Havoc by Shannon McKenna

6

Mace tried to play it cool, but his senses practically buzzed. He cleared his throat. “Tell me more.”

“He was a researcher,” Cait said. “Virology, like me. He had a brilliant mind. He was a born problem solver. He developed vaccines for emerging viruses.”

“What happened to him?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” she said. “No one knows. He disappeared, right around the same time that a virus was stolen from the lab where he worked. The authorities eventually concluded that he’d stolen it to sell it, as a biological weapon. That he’d run away and was lying on a beach somewhere on the other side of the world. Which is ludicrous, knowing him. Mom and I never believed that for one second, and neither did anyone else who knew him. But no one found any leads to suggest otherwise.”

Mace grunted. “What brought you to GodsAcre? How did you find it?”

“I never knew a damn thing about GodsAcre,” Cait said. “Just that a virus was stolen from my father’s lab, back in the day. Someone had set him up to take the fall. That’s how my mom told it. Dad wanted to clear his name. I remember them arguing about it. Mom was scared that he’d get hurt. One night, he left to go do whatever he thought he had to do, and that was the last we saw of him. I was fourteen.”

“Fourteen years,” he asked. “Why did it take so long to get started?”

A shadow crossed her face. “I would’ve started long ago, but we had no leads. Dad’s colleague Kirill told us that Dad had opened a safety deposit box right before he disappeared, but evidently, he didn’t think to put my mom’s name on the paperwork.”

“Yeah? What was in it?”

“We couldn’t find out, for the longest time,” she said. “Dad wasn’t declared dead for seven years, and when he finally was, the contents were in probate. By the time my mother could’ve finally gotten access, well…” Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“She wasn’t well,” Cait said. “She died last year. Early onset dementia. These last few years were terrible. Stress pushed her over the edge. I had my hands full just dealing with her. I couldn’t even find the info about the safety deposit box for a long time. Her house was a terrible mess. It took months to sort things out. But I finally found it.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your mom,” he said. “I know how it feels, to watch a parental figure fall apart. Jeremiah Paley, my foster dad, the one who ran GodsAcre? He had a mental breakdown the year before he died. I suppose there are plenty who would have said that he was certifiably crazy long before that, but at least his insanity had its own internal consistency. Then my mom died of pneumonia, and after less than a year, without her as a reference point, he just fell to pieces.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “When did it happen?”

“Jeremiah died thirteen years ago,” he said.

Her hazel eyes looked startled. He got lost looking at all the green and brown splotches. The stark stripe of stormy gray framing her iris. Striking.

Mace held up the bag of cookies. “The past is scary as shit sometimes. You need fuel to contemplate it. Have a cookie.”

“Have one yourself. Sounds like contemplating your past requires fuel, too.”

They both took one, and studied each other intently as they crunched it. She seemed completely unintimidated by the directness of his gaze.

He licked buttery cookie crumbs off his fingers. “So, to get back to the subject,” he said. “We were talking about your dad.”

“Actually, we were talking about your dad,” she pointed out.

“One dad at a time,” he said. “We’ll get around to mine eventually.”

“There’s not much more to say,” she said. “Not yet, anyway. I finally got access to that safety deposit box. I found a few things inside that made very little sense to me, but they were breadcrumbs to follow, so I followed them. An old tracking device, a signal to follow. His journal. Some lab notes from the final paper he worked on. And coordinates.”

“About that journal. I’d love to check it out. Could I…?”

Her mouth tightened. “It would be useless to anyone but me. No one but I can read his code. My mother could have understood it, or maybe his colleague Kirill, but they’re both gone. I’m the only one left who can interpret them.”

“You said he died when you were fourteen,” Mace said. “At that age, you already knew the secret code he used for his sensitive research on dangerous viruses?”

“No, actually,” she said stiffly. “I learned it later, after he disappeared. My mom taught it to me. We read through all of his old notes, looking for clues. It made me feel closer to him, learning his private code.”

“Ah. Okay.”

