“There’s no graffiti.”
“None.”
“Are you safe here on your own, Agent Little?” A hint of concern touches his voice. He readjusts his hold on his umbrella. “There aren’t any?—?”
“Squatters? Gangs?” I shake my head. “No. Only me.”
“I see.”
Whether he does or not, I can’t say, but that hole isn’t mending itself, so I get to work. When his hands join mine, holding the two sides in place, my heart skitters. I’ve forgotten how much easier this particular job is with an extra set of hands. Something presses at the back of my mind, urging me to confess this.
Before I can—foolishly—open my mouth to do so, something in the cemetery flutters in my peripheral vision. The air fills with sorrow. It’s so thick that it sours the back of my throat. I grip the fence tight, and the chain link digs into the flesh of my fingers.
A funeral.
Oh, no. That’s why the housing development is so quiet today.
Chapter 7
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Sunday, July 9
From my backpack, I grab the wire cutters. I snip away at all our previous work and then some, enlarging the hole in the fence.
“What—?” Agent Darnelle begins. Then he peers through the hole I’ve just made.
He swears softly, then shuts his eyes. For the barest of moments, anguish flashes across his features.
I cut until I can slip through the space. Halfway through, I realize Agent Darnelle is much larger than I am, and there’s no way he can follow. I backtrack, metal claws snagging my T-shirt, and pick up the cutters again. I’ve barely made a snip when his hands grab two sides of the hole and yank them apart.
“Enough space?” I ask.
“It’ll do.”
I crawl through first and scrabble against the loose dirt along the fence’s edge. Before I can fully ready my umbrella, an oomph sounds behind me, and I turn.
There, Agent Darnelle is stuck, his suit coat all tangled in the sharp, exposed edges of the hole. It’s almost like the fence is trying to hold him back. He squirms out of his coat, grabs his umbrella, and runs, those ridiculously expensive shoes somehow finding purchase on the lush grass.
We race uphill, only slowing our steps near the top, where the mourners are gathered. Umbrella in hand, I scan the crowd for familiar faces, but other than a few residents of King’s End, most are strangers. It’s a small group, possibly a private ceremony, which might explain why it’s so early in the day.
A man stands with two children, their faces downcast as the casket is lowered into the waiting grave. A wife. A mother. A family shattered. I stop the Sight there, but not before my heart seizes, and a thickness collects in the back of my throat. Still, I have enough presence of mind to glance upward into the trees.
I touch Agent Darnelle’s umbrella with the tip of mine and then point skyward. His jaw goes slack before firming into a taut line. No one else can see the Screamers, but in a few minutes, we’ll all feel them.
“Are there always so many?” His gaze is calculating as he scans the branches.
Normally? No. Lately? Say, in the last three months? Absolutely. I manage a non-committal shrug.
His hand comes to rest on my elbow, and he leans close, his whisper brushing my ear. “I’ll take the far side.”
Agent Darnelle might be here to fire me, but he moves with a stealth that’s admirable. He skirts the ceremony without disturbing a single mourner. No one glances up. No one sends a frown his way. I kneel next to a headstone and ready my umbrella.
Once he’s directly across from me, he holds up three fingers. I count the seconds in my head.
One … two … three.
