by J. E. Taylor
“Yeah,” Steve croaked. His mouth was as dry as Phoenix during the summer. He stood on unsteady legs and made his way into the kitchen, clearing the desert sand from his throat.
Jessica turned toward the noise. “You’re back with us.” Her eyes matched Tommy’s, red and puffy.
Steve nodded. “How long was I out?”
“A little over an hour,” Jessica said. “I’ve never had anyone faint before. I’m usually the one that passes out.” She moved to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer, popped the cap off and handed it to Steve.
“Thanks. You’re really hooked up here.” He pointed the beer at the kitchen. “Reminds me of the apartment my wife had her senior year in college.” He took a sip of the Corona.
“Did she cook?” Jessica asked.
Steve burst out laughing, almost spitting the beer across the room. “No. She burnt just about everything she touched.” He smiled, remembering his wife’s lack of culinary skill with fondness. “It just wasn’t dinner without the smoke alarm going off.”
“How long has it been?” Jessica asked glancing at him.
“Almost a year now,” he said. His smile faded. “Jennifer’s still in a coma,” he explained. “There’s been very little brain activity since the explosion.” Most of which coincides with Kyle’s murders. He took a sip of his beer.
“I’m not sure I can do anything for her.”
Steve offered a slight shrug. “I still want you to try. She’s all I’ve got.” Steve took a draw on his beer, his eye focusing on the hand holding the bottle. Shock, like a zap of electricity hit him.
The scar on his right forearm where his bone broke through the skin was gone.
Steve put the bottle down on the table and pulled his sleeve up taking a closer look. Completely gone. No way!
He turned his hand around and flexed it, squeezed it into a fist and then picked up the beer again, draining it.
Chris laughed. “It’s the damnedest thing isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Steve still marveled at his arm. He touched the eye patch as an afterthought and glanced at Jessica. My eye?
“I don’t know,” she answered his unspoken question.
“It feels different,” Steve said and glanced around.
“Bathroom’s that way.” CJ pointed to the far side of the kitchen and slid into one of the seats at the table.
“Thanks.” Steve messed up CJ’s hair as he passed, heading in the direction of the bathroom.
He stood in the bathroom staring at the mirror. The eye patch fell from his slack fingertips and drifted to the floor. Baby blue irises stared back. Both of them. He covered his right eye and the room went black. Blind, but an eye just the same. He uncovered his eye, staring at the reflection again. A hell of a lot better than the sunken deflated eye it was a couple of hours ago. A slightly hysterical laugh escaped.
He leaned closer; the small scar on his cheek was gone too. “Holy Mary, Mother of God!” The muttering mantra continued and he ripped through the buttons on his shirt. The words fell away and he stared at his perfect chest, running his fingers over the skin. There wasn’t a mark on him. He leaned against the wall and the world tilted again. Slowly he sank to the floor. Steve didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He jumped at the soft tap on the door and scrambled to his feet as it swung open.
“Are you all right?” Her soft imploring voice reached his ears.
Steve uttered a high laugh and looked in the mirror. “I haven’t been all right since the day my daughter died.” He glanced at Jessica when she cracked the door. “Somehow this makes it worse.”
Jessica offered a smile. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Steve nodded; thoughts of Jenny filled his mind. “I need to get you to Brooksfield.”
Jessica took a deep breath. “Why?”
“I need her.” Steve leaned on the sink with his head hung low. “And if you help me, I’ll forget everything I know about your family.” He tilted his gaze toward her and straightened up.
Her lips thinned to a tight line. “Dinner’s ready.” She turned, leaving him in the bathroom.
Steve raised his eyes to his perfect, haunted face, her words echoing in his brain. This is what he wished for, to be whole again—but he was as far from whole as he had been before she worked her magic. Taking a deep breath, he headed back into the kitchen and took the empty seat between the two boys.
“A bit freaky, isn’t it?” Chris asked and raised his beer.
