by Кей Хупер
“Couple hours ago. You were busy.” BJ reached the bottom step and stood there for a moment, gazing around the brightly lit basement. There were no windows, since it was totally underground, but a combination of big, well-placed lights and a lot of white tile and stainless steel more than made up for the lack of natural light.
Still, BJ was always faintly surprised when he came down here by the modern… sleekness… of the place. There should, he thought, be iron and old leather and blood-soaked wood, because that was what a torture chamber was supposed to look like.
Not like an operating room.
The thought, as always, was fleeting, especially when BJ saw what had kept Rex occupied for far longer than expected.
On one of the two long stainless-steel tables lay a hunk of bloody meat only vaguely recognizable as a human being. BJ couldn’t even tell if it was male or female, not by looking, though he knew it had been a man because he had delivered the guy to Rex early the day before, all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
His guess was that Rex had been experimenting this time with methods of skinning. That, at least, had been his excited plan.
But the skinned experiment had been left to congeal on the table, abandoned, no doubt hours ago, for a newer toy.
A toy he had apparently left the safety of this house to get for himself.
She lay on the second of the stainless-steel tables, strapped down even though the fight had gone out of her—along with what looked like most of her blood. Numerous small nicks covered her naked body, as did longer and deeper slashes.
It was—almost—artistic.
Blood dripped from the table to join the widening pool on the white tile floor. That didn’t look so artistic, it looked messy as hell, especially since Rex had once more forgotten to position the table over one of the big drains in the floor.
Dammit.
The new toy had been pretty once. Probably. She had blond hair, which wasn’t surprising since Rex favored blondes. Young. She had plenty of curves. And she was still alive. BJ could see a pulse beating—faintly—beneath the bloody skin of her throat.
“Jesus, Rex, what’ve you done?”
His cheerful smile fading, Rex said anxiously, “Bubba won’t mind this time, BJ, honest. Because Father told me to. And we always do what Father tells us to, right?”
You know you’re going to have to kill him one day soon, don’t you, BJ? Before he becomes completely unmanageable?
“Right.” BJ sighed.
“That wasn’t a ghost out there this morning, it was a real sniper,” Tony pointed out. “And yesterday. And on Tuesday. Probably the same one, but definitely flesh-and-blood real. With real bullets. And real mad skills with that rifle of his, to say nothing of his apparently magical ability to disappear into thin air while dozens of armed and experienced law-enforcement people hunt for him.”
“Yes,” Miranda said. “I know.”
“So how could any of this have anything to do with Samuel?”
“One thing we knew absolutely about Samuel was that he had gotten better and better in recent years at locating and recruiting psychics; our inside agents told us that.”
“Yeah, I remember. And so?”
“Noah believes Samuel didn’t bring all those he found into the church, or at least not into the Compound. That he… kept some of them in reserve, unknown to the others in his flock, including our own people undercover inside the church. And that those he chose to keep apart were not only the most fanatically loyal but also the more militant, potentially more violent ones. And maybe the strongest psychics.”
Jaylene was frowning. “Why?”
“Because he planned ahead.”
“Planned beyond his own death?” Tony asked.
“Most of us plan beyond our deaths. We write wills, designate people to handle our property and raise our children, leave our money to the loved ones or charities we wish it to go to.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s a long way from having armed thugs carry out your bloody revenge fantasies after you’re gone. Isn’t it?”
“Samuel was a functioning precog, Tony. A seer. He had apocalyptic visions, yes, and those clearly drove him, but there’s nothing to say he didn’t also have a few visions about his future. His own very personal future. Maybe general, or maybe specific enough that he knew he wouldn’t survive that final battle against Noah and the others.”
She paused, then added, “Given the cold-blooded ferocity of the murders that led us here, and the equally cold-blooded precision of the sniper still out there, my guess is that Samuel made damn sure he had at least one—and possibly more than one—loyal follower wholly dedicated to avenging the death of their ‘Father.’ No matter what it takes.”
“Oh, man,” Tony muttered. Then he frowned. “So why not start killing SCU agents when he had the chance? Because he’s had plenty of chances all this week. Even before, if he’s been watching longer.”
“Toying with us?” Miranda suggested. “Ramping up the danger level to draw more of us in? That certainly worked. Or maybe he was hoping Noah would show up. Because as much as Samuel considered the SCU in general his enemy, he knew very well who built and led the unit.”
Jaylene said, “Is that another reason why Bishop isn’t here? Because he’s more likely to draw fire, possibly endangering the rest of us even more?”
“You know him,” Miranda said. “What do you think?”
With no doubt at all in his voice, Tony said, “He’d step in front of a bullet in a heartbeat to save any one of us. I don’t believe even Samuel’s dark energy could have changed that. So my bet is, he isn’t here because he believes it’s safer for all of us if he is elsewhere.”
Miranda smiled. “I believe the same thing.”
“I’m not disagreeing,” Jaylene said.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, more because they all knew they needed fuel than because they were hungry or enjoying the food.
“How sure are you about Samuel being behind these tortured vies and the sniper?” Tony asked finally.
