Nemesis: Box Set: Books 1 - 3

by David Beers

  Addiction. That's what this was. He wasn't completely sober right now—he couldn't be if he wanted to keep moving through the day—but he could still see the truth of it. Hell, he'd seen the truth of it since it began. And now, when he needed a break, a single break for just a few hours, the flask sang to him as dangerously as any siren ever did to a sailor.

  He wanted it.

  Wanted to drink the godawful tasting stuff inside. He couldn't stop thinking about it, even driving down the road; that's why he pulled over, because he had ended up just driving aimlessly as he thought about grabbing the flask and tilting it up.

  A buzz, Wren, Linda reminded him. And if she had never been right before, in all his life, she was now. The buzz is what he needed to keep moving through the day, there was no cold turkey about to be discussed right now. But anymore than a buzz? Whatever was happening right now would move on without him, whatever Michael had gotten himself into. He would be an observer at best, and most likely not even that. Someone showed up at his goddamn house to murder him—were they going to stop, whoever they were?

  No. No chance. And if he picked up that flask right now, and did what he wanted, everything else fell apart. He was dead. Michael was dead.

  In Alcoholics Anonymous they called it a disease. And maybe it was. Something that got inside your head and wouldn't let go. Something that changed the damn structure of your brain. Wren didn't go to AA because he wasn't planning on quitting. That's what got him a lot of the time. You can't quit a disease. A disease quits you.

  He looked away from the mirror and back over to the flask. He could pick it up easily and put it to his lips, but the end result was always the same. The end result was him in his recliner with the television on, barely able to think. No matter how loud the flask called to him, no matter how bad he wanted to drink it all, that would be where he ended up. Someone else would come to the door and he wouldn't be lucky enough to brain them with a pan this time.

  "Just fucking say no," he said aloud. "Just say no and get moving."

  Still, he didn't pull his eyes away.

  Michael. That's who he needed to focus on. That was the only thing that might pull him away from this damn gas station. His son. He didn't have anything else, and Wren barely had him. If something happened to Michael, that was all she wrote. It's not like he had a lot to live for right now, and not like he did much living for Michael anyway, but still. If his son…if something happened to his son, he wouldn't be able to continue. And if he picked up that flask and started drinking, then something would happen to his son.

  It was there to keep him moving, not to get him drunk.

  Here to keep the shakes away, not to put him to sleep.

  "Michael," he said, still looking at the flask. A single word, a name, but maybe a talisman against the evil in his hand. Maybe the only thing that could keep him from drinking, for a bit at least.

  Wren put both hands on the steering wheel, gripping as hard as he could. He was going to find Michael.

  39

  Present Day

  Julie's mother, Myra Lean, couldn't stop shaking or thinking. The shaking stemmed directly from the thinking, but it circled back as well, creating a loop that fed her to think more.

  She could hear Tom in the kitchen, pacing there just as she paced in the living room, yelling at the police. Literally yelling now, but what did they expect? What did any of them expect? They were useless, worse than useless—they might actually have been harmful. Tom hadn't gotten off the phone with them all day, and each time he called, it was the same thing. "We're working on it, sir."

  She couldn't take it anymore and she'd left the kitchen a few hours ago. She was making her own calls, but it was like no one in the entire town had their cellphones on. The landlines she called were the same, just ringing and ringing. She wished she could go up to the school, but apparently they had closed it down due to a water outage, or something—Myra received a robocall on her voicemail about it. She drove around the town first thing in the morning, when they both woke up and realized that Julie wasn't at home. Bryan wasn't answering. Thera wasn't answering. Michael wasn't answering. Myra went to the field while Tom stayed on the phone, trying to get something out of those goddamn cops. She knew about the field, knew that people went there to drink and party, and for the most part it seemed like harmless fun. When she got there though, the place was empty. No beer cans. No people.

  She kept driving, looking at restaurants, even going into the tanning bed next to Publix, but Julie was nowhere. It was like she had disappeared.

  Myra looked down at her hands, both of them shaking like she had Parkinson's.

  Disappeared.

  What did that word even mean? It was on the television. It was on all those CIS and Snapped shows, the ones where someone always came up missing. It didn't happen in real life. It didn't happen in Grayson, Georgia. It didn't happen to Myra and it didn't happen to Julie.

  Yet her hands were still shaking, and she heard her husband screaming "LISTEN TO ME!" from the kitchen. None of this would be happening if Julie was here, if she hadn't disappeared.

  Myra turned and walked to the kitchen, shoving her hands in her pockets to try and settle them some. She looked at Tom, his face red, a blue vein running across his forehead. She hardly ever saw that vein, because she hardly ever saw him this worked up.

  Tom hung the phone up and dropped it to the floor. Myra saw the tears in his eyes.

  "The same shit. They're looking. They have police officers out working on it. They said that an officer should be coming here shortly to interview both of us." His voice shook as bad as her hands.

  Tears fell down Myra's face before they fell down Tom's, but his came shortly after. She watched with blurred vision as he walked across the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her.

