Sidney stared after him with his eyes comically squinted in disbelief.
“Is it me, or has he been acting strange lately? Have you noticed?”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Dylan said. “But, we can’t worry about him right now. We need to get Leah through this, once and for all.”
Chapter Four
Cory Chase sat at his desk at the Valley Tribune, reading the police report of the incident at Cedar Manor and tapping his lip with a number two pencil. He’d been secretly following this mysterious and renowned group known as the Paranormal Research and Investigative Society for some time now. They worked out of the university; he’d first heard of them when he attended there. Why were they so secretive? What of the whispers around campus and around town that they were able to discover and even contact other realms? What made them so special?
Were the rumors true about Sidney Pratt and Leah Leeds? Did they really possess psychic abilities beyond the understanding of lay people? What of the enigmatic Dr. Susan Logan? She had achieved a degree in Parapsychology behind the back of the hospital in which she worked, and there was a strange but definite connection he could attach to her—Mark Banner, a.k.a. Roman Hadley.
Recently, an explosion had occurred at the old mining section of town. Cameras caught all of them at the scene: three from the paranormal team, a student from the university, and a woman who was taken to the hospital. When Cory had attempted to obtain the official police report of the explosion, he’d learned that there was no official police report. The case was top-secret, headed by the FBI. What Cory did see of a police report was a basic synopsis or run-down of what had occurred there, something he’d already known.
He now knew that a man had died in that explosion, a man named Mark Banner. That was public knowledge. A somber funeral for Mark Banner had been held, and all of them had been in attendance. But Cory quickly discovered that Mark Banner had an alias attached to him, that of Roman Hadley. And being the meticulously talented investigative reporter that he was, he subsequently learned that Roman Hadley was none other than the former head director of the Paranormal Research and Investigative Society.
Connections, that’s what Cory focused on in his work, connections.
He recalled the night of the explosion in vivid detail. He had been working in the newsroom, as always, when a dispatcher announced over one of the many police monitors that an explosion had occurred in the old mining section of Green Valley. The cause of the explosion had yet to be determined, but one man was dead, two people had narrowly escaped, and five others had been present including a young boy.
Now there was a strange story. What were eight people doing out at those old abandoned mines late at night, especially with a young boy? The story had become more interesting before he’d even left the newsroom to drive there and investigate. He’d learned that one of those old underground mines had been renovated and was being used as a vast medical research laboratory. The laboratory was the property of the university. There was a story that he could’ve pictured on the front page, his byline beneath it even bigger than before.
It had taken him approximately fifteen minutes to get there. He’d fumed inside at discovering that he was too late; the ambulances had just left with the victims, along with the witnesses. Even the police were gone, leaving no one but the firefighters stifling the now tamed blaze to a few scattered and dwindling pyres. He’d recognized the fire chief-inspector among the gathering.
“So, what do you think caused this explosion, Chief?” He’d flashed his credentials identifying him as a leading news reporter for the Valley Tribune.
“We can’t exactly be sure yet,” he’d said. “It could have been anything: gas leak, lingering fumes. There was electricity going down there to fuel the technology that was being used, but it’s still impossible to tell at this time.”
“What kind of technology? Do you know?”
“Like I said, we can’t be certain until we go down there and investigate.” The chief’s tone had turned to one of irritation, as though his words had been ignored.
The man’s impatience had caused Cory’s blood to boil. What was so complex about this? An explosion had happened; what had caused it, what could have caused it? He’d got nowhere with those people. He’d gone back and sat in his car for a few moments and thought of his next move. There had been only one thing left to do—go to the hospital and see if he could find anything there.
The drive had been yet another fifteen minutes back into town and another five to the hospital. Outside of the medical fortress, any emergency that had occurred had since quieted down and found sanctuary within its sturdy walls. After calmly exiting his car so as not to draw attention to himself, he’d walked through the parking lot and silently slipped inside.
He’d heard beeping tones and the whoosh of elevator doors opening and closing. Interns in green had walked past him, not giving him a second look, yet once inside the elevator, he’d turned away from the other three passengers lest they recognize his face from the paper. The elevator car had taken him to the ER, where the scent of sterilization assaulted his nostrils.
Obviously, he couldn’t have given himself away as a reporter; he would’ve got even less from these people. They didn’t care about the public’s right to know or even their patients’. They would have greeted him with the same outward disdain that most people lavished upon reporters without thinking. He’d sat patiently in the waiting room, hoping to discover something, while watching old reruns on the overhanging TV with three elderly people waiting to be seen, a young man holding his arm and rocking with pain, and a middle-aged man staring off into space. He’d been just about to give up and make his way elsewhere when he’d overheard a careless conversation.
A young candy striper had spoken a little too loudly to the medical receptionist in the ER.
“Is that Doctor Logan in the triage unit?” she’d asked.
The older receptionist had swiveled round in her desk-chair.
“Yes,” she’d said. “She’s being treated for shock, and they’re checking her for injuries. I guess that explosion was pretty bad.”
