Variable Onset

by Layla Reyne

  “Yoo-hoo...”

  Just his echo, bouncing off the walls of the cavernous space. He slung his bag around behind him and leaned over the reception desk, looking for signs of life, and got immediately distracted by all the signs of beauty.

  Directly behind the desk was a large open area, filled with polished wood tables, study cubicles, and clusters of oversized chairs, all of them dappled with light in various shades of color cast by the sun shining through the stained-glass rotunda above. A grand marble staircase, white marble shot through with blue-and-gold fleck, the same as the reception desk, drew his eye past the study area. Stacks of books stretched behind the staircase as far as Lincoln could see, and at the top of the stairs, a second level of stacks ringed the open area below. Every few rows of books up there were parted by another stained-glass window that cast more multicolor light around the space. Lincoln wasn’t sure he’d ever set foot in a more beautiful place on earth. It was like being in a kaleidoscope, or, recalling his first thought upon driving into town, like being in a snow globe. Apex’s obsession with winter made a lot more sense now. At the center of campus, with its white marble and filtered light, this building was winter in structural form.

  Lincoln’s wonder was interrupted by a ding to his left, from beyond the security turnstiles and around the corner to where Lincoln wasn’t sure. An elevator lobby, by the sound of it, mechanical doors sliding open followed by booted feet on stone. A man appeared from around the corner, arms full of files, his gray head bent, and attention focused on the phone in his hands.

  “Hello, there,” Lincoln said.

  The man’s eyes shot up, just as he approached the turnstiles. Before Lincoln could shout a warning, or an apology for his piss-poor timing, the man’s hip clipped one of the pylons and the already wobbling stack of files went flying, scattering all over the floor.

  “Shit, I’m sorry.” Lincoln scurried over to help, only to cause the optical turnstile to flash red and emit a high-pitched intruder wail. This just kept getting worse, and he couldn’t figure out how to make it better. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, face burning with embarrassment.

  His humiliation was met with an attractive laugh and equally attractive face. The man couldn’t be more than thirty despite his gray hair. “You stay over there,” he said, directing Lincoln back behind the security pylon.

  Hands raised, Lincoln stood and reversed two steps, out of the angry Cylon pylon’s range.

  The stranger’s blue eyes darted to Lincoln’s left hand. “Of course,” he muttered, as he gathered his phone and scattered files.

  “‘Of course’ what?”

  The man stood, passed through the security gate without incident, and plopped the messy stack of folders on the reception desk. “Two new-to-town hot guys show up the same week, and of course you’re married to each other.” He flicked his own bare left ring finger. “Other one had a ring to match.”

  Lincoln lowered his hands and glanced at the silver band on his ring finger. He’d thought it simple last night, but he supposed the braided design wasn’t a typical band. Why had Carter picked something so intricate for their cover? Why not a plain band? Maybe this was just what the Bureau had available? He ran his thumb over the band. No, he didn’t think so...

  “So, you’re the other Mr. Polk?” the stranger said, snapping Lincoln out of his thoughts.

  And snapping him into his cover. “I am.” He extended his hand. “Lincoln Polk.”

  “Jeremiah Kline,” the man said, returning the handshake. “And please forgive my rudeness. Little Kline is just disappointed. Doubly so.”

  “Little Kline?”

  Jeremiah pointed down, at his cock.

  Lincoln half choked, half chuckled.

  “Sorry, inappropriate, I know.” He shrugged, not seeming sorry at all. “I have no filter.”

  Lincoln cleared his throat and laughed. He’d seen his fair share of characters at Quantico, but this town was like the kooky-sitcom gift that kept on giving. Its current present, a suspender-wearing student hipster. “Good to know.”

  “I really am glad you’re here,” Jeremiah said. “I’ve been trying to manage the archives since Harry passed, but I’m just a grad student. I know some about being an archivist but not enough to manage a collection this size. It’s overwhelming.”

  A pang of guilt snaked through Lincoln. He’d likely be gone in a week, maybe two, and Big Kline would return to being overwhelmed.

  “Oh, shit,” Jeremiah said. “What’s that expression for? Are you going to quit already?” He folded his hands, as if in prayer. “Please don’t.”

  “Just sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,” Lincoln replied, hoping Jeremiah bought it. “It’s probably a lot.”

  “A lot a lot.” He tilted his head toward the hallway he’d appeared from. “Let me show you.”

  Lincoln followed him back through the pylons, which erupted in anger again. So much for tailgating.

  “Fuck, I hate these things,” Jeremiah said. “Let me get you a badge.” He circled behind the reception desk, punched in numbers on a beeping keypad, and opened a below-counter safe or drawer that Lincoln couldn’t see from where he stood. Jeremiah tossed a badge over the desk to Lincoln.

  Lincoln slid his bag around from where it’d drifted back to his side and clipped the badge to his belt. “Do I need the badge to get into the main part of the library too?” There was another set of turnstiles on the other side of the reception desk.

  “Yeah, though I have those turned off until the students come back. I can do that for those. Not these.”

  Lincoln passed through without incident, finally.

  Take that, you fucking Cylons.

  “And these go to? The archives?”