Steve glanced at the two boys, both were staring at him. “A bit,” he answered, meeting CJ’s gaze.
“I think I stared in the mirror for over an hour when I got to my brother’s house,” Chris said, taking a bite of the lasagna.
Steve didn’t respond but a deep crease appeared between his eyebrows as he studied Chris.
Jessica cleared her throat, catching his attention. “How long have you been with the FBI?” she asked, pushing the lasagna around with her fork.
“Close to ten years.”
Jessica cocked her head, scrunching her eyebrows together. He couldn’t be much older than Eric.
“I’m twenty eight. My grandfather was FBI and he pulled some serious strings to get me in right out of high school.” He took a bite of the lasagna. “This is terrific, Mrs. Ryan.”
“Thank you,” Chris answered. “I made it.”
Steve’s eyebrows rose and the boys chuckled. “It’s good.”
Chris leaned back with a nod, his plate already picked clean. “She actually does a better job, but it was my turn to cook.”
“I’m amazed you don’t have servants do the cooking and cleaning,” Steve said.
“I hate cleaning,” Jessica interjected. “We have a maid service that comes in each week.” She tasted a bite and put her fork back down.
Chris leaned over. “You need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” she answered and pressed her lips together, tears glossing her eyes and she blinked them back, straightening her back in the seat as if taking a stand against the threatening sorrow.
Steve watched Chris sling his arm around her and pull her close, kissing her temple. “You live pretty modestly considering,” Steve continued, waving his fork in a small circle.
“Considering what?”
“Considering you’re a billionaire.”
“You’ve done your homework.” Chris stood putting his plate in the sink. He crossed the kitchen, his hand in front of him so he knew when he reached a solid object. He opened the refrigerator door and accurately grabbed two beers. A small whistle sounded from between his teeth and his Shepherd shot across the kitchen, its sharp nails clicking on the tile flooring. When he sat at the table, he flipped the caps off the beers and handed one to Steve. “Don’t know if you’re done yet, but I figured since I was over there...”
“Thanks Mr. Ryan,” Steve said and took the beer from his hand.
“Please, call me Chris.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Ty.” Steve finally spoke the name.
“She’s the only one that’s allowed to call me that.” He hooked his thumb toward Jessica. “You can call me Chris.” His blind gaze accurate and sharp as it bore into Steve. “Boys, when you’re done with dinner, you need to take a shower and do your homework.”
“Awe, Dad!” they whined in unison.
“Don’t give me any flak!”
“Yes, Dad,” they replied, glancing at each other around Steve.
“Put your dishes in the sink,” Chris ordered and the shuffle of the chairs and clanking dishes in the sink filled the kitchen.
The boys ran through the family room ascending the stairs with all the gusto of a herd of elephants.
“Showers first!” Chris called after them and waited until the water turned on upstairs before turning his attention back to Steve.
“What exactly do you want from us?”
“I don’t know. I thought...”
“You thought because Eric transferred his power to
you, we would do the same.”
Steve shrugged and took a sip of beer.
“I’m blind Agent Williams.”
“Yes. I thought I’d make a trade. Your freedom for your power.”
Jessica turned at his comment.
“And then I made a stupid promise to your son.” He shifted in the seat. The beer lost its taste with the next swig. “I would love to put you behind bars for all you’ve done, but I made that fucking promise.”
“You’re not the first,” Chris answered. “But as I’ve told all those who came before you, you have absolutely no proof.” He tilted his head, raised the beer in a salute and took a swig.
“I do now.” Steve’s gaze transferred from Chris to Jessica. She shut off the water and turned toward the table, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
“You see, I did a hell of a lot of digging and found some anomalies on the video of both the underground complex and the warehouse a few years back. Then there’s the simple fact that several people saw the scars I had. I come here, meet with the two of you and presto, my scars are all gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Thanks to your lovely wife here, I can pull a case together that would hold up in a court of law,” he finished.
“You ungrateful...” Jessica stepped forward.
