“He fell back in his chair, screaming, grabbing at his face, blood was everywhere, and I jumped on top of him and hit him for all I was worth until someone pulled me off. I got suspended for a week, and they called my dad to come pick me up. He took me to Friendly’s for ice cream, and neither one of us said a word about it.”
“Did that stop it? No more bullies after that?”
Jeremy laughed. “No. I got in another fight the same day I came back to school. Same kid. But I wasn’t scared of him anymore, and that’s what made the difference.” Jeremy leaned forward behind the chair. “And I’m not scared of Ellison now. You can write whatever you need to write in your report. It doesn’t matter. I made my choice.”
“You act like you don’t care,” Lara scribbled a quick note on her tablet, “but I think it’s actually the opposite. I think maybe you care too much. Like with your father—”
Jeremy pushed back from the chair. “I’m not talking about my dad.”
“And why not? You keep bringing him up. He’s obviously someone you care about—someone you admire.”
Lara waited, letting that last sentence hang between them. Jeremy could feel her watching him now. She was looking at him closely, studying his face, his posture, how he held his hands, and Jeremy remembered why they were there—why they were really there.
This was Lara’s job. She was there to analyze him and report. Period. It didn’t matter that she was an Anom; she was a psychologist first. At the end of the day, she didn’t care about him or his dad, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise.
Jeremy thought back to those first months after his dad died. He went to see a counselor then too. Twice a week, every week, and she always asked the same dumb question—made the same demand: Tell me about your father. She would ask it in different ways, just like Lara was asking now, but it always boiled down to the same thing.
She would ask. He would answer. Then she would write. That’s when Jeremy knew his answers didn’t matter. It was all just part of a dance; a pattern of rehearsed steps everyone followed because that’s all they knew. So he stopped going to the counselor. Jeremy decided he wouldn’t waste the memory of his dad on someone like that, and he certainly wouldn’t do it now.
Lara said, “Do you think your dad would have helped Nyx like that?”
“Probably not, because my dad’s dead.” Jeremy’s voice went suddenly flat.
“You know what I’m asking. If he were alive—”
Jeremy turned away. “I’m done. Sorry.”
“G-Force…”
Jeremy stopped and looked back, already halfway to the door. “Listen, I want to call you Lara. Is that okay? Just Lara. And I want you to call me Jeremy. I can’t—I don’t want to be just a code name.”
Lara shook her head. “I don’t think we can do that. There’s a protocol about these things.”
“In here then. It’s… It’s important to me. It’s Jeremy, okay?”
Lara looked at him, and Jeremy knew exactly what she was doing. She was looking for those big emotions again, trying to read him—trying to see under the words. She would probably pick up on his anger—that much was obvious—but what else would she see? Fear for what she would say next? Was that feeling big enough for her to see?
Finally Lara said, “Okay. We can try it, but just in here. Agreed?”
“Yeah. That’s fine.” Jeremy turned back for the door.
“Jeremy, wait.” Lara’s voice stopped him. “You know we’re not really done, right?”
Jeremy answered without looking. “I know.”
Then he opened the door and walked out.
Chapter 15
It was two o’clock in the morning, and Major Ellison was still awake. He didn’t mind. He sat at the small round table in the corner of his room, staring straight ahead, lost in thought. A single fluorescent was on, and it washed out that whole corner of the room in a pale, cold light.
Ellison sat at the table wearing pale blue boxer shorts and his white undershirt, his hands folded under his chin. He had been sitting like that for almost an hour, trying to think. He would catch hold of an idea and try to trace it back to its source, only to get lost along the way. And so he would start again at the beginning. And again—like chasing a ghost.
Ellison reached down without looking and raised a glass of tepid water to his lips. He had tried to sleep an hour ago. He got in his bed and closed his eyes, but after five minutes, when he was still awake, he stood up, went to the sink, and poured the glass of tap water. Then he sat down at the table.
