No Peace for the Damned

freedom.
    I closed my eyes. “OK. I’ll do it.”

Every time I thought of Uncle Max, the same scene came to my mind.
    The estate’s library. Leaning against an antique desk with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, he fondled one of those pink-gray stress balls
.
    “Are all the guards really necessary?” he asked
.
    Father was crouched toward the back of the library using a bucket and towels to scrub my blood from his forearms. “It took eleven of them to get her shackled this time,” he groused. “Hell, the bitch ripped off Alec’s left arm when he first touched her. And he’s loyal even without the drugs!” He grumbled as he wet his towel. “Thank God he’s right-handed.”
    Uncle Max tsked
.
    I lay on the floor. I couldn’t move past the pain in my stomach and lower back. Uncle Max strolled past the four guards posted against the bookshelves, eyeing me as he walked. He played with thestress ball, slipping it back and forth between his fingers, considering my wounds
.
    “What new ability has she developed?” he asked
.
    Father shrugged
.
    “Well she must have developed something,” Uncle Max prodded, “or you would have waited until you were in one of the interrogation rooms. You’re never in such a hurry that you don’t wait to leave the main house. Look at the mess you’ve made in the study, for Christ’s sake.”
    Father shook his head, scrubbing harder along the backs of his hands. Uncle Max’s gaze grew hot on my chest. Bone was exposed, that much I could feel, but it was the blood and muscle that had his attention
.
    He licked his lips
.
    I focused on the stress ball in his hands. Looked closer. It wasn’t a ball. It was flesh, turned inside out and rolled into a wad. I could smell it now—baby powder over brine. He rolled it in his palms and in between his fingers like some kind of slimy dough
.
    Whose skin did he play with? I took a focused peek into his mind…and screamed in horror
.
    …
    It hadn’t taken long for Thirteen to fine-tune the plan—just a day or two—but it was enough for me to muster up a good amount of dread. We sat in an Econoline van at the rear of the capitol. I was about as spied-out as I could get—dark sunglasses, hair hidden under a Cubs hat, surveillance equipment everywhere.
    Uncle Max and my father were both capable of the recent murders. But Uncle Max was the planner. Searching for a Network directory was exactly the kind of big-picture plot he would orchestrate.
    Another car backed into its space in the row across from us. Government workers had been coming and going for hours now, but Uncle Max was still a no-show.
    Thirteen sighed heavily beside me. “I know you don’t want to do this, Magnolia,” he said, breaking the long silence between us, “and I don’t blame you. But we need to know where to direct our efforts. You only have to get a feel for what the big plan is—why they’re so focused on removing the Network now.”
    He turned in his seat to look at me. A shimmery fog of power brushed along my skin.
Shit
.
    “Magnolia…”
    One of the monitors in front of us buzzed. Uncle Max had arrived. Bile instantly rose in my throat.
    Thirteen pushed some buttons on the monitor, flipped some switches on the dash, and we had sound. Papers shuffling, high heels on tile, fingers tapping on a keyboard—Max’s executive assistant readied his office. The click-clack of her heels practically ran from the room. A muffled “Good morning, sir,” then heavy footsteps.
    My mouth went dry.
    Father’s mind was cruel, brutal. And Uncle Mallroy’s was a frightening void—chaotic, illogical, almost nonhuman. But Uncle Max’s mind was sick—like diving into a pool of vomit and dead animals. It was going to take a very long time for me to feel clean after this.
    “Fine,” I finally said to Thirteen.
    I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and listened. Everything went away—the cars, the people, Thirteen—all that existed was Uncle Max’s office. Two interns disagreed in the vestibule. His assistant typed at her desk, fretting whether she had all the information for an upcoming press conference. In the office behind her, Uncle Max sat at his computer, his fingers flying over thekeyboard with unnatural speed. His breath was steady, his mind intent.
    No. Not his mind. His feelings were intent. His mind was…gone. My pulse sped. I couldn’t read a single thought. I focused harder.
    “I can’t hear him,” I said, my voice shaking. “Thirteen, I