by Ellery Kane
“Of course not.”
“Onyx?” Mr. Van Sant cast an idle glance toward Xander’s finger. “Nice ring, Mr. Steele.”
The corner of Xander’s lips turned in a slight grin. “We are not manufacturing any of those substances.”
“Forgive me for asking, but are you under the influence of any of those substances today?”
Xander seemed to expect the question. “Definitely not, and I would be willing to undergo EAM testing to confirm that.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Mr. Van Sant smirked. “Do you have any idea what Zenigenic employee Paul Grimley—now deceased, I might add—intended to share with Mr. McAllister?”
“No idea.”
“And his note to my client, Macbeth, ring any bells?”
“None.”
Mr. Van Sant took a breath. He paced to the jury box and back again. “Are you aware of the recent fire at the Paramount Theater?”
“I saw it on the news, yes.”
“Do you know what name was on the Paramount’s marquee? The show playing there last?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Take a look at this.” Mr. Van Sant handed Xander a photograph. “Would you read the sign on the marquee for the jury?”
“It says Macbeth.” Xander pronounced the words slowly as if they were written in a foreign language.
“Mr. Steele, do you happen to know what company bought the old Paramount a few years back?”
There was no response. “Mr. Steele, would you like me to repeat the question?” He shook his head. “Well, then let me remind you are under oath.”
“Xetelius Corporation.”
“Xetelius,” Mr. Van Sant spoke thoughtfully, as if pondering the word. “And who is the majority shareholder in that company?”
“Me.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Steele, I couldn’t hear you.”
“Me,” he repeated, through clenched teeth.
Mr. Van Sant paused, allowing the jury to witness Xander’s frustration. “Did Xetelius conduct any business in the Paramount?”
Xander shook his head. “It was an investment property. I hoped to restore it to its former glory someday.”
Mr. Van Sant returned to the defense table, where Edison handed him the bottle Elana had found. Holding it up to the jury, Mr. Van Sant pointed to the letter Z stamped on the plastic. “Would it surprise you to learn this bottle containing Euphoractamine, clearly marked with a Zenigenic logo, was found inside the Paramount?”
“Not really. Everybody knows EAMs are being sold on the street. Someone may have stolen it from one of our warehouses.”
Mr. Van Sant scoffed. “Quite a coincidence,” he muttered. “Xetelius has a number of subsidiary companies, does it not?”
“It does.”
“Is one of those Zephyr Corp?”
If Xander knew where this was going, he wasn’t letting on. “Yes. Zephyr is a manufacturing company.”
“And what exactly does Zephyr manufacture?”
“Tires.”
Mr. Van Sant presented Xander with a sheet of paper. “Do you know what this is?”
“It looks like a wire transfer receipt for payment on a purchase of some products from Zephyr.”
“The amount?”
I waited eagerly, as Xander shot a furtive glance toward Dream Killer.
“Objection.” Dream Killer groaned, putting a hand to her forehead in feigned exasperation. “Judge, this line of questioning is completely irrelevant. Mr. Van Sant continues to waste the jury’s time with his—” Judge Blacksher held up his hand to silence her.
“Proceed Mr. Van Sant, but make your point.”
Mr. Van Sant nodded. “Go ahead, Mr. Steele. Tell us the amount of money paid to Zephyr.”
Lowering his voice, Xander replied, “Ninety-five million to Zephyr. Five million to another account.”
“Wow.” Mr. Van Sant turned wide-eyed to the jury. “One. Hundred. Million. Dollars. Total. Any idea how a company like Zephyr Corp would come into that kind of money?”
Xander twittered. “Well, it has been a banner year for tires.” No one laughed.
“And that other account? Know anything about that?”
“Objection! Mr. Steele’s finances are not on trial here.”
“Sustained. Wrap it up, Mr. Van Sant.”
“One last thing, Mr. Steele. I won’t take any more of your valuable time. Have you ever conducted business with former General Jamison Ryker?” His question sucked the air from the room in one collective gasp. Even this imperturbable version of Xander was momentarily stunned. I finally understood what Edison meant—his father wasn’t just good. He was the best.