“If you’re asking whether I’ve had a premonition of my own, the answer is no. But for months we’ve known we had an enemy, long before the confrontation at the church. We know Samuel had some SCU members under surveillance more than a year ago, that he studied us and considered us a threat. That before we even knew who he was, he tried to lure us into a trap. We know he had considerable resources. We know he was fanatical and inspired fanatical loyalty among his followers. We know he was a highly functional precog, was able to channel extraordinary energy, was telepathic—and was able to steal energy from people and abilities from other psychics. We know he had a serious God complex, and from that we can safely infer he expected or planned to control at least some events even after death.”
Miranda paused, then finished, “Add all that up, and I think it’s more than a strong possibility that Samuel has something to do with this killer—or killers. The butcher and the sniper.”
“Okay,” Diana said, trying to feel as calm as she hoped she sounded, “Samuel wants to live. Do I take it that’s him wearing Quentin’s face?”
“You’ll have to determine the truth of that.”
Naturally, Brooke wasn’t going to make it easy for her. Or even just less hard.
Diana wished there was a place to sit down in this endless, featureless corridor, because she was tired. And that was terrifying.
“If that is him…what’s the point of wearing Quentin’s face?” She was trying to work it out aloud, hoping Brooke would offer a tidbit here or there; it seemed to be her preferred way of revealing information. “I know it’s not Quentin, he knows I know, so why go on doing it? To keep me rattled? Off balance? Because he thinks it’s fun? Why?”
Since those questions elicited from Brooke nothing but an expression of mild interest, Diana tried a different tack.
“He wants to live again. Samuel wants to live again. In the flesh. Has he tried to? No, he can’t have.
No spirit leaves the gray time without a door. And only mediums make doors. Right?”
“You’d know better than I would, Diana.”
She ignored that. “That’s the one ability he went out of his way to avoid, the one ability he didn’t want. According to Hollis, to the reports, mediums might well have been the only thing he was truly afraid of, and there was no indication he might possess that ability. Or… if it’s latent in him, it’s something he suppressed his whole life. So it’s reasonable to assume he can’t make a door for himself. Even with all his power—wait. His power. He’s been weakened here, hasn’t he? Because power is drained here, energy is drained. He’s been here too long. If he couldn’t make his own door out of here in all this time, he really can’t now.”
“Not without help,” Brooke murmured.
“What, my help? I can’t get myself out of here. Which means I can’t find the door I made to get here, even assuming it’s still there, assuming it’s open, or assuming I could open it. What makes him believe I could—or would—help him?”
Brooke merely waited.
“If he could have forced me, he already would have. I think. Which means he can’t force me. Or… it means he knows I can’t get myself out of here, can’t find the door I made.” A sudden realization hit Diana. “Wait. If the door I made is still open, even a little bit… Hollis will be drawn to it. When she’s asleep, when her defenses are down.”
She stared at Brooke, a new fear crawling over her. “Is that what he’s waiting for? Hollis? Because he could follow her back out the door even if I can’t? Jesus.”
“Don’t you think Hollis can take care of herself?”
“Not in here. Not alone.” Diana bit her lip in a moment of indecision, then turned and began to retrace her steps. At least, she thought that was what she was doing; the endless corridor pretty much looked the same way no matter which direction she chose.
Brooke followed her. “Where are you going, Diana?”
“Well, I’m not staying here where he thinks he can trap a few psychics, not if Hollis could turn up any minute. This could be a different kind of trap now, one to catch her.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I believe this is a bad place and I want to leave it. Now.”
The words had barely left her lips before the gleaming sterile corridor sort of shivered around her—and she found herself standing in the silent gray time Main Street of Serenade. There was a bench practically behind her, and she wasted no time in sitting.
“Diana?”
“I just need a minute, that’s all.” She stared, frowning, up and down the eerily silent and gray street. “And you don’t have to tell me there are no minutes here. I know that. But I need to rest awhile. It’s getting… a little hard to breathe.”
Brooke was silent.
“I… don’t seem to remember getting shot. Shouldn’t I remember that if I’m not going back?”
“I don’t know. Should you?”
“You’re really not going to tell me, are you?”
“Tell you what?”
“If I’m dead. Or if I’m going to die.”
“Everything dies. You know that.”
“And you know what I mean.”
“All I know is that you have truths to discover here. Before you can move on… or go back… or do whatever it is you’re destined to do. First you have to find the truth. All the truths.”
“But no pressure,” Diana muttered. “Look, whatever happens to me, Hollis doesn’t deserve to get sucked into this place. Isn’t there any way I can warn her to stay out?”
“Do you think a warning would have any effect?”
Briefly, Diana put her head in her hands. Then she straightened and stared at Brooke. “You know, this answering-a-question-with-another-question shit is getting old.”
Brooke smiled.
“So’s that,” Diana told her. She looked away from the guide to study the street again, something nagging at her. “I was shot. I was shot… on purpose. The sniper picked me. All of us were running around in the open, we didn’t have our vests on, and if he was watching yesterday—or the day before, whenever—then he probably had all of us marked as cops, maybe as SCU. So why me? I’m not even a full agent yet. This is—was—my very first case as an investigator. Why was I the target?”
