Relentless (21 page)

The Thresher stood and the sword became a blur of movement. Drexel’s belt disappeared from his pants, flying off into the air behind the Thresher. His pants instantly fell around his ankles and he felt a sharp sting across his rear end that could only have come from the flat of the sword’s blade. The pain thrust him suddenly forward, but his feet were tangled in the fallen trousers and there was nothing nearby to grab.

As he toppled over, the Thresher caught him by the forehead with a single hand. The arm attached to that hand was outstretched far enough to keep Drexel out of his reach; the Thresher sat on a nearby table calmly, his arm keeping Drexel from falling over without breaking a sweat.

It had all happened much too fast for Drexel to react to. Now he found himself leaning over far, arms flailing madly to get his balance back. He panicked as his bulbous belly touched the sword’s edge, which the Thresher held in position by sitting on the hilt, wedging it between himself and the tabletop.

Yet he sat there staring at Drexel with utmost calm.

The Thresher leaned in to whisper a response to Drexel’s last question. ‘‘You wanted to know what the markings on the blade signify? More than a right waste like you could
ever
comprehend.’’

Drexel awoke minutes later, surrounded by fellow policemen.

‘‘What happened? Where’d he go?’’ he stammered.

‘‘Long gone,’’ one of the cops replied. ‘‘Looks like he knocked you out somehow.’’

Drexel came to his feet, not entirely steady, and pulled his pants back up with an angry jolt.

Blood surged through him and pounded against his temples.

That’s it, then
.

Enough was enough. The department wanted results, and he was going to get them.

No matter what.

He flipped open his phone from one of his pockets and stormed out the door.

‘‘We’re moving to Plan B,’’ he said when the ringing stopped. ‘‘Do it
now
.’’

He hung up, withdrew a business card from his pocket, and dialed the number printed on it.

‘‘I’ve told you already, Detective. I don’t know anything about this man you mentioned,’’ Daniel said into his phone, as he walked down the second-floor steps. Drexel had called just as Daniel was leaving the lab; Lisa had gone home hours ago.

‘‘I had no idea,’’ Drexel replied, ‘‘ethical scientist types like yourself were so skilled at lying.’’

Daniel walked out the front door into the cool night air in the warehouse district. It was unusually cold, yet he began to sweat at Drexel’s implication. ‘‘Detective, I’ve contacted my lawyer, and I
know
you have no right to search or seize anything on my property without just cause.’’

Silence met him on the phone line, as he turned around to lock the outside door of the old brick warehouse building.

With a deep snarl, Drexel said, ‘‘We’ll have to find one then.’’

Daniel stared at his phone, wondering if that had been a smart move. He’d meant to stave off the other man, but instead he’d somehow challenged him to up his game.

He wondered what else Drexel might have up his sleeve. Anything was possible.

It occurred to him just then how remarkably silent it was, there on the usually busy street behind him. Even the wind had momentarily stopped, holding its breath.

His phone rang again and he jumped.

Lisa . . .

Before he could answer it, he heard a loud crack.

The phone fell out of his hand and he slumped to the ground.

His mind was reacting too slowly, he realized—the crack had been something hitting the back of his head. On his hands and knees, he grabbed the door handle in front of him to steady himself and stand back up. He had a firm grip on it, and he gradually, carefully got to his feet. He turned around.

Something hard swung sideways into him, and he heard another sickening
pop
. He fell again, backward this time, as the wind was knocked out of him and a sharp pain shot through his chest.

Coughing, Daniel looked up through bleary eyes at the three obscure figures that towered over him. He couldn’t make out their features. He saw only dark silhouettes. Perhaps they were men wearing hooded sweatshirts. Or perhaps they were wolves, tenderizing their next meal. The nearest one was holding a large metal bat. But as he lay there, none of them moved a muscle.

They watched him.

Daniel raised a hand straight up into the air. ‘‘Please, don’t . . .’’ he gasped.

The bat came down again in a flash, this time into his stomach, and it was all he could manage to swallow the rising nausea.

‘‘No—’’ he tried to say, but it didn’t sound right, and he couldn’t catch his breath.

One of them grabbed him by his straight brown hair and lifted, forcing him to stand. Daniel flailed his arms about, trying to get the man to let go, but he was facing the wall now and couldn’t see what they were doing.

