Twist (Book 1): The Abnorm Chronicles-Twist (11 page)

Chapter
25

As Detective Rodriguez knocked again, the door speaker flared to life.

“
Who is it?”

“
Mr. Lee, this is Detective Rodriguez of the Denver Police Department. We met the other night? I was sent here to talk to you about an investigation.”

After
a moment of silence, the door clicked and swung inward. The voice on the speaker said, “Come in.”

Rodriguez
entered and saw Adam Lee in his wheelchair across the room, spotlighted by sun from the world outside. No lights were on inside the apartment, just daylight from the one window, but since the room had such sparse furnishings, there were no darkened corners or shadows lurking around the edges.

“
Please close the door behind you,” Adam said. “It’s on a mechanical spring. I can open it with a click, but it doesn’t close the same way.”

Rodriguez closed the door
as Adam wheeled over to the sitting area in the center of the room. “How can I help you, Officer Rodriguez?”

Rodriguez
was surprised by the man’s demeanor. After witnessing the murder of Chloe Eccles, Adam had been badly shaken—understandably so. But he seemed engaged and interested now, not shell-shocked or off in his own world. Maybe he had gotten back to his former self.

He was a disabled vet, injured in the line of duty. Rodriquez hadn’t seen any action in the service himself, but his brother had, and his brother was as much a wreck inside as on the outside. This guy was probably much the same
—but someone who had been through that had a different reaction to death. He would grieve in his own way.

Rodriguez
knew his news was about to change that. He cleared his throat, hating this part of the job. “There’s been a second murder, sir, and we think it has to do with you.”

“Another murder?”
Adam looked confused. “How could these killings have anything to do with me?”

“
I’m sorry to tell you, sir, that your therapist was found dead last night in the parking structure of the VA Hospital. She was killed in a manner similar to the murder you witnessed on Thursday night.”

#

Adams face went slack, expressionless.

Worlds outside his window pulled at him.
Anything but here and now. But the here and now did have a claim on his life, no matter what Ingrid said. Reality spun and Adam’s mind jumped.

Walls melted, replaced by howling winds that smashed into the raft as he tried to get away from the Cuban shore. “We can't take out the target. There’s no way we will survive if we retrieve the others. There's no way to salvage this
. . . .” The words echoed over the wind, through Adam’s mind.

“Mr. Lee?”

Disembodied words jerked at his consciousness.
Richard Benedict Sr. watched the football game on his television, but emptiness filled filling the room. Cardboard realities—textureless, one dimensional—let him coast on autopilot.

Adam envied that experience, found the idea soothing.
Then he wouldn’t have to face the words he had just heard.

“Mr. Lee?”

False comforts were shattered. Detective Rodriguez crouched in front of him, concern written on his face.

“Ingrid . . .” Adam felt the tears falling. “She can’t really be dead.”

We can't take out the target. There’s no way we will survive if we retrieve the others. There's no way to salvage this . . .

A hand touched his shoulder; Adam shoved at it. His chair rolled back, breaking the unwelcome contact. Shaking, Adam rotated his chair away. His gift pulled him in a dozen different directions.
Anywhere but here.

Vaguely aware of the room, he saw a reflection of the detective standing beside Ingrid’s chair. Adam squeezed his eyes shut.

There's no way to salvage this . . .

The nightmares waiting behind closed eyes were worse than the reality he had to face with eyes open. Something inside snapped. Adam opened his eyes. A dozen worlds still spun through his peripheral vision, but he focused on
here and now.

#

“Mr. Lee?” Rodriguez thought the man might break down, withdraw into nonresponsiveness again, but he seemed to be churning through his thoughts, putting pieces together, building resolve.

Adam
drew a deep breath, remained silent for another few seconds, then asked, “How am I connected to this? And what can I do to help catch the bastard?”

Rodriguez
said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but right now I’ve been assigned as a protection detail. Since you were a witness to a murder, and your therapist was killed. We can’t ignore that connection—there’s a chance you might be in danger. I need to stay here for a day or two to keep an eye on you.”

