The Felix Chronicles: Tides of Winter

by R. T. Lowe

  Graham closed his eyes for a moment and chuckled. “As the producer of The Nation with Connie Redgrave, I accept full responsibility for the content of the program. That’s my official position anyway.”

  Bill watched him. He was young, earnest and working his way up the chain at Channel 8, already the producer of a show, and not just any show, but the most watched news program in its time slot. His professional success hadn’t come at the expense of his personal life either. His life had balance, a wife and two kids. Bill had thought he’d have a life like that. Then fate had intervened. He’d met Felix’s mom and she told him about the Journal. He’d read it. His life stopped.

  “We all answer to someone,” Bill said without thought, the words spilling from his lips of their own accord.

  “Isn’t that the truth. I answer to my wife and she expected me home a while ago, so if we can…”

  Who do you answer to? Bill asked himself. The Journal in Graham’s hands would set the wheels in motion. Graham would learn—the world would learn—that Lofton Ashfield had killed his parents, and that he wasn’t like everyone else. The world would no longer be divided by nationality, race, religion, language, and social class, but by whether one was a Wisp or a Sourceror. The New Government would be exposed as a Sourceror controlled dictatorship. The races, religions and nationalities of the world would rise up and fight to win back their freedom. War would ensue, and in that war, all Sourcerors would be demonized, not just Lofton and his Drestianites.

  Who do you answer to?

  Felix would be hounded, and despite his extraordinary abilities, he couldn’t hope to hold out forever against the millions determined to rid the world of the Sourceror threat. Handing the Journal to Graham meant the end of Lofton and the New Government. But it also meant the end of Felix.

  So who do you answer to? Bill cradled his head, thinking about the promise he’d made to Felix’s mother. To look after him. To protect him. It was a promise he had sworn to keep, and he had, for all these years. If he broke that promise, he would lose Felix and he would lose himself. Then what? What would his life become? How could he face the future with his soul tarnished and blackened by such a heinous betrayal?

  “I’m sorry.” Bill looked up at Graham. “I know who I answer to. I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time, and I realize that’s a commodity in short supply. I’m just not prepared to… to hand it over.”

  Graham’s eyes widened in surprise. “Okay, look, I’ve heard of buyer’s remorse but this is…” He picked at a fingernail, looking suddenly nervous. “It’s late and I understand getting cold feet and all, but I came all the way out here, and it’s, well, it’s fricken’ late.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bill said. “I’m happy to compensate you for your time. Would two thousand help to smooth things over between us?”

  “Money’s not going to help!” Graham sounded agitated. “Why don’t you just give me the Journal like we agreed? Just hand it over and I’ll get out of here and we can just be done with it!”

  Bill straightened in his seat. The Journal? He’d never mentioned the Journal.

  “No one has to get hurt,” Graham said, eyes shifting, panicked.

  “Why would anyone get hurt?” Bill asked calmly, slowly easing his chair out from the table.

  “Just give it to me!” Graham demanded.

  “Who put you up to this, Graham? Do you even know what you’re asking for?”

  Graham reached behind him and came away with a handgun. “Just give me the goddamn Journal!” The gun shook in his hand, the barrel bobbing. “I know it’s in that bag. Just slide it over and I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you! I don’t!”

  “I can’t do that,” Bill said evenly. “Was it Lofton?” He studied him. Graham held the gun like it was his first time, though the safety was off and any fool could pull a trigger. He appeared jumpy and Bill didn’t want his finger to twitch. “Just stay calm Graham. Let’s talk. Who contacted you?”

  “It doesn’t matter!” Graham’s voice had gone shrill. “The Journal can ruin the New Government and I can’t let that happen.”

  “So you mean to destroy it?” Bill asked.

  “I’m not doing anything with it!” Graham shrieked. “Just give it to me! I’m not fucking around!”

  “Who are you giving it to?” Bill asked. “Did they give you a name?”

  “It doesn’t matter!”