He gasped hard, eyes filled with blood and pain as the bat collided with his legs from behind. He fell yet again, fast and hard, the strength in his legs leaving as violent pain coursed through them.

Somewhere nearby, something was ringing.

What is that. . . ? I know that sound . . .

He fought to remain conscious as he realized it was his phone, still ringing from before. If only he could get his fingers around it . . . He threw an arm out in the direction the sound was coming from, but his eyes were bleary and bloodshot, and suddenly the sound stopped.

And then fists, feet, knees, and the heavy baseball bat descended upon him, all at once. Blows came from all sides, and he knew only pain. It was happening too fast. There was no time to react. One of the men stomped hard on his upturned foot and it twisted to the side with a sharp
snap
.

He couldn’t get angry, couldn’t be sad. Couldn’t be afraid. Couldn’t even cry.

He could only
feel
.

Barely holding to consciousness, he was outstretched on his chest now, though he didn’t remember turning over. He opened his swollen eyes as much as possible, barely able to see through the haze of agony.

One fierce kick to the face ended that, as he finally, gratefully slipped into nothingness.

25

An accident on the 101 turned the trip back from Las Virgenes Canyon into a wasted afternoon. The winding canyon roads suited the Corvette perfectly while the stalled traffic surrounding them now was like making a Thoroughbred pull a plow. Eventually they growled their way back to the Wagner Building and into the parking garage. Finding a space and setting the brake, Grant said, ‘‘I need a plan.’’

‘‘Agreed,’’ Julie replied. She’d been brooding silently in the passenger seat since leaving the asylum. He thought she might yell on the drive back but she’d sat quiet and serious. It was like it was almost too much and the weight of everything had found her shoulders. The sun had waned in the horizon and vanished once they arrived at home, yet this was the first word she’d uttered during the drive.

‘‘Think I might jot some things down, gather my thoughts, maybe see if I can come up with some idea of what I should do next,’’ he continued. ‘‘Want to help?’’

‘‘I was wondering if I could borrow the car, actually,’’ she replied. In response to his unspoken question, she said, ‘‘I haven’t been home in a while. Thought I should check the mail, make sure my bills are caught up. Won’t take long.’’

Something was wrong with this scenario, and Grant didn’t have to be her brother to see it. But she was so distant, so withdrawn . . . and his mind was running in a hundred different directions. He didn’t press the matter.

‘‘Sure,’’ he tossed her the keys and got out of the vehicle. ‘‘See you after a while.’’

Julie nodded in reply as she scooted over to the driver’s seat and started the engine again. She backed out of the parking space and was out of sight in a moment.

Grant shook his head.
What’s eating her? Probably everything
.

He’d just reached the door to the parking garage’s elevator, glad to be exiting the nighttime shadows, when a voice said, ‘‘Nice to see you with some forward momentum.’’

Terrific
. Her
again
.

His barefoot friend sauntered into view from an open stairwell beside the elevator. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she was typically smug.

‘‘Admit it,’’ she said playfully, ‘‘you missed me.’’

‘‘Between escaping death within inches of my life—
twice
—and learning that I may be the culmination of some kind of ancient prophecy . . . no, sorry, you never once crossed my mind.’’

‘‘Might want to spit that bitter pill back out before you choke on it,’’ she remarked sourly. ‘‘So it’s true. You had a little meet-’n’-greet with the one and only Morgan herself.’’

‘‘Why didn’t you tell me there were other people out there like me? Why did you let me think I was the only one?’’

‘‘You weren’t ready to know,’’ she said, dismissing him. ‘‘So how are the genius Loci?’’

Grant said nothing.

‘‘Morgan and her ‘flock’ definitely fall into the ‘good guy’ camp,’’ the girl replied. ‘‘I’m sure she seemed eager to help you. But Morgan has her own agenda, just like everybody else. She sees a lot more potential in you than you do. And she may not be wrong.’’

Grant snorted. ‘‘All of this advice. So which camp do
you
fall into? Are you one of the good guys?’’

