Thin Air (18 page)

I felt a buzzing in my head and a buildup of power along my spine.
You can fry him like an egg
, I thought.
Erase any trace of this asshole. It'd be a public service
. Except that I wasn't a murderer, and I didn't aspire to become one, either. I controlled my anger and directed it in less mutilating ways. “So tell me, was Sarah already an addict when you brought her to this little paradise, or did you start her on that once you got her here, just to keep her occupied?” I asked. “And don't give me any you-didn't-know bullshit.
I
know, and—”
And I just met her.
I didn't want to say that, though. One thing about Eamon: He was inspiring me to keep my cards close to my vest. “And I don't live with her.”

I thought I saw a deep flash of something in his eyes, quickly hidden. Anger? Appreciation? No idea. He was pretty hard to read, all around. His physical cues—a relaxed posture, friendly smile, graceful and gentle gestures—were all completely at odds with what I sensed was going on inside of him. Tightly controlled, this guy. And dangerous. I was sure of that part.

“Hardly my master plan. Sarah was bored,” he said. “I didn't encourage her, but no, I didn't stop her, either. It keeps her…relatively content. And I'm sure you know that Sarah can be demanding. She's always going on about how much she misses her old life, with all her country club friends and shopping sprees. And while I'd love to give her that life…well. It's not possible, given what I do.”

“And what is it you do?” I asked.

“Oh, love,” he said. “You know exactly what I do. I'm a criminal. I'm a very bad man, and if you don't remember that, well, there's something very wrong with you, isn't there? And that can only work to my advantage.”

The trailer was starting to close in on me. I was thinking wistfully of open forest, cold, sharp air, the company of David and Lewis. Good times, even if I'd thought I'd been suffering.
This
was suffering, right here. What my sister was going through with this asshole was real suffering, and he had every intention of spreading the joy to me, too.

“What do you want?” It came out harsher than I intended. My hands were curled into fists, and I forced my aching fingers to straighten out.

Eamon smiled at me, the same blindingly charming smile he'd used on Sarah. Luckily I was wearing my cynical sunglasses. “You don't remember, do you? None of it. Not Quinn. Not what happened in Florida. No wonder you're so careful when you say something to me. Couple of critical mistakes along the way, though: First, Thomas Quinn and Orry are one and the same, and you of all people should have remembered that, if you remembered anything. It was a bit important to you, that piece of information.”

“What do you
want
?”

“Almost nothing, really. I just want you to change the weather,” he said. “See? Couldn't be easier. Do that, and I'll forget the money you owe me, the favors you failed to perform,
and
I'll put your sister into rehab and part ways with her for good. I'll leave you and yours strictly alone in the future. In short, I'll give you everything you want, Joanne.”

“In exchange for changing the weather.”

“Exactly.”

“Where?”

“Ah.” His teeth flashed, white and slightly crooked, just enough to give him character. I could see how Sarah got sucked into this guy's orbit; she didn't strike me as especially strong, and Eamon just radiated competence.
Bad
competence, sure, but…“I'll show you, but not until we have an agreement. Do we?”

“No. We don't.”

“Damn. I was hoping I wouldn't have to raise the stakes, but you really leave me very little choice.” The warmth drained out of his smile. “Things can happen to your sister. Terrible things. I'm not saying that I would personally do them, but such things can be outsourced these days, and it's such a cold, cruel world for a sensitive woman with a drug problem, yeah?”

I was almost speechless with fury. “You—”

“Ah!” He held up a long finger and waggled it gently from side to side. “Let's not insult each other. We both understand that Sarah's a dependent personality; if I want her to stay with me, she'll stay, no matter how I treat her. No matter how much I hurt her. If you want to ensure your sister's future safety and happiness, you're going to have to pay me off. And that means this one simple favor.”

“Fine,” I snapped. He raised his eyebrows. “What, you want me to sign it in blood? You've made your fucking point!”

