Tormented (25 page)

Benjamin curled up, gathering his knees to him, and rocked there, on his side, letting the world go away for a moment. This was just so—so—so violent. He reached up and brushed his hands against his face, finding wet dirt mingled with tears.

Anselmo was

he had to be

no one could survive

A hand, covered in blood, seized hold of his arm. Benjamin screamed, uncontrollably, until the hand slapped again across his face. “Controllll yourselfff …” Anselmo said, looking up at him. His face was—

oh

my

The hand slapped him again. “Be a mannnnn,” Anselmo said, and bloody spittle fell out the side of his cheek as he slurred, his tongue fully exposed all the way down to his gullet. “Annnnd … get meee out of … heeeere …”

I was lying on my back, staring at the boring ceiling when the door opened and admitted a single person. I had to admit, I was figuring on Z. After all, sooner or later he’d have to come back to feed me. Until then, I was just biding my time, trying to figure out if the wiser option was escape or waiting. Escape, currently impossible anyway, held the peril of likely further legal troubles, while waiting left me open to the sinister schemes of whoever was messing with me.

Had everything in this town gone completely, utterly crazy? Was there a weather meta messing with me along with the telepath? That was possible. Add a few surly, difficult townspeople—a couple of whom could actually double as those metas—and boom, we have the nutty conundrum I was buried in.

If nothing else, it had the virtue of being unique in the annals of Sienna. No one had ever set up a crazy weather pattern to trap me in a town of slow-boiling rage inducement before. Of course, if I got my powers back and discovered that was what was really happening, it was 50/50 and dropping fast whether I’d be feeling merciful enough to spare lives. Because this had been one of the most emotionally upheaving experiences of my life.

“Thought maybe you’d be sleeping,” Sarah said as she eased into the room. She had that quiet reserve about her that made me surprised she spoke first.

“Did enough of that already, thanks to you,” I said, staring out at her. I was sullen, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

“You attacked a police officer,” she said.

“There were extenuating circumstances,” I said. “Like … static electricity.” When I said it like that, I realized no court was going to buy it. Shit.

“You just can’t keep yourself under control, can you?” She started to pace outside the cell. It took everything I had not to mirror her on my side of the bars.

“What are you?” I asked. “The town’s resident Sienna Nealon expert?”

“Someone has to be,” she said, shaking her head. “I know you. I know your type.”

“Know a lot of succubi, do you?” I asked.

“Oh, come off it,” she said, halting her pace so she could spin and face me. “You think you’re the only bad girl with a temper out there? Most of the time, people like you end up on YouTube videos as part of a white trash roundup, the type of fights that degenerate into hair pulling.”

“I would have resorted to hair pulling with you,” I said, “if I’d known you were going to come at me when my back was turned, I would have—” I caught myself in the middle of another furious, pointless rant and just stopped.

“And that’s why you’re on that side of the bars,” she said.

“I’ve been in worse,” I sniped back.

“Want to stick me with a sob story?” Sarah crossed her arms. “Tell me your tragic experience in life?”

“Who cares?” I pushed the back of my head harder into the thin pillow. “I mean, really. You people are going to do what you’re going to do. Which begs the question, what do you do for justice up here? Do I get a trial, or is it straight to the stake when it warms up enough for the torches to burn?”

“Very dramatic,” she said, “like your problems aren’t mostly of your own making.”

“I got in a bar fight,” I said. “As if that’s never happened in northern Wisconsin before.”

“Even now, you don’t see it, do you?” I caught a glimpse of those blue-green eyes in the half-light of the single bulb above me. “Even now, you’re running away from responsibility for your actions.”

“Do I get a reduction of sentence if I continue to listen to your lecture? Because maybe I’d prefer to go in the opposite direction and go straight for the death penalty instead.”

She regarded me with a careful look. “Once upon a time, you told your brother, ‘I don’t live with humanity.’”

I sat bolt upright in my bed, spun my head to look at her so fast I thought I might break my own neck. “How did you know that?”

She didn’t answer, just shook her head. “Do you know why you don’t live with humanity?”