  Jeremiah, arms full of files again, directed him around the corner to the elevators. He juggled the stack so he could point at the buttons. “Up to the offices, down to the archives.”

  “Dungeon?”

  “Dungeon,” he said with a grin. “Shall we?”

  “Happily.” Lincoln returned the smile and punched the down button. It wasn’t every day he found someone else as eager to shun the light of day as he was. Lab rats and librarians, and Lincoln’s forensic specialty qualified for both. He mentally thanked his uncle every day for putting that bug in his ear.

  “Did you do your undergrad here too?” Lincoln asked, as the elevator slowly descended.

  “UVA.”

  “And you didn’t want to stay there?” He gave a lecture at Charlottesville twice a year. It was gorgeous, with its neoclassical architecture. It felt like a larger version of Chapel Hill to him. A bit creepy with the whole secret society thing, but he got over that for a day of reveling in college town nostalgia.

  “Wanted to come home,” Jeremiah said.

  Not a nostalgia Lincoln understood, but one many other people did. “You grew up in Apex?”

  “Roanoke, technically,” Jeremiah said, as they stepped out of the elevator and started down a hallway. “My parents moved there from here when I was three, but Apex is home. Family goes back generations, and the archives are unparalleled. Having access to those for my thesis has been invaluable.”

  “What are you writing on?” Lincoln asked, even as ninety percent of his attention was on the climate-controlled archive rooms on either side of the hallway, visible through double-paned insulated windows.

  “The effects of global warming on Appalachia populations.”

  “And the archives here have weather data too?”

  “Some, but it’s the local farming, crop, and trade records that are most informative. I can see what people were growing, buying, and selling, which tells us a lot about how people were moving through these mountains.”

  This kid was good. That was a lesson Lincoln didn’t often teach until halfway into forensics. And if Jeremiah knew how to think out
side the box like that, he might be helpful in other ways too. “That might feed into my research. I may have some questions for you.”

  “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

  “Likewise.” He wouldn’t be here long, and he still felt guilty about that, but maybe he could be of some help to Jeremiah while he was here.

  “Good to hear, after the past few months.” Jeremiah swung open the door at the end of the hallway, revealing the main archives work area, four wooden tables arranged in front of rows of stacks that stretched to the back of the cavernous room. “Your key card will also get you into the private work area over there.” He pointed at a door to the right of the workbenches. “Harry used it for special projects. Your husband mentioned setting some stuff up for you.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  Jeremiah chuckled on his way back out the door. “Good luck with that,” he called, voice echoing down the hallway.

  More true than Jeremiah knew, proven as Lincoln inspected the private work area. Papers were scattered across two tables, a pile of microfiche sat next to the reader in the corner, and archive boxes were stacked at random about the room. He’d been “married” to Carter for less than twelve hours and yet the “Story of my life” that escaped his lips felt like the most truthful thing he’d said all day.

  Chapter Six

  Turned out, there was an organization—of sorts—to Carter’s mess. A couple figure eights stalked through the two tables, a rifling through printouts and photos, and Lincoln had it mostly sorted out. Piles were organized around Dr. Fear’s four activity cycles. For a three-year window before the first couple killed in each cycle, Carter had pulled county hospital and census records, as well as university enrollment and employment records.

  The pile of microfiche next to the reader was from thirty-two years ago and didn’t correspond to any of Dr. Fear’s cycles. Lincoln assumed that was the thing Carter had been originally looking into here in Apex. Lincoln moved on from that stack, even though a part of him desperately wanted to dig deeper into it, wanted to figure out what Carter had been doing here and what he was looking for. Maybe Lincoln could help. Curiosity, cat, and all that. But they were here on the clock, on a different case, and Lincoln needed to focus.

  Glasses on, he pulled a legal pad and pen out of his bag, claimed a chair at the table with the pile that had Anthony’s hospital record flagged on top, and drew the mess of records toward him. Two hours later, he’d confirmed Carter’s initial assessment. No other trace of Anthony, and no trace of his wife or any of the other five people killed in that cycle of Dr. Fear’s activity twenty-five years ago. Anthony had blown out a tire on the interstate and run into the guardrail. He’d been brought into the ER to stitch up a few cuts and to confirm no concussion. He hadn’t been in the county hospital more than twenty-four hours, his car in a garage in Apex only long enough to replace the tire.

  Lincoln pushed the now neatly arranged stack of papers aside to make room for his pen and paper. He scratched out a list of other archives and records to pull—all local. Carter had done a good first cut by searching hospital, census, and university data. He’d confirmed that Anthony wasn’t from Apex. So now they needed to focus on the narrow time period when he was in Apex—DMV, police, and garage records. Who was on the scene? Who towed the car? Where was it towed to? Who worked at that garage? The same for the hospital personnel that treated Anthony, and if they could identify them, any hotel or restaurants Anthony visited during his twenty-four hours in Apex. Who had he crossed paths with? That was the list Lincoln ultimately needed.

