The Firstborn (42 page)

His attention snapped to the left—perched on the wall, maybe twelve inches from the roof, was a set of floodlights, big, bulging, and domed. Like bug eyes, staring down at him.

They were connected to a motion sensor. Step into the field, and the entire side of the house would erupt with a splash of light. Devin had been to the house enough times to remember the light and how bright it got when the children ran underneath it at parties. It would draw the attention of more than one guard, and there he’d be—naked, vulnerable, and unwelcome.

He checked his watch, noting the time. He had to move fast—but not so fast that he would trigger the motion sensor.

Sensors like these were tricky. He’d experimented with them when he was younger, trying to figure out what their tolerances were. A cat running by was more than enough to trigger the light, but grass swaying in the breeze was not. Motion could pass through the field—if it was slow enough.

Devin began to tip onto his side, rolling slowly, body parallel to the side of the house. He made it from his chest to his back.

No light.

He completed the roll, body controlled as he inched from his back to his chest. Devin checked his watch. Not much time.

Slowly. Pedantically. Painstakingly. He continued moving toward the house.

He inched forward with each turn, holding his breath, hoping he wasn’t moving too quickly. There was a cracking sound—

He stopped. It was the kind of sound the light made as the circuit completed, snapping to life.

He waited.

No light.

Devin swiveled his head, examining the area. He was getting closer now—soon he’d be under the arc of the motion sensor—close enough to disregard the speed of his movements.

The sound came again. He held, waiting.

Nothing.

The sound repeated again. The thoughts coalesced in his mind. The sound wasn’t coming from the wall of the house—it was bouncing off the wall, distorting his perceptions. It was coming from the trees—the sound of crunching branches. Shawn and his temporarily distracted guard were returning.

He had to hurry.

Devin rolled to his stomach, face in the grass, and began to crawl as fast as he could—body tense and controlled, trying not to move too quickly—but trying not to get caught. His fingers dug into the wet blades and dirt, dragging himself forward in tight precision. Sweat trickled down his face, mixed with dark soil.

The crunching foliage grew louder. Maybe Shawn was stomping to warn him.

The conversation floated across the lawn. The distracted guard sounded upset by the interruption to his work as he moved back to his patrol.

Hand over agonizingly slow hand—Devin shimmied across the turf.

The voices erupted from the trees, close now. Soon they would see him.

Out of time.

He rolled again, fast, body tumbling across the sod. Devin surged, throwing his weight forward toward what he saw just ahead—

The light flashed on.

Shawn threw his attention to the left.

The light.

The game was up. There was no more cover of darkness to—“What was that?” the other guard asked.

“I…” Shawn began, trying to think of something fast to explain the situation.

The guard shrugged. “Must have been a cat.”

Shawn paused. “What?” He looked to the wall. There was no one there. “Yeah,” he mused, “a cat or…something.”

Devin listened as the sounds of rustling Kevlar moved away. He held fast in the window well for a moment in the same position that he’d landed in—his silenced HK pistol digging into the small of his back.

Through the window he could see Morris’s workout room. He checked the edges of the window—no alarm.

Devin began to work.

That alarm clock rings like a resounding trumpet or clanging brass, Morris Childs thought as his arthritic hand reached for the squawking machine and slapped down on the button.

The table lamp came on with a click, warming his quiet corner of the room with dim light. He groaned, body weak and tired.

He’d spent too much time inside these last few days as the Firstborn changed and grew around him. His feet touched the cold hardwood floor, and he winced in his lethargy, feet probing for his slippers. A foot found the closest of the two and slipped into the woolen glove. Morris reached down, his slick, silk pajamas swishing past their interweaving folds. A hand found the other slipper, and he tucked his foot into it. His hand reached onto the bedside table, fishing blindly through his nearsightedness, then his fingertips touched what they were searching for.

Morris donned his glasses, eyes acclimating to the warm burn of the lamp’s yellow glow. Then he stood, slowly. He groaned, a hand touching his lower back. His knees felt like blocks of wood being dragged across pavement as they worked to straighten.

The older gentleman walked to the bathroom at the other end of the room. He moaned as he carried his creaking body the short distance, shutting the door behind.

He’d been young once—invincible. Flying jets in Vietnam had made him cocky—it was a stereotype that pilots were cocky, but he’d learned a long time ago that most stereotypes were the product of some kind of truth. Back in those days he’d done stupid, brash things for the sake of salving bravado. In those days he’d thought he’d gotten away with his exploits—and in a sense he had. Then one day all the debts he owed his body came due, and his joints froze like ice.

It had been a long time since his cocky youth, but he carried it with him, like a chain around his neck. All he’d seen was the moment—he could never see through the haze of what was in the here and now to see the consequences that lived beyond. It was when he came home to discover that his first wife, Olivia, had left him that he found something more important than drinking and carousing for the moment’s fun.

