‘‘So you isolated yourself to ward off the temptation,’’ she summed up. ‘‘Very noble, in a way. But in all this time, you had no friends?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘No family?’’
‘‘Just Julie. But I stayed away.’’
‘‘Acquaintances, co-workers? Not even a pet?’’
Grant shook his head.
‘‘My, my,’’ she breathed in deeply, examining him with new eyes. ‘‘You embraced it. You allowed it to change the very foundations of who you are.’’
He breathed faster, old feelings rushing to the surface. ‘‘I never asked for everyone in my life to run out on me,’’ he huffed. ‘‘Why are you asking me about this?’’
‘‘Grant, my fate and that of those around us is about to be decided at your hands. I’d like to know if you’re more Jekyll or Hyde.’’
‘‘Morgan!’’ someone shouted.
They both turned as a tall, thin, black man Grant hadn’t yet met stormed through the Common Room doors and marched straight up to Morgan. He appeared to be ignoring Grant.
‘‘It was too soon!’’ he cried, his eyes twitching wildly behind his oval, wire-rimmed glasses. ‘‘How could you?!’’
The man had short, braided hair and was clearly agitated, gesturing wildly with his arms. He was impossibly thin and couldn’t have been more than twenty-three.
Morgan was untroubled by his actions. She merely stared at him.
‘‘Grant, I don’t believe you’ve met Fletcher,’’ Morgan said without taking her eyes off of the newcomer. ‘‘You’ll have to forgive his . . . zeal. He’s made it his self-appointed mission to guard the safety of this place and the Loci who live here. His enthusiasm sometimes gets the best of him. But I keep him around because he’s a genius.’’
‘‘I thought you were all geniuses, of one kind or another.’’
‘‘Well, yes. But he’s different. Fletcher is capable of multiple thoughts at the same time. He’s quite brilliant, capable of seeing patterns and connections that others physically cannot.’’
Finally Fletcher turned his twitchy frame in Grant’s direction, though he barely acknowledged him at all. ‘‘I provide the intuition that her vast knowledge of cold facts utterly lacks.’’ He returned his attention to Morgan. ‘‘This man could be anyone. How could you take him to see the stone so soon? You don’t know anything about him!’’
‘‘Enough,’’ Morgan said forcefully, her face calm but her volume matching his. ‘‘I know enough.’’
‘‘You’re jeopardizing our safety by trusting him.’’ His eyes darted back and forth quickly between Grant and Morgan. ‘‘He’s killed at least one person—that we know of—and injured several others. Morgan, he blew up a house, for crying out loud!’’
Morgan’s lips stretched into a thin frown as Fletcher continued talking for another minute. Her head slowly turned to look in his direction.
‘‘Young man, are you aware that your lips are still moving?’’ she said, interrupting him.
He fell silent, registering an appalled expression.
‘‘You should look after that,’’ she said, her eyebrows slightly raised.
He glared at her. Then stormed off.
‘‘Don’t mind him. You are always welcome here, Grant. Though when you stop by, I would thank you to bring me a new book or two, if you can.’’ She offered a knowing smile. ‘‘Preferably something rare.’’
He nodded, and Morgan excused herself.
Hannah noticed the opening and approached. She must have guessed the meaning of the stare Grant couldn’t hide because she smiled.
‘‘Sleep makes all things better,’’ she quipped. She grabbed his hand and gave it a little squeeze, and he found himself squeezing back, overwhelmed and grateful to have sympathetic human contact. ‘‘You should try it.’’
‘‘No, I’m glad to be headed home. Though to be honest, I am a little worried,’’ he said sheepishly.
‘‘What, because of those Inveo people?’’ she replied.
‘‘They can identify us.’’
‘‘We don’t know that anybody other than the security guards ever actually saw our faces, and they were a bunch of psychos, anyway,’’ she replied. ‘‘I’m thinkin’ the question they have to ask themselves is, do they know more about us, or do we know more about them? We saw their entire operation. Their ‘war room’ or whatever. Not to mention that enormous door, which leads to God only knows what. I’m guessin’ that’s not the kinda info they’d want the police or the media to find out about.’’
