A Question of Will (The Aliomenti Saga - Book 1)

by Alex Albrinck

  The old woman shuffled out of the man-trap and back toward the Guard Station window, where residents and guests could see and speak to the on-duty guard. She peered in the window as she approached, and then frowned. “Is the man actually sleeping on the job?” she said, her tone sharp. Then she looked in the window more closely.

  “Blood!” she screamed, moving as quickly as her old legs could carry her. “Oh, dear God, there’s so much blood, oh dear God, Frank, call the police, there’s so much blood!” And she fainted, falling to the ground near the ice shards.

  Frank, not sure what else to do, dug out his phone and called 911, telling them that Mrs. VanderPoole had suffered a fall on ice at the entrance to De Gray Estates and would need an ambulance. He let the dispatcher know that one of the guards normally on duty was not at his station. Frank hung up, called his wife to tell her he’d be late, and went to pick Mrs. VanderPoole up from the ground, wondering where the ice had come from.

  They hadn’t had snow or ice on the ground in a month.

  Michael Baker received the call from dispatch about one of the rich old residents of the De Gray Estates falling near the entrance. He’d been a police officer long enough to realize that this was more a case of babysitting and paperwork than anything else. Sure, the dispatcher had said that the fall was apparently caused by ice, but it seemed unlikely that the woman had much of a case for pressing charges, as she’d fallen on her own property. The dispatcher noted that the caller had mentioned not seeing a guard on duty at the time of the call, which was unusual. They kept two guards on duty at all times, so that the gate was never without someone to attend it.

  With a sigh, he pulled the car into the driveway of the De Gray Estates, commonly referred to as Rich Person Central by most of the residents of Pleasanton. He spotted old lady VanderPoole seated in the back seat of the rented limo with the door open, the driver waving a fan. The old woman’s face was pale, but there was no indication of any injury. He was expecting something that looked more like a concussion, or perhaps some cuts or bruises caused by the fall. Frowning, Baker walked to the limo.

  The driver saw him and stood up, coming to meet Baker. “Thanks for coming, Officer. I’m not sure what caused it, but I do know she hit the ground pretty hard.”

  Baker looked over and saw the shards of ice. “That’s where she slipped?”

  The driver nodded. “She was waiting for a guard to let her in, but nobody did. She went to the window there at the Station, started screaming, and, as much as an eighty-year-old woman can, ran toward me. That’s when she hit the ice and fell. I think she may have fainted first, though, from the screaming, so that might have caused the fall as well.”

  Baker nodded, and glanced at the Guard Station. “I still don’t see a guard there.”

  Surprise covered Frank’s face. “That’s very strange. They’re incredibly insistent on having the ground level Station, at a minimum, covered at all times. When Mrs. VanderPoole needs an escort to her house after I drop her off, the guard in the Tower is the one who leaves. I’ve seen cases where the Tower guard will cover the Station so that guard can take a short break. With all of this noise and commotion, how could neither of them be there?”

  Baker nodded, puzzled as well. He glanced up at the Tower...and gasped. The glass side of the Tower displayed a massive hole, as if something had crashed into the structure. His eyes trailed back to the ice, realization dawning. “That’s not ice. That’s glass.” He pointed up at the Tower.

  Frank saw it as well, and raised a hand to his face. “Maybe something crashed into the Tower, and the guard down here went to investigate?”

  “If something like that happened, though, the Station guard would have called us or the Fire Department first. They’re pretty well required to ensure two people are on duty, and on watch, at all times. In a situation like that, the guard down on the street would call us first, and only then consider going to investigate. They’re simply not allowed to leave the Station unguarded, and only leave the Tower unguarded to cover the Station.”

  As the two men spoke, a car pulled up into the driveway. Will Stark emerged, briefly silhouetted against the backdrop of the great glowing Dome he’d built, dressed in a dark gray suit and blue tie, and wearing an overcoat. His wire-rimmed glasses fogged briefly after leaving the warmth of his car for the chill of the wintry air. He frowned on seeing the police car lights flashing, and the limousine off to the side, clearly recognizing that something was amiss. He spotted his old friend Michael Baker and walked to the police officer.

