by David Wright
Loved him?
Is it now past tense?
Hannah wished her other inner voice would return to ease her mind, and tell her she was doing the right thing. She felt like a rocket sent into space without any destination. Along with the fear, a small part of her also felt an undeniable tingle of exhilaration along with a welcome, much-needed freedom. That feeling made her nervous more than anything, causing her to wonder if she hadn’t just imagined Greg’s imminent danger to justify running from a great relationship growing too serious, and too fast to stop.
No, that’s not it. Yeah, I could see me getting into a fight with him or thinking he was cheating, both of which did happen, yes, but I wouldn’t be this creative.
Hannah wasn’t sure what to do next. Maybe forget Ashford, flip the car around and head back home? If she spun it now she could probably still beat Greg, unless he left immediately. She could go home and pack her bags. Then what? Abandon the life she’d made for herself? Hannah’s Bucket Boutique and everything else? And all for what? A suspicion that Greg might do something to her?
That’s stupid! I can’t run away based on a hunch!
At the same time, Hannah didn’t think she should go home. Greg could find her there, would find her there, then what? If she was right, and he was working for someone who wanted to hurt her, as outlandish and Jason Bourne as it all sounded, it wasn’t like she could defend herself from him. But if he was crazy and acting out of some sort of paranoid delusion, or something worse, then perhaps she could call the police.
No, not the police. I should call Sergei. I need to see him, to see if he recognizes me. If so, that means I’m right, and there’s something weird going on. If not, then maybe I’m the paranoid one.
Hannah looked down at her speedometer — 95 mph, 35 miles over the posted 60 mph limit. She started to decelerate, but it was too late.
Bright blue lights from a police car flashed in her rearview.
Shit!
The inner voice was back in her head. “Don’t stop.”
What?
“Keep driving! Don’t stop.”
No way I’m running from the cops!
That was the final straw. Hannah had listened to her inner crazy long enough. In the space of a day she’d gone from being on a romantic getaway with the love of her life to stealing his car and considering a run from her life and the law.
Enough is enough.
Hannah took the Ashford Canyon exit, then pulled to the side of the road, hoping the cop car would fly on by on its way to chasing someone else instead of her, but her luck wasn’t good enough to keep the cop from following her off of the highway, or from pulling up right behind her.
“What are you doing? The cop is going to run your plates, find out the car is stolen, then throw your ass in jail. Go! Go!”
I’m not outrunning a cop! I doubt I even could if I tried. This isn’t some stupid movie. Real chases don’t end with people getting away. They end in arrest or horrible wrecks. There are trees everywhere and I can’t even fucking see.
Hannah kept both hands on the wheel, her fingers shaking around her palms as she waited for the cop to either get out of the car and come to her window, or say something over the car’s speakers. She stared into her rearview, trying to see through to the inside the cop car’s window, but couldn’t see anything beyond the high beams, flashing light rack, and blankets of black.
What’s taking so long?
“He’s probably being told over the radio that he’s dealing with a nutcase who stole her boyfriend’s car.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I told you to run.”
I’m not running.
Suddenly, a stern woman’s voice called out. “Get out of the car with your hands on your head.”
Oh, shit.
* * * *
CHAPTER 2 — John
Duncan’s dying message came just as the sun set, adding an urgency for John and the others to drive to Bob Cromwell’s house sooner rather than later. Time was running out. They had to get answers, now.
They arrived just after 10 p.m., and John and Tiny waited outside the van, parked just outside Cromwell’s posh riverfront estate. The van, a white utility vehicle with a magnet on the side displaying the local cable company’s logo, didn’t seem like it would draw the sort of attention that might prompt a phone call to the police. The pair were waiting on Larry, who was tapping away at his computer in the back of the van, accessing a backdoor into Cromwell’s security system so they could control it remotely.
“OK, everything’s good to go,” Larry said over their headsets. “Head on in and make yourselves at home. I’ll keep an eye out here to make sure no one surprises you.”