  “Why?” Bill kept his eyes on the barrel. Graham rested an elbow on the table to steady his shaking hand. “Why do you want to save the New Government? Tell me.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like!” Graham shrieked. “You don’t have a wife or kids. Every time my wife calls, you know what I think? I think she’s gonna tell me one of my kids is dead or been in an accident. It could’ve happened anywhere in this fucking country! People getting shot up at school, at work, at the mall, on the streets, and the Old Government didn’t give two shits! They didn’t care! If it wasn’t guns, it was something else. The food! Water! An accident on the highway! Cancer or some other fucking disease! It’s incapacitating and you can’t live like that!” Graham put a hand against his head, anguished. “I’m sick and tired of being afraid that my family is going to die from something that’s completely preventable. You can’t live in fear like that!” He clutched at his throat, clawing at it. “Freedom from fear. That’s what Lofton and the New Government will give us. That’s what we need!”

  “Is that how you want to live?” Bill asked. “Like a caged animal?”

  “That’s not how it’s gonna be! The guns are already off the streets. Just like that! Gone! The Old Government was never going to do it. And the New Government’s only going to make bigger and better changes from here. We’re talking game changers. No more cancer. No more disease. And no more fucking fear! So give me the Journal!”

  “Graham, just listen to me for a moment,” Bill said, his voice steady. “I’m not even planning to go public with it, okay? But I’m not comfortable giving it to you so that you can deliver it to one of Lofton’s—”

  The muzzle flashed.

  Bill’s head snapped back and he blinked hard, seeing bright white lights against an orange background. Graham screamed something, though Bill couldn’t make sense of it through the ringing in his ears. He felt a dull heavy pain in his shoulder and glanced down at a spreading pocket of red. He shot me, Bill thought dimly, feeling as though he must be in a dream. It doesn’t really hurt.

  “Give me the Journal!” Graham screamed, spittle spraying the table.

  “Put the gun away,” Bill said hoarsely, edging his chair back, giving himself room to stand. “You don’t understand what you’re doing. The people you’re dealing with are using you. I can help you—”

  A pair of explosions, in rapid succession, rocked the room like thunderclaps.

  Bill crashed into the chair, a rolling echo hammering in his ears. He felt his breath whistling through clenched teeth, but he wasn’t getting any air, and he wondered if his lungs were filling with blood. He told himself to get to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t listen and his feet stayed planted on the floor. He put a hand to his stomach. It felt warm and wet. Pain flared in his chest and his lungs burned, his breaths choking in liquid fire. He looked up at Graham stepping toward him, gun pointed, shaking wildly in his trembling hand. Graham’s face was slick with tears. He was sobbing. Bill’s vision went gray, distorting at the edges, and Graham and his sorrowful cries melted away. His eyes closed and he felt himself slipping effortlessly into a cool, vivid dreamscape. He stood in a vast field of tall, emerald green grass. Not knowing what else to do, he tried to push through it, but the ground was too soft, yielding too much under his weight. He looked at his feet and the grass was no longer there—it had turned to sand. Now he was standing alone in a desert, and in every direction, all he could see were towering dunes. Then the heavens fell and the dunes rose, merging into each other, blending together, turning the sand beneath his feet into something that was neit
her gas nor liquid, breathable but heavier than air, and as blue as a Fijian sky on a cloudless day. Then the blueness assimilated him, absorbing him. His existence was fading away, lost to something immovably powerful, a consciousness he sensed on the fringes of his own. The universe changed from midnight blue to hues so subtle they were nearly white. Then everything became a constant uniform shade of blue that was colder than warm, lighter than dark, a clear penetrating pale blue he’d known in the eyes of a woman long ago and in her son he’d vowed to protect, and it spoke to him in her voice: “You protected him,” she said. “You kept your promise.” A feeling of warmth and happiness flooded his being and he reached out for the voice and let himself go.

  Chapter 23

  DIRTY DEEDS

  Felix awoke to a hand on his bare shoulder and a figure standing beside his bed. He threw off his covers in a panic and raised his hand, blinking against the lights and the sleep in his eyes.

  “It’s me, Felix,” a voice said.

