Blood Ties

by Robert J. Crane

  “Tell them to determine faster,” Berniece said, eyes flashing anger. “I want the car ready in five.”

  Veronika gave her a once-over. She’d take at least half an hour to get ready before she’d allow anyone to see her. Forcing the car to be ready to go in five minutes was all show, a pure power play of the kind Berniece loved to engage in. “Sure thing, boss,” was all Veronika said, though. It wasn’t like the driver wasn’t getting paid.

  “Oh, and Veronika?” Berniece caught her as she was about to go out the door.

  “Yeah?” Veronika turned back, not too sleepy to notice that Berniece let the slip fall open. She worked out hard to maintain a certain image. And it wasn’t bad, Veronika had noted more than once, though she’d never say a damned thing about it. Ever. This was one of those jobs where the professional line had to be maintained.

  “Do you know any...mercenaries?” Berniece asked, letting her gown flap open to show the short-skirt nightie beneath. Whether it was a calculated move to try and distract Veronika or just Berniece getting caught up in the moment, she wasn’t entirely sure. Berniece was clever, though not as clever as she thought she was. “People with powers who might be a little morally...flexible, shall we say?”

  “A few,” Veronika conceded. She’d vouched for Chase on this gig because Chase was reliable. Professional.

  Also, not a bloodthirsty psychotic lunatic.

  “I think we need to upgrade our protection,” Berniece said. “After all, what guarantee do we have that this thing doesn’t come back? For us, this time?”

  Veronika opened her mouth to protest. Thus far, the Grendel’s MO seemed fixed on trying to get whatever geeky shit it had its heart set on. People didn’t seem to enter into its calculations, other than as a skidmark beneath its bony feet when they got in its way. She thought about saying this, all of this...

  But really, she knew how Berniece would react in advance. She’d nod, take it in—or at least pretend to—and then tell Veronika to hire the mercenaries anyway.

  “The ones I know are mostly not nice people,” Veronika said. That’d probably be a plus for Berniece, if she had to guess.

  “I want bad ones. The ones who have no...” Berniece put a long finger on her upper lip. “No limitations.”

  “I’ll make some calls,” Veronika said, nodding once, then turning to leave.

  “Good, good,” Berniece muttered under her breath as Veronika closed the door behind her. “And hurry!”

  Veronika didn’t acknowledge that. She really didn’t have to. Berniece would assume she was on it, anyway.

  With a sigh, she made it back into the kitchen and pulled out her phone, thumbing through the contacts list until she found the first she wanted and dialed. When the sleepy voice on the other end answered, she said, “Phinneus? It’s Veronika. You interested in some possibly black book work?”

  30.

  Sienna

  “Well, this place looks like absolute hell,” I said as I breezed back into the Inquest HQ. Maintenance had covered some of the shattered glass panes up front with plastic, and it flapped gently in the stir of the cool wind. The inside of the lobby looked just as bad as it had when I’d left; it was hard to make an empty room with a huge rock in the middle look much worse. Unless you tipped the rock, I guess, but it was fine and still in place.

  “It certainly doesn’t look great,” Mendelsohn agreed. He’d picked me up as promised, and we’d ridden in sleepy silence back here, where the strange metal frame of the building was lit by exterior lighting as well as flashing red and blue police lights.

  No one met us on the inside, but it was obvious by the clot of uniformed cops which direction was the one Grendel had traveled when he’d returned. I moved toward them and down a long hallway through one of the building’s two wings, built at a right angle off the cylindrical central lobby. The walls had decorative photos and an offbeat style. It felt very eclectic, and when I looked up, the building’s ceiling was industrial chic, all the H/VAC exposed and hanging there for the world to see. I guess covering up your building’s internal machinery was a little too 20th century for Inquest.

  The hallway opened up into a massive bay, work stations stretching from one huge glass-paneled wall to the other, filling the entirety of the rest of the wing. Grendel’s path here became obvious by the swath of destruction he’d cut right through the desks and tables, terminating in a cluster of desks about a hundred yards down.

