Loops
Mira pulled into a bank lot three blocks from the pharmacy and parked. The lot was empty, no surprise, and she and Cam got out. Right now, Cam looked like himself. But suddenly, he camouflaged himself as Hal—tall, lanky, skin a light brown, dark eyes narrowed.
Shocked, Mira wrenched back, wondering if this was some sort of trick, if all along Cam had been on Hal’s side, if everything he’d told her and Rincon was a lie. “What the hell. Cam?”
“Christ, it’s awful.” Cam quickly looked like himself again and swept his hands over his jeans, shirt, arms, face, trying to rid himself of the energy. Then he blurted, “Hal figured out the pharmacy is a setup. He was thinking jail, jail. County? State? Federal? I think he’s headed to the bureau office. Or will head there. I don’t know if it’s happened yet.”
“Shit.”
They ran back to the car. She thought of that day years ago when she’d quit smoking. She and Nadine had been sitting on a windy beach and she’d been trying to light a cigarette. But every match she’d lit had gone out and her lighter had died and there she was, a silly fool on a beach of non-smokers. In that moment, she’d picked up the dead lighter, the matches, her pack of cigarettes, and had walked down the beach to a large trash can and tossed in all of it. And from that point forward, everything that could change in her life had.
Six days after tossing away her smokes, she’d met Tom Morales, Annie’s father, the love of her life. Three years after Annie was born, he’d been shot down in a robbery when he’d walked into a convenience store to buy a pack of cigarettes. It had started with cigarettes and ended with cigarettes, a weird loop.
And this loop had begun with the stone woman in the wilderness preserve, a woman sent by Hal, and now it would end with Hal.
Back in the car, Cam became Wind again and tapped the crown of Mira’s head. As she drove, she felt a current humming through her from head to toe. She realized that Cam as Wind was transmitting the same kind of information to her that Cam had, but now it came at a slower, more comprehensible pace. Within this energy current lay smells—of greenery, darkness, ocean, sunlight, sickness and death, joy and triumph, every scent an emotion. Images popped in and out of her awareness. She stopped the car and turned to him/her—to Cam as Wind.
“Tell me,” she whispered, and Wind brought both hands to her crown and now she saw images of Tango’s distant past, its actual origin during the last ice age some hundred thousand years ago. The sea level had dropped, exposing the ancient coral reefs and sand bars which had become fossilized over time to form the rocks that comprised the chain of the Florida Keys.
Other images were of Cam’s world, life in the dome, the devastation of climate change. A handful of images depicted the mass migrations inland, the tent cities, deserted towns, the RVs, trucks, car, motorcycles, campers, bikes. She saw the abandoned vehicles that had run out of gas or broken down, and littered the landscape, landmarks of bedlam. These images struck her viscerally. She felt the hopelessness, desperation, fear, and raw instinct for survival among the migrants.
Vigilante groups sprang up, tyrants rose and fell, revolution broke out. It was around that time that the first group of Crows had been born, children with strange and extraordinary abilities. They became the migrants’ most closely held secret, then their defenders, then their greatest hope. Hal’s group had the most evolved and sophisticated abilities and for a long time, they were able to sabotage the Normals’ structure of things. But eventually they were so badly outnumbered that Normals had done what the people in power always did—clung to that power by pummeling everyone else.
The final image Wind gave Mira overpowered her. A TV screen. The Weather Channel’s Jim Cantori stood on a wind-torn beach, tall, violent waves rolling in and crashing behind him. The sky sagged with black clouds, rain lashed Cantori, his face peeked out from the hood of his jacket. He had trouble remaining upright, rain smeared the camera’s lens.
“This is Jim Cantori, standing—trying to stand—on a beach on the west side of Tango Key, Florida, where we’re getting pounded by early bands of Hurricane Beatrice as she moves toward her landfall on the island. She’s still thirty-six hours away, but her winds are already over two hundred miles an hour and are expected to be around two forty when she makes landfall. Her central pressure has set a new record—eight sixty—and that’s twenty degrees lower than Wilma’s eight eighty in 2005, and twelve degrees lower than Patricia’s in the Eastern Pacific in 2015. This makes Beatrice the strongest storm seen anywhere on this planet since records were first started back in the late eighteen hundreds.”
The sheer power and force of what Mira saw snapped her head up and Wind’s hands slipped away from her. She was vaguely aware of Wind or Cam—or both of them—calling to her, but she couldn’t see them. All she saw was the image of Cantori on the beach below the lighthouse. And all she heard now was his voice.
