1. A Storm is Brewing
HIS BREATHwas flowing, in and out, like waves on a beach, calm, rhythmical, never-ending, in and out, carrying him from one moment to the next, flooding his blood with oxygen, sweet, wonderful oxygen—it was absolutely necessary when one wanted to live—saturating his cells, keeping his body functioning, in and out; nothing else mattered, just this steady flow of air, back and forth, allowing him to sink deeper into himself, deeper into the safety of his mind, as far as his mind could be safe, even now he feltthem, a distant scraping at the back of his head, buried in his ears, an insistent hum that never quieted, constantly rising and falling, never evenly, like his breathing, more like tidal waves crashing against rocks, the surf loud and harsh and potentially deadly, threatening to drag him under; he had to concentrate on the soft waves, the ones gently lapping at the sand, leaving wet forms in the sand, like shadows, only more substantial, or not there at all, ephemeral, there and gone again, all the more precious because of it, something to be treasured, running through your hands, not like the sand at the shore line; that was too wet, too clingy, more like the sand farther up, the one that had dried out under the merciless kiss of the sun, in and out; the ants were lethargic today; it was only early spring, after all, about 50 Fahrenheit, in and out; such things didn’t matter; only his breathing did, the flow, the steadiness, something reliable, something he could hold on to to keep everything else at bay, and there it was, a second rhythm joining his own, the timing not entirely right, a little off, but George was doing his best, trying to match him, to follow him; he wasn’t as used to meditation as Andi, but it was a good idea, George learning it, to be able to help Andi better, to deepen their bond even though it meant inviting disaster once George left him, but not now; now they were finally getting in sync, their breathing the same, rolling effortlessly, like the waves, driven by an unknown force, another layer of protection against the images in his head, the urge to breathe through his flanks, to use his wings, to tuck in his additional legs, to smell through his antennae. George would never truly know what it was like, to sense the world through so many different angles it could make you dizzy just thinking about it. No, it was best if he didn’t think about it, if he simply let the pictures flow together, not trying to discern single impressions; that way lay madness, he had to accept it as a whole, but how was he supposed to do that when every second, something new popped up? It was all so damn hard, but there was George, his breathing solid, reliable, like a rock against the wild sea, offering Andi an anchor and a beacon so he could find his way back home. George was there, warm and wonderful. Andi sensed and saw and felt George moving his hands forward, putting them on Andi’s, where he had them resting on his knees, palms up, and the connection was there, not only the rise and fall of their chests, also the steady pumping of blood under smooth skin, something else to guide him, another root to keep him in the reality of humans. Andi let the sensations of their connection wash over him, tried to make them his own, to make them part of his very being, just like the arthropods were. Only George was human, like Andi; it was so strange, so unaccustomed, so much what he needed. When he was sure the connection was stable, the anchors strong, Andi opened himself up, dropped his shields, bit by bit, letting the other world in, the one where his perception of everything was completely insignificant—
Soil, so many dead roots, wonderful, a meal, the darkness enveloping him, no need for eyes, he could sense the vibrations in the ground, the air was so clear, not really warm, he was flying between the branches, the leaves offering protection, everything was dampened, it was winter, not the real one with the white stuff, what was that, snow, yes, in some parts of the world, there was snow, rarely seen here, nasty stuff, killed so many, the eggs were hatching, the brood needed feeding, bustling around, countless legs, the rasping of chitin, recognizing the others by their pheromones, telling them where the dead bird was, nourishment, food, it had to be brought in, stored, the brood, it was cozy under the bark, munching away on the liber, getting fat and ready, ready for what, the larvae didn’t know, but Andi did, because he was different, not one of them, he was weaving his net between the twigs of the azalea, waiting for prey to fly into it, the praying mantis had caught something, a flower longhorn beetle, it was fighting, Andi could feel it, the strain, then the mantis bit down, severing the head, emptiness, sudden, leaving a hole, filled by the scrambling of a harlequin bug climbing around on the leaf of a southern lady fern over in the next garden, movement everywhere, scrambling and scratching and fluttering and munching and digging, the impressions like the waves on the shore—
Breaking on the rock that was Andi’s connection to George, it was okay, he was fine, secure with George’s hands on him, his breathing flowing with Andi’s own. It was safe, he felt confident, not drowning, at least not as terribly as usual. He could risk it, could afford to stretch his senses a little further, dig a little deeper, like they had discussed, step by step, never rushing, taking his time, because this was new, unfamiliar territory, taking somebody with him who was there and yet not, a weight keeping him grounded on his yoga mat, not letting him dissolve like the foam on the water. Andi thought he had once read a story about a girl who became one with the water, foam on the waves. It wasn’t important now, he had a job to do. What had been the first point on their list? Ah, he remembered, all the dead animals in the neighborhood, he had to find them, something specific in the sea of information—