“He’s got a weapon!” The urgent yell came from the young soldier at Xander’s shoulder. I followed his insistent finger to George McAllister. In an instant, Quin’s father was on the ground, his cheek pressed hard into the linoleum, a sharp knee on his back. Another soldier joined in, patting down the length of his body.
“Dad!” Quin snapped up to his feet, quicker than I could restrain him. “Let him go!” he barked at the soldier. He got no further than the defense table, where Mr. Van Sant blocked his path.
Judge Blacksher pounded the bench with his gavel, its thud as heavy as my heart beat in my throat. “What is going on here?” he demanded. “Bailiff?”
The bailiff stood motionless, his face blanched of its color. “I didn’t see anything.” Because there was nothing to see. He reached out in a halfhearted attempt to help the men, but his hand was quickly brushed away.
Satisfied, the young soldier lifted his knee, releasing his prey. A rumpled George McAllister struggled to his feet and smoothed his jacket. Under one sleeve, the seams were ripped. A sheen of sweat oiled his forehead. He said nothing but raised his empty hands in surrender. In that moment, I saw what Quin saw. His father was different. That wild train of rage inside him—the same one that spun off the tracks, taking Quin with it—had all but lost its steam and sputtered out.
Judge Blacksher glared at the soldier. “Where is this weapon you saw?”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. I thought there was something in his hand.” He shrugged, nonchalant and resumed his position alongside the witness stand.
“Are you kidding me?” Mr. Van Sant whipped around to face Dream Killer. “You orchestrated this, didn’t you?” Doe-eyed, she produced her best who me? smile.
“Mr. Van Sant, settle down and resume your questioning. I trust we won’t have any more unforeseen interruptions. Are you alright to continue, Mr. McAllister?” Quin’s father gave a single nod.
With one more daggered glance in Dream Killer’s direction, Mr. Van Sant approached Xander. “Alright, Mr. Steele, let’s try this again. Have you ever conducted business with former General Jamison Ryker?
“Of course not.”
“So anyone who says otherwise would be lying?”
“Absolutely.”
“Nothing further, Your Honor.” Mr. Van Sant took his seat at the defense table.
The judge turned to Dream Killer. “Ms. Dillard, any questions for this witness?”
Expressionless, she considered Xander. He couldn’t resist giving her a cocky half-smile. “No, Your Honor.”
The judge looked expectantly at Mr. Van Sant, who rose to his feet. “The defense rests.”
NINETY
A PHOTOGRAPH
“MR. VAN SANT CERTAINLY EARNED his reputation today.” My father laughed in between bites of spaghetti. Max and I had reen-acted Xander’s testimony for him and String, including the abrupt tackle of Quin’s father at the most inconvenient time. “But it doesn’t sound like the Xander we watched stumbling through that press conference.”
“Or the manic one who tried to shoot Quin,” I added.
String laughed. “Guess someone finally got the right fix,” he said, echoing my suspicions.
“It’s coming on now.” I pointed to the television.
Mr. Van Sant stood with Barbara Blake outside the
courthouse. In the background, Edison looked on proudly.
“Mr. Van Sant, I’ve heard it was quite an explosive day in the courtroom for you and your client. Now that you’ve wrapped up your case for George McAllister’s innocence, I have to know, do you feel confident?”
Max giggled. “He always feels confident.”
“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips.
“Barbara, I must say I do feel confident the jury will reach the correct decision, the fair decision, and find my client innocent of murder. Regardless of the outcome of the trial, Mr. McAllister has asked the public to respect the jury’s decision and refrain from any violent or disruptive outbursts.”
Mr. Van Sant gave a respectful nod to Barbara, then headed down the stairs, Edison on his heels. Turning her attention to Dream Killer, Barbara Blake teetered perilously in her high heels as she pursued the prosecutor.
“Ms. Dillard! Ms. Dillard! May I get a comment?”
“Make it quick.”
“Of course. I think we’re all wondering what you thought of Xander Steele’s testimony today? Do you believe it will impact the jury’s decision?”
