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

by Ellery Kane

  “Mr. Steele, I’m not going away. I want to talk to you about Shelly’s murder.” The absolute silence of the crowded hallway was profound. “You can’t run forever.”

  Xander’s men kept moving, but he stopped, fighting through their arms even as they tried to hold him. He removed his glasses, revealing his steely eyes. There was something familiar about them—they were brazen, fearless, but without life. In his stare, I saw my own reflection in the glass doors of the Paramount. His jaw jutted awkwardly, his teeth grating. “Are you threatening me?” he demanded.

  “Mr. Steele, please, let’s go.” His men argued with him, but he was resolute, digging his loafered heels into the linoleum.

  “No one threatens me!” Arms outstretched, he lunged for Quin, tripping over himself and falling to the hard floor. He scrambled to his feet, clutching desperately at Quin, as his team closed in, partially blocking him from view. In the middle of the fray, Xander’s black-ringed hand reached for the gun tucked in his guard’s waistband.

  “He’s got a gun!” A bystander screamed, still capturing the chaos with his cell phone. The alarm in his voice set the crowd in motion, bodies scrambling for the exit. But there was nowhere to go. I couldn’t see Xander until Quin grabbed my hand and pulled me to the periphery.

  “Everybody move back!” His men were clearing a space, Xander’s flailing body slung over one of their burly shoulders. From the courtroom, a unit of police dispersed, filing us out toward the emergency exit. Quin turned to me, his mouth opened wide. “Was he trying to hit me?”

  Shocked, I muttered, “I think he was trying to kill you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY - SEVEN

  URGENT

  “WHAT A DAY!” Max said, as we rode home. “Brutal … and weird.” I nodded, still baffled by Xander’s outburst. He was whisked into a black car before an ambulance arrived. Max glanced at his phone. “No official statement yet from Zenigenic.”

  After Xander’s descent into madness, Dream Killer and the prosecution called their remaining witnesses. And Max was right—it was painful to watch. Even after Mr. Van Sant’s near knockout punch to Dr. McGovern, the prosecution landed blow after blow. Belinda Wiley was a hard left hook to the jaw, testifying Shelly called her three days before the murder and left her a voicemail: Mom, I’m in trouble. Mr. Van Sant managed to chip away at Belinda’s credibility, getting her to admit she was paid $10,000 for her story to The Real Scoop, had exaggerated the closeness of her relationship to Shelly, and was being treated for an addiction to Eupho. But there was something about her—the way she wrung her weathered hands as she cried—that made her believable.

  Quin’s defeated expression mirrored his father’s. I didn’t even protest when, halfway through the day’s final witness—George and Shelly’s other next-door neighbor, Pete Darby—he reached for my hand. It was so familiar, so comforting, like slipping on a soft winter mitten.

  Unlike Millie, Mr. Darby saw no shadowy figures that evening. Instead, the focus of his testimony was on what he heard—George and Shelly arguing around 6 p.m. Apparently, it wasn’t the first time. On cross-examination, Mr. Darby admitted he was drinking that night and never saw Quin’s father return to the apartment. But his testimony—“I heard George’s voice booming, yelling about Shelly flirting with some guy”—was damning to say the least.

  “He should’ve taken the deal,” String announced, the moment we walked through the door. Even though I agreed, his words brought tears to my eyes.

  “You’re a jerk,” Max countered, brushing off String’s embrace and stomping off to the bedroom, as my father and I looked on.

  “Max, wait!” String followed him. “I’m sorry.”

  Sighing, I flopped onto the couch next to my father and turned on the television, eager for news about Xander. He patted my knee. “Rough day, huh?”

  SFTV was playing a heavily edited snippet of a cell phone video shot inside the courthouse—stopping just before Xander lunged for Quin.

  “Our sources confirmed Xander Steele made a surprise and somewhat fiery appearance in the courtroom today, fueling speculation by McAllister’s supporters that Zenigenic may be involved in framing Inmate 243 for the murder of his wife. Some of his detractors have even gone so far as to suggest Mr. Steele himself appeared to be under the influence of emotion-altering medications. Zenigenic spokeswoman, Gina Tan, had no comment, but those close to the pharmaceutical mogul tell us that he was suffering from a severe case of food poisoning.”

