Max Collins - After the Dark

Another pause.

Then: “ Where is my son? ”

“If you really are at Big Sky, step outside the front door and we’ll talk about it. And White? Bring Logan.”

She knew he’d be running to a window to try to see if she was serious. They were still behind the building, so there was no chance of White actually catching sight of them as they made their way through the trees toward the front.

“And don’t bother contacting your foot patrol,” she said, “to come up behind us. They’re busy being dead.”

White’s voice took on an icy note. “ You always did know how to make an entrance, 452... I’ll be right out. ”

“Don’t forget what I said, White — about mutual enemies.”

“ How could I? ”

“Bring Logan.”

“ I will. We have an exchange to make, right, 452? ”

“Right.”

She clicked off.

Only a few stars dotted the night sky and a heavy chill hung in the air. Mole and Joshua, their arms filled with the dead, waited at the border of the woods as Max, Alec, and their duct-taped captive moved into the clearing, their feet crunching on the snow-powdered ground.

Floodlights on the corners threw pools of light around the building, spotlights awaiting a star performance; but Max and her company avoided them, stopping at the edge of an arc of light that shone from a floodlight above the main entrance.

She looked behind her, toward the trees; she could barely make out Mole and Joshua there, though the white of the boy’s bedsheet shroud finally guided her to them. She gave a hand signal — stay put — and then nodded at Alec. He nodded back. Bostock, his ear a little bloody from where Alec had disciplined him, held his head up. He seemed to think he was about to turn from hostage to hero.

Max doubted that.

Then she, Alec, and the duct-taped prisoner moved into the pool of light.

The main entrance — double steel doors with wire-mesh-and-glass panels — was at the top of five concrete stairs lined with metal rails. The new masters of the world had selected unprepossessing main headquarters, to say the least. The trio faced the entrance in a loose line, Alec holding Bostock by the scruff of the neck, to her left; Max standing with her hands on her hips, defiant to the last.

The doors flew open and White — in a black suit and a thin black raincoat — stormed out. He stopped at the edge of the top stair, his eyes going to Bostock. He had changed not at all since she’d seen him last — his spiky dark hair looked frozen in place, his face ghostly pale under the floodlight, and his lips seemed to have no color at all, his dark eyes intense, burning.

Alone, he came down the steps, moving within fifteen feet of her.

“My son!” he yelled. “Where is he?”

Voices traveled clearly in the chill night air.

“I don’t see Logan,” Max said.

The doors erupted open and two dozen or more Familiars streamed out of the building and down the steps, in flowing reddish-copper hooded robes, monklike, the wind catching the garments. Some wore round metal collars engraved with pagan motifs; others had decorated their faces with black war paint; a few others had tattooed faces, reminiscent of heathen cultures from far-flung Pacific islands. Many, though, were bare of face — cultists who had infiltrated the world of the ordinaries... as Ames White had done, with the NSA. They filled in behind White, in a wide arc, a wind-shimmering wall of copper-red.

“Okay,” Alec whispered to her. “We’re officially outnumbered...”

One Familiar stepped up to White’s side, immediately to his right — a tall wraith of a man with angular features and a hawkish nose, his hood back, exposing flowing silver hair; he wore neither markings nor tattoos. His regal bearing combined with the long robe — which included a scarlet tippet — gave him the appearance of a cleric or even a wizard.

Max had never seen this one before, yet his distinctive presence told her that he was their leader — that this was the Familiar who wielded the power.

At least, here at the nuthouse.

“Franklin,” White said, acknowledging Bostock.

Behind his gag, Bostock said something unintelligible.

“Where,” Max asked, “is Logan?”

White’s head tilted. “Where’s Ray?”

She gestured with open hands. “Look — you’ve got us outnumbered. We’re on your home field. Give us what we came for — how are we gonna get away before you get want you want?”

White considered that, then gave a quick nod.

“Bring him!” the silver-haired Familiar called.

Two more hooded, robed figures burst through the doors, one on either side of Logan Cale, who they dragged down the stairs.

The crowd parted and the Familiars hauled Logan up by either arm; he wasn’t bound, but seemed weak, even groggy. They stopped on White’s left, maintaining their hold on him.

Logan’s eyes met hers.

“Surprising,” he said, “the lengths I’ll go to, Max, to get back on your good side.”

For a guy who’d been the guest of Ames White and the snake cult, he didn’t look so bad — they hadn’t let him shave, and the beard gave him a scruffy cast; his clothes — jeans, pullover blue sweater — were filthy and wrinkled. But there were no obvious signs that he’d been beaten or tortured, and — despite the Familiar at either arm — he was standing on his own two feet; they obviously had not deprived him of the exoskeleton that allowed him upright mobility.

She smiled at him and said, “You’re not forgiven yet.”

He grinned and shrugged, and she grinned and shrugged.

“All very brave and touching,” White said, and he withdrew a Glock from under the raincoat, “but if he speaks again before I have my boy, I’ll kill him.”

Max held her palms out and up. “White, I need you not to do anything rash...”

“ Where is Ray? ”

“You need to listen . You have the advantage here. Wait until you’ve heard it all. ”

White’s frown revealed an inner battle between rage and curiosity, impatience and willpower. “Heard what , 452?”

Max raised her hand, issued signals, lowered her hand.

“Nothing rash,” she advised him.

White’s frown deepened.

Mole and Joshua emerged from the shadows, their arms filled with the terrible cargo; it was as if they were two somber grooms carrying brides over the threshold. Mole put the dead Familiar on the ground in front of the silver-haired leader. Joshua put the smaller, sheet-wrapped body down before the boy’s father.

Ames White did not have to lift the sheet to know — the small form said it all. In a voice that he was obviously straining to keep emotion-free, White said, “Ray.”

“Yes,” Max said. “But I didn’t do this.”

The gun in White’s hand swung up and he leveled the barrel at Logan’s temple. White’s lips were peeled back over his teeth in a skull’s smile, and Logan winced...

“My people did not do this terrible thing!” Max screamed. “Or don’t you really care who did do it!”

White remained poised there, ready to shoot, for several long moments. Then the gun came down, his eyes narrowed, and he turned his homicidal gaze on Max.

“If you didn’t, 452,” he said, “who did?”

“Ask him !” Max said, and pointed at Bostock.

Alec ripped the duct tape from the man’s face. Bostock spat the rest of the gag, the knot of cloth, onto the snowy ground.

White said, “Do you have something to say, Franklin?”

Bostock stood frozen.

Max said, “He was talkative before. Maybe he’s a little intimidated in the presence of the father of the child he ordered killed.”