenzie spotted Jonah. “Jonah! Thank God you’re here! They’ve got me on the rack again!”

“It looks good on you, Kenzie,” Jonah said, brushing the damp hair off his brother’s forehead. “Let’s tighten up those screws a little, shall we? That will no doubt loosen your tongue.” Kenzie rolled his eyes. It was an old joke between them.

“We’ll be another fifteen minutes,” the therapist said briskly, without looking up. “Shall I call you in when we’re finished?”

Jonah knew most of the therapists, but he didn’t know this one. She seemed unimpressed with Kinlock humor.

“I’ll take over,” Jonah said. “I’m an old hand at torture, and Kenzie’s my favorite victim.”

Now she did look up. “Oh!” she said, and stood so quickly she nearly bumped her head on the equipment. S“I’m Jonah Kinlock. Kenzie’s brother.”

“I—I’m Miranda,” the therapist said, her cheeks pinking up. “They told me about you. I’m . . . um . . . filling in for Julie. And . . . ah . . . I’m sorry if I—”

“I’ve been away,” Jonah said, to put her out of her misery. “Has the treatment plan changed?” He touched the screen next to the machine and Kenzie’s chart came up. He scanned the progress notes. “Same PT and OT. What’s this mean, ‘minimal stimulation therapy’?”

Miranda shifted from one foot to the other. “It’s something they’re discussing . . . a new treatment to dampen drug-resistant seizures and hyperkinesis.”

“Hmm. How does that sound, Kenzie?”

“Horrifying.”

“My thoughts exactly. Do you have plans for him after this session?” Jonah asked. “Or can we go to the spa?”

“The spa?” Miranda said uncertainly. “Well. He has group at seven.”

“He’ll be back in plenty of time,” Jonah said.

“This is the life,” Kenzie said, biting into a Cadbury’s Screme Egg, then squinting at it. “What’s this green stuff in here anyway?”

“Guts,” Jonah said. “They already had their Halloween candy on display at Cadbury World. I guess it’s the next big chocolate holiday.”

“Crunchy spider?” Kenzie said, offering a pouch of candy. “Or would you prefer a deadhead?”

“I’ll stick with the truffles,” Jonah said, popping one into his mouth. “I’m too squeamish for the rest.”

“Squeamish? You, who fight the zombielike walking dead on a daily basis?”

“That’s exactly why I’m squeamish,” Jonah replied. “I don’t like to bring my work home.”

The spa was a little-used oasis on the roof of Safe Harbor, including an all-weather pool, sauna, massage therapy area (by appointment), and the hot tub the Kinlock brothers were presently sharing—Jonah in his boxers and leather gloves, Kenzie wearing nothing but the waterproof earbuds Jonah had brought back from the UK. They’d spent the last hour eating chocolate and reminiscing about Jeanette.

While Kenzie ate, Jonah studied him, looking for signs of deterioration or improvement. His brother was thin—all bones and brilliant eyes and a mop of red-brown hair. He burned so much energy that his caloric intake could never seem to keep up.

Kenzie looked up and caught him staring. “This is the best invention
ever
,” he said, tapping his earbud. “Who is this?”

“Manygoats,” Jonah said. “Navajo punk band. Hot in the UK right now.”

“You know, leather and boxers is a good look for you,” Kenzie said. “Classic, yet just a big dodgy—”

Jonah splashed him.

“Hey!” Kenzie said, snatching his chocolate out of danger. “Respect the candy.” He stretched out his legs, allowing the churning water to support them. His body seemed relaxed, free of the electric, hyperkinetic movements that had plagued him all day long. It had taken the full hour to get to this point. “Let’s build a fort up here, and stay forever. Remember when we used to build forts?”

“We never built forts,” Jonah said, leaning his head back Sand looking up at the stars. Steam rose up all around them, eddying in the wind off the lake.

“We built forts,” Kenzie insisted. “In the jungles of Brazil. You saved me from a tiger.”

“There are no tigers in Brazil, bro.”

“A jaguar, then.”

Jonah rolled his eyes.

“Anaconda? ”

“You just keep thinking, Kenzie,” Jonah said. “I haven’t saved anybody from anything so far.”

“We did our best,” Kenzie said, “if you’re talking about Jeanette.”

“You did
your
best,” Jonah said. “But apparently
my
best is not good enough,” Jonah said. “And it’s not just Jeanette. It’s a whole lot of things.”

“You’re protecting the public,” Kenzie suggested.

“Am I? It feels more like murder to me. Anyway, what do I care about the general public? They have no idea they’re being protected.” Sitting up a little, he sipped from his steaming mug of drinkable chocolate. “More?” He waggled the thermos.

“I’m good,” Kenzie said.

For a while, they said nothing, each lost in his own thoughts.

“I’m going to write a symphony for Jeanette,” Kenzie said finally.

“Good idea.” Jonah nodded. “Will you be wanting lyrics?”

“Maybe. But it seems like we should do something more than write a song.”

Jonah blotted condensation from his face with his fore arm. “I riffed Longbranch and Wylie. They’re the ones who kidnapped her.”

“That’s not enough,” Kenzie said.

“What—you want me to kill more people? Got anybody

in mind?”

Kenzie rolled his eyes. “I do, but that’s me. Her death has to
mean
something. It has to make a difference. I keep thinking . . . what would Jeanette want? And I think what she would want is for us to fix this.” He waved his hand, spraying droplets over the roof.

“Fix what?”

“You know, save the children of Thorn Hill. This cannot stand. We need a plan.” He looked up at Jonah, his eyes bright with tears.

“I know,” Jonah said, squeezing Kenzie’s shoulder. “We need a plan.”

