Page 21 of Connected
Owen gritted his teeth.
After a moment Miller stepped closer, and then closer still, until he was very much in Owen’s personal space. He wasn’t as tall as Owen, but that hardly mattered when Miller was the one who was unfettered and fully dressed. When he spoke, it was just above a whisper. “Consider the state of our world. There is nobalance. There is pain and misery. Hate and violence. Children starve, the poor die from diseases that could easily be treated if they had money, masses willingly grant power to despots who strip individuals of their basic humanity. The planet cooks while millions deny that science is valid.”
“There are good things too,” Owen insisted miserably.
“Like what? Love? Pretty sunsets? Cute puppies? Those mean nothing. They are distractions from the truth. Andyou. You take some moron away from a merman’s fangs or you throw a good werewolf a bone, and then you pat yourself on the back for being a hero. But you’ve accomplishednothing. The battle is lost. The balance has irrevocably shifted.”
Those terrifying eyes, now so close to Owen’s, were like a pair of ice-lined abysses, drawing him in. He felt himself teetering on the edge. “What does this have to do with me?”
“You are nothing. Your life has been a waste. If you die tonight it will make no difference to anyone. You might as well have never existed.”
On his darker days, Owen had felt all of this to be true—and as the years had gone by, those days came more often. Sometimes entire weeks went by where the only thing keeping him going was habit. “Fuck you,” he said. “If I’m so worthless—if you’ve already won—why are you trying to recruit me?”
Miller chuckled and moved a few steps back. “I was once worthless too. Meaningless work. Dysfunctional family. I tried to find meaning through religion, through bigger stacks of cash, through sex… and eventually I realized that none of those meant anything. A pretend father-figure in the sky? Some worthless pieces of paper. A short interlude of sweaty huffing and puffing that momentarily scratches an itch. Garbage. And I was garbage too.”
The ache was truly setting into Owen’s shoulders and knees. He was thirsty. And dammit, his nose itched. “So?”
“I had potential. It was noted, I was recruited, and I am no longer worthless. You’ve had a small taste of my power.” He started to make that hand signal.
“No! Please don’t.” Owen was not above begging.
Miller laughed but didn’t complete the motion. “You see? Power. And yes, the war is won, but there’s still cleaning up to do. You can help. You have potential, Agent Cook. I assume that’s why Townsend took you on.”
Owen shook his head in mute denial.
“There are two possibilities, Agent Cook. You can die tonight after experiencing a great deal more pain, so much pain that you’ll be grateful for death. Your corpse will rot here, unmourned. Or you can join us, help us bring matters to a close a bit sooner. And honestly, considering the state of the world,won’t that be a mercy to the vast majority of humanity? You could consider that your true heroic deed.”
And Owen… oh, Owen was tempted. Not just because he didn’t want to be tortured and murdered, although that played a part too. But also because much of what Miller was saying made sense to him. What was the point of scrabbling around, doing a few good deeds when the world was, as Owen’s mother used to say, going to hell in a handbasket? Why not just rip off the Band-aid and get the whole thing over with?
He very nearly said yes.
Then he remembered Keaton. Who’d been dealt a bad hand in both the parental and genetic lotteries and who’d had a long rough period. But he’d fought. He’d worked hard to combat his addictions. He’d done his best to piece together a life that worked for him, and even if that meant living in Armpit, Wyoming, well, he was going to restore his old house, room by room. And when a big, surly agent showed up on his doorstep, Keaton had fed him. Talked to him. Accepted his deepest, most embarrassing truths with grace and understanding.
Had kissed him and promised to go on a date.
And that was a good thing, wasn’t it? That Keaton had taken a shit situation and still found his humanity and a meaning in life. The world might be full of all the horrors that Miller had named, but it was also full of these small good things. Yes, sunsets and puppy dogs and even love.
Plus, he was pretty sure that Miller was lying. Sure, things were bad in the world. But hope hadn’t died. The war wasn’t lost. Good humans continued to strive.
Owen raised his head and looked at Miller. “No.”
Miller heaved a dramatic sigh. “I didn’t think you’d be easy. All right. We still have a few hours, so I’ll give you some time to consider. And a small taste of what might await you.” He made the hand gesture again.
This time, blessedly, Owen blacked out.
CHAPTER 9
It wasn’t much fun to drive through the gusting wind and torrential rain, but at least nobody else was crazy enough to be out on the roads tonight. And there were no tornado warnings, so far. Keaton wanted to race to the tipple at top speed but had just enough brains to proceed cautiously.It’s only a few miles, he kept reminding himself.You’ll never get there if you crash the car.
Honestly, though, worrying about the weather was more soothing than worrying about Owen—and also better than reflecting on the fact that Keaton had no clue what he would do once he arrived. If Owen was unharmed, he’d probably be pissed that Keaton was getting in the way of his investigation. He’d probably also conclude that Keaton was a stalker, or at least overprotective. On the other hand, if Owen was in trouble, what the hell was Keaton going to do about it? He wasn’t a cop. He’d never even played one on TV.
“Pep talk,” he said to himself as he steered north. “I need a fucking pep talk.”
When he was a kid, his mother had enrolled him in an acting class where the instructor had made the students read various Shakespeare plays, an assignment of dubious usefulness for aten-year-old looking for a television role, but whatever. Now, decades and many miles away, Keaton remembered a famous line fromHenry Vand he said it out loud. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close up the wall with our English dead!”
He wasn’t about to invade France and he had no army, but he felt a tiny bit better nonetheless. Sometimes you just had to do what was necessary and throw caution and common sense to the wind—and there was a good wind tonight.
He was terrified: heart racing, blood rushing, gut clenching. But it had been a wrenchingly long time since he’d felt much of anything at all. In his need to isolate himself from others’ emotions, he’d muted his own as well. So in a weird way, it feltgoodto be scared. It was like watching a really good horror flick or riding a roller coaster.
