Nightingale

Chapter 23 Betrayals

Whitney woke late on Wednesday morning. The auditions the previous night had taken their toll, but her worries about Bron took a greater toll. Seeing Mrs. Hernandez run out of the school like that, the alarm on her face, had left Whitney a bit frazzled.

If Bron had been arrested, Whitney's first impulse was to blame Justin. Yet in the clear light of day, that didn't seem reasonable. Maybe Justin might plant drugs in someone's car, but he wouldn't have planted a body, would he?

Which left Whitney with a new worry: who was Bron Jones, anyway? Other than the fact that he played the guitar like an angel and he looked really hot, she didn't know much about him.

Maybe she'd been fooled, the way she'd been fooled when she began dating Justin as a freshman. She was still trying to disentangle herself from that relationship.

Then she had to wonder, Do Bron and I have a relationship at all? He was supposed to call me last night. Why didn't he call?

Whitney got up and ran down to the Bear Paw Cafe, where her mother worked as a waitress, and asked for a half-order of the cherries jubilee crepes, along with an egg for a little protein. The cherries jubilee crepes breakfast wasn't the healthiest thing she could eat, she knew, but they were sooo good!

At the other tables, people were talking about a big shoot out. A bunch of policemen had been killed last night, down at the police station. Whitney called her mom over.

Whitney's mom was pretty still, petite with red hair and smiling eyes. One look at her, and you could guess that she'd once been an actress. Her mom said that her looks were her only asset. It helped with the tips.

As her mom refreshed Whitneys water glass, Whitney asked, "So what is this about a shooting?"

"Oh, yeah," her mom said. "Fourteen officers were killed late last night. More like assassinated, from what we hear—necks broken, single shots to the heart. Some of the lucky ones were just knocked unconscious, probably with some kind of drug. They can't remember a thing."

"That's crazy!" Whitney said.

"Justin's dad was there," her mom said. "He's one of the lucky ones that got knocked out." Whitney remembered the phone call last night, the caller ID from Officer Walton, and wondered if Bron had gotten tangled up in something big.

"If you ask me," her mom said, "this sounds like some kind of attack from the CIA or something. The killers were all professionals...."

She scurried off to take care of another customer.

Whitney fretted all through breakfast. Maybe Bron hadn't called because he'd been arrested. Maybe he'd seen the shootout.

A wild thought made her wonder if he could have even been involved in the shootout.

That's crazy, Whitney decided. Maybe he doesn't really care that much about me. Maybe I was being premature when I kissed him yesterday. Some boys like to just kiss and grope, after all, and it doesn't matter much who they do it with.

An image flashed in her mind—Justin trying to put his hand up under her blouse, his face flushing with rage as she pushed him away.

She shook her head, trying to clear it of unpleasant memories.

As Whitney dove into breakfast, her phone vibrated. She answered, saw a picture of Bron out in front of the school, smiling. A text message below asked, "Can I pick you up?"

She suddenly felt so happy, tears filled her eyes. Bron hadn't been arrested. He couldn't have, could he? In the picture he was just standing there, smiling, after all.

She texted her address, and asked "Fifteen minutes?"

He texted back. "CU."

She smiled, bolted down the best breakfast ever, and ran back to her house, and took a look at it from the outside. She lived in a trailer park, in the poorest part of town. The area was so trashy, most people didn't even know it existed, tucked up as it was behind a few businesses. There were only eight trailers in the park, and each looked crummier than the last.

This was the acid test, Whitney knew. If Bron could see her house and get over it, accept her for what she was, then maybe their relationship could go somewhere.

She stood in the front yard—a patch of dry cheat grass and milkweeds, and just waited, head hanging. There were cigarette butts on the ground. The neighbor guy had been out here smoking again. Her mom's trailer wasn't much, two small bedrooms surrounded by rusting aluminum, but it kept them warm in the winter. Not that it ever got cold in Saint George anyway.

All too soon, Bron pulled up in the driveway. Whitney felt like a bundle of nerves. She climbed into the passenger seat, and could still smell Galadriel's perfume.

