by David Beers
Now Luke struggles. He struggles and spits and swears, all his strength focusing on freeing his mother. The strong man swats him down to the floor, his large hand leaving both a red print and blood on the boy’s face.
Forcing Luke to watch, the priest rapes the boy’s mother.
Luke tries to jump up, lunging for the priest, but the second strong man kicks him in the ribs, and he collapses to the ground. He spits blood through his broken teeth and the tears come then.
Luke doesn’t stop. He continues trying to attack the priest, though there is no hope.
The preacher man grows winded, collapsing on the couch. One of his men steps forward and shoots Luke’s mother in the face, spreading blood and bone across the floor.
Luke sees it all, and so does Christian.
The television shuts off, leaving Christian to sit with the other.
“He couldn’t save her,” Christian said.
“Nope. Sure couldn’t,” the other agreed.
“Is it connected, this and that?” Christian didn’t even realize he was talking to the other, bouncing ideas off him like a sounding board.
“You tell me. You’re the one that keeps coming back here, watching these ancient videos.”
Christian stood from the chair and turned around to look at Luke’s floor.
“He’s not going to stop unless I do what he wants. He’ll keep killing. Why does he want me to kill those I love? Does he somehow feel guilty for what happened to his mother? Does he feel like he killed her?”
Luke said his purpose was to create discord, to actively affront God. Was that a decoy, or simply a lie he told himself? Did something else drive Luke to do these things … was it guilt?
“You keep asking yourself what’s the reasoning behind all this, but does it matter? Isn’t the important question whether or not you’re going to acquiesce?”
Christian shook his head, but said nothing.
Action was secondary when it came to Luke. What mattered was the reasoning behind it; that was how Christian would stop him, through understanding.
Christian walked onto the floor. He moved through the lengthy maze, moving to the last time he had seen Luke—the last time before all of this started, at least. Venezuela. It was near the maze’s end, and he stopped once he arrived.
A large hologram shot down from the ceiling, creating a life sized simulation of what happened. Christian stepped into it, moving to his place. He walked right into his outline, standing where he had when he exited the van. He saw Luke in front of him, his face flashing to the approaching man on his right—halting him dead in his tracks.
Christian stepped out of his own outline and walked across the digital landscape. He moved past armed men, all of them with weapons pointing at Luke. He heard their shouts, telling Luke to “GET THE FUCK DOWN!” He paid them no mind. He’d been terrified when it happened, but that was all in the past. Nothing in this scene could hurt him.
He finally reached Luke just as Luke started staring at Christian—or the Christian from the past, but from where he now stood, the two looked at each other.
The scene stopped; Christian stood directly in front of his ex-partner.
The hard brown eyes that had seen more than most people could imagine. Eyes that had seen things which would break grown men, let alone children.
“What are you after, Luke? Why do I have to kill them to make you stop? Is that an affront to God?”
Luke only stared at him, no words exiting his mouth. If the scene started playing again, Christian would of course hear the previous conversation play out. It held no sway here, though. The answers Christian needed wouldn’t be found in Venezuela.
“I’m not going to kill them,” he said.
He heard blood dripping, knowing that the other stood next to him. He looked to his left, and sure enough, his negative image was there.
“I’m not,” he repeated, looking back at Luke.
“Thirty-nine children died,” the other said, knowing the number because Christian knew it. “Are another 39 worth your friends?”
Christian wanted to say yes, but no words came from his lips. Because … were his friends worth it? What would they even say? If they knew for certain that more and more people would continue dying if they continued living, would they keep on?
It’s not your decision to make. It’s not Luke’s decision to make. It’s not even their decision to make. They don’t get to kill themselves because a madman is loose. And you certainly don’t get to kill them for the same reason.
“Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s not,” the other said.
Chapter 19
Charles Twaller waddled up to the nurse’s station. He held a dozen roses in his right hand. His left was empty.
“Hi, ma’am. I’m looking for my mother’s room. She came in last night with all the other victims of that horrible attack. I just flew in from Atlanta.”
The nurse looked up from her computer. Her face was a picture of exhaustion. Bags hung from her eyes, and sharp lines created crow’s feet at the corners. Her face was pale and her brown eyes spoke of endless hours that she would never tell this fat man about, but his question—without doubt—was creating more exhaustion.
“Sir, that area is quarantined off. No one is allowed in.”
“You can’t be serious,” Charles said. “I just drove twelve hours from Atlanta.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to wait. There’s a room that way to your right.”
Charles looked down the hall, seeing a room full of people at the end.
“Do you have any idea when the quarantine will be over?” Charles said as he turned back to the nurse.
“No, sir. Not at the moment.” She was back to her computer, not even noticing him anymore.
“Thanks for your help.” Charles turned and waddled down the hallway, the conversation having served its purpose. The place was light on security, Charles imagining most of the D.C. police were still tied up with the gift he’d given the FBI office. If anyone had noticed him enter, however, they saw his little show with the nurse, and that would give him a few minutes.
