A Perfect Darkness (27 page)

Amy almost wanted to laugh at his childlike enthusiasm. “It might just work.” She liked the idea of the bad guys incapacitated while their guys were in the building, the most vulnerable place for them.

After more strategy, Eric said, “I think we've got it covered.”

Amy saw Lucas's pale face and the smudges beneath his eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this tomorrow? You just got out of there, and you haven't really recovered from that.”

“The fence gives us the perfect opportunity, but it's a limited one. It'll be an easy rescue, in and out, mini
mal violence, and you and Petra stay in the car ready to rock and roll.”

Once more, it was the only way he'd let them participate.

Petra covered her face and groaned. “Here we go again.”

A
my woke sometime later sensing that Lucas was no longer in bed. It was only two in the morning, too early to start their mission. With visions of him collapsing under the storm of images, she put on his shirt and tiptoed out into the hallway. Lucas's and Eric's voices floated to her from the living room. She knew eavesdropping was wrong, but maybe Lucas was telling Eric what had happened to him. When they'd gone to bed, he vehemently opposed the light being off and insisted the radio be on. He was haunted by his sensory deprivation but wouldn't talk about it. How could she help if she didn't know what was going on in his head?

Lucas said, “I heard you killed Gladstone.”

Eric said, “I hope Darkwell didn't punish
you
for it.”

“I didn't know anything about it. Eric, you burned the guy.”

“Yeah, well, turns out he was going to kill me, just like you sketched. Amy got onto his computer's hard drive. He kept a journal on the three of us. He didn't like any of us, especially me.”

“With your charm, I can't imagine.”

“Ha ha.”

After several moments of silence, Lucas said, “What Cyrus told Amy about us being Ultras. The mental thing—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Eric said.

Amy pressed against the wall, her eyes closed.

“What about our stepmother? The house burning down?”

“I'm not going there.” She heard Eric stand and stiffened, ready to slink back to her room.

“Sit down,” Lucas said. “It's time to stop running away from this discussion. We didn't talk for years because you were too afraid to answer my questions.”

“Because whenever you ask, you look at me like I'm a murderer.”

After a moment of tense silence, Lucas asked, “Are you?”

“I was a teenager, for Pete's sake.”

“So? You'd set a bunch of fires before you ever hit your teens. I know you did, Eric. I've seen your face when you watch flames. Darkwell said you did it psychically, which explains the lack of evidence.”

After a moment Eric said, “I'm surprised Amy didn't tell you. It wigged her out big-time.”

“You did it in front of her?”

“She was about to get either caught or shot. It wasn't like I was doing it for fun.”

No, but he had enjoyed it. She'd never forget the look on his face when he watched that man burn. She hadn't told Lucas, though, because she wasn't sure he was ready for that yet.

Lucas said, “You hated our stepmother.”

“So did you.”

“I didn't burn her to death.” His voice was rigid, accusing.

Eric let out a huff of breath. “Yes, I did it, but not on purpose. Petra heard Ingrid talking about us, wheedling Dad—our so-called father—to send you into foster care and to send me and Petra off to some boarding school. She was a gold digger, taking advantage of a weak, lonely man, threatening to leave him. And he was caving. So I sat in school that day hating her, stewing, imagining the worst things happening to her, and…hell, you have to believe me. I didn't know I was setting a fire. Normally I focus my attention on a specific place and I work hard at sending thoughts of fire to that spot. I didn't do that with the house. I just sent hate. If I'd wanted to kill her, I wouldn't have done it at the house. Hell, we lost about everything.” He paused. “I'm not a murderer, Lucas.”

Lucas hesitated. “Thanks for finally telling me the truth.”

“I'm not a murderer,” he repeated. “I only kill when I have to.”

After a moment, Lucas said, “I know.”

“Don't tell Petra. I know she wonders, but I don't want her to know for sure.”

“All right.”

Eric said, “There are things you don't tell us either. Like connecting to Amy's dreams.”

“That's personal. It has nothing to do with murder.”

She heard someone push away from the table and walk toward the hall. She ducked into the bedroom, ready to jump into bed if it was Lucas. A few minutes later she caught the scent of paint. She got out of bed again and hovered at the doorway.

