The waitress glared. But she obviously couldn’t come up with a more rational explanation. Aiden and Jessie squeezed past her. The truckers stepped aside.
Thrilled by their escape, Jessie playfully rubbed Aiden’s arm. Like before, he instinctively pulled away.
This time she took offense. “What’s the matter, don’t like a woman touching you? If you’re gay just come out with it.”
“It’s not that. Those manifestations of yours kind of freaked me out.”
Her expression indicated she knew he was lying.
Aiden remained confused over his reactions. At some fundamental level Jessie did actually repulse him.
Keats was at the checkout counter, paying their bill. Annoyed by the delay, he handed her a doggie bag.
“Your coffee and pie.”
She explained what had happened as they headed for the parking lot. Keats wasn’t impressed.
“You shouldn’t have made a scene. That waitress will remember us.”
“Shit happens.”
“That supposed to be funny?”
“Lighten up, Keats. Besides, with what I can do now with my droppers, our odds of kicking some merc ass just got way better.”
Aiden came to a decision as they reached the pickup.
“I’m not going with you. I need to talk to Ana Cho.”
Keats scowled, as if Aiden was the crazy one. Jessie shrugged.
“We’re better off without him.”
Keats regarded him for a long moment, then nodded. “Do what you gotta do.”
The two of them got in the pickup, with Jessie assuming the driving duties. As the taillights disappeared into the night, Aiden was left standing alone in the parking lot, wondering if he’d made the right decision.
FORTY-TWO
The chartered helicopter dropped Michael and Trish Belmont at his Montana chateau on Tuesday, an hour before dawn. It immediately lifted off for another assignment. Michael watched it soar out over the endless expanse of treetops under a star-blazing sky.
His executive assistant had been reluctant to make the trip. Back in LA she’d voiced her objections in that awkward yet endearing manner he found so intriguing.
“Sir, no disrespect meant, but it doesn’t really sound like you’ll have enough work available for me up there. It might be best if I stay here at the office.”
Her real concerns were transparent. She’d probably chatted with other Krame-Tee employees – females, of course – who’d warned her that Michael was a letch of Presidential proportions. They would have advised her not to go on any overnight trips where they’d be alone, particularly at his chateau. In hushed whispers, they would have repeated the rumors about Maisey Latorsky, the attractive young woman who two years ago supposedly had gone missing on the way there.
Michael had been forced to adopt his most reassuring tone to persuade Trish her fears were unfounded. “This trip is important business. I won’t even be at the chateau most of the time but I do need you close by. There may be some contract matters that need to be drafted in a hurry. And frankly, you deserve this. I’m still impressed with your excellent work on our acquisition of Janssen Software.”
He’d finished his pitch with a lavish description of the chateau. “So Trish, even though this is by no means a vacation, you will be able to spend two days and a night in an absolutely gorgeous setting. Now honestly, are you really that adverse to a little adventure?”
“I suppose it would be OK,” she’d said haltingly.
“Of course it will.”
Of course, the real reason he’d brought her up here was to have her available for a post-Tau celebration. After he acquired the quiver, he deserved to reward himself. First he’d try a little wine and song to convince Trish to freely partake. If that didn’t work he’d opt for his old reliable: a roofie fuck. The method had failed him only once, with Jessica Von Dohren.
He showed Trish her private upstairs bedroom and left her to unpack. He retreated onto the front wraparound porch and gazed across his vast property, some 150,000 acres of mostly pristine wilderness.
The wood-framed structure had been erected by an early-twentieth-century timber magnate as a vacation home. No expense had been spared. Granite for its foundation had been mined from a nearby quarry created especially for the purpose. Rooms and hallways on both floors featured elaborately carved mahogany imported from Brazil. His father had paid a premium price for the chateau and land.
As a boy, Michael had once quizzed the asshole on why he wanted a house in rugged terrain in the middle of nowhere. The question had come at a bad time, as many of Michael’s questions invariably did. It had earned him a slap across the face and a warning not to bother a busy man.
