He had been sleeping quietly, if restlessly, for the past hour, but every time Andraeon touched him he could feel the heat of the fever. Andraeon himself had only briefly dozed and he could feel a headache beginning just above his right eye, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He checked Jones again, brushing his fingers along the curve of Jones's cheek, then went to Jones's backpack to try and find some aspirin.
He felt the thick envelope in the front pocket as he was digging through the pack and after a slight hesitation he took it out and set it aside. He found the bottle of aspirin buried at the bottom of the pack, underneath Jones's worn T-shirts and jeans, and swallowed a couple dry. Setting the bottle aside, he took the envelope over to the couch and sat down on the floor in front of it, turning the envelope over in his hands. A quick glance up showed him that Jones was still sleeping, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Taking a deep breath, Andraeon opened the envelope quickly, before he could change his mind.
He wasn't sure what he had been expecting—money, maybe, or maybe something more sinister—but instead he found a couple of pieces of ID featuring Jones's face but a different name, a slim address book, a number of newspaper clippings held together with a paper clip, a pair of dogtags on a ball chain, and a stack of photographs. Setting the other things aside, he flipped through the photos, studying the woman and child pictured. The woman was pretty, with a wide, generous mouth and curly brown hair; in most of the pictures she was laughing, sometimes quietly and sometimes with her head thrown back. The child he knew right away was Jones's daughter; she had her mother's mouth but her eyes, hair, and attitude were just like her father's, even in static photos.
“Where are you?” he murmured, only vaguely aware of what he was doing as he traced her face with one finger. “Where can we find you?”
The image in the photo turned and looked at him suddenly, startling him so badly that he dropped the entire stack with a flat slap against the wooden floor. On the couch Jones groaned and stirred, twisting over onto his side. Andraeon froze, watching him, but Jones didn't open his eyes. Breathing deep to try and ease the jackrabbit hammering of his heart, Andraeon carefully returned the photos to the envelope and picked up the newspaper clippings.
All of them were to do with the death of Alison Jones, the woman with the generous mouth in the photos, and the disappearance of her daughter Emily. There was no mention of Jones himself in any of the clippings, even as an aside; as though he didn't even exist in context to Alison and Emily. Shaking off a feeling of unease, Andraeon read the clippings carefully.
Alison had gone to meet a client for a power breakfast at a restaurant near the client's law firm. She had arrived a few minutes early and gone inside to wait, according to witnesses at the restaurant. When half an hour had passed with no sign of her client, she had made a phone call and then left in her car to go to the law firm itself. The security guard on duty at the desk had recognized her and just waved her up instead of calling ahead.
A janitor reported that the screaming had started around fifteen minutes after that, coming from behind the closed door to the client's office. He had tried to get in but found the door was both locked and somehow barred by something inside. He had called the cops then attempted to break the door down but couldn't. The screams stopped before the police arrived and when they broke the door down they found Alison's mutilated body sprawled out on top of the conference room table as though upon a sacrificial altar. What was left of the client had been strung up from the light fixture in the bathroom.
As soon as they identified her, detectives had been sent round to her house, where they found the door almost hanging off its hinges and the house itself empty. An exhaustive search had been launched for her daughter Emily, but the little girl had never been found and after nearly three years the police had mostly stopped looking.
Andraeon slipped the clippings back into the envelope with the photos, then thoughtfully took the photos back out and looked through them. He was beginning to think they all showed only Allie and Emily, but at the bottom of the pile he found a shot with Jones as well. The three of them were sitting on a low stone wall somewhere with long, low hills behind them. Jones had his arm around Allie and Emily on his lap, and he was laughing. Allie was half-turned towards him, smiling, her hand resting on his thigh. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, Andraeon put the photos back in with the clippings.
The address only contained the names and phone numbers of people Andraeon didn't recognize. He set it aside on the end table in case he needed to try and contact someone, then held the dogtags up and examined them as they dangled in front of his face. They were identical, stamped with the name G. Jones, a birthdate, a blood type, and a series of numbers that Andraeon took to be some sort of ID number. He wondered where Jones had gotten them, and if he'd been in the military, what rank he had been.
He put the tags back in the envelope and returned it to the pack, then went to lay a hand on Jones's forehead. Jones was still too hot, his skin slick with sweat and his breathing harsh, but he looked more relaxed than he had even a few hours earlier. Andraeon adjusted the fan then went into the bathroom to have a quick shower.
He was changing back into the clothes Jones had given him when he felt a hard lump in one pocket. Reaching into it he pulled out a small blue-green sphere, about the size of his palm and glowing slightly. He turned it over in his hands, frowning and trying to figure out what it was, then remembered the mobile in the room at Elle's house. He had gone in there while Elle had been arguing with Jones, just meaning to see what was causing the faint light, and then he didn't remember anything until he had walked into the bedroom to gather Jones's things. He didn't remember taking it, or putting it in the pocket of the sweatpants, and he was sure it hadn't been there when he took the pants off to shower.
