Connected (Bureau #12)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

K eaton didn’t have anywhere near a full understanding of what was going on here, and the pain echoing through him didn’t clarify matters. But he got the gist of it. This motherfucker in the suit had sold his soul to the devil, or something like that, and now he had superpowers. And he wanted Owen to follow his lead.

Although Keaton tried to block their captor’s emotions as much as possible, some seeped through. They weren’t nice. And they were also entirely human. The guy had a wide sadistic streak and was smug about getting his claws on Owen. But he really, really wanted Owen to join him. He was desperate about the whole thing. And underneath everything, despite his confident fa?ade, he was afraid. Keaton wished he knew what of.

As for Owen, he was at the end of his rope but holding on tight. He was worried about Keaton and pissed off that Keaton had gotten himself into trouble, which was fair enough. Owen was resigned to his fate. Almost. He still had a spark of resistance.

And somewhere, unseen, a third party was chiming in. Sending out tendrils of encouragement, as if that person knew that Keaton would sense them. That incentive came from the same person who was in deep despair—but not entirely buried in it, apparently.

But dammit, Keaton didn’t have time to figure all of this out. That son of a bitch with the scary-ass eyes was looking pensive.

“Do you know what, Agent Clark? I think you care about this man. If you decide to join me, the first thing I’ll ask you to do is to hurt him. Torture him. Kill him.”

Filled with revulsion, Owen shook his head. “Do you think this is tempting to me?”

“I do. Because love is almost hate. They’re really very nearly the same thing. What we want, we also want to destroy.”

“That’s the most idiotic bullshit I’ve ever heard,” said Keaton.

“No, it’s the truth. When I became what I am now, I killed my wife, my children, even my mother. What fools call love is nothing more than the desire to have someone. To possess them completely. And what could be a more complete possession than holding their life in your hands?”

Jesus. This guy believed what he was saying. Keaton suspected he’d been fairly twisted even before he got mojo’d.

“I won’t hurt him,” said Owen. Bruised, bloody, chained, he was still so beautiful, as if a tiny sun lived inside him and made him the brightest thing in the room, no matter where he was.

“You already have. You led him here, and?—”

“I made my own fucking decision,” Keaton snapped. “I am responsible for myself.”

Their captor waved a hand. “I’m bored with this conversation. I’m bored with both of you. Agent Clark, this is your last chance. Join us and experience power beyond what you can dream of. Or refuse and die, slowly and painfully. The innkeeper’s dead either way.”

Keaton almost laughed. When he was younger, he’d often pictured his own death. An OD was most likely, he’d figured, or maybe a car wreck. Maybe he’d drown in a swimming pool, too wasted to get himself to dry land. Maybe he’d do a swan dive off the balcony of a high-rise hotel room. Those were the ways that people like him met their ends, and the media would circle around their corpses for a while. Until the next actor or rock star died.

He’d never imagined himself middle-aged, chained in a magical coal tipple, tortured to death by a not-quite-human psychopath. Wouldn’t that make an interesting episode of E! True Hollywood Story .

“Fuck you, Miller,” said Owen.

“Suit yourself.” Miller turned away, opened a drawer beneath one of the metal tables, and started sorting through shiny metal instruments.

That unseen entity, the one whom Keaton had been faintly sensing, felt a small bit of triumph over Miller’s lack of success. Which implied that they knew what was going on here, despite Keaton being fairly certain that nobody was in the tipple except for him, Owen, and Miller. It must have been one of those portals that Miller talked about, the ones that were closed because the portal to Copper Springs remained open. Yet Keaton could still sense the person. Had, in fact, sensed them years ago when he’d first visited the tipple, when Miller had been lying in wait and hoping that Owen would return home.

That was… interesting. Possibly important, although Keaton couldn’t figure out why and likely wouldn’t have time to solve the puzzle.

Better to simply make sure his and Owen’s final moments had a few shreds of happiness.

“You’ve done a lot more with your life than you think, Owen. You should feel proud.”

“I’m a miserable bastard. Don’t sugar coat it.”

“But you’re not. I told you. You’ve built up a protective covering, and it’s pretty durable—and understandable.”

Owen gave him a long look. “You know, Chief Townsend liked to lecture. He told me once that scars are honorable souvenirs. I thought he was full of shit. And now I’ve got scars on my body—worse ones on my… soul, I guess. Are they honorable?”

“Only you can answer that.”

It was quiet except for the soft clank of metal as Miller set various implements onto the table after holding them up to the light and inspecting them. Owen was silently sorting through a kaleidoscope of emotions, but Keaton felt almost eerily calm. He didn’t want to die, and certainly not like this. But here he was.

Owen lifted his chin and gave Keaton a small smile. “I think he was right. And you know what? I might be a miserable bastard, but I’ve done some good things, and I’ll never be like Miller.”

