Prisoners (Out of the Box Book 10)

by Crane,Robert J.

  “I’ve been in my office all day,” I said, feeling even more slack, suddenly, like I was going to melt from the heat, become an artifact, slag left on my lawn.

  “Any witnesses can corroborate that?” Scott asked. He was still smiling, damn him.

  “No,” I said. I’d been out of sight pretty much all day, and they knew how fast I could fly if I was of a mind to.

  “I didn’t think so,” Scott said. “You should stick around.” He nodded at the fire. “After it’s over … we’re going to want to ask you some questions.” And he took a few steps back.

  I shouldn’t have felt conflicted, I thought as I watched the house burn, the flames dipping lower and lower as they ran out of fuel to consume. This house had been my prison for over a decade. There was still a metal box in the basement where I’d been confined, locked up.

  But it was the last thing I had of my mother’s.

  It was where I kept everything I owned.

  It was my home.

  And I watched helplessly as it burned, the fire department not arriving until there was nearly nothing left but ashes, the heat fading as the flame diminished, leaving me standing alone on a smoky street in Minneapolis on a cold autumn night.

  28.

  They kept me on the scene for hours, and I let them. What else was I going to do? Scream? Hit them? Fly off into the sky as I flung middle fingers at all of them? Tempting as that would have been, I contained myself and just sat there, chilled, without so much as a jacket, the smoke heavy in the air and the occasional hiss and pop from the ashes barely audible over the constant questions shouted at me from behind the yellow police “CRIME SCENE” tape.

  “Ms. Nealon! Did you have anything to do with the burning of your house?”

  “Do you have any comment on the accusations of prisoner abuse that have been leveled against you by your former inmates?”

  “Sienna, what do you think of Drake’s new single?”

  “Who the hell gave that guy press credentials?” I wondered aloud as I stood on my lawn, having just weathered a snotty and condescending interview conducted by Scott and Friday, in which Friday had once more revealed why he was not the brains of this operation or any other.

  Scott had been worse, though. He’d asked his questions—dull formalities of the “Where were you two hours ago?” sort—with a nasty indifference bordering on gleeful depravity at my suffering. I didn’t engage with him any more than I had to, letting him have his moment of ghoulish, joyful triumph at my tragedy. It was just a house, I kept telling myself. The people I cared about were safe, after all, so what did a house matter, anyway?

  It was still a tough sell.

  They told me to wait right where they left me, then came back and asked the same questions again. I answered them again, in just as dull a tone of voice, with just as little care for how I sounded. Friday guffawed every time arson was mentioned, but I could tell they had nothing on me. They were just being porn-star-sized dicks.

  Still, I stayed after they finished their second round of questions because they asked me to. I just shrugged and did it. I didn’t know where this was going, and I didn’t care. I had nowhere else to be. Even if they’d cut me loose, where was I going to go? My office? What fun, being surrounded by more inane press inquiries.

  No one talked to me. Not the fire department, not the paramedics, not the Minneapolis cops on the scene. I didn’t blame any of them; Scott and Friday were looking at me sullenly from across the yard, Scott on his cell phone, probably getting instructions from the mothership—a.k.a., Andrew Phillips—and none of the locals wanted to get on their bad side.

  I didn’t really want to be on their bad side, either, but here I was, so … shit happens, I guess.

  What now? Zack asked gently in my head.

  Bloody vengeance, Wolfe growled.

  “No,” I said, turning back to the smoky embers, so the press wouldn’t see me talking to myself. The stories would write themselves.

  We don’t know who did this, Bjorn said, sounding for a brief moment like the voice of reason. We should find them. And then, bloody vengeance.

  “Knew that reason wasn’t going to last.”

  There are rules, people, Roberto Bastian said. She’s got big brother’s eyes all over her. Revenge, right now? Bad idea.

  Revenge is always a good idea, Bjorn said.

