Rock of Salvation: The Chain, #2

Chapter One

Abrisk, invigorating wind followed Elliot from the parking garage, blowing tattered pieces of paper along the sidewalk. The chill penetrated his light jacket, forest green button-down shirt, and jeans. Shortly after moving to Winnipeg, he had settled on Labour Day—just three days past—as the unofficial start of autumn weather in Winnipeg, something he enjoyed most of the time .

Not today.

He left the wind and the concrete at the apartment lobby door, replacing them with warmer, stuffier air and freshly deodorized carpet.

It was just after noon, so he stopped to check for mail. There were three envelopes waiting for him, the third one with the University of Manitoba return address.

His heart jumped; he fought the urge to immediately open the envelope.

No. You already know what it is.

Elliot walked back to the stairwell and jogged up to the third floor. The hallway was quiet, pleasantly pine-scented, and subtly lit by wall lamps.

He dug out his keys as he approached his door, an imposing barrier painted a brown so dark it was almost black. The key slid home easily, and the polished brass lock turned without resistance. He liked at least that about his apartment.

The apartment felt like a furnace. It was always summertime inside.

He breathed in the air, nearly choking on the powerful fall harvest potpourri—cloves, vanilla, and cinnamon so strong they sank into his tongue and throat.

Elliot pushed his glasses back up his nose and sighed, then he stepped into the living room and closed the vertical blinds. A quick spin, and he turned the entertainment system on. As the television hummed to life, the stereo system feebly oozed light jazz. The right corner of his mouth shot up in an irritated grimace.

News, sports—he needed something to take his mind off life, life represented by the envelope clutched in his shaking left hand.

He set the gym bag down.

The envelope taunted him: stiff, cream-colored, coarse to the touch. It exemplified authority and power and prestige.

He flexed, grunting at the soreness in his shoulders and chest brought on by an extra dozen laps around the pool and another set of reps on the bench press. All the hard work and rehab after had paid off in the last year. He was over six feet, close to 200 pounds, thick-chested, with powerful shoulders, arms, and legs. Despite his reserved personality, most people would find him somewhat intimidating.

Not the envelope. Even in his powerful grip, it seemed unimpressed.

Elliot looked away and sought comfort in his home.

The living room was the apartment’s largest room, but it didn’t feel very big just then. It was dominated by a retro, minimalist, carob-colored leather love seat—not chocolate-colored; he knew better than to describe it as that—and the white pine entertainment center across from it. Even the steel-framed glass table that seemed designed specifically to bang shins was lost in the mix. Ecru-colored carpeting, avocado paint: The apartment was hip, upscale. Eight hundred square feet, over $2,000 a month, on the west side of Winnipeg, close to the airport; he would never have chosen it himself.

Then again, he hadn’t really chosen it. He hadn’t chosen much of anything in the apartment. Two tickets to Debney at Pantages stared up at him from the glass tabletop.

What the hell is Debney? It just sounds so terrible.

He tossed the two envelopes that didn’t concern him on top of the Debney at Pantages tickets and tore open the one from the university. It held a single sheet of matching stiff, cream-colored paper, folded in thirds.

His mouth went dry as he unfolded it. Underneath the official letterhead, it read:

Attention to Mr. Elliot Saganash…consideration of request…extended course load request…grade-point average inadequate…unfortunately cannot be approved…

He threw the letter down, furious, sending it, the tickets, and the envelopes flying.

After a second, his eyes tracked across the tickets and the university letter to the entertainment center and the stereo system. The music was annoying him. The stereo system itself—an overpriced Aiwa—annoyed him. And next to the stereo receiver, a chrome frame held the smiling photo of the person who really had him annoyed at the moment.

His phone rang. Jenna’s sugary sweet, mellow ringtone.

He glanced at the phone to be sure it was her. He could feel her eyes staring down from the chrome frame, watching. The same eyes—the same picture as the one in the chrome frame—looked up from the phone’s display.

She was his opposite in every way: hair dishwater blond to his black; skin alabaster to his coppery; eyes crystal blue to his pale hazel; a button nose where his was strong and angular.

Elliot, where are you? Jenna’s voice was quiet and flat; she was seriously angry.

Jenna, hi. Sorry I— Elliot leaned back on the loveseat and stared at the chrome-framed photo. Jenna was model pretty, every bit as reserved as him, but he imagined her face was flushed with anger at his words.

