Deadly Messengers (11 page)

The article fee was financially welcome. The big thing: it had put her in demand, too and given her a
name
. The downside: the appalling violence still sickened her. The last thing she really needed was to interview the relatives of these poor old people who’d burned to death. Kendall couldn’t imagine a worse way to die.

It crossed her mind she should call her therapist. Four years ago, she’d left his offices, uncertain whether she could go forward without the weekly sessions. He’d given her tools to deal with her fears. She was always afraid, though, that one day they simply wouldn’t work.

“It happened a long time ago,” Dr. Shepherd had repeated to her that last day. “Your past can only hurt you if you allow it into your present and your future.”

“I know,” she’d said, thinking it sounded perfectly simple. It would be, if she could control her dreams. When she thought about the night her mother died, she still shuddered. Once the memories flooded into her mind, it didn’t matter how many times she told herself she was safe, that they couldn’t hurt her. Somehow, she still found herself gasping for breath.

Dr. Shepherd had told her witnessing violence at a young age could rewire your brain permanently. He and Kendall had worked hard to remove the wiring. She would never believe she could ever comfortably listen to other people’s descriptions of terror touching their lives. She identified too much with them. She knew exactly how it felt to
know
you were going to die,
know
it in your blood, and then survive.

With all this, she would be tested, had already been tested, and she couldn’t allow her mind to fully travel back to that night. Right now, she needed to find her way around hearing the details of these killings. Listening to Beverley had caused the sleepless nights to start all over again. She needed to use Dr. Shepherd’s tools.

As long as she focused on writing the story, pretended it was just a fictional story, she was okay. Later, the words and images conjured would haunt her. Follow her into her dreams. Then it was
her
facing a man with an axe or a gun or a knife or trapped in a burning building. H
er
waking up screaming.

Kendall thought, after another sleepless night, she might be better digging around a little into the past of the killer Benito Tavell. Having already completed her Internet and social media searches, she had become increasingly frustrated. Tavell didn’t have much of an electronic footprint and his family wasn’t talking to the media.

A friend of the Tavell family had made a formal announcement on their behalf. With people already labeling the fire a terrorist attack, they chose not to discuss their son now or in the near future. The friend read from a statement simply expressing the family’s sorrow at the innocent deaths and proclaiming the idea as ridiculous that their son was associated with terrorism.

Unfortunately, the media camped out on their doorstep weren’t going to allow them that time. Kendall had driven past their home in the hope she would have the same luck she’d had with Beverley, but the street was so overrun with vans and journalists, she could barely squeeze by.

While consuming the breaking news reports, what struck her were the witness descriptions of the event. How methodical Tavell had been in setting fire to different rooms, leaving little chance of the fire being extinguished quickly. The characterization of Tavell by his friends was odd—his quiet and well-mannered demeanor and dedication to the residents of the home.

Why
revolved in her head, and she wasn’t certain she wanted the answer. Frustratingly, she still needed this commission. A sneaking thought, too—maybe these events crossed her path to help her
overcome
her past. Whether she wanted to or not, she would need to find a way into this story.

An idea suddenly sprang to mind. Quickly she began to type on the keyboard. What she discovered shocked her. In fact, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

YOU23 SCANNED THE SYSTEM. HE’D noticed a small discrepancy during the last mission. It hadn’t affected the outcome, but he wanted to understand what had happened. That was his nature.

He rolled back the video and bookmarked it for Boss17. The mission had gone well. He was impressed by how well Boss17’s plans had come to fruition. When Boss17 had first explained the steps they would take to create this amazing future, You23 was skeptical. It seemed like something out of a science fiction film. But Boss17 had done it, all right, just as he’d promised.

This made You23 even more determined to perform at his best. If Boss17 could do this, then maybe his vision for the world, for You23’s own future, could really happen. That was really something to ponder.

You23 had worked on this coding for six months. Once he’d discovered the baseline, the rest had slowly come together. They were still in uncharted territory, but that was the fun of it. He was curious when they would reveal their purpose to the world. That was the plan, wasn’t it? Two missions completed without a hitch. Now they had something exciting to share.

Boss17 had told him yesterday, when he’d asked the question of when: “Everything needs to be perfect. We must be sure they understand the message.”

Boss17 gave him this opportunity when no one else had cared, so if Boss17 wanted to wait, then who was he to argue. If not for Boss17, he’d still be alone, ignored, still on the street, and treated like a criminal. His great crime being what? That he was different.

Boss17 had told him, repeatedly, he was a genius. Those words of praise made him want to try harder. Nobody had ever told him he was good at anything. Nobody had ever treated him with such respect and kindness. You23 often wondered if it was good luck or something else like fate that brought them together. His skill and Boss17’s vision seemed so perfectly matched.

The voices had gone, too. Like a miracle, somehow, Boss17 made them go away. Now all he remembered of before was the darkness in the cave of his mind, filled with what felt like a virus eating at his thoughts.