“You’re the telepath,” I breathed, my eyes locked on her. I came up to the bars that separated us and grabbed hold of them, felt the cold steel in between my fingers.

“Do you know why?” she asked again.

“Because I’m metahuman,” I said, locking my eyes on hers. The urge to snap, to try and reach through the bars and seize her was strong. What would I do once I got her? Ohhh, I don’t know. But it would have probably been primal for me and painful for her, trying to squeeze her into the cell to join me.

“Yes,” she said, still looking straight at me. “Metahuman. As in beyond human, past what they are. Most people think of it in terms being better, but you can be beyond in other directions, too—like down.” Her voice turned harsh. “You’re subhuman. Worse than anyone.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You’re a murderer.”

I recoiled from the bars as I watched a sliver of a smile cross her lips. “And,” she said, with sudden relish, as if she were telling me a fantastic secret of life, “you’re going to die here.”

I brought my car to a screeching halt and flew out of it in a mad rush toward the infirmary entrance to headquarters for the second time today. I put the wind squarely at my back, adding a little extra oomph to each step, and ignored Scott’s footsteps as they fell further and further behind me. I was on a mission. I was walking with fury. With a purpose.

And when that purpose collided with Anselmo Serafini, one of us was going to walk away bloody.

I noticed an enormous hole in the lawn just outside the medical entry, a clot of soil the size of a couch ripped out of the earth. Grass was left hanging over the sides of that sad and lonely hole in the landscaping, and seeing it only increased the fervency of my pace.

I shot through the doors without pause, practically ripped them off the hinges as I did so. I darted past agents with assault rifles and submachine guns to come to the medical unit’s open doors. Dirt was everywhere, scattered around like someone had spilled a giant bag of potting soil. It was black and rich, and I imagined it had come out of that gaping hole in the ground I’d passed on the way in.

I shoved past some administrative wank with a clipboard, not caring if I’d just stepped on toes today attached to a butt I’d have to kiss tomorrow. I ignored the cry of protest that followed and made my way inside to find …

Isabella, safe and sound, talking to Kurt Hannegan.

I caught her eye as I entered, but she stayed cool even after seeing me. She was like that—old school, not into the PDA. I restrained myself, knowing she’d pretty well kill me if I ran up and kissed her right now. Later, though … later …

“Doctor,” I said, easing up to her.

She met my gaze with cool relief, like she was exhaling now that I was here. Or at least, that’s how I imagined it. “Mr. Treston.” Just the way she said it, all Italian and sexy … it gave me a little relief.

“How’d you stop Anselmo?” I asked as Scott crowded in next to me, nodding at Hannegan like they were old friends.

“Liquid nitrogen,” she said, pointing to a metal cylinder that was sitting on its side on the ground.

“What the hell were you doing with liquid nitrogen here?” I asked, a little boggled.

“It’s used for cryogenic treatment of warts,” she said. “It burns them off. As it turns out, it also worked on Anselmo’s new and not-much-improved face.”

“Ouch,” Scott said with a grimace. “The guy was scarred before, right?” His grimace got worse. “Can’t imagine what he looks like now.”

“Where is he?” I heard a cool voice behind me and turned to see Andrew Phillips shouldering his way into the room in much the same way I just had. When he locked eyes with me, he headed straight for me like a missile. “Oh,
now
you’re back,” he said, sparing none of the sarcasm.

“Yes,” I said, “now I’m back. Back from investigating and manhunting, which is what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“You missed your man while engaging in your hunt.” Phillips broke his way into our little circle. “Both of them, actually.”

“Make sure you note that on my performance review,” I said, channeling the spirit of my sister. Did he not think I’d noticed Anselmo and Cunningham had just tried to kill my girlfriend? I may not have known they were going to come at us like this, but I wasn’t completely stupid.

“Yeah, that’s getting worse by the moment,” Phillips said. “What’s your plan now?”

“Well,” I said, holding back a little sarcasm. “I don’t have one. So you can tell me what you want me to do.”

“I want you to catch this guy,” Phillips said, and he stuck a finger right in my face. “That’s what I’ve wanted all along. It’s what the president wants; for you to stop making us look completely incompetent to the voting public.”

