He crouched down and started picking up utensils and flatware, and stopped, staring at a rubber-handled vegetable peeler with a rusty blade. Wondering, with a sick sort of dread, if he really could . . .
Aw, fuck it. He had to know. He concentrated, imagined the thing moving. Charged the image with energy. Jolted it, poked it, pushed it.
Nothing. At first he was relieved, but unease still tugged down on his guts like a load of dirty ice.
He thought about how it had felt, to pry open the shield. He perched on that weird inner balancing point . . . and tried it again.
It took a few minutes, but when he managed to keep it open longer than a split second, he looked at the peeler . . . pushed . . .
It trembled, jerked. Slid across the floor. Picking up speed.
Whack
, it smacked into the china closet on the far end of the kitchen.
Huh. He let the shield snap shut again. Well. That sucked.
So he was now dangerous to himself and others in lots of new and fascinating ways. Whoop-de-fucking-do.
It was coercion that scared him the most. He was afraid even to think about it. Afraid he might accidentally activate it.
All he could do was hope that Lara was wrong. There was no way of proving if he had it or not without inflicting it on someone, and that he would not do, now or ever. Coercion struck him as innately evil.
Not that Aaro was evil. But Aaro was . . . well, he was just Aaro.
So he’d let the ability sit there, unused. With luck, it would atrophy. Shrivel up and just blow away. Please, God.
He picked up the rest of the silverware the old fashioned way. Fitted the warped drawer back into the credenza, and turned his attention to the stove. He sensed a blockage in the gas line. He let his perceptions sink into the workings of the machine. Opened the valve, following the gas through the hose with his senses . . . yeah, there was the place.
He opened the shield, applied pressure, turned on the sparking mechanism. Still nothing. He gave it a little tap—
Whoosh
, flames roared up, outsized. Miles leaped back just in time. The blue gingham curtains caught fire.
He stared at them, dumbstruck. Holy
fuck.
“God, Miles!” Lara shoved him out of the way, yanked the blazing curtains down, and threw them into the sink. She turned the water on. The fabric hissed, steamed.
She turned to him, white faced. “Are you trying to blow us up?”
He shook his head, and coughed, to unblock his frozen throat. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. It was all that would come out.
“Oh, shit.” Lara grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him over next to the sink. “You are such a mess. Come here.”
She grabbed both his hands, still dark with mud and dried blood, and placed them under the flow of numbingly cold water.
It flowed over his forearms, pinkish, muddy, swirling over the charred blue-checked fabric. He stared at it, hypnotized by the caressing strokes of her hands. She grabbed dish soap and got into it, sudsing him up to the elbows. Making his blood-stiffened sleeves soggy.
It felt awesome. It felt sexual.
Blood kept rinsing down, until the basin, now blocked by the burned cloth, was more than half full with pinkish water.
“It doesn’t wash off,” he said.
She made a disapproving sound. “Yes, it does,” she said tartly. “It’s not innocent blood.”
“Blood is blood,” he said.
“You’re being self-indulgent.” She plucked the fabric out of the sink so it could drain. Water gurgled through the pipes.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he said.
She kept hold of his cold, wet hands, squeezing them. “Growing pains,” she said. “You’ll get used to this, the way you got used to the rest of it.”
“But you felt what I did to you,” he said. “I couldn’t control it. I didn’t even feel myself do it. It’s not safe. I’m not safe. I should stay away from you—”
“Bullshit,” she said crisply. “I’d be dead in ten minutes without you. Sorry to be a clingy burden, but it’s true.”
“I could hurt you,” he said. “I could—”
“But you won’t. You could also snap my neck, or smother me, probably one-handed, or shoot me, for that matter. Easily. But you won’t. And I know that you won’t, so it’s not a problem. Understand?”
His chest was still heaving. “I don’t want you to trust me,” he said. “Not when I don’t trust myself.”
“Too late,” she said. “I trust you anyway. Deal with it.” She grabbed a hand towel from an oven handle, and proceeded to dry his arms with it. Long, gentle, soothing strokes.
The cloth was still blood-smeared when she was done, but his hands looked better than before. She clasped them both in hers, and brought them to her lips, kissing one—
He jerked them away. “Please, Lara. Don’t.”
“I’ll warm up some of that soup,” she said gently. “Why don’t you go and chill out for a little while? Rest.”
Now she was trying to take care of him. His spasm of laughter turned into a cough. “I’ll go get some firewood.”
“Take it easy,” she called as he headed out into the back.
He found some wood, but it needed splitting. He found an ax in a lean-to out back, and a big chopping block.