He looked back at the bed. In the shadows on the far side of the room he could still see the outline of Mirror curled up under the thin sheets. It was two o’clock in the morning, and Ellison knew he should be asleep too. Lesser men would hear that word—“should”—and they would let it consume them. Not Ellison. He didn’t care about “should.” He was awake, and it wasn’t a problem. It was a circumstance—one he chose to accept.
Ellison felt like the one man on Earth who could see the truth. There were no real problems in life, only circumstance. He could either accept his current circumstance or he could change it. It was that simple. Of course some circumstances were harder to change than others.
*****
The door to the briefing room kicked open, and Ellison marched inside. He still wore his gray and white camouflaged fatigues from the training exercise, although the whole uniform seemed in a state of disarray. A wide swath of mud stained his right side. The back of his shirt was untucked, and somewhere during the training exercise he had lost his cap.
As he entered the room, he unslung his pack and dropped it against the inside wall. Then he threw down his rifle next to it and stalked to the front of the room. He knew his face was still flushed crimson with anger. He could feel the warmth—the blood rising through his neck and flooding his cheeks and brow. He tried to take a deep breath—to regain his composure—to stop himself before he made another mistake.
Colonel McCann walked into the room, an electronic tablet in one hand and his Army mug in the other, and from the look on his face, there wasn’t going to be time for pleasantries.
Ellison drew himself up to attention and fixed his eyes on the colonel.
McCann stepped behind the lectern at the front of the room. He sipped from his mug, and then he tucked the cup away on a shelf inside the podium. He looked down at the tablet, reading. Ellison understood it all. McCann was making him wait—giving him time to stew—simply because he could. It was a subtle reminder of rank. Petty, maybe, but no less effective.
Finally McCann looked up, and he was ready to start. “You can stand at ease, Major. In fact, why don’t you go ahead and have a seat.”
“Yes, sir.” Ellison’s voice was crisp—measured. “With your permission, sir, I’d rather stand.”
“Have a seat, Stuart.” McCann’s voice was icy now. Ellison had heard it like this before, although rarely when addressing him. It was McCann’s version of a warning. Ellison knew as much, but he didn’t care.
Instead, Ellison raised his voice. “Permission to stand and speak freely, sir?”
“Goddamnit, Major!” McCann roared. “Is this really how you want to do this? Fine! Then let me start by saying there is not one second of today’s exercise that you did not invent some new way to screw up. You failed to lead your men for most of the day, and when you actually gave an order, by god, it was the wrong one to give. You’re supposed to be my Executive Officer on this base, and instead you’re acting like some goddamn wet-ear recruit. You embarrassed your rank today, you embarrassed yourself, and you embarrassed me. Now do you want to take your goddamn seat, or do I need to keep going?”
Ellison sat down in one of the chairs. He knew his mistakes. If McCann wanted to point them out, one at a time, that was his prerogative as base commander. Ellison could accept that.
McCann stepped around the podium and grabbed the chair next to Ellison; he pulled it around so they were facing eac
h other and sat down. “That’s better. Now, Major, in your own words, I want you to tell me what happened?”
Ellison sat forward in his chair. “You saw what happened, sir. We received good intelligence on the enemy flag from our Anom, so I ordered the team to start in that direction. We got clipped by an ambush. My first thought was to hold our line. I was going to push a man up and around their left flank to put pressure on their flag. Make them choose—”
McCann stared back. “And how the hell were you planning to do that? You lost two men in the first thirty seconds of that fight. You lost your aerial support soon after. How were you going to pressure their flag with a three-man team?”
Ellison knew McCann was right, but he still needed an answer. “I’m not sure, sir, but we were going to find a way. Adapt and overcome—”
“Christ, Stuart,” McCann laughed, and all the anger and ice were gone from his voice. “You are hands-down one of the best soldiers I’ve ever seen. It’s why I insisted they make you my EX-O, but if you aren’t the most stubborn son of a… What did you think was going to happen out there?”