“As I reiterated in my closing statements, I am certain the jury is far too intelligent to fall for Nicholas Van Sant’s charade. His laughable conspiracy theory will not obscure the truth here. I look forward to a guilty verdict and seeing George McAllister exactly where he belongs—back behind bars.”
Turning from Ms. Dillard and back toward the camera, Barbara Blake concluded her report.
“Tonight, both sides appear equally confident, and social media is abuzz with pundits weighing in on both sides. Conspiracy theorists were spurred on by today’s events, with what was described as a well-timed interruption by military personnel during Xander Steele’s testimony. The jury, the only ones whose opinion really matters, will begin their deliberations tomorrow morning. Rest assured when a verdict is reached, SFTV will be there. For now, goodnight.”
I muted the television and absentmindedly twirled my spaghetti, replaying my good-bye to Quin outside the courthouse that afternoon.
“You’ll text me as soon as you hear something, right?” I asked him. With Augustus feared dead, my father and I were leaving the safe house the following evening, returning home.
He nodded. “Can I text you if I don’t hear anything? Like just to say hi.”
I smiled. “Of course.”
“Right.” His agreement felt hollow. “And if my dad gets found guilty? What happens then?” He avoided my eyes, looking just past me. “He’d be going back to L.A., back to Dellencourt.”
“It doesn’t change anything. I’ll always want you in my life.” The thought of my life without Quin—somehow unknowing him—seemed as impossible as exchanging this heart for another.
“As a friend?” That word again.
There was no good answer. “I think I still need some time to figure it out.”
My father nudged my arm, bringing me back to the present. “Sebastian was just saying…” He gestured toward String.
“Ahem.” String’s smile was sly, as he cleared his throat, clinking his fork to his can of soda. “I was saying I have an announcement. Max and I are getting married. Ouch!” Max kicked him under the table. “Okay, okay, so that’s not it. Now that Van Sant security gave us the all clear, I’m going to move back in with my brother, and Maximillian is coming with me.”
“Won’t the police still be looking for you?” I asked.
He grinned. “Mr. Van Sant put in a good word for me. He sort of owed me one, after I found his missing silverware.” He winked at me. “Apparently, it was an old Van Sant family heirloom. He was so grateful to get it back.” Max and I exchanged a look, both of us speechless.
“Well, maybe one day, String, you will tie the knot,” my father joked. “Pun intended, of course.” I rolled my eyes.
“I have a bit of an announcement myself,” my father added. “I submitted my application to Eyes on the Bay today, along with a sample piece I’ve called Zenigenic On Trial: Emotion-Altering Drugs And The Case Of George McAllister.”
“Great title,” Max observed. “I can’t wait to see you give Barbara Blake a run for her money.”
“What do you think, Ms. Knightley?” my father asked, as he pantomimed holding a microphone to my mouth. “Can you see your dear old dad as an investigative reporter?”
I laughed. “Only if you leave your corny jokes at home.”
Early the next morning, a rap at my bedroom door awakened me. It was Max. “I’m surprised you’re asleep,” he said, sitting on the edge of my bed. His eyes were red rimmed and weary.
“Me too,” I confessed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Max covered his eyes with his hands.
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
He sighed.
“And it doesn’t sound like nothing either.”
“I never told you how I met String,” he said. “The whole story.”
“Online, right?”
Max nodded. “In a Guardian Force survivors’ chat room.”
“String was in the Guardian Force?” In my mind, I pictured String’s lanky forearms, both milky white, untouched.
“No. But he told me he was, and I believed him. I liked him right away. I trusted him.” Wistful, he smiled to himself. “And he has great hair, you know? Almost as good as mine.”
I laughed. String’s hair was undeniable. “So he lied to you for Augustus? To get to me and Quin?”
“That’s what I thought.” He handed me a photograph. “Until I found this in his backpack.”
I clicked the bedside lamp on, washing the room in an eerie light. The image in the photograph was irrefutable. Still, I couldn’t believe it. “George McAllister?”
CHAPTER NINETY - ONE
JUDGING EYES
THE TEXT CAME FROM QUIN at 1 p.m. the following afternoon, after just a half-day of deliberation. “The jury has a verdict.” Still at the safe house, we all piled into Van Sant’s security team vehicle and raced to the courthouse. My mind was buzzing—my thoughts flitting away before I could even consider them. I rapidly tapped my foot against the floor. I knew … it was too soon.