From a different direction Lucas said, “How did you find out about your father?”

“He told me, just before he called the police on me.”

“I'm sorry, man.” She heard the sincerity in his voice.

“It's no big deal,” Eric said, but Amy could hear pain in his denial. “Do you ever wonder who your father is?”

“Not really.” A pause. “Sometimes.”

“I want to find out who my father is. What could he do? Maybe I inherited the remote viewing from him. Maybe I've got other abilities. I want to find out everything I can about BLUE EYES. Darkwell said you'd inherited your dreamweaver ability from your mother. My mom could probably set fires the way I can, which is why she burned to death. But why burn herself?”

“Cyrus said they got crazy. Maybe my mom's car accident wasn't an accident after all.”

“No, man, go with the accident. It's easier to live with.”

“I know. Amy's had a hard time with her father's suicide. Your mom's death was probably an accident, too.”

Eric's voice revealed emotion when he said, “I hope so.” After a pause, he said, “Petra knows where the files may be kept at the asylum. Getting to them is going to be tricky, though.”

“Do you want to risk your life to find the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Even with your ability, you're not invincible. We need to focus on rescuing Rand. Offspring come first, the truth, second. Don't get crazy.” After a minute of silence, Lucas said, “I saw Amy getting shot, and
dammit, I can't tell whether it's going to happen today or not. Eric, you have to promise you'll watch out for her. Keep her and Petra safe.”

“You make it sound like you won't be around.”

“I'm just asking in case…something happens to me. What they put in me, I don't know what it's going to do.” After a pause, “And promise me something else: if I go…crazy, put me out of my misery. I don't want to hurt anyone.”

“You're thinking of that guy in the first program who went nuts and killed people. But that's not going to happen to you.”

“Promise me, Eric.”

“All right, all right.”

She felt dread wash over her. No, that couldn't happen.

“I'm going to sleep for another hour or so, if I can,” Eric said.

She closed the door and heard Eric return to his room. She knelt down at the cabinet and pulled out the sketch Lucas had drawn of himself dead. There wasn't a lot of detail. He was lying down…on the ground, on a table? She wanted to believe this was from his captivity and that they'd circumvented fate.

Please don't let it be anything to do with this mission.
She knew he wouldn't be dissuaded. Stubborn recognized stubborn, after all. She put away the sketch and walked out. Lucas sat in front of an easel, wearing nothing but jeans so ratty she caught glimpses of his skin through several holes. For a moment she saw intensity in his eyes as he painted, but then he saw her and stopped.

“What are you doing up?” he asked with a soft smile.

“Couldn't sleep. Like you, I'm guessing.” She came up behind him and slid her arms over his shoulders. The waves in his hair were soft, not as tight now that it was freshly washed. He had just started a new canvas with abstract ribbons of cobalt blue. “Whatcha painting?”

“Anything. Nothing. I just needed to smell the paint, feel the brush gliding against the canvas.”

She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against his. “Don't let me stop you. Can I watch?”

“Better yet…” He took her hand and led her around to sit in front of him. Then he put a brush in her hand. “We can make it a collaborative effort.”

She turned to him, feeling his smile all the way down to her stomach. She dipped the brush into the deep red paint and mirrored his ribbons. With her back against his chest, every movement made them rub against each other. She wished she could strip out of her shirt so she could feel his skin against hers. She painted random dots, changing colors every so often. It was nice to just be silently with him.

“Not bad,” he said behind her, tickling her ear with his voice.

“Really? I've never done this before.” She turned to him. “You're just saying that.”

“Not at all. See how you've got the balance of color there, and design here. It's good.”

She smiled, feeling like a little kid who just got a supreme compliment from her parent. Feeling pumped up, she put squiggles on the canvas with a flourish of her brush.

He laughed. “Uh-oh, now I've given you a big head!”

“That's never going to be a problem.” Before he could inquire further about that, as she suspected he would, she looked at the painting above the easel. It was of her lying on the ground, looking up at the sky. “You paint me so beautifully.”

“It's what I see.”

