Page 29 of Chained
“Perhaps? You’re the chief.”
“Of the West Coast Division only. Even I am answerable to a superior.”
Although Terry had always been aware that other divisions of the Bureau existed, people rarely mentioned them, and he’d never heard of Townsend having a boss. “Priorities need to change, sir. If this place still exists, they’re exploiting… children.”
“Yes.”
Not a promise, yet better than nothing. “And what about Edge?”
“Return to the estate tomorrow. Tell Whitaker you agree. When we get confirmation of what he intends to take from you, then we’ll act.”
“Act? How?” Terry realized he was yelling again, but this time he didn’t care. “Do you think I can just tell that fucker he’s under arrest and he’ll peacefully slide his wrists into cuffs? And Edge—”
“Stop.” Townsend’s voice was as modulated as always, yet the command carried such weight that Terry’s mouth snapped shut. “I am your superior and you must trust me on this.”
“Trust? I can’t even wear a wire, you know. He’ll probably make me strip again.”
Townsend pulled out his wallet and set a small pile of bills on the table. Then he put his hat on. “You have two paths to choose from. You can abandon this assignment, in which case it’s going to be very difficult for us to infiltrate Whitaker’s operation again. More innocent people will lose their souls. And your friend Edge will remain his possession. Or you can trust me. Which will it be?”
It wasn’t really a free choice, was it? Sure, Terry could walk away—but then he’d never be able to face himself in the mirror again, and Edge would haunt him worse than any ghost.
He released a shaky breath. “I’ll go.”
Townsend hummed along to the radio during their drive back to HQ. After they pulled into the parking space, Terry planned to go straight to his own car, but Townsend caught his arm. “Come up to my office for a minute.”
Although Terry had experienced more than enough of his chief and the Bureau for the day, he obeyed. As they entered Townsend’s reception area, Mrs. Lutz handed off a stack of phone memos and didn’t acknowledge Terry at all. Townsend took him into the inner office, closed the door, and tossed the papers onto his desk. Then he opened a drawer in one of his several file cabinets and removed what appeared to be a pill bottle.
“Here,” he said, shaking a tablet onto his palm and holding it toward Terry. “Swallow this in the morning before you go to Whitaker’s. Don’t eat anything else.”
Terry didn’t take it. “Snorting coke at his party was bad enough. I’m not gonna—”
“It’s not a drug.”
“Sure looks like one.” Terry took the pill and held it up to the light, inspecting it. It was unremarkable—small and light tan, with no numbers or other marks.
“And I’ll wager your friend Edge looks like an ordinary dog. You should know better than to take things at face value.”
“Then what is it?”
“Magic.” Townsend laughed at Terry’s answering glare. “Truly. One of the benefits of my position is having access to… unusual tools. This is one of them. It’s limited, however, so use it only as I’ve instructed.”
Terry slipped the tablet into his pocket. “You’re not going to tell me what it does?”
“I’m not. You’ll do your job better if you’re unaware.”
Fantastic. Apparently Terry was supposed to trust him on this too. “Can I go now?”
“Get some rest.”
His apartment looked even shittier now, compared to the opulence of Whitaker’s estate. Even his room at the guest house had been infinitely better. And to add further insult, the milk in his fridge had gone bad.
Still, it washisplace and nobody else’s, and the only reason it was so crappy was because he’d kept it that way. He could make it pretty decent if he wanted to. Or hell, he could give it up entirely and move somewhere better. He could afford nicer, and it was only indifference that had kept him in this state.
Stupid. He’d been so free all these years and never even realized it.
For what felt like hours, Terry stood in the middle of his pathetic living room, cursing himself and every poor choice he’d ever made. Back when he was a kid, he should have told someone that Aunt Shirley abused him. He should have moved out of her house the day he turned eighteen. He should have considered other careers. He should have tried to build something real with Amos instead of habitually retreating into the closet. He should have made himself a real home instead of tolerating a bland apartment in Culver City that held all the charm and individuality of a Motel 6. And he shouldnothave left Edge in Whitaker’s hands.
But he couldn’t undo any of that. The past was done, and time travel wasn’t possible—unless Townsend had even more magic than he hinted at. Now all that was left was to try to make the best decisions going forward.
