“You finish the homework in Spanish?” Ben asked Lucas.
“Yeah. You?”
Ben nodded.
“Are you in the same class?” I asked.
“Yeah, next hour,” Lucas answered.
“Spanish Six?” I questioned.
“AP.” Ben leaned back in his chair.
“You in six?”
I nodded. They were both in a more advanced class than I was? I never thought they were stupid, but I excelled at Spanish.
“It’s okay. If you need any help, I can be your tutor.” The smirk on Lucas’ face kicked my competitive drive in high gear. It was too late to change Spanish classes, not to mention that would be a bad idea. The only thing I could do was get better grades than either of them in the classes we had together.
The rest of the week sped by.
Ben was absent for several days with the stomach flu according to Claire. Lucas walked me from history to art class each day and sat with me in the library during study hall, though I picked a different table than the one I shared with Ben.
At one point, Lucas put his arm around the back of my chair and leaned forward to whisper in my ear. I laughed when he told a joke. When I realized the librarian was staring at us, I shushed Lucas. Instead of stopping him, he started making fun of her outdated glasses. I tried not to chuckle, but his mimicked expressions gave me the giggles and fueled his laughter.
“Mr. Crandon, you either need to settle down or move to a non-quiet zone,” the librarian said. I glanced up at her briefly. “You too, young lady.”
It wasn’t like me to be disrespectful and while I suddenly felt slapped in the face, it was clear Lucas didn’t care. He nodded at her, mumbled something I couldn’t hear, and packed up his books.
“Come on.” He grabbed my backpack from the floor and led me past Stephanie Carlson. She glared at me when she saw me with Lucas. It wasn’t the first time she looked at me that way. She and her friends stared at me during lunch after it circulated that Lucas asked me to the dance. It was obvious they were just like the Aimee Wilkinson clique I left behind in Highland Park. Every school probably had a group like them. I just didn’t like being their enemy. Of course, being their enemy meant they forgot I was that girl—the one whose parents died.
Lucas wasn’t my first choice for a date to homecoming, but with his popularity, I was sure to fit in. Not to mention, it gave my aunt something to talk to her friends about. She seemed more excited about the dance than I was.
Thursday night she took me shopping when I told her I didn’t have homework. A boutique in Westport had a selection of dresses in the window. Even though I was skeptical, I went along with her idea and tried them on. I should have known she wouldn’t steer me wrong. She ended up buying me a strapless cocktail dress. At least, that was how she described it when she called Hannah’s mom.
Before history class started on Friday, Lucas leaned forward and whispered, “What color is your dress?” It was obvious Aunt Barb told his dad, too.
I turned in my seat to face him.
“It’s black on top and a fuchsia floral print on the bottom.” I didn’t realize I spoke with my hands until he smiled.
“Sounds like a lot of dress.”
“No,” I said and hit his arm gently. “It’s strapless and…”
His smirk made me stop talking. My cheeks burned.
“So I need to match to black and fuchsia? That’s a pink, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Bright pink.”
“Okay.”
“Oh. My aunt said we could have pictures at our house on the lake. Or, at the Inn, I guess. Unless you—”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll talk to Drew and TJ,” he said and looked away as people began to take their seats in the row beside us.
“Who’s Drew going with?” I couldn’t see myself hanging out with Molly all night.
“He’s asking Claire.”
“He’s what? When?”
“Shhh…” He stared at me as the bell rang. “Today, I think. Got cold feet the other day,” he whispered. “Don’t tell her.”
He’d better do it quick. I couldn’t keep that secret for long.
Chapter 81
Ben's Story
Bianca’s research led to more questions than answers.
It also led to numerous dead ends, which elevated my frustration level. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve questioned if it were staged. Knowing Bianca was on my team just meant this had to be the making of Victor and we were on his trail, regardless of how cold it felt at times.