Eamon sniffed the air. “Is that brimstone I smell? Love, I'm not the devil. I don't require signatures, and I wouldn't want your grimy, well-used soul, either. Don't play the innocent with me; I've seen you without your airs and social graces.” His eyes focused in on me like laser guidance systems for a bomb. “And by the way, I know what Orry did to you that day in the desert. I don't blame you for killing him. It did put me to a spot of inconvenience, but no one can debate that he deserved what happened to him out there.”

That spoke volumes about things I didn't remember, and was glad I couldn't. I shuddered, but I did it inside, where he couldn't see. “Let's leave the past out of it,” I said. “So I do this thing for you, and you're out of my life? Out of my sister's life?”

“Once and for all,” he said. “Truthfully, I'm a bit sorry I ever came back into it. She's…difficult. But I did—and do—care about her. Please believe that. It's not all about leverage. If it had been, I'd have kicked her to the curb weeks ago, when she ceased to be amusing.”

Strangely, I did believe that. Or wanted to, anyway. “I wish you had,” I said. “She'd be better off.”

He gave me a pitying look. “When I take the trash to the curb, I put it out in plastic bags,” he said. “Think, love. I never claimed I was a good catch. But in my own way, I have tried to do my best for her.”

“Just not enough to keep her off of drugs,” I said.

He shrugged. “The only person who can keep Sarah clean is Sarah. You know that.”

Eamon's philosophy of personal responsibility was convenient, to say the least. I got up and paced the trailer's worn carpet. The floor creaked. Eamon watched me without appearing worried about anything I might do; I stopped near a lopsided scattering of framed photographs and stared.

There I was, with my arm around Sarah. Happier times, clearly; I had a smug grin, and she looked rosy and glowing with happiness. Younger, both of us. There was another photo next to it of an older woman sitting on a beach, looking out to sea. There was a contemplative air to the picture, and a kind of sadness. I reached out and touched the face with a fingertip.

“I haven't seen this in years,” I said. I was taking a guess that Eamon wouldn't bother with family photos—if he had, and I was pointing at a picture of his dear old mum from Manchester or wherever, I was probably screwed. He already knew my memory was faulty; I just didn't want him to know the extent of it. He'd probably assume it was confined to a specific period—hell, I'd have assumed that, in his place. The alternative would have seemed ridiculously unlikely.

Whatever he thought, he just said, “Sarah loves that photograph. She said it was your mother's favorite, as well. You took it, didn't you?”

I decided the safest course was not to answer. I picked up the picture and stared at it, trying to read its secrets.
My mother.
What had she been like? Had she been protective? Proud? Absent? Abusive? So many questions, and I knew I wouldn't get the answers here. Not out of Eamon, anyway.

“Not that I'm unsympathetic to your current stroll down Memory Lane, love, but there's a deal on the table,” Eamon said. “And you know how much I like to close deals.”

Some dark, velvet tone of amusement in that made me put the picture down and turn to look at him. I hadn't, right? Oh,
tell
me I hadn't slept with my sister's skanky, possibly homicidal boyfriend.

Man, I was changing my ways if that was the case. Possibly joining a nunnery.

“You show me where you want the weather changed,” I said, “and I'll make it happen.”

He smiled slowly. “I know you will. Because you're not stupid enough to double-cross me twice.”

 

I wasn't too surprised to find that while Eamon and I had been trading threats and barely concealed attacks, Sarah had taken the opportunity of self-medicating herself into oblivion. Not surprised, but sad. I found out what her poison of choice was, because it was in plain sight on the nightstand…an orange-brown prescription bottle of OxyContin. At least, I thought, it wasn't meth. But Sarah would have found meth too low class, no doubt. To me, high was high; it didn't really matter whether you blissed out from prescription drugs or something a toothless wonder cooked up in a pot on his stove. The problem was the same.

I got her out of bed. She opened her eyes, and the pupils were hugely dilated. She yawned as I tossed clothes at her. There were bruises on her arms and legs, and I felt a newly sick sensation bubbling deep in my stomach. Those were not exactly the signs of a loving relationship, but then, what had I really expected? Consideration?
Dependent personality
, he said, and although I hated him for it, Eamon was right. Sarah had hooked up with a guy who'd treat her like crap, because deep down that was what she expected to get. And maybe he was what she needed to continue eroding her own nonexistent self-worth.