It was a blessed relief, to unload some of his jittery nervous energy by whacking the living shit out of something, but the movement got his emotions running, and each blow became a phantom death blow to Greaves, and it did a number on his shield. He didn’t even have to do the balancing act. His shield yawned open as the ax descended, and he silently shouted, from the depths of his being—
And stared, appalled, at the massive chopping block, thigh high and wider than it was tall, rolling on the ground, riven in two pieces.
Pine needles tumbled like rain around him, pattering softly.
The kitchen door opened. He didn’t turn. Not wanting to see the reproach radiating from her slender silhouette in the doorway.
dude. seriously?
He shook his head. He had nothing to say for himself.
try a little harder with the psychic scream i dont think they heard u in Salt Lake City
That jolted a laugh from his chest, which turned to a sob. He was grateful for the darkness as he leaned on the ax handle.
Melting down into a total fucking basket case.
22
S
he was going to die today, Anabel reflected, as she stared at Greaves’ moving mouth. Probably badly. But who cared. She had come to expect pain, humiliation. It was her normal state of being.
Maybe death would roll that crushing weight off her. All those shadows, the darkness that clung, ooze that stuck and crept, and—
“Concentrate, Anabel!” Greaves’ voice was a whip-crack. She gasped at the coercive sting. Her head still hurt from when Lara’s pet ogre had slammed it, but the medics who tended the turnip—that disgusting, corpse-like thing that Greaves hauled with him everywhere—had pumped her full of antibiotics and pronounced her fit for the meeting. A throbbing concussion and a bullet through the meat of her thigh was no excuse to miss a session of ass-reaming.
Greaves had left the doors that opened onto the terrace open, the frigid November wind swirling in. A reminder of the conclusion of the last conference. Which of them would float into the air and go speeding out into the great emptiness tonight? Let it be her. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go. First it would be like flying, which she’d always longed to do. And after, boom. Nothing more. It would all just . . .
stop.
Flying, with the wind in her hair. Like Lara did. Why couldn’t she have been a clairvoyant, and go on these dreamy trips? Why did she have to be a goddamn telepath, doomed to see all the garbage in peoples’ minds? Steaming filth. Trash dumps. She was sick of it. She had enough filth of her own.
“. . . data-gathering network, using the facial-recognition software?” Greaves was addressing the room at large. “What is the status of that project?”
Silva piped up. “At this point, we have live footage available twenty-four/seven from security cams at every major tranporta-tion hub on the West Coast, and we’re expanding every day. Airports, bus and train stations, and rental car places. The facial recognition gives us warning with no more than a few seconds of delay.”
Silva sounded subtly pleased with himself. Always a mistake.
“This is useless if she stays on back roads and small towns,” Greaves observed. “Or if she gets a car at a smaller rental outlet.”
Silva looked crestfallen. “Ah, yes. We’re extending our network, but we have to outsource to cover that kind of—”
“Yes, yes. So the bots are constantly sifting this massive quantity of footage at all times for Lara Kirk’s face. Very good. As soon as we identify our man, we’ll do the same for him. For now, let’s move on. Pay attention to your monitors, please.”
Images flickered on the computer screen that each of them had in front of them. Anabel focused on hers with some difficulty.
Footage from Lara Kirk’s cell. Again. For the umpteenth time, they watched the masked man burst in, with Hu clamped against his body. Lara cowered in the corner, half-naked.
“I still cannot believe there’s no audio,” Greaves said sourly.
“Sir, there was nothing to hear,” Anabel protested. “She was alone, and unless she talked to herself—”
“Shut up,” Greaves snapped. “Pay attention.”
The crouching figure swiveled, glancing up briefly at the camera. He turned back to Lara, and whipped off his mask, revealing a snarled mop of long dark hair, dangling past his collar. But not his face.
“Look at Lara’s face,” Greaves said suddenly. “Stop, and go back two seconds.”
Silva ran the footage back, and they watched the masked ogre peer at the camera, turn, whip off the mask. This time, they watched the stunned look on Lara’s face.
But not terror. There was a flash of hope. Certainly recognition.
“She knew him,” Greaves said slowly. “She was happy to see him.”
“Surprised, too,” Anabel said.
“Yes,” Silva said. “She wasn’t expecting to be rescued. She didn’t respond quickly. He had to force her to move.”
“Yes, Silva. This implies that she was not communicating with him telepathically. So who
was
communicationg with him? Hmm?”