‘‘But that’s all the more reason for them to come after us,’’ he said.
She sighed, rolled her eyes. ‘‘They won’t try anything, they’ll be too afraid after what you did to them. You certainly struck fear into that detective’s heart tonight, too. And if they do come after us, I’ll just put tarantulas in their dreams.’’ He thought she might be joking, but reconsidered at her expression.
‘‘You can do that?’’ he said.
‘‘Tip of the iceberg, big boy,’’ she said, breaking into that thousand-dollar smile, with those gorgeous ruby lips and radiant white teeth . . .
Her cell phone rang. She pulled it out and looked at the display.
‘‘Sorry, I’ve been waiting to hear from a client,’’ she said, and started walking away.
‘‘Remind me to have a talk with you about your line of work sometime,’’ Grant called out.
Still walking, she craned her head around and stuck her tongue out at him, before flashing that big smile again.
The smile that he was finding increasingly pleasant.
On the front doorstep, Hannah opened her ringing phone.
‘‘Yeah?’’
She walked lightly down the front steps and glanced at her watch. Then she walked away from the building, along the broken driveway until she was as far away as she dared.
‘‘No, I was just talkin’ to him before you called,’’ she said, her voice low.
The voice on the other end responded.
‘‘Yes . . . I understand.’’
She listened to the phone.
‘‘Trust me . . .’’ she said, turning back to gaze at the asylum. ‘‘He has no idea.’’
24
‘‘You’re not going to get anything out of him,’’ said a man with the name ‘‘Hanson’’ on his nametag. He seemed like a competent kid, but a bit young for a lieutenant. And the way he kept sizing up Drexel’s bruises and scrapes was starting to grate. ‘‘He hasn’t said a word since we brought him in after that 911 call.’’
‘‘He hasn’t met me,’’ Drexel replied.
Drexel put his hand on the doorknob to the interrogation room and opened it.
‘‘So . . . the legendary Thresher, caught with his guard down,’’ Drexel said. He began circling the small metal chair in the interrogation room. The bald man sitting within it tensed briefly but said nothing. A bright spotlight shone from above—the only light in the room— and the Thresher’s hands were cuffed in plastic restraints behind him.
‘‘Oh, I know all about you,’’ Drexel continued, noting the other man’s edge. ‘‘It would seem your skills are surpassed only by your legendary status in your line of work. Did you know you’re creeping up the FBI’s Most Wanted list? Though they never had a picture to go with the profile till now.’’
The Thresher squared his shoulders, sat upright.
Drexel leaned forward and lowered his voice, so only his captive could hear him speak. ‘‘I know what you’re looking for. You want the Bringer.’’
The Thresher turned to face him for the first time. ‘‘For your sake, I hope you’re going to tell me where to find him.’’
‘‘Ah, he speaks!’’ Drexel triumphed. ‘‘Idiots here were just telling me how they couldn’t get a single word out of you. Now that we’re friends, why don’t you tell me your real name. To go along with your portrait.’’
‘‘I have none.�
�’
Drexel shrugged. ‘‘Never hurts to ask. So how did they capture you, anyway?’’
‘‘They cheated,’’ the Thresher replied.
‘‘Cheated!’’ Drexel laughed out loud. ‘‘Let me guess, everyone who defeats you cheats.’’
‘‘No one has ever defeated me. Your men scored no victory,’’ the Thresher spat. ‘‘Where is triumph when you lack the spine to look your opponent in the eye? Those adolescents with guns and nightsticks knew they had no chance of besting me. Just as you do. So you seek to intimidate me.’’ He paused then continued with a note of amusement in his voice. ‘‘Intimidate . . . me.’’
Drexel slapped him hard across the back of his bald head. ‘‘Men in handcuffs shouldn’t mock.’’
