Basilisk c-2

by Rob Thurman

  Theoretically.

  Nineteen and a doctor three times over, but it was amazing what you could learn when you could hack into the computer system of any university in the world. Computer hacking had actually been the easiest thing to learn compared to many other things. In fact, it was pretty boring.

  Yes, I’m smart. I know.

  The question was whether I was born that way or made that way.

  “College sounds like a lot of work.” Sara’s voice brightened. “Except for the parties. I’ll bet frat parties are fun. Maybe I should go. My parents keep bitching at me to since I graduated.” She pushed up to sit on the counter—against the rules—but I was reading. Technically I shouldn’t notice.

  And technically my eyes didn’t wander to technically not watch her bouncing—lying to yourself can be entertaining—when I saw past her to the television in the break room. What I saw on it made Sara’s whipped cream skills and bouncing vanish. The sound was turned low, but I could still hear it. I could still see him on the small screen. I saw a man I’d never expected to see again. His face had that enigmatic smile that could save your life or far more likely put you in your grave; he was Stefan’s father.

  Or our father, Stefan would say. . . . Anatoly Korsak.

  And they were saying he was dead.

  I told Sara I felt sick, and then I went to the bathroom and threw up, nice and loud—no finger needed. Genetic skills, I had them in spades. And you don’t tell stories you can’t back up. You always do what needs to be done to provide evidence to support your deception. I hadn’t learned that from Stefan. I’d learned it at the Institute—the place Stefan had rescued me from. The Institute had thousands of lessons and some hung around, lingered—when I was awake, when I was asleep. They most likely would my whole life. When it came to making people think what you wanted, a small number of those lessons were harmless, the rest considerably less so, but all were efficient.

  I was nothing if not extremely efficient.

  My trip to the bathroom got me a “Shit, Parker, sweetie. Are you okay?” from Sara and a call to someone else to replace me. Ben Jansen. Ben liked the bouncing as much as I did—or as much as Stefan said I should.

  Stefan . . . he should know better. He shouldn’t have done this. There was protective and overprotective; then there was something so far beyond that—a word hadn’t been invented for it yet—and that was what Stefan practiced. Anatoly was dead; it was all over the news, and Stefan hadn’t told me. He hadn’t called me to let me know. How could he think I wouldn’t find out? I didn’t know, but I did know it had to stop. Nearly three years free and twice I’d saved his life; it was a two-way street now. He had to trust me with the bad as well as the good. I wasn’t a kid anymore, no matter what he called me. I could more than carry my own weight.

  The coffee shop door shut behind me and I started down the sidewalk with my hands in my pockets, heading to my car. It was seven years old, gray, and a Toyota. They were virtually invisible. That was mob and Institute knowledge, oddly coinciding. Low tech meets high tech, with the same purpose: clean getaways. Of course, the Institute expected no getaway would be necessary if you did your job adequately. I guessed we’d fooled them, because Cascade Falls was a clean getaway so far.

  In the distance I could see through the trees the silver glint of the Bridge of the Heavens crossing the Columbia River. When we’d picked this place to live, Stefan had quirked his lips. “Bridge of the Heavens,” he’d said. “How about that, Misha? That must mean this is Paradise.” Sometimes he could be a little thick, my brother. He didn’t always get that everywhere I went outside of the Institute was Paradise. If there was actually a Hell, the Institute would make it seem like Paradise too. Hell would be a walk in the park. Hell would be nothing.

  “Hey, smart-ass. You get tired of ripping people off with your high-priced shit?” The words, tainted with bile, came from out of nowhere, or nowhere if your attention was not in the here and now, and mine wasn’t.

  Stupid. How could I be so careless and stupid? Anatoly was no excuse. You were always ready. Always.

  It was the tourist. He was sitting on the wrought-iron bench, always freshly painted bright blue, outside Printz’s Bakery. I noticed that every day. The swirls of iron reflected the exact same color of the sky overhead. It was one more detail about Cascade Falls that made me . . . happy, I guess, and made it my home. The tourist wasn’t one of those warm, small-town features. There wasn’t anything warm about him at all, except his sweat. He had a cheese Danish the size of a four-year-old’s head in one hand and a smear of buttery cheese on his chin as he glared at me. As I’d thought earlier—his body had its work cut out in taking care of him.

