Basilisk (36 page)

Ariel had been a chimera, able to survive a good deal, but the unquenchable hunger of water at the bottom of the dam? No. I had no hope there. Wendy, though . . . the Grim Reaper himself would be afraid to touch her long enough to take her life. Fine. If I saw her again, I'd do it for him.

Somehow.

F
or the second time in his life Raynor was going to do some good. The first had been having one of his men shoot Wendy, because Raynor knew as well as anyone that Wendy wasn't viable for sale, profit, or life in general. He'd saved Stefan or Saul from having to do it—if they could've lifted a hand to do it. It didn't matter how evil a ten-year-old little girl was; putting a bullet in one would haunt your nights for years to come—unless you were Raynor. The only regret he would have was a lack of a commemorative photograph to hang on his wall.

“Well, chaps, it looks like you've done my work for me.” He had walked around the sheriff's car and was heading toward us, his gun up and aimed at the cluster of the three of us. “One, two, four . . . twelve unconscious chimeras wrapped up in a bow and ready to go to rehab. Learn to mind their masters.” He didn't know what I'd done to them and I wasn't inclined to tell him. I didn't know what kind of life they would have now. The ability to kill remained within them, but they wouldn't use it. They couldn't. With a complete lack of aggression, they wouldn't be able to kill, even in defense. As I'd told Ariel, they'd be smart as they'd been before, but they'd be blander, milder, less interested in life in general. When they woke up from the tranquilizer, my best guess was they'd keep the Institute story to themselves—they'd know by now that would only end them in a psych ward. They'd wander off and do as Ariel had done; as I'd done. They would make fake IDs, get jobs, live their lives—but without flavor or zest. They would be gray people in a gray world, but without leaving a trail of torture and murder in their wake.

Raynor would say you have to break some eggs to make an omelet. Raynor was a dick.

“Stefan,” I said.

Stefan shot him in the right shoulder. It was his right hand that held his gun. Raynor dropped it as he clutched his shattered and bleeding shoulder. Saul whistled. “You're fast. How'd you get so damn fast? I was in the rangers and I'm not that fast.”

“I think Misha juiced me up some. Either that or you were a piss-poor ranger.” Stefan walked over and swept Raynor's legs out from under him. “All your men up in the hills are dead now, Raynor. A couple months' paychecks and all you have are a pile of dead mercenaries to show for it, thanks to one little girl. And I'll bet my last dollar they're mercenaries because you wouldn't share the Institute with anyone else in the government. Too messy and much less money for you.” He kicked him in the stomach next. “I hear you shot my brother in the head with a rubber bullet. Not nice, asshole. Not nice at all.” He kicked him again and air whistled out of Raynor's trach tube as he doubled over. “Nice. Maybe I can get you to whistle ‘ “Yankee-fucking-Doodle Dandy' ” on that thing.” He kicked him once more, in the ribs, and harder this time. I had the feeling, if I let him, he would go on kicking Raynor until he was dead. I didn't mind that too much, but we needed him for something first—that second good thing he could do.

“Stefan, we need him,” I said, catching his arm before he launched another kick. “We could call it in ourselves, but no one knows how intelligent a chimera can be, especially one like Ariel. We need him to find the bomb.”

“Bomb? What are you prattling about?” Raynor spat blood onto the road. “Don't try to distract me from the merchandise, and that's what you all are and were always meant to be, Michael One. Merchandise. Don't ascribe to delusions of grandeur and think you're a person. A regular human being. You're not. In fact, the Institute would've tattooed a price on you lot if your value didn't keep going up.”

“All these chimeras loose on the world for weeks now, Raynor.” I bent my knees so I could stare him in the eyes. “Do you think killing an old man and gangbangers was all they were up to? They built a virus bomb and planted it somewhere in the Portland airport. It's airborne and set to go off at eleven a.m. tomorrow. No one will even notice what's happening. The incubation time is seven days. It will kill thirty percent of the people it infects and Portland airport is an international airport. You know what that means, how far it will go. You're the one with the capacity to think like a chimera if you have to. Find it and stop it or you may be one of the ones it kills.” That was the one argument that would have him cooperating.

