Grant put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it. His eyes darted all around, lost in thought.
Suddenly he sat upright and focused his eyes on the road ahead.
He began driving.
‘‘Where?’’
‘‘I don’t know—’’
‘‘No, this group—the commune or whatever. Where are they?’’
Hannah nodded, exhaling slowly. ‘‘Right, I’ll let ’em know you’d like to meet—’’
‘‘No, now. How do I get there?’’
‘‘Grant,’’ she hesitated, ‘‘these people live in total seclusion from the outside world. And they don’t like visitors . . .’’
‘‘I don’t care!’’ he shouted. ‘‘If this friend of yours knows about me, he might have answers. If he can tell me anything about what’s happened to me and why . . . And just knowing that I’m not alone, I’m not the only one . . .’’
He shook his head.
‘‘No!’’ he cried. His gaze was set dead ahead. ‘‘We’re going there now.’’
18
An old road snaking deep into a canyon miles outside of Thousand Oaks led Grant, Julie, and Hannah to a paved driveway. Cracked and broken cement made the way tough for the Corvette, but eventually they pulled up to a sturdy-looking gate and a ten-foot-high electric fence. In the distance stood a large, single-story brick complex.
Being this close to answers raised goosebumps on Grant’s arms. Would this bleak, uninviting place reveal to him all that he longed to know?
At the edge of the gate nearest the driveway, a surprisingly modern keycard entry system was mostly obscured from external view by overhanging brush. Grant hadn’t noticed the high-tech machine until they were right beside it.
But he was more interested in the building that had just emerged into sight.
‘‘Is that . . . what I think it is?’’
‘‘It used to be a . . . facility,’’ Hannah replied uneasily, still sporting reddened skin and fatigue from her ordeal. ‘‘Government abandoned it and sold the property after the ‘deinstitutionalization’ of the early ’60s. ‘Community care’ became all the rage afterwards, as I’ve been told. Many times.’’
‘‘What kind of facility?’’
‘‘I believe the preferred term is ‘mental health institution’,’’ she replied.
‘‘So it’s an insane asylum,’’ he concluded.
‘‘Pretty much. They thought the foliage would soothe the patients.’’
It was so different than what he was expecting. Grant’s eyes searched the front of the edifice for any signs of life, any evidence that this was a place to be excited about visiting. But the doors were solid and what few windows there were, were high off the ground, with iron bars over them. The brick walls were chipping away slowly, entire bricks missing from a few spots.
‘‘You said this friend of yours would be expecting us,’’ Grant prodded.
‘‘Yep,’’ Hannah replied.
‘‘I didn’t see you make any calls. How does he know we’re coming?’’
‘‘Been expecting you, from what I understand, for a long while now. Before you ask, I don’t know how that’s possible. And by the by—my friend’s a ‘she’, not a ‘he’.’’
‘‘Duly noted.’’
He parked the Corvette in front of the decaying facility and helped Hannah out of the car. She kept telling him she was fine, but he practically had to carry her up the five or six steps that led to the front door. Julie pulled up the rear, watching both of them warily.
‘‘Dr. Cossick?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Daniel said absentmindedly, poring over computations on his laptop.
‘‘Detective Drexel is here to see you,’’ Lisa said formally. Then, lowering her voice and scrunching her face, she added, ‘‘Guess we didn’t pacify him enough the last time?’’
Daniel grimaced. Great. He quickly shut his laptop.
Lisa showed their guest into Daniel’s office, and Daniel rose to shake the man’s hand.
Drexel removed his fedora while offering half a haggard smile. The heavyset man had a few days’ worth of stubble, and his clothes and trench coat looked like they hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in years.
Daniel took in all of this in less than a second but decided to politely ignore it.
‘‘How can I help you today, Detective?’’
‘‘Well, I’m not sure you can,’’ Drexel began, forcing a cordial smile, ‘‘but I hope so.’’ He noticed the business card holder on Daniel’s desk and picked one up, pocketing it. ‘‘I have this problem.’’
