Basilisk (20 page)

Peter, Peter, prisoner eater. . . .

 

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater . . . It was a nursery rhyme, we were told. Targets and those between you and your target told them to their children. It was a fact we needed to know to appear ordinary and we were given three examples to memorize, which we did in one reading as required, before moving on to the next subject—how to mimic the neurotoxic effects of blowfish poisoning if you happened to have a target in Japan.

I'd been around twelve then—two years older than Wendy was now. Peter had been close to the same. It was hard to tell in the Institute. There were no birthday parties. The Playground, yes, but no parties . . . not the kind of parties, at least, that anyone outside the Institute would recognize as a celebration. I hadn't told Stefan that the Basement wasn't the only place where we were “rewarded” for exceptional work. The Institute knew it was important in raising genetic assassins to equate death with reward. Death equaled reward equaled incentive equaled eager students—a simple psychological loop.

On the nursery rhyme day, Peter had asked the Instructor if it wouldn't be better to kill several other people in the target's entourage along with the target by using imitative blowfish poisoning to increase the authenticity of the diagnosis. I had thought the same myself. I couldn't help it. It was a logical and effective way to throw off any signs of foul play. But I hadn't said it; I'd only thought it. Peter wasn't like me, however. Peter was a good, enthusiastic student, and he said it loud and proud. That brought him a reward and the rest of us a chance to watch and see what we were missing by not trying as hard as Peter.

In the exercise yard our class gathered to watch Peter enjoy his prize. It was a homeless girl, a runaway—a teenage prostitute I'd guessed, then. Targets were frequently with prostitutes. It was a fact we needed to know.

She was fifteen at most, this girl, but to a chimera, whether it was man, woman, or child made no difference. Age and sex didn't matter when all you saw was an objective. That was all Peter saw. I knew, because I remembered his smile. He had perfect white teeth—we all did. The attractive were less suspicious than the unattractive. Jericho had made that clear. Targets were all prejudiced in one way or another whether they knew it or not, and a negative reaction to the unsightly was a universal one.

As ugly on the inside as he was attractive on the outside, Peter, with his perfect smile and bright, happy eyes, didn't look like a threat, not to a runaway snatched off the streets by silent men, shoved in a van, and brought to a place that looked worse than any prison. None of us would look sinister to her as we stood in a wide, loose circle around her under a hot Florida sun. She'd cowered on the dirt, crying. I remembered the trails of clean pure skin under the trails of her tears. The rest of her face was covered with thick makeup, her hair bleached blond with black roots, and her eyes . . . They kept animals in the Institute labs, starter projects for the extremely young. Some of them were dogs. I remembered their eyes. Hers were the same: soft, brown, and dumb with terror. When she saw Peter leave the circle and walk toward her, she lunged at him and shoved him behind her; both fell on their knees. She hadn't been attacking him. She'd been trying to
save
him.

“Little boy.” She'd been sobbing so hard, I'd barely been able to understand her. “They took me, those bastards.” She meant the guards who stood farther outside the circle, passive and watching. “They took me just as they took you. What do they want? Did they hurt you? Did they. . . .” She had swallowed. “Did they touch you? All of you? Oh God, will they rape me? Will they hurt me?”

Peter's smile had never faded. “No,” he'd said, running a fascinated hand through her hair. Then he'd kissed her cheek, the same way as we'd seen in movies. That was all we knew of affection, what we'd been taught to fake. “They won't hurt you.

“But I will.”

And he had. He'd killed her, the lost girl with no name. He took his time too. When he was done, there wasn't any part of her body he hadn't toyed with . . . except two. He'd shut down her kidneys, he'd filled her lungs with blood, he'd torn her liver into pieces, he'd twisted her intestines into knots, he'd squeezed her heart with an invisible hand over and over until, after four heart attacks, she had finally died. But her brain and her vocal cords he had never touched. He'd made sure she remained conscious and aware throughout it all and he'd made sure she could scream. She had felt all the pain, all the terror, not a second wasted to oblivion, and she had screamed until her throat bled, spraying blood with every cry. The entire time she had spent dying, Peter had chanted softly over and over, “ ‘Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her. . . .' ”

I hadn't thought Peter was smarter than me, but I'd always known he was more ruthless. His heart and soul belonged to the Way of the Institute if not to the Institute itself, and he'd not take any cure willingly. The sun was bright behind my eyelids as the memory ended. I felt my fists clench, my joints complaining with the pressure. He wouldn't take it willingly, no, but he'd take it all the same. I'd make fucking sure of that and I'd remember those terrified brown eyes when I gave it to him.

