Limitless

by Robert J. Crane

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

  “Mum,” Webster called as he shut the door and locked it, “Sienna’s come over from the States. She’s uh… in need of a place to stay for the night.”

  I heard something clatter in the kitchen. “An American, dear?” Her head poked out again and she still wore a genuine smile. “Any friend of Matthew’s is welcome here, of course.” She straightened. “Oh, but the spare bedroom is in a terrible state, I’ll need to clean it immediately—” She froze. “Oh, the hotpot!” She disappeared back into the kitchen.

  I glanced at Webster. “Yeah, your mom is a real terror. I see why you warned me about her.”

  He cringed. “She’s a lovely person, really. She just… maybe tries a bit too hard.”

  “To what?” I asked, bereft of a clue. “To please others? God, what a failing that is.”

  “It can be a bit awkward,” he said, clearly a little embarrassed.

  “Oh, how you have suffered,” I said, “having a mother who endears herself to other people.”

  “It’s harder than you think,” he said. “Every one of my friends liked her more than me. She always had biscuits for them, always had extra dinner—and apparently she continues the tradition, even years after I got my own flat—I can’t even count the number of my former girlfriends she keeps in touch with in spite of me being done with them for years and years.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, yeah? Are there are lot of those?”

  He grunted and looked a little flushed. “The point is, it’s not easy to live in her shadow.”

  “I’ve got some biscuits before dinner,” Marjorie said, appearing from the kitchen with a tray of cookies. A pot of tea sat in the middle of it, and three cups with saucers were arranged around the tray. She made her way to the overstuffed couches and bid us enter with a wave as she set it upon the table in the middle of the room. “Well, come on, then. The tea will get cold.”

  “Truly, I know no one with a burden as great as yours,” I muttered to Webster as I came into the sitting room.

  “One lump or two, dear?” Marjorie asked.

  “Two, I guess.” I didn’t really do tea, so I didn’t know what was better. I liked my coffee sweet, though.

  “And one for Matthew—” Marjorie started.

  “None for Matthew,” he corrected.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said and rapped her knuckles against the wooden table’s edge. “I forget that you’re watching your weight. Good heavens, though, Matthew, I do worry that you’re not eating enough. You’re a growing lad—”

  “All my upward growing is done, Mum,” he said as he seated himself on the sofa next to her. “Now it’s all horizontal growth.”

  “Of course,” she said, almost resigned. “But I’ve always maintained that a girl likes to be with a man who has a healthy appetite and a reasonable waistline.” She looked at me. “What do you think, Sienna dear?”

  I had a hot cup of tea about two inches from my mouth when she asked. “Uh… sure.”

  She beamed at me and picked up the plate that had the cookies on it. “Biscuit, dear?”

  Chapter 16

  Angus was dead. Philip had watched it happen, oh so slowly. It was really a joy to watch, especially knowing what Angus had represented. What he’d been a part of.

  “Messy,” Antonio opined. He didn’t usually stay to watch, preferring to spend his time in the office mucking about with his toys. He’d stayed for this one, though. It was as though being called a prick had awakened a primal desire within the man to see some suffering.

  Well, there had been plenty of that.

  “Where’s the next target?” Liliana asked. Her arms were bathed in red from elbow to fingertips. Philip wondered if part of that was her ability, causing the blood to cling to her. He glanced at the corpse of Angus Waterman, then looked back to Liliana. No, it was probably just the nature of what had happened that caused her to be so soaked.

  “We have a wide open field,” Philip said, his arms crossed in front of him. He’d kept his distance so as to keep his suit free from the bodily fluids that had spattered throughout the chamber. “I have a clear line to each of them.”

  “Are you concerned that the police will find them?” Antonio asked.

  “No,” Philip said. “It’s a very slight possibility, not likely at all.” He dealt in possibilities, in the chances that the things he saw coming would reach fruition. It was a very segmented way of looking at life, he knew, but it was his advantage. It was what made him unique.