Before my encounter with Victor weeks earlier, the last confirmed sighting was in Chicago back in 1997. There were other suspected locations reported across the United States and in London, though no agent was able to validate Victor’s presence. Los Angeles, Indianapolis, and Reno were amongst the cities listed, but without an obvious pattern, Bianca quickly dismissed them.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t.
Bianca and I spent the better part of the week investigating the tangled web of corporate ownership and suspected cities where Victor was spotted. CJ Morse and Company was located outside of Chicago, forty-four miles from where the last hybrid was detected. The farm equipment distributor was owned by a holding company based out of Las Vegas, but the address provided turned out to be a vacant lot.
The only useful information we found was that Henry Nichols was on the board of directors for CJ Morse. Except, Henry Nichols died of natural causes in 1991, at the age of eighty-three.
“He calls in every couple of weeks,” the manager told us after I compelled him. “Stops by for annual meetings, but not often in between.”
“Where does he live?” I asked.
He shrugged. “He has several houses.”
“And where would they be?”
“Well, ah… there’s the condo downtown, a mansion in LA, one in Vegas, and one in London. Oh, and some new place in Wisconsin.”
“Where in Wisconsin?”
“I’m not sure.” He hesitated a second. “North of Milwaukee.”
“What does Mr. Nichols look like?”
“I don’t know. I never met him.”
“What?”
“The meetings are private. Held offsite. I’ve never been invited.”
A shiver sensation rippled through my neck when Jorgenson dispersed additional information. As suspected, there was nothing unusual about Henry’s transition back to my world, or his evaluation. He was cleared for future lives and departed shortly thereafter. He was born and raised in Westport, on the farm on Summit Road that appeared to be in the center of the hybrid sightings. Henry had no children, no heirs to carry on the family farming business.
“Have you ever met the other board members?”
“No sir.”
So who was impersonating Henry Nichols at CJ Morse and who was the forty-something-year-old man that worked the farm now?
Chapter 82
Emma's Story
Friday night’s football game was in Green Bay.
No one I knew was going. Well, except for Lucas and TJ, who played in the game, and Hannah, who cheered, but they rode the team bus. Claire said she and Ben had some family thing and were going out of town for the weekend, which left my Friday night free.
Aunt Barb and Neal attended every game and encouraged me to join them. I considered it for a second until I heard they were going with the Lamberts. I just couldn’t see myself hanging out with adults all night.
I didn’t mind staying home. Of course, after an hour on my computer, I was bored. I stared at my phone and realized I hadn’t heard from Melissa all week. Not that I called her either. The last time we spoke was at Drew’s party last Saturday, and it wasn’t like old times. She came up to surprise me. Instead, I surprised her. I was high and hanging out with Lucas, the local bad boy.
Melissa didn’t say she was mad, but I could tell she was disappointed. She gave me the I’m-being-polite-because-I-have-to smile
and hug when we said goodbye that night. The one she’d give Aimee Wilkinson, if she had to. Deep down, I knew I changed and even though Melissa said she understood, she really didn’t.
How could she?
It wasn’t like I got drunk or high all the time, I rationalized, staring at the phone. What would I even say if I called her? I was sorry? That didn’t seem to cut it.
Melissa was my best friend, and I couldn’t stand to lose her. I swallowed the lump in my throat and pulled up her number. After a minute or two of rehearsing in my head, I hit the send button and waited for her to answer. I could tell by the tone of her voice when she said hello that she wasn’t her normal self.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said meekly. “I just wanted… well, I’m so sorry about last weekend. I shouldn’t have… I mean, I wish I could do it over again.” I babbled it all out so fast that I didn’t wait for her to answer. “I really miss you.”
“Oh-my-god, Emma, I’m so glad you called. Are you okay? I mean, really okay? I’ve been so worried.”
Tears welled in my eyes. The sound of her voice brought back memories of my old life. It was suddenly a comfort to the loneliness I didn’t even realize I felt.
