Lunatic, p.1
Lunatic, page 1
Necessary Evils
Unhinged
Psycho
Moonstruck
Damaged
Headcase
Mad Man
Lunatic
Maniac
Click HERE for a complete list of Onley’s books and their respective links.
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. Archer
2. Mac
3. Archer
4. Mac
5. Archer
6. Mac
7. Archer
8. Mac
9. Archer
10. Mac
11. Archer
12. Mac
13. Archer
14. Mac
15. Archer
16. Mac
17. Archer
18. Mac
19. Archer
20. Mac
21. Archer
22. Mac
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
LUNATIC
necessary evils book six
Copyright © 2022 Onley James
www.onleyjames.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction and does not represent any individual living or dead. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover and Interior Formatting by We Got You Covered Book Design
Trigger warning: This book contains talk of child sexual abuse and graphic depictions of violence against people who deserve it.
SUBJECT: ARCHER
“Come with me. He’s this way.”
Dr. Thomas Mulvaney didn’t remove his coat—just increased his pace to match the frantic footsteps of the tiny woman before him. Dr. Magdalena Mendoza. He’d come a long way to meet her. She appeared in distress but, perhaps, she always seemed in a hurry. As she led him through a maze of darkened hallways towards the bowels of the enormous state-funded facility, a shiver slid along his spine. There was no way he would find his way out of there without a map or a guide.
When they reached a place where four hallways intersected, Dr. Mendoza used a key on her belt to unlock a heavy door, leading Thomas to yet another corridor—this one lined with large steel doors with tiny square windows, which one could use to peer inside.
As they walked the halls, the lights within the rooms wavered, like they were in the middle of an electrical storm…or a horror movie. A storm did rage outside—not one of rain but snow. An electrical storm made sense in a way. Everything about the atmosphere was charged with an almost palpable energy, like static electricity. The air, the lights. Part of him wondered, if he just reached out his hand, would he encounter some kind of invisible barrier?
Even Dr. Mendoza seemed galvanized. Her hands twitched at her sides, her clothing wrinkled and clinging in places, and her frizzy blonde curls fought to escape the clip that contained them. Her chunky heels clicked on the peeling linoleum tiles, the motion lights kicking on as she passed each sensor.
Thomas did his best to keep up with her, forcing himself to pay attention. He blamed his second glass of Chardonnay for his unease and inattentiveness. When Dr. Mendoza abruptly stopped in front of the second to last door, Thomas almost ran into her, startling her and causing her to stumble back a pace or two.
“My apologies,” Thomas murmured, tipping his head.
She wiped her hands over her skirt, like she’d just realized her clothes were rumpled. “This is him,” she said in a clipped tone.
Thomas peeked inside, his eyes going wide. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Inside the room, a chubby boy with thick black curls and dull eyes sat tucked into the farthest reaches of the padded cell. His hair was matted with blood, his previously white sweats saturated with the now browning liquid. It was everywhere.
“It’s for his own safety,” Dr. Mendoza assured him. “The blood isn’t his.”
Thomas studied the boy who sat in the corner, his knees pulled to his chest, swaying side to side as he stared straight ahead, clearly close to catatonia. There was a pull to this boy, but if he was already showing fits of violence, he wouldn’t work for the study. He had to get them before they found a bloodlust.
“Tell me what happened,” Thomas said gruffly. “Whose blood is it?”
The doctor’s face flushed. “Another patient’s. Christopher Kelleher.”
The name rang a bell, but it took Thomas a good thirty seconds to place it. When he did, his stomach sank. “The pedophile?”
It was a famous case. A sadistic seventeen-year-old boy with a history of assaulting and torturing children as young as six. He should have been tried as an adult and gone away for life, but he was a white boy from a wealthy family and a high-priced defense attorney had convinced them a bench trial would be better than a jury of his peers.
Thomas was certain the judge was on the take. It was the only reason for a violent pedophile to end up in a level six mental health facility instead of a federal penitentiary. Being under the age of eighteen had landed him right smack in the middle of mentally unwell children right in his preferential age range.
Christopher may have been mentally ill, but he’d known exactly what he was doing when he’d assaulted those children. He’d enjoyed it. He was a narcissist and the worst kind of psychopath.
“Why was this child left alone with a predator?” Thomas finally asked.
Dr. Mendoza clearly anticipated the question but squirmed at having to explain herself. “While Christopher was waiting for his therapy appointment, another patient had an incident just outside the office, pulling all the techs and leaving Christopher in the waiting room. Nathaniel was in the playroom next door, waiting for his own therapist.”
“Nathaniel is the boy?”
She nodded, closing her eyes, like she was trying to gather herself together before saying, “He attempted to…assault Nathaniel. He fought back. Viciously.”