Bouncing it thoughtfully on his palm, he went back into the living room to make sure Jones was still all right, then sat down on the floor in front of the couch again. The glow brightened under his hands as he examined it and the colours began to swirl, outlining his fingers where he touched the sphere. Leaning back against the couch, Andraeon watched the colours move.
He sits on the carpet, playing with a little wooden soldier that someone has given him. It has ball-joints and a little painted uniform, though most of the paint has been rubbed off with time. He makes it walk across the carpet, half-listening to the conversation happening over his head. Someone has come for him, he knows that much, but it isn't someone he knows. He thinks of the whispers at night between the boys as they lay in their beds; talks of new homes and new parents, of going home. He doesn't really believe he'll be going home though; he's a pretty child, with his dark curls and deep blue eyes, but each time he's been chosen he's been returned like an ill-fitting shirt. Now he's getting older and no one wants an older child.
The stranger reaches down to touch his head, stroking his hair. He looks up, squashing the urge to pull away; something about this stranger's touch makes him uncomfortable. Beside the stranger, the orphanage's owner, Mother Jones—and why does that name make him feel so strange?—gives him an encouraging smile, obviously expecting him to be delighted. He musters a smile in return but hugs the wooden soldier tighter to his chest, wishing he could go back to the big room with the bunk beds, where his fellow orphans are probably playing tag while there's no one to tell them no.
“Come on, Andraeon.” Mother Jones takes his hand and pulls him to his feet. “You're going home.”
“No, I don't want to,” he whispers and she frowns at him.
“Don't be ungrateful.” She turns to the stranger and smiles. “He's had a little trouble settling in before.”
“I'm sure he will settle in with me just fine.” The stranger has mismatched eyes: one grey and the other a brilliant sky blue. He doesn't like to look at them. “Come, Andraeon.”
He hesitates, then takes the proffered hand, letting the stranger walk him out of Mother Jones's well-appointed office and down the hall to the front door. At the door the little wooden soldier is taken out of his hand and given back to Mother Jones, then before he can protest he's been steered down the front step and into the back of the waiting car. He looks back as the car pulls away but the front door of the orphanage is shut tight and he knows deep inside that he will never see it again.
He was being shaken, hard enough to make his head snap back; he could feel the ache in his shoulders where he was being gripped with a panicky tightness. He realized his eyes were open and blinked suddenly, focusing on the man in front of him. Jones gave him a glare and sat back, though he didn't let go of Andraeon's shoulders. His eyes still glittered with fever and his cheeks were flushed, but he looked coherent—and angry.
“Jones?” Andraeon managed. His voice cracked and he found he was thirsty.
“What the hell is this?” Jones held up a small round object. Andraeon focused on it with an effort and saw it was a blue-green sphere. “Did you take this from Elle? What the hell were you thinking? I woke up and you were sprawled here with this in your hand and your eyes wide open. You looked dead.”
“I'm sorry,” Andraeon said, still feeling fuzzy. “I didn't... mean to take it. I think. I don't remember.”
“What happened?”
“I went in when we were at Elle's. Then I was in the bedroom. I just found it in my pocket after a shower.” Andraeon studied his face, suddenly afraid he was going to be kicked out. “I'm really sorry.”
Jones sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You just... scared me. That's all.” He looked at the sphere he was holding, then put it down with a grimace of revulsion. “Elle's going to come looking for that. I'm surprised she hasn't stormed in here already. We're going to have to move.”
“You're sick.” Andraeon scrambled to his feet and caught his arm as he started to move away. “You need to rest.”
“This place isn't safe anymore. Get your stuff together.” Jones ruffled his hair and pulled gently away, heading into the bathroom and closing the door firmly behind him.
Andraeon packed quickly; they hadn't unpacked much of anything and used almost nothing already in the safehouse. He put Jones's pack on the couch and sat down beside it to wait until Jones had finished in the bathroom. He was just beginning to worry when Jones finally came out, freshly showered and shaved, a towel wrapped around his waist. He found some clean clothes in the pack and changed right there in the living room then picked the pack up. Silently Andraeon took it from him and after a moment of studying his face, Jones let him.
“Where's the sphere?” Andraeon asked.
“Flushed it down the toilet. Come on.” Jones picked up his keys from the table and headed for the door.
Andraeon laughed despite himself. “You what?”
One hand on the door, Jones looked back over his shoulder and for a moment a slight grin curved up the corner of his mouth. “If Elle wants it, she can go digging in the septic tank. Come on, Drae.” He held out his other hand and Andraeon took it, letting Jones lead him out into the humid summer air.
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