Grace rattled off a reply. I have so many questions. She should have said more but the questions overwhelmed her. While she waited for a response, Grace chewed on her fingernail—one of the few nails that remained intact. Another message arrived and just like that, her exchange with the unknown user became a conversation in real time.
I don’t have many answers.
The reply should have discouraged her with the prospect that she might never understand her dreams or their meaning. But simply knowing she was not alone provided some comfort.
Grace typed and deleted several different questions before settling on, When did they start?
Many years ago, maybe twenty-five or thirty?
Grace’s heart sank, fearing another twenty-five years of these nightmares awaited her. Did you have the dreams all of that time?
No, just for a couple of months. Then they stopped.
How many different people did you dream about?
Five.
The number seemed so manageable when she viewed it on the screen, but Grace couldn’t imagine enduring a week of nightmares four more times.
They all died?
Yes. As far as I know, all of them. But I stopped checking.
So many other questions nagged at Grace. But she was starting to find this medium of communication restrictive.
Where do you live? It was a desperate question. He could have lived thousands of miles away. But she had to at least ask.
New York City.
Finally a stroke of good fortune. You’re not far from me. Can we meet? Grace barely considered the thought before she put it into writing. Obviously, she knew nothing about this person, not even its gender or age, though she presumed her messenger was older than she. But there were things she needed to know, things that were hard to express through email or even phone. She wanted to look into his or her eyes, to see the toll the dreams had exacted. This person was a flesh and blood prophecy of what Grace could end up like, and she wanted to peer into her potential future.
Are you sure? the other person asked.
Yes. I’d like to speak with you in person.
And so before Grace retired for a second time that night, she had arranged to meet a stranger named Richard in the middle of New York. Even if he lacked the final word on what their dreams meant, maybe between the two, they could cobble together some pieces of the puzzle. At the very least, she would meet someone who understood—not just someone who tried to understand—what she was going through. But Grace doubted that fact would insulate her against the next layer of nightmare that would soon visit her.
20
Early the next morning, Matt Harrison arrived at Patterson Street, the scene of Thomas Wilson’s accident. John and Felicia were already facing off from one another, separated by ten awkward feet. Matt had imagined them occupying such a position when he listened in on their conversation the previous day. It wasn’t until he opened his car door that either one of them looked his way.
“Wow, imagine running into you guys here!” Matt said, exaggerating both his tone and the artificial smile on his face.
“What are you doing here? Did you follow me here?” John asked, dispensing with the pleasantries. Felicia, dressed in a black wool peacoat, watched Matt like a hawk.
“Follow you? Why would I do that, John? I just happened to be here, checking out Thomas Wilson’s accident scene.” He waved the piece of paper in his right hand at them. “We always say the DMV is incompetent, yet they were able to find the report that you said wasn’t there. Was the DMV clerk sassy to me? Sure. But she did her job. Maybe you’re rusty after so much time off and you forgot how to search through databases?”
John’s face steeled over as he realized his lie had been caught. Felicia looked down at the ground momentarily, then swiveled her head from side to side, as if to make sure no one else listened to their conversation.
“Just tell him, John,” she said, her voice soft but forceful.
“Tell me what? I’m guessing there’s more to this story than the fact that you lied.”
John glanced back at Felicia, who nodded. He massaged his forehead for a moment or two.
“I’m sorry I lied to you. I just wanted to protect you.”
“From Josh Williams? What’s so scary about him that I need to be protected?”
“How’d you know about Josh Williams?” John asked.
“I have my sources. Now, what’s the big deal about him?”
John inhaled deeply and shook his head. When he spoke, his voice sounded uncertain. “Josh Williams is a unique guy. He has the ability...to move objects with his mind.”
Matt squinted at his brother. He really had no expectations of who Josh Williams might be or why John was so reticent to reveal any details about him. Did Williams possess organized crime connections? Some kind of nasty drug dealer? Neither of those possibilities had fit the bare skeletal facts Matt knew about Williams’ life.
“He can move objects with his mind?” Matt asked.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but we’ve both seen it,” John replied.
“What kinds of things? Like spoons or dice?”
“Like me. He can move objects like me,” Felicia said.
Matt pointed at her. She nodded.
“And how was he involved in your shooting?” Matt asked.
John placed his hands on his hips. “I guess you can say he saved me. Mike Sullivan—the guy who shot me—was about to finish me off.” As John narrated the tumultuous events of that fateful night, Felicia gazed at him, her expression softening. “Then Josh Williams blew the door open and tossed Sullivan across the room. He forced Sullivan to shoot his brother and then turn the gun on himself.”
“Hmm.” Matt wandered around the accident scene, processing what his brother had just told him. “Okay. Well, I have to say, I didn’t see this one coming,” Matt said, stopping. “But hold on, I ask you about Thomas Wilson because a woman saw him die in her dreams, and you thought she was crazy. But you saw someone move objects with their mind? Seems like you should have been a little more open-minded, doesn’t it?”
“What girl? What dreams?” Felicia asked.
