“He is important,” continued the monk. “He is not the flame, but he will strike the match.” He paused and he studied her. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Rain.
The monk’s smile tried to return, flickered, faded. “Listen to me, little sister,” he said. “You are his mother. You must do what is best for him.”
Rain forced herself to speak. She glanced over at the people sitting in meditation, all of them here to be part of something. Maybe to be part of this.
She said, “Thank you, Mr. Hoto.”
The monk’s eyes widened, and he stepped back. “How…?”
“I know my baby is special. Or was. Or maybe will be. I don’t know. All I know is that I love him. And I will do what’s right for him.”
“Y-yes…”
“So … thank you. You’re a good person.”
She walked away as fast as she could, nearly running, wheezing and crying and growling as she headed for the nearest exit. Rain looked over her shoulder to see if the monk was following, but the man stood there, looking shocked and horrified, one hand raised as if he was about to call after her. She quickened her pace because there was nothing else he could say. He’d already said enough.
Then she suddenly stopped and looked at the pavement in front of her. There was a small lift of one block of concrete, its edge pushed up by a tree root. Ten years ago, she had tripped over it and someone caught her.
Rain turned around, and there he was.
The tall man in the dark suit, with sunglasses and too much of a bad smile. His hands were already starting to reach out as if he knew he would catch her.
“Hello, Doctor,” she said.
Doctor Nine withdrew his hands. “What?”
“What was it you said to me? Babies. A blessing and a curse. Am I right?”
Doctor Nine’s smile faded. “What are you talking about?”
“I told you once, you bastard,” she said quietly. “Go to hell.”
Rain turned and walked away, left the park, crossed the street at West Ninetieth, and did not look back again. When she reached the corner of Ninetieth and Columbus Avenue, Rain stopped and took her cell phone out of her purse. She punched in a number and waited through four rings before it was answered.
“Mom,” she said, “I made my decision. I know you’ll hate me for it, but I’m not giving him up. I’m not giving Dylan to anyone. I’m going to keep my baby.”
It was then that her water broke.
… and then she was back in Torquemada’s. Back on the dance floor.
Awake. Alive.
She sat up and heard some of the crowd gasp.
Rain crossed her ankles under her and rose to her feet. Doing it easily on dancer’s legs. She turned gracefully, rising onto the ball of her foot. Making it a dancer’s turn. There was no pain in her body. There was no weakness. Death did not own her.
Doctor Nine stood staring at her in slack-jawed amazement. “You … cannot…”
“Yes, she can,” said a strong young voice.
Doctor Nine whirled with a snarl, then froze. The boy who stood there was ten. He was neatly dressed in new jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of the earth on it. He was a strong boy. Fit and tall, with dark eyes that were filled with mischief. He wore a silver chain around his neck from which a small silver windup pocket watch was hung.
“How?” demanded Doctor Nine.
Rain smiled a smile that was as bright as all the light in the world. “Go on,” she said to her son. “Tell him.”
“I stole a day from my mom,” explained Dylan. “I gave it back to her. Only it wasn’t the same day. I let her pick which one she wanted.”
“That’s the funny part,” said Rain as she walked over to stand next to her son. “That’s the part you never understood. It doesn’t have to be the same time you steal. It just has to be the time that matters. Guess what day my son gave me?”
She took a step toward him.
“Dylan is alive. I’m alive,” she said with quiet ferocity. “You’ve lost. Go to hell, or go back to whatever shadow you call home. Never come near me or my son again. If you do, we’ll burn you.” She took a small, definite step forward, and there was fire in her eyes. “And I hope you believe me. I really, really hope so.”
Doctor Nine tried to stare her down. He tried. But the fires in his eyes could not compete with the blaze in Rain’s. His fires dwindled and went cold. His flesh changed, fading to darkness, and then all the lights in the dance hall flared bright, and there was nowhere for his shadows to hide.
Rain stood there with her son. Clean and whole. And alive.
The crowd erupted into thunderous applause. They cheered and screamed and yelled, and then the Music started again. Louder, better, cleaner.
Rain spun in a circle, throwing her hands into the air and laughing aloud for the sheer joy of it. She saw Caster Bootey grinning and nodding.
And then someone took her hand. A small, strong hand.
“Come on, Mom,” said Dylan. “Let’s dance.”
EPILOGUE
1 The paintings were all about leaving. About loss.
Rain moved around the café and examined each one. Taking her time. There were twenty canvases, large and small. Each with a crisp white card that gave the title and a price tag. In one, a sailboat leaned to starboard as it swung into the outgoing current, away from a wooden dock. In another, it was a train moving through steam as it left the station. A car driving away from a remote country farmhouse, mourners walking away from a grave. Like that. However, in each case there was a solitary figure left behind, sometimes lifting a hand in farewell, other times turning to walk the other way. The figure was often a woman. Because the paintings were impressionistic, the figures were often blurs of soft colors, with mood being suggested by color and brush stroke.
