by K. C. Finn
Cae feels a bitter tang in his mouth, quickly lifting coffee to his lips to wash the feeling away. His mother, his most revered memory, is being marred by his father’s story; by the man who wasn’t smart enough to find his way back to her. He bites his tongue, knowing Kendra will take charge of him if he tries to incite another fracas, listening but not believing, or at least not wanting to believe.
“I think the plan must have been to inject The Face with the poison and then trade me for the antidote,” Julius continues, deliberately fixing his eyes on Kendra still. She nods, her visage thoughtful. “But it went wrong.”
“I’d gathered that much,” Cae snaps. Howard’s mug rattles at the venom in his tone, but Julius is perfectly calm.
“She injected him all right, but The Face called her bluff. He thought he could just kill her and grab the antidote afterwards,” Julius says.
Cae nods slowly, remembering how his family home was ransacked, everything ripped bare and searched when he came home from the hospital after the acid attack.
“He couldn’t find it?” Kendra asks.
“There wasn’t one,” Julius replies, almost smiling, “Jenna had invented the poison, but she hadn’t yet developed the cure. I’m not sure that she ever intended for The Face to recover from it.”
“It took him six years to die?” Cae questions in a half whisper.
Julius nods. “It was slow acting, extremely painful, but it left no visible signs. Nobody knew he was dying, nobody except me.”
“Why you?” Kendra adds.
Cae holds up a hand. “Because he’s a scientist,” he interrupts, “and the one that worked closest with my mother. The Face would have looked to him to develop the cure. That’s the reason you’re still alive, isn’t it?”
Julius finally meets his son’s gaze once more, his eyes solemn but not sorrowful. He continues without acknowledging the question.
“I knew exactly where to derive the cure,” he says, “but I never revealed it to him. It was fit for him to die in agony after…” He swallows hard, the steely look in his eyes faltering for just a second. “After everything.”
Cae finds himself agreeing, pleased at least that his father has something to share that resembles a plea for redemption. His mother hadn’t really wanted anyone to die then, but she had gone to drastic lengths to try and get his father back.
“It’s the least you could do,” Cae says after a pause.
“So when did he die?” Kendra adds, a new curiosity brewing in her features, “When did the poison finally take him?”
“About seven months ago,” Julius replies, “the day before I released you from service and sent you to Dartley.”
But Cae starts shaking his head, because something still isn’t right.
“If you’re so sure that The Face is dead, then who’s been trying to kill me?” he demands, “I’ve practically had Redd Richmond confess to me that he’s behind it all. Your story doesn’t make sense with what I’ve been through.”
“Richmond?” Julius says with a drop in his brow, “I met him here a few years ago, he didn’t seem all that ruthless. Why should he want to take credit for The Face’s work?”
“Maybe he wants to run the show now,” Kendra suggests, “You know, pick up where the old man left off?”
“What was his name?” Cae asks, “The old Face?”
“Lucien Forsyth,” Julius answers, “he’d been running a huge web of cross-continental operations for at least two decades. I suppose it’s a desirable prospect, really, for an aspiring crime lord to want to claim it for his own.”
He doesn’t sound convinced and Cae isn’t either.
“It’d be worth a lot of money,” Howard adds.
“Richmond doesn’t need money,” Cae answers immediately.
Something is wrong with the picture. A takeover makes sense, but not at Redd’s hands. Seven months ago, the conman was inside the walls of Dartley Prison. Cae remembers well since he put him there personally after unveiling a network scam he was running. Richmond doesn’t have the authority to lay claim to a title like this.
“Is there anyone else The Face could have passed the torch to?” Cae asks, “Anyone he would have trusted to carry on when he died?”
Julius shrugs. “I don’t remember her that well, but he has a daughter.”
“What’s her name?” Kendra adds, all too eager.
A cold shiver runs through Cae’s body as he waits for his father to answer, dreading the sensation that he already knows what’s coming. Julius watches him, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny, his mouth open a little as he too pauses in thought. Kendra shoves him in the arm and the professor rallies, turning to her and clearing his throat.
