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

by David Beers

  “It’s okay, Christian. You’ve been inviting me here for a long time. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

  Christian’s mouth was slightly ajar but he said nothing. He wouldn’t speak to it. Whatever it was, it shouldn’t be here.

  “What do you think about the statues in front of you? I watched your mind build them, but I’m not sure if I had any influence over it. I’d like to think I did.”

  Christian shook his head. He couldn’t see anything inside the vent, but the voice came from it all the same.

  “Cat got your tongue?” it asked. “It’s okay, Christian. There’s no need to be frightened. You and I, we’re the same. You might not see it yet, but you will.”

  Christian had backed up so far that he slammed in to the closed door. His hands desperately searched for the handle behind him.

  “What about what Tommy said? Shouldn’t you stay here so you can find out who is doing all this killing? Look at the statue; what do you see?”

  Christian did as he was told, viewing himself again. Blood now pooled in his eyes, just before rolling down his cheeks and forming red rivers.

  “You don’t like it?”

  Christian couldn’t breathe, finding his chest locked up, and unable to suck in air.

  “Go on, then. Leave if you don’t like this place anymore. I do. I think I’ll stay.”

  Christian fled the mansion he’d spent years building.

  When he opened his eyes, back in his mother’s house, sweat had soaked through his shirt and he couldn’t stop panting.

  PART II

  THE BOOK OF LAMENTATIONS

  CHAPTER 11

  M onths passed without a murder.

  The case slowly went cold and for Christian, he felt relief. He didn’t dare venture back into his mansion during those six months. His mind still worked just as fast, though his insight was diminished. That was fine with him, though, as long as he didn’t hear that voice whispering from vents above his head.

  He hadn’t told Melissa about it. Neither his mother nor his partners. When the murders stopped, Luke and Tommy quit demanding that he go inside himself, and so Christian allowed what happened to slip away. He didn’t want to face it, even if that meant never entering his sanctuary again. That voice and those statues … maybe the room would disappear in time. Maybe the voice would die. Christian stayed away, though, as he feared for his very sanity.

  The FBI didn’t close The Priest’s file, but the three partners had to let it grow cold as more cases came in.

  Christian did his best to push what happened to Ryan Goleen from his head as well. He tried not to think about Mrs. Brown and the cross carved into her face.

  Tommy attacked his work as usual, while doing his best to make a home for Alice. He wanted to marry her, after all, and was thinking about proposing in the next few months. He saved money each paycheck for exactly that.

  Luke was, perhaps, the only one who still consciously thought about The Priest, and the case they no longer actively worked. He still saw an opening for himself, and regardless what Tommy and Christian said, he knew it wasn’t over. The Priest, or Priestess as he’d grown convinced was the correct term, would return. Luke wasn’t sure why she’d left, only that unless she was dead, her devotion hadn’t ended.

  For Lucy Speckle, those six months were some of the most arduous of her life. She thought about moving forward with the sacrifices, but it would have been too hard. Too risky. Ryan Goleen was difficult enough, keeping him tied up and hanging in the air for multiple days, all the while hoping that no one would hear his screams. No, God’s plans shouldn’t be put off, but they also shouldn’t be rushed.

  So Lucy continued planning, but stopped acting on her plans. She kept her appointments with Dr. Brigham, and he kept telling her how much she was progressing. She smiled at the right spots and even started speaking a bit more, though the stuttering still tried to plague her at every chance.

  Finally, six months or so after she had mailed the video of Ryan Goleen’s glorious death, Lucy Speckle was cleared to leave her halfway house.

  She had an apartment already lined up, and she’d even been given a raise at her job. She was making twelve dollars an hour now, more than she’d ever been paid before. She put everything she owned in one suitcase, carrying it in her right hand, and in her left she carried the Bible (Lucy actually owned a few more things, but those were in a bat bag, hidden inside a storage unit thirty miles from the halfway house).

  Lucy got in her father’s old car and drove it straight to her apartment.

  It wasn’t furnished or in a nice part of town, but the doors locked and the price was right.

  She parked her car and looked at her new home. Mexican kids played on the lawn in front of the apartments. She heard their laughter and then heard it stop as they looked at the new white lady. The right side of Lucy’s lip twitched rapidly.

  She didn’t notice. She didn’t care that the kids were staring at her, either. There had been a time when something like that would have enraged her, but now that she saw things clearly, she realized they were nonessential. The people that had mocked her had never been essential.

  Lucy already had her key and she walked up the stairs to the second floor. She found apartment 246 and opened the door.

  As she stepped inside, she realized that there was a lot of work to do. Not just for Christian, but for this place, too. Cleanliness was next to Godliness, and this apartment had been neglected for far too long. She could smell it, the filth from its last inhabitants. Drug addicts, probably. Perhaps even worse—homosexuals or pedophiles.

  That was okay, though. Lucy was a hard worker and she was ready to get to the Lord’s business. Her absence from it had gone on long enough.

  SCHOOL HAD BEEN something of a chore for Lucy.

