Eye of the Storm

Chapter Two

Smoldering

…

"What do you want?" Dodger finally asked. She was wracking her brain trying to figure it out, but it just didn't make sense. He'd served his sentence, so why not just move on? Admittedly, if it had been her she would have come back for revenge, but Owen had always been different than her.

But time had changed him. His brown eyes had lost their innocent, vulnerable quality, and now all that remained was an intense, stony gaze, like he was taking everything in and wasn't particularly pleased with what he saw. As they stood there in the dim light, his mouth tonelessly formed the words, "For you to be sorry."

She replied, "I'm sorry. Will you go now?" Despite trying to keep her voice equally toneless, the slightest hint of mockery crept in.

Owen shook his head, expression unchanging.

Dodger had always been talented at reading people, since she was a child. People were more mathematical than they liked to admit, and for all their apparent irrationalities, it was just a matter of figuring out the formula. Crack that, and one could analyze anyone in but a moment - and hide anything for as long as required. She had tricked people into giving her material things, power, even relationships. Anything she wanted, because she knew the formula.

But this was different. She wasn't the type to feel fear, but she was bothered. Not only was Owen not acting like himself, he wasn't acting human.

"You misunderstand me. I have no desire for an apology. I want you to be sorry," said Owen.

Revenge? That had been her first instinct, the logical path of action as well as the typical emotional response. Across the table was a heavy iron paperweight. He was going to hit her over the head with it. One hard whack, and that would be it. Or maybe he'd brought his own weapon. He didn't know the paperweight was going to be here, and he'd had time to plan this out. Nothing spur of the moment whatsoever about this. Of course, Dodger kept weapons of her own concealed around the house. Still slung over her shoulder, her purse contained the standard can of pepper spray, as well as a switchblade and a syringe full of a deadly, not to mention highly illegal, poison. Perhaps it was a bit of overkill, pardon the pun, but she knew something like this would happen eventually. She realized her hand was gravitating towards the switchblade.

As Owen rose, her breath caught in her throat. This was it, kill or be killed. Or both. Maybe he'd torture her? What she'd done to him had affected his life for years, would probably always have some effect on him; he'd want to do something lasting to her. She wouldn't allow him the satisfaction - that was what the syringe was for. Even a few drops would result in instant death. Technically, she supposed death was something lasting, but it came eventually to everyone and she had always been unusually indifferent to the matter, to her advantage. Faced with death staring her directly in the face, she noted with dull surprise that she had broken out in a cold sweat. Maybe she was a bit afraid. Huh.

All these thoughts ran through Dodger's mind in the span of mere seconds, her naturally abnormally fast thinking speed accelerated to the breaking point by fear… or whatever it was. Images flashed behind her eyes – rain, knives, blood, guns, glasses, metal piercings reflecting the light of the stars; an entire album of photographs taken subconsciously during those two nights she had played the angel of death, accompanied by staccato piano music that came from nowhere.

Owen.

This was it…

But he didn't kill her. He stood before her, leaned in and kissed her quick and hard on the mouth before calmly walking out the door.

Dodger ran out after him, shouting, "Hey! Wait!" but he didn't, couldn't because he was long gone. It startled Dodger when it occurred to her that after he'd kissed her, she must have simply stood there like an idiot, lost in lack-of-thought. Her lips still tingled. It wasn't a sentimental metaphor but a fact, although it was uncharacteristic of her. Even her own body had betrayed her.

What would she say when she saw Owen again? In fact, would she even see him again? She somehow thought so, although that may just have been the uncharacteristic sentimentality talking again. The criminal always returned to the scene of the crime, but Owen wasn't the criminal.

She was. And she hadn't returned.

Yet.

Not knowing what else to do, Dodger went to bed without bothering to eat or change, and soon fell into a troubled sleep.

…

"Yo! McDermott!"

By now the rain had ceased, and the thick grey clouds begun to disperse, allowing brilliant blades of sunlight to infiltrate the forest. Wild evergreens towered overhead, and moss and other small plants carpeted the muddy forest floor. To the casual observer, this would seem to be one of the few retreats left untouched by deforestation, urban development, humanity in general.

That is, until the house came into view, along with the scruffy-looking teenage boy running out of it. Although nowhere close to the height of the ancient trees, the structure looming ahead was far from modest. Calling it a mansion would be more accurate than to refer to it as a house. A rich, decadent mansion, at least from the outside. But Kyle, who had seen the contents countless times, knew otherwise.

"Kyyy-lllle, get over here already!" Shut up! The scruffy boy was bouncing on the balls of his feet with anticipation. Kyle actually slowed down slightly, amused at how each squelching step must be agony for the impatient other boy.