"I’m not in the mood for your thing right now, Elliot. You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago."

Actually, yeah, I texted you this morning—

You know I don’t check texts while I’m at Glendale. That’s tacky.

Tacky meant Lucas and his peers would never do such a thing.

Lucas’s tee time is in ten minutes. Jenna loudly sucked air in through her nose. It was another signal she was angry. Very angry. Where are you?

My apartment.

Jenna released the air back through her nose, producing a strange little whistling sound her phone somehow managed to amplify. If you leave now and take 85, you could be here in fifteen minutes. The traffic is minimal at this point.

Elliot stared into the kitchen, eyes locked onto the harvest gold refrigerator and matching range. They were clean, devoid of any signature except for a small, frilly, magnetized notepad. Inside the refrigerator were bottles of mineral water, organic fruits and vegetables, and a few labeled and dated plastic leftover containers that held the remains of heart-smart, taste-free meals. If he wanted a soda or anything the least bit unhealthy, he had to sneak out and consume it elsewhere, preferably closer to campus.

Elliot, are you going to be here in fifteen minutes?

He pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. I can’t make it today.

And you couldn’t make it to the play last night, or the picnic Monday, or the concert at the park last week. Jenna let loose another nasal whistle. It was like a snake rearing up in warning.

I’m having problems with the university. I really need to get that wrapped up—

"No, Elliot, you are having problems with me. And that is much more important than your problems with the university. I have invested a good deal of time in you, and you are not reciprocating. Do you think I’m one of those dormitory sluts you were chasing when I met you?"

Elliot toyed with the idea of asking her if dormitory sluts gave it up more than…well, ever. This is really serious. I could be denied enrollment in graduate studies if I don’t turn this around.

"So you lose some time. You’re already two semesters ahead of schedule. This is me you’re talking about, not some degree."

Elliot’s phone vibrated. Hang on. I’ve got another call.

Don’t you—

Elliot pulled the phone from his ear mid-threat. The number on the display was unfamiliar, but the area code wasn’t. 573. Rolla.

He accepted the call. Hello?

Elliot?

Tammy? He was pretty sure of the voice, although it was a little deeper than he remembered. Shit. Her birthday. She’s eighteen. Tammy? Is that you?

Yeah.

Can you hold on a second? I was on another call.

Don’t bother—

Elliot started to shake his head, then he realized how pointless that would be. No, no. No bother. Just hold on a second. He switched back to Jenna’s call just in time to hear her disconnect. He sagged and closed his eyes. A second later, he flipped back to Tammy’s call. You there?

Yeah, sure.

I’m sorry. It was—are you…where are you calling from? He walked over and picked up the tickets, envelopes, and letter.

I just got out of juvie. I was half-expecting you’d be here. Tammy let out a short, loud laugh; it had a biting, pained sound to it.

Shit. Tammy, I’m sorry. You had so many things changing around your case; it was hard to keep up. For a long, painful moment, neither of them spoke. Elliot swallowed, a sound that echoed like an ocean wave in the quiet. C’mon, Tammy, give me a break. You brought a lot of this on yourself. Take some responsibility here.

Yeah, I know. Leave it to Tammy to complicate things, right? I mean, wow, can’t she get anything right? Know what I mean? Her voice rose and sped up as she spoke.

Tammy—

Nuh-uh. You don’t get to go all Mr. Calm and Rational on me, El. Not now. Not after you fucking abandoned me. She put enough poison into abandoned that it felt toxic nearly a thousand miles away. I didn’t call to make peace. I just wanted to let you know I’m out, and I’m heading down to Arlington.

Arlington? Why? You can’t bring back the dead. So many dead—our family, your best friend. There’s nothing there but bad memories. Can’t you—

No, don’t start. Tammy’s speech took on the heated, sharp tone it had when she was really mad. I’m buying a car right now, then I’m driving down to the mansion. I’ll have power and water turned on, then I’ll hire someone to help me fix it up.

Are you going to sell it? What a legal nightmare. Sell the mansion, and we lose our trust fund. I hope you’ll reconsider that. It’s not worth anywhere near—

I’m moving back in.

Elliot’s stomach lurched. Harrison Mansion wasn’t a place to live in. It was a place to die. It was a cemetery. I—I don’t know about that. Isn’t it a little…dangerous?

