Wickerman Cove

Part 18: And Breathe...

Having recovered her composure and ability to breathe, Steph dripped her way up a cliff path and towards the professor's house. With the sun finally up, it was warm enough that being drenched down to her liver didn't mean instant hypothermia. It still wasn't great – these weren't the clothes she would have chosen to go swimming in. Although it would have been far worse if she'd have had to change into more of her soiled civilian clothes in a bathroom that was about to become part of a murder scene.

Still, being soaked from head to toe was enough to make Steph semi-fantasize about having a shower and clean, dry clothes, even if she had to raid one of the boutiques in town and buy a whole new outfit.

The sheriff had been mortified about giving her a gun without a firing pin. They'd left her in her car, apologising as she raised a team of deputies to come and lock down the professor's house.

I'm sorry too, Penny signed for the hundredth time, as they made their way back through the professor's living room. I didn't realise how fragile the stairs were.

Steph shook her head. "You could have killed me," she said, her mind drifting back to the pain and darkness of hitting the water. "It might still turn out you killed that Russian dude."

Sorry, she signed again, her head hung with almost heart-breaking contrition. It looked like he was going to shoot you. I panicked.

Whatever was going on with Steph – psychosis, hypoxia, a possible awakening to things beyond the veil – lingered. The shadows were like membranes, with things moving in a world of darkness just beyond. A face jumped into her mind: the kid from her dream, being dragged back through the shadows.

Steph concentrated on her hands for a moment, then on the squelching, chafing sensation of being wet to her bones. As crappy as it was, it centred her. She was in the room again, even if the shadows refused to stop moving.

She put a hand on Penny's arm. "Hey... it's fine," she said. It was getting more difficult to see her – her body shifted from a small, pale goth to a towering, skull-headed monstrosity. Steph tightened her grip. "Look. I may not be the person for this. I know what you said, but—"

Penny put a hand on hers, then let go so that she could sign. I have faith in you.

Steph shook her head, a little more fiercely than she'd intended. "You don't get it. Even if we say there are things here – supernatural things that really exist – that isn't where it ends. I'm seeing you and Renard as... monsters. Like, sometimes, you're a seven foot skull-headed thing. There are shapes behind the shadows, swimming around like fish. I don't know if this is okay."

Penny frowned. It put her face into a pout, like the Manic Pixie Dream Girl of a desperate, aging writer's misogynistic fantasies. Probably the sort of person who filled their books with lithe coeds with hypersensitive boobs. They probably drifted around campus being hot and quirky, but not knowing it, and lusting after bearded historians.

When you see those things, do you still know who I am? Penny asked, signing.

Steph closed her eyes and tried to massage away the headache that was still developing. "Yeah," she said, massaging her temples. "I suppose, but will I? What if I blow you away with a shotgun? What if—"

Penny punched her in the arm until she opened her eyes again – softly, for attention rather than out of any desire to take on a Marine with a height advantage.

What was happening when you saw me like that? she asked.

Renard trotted between them, diligently investigating the shadowed nooks, looking between Penny and Steph with a credible impression of understanding. He probably did understand the emotions, even if he didn't get the English. He was a smart dog.

Steph lowered her face into her hands. It wasn't okay to have this sort of conversation with a client. She should have called Hitch privately and arranged for a replacement. He could fly someone to Bangor, since they wouldn't be travelling with Renard. Steph could slink back to her mom's house and stare at the ceiling.

On the other hand, this shit wasn't normal and Penny deserved to know.

"In the car, a couple of times. Once when we were being attacked by the Church of the Eye," Steph said, straightening up, "and when Russian dude held up that star thing that knocked out the sheriff."

Penny patted her on the arm. You still risked your life to protect me. Does it matter how you see me? You still knew who I was.

Steph fought back the urge to cry. It wasn't just the thought of going crazy: if being put on false medical leave was bad, being put on medical leave when she was legitimately a danger to her team was the worst. Had she done the 'two places at once' thing again? Or was it all just part of the same delusion? How much of all this was real?

Penny being so nice made it worse. She could keep everything down if people were being assholes. Kindness didn't enter the rules of engagement.

Steph took a breath to steady herself. "It matters to me," she said. "I think we should call Hitch and ask him to send someone else. I'm sick, and it's endangering you."

For a second it looked like Penny was going to say something. She bit her lip and looked at Renard, almost as if she was asking for permission. Renard made a gesture that seemed like the closest a dog could get to a shrug. Steph refused to read anything into it.

Penny reached out and squeezed her arm. Stay. Even if you don't trust yourself, trust me.

Steph didn't have an answer for that.

The French doors were still open, and Steph led the way out onto the deck. She checked the gaps between the boards for Russian mercenaries clinging to the rocks beneath them. They refused to reveal anything but shadows, spiderwebs, and hard to reach garbage.

The rail still had a scuff where Penny had rested the boulder.

There was no way down to the jetty anymore. Two flights of the stairs were gone, with another attached by little more than hope. There was no trace of the boat. The only sign it had ever been there was the white box, which had fallen off the jetty and was bobbing in the water.

"Okay," Steph said, not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. "So, either you sank that boat and it vanished without trace, or our Russian buddy survived."

Penny didn't reply, she just stroked Steph's arm. Steph tried to pull her thoughts together.

"Our only lead is a vision I had about a damned tree," Steph said, "and we can't exactly ask Mansfield to help us look for a bleeding tree I saw while hallucinating."

"Who hallucinated what?" Mansfield asked from the living room. She came onto the deck, her head still low and shoulders slumped. "Look, I'll understand if you're done with local law enforcement, but I want to help."

Steph put a lid on her immediate instincts. "When I was fighting him, the Russian guy described something," she said, impressed with the quality and spontaneity of her lie. "I don't know how lucid he was. It might sound crazy, but have you ever heard of a bleeding tree?"

Mansfield gave it more genuine consideration than Steph had expected. "I've seen a lot of crazy stuff in that forest. I need a couple of hours to square everything here, but if you can meet me in town at noon, I think I know someone who might be able to help."