  But it wasn’t my job to take care of him, unlike his unlucky heart, and I ignored him and kept walking. That was normal too and being normal was the best move I could make now. Do as a normal teenager would do. Only I was barely still a teenager and I was nothing close to normal. But I played the game as I’d been taught. Normal teenagers usually aren’t polite to annoying people—or assholes—and that meant I walked on as if I hadn’t heard him.

  Stefan would definitely say this guy was an asshole. He wouldn’t be wrong.

  “Shithead, I’m talking to you.” I’d only just passed him when there was a hand grabbing my arm to give me a shake. From the smell, he’d put something in the coffee after he’d left the shop. Cheese, alcohol, coffee, and natural halitosis—I’d smelled better things and I’d smelled worse. People almost always smelled worse on the inside than the outside.

  The Institute had had anatomy classes and enough cadavers to make Harvard Medical School jealous. The Institute taught its students to hurt people, taught them to use what had been stamped on their genes. But I hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone. I hadn’t wanted to kill anyone. The thought of it, in self-defense or not, had made me sick. That didn’t mean I wasn’t forced to learn and it didn’t mean I hadn’t killed.

  Once.

  I didn’t plan on ever doing it again.

  In addition, the Institute had biology classes. One thing they taught us there was that as adolescent males grow, the production of testosterone increases, and so do levels of aggression—the natural kind that gives you the instinct to protect yourself if attacked. Three years ago I wouldn’t have hurt this on-my-last-nerve irritating tourist. I wouldn’t hurt him now, although the jolting surprise of his voice and his shaking me made it a very close thing. But I caught myself. He wasn’t a threat, despite being bigger than I was. No, I wouldn’t hurt him, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t more tempted now than I would’ve been when I was younger. My temper ran hotter now than it had then. Nature—it can’t be stopped—usually.

  Slippery slope, I was repeating to myself, same as I had in the coffee shop, when he shook my arm again, harder this time. Slippery, slippery slope.

  But then again, what was one ski run, really? Just the one?

  This once, I gave in to nature. I looked at the tourist and tried not to smile. I didn’t think I was successful and I doubted it was a friendly smile. Not that employee-of-the-month one. “Alcohol is harmful to your liver and not all that great for your stomach either,” I said, pulling my arm free. His eyes widened, he dropped the Danish he was holding in his other hand, and I backed away quickly. I made it in time as he bent over and threw up on the sidewalk. I’d done the same to myself earlier in the coffee house bathroom, but not quite so . . . explosively. I should’ve been sorry, but I wasn’t. He deserved it. Out of range and unsplattered, I turned my back on him and kept walking toward my car. I heard him vomit one more time, curse, groan, and then vomit again. He would keep it up for approximately the next fifteen minutes until he was empty of everything, including yesterday’s breakfast. He would chalk it up to strong coffee, whatever alcohol he’d put in it, and the Danish. After all, what other explanation could there be?

  Well. . . .

  Other than me?

  He was fortunate I wasn’t more like my former clas
smates. If I had been, that one touch of his hand to my arm, that hard shake he’d given me—I could’ve ripped holes in his brain, torn his heart into pieces, liquefied his intestines. After all, that was what I was: a genetically created, lab-altered, medically modified child of Frankenstein, trained to do one thing and one thing only.

  Kill.

  All with a single touch.

  Isn’t science fun?

  Besides, vomiting didn’t hurt. It was only annoying, like the man who was doing it.

  Mr. Fat-ass Danish would never know. I climbed into the car, pleased for a split second. Mr. Fat-ass Danish . . . the phrase had come out naturally, no work at all. Cursing was one thing that had proved difficult to learn. I was getting better at it. Then I remembered Anatoly, and the pleasure popped and disappeared like a soap bubble. Stefan and I needed to talk. I started the car. His babysitting days were over. That took me to the most simple of physics lessons: immovable object, unstoppable force. I sighed and pulled the car away from the curb.

  All right, his babysitting days were mostly over.