One picture was different from the others. In this one, the solitary figure was in the foreground while behind her a group of others filed out through a rear door. The artist had used warm colors for the wooden floor and soothing blues and whites for the long mirrors. The remaining figure stood facing the mirror, freeing her wavy brown hair from its ponytail.
A boy came and stood beside Rain. He was twelve but tall for his age. Handsome, with beautiful brown eyes. He was dressed in clean jeans and a sweatshirt with a flowing Hindu om symbol stenciled over the heart.
“She looks like you,” he said.
Rain nodded.
Dylan took his mother’s hand. “He doesn’t know you anymore, Mom.”
“I know.”
And yet in the painting, the face was hers. Both of them. The one in the mirror was cast differently, with shadows changing the expression into one of pinched fear and suspicion. The eyes of that mirror image were untrustworthy and afraid. However, the face of the real-world woman was bathed in clear light from the window. She looked a little older, calm, aware. And happy, though there was a bittersweet quality to the shape of her mouth. She did not look with disapproval at her mirror image; instead, there was sympathy.
They looked at the painting. Rain touched the scrawled signature in the corner. Joplin. It was nearly two years since that night on the dance floor at Torquemada’s. Two years, and another life.
“He shouldn’t be able to remember you,” said Dylan, touching the edge of the frame. “He never met you.”
There was doubt in his voice, though.
Rain bought the painting.
2 Later, Rain used her Lyft app to call for a car, and when an old 1957 Chevy glided smoothly out of traffic to pull up in front of the café, her heart skipped a beat. Dylan squeezed her hand.
“That’s the one you told me about?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“He knew Dad?”
“Yes.”
Dylan nodded. “He didn’t mean to—”
“I know, baby. None of it was his fault.”
As Rain reached for the door handle, Dylan whispered, “He won’t remember you
, either.”
“I know,” she said again. “It’s nice to see him, though.”
It was nice. The last time Rain had seen Alexander Stickley was on the day he died.
Sticks turned around in his seat. “Going to Brooklyn?”
“Yes. You have the address?”
“Sure. Buckle up.”
Rain saw that Sticks was wearing his veteran’s cap. She thought back to how much she had hated him when she learned he had driven the Humvee in which Noah was killed. That hatred had burned briefly, but it had left a scar on her. She reached over the seat and touched his shoulder.
“Thank you for your service,” she said softly.
“Thanks,” he said, but he caught her eye in the mirror. His gaze lingered, and he wore a puzzled expression. “Have I driven you somewhere before?”
She almost said yes. She almost said that he picked her up once in an alley near Boundary Street. Almost. Dylan took her hand, squeezed it, and gave her a tiny shake of his head.
“I don’t think so,” said Rain.
“You look familiar,” he said as he turned away and started the car. “You famous?”
“I dance,” she said.
“What kind?”
“Ballet,” said Rain.
“Oh,” he said, and there did not seem to be anywhere for the conversation to go. He pulled into traffic. Rain had no idea if Sticks understood their karmic connection in this version of the world. It did not matter. She asked him for his card in case they needed him again. Sticks drove them away from the big apartment near Central Park that Rain shared with her son. It was in the same building where her parents lived. It had taken her a few years, but her mother had come to accept her daughter’s child, and now she doted on Dylan. The boy made her laugh.
They laughed a lot.
During the drive, Rain almost started a conversation with Sticks, but she did not know where to begin. The conversation would be awkward, maybe even hurtful.
The trip was long because the traffic was heavy. Rain said that she wanted to hire the car for a few errands. She said she’d pay cash. Sticks shrugged and said it was okay by him.
They parked for a while across from a row of brownstones.
“You used to live there?” asked Dylan quietly.
“I did.”
“Wonder whatever happened to your dog.”
“I don’t know. Someone else adopted her, I expect. Whoever did, they’ll fall in love with her. Sweet little Bug.”
Rain dabbed at her eyes.
“Hey,” said Dylan, “can we get a dog? A rescue, like Bug?”
She kissed his head. “The shelter is six blocks from here.”
He hesitated. “It won’t be Bug, though. You get that, right?”
“I know.”
She caught Sticks giving her an odd look in the rearview mirror.
Rain asked the driver to take them to a different address. Once there, they stayed in the car. Watching.
The big church across the street looked old and run-down, but there were people clustered around a side door. Talking. Being together. Being there for each other. To one side stood a cluster of three people. Two men—one tall and fit, one short and round—and a very tall mixed-race woman. They were all laughing at some shared joke. Then they crossed the street and walked into a diner. They were still laughing when the door closed behind them.
“Okay,” said Rain. “Let’s go.”