John and Tiny casually approached the house as if they were meant to be there on a routine service call, just in case anyone was watching on closed-circuit camera or otherwise.
They stopped at the front door. Tiny held a pistol. John had no weapon other than his left hand ungloved.
“Can you sense him?” Tiny asked. “Feels like he’s upstairs, sleeping. Someone’s with him.”
“Yeah, his wife, I’m guessing,” John said. “They’re both asleep.”
John waved his hands over the lock, moving the pins and chamber with his mind, then turned the knob and opened the door.
They crept inside, closing the door softly behind them but leaving it unlocked. The house was beautiful and sprawling, with high ceilings and thick moldings. It looked to John more like a model home used to sell others, than one where anyone actually lived. They quietly made their way through the front of the museum, then slowly up the stairs to Cromwell’s room.
They stared at the bed, Cromwell was on the right side, sleeping on his stomach. His wife was on the left, on her side, facing the window. John nodded at Tiny to do as planned — aim the gun not at Cromwell, but at his wife instead.
John leaned over, slid his gloved hand over Cromwell’s mouth and whispered, “Wake up.”
Cromwell’s eyes shot open and bugged with surprise.
John turned to acknowledge Tiny standing over Cromwell’s still sleeping wife. John whispered, “Make a peep, and he blows her brains all over your sheets. Nod yes if you understand.”
Cromwell looked over nervously at Tiny and then back at John and nodded.
“Good, now get up.”
Cromwell obeyed, slipping out of bed, dressed in boxers, a white T-shirt, and a pair of red and brown argyle socks. John pointed toward the doorway. “Go.”
Cromwell stepped out of his bedroom and into the hallway, then turned back to John in the darkness. “What do you want?”
“Just wanna talk,” John said. “Got a place we won’t disturb the Misses?”
“My study,” Cromwell said, then led John to the end of the hall.
As they stepped into his office, Cromwell turned to John. With an authoritative voice that harbored no fear, he said, “If anything happens to my wife, I will kill you.”
“Nothing happens if you answer my questions,” John said, matter-of-factly.
“What?” Cromwell asked, not bothering to turn on a light or take a seat. “Tell me what you want.”
“I need to find Hope. She’s in danger. Jacob is searching for her. If he finds her, she’s dead.” John didn’t bother explaining that Hope was a vessel. If Omega knew of the vessels then they would kill her themselves, just to keep Jacob from getting the crystal. And if Duncan knew of the vessels, it was possible that someone in Omega did, too.
Cromwell asked, “Why is Jacob looking for her?”
“He wants to get to me, I guess,” John lied. “But the why isn’t important. What matters is that Hope’s life is in danger, and I highly doubt you all can keep her safe.”
“We’re not handing her over, John. Not to you or anyone else until every last member of Harbinger, and that includes Jacob, is dead. That’s the deal you signed on for.”
“I’m not giving you a choice,” John said. “Duncan Alderman i
s dead, and Jacob is winning his war. Hope will not become collateral damage. Where is she?”
“Alderman is dead? What?”
“Tonight,” John said. “Jacob’s men killed him. Now tell me where Hope is.”
“She’s safe. That’s all you need to know.”
John stepped toward Bob. Through clenched teeth he said, “Don’t make me find out the hard way. You won’t like it.”
Cromwell had balled fists and narrowed eyes. He wanted to punch John, and probably would have if it weren’t for the large man waiting upstairs with a gun on his wife.
Cromwell swallowed. “She’s with one of our agents.”
“What do you mean?”
“A few years ago we had an agent get close to Hope, insert himself into her life. His entire job is to keep his eye on her, make sure she’s safe.”
“What do you mean insert himself into her life?”
“He’s dating her. They’re close.”
Now it was John clenching fists and narrowing eyes. “What the hell?”
“As I said, she’s safe. The agent is always with her, and if Jacob comes, he’ll be there to protect her.”