"Hello, Erik," acknowledged Kyle as he let himself in through the screen door. Taking a seat on a dilapidated old-fashioned chair, one of the sparse furnishings Erik had managed to salvage from outside a house on trash day, his eyes narrowed on the sticklike figure standing across the room, back arched as she gazed out the window. She was here. Carol.

Although she was a 17-year-old girl, Carol took androgyny to a whole new level, whether intentionally or not. With pale skin and freckles, as well as short wild brown hair that looked as though it had never seen a comb in its life, Kyle did not find her the least bit attractive. Gawky and bony, she was weak on so many levels. She obviously wanted people to like her, despite having no social skills whatsoever and only ever dressing in cheap baggy pants and black heavy-metal t-shirts. Today was no exception; as she turned to face him, Kyle took in today's shirt, emblazoned with laughably poorly drawn blue-skinned zombies, no doubt from some album's cover art. She looked surprised to see him, but he reminded himself Carol always looked surprised, due to her oddly wide eyes which were further magnified by her bent-up lopsided glasses, making her look like some freakish insect.

Kyle wasn't particularly fond of people in general, but he reserved a special brand of loathing strictly for Carol. Not that he let her know this, of course. Yes, he would subtly remind her of her own weakness, but always while maintaining a façade of friendship. He was skilled at concealing his true feelings, a talent that came in great use for a person as full of hate as himself.

Occasionally Kyle had the disturbing inkling she was aware of his hatred towards her, but he always attributed such thoughts to paranoia and simply dismissed them. Carol suffered from a well-deserved inferiority complex and probably thought everybodyhated her.

Kyle would have been all too happy to avoid all association with her, but she and Erik had come as a package deal. And as much as Kyle detested being reliant on anyone else, he knew he needed Erik. At least for the time being.

Kyle had met both Erik and Carol last year, on the first day of high school. He'd been on the bus, and had just taken a seat near the front, by himself since he saw no one he wished to socialize with. He sat there simply listening to the other students converse on the off-chance someone said something that would prove useful.

"I've been researching, and I'm more convinced than ever that Owen was never guilty." Kyle's ears pricked up upon hearing the boy's voice, and he turned all his focus to that discussion.

"I know. I mean, he had no motive." This voice was impossible to place on the gender spectrum. Rough and awkward sounding, like a rarely utilized tool that had grown rusty.

It really sounded like they were talking about the Westlake Prep Murders. But honestly, since when was that the type of thing people discussed on the bus? Kyle swiveled his head. One of the participants was an unhealthy-looking teenager of indeterminate sex. The other was a chubby guy with long greasy brown hair, old unfashionable clothing that had probably formerly been his father's, and the unpleasant beginnings of a beard.

Obvious social outcasts.

The only people who would possibly discuss this kind of thing on a school bus. Kyle decided he would wait before approaching them; though he was charismatic and knew it, he was also well aware that appearing too eager around those kind of people, especially on his first day at this new school, could effectively destroy his reputation before he even had a chance to build it up. There was a high probability this was a false alarm, and he didn't want to find out these people knew nothing about the incident after blowing his chances of social acceptance.

So he waited patiently, simply continuing to listen. He learned their names, Carol and Erik. He learned his instincts had been correct, and they were outcasts. And he learned this wasn't a false alarm – they really did know the case, maybe even better than he himself, though Kyle found them rather too sympathetic towards Owen. They weren't of the few who claimed Dodger was behind it all simply because they wanted an alternative minority opinion. They sincerely believed Owen had too much "moral fiber" (not enough guts, Kyle knew they meant) to do such a thing on his own free will. The teacher had been a sleaze, undoubtedly, but murder just didn't fit his patterns of behavior up until his death.

Kyle himself had been a long-time lurker of such speculative websites and was familiar with the sources quoted by Erik and Carol, such as the fan-made psychological profiles. The computer database at the high school where years ago it all went down had been hacked when a teenager half-way across the country had realized the administration never bothered to change the password from "DEFAULT." The hacker had accessed the records of all those involved, shared them with the people on the murder's discussion "fan" websites. All grades, report cards, and teacher's comments became public knowledge… if one knew where to look. The speculators, most of them only teenagers themselves, had no idea where the information came from, but had used it to construct the psychological profiles. The administration still did not know of the breach of security; indeed, only one person in the world did.

That person was Kyle, because he had been the hacker. And despite Erik and Carol's (especially the latter's) sappy over-sentimentalism, he believed they were right about one thing: somehow, Dodger had been behind it. The comments the teachers made about her were much the same as those Kyle's teachers made about him: intelligent, popular, manipulative. Of course, that last comment was only made by teachers they had had very early in their school lives, before they'd learned to manipulate even teachers into seeing them as flawless.

He had waited a few weeks before approaching the Vultures, as those in the murder-obsessed "community" were known. During this incubation period, he never made more than brief eye contact, and they never exchanged a single word.

At least in person.