Douglas nodded knowingly, but suddenly, the world around them jarred violently, as though there had been an earthquake in his dreams. Douglas and Jonathan staggered, bracing themselves against whatever was available. As quickly as the rumbling started, it ended.
“We’ve hit something,” Jess said. “You should finish if you want him to have any time to consider what you’re offering.”
Jonathan watched as his father nodded to the girl reluctantly. Douglas stepped past him, pulling up the canvas on the passenger side of the old truck and reaching through the open window. He took something small from the glove box.
“What is she talking about?” Jonathan asked.
Douglas opened his hand, revealing a key. It was ordinary brass, inconsequential, but his father looked at his palm as though it were weighed down with a heavy burden. Jonathan recognized that look. He’d seen it on Heyer many times. It was the face of a man who held the ends in his hand, but couldn’t justify the means.
“I can’t decide this for you,” he said, a tear forming in his eye.
“Dad?”
“There are so many things I wanted to give you, Jonathan. But so many more that I would have died to protect you from. If there was any other way I could help you, I would never offer this to you,” he said. “But it’s the only thing I have that can give you a chance.”
When it happens, if it happens, you won’t need me to tell you. Heyer’s words echoed through his thoughts as Jonathan began to understand. He turned without thinking, found himself staring at the brick wall, the vault door—the barriers he’d built to protect his loved ones from everything he had been forced to become. From the killer, from the monsters, from all the violence and lies.
As his eyes returned to the key in his father’s palm, he remembered—of all things—Mr. Fletcher speaking to him.
It’s smart that you want it safe, but if you plan on keeping a weapon around, make sure you find someone you trust who can teach you how to use it, the old man had said. Until then, I wouldn’t let anyone know you have it.
Jonathan closed his eyes, knowing now, why his father was so conflicted, why he kept looking at the vault door. “In my head, I locked it all behind a wall,” he said, taking a breath before turning his eyes to the workbench where his father’s footlocker rested. “You locked it in the box.”
“We aren’t so different, son,” Douglas said as he tapped his forehead. “There are experiences in this world that, once they are a part of you, can never be separated out. So you try to protect your loved ones from them. It seems that, in death, I’m forced to offer you everything I hid from you in life.”
It began to fit—the alien’s words. I never said you were special.
Heyer had spent years building his father into a weapon with a purpose. The night Douglas had died, the blueprints of his plan had lost their keystone. Still, Malkier had nearly been slain by the weapon he’d built. He knew the device would give the son a raw power he couldn’t give the father….
Had the alien maintained the status quo as long as he could… because he didn’t have a better alternative? After all, by the time Jonathan was old enough to matter, there was no guarantee it wouldn’t already be too late. Would there be time to train him, give him the knowledge and experience that his father had?
How did you take the two pieces you needed, merge the strength and the knowledge—the father and the son—across a span of time? You needed a third piece, you needed something connected to both. You needed the device. You needed a…
“Trinity,” he whispered.
Slowly, Jonathan raised his hand for the key, but Douglas hesitated.
“It is a lifetime of pain endured,” he said. “Pain that will alter—taint—everything you are. There’s no way to know if the man who opens his eyes will be much like you at all.”
“Give me the key, Dad,” Jonathan whispered. “I understand the decisions, I understand the consequences.”
“You have to promise me that you aren’t letting revenge push you to take this key. The memories in that box—they’ll be fuel on the fire if your anger is making this decision for you. Jonathan—anger is not going to see you through this, not today.”
He wavered as he considered his father’s fear. It was undeniable that a fire had been lit inside him long ago, and now, knowing it started as a debt gone unpaid was only stoking those flames. Still, he hadn’t been considering vengeance when he’d put his hand out for the key.
His face hardened, growing bitter with understanding. “No … revenge is the story that brought Malkier here for me. Today, it will be his weakness. I won’t let it be mine.”