“You never will.” Keaton basked in Owen’s sense of accomplishment, his feelings of pride and self-worth.

Miller, who’d been pretending that neither of them was worth his attention but was still secretly apprehensive, marched over to Owen. Without warning, he slashed him across the cheek with a scalpel, narrowly missing his eye. “You won’t live long enough to scar from that,” Miller said.

“And no matter how long you live, you’ll always be nothing,” Owen responded. “You’ll never be important to anyone.”

“Liar.” Miller sliced Owen’s other cheek. Blood flowed steadily, but neither wound was especially painful, and Owen was too confident in his sense of self to care.

“You tempted me,” said Owen. “You really did. You’re good at playing these games. But you were wrong when you said your side was winning. I think you’re even lying to yourself about what the battle’s about. It’s not humans versus monsters or good versus evil. It’s hope versus despair. And there’s still hope out there. You can feel it, can’t you?”

Miller’s face twisted with rage. More of that sickening emotional rot spewed from him, but so did something akin to confusion. This wasn’t how he’d expected his prey to behave. Things weren’t going to plan.

Owen, an experienced fighter, pushed his temporary advantage. “You can’t win as long as hope lives, and you know that. It scares you. But you could have some too. You could join us .”

Although Miller didn’t exactly jump at the opportunity, he wasn’t slashing anyone either. Yet. Neither Owen nor Keaton believed that he’d suddenly atone, but his turmoil meant a few more minutes of life. It was a tiny victory.

And from somewhere else, the unseen entity pushed a bundle of emotions at Keaton. It was like getting hit while playing dodgeball, but instead of a ball, Keaton felt urgency and excitement and… yes, some of that hope that Owen was talking about. Someone was trying to send Keaton a message. If only he could figure out what the hell it was.

“I will make you suffer,” Miller growled.

Owen shook his head. “So what? That’s easy. Have you ever made someone happy? Has there ever been a time when someone was thrilled that you’re there, that you exist? That’s the real challenge, my friend.”

“I will live forever! I can make you writhe with a twitch of my fingers! I can open portals?—”

“Yeah, yeah. But at the end of the day, are you satisfied? Is that empty pit inside you ever full?”

The empty pit.

Keaton was walloped again, this time by an epiphany. A double epiphany, in fact. Owen was right about that gaping hole in Miller’s psyche. And Keaton knew how to fill it.

“Owen!” he shouted urgently as Miller waved his blade around, deciding where to cut next. “Owen, think about some good memories. Think hard!”

Owen, bless him, obeyed. They all flowed from him into Keaton: joy, wonder, excitement, affection, amusement, gratitude, satisfaction, serenity, competence. Even that overused old thing, love. And hope. Glowing, sparkling hope.

It was delightful and intoxicating. Keaton laughed, which made Miller spin to look at him. Miller with the vast emptiness inside him.

Keaton did something he’d never imagined was possible: instead of absorbing emotions, he threw them out. Hard. Just as the unseen entity had done to him. Keaton became a conduit, like the coal chutes inside the tipple, but instead of conveying fossil fuel, he poured all of Owen’s lovely emotions into Miller.

While he was at it, he poured his own. He picked up every good memory he could find and opened it up so the emotions could flow out. Successfully completing a tricky home improvement project and making a decrepit room livable again. Performing a scene and knowing he’d nailed it. Reading letters from fans who said he’d made their dull days brighter. Collecting his sobriety pins year after year. Staring up at the Milky Way on a clear Wyoming night. Realizing that Owen Clark still thought he was pretty hot shit.

Miller’s eyes widened and he dropped the scalpel. “No,” he gasped.

“I hope, dammit!” Keaton was laughing and shouting at the same time. “I hope that Owen and I will get out of here and fuck until we can’t move, then cuddle up and sleep for days. I hope we’ll stay together. I hope that people can find a way to solve disputes without killing each other. I hope people will choose leaders who truly want to better everyone’s lives, and I hope scientists will find ways to cure terrible illnesses and stop climate change. I hope everyone has a comfortable home, good food and water, and a loving family. I hope artists thrive. I hope everyone can be their authentic self.”

He would have gone on, but Miller collapsed onto all fours.

Owen chimed in, not yelling but speaking firmly. “I hope that Keaton knows he’s amazing. And I hope, Miller, that all your hate, all your despair, withers and dies.”

Miller made a terrible choking, gargling sound. The unseen presence exulted. The lights flickered and went out.

Keaton and Owen were alone in a dark room, the air thick with coal dust, rain pelting the metal roof. Owen lay on the floor, naked, filthy, and bleeding. Keaton, released from the binding ropes, had fallen to his knees.

Miller was gone.