  Fifteen minutes later I was telling my brother the same thing that I’d told the tourist when he’d asked for his coffee.

  “I am not a kid.”

  And I wasn’t. My brother called me that daily at least, but since he had lost me when I was seven years old and only gotten me back when I was seventeen, I understood. Calling me a kid was his way of trying to ignore or reclaim those ten lost years. It was an emotional and appraisal-based mixed coping skill.

  Again, still smart.

  As I denied my inclusion in the kid category, Stefan wiped the back of his hand along his forehead, not that there was any sweat. Moisture, but no sweat. I’d spent most of my life in Florida and so had he. But when you were living in Oregon, when there was water dripping down your forehead, it wasn’t often sweat. It was the air. You drank your air in the Falls; it was that heavy on every molecule. It was July now and around fifty-five degrees today. I didn’t mind the drop in temperature compared to Florida and Bolivia. It was green here in Cascade Falls, everywhere green, and it was cool on the river. I was surprised to find I liked that. I was usually surprised when I liked anything. “Prepare for the worst and get the worst.” That had been an unspoken Institute motto among the students. I’d been raised there with suspicion as my very best friend since my first memories. That meant everything I saw, touched, tasted, heard—it was all evaluated through a filter of wariness. But in the time since the Institute I’d had more pleasant surprises than unpleasant ones.

  That, ironically, surprised me too.

  I liked Oregon and I was lucky to be able to have an opinion one way or the other, which made me like it more. I didn’t mind the lack of ocean. I’d seen it in South Carolina for a short time, and I’d have liked to have seen more, but if I needed water, there was also the river. But more than that, there was Stefan.

  He was overprotective and he called me kid, but he was my brother—mine—and I sort of loved him. Not that I’d say that. You couldn’t just go and say things like that aloud. TV said so. Movies said so. General guy culture said so—I’d learned that from close observation. Everything said so.

  Almost three years with him and the possibility of losing him said so.

  Funny the things you don’t want to say and tempt fate, the things you don’t want to admit to yourself, no matter how often you think them. We were free and alive now, but that might not always be true.

  “I’m not a kid and that ladder is too high. You could break a leg,” I said. Yet there I was, thinking it again. People were fragile. They were like ancient glass found in Roman ruins waiting to shatter into pieces at one simple touch, thousands of pieces that could never be glued back together. Easily . . . extraordinarily easily broken, those normal people.

  I wasn’t normal. I tried to be, but I wasn’t. The Institute had made certain of that.

  Stefan was painting Mrs. Adelaide Sloot’s house today. Every morning before he left, I made him leave a schedule pinned to the refrigerator with my Albert Einstein magnet. Fine. I was forced to admit it: the babysitting thing went both ways. Now with my showing up, he let the brush fall back in the can of mint green paint and looked the ladder’s entire ten feet plus half of his own size down at me and my scowl from where he perched on top. “Okay, that’s out of nowhere.” He meant the kid part, not the ladder complaint. He’d made it clear I was profoundly overprotective lots of times before. Profound was an exaggeration, as was pathological. I thought he’d been carrying around a dictionary that particular day—stuck on the letter P. I was cautious, that was all. Besides, considering what he’d done to protect me in the past, I wasn’t sure I came anywhere close to falling in the same category.

  Anatoly’s death and Stefan’s not telling me about it proved that, didn’t they?

  He ran a hand through his short, wavy black hair, leaving flecks of green. “I promise to be extremely careful with this Tower of Babel–tall ladder.” He said it solemnly enough, but I had my doubts. “Why aren’t you at work? You fought kicking and screaming to work in a public place, and now you’re skipping?”

  “I did not kick or scream. Are you mocking me?” And I had to be out in public eventually. I couldn’t live my entire life sitting in the house, afraid I’d be spotted by employees of the Institute. I wasn’t letting them take more years away from me. They weren’t taking any more of my life. This wasn’t about me, though. This was about Anatoly, what Stefan had done, and how to approach the subject without making him dig in his heels harder. He was stubborn. I was too.

  As I thought about it, I swung a bag in my hand that I could easily throw up to him or at him, depending on his mentioning kicking or screaming again. I added, “And, I repeat, yet again, I’m not a kid.”

