Fathom by Mikel Parry

CH- DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

Demo regretted scaring Lyle and Mars so much. Do I really know what I’m doing here? he thought, still questioning his rash—and perhaps folly—decision. Where he overachieved with his well-crafted, insightful intuition, he more than trumped with his nonsensical logic. It was an obvious testament to Bob Cat’s importance on the team. He was the brute, logical brick that smashed through people’s windows. Their relationship was often oil and water, but somehow they were a pair of inseparable opposites. Demo thought back on how they had first met, what seemed like eons ago.

Bob Cat was a soon to be convicted killer conceived by the violence of the street; a man who had in truth only been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It would have been so easy to just join in on the clean up the streets hype; to raise a drink at the bar, chumming up to celebrate another victory in the race to take just one more rat out of society. But for Demo, Bob Cat’s case was special. It required a special thought process. It required someone to understand Bob Cat, and then turn the whole case upside down. Had Demo neglected the details and not stuck to his gut feeling, Bob Cat would have just been Bob Cathy Briar, death row inmate. Suddenly, the familiar sound of a highly accelerated car stopping on a dime woke him from his daydream. His cab had arrived.

Demo ducked inside his ride and breathed in the deep history of it all; noxious layers of coated ash from an almanac of cigarettes, smoked throughout time, seats sloppily altered by sweaty backs. It was as comforting a scene as Demo could get. He gave the cabby the directions to the spot where he had left his car. His efforts, he now realized, were laughable at best. If the killer had been following him, the judge’s house was a shoe in for the place he’d end up. The driver sped off, leaving the lavish world of Club Ridding behind. Remnants of the ambrosial water still lingered in the back of his throat. He looked on, waiting for his stop to come. And come it did, but just as fast it disappeared in the rear view mirror. Confused, he slapped the glass separating him from the driver.

“Hey! You missed my drop off!”

The driver said nothing. Instead, he kicked the accelerator. Demo looked through the glass at a scruffy-faced man with a look of real contempt. I’m dead, Demo thought, as he realized the missed drop off was intentional. He suddenly felt woozy.

“Where are you taking me?”

Demo began to kick, doing his best to mimic an out of control child fighting for freedom from the back seat, but the old cab held its own. He wasn’t going anywhere. Giving one final kick of frustration, he wondered if he could pry open the doors and make a stuntman-like exit. He wasn’t surprised in the least when he found the doors adequately locked. He looked down at the floorboard, feeling a breach of despair begging to leach away what little courage he had left. He didn’t want to die like this. Maybe he’d been wrong when Bob Cat had told him it was connected to the mob and he had stubbornly disagreed. It would make sense to have the mob take him out like this. Cab drivers were like apparitions; they easily slip in and out of one’s mind without leaving a trace. Hire the driver to pick up the target and drop him off. From that point on the real horror would begin. They would undoubtedly try and make an example out of him. He decided he would reassume his child-like temper tantrum to make their example making of him that much harder. The driver would be in for the fight of his life.

Demo watched as the driver carefully maneuvered his way through the city, doing his best to avoid any unwanted attention. This wasn’t his first time. The thought of a seasoned mobster cab driver sent icy chills down Demo’s spine. Suddenly, the driver pulled into a dark alley that was heavily shadowed, empty, and ripe for villainous activity. His body would more than likely be found in a nearby dumpster; or at least what was left of it.

The car abruptly stopped and the driver got out, slamming the door viciously. He pulled out a phone, and mumbling into it, gave off the clear impression that he was taking orders. He snapped his phone shut, apparently satisfied he knew what was wanted of him, and approached the car door. Demo prepared himself. In his mind he had already rehearsed every angle of what was about to transpire; a flurry of kicks from his long gangly legs, leading to an incapacitating barrage of fists. He had seen Bob Cat do it many times, so why couldn’t he? When his captor opened the door, Demo attacked. The door swung open with such speed that it recoiled and slammed back into his legs. The impact sent acute, sharp pain coursing through his body. He had hit nothing but thin air. The door had behaved like any tangible object subject to the basic rules of physics. It ended up bringing the fight right back at him. But where was the man? Demo grimaced, still feeling the pain of his wasted aggression. That was until he saw the sleek silhouette of something he wished he would have remembered to keep on him—a gun. Well, a pistol to be exact. Crap. The driver was armed and he was not. His mighty kicks had been wasted on air due to a well-seasoned driver who had calmly stepped back and watched the door bounce off of Demo’s flailing legs.

