Kelly Meding: Chimera

“I found a marriage license from the state of Georgia,” Marco said, “between Jennifer Elizabeth Cunningham and Derek Alan Thatcher.” The date was the year before the official outbreak of the War. “The marriage was invalidated two months later because it came to light that Thatcher was only seventeen.”

Ethan gave a start. His mouth puckered up. I did a few mental calculations to peg Thatcher’s age at thirty-seven or -eight. Made me wonder if Thatcher looked older or younger in person. His nonwife was twenty-nine when she died, making her twenty-four when they were married. Interesting.

“The age of consent in Georgia is sixteen,” Teresa said, answering a question I hadn’t dared ask.

“What about her son, Landon?” I asked. “Any proof he’s Thatcher’s?”

“The original birth certificate lists Thatcher as the father,” Marco replied. “Jennifer changed it to no name a month before the end of the War. I also aged the photograph of Landon several different ways. His features still match the photo of our burglary suspect.”

I thumbed through the information on the tablet, my stomach twisting up tight at the thought of our impending mission. “Fabulous,” I muttered.

“Derek is not going to react well to this,” Ethan said.

“You think?”

“I’m serious, Renee. He and Freddy have always argued the loudest and strongest for the children living on that island. Derek has supported everything Freddy has said or done to keep their kids safe. Finding out his own son has been alive and kept from him all these years?” Ethan shook his head sadly. “This isn’t going to go well.”

Freddy McTaggert—aka the Bane formerly known as Jinx, Ethan’s biological father, and the father of Ethan’s eight-year-old half-brother Andrew. Freddy, along with Thatcher and a few other loyal followers, had avoided contact with the prison authorities for months in an effort to protect Andrew and another child from being taken from them. I might have zero sympathy for Derek Thatcher as a Bane, but he was a father, and my heart hurt for the horrible truth we were about to lay on him.

For once in my life, I would be absolutely content to let Ethan do all the talking.

Thirty minutes later, Ethan and I took a puddle-jumper over to Ellis Island. The prison’s main observation tower had been built on the site of the old Main Building just after the end of the War. Five stories tall and as boring as a rolling pin, it served as the activity hub for everything that happened in Manhattan and at the dozens of other checkpoints around the island’s secured perimeter.

It also had interrogation rooms. We waited on one side of a floor-to-ceiling glass wall while two armed prison guards escorted Derek “Chimera” Thatcher into the other side. A guard attached one end of a chain to his ankle restraints and the other to a bolt in the floor. The security measure was a little ridiculous, since Thatcher could transmutate the steel chains into soft links of tin if it pleased him to do so.

I’d seen photos of Thatcher, of course, but he seemed different in person. Taller, larger. He was handsome in a classic movie-star way, his thick brown hair streaked with silver, and gray eyes that glittered even from ten feet away. His side of the interrogation room had a single chair, but he chose to stand. Except for his shabby, out-of-style clothing, he looked like someone you might stumble across at a coffee shop, waiting for his latte.

And if you did stumble across him, you’d probably stop to ogle.

“Ethan,” Thatcher said with a nod, then gave me a curious look. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“That’s because it isn’t one,” I said with a little more snap than I’d intended. I hadn’t actually planned on saying that at all, but my mouth was working on its own today.

Next to me, Ethan stiffened. “Play nice,” he whispered. To Thatcher he said, “This is Renee Duvall. Renee, Derek Thatcher.”

Thatcher’s thick eyebrows rose. “Ah, yes, you’re the one they called Flex.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, waiting for the inevitable jokes or leering looks that often came from a combination of my old code name and my ample figure. The latter had worked wonders in Las Vegas, but people nowadays spent more time wondering about my cleavage than my ability to do my fucking job. I was a superhero, goddammit, not a pair of tits.

But Thatcher didn’t say anything else. Hell, he didn’t even take a few seconds to check me out, which was both confusing and gratifying.

“They used to call me Flex,” I said. “But we don’t hide what we are anymore, so the code names are more for show than necessity.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “We’ve given up our code names, as well.”

He spoke so conversationally that I wasn’t sure how to take the comment.

“So to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Thatcher asked when I didn’t reply.

“We have a few questions for you regarding a current case,” I said. So much for me letting Ethan do all the talking.

“Ask away, although I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I decline to answer.”

I glanced at Ethan, who shrugged one shoulder as if to say, It’s your show now. To Thatcher I said, “Do you know a man named Landon Cunningham?”

He blinked. “I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t know a man named Landon Cunningham.”

Oh, he was good. “Let me rephrase that, then. Have you ever known or been acquainted with a male named Landon Cunningham?”

He gave me a bland look, even as something hard turned his gray eyes to steel. “I think you already know the answer to that question, Ms. Duvall. Yes, my late son’s name was Landon Cunningham.”

“When’s the last time you had contact with your son?”

“Is that a joke?” His voice had adopted the same cold edge as his eyes, and he took a step toward the glass partition. His hands had tightened into fists.

Ethan made a soft noise, probably warning me to tread lightly. He might like Thatcher for whatever reason, but I had no feelings toward the man one way or the other. He was just another suspect who had answers we needed. Answers Teresa would do anything to get.

“No, it isn’t a joke,” I replied. “Did you find it humorous?”

“Not one goddamn bit,” Thatcher snarled. “If you’re really as smart as you pretend to be, you know my wife and son died fifteen years ago while I was stuck in here.”

The hit to my intelligence stung. “Wife? Your marriage was annulled.”

“We never acknowledged that annulment. Despite what the law said, Jennifer and I were always married in our own eyes.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Don’t patronize me, or this interview is over.”

The fact that he hadn’t told me to go straight to hell and take my questions with me was encouraging. We had his attention.

“We’re not here to piss you off, Derek,” Ethan said.

“Then why are you here?” Thatcher asked. “What does my family have to do with this supposed current case?”

“Your family is the case,” I said. “More specifically, Landon is the case.”

He glared, any control he had over his facial expression gone. “Explain.”

Ethan approached the glass and turned the tablet around. He’d displayed three photos in order—Landon at three, the aged version of him, and the photo of our suspect. Thatcher practically pressed his nose to the glass as he studied them, his face crumpling in anger and disbelief.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the speaker connecting our two sides of the room.

Ethan explained the burglaries, our run-in with Jack and Jill, and how we identified “Jack” as Landon. Thatcher paled slightly while Ethan talked, but he didn’t interrupt. Just listened. “This is impossible,” he said when Ethan finished.