Three weeks home and he was a broken man. He’d heard it said that when a man reaches the end of his rope, he finds God—Morris quickly came to agree with this. When he crawled out of his stupor he found religion. A man approached him on the street—a member of the First-born who had been led to him.

A lot had happened since then.

So many choices, so many difficult decisions.

The Firstborn had never trusted one another—but he’d watched as they splintered, drifting further and further apart in an age of terrorism. He had to do something. No one else could—at least that’s what he told himself for the millionth time as he washed his hands in the sink, looking at his face in the mirror.

The face he saw was old.

And tired.

He blinked at the old man in the mirror. He was running out of time. The previous fall he’d had his third heart attack, and if he was going to leave a legacy, he had to do it now, before it was too late. Uniting the Firstborn was to be his last act.

Morris opened the medicine cabinet, squinting as he checked the labels on the bottles. The child safety cap took him a moment to get open, then burst off in his arthritic hand, spilling pills into the sink. He groaned and began to scoop the tiny tablets back into their cylinder, keeping one in his palm. After replacing the bottle, he shut the cabinet.

There was that face again. Old and tired.

He stared for a moment, then threw his head back, swallowing his heart medicine.

Morris then entered the walk-in closet, the hangers squealing as he pushed them across the rod.

He stopped. There was a sound coming from the other room—

Running water?

Morris stepped out of the closet, the day’s clothes in hand. He tossed the garments on the bed and took a seat. Then he stopped. On the chair in front of him he saw something—its form shimmering in the dark light of the predawn world. The form was familiar to him—

HK Mark 23—a homemade silencer fashioned to the muzzle.

Morris felt the blood drain from his body. He hadn’t put that there. It wasn’t there when he’d gone to the closet. What was happening? What was going on?

Something caught his eyes. Light beneath the bathroom door—where he had been just minutes before. Wedges of dark formed by the silhouette of feet beyond.

The knob turned.

Morris knew to shout for help, but he felt it catch in his chest. Another heart attack?

The door opened and a man stepped out—tall and strong. Dark slacks, black shoes, a pink dress shirt, the top buttons undone, sleeves folded back—a crimson towel thrown over his shoulder.

“Devin,” he uttered, voice trembling.

Devin Bathurst stood in the doorway to the small bathroom, a bowl in hand that Morris recognized from the kitchen. The trespasser reached into the bowl, and there was a swishing of liquid. Devin’s hand lifted from the bowl, his fist crushing something—a washcloth. Cascades of dribbling water tumbled from between Devin’s fingers, wringing from the cloth, gushing from his iron clutch.

Morris looked at the gun, then back at Devin, washcloth in hand. The old man nodded. “You’re going to kill me,” he said slowly, the thought only now becoming real to him.

The floorboards wailed as Devin’s heavy shoe came down on them, moving forward in elegant strides. He came within three feet of Morris and stopped. Devin remained silent.

“I understand,” Morris said with an accepting nod. He thought of trying to fight back. There had been a time when he would have won. But those days were gone. He thought of screaming for help, but that wouldn’t save his life. Something in his heart sagged. He had done horrible things. Necessary, perhaps, but he had organized the First-born for the sake of killing. He had seen to it that Blake had become Overseer, and the man had used his power to destroy.

Morris took a long, slow breath. In all truth, he deserved to die. And he knew it.

He nodded at Devin. “This is what you think you have to do.”

Devin knelt, setting down the bowl of water and the towel.

“That’s not enough water to clean up the mess you’ll make,” Morris announced with a kind of morbid helpfulness. His wife loved the hardwood floor. She’d refused to let him replace it all these years. Blood—his blood, no less—would be too much for her. “You’ll need more water.”

Devin stood. “If I need more I’ll get more.” Then he picked up the pistol. “Morris Childs,” he said firmly, “you have single-handedly conspired against the leaders of the Firstborn to bring them under your control. You have put yourself in league with murderers, thieves, and hypocrites.”

“I was trying to unite the Firstborn,” he stammered. “I was doing what I thought was best.”

“You are a terrorist, a kidnapper, a conspirator, a murderer, and a fraud.” Devin stood for a moment, pistol hanging in a gentle grip at his side. “You deserve to die.”

Morris shook his head. “Devin, I don’t expect you to understand. I did what I had to do.”

Devin Bathurst nodded in the shallow light. Like the angel of death, Morris thought.

“I’m simply doing what I must do also.”

Morris closed his eyes. “Then do it,” he said softly.

He could hear Devin as he knelt again, setting the pistol aside, hand reaching once again into the swishing bowl of water. Morris felt the strong hands reach for his slippers, removing them one at a time, the towel sliding into place below them. The pads of his feet rested on the soft, fluffy fabric, and he felt his right foot be placed in the large bowl.