Demo reluctantly exited the car, the pistol keenly aimed at him. The man motioned to a door a few feet from the car, which looked to blend almost perfectly with the wall itself, aged magnificently with the splotchy stains of forgotten years. With every choice being forced by a chamber with a bullet, Demo didn’t hesitate to follow directions. Demo approached the door and immediately noticed the obvious.

“There’s no handle. How am I supposed to get in?”

The man ignored him. He was intently focused on his watch. After a few ticks of the second hand, he nodded then got back in his car. Demo couldn’t believe his eyes. What sort of sick game is this? he thought, forgetting his rather precarious situation. Dwelling on the details would have to wait; with a sudden crack the mystery door opened, and out stepped a pair of well-dressed thugs. Demo quickly sized them up and raised the white flag.

“Just do what you’ve got to do and let’s get this over with,” said Demo quietly, putting his hands out as if waiting to be handcuffed.

The rough looking pair looked at each other and shrugged as the taller one pulled a black cotton bag from his back pocket. Demo’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. How much more predictable could the mob be? Maybe they’d tell him he’s gonna be sleeping with the fishes which would delight anyone with a mob-style death fantasy; unfortunately, he wasn’t one of them. Sleep with the fishes, what a clever saying. I wonder where it comes from? Over his head came the shroud of darkness, blocking out what little light there was. The inside of the bag smelled surprisingly clean. It even had a soft feel to it, which seemed a little out of place in a kidnapping. The force of the men, however, was anything but soft. They moved him along like two giant ogres leading him to a boiling pot. Demo began hoping for a quick death. The mob had a history of drawing things out in the most unpleasant way. As he was drug down the alley, he heard another car pull up, its squealing tires echoing off the walls. A picture quickly formed in Demo’s mind.

He imagined the car tracks at the dock on the day of their creation and the car that might have made them. But in this case, the kind of car didn’t really matter since the killer had no real connection to it. But what did matter was the how and why. He thought he’d covered the why pretty well, but the how was still a spark of electricity firing his cerebral circuits. Luckily, the answer to how didn’t take long to manifest—after all, it’s what he would have done it—a nice solid weight to the gas pedal, sending the evidence to the bottom of the river. But there was the question that really began occupying his mind with growing protest; why him? Why had the killer bothered to leave a parking ticket on his car with the license plate number of a car belonging to the late Kevin Randall? Or had Kevin Randall done it himself before dying? And why had Kevin purchased that particular year and model? Who was Kevin Randall, and what connection did he have to Demo? He needed to find out, what made Kevin Randall, Kevin Randall? Only then could he truly assimilate the killer or victim. Only then could he start filling the gaping potholes in his cognitive freeway. I’m going to find you and make you pay, he thought to himself, feeling a renewed sense of being.

He had been so caught up in his mind’s vortex that he barely noticed the abrupt stop. Apparently, they had arrived. Demo sniffed the air for anything telling; burnt rubber, generic cologne, and leather. His curiosity surged for just a moment as he tilted his head to try and catch a glimpse of his new comrade’s faces. They responded by aggressively lowering his head for him.

A door swung open and the chill of the impending autumn crept over him like an army of ice ants. He was snatched out of the car by four, maybe five hands that drug him away as if he only weighed a few pounds. He stretched out his toes, trying to scrape them along as they went. Maybe he could leave a trail that he could follow back when he finally escaped. His optimism was making him sick—he knew better—this was the end of the road. Now more than ever he wished Bob Cat would have stuck around. He and Jacky were the only two real connections he had. He was too far gone for most regular people; a noxious mix of guilt, motivation, depression, and seemingly aimless intuition. Who would stick around for that? Life just seemed easier when he stuck to the few friends he had and remained single. His gift (or what some considered his mental illness) was the only thing that got him out of bed every day.

Suddenly the air turned from uncomfortably cool to a more tolerable temperature. Have we gone inside somewhere? He didn’t remember hearing nor feeling the presence of a door. But judging by the change in air, they were most certainly in space with heat. He dwelled on this fact for a moment and realized something he was now quite certain of; this was no mob job. Suddenly, he was shoved from behind, which sent him reeling to the floor. Sometime during the altercation, his mask had been hastily removed and light poured into his eyes, momentarily blinding him.

