Gray Widow Trilogy 1: Gray Widow's Walk

by Dan Jolley

  Vessler came back from the office a few minutes later, drove the Jeep around to the back of the motel, and carried Scott inside. Once he lay the boy down on one of the room’s two double beds, he turned off the lights and pulled the door open.

  A second later, from the back of the room, Janey said, “All right.” Vessler let the door swing closed and turned the lights back on. Janey stood in the bathroom doorway.

  “His jaw’s not broken,” Vessler said, examining Scott’s face. “Thank God. That would have been hard.”

  Vessler stood and turned back to Janey. “Look, I’m going to go and get him something to drink, maybe some orange juice. If he wakes up before I get back, talk to him, all right?” Janey nodded, and Vessler moved to the door. “And take off that mask, will you? You’re giving me the creeps.”

  He didn’t wait for Janey to do it. The door closed behind him with a slight hydraulic hiss.

  Dazed by everything that had happened in the last several hours, Janey went to Scott’s side and sat down on the edge of the bed. Scott made a tiny noise, but didn’t wake up. Reluctantly, Janey took hold of the concealed zipper pull at the back of her neck and unfastened the mask from the suit. She pulled it off slowly. That felt weirder still, given the circumstances, but the air was cool and soothing on her skin.

  Vessler returned a few moments later. He stopped just inside the door, as it swung closed, and regarded Janey’s face with open curiosity. “You’re younger than I expected.”

  Janey couldn’t think of a good comeback. “Oh yeah?”

  Vessler didn’t respond. He had a paper bag in one hand. He pulled a can of orange juice out of it, went to Scott’s side and gently touched his face.

  “Scott? Scott, can you hear me? Can you wake up?”

  The boy’s eyelids twitched and finally opened. The whites of his eyes had turned partly red with ruptured vessels. Weakly, he said, “Sir. I don’t feel very good.”

  Vessler nodded. “Here. Drink this. It’ll help.” He propped Scott up with pillows and held the orange juice to his lips. Scott shakily raised one hand and took the can, drank from it. Drank more. He glanced over at Janey, and down at Janey’s suit.

  “You’re younger than I thought,” Scott said, and Janey laughed. Scott continued, “Thank you. I don’t think she was planning to keep me alive for very long.”

  “It’s not over yet,” Vessler said sadly. “I need you to tell me where they are. Both of them.”

  Scott grimaced, and for a moment Janey thought he’d start crying, but as soon as it had come the grimace faded. Janey was once again impressed by how old Scott Charles seemed to be on the inside.

  “All right. I can do it...but, would it be okay if I didn’t get up? If I could just describe what I see from here?”

  “Sure, of course,” Vessler said soothingly. The more time Vessler spent around Scott, Janey thought, the more human he seemed to become. It was a welcome shift. Garrison Vessler could probably write the definitive text on rigid and intimidating. “You just tell us where they are.”

  Scott nodded and closed his eyes. Seconds later they opened again, focused on nothing. “I…can see…Simon.” Janey started to ask him something, but Vessler put out a hand, shushing her. Scott went on. “He’s walking into a…a building.”

  Vessler spoke gently. “Can you tell what building it is? Can you see numbers, or a name?”

  Scott’s brow furrowed. “I…don’t…I don’t know how to pronounce it.” He stumbled over the unfamiliar letters in his mind. “Lah…lah-kroiks?”

  Janey felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. The LaCroix. She threw herself into the darkness of the bathroom, and a blast of sweltering air washed out over Vessler and Scott as Janey vanished.

  * * *

  Vessler turned and went back to Scott on the bed. “You’re doing fine, Scott,” he said. Scott’s eyes focused and he smiled feebly. Vessler knew how much it must have been taking out of the boy, in such a weakened state. But he had to ask. He had to know.

  “I just need you to do one more. You have to tell me where Miss Jorden is.” Scott nodded again and closed his eyes. He seemed so eager to please. A few moments later he exhaled sharply, and started talking.

  * * *

  Drenched in sweat and terrified, Janey flickered out of a shadow across the street from the LaCroix and stared up at the window of her apartment. It was lit, but she couldn’t tell from street level whether or not anyone was inside. She’d already checked Tim’s apartment as well as the office. Both were empty.

  The thought of Simon Grove with Tim made her physically ill. She tried chanting the alphabet backward to herself. It didn’t help.

  Another flicker and she stood on the ledge outside her living room window, and if anyone saw her, to hell with them. She didn’t care.

  The living room was empty, but every light burned and the coat closet stood open. Carefully Janey opened the window and stepped through it, her boots noiseless on the carpet.

  One of her neighbors had a stereo going a few doors down the hall, just loud enough so that all Janey could hear was an incessant drumbeat. Aside from that, the apartment remained still and silent.

  Just then there was a rustle and a slide-click that Janey recognized, and she rushed for her bedroom and went into a low roll, knocking the door wide with her shoulder. She tumbled across the floor and came up on one knee next to the bathroom door, a baton ready, staring at a blank, open window. A small, circular section of her shower curtain melted as she flickered out.

  On the ledge outside the window, which faced away from the street, Janey looked around wildly, her night vision transforming the world about her into crisp, clear images in glowing yellow and green. It only took her seconds to notice the small holes punched into the mortar between the bricks of the building’s wall. They led upward.

  The glass of her window rippled and cracked as she vanished.

  The roof of the LaCroix looked like a lot of other roofs in the city, covered with a thin layer of gravel and spotted with air-intake housings. The view to the west was blocked by a nearby building, a recently completed twenty-story apartment tower. Janey stared across the thirty-foot gap between the LaCroix and the other building, and was about to flicker out again, when she thought she saw something at the building’s edge. Movement? She walked quickly to the edge of the LaCroix’s roof, still staring.

  There. She saw it again.

  “Simon?” Janey strove to keep her voice from shaking. It carried well across the space between the buildings, reaching forty feet to the other roof.

  There, right at the edge, Simon Grove rose up and stood in plain view.

  That bastard stole my coat!

  He looked human—except for his right hand, which he slowly raised into view. Janey gasped. Simon’s extended fingers wrapped around Tim’s head as if he were holding an oversized highball, keeping Tim upright. Tim wasn’t moving. Bruises and lacerations and blood marred his face.

  “Tim!” Janey screamed. “Tim, can you hear me? Can you hear me?”

  “I’ve got some instructions for you,” Simon called out, his voice smooth and unhurried. “You’re going to do just what I say, or I’ll drop this asshole over the side. First things first: come out of that suit.”

  Neither Simon nor Janey moved.

  “Hey! I said come out of that suit!”

  Silently Simon lengthened his right forearm, looped two finger tendrils under Tim’s arms, and stepped forward. Tim’s legs swung free of the roof, suspended two hundred feet above the street below.

  Janey eyed the building’s wall. A wide concrete ledge circled the building directly below them, and if Simon dropped Tim, he’d probably land on it.

  Probably.

  But that was still a drop of at least ten feet, and Janey could tell he wouldn’t be able to make even an attempt at landing properly. Ten
feet was plenty of room to break your neck.

  “He’s still breathing, if you’re wondering,” Simon said. “But just barely. We had an argument.”

  “You don’t have to involve him in this,” Janey shouted. “Just put him down slowly.”

  “Involve him? What’s wrong with you?” Simon’s eyes began to glow white. “Lost your memory? Lost your mind? Do you think he got here on his own? I can’t just turn him loose. Please.”

  “Let him go and I won’t hurt you.” The words came out clichéd and ineffectual, and Janey gritted her teeth.

  “No, no, no, let’s not go through all this movie good-guy bad-guy bullshit here, Janey. I’ve got your guy, and I won’t feel bad at all about dropping him, so take off that fucking body armor!”

  * * *

  Even as Simon screamed the last few words, he saw Sinclair drop down out of sight behind the low wall surrounding the rooftop. A moment passed, and he was just about to call out something like, “Where’d you go?” when a steely arm clamped around his throat. It would take very little pressure to crush Simon’s throat or even snap his neck, and he knew it.

  Simon kept still.

  Tim hung as if suspended from a crane.

  “Simon, listen to me.” Sinclair’s voice in his ear. “None of this is necessary. The woman you were with. Brenda Jorden. She’s like us. She’s an augment.”

  Simon didn’t answer, didn’t move. A gust of wind blew, and Tim’s feet swayed back and forth.

  “She controls people. She’s controlling you. You don’t have to do any of this. If you’ll let me...I can get you to someone who can help you.”

  “Take your hands off me.”

  “She’s been playing you, Simon. Made you a puppet. Come on, I know you don’t want that.”

  Simon slowly turned his head completely around, 180 degrees, until he stared the Sinclair bitch in the face. He grinned a little when she tried not to flinch away. “Understand this, you cunt,” Simon said slowly. “Brenda hasn’t done a damn thing to me except show me that I don’t have to let bitches like you push me around anymore. And I will drop this stupid ni-...ni-...” He trembled slightly. “I will drop this son of a bitch unless you get away from me.”

  Simon swiveled his head back around to the front.

  “Please,” Sinclair murmured. “This is pointless. I never did anything to hurt you. The only reason you’re here, the only reason you’re doing this now, is because she told you to do it. This is what she wants, it’s not what you want. We don’t...we don’t have to do this. This is unnecessary, this whole thing.”

  “That’s nice, coming from the chick who’s got me in a choke-hold. And don’t you even try to tell me what I want. This is not just a threat. I will drop him. Now back off me.”

  “Simon...I don’t want to hurt you, I’ve never wanted to hurt you. All I’ve ever wanted to do was talk to you. But I’ll tell you this, and you better believe it. If you drop him, I will end you.”

  Simon felt power humming through Janey Sinclair’s arm like a high-voltage line where it clamped around his neck, and through the mask Sinclair’s breath touched his face, so hot he thought his skin might blister.

  For just the tiniest of instants, Simon felt numbing, paralyzing, familiar fear.

  But Brenda’s words, Brenda’s message came back to him, and her reassuring fragrance filled him up again, and the anger rose in his blood. He had no reason to feel fear. He was a prince, destined to become a king. Fear was for the weak. And Simon Grove was strong.

  In the space of one second he said, “Fuck you,” and wrenched forward, and yanked his fingers away from Tim Kapoor’s body.

  Kapoor fell like a brick.

  Something like a wrecking ball smashed into Simon’s face, and the night sky turned blood red and faded out.

  * * *

  Janey’s world slowed to a crawl as Simon let go of Tim. The space between Tim’s body and Simon’s finger-tendrils as he released him struck out at Janey like a physical blow, only a few millimeters, scarcely significant, but the distance shrieked Tim’s death.

  Simon stood in the way, and as Janey shoved him Simon swung around, his face already distorted into a gigantic leer. With a snarl Janey hammered a baton into Simon’s face, crushing his nose and knocking a spray of broken spines down his throat. Simon staggered and crumpled.

  That action took less than a second. Janey leaned over the roof’s edge in time to see Tim thud onto the concrete ledge below, as she’d prayed he would if Simon dropped him.

  Janey screamed as Tim slid bonelessly over the edge and fell.

  * * *

  Brenda Jorden tried not to let her hands shake on the steering wheel of Ned Fields’ car.

  Derek Stamford’s words still played in her head.

  “This was your idea from the start. I’m sorry it’s blown up in your face, but there’s really nothing I can do.”

  Nothing I can do. Smug, condescending bastard. Probably twirling his cane while he talked.

  She kept just under the speed limit. No use in attracting unwanted attention. She doubted Stamford would send Redfell after her directly now, since there wasn’t really any need to. Without their direct support, he’d look for her to crash and burn on her own.

