Chapter Fifteen
…and we do, of course, appreciate the funding for this new line of experiments. Arrangements have been made and plans set
into motion. I have no doubt Alex and Evan Grayson will provide us with many new datapoints on the boundaries of empathic
abilities and their potential for both offensive and defensive military operations.
However, while I agree that we must learn the empaths’ true abilities at any cost, it seems to me that all our research dances
around the real issue: why did the empaths emerge in the first place?
That, to me, is the question we should be asking.
—Three-year-old email found on a recovered laptop in [REDACTED], Texas
Lumen Field was welcomely silent in the early hours of the morning without its typical crowds. Victor Nichols strode down
the hall of the stadium’s suite level, keeping himself on alert. He wasn’t hiding per se, but he also had no interest in advertising
his location to corrupted empaths until he had all the proper safeguards—and restraints—in place.
Finally, he came to Stone Solutions’ luxury suite and opened the door. “Hello,” he called, leaning in through the frame.
“Ah, Victor!” came Charles’s voice from deeper in the suite. “Come in, come in.”
Nichols stepped into the suite. The far wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, framing the bright green Astroturf of the field three
stories below. In front of the glass were two rows of plush loungers with perfect views, and filling out the suite was a private
restroom, private kitchen and stocked bar, and a living room–style seating area with a television.
Charles was seated at the bar, typing away on his phone. “I’ll be right with you—”
Nichols cut him off. “I was not informed the Macys would be at American Minds Intact when Whitman was released.”
Charles stilled. He set his phone on the bar counter, face down, and looked up, meeting Nichols’s eyes. “Because I had no
idea.”
Nichols folded his arms.
“No one was supposed to be at AMI headquarters with Vanessa Whitman,” Charles said emphatically. “Poor Vanessa’s time was coming
to an end; it seemed merciful to let her die, and if her death could serve the company she served in life—well, I feel certain
that’s what she would have wanted. But I certainly would never have sent my good friends Beau and Adele Macy to be torn apart
by an empath’s crazed thrall.”
Perhaps. Charles Stone, however, had helped design the emotional control trainings conducted at the Orion Lodge for Stone
Solutions’ leadership. If he wanted to lie, it would be near-impossible to tell unless one happened to have a corrupted empath
handy to hear it.
Charles shook his head slowly, the picture of sorrow. “This is a terrible tragedy.”
“And yet stock prices are back up nearly five percent,” Nichols said dryly.
“You own Stone Solutions stock, don’t you?” Charles said just as dryly.
Nichols pursed his lips.
“People are looking for hope in the wake of this unthinkable tragedy, terrified to have lost a hero like Beau. Share prices
reflect that Stone Solutions is that hope.” Charles gestured at the suite around them. “We’ve engineered empathy defenses
no one else has ever seen. Cedrick even ensured this very suite is reinforced with empathy-proof walls and glass.”
Cedrick was so paranoid he wanted to be protected on the chance the empaths decided to storm a football game? What a pointless
waste of resources.
Using Vanessa Whitman had been a pointless waste of resources as well. Nichols could have made a study of her; now her body
would be disposed of, just like that guard, Wayne Smith. Would an empath’s altered sibling, like Evan Grayson or Briony St.
James, have been able to survive the rampages that killed Whitman and Smith, to be used again and again?
“Your frustration this morning is understandable. It’s always difficult when experiments don’t go as planned.” Charles steepled
his fingers. “Perhaps I have something that can cheer you up.”
He picked up his phone again. “I do, after all, appreciate that you have done me two favors,” Charles said as he typed something
into the phone. “And as I mentioned, I always repay my favors.”
A moment later, Nichols’s own phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket.
“Staff and inventory for your new facility,” Charles said as Nichols began to scroll through. “Just received this morning.”
Nichols drew in a breath. This was even more resources than he’d had at Polaris. “When can I see it?”
“Today, if you like,” Charles said. “I can have the helicopter take you.”
Nichols gazed at a picture of the lab set into the mountain. His work could continue. That was what mattered, not the loss
of a stuck-up doctor like Whitman or a pompous ass like Beau Macy.
