The orphanage was bullshit.
Beyond's thrashing around his room could probably be heard as far as the girls' wing, and he didn't give a damn. His closet had been emptied, its contents strewn over the floor, and his desk chair was shattered against the wall. My life only means something if L croaks? he thought, shoving a handful of clothes into a knapsack. Fuck that. If he can be the world's greatest detective, then I'll be the world's greatest criminal. He grinned at the thought. The plan had already been set into motion: He just had to figure out a way to get to America. There was still a lot to do.
The knob on his door jiggled and he froze, listening. Rarely would anyone visit his bedroom—it was usually L, and at least he had the courtesy to knock. But he was surprised to hear Wammy's voice on the other side. "Beyond? Can I come in?"
The old man never came to his room. He hardly spent time in the dormitories at all; his time was focused on brainwashing his little student, his prized possession. But Beyond unlocked the door, mostly out of curiosity.
"What do you want?" Beyond growled, dropping onto the bed cross-legged. But the moment he looked at the old man, he almost regretted his words—he was sad. More than sad. He had been crying; his eyes were still puffy and red-rimmed. Wammy closed the door gently and then glanced at the desk—obviously seeking the chair—but opted for his only other seating option: the bed. Beyond moved over, as far away as he could.
"Beyond . . ." Wammy sighed, glancing from L's successor to the closet's vomit over the floor. "What happened here?"
"Cleaning," he replied shortly. "Why are you here?"
Wammy sighed and squared his shoulders, attempting to look like the world-renowned inventor and orphanage founder that he was. But it fell short. He had a distant look in his eyes; though he was focused on Beyond, his mind was elsewhere.
"I have terrible news. There's been an accident."
Beyond arched an eyebrow. Suddenly, he knew.
Over the years, he had grown accustomed to the swirling names and numbers affixed to everyone he saw. In the beginning, when he'd figured out what it meant, he had been fascinated. He would calculate the numbers in his head, and then share with people their date of demise. But it got boring. When he moved into Wammy's House, there were too many to keep track of. Too many kids with long lifespans, all swirling together and forming an incomprehensible mess of numbers. He tried not to look at them. But there was one who wasn't going to live as long as the others—one that he should have remembered; he should have recorded the date and crossed the days off his calendar. But it had been weeks since he'd seen the boy. Beyond had been too preoccupied planning his escape.
Now, Wammy stared down at his hands, twisting them in his lap. When he looked up, actual tears had leaked from the corners of his eyes. "There was a miscalculation. There wasn't supposed to be a sniper at the scene, and—"
Beyond threw up his hands. "What are you getting at? Who croaked?"
But he knew: He just wanted to hear the words from Wammy. Beyond stared at him intently and waited for it. He wanted to see what the old man would do when the "bad news" was delivered. To his dismay, there was no breakdown. A few tears, sure, but Wammy looked exhausted, like he was done crying. Like he was ready to move on.
"L." He swallowed hard. "He's been killed."
Beyond felt a little sorry for the dead detective. It was a shit way to go—L had been indoors, investigating the scene, and an anonymous sniper was on the roof of the building opposite. Maybe if L hadn't stepped in front of the window, he could have come home alive. The sniper was associated with the guy they were investigating, obviously; someone took every precaution to make sure he wasn't found. Beyond guessed that when you killed a high-profile movie star, you knocked off the little detective who was getting too close to the answers. Even from the car parked on the sidewalk, Wammy knew that something was wrong. He was a sniper himself, and could see the disturbance in the glass on the window far above—something most others would never detect.
As much as Beyond wanted his own glory, he was a little disappointed. There had been no battle; Beyond had won by default. He punched the concrete wall after Wammy left, cursing that stupid sniper. "I didn't want him to die," he said, rubbing his knuckles. What kind of victory was it, if L wasn't around to know of his defeat?
Wammy wanted to have the funeral right away, but Beyond wasn't ready. He stood at his handler's desk, shoving his hands into his pockets as he tried to explain his reasons. It all sounded so fake, and Wammy knew it. But he was the old man's precious L now, and he wasn't going to refuse his requests.
"I have to say goodbye," he had told Wammy, and he seemed to accept this. "Tell you what: I'll even prepare the coffin and all that. You don't have to do anything." Wammy had started to protest, but Beyond went on. "Just leave everything downstairs, and I'll take care of it." And he walked out of the office before Wammy could answer.