“Are you really that stupid? Duncan Alderman with all his wealth and guards couldn’t keep Jacob away.”
“Well, I’ll have to take your word on that, I suppose.”
“He’s dead. And Jacob turned him into a vampire. So whatever protection Omega thinks it can offer is negligible at best.”
John continued speaking, never moving his steady eyes from Cromwell’s definite surprise. “I’ve done everything Omega has asked, and will continue to do so. I’ll help stop whatever Jacob’s planning, but you have to help me find Hope, or I’m finished, and you can all burn in hell.”
Cromwell nodded. “OK, let me see what I can get for you. The files are in my desk.” He pointed to a switch on the wall. “Mind if I turn on the lights?”
“Sure,” John nodded.
Cromwell stepped past him and flicked a switch.
The light was immediate, blinding, and painful.
The switch triggered some sort of ultraviolet lights Cromwell must have installed as a security measure to protect himself against exactly this sort of threat.
John fell to his knees screaming, his skin burning.
A gunshot thundered down the hall, followed by Tiny screaming.
“Linda!” Cromwell shouted, running past John’s burning body to check on his wife.
John’s skin was seared and his flesh bubbling. Every movement further ripped his gaping wounds as he struggled to stand and move toward the light switch to shut it off.
The light was like a grand piano on John’s body, forcing him back to the floor. He pulled his jacket over his head to cover as much of his skin as he could, while pulling his hands back into the sleeves. John sat huddled, unable to stand, barely moving as he clung to life despite the bright lights above.
Tiny continued screaming, the giant’s bellows loudly echoed by Cromwell’s wife’s. Another pair of gunshots ended Tiny’s screams.
They killed him!
John again tried to move, but every labored twitch led to a fresh torrent of pain.
Suddenly, the world went dark, the lights, and power in the house, shut off.
Larry!
John heard footsteps growing louder as they came down the hall, then heard Cromwell standing over his baked body, panting. John let the jacket fall, though his every move was stiff and painful. Cromwell flicked at the light switch, trying to turn the lights back on, but nothing happened.
“You stupid fuck!” Cromwell yelled at John as he leaned down and shoved the gun into his face. “Why do you always have to interfere? I never should’ve listened to Duncan!”
John tried to speak, but Cromwell kept going, his pistol pressed hard into John’s temple.
“I told the old bastard we should’ve killed you both years ago. But no, Duncan didn’t listen, and now he’s dead because of sentimentality! Sentimentality for monsters!”
“Honey,” Cromwell called out to his wife, “bring me my cell phone.”
Cromwell turned back to John. “You come into my house and put a gun to my wife’s head? You fucking fool.”
Cromwell pulled the trigger.
The blast sounded like a plane crashing beside John as impossible pain clawed through his right shoulder.
He writhed on the floor, crying.
“Do you know how much of a thorn in my side you’ve been, John? How much bullshit I had to tolerate because of you and Caleb? No more, and never again. The old man is dead. Now we’re doing things my way. The time for your demands are over. That means you’re going to do your fucking job, without the negotiating. No Hope. No deals. No protection for your friends. Jacob can have them all, I don’t fucking care.”
John, doubled over in pain, glared up at Cromwell.
The fucker is dead the minute I can stand.
Cromwell aimed the pistol at John’s head. “Ah, you don’t heal so well when you’re hurt, do you? Neither did your big nigger friend upstairs.”
John tried to reach out to see if he could feel any life left in Tiny, but his world seethed in pain and anger too much to focus. Cromwell lowered the gun, fired at John’s leg, and turned his right calf to raw meat.
“Fuck!” John hollered.
“Now we’re doing things my way, John, got that? If you don’t obey my every fucking word, I’m going to go get that little girl, Abigail, tie her up on my front lawn, and have a barbecue on her burning corpse, do you understand me?”
