Epicenter Johnny (The J·O·H·N Series Book 2) Read online

  He would teach him. He would have to. He thought often of the man behind his nightmares. He couldn't shake the image of his face, the cunning of his voice. The feeling of his touch.

  But the man was not his father. It was his nemesis.

  Richter would have to pay him a visit. Soon. Before the Big One, for he wanted to see the man's face a final time before he used it. He felt compelled to do so. But for once, not out of anger or revenge. Simply justice.

  Soon indeed.

  He could change it. He could change everything. He could make them all believe. And he would.

  Richter was in the Bible, after all. Like so many others destined for greatness, ready to perform, ready to achieve. Committed to proving himself.

  He knew it was his time.

  It was only a question of when. Confident that his time was now.

  He believed in God.

  And he suspected that God believed in him.

  2

  As the water cleansed him, Richter recalled many things. His recollection was awesome. It also proved a hindrance. He didn't always like to remember the past, especially his childhood.

  The long, rolling hills of Northern Hollywood shook steadily at first, then stronger with more conviction.

  As a child in Benedict Canyon, he stood staring up at the HOLLYWOOD sign in the distance, keeping the huge letters in focus as he thought about it. He was waiting for the school bus, occupying his time by kicking the earth. And feeling it shudder under his bare force.

  “I can make earthquakes happen,” he said at seven, watchful for his school bus, watchful of the earth around him. A flock of birds scattered from a high tree overhead. On a front deck across the street, a porch bench jerked and began swinging as if by a ghost.

  He smiled, not unlike a child who knew a great secret, anxious to divulge its forbidden message. He stood with one shoe off, his right. To make the ground rumble, he had to be barefoot. It's how it worked. Pure and natural.

  He would love it here in California. His new home. A place where his talent could go unrecognized. That would be better for him. It would be better for everyone.

  He kicked the ground again, a glancing blow that stirred a dirt cloud.

  The land around him shuddered.

  Again.

  The ground continued to shake, in and out, each new rumble orchestrated perfectly with the young boy's kicks at the soil. Dust rose up around him as he shifted his school books from arm to arm. Poking his big toe into the loose earth, rattling the city's very foundation, its nerve center.

  Over a hundred miles away, the citizens of Los Angeles felt that shudder, as well.

  A trickle of blood ran from his nostril into his mouth.

  It scared him.

  He quit using it. He was often frightened by it. So young, so innocent. He worried that he might hurt someone, maybe even on purpose. That scared him even more. He could not dismiss the fact that one day he would be very dangerous indeed.

  His stomach hurt. In fact, his whole body did.

  He stopped thinking about his talent. He put his shoe back on.

  The small boy stood at the road's shoulder, smiling to himself.

  Now, grown and wiser, Johnny Richter had learned how to control it.

  He was adopted after birth. After killing his own mother. Hank and Natalia Clancy would take over the role.

  Richter never knew what happened to his father. His mother killed at birth, in the hospital, but absolutely nothing of his biological father. There had to be a father. His whereabouts, though, were never proven. As he grew older, his own curiosity faded, giving way to total forfeit of the truth. So be it. He had his reasons, obviously. So did young Johnny. He simply didn't care anymore either.

  The truth was he never needed to try. If he had fled, so be it. His new parents, though flawed as well, were his family now. Plain and simple. For richer, for poorer.

  At three, Johnny was an extremely self-disciplined and intelligent child. Growing up with adoptive parents in South Florida, his trademark talent never seemed to rear its ugly head except at times of need. His adoptive father drank, and he abused. Both fell victim to his frequent, drunken tantrums. Hank didn't discriminate between the two.

  When Nancy had had enough, it was Johnny who suggested the destination. California.

  And she took the bait without dispute. The idea of distance appealed to her.

