Echoes From the Moon (The Token Book One), page 11
He was near the mirror, staring at himself, but didn’t remember walking there. The Moon’s surface appeared in the reflection. Darkness surrounded the horizon, making it seem like he might fall off and float into oblivion. The only real option was the hole, waiting for Waylen to climb in.
Waylen spun to gaze at the rocky landscape, but there was a tub and shower, the curtains drawn. He opened them, half expecting the misty blackness to be behind the covering, but it was a chipped porcelain tub.
“You need to sleep.” He’d shot someone, and narrowly avoided being killed himself. This was trauma, nothing more. The metal bookmark had probably just played off that. His otherworldly vision was based on the near-death experience.
John Doe could wait.
Waylen showered, lingering in the hot water for thirty minutes. Time didn’t feel relevant any longer.
He laid out his change of clothing on the second bed, and almost didn’t recognize the articles. Were they his?
Waylen lifted the blankets and slipped underneath, pulling them over his head for comfort. The pillow was too soft, the bed lumpy, but he drifted into a sleep he desperately needed.
The first thing he saw in the dream was a triangle of light.
3
“How are we out of coffee?” Rory’s mother asked. “Seriously, what do we have Rosalita for if she’s always letting us run out of staples?”
“Calm down, Kathy,” Oscar said. “She’s off this weekend. Remember her kids have that band thing?”
“Right,” Kathy said. “Sorry, Rory. I know you had a late night.”
Sunday was the perfect day for living in Woodstock, except for the fact that nothing really opened until ten. “I’ll go to the store.”
“It’s closed until…”
“Yeah, ten. I’ll hit the market.”
“Pumpkin, would you like to take the car?”
“Nah, I’ll walk.” Rory had a lot of pent-up energy after last night’s conversation with Kevin, and the scare from the journalist. She often wondered why her parents didn’t have a dog. She’d grown up with one, a fat Labrador that gained weight no matter how many miles he walked, or how little they fed him. Rory remembered crying when he’d died. She’d been nine, just a year younger than Bach. Her father was in a morose piano mood when they’d adopted the puppy, and weeks later, they’d discovered they were pregnant with Rory. She figured neither of them had gotten over the loss, so they never tried to replace him.
Rory decided to avoid writing for the morning, given the lack of valuable rest, and hoped to return to the desk in the afternoon before dinner. Sunday dinners were a constant at the Swanson home. Rory realized that nearly every trivial occasion was a ‘thing’ at home, but that was the comforting part of being there. Routines were important to her mother and father, and she’d been without them for so many years. Kevin didn’t believe in routine. He said it made people sloppy and uninspired.
Well, Kevin could go straight to hell, handbasket included or not. She didn’t care.
Rory slipped into her white tennis shoes and peered through the window, seeing another picturesque summer day. No need for an umbrella or jacket. “See you guys in a few.”
“Take your time,” her dad said.
“But not too much. I get jittery without my coffee!” her mom called.
Rory hoped Kevin was already on the road home after his failed attempt at a reunion.
She strolled down the sidewalk, passing the neighbors’ houses. They were each as equally impressive as the next, and she experienced a surge of pride at her parents. Oscar had grown up under a heavy shadow, but he’d escaped it and thrived in a career—not because of his family name, but because of his hard work and perseverance. Their town had never been in a better state.
Rory grabbed her cell and checked her social media, but found no message from Silas yet. He’d friended her, and she was curious to see what he wanted. His grandfather had recently died, and she figured it was up to her to reach out to offer her condolences.
The walk wasn’t too far, and Rory slid the phone into her belt bag, enjoying the morning sun. It was obviously going to be a hot one, and she thought she might go to the club’s pool in the afternoon, instead of writing. She’d learned early on that writers required down time to recharge, but she’d been in a perpetual state of inactivity. Those words wouldn’t write themselves.
