The Legacy Series Boxed Set (Legacy, Prophecy, Revelation, and AWOL)

by Ellery Kane

  “And they all know—knew—something about Onyx,” I added somberly, thinking of Grimley’s death. “So did Ryker. Do you think he’s involved?”

  My father’s expression darkened, his mouth a taut line of contempt. “I think he’s capable of anything.” He closed his computer and said nothing more. I had pressed my father for information about Ryker before, wondering what he was like when he worked on Crim-X with my mother. Every time, I was dead-ended by my father’s silence.

  About to push him further, I was distracted by Barbara Blake’s newscast.

  “In other news, Zenigenic CEO, Xander Steele, made a rare public statement today, following courtroom testimony in the McAllister trial, suggesting the alleged murderer may have been using Onyx. Since he assumed the helm at Zenigenic, commentators have been critical of Steele’s awkward public demeanor. Today’s press conference will likely do little to further this perception.”

  “Dad, listen.” I turned up the volume, as String and Max sat up at attention.

  Standing outside Zenigenic headquarters, Xander Steele addressed a gaggle of microphones. I had never seen him before. Baby-faced, his skin was powder white, his eyes electric blue. He whispered to the hulking man next to him—probably security—and took a step forward. Rumored to be a recluse, he seemed uncomfortable in the spotlight, stuttering before he began.

  “Uh … well, okay … let me—let’s get started.”

  Head down—only a sheath of gelled black hair visible—he read from a prepared statement, spitting out the words rapid-fire.

  “Like all of you, I have been closely following the murder trial of George McAllister. Today, I was shocked to hear evidence that Mr. McAllister was in possession of Onyx, a banned substance never available for public consumption.”

  After a brief pause, he resumed his staccato pace.

  “I would like to put an immediate end to the rumblings on social media insinuating Zenigenic may be involved in storing, manufacturing, or selling this substance. Though it makes for an interesting story, it simply isn’t true. In fact, Zenigenic was never involved in the sale or production of Onyx. Nonetheless, in light of this recent development, I want to assure the public we are committed to upholding the ban on Emovere, Euphoractamine, and Agitor. Though we believe the side effects of these drugs have been greatly exaggerated, we wholeheartedly support Drug Czar Augustus Porter in his efforts to remove these substances from our streets. At the same time, we are working diligently to develop safer, emotion-altering medications. Thank you.”

  A large man shielded the red-faced Xander with his thick forearm, ushering him toward a black car, as the reporters unleashed their barbed questions all at once.

  “How did McAllister get Onyx, Xander?”

  “Where are all these drugs coming from?”

  Holding up her hand to preempt further questioning, one of Xander’s team members spoke into the microphone.

  “Mr. Steele will not be taking questions at this time.”

  “Of course not,” String observed, laughing to himself. “He’s a billionaire with a major case of stage fright and some big-time mommy issues.”

  “Billionaire?” Max’s eyes were wide.

  “How do you know so much about him?” I asked. String never mentioned Xander before, even after our strange encounter at Fort Point.

  String shrugged. “That’s what I read in The Real Scoop. He went to Harvard, got a business degree, got a law degree, but he could never have the one thing he really wanted…” String paused melodramatically. “Mommy’s approval. The Real Scoop said they’ve been feuding since his father died. Apparently, she opposed his appointment as CEO.”

  “You can’t believe what you read in that magazine,” I cautioned, thinking of Shelly’s mom. “But if what Dr. Donnelly told us is true, then he is lying about Onyx.”

  My dad narrowed his eyes at the television screen. “Well, I don’t trust him,” he said. “He works for Zenigenic. That’s all I need to know.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY - FOUR

  ONLY GIRL

  THE NEXT MORNING, inside the courthouse, Quin was waiting for me. He motioned to me from a bench in the hallway. “I’ll see you inside,” Max told me, giving my arm a gentle squeeze.

  Remembering String’s words, I sat at the end of the bench, keeping my distance. It’s a start, I told myself. “Have you talked to your dad?” I asked Quin. That morning George McAllister’s possible guilty plea was the only story on SFTV, with experts weighing in on all sides. The general consensus: Take the deal.