  "She's going to be okay. She is. Maybe she and Bryan ran off somewhere."

  Myra buried her head in his shoulder, trying to dry her tears on his shirt. Maybe Julie was with Bryan. Maybe she was okay. But it didn't feel like it. It felt like something really bad had occurred. It felt like Myra's life was over and nothing Tom said could help her shake that feeling.

  They stood there for a while, holding each other, crying. No phone calls came in, not from the cops and not from the community.

  Finally Myra pulled away, not sure of what she should do. What did you do when your child, your baby, disappeared?

  "Should we go to the police station?" she asked, looking up to her husband's red eyes.

  "We could, but they're sending someone out. If whoever they send is as useless as the people on the phone have been, then we will. Or we'll go to the news, or something."

  She kept looking at him, seeing that he didn't know what to do anymore than she did. That he was lost and trying to make decisions, but those television shows didn't explain how to act when something like this happened. They didn't explain what to do besides call the police, and they certainly didn't give instructions for what to do if the police were idiots.

  "She's going to be okay," Tom said again but Myra didn't think he was saying it for himself. She thought he said it for her. Because his eyes said the same thing that she felt. Nothing was okay and nothing would be okay. Eighteen years with Julie and nothing like this had ever happened before, so why would it happen now if everything was okay?

  She nodded, but their eyes spoke a different language, a deeper one, even if neither dared bring that language to their lips.

  Myra's shaking hands tensed at the knock on the door, and she grabbed onto Tom again. Her heart filled for a brief second, filled that Julie was at the door, that everything was okay. It emptied just as quick, though, as she realized that Julie wouldn't knock on the door to her own home.

  "It's the police," Tom said, gently stepping away from Myra and starting to walk toward the door. Myra watched him go a few feet before following.

  "What the hell are they going to ask us that you haven't told them?" she said as she walked across
the foyer.

  "I don't know; they said it was protocol. I asked them why it took so many goddamn hours to follow protocol then."

  Myra heard her husband's sadness turning to anger, at the police, at the situation. It didn't matter. The police were here and maybe they could help. Maybe they could turn this nightmare into something that made sense, into something that contained some kind of hope.

  Tom twisted the knob on the door and pulled it open.

  It took a second to understand what happened. It was like her eyes saw it but Myra's brain couldn't possibly understand it, because she hadn't seen something close to it before. Just like when she woke up this morning, and Julie wasn’t here—her mind couldn’t adjust.

  Though it only took a few seconds for it all to happen.

  The man at the door raised a gun to her husband's head and pulled the trigger. Tom stood there for a minute, no sounds coming from him, and then collapsed to the floor. His head was completely intact, no pieces flying off like on those television shows. It was when she found the hole though, with blood leaking out across his now pale, white forehead, that her brain made the connection.

  She screamed.

  For a brief second.

  And then, hopefully, she found her husband in whatever life awaited them after.

  * * *

  Andrew looked at the ashtray. It held almost a whole pack of cigarettes. He hadn't moved from this chair in hours because it was part of the grind, part of wearing down the two kids on the bed. No movement. Nothing to excite them. Just continual pressure. Will coming in had fucked it up some, but Will did what he wanted and Andrew had no say over that. He knew that he had fucked up by not getting someone else out to the boy's house, he and Lane. There wasn't any excuse. They were professionals and sleep deprivation shouldn't affect them, but somehow, they'd forgotten. Will hadn't lost it, not completely, but when he left there wasn't much doubt where the two of them stood in his mind. They'd been here the whole time and in one move had dropped multiple levels.

  Lane didn't say anything about it and neither did Andrew. They just got to work on cleaning up the mess.

  And it was a big mess, to say the least.

  The asset that went to the boy's house was dead. A massive brain hemorrhage brought on by blunt force trauma inflicted from a frying pan that lay right next to him. Andrew would have found it humorous if he didn't have to tell Will, if the man they needed hadn't gotten away. Instead, both of those things had or would occur, and that made the situation as unfunny as it could get.

  Andrew was the one to call Will.

  "Alpha is dead."

  "You're fucking kidding me," Will said back.

  Andrew didn't respond.

  "Jesus Christ. You got someone else going out there?"

  "Yeah, already on it."

  Will went silent for a few seconds. "Alright, I'll let everyone else know to look for the father. Send me all his information, car, height, all that shit, okay?"

  "Got it."

  The line went dead and it had been better than Andrew expected. Or maybe the damage was already done. Will wasn't someone to…except Andrew didn't know exactly how to put it. When he found he was coming down here to work with the man, he'd been beyond excited. Will was, more or less, a legend, and not just because of Bolivia. Maybe it was just his length of time in the business, or maybe the stories were true, but if you got the chance to work with him—you took it. And if you fucked up while working with him? Well, his recommendation probably went a long way.

  It was too late for all those thoughts, though. Both he and Lane had fucked up pretty bad, and if Will was going to shit on their careers, then they would just have to accept it. The only thing either of them could do now would be to somehow make up for it.