Rory strode by the doctor’s office and saw Greg’s name on the window, under two other partners’ names. They were old school, practicing since Rory was a kid, and she recalled her visits to the family doctor, always with a lollipop upon leaving. The office was closed, and she peered in, seeing he hadn’t lied about that either. Her book sat on the waiting room table, atop a mound of tattered magazines.
Rory spied the town’s fanciest bed and breakfast and cringed, suddenly worried that her ex might not have left town. His car was nowhere in sight, but there were two vehicles in the driveway, one with a rental company sticker on the bumper. She kept her chin down, walking faster, until she was a block clear, and finally slowed her dramatic pace.
“He’s gone. He got the message,” she said.
Downtown was beautiful, with a long street of brick buildings, many with American flags jutting from window casings. Lots of the businesses were new since she’d left town, and she smiled while exploring. Ice cream shops. The old bookstore she’d visited nearly once a week as a kid. She froze at a display with a picture of Rory Valentine, claiming her as ‘Woodstock’s own.’ It made her wonder why she’d never offered to do a book signing there. But then again, she hadn’t been able to return home in ages.
Rory noticed a woman inside, and knocked.
“Hello?” It was Mrs. Habbishire. She squinted through the glass and quickly unlocked it, raising her arms to embrace Rory. “As I live and breathe. Rory Valentine.”
“Swanson,” she said.
“Of course. We have your book. Isn’t this a treat?” Mrs. Habbishire was looking good, and Rory put her at about sixty-five. She removed a pair of reading glasses and let the chain dangle them around her neck. She smelled of vintage perfume, and Rory liked the scent. It was the same stuff she’d worn all those years ago when Rory would listen to her recite stories for kiddie hour.
“I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by before.”
“You’re a busy lady, up in the city.”
Rory shrugged. “I’m here now.”
“In Woodstock?”
“For the summer. I’m trying to finish my new novel.” More like start it.
Mrs. Habbishire clapped her hands. “That’s good news. I can’t wait. Is it anything like View from the Heavens?”
“No, but I’m hoping it delivers an equal sentiment to the reader,” Rory said with confidence.
“How wonderful.”
“Mrs. Habbishire, would you like me to sign any of these?” Rory gestured to the end cap with two dozen copies of her novel in hardcover.
“Please, call me Wanda.”
Rory hadn’t known her first name. Even her parents called her Mrs. Habbishire.
Wanda looked at the books. “An in-person signing would be much better. For the townsfolk.”
“Sure.” Rory suddenly wished she hadn’t offered, but it was already out there. She’d done fifty readings at the request of her publisher in the early days, but that had been two years ago, and she was rusty.
“What about tonight? The book club meets here at seven, but we’ll stay open late and do an entire event.”
“That’s short notice. For you.”
“Nonsense. I’ll get coffee in from the beanery, and Florence will order the pastries.” Wanda’s eyes welled up with tears. “My little Rory, all grown up and so successful.”
“I wouldn’t say…”
Wanda hugged her again. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I mentioned you in the acknowledgments,” Rory said.
“I saw that.” Wanda jogged to the display, and she opened a copy, running a finger down the page. She returned her reading glasses and cleared her throat. “…and I can’t forget the woman that inspired all the children of Woodstock to dream big, Mrs. Habbishire.” She closed the cover with a thud and held it to her chest. “I showed anyone and everyone.”
There was no backing out now. “Do I need to bring anything?”
“We’ll have it all ready. Do you mind coming at six thirty? And tell your friends,” Wanda said.
“Will do.” Rory didn’t really have many friends, not on her own, and didn’t know anyone in town. She retreated to the sidewalk, with Wanda muttering excitedly as she planned.
Rory continued past a boutique clothing store, then a place that sold candles and kitchen accessories, and saw her destination. The corner store was quaint, with a wooden sign always neatly painted at the start of each spring. She gazed up at the billboard, seeing layers of old paint beneath it. Still the same store, just adding coats. Rory felt like she had a few coats of paint on herself, and wondered if she’d be able to find the old version once more while in Woodstock.