Sitting on the floor, Demo worked hard to regain his composure. His body felt like a rickety old shack being held together by a few rusty nails. He really needed to start working out if he was going to endure pummeling like this.

“Wait here,” mumbled a creepy voice moments before a loud slam echoed through the room.

Damn it, Demo, you went through at least two doors!

Demo shook his head violently, feeling pathetically incapable.

How am I supposed to be a world class detective when my head is so busy I can’t even retrace my own steps?

The ill sentiment was rapidly replaced by wonder. Where was he? What was this place? The room blazed in eye-burning white. Once his vision returned, he saw a plain, stainless-steel table with a pair of chairs opposite each other in the center of the room. On the table sat a single plastic cup filled with what he assumed was water. The intense glare was coming from blindingly white walls, which gazed down at him like four mad scientists staring at the rat they would soon be dissecting. This was definitely not the mob.

Wiping himself off, he stood up and plopped down into one of the two chairs. He tried to spin the chair but found it locked in place. His eyes then found the glass of water. If this ended up being an interrogation, would he want the water now, later, or never? Was it even water, or was it some concoction meant to loosen his lips? What did he know? Whoever brought him here had probably wasted their time. As Lyle and Mars had so adamantly reminded him, he didn’t have any hard evidence; only feelings, ideas, and scenarios that played out in his mind like a Hollywood movie. I can always ask for more water.

Demo grabbed the cup of whatever and gulped it down. He grimaced. Lyle’s water had ruined him. With a rush of air and a slam, he was suddenly in the company of the last person he had expected to see.

“Demotreus Ward, you know how long it took me to finally say that, right? You’ve got a mighty weird name, son.”

Demo couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had to shake his head, close his eyes, and blink hard a few times before it sank in. It was Roslin Tanner, who unceremoniously scooted the remaining empty chair closer to the table. He was adorned with his usual mysterious government man suit and persona. His eyes fixated on Demo, letting him know that something important must be going on. As usual, Demo was so caught up in the mess that was his mind, he could only respond with chatter.

“They make these cups so small. It’s literally like two, maybe three sips, then all you have left is an empty cup. This water sucks anyway.”

Roslin’s eyes flashed a brief but obvious concern. He was undoubtedly wondering just how out of it Demo really was. He made an attempt to speak, but was caught off guard by another oddly timed comment.

“The name—my name—came from my dad. He drank too much. And he and my mom didn’t really see eye to eye on much of anything. Amazing how two people like that can still procreate . . . I’d think there should be a law or something. They were on the verge of splitting up when I was still just a bun in the oven . . . or so I was told. Mom is on another one of her own binge roller coasters before I start kicking inside my first apartment. Things went south and the only emergency contact was my father. Old drunk shows up after the dust settles and signs the birth certificate with one of his proud Greek names. Did I mention my old man is Greek? Only he’s a south paw and a drunk, more art than form. Misspells it then walks. Mom is to apathetic and selfish to care, so bang, the name stuck, due to a rare form of pure laziness.”

Roslin leaned back in his chair and smiled. This was more information than Demo normally would bother giving. And surprisingly, at least to his knowledge, it was all true. Oh, that the bleeding hearts of the world would unite to pat him on the back for not changing his name. But the same apathy had prevailed somewhere in Demo’s own genetic makeup inherited from his parents; apathy towards anything his brain deemed a pointless detail, and therefore worthless to him. Holidays, schedules, and an encyclopedia of people kept his apathy alive and well. He could easily wear the title of bum in everything but his one true passion, so he didn’t mind his name being odd. After all, what’s in a name?

“I see. Well that answers a few questions I wasn’t going ask. I don’t suppose you know why you’re here, do you?”

Demo paused. Assuming that this was a test, he knew that Roslin would be showing him off like the freak show that he was.