Ellison started, “If we had gotten around their flank—”
McCann shook his head. “You’ve got to start using your Anoms correctly. That’s your tactical advantage. The blue team has numbers. That’s their advantage. You’ve got a team of freaks on your side. You need to start playing to your strengths. That’s how you adapt and overcome.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’ve tried that. I try to give them orders. I go over tactical strategy. I treat them like part of the team, but…” Ellison’s voice trailed off.
“Go on, Major. Speak your mind.”
Ellison swallowed. “They’re not, sir. They’re not part of my team. They’re not soldiers, and that makes them reckless and insubordinate. If today was real— if I ever have to give them a real order—if I have to depend on them, it puts my whole team at risk, sir.”
McCann folded his hands. “And that’s why we’re training, Major. It’s why I need you training them. You’re the best I’ve got, Stuart.”
Ellison had heard this argument before. It always ended the same way, with McCann getting exactly what he wanted. His base—his prerogative.
McCann sat back in his chair studying Ellison, and for a long time he didn’t speak. It always made Ellison uncomfortable, sitting across from the colonel with nothing but the silence between them. He felt like a child sent to the principal’s office.
Finally, when McCann spoke again, his voice was still warm. “I want you to tell me the rest of it, Stuart. Tell me what that business was after the exercise.”
Ellison shifted in his chair. This was the part he was waiting for. This was the conversation that mattered.
“I got attacked, sir. Assaulted—”
“By the Cross boy?” McCann said, filling in the story.
“By him and Gauntlet both. They both came after me. I have witnesses.”
McCann’s eyes narrowed. “And why were you reaching for your sidearm, Major?”
There it was—that was the real question. Everything else—all the talk about the exercise and the assault—that was just a prelude. Going for his gun—that was the real mistake, and Ellison knew he would have to answer for it. At the time he didn’t care, but now… Depending on how hard McCann was willing to push, there could be real consequences—the kind that could ruin a career. But it wasn’t at that point—not yet—and Ellison still had one ace up his sleeve.
He cleared his throat and looked back at the colonel. The old man’s voice spoke friendship, but his eyes said something else. Ellison could see the danger there, hidden just under the surface.
Ellison twisted uneasy in his chair. “I reached for my weapon to defend myself. At that point I had already been struck once by G-Force, and I felt my life was in jeopardy. You saw what he did to the door yesterday.”
McCann turned his head to one side, and Ellison knew the colonel wasn’t convinced—not entirely—but it was enough. There was enough doubt to give McCann a way out, if he wanted to take it.
“Bullshit!” The voice came from the back of the room—Loud—Familiar—Irish. Ellison turned around and saw Hayden leaning against the back wall. He was wearing a gray suit with a large crease running jagged from the left shoulder down to the waist. His shirt was white, unbuttoned at the collar, and his tie had been discarded along the way. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his lip curled over his stray tooth.
Ellison wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there. Was he listening the whole time? Why didn’t he see him when he walked into the room?
Hayden pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, shaking one out between his fingers as he spoke. “We both know you weren’t scared for your life. You got knocked into the mud by some kid, and you were pissed, so you went for your gun.”
Ellison didn’t answer. His mind raced ahead. He knew Hayden must have an agenda— knew he was leading him into a corner—but Ellison couldn’t see the endgame. If he said the wrong thing now…
“Come on, Major,” Hayden chided, stepping forward. “You really think we’re going to court martial you over this? You don’t have any idea what this is about.”
Ellison fumbled for an answer, “I have a right to defend myself when I believe my life is in danger. Under directive 521—”
“Enough of that,” Hayden cut him off. “You were angry, and you’re a racist—or whatever we’re going to call people like you who hate people like them—and so you wanted the kid dead. End of story.”
“I have a right to defend myself.”
