by CJ Lyons
Manny and the commander exchanged glances.
“We ID’d her,” Marsh said. “Sylvie Wysycki, a pharmacist’s assistant. Lost her job after abusing prescription drugs.”
“The ME agreed with the medics. Looks like some new form of PXA,” Manny added.
Death Head. Easy enough for a pharmacist to make or get hold of. Damn, he’d been hoping they’d seen the last of that shit. “Those words, written on the wall—”
Manny and the commander exchanged glances again. “‘I hate all your faces,’” Marsh said.
Christ. “Under the influence of PXA—”
“They all felt compelled to do something about that. Destroyed their own faces.”
Ryder turned back to the patrol car. Littleton watched through the window, lips pressed so tight Ryder knew they’d never get anything out of him now. Too late, the moment had passed.
“I’m sorry,” Manny said. “I’ve no choice. We have to let him go.”
The commander wasn’t as sympathetic. Of course not. He was the guy who’d transferred Ryder out of the Major Case Squad to the Advocacy Center last month. Probably hated that Ryder was caught up in one of his cases again.
“My guys will give you a call if they think of anything you can contribute.” His tone suggested it was highly unlikely that he could imagine Ryder having anything to contribute to any case. Ever.
Marsh strode to the patrol car and opened the door to release Littleton. Ryder turned to Manny. “You know damn well he’ll be dead by morning. They only let him live this long to set me up. They wanted me to see this, to see how powerful they are.”
Manny’s gaze was skeptical. “You’re reading too much into this, Ryder. If the men working with Littleton were really that powerful, there’d be a string of violent offenses. Maybe they don’t even exist. Maybe it’s all just Littleton and a few of his buddies, making sure he’ll never go back to jail or be tried again.”
“No,” Ryder said. “There’s more going on here, I can feel it.”
“Get some rest.” Manny clapped his hand on Ryder’s shoulder as if they were friends. They weren’t. Or maybe he felt sorry for Ryder, clutching at crazy conspiracy theories—in front of the commander, no less. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Littleton stood on the sidewalk a few feet from them, rubbing his wrists now that he was free of the handcuffs. Manny left to join Marsh and the detectives. It was just Ryder and Littleton, nothing standing between them, facing each other like old-fashioned gunslingers.
Littleton regained his cocky attitude as he watched the police and crime-scene techs swarm the scene, his eyes gleaming in the bright lights of a TV crew setting up down the block. He placed his hands in his coat pockets and strolled toward Ryder.
As he came abreast, he said, “While you’re wasting time here, I wonder who my brothers are calling upon next. Maybe that pretty doctor?”
It took everything Ryder had not to grind Littleton’s grin into the pavement. Instead, he spun and headed for his vehicle. Trying hard not to run. Or panic.
He fumbled his phone free. Dialed Rossi.
No answer.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I spoke with the other families, one at a time, Devon watching and listening with their consent. Variations on a theme. All elementary school-age children, all fine until August or September. Some attended St. Tim’s, some public school, so I couldn’t blame it on that. All had the same progression of symptoms, including two more children with fugue states that their parents had witnessed. All had been cleared by the clinic or their doctors.
And none with a family history of fatal insomnia. Or seizures. Or anything that might explain their symptoms.
After the last family left, Devon and I were alone in the small exam room. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked, pushing away from the wall he’d been leaning against.
“You have fourteen more? All from the Tower?”
“That I know of. Might be others.” He hesitated, but his face said it all. “Esme?”
I wished I had better news for him. “You said she’s had trouble sleeping. Do you think—”
“I don’t know what to think. Was hoping you’d tell me it’s nothing, but now…after hearing all that.” He pulled his phone out, glanced at it, didn’t see what he wanted, and returned it to his pocket. “I called and texted Flynn, told her to bring Esme home. Until we get this straightened out, I want her here, near me.”
I touched his arm. His muscles were knotted with tension. “I’ll do everything I can to help. But first we need to know what we’re dealing with.”
