by J. A. Huss
My back pocket vibrates and I realize how lucky I am to still have my phone.
It can’t be Lincoln, he doesn’t have my number.
He’s a criminal hacker, Molly. How hard would it be to get your number?
But it’s not him, so I don’t even bother wondering. I just tab accept and speak into the phone. “Yes, Chief.”
“Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been calling you since yesterday morning. Partying too hard on the weekend again?”
“Sorry, Chief, but it’s my day off.”
“You don’t get a day off, Masters! You’re a city employee! You’re a servant of the greater good! You’re a—”
“I got it, Chief,” I snarl back at him. “I don’t need reminding.”
“What did you just say?”
Dammit. I sigh heavily. “I’m here now, OK? I wasn’t drinking. I was up in the mountains with no service.”
“Get your ass into the station. Now. There’s been another suicide.”
And then he hangs up on me. Just like clockwork.
But I get to my feet and force myself to get back on the bike. Because this shit needs to be dealt with. Lincoln needs to be dealt with. I’m not sure what that entails, to be honest. I’m not sure if it means I turn him in or turn a blind eye. I’m just not sure. But I can’t stay here.
I’m cold.
I’m broken, and…
I’m desperately in need of a few million complete strangers in the city to take my mind off the killer I just spent the night with.
When I finally weave my way through the congested streets of downtown Cathedral City and park my bike, it’s close to nine AM.
Roger, the intern at the reception desk, looks up at me when I enter the building. He shakes his head. “He’s so mad today, Molly. Just nod and say, ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Got it,” I say. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
I get buzzed through into the back and just like last week, the place is crawling with people waiting to be booked. One guy makes a grab for me as I pass by a desk he’s handcuffed to, but the arresting officer, who looks like he’s just doing paperwork and not paying attention, grabs his Billy club and cracks it against the guy’s chest, making him retreat like a yelping dog.
“Sorry, Masters,” the uniformed cop says, barely taking his eyes off his paperwork.
“Um.” That’s all I have for that. Because I don’t have the respect around here one would need to start shit with a ten-year veteran about police brutality.
“Masters!” the chief bellows.
“Coming,” I mutter under my breath. I’m tired of him screaming at me and I’m really not in the mood to get my ass chewed out for whatever he’s pissed about now. So I start making a list of why I should turn Lincoln in as I cross the room.
He’s a serial killer.
He’s dangerous as hell.
He’s bad.
It’s a pretty lame list. I mean, number one is a good enough reason. But what he said is still rolling though my head.
The victims were all part of the Prodigy School. That gives me pause. Are they the victims? Or were we the victims? This new perspective does me no good. Justice is based on laws and rules. The subtleties of an eye for an eye don’t matter in the courtroom.
But maybe they should? Maybe the good intentions paving the road to hell are really the dark shadows that line the alley of righteousness? And maybe Lincoln and his friends are those same dark shadows. Maybe they are right.
I don’t remember it all, but I know the people at the Prodigy School were evil. I know I wanted to run away when Lincoln saved me. And I know I never missed it.
I did miss him though. And now that I can remember a little bit about that night, I wonder if I always knew he was missing from my life. Somewhere deep inside I knew he was part of me. He was my beginning and I was his end.
“Yes, Chief?” I say, walking into his office and taking a seat in front of his desk.
He gives me a glare. “As I was saying. There’s been another suicide at Blue Corp. And you know what, Masters? I’m pretty sure the people of Cathedral City think you’re not earning your keep around here. That’s four murders—”
“Wait, what? I thought you said this was a suicide?”
He squints and scrubs his hand over his face. “Well, I think it’s murder. Not suicide. It’s too convenient.”
“Hmm,” I say, noncommittal.
“Get your ass over to Blue Corp right now. They’re waiting for you.”
I salute and walk out.
“And Masters!” Chief bellows at my back.
“This isn’t the military,” I yell back. “Got it.” He’s gonna fire me. But I don’t care. Maybe this job is not what I want out of life. I mean, who the hell wants to track down killers for a living?
You do, Molly.
I do. I just don’t want to track down Lincoln. I don’t want him to be what he just admitted to being because I can’t be with in love with someone who hurts people. I can’t.
When I get up to the twenty-first floor of Blue Corp, there’s no dead body and no Atticus. No Alastair either, thank fuck. Just some janitor changing out the fluorescent lights over the desk where a body has been outlined in tape.
“Well,” I say, more to myself than him. “I guess no one really needs me here now. Were you here when they took the body?” I ask the maintenance guy.
“Uh, no. Not this time.” He finishes changing the bulb and steps down off the ladder.
“Were you there for the last three?”
“Uh, yep. I changed the lights on those too.”
“What?”
“Flickering bad, they were. Giving people a headache. So I changed them. You know, they say fluorescent lights in the workplace can drive people insane. You think that’s why he blew his brains out?”
“Um.” Why does that stupid question make me pause? There’s something in my brain. It’s a like a little tickle that says, Pay attention. “I don’t know, but I’ll look into it. And hey,” I say, “do you know if they’ve determined a time of death?”
“Yup,” he says. “Early morning Saturday. That’s what I heard, anyway.”