“Her name is Angelica.”
Meanwhile
10.
Seven Months Ago
Every time he tries to rise from the chair, a hand shoves him back down. The liaison officer, glorified bouncer that he is, gives him a too-kind smile, a placating grin that does little to hide the force behind it.
“Now Redd, what makes you think you’re going anywhere?” asks Charles Brooks, his tone overly sweet.
“This is a counselling room,” Redd replies, his shoulders tensing, “I didn’t request any counselling.”
Brooks just laughs, his dark hair falling into his brow. He retrieves a small tablet from a pouch at his belt and shows Redd its screen as he navigates to a dull, grey form.
“This is your application form,” he replies with a chuckle, “Go ahead, take a look. Tell me that isn’t your signature.”
Redd’s olive green eyes hover over the screen. He can see his own reflection beyond the form, looking more nervous than he’d like to.
“That’s not my signature,” he replies.
It really isn’t. It’s a poor forgery, but no-one in Dartley Prison seems to care about things like that anymore. The place really is going to the dogs. Brooks shakes his head, starting to step away.
“You crack me up, Richmond, you really do.”
A moment later he’s gone, leaving Redd alone in the small room. His hands remain cuffed in his lap and he bemoans the pallor that the fluorescent lights are giving his usually sun-kissed skin. The room looks forcibly comfortable, like someone went out and picked the cosiest looking chairs and table they could find, a cheap imitation of the comforts of home. If it’s supposed to be making him feel relaxed, then the screws need to get their money back ASAP.
Redd Richmond picks up both of his secured hands and uses them to smooth his wave of greying hair, determined to look at ease regardless of what comes next. Someone has set him up for this so called “counselling” moment. As a well-renowned snitch, there are hundreds of crims he’s ticked off over the years; any one of them could have done this to see to their old grudges. Usually Redd finds that prison is the safest place to hide from such things, but now the devils are in the walls here too, it seems.
The figure that comes through the only door surprises him, relief palpable in the huge exhale he makes. She is young and petite, a little too thin; with a blonde bob and a grin that confuses Redd for a moment. She’s looking at him like she knows him. And there’s something in her glassy eyes that rings a faint bell in his mind.
“It’s been a while, Reddrick,” the young woman says once she’s certain the door behind her is sealed. He watches her come to sit opposite him, long legs crossed elegantly, adjusting her little dark skirt.
“I’m having a hard time putting a name to a face,” he replies.
“To a face?” the woman repeats with a pointed giggle, “Good one.”
And then he knows who she is.
“Angelica-” he begins.
“Lane,” she cuts in, eyes widening for just a moment as she breaks her cool, “It’s Lane now.”
Forsyth, it should have been. Redd quirks a brow.
“You got married?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “It was just necessary for the purpose.”
Angelica flashes him th
e badge on her lapel and Redd is astonished to see it is genuine. She really is a custodial counsellor in this godawful place. But something is very wrong with this scenario indeed. She was barely seventeen the last time Redd laid eyes on her, but he can recall enough to know that this girl isn’t the caring-sharing type.
“Daddy thought it was a good idea for me to have a career in the justice system,” she explains, as though she’s had to do this line a few times before.
“I’ll bet he did,” Redd replies, “How is the old bear?”
Angelica’s fluttering lashes drop towards the table.
“He’s dead.”
And now Redd has reason to be afraid all over again. As one of Lucien Forsyth’s most favoured cronies, he’s been reasonably untouchable and given a wide berth by the rest of the criminal world for nearly twenty years. After all, who wants to mess with the conman most closely connected to The Face?
“I am sorry to hear that, believe me,” Redd says darkly.
When Angelica looks up again her eyes have changed colour, now reflecting the prison orange shade of Redd’s uniform as she leans in closer to him over the table. The hue makes him feel like she’s lit with determination. She looks manic. And it’s terribly attractive.