“Whatever it takes.” He broke away from me and faced the wall, pressing one palm against it as if he needed to rest his weight. Another heaving breath, and he pushed away, spun back to me. “What’s the next step?”
“Louise Mehta, my neurologist. She has a new fellow who did a rotation at the fatal insomnia research center in Venice. We should get them involved.”
“I’ll arrange it, pay for everything. Anything you need.”
We left the room, collected Ozzie, who waited patiently by the door, and walked back to the alley where the car was parked. The wind had picked up, and the snow the weathermen had promised had begun—a wet, thick snow that left a coat of ice beneath it.
“What do you have in common with nineteen kids from the Tower?” Devon asked the question that had been hammering at me since I’d met Randolph and his family.
“I wish I knew.”
We reached the car. Ozzie hopped into the back. Devon and I got in, and he started the engine, but we didn’t move. I was glad for the heated seats as we waited for the air to warm up.
“It’s almost as if you were all somehow targeted,” Devon finally said. “I mean, there’s no way in hell you have a disease that you have like one-in-a-billion chance of getting and these kids show up with the same symptoms at the same time. No fucking way.”
I turned to him, horror chilling my bones. “You think Daniel did this. Part of some experiment gone wrong, like he did with the Ebola treatment.”
He nodded, not looking at me as he put the engine in gear and backed out of the alley and onto the street. “There’s one way to find out for sure.”
I cringed, glad he couldn’t see me in the darkness. “You want me to touch Daniel, enter his mind.”
“I know it’s not easy—”
“You have no idea,” I snapped. “Try to imagine wading through another person’s memories, uninvited, as they’re fighting to shut you out. Imagine absorbing every living moment of their entire life into your own memories. After I found Tymara’s body, want to know whose memories kept flooding over me, trying to hijack my mind?”
“Leo’s,” he answered grimly.
“Over and over, I have to live every sick, twisted perversion that son of a bitch enjoyed as he tortured his victims. Every single second of it, it’s in my head.” I tapped my temple as if trying to slap the odious memories out of my brain. “And not just his. Sister Patrice’s murder—for some reason, I can’t get past that, see any of the happiness the rest of her life brought her. And Alamea Syha, one of Leo’s victims, I get to relive her pain and suffering.”
“Echoes,” Devon murmured. “That’s what Randolph called it.”
“He’s right. Echoes of my memory and of everyone in a coma who I’ve touched. More than echoes—it’s getting to where sometimes their memories feel more real than my own reality.” I swallowed, twice, but my mouth was still parched.
“I can’t do it again, Devon. I’m not sure how long I can stay sane as it is.” I turned away and watched the streetlights slipping past my window. “It’s just way too crowded in here. What if Leo takes over? What if I start to—”
“Wait, wait. Don’t go all psychic bullshit on me. You have his memories, not his actual mind, right? I mean, we’re not talking telepathic mind control here. It’s Leo’s memories. Not his will, his ego.”
I held my breath, waited for my heart
to slow, then released it. “You’re right. He’s not in control. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Nothing to worry about. You’re still you, doc. Always doing the right thing.” His tone was almost jovial. And mostly fake. As much for him as for me. After all, everything happening to me, to the kids, maybe to Esme, it was totally uncharted territory. There were no answers.
Finally, he nodded, as if coming to a decision. “We’ll save Daniel as a last resort. Start with your doctor friends.” He glanced at me. I was part of his decision. “But, if nothing else works, I know I can rely on you to do the right thing to help those kids.”
By “do the right thing” he meant enter Daniel’s mind to take any answers he might have. It was blackmail, and we both knew it. But that was Devon. Once he knew what he wanted, he didn’t let anything or anyone stand in his way. A lot like his father.
