SAGE: AN ADAM STONE MYSTERY (THE ADAM STONE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by D. L. EVANS

  SAGE

  AN ADAM STONE MYSTERY

  By

  D. L. Evans

  © 2015

  All rights reserved

  Chapter One

  She drove her Porsche hard despite the heavy rain and moonless night, stabbing the brake briefly as she downshifted through the corner, revs tickling the red line. Something was wrong. There wasn’t another car around for miles but the sensation that an accident was imminent completely overwhelmed her. She cursed the familiar sensation resonating in her brain. It was taking hold again and, as usual, there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Go with it. Ride the wave. Try to think. Why had she taken the long way, using secondary roads instead of the main highway when she knew the storm was coming? An answer floated in her peripheral consciousness but would not come into focus. Time slowed. All exterior sounds merged into a heartbeat pulsing in her ears. She was alone in her car but not in her mind. The images she sensed were still confused but critical mass was forming. An accident, my god, a monstrous collision is going to happen. Am I going to die? Is this how it ends? Her thoughts formed into a solid wave of fear. Some kind of car accident was imminent, that much was certain. The edges were soft, so she knew it was a distance away. Concentrate. The heartbeat sounds doubled. Someone shared her space. He was there, just beyond her reach, just beyond the range of the mind touch. Another tight corner, gear down. This is not my reality. It was an event beyond her influence.

  What was happening to her? Who was he? Why was she sensing the danger around him? The man, the stranger, was strong, powerful and not afraid to die, but she felt something more... possibly anger. Who was he? Why was he so strongly in her mind? The heartbeats pounded now. She drove automatically, moving up through the gears as she came out of the corner, seeing as though looking down at herself from above, the superb machine responding to her bidding, the fat Bridgestone tires doing their job on the slippery asphalt despite her excessive speed.

  There was an aura of strength that was not hers. Did he know what was about to happen? Yes, he knows. Death is all around him but there is no fear. He DID know the accident was about to happen. The sensations weren’t lining up. Why didn’t he just stop his car? He is causing this reality. This death is planned. Someone has to die. Another curve appeared in her headlights and she forced her focus back to her driving. Gear down once more. Still no sign of another car, any car, but the feelings were so strong he couldn't be far away. ‘Damn’, she felt like the only person on the planet in this filthy rain. Should she pull over and wait? A massive dagger of lightning slashed through the blackness, exposing dark rolling clouds, followed, almost instantaneously by a cracking explosion. God, it was close. Celestial artillery. A warning? She tapped the brake for another twist in the narrow road. There was definitely an accident in her mind involving other vehicles but the road remained empty both ways. The sensation grew stronger and her grip tightened on the leather steering wheel as she was now fully enveloped by the trance. She knew it was useless to resist. It was always like sinking blindfolded into a warm pool and she never became used to the sensation. Her breathing slowed, the silent storm faded and another part of her consciousness took over control of the car. She was now an observer to a scene so realistic it might have been taking place just feet in front of her. It was happening, it was happening now. A ghost windshield imploded slowly in a beautiful cascade of flickering laser light and she felt herself veer to the left of the empty road. Don’t’ react! It’s not happening to me. A sharp pain, unreal, cramped her left side as the automatic part of her regained control of her car. Then she heard it... the agonizing grinding of metal against metal, slow, distorted, unearthly, like dinosaurs screaming in battle. His heartbeat pulsed in her temples, racing with the adrenalin surge.

  Seconds passed like minutes. The accident had happened... but where? Keep driving. He’s in pain.

  Her concentration returned to her driving. Sheets of rain pounded her windshield faster than the wipers could clear it. Visibility was minimal, the halogen headlights, normally capable of throwing a piercing beam three quarters of a mile ahead, now barely an insignificant smudge against the downpour. Still, she knew she must move even faster.

  He was close. The copper taste of blood formed in her mouth as she struggled for breath against the phantom pain. It’s not real. I am not dying. She was slewing through another curve too fast but the precision machine beneath her recovered miraculously from the skid just as the wind eased and the torrent lightened to a drizzle. The branches intertwining overhead seemed to grasp for the car in the wind. She picked up more speed as road ahead straightened. Risking a glance to the right she saw flashes of a river as it paralleled the highway, only yards away. I’m not far. I’m coming.

  A roadside sign announced the town of Uxbridge, five miles ahead. Uxbridge? God, it was miles out of her way. What the hell was happening? The gusty wind momentarily cleared the rain and with the improved visibility she pushed the Porsche harder and felt the guttural roar of the exhaust bouncing back at her from the trees, pockets of mist swirling in her wake.

  She actually felt him lose consciousness. He was still alive but the heartbeat was weaker, fading, despite the adrenalin.

  The next curve, she thought, he had to be around the next curve. She would need help. Gear down, slow the car. She reached with her left hand into her bag for the cell phone, fighting the liquid, slow motion enveloping her like molasses. As her fingers tapped nine-one-one, the words were stuck in her dry throat and she swallowed hard, thinking, where was your spit when you needed it?