  He flipped the sheet of paper and made another list—all the characteristics of Anthony that he could recall off the top of his head. Basic demographics—age, race, height, weight, hair color, eye color—then education, places of residence, any medical conditions, and last but not least, his fear: the dark. For his wife, Rebecca, also murdered, it had been rats. Dr. Fear had trapped them in a rat-infested basement with no lights. Kept them there until they’d succumbed to their fears and begged for their deaths, then delivered a single kill shot to each of their heads.

  A phantom tickle of flames licked the soles of Lincoln’s feet, the tips of his fingers, the ends of his hair, as it often did when he dove into this case. He had to stand and walk around the tables to shake it off. There was only one other thing that scared him worse than fire—performing in front of strangers—and he’d had to contemplate both today.

  He made another lap around the tables before sitting at the one with the pile that had Zia’s hospital record flagged on top. He didn’t expect to find Ruby or Chase but having fewer names to look for made fast work of the stack. He didn’t find them, nor did he find Zia’s murdered girlfriend, Quinn. Nor any other patients in common with Anthony’s stack; not surprising given the years apart, but still no commonalities. And there was nothing else in the records, or the similar lists Lincoln made, that pinged any of his investigative senses. No characteristics shared, no crossed paths, virtual strangers, and like Anthony, Zia was the only one with a fleeting connection to Apex.

  Just two people passing through a college town off a major highway that led toward DC, where they had both lived at the time of their deaths. Maybe that could be discounted as coincidence. Except when Lincoln found Dr. Fear’s first victim from his second cycle twenty-two years ago in the stack Carter had pulled for that time window, coincidence seemed less likely. And when he found the first victim in the stack from twelve years ago, coincidence would have flown right out the window, if the archives dungeon had any.

  Fucking hell, was this it? Was this the missing link they’d never discovered? The first victim in each of Dr. Fear’s cycles had passed through this tiny town? Had he identified them here? And if so, how had that one victim led to the others in each cycle?

  He needed to call Ollie. And Carter.

  He needed to get out of this room before the phantom flames licking his feet somehow morphed into reality and burned all these archives to the ground. Fear and excitement powering his steps, he traded his glasses for his phone and impatiently took the elevator up to the main level, nearly running into Jeremiah on his way out the front door.

  “You may want to grab a—”

  Jeremiah’s suggestion could wait; Lincoln’s calls couldn’t. “I’ll be right back!”

  He almost stumbled on his way down the library’s steps, not paying attention to his feet as he scrolled through his phone contacts. He caught himself, one-handed, on the railing, drawing curious looks from the couple other passersby, but his mind was racing too fast to care. Ditto caring about the snowflakes that were making his lashes stick and creating wet spots on the face of his phone. He found the contact he was after, hit it, and hustled over to the nearest bench as he waited for the call to connect.

  Oliver picked up on the second ring. “Have you found something?”

  “Did Ruby or Chase ever mention coming through Apex or a county hospital out here in the past three years?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “That’s fine, I didn’t expect they would, but I wanted to check.”

  “L, I can tell from your voice that you weren’t calling to confirm a negative. What’ve you got?”

  “The first victim in each of Dr. Fear’s cycles passed through the county hospital here in Apex, an exit up from the university. Including Zia.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “There’s a hospital record for each of them. Short stays, no one longer than thirty-six hours. We need to do some more digging as to how they got there—DMV and police records—but Ollie, this is the first commonality we’ve found among the victims, aside from death by the thing they feared. This is where each cycle starts.” Glancing up, he saw Carter striding across the quad toward him. Lincoln flagged him to move faster, excited to share the news in person.

  “Were any of the other victims through there?” Olive
r asked.

  “No, it’s just one half of the first set in each cycle.” He scooted over, making room for Carter on the bench next to him. He held the phone up between them, not on speaker, but close enough so that they could both speak to and hear Oliver. “Dr. Fear is following them,” Lincoln said. “From Apex to DC, then proceeding from there.”

  “That’s one question off the table,” Oliver said, “at least with respect to the start of each cycle. They’re identifying the first kill there, in Apex.”

  “So,” Carter said, “stands to reason maybe Dr. Fear is here. They’ve had a connection to this town for at least the past twenty-five years.”

  “Stands to reason,” Lincoln agreed. “Ollie, my partner, Agent Carter Warren. Carter, Senator Oliver Kirk.”

  “Pleased to speak with you, sir,” Carter said.

  “Same, Agent Warren. Thank you for your work on this case already, and for having L’s back in the field there.”

  “I won’t tell you which of those tasks has been easier.”

  “Oh, I’m aware,” Oliver said.

  “Can we get back to the case, please?” Lincoln interrupted, even though he was grateful for the smile he heard in Oliver’s voice. “We need to know why Dr. Fear shifts. Is it as random as we thought or is there a connection between the victims. A to B to C? Maybe this isn’t about you, Ollie. Maybe it’s a connection from Zia or Quinn to Ruby or Chase, and the copycat figured out that connection too.”

  “Or maybe,” Carter said, “Dr. Fear started a cycle with Zia and the copycat hijacked it for attention. Copycats usually idolize, in some way, the criminal they are mimicking. What better way to grab his idol’s attention than to make a go at Senator Kirk, the person who last chased Dr. Fear?”

  “Let me work on the first question with the team here. See if we can find a connection between A and B.”