Jesus Christ. If this is Lincoln’s work, then he fucked me in that maze and went and killed someone afterward. “Thanks for your help. If either of the Mr. Montgomerys come around, let them know I was here and left, will you?”
“If I see ’em, sure will, lady.” And then he walks off down the hallway, taking his ladder with him.
I look around the room, casually taking it all in, and then leave as well. Whatever evidence was here is gone now. Picked up by the others who came in my absence and if not, it’s all ruined by contamination anyway. So I make my way back down to my bike and drive back to the station.
Luckily the place has quieted down considerably when I walk in the door. Sunday afternoon shift change means people are ready to get out of here as fast as they can. Roger isn’t at the desk now, it’s the old woman who’s been here for like four decades. “Got a delivery while you were gone. I put it on your desk.”
“Oh,” I say. I almost forgot I even had a desk. With stacks and stacks of paperwork piling up, I’m sure. “Who’s it from?”
“No return address on it. So I guess you’ll have to open it up and see,” she snarks back.
“How do you know it’s not a bomb? Or anthrax? Someone could’ve put anything in there and you just set it on my desk?”
“Relax, Detective. We haven’t blown up yet. Go away and let finish my paperwork.”
“Bitch,” I mutter under my breath. This place is worse than the circus as far as procedures go. Everyone under the tent would’ve been dead if they were as sloppy about safety as this department is.
But there is nothing I can do except shake my head with disgust as I pass through the doors. My desk is way, way, way in the back of the main room. But I can see a small package wrapped in brown paper sitting in front of my computer.
Who wraps shit i
n brown paper?
I glance around, wondering if anyone else thinks it’s weird that I got a package, but there are only about half a dozen cops in here at the moment, and none of them are paying any attention to me and my package.
So I just say, “Fuck it,” and walk over there. When I pick it up, it’s lighter than it should be. Very light. Too light to be a bomb.
Stop, Molly.
I find the edge of the paper and tear it open to uncover a thin white box. There’s no card. I sit down in my chair and set it on my desk to stare at it.
I don’t even have to open it. I know who it’s from and I don’t want to have to face the problem that he’s turned into right now. So I push the little white box away and start going through the hundreds of emails that have piled up over the week. Forms, forms, and more forms to be filled out.
I spend the rest of the day getting things done and still that little white box waits for me. It taunts me. It begs me to open it. But I force myself to get the work done first. I know if I let Lincoln back into my thoughts, the internal monologue that comes with him will take over my day. But finally, after the place gets busy, quiets down, and gets busy again, I’ve done every possible thing I can do to avoid opening that box.
“Night, Masters,” a guy leaving with some other officers calls from a few desks over. “I know you’re the new guy, but everyone gets to go home eventually.”
I shoot him a smile. “Night, guys.” Then I lean back in my creaky chair and sigh, exhausted. “Well,” I say to myself. “I guess I can’t avoid it any longer.” I lift the lid on the little white box and pull away some crackling tissue paper to reveal…
His gloves.
They are leather and they have small flat studs pounded into the shape of the anarchy symbol. These were not the ones he was wearing last night. I’d have noticed that. But they are an admission of sorts. He’s the Anarchist Killer.
I pick them both up and hold a part of him in my hand. These are the gloves of a very sick man. Does he wear them to keep his hands clean? How poetic.
That’s probably not why, but he sent them to me for a reason. It’s some kind of truce, but am I willing to make peace with the fact that he’s running around this town killing people?
I want to, I really do. I want nothing more than to immerse myself into Lincoln Wade’s life and let him do what he does best. Take over. Be in control. Be Alpha.
But what little part of myself would I be giving up if I did that? What would he want in return? My silence, at the very least, right? I should arrest him, no questions asked.
I slip my hands into the soft leather and a sigh actually escapes as I flex my fingers. They are big on me and I like that. I like his hands, even though he hides them from me.
Why send them to me? Because I asked him to take them off last night and he refused? Maybe it’s not a truce. More of a white flag? No, it can’t be surrender. I don’t see Lincoln as a man who surrenders so easily.
They’re a calling card, like the symbol he left behind on that man’s forehead. Like the printouts of his crimes plastered all over his cave.
Maybe he’s telling me there’s room for negotiation. If that’s the case, I owe him another meeting, right? I can’t just walk away if he’s got an offer on the table. At least not until I hear him out.
I know I’m rationalizing, but after I lost Will I got depressed because I had no more connections in this world. I left my life in the military behind, even though I would never count anyone I was working with as family—it’s not like I was in combat, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like my co-workers and I were bonded by death and destruction, by sacrifice and survival. It was security. And yeah, it was high-level security, not mall-cop shit. But they were mainly acquaintances.
Lincoln might be the only person on this whole planet I would count as family. We were made for each other. Should I really walk away from that if he’s willing to talk through it with me?
The speed limit is generally something I obey, but not tonight. I race home as fast as I can, zigzagging my way through traffic and speeding up to avoid red lights. I park the bike in the garage, set the stand, and take my helmet off, setting it on the seat. The door in the garage that connects to the house is partly ajar.