  He nodded, scooting closer to me. So much for that. “Just for a few minutes this morning.” He lowered his voice. “Van Sant told him to accept the plea bargain.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told my dad I believe him, no matter what he decides.” Quin’s certainty was still a marvel. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. Yesterday, we were interrupted.”

  “Are you sure you want to talk about this now? Here?”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Quin replied. “Just listen. I’ll make it quick.”

  “Okay.”

  “Here goes.” He took an audible breath. “I think—no—I know I made a huge mistake breaking up with you. Lex, I love you. Nothing else matters to me. I want us back. Will you just think about it? Please?” In an almost-whisper, he told me, “You’re the only girl I’ve ever loved.”

  Part of me—a substantial part—wanted to put my arms around Quin and start over. Still, I heard myself say, “Doesn’t that, I don’t know, freak you out? What if there is some other girl you could love more, that’s more right for you?” I didn’t say it, but I meant Emma.

  Quin shook his head, his brown eyes plaintive. “How could anybody be more right for me than you?”

  “Alright. I’ll think about it.” Ambivalent, I stood and began a slow shuffle toward the courtroom.

  “Lex?” I glanced back over my shoulder. Quin was half-smiling. “Will you at least sit next to me today?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY - FIVE

  THE FOURTH

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU LEFT ME back there with her.” Elana’s emerald eyes shot poison darts, as Emma attempted small talk with Max.

  It was the first recess, with most of the morning spent qualifying an expert, Dr. Robert McGovern. As one of the leading genetic researchers, he was set to testify about the Prophecy Program, where he spent the first ten years of his career identifying a literally fatal flaw in the genetic code of some inmates, including George McAllister. Now he worked as a consultant for Zenigenic.

  “Sorry,” I told Elana.

  “It’s okay. It was pretty priceless to see her face when she saw you sitting with Quin. Does this mean what I think it means?” she asked, grinning.

  “I don’t know what it means.”

  Quin walked toward us, sipping from a plastic cup of water. “How are you?” Elana asked him.

  “Better,” Quin replied, glancing at me. I felt my cheeks warm. “I talked to Van Sant. My dad rejected the deal. He said he’d rather spend his life in prison than admit to something he didn’t do.” Elana seemed surprised, but I wasn’t. Guilty or not, George McAllister was not going to stand up and confess to murder. Not in front of Quin.

  “What did Mr. Van Sant say?” Elana wondered.

  Quin smiled. “According to Edison, he said, ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’” Quin mimicked Mr. Van Sant’s throaty voice. “‘Now, let’s go kick Vivian Dillard’s—’”

  “Hi,” Emma interrupted, speaking only to Quin. She was wearing a shimmery blue top, her tattoo clearly visible on her right shoulder. For the first time, I noticed her scar, hidden beneath the ink of the feather’s quill. “I’m wearing your lucky color.” She reached to touch Quin’s arm. A lucky color? I asked myself, amused. Finally, it was Emma who looked silly.

  Quin nodded—shifting his feet—and said nothing.

  “You look pretty,” I told Emma, feeling sorry for her.

 
; “Yeah, right,” she murmured, sulking and turning away from us.

  “You’re way too nice, Lex,” Elana said, still scowling at Emma, as she returned to her seat. With the bailiff’s “all rise,” Judge Blacksher reentered the courtroom, silencing the steady din of chatter.

  I couldn’t resist. As I took the chair next to Quin, I leaned over to him and whispered. “You have a lucky color?” He kept his eyes straight ahead, but a reluctant smile crinkled the corners of his mouth.

  A few minutes later, Dr. McGovern resumed his position on the witness stand, with District Attorney Dillard leading him through a series of questions.

  “So the results of this genetic testing showed some of the Crim-X inmates had a mutation of the X chromosome which was linked to a higher probability of violent behavior, correct?”

