by Elise Kova
“If you say so, doll.” He gave a soft sigh and the slightly accusatory tone vanished completely. “Sorry for the up and down. . . I still feel a mess. Like I’m not in control of any emotion I have from one moment to the next.”
“It’s okay. You knew Nico longer than I did, I’m sure it’s hitting you harder.”
“You have no idea.”
“So, you really have no issue then? Going through with this wish?” Jo asked cautiously, trying for casual and likely missing the mark.
“I have more issues than I have sense.” She bit back a quip about that not being hard because he never had much sense to begin with and allowed him to continue. “But, as we said in the briefing room, what choice do we have?”
Jo wanted to bring up the idea of dismantling the Society again in a more one-on-one setting. But Wayne stopped walking and the look on his face told her that there would be no recovering that topic for the time being. He stared up at one of the tidy little houses in the row they were walking on.
“Doll, why are we here?” he asked slowly, shock drawing out the last word. “This is not the police station.”
“Obviously.” Jo pushed forward, dragging her feet up the brick walkway and toward the steps leading up to the front door.
When his footsteps weren’t behind her, Jo paused, looking back at him. He raised his eyebrows and she released a mighty sigh. “I just want to see the bastard for myself, all right? See the person who’s throwing this wish on us now.”
“I thought no ‘going rogue’?”
“I won’t even jump into time.” He still didn’t move. “Wayne, please I—”
“Let’s get on with this, then.” Wayne finally came up to join her on the porch. “You have a bright idea on how to get in without jumping in?”
“Well, yes.” Jo held out one hand, the other grabbing Wayne’s wrist. “We’ll just use the Door.”
The Door appeared before them, overlaying on the actual entry to the home. Jo opened it and felt the usual tug. But it was shorter this time, almost like tripping over the weather-stripping. They both had a small stumble, but found themselves in a small foyer.
“How did you know that would work?” Wayne asked with no small degree of amazement. Jo was reminded of what Nico had said, that the Door “didn’t work that way”. She was glad, this time, that she hadn’t let herself be dissuaded.
“How did you not think it would?” Jo arched her eyebrows. “I’ve been doing that sort of thing since the first wish.”
“But when we use the Door, there’s a degree of error.”
The word “we” stuck out to her. It felt like a line drawn between her and the rest of the Society . . . It sounded almost like Pan when she had used “you” instead of “us”.
“Maybe it’s just when you’re very close to where you want to be,” Jo said, ready to dismiss the topic. Luckily, there was an easy distraction right before her. She looked around the entry they found themselves in.
Wayne seemed willing to be distracted as well, as he stepped into the living room and made a soft huh noise. “So, this is the house of the Bone Carver?”
“According to Eslar and Snow’s information.” Jo stepped to her left, looking at the room Wayne was assessing. Two couches, facing each other for conversation. A television built into the wall above a fireplace, bookcases on either side. Modest, modern, but a design that betrayed someone with rather impeccable taste. “What is it?”
“It looks so . . . normal. Not my choice on a few things here and there.” He motioned to a suspended lamp in particular. “But . . .” Wayne shook his head, momentarily at a loss for words. “Do you think he sits his victims down here and has a lovely little chat before he carves them up like some modern-day Hannibal?”
“Why are you asking me?” The question felt so direct, so probing. “I don’t know any more than you do.” She started through a back doorway. There was another entry to their right, a side door that led to the garage. To the left was a hallway that ended in a kitchen, dining area and office. A small bathroom was in front of them. “Out of everywhere, I’d guess he works in there.”
“Do we even want to look?” Wayne outwardly cringed.
“I’m good not to, if you are.” Jo turned, starting back for the stairs that led up from the entry.
“Where are you going now?” he called, catching up to her.
“I said I wanted to see the bastard, didn’t I?” She trudged forward, up the stairs and into the darkness that her eyes had no trouble piercing. It was just like the catacombs, the two of them marching along a stairway. But where that had been a journey she’d embarked on in hope, this was one where her feet dragged with apprehension.
“You don’t think he’s actually here, do you?”
“It’s the middle of the night on a weekday; where else would he be?” Jo stopped at the top of the landing. There were three doors to her left along a hall that ran parallel to the stairs. Two bedrooms, she presumed, with a Jack-and-Jill bathroom between.
“We’re not going to—”
Wayne didn’t have a chance to finish before Jo was pulling them through the Door again. It slammed shut behind them, the echo reverberating so loudly through the void of space-time that Wayne winced.
“Easy there, you trying to break it?”
“That wasn’t me,” she snapped back. “I didn’t even touch it.”
Discussion over her handling of the Door was short lived. Both of their eyes fell on the bed and the man sleeping there. He shifted briefly, as if able to hear the reverberation of the Door, but didn’t stir further.
“Glad he can sleep so soundly,” Wayne muttered. “Not that I get how he can do it at all.”
“Do what?” Jo stared at the man. There was no way to tell that the sleeping figure was anything other than human. Even his eyes moved under his eyelids in REM sleep. Dreams. How could a creature with dreams not be seen as a full-fledged person?