They drove back to the city, and the car dropped them outside of the Koch Theater at Lincoln Center.
Where Rain would be dancing that night.
Tomorrow they would go to the New York Society for Ethical Culture on West Sixty-Fourth, where twelve-year-old Dylan would give another talk.
3 Rain got a call late on a Tuesday night seven months later.
Dylan was asleep, and the city looked like it was fashioned from silver and diamonds. She stood at one of the big windows, a glass of white wine in one hand, the other touching the pane.
When her phone rang, Rain looked at the number, and her heart stopped. Just for a moment. It was a number she remembered from a long, long time ago.
She put down the wine and picked up her cell from the table by the couch. As she raised it to her ear, she glanced at the painting on the wall. It was one of eleven she now owned, all by the same artist. She knew the artist now, too. Sometimes he came over to spend the night. The whole night. Sometimes he stayed for days.
Rain pressed the Call button. “Hello?”
“I remember,” said Monk Addison.
It took her a long time to find her voice. “How?”
“The tattoo,” he said. “I still have it.”
“God…”
“Mr. Hoto never killed himself, you know. Neither did the kid, but I guess you know that,” said Monk. “But I still have the tattoo.”
“What can I do?” she asked.
“Do? Nothing. It’s okay. They never died, so they don’t haunt me. That tattoo … sometimes it makes the other ghosts go quiet. I can sleep at night. Not always, but sometimes.”
Rain said nothing. Two tears fell down her cheeks.
“I wanted you to know,” said Monk. “I remember. And if you ever need me—someone like me—call, okay?”
“Yes,” she said.
“But, Rain?”
“Yes?” she whispered.
“I don’t think you ever will,” he said. “You won’t have to. I think you’re going to be okay.”
The line went dead.
Rain picked up her wine and looked out at the night. There were clouds in the sky, but there were no storms at all in the forecast.
ALSO BY JONATHAN MABERRY
NOVELS
Dogs of War
Kill Switch
Predator One
Fall of Night
Code Zero
Extinction Machine
Assassin’s Code
The King of Plagues
The Dragon Factory
Patient Zero
Joe Ledger: Special Ops
Dead of Night
Fall of Night
The Wolfman
The Nightsiders: The Orphan Army
The Nightsiders: Vault of Shadows
Ghostwalkers: A Deadlands Novel
Bits & Pieces
Fire & Ash
Flesh & Bone
Dust & Decay
Rot & Ruin
Bad Moon Rising
Dead Man’s Song
Ghost Road Blues
ANTHOLOGIES (as editor)
Joe Ledger: Unstoppable (with Bryan Thomas Schmidt)
Nights of the Living Dead: An Anthology (with George A. Romero)
Aliens: Bug Hunt
Baker Street Irregulars (with Michael Ventrella)
Hardboiled Horror
Kingdoms Fall
Scary Out There
V-Wars
V-Wars: Blood and Fire
V-Wars: Night Terrors
V-Wars: Shockwaves
Out of Tune Vols I and II
The X-Files: Trust No One
The X-Files: The Truth Is Out There
The X-Files: Secret Agendas
COLLECTIONS
Whistling Past the Graveyard
Wind Through the Fence
Joe Ledger Special Ops
A Little Bronze Book of Cautionary Tales
Beneath the Skin
Strange Worlds (audio)
Tales from the Fire Zone (audio)
Darkness on the Edge of Town (audio)
Hungry Tales (audio)
The Sam Hunter Casefiles (audio)
GRAPHIC NOVELS
Wolverine: Flies to a Spider
Punisher: Naked Kills
Captain America: Hail Hydra
Marvel Zombies Return
Black Panther: Power
Black Panther: DoomWar
Black Panther: Klaws of the Panther
Mavel Universe vs the Punisher
Marvel Universe v
s Wolverine
Marvel Universe vs The Avengers
Bad Blood
Rot & Ruin: Warrior Smart
V-Wars: Crimson Queen
V-Wars: All of Us Monsters
Age of Heroes
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JONATHAN MABERRY is a New York Times bestseller and the multiple Bram Stoker Award–winning author of Joe Ledger: Unstoppable, Nights of the Living Dead: An Anthology, Dogs of War, Kill Switch, Predator One, Code Zero, Fall of Night, Patient Zero, the Pine Deep trilogy, The Wolfman, Zombie CSU, They Bite, and more. His work for Marvel Comics includes The Punisher, Wolverine, DoomWar, Marvel Zombies Return, and Black Panther. His Joe Ledger series has been optioned for television. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part One: Higher Powers
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Interlude One: Narcotics Anonymous Meeting
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Interlude Two: Narcotics Anonymous Meeting
Chapter Eighteen
Interlude Three: Narcotics Anonymous Meeting
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Interlude Four: Narcotics Anonymous Meeting
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven