Out of the Darkness

by Jaime Rush

  Gerard swallowed his frustration. “Of course.” It made him crazy, wondering. Something else made him wonder, too. “Why are you helping me? You and I have no special connection.”

  Pope smiled. “But we do. It is our fascination with things that can’t be explained. And our desire to protect what others would shut down.”

  Gerard couldn’t help but think there was more, but who was he to push? The man had saved his ass, and his program, twice. If not for Pope, Gerard would be under intense scrutiny, and, no doubt, DARK MATTER would be gone. The three men who’d been killed he’d had to report as missing. Gladstone had been the trickiest; he’d been a good agent, no history of instability. The two others had been on the edge anyway. One of them, also torched by Eric Aruda, would simply be missing forever. Samuels’s body might turn up eventually. That both men were friends helped; they were obviously involved in something illicit that got them both killed.

  “Why not just let the Rogues be?” Pope asked. “The more you go after them, the more men you lose, the more cover stories we have to concoct, the higher risk that an innocent person gets caught in the cross fire, and the FBI and your superior get wind of it. The media are awfully interested in the shoot-out at Braden’s house.”

  Gerard’s mouth tightened. “I can’t let them be. They know too much. They’re a threat to my program. And I’m damned close to eradicating them. Then I can move ahead without problems.” He didn’t want to defend his actions. He’d be tempted to say too much. “You said on the phone that you found my missing Offspring.”

  His chest tightened. He had discovered an Offspring that no one knew about, but finding anything else about the baby that one of the original subjects had given up for adoption led to several dead ends. Dead ends were Pope’s specialty. “Where is he?”

  “There’s good news and bad news. The good is that we know exactly where he is and that his location makes it easy for us to contact him.”

  Us. Gerard felt that twitch that had started when Pope first became interested in the program. “And the bad news?”

  “He’s in prison for murder.” Pope walked over to the briefcase and opened it. He pulled out a green folder and handed it to Gerard. “Here’s his record. He killed a woman by crushing her throat with his bare hands. He was suspected in another woman’s murder, but they didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute. They barely had enough to get him as it was.”

  He itched to dismiss Pope, so he could devour every word, but no one dismissed a man like Pope. Not even, he hated to admit, a man like Darkwell. He flipped through the file, his eyes catching words here and there: assault…stalking…victim claimed.

  He only had an idea what the man’s powers were, but he definitely had aggression and the ability to kill. Best of all, he was an Ultra, born from two of the subjects in the program, twice as powerful. Gerard fairly salivated.

  Pope closed his briefcase with a loud snap. “Read his records. You’ll agree that he’s not an Offspring you want to work with.”

  “If he’s what I need, I can handle him.”

  “If you bring in this guy, the Rogues will be the least of your worries. Even the warden is unnerved by him.”

  Gerard bristled at being told what to do. He’d had enough of that, through his childhood, his career. With DARK MATTER, he had no one to answer to. He pulled his gaze from that intriguing folder, finding Pope watching him. “I’ll keep your warning under advisement.”

  Those eyes seemed to reach right into him. “I hope you do.”

  “Thank you again for your assistance.”

  Pope grabbed up his briefcase and paused at the door. “Desperate men lose their judgment. If you make the wrong decisions, I won’t be able to help you.”

  Risking Pope’s assistance might be worth not having him breathing down his neck. Once the Rogues were all dead, there would be no more messes to clean up, only victories. He would aim his powerful weapons away from the local area. The right people would start dying with no one the wiser.

  Pope left, closing the door with a decisive click. Gerard felt a shiver go up his spine. From the prospect of adding perhaps the most dangerous Offspring yet to his program? Or a dark omen?

  CHAPTER 17

  Z

  oe held on tight to Rand as he maneuvered through traffic toward the John Hanson Highway. Just before the exchange, he took a side road next to Weems Creek, a wide waterway that flowed in from the Severn River. On the other side of the creek were homes with their docks and boats. Rand parked just off the road. He let her alight first, then climbed off the bike and set his helmet on the seat. “Call your granddad before we head off to Baltimore. We don’t want them to get a bead on us through the cell tower. And remember, we’ve got to make every stop quick.”