“Sleep soundly as if he’s not some deranged lunatic who’s reaped countless deaths.”
“The same way we can sleep soundly,” Jo whispered. She quickly corrected, “Well, not sleep . . . rest, exist, you get what I mean.”
“Like hell I get what you mean.” Wayne spun, clearly looking for an explanation.
Jo supposed she owed him one. It was quite the thing to say, after all. “The Society has witnessed countless deaths, countless horrors across time and space, and we manage to get by just fine.”
“Don’t sound like Samson’s bull-crap.” Wayne’s tone had changed dramatically from the briefing room. “That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Wayne seemed horrified by her train of thought, but Jo couldn’t stop herself from thinking it. “Of course it is!”
“How?” Jo didn’t look at him, seeing his shocked reaction from the corners of her mind. She was too focused on the sleeping man.
“Because we’re not the ones pulling the trigger.”
“But we do nothing to stop it.”
“This again?” Wayne groaned. “Like Eslar said, we can’t save everyone, that’s not our job.”
“So then you don’t have issue with this wish?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re complacent to sit by and let this wish hit our desks, let the next horrible one, and the next, and the next, without even trying to stop the cycle? If you can stand by that and see us as very different from him, then you haven’t been paying attention.” Jo didn’t even look at him as she spoke; all she could see was the Bone Carver, the serial killer that had begun to shift into a gray area of morality for her. It was starting to feel distinctly as though she had more common ground with a madman than she particularly wanted.
“It’s not our job, and those deaths aren’t our fault. They’re not on our hands, unlike this twisted fu—”
“Every man is guilty of all the good he does not do.” Jo finally tore her eyes away. It was as if the sight of the killer was pulling her down into
a dark abyss from which there could be no escape.
“Did you just come up with that?” Wayne asked skeptically, and rightfully so.
“It’s Voltaire.”
“You sure you were a hacker and not a philosopher before this?” Wayne shook his head, sparing one more nasty glance for the Bone Carver before looking solely at Jo. His hands settled on her shoulders, but felt like support more than a weight—a scaffolding that she could rely on when everything else felt so shaken. “Listen, doll, that creature is less than human. And before you say anything, it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s synthetic and everything to do with the fact that he’s a downright monster that kills innocents for sport.
“And just because, by some messed up twist of fate, we’re on the wrong side of this one, that does not make you, or any of us, like him. We just do our best with what’s handed to us and live to fight another day.”
All she could do was nod. The first was small, then bigger, and then affirmed with, “You’re right.” When Wayne cracked a crooked smile for her, she felt her heart lift.
“About time you said so.”
Jo snorted and rolled her eyes. “Sorry, it just feels like everything is falling apart. Nothing is as it should be. Or where it should be, for that matter. And I can’t just . . . I can’t sit by any more and let these wishes happen.”
“I hear you. The sooner we can get done with this wish, the better.” He’d clearly misunderstood her final words.
“We should go to the police station,” Jo suggested as she stepped away from his comforting hold and toward the door. “We’re getting nothing from being here but dark thoughts and needless frustration. Maybe we can find something helpful there.”
“Lead on, doll face. The Door seems to listen to you best—so be a bit gentler to it.” Wayne laughed.
Jo held out her hand over the doorknob, and spared one more glance to the man in the bed behind her. She’d done work for horrible people in the past. She’d crafted hacks that she knew would ruin people’s lives, possibly even kill them. But this felt different. It wasn’t like she was loading the gun and handing it off. She was the one to pull the trigger—as Wayne had said.
No, it was even worse than that, because she saw some part of herself in the sleeping form of the lunatic bent on the destruction of life. In him was a reflection of a dark corner somewhere inside herself that Jo hoped the light would never shine on.
“Jo?” Wayne’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.
She turned, but her eyes shifted to the man in the bed. No, not to the man, but to the single eye that was opened a slit. The Bone Carver seemingly stared right at her, unmoving, not even breathing. Jo felt nausea sweep through her.
“Let’s go.” Jo turned hastily, willing the Door to appear before them. Willing it to take them to the local police station. But mostly just willing it to take her anywhere other than that dark room before Wayne could notice they were being watched.
Chapter 6
Palm, Meet Desk
Even knowing exactly how much chaos the Bone Carver seemed to be leaving in his wake, there was nothing that could have prepared them for the madhouse that was the local police station.
All manner of uniformed officers bustled about with files, loose papers spilling in their haste. Sergeants and detectives congregated in briefing rooms with higher-ranking officials from Boston PD and the FBI. They all took turns shouting orders at already frantic peons. Jo could feel their panic like an almost tangible force. Or maybe she just related to it.
For a moment, Wayne and Jo could only move themselves off to a less congested side of the office space and watch. It became obvious quite quickly that a large portion of the department had been assigned the Bone Carver case, and even more officers were being recruited as they watched. It was a mess of information and a riptide of emotional upheaval.