“Well, some things are more obvious than others. For starters, we’re somewhere comfortable and safe, but where you’re still required to dress professionally. This means a government facility. But not just any government facility; one that comes with all the hush-hush and secrecy conspiracy theorists love. This was obvious from the well-rehearsed kidnapping. The first driver was obviously one of your guys by the way he took orders over the phone and avoided speaking with me directly; not a mob boy. Judging by his car and how he so nonchalantly took me from A-to-B, I’d say he’s quite seasoned at being an undercover agent. Also, he brandished a nice gun that I’m now assuming had its safety on or was completely empty. Took me a minute to realize it was the same kind of gun I’d seen attached to some of your men’s hips; I’d get more creative with that if I were you. The other two goons were just hired muscle. Pay at the docks hasn’t been so good, I suppose. Then there was the blindfold. Did you guys seriously just pull that out of the dryer? It was softer than my sheets. Why bother if you’re just going to kill me? Then there’s the fact that I wasn’t bound, which meant it was someone that knew me, or at least of me; they’d know I wasn’t going to put up much of a fight. And judging by the short distance we drove, we’ve got to be somewhere near downtown. And finally, seeing the way you smiled during the story of my name, which was true by the way, showed me that you’re not hostile, at least not now. Also, judging by the way you’re behaving, you feel assured that you’re in the driver’s seat. This means the only reason I’m here is to help you with something, as I’m one hundred percent positive you aren’t here to give me anything. And considering recent events, I’ll bet this conversation won’t get much further than these walls.”

Roslin’s smile faded but then returned. A lot of what Demo had just spouted off must be true. But with the smile returned, it didn’t matter. Roslin was still very much in control.

“The only thing I don’t understand is why me, and why here? I’m no government errand boy. I’m not even on the payroll. You’ve got layers of people who can investigate, interrogate, and get things done just as well as I can, so again, why me?”

Roslin stood up, screeching his chair back a few feet. Demo itched nervously.

“Would you like some more water? We keep the good stuff downstairs.”

Demo didn’t nod. He stared at the white walls and wondered if anyone was staring back. Reluctantly, he stood up. He knew it wasn’t as much an invite as it was a direct order to get moving. From the wall of white cracked the gap of a door slowly opening. Stepping outside, Demo was taken back. It wasn’t anything like he’d imagined. It was more like the hallway from a science fiction movie, an overly lit hallway stretching on and on, dotted with entrances, doorways, and other connecting hallways at every turn. White paint, white floors and white just about everything else. Demo glanced down at his scuffed up dress shoes. The contrast was remarkable. He was an out of place dirt clod in a clean room. Roslin stepped ahead of him, assuring his alpha status.

“Follow me and leave all the questions for later.”

As the pair walked, other people could be seen scurrying around—all finely dressed and walking with intent and purpose—each on some sort of government payroll that didn’t exist on paper. Who are these people? Demo’s thoughts drifted slightly off course as he walked. He nearly plowed in to a very busy-bodied woman. Regaining his composure, he looked into the eyes of an odd looking gentleman, wearing a very peculiar hat, who walked down the hall looking completely out of place, much like himself. The man looked back into Demo’s eyes and for a a connection was made; he too was caught in something deep. Who was that guy?

Snapping back to the present moment, he realized that Roslin was far out pacing him. He sped up just as Roslin made an abrupt stop. Demo scraped his heels on the floor in an effort to stop himself, and ended up just inches away from Roslin’s back. Roslin turned around, which sent Demo reeling backwards. He flailed his about wildly in an attempt to regain his balance. Roslin’s eyes caught only the spinning arms of a man who looked borderline insane.

“In here. And please don’t touch anything.”

Demo did as he was told, his face red as a turnip due to his embarrassing lack of motor skills. His shame quickly faded to wonder with every step they took. Roslin flashed credentials, entered codes, and scanned his fingers through a series of doors that looked to be space age. Once past the last door, true scientific magnificence could be seen; an array of wires and lights weaving in and out of the walls and connected to various monitors. Clear panels buzzing quietly gleamed with information. But it all seemed to come together at a glass window. Without thinking, Demo stepped forward. On the other side of the glass was another room. It was also brilliant white, with a large gurney looking device in its middle. It seemed that every inch of the room was well lit up and alive. Wires fed into the gurney from the bottom before plummeting into the floor. Even through the glass, the room purred with fierce power. It truly was mind-blowing. Just as Demo was about to speak, someone else entered the room; a portly man with thick, wide-brimmed glasses and oily, matted, brown hair. He wore a sweat stained t-shirt with some famous Sci-Fi characters from the movies printed on it. It was apparent that his motor skills would be right on par with Demo’s. He bumped into a desk as he became intently focused on Demo.

“Mr. Ward, I’d like you to meet Julius Orson.”

Demo nodded but didn’t move. He didn’t understand what was going on. Julius seized the moment by grabbing Demo’s limp hand.

“You can call me Jo—everyone here does—at least the people I see.”

Demo slithered his hand free from Jo’s grasp. He forced a smile.

