Mad Powers (Tapped In)

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  I tried to read Whittier’s thoughts through the phone. Nothing.

  “Are you close? Where exactly are you right now?”

  “I’m on the other side of town, taking care of some business. How about I come by in the morning? I can be there first thing—how’s that sound?”

  “Uhh, actually today’s better. Tomorrow’s pretty packed. Will be in and out all day. Why don’t you finish up your business and come on over when you can, later this afternoon? I can stay late if necessary.”

  I heard nervousness in his voice. Sure, he was trying to sound nonchalant, but there was an almost desperate undertone. Pleading. Something was askew.

  “Well, I certainly am excited to discover more about my identity. How about I see where I’m at in an hour and ring you back?”

  “Sure. I’ll be here,” he replied.

  I replaced the receiver onto its cradle and continued to look at the phone. There was something wrong … Whittier was putting up a cool act. Feigned indifference. One thing was for certain: there was no way I was going to stroll into the Kingman Police Station without having more information first.

  * * *

  Pippa and Giles had arrived at the Kingman Police Station fifteen minutes earlier. They’d been rushed into the small, cramped conference room where they’d been introduced to the light-eyed black detective. They traded information, neither providing full disclosure. Now, looking at the center of the metal table, Pippa realized she’d been holding her breath. As she heard Rob’s familiar voice amplified on the speakerphone, memories flooded back into her consciousness. She wanted to call out to him. Why, Rob? Why no contact for all these months? Tell me—had it all been some kind of ruse? But she said nothing, maintaining an expression of indifference.

  Whittier tapped the disconnect button on the speakerphone.

  Giles was the first to speak. “So that’s it. Chandler will show up in a few hours and we’ll take custody. Be out of your hair.”

  Before Whittier could answer, Barns entered the small conference room and handed Whittier several pieces of paper. He scanned them and placed them facedown on the table. Barns pulled out a chair and sat next to his partner.

  “Sorry, that’s not going to happen,” Wittier said, matter-of-factly. “As of right now, Chandler has become our number one suspect in the death of Jill Wrigley—the nurse from Kingman Regional Med.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I know Chandler. He’d never do anything like that!” Pippa blurted out her objection, with stronger indignation than she’d intended.

  Whittier crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. He stared back at Pippa for several beats before speaking. “From what I’ve read about Chandler—hell, from what you’ve told me yourselves—he’s a trained killer. Possibly even a rogue agent? And add to that, he’s been in a horrendous car accident where he’s sustained head trauma—has amnesia. Hell … he may think he’s on some kind of mission. Who knows what’s going on inside his head?”

  “Chandler’s not a murderer—”

  “Hold on, just hear me out,” Whittier said, casually lifting a palm in her direction. “Detective Barns conducted some interviews at the hospital. Apparently Chandler and the nurse had become close. She was observed by an orderly giving Rob both clothes and money. They exchanged a kiss.”

  Pippa’s heart sank. Realization was sinking in. Had she been played? Been made a fool of?

  Giles’ voice brought her back to the present. “You know as well as I do that our government warrant trumps any local jurisdiction, Detective Whittier. Let’s just get our hands on him and worry later about who’ll be bringing him to justice.”

  Chapter 16

  The midday Arizona sun was bright and relentless as I exited the medical center’s front lobby. I’d interrupted the receptionist one more time, pulling her away from a particularly steamy passage midway into her romance novel. She’d told me the closest Internet Café where I could get online was several blocks up. I needed to pass under the U.S. 93 interchange and a mini-mall would be on my left. The café would be next door to the Kingman Co. Steak House.