  “Emergency, I need an ambulance...” Her voice sounded like a tape recording played too slowly but she knew that the distortion she was hearing was a result of her condition. Whoever was on the other end would hear her voice without the distortion. “Highway 47, take the cut-off to Uxbridge... car accident... about two miles, where the river meets the road.... hurry. Blood everywhere. God the blood... hurry.“

  She stomped brake and clutch simultaneously, pulling on the handbrake and slapping the shift knob into neutral, even before the Porsche skidded to a stop. She sprang out, looking around in vain for the accident scene that must be there. The night air was heavy, pungent with the scent of wet earth mixed with something indeterminable. She heard only the drizzle hissing as it met its end on the steaming hood, her headlights probed the wall of mist surging in from the rain swollen river.

  Thunder rolled again and she shivered. Her strength was being sapped as she struggled to concentrate. Was she cold from the rain or from the imaginary loss of blood? Images flashed as she started across the gravel. White sandals in river mud... balancing across smooth rocks, churning cold water... the heartbeat still thumping behind her eyes... and suddenly, on the rising wind, a permeating odour of gasoline combined with the stomach churning stench of burning rubber. She lurched forward.

  He was seriously injured, but conscious, waiting. What kind of man is this she thought, not afraid of death or pain? She sensed something else… relief. How could that be? Did he want to die? Is this a suicide plan? The rain had eased to a fine drizzle. As she climbed down the shallow bank, tongues of fire beckoned. Curtains of mist opened momentarily revealing the accident by sections. It was a scene from hell, illuminated by the flickering flames, heightened by the sweet sickening aroma of burning flesh. The rain had eased. Two cars were visible now, the one engulfed by fire contained two hideous black shadows, already beyond pain. The other vehicle, upside-down, a few yards further away, dribbled fuel onto a half hidden, vaguely human shape that lay uncaring amid the broken glass an
d twisted metal. No, she thought, not these. They were beyond help.

  He had to be here somewhere, his erratic heartbeat a testament to his tenuous grasp on life. She looked around, shocked by the horror of a vision that was now grim reality. Blood was everywhere. Puddles of water and blood. The familiar state flowed around her, calming her anxiety but adding to the frustration. Seconds stretched into a precious minute. She tried to centre herself; to see beyond the kaleidoscope of shifting visions. Follow the heartbeat, she thought, he’s still alive, but where? Mud sucked at her wet sandals as she stumbled past the burning car. Beyond the fire she saw a third vehicle, twisted metal that had once been a pick-up truck, lying on its side in a mangled heap, almost unrecognisable The fire crackled, swathing everything in a reddish cast, reflecting on the trees, a setting from Dante’s inferno.

  He was hanging half out of the wreck, on his side, covered in blood and broken glass, but he was alive, looking up at her, breathing in deep asthmatic wheezes. She moved through the thick air and bent over him, knowing she had only moments. His eyes followed her as she reached under his shoulders and pulled him clear. The stench of gasoline from the overturned car was nauseating now as it insidiously searched them out over the uneven ground. His life was leaking out of the wound in his side in cadence with his heartbeat. She tore off her jacket and pressed it hard against him. “Hold it in place”, she panted. Metallic eyes blinked at her as he helped her staunch the flow with the last of his strength. He wasn’t a large man but she could feel an impressive rack of muscle beneath his shirt, the only thing in his favour. As she dragged him behind a large tree, lethal blue fire jumped along an invisible path and crawled possessively over his truck. She cradled him in her arms while the expected explosion tore past them and vanished into the purple darkness.

  He stared into her eyes, fighting for consciousness. Where had she come from? In the firelight her dripping curls looked like a halo over the beautiful face, her white dress glowing in the Porsche headlights, her hands soft as she stroked his brow, wiping away the blood that ran into his eyes. An angel. Her soft words of comfort were far away, like the song his mother used to sing to him. Thunder cracked again overhead and the sound of sirens muscled in on his reverie. Then, flashing lights... more pain... and as he sank into merciful blackness, he imagined voices shouting.

  Chapter Two

  ADAM STONE

  I poured myself a beer and sat at the computer. Any minute now I was going to start plonking away, and the words would just appear on the pristine white screen, justifying my job title of the last few years, as it says on my passport, 'novelist'. Any minute now. I just had to grab hold of that elusive thought. Something to do with an unsolved crime... an untimely death. The curser flashed on and off, on and off in the middle of my empty computer screen. It was mesmerizing. I resisted for a moment, but the moment passed. My mind snagged once again catching the too familiar memory of the respirator hissing and whirring obscenely, lights flashing like an electronic game. The computer curser blurred and became a blue dot pulsing up and down invisible mountains on a blank monitor. Time expanded, or compressed, or maybe it just stood still. I looked at the clock and remembered the past. It was a beautiful summer day. She had been jogging home from the park. What were her last thoughts? Had she cried out for me? She’d been alone when without warning, the pain had come and she fell. My darling wife. My dearest Savannah Jane had fallen amid the trees and the grass that she’d loved and had closed her eyes for the last time.