“It’s the truth,” she said, more forcefully. “I’m the only one who can read it now.”

“I get you, and I won’t try to take it away from you,” he assured her. “I already gave it back, remember? So relax. What did the journal say?”

“It referred to viruses that had been stolen, and a surprise mutation that had everyone worried. He didn’t give a whole lot of details. Just said that Kirill knew more.”

“And did you talk to this Kirill?”

“Kirill’s been gone almost as long as Dad,” she said. “I went to his funeral with my mom, way, way back.”

Mace let out a silent sigh. “I see,” he said. “Another door slammed shut.”

“It’s been nothing but slammed doors since Dad disappeared. But the journal had those coordinates, and a frequency keyed into the tracker, once I charged up the battery. And it led me right into that cavern.”

“The signal is still transmitting, after all these years? From underneath the rubble?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I’ve given up all hope of finding Dad alive. But I still hope to clear his name, not that anyone cares other than me. His parents are gone, and he didn’t have siblings, but Mom would’ve cared that the record was set straight, and I certainly care. And besides, I just need to know. I can’t concentrate properly, or get behind anything in my life with all my energy. Not while this doubt keeps torturing me.”

Mace organized his thoughts, and his doubts. If she truly didn’t know anything about GodsAcre, if the story of the long-lost father was true, then he had no reason not to share. And if she was on Kimball’s payroll, then she already knew everything he was about to tell her anyhow. So there was no reason not to open up. He had to give her something, to build trust.

And even if she was Kimball’s spy, his best strategy was to get as close to her as possible. Until she tripped up.

At which point, he would pry her open like a sardine can.

“So what was that place?” she asked. “What happened up there?”

Mace set down his tea mug. “I grew up there,” he told her. “It was a survivalist enclave. My adoptive father, Jeremiah Paley, was the leader. It was destroyed in a fire thirteen years ago. Me, my two brothers, and another woman, my brother’s fiancée Fiona, are the only survivors.”

“So…everyone else…”

“Dead,” he said. “All thirty-nine of them. Burned to death, except for the murderer. He’d locked everyone inside and set the place on fire. Redd Kimball was his name. He faked his own death by switching out his dental records with Titus, a disabled guy who lived up there with us. They found Titus’s teeth, matched them to Kimball’s records, and crossed him off the list, and we bought it, until a few months ago. When the Prophet’s curse revved up again.”

“Prophet’s curse?” Cait asked.

Mace shrugged. “That’s how we refer to this town’s shit luck. And our shit luck, too, whenever we spend any amount of time here. Not just us. Sometimes people in Shaw’s Crossing would just die unexpectedly, in big clusters. The worst cluster was right before the GodsAcre fire. Fourteen people in twelve days. All of ‘natural causes.’”

“People must have been terrified,” she said.

“Yeah, it was bad, but it stopped after the fire. Then, a few months ago, Otis Trask, my second adoptive dad, realized that Kimball was still alive and up to something, at GodsAcre. He tried to warn us, but Kimball got to him first, and murdered him. We figure that Kimball must have left something in his lab in the cavern up there, before we bombed the shit out of it. And he’s digging for it. Trying to get it back.”

“We bombed the shit out of it? What do you mean, ‘we?’”

“Me and my brothers,” he clarified. “Mostly me, I guess. I rigged the explosives, and blew a lot of that cavern up. The same night of the fire.”

“Thirteen years ago?” she asked. “How old did you say you were?”

“Fourteen, at the time,” he told her. “I showed talent with explosives from a tender age. Jeremiah Paley was preparing us for end times, you see. We were supposed to establish dominance in the blasted wasteland after the fall of civilization. To rise up and rule over what came next. We were trained like commandos. The army of the faithful.”

“Whoa,” she said. “Intense.”

“Oh, it was. Particularly at the end. It got so bad up there, we thought the world was ending for real.” He paused, frowning. “And it did end. For most of them.”

Cait gestured at the gnarled scar tissue on his hands. “Are those scars from that fire?”