"No, it’s not dangerous. Her voice rose higher in defiance. It’s home. At least it was before everyone took it away from me."

Stupid, stupid. I know better than to tell her what not to do. I’m just worried about you. You were so close. We had everything worked out: rehab instead of juvie, community service, a promise to go to trade school. Can’t we just forget about where you—where things went wrong—and try to get back to that plan? Arlington seems like it might be a step backwards.

Uh-huh. I can feel the concern, El.

Jenna’s ringtone sounded again. A trick of his mind made it sound angry and demanding; he ignored it. "No, I’m serious. I do care. I always did. We spent weeks hammering out that plea bargain. Everyone was so proud of you. Really."

Tammy’s voice softened. I told you I couldn’t do it. Rehab was a prison without being a prison. Fuck that. Put me behind bars.

You never went behind bars. Stop with the martyr act. Elliot’s phone chimed, this time pleasant; there was a voice mail waiting for him. He shivered at the suspicion of what it would sound like, certainly not pleasant. There’d been a few withering Jenna voice mails in the past month. Okay. Fine. But that’s behind you, Tammy. Let’s look ahead. What do you plan to do with your life?

Enjoy it. Maybe visit Grandmother Grace’s grave. You remember? She died while I was in juvie? The defiance and hostility were back in full force.

You were never close to your grandmother, but it’s a big deal now. You’re not interested in thinking this through. Can I blame you? Seriously? You’ve had a rough life. Why not come up to Winnipeg? Just for a couple weeks? We could hang out. I could show you—

Tammy laughed. It wasn’t even a mean laugh, but it hurt nonetheless. Wow. Earth to El. Could you possibly be more out of touch? The laughter continued a little too long.

Elliot winced. He couldn’t really justify being angry with her, but the anger was there, regardless. Fine. So I don’t know what you want to do with your life. So sue me. I’m just trying to help.

You had your chance. The sales guy is coming back now. Gotta go.

The connection closed, and Elliot could do nothing more than stare into space for several seconds. Finally, he brought up the phone app and stored Tammy’s number. It was mechanical on his part, automatic, a sense of process and order rather than a conscious desire to stay in touch with her. At that point, he wasn’t sure how he would feel if he never heard from Tammy again. He brought up the voice mail interface, waded through a few with unrecognized numbers that he refused to play, and saw Jenna’s message; he played it.

All right, Elliot, I think we both knew this was coming. I cannot afford to continue investing time and energy into something with no real likelihood of success. I think we should take a break, maybe reconsider this relationship entirely. I can call you again if I feel there might be value in reassessing things. That doesn’t seem likely at this point in time. Goodbye, Elliot.

The disconnect sounded abrupt and harsh. It left him feeling empty and abandoned. Like the mansion. Like Tammy.

He’d known Jenna less than a year, but her message had a wicked sting to it. He couldn’t even imagine how Tammy—a childhood friend of seven years, his best friend for a good chunk of that—felt. He hadn’t even bothered to tell her he was done with her and all the drama she carried around.

Minutes passed without him even really being aware of it.

Slowly, he shook off the malaise the day had created. He set the tickets and envelopes back on the glass tabletop and folded the letter from the university, then he dialed Jenna’s number. She wouldn’t answer it, not while on the course with Lucas. That would be tacky.

Elliot was fine with that. He waited for her voice mail message.

Jenna, hi. Um, I’m really sorry. Look, that other call was from my old friend Tammy, the one I told you about? She’s out of…She’s free now, and I need to go help her. If she’ll let me. So, anyway, I’m flying down to St. Louis. I’ll be back in a few days, maybe a week, if you care. Maybe we can talk when I get back?

He disconnected and walked to his bedroom. Along with his regular luggage stowed in the closet, there was a travel bag hidden just under the bed that he pulled out; he never traveled without it. While he packed, he searched a travel app for the quickest way to get to St. Louis.

At the apartment door, he stopped and looked at his hands. They were visibly shaking. He’d done everything he could to avoid this moment, but here he was.

There was just no running away from some things.

Tammy tucked her phone into the plain, black leather clasp she’d picked up along with her new wardrobe. She wore jeans and a celebrity-labeled, sleeveless white top that showed off her toned arms. Her hair was still a shaggy mess.

One thing at a time.

