by David Beers
He sees the killer, older than the boy he watched on the farm. He doesn't know whether he lives on the farm any longer, because the killer is in a part of the house Christian hasn't seen. He's upstairs and standing at his mother's door. She's naked, just as she was last time, but the kid has clothes on now. He's wearing a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. He looks to be twelve or thirteen years old.
"Your father and I are going to a dinner tonight," his mother says. She sits at a vanity mirror, her naked back staring back at her son. Christian can see the outline of her right breast as she bends over to a drawer, grabbing another piece of makeup.
The kid says nothing. He's staring intensely at his mother's eyes.
Is this where it comes from? Your obsession with them?
Yes, Christian thinks so.
But why?
The kid doesn't look away from his mother, but moves out of his father's path without any trouble. Christian hadn't even known the father was moving into the room, but the kid somehow sensed it. Christian sees him now, though, in all his naked glory. He's a strong man, someone who spent his life on a farm—and the muscle may not be detailed, but it's there, and it's firm.
You're used to getting out of his way, aren't you?
The father walks purposefully across the room. He is, Christian can tell, a man that always walks with a purpose. And this time, the kid's mother appears to be what he's after.
The father grabs the back of the chair and spins it around as if no one sits in it. The woman lets out a small squeal but quickly shuts up as she sees her husband.
"LOOK INTO MY EYES RIGHT NOW! LOOK!" the man shouts.
The kid steps just outside the room, but he doesn't cower away completely. He can still see inside.
The woman does as she's commanded, looking into her husband’s eyes. Her own are wide with fear ... as well as hate. Hate for being made to do this, because it isn't the first time. It's not even the hundredth. This is where the watching and the obsession with eyes stems from—one of the places anyway. This man and this woman, and the kid's need to watch it all.
"LOOK IN MY EYES AND TELL ME YOU'RE NOT FUCKING HIM!" the man screams, spittle flying on the woman's face. She doesn't avert her eyes, though. Doesn't even dare blink.
"I'm not."
The words are strong and silence falls over the room once they die.
The man doesn't move, but stares into the woman's eyes for maybe a minute, perhaps casting judgment on what he sees in them.
Finally, he stands up and looks at the kid hiding outside the doorway. It only takes him a moment and he's across the room before his son can blink.
"Look at me." His voice is lower, but the mother's fear resides in the kid as well. "Have you seen your mother hanging around with him?"
"With who?"
The name is garbled, something else that Christian can't hear or know. Not yet, anyway.
"No. No, I haven't, Daddy."
Again the man stares onward, as if actual truth rested in the kid's eyes. Eventually, the father stands, his naked body showing no shame in front of either his wife or son.
"Get ready," he says to the woman. "And you, go check the traps. You're gonna need to cook your own dinner. I want yesterday's leftovers tomorrow."
The father walks out of the bedroom, leaving the boy to stare at his mother's back again.
Christian's phone started vibrating in his pocket, bringing him back to the restaurant. He shook his head once, gathering his surroundings again, then pulled the phone out and put it to his ear.
"Hey."
"Okay, I'm good now. What's going on?" Tommy asked.
Christian looked behind the bar, seeing both the bartender and what was probably the manager staring back at him.
"Sorry," Christian said to the bartender. "I sometimes talk more than I should."
"You got that right," the bartender said.
"Hold on," he told Tommy. Christian stood and exited the restaurant, letting the door close behind him before he continued. "Liam. That's our guy."
"How do you know?"
"I just do. There aren't any reports of abuse because the household didn't tell anyone what happened. Those farms, do you know how many people are registered on each one?"
"Yeah, I can find out. Why?"
"Liam's an only child. I didn't know earlier if there were multiple kids, but there was only one. Find out how many farms had three people."
"Okay. I'll head into the office now," Tommy said.
The phone line went dead and Christian stared at it, the intensity inside finally dying some. Exhaustion crept over him, moving up his body as if he stepped into a pool of it.
"He's keeping the eyes because he thinks truth is inside them," Christian said to himself.
Without really thinking about it, he found Luke's number on his phone. It rang twice before he answered.
"You're up late," Luke said.
"Can you meet Tommy and I at the office?"
"Sure."
Chapter 22
Tommy looked up from his computer screen as the other two walked in. "You got Luke out of bed?"
"It's important," Christian said, walking quickly across the room and sitting on the chair in front of Tommy's desk.
"When our master calls, I come running," Luke said with a smile. He followed a few steps behind Christian and sat down.
"So far, the system is telling me there are fifty-two farms with three people. If we narrow it down to male children, we're looking at twenty-three."
"We'll find him in one of those," Christian said. "We need to start sending agents out tomorrow, looking at newer residences for both the kids and the parents."
"Okay," Tommy said. "Now tell us what's going on."
Christian nodded and looked down at Tommy's desk. He was tired, running off exhaust fumes as opposed to actual gasoline.
"He was abused, both physically and mentally. I think his father ruled the household and had a thing with looking into people's eyes. He bought into the belief that they are the windows to the soul, and that's crossed over to our killer."