He already knew about the dead bird under the rhododendron bushes of Mrs. Ferris’s garden, her cat probably the killer, the tom often caught mice and birds, leaving them everywhere, never eating them because he got so much food from his owner, it didn’t matter, he was looking for death, and it was everywhere, the corpse of a mouse, teeming with maggots, the tiny body moving as if still alive, the dried husk of a hedgehog in the grass next to the street three houses below, the water from last night’s rain hadn’t soaked into it, nothing there to soak into, another bird, too far gone for Andi to recognize what it had been, it wasn’t important either, the food was almost gone, only a few scraps left, there was another mouse, buried in the ground with the eggs of a burying beetle, the parents bustling around, getting everything ready for the brood to hatch, for feeding them, a fox, usually too big to go unnoticed by the blobs for so long, the corpse was in a small space under Mr. and Mrs. Sexton’s garden shed, it had died only a few days ago, the smell not as heavy and prominent as it would have been in summer, still, strange they hadn’t realized it yet, there was a huge ant street leading to and from the shed, flies buzzing around, the heat caused by the friction of the different larvae rubbing at each other in their feeding frenzy made the space cozy, a lot warmer than the outside temperature, ideal for mating, for procreating, what else was there, food, more mice all over the neighborhood, their exact locations like glowing pinpricks in Andi’s mind, the map he carried in his head, death everywhere, inescapable, hungry, he needed to feed, this was a race, the slower ones lost, paid with their lives, he wasn’t slow, he was—
Back with George, the waves of their breathing lapping gently back and forth, he was secure, again, still, it was a wondrous thing, it made him hope, they had had something else on their list, something more complicated than food, than death, death was always so easy, how sad was that, yes, George had said if Andi felt really confident, he could try to see where all his neighbors were, humans were difficult, so many shapes making up one thing, and it depended on the angle, what he saw or felt or heard or smelled, and putting that together to make sense was so much more than recognizing food, but he could do it, he—
Found Mrs. Ferris in her kitchen, her shape familiar to the arthropods in her house, everything peaceful, an anticipatory hum in the air, she was cooking, meat, it promised nourishment, food again, this time not rotting, blob food, good food, Andi thought he might be hungry, but then againtheywere always hungry, always searching, always one meal away from dying, the aroma was heady, pork chops with cheese and gravy, he had to search for all his neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Sexton, the dead fox under the shed, they weren’t home, hadn’t been for some time, at least two or three days, maybe on holiday, that was a blob thought, ants didn’t care about holidays, all they knew was that the house was quiet, perfect, on to the Muller family house, three kids, it was never quiet there, the youngest child running around with a friend, screeching at the tops of their lungs, the sonic disturbance warping the air, making it hard to navigate, the ground shook from their steps, little crumbs of earth rippling, falling into the tunnel, the oldest daughter was taking a shower, hot, so hot, the air damp, the bathroom a wet hothouse, just like the silverfish loved, there was a car coming along the street, driving too fast, it was heading for Andi’s house, never good, the speed promising problems, and there it was, rumbling into his driveway, he knew that car, had seen it before, cars were hard, nothing specific about them, just stinking metal, only when the doors opened, then it was easier, part of the driver spilling out, or rubbing off, Andi wasn’t sure, but he knew this one, not just any blob, the door closed with a bang, stress, adrenaline, sharp in the air, mixed with the stench of antifungal nail polish—
Luke Gelman. What was he doing here? They were on holiday, it had to be urgent, Andi had to get back, warn George, Gelman was at the door, ringing the bell, cursing, there was George, breathing deep, not knowing how things had changed, still so tranquil, holding steady, not allowing Andi to float away, that was good, Gelman started walking around the house, Andi had to snap out of it now, because George needed to handle whatever Gelman threw at them, he had to, Andi couldn’t, he hated people, Gelman wasn’t too bad, but he was interrupting something good, and Andi wanted him gone, and George could tell him so in a polite manner, in a way that Gelman would understand, while all Andi had to say to him would make the man so very angry, he focused on George’s hands, on their warmth, on the breath flowing in and out and around, and he came back, looked at George, who looked right back, beautiful hazel eyes boring into his own, Gelman had spotted them in the gazebo, he was practically running now, loud enough for George to notice. He turned his head reluctantly, Andi thought, though it could have been because they had done this for so long, been on their mats, breathing, focusing, connecting. Gelman was here now, standing in front of the gazebo, panting and huffing, his hands on his knees, his upper body leaning forward. A picture of urgency, accentuated by his pheromones clogging the air.
Andi was sure he didn’t want to hear whatever Gelman had come for.
