The Luke Titan Chronicles: Books 1-4: The Luke Titan Chronicles Boxset

by David Beers

  He didn't know anything about her, but she clearly had money. She was well dressed, wearing a tight skirt and stepping into a BMW. It was just after seven in the morning and Bradley sat in his car, across the street from her house.

  Bradley wanted blue eyes, obviously, but he was beginning to wonder if he actually needed them each time? Originally, yes, he wanted to decorate his garage, turning it in to a throne room of sorts. He still wanted that, but the actual act of killing was becoming almost as important. Something he needed to do. Something that ...

  The car backed out of the driveway and started down the neighborhood road.

  He'd follow her and then decide if he wanted to kill her. He hadn't asked Johnny Consultant her eye color, but maybe he didn't care. Maybe the person on the other side of the texts was right. Maybe he needed to get some of this out of his system, and then he could focus again on his collection.

  "TELL me what happened with the other person that died."

  Veronica sat across from Christian Windsor, but in a park this time. She didn't ask why he wanted to meet here, but figured it created more privacy than a Subway.

  "It was ruled a suicide," she said. "He killed himself with a shotgun."

  "Then why do you think that has something to do with Luke?"

  "I don't know."

  "I read about John Presley," Christian said. "I might have broken some laws doing it, because the files are all sealed, but it's a pretty ridiculous accusation."

  "I spoke to him before he died. He still believed it, and the way he said it ... well, it didn't sound that ridiculous. He was convinced."

  "I'm wasting time right now," Christian said. "We have a legitimate killer who is most likely getting ready to kill again and I'm not working because I'm here with you. What you're telling me is that some old, disgruntled co-worker believed Luke poisoned him, and that someone who didn't like Luke years ago, killed himself."

  "You seem like a smart person, Agent Windsor," Veronica said. "You looked up a lot of this before you came here, so you knew what I was going to tell you. If you already thought this would be a waste of your time, why did you come?"

  She didn't like his tone or the anger riding through his voice. She hadn't called him—in fact, she had made up her mind not to call again, to let the whole thing drop regardless how much it bothered her.

  Christian sighed and swung one leg over the picnic table's bench so that he no longer faced her, but looked out into the distance. "I don't know. I can't figure it out, but something is bothering me."

  "And it has something to do with Titan?"

  "I think so, yes."

  "Does he know we're talking?"

  "No," Christian said. "I didn't think it would be a good idea to tell him I'm talking to someone whose premise is that he kills those critical of him."

  "I didn't say that. All I did was ask what you thought of him." Veronica wasn't even sure she thought Titan had killed anyone, only that she wanted to know more.

  "I'm good at understanding people," Christian said as if he hadn't heard her. "I can almost see their past, but with Luke, for some reason, I can't. Admittedly, I didn't try when I first started working with him, but I have been lately, and hard. But I get nothing."

  Veronica's head moved back a bit as she heard the words. "You're not making sense."

  "I know. You're not the first person to say that. It's okay."

  "Are you saying you're some kind of psychic?"

  Christian turned to her, his eyes narrowed. "No. I'm not a psychic. You didn't do much research on me before we met, did you?"

  "No. Like you said, we both have other things we should be doing."

  He nodded and then looked back into the distance. "It doesn't matter. I can't figure him out and whatever was off in that house won't go away ... Do you have a plan or anything? Someone else to talk with?"

  "There's no plan for this. I contacted you because what happened was bothering me, too. That's it."

  "Then this is the plan: keep writing your book and every bit of information you find out on Luke, send to me."

  BRADLEY WATCHED the woman sit at a picnic table across from someone he didn't know. The man wore a hat low on his head and she still wore sunglasses.

  The more Bradley stared at her, the more he decided that perhaps the blue eyes didn't matter this one time. He'd been so fucking busy lately, busy with the nigger bitch. Busy with his mother. Busy with work and Charlie, he hadn't been able to focus on actually cultivating the next person he needed to kill. Here, though, was someone he could hurt—and maybe if her eyes weren't blue, he could create a sort of second class caste system in his garage.

