Genesis. Volume 2

October 24, 1986. Brookfield. Grandma Jenny's basement. Day. The basement reeked heavily of coal dust, damp old furniture, and a cloying, sweetish odor that had seemed to seep permanently into the concrete floor and brick walls over the past weeks. It couldn't be aired out. It hung there like a silent reminder—or a warning. Lisa hunched over an upturned wooden crate, her left hand clamped around a pencil. Her right arm, tightly wrapped in layers of bandages stained with yellow iodine, hung motionless in a gauze sling. She stared blankly at the white sheet pinned to her sketchpad, but the pencil didn't even touch the paper. Max stood against the wall, his back propping up a crooked shelf lined with dusty jars of jam. He couldn't take his eyes off her. He studied her gray, gaunt face, the dark bruises beneath her eyes, her chapped, dry lips. Lisa hadn't really slept since she'd been discharged from the hospital. "You don't have to stare," Lisa said quietly, not looking up. "I'm not drawing anyway." "I'm not staring. Just standing." "You're standing and staring." "That's different." She finally raised her eyes to him. They held a deep, hollow exhaustion that seemed to come from somewhere far inside. But in the corners of her eyes, something else burned—a fierce, powerless rage. At herself. At the traitorous, useless right arm. At the whole world that had broken her so brutally. "I can't do the circles," she said, her voice barely trembling. "My left hand can't hold the line. It starts shaking, and I end up with... scribbles." "Show me." Lisa hesitated. Her fingers loosened, and the pencil rolled across the paper with a dry clatter. She grabbed it again—clumsily, with her whole fist, like a small child—and with difficulty dragged the lead downward. The line came out jagged, crooked, full of sharp breaks. It wobbled wildly, mirroring the tremor in her fingers. Lisa clenched her teeth, pressed harder, and tried again. More of the same jerks. "See?" She exhaled loudly. "That's not a circle. That's God knows what. Some kind of spiderweb." Max stepped closer, his sneakers squeaking softly on the concrete floor. He leaned over the sheet. The line was indeed crooked, but there was a strange, tense energy to it. "Does it work?" he asked quietly. "I don't know. I haven't tested it yet." "Test it." Lisa snapped her head up. Something like panic and hope flickered in her gaze. "How?" "Draw the simplest circle. And call a shadow." "There are no shadows here." "How do you know?" Lisa didn't answer. She pressed the pencil to the paper again and slowly, deliberately, began to move her hand, biting her lower lip until it bled. The lead trembled, but she didn't stop. Circle, horseshoe, intersecting arcs—stroke after stroke. And the more lines appeared on the page, the calmer her face became, as if smoothing out from within. "Done," she breathed. Max looked at the drawing. The circle was lopsided, its edges ragged, but the outline was closed. "Well? Does it work?" he asked. "I don't know. Call a shadow yourself." "I don't know how." "Then call me." Lisa reached out her left hand and touched his wrist. Her skin was ice-cold. "I'll be the shadow. Try to cross." Max took a short step forward and immediately hit something. There was no visible barrier, but the air around Lisa had suddenly grown dense and heavy, as if it had turned into thick, invisible jelly. He felt the wall before him almost physically. "It works," Max said, his chest tightening. "Really?" "Yeah. I can't get through." Lisa let out a long, relieved breath. Her shoulders sagged, and she dropped the pencil—it rolled across the floor and under the shelf. "So I can still draw," she whispered, barely audible. "You always could." "No. Not always. I have to learn all over again. Every single line is pure pain. Not physical—another kind." "What kind?" "I don't really understand. Like with every stroke, I'm tearing something important away from myself. Saying goodbye to something." Max desperately wanted to say something right, something encouraging, but the words wouldn't come. He silently dropped down beside her on the dusty floor, leaning his back against the crate, and placed his hand firmly on her shoulder. She didn't pull away. Only pressed herself slightly closer against him. "Arthur said we're flying to London in four days," she broke the silence. "I know." "I'm coming with you." "Your arm..." "I'm coming, Max." Her voice suddenly regained its old, hard edge. "I'm not staying here. Not after everything that's happened." "And you can draw with your left hand?" "All crooked and messy, but I can. It's enough." Max glanced at the white cocoon of bandages on her right arm. The image flashed before his eyes again: the falling beam, Lisa's