Chimera m-4 Page 7

  Despite his personal anger, Thatcher still managed to look everywhere at once, taking in everything, from the walls of the facility to the landscaping on the edge of the parking lot. For fifteen years, he’d had nothing but the ruined ghost town of Manhattan to look at. His slice of nature had been contained within the borders of Central Park and a few other smaller parks around the island. Wide-open spaces with no skyscrapers or walls around them had to be a novelty.

  By the time we reached the car, Marco had information on Lionel Crow, and Ethan put us on speaker so we could all huddle around and listen.

  “Much of his history has been deleted,” Marco said, and the opening volley didn’t surprise any of us. “He is not Meta, as far as my research shows, and his date of death is two days before Bethany died. He was twenty-two, and heavily into alcohol and drugs, which may explain why he gave his daughter up for adoption.”

  “Or he was hiding her from her mother,” I said. Thatcher glared at me. “What?”

  “What?” Marco said.

  “Not you, pal. How’d Crow die?”

  “He drove while intoxicated and crashed into a tree at eighty miles an hour.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Was he associated with any known Metas?” Ethan asked.

  “Yes,” Marco replied. “In fact, Crow attended high school with and was known to be attached to Alice Stiles.”

  Alice Stiles—once also known as Mayhem.

  Six

  The Turn

  Ethan’s face pinched. He couldn’t hide the fact that at the name Alice Stiles, his mind had just gone right back to our final day in Central Park. We’d been running past several bronze statues when Mayhem started attacking us with heat blasts, melting statues and killing a kid. Ethan had saved us all that day by killing Mayhem. And he was the kind of gentle soul who tore himself into bits about killing, even if it was self-defense.

  “What does ‘known to be attached to’ mean?” Thatcher asked.

  “They dated,” Marco replied. “They graduated high school a year before the War started. Stiles’s involvement in the War is documented in the later years. However, her exact movements in the first two years are unknown.”

  “Was Alice Bethany’s mother?”

  “I cannot answer that. However, the timing is correct, and after comparing their photographs, there is a strong resemblance between Bethany Crow and Alice Stiles.”

  “Did May—Stiles ever mention having a baby?” I asked Thatcher.

  He stared at me like I’d grown a finger out of my forehead. “Do you tell strangers the intimate details of your sex life, Renee? I barely knew Alice, so no, she never mentioned giving up a baby.”

  I didn’t back down from his snarly response, even though my Sarcasm Brain wanted to snap right back at him. Besides, I hadn’t had a sex life to speak of for months. “Can you think of anyone in Manhattan she might have confided in? Someone who could help us?”

  Thatcher didn’t answer right away, but he was thinking.

  “Did he nod or shake his head?” Marco asked over the phone, clearly confused by the silence.

  “Neither,” I replied. “Hold on a sec, Fuzz Face.”

  Thatcher looked like he’d rather chew glass than admit anything when he finally said, “Mai Lynn Chang. She and Alice were good friends.”

  Ethan and I shared a look. Mai Lynn was a cat shifter and current resident of Manhattan. She was also the mother of Simon Hewitt’s son, Caleb. What an incestuous little group we are.

  “I will contact Warden Hudson and arrange an interview,” Marco said.

  “Thanks, pal,” I said. “See you in a few hours.”

  * * *

  Apparently Hudson was in some kind of meeting all afternoon, possibly getting his ass chewed off by his superiors for allowing Thatcher out on temporary release, so we didn’t have an interview time set up when we got back to HQ. Dinnertime was closing in, and as our little trio made its way to the cafeteria, Aaron snagged Ethan off to the side.

  “Are you still able to go to Simon’s?” Aaron asked.

  I stopped walking in order to eavesdrop, and my Thatcher-shaped shadow did the same.

  Ethan stared at his boyfriend blankly for a beat, then his eyebrows went up. “Shit, I forgot about that.” He looked at me, almost apologetic. “We’d planned to visit Andrew tonight.”

