7. Talon
Chapter seven
Talon
H is drawing stares me down from the shelf, right where he left it. A rough map of his apartment, scrawled in pencil, camera placements marked out with a kind of spooky precision, and a stick figure labeled “You.”
That is me. I’ve been made. The kid doesn't just see what I do to other people. He sees me. I fold the paper and slide it into my pocket, my fingers running along the sharp crease. Your turn, he whispered. He isn’t wrong. Watching is over. Time to do something.
I pull out my phone and wipe the remote access to his cameras. If he has found those, he’ll find the rest. No point leaving anything behind. The feeds go dark, one after the other. I don’t need them now. Next time I see Quell, it’ll be in person.
The safe house is twenty minutes from his place.
I set it up three days ago, just to be safe.
Not Vincenzo’s. Mine. Personal. Concrete floors, no echo.
Blackout curtains over the windows. Chairs that don’t tip, with anchor points that won’t break.
The kind of place you take someone if you want them to disappear.
I brought my supply bag with me when I slipped in here Just the essentials. Zip ties. Duct tape. Sedative. Gloves. Blindfold. Spare clothes in case things go sideways, but I’m not planning on that. The Beretta is tucked inside, loaded, safety on. Just in case. Not the plan.
Quell is out on his daily trip, and I know exactly how long I have until he is back. It’s like the kid watches the clock in the cafe, counting down the minutes until he can escape.
My phone buzzes. It's Vincenzo. I ignore it. This isn’t about him anymore. This is just me and the boy who sees through my eyes.
I’m in position, ready when Quell comes around the corner. From far away, he looks almost normal. Gray hoodie, backpack hanging off one shoulder, walking a little too fast, like he is trying to outrun something.
I wait for him to disappear into the building, then move from his window to the door.
I listen, waiting for his footsteps in the corridor outside.
They start faintly, getting louder until they stop right outside the door.
His key rattles as it enters the lock, and then he pauses, as if he can sense me waiting inside.
For a moment, I fear he’s going to turn around and leave, but this kid hates being outside; he won't let me put him off getting behind a locked door.
The door swings open without a sound. I oiled the hinges yesterday, back when he was out. If he noticed, he never showed it.
He closes the door, dumps his bag and heads in, oblivious to my presence; or so aware of it, it's become second nature to him.
He heads to the kitchen and starts filling the kettle.
Why he needs tea to help him recover from his coffee, I don’t know, but it’s all part of his habit.
A clockwork routine to let him decompress from his outing.
It feels cruel to abduct him before he’s finished.
Plus, he’d spot my reflection in the kitchen window from there before I had time to act. I don’t want to hurt him.
I wait until he turns away, then move fast: one hand clamps over his mouth, the other slides the needle into his neck. He jerks, tries to yell, but my palm muffles the sound. Even through my glove, his skin is hot. The needle goes in smoothly, and I inject the contents.
“Easy,” I say, keeping my voice low, calm. “Don’t fight it.”
For four seconds, he thrashes, then goes limp. I support him before he can crumple to the ground, easing him down. His pulse thuds against my fingers, quick but solid. That is good. I don’t want him hurt.
When I lift him, his head lolls against my shoulder, breath warm on my neck. For now, I lie him on the couch, in a position that looks comfortable, then I switch off the kettle, and tidy up his things. Anyone looking for Quell will notice a half-finished task as being out of place.
I take him down the back stairs. No one sees. The car is waiting where I left it, trunk lined with a blanket ready for him. I set him down, tuck the blanket over him. Check his breathing. Still steady.
The drive to the safe house takes eighteen minutes. No one follows. No one cares. The streets are empty, afternoon sunlight stretching shadows across the road. Quell doesn’t wake up once.
The garage door shuts behind us, sealing out the light.
As soon as the trunk opens, my fingers are on his throat, checking his pulse.
I find it with a sigh of relief and then scoop him up.
Carry him inside, and set him down in the chair I picked out for him.
His head lolls forward, chin to chest, while I slip zip ties around his wrists, fastening them to the armrests.
Not too tight, just enough. His ankles, too, bound to the chair legs.
Then, a strip of duct tape over his mouth. I step back, taking him in.
He looks different in real life. The videos don’t catch it all. The little scar at his hairline. The patchy stubble on his jaw. Blue veins showing through his pale skin. I press two fingers to his wrist, checking his pulse. Still strong. He’ll be awake soon.
