The EMTs took it from there.
Grant, meanwhile, went back in. Every time.
Morgan was breathing oxygen through a mask hours later when she suddenly sprang up from her seat at the back of an ambulance and tore off the mask.
Before anyone could stop her, she ran past the medics and police and into the smoldering ruins. She passed Grant, who was still working like mad, using his powers to sift through what remained of the wrecked building.
Morgan never stopped running, winding her way through the building, searching for something . . .
‘‘It’s gone!’’ she shouted after a few minutes.
‘‘What?’’ Grant turned in her direction.
She reappeared in front of him, defeated. ‘‘The stone tablet! It’s gone!’’
Grant glared at her sideways, returning to his work. ‘‘Who cares, Morgan! You’ve got the whole thing memorized, anyway! People are dead here—’’
‘‘Grant,’’ she said softly, placing a hand on his arm. He stopped.
‘‘It’s the reason they’re dead,’’ she said.
He turned sharply to stare into her eyes. Eyes that were weighed down by immeasurable sorrow.
‘‘The Keeper . . . he took it,’’ Grant breathed heavily. ‘‘That’s what this was about—he just wanted the Dominion Stone . . .’’
She walked away, leaving him to his work.
Whoever you are . . . I’ll kill you for this.
On and on Grant went, covered in grime and despair.
He never stopped once, angrily defying exhaustion its prize.
After almost thirty hours, many of the survivors had finally dispersed— some taken to the hospital by the medics, others gone off in search of homeless shelters or other places they might stay.
The sun was setting on the second night after the fire as Morgan and the few others who still remained watched Grant emerge from the wreckage like a specter for the last time.
It was done. He’d saved all that he could save and recovered what was left of those he couldn’t.
Dirty, exhausted, and covered in grime, a dangerous expression darkened his features like a heavy storm cloud ready to strike.
All told, nineteen bodies had been recovered from the wreckage.
Nineteen.
Nineteen lights extinguished in his soul.
Grant was too spent to shed any tears for them. That might come later. For now, the devastation around him had crept into his heart and left no room for anything else. There were no words. No emotions. No energy.
Grant walked slowly past Morgan and the others, as well as the two ambulances that remained. Two EMTs came over and grabbed him by the arms, meaning to finally drag him back to their equipment and treat his smoke inhalation, but he angrily jerked loose and kept walking.
Morgan ran around in front of him, blocking his path. He noticed for the first time that her arm and shoulder had been set in a sling.
Her hair and skin were dark and muddy, blood encrusted on her hands and fingers. Her eyes were impossibly puffy, yet more tears poured out now as she locked gazes with Grant.
But he never stopped walking or even slowed down. He simply stepped around her. She reached out with her good arm and placed her hand on his shoulder from behind. He paused only a moment before dropping his head and shaking it slightly.
‘‘Please don’t,’’ he whispered.
He kept walking until he reached his car.
Slowly the engine came to life and the car limped its way down the lonely drive until it was out of sight.
No one spoke to Grant for the next forty-eight hours. They tried, but he was unresponsive. He had returned to the apartment, walked past Daniel and Lisa—who hushed instantly when he entered—without comment, and collapsed on his bed.
There he slept fitfully, stirring awake often. Hours upon hours, he drifted in and out of asleep and awake states and all the subtle hues in between.
Dreams came in spurts—violent, terrifying visions of roaring flames and horrified screams. He awoke repeatedly with the putrid taste of burning death in his mouth.
He went to the bathroom and washed his teeth several times, trying to get rid of the taste of the heat and the smoke and the burning bodies. But it wouldn’t leave.
All the while, every one of the Loci continued about their business— most of them in hiding or in the hospital, recovering from injuries— and all of them aware that the time of the prophecy was drawing ever closer.
Even Grant was aware of the passage of time and what it meant, but he was too drained, too emotionally decimated to do anything about it.
He wouldn’t answer his phone, and he locked himself in his bedroom.
And without him, the others had no idea what to do.
Grant’s first visitor since the tragedy came in the early evening, four days after the fire.
A gentle knock at the door barely captured his attention as he sat in the kitchen alone eating a bowl of cereal, staring into space.
He glanced at the door and kept eating.
Another knock. Louder this time.
‘‘Go away, Morgan!’’ he said.
The door nearly caved in at the next knock. He stood up from his stool so fast he pushed it over and ran to the door.
Throwing it open wide, he shouted, ‘‘I said, go away!’’
It wasn’t Morgan.
‘‘Hi,’’ said the visitor.
It was Hannah.
Why hadn’t he felt her arrival? He looked down; her ring was still on. But then, he’d stopped trying to feel her.
‘‘You were hurt,’’ he blurted. She looked better than she had the last few times he’d seen her. Shaken and battered, but not crushed.
‘‘Cracked ribs,’’ she said, placing a steadying hand across her torso, ‘‘and plenty o’ scrapes and bruises. It’s pretty hard to catch my breath.
But thanks to you and Morgan, no permanent—’’
‘‘What do you want?’’
She met his eyes, briefly. ‘‘Somethin’ I can never have.’’
For a reason he couldn’t define, Grant suddenly couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He examined her shoes instead.