Adam
’s expression remained uncertain as his thoughts roiled inside him. “No. I want to be alone.”

“We do have two uniforms stationed outside your building in a squad car for a visible police presence, but
since we don’t know what the killer looks like, they won’t do a lot of good. He could walk right past them. I want to keep an eye on you directly, just in case.” Rodriguez glanced around the sparse apartment, saw only Adam’s bed and this chair, not even a sofa to sleep on. “I’ll sit in the hallway if I have to, but I can’t leave.”

He also
spotted the grip chains hanging from strategic positions on beams, the triangle above the bed that allowed Adam to pull himself out of bed and into the chair, the kitchen set up for someone who could use only one hand and little else. Here on the seventh floor of Section 8 housing, Adam Lee had clung to his independence, insisting on surviving by himself. And he had done it all alone.

“
I understand it’s disruptive, sir, believe me. But it’s for your own protection.”

Adam looked away.
“I’m not comfortable with that. I have a very private lifestyle. I can’t make it outside. Dr. Wolverton was one of my only visitors . . .” His voice hitched, and he almost lost control of himself. Almost. But he clamped down again.

Rodriguez nodded
, as apologetic as he could be. “The Denver PD doesn’t usually do this, Mr. Lee, but we can’t ignore two killings in two days, and you’re very clearly connected to both. We really do believe there’s a high probability you’re on the killer’s radar. Let me stay here, do my job, at least while Detective Jones and Agent Cooper keep investigating. I’ll keep you safe.”

Adam
grew more and more visibly disturbed. “It’s not a matter of whether I feel safe . . . it’s just that I have special needs in my life. I can’t have someone stay here.” His expression became panicked. “I need to be alone. I have . . . I have work to do. Don’t worry. I just won’t open my door for anyone.”

Rodriguez
went back to the entry. “This door wouldn’t keep anyone out, let’s be honest. Ultimately it’s your life and your choice, but my orders are to keep you alive and safe. The best way for me to do that would be to sit in this room watching that door.”

Adam rolled over to the window and placed his hand against the glass, staring out
, and he remained that way, motionless. He seemed to have gone into a kind of trance, fixated on something outside. Rodriguez stood beside the chair, feeling awkward, but he didn’t say anything or make a sound. Minutes dragged by. He decided this must be some kind of test, and he intended to pass it. He had been with his brother during some of his withdrawn moods, and he knew how to be patient.

A
fter an extended silence, Adam wheeled back over to the center of the room. “I guess it can’t hurt.” His eyes were rimmed red. He had obviously been crying while he stared out the window, but so silently that Rodriguez never realized.

“
The one thing I ask is that you are very, very quiet. I don’t like noise at all.”

“
I can do that.”

“
Thank you, and . . .” Adam paused as he considered his words. “Thank you for trying to keep me safe.”

As
Rodriguez settled in, the man rolled back to his window and stared out into worlds that only he could see.

Chapter 26

Close the door. Shove towels under the crack and make sure that the windows are completely covered—those were the next steps in securing privacy. Can never be too careful! Somebody might be watching. Somebody could be listening. Damn Twists. Never know what sort of disgusting powers they might have.

Thought they were so superior! Worthless freaks.

Spreading out the files from Dr.
Wolverton’s trunk, gloved hands flipped pages, exposed photos. Conditions, psychological treatments, all listed. A treasure trove of possible victims, like weeds in the genetic garden. Wolverton gave them all “therapy,” coddling them, as if the fact that they had once put on a service uniform made them worthwhile. But a uniform costume couldn’t hide poisonous DNA.

But now, with this stack of folders, there was a neat and tidy list.
A kill list. A good start. Many of the names matched the previous list. These were the ones to target next.

Hunting the filthy Twists was a painstaking process, a challenge because every one of the freaks had strange abilities, analytical and tactical skills. If the targets had any warning of their danger, they could fight back. With each victim, the killer proved the superiority of normal humans. Upping the percentage.