Douglas studied him a moment before accepting the answer. “Well said.” Douglas pushed the key into Jonathan’s palm and embraced him. “Whatever you choose, I will be here.”
For a moment, Jonathan held on, knowing they shared the same fears. If he opened the box or not, it was the last time Jonathan would hug his father as who he was—as only himself. When they parted, Douglas stood aside and allowed Jonathan to walk by him. He didn’t go to the box; he went to Jess and looked into her eyes.
“I doubted you, and it goes without saying that I’ve made mistakes,” he said as he lifted his open palm to hold the key between them. “But I trust you now—and from here on out.”
Jess bit her lower lip and watched him sympathetically. “Then ask yourself—what do you want from you?”
He looked down at the hand holding the key. “The part of me that wanted to fail … it came from knowing that I wasn’t the right person—that I wasn’t enough. But, if I can be the right tool….” He trailed off as Jess gently touched his cheek. “I want to be the solution to this problem.”
She studied him—he studied himself—but not for long.
“Bring the rain,” Jess whispered.
He nodded, shut his eyes, and slowly… his hand became a fist, tightening around the key.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
GRANT WATCHED JONATHAN fall until he was out of sight. A moment later, he heard the crash of floorboards giving way below. He dropped the sledgehammer, leaning his head over the ledge and listening. Once the wreckage settled, the darkness grew still. It brought a smirk to the corner of his lips and he was about to retrieve the body when he remembered his instructions.
Run this joke through his heart. He deserves the same dignity he gave my son.
It was hardly too much trouble to oblige the bereaved father. Grant shrugged and strolled back to the hole they’d left in the ceiling. A moment later, he stood on the roof top holding Excali-bar in his hands. He liked the weight of it, the strength it promised—but the black coating needed to go. The staff would make a far more dashing accessory if it shined. It was as though Jonathan had tainted it on purpose, hidden the weapon’s glory under a veil.
In the distance, he could hear the dull thuds of Malkier and Rylee. She was still quite alive if the noise was any indication. He doubted Malkier needed him to have a role in changing that, and he had to stop and take a moment for himself right now. He looked into the sky—the rain was coming down harder than it had all morning. He held Excali-bar over his head and finally felt the vindication he’d been owed for so long.
“I have the power!” he yelled to the city.
Grant smiled, laughing at himself. There was a pureness to his joy only found on the faces of children playing make believe.
A short time later, he crouched at the shaft’s ledge again, pondering the dark silence. He was unsure if it was wise to simply drop when he didn’t know if he’d be landing on sturdy ground, but the concern was short-lived. He had no reason to fear the fragility of the human condition. With the time he had remaining, he would live as far more than a man.
Stepping off the edge, he dropped after Jonathan’s body, the light of his chest allowing him to see into some of the darkness. He saw the hole Jonathan had broken through into the basement, and as he hit ground, his momentum had the same effect. He found himself cras
hing through into a corridor and standing on the resultant rubble.
He waited for silence to return before he searched for the body.
Near the opposite wall was a telling pile of debris, the outline of a man under the rubble. As he approached, Grant heard a cough, and his eyebrow rose in surprise. Jonathan’s head began to rise out of the debris, blood flowing from the wound that Grant’s sledgehammer had put in his forehead.
Yes, he thought. Get up, look me in the eye.
Jonathan’s eyes opened slowly, like that of a man coming out of a long sleep. At first, he seemed to be at a loss for where he was. Jonathan moved slowly, rose onto his knees, planting a fist on each side of him as he did so. He looked about the faintly lit corridor while Grant waited, eagerly watching for his eyes to find him standing there.
Yet, they didn’t.
Jonathan shut his eyes and his head tilted, as though he’d heard something Grant could not and was trying to focus on the sound. A moment later, his eyes opened again, and he looked to the floor in front of him, seeming to simply stare through it. Blood began to run down Jonathan’s forehead. It drew a red line between his eyes, until dripping to the floor from the edge of his nose, the red dots landing where Jonathan’s gaze seemed so intensely focused. Seconds ticked away while Grant watched this pathetic confusion with growing impatience.