“I’m not allowed to reply with a question,” Brooke said.
Diana ignored her. “If the sniper saw the SCU as his enemy, why not pick someone who … counted? Someone who’d be more of a trophy for him. Miranda was there. Quentin. Hollis and Reese. Why did he pick me? Unless I was a bigger threat somehow. Or… I had something he wanted. Something his boss wanted. Like maybe… the ability to open a door into—or out of—the gray time. He must have known it was the only sure way to get me here, at least on his timetable.”
She turned her head and stared at the silent guide. “He’s not just in here trying to get out, he’s influencing things out there. Calling the shots—literally. The sniper, the murders: It’s all about Samuel.”
Serenade
Galen prowled uneasily from window to window, not even aware of what he was doing until Ruby spoke.
“You really want to be out there with them, don’t you? With your friends?”
“With my team,” he said.
“Sorry you’re stuck here watching over me.”
“I’m not stuck, Ruby.” He made an effort to soften his voice. “Look, Bailey said you didn’t sleep on the jet, and you haven’t closed your eyes since we got here. Why don’t you go try to rest for a while?”
“I’m not sleepy. Bailey said soldiers have to learn to sleep when they can. And I get that. She’s sleeping now so you’ll sleep later.” Ruby studied him with those too-old eyes. “Except I don’t think you will sleep later.”
“I will. When there’s time.”
“When this is over, you mean.”
“If you like.”
Ruby was silent for a long moment, then said almost casually, “Are the voices still talking to you?”
He stopped prowling and stared at her. His immediate instinct was to deny, but somehow instead he found himself asking, “What do you know about that?”
“About your voices? Just that you hear them. Since the church. Since what we did to Father. Since things changed for a lot of us.” She paused. “Are they still talking to you?”
“Whispering,” he said finally. “I can’t understand what they’re saying. Can’t quite hear them.”
“Maybe because you aren’t listening hard enough.”
“What do you mean?”
Curled up in the big armchair near a dark fireplace, Ruby returned his stare with an odd serenity. “You’re… shut inside yourself. I expect that’s so you can help your team. So you can guard other people, keep them safe. Keep me safe. But it makes a shell around you. A hard shell. Maybe the voices can’t get through well enough for you to understand what they’re saying.”
“Maybe I don’t want them to,” he found himself replying.
“Are you afraid of what they might tell you?”
Damn.
Galen thought it was ridiculous for him to be confiding in a twelve-year-old girl, but he couldn’t seem to stop the conversation.
“I don’t know where they’re coming from, Ruby. I don’t hear voices, it’s not my thing.”
“It’s your thing now.”
“Well, yeah, I suppose. But it wasn’t my thing, so I don’t know how to control it.”
“Sometimes we can’t. Sometimes this stuff controls us.”
“That’s definitely not my thing,” he told her.
“No, I didn’t think so. Your thing is… not dying. Isn’t that right?”
“I heal myself. So far, that means not dying. But everybody dies sooner or later.”
“Maybe to really kill you they’d have to cut off your head,” she suggested gravely.
Galen was startled, but only for a moment. “You like horror
movies,” he guessed.
She smiled shyly. “We weren’t allowed to watch them inside the Compound. But Maggie says it’s good for us sometimes to be pretend-scared. And John likes horror movies. So we watched some.” I see.
“They didn’t scare me, really,” she confessed. “Not after the church. Not after Father. But it was nice to pretend bad and scary things aren’t real. Nice for a while, at least.”
He shook his head and heard himself saying, “Ruby, what are you doing here?”
Her face changed just a little, going guarded. And there was a secretive expression in her eyes that he’d never seen before. “John’s teaching me how to play chess. You start out with all the pieces on the board. That’s why I’m here. Because I’m one of the pieces.”
“Ruby—”
“You should try to listen to your voices, Galen. You really should. I think there’s something important they need to tell you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“How would you know that?” he asked quietly.
“Because I hear voices too. And they always—always—tell me things I need to know.”
“Like the reason you had to come here? The reason you have to be a chess piece?”
“Yes. Like that.” Ruby turned her head, gazed toward one of the windows she was forbidden to approach, and said in the same soft, musing voice, “Right now they’re telling me something bad happened again. Something we couldn’t stop. Poor thing. She was a chess piece too. She was a pawn. She had to be sacrificed.”
“We’ve done a complete sweep of the downtown area,” Dean reported to Miranda when she and the others returned to the mobile command center. “Sheriff Duncan pulled in all his people, part-timers included, and even swore in a couple of retired deputies and a few friends he trusts, so we’ve got enough manpower—barely—to keep a fairly close watch on most of the buildings. But we didn’t find the bastard.”
“No luck with the dogs?”
“Nada, The handlers are as baffled as their dogs seem to be. Do you want to call them off?”
Miranda frowned. “No. No, just ask them to patrol. To crisscross the town independently. Randomly. They can decide among themselves when to take breaks, but I want those dogs visible as much as possible. If nothing else, it should at least make it tougher for the sniper to move around.”