She balanced her brush on the palette and settled against him. “When did you first start seeing me?”

“Soon after you moved away, I think. Just brief flashes, sort of like I get now, but not painful. When I became a teenager they got stronger. Then I thought, oh sure, adolescent boy daydreaming about a girl. At least I was trying to convince myself. But these dreams were more than daydreams. I'd suddenly be somewhere else, seeing this girl who was my age. The fleeting glimpses became longer, more intense, and I began to feel what she was feeling. I knew that this was related to my other dreams, but it was as if I was getting something good, too. I seemed to tune in whenever she was experiencing some strong emotion. Good ones and bad ones. I thought she must open herself up then. I wasn't even sure she was real, to be honest. She was my secret girlfriend.

“I started to get my premonition dreams more in my late teens and early twenties. They always involved someone I had contact with. It spooked me. I thought I was bringing bad luck to them. As you can imagine, I didn't really want to get involved with anyone. It's kind of hard to explain that I might wake in the night and maniacally draw some scary picture. ‘And oh, by the way, it'll happen four days in a row.'”

She liked the idea that he hadn't been with a woman in a serious sense, but it saddened her, too. She turned
to give him a smile. “I suppose most women might have an issue with that.”

He grazed her cheek with his hand. “You were the only woman in my heart. You brought light to my darkness.”

That made her want to cry. Because she didn't want him to think she pitied him, she held back any words of sympathy. “I'm glad.” How could she tell him how much that meant to her? She snuggled against him a bit more in a silent gesture.

“Then one day I was going through some of my old stuff that I'd boxed up after the fire and I found that picture.” He nodded toward the one on the bulletin board. “And I knew she was real. I knew her name was Amy, and I remembered having a bond with her even then.”

She turned around again. “Why didn't you ever try to find me?”

“I didn't want you in my life.”

He was trying to hurt her, push her away. That was her first thought. But this was Lucas who would lay down his life for her. She recalled something he'd said in one of their dreams:
There are things you don't know about me…dark…you safe…

She came to her feet and faced him, her hands on his shoulders. “You think you've got some dark place inside you because you see people's deaths.”

“It's more than that.”

“What?” She waited, seeing the darkness shadowing his eyes. When she knew he wasn't going to answer, she said, “You
saved
my life. At the marina,” she clarified.

“I should have destroyed those sketches.”

She touched his cheek. “I'm glad you didn't. You probably wouldn't have told me.”

“Why relive it?”

“I
want
to relive it. I want to hear what happened from your side.”

The terror of that dream still lived in his eyes. “I don't know if I do.” He must have seen her need to know because he took a deep breath and said, “I freaked when I realized the woman I'd already sketched being attacked was you. I thought I was keeping you safe by staying away from you. Then I saw my Amy getting raped.” He managed a smile. “You were my Amy, even if I didn't know who you were.”

She settled onto his lap, facing him. “I
am
your Amy.” Something about those words caught in her throat. She belonged to him. Belonged. All these years she'd felt she didn't deserve someone to love.

His eyes darkened, becoming more intense.

“What?” she asked.

“It's just that…well, you've always been mine in a distant way. But no one has ever really belonged to me.”

She smiled. “I know exactly what you mean. Go on; you saw me getting…well, you know.”

He blew out a breath. “I knew I had to do something, especially since that was the third sketch. But there still wasn't enough detail to see where it was. I was frantic. I told myself to wake up right after doing the fourth sketch, when I might still be connected to the event. I did, and I reached deep inside me, feeling I could know more if I dared. I didn't want this gift or curse, but now I welcomed it. I stared at the sketch so hard, it was like that scene in Xanadu, where the guy
looks at the painting of the muses and then skates right into it.

“I saw what I probably experienced while in the trance. I was in the guy's head, watching women walking by. He was building up to, planning, his first taking. He would wait until a woman walked by alone, grab her, and then drag her onto his boat. I knew you would be that woman.

“I had thirteen hours to find that marina. I was a man crazy, going from place to place trying to find the one that matched what I'd seen. I got there right after he grabbed you. He didn't see me until I was right on him.”