Nemesis: Box Set: Books 1 - 3

by David Beers

  A car pulled into the parking lot but Lane wasn't able to see if it was one of theirs from where he stood.

  "You fucking killed Julie's parents, and I'm pretty sure you're going to kill my dad if you haven't yet. That sound like the work of good guys to you?"

  Lane turned from the window and walked back to the chair he had sat in for the past however many hours. He bent down to the floor and picked up the red pack of Marlboro's, then turned and looked at the kid. "Did Nazis die in World War II?"

  "Julie's parents weren't goddamn Nazis."

  "Follow along, kid. You're not an idiot. People die in war. Sometimes a lot of people, but it's necessary for the world to keep turning. If everything is to keep moving along like it does right now, then some people have to go. Right now, your parents are some of those people."

  "Why?"

  Lane looked at the kid for a few seconds without speaking. There wasn't any fear in this boy. Or rather, there wasn't any fear of Lane in him. The kid was plenty scared, but he didn't view Lane as any kind of threat. He was scared of the entire ordeal, but here, in this room, cold that must have grown from the deepest pieces of space filled this kid.

  "Because no one can know this happened."

  "And us?"

  Lane dropped his eyes and grabbed a cigarette from the pack. He'd been thinking about that question a lot, or rather that question but turned around on himself. What's going to happen to me, to Andrew?

  "I think we might be all in this together, my man." He put the cigarette in his mouth.

  "What's that mean?"

  "I don't think any of us will be talking about it at the end."

  Lane didn't wait on the kid to reply, but just walked to the motel door and stepped outside. He made sure to flip the lock so that the door didn't close all the way, his key in his pocket in case he needed to get back in, but really, what the fuck did it matter anymore?

  * * *

  Michael looked through the tiny crack in the door, able to see a sliver of Lane leaning against the railing.

  What Lane said surprised Michael some; he was sure that they planned on killing him and Julie, but everyone else too? The man said it with such calmness, such Zen like peace, that Michael thought he might have been kidding.

  Except Michael knew that wasn't the case. No one was kidding in this motel room. If he doubted that, he only needed to look over at Julie. He was glad the only mirror was inside the bathroom, because Michael didn't want her to wake up and see what she looked like. It was bad enough she would most likely remember why she went down in the first place, that her parents no longer lived on this planet. The other guy, Michael thought his name was Andrew, had lumped her up pretty bad—easily as bad as Wren had ever done to Michael.

  No, no one was joking around.

  This guy really thought he was going to die, and he seemed at peace with it.

  Michael kept staring out the small crack in the door, grateful for the tiny breeze that sneaked through, circulating the smoke filled air just a bit. If the man was at peace with his own death, then he was simply waiting on the order to end Michael and Julie. The moment it came down, Michael would breathe no more. What Michael didn't know, and what he desperately needed to, was how quick the order would come. Just because this Lane guy was okay with dying didn't mean Michael was as well.

  Julie was a major issue, without a doubt—and he hated even thinking of it in those terms, but right now he needed to assess the facts. Julie would make it difficult to get out of here if a chance presented itself. If she even woke up, she would most likely turn hysterical. And still, Michael couldn't leave her. He didn't know anything about Thera or Bryan, not really—but he knew that he wouldn't leave Julie in this place while he escaped alone.

  Time didn't exist in this place. It was a black hole, where even time slowed to a near full stop. And yet, all Michael had was time in this place. Before, he had to answer those goddamn questions, but the two people holding them had let all that end. The only mercy they granted in this whole thing. But really, after boxing Julie's head, they would have only been able to ask him.

  So for the past however long—he had no watch, and the clock on the nightstand blinked 12:00 repeatedly—his mind ventured to Thera. His father came and went too, but Thera was where his mind wanted to rest. Michael didn't want to die, but he thought he might. He might die without ever kissing Thera; the thought had never come to him before, not just the dying part, obviously, but the kissing part as well. She was his best friend. She understood him in ways that Bryan couldn't.

  Why hadn't he ever tried to be anything more than friends? Why had he been comfortable in just that spot?

  Because, why ruin it? Why even flirt with the possibility of fucking up what they had?

  And still, he was in this motel room with a real chance of never seeing Thera again. Of never feeling her lips on his. Of never telling her he loved her.

  "Christ. Fucking think," he said. "You don't have to die. Thera doesn't have to die either. Just fucking think about how to get out of here."

  It was clear Lane didn't consider him any type of threat, that he and Julie were less than pets to be put down when necessary. Hell, him walking out right now, leaving Michael alone said just about all that was needed. Lane felt that there was no possible way either of them could mount a threat, that he was babysitting and when the job was over, two bullets would end the whole mess inside this motel room.

  That was the only advantage Michael could see, and it wasn't a very large one. Neither of these two guards thought he could hurt them and it was making them careless. Even this right here, him stepping outside to smoke a cigarette, showed just how lax he was getting.

  That's what Michael needed to focus on. Let them get more and more lackadaisical. They might leave an opening, a hole, and Michael would be ready for it when it came. That was the only chance he and Julie had.