He wanted to lay eyes on Christian Windsor and Tommy Phillips. He knew this was dangerous, but he didn’t care. He wanted to see them before he put his hands on them. They, of course, knew what he looked like, but Charles wasn’t too terribly worried about it.
The men that he’d put on them in Boston reported back that they were leaving. Charles hadn’t known where they were flying at first, but he made some phone calls and understood the FBI Director had been injured during the attack. So, he made a few more calls, becoming convinced that the two were heading to the Director’s hospital.
Charles’s men were sitting in the waiting room the nurse just motioned to, and had been for the past eight hours. He knew Phillips and Windsor had a little work station set up, the two of them running their division from the hospital. All of that was fine. Charles didn’t care.
He was here to teach them that they didn’t get to drop by his mother’s house without repercussions. That, and to teach Titan a few things as well.
Charles entered the waiting room, holding his flowers so that the petals faced the ceiling. The room was packed tightly, and Charles immediately saw the eight men he’d sent over here. They were spread throughout, some sitting in chairs, some leaning against walls. None were too close to each other, though all glanced up as he entered. That was just their training, though Charles saw recognition in their eyes as they saw him.
All this had been planned out over phone calls made the past 24 hours.
Charles waddled over to one of the only open spaces on the wall, turned around, and leaned into it. The people to his left and right adjusted some, making way for his short, fat body.
The two were here, just like his men had told him. The invalid and the genius, both sitting at a small make-shift table. They were staring at the genius’s computer, neither looking around nor noticing Charles’s entrance.
These were the two men Titan wanted so desperately? He was willing to give up his life—not to mention all of his wealth—for these two? They looked … well, one was barely living and the other was a thin piece of nothing. All of Titan’s intelligence and he just might be a fucking retard.
No matter. Charles had seen enough.
He looked to one of the men standing against the wall.
Charles nodded. The man wasted no time; his eyes simply moved away from his boss’s, and he stepped out of the waiting room.
More men were waiting outside, and it was time to place them inside.
“I’ve got to pee,” Christian said.
“Well, you don’t need permission,” Tommy responded.
He pushed his chair back from the small table in front of him and looked at Tommy. It’d been a bit of trouble getting the table in here, but they had to keep working. They weren’t physically out there looking anymore, but reports were coming in constantly, and there was no one else to monitor them.
Both had spoken briefly about not waiting here, that it might be better to stay in the field, but in the end decided against it. Tommy wasn’t worth much in the field anymore; besides, Waverly had waited in the hospital with the two of them. They could do as much here, maybe more as they were able to cast a wider net.
Christian stood and pushed his chair underneath the table.
“You need me to empty you?” he asked, indicating the catheter’s bag.
“No, we just did it an hour or so ago. Should be good.”
Christian nodded and then turned to the hallway. He walked down it, his eyes focusing on his feet. He stopped just as he exited the room, something bothering him, although he wasn’t sure what.
He hated when this happened, his mind shooting a flare up but doing it when he was too exhausted to focus. Christian trusted the flares, though. He hadn’t—not when they’d been warning him about Luke—but now he never doubted them. His mind wanted him to know something.
Christian closed his eyes tightly, trying to force the rest of the world away.
He’d seen something in the room, though it was hidden from him. He’d been only concerned with leaving and had missed whatever was there. He started to turn around—
No. Keep moving. Down the hallway. Quickly.
Christian opened his eyes and did as his mind told him. He trusted it implicitly—the only thing in this world that he could count on regardless of what else happened. Christian went forward, rounding a corner, and then found himself in front of the restroom.
He paused, hoping that his mind was ready to push something up to the top. Nothing.
Christian opened the bathroom door and walked inside. The door closed behind him …
… and then the lights went off.
He would never have Luke’s reaction time—would never be able to fend off an attacker as Luke had him back in the hotel room. Yet, for once, his mind and body were in unison.
Christian heard someone moving on his left; he didn’t think, but simply moved, his feet working perfectly. He backed up just in time, hearing something swing where his face had been, feeling the air rush past him.
Christian fell backwards, purposefully. His ass hit the floor and he slid further away from whoever was attacking. His right hand struggled briefly for the pistol on his hip, the Emergency Exit sign on the wall outlining the man as he moved forward. He was wasting no time, coming directly for Christian.
Christian freed his weapon, swinging it upward, and then he pulled the trigger. The resulting boom was deafening, his ears ringing from the gun’s echo in the enclosed area.
The man stood for a second and Christian fired again, not thinking. There was no time to think, and if there were consequences for this, he’d have to deal with them later.
The man collapsed to the floor. Christian didn’t move. He breathed in and out in large gulps, but kept the gun pointed at the man. He couldn’t hear anything besides the ringing in his ears.