“The only time you were in danger is when you reached for that gun,” Hayden said. “And I’ll tell you something more, Major: If you had actually managed to draw your weapon, Gauntlet would have carved you up before you pulled the trigger. I can promise you that.”
Hayden raised the cigarette to his mouth and lit the end. He took a long drag. Then he rocked forward on the balls of his feet, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Between you and me, you’re lucky you’re such a coward. It probably saved your life.”
Ellison exploded to his feet, pushing both his hands out at Hayden, but the other man was quicker. He was already spinning away. Ellison followed, his right fist back and loaded for a cross. Then he saw Hayden’s hand tucked under his jacket and around his back, reaching for a weapon, and Ellison froze.
Hayden peeled the cigarette out of his mouth with his left hand as his right hovered behind his back. “I can play the self-defense game too, Major. Or are we ready to be honest?”
“Enough!” Colonel McCann bellowed, stepping between the two men. “Stand down! The both of you!”
Ellison was breathless now; he pointed his finger back at Hayden. “Colonel, I’m placing this man under arrest. I want him taken into custody and held on charges of murder.”
McCann’s face went suddenly ashen. “What are you talking about, Major? Whose murder?”
*****
Ellison drank again from the glass of water as he sat at the table, still no closer to sleep. He had been chasing the same thread of an idea, and now he was back at the same knot. He looked down at the yellow legal pad resting between his elbows on the table.
Near the top, in black ink, Ellison had written a name: MCCANN. He had circled it twenty, thirty, maybe a hundred times with a pen. The ink was heavy and still looked wet on the page.
Ellison had always liked McCann. He was a good officer, and in Ellison’s opinion, a good man. He trusted the colonel, and that trust was born from experience. More than that, it was reinforced by experience. With McCann, Ellison always knew what he was getting.
From the bottom of the ink circle around McCann’s name, a black line stretched halfway down the page, and like the circle, it was traced and retraced a hundred times. It ended at another circle, and inside this circle, another name. Ellison turned the notepad around so McCann’s name was upside down on the bottom and he could read the new name o
n top: HAYDEN.
Hayden was, in every way, the opposite of McCann. They had been together at Fort Blaney for two years, but Ellison still didn’t know the man—not really—and he certainly couldn’t trust him. That much was obvious.
Ellison turned the notepad again. He let his eyes drift over the page, running from McCann’s name down to Hayden and then back to McCann. Finally he focused on the black line connecting the two. This was the thread. This was the knot. Ellison stared at the page. He knew the answer was there; he just couldn’t see it. Not for himself. Not yet.
*****
McCann folded his arms and took in a long breath, his eyes unflinching from Ellison, and when he finally spoke, his voice was broken. “To whose murder are you referring, Major?”
Ellison hesitated. Maybe he shouldn’t say anymore. Honestly, he never meant to say as much as he already had. This was his ace, and he had played it too early. He had wanted to gather more evidence—toxicology reports from the medical examiner at the least—but now it was too late for that. Ellison would have to support his play the best he could.
He drew himself up to attention, squaring his shoulders and fixing his eyes straight ahead; when he spoke, he barked his words as if giving orders to a platoon. “Sir, I am charging Special Agent Hayden with the homicides of Emily Cross and Katherine Marino.”
McCann nodded. “I understand. And what exactly is the basis for your charge, Stuart?”
“Sir, just this morning the command center received information regarding the death of Emily Cross—”
McCann cut him off. “And you’re saying the hospital ruled her death as a homicide?”
“No, sir. The hospital cited sudden arrhythmia as the cause of—”
“If they said it was her heart, Major, then why are you accusing Hayden—”
“We cross-referenced emergency personnel reports with known associates of Jeremy Cross,” Ellison pressed on before McCann could interrupt him again. “Katherine Marino, the friend from the mall, she also died last night. That’s too much of a coincidence, sir.”
ANOM: Awakening (The ANOM Series Book 1) Page 16
