Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
...but subject so far remains unconscious. Until he wakes, we cannot be sure exactly what changes have—
Hello? What’s that sound?
...is someone there?
—PARTIAL RECORDING, MADE AT [REDACTED], TEXAS
Gretel pulled into a metered spot near her favorite brunch place, idling for a moment as she checked her makeup in the rearview mirror and whether it was at least somewhat camouflaging how little she’d slept last night. She’d posted the article about the empath’s murder in Vermont, but her dad’s comments about a good offense against the empaths had stuck in her head and next thing she knew, she’d spent six hours down a research rabbit hole, from Cedrick Stone’s roots in defense contracting to the Empath Initiative appointing a former general as director to Vivian Marist’s master’s degree in strategy and foreign policy.
She’d made notes for a new post. It wasn’t the kind of thing she would normally write for her blog; not the wild theories and Dead Man stories that got her the most traffic. But it just seemed odd, to keep turning up military ties and funding connected to the organizations that monitored pacifists.
As she stepped inside the restaurant, her gaze went past the hostess to a table along the window, and she broke into a smile. “Alex,” she called.
But he’d already stood up, waving at her. When she joined him, he got her chair for her. “I want to protest this archaic ritual of the patriarchy,” she said, as she sat. “But it kind of feels like you just did this automatically.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said, his words shaped by that subtle accent she’d noticed at the AMI meeting. “My dad was really strict about manners. It’s kind of a thing, where I grew up.”
“Where was that?”
“Texas.” He flashed her an apologetic smile. “Would it make it better if I told you I do it for boys too?”
She had to smile. “Maybe,” she admitted.
They ordered brunch—California omelet for her, avocado toast for him. As the waiter left, Alex held up his phone. “I just finished your latest post. Who’s killing Canadian empaths in Vermont?”
“You saw that already?” she said. “I just got that up. You’re so fast.”
“ You’re so fast,” he countered. “The news doesn’t even know about that yet. How did you find out so early?”
Gretel shrugged. “Local gossip blogs, that type of thing.”
Alex propped his chin in his hand. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know,” he said wryly. “I care about the information; I’m not gonna ever scoop your stories or judge how you got it.”
How had he known that wasn’t the truth? She probably should have been annoyed, or angry, but Alex’s wry tone and smile made her feel like they were coconspirators, and she’d never really had one of those. She pursed her lips, but then admitted, “I find out from AMI. Well, usually my dad. He makes me send out notes to AMI as if they’re from him, so I have his email password and I read all his emails.”
“Oh, that’s clever of you,” Alex said, and it sounded admiring. “And not very nice of him, to take credit for your work. No wonder you started your own project.”
“I need to start telling him no and completely break away,” she said, sighing. “My dad’s a giant fucking hypocrite and I hate it. So was Senator Hathaway. She claimed to hate empaths because of privacy violations, but then voted for all these bills that let the police monitor citizens and corporations buy up our data. She was voting away all our protections, it’s right there in public records, but my dad never cared as long as she kept up her anti-empathy rhetoric. Cedrick Stone was the same way. The three of them would have dinner, parties, vacations—expense it all to Stone Solutions, of course, which means it got funded by the Empath Initiative, which means it was all actually taxpayer money. They used to laugh about it.”
“Charming,” Alex said, in a voice that suggested the opposite.
The waitress dropped off Alex’s juice and Gretel’s cappuccino. “I’ll give Senator Hathaway this, though,” Gretel said, as the waitress left. “Unlike the rest of them, at least she was anti-war. You ever go diving into the military connections behind most of the people at Stone Solutions or the Empath Initiative?”
Alex shrugged. “I’m probably more familiar with those connections than most people,” he said lightly.
“It’s wild, right?” she said, reaching for the cappuccino like it was a caffeinated lifeline. “Like why would you ever need all those military ties when the empaths are such pacifists? I feel like there’s a story there, like there’s something someone isn’t telling us.” She shook her head. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I got lost in research last night and now I’m off on a tangent.”
“And I’m hanging on every word,” Alex said. “I invited you here because I wanted to listen to whatever you had to say.”
That made her smile. “Tell me about your blog,” she said. “What’s it called?”