  “Allison?” he replied blearily.

  “Yeah.” She sat on his bed and took his hands in hers, looking him in the face, her expression sorrowful.

  “What is it?” he said, his eyes darting nervously to Lucas’s empty bed. “Where’s Lucas?”

  “It’s not Lucas. It’s Bill. He’s… he’s dead. I’m sorry.”

  “What?” Felix couldn’t make sense of her words. “What do you mean? Dead?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I was up, um, reading, and it just hit me. No blood or wounds or anything like that, but I felt his pain.” She put her hands to her chest. “All over. It was him. I just, you know, felt him.” She cupped her elbows and stared down. “It only hurt for a minute though.”

  “You sure he’s dead?” Felix nearly shouted, climbing out of bed. He looked at her doubtfully, not believing her, thinking she must have been dreaming. “It’s gottta be a mistake or something.”

  “I’ve never been wrong before.” She paused, chewing on her lip. “I’m sorry, he’s, well, you know…”

  “How can you be sure?” Felix grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt from his closet. “Maybe he’s… maybe he’s just hurt.”

  Allison watched him slip into his clothes, shaking her head. “He was. He was in a lot of pain.” She closed her eyes, remembering. “I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and then everything went dark and the pain went away. I felt… calm. It was weird, like I was aware of myself, but not like before with you or Caitlin, not like, I don’t know, like maybe I was outside my body or something.” She opened her eyes and looked down at Felix sitting on the bed, lacing his sneakers.

  “There was this moment,” Allison continued, her eyes distant, “just before I lost my connection with him, where Bill felt, well, happy. Then he was gone.”

  “Happy?” Felix took the jacket draped over his desk chair and put it on. She had to be wrong about this. No one dies happy.

  Allison nodded. “Yeah.” She eyed him. “But I don’t know where he is. I don’t feel him anymore.”

  “You think he’s home?” Felix asked, thinking they were about to wake up Bill for no good reason.

  “Maybe. I thought he was close, but I can’t be sure now.”

  “The Jeep wouldn’t start this morning. Okay if we run?” He frowned at Allison’s heels and opened the door.

  “Trying to break in a new pair,” Allison explained as they stepped out into the hall. “Let me grab my shoes.”

  ***

  Felix felt frozen, cold and numb and heavy, a block of ice that would never thaw. Shock, he realized, but the realization did nothing to alleviate the impact of what he was seeing. They waited in the dark of a moonless night, peering into the kitchen through the sliding glass door. Bill was seated in a chair, facing them, head hanging limply, his face hidden in shadow and a mane of dark unruly hair. The shirt he wore was stained with deep red circles covering his chest and neck. His hands were on his thighs, fingers spread, and if not for the blood, Felix would have thought he’d fallen asleep at the table. Pale yellow light shone weakly from the hallway where a lamp must have been left on in a bedroom, illuminating splintery wooden shards scattered around Bill’s chair. Felix’s first impulse was to yank open the door and go to him, but Allison clutched his hand and said, “Wait a minute. Let’s make sure this isn’t a trap.”

  That hadn’t occurred to Felix, but he agreed with her, and so they stood there and stared at Bill’s lifeless form. Felix hoped he would stand up and look startled at the sight of them creeping around in his back yard and then offer them a cup of tea. Prove Allison’s empathic abilities weren’t infallible. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He knew Bill was dead.

  The light in the hallway dimmed for a moment and a shadow stretched across the floor.

  They both sucked in a startled breath.

  “Still in the house,” Allison whispered as Felix gripped the handle, wincing as the door traveled along the grooves, squeaking softly. He slipped soundlessly into the kitchen with Allison behind, a gust of wind fluttering a paper towel from a roll on the counter. The light flickered and the sound of grunting carried down the hall. Felix took a step and gave Bill’s foot a little tap. He glanced down and saw that his mouth was open. He saw that he wasn’t breathing.

  Anger exploded inside Felix, the terrible energy within him rising to the surface, racing over his skin, ready to be unleased with a thought. He raised his hand and moved toward the hallway, praying that the person in the house was the one who had killed Bill. He was going to avenge him. He was going to rip them to pieces.