  Andrew, his half-brother, lived with the Hewitts, and the pair tried to see each other as often as possible. He was only eight, but Andrew reminded me so much of an adolescent Ethan, with his red hair and green eyes and warm smile.

  “So go see him,” I said.

  “What if Hudson calls back?”

  “We can talk to Mai Lynn tomorrow.”

  Ethan shook his head. “No, we should get this figured out as soon as possible. I’ll—”

  “Go. See. Him. If we get over there tonight, Thatcher and I can handle it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I gave him a gentle shove toward Aaron. “Go to play with your baby brother, Windy. I mean it.”

  “Thanks, Stretch.”

  He and Aaron headed back in the opposite direction, and I could have sworn I heard Ethan ask how Noah was feeling. The question made me curious for about five seconds, until a sharp pang of envy hit me right in the gut, and it had nothing to do with Noah. Ethan had so many of the things I longed for—a steady relationship with someone who cared about him, living family members who weren’t batshit insane, an open-mindedness about the Manhattan prisoners. I loved him dearly, but sometimes I wished he were easier to hate. Not that Ethan had had it easy—he’d had a horrible time in post-War foster care, and that had left all kinds of emotional scars. And finding the courage to come out to us hadn’t been easy for him, either.

  He more than deserved the happiness he had.

  The jerk.

  Fingers snapped in front of my face. “Anyone home?” Thatcher asked.

  I swatted his hand away. “Do you mind?”

  “You were staring at the wall.”

  “So?”

  He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He didn’t look annoyed, just amused, and that annoyed me. We were stuck working together, but I was not available for his entertainment. If I wanted to be a sideshow, I’d go back to shaking my ass in Vegas.

  Thatcher tilted his head to the side, a half smile playing on his lips, and damn it if he didn’t almost look attractive like that. “I know you’re only required to babysit me if I leave the building,” he said with a stupidly charming lilt to his voice, “but would you like to join me for dinner?”

  “Not particularly.”

  He shrugged one shoulder, not the least put off (that I could tell) by my abrupt shutdown. “At least you’re honest.”

  “Most people call it rude.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  “No kidding.”

  “You still blame us, don’t you?”

  I blinked. “Us?”

  He nodded slowly, something dark burning in his eyes. “Banes. You still blame us for the War, and for everything that happened afterward. Don’t you?”

  We were really having this conversation in the middle of the hallway. Granted, no one was around, but I still carried an unpopular opinion around like a festering wound you can’t see beneath all the layers of clothing. I didn’t much feel like arguing my point where others could stumble by and overhear.

  “Does it matter?” I asked.

  “Yes. We have to work together, for however long it takes to solve this. You know where I stand, so I think it’s only fair that I know where you stand, as well.”

  “I’m standing right here.” I folded my arms over my chest and turned to face him full-on. He only had two inches on me, but he did have a good thirty pounds of muscle and solid bulk that I lacked. His posture was as relaxed as mine was defensive, and I couldn’t help wondering if he was doing that on purpose to make me look like an aggressive bitch.

  “You’re, w
hat? Twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  His eyebrows twitched. “I was twenty-two when the War ended, and I was stuck on that island living in misery, eating whatever crap the government dished out or we could scavenge. Today was the first time in fifteen years I set foot off that island, rode in a car, saw a person over the age of sixty. You can hate the Banes and hate Chimera all you want, but Derek Thatcher is a different man than the one who followed Specter. Chimera died a long time ago. Please try to remember that.”

  A hot flush crept up my cheeks, straight to my hairline, and it wasn’t from anger—I was embarrassed. Fuck him for schooling me like that. I had a damn good reason for holding on to my narrow view of the past, and I wasn’t about to go explaining myself to Thatcher. Not now, and not ever.

  “You have no idea where I stand,” I said coldly. “You can’t even see the fucking ground.”

