PROLOGUE

 

November 12, 2015

Denny Goodman rattled shut the driver’s side door of his store’s one and only delivery van and slogged toward the rear.  White where the rust still hadn’t reached, the faded red and yellow logo of Denny’s Maxi Mini-Mart flaked from years of oxidation.  He ran his hand along the side as he walked, fingers feeling the rough and worn surface, shoes squelching in the icy mud.  About time to trade the old girl in.  Next bundle of cash from the crazy professor should make a nice down-payment.

There was no bundle of cash in his future, nor was there ever any in his past.  The memory, like his actions, programmed and implanted over a year ago.

Denny took the gloves from his back pocket and tugged them onto half-frozen fingers, then pulled the rear doors open.  Even in the whirling frigid air, the odor drifting from the nearby ground strangled the breath from his throat, and he threw a corduroy covered arm over his mouth and nose to filter the stench.  Months ago, an entirely different smell from buried embers drifted over the grounds.  The delivery entrance was a pile of rubble black with soot, the heavy oak door reduced to metal hinges and ash, but Denny never noticed.

He removed the three heavy boxes of groceries and supplies and placed them on the ground, stacking them neatly among the others.  There were so many he couldn’t reach the door even if it still existed, and would have vomited from the stench if he had.  Thirty-six boxes of food delivered from his store lay rotting in the shadow of the old asylum—rats, cockroaches, and flies feasting on what remained; an entire ecosystem grew and thrived on the forgotten deliveries.

Denny set the last box in place and smiled at his handiwork, the steam from his breath billowing great clouds as his chest heaved.  The old man’s a good customer.  Never complains and always pays on time.  He slammed the doors shut and strolled to the front.  Wish all my customers were like him.

He climbed inside and closed the door.  The snow was just starting to fall again, and the tires spun a second before the van lurched ahead.  He slewed to the left, then righted his aim as the tires bit into the gravel road, and he drove away from the charred bones of the old asylum.

Behind him, the stray dogs left the safety of the trees, apex predators of the new ecology.

 

CHAPTER 1

Blood was everywhere—floor, walls, ceiling—thin lines painting every surface; a monochromatic Jackson Pollock.  Tiny flecks, ricochets from the stream striking the wall, dried where they fell as glittering horror.  Sheets of paper stuck to the floor, glued there with drying blood.  Evan Barrow, National Registry Paramedic, pealed one up, flipped it, and was rewarded with a happy crimson butterfly—a gruesome Rorschach inkblot.  Everything about Evan was average—right down to his shoe size—but his blue eyes saw nothing average about the ambulance.  It was his turn to clean the bus, and it would have to come on the night Willie clipped a curb just as Evan was checking the vic’s mainline.

“Looks like a fuckin’ murder scene in here, Willie,” he said, not even trying to hide his disgust.  “I could use a little help, bro.”

“Hey, I don’t remember you offering any the night the lady’s colostomy bag ruptured,” Willie Alford said, sitting on the diamond-plate bumper, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.  A little too fat for a man in his line of work, he ran one hand through his thick mop of greasy dark hair.  He crossed his arms and leaned back against one closed door, arching a woolly eyebrow at Evan.  “My goddamn hair stank like shit for three whole days.”

Evan grinned and set the box of cleaning supplies into the back of the ambulance.  “No, Willie, you always smell like that.”

Willie chuckled, took a long drag, then tossed the butt to the ground, crushing the life out of it with a booted toe.  “And here I was ready to help you out.”  He stood and faced Evan.  “Now I’m just gonna go home and bang my girlfriend.”  He grabbed his crotch.  “She’s been itchin’ for this for a couple of days.”

“She seemed pretty satisfied when I left her this morning,” Evan said with an impish grin.

“Oh, hardy har, har,” Willie said, smirking.  “You’re a real funny man.”