2. Hitting hard
GEORGE WASN’Tamused by Luke Gelman’s arrival for several reasons. The first being that this meditation had been going very well, better than any before, he and Andi finally connecting in a way that really helped Andi. Since the McHill/Portius/Miller case in the fall, life had been hectic. The Castain case had finally found its way into the courtroom, meaning George and Andi had spent a few days under the scrutiny of lawyers who reminded George of bloodhounds eager to rip them apart. He had kept his cool, though, and Andi had rebuffed them so stoically, they had finally given up on getting him to make a mistake. The FBI had called twice for some details on how they had managed to arrest the two assassins from the triple murder, and Chief Norris had kept on assigning them the nastiest cases, always in the hope of tripping them up. Gelman, who was now slowly catching his breath—the man really should work out more—had so far achieved nothing to improve their situation, and George was getting impatient. The chief’s constant interfering with them meant they couldn’t focus on getting Andi’sgeschenkunder control the way George wanted to, and even though it seemed to have settled down a bit in the last weeks, he knew too well how fast things could change. The meditation course they had visited together had given George some ideas how he might be able to play a more active role in supporting Andi when he conferred with his tiny spies. Their one-week holiday that had started the day before was meant for them to practice and experiment, and now Gelman was here ruining it, George just knew it. The man was clearly upset, and it didn’t take a detective to know something was up. The way Andi was tensing up next to him wasn’t promising either.
“Luke, what brings you here?” They were on a first-name basis since Christmas, though at the moment George was tempted to throw a “Mister Gelman” in to show how annoyed he was.
Gelman took another huge gulp of air before he straightened up. “Hello, George, hello, Andi. I tried to call you. On your phones.”
George sighed inwardly. He sometimes forgot that Gelman had a degree in psychology and was able to read a room—or garden in this case. Their irritation was clear, Andi never bothering to hide it in the first place and George stressed enough to not make the effort.
“We were meditating. We had them off. Plus, we’re on vacation.”
“I’m sorry, okay?” Gelman held up his hands to placate them.
“What do you want?” Apparently Andi had reached the end of his patience. He stood warm and tense half a foot behind George, his gaze boring into Gelman.
“There’s a problem.”
“And?” George hated this game of back and forth.
“And we really need your help. Now.”
“Again, what do you need?” George could feel Andi’s stress levels rising, saw it from the corner of his eye in the way his partner’s lips were thinning, the muscles in his jaw bulging.
“Tyler Norris went missing yesterday around 4:00 p.m. It’s not the usual twenty-four hours the CPD requires before considering a person missing, but since it’s the chief’s son we’re talking about, the case has priority.”
George turned his head to look directly at Andi. His partner seemed resigned. As much as he hated the chief, her son was only fourteen years old. They couldn’t turn their backs on that.
“Do you think he was abducted?” He looked back at Gelman.
“To be honest, at this point, we’re considering everything an option. He has no history of running away or even acting up against his parents, and as far as I can tell, Tyler’s relationship to his father, Aloys Norris, is stable. He was at home with Tyler but in his workshop while Tyler was supposed to study for a test in school. He only realized his son was gone when he called him for dinner at six and he didn’t come. He last saw him at four, before he went to work on some kind of sculpture. Tyler’s backpack is missing, as well as his favorite stuffed bear, which could suggest he went on his own, even though I don’t think a fourteen-year-old would take a stuffed toy with him, but since there are no traces of anything, we just can’t say. And the dogs can’t follow his scent because of the rain last night.”
“And the chief wants us to come?” George did nothing to hide his skepticism.
“No, she doesn’t. She’s trying to keep this as quiet as possible, hasn’t even informed the mayor yet.” Gelman sighed. “But I’ve seen you two work, and I agree with the rest of the precinct that you are the best chance Tyler has at the moment. Miss DuPont is searching the darknet for any hints that this was planned, and the beat officers are getting ready for a wide search. Before they start stomping around the house and destroy what few clues there might be, I want you to take a look. Please.”
Andi was already marching toward the house. George followed, talking over his shoulder to Gelman. “We just need to get proper shoes. Meet us out at the driveway.”
Inside the house, Andi was already putting on his hiking boots. George followed suit, neither of them bothering to change into different clothes. George’s own yoga pants were brand-new, a beautiful dark blue that matched the lighter blue of his long-sleeve, and perfectly fine for being seen in public. And Andi’s clothing—Andi’s clothing matched his wearer perfectly. He did have some new items; George had taken advantage of his partner’s willingness to let George buy his clothes, but budgeting was a thing, and replacing an entire wardrobe took time. He put on his own boots, then followed Andi to the mudroom where he had his weapons safe. They got out their guns and badges, and on their way back to the main entrance, George made a little detour through the kitchen, collecting two bottles of water and the box with the Tylenol. He had done research on pain medication and was adamant that Andi used ibuprofen only when the pain got unbearable and aspirin not at all. He was also looking into teas that could help with mild headaches. Of course, he had no intention of denying Andi the strong drugs when he really needed them, but he also didn’t want his partner to have a stroke, heart attack, or internal bleeding.
While Andi closed the door, George went over to Gelman’s sedan to get Chief Norris’s address. She lived in Fenwick Hills, which was about forty minutes from Andi’s house on James Island. The drive via the Maybank Highway was uneventful and silent. George knew Andi was preparing himself to open his connection to the arthropods wide, probably their only chance to find Tyler. He put his hand on Andi’s left thigh, a wordless promise that his partner wasn’t alone, that George would have his back. First Andi went a little stiff; then he let his own hand rest on George’s, accepting his offer of help. George was proud of how good they had gotten at nonverbal conversation.