There wasn’t a single worthless Twist that couldn’t be killed. One at a time—jab, slash, twist of the broken bottle. What they deserved.

So much for their unfair advantage, for the abilities that made them
stand out and excel in their lives. So much for the free pass the world had given them. One percent of the population—a contamination, not the cream of the crop. Somebody had to balance the scales.

Now, with the eight files spread across the bed, the process was much easier.
The painstaking process of identifying a hidden Twist, hunting down details, was all unnecessary. Why wait a week for the next one? No, that was too long. Even at only 1 percent of the population, there was so much to do.

With so many people watching, investigating, getting in the way, it was time to pick up the pace.

The challenge with the eight files taken from Dr. Wolverton was choosing which one to kill next. But first, there was a problem to take care of.

Two damned police officers waiting right outside the building, watching,
spying. Getting in the way. They would have to go next. Tonight.

And that would require a more complicated plan.

Chapter 27

That afternoon Adam projected from view to view, expanding his long-distance sight, picking up on tinier details, small flashes of color, vibrations in the air. It was as though his gift had been a flower waiting to bloom, but blocked from the sun. And now he had blossomed.

It didn’t take him long to pick
up the name of the tenant with the liquor collection—Dan. Pushing a little harder, looking at boxes, a glint in a mirror, Adam was able to see a delivery receipt reflected backward in the glass, the last name reversed. “Peterson
.”

Flexing his mental acuity, Adam pushed. He held a picture of Dan in his mind
. Occupying the same space as if he were an eavesdropping specter, he walked around Dan’s new apartment, virtually.

Catching reflections off the windows of the apartments across from him
, a passing bus in the street, his perception moved from reflective surface to reflective surface as fast as light could refract. Holding Dan Peterson in his mind as he spent the day organizing and unpacking boxes, Adam drew in a deep, ragged breath—he ventured farther.

On the block behind his building
, a small coffee shop, the Morning Cuppa, stood on the corner. The glass door opened and closed, offering a kaleidoscope of new, transient views. Spectral Adam strolled into the coffee shop, which was busy with afternoon customers.

He couldn’t pick up any
smells—it was too far away, and his window was closed so he could feel the vibrations on the glass pane. The conversations were muted, overlapping, but he could pick out separate voices if he concentrated hard enough. Occasionally a microreflection would reveal someone’s lips moving and he would get perfect synchronization of their words. In those instances, the murmur of conversation suddenly became loud and sharp. He allowed a sliver of his perception to keep wandering through the shop, watching people sip their drinks.

Now . . . farther.

Pushing his spectral awareness again, he circled the block. On the west side of the building, toward the mountains, were office buildings and storefronts. Just off of Lincoln Avenue, his avatar stood on the sidewalk, watching the one-way traffic head north.

He
locked on that view, turned elsewhere, expanded the distance his perceptions could travel.

Adam
’s bandaged fingers pressed against the glass; his lungs constricted, fighting to draw breath, but he focused. Projecting his senses was akin to the final stretch of running a marathon. Closer to home, one facet of his virtual images accompanied Dan Peterson as he left the apartment building and began walking north.

Meanwhile,
coffee-shop Adam left the Morning Cuppa and began drifting south. The third and final specter of perception crossed Lincoln walking west.

But he needed more.
Defying his limitations, he pushed again. Fire coursed through his veins, and his muscles began to ache—an odd and surprising sensation, since it had been years since he’d felt anything in much of his body. Right now with the strain of this unexpected exertion, sending his multiplied assimilative senses so far, parts of his real body began to awaken and rebel.

Each of
his three avatars made it almost a block in opposite directions before the effort proved too much. The images dissolved, the perceptions constructed from a million inferences piled like mosaic tiles—and they all scattered like flecks of static.

With a groan,
Adam leaned his head back onto the headrest of his wheelchair. Heat from the window warmed his hand, but he pulled his fingers away. Resting his arm on the chair and touching the controls, he wheeled around to look at Rodriguez.