“I’ve done my denial and my grieving,” Angelica says, “and I find myself now sitting firmly in the anger phase of the process.”
“Is this my counselling session or yours?” Redd replies, a grin creeping onto his face.
Angelica laughs just the once. “This is an offer. I’m taking over the family business. And I want you with me.”
“What good am I?” Redd asks, his eyes glittering with flattery.
“You know how useful you could be to me,” the young woman answers, matching the sparkle in his gaze with one of her own.
The glow in her eyes isn’t warm like his though; it cuts like diamond, laced with intent. If she’s grown to be anything like her father, then Redd knows Angelica must be a woman who gets what she wants. And who is he to disappoint her?
“Very well,” he says with a nod, “But I don’t see what use I am locked up here.”
“You will,” Angelica replies, a flash of perfectly white teeth giving her a predatory look. Redd shivers in his overalls for just a moment. “And I’ll make sure we get you out of here in time for the real fun to begin,” she continues, looking back at the door, “That liaison officer of yours, with the dark hair, what’s his name?”
“Charles Brooks,” Redd replies, “He’s all right.”
Angelica wags a finger at him like he’s been a naughty boy.
“Don’t get too attached,” she chides, “I’m thinking of moving into liaison next week. And for that to occur, Mr Brooks is going to have to meet with something nasty to leave a space open. Do you follow?”
Organised death doesn’t often sit well with Redd Richmond, but he knows it’s a necessary part of the criminal profession. It’s just not one he’s ever directly dealt with before. He reclines, attempting to seem relaxed by the whole affair.
“I do,” he says, his tone even, “Is there anything else you need?”
“Yes,” Angelica answers, her eyes blazing, wide and fierce as her little jaw clenches briefly. She looks like she wants to vomit, like something sour is rising within in that needs releasing. When she speaks, the very words are poison on her lips.
“Tell me what you know about Caecilius Rex.”
11.
Six Months Ago
Angelica couldn’t be more impressed with the impact her father’s legacy has on those she’s been willing to mention it to. Lucien had always told her that confidence was ninety-nine percent of the business and now she can see that it’s true. She is standing in the corridor of Dartley Police Station next to a tall gent in a fine grey suit, but she can’t miss the tiny beads of sweat creeping out of the back of his bright white collar. Damian Jobe, the current chief of police, is visibly tense at her side.
“What exactly do you want with him?” Damian asks.
“Rex?” Angelica asks. The chief gives a shaky nod, his jaw clenched. “His family has unfinished business with my family.”
She gives a little shrug, the smallest smile playing at the corner of her lip. Damian bristles again, turning his gaze on the door of Rex’s office just a few feet away. The lights aren’t on; the young star detective has yet to clock in. Damian’s hands travel from the pockets of his suit to rub over one another for a moment, whilst Angelica stands with the poise of a woman in control.
Jobe had been an occasional lackey of The Face for quite a few years, fixing the odd piece of evidence, overlooking offences where Lucien needed a blind eye. But in her numerous discussions with Redd Richmond under the pretence of “counselling” him, she has discovered that the lacklustre police chief can be far more useful to her than she ever imagined. Here she has the chance to meet the man whose family killed her father, the last link to his demise and therefore her target for revenge.
He isn’t what she’d expected him to be, dressed all in black, a stark figure against the fluorescent lights and pale halls of the station. Rex keeps his head down when he walks, his blue eyes slipping out from under dark brows to watch the floor. It’s clear he isn’t really paying any mind to where he’s walking; those eyes are alight with careful thought, consumed by ideas far from the current place and time. He’s intelligent.
Which makes his defeat all the sweeter.
As Rex reaches the door of his office Jobe steps forward and Angelica follows sharply. One gloved hand has risen to the door handle as the chief speaks, his voice much stronger than the tense whispers Angelica’s been hearing all morning.
“Don’t bother sitting down, Rex.”