"So," Luke said, "he's keeping the eyes because he thinks he possesses their souls?"
"I don't think that's exactly it, but it's close."
"Then why are they blue?" Luke asked.
"If I had to guess, I'd say it's because either his mother or father's eyes were blue." Christian looked up at Tommy. "Actually, can you narrow the search down for houses where the mother or father had blue eyes?"
"If they had driver's licenses, I should be able to, but I'm going to need more time for that. We'll still start sending people out tomorrow morning. How sure are you that we'll find him this way? I'm only asking because we're going to have to use a lot of resources on this, and if you're wrong ..."
"My career is over. I know," Christian said. "I'm sure."
"Listen," Luke said. "While we're all here, I want to bring up something that's a bit on the fringes of this case, but you might hear of it. I want to get it in the open before she reaches out to you. Or, again, in Tommy's case. You know Veronica Lopez, right?"
Tommy nodded. He remembered sending her to John Presley. The now deceased John Presley. "Woah. You don't think she has something to do with this, do you?"
"No, no," Luke said. "But, when she went to speak to Presley, he told her the story that I was poisoning him and that's why he killed the thief. His death has her sort of paranoid, and I'm not sure if she's going to try to make something out of it. I just wanted you to know, in case she keeps asking questions."
"She came to me," Christian said. Tommy looked at the kid, but he kept his eyes on the floor.
"What did she say?" Luke asked.
"What you basically said. She thinks something is abnormal about the death, thinks you had something to do with it."
"Did you say anything?" Tommy asked.
"I told her that if she had any evidence to let me know." Christian didn't look up and Tommy glanced to Luke.
&
nbsp; "That's good," Luke said. "It won't be a big deal, but I just wanted you all to know. Now, Tommy, what do you want me to do about getting agents to these houses?"
Luke drove home an hour later. It was nearing two in the morning, but he felt none of the exhaustion the other two were experiencing. Luke was alive, nearly crackling with energy. He kept his outward demeanor calm—just as always—but inside, his mind was ablaze with possibilities.
Christian Windsor had lied to the two of them. He hadn't simply said 'bring me evidence’—or, at least, Luke didn't think that's what he meant, even if he said those words.
Mr. Windsor thought Luke might have had something to do with old John's death. The question that mattered was: why? What gave him that idea, when it occurred to virtually no one else?
That was why Waverly brought him on board, though. Because he could see things others couldn't, not even Luke. Somehow, Christian sensed Luke's true nature.
An approaching car's lights shined on Luke, revealing a small grin on his face. The lights faded and he went back to sitting in darkness.
Perhaps Christian didn't sense his true nature. No, that would be too frightening for the boy to handle. He sensed something wasn't right, however—and how far would he follow it? Or would he focus on what the FBI told him to focus on? Was he a rule follower or a contrarian? Luke thought someone like Christian would find it easier to follow rules. Less confrontation.
Either way, it didn't matter.
The gates to Luke's driveway opened and he pulled the car into his garage. He didn't go directly inside the house, but walked around the back of the car and out to the front yard. He listened to the night's version of silence, with insects filling some of the void left by the lack of automobiles.
"How far do you want to take this, Mr. Windsor?" Luke said aloud. "How far do you want to follow your inclination that something might not be completely right with me?" He paused for a few minutes, breathing in the smell of his freshly cut lawn. "I hope not too far, because I'm enjoying getting to know you. Just give it a little time, and then we can follow that inclination as far as you'd like."
Luke turned from the front yard and went inside the house. He needed to text his new friend and better understand what exactly was happening on that front. Once on his couch, Luke pulled out the cellphone and typed in a text message.
Did you see her?
Yes.
What do you think?
Are her eyes blue? I couldn't see them.
Luke smiled. Ms. Lopez had been wearing sunglasses, but that wasn't what humored Luke. Mr. Windsor had been right; the boy was after his mother's eyes. Luke was certain if he asked, and convinced his friend to talk about it, that would be the answer.
They're brown. Use it for misdirection.
Radio silence for a few minutes as Luke's friend thought about the text. Silence on Luke's end as well, but he knew the other side was full of thoughts, that if heard, would rouse an entire neighborhood. His friend was on the verge of losing whatever cool he possessed. The psychology of psychopathy was close to that of addiction, the intensity increasing with each murder.
Okay, the text returned. She'll be different, though.
How so?
I'm leaving them alive from now on, to separate myself from the idiot who killed the FBI agent.
Oh, this was getting too good. Luke's smile widened. Ms. Lopez would have a long life, it looked like, but one where she walked in darkness instead of light. Luke wondered if she could type without looking at her keyboard. He would hate to slow down the writing of her book.
And what of Christian Windsor? Wouldn't Lopez's death push him further toward his inclinations? Yes, most likely. Maybe Luke had been wrong outside; maybe the time was right for Christian to recognize what so many others couldn't.
