Burn for Me (Hidden Legacy #1)(18)

“End of interview.” I turned off the recorder and pulled out my business card. “Thank you so much, Mr. Harrison. If you happen to speak with Adam Pierce, please give him my number. He allegedly murdered a police officer. His family is worried about him, and I’m his best chance at surviving this mess.”

“You’re not going to ask me if I think he did it?” Cornelius asked.

“Honestly, I don’t care. My job isn’t to prove that he’s innocent. I just have to bring him in in one piece.”

“Very well.” He walked me to the door, opened it, and hesitated. “Ms. Baylor, if you speak to House Pierce, they will claim that Adam was an exemplary human being until he went to college, where he somehow got all these radical ideas into his head. They have most people convinced of it.”

He cleared his throat. “Our elementary school was less than five blocks from my house. When we were in third grade, we were given permission to walk home, with our bodyguard following us at a discreet distance. We would stop at a shop on the way. The first three times we did, Adam stole. Nothing much, a candy bar, a drink. He wasn’t subtle about it. He just took it and walked out of the store, as if he was proud of the act. The fourth time, a relative of the owner grabbed his hand and took the candy bar away from him. Adam burned him. He burned him so badly that by the time the bodyguard got there, the man’s skin had bubbled on his face. I still remember the smell. This acrid, terrible stench of human flesh cooking. House Pierce tried to say that Adam was a child who was completely terrified and lashed out on instinct. They threw enough money at the family, and the whole matter was swept under the rug. But I was there, and I saw his face. Adam wasn’t scared. He was furious. He was punishing the man because he dared to prevent him from stealing.”

Cornelius leaned toward me slightly, his eyes serious. “He would’ve burned that man to death over a candy bar. Adam takes what he wants, and if you tell him no, he will hurt you. That’s the kind of person you’re dealing with. I won’t say good luck, but take care.”

By the time I left Cornelius’ modest palace, the sun had rolled close to the horizon. I sat in my car for a while and surfed the net. A quick search of my inbox revealed no new developments, but a search of motorcycle-related businesses within Houston city limits led me to Gustave’s Custom Cycles. The picture of the business looked a lot like the backdrop in Pierce’s Twitter shot. Gustave’s Custom Cycles was clear across town. By the time I got there, it would be close to getting dark.

Let’s see what was around there . . . Steel Steed Bar and Grill on one side of the shop, Rattlesnake Body Art on the other. If the bikers had a mall, this would be it. That meant that Gustave’s shop was open after dark and would have a steady stream of customers and visitors who came there to be social. If I went there now, I’d have an audience. They all knew each other and I would be coming in as an outsider, asking them to rat out someone they considered a friend. I could talk to the same guys one on one at their jobs during the day and they would be polite and calm. But get them all together, let them soak in a couple of beers, and group machismo kicked in. They would look for trouble, and if trouble walked in in the shape of a young woman with uncomfortable questions, they would rise to the challenge. Best-case scenario, they would catcall and posture and run me off. Worst-case scenario, someone would get hurt. There was no need for that. I could just as readily speak to the owner of Gustave’s tomorrow morning, bright and early, when everyone would be sober.

I started the engine and went home. Adam Pierce had evaded capture for twenty-four hours. He would have to evade it until morning.

The traffic was murder. Unlike predictions of weather men and market analysts, Houston’s world-famous traffic was 100 percent reliable—it never failed to show up and clog the roads. I drove through it, inching forward and avoiding drivers who barreled into the seemingly solid wall of cars as they switched lanes, and thought about Adam Pierce. He hadn’t turned himself in. Nothing on the Twitter feed. Bern was scouring the Internet for any hint of him and Gavin Waller, and Bern was exceptional at what he did. So far he had turned up nothing.

Why torch the bank? Was it a bungled robbery attempt? It wasn’t a political statement, otherwise Adam would’ve left some sort of loud declaratory message. Up yours, oppressors, or something along those lines. Was it a drunken prank that got out of hand? What was Gavin’s role in all of it? I really hoped the boy would come out of this alive, if not for him, then for his mother’s sake. Kelly Waller’s financial record showed a life of sacrifice for her children. Whatever Gavin’s sins were, Adam Pierce was older than he was by almost ten years. He was the ringleader.

How the hell was I going to convince Pierce to come in? John Rutger was nowhere near a Prime, and he’d tossed me against a wall. Too bad I couldn’t spit fire. Wait, that wouldn’t really help me. Too bad I couldn’t spit ice? Theoretically, if you did spit ice, you wouldn’t be able to spit much. A human body held only so much water. Now if I could summon binding chains . . . Pierce would probably melt them. Would molten metal burn him if he was the one who melted it?

Mad Rogan’s image popped into my head. There was something about those blue eyes looking into the camera. Not exactly sadness, but a kind of self-awareness, underscored by a slightly bitter smile. Almost as if he knew he was a human hurricane and regretted it, but he wouldn’t stop. I was probably reading too much into it. How in the world did they contain him in the military? I’d seen firsthand the damage that war did to people. If a Prime snapped, hundreds of soldiers would die.