Chris put up his hand to stop her. “Jess, go check on the boys.” Chris turned his head in her direction. “Go!”
She muttered under her breath and withdrew up the stairs.
* * * *
Chris waited a few minutes before he spoke.
Anger raged through his body morphing his lasagna into a living and deadly being in the center of his stomach. Chris inhaled, calming the beast clawing at his insides. If he stepped over the line, all hell would break loose.
“How dare you come into my home and threaten me,” he said, his voice carrying the resentment filling his form.
“You think you’re above the law. It’s my job to take people like you down.”
Chris chewed the inside of his lip, weighing his response. “I’m not above the law, Agent Williams. I never thought I was. I knew someday everything would catch up to me one way or another. Hell, I should be in a box six feet under right now, but I’m not. God only knows why I was spared, but I was and as much as you detest my existence, you need my help, otherwise you wouldn’t have made that promise to Eric.”
He sensed volatility in Steve, a blend of darkness and brilliance intertwined in a tight knot. Steve’s aura—white with pulses of red— writhed under the fury begging to overtake the man.
When no response came, Chris chuckled. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” Steve snapped.
“Nah, you’re not my type.”
Steve’s sudden laugh filled the kitchen and Chris cocked his head in a silent question.
“That’s Eric’s come back. Now I know where he got it.”
“Eric could be a smart ass sometimes, but I loved him like he was my own.”
“I imagine you would. He’s the one who saved your sorry ass.”
Chris nodded and sighed. “Yes, he did. More than once.” He tipped his beer to his lips finishing off the bottle and setting it on the table. “Look, I understand revenge, but you don’t have a clue of the penance you’ll pay for crossing that line.”
“You don’t regret killing your stepbrother.”
Chris shook his head. “No, not one bit.” He allowed a slow smile to form and felt the quiver that ran up Steve’s spine. For a moment, he wished he could see the reaction—the rush he got from intimidating those around him was lost without the view, but the mental shiver amused him just the same.
“Revenge always has a price, though.” His smile faded. His stepbrother was waiting in hell for payback and Chris knew someday he’d come face to face with Frank’s wrath. The thought was sobering.
Raising his empty beer bottle, he asked, “You want another or do you want to move onto something harder?”
“What are the alternatives?” Steve asked.
Chris shuffled through Steve’s thoughts, wondering what alternatives he was asking about, him or hard liquor. Instead of guessing, he asked, “Are you asking about drinking alternatives?”
Silence filtered through the room and a sigh escaped from his visitor. “Yeah, something harder wouldn’t be a bad idea right about now.”
Chris snapped his fingers and his dog was again by his side leading him to the bar at the side of the family room. “You might want to come over and see for yourself. I think we have vodka and scotch, but it’s been a while and I don’t feel like opening the bottles and sniffing.”
* * * *
Steve stood and crossed the room. “What would you like?” he asked, stepping behind the bar and looking at the stock. There was much more than just vodka and scotch. In addition, they had gin, Bacardi, sangria, tequila and a few bottles of wine. He reached for the tequila. “You wouldn’t happen to have lemons?” he asked looking at the bottle.
“Sure do. Grab the scotch for me.” He crossed to the refrigerator with his dog and rummaged around, lifting a bag out of the fruit crisper. “Are these lemons or limes?” he asked holding them for Steve to see.
“Lemons,” Steve said, setting the bottles on the table.
Chris grabbed a cocktail glass and a shot glass, filling the cocktail glass with ice before heading to the table.
“Knives?”
“In the drawer behind me,” Chris said, feeling the bottles.
“Scotch is on the right,” Steve said as he opened the silverware drawer and took out a small paring knife. He grabbed the wood cutting board from behind the sink and brought both to the table.
Chris opened the scotch and took a whiff.
“You don’t trust me?” Steve asked taking a seat opposite Chris.
Chris shrugged. “Habit.”