  My father sighed. “Do they expect us to buy that nonsense?”

  I felt more confused than ever. I was certain Xander was hiding something, but I was beginning to believe almost everyone wore two faces. “I just don’t know what to think anymore,” I confessed.

  “Are we talking about Xander Steele, George McAllister, or Quin?”

  “All of it.”

  “I see.” His reply gave away nothing.

  “If I think Quin’s dad is guilty, then why do I want so badly for him to be found not guilty?”

  “Maybe you don’t really believe he’s guilty,” my father suggested.

  “But, Dad, all the evidence…” I paused thinking of Xander and Pierce Baudin. “Most of the evidence,” I amended, “is sort of overwhelming.”

  “Let’s see what Mr. Van Sant has to say about that.”

  I forced a smile. “What were you working on?” I asked, gesturing to his computer.

  “I’ve been writing again. This whole thing—all this intrigue—well, I guess it’s inspired me.” From his pocket, he produced a folded piece of paper, a job advertisement printed from the Internet.

  Eyes on the Bay, a bold, new take on journalism, seeks investigative reporters. Experience is essential—curiosity is a must. Come join our exciting team. Apply today.

  “Dad, that’s great!” I put my arm around him. “I think you’re a shooin.”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “I’m a little rusty.”

  “Speaking of writing, I should probably take a look at some of my homework.” It had been days since I’d even thought of school. With a calculus test looming, I trudged to the bedroom and opened my mother’s laptop. As soon as the screen came alive, I saw two emails awaiting me. The first was a graded quiz from my literature class: A-. I’ll take it, all things considered, I thought. The second email, marked urgent, was from Dr. Donnelly, dated October 27, two days prior.

  Alexandra,

  More to share about our last topic of conversation—I found something. I went by your house, but you were gone. When and where can we meet?

  Thomas

  P.S. Come alone.

  Ignoring the uneasy churning in my stomach, I typed a reply. Then I closed the computer and lay down on the bed—still wearing my blue jeans—and willed myself into a fitful sleep. Derivatives would have to wait.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY - EIGHT

  DUDE

  THE HOUSE WAS DARK and quiet when I awakened the next morning. I tiptoed into the living room, where String carelessly had slung his backpack into the corner days ago. I slipped my hand inside, one eye keeping watch: clothes; a computer tablet; hair gel, of course. Hidden inside a pouch in the lining, I felt his gun. I removed it carefully, as if it might go off at any moment. Unable to restrain my curiosity, I returned my hand to the pouch, feeling my way. There was something else wedged inside. Its surface felt slick, like a photograph.

  A door! Someone else was awake. I dropped the backpack and returned to my room unnoticed. At least I won’t be completely alone tomorrow, I assured myself as I slipped the gun under my mattress. I lay on the bed for another thirty minutes, listening to the sounds of my father’s morning routine.

  “Good morning,” I said, trying not to sound as if I had been awake for hours. Max and my father were sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast.

  “Where’s String? I mean, Sebastian?” I teased Max, pouring myself a bowl of granola from Mr. Van Sant’s well-stocked pantry. Max frowned back at me. “Who cares?” he asked,
between half-hearted bites of a bagel. Obviously, you.

  “He’s sleeping in the surveillance room,” my father answered.

  “Was sleeping,” String interjected groggily, rubbing his eyes. “Hey, Maximum Velocity.” He mussed Max’s spiked hair.

  “Don’t.”

  “C’mon, you’re not still mad at me, are you?”

  “Sort of,” Max replied. No one was convinced.

  I headed for the living room, precariously balancing my bowl, a banana, and a glass of orange juice, and turned on the television. From the kitchen, I heard String answer, “You’re pretty cute when you’re mad.” Glancing back, I laughed as I saw Max’s reluctant grin.

  SFTV’s Barbara Blake was already positioned outside the courthouse, where the dueling groups of protestors grew larger by the day.