How could two sisters be so damn different?

“Where are we going?” she mumbled. I helped her put on a floral shirt with ruffles down the front; it would have looked like crap on me, but on her it looked fresh and pretty. It offset the haggard lines in her face, anyway. She needed sleep, and not the kind induced by chemicals. And an environment where she could find out just how powerful she could be, if given the chance.

“We're going on a little trip,” I said. “Sarah, look at me.
Look at me.
You recognize me, right?”

Her wandering eyes focused on me. I was eerily reminded of Cherise's time-delayed attention, but this was different; Sarah had at least chosen this. “Of course I know who you are,” Sarah said, and put a hand to my cheek. Her skin felt cool and clammy. “You're my sister. You're all I've got. Sometimes I hate you, though. But mostly I love you.”

I felt that artlessly cruel statement lodge between my ribs, sharp and cold, and felt tears sting my eyes. I loved her. I had no reason to, but I loved her anyway.

And now I'd made myself responsible for her, and right now I wasn't sure that was such a great idea…. I hardly could take care of myself. But I couldn't exactly leave her with Eamon.

“That's right,” I said, and managed a smile. I put my hand over hers, holding it to my cheek. “I love you, too. You and me against the world, Sarah. But I'm going to need your help now.” I reached for the prescription bottle and checked the label. Unless her name was Mabel Thornton, they weren't her pills. I rattled them in front of her until she focused on them. “You're going to have to stop taking these.”

She blinked, and then she grabbed for them. I easily pulled them out of reach. “Those are mine!” she said, and set that sharp chin of hers in a hard, stubborn line. “Jo, give them back! I only take them when I need them! I take them for pain!”

Her life was full of that right now, starting with being in a relationship with the asshole in the other room, and ending with the fact she was living in a trailer in Ares, Nevada, with nothing to look forward to but more abuse. But it could all be fixed. It
would
all be fixed.

“I'll hang onto them for you,” I said, and slipped them into the pocket of my jeans with a mental promise to ditch them in the first trash can I passed. “Up and at 'em, kid.”

She giggled drunkenly. “I'm not the kid! You're the kid!”

Not at the moment, I wasn't.

Getting Sarah dressed was an effort. While she figured out the complexities of pants, I ransacked her closet, shoved what passed for her wardrobe into a bag—Louis Vuitton, evidently a souvenir of better days—and added the few personal touches she had around the trailer. Especially the photographs. I lingered over the one of our mother, and I ached to ask…but I didn't dare. So far, I thought I'd danced around the subject of memory pretty well with her, but one false move and everything could fall apart.

It was depressingly easy to remove all traces of Sarah from what was supposed to be her home. I supposed it was possible to look on it as freewheeling independence, but it just seemed really creepy as hell. A reminder of just how easily a life could be erased from the world.

Eamon didn't help, literally or figuratively. When I ushered Sarah back out into the living room and got her sitting on the couch, weaving and blinking, Eamon was finishing off a fresh glass of whiskey. “Ah,” he said with that slow, all-knowing smile. “I see you're ready.”

“Yes,” I said, and thumped the suitcase down next to the door. “Where are we going?”

“California,” he said. “Land of fruits and nuts, they say. You ought to be right at home.”

I thought, somehow, that Sarah would have looked pleased—after all, pretty much anywhere in California had to be an improvement over the current situation, and she'd talked about living in the same zip code with Mel Gibson. But instead she looked mortified. Scared, even. “No,” she said. “No, I don't want to go to California. Jo, why can't we go back to Florida? I liked Florida. It was nice, and—”

Eamon interrupted as if she hadn't even opened her mouth. “I suppose you could do this from anywhere, but I'd like to actually be there to see it, if you don't mind. Not that I don't trust you, but…well, I don't trust you.”