“Yeah.” He shook his sleeves up, showing scars which went up to his elbows. “I tried to get the doors open, to let the people trapped in the Great Hall out, but I couldn’t. They were big steel reinforced doors, padlocked from the inside, and they were red hot. My brother Eric finally dragged me away just in time. Or I would have lost my hands.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Cait said. “How terrible.”

He acknowledged that with a nod. They listened to the fire crackle in the stove.

“You and I have a lot in common, actually,” he told her.

“Do we?” Cait asked. “How so?”

“We’re both orphans,” Mace said. “We might have lost our fathers to the very same murderer. I lost two fathers of mine to that bastard. So whatever is transmitting down there under the rubble is of equal interest to the both of us.”

“And to Kimball, too, I expect,” she said. “What does he look like?”

“Mid-fifties,” Mace said. “Dark hair, black beard with white streaks in it. Walks with a limp, now. Thanks to Fiona.”

“Do you have a photo of him?”

Mace pulled out his phone and opened a still image that had been gleaned from the security video of Elisa Roarke’s father’s house in Beecham Lake, on the day of Kimball’s attack. He passed the phone to Cait.

She studied it for a few moments. “I think I might actually remember this guy,” she said. “He worked with my dad for a while. He came to our house a couple of times, but Mom told my dad to keep him away. He always stared at my chest, even before I had anything to stare at, and it creeped my mom out.”

“Yeah, sounds like Kimball. Do you remember the name he used then?”

“No. Sorry, but he wasn’t really on my radar. And Mom made a big point of keeping me away from him.”

“How about a picture of your dad?” Mace asked.

Cait pulled out her phone, tapped open a file, and held it out to him. “This is my favorite,” she said. “Even though it’s very old.”

In the photo, a small and very cute four-year-old version of Cait was in the arms of a big, light-skinned black man with a round face and wide grin. They were laughing at each other. His hair was buzzed very short, and he wore heavy, black-rimmed glasses.

“Do you remember him?” Cait asked.

Mace hated to disappoint her. He shook his head regretfully. “Sorry. I don’t.”

Her face fell. “Is there more to tell?”

“Sure, but I think this is enough truth-telling for tonight.”

She tilted her head and studied him, suspicious. “Wait. You’re putting me off,” she said. “Do you suspect me of being some kind of spy?”

“Some of these stories aren’t mine alone to tell. I have to consult other people before I go flapping my jaw to you. Hey, dinner should be ready by now. You hungry?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not eating with you, Mace Trask.”

“But it’s Demi’s fabulous beef burgundy stew,” he coaxed. “I filled the freezer with her bounty, just in case I should find myself abducting hungry lady hikers in the mountains. There’s also an amazing rosemary focaccia, and the fridge is stocked with a local brew from the Kettle River Brewing Company. You won’t find a better dinner anywhere in town. Except for at Demi’s café, of course. But it’s the same source.”

“You dragged me here by force,” Cait told him. “You don’t get to wave a magic wand and turn that into a dinner date. It doesn’t work that way.”

“No? Can’t I start again, please? Can we just pretend the whole cave-jumping episode never happened? It’s awesome beef burgundy. And we’re going to be working together, right? Why not consolidate our partnership with a good meal and an ice-cold beer? If you’re telling me the truth, then our interests are closely aligned.”

She looked affronted. “Why wouldn’t I be telling the truth?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? People are complicated. I’m feeling my way, here.”

Mace gathered up the tea mugs, and the remaining shortbread cookies and carried them into the kitchen. The beef burgundy was piping hot. Just another couple of details were lacking for the full-on charm offensive. White irises bobbed in the long, uncut grass outside the kitchen door. Moira, Otis’s long-dead wife, had set out those bulbs decades ago, but even neglected and forgotten, they kept on cheerfully volunteering, year after year. He picked a few, put them in a jug with water, then dug through the junk drawer until he found some dusty candles. Some hot wax attached them to a saucer, and voilà.