She told me about school and friends I used to know. I told her about the dance and my dress, but left out the after-party at Trevor’s and anything about Lucas. When she mentioned Matt, I promised to call him and apologize, even though I knew I’d chicken out and send a text instead.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I asked.
“Oh! Tomorrow’s that game I told you about. Remember? The one at Northwestern, against Wisconsin. I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it last weekend. I didn’t think your aunt would let you go.”
“It’s okay. She probably wouldn’t,” I said, recalling the conversation I had with Melissa a few weeks earlier. “Who’s going?”
“Lewis, Matt, Jenna—a whole bunch of us... It’s not too late. You should come.” Her invitation was tempting, and I really wanted to go.
That wouldn’t fly with Aunt Barb. Or, would it?
“It’s okay. I understand,” she said. Her tone was lower than normal, and I knew I disappointed her.
Again.
Chapter 83
Ben's Story
I expected a quiet weekend.
An away football game meant no party at Drew’s house Friday night and with most of the guys headed to the Badger game on Saturday, I was confident slipping out of town wouldn’t be a problem.
Bianca and Molly were assigned to monitor the farm owned by the dead guy on Summit Road. Molly wasn’t happy about being excluded from the research earlier in the week. This was my way of appeasing her, though neither was happy about Bianca playing babysitter.
Things on Summit were fairly calm all week. Nichols’ farm was quiet after Kensington disappeared. The hum of engines was silenced, and the mass of staff reduced to two and both were human. The forty-year-old man that lived in the house hadn’t reappeared all week, though sleeper agents in the area were on the lookout for anyone matching his description.
My fake aunt and Molly’s parents were assigned to inspect the homes on Lake Bell, looking for the man impersonating Henry Nichols.
It was simply a matter of time and patience. Neither of which I had.
Claire and I charted the reported Victor sightings across the U.S. and London. Dates and times when the calls came in seemed disjointed in the data Bianca provided. Nonetheless, we set our course in hopes to recreate Victor’s travel plans. Chicago in 1997, with London next, followed by Los Angeles, Indianapolis, and Reno.
While I was undercover in Tucson, Molly took small assignments in two of the cities listed, but she refused to take any missions in London. Now that I knew she died there, killed by Victor, I understood why.
Yet, if Victor were hunting Molly for centuries, something wasn’t quite right.
***
London was cold and rainy when Claire and I arrived Friday night. The vicinity where Victor was last reported had no sign of his past presence. Not that I was surprised by that. Tracking agents came to the same conclusion years earlier when the suspected location was first called in.
The address was within a short distance from a popular portal in this section of town. It was across from the underground station and in line with heavily trafficked methods of transportation, both for the human world, and our own. Four red phone booths lined the sidewalk. At one time, portals were plentiful in London. Practically every corner had a telephone box, as the English called them, and every box had a portal. Advances in technology meant fewer telephone boxes were necessary, and immortals had to hide portals in other ways. It was unfortunate for immortals who wished to travel quickly without detection. A bright red box on the corner was readily identifiable and easily used. Dark alcoves and thin lines separating facets on buildings were less noticeable to rookies on assignment and caused more questions to witnesses during congested hours.
Claire popped open an umbrella, as we walked down a narrow side street. It was an upscale section of town, opposite of where Victor killed Molly more than a century ago. I zipped my jacket and lifted the collar to prevent the rain from beating against my neck.
This city block bothered me. All the cities on the list bothered me, for that matter. The fact that I couldn’t pinpoint why was a feeling I never experienced before undercover. I could tell something was wrong, but being unable to decipher the pieces of the Victor puzzle put me on edge. Lost in thought, I realized I shrugged off Claire’s offer to share the umbrella and quickly thanked her, apologizing for being so distracted.
Even though this wasn’t my first visit to London, I didn’t know the city very well. Something told me I wouldn’t find Victor hiding out here. The streets were clean and buildings well maintained. Flower boxes hung beneath windows, housing the remains of the past summer’s blooms. All was in order here. Streets were safe, even in the dark evening hours. It was opposite of where I thought Victor would be.