  46

  Present Day

  Wren held the flask on his lap, his hand resting on the cool metal. He looked down at it and then over at Bryan's father.

  Fuck it, he thought, and lifted the flask up to his lips, knocking back a single sip. He needed it now if he ever needed it, because the man sitting next to him wasn't in the best condition, and that was a polite way to put it. He let the tiny sip wash down his throat, relishing the burn. Wren looked at the flask for another second before putting the cap back on. Later. There would be more later.

  The truck sat in a Wal-Mart parking lot. It was strange for Wren, watching all the people walk in and out, pushing buggies and talking with each other. They had no idea what was happening, no clue, and their days continued on without any interruptions. Wren sat in a truck with a man who looked like he might fall apart again at any second. It took Wren a good ten minutes just to get the man off the floor, another ten to make him see that they had to leave the house. The entire time Wren thought someone would come back in, someone with murderous eyes like the man that showed up at his trailer. No one had though and they finally managed to leave the driveway.

  Wren looked back over to Bryan's father. Glenn. Glenn and Wren. Had he been a bit more drunk, he would have smiled at the silly play on words. The man's face was puffy but the crying had stopped. He was staring out the window, biting down on the knuckles of his right hand.

  "I don't get it, why we can't call the police. It's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." Glenn didn't look over as he spoke.

  "If you had called the police, you would already be dead. I don't know you that well, Glenn, but I'd rather not see you die, and I don't plan on dying if I can help it."

  "Why can't we call, though?"

  Wren hadn't been in the habit of explaining things to people for quite some time, and he wasn't sure he would do an adequate job here. If he fucked up, he understood that Glenn most likely would die, because he wouldn't hear a word of what Wren said. He would simply discard the whole story and go on with his quest to call the cops.

  Which Wren felt would get hi
m killed, and quite possibly Wren too.

  He started slow, his fingers rubbing the flask though he wasn't really aware of doing so. He walked Glenn through what happened last night and then walked him through this morning. Told him about the dead guy now lying on Wren's floor.

  "I don't know for sure who those guys were, but they're not fucking local," Wren said when he finished the story. "I watch a lot of TV, and I don't know how much of that shit is true, but if these guys are as serious as I think they are, then when you call the cops, you won't be getting anyone from Grayson."

  Glenn still stared out the window. "And you think those people that showed up to your house have something to do with Bryan and Rita?"

  "I came to your house first this morning," Wren said, and a picture of him sitting in the gas station looking at the flask popped up in his head. Maybe not first, Linda whispered playfully. Like she used to when she was flirting but trying to get under his skin a bit. "Your house was completely wrecked and I don't think anything was stolen. I don't know for sure that it's connected, but it would seem pretty farfetched if it wasn't."

  "Jesus Christ," Glenn said, finally removing his knuckle from his mouth. He looked over at Wren before dropping his eyes to the flask. "You going to be able to keep that up and still function?"

  Wren looked down at the flask himself, a bit shocked. This man's eyes were still full of tears and his hair a mess, yet here he was asking about the flask, asking if Wren would keep drinking. It had been a while since anyone saw him like this, since Wren had really spoken to anybody besides Michael. And even now, though he was the one that got this guy out of his house and kept him from catching a bullet with his skull, he wanted to know if Wren could handle this.

  "Worry about yourself," he said, looking up from the flask. "I'll worry about me."

  "Alright." Glenn reached and wiped the tears from his eyes. "So what should we do?"

  Wren had been thinking about this since he managed to get Glenn out of the house. They couldn't call the cops, he felt pretty sure on that, but he didn't know where to begin without them.

  "This is going to sound crazy, but I think we should go to the actual police station."

  Glenn laughed. "You're kidding. You don't want to call them, but you'll show up there?"

  "I don't think the cops are actually in on it—if they were, I think there'd be a heavier police presence. If we show up at the station, I think we'll be able to talk to someone."

  "And if not?" Glenn said.

  "Then I'm going to wish I had hit this flask a little harder today."

  47

  Two Years After Linda Hem’s Death

  Two Years After Linda Hem’s DeathThe Night of Wren’s First Drink

  Michael didn't know what to say, though he wanted to talk. He wanted to say anything, to release some of the emotions inside him. They felt ready to explode from him at any second, literally rip through his skin and wipe out the entire house.

  He didn't say anything though. He stayed silent and watched the television, though he didn't know what the show was or why people laughed at the jokes they made. He was ten and this was an adult show, he knew that, but Thera seemed to like it, and that was the most important thing right now. Thera wouldn't leave, at least he didn't think she would; even so, she had come over and he wanted to make her as happy as possible.

  "What's the show called?" he said.

  "Friends." She looked over at him and tried to smile. "Have you never seen it? My parents watch it all the time."

  "No. We never watch it."

  She looked at him for a few more seconds and then turned back to the television.

  It was getting late and Michael knew it. Was scared of it actually, for multiple reasons. His dad had never been this late. He was always home by five-thirty and it was going on six-thirty now. Michael called Thera over forty-five minutes ago; she rode her bike, but he had asked her not to tell her parents why. He didn't fully understand why he asked that, but knew that he didn't want people outside his home thinking something was wrong inside it. He already didn't have his mother—no one needed to think that his dad wasn't doing what he should.