  “Hi Michael,” Stark said, shaking the officer’s hand. He inclined his head toward Myra VanderPoole, still pale in the back seat of her car. “Is Myra all right?”

  Typical, Baker thought. Will first asks if Myra’s OK. If the situation was reversed, Myra would demand that we get Will out of the way so she could get into the neighborhood. “Not sure, Will,” he admitted. “The call from dispatch stated that she’d fallen on a patch of ice, but there’s more to it than that. Something has gone very wrong here.”

  Will, who had been scanning the entry while the conversation occurred, recognized the situation immediately. “Where did the Station guard go? And what happened up there?” His gaze shifted up to the Guard Tower with the gaping hole in the side, then down to glass. “That’s not ice, is it?” His tone was ominous, and a frown formed.

  Baker shook his head. “We’d just hit that point when you arrived. Like I said, this is starting to look like something more serious than an old woman slipping and falling.”

  Will had turned his gaze back to the Guard Station, and his frown turned to a look of horror. “Michael,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm, “why is there a giant hole in the ceiling of the Station?”

  Baker’s face sank as he saw the massive crater in the Guard Station roof. His eyes moved to the gaping hole in the Tower, the glass on the driveway, and back to the hole in the Station roof. Dear God, he thought, please don’t let those be connected. Steeling himself, Baker walked over to the Station and peered inside.

  Will heard Baker suck in his breath, and then the officer turned away from the window and retched. “Oh, dear God!” he screamed between heaves. He composed himself long enough to stumble to his cruiser, seize his radio, and phone in. “Baker here. I’m at the entry to the De Gray Estates. Require backup, medical examiner, ambulance, and search unit relating to apparent double homicide, suspect is at large. Repeat: suspect or suspects at large.” Baker’s eyes seemed shattered, and his face made it clear that whatever he’d seen, he’d never be able to forget it.

  Will saw and heard nothing else after hearing Baker’s words. There had been a double homicide, and the suspect or suspects were at large...and it was hard not to assume the killer or killers had gotten into the community with other potential targets in mind. Why else would they murder the guards? Realizing that Hope and Josh were in mortal danger, he called Hope’s phone, but she didn’t answer. He left her a message, telling her to let no one in the house, to watch for intruders, and to get the gun out of the safe. He pocketed the phone, and had only one thought on his mind. He must get to his family, and protect them from whatever person or persons might mean to do them harm.

  He raced to the man-trap outer door, letting the scanner identify him, but only when the inner door wouldn’t open did he remember. No Station guard would be able to authorize his entrance. The system he’d designed to keep others out had failed to do so, and now was preventing him from getting in so that he could rush to his family’s aid. He moved to the concrete gate, which stood ten feet high. He ran at it, trying to use his foot to spring up high enough to get a grip on the top of the barrier, so as to pull himself up. But he couldn’t jump high enough.

  “Michael!” he screamed, attracting the stunned police officer’s attention. “Give me a boost!”

  Baker seemed to regain his senses as Will’s plan registered. “No way, Will. It’s too dangerous. I am not going to help you run after those mania
cs out of some noble idea of saving your family. Wait until backup gets here.”

  “Please,” Will begged. “I have to go to them.”

  Baker shook his head. “I won’t help you.” A pause. “But I won’t try to stop you. I know I’d be trying to do the same thing if my family was on the inside.”

  Will nodded, and scanned the area, trying to find the weakness in the system he’d designed, a weakness that might be there now that there were no guards on duty to prevent or observe his attempts at entry. Baker would not allow him to shatter the glass of the Guard Station and enter the community in that manner; the building was now a crime scene. Will glanced at the roof, an idea forming.

  He couldn’t go through the building. But he could certainly try to go over the building. The guards had defenses to prevent such attempts, but the guards wouldn’t be stopping him from trying today.