Few ventured into the basement. It was cold and dusty, and even Beyond didn't like to spend a lot of time there. But that was where they were keeping the body until the burial, and there was no better place for Beyond's farewell. No one would intrude. He descended the stone staircase the next day, gripping a heavy valise in one hand and cradling a brown sack in the other. He pushed open the iron door with his hip, flipping the deadbolt locked once inside. Wammy's laboratory used to be down there, before he built himself a bigger, better one on an upper floor. Now, the space was littered with abandoned supplies—flasks, springs, and other oddities even Beyond couldn't identify—and against the wall was a long table bearing a coffin. He immediately strode over, carefully setting the sack on the floor. Beyond peered into the coffin.
Is this how everyone else sees others? he thought. He stared down at the impassive face—not entirely different in death, he was amused to notice—but it was just . . . him. No name. No lifespan. He could have stared at that face for hours, marveling at the clarity. Just this once, his vision wasn't marred with the useless knowledge of life and death. He inhaled slowly. It was peaceful. It was good.
The bullet hole was in L's chest, so it wasn't visible through his clean, white shirt. They hadn't even dressed him up—just the usual white shirt and blue jeans that he'd worn every day of his life. It was fitting. Beyond unzipped the valise to dig through his tools. He pulled out a dagger and stood over L's body, then grinned before slicing open the shirt, one single cut from the collar to his waist.
The bullet had left a neat, clean hole. The body had been cleaned up some, though Beyond didn't suspect there'd been too much external bleeding. He had to give it to the sniper—he was good. Beyond traced his fingers down L's cold chest, lingering over the hole, before pressing his hand to his stomach.
"Too bad you can't feel that, baby," he muttered, as the knife clanged to the floor. He leaned on the edge of the coffin to stare at L's face. He took in the tousled hair and angular nose, dragging a fingertip down his sharp jawline. Beyond sighed heavily. "Let's see what made you tick."
He procured a scalpel, bone cutter, and a pair of surgical gloves from the valise. As he pulled on the gloves, he thought of the one question that was on the world's mind: How could one man—one boy—solve the world's most difficult cases? Beyond twirled the scalpel between his fingers and pushed L's hair away from his forehead. What was it about the detective's brain that made him so superior?
Beyond pressed the blade into L's forehead. It didn't bleed, not at first; it was not until he peeled back the skin that he got blood on his hands. He grunted and grabbed a hand towel from the valise, winding it through his belt loop and smoothing a gloved hand over it. Beyond had suspected that a corpse would still be bloody, but he hadn't expected so much. Luckily, he had left the body in the coffin. He would be sure to nail it shut when he was done.
The bone cutter was trickier. He only had construction paper to practice on, which was pointless. But he was thrilled by the clean cut. He delicately lifted L's head with one hand while working the saw with the other, all the way around, until the crown could be removed. The coffin's lining was stained with blood but he grinned, peeling back the brain's protective layers to gaze upon the prize itself.
It was a beautiful thing.
He delicately removed a jar of formaldehyde from the brown sack, unscrewing the airtight lid. His eyes stung as the gas escaped; he rubbed them against the crook of his elbow. Slowly, he lifted L's brain and clipped through the spinal cord, delighted by the soft matter cupped in his hands. Beyond looked down at L, then lowered the brain into its new home. He quickly screwed on the lid.
It didn't look any different from the brains he'd seen in anatomy books. It wasn't any bigger, and there was no indication that it was special. It was a brain like anyone else's. Beyond thought he'd be disappointed, but the brain was just like a person's outward appearance—it wasn't its physical attributes that made it special. It was the way one used it.
He pulled a spool of surgical thread and a needle from the bag. He set the crown back into place and sewed small, neat stitches around to reattach it. L's flop of hair covered the stitches when he was completed, but he dabbed them with liquid bandage anyway, for added effect. He doubted anyone would check the body now, but he couldn't be too careful. Beyond folded over the silky fabric behind L's head to hide any blood that had escaped.
The job had been too easy. He looked down at the brain, floating in its liquid confines, then back to L. "You'll always be with me now," he said, cupping L's face before nailing the coffin shut.
The funeral was a small affair. The public couldn't know, so there was only a small crowd gathered at the gravesite behind Wammy's House. The kids were uncomfortable, shifting in place as Roger led the service. Beyond knew that they were conflicted: mourning L was something they had to do, but they hadn't liked him, anyway. L was weird. Some of the younger kids actually cried, but the older ones remained stone-faced. Beyond stared at them over his shoulder. He stood with Wammy at the front, with L's open grave and Roger right before them.