I expected him to be in hiding in sketchy sections of town where graffiti adorned the walkways and neighbors were strangers. I pictured him in a rundown building, dirty with years of pollution browning its once-pristine brick. It would be fitting for the likes of a rogue criminal, like the dilapidated barn on Summit where I found him before.
Sophisticated surroundings weren’t what I envisioned. Then again, it was only a sighting. Maybe he was just passing through.
My head swarmed in questions with no answers.
If I were Victor, I’d pick the largest city, the most populous area, and hide in plain sight. I’d blend in with the crowd. Be part of the mass, not in the open where people would notice me. I wouldn’t make friends. I wouldn’t know my neighbors. I’d hide in alleyways, not in wealthy sections where my presence would be known.
We walked more than a block when I realized I shielded myself from outsiders, including Claire. She stopped a few feet back, though I didn’t see it at the time.
“Ben! Ben!” Her voice grew louder. “Ben!”
“Sorry.” I turned to face her.
Then it dawned on me. Victor wasn’t hiding. He was living among them.
“Let’s get a drink.” I motioned to the pub across the street.
We sat at the bar, disguised as a middle-aged couple. Claire glanced at me when I ordered us pints of beer. “Could I at least get a glass of wine?” she asked. “I’m not fond of dark beer.” Thoughts of disappointment flooded her mind, as the older gentleman tended to our order.
It wouldn’t be fitting for our cover, I answered and shared an image of our disguises, two commoners.
She rolled her eyes but kept still.
The pub was arguably one of the oldest in London. Heavily decorated with photos of former generations, the walls held memories of past dances, brawls, and even a murder back in the early 1900s. The soul had since left, though the energy footprint that lingered shared the brutal attack in more detail than what was comfortable for
Claire.
My thoughts turned to Molly and the suffering she endured at the hands of Victor, also known as Jack the Ripper to the media. The murder here, though not too much later than Molly’s untimely death, was not at the hands of Victor. The criminal in this case was caught, sentenced, and reincarnated.
Aside from the knowledge I had of the establishment, the décor was inviting, warm and cozy. The look on Claire’s inexperienced face was less than soothing. Her thoughts bounced from confidence to fear and back again in mere seconds. She sipped the beer she didn’t want and snacked on the pretzel nibs that sat in a small bowl between us. The massive wood counter saw better days, but the dings and divots in its finish were stories of their own I chose to disregard.
There was a sensation I was unable to ignore. It haunted me like a black cloud hovering and smothering my breath. It was there the moment we walked in, though I tried not to notice. The old structure had my mind working overtime.
I finished my beer and nodded to the bartender for another. Music on low kept the silence between Claire and me bearable. I could tell the mid-fifties man mentally questioned who we were when he refilled my mug.
“Cold night,” I said, hoping to stop the thoughts in his head and ease Claire’s mind.
“Yup,” the bartender answered and leaned on the counter, toward us. His hands were spread wide, as if stabilizing himself against the mahogany bar. “You from here?’
“Nah,” I said, and then put my hand atop Claire’s. “The wife and I are just in town for the weekend.” I squeezed her hand gently and, when I removed mine, a silver band was wrapped on her ring finger. I picked a city at random in rural England and called it our home. “Just visiting for our anniversary.”
Claire smiled at him, and he seemed pleased with my answer. He focused on her eyes to the point I had to stop her before she compelled him. It wasn’t common for a human to stare so long at an immortal, but when they did, a compulsion could automatically engage, something my rookie partner didn’t realize. Without an intended message during the compulsion, her random thoughts would have been downloaded to the human, a breach of contract.
After I broke the connection between them with a gentle nudge to the bartender’s hand, Claire gave me an apologetic look. “Can I get you anything else?” he asked, snapping back to attention. “We got bangers and mash.”