His voice is pained, a scratching hoarseness behind every word as Caecilius Rex turns and speaks to his chief. Angelica finds her eyes drawn to those gloves, an old memory surfacing that sticks in her throat like a grain of rice that won’t budge. Cries of agony, the scorching redness of tidemarks burned into skin, then silence. A body slung over a rock.
“This is Angelica Lane,” Damian says, her new surname catching her off-guard, “She’s new to us, Prison Liaison Officer.”
Angelica forces her vision up to Rex’s pale face as she extends a hand without even thinking.
“Pleasure to meet you, detective.”
“Miss Lane.”
The shake he gives her hand is mercifully brief, the contact forcing Angelica to recall more sights she wishes she didn’t have locked in that memory of hers. Rex is all business, far more interested in the requests of his chief than the pretty face observing him from the side-lines. Angelica smiles inwardly at that, knowing that such loyalty to Jobe will prove to be the detective’s downfall when he meets the gruesome fate she’s laid out for him.
She ponders idly if her father often scoped out his targets like this before they died. He would surely be proud of the way she’s upholding his name, striking fear into those under his control and making them puppets of her own. Ending the line of blood that poisoned him and ruined everything. Putting a stop to the beating heart of the son of a murderer standing before her right now.
It’s Angelica’s job to show Rex up to the room where Redd is waiting to feed him his first piece of evidence, the one that will lead him to Brooks and the Atomic Circus. Small talk is easy for her, a woman well-practised in presenting a false face to the world all her life in order to protect her father’s identity. Yet his brief inquisition catches her a little when they enter the elevator; the way he asks about her work history suggests he’s more astute than the average man. Like he knows something’s wrong with her, the way she knows so many things are wrong with him.
“You enjoy working with criminals, I take it?”
He asks the question as they exit onto the interrogation floor. Angelica turns, deciding on instinct that a more playful tact is required to throw the stoic figure off balance.
“I suppose you could say that,” she replies wit
h a glittering smile.
12.
Damian Jobe stands trembling, his fingers tapping against the fine material of his suit. In front of him is an armchair occupied by a slim blonde, her body reclined, her legs crossed. She is staring intently at a video playing on a computer screen. The scene displays an abandoned casino, its ceiling spinning with sharp, rotating blades. Blades that should have shredded the video’s star. And yet he lives, she’s watching him being loaded onto a hospital stretcher, that brutish solider holding his hand and praising some unknown force that she caught his ankle in time to save him from his fate.
“To say I’m upset with you would be quite an understatement,” Angelica states.
Damian stiffens, taking a few steps back as she lifts herself elegantly from the chair, turning the screen off with a tap. Her rogued lips are smiling, but her eyes are cold as steel.
“How was I supposed to know she wouldn’t die from those drugs?” the police chief stammers, “Your father always said they were effective. Totally effective.”
His convincing tone doesn’t seem to be working on her. Angelica takes the lapels of his jacket, holding his chest closer to her shoulders. He towers over her, but her presence is far greater than her stature. She frightens him; the lengths that she’ll go to are nothing that Damian’s ever come across before.
“My father was wrong about a lot of things,” Angelica explains, “That’s why he’s dead and I’m in charge of you right now.”
“What would you have me do?” Damian asks, trying not to sound pleading, “I could rearrange the hit, get someone else in.”
Angelica shakes her head, blonde strands flying to and fro.
“No more cronies,” she says, “This time you do it yourself. He’s going to want to shut the circus down, so be there when he does.”
Damian nods, hurrying out of her space and heading for the door in moments. Before he can quite exit the room, however, dread fills him as The Face’s only daughter calls him back.
“And Damian?” she says. He turns back to face her. “Remember how badly you’ve disappointed me, won’t you?”
The chief nods in confusion, rushing from the room at breakneck pace. When he’s gone Angelica sinks back into the chair in Redd Richmond’s study, enjoying her new base of operations in thoughtful silence. When she hears Damian’s car squealing down the road, she picks up her phone and gently taps out a number, careful not to upset her nails. They’re freshly done for work at Dartley prison tomorrow, which just so happens to be the place she’s dialling.