  His eyes narrowed. Before he could retort, my cell rang with Teresa’s personal tone.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Good news,” she replied, slightly out of breath. “Mai Lynn is currently at the observation tower getting a checkup for her leg, and I got you guys permission to speak with her before she goes back to Manhattan.”

  “Did the warden agree?”

  “He didn’t have to. His head guard gave us permission.”

  “Fabulous. Thatcher and I will head over now.”

  “Where’s Ethan?”

  “On his way to see his brother.”

  “Oh, right, he mentioned that yesterday. You good with him not being there?”

  I glanced at Thatcher, who was watching me intently. “Nothing I can’t handle, T.”

  “Good. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do.”

  After I hung up, Thatcher asked, “We’re going where?”

  “Ellis Island.”

  He pulled a face, then quickly tried to hide it—interesting. “More flying?”

  “Not a fan?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Sucks to be you, then.”

  * * *

  Instead of the interrogation room, our guard escorted us to the medical ward on the second floor. Mai Lynn was sitting in what passed for a waiting room: six upholstered chairs around a single, wide, wood coffee table. There was no television, nor any magazines or books to read. The entire space was sterile and plain-colored, and about as interesting as a piece of white bread.

  I’d never met Mai Lynn in person and only knew her from her file. As we approached, she used a wooden cane to stand up. Her left leg was in a walking cast. She’d broken it in July’s Central Park helicopter explosion, and seemed to be on the mend. She barely came up to my chin, and I had to look down when I shook her hand and introduced myself.

  “Please, sit,” I said.

  She settled back in her chair, and I took one opposite her. Thatcher stood a little to the side, observing but not really participating. Good. I could handle it myself.

  “Something important must be afoot,” she said. “First you spring Derek, and now you’re speaking with me. Do I get to know why?”

  “I wish I could go into the details,” I lied, “but I can’t.” The last three words were true, though. “I was hoping you could help us confirm a suspicion we have about one of your former, ah . . . coworkers.”

  Her eyebrows jumped. “Coworkers?”

  “From the War,” Thatcher said.

  She glanced at him, then turned a curious look on me. “Who?”

  “Alice Stiles,” I said.

  “Alice died fifteen years ago.”

  “I know. I’d rather focus on her activities during the first two years of the War.”

  Mai Lynn’s expression closed off—bingo. “Why?”

  I ignored the question. “Did you and Alice interact frequently during those two years?”

  “Somewhat. As Specter began pulling us together, Alice and I were often in the same city at the same time.”

  Interesting dance around the fact that they were together murdering Rangers and wreaking havoc in those cities. “To your knowledge, did Alice Stiles give birth to a child during that time period?”

  Her eyes went wide with shock, and then her entire expression shifted into something fierce, protective. “What does it matter if she did or did not?”

  “It matters because a young woman who may be her biological daughter is running around committing all kinds of crimes. A young woman who has a Meta power very similar to Alice Stiles’s. We’re just trying to confirm that the two are related.”

  “Alice was a friend. I don’t know if this young woman is her daughter, but I won’t help you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Won’t.”

  “Someone took her,” Thatcher said. He moved closer, his face a dark mask of frustration that he didn’t try to hide. “They faked her death and they took her, and God only knows what they trained her to be. Those bastards did the same thing to Landon.”

  Mai Lynn’s face fell. Her hand rose, like she wanted to reach for Thatcher, then dropped back into her lap. She watched him, as though searching for deceit. “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “We aren’t certain yet, but I need to find him. Please.”

  She looked pained when she turned back to me. “I don’t know if Alice had a child, not for sure. She disappeared completely for about seven months, and the next time I saw her she was . . . different.”

  “Different how?” I asked.

  “Distant. Colder. She wouldn’t say a word about where she’d gone or why, and I never pressed.”

  “Is there anyone you can think of whom she might have confided in?”

  She shook her head. “They’re all dead now.” To Thatcher she added, “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. I hope you find him.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You deserve to be with your son, Derek.”

  He smiled warmly. “So do you, Mai Lynn.”