Under a cloudless sky, the car lot was a glistening, radiant sea of glass and shining steel that heated the air with the sun’s reflection. The blacktop gave off a pungent, chemical smell and felt soft beneath her black pumps, as if it might simply liquefy and swallow her completely. Hidden in the asphalt smell, she could barely pick out the subtle notes of the last days of summer: dying wildflowers, trees reluctantly shedding their leaves and shutting down, fresh-mowed grass.

Traffic from the nearby highway laid down a constant backdrop of white noise, only occasionally interrupted by the P.A. system.

There were a few salesmen on the lot, including a handsome, young, black man who reminded her of Terrence Howard, but they were all engaged with other customers. They were older customers, who probably gave off a successful, pay-on-time, easy-finance scent that drew in predatory salesmen.

A middle-aged, thin, white man in a wrinkled, poor-fitting, gray sport coat exited the showroom. The coat was a retail chain special, unbuttoned to reveal a slight paunch. The arms were too short, exposing the man’s dull, white shirt sleeves and pink wrists. Perspiration glued a comb-over to a sunburned crown that glistened wetly.

Gee, how lucky is that? Instead of Terrence Howard, I get a run-down Billy Bob Thornton.

Billy Bob searched the lot, looking right through Tammy without even registering her, trying to spot any other potential customer. He slumped in defeat, then slowly ambled in her direction.

I get this on my eighteenth birthday? Are you fucking serious?

The salesman stopped several feet away and gave a broad grin, exposing long, yellow incisors hemmed in by thin, pale lips going white from the forced smile.

I see you’ve got your eyes on the Camaro? You shopping for your father? The salesman tilted his head toward the car she was standing next to.

For me, actually. Tammy sucked her lips in, excited. She didn’t want to waste any time negotiating. She’d found exactly what she’d wanted on the dealership’s website, and she’d emailed about it two days before her release. A Camaro 2SS, bright yellow, decked out. She had a cashier’s check for the sticker price plus tax plus extended warranty, with half a percent knocked off.

Billy Bob laughed as if he were in on the joke. Well, that sure is one heckuva starter, Miss…?

McPhee.

A gentle breeze carried subtle hints of cleaner and Armor All to her. It almost made her mouth water. She could still feel the power of Larry Sargent’s Camaro, the car that had saved her from Glen Stone nearly a year and a half ago. She’d used that Camaro as a weapon. For the last year, she’d played out in her mind what it would have been like if she’d simply used it to run away. From Stone, from the police, from all the nonsense that had derailed her life.

Name’s Stuart. The salesman extended a hand and stepped forward so that he loomed over her.

She reluctantly took his hand, pink against her mocha, and straightened, squinting her cobalt blue eyes, and Stuart’s looming came to an end. She was just a hair over five-eight, and she’d put on a lot of weight in juvie. Not fat, either. Well, not much, and none of it in a bad way. Her arms and legs were shapely and toned. Her face had filled out a little, balancing out full lips that had previously stood out too much. She wasn’t ripped or anything, but there was no way an old butterball like Stuart was going to intimidate her. She squeezed his hand to emphasize that, and she gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look that almost challenged him to fuck with her because she was maybe a little more brown than he liked to deal with. She was sure her dark blue eyes would throw him off like they did damn near everyone, just like her nose, nearly as sharp as her father’s.

Stuart pulled his pasty, sweat-slick hand free of hers.

I’d like to take it out for a test drive, Stuart. If it feels right, I’d like to close the deal quickly.

Stuart smiled nervously. Are you here with a parent, or maybe a—?

No. Tammy fought back her annoyance. She dug in her clutch and pulled out her wallet and searched for her driver’s license. She was so angry that she couldn’t find it at first. Finally, she pulled it out and handed it to him. I’m a legal adult.

Stuart looked the license over. Based on his behavior, he was an expert with forgeries. Finally, he returned it to her. Today’s your birthday?

It is. She tilted her head and gave him a dreamy-eyed look that almost made her throw up. And I want to celebrate, Stuart. With my car.

I can understand that. Of course. Stuart ran a hand over the car. You’re up here from Rolla?

Tammy’s jaw clenched; she tried some of the relaxation techniques she’d learned at the detention center. Stuart probably wasn’t trying to start a confrontation. He was just doing his job. He was treating her just like he would a white girl her age. Bullshit. Arlington, actually. I’m moving back there. Today.

