Chapter Seventeen
In this issue: Strength in Sensitivity; Countering (Uncaring) Culture; Soft Hearts in a Hard World.
—Digitized scan of an empath-run zine from Rainier University’s archival collection
Grayson stared at his suddenly dark phone. “Be careful with that engine,” he repeated. “The hell am I supposed to do with that? You didn’t even tell me why you called.”
Reece didn’t seem to be calling back to explain himself either. “You always got to be a problem for me,” Grayson said to the
phone, and tossed it on the passenger seat.
He was gonna have to admit he’d missed another nuance to the corrupted empaths, though. Reece was being framed but was pissed
over someone else’s pain. St. James had suspected the corrupted empaths still cared for others more than themselves, and he’d
have to tell her she might be right.
It wasn’t something he’d considered before. He’d always assumed Alex’s biggest moment of violence had been straightforward revenge for his own capture. Could St. James’s speculations be right, that Alex had decimated that West Texas bunker because they’d hurt Grayson himself?
It was a theory, nothing more. But if there was a chance it was true, Lord help Seattle if anything happened to St. James.
Cora Falcon had taken down more than dozen people after her fiancé was killed. Alex had done his own share of murders in that
bunker and after the loss of their parents.
Grayson glanced over at the phone, sitting innocently on the passenger seat.
What was gonna be unleashed if a person Reece loved got hurt?
With no answers and no further calls, Grayson got back on I-5 and headed for downtown.
The Empath Initiative’s Seattle office took up three floors of a nondescript government building near police HQ. The EI receptionist
had been informed to expect Grayson and directed him to sign the visitor’s log as she went to get the keys.
On the lobby wall, the television was playing, a panel discussion about what Beau Macy’s death would mean for Seattle. Marist
was there, her face set in a mask that gave nothing away. Grayson recognized Senator Braun next to her, and watched for a
long moment. Good-looking guy, and not just by politician standards. He’d probably broken hearts once upon a time.
Or maybe Grayson was being reminded of another good-looking man with dark brown hair and eyes.
The receptionist returned and took him past a maze of cubicles, filing cabinets, stacked mailbox cubbies and combination printer-copiers
to a long hall that ended in a closed door flanked by a modest plaque reading Director.
“Mr. Traynor is based in DC, but he’s here often enough he has his own office,” she said as she fit the key in the doorknob.
“I received instructions to keep it locked. No one has been in or out, not even the cleaning staff.”
She unlocked the door and opened it to reveal an office that was almost shockingly neat—no family photos or other personal
effects, just a single framed print of a battleship on the wall and a bulletin board that held a job safety poster and a printout
of the federal holidays schedule. The desk was large, but its surface was nearly bare save for the keyboard, monitor, a mail
tray and an empty laptop dock.
“Let me know when you’re done and I’ll lock back up.” The receptionist disappeared, delicately closing the door behind her.
Very savvy; she might not know he was the Dead Man, but she couldn’t have missed that he’d just pulled enough strings to get
permission to poke around in Traynor’s sealed office. She wasn’t gonna want to know what he was up to; plausible deniability
was always useful, especially in government, where all the little things were supposed to be disclosed to taxpayers.
Grayson headed for the desk and started with the mail tray. He sorted through the stack—the inescapable paper coupons, an
alumni magazine for Rainier University, political flyers, generic donation entreaties from American Minds Intact. The hutch
above the desk likewise didn’t turn up anything more exciting than office supplies. He crouched down behind the desk and glanced
into the bins, which hadn’t been emptied. The trash only held a couple of tissues, but in the recycling bin was a padded manila
envelope.
Grayson fished it out. It had a hand-lettered return mailing address of a postal box in Prince Rupert. He slipped his hand
inside, but the envelope was empty. He checked the mailing date: a couple of weeks prior, sometime after Cedrick Stone had
been hospitalized but before Traynor had gone missing. He took a picture of the envelope and put it back in the bin.
Grayson took a seat in the desk chair—actually big enough to fit him comfortably, wasn’t that a first—gaze going to the print of the battleship. Traynor had been army, not navy, but maybe he liked ships.
He began opening desk drawers. Most of them held more office supplies, but the bottom right drawer was lined with hanging
file folders. Grayson pulled them out of the drawer and set them on the desk, methodically reviewing their contents: a selection
of floor plans for EI offices around the country; a large yellow envelope labeled Receipts.
He gave the office floor plans a cursory glance, gaze lingering on the one from Port Angeles, which took up six pages all
stapled together. Then he opened the envelope and began to sort through the most recent receipts. It was the typical spread
you’d expect of a government employee on business travel: reasonable hotel rooms, moderately priced restaurants, transportation
and gas stations. There weren’t a whole lot of them, but then, Stone Solutions treated Traynor to every luxury they could
get away with not documenting; he didn’t have to foot many of his own bills.
It meant that the rental car receipt mixed in with the rest got Grayson’s attention, particularly the mileage total racked
up in a single day. It was dated the same day Grayson had gone to Vancouver with Reece, two days after the manila envelope
with the overnight postage had been mailed from British Columbia. When had Traynor found time for a road trip? And where had
he gone?
Grayson sorted through the rest of the receipts and found at least one of the answers: a receipt from a gas station in Port
Angeles, dated the same day.
Grayson went back to his stack of office floor plans, pulling out the one for Port Angeles.
He took another picture and sent it to St. James. Then he called her.