piercing scream, and her crawling through broken glass, leaving bloody trails, stubbornly drawing that line with her left hand. "You're strong," he said quietly. "Just tired." "That's pretty much the same thing." She smiled weakly, just the corners of her lips. From above, from the kitchen, came heavy footsteps. The old door creaked, and Grandma Jenny descended the wooden stairs into the basement, carrying a rusty tin tray that smelled of fresh hot pies and mint tea. "Now eat," she commanded sternly, setting the tray down on the free edge of the table with a clatter. "Both of you are skin and bones. Makes me sick to look at you." "Thanks, Grandma," Lisa replied. Grandma Jenny stood there a moment, giving them both a long, piercing look. She studied the bandaged arm, the pencil, the crooked circle on the sketchpad. "You'll manage, girl," she said firmly. "The Brookses never gave up. And the Walkers—even less so." Lisa nodded silently. When Grandma's footsteps faded upstairs, Lisa took a pie from the plate and bit off a piece. She chewed slowly, mechanically, tasting nothing. "You should go," she said, not looking at Max. "Where?" "To that policeman. Arthur's waiting, isn't he?" "How do you know?" "He mentioned it yesterday. Said you were both going to see Braun today." Max shook his head. With everything going on, he'd completely forgotten the meeting. "You'll be okay here? Alone?" "I'm not alone." Lisa nodded toward the drawn circle. "I've got protection." Max got to his feet, dusting off his jeans with his palms. "Just don't draw too much. You'll wear yourself out." "I'm already worn out by everything, Max. By this life, by the war, by the fact that my arm will never be the same. But I can't stop. If I stop now, I'll just break." "Then don't stop." "I won't." He turned and headed for the stairs. Lisa sat alone in the dim light. She reached for the pencil again, her left hand cramping slightly, but she stubbornly started a new circle. Crooked, trembling, but real. October 24, 1986. Brookfield. Police station. Day. The station was a drab gray concrete box with a faded, sagging flag above the entrance. Inside, it reeked of cheap burnt coffee, harsh bleach, and old paper. The yellow linoleum was worn down to the base in the hallway, and the faded green walls were plastered with instructions and wanted posters. Max and Arthur stood at the tall wooden reception desk. Arthur still clutched his jacket against his side—the same one he'd worn when he fought the Maestro. The fabric was heavily stained with dried brown blood, stiff as cardboard. He'd refused to wash it. He couldn't. "Who are you here to see, boys?" the woman at the desk asked lazily. She was plump, round-faced, with plastic curlers in her hair and glasses dangling on a thin chain. "Detective Braun," Arthur replied. "We have an appointment." The woman gave them a long look over her glasses. She studied their gray faces, Arthur's bloodstained jacket, Max's hands, which he couldn't stop trembling in his pockets. "Second floor, third door on the right," she muttered, turning back to a magazine. They climbed the stairs. The wooden steps creaked under their sneakers. Max counted them silently—one, two, three... not out of fear, but just to keep his mind busy, to drown out the stupid ringing in his ears. Detective Braun's door was slightly ajar. He sat behind a cluttered desk, frowning over a folder. Hearing footsteps, he looked up. "Arthur Walker?" he asked, squinting. "Yeah." "And who's this with you?" "Max Robinson. My friend." Braun nodded curtly toward two worn vinyl chairs. "Have a seat." They sat. Arthur laid his stiff, bloodied jacket on the desk without a word. Braun glanced at the brown stains but didn't ask. "You said on the phone it was urgent and serious," the detective said, leaning back in his chair, which creaked pitifully. "I'm listening." Arthur gripped the edge of the table, his nails white. "Detective Braun... I don't even know where to start." "Start at the beginning." "At the beginning?" Arthur gave a short, dry laugh. "The beginning was a year ago. When we found that damned Genesis mansion. When we sealed Crowley. And when Jack stayed behind, inside." Braun didn't interrupt. He sat still, his thick fingers laced over his stomach, listening carefully. "We didn't come to you before because we were scared. Thought you wouldn't believe us, think we were crazy, lock us up in a psych ward. But right now, we really need help. Desperately." "What kind?" "In four days, we're flying to London. There's a man there named Kane. He wants to kill us, use us, or both. He used to work for the Circle, then betrayed them, and now he's building his own army. And we're his main target." Braun stared at Arthur point-blank. There was no