  “Geez, guy,” I muttered as Mendelsohn and I wended our way through the cleared path. “Does it really take that much longer to follow the walkways?”

  “Maybe he was in a hurry?” Mendelsohn asked, hustling to keep up with me and puffing a little in the process, though he was trying to hide it for whatever reason. I don’t know why; manly pride, maybe. Lots of guys didn’t like being out-cardio’d by a girl, even a superhuman one. Or maybe they just wanted me to think they were tough. I certainly didn’t think less of them for it. All I tended to think was, Oh, here’s another human being who can’t quite keep up with super-powered me. What a shock.

  “You might have something there,” I said after a few moments’ thought. There were a couple plainclothes officers standing around the cubicle group where Grendel’s trail of wreckage ended. Just beyond them lay the windows, and here there was a giant hole shattered through, suggesting that this was where our villain had exited stage right once he’d finished whatever he’d been up to. “Do you have camera footage of what he did while he was here?” I just barked this at the plainclothes cops, figuring pleasantries were for daylight hours, not the middle of the night when I was tired, cranky, and up against a seemingly unbeatable foe.

  “Yep,” answered one of the plainclothes officers. “They’ve got it down in security.” He pointed back down at the hallway. “First door in from the lobby. You have to be buzzed in.”

  “Got it, thanks,” I said. “Any idea what he took here?”

  One of the plainclothes guys shrugged, the other just shook his head. “Something from the computer,” the nodder said. “Downloaded it on a zip drive.”

  “Figures,” I said, turning back around and stalking toward the entry door. “What do you bet the footage just shows him working the computer like a jaundiced, extra big person?”

  “What else would it show?” Mendelsohn was now puffing openly. I guess he’d left pride behind, but he was hustling and still keeping up with me, so good for him.

  “That he was wearing a sign that had, ‘Here’s the thing I’m after,’ written on it,” I said. “Along with his name, address, Social Security number and maybe the motive, too. Also, his particular brand of Kryptonite scrawled on it would be helpful.”

  Mendelsohn chuckled between gasps. “Does that ever happen in your cases?”

  “No, but I live in hope,” I said, and we dropped into silence as we made our way to the security room, which was so nondescript as to nearly defy notice. It had no one outside, and upon reaching it, I hammered at the closed door with my fist until something buzzed and the door opened.

  Another plainclothes officer stared back at me, this one a woman in a grey blouse wearing a slightly annoyed look. “You could just knock like a normal person. You don’t have to hammer.”

  “I could just kick it in like I would normally do,” I said, matching her annoyance and raising it slightly. “Why isn’t the door open?”

  She sighed, then shrugged, her annoyance vanishing like a bag of Cheetos in a frat house after everyone hit the bong. “Company policy. The security guys freaked out when we tried to prop it open.”

  I frowned. “Shouldn’t they be...I dunno, out of the crime scene?”

  She shrugged again. “Their system is bizarre. No one knows how to use it but them, and we needed to pull the footage, so...”

  I looked past her at a surly-looking dude in a corporate security vest and tie combo. He watched everything going on around him with a look like someone had just tried to take his temperature through the rear with
an elephant thermometer without asking first. His name tag read “Bruce.”

  “What’s on the security feed?” I asked, moving past her and ignoring Bruce entirely, though he was watching me.

  “Not much,” the plainclothes lady said. “Beast busts in, makes his way to the far bay in there, messes with a computer for a few minutes, then leaves through the windows out back. He vanishes off the external security cameras a few minutes later once he passes through the perimeter of the property, heading west.” She shrugged once more, apparently her favorite gesture this evening, and one that certainly seemed apropos for the moment at hand. “We’ve got lab techs coming, but...”