Daniel returned to his chair, listening. ‘‘Related to the Boyd case?’’
Drexel nodded. ‘‘Boyd’s sister was kidnapped not long before the arson on his apartment, you see. And I believe the kidnapper may be the same man who started the fire.’’
Whoa.
‘‘As you can imagine,’’ the detective continued, ‘‘I’ve been trying to find out who this man is, but I haven’t been having much luck.’’
‘‘I’m sorry to hear that, Detective, but I’m not sure how I can help.’’
‘‘The name ‘Grant Borrows’ ring a bell with you?’’
Daniel blinked. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘Hmm,’’ Drexel said slowly, showing an exaggerated confusion on his face. ‘‘Now that’s very odd.’’ He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, his eyes moved back and forth, skimming the document as he continued to speak.
‘‘See, I followed the trail from Mr. Boyd’s most recent bank statement to a mobile phone, which is now being paid for by this ‘Grant Borrows’. Then I talked to his wireless provider, and a gentleman there was kind enough to run a trace on all of Borrows’ recent calls on that phone.’’
A trickle of sweat formed on the back of Daniel’s neck and wiggled its way south.
‘‘Now here’s my favorite part,’’ Drexel said, relishing his tale. ‘‘The phone has only been used one time since the kidnapping. It was an incoming call, and it took place just about three hours ago, much to my surprise.’’
Daniel tried not to react, but he could feel the blood draining from his face.
‘‘Would you like to know who called him?’’ Drexel said with complete sincerity.
Daniel sat back in his chair and did his best to stare blankly at the detective.
But instead of reading from the document, Drexel folded the paper and put it back inside his coat. ‘‘I think we both know the answer to that question.’’
Daniel cleared his throat, squared his shoulders. ‘‘Detective, are you accusing me of doing something unlawful?’’
Drexel smiled. ‘‘Right now, I’d say it qualifies as circumstantial. But I know you know who this man is. And based on what I’ve seen of your ‘scientific research facility’ out there’’—he nodded his head in the direction of the lab—‘‘I suspect you’re just as interested in finding him as I am. What I can’t figure out is why.’’
‘‘And if I am looking for this ‘Grant Borrows’?’’
‘‘Then you and I are destined to be best friends.’’
‘‘Detective, I don’t know this man. I can assure you I have absolutely no information on him, whoever he is.’’ Daniel sat up straight in his chair. ‘‘If we dialed his phone from the lab, then it must’ve been an accident.’’
‘‘Well,’’ Drexel said, still smiling, ‘‘you might want to take some time to give that statement some careful consideration, Doctor. You see, you may not know Borrows, and you may not know me, but I know you. I checked you out. And I found out about some very interesting things you’ve been involved with in the past—downright appalling things, if you want to know the truth—that I’m sure you wouldn’t want anyone else to know. Like maybe that pretty young assistant of yours.’’
An exaggerated gagging sound resembling a cat with a hairball was heard coming from the outer office.
‘‘I don�
�t have anything to hide, Detective,’’ he said. ‘‘We all do things in life we’re not proud of. I’m not ashamed of my past. Are you?’’
Drexel stood, his wide frame casting a shadow over the entire wall behind him. ‘‘You may not be ashamed of your past, but I know you’re hiding from it. Or maybe someone in it.’’ He put his hat back on his head and moved to go. ‘‘Think it over, Doc. That lab o’ yours down the hall has a lot of specialized equipment in it. Pretty delicate stuff from the look of it. Nothing you’d want anyone else messing with, I’m guessing. You know, we got a whole bunch of science geeks in our forensics unit who’d just love to get in there and take all that stuff apart to find out what it does.’’
Drexel opened the office door. ‘‘I’ll be in touch,’’ he said, pulling out Daniel’s business card and waving it at him.
Daniel stood. ‘‘You won’t be allowed back in here without a search warrant.’’
