by A A Woods
And she was going to use it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Bond of Family Ghosts
It wasn’t unusual for Joe to feel awkward, but it was strange to be feeling that way so often lately.
“Mom, can I please go back? You don’t need me at the office,” he said, trying not to let his voice slip into a whine as the family limo tried to change lanes in the early morning traffic.
“No honey, like I said, your father and I have decided that it would be good for you to get an insider look at the business. After all, you will inherit it one day.”
“Yeah, in like fifty years!”
From the other padded seat, his father made a tsking sound. “You never know son, things happen. Your mother and I might not be around as long as you expect us to.”
“Well this just got morbid,” Joe muttered, turning away as his mom began to sip her fifth espresso of the morning.
“Besides, it’s about more than just the Network. After what happened last fall, we realized that we aren’t as… close as we used to be. As a family. Your father and I want to work on that.”
More like you want to keep an eye on me at all times, ever, Joe thought sourly, wondering how Eliza would feel when she and Aquila wandered into the living area of the penthouse only to find their hosts gone. But he didn’t say anything else.
Because secretly, this trip played into something else that was beginning to matter to him, something Tasha had awakened.
A thirst for the truth.
So Joe sat back and listened to his parents discuss the morning news, the anchors who were sleeping with each other, some drama about a young intern trying to steal beer for his college dorm room. His mother thought they needed to try and buy out a smaller, local channel while his father argued that a little competition was healthy, and besides, they didn’t want to attract more anti-trust attention than they were already getting.
As Joe let their normal back-and-forth wash over him, he wondered. What did his parents know? Were they aware that there were other Abnormals out there, Abnormals like Tasha? Did they know that their benefactor was some kind of mob-boss who experimented on kids and kept them in a place called the circus, of all things?
Did they know what they were doing to Joe’s friends?
“Oh shit,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts.
Joe sat up straight, turning to follow his mother’s gaze. She almost never swore, but he understood immediately why she had. Cluttered in front of the HNN headquarters was a churning mass of protestors, waving handmade signs. Joe narrowed his eyes to read the ones closest to him.
Cover-up Central
Tower of Lies
Censor the Censors!
“What the…?” Joe muttered, scanning the crowd.
And then he saw her, grin wide, wig oil-black in the sun. Tasha, waving a sign of her own that read, HNN is the real conspiracy here.
Joe wanted to be mad, but really all he could find in himself was admiration.
The girl had spunk.
“Dammit, this keeps happening,” Joe’s mom said, a note of hysteria in her voice.
Horatio wrapped a large hand around his wife’s small fingers. “We’ll deal with it, honey.”
“But Hans…”
“We’ll handle it.”
Joe tried to pretend he’d missed their interaction; his steel-spine mother edging toward a breakdown, his goofy, happy-go-lucky father calming her. It was almost too surreal to believe.
Almost.
So instead, he kept his eyes on the crowd and wondered what Tasha’s game was. What was her goal here? What did she want?
Well, maybe Joe could figure it out on his own.
“So how do we get inside?” Joe asked, perhaps a bit too cheerfully.
“I’ve already alerted security,” his father answered, eyes still on the back of Natalie’s head. “They’ll be sending a team to escort us.”
“Oh please, these loiterers aren’t dangerous,” Natalie scoffed, sounding more like her normal self.
“It’s all about image, darling.”
Natalie nodded as if that made sense.
“Has this happened before?” Joe asked, watching his parents carefully, thinking of Tasha out there in the crowd.
“Every so often. So many people can’t handle the truth.”
Or, Joe thought as a cluster of burly men dressed in black elbowed toward the limo, there are a few who can’t handle the lies.
It was a strange and dizzying experience to be ushered inside, bundled between his parents and two hulking guards, hurrying toward a door amidst the angry screams and howls of a furious crowd. Joe had never really felt like someone wanted him dead, not even in October when he and Eliza and the Vagabonds had broken into a top-secret government facility. Sure, he’d been shot at, but it wasn’t personal. He was just collateral, just a body in the way.
But this was different.
These people hated him and his parents. Women hissed, men booed, and teenagers shouted incomprehensible words that Joe was sure were righteous and thought-out, but totally lost in the cacophony. There weren’t many of them, to be fair. But the vitriol they were unleashing made up for the lack of numbers.
From the corner of his eye, Joe saw Tasha.
Strangely, she was frowning.
She met his gaze for a single heartbeat, her eyes soft and sad.
Did he imagine the apology in her expression?
And then he was inside, the noise cutting off behind them as if someone had turned off the volume.
“Mrs. Fagan, Mr. Fagan,” said the man in charge, touching the gun on his hip. “I’m sorry about that, they were already gathered by the time I got here this morning. Do you want me to get rid of them?”
“No,” Natalie said, voice hard. “More negative press is the last thing we need.” She sighed, tapping her nails against the binder she’d carried in from the limo. “If you can, figure out why they’re here. What triggered this? Perhaps we can cut it off at the source.”
“Yes ma’am,” said the security guard, bowing his head and gesturing to two of his subordinates.
