Born to Darkness

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Bach already knew that, too, and he nodded. And then he sat back and held still, and the scanner clicked on.

  “Hempford definitely double-dosed,” Elliot said, as he checked the test results that were already filling the computer monitor. “And as far as we can tell, the drug was from the same batch we’ve been seeing over the past few months. That shit is strong, and shit’s the scientific term, Doctor. Part of the filler is some kind of electrolyte sports drink and blah blah blah. I’ve already zapped you a file of my report.” He glanced over his shoulder at Bach. “Somehow you always get me talking first. If I didn’t know myself better, I’d wonder if you weren’t jedi-ing me. These aren’t the droids we’re looking for. My questions for you, Obi-Wan, are more along the WTF line. Like, seriously? Hempford was immune to everything you threw at him, except this mojo you described as a projected wall of pain?”

  The scanner chimed as it clicked off, and Bach sat back up and shook his head. “He was immune to everything we tried throwing at him,” he said, reiterating the wording from his own report. “There wasn’t a lot of time for experimentation. The reason we knew to try projecting pain was because, early on in the altercation, Mac injured her ankle—pretty badly, I think. You should check, it might even be broken.”

  “She kinda needs to show up for that, but do go on. She injured her ankle and …?”

  “Because Hempford was a force-bender, Mac was getting hit by everything I was throwing at him, and she couldn’t handle that and shield her pain. At least not during that initial burst when she was first injured.” Bach rotated his own ankle at the memory. It was fine now, but he, too, had gotten a taste of the intense burn. “The joker apparently wasn’t able to block her pain or bounce it back toward us, so once we figured that out, we blasted him with everything we had.”

  “Physical pain.” Behind his dark-rimmed glasses, Elliot’s blue eyes were skeptical. “And that was enough to knock him out?”

  “Has Mac submitted her report?”

  “Answering a question with a question,” Elliot observed, turning to lean against the comm-station, his arms crossed. “Very interesting. No, she has not. And what, pray tell, will I find in Dr. Mackenzie’s intentionally brain-numbing dry list of facts when she finally does get around to doing her paperwork?”

  “It wasn’t just physical pain. It was …” Bach just said it. “Emotional. Also.”

  Elliot blinked once, but wisely didn’t comment. Instead, he turned back to the computer, checking the final results of Bach’s med scan.

  “Knowing Mac, she might not mention it,” Bach continued. “But I’ve been thinking about it, and … It’s important that you know.”

  “Science over privacy, huh?” Elliot said. “I’m not sure I’d be willing to play that game.”

  “I trust you,” Bach told him.

  “I’m honored,” Elliot said, glancing at him again. “But you know—and you do know—that if this turns out to be relevant, it’s going to have to go into the official report.”

  And that was, indeed, the very opposite of private.

  “With that said,” Elliot continued, “my next question is about the specific nature of—”

  “That,” Bach interrupted him, “isn’t important.”

  “I disagree,” Elliot said evenly, as he crossed the room and tossed Bach his pants. “The memories of emotional pain caused by being bullied as a child light up different sections of the brain than, say, memories of pain caused by the death of a parent. And that’s different, too, than—”

  “I lost the only woman I ever loved,” Bach said as he slipped on his jeans and fastened them. When he said it aloud, it seemed so simple, but it was, in truth, far more complicated. He stood up and crossed toward his sweater, pulling it over his head before adding, “She died, in part because of me, in part because of circumstances beyond my control. I accept that and forgive myself, but that doesn’t make it any easier to live with. And that’s … all you need to know.”

  Again, Elliot tried to hide his surprise, but then he just gave up. “I’m so sorry, Joseph,” he said. And he was. Bach could feel the sympathy radiating off of the man.

  There was envy there, too. For years, Elliot had been in a marriage that he’d thought was rock solid, when in fact his husband, Mark, had cheated on him repeatedly. It had been three years since their divorce, and Bach knew that Elliot was still wounded. He’d come to the conclusion, though, that Mark simply hadn’t been able to love Elliot—at least not the way that Elliot had loved Mark. Or so Elliot had told Bach.