Wammy stepped forward to recite a Bible verse. He knew it from memory. He carried no Book with him, and he stood straight as he looked over the small group. "The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart: and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from evil to come." His voice choked on the word evil, but he concluded, "He shall enter into peace." Wammy smiled at his new charge. Beyond wondered who the verse was really for: L's spirit, which wasn't even there anymore, or himself.
Beyond helped when Wammy and Roger began filling in the grave; he could hear the other children murmuring as they filed back inside. He kept his head down, and the two older men didn't bother him. For a while he stopped tossing dirt into the hole, staring instead as it filled up.
"It isn't fair," Beyond said, throwing down his shovel.
Wammy looked up over the rim of his glasses. "Why don't you go inside," he said, placing a hand on Beyond's shoulder. "You've helped enough."
Beyond only nodded before bolting into the orphanage. It wasn't supposed to end this way. This victory is bullshit!
Beyond rushed up the stairs to the boys' wing, pushing past the children who wouldn't get out of his way. Names and numbers crowded the hallway and beneath it all . . . laughter. He stopped short, crashing into a couple kids who cried out in protest, and whipped around.
Four boys stood against the wall, whispering to themselves, and laughing—looking at him. Beyond tilted his head. One of the kids—the leader, presumably—lifted his head, as if challenging him. Stupid boy.
"Something you wanna say?" Beyond asked as the crowd thinned. Some kids ducked into their rooms; some stood by, waiting.
The leader wavered only slightly before he burst into laughter. "What're you gonna do?"
In one motion Beyond grabbed his collar and pinned the boy to the wall. He gurgled and kicked his feet, which were no longer planted on the floor.
"You think you can bother me like you bothered him? You think I'm gonna take his place, huh?" The boy shook his head, eyes wide, unable to speak. Beyond tightened his grip. "Listen here, you little shit. You stay outta my way, and I won't threaten your life. Deal?" He managed a slight nod.
But one of his posse took a step closer. "Freak," he spat. "'Course you're gonna stick up for him. You were fucking him."
Beyond chucked his victim at the posse and they toppled to the floor in a heap, a mess of cries and limbs as they scrambled off one another. The leader rubbed his raw throat. Beyond kicked the wall—they all jumped—before storming into his room. He slammed the door, rattling the exterior wall.
He scanned the room, his gaze landing on the closet. In the back, wrapped in the brown sack, was the jar. He closed his eyes and leaned against the door, feeling the wash of comfort through his veins—like its presence alone could calm him. Beyond lips jerked into a small smile. In the hallway, all was quiet.
It was too risky for Beyond to keep his prize at the orphanage. With his new funds as L—and it was a lot; he thanked his predecessor for that—he rented a room not far from the orphanage. It was small, but it was perfect. It faced north, so sunlight never spilled through its windows, but it was clean and lined in empty shelves that waited to be filled. After the room was officially his, and after Watari and the real estate agent left him alone, Beyond began to move in some of his more questionable belongings. He held the brown sack to his chest as he walked up the four flights of stairs, even though the building had an elevator—he had little desire to bump into his new neighbors. He unwrapped the sack on the floor of the room, then slowly spun in place as he contemplated its new home. Ultimately, he set the brain dead-center on a middle shelf, right in his line of vision. It would be the only thing without a label—he wouldn't need a reminder whose it was. Beyond ran his fingers down the front of the jar, remembering the feel of the brain in his hands. He would need others to compare it against, to see if it was different in some way. But if he never acquired companions for it, he was content just to have it watch over him. It was fitting—like L himself was there, silently judging him. "I'm in control now," he murmured, and then pulled himself away to lean out the window.
There wasn't a screen—he'd have to fix that—but he leaned over the sill, staring at the bustling sidewalk below. Before L had died, his plan had involved going to America, where he'd be undetected. But perhaps he didn't have to leave. He squinted, studying the faces below, jumping from face to face as he read their lifespans.
Beyond could be just as effective here, in England.
His cell phone rang. Already, Wammy was bothering him to take on a case. "L," Wammy said, the voice too close to Beyond's ear, "We must finish this case that we left unsolved. And I would like you to find the sniper, too, who is responsible for his death." Old man Wammy couldn't even say his name. Beyond forced down a laugh.
"I'm with you there," Beyond said, leaning against the window frame. Instinctively, he glanced at the roof of the building across the street. "We'll make sure he's punished."
They hung up. Beyond stared at his mostly-empty shelves, his gaze stopping at the jar. The brain seemed to shine, even in the semi-darkness of the room. "No one defeats you without my permission," he said. "I'll avenge your death, baby." Yes, he would find that sniper. He had taken Beyond's victory from him, and no one won against Beyond. Not anymore.