Bron glanced up at her house. Over at the neighbor's trailer, their red rooster leapt up on their car, let out a "cock-a-doodle doo," then crapped on the rusty hood.

"Well?" Whitney said, afraid that he'd ask her to get out.

He turned and peered into her eyes. "This is definitely the most scenic place I've ever been." He smiled, and Whitney realized that she didn't need to worry. He leaned forward and kissed her, and by the time he was done, all her nervousness felt as if it had washed away.

Bron started the car and headed to school. Whitney wanted to warn him about Justin Walton, but she wondered if that was a wise idea to tell him so soon. She didn't want to scare him off.

"So," she said to fill the silence as Bron eased out of the trailer park, "How are you doing?"

"Great," Bron said.

"What was all that stuff about last night?" Whitney asked. "Mrs. Hernandez got a call from the sheriff, and ran out of the auditions in a panic. He said something about you... and murder charges."

Bron didn't answer immediately. It was like he was trying to figure out what to say. Then he shrugged. "I... haven't got a clue what you're talking about. Maybe we should talk to Olivia about that."

His answer seemed so strange. "So ... you didn't get arrested?"

"No," Bron said. "I drove Galadriel home after the auditions, then went and played my guitar for a few minutes before I went to bed. I don't know when Olivia got in. When I left the house, she was still in bed."

Whitney felt sure that he was hiding something.

"Whitney," Bron said. "I have a confession to make. Galadriel's mom asked me to give her rides to school. She said she'll keep my tank full if I do. So I gave Galadriel a ride this morning. I didn't want to do it, but I can't really say no."

"Okay...." Whitney said, thinking furiously. That explained why the car still smelled like Galadriel's perfume. She understood Bron's dilemma. She knew all about being poor.

"The thing is," Bron said, "I want to be with you. Is it okay if I taxi her around, in between?"

"Promise you won't fall in love?" Whitney teased.

"Not with Galadriel," Bron promised.

Whitney reached over and took his hand in hers.

Olivia had arrived at school early on Wednesday morning. She was just looking through the morning transfer reports when Bron walked into her office, with Whitney in tow.

"Hey, Olivia," Bron said. "Whitney here had a question for you. She said that she thought she saw Officer Walton's ID on your cell phone. He said something about arresting me, and murder charges? What's he talking about?"

Olivia peered up at Whitney, who clung to Bron timidly. Olivia knew what Bron wanted from her, what he needed. She felt sad and a little guilty.

"Oh, there must be some kind of misunderstanding," Olivia suggested. She looked at Whitney and said, "Excuse me, but you have a ladybug in your hair."

Olivia reached up touched Whitney's brow, and sent a thought pulse out. Electricity arced, and she peered into Whitney's mind—saw the caller ID, heard the accusations that the poor girl had fretted about half the night, and then pulled them all away on invisible strings.

She felt the snap as the memories left.

Whitney's green eyes blanked for an instant, and then she jumped, startled.

"Oh, excuse me," Whitney asked, "what... what was I just saying?"

"Um," Olivia said. "I... don't know." There was always a moment of disorientation with humans after they'd had a thought stolen. "I came in here," Whitney peered toward the door, "and wanted to ask you something. It was something important." She chuckled nervously.

"Well," Olivia said, "I'm sure that if it was important, you'll remember."

Whitney smiled.

Bron stood looking down at the floor, as if ashamed, shuffling his feet. He hated having to take a memory from a friend, but at least he understood that it had to be done.

Olivia asked Whitney, "How did the auditions go after I left?"

"I'll show you my notes," Whitney said. "We found a couple of possibilities."

"Great," Olivia said. "I look forward to it."

The bell rang, and both students hurried out into the hallway, hand-in-hand.

Bron stopped at the door, glanced back at her, and his face said it all: I don't ever want to have to do that again.

Olivia nodded.

She'll be good for him, Olivia thought, after they left. Bron had never really bonded solidly with anyone before. She suspected that this might be his chance. Whitney was as good a girl as he'd ever find.