Explosion, he’d thought, shock, Doctor Logan is a woman. He’d got up and left the ER and headed back to the elevators; this time, there’d been no one else inside. He’d pressed one button he’d thought he would never have to—‘M’, for Morgue.
He would’ve had to show his credentials if he’d been discovered on this floor, and if they’d discovered him, he would’ve been at the end of the road, except for the little clue of this Doctor Logan. The elevator doors had opened and he’d exited into a long, deserted hallway, which in its emptiness, remained unlike the regular hallways of the hospital. This part of the hospital had been much quieter, devoid of the beeping, the voices, the intercom system; the patients on this floor were not alive.
As he’d looked to his left, he’d noticed a small enclosure that housed dual sliding translucent windows and aside it, a small door as an opening. The space was obviously a help desk window. He’d walked toward the window slowly, arriving close enough to see through the translucent glass that no one was there. He’d turned and in front of him had been a room with heavy, double swing doors with a small, rectangular window at the top of each. He’d detected distant and faint voices emanating from inside. He’d moved closer to catch their words...
“Now, this is the last time I’m going to tell you.” The voice had been calm, but sternly insistent. “There’s no room for these kinds of mistakes here. You’re going to have to start devoting some attention around here, or I’ll find someone who can, understand?”
A weak voice had responded inaudibly in return and was soon followed by the sound of shuffling feet. Through the small window in the door, he’d seen the shadow of movement coming closer. He’d moved off to the side and hidden within a small space outside a neighboring doorway. A young man of about twenty-something, clad in green scrubs, had come striding out of the room. His footfalls had been f
ast, almost angry, as he trudged up the hallway and out of sight.
Cory had slithered out from the space, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever held rank beyond the door. His sight through the small window had been limited, catching minute glimpses of a long, gray, steel table that covered something (or someone) beneath dark-green sheets; carts that wheeled gray tubs filled with sharp instruments; and a large basin extending the length of the left wall. This was obviously the autopsy room.
As he’d peered through the window to gain a closer look, the double doors had swung open, narrowly missing his face. A short, balding man of about fifty, also clad in green scrubs, had almost hit him with the door as he swung it open. He’d stared at Cory with a strict countenance and eyes that summed him up as an intruder.
“Excuse me,” he’d said. “Who are you, and may I ask what you’re doing here?”
Cory, then left with no other choice, had pulled his wallet from his inner jacket pocket and flashed him his Press ID.
“Sorry for the intrusion, Doctor,” he’d said. The man was obviously a forensic pathologist, so Cory had been sure to identify him by the proper title. “Cory Chase, Valley Tribune. I’m here investigating the explosion. I was wondering if you might be able to answer a few questions.”
The doctor had looked at him, slightly surprised and sternly unmoved.
“First of all,” he’d said, “you have no business being down here without prior authorization; I don’t care who you are. Secondly, I can’t answer any questions regarding the matter of your interest, as it is part of an FBI investigation. You would need to obtain permission strictly from the FBI, and until then, I cannot help you. So, Mr. Chase, as I’m sure you found your way here, you can also find your way out.”
“But Doctor, could you just tell me—”
“Goodbye, Mr. Chase.” The pathologist had stood expressionless, yet determined, extending his hand in the direction of the elevator behind Cory. He’d then stood and waited while Cory reentered the portal from which he’d come. They had stared at each other as the elevator doors closed.
Smug son-of-a-bitch, Cory had thought. We’ll see about you.
He’d quickly pressed the button for the tenth floor, the highest floor in the hospital.
“I’ll just take an elevator ride for now,” he’d said, and watched the dim light of the elevator panel illuminate each floor number, one by one. The doors had opened on the tenth floor and closed again within seconds, and then as the car began to plummet back down, Cory had pressed the ‘M’ button again and whistled inconspicuously to himself.
Moments later, the elevator doors had opened in the Morgue once again. He’d slowly poked his head out of the car and looked around—no one. He had stepped back into the niche where he’d hidden earlier. Then, footsteps had approached from the opposite direction. He’d peeped quickly around the corner and seen the young assistant, reprimanded only minutes before, return from where he’d trudged off.
Cory had heard the pathologist’s voice; he’d come out of the autopsy room again and met the young assistant.
“Now, I need you to tag and label this accordingly. It’s going to be picked up by Agent Wiley of the FBI. This must be ready for him whenever he arrives.”
“Understood, Doctor.” The young assistant had responded with the same weak and passive voice he’d used earlier. Thankfully, the doctor had walked away in the same direction from which the assistant had just returned. That had been his chance. Cory had retrieved his wallet from his pocket and quickly stepped out from the niche as the equally young man had headed in his direction. He’d stepped in front of him.
Cory had held a hundred-dollar bill in front of the assistant’s eyes. The young man had been holding a large, clear, plastic bag through which Cory could see the various charred contents. The assistant had stared at him, stunned. Cory’s right hand had grasped the bag, while his left hand continued to dangle the fine portrait of Benjamin Franklin with a taunting gesture.