‘‘Then . . . we have something in common,’’ he said.
Hannah entered timidly, walking carefully around him, but refused to sit. She stood a few yards away, and she kept glancing at him nervously, but she was unable to keep her eyes upon him for very long.
Grant closed the door behind her and crossed his arms over his chest. He never offered her a chair.
Minutes passed in silence.
‘‘Everyone kept telling me to slow down, to take time, think . . . feel . . .’’ Grant said quietly. ‘‘They finally got their wish. It feels like . . .
I think I’m still on that street corner, standing at the bus stop. Watching myself walk down the street. I think maybe . . . I never left that spot.’’
Hannah looked down, unable to hold his eye.
‘‘I know what you did for Morgan.’’
‘‘It doesn’t change anything,’’ she stated the obvious.
He frowned, ‘‘No, it doesn’t.’’
‘‘I want to explain. I want to justify what I’ve done. But there ain’t no happy ending to get to. Drexel hired me to spy on you, to find out everything I could. I never meant you any harm, personally. Do you remember that day we met, crawling through those air ducts at Inveo?
I warned you then you shouldn’t trust me.’’
Grant’s thoughts and emotions were a million miles away.
‘‘But you did. And instead of ditching you, like I should have—I felt something. Before I knew how or why . . . I found that I cared about you, deeply. I still do.’’
‘‘Hannah,’’ he interrupted, his voice a dry monotone, ‘‘I know what you came here for, so just say it and get it over with.’’
It wasn’t an accusation. He was merely tired. He had no use for accusations now.
‘‘I .
. . didn’t come to apologize,’’ she replied.
He looked up at her for the first time.
‘‘If I did, would it matter? What would it change?’’ she said, sadness filling her voice.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ he replied. ‘‘Probably nothing.’’
‘‘I did what I did, and there ain’t an excuse big enough to undo it. . . . I’d probably be crying now if I was capable of any more tears, but after everything, and then the last few days . . . I feel like coffee beans that’ve been spilled all over the floor . . . Or no—which nursery rhyme was it? The one who couldn’t be put together again?’’
‘‘Humpty Dumpty,’’ he replied quietly.
‘‘That’s me,’’ she said, nodding hopelessly. ‘‘Humpty Dumpty. No matter what I do, what I’ve done will always be there . . . A long, ugly list of demerits on my permanent record. And I can’t ever reverse it.’’
Grant’s demeanor suddenly changed, and he looked up, outside his window. His gaze was far away. ‘‘No,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘You can’t.’’
Despite her claim of being all out, tears spilled from her eyes.
‘‘And maybe you’re not supposed to,’’ he said, emotion rising in his voice.
She got lost in his eyes, alone and confused.
‘‘It’s something my sister was trying to tell me . . . I didn’t understand it then, but . . .’’ he said, shaking his head, then he took a single step closer to her. ‘‘We can’t ever go back to the way things were after mistakes are made. There are always consequences . . .’’
She examined his coffee table in great detail, afraid to look at him.
‘‘But maybe it’s not about what you do next,’’ he continued, swallowing. ‘‘Maybe it’s not up to you to fix what’s broken.’’
More tears leaked out of her eyes, and she almost turned her body fully away from him now.
Something opened in Grant’s heart—it had been stopped up by despair and grief—but now he found that his own eyes were moistening.
This was stupid. He had every reason to hate this woman.
It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t what any sane person would do.
But what Hannah needed right now was the very thing that Grant was craving more than life itself. And he hadn’t realized it until now, seeing her in this state.
Since he couldn’t give it to himself, he did the only thing he could do.
He offered it to Hannah.
He crossed the distance between them and grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to look into his face. And he embraced her.
Hannah was overcome. He could see the shock in her face. The question. She knew what she deserved and it wasn’t this . . .
Her body went limp, breaking into sobs so violent that she shook uncontrollably, and she wasn’t holding herself up by her own power . . .
No, Grant was doing that.
He was holding her tight. And he was shaking and sobbing as well.
‘‘I’m sorry!’’ she wailed, head buried in his chest. ‘‘Please, Grant— I’m so sorry! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry . . .’’ She continued to blurt it out between heaving breaths until she had no more strength or words or breath.
When she finally stopped, he whispered in her ear.
‘‘It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay now.’’
57
Very late that night and into the early morning hours, Matthew Drexel attended a scheduled rendezvous, made the drop, and then checked his watch as he struggled to get into the backseat of his car.
‘‘Let’s go,’’ he growled at his driver. He was running late.
He rubbed his aching back as the driver took him to his next destination. He was still suffering from his run-in with Grant and Payton over a week ago, and he’d taken to using a cane to get around.
He knew the address of the meeting was among some warehouses on the outskirts of the city, so when his driver raised his eyebrows at the neighborhood, Drexel growled for him to keep his eyes on the road. This lead and the money it might offer were too good not to check out. Besides, he’d been in places far worse than this.
A dozen minutes later, his car pulled up next to a sagging old building and Drexel got out.
He was overcome by the desire not to stay in this place one minute longer than necessary. The building left him feeling . . . unsettled. But he couldn’t put his finger on why.