Jo scanned the room, taking in not just the officers and their frantic attempts at righting these wrongs, but the late-night interview being conducted with the police captain as well.
“ . . . we are currently working with the FBI and Boston PD to help bring justice to those affected,” the buzz-cut man said into the microphone.
“Should we take the presence of the FBI as reason to believe that the suspicions of the Bone Carver residing in Rockport are founded?”
“The citizens of Rockport should take the presence of the FBI as reason to believe that their men and women in uniform will do all they can to keep them safe,” the police captain dodged.
“The body has since been identified as a mister Richard Burrows. Unlike the Bone Carver’s other victims, Mr. Burrows has not been involved with any sort of political office or notable artificial intelligence affiliation. Is the Bone Carver changing their M.O.? Or are the police worried about a copycat case?”
“I’m afraid I cannot speculate on motive and will not comment on Mr. Burrows other than to grant my condolences to his family and loved ones.”
That conversation was going nowhere.
Jo’s eyes drifted to a back room where a woman, shell-shocked and pale, was hunched over a table. Not even looking to see if Wayne was following, Jo stopped at the small window into the interrogation room.
She couldn’t hear what was being said, but she didn’t need to.
Mutilated pictures spread out on the table were quickly collected by the officer who had only laid them out a moment ago after the woman burst into hysterics. She nodded between her sobs as another officer in the room moved to comfort her.
“I bet that’s Mrs. Burrows.” The raw husk of Wayne’s voice startled Jo back to life. She wasn’t sure how long she had stood there, watching but not seeing, like a ghost in the shadows. But when Wayne placed a hand on her shoulder, it felt like it might have been an awfully long time.
“Yeah . . .” What else could she say? What else was there to say?
The more she observed the room, the less she began to make sense of it. So many people suffering because of what the Bone Carver had done, and this was only one stop on his killing spree. How many more departments were exactly like this one. filled with the families and friends, the loved ones of the victims, begging for sympathy and revenge?
And it wasn’t just them either. Keeping the peace didn’t stop with a hunt for a serial killer.
There was the belligerent teen in the drunk tank, banging on the bars and demanding the latest names of the victims like it was some television show they got to make a cameo on. An elderly woman was hunched at the front desk, asking if it was possible to locate her granddaughter, make sure she was safe. There were officers who looked as though they’d seen hell and come back, only to have to share it with others in every document and photograph they had to tag, catalog and file.
Even if the Bone Carver hadn’t been involved physically in their lives, his very presence was causing people pain, sorrow, terror.
“So.” Wayne cleared his throat, squeezing her hand once before letting go. “Where do you want to start, dollface?” The hesitation in his voice, the forced casualness beneath the nickname, left Jo feeling a bit guilty, but it also managed to reawaken her original sense of purpose. So she clung to that and dove right in.
“Follow me,” she said, skirting the perimeter of the room and taking a good look at the layout. Their best bet would probably be an evidence locker—something that would give them access to physical data unavailable anywhere else. As busy as the precinct was, however, it would be difficult to find a place or time to jump back into reality without being seen. They could pretend to be a couple looking for information on one of the victims; Wayne could probably bet to make someone believe they were from another station—
But no, with stakes so high, no one would even give them the time of day, let alone entertain such a thing. Furthermore, they only had ten hours each spread over two weeks to lessen the Severity of Exchange; now was not the time to take risks.
Her mind continued to whirl. Wayne could pose a distraction, g
et one of the higher-ups out of their office long enough for Jo to sneak in and look into their files for the current orders—
But what distraction? There was so much chaos already going on within these walls, no one would even notice him. It was a breakdown of all order, and not in the way that Jo had begun to find more and more calming—the orderly sort of tearing apart that her magic engaged in. This was a chaotic and maddening disarray.
As Jo pulled Wayne along the edge of the room, eyes scanning for unoccupied offices or the storage locker, a rogue command gathered her thoughts like a dog to point. Jo stopped short, placing a hand on Wayne’s chest to make sure he did the same.
“ —ective Madani! Are those the case files I requested?”
The booming voice, Jo identified quickly, belonged to the captain from before, finally freed of the interview. He had a hand already outstretched towards a prominent office door as if expecting the documents to get there quicker that way. Jo’s hope perked up at his desperation alone. The woman in question, Detective Madani, appeared to be carrying a rather impressive pile of folders (the physical kind Jo was looking for), her stride quickening at the bequest of her superior.
When she walked into the captain’s office, Jo wasted no time following, grabbing onto the collar of Wayne’s coat in order to make sure they made it inside before the door closed.
“This is everything my team had, including some documentation we managed to finagle from our sister department in New York City.” Madani dropped the stack on the captain’s desk, then took a moment to readjust some stray hairs beneath her hijab.
Jo could see by the bags underneath her eyes that she and her team had probably been working on this request for a while. Far longer than the reports let on. She couldn’t help but wonder when, exactly, they’d found the body in relation to when the news of it actually broke.
“Thank you, detective,” the captain said, his head already buried in the file on top of the stack. “That will be all.”