  Revenge is only a good idea if you can get away with it, Eve said darkly. Recall, she’s even now in trouble for our murders. I saw a flash of a leer from her. I hope you go to jail for those, by the way.

  “Thanks.”

  Then we will be in jail as well, fool, Gavrikov said. Have you any idea how boring prison is?

  Especially the kind they’ll put her into, Zack said, oh-so-helpfully reminding me that whatever consequences came my way, they’d be special. She’ll be lucky if she talks to a normal person again for the rest of her life. And forget about getting a TV.

  Mmm, that would be boring, Eve said. All right, I change my mind. I hope you get away with killing us, but only because I don’t wish to be bored beyond death.

  “So gracious.”

  These prisoners are a threat, Wolfe said, sounding unusually serious. He could be playful, forceful, and malignant, all in turn. But this Wolfe sounded worried. This is not just a matter of vengeance; it is a matter of security. They are doing things like this, burning down the house … the message is clear. The government will not protect her. They want her to die.

  That’s a bit of a stretch, Zack said.

  If they wanted her dead, Bastian said, she would be dead. The government has operatives that could make that happen so fast, she wouldn’t even see it coming.

  “Weeeeee,” I muttered.

  It’s true, Eve said. They don’t want to be connected to this. But if she dies by the hand of one of the prisoners …

  I think you call that plausible deniability, Gavrikov said. They get what they want without getting their hands dirty. It even smells of poetic justice for the festering press of your country.

  Wow, Zack said, now I am really, really sorry I voted for Gerry Harmon that first time when he was up for VP.

  He seemed charming, Eve said. You know. For a man.

  We need to focus on the threat, Wolfe said, sounding increasingly desperate. We need to kill these—

  “We can’t kill them,” I said. “Not without bringing the whole government down on our—on my—head.”

  Sienna, Wolfe said, and now he was so out of sorts he didn’t growl. He pleaded. I know you don’t want to hear this … but it’s time.

  I frowned, cool air prickling my scalp. “Time for what?”

  Time to put aside this genteel dream of being a soft little person walking around like any other, Wolfe said. You are not like everyone else. You never have been.

  I glanced over my shoulder. The crowd was still there, behind the police tape, and the fire department was watching me with the cops, all quiet and subdued, like they were afraid I’d lose my shit and murder them all. I turned back so no one could see my lips move. “I’m a person like anyone else, Wolfe. I’m part of society and bound by its laws—”

  No, you aren’t, he said. You are different. You have always been different. You are a descendant of Death, his own blood, his heir, Wolfe hissed. They are the sheep that wait to be culled, and you are playing shepherd when you should take your rightful place as—

  “Wolf?”

  Goddess. He growled, a sound low in the throat he no longer had. You have the blood of a deity, and you were made to rule, given power over life and death and soul. You are better than them—and you always have been. Take the step forward. Show them your strength. Make them see who you are. Defy them, and rip out the hearts of all who defy you, shoving them, still-beating, down their throats—

  “That’s about enough of that,” I said.

  No, Wolfe said, it is not. Most of them will die in their beds, never being any more than cattle passing through this world. You hav
e a destiny. You could become more than they would ever dream of. The power is there, it’s yours for the taking. All you need do is reach out your hand—

  “No.” I looked down at my hand. It was shaking, just slightly. “I’m not death. I’m not made to rule.” I looked at the damage fire had wrought to my home, and thought about all the places where destruction had followed me in my travels. “I’m not Sovereign, and I don’t believe this world would be a better place by having me in charge of it.” I snorted and caught a glimpse of Scott out of the corner of my eye, surly and barking something at Friday about “making it happen." “I can’t even rule my own life without making it a wreck, Wolfe. How am I supposed to rule anyone else?”

  You could. You could if you wanted to.

  “I don’t want to,” I whispered as Scott crossed over to me, moisture pulling out of the sodden ground to follow him, lit by all the floodlights and casting a bizarre rainbow in his wake. It occurred to me, finally, that he could have put out the fire in my house if he’d wanted to, too.

