Unstoppable: Truth is Unstoppable (Truth and Love Series) (11 page)

DEREK

Sabrina told me to meet her at Lucas’s house later in the evening, which means I have some time to kill. And I know just where to spend it.

<><><>

It takes me twenty minutes to find a parking space in town and, like last time, it’s an illegal one. Parking tickets are the least of my worries.

I jog across the street to the Steel Tower. It seems higher than before, more foreboding, scarier. Maybe it’s the dark clouds that hover right near the top floor. You can almost imagine those clouds parting to unleash a storm of fire and rain.

It’d be appropriate.

Or maybe it all seems so much scarier because last time I was here, my shoulder got smashed in by some asshole.

I push through the revolving door and, as expected, security pats me down, x-rays go over every square inch of me, and my shoes are taken away. You’d think I’d be a little used to this, but I’m not. My stomach still clenches painfully. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I feel my face heat. But I’ve got to do this. If I ever want to find the truth, I’ve got to go to the one person who can tell me it.

I’ve got to talk with Victoria.

The metal steps of the escalator bite through my socks and into my feet. But the pain is good, especially when I see Fat Guy at the main desk again. It lets me redirect some of my anxiety.

“Well, well,” he says, stretching his thin lips across yellow, uneven teeth.  They look like a chewed-up Snickers bar. I have to force myself not to show my disgust. “It’s Pretty Boy back again.”

I clench my jaw. It takes every ounce of discipline I have to keep my voice polite and calm as I say, “I would like to see my girlfriend. I was told visiting hours are now.”

That’s a lie. I couldn’t find a thing online about their visiting hours. I couldn’t even find a listed phone number for me to call them. But I don’t feel too bad about the fib. Okay, fine. I don’t feel bad in the slightest.

He rubs his huge gut. “Doesn’t mean I have to let you in.”

“I'm allowed to see her.”

Another huge, chocolate-covered grin. “Sorry, Blondie, but she’s in with the Captain. No one sees her when she’s in with the Captain.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, you do that.”

Before I can ask him what he means, I feel cold metal press against my temple. I hear that click, the one you normally only ever hear in the movies.

I swallow hard and glance over at the soldier holding the gun. He looks about my dad’s age. And if he feels bad at all about pressing a gun against my head, he really isn’t showing it.

“Now,” Fat Guy says, “that there against your cranium is called a Smith and Wesson 800. That thing’ll shoot right through your skull, through your brain, out the other side and into the building beside us.”

I look back at Fat Guy. My breath comes out loud and ragged.

He continues, “It’s a double action revolver and it’s the best in the world. She’s what I like to call the Ultimate Mother Fucker. And you know what?” He folds his hands across his stomach, as if he were telling me a bedtime story. “I’m perfectly within my rights to use it.”

“Fine,” I say, my voice low and hoarse. “I’ll leave.”

“Wise decision.”

The gun is lowered.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

I turn and head back toward the escalator, but Fat Guy calls my name. I stop but don’t look back.

“I saw her, by the way. I visited her cell earlier today.”

My lips press together, and my fists clench so tight my nails nearly break the skin. Slowly, I face him.

“She’s a cute little thing. Nice ass. Great tits.” He sighs loudly. “Too bad about her face though.”

I take a step toward him.

“Yeah, I got no idea who gave her that bloody lip. Or those black eyes. Someone must’ve really worked her over good. Ah, who knows though? Maybe it’s not just her face.” He grins at me. “I’ll check out her body later.”

In hindsight, I’d agree that this was a bad move. But in the moment, when a red haze clouded my vision and animal instinct took over, I didn’t hesitate for a moment.

I run, teeth bared, back to that desk, armed with only the sole intent of beating the living hell out of the guy. I’m four feet, then two feet away. I’m so close when suddenly he brings up his right hand. It’s such a casual sort of movement that, at first, I don’t even see the large gun he’s holding. And I certainly never see him pull the trigger.