  They fled. It was just as simple as that. She took him in the middle of the night, while Hank lay passed out in his own vomit. They drove the three thousand miles, treating it like a vacation. She made the trip as pleasant as she could, purposely passing notable landmarks for his enjoyment. He really loved her, and once thought about confiding in her about his talent. But he chickened. He would continue to keep it silent.

  “What name do you think we'll use, little Johnny?” was her question. And she thought about it. Johnny's short history seemed a traumatic fluke, that she knew. She considered the circumstances behind his birth; synonymous with the Dade County earthquake. The one that had killed his real mother, the one that orphaned him by his own hand. “Tell you what. How 'bout Richter? Think of where we're heading, Johnny. Would you like to be Johnny Richter?”

  Even at three, Johnny liked it. To any other young child, the importance of their name would not matter, but he liked that he could pick it. It made him feel big and important. It made him love her even more.

  And Richter it would be. No more Clancy. Johnny Richter was born. His mean old daddy would never find them now. And would never even try.

  They knew nothing, like everybody else that knew him. Dade County was practice. Florida was a starting point, literally the birthplace for his talent.

  Now he could get down to business.

  Nobody would ever suspect him here. Not in the heart of Los Angeles County, not within miles of the greatest, most active fault line in the world. It would shelter him.

  But his first encounter, where he actually believed he was behind what was happening, didn't come until he was living in California. It was there that he honed his talent, fortifying his new toy.

  After his chance introduction, he was scared. The event was only foreshadowed by what was truly happening to him, the real ugliness and intent of the true monster gripping the moment. It would be years later that he understood the magnitude of the violation, but his talent spawned immediate recognition. An incident that little Johnny kept from his mother.

  He had made the ground shake, no matter the reasons to how, just that he did it. Anger spawned it, vigilance kept it active.

  Like any child learning something for the first time, Richter rebelled, not only out of fear, but out of curiosity, as well. Shaping it would take years. At least, his childhood years.

  At five years old, he had yet to learn the error of his ways.

  For now, it all was just for fun.

  3

  Hank found them.

  Through the years, years that moved with amazing speed, Johnny and Nancy grew as close as true mother and son. She worked hard. She believed in her child. She watched him mature into a fine young man. Though he never confided in her with the truth of his talent after they arrived in Los Angeles, he trusted her only, extremely thorough in his concealing the evidence every time he had to use it. She too assumed that it was a normal display of life in Southern California. God's will. She never made the connection.

  Richter loved her. More than life itself, for he was a self-imposed prisoner fighting to be normal. But that would deem impossible. He was scared to date anyone, even though many young girls found him attractive. If rejected, he may get mad. He never played sports, for he was scared of injury, and the possible release of his talent under those conditions, as well. He didn't want to risk it. He had to watch his temper.

  He was coming of age, after all. Growing closer to becoming something, maturing.

  But Hank had outsmarted them after years of patience, a reunion destined to happen. Fate had made it poss
ible. Fate, indeed.

  At seventeen, Johnny Richter was working in Hollywood as a pizza delivery guy, enjoying the freedom of his work. His alias, more than ever, was secure. He was within two weeks of graduating high school, eager to move on to college. Eager to make his mother proud.

  Arriving home, he saw the car. A rental. He approached the house, his mother a constant on his mind. Worried, he let himself inside the house stealthily, his heart pumping, black with dread.

  Hank had her in the kitchen.

  There were no words. The smell of booze was strong.

  He released the knot around her throat. Her limp body slid to the ground.

  Hank heard him. Hank saw him.

  “Hello, son,” was the man's reply, his smile a most sinister grin. He had the dish towel in his grip still, both hands shaky and poised.

  Witnessing his mother on the floor, knowing yet not knowing of her condition, anger swelled within him, uncontrollable and pure. His estranged father hardly had time to think.

  Johnny Richter brought down the house.

  The low rattle rapidly became destructive, the house coming apart with sickening ease.

