by Platt, Sean
“Okay,” Larry said over their headsets. “Everything’s good to go. Head on in and make yourselves at home. I’ll keep an eye out here and make sure no one surprises you.”
John and Tiny casually approached the house as if they were meant to be there on a routine service call, just in case anyone was watching on closed-circuit camera or otherwise.
They stopped at the front door. Tiny held a pistol. John had no weapon other than his left hand ungloved.
“Can you sense him?” Tiny asked. “Feels like he’s upstairs, sleeping. Someone’s with him.”
“Yeah, his wife, I’m guessing. They’re both asleep.”
John waved his hands over the lock, moving the pins and chamber with his mind, then turned the knob and opened the door.
They crept inside, closing the door softly behind them but leaving it unlocked. The house was gorgeous and sprawling, with high ceilings and thick moldings. It looked to John more like a model home used to sell others, rather than one where anyone lived. They quietly made their way through the front of the museum, then slowly up the stairs to Cromwell’s room.
They stared at the bed, Cromwell was on the right side, sleeping on his stomach. His wife was on the left, facing the window. John nodded at Tiny to do as planned — aim the gun not at Cromwell, but at his wife instead.
John leaned over, slid his left hand over Cromwell’s mouth and whispered, “Wake up.”
Cromwell’s eyes shot open and bugged with surprise.
John turned to acknowledge Tiny standing over Cromwell’s still sleeping wife. John whispered, “Make a peep, and he blows her brains all over your sheets. Nod yes if you understand.”
Cromwell looked over nervously at Tiny then back at John and nodded.
“Good, now get up.”
Cromwell obeyed, slipping out of bed, dressed in boxers, a white T-shirt, and a pair of red and brown argyle socks. John pointed toward the doorway. “Go.”
Cromwell stepped out of his bedroom and into the hallway, then turned back to John in the darkness. “What do you want?”
“Just wanna talk. Got a place we won’t disturb the Misses?”
“My study,” Cromwell said, then led John down the hall.
As they stepped into his office, Cromwell turned to John. With an authoritative voice that harbored no fear, he said, “If anything happens to my wife, I will kill you.”
“Nothing happens if you answer my questions,” John said.
“What?” Cromwell didn’t bother to turn on a light or take a seat. “Tell me what you want.”
“Hope is in danger and I need to find her. Jacob is already searching. If he finds her, she’s dead.” John didn’t bother explaining that Hope was a vessel. If Omega knew of the vessels then they’d kill her themselves, just to keep Jacob from getting the crystal. And if Duncan knew of the vessels, it was possible that someone in Omega did, too.
“Why is Jacob looking for her?”
“He wants to get to me, I guess,” John lied. “But the why isn’t important. What matters is that Hope’s life is in danger, and I highly doubt you all can keep her safe.”
“We’re not handing her over, John. Not to you or anyone else until every last member of Harbinger, including Jacob, is dead. That’s the deal and you know it.”
“I’m not giving you a choice,” John said. “Duncan Alderman is dead, and Jacob is winning his war. Hope will not become collateral damage. Where is she?”
“What — Alderman’s dead?”
“Tonight,” John said. “Jacob’s men killed him. Now tell me where Hope is.”
“She’s safe. That’s all you need to know.”
John stepped toward Bob. Through clenched teeth he said, “Don’t make me find out the hard way. You won’t like it.”
Cromwell had balled fists and narrowed eyes. He wanted to punch John, and probably would have if it weren’t for the large man waiting upstairs with a gun on his wife.
Cromwell swallowed. “She’s with one of our agents.”
“What do you mean?”
“A few years ago we had an agent get close to Hope, insert himself into her life. His entire job is to keep an eye on her, make sure she’s safe.”
“What do you mean insert himself into her life?”
“He’s dating her. They’re close.”
Now it was John clenching fists and narrowing eyes. “What the hell?”
“As I said, she’s safe. The agent is always with her, and if Jacob comes, he’ll be around to protect her.”
“Are you really that stupid? Duncan Alderman with all his wealth and guards couldn’t keep Jacob away.”
“Well, I’ll have to take your word on that, I suppose.”
“He’s dead. And Jacob turned him into a vampire. So Omega’s ‘protection’ is negligible at best.”
John continued speaking, never moving his steady eyes from Cromwell’s surprise. “I’ve done everything Omega’s asked, and will continue to do so. I’ll help stop whatever Jacob’s planning, but you have to help me find Hope, or I’m finished, and you can all burn in hell.”
“Okay,” Cromwell nodded. “Let me see what I can get for you. The files are in my desk.” He pointed to a switch on the wall. “Mind if I turn on the lights?”
“Sure,” John nodded.
Cromwell stepped past him and flicked a switch.
The light was immediate, blinding, and painful.
The switch triggered some sort of ultraviolet lights Cromwell must have installed as a security measure to protect himself against exactly this sort of threat.
John fell to his knees screaming, his skin burning.
A gunshot thundered down the hall, followed by Tiny screaming.
“Linda!” Cromwell shouted, running past John’s burning body to check on his wife.
John’s skin was seared, his flesh bubbling. Every movement further ripped his gaping wounds as he struggled to stand and move toward the switch to shut it off.