mockery or disbelief in his eyes—only a deep, age-old weariness. "Why did you come to me?" "Because you're the only decent cop in this town who didn't drop Jack's case," Arthur's voice wavered for a second, but he pulled himself together. "You came to our house. Asked questions. Searched. You're the only one who didn't forget." "I didn't forget," Braun confirmed quietly. "That's why we're here." Arthur leaned forward, placing his palms on the desk. "I'm not asking you to believe every word about the supernatural stuff. I'm just asking... cover our backs while we're out of the country. Keep an eye on our parents. On Lisa—she just got out of the hospital. On Jack... He's still there, in that mansion, losing himself more every day." The detective was silent for a long time. His gaze drifted over the bloodstained jacket, Arthur's trembling fingers, and Max's pale, stone-serious face. "You realize I can't do anything officially," Braun finally said. "I don't have the authority. No leads, no official witnesses, nothing." "We know." "And you still came." "Because there's no one else to turn to." Braun rose heavily, his chair scraping against the floor. He walked to the narrow window and stared out at the wet asphalt under the gray sky. "Ten years ago, I lost my son," he said flatly, not turning around. "He drowned in the lake. They pulled his body out on the third day. I remember standing over him, just... not being able to accept that it was over. That I'd never see him again, never talk to him." Max held his breath, afraid to move. Arthur lowered his head, staring at his sneakers. "After that, I joined the force. Naively thought I could save other people's kids, help them. But you can't save those who are already gone. I realized that when I was searching for your Jack. I turned over every basement in the county, every attic, every ditch. And nothing." He turned to face them. "You say he's trapped in Genesis and still alive. I don't know if my head can wrap around that. But I know one thing: you're not lying to me." "How can you tell?" Max asked quietly. "Because I see too many liars in this office, kid. There's no lie in your eyes. Just raw terror." Braun returned to the desk, sat down heavily, and pulled a blank sheet of paper toward him. He took a simple ballpoint pen from his pocket. "I can't give you official protection. Can't assign officers. But I promise you this: while you're off there, I'll personally keep an eye on your families. I'll hang around your houses. If I see anything suspicious—I'll raise hell. Any time, day or night." Arthur lifted his head, his shoulders relaxing visibly. "Thank you." "Don't thank me yet." Braun set the pen aside. "Just make sure you come back. All of you." "We'll try." The detective looked at the jacket with its brown stains again. "Leave it here. Let it stay with me. As a reminder." Arthur nodded. They got up and walked to the door. "Detective Braun," Max called out, his hand on the door handle. "Yeah?" "You never told us his name." Braun froze, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk tighter. "No," he said, barely audible. "I didn't." "What was his name?" "Thomas." He swallowed hard. "Thomas Braun. He was seven." "I'll remember," Max promised. He pushed the door open, and they stepped into the hallway. Outside, a cold autumn drizzle was falling. Max stopped on the porch, tilted his head back, and let the icy drops sting his face. "How are you?" Arthur asked quietly, pulling up his hood. "Don't know." Max lowered his head, staring at his hands. Clean, whole, unmarked. "But I think I'm starting to understand something." "What?" "Why some people can't let go of their pain. It's not that they like suffering. It's just—when everything is taken from you, pain becomes the only proof you're still alive." They walked silently along the muddy path toward the Walkers' house. The rain streamed down their faces, mingling with tears. Or maybe it was just rain—neither of them could tell anymore. And in the damp basement of Grandma Jenny's house, Lisa was finishing her fifth circle. Her left arm ached unbearably, her fingers cramped, but she stubbornly kept working. The lines were uneven, trembling, crooked, but they kept closing. "I'll draw this way out," she whispered into the basement darkness, through gritted teeth. "For all of us." The pencil lead scratched softly against the paper. And at that same moment, on the empty hill, inside the thick walls of the abandoned Genesis mansion, Jack sat on the cold floor of the dark basement. He listened to the old grandfather clock ticking dully, steadily upstairs. He'd long since lost track of hours and days, but he knew one thing for certain: they would come back. He was waiting. He'd always known how to wait.