“It's a silver metal cylinder this long and this big around.” I demonstrated with my hands before resting my hand on his unwounded shoulder. “Since you're Homeland Security, I hope to God you can do something about it. But before you go, tell me how you knew where to look for us. How'd you know Stefan was my brother?” I wanted to make sure he was, as Stefan guessed, the only person in the government who was after us.

“Your brother?” I tightened my hand on his shoulder and I gave him pain, considerably more pain than was in the shoulder pierced by a bullet. He shuddered beneath my touch and went from white to gray. He cleared his throat, the trach and its talking valve bobbing as he swallowed convulsively. “Yes, I . . . for whatever reason, Jericho didn't bother to document that Korsak was your brother. He was an arrogant bastard about sharing information. We had to wait until he died to even see his files on the kids. That's how he wanted it. Only when the top man is dead are the files automatically sent to a chosen successor.”

He took a few more breaths to recover. “Perhaps Jericho didn't think it was important. When you were taken from the Institute, Jericho went after you, and I was in charge of finding out how anyone knew the Institute existed at all.” His breath wheezed in and out of the valve. “I thought it had to be someone military or with law enforcement. The raid was too well planned. I visited the offices of the local cops and FBI, and that was when I saw it. A top Russian mob boss had been offed and Korsak was the main suspect. They had their whole murder board covered with pictures of the families. Even down to a picture of a boy kidnapped ten years before. I could see how certain incorr—” I let him feel the pain again, the exquisite pain of careful wording. What Stefan and I knew, voiced or not, was ours only. No one else needed to know. And that included Saul. Raynor winced and went on. “I could see how certain conclusions could be drawn. I drew mine and have been chasing Korsaks since then. Any one I could lay my hands on.”

“Like my father,” Stefan said without question.

On that, Raynor remained silent. It was for the best.

“Then I was an idiot and got my fingerprints on file and you found us.”

Raynor looked up at me uneasily and nodded at Stefan's comment. “No one else knows about us?” I asked.

“No one.” He shook his head.

“Are you telling me the truth, Raynor? I want you to look at those chimeras. You shouldn't worry about collecting them. They're not killers anymore. No use to you. What I did to them,” I said, thinking I'd let him wonder exactly what that might have been, “I can do to you, but for what you've done and allowed to continue and wanted, I could leave you the very goddamn picture of drooling subintelligence. Someone would have to change your diapers for the rest of your life. With your dignity and vanity, I don't think you'd like that.” I leaned in closer until he could feel my breath on him. I made it cold—the touch of a corpse. “On the other hand, leaving you alive and sane if you're cooperative means nothing to me either. Only results matter. So go find that cylinder and save lives, including your own.” I took my hand from his shoulder. “I'm not like you, Raynor. I'll always be better, because I'm not a killer.”

It was a lie.

I had killed him—the moment I'd let go. I'd weakened a vessel in his brain and destroyed all the pain receptors in the meninges. They wouldn't register the pressure of the leaking blood. There'd be no headaches to warn him. He had three days maximum and when he died, death would be in a split second. He would never know it was coming.

As I'd said, I had killed him for what he'd done and what he'd allowed to be done at the Institute, but more than that, I had killed him for what he knew. He knew about Stefan and me. But his successor wouldn't. There'd be no murder board of a mob murder Stefan hadn't committed to be stumbled across. There wouldn't be a picture of a little boy with bicolored eyes like mine. His successor wouldn't know Stefan existed, but Raynor did. And he'd come for us again. At least for me, and Stefan might die trying to protect me. Raynor might wait a few years, but he'd come. Men like Raynor didn't give up. Men like Raynor, Jericho, Bellucci, they never gave up. Monsters didn't.

Stefan had done his best to keep me true to myself, although he'd been clear that self-defense was justifiable and to go for it if I had to. I'd refused all that time. I'd told him I wouldn't be the killer they had made me. I'd said I wouldn't kill, not even to save my life.