“I’m sorry; I still don’t understand why I’m here. I’d really like to get home.”

His remark made both Roslin and Jo smile. This made Demo feel completely uneasy.

“Let’s just consider this your second home, shall we?” suggested Roslin sarcastically.

“Look, I’ve really enjoyed the whole Sci-fi top-secret thing, but I’ve got nothing to offer. I’m sure this is about the recent murders and my nosing around, but you’ve really got the wrong guy.”

Roslin turned up his nose at Demo’s comment. It was obvious that he wanted things to go more smoothly than they were.

“Mr. Ward, do you know what we do here?”

Demo’s stopped, realizing that he had absolutely no clue where he was or what was going on. His silence beckoned the answers.

“These theatrics have put me in a rather precarious situation. I’m not going to play coy on this one, so let’s just cut to the chase. Should you wish to go further, I cannot stress enough the importance of confidentiality. The work we do here is of significant importance.”

“What work are we talking about?”

Roslin smiled a very impish smile.

“We’ve been watching you for some time now. More importantly, I’ve been watching you. You’ve got a real skill for solving the unsolvable. I’ll admit your methods are far from textbook, but they seem to get the job done. You possess a gift for understanding the psyches of less than reputable people. You’re a—”

Demo interrupted Roslin on the spot.

“A freak—a freak that ignores details and evidence and almost always goes with what I imagine happened—what I would have done in their shoes.”

Roslin’s smile drooped slightly. His eyes sent out the vibe of a man desperately trying to maintain his eloquence.

“You’re unique, is what I was going to say—much like what we’ve got going on here—it’s very unique, wouldn’t you agree?”

Demo ignored the rhetorical question. He couldn’t handle the suspense any longer. His curiosity had already beaten all logic into submission, and he was tired of all the games.

“Just spill it. I know you guys must have followed me to Judge Ridding’s apartment. And that wasn’t an isolated incident. I have the right to know why people like you are spying on me. I deserve at least that much if I’m going to go down this rabbit hole.”

Jo stepped in but was shooed away by a stern look from Roslin who accepted Demo’s remark gladly.

“Listen, Mr. Ward, I probably should remind you of the seriousness of joining in on our little project here . . .”

Demo probed again.

“Just what kind of project is this?”

Roslin looked over Demo’s shoulder before elevating his gaze toward the ceiling.

“A project meant to save lives.”

Demo’s posture relaxed from big, tense adult to small, inquisitive child. He had to know more.

“I could tell you all of the stipulations I agreed to just so I could talk to you about this, but something tells me you wouldn’t care.”

Demo nodded, puckering his lips.

“I’ll just get the most obvious out of the way—we believe this is tied to the old blood legacy murders. Many man hours have been put into solving these cases since so many of the targeted individuals are people of some prominence; judges, police officers, lawyers, and now high ranking government officials.”

There was suddenly a wondrous twinkle in Demo’s eyes. Roslin’s last phrase had put so many doubts to rest.

“So, the latest murders are part of the blood legacy murders. I knew it. They had the calling card of the same brilliant, artistic, and sadistic mind,” said Demo with a smile.

The smile obviously upset Roslin who apparently found nothing about this subject to smile about..

“Mr. Ward, those people are dead. This isn’t a game. Real people are getting hurt.”

Demo hung his head, letting the moment of elation pass. He felt immensely guilty for the happiness he’d felt about such a dreary subject.

“I’m sorry. It’s the freak in me slipping out. I can’t help myself sometimes. I just can’t believe after so many murders there haven’t been any real leads. It takes a sick sort of brilliance to achieve that kind of status. Even though sick and distorted, it still takes a dazzling mind.”

Roslin glanced at Jo, who nodded before disappearing from sight. He then slowly turned towards Demo.

“That’s not entirely true. Mr. Ward, you should follow me.”

Demo did as he was told. There was no stopping the train now. Roslin had given him so much info in so little time that he wondered what else this secretive government world might hold. Going down a spiral set of stairs, there was no way to be prepared for what was in front of him.

