CHAPTER ONE - THOMAS
Someone died early this morning.
I know this because I have his memories, and let me tell you, there are some fucked-up people in this world—people you should never know anything about—and he was one of them.
I sigh as I gaze out the tall window. The view is looking down at Cathedral City. From where I am, I can see three of the towers I built on the edge of the city boundaries. They are all pushed up against mountains, just waiting for their instructions. The whole city is surrounded by mountains.
I can’t see the northern tower because it’s behind me somewhere, but I don’t need to see it to know what it’s doing.
Even though it’s spring, there’s still snow on every peak higher than the foothills. There will be snow on them well into summer. That’s just the way of things up here. Cathedral City is a microcosm of industry, people, and society the world over. But it’s a secluded microcosm and that’s what makes it the perfect place for Lincoln, Case, and me to enact our plan. It’s almost like fate has put us here for this purpose.
“Are we going to talk?” Yasmine asks from behind me. “Or are you just going to stand there in front of the window all morning?”
I can see the inner-city towers too. Just the peaks of them because they mark the compass points of City Park in the middle of downtown and are mostly hidden by buildings. But again, I don’t need to see them to know what they’re doing.
“Someone died this morning?” I say. It’s a question, just to keep Yasmine occupied while I enjoy the view.
“I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter,” she replies.
Must be nice to think like that.
Unfortunately, I can’t afford to be so… laissez-faire about things. Capturing the memories of dead people is a side effect of my superpower. I had it one hundred percent under control until Case fucking shot me with that drug a few months ago. Since then… well, things have gone a little wacky in my head. That’s another way of saying… crazy. I had all this shit figured out until he did that. I had a drug that would last months and didn’t need to be taken daily to keep my mind in working order, but that won’t fix things anymore. Even the old version is useless. I’ve made several dozen batches of new drugs trying to get things under control again, but with no success.
At least it was still working when we killed the Blue Boar. I can’t even imagine what was rolling around in that asshole’s head when he died.
Your father’s head, my inner voice amends.
Right. My father.
The point is, I say to myself—chastising the inner voice—I’m lucky it was working. I have no idea what it would be like to capture his memories, and I don’t ever want to know.
This guy who died this morning is bad enough and he’s just your run-of-the-mill crazy. But there will be more. So many more.
I feel sick just thinking about it.
“Thomas,” Yasmine says, losing patience with me. “Can you please turn around and look at me?”
Nope. Not gonna do it.
My hand goes to my throat to loosen my tie a little. The shirt is new and scratchy. I hate it, but appreciate it at the same time.
Kind of like my inhibitor.
Growing up in Prodigy School wasn’t fun either, but I knew how to appreciate the little things back then too.
“Eventually,” Yasmine says, raising her voice, “you will have to talk to me.”
Nope. I really don’t think so.
“We can’t just pretend none of this is happening.”
She underestimates me.
“I need answers, Thomas. We can work through this.”
There’s nothing to work through. I was fine, then Case went crazy and shot me with some weird drug. And ever since then dead memories have been flooding into my head.
It’s been so long since I had to deal with the effects of what they did to me, I’d forgotten how awful it was. But you don’t shoot yourself up with the kind of drugs I’ve been taking for thirty years and not understand why.
Drugs that make me numb to everything and everyone.
I needed those drugs.
I still need those drugs.
“Have you talked to Case?” Yasmine says. She’s really fishing for a way in now. “Or Lincoln?”
She’s trying to get me to react. I know this. But I’m angry anyway. She has no right to invoke the names of my friends.
Still, I hold my words and feelings in.
I can still do this, I decide. I can still shut her out and keep her away. I can still control the feelings. I can still control my reactions.
But I cannot control the dead memories.
This guy who died today was a mess. So many things flooded into me. It took me down instantly. It made me weak, and pathetic, and powerless.
But I’ve got them corralled now. It only took a few minutes.
Still, in the heat of an important moment, those minutes count. Hell, seconds count.
“Well, that’s it, I guess,” Yasmine says. “It’s over. I can’t play nice with you anymore.”
Yup. It’s over all right.
“Take off your clothes,” she commands.
This is when I finally turn to face Yasmine. She is tall and, if I’m being honest, very fucking beautiful. Thick, long, medium-brown hair that falls over her shoulders like a soft waterfall. Large dark eyes. Full lips. High cheekbones. And she has one of those shapes that drive men wild. Not too thin, not too thick. Not too straight, not too round. Large breasts, wide hips, big ass, and tiny waist. She’s a cartoon character, I decide. Not real.
“I’m tired of talking to myself, Brooks. If you won’t cooperate, I’ll make you cooperate.”
I loosen the tie some more, then bring it over my head and drop it on the floor. The suit coat comes off next. I let that fall to the floor as well. Then I start unbuttoning my shirt. Slowly. Looking her in the eyes.
She’s breathing heavy. She likes this part. She likes me, I decide. She wants more than I’m offering.
I’m just using her. But I don’t feel bad about it. She’s using me too.
She tries to hold my gaze as I undress, but she falters when I take the shirt off and toss it aside. She stares at my chest and then her eyes wander down to my fingertips. I don’t have a belt on, so she watches as I unbutton and unzip my pants.
I kick off the shoes and let my pants fall to the floor until I’m standing there in my black boxer briefs. She unabashedly—and unapologetically—studies the muscles of my legs, then moves up. Her eyes stop, perhaps checking to see if I’m hard.
I’m not.
Then she continues to the flat plane of my abdomen, my chest again, and then—finally—my face.
“I had high hopes for us, Thomas. We could’ve made a great team, you and I. But our time is up. I’m sorry you decided to waste it.”
I’m not sorry.
I pick up the worn-thin scrub pants and pull them on. Then slip my arms into the matching shirt and bring it over my head.
Yasmine kicks the standard-issue shoes at me, disgusted that I wasted her time. She presses a button on her desk phone. “We’re done here.”
But I don’t care if she’s mad. I don’t care about anything anymore. I can’t afford to care. I can’t afford to feel. I can’t afford to be weak.
I slide my feet into the slip-on sneakers and hold my wrists out for the handcuffs when the orderly comes in to take me back to my room.
“Maybe tomorrow then?” Yasmine says as I walk past her.
No. Nothing about tomorrow will be different than today.
“Thomas,” Dr. Yasmine Bates calls, once I’m in the hallway. “I won’t let you wear the suit again until you talk to me.”
I don’t even bother shrugging. It was good while it lasted. It made me feel normal for a few minutes. It made me feel sane.
But I’m not sane.
If I was sane, I wouldn’t be locked up inside Cathedral City Asylum.
If I was sane I wouldn’t have to worry about the next person to die on this floor.
Or the memories of madness that will come afterward.
Or the way my psyche will deteriorate from the capture.
Or the way I might have to scream my way back to reality.
Or the real me, hidden away for all these years, dying to break free.
No. I’m not sane. I will never be sane again.
Like it or not, I am chained to the anarchy in my head.