Fear gripped them all. Anabel braced herself for the probe. Greaves was fast, and good, but oh
fuck,
ouch, she was still sore and bruised from the headache and from yesterday’s telepathic reaming.
He moved swiftly down the line and jabbed them all, even the medics. They’d been summoned to this meeting, too, all but one left to constantly attend the turnip. To guard it, no doubt, since it was not permitted to die. She felt almost sorry for the loathsome thing.
The door opened, and that smirking whore Miranda Levine burst in. Her face was perfectly composed, but even on the sad downslide from her last dose of psi-max, Anabel could sense the woman clamping down on her own excitement, playing it cool. Posturing bitch.
“I heard from our contact at the forensics lab,” she said. “They had a hit. The prints from the gun he used to shoot Bixby match up to a Miles Davenport, last known address, Sandy, Oregon.”
“No!” Anabel jerked upright. “It can’t be Miles Davenport!”
Greaves regarded her impassively. “Why not?”
“I know that guy! And he was there, that night at Spruce Ridge! The fundraiser, remember? He was the one who attacked me and tied me up, the one who attacked Alex Aaro and destroyed Rudd’s architectural model! He ended up in a coma after his talk with Rudd. It couldn’t have been him, sir. I probed that guy! I couldn’t get through his shield, but he wasn’t enhanced, or I would have felt it. He was just a big beefcake with a good security system!”
“So you wrote him off?” Greaves said softly.
“No! The guy who took Lara was loaded up with psi! I never forget a signature. I would have known if I had ever come across—”
“Unless his signature had changed,” Greaves said.
“Signatures don’t change!”
“Do not raise your voice in my presence,” he said.
Anabel shrieked as something clutched and cramped in her groin, as if she were being clawed there.
The sensation eased after a few horrible moments. She sagged onto the table, trying not to sob.
“Have you composed yourself?” Greaves asked. “Can we proceed? Are you prepared to act like a professional?”
Straightening up in her chair put painful pressure on her aching nether parts. “Yes, sir,” she croaked.
“Good. As I was saying. You wouldn’t recognize his signature if it had changed. By your own account, after you encountered him he was attacked by Rudd, and almost killed with psychic energy. It’s very possible that he woke from his coma with a very different psi profile.”
“Do you know of other cases like that?” Silva asked.
“Yes,” Greaves said. “Me.”
The wind banged the glass doors loudly as they stared at him.
“That’s how my powers were unleashed, years ago,” he explained. “In my youth, I was subjected to prolonged psychic pressure very similar to what Rudd did to Davenport. It took months for my brain to heal, but when it did, my profile had, in fact, changed. Radically.” He looked around, a sardonic smile curling his lips. “You all take psi-max tabs. But I could give you permanent psi like mine, if you’re willing. The price is screaming agony, followed by constant, crushing head pain, disorientation, and depression. Followed by years of chronic headaches, stress flashbacks, and the occasional psychotic break. All this in exchage for enormous power. Is there a hardy soul among you? No?” He snorted. “Why am I not surprised?” He tapped his pen on the tabletop. “Miles Davenport paid that price, but Rudd didn’t even know he was creating a psychic monster. As far as he knew, he was just beating up the smaller kid in the playground, like the thug that he was. This man intrigues me. I want him taken alive.”
Eyes shifted and flickered around the table.
Greaves laughed. “Afraid?” A needle-jab of coercion made everyone at the table jump, or wince. “I invested untold millions in you people. Anything you might have to fear from Miles Davenport is nothing compared to what you have to fear from me.”
He turned to Miranda again. “Tell us about Miles Davenport.”
Miranda slid a pin drive into her console, and shared the file with them. “He grew up in Endicott Falls. His parents still live—”
“Send someone up there right away.”
“Already done, sir. Expert in computer engineering and acoustic physics. He specializes in writing algorithms that filter sound. His tax returns indicate that this work pays very well. He’s been associated with Alex Aaro’s security consultancy lately, though he hasn’t worked with him since before the Spruce Ridge incident. He also freelances with other security firms, principally SafeGuard, a company run by the McCloud brothers. Davy, Connor and Sean.”
Anabel’s burning eyes couldn’t focus on the mass of documents that Miranda had dug up that scrolled rapidly on her screen, but her gaze snagged on a photo of a dark-haired, laughing girl, scantily clad, with Miles Davenport’s arm around her shoulders. He was grinning, looking happy. The girl was pretty, but she looked like a barfly.
He was a good-looking son of a bitch, in his own craggy, hawkish way. Well endowed, too. She’d checked at Spruce Ridge. Impressive.