The once lonely gurney was now accompanied by another gurney of almost identical design. It was now obvious that the gurney-like devices were anything but. They had been converted to what looked like dentist chairs, and were covered with a white porcelain gloss that emitted a glowing aura. The wires from the floor ran up into the base of each one, disappearing into a futuristic chassis. On top of the chairs were lighted panels located at critical points along the human body. Near the top where the head would rest, were a million different flat probes with small metal nodes running from their centers down into the jungle of wires. Demo wanted to ask what it was, but realized that his presence alone would force an explanation. When he looked over the second chair, his heart sank. Even though it was the same design, it held a human body. The man’s face was completely blank as if stuck in a suspended state. He was tightly fastened to the chair with his eyes wide open and gazing into the empty void of the room. Demo tried to take a step back when he was met by the very firm torso of Roslin, blocking his only exit.

“Mr. Ward, I’d like to introduce you to someone; Spencer Vulcan, or as most of us have come to know him, the bloody Vulcan.”

Demo’s heart threatened to race out of his chest. None of this seemed remotely real. How could it be? It had to be a nightmare. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t shake this murky reality. He was afraid that this time he’d gotten himself in way too deep.

“While Spencer may currently appear harmless, it would be an understatement to say he’s one of the most prolific killers of our time. After years of work, we were finally able to capture Spencer and bring him here. Due to the special cases that he’s been tied to, he’s part of the ongoing work here. We had hoped that with Spencer’s capture, the blood legacy had ended. But we were wrong. It appears he wasn’t alone. But we can’t interrogate Spencer, as you can see; unfortunately, he slipped into a coma. We’re not sure when or if he’ll ever wake up. So until that happens it remains our job to find anything we can to help solve these murders and end them once and for all.”

Demo grimaced. If his act was the dog and pony show then Roslin had just brought the whole circus.

“That’s all dandy and what not, but how the hell are you supposed to get anything out of a man in a coma? I can’t help you anymore than the next guy. He’s basically just a rotting vegetable; a vegetable whose mind I can’t possibly crack.”

Roslin snapped his fingers before pointing one of them directly at Demo’s head.

“Precisely,” he said poignantly.

Jo suddenly reappeared from somewhere behind them. In his hands rested a glowing tablet, tracking vital signs and streams of data.

“He’s active; been active for about five minutes,” Jo panted, motioning for Roslin to take a look at the numbers flashing across the screen.

“Perfect. Let’s not waste this opportunity. A picture’s s worth a thousand words, as they say.”

Roslin ushered Demo to Jo’s side. It looked like the explanation Demo desired was finally on its way.

“Mr. Ward, what if I was to tell you that we have a way, a real way, for you to finally do easily what you have always had to work so hard to do; truly get inside the mind of a killer.”

Demo shrugged his shoulders.

“I’d say I’ve also got a talking spider that leaves me clues scribbled in a web every morning before I head out to a job.”

Roslin nodded at Jo to fill in the gaps.

“Imagine your mind for a second. Okay . . . when you did that, you activated the part of your brain that stores information. It becomes electrically charged, putting out an emission pattern. Now, imagine dreaming while you’re sleeping; your dreams are amplifications or augmentations of an alternate reality that you create in your head. These dreams open up super highways of electrical patterns. These highways stream limitless amounts of information back and forth at lightning speeds, creating everything you see, smell, hear, and touch in a world that you constructed, detail by detail. It’s nothing short of miraculous. And you still have your daytime consciousness intact. You don’t wake up and suddenly become a different person, or assimilate the dream. You still have a measure of control, some cognizance that allows you to separate the two worlds. The only difference is, in one world you can be anything you want without boundaries, and in the other—”

Demo added his own interpretation,

“You’re a bum, kidnapped detective whose head is starting to explode!”

Jo nodded. He brought the data filled tablet into Demo’s eye line. Demo saw the outline of what must be the brain activity in Spencer’s mind. Spasms of electricity pulsed like a human heart.

“We’ve tapped into those highways and kept them open so someone else can drive through them. We can literally assimilate into a world created by someone else’s subconscious; the drive of a lifetime, I say.”

Demo’s head felt insanely dizzy. This was all coming way too fast. He still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shook his head forcefully, shooing out the hazy moths of doubt. He had to try and understand what was going on here.

“And what does any of this, have to do with me?” asked Demo firmly.

Jo looked at Roslin, who gave a tiny nod.

“Well, Mr. Ward . . . you are the driver.”

Demo’s head began to spin again. Had he understood correctly? Was he really hearing what he was hearing? Did they really expect him to sit down in a wired-up chair, spill his brains into that psycho, and then just go on his merry way?

