The Titan: The Luke Titan Chronicles 6/6

by David Beers

  He lay there for a while, his whole body shivering. The bell that hung over the front door was silent, meaning no one came or went. Trae didn’t care, as long as the person with that scar on his face stayed the hell out. Trae lay on the restroom floor imagining the man coming back in, his red eyes searching, realizing he’d made a mistake and wanting to remedy it. To turn that shaking hand firm again and put multiple bullets through Trae’s body.

  No one came, though, and eventually—sometime around noon—Trae pulled himself up. He looked around the restroom, understanding he would have to clean it all up at some point. Himself, too.

  He also understood that he wasn’t going to say a word about what happened. That red-eyed psycho could do whatever he wanted with the U-Haul truck. Trae had looked him in the eye and understood something very simple: Trae might get in trouble for not reporting it to the police, but if he did, he would most certainly die at that man’s hand.

  Chapter 24

  Waverly stood at the toilet, pissing without the use of his hands. It was funny, in an odd way. He was still trying to aim, trying to keep from making a goddamn mess of the hotel toilet, even though his hands were tied behind his back and a gun was pointed at him from the bathroom door.

  Habits were tough to break, he supposed.

  “I’m going to untie you, and you’re going to walk downstairs and get in the back of the truck.”

  “Okay,” Waverly said.

  Christian was the one holding the weapon, though Waverly didn’t know how much of the man was left inside. Waverly might have been using the name because of habit—like his neatness in the bathroom—because more likely than not, Christian didn’t exist anymore.

  “If you try anything, I’ll kill you. I think that’s all he really wants. Me to kill all of you; so it shouldn’t be a problem if I do it now.”

  His voice sounded the same—as if Christian was actually speaking—but Waverly knew that wasn’t true. The man behind him was a psychopath, the same as Luke. Luke had finally achieved what he wanted and here was the proof.

  Waverly would try escaping if possible, but now—with his dick hanging out of his pants and his hands behind his back—wasn’t the time.

  “Let’s go,” Christian said.

  Waverly heard him step closer, then felt a knife work at the ties across his wrists. Christian freed his hands and stepped back.

  “Take care of your ankles, then we’ll go outside.”

  Waverly first fixed his fly, then squatted and started unrolling the tape that bound his ankles. A minute passed—Christian had really made it snug—but he finally stood unbound for the first time in 24 hours.

  The clock in the bedroom said it was nearly 3:00 in the morning.

  Waverly turned around and looked at Christian. The gun was still out, ready for action.

  “Where are we going?”

  “New York,” Christian said.

  Waverly hadn’t had a chance to really look at Christian since they arrived the night before. Not until now. He appeared hollow, as if both his soul and internal organs had simply taken a plane to Aruba, leaving his body here to deal with the aftermath. The energy Christian always possessed—nervous, yes, but positive all the same—was missing. It’d been replaced by something grim and dead, which now stared back at Waverly. It was more than the shaking left hand or the red eyes.

  Waverly wasn’t a religious man, wasn’t even spiritual, but the thought that came was, I’m looking at something from the beyond.

  “You’re walking out first. We’re going right down the hall and then taking the stairs,” Christian said. “The pistol will be out the whole time, so if you think about doing anything, I’ll fire it. There’s a truck at the bottom.”

  “Okay,” Waverly said, nodding. He didn’t know where Christian disappeared to during the day; Waverly had been trapped in the room, but apparently, Christian had procured some kind of truck.

  And now they were going after Senator Robert Franklin. Waverly didn’t need Christian’s IQ to understand that. Who else was in New York?

  “The truck’s in my name?” he asked.

  Christian’s head jerked as if a chill went through him. Waverly didn’t think he noticed.

  “Yes,” Christian said. “Let’s go.” He moved out of the way and let Waverly exit the bathroom. Waverly turned to the door and went into the hallway. He could try attacking Christian, and there was a chance he might win. Over the years, Christian had been hurt as badly as any agent Waverly had ever seen, so his body wasn’t in tip-top shape. Still, Christian had the gun, and if Waverly failed, the fat lady would start singing up and down this hallway.

  He kept walking, hearing the door close behind him and knowing that Christian was pointing the gun at his spine.

  The truck was probably in Waverly’s name, which didn’t help the situation any. No one was looking for him. He could hope that an All Points Bulletin existed, and Christian would get pulled over while driving. If that happened, his facial scar would tell all, and he’d be forced to surrender.

  Or he’d start killing people.

  Waverly didn’t know which was more likely to occur. A long time ago, the latter wouldn’t have been a possibility …

  Waverly walked down the stairs, his feet and Christian’s echoing softly off the walls. They neither saw nor heard anyone else. Christian had picked the right time to pull off his kidnapping.

  They exited the stairwell into the parking lot. A moving truck was parked directly in front of Waverly; Christian might not be Christian anymore, but he was still able to think—at least somewhat. He hadn’t used his own name when renting this thing, and now he’d ensured he didn’t have to walk carrying an unconcealed weapon. None of that took a lot of thought, but these were important details Christian was covering. Which meant he might have lost his mind, but not his intelligence.

