The Lancaster Rule - The Lancaster Trilogy Vol. I

by T. K. Toppin

  She was thinking of me? A curious sensation tickled him; he wanted to smile. Instead, he inclined his head, urging her on.

  “Well, you’d be sitting in a chair like that,” she tipped her head to him, “leaning back, slouched with your arms over the side, one of them propping your head.” Her eyes glazed over again, looking somewhere far away in her imagination. John watched, enthralled. “You’d have a tired, bored look, but worried about something. And all around you, sitting and perched about the office, there’d be geese, chickens, goats, and sheep, and whatever other farm animal there is. All craning their necks and flapping and cackling for your attention.”

  Swallowing hard, John felt exposed. Like she’d hit a nerve, or the proverbial nail on the head. He cleared his throat to mask his discomfort. “You liken my cabinet ministers to a pack of gaggling geese and farmyard animals?”

  Josie snorted and smiled. “They’re politicians, aren’t they?”

  He smiled back. “And me? Am I not a politician?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “You’re a dictator.” That grimace again. It seemed her mouth slipped constantly.

  John decided to ignore the jab, since he found it amusing. “My grandfather was a dictator, and my father, too. Is that how you see me? Or is this the tainted version of the truth you’ve been told by Wellesley?”

  “I don’t know. Is it tainted? Lies always have some truths to them. And truths always sound like a lie. Plus, you haven’t given me much reason to think otherwise.”

  Profound. “No, I haven’t.” John nodded as he saw her inspecting him. Tilting his head, he studied her a bit longer. Maybe, if he caught a different cast of light it might help de-mystify her. It didn’t. “I’ll have someone escort you back. You should get some rest. You look tired.”

  Chapter 19

  Turmoil wracked me. A sharp knot twisted in my stomach.

  Lancaster knew.

  Not everything, but enough to get suspicious and start asking the right questions. Questions such as where the Aguilars used to live. Other than the country, I didn’t know more, but he’d persist. He’d want to know what really happened. And when he asked about the dead extremists, he’d see the guilt in my eyes. Soon, he’d connect the dots. And to be perfectly honest, I didn’t know if I could hold my resolve. Keeping secrets wore me down. The deception and omissions I had to maintain to keep my true identity hidden frayed my nerves to the point I couldn’t remember which version of the truth was real or not. Wasn’t that how liars were eventually caught out?

  Aside from that, there was Lorcan.

  Something deep inside me roiled in utter fear and horror. Lorcan plagued my thoughts, polluting me with boundless questions. Could it be at all possible? No, it wasn’t. I’d lived with the man—in his home—for three months. It just wasn’t possible. Everything inside me said that to think such a thing would be utterly wrong. I knew him.

  Did I really, though?

  No!

  This wasn’t right.

  After our weird, conversation-like moment in Lancaster’s offices, one of his aides had escorted me back to my room with silent efficiency. The aide was a friendly-faced sort by the name of Loeb, with the personality of a doorknob. He didn’t emanate hostility, but something about the way he carried himself told me not to cross him in a dark alley. Everyone here seemed fit, and more than capable of going ape-shit ninja, even Aida and her lethal-looking stiletto pumps.

  Throughout the silent walk, a bubbling volcanic eruption brewed inside me. The moment I was back in my room, I flung onto the bed and screamed into the pillow. Livid anger spiked through me. Lorcan! I could kill him. Unable to keep still, I took to storming about the room.

  A multitude of thoughts ran amok in my head. Did I really know Lorcan? I remembered the day he grabbed me and almost shook me to death. Would he really have done it? Judging by his expression that day, I wasn’t so sure anymore. Each new thought exhausted me, drained me.

  The sun had already set and darkness blanketed the outside world, save the lights illuminating the small terrace in a harsh and lonely glow. I’d ended up on the couch, hugging my knees in the dark, tense and cold with dread. I knew something wasn’t right. Any idiot could see that. My dependency over the last few months had obviously rendered me ignorant to that fact.

  Wake up, Josie. Smell the bitter truth. To reinforce this point, I kneaded the heel of my palm into my forehead.