‘‘Don’t tempt me,’’ Drexel said, the smug grin still on his face, as he turned and walked out.
Lisa gave Drexel the evil eye as he strolled out of the outer office and down the hall to the exit. When he was safely gone, she wheeled around and burst into Daniel’s office.
‘‘He’s dirty,’’ she said. Daniel was still standing exactly where Drexel had left him, fuming.
‘‘Oh, I got the feeling he wasn’t threatening us for the common good,’’ he replied.
‘‘No,’’ she said, crinkling her nose, ‘‘didn’t you smell him? He’s dirty.’’
‘‘He’s got nothing and he knows it. We’re not doing anything even remotely illegal here. How were we supposed to know the man we’re investigating is involved in a kidnapping?’’ He sat back down, mind racing, and then looked back up at her. ‘‘We’d better double-check our permits, make sure they’re all up-to-date.’’
She nodded.
‘‘And that file you started on Borrows? Get rid of it.’’
After Hannah inserted her keycard in the scanner beside the main entrance, Grant pushed open the double doors and was greeted by the dry, musty smell of books. A long hallway stretched before them, but instead of white-painted walls, the hall was crammed floor to ceiling with books. Every shape, every size. Some thick, some as narrow and flimsy as magazines. One stack after another after another, completely covering the walls, as if the building were being supported by the numerous volumes. So many of them . . . Thousands, tens of thousands, that he could see and far more than he could count.
A few of the stacks leaned precariously inward toward the long hallway he now traversed, and Grant was struck by an odd sense of claustrophobia. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the walls had sprouted long fingers made of hardbacks and paperbacks that were trying to reach out and touch him.
He was struck by how quiet it was. Nestled deep in the woods, the facility was far away from civilization, but even those who lived here seemed to make very little noise.
The long, dimly lit corridor led the three of them to another set of double doors. These doors were glass on top, with criss-crossed wire inside. They opened suddenly with a flourish as Grant, Julie, and Hannah approached them. A nondescript man and woman stood on either side and motioned for them to enter.
Grant glanced at Hannah, who offered him a reassuring, if weak, nod.
Inside was a large, rectangular room which they had entered near one corner. Lush and soothing with an ‘‘old fashioned charm,’’ this room showed the most evidence of renovation of anything Grant had seen so far.
And here too, the walls were stuffed, packed, and jammed with books of every size, shape, and color. Wooden fixtures and a low ceiling added to the ‘‘cozy’’ feel. The area nearest to them appeared to be a lounge of sorts: a pool table, a sofa and bean bags, a few small desks with reading lamps, a handful of laptop computers, and a modest television set.
In the middle of the room was a fireplace made of grayish red bricks, surrounded by wingback chairs and small end tables. A dark crimson rug ran underneath this furniture; it was at least two inches thick, made of long, furry tendrils of string.
There were people everywhere. Dozens of them. The residents, Grant assumed. They looked disarmingly normal, and closer inspection revealed individuals from all walks of life, all social classes, and various races and ages. But he saw no children. And each and every one of them wore a golden ring on their right-hand middle finger.
On the far end of the room, in relative seclusion, sat an ancient-looking desk piled high with dozens—perhaps hundreds—more books. Barely visible behind the mountains of books was the top of a simple desk chair. If one looked hard enough, a small grayish-white mop of hair could be seen leaning against the chair’s headrest.
Every person in the room had stopped whatever they were doing as soon as Grant had entered, and now they watched him with great interest. Whispers buzzed like a swarm of bees throughout the room, as the men and women leaned in to one another, all eyes unwavering from Grant.
He absent mindedly rubbed his thumb against the ring.
The woman who had helped open the double doors quickly walked to the desk and stepped behind it, whispering something to the person who sat there.
‘‘Brilliant!’’ a female voice announced in an impeccable British accent.