  I headed east along the sidewalk that paralleled Stockton Hill Road. Now, equipped with my full name, I’d be able to run a search. How many Robert Michael Chandlers could there possibly be? I’d also be able to query social media sites, such as Facebook and LinkedIn. Feeling hopeful, I stepped beneath the freeway overpass. Ah—shade at last. I looked up and listened to the swoosh swoosh swoosh of cars and trucks speeding along one hundred feet over my head. A blue Nissan Murano SUV, traveling in my same direction, passed me, slowed, and made a U-turn. It pulled to the curb across the street, some twenty feet away. Thinking it was someone lost, perhaps someone needing directions, I watched as the driver opened his door and stepped out of the vehicle. Two things converged into my thoughts simultaneously. One, I was looking into the muzzle of a Glock 19, currently the most popular handgun sold in the United States. How I knew that, I had no idea. The second thing to intrude into my thoughts was the smiling face behind the Glock 19. The bald-headed man. The same man who had tortured and later killed a pretty young nurse named Jill. In the time it took me to access his mind, make sense of all its firing synapses, and process the subsequent imagery that was spewing forth, I knew I no longer needed to visit the Internet Café.

  In a flash, in a mind-bending rush that could best be compared to falling off a cliff, wind buffeting my face, my eyes watering as adrenalin elevates my pounding heart rate into the stratosphere, the pieces come together. And then, as I plummet faster and faster toward my inevitable fate, and the ever-approaching solid ground below, I remember. I remember the man who’s standing before me. I remember everything. I hesitated and watched a line of blurry shadows, moving in rhythm to the sounds of the highway above; countless indecipherable black shapes, dancing across the concrete. As if a shroud had been lifted, sight granted to a blind man, I welcomed home the lost memories of my lifetime.

  “You look like shit, Harland,” I said.

  “Thank you. Get in the car. You’re driving.” He raised the Glock to underscore his demand. “Slowly. No quick movements.”

  I slowly walked in his direction, crossing the street. He moved away from the open driver- side door—his weapon now at his side, pointed at my chest. I needed to take as much time as possible—I still had some mental catching up to do.

  I ground my teeth as more memories surfaced. Yes, I had killed his Veronica in Moscow—done so without any hesitation. Harland was there to witness her death, first hand.

  As he cradled her lifeless body in his arms, I did my best to get him away, but he was lost in misery—frenzied, and vowing to kill me. As approaching sirens blared, I took flight—needing to go to ground. He had been well aware of my suspicions that day: she was a double agent. He was just as adamant that I was mistaken. Abruptly, she had pulled a weapon—she knew the jig was up and she had every intention of taking me out—right then and there.

  Espionage is often a tangled web of half-truths, if not outright deceit. Moles are commonplace. At any given time, the CIA has an infestation of many. The rank-and-file agent-asset is often unaware of who is, and who is not, suspected of being a double agent. But Veronica, an eight-year CIA operative, had fooled everyone. She was that good. In an almost freakish chain of events, I had discovered her true allegiance. She was actually an agent for the SVR, the CIA’s Russian counterpart. If I lived, her cover would be blown, would fall apart like a house of cards, and her corpse found floating dead in the Volga.

  Mere hours before her death, Veronica had already blown Harland’s and my cover. The SVR was everywhere. Safe houses had been compromised—I had little in the way of viable options to evade capture and certain death. I had one slim hope. I had made a friend, of sorts. Ladislav Skykora, another agent, was a Slovakian national and no friend to Russia. I made it to his small flat. Reluctantly, he kept me out of sight. Since his phones were tapped and he was soon put on the watch list, comm
unications with the Agency would have to wait. Two weeks later, Skykora informed me that I had been Agency disavowed: determined to be a rogue agent. Putting the pieces together now, it was evident that Harland did make it safely out of Russia. He’d also lied, saying I killed Veronica and that I, not she, was the traitor.

  It would be many months before I could get out of Russia. There was also a heavy price exacted for my yearlong refuge there. If and when I got out of Russia, I had a job to do for Ladislav Skykora: a mission, of sorts, that would take place in Kingman, Arizona. After that, Skykora, and the people he worked for, would validate my innocence. Do what they could to clear my name with the Agency.

  Harland took another step back as I approached. He gestured with his gun for me to get in behind the wheel.

  I paused in front of him, looked into his eyes. “Veronica was SVR. I was doing my job. You were blinded, Harland, from seeing the truth.”