  “This thing doesn’t leave fingerprints,” I said, harkening back to the FBI report from forensics back in Queens. That point had been very clear; maybe it was something in the thing’s skin that failed to produce the oil necessary to leave behind on surfaces, but whatever the case, there were no fingerprints for this thing found at that site or any of the others, to my knowledge. Shaw had forwarded me the report from Chicago and they’d found the same thing. “No hints of DNA left behind either.” Probably due to the hardness of its skin. Though DNA would be more for conviction purposes rather than ID’ing this thing, I lived in hope that maybe it had decided to get curious about its ancestry or something.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty much a dead end.” She nodded, commiserating.

  “What did it download?” Mendelsohn asked, his breathing now mostly under control again.

  “No idea,” the plainclothes officer said. “Security boy doesn’t know, either.”

  “Hey, Bruce,” I called, drawing the security guy’s ireful look by shouting only a dozen paces from him. “What did this thing download?”

  “Why do I even waste my breath?” the plainclothes officer muttered under her breath.

  “I don’t know,” Bruce said, pursing his lips as though I disgusted him by my very presence. “I’ve notified the employee whose desk that is, but they haven’t received or returned my call yet.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” I said, bee-lining right for him. “You the head of security?”

  “Assistant head of security,” he said, and I could tell this was a very important title to him.

  “Great,” I said. “Assist me with this—do you have access to the computer that thing used?” I pointed at the nearest security screen for emphasis.

  “Sort of,” Bruce said, and it was almost painful how he had to drag it out of himself.

  “How the hell do you ‘sort of’ have access to a computer?” I asked, pinching my face into a scowl. “You either do or you don’t.”

  “It’s...it’s hard to explain,” Bruce stammered, and his confidence had broken, like it had only ever been a facade.

  “Well, explain it to me,” I said, edging a little closer to him. His eyes were wide, lips quivering, and I wondered what the hell I’d just stumbled on that had him so suddenly rattled.

  A beep from behind me followed by the whoosh of a door opening stopped Bruce before he could start, and his eyes went wide. Well, wider.

  I turned to look as the security room door swung open, and someone said, “Don’t answer that,” in a tone that was firm, commanding, and, I saw out of the corner of my eye, caused Bruce to shut his mouth before he even had a chance to start forming his answer.

  In the doorway was Berniece Adams, eyes cold and clear, focused on me, a little lopsided smile frozen in place on her lips.

  Behind her was Veronika, her hands already lit in blue plasma, the threat as clear as the surge of heat that flooded into the room with their arrival.

  31.

  Him

  I got it, he typed, the words fed through the computer, through the internet, and arriving...wherever the hell they arrived. He saw them received, then read, through the chat box, and waited as the little bubbles popped up that denoted an answer was coming.

  It came swiftly: Good. Any trouble?

  Not this time, he answered. I hit while she was sleeping.

  Fantastic. Keep out of her way. There’s no point in butting heads with her on this.

  He felt his lips twist inadvertently. Why the hell shouldn’t he just kill her again—this time harder—and be done with it? He didn’t type that, though. Instead:

  Why do you want me to avoid her?

  The bubbles, then the answer, came seconds later: Trust me, you don’t want to clash with her if you can avoid it. Besides, your fight isn’t with her.

  His frown grew deeper. She tried to stop me again today. She’s in my way.

  But you tried to kill her and failed. And she has a habit of annihilating people who do that to her.

  He clenched a fist, then uncurled it to type his answer. Yeah, but I’m unstoppable.

  The reply boiled his blood a little: That’s what everyone who’s ever gone up against her has thought. They’re all pretty much dead now.

  Another answer came a few seconds later, more soothing: I know you’re strong. Stronger than anyone, ever, maybe. But there’s no need in fighting this fight unless you have to. Killing cops and Feds isn’t the point of this...is it?

  That let some of the heat out of his anger. No. It’s not.

  I know you’re mad. You should be, after everything they’ve done to you. And your revenge is going to be righteous. But killing random people, or cops...is that really what you want?