This new drug of Boss17’s had not only removed the voices, it had allowed You23’s true voice to shine through. He was a new man at the ripe age of twenty-two. And he was beginning to enjoy this game. Even the nickname bestowed upon him —You23— felt right.
Yes,
right was the word.

Initially, it had seemed strange and awkward, especially the time he’d forgotten his name and signed a report with his
real
name. The only time he’d seen Boss17 angry was then. His face had turned red.

“Anonymity is the key. Don’t you understand? That was
just
stupid.” He’d grasped You23’s shoulders and looked deep into his eyes, like he saw inside his soul. Then he seemed to catch himself, and calm down. He’d whispered, “This is an important mission. We must stay straight and true if we’re to change the world. Straight and true.”

After raising his voice and slamming the table moments before, Boss17’s sudden composure and quiet manner seemed a little frightening.

Eventually, You23 realized, it was his fault entirely that he’d angered Boss17. He needed to be more careful. He couldn’t blame him for becoming annoyed, when he’d clearly broken the rules. He was stupid. Sometimes his brain didn’t work properly. Anonymity was important. He knew that. Had it drummed into him from day one. His name was You23. His old name, gone.

Sometimes before he fell asleep, he heard the words,
straight and true
, repeat in his head like they were on a broken loop. The words made him feel complete; they filled the space where the voices once lived.

You23 turned back to his screen. He’d spent the past fourteen hours staring at it, looking for another candidate. It wasn’t easy to find the right one. He was determined, though. He needed to please Boss17.

First, their records needed to be in the system. Then they had to live within proximity of their base. He loved that term, too—base—it made this sound like an online game. The problem, usually, came down to the geographic. Boss17 was particular. He’d found plenty elsewhere, but once they’d begun, there was
to be no compromise
. Another Boss17 catch phrase:
there is to be no compromise.
He liked those words, too.

He swigged a Coke direct from the bottle—his fourth today—as he watched and waited. The program worm, a clever unseen digital spy, continued to burrow through the medical databases, searching through tens of thousands of records.

Boss17 had told him to sit there until he found something. Why suddenly an urgent deadline, he hadn’t had the courage to ask. Seeing Boss17 annoyed once was enough. It wasn’t so much he was afraid, it was disappointing his benefactor he cared about more than anything.

He was grateful, too, to be on
this
side of the program. He’d realized early on, he would be a perfect candidate. He had all the criteria they needed. Whether Boss17 knew this, he couldn’t tell.

So if Boss17 told him to stay here until he found a candidate, then that’s what he would do. If it took three days, he would sit here for three days.

A
ping
erupted from the computer, startling him from his thoughts. You23 reached out and grabbed the edge of the desk, then pulled his chair in. He leaned into the screen and began to read. It took him a minute to take in the full report. He smiled. Boss17 would be pleased.

They had another candidate. A woman. She filled all the criteria, including the ever vital geographic. A thrill ran through him as he anticipated sharing the news with Boss17. He’d found her quicker than the other two.

Yes, Boss17
would
be pleased. She was perfect.

FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME, KENDALL told herself she should drop this article. But she had an angle. If she pulled it off, the story might be good enough for a chance at national, if not global, syndication, meaning long-term residual payments.

She still had bills to pay, and no way she’d admit that to her brother Marcus that after all these years freelancing she still couldn’t make ends meet. Sometimes as she stared at her bills, her brother’s voice would enter her head.
Why don’t you get a proper job? At a magazine or a newspaper or one of those big Internet website companies.

He was right, too. She
should
get a permanent, on-staff job somewhere, but the idea of freelancing had always appealed. This was just a hump period, the industry in flux with online content taking over and all the magazine closures. That was all. She just had to juggle her finances and ride this little wave she’d managed to climb aboard. Her foot was in the door. She simply needed to keep it there long enough to make an impression on a few of the larger magazine’s editors.

Her Google search had turned up something interesting. In 2012, a news outlet created a website documenting the past twenty years of mass killings across the country. The site had a built-in search facility using several criteria: type of weapon used; numbers killed; and the murderers’ relationship to the victims. The results could be shown as a list or a geographical map. The two most recent mass murder sites in their city, Café Amaretto and the Kenworth Home, were already loaded into the database.

That wasn’t the surprise for Kendall. Goose bumps rose on her arms about something else. The latest two mass killing weren’t the only two events in the Danbridge city area.

In 1995, a massacre had also occurred here. With this information, and the location, she Googled the twentieth century crime. Of course, the two most recent massacres featured prominently on the first few pages. Buried way back on the third page at the very bottom, though, was another entry. This article was about a mass killing that had occurred just on the city limits. Kendall supposed that
might
explain why nobody had put it together with these two. Or it could be the crime was just too long ago. Most likely it was because, technically, it wasn’t a mass killing.

Only three people had died on the scene. She’d learned from the website a mass killing was only considered a mass killing after four deaths. In the case of the 1995 killing, one of the victims died months later after slipping into a coma following the event. He became the fourth victim. Probably by then, his death wasn’t as newsworthy.