Page 76 of The Broken Places

He moved over her, his beautiful down-turned eyes filling with passion, with love. And if she hadn’t been certain before, she was certain now—she would not deny the world more people like Ambrose, people who were trapped inside human shells, begging to be set free.

Afterward, he pulled her against him, running his hand lazily over her arm, and they lay like that for several peaceful moments. She moved back and studied him, struck by his expression. He looked so vulnerable, and she was still knocked sideways by the fact that someone witha past like his could or would allow an emotion like that to show so starkly on his face. As if he didn’t know what some people did with such tenderness. But of course he did—and much better than most—and so that made it all the more awe inspiring.

He sighed happily, his eyes—those beautiful soul-searing eyes—moving over her features. “You make me feel like white doves and waffles,” he said.

She breathed out a laugh. “White doves and waffles.” She considered that. “So peaceful ... and sweet?”

He turned, lacing his fingers behind his head on the pillow. “My grandfather went away for a week once. It was the best week of my childhood. I don’t even remember where he went. But my grandma, she took me into town, and we ate breakfast at Denny’s. I ordered waffles. I’d never had waffles. Or syrup. I licked my plate, and my grandma laughed. I’d never seen her laugh.” Even from the side, she saw his gaze grow slightly cloudy as his eyes shifted from the wall to the ceiling, obviously picturing those waffles and that unexpected moment of happiness. “I thought if he didn’t exist, life might be like that. I understood how other people lived. And it hurt, but ... it was also the first time I felt hope.” He turned toward her, and again, she saw his heart in his eyes. “You feel like that. Like peace, and sweet, and hope.”

Oh God.She was moved and honored, and her throat felt full of the emotion that had welled up in her as he described one of the only good memories he had of his boyhood, otherwise filled with so much darkness and despair.

He turned back toward her, leaning in. “And you make me want to lick my plate clean,” he said with a grin.

She laughed.

They kissed and cuddled, finding joy in the shared intimacy and solace in the warm safety of her bed. And then they talked for hours, telling each other about the respective journeys they’d taken as they’d undergone Dr. Sweeton’s therapy. Lennon, however, didn’t yet talk about the baby, as she sensed it wasn’t quite time for that. They spokeabout the undeniable sense oflovethat had permeated everything, when they’d been given the eyes to see it, and seemed to be ... aningredient, for lack of a better word, that made up the entire universe. It sounded hippie dippie, and her mother would eat it up. But regardless, she’d experienced it, and knew it was true. Or maybe, she surmised, it was part oftheirmakeup—human beings—and it had been accessed with the drugs. It was difficult to explain, and she was grateful she’d gone through it so she could relate. Because otherwise, there would have been no other way. Words ... mostly failed to describe it, though she knew what he was getting at with his explanations. And she understood even more the white dove, and the terrible, awful guilt and shame and pain Ambrose had lived with for his first twenty-one years. And she also understood that though he’d lied about being born and raised in San Francisco, he’d also told the truth. Or perhapsrebornwas a better way to say it.Reraised.Renewed.

They shared their bodies and their souls late into the night and finally fell into a peaceful sleep. When they woke, the afternoon sun was glowing between the slats in her bedroom shade. Lennon was glad for the extra sleep and could have stayed in bed all day, basking lazily and enjoying her newfound bond with Ambrose. But they had a very clear mission, one they were now facing together.

CHAPTER FORTY

The man in the hoodie walked down the aisle of the church, daylight bouncing off the stained glass windows, the vibrant colors flaring with illumination.Bloody battles and clashing swords, flayed corpses and weeping mothers.Who needed to provide triggers when they were etched on every window? And the biggest trigger of all, that larger-than-life Jesus Christ, nails driven through his palms as he hung lifeless from a wooden cross.

Yes, indeed, this would be biblical.

His laughter echoed in the quiet space.

Mercy Cathedral had been built in 1898 and had miraculously survived the 1906 earthquake. Unfortunately, the congregation had eventually been lost to attrition—no surprise in a city that celebrated sin. The empty building had been purchased by a nonprofit group that rented it out for social functions, but in the last six months, it’d been acquired by the city and would be repurposed into housing units for 117 seniors who had experienced homelessness and were now living with health issues.

