The Broken Ones (Book 1) Read online

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mac floated a few feet above the ground, his white Reebok sneakers a few feet above the lush green grass. Above, where usually a pristine glass ceiling stood between him and the sun, only the cloudless sky. He had told the program that controlled the roof mechanism to retract the glass ceiling and to allow the warmth of the day come inside. Though the inner courtyard was surrounded by three stories of columned walkways, a gentle breeze managed to find its way down, rustling the grass and sending curls of Mac's hair across his tear stained face. Where he floated, no sunlight touched. Above him, a massive willow tree rose to an almost impossible size, taking up the center of the football sized courtyard. Like a rotund centurion, it stood in silent vigil over his mother's grave.

  Her grave rested below the tree that was planted at her funeral, one he had attended but would never remember. Two days old, the best he had managed was likely cries of confusion and a hunger that would never be sated for his mother. The date that was listed on that bronze plaque near the base of the tree was both the day she died, and his birthday. A cruel irony that.

  Mac had seen quite a few movies and read his fair score of books that told of women who died at childbirth and the children who grew up with that burden. Forced to grow up knowing that it was a trade-off between him and his mother. A life for a life, and winner got to live with the guilt. Though the books and the movies touched on it, they never dug too deep into what followed with something like that. The absence of that parent was discussed, but the weight of it usually glossed over in some way. Today, like many days that preceded it, Mac drifted like a spirit over the grave of his mother and wondered what she would think of him. Would she be proud of the man he had become? Would she be happy with his choice to fight crime or would she worry about him and insist that he stop such behavior immediately? In truth, he didn't know enough about her to even make a reasoned guess. Any time he would make the mistake of asking his father what his mother might think of something, his father would always return with the same cold response, "She doesn't think anything. She has no opinions on the matter." The discussion would be over at that point. One because he knew his father wouldn't answer any more questions, and two, even after 17 years of such answers, they always stung too much for him to continue. Each time, it felt like an accusation.

  "I didn't know this place existed." Allison was beside him without having made a sound on her approach. Her nickname of Kitten wasn't just because of her agility or reflexes. Allison was renowned for her ability to remain silent in her movements, no matter how attentive the prey might be. She stood there in a soft yellow sun dress that hugged her as a dress should. It accented the parts of her that his eyes were already drawn to, but showed nothing but a beautiful young woman.

  For a moment, Mac thought he might find himself enraged. He had known that Allison planned to stop by. He had, after all, been the one to invite her. He hadn't expected her so soon, but he hadn't expected that the staff would lead her here. "I don't allow people here,” he said it simply, hoping he would sound more tired than angry.

  "I am sorry. I am not supposed to be here, am I?" She turned to walk away.

  Mac dropped to the ground, the impact jarring his feet enough to make him stagger a couple of steps. He reached out and took Allison's hand. "No,” he started, but stopped as he tried to steady himself. "You I will let in here."

  She looked at him with those beautiful eyes of hers, something in them seeming to soften as she regarded him. "Thank you,” her tone was subdued and he knew from experience that she still felt bad.

  "I am serious,” he took her other hand so she was forced to face him, tilting his head forward to gaze into her eyes. "You. You get all the secrets."

  She smiled again, dropping one of his hands to slip her arm into his and to turn them both to look at the grave plaque. "You don't talk about her."

  "I don't know her,” he admitted.

  Allison remained quiet, perhaps muddling over something meaningful to say. This whole scenario was awkward and nowhere what he had expected their time together to be like tonight. "It's a beautiful place."

  Mac smiled, even though he wasn't looking at her, and the smile was meant to reassure her. He looked at her, trying to gauge the emotion on her face, but a large section of her hair covered that side of her face. He could only see the edge of her mouth and it was turned down in a slight frown. He took a deep breath, and with it, the scent of her flowed over him. He couldn't name the perfume, but it smelled like flowers and maybe something used in baking. Vanilla, maybe. Whatever it was, it was her signature smell, and it helped control the crashing emotions that stormed inside him. He looked back at the grave and found he needed to share something. "I used to think that my father built this house around her grave. As if this place was to be the center of his entire world."

  "And now you don't think so?"

  "No. I used to think that my mom and dad were like you see in the movies. Big romantics that were caught up in a whirlwind romance that led to my birth. And then when mom died, something changed in my father, making him distant. Making him the cold calculating man I know. I even thought part of the reason he was so cold to me was because he blamed me for her death,” the words came out in a flood. Things he had never uttered to anyone, even a shrink his father had sent him to once.

  "What made you change your mind?" She turned to look at him and her eyes were wet with tears. He could see the hurt in her eyes. He knew her well enough that she wanted to dispute the accusation that his father thought his mother's death was his fault, but not because it wasn't true, but because she didn't want him to think that about himself. Perhaps she knew him well enough to withhold that argument until it was better suited.

  "Well, I discovered that the house was built years before he even met my mom. His place was built early on in his fame, when he was getting grants hand over fist for his inventions and his advice,” he sighed and she responded by clinging to him tighter. "But I think the real revelation came when I took that abnormal psych class last year."