  “I’m sorry, too,” Bach said as jammed his feet back into his boots. “I take it I’m cleared to leave.”

  “You’re showing signs of slight dehydration, and your blood sugar’s a little low,” Elliot reported. “It’s not out of normal range, but I know you better than the computer does. You’ve also got some blood vessel constriction—again very slight. But it makes me think there’s a migraine out there with your name on it, so heads up.”

  Bach nodded. “I’m already aware of that, and adjusting.”

  “Your back’s fine.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s bruising on your left cheekbone,” Elliot told him, “but it’s fading fast. When was the last time, I wonder, that you took a hit to the face?”

  A good question. “A long time ago.”

  “I’ll bet. Knowing this guy was able to get in a shot like that is alarming,” Elliot said. “And speaking of alarming? Here’s a fun fact about tonight’s joker: He wasn’t a frequent flier. Tonight was his very first injection.”

  Bach looked sharply at the other doctor.

  “Yeah,” Elliot said, drawing the word out.

  “He jokered,” Bach needed to clarify. “He went completely insane—on his first ever injection of Destiny? You’re certain of that.”

  “We’ll test him again,” Elliot said. “But three times so far, the answer’s been yes.”

  “That’s … not good.”

  “I hear you,” Elliot said with an equal amount of grim. “Oh, and something else came in that you’re going to hate. I mean, if you allowed yourself to. You know, hate. And yes, I find myself stalling …”

  This was going to be bad. Bach made himself breathe. “Just tell me.”

  “Promise you won’t hit me with a wall of pain and fry my brain?”

  “Not funny,” Bach said.

  “Yeah, it kinda was,” Elliot pointed out. “The joke being that’d you’d just randomly start unleashing your heretofore unacknowledged inner darkness and—”

  “Did I actually fry Hempford’s brain?” Bach had to ask. “Because Mac got hit by it, too.”

  “You take things so literally,” Elliot said. “And no. The drugs fried his brain. But you definitely added a jalapeño garnish. I doubt, though, that it was something Mac couldn’t handle. Although it would be nice if she came in so we could check her out.”

  Bach just waited.

  And Elliot finally said, “Nika Taylor, age thirteen. The Twenty who popped to the top of your to-recruit list of Potentials? Her sister just filed a missing persons report with the Boston Police. The girl vanished on her way home from school today.” He moved toward the wall station. “If you want I can …”

  But Bach shook his head. He didn’t have to use the computer to access the file. He knew exactly which girl Elliot was talking about. Out of the dozens of recently identified candidates for OI’s training program for thirteen-to-fifteen-year-olds, Nika Taylor had an incredible natural talent, and by far the greatest raw potential. She’d appeared on Bach’s list a mere hour before the police had called, asking for that assist with Nathan Hempford.

  Out of all of the bad news this night had brought, this was the worst.

  Nika Taylor’s abduction—and it was an abduction, Bach didn’t doubt that for a moment—meant that the very bad people who manufactured Destiny, the drug that was illegally distributed and sold to hapless fools like Hempford, had access to the same i
nformation that Bach and the Obermeyer Institute did.

  Not only that, but they now apparently got that information hours earlier than OI’s analysis team.

  Bach jammed his arms into his overcoat, because impending migraine be damned—he was going back out into the night. “Send the girl’s home address to my car’s GPS.”

  “Already done,” Elliot said, raising his voice as Bach went out the door. “Food and drink, Maestro! And do me a pretty and call Mac? She’s ducking my calls, but maybe she’ll talk to you. I want her butt in here, and I want it now!”

  “Hey, babe, I’m …” Home, Mac had been about to say. Except Justin wasn’t there. And he wasn’t merely out with some friends for the evening. He was gone—and he’d been gone for at least several days. And he’d been annoyed with her when he’d left. She could still feel his lingering frustration as she stepped into the apartment—his emotions had been that strong.