  If Lorcan cared for me, really cared, he would’ve done something by now to get me out. Yet, here I was, trapped in some shit-forsaken prison, miserable and scared.

  Forgotten.

  Why am I always forgotten?

  And that insufferable Lancaster, taunting and all but forcing me into some confession! One minute he raged like a bull, stomping and snorting, bullying me into talking and then, in a blink, he was nothing but beguiling charm. It was comical. What sort of dictator was he? And did he really think I was involved? And Lorcan? Why would he think Lorcan was involved, too?

  Well, the evidence was there. Lorcan hated the Lancasters. But I knew Lorcan. Didn’t I? Doubt and confusion rattled me. And panic. I took several long, deep breaths, hoping to find calm.

  Think!

  Why would Lorcan send me out with Gianni if he knew she was a terrorist? To get rid of me? Why? He’d told me he cared for me. Why would he have said that?

  The turmoil raged on and on, making me inconsolable. Sleep evaded me that night, so I ended up roaming the confines of my room. Curses flew, tears fell, and things were flung around. Morning found me on the floor, exhausted, halfway between the kitchen and the bed, staring at the ceiling in a stupor. Every bone in my body ached; my muscles felt mushy like bilge water. My head hurt, and my eyes stung. I begged for death to take me, to put me out of my misery. But like Lorcan, it ignored me.

  I decided I’d lost my mind and this was all make-believe. I was in a mental institution, and had never slept for three hundred years. Tomorrow, when I woke, everything would be back to normal: my parents would be alive, everyone I loved would be alive, and in the winter I’d visit my brother and family like we’d planned so I could spend Christmas with them.

  But when I finally rose to stand, stark reality mocked me. I crawled into bed and slept, a dead, dreamless sleep that exhausted me and left me like an empty shell when I woke, only to fall back into another dead sleep.

  Simon found me a day and a half later, morose and still in bed. His attempts to rouse me were met with a sullen growl and creative curses. He even tempted me with food, which I ignored. He left the soon after, wearing a worried look.

  Whatever. Just leave me to die. Everyone else has.

  Chapter 20

  John sighed for the umpteenth time and rocked back in his chair. Head propped on a fisted hand, he let the other arm drape over the armrest. Growing conscious of his pose, he twitched and shifted, but found whatever position he changed into to be uncomfortable. He certainly felt like the subject in one of Josie’s paintings. Reverting back to his usual slouch, he rubbed his eyes and composed his thoughts. How did she know he sat like this? Was he that obvious?

  The decision to postpone the opening of the amphitheatre for another month due to “conflicting schedules” concerning both him and the ministers had be a sound one. The excuse was plausible enough. In the meantime, his investigators would secretly conduct a thorough search regarding the structural integrity of the building, as well as a search for explosives and whatever suspicious things they could find. The cultural minister was the only one who had protested, but soon fell silent after John glared at him. John was the World President. Sometimes, he forgot that fact. And sometimes, it was fun to use his power. He’d never liked the cultural minister anyway. That he’d protested only put a red flag over his head. John made a mental note to put the minister under investigation as well.

  He and Simon had also had another exchange of words. About what, John forgot now. His head throbbed, he was tired, and sleep eluded him. The sounds of explosi
ons and human limbs scattering like confetti rang in his ears and scorched his mind each time he closed his eyes. And if it wasn’t that, it was the image of Josie with those distracting green eyes, taunting and staring at him. Watching him, making him confess things he’d kept bottled up for years. She made him babble like a sinful man in the confessional.

  With a grunt of anger, he stood and strode across his office. Stopping short of the door, he wondered when he’d last been home to eat or shower. Memory failed him. What day was it? He pressed a hand to his stomach, checking if he needed food. He wasn’t hungry; at least, not especially so. In a rush, he remembered what the argument with Simon had been about: his lack of sleep and sustenance. And, Simon had gleefully added, even his interactive pet had stopped eating, pinging the in-room sensors with her inert behavior. And if John weren’t careful, his pet would roll over, belly up, like a goldfish.

  Simon would say anything to get a rise out of him, but his comment about Josie now bothered him. She was too thin to stop eating. Perhaps he should check in, make sure she was well. After dinner, maybe.