  "The one with Mrs. Wetzer?"

  "Yeah. In one of the chapters we discussed sociopaths. Mrs. Wetzer even brought in a local psychologist or psychiatrist, I can't remember which, who worked with the state. Anyway, this guy comes in and talks about some of the weird stuff he has run into and someone asks him about psychopaths and sociopaths. I think it was in reference to that show Dexter about the serial killer that kills serial killers."

  "I love that show." She rested her head on his shoulder.

  "Yeah, its messed up. So, this doctor says that the differences is psychopaths don't know they have wandered outside the realm of sane. The ones that go psycho killer are usually easier to catch because they don't really get that killing is wrong, so they don't take as many steps to conceal what they have done. He said that a sociopath though, knows that he or she is outside the realm of what people think is normal."

  "Like Dexter."

  "Exactly. And like Dexter because he knows that society views it as wrong, he goes to great lengths to keep it a secret. The doctor even said that most CEOs of companies are sociopaths. It kind of comes with the territory. But they aren't the kind that cut people up and gnaw on them in women's panties or anything."

  That earned him a soft giggle.

  "He describes these people as being distant, and how human emotions can sometimes be a mystery to them. They learn to fake them, but that is all they are doing. They don't really feel compassion or love or anything. They fake it to make it as it were."

  "So, you think your dad is a sociopath?"

  "It fits. The man doesn't seem to vibe on human emotions. Oh, sure, he can do rage pretty well, but compassion and such, it's like he dons a mask and plays the part. Only with me, he doesn't feel as required to play any roles. He just comes off as a–"

  "Dick."

  Mac laughed, "Yeah. As a dick. Even when he gets upset with me, it's not for the normal reasons."

  "Walk
with me, and explain." She slipped her hand down to his, and began to lead him away from the gravesite.

  He moved with her, trailing at first. He suspected that she wanted him to walk as much for his health as to get away from the site itself. Perhaps it had started to become too melancholy for her. He had to admit that as soon as he left the shadow off the willow tree and the sunlight splashed across his face, he felt better. "Did I ever tell you about when I got drunk?"

  "You did not,” her tone indicated that she was less than pleased to have not gotten this story.

  He laughed. "It was about a year ago. I decided that I wanted to have friends. Other than you of course,." She threw him a playful glare but said nothing. "So I found this group of social outcasts that I thought I could fit in with. They welcomed me fine, and one night I let them talk me into going out with them to get drunk. It didn't take me long until I was blitzed and found myself walking the streets alone. Seems that as soon as I became someone that needed babysitting, they bounced."

  "Dick move. Go on."

  Another chuckle. "Yeah, but I can't blame them. Cops found me wandering the street staggering and apparently drooling. They brought me to the station and phoned my dad. At that time, he was out of state. I am not even sure where. It took him eight hours to come get me, and by then I was alone in the drunk tank with a killer headache. The whole way home he gave me this long winded speech about how if I was going to try my hand at social acceptance that I needed to show more constraint and better location control."

  She stopped and looked at him. "Location control?"

  "Yeah. Now keep in mind, I was coming down off one doozy of a booze bender, but I distinctly got the vibe that he was trying to round about school me in how to cross that line between being a psychopath and a sociopath. That if I was going to do bad things, that I had better get my act together on keeping it a secret better. Granted, this was around the same time as the class, but I still think it fits and not just because I had it on the brain at the time."

  "You think your father believes you are a sociopath too?"

  "Aren't I? I mean, I'm not about to raid your panty drawer and cook up the neighbors poodle, but I do have my own anti-social tendencies. I am obese as much by choice as by anything."

  She laughed and raised a brow at me. "So fat people are all sociopaths?"

  "Shut up," he laughed. "No, but other things start to add up. I mean, I am a superhero. I wear a mask, and call myself Eclipse."

  "Actually, you are The Cherub now,” Her face drifted into a smirk that managed to be both sexy and infuriating.

  "Like hell I am. I can't stand that name. Or the concept. Do you know that not one station has referred to me or them or you as superheroes or villains? Not a one. It's turned into a religious battle being fought in the night for our souls."

  "I have been thinking about that."

  "Oh, god, here we go,” Mac replied and got rewarded by being punched in the arm.

  “First, off, you aren't a sociopath. I know for a fact you have real emotions, so just shut up with that nonsense. Second, I have been thinking you should accept the name of The Cherub. First off, the fact that you were calling yourself Eclipse to rub it in the bullies’ faces was commendable, but I say we stick with all our choices to be about what is right, and never about bullies. I think we are much better off keeping to our own ideals and holding fast to them."

  "Being a religious icon is not one of my ideals."

  "Perhaps not, but being a symbol for good is. You want to go out there and have people cheer for you. More importantly, you want people to give you the chance to do well. So far, these people have accepted you as a beacon of hope and a champion for justice. Superheroes have always walked a fine line in comics, trying to stay outside of the law, yet not be considered outlaws. I say you take this new name and make it your own. Despite the religious tones I know you are opposed to, you are a symbol for justice. Now is not the time to get into an argument with your fans about what you call yourself."

  "How about I just don't say my name? Unless they ask, of course,."