  She limped farther inside and closed the door by leaning on it. She’d stopped at the drugstore on her way here, and she tossed the bag with her purchases on the sofa, even as she reached for her phone to check her messages.

  Bach, Diaz, and Elliot had all called within the past twenty minutes. It was a no-brainer that they were looking for her—they knew she’d been hurt.

  Her intention had been to make a quick pit stop here and kill two birds with one stone—get Justin to stop whining by delivering him some immediate gratification, and get her ankle healed to a level where she wouldn’t be benched for days or even weeks.

  She scrolled past Elliot’s latest text—Where ARE you?—and went back through several days’ worth of messages from her OI co-workers to last Wednesday, where there had been three missed calls from Justin, all in a row. She’d made note of it at the time, but had been too busy to listen, let alone call him back. Going backward chronologically, she saw that he’d also called on Tuesday, twice, and once each on Monday, Sunday, Saturday, and last Friday.

  Those calls had all slipped past her radar. Damn, she was a shitty girlfriend.

  It was possible he’d gotten a job out of town, maybe even gone on tour.

  Justin was an actor, and even though he’d been going on auditions steadily since he’d graduated from Emerson College last year, he’d yet to get more than a callback, so she was skeptical. Still, there was a first time for everything.

  Fingers crossed, Mac started with his most recent message, highlighting it and putting the phone to her ear to listen.

  “It’s me.” Justin sounded pissed off, which was usually the way his phone messages went. No news there. “I didn’t want to do this via voice mail, but since you’re not going to call me back or even bother to stop by, I don’t have much choice, do I?” He took a deep breath. “Look, I met someone at work—Sandi. I told you about her—she worked the drive-through? At first we were just friends, but then … I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did, and … God, Mac, you know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me. And I can’t quite believe I’m doing this, but … Sandi’s great, and she actually wants more from me than the random booty call, so …”

  This was entirely Mac’s fault. She’d put too much faith in her power to enthrall, combined with Justin’s selfishly opportunistic greed, and she’d let too much time lapse between her visits.

  “Her dad manages a Big Box, back in Ohio, outside of Columbus, and he can get me a job,” Justin’s voice mail went on. “I suck at being an actor, and I suck even more at being a fry-cook, so … I’m going to Ohio with Sandi, and … I’m sorry, Mac. I really am. I didn’t want to tell you like this. I hope … Well, I hope, someday, that you find what you’re looking for.”

  And with that, he ended the message.

  Truth was, he wouldn’t have told her any other way than over the phone. If she’d called him back and he’d asked her to come see him …?

  All she would have had to do was step through the door, and he’d instantly be dazzled, all of his childish petulance gone. He’d be like, Sandi who? In fact, last time Mac had been here he’d brought the other girl up in conversation. But then he’d looked a little puzzled, as if he’d forgotten what he was going to say about her.

  Mac hadn’t thought twice about it. It was all just part of what they did whenever she showed up. Justin told her what he’d been doing since they’d last connected—usually not a lot—and she … Well, she gave him a list of excuses—all true—for why she hadn’t called, why it had been so long since her last visit. Work was crazy, she’d had to travel, and this time she’d even lost her phone. And even though he never really understood, he forgave her.

  Always.

  And then the talking part of their visit was over and he would drill her. There wasn’t much that Justin was good at, but when it came to sex, he was a natural.

  The last time, it had happened right on the kitchen table. He’d swept the clutter off onto the floor, as she’d laughed and kissed him back and sent him into orbit, too.

  The table was clear again now—the entire place was tidy, the garbage was out, there were no perishables rotting in the fridge. He’d cleaned up before leaving, which was so not a typical Justin thing to do that Mac was pretty certain this Sandi girl had been involved.

  Part of her still couldn’t believe that he’d actually left. He’d left. But his clothes were gone from the closet, and he’d taken the quilt off the bed—the one that his grandmother had made. He’d left his cell phone behind on the bedside table—no doubt because Mac had bought it for him.