  It was what made him invincible.

  “No,” Philip said again. “They’ll keep. What we need to do now is take this trail that we’ve been so neatly laying for the Metropolitan Police—and now Ms. Nealon—to follow and introduce a red herring for them to chase before we carry out tomorrow’s business.” He tapped his chin, giving a slight nod of acknowledgment to Antonio. Liliana had an idea about how to do that. “Something that will… shall we say… up the chaos quotient? Make our ultimate goal a bit easier to achieve by taking their attention away…” He glanced at Liliana. “I believe you might know someone who fits that description.”

  She was not smiling, but it was apparent in her bearing that she had something in mind. “Chaos?” she asked in that dark, satisfied voice. “I think I know someone whose bloody death will cause more than a little chaos…”

  Chapter 17

  I’d never had Lancashire hotpot before, and I ate like I’d never eaten anything before in my life. Like I hadn’t had ten of those biscuits Marjorie had offered me. And two cups of warm, sugary tea.

  “Gracious, dear, slow down,” Marjorie said to me with a smile. “There’s plenty enough for you, and if it’s not enough I can make you something else—”

  “It’s plenty, Mum,” Webster said. “There’s still half the pot left, and I’m done.”

  I glanced at Marjorie’s plate. She had what I would consider a half portion, and she’d had barely three bites of it. She had a nervous energy about her, like she was ready to get up and start bustling about, cleaning something or making something else. She stayed seated, though, shooting a reassuring smile at Webster before cutting a slice of potato no bigger than my thumb in half and gingerly chewing it.

  She made me feel like a horse eating from a trough by comparison.

  “Sorry,” I said, slowing down. “It’s just been a little while since I’ve eaten. And this is… very good.” I dabbed my mouth with my napkin and found a lot more layering my lips than lipstick. Which I never wore.

  “I’m glad you like it, dear,” she said with a gentle smile. She took another impossibly small bite and took five minutes to chew it. If I ate like she did, I’d never have time to work. “So, what brings you over here from the U.S.?”

  “She’s investigating a series of murders with me,” Webster said. He caught my frown at answering for me and blushed. “Sorry.”

  “Well, that’s a bit frightening,” Marjorie said. “I don’t care for that work Matthew does, but I suppose someone has to keep us safe.” Lines creased her face, making her look older.

  I could smell the Lancashire hotpot, the delicious scent of the onions still making my mouth water two servings later. “At least he’s good at his job.”

  “That’s very true,” Marjorie said and put down her fork to stroke Webster’s arm. He grunted in acknowledgment. Personally, I wouldn’t have been able to spare the seconds of putting down the fork, but Marjorie was clearly very different than myself. “What exactly is this dreadful murdering that you’re looking into, dear?”

  I waited to see if Webster would answer for me, but a shared glance told me he’d learned his lesson. “A metahuman was killed,” I said, waiting to see what her reaction would be. “And another one kidnapped.”

  “Oh, heavens, that is dreadful,” Marjorie said, shaking her head. She stared a bit closer at me, and I waited for it. Waited. “Oh!” she said at last, and it sounded a little joyful. “It’s you, you
’re her!”

  “I’m her,” I said. She’d taken longer than most people to recognize me.

  She reached over and slapped Webster’s arm, causing him to look up in surprise. “We have a veritable celebrity in the house, Matthew! And you didn’t even think to make mention that you were coming over! I don’t even know why you have one of those mobile phones if you won’t even use it to tell your mother you’re bringing over such a famous guest…”

  Webster, for his part, looked suitably chastened. His eyebrows arched downward, and his fork paused in its ascent to his mouth. He’d eaten maybe—maybe—a quarter of the enormous portion his mother had dished out for him. I’ll admit, I was eyeing it like a hungry dog. Or like I imagine a hungry dog would look at it, if that dog had a taste for Lancashire hotpot. Because of the change in time zones, I didn’t even know what time it was when I’d last eaten, so it was totally justifiable, right?