I remembered our earlier conversation at the Tower. “You asked me why I didn’t want to take justice into my own hands, what I had to lose. That’s what. Not just me, you as well. It’s not enough to not let yourself be dragged down to their level, men like Daniel and Leo and Littleton. We have to rise up, be the best we can be. Not because we’re better than anyone else, but because we’re worse. Because you and I, we’ve both killed. And it would be so very easy to give in and do it again. Don’t you see, Devon? Standing strong, that’s our legacy. That’s what you have to offer Esme.”
He was silent the rest of the way back to Jimmy’s Place, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with me. Devon was like that. People mistook him as unsophisticated because he never had any formal education. But he was smarter than most people I’d met. Smart enough not to make a promise he knew he couldn’t keep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“If you’re bringing Esme home, you should keep Ozzie,” I told Devon as he pulled up to park in front of a fire hydrant down the block from Jimmy’s Place.
“Are you sure? You said he seems to know when these spells are going to hit. Your early-warning system.”
“I’ve gotten pretty good at figuring it out for myself.” I climbed out of the car, and retrieved my bag from the back, giving Ozzie a good-bye rub between the ears. “Call me tomorrow, and we’ll talk to Louise, come up with a plan to check out the rest of the Tower residents.”
Thank goodness money would not be a problem, because there were several hundred families who would need to be interviewed and potentially tested. Once we knew for certain if the children Devon had already identified actually had a prion disease. Maybe Tommaso, Louise’s new neurofellow, could help.
Gentleman that he was, Devon insisted on walking me across the street and down the block to the bar. He kept checking his phone, but Flynn hadn’t responded to his texts or voice mails.
“They’re probably out Christmas shopping or something.”
He frowned. “It’s past Esme’s bedtime.”
“Flynn would have called if there was anything wrong.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He put his phone away. “You going to play tonight? I’d stick around for that.”
“No. Last thing I want is to face my family. I’m going to change clothes and head over to Ryder’s.”
“You two, both always trying to save the world. You deserve each other.”
We turned into the alley behind the bar. The light over the rear entrance was out, leaving the alley cloaked in shadows. The dumpster that was usually on the other side of the door had been moved as well, blocking the rest of the alley from view. The homeless guy? No, why would he move the dumpster?
I tugged at Devon, pulling him back, my instincts screaming that this was all wrong.
From the shadows on the other side of the dumpster, a man moaned in pain. Devon dropped my arm, drew his gun. I reached for my phone, but before I could find it in my bag, someone grabbed me from behind, placing a gun to my temple.
I froze, my mouth half-open, any words trapped behind a wall of fear.
“Drop the gun or the girl dies,” the man ordered Devon in a calm voice. He wrapped his arm around my chest, pulling me to him, both of us facing Devon.
A second man stepped out of the shadows on the other side of Devon. He wore a dark overcoat, an old-fashioned fedora, and a black stocking mask. He raised a large pistol, aiming it at Devon.
“The gun,” Fedora Man told Devon. “Or the girl. Your choice.”
The man holding me jammed his gun hard against the soft flesh of my cheek, so hard I couldn’t stop a wince of pain. Devon didn’t relinquish his gun, but he did reholster it and raise his hands, offering no resistance.
In response, Fedora Man jerked his chin in a nod of command. Two more men came out from behind the dumpster, carrying a third between them. They dropped their captive onto the pavement, and each gave him a vicious kick, rolling him over, revealing his face for the first time.
“Jacob!” I strained to run toward him, but the first man held me in place. I struggled against his grip, but he dug the pistol muzzle in deeper until my vision swam with pain. “Stop!” I shouted. I made eye contact with the man who held Devon at gunpoint, sensing he was the leader. “Please. What do you want?”
Despite the mask, I was certain he was smiling. “Nothing,” Fedora Man said, his voice throaty and muffled, as if disguised. “You have nothing that we want. Not yet.”
His men continued to pummel Jacob, one of them leaning over him and smashing his fist into his face so forcefully that a tooth flew free and his skull bounced against the pavement with a painful crack. Each blow rocked through me, tightening my gut. I bit my lip against a cry of agony, sensing it would only increase their pleasure and prolong Jacob’s suffering.
