Brooding City: Brooding City Series Book 1 (16 page)

With a haughty demeanor, Badgercap gathered himself up. “You could have stopped at ‘killed good men and women’,” he said, breaking off into a fit of giggles. As the madman paced about and leered at them with unrestrained excitement, Brennan and Sam shared a glance.

“What do you mean?” Sam demanded, anger rising in his voice. “What did you do to Noel?”

“Me?” the maniac giggled. “
I
didn’t do anything! But your partner didn’t look too good last time I saw her.”

True
.

Sam struggled against his injured body as he rose to his feet. His lip was cracked, several fingers bent at unnatural angles, and he moved with the signs of dozens of untold injuries. His face was a mask of pure fury, and the glare he gave Badgercap made Brennan’s hairs stand on end.

“If you touched one hair on her head,” he growled, “I swear to God I’ll—”

Badgercap produced a handgun from his waistband and shot Sam twice in the chest.

Brennan watched in horror as his best friend of over a dozen years recoiled from the shots. Sam’s eyes dulled as he fell to his knees, and momentum carried his limp body to the side. He couldn’t see his friend’s face from where he knelt, but Brennan felt his body begin to shake as Sam lay there, unmoving. The two gunshots in the small, confined room were deafening, but they were nothing compared to the roar of rage that tore its way from Brennan’s throat, a wordless howl of noise and fury.

He had murder in his heart. He had killed before in self-defense, or in the cause of protecting others, and he had never shied away from that fact. But here, now, he bore a personal hatred for the man who stood before him. Bloodied, bound, and beaten, he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning. It didn’t matter. He had lost two of his closest friends to this madman, and he would give everything for the chance to make him pay. Blood pumped furiously through his veins and it still came down in sheets over his face. He saw red as he rose to charge the man.

With almost casual arrogance, Badgercap turned and cracked Brennan square in the jaw with the butt of his gun. He heard the pop of a dislocated jaw as mind-numbing pain jolted through his skull. His head snapped to the side, nearly splitting itself open on the wall, and he lacked the strength to turn his face back toward his attacker.

“Now,” Badgercap said, kneeling before him. He cupped Brennan’s chin forcefully, the grip agonizingly painful. “Listen when you are being spoken to,” he commanded. “I am Leviathan! You are nothing!” He released Brennan and stepped away sharply, pacing anxiously. His stare never left Brennan’s face, and after a moment he stopped, his mouth parting slightly as if struck by inspiration.

“This should be fun,” he said, his teeth gleaming, “and you don’t look like you’re having fun. So let’s make this a bit of a game, eh? I’m a generous man, and you’ve got nothing left to live for, do you?” He leaned in close, and his rancid breath was warm and moist against Brennan’s face. “Here’s the game,” he said. “You get to ask me questions, finish your investigation, and maybe die content.” He lifted the pistol before Brennan’s eyes so he couldn’t avoid seeing it. “But for each
boring
question you ask, I get a whack at that ugly mug of yours. How long d’you think you’ll last?”

Brennan spat in Badgercap’s face. The other man wiped at the spit slowly, still showing his manic grin. He tried to think of an escape, a way out of this situation alive, but those options didn’t present themselves. He could charge Badgercap, though that would only reward him with a bullet to the head. Likewise, he gained nothing by refusing to play his game and staying silent; if anything, that would only infuriate his captor and bring death all the more swiftly.

Though a quick death might be better
.

Brennan sighed. “Zachariah Nettle,” he said slowly, his jaw stiff. “You killed him.”

Badgercap’s eyes danced madly. “Is that a question?”

“Are you responsible for the murder of Zachariah Nettle?”

“There, that’s much better now. You aren’t as thick as your skull suggests.” He paced slowly, holding the pistol delicately in his hands. “Yes, I killed the pharmacist. We had a good thing going until he tried to haggle with me. With
me
, the thankless wretch. He wanted a larger cut, so I agreed.” His lips parted in a grisly grin. “Oh, yes, I gave him a
very
large cut,” he said, pantomiming a knife slicing through the air.

Brennan felt the truth of his words. A madman he might be, but he was being honest—he was following the rules of this ghastly game. His brain worked furiously to come up with another question, but one left his lips unbidden while he thought.

“You aren’t a thug,” his mouth said. “The night you jumped me outside the pharmacy, you talked like a street urchin. When you just spoke now, though, that accent was gone. It was just a mask,” Brennan said, meeting Badgercap’s glare. “Who are you?”

“Boring!” Badgercap declared. “I’m not interested in talking about myself.”