  Hemorrhaging badly from the impulsive attack, Richter made it to his father. As the house crumbled around them, plaster and wood burying the duo, Richter had Hank around the neck, both hands squeezing. A solid pine beam missed Richter narrowly, connecting with Hank's skull. The crack was solid and final.

  Still holding his father, unaware that his mother's killer was already dead, he allowed the debris to cover them both, immediately pulling back his anger. Again, he had killed with his talent. Again, the outcome a victim of chance. The victim a relative.

  But justified as it was, Johnny Richter felt sadness, enormous and sure.

  Another mother lost.

  He escaped the rubble, disappeared outside the city limits, catching newscasts to learn of his destruction. It had been minor, a mere 5.8. Funny, he criticized. He thought himself much more angered during the episode. The destruction spread out for only a few miles, uncannily contained. It gave seismologists data to ponder for months, the absence of a hypocenter again questioned by top professionals living throughout the country.

  Upon her death, it left Richter alone. Again.

  With two mothers dead now, Richter did not predict the use of a third. He hit the road, living off nomadic means for several years, keeping his identity quiet. It wasn't all that difficult. He was a man now. He didn't need family protection any longer.

  Motel living became a way of life, in fact it provided the most brilliant of cover. Odd jobs, some worthy of decent pay. A measure of the human spirit.

  Then college proved his truest passion.

  He stared at the ocean's surface in the moonlight, watchful of the eddies.

  Memories were flooding him badly now, one after the other, overlapping the one before it. A toddler, a young man, a teenager. His school years. And him.

  All life affirming. Especially his friend. The pale, innocent boy who had come to befriend him on the playing field in junior high, the boy who had promised him salvation and protection in his hospital room. Yes. One particular episode that stuck out in his mind, as it had done countless times before.

  One with significant meaning.

  Recess at Canterbury Junior High, the school yard packed with students, awaiting the showdown. There were three of them. Richter knew the score, he'd seen it before.

  He was bait.

  Munch, Skiles and Loop. Big kids, football size. Typical bullies. All younger than Johnny. Richter the loner, the strange kid. He was marked from the word go.

  Loop flanked him. Munch watched the playing field. Skiles brought it on, Loop joining in soon after, the many observers cheering and encircling the action.

  That day he would learn about pain, loneliness, and control.

  They fed him a long time. One of them even injured his right arm, scarring it for life. It was the skinny one, Loop. Loop kicked and kicked, until the skin was worn, thus splitting the wound open on his right arm, the bicep vulnerable. An infection would follow, leaving a trophy scar to mark the occasion. His facial contusions would heal, but the scar remained a constant reminder for years to come. In fact, a deep, irritating pain would pulse from the wound at times in his life, seemingly triggered by his anger. He never questioned the strange throbbing of pain just under the skin, the muscle sore and flaring. Rubbing simply made it go away.

  How many kicks, how many punches? How much blood?

  He did not know. He wouldn't know for at least a week after the incident.

  The feeding continued until coach Reeves ran into the mess, pulling them off him. Richter could not move, splayed out in the dirt, painted in his own blood.

  There was laughter. There were sighs.

  And there was anger. He'd taken it like a man...but now he would retaliate like one.

  Laying in the dirt, his anger seethed. His whole body began to shake, those around him contributing it to shock. But Richter knew the true source. His fists dug into the dirt. He slammed his eyes shut. There would be no containing it this time.

  Though a controlled event, one that could have been worse, Richter allowed his anger just enough freedom to ripple across the field, under the crowd of students, past the locker compound, and straight into the nearest concrete structure. Screams erupted, teenagers falling, trying to flee. Coach Reeves fell down, taking Loop and Skiles with him. As the rumble lasted, he remembered the school fire alarm blaring.

  Half the gym caved in, a third of the cafeteria followed. Students stumbled away, some screaming into the ground. Noise filled the day. It didn't last long. It didn't have to.

  When it dissipated, Richter felt shame. It had been risky to unleash it, with so many present. But he'd lucked out. He was sure that no one would suspect him. Why would they?