  I sat, reliving the chaos as I arrived at the hospital minutes, years, centuries too late. I watched helplessly as my mind replayed once again the fierce determination of the paramedics, then the blurry white-coated specialists performing their practised ballet as a gastric haemorrhage was diagnosed. The hushed voices. The sad expressions. Anonymous eyes avoiding mine, looking down at blood covered gloves. The frantic activity slowed to clinical movements. Robots accepting the inevitable. Susannah Jane never regained consciousness and her death was mercifully quick, powered by the beating of her own heart that pumped her life away where the ulcer had eroded into an artery. Grief expanded around me with paralysing force as my senses disconnected, making the hospital room distant and unreal.

  Eventually, the erratic blue dot settled down to a straight line and dissolved back into my computer screen; the curser flicking on and off to the beat of another heart that no longer cared about life without her.

  Lauren’s key made angry clicking sounds at the front door. I could tell it was her. She’s what I would describe as ‘lock challenged’. If the door doesn’t open on the first aggressive turn of the key, it gets punished with a slap or kick as she curses at the lock. Patience is not one of her virtues. Fortunately, the door relented and she let herself in, calling out my name. When she’s irritated, her voice can shave a peach. She’s hell on small appliances as well. I thought of changing the lock once, but reconsidered. Giving her a key just saves me the expense of repairing the door that she would inevitably kick in.

  No one says ‘no’ to Lauren... not for very long.

  She breezed into my study, struck an impatient pose, and glared into the side of my head. I ignored her, and began typing. When I continued to stare at the screen, she changed tactics and gave a loud martyred sigh, “Adam, you promised to escort me to the re-opening. It started an hour ago... Are you listening? My God. When was the last time you shaved? The Stanford Galleries! Did you forget... Are you sober?”

  I closed my eyes measuring the silence. She waited. Finally I said, “I know it’s hard sis, but pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I could feel her controlling her temper. “I had an idea for the new novel,” I lied, “guess I lost track of the time. Tell y’what, you go on without me. I hate these things.” I had completely forgotten the deal made in a moment of weakness.

  She remained silent.

  “What about your latest flavour-of-the-month,” I offered bravely, “Roger what’s-his-name? Get him to take you.”

  “Roger Smythe is not my flavour-of-the-month you vulgar bastard,” she hissed. “Anyway, he’s at a conference in Boston, and besides, last week you agreed to come. I was at the preview last Tuesday, brought dinner over that evening and we discussed it. Don’t you dare tell me you don’t remember.”

  “You discussed it. I politely listened, as I recall.” Her eyes flashed but her demeanour remained calm as she switched to Plan B.

  "Adam Alexander Stone,” my middle name was reserved for disparaging lectures, so I tuned her out and kept typing. “Don’t ignore me.” Her voice went down an octave. I could her eyes narrowing, burrowing into my brain. “Who’d y’think you’re kidding?” she hissed. “You’re obviously not starting another novel while I’m standing here. You’ve been trying for six months and you’ve only done one paragraph." She exercised her very irritating habit of reading over my shoulder. I could feel her gaze on the back of my neck. "I’m not leaving until you put on your tux and get out of this apartment. You can’t live forever on the success of one 'best seller'. For Christ’s sake... Adam,” she was winding down; patience running on fumes. “It’s been two years since Savannah... it’s.. it’s time to get on with your life. I mean it!” Her control was gone. Short fuse. Anger crackled through her voice like a fraying cable. She took an audible breath. Lightening was about to strike. I braced myself. “Listen, you sorry shit," she hissed, "get showered and dressed or I’ll throw your damn computer out the window!"

  Even when we were kids, she’d taken the big sister thing too far. The ‘take-no-prisoners’ attitude came naturally down the female gene trail. Our mother still has a tendency to micro-manage anything she can get her hands on, including my life, due to me being the more compliant child.

  Puberty had saved me. I grew a foot taller than both of them and eighty pounds heavier. This inconvenient fact only made Lauren more selective, searching out the ‘G’ spots of pain with selective punches when the matriarch wasn’t looking. At least my metamor
phosis had forced her to change her tactics. Puberty had also given her a couple of gifts to complement her package of brains and beauty. Eventually, she had given up the frustrating physical violence, but not the attitude. Gone were the good ol’ days of brother bashing. When Dad died six years ago Mom moved to the Florida Keys to be near her friends. We’re in touch on the ‘phone every week and I suspect Lauren keeps her posted between visits. Salvation from the sibling abuse came in the form of a job; not for me, for her. Lauren became a talk-show host and discovered that she could use her tongue as a weapon. And the public loved it. The cute little neighbourhood terror evolved into the darling of the network.

  So now she just bloody nags me to death.

  I glanced at her pacing impatiently, and had to admit, that at thirty-four, my sister was a knockout. Her sequined mini dress rippled across taut thighs, long chestnut hair was pulled up in a froth and flashes of light dangled from her ears. She sure did clean up nice. But if I looked closely, I could still see the pigtails and freckles, (and remember the bruises). In fact, I was kicking around some ideas for another book but I wasn’t going to admit it until I could put some flesh on it. Ideas had crashed and burned once or twice before. She was still nattering on when a slight change in her tone caused a shift in my focus. I started listening. Lauren rarely asked for favours, unless she was desperate. There was more to this than she wanted to say.