“I haven’t been bold enough to name it,” he admitted. “It’s just a place for my thoughts right now, really.”
“But you’ve got to be working on a story,” she pressed.
“Well,” he said, “I was actually thinking about writing a piece on Stone Solutions’ security. Supposedly it’s this state-of-the-art empath defense company but we were both there the night an empath broke in during the AMI strategy meeting.”
“Oh, I’d definitely read that,” Gretel said. “Because it does make you wonder, doesn’t it? Their security can’t be very good if Reece Davies managed to get past it.”
Alex tilted his head. “You don’t think Reece is very smart?”
She snorted. “I don’t want to be mean, because I don’t hate him. But have you heard the kind of shit he says? Seen the comments he leaves on my blog? It’s like his brain doesn’t even work.” She paused, replaying her words in her head, then winced. “Ugh, you know what? I take that back. Reece is just being an empath, wearing his heart on his sleeve, and I am being mean.” She made a face. “I sound like my dad when I trash him like that, but Reece has never done anything to deserve it. To be honest, he’s the only one in the city who’s ever noticed that Eyes on Empaths is its own thing that I run myself. Well.” She smiled again. “Until you.”
“I bet Reece has a lot of hidden depths that no one’s ever seen. Most empaths do.” Alex reached for his orange juice. “You mentioned AMI and Cedrick Stone. I hope it’s okay if I ask—do you think your dad knows anything about Stone Solutions’ security?”
“I bet he does; he’s there all the time,” she said, picking up her coffee. “You want to ask him tonight? He’s having a dinner for some colleagues at the steak house in the Leviathan Hotel. I could drop by and you could be my plus-one.”
“Could I really?” Alex said. “Are you sure I don’t need to, I don’t know, joust with ten other bloggers to win the privilege first?”
She laughed. “All you have to do is let me read the story.” And if it was any good, she could invite Alex to guest post it on Eyes on Empaths . Maybe ease her readers into the idea that she might be posting more critical and analytical content. Hell, if Alex’s article was accompanied by a picture that showed how hot he was, her readers would probably eat it up; they loved eye candy, couldn’t get enough of her picture of the Dead Man.
He raised his glass. “It’s a deal,” he said, and they clinked their cups together.
Jamey and Liam had been five minutes outside of Port Angeles when Stensby finally sent the details about the missing empath. And it turned out to be a flood—the empath’s name and at least a dozen different addresses for various houses and businesses he had visited over the past few days.
Jamey had shown the list to Liam, frowning. “This is going to take all day. At least. We’re going to need a hotel.”
“I told Lieutenant Parson I’m here as long as you’re here,” Liam had said. “Stensby’s the one who asked you to come on this goose chase and everyone on the SPD knows you just gave back your car. Parson can deal.”
They’d gotten a room for the night and Liam had stayed there to catch up on work. Now Jamey was sitting in Liam’s car, looking over her list again. The missing empath was from Victoria, according to Stensby’s notes. Mr. Rodriguez had spent three days visiting national parks before disappearing.
It wasn’t Jamey’s preferred hiking weather, but maybe this particular empath loved the snow. Maybe he’d gotten lost or stranded. Olympic National Park was about as far as you could get from Vermont in the continental United States, so maybe this Canadian empath’s disappearance from Port Angeles had nothing to do with the Canadian empath found murdered in Burlington.
Maybe.
Jamey forwarded the information to Aisha. Hopefully Grayson’s team could dig up better information while Jamey followed the trail.
Victor Nichols sat in the backseat of Cedrick Stone’s Maybach, letting the driver deal with the I-5 traffic as they crept north. Marist was at her hotel, working on her keynote speech for AMI’s privacy conference, while Director Traynor was in Bellevue, visiting Stone Solutions. Obviously Cedrick himself wasn’t using his car these days; shame to let it go to waste.
Shame to let any of Cedrick’s other things go to waste as well—namely, his research projects. Research projects like Cora Falcon.
And if Ms. Falcon was known to be one of Cedrick’s projects, then the same could possibly be true of Reece Davies.
Nichols reopened the police report on his phone, from Officer Stensby. Stensby had arrived onto the Stone Solutions rooftop and seen Davies next to Cedrick Stone’s bloody and unconscious body, in a position of surrender at Agent Grayson’s feet. None of that sounded like the actions of an innocent.