  Harland’s smile remained. It was his eyes that conveyed the true hatred he was feeling. I was in his thoughts—thoughts that were reeling, spinning in circles, always returning to a singular driving hub—getting revenge. He was replaying the events of the previous night. It was Jill’s face, tears streaming down her cheeks, her lips quivering—then gasping for breath—her final—last—desperate—breath.

  As I had done so easily with Russell, in our run-in at Denny’s, and with Benny, at Motel 6, I tried to transmit my own thoughts into his: I will enjoy snapping your neck, asshole. But my emotions, my hatred for Harland was so all encompassing I was unable to synchronize to his mind. I needed to get my raging hatred under control—but that seemed unlikely at this point. I was definitely at a disadvantage until I brought some measure of detachment into my thoughts.

  I sat down in the driver’s seat and watched him move around the front of the vehicle, gun still pointed at my head. He opened the passenger-side door and climbed in.

  Now, sitting close to Harland, I noticed his breath was foul. The pallor of his skin was pasty and perspiration was beaded on his brow. He looked like death warmed-over. His left hand was bandaged, with a yellow and green discharge seeping through the gauze.

  Harland, seeing my interest in his hand, smiled. “Fucking snakes.”

  I nodded. “What have you been doing with yourself, Harland?”

  “You mean after you shot my wife in the heart? Well … I left the Agency. Went independent. Which has given me time to look for you. So I could make you suffer. Destroy your life, as you have destroyed mine. But you want to know the best part?”

  “Sure, what’s the best part?”

  “There are others who want you. Others, who are just as hell-bent on finding you as I am; people willing to pay me handsomely for apprehending you. Imagine my delight at the prospect of being paid to nab you.”

  “I’m glad things have worked out for you. So now what? Kill me? Finally get revenge?”

  Harland smiled as if he was in on some kind of inside joke. I’ve learned over the last few days in observing other people’s thoughts, mind reading, that it isn’t a complete brain dump. Their older cognitive memories aren’t mine to peruse, like files saved on a computer hard drive. I am able to read someone’s thoughts, but usually only when those thoughts first screen across his mind. Sometimes I also pickup on stray, or errant, images—those evoking strong emotions, which may relate to something else entirely. Such insights, collectively, allow me to piece together a better understanding. So, when Harland’s mind flashed to his current employer, someone named Dwight, I realized Harland had mixed feelings, more than a little fear, when it came to the guy. And there was something else. I wasn’t the only one he’d been contracted to apprehend. Memories were continuing to seep into my consciousness.

  Pippa walks away from me. I hear the sound of her laughing at something, and then she looks back over her shoulder at me. A strand of hair catches at the corner of her perfect mouth. She turns and continues to walk backward, away from me, still laughing. Playful. I take all of her in at once: her long legs—legs that have stopped traffic. She’s saying something to me and, just like that, her expression changes—what is that expression? That face she’s making? It’s a wonderful mixture of competing emotions … innocence and sultriness … confidence and insecurity. She’s beckoning me now; gesturing me to follow her into the bedroom.

  When Harland speaks, the sudden vision, my own memory of Pippa, fades like wisps of a cloud. And with the sound of his voice I know Harland will stop at nothing to kill her—he’ll kill her as I’m forced to watch.

  Harland gestured to the street ahead. “Drive, fuckface.”

  Chapter 17

  “You know, this is really an interesting city,” Harland said.

  I focused on a rocky plateau ahead in the distance then looked out the side window toward another rocky plateau. Everything was the color of dirt. Just a lot of sameness.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I replied. I needed to quell my emotions, but just hearing him speak only ratcheted up my need for revenge—my anger.

  “The city of Kingman has two sections: the newer, more substantial, industrialized and commercial areas where the Regional Medical Center is located, and then there’s the historic Route 66 section, along the southwestern side of the city. That’s where we’re headed. Turn left here.”