A few cars were parked on the street in front, and Rory pressed the large, worn golden handle, entering another era. The chimes were probably the ones from her childhood, and the floorboards creaked as they always had. It smelled like candy, and flour, and bread, all intertwined into a musty fragrance that should be bottled and sold as nostalgia. The town had a chain grocery store now, but in the earlier years, this had been the primary source for locals to shop without driving to the bigger neighboring towns and cities.
Rory walked the aisles, memories flooding into her mind. She pictured a twelve-year-old Rory gathering items to make her parents an Italian meal after she’d binged a season of Primo Chef. She was dead wrong, but it hadn’t stopped her from trying. That night, her father choked down the food with a smile, but her mother had been unable to hide her disdain. Rory had run to her room, slamming the door closed, and told herself she’d never cook again.
“Rory.”
One simple word, and her blood turned to ice. She twisted slowly, and there he was. Kevin Heffernan in the pasty flesh. Rory didn’t respond. She walked on, accelerating her steps.
He appeared at the end of the next aisle, grabbing for her. “I just want to talk.”
“No.” She headed in the other direction and sprinted. Rory reached for her phone, and it fell to the floor. Kevin beat her to it and clutched it with a sadistic grin.
“I assume a fool like you hasn’t changed her password.” He typed it in and laughed when it worked.
Why hadn’t she done that? It hadn’t even crossed her mind. “Give it back!” She lunged, but he held it higher, like a bully in the schoolyard, playing keep-away.
“Hold on, Rory. We can be civilized, right?” He started to lower it, and Rory clenched her teeth, searching for someone—anyone—a witness, but the store seemed empty.
She’d had enough being a victim. Rory balled her hand into a fist, and he glanced down, still smiling.
Rory hit him square in the nose. He hadn’t been expecting it, and the bones crunched from the impact. Her phone dropped, and she grabbed it protectively. “Leave me alone, or I’m going to the police for a restraining order.”
The chimes rang, and a man walked in. “Everything okay?”
Kevin was howling in pain, blood dripping from his broken nose. “No, this woman assaulted me. I’ll sue!”
“I don’t think so.” The newcomer hauled on Kevin, tossing him out the door. He fell to the sidewalk, and Rory finally recognized the man as Jack, the journalist from last night. He stood over Kevin as her ex scrambled to his feet.
“Screw you!” Kevin cocked a fist, but Jack moved right before it struck. The momentum brought Kevin off balance, and he lashed out again, missing for the second time.
“Go home—”
“Kevin,” Rory finished.
“Beat it, Kevin. Rory doesn’t want to see you,” Jack said calmly.
Rory recognized the moment Kevin lost his courage, and his shoulders slumped as he staggered down the street, cursing them and shouting about lawyers.
“Who is that guy?”
“My ex,” she said.
“Really? That loser?” Jack’s expression evened out, and he just looked sympathetic. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right. We met when I was young, and I had trouble getting out of it.” Rory stopped. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Because I’m a good listener,” he said. “It’s kind of my job.”
“Aren’t journalists writers?” she asked.
“Well, that too, of course,” he answered. Jack smiled and swept his blond hair to the side.
“Thanks for the help.” Rory was still shaking, and her hand ached from the impact.
“Let’s get some ice.” He opened the door for her, and they entered the store. Rory grabbed coffee as she’d promised her parents, and Jack paid for it, and a bag of frozen peas. “We should stop for something to eat so I can make sure you’re okay.”
Rory shook her head in disbelief, but didn’t decline. They wandered through town, finding a quaint coffee shop. After a few minutes with a cold compress on her hand, it already felt better. She should have hit Kevin harder.
The place was half-filled with younger hipster types Rory rarely saw in their town. Its energy was vibrant, and she decided this might be a decent spot to park her laptop and do some writing in the coming weeks. They ordered breakfast sandwiches and lattes, sitting at the window.
“Are you going to the funeral?”
Rory unwrapped the food, appraising the man next to her. “Already? Really?”
“What?”