  She pulled out her cell phone and dialed the facility’s number. “May I speak with Marge Connell, please?” Marge answered a moment later. “Hi, it’s Zoe Stoker. I’m checking on my granddad. How’s he doing?”

  The silence actually felt cold, and then she realized—Marge had heard the news about the drugs. To confirm her suspicion, Marge said, “Should you be calling here?”

  This was killing her. “Yes, I should. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding.” Zoe stopped herself from explaining further. The rest would sound even less believable, and she didn’t have time. “How’s he doing?”

  Marge’s normally warm tone was rigid. “He’s had some lucid moments, been asking for you.”

  Zoe grimaced at the ache in her chest. She couldn’t risk a visit, not now. Not for a long time, probably. “Tell him I’m sorry I can’t be there. He…doesn’t know about the news report, does he?”

  “No, and I wouldn’t tell him that. It would break his heart.”

  Like it was breaking hers. Like his son broke his father’s heart when he walked in and shot seven people twenty years ago. She had to tell him that her father hadn’t been in his right mind. “Can I speak with him?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment, as though considering whether a wanted felon should be allowed to talk to her dying grandfather. Zoe squeezed her eyes shut and pushed out, “Please.

  “I’ll see if he’s available.”

  “Everything all right?” Rand asked from beside her.

  She stared at the sunlight reflecting off the wind-ruffled water. “The nurse thinks I’m a drug dealer. Thank God he doesn’t know.”

  “Zoe?”

  His voice filled her with both love and grief. “Granddad! How are you?” She turned away from Rand, wanting privacy.

  “I’m alive,” he said, his voice strained. “So far.”

  Was she going to see him before he died? “I’m sorry I haven’t been by in a couple of days. I’m kind of tied up out of town right now. I’ll check in as often as I can.”

  “I’ll be…all right, sweetheart.”

  The endearment made her eyes tear up, and she quickly rubbed at them. “There’s something I need to tell you. It’s about my dad. Your son. About the shooting.”

  She heard a clunk, like he’d dropped the phone. A woman’s voice came on. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to give him morphine. Please call back another time.”

  “No, wait! I’ve got to tell him something.”

  “Ma’am, he can’t talk anymore. He’s in a lot of pain. Call back later.” The phone disconnected.

  “Damn!” She turned to find Rand standing by the bike. “A nurse hung up on me.”

  She swiped at her eyes, hating that Rand would see her upset again. This time she had the wherewithal to be embarrassed about it. Last time, in the woods at Truxtun Park, she was out of her mind. “I need to make one more call to RJ, who’s taking care of my shop. Then we can roll.”

  A breeze swept in, carrying the faint scent of salt. She punched in the number and felt a pang of homesickness when Rachael answered, “Creative Ink.”

  “It’s me…Zoe. Put RJ on, quick.”

  “Zoe! What’s—”

  “No time, sweet
ie. I need RJ.”

  A moment later RJ came on the line. “Zoe, what the hell is going on?”

  “I’m being set up, and I can’t explain more than that. You know me; I don’t even drink. I like kids. I’d never deal.” She took a breath, halting more words of defense. “Please believe me.”

  “I do, but—”

  “No buts. Just listen. I need you to take care of the shop for…for a while. Up your salary, pay my rent for a month or two, hire someone else, just please keep my baby alive, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.” His confusion was clear in his voice.

  “You have to trust me. This is mad-crazy stuff I’m tangled up in. I’ve got to go. Thanks.” She turned to Rand. “I need to talk to my mom.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Go ahead, but be quick.”

  “No, I need to see her. I can’t tell her this on the phone. She’ll hang up.”

  “Can’t do it, not in person. If they were watching your granddad, they’ll be watching her, too.”

  “Except I’m not that close to her. Haven’t been in years.” She shrugged. “Ever, really.”