  What time was it? Late, no doubt. He clicked his tongue. Too late for a quick supper? He had to eat something…

  John decided to return home, at least to change his clothes and nibble on something. Leaving his office, he got into the elevator and, instead, found himself heading for Josie’s quarters.

  It was late. Most of the staff were home, no doubt eating their evening meal with their family or friends, putting the day behind them. Yet he still roamed the darkened corridors of the Citadel’s upper floors. He sat on the elevator couch and rubbed his eyes with a groan. When the doors opened three floors down and a kilometer east, he walked the length to Josie’s room. The automated guard nodded with a jerk, and resumed its solitary task of staring at the reception hall.

  He found Josie sitting on the floor, propped against the bed, her legs sprawled out before her. Despair marred her face, reminding John of a wounded animal about to die a miserable death. He repressed a shudder. Should he have knocked first? No. He had every right to walk in as he did.

  John moved to sit on the chair, which was knocked down—probably kicked down—by the kitchen counter. Placing it upright before Josie, he sat, propped his elbows on his knees, and stared down at her. She didn’t move or even acknowledge his presence, instead kept her eyes riveted at a point between her hands, which lay palms up in her lap. Her face remained slack and a little grubby, as if she’d not washed it in a while. Her room did have a distinct odor of stale sweat. A part of him recoiled.

  After some time, she lifted her head a smidgeon to look at him. “What do you want?” Soft, desperately sad, it pained him to hear and see her this way. Dark circles under her eyes, which were glazed and unfocused, gave her a malnourished appearance. Feverish. Her lips were dry and chalky.

  “Simon told me that maybe I should speak to you.” John grimaced. That was a dumb thing to say.

  She heaved out a shallow breath. “About what?”

  What, indeed? “How have you been?” Even dumber.

  Josie gave him a withering look.

  “Are you on a hunger strike?” What is coming out of my mouth?

  “It’s only a hunger strike if you’re hungry and stop eating. Or if you’re fighting for something worth fighting for.”

  “I thought it was an act of protest.”

  “Protesting means there’s a glimmer of hope. From where I’m sitting, I don’t see any. So what’s the point?”

  “Protest, as in seeking out attention.”

  Josie rolled her eyes. “The only attention I want is for you to let me go home.”

  “Or what? You’ll stop eating and die of starvation? I can’t let you do that.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Like I said, what do you want?”

  John scrubbed a hand across his face. He was too tired to fight with her. Long moments passed, in which he kept his eyes closed.

  “We’ve, ah, postponed the opening ceremony,” he broke the silence. “For a month. We’re making our own investigations.”

  “So I saved your life, then. Hurray.” She resumed staring at her hands.

  Maybe she has. “Then I should say thanks. Join me in a meal?” he asked. “I’ve not had time to myself. I could use the company, and you could use the food.”

  She sat straighter, narrowing one eye at him. “Why?”

  On impulse, it shocked him even as he did so, he extended his hand and offered it to Josie, palm up. Staring at it, she lifted her eyes up and, for a long moment, studied his face. Then, surprisingly, took it.

  Her hand was warm and smooth, soft and delicate, and he immediately curled his fingers over it and held on possessively. A small line formed between her brows. She averted her face a bit, wary. He gave a tight smile, and helped her to her feet. They stood, far too close, hands clasped together in an uncomfortably intimate position. Josie eventually cast her eyes down and pulled her hand away, then tucked both under her arms.

  John took a step back and found a spot under his nose to rub. Stealing a quick glance at her, he cleared his throat. “I trust you’re finding our food quite adequate, and that it’s not the reason you’ve stopped eating it?” He groaned internally, wanting to shoot himself. Absolute drivel was spewing out of his mouth!

  Josie shrugged, a slow roll of her shoulders, her head still down. She shook with sharp gasp and pulled in her lower lip, the crease between her eyes deepening. Rooted to the floor, she sobbed in silence, her hair falling over her face like a protective veil.