  And he chose not to because he hated me.

  “You’re free to go,” he said roughly, “but we’ll be—”

  “Watching, yes,” I said. “By the way, do you know where the FAA’s authority starts over the skies?”

  He froze, a half second away from stalking off, caught by my unexpected question. “No. Wh—”

  “Pretty sure it’s at least a hundred feet up,” I said, and before he could yell at me not to, I jumped, a long, mostly horizontal leap that kept me beneath the power lines. I soared over the heads of the assembled press, cleared a whole block, and came down at the end of the street, right at the corner. I turned back, let them see me—let them see that no, I wasn’t flying, or violating FAA rules, and then I jumped again, and again, and again, heading away from my old neighborhood faster than the press or Scott or anyone else could follow me.

  Because I didn’t have any reason left to be there.

  29.

  I bellied up to the bar in a place a little off the beaten path. I had kept jumping until I reached Bloomington, which was south of home and east of work, and finally stopped when I saw a local watering hole with a neon sign and only a handful of cars in the parking lot. It wasn’t quite a dive, but it was close. The fact that there were only five people inside cemented my decision.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked. He looked older, probably early fifties, hair grey everywhere he still had it, a default scowl on his face that didn’t exactly scream, “Welcome!”

  “Tequila,” I decided. It wasn’t like I needed to be able to drive. “Give me three shots.”

  If this request came as a surprise to him, he didn’t show it, and he poured three shot glasses full as I put some cash on the bar along with my cell phone.

  The bartender concluded his triple pour, scooped the cash, eyed my cell phone, and said, “Ariadne’s calling you.”

  I already had a shot in my hand, and downed it. “Of course she is,” I said after I finished getting down the tequila. It burned a little.

  He shrugged and wandered off, turning his attention to a couple roughly his own age that had a hard look about them, like they’d been drinking a lot for a long time. One of them laughed at something he said as he came over to them, but neither of them gave me so much as a look of interest. Based on the bartender’s demeanor, he might have forgotten I had even walked in by the way he stood there, engaging with them.

  Someone slid onto the stool next to me, and I looked up to see another older guy, one of the remaining two people in the joint put his beer down. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked. He had a pretty neutral look, was probably at least a decade older than the bartender, but lacked the scowl. “Nothing untoward intended, young lady, I just thought maybe you’d like a conversation.”

  “Sure, knock yourself out,” I said, picking up my second shot and pondering it, turning to look for the last patron. She was in the corner, probably about one drink from passed out, head on the table and talking to herself. I stared at her hard, but she had her eyes closed, and I knew after a moment that she wasn’t anyone I knew, and probably wasn’t an assassin with a grudge, waiting to kill me.

  “What brings you in tonight?” the man next to me asked. “I’m Ronald, by the way.”

  “Clearly it’s the festive atmosphere,” I snarked, downing the second shot. This one burned slightly less on the way down. Maybe I was getting used to it. “It’s just a crazy party up in here.”

  Ronald chortled. “It’s like this most weeknights. Did you want to be left alone?”

  “I’m pretty ambivalent about it,” I said, shrugging broadly. My phone rattled on the bar, ringing again. Ariadne, the screen read again. I pushed the button and sent it to voicemail. It wasn’t personal; I just didn’t figure having Ariadne check in on me right now would lead to anything good. Oh, hi, Ariadne, I’m at a bar on my second shot of tequila. What’s up with you?

  “Looks like you’ve missed a few calls from this Ariadne,” Ronald Probably Not McDonald said, and I didn’t look at him. I slid my third shot in front of me and contemplated just gunning it back now. “Friend of yours?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Uhh … girlfriend?” he probed about as delicately as a drunken me, if I’d been of a mind to do any probing. “Not that there’s—”

  “No,” I said, “she doesn’t have a girlfriend right now. Why does that even mat—”

  “I’m just—asking questions,” Ronald said, backpedaling so fast I was surprised his metaphorical bike didn’t fall over. “Curious, you know. I was in sales for years and years, and—”

  “Are you going to try and sell me something?” I asked, giving him evil side-eye.