  Now a blush of shame came over his cheeks, hot and swift, for what he’d thought earlier. She was right. His ego was burning him up from the inside. Of course not, he typed. I just let myself get carried away.

  I know. But don’t. If you hadn’t gotten carried away in Queens, she probably wouldn’t have chased you to California.

  Now he was burning again. Why would she bring that up this way?

  Her next words soothed him again, though: But it’s okay. Just try not to cross her again. She’s not going to stop chasing you, but if you can just keep one step ahead of her, you might just be able to finish things off without clashing with her again. Which would be good for both our sakes. Only a few more steps and we’re done. You’ll have your revenge.

  He found himself scowling at the screen, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Was it the way she seemed to coldly manipulate him, her intent shining through the characters written on the screen every now and again? She was so smooth, mostly, had seemed so on his side when she’d reached out to him after—well, after. But sometimes...

  Sometimes she just pissed him off. Like those other bastards.

  I’ll play it your way, he typed. Why argue? Besides, he really only had a couple more stops. And if Sienna Nealon crossed his path again, he didn’t have to follow her guidance.

  That’s smart. Keep focused on your endgame. Don’t get distracted. Socialite is next. Get that algorithm, and we’re in spitting distance of the finale.

  I know, he replied. I will.

  But in his mind, he boiled, the heat burning his cheeks. That little meta bitch thought she was hot shit, didn’t she?

  To hell with guidance. If Sienna Nealon crossed his path one more time, he’d rip out more than her heart this time. He’d shred her into unrecognizable ribbons.

  Then he’d get his revenge on the rest of them, because no one could damned well stop him.

  32.

  Friday

  When he woke, he was covered in dollar bills and the sky was dark.

  Blinking, he ran his hand over his body, which had shrunk back to normal size in the cover of the night. “No, no, this is wrong,” he said, shaking his head, instinct taking over as he got swole once more. “You can’t go flaccid on me at night, muscles. That’s when I need your protection most.” He grew, body expanding to fill his overlarge clothing. He’d learned a long time ago that skinny jeans may have been popular among metrosexuals, but they really, really didn’t work for him at this stage of the game. But that was fine for metrosexuals; it wasn’t like they had anything important in their pants to hide, like
a gun, or a girthy penis.

  “Also, did I become a stripper in the night?” He brushed his hands over the bills scattered about his person and the sidewalk, wondering where they’d come from. He scooped them into a pile, like leaves in the autumn, then stuffed them down the front of his pants. “Treat me like a stripper, I’ll act like one,” he decided. He needed the money anyway, actually.

  Pulling himself up off the sidewalk was decidedly like grabbing himself up by the bootstraps. Except he didn’t use his bootstraps, because that would break them since he was so uber strong.

  Strength. Right. He looked down at himself, his fresh swoleness. This was something that needed addressing. “I need a new photo subject to maintain my momentum.” He looked at his phone, into the Instaphoto app, checked Socialite, where he’d cross-posted his most recent pics.

  Kaboom. Huge exposure. The ones with Sienna in them were the biggest hits, with tons of comments and likes, but his other ones—including that amazing bathroom selfie he’d posted before passing out—had more impressions than anything he’d ever done before. By a factor of five hundred.

  “Hell yes,” he said, jumping to his feet and sending a shower of dollar bills sluicing down the legs of his pants. “Finally I get the respect I deserve. And the influence.” He flexed in victory.

  But how to follow up this coup? He looked into the coffee shop, which was still open, people staring at laptops inside, or their phones, or—occasionally, very occasionally—talking to each other.

  It was their attention he was vying for. He was establishing a following. He checked his subscriber count—through the roof! He needed to capitalize on the success now that he was having it.

  “I need follow-up content, stat,” he said, flexing again in victory. He looked up and down the street, searching for something, anything. The coffee was stale, the bathroom selfie had been hours ago. Anything he tried to do in there would be forced. Like a conversation with some Poindexter brainiac.