He dished up two big bowls of Demi’s stew, which smelled awesome. A nice, cold beer bottle sweating with condensation was the crowning touch.

“Holy crap,” Cait said from the door. “Smells so good.”

She leaned seductively in the kitchen entrance, sniffing the aromas. Was she really leaning seductively, or was that just the way she leaned? It wasn’t her fault her tits look so great when she assumed that provocative position. Arm up, hip tilted.

“Please,” he coaxed. “The food’s ready. You’ve been slogging around out there in the mud all day long, eating nothing but trail mix and protein bars. Let me make up for my paranoia and my antisocial tendencies, and feed you properly.”

“You sneaky bastard,” she said. “Playing on my weaknesses.”

Mace danced a victory dance in his head, but played it cool. “Demi’s the one who’s got the magic.” He twisted the top off her beer and held it out, as the drift of vapor wafted seductively out the neck of the bottle. “Here. Taste this.”

One final, wary glance, and then she leaned her head back, tilting it up. And oh, dear God. He practically orgasmed just from watching her throat move as she swallowed.

She sighed as she lifted her head. “Yeah,” she breathed out. “That hits the spot.”

Damn, would he ever like to hit all of her spots. At great length. “It’s, uh…a great brew,” he said, flustered. “Oh, man. The flatbread. Probably burning. Excuse me.”

He got the flatbread out of the oven just in time. It was crunchy on the outside, tender on the inside, salty and golden and aromatic with rosemary. He chopped it up and set the loaded plate on the table next to the candle. “Dinner is served.”

She sat down. Mace waited until he saw the first bite go in. Saw her eyes light up.

“That’s absolutely delicious,” she said.

“Told you,” he said.

“Leave me alone. I’m having a peak experience.” She savored another bite. “God, I hope I don’t regret this.”

“Why would you?”

She slanted him a wry glance. “Have a piece of candy, little girl. And what is this? Flowers? Candles? Really?”

He made his eyes all innocent. “What, is it too calculated?” he asked. “I’m just trying to be forgiven. And all I really did was defend my turf, like I was taught to do.”

I’d defend you, too. If you were mine.

Dangerous thought. Totally inappropriate. She was not his. And he had to make sure that she wasn’t Kimball’s before he started wildly fantasizing.

They focused on the food for a while. When the plates were empty, Cait leaned back with a sigh. “That was wonderful. Could I use your bathroom?”

“Sure. Upstairs, straight down. End of the hall, on the right.”

He listened for her footsteps on the stairs, and grabbed her phone, which she’d left on the table. No security code, no fingerprint, nothing. She must be very tired, to let something like that slip. Or else she was setting a deliberate trap. Always a possibility.

He swiftly downloaded the malware that would give him real-time access to all of her phone activity. Eric had developed it, based partly on the bug that Kimball had used on them a few months back. He still didn’t hear footsteps on the stairs, so he took a burr trace from his kit, and slipped its needle-nose through the stitching and into the hem of her jacket, still draped on the kitchen chair. It disappeared into the garment.

All done, and he still had time to do the dishes and wipe down the counters.

Cait appeared in the kitchen doorway. He looked over his shoulder. “Shall we go get your car?” he asked. “You must be tired. I’ll introduce you to my family tomorrow morning. They’re going to want to hear it all, straight from your mouth.”

“Fine. It was nice of you to feed me dinner. Thank you.”

“Least I could do.” He ran a rag under the faucet, pulled the irises from the jug and wrapped the stems, sliding a plastic bag around them. “For your hotel room.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.”

“They’ll just wilt out here,” he coaxed. “It’s a waste of Moira’s irises.”

Cait gave him a narrow look as she took the flowers. “I’m not so easily won over.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be,” he told her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” He hoisted her bag onto his shoulder. “But I like you tough.”

And he did. He liked everything about her. Way too much.

What happened tonight would determine the conversation they’d have with Cait tomorrow. He’d lurk on her phone. Watch where she went. Listen to who she called.

And then they would see.