Stuart sucked air between his teeth, producing a sharp whistling sound. All right, Ms. McPhee. I don’t want to waste your time and get your hopes up, though. Someone your age needs a co-signer, or else financing simply isn’t very likely. He closed his eyes and shook his head sympathetically.

I don’t need financing.

This car is forty—

I saw the sticker. I calculated the cost online and worked with the bank to figure out taxes and everything else. I’m ready to pay for it right now, and I’ve already worked out insurance coverage. But I’d like to take it on a test drive first, just to be sure. You think we can do that, Stuart?

Stuart blinked, exasperated. His whole act would have pissed her off more if she hadn’t ended up in juvie because of her fake I.D. Out of everything they’d tried to throw at her, only that had stuck, and the attorney general had seized on it like it was some sort of crime against humanity.

Stuart finally puffed his cheeks out like a terrified blowfish. His pale blue eyes bugged out until Tammy thought he was going to burst.

Stuart? You okay?

He exhaled, and a weary, defeated look settled over his face. It was the most authentic expression he’d exhibited since introducing himself. All right, Ms. McPhee, but I think you’d do better letting me put you in something safer and cheaper. First-time buyers often purchase more than they need.

I really appreciate your concern. She didn’t, and she let that leak through.

Let me go talk to my manager. He turned and hustled back toward the showroom.

Tammy tried to follow as quickly as she could, but no amount of lifting and jogging was ever going to restore the coordination she’d lost when she’d slipped into a coma five years ago. Everything else worked fine, but the whole run or walk really fast without falling all over the place thing was gone.

Stuart stopped at the door to the dealership, surprised to see her following him. He showed the courtesy of opening the door for her, letting her into the air-conditioned comfort of the expansive showroom, but the whole thing felt awkward.

She could sense the frustration and confusion rolling off of him, like the heat from the asphalt. He wasn’t used to dealing with someone like her.

You can take a seat over there. He pointed to a common seating area where a plump, beady-eyed woman watched two fleshy, white, snot-nosed toddlers in identical rainbow jumpsuits waddling from chair to chair, leaving behind clinging puddles of drool. Stuart sounded testy now. Whether it was because of her or the kids being so close to shiny, new display models parked nearby, Tammy couldn’t say.

I’ll stand, thanks.

All right. I—

Tammy pulled the cashier’s check and her insurance agent’s card from her clasp. Maybe you could take this to your manager? I really am ready to close this deal quickly. I’ll want the five-year, bumper-to-bumper maintenance plan, so have him factor that in. You’ll notice I shaved a half-percent off. That’s only fair, isn’t it? Still plenty of markup for all of you.

Stuart’s jaw dropped, revealing the big, yellow teeth again.

Tammy pushed the check into his hand. If you start now, I think it might save both of us some time. If I missed anything, I can write a check to cover. Time really does matter to me, though. It’s my birthday, remember?

Stuart grunted, then he entered the maze of glass-fronted offices.

Tammy growled beneath her breath, but she kept her cool otherwise. Mr. Van Buren, the estate’s attorney, had walked her through the likely scenarios she would face as a young, first-time car buyer, but it hadn’t made it any less annoying. She still wanted to kick Stuart in the balls.

She closed her eyes and imagined opening the Camaro up on the interstate, letting it whip her long hair around, maybe testing its limits in an open, flat stretch.

Her stomach gurgled, and she felt a curious sense of…wrongness, as if someone were watching her. She spun around, half expecting some skinhead buddy of Glen Stone’s to step through the door with a big-ass shotgun.

There was nothing at the door but a mangy mutt. It stared at her for a second, probably hoping for a treat, then it padded away. Tammy shook her head in disbelief. It wasn’t normal for a dog to harsh her mellow, but this one had.

Nope. Just a dog, a regular dog. No way I’m letting some mutt fuck with me. I’m going to make this a special birthday.

She tapped her foot to an imaginary song, but she couldn’t kid herself. Some of the magic had been sucked out of her day. She wondered if the mutt would turn out to be the first or last obstacle to fun.

Chapter Two

I-44 turned into a black blur that disappeared beneath the Camaro’s hood. The warm air produced an almost subsonic bass thump-thump-thump as it whipped through the open windows and tossed her hair around. Her new hairdo was taking a beating, but the car smelled fresh and clean, and the scents brought back pleasant memories .