The truth was Evan didn’t like Willie all that much.  The two had been assigned the same shifts for the past year, and Evan had never warmed to the man.  Besides, the cab always smells like stale cigarettes and sweat by the end of the shift.  More than that, Evan’s own clothes and hair were a magnet for the odors.  Both his mom and dad were heavy smokers, and it was his father’s death from emphysema-predicated pneumonia that motivated Evan to become a paramedic.  Stubborn to the end, his dad refused to stop smoking even after his diagnosis.

“Every man’s gotta die of somethin’,” he told his son before taking a long drag on the cancer stick, blowing acrid smoke from barely functioning lungs.  In the end, it was ignorance that killed the old man.

Willie tapped the last smoke into his hand, then crushed the pack in his fist.  He shoved the crumpled pack into his jacket—At least he doesn’t litter—then expertly flipped the last cigarette into his mouth.

“You really ought to quit, you know.”

“I do,” Willie said with a grin.  “Every time I stub one out.”

“Cute,” Evan said, then sighed.  “Go home, Willie.  I got this.”  As distasteful as this task was, he knew it was infinitely better doing it without Willie tugging on a smoke beside him.  Then there’s the added benefit of bragging rights.  He got on his hands and knees, pulled a sponge from the bucket, squeezed out the antiseptic cleaning fluid with both gloved hands, and bent to work.  Annie, his shift supervisor, always chided him for starting at the bottom, but he hated walking through the muck while tackling the upper areas first.  Willie muttered something inaudible and sauntered away, and Evan’s shoulders loosened.  He scrubbed with both hands on the sponge, rinsing in the second bucket before dipping into the cleaner again, working from the back of the bus to the front, attending to every drop and splatter, and paying careful attention to where floor plates joined.  Annie would check the whole thing over with her beady hawk-eyes, even sniffing the floor and cabinets.

Evan was so engrossed with his task, he didn’t notice the soft buzzing.  By the time he did, the sound had risen in volume and pitch, a dentist’s drill shoved into his ears.  He dropped the sponge, spine stiffening as he sat straight up on his haunches and grabbed the sides of his head with both hands, a scream gathering in the back of his throat.  The breath he drew to power that scream caught in his chest, then piteously sighed out like a rapidly deflating balloon, his eyes rolling back.  He toppled backward, a tree felled by an unseen axe, and banged his head against the floor.  His mind flickered like modem lights before the first bounce, the hardware ready for a fresh install.

#

The dreams were vivid and haunting; fractured images through shattered crystal.  Here a man bent over a patient—a small boy of perhaps six or seven—there a tall man in dark clothing, a glowing item in one gloved hand.  The pictures, some moving, some not, swirled around Evan’s head like being trapped in the center of a carousel, his hands pressed against the mirrored glass as the world flew by.  He pounded the glass, but no sound emerged, and no one on the other side took notice.  And there were people on the other side.

Some were not people at all.

They peered into the mirror from the other side, seeing only themselves, preening and posing.  One, an old man drew Evan’s attention to him as a scampering mouse draws a cat’s glare.  Wild white hair covered by a dark tweed fedora crowned his head, and below bushy eyebrows piercing eyes stared.  The old man looked right at him.  He rested both gnarled hands against the glass, fingers splayed, then in one swift motion plunged bitter fingers through, reaching for Evan’s throat.  Evan scuttled back on hands and haunches, bumping against something solid in the thick blackness surrounding him.  The fingers ached to grasp living flesh, but could not close the distance, only brushing the tip of Evan’s nose.

The old man withdrew his hands and tipped his hat, grinning like a cheap department store Santa Claus.  Santa spun and was shot in the forehead by a screw-faced man, rage boiling off him like live steam.  Brains and chunks of skull flew from the yawning chasm at the back of Santa’s head, a hot jet of blood spraying from the tiny hole marking death’s entry.  The scene repeated now on an endless and silent loop; Evan squeezed his eyes shut, fists pressed tight against his lids.

A sound like a hammer on an anvil, tiny and rhythmic, reached his ears.  The sound grew with each strike, more distinct with every iteration.

Jack.  Jack.  Jack.