It’s like a freight train knocking into me. One minute I’m on two feet, the next I’m flying through the air, as if an invisible rocket were pushing into my gut, forcing me backwards. I slam against the wall and drop.

Fat Guy saunters over to me. He raises the gun as if he were showcasing a carnival prize. “And this here is the Kimber Ice 2000. It weaponizes the very air around a person, creating something akin to a mini tornado. It’s like getting hit by a Chevy.” He smiles. “I call this the Crazy Mother Fucker.”

I struggle to sit up. My rib cage feels like it’s being ground down by sand paper. Once on my feet, I take a deep breath. Try to, at least.

“You got something to say, Blondie?”

“I’m impressed. You know what the word ‘weaponizes’ means.”

Fat Guy laughs and, before I can blink, he pulls the trigger once more.

VICTORIA

Jace is almost out the door. It’s now or never.

“There was an e-tab in the trunk. I turned it on. There were pictures…who was that woman?”

She was murdered a few weeks ago
.

“What was her name?”

Issy Campbell
.

“Did you find who killed her yet?”

No. Not yet
.

“How did she die?”

She was beaten to death
.

“Who killed her?”

I’m not sure yet
.

“Are you close to finding him?”

Yes
.

“How do you know? Did you find something?”

Jace pushes himself from the wall.

All investigations are riddles. They’re filled with sleights of hand and red herrings. They’re lies within lies. And after many years, I’ve learned one thing for sure
.

“What?”

The truth is unstoppable.

DEREK

I wake up on the sidewalk, tossed out to the curb like garbage. Fat Guy wasn’t kidding; it really does feel like you’ve been hit by a car. I get to my knees and crawl over to a trash can. I use it to hoist myself up.

Slowly, I stutter-step to my car, thinking about what Fat Guy said about Victoria. Was he lying? Was he saying those things just to get to me? Or was he telling the truth, knowing it would drive me crazy? I try to shake the image away of my Victoria, beaten and blackened, but it sticks in my mind and refuses to leave.

For some reason, I think about one of my very first physiology classes. Dr. McNulty was talking about ligamentous sprains. It's when a joint is twisted or wrenched so violently, so suddenly, that the ligaments—hence the name—or fibers, will stretch and hemorrhage. But sometimes, she warned, you can push yourself too far, work yourself too much, go beyond your limits, and these fibers will not only stretch, they’ll tear completely. The symptoms can be severe, and the long term effects can be dire.

Be careful, she had said. There’s no only so much stress a body can take before it breaks.

Finally, my car comes into view. The Steel Tower may have been a bust, but there’s another building that may provide me with some answers. I pull out into traffic and head north.

<><><>

It's complete bedlam when I arrive at Victoria's house. People are everywhere, though I don't know a single person. Large trucks are parked haphazardly all around the front, and cars are piled in the driveway. I notice William's BMW nestled all the way in back. 

The front door is open, so I just walk in. I pass the dining room. You know those gargantuan tables you see in movies, the ones that are always some dark stained wood with about twelve chairs on each side of it? That's this dining room table. And you know those dining rooms you see in movies where everything is old and antique and looks like it would cost you your firstborn if you broke anything? That's this dining room.

I had hoped no one would be here, that I’d just be able to get in and out and be done. I hoped wrong.

Three people are pouring over e-tabs and readers, and several others are speaking on cell phones. Two men sit across from each other, black laptops up and open in front of them like a game of Battleship. The guy closest to the windows looks like his main fleet was just sunk.

The next four rooms hold a lot of bodies but for how many people are here, for all the activity going on in the house, it is intensely quiet. It's eerily quiet. As if people are afraid of making any noise at all. It reminds me of that reverent hush that comes over a person when they step into a graveyard. 

The last room on the first floor is the sun room at the very back of the house. It is the smallest, but it is my favorite. There is an almost edible quality to the space. The peaches and apricot coloring. The crème and vanilla hued furniture. The streams of sunlight that always look like freshly squeezed lemonade.

