Black Creek Page 11

  She jumped up the steps as one. This was indeed his bedroom. One entire wall was a window, giving a somewhat dizzying view of the city from above. Her eyes scanned the room. Jess was aware of how little time she might have, and yet still not entirely sure what she was looking for. Whatever it might be, the bedroom seemed to offer nothing.

  The living room boasted the same wall-length window over the city. A massive television hung over a fireplace on the wall, and the room was ringed with a U-shaped couch. Several other rooms branched out from the living room, raised by two steps just as the bedroom had been. She made her way over toward the kitchen, which adjoined the living room.

  The wood floor creaked in one spot as she walked. Jess paused and doubled back. Thinking about it now, the floor elsewhere had actually been strangely silent to walk on. She pressed her foot against the floor here, feeling it give slightly as it creaked. She brought her heel down on the spot with a bit of force. There was a THUD, but it didn’t budge.

  Jess, beginning to feel more and more paranoid by the minute, scrambled around the kitchen and living room. She checked every cabinet, under every counter and ledge, but there was no secret compartment, button or lever.

  My time must be running out, she thought, leaning against the counter, when something caught her eye. There was a white sculpted pillar in the middle of the room, ornately carved with patterns which flowed off the pillar and onto the floor and ceiling.

  The patterns didn't line up. Jess moved closer to make sure, but she was right. The lines and swirls from the pillar were out of place, only by fractions of an inch, but now that she saw it was impossible to miss. Just a mistake? Jess doubted that. Dorian Black seemed like exactly the kind of man who didn’t settle for imperfection. She gave the pillar a tentative pull and it slid back into alignment, but nothing happened. She pushed harder now, and the pillar spun the other direction until it clunked into position.

  Gears began to grind beneath her feet and the wood floor split open, revealing a narrow set of stairs downward.

  ***

  "I've got him," Jess said.

  "Got who?" Rachel's voice came over the phone.

  "It's Dorian Black, he's the killer. I can't tell you now, but we'll talk tonight. I got him, babe."

  "I knew you would."

  Jess said goodbye and hung up the phone. She would still have time for class tonight. Tomorrow, she would have to decide her next step. Chief Pritchard didn't seem interested in pursuing Dorian as a suspect, but maybe if she showed him the evidence, he would play ball. She scrolled through the photos she had taken on her phone once again.

  There was an armory in that hidden room. Racks were filled with guns, knives, body armor, masks and other gear. Bloody clothes sat piled in a small laundry container next to an incinerator.

  No, it wasn't hard proof, not yet. But it was suspicious enough to confirm, at least for Jess, what she'd already suspected. The beloved Dorian Black was a vigilante and murderer, and she could be the one to take him down.

  Jess stopped at the coffee shop on campus and ate a slice of pound cake, trying with little success to calm her excitement. She would have to be extremely careful in whatever she did next.

  Class was full once again, as she suspected it would be. The pre-lecture murmuring was even more lively than usual. On her way into the lecture hall, a bodyguard had searched her bag. Several Secret Service agents already stood watch around the hall.

  When Martin Singh arrived moments later, another bodyguard in tow, the students cheered and applauded. He smiled and waved them off.

  "Thanks everybody," he said. "As I promised you all at the start of the semester, I will finish this course. Possibly with more limited office hours." Some laughter. "But I'm your professor still, for the next few weeks. Though it looks like it may be my last semester teaching for a while. Anyway, let's get back to work."

  Much of the curriculum for this course had dealt with genetics and tracing ancestral lines back to their common sources. Earlier in the semester the students had all submitted DNA samples for analysis, and now for the last week or two they were working through what similarities could be drawn between them all.

  Jess tried to focus and take notes but found herself much less attentive than usual. Her thoughts were, unfortunately, elsewhere. Before she knew it, the class was somehow over, two and a half hours gone in a blink. Students around her were packing up and filing out. Jess shook her head, annoyed with herself for having dozed through much of the class, before packing her own bag.

  "Ms. Neil," Professor Singh said as she came down the stairs to the front of the room. "Could we talk in my office for a moment? Very briefly."

  "Sure," she said. Oops.

  ***

  "We'll be fine, gentlemen. Thank you." The ever-present bodyguards stepped out of the office and closed the door, leaving her alone with the professor.

  "I thought we should talk about your genetics report," he said, pulling a folder from his desk.

  "What do you mean?" she asked. This was not at all what she expected.

  "It appears, with high likelihood, that you are my daughter." He looked at her, his face completely stoic. If he was joking, there was no sign of it.

  "What?"

  Professor Singh stood from his chair and took a seat on the edge of the desk, uncomfortably close to her. He put his hands out in a gesture of bemused confusion, which was quite an understatement as far as she was concerned. He brushed back the short black hair from his forehead.

  "You know, Jess. I've been doing this same test, in one way or another, every semester for many years now. I've found many interesting things, but none more so than this. I have a number of questions, the first of which is how you are still alive."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Jess said. "I grew up here in Pittsburgh, my parents were dentists. I wasn't adopted." Right?