“Ah.” Steve said and cut the first lemon. The tangy scent drifted into his sinuses and for a moment, he was transported back to Brooksfield University and the bar where he and Jennifer drank tequila and danced and let loose like he hadn’t done since.
A lump formed in his throat and he cleared it, concentrating on slicing the lemon and not looking at the criminal mentally studying him from the opposite side of the table. Chris had hit a nerve earlier, one that burned just under his skin along with the promise he made to Eric. It wasn’t right, none of this was right.
With four neat slices set out in front of him, he poured his first shot.
Chris pushed the saltshaker in his direction.
“Thanks,” he said and licked the space between his thumb and forefinger, pouring the salt on the wet skin. With everything set up, he licked the salt, downed the shot and followed with a lemon wedge. Jennifer’s puckered lips came to mind and the memory, like a sucker punch in the gut, forced his breath from his lungs. He pulled the sour wedge from his mouth and dropped it on his napkin, pouring another round.
“I haven’t done a shot of tequila in years,” Chris said. He leaned back in the chair swirling his drink, the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass with the slow movement.
“I needed that,” Steve said, feeling the warmth spread from the pit of his stomach through the rest of his body, numbing the nagging in his conscience. He repeated the process twice more before sitting back and studying Chris.
Awkward silence persisted, and Chris took a sip of his scotch, his expression one of contemplation. His arrogance irked Steve, and he pushed the anger away taking stock of all that had happened since he arrived at the house.
The man hadn’t denied the truth. Hadn’t even tried, like most common criminals. He almost huffed at the thought. Ty Aris wasn’t a common criminal. His intelligence was off the charts to the point he could give any NASA engineer a run for his money. He’d been a member of Mensa and yet he chose to make porn and snuff videos.
“Why’d you do it?”
“Why’d I do what?”
“Kidnap and kill all those people.”
<
br /> Chris downed his scotch and leaned forward, taking the time to refill his glass before speaking. “I would love to say I didn’t have a choice, but I did. I knew it was wrong, but I just didn’t care. By that time, I had lost everyone who meant anything to me except my brother, and Frank knew that. He played that card a couple of times when he thought I was getting out of hand or having second thoughts.”
“So he blackmailed you into it?”
“Yes, and no. He coerced me into building the complex and snatching our first victims. I thought we were doing something like a catch and release program,” he said and chuckled. “Boy was I naïve. You see, I’ve always had a knack with cameras and editing equipment and Frank played on my vanities until I was too far in to back out.”
Kyle’s video crossed Steve’s mind.
“He sent a video?”
Steve nodded.
“Blind.” Chris reminded him.
“Yes, it was in the dorm room when we got back from our morning training exercises,” Steve said. “It set me off.” His phone rang, interrupting the conversation. He dug it out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID. “I need to take this,” he said and flipped the phone open.
“Steve?” The familiar voice was uncharacteristically hesitant.
“Hi, Jack,” Steve said, pouring another shot of tequila. “I’m still in Maine.”
“Steve, there’s been another situation.”
Steve paused. Dread poured through the line and he looked at the shot halfway to his mouth, opting to down it before focusing on the call. Another situation meant something bad and the way Jack phrased it only meant one thing.
His heart banged in his chest as Jack’s fragmented thoughts assaulted him but only two words made sense—Jennifer and danger. His throat clamped and he slid the chair back, crossing to the slider.
“What kind of situation?” he asked, stepping into the cool evening air.
“Steve, it’s your parents.”
Steve felt his blood seep out of his face and hands, leaving both heavy and cold. “What about my parents?”
“Kyle,” Jack replied. “And he left a note.”
The vision of his parent’s bedroom painted in blood flooded the serene ocean scene before him. A steamroller of emotions slammed into Steve, leaving his legs numb and wobbling like a teetering tower of Lego’s. He stumbled to the closest lawn chair and collapsed with his breath locked in his lungs, unable to voice the flurry of questions plaguing him.