The
detective was sitting in the comfortable chair in the middle of the room—
Ingrid’s
chair—ignoring Adam, reading on his Kindle. Adam studied him; a dark complexion and strong features gave the man an air of confidence. Rodriguez wore jeans, a button-down shirt, and a sport jacket that did not entirely hide the service revolver holstered under his left arm.

Adam
’s gift gave him microdetails of the man. The more he practiced, the more his hyperacuity took on a life of its own, pulling his perception toward things. He needed to learn how to control it.

Rodriguez
felt Adam’s gaze on him and he glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “Doing okay, man?”

Adam
gave him a wan smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. I get so isolated up here in my place and stare at the world outside. I forget how to interact when there are people here with me.” He rubbed his forehead. “Ingrid . . . she always tried to get me to come out of my shell.”

Rodriguez set
his Kindle on the coffee table. “You know, my brother’s in a wheelchair, too. He’s a vet, like you.”

“I heard you say that to Ingrid, when you were here before. I . . . I was listening.”
Adam paused, then asked, “How did it happen?”

Rodriguez adjust
ed to a more comfortable position as he settled in to talk. “He was a lot like you. I was maybe ten or eleven years old when he came home in a wheelchair. He didn’t get injured in combat, though, like I assume you did. Just a stupid accident at the supply depot. They were doing maintenance on a Humvee and a jack slipped, dropped the vehicle on him, broke his back.” He looked away. “He never told me the whole story. I only heard bits and pieces.”

Adam
understood. “I don’t like to talk about what happened to me.”

“
It was years before he finally started coming out of his shell, not until I was almost out of high school. He had a lot of resentment and a lot of anger inside him. He lost his career, his ability to walk. He just . . . closed off, shut down from the world. He fixated on what he didn’t have anymore, and he let it fester inside. For the first eighteen months after the accident, he wouldn’t even talk. Not a word. He’d just sit in his chair in his bedroom, staring at the wall.”

Adam glanced guiltily at the window.

Rodriguez stretched, looked away. “But it didn’t last forever. He came back, and now he’s happy. I mean that. He’s married, he has friends. It’s not like you lose the ability to have a life; you don’t. It just changes who and what you are. It’s not a prison sentence.”

Adam even found a chance for a hint of humor. “
I’ll bet his elevator works.”

Rodriguez
responded with a smile. “You’re here talking to me. You seem like a friendly enough dude—you just have problems you’re working through. I can respect that. But people could come to visit you.”

Adam tapped his fingers against the arm of his wheelchair.
“Ingrid Wolverton came twice a week. It was her job, but she was the only human interaction I got. She was my only”—his voice hitched—“my only friend, I guess. She worked hard to get me to open up and interact with the world. She’s gone now, and I realize that I should have been listening and working. I’ve been selfish too long.” His eyes burned. “And now the same bastard who killed Chloe also killed her.”

Rodriguez leaned forward. “We’ll catch him. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll help,” Adam said. Rodriguez just gave him an indulgent smile. He didn’t know.

Adam thought about
how his gift could change his life. The same ideas had been running through his mind for the past two and a half days—ever since Chloe’s murder. Maybe he
could
do something more than watch. Maybe he could help find the murderer and bring him to justice—and stop him from killing again. He built on that thought, trying to be constructive rather than destructive in his own mind.

“
This is me reaching out, Detective. Being a good host.” He smiled a little. “Can I get you more iced tea? Sorry, I don’t keep alcohol around. It messes with the medications I’m on.”

Rodriguez
chuckled. “Why, yes, thank you. I’d absolutely love that. I’m on duty, so iced tea is just fine.”

Adam
understood inherently that the offer was a way for him to be proactive, a way to ignore his condition and do something normal. He rolled over to the kitchen and poured a glass of iced tea for his guest. Balancing it on the small tray fixed to the right arm of his wheelchair, Adam rolled back and handed him the drink. Then he got a glass for himself—a real glass, not just his CamelBak. That way they could toast.

S
tarting to understand each other, the two men let the day drift by, lost in conversation, maybe even starting to form a friendship.