Nemesis (Project Nemesis #1)(25)

       
         
       
        

NL: Well, he knew enough. Dad ripped into me. Called me a coward. A "mental defective."

GL: That's terrible. Those words must've been very painful to hear.

NL: He said I wasn't a "Livingston man," whatever the hell that is. Drunk a-hole seems closest.

GL: I'm sorry he said those things. Did you respond?

NL: I ran up to my room and locked the door. Downed my pill. Then I called you. I remember you answered on the first ring. I was so grateful.

GL: I'm glad you made that call. Truly.

NL: Happy birthday, right? Twelve years old, and a lunatic.





21



The doors were locked.

Security system activated. I sat behind my father's desk, staring at a computer monitor.

I didn't want to think about earthquakes, tsunamis, Portland, or any of that awful stuff. Instead I was watching video feeds from fourteen different cameras positioned in and around my house. A loaded Beretta M9 pistol was resting on my lap.

I couldn't remember how long I'd been sitting there. Hours, at least. The sun had gone down, and all the lights in the house were off. I wanted it to look like no one was home. Only the greenish glow of the screen betrayed my presence.

He's real.

My mind cringed every time I thought it, but the truth was inescapable.

I saw him. In broad daylight, on a Wednesday, in the middle of freaking town.

How can that be? If the murders aren't dreams, how am I still alive?

I laughed out loud. Found I couldn't stop. A part of me knew I was barely holding on-one small slip from really losing it-but I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't process Black Suit as a living, breathing person.

Was he coming for me again? He'd said it was the last time.

I shivered, realizing that conversation had actually taken place, out in my driveway three nights before. I didn't remember falling asleep because I hadn't. Not then, or any time before.

A stranger has been killing me over and over and over. How? Why?

A dog barked and I shot to my feet, the Beretta tumbling to the floor. I grabbed it and set it on the desk. The gun was my father's, one of many he kept in a case. He thought I didn't know the combination, but of course I did.

With a moan, I dropped into the soft leather desk chair. Thought about popping a dozen blue pills, then angrily dismissed the idea. 

The pills came from Lowell. Lowell was a goddamn liar.

I wasn't crazy. I was being played.

But wasn't that even worse? At least crazy made sense.

"Stop," I said aloud in the dark, empty office. I liked the feeling of control it gave me, so I kept it up. "Don't panic. Think."

The truth was overwhelming. A man who regularly slaughtered me just had a secret meeting with my principal, my psychiatrist, and the head of law enforcement in my county.

I wiped a hand across my face.

Was I really sure?

The whole thing was impossible. The assassin of my nightmares was a living, breathing person, and spent his time in a secret conspiracy with a bunch of local nobodies? Oh yeah, side note-apparently I couldn't die. Come on.

Did I imagine the whole thing? A new level of regression?

My eyes shot to my cell phone, charging by the door. I was seeing things that weren't possible. Dr. Lowell would have answers. He'd know what was wrong and tell me what to do. Maybe he had another pill I needed.

Lowell could make it all go away.

I walked over and unplugged it. Pulled up Lowell's number.

I was having a breakdown. He would fix me. I didn't have to deal with this alone.

The AC kicked on, and chilled air ruffled my sweaty hair. Traces of diesel smoke tickled my nose.

I dropped the phone as if snakebitten.

No. I'd been there. I'd seen it. This wasn't a hallucination, or dream, or whatever other BS story Lowell wanted me to believe.

Min's face popped into my head. She'd wanted to tell me something.

I felt a jolt of adrenaline.

Did she know about Black Suit?

Something zipped by the window. Heart in my throat, I crept over and peered outside.

My next-door neighbor was running up the street in a bathrobe.

I blinked. A Labradoodle puppy wandered onto my driveway, marking the ground every couple of feet. The woman overtook her dog, snatching, scolding, and hugging the animal all at the same time. As she turned for home, I could tell she'd been crying.

I turned on the TV, was instantly bombarded with heartbreaking images. People had talked about the Big One for years, but it was always California. The news was making clear that the Northwest had taken the knockout punch instead.

Flipping around, other news was just as bad. A twin tsunami caused by the quake had pummeled eastern Japan, leaving half of Hokkaido underwater. In Manitoba, stampeding cattle had trampled a mining town, charging north at full speed until the herd collapsed from exhaustion. Even the experts were stumped.

