David Coe - Spell Blind

“What’s going on in there, Fearsson?”

“What?” I blinked. “In where?”

She walked over and stopped in front of me. Then she tapped my temple gently with her index finger. “That head of yours. I can see it churning away.”

I was about to tell her that it was nothing important, but that wasn’t true, and I’d had to lie to her too many times already. I didn’t want to now.

“I’m wondering if Antoine is dead because of me, because I survived the attack at Robo’s.”

“Do you think that’s possible?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. My mind’s muddled.” I almost said something about the phasing starting that night, but I stopped myself in time. “I’m working things out,” I told her instead.

She nodded, then took my hand and pulled me toward the door. “Well,” she said. “Maybe you should do that somewhere else.”

“Why?”

“Because if you’re right, then this guy is still after you, and I don’t want to be here when he tracks you down.”

I planted my feet, forcing her to stop. “Aren’t you the one who accused me of being paranoid?”

“Yes. But I was also the one who didn’t believe in magic.”

“And you do now?”

Billie gazed at me a moment. Then she dropped my hand and clapped three times.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Come on, Fearsson. ‘If you believe in magic, clap your hands’?” She shook her head. “Didn’t you ever see Peter Pan ?”

“A really long time ago.”

“You’re hopeless.” She took my hand again and dragged me out the door.

Against my better judgement, I drove her out to Wofford, wondering the whole way if my dad would be in the same state he was in the last time I visited, or maybe even worse. But as we drove up the dirt road to his trailer, I saw him sitting outside with a book in his hands. He spotted the Z-ster, stood, and waved; always a good sign.

“He seems to be in good shape today,” I said.

Billie answered with a vague nod. She was surveying the surroundings. Compared with the Desert National Monument, the area around Wofford was desolate country. A few stunted saguaros grew here and there, and my dad and I often saw hawks and coyotes on the low ridge behind his place. Truth was, I liked it here. It smelled like sage and a person could see for miles in every direction. But I could tell what she was thinking.

“There’s nothing out here,” she said.

“There’s more than you think.”

She gave me a “sure, whatever you say,” look.

I parked by the trailer and we got out. A breeze blew off the hills, and the heat, which had been stifling in the city, didn’t seem so bad up here.

My dad was walking toward us, a big grin on his face. He’d shaved not too long ago, and his clothes were reasonably clean. His t-shirt was even tucked in. “Hello,” he said, a hand raised in greeting.

“Hey, Dad. Sorry I didn’t call first.”

He waved off the apology and took both of Billie’s hands in his. “Who’s this?” he asked. “And what in God’s name is she doing with you?” He’d always been a charmer.

“Billie Castle, I’d like you to meet my father, Leander Fearsson. Dad, Billie Castle.”

“It’s Lee,” he said guiding her to the chair next to his own. “Jay, get us some drinks.” He didn’t even spare me a glance. I had to smile. This was my dad at his best. We’d been lucky.

I brought out three Cokes, and another chair for me.

“A journalist?” my dad said, as I sat down. “Didn’t I warn you about dating people smarter than you?”

I grinned. “Yeah, but that didn’t leave me too many options.”

Billie laughed.

“Justis,” Dad said, his tone stern. “What about rule eleven?”

I shrugged. “Kinda broke that one. But you’ve met her. Can you blame me?”

“What the hell is rule eleven?” Billie demanded, eyeing both of us.

“My father taught me a lot about being a cop. And he had ten basic rules. Things like, always stick by your partner-”

“That’s rule one,” he said.

“-Right. And never lend your firearm to anyone, when in doubt call for backup, things like that. Common sense stuff, really.” I smiled. “Rule eleven is never become emotionally involved with a member of the press.”

“Gets in the way of an investigation,” Dad told her. “And more often than not the investigation gets it the way of the relationship. It’s just a bad idea.” His eyes twinkled. “Most of the time.”

“But you’re not a cop anymore,” Billie said to me.

My dad shook his head. “Rules don’t change that much for PIs.”

“You must have been very proud when your son joined the force.”

“I’m proud of him now, too.”

The blood drained from Billie’s face. “Of course you are,” she said. “I didn’t mean. .”

She looked to me for help, but Dad leaned over and patted her hand.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I know what you meant. I was proud, though Justis and I weren’t as close back then. But in a way I think he’s better off now, working on his own. It wears on you being a cop.” He grinned and gave a nod in my direction. “He got to see Randolph Deegan’s house, you know. That might not have happened if he’d still been on the job.”

Billie nodded and smiled in my direction, but I kept my eyes on my old man.

“What?” he said, staring right back at me. “You told me about Deegan when you were here last time.”

“I didn’t think you heard,” I said, my voice low.

He lifted his binoculars to check out a hawk circling near the road. “I hear everything,” he said, his voice matching mine. “I sometimes take a while to process it, you know?”

“Yeah, Pop. I know.”

“Red-tail,” he said, sounding bored as he lowered the binoculars. “So, Billie, where are you from?”

They started talking, and I sat there and listened. It was more of an interrogation than it was a conversation, but my dad was like that with new people, and Billie seemed to understand. She kept her answers bland-nothing about her father’s drinking or her eagerness to leave home. But they got on fine. At one point I retreated into the trailer to get another round of Cokes, but the questioning was still going on when I came back out. Billie was a good sport.

By late in the afternoon, as Billie and I were getting ready to drive back to the city, my dad’s spirits were as high as I’d seen them in years.

Billie insisted on cleaning my dad’s kitchen before we left. He’d been as insistent about making us sandwiches for lunch-like a proper host, he said-and he’d left quite a mess.

“I like Billie a lot,” he told me, when we were alone outside.

“Thanks. So do I.”

“Don’t mess it up.”

I laughed. “You’re the second person who’s said that to me today. Am I really that bad?”

He regarded me, grim-faced. “You’re no worse than I was,” he said. “But I’m sure you’re not much better, either. You know what I’m saying?”

It had been fifteen years since we’d had a conversation about phasings. But that’s what he was talking about. I wondered what full moons were like for him now, with his mind as fragile as it was.

“Yeah, I do,” I said. “But I’m not sure that I have much choice.”

“I always thought the same thing. Magic seemed so important back then. More important than being. . whole.”

“You think you were wrong to feel that way?” I asked.

He ran a hand over his face. Then pushed both hands through his white hair. “I don’t know. Your mother thought so.” He stared off to the west, so that the late afternoon sun shone on his face, making his tanned skin appear bronzed, the way I remember it from when I was a kid. “I’m just saying you’ve got a good thing here. Take care of it as best you can.”