  Marjorie made an exasperated noise and got up from the table. She went straight to the freezer and began to rummage through it. “Famous company come all the way from America to my house, and I don’t even have a decent dessert to put on the table… Matthew, if your guest wasn’t here, I’d give you a right piece of my mind…”

  He looked a little disquieted at that.

  Me? I was thinking about dessert.

  Chapter 18

  To Philip’s eyes, the flat he was looking into was not all that different from his last. A bit more posh, perhaps. A bit more upmarket than Philip’s had been, before he left it in favor of the warehouse. But it was clearly a place of refinement, in a higher-class neighborhood. As he entered the building with Liliana at his side, he made note of the lobby, of how it looked. Plush red carpeting that the feet sunk into.

  Yes, it was truly a lovely place. A place where he might have wanted to live after this was all over.

  But what they were about to do was going to make that well nigh impossible, unfortunately.

  Besides, he’d have enough dosh to afford something better once this was finished, anyway.

  The man behind the security station just inside looked up from his desk as Philip and Liliana made their way toward him. There were only a very few probabilities floating around for how this would go, and they narrowed all the way up until he rose from his seat to greet them and presumably ask who they were here to see—

  Then Liliana produced a knife with a flick of her wrist and ripped the poor bastard’s throat out with a hard slash.

  Philip knew which direction the blood would spatter and sidestepped it at the last moment. Liliana was always considerate and very seldom messy when she didn’t want to be, but the guard’s movements didn’t exactly help her. The guard clutched at his throat and made a wheezing, gasping, sick sort of noise as he fell back behind the desk. Philip counted the seconds until he was sure the man had expired.

  No more future for that one.

  He started moving again, and Liliana followed him. Philip paused for a moment and shouldered his way into a nondescript door just beyond the elevator banks. It contained a half dozen surveillance monitors, cameras showing a dozen hallways. It also provided a wonderful view of the guard, still making his final twitching motions in the lobby.

  Philip pressed a button with his knuckle and a CD ejected with a whirring noise.

  “Is that it?” Liliana asked.

  Philip concentrated for just a moment. “That’s it. No backup recording, nothing to catch these lovely images.” He made a vague wave toward the monitors and paused on the image of the desk guard, now still. “Without this, it’s quite dead.”

  Liliana almost smiled at the subtle joke. “Fifth floor.”

  They rode the lift in silence. No music played, thankfully; low-key Muzak was not exactly Philip’s cup of tea. At the fifth floor, they exited. He stopped her just before the fourth door, gently backing her toward the wall of the hallway. He feigned kissing her, pressing her head back, turning his face so that he could not be seen. He heard the faint sound of a door opening, then closing. Footsteps traced their way toward them, and he heard a cough. The footsteps receded toward the elevator, and when he heard the ding, he gently put an arm on her elbow and tugged her away so that they man who’d passed by them had no chance to look at their faces.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t apologize,” she said in that cold tone, “you know what needs to be done. I am at your disposal.”

  He felt a slight thrill at her words. Not because they hinted at something suggestive—he knew they didn’t—but because the simple command of such a chilling instrument as Liliana Negrescu was a heady thought for him. This was power, real power, and to be able to wield her body, her skill, her very life the way that bitch Sienna Nealon might pull a gun, well… that was more than some American whose instinct was to shoot first would ever understand.

  “What’s his name?” Philip asked as they reached the door. It was a wood-frame, solid panel, nicely carved. It suited the building, that was for certain.

  “Dmitriy Alkaev,” she said, and he caught a hint of that joy in her voice. Deep within. “He’s Chief of Station—head of the spies for the Russians in London. Works in the embassy.”

  “Well, then,” Philip said with a smile, “this should start a bit of a diplomatic incident.”

  “It will start more than that,” Liliana said with that chilling joy as she kicked in the door.