Peter, Peter—it was time for you to be
my
reward.

 

Breakfast was drive-through. I didn't mind. The more greasy and loaded with sugar and salt, the better I liked it. Lunch was drive-through too, or to-go, rather. It was a ten-hour drive from St. George to Laramie and we were making it a straight shot, but while much of me was superhuman, my bladder had yet to show signs of being of more than earthly origin. I had to piss the same as anyone else. We took turns, with one in the bathroom and two to stand watch. I didn't think it was necessary. If Mr. Fried-and-Crispy we'd left back in the motel parking lot improved enough to jump up and tear ass after us, he had nothing to go on now. No license plate number. No description of the car. But I'd heard “better safe than sorry” so many times in the past three years that it could've been my middle name.

“I want a taco.”

I was slumped in one bright orange plastic booth with my bag in one hand and a giant Mountain Dew in the other when a hand tugged on my jeans. I was alert—bathroom bodyguard at top form—so I'd seen the kid come across the floor toward me. I hadn't known what he was doing and I hadn't known he was going to latch on to my leg. Children weren't like adults. They weren't as predictable. They hadn't gone through all the stages of psychological development that would mold them into the final product. Children were like cats: You didn't know if they'd bite you, piss on you, or purr. Or demand tacos.

“Taco!”

My hand tightened on the bag; I admit it. I liked food, maybe more than anyone alive. We all have our weaknesses. “No,” I said automatically. If he wanted a taco that badly, I'd give him a dollar to buy his own, but my tacos were
my
tacos. I'd already claimed them and imprinted on them like a baby duck on its mother.

He scowled, his small face twisting and turning red. With blond hair and an oversized head, he looked about three, but he hit as if he were age eight at least. His hand smacked mine hard and then he tried to wrestle the bag from it. His skin was warm against mine, too warm.
“Taco!”

“Oh my God, I am so sorry.” A woman, presumably the mother of the budding Antichrist, rushed over and grabbed him around the waist to pull him back. Her hair was blond too, her skin tan, and she weighed about a hundred and five pounds, which could be why she was unsuccessful. He hung on tight to my hand and shirt, and this time the scream of “Taco!” almost shattered the window and door glass of the fast food restaurant.

Three booths down, Saul, now dressed in more than purple spandex, had buried his face in arms folded on the table and was shaking with not-so-silent laughter, the bastard. The mother pulled again and this time managed to pry the Satan spawn off me. Chimeras I was used to. Normal children who also had the ability to maim and terrify were a new experience. “Sorry, sorry,” she apologized again as he began kicking rapidly at her legs. “He has tonsillitis and it's making him cranky. He's having them taken out tomorrow morning.”

I edged out of the booth, my bag of food and my Mountain Dew cautiously hidden behind me. “He doesn't have tonsillitis.” The screaming became louder. “My father's a doctor,” I lied without compunction. “I'd have him rechecked before they do surgery.” Again the screaming notched up. She appeared confused, forehead wrinkling, and I tossed a bit of convincing logic to go with the rest. “If he can scream like five hundred demons from Hell, the little shit, I think . . . my father would think if he did have tonsillitis, it's cleared up now.” That was when I found out where the kid learned to kick so ferociously.

In the SUV, I sulked and nursed my wounded pride. The bruise on my shin from the woman's shoe would be faded already and on the verge of disappearing altogether, but my temper remained dark. The little monster deserved tonsillitis. Too bad. I should've left well enough alone. Saul was yukking it up in the backseat while Stefan tried and failed to look sympathetic behind the wheel. “Why did she do that?” I mumbled around a mouthful of chili cheese fries. “I didn't do anything wrong.” I'd actually done something right. I'd saved Damien from an unnecessary surgery. I missed my movies, but thanks to that kid there was one I wouldn't miss. All that boy needed was a tricycle, because he already had Satan in his corner.

