Rob Thurman - All Seeing Eye

Thackery checked his watch. “Wait, we’re only an hour before ETE.”

Okay, this one I remembered. Estimated time of ether-disruption. I was pretty proud of myself on that one, proud enough not to notice Fuji’s reaction-or lack of one-to Thackery’s temper tantrum.

“An hour, Dr. Fujiwara. You underestimated travel time by two hours. That is completely inexcusable.”

I heard Fuji’s door open, some low words, almost whispered, then the door shut, but I didn’t make out what he said. Truthfully, I didn’t try. Unless he was telling Thackery to stick his head up his ass, something poor Fuji lacked the balls to think, much less do, I wasn’t interested. I remained uninterested for several more seconds until Thackery’s harsh inhalation exploded out into a shocked snarl. “What do you mean, ten minutes, you spineless, brain-damaged nobody? What the hell is going on here?”

Ten minutes. We only had ten minutes with a machine that had taken twenty minutes to load into the van? Ten minutes and a Fujiwara who was suddenly unafraid of his boss, when before his eyes came close to rolling back in his head with very obvious fear whenever the man entered a room? Very obvious, when at times “very” can mean “too” and “too” can mean “not at all.”

“Shit,” I said, leaning past Meleah, pushing the sliding door open, and jumping out.

I hadn’t seen it coming, not for one second.

But now I knew it all.

Thackery was right. This place wasn’t worth fighting about, much less killing over. It wasn’t a farmhouse. It was a four-room shack. Weathered wood eaten down to almost nothing by termites, it was small, cramped, and leaning drunkenly on its foundation. The windows were cracked and completely covered in red dust. The grass surrounding it was parched brown-hadn’t seen a sprinkler or a hose in its life. Year after year of thirsty lives. Inside, the kitchen had once had linoleum, green and orange, curling at the edges. The living room had had remnant carpet, brown as mud, a recliner patched with duct tape, and an orange couch with torn cushions where a boy had slept at night. A narrow hallway with a wood floor slick from use led to two bedrooms-one for the man and woman and one for the two little girls. Although that could’ve changed as the swing had. The splintered porch swing those girls had sat on, rusty chains creaking loudly with every pump of their legs, was gone. One thing wouldn’t have changed, though. If it had been at night, if the stars had been out…

They would’ve been the same stars I’d watched from this yard as a kid, eating a peanut butter sandwich and dreaming of mansions, fast cars, pretty girls, paying for my sisters to go to college and away from here-fantasies of a life to come.

But it wasn’t night. It was-I yanked desperately at my sleeve-it was one fifteen. Ten minutes, Fujiwara had told Thackery. Ten minutes. He was right. That’s when it had happened-at one twenty-five. That’s when everyone died, including a Jackson who had dreamed childish dreams. Birthed in his place had been a bloodied one who knew that not having dreams meant you couldn’t lose them.

“You son of a bitch!” Fujiwara was at the front of the van, and I ran to take him down hard. I felt the impact of the two of us hitting the ground vibrate through me. I knew he felt it that much more. Red and black flickers of rage ringing my vision, I rammed my fist into his face, feeling the crunch as I shattered his cheekbone. It wasn’t enough. I couldn’t begin to imagine what would be. I hit him, and then again. “What have you done, you bastard? What the hell have you done?”

Hector’s hands on my shoulders, trying to pull me off. His grip was firm, but his voice was shaken. He recognized the house from the files, because this file had interested him most of all. My file. The nightmare of someone you knew versus the nightmare of people from a hundred years ago-which would stick with you more?

“Christ, Jackson, stop. Let me hit him. I can hurt him in ways that will still let him talk. We need him to talk. To tell us why here.”

Hector wanted to hurt him? Fine by me. As long as someone was doing it, I didn’t care who that someone was. But talk? The time for talking had been over the second I’d left the van, from the moment I’d actually seen where we were.

He had managed to remove me from the scientist, whose face I’d left a bloody ruin.

“ Talk? ” I snapped. “There’s nothing to talk about. And why here is easy. This jackass”-I kicked the fallen man hard in the ribs-“has sabotaged me. You think I can do a reading on Charlie here? You think I can do any kind of reading at all?” I rubbed at my eyes with the glove-covered heels of my hand, growled, and kicked the fallen man again. This time, he curled up into a ball with a groan. Good. Great. I hoped I broke every fucking rib he had.

Grabbing on to what calm I could, I added, “If he’s sabotaged me, he’s probably sabotaged your machine, too. I won’t be able to do a reading to lure Charlie here, and even if I could, this goddamn spy has no doubt made sure you couldn’t do anything about it.” He’d taken down their project, and now he was making certain that they didn’t get it back up.

The three soldiers were out of the van, confused but awaiting orders. Thackery, who conveniently liked to give orders, gave them one. They restrained Fujiwara with plastic ties around his wrists and ankles and left him lying in the dirt.

Hector looked at his own watch and came to the obvious conclusion that he didn’t have time to question Fujiwara. “Let’s get the machine out. Now!” he directed, and the soldiers moved with him to the back of the van. The four of them began to lift and move the machine considerably faster and with somewhat less care than they’d loaded it. “I ran the damn diagnostics five times. It was green to go every time. I didn’t find anything wrong.”

“Like… you found… nothing wrong… with the… transplanar.” Fujiwara grinned, a scarlet bubble popping from his split lips. “And who… designed the… diagnostics for the… reintegrator?”

I didn’t need Hector’s grim expression or an Alex Trebek guest shot to let me know that had been Fujiwara’s department.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hector insisted. “He could be lying. He’s lied all along, and we’ve never suspected him. He’s made three attempts on your life, and we didn’t see a glimpse of him once. He’s playing all of this like one big game, and this could be a bluff. It would be in line with everything he’s done so far. Jackson, he can only sabotage you if you let him. Take Meleah’s ring.”

With Charlie’s keys lost in Job’s Quarry, the plan had been for me to use the engagement band he’d given Meleah, the one he’d insisted she keep despite her refusal of him. It had belonged to his mother, and he had known Meleah would end up wearing it one day when Hector and the truth finally came to a meeting of the minds. Charlie had carried that ring with him all the years after his parents had died until he’d given it to Meleah. There was more than enough of him imprinted in the metal for a reading.

If I would do one. But I wouldn’t. Not here. Not in this hour of all hours. I couldn’t open myself at all for fear of what might slip in-memories that had nothing to do with Charlie. I’d already lived that blood-soaked, cordite-burnt day through my own eyes. I wasn’t going to relive it through the eyes of my mother as she drowned in her own blood or through those of that bastard Boyd, whose thick fingers had reached for me as I turned with the shotgun and blew off his face.

And, God, never, never through the eyes of Tess, whose lungs had filled with water when her arms and legs couldn’t keep her afloat any longer. My baby sister, who I knew had thought with her last breath that her big brother would find her. Save her. Her big brother, who never let her down, not one time in five unbelievably short years.