Chimera

“And your only evidence that this is Landon is a manipulated photograph.”

“It’s compelling evidence, Derek. You can’t deny the resemblance between you and our suspect, and the age fits with the timeline.”

Thatcher backed away from the glass and cast a glance around the room, as though answers were stuck to the walls waiting for him to find them. He crossed his arms over his chest—no, wrapped them around himself— before facing us again. His voice was rough when he asked, “What do you want from me?”

“After the War ended, no one wanted to acknowledge ties to Metas,” Ethan said. “Could Jennifer have faked her and Landon’s deaths in order to hide?”

“We loved each other,” Thatcher said.

“That wasn’t his question,” I said. I had sympathy for the bomb we’d just dropped on Thatcher (and where that sympathy was coming from, I couldn’t tell you), but we also had a job to do.

“No. No.” He shook his head emphatically. “No, Jennifer would never do that. We gave Landon her name to protect him. We had very little contact that final year. I tried to keep them safe, damn it.”

“So you haven’t seen or spoken to either of them recently?”

“How would I have done that?” He swept his arms out to his sides. “I’ve been stuck in here for almost sixteen years! As far as I know, my wife and son are dead.”

Over the years, I’d seen people in pain—friends, strangers, clients, you name it. Sometimes I tried to comfort them, sometimes I didn’t give a shit what they were feeling. Today I found myself stuck in a strange tide between the two, cresting in a swell of sympathy while an undertow of He’s a Bane, he deserves this dragged at my feet.

“I’ve never even seen their graves,” Thatcher said softly, more to himself than to us.

Ethan nudged my elbow. He made a face that I agreed with—the interview was over. We’d done enough damage for one day.

“We’ll keep you informed,” Ethan said.

“All I want is the truth,” Thatcher said. “For once, I just want someone to tell me the truth.”

On those frustrated words, we left the interrogation room. Simon Hewitt was waiting for us outside. Formerly a prisoner of Manhattan himself, Simon was sprung months ago to help us with a particularly nasty Bane from our past. Now he was the official liaison between the Manhattan prisoners and the federal prison system. He worked in the observation tower and lived nearby with his six-year-old-son, Caleb.

“Do you believe Thatcher?” I asked both of them.

“Yes,” Ethan said.

“As do I,” Simon replied. “Derek is stubborn and quite opinionated on certain subjects, but he isn’t lying.”

“So someone who may or may not be his ex-wife faked his son’s death,” I said.

Ethan nodded. “That seems to be the theory. What we need to do now is look into those supposed deaths.”

“I’ve already put in a call to the hospital in Georgia,” Simon said. “Death certificates for Jennifer and Landon Cunningham are missing and no paper copies exist. The coroner’s report wasn’t tampered with, though. It lists cause of death as asphyxiation. The bodies were burned beyond recognition, but Jennifer’s body was identified via dental records.”

“What about Landon’s body?”

“Too young for dental records. Said the body was a physical match. Both bodies were cremated.”

“Of course they were,” I said.

“According to the article attached to the fire report,” Ethan said, “Jennifer had no next of kin. No one to claim them or follow up.”

“Correct,” Simon said.

“So both bodies were burned unrecognizably, later cremated, the death certificates are missing, and it’s becoming more possible that the dead child wasn’t actually Landon.”

Simon shuddered. “Maybe not, but it was someone’s child.”

“Sorry.”

“So who do we know that likes to alter official records and steal people’s identities?” I asked, knowing full well it was a damned rhetorical question.

They both looked at me, and their faces made it clear we were all on the same wavelength. We’d come to the conclusion a month ago that some shadowy government agency was behind the Recombinants—they had too much access and too much knowledge to be working independently. We knew they had stolen identities before, in order to hide their projects in plain sight.

The Recombinants had been intended as artificially created Metas—powerful, but controllable. We still had no idea how deeply this organization went, or how many different Recombinant projects existed. So far we’d seen the hybrid-Changelings: beings who could alter their physical shape, completely take over another human being, and who also came blessed with his or her own special superpower. We’d also seen the Ranger clones: twenty- year-old versions of our dead parents and mentors, re-created perfectly in looks and powers, and possessing everything except their emotions. The only thing we knew about the organization was that one of the people in charge was referred to as the Overseer.

We all really, really wanted to meet his person—and beat the ever-loving shit out of him or her.

“Stealing the child of a known Meta is a little out of their usual MO, isn’t it?” Ethan asked.

“Their usual MO changes every time we run into another of their projects,” I said.

“Not exactly, no,” Simon said. “The ultimate goal of the Overseer seems to be to push Metas into a confrontation with their Recombinants. You’ve already fought the Changelings, as well as the clones. What better way to push the Manhattan residents into a confrontation than to dangle their live, brainwashed children in front of them?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Brainwashed?”

“So to speak, yes. If Landon was taken away at three, there is no telling what lies were told to him about his parents, or about Metas. Children are very impressionable.”

A cold snake of fear twisted down my spine as his words inched a little too close to the truth of my own childhood, and I found myself sympathizing with Landon Cunningham more than I’d admit was possible. I knew what it was like to have the adults in your life, your own mother and friends and neighbors, the people who were supposed to protect you from the monsters, become the very things you always feared. To turn your once- peaceful life into a fucking nightmare. In the end, the Rangers had saved me.

Was it too late for Landon?

“Renee?” Ethan squeezed my elbow, and I jumped. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said.

The look he gave me said I don’t believe you, but he didn’t argue. Even if he had, we weren’t having that conversation in front of Simon—or ever, for that matter.

“Until you find Landon or his partner in crime, this is all guesswork,” Simon said.

“Marco is still working on identifying her,” Ethan said. “I don’t suppose us going down to Georgia would do any good.”

“Doubtful, but that’s probably Teresa’s call.”

“Georgia is pointless,” I said. “The guy at the warehouse is Landon. Photo aging confirms it, and the fact that he”—I made air quotes—“died under suspicious circumstances only makes it more obvious. All we’d be doing is reconfirming what we already know.”

“So what do you suggest we do, Renee?” Ethan asked.

“That’s not my area, Windy. I don’t come up with the plans, I just follow them.”

“Have you informed the authorities of your identification of one of the thieves?” Simon asked.

I glanced at Ethan, whose subtle eyebrow raise told me he wasn’t sure, either. “Probably not. Teresa won’t want to paint a giant target on this kid’s back until we’ve tried to find him ourselves.” It was just the way she worked when it came to Metas who were wanted by the police.

“That’s a dangerous line to walk.”

“Believe me, we know, but it’s how T wants it.”

In the last six months or so, we’d helped authorities capture thirteen Metas who’d committed crimes using