She wanted those memories to last forever or at least for the day.

Soda fizzed sweet on her tongue, mixing with saliva and pooling in a hollow before she rolled the thick, syrupy mix around and swallowed. It was all a vital part of the memories of what she considered the last day of her childhood.

Everything—the car, the hairdo, the soda, the drive—was part of a celebration that she’d promised herself, one that she was going to see through no matter what.

The stereo system spewed an R&B song Tammy just wasn’t feeling, so she set the radio to scan. On the third station, a deep, distinguished voice caught her attention. She stopped the scan and turned the radio up.

—so there’s simply a greater appreciation for the primitive in such work, and, really, when you consider the scope and the scale of what was accomplished in these various Mesoamerican empires, you come to understand the tragedy of this unacceptable gap in our knowledge.

Tammy was enthralled with the speaker’s accent. Appreciation’s c was a soft s sound instead of a sh, and everything had an almost proper, distinguished British delivery to it.

Still, Tammy was ready to move on. She reached for the scan button. The voice sounded interesting; the subject matter wasn’t.

Professor Akurgal, your books mention primitive magic—shamanism—as the greatest of the losses. Can you expand on that? The interviewer sounded like a young, female college student; there was an "OMG, I can’t believe this is happening to me" excitement that sounded more groupie than stodgy and stuffy.

Tammy hesitated. What the heck kind of name is Akurgal? What kind of accent is that?

Mysticism more than simply magic. Professor Akurgal’s distinguished voice held the slightest hint of condescension.

Yes, you make that distinction. Can you explain?

Certainly. The definition of mysticism has changed over time. In the broadest sense, it is the practices associated with a religion’s priestly class in their efforts to attain communication with or understanding of the godhead. It’s the rituals, the processes maintained by these priests, whether they be bishops or druids or gurus. Shamanism is the mystical process used by shamans—that is, those who would commune with the spirits. Shamanism predates modern religious concepts. It’s the gateway between an animistic view of the world and a more sophisticated and nuanced approach to spirituality.

Processes had a hard e at the end, and spirituality’s first t was a clear t rather than a ch sound. The accent definitely sounded more British than American, but there were other influences. Some of the delivery was almost like her grandfather Jeddo’s: clipped, with a strange emphasis, and the p sounds seemed awkward. She liked to think she was pretty decent with accents after living abroad as a kid and growing up around so many different cultures.

Maybe he’s Arabic?

She pictured Jeddo’s stern and wrinkled face, his thick, hooked nose, and the dark, impatient eyes that could flash from anger to disappointment in no time. But she couldn’t forget the love that was always there in her grandfather. And the wisdom.

Even that wasn’t enough to undo the guy’s obnoxious tone, though. She switched the stereo over to her phone and cranked the volume, closing her eyes for just a second to let the throbbing bass and swirling synthesizers take her. It was the sort of sound system that could effortlessly shatter windows and rupture eardrums, something so much better than what she remembered of Tessa’s Cavalier. Tammy wondered if juvie had colored her memories of the only real friend she’d ever had.

Can I ever see Tessa as she was? I know she wasn’t perfect, but she never caught a break, either. Girls called her a slut, and boys took advantage of her. At least I knew my father, and my mother wasn’t a wasted hippie who didn’t believe in boundaries and expectations. Or at least I don’t remember her being one. And Tessa was jealous—jealous—of Jeddo’s strict discipline. Who gets jealous about discipline?

Tammy sucked in the air and considered the beauty of her surroundings. In the natural world, leaves were starting to turn, the grass was slowly wilting but not yet succumbing, insects worked overtime to complete their cycle. In the human-constructed world, other cars and signposts came into focus, then disappeared.

She was driving safely, keeping her speed close enough to the limit not to trigger any radar guns, but she was having fun.

Something on the passenger seat beside her began flapping noisily. The paperwork from the dealership! She tried to stuff the papers back into their folder, but like Pandora’s box, it refused to close once opened. The whole thing was almost levitating in the wind.

She closed the windows and switched on the air conditioner; the Camaro barely registered the drain.

Tammy revved the engine, giggling at the throbbing power and the roar of awesome. Its eight gas-guzzling cylinders were the bass roar of a tiger. Tessa would’ve said the sound made her wet. It was a hot little beast, an extravagance Tammy owed herself.