“John didn’t tell you? The only reason I’m asking about Thomas Wilson is because this woman came to me because for seven straight nights, she saw him die in her dreams. When the dreams stopped, Wilson died. At least, that’s her story.”
“This woman, what’s her name?” Felicia asked.
“Are you going to track her down and ask her questions?” Matt asked, feeling suddenly protective.
“No. I promise. I just want to know.”
“You wouldn’t know her. She didn’t even know Wilson herself. She just happened to see his face in the obituaries one day and got freaked out. But you two know who Thomas Wilson is, don’t you?”
Again, John sighed. “Yes. He worked security at Stevenson Industries. Actually, security is probably not the right word. Wilson is some ex-military guy who Stevenson Industries hired to hunt down various people they wanted to research. People with special abilities, like Josh Williams.”
“And Thomas Wilson was killed just a few blocks away from the scene and less than thirty minutes after Josh Williams killed the Sullivan brothers? Seems a little coincidental, right? Do you think Williams was involved in Wilson’s death?” Matt asked.
“I don’t know. Seems possible, if not likely,” John replied, surveying the scene.
“So let’s investigate,” Matt said, looking down at his copy of the report. He walked down the mostly tree-lined street before stopping in front of a streetlight. “It’s kind of difficult to tell, but it looks like this is about where the accident occurred, according to the report.”
Felicia and John followed him down the street. The spot where Matt stood was about ten yards away from a traffic light. “Wilson was found crushed beneath the van. So he was outside the vehicle,” Matt said.
“So what, the van flipped?” Felicia asked. “Isn’t this
kind of a weird street for a van to flip over on? I mean, it’s a thirty mile per hour speed zone and they’re not that far away from the traffic light up there, so how fast could they have been going?”
“You’d be surprised at how little it takes to flip a van over,” Matt said. “You should search for low-speed van flip overs on Youtube—there are hours of entertainment there.”
“They could have hit the curb,” John said, kicking the cement edge that lined the street.
“But why would they hit the curb? It just doesn’t make sense,” Felicia said.
“No skid marks, which means they didn’t hit the brakes hard,” John pointed out. “I guess the town could have cleaned them already, but I kind of doubt that.”
The three of them stood in silence, each formulating his or her own theory as to exactly how Thomas Wilson met his demise. Matt spoke out loud the idea percolating in each of their minds. “You ever see Josh Williams move a car with his mind?”
Felicia and John exchanged glances.
“I’m guessing Wilson was here because they were trying to capture Williams again. He must have gotten away the first time they caught him. It makes sense that if Williams felt threatened he would have fought back,” John said. “But I’m not sure he has that kind of power.”
“To flip over a van? I feel like I could flip over a van if I had a running start,” Matt said.
“His power was growing,” Felicia said. Her voice tremored as she said these words. “Each time he used it, it seemed to be a little bit more intense than the time before.”
Matt thought he saw his brother’s arm move toward the reporter just slightly, though, in the end, it remained in place.
“You seem really scared of what Williams might do, but should we be?” Matt asked, looking from John to Felicia. “Yeah, he killed two people, maybe three. But two of them were complete scumbags. Mike Sullivan would have killed you and his ex-girlfriend. The world’s a better place without him, Felicia said so herself. Now maybe Thomas Wilson wasn’t a particularly bad guy—honestly, I don’t know—but he was a threat to Williams. So maybe if we just leave him alone, he’ll be fine.”
“He raped me,” Felicia said, her voice mixing equal portions of anger and pain. “He held me down against a bed and groped me. The fact that he didn’t use his hands is immaterial.”
“Oh; I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Matt searched for something more definitive to say. He instantly regretted claiming Williams was not a threat, but couldn’t retract it now.
“I’m afraid that Josh Williams is a powder keg waiting to explode,” John said. Perhaps subconsciously, he moved a step closer to Felicia. “He has to be found and brought to whatever kind of justice is possible for him.”
Felicia’s eyes clouded over, apparently recognizing the truth of his words, yet fearing its outcome.
“Then let’s do this together,” Matt said. “No more lies. No more withholding information. We’ll be equal partners.”
“No. Absolutely not. This is a police investigation. Neither one of you can be involved,” John said.
“Oh, please. How are you going to bring Josh Williams to justice? How would you even arrest him? Or convict him? The physical evidence is either going to contradict you or be inconclusive. It’s kind of hard to get a fingerprint off anything when he didn’t even use his hands. And that’s if you can even get him into handcuffs. If he is as powerful as you say he is, how are you even going to catch him?” Matt asked.
“I’ll find a way,” John said.
“I think you already know the way. This isn’t the kind of guy you can bring in alive,” Matt said.
“This is why I didn’t want to tell you about Josh Williams or Thomas Wilson. You’re going to go off after Williams, but he’s not like Brad. You corner this guy, and he’ll tear you apart,” John said.
“All the more reason you’re going to need someone to help you. Now, if you’d like to explain this to your police buddies, fine. But there’s no way you can go after Williams by yourself.”