And yet Grayson continued to claim Davies was harmless.
Nichols’ lip curled. Cedrick had been cagey and paranoid, unwilling to ever show all of his cards, but he’d at least understood the need to leash the Dead Man.
Nichols switched to his texts and the messages he’d sent that morning.
Nichols: Agent Grayson continues to insist on his own agenda that prioritizes the safety of empaths, even in a situation such as the Davies case. The Dead Man has become more dangerous. Cedrick never trusted him and perhaps he had the right of it.
He eyed the response.
I will always agree that Agent Grayson is complicated. But he’s on our side.
Nichols stretched out his legs in the Maybach’s spacious backseat.
He wasn’t so sure about that.
Grayson sat at the desk in the hotel room, laptop open in front of him. The desk hadn’t been designed for someone of his height, and he kept banging his knees on the underside while he hunched over to see the screen. But Director Traynor had sent over another research paper on the emergence of empaths that morning—the authors had so far declined to be credited; that was interesting—and Grayson was reading it through a second time.
I’ll give you the short version of this new theory , Traynor’s email had said. Humanity’s scourge on the planet has finally led nature to evolve a predator for our species, ones that are perfectly hidden until their transformation into corrupted empaths.
Predator theory. The level of bonkers was almost impressive; people had started cults on less.
But if Traynor thought this theory would make the Dead Man think twice about his job , as the parting remarks in Washington, DC, had implied, then Traynor was gonna be disappointed. Far as Grayson was concerned, this changed nothing. This theory obviously wasn’t true, and even if it had been, all anyone would’ve had to do would be leave empaths the hell alone so they didn’t turn.
Protecting non-empaths was always gonna mean protecting empaths from the people who wanted to hurt or corrupt them. That was the entire reason he was here in Burlington, visiting clubs and trying to track down a killer.
Not that he was having any luck. Four of the establishments he’d visited the night before used UV stamps for their patrons, but none marked hands with the looping lowercase “L” he’d seen on the empath’s hand. An easy solution here in Burlington might’ve helped solve the case. Now he’d have to expand the search to everywhere within a few hours’ driving distance.
Maybe farther. UV stamps could last a couple days; Marie Pelletier could have gotten it in Montreal before coming down, or six hours south in New York City. The internet hadn’t been any help at all when he’d tried looking for places that marked hands with an “L.” His search could take ages.
Just like it was taking ages to get the bloodwork he’d asked for.
He switched over to that email, which had come in twenty minutes ago. The empath’s blood tests were delayed. The fingerprint records were delayed. French Canadian privacy laws, all the emails had complained.
That excuse was sounding real damn convenient. Especially considering someone had gone and tagged Reece’s car again when Grayson had explicitly said Reece should be left alone.
He pulled up the empath-tracking website. The map of North America filled his laptop screen, small blinking dots scattered across it, all glittery blue except for a tiny concentration of four red dots on an island along BC’s North Coast. Grayson zoomed in on Seattle and there was Reece’s, right on his high-rise downtown.
Reece, who by rights should have been in purple, teetering too close to corruption and who didn’t need the stress of discovering he was being watched.
Grayson picked up his phone and called Dr. Easterby.
“You have bad news, don’t you?” she said glumly, as she answered.
“How’d you guess?”
“Because I haven’t found shit.” Computer keys were clicking in the background. “I went back into the Ottawa office, but there’s nothing about Marie Pelletier heading to Vermont and no records at all about the other Canadian empath that’s gone missing from Port Angeles. I’m sending you what I have, but there is nothing helpful here on either empath who apparently crossed the border into the US from our northern neighbor.”
Grayson glanced out the window at the snowy parking lot a story below. “We don’t actually have anything about Ms. Pelletier except her name and the body. No blood tests, no fingerprints, no proof she crossed the border. And what’s the latest in Port Angeles?”
“Someone Jamey knows from the force asked her to go down and poke around, on account of no one in the Seattle or Port Angeles police departments knowing much about empaths. Officer Stensby sent her a bunch of info this morning; Jamey said it’s going to take forever to check everywhere and got a hotel in Port A with her boyfriend for tonight. But I don’t know where the SPD is getting its intel when I can’t find anything.”