And she could reasonably afford it now that she had access to her father’s life insurance policy. Blood money, a payoff for the military stealing him from her when she was so young, and all for a pointless war.

She would rather have him back, though. Family was irreplaceable, and she was really running low. Blood-wise, all she had left was her father’s aunt down in the Ozarks. From her extended family, all that remained was Elliot.

Not like that means anything. Jerk.

It was an hour across Missouri, from St. Louis to Arlington: home.

Whatever home means now. As if I can go back to it.

The songs on her phone were mostly from her time before juvie, all of them stirring memories of cruising with Tessa, gone now almost fifteen months, lost just like Jeddo and the rest of Tammy’s extended family. They had all been killed in the worst stretch of days in her life, butchered by Glenn Stone, a neo-Nazi possessed by the spirit of the Wendigo. Just remembering that sent shivers down Tammy’s spine and made her question her sanity just a little. Until she looked at the scars the Wendigo had left.

And now she was racing back to the scene of the massacre, where the nightmare had begun. To Harrison Mansion, where she’d spent most of her youth.

Why? What’s the point? There’s no one there now. Not even those who survived.

It was the sad truth. Elliot shuttered the mansion a couple weeks after he’d gotten out of the hospital and sent the creepy handyman Luis packing. The old place was probably on the verge of collapse now. Still, she’d been incarcerated during Tessa’s funeral, and there was a real need to say goodbye. Even if the mansion was too broken down to stay in for the night, it was right next to the cemetery. Tammy had to at least check her old home out.

Elliot would have said she was experiencing regrets of her own making, but Elliot was a self-righteous prick.

Tammy thought she’d had everything fairly well sorted out before leaving juvie.

Guess I was wrong.

She was nearly on top of her exit before she noticed. She had to pull hard to veer onto the off-ramp, something the Camaro wasn’t necessarily meant to do. She braked and shot across two lanes of traffic, and she managed to keep all four tires on the road. The thrill of the moment left her trembling with excitement.

She smiled serenely. This was what she’d had in mind. Fun, but no drama. Fleeing state agencies with Tessa had been thrilling and necessary, but they hadn’t been able to outrun the Wendigo.

I’m not screwing up again, but I’m never going to let something like that Wendigo terrorize me again, either. This little yellow beauty is exactly what I need.

Tammy’s time in juvie had introduced her to a bunch of kids who’d grown up in terrible circumstances—druggie parents, criminal families, or just desperate and dirt-poor surroundings. Unlike her, they were all looking at a hard life, even if they did reform their ways. It had been a little sobering to see others suffering like that.

I paid my dues, though. Now it’s just about keeping the authorities off my back.

The experience in juvie had left its mark. Now, as she opened up the engine a little bit and toyed with dangerous speeds, she wondered how long that mark would last. She wondered if running from the memories of Glen Stone and the Wendigo meant running from those who’d helped her come to terms with all the things that had terrorized her since childhood. Each death—her mother’s, her father’s, Jeddo’s, Tessa’s—had weakened her defenses against those terrors, but for the first time she could recall, she seemed to have her life under control.

Except for calling Elliot.

Why did I have to call him? Okay, he decided not to show up. Big deal. He dumped—he abandoned—me a long time ago. Fuck him.

Once she was off the interstate, she brought the Camaro down much closer to the speed limit. She remembered the stories from her high school years about the local cops lying in wait for bright-colored sports cars. She wound her way along the poorly maintained back roads until they eventually led to Harrison Lane, the private, gravel road that connected the mansion to the outside world. The road was nearly hidden from view by overgrown foliage. Once on the private drive, she tested the Camaro’s acceleration and handling; it was an exhilarating experience, even if the road was in bad shape.

Gravel had been washed away by rain, and that had left more ruts than she remembered ever seeing before. It was a jolting ride, especially for the Camaro, a performance-geared sports car meant for the straightaway, not off-roading.

Harrison Lane was never going to be an ideal surface, but she would have to see about getting it back to where it used to be. She’d call Van Buren when she had a chance.

When she turned onto the mansion’s driveway, Tammy frowned, heartbroken.

Grass grew high across the lawn. The stone building towered before her in the afternoon sun, casting long shadows across the ground where she and Elliot had once played. The facade seemed much older now, and several of the mansion’s windows were blocked with warped particleboard.