While I wait, I get everything ready. A table between us.
The water bottle in the center, straw already poked through the cap.
His drawings, the ones I grabbed from his place, lined up in order.
And in the middle, the special one. The one that hasn’t happened yet. The banker, the pliers. My next job.
He starts to wake up while I am sitting there, hands folded on the table. His eyelids flutter, slow at first, then wide and scared. He tries to talk, but the tape muffles him. His chest moves fast, up and down, up and down.
"I'm going to take the tape off," I say. "If you scream, it goes right back on. Got it?"
He gives a single nod, so I reach over and peel the tape off in one quick go. He winces, but doesn’t make a sound.
"Where am I?" His voice is scratchy, almost raw.
"Somewhere safe." I nudge the water bottle closer. "Drink."
He eyes it, suspicious.
"If I wanted to drug you again, I wouldn't have to hide it in water."
He leans forward as much as the zip ties let him. I hold the straw up to his mouth, and he drinks, slow and careful, watching me the whole time.
“It’s you,” he mutters after he's done drinking. “You’re the one who’s been watching me.”
"Yeah."
“Not an alien.” It’s not a question, just a statement, but I can’t tell if he’s relieved or surprised; the sedative is still dulling his expressions.
“Not an alien,” I confirm, feeling the need to get that out there. “Just a man trying to understand your drawings.”
"Why?"
I tap one drawing. "You know why."
His eyes flick to the papers spread across the table. I watch recognition hit; he's not looking at ancient unsolved murders. He's looking at my kills. The moment he figures that out, his expression changes. Not fear, exactly. More like resignation.
"That one’s not on my website. How did you get it?" He gestures to one image.
"I took it from your apartment. The night I put the cameras in."
He swallows dryly. "Are you going to kill me?"
"That’s up to you." My voice stays calm. "But first, I need to understand something."
"What?"
I slide one drawing across the table, nudging it toward him. Samuel Reeves, the hotel job I did fourteen months ago. “How do you see this?”
He stares at the paper, then at me. “I told you. I put most of them on my website. I have dreams…"
"Not good enough." I cut him off. "The angle’s wrong. It’s not what a witness would see. It’s what I see."
"I don’t know how it works." He blurts it out fast, like he can’t help it.
"I just see things in my dreams. I wake up and I have to draw them or I’ll go crazy.
Sometimes it’s stuff that’s recently happened.
If I find anything about a recent murder, I don't publish the drawing, but most…
they're just cold cases, right? I don’t control it. "
"So you’re saying you’re psychic."
"I’m not saying anything." He looks a little pissed off, honestly. "I’m just telling you what happens to me. I wish it didn't.”
I watch him. His hands shake, but his eyes don’t. He means every word. That doesn’t make it real.
"These people," I say, tapping another drawing. "Do you know who they are?"
He shakes his head. "No. Sometimes I look them up after, if they’re in the news. But most of the time, no."
"But you know they’re dead."
"Yes." His voice gets quieter. "I can feel it. In the dreams. The moment right before," He stops, swallowing. "The moment right before they die."
I lean back. Either he is a world-class liar, or he is telling the truth. And I’ve seen enough to know the difference.
"One more question." I pick up the drawing in the middle, the banker, the pliers. The one that hasn’t happened yet. "What about this one?"
His eyes dart to the page, then away. Something shifts on his face. Fear, yes, but more than that. Recognition. And something else. Something colder.
"That one’s different," he whispers.
"How?"
"It just… feels closer. Like it is about to happen. And I can feel…" He stops, breath shaky. "I can feel your anticipation. How much you want it. How much you look forward to it."
Something shifts in the air. It gets heavier, thicker. I haven’t told anyone about that job. Haven’t even started planning. It is just a name Vincenzo mentions, a maybe, a someday.
"When did you draw this?" I try to keep my voice flat, but it doesn’t sound flat to me.
"Two nights ago." His eyes flick up, catching mine. "I'm guessing that's when you did it?”
“Nope. That hasn't happened yet.”
I feel something inside me move. I came here for answers, to be sure, to keep things tidy. To get rid of a threat. But this isn’t a threat, not the kind I expect. Not a witness. Not a leak. Not a plant. Something different. Something rare.