  “I would never mock you. Make fun of you or tease you, maybe, but never mock.” That was twice as solemn and earnest and a flat-out lie. Maybe his head. I could hit him in the head with the bag. No. Then his chances of falling that treacherous ten feet only increased. Revenge was tricky that way. “And what’s up with the kid thing? Am I wearing a T-shirt that says you’re a kid?” he went on with a grin. “Did you hear me talking in my sleep last night and going down the hall to the bathroom, calling you cute names? Things like ‘puppy’ or ‘skipper’? Something that made you resent me enough to chase me down while I paint gingerbread?”

  Cascade Falls was a long way from Miami, or Bolivia, where we’d spent two years before coming to this tiny Oregon town of “homey” but expensive restaurants; small artsy stores; happy, pleasant people—or unhappy, unpleasant people with excellent acting skills. I was still debating the last part. Caution and suspicion—they kept you alive. There were also tourists, the newlywed or nature type—and the puking type, thanks to me—but definitely not the mob types Stefan was doing his best to avoid. The town also had several bed-and-breakfasts, as did the surrounding small cities.

  Bed-and-breakfasts, like Mrs. Sloot’s, seemed odd to me. It didn’t matter that all the Web sites and brochures talked about your “home away from home.” Why would I want to stay in the home of someone I didn’t know, didn’t trust, and didn’t have a thorough background check on? At least, theoretically didn’t have a background check on. White lies didn’t hurt when your brother thought you spent too much time on the computer.

  Despite all that, there was one positive to bed-and-breakfasts—they always had gingerbread trim in need of painting. Stefan now had more than enough money in offshore accounts his father—our father, he kept telling me—had given him before we’d left for Bolivia. Anatoly Korsak had made a massive amount of it in his time running the majority of the Miami mob for twenty or so years. Now, part of that money let Stefan work as a handyman and still afford to feed us.

  Plus, he’d told me, he had a bachelor’s degree in general studies from the University of Miami, which translated to “Do you want fries with that?” Then he’d explained why that was both funny and sad. I got the fun
ny. Sad? I didn’t tell him it was one of the furthest things from sad there was. Stefan was living with a guilt he’d never be rid of thanks to my kidnapping. I wasn’t going to go prodding at it, especially as he didn’t deserve it, not any of it. It turned out that Stefan liked the work, which was good and he deserved good. He said it gave him a helluva lot more sense of satisfaction than beating up people for the Mafiya.

  “Helluva.” That was one of the curse words I kept meaning to add to my vocabulary. I could add it to “fat-ass.” To fit in. Stefan liked his job and Stefan painted a helluva lot of gingerbread. Good. That sounded correct. It sounded like something a real person would say. A real boy . . . just like that old children’s cartoon, Pinocchio .

  Except I wasn’t a boy. I was a man and I wasn’t real, thanks to the Institute. Not real, not quite yet, but Stefan was and always had been—more real than he should’ve been forced to be. Choosing real-life decisions in a life he wouldn’t have chosen at all if it hadn’t been for me. Being in the Mafiya had been Anatoly’s calling, not Stefan’s. When he ended up wearing cotton candy pink, sunshine yellow, or mint green paint on his jeans these days, I knew he didn’t mind. His masculinity would survive pastels, I’d pointed out helpfully, or it wasn’t much masculinity to begin with. He’d balled up his jeans and thrown them at me, and he’d laughed. I’d made him laugh. Stefan didn’t laugh much. I was proud of every laugh I’d been a part of.

  And it was good work, what he did—the handyman job. Good, and except for tall ladders, mostly safe, and, better, he didn’t need a gun to paint the trim on a house. But he carried one anyway—there and everywhere else.

  It made sense when we were on the run from the Russian Mafiya and another organization so secretive and grim that James Bond producers would’ve pissed themselves just reading the script—I knew that for a fact because I’d seen men piss themselves in fear in real life, and I liked James Bond movies. In any case, when you had all that chasing you, you wanted reassurance—as much as you could hope for. Oregon weather was good too for layering your shirts, and that in turn was good for covering up a discreet gun tucked into the back of a person’s jeans. As for me. . . .