  Ha! He could have the untouchables and the Brahmans or whatever those towel heads called their betters over there.

  The woman stood up from the picnic table and walked back to her car. The other guy didn't move, though, just sat there staring at the trees across the lawn. Bradley pulled his binoculars up and focused in on the man's face. A pale guy. Skinny. Nerdy, clearly. What were they doing here together?

  Doesn't matter.

  The woman's car pulled away, and Bradley decided to let it go. He would visit her later. He had carefully chosen his first two victims, and the third had been a gift. This one could be for him, just something fun where he went inside and did what he wanted. If he decided to take her eyes, all the merrier—if not, no loss. Blue or brown, he didn't see any reason not to kill her.

  Bradley had to work the evening shift tonight, so he headed back home to get ready.

  He didn't look in on his mother; he'd forgotten completely about the movie they were to watch. Too much was going on around him to remember what she wanted. After all, she hadn't cared about what he wanted, not until he made her care. Not until he showed her that his father wasn't the one in charge. Only then did she start thinking about what Bradley might want.

  He turned on the television and pulled his uniform from the closet.

  Bradley was just about to pull his pants over his boxers when he stopped. The television, or rather, the voice coming from it, made him.

  He let go of his pants and they fell back to the floor.

  "This is the fourth killing attributed to The Surgeon. This time the target was retired FBI agent John Presley, and his wife, Patricia Presley. While details aren't being released ..."

  Bradley quit focusing on what the bitch said. Had he killed someone else? Was he not remembering what he did?

  He stepped from his pants and ran from his room, down the hallway, and to the garage. Unlocking it, he stepped inside the freezing room and trotted across to the opposite wall where his collection waited.

  Four eyes, right in front of him. He looked to the corner and saw the single eye he'd placed over there.

  "Five. That's it. Five total."

  He shook his head, not feeling the cold air all around him.

  "Would I have?" he wondered aloud. He ran back through the garage and out into the hallway, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Bradley didn't knock on his mother's door, but barged in, flipping the overhead light switch on for the first time in months.

  "Hey!" she shouted. She turned to him, not trying to shield herself from the newly born brightness. Bradley didn't bother looking at her, but only scanned the room, trying to see if he'd left an eyeball in here—if he'd blacked out and completely forgot.

  He saw nothing.

  He stood there staring for a few seconds, his mouth closed, and then he slowly backed out. He closed the door, his mother hollering something from inside, but he didn't care.

  This was important. More important than work. More important than anything else at the moment.

  He went back to his room, the news program still running, and he listened.

  A copycat.

  Someone trying to do his work, taking credit, and yet not helping fill Bradley's collection.

  And this copycat killed a former cop. No, a former FBI-FUCKING-AGENT.

  "I have to get to
work," he said, his voice monotone. He stepped forward and turned the television off, then went back to the business of getting dressed. On his way out of the house, he locked up the garage.

  Bradley needed to figure out what the hell he was to do next. Bradley needed to talk with Charlie, if for nothing else than to get these thoughts out in the open.

  CHARLES CLOSED his eyes as Bradley walked through his bedroom door.

  It was dinner time, but Charles hadn't had an appetite in weeks. He ate, but only because if he didn't, the staff would grow alarmed. He didn't want any extra attention on himself right now, because he had made a decision and now he needed to act on it.

  He made it while watching the news a day or so ago. Bradley had dropped him off into the common area without saying a word, and there on the television was the news of an FBI agent and his wife having been murdered. The man's wife missing her eyes.

  Bradley's M.O.

  Yet, the punk kid hadn't mentioned it. Hadn't gloated. Hadn't offered to bring one of the broad's eyes for Charles to look over.

  "That's just horrible," Betty had said next to Charles, the old bag picking the chair beside him despite their being countless others available.