  Philip waited for her to enter, and by the time she had, he already had a sense of Dmitriy Alkaev. It only took seconds for Liliana to cross the main room and reach Alkaev, where he rested in a leather chaise, a bottle of vodka by his side. “A drunken Russian,” Philip said as he entered the room. “What a terrible stereotype to perpetuate.” He kept his hands clasped behind him.

  “What… is this?” Alkaev said in a heavy accent. Liliana had him by the throat, gripped tight, fingers already pressing heavily into his neck. He tried to speak again, but his words were cut off by the pressure.

  “This is a slaughter,” Philip said, pacing to the edge of the room. The room was plain, far from ornately decorated. In fact, in spite of it being a fine flat in a fine building, one might have assumed that this man was poverty-stricken by the state of his possessions. Philip glanced around. Not a single book. Not a hint of culture. No paintings. His eyes fell on two posters of nude women hung in the far room. They weren’t exactly Botticellis; they looked more like a pair of Page 3 girls. He sniffed his nose at the affront to good taste. “Liliana, you will have to let him breathe at some point.”

  “He can breathe through his nose,” she said simply.

  “Very well, then,” Philip said and picked up a dress shirt that was hung, wrinkled, upon the back of a chair in the dining room. Philip took another brief glance at the nude pictures on the wall and shook his head. He pinched the shirt between his fingers and handed it to Liliana, placing it in her gloved hand.

  She crumpled the shirt, smashing it into a ball less that the size of her fist. She did this while Alkaev watched, horrified, unspeaking, a low squealing noise coming out of his mouth.

  Philip made his way back to the door, lifting it off the ground and settling it into the frame. It leaned slightly off-kilter but rested in place. “That should keep the prying eyes out,” he said, leaning against it. He turned in time to see Liliana stuff the shirt—compressed by her strength into a ball—into Alkaev’s open mouth. Philip did not know this Alkaev, had not heard of him before today, but he knew one thing for bloody certain: Dmitriy Alkaev had angered Liliana Negrescu at some point in the past.

  And Philip would not have cared to trade places with him for all the vodka in Russia.

  The torture began, as it always did, at the point of a knife. Alkaev cried and whimpered and begged, each in turn, each sound suppressed by the makeshift gag. The television blared, deafening Philip as he stood there, back against the door, watching Liliana drag Alkaev around the apartment as she did her work. It was a thing of beauty, really.

 
“Just like the others, yes?” Liliana asked as she played with her new toy.

  “Well… perhaps with one slight difference,” Philip said with a smile. “To keep things interesting.”

  An impressively brutal hour later, she was done.

  And so was Dmitriy Alkaev.

  Chapter 19

  I felt full to bursting, splayed out on the sitting room couch with Marjorie Webster across from me. She was staring at me intently, and I felt a little uncomfortable. Not just from all I had eaten, but also because… well… I was uncomfortable being stared at.

  “What was it like, dear?” she asked, finally getting around to asking what I suspected she’d wanted to all along. Webster was upstairs, sorting out the spare bedroom with new sheets at her request. I got the feeling that those bedroom sheets were probably as clean as could be and hadn’t been slept in since the last time she’d changed them, but Ms. Webster commanded, and her son grudgingly went up to do as he was told.

  “What was what like?” I asked. I suspected I knew what she was getting at, but it never hurt to narrow things down.

  “Saving the world,” she said quietly.

  I forced a smile. “Not everyone believes I did.”

  “That’s rubbish, that is,” she said, a rock-hard certainty underlying her words. “I don’t care what any flat-earther thinks. The world changed on us. People still argue that no man has walked on the moon. I don’t pay much attention to them, either.” She leaned forward, hands resting on her knees. “So, what was it like?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Scary. Exhilarating. Gut-clenchingly frightening.”

  She gave me a slow nod. “I can imagine a few of those feelings went right together.”

  “I was afraid at the time that I was going to be outed and thrown in jail,” I said. “Or turned into some kind of scapegoat or freak show.”