  “Yesterday, after a surprising appearance by Zenigenic CEO, Xander Steele, the prosecution rested their case. In just under an hour, Nicholas Van Sant and the defense team are set to call their first witness …”

  “Mr. Knightley!” Barry’s head emerged suddenly from behind the surveillance room door. “Come quick!” I beat my father to the door. Augustus had been silent for days, and I was beginning to fear our hard-fought plan was a failure.

  “Shh,” Scooter hushed us, as we filed in. “Listen.”

  There were no voices at first, only the sound of haphazard banging. Then a man spoke, his tone gruff and matter of fact, as if he expected to come up empty-handed.

  “He’s not here. I thought you said he’d be here.”

  “I don’t know, dude. I’ve been watching him all week. He comes here every day, same time.” It was another man’s voice, this one younger and less sure of himself.

  “First off, don’t call me dude, dude. Second, we’ve got forty-eight hours to get our hands on him before we’re both screwed.”

  Next we heard the sound of a door closing, followed by silence.

  Scooter and Barry exchanged a knowing glance, before Barry observed, “Sounds like someone’s looking to end the reign of the drug czar.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY - NINE

  REAL DISTURBING

  “HURRY UP, MAX!” I urged, as we bounded up the courthouse steps and inside the building. “We’re already late.”

  At the door, I caught my breath, my lungs still burning. “This is going to be uncomfortable,” Max warned, before I pushed the door open as gently as possible. Its creaking hinges announced our presence. I tucked my head in like a turtle, trying to make myself small, as my cheeks flushed. The aisle seemed to extend forever—with every step, another head turned and stared. I expected to see Emma’s petite shoulders next to Quin’s, but instead there was only his leather jacket on the seat saved for me. Max slid into the row behind us next to Elana.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed to Quin, handing him his jacket.

  “It’s okay.” He leaned in to me. “I’m just glad you’re here.” Edison’s over-the-shoulder glare interrupted us. He put an admonishing finger to his lips.

  On the witness stand, a heavy-set woman was fidgeting nervously, wrapping a strand of her long red hair around her finger. “Mrs. Tucker, how long had you known Paul Grimley?” Mr. Van Sant asked.

  “Please, call me Barb.” Her smile was warm. “I’ve been working at the coffee shop for at least a year. He was a regular, came in like clockwork every morning, sometimes in the afternoons too. He liked the Early Bird Double Shot Espresso.”

  “Did you know where Mr. Grimley worked?”

  “Of course. Everybody did. He always wore his Zenigenic badge. You know, the one with the catchy slogan. Plus, he talked about work sometimes.”

  “Did he like his job?”

  Dream Killer interrupted, “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “I’ll rephrase the question,” Mr. Van Sant offered. “Did Mr. Grimley ever talk about Zenigenic?”

  “Sure, all the time. As they say where I’m from, he was a bit of Chatty Cathy.” She mimicked a talking mouth with her hands.

  “What was his demeanor during those conversations?”

  Shaking her head sympathetically, Barb answered. “He seemed stressed. He was always in a rush, and he checked his phone constantly.”

  “Did you have a nickname for Mr. Grimley?”

  Barb chuckled. “A few of us in the shop did. We called him Paranoid Paul—not to his face, of course.”

  “Paranoid Paul,” Mr. Van Sant repeated. “Why that name?”

  Barb looked over her right shoulder, then over her left. “He was always doing that,” she explained. “Looking over his shoulder, like someone was watching.”

  “Have you ever seen the defendant in your shop?” Mr. Van Sant pointed to Quin’s father.

  “I have. On the ninth of October. A striking fellow, I noticed him right away. It was late, probably around nine o’clock. It was raining like cats and dogs that night, and he didn’t even have an umbrella. Just came in and went right over to Paul like he knew him. They talked for a few minutes, then they got up and left.”

  “Did you notice where they went?”

  “Separate directions, as far as I could tell. They were both in a hurry.”

  “What makes you say that?” Mr. Van Sant asked.

  She gave Mr. Van Sant a dumbfounded look, as if the answer was obvious. “Mr. Grimley didn’t leave a tip. He always left me a tip.”

  “Barb, did you notice anything or anyone else out of the ordinary that night?”