  Suddenly, Martin put his his palm to her head. Jess tried to move back, but her body wouldn't move.

  Martin pressed against her forehead and a pressure began to build, then a sharp, excruciating pain. The pain grew stronger and stronger until it felt like her head would burst.

  Then, Jess felt her mind shatter. Everything she was, all that she knew, fell away around her as if she could physically see and feel it all go. As the shards of her memory left her, she was powerless to reach out and grab them.

  The pain faded, and Martin took his hand away. She bent double in the chair, sweat dripping to the floor, and let out a moan.

  "You're still alive," Martin said, a measure of shock in his voice. "Even better."

  In an instant, all the pain and anguish was gone, as if they had never been there at all. "Now tell me, young lady," the man in front of her said. "What's your name?"

  She started to say her name, but then realized she didn't know it. How can I not know my own name? She thought hard, but nothing came to her.

  The man must have seen her struggling, so he spoke up. "It's okay. Your name is Claire."

  Right. Duh.

  She looked up at the man in front of her. He was handsome, late thirties by the looks of him, and his muscular form was complemented well by the form-fitting suit he wore. He sat casually on the edge of the desk near her. She did not recognize this man.

  "Sorry, who are you?" she asked.

  "That's a strange question," he said with a smile. "I'm your father."

  Of course.

  Things in her mind began to fall into place. Looking at him now, she recognized him. Though he might have been described as attractive if she tried to look objectively, she herself could never think so. He was her father. He was still grieving the death of her mother the year before, she remembered, but he always put on a strong face for his daughter. He always had. Even when her baby brother died, when she was just a little girl. The details came to her piece by piece, flooding out of the blankness that was her mind as if they were being created then and there.

  "We should go, Claire," Martin sa
id, resting a hand on her shoulder. "We have a lot of work to do."

  Claire

  It was a bright, sunny day but a deceptive chill filled the air. The breeze bit at her nose, and she hid her hands in her pockets. Claire stood side by side with her father, who was making his way through a crowd. She was quiet, but smiled and shook hands when prompted. There was an uncomfortably loud hum, the collective conversation of thousands of spectators waiting to see the man they'd come to see.

  Her father made his way to the edge of the stage and extended a hand to Claire, helping her up the steps. He crossed the stage, smiling broadly and waving to the crowd, who erupted in cheers at the sight of him. Claire took a seat among a row of people on the stage behind him. A banner fluttered above her. It read "SINGH FOR THE FUTURE, 2020"

  Her father's amplified voice broke through the noise, and the crowd quieted.

  "We did it!" he yelled, and the crowd roared again. "I want to thank a lot of people. Every last one of you, who voted for me. Who believed in me, that we can truly change things for the better." More cheers. "And I want to thank every one of you who didn't vote for me. For challenging me, for giving me a goal to strive for. I will be your president too. I will make you proud."

  He waited while the crowd died down. "I'd like to thank my daughter, Claire, who is with me on the stage today." He pointed back to her with a smile. "Her mother, who sadly is no longer with us, is surely smiling down on us both today." A more subdued round of applause followed that.

  "There's one more very special person I would like to thank. He's here in the crowd, and I know he's shy, he doesn't want the recognition. We have all the major news media of the world here watching, so he'll be a bit upset. But he’s the reason I have done all this. The man you can thank for everything that comes next." He paused. "This one's for you, James." There was an uneasy silence over the crowd. If anyone expected a sudden appearance from the man her father announced, they were disappointed.

  Instead, the sky quickly fell dark, clouds soaring in on a violent wind. Heavy rain began to fall, soaking Claire and the rest of the crowd. Martin raised his arms and then pointed suddenly down at the people gathered below. An explosion tore through the crowd, sending mists of blood and body parts flying. People began to scream, pushing and shoving in the tight throng before the stage.

  Lightning cracked overhead, and the ground began to shake. Her father was laughing, his hands inexplicably sending spouts of flame into the crowd. Lightning struck the ground over and over amidst the panicked masses.

  Claire felt paralyzed. The horror of what she was witnessing began to take hold, and though she tried to run she felt as if her legs were stuck to the chair. All she could do was close her eyes. The screaming only grew louder. She could hear terrible, unnatural roars and shrieks on the ground and flying overhead. The earth shook harder and harder, and Claire felt a tear run down her cheek.

  Rachel, a voice cried out in the back of her mind, but she didn’t understand what it meant.

  James

  The highway was long, and desolate. James twisted back the throttle, feeling his motorcycle kick and sputter as it picked up speed. On his way out of Pittsburgh, hundreds of deserted cars had turned the road into an iron labyrinth. Out here in the country, he only rarely passed any sign of human civilization.