The tink of metal against metal became a pounding drumbeat, the pressure threating to rupture his eardrums.

JACK.  JACK.  JACK.

The man with the gun stopped killing Santa, turned to Evan, and peered through the mirror as Santa had.  He stepped forward, ignoring the pile of bodies at his feet, and leaned close, nose pressing against the glass.  There was no longer raw, seething anger there… only grim determination.  Evan held his breath and waited for the gun to poke through and end the nightmare, but the man only stood, then turned back to his gruesome task.

Another Santa fell.

#

Evan opened his eyes to a black sky dotted with stars, sat up, and rubbed the back of his head.  A large lump there screamed in pain, and he jerked the hand away, checking for blood.  There was none, and his heart slowed its frantic pace.  He looked around and frowned.  No longer in the parking lot, he sat not in the back of the ambulance, but on the greasy wet concrete of an alley between two ancient brick buildings.  The stench from the overflowing dumpsters hung in the damp air like a shroud, clinging to his skin and clothes; his gorge rose, but he guessed his concussion may have had more to do with that.

He was sure he had a concussion, and could even recommend the optimum treatment, but had no clue where he had come by the information.  His name was Evan Barrow—he was sure of that, too—but could no longer remember where he lived or even the names of his parents.

“Retrograde amnesia due to traumatic brain injury,” he mumbled, frowning.  It was the most obvious cause, but he couldn’t say how he knew.  The phrase had simply popped into his mind as if waiting for the question.

Evan levered himself to his feet, then wiped both hands on the legs of his uniform.  The same uniform still caked in dried blood from the unfortunate vic he and—

He stood in the middle of the alley, head swimming as he tried to remember the name of the man he worked with, when his eyes widened and he doubled over, emptying his stomach to the damp pavement.  Steam rose from the puddle of vomit at his feet, and he stepped away from the mess, holding himself vertical with one hand against a sooty brick wall.  A rat, nose twitching beneath shining predator’s eyes, edged from beneath the dumpster a few feet ahead and to the right, and Evan backed away.

Where there is one, there are always more.  He looked around for the exit and found it about forty feet to his rear.  Evan fled, rubber-soled shoes slapping against wet pavement, and managed a half-dozen steps before the pain flared in his head, a white-hot poker cauterizing his brain from back to front.  This was not the goose-egg on the back of his skull throbbing—oh, no.  This was inside his skull, a rat eating its way out.  The agony—less than what caused his blackout, yet somehow worse—almost drove him to his knees.  With a massive effort, he continued moving, staggering to the end of the alley and the street beyond.  Sounds of traffic heartened him, drawing him forward, a catfish on a hook.

The searing heat in his brain lessened, replaced by millions of ants.  Crawling, digging, burrowing—but most of all, building; it was as if they tore apart pieces of Evan to create something new—something not Evan.  Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he stumbled into the open, a gust of wind washing over him like a cleansing bath, driving away the stink of the alley.  He breathed deep and the last of the pain fizzled.  What remained was a high-pitch whine that grew or faded depending on which direction he faced.  Something told him the sound would lower in pitch the closer he got to… wherever it was he needed to be.

Across the street a Wells Fargo Bank branch loomed, gloomy staid seriousness in the middle of a street awash in garish light and romp.  Cars zipped by left and right, all but ignored by pedestrians filling the sidewalks or crossing the street in glorious violation of the law.  Most wore loose coats against that last chill of Spring, and Evan—or what passed for Evan, now—looked up at the moon.  Brighter than the back-lit panes shining from hundreds of windows above, it outshone the few stars visible in a light-polluted city.

Evan took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and grinned.  He tugged the wallet from his back pocket and stepped off the curb to cross the street.  If there were enough ATM’s nearby, he could empty the man’s bank accounts one withdrawal at a time.  With luck, there was enough available balance on the credit cards to be useful.  An image of a large house filled his head, one he had never seen before, but felt was his destination.