But the light was a grand piano on his body, forcing John back to the floor. He pulled his jacket over his head and pulled his hands back into the sleeves. He sat huddled, unable to stand, barely moving as he clung to life despite the bright lights above.
Tiny screamed, the giant’s bellows loudly echoed by Cromwell’s wife’s. Another pair of gunshots ended the big man’s bellows.
They killed him!
Again John tried to move, but every labored twitch brought a fresh torrent of pain.
Then the world went dark, the home’s power gone.
Larry!
John heard footsteps growing louder as they approached from down the hall, then Cromwell standing over his baked body, panting. John let the jacket fall, though every move was stiff and painful. Cromwell flicked at the switch, trying to recover the lights, but nothing happened.
“You stupid fuck!” Cromwell yelled at John as he leaned down and shoved the gun into his face. “Why do you always have to interfere? I never should’ve listened to Duncan!”
John tried to speak, but Cromwell kept going, his pistol pressed hard into John’s temple.
“I told the old bastard we should’ve killed you both years ago. But no, Duncan didn’t listen, and now he’s dead because of sentimentality for monsters!”
“Honey,” Cromwell called out to his wife. “Bring me my phone.”
Cromwell turned back to John. “You come into my house and put a gun to my wife’s head? You fucking fool.”
Cromwell pulled the trigger.
The blast sounded like a plane crashing in his ear. Impossible pain clawed through his right shoulder and sent him writhing on the floor, crying.
“Do you know how much of a thorn in my side you’ve been, John? How much bullshit I had to tolerate because of you and Caleb? No more, and never again. The old man is dead. We’re doing things my way now. The time for your demands are over. You’re going to do your fucking job, without the negotiating. No Hope. No deals. No protection for your friends. Jacob can have th
em all — I don’t fucking care.”
John, doubled over in pain, glared up at Cromwell.
The fucker is dead the minute I can stand.
Cromwell aimed the pistol at John’s head. “Ah, you don’t heal so well when you’re hurt, do you? Neither did your big nigger friend upstairs.”
John tried to reach out to see if he could feel any life left in Tiny, but his world seethed in pain and anger too much to focus. Cromwell lowered the gun, fired at John’s leg, and turned his right calf to raw meat.
“Fuck!” John hollered.
“Now we’re doing things my way, John, got that? Fail to obey my every fucking word, I’ll get that little girl, Abigail, tie her up on my front lawn, and have a barbecue on her burning corpse, do you understand me?”
John said nothing, staring Cromwell in the eyes, wanting to tear him apart piece by bloody piece with his bare hands.
“I asked if you understood me!” Cromwell yelled, his face crimson. He turned and shouted back to his wife. “Honey, where the fuck is my phone?”
The phone flew across the room, skipping twice off the floor before landing beside John.
“What the … ?” Cromwell turned to see Larry with a pistol pushed into the side of his wife’s head.
“Put the gun down,” Larry ordered, his face stone serious. “Or I shoot the bitch.”
“Okay, okay,” Cromwell said, setting his gun on the carpet. “Don’t hurt her.”
Larry’s eyes absorbed the severity of John’s condition. He winced as his friend struggled to stand.
Cromwell turned to John. “I’ll tell you whatever you want. Just don’t hurt her.”
“Yes, you will,” John said, reaching out for Cromwell’s flesh before the man had time to register what was happening.
John could vaguely sense Cromwell’s wife screaming as he feasted, trying in vain to reach out and halt her husband’s murder. Larry yanked her back, shoved her to the side, and pushed her to the ground. She tried to stand, but Larry put his foot to her chest. “Stay down!”
“No, no, no!” she screamed.
John sucked Cromwell’s energy into his body, feeling his flesh stitch itself together as if someone was pouring pure life inside him. He dove into Cromwell’s memories, searching for any sign of Hope.
He steered the memories toward her, first learning her new name — Hannah Quinn — then finding the name of the agent she was sleeping with — Greg Overton.
John saw Cromwell on the phone earlier that day, instructing Mike Mathews to have Greg bring Hope in so they could wipe her again, as she was starting to remember. After that, they’d have to move her somewhere else. Or, if she became a problem, dispose of her.
John would have to get to Mathews.
He searched for more information, but found nothing. Cromwell’s memories trickled to nothing, then the present surfaced and John saw what was left of the man’s body lying crumpled on the floor. Larry was gone.
“Larry!” he called, afraid something horrible had happened to his friend.
John ran to the bedroom and saw Tiny laying in a pool of thick red syrup at the foot of the bed, the right half of his bald head cracked like a melon from the shot, flesh torched. His burned fists clutched at a blanket which he’d not managed to pull over himself before he was either baked into nothing, or ended by the crack of Cromwell’s gun.
Jesus.
John cursed himself for luring Tiny to his death. He should never have given Bob a chance to trigger the house lights. There was no way John could’ve known what the man would do, but he should’ve suspected something the second Bob became Mr. Helpful.
Larry stood with his gun trained on Linda, who was sitting in a chair, crying. Larry looked like he’d been crying too, mourning his friend, Tiny, whom he’d known far longer than John had.