After Michael inherited control of the business, he’d learned from the busy man’s papers why he’d wanted the place and why he was touchy about it. The chateau was west of Helena and the state had been talking about a new highway through the region. Funding had fallen through, however. Instead of prime commercial real estate, his father had been left with an expensive boondoggle in the middle of nowhere. No matter how successful in business, the prick couldn’t stomach even the occasional failure.
Michael had considered selling the property. But after setting his sights on the quiver, he was glad he hadn’t. It gave him a base of operations within reasonable flying distance from the cabin near Churchton Summit, where they’d rendezvous for the assault.
The chateau was built into the side of a hill, elevating the stilted porch twelve feet off the ground. The helipad was on a lower terrace, adjacent to a six-bay garage stocked with gas- and battery-powered cars and ATVs. A private road wound down the side of the mountain for a dozen miles before reaching a public road and, eventually, civilization.
Michael gazed out over the canopy. It was still dark but chirping birds nestled in the branches indicated dawn was imminent. The air was cool and dry. Forecasters predicted sunny days in the low-seventies the whole week.
Tomorrow’s assault still had a green light. The insider had gotten back to Michael. A coded text message assured him that Tau Nine-One had received no fresh alerts. She’d contact him again if that status changed. But so far, it appeared that Princess and her cohorts hadn’t warned Tau officials about what was coming.
That begged the question, what exactly were the three of them up to? It was unlikely they’d attempt to directly interfere with the assault. That fell somewhere between foolhardy and suicidal. The more probable scenario was that they were counting their blessings at having escaped death – twice in Green’s case – and were lying low. Still, if Michael was wrong and they were indeed contemplating some sort of intervention…
A stiff breeze and a smacking sound interrupted his thoughts. The branch of a tree growing at the end of the porch whipped against the railing. Michael had given the chateau’s caretakers, a local husband and wife, the week off. He’d have to take them to task for not keeping the closest trees properly trimmed. He wasn’t paying them to be negligent.
The notion of negligence returned his thoughts to two years ago, to one of the few times in his life he’d been guilty of it. He and Maisey Latorsky had taken a leisurely drive up to the chateau for a getaway weekend.
Maisey had been the only woman in Michael’s life who he’d felt really understood him, who really grasped his true nature. Even better, she’d loved him for it, loved the idea of being with a man hypercharged with such aggressive and dominant tendencies. She was masochistic at heart but it was more than just a sexual kink. She’d loved Michael for how he perceived the world, how he saw it as a great carcass to be picked over. She’d loved how he wasn’t overly concerned with the thoughts and feelings of others, that he perceived such emotions as a form of weakness. Maisey had admired the very qualities in him that others saw as twisted and egocentric.
And he’d loved her back, the first woman he could honestly say that about. He’d even entertained thoughts of asking her to marry him. But allowing himself t
o be open to such emotions had proved to be a mistake, one he would never repeat. It had led to his negligent act that fateful weekend.
He’d left the hidden door to the basement lab unlocked. Maisey had wandered in while he was in the midst of one of his early experiments. Bad enough she’d seen his expensive containment vessels into which he directed his psychic creations: the gelatinous brown spheres that were the common legacy of the quiver kids. The spheres alone could have been explained away. But Maisey had happened to enter during his attempt to create a shadow. She’d screamed at the sight of his ghostly doppelganger floating above the floor.
Maybe if she hadn’t reacted in such a panicked fashion, it would have been OK. Maybe if she’d been able to accept what she was seeing as easily as she accepted so many other aspects of Michael’s personality, he wouldn’t have felt threatened and lashed out.
But he couldn’t change the past. He had felt threatened. He had lashed out. For the rest of his life, a part of him would regret his subsequent actions. Even as Maisey was trying to bring her screams under control, he’d come up behind her – the real him, not the shadow she was transfixed upon – and wrapped his arm around her neck.