He didn’t know who he was now, where he was going, or what he needed to do when he got there, but he guessed the information would present itself.  Evan furrowed his brow and pursed his lips.  Something went wrong.  He didn’t understand much, but he understood one thing for sure: He was a failsafe.  A backup plan.

“Nice to know you’re the one who gets called when things go in the shitter,” he said and shoved the debit cart in the slot.

#

Six-thousand dollars and change stuffed into the small duffel on his lap, Evan sat in the back of the vibrating Greyhound bus, rethinking his choice of seats.  Between the diesel fumes and the chemical toilet two feet away, his stomach twisted with every jostle and bump.  It didn’t help the driver was apparently prone to epileptic seizures every time he took a corner.  The bus hadn’t been full when Evan boarded, but that sound in his skull led him all the way down the aisle as if a gun were pressed against his spine.  Each time he considered moving, his head hummed like a beehive.

The high-pitched whine had already lowered in pitch an octave or two, telling him he was getting closer to his goal.  What that goal was, other than an image of a big house on a corner lot, had become no clearer, only that it was somewhere around Washington, D.C.

I’m going to see the primary.  He frowned.  Where the hell did that come from?

In the sixteen hours since he’d awakened in the alley, thoughts like that had bled into his consciousness, driving him to do things that often made no sense.  He pulled the battered Atlanta Braves cap down with a snap, shading his eyes, and leaned against the window, away from the godawful odor on his right; the cloud of liquid stench followed his nose, hovering like a cat begging for food.

“I should have taken a plane,” he grumbled, then closed his eyes.  But we must be careful with our spending, that voice sitting atop his brain like a bull-rider whispered.  It wiggled its ass, settling into the crevice between the left and right halves, straddling the corpus callosum.  It buried thin, bony fingers into the gray matter on either side, taking greater control of the meat-machine it piloted.  Money will come later, it said.  For now, we must spend wisely.

The voice whispered in Evan’s ear like a lost lover—comforting, cajoling, a wide-vista contentment calming his jangled nerves; it rang like a deep-throated church bell, smelled of fresh tobacco and old sweat, and Evan drifted into a cotton-headed slumber.  What dreams followed he wouldn’t remember, the last pieces of his psyche swept away by cold, cleansing sleep.  The ants went to work yet again, remaking old into new, re-wiring and re-writing, editing and deleting, the second draft well and truly begun.

If death were nothing more than a dreamless eternal sleep, Evan died that day.  If death were sleep, the dead could wake.

#

The trip from Sacramento took four days, including transfers and rest stops.  When the battered old bus dumped him out at Union Station in D.C., Evan was so near his quarry the pitch sounding in his head was a thrumming bass-baritone; his mother had been partial to Paul Robeson, and “Old Man River” spooled out in his ears, an eight-track tape on a single-play loop.  The memory was clear, and if enough of Evan had been left to wonder over it, the knowledge might have frightened him.  But this was the new and improved Evan, body still a hair shy of thirty, with a mind only days old.  The process would take many months to complete, and huge chunks of data presented as gaps in long-term memory, a few scrambled beyond repair, but most just gone.  The heavy work near completion, the voice now had near-total control.

Yet… something of the Evan that was remained.  He hid behind the mirrored panels of the carousel, eyes wide in panic, dark hair slick with sweat, back pressed so tight against the cold wall his vertebrae ached, hugging his knees to his chest with both arms.  The old man piloting his body allowed him glimpses of the world as if it were an IMAX movie.

The bus rolled to a stop, brakes hissing, and disheveled passengers on either side of the aisle stood and stretched, backs popping and crackling like wet firecrackers on a hot and hushed 4th.  A young couple, the wife so pregnant Evan wondered how she hadn’t popped already, gathered their meager luggage from the overhead.  On his right, a mother corralled her two small boys, a harbinger of the young wife’s life-to-be.  Others performed their own little dance farther ahead, each conscious of the others only as data points for their on-board avoidance systems.  Evan watched it all with the detached disinterest of an entomologist dissecting larvae.