I met Mr. King in this room. I shook his hand right by the bay window. And then I sat down beside Victoria on the couch, across from him as he sat in the reclining chair, and all three of us talked for hours. It was just that kind of perfect day.

But as I open the door now, the room that held such attraction seems garish.  The sunlight is a mockery; the furniture belongs in a doll house. Every piece looks too tender, too delicate, to be out in such a volatile atmosphere. The tones and hues are so exponentially out of proportion with the mood that it's almost savagely jarring.

I head upstairs to Victoria's room. I'm not exactly sure what I’m here for, except that I figure maybe I’d find a clue, a hint, anything that might help me solve out who would want Mr. King dead. Perhaps he left an e-tablet somewhere with—I don’t know—emails on it or something. Or maybe Victoria noticed something and she typed it down in her Digi-Di. Honestly, I may be grasping at straws here, but it’s time to start somewhere. Why not at the mothership?

I stop abruptly as I pass Mr. King's bedroom. I backtrack and don't even bother asking if I can come in. I stand stock-still as I watch him pile item after item into a huge cardboard box. I can clearly see most of what's inside: a pink polo that Victoria forever made fun of him for, a Duquesne sweater, a Notre Dame t-shirt, a white button down with the letters VWK embroidered on the cuff, a shoe shine kit, a black pocket knife, a watch. I know for a fact that not only are these Mr. King's clothes and possessions, they are the things Victoria herself had bought him. 

William follows my gaze and scoffs. “What do you suggest I do with them? Build a shrine? Put them on ice? Dip them in gold and have them—”

“You could keep them.”

In reply, he drops another shirt in the box.

“She'll hate you.” I don't need to bother to explain who that is.

“Yeah, well, I'm not too fond of her either.”

“Why are you so eager to get rid of him?”

William tenses. I can see the restraint in him, but I have no idea if he's restraining himself from physically doing something—like strangling me—or if he's restraining himself from saying something. Maybe both. After several deep breaths, he says with a careful, constructed calmness, “I'm not eager to get rid of him. I'm just eager to get rid of his clothes. There's a difference.” He walks to a large dresser and begins to unload it. As he does so, he says, “Why are you here anyway?”

The lie comes quick and easy. “I thought Victoria would want some clothes. Her own pillow. And some of her father's things. Maybe a memento or keepsake to help her through this.”

His lip curls in disdain. The iBullet clipped to his belt begins to beep, but he quickly taps it off. Geez, does that thing ever stop? William says, “Take what you want. I don't care. I'm throwing it all away anyway.” He glances at me. “Whatever you take though, know that it'll just become clutter in your own house. The Corps won't allow her any personal possessions.”

I don't say anything. I just continue to watch as he packs up his father's possessions. His movements aren't rushed, but he just dumps the items in the box without a care as to how they land or if they’ll break. Finally, playing along with my own fiction, I go over to Mr. King's tall bureau and grab the gold cufflinks Victoria bought him only a few weeks ago. I think back to being with her in the store, how happy she was that she found them. The memory makes my heart squeeze painfully. 

I put them back on the shelf.

I turn and find William looking at me. His eyes are unlike I've ever seen them. No longer hard, cold ice. They are soft as snow now, melting under the heat of something so much bigger than he is. Quietly, he says, “It won't make her feel better.”

“How do you know?”

William reaches slowly into his pocket. In his hand is a pair of men's reading glasses. “Because,” he says, “I already tried it.” He tosses the glasses on top of the clothes he just put in.  They land without a sound on top of a World's Best Dad sweatshirt. “And it didn't make me feel better.”

I can't take my eyes off of Mr. King's glasses. I stare at them while William leaves, I stare at them for moments after he's gone. Finally, I turn and walk out of the room. And then the house. And I try not to notice the For Sale sign in the front yard as I pass it.