Olivia felt unsettled. How many other little clues did we miss that the enemy might yet pick up? Olivia had to wonder.... Trying to clean up after last night's fiasco was like struggling to wipe a frying pan after it has gotten burned on the stove. Sure, you could scrub it well, but you could never get it completely clean. You couldn't take out the bits of grime cooked into the metal. Every event in our lives leaves its residue.

She'd dusted the rooms for her fingerprints, but had she cleaned them all off? And Bron's?

She couldn't be sure.

Dozens of police officers had been in the room when Bron was brought in for questioning. Had the priest missed wiping the mind of someone who might have heard Bron's name?

One thing was certain: with so many policemen dead, this incident was getting international scrutiny.

By now, the Draghouls knew that something was going on. The priest might try to lead them off on a false trail, but how long would that last? A day? A week?

The Shadow Lord would figure out what was going on eventually. He'd demand answers. He'd send Draghouls into the homes of police officers, silently interrogating everyone who'd worked yesterday. He'd peer into the minds of their spouses and children, seeking answers. His agents might even scan the minds of their neighbors.

The priest hadn't had enough time to be thorough. Time was on the side of her enemies.

The human body can't be scared all of the time, Bron noticed. He felt on edge after last night, but once he got to school, he was able to go for an hour or two without worrying about the Draghouls.

He settled into school nicely, felt eager to get there, to see Whitney. Suddenly they were an item—clinging to each other in the hallways, kissing in the shadows. Bron relished every minute of it. He ate lunch with Whitney that day, out at the pavilions.

One young man who called himself 'Tuba-licious' played near a statue of some Sioux warriors. His tuba had a sweetness that belonged to a French horn, and an earthiness reminiscent of a sax. With the music in the background, and the sun on the hills, Bron and Whitney talked intently at lunch.

Bron switched out of Spanish after lunch, and into theater tech, just so that he could hang out with Whitney in the evenings.

Every moment left him wanting more. He learned a few things about her at lunch: memorized her phone number, favorite color (purple), favorite movie (Avatar). But she still held a lot of mysteries.

Bron had never been in love before. He'd never trusted anyone fully, and Whitney had a way of earning his trust.

That night, he drove Galadriel home after school, then returned to watch the auditions. At midnight he went to Whitney's home and met her mother, a tiny thing with Whitney's slim figure. She seemed to like him all right. She invited Bron to join her and Whitney on a hike to Bryce Canyon over the weekend. Whitney's mom even promised to make her special barbecued chicken and some "Saint George" salad, whatever that was.

Whitney explained, "It's a lot like a Waldorf salad, but it has pomegranate seeds instead of raisins, and my mom likes to use pine nuts instead of walnuts."

"Yeah, that sounds great," he said.

On Thursday, Galadriel remained in the shadows, getting rides to and from school, acting a bit lost but hopeful.

It felt kind of weird, and Kendall joked about it at lunch. "You are sooo close to turning into a polygamist, you know!"

On Friday morning, Bron learned that he was in trouble. He went to school, saw Riley O'Hare standing outside the office in the morning. The old Draghoul, Blair, was talking to the secretary, Allison, checking him in. Allison looked worried.

She saw Bron, bustled out of her office to meet him. "There's a new boy registering in school. Do you know him? Is it all right with you?"

Bron shrugged. "Riley? He's all right. We're old friends." He wondered what Olivia might have told Allison.

She peered hard into his eyes, as if afraid that he might be hiding something. "Okay." She cast a worried glance and retreated to her desk.

Bron was walking with Whitney in tow, and would have preferred to have ignored Riley, but he stepped forward. "Hey, Bron Jones!"

He came to a halt, just stood. "Uhhh."

Riley introduced himself to Whitney. "Riley O'Hare," he said. "Bron and I are old friends. We lived together for awhile in a group home in Salt Lake!"

"Cool!" Whitney said, shaking one of his hands in both of hers. She leaned forward in a friendly manner, turned to Bron. "We should show him around the school."

"Yeah, good idea," Bron said. "That would be really great!"

Riley excused himself. "I can't, just yet. I'll see you at lunch, though."

Bron turned to go, but Riley called at his back. "Bron, I'll introduce you to a couple more of my friends. They'll be checking into school soon, too!"