  A dozen injuries. And no fatalities. None. Thank God.

  He was proud of himself.

  As he was dragged up, blood pouring from his mouth, his tortured arm pounding, his eyes clamming shut, he caught a glimpse of a young boy, his face different from all the others around him. Not frightened or disheveled. Not scared or preoccupied by the quake...but a look all too impassive, strikingly wise and endearing. A face of victory. Very odd indeed. He never had a scratch on him.

  4

  In the hospital, Richter awoke to pain unimaginable. His body was one solid pulse of agony. Nothing broken, but plenty bruised and inflamed. After his mother left him, Nancy quite concerned, he was treated to several shots and cold packs.

  And a single visitor.

  His name was Blake Timmerson. The boy with the innocent face, his chosen benefactor. Came out of sympathy, and blatant curiosity. He was a beautiful child, not unlike Richter himself. A face pimple-free, skin cool tan. He was smiling as he approached the bed, unafraid of Johnny, actually drawn to him, as if by brotherhood.

  “I can make things happen, too,” was all he said above Johnny, his voice kind and real and trusting. “They got expelled, you know. Skiles is gone. Loop, too. Munch is still around, seein' that he was only the lookout. Everybody got his number, though. He just a scared rabbit now. He don't hurt nobody now.”

  The nurse came again, checking his IV. She left with a wink.

  “They made me do things,” Blake continued, unabated. “Eat rat turds...kiss their dirty shoes...flush my face in the john...yeah, they did plenty. But you taught 'em. You did, Johnny.”

  Richter couldn't talk. Not right away.

  Blake talked for him. “I see people. Not like you see people. I see them. I see what they're thinking. What they're plotting for the world.”

  A silence prevailed.

  “You did it, yeah? You tore down the school, right?”

  No answer.

  “You got mad 'cause they was hurtin' you and you made the ground shake. You did it, I know. You got mad and made the world rumble. I know. I see you, Johnny. I see you.”

  Richter wanted to sp
eak. Needed to.

  Blake leaned in close, ear perked.

  Raspy and low, Richter managed all he could: “W-W-What...what's...y-your...trick...?”

  Blake smiled eagerly.

  “I see people's hearts.”

  Fading, Richter stared up at his new ally. “A-Are you an angel?”

  “I'm a friend.”

  Then the black of unconsciousness returned, taking Blake away, bringing on the darkness that would last almost another six weeks.

  A fraction of time that brought calmness to the city, and to its people.

  5

  He would never see Blake again.

  He awoke to his mother, a welcomed sight.

  “I have you a new home, Johnny,” she said without emotion, staring at her paperwork, not seeing him. She patted his injured arm, checking the bandage. “Battle scar?”

  He did not answer her.

  He thought about starting an earthquake. Right then. A mean one. Possibly the Big One. But no. He had to care for her, as she did him. They were a team. Inseparable.

  But it would be ten years later until he learned the outcome of Blake's specialty. And the outcome of Blake himself.

  Had he talked? Had he given him away? It would be a mystery to the end, even though he trusted his young friend more than life itself. Their bond was true, it held no falsehoods. Both of them were blessed with powers. Why else were they allowed to meet?

  Upon arriving home six weeks later, Nancy prayed prayer upon prayer, anxious to heal her child fully, and sworn to protect him from all evil.

  He learned more and more from her in the years to come. But still he did not confide in her the talent in which he possessed. It wasn't that he didn't love or trust her.

  It was for security's sake. Hers as well as his own.

  A wave rose up and splashed his face, the salty taste wet on his lips. He ran a hand through his hair. He shifted his stance a bit to keep from cramping up. High above him the traffic noise seemed to thin, indicating the later hour. How long had he been standing there? Statuesque against the dark ocean, feeling its warmth, its pull? How long, indeed? An hour? Two? The bewitching hour at hand, the moon sliding across the sky, desperate for the horizon.