“What do we do about her?” Larry asked, waving the gun at Bob’s wife, looking like he wanted to shoot her.
“I don’t know,” John said. Bob’s memories of Linda flooded his mind. He’d once loved his wife, years ago. They grew distant after their daughter went off to college, and things changed. While the passion was missing, and Linda mostly a stranger, Bob still loved her. Traces of that love coursed through John as he looked at Linda, remembering the her from two decades gone. The young, carefree, loving woman, eroded by years of indifference.
John hated feeling his victims’ emotions, especially when clouding his practical thought. If he allowed Linda to live, she’d surely call the cops. Omega would be tipped off that much faster to John’s attack, giving them a chance to do whatever they planned to do with Hope sooner rather than later.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t kill me.”
Larry looked into John’s eyes, seeking a verdict.
John shook his head. “Tie her up.”
Thirty-Three
Abigail
Abigail sat in an overstuffed strawberry-colored chair in Katya’s apartment, comfy while watching “Gravity Falls.” Katya stood outside talking to her boyfriend, Derek, on the phone. Abigail didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. Apparently, her last-minute visit had derailed Katya and Derek’s date, meaning her newest friend was forced to soothe things over.
Katya came back inside the apartment, looking steamed.
“What’s wrong?” Abigail asked.
“Nothing,” Katya said, clearly lying. It was weird to see her annoyed; Katya was always so happy. Abigail couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t bubbly and smiling, save for the scare Abigail gave her at the restaurant.
It was weird to see her smile missing.
“Is Derek mad?”
“He’ll get over it,” Katya said sinking deep into the red leather couch.
“What are you watching?” Katya asked.
“‘Gravity Falls. Ever see it?”
“No,” Katya shook her head. “I don’t watch much TV. When I used to work for the Radleys, I didn’t see anything other than Nick Jr., Sprout, and Disney Jr. Honestly, I don’t even know why I have cable.”
“What do you do if you don’t watch TV?”
“Sometimes I try to draw clothing designs and stuff, but mostly, lately, I’ve been writing.”
“Writing what? Books?”
“I suppose they would be books if I ever made it past 10 pages,” Katya laughed. “They’re pretty awful.”
“I doubt that,” Abigail said. “Could I read something?”
“Oh, no, they’re truly, truly terrible. I swear.”
“They can’t be that bad.”
“That bad and worse,” Katya smiled. “Guaranteed.”
Abigail wondered if they were really that horrible, or if maybe Katya’s stories were romantic, or something else embarrassing. Abigail changed the subject.
“So, what else do you do?”
“I play a little guitar.”
“Really? I’ve never met anyone who plays guitar.”
“I’m not very good at that, either,” Katya said.
Abigail frowned.
Katya pursed her lips and stood from the sofa. “Want me to play something?”
“Yeah!” Abigail said, smiling.
Katya went to her bedroom then returned a few minutes later with a large, black leather-looking case with four large metal latches on the side. The case was covered with stickers of bands Abigail had never heard of.
Katya set the guitar case on top of the coffee table then sat on the couch. Katya popped the four latches open and pulled the guitar from its home. Abigail watched, utterly fascinated as Katya plucked at the strings and adjusted knobs at the guitar’s top. There was something almost magical in the ritualistic process that filled Abigail with awe.
“Any requests?” Katya asked after a few minutes spent tuning her guitar.
“I don’t know. Play your favorite song.”
Katya thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know what my favorite song is since there are too many good ones to choose from, but this is one I liked a lot
a few years ago. It’s called ‘Elsewhere’ by Sarah McLachlan. Ever hear it?”
“No,” Abigail said, leaning forward in the chair, hands folded in her lap as Katya began to play.
Katya started to sing. Abigail immediately felt tears start to swell in her eyes. The music, lyrics, and Katya’s voice were all beautiful by themselves, but magical together. The song was so sad, yet somehow uplifting. Abigail felt as if it were written just for her, and Katya was the first person to sing it.
Katya finished and Abigail broke down in tears. “Oh, my God,” she said, wiping her eyes. “That’s so beautiful.”
Katya’s cheeks turned salmon. “Really?”
“Yeah, I love it. What was it called again?”
Katya told her, and Abigail said, “I have to have Larry get that for me.”
“Hold on.” Katya set the guitar back in its case and ran to her room. She took longer than last time, but returned, clutching a CD in her hands.
“Here,” Katya said. “You can have my CD. I have, like, three copies!”
Katya reached out to hand the CD to Abigail, who absentmindedly reached out to take it. Only as their fingers drew close, did Abigail remember her curse. A spark shot from her hand, causing Katya to jump back with a yelp and drop her CD to the carpet.
Abigail yanked her hand back before she could lock onto her friend.
Katya fell back on the carpet and landed on her butt. She cried out in sudden, unexpected pain. Abigail curled on the chair, shaking: covering her eyes with her fingers, afraid to see what damage she might’ve done.
The world was entirely dark behind her closed eyes as the room grew painfully silent. She couldn’t bear to look.
Oh, God, she’s dead. I killed her.
Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please—
“Ow,” Katya said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Abigail repeated.