Thomas’s heart twisted as he looked in at the small boy. “What does that mean, Dr. Mendoza?”
“When Christopher attempted to…orally assault the boy, he—” She shivered. “He bit it off.”
Good. “Where is he now?”
“Christopher?” she asked. “Oh, he’s quite dead.”
“Dead? Blood loss?” Thomas questioned.
She nodded. “Yes, but not from the bite…though, I suspect that would have eventually killed him as well. But there was a plastic bow and arrow set. You know the kind with the spongy ends that just sort of bounce off?”
Thomas nodded. “Yes?”
“He snapped the arrow in half and then started stabbing at Christopher’s crotch with the jagged plastic. Managed to sever his femoral artery.”
Jesus. “Have you spoken with the boy since the incident?”
She looked in through the window. “We have. Christopher didn’t go down without a fight. He got a few blows to the boy, hence the slight bruising on his face.”
“What did the boy say about the altercation? Was he upset?”
She shook her head slowly. “Nope. He very matter-of-factly told us that he was done letting people touch him like that.”
“He was done letting people touch him like that.” The implications were obvious. Painfully obvious. The boy had clearly been harmed before, likely more than once. “What’s his history?”
“Parents unknown. He was left at a fire station when he was only four days old. He was born addicted to heroin, had a rough start, and was a bit small for his age, but he made up for that rather quickly. He’s been in the same foster home for years. But then his parents called us, saying they couldn’t handle him anymore. They said he’s been wetting the bed, attacking the other children, attempting to harm his parents. They’d been locking him in the closet for his own safety,” she said, her tone implying that she didn’t believe their story.
“Was there any hint of a violent nature prior to this altercation with the other patient?” Thomas asked.
Dr. Mendoza’s face was bleak. “No. He’s been with us for a week or so. He’s a quiet, articulate child. He was covered in bruises. They’d clearly been yanking him around and possibly using corporal punishments.”
“Any sign of sexual abuse?” Thomas asked.
She gave a heavy sigh, gazing sadly at the boy through the window. “No overt signs, but with his skittishness and with his declaration after the assault, I imagine there was something like that.”
“Why did you lock him in there if he was calm?”
Dr. Mendoza looked startled. “We didn’t. When the doctor attempted to examine him to ensure Christopher didn’t give him a concussion or hadn’t injured him in some less obvious way, he went crazy. He was yelling, screaming, tearing at his skin, slamming his head into the walls. It took three techs just to get him on the ground to sedate him.”
Thomas’s head snapped around to stare at her. “You sedated him? How old is he? Six?”
“Five,” she said.
“You sedated a five-year-old?”
Dr. Mendoza’s spine stiffened. “We had no choice. He would have hurt himself.”
Thomas tamped down the rage boiling within him. “I’d like to speak with him, please.”
She gave a wary sigh but opened the door as he asked. “I’ll have to lock you in. But I’ll stay here and watch from the window.”
Thomas nodded absently, no longer focused on the other physician. When he heard the door shut and the lock click back into place, he slowly approached the child.
When he was a foot away, he said, “My name is Thomas. May I sit with you for a moment or two?”
The boy looked up at him, slow-blinking. After what seemed like an eternity, he shrugged, pulling himself closer to the corner, almost cowering away from him.
Thomas slowly removed his coat before sitting across from him and laying his coat across his lap, leaving plenty of distance so the boy didn’t feel trapped. “What’s your name?”
The boy shrugged once more. “I don’t remember.”
Thomas frowned. “You don’t remember? The doctor said your name is Nathaniel.”
The boy’s fury was instantaneous, but the drugs kept him from reacting violently. The only true indications of his feelings were the way his face twisted in disgust and the venom in his words as he said, “That’s my foster dad’s name. He’s not nice. I don’t want that name.”
“Well, what name do you want?” Thomas asked.
The boy shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Thomas said, but he let it go for the time being. “I heard you had a very trying day. Are you okay?”
The boy looked up at him with a frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Someone tried to hurt you. You were forced to defend yourself. How did that make you feel?”
The boy looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “It didn’t make me feel like nothing. I don’t like being touched. He touched me. He wanted to hurt me. Nobody is gonna do that again.” He looked Thomas in the eye, his expression steely. “Ever.”
“Feeling safe is very important,” Thomas said. The boy continued to study him. “What if I told you I could make it so you never feel unsafe again?”
The boy’s eyes narrowed, and he began to fidget with his fingers, picking at his cuticles. After a minute, he said, “How?”
Thomas chose his words carefully. “By training you to protect yourself, no matter what—or who—comes at you.” The boy seemed to mull this over, saying nothing. “Would you like to come live with me?”