Cut it off at the source? Joe thought.
That sounded ominous.
Before his dinner with Tasha, Joe would never have believed his parents capable of more than spreading a few nasty rumors about people. But now…
“Joe,” his mother called, gesturing. “Come on.”
Obediently, he fell into step, allowing himself to be tugged along by his famous family even as his mind was a thousand miles away.
They rode the elevator up to the main work floor, already bustling with activity. Joe had been there plenty of times. As a child, they used to leave him with one intern or another, playing happily with blocks or Legos as they ran their empire. Joe used to spend his time hunting down the best nooks and crannies on set, or figuring out where all best snacks were. He’d sneak into the bathroom with the fanciest hand dryers (the lead anchor’s private bathroom suite) or ride the elevator up and down. On one memorable occasion he’d broken into hair & makeup and tried all the products on himself. It had taken the nannies a week to get the mascara out of his hair.
It had been a long time since Joe had seen the office as a place to be spelunked and explored. But now, years later, he had new mysteries to solve.
“Joe, would you—”
“I can entertain myself, guys. You take care of things.” Joe offered them a warm, reassuring smile.
No matter how much they talked about ‘teaching him the ropes,’ he’d known all along that the moment they set foot on this floor they’d snap into mode. They always did. Natalie and Horatio might have had ambitious plans for the day, but inevitably there would be a crisis to deal with or a piece about to roll. The endless litany of cast or crew dramas would sweep his parents into the turmoil. They couldn’t help it. So Joe stepped back as three different managers stepped forward and let them pull his parents away.
“We’ll be right back!” his mother called.
>
“I’ll be learning,” Joe answered, but so low he didn’t think she’d hear him.
He lingered for a moment, watching them get roped into a difficult morning run-down. The Network’s biggest show was going live in less than an hour and apparently there was some breaking headline about the president making an offensive offhand comment that required immediate attention, needing them to bump a story about international refugees into the nebulous future.
Joe backed away, first one step and then another.
What a mess.
It struck him again how much he didn’t want to do this work. This life. It was so frantic and endless, like a guinea pig in a wheel. His parents did practically nothing but work, work, work, and for what? Money? Fame? It’s not like they really informed the masses or shone the light of truth into the darkness. Maybe that was HNN’s motto, maybe they’d even started with good intentions, but the Network had become nothing but another news cycle, fueled by fear and the daily, petty grind of things that wouldn’t matter in five years and probably didn’t really matter now.
Joe bit his lip. It was unkind to think of their work like that. They were his parents and they loved him, and he should try and be a bit more sympathetic to the realities of working in media.
But it was so damn hard to forgive them for what they’d done to the Vagabonds.
Satisfied that they were distracted, Joe ducked out of the studio and sauntered down the hall, doing his best to look like the son of the people who owned the place. It wasn’t hard. Assistants gaped at him in open-mouthed shock, managers nodded in his direction as they practically sprinted to their next problem, anchors threw him brilliant, bleached smiles.
Joe sighed.
It was always like this, and, as always, he hated it. What he wouldn’t give to go back to a school uniform and a quiet town and a simple, invisible existence.
Without conscious thought, he found his way to the office marked Fagan.
He pushed through the door, grateful that no one was there to see him go inside. Not that they’d stop him, but still…
Taking a moment, he reminded himself to appreciate the view. It was gorgeous and sprawling and impressive. The kind of thing that the assistants out there would spend their whole lives working for. But how often did his parents sit in their private office overlooking the Hudson River? And did they ever have time to actually look at it?
Probably not.
So Joe forced himself to take in the glittering skyscrapers and soaring planes and crisp blue winter sky smeared with clouds. It was a beautiful day, complete with a distant view of the Statue of Liberty.
I’d still prefer Scottstown, Joe thought, pushing off the closed door and approaching the latest-model Mac desktop, all shiny and chrome.
The password was, of course, his birthday combined with the name of his childhood toy. Scoofy, back when he couldn’t say Scooby right.
At least some things never change, Joe thought, pulling up the files.
He wished he had a better idea of what he was looking for. Something suspicious might sound good in his head, but sitting there with his heart pounding, wondering if his parents might actually take five minutes to come find him or worse, need something out of their office, he kicked himself for not thinking this plan through.
Unfortunately, his mom didn’t name her files. She numbered them by date and event.
Joe opened one folder filled with little video clips of their best news reels, another folder of pictures from a charity dinner HNN hosted. There was one, the most recent, filled with snapshots and invoices for the fancy party they’d dragged him to on the night Eliza arrived in town.
But nothing suspicious.
Moving on to the mail icon, Joe tried to ignore how icky it felt to be going through his mother’s messages. For some reason, it was easier to dig through her professional files. More sterile. But opening her email felt like a violation, like he was really doing something wrong. Moving quickly so he could tell himself he’d tried, he opened up the app and scanned through the unread messages.
One caught his eye.
It was from an unknown sender, the email a jumble of letters. Proton server.
The subject line was: Your efforts have not been adequate.