  “Maybe soon.” Her eyes lit up with the eagerness of a child waiting for Christmas morning to hurry up and get here. “My official parole interview is next week. I could be with Caleb again before the month is over.”

  “You’ll get out. I know you will.”

  “I wish I had your faith.”

  As much as I hated breaking up the official Absentee Parents Club meeting, I cleared my throat loudly. Two heads swiveled to look at me blankly—probably forgot I was even there. This wasn’t a social call. “If there’s nothing else you can tell us, we should be heading back,” I said.

  “Of course,” Mai Lynn said.

  I stood up, then forced myself to say, “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  On the way to the elevator, Thatcher leaned over and whispered, “You didn’t hurt yourself saying thank you, did you?”

  I glared at him, and he just smiled. Really smiled. Is he flirting with me?

  Impossible.

  We didn’t speak on the elevator, or as we left the observation tower for the warm evening air that reeked of the bay. This area certainly had an unmistakable smell. Halfway to the puddle-jumper, my com squealed with the emergency beacon. I jumped, the noise cutting the silence between us. I fumbled the earpiece twice before I got it in.

  “Duvall,” I said.

  “It’s me.” Teresa. “Simon just called. He said Aaron and Ethan are twenty minutes late, and neither is answering his phone.”

  Shit. Panic turned my insides to icy slush. “What about the tracer on their car?”

  “Shows them stopped three blocks from Simon’s house, on Communipaw Avenue. No movement. Marco and Lacey are already in the air.”

  “Thatcher and I are outside. We can be there in a few minutes.”

  “Keep your com on.”

  “Will do.” I didn’t explain to Thatcher, I just grabbed his arm and pulled.

  To his credit, Thatcher didn’t start asking questions until I failed to either direct us to Governors Isl
and, or land in the parking area on the mainland. I filled him in while I flew straight toward the streets I only halfway knew, until I was over Communipaw Avenue. Landing the puddle-jumper wasn’t going to be easy—it wasn’t a large machine, but I was used to having a lot more maneuvering space. Thatcher white-knuckled his armrest in a way that would have amused me if I weren’t scared out of my mind for Ethan’s safety. Two grown men with strong damn powers going off the grid meant serious trouble.

  I spotted one of our Sports, stopped in the middle of the street about three blocks from where Simon’s house should be. The nearest intersection was clear. I hovered the puddle-jumper over it, then pushed down on the controls, dropping us a few feet at a time until the skids hit pavement. I shut off the engine and practically leapt out onto the street.

  The Sport’s engine was off, the doors shut. I yanked one open and found the keys still in the ignition. Thatcher opened the passenger-side door and looked around. No blood, no broken glass, no signs of a struggle. I relaxed my shoulders and stretched my neck out so I could see both the backseat and the rear compartment—nothing there, either.

  Damn it, Wind Bag, where are you?

  When my neck settled back into place, Thatcher was staring at me with open surprise.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “Nothing.”

  “Good.” I hit my com. “Duvall to West. Car’s empty, no sign of a fight.”

  “Copy. Lacey and Marco are on the ground, too, nearby.”

  “Copy that. Out.”

  I repeated it for Thatcher’s sake, then moved out to the middle of the street. Few people lived in this neighborhood, so the chances of finding someone who’d seen what happened was slim to none. Not for the first time, I wished for a more useful power. Something that could help us track down our friends. Gage should be out here with his Super Sniffer, not me with my stupid bendy body that didn’t even work right.

  A raven’s cry broke the quiet. I pivoted and ran back toward the puddle-jumper. Raven-Marco darted into the street from that intersection, then hovered there until I caught up. I followed him down another block, past a mix of homes and boarded-up businesses, to a dank alley that reeked of rot and tepid water. Lacey Wilson’s dragonlike wings peeked over a pile of rubble that had once been part of one of the buildings lining the alley. I jumped over the debris with ease and landed in a puddle that splashed something wet and nasty up onto my boots and the legs of my uniform.