“Always looking for that interview.” She took a bite.
“Can you blame me? You do owe me.” He gnawed at the egg jutting from the bun.
“Okay. I’ll talk. But I should get home soon. I have a thing at the bookstore later.”
He lifted both eyebrows. “A thing?”
“I agreed to do a signing tonight.”
“Can anyone come?”
“Yes, it’s open to the public, so you could make an appearance.”
“We can talk after that.” Jack chewed, looking contemplative. “I’d rather this breakfast be two new friends getting to know each other.”
Rory wasn’t sure how to take that, but Jack was charming, and he had a very peaceful demeanor. “Sounds good.”
Her phone chimed, but she ignored it. Instead she stayed for a while, talking with Jack about growing up in what he called a movie set.
4
“I sent the message. We’ll see if Rory responds,” Silas said. He couldn’t wait around for Special Agent Brooks to contact the family, not after recent events.
“My mom’s going to be pissed,” Leigh muttered. “She’s already so hard on me, and with Dad…”
“You don’t have to come.” Silas judged her posture, and it was obvious she wasn’t joining him. There was no point in arguing with her. They were strangers, this odd scenario thrusting them together.
Leigh stood at the doorway while Silas threw his jacket on. He didn’t really have any belongings, since he’d only been planning to be there for a few hours. Instead, it had turned into a handful of days.
“That agent scared the other guy off, and one of them is in the hospital or the morgue by now. I’ll be safe.” She glanced at the ground. “Sorry, Silas.”
“Don’t be.” He hugged her. She backed away, and he realized she’d felt the bag in his chest pocket.
“I don’t like that.”
“Neither do I. Do me a favor and keep in touch, okay?”
“I’ll drive you to the airport.”
He nodded, glad to have the company; not to mention, there was nothing close to a taxi service in the region. Leigh started her car, and Silas took his time, making sure Grandpa Gunn’s house was secured. The cleaners had done their best on the blood, though Silas was sure they’d eventually need to replace the wood before they sold the house. He shuddered at the thought of putting it on the market. He’d grown attached to it, despite the atrocity that had occurred here last week.
“Goodbye, Grandpa,” he whispered, and jogged down the front porch, climbing into the Gremlin.
The airport was an hour away in Jackson, and it passed slowly, with little conversation. When she pulled to the terminal, she stared at him with misty eyes. “I wish… we’d met under different circumstances.”
“Me too,” Silas agreed. He leaned over the center console, aiming to kiss her cheek, and she averted her gaze to the road. He left the car, and the moment the door closed, the tires squealed as she drove off, leaving him at the airport. Leigh had come and gone so quickly, he wondered if she’d even remember what he looked like after a week.
It was a few miles from the town, centered in the Jackson Hole Valley, and the views were incredible. The mountains of the Teton Range overlooked the entire tarmac, as if standing guard.
He strolled to the proper airline desk and eventually found a circuitous path home that would only require one layover. Silas recalled that he wasn’t going to New York, and changed the plan before paying, choosing Boston instead. He’d get a rental, then head to Cape Cod. After arriving, he’d let his parents know where he was, and that he was safe. He couldn’t imagine telling his father about the object in his pocket.
At security, he’d kept the bag within reach, not wanting to take his eyes off it. Silas expected someone to flag it as the tray rolled through the scanners, but no one did. He returned it into the jacket and found a place selling coffee. His flight to Cleveland left in thirty minutes, and he was the third passenger on.
Three and a half hours later, he was boarding the second flight, and Silas slept for the last segment, his exhaustion beating out the adrenaline rush he’d been surviving on. Would they try to track him? Or had Special Agent Brooks done his job, breaking up the duo behind the thefts?
It was two in the afternoon when he left the airport, heading south on the Pilgrims Highway toward Cape Cod, and the sense of unease had finally subsided, making Silas wonder if he’d overreacted. There was no way to be certain the killers were searching for this specific object. No one had straight out said, “Give me the flat, shiny artifact from the Moon.”