Bron turned and strode away, clutching Whitney's hand entirely too hard. All three Draghouls were coming to his school? It sounded as if they were getting ready for World War III. A chill crept down his spine, and Bron realized that although it took a lot to scare him, when the fear did come, it could be profound.

At the end of the school day, Olivia came for him.

"We're going out of town," she announced, as she escorted him down an empty hall, three minutes before the bell would ring. "You'll have to cancel any plans that you have with Whitney tonight."

"Where are we going?" he asked. He worried that he had to go heal Melvina. Olivia had spoken vaguely about plans to do that. He'd already managed to find time to take care of Kendall's buddies at school.

She took him out a back entrance, where no one would see them, and they began climbing a little stairwell.

"We're going to meet the Weigher of Lost Souls," Olivia said. "It's her job to ... test you, decide if you'll be allowed to join us."

"Test me?" Bron asked. "How?"

He didn't feel ready for any kind of test. Somehow, he'd begun to imagine that Olivia would make him wait for months before letting him in on the whole truth.

"She will look into your mind," Olivia said. "And decide what you are."

"I'm an Ael," Bron said. "Like you."

Olivia shook her head sadly. "You're a masaak, but you're not much like me. Like any species, the masaaks are diverging, like branches on a tree, twigs that grow farther apart as the tree ages. There are different kinds of masaaks. I am an 'Ael,' one of the ancient gods. Others are 'Draghouls.' They've been breeding for ages, trying to become cold and cruel.

"We don't know your lineage. Until the Weigher of Lost Souls examines you, you can't be allowed to join us. You might never be allowed."

"Why not?"

She fell silent. They'd reached the top of the stairwell and now they raced downhill to the parking lot.

Bron wondered at the timing. Riley had come to the school. He was bringing backup. Had the Draghouls learned where they were? Is that why Olivia wanted to bug out?

"Don't you see," she said, "the answers to what you are, they aren't inside of me. They're inside of you."

He suddenly remembered something important. "I was supposed to go on a date with Whitney tomorrow."

"You can't," Olivia said.

He shook his head, annoyed. "Fine. I'll put it off."

"Next week," Olivia said, "we can invite her to the house for a picnic. You two can go out back to the pond, as long as you don't go skinny-dipping."

Bron grudgingly accepted. There wasn't a chance that he'd ever go skinny-dipping with anyone, not so long as he lived with Olivia Hernandez. He would never be able to keep secrets again.

"Does Mike know what we're doing?"

"I told him that we were going up to a water park in Provo. Mike didn't want to come. He's afraid of water."

"Afraid?" Bron grinned.

"I tried to get him into a boat once, and he got so scared he threw up."

They reached Bron's car, and he popped the doors with the keyless entry. He held his door open for a few long seconds, to let the hot air escape, and Olivia took the keys from him, then eased into the driver's seat. Bron got in on the passenger's side.

"Where are we going?" Bron asked when he'd settled in.

Olivia shook her head. "You'll find out when we get there."

Bron fell silent, and Olivia took the road into Saint George. When she reached the corner of Bluff Street and Saint George Boulevard, she took the steep road to the airport, which was atop a mesa that looked down over the city, with the big white Mormon temple at its heart. Moments later they reached the airport and on the tarmac Bron spotted a shiny black helicopter. A pilot in a black flight uniform stood at attention, regarding them from behind mirrored sunglasses.

"We're taking that?" Bron asked. "Why not a plane?"

"I don't think there are any airports where we're going," Olivia said.

When they reached the chopper, the pilot opened the door. "Climb in, folks," he said, "and make yourselves comfortable."

The interior was surprisingly plush, with leather seats and a quiet cab. A radio played light rock music. Bron put on his seatbelt, and sat, nervously excited.

The pilot opened a privacy window and called, "We'll be airborne in a moment, folks. Strap yourselves in. Feel free to grab a drink out of the cooler. We're a little more than an hour out from our destination. The skies are clear, and the trip should be pleasant."

"What kind of helicopter is this?" Bron asked.

Olivia shrugged. "A fast helicopter."