Joe opened the email and read the single line, unadorned by any signature or date.
The Vagabonds continue to be a subject of national attention. My instructions were clear. If Daniel wasn’t enough of a warning, I will find motivation closer to home.
Joe stared at the words, letting them seep into his consciousness before he really allowed himself to understand them.
Daniel. The YouTuber who died of some allergy or drug overdose. Sudden. Unexpected. A warning? No, don’t go there yet. Keep thinking it through. My instructions. The Vagabonds.
Motivation closer to home.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Joe pushed away from the computer. The pieces were moving, slotting together in a way that sent a chill down his spine. Closer to home. That was him. It had to be. No wonder his parents had been so oppressive lately, so nervous to let him out of their sight. They’d been scared. Someone was threatening them, threatening to do whatever they’d done to kill the YouTuber that hadn’t left a trace. Or maybe it had, and the cops were bought out. Who knew how deep this went?
My instructions were clear.
So it wasn’t their idea to cover up the Vagabonds…
The door slammed open, making Joe tumble out of the seat in shock.
“There you are, we wanted you to be a part of the…”
His mom’s voice trailed off as she saw the glowing screen, the open email, her son scrambling to his feet.
Even the noises of traffic outside seemed to stop as both Joe and his mother held their breath, stared at each other.
“Joe, what did you—?”
“I know, Mom,” Joe said, balling his fists and trying to pretend he hadn’t just fallen out of a rolling desk chair. “I know about Hans and the YouTuber and why you’re covering up the Vagabonds.”
His mother closed the door behind her. The near-silent click was worse than any amount of shouting. “What are you talking about?”
“Just tell me. Please. I’m seventeen years old. You can trust me.”
“Don’t be silly, Joe, we’re not keeping secrets from—”
“Then what’s that?” Joe demanded, jamming a finger at the screen. “Who sent that?”
His mother waved a dismissive hand. “Spam mail, you know how specific they can be.”
Joe shook his head. He could see it in her eyes, the fear, the fire. This was Natalie in her element, under tremendous pressure and needing to perform. But he didn’t want her to perform, he wanted her to be a parent for once. He wanted to have a family who valued him more than their damn company and the lies it stood for.
“Mom,” Joe said slowly, keeping his voice even. “Stop lying. It’s not going to work on me. Not anymore.”
Her eyes hardened. She took a step toward him, and he was surprised by how threatening it was. “Joseph Fagan, whatever you think you know you’re wrong. Your father and I have made tremendous sacrifices for you—”
“You mean for yourself,” Joe cut in, a strange and unnatural anger rising to meet his mother’s whispered rage.
“No, Joe. For you. You think you know everything?” she let out a small, almost spiteful laugh. “How classically adolescent. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep this all in the air? How much we juggle to keep you safe?”
“No, I don’t! So maybe you should tell me!”
“You couldn’t possibly understand!”
“I sure as hell don’t right now!”
The door opened again, this time slower, and Joe’s father stuck his head in. “Do I hear shouting in here?”
It was too much for Joe. He could feel the Superman Virus taking over, obscuring his rational thoughts like a dark storm. Angry as he was, he loved his parents. He didn’t want to hurt them, didn’
t want to embarrass them here by doing something like throwing the desk chair through the wall. Even the act of balling his fists so hard the bones ached wasn’t enough. His whole body itched to crush, to destroy, and he needed to get out of there.
More than that, he needed the truth.
And he knew just where to find it.
“I’ve got to go,” Joe said, pushing his mother aside. He flushed with shame when she staggered, grabbing the wall for support.
“Son!” his father said in a tone of shocked outrage, but Joe was already past him, already down the hall and in the elevator and jamming the button that would take him away. Maybe his family would chase him. Maybe they’d brush it off and pretend nothing had happened. Business as usual. Show must go on.
Maybe it had to.
Closer to home.
His mom was right, what did he know? He was a kid in a world that was suddenly so damn weird. No wonder people escaped into fiction; those stories were simple and satisfying. Clear villain. Obvious battle. Victory, but at a manageable cost. And all of it so distant, detached from reality. But this was Joe’s life, it was his parents, and he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was more tied up in all this nonsense than he ever wanted to be.
The elevator doors dinged open.
A big man was standing there. “I’m sorry kid, but your parents told me to stop you from leaving.”
Joe swallowed, desperately holding the leash of his temper. As large as this other man was, Joe knew that if his control snapped, the guy would die. Maybe others too. Joe was a weapon, or at least had a weapon pounding through his blood, and none of them knew it. None of them were prepared.
Because of his parents.
“Too bad,” he managed to get out through clenched teeth, striding forward.
The man grabbed his arm.
Joe closed his eyes.
Just get to the door.
Reaching over, Joe wrapped his hand around the man’s wrist.
He squeezed.
The security agent winced, the only outward sign of the pressure Joe was exerting.
“Don’t make me break it,” Joe said under his breath. He looked over and saw himself reflected in the guard’s glasses. He was cold and hard, red hair standing up, pale skin somehow frightening.