He hit Brennan with a fast left hook that stunned him more than it hurt him. Badgercap shook his hand after the punch, wincing, and then slammed the butt of the gun in his other hand in a backhanded strike to Brennan’s jaw. Rather than a pop, Brennan felt something in his jaw crack. Badgercap stooped to grab him roughly by the collar of his shirt and pulled him close, speaking into Brennan’s ear.

“Do not think for a second that I will hesitate to kill you. I thought I proved that with your friend here. I don’t want to kill you right off because, frankly, you have been a huge pain in my ass. It is going to take
months
to put my network back together, not to mention the sales I’ll lose in the meantime—No, no, this is not going to end quickly for you,” he whispered harshly. “I am going to prolong your suffering for as long as I can, just as hers was. And I will enjoy every second of it.”

Brennan’s mind was foggy, and he was having trouble thinking clearly even as alarm bells went off in his head. He and Sam had been too late—Noel was lost even before they entered the building. Sam had paid for it with his life, and it looked like Brennan was destined to go the same way. He needed to buy more time to think of some clever escape.

“Okay, okay,” he gasped, slumping to the floor as Badgercap’s grip eased. His voice slurred, and it hurt to speak through his fractured jaw. “I have a quethtion,” he mumbled.

Badgercap grinned, fierce and sudden, and danced back toward the door. “Well, go on, athk away!” he said excitedly, mocking Brennan’s lisp as he broke down in another burst of demented laughter.

Brennan gave him a bleary glare and hoped he looked more intimidating than he felt. Kneeling on the floor with his hands bound behind his back, he didn’t like the chances of that. He heard a low noise from the hallway, likely Muscles coughing.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, thankful there were no soft consonants in the question. His voice cracked with the words. “Why did you take Bishop?”

Badgercap leaned in very suddenly, smacking Brennan across the face.
No, not smacking
, he realized. In his excitement, Badgercap’s motion turned the gentle swipe into a partial slap.

“Are you crying?” he asked incredulously. “Oh, but this is delicious! But I don’t have an answer for you, Detective. See, I’ve already grown tired of our game. Your questions aren’t as interesting as I’d hoped they would be.” He cocked the gun and pressed it against Brennan’s skull. “I hope you got the answers you were looking for.”

A shot rang out, and Brennan’s face became a gory mess of blood. Badgercap’s chest exploded outward as a second round worked its way through his body, and he fell limply to the floor with a stunned look on his face. Behind him, leaning heavily against the open doorframe and holding Muscles’ enormous revolver, was a haggard and injured Detective Bishop.

“Brennan!” she cried, dropping the gun and rushing to his side. “Oh my God, what are you doing here?”

“What am I—what are
you
doing here? I thought you were dead!”

Bishop untied the rope that bound Brennan’s hands and he pulled them free, flexing them with newfound freedom. “Reports of my death,” she muttered.

Brennan pointed to Sam. “He’th not bleething,” he said.

“Oh God! What the hell were you two thinking?!” She rushed to Sam’s side and rolled him over. His eyes were closed, and his face was starting to turn blue. “Oh God, oh God,” Bishop half muttered, half prayed. Tears welled in her eyes as she crouched over Sam, her hands spreading over his chest as she leaned against his body. “What the—?” she started. “He’s not bleeding.”

“That’th what I thaid.”

She ripped apart his shirt so the buttons flew all across the room. Beneath his clothing was a thick, black vest. Two shiny bullets were embedded in the thick material over his heart and lungs, and Bishop tore at the Velcro straps, ripping the confining vest from Sam’s body.

With an enormous gasp of breath, he sat up and looked wildly around the room.

Brennan looked at him in disbelief. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said, still not believing his eyes. “How did you—?”

Sam coughed and gripped his chest as he struggled to catch his breath. “Sweet Jesus, that was close. How long was I out?”

“About three minutth,” Brennan said.

“Is that all?” He sounded disappointed. “Well, I must’ve gotten CPR,” he said mildly. Sam looked hesitantly at Brennan, whose face was a bruised pulp of flesh with a dead man’s blood still freshly dripping from his chin, and then looked hopefully to Bishop. “Noel,
please
tell me it wasn’t him.” In that moment, he seemed to notice Bishop crouched next to him for the first time. “Noel!” he cried, wrapping his arms around her in a sudden embrace. “You’re alive! Oh, thank God.”

She accepted the hug with reluctance, though a wan smile touched her lips.

Sam looked at Brennan with shining eyes. “Your voice sounds ridiculous, by the way. So you saved her? How’d you accomplish that?”

Bishop looked suspiciously between the two of them, and Brennan gave her a guilty grimace.

“You two were on a
rescue
mission?” she asked. Her tone took a sharp turn for the worse. “What, you think I’m some damned damsel in distress?”

“It’th nothing like that—” Brennan started, but she overrode him.