“So you’re telling me that with all these gadgets, you guys have somehow tapped into Mr. Bloody Vulcan’s head? Is that even legal? And why not use this somewhere else, like the military? It seems like something that requires a lot of training and responsibility. I mean, is that thing even real?”

Jo let out a chuckle that he tried unsuccessfully to muffle. Roslin quickly interjected with the correct response.

“I know this all seems pretty crazy. Believe me; I had a hard time with it myself when it landed on my desk. But this technology works. We’ve achieved things we couldn’t even dream of with our old methods. This technology has helped save lives that would have otherwise been lost; helped bring to justice those that deserved it.”

Demo sneered in disgust.

“You’re playing god. No one reserves the right to unlock the only real safe we have. Where’s the humanity in that?”

Roslin’s face flustered.

“Mr. Ward, this isn’t about playing god; this is about getting results. This program has been a significant investment. Sometimes we have to sacrifice the few for the greater good.”

“The only greater good I see here is for those with privilege and power. What about your everyday murders? What about the common people who endure horrible things? This will just cause an even greater divide,” argued Demo angrily.

Roslin threw his hands in the air, letting his professional armor fall away for just a moment. It was evident that Demo’s attitude was extremely frustrating to this man who almost always got his way.

“I’m not the one who decides those matters, but I am the one who makes sure they get taken care of. Although your incredulous attitude is admirable, it’s poorly placed. Remember, we brought you here. If we didn’t think you could honestly be a benefit to this program, we never would have bothered.”

Roslin produced a small computer memory stick, and moved his hand calmly towards Demo.

“If you choose to help us, I can give you more tools than you’ve ever had before. This could be the career opportunity of a lifetime. And as a bonus, you might help solve one of the most extensive murder investigations of our time. You would be saving lives, Mr. Ward. That’s what this is really about. It’s far bigger than the both of us.”

Demo glared at the small device in Roslin’s hands. He already knew what it contained; all the evidence that the feds had gathered on the blood legacy murders. A literal treasure trove of digitized data that he could use to further comprehend the sick freak he was pursuing. But to take the stick meant to take on the project; a project that so far had not been named and only loosely explained. If he was going to do this, he had a few demands of his own.

“If I do this, I get my own team. I’m not going to cuddle up with a bunch of book smart agents looking for their next promotion. I need real people with real understanding. I’ll want Bob Cat. Lastly, I’ll need my space. I can’t be expected to understand these sickos if I’m constantly being tailed and watched.”

Roslin unconsciously put his free hand to his head as he listened, covering one of his eyes. His reluctance to give in to Demo’s demands was on full display. But he knew that if Demo was requesting that one of the only two human connections he valued be by his side, there was no room to budge. Roslin looked over at Jo and nodded. Jo nodded back and vanished from the room.

“It’s done. I’ll still be placing you all under careful surveillance, despite your protests. From there, we’ll see how things go. And remember—you will all be held responsible for anything and everything that happens here. If you fail to follow our guidelines the consequences could be devastating.”

For a moment Demo was taken back. Just how much did they know about him? Why was Roslin so comfortable agreeing to his demands? What exactly were the potential consequences he was talking about? Doubting that an agency that hides this kind of technology so easily couldn’t make him pay if he made a mistake would be dangerous. Now he wished more than ever that it really had just been a mob job. The only real question left was just how far down the rabbit-hole would this take him? Just how sick and twisted could the mind of a notorious killer be? What dark secrets waited inside that monster?

“Why haven’t you done this already? I mean, sure, I’ve got a useful skillset for this, but how do you know it’s safe? You say you’ve used it, but judging by the way you brought me here, I have my doubts. What if you hook my brain up to that whacko and I end up looking like him? Can you assure me something like that won’t happen?”

Roslin put on a sanguine smile.

“You have my word.”

Demo warily grabbed the device from Roslin’s hand. Although in reality it was as light as a feather, in his mind it might as well have weighed a ton. Was he really going to do this? A part of him wanted to face the music of knowing too much and walk away. Roslin could really put the heat on him, no doubt. But if it was all true—if he could actually get inside a killer’s mind, especially one like the Bloody Vulcan—then wasn’t it worth a chance? After all, he was trying to save lives.

“I’ll find you when I’m ready. It will take me some time to think this through and understand just what I’ve got myself into.”

Roslin’s eyes shimmered with a serpent-like guile. Demo was his new puppet, and he couldn’t have been more pleased.

“Mr. Ward, you have no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into. Welcome to project Fathom.”