“We just landed in Seattle,” she said by way of answering, and he could hear an engine in the background. “What did you just
send me?”
“Victor Nichols’s research might be in Port Angeles.”
Grayson explained Marist’s comments about Nichols preferring external drives and what he’d found in Traynor’s office.
“But there isn’t an EI office in Port A,” St. James said. “They started that huge one but never finished it.”
It was true. EI had planned for a big research and development facility, bought up acres of land just outside of Port Angeles
and started construction on offices and labs.
Then Stone Solutions stepped on-scene. And everyone decided it was easier to funnel taxpayer money into a private corporation
and let them handle empathy defense—or at least, Charles Stone, who was head of EI back then, successfully lobbied to have
the money given to his son Cedrick’s new company instead.
“A half-built R instead, Gretel was in leggings and a giant sweatshirt, nose red
and makeup smeared around her eyes, her gorgeous mane of hair artlessly tangled in a rat’s nest bun on the top of her head.
“I got your voicemail,” Gretel said awkwardly, and wiped at her eyes.
They had always been on opposite sides of everything empath, and hadn’t even known each other beyond that, but Jamey was hurrying
down the stairs anyway. “Aw, Gretel, I’m so sorry.”
And then they were hugging. “Thanks, Jamey,” Gretel said, muffled by Jamey’s coat as she clung to the hug.
They stayed together for a long moment, Jamey’s own losses stinging fresh. God, she missed Reece.
Finally, Gretel pulled back, fresh tears in her eyes. “Sorry to just turn up like this,” she said thickly, wiping at her face.
“I didn’t know where else to go. I can’t talk to the cops. And this probably doesn’t come as a shock, but being a weird obsessive
crackpot means I don’t have a lot of friends.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Jamey said firmly, tugging her up the stairs to the deck. “Come inside.”
Jamey put the electric kettle on, then settled Gretel at the kitchen table with a throw blanket draped over her shoulders.
“You said you can’t talk to the cops?” she gently prompted.
Gretel pulled the blanket tighter around her. “They won’t even let me see my parents’ bodies.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jamey said again as she put a few boxes of tea on the table, knowing how useless and insufficient the words
were.
“And it’s not just that. They won’t listen.” Gretel looked up at her. “My parents’ murder was a fucking setup.”
Jamey frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I was at my parents’ house yesterday when my dad got a call.” Gretel swallowed hard. “I heard part of the conversation. This
person wanted to do dinner, but asked my dad to meet him at AMI first.”
Jamey’s eyebrows went up.
“Lieutenant Parson dismissed it,” Gretel said, deeply bitter. “Told me it was a coincidence.”
Jamey poured boiling water into two mugs. Parson had been her supervising officer when she’d been a detective on the force.
Empathy-related investigations were a federal, not state affair, and shrouded in secrecy to boot; Parson very well might be
under orders not to let the SPD follow any leads.
But Jamey wasn’t on the force anymore. She could follow any damn lead she wanted. “Do you know who called your dad?” she asked as she set a mug in front of Gretel and took the seat next to her with the other mug.
“I think I do.” She wrapped her hands around the mug. “But no one is ever going to believe me.”
Jamey leaned in. “I will believe you,” she promised quietly. “You could tell me it was the president and I’d still believe
you.”
Gretel let out a shaky breath. There was a look of despair in her eyes that Jamey recognized all too well from other victims
who believed justice was beyond their reach. “My dad mentioned coming out of retirement and called the person Charles. I assumed he was talking to Charles Stone.”
Jamey’s eyes widened. “Charles Stone as in Stone Solutions? Cedrick Stone’s famous dad?”
Gretel nodded. “My parents are friends with all of them.” She swallowed. “Were friends.”
“Jesus,” Jamey muttered. But the more she thought it over, the more it made a twisted kind of sense. Who else besides a Stone
would have enough power and resources to pull something like this off? “Well, like I said, I believe you. Did you tell the
SPD you suspect Charles Stone?”
“Absolutely not.” Gretel reached for one of the herbal teas. “I don’t see how I can even accuse a man like that. I don’t know
what to do. Except, well.” She gestured around them. “Turn up unannounced at a former detective’s house.”
“Not a bad plan, actually,” Jamey said. “Because I’m going to try to help.”
“Really?” A watery smile played on Gretel’s lips. “That’s, you know.” She sniffed. “Very empathetic of you.”
“Hazards of growing up with an empath brother,” Jamey said wryly.
“Guess so,” Gretel said as she added a tea bag to her mug. “Is, um. Is Reece around?”
“Um, no,” Jamey said awkwardly. “He’s . . . out. Sorry.”
“Probably busy mind-controlling pumpkins or whatever other crazy things bloggers are accusing him of these days.” Gretel’s
tone was deeply self-deprecating. She sighed, resting her forehead in her hand, her nails ragged and bitten. “I’ve written
so much shit about him and the others, and now here I am with my tragedy, wanting to see an empath and his sister.” She wiped
at another tear. “I’m just one more fucking hypocrite.”
Jamey leaned in. “I told you, I’m glad you came,” she said, quiet and truthful. “Will you stay here tonight?”
If Charles Stone had any inkling that Gretel suspected he was involved, her life would probably be in danger. And on a personal
level, Jamey understood loss too well to want to let Gretel go home alone.
It was a relief when Gretel nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great,” she said with another shaky smile. “Thanks, Jamey.”