  Dr. McGovern was confident. “That’s a bit of an oversimplification, but yes, this mutation was shown to predict aggressive behavior.” As he spoke, a loud creak of the door turned the heads of the jurors. A twitter of voices rose from the back of the room like a swelling wave. I snuck a glance over my shoulder. Xander Steele slinked into the last row, flanked by his security team. Strange, I thought. I nudged Quin and whispered, “Guess who?”

  “Silence,” Judge Blacksher cautioned. “Ms. Dillard, please continue.”

  “This genetic mutation, did George McAllister have it?” Dream Killer never missed an opportunity to point a red-polished accusing finger toward Quin’s father.

  “He did.”

  “Dr. McGovern, given the results of the Prophecy testing, does it surprise you to learn Mr. McAllister committed another murder?”

  “No—”

  “Objection! Inflammatory!” Mr. Van Sant pounded the table with his fist, as the jurors looked on, wide-eyed.

  “I withdraw the question, Your Honor.” Directing a saccharine smile toward the jury, Dream Killer returned to her seat. “No further questions.”

  Red-faced, Mr. Van Sant addressed Judge Blacksher. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

  The judge nodded, as Mr. Van Sant stalked past Dream Killer. Though we couldn’t hear him, his demonstrative hand gestures spoke for him. He was conducting a silent symphony of rage. After a few minutes, Judge Blacksher spoke. “Ms. Dillard, I will issue you the same warning I gave Mr. Van Sant. Do not make a mockery of my courtroom. The jury will disregard Dr. McGovern’s last statement.”

  Taking a breath, Mr. Van Sant began his cross-examination. “Dr. McGovern, are you aware George McAllister talked publicly about his experience with Crim-X?”

  “I am.”

  “And were you also aware he spoke out against the use of emotion-altering medications, like the ones produced by the company you work for?” Mr. Van Sant’s tone was undeniably aggressive.

  Ms. Dillard called out, “Objection. The witness’s knowledge of Mr. McAllister’s extracurricular activities is irrelevant.”

  “On the contrary, Judge, it speaks to his possible motivations in providing this testimony.”

  Judge Blacksher gave a disinterested nod. “I will allow it. You may answer the question, Doctor.”

  Dr. McGovern nodded. “I had become aware that Mr. McAllister was quite outspoken regarding Emovere and other EAMs.”

  “In fact, Doctor, didn’t you serve on a committee formed to address this very issue?” Mr. Van Sant took several steps toward the witness stand, as Dr. McGovern eyed him with trepidation. From here, he looked like someone with something to hide.

  “I am on a number of committees at Zenigenic. To which one are you referring?”

  “The one that released this email,” Mr. Van Sant replied, handing Dr. McGovern a sheet of paper. Scanning the email, Dr. McGovern’s face began to pale. “That is your email address, robert.mcgovern@zenigenic.corp at the top, correct?”

  Dr. McGovern did not answer. “Your Honor, could you please instruct the witness to answer the question?”

  “Go ahead,” Judge Blacksher urged. “Is that your email address?”

  “Yes, it is,” Dr. McGovern croaked.

  “I would like to enter this email dated October 11, 2042, into evidence, Your Honor.” After conferring with Dream Killer, Judge Blacksher issued his approval.

  “To whom is the email addressed?” Like a shark, Mr. Van Sant was circling the waters.

  “To the members of the Zenigenic Public Perception Committee.”

  “The Zenigenic Public Perception Committee,” Mr. Van Sant repeated, enunciating each word. “Would you read it aloud for the jury?”

  “It says, Guess our public relations problem has been axed … literally.” Dr. McGovern looked at Dream Killer. She was speaking hurriedly to her colleague, avoiding his eyes.

  “Is there an attachment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please tell the jury, Doctor, what did you attach to this public relations email?” Mr. Van Sant was at the witness stand now, leaning toward the doctor as he spoke.

  “An Internet article about George McAllister’s arrest.” The courtroom instantly came alive—electrified by his revelation—but it was short-lived. Judge Blacksher was swift to silence the room with his gavel.

  “Would it be accurate to assume you are providing this testimony today in order to ensure George McAllister—your public relations problem—goes away forever?”