‘‘There are more colors in the crayon box than black and white, hotshot,’’ she countered. ‘‘Everyone’s got their own agenda, and I do mean
everyone
. And it’s rarely the one they let you see. But I would have
thought
you would’ve pieced together by now that I’m risking my own life and limb every time I stick my neck out far enough to speak to you.’’

‘‘Then why
do
you talk to me? Are you manipulating me too?’’ He sighed, irritated and tired. ‘‘Everyone I’ve met since this began has pulled and prodded and wanted a piece of me.’’

‘‘But you keep bouncing back, sweetie.’’ She smiled. ‘‘That’s why I like you. I’m here to watch you. I’m to observe your actions and file reports on your progress. I do the same for the others—the ones I can keep track of, anyway, before they disappear off to Morgan’s little hideaway.’’

‘‘So if you’re trying to help me,’’ Grant said, piecing the story together, ‘‘which is a violation of your ‘orders,’ then why not give me anything more to go on? Why all the vague clues?’’

‘‘You want something solid? Okay, how about this. Drexel intercepted that fragment of the stone tablet—not to learn anything from it himself, not to foil Morgan’s plans—but to lure
you
to his apartment. A plan your new pal Morgan unwittingly accommodated.’’

‘‘What? But . . .’’ Grant faltered, ‘‘how could he know Morgan would send me to get it?’’

‘‘Drexel may be little more than a cop who knows more than he should, but he knows
enough
about Morgan to know that she’d pay
any
price to get that fragment back. Sweetie, seriously, you’re starting to worry me. In case you hadn’t noticed—and clearly you
haven’t
—this entire ‘game’ you’re playing is completely rigged. Has been from the start. The things that have happened to you over the last few weeks may feel random to you, but it’s all connected.’’

Grant’s brow furrowed, anger rising once more at the layers upon layers of manipulation he’d been subjected to. He rubbed at the ring’s underside.

‘‘If you’re going to play to win,’’ the girl said, conviction in her voice, ‘‘then you have to go off script. And you’ve
got
to learn not to take ‘no’ for an answer. Do you even know what you’re capable of?’’

‘‘I’m starting to.’’

‘‘You could probably stand to learn a thing or two from your new girlfriend. Mayhem and anarchy—that’s right up her alley, isn’t it?’’

‘‘Who’s swallowing the bitter pill now?’’

‘‘The point is, you need to start putting your handy-dandy new skills to work and break down some doors, pal. It’s time to stop playing by everyone else’s rules.’’

‘‘Sounds like you’re applying to be my coach,’’ Grant joked, but she made no response, positive or negative. He found he was fast warming to the idea of coloring outside the lines. ‘‘Okay, then. I want to know your name. And I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.’’

A smile played at the corner of her lips, and her eyes became narrow openings. But he could tell her annoyance wasn’t sincere.

‘‘Fine,’’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘‘My name is Alex.’’

Much to her relief, Julie found her apartment exactly as she’d left it.

But truth be told, she had little interest in checking the mail
or
paying her bills. She bypassed both on her way to the spare room she used for storage.

Boxes, unused and broken appliances, and a multitude of college textbooks crammed the room. So much had been taken from her early in life that now she had a hard time parting with anything. Julie had difficulty finding her footing, as very little of the carpet was visible. Goose-stepping around the poorly organized room was the best she could manage.

‘‘Where is it. . . ?’’ she mumbled, rifling through box after box.

One hour and thirteen boxes later, she had a eureka moment.

This is it
.

Now she could show Grant some cold, hard facts about this conspiracy he was caught up in. She had evidence in her hand that proved that none of what Grant was experiencing would be solved via lunatic prophecies. She’d heard quite enough of Morgan filling her brother’s head with bizarre theories for one lifetime, thank you very much.

Julie could handle the ‘‘enhanced mental abilities’’ thing. She could deal with the ‘‘Shift.’’ She could even swallow the notion that Morgan had somehow read every single one of the thousands of books lining the walls at the asylum.

But this ‘‘Bringer’’ nonsense was going too far.

Grant had enough on his mind trying to sort out the truth, his anger issues, and even his very identity, without complicating matters with ideas better suited to the realm of mythology.

Leaving the room, she seized three spare college textbooks on her way out.

Morgan would probably enjoy reading these. Just because she’s misguided
doesn’t mean I can’t be nice to her
.