Heir to the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  “I know. It was stupid of me to capture a terrorist one minute and come here—”

  She cut him off. “Don’t you even want to hear what the doctor said?”

  He blinked and shook his head, berating himself. “Yes. Of course.”

  She took his left hand in hers. “The virus—or whatever it is—has damaged my fallopian tubes and caused inflammation around the womb. But the doctor is confident that, with the right medication, I’ll be able to carry to full term.”

  He nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. His eyebrows shot up, and he looked into her eyes. “Wait…what?”

  She laughed, sending two more tears cascading down her face. “Gene, I’m pregnant.”

  It was as if someone had kicked him in the backs of his knees. He buckled and took a step back to regain his balance. The whole world, everything but the woman standing in front of him, seemed to disappear. He kissed her, wrapped his arms around her, and held tight. He rocked gently from side to side, wishing he could hold onto the woman he loved and his unborn child until the sun came up. But after several seconds, she pushed him away and probed at his right hand—the velvet box had been digging into her back.

  “What’s this?” she asked, unfolding his fingers one by one.

  In his ecstasy, he had forgotten he was holding the ring. “Oh. I, uh…well.”

  “Eugene Carver,” she said as if she had caught him doing something embarrassing, “is this an engagement ring?”

  He scratched the back of his neck. “Only if you say yes.”

  She eyed him for a moment then plucked the ring from its box and slipped it onto the third finger on her left hand. She admired it in the light and said. “I was wondering when you were going to give this to me. It’s been sitting in your car for weeks.”

  40

  October 6th,

  Ashley Forest, South Carolina

  The V-8 beneath the hood of San’s old sedan growled as the vehicle started up the gravel driveway. San parked near the edge of the lot, where blades of grass poked through the gravel. He opened his door, stepped out, and took a deep breath. The long drive with Jarrod had been the most relaxing thing he had done in weeks. It felt soothing to leave the gray halls of Hillcrest and just…talk. They discussed San’s hope to find a cure for Lukas’s weapon, strategies for rooting out Katharos weapons caches, the state of the roads leading out of D.C., and even the weather. Then, to bring the journey to a fitting end, they arrived at the Larson residence, where grassy lawns and sweeping gardens gave way to forests of evergreen and maple trees.

  Jarrod hadn’t brought up the question he had asked Eugene—if the United States Government was actively pursuing Emily Roberts—and San had no desire to willingly volunteer the information. Daron Keeler, the former head of security at Hillcrest, had been tasked with hunting her down and taking her prisoner at all cost. Once Roberts, the dethroned Empress of Katharos, was in custody, the world could breathe a collective sigh of relief. Finding her was as important as clearing out any weapons cache or destroying any secret laboratory, for as long as she was on the loose, there was a chance Katharos could rise again.

  But San was not Daron’s primary point of contact in the U.S. Government, and the Director of Hillcrest was thankful for it. The lies, deceit, and frequent collusion with criminals that were integral to undercover operations made San sick to his stomach. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to give Jarrod any details about Daron’s investigation.

  And it was better that way. There was only one place where Jarrod should be, and it was right here with people who loved him.

  The gravel crunched beneath San’s feet but made no sound at all beneath Jarrod’s. Someone in the house must have heard the arrival of the noisy sedan because the front door opened before they reached the porch.

  Eric Larson, his body still covered in ropy scars, stepped into the early afternoon light. He wore a slight smile as if he was only cautiously optimistic. “You…came back. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”

  Jarrod wrapped his old friend in a hug and spoke in a voice San only vaguely recognized—the voice Jarrod had before the transformation. “I’ll always come back, as long as your doors are open.”

  Eric shook his head. “Don’t ever doubt it, buddy. This is your home, and Kayla and I are thankful to have you here.”

  The security contractor glanced at San then waved a hand. “Please, come inside. I’m not bad company once you get to know me.”