  She’d be disappointed to have to crush his expectations. Underneath the passenger seat rested a mid-size gray overnight bag. Inside sat 125,000 dollars in tens and twenties, along with two alternate ID’s, complete with passports. Brenda Jorden was a survivor. How many times had she proven that? How many times had life thrown its absolute worst shit in her face? She couldn’t remember. Fields wasn’t in quite as good a position—with no hope of moving him, she’d left him there on the floor of Scott’s room. At least he was breathing.

  But Fields was so not her problem.

  A couple of months, maybe a year. She’d be back in Derek Stamford’s life.

  Long enough to end it.

  Pine trees flashed by her on both sides of the road. On the horizon to the east was a glow of pink.

  She’d just begun a mental list of prioritized actions for when she reached safety when a battered tan Jeep Cherokee rammed into her from behind. She fishtailed in the road and the Cherokee hit her again, harder this time. Her right rear tire caught the curb at a bad angle and she lost control of the car entirely. It flipped, rolled down a steep embankment, and jammed nose-first into a dry drainage canal.

  She stayed just conscious enough to hear a car door slam somewhere above her. Her own door opened, and a deep, slightly Texan voice said, “Hello, Brenda.”

  She couldn’t quite see Garrison Vessler through the gas and dust from the deflated airbag, but she plainly felt the sudden, intense cold near her face, and screamed as the ice took her.

  * * *

  Without hesitation Janey vaulted over the wall and dove after Tim.

  One hundred eighty feet.

  She saw him there below her, and beyond him the pavement rushed up like an enormous gray fist. A detached part of her knew what he’d look like if he hit. Not like in the movies, where the jumper lies on the pavement as if asleep, maybe with a tiny, harmless pool of blood around his head.

  One hundred thirty feet.

  Not like that at all. If Tim hit the ground from this height he’d be unrecognizable. Every bone in his body pulverized, every bit of flesh torn and ruptured.

  Ninety feet.

  Tears streamed from Janey’s eyes as the rushing air found its way through the fabric of her mask. She had to reach him. Had to.

  Fifty feet.

  She stretched, reached out as she fell. Tried to angle her body to slip through the air faster.

  Oh God. The momentum. “So what happens if you take a running start?”

  She hadn’t even thought about it. What would happen to their fall if she took them out of shadows at grou
nd level? Would their velocity transfer, smash them to bloody bits even if she did catch him? How could she compensate for it? How could she channel it?

  Twenty feet.

  She’d have to redirect the energy somehow, send the force of their fall away, take it and shove it away from them. ...How?

  There, right below her, Tim was right there.

  She had no idea how.

  Ten feet.

  Janey’s hand closed around Tim’s left ankle six feet off the ground.

  A broad column of flame erupted from their point of departure. It scoured and scorched the pavement, and sent sheets of fire skittering sixty feet up the sides of both the LaCroix and the building where Simon had stood before they flickered out. A sudden, sharp peal of thunder crashed. Fierce winds roared away from the spot where Janey and Tim disappeared.

  All the windows in the walls facing the flame column exploded savagely inward as something very like a bolt of lightning smashed out of the air and into the ground where they would have crashed. It coruscated blood red and brilliant gold, and in the microseconds of its duration it dissipated the fire and gouged a pit twelve feet deep through the concrete and into the earth.

  Bits of glass, some molten, rained down around the crater.

  The pavement at its rim burned long after the power discharge faded away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Chief Resident Carla Gates walked swiftly along a corridor in Gavring Medical’s emergency center, staring at a patient’s charts.

  She worked with a few doctors who could weave words like tumor and inoperable into a kind of poetry that, if it did not soothe, at least served to numb the terror. Gave the patients a sense of control in the face of their own mortality.

  She’d never been a poet. She could try, had tried in the past; she would try again in a few minutes, when she spoke to a fifty-three-year-old man named Bernard Stein, but she didn’t think Mr. Stein would take any comfort from her. Spoken in layman’s terms, Bernard Stein’s right lung was little more than a huge cancerous mass, and the cancer had metastasized. He had weeks left, maybe even days. Only the facts, she could give him, like a journalistic report. No soothing...no real ease. She hated that facet of herself.