Dumb bastard probably has brain damage, Grant thought, finally stepping toward him.
No longer interested in waiting, he lifted Excali-bar over his shoulder, gripped like a spear with the tapered edge taking aim at Jonathan’s heart.
“Tibbs,” he said.
Jonathan didn’t react, and as Grant studied his odd semi-conscious behavior, he started to see that Jonathan wasn’t looking or hearing anything at all. He was like a man stuck in a daydream, completely focused on whatever was taking place in his head.
“Jonathan Tibbs!” Grant roared.
Finally, the bloodied man blinked, seeming to have some recognition of his own name at least. His gaze fell onto Grant’s feet and, slowly, his headed lifted until his eyes met Grant’s. Eagerness brought a smile to the shadow’s face—he finally seemed to have the man’s full attention.
Jonathan’s expression changed slowly. His face molded into a picture of disgust before his eyes began to harden into the unblinking stare of a predator. Then, for no reason Grant could understand, Jonathan closed his eyes, drew in a long breath, and exhaled in a frustratingly slow and deliberate manner.
“I told you,” Grant said, “this is how it would end.”
Jonathan licked his lips before he opened his eyes again. A disturbing smile started to form at the edge of his lips. His pupils dilated like a junkie getting a fix as he slipped one hand off the ground to rest carelessly on his legs. Grant, feeling his perfect moment growing tarnished by Jonathan’s sudden disturbing lack of concern, didn’t waste his energy discerning what the man kneeling before him found amusing.
Let’s see how long you smile with a length of steel through your chest.
Grant growled, and plunged down with Excali-bar, all his strength recklessly aimed for Jonathan’s heart. He didn’t take his eyes from Jonathan’s, didn’t want to miss the moment when the man’s expression would falter as steel penetrated his skin—when he would know that Grant was the last thing in this world he was ever going to see. Yet, as the staff shot forward, there was a faint glow behind the man’s eyes.
The sudden movement was like a snake uncoiling. Jonathan’s hand slid up to the interlocking ends of chain wrapped across him, the connected steel coming apart, freed into his fist and intercepting Excali-bar. Sparks shredded out between the weapons as one pushed against the other.
The glow in Jonathan’s eyes erupted into a blaze, the orange energy radiating out of his pupils while the demolition bar erred off target and pierced the wall beside Jonathan’s shoulder with a thud as it penetrated the aged brick and mortar.
Stunned, Grant hesitated as his moment fell apart. Jonathan’s free hand tightened into a fist. The strike drove into Grant’s groin with a force that buckled his chest to his knees and took his feet off the floor. He collided with the opposite side of the corridor and crumpled as his nerves lit up in agony. He fell against the floor, instincts making him curl into the fetal position. A whimper escaped him before his eyes clenched shut and his teeth ground down against the pain.
So attuned to his misery, begging his body to go numb, he barely registered the foreboding clink of Doomsday’s links moving against one another until he felt the cold steel loop around his neck.
Adrenaline shot through him, jarring open his eyes as the noose tightened on his throat and lifted him off the floor. Grant couldn’t stand—his body rebelled, held him locked against his legs. He staggered, his feet trying to find purchase but his legs unwilling. Jonathan’s terrible gaze came into focus, the line of red still running down between those blazing eyes. Grant cowered and looked away in fear of what had awoken inside the man.
“I saw my father,” Jonathan said.
He pivoted, and Grant felt a violent pull from the chain around his neck. He lost the ability to breathe as he was jerked off his precarious footing. Helpless, he felt like a tether ball circling around its post. He was horizontal to the ground when he collided with resistance. The hard wall crunched and cracked around the back of his skull. His body began to fall toward the floor, as though the brick had spit him out, but he never felt the ground. Another violent tug of the noose sent his hands and feet flailing as he shot back toward Jonathan.