  “If you’d stop soundin’ like a damn retard, you wouldn’t have no problems,” her father told her.

  It grew worse and worse, reaching a climax when she was around eleven years old.

  Each year, Lucy went to her teachers and requested to sit at the back of the class. Most years, the teachers let her. They, of course, knew who Lucy Speckle was—who her Daddy was—and what church they attended. It was a small town, only a few thousand people, and the thirty or so crazies who went to Pastor Martin’s church once a week were ostracized from everyone else.

  So why not put the little freak at the back of the class? After all, the teachers simply didn’t want problems in their classrooms. They wanted to teach their lessons and make it home without having to say “Sit down and be quiet” too many times.

  When Lucy was eleven, though, Mrs. Treadwell told her that she would prefer it if Lucy sat in the front. Lucy stared at her, not knowing what to say. She hadn’t thought this a possibility, given that every other teacher hadn’t made a big deal of the request.

  So the year began with Lucy sitting front and center.

  Mrs. Treadwell, for her part, probably thought she was doing the girl a favor. Trying to bring her out from the shadows, and letting the other kids get to know her a bit better.

  The twitching started around this time.

  Mrs. Treadwell certainly shouldn’t be blamed for it, but the stress from moving to the front of the class was a definite catalyst. Lucy’s eyebrows started hopping on her face like crickets, and her mouth twitched and jerked as if invisible hooks were attached to her lips and pulling constantly.

  “FREAK!” one of the girls yelled after school. Her name had been Terry, though Lucy forgot it as she grew older. She never forgot the sound Terry made, though—the way her voice screamed freak as if Lucy was a demon sprung from hell. As if she was evil.

  Lucy began crying as she walked home, clutching her Bible to her chest. She wore a book bag for the rest of the books, but the Bible she wanted close.

  “Hey, freak!” a boy screamed. “Your daddy beatin’ your momma still?”

  Lucy squinted as she looked forward, trying to keep the tears from falling down her
face. The kids were behind her, but she didn’t want to chance that they saw her crying.

  Lucy didn’t know who launched the first rock. She only knew it felt like her arm exploded when it collided with her shoulder. Her Bible dropped to the ground, its thin pages opening up and scraping across the concrete.

  “The freak dropped her Bible!” someone screamed.

  Another rock hit the ground right in front of Lucy.

  She didn’t know what to do. She saw the Bible lying there disrespected, but she heard another rock land just behind her. It shattered and tiny pebbles cascaded on her ankles. Her right arm blazed with pain and tears blurred her vision.

  Lucy took off. Her right arm felt dead, and she couldn’t use it to help pump her legs forward, but she kept running as fast as she could.

  She ran the whole mile and a half, bursting through the front door and into the living room. She was hyperventilating, unable to stop her lungs from craving air, while the rest of her body only wanted to sob. She fell to her knees and started dry heaving on the floor.

  She didn’t see her father walk in from the kitchen. Her mother remained at the table, not looking up from whatever task was before her.

  Lucy continued nearly retching for a full minute, and then, completely exhausted, she collapsed to the floor.

  “Where’s your Bible?” Daddy asked.

  Lucy let out a cry, shame and guilt washing over her as surely as it had Jesus when he donned both the cross and mankind’s sin.

  “Daddy, Daddy, they were throwing rocks.”

  “I said, where is your Bible?”

  “At school,” she whispered.

  “Well, get up. Let’s go get it.”

  Lucy looked at her father, hoping that he was joking, but knowing even as she searched for a hint of humor, she’d find nothing.

  They got into Daddy’s pickup and drove toward the school. They were two hundred feet off when her father stopped the truck.

  “That your Bible?”

  Lucy said nothing. What could she do?

  The thin sheets of the Lord’s scripture were flying down the street like tiny magic carpets, the wind blowing them this way and that. She saw the leather binding lying about twenty feet from where she dropped it. It looked empty, like some kind of large silo after all the corn had been sold.

  That’s what you did. You sold out God. Like Judas.

  Her father turned and looked at her, his gaze the same as the Lord’s for all Lucy cared. He cast the same judgment and she knew that penance would be hard.

  “Well get out and go get ‘em,” Daddy said.

  More tears filled her eyes but she didn’t dare return Daddy’s stare. She got out of the truck and started chasing down the flying papers. Her father sat and watched. Finally, two hours after dusk, Lucy had collected every page that was still on the street, though she knew some had flown far, far off.

  She brought them all back to Daddy’s truck.

  “Alright, now you go home and put ‘em all back in that leather binding. Tomorrow we’ll deal with penance.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “So, are you going to write a book on me?” Christian asked, smiling.

  Veronica smiled back. “When did he tell you?”

  “The first day you called. Luke said he thought it would be good for both of us. You know, you have to tell me if you’re going to. Or maybe you don’t have to, but you should.”

  Christian and Veronica sat outside, an unusually warm day for November. Christian had a coke and Veronica a martini. They had done this once a week for the past six months, with thankfully few interruptions from complex cases. Every Friday they met after work for drinks and dinner. Veronica insisted they switch the place every Friday, though Christian hated that.