  Yes, it was horrible. Charles agreed with the old bag on that point, but he thought it also meant something pretty horrible for Charles—it meant the sick bastard was going to kill him. Why else wouldn't he have mentioned it?

  Charles had to do something, and he could only think of two options: tell someone, or kill Bradley.

  "Charlie, how are you doing?"

  Bradley didn't sound well. He sounded about as poorly as he had when he threatened Charlie a week or so ago.

  "Have you been watching the news?"

  Charles nodded even though he didn't want to. He felt like he didn't have any choice when it came to answering this madman. His body simply took over and did what the bastard asked.

  "That wasn't me, Charlie. I didn't kill that FBI agent." Bradley wasn't looking at Charles, but staring above him at the headboard again. "I didn't take those eyes out. I'm pretty sure of that. Have you told anyone?"

  Charles shook his head no in one hard gesture. Fuck no, I didn't tell anyone, you crazy dingbat.

  Bradley must have seen him shaking his head, though his eyes never moved. "I didn't think so. I just had to check. I'm sure you understand. Someone else is doing this but I don't know why." Bradley walked forward and sat down on the bed next to Charles's legs. "I don't know what to do. I'm trying to think this through, but I can't figure out what would be the best move. I mean, if someone else is killing people, that could be a good thing, right?" He gave Charles no time to answer, though the old man shook his head anyway. "It would lead the FBI to someone else, but ... I'm doing this. I'm The Surgeon. Not that other guy, and that ... it bothers me, Charlie."

  Charles nodded again.

  "I can't bring the eyes here, Charlie. I'm sorry, but it's too risky, especially with the FBI guy dead now. I could, though, if you wanted, bring you to them?"

  Bradley looked over for the first time.

  Oh, Jesus Christ. Charles nodded slowly, his body taking over again.

  "Okay. We'll do that soon. Look, it's time for dinner. I'll grab your chair."

  Charles watched the half-catatonic Bradley get his wheelchair and bring it to the bed. Watched as Bradley helped scoop him into the thing, and then as he rolled down the hall, heading to a meal he didn't want to eat.

  He felt like crying, that he might not be able to stop himself. Charles was going to die and he couldn't tell anyone. This psychopath was going to check him out of this nursing home, bring him to his house to show a ghastly collection, and then—without a doubt—kill Charles. No one was going into Bradley's house and coming out alive.

  "There ya go," Bradley said as he pushed Charles's chair to one of the dinner tables. "I'll come get you when you’re done. Have to go do some work now."

  Bradley walked away and Charles looked around the table, his eyes wet, wishing he could communicate with one of these old fogies. Just one. Tell them what was going on and maybe together they could plan out an escape. No, though, that wasn't possible. Couldn't happen. These idiots would blab as if their mouths had diarrhea, unable to even help it.

  Who else, then? If not your kids, if not the staff, and definitely not the people around you ... who can you tell?

  And then, as if God loaded up an arrow and shot it directly into his brain, the answer was there.

  Tell the FBI, you idiot. Write them and make sure the psychopath doesn't know.

  CHAPTER 21

  Bradley had no idea what Charlie was doing, and that was a good thing, because Bradley had far too much on his mind to worry about anything else. The more he contemplated someone else stealing his glory, his work, the angrier he grew. So angry, in fact, that he couldn't make his way over to that woman's house. Not tonight. He'd make a mistake if he tried to do anything now.

  He sat in his mother's room, the lights off and she asleep. Her eyes were closed, and as he sat there staring, he thought it funny that she still shut her eyelids. She had, of course, been his second human subject. Removing her eyes about a month after he removed his father's.

  His father hadn't made it through the operation. His mother did, and Bradley was happy about it. He hadn't been saddened by his father's death. The man was a brute that loved no one, but Bradley thought his mother's death might sadden him. He sat here now trying to stave off a headache that seemed intent on possessing him. With her so quiet and still, he found he could think a little better while looking at her. Looking at the work he'd done all those years ago.