  Eric strode into the kitchen while Jarrod and San followed. He cracked open two beers, set one on the counter and handed the other to Jarrod. “Would you like a beer, Santiago?”

  “Coffee, if you have it,” San replied.

  “Wouldn’t be caught dead without it.” Eric started a pot of coffee and leaned against one of the granite counters as he sipped his drink. He studied Jarrod for several seconds. “You’re not as torn up as the last time he brought you here, but you still look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

  “It wasn’t a drone strike this time,” Jarrod said. “But it wasn’t much better.”

  Eric took another sip, and his eyes gleamed with curiosity. “You have to tell me everything.”

  41

  October 10th,

  Saginaw, Michigan

  Janson felt a gentle nudge on her shoulder, and she jerked awake.

  “Sorry about that. You fell asleep on the way here. But we made it.”

  Janson blinked and rubbed her eyes then remembered the contacts. She flipped the visor down and checked her reflection. The contacts were still in place, masking the black eyes beneath. She took a moment to check the thick makeup on her face for any thin spots where the gray skin might be showing through but found none. Satisfied, she flipped the visor back up and smiled at the woman in the driver’s seat. Rosalyn was a middle-aged social worker with short, curly hair. She had a round face and dimpled chin that complimented her kindly, approachable manner. Her body was short and round, but she moved quickly and effortlessly between her assigned visits, bustling about like a roadrunner on cocaine. “Sorry about that. I guess I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

  “Happens all the time,” Rosalyn said, waving a hand. “It’s the stress. You never know how exhausted you really are until you can finally relax a little. Then it all hits you at once, and you’re out like a light bulb.”

  “You’re probably right,” Janson said. She had been awake for nearly five days straight, and though the nanomachinery in her brain provided significant cognitive enhancements, she functioned best with at least two hours of sleep a night.

  “Of course I am. But you don’t have to worry about that anymore. There’s food, a hot shower, and a warm bed waiting for you inside.” Roselyn popped her door open and squeezed out then scurried across the driveway to the front door. She fiddled with a keychain that looked like it weighed ten pounds, and Janson took a moment to survey the neighborhood.

  The streets were narrower than most she had driven on in the United States, but they were free of cracks and potholes. Most of the nearby homes were small and in need of fresh paint, and there were chain-link fences around every yard. Somewhere in the distance, a man and a woman hurled insults at each other while at least three dogs barked. A car door slammed, an engine started, and tires launched bits of gravel.

  Roselyn found the correct key and slid it into the lock. She glanced back at Janson. “It isn’t the best neighborhood in Michigan, or even in town. But the way things have been lately—with the terrorists and all—we’re all booked up, and this is the best we’ve got within a hundred miles.”

  “It’s perfect. A roof over my head and a hot shower are more than I’d hoped for. And believe it or not, I’ve lived in worse neighborhoods.”

  “Then you’ll have something in common with most of the ladies here. Come on in, I’ll show you around.”

  Rosalyn pushed the door open, and its hinges squealed in protest. They walked through the foyer and into
a small living room. The carpet was at least thirty years old, and the wallpaper was peeling away from the walls. A surprisingly large flat-screen TV stood at the center of the room, perched atop a thrift-store entertainment center.

  Roselyn caught her gaze. “The ladies all pitched in, and now they have movie nights twice a week.”

  “That sounds nice. I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie.”

  Roselyn nodded and scurried on. She poked her hand into a dark doorway adjacent to the living room and said, “Toilet’s in here, but the bathroom with the shower is upstairs.” Entering the kitchen, she said, “We stock the basics—eggs, milk, bread, that sort of thing. But don’t worry, you’ll eat well. Liana is a wonderful cook, and Tiff bakes the best apple pie I’ve ever had. Usually, Liana plans meals for the week, and everyone pitches in what they can for groceries.”

  Janson nodded, but the woman was off again, jogging up the stairs.

  “This way. I’ll show you to your room.”