The pilot hit the ignition, and soon they were lofting east out over the edge of the city. They streamed past sun-baked mountains, rocky gorges and barren desert. The sky was a deep blue, like a flawless sapphire.

Sooner than expected, the chopper breezed above Glen Canyon Dam and they reached Lake Powell, one of the scenic wonders of North America, with its sparkling waters butting up against ancient petrified sandstone hills. With over two thousand miles of shore, there were hidden inlets everywhere that one could swim in and explore. Majestic arches rose up in places, providing fantastic scenery, and Anasazi pictographs adorned the rocks.

Bron had seen pictures of it, the surreal slot canyons where sunlight filtered down narrow cracks, glowing like gold over the sculpted stone.

The pilot flew past the marina at Page, Arizona. Houseboats dotted the lake, and long swells, blown by the wind, seemed to crawl toward shore.

Soon, there were no more roads along the lake. The chopper began dropping. Bron tapped Olivia's arm and asked, "Where are we going?"

Olivia pointed in answer—to a fantastic arch of red sandstone rising up almost from the water—Rainbow Bridge. A few boats were moored out front, tourists taking pictures.

The pilot breezed above it, to a secluded inlet, where a single houseboat sat moored. It drifted in a still lagoon upon the blue waters.

The helicopter settled onto a gently sloping rock.

The pilot jumped out and opened the doors. Bron climbed out, peering at the houseboat: it was different from anything he'd ever seen.

The first thing he noticed was its sheer size. They'd passed dozens of houseboats on the way—but none so large. It wasn't a forty- or fifty-foot houseboat. It had to be closer to a hundred.

But it wasn't just size that made it seem so ... stately. Most houseboats on the lake were painted basic white. The color reflected the desert sun, keeping the boats cool. But this one was different. At the waterline it was gold. Not paint, he suspected. It looked like real gold foil. The foil was shaped into scales that reflected like mirrors, showing every little ripple at the waterline.

A walkway encircled the boat, with fluted columns painted ruby and deep blue that reminded Bron of something from ancient Greece. But above them was a deep blue strip of tiles, and upon each tile was an ancient symbol: the eye of Isis. He recognized it from an old history book.

Not Greek, he realized, Egyptian. The houseboat was decorated to look like an ancient Egyptian pleasure barge, something Cleopatra might have taken out upon the Nile when she sought to seduce Mark Antony. Bron almost expected to see Egyptian slaves, all painted in gold, manning the oars while serving girls stood by to fan him with ostrich feathers.

Broad windows looked to be made of cut crystal, and inside, soft lights glowed an unearthly pink, as if someone kept a setting sun inside them. He could see rich cedar paneling, and a fine bar with couches and a big-screen television, and a walk-in refrigerator with a stainless-steel door. It looked almost like a yacht.

Bron glanced at Olivia, dumbfounded. "Is your friend rich?"

Olivia smiled. "It appears that her investments are doing well."

The pilot climbed back into the helicopter. He'd never turned off the engine. Now he rose up, and the wind from the props washed over them, as if driving Bron toward the water.

He headed to shore, where a pontoon bridge invited him onto the boat. The sky overhead yawned wide, and golden sunlight glinted off the waters and reflected from the stony ground.

Bron held back, waiting for Olivia to take the lead. She didn't. He said, "You've met this woman before, right?"

"Yes, we were roommates in college." Olivia suggested, "Go ahead."

He set out over the bridge, which bobbed with each step. "Where did you say you went to college, again?"

"Harvard," Olivia said, "and Juilliard." Bron glanced back in astonishment, and she explained, "Memory merchants do well in school. I got by on scholarships."

Bron walked along the pontoons, and spotted a pair of jet skis docked inside a little built-in marina near the rear of the houseboat. They were high-tech, black, with custom purple-and-gold flames painted along their bodies. Everything spoke of opulence.

Bron climbed onto the deck, and knocked at a wide door to the interior. It was dark inside, almost black after the blinding daylight. He stood for a moment blinking, trying to let his eyes adjust. Olivia halted. He glanced back.

"Aren't you coming?" he asked.

"No," she said. "You have to go alone...."