  Without thinking, John pulled her in and eased her to his chest. Her chin rested snugly in the hollow of his collarbone, and on his neck he felt the hot wetness of her tears. Cradling the back of her neck, he stroked her hair and tried hard to resist the temptation to kiss her head. Her sobs came in quick, trembling gasps, and almost reluctantly, a hand came up and clutched his shoulder.

  He held her so for some time. When her tears were finally under control, she slowly pushed away and turned her back on him.

  “Sorry.” Josie sniffed, loud and unashamed. “I didn’t mean to…I just want to go home,” she finished in a whisper.

  John nodded, feeling like the big bad wolf in the stories. He couldn’t give her what she needed. “It’s all right. I’ll…just go now.” He had nothing else to say that would make her feel any better. For one thing, she couldn’t leave. Not yet. Did he even want her to leave?

  She nodded, back still turned to him. “Thanks for…but, I’m not really that hungry.” Josie turned and looked at him full on. Those green eyes, ringed red and swollen, dark with pain and sadness, searched his face with desperation. John stared back helplessly. Something broke in his heart—he almost heard it—like breaking glass, sharp, clean, and loud. It hurt, too, and made him hold his breath for fear breathing would make it worse. He stopped his creeping hand from touching her again. Instead, he raised it as if to say it was okay. He tried a smile, but his face hurt as if her eyes had scorched it.

  “I should go, then.” John eased backward, head down to avoid her pained face. To look upon it again would drive him insane. He turned blindly and left, the image of Josie staring back, a hand held tightly on her pendant, scored permanently in his mind.

  * * *

  John left Josie’s quarters, with the intention of going home. Instead, to remain unseen, he wandered about, using secret passageways, corridors, and alleys he’d known since childhood. The Citadel, in the sector he was in, remained deserted and quiet at night. The other areas, where the community at large gathered and socialized were livelier, with entertainment establishments, restaurants and bars, theaters and gaming arenas. He avoided those areas, too public, too many security issues. He preferred the quiet, where he could hear his thoughts. However, right now, try as he might, the chaotic chorus of conflicting emotions deafened him. But one thing remained clear throughout his confusion…

  Josie.

  He eventually returned, alone, to the stark and ster
ile place he called home. John hated going home. Other than to sleep, eat, and have a change of clothes, he avoided the place. There was nothing there for him but two automated housekeepers, with their mechanical responses and indelibly pleasant faces.

  Once home, John headed straight for the computer and engaged it, dismissing the housekeeper who informed him he had a chicken supper that needed heating. For the last few nights, he’d been doing his own investigations into just who Josie was, scouring every database network around the world. He’d only uncovered shadows and fruitless avenues.

  Josie Bettencourt didn’t exist, not now, not fifty years ago. An ancient scientist by the name of Peter Bettencourt popped up a few times with vague references linked to and associated with the first primitive stasis pod designs. But the information on Dr. Bettencourt was insufficient and mostly scientific drivel and, to be honest, centuries old. Yet another fruitless avenue. Their last name was the only connection. Nothing but coincidence.

  His eyes grew tired and his thoughts wandered back to earlier that evening. The feel of Josie’s body against him, the frailty of it and the unmistakable suggestion that something between them had shifted from simple captor and prisoner—no, that was too crude a term. What were they? Enemies? Yes, he liked that better. It made them sound more like equals. Adversaries.

  Exhausted, he moved to his bedroom and lay in bed, trying for sleep, but found his thoughts still on Josie. The curve of her mouth…he groaned and rolled onto his side. He wondered what it would be like to kiss those full lips. The way her eyes seemed to change color to suit her mood, and how they’d look when consumed in the clutches of passion. The long length of her slender body, arms and legs wrapped around him in greedy lust, the smell of her hair as it fell over his face…

  Early morning sunlight streamed into his consciousness. Had he slept? He remembered tossing and turning, as evidenced by the crumpled mess of his sheets, like he’d had a wrestling match on his bed. John shook himself awake, aware of a throbbing pain. He boasted an amazing erection, and it hurt; he needed to pee as well. With a groan, he willed his gloating appendage to stand down—to no avail. Then he tried to think of other things, like what he had to do that day, how many meetings were scheduled, what to eat for breakfast…