“Beatrice’s eye is only thirty miles wide; Andrew’s in 1992 was ten. But some of these outer bands feature gusts that fall in the cat three category, up to a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour. And let’s not overlook the fact that nature apparently likes showing us who’s boss: Beatrice will hit Tango as a category of hurricane we’ve never seen before. A cat eight? Ten? And landfall will happen on October 23, on the seventh-year anniversary of Patricia…”
That would be 2022, Mira thought, and rested her head against the steering wheel, her hands clutching it. They needed to move out of here soon, before Tango was inundated by rising oceans. Some place more than a hundred feet above sea level, she thought, and turned her head and looked at Wind, really looked at her, the pretty, delicate features, the simplicity of her beauty. Her face and body rapidly shifted into that of Cam.
“What you do isn’t camouflage, Cam. It’s immersion. I know I’ve said that before. Maybe it’s actual soul immersion.”
He wrapped his arms around his long legs, now pulled up against his chest, heels resting against the edge of the passenger seat. “Immersion.” He nodded. “Yeah, that fits. We now have about twenty minutes before Hal starts melting everything in sight. I believe that’s his failsafe. What’s it going to be, Mira?”
A part of her wanted to run, to race home and slap together stuff for their exodus. She would list the house and bookstore for sale now, in the tourist season when—in normal times—demand was high and people paid top dollar. Still, best case scenario, she and Sheppard, Annie and O’Hara, could move to the exact center of the continental U.S.—Lebanon, Kansas.
She once had Googled this and researched Lebanon, a town of several hundred people more than eighteen hundred feet above sea level, a place where she would die of absolute boredom. Was this where NASA had built the dome? Was it, like Area 51, already heavily guarded?
Can I take my bookstore inventory and build a One World Books there? Will publishers still exist? Will anyone be reading books? Selling them? Publishing them? If Amazon still exists, will it be delivering exclusively by drone? These questions rolled through her, one after another, an endless, stupid loop that only deepened her confusion and fear.
Cam touched her arm. “Seventeen minutes, Mira.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
She thrust her right hand into her pack, reminding herself she had four grenades, her handgun, taser, weapons she’d had since the aftermath of lightning woman blowing up the Tango bridge. But more importantly, her allies were Cam and her own erratic ability.
“How much damage can you do?”
“As Wind, considerable,” he replied.
“Can you bring down Hal?”
“Only with your help.”
Mira threw her arms around Cam, who became Wind, then Hal, Liz, Red, Nico, Squirt, Weather, the stone woman, Lightning, a dolphin, then her dead husband, Tom. And he whispered, “You can do this, mi amor.” Then Cam was himself again. He did all this between one breath and another. Mira pulled back, awed, humbled.
Her right hand dropped to the key in the ignition. Turned it. The engine hummed to life.
“Then let’s do this.”
2
As they neared the dock, there was enough light so that Sheppard spotted the airboat, with Keel and Delgado already off, talking with a woman he assumed was Dr. Risa Griffin. She appeared to be checking over Trixie and Squirt. Several Key West cops stood nearby.
The airboat bumped up against the edge of the dock, Sheppard grabbed a post, quickly tied it up. A middle-aged cop hurried over. “How many do you have?”
“Two. One is dead. He’s invisible,” Sheppard replied.
“I’ll put him in the electric cart where we’re going to put the others.”
Sheppard picked up Nico and placed him in the cop’s outstretched arms. “Got him?”
“Uh, yeah. Fucking weird. I feel him but can’t see him. I’ll get him in the cart. Handcuff him just in case he can come back to life. Or something. What about the redhead?”
“She’ll be out for a while. I’ll get her.”
Sheppard went over to Red, slid his arms under her and carried her off the boat. Her head hung over his arms, her arms dangled loosely. Sheppard lifted her right hand, then her left, searching for burn marks, scorched skin, some indication that flames had shot out of her fingertips, her hands, flames he’d seen it on video. But the skin on her hands was as pale and flawless as the skin on her face, the kind of skin that beauty products promised could be yours.
When he reached the cart where the cop was positioning Nico’s invisible body, Sheppard stood there, waiting for him to figure out the arrangements of the Crows. What was Red’s story, anyway? Had she possessed this ability since she was born? In Stephen King’s Firestarter, his only means of comparison, Charlie’s pyrotechnic ability had been the genetic result of LSD experiments on her parents. From what he knew, which wasn’t much, he felt that Keel’s theory of rapid evolution was a plausible explanation. It meant that human beings, during their long migration inland, evolved with a kind of precognitive awareness of what would be needed to ensure survival.
If true, this implied a profound connection among all people, the kind of we are one belief that was common among indigenous people, writers, scientists, and thinkers whose books occupied the Visionary aisle in Mira’s bookstore. The aisle where Hal had scribbled parts of his bio at the front and back of books.