  “I’m retired,” he said with a low chuckle. “Got nothing left to sell, and nothing but time to fill … which is why I’m here tonight.”

  “I see,” I said. “I, too, suddenly find myself with time to fill.”

  “Oh, are you retired?” He said it coyly, like he was being funny.

  “I might just be,” I said. I downed the last shot, taking care not to smash the glass on the bar when I was done. I could have done it, too, sending shards showering over everyone in the place. “Hell if I know.”

  “So … you’re having job problems?” he asked, a little less clumsily. It was also possible the tequila was kicking in on my side of the conversation and making him seem just a little smoother.

  “I’m having every kind of problem you can imagine, Ronald Not-Weasley.”

  He frowned. “Uhhh … not Weasl—”

  “Never mind,” I said, wondering if I should order more shots. It seemed like a good idea, but it was also possible my judgment was already shot to hell by the alcohol. “You come here a lot, then?”

  He nodded. “I try not to more than once a week or so. I’m afraid it might be habit forming to be in here every night.” He cast a look down the bar to the couple that was jawing with the bartender, then another to the woman with her head on the table in the corner.

  “I was never much of a drinker,” I said, turning on my stool to face him, suddenly full of bubbly exuberance and excited to share my opinions with him. “I mean, I’d have one every once in a while, but … I don’t know. I didn’t need to. I could take it or leave it. But see, I know other people do, and I never got that. Like I knew people came into places like this and did this shit every night … one time I arrested this guy—”

  “You a cop?” he asked.

  I plunged on, barely noticing he’d spoken. “—and it was so sad, Ronald, he was passed out in his easy chair with a case of beer. Apparently he bought one every night of the week, and his only goal in life was to transfer the full cans on one side of his chair to the garbage on the other side. He had just—” I made a motion with my hands, spreading them really wide, “—just bags and bags of empty beer cans. I never got that, really. Never understood it.” I motioned the bartender over, but he didn’t see me because h
e was popping a fresh beer for the couple that were his bestest buds. “Until now.”

  “And what do you know now?” he asked.

  “That if I felt this fucking powerless in the world all the time,” I said, wondering if I was going to have break the bartender’s skull open or throw a flame burst past his face to get his attention, “I’d be drunk every hour of every day.”

  I gave Ronald a look, since I wasn’t having any luck getting the bartender’s attention, but he looked … sad. Like he pitied me. “Whatever bad time you’re going through, it won’t last—”

  “I don’t really care anymore,” I said, giving up on getting another tequila. “I’ve done some bad things. Some good ones, too, probably, but those don’t really matter. Because just the same as someone can tell me ten good things about me and I forget them all as soon as someone says one terrible thing about me … it’s just the same for our deeds. The good we do doesn’t matter, because we’re so dark and negative that no one will ever forget the wrongs we’ve done.”

  “What wrongs have you done?” Ronald asked, in a hushed whisper.

  I felt cold, and nothing but. “The worst you can imagine.” I watched him shudder, and I guessed he was imagining it. “Take care, Ronald.” And I bailed, walking out the front door into the freezing ass cold. The temp had dropped when the sun went down, winter coming on hard. It was probably in the forties, autumn chill biting at my fingers and making me shiver as I walked outside.

  “I don’t need this,” I said to myself. What exactly it was I didn’t need, I wasn’t real clear on. It wasn’t an articulate thought, after all, more of a feeling. Like I was getting a raw deal, even though in my heart I knew …

  … I probably wasn’t getting anything I didn’t truly deserve.

  “Screw it,” I decided and started walking. There was a gravel parking lot, and past that, a sidewalk. I wasn’t quite staggering, but I was definitely swaying, and I headed for the sidewalk, figuring that walking for a little bit was a better idea than leaping through the air all drunk and willy-nilly.