“You take this, and I’ll take this for only five minutes,” Cory had said. “It’ll be right here, waiting for you when you get back.”
With eyes wide, the assistant had turned his head, making sure the doctor was gone. He’d turned back and snatched the bill from Cory’s hand, leaving the bag behind in his possession. He’d nodded to Cory as he stepped into the elevator and also took a ride.
Cory had moved back into the niche and hurriedly unclasped the sides of the bag. The lingering pungency of smoke puffing out from it had overpowered his sense of smell. The charred leather wallet had not been completely destroyed, though it was partially melted, and crisp, burnt pieces had fallen away from his fingers when he’d touched it. He had carefully pulled it out of the bag and flipped it open.
The plastic inside the wallet had remained untouched by the flames or the smoke, and he could see the identification clearly. It was a Pennsylvania driver’s license containing a picture of a dark-haired man with gray at the temples, and to the right of the picture, the name had been listed—Roman Hadley.
So, that was the identity of the man killed in the explosion. Cory had also discovered a Maryland driver’s license issued to Roman Hadley and a white business card in a right-side pocket from MSB Enterprises of Annapolis, Maryland. The card had contained the name of a Mr. Mark Banner. He’d then pulled a blue business card stashed snugly from a left-side pocket; it had read simply and discreetly...
First Estate Savings and Securities
Pittsburgh, PA
He’d turned the card over and written in black ink was a number: 17025.
A little known fact about Cory Chase, one that not many people were aware of because he’d never mentioned, nor discussed it, was his photographic memory. Here, he’d utilized it as his mind took a picture of the blue card, then he’d quickly slipped the card back into the side pocket. Yet, some unexplainable premonition had told him to take the white card that read MSB Enterprises.
Examining the wallet, he hadn’t realized how much time had passed. His heart had skipped a beat at the sound of the elevator doors as they’d pulled open. It had been the assistant. Cory had placed the wallet back into the bag and resealed it, then stepped back out from the small enclosure and handed it back to the nervous young man. He’d been behind the elevator doors before they closed again, and then he was gone.
* * * *
Cory had returned to his desk in his office, where he’d sat down and began surfing the web, obtaining a website address for First Estate Savings and Securities. He’d entered the site and soon discovered that First Estate was a private, upper-class bank in Pittsburgh, mainly utilized by those with issues of estates, investments, and securities.
Cory had coupled the learned talent of computer hacking along with his photographic memory, a combination he’d found to be extremely helpful in his profession. Hacking was a little study he’d picked up in college from a dorm buddy, and his two little secrets stayed safely unknown. People often wondered where Cory Chase got his information—if they only knew.
He’d explored the site and estimated how easy it would be to hack into. The site was pretty basic, yet he’d been sure that some precaution had to have been taken, since it was a federal financial institution that dealt, undoubtedly, with enormous sums of money.
One of the things he’d written down after memorizing was the five digit number on the First Estate card. Now it had stared back at him...17025. That nagging intuition of being right, the yearning, tugging sensation that always originated from the pit of his stomach, had winced inside of him then. He’d felt sure that the number belonged to a safety-deposit box. There had been only one way to prove it—he would hack into their system.
Cory used an alternate, unregistered laptop for his hacking, one that left no trail, nor trace of his activity, at least as far as he knew. He’d logged onto a special website set up for the small, covert group of hackers to which he belonged and had scrolled his way down through the postings of various articles until h
e arrived at one in particular—one that dealt with carbon emissions in the atmosphere. The site was a forum on environmental and geological issues, at least on the outside. But secretly underneath, it was a mere cover, a hidden gateway for computer hackers.
The first time the word ‘green’ appeared in this article, it was highlighted as a link. When clicked on by a reader at a regular computer, an error message would appear. But when clicked on from his private laptop, the screen would become completely green, and then display an instant message window that requested his password, which he’d provided. He had then typed in First Estate’s website address in a search slot that appeared and within minutes, he’d been inside their mainframe.
He’d known what he wanted to discover, so this little excursion was fast. He’d pulled up the numerous listings for safety-deposit boxes and the numbers attached to them. The list had stretched on into infinity, so he’d searched for 17025, and sure enough, the number had belonged to a safety-deposit box. He’d pulled up the information on it and soon learned the name of the person it was issued to—Mark S. Banner.
So, who was this Mark S. Banner, and how was he connected to Roman Hadley? If Hadley had been killed in the explosion at the underground laboratory, then he must have been connected to the university somehow. Realizing that there was nothing more to be gained from First Estate’s website, he had escaped the mainframe, signed out of the green screen, then casually clicked out of the environmental forum.
By a small stroke of luck, a local television station had made it out to the site of the explosion before he did. The station’s film crew had obtained minor footage after the explosion, before they’d been told that it was an official FBI investigation and been shooed away. Cory had requested a copy of the film footage taken there, and as he’d watched it, various familiar faces had passed upon the screen.
The Third Eye of Leah Leeds Page 6