“Can you go any faster?” I asked Barry, eyeing the clock on the dashboard.
“Not without wings. Don’t worry. I’ll get you there. Mr. Van Sant said we have until 1:30.”
I finally gave voice to my worry. “This isn’t good.” In the silence, I saw Max and String exchange a knowing look.
My father tried to ease my concern. “Let’s just wait and see what happens.”
Screeching to a stop in front of the courthouse at 1:26 p.m., Barry exhaled. “That was close,” he admitted. I jumped out, leaving Max, String, and my father behind me, and plowed right into Xander Steele.
“Ugh!” he moaned, dropping his briefcase, spilling most of its contents onto the courthouse steps. “Are you blind?”
Bending over, I began to help him gather his things. “I—I’m … I’m sorry. I was in a hur—”
“Mr. Steele, are you alright?” A man’s throaty voice interrupted, addressing Xander and then me. “Step aside. Those are confidential documents.” While I was still hunched, in mid-reach, a suited arm extended past me, securing a fluttering paper in its grasp. I froze. Peeking from beneath the suit, in a coil of blank ink on his wrist, was a tattoo. It was a snake, beheaded, with drops of blood drawn in red.
“Did you hear me?” the man demanded. He had the face of a hawk—beady yellow-brown eyes, a beak-like nose, and a severe bald-head.
“Uh, um, yes.” I stood. “I was just…” My father was approaching.
“I think she’s admiring your tattoo,” Xander observed. His cold voice cut like an ax, heavy with intention.
“What tattoo?” I asked, meeting his stare. His eyes were vacant pools. Without another word between us, I handed him the papers I collected and walked toward my father.
“Are you alright?” my father asked. His voic
e sounded far away. My legs were unsteady, threatening to fold in like a sheet—but when I started to speak, the words came fast and certain. As my father listened, wide-eyed, the courthouse loomed behind him, a sleeping giant ready to swallow us. In its bowels, I pictured George McAllister—twelve pairs of judging eyes upon him. I anticipated the word guilty, knowing finally, with unquestionable certainty, he was innocent.
EPILOGUE
I WALKED TO THE MARINA ALONE. Carefree, Artos sprinted ahead of me, splashing through puddles of rainwater and leaves. In the November sky, a harvest moon was rising, big and bright, so close it seemed almost reachable. Two weeks since the verdict—guilty—and I was still haunted by the face of the tattooed man.
“We’ve rested our case. The jury has decided,” Mr. Van Sant told me after I spit out my story, barely breathing between words. His face was practiced, composed, but I knew he felt it. The blade of injustice cut deep. Quin’s face haunted me too, frozen like a stopped clock, when the judge pronounced the sentence. Life. For such a small word, its expanse was devastatingly vast.
Somehow, I thought, coming here would make me feel closer to Quin, but as I approached the pier, the hollow ache inside me only deepened. I sat on a bench nearest the water and took Quin’s note from my pocket. I had read it so many times that I knew the words like my own name. But each time I unfolded it, I felt a hopeful sort of dread, as if it might be—but wouldn’t be—different this time. My father found the note and Artos on our front porch the morning after the trial concluded. By that time, George McAllister was already on his way back to Dellencourt Correctional Facility, and @LittleButFierce was, in her words, gone to L.A. indefinitely.
Dear Lex,
I’ve had to say a lot of good-byes in my life—most meant nothing to me. A few stung a little. Only a couple hurt like hell. This is, by far, the hardest good-bye I’ve ever said. I hope you’ll understand why I couldn’t say it in person. Just being friends seems pretty impossible to me, so I keep telling myself maybe this is what’s best for both of us right now. I need to be there for my dad. If there’s a way out of this for him, I have to find it. At least you finally believe in him—I only wish you could’ve trusted me all along—but I know now it was my fault that you didn’t. I probably shouldn’t say this, but I love you, and nothing can change that. Take care of Artos for me—he likes you better anyway.