He looked up. “And my guest?”
“I have a plan for that too,” Charles promised.
Grayson was grabbing coffee from the shop across from the studio when his phone began to ring, St. James’s number on-screen.
He stepped over to the wall and answered. “Grayson.”
An engine roared in her background. “We’re in the air heading back to Seattle,” she said. “I’ve only got a signal for a moment.”
Grayson dropped his voice to a murmur only she’d hear. “Status of Mr. Lane and Dr. Easterby?”
“Better.”
He watched the barista steaming milk for drinks. “And the pacifist empaths?”
“All en route to Bellingham today. Liam will pick them up in the morning,” she said. “But listen: Aisha wants Victor Nichols’s
research on reversing corruption.”
“You really think that man had a single piece of research worth saving?” Grayson said skeptically.
St. James cut out for a moment. “—don’t know,” she was saying as she came back on, sounding very honest. “But whatever might
be in that research, I know that if someone is going to have their hands on it, I want it to be Aisha and not another ghoul
like Nichols.”
Grayson hadn’t thought about it that way. “All right,” he said, “I agree with you there.”
Her response came in garbled and patchy. “—Aisha doesn’t work there anymore—doesn’t have access to their files—”
“The research wouldn’t be that easy for your average Stone Solutions employee to get anyway,” he pointed out. “Emergency protocols
would have been initiated when Alex broke into Polaris. Deleting sensitive files would’ve happened automatically—”
The line died.
He palmed the phone for a moment. St. James had been right about all of it: The empaths were being framed—Reece in particular—and
whoever was involved knew what they were doing.
And Nichols was still missing.
The barista called out his drink. Grayson stepped up to the counter and took it, still lost in his own thoughts.
There was, of course, the possibility that the missing Dr. Nichols was involved in the framing. If so, what was his motive?
His endgame? What did he want with Reece?
Aisha and Diesel described Nichols’s twisted experiments at Polaris, the little voice in his head pointed out. Reece’s liminal state wasn’t supposed to be possible, and now no one knows how he became corrupted. He’s a walking contradiction
offering endless knowledge to be mined. Take three guesses what Nichols would want with him—
The shock of hot coffee on skin jolted Grayson out of his thoughts. He glanced down at his hand. He’d squeezed the coffee
so tightly the lid had popped off.
Grayson shook his hand, droplets splattering. He reached for the napkin dispenser on the counter. Wasn’t like him to be careless
like that.
But he’d been so focused on catching the empaths that he’d let the search for Nichols slide. That ended now. If Jamey and Aisha wanted that research, Grayson would get it for them.
And if he could find Dr. Nichols in the process, he had some plans for that man too.
Vivian Marist stood by the windows in her temporary eighteenth-floor office, staring at nothing in particular. She had had
plenty of rough days in her career, days she didn’t want to show up or days she didn’t want to face.
This was absolutely one of them.
And the empaths were yet again responsible.
Not all empaths were the enemy. She did fully acknowledge that fact. In fact, none of them were—not at first. But all of them
had the potential to become terrifying killers posing the highest possible danger to non-empaths.
She hadn’t known that when she worked for Hannah Hathaway. Back then, they’d been focused on privacy concerns—and Marist was
cynical and realist enough to admit they were even more focused on Hannah’s senate re-election. Anti-empathy legislation was
an area ripe for political exploitation, to garner votes by leveraging fear that other people were a threat. Oldest trick
in the book, and it had worked wonders for Hannah’s career.
Whether it was actually good for America to foster fear instead of compassion, to set people against each other instead of
working for the good of everyone, well. Those were questions for philosophers. She’d had a job to do.
There was a polite knock on the door. A moment later, it was cracked open, and Anthony Sayers, Stone Solutions’ director of
media relations, poked his head in. “Senator Braun is here. He’d like a quick word.”
“Marvelous,” she muttered.
“I had Felix interview Braun by the sign out front,” he said. “Great optics; I’ll send the clips out with the release about the Macys’ deaths.”
Marist’s lips tightened.
Anthony held the door wider, and Braun and his entourage walked in, at least six additional and likely unnecessary people.