“Don’t feed me bullshit, Arthur! I have been on my own here for hours,” she said, speaking slowly for his benefit. “
Hours
, Brennan. Do you understand? I had plenty of time to work my way out without your help. You had no way of knowing where I was, so I sure as Hell wasn’t waiting for—” She broke off suddenly, turning her glare slowly toward Sam. “Were you in on this?”

Sam held up both hands. “Completely his idea,” he said, pointing to Brennan. “He just said you were in trouble, and I hopped to. When he told me to bring my gun, I figured the vest would be prudent.”

“It’th true,” Brennan added. “Trutht me, I’d know.”

Bishop looked between the two of them, seeming mollified. “Well, thanks. Even though I ended up saving
you
.” She cocked her head. “How did you know where to find me?”

Brennan waved off the question; that was getting into dangerous territory. “Another time,” he promised. He winced as he stood, his legs slow to respond to his orders. “And you’re welcome.”

“This is all very touching,” Sam drawled, “but I think now’s the point where I could really use a hospital. A real hospital,” he added, glancing at the rundown room they were in.

Bishop smiled in spite of herself, and she offered Sam a hand up off the floor. “Come on, you lugs. Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said. She looked sideways at Brennan and grimaced. “You look terrible.”

“One day,” he said, “thomeone will apprethiate me for more than my lookth.”

Jeremy’s eyes fluttered
open and he looked up into the face of the man who had betrayed his family.

He gasped out for breath, but he couldn’t get as much air as he needed. His lungs were seizing, and he reached out desperately to his uncle for help. But his arms refused to move with no oxygen to burn.

He wanted to hate his uncle for everything he had done. Because of Uncle Rick, his father was driven toward obsession with his work. He had nearly destroyed his parents’ love for each other, and now he was here again for more unknown reasons. It didn’t matter what he was here to do.

“Uncle,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Derrick leaned over Jeremy until they were mouth-to-ear. “Jeremy, just stay with me,” he said. “I’m going to get you help, you won’t die here.”

Die?
Jeremy thought blearily. He must have been in worse shape than he’d realized.

He heard the sound of Velcro unstrapping, and Uncle Rick muttered a curse. “No cell signal. Should’ve figured. Don’t worry, Jeremy, we’ll get you some help.”

“How?” he rasped. It felt like his body was made of lead.

Uncle Rick frowned down at him. He took a deep breath—a spike of envy coursed through Jeremy as he stared up breathlessly—and then he started speaking. “Jeremy, stand up. Do it now.”

His words were laced with power, and for once, Jeremy didn’t fight the sensation as it inundated him. His arms, which had been dead to the world just a moment before, pushed against the floor as his legs gathered up beneath him. It was an ungainly rise to his feet; he felt like a reanimated corpse freshly brought from the grave.

Jeremy’s mind raced with the implications. He was completely under his uncle’s spell. If he let another one of those whispered words worm its way into his brain, he would be powerless to stop whatever his uncle had planned. And if he died on the way home, what would his family believe? Surely they’d know that it was his uncle who’d killed him.

Unless he simply convinces them otherwise
, whispered a small voice in his head.

Uncle Rick moved in to help Jeremy stand, and that was when he made his move. Jeremy lurched forward—he was too weak to do anything else—and wrapped his arms around his uncle’s neck. Uncle Rick, taking it as either a gesture of affection or a plea for support, caught him and held him steady.

Jeremy planted his hands on either side of his uncle’s head and forced his way into his mind. It felt like he was fighting a waterfall, the sheer immensity of it beating him back. He had no idea what to do, what to expect of this, but he had to do something. He forged ahead, exerting his will, and then like the popping of a balloon, the world changed.

Instantly, he was consumed by a rolling fog that seemed to dominate the landscape. It was not unlike the rainforest in Brazil. Large, leafy trees crowded each other for light. Thick, ropy vines climbed their way up the trunks and connected with neighboring trees. On the ground, red and brown mushrooms proliferated, each the size of Jeremy’s head. Small beams of gold and bronze were visible
beneath
the soil, and they seemed to run everywhere and connect with everything.

And absolutely every living thing was infected.

Sickly purple tendrils pulsed along the trees and mushrooms like an encroaching disease. The leaves of the trees were wilted already, and the vines which hung from them lacked the vibrancy of life. Jeremy reached out a hand and touched one of the nearby trees. He recoiled from the wave of nausea that rolled over him, but he gained the insight he needed. Each one of the trees, every sickly mushroom and flower that bloomed in the landscape of his uncle’s mind, was a memory. What’s more, they were all slowly being infected by the very thing he had come to remove.