  The wind in his ears and the purr of the engine calmed his mind as he roamed the vast expanses of highway. He had been driving for a long six or seven hours before he finally arrived. The hill was like a lone sentinel standing tall above the flat plains below. James remembered the place well. He would never forget.

  James let his motorcycle roll to a stop in the grass at the base of the hill. It was quiet now, for the shortest moment, as he sat there. Then, as he knew it would, the roar in his head flooded back in. It was always with him, every tiny bit of his body speaking to him as if sentient, reporting on its condition and awaiting further instructions.

  With effort James could quiet this cacophony, could automate the numerous vital processes of his body in the way most people do every single day, but after any moment of tranquility it would always come surging back in on him.

  James did eventually silence his turbulent mind. Savoring the return of his sanity, he craned his head back, admiring the hill above him. As he began to climb, despite all that had happened, James couldn't help but smile.

  ***

  The day before

  James followed Dorian as they picked their way through the massive, surging crowd. Somewhere, a marching band was playing. Here and there, around the fringes of the chaotic scene, news teams jockeyed for the best position for their reporters to stand in front of the throng.

  Martin didn't show up at their meeting. Was this a coincidence, or had Martin known exactly whom he'd been supposed to meet? Now, at his victory speech, Martin had already taken the stage. James felt a terrible weight in his gut, much as he had these many months since Martin began his run for president. James didn't know what his plan was, but he knew one thing for sure: it sure as hell couldn't be a good thing.

  James felt guilty for involving Dorian so much in his own fight. The man was narcissistic, and headstrong, but he was still a friend. And he had simply no idea what sort of danger he faced. But Dorian had been his one good way of approaching Martin without drawing immediate suspicion.

  Now, with thousands of innocent people gathered to celebrate a true monster in human form, James had the worst sort of suspicions about what might happen. And he would have no choice but to defend them when it did.

  Anxiety rose in his chest as Martin stepped up to the microphone, his arms raised high in celebration. James listened, hardly taking a breath as the man gave his speech.

  "This one's for you, James." Martin finished, his eyes fixated on James amidst the sea of people. Dorian turned to him, utter confusion written across his face.

  There was a blast, and people screaming. Rain began to fall, soaking him straight to his core. He could still see Martin on the stage above, laughing as he rained chaos over the masses of helpless people. James pushed forward, struggling against the tide of people fleeing the flames. He heard roars and howls all around him, and his will hardened.

  God damnit. James leapt, arcing twenty feet in the air and over the heads of the scrambling men and women below. As he soared toward the stage, a massive flying monster came toward him, beating its powerful wings once and aiming its sharp beak at his chest.

  In a mere moment, James drew on the power of the earth. He reflected on the explosive might of the volcano, the creeping destruction of molten rock, and felt their power being drawn up into him. With a shout he unleashed a spout of flame at the great bird, and it spun, burning, to the ground with a shrill cry.

  James landed on the stage with a roll. Another pteranodon fell down from the clouds like a streaking meteorite, unfurling its wings just before impact and launching upward, two screaming men in its claws. The creature dropped them from its height and they fell to the ground with a terrible crunch.

  Martin stood no more than ten feet away, but he had not even turned to face him. James began to draw on the power of the forest, its tranquility and the hidden strength of the beasts living within it. Yet something tore at the back of his mind. His focus was shredded bit by bit. Something was very wrong, and not just here.

  James now felt the anguish of the earth itself. Thousands of miles away, a massive hurricane was brewing. Elsewhere, he felt the strain on the sea as a colossal tsunami rolled toward land. Tornadoes picked at the surface of the earth like dozens of ravenous birds. Hundreds of calamities he felt all at once, and they hurt him as much as they hurt the planet itself.

  He drew on the peace of the calm sea, applying his energy to fight the chaos as it raged miles and miles away. As he did, people died around him. He flattened a tsunami, calmed an earthquake as it began to rumble, and yet new disasters immediately followed them.

  James flew at Martin, a surge of lightning escaping his han
ds. Martin spun, deflecting the shock and firing back with one of his own. They fought hand to hand, and mind to mind. James could not divide his focus any longer. If the world was to be saved, he had to stop Martin.

  The two men traded gouts of flame, blasts of ice, sparks of lightning between them. Through it all Martin laughed, but there was no true joy on his hateful face. James summoned wolves and bears to attack, and Martin continued to conjure his own terrible beasts to rampage across the ground below. On and on they fought.

  A long time later, James lay broken. His body was cut, his bones shattered, his skin singed. He crawled with one functional arm across the blackened grass, dragging his now legless torso behind him, surrounded by piles of bodies. Martin crawled away in the opposite direction, his body equally ravaged.

  James crawled to the edge of the river, where he lay listening to the turbulent splash of the water on the rocks. The roar in his mind returned, and he directed his body to repair itself. Platelets he sent to stem the flow of blood. His stem cells regenerated missing tissue; bone, flesh, and sinew re-formed in seconds. He directed energy to his skin cells, which quickly grew to fill in his hundreds of wounds.