  “If she’s not a drunk, you’re way ahead of the game.”

  Her laugh had not a shred of humor. “No, she doesn’t drink, smoke, or cuss. She married a preacher. Do you want to know how she met him?” Bitterness crept into her voice. “She was getting every preacher and priest to exorcise my demon. The one that makes me send things flying.”

  He lifted the back of her shirt and traced his finger along her she-devil tattoo. “Is that why you got this?”

  “I went to New Orleans for a few weeks with some friends after I graduated, and the guy whose apartment we crashed at, he was into meditating, vegan, crystal bowls, and stuff. I thought, what a hippie. But the thing is, this guy had such inner peace that before long he was teaching me to meditate. My friends would go out and party, and I’d stay home with Ralph and do guided imagery and stuff. And I felt—you’ll think it’s crazy—but I felt God. I connected to something so pure, so joyous and loving, I knew it was God. If I could feel God, I couldn’t have evil in me. I got the she-devil to celebrate releasing those old beliefs and because I know He has a sense of humor.”

  Her mouth quirked. “Mostly it was to spite my mother. And, oh, she was spited all right. I got in her face and showed it to her. It freaked her out and pissed her off, just like I wanted it to. I was eighteen, too immature and hotheaded.” She let out a sigh of regret. “I’ve hardly talked to her since except for strained holiday meals where everyone in the family—including my stepsister and half brother, who are perfect and normal—looks at me like I’m a freak.”

  “Nothing wrong with being a freak,” he said, his way of sympathizing, she guessed.

  She shook her head. “But I’d accepted that this thing, whatever it was, was part of me. And now I know it’s not evil at all. But the thing is, I like the tattoo. It signifies a change in my attitude and taking back my power. And who needed a mom, anyway, right? I had my granddad and my Goth friends at school. But I need to tell her why Dad went off, and why I have crazy energy and, now, that I’m not a drug dealer.”

  “You didn’t need her approval when you got this.” He touched her tattoo again, sending chills up her spine.

  “I don’t need her approval.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Damn, she hated when he was right. “I just need her to know that I’m not what she thinks I am.”

  “It’s too risky.”

  “It’s not something I can do over the phone. With Granddad, I don’t have much choice. But she would just hang up. He wants to hear the truth; she doesn’t.” She took a deep, quick breath. “All right. Let’s go.”

  They climbed on the bike and made the ride to Baltimore.

  Deep into a part of the city she wasn’t familiar with, he pulled up to a diner. A real greasy spoon, with a long counter and stools that looked like they’d been there since the fifties, and not in that bright, kitschy way that some diners did. She followed him in. He waved at the guy in the kitchen and the waitress. They knew him, but not by name apparently.

  She slid the menu to the side. “I’m not hungry.” Since she’d heard about the drugs, her appetite had fled.

  When the waitress came to take their order, Rand said, “We’ll have two hamburgers, fries, and two chocolate milk shakes.” He turned to her. “They have the illest shakes here.”

  Zoe raised her eyebrows. “You’re awfully hungry.”

  “Half of that’s for you, doll.”

  She started to object, but he handed the menus to the waitress.

  “You don’t have to take care of me.”

  “It’s nothing to do with taking care of you, just common sense. You didn’t eat anything this morning. I don’t want you to faint dead away on the back of my bike.” He wrinkled his nose. “Messy.”

  That selfish thing might have worked if he hadn’t noticed that she’d skipped breakfast.

  She forced herself to eat the burger, though the shake went down good. Dark thoughts pummeled her with the faces of all the people who now thought she was a drug dealer.

  He glanced at his watch. “Time to fly.”

  She pulled herself from the booth, hit the bathroom, and off they went.

  He rode into what she would almost call inner city. Older buildings, some covered in graffiti, made her think of gangs. Her chest tightened. What was he up to? And could she keep it a secret if it was really bad?