Eventually, I couldn't take it. The walls began closing in, a familiar claustrophobia tightening its grip around my neck. I had to get out of there. Needed to be somewhere I felt safe.

I switched the alarm to "away" and snuck out the back door.

Ever since I was little, I would hide there.

As the moon rose in a cloudless sky, I was high in the branches of a cedar. Only five minutes from my home, but it felt like a thousand miles.

My fort originated as a hunting platform. The ladder had rotted away, but the tree limbs were close enough to climb up by, if you knew the route. The hide was thirty feet off the ground, with room for three. Moss-covered sides made it virtually invisible.



       
         
       
        

Somewhere no one could find me. The only place I ever truly relaxed.

Gazing out over the valley, I chuckled softly.

Sixteen years old, and hiding in a tree house.

I thought back on what I'd witnessed in the alley, and a shudder ran through me. I didn't fight the sensation. It felt appropriate, so I let it have its moment.

Why would Fire Lake residents meet with a serial killer?

Was he a killer? I shifted, uncomfortable with the thought.

I was alive, obviously. Whatever was happening to me, I kept recovering from it. I refused to travel down the road of thinking I was actually dead. I'd believed myself crazy for too long to go there.

I straightened, remembering the guy in the uniform. A general? Why was he there? At first he'd seemed in charge, but only until Black Suit showed up. So was this a military thing, or something else?

Engine sounds. Down on Shore Point Road, headlights appeared in a line.

I peeked over the sill as heavy trucks rumbled around the lake. Soldiers hung from the bumpers, weapons glinting in the moonlight.

"What in the . . ." A group of vans passed with black starburst symbols on their sides. Then eight mammoth big rigs. I couldn't imagine how they'd gotten over the Plank.

There'd been talk of trucks cutting through town on Announcement night, but I hadn't seen them. Rumors said they drove onto the government land at the eastern end of the valley. As I watched, these vehicles disappeared into those same woods.

I sat back, perplexed. Troops and trucks were piling up, hiding in the one spot nobody ever went. Something was going on.

Suddenly, I felt very alone. I was up a damn tree, a thousand yards from anyone, all by myself. No one knew I was there. No one was waiting for me to return.

I slipped from the fort and climbed to the ground. Crouched, listening, one hand straying toward my pocket. A twig snapped, and my nerve broke. I ran as fast as I could, certain I'd feel a hand on my shoulder at any moment.

I unlocked my front door and leapt inside. Then nearly wet myself when the security system demanded a code. With trembling fingers I input the numbers, then slammed and locked the door, reactivating the alarm.

I was alone in the house. Dad was still in Europe-I'd gotten a text that afternoon griping about foreign food and canceled flights.

Black Suit could be hunting me at that very moment.

I stumbled to the living room and slumped down on the couch. Pulled the Beretta from my jeans. Holding it with both hands, I watched the door, preparing for a sleepless night. 





22


PROJECT NEMESIS

File: INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT: NOAH C. LIVINGSTON ("NL")

Date: JUNE 8, 2017

Specialist: DR. GERALD LOWELL ("GL")

Subject: TEST PATIENT B, BETA RUN, SESSION 15-F2


GL: Today I'd like to talk about your fourteenth birthday, if that's okay with you.

NL: [SUBJECT SHRUGS]

GL: It's been almost two years since that day. You told me what happened when I found you in the woods, but please remember what we're trying to accomplish when we discuss your dreams. Details are important. Consider it a mental housecleaning.

NL: I'm not feeling any better.

GL: Excuse me?

NL: About the dreams. We've gone over nearly all of them, and they bother me just as much. I'm still nervous all the time. I still don't feel safe. If you thought I'd be cured by rehashing them, you were wrong.

GL: These things take time, Noah. If you lance a boil, the wound itself still must heal. I think you'll find that this process achieves great results over time. Now, may we get started?

NL: [SUBJECT SHRUGS]

GL: This one was different from the others, was it not?

NL: No. That's the problem.

GL: But, more so than on your other birthdays, that day you actively tried to resist.

NL: [SUBJECT SIGHS] I woke up at dawn and took my father's fishing skiff out onto the lake. It's just a rowboat, really, nothing special. I thought, if I can get out in the middle of the water, and stay there all day, I'd be alone. Nothing could distract me. I'd stay awake. I hate boats, so how would I fall asleep on one?