One by one, two by two, passengers departed, trudging the grooved and sticky walkway toward the door.  Evan waited, gripping the duffel tight in both hands like a lifeline.  He wandered forward, a step behind the pregnant woman, who he realized couldn’t be more than seventeen.  Her partner stopped short ahead of her, allowing the mother and her sons access, and the young woman stumbled.  Evan’s hand shot out before the old man could even pull the correct lever, and he gripped her elbow, steadying her as she recovered.  She began to thank him, a self-conscious smile playing below shining green eyes, then her brow furrowed, and she swung away without a word.  Evan released her arm and his reflection in the window.  Face slack and ashen, it was as if the muscles had forgotten to hold everything in place.  It was the face of a stroke victim—one with damage to both sides of his brain.

The old man chuckled in Evan’s head, pulled at a lever or two, and the muscles in his face tightened to something approaching human.  He watched everyone ahead disappear through the open doors, shambling single-file like cattle to slaughter.  The bus driver, nearly as old as the man driving Evan, his dark face crowned with a tight afro shot through with cotton-white strands, one gleaming gold tooth highlighting a wide and infectious smile, nodded and tipped his cap to each passenger as they passed.  Evan had never seen a man so happy simply doing his job, and the corners of his mouth pulled up in sympathy.  It was an instinct as old as man, and one not easily erased.

The young couple reached the front, and the girl beamed at the driver—Carl, the name stitched on his shirt said—before turning to the door.

“It’ll work out,” Carl said to her, touching her elbow with two fingers.  He said it like an invocation.

“Pardon?” she said, pausing on the steps.

“Just, ya know… in general.”  He beamed.  “I have a good feelin’ ‘bout you two.”  He nodded at the boy who stood at the foot of the steps outside the door.  “He’s a good boy.  Don’t know much ‘bout manners, but a good boy.”  He squinted at the boy who looked at the ground and shuffled his feet, then nodded.  “Yes’m.  He’ll do just fine.”

The girl scrunched up her face, then grinned.  “Thanks, I guess,” she said, then exited the bus.

Evan moved forward, ignoring the driver.  Iron fingers tightened around his upper arm, a vise-like grip holding as surely as if chained to the floor.

“You, on the other hand,” Carl said, eyes hooded, face darkening further.  “Things aren’t gonna go so good for you.  Nosir.  Not good at all.”  He gave his head a sad shake before turning loose of Evan’s arm.  “I don’t always drive this bus, son.”  He squinted hard into Evan’s eyes.  “Others take a turn at the wheel from time ta time, but I know I can always take ‘er back when I’m of a mind.”  He nodded, then smirked as if he’d said something profound.  “You remember that, Evan.”  Carl shooed him out, closing the doors with a swift clank behind him.

Evan was almost out of the parking lot when he realized Carl had used his name.

#

How did he know my name?

The question played over and over in his head ever since he’d left the bus station, his legs propelling him forward on autopilot.  It was impossible anyone recognized him, and the few memories left said he’d never been to D.C.

With a word, it all comes undone.  No one had tracked him; he knew that much.

He’d hiked northwest on Massachusetts Avenue in a driving rain for perhaps two hours, following the directional beacon inside his head.  Evan felt he wouldn’t—couldn’t—get sick, but that didn’t stop his amygdala from seeking shelter.  His eyes darted left and right as he stood on the corner gawping at the brick edifice hunched over the manicured lawn.  He couldn’t shake the feeling the strategically placed cameras were all pointed at him, watching with great concern for his next movement.  Soaked and cold, he stood there swaying in the wind, looking for a way inside.

I don’t need a way in.  Only a way to get close.  To whom wasn't clear, but he had a fair idea.  Somewhere in there is what I need.

Now he’d found the place, the beacon fell silent, its absence as keenly felt as its grating presence had been.  It was as if he had surfaced after a long dive in an endless ocean, and he grinned, blinking away fat raindrops.