  Will saw the opening he needed in the form of a downspout running from the roof. He seized the pipe, and, with a surge of adrenaline, shimmied his way up the side of the building, relieved that the plastic was supporting his weight. He reached up and gripped the gutter, which was now two feet behind him, with one hand, keeping his legs and the other hand gripping the downspout for leverage. Once he had a secure one-handed grip, he let go with his legs and swung out, dangling, until he got his second hand fixed on the gutter. He built some momentum, swinging his body, until he built enough speed, and then with a heave threw his legs up onto the roof, pushing with his hands to ensure he stayed there. He took a deep breath, and then turned himself around, facing toward the peak of the steep roof.

  Leaning forward, Will moved to the top. He passed the gaping hole and steeled himself not to look into the room below. He’d seen Baker’s reaction, and he couldn’t afford that kind of reaction himself right now, not when he needed to focus on getting to his house. Will reached the top, and shifted around so he was backing down the roof towards the inside of the community. When he reached the edge, he gripped the gutter, gently lowered himself down as far he could, and then dropped the remaining five feet to the ground. He knew that he needed to roll into the drop to avoid injuring himself, but the impact still staggered him, and he twisted his right ankle. Ignoring the pain, he took a deep breath, stood, and moved toward the fleet of golf carts, aware that a golf cart would get him to his house more quickly than he could on foot, with or without his injured ankle.

  But the golf carts were all in flames. The situation was becoming more ominous by the moment. He’d have to go as fast as he could on foot, with his injured ankle, while wearing the worst possible running shoes. Will ran down the central driveway until it forked five ways. He took the one to the far left and sprinted towards his house, which was a mile away.

  He prayed he was in time to save his wife and son from the fate suffered by the two security guards.

  IV

  Assassin

  Hope Stark sat in her living room, watching and waiting.

  It wasn’t the ideal method of preparing for a potential invasion force of killers, but it would have to do. It was the best approach available to her to meet her ultimate goal of keeping Josh safe. They could try to run or drive out of here, but they’d certainly be seen or heard by the killers. If the killers had already beaten Will’s security system at the gate, they’d be ready for one woman trying to run or drive away from a house while towing a young child. She silently thanked the security guard for sharing information about the killers. She feared he was dead, and hoped that if that were the case, that his death had been quick and painless. She was going to do everything she could to make sure it had not been in vain, and that meant making sure that her son survived whatever was out there. The gun was in her hand, loaded, safety off, a spare clip in her pocket.

  Only time would tell if that would be enough.

  The Assassin wove through the forest, staying off the main driveway. Thanks to the fool human guard, the Stark woman would know he was coming, and would apparently have a gun. He didn’t like that. There was a chance she could get off a shot while he was still some distance away, and that meant she would have a chance to hurt him. The Assassin didn’t like fair fights. He needed to disarm her immediately. He would approach the house unseen, denying the human woman the opportunity to take a shot at him from a distance, traveling through the thick tree cover of the forest enclosed within the massive walls circling the community. He would enter the house through the rear door, as the woman would no doubt be looking for him out the front. He had ways of defending himself and disarming her, but those methods worked best in close quarters.

  He expected the Hunters would be lurking in these trees as well, and he soon spotted them. The men were, for reasons he’d never quite understood nor cared to consider, named after the characters in a human work of fiction known as The Three Musketeers. Supposedly the three characters worked together to defend their leader from attacks, which was reason enough for their Leader to appreciate the monikers one of their number had suggested. The Hunters enjoyed the names, and nobody seemed to remember what they’d been called before receiving the pseudonyms.

  Athos was quite appealing to the ladies, with his handsome face, dark hair, and dark eyes, and the scar across his right cheek — ironically, a gift from Will Stark — only added to the appeal. Athos was the nominal leader of the trio, if only because he was the most sane and level-headed. His gift for knowing when others were telling the truth — even when those questioned did not know themselves if they were telling the truth — was incredibly useful as a tool for making decisions during the course of Hunts.