He remembered telling himself as she struggled to break free that he shouldn’t go through with it. But those were his weaker emotions speaking. By sidestepping such feelings, a trick he’d learned as a child from his brutal father and delusional nutcase of a mother, he’d found the strength to continue. With a wicked twist, he’d snapped her neck.
Michael leaned against the porch railing and stared down into the trees. Although a band of violet creased the eastern sky, it was still too dark to make out the old trail running behind the garage that accessed the quarry. That’s where he’d carried Maisey Latorsky’s lifeless body, digging a hole in the rubble and burying her deep. The last time he’d checked, a layer of damp moss covered her grave.
He’d reported her disappearance to the authorities in Helena and Los Angeles, claiming she was supposed to drive her own car up to Montana to meet him but had never arrived. The LA detectives who’d interviewed him suspected foul play, as did Maisey’s parents. But they’d never been able to prove it, especially since before giving the report he’d had Nobe steal her car from her West Hollywood apartment and dispose of it.
Since Maisey’s demise he’d installed more rigorous safeguards. A palm lock, retinal scanner and door sensors were linked to the chateau’s security system and controlled via an app. Any attempt at illicit entry would prompt notification wherever he was.
Michael had been involved in other murders over the years. But Maisey remained the only person he’d killed with his own hands. He’d derived no pleasure from it. Still, there were times when he fantasized about the incident, reimagining it as a slow strangulation rather than a quick neck snap, his fingers choking the life not out of her, but out of his adoptive parents. That he would have enjoyed.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been afforded such a luxury. When arranging for his parents to be killed by sabotaging their Cessna, circumstances dictated that it look like an accident.
PART 3
THE SHROUD
FORTY-THREE
Aiden was saddlesore. He’d spent nearly twelve hours on the back of a Harley with only two quick stops for munchies and bathrooms. The ride would have been a trial for anyone who didn’t ride motorcycles but road vibration accentuated the pain from his burned arms. He’d popped three of Rory’s pills during the trek.
Skinny Hank, the moniker bestowed on his chauffeur by fellow bikers at the restaurant, got him to Portland by midmorning Tuesday. Aiden disembarked on a tree-shaded avenue in the city’s Southeast section and paid the biker, who easily tipped the scales at three hundred pounds. Skinny Hank roared off to rejoin his brothers in leather two hundred dollars richer.
Ana Hilbertson’s two-story detached house had vinyl siding and a porch with all-weather chairs. A driveway ascended to a two-car garage in back. Aiden climbed the steps and rang the bell. A man in jeans and sweatshirt holding a little boy opened the door. A startled look gave Aiden the impression he’d been recognized.
The man had a skinny frame and a ruddy complexion, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. His gaunt face was outlined with a chin-strap beard. The boy, who looked about two, stared at Aiden with inquisitive blue eyes.
“I’m looking for Ana Hilbertson,” Aiden said. “Is this the right house?”
“She’s not home. Something I can help you with?”
“Know when she’ll be back?”
“Ana is my mother. What’s this about?”
“It’s personal.”
The man was around Aiden’s age. A lack of Asian features suggested he’d been adopted. Was this White, the anomaly?
Aiden gestured to a porch chair. “Mind if I wait?”
“Best you come inside.”
The front room had a funky, lived-in look that Aiden found appealing. A pair of armchairs with tan fabric fronted a leather sofa and recliner. Mismatched throw rugs were strewn across the floorboards like bandages. Expressionist prints in dinky frames dotted the walls. Aiden recognized three of the most colorful ones as Chagalls.
Weirdly out of place in the corner was a giant statue of an obese male clown. Made of ceramic material that was chipped and cracked, the figure was a good four feet wide and almost touched the ceiling. A hole in its belly was covered by a sheet of opaque fabric. An arrow pointed to the hole along with instructions.
