“Isn’t here. She’s gone.” For a moment, I consider lying—or at least telling a variation of the truth, taking Agent Darnelle to the cemetery and showing him the grave marker. But then, what about my exam debriefing? How do I explain that? Besides, I can’t say the words: She’s dead. I simply can’t. It’s like my lips refuse to tell this particular lie.
“Did you send this card?” He shakes it in front of my face. That’s my mother’s handwriting, but all I can think is maybe Adele or the hospice nurse sent it for her.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t send it.”
“Where is your mother, Agent Little?”
Maybe it’s the card he’s still brandishing, and my mother’s handwriting—that careful, painful script of her last days. Maybe it’s the fact that no matter how hard I try, I can’t answer that particular question. Or maybe it has simply been a long seventy-two hours, and I’ve been battling the Sight for most of them. But a hurricane is brewing in my mind, and it’s about to make landfall.
I catch the first gush of blood, hot and sticky, against my fingers but can do nothing more. I’m going down, and I’m going down hard, right into the edge of the coffee table. My world goes bright red—like a sunrise before a storm—and then black.
Before I can hit the floor, a strong arm catches me around the waist. A hint of spicy vanilla mixes with the coppery tang of blood. The last thing I hear—or think I hear—is someone whispering, “I’m sorry.”
Chapter 21
Henry
King’s End, Minnesota
Tuesday, July 11
He was a cad, a cur, and most definitely a pretentious asshole. He also had several things to do. There’d be time for self-recrimination later.
With a hand cradling the back of her head, Henry eased Pansy Little to the carpet, a dark red Persian-style rug. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if the interior design choice was intentional. Considering the amount of blood, it probably was.
From the sofa, he grabbed a throw pillow and fleece blanket and tucked her in as cozy as possible. He pulled out his phone, rummaged around in his messenger bag for its tripod stand, and set them up on the coffee table. Then, he pressed record.
He checked his watch and addressed the camera.
“It’s been about forty-five seconds since the Sight incapacitated Field Agent Pansy Little. She is resting comfortably.” With an index finger, he touched the underside of her wrist, gaze on his watch. “Pulse a little high, ninety beats per minute. Respiration.” He counted her intake of breath. “About sixteen.” Gently, he let the back of his hand rest on her forehead. “No obvious fever, skin cool, but not clammy. Also, the blood flow has stemmed.”
Not alarming, then. That was something.
“I am going to step away to find something to clean up the blood, then I will return to monitor her condition.”
Henry left the video running. That was protocol, after all. Hopefully, his phone had a full enough charge. Or perhaps this episode would be a short one. There was, of course, nothing in Pansy’s records about her Sight. He could only guess what might help and only pray he didn’t choose something that might hinder.
In the kitchen, he headed for the pantry. There, in the back, tucked away so a casual observer might not notice, were the standard-issue supplies for the Sight. The package of smelling salts was unopened and dusty. Pansy’s Sight was like Ophelia’s; it would simply laugh at that attempt.
And yes, Henry regarded the Sight as an entity, a thing not to be trifled with, a thing that had a will of its own, a thing that didn’t run on logic, which was why he found it so confounding.
The essential oils might help. Those, at least in his experience, never hurt. He examined the bottles in their rack, selecting the sweet basil and lavender mixture. It was the most used, which suggested it was the most effective.
He returned to the parlor with the oil, paper towels, and a soft, damp washcloth, and set to work. Blood first. It was already an angry rust color on her skin. He’d deal with the carpet later. He was an expert at getting blood out of carpets.
He looked up at the camera. “I’m now going to clean up some of this blood.”
Lightly, and with patience, he dabbed, coaxing the blood from her skin rather than scraping the cloth across her cheeks and neck like some first-year cadet at the Academy. The blood had to go, one way or the other. The pulse points needed to be clean and dry before he applied the essential oil.
At last, the blood was mostly sopped up. Henry uncapped the bottle, and a rush of lavender filled the space. Immediately, his shoulders relaxed, some of the tension draining away. The sweet basil was the chaser, bringing with it an earthy aroma that cleared his head.
The concoction was almost addicting. After another long inhale, he used his ring finger to place a drop behind each of Pansy’s ears. He waited, gauged her response, took her pulse again. No change, but no distress, either. He moved on to her wrists, then neck, and then the inner elbows, stopping to check her vitals after each application.
The rest? Well, the rest could take a while. Henry sat cross-legged on the floor next to her and waited.
If nothing else, he was an expert at that.
He’d been waiting a very long time. Granted, Henry was also an expert at keeping this vigil. He’d sat at Ophelia’s side for countless hours. Most people with the Sight recovered on their own, even without the smelling salts and essential oils.