John said nothing, staring Cromwell in the eyes, wanting to tear him apart piece by bloody piece with his bare hands.
“I asked if you understood me!” Cromwell shouted, his face crimson. He turned and shouted back to his wife. “Honey, where the fuck is my phone?”
The phone flew across the room, skipping twice off the floor before landing beside John.
“What the … ?” Cromwell said, turning to see Larry with a pistol pushed into the side of his wife’s head.
“Put the gun down,” Larry ordered, his face stone serious. “Or I shoot the bitch.”
“OK, OK,” Cromwell said, setting the gun on carpet. “Don’t hurt her.”
Larry’s eyes absorbed the severity of John’s condition. He winced as his friend struggled to stand.
Cromwell turned to John, “I’ll tell you whatever you want. Just don’t hurt her.”
“Yes, you will,” John said, reaching out for Cromwell’s flesh before the man had time to register what was happening.
John could vaguely sense Cromwell’s wife screaming as he feasted, trying in vain to reach out and halt her husband’s murder. Larry yanked her back, shoved her to the side, and pushed her to the ground. She tried to stand, but Larry shoved his foot into her chest, “Stay down!”
“No, no, no!” she screamed.
John sucked Cromwell’s energy into his body, feeling his flesh stitch itself together as if someone was pouring pure life inside him. John dove into Cromwell’s memories, searching for any sign of Hope.
He steered Cromwell’s memories toward her, first learning her new name — Hannah Quinn — then finding the name of the agent she was sleeping with — Greg Overton.
John saw Cromwell on the phone earlier that day, instructing Mike Mathews to have Greg bring Hope in so they could wipe her again, as she was starting to remember. After that, they’d have to move her somewhere else. Or, if she became a problem, dispose of her.
John would have to get to Mathews.
He searched for more information, but found nothing. John allowed Cromwell’s memories to trickle to nothing as the present surfaced and he saw what was left of the man’s body lying crumpled on the floor. Larry was nowhere in sight.
“Larry!” John called, afraid something horrible had happened to his friend.
John ran to the Cromwells’ bedroom and saw Tiny laying in a pool of thick red syrup at the foot of the bed, the right half of his bald
head cracked like a melon from the gunshot, his flesh torched. His burnt fists clutched at a blanket which he’d not managed to pull over himself before he was either baked into nothing, or ended by the crack of Cromwell’s gun.
Jesus.
John cursed himself for luring Tiny to his death. He should never have given Bob a chance to trigger the house lights. There was no way John could’ve known what he would do, but should have suspected something the second Bob became Mr. Helpful.
Larry stood with his gun trained on Linda, who was sitting in a chair, crying. Larry looked like he’d been crying too, mourning his friend, Tiny, whom he’d known far longer than John had.
“What do we do about her?” Larry asked, angrily waving the gun at Bob’s wife, looking like he wanted to shoot her.
“I don’t know,” John said. Memories of Linda, Bob’s memories, flooded through his mind. Bob had once loved his wife, years ago. They grew distant after their daughter went to college, and things changed. While the passion was missing, and Linda mostly a stranger, Bob did still love her. Traces of that love coursed through John as he looked at Linda, remembering the her from two decades before. The young, carefree, loving woman, eroded by years of indifference.
John hated feeling his victims’ emotions, especially when clouding his practical thought. If he allowed Linda to live, she would surely call the cops. Omega would be tipped off that much quicker to John’s attack on his boss, giving them a chance to do whatever they planned to do with Hope sooner rather than later.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t kill me.”
Larry looked into John’s eyes, seeking a verdict.
John shook his head no. “Tie her up.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 3 — Abigail
Abigail sat in an overstuffed strawberry-colored chair in Katya’s apartment, comfy as she watched “Gravity Falls.”. Katya stood outside talking on the phone to her boyfriend, Derek. Abigail didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. Apparently, her last-minute visit had derailed Katya and Derek’s date, meaning her newest friend had to soothe things over with him.