“To Jeanette,” Kenzie said, raising his mug in a toast.

“To Jeanette,” Jonah echoed, clanking mugs with his brother. “She would love the fact that you’re toasting her with Cadbury’s.”

Chapter Seven
Motherless Child

Emma was glad she’d decided to drive herself to Ohio. Twelve hours is a long way to drive, but it’s also a long time to ride in a van with the father that you just found out about a few hours ago. Though maybe it would’ve been a good time to ask questions, since he’d be trapped in there with her.

She was bone-weary and itchy-eyed by the time she reached Cleveland. It didn’t help that she couldn’t sleep.

Cleveland Heights was a mingle of twisty streets lined with older homes on tiny lots, commercial streets with stores, bars, and restaurants, and broad boulevards bordered by mansions in brick and stone. She parked in a garage on Coventry Road and called Tyler from a nearby coffee shop.

She half expected he wouldn’t answer, that he’d have disappeared on her again, but he answered on the first ring. “Boykin.”

“I’m here,” she said simply. “In Grinder’s Coffee on Coventry Road. Can you meet me?”

“Be a few minutes,” he said, and clicked off.

She knew him as soon as he walked in. He reminded her of Sonny Lee—though Tyler was taller, and lighter-skinned, with that smudgy glow that some people have, like there’s a light on inside.

He came straight at her and stood awkwardly next to the table. “Emma? I’m Tyler. I’m going to get some coffee. You want anything?”

Yeah, Emma thought. I want to know where the hell you’ve been all this time. But she shook her head.

Tyler returned to the table with a large coffee, a big slab of cake, and two forks.

“I just had a feeling you wanted some cake,” he said, settling into the chair across from her and handing her one of the forks.

If you knew anything about me, Emma thought, you’d know I don’t like carrot cake.

She studied him across the table. He was handsome, with Cherokee cheekbones, as Sonny Lee called them. Yet he seemed timeworn, too, like he’d lived a hundred years in forty. Emma brushed her fingers over her own face, wondering if one day she’d look the same.

“I’ve seen you before,” she said. “Haven’t I?”

He nodded. “When you were real little, of course,” he said. “And I brought you back from Brazil.”

“You were a lot younger,” Emma said. “I remember dragging this old suitcase around. You carried me on your shoulders sometimes.”

“I think you’ve changed more than me,” he said. “Guess you think people just stay the same when you’re not looking at them.”

“How’d you recognize me?” she asked.

“You favor your mama,” Tyler said. “And Sonny Lee sent pictures, now and then. Though not lately.”

“He said you were dead.”

Tyler chewed his lower lip, as if embarrassed not to be. “Not yet.”

“He knew
exactly
where you were all this time?” Emma’s voice trembled. “And he never told me?” Hurt and betrayal washed over her once again.

“That was the deal between him and me,” Tyler said. “He insisted that there be no contact.”

“Why? Are you some kind of a—a—pedophile, or—”

“No,” Tyler said. “Nothing like that. I made some bad choices, is all. He was pissed, when I handed you off to him.”

Emma recalled Sonny Lee’s letter.
I’ll be straight with you: I wasn’t happy when you first came to me.
“I know it was— must’ve been burdensome, having me to look after,” she said, her voice trembling in spite of herself. “But it—it seemed like we got along good. Later on, I mean.”

Tyler rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “When I said he was pissed, I meant he was pissed at me, not you. None of it was your fault.” He hesitated, then hurried on. “If you knew the whole story, you’d—”

“Why don’t you tell me that story?” Emma said, sitting back in her chair and looking her father in the eye. “I got no plans.”

Tyler gazed at her, a muscle working in his jaw. Thinking thinking thinking. “So the old man never told you nothing, did he?”

“I didn’t even know you existed,” Emma said.

Tyler snorted. “There was no one could carry a grudge like my old man. He was the most stubborn—”

“I know enough about Sonny Lee,” Emma said. “I want to hear about you.” She paused and, when he said nothing, asked, “If you’re Sonny Lee’s son, then what’s with the name Boykin?”

“That’s a stage name. I’m a musician.”

Of course you are, Emma thought. “What’s wrong with Greenwood?”

“I don’t use that name anymore.”

“How did you meet my mother?”

Tyler did that flicker-eyed thing that people do when they’re choosing between a truth, a half-truth, or a lie. “We met at a club in New York. I was in a band, and we had a regular gig there at that time.”

“What do you play?” Emma couldn’t help asking.

“Guitar,” Tyler said. “Bass guitar, mostly, these days. I do some teaching, too. Anyway, your mama started coming to see us, and one thing led to another, and we got married.”

“What was she like?”

“Your mother?” Tyler shook his head. “She was a beautiful woman. Me, I was head over heels in love with her. After I met Gwen, there was nobody else. We had some good times, that’s for sure.” He paused. “I’ll tell you one thing— she was crazy about you.”

That thought warmed her a little. “Do you have any pictures?”

Tyler dug out his wallet, flipping it open to a photo taken in one of those coin-operated photo booths. Gwen stood in front, holding Emma, who was the best dressed of the three of them. Tyler stood behind with his arms draped around both of them, as if to pin them to the earth. Her mother’s head was cocked so she could look down into Emma’s face. SHer hair was as pale as sapwood ash, her eyes a clear gray.

The photo was crinkled and worn, like it had been pulled out and looked at thousands of times.

Emma looked up from the photo and found Tyler gazing at her. “Like I said, you remind me of her. Oh, I know your coloring’s different,” he rushed to add. “But you have that same . . . wildness about you.” He grimaced. “I don’t mean to be creepy, I just don’t know what else to call it.”