A family was coming out of the lobby, a girl of maybe seven dancing around while one of her moms pushed a toddler in a stroller. “There’s something else that’s not adding up.” Grayson stood up from the desk. “The witnesses at the police station described a man stumbling out of the park, didn’t respond to their calls, blood on his face.”
“Could be an empath thrall?” Easterby said. “Was Marie Pelletier already corrupted, and her own thrall turned on her? That seems highly unlikely to me, though; thralls are completely devoted to the empaths who made them. So—a different corrupted empath, then?”
“Maybe,” said Grayson. “But in all the time we’ve been doing this, have you ever seen an empath’s thrall attack another empath?”
Easterby hesitated. “I don’t think I have.”
It was time to share his private theory with her. “You ever even heard of a corrupted empath causing the death of another empath?”
“Cora Falcon lured Reece Davies to her to—” Easterby cut it off. “Not to kill him. To change him. To make another corrupted empath—shit, Evan, you think they want to make more of themselves?”
“I started to wonder after San Francisco.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Seattle makes it seem even more likely.”
“Everyone’s been assuming they operate as isolated killers, but we always stop them early. If their intent is actually to seek each other out...” She let out another quiet curse. “Have you told anyone else?”
“How well would that go over?” he said dryly.
“I don’t even want to think about it,” she said. “I saw the email you forwarded from Director Traynor, with that batshit predator theory. If some of the scientists at Stone Solutions or EI get both these theories, they’ll claim empaths are out there hunting people like wolf packs—claim we have to go on the offensive against them, and it’s the pacifists who’ll get hurt—”
“I know,” Grayson said. “I don’t plan on telling the agencies. But it means I don’t believe that any empath’s thrall killed Ms. Pelletier here in Burlington, and I’m real curious why someone made sure witnesses saw a man who would appear like a thrall to those in the know.”
“I was thinking the killer is someone who has it out for empaths,” said Easterby. “But barely anyone knows empaths are capable of making thralls. So what kind of killer are we even looking for?” She sighed, short and frustrated. “I’m heading out to Montreal,” she said. “Picking up my rental car in thirty minutes. Drive shouldn’t be too bad except it’s snowing again. I’ll call you later.”
After they hung up, he set his phone on the bed and stared at the artwork on the hotel wall, a print of Lake Champlain in the vivid colors of a Vermont fall. The empath-tracking map was still open on his laptop on the desk, blue dots sprinkled over the satellite landscape like the bluebonnets of a Texas spring.
They now had two empath cases, both complicated by international factors that kept Grayson in the dark. He was out here chasing leads in Vermont, Easterby between cities in Canada, St. James and Mr. Lee kept busy in Port Angeles.
Grayson’s gaze drifted to the map’s West Coast and the solitary dot in Seattle. Reece, an empath in a liminal state between pacifist and killer, all by himself now.
Really, truly, all by himself, actually, with both his sister and Grayson out of his reach.
Grayson paused.
That sure was a coincidence.
He reached for his phone again. It was early afternoon on the East Coast; over in Seattle, even an insomniac like Reece ought to be up by now.
As he unlocked the screen, the picture of Marie Pelletier’s hand lit up, the last thing he’d been looking at.
Grayson paused again. The mark was hand-drawn and messy, but now, with the phone at a diagonal, it no longer looked like a lowercase “L.”
He turned the phone fully horizontal. Ms. Pelletier had been wearing a pendant with John 3:16 engraved on the back, and with her hand at the new angle, now Grayson was looking at a symbol to match.
He tossed the phone on the bed and crossed to his laptop. He closed the tracker, then pulled up a search engine. This time, he found what he needed within minutes. He scrolled through the social media feed of Disciple Road, a Christian rock band that had performed at St. Sebastian’s University outside of Burlington the night before, scanning pictures of the set. They’d performed in the chapel: there were crosses on the band members’ shirts, painted on the drums, emblazoned on the banner hanging behind the band. A giant carved wooden cross, including the body of Christ, hung from the ceiling over the stage.
He slammed his laptop shut, grabbed his duffel and rental keys, and was out the door three minutes later.