My throat constricted so I could barely breathe. I forced my fury aside and focused instead on any detail that might help Ryder and the police hunt these animals. They had to be Littleton’s so-called brothers.
“That’s enough,” the leader told his men, using that same conversational tone. As if he didn’t need to actually order his men to do anything, a mere suggestion was enough.
Jacob’s moans died. He was barely conscious, blood bubbling from his nose and mouth, eyes swollen shut, face half-caved-in. The two men bent over Jacob, doing something I couldn’t see. Then they left Jacob lying in the gutter and joined the men holding us.
“You’ll know what to do when it’s time,” the leader told me.
“Me? What do you want from me?” After Littleton got off today, I posed no threat to these men, had nothing to offer them.
“We’ll be in touch.”
Fedora Man strolled away, followed by the two thugs who’d beaten Jacob. Finally, the last man released me, keeping his gun sights on Devon before he vanished as well.
As soon as I was free, I ran to Jacob. Behind me, Devon followed the men to the street. A dark sedan sped past him.
“Call 911,” I shouted, my voice shredded by tears. I cradled Jacob’s head between my knees, protecting his cervical spine as I examined his injuries. Blood gurgled from his mouth, his jaw hung loose—dislocated and probably broken—one eye was already swollen shut, his nose was smashed, and I hadn’t even begun to check his belly or chest. More damage there as well, I was sure. Cracked ribs, maybe internal bleeding and contusions. But most frightening was what was going on inside his head. I was sure he had at the very least a skull fracture, but there could be serious bleeding and swelling along with it.
“Hang in there,” I whispered, even though he was barely conscious. “Don’t let them win. You’re strong. You can do it.”
A car screeched to a halt at the end of the alley. I whipped my head around, ready to defend Jacob if the men had returned, and saw that Devon had drawn his pistol again. But it wasn’t the men who had attacked us. Instead, Ryder leapt from the driver’s seat.
“What the hell happened? Are you okay?” he called as he sprinted down the alley toward me, his coat flapping around his legs. He fell to his knees beside me. “Oh, hell, no. Those bastards.�
��
“Ambulance and paramedics are on their way,” Devon said, joining us.
“Who did this?” Ryder demanded of Devon. “What did you see? Tell me every goddamned thing, and if you hold back on me—”
Devon stared at him, unflinching. Beneath my hands, Jacob moaned. Sirens echoed from between the buildings, and people began to spill out of the bar, some still holding mugs of beer.
“Not here, not now,” I told them both. “Ryder, clear that crowd, let the ambulance through.”
Ryder reluctantly climbed to his feet and went to the mouth of the alley.
Devon crouched beside me. “Is he going to make it?” His voice was a low, ominous whisper.
I shook my head, my hair falling into my eyes, but I couldn’t free a hand to push it back. “Yes. He’s strong.”
I could tell he didn’t believe me.
Before I could say anything more, he vanished down the other side of the alley as the ambulance pulled in from the street, police sirens wailing behind it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ryder’s first instinct was to grab Rossi and haul her away, behind cover, where he could protect her. One look at Voorsanger’s mangled face, and he knew how useless that would be. If Littleton’s so-called brothers had wanted to kill Rossi, it was painfully obvious they could have easily done so already.
Shoving his fury and fear aside, Ryder did what he did best: took control, marshaled his forces—in this case the paramedics—and kept watch while they worked. After what he’d just seen at the school, he wouldn’t put it past these actors to orchestrate a two-tiered attack: use Voorsanger as bait and then target the first responders.
“Oh my God, is that Jacob?” Patsy Rossi pushed her way through the crowd to grab Ryder’s arm. “What did that girl do now?”
Ryder shook her free, amazed as always that he seemed to be the only person who realized Patsy never called her eldest daughter by name. No matter how many lives she saved, to her mother, Rossi would always be “that girl” who had done something wrong.