The homeowner also owned a business.  Seven miles east, to be exact.  Across the Anacostia River.

It no longer mattered how he knew this.  Evan threw the duffel’s strap over one shoulder, shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned east.  The company offered hard work for hard men, and surely there were some among the employees for whom a tight wad of cash would be more than tempting.  Anything and anyone in D.C. could be bought for the right price.

I can be patient, he told himself.  There is time.

#

Evan tugged at his tie, unused to the constriction around his neck, and shook hands with the foreman.

“There’s not much to tell, really,” he said, answering the question from the big man in the small chair.  “I was a paramedic in California, but the wife got a job offer here in D.C. she couldn’t refuse.”  He shrugged, affecting an air of fatalism.  “Figured I’d try something new.”

The man arched an eyebrow over a craggy face.  “Workin’ iron ain’t like patchin’ a boo-boo, friend.”

“No,” Evan chuckled.  “I guess not.”  He let the retort lay between them like an old hound dog.  Men like Eldon Carmichael preferred to assess job candidates with a hard stare; Evan had known men such as this his whole life.

Eldon took a deep breath through his nose, the sound a semi-truck hauling to a stop.  “Still, a man with your skills could be an asset ‘round here.”  He grinned and winked.  “Iron work is a dangerous business, an’ it’s best ta deal with accidents in-house.”  The man lowered his head, his face darkening, and leaned forward, placing both elbows on the cluttered desktop; the chair groaned a long complaint.  “If ya know what I mean.”

“Sure do.”  There was no point in elaborating.  Every company cut costs wherever they could, and this one was no different—just more callous.  Evan suppressed a smile.  The sort of men I might need should be easy to come by in a place such as this.

Eldon stared at him, beady eyes almost hidden behind fat cheeks and thick lids, then nodded.  “Guess you’ll do, then,” he said.  “Remember Doomsday over at one of the welding stations we passed?”

Evan had met many workers on the short tour of the building, but that one stood out.  Short, twitchy, and always talking, even when he knew nothing of the subject.  “I think so,” he said with a nod.

“Go find him.  He’ll get ya fixed up.”  Eldon grabbed a pencil and paper, dashing off a quick note.  He folded it once and held it out for Evan.  “Give this to ‘im.”  Evan took the folded paper, but did not open it.  “I’m gonna start ya out as a sweeper fer now, but we’ll train ya on the bending machines as ya go.  Minimum wage at first, an’ the pay goes up as ya train.”  He cocked an eyebrow.  “Fair ‘nuff?”

Evan, six grand still in the duffel hidden in his motel room, and even bigger plans near-term, simply nodded.  He smiled, stood, and turned for the door.

“Hey,” Eldon shouted as he reached for the knob.  The fat man pointed at the hook beside the door.  “Don’t ferget yer hardhat.”

“Sorry,” he said, and grabbed the yellow hat.  He pressed it down on his head, then opened the door in search of the little man with the long cornrows—the one the others laughingly called Doomsday.

#

“I’m tellin’ ya,” Double-D said, hand around his mug, leaning on the bar, already three sheets to the wind.  “The bastard don’t come down there more’n once or twice a month.”  He took a drink, slopping half on the bar and his sleeve.  “Too afraid of gettin’ his loafers scuffed.”

After only a few days, Evan had found his patsy, and was one of the first men he’d met.  Doomsday—or Double-D, as Evan preferred to call him—was a loudmouth and a provocateur, but harmless for the most part.  He was the sort of man everyone described as “gentle” and “quiet” afterward, shocked he was involved in such a crime.

And a crime is necessary, now.  Twelve days in, and the first thing he’d learned was the owner rarely visited the Works, and never the shop floor.  Evan’s first choice all along had been to confront the man and take the list from him, but now he realized that wasn’t possible.  What he still didn’t know was what was on the list, why this man had it, or even how Evan knew about it.  There were still too many holes in his memory.  I need to get close to him.