  Conspiratorially, Barb eyed the jurors. “I did. There was another man. He was in there most of the night, didn’t even order anything. Gave me the creeps. My boss wouldn’t let me kick him out on account of the rain. Figured he might be homeless or something. He left about five minutes after Mr. McAllister and Mr. Grimley. I was glad to see him go, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “This man—what did he look like?” I held my breath.

  “I couldn’t really tell you. He was wearing a stocking cap and a big trench coat with the collar turned up. Hard to say what was under all that, ya know?” Barb admitted, momentarily deflating me. “But he had a tattoo on his wrist. When he sat down, I saw the edge of it. I’ve got a few tattoos myself, and I’m always on the lookout for something new.” Quin and I exchanged a quick glance.

  “Can you describe the tattoo for the jury?”

  “Oh yes. It was unusual—the part I saw anyway—real disturbing. It looked like a snake, a black snake, with its head…” she paused briefly to make a cutting motion across her neck, “cut off.”

  “Just one more question, Barb. Did you ever tell the police about this suspicious man?”

  “I didn’t get a chance. The police never interviewed me.”

  “Thank you. No further questions, Your Honor.” Mr. Van Sant returned to his seat, barely concealing a smile beneath his stern expression.

  Dream Killer conferred briefly with her team, before addressing Judge Blacksher. “The prosecution has no questions for this witness.”

  From behind me, Max whispered, “That’s a first.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  THE SIGN OF THE DEVIL

  “WHY WERE YOU LATE?” Quin asked during the recess.

  “Well, Augustus—” Max began.

  Elana’s mouth opened wide. “Augustus? Again?” Her raised voice captured Emma’s attention.

  “You mean the drug czar?” Emma asked. “That guy’s a jerk!”

  I spoke over all of them, cautioning them with my eyes. “It’s a long story. We’ll tell you later.”

  “Pssst.” Edison motioned to us from the railing. Behind him, at the defense table, his father was reviewing his notes. “Can we have a little decorum, you two?” With a smirk, Edison reprimanded Quin and me. “You almost ruined my dad’s big moment with your chitchat.”

  “Shouldn’t you be making yourself useful, Eddie?” Quin teased.

  “Who do you think found that witness, McAllister?”

  “Your father,�
� Quin countered.

  Edison snuck a peek over his shoulder, but his father was head down in his computer. “Alright, maybe so,” he admitted. “But who do you think convinced her to talk?” He winked at Elana. “Do you think it was my charm or my boyish good looks? I—”

  Mr. Van Sant cleared his throat and turned toward us, stopping Edison mid-boast. Edison’s shoulders slumped, his eyes lowered. He seemed to anticipate his father’s lashing.

  “He’s right, you know. I couldn’t have done it without him.” Mr. Van Sant stood and patted Edison’s shoulder. “She didn’t trust me. But with Edison, well…”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Now, Edison’s face was lit from within. “I guess I’m just a natural at this lawyer thing.”

  Mr. Van Sant chuckled. “Don’t push your luck, Son.”

  Still laughing, Quin and I took our seats. In his smile, I could sense Quin’s growing optimism. “Barb’s testimony was promising,” I said. “That guy sounds a lot like the one Millie told us about.” What if I was wrong about Quin’s dad? What if?

  “Just wait,” he chirped. “I think Millie’s up next.”

  “Did the police ever try to find this guy with the tattoo?”

  Quin shook his head. “They already had their suspect. Like Barb said, the detective wouldn’t interview her. They thought it was a waste of time.”

  “That’s—”

  “Strange, huh?” he interrupted, his voice telling, not asking. Just as Judge Blacksher returned from his chambers, Quin whispered, “Do you still think my dad is guilty?”

  No. Maybe. “It doesn’t matter what I think.” Wrong answer, Lex.

  Quin winced, wounded by the words I didn’t say. “You’re the only one who matters.”

  Millie hobbled up the aisle past us, assisted by the bailiff at her arm. Her bones practically creaking with each step, she ascended the witness stand.

  “Please raise your right hand,” the bailiff instructed. “Do you solemnly swear the testimony you are about to give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”