She tuned back into Miranda’s droning litany. “. . . sound engineer, too, for a number of blues and rock bands since his college days, and he’s been romantically involved for several years with this woman, the one in the red halter dress. Cynthia Riggs, a musician. She, however, has been linked with several different men in the past several years. She’s the sister-in-law of Connor McCloud, one of the owners of SafeGuard. Davenport lived with Riggs for several years in an apartment on Capitol Hill, but he moved out over a year ago. Interestingly enough, sir, when I cross-referenced the McClouds’ names with the emergency room admissions in a three-hundred-mile radius, Davy McCloud’s name popped up in Salem. He was admitted to the hospital just a few hours ago. An aneurism, it would seem. They’re prepping him for emergency surgery as we speak. Here are pictures of the McClouds, Aaro, his girlfriend Nina Christie, also at Spruce Ridge, and she—”
“I met Ms. Christie personally that night, Miranda.”
“Ah. Yes, of course, sir. The name Val Janos also came up, in relation to the McClouds. He is the owner of the van we found parked in the woods. This is him, and his wife, Tam Steele, and their daughters.”
They watched the photo gallery slide by. The McClouds, their families, their associates, Christie, Aaro. Greaves nodded, smiling.
“Excellent,” he said. “Good work, Miranda.”
Miranda preened like a cat being petted. “I also found that Davenport owns a piece of property up in the Cascades. Sixty acres and a derelict shack. Here it is, on a satellite map.”
Greaves’ eyes went speculative. He began to rub his chin. They waited, silently, well trained. Letting him finish his thought.
He turned to Anabel. “Levine and Rickman, you will go to Salem. We must start a dialogue with Kirk and Davenport, and the McCloud family at the hospital will be our contact point. You must get close enough to read them, and everyone who associates with them.”
“And our plans for Phase Three?” Silva asked. “The ceremony in Blaine—”
“Continues as planned,” he assured Silva. “We will inaugurate the community center day after tomorrow, and bestow their real gift in secret on that same day. Have all of you seen Maura for your vaccines?”
Everyone nodded.
“Good. As for Davenport . . . this cabin gives me an idea,” he said. “This man is a formidable opponent, and needs to be taken very seriously. I want a pre-emptive strike, to discredit any attempt Davenport might make to accuse me, particularly now, right on the eve of our last testing phase. I want his reputation destroyed and his life smashed before he has a chance to come up for air. I was thinking of having him fingered for Matilda Bennett, but now I have a better idea. More juicy, more shocking, with the added advantage of accounting for Lara Kirk’s long disappearance. Send a team to this cabin. I’m thinking, shackles bolted into the wall, a box of packaged food, a mattress on the floor, some bottles of water, scattered garbage, a chemical toilet. We have all the genetic material from her cell that we need, I trust. Hairs from her comb, bedding from the cell. Objects that she’s touched. Do you have samples of her blood? Be creative.”
“Oh, sir!” Miranda’s eyes batted, sucking up without shame. “That’s brilliant! I took the sheet from the house where they stayed, so we can use that! They very definitely had sex on it.”
Greaves frowned. “Poor girl. Putting her right to work for her keep, I see. Fragile as she is. It’s a disgrace.”
“Yes, of course,” Miranda backpedaled hastily. “Terrible.”
“Davenport has been out of circulation for several months. He’s been depressed, injured and brain damaged, and that supports our story,” he mused. “Take the bodies of the men he killed this afternoon, and bury them behind his cabin. Keep them in the body bags, so the police can find his prints on the duct tape he bound them with. We can say that these were men I hired to look for Lara Kirk myself. I am such an admiring patron of her artwork, I decided to help in the search. My men found her at this cabin, and contacted me. After which I never heard from them again. What do you think?” He looked around, bright eyed. “Does it hold water? Is it good?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Excellent, sir. Perfect.” Fawning murmurs swept the room.
Anabel could not bring herself to say anything. Her throat felt like a tube of concrete.
Silva piped up. “He has the McClouds and his other associates to serve as alibis, and to testify about the rescue from the facility at Kolita Springs,” he reminded them.
“An excellent observation, Silva, but I think that once their children start to die of inexplicable organ failure, they may rethink their story on what happened at Kolita Springs,” Greaves said. “They do not strike me as stupid people.”
Silva subsided, and Greaves clapped his hands briskly. “Make it happen, people. Set the bots to sift for Davenport’s face, in addition to Lara’s, Miranda. Silva, bring me the latest statistical analyses of the prison populations. I haven’t looked them over properly yet.”