Chapter 23
The sun was setting, going to rest below the horizon. At least it was from Veronica's view, but in reality, the sun never rested. Veronica felt she could relate to that, as she had been running ragged for the past three days. She'd slept six hours total, two each night, and if she didn't rest soon, she thought she might very well collapse.
She was following too many things at once. Yet, she didn't have much choice.
On the Friday of her abduction, Veronica Lopez had drank six cups of coffee by noon, and was walking into an interview with Professor George Nintz. She spoke to him on the phone a few days earlier, and he had been willing to do the whole interview over the phone—but Veronica didn't want to. She needed to be face to face when she asked these questions about Luke Titan. She wanted to see what people looked like when they answered. She needed the details, the tiny facial movements, things that even visual conversations on the computer couldn't transfer.
She'd flown to Boston and now sat outside of the professor's office. The door was cracked open, and it sounded like he had a student inside with him.
Veronica was ready this time, her questions prepared and her strategy on point.
The student walked out of the office, and a few seconds later, Dr. George Nintz walked out as well. He stopped in front of Veronica's bench.
"Ms. Lopez?" The professor extended his hand.
"Oh, please call me Veronica." She stood and shook his hand.
"As long as you call me George."
"Sure," Veronica said, smiling.
"Well, come on in and we can get started."
Veronica followed the professor inside his office and sat down.
"So, you want to talk about Luke Titan, right?"
"Yes."
"And you mentioned on the phone that this isn't strictly dealing with the Sphere?" George asked.
"Yes, that's correct as well. I will say, though, that I'd like for you to speak as an anonymous source, if you're okay with that? I'd rather not go public with your name if I do publish this."
"Why?"
Veronica needed to walk this tightrope carefully, because no net waited for her if she fell. She had to make the man understand the safety concerns, without actually voicing them aloud. She couldn't come out and say, because if Luke Titan knows you spoke to me, you might end up dead. That wouldn't be great for this man's lifespan, or her career.
"The things I'm going to ask you about are very sensitive. If I publish any of this, and I'll let you know before I do, it could create problems for people's careers. If you're anonymous, then those problems are less likely to arise."
The professor leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. He was quiet for a few moments, and then said, "What would you like to talk about, Veronica?"
"You were friends with Trevor Rollins, weren't you?"
George nodded.
"How close were the two of you?" Veronica didn't turn on her phone's recorder. She wanted to hear what the man had to say, and she didn't want him spooked by the recording. If something came of this, she could record another interview later.
"I suppose he was my best friend. We collaborated on quite a few projects. Our families vacationed together. We smoked a lot of cigarettes outside that front door while talking about work, long after everyone else had gone home."
"In that case, I'm sorry for your loss, Dr. ... I mean, George."
"Thank you," he said, and he looked genuine in his appreciation.
"You're welcome. I'm going to be blunt in my questions, because I really don't know any other way to be. Do you think Dr. Rollins killed himself?"
The professor was much older than Veronica, perhaps by twenty years. He was fit, though, his body not carrying much fat. His eyes were a deep brown, and he moved them from Veronica to the office window when she asked the question.
Thirty seconds passed in silence, to the point that Veronica wanted to say something—to move the conversation along. She knew better than to actually do it, however. He would answer or he wouldn't, but she couldn't force it.
"How else would he have died?" the professor said, relieving Veronica's tension.
"I would say either h
e committed suicide, or he was murdered."
George nodded and kept looking out the window. "I suppose. I'll be honest with you. I thought about this a lot when it happened. Trevor wasn't depressed. He'd only been appointed dean a few years earlier, and he was doing a great job. He loved his wife and she loved him. He loved his kids."
"Then why would he do it?"
George shook his head. "I don't know. The coroner said it was suicide, though. Trevor had a closed casket funeral." His eyes were still hard, but his voice only slightly above a whisper. "We talked a lot, and I never would have thought it possible."
"What was happening between him and Luke Titan?"
With that, George's eyes flashed back to Veronica. "What?"
"There was some kind of struggle, politically, between the two, right?"
"Ye-e-s-s," George said, the word stretching out.
"What was happening? So far, I've gathered that Dr. Rollins was criticizing Titan for spending too much time focusing on other projects, spreading himself too thin. Is that true?"
George chuckled, spite layered throughout it. "That's part of it, yes. Luke had pretty much abandoned the grants he'd been given, throwing entire research projects onto graduate assistants. He missed class. In fact, Trevor told me once that Luke had missed more classes than he showed up for. Tenure only goes so far, Veronica. He was practically abandoning his job."
"Was that all of it?"
"No, of course not. There was real animosity there, and it extended beyond the professional."
"Will you tell me about it?"
George sighed. He looked back out the window. "Why are you bringing this up? What good is going to come out of dredging up all this past history? Trevor is dead and Luke is gone, working for the FBI, I believe. Talking about this won't bring Trevor back and if you're hinting that Luke might have had something to do with his death ... well, good luck proving that."
"Another person that criticized Luke Titan died," Veronica said. "And not well."
George closed his eyes and brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He scooted his chair under the desk and placed both elbows on it.