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

by David Beers

  The two were quiet as they approached the elevator and then stepped on.

  The pathologist worked in their building’s basement. The term ‘basement’ might sound depressing and drab to an outside observer, but Roger held complete dominion over his floor, directing interns this way and that like a god on Mount Olympus. The man had a nice gig set up for himself.

  The elevator stopped and the two exited, turning toward Roger’s main room.

  “Right on time,” the pathologist said as the two entered. “This is an interesting specimen. Haven’t seen something like it since the nineties, when cults were all the rage.”

  “Think they’re making a comeback?” Tommy said.

  “Too soon to tell.”

  Roger led them to a metal table, the body displayed on top.

  “Okay, look here and here ….” Roger began presenting the cadaver to Luke and Tommy. Luke listened, but on autopilot, simply taking everything in. His mind was far too busy with the current case. The one in which Christian Windsor was lying on this table, even if no one else could see it yet.

  FOR CHRISTIAN WINDSOR

  Dear Christian,

  I HAVE a few more letters left to write, I feel. The things I want to say are fully formed, but I find myself needing to be in a mood for writing, and that takes longer than I’d like. Though, I suppose, it works out for the best in our relationship. It has taken a quite a long time to arrange things perfectly, and had I written everything early on … Well, who knows if events would have gone the same?

  I’m going to give you a choice, Christian. Certainly, it isn’t one you ever thought you’d have to make, but you will have a choice. I hope you look kindly on me for it.

  We spoke about God recently, and I want to explain that a little further. I will wait until the end before I share my purpose in full, but discussing God a bit won’t ruin anything.

  I believe in him, and if we had more time together, I’m sure I could prove to you his existence.

  I believe in God, and I hate him.

  He may be the only creature that I feel such a strong emotion toward. You told me that I’ve never cared for anyone, but that’s not true. I used to care deeply, but it was God who showed me how foolish such notions were. Soon—depending on your choice—you’ll begin to research me as you do the criminals you chase, but it’s going to be hard for you to discover the truth about my past. I’ve gone to great lengths to distort portions and completely change others. Your mind may be able to overcome some of my deceit, though I doubt all of it.

  The official record shows that I was born in Los Angeles, but that’s false.

  My mother birthed me in a small, west Mexican town. The kind you might see in movies, where there’s one bank, one major road, and no subdivisions. The major road held all the businesses, and the back roads the houses. None of them nearly as nice as the one I currently occupy, though this one-story layout was done purposefully—to remind me of my past. I’ve hidden my past from the world, but not because I’m ashamed. I’m proud of my past. It made me into who I am today.

  Without it, I would have accomplished nothing.

  I had a brother, Christian. His name was Mark; my mother had a penchant for biblical names. She wasn’t an educated woman, and she bore two children out of wedlock. My brother and I. Myself and then Mark.

  I’m wondering how much to tell you. It isn’t fear that keeps me from revealing everything, only hesitation because you’re the first person I will have shared this with. You should consider it a great honor; I’ve met no one else in life that I would even consider showing my world to.

  I do it partly out of respect, and partly to thank you. Your mind is a wonder, even to me, and how you’ve harnessed it to do your bidding is something to be commended. To be admired, even. Well done.

  I want to thank you because you’ve made this possible: your naiveté and strong desire to make the world a better place. It’s unfortunate that your desires have come in such stark contrast with mine.

  Let this letter be that then, my sincere appreciation for everything you’ve done.

  The next will be about my past. About my mother and brother, and how God set me on this quest.

  YOURS,

  Luke Titan, MD, PhD, Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigations

  CHAPTER 4

  I n the end, Luke decided the best route was the most direct. He couldn’t waste time trying to talk to Christian or slinking around when he thought Christian was busy. Luke needed to know what the boy was thinking now.

  Christian lay down to sleep at three in the morning. He was sleeping less than Luke, which was a good thing. Sleep deprivation slowed down people’s minds, made them more susceptible to suggestion. It also meant that when they did sleep, they slept deep—their body trying to make up for lost time.

  Watching through the cameras, Luke waited until Christian fell asleep, then went to his own car. He drove through Atlanta’s streets—heading east. It took him thirty minutes, which was what he wanted. Just enough time for Christian to begin dropping into deep sleep.

  He parked the car at Christian’s curb and stepped out.

  In a heroic act for Christian, a year or so ago, he had given both Luke and Tommy keys to his house—“In case, you know, you ever need to get inside.” Luke used the key to gain entry.

  A rapid beeping sounded from the alarm system, and Luke turned quickly to the keypad just inside of the door. He punched in the code that he had watched Christian use many times, shutting it off.

  He walked through the house without a single noise revealing his arrival. Christian’s bedroom door was open and Luke entered, stepping just inside. Christian lay on his side, his legs curled up near his torso. His breath was even, and the soft moonlight shining in showed Luke that the boy’s eyes were still. He wasn’t dreaming yet. Perhaps Luke’s presence could give him something to dream about, even if only his subconscious knew it.

  Luke went to the nightstand where the laptop sat. He looked down at Christian for another second, the moon making his face look even more haggard than usual.