  Aramis was the most peculiar in appearance. He’d seen a photograph of a human man wearing a top hat and monocle, and had become fascinated with the accessories, and now it was difficult to get the man to leave the hat off. Thankfully, he’d given up the monocle, at least during Hunts, after his fellow Hunters could no longer take him seriously. He’d compromised by wearing wire-rimmed glasses he didn’t need. His wardrobe choices, combined with his white-blond hair, served to make the man look more like an aging professor than a young law enforcement officer. His demeanor, though, was more akin to a member of the Inquisition. Aramis knew every rule, law, and Oath of their organization, and the prescribed penalties for each, and he expected everyone else to know them and follow them with extreme strictness. Aramis tended to react with great emotion whenever someone slipped, as if he’d been personally violated in some fashion by their rule-breaking, no matter how minor the infraction. The mere mention of Will Stark’s name could lead the man to convulsions — a fact that The Assassin enjoyed abusing on occasion.

  The final member of the trio was the most bizarre in terms of behavior. Porthos wore his brown hair to his shoulders, often tying it back in a ponytail, and liked to wear a dark cloak with an oversized hood. The man believed that such garb gave him an air of ominous mystery when on Hunts. Porthos was the Hunter most at ease mingling in and exploiting human culture and technology, a useful skill for gathering key pieces of data used on Hunts, but a habit which led to the display of many odd human mannerisms, including a lack of filters or decorum when speaking to other Aliomenti. Porthos could find anyone who emanated any of the Energy their group cultivated, tracking it like a bloodhound following a scent. His primary personality quirk — an ease of mingling with humans — led him to often question humans in order to narrow the search area for a suspect, or find some obscure detail that made the Hunts easier to conclude. It was Porthos who had tracked Will Stark to the outskirts of this domed city in southeastern Ohio, and it was Porthos who had unearthed the detail about Stark that necessitated the Assassin’s services.

  Porthos spotted The Assassin and made his way to the killer. “Nobody’s left the house since we got here, so the human woman should still be in there, and you can go blow her up or whatever it is you’re planning to do. We’ll take care of Stark when he arrives.” The man seemed unsure of himself about the last part.

  The Assassin glared at him wit
h his blood-red eyes, showing no sign that anything Porthos had said was of any interest. Porthos took the hint and moved away. The Assassin took the opportunity to approach Athos, who was the only one of the three with whom he ever willingly conversed. Athos was a man of few words, at least around The Assassin, and the Hunter reached into his backpack and pulled out a large can that resembled an aerosol spray. He presented the item to The Assassin, and simply said, “Good luck.”

  The Assassin took the can and did not respond. He didn’t need luck.

  Hope Stark needed luck.

  Actually, it was Will Stark who needed luck. Hope would simply die, quickly and painlessly. The rules said that Hunters were to conclude a Hunt with the least possible injury to the fugitive. Given the history between this trio and their Hunted target, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that even Aramis was going to make this day one of pure agony for Will Stark. They’d ask for forgiveness later, and they’d get their request. Everyone wanted Will Stark apprehended.

  Well, not everyone, not those in the Alliance. They didn’t count, though, being Oath-breakers themselves.

  The Assassin moved silently out of the small forest and into the Starks’ back yard, heading for the back door. A small bit of Energy was sufficient to unlock the sliding glass door from the inside. He slid the door open, smiling in a manner that contorted his horribly scarred face, in anticipation of the final kill of the day. He pulled the sword from the sheath on his belt, in case the woman interrupted his preparations for the gift he was planning for Will Stark, and felt a slight sense of sadness.

  It was a shame it all had to end so quickly. He was just getting warmed up.

  Hope heard the back door open as the alarm chime sounded. She held the gun in her right hand, and moved toward the kitchen in silence. The killer would need to move through the kitchen to reach her, and she had no interest in waiting around for him to come to her with that horrible, bloodied sword. She intended to fight him as best she could, rather than going quietly.