“Okay, I’ve got a good spot for her,” the cop said, and Sheppard looked up.
The cop held out his arms, Sheppard passed Red to him, and hoped that at some point in the near future he might be able to actually converse with her. “And where are you taking her?”
“Doc Griffin has a secure place, in the morgue, concrete room.”
“What will happen to the dead Crow?”
“I don’t have any idea. Talk to Dr. Griffin.”
Sheppard turned away and hurried over to the woman on the dock. Risa Griffin looked to be in her early sixties, with the sinewy body of a runner or a vegan or both, and short, windblown blonde hair. He introduced himself.
“Good to meet you in person,” she said. “I met your wife at the Island Grille several days ago, Agent Sheppard, when Pam Gibbons was killed. Shortly before I spoke to you, I got a text from Ian, asking me to contact you and help out in any way I can. You beat me to it with your call.”
Keel and Delgado joined them.
“I understand you have a concrete room in the morgue for them,” Sheppard said.
“And no one else knows about it.”
“If Trixie or Red come to, a morgue won’t hold them,” Keel remarked.
“Not much of anything will,” Delgado added.
Dr. Griffin smiled. “Morphine will.”
Sheppard liked her calm, assured voice. “How can you be sure?”
“The amount Ian apparently injected into Hal should have kept him out twelve or fourteen hours. It lasted for about half that. Their physiology is different. I’ll keep them as long as I can.”
“You may have to get them out of state,” Keel said.
“Then I guess I’ll need a whole lot of morphine. There’s no way I’m taking them elsewhere without it.”
Sheppard nodded. “The FBI will help any way we can, Dr. Griffin.”
Keel glanced down at his cell. “Uh, Shep? Our intel says Hal is headed away from the pharmacy.”
“And my wife?” Sheppard snapped.
“No intel on her.”
“I’ll be in touch, Dr. Griffin,” Sheppard said, and ran back toward the airboat, anxious to get back to Tango.
Sheppard didn’t need intel on Mira or Hal or anyone else. His job was to protect. Always start where you are, Nadine had once told him, and now he understood what she’d meant.
Mira would be headed toward the bureau office, where she already had been, where Liz the Crow and Eden and Hull were. Beyond that, he felt only an urgency.
“Frank, how many soldiers do you have around the bureau office?” Sheppard asked.
“Six. Why?”
“Tell them to remain hidden.”
3
O’Hara and Annie moved around his office at the Gazette, gathering up his stuff. There wasn’t all that much—a dozen books, supplies of paper and print cartridges, his framed degree from University of Florida—B.A. in journalism. From the walls, he removed four paintings he’d bought locally and took these and his rarely used MacAir.
It technically belonged to the Gazette. But it held every article he’d written for the last five or six years and even though he had backups, he didn’t want to leave it here. He felt that at some point the office might be sabotaged, plundered by a shadow group that believed the invasion by the Crows was some government hoax perpetrated by the deep state and that it had gone viral through his columns.
As he started to shut down the iPad, an email pinged on the screen from crow1@gmail. Listen to this, Jon.
Annie peered over his shoulder. “Crow one? Really? All along you’ve had Hal’s email address?”
He had? “News to me. Besides, we don’t know that’s him.”
“Ha,” Annie said. “Click it.”
He clicked the link and it opened into darkness with Hal’s voice speaking in a distinctive accent. “So here we are, Jon, just you and me, moving through this darkness. I don’t trust your columns now. I think you’re helping the police. I considered exchanging Mira for Liz, but I don’t need to now. I found her. So Mira will be leaving the island with Liz and me and the rest of us. At some point, I’ll decide to do one of several things: release her, use her to bargain, or kill her.”
O’Hara and Annie glanced at each other. “Asshole,” Annie muttered. “He doesn’t realize we know Mom and Ian escaped. What’re you going to say?”
“I’ll play him.” O’Hara clicked on his phone’s recorder. “Hey, Hal. Jon O’Hara here. Why the darkness in your video? Let’s talk face to face.” He sent the audio message to the Crow’s Gmail address.
While they waited for Hal to reply, they finished gathering up O’Hara’s belongings and loaded everything into the Jeep they’d driven over here. He and Annie both received a text from Sheppard. All Crows captured except Hal. He’s headed to the bureau office, where Liz is being held. We’re on our way back to Tango. Mira tricked him with an email he believes came from Liz.
Where’s Mira? O’Hara texted.
Not sure at this point.
“This sucks,” Annie said.
“Why’s your mom doing this?” O’Hara asked. “Why’s she taking risks like this?”
“She’s a Scorpio with Aries rising and an Aquarius moon in the fifth house.”
“That’s a foreign language to me, Annie.”