  But he was. He had been ever since mom died, which was why Michael felt the worry growing so large inside him. This wasn’t like his dad; he should have been home by now. Maybe something had happened. Maybe something was really wrong.

  He didn't want Thera to leave. She told her parents she was eating dinner at his house, and he had let her have free reign over the kitchen, though she didn't eat much. She would have to leave soon, regardless of what he wanted, and that meant Michael would be alone in this house. It meant that no matter how many lights he turned on, he would still be the only person here. It meant that he would watch this stupid show by himself, and that he still wouldn't know where his father was.

  The lights flashed through the living room windows, shining like flashlights in a deep wood. Michael's heart, his entire soul, surged forward as dopamine flooded his system. His father was home. Those lights, those were from his dad's truck. Things were going to be okay. Thera could go home and he could sit in the living room and listen to his dad tell him why he had been out so late.

  "Thank God," Michael whispered, not bothering to look and see if Thera heard him. He was on his feet and walking to the front door, forgetting the show, forgetting all his fear.

  He opened the front door and watched as his dad swung open the truck door.

  It was strange, the way he moved. It took him a few seconds to step out of the truck, and when he did, he stumbled. Michael stepped forward, out the front door, not noticing Thera as she stood behind him.

  "Fuck!" his dad shouted as he banged his knee into the door.

  Michael heard the word and his eyes widened. He knew what the word meant, had heard it used at school, but never by his father.

  The truck door slammed shut and his dad started walking across the lawn. He kept his head down until about ten feet from the house, then he looked up.

  Michael smelled it for the first time then, a smell that he would grow accustomed to over the long years ahead of him. He hadn't known what it was at ten years old, of course. The smell of booze, the smell of old bars and late nights, the smell of his father's end. Right then though, all Michael knew was his father was acting different, and that whatever new odor emanated from him was strong.

  "You ate?" his dad asked.

  Michael nodded, lying, but not realizing it. It was unimportant whether he ate or not, all that mattered was what happened out here in this yard.

  "Good," his dad said, and then started walking again. He didn't bother stopping at the door, but just moved through the two children in his way. Michael turned, watching him as he went, wanting to follow, wanting to say something, to ask what was going on.

  He stayed silent though. He watched. When his dad turned the corner, moving down the hallway to his bedroom, Michael's eyes found Thera—who was already staring at him. Again, he wanted to say something, but instead he started crying.

  48

  Present Day

  Wren stepped from the truck wishing more than anything else in the world (besides perhaps a bit more of the liquid in his metal flask) that he had a gun. He used to have one, but that had been sold years and years ago. He had a frying pan at home—ha ha—but it wasn't going to do him or Glenn any good.

  "You don't have a gun, do you?" Wren asked as Glenn stepped from the other side of the truck. "I should have asked back at the house, I suppose."

  "Wouldn't have mattered, I don't have one."

  "Makes sense, given everything else. Clear that God doesn't want us to have much help during this whole damned thing." He shut the door and looked at the police station in front of him. Cruisers sat beside his truck in the parking lot, though none were pulling in and no one walking out of the station. Wren couldn't remember ever coming here, not during all his alcohol induced endeavors, though he thought most of the people inside knew of him. In a town like Grayson,
the drunks get around, even the one's that mostly stay in their trailer.

  Wren looked over at Glenn. "You okay?"

  Glenn didn't look back, but just nodded. The man had grown some spine pretty quickly after their chat in the truck, especially after he asked Wren about the flask. It was like the man knew Wren wasn't to be trusted and that he would need carry the load of this tragedy. Wren didn't care too much either way what Glenn thought, as long as he wasn't weeping constantly.

  "Let's go, then."

  They made their way across the parking lot, walking shoulder to shoulder. They had their story, and for the most part, it was exactly what happened. Wren wasn't going to say that he knew the man inside his house was dead, necessarily, only that he thought he'd knocked the guy out. Other than that, their story was on the straight and narrow.

  Wren opened the door and stepped through, Glenn following close behind. Wren tried to open the second pair of glass doors, but they only rattled in their frames.

  "What the hell?" he said, looking up from the door handle to the lobby. No one sat behind the reception desk; no one sat in the chairs against the wall. No one was anywhere. He glanced up to the ceiling and saw the lights were off as well.

  "How's it locked? It's fucking noon. The whole place didn't take lunch at the same time," Glenn said.

  "I don't know." Wren tried the door again, feeling it wiggle but nothing else.

  "Fuck it," Glenn said. Wren turned to him, watching as the man raised a foot in the air, and kicked. It felt like Wren watched it in slow-motion, seeing what Glenn was doing and knowing how stupid it was, how completely insane, but though everything moved entirely too slow, he said nothing. He could only watch.

  The glass shattered, sounding like wind chimes from hell. Wren didn't move and neither did Glenn; they both only stood, looking in at the police station they had just vandalized, both stunned.