  It’ll be over soon, Luke thought.

  He took the laptop and went to the living room, sitting down on the couch. He opened it and punched in another password. Christian had created a new one last year, and Luke found it obnoxiously adorable. The new one, of course, was VeronicaLopez.

  Christian wasn’t too worried about hacks. His naiveté coming into play again.

  Luke pulled a USB drive from his pocket and plugged it into the computer’s port. It only took a few seconds to load the program and then Luke paused, listening for any movement in the house.

  Everything was still.

  He started searching. He spent the next half hour finding everything he could before closing the computer. The rest was waiting for him at home, including any future work Christian did.

  Luke left the house not liking what he’d seen one bit.

  “PLEASE!” Sarah screamed. “PLEASE, NO!”

  Ted had gone to the corner again, and Sarah knew immediately what he was getting. The same mallet he had used before.

  “COME ON, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” the prostitute screamed from beside Sarah.

  It had all happened so fast that she barely had time to keep up. Chanice had been doing well, had been playing along just as Sarah asked her to. Two or three nights had passed, and Chanice had remained quiet, even let Ted talk to her some.

  Until tonight.

  Until moments ago.

  Ted had been sitting Indian-style in front of Chanice, but he’d gotten too close. She reached out, her thin black arm like a supersonic boomerang—flying out into the air and coming right back home almost immediately.

  Ted screamed. He sounded like a girl who’d just felt a bee buzz by her face. His hand went to his cheek where Chanice’s own had been moments before.

  Sarah could see everything from where she sat—the four scratch marks running horizontally across Ted’s face. The blood was
dark, like oil, running down his skin—a stream from each line.

  Ted pulled his hand away and looked at the blood, his eyes wide as if they’d never seen the substance before. Or, at least, not his own. He looked back at Chanice, and goddamnit, she was smiling. Her hand flashed again, the left this time, catching the other side of Ted’s face.

  He screamed and scooted away, his legs pushing his ass back across the floor. From there, he stared for a second, clearly unable to believe she’d hurt him. Streaks of blood ran down both sides of his face, growing thicker with each passing second.

  “Yeah, you white motherfucker. Come get some more of me,” Chanice snarled. Rage rippled beneath each word like wind against a kite.

  Ted turned to Sarah and the disbelief written across his bloody face was … comical. As if he truly didn’t understand why one of his wives had scratched him, had hurt him.

  His face changed, though, and whatever comedy Sarah saw disappeared like smoke in a heavy wind. He didn’t turn back to Chanice, but kept staring at Sarah. The wide eyes shrunk to slits; his lips, which had been pulled back in fear, turned into thin lines just below his nose. He didn’t need to say anything, not in the basement shadows with blood running down his face. That said enough.

  You did this, Sarah. I trusted you to make sure I didn’t need to hurt anyone. But now I do. And it’s your fault.

  Sarah heard the words clearly, as if Ted had spoken them aloud. Maybe he did. Maybe Sarah couldn’t tell the difference between reality and her imagination anymore.

  It didn’t matter, because Ted stood up and walked to the basement’s corner.

  That’s when Sarah screamed. “PLEASE! PLEASE, NO!” Tears rushed to her eyes like a thousand tiny arrows, each one pricking her. She didn’t even hear what Chanice said next. She was too focused on what was coming.

  Ted turned back around and walked into the light again. The mallet was in his right hand, and Sarah could see Keely’s hair on it. Two strands, looking blonde in the awful yellow light stemming from above the stairs.

  He didn’t clean it, Sarah thought. He didn’t clean the mallet and now he’s going to hit Chanice with it and the hair will mix. The hair will mix!

  “The hair will mix!” she screamed, not realizing what she was thinking or saying.

  Ted looked at her, his head cocked slightly to the side. He stared for a second, but then focused back on Chanice.

  “Come on, you poor white fuck. I’d rather die than sit here and listen to any more of your shit.”

  Ted stepped forward, though he moved more carefully than when he had approached Keely. Chanice was on her feet, her arms somewhat raised from her sides, and her palms out, facing Ted. She looked almost like Catwoman, ready to pounce, except for the chains connecting her to the wall.

  “No, no, no, no,” Sarah repeated over and over, unable to stop yet not aware she was speaking.

  Ted stood with the mallet at his waist.

  “I’ll wait,” he said and started turning around.

  Sarah felt a brief sense of hope rising in her; she would be saved from this, from having gotten Chanice killed.

  Ted turned around quicker than Sarah believed he could, his hand raising the mallet in a crazy, round-house like punch. Chanice’s eyes widened and her hands froze in place, too shocked to move. The mallet whipped through the air and collided with her jaw—Sarah watched as Chanice’s face stretched and listened as bones crunched.

  Chanice let out an animalistic scream, a small creature caught in a trap. Her hands went to her mouth, but the mallet didn’t stop moving. Ted swung it again, this time from over his head, and connected directly into Chanice’s nose, splitting her face like an overripe avocado. Blood and flesh opened up across her skin. The mallet came down again. Right on top of Chanice’s head.

