Page 164 of The Pansy Paradox
From the moment Jack stepped through the door, he sensed something wrong, sensed it and ignored it. Now, look where that’s left him. Stealing the blood of his best friend and the Enclave’s premier field agent.
This has wrong written all over it.
So does slipping in the back door of Pansy’s house. The stark absence of Rose pinches his chest, coats his tongue with sour bile. She is truly gone. The kitchen around him mourns, the blues darker, the cream-colored accents cast in shadows. He eases open the refrigerator and finds two vials of blood next to the orange juice.
Which also has wrong written all over it.
Voices come from the front of the house, Mort and Gwyneth squabbling. Jack tilts his head, an ear toward the hallway. Someone else is here, not physically, but a presence, ghostlike in its manifestation. Fortunately, the Sight is rare. Otherwise, Jack might never do anything slightly embarrassing. Getting caught in the bedroom? Or worse, the bathroom? No, thank you.
Fortunately, he can also tell when something, or someone, is hovering. Or he thinks he can. Like now. Someone other than himself is spying on Mortimer and Gwyneth. Images surface in his mind. The last time he saw Ophelia Connolly before she succumbed to the coma. Those bright eyes with their sparkle, the laughing way she always greeted him: Mr. Tall, Dark, and Nerdy. He never minded that, although anyone else would have earned a scowl. But then, nearly everyone indulged Ophelia Connolly. She was—is—so easy to indulge.
Could it be? Has the Sight brought her here, to King’s End? Jack doesn’t know and doesn’t have time to investigate. He pulls a knife from a butcher block and then slips out the door, shoves his way through thorny roses and compact lilac bushes. He sprints to the housing development, his umbrella strapped to his back, canopy fluttering, urging him to run faster.
After he finds and switches off the transponders, locating the epicenter is child’s play. Even Mort could find it. The location explains why he discovered the packs in the showcase home; the house sits right on top of the epicenter.
An eerie silence blankets the housing development. He flinches, casts glances over his shoulder. Despite the fissure that weeps like a wound, no Screamers invade the space. He wonders at that, considers what they know that he doesn’t.
That sensation is so unnerving that he almost turns to leave. Instead, Jack finds a spot in one of the framed-in houses across the road. The structure gives him a full view of the showcase home’s front door and the entrance to the housing development. But the rudimentary ceiling and walls shield him from the sun and anyone else who might stumble into this space.
Jack scrapes five years of gathered dirt and leaves from the floor and then sits. He leans back against the rough wood, the earthy odor of dry rot heavy in the summer air. He hopes no one—be it Mortimer or the advance party—will think to investigate the housing development before sunset.
He considers the vials of blood in his hand and hopes like hell he knows what he’s doing.
Chapter 72
Pansy
I can’t believe my own father just kicked me out of the showcase home like I’m some sort of fledgling bird. My arms pinwheel. It’s almost like I can grab handfuls of the gray static that buzzes around me. I glance behind for Henry, but all that does is spin me in several rotations, to the point where a wave of nausea crashes through me.
I strain to invoke the Sight. It’s the only tool, weapon, I have against this. I get nowhere. No hint of the future, no telltale dampness beneath my nose. Nothing. Scenarios run through my mind, but they’re fueled by my imagination. I can’t see anything—with my eyes or my mind—no matter how hard I try.
I keep trying, keep pinwheeling my arms until something catches me in the stomach with enough force that I nearly do vomit. My legs strike something as well, and a sharp sting blooms across my kneecaps. But I feel wood beneath my palms, the long top rail of the porch against my midsection, the supports against my knees.
I wedge a foot between the balusters, hold on with one hand, and reach my other into the void. This, I realize, is not an ideal way to find Henry, but it’s my only option at the moment.
Fingertips, undeniably warm and real, brush against mine. I call out, but the static swallows my shouts. A moment later, a thump shakes the structure, solid and sure. A moment after that? Henry’s hand curls around mine.
We cling to each other and the porch. Together, we inch our way in what I hope is the right direction, toward the front door. Henry tugs me closer. Warmth radiates off him. I get the impression he’s speaking, but I can’t hear his words. Static roars in my ears, fills my mouth, my nose. If we can’t find the front door, is this our fate? An eternity of constant searching, together but cut off from each other?
The thought of Henry’s dream home fills me with regret. I would’ve gladly given myself over to that fantasy. Perfectly brewed cups of tea? Cozy evenings without end? If only. If only.
Another thump makes me think Henry’s knee has encountered something. His grip tightens on my hand. But it’s the vibrations through the wood that give me an idea.
Granted, it’s been a while since I’ve used this method of communicating, not since the Academy, to be truthful. But I learned it before then, thanks to my mother. No doubt Principal Field Agent Henry Darnelle knows his Morse code. I start tapping, hoping for muscle memory to kick in, hoping I’m not tapping out nonsense. When he squeezes my fingers, I know I’m getting it right.
This way, he taps. Main column. I think.
I hear the question in those last two words. I tap back: Sight not working.
We inch forward. Then Henry taps: Watch out.
My foot strikes a stair. In my mind’s eye, I try to conjure the showcase home. I’ve passed by it so many times on my patrols, ignoring its cookie-cutter architecture. Now I wish I’d paid more attention.
But I’m fairly certain there’s nothing between the stairs and the front door except a moldering doormat. Nothing to hold on to, to guide us. If we let go of the column, we’re on our own. This static is greedy. It’s sticky, to quote my father. We may never make it.
Leap, Henry taps, on three.
One … two … three.