  They were waiting to get some confirmation back from the girl's house. Most likely everything would go well over there, but after what happened earlier today, Andrew still felt nervous about it. They would call Lane when they finished.

  Andrew looked over at the bed to the two kids. Both of them were done. Maybe not the guy, not quite, but the girl? She would tell Andrew that she was the Queen of England if he asked.

  The phone rang in Lane's pocket and Andrew looked over. The girl on the bed opened her eyes slowly, the noise of the phone bringing her out of whatever light sleep she found. The boy's eyes were already open, doing his best to stay awake like a child that doesn't want to miss anything.

  "Okay," Lane said into the phone and then hung up. He found Andrew's eyes. "Hers are done."

  Thank God, Andrew thought as he nodded. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and grabbing another cigarette from his pack. He brought it to his lips and pulled a lighter from his pocket. This was the first good news they'd heard all day. It really wasn't even that big of a deal, something that should be routine, but right now Andrew and Lane needed whatever good news they could get.

  "What's done?" the girl asked from the bed.

  Andrew looked up, taking a drag on his cigarette. The girl wasn't sleeping anymore; her eyes were wide open and her face a sick paleness.

  Christ, Andrew thought. Fucking Christ.

  This was going to cause a problem, those three words from Lane. Because now she was going to start freaking out, and no one had time for it. Andrew stared across the room, his eyes as tired as hers, just wanting her to shut up.

  "What's done?" she asked again, her voice rising. Tears were already welling in her eyes, because she knew the answer. Everyone in this room knew what Lane meant. "What the fuck did you all do?" She was almost screaming now and that was something Andrew couldn't allow to happen. Their organization filled up the majority of the motel, but risks of a girl shrieking were too great.

  "Hush," Lane said, his voice as black as ice on asphalt.

  "No! What's done? You goddamn tell me what's done!"

  The girl stood up from the bed, the tears flowing freely. Andrew sighed and looked over at Lane. The girl was walking forward and screaming words that Andrew didn't even bother to listen to. He was about to stand up himself but saw Lane doing it first.

  "Julie, come here," the boy said from the bed, getting up too. Andrew stood, his cigarette in his right hand, ready to move if the boy did anything stupid.

  The girl took another step or two forward, "WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY PARENTS?"

  Lane moved, his hand flashing up to the girl's face, where he grabbed it and slammed her head into the wall. Her face barely registered that she understood what was happening, his hand moved so fast.

  The girl collapsed to the floor in between the bed and the wall. The boy scrambled across the bed—silently, God bless—grabbing her and pulling her up onto the bed with him. Andrew watched as he looked over her face, a slight trickle of blood running from a cut across her cheek, which was already swelling.

  At least the room was quiet now; Andrew sat back down and went to smoking his cigarette again.

  40

  Two Years After Linda Hem’s Death

  Wren didn't shut the engine off as he looked at the bar. He didn't know really why he was here, why he had pulled off the road to this place. Cheers. A silly name, trying to somehow utilize the television show despite this being Georgia and the whole bar looking like a lot of drugs were probably sold here late at night.

  Even so, Wren parked and looked at the bar with his hands on the wheel.

  Why? Linda asked.

  That was why, really. Because she had been speaking up a lot more lately. Because he didn't want to hear her voice anymore. Because it was too hard, listening to her day in and day out. Because today had been especially hard, with her talking to him like she was still alive, not just his mind trying to cope.

  He turned the car off and took the key from the ignition.

  You're going to go have a drink right now? Seriously? What about Michael? He's at home, by himself. He'll be expecting dinner, which is going to be hard for you to cook if you're sitting here.

  She had n
ever driven him to drink when she was alive. Even in their worst moments, he preferred a cigarette to completely altering his consciousness through liquor. Now though, now that she was two years dead, he couldn't think of anything he'd rather do than fill his mind with the sense that everything would be okay.

  That's what alcohol did. It told you, that no matter what was happening in life, everything would be just fine. That your worries and your dislikes, they were all insignificant. Silly problems that didn't matter in the long run—and that's what he needed right now. What he had to have.

  Wren stepped out of the truck and started walking across the parking lot. The black asphalt tried to suck up every ray of heat the sun spat out, and he was caught in the middle of that greed.

  Linda was right, or whatever he wanted to call his brain's mimic of her: Michael was at home and would be waiting for dinner. It wasn't the biggest deal in the world, however. When Wren got home after a drink—a single drink—they could order pizza.

  But was that the point? He could still give his son dinner, but did that make his trip to Cheers any better? Did it make this drink not matter as much? Did it justify him leaving his ten-year old son at home while he stopped for a beer? He didn't need Linda to answer any of those questions, but he didn't stop walking across the parking lot either. He was already in this thing, so he might as well get it over with quickly.

  The cool air of the bar washed over him like God's holy grace. He stood at the door, his eyes adjusting to the dark. He scanned the tables and counter, seeing that the place had all of about five people drinking. Which was fine. Wren wasn't looking for a crowd; he was looking for a bit of silence, finally. A jukebox pumped music over the building's sound system, though it wasn't too loud.