He didn’t say anything else for a moment, just circled the man for a minute or two. Finally he asked, ‘‘Are the rumors true? Do you really get a million per hit, in cash?’’
The Thresher made no response.
‘‘What a stash you must have!’’ Drexel continued. ‘‘A man might wonder what you spend that kind of money on.’’
Still there was no response.
‘‘They say you’re real selective about the jobs you’ll take,’’ Drexel continued, still walking in a circle around the chair. ‘‘But no one’s ever been able to figure out what your method of selection is.’’
The Thresher did not even move in his chair, he simply continued staring straight ahead.
‘‘Ah, well,’’ Drexel resolved. ‘‘Back to business at hand, I guess. Let’s start with this, my new favorite piece of evidence.’’ Drexel produced the sword from somewhere beyond the room’s darkness and continued to circle until he was standing in front of the seated man. He hefted the sword with his good right arm—the other was still in a shoulder brace from his episode at the UCLA office. ‘‘Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what these markings on the blade signify?’’
The Thresher looked up at Drexel.
He kicked out sharply with his foot, knocking the sword out of Drexel’s hand. It arced into the air until the tip was pointing down; soaring downward, the mighty blade sliced through the plastic cuffs and as his hands became free, he caught the sword in one hand at the last second.
The Thresher stood and the sword became a blur of movement. Drexel’s belt disappeared from his pants, flying off into the air behind the Thresher. His pants instantly fell around his ankles and he felt a sharp sting across his rear end that could only have come from the flat of the sword’s blade. The pain thrust him suddenly forward, but his feet were tangled in the fallen trousers and there was nothing nearby to grab.
As he toppled over, the Thresher caught him by the forehead with a single hand. The arm attached to that hand was outstretched far enough to keep Drexel out of his reach; the Thresher sat on a nearby table calmly, his arm keeping Drexel from falling over without breaking a sweat.
It had all happened much too fast for Drexel to react to. Now he found himself leaning over far, arms flailing madly to get his balance back. He panicked as his bulbous belly touched the sword’s edge, which the Thresher held in position by sitting on the hilt, wedging it between himself and the tabletop.
Yet he sat there staring at Drexel with utmost calm.
The Thresher leaned in to whisper a response to Drexel’s last question. ‘‘You wanted to know what the markings on the blade signify? More than a right waste like you could ever comprehend.’’
Drexel awoke minutes later, surrounded by fellow policemen.
‘‘What happened? Where’d he go?’’ he stammered.
‘‘Long gone,’’ one of the cops replied. ‘‘Looks like he knocked you out somehow.’’
Drexel came to his feet, not entirely steady, and pulled his pants back up with an angry jolt.
Blood surged through him and pounded against his temples.
That’s it, then.
Enough was enough. The department wanted results, and he was going to get them.
No matter what.
He flipped open his phone from one of his pockets and stormed out the door.
‘‘We’re moving to Plan B,’’ he said when the ringing stopped. ‘‘Do it now.’’
He hung up, withdrew a business card from his pocket, and dialed the number printed on it.
‘‘I’ve told you already, Detective. I don’t know anything about this man you mentioned,’’ Daniel said into his phone, as he walked down the second-floor steps. Drexel had called just as Daniel was leaving the lab; Lisa had gone home hours ago.
‘‘I had no idea,’’ Drexel replied, ‘‘ethical scientist types like yourself were so skilled at lying.’’
Daniel walked out the front door into the cool night air in the warehouse district. It was unusually cold, yet he began to sweat at Drexel’s implication. ‘‘Detective, I’ve contacted my lawyer, and I know you have no right to search or seize anything on my property without just cause.’’
Silence met him on the phone line, as he turned around to lock the outside door of the old brick warehouse building.
With a deep snarl, Drexel said, ‘‘We’ll have to find one then.’’
Daniel stared at his phone, wondering if that had been a smart move. He’d meant to stave off the other man, but instead he’d somehow challenged him to up his game.