  Waverly didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  “The door is unlocked. Open it up.”

  Waverly stepped to the back of the moving truck and lifted up the door. It moved slowly at first, gaining speed the higher it went until it slammed open.

  “Get in,” Christian said.

  Waverly climbed up, keeping his mouth shut. He turned around once inside and looked at Christian.

  “Back up.”

  Waverly did as he was told and Christian climbed into the truck. Another smart move, making sure that the walls shielded him from anyone’s eyes. A roll of duct tape sat on the floor and Christian kicked it to Waverly.

  “Your feet. Make it tight and thick. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

  Waverly looked at the tape for a second, wondering just how in the hell he was going to get out of this. He saw no opening, not upstairs, and not here. All he saw was a roll of tape and a man holding a gun.

  “Fuck it,” he said, sitting down and grabbing the tape. He pulled on it and the sound of glue snapping filled the truck as he ripped the tape free. He did as Christian said, wrapping the tape around his ankles and leaving little wiggle room—if any. He looked up when he was finished. “You don’t need to do this, Christian. You called me and I came. I’m here and I’ll help if you let me. But I can’t help like this.”

  “There’s nothing left to help. You don’t see them but they’re here. They’re all around. Tommy is standing right behind you. If he could still bleed, he’d be dripping all over your head, but luckily he’s all drained out.”

  Waverly didn’t look up. There was no one in the truck with them. No one in the whole damned parking lot.

  “Roll over on your stomach and put your hands behind your back.”

  Waverly looked at him a second longer, and then flattened himself against the floor. Christian knelt over him, coming in from the side. One leg was over Waverly’s, the other knee driven deep into the middle of his back. He worked quickly, ripping the tape free from the roll and wrapping it around Waverly’s wrists.

  Waverly lay there as Christian stood up.

  “I’
m sorry,” he said. “There’s nothing else I can do. They won’t let me. He won’t let me.”

  Waverly remained silent as Christian walked across the back of the truck. He hopped out and closed the door behind him. Waverly listened as the lock slammed home.

  Waverly didn’t know who they were—perhaps the dead Christian now saw. The he was obvious. Luke.

  And now they were going to make a few pit stops, apparently, then Waverly would be face to face with the man that couldn’t be killed.

  Christian drove the truck without thinking.

  Different people rode beside him, depending on the time of day. Sometimes they stayed a while and sometimes they only hopped in the cab to look at him for a second, getting a glimpse of the man who’d done all of this to them.

  The other showed up and Christian was glad to see him. It felt like a long lost friend arriving on his doorstep, when the only people to visit during the past month had been bill collectors. And that’s what they were, these rotating dead; they were bill collectors come to take what was owed.

  Flesh. By the pound.

  Luke would make it stop, though. Christian’s thought process was no longer very complex; he didn’t think about his ruined mansion. There were no great leaps of empathy and logic. No feats of internal understanding. There was simple faith. In Luke. In the freedom he’d promised. Christian no longer even thought of his mother. The next three stops were simple packages that needed to be picked up.

  Christian drove through the night. He stopped twice to refuel. He didn’t check on Waverly once, though he knew the man was in the back. Nothing could be done for him.

  “Duh-Duh-Do you understand?” Lucy asked from the passenger’s seat. “Duh-Duh-Do you see my dedication to you?”

  Christian affirmed that he did.

  “And what about me?” Bradley Brown said. “Your fascination with Luke … It’s a lot like mine with the eyeballs. We’re not so different.”

  Christian affirmed that they weren’t so different after all.

  “The four of us,” Ted Hinson said, suddenly replacing Bradley Brown, “we’re really all the same people. Sure, there are differences here and there, but at our core, we’re the same. We’ve always been the same.”

  Christian affirmed that as well. They were the same. Maybe Luke had always known that. Christian hadn’t, for a time, but now as he rode along in the vehicle, he understood it with perfect clarity. Had it been fate? Him ending up at the FBI? Him meeting Luke?

  Or was it simply Luke’s divine hand at work? Moving the world as he wanted, all of it to serve his grand plan?

  Most likely, Christian would never know, but he was okay with that now. He was okay with everything happening around him. He wasn’t free, not totally, but he was getting there—and it felt great. Acceptance. Radical acceptance of everything that happened. Of everything he did.

  He grinned wide as he kept the truck between the lines; he hadn’t seen the mouth in quite some time, but that could have been because the two had merged. Their smiles certainly resembled one another.

  Robert Franklin was frustrated.

  “I’m frustrated,” he said to his aide. “I’m frustrated that it’s been two fucking days and we still can’t find anything out about Windsor. How in the hell has he disappeared? We should be able to find him. Someone should be able to find him.”

  “Sir, he’s a former FBI agent. He has a lot of—”

  “I don’t give a goddamn what he has a lot of. I care about catching him. I’ve been up and down the damn television stations telling the world how he might be to blame, and now we can’t get to him. That’s not exactly great for me, which means it’s not exactly great for you either.”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide said.

