“Events?” I ask.
“Apparently, that’s how Jonah liked to refer to the… attacks, he had planned,” Dean tells me.
I nod as I take a sip of the strong coffee. It is not hospital lounge coffee. This is real, from a coffee shop brew. I am deeply grateful. One day I might have to wean myself off of coffee, but for now, it’s my lifeblood. The taste keeps me focused, and the caffeine keeps my body moving, even when sleep is far from my grip. I can think back to when it was merely nightmares that chased away the rest at night. Now I’d welcome the nightmares darkening the door of my eyelids. They would be better than what’s keeping me awake.
“How revisionist of him,” I comment. “Of course, that’s probably how he actually sees it. In his screwed-up mind, all the crimes he commits and destruction he causes are good. I wonder who does his catering.”
Greg already looks tired when I get into his room, but when he sees me, he sits up straighter, his eyes opening wider with anticipation.
“Anything?” he asks. “Any new information?”
“No,” I say. “But I don’t think there’s going to be. This is on me.”
“It’s on us,” Dean says. “You’re not in this alone.”
I smile at him as much as I can manage and put down the box of files.
“Greg, I know we’ve been grilling you, and it can’t possibly be pleasant to have to relive everything, but I have a few more questions I really need to ask you.”
“Ask anything you want,” he sighs. “I’m slowly feeling better. The memories are there. There’s nothing I can do about that. I might as well let them out so they can do something good,” he says. “He needs to be stopped. You can’t let him get his hands on you.”
“I won’t,” I promise him. “We’re not going to let that happen.”
“What do you need to know?”
“How much about his past did he tell you? He said that you were one of his honored ones at the beginning, and he gave you some details about his life. You figured out he thinks he’s my father and that Dean is his son. You knew about my mother’s funeral. You knew about some of the things that he’s done. How much of it?”
“I don’t know exactly. He likes to tell stories. When there’s someone he’s willing to tell them to, he will happily regale them with tales of his accomplishments,” he says.
“How many was he willing to tell?”
“A few. Some because they believed what he believes, or at least he thought they did, and he was preparing them for more. Others because he knew they would never be able to tell anyone once he was done with them. He wanted their last thoughts to be the knowledge of what he’d already done,” Greg says.
“He killed people. Not just in the disasters he orchestrated,” I acknowledge.
“’Disposed’ of them, was how he would put it. When they used up their value or went against him, he made sure they weren’t a problem anymore. But it would be almost impossible to link him to any of the deaths.”
“Why?” I ask.
“He didn’t use a consistent method or dumping ground. He removed all features that connected him to the victims.”
“What kind of features?” Dean asks.
“Did the doctors give you many details about my injuries?” he asks.
It seems like an odd departure from the rest of the conversation, and I glance over at Dean. He gives a subtle nod like he’s nudging me forward.
“Not many,” I admit. “I know that you were beaten. There was evidence of cuts and a few burns. But they wouldn’t go into specifics.”
Greg nods. “What about my back? Did they tell you which of those injuries are on my back?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“My back was cut and burned. When investigators have looked at bodies they’ve found, they would have found similar injuries. Not in the same patterns, not always with the same techniques. Some would have chemical burns. Some would look like they were dragged across the road. Some were mangled by machinery. But it all had the same purpose. To remove the mark of Leviathan.”
“What mark?” I ask.
“When new recruits first join, they are given tests to prove their strength and loyalty. It starts with a tattoo on the back. Marking you for life. At first, it’s a very basic pattern. Only a few lines. And as you progress through the tests, more details are added. It’s considered a privilege and reward to earn extra features of the tattoo. The highest members have extremely elaborate tattoos.”
“He tattooed you?” I ask.
“Not with my permission,” Greg says.
Letting out a breath, I let that idea roll through my head. I’ll never know what really happened to him in those two years he spent with Jonah. He’ll tell what he has to, but he will probably always keep some details locked inside.
“So, removing the tattoo was a final act of dismissal,” I muse. “He doesn’t want these people linked to him in any way; he doesn’t want anyone being able to uncover Leviathan. But it’s also cutting them off, figuratively and literally, from the rest of the organization. It’s a tangible act of retribution. For doing something wrong. For disappointing him. For no longer having value. I would assume it usually happens before death?”
“For those who are being punished, yes,” he confirms.
“It ensures they experience the full suffering, both physical and emotional, of the entire experience. A hallmark of cult behavior. Being disavowed from the group is a humiliation that many find as brutal and intolerable as the physical attacks.”
I’m not really talking to either of them. The words just come out from where my experience and knowledge has them stored. Cold rushes to the tips of my fingers, making me grip the cup of coffee tighter. I glance down at it for a second