  The second story was smaller than the first, with round windows and a ceiling that slanted at the edges. There were three rooms bordering a narrow hallway; Roselyn entered the second on the left.

  “It’s very…calming,” Janson said, admiring the decor. Someone had hand-painted a sweeping landscape mural on two of the walls. Blue lace curtains hung in front of the window, and two cots bordered the edges of the room. Plush, white comforters adorned both cots.

  “You can thank your roommate, Olivia, for that.” Roselyn paused for nearly three seconds as she admired the painted walls. “She’s quite talented. Your bed is the one on the right. I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Janson said, fingering the thick comforter.

  “The bathroom is across the hall. Normally, I remind the ladies to clean out the shower drain when they’re finished washing up, but I don’t think you’ll need to worry about it.”

  Janson grinned and ran a hand over her bristly scalp. “Probably not.”

  Roselyn looked up and frowned at a jagged crack in the ceiling. “Including you, there are six young ladies living here. The youngest is eighteen. She’s a runaway who got into trouble in Detroit. And the oldest is forty-one. It’s a dry home, so no alcohol. Brenda is a recovering alcoholic. Tiana struggles with PTSD after losing her children to a housefire, and Olivia is here anonymously, hiding from an abusive ex-husband. I’m not telling you all this for the sake of gossip, I’m giving you fair warning: this is a sanctuary, and if I hear about any rude comments or insensitive behavior, you’ll be evicted within the week. Do you understand?”

  Janson nodded. “Perfectly.”

  “In that case, I think you’ll like it here very much.” Roselyn moved to the door and grasped the handle. “Welcome to your new home, Elizabeth. Good luck, God bless, and I’ll check up on you next week.”

  42

  October 16th

  Charleston, South Carolina

  Thomas Ward drummed his fingers against the desk in the Watchtower. He watched and listened as Jarrod interviewed a client, deftly cutting through half-truths and inconsistencies that tended to slow down an investigation.

  Ward glanced at his watch for the third time in ten minutes and frowned. It wasn’t that Jarrod was dragging the interview out—on the contrary, Jarrod finished interviews faster than his best PI’s, even faster than Kayla. Ward’s impatience was due to the next “client” he had scheduled. The appointment was only minutes away, and Ward wanted Jarrod to be alone when the time came.

  “Wrap it up,” Ward whispered, shaking his head. Then, after a pause, he couldn’t help but smile. Jarrod was the last person he should be impatient with. In the few short days since he had returned, Jarrod had closed twenty-one open investigations. And he had cut the completion time for new investigations in half. His violent outbursts were a thing of the past, and Ward even began allowing him to accompany Kayla into the field. Business at the firm was booming. Ward had more clients arriving than ever before—despite the struggling U. S. economy.

  Soon, Ward would have to start hiring more PI’s in order to handle the workload. The process of vetting new recruits was difficult and tedious, but it was a good problem to have.

  There was a knock at the door, and Eric poked his head into the dimly-lit room. “Heads-up, Kayla is two minutes out.”

  Ward’s eyes widened, and he glanced at the closed-circuit camera feed. Mercifully, Jarrod was giving his concluding remarks. The burly man stood, shook the client’s hand, and showed him to the door.

  “We’re good,” Ward said, grinning. “Jarrod is alone.”

  “In that case,” Eric said, stepping into the room. “I want to see this.”

  Jarrod returned to his chair and began typing up notes on a Toughbook Laptop. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he transcribed, from memory, every word spoken during the interview. After three minutes, his fingers suddenly froze, and he glanced at the door.

  “He knows,” Eric said, grinning and shoving Ward’s right shoulder.

  Ward nodded. “Don’t get your hopes up. We don’t know for sure how she’ll react.

  A separate monitor showed Kayla holding the front door open for another woman. Ward interlaced his fingers and squeezed tight. He held his breath and watched Kayla lead the woman to the interview room.

  Jarrod stood as the door opened. Deedee, wearing an ankle-length blue dress, entered the room.