TICKLE MY INNARDS, IF YOU DARE!
“It’s from a 1920s carnival,” the man explained. “The barker would put a slab of raw meat in the hole and dare people to reach in. Later, the raw meat was replaced by a generator that gave the victim a mild electric shock. Mom bought it at an auction.”
“Cool conversation piece. Big, too.”
The man lowered the boy, who scooted to a bookcase. The lower shelves were crammed with toys.
“I’m Grant,” the man said. “That’s my son, Lucas.”
“Aiden.”
Grant nodded as if he already knew the name.
Aiden flopped on an armchair, which was ridiculously comfortable compared to his previous butt support on the bike. He watched Lucas upend a shoebox of building bricks and start assembling them. The boy’s combination of intense concentration and physical awkwardness reminded him of Leah at that age.
Grant revealed he was a software developer who worked at home and took care of Lucas. His wife was a bank manager. Aiden kept his side of the conversation nondescript, talked about the weather and Portland’s laid-back reputation. Still, the more they spoke, the more convinced he was that Grant knew plenty about him.
They heard a car pull into the driveway. The front door opened and a gray-haired woman with Asian features entered the house, a heaping bag of groceries in her arms. She froze at the sight of Aiden but recovered fast and transitioned to a warm smile.
“Aiden Manchester. I’m glad we can finally meet.”
FORTY-FOUR
Ana Cho, aka Ana Hilbertson, deposited the groceries in the kitchen and rejoined them in the front room. Aiden guessed she was in her late fifties or early sixties. She was slender and petite. Her wraparound skirt had a pattern of yellow daffodils.
She sat beside Grant on the sofa, folding her hands demurely in her lap. Lucas grew tired of playing and flopped across a portable daybed. He was asleep in seconds.
“What brings you to our home?” Ana Cho asked.
Aiden had intended to squeeze every dollop of information he could from Tau’s former project director and keep his own life as cloaked as possible. But here in this room, face to face with Cho and her son, something prompted him to come clean.
He began with a history of his manifestations and recurring green dream, segued into an overview of the terrifying recent events starting with his father’s letter. He stuck to the high points and avoided mentioning the abilities of the other quiver kids he’d encountered. As promised, he also left out any mention
of Ned.
Grant’s shock was palpable at hearing of the violence perpetrated by Michael. Ana Cho’s reaction seemed closer to a weary sadness.
“I made a terrible mistake in allowing Red’s adoption into that family,” she said. “We weren’t given a lot of time to do the placements and none of the prospective parents rung alarm bells. This was in the primordial days of internet search engines, so there was a limited amount of information to be gleaned in that manner. I employed private investigators but in Red’s case they clearly didn’t dig deep enough. Still, I should have done a better and more thorough job of vetting. Only much later did I learn what a dysfunctional home I’d consigned him to.”
“Not your fault, Mom,” Grant said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Under the circumstances, you did the best you could.”
“Not good enough, as it turned out. Blue apparently paid for my error with his life. And Michael may come here next.”
Cho and Grant cast worried looks at the sleeping Lucas.
“You weren’t easy to find,” Aiden reassured them. “The person who tracked down your location has a special talent for locating people. And at least for now, I’m guessing Red is focused on stealing the quiver.”
“Do you think Magenta and this soldier can stop him?” Grant asked.
“I don’t know. But is Jessie right? Will Red become more powerful with another infusion?”
“For the test animals and the babies the IQ boost was a one-time event,” Cho said. “Re-infusions were tried but there were no measurable changes. As for adult quiver kids?” She shrugged. “Uncharted territory.”
Grant asked Aiden if he’d ever attempted to cultivate his own abilities like Red and Magenta.
“It was never an option.” Aiden told them about the psychic research he’d been paid to do in Dr Jarek’s Georgetown lab. “No matter how hard I tried, I could never consciously create a chunkie.”
Cho was surprised. “They only come when you’re asleep?”
Refraction Page 19