  Felix felt a hand on his arm and Allison was beside him. She stood on her tiptoes, pressed her mouth to his ear and whispered, “We need information. Don’t kill anyone.”

  Felix nodded, though his anger had a mind of its own, and he had no intention of restraining it. He stopped, his eyes fixed on the end of the hallway where it opened up to the kitchen and family room. The house was silent except for the ticking of a grandfather clock at the other end of the hall. The grunting had stopped, Felix realized. He turned to tell Allison that he was going to check out the bedroom when the clock began tolling: Bong! Bong! Bong!

  From the corner of his eye, Felix saw a flash of movement, and his hand, already raised, twitched toward the object, raising it off the floor. A glint of silver caught the yellow light and Felix’s eyes locked on a gun gripped in a hand. Without hesitation, Felix set the gun, and the hand gripping it, on fire, igniting them in a ball of scorching flames. A shriek of pain shot out and Felix looked up at the tortured face of a man whose feet were hovering just below the chair rail. Felix held him there, making the fire hotter.

  “Put it out,” Allison told him softly.

  The gun and the man’s hand were melting, the liquid metal mingling with flesh and bone, dripping from the tip of the barrel. Felix wanted to kill him. This was the man who’d murdered Bill. This was the gun he’d used to shoot him.

  “We have to find out what he knows,” Allison said when the fire continued to blaze.

  Felix’s anger was at a boil, but Allison was right. With a thought, he extinguished the flames.

  The man was screaming in agony, his eyes wild, gaping at his ruined hand. His jacket and pants—dress pants—were both black, as were his shoes. His hair was short and parted at the side and his mustache was neatly trimmed. Then Felix noticed the parachute like straps hanging from his back. Allison noticed them too and disappeared down the hall for a closer look.

  “It’s a safe,” she called out a moment later. “He’s got it hooked up to some kind of harness.”

  Felix poked his head around the wall and saw it, understanding why the man had been grunting. The safe wasn’t big—about the size of a microwave—but it looked heavy.

  Allison came back, stopping beside the man. “What are you looking for?”

  “Fuck you!” the man growled through his cries of pain.

  “You’re not my type,” Allison replied coolly and turned away from him. “
Felix, burn off his other hand—then do his face.”

  Felix would have been happy to oblige, but he knew Allison was only encouraging him to speak more freely.

  “No!” the man screamed desperately. “Please! No!”

  “I imagine that hurts,” Allison said, her voice devoid of sympathy. “So this is what we’re going to do. I’m going to ask you some questions. As long as you’re truthful, I’ll try to convince Felix not to cook you. No guarantees though. Killing Bill”—she jerked a thumb over her shoulder—“was a very bad idea.”

  “I didn’t kill him!” the man shrieked. “It wasn’t me! I swear!”

  “You lie—” Felix started.

  “Hold on!” Allison put a hand on Felix’s arm. “He’s telling the truth.”

  Felix held his avenging thoughts in check, wavering, ready to torch him.

  “Who did it?” Allison asked the man. “Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know,” he groaned, shooting terrified glances at his hand.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Felix bellowed. “You must know! Tell me!” The word fire flickered in his consciousness and the man’s feet ignited in shimmering red waves.

  “Knock it off!” Allison scolded him, eyes on the man’s feet, his shoes blistering and peeling. “He can’t talk if he’s dead.”

  Furious, Felix killed the flames and stepped around the man, snapping the straps and levitating the safe off the floor.

  “I don’t know who killed him!” the man wailed. “I swear.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Allison said over her shoulder.

  “Why are you here?” Felix shouted, maneuvering the safe to the table and lowering it, the legs creaking under the weight.

  The man hesitated.

  Felix turned to him, his face twisting in rage.

  “I’d tell him if I were you,” Allison warned him.

  “To get the… the other part of the Journal.” The man’s lips rolled back from his teeth and he worked his jaw, apparently angry with himself for being broken so quickly.