Marist reluctantly turned away from the window.
“Vivian.” Braun stretched out to clasp her hand. “What a tragedy this is. A loss of a great American hero.”
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s very shocking.”
“I’m sure,” Braun said sympathetically. “Of course, as Charles would say, we should look to the silver lining.”
Marist could not have heard that right. “Excuse me?”
“Hannah’s shoes will be impossible to fill,” Braun said, “but now there are no more barriers to support for my campaign from
Stone Solutions or American Minds Intact. I do appreciate having both such venerable institutions backing me. I’ve got three
interviews already lined up for today; any chance you’d be available to join me?”
Marist stared at him.
He spread his hands. “Are you already booked?” he asked nicely.
She glanced at the others, then dropped her voice. “The bodies aren’t even cold,” she hissed through her teeth, too quietly
for their assistants to overhear.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Braun leaned in close to her. “I fucked Adele, remember?” he added in an equally quiet undertone.
“So I can tell you she was already frigid as hell.”
As Marist’s mouth opened in shock, he pulled back.
“I think if you check your email this morning, you’ll find the entire Stone Solutions’ board of directors united in their support of me—well, all except for poor Beau, of course,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry to the others again.
“I look forward to having you on board as well. I hope I’m not imposing if we borrow a Stone Solutions conference room for the interviews? ”
And Braun and his group left, leaving Marist staring after them.
Alex stood with Cora and Reece at the door to Traynor’s room. “I think I should handle this,” he said to them.
Reece frowned. “I can thrall him.”
Cora put a hand on Reece’s shoulder. “This one is Alex’s.”
Reece frowned, looking at Alex. They were the same height, making it easy to look into each other’s eyes and read the emotion
there. Reece’s were like a choppy ocean, a tumult of emotions battering him around.
“You know I have unfinished business with Traynor,” Alex said wryly. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”
Reece sighed but nodded. “All right,” he said, grumpy but willing. He turned, heading down the hall with Cora.
Alex put his hand on the door handle, then hesitated.
The Macys had been murdered.
Gretel’s parents.
Unbidden, it brought up the memories, walking into his home that night two years ago, the moments that had changed everything.
A too-quiet ranch, the birds oddly silent. He should have known someone was there—
He took a breath through his nose. The memories would be useful fuel for what was coming.
He stepped into the room. Traynor was on the bed, Kosler at his side, ready to hold him down. As Traynor’s eyes opened, Alex
moved into his line of vision. “Hey, Director,” he said winningly. “Welcome back.”
It was obvious the instant Traynor recognized him, the way his eyes widened, the fear he couldn’t hide.
“I see you remember me,” Alex said, calm and casual, as Traynor tried to sit up and Kosler forced him back down. “That’s good. I remember you too.”
He sat on edge of the mattress. “I’m sure you know where this is going, but I needed you to have a moment of full awareness
of what’s about to happen to you,” he said patiently, like Traynor wasn’t thrashing in the bed. “See, I can control your emotions,
it’s true, but it’s never as much fun as seeing someone’s independent emotions, you know?”
Fear and fury played together on Traynor’s face. “You can’t do this,” he ground out.
Lie. Of course it was a lie; Traynor was well aware of what Alex could do. “You should be excited,” he said, hearing his tone
get darker. “Excited to see if those experiments in that Texas bunker were a success—if Evan’s pain did make my abilities
stronger.”
Traynor recoiled as Alex leaned in. “I’m going to tell you in excruciating detail what Victor Nichols was doing to empaths
and their siblings in Polaris,” Alex said. “And then I’m going to tell you everything that happened to Evan. He wanted me to make him the Dead Man, do you understand? He was so broken after what happened to our parents, to me, to him in that
bunker, that he never wanted to have another feeling again.”
The fear won over the fury on Traynor’s face.
“And when I think you finally understand what you and your cronies have done, I’m going to make you our sycophant the way
you were for the Stones,” Alex said. “You’re going to tell us everything you know, and then, when you’re no longer useful,
you’re going to die in the slowest and most painful way I can come up with. You have a lot to answer for, Director Traynor.
I hope it was worth it.”