Drexel approached the door and rapped his knuckles on it five times, as instructed.
The door opened to reveal a dark interior.
‘‘Enter,’’ a voice commanded.
‘‘What is this?’’ Drexel said, put off by the lack of visibility inside the building.
He received no answer, and was about to turn around when something crashed into his head from behind. He lurched and wobbled, and fell to his knees, seeing stars.
‘‘What the—!’’ he yelled.
Immediately two sets of hands were lifting him from under his arms and dragging him forward into the pitch-black interior.
They reached the center of the room, and the two who held him threw him forward, onto the ground. His eyes could see very little, but the room seemed like an abandoned warehouse with a shorter ceiling. Empty. He couldn’t see far past the shadows before his face.
The shadows moved again and a fist landed square in his nose. He yelped and tried crawling away, but another set of hands grabbed his feet and dragged him back. And then what had to be no less than three men—strong men, to be able to take a big guy like him down—were everywhere at once, all over him, punching, kicking, bashing. A tooth was knocked loose. His legs screamed in agony as they were kicked again and again. Fists landed across his chest and stomach.
Minutes passed and then suddenly they stopped.
Then without a word, the three shadowy figures walked away, leaving him lying there.
A bright spotlight from somewhere above switched on and bathed him in light.
He spit blood out of his mouth to the side and squinted, peering out into the darkness.
‘‘How does it feel?’’ a voice called out of the dark.
‘‘Who are you!’’ Drexel demanded. ‘‘What is this?’’
A figure approached out of the darkness, bearing down on him where he still lay on the floor.
But the figure wasn’t walking. He was rolling in a wheelchair.
He came into view and Drexel recognized him.
‘‘I want to tell you a story, Mr. Drexel,’’ said Daniel, rolling his new wheelchair just out of Drexel’s reach. A pistol rested in his lap.
‘‘Cossick,’’ Drexel said, piecing it together. ‘‘Do you have any idea what I’m going to—’’
‘‘It’s a good story, full of blood, violence, and adult content. Right up your alley,’’ Daniel said, cold and unwavering. ‘‘So shut up and listen.’’
Daniel’s eyes pierced furiously into Drexel, but Drexel stubbornly held his gaze.
‘‘Once upon a time,’’ Daniel began, ‘‘there was a boy named Daniel. He was a happy little toddler until one day when he crawled up to an electrical outlet and stuck his finger inside. Afterward, the doctor told his parents that he was lucky to be alive. He took his first steps a few days later.’’
Drexel eyed the crippled man warily. He had no idea what this game was, but he didn’t like where it was going.
‘‘Daniel grew up and went to college. One morning on the way to class, his car was slammed into by an eighteen-wheeler. The car was smashed beyond repair, and the truck took heavy damage as well. But Daniel walked away from that accident with only a few cuts and scrapes. The police deemed it a fluke, ‘one-in-a-million’ they called it.’’
Daniel watched the man on the ground with contempt, everything inside him wanting to spit on this waste of human flesh.
‘‘Three weeks ago, Daniel came down the stairs of this very building from his lab on the second floor and walked outside, where three thugs beat him within an inch of
his life. It happened right out there—outside the very door you walked through just a few minutes ago.’’
A young brunette Drexel recognized as Cossick’s assistant appeared from behind the wheelchair and raised up the footrests in front. Daniel very slowly and gingerly placed his legs—still in their casts—down onto the cold concrete floor. The brunette braced the chair from the back as he pulled himself up by his arms. Then she produced crutches.
Carefully, he took a few baby steps forward to face Drexel at arm’s length, leaning heavily on his crutches. The brunette stayed behind the chair, watching him with a motherly concern that made Drexel want to wretch.
‘‘You can knock me down as many times as you want. But I promise you, I will always—always—get back up.’’
‘‘If you’re going to kill me, just do it already so I don’t have to listen to any—’’
He stopped. And blinked.
They weren’t alone in this enormous room. Over a dozen figures emerged from the shadows, forming a circle that surrounded him.
‘‘Listen, we can just—’’
‘‘It’s not a good feeling, is it?’’ Daniel asked, leisurely waving the gun about. ‘‘To be all alone. In the dark. Outnumbered. These are my new friends, by the way,’’ he gestured wide to the circle. ‘‘All of them have stories, too. I bet you don’t even remember Sarah here,’’ he said, and a young woman stepped into the light. Daniel was right; Drexel didn’t recognize her.
‘‘But I’m sure you remember her mother, Joanna,’’ Daniel said. ‘‘She was raped to death by a thug who broke into her home and stole a big-screen TV, a computer, and a few hundred dollars. The culprit was a ‘friend’ of yours, so you had Sarah’s father framed for the crime.’’
Drexel wanted to back away from them all, but there was nowhere to go. They were everywhere.
‘‘Or how about young Will,’’ Daniel continued as a young boy slid into view atop a skateboard. ‘‘His older brother was one of your fellow officers. Yeah, I’m sure you remember him. He tried to take you down a few years ago, but he and his wife both died in a freak car accident. An accident!’’ Daniel repeated, underscoring his thoughts on that word.
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