  "Ask? Are you planning on holding a press conference, Spiderman?"

  He laughed. "No. I am just thinking ahead."

  "Let’s agree that you don't say your name. At all. Even if some hot reporter shoves a mic in your face."

  "Oh, wow, not even if she is hot?" That earned him another punch in the arm. "Hey now, oh violent one. Stop it,” he laughed and she snuggled back into his arm. "So, what if they start calling you something like The Holy Ghost?"

  She laughed against his arm, "I was thinking Angel of Death."

  "Oh, wow. Nice name, psychopath."

  "Only with you,” she laughed and pulled away. She stood in front of him, and with jerky motions meant to mimic a robot said in a bad imitation of a robot voice, "Human emotions do not compute."

  He laughed. "Now who's a dick?"

  She laughed and bowed. "Thank you. So, what did you call me out here for? ‘Cause if it is to make out again, you haven't quite learned the proper pattern."

  "I was thinking that we could go stop some crime. The Cherub and the Angel of Death need to be seen dispensing justice again."

  She looked at him for a long time, a slow smirk spreading across her face. "You are learning the pattern." She rushed him and planted a kiss firmly on his lips. "Good thing I brought my suit."

  "Can I watch you change?"

  "Not tonight,” she winked at him and began to walk away. He knew her well enough to know that the walk she was given him was exaggerated for his benefit.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It hung before Lanton like some sort of sadistic piñata. The rope that was strung around its neck was wrapped over the beam that divided the room's ceiling. A four by four stretch of what Lanton assumed was oak or some other strong wood. The noose descended about two feet before coiling around the dead boy’s neck. "Prosthetics?" Lanton asked the woman who stood shoulder to shoulder with him.

  The Medical Examiner, Holly Hunt, shook her blond ponytail, the tail of it twitching at her back like an angry mane. "It's real."

  Lanton wasn't sure he believed that at all. The boy before him was about five foot tall, and his entire body was covered with tiny red scales. His eyes, which stared unseeing at him, were a sort of black film that held no iris or any indication that there was a separation of pupil from the rest of his eye. He found himself wondering if the boy could have been able to see in the blackest of night with eyes that wide open to the world. It was metaphorical. Despite the scales and the eyes, it was the black horns that jutted from the boy's forehead that had drawn their attention. Holly had spent a good part of twenty minutes needling at the section where the horns joined the forehead and had found that there was no place where she could see a separation of horn from skull. "It's all one thing?"

  "Looks that way,” her tone told him that she was just as dumbfounded as he was. "They are impressive."

  "Sure are," Lanton agreed, leaning in close to examine them better. They were both about a foot long, stretching out and curving upward to a sinister point. Whatever they were made of was a shiny black like it was coated with glossy paint. He could see his own befuddled reflection in the sheen on those horns. "So, the parents said he was normal looking when they left town for the weekend?"

  "Just like that." She motioned to the picture on the desk, where a framed picture showed an attractive young man holding an attractive young woman close, both faces lit up with model like smiles. "Said he was fine, in good spirits and looking forward to summer."

  Next to the picture was the boy's suicide note. He could tell it was written in a hurry, yet still it managed to be poetic. He suspected the kid had a gift for words, if just written. "Now the outside matches the insides. I am sorry. Goodbye,” Lanton read it aloud for the sixth time. "To the point, but it leaves a mystery bigger than it answers."

  "Like how a handsome young man could turn into this monster looking thing in less than two days?
"

  "Yeah," Lanton agreed. "I mean, I get the whole suicide aspect of it. It reminds me of this song from back in the day. It talked about how a boy woke up with blue hair and he was excited to show it off. Then he starts freaking out wondering if the people will like it or think he is a freak. Maybe that he was sick with something."

  "God Shuffled His Feet,” Holly said with a nod.

  "What?"

  "That's the name of the song. Cute song, though I can't remember the band. I remember the title of the song because it gave me such a chuckle to think of the image of it." Holly was face down in her tablet, probably filling out the final report. "I get what you mean though. Suddenly looking like this has got to play havoc on your mind. I wish he had maybe talked to someone though."

  "Would you want to live like this?" Lanton knew deep down that he wouldn't have been able to handle it. He already had to deal with people's nonsense because of his skin color, he wasn't about to heap more reasons for people to give him trouble.

  "I would, but then again I am a freak,” she shot him a smile and a wink. "There is an entire sub-culture of body-modders that would have cheered this kid as a god."

  "If some holy roller didn't burn him first."

  "There is that,” Holly nodded, clicking on something else on her tablet. "Whatever the cause for the change, the cause of death is still what it is."

  No, one liked using the word. Not with the deceased still present. It was like some unwritten rule. A quiet vow, that if broken would fall upon the speaker.

  "Yeah. Though I suspect this young man still has a story to tell." He leaned in to look the disfigured boy in the face. That is when he noticed that the once glossy eyes were now crystal clear. Though they held no discernible way to decipher what he might have been looking at, with that wide open pool of blackness, Lanton had the distinct impression that they were staring at him. That passage about staring into the abyss crossed his mind.