The Wendigo had shattered those windows.

Tammy pulled up on the east side of the mansion and slipped the car into park. She slid out the driver’s side door, barely noticing the prickly sensation that came at varying intensity when she passed through doorways.

She sucked in a gulp of warm air and looked the lawn over. The Wendigo had chased her and Elliot down the driveway; it had killed cops back near the gate.

Something, a sensation, the slightest sense of supernatural energy, remained.

Or maybe it was just her memory.

Just as she had in juvie, Tammy wondered at the machinations of Jeddo and the other Elders—the Circle, as they liked to think of themselves. Those machinations had put her and Elliot away from the mansion when Glen Stone—the Wendigo—had attacked.

Elliot would have died had he been there, and the Wendigo would have taken her.

To somewhere, to someone. It didn’t live long enough to say to whom or where.

Would it even have been able to, or would it have been bound against that?

With a little help from Elliot, she’d gotten her revenge on the Wendigo. She still intended some payback to whomever it was who’d sent the Wendigo, though.

Elliot had left her after they’d killed the Wendigo. The only person on Earth who could understand what she’d been through, and he’d left her to rot in jail, abandoned her for his new life in Winnipeg.

Well, not quite. He’d spent tens of thousands fighting to keep her out of juvie. She had to give him credit for that. He’d gotten her into rehab.

Then he’d walked out of her life and left her to rot.

She walked around the mansion, noting the way it sagged pathetically, as if ashamed it had failed to protect its occupants. She patted the stones.

You didn’t fail us. You saved our lives.

Fluorescent graffiti caught her eye. Symbols and words covered the particleboard covering the tea room’s broken windows. It was mostly nonsense, probably kids out to prove to each other they weren’t afraid of the creepy place. The rest of the graffiti was a mix of juvenile nonsense and hateful crap.

A black swastika jumped out at her. It brought back sad memories, angry memories, memories of the dead.

Glen Stone had been a neo-Nazi, covered in tattoos: swastikas, Nazi symbology.

She examined the swastika more closely, suddenly realizing part of the symbol stopped abruptly where the particleboard ended and the mansion began. It wasn’t a natural ending, either. There wasn’t the usual pooling of spray paint like the other ends had.

She retraced her steps, closely examining each piece of graffiti, shaking her head in disbelief.

The graffiti was limited to the particleboard; nothing touched the mansion itself.

She returned to the eastern side of the house, and her eyes settled on what had been the garden. Like the pasture where Neda’s horses had run, the garden had gone to seed, and it was now choked with weeds. Two white-tail deer from the surrounding woods stood among the weeds, chewing and staring at her with mild interest. Tammy distractedly waved at them. It was as if she could feel the Elders’ spirits there, in these places they loved, even though their bodies were gone.

The garden’s connection to Daysi, a Peruvian curandera, had been as strong as the horses had been to Neda, a Zoroastrian magi. Like the garden, the horses were long gone. Both had represented life and energy to Tammy. She wanted that life and energy back. She wanted to return to a time where she could believe in safety and shelter.

After what had happened to her, she wasn’t sure she would ever feel safe again.

She circled back to the front of the mansion and climbed the steps to the porch. The front door and frame had been replaced. Luis’s work. Five candles had been set before the new front door, each partially melted onto the porch. They rested at five points connected by a mostly worn-away circle of chalk.

A pentagram.

It may have been kids messing around, or it may have been Wiccan practitioners trying to perform some kind of cleansing ritual. Bits of what looked like sea salt had collected in the wrinkles and cracks of the concrete. That made Wiccans seem more likely.

At least they meant well.

Ragged ends of yellow crime scene tape fluttered from either side of the frame. She tried the doorknob. It was locked. She produced a key, courtesy of Mr. Van Buren. It inserted without trouble; the deadbolt shot open with a solid clack, and the door opened without any resistance.

Stepping through the threshold was its own experience. She felt a mild tingle, unlike anything she’d ever felt entering the mansion before. It was pleasant. Welcoming.

The mansion had always been inscrutable before. Not now.

Welcome home, huh?

Groans, creaks, whispers: The mansion was like an elderly person moving about. Like Jeddo toward the end. Tears came to her eyes when she realized how much she missed her grandfather. She hadn’t appreciated him in life.

Tammy wandered