But there was one life I would kill for. I'd been blind because I'd wanted to be. There had been that false image that had fooled my mind of Raynor's man killing Stefan when we'd first fled Cascade. In my mind's eye I'd seen him pulling his trigger, yet I'd refused to let it go any further, that thought. I'd seen it and then I'd unseen it. Felt it and buried it. Saw its face in intimate detail, yet couldn't tell you a single feature.

I hadn't let my own brain recognize this choice would come, undoing everything I had built the new Michael/Misha on. The games I played in my head where thoughts could be knotted and hidden away ended as one of my own kind had killed Stefan when he was less than ten feet from me.

I wouldn't kill for myself, but I would kill for my brother.

And I didn't regret it, not for a moment. It didn't make me a monster or a freak, saving my family. It made me what I'd wanted to be all along.

It made me human.

 

R
aynor did as I told him, if only to save his own life from Ariel's work. He died two and a half days later. I checked the obituaries. He had a nice-looking picture and an Armani suit. I wasn't surprised. Saul went back to Miami and if he blocked our numbers from now on, I wouldn't blame him. We took our time in picking another town. It didn't matter where it was really, only that it was home. We chose different names and jobs. I went with Wyatt, and Stefan was John Henry. Although Doc Holliday was rolling over in his grave at Stefan's poker skills and I still didn't care much about guns, my love of Westerns and Western aliases would never die. Instead of being a house painter, Stefan was a car salesman and surprisingly good at it despite his wolfish looks. Once he pounced on them in the car lot, I thought people were afraid to
not
buy a car from him. He was employee of the month more than once, which embarrassed the hell out of him. I had a copy of the picture made and hung it in the living room to give him shit. That's what brothers do—give each other shit.

And we were brothers. What he knew and what I knew in the privacy of our own hearts didn't change that.

I had two jobs. I worked at the library part-time and spent four days a week at what had to be the last video store left in America—what could be more perfect? I could both feed and entertain the mind. I'd moved movie night from Wednesday to Sunday, but I didn't give it up. I loved the fantasy of movies, maybe more so now.

After all, what had reality done for me lately?

Stefan watched the movies with me now that Ariel was gone, provided he didn't have a date. I'd gotten over that no woman was good enough for my brother and stopped giving the ones he asked out acid reflux on date night. He was surprised at how much easier dating was here than it had been in Cascade Falls. I didn't clue him in. Of all the lies I'd told or truths I'd omitted, I could live with that last one. The brotherly ass kickings were still in full force after what I'd pulled on the dam at Cascade Falls. While they were deserved, taking it on myself to be a cure for my fellow chimeras when there was no other, I'd skip further punishment if Stefan found out what I'd done to his dates in Cascade. Besides, if he missed a movie or two with me, it wasn't that bad. Godzilla took his spot and hogged his share of the popcorn. And if I missed someone who was a killer, a sociopath, and had a smile I'd not forget until the day I died, that was my right.

It was five months later that I finally admitted defeat, finishing what I'd started more than half a year ago, and was at my laptop, hacking into Lolcats, crashing the site, and removing any mention of it from the Net. It was evil. It had to go. My eye was caught by the sudden flash of a white IM box at the bottom of my screen as I typed. It flickered blankly for a second; then a question appeared in flowing pink and green script with a familiar winking mermaid as punctuation:

Rob Thurman
lives in Indiana, land of cows, corn, and ravenous wild turkeys. Rob is the author of the Cal Leandros novels; the Trickster novels; the Korsak Brothers novels; and a story in the anthology
Wolfbane and Mistletoe
.

Besides wild, ravenous turkeys, Rob has a dog (if you don't have a dog, how do you live?)—one hundred pounds of Lab/Dane mix. She has the bark of twenty German Shepherds, a head the size of a horse's, teeth straight out of a Godzilla movie, and the ferocious habit of hiding under the kitchen table and peeing on herself when strangers come by. By the way, she was adopted from a shelter. She was fully grown, already house-trained, and grateful as hell. Think about it next time you're looking for a Rover or Fluffy. Rob also has two other dogs who are slightly more invested in keeping their food source alive.