  Her hands dropped to her sides and she stood as if in a daze.

  A stream of blood flowed from the corner of her right eye.

  She collapsed to the floor, her dead stare looking out across the concrete.

  Ted turned to Sarah; she only stared at the dead woman on the ground.

  “I asked you, very nicely, to make sure she remained civil. You did this. Not me. This is your fault.”

  THE PROBLEM, as Luke saw it, was that Christian had simply stopped caring. It was obvious from his computer that he planned on leaving the FBI once he finished with Ted Hinson. He planned to simply walk into Ted’s house, find the women or the women’s bodies (Christian wasn’t sure if they were dead), and then kill Hinson.

  Christian, apparently, was okay with doing jail time if necessary.

  Luke had to stop that from taking place—not the jail time, but Christian killing Hinson just yet.

  Luke walked into Tommy’s office, shutting the door behind him.

  Tommy held the phone to his ear and looked at Luke questioningly.

  Luke motioned for him to hang up the phone.

  “Hey, something just came up that’s pretty important. Can I call you back in a few minutes? … Sure. Thanks a lot.” He put the phone down. “I hope this is important. That was the cop who found the body from yesterday.”

  “Christian,” Luke said. “I think he’s about to do something very foolish.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Luke walked across the room and stood behind the chair in front of Tommy’s desk. “He’s going after Hinson.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me, in so many words.”

  “What? When?” Tommy asked.

  “Last night. He showed up late like he used to.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “Basically, that he couldn’t stand by while people were being kidnapped. Not even if Waverly directed him to.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Tommy said. “What did you tell him?”

  “That he needed to calm down.”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment as Tommy thought.

  “Is he here today?”

  “Yes,” Luke said. “In his office.”

  “Well, let’s go down there.” Tommy started to stand.

  “Think that through. What will happen if we walk down there? He’ll say he has no such plans and then stop telling me whatever he is thinking.”

  Tommy sat back down. “So what do we do?”

  “First, you can’t tell him I told you this, okay?”

  “Why?” Tommy asked.

  “Because, it violates trust he put in me. If he asks, just say you figured it out.”

  “Fine. It won’t really matter if the guy kills someone. What are we going to do?”

  “We have to follow him,” Luke said. “We have to catch him in the act, right before he makes his move.”

  “Put a tail on Christian? That’s what you’re suggesting?”

  Luke nodded, his face solemn. “But not anyone else. You and me. I don’t want to get him in trouble, which is what will happen if we put someone else on him. We’ll take turns watching. I don’t think it will take long.”

  Tommy shook his head and looked at his desk. “Alice … She’ll understand, I suppose.” He looked back up. “You’re sure about this?”

  “I wouldn’t bring it to you if I wasn’t.”

  “Goddamnit. Aren’t either of the two shrinks that he’s seeing helping him at all? He’s losing his mind. He really is.”

  “When we catch him in the act, we give him an ultimatum: either he sincerely gets help and willingly steps aside for a few months, or we go to Waverly.”

  Tommy sighed. “Okay. How do we do it? Each of us takes a night shift, and switch off every other night? What if he doesn’t show up to work again?”

  “Yes, that’s how the nights should work. I’ll take the first shift. If he doesn’t show up to work, we’ll know from whoever is on him the previous night. We don’t come off our shift until we know he’s arrived here.”

  “So we’ll basically do twenty-four hours on, eight off, indefinitely?”

  “Trust me,” Luke
said. “It won’t last long.”

  VERONICA LAY on the couch with Christian. He wasn’t ready to come to her place yet, but he had let her come to his again—though, she did have to nearly beg.

  Still, she was here and so was he, and that’s what mattered.

  Veronica’s head lay in his lap while he sat on the couch. The television was on one of her ‘guilty pleasure’ shows: The Real Housewives of Atlanta. She knew Christian couldn’t stand it, but he put up with it anyway. She secretly thought he didn’t watch at all; he fell into his thoughts and was fine there. His mind doing things that she'd never be able to understand.

  “Veronica?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I need to ask you something.”

  She sat up, pressing pause on the remote. The show stopped playing and she turned so that she faced him.

  “We’re not back together are we?” he said, sounding almost like a child. Christian used to get like this sometimes, especially when discussing anything having to do with their relationship. He was like a kid in a dinosaur museum, asking questions about things he didn’t understand.

  “No. We’re hanging out.”

  “But you want to be with me?”

  A simple question, but one with a very complex answer, and Veronica understood he couldn’t handle the complexity—not when it came to them. The man’s mind could do acrobatic feats with numbers and people, but when it came to his own relationship, he needed simplicity.

  “I want you to be healthy, Christian. And when you are, I’d like to try again, yes.”

  “I want to be healthy, too,” he said. “And I think I know how to be, or rather, how to get there.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that yet. I wanted to ask you something, though, about the future?”

  “Shoot,” she said.

  “If I had to leave for a while, a few years … Do you think you’d wait? If you knew when I returned, that I’d be with you. If … If the reason I left was so that I could be healthy.”