  His mother couldn't see, and Bradley had made that possible. It was something to be proud of, to take someone's eyes and have them still live. That took skill, a remarkable attention to detail. It also showed that he was different from his father; his dad would have cut Bradley from groin to sternum if he thought a hundred dollars might be lodged inside his son somewhere.

  I'm kind, he thought, unlike him. I let her live, and all I took was her eyes, which is much less than what she owes me. She owes me her life, but my kindness spared her.

  And then, much like the answer that came to Charlie earlier, a single and all encompassing idea appeared in his head.

  I have to separate myself from the other person. I have to show that my skill is better than his. I have to leave the women alive. That'll show I'm kind ... and if this other fucker tries to copy me again, he won't be able to.

  Bradley smiled in the darkness of his mother's room; the moonlight shining through the window lit up his teeth. In the dim light, his own eyes appeared as dark holes.

  CHARLES SPENT the night with his tablet on his lap. He was pretty adept at moving around the interface—graphical interface, he had learned. It took him about an hour to figure out all of the main people working on 'The Surgeon's' case, and then, despite his best intentions, he found himself going down a rabbit hole.

  Luke Titan was the reason for it.

  Charles was amazed at what the man had accomplished in his four decades on Earth. Charles had worked hard and was fairly wealthy before his kids decided to ship him off to this luxurious nursing home, but what he'd accomplished couldn't even be mentioned in the same breath with this Titan fellow.

  Finally, though, Charles returned to the business at hand. He'd found his man, Luke Titan, and he felt certain if he wrote to him, all of this would be resolved quickly.

  Charles pulled out a notebook and pen from his nightstand. He was sitting up in bed and propped a pillow on his legs, allowing him to bear down a bit more. Then, with the lamp on, Charles started writing his letter to Luke Titan.

  CHRISTIAN COULDN'T SHAKE the thoughts of Luke, though he needed to. If it hadn't been for that single moment in Presley's house, he wouldn't have been considering any of this. In fact, the whole thing was preposterous—bordering on insanity. If Veronica Lopez called back, he would tell her he wasn't interested in anything she had to sa
y. He trusted his mind too much, but just because he was smart, didn't mean he was always right. What happened in the house had been a misfire, a flare that shouldn't have gone up.

  This thought process, of Luke being a murderer, was pulling him away from what he needed to do: find the actual killer.

  Christian couldn't sleep and was tired of staring at his computer. Tommy said earlier that the trail might grow cold if the killer didn't strike again soon. Nothing was panning out from the interviews around Presley, and the others were days old without any valuable leads. The first 48 hours in the investigation were the most critical, and those were long gone. Whoever was doing this could simply walk away right now, and would most likely never be found.

  Tommy had dug deep into the farms and abused children theory. Nothing showed up. Not on farms which had foreclosed, nor those sold.

  "Sorry," he had said.

  Christian nodded and stayed quiet.

  "That's how this goes sometime. Some murders remain unresolved, the suspect a mystery."

  "What do we do?" Christian had asked.

  "We wait to see if he strikes again. We keep following tips and leads. Other than that, there isn't much we can do right now. He hasn't left us anything to work with, at least not yet."

  "He'll kill again," Christian said.

  "Most likely. So we wait."

  Christian was sort of angry with himself for allowing Veronica Lopez to take his attention away from the task assigned to him. Angry at himself for not seeing the stupidity of her crazy witch hunt. If it hadn't been for the timing, he would never have entertained it.

  Finally, still unable to sleep, Christian pulled himself from his bed, dressed, and got in his car. He drove across town to the restaurant Crystal Hembree had worked at. The Surgeon's first victim. He sat in the parking lot for a minute and looked through the building's windows. There were a few customers, but business probably wasn't brisk this late on a Wednesday night.

  Christian got out of his car and walked across the parking lot.