  I made the turn as instructed, while monitoring Harland’s thoughts. Not that I was an expert on the workings of the human mind, but I had several days’ experience of life-in-the-trenches mind-meddling. There was a similarity—a spectrum of thoughts, emotions, desires, and a whole range of cognitive thought patterns that, for the most part, were not so different from person A to person B. But Harland’s mind wasn’t functioning within that spectrum. Not even close. Manic and paranoid, his thoughts came in rapid-fire bursts. Often, nonsensical conversations would play over and over again, then abruptly cease and he would be functional, almost normal. I felt Harland’s eyes on me and then saw what he was mentally conjuring: Pippa, her head pulled back—her chin forced forward—Harland’s fingers entwined in her long blonde hair. He’s pulling harder now, forcing her neck forward. His eyes never leave mine. He’s smiling. He brings the knife, no … the scalpel up and slowly, almost delicately, draws the razor-sharp edge across the mid-point on her neck.

  I slammed on the brakes. Wheels locked and the SUV fishtailed in the middle of the street. Harland careened forward and his bandaged hand thumped against the dashboard in front of him. Cars behind honked.

  “What the hell!” Harland barked, cradling his injured hand. He jammed the Glock deep into my ribs. “Another move like that, and I’ll end you. You understand?”

  His face was close—putrid breath hot on my cheek. I nodded my head. Several cars from behind us passed and, once clear, I accelerated into traffic again. The pain in my side wasn’t subsiding. I might have had a broken rib.

  “As I was saying, a lot of history here, Chandler. Two hundred years ago this was nothing but old trails laid out by early explorers. Soon it became a well-worn wagon route that helped establish Kingman as a trade and transportation center.”

  “Fascinating,” I said.

  “Uh huh, and in 1857, I think, or maybe it was 1858—anyway, a Lt. Edward Fitzgerald Beale ambled across the present site of Kingman. A surveyor by trade, the once-old wagon road along the 35th parallel later became the infamous Route 66.”

  We were entering a section of town where the architecture was late nineteenth century, early twentieth century. Brick and slump-stone buildings, topped with ornate crown cornices, populated both sides of the street. Some looked to have been caringly restored to their original splendor, while other properties were nothing more than long-abandoned, dilapidated hulks—no visual similarity to their past glory evident.

  “Now listen, Chandler. I don’t want you to judge this place by its somewhat seedy exterior. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble procuring this hideaway. There’s a certain charm about the place. I’ve been making some modificati
ons to your accommodations, you know, to ensure your stay here will be fruitful. For all concerned.”

  We were approaching 4th Street and I brought the Murano to a stop at the intersection. Across the street, on the adjacent corner and taking up a full street block, was a faded pink building. High above, supported by a collection of steel support struts, was a massive discolored sign:

  BEALE HOTEL

  AIR-COOLED

  As was common back when a room with a view wasn’t so important, the hotel had several rows of dark and narrow windows. It was evident that plywood sheets, now dark and rotting, obscured every opening—every doorway.

  Harland instructed me to turn right and then make the next left. Halfway down what was more of an alleyway than an actual road, Harland indicated where I should park. He opened the passenger-side door. “Hold on till I come around and fetch you,” he said.

  I needed to make my move soon. I had a pretty good idea what Harland wanted—and it wasn’t something I had any intention of allowing to happen.

  Harland came around the front of the Murano with his gun steady, pointing in my direction. Once he stood directly outside the driver-side door, about eight feet away, he gestured for me to get out.

  “Slowly, Chandler,” Harland said, from the middle of the alley.

  I had my emotions somewhat reeled in. Had stopped thinking about Jill and had settled down my accelerated heart rate. A plan had formulated in my head. Within the next few moments I’d give him a mental suggestion—something abrupt and frightening, perhaps that a car was coming, about to run him over. He’d be startled and turn. That’s when I’d make my move.

  I stepped from the SUV and swung the door closed. The alleyway was deserted—nothing for seventy-five yards in either direction. Harland hadn’t bothered to look at anything but me. This just might work. I took a step and then another. He was letting me come closer. Perfect. I wanted to look defeated. Apprehensive. I slowed, reluctantly walking to what would most assuredly be my final resting place.