  He’d also left her last month’s electric bill—another expense she’d always picked up, along with the rent.

  She stashed both items in the pockets of her cargo pants as she stared at the bed, wondering if he and Sandi had …

  Okay, don’t go there. She could feel the girl’s presence in the apartment. She could practically taste the bitch’s happiness, but it was more about going home. Or maybe not. She was finally going home, and Daddy would love Justin, but not half as much as the way she loved Justin when he—

  Yeah, he’d had sex with Sandi-with-an-i in that bed. More than once. Nice.

  It made her think about Tim, and she hated thinking about Tim—or her father, or her father’s third wife and Tim’s mother, Janice. None of whom Mac had seen or even e-mailed in over a dozen years.

  Mac limped back into the living room, well aware that she’d thought about Tim every time she’d visited Justin. It had been impossible not to. It sucked, and she would have stayed away, if she didn’t need to use the sex to help her heal. Yeah, that was why she’d come here as often as she had.

  It certainly hadn’t had anything to do with real emotion—with anything as laughable as love.

  She knew that Justin didn’t love her. He’d never loved her. Instead, she’d inadvertently used her crazy-ass Greater-Than mental powers to make him think that he did, to make him want her, to desire her. She’d charmed him, dazzled him, entranced him. And then she’d given in to temptation, hating herself for her weakness, and kept him like a self-walking, self-feeding puppy in this apartment that she’d paid for, telling herself that he was using her as much as she was using him.

  And every now and then she’d dropped by to get shagged and adored by the kind of guy who would never have adored her, let alone been faithful, had she not been a Greater-Than.

  There’d been a time, before Mac had learned to use and control her talents, when out of sight very literally meant out of mind. She’d discovered at an early age that when she was with a man—any man—she had the power to make him want her, ardently. But as soon as she walked away, those feelings vanished—instantly forgotten. Over the years, that had changed. She’d not only learned how to control her powers, which, most of the time, kept total strangers from following her down the street, tongues hanging out. But she’d also developed her skills to the point where a lover could well remain charmed and faithful for weeks.

  Justin had pursued her—relentlessly—when she’d first met him. She
’d tried to shut him down, but he hadn’t let up. And she was probably going to go to hell—if it existed—for not being strong enough to walk away. Although she did pay for her sins by letting him live here for free.

  But now he was gone.

  Mac left the apartment, locking the door behind her, and as she went down the stairs that led out to the street, she jarred her ankle hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, despite her ability to block physical pain.

  Yeah, that’s why she was crying. Her fucking foot hurt. God, she was a pathetic idiot, weeping over some stupid man.

  Justin hadn’t really meant all that much to her, either. If he truly had? She would’ve left him—a long time ago.

  Mac went down to the sidewalk, jamming her hands into her gloves and then her pockets, because even though it was spring, the night wind was cold. Hunching her shoulders, she limped toward Kenmore Square, unsure of her long-term plans—what to do with the apartment now that Justin was history, how to deal with her injured ankle—but dead solid when it came to the next twenty minutes of her life.

  She was heading to the nearest bar on Beacon Street—a dive called Father’s that had been there forever.

  It had been one total hellfest of a night, and she needed a drink.

  Shane was winning when she walked in.

  His plan was a simple one: spend a few hours here in this lowlife bar and win enough money playing pool to take the T down to Copley Square, where there was a cluster of expensive hotels. Hit one of the hotel bars, where the women not only had all of their teeth, but they also had corporate expense accounts and key cards to the comfortable rooms upstairs.

  But drinks there were pricey. Shane had spent his remaining fifty-eight seconds at the Kenmore comm-station checking menus, and he knew he’d need at least twenty dollars just to sit at the bar and nurse a beer. Fifty to buy a lady a drink. And expense account or not, you had to be ready to start the game by buying the lady a drink.

  But then she walked in—or rather limped in. She was smaller than the average woman, and slight of build. She’d also injured her foot, probably her ankle, but other than that, she carried herself like an operator. She’d certainly scanned the room like one as she’d come in.