  “Hello, Jarrod,” she said in a voice that was so soft, Ward had to turn up the microphone sensitivity to hear it.

  Jarrod’s head twitched. “H—Hello, Deedee.”

  She took a step closer. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  “No, not at all.” Jarred hurried around the table and pulled a chair out for her.

  “Thank you,” she said, lowering herself into the chair with the grace and eloquence of a queen.

  “How are things?” Jarrod asked, returning to his seat. “Are you safe? Do you like your new home? Is your room comfortable?”

  Ward chuckled. Even before the transformation, he rarely saw Jarrod this nervous.

  “I have a lovely home,” Deedee replied, “filled with wonderful new friends. And my room is very comfortable. Thank you for asking.”

  Jarrod nodded then fell silent. Several moments passed before he spoke again. “It’s good to see you, Deedee.”

  She hesitated. “It’s good to see you, too, brother.”

  Ward breathed a sigh of relief. It had taken him days to convince Deedee to visit Jarrod. After the incident with their father, she had disowned him, swearing to herself that the man in black wasn’t really her brother. But she also didn’t have all the facts. Ward told her as much as he could without divulging classified information, and it had been enough to convince her to at least hear Jarrod out. Now, it was up to Jarrod to tell her the truth without holding anything back.

  The meeting was no guarantee that she would reconcile with her sibling, but it was a start.

  Deedee had turned her gaze downward and was studying the grit beneath her fingernails. “This isn’t easy for me—sitting here with you, knowing what you did. But I had to see you again. I have to know why.” She shook her head and looked into his eyes. “Why did you kill that man?”

  “The short answer is…I thought I was protecting my family.” Jarrod rubbed his hands against his thighs. “But, with your permission, I’d like to tell you the long answer. The difficult answer. I’d like to tell you the secrets I’ve been hiding from you for your entire life.”

  She brushed her dark hair back, took a deep breath, and nodded.

  “When I was very young—still in middle school—Dad told me to organize his office.” He cracked a half-smile. “There was so much paperwork. Stacks and stacks of paperwork. But I did my best to organize them. It took me hours—I couldn’t believe how many records Mom and Dad had kept over the years. They even had medical records from when Mom was a little girl.” His smile faded. “I found a document that told a terrible story, and th
at was when I changed, Deedee. That was when I became the monster I am today.”

  Deedee shook her head. “You’re not a monster, Jarrod.”

  “You don’t have to defend me.” He frowned, and his face contorted with pain. “You’re the last person who should be defending me. I lied to you all this time, pretended to be something I’m not.”

  “No one is that good of a liar. Why don’t you tell me about the document?”

  Jarrod nodded. “When Mom was in high school, she was attacked by some very bad men. They hurt her, and because of the attack, she wasn’t able to have children of her own. It’s why Mom and Dad adopted us and all our brothers and sisters. And it’s why I became who I am.”

  Deedee’s face widened around a sympathetic smile. “I know.”

  Jarrod raised an eyebrow. “You do?”

  “I’m not stupid, Jarrod. And neither were Mom and Dad. Why do you think they let you keep living at home after you attacked that man in the park? Why do you think they never talked about the man who was stalking Melody, or how he died in the hospital?”

  She leaned forward. “We knew, Jarrod. But those moments aren’t who you are, they’re things you’ve done.” She lowered her voice and stared at her hands again. “But I never thought you would kill an innocent man. And neither did Dad.”

  “Deedee…I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt him. Either of them. I wasn’t thinking; I just…did it, before I even knew what I was doing.”

  He took a deep breath and continued his story, detailing why Melody and Joshua, his wife and son, had been killed by a criminal organization. He told her about Hillcrest and Project Nerium. He told her what the scientists had done to him and what he had become—a killing machine.

  “I’m not making excuses,” he said, shaking his head. “What I did to the man outside the house that night was wrong. It was a mistake, but it was a mistake I wouldn’t have made if I hadn’t embraced the monster I’ve become.”