  “I would never—”

  “Yes or no, Dr. McGovern.”

  “No!” Mr. Van Sant was silent, pacing the room for a moment. It was his biggest victory yet. Even the jurors seemed stunned by the exchange.

  Then, just like that, Mr. Van Sant’s demeanor softened. He stepped back toward the table and positioned himself behind the attorney’s podium. “Dr. McGovern, earlier you called Ms. Dillard’s statement regarding the link between this genetic mutation and violence an oversimplification. Can you explain to the jury what you mean by that?”

  He mustered a tiny smile with apparent relief at the question. “Well, the genetic code is amazingly complex. Not all mutations are clearly expressed. An individual may have a particular gene, say for developing certain types of cancer, but that illness may never materialize. We know a multitude of factors influence a person’s behavior, probably least of which is their genetic code.” Next to me, I heard Quin exhale.

  “Are you saying Mr. McAllister’s past violent behavior may not be due to this mutation?”

  Dr. McGovern shrugged. “I’m saying it’s virtually impossible to know.”

  “One final question. In the Prophecy Study, your team identified twenty-five men as possessing the mutated gene, the one that supposedly predicts violence. As far as you know, how many of those men went on to commit a second violent act?”

  “Three, but—”

  “You’re saying twenty-two men—all of whom had the same damning genetic error as my client—never committed further violence, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing further.” Mr. Van Sant returned to his seat, his face sparkling with a sheen of confidence.

  “Anything on redirect, Ms. Dillard?” Judge Blacksher asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I’ll be brief.” Dream Killer glanced toward Edison’s father. Under her mask of formality, I sensed pure heat.

  “Dr. McGovern, can you explain to the jury why you sent the email regarding George McAllister?” This should be interesting, I thought, taking a quick look over my shoulder toward the back of the courtroom. Xander was playing with his phone, apparently disinterested.

  “Yes … of course. That email was clearly an example of my poor judgment. For a few months, we received numerous complaints from the public related to George McAllister’s speaking engagements. He was scaring people with his propaganda. Our committee was instructed by my supervisor to try to counter some of the negative publicity, but we were losing ground. I sent the email in frustration, and I apologize.”

  “Thank you, Dr. McGovern. Now, moving on, you said only three of the men identified in the Prophecy Study went on to comm
it further violence. Was there a possible limiting factor that may have influenced that outcome?”

  “There was. Only four men were ever released from custody. The other twenty-one remain incarcerated.”

  “So twenty-one remain in prison, and three of the four released were violent,” Dream Killer reiterated. Like a car speeding for the edge of a cliff, I could see exactly where she was headed. She desperately wanted to even the score. “Who was the fourth?”

  In front of me, I watched Quin’s father, his face crumbling like a balled scrap of paper, awaiting Dr. McGovern’s response. “George McAllister is the fourth,” he answered.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY - SIX

  YOU CAN’T RUN FOREVER

  THE MOMENT JUDGE BLACKSHER issued a recess, Quin headed for the back of the courtroom. Surrounded by his security team, an indifferent Xander was filing out with the rest of the galley.

  “Where’s Quin going?” Max asked, craning his neck for a view. I met his eyes with worry. There wasn’t time to answer. I shuffled down the aisle, skirting through the milling spectators. Then I heard Quin’s voice.

  “I just want to talk to him.” He sounded surprisingly calm, level headed. I pushed my way out the door and into the hallway. Xander’s dark sunglasses hid his eyes. One of his men blocked Quin with a stiff arm.

  “I’m sorry, young man. Mr. Steele has a very busy schedule. Why don’t you call the office? I’m sure they can pencil you in.” Xander and his swarm—intent on escape—began to migrate toward the doors. One by one, all around them, tiny cell phone eyes opened, watching and recording.

  “I already have.” He had? I took a step forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with Quin.

  Xander pretended not to hear him. His face was relaxed, nonchalant, but I noticed his fists were clenched, his knuckles whitening. I caught my breath. On his right ring finger, just like Pierce Baudin, he was wearing a large gold ring with a shiny black stone. Onyx.