“What are you doing?” His uncle’s booming voice seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Jeremy ignored it, and instead concentrated on the memory he wanted. Motes of amber light collected in one of the lines beneath his feet, and a moment later a burst of gold shot forward. He hurried after it, following it along a path through the damp, dark forest.

A minute in, a log tripped up his footing and he lost sight of the beam for a moment. Panic rose in his chest as he glanced about, but it was nowhere to be seen. He took off at a run, and a moment later a path opened up to his right; the beam had turned a corner around a wide and particularly sickly tree, and its golden light pulsed again as he reached it.

“The phantom memories,” Jeremy said, not bothering to raise his voice. “There were moments in my parents’ past that I couldn’t see. You ordered them to forget, didn’t you?”

The earth trembled beneath him, and Jeremy realized his uncle was shaking with dark laughter in the real world. “I knew the moment I saw that note on your desk that there was something about you,” the ground roared.

“So it was you,” Jeremy mumbled. He noticed with impending dread that it was hard to catch his breath, even though, technically speaking, he had no lungs here. His body was steadily failing him in the physical realm, and Jeremy realized that his uncle was attempting to stall him with all the talking. “It’s not important,” he said, stepping forward. “Just tying up loose ends, before
the
end.”

As he navigated over fallen branches and small streams that ran along the forest’s floor, he saw more and more ghastly tendrils. They became so numerous that, more often than not, entire plants appeared purple by nature.

“It needn’t end like this,” came his uncle’s voice, issuing forth from the streams and damp undergrowth. “I could command you not to die.” The trees swayed where they stood, as if they were rooted on the shoulders of a shrugging giant. “Who knows if it would work, but what is the alternative? You’re dying, Jeremy.”

His hairs raised on end and his stomach did a backflip. It occurred to him that his uncle
wasn’t
keeping his body alive while all of this happened. Time was now his biggest enemy.

If what his uncle offered was true—was even
possible
—would it be worth the trade? He would live to fight another day, and he could confront his uncle on more even ground. Perhaps there was even something in his memories that could be used against him.

The beam of light stopped, and it pulsed consistently beneath a single mushroom the size of a beach ball. It was a solid, angry violet, and it was undoubtedly the source of the corruption which had taken over his uncle’s mind.

It was the memory of his power.

Jeremy placed a hand on its crown and was overcome with revulsion. The thing
exuded
evil. He recoiled and clutched his hand close to his chest.

Is this kind of thing inside of me?
The thought horrified him. His own power had come to him suddenly, and without instructions, but Old Ben had told him it could be used for good. If he kept using his power, if he kept absorbing the memories of others…would he be corrupted just as his uncle had been?

Would he become the very monster he was trying to stop?

Suddenly, he didn’t feel too anxious about dying.

Jeremy steeled himself and crouched beside the enormous mushroom. He wrapped his arms tightly around its base, gritting his teeth against the waves of nausea that hit him, and he lifted up with his legs. The mushroom squished in his grip and noxious ooze slid out from its pores, but otherwise it remained firmly rooted.

The wind rose to a deafening howl and the earth shook violently beneath his feet. Uncle Rick was trying with all his might to expel him from his mind. Jeremy knew his body had little strength left.

He tugged harder, and the ground beneath the mushroom broke unevenly. Tendrils as thick as his arm connected like roots to the nearest mushrooms, and Jeremy realized that there was no way to lift it out by sheer force, not the entire system. He started kicking viciously at its stem, and bits of it gave way. He gripped a nearby rock and started using it like a crude axe against the mushroom. More of its base broke away.

Jeremy felt a strange beat inside of him, and he realized it was his own thready pulse. His body was weakening, getting ready to relinquish its hold on the world; he worked all the harder because of it. He had never attempted to
remove
a memory before, and the possibility had only come into his mind just a few minutes ago. But if it was his last act on earth, he would take his uncle’s power away.

The rock tore through chunks at a time, and finally Jeremy felt that it was weak enough to try again. He braced himself, gripped under the mushroom’s hood, and heaved. More tendrils broke, but not all of them. His body was in its death throes.

Jeremy was out of breath. His mind was fuzzy and his whole body clamored for him to sit down, to rest. He had done enough.

He snarled in defiance and pulled, again and again. More roots snapped each time, and he felt it giving way. The world inside his uncle’s mind roared like an oncoming tide; everything was connected now to the power he was taking.

Memories flashed before his eyes, and it took him a moment to recognize them as his own. His mother, beaming at him as she returned with a bushel of freshly picked food. His father, brooding solemnly by the fireplace while he recovered from the Tower. Ellie—sweet Ellie—running carefree through the garden with her squirrel friends in tow. He wouldn’t be able to keep his promise to her.

The mushroom—and the memory of power that it contained—broke free.

Then he was gone.