A woman emerged from behind the desk. She couldn’t have been more than forty-five and was short in stature, yet her nearly all-white hair made her look older. She stood tall—as tall as she could, anyway— as though a metal rod was holding her back straight. Large eyes peered down a pudgy nose over the rims of bifocal glasses to land on Grant, and she walked forward calmly but purposefully, and outstretched her hand.
‘‘Welcome, Mr. Borrows,’’ she said with a gleam in her eyes. ‘‘Welcome to the Common Room. My name is Morgan.’’
The Thresher shoved his motorcycle’s kickstand down, and stepped off into dirt.
Ahead he saw a honky-tonk bar that couldn’t have been any more stereotypical if it tried. Rust and mold covered the building’s exterior in a sort of patchwork of disgusting colors. A bright red neon light flashed the word ‘‘BEER’’ over the door, which was solid, looked rather thick, and had no window to see inside.
He opened the door. A wall of cigarette and cigar smoke, sweat, and stale alcohol rushed at him but did not slow him down.
The interior was even less appealing than the outside. Dingy lights hung low from overhead, illuminating a handful of pool tables, a jukebox, a bar and stools, and a few tables.
The dozen or so patrons turned as he entered, surveying the newcomer who dared intrude on their private haunt. They looked like feral dogs, sniffing to see who had invaded their territory. And not one of them failed to notice the scabbard hanging from his hip.
‘‘I’m looking for Mr. Odell,’’ the Thresher said, to everyone.
‘‘Don’t know nobody by that name, son,’’ called a filthy man in a white apron, standing behind the bar. ‘‘But weapons ain’t allowed in here.’’
The Thresher scanned the crowd. Nearly every man had the telling bulge of a shoulder gun holster under their jackets. The few who didn’t had large knives attached to their hips.
He locked eyes again with the bartender. ‘‘I know Mr. Odell is here.’’ He took a menacing step forward, but still spoke calmly. ‘‘And I don’t like repeating myself.’’
‘‘What d’ya want with ’im?’’ someone called out from a murky corner of the room.
‘‘A conversation,’’ the Thresher replied.
‘‘And if he don’t feel like talkin’?’’ another man shouted.
The Thresher slowly and carefully reached for the handle of his sword.
‘‘Then very soon, he will feel differently.’’
Grant was still speechless from his surroundings. It was a moment before he replied to Morgan. ‘‘Um, is ‘Morgan’ your first name or last?’’
‘‘Neither,’’ she replied, offering him a knowing smile. ‘‘May I call you Grant?�
��’
‘‘Okay.’’ He gestured. ‘‘My sister, Julie.’’
Morgan acknowledged Julie with a polite nod. ‘‘We have a great deal to discuss, Grant, yet I feel as though I know you already,’’ she said in her quick British clip. ‘‘Please, please have a seat.’’
But Grant found himself once again staring at the innumerable volumes covering the walls.
‘‘All these books . . .’’ he began, taking in his surroundings in wonder.
She gestured to a chair in front of the crackling fireplace. ‘‘Oh yes, they are mine. But we’ll get to that. Right now, we have more important matters to discuss.’’
Morgan joined him at the fire in a tall armchair that seemed to recognize her shape and weight. Julie and Hannah took seats not far from the fireplace as well, but it was clear that this conversation was meant for Grant and Morgan. The elder woman watched him intently, waiting for him to speak.
‘‘Who are you people?’’
‘‘We are those who must withdraw from society in order to survive it,’’ replied Morgan. ‘‘Like you, we have all undergone a drastic change to everything we know. For many of us, secluding ourselves was the only remaining option if we wished to conduct normal lives. The world does not welcome us anymore, so we have made a place where we can belong, here, together. In this place, far from the cares of civilization, we are safe.’’
‘‘Sounds pretty good to me,’’ Grant said, attempting a lighthearted chuckle. ‘‘Where do I sign up?’’
But Morgan was somber. ‘‘That luxury is not available to you.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Because . . .’’ she hesitated, savoring this moment, as though she had waited a lifetime for it . . .
‘‘Because you are the Bringer.’’
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