John placed his hands on his hips again and looked down at the asphalt. “Fine. I’ll keep you in the loop. But you need to promise me you’re not going to go after Williams alone.”
“Fine. Deal.”
“If we can even find Williams. Who knows where that guy even is,” John said. He glanced at Felicia, who stared at the ground.
“So where do we start?” Matt asked.
“Well, there’s only one person that I know Williams cares about and that’s Jessie Walters.” John turned to Felicia. “Have you seen her lately?”
The reporter shook her head. “Not since that night.”
“I’ll try to find her, first. Maybe Williams has made contact with her,” John said.
“You could check with Williams’ parents. When we spoke to them before, his mom said he stops in every once in awhile,” Felicia suggested.
“Good idea,” John said.
“What about me?” Matt asked. “What do you want me to do?”
“Look, these are things I have to handle. If I get a lead on Williams’ location, I’ll let you know. But until then, just see where this girl’s dreams lead,” John replied.
Felicia, who had remained largely silent during the brothers’ negotiation, turned toward Matt. “This girl—why did she come to you? Shouldn’t she be seeing a psychiatrist or something if she’s so bothered by these dreams?”
“Well, actually I did recommend she see Julia. But the reason she came to me is that she was having dreams of someone else, and she wanted me to find a way to save this guy from dying.”
“And how does she expect you to do that?” Felicia asked.
“As it turns out, she’s a pretty good artist. She drew pictures of Wilson, and now she’s drawing a picture of this new guy.” Matt reached into his coat pocket and took the now slightly tattered sketch. “This is the next guy she’s afraid is going to turn up dead.”
Felicia took the sketch from him. As she examined the drawing, her forehead crinkled.
“What, you think you know him?” John asked.
She gave John an incredulous expression. “Who does this look like to you?” she asked, thrusting the drawing into his line of sight.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to tell since it’s two-dimensional.”
“This doesn’t look like my uncle to you?”
John reexamined the drawing. “I guess maybe, but that seems like kind of a stretch.”
“Maybe. But it’s worth checking out. I need to go talk to him. Can I have this?”
“So what, you’re going to try to warn him?” Matt asked. “Do you really think he’s going to believe you?”
“He might not believe me. But my uncle works for Stevenson Industries, in the exact same department Thomas Wilson did.”
Matt did a double take. “Whoa. Talk about coincidences. That’s either so crazy it can’t be true or so crazy it has to be.”
Felicia started back toward her car.
“I’ll come with you,” John said he as he followed her. She didn’t refuse his company.
Matt remained behind, pacing along the grass on the other side of the curb, imagining different scenarios that could have transpired on Patterson Street the night Thomas Wilson died. Freak accidents did happen and usually didn’t involve telekinesis. But the world looked very different to Matt than it had thirty minutes ago. Grace Murphy’s dreams had prepared him for some of these possibilities, but not for the way that unseen forces seemed to be converging before his very eyes. He wondered if this news would make Grace feel better or worse.
21
Later in the day, Matt Harrison sat in his office when someone knocked at the door. He looked at the clock: 12:15 p.m., twenty-four hours since Grace Murphy first entered his life.
“Come in,” he said. The door opened and Grace’s tell-tale red hair appeared at the opening. Her eyes seemed just as hollow as the day before. “Hey. Have a seat, Grace.”
The young w
oman settled into the chair in front of the desk. She crossed her arms—perhaps a byproduct of the plunging October temperatures—while clutching her purse.
“Didn’t sleep well again?” Matt asked.
Grace shook her head. This time, she didn’t have to explain why.
“Did you see him last night?”
Grace pulled out the same sheet of paper and handed it to Matt. He inspected her work for changes. There seemed to be more lines and shading around the face and more definition to the eyes. But the background remained blank.
“Could you see where he was? Any other details that might tell us anything, at all?”
“No. Not much changed in my dream. Maybe tonight I’ll see more.”
Matt set the drawings down on his desk. “You thought the man that looked like Thomas Wilson was talking on the phone and looking behind him. What’s this guy doing?” He pointed his right index finger at her new sketch.
Grace scanned the sketch for a moment. “Right now? It feels like he’s just staring at me.”
Matt nodded. “You mind if I make a copy, again?”
“No, go ahead.”
Matt took a few steps across the cramped office to the cluttered shelf where the copier sat. As the feeder pulled the sketch in and spat out a reproduction, Grace crossed her legs.
“Did you find out anything?” she asked.
Matt stared at the new copy a little bit before answering, “Yeah, a few things.” He sat back down in his chair and rustled through some papers on his desk. When he located the accident report, he slid it across his desk to Grace. “This is the accident report. I got it from the DMV yesterday.”
Grace scanned the report, extracting whatever facts she could from it. “He was crushed by a van?”
“Yeah. Seems the van flipped over somehow.”
“So it was just an accident?”
“Possibly. Vans like that can flip over fairly easily.”
For a moment, Grace’s eyes sharpened. “You said possibly. If you think it was an accident, why did you qualify it?”
Death Prophets (Strange Gravities Book 3) Page 9