“Really?” I asked, drawing it out with low disbelief. “I didn’t see you predicting Anselmo was going to attack our headquarters. No one predicted it, actually.”

“It doesn’t matter what you can predict,” Phillips said, “it matters how it looks. Word’s out. Did you see the press?”

“I saw two guys with cell phone cameras at the gate,” I said. “I wouldn’t call that the press. I mean, that’s not even as many as were at the scene when—”

“They’re coming,” Phillips said, cutting off my little reminiscence before it hit him in an emotionally painful memory. “Local news will be pulling up momentarily, if they’re not here already. We just got a black eye in full public view.”

“If you think you can hunt these guys better than I can,” I said, taking a step back from Phillips, “be my guest.”

“What I want you to do,” Phillips said, closing up the distance between us to get in my face, “is what you promised to do for the last few months: take over for your sister and deliver the same results in the field with less violence and fewer public relations disasters. It’s all you’ve talked about, and so far you’ve delivered public spectacle after public spectacle. Fighting in a Chinese restaurant? Demolishing a tech company? The damned airport exploding?”

“I wasn’t even on the case when the last one happened,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Phillips said. “We’re not two rational adults hashing this out, and that’s what you don’t seem to understand from your sister’s experience. I’m not the one judging you—either of you. You’re being judged by a much harsher boss—the public. It’s not even the media that’s your enemy; they’re just the lens you’re being viewed through. Your problem is that there are three hundred and thirty million people in this country watching you from a distance and making their judgments as to your motives, your intent, your competence. They’re not forgiving people—”

“To say nothing of the rest of the world,” Isabella said.

“They don’t vote, so they don’t matter,” Phillips said, not even looking at her as he spoke. “I’m not your enemy. I’m your accountability. If it was just you and me, I wouldn’t care that you’ve had some false starts, or that Anselmo is being tricky and getting help from someone who’s manipulating technology in order to hide him. But I’m not in charge of public opinion, I’m in charge of getting the results we need so that Gerard Harmon can get re-elected without the metahuman problem exploding like the Minneapolis airport.” Rage infused his diatribe, and his face was red throughout it. “You told me you could make it happen, this vision of yours of doing things different.”

My face burned. I was getting my ass torn off in ragged strips in front of my girlfriend. “I can—”

“Don’t tell me,” Phillips said, holding up a single finger. “Show me. And better yet … show them.” He waved in a half-circle, presumably indicating the world around us—or at least the U.S. voters’ portion of it—and then went right for the door.

“Man,” Scott said as Phillips went out of earshot, “first, I’m glad he didn’t ask about me, and second … I am so not sorry I quit.”

Sarah left after that last little goad, making me wondering what the point was, other than to make me feel like shit scraped off a boot. On the other hand, maybe that was good enough for her. I did have a certain mild dread by now, knowing I was in up to my chin with the water rising fast. It may not have been the first time I had been in a jail cell—by my count it was at least my third—but it was certainly the most isolated I’d felt. I mean, bars I couldn’t move? On an island in the middle of Lake Superior? This was isolated. And I was supposed to be here two more weeks, weeks in which none of my extremely limited circle of friends were going to come looking for me.

Not a great predicament.

I started to wonder about Jake as I sat there, back against the concrete wall. I’d already tested the concrete and found it really hard on the ol’ knuckles. My left hand was bleeding again, both from the squeeze of balling my hand into a fist and also from said knuckles after a half dozen punches had failed to so much as crease the block. Made me wonder if they’d seeded the concrete with iron or what. Not exactly an exciting place to be, realizing that even your basic powers were useless.

It led me to take stock of where I was, to really think through what I had. I searched all my pockets and found nothing, not even my cell phone with its minimal contact list.

Plus, I was hungry. How fun was that?

Worst. Vacation. Ever.

Errr … actually, had I ever really taken a vacation before?

I blew air through my lips in boredom, staring at the light fixture just outside the cell. Even if they’d had one inside the cell, what could I really do with it? Absorb enough juice to electrocute myself and turn off the lights in the jailhouse? Stall my heart enough to make them come investigate, at which time I could ambush and pummel them to death, start enacting a bloody vengeance?