He felt his body jar to a halt against the man’s grip. Grant gasped, but found no air could enter his lungs. His feet dangled below him as Jonathan held him off the ground by his throat.
“I’m sorry, but….” Jonathan’s voice trailed off as he turned, putting his weight into ramming Grant’s skull into the wall.
He wanted to plead for mercy, but found he could not form words against the chain threatening to collapse his throat. His hands clutched at the noose as his head slammed violently into the wall again and again. His fingers grew weak, unresponsive as he felt his head emerge out into the air of the corridor, only to be rammed back, digging a deeper gash into the long-forgotten walls.
Finally, his hands fell defenselessly to his side, and shortly after, the barrage stopped.
Fearing what it meant, Grant forced his eyes open, only able to see the two orange flames in the darkness. He was unable to plead for mercy. He tried feebly gripping the leather around Jonathan’s forearm in submission.
Jonathan finished his thought: “We forgot to talk about you.”
Grant felt his body swung around, and a moment’s relief when the grip on his throat loosened as he was briefly thrown away.
He expected another crash into the corridor wall. Instead, he felt steel penetrate through his back.
The noose, having now gone slack, allowed him to gulp air as he heard the crunching of his own ribs.
He opened his eyes for one last moment. Excali-bar protruded out from his chest, drops of red falling from its tip like wet paint. He gripped the bar in disbelief. Blood poured from his mouth and choked him. Black was beginning to push in at the edges of his vision.
Jonathan’s eyes—they were like the devil watching him. In this darkness, there wasn’t anything else to look at.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
JONATHAN STEPPED ONTO the sidewalk with Excali-bar harnessed on his back and Doomsday hanging coiled from his fist. A pedestrian screamed and he turned to see a woman slipping on the wet cement, falling to the ground beside him. She scampered away, trying to crawl backwards on her hands as fear stricken eyes watched him. Finally, she managed to put enough distance between them to get to her feet and run.
Jonathan frowned at the stranger, but as he turned his head, he caught his reflection in one of the display windows that lined the street. His clothing was smudged with dirt. There were red hand prints, Grant’s blood, still wet on his jeans. He’d wiped at the blood ru
nning down his forehead and the left side of his face was smeared crimson.
Still, he doubted that the woman fleeing him in terror had noticed any of those minor details. She had been looking at his eyes. The light, normally constrained to the device beneath his skin, was pouring out of his eye sockets. It was as though his body couldn’t contain the amount of power and the excess was spilling out, flickering in front of him and setting the world on fire. He remembered then, the night he had slain Bleeds the Stone in the brewery, how the color of everything around him had changed when he’d believed Rylee was…
Rylee.
The blaze roared with the thought of her in danger. He moved without any further hesitation, stepping away from the reflection and running toward the muffled crashing in the distance. Doomsday, he realized, was not in a good position for him to move as quickly as he could, and without thought, he threw the excess chain out in front of him as he ran. He spun, then spun again, before he left the ground, launching himself for a nearby rooftop. He spun once more in the air, and all of it felt like a familiar motion. He tilted his head to the right and caught Doomsday’s metal, spiked end as it came around one last time to settle perfectly in his palm. He landed on the rooftop, hitting the ground running, as he clicked the steel into place around himself.
Only then did he realize what he’d done—some type of Jet-Li maneuver that would have taken five takes to get right. Yet he’d put the chain back in place around himself without losing a step, as though it were a reflex, something he had practiced a thousand times before.
The moment he questioned how he could have done this, confusing memories came at him. He was out in the country, and his hands hurt, the heavy rope digging in. He saw an animal, a steer, its feet tied. He saw pieces of a childhood on a ranch—where? They collided with countless hours of the alien’s face, flooding into his mind’s eye. He saw himself sparring in a dojo that he knew wasn’t a dojo, for long hours. He saw…
The Never Paradox (Chronicles Of Jonathan Tibbs Book 2) Page 55