Finally, after a few seconds he stood up and shuffled to the door. His hands were shaking, nearly so bad that he barely kept hold of his weapon. He pulled on the door handle, expecting light to flood the restroom, but the hallway was just as dark.
Finally, he heard what he hadn’t been able to inside.
The sound of bullets. More of them and not coming from his own gun.
There were screams, too, blazing down the hallway.
A woman turned the corner, Christian able to see her from another Emergency Exit illumination. She was screaming, her mouth open in a wide O. A bullet caught the side of her head, ripping through her skull. She flew against the opposite wall, her mouth still open. Blood that looked more like oil splashed against the wall while she slid down it.
Christian’s chest began to heave and he felt his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He fell back against the bathroom door, it opening beneath his weight; he slid inside, letting it close in front of him.
Tears welled in his eyes.
Is this a panic attack? some piece of him said, though nothing was in control enough to answer.
The gun dropped to the ground, clattering into a corner.
He couldn’t tell whether his vision was darkening or it was only the blackness of the room. Sweat dripped from his face and he felt himself growing lightheaded. Christian hit the ground, his hands smacking on the tiles.
He didn’t know if what he heard next was real, or simply his mind, but a voice boomed over the hospital’s intercom system.
“Christian Windsor, you’re needed in the waiting room.” A shrill giggle came next, sounding like both a small girl and a grown man. A few seconds passed as the giggler got his laughter under control. “Seriously, Christian. Come to the waiting room. We don’t have much time.”
“It won’t end,” Christian said. “None of this will end.”
It wouldn’t, and he knew that now with a certainty that God himself might as well have spoken. Luke would not stop. Whoever was giggling over the intercom was simply one of his minions, another creature put on Christian’s path. Luke would never quit; all the pain and terror he created, it would continue on forever. It didn’t matter if Christian left the restroom and went to where the intercom commanded. It didn’t matter if he hid here, waiting it out. Luke would still come, an unstoppable force. He would always be there and what could Christian do?
He glanced over to the corner where the gun had tumbled.
“You could kill yourself,” the other said, having appeared just behind the weapon. The Emergency Exit’s red glow shone down on his dripping eyes. Long, black rivers ran from them, falling to the floor like dark rain. “That would end it all. That would make sure nothing else he ever does will matter in the slightest. Let him have his party here, but why don’t you just check out from it?”
Christian looked up with blurry eyes at the negative version of himself.
It sounded so good. So easy. So …
“Painless. Because once you do it, there will be no more. None.”
“Tommy,” his mother said from behind him. “Tommy is still out there and —”
“CHRRIIISSTTIIIAANNN,” the voice sang through the intercom.
His mother waited until the voice finished. “Tommy is out there, Christian, and he could have killed himself any time. But he kept going. And it might be hate that drives him, but he’s still in the car. So don’t you get out now. You joined the FBI to help people, to make a difference. So do it. You get up and start defending those innocent people. Get up and go get your friend.”
“Pain waits out there,” the other said. “In here, you can find peace.”
“Go get your friend.”
Christian closed his eyes and swallowed. He felt the cold tile beneath his fingertips and knew the gun’s metal would feel similar.
There wasn’t time to go into his mansion. And still, in his moment of pain, Christian remembered Luke.
Months pass and Luke does nothing. He and his brother move into
the local orphanage, supported by the Catholic Church of course. Father Marquez actually sits on the orphanage’s board.
Luke says nothing about what he saw and his brother, Mark, doesn’t ask about it. They each remain silent and go to work every day helping rebuild the cathedral.
Luke learns the construction trade over those three months. He dreams each night during this period, seeing his mother every time. His brother slips deeper and deeper into a depression that Luke cannot pull him from. Those three months are some of the darkest of Luke’s life (there will be similar times in the future—only then, he will be more capable of handling them) and he considers suicide. It’s an odd thought for him, one that carries very little emotion with it.
He simply thinks, Maybe this isn’t worth it.
And maybe he’s right.
There is his brother to consider, though. What would Mark do without Luke? Especially with Marquez in charge of the orphanage. And then, there is Marquez himself. Luke sees him from time to time, though the priest never looks nor speaks to him. The preacher man goes on about his business as if nothing that happened, actually happened.
Luke keeps from committing suicide, but only out of a strange fascination. He begins to think that killing the priest should occur first. Then, once that is accomplished, he will be free to go.
It’s 3:00 in the morning when Luke arrives at the preacher man’s new house. It’s a simple structure, about a mile from the church, though Luke knows he could have afforded any home he wanted. This one is for appearances. The preacher man will live here until his cathedral is finished, and then he’ll move back inside the church.
Luke walks from the orphanage to Marquez’s temporary house; the walk takes a little over two hours, and he has a light sheen of sweat across his forehead. He doesn’t pause as he reaches the lawn, nor try to hide at all. He simply walks across the grass at the same pace with which he walked here. His head is raised and while he knows someone might be watching him, he doesn’t care.