  Robert looked at him for a few more seconds and then said, “You can go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The aide stood from his chair and left the senator’s office, closing the door behind him.

  It was a mess, no doubt about it, but maybe Robert was putting more pressure on himself than was due. His wife had asked him last night why he was doing this; it’s not like he was in real danger of losing a reelection bid. That was the problem with her, though, always comfortable with where they were. She didn’t see the bigger picture—or rather, she didn’t want to stretch the picture any. She was perfectly content living out their lives as the senator from New York.

  Robert wasn’t though.

  If he brought Windsor in, he thought the chance of a Vice Presidential pick raised astronomically.

  So, no, his wife was probably wrong. He did need to worry about this; in fact, it could be the greatest strategic move he’d made in his entire political career … if he could just fucking find Windsor.

  Wendy Welcs had given the FBI orders to start looking for Titan and Windsor in tandem. Both had gone underground—which made Robert think one of two things had happened: Titan had killed Windsor, or the two were in league together. He was hoping for the latter but could work with the former if necessary. A dead person couldn’t really defend himself very well, and that meant stories could be bent to fit whatever narrative Robert desired.

  He looked at his watch. It was nearing 6:00 in the evening and he’d probably been too tough on his aide. Robert stepped from behind the desk and walked to his office door. He opened it and looked outside. “Go on home. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “You sure?” the young man asked. Robert thought his name might be Jack, but he didn’t know.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Have a good weekend.”

  The aide smiled, all the ill will from moments before gone. Which was good. Robert was glad. He needed his people wanting to come to work.

  Robert went back into his office, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  He would probably head home in the next hour or so. That’s what the public didn’t understand. They saw that congress was only in session for about half the year, and thus thought they didn’t work except on those days. Ridiculous. Robert worked year round, and even when he vacationed, he was working.

  One didn’t stay in power by taking days off.

  His wife was out of town this weekend and Robert was happy for it. He didn’t want to hear from her anymore about this Windsor stuff. He had directed their lives fine so far, and he would continue doing so. It wasn’t like she had to take on the goddamn stress.

  Robert took his time packing up what he needed; he wanted the aide long gone before he walked out. While it was good that they wanted to come to work each day, Robert didn’t really like conversing too much with them. Aides came and went, year in and year out, so getting to know any was silly. It wouldn’t help his long term plans, so why bother?

  Twenty minutes later, Robert left his office, locking up. He took the stairs down to the first floor, then entered the parking lot. Tomorrow was Saturday morning, and he was going to give Welcs the evening off, but he’d be on the phone with her first thing tomorrow. The key to this was speed, if he was to turn Windsor’s insanity into a Vice Presidential bid.

  Robert Franklin’s house was large by any normal standard, but when compared to some of his senate brethren, it was modest. It sat on five acres. It had the requisite guardhouse at the front, always manned. He had housekeeping staff—though they weren’t live-in (that would have given the wrong appearance). He and the missus liked to keep a low profile. It helped with re-elections; no one could point to Robert and say he lived in the lap of luxury. Lower upper class was the look they strove for.

  Robert did usually have a driver, though today he’d given Daryl the day off.

  He pulled up to the guardhouse and rolled his window down, ready to say hi, but as he looked through the shack’s glass windows, he saw no one inside. Just an empty building.

  Robert put his car in park, the usual nervousness that might take over most people not rising in him (he didn’t realize this, of course). It was simply that bad things didn’t happen to Robert or his class of people. It was why he could
go so hard after people like Titan and Windsor. They would take the fall, not him. And the people that they’d once hurt? Those people weren’t in Robert’s class either. He need not worry about death, not from above, nor below, and certainly not from directly in front of him.

  Robert stepped from his car and walked to the guardhouse’s door. He pulled on the handle and it opened easily enough. He went inside; nothing was amiss, besides it being unoccupied. Robert didn’t know the guards’ schedules—that was his wife’s job—but he knew someone was supposed to be here 24 hours a day.

  He stared for a second longer, then sighed. He’d have to call the security company. Whoever the hell had made a mistake would have to be let go if the company wanted to keep their contract.

  He got back in his car, clicked the key for the gate, and drove up the winding driveway. He parked and stepped from the car, slinging his computer bag over his shoulder. He already regretted giving Daryl the day off and wouldn’t do it again for a while. The man could get weekends off just like everyone else.

  It was tiring driving to work and then back home, after spending 10 to 12 hours thinking about the most complex problems.

  The public would just never understand.

  Robert walked to the house’s front door, unlocked it, and then went inside. He was halfway to the kitchen by the time he realized something was wrong.

  It was the dogs. Rufus and Bruno should have been on him long before he walked this far.

  Robert stopped and turned toward the living room.

  “Rufus! Bruno! Come here!”

  Only silence beckoned from the house and Robert felt a chill roll down his torso. Something was definitely off, but Robert still hadn’t considered it might involve him. It was the dogs. They were sick. Maybe they’d eaten something wrong. Maybe they’d goddamn died.