“You called her sweet little baby boy a demon from Hell. Worse yet, a shit. Moms don't like that.” Stefan swallowed his laughter in to the most unconvincing cough I'd ever heard.

“I did not.” Okay, yes, I did call him a shit, but not a demon. “I said he screamed
like
a demon from Hell. I didn't say he was a demon from Hell. He's Satan at least. I was assaulted by the Omen and you have no pity at all, do you?” I frowned.

“You faced down the Russian mob and the Institute and you can't handle a toddler?” Stefan grinned. “How much pity do you think you deserve?”

Finishing the fries and with the tacos long gone, I decided now was a good time to talk to someone less judgmental, in addition to one with no knowledge of the attack of the evil taco thief. What was I anyway? Meals on Wheels? His mother had money and taco-buying ability. Obviously she had no foresight or spirit of preparation in the face of the purely sinister demands of her own child, but it wasn't as if anyone could hold me accountable for that.

If Ariel wasn't online, I'd see if there was any suspicious rash of deaths in Laramie, other than the ones I'd already found dated last week. There hadn't been any more yet, but with Peter and the others there, and according to the Institute's GPS tracker they were, it was only a matter of time. I grabbed my laptop and opened it as I tipped back the cup for the last swallow of Mountain Dew. I loved caffeine almost as much as grease and sugar. Stefan took in the sight and drawled, “Greek Gods live on Mount Olympus. Geek Gods live on Mountain Dew.”

“Drug dealer, pilot, ex-assassin-in-training, genius, geek, and
hot
.” I didn't bother to gift him with a glance. “Can you claim that many talents?” I started typing and hacked into the nearest secure WiFi. The free, unsecured kind didn't last past the parking lot of the coffee shop or bookstore that hosted it.

“That is damn talented,” Saul said from behind. “Maybe I should think of hiring you as a subcontractor. God knows I make no moral judgments. I make money. That's it. Things are much simpler that way.”

“Simple in the way you assisted Stefan in liberating me from a heavily guarded, virtual fort at the risk of your blindingly horrific neon shirt?” I asked as I zipped through a firewall, typing on. God knew I couldn't forget that shirt.

“It was a lot of mon—You liked that shirt?” I turned my head to see him give a pleased grin and then change it into a scowl as he finished his excuse. “It was a lot of money. It had nothing to do with saving your polysyllabic ass. It was only about the money. It's never about anything but the money, you brat.”

I dismissed him, saying, “You're lying. Your voice is half a pitch higher, pupils slightly dilated, you touched your collar twice, and you said never—never means at least once if not always. I could go on. Would you like me to?” Saul had a soft spot to have done what he did, one beyond his friendship with Stefan. I wondered what it was. I didn't ask, but I wondered.

I also didn't give him a chance to reply. Instilling fear in your subject at first opportunity ensures better behavior faster. In this case, better behavior would be Saul no longer annoying me. “Besides your refusal to admit morality, we could talk about your extreme womanizing. Overcompensation and denial so blatant it should require little comment, except to you perhaps.” I studied him intensely. “Psychology is a hobby of mine. I could produce some notes for you to study. They might assist in your personal development. Except for your love of spandex. I can't comment on that. It's too horrifying.”

“He's shitting me, right?” Saul directed the question to Stefan with more than a little desperation.

“Oh, I very well could and you would never know it,” I answered placidly, before Stefan had a chance, and returned to my computer. “I could give you an Oedipal complex in less than three minutes if you want to put it to the test. In six minutes I could turn you into an agoraphobic germophobe with profound hoarding proclivities. Those last two aren't easily combined, but I have faith I could pull it off. It's up to you.”

“Yeah, thanks, but I'll pass,” Saul muttered; then, more softly, in hopes I couldn't hear, he added, “Brat.”