Evan swirled the beer in his mug, then drained it before setting it down.  “What are your plans for the next few days?” he asked casually, staring into the empty mug.

“I’m off for two more, but back on for seven.”  They’d both been on the same schedule since Evan’s hire, so he wasn’t surprised.

“You up for making some quick cash?” he asked, almost whispering.  “I mean… a lot of cash.”  He knew the answer even before the man spoke.

“Sure,” Double-D said with a snort.  “Who ain’t?”  He raised an eyebrow, bloodshot eyes making him look for a second like a Black Christopher Lloyd.  “Difficult or just illegal?”

“Definitely not difficult,” Evan said with a tight grin.

Double-D lifted the mug to his face, tilted it, the spoke before the beer touched his lips.  “Anyone gonna get hurt?”

“Depends.”

Double-D finished the motion and his beer, set the mug down, and wiped his face with his sleeve.  He spun on the barstool and faced Evan, already sobering.  “What we gonna do?”

#

Two weeks at the Iron Works had robbed Evan of all patience.  The home of the Vice President of the United States was so close he imagined he could smell it.  Number One Observatory Circle, he thought, wondering where that tidbit of knowledge came from.  More than a stone’s throw, but well within walking distance.  So close—but it might as well be light-years.  He giggled a little at that, and the boy beside him whimpered.  The other man, knife against the throat of the boy’s father, sat on a stool happily munching a cold slice of pizza.  He tossed the half-eaten piece into the box and stood, the knife’s keen edge glinting; it never left the father’s neck as he stepped around to stand behind.  The father struggled against his bonds and gag while the mother softly sobbed.

“C’mon, dude,” the twitchy little man said, eyes darting from window to door.  “Let’s just take the jewelry and cash and get the fuck out.”

“I told you,” Evan said with exaggerated calm, “first he needs to give me the list.”  His face split into a thin smile, more Joker than Grinch.  “Then we can go.”

“Yeah,” Double-D said, waiving the knife in the air.  “You keep talkin’ about this list,” he made little air-quotes with his fingers, “but a list of what?”  He snorted once.  “And why do you need it?”

Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.  The truth was, when Evan woke two days ago, the idea of the list just popped into his head.  He knew where to get it, but not what was on it, nor even why he needed it.  But the urge to possess it was strong.  Oh yes.  Stronger than the need to eat, sleep, or fornicate.  When Mr. High-and-Mighty over there refused his initial request, claiming no knowledge of such a list, Evan realized it would come to this.

The worst part was it was all so unnecessary.  The man across from him, bound and gagged, fearing for his son’s life, should have been the one to wake first.

Whatever that means.  There was so much useless and disjointed information bounding around in his mind—rabbits running from a hunt, they skittered and scattered, each slipping from his grasp every time he drew near enough to examine one.  This man has means, proximity, and opportunity.  For what, he still didn’t know, but he hoped the list would at least point him in the right direction.  He now knew waking the father now was no longer an option.

Evan sighed, stood, and grabbed a handful of the boy’s hair, jerking his head back with a sharp tug.  The terror in the ten-year-old’s eyes radiated in waves so strong Evan felt it straight through to his bones.  He wanted nothing to do with any of this—until a month ago, he’d been a paramedic, fer Christ’s sake—but want and need were two very different things.  Early morning light poured in through the hastily drawn window curtains, the sounds of a waking neighborhood leaking through.  Time’s up, he thought, and reached for the glowing fireplace poker, pulling it from the hot coals.  The boy’s eyes, impossibly, grew wider, flicking around the room for a place to run.  Tears streamed from the corners, running down the sides of his face into his ears.  Evan gripped the boy’s hair tight, holding the head steady.

The father, bloody and bruised, fought against his bindings, working with all his might to free himself.  Double-D cut a thin slash across the father’s face, then pointed the knife’s bloody blade at the mother seated next to him.  Mr. High-and-Mighty got the hint and settled down, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Now, I don’t want to do this,” Evan said, his voice as bland as a television newsreader.  “But I need you to understand I’m serious.”  A thin voice in the innermost sanctum of his mind screamed No!, but Evan—this Evan—pushed it down with brutal force.  Now is not the time to be squeemish.  We’re way past that.  The voice he remembered as his own had grown weaker over the past month, while the new took command as if driving an old tank—clumsily at first, but with confidence building with each turn of the wheel.