The boy scrutinized him. “Why?”
Thomas wasn’t surprised by the question. Both Atticus and August had asked the same question. “Because I am looking for sons of my own. You would have two brothers. They’re special, like you. Would you like to come home with me and meet them? If you do, I promise you’ll never feel vulnerable again.”
“I’m not vul-nable,” the boy muttered.
Thomas did his best to hide his smile. “No, you’re certainly not.”
The boy huffed out a breath through his nose, giving Thomas another feral look. “If you hurt me, I’ll kill you,” the boy said, his expression fierce. “And them, too.”
Thomas nodded sagely. “Nobody is going to hurt you. But if they do, you have every right to defend yourself, by any means necessary. What do you think? Would you like to come with me?”
“I guess,” the boy said.
“Well, then, there’s just one more thing. A name. If you don’t like Nathaniel, we’ll make you a new one. In my family, we have a tradition where all the siblings in the family have the same first initial. How about a name that starts with A?”
The boy shrugged.
“Do you have any ideas?”
The boy shook his head. “No.”
Thomas ran through a list of A names in his head before his gaze fell to the blood saturating the boy’s clothes and how it had come to be there. “How about Archer?”
The boy’s gaze darted to Thomas, studying him in a way that made him feel a little on edge. Finally, he said, “Yeah, okay.”
“Perfect. Before we can go home, we’re going to have to change your clothes. Would you be willing to shower and get changed so we can get out of this place?”
“Alone?” the boy asked hesitantly.
The question fractured Thomas’s heart. “Yes, alone. Nobody will ever invade your personal space again without your permission. I promise.”
“This is, by far, the most important and delicate phase of the project. Of course, we’d want our people in on the planning and implementation,” Thomas Mulvaney said, addressing the man directly across from him.
There were nods around the conference table, a sea of familiar faces—some old, some new—who were all on Thomas’s side.
Beside his father sat Molly Shepherd, the leading expert on not only recognizing psychopathic and sociopathic traits in adolescents but the treatment of those pathologies. A unique skill set born of necessity had spawned the project for which they were now all deeply entrenched. Beside her sat her two sons, Jayne and Mackenzie, known as Shep and Mac, respectively.
The man Thomas was trying to convince was Marshall Kendrick, a bored and jaded bureaucrat with the highest level of security clearance and zero tolerance for people questioning him. He stared them all down with an imperiousness that only came from years of government work before giving a disingenuous smile. “Thomas, Molly, I understand your concerns. This project is your baby, but we’ve been raising these subjects—”
“Children,” Molly snapped.
The man waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, children, for fifteen years. I would hope, by now, you would have some faith in our qualifications.”
“No offense,” Archer said, uncapping his bottled water. “But nobody with any sense has faith in their government.”
Kendrick gave Archer a pissy look before running a hand over his black suit jacket. These guys really did like to dress like the Men in Black. They were doing stuff equally as shady, he supposed. Maybe more so. Nobody knew for certain whether aliens were real, but psychopaths? Those were real. Archer should know. He was one.
“We’ve created every aspect of this project,” Molly reminded them. “But this is where we see our social proof. This is where we let them off their respective leashes and make sure the training worked. We will not agree to allowing government agents to handle this last phase of the study. It has to be our people. That’s non-negotiable.”
“One misstep could ruin everything,” Thomas added.
“They’ll never agree to that,” Kendrick said.
“Bullshit,” Shep muttered. “Don’t act as if you don’t have complete and total control over how this project is staffed and run.”
“And don’t act like there isn’t a room full of suits just like you listening to every word we say right now,” Archer added.
“We’re not buying a used car. Stop pretending that you have some manager in the back you have to clear this with. The buck stops with you. All of you. We’re not leaving here until you agree with our terms,” Shep said with a cold stare.
Kendrick’s lips twitched in an aborted smile. “I find it rather amusing you both brought your children to fight your battles for you. If I had known, I would have pulled my son from his eighth grade field trip to Magic Mountain so he could play, too.”
“Is your son also a psychopath, Mr. Kendrick?”
They all turned to the man who had spoken. He was intimidating, even by Archer’s standards. He stood at six foot, but he was a wall of muscle, like a defensive lineman. He had a bald head, a full beard, and umber skin that contrasted deliciously with his perfectly tailored white button-down.
“Who are you again?” Kendrick said, tone chilly.
“Jackson Avery,” the man answered, flashing an equally frigid smile.
He was another piece in the weirdly incestuous puzzle that was Project Watchtower, known to those on the inside as The Watch.
“Jackson is the owner of a global security agency called Elite Protection Services, outfitted with former special ops soldiers and highly trained former law enforcement agents,” Thomas said, giving Jackson a nod.