“I think she has to prove something to herself. And just wait until I study your chart, Jon. Ha. Born September 11, 1988, Virgo sun and moon, and communicative Gemini rising.”
O’Hara just stared at her. She might as well have been speaking Russian. But it obviously meant something to her about him. Did it mean that he was the cursed Virgo for being born on 9-11?
“Tell me about this after, okay?”
Annie motioned him to move forward. “Yeah, sure. Just go, Jon.”
As they entered the building once more to turn off the lights and lock up, O’Hara’s cell beeped. A FaceTime call. From Hal.
“I’ll take this in the restroom, so I don’t give away my location.”
“I’m going, too. I’ll stand out of his line of sight.”
O’Hara nodded. They hurried up the first floor hall and slipped into the men’s room. O’Hara flicked the wall switch, Annie went over to the window in front of him, out of the phone’s sight. Mr. Cool, Mr. Bring It On. Yeah, right. His heart hammered, the inside of his mouth tasted like dust, he thought he might puke. Then he clicked the FaceTime link.
He already knew what Hal looked like. But up close like this, O’Hara felt like he saw Hal for the first time. Not very tall, under six feet. Head now shaved bald. Features that looked almost Asian, but not quite. Light chocolate skin. Intense dark eyes that made O’Hara’s skin crawl. A fussy mouth. Bottom line? If he saw this guy in a crowd, O’Hara would run. Fast and far. But why?
Instinct? Intuition?
“So,” O’Hara said. “Now what?”
“You tell me,” Hal said. “You’re the one who suggested a face-to-face.”
“I like to see who I’m talking to.”
“So now you can see me.”
“Has it all been worth it, Hal?”
“We would’ve died in the dome.”
“You may die here, too.”
He looked amused, his prissy mouth twitching with a slight smile. “I doubt it. Your weapons are no match for us.”
Such bravado.
On the other side of the bathroom, Annie made faces and gestures. She rolled her eyes, flicked Hal the middle finger, did a downward-facing dog yoga pose, and peered at O’Hara between her legs and stuck out her tongue.
“You’re grossly outnumbered, Hal—not just by people, but with the kind of sustained attacks that end civilizations.”
Hal laughed. “Such bullshit, Jon.”
O’Hara debated about calling his bluff, telling him they knew Mira and Rincon had escaped, that he didn’t have anything with which to bargain. But something strange and terrible happened deep within Hal’s dark eyes, a kind of inner volcanic explosion. O’Hara, certain his cell might melt any second now, said, “Good luck, Hal,” and quickly disconnected from the call.
4
Hal stood in the middle of a dark, empty road, staring at his cell, pissed that O’Hara had disconnected, that he’d gotten the last word. Everything about the conversation disturbed him and he suddenly questioned whether that text message actually had come from Liz.
He read through it again, called the number. He needed to hear her voice, to talk to her. But the number rang and rang and she didn’t answer. Was she unconscious? Had she died? Those possibilities scared him, but what frightened him even more was his own doubt. Had Liz joined the enemy? If so, then all this could be a setup.
But she wouldn’t do that. Through all these years, she’d been loyal.
If anything, this text was a ploy from someone else, someone who had his number, who knew what was going on, and had a score to settle.
Mira.
And Cam, the great pretender, the traitor. We’ll corner him in the pharmacy.
He could almost hear them commiserating. Fools, you stupid goddamn fools.
He texted the number. Nearly there.
When he didn’t get any response, he thought of the photo of Liz in the Gazette, incomplete, frozen between two shapes, and despaired that he hadn’t taken better care of her. He shouldn’t have allowed her to return to the house to find Rincon’s medical kit. He should have gone. And Stoner, Lightning, Weather Man: why had he sent them back as the early arrivals?
He should have gone. He was their leader, he should have paved the way for the rest of the crows. He could have melted the bridge. It would have lacked the flamboyance of Lightning’s show, but would have been quicker, more deadly, more shocking, and he wouldn’t have died.
He couldn’t fail Liz. He owed her. And he felt absolutely certain now that she hadn’t sent that text about being in the pharmacy. They had stashed her in a place where these twenty-first century people always put undesirables. A jail. A prison. A Guantanamo. The city jail? A jail where Sheppard worked?
These Americans prided themselves on their laws, their agreements with allies, their pacts with the United Nations. But they assassinated foreign leaders who spelled trouble. They rigged elections, interfered with or tried to manipulate the affairs of foreign countries, cozied up to dictators. They invaded countries with rich resources that couldn’t defend themselves, then absconded with their resources or held them hostage to debt they would never be able to repay. Their greed fucked up the planet and the dome had been the result.
They all deserved to die. He headed toward the bureau office.