He held the poker over the boy’s head, then before he could think about it, pushed the glowing tip into his right eye.  The cornea sizzled for a fraction of a second, then the eyeball swelled and burst as the child screamed.  The odor of cooked sclera wafted to Evan’s nose and the old version of himself gibbering in the corner of his mind retched and choked.  The Evan driving the tank just looked on with detached indifference as the vitreous humor bubbled and oozed from the smoking socket.  The mother screamed, but the father sat still as stone, his face reddening so brightly Evan feared he would stroke out.

The boy's strangled scream died, and he passed out from the pain and fear.

“Now I have your attention,” Evan released the boy’s hair, and the head lolled forward.  “You will give me what I need.”  He strode forward with the poker in hand, its end still sizzling with cooked meat, and bent at the waist, his nose almost touching the other man’s.  “This ends when I have what I—”

Evan’s eyes widened at the blood oozing from the slash on the man’s face.  So dark it was nearly black, the blood sparkled and glinted dully in the fireplace's glow.  Like a thin film of oil on water, light refracted and reflected from its iridescent surface.  Evan lifted a finger as if to touch it and drew back in shock when the blood reached for him.

“What?”  Double-D tilted his head like a new puppy.

“Nothin’.”  Evan stood between the father and Double-D, but the old man at the controls barely contained his glee.  He pulled levers and tugged nerves, and Evan reached out again, touched the streak of blood, allowed it to flow to him.  It grabbed his finger like a leech, covering first the joints, then swarming his hand.  That tiny part of Evan still alive screamed and flailed to fling the horrifying mass away, but the meat-Evan stood perfectly still, revelling in the sensation.

The father slumped forward, dead or unconscious, Evan neither knew nor cared which.  The wife screamed through her gag, and Double-D laughed.  He hadn’t seen the horror climbing up Evan’s arm.

While he watched, the blood that was surely not blood, faded as his skin absorbed it all.  His mind exploded in pure white light, a million images flung at him at once, overloading mental retinas, locking every muscle.  He stood that way for perhaps three seconds, an eternity, absorbing wave after wave of raw data, so much he thought he would drown.

When the onslaught subsided, he understood there had been no list.  The man was the list.  He was now the list.  The transfer had been a success, but the process interrupted.  Bits of him hid within dozens of people, and if he was to complete his mission, he must retrieve and integrate each piece of the code.  He looked around at the mansion.  A pity I could not have awakened in you, he thought, staring at the father.

“There’s something I need to get, Double-D.”  He pulled the father’s cell phone from his pocket and tossed it to the little man.  “When he wakes, have him call an employee to bring you all the cash you think you can get, then try to disappear.”  The man was too stupid for that, even if he hadn’t already programmed the fool to forget he had an accomplice.  “Don’t leave any witnesses.”

Double-D coughed a cruel laugh and shoved the cell into his pocket.  “Can I burn the place?”

“Whatever you want, buddy.”  He went up the stairs to the master bedroom, found the safe, and punched the code.  The three bundles of cash totaling over fifty-thousand dollars would have to do for now.  He pulled the velvet box from the back of the safe and opened it.  Inside glittered several diamond rings and a diamond necklace.  Once he’d removed the stones, he could fence them for enough cash for the next phase.  He shoved everything into a white paint bucket he had taken from the garage and whistled as he descended the stairs toward the back entrance, passing a set of Porsche keys hanging on a hook.  He raised an eyebrow, grabbed the keys, and pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, taking the ugly lime-green construction vest hanging beside it for good measure.

Evan Barrow stepped into the alley and strolled past a dumpster in search of the car, Dieter Braun at the wheel.