  “You know why she’s doing it, right?” his psychiatrist asked.

  “Why?”

  “Same reason I make you talk about things you don’t want to in here, because it stretches you. It’s good for you.”

  And so he went every Friday to whatever new place she picked. Christian, despite what he originally thought, truly looked forward to their dinners. Veronica was funny and she even laughed at what he said, though she told him she didn’t know if he was joking half the time. When he told his mother about it, she only said, “Really? That’s nice.”

  Which had been a bit surprising at first, but Christian finally understood his mother was simply playing a role—making a big deal out of it might increase Christian’s anxiety, thus ruining the whole experience. He definitely didn’t want that to happen.

  “I’m thinking about it,” Veronica said, answering his question about whether she’d actually write a book on him.

  “You’ll kill your career. No one is going to read it. I’m boring.”

  “You are.” She smiled again. “But you’re also interesting in a sly way.”

  Christian took a sip from his drink and let the breeze blow across him. “How’s your therapy going?”

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to your bluntness.”

  “That’s not an answer to the question.” Christian was finding himself more and more comfortable around her. He liked that as well, the ability to be himself without too much fear.

  “It’s good. Luke actually asked me the same question the other day, whether or not I’d be writing a book. My honest opinion, though, is that it’s too early. I think maybe when you’re forty, they’ll be enough things under your belt to really sell some copies.”

  “So does that mean we won’t be meeting anymore?”

  “I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

  “Kind of.”

  “No. I’m writing more now, and I think you’re probably part of the reason. Maybe you’re becoming my muse.”

  Christian looked away, nodding—and not for the first time, wondered if he liked Veronica. Romantically. It was an odd thing for him to think, as it had never come up with another woman. He’d been attracted to women, of course—had even felt urges, but this was the first time that he … well, longed for someone’s presence other than his mother’s.

  “I think I like you.” He didn’t look at her as he said it.

  “I think I like you, too,” Veronica said, her eyes directly on him.

  “I don’t know what you do when you like someone. I’ve never had it happen before.”

  Veronica smiled but didn’t waste time. She stood up and walked to his side of the table. He looked up, his eyes wide as she bent down and kissed his lips.

  LUKE NEVER GAVE any thought to how the world might judge his actions. If he had, his life would have turned out very, very different. Some of what he did would obviously be considered criminal, while others only seen as creepy.

  On Friday evening, as the sun was just about ready to set, Luke sat in his car and watched Veronica Lopez kiss Christian Windsor.

  Mr. Windsor and Ms. Lopez. A couple, finally.

  He’d been following them for the last five months, once they really got their Friday date ritual down. He was waiting for this moment, the one in which their mutual attraction finally overflowed. Most people wouldn’t think Ms. Lopez would fall for someone like Mr. Windsor, but Luke knew differently. His partner was odd, but something about him caused you to fall in love as well. His fragility. His honesty. His raw intelligence.

  Luke was planning on using the two of them, especially now that they were an item.

  But first, he needed to deal with The Priestess.

  He first saw her a week ago, though he hadn’t been completely sure it was the correct woman. Her movement gave it away, though. She walked as she had in the video, as if her bones and ligaments weren’t connected exactly right. Luke knew that wasn’t the case; most likely, she suffered from a neurological malady. Her brain sent out electrical pulses at the wrong time, causing the jerky movements.

  She didn’t know Luke had spotted her. She was following him, and he had to give her some credit: she was decent at remaining unnoticed. Probably someth
ing she picked up throughout her life.

  Right now, while Luke watched Christian, The Priestess watched him. She didn’t sit in a car, but was waiting at a bus stop down the street. Her face kept twitching as she pretended to read the magazine on her lap.

  She wanted him this time. What did she have planned? Was she going to serve him up as another sacrifice for her God?

  More importantly, though, what did Luke want to do about it?

  LUKE LAY in bed that night waiting for the Priestess to arrive. He wore a robe and rested on top of his comforter, staring straight up at the ceiling. His ears didn’t strain to hear everything happening around him, they easily picked up the smallest noise, even from outside the house. Luke was listening for her. She’d been following for a week, but today was the closest she’d gotten to him.

  Luke had no alarm system in his house, perhaps his most egregious sign of arrogance. Luke wondered if she had planned to disarm any alarms, or if she would have improvised once arriving. She wouldn’t need to work hard to see him. He was excited at the opportunity.

  At twelve-thirty, Luke heard her. The sound was faint, even for his ears, but he knew she was scaling the fence outside. A strong woman—just as the video showed. He’d heard no car pass, which was curious, but he figured there would be time to understand how she traveled later.

  He remained in bed, losing her for a second as she ran across the grass lawn.

  And then she was there again, at his back door. He had left it unlocked, and the smart girl turned the knob before trying to break-in.

  It opened easily.

  Luke listened as she made her way through the house, checking each of the rooms for signs of her prize. Then the moon cast her shadow across his room.