He wondered what else Drexel might have up his sleeve. Anything was possible.
It occurred to him just then how remarkably silent it was, there on the usually busy street behind him. Even the wind had momentarily stopped, holding its breath.
His phone rang again and he jumped.
Lisa . . .
Before he could answer it, he heard a loud crack.
The phone fell out of his hand and he slumped to the ground.
His mind was reacting too slowly, he realized—the crack had been something hitting the back of his head. On his hands and knees, he grabbed the door handle in front of him to steady himself and stand back up. He had a firm grip on it, and he gradually, carefully got to his feet. He turned around.
Something hard swung sideways into him, and he heard another sickening pop. He fell again, backward this time, as the wind was knocked out of him and a sharp pain shot through his chest.
Coughing, Daniel looked up through bleary eyes at the three obscure figures that towered over him. He couldn’t make out their features. He saw only dark silhouettes. Perhaps they were men wearing hooded sweatshirts. Or perhaps they were wolves, tenderizing their next meal. The nearest one was holding a large metal bat. But as he lay there, none of them moved a muscle.
They watched him.
Daniel raised a hand straight up into the air. ‘‘Please, don’t . . .’’ he gasped.
The bat came down again in a flash, this time into his stomach, and it was all he could manage to swallow the rising nausea.
‘‘No—’’ he tried to say, but it didn’t sound right, and he couldn’t catch his breath.
One of them grabbed him by his straight brown hair and lifted, forcing him to stand. Daniel flailed his arms about, trying to get the man to let go, but he was facing the wall now and couldn’t see what they were doing.
He gasped hard, eyes filled with blood and pain as the bat collided with his legs from behind. He fell yet again, fast and hard, the strength in his legs leaving as violent pain coursed through them.
Somewhere nearby, something was ringing.
What is that. . . ? I know that sound . . .
He fought to remain conscious as he realized it was his phone, still ringing from before. If only he could get his fingers around it . . . He threw an arm out in the direction the sound was coming from, but his eyes were bleary and bloodshot, and suddenly the sound stopped.
And then fists, feet, knees, and the heavy baseball bat descended upon him, all at once. Blows came from all sides, and he knew only pain. It was happening too fast. There was no time to react. One of the men stomped hard on his upturned foot and it twisted to the si
de with a sharp snap.
He couldn’t get angry, couldn’t be sad. Couldn’t be afraid. Couldn’t even cry.
He could only feel.
Barely holding to consciousness, he was outstretched on his chest now, though he didn’t remember turning over. He opened his swollen eyes as much as possible, barely able to see through the haze of agony.
One fierce kick to the face ended that, as he finally, gratefully slipped into nothingness.
25
An accident on the 101 turned the trip back from Las Virgenes Canyon into a wasted afternoon. The winding canyon roads suited the Corvette perfectly while the stalled traffic surrounding them now was like making a Thoroughbred pull a plow. Eventually they growled their way back to the Wagner Building and into the parking garage. Finding a space and setting the brake, Grant said, ‘‘I need a plan.’’
‘‘Agreed,’’ Julie replied. She’d been brooding silently in the passenger seat since leaving the asylum. He thought she might yell on the drive back but she’d sat quiet and serious. It was like it was almost too much and the weight of everything had found her shoulders. The sun had waned in the horizon and vanished once they arrived at home, yet this was the first word she’d uttered during the drive.
‘‘Think I might jot some things down, gather my thoughts, maybe see if I can come up with some idea of what I should do next,’’ he continued. ‘‘Want to help?’’
‘‘I was wondering if I could borrow the car, actually,’’ she replied. In response to his unspoken question, she said, ‘‘I haven’t been home in a while. Thought I should check the mail, make sure my bills are caught up. Won’t take long.’’
Something was wrong with this scenario, and Grant didn’t have to be her brother to see it. But she was so distant, so withdrawn . . . and his mind was running in a hundred different directions. He didn’t press the matter.
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