Or so said the website. The man didn’t talk that way.Experienced homelessness.Like if something was anexperience, then you weren’t responsible for it. He supposed the disgusting, useless slobs who’d killed his mother hadexperienced homicide.

Well, he wasexperiencing homicide, too, and he was enjoying it immensely. And this, once a place of worship and dignity, nowtransforming into a smelly hovel for elderly riffraff dependent on taxpayers, seemed like the perfect location to continue what he’d started.

The DJ booth had already been set up, though the tables hadn’t been moved in yet. That would all happen later today. He’d perfected the drug. It’d only taken five live experiments and a notebook of formulas. Wouldn’t his professors be proud? He’d figured out how to access the trauma centers in the brain where all their nightmares already lived. And with a small trigger—boom! A homicidal maniac was born. The beauty of his improved concoction was that specific triggers were no longer necessary—merely general ones. Screeching sounds. Scary images. A jab or two. Then they’d fight to the death. He’d watched it happen himself just a few days before.

And he’d watch it tonight. And then he’d watch it again and again after that. He looked up to the smaller balcony on his right, even higher than the one once used for a choir or perhaps an organist. No, the place where he’d view this evening’s event had once been a lofty box seat reserved for the upper crust. His lips stretched. It seemed an apropos place from which to watch his plans unfold. Not only on video this time but in person as well. He deserved that. Not only to see what played out with his eyes but to hear the screams from below. To smell the tang of sweat and blood. Not only to stand in the aftermath but tobethere for the slaughter.

It was his final experiment. A mass gathering. Not everyone would take the drug in the manner presented to them, but enough would. Enough to make his point, anyway. That these people were capable of anything, and that eventually, they’d strike. They always did. And hopefully they’d take a few of the activists present with them, especially the ones who used social programs as a way to line their own pockets, ensuring the problem never got fixed. Endless fundraising and, therefore, endless dregs.

If tonight went well, he’d give his drug to whole neighborhoods. They’d pop it like candy if they thought it’d get them high. Those parasites would sell their own babies for a hit. He’d clear out tent cities andopen-air drug markets. He could see the piles of bodies now.Beautiful.The public would pretend to be horrified, but then they’d walk through the clean streets, and in their homes at night, they’d shut the shades and whisper to each other,Maybe it’s for the best.

The man stood at the altar, staring up at the statue of Mary. The mother. He wondered what his own mother would think about what he was doing and decided she’d probably try to talk him out of it. But that’s how she’d been—far too tenderhearted. She’d thought low-IQ scum could be helped. She’d been wrong. And it was why she was now dust in the ground.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Ambrose took a seat on the edge of the bed, his mind returning to that studio where he’d answered questions, fidgeting and suffering, so long ago. Something had crossed through his mind while they’d sat eating sandwiches and brainstorming about the case in Lennon’s sunlit kitchen, and he was trying to retrieve it. Lennon exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her curves, her hair in a twist on top of her head. She smiled, and time slowed, and he knew he wanted to see this very vision for the rest of his life. It was ... surreal, and in some ways, it was a full-circle moment for him. He hadn’t planned for this; in fact, he’d sworn off it. Love. A relationship. And he’d lived with the belief that he’d never have those things—that he didn’twantthose things—for so long that adjusting the vision of his own future felt like both a small miracle and the riskiest thing he’d ever faced.

She approached him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body into his. He sighed, embracing her slim body and inhaling her shower-fresh fragrance. He felt the blood move more swiftly, and then more slowly, in his veins, his muscles loosening, even though he’d thought he’d been relaxed a few minutes before.

This. Human touch.It was medicine. His shoulders lowered, his thoughts drifted, as she stroked his hair. “The cameraman,” he murmured.

She leaned back. “What?”

“Oh my God, the cameraman. There was a cameraman filming. Jamal sat with me and asked questions. But there was a man behind the camera.”

She blinked, stepped back. “Call Jamal,” she said, handing him her phone and scrolling to the number.

Ambrose stood and dialed the number as Lennon dropped her towel and began pulling on clothes, late-afternoon light caressing her skin and making it glow. Jamal answered on the second ring, sounding distracted. “This is Ambrose DeMarce. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but we had a few questions based on the videos you gave us yesterday.”

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