  He pulled beneath an overpass, paused, and surveyed the area. With a nod he killed the engine and kicked down the stand. She climbed off the bike, and he followed, unlocking the bags. He pulled out that black duffel that had made the clinking sounds earlier.

  He glanced around again and unzipped the bag. Reached inside. And pulled out a can of spray paint. Then four more. He faced the section of the wall that was covered in a mishmash of names and pictures.

  “Toy shit,” he muttered, shaking the can for a few seconds, then spraying a wide swath of white paint over the mess.

  He was in a zone, like the one he’d been in when he’d maniacally ridden the bike.

  She could only stare for a moment. “This is your secret? You vandalize public property?”

  “I don’t vandalize.” He nodded to the section of wall that he hadn’t painted over. “I buff ugly stuff like that, walls the toys make a mess of. I only do places the city lets go to pot, or derelict buildings. Instead of looking at that”—he pointed to the other wall—“people get to look at a cool burner.”

  She walked up to the wall he’d pointed to. “Toys? Oh, you mean kids?”

  “Newbies, actually. Wannabes.” He shrugged. “We all gotta start somewhere. At first you do bubbly throw ups, just wanting to bomb everywhere you can to get your name up. You build your rep. Then you elevate, hone your craft, and start doing pieces—whole walls, big elaborate paintings—and get as hot and crispy and burnerific as possible.”

  She chuckled. “Burnerific?”

  “Good, delicious art. You find your own style, then everyone starts jocking it, imitating you. That’s when you’re the king, the mac daddy. I’ve been there, but I don’t care about being a king anymore. I just want to paint.”

  She couldn’t help grinning. He’d segued into street slang, and even the way he spoke changed, like he was slinging out the words the way the diner cook slung out the orders. He grabbed another can, faced the now-pristine white wall, and started spraying. “I don’t have time to do something burnerific, but man, I just need to get up. Seeing your sketchbook made me itch for it. To feel the can’s button on the pad of my finger, the smell of paint, seeing something come together where there was just some crappy wall.”

  “And what if someone paints over your…piece?”

  “They will. There’s a lot of beef around here—feuds. My boys won’t paint over my pieces, but the others will, especially the toys.”

  He painted as he talked. Since he wore a tank top, she could see his
muscles flexing as he moved the can in graceful arcs. He glanced around every so often as he worked, those checks integrated with his movements.

  A lightbulb went off. “Ah, this is how you got good at eluding people.”

  “Exactly.” An eagle came to life as he painted. “Graffiti is a twin seduction. There’s the element of danger, yeah. Cops, thugs…nothing compared to the sons of bitches we’ve got after us now, though.” He paused and assessed his piece, then dropped one can and picked up another in a move so smooth, she hardly saw it. “But mostly it’s the art. Expressing yourself, getting this stuff that’s inside you out, venting, meditating…the art, it’s in my mind all the time. I dream about it. I breathe it. I do it for me, mostly, but it’s nice when my pieces get people talking.”

  She watched him fill in shading above the eagle. “I have to admit, I never thought of graffiti as art.”

  “Most of it’s tagging, where writers just slap their throw ups anywhere just to say, ‘I was here.’ Nothing creative about it, though they think so. That’s what gives graff a bad name. But there are some dope artists out there, and if you’re lucky enough to see the pieces before they get trashed, they’ll blow you away. Some of them get published in books or put up on Web sites, though, so they’re preserved. Sometimes I’ll do a piece at night, and when I come back to look at it in the daylight, it’s already painted over.”

  “I’ll bet that pisses you off. I mean, what’s the point if nobody sees it?”

  “Yeah, I used to get pissed when someone trashed a piece. I craved applause”—he glanced at her—“peer approval. Since the public hates graff, that’s the only approval we get. But I got to a point where I realized it’s the art itself, what it means to me. This keeps me grounded. It’s the only thing I do that really makes me happy.”

  “What about gambling?”

  He shook his head but kept his gaze on the wall. “Just a means to an end. And a small payback for a friend who got sucked into the addiction and ruined his life. Poor son of a bitch threw himself off a bridge.”