I was right. He was calling me home with those gloves.
My heart flutters with excitement and anticipation. Fear too, if I’m being honest.
When I walk through the kitchen the first thing I see is Lincoln Wade sitting at my table. His bare hands are folded neatly in front of him and even though I can’t say for certain that he wasn’t covering them up with gloves to keep the blood off them as he murdered people, I can say for certain that was not why he took them off tonight.
Because both of his palms are glowing bright red.
Chapter Thirty-One - Lincoln
“No squad cars following you in?” I ask Molly.
“Not yet,” she says, stepping into the house and kicking the door closed behind her. “But don’t think I won’t call them, Lincoln.”
I shrug with my hands and her eyes track to my palms. She stares hard at them for several seconds before breaking away and looking for my face. “Did you get a good look?” I ask. “It’s what you wanted, right?”
“Not really.” She draws in a deep breath, her eyes darting back to the light that is now yellow-orange. My heart is still beating fast, but not as fast as it was when she first appeared. “What are they?”
“You don’t know what happened to me,” I say, returning to our conversation from this morning. “And you can say things like I chose Case and Thomas over you, or that I walked out, or that I’m a sick monster who deserves to be put down like a dog. You can say all that. And even if it’s not all one hundred percent true, it’s all partially true. I did choose Case and Thomas, but not for the reasons you think.”
“Is that why you’re here? To make me feel special?” she asks, walking over to the table and pulling out a chair. She takes a seat and I can see the weariness in her face. She’s tired.
But I’m tired too. “I’m tired of pretending. If you love me, and that’s a big if, then you need to love me, Molly. Not Alpha. Not your idea of me as Alpha. Not the fantasy that we are soulmates or lovers interrupted.”
“What are you?” she asks. “What are we?” She’s been thinking since I saw her this morning. Reevaluating, maybe. Time has always been my friend. I am patient. It’s an innate quality inside me. A trait I was born with. It’s surprising considering how impatient I am with most people. But this… scheme we’ve been working towards—I have endless patience for the vengeance I’ve imagined over the years. I will only get one chance at revenge. One chance to retaliate. Once chance to make it right. And all of that has depended on more than a decade of planning and plotting with Case and Thomas to get to this precise point in time.
I hold up a palm and it flashes an orange light bright enough to cast a glow across her face. “It’s an electromagnetic field.”
She blinks.
“A magnet,” I explain.
“Why would they put magnets in your hands?”
“They didn’t,” I say calmly. I’ve never had to explain this to anyone. Case was there. Thomas wasn’t there when I did it, but he was there in the beginning. He knew it was going to happen and he knew why it was happening. And I’m sure his little visit to Mac’s last weekend was a not-so-gentle reminder that this job is about more than me. “I put the magnets in there. There’s a lot of reasons attached to that answer, Molly. But the important one is that they started something with me back when I was a kid. They changed me. And you helped them.”
She shakes her head. “I was forced.”
“I’m not trying to blame you, Molly. I’m just stating facts. No one is holding an eight-year-old responsible for this,” I say, holding up my glowing palms. “Least of all me. The Prodigy School used you to keep me in line. They made you send electrical current through my body—”
“Electrocute y
ou?” She rubs her temples with her fingertips, trying to massage away the truth.
“Yes. Basically. It was part of their Genesis plan. To create superhumans. Larger-than-life people who could hold power and manipulate things that no one else could. People who looked normal, but weren’t. But the administrators who ran the school couldn’t become superhumans themselves. They needed children to do that.”
“Oh, God.”
“And what better children to use than their own? Who would miss a rich kid sent off to boarding school?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You had parents. I had parents. Everyone has parents. They put us in that school, Molly.”
“I can’t believe it,” she says, shaking her head.
“My father too, so you’re not alone. Case is special, he was taken as a payment on a debt. His family never gave him up willingly and after we escaped, they cared for me and all my special considerations until I turned eighteen.”
She waits for it.
So do I. I have never told anyone this and I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to be able to say the words out loud. “I am… was made… I was changed into—”
“Just say it, Lincoln,” Molly whispers. “Just tell me what the fuck is happening.”
“I’m not who or what you think, Molly. Sheila said she told you about my programming skills. How I write computer languages. How I use her as a vector to change code in computers. And if that was all I did, it might not be so bad. I don’t just reprogram machines, Molly. I reprogram people.”
“You did that to me, didn’t you? That drug you gave me after I ran away in the snow.”
I nod. “It rewrote your DNA, changed your memory. It acts like a flu virus. But in your case it was temporary. All DNA degrades over time. It was supposed to wear off gradually over many years. A bit here, a bit there until all the bad code was reprogrammed once again, using another dormant virus included in the drug cocktail. I didn’t take it away.” God, this is so hard to explain. Because I did take her memory away. “I wanted you to remember, Molly. I did. I made sure you’d recover those memories, I just thought it would take a little longer. I didn’t expect it to happen while you were still so young and so…” My words trail off, because what I want to say is ‘desirable.’ It would be so much easier if she wasn’t so perfect. So beautiful. If she didn’t have so many years ahead of her. How could I ever walk out now?