by R. L. King
“A few minutes. Just calm down. Take deep breaths, and close your eyes. I’m going to have to touch your forehead for this to work. Could you take your hat off, please?”
He frowned. “Wait. You gotta touch me? What is this, some kinda Vulcan mind meld thing, like some Mr. Spock shit?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It just helps me focus. Close your eyes, stay quiet, and think of all the things you can do with that two thousand dollars you’re getting.”
For a moment it seemed like he wouldn’t do it. Then he sighed and decisively whipped off his Trask Mfg. cap. “Okay. Do it.”
Stone took a few deep breaths to center himself. This kind of mental work wasn’t his best skill; he wished Verity were here because he’d never mastered the “channeling” technique she used to go deeply into a subject’s mind. He still thought he could go deep enough, but he’d be limited to fleeting visions and impressions. It would have to do.
“Okay…” he murmured. “I’m going to touch you now. Don’t be alarmed.” He placed three fingers on Darner’s sweaty forehead, opening his mind. Mages couldn’t read minds—this wasn’t precisely mind reading—but they could pick up images if they knew the techniques.
“Do you want me to try thinkin’ about the day?” Darner asked, shifting on the bucket.
“Shh…Just let your mind drift and don’t talk, please.”
Darner licked his lips nervously, shifted again, and closed his eyes.
Stone knew he didn’t have a lot of time, so he didn’t try going as deep as he could. Instead, he focused on Darner’s aura, following its flickering orange glow down into the superficial levels of the man’s psyche.
At first, he thought he wasn’t going to get anything. All that came back were quick images: an assembly line at a grimy factory, the deafening roar of machinery, the smells of oil and marijuana and diesel fumes. Even then, though, he sensed something trying to evade him. Carefully he followed it, as he would follow a child scooting down a hallway, disappearing around the corners of a maze. As soon as that thought crossed Stone’s mind, the image solidified into exactly that—the shadowy figure of a young boy.
What the child didn’t realize, though, was that he was leaving a clear, glowing trail behind him for Stone to follow. Stone kept moving at a steady pace, watching the trail. As long as it remained, he couldn’t get lost. He knew what it meant: in the most primal part of his subconscious, Darner wanted these details to get out. At least some aspect of him did. That was the part that was leaving a bright breadcrumb path.
It seemed as if he walked for a long time, but eventually the twisting maze began to straighten, and he spotted the child’s indistinct figure up ahead. The boy wasn’t moving as fast now, and every few seconds he’d stop and look over his shoulder, as if to make sure Stone was still following.
Stone quickened his pace. He turned a corner that was more rounded than the others, and nearly ran into the boy.
The maze, which had been white and featureless up until now, widened into a room. Stone didn’t recognize the specifics, but he did recognize the type: a teenage boy’s bedroom. The bed was unmade, the floor covered in strewn clothes, the walls decorated with sports pennants and pinup posters. He could even smell it: a combination of air freshener and teenage funk.
The boy himself sat on the bed. Stone had no trouble identifying him as a younger version of Roy Darner. The last five years had obviously not been kind to him: the teenager was tall and gangly, but he had a well-fed, healthy look that his older counterpart no longer enjoyed. His eyes, hooded with nervousness, were blue. He wore a T-shirt from some skateboard company and long, baggy basketball shorts.
He was watching Stone intently, almost pleadingly.
Stone knew no conversation was possible—these kinds of things were never that easy. Instead, he met the boy’s gaze and opened his mind further to whatever got through.
The visions came fast, like a film played at double speed:
The sensation of movement, as if in a vehicle.
A foggy, sound-deadened tunnel.
A white room.
Flickering candles.
The low drone of a chant in a deep, male voice.
The feeling of a faint electrical current crawling through his body.
The sound of something bubbling.
A sharp prick to his arm.
This was good, but none of it was helping. It wasn’t specific enough. Barely realizing what he was doing, Stone shifted his fingers, struggling to see something—anything—that would give him a place to start.
Behind him, at the edges of his perception, he heard the door handle rattle.
“Hey,” Darner whispered, his voice sounding like it was coming from far away. “Somebody’s at the door.”
Stone ignored him, focusing harder, squeezing his eyes shut.
He didn’t have long.
A figure hovers into view, staring down at him.
A middle-aged man with thinning, light-colored hair, a narrow face, and piercing eyes.
Something shook his arm hard, and the vision shattered into pieces.
“Hey!” Darner’s voice was louder now. “We gotta get outta here. If they catch us in here they’ll think we’re queer or somethin’.”
Stone jerked his hand back, braced against the psychic feedback of having the connection broken so abruptly. “It’s all right,” he said, panting. He glanced at the door, which wasn’t rattling now. His magical lock had worked. Whoever was trying to get in had probably gone off in search of another key, or maybe a manager. “Come on. Let’s do this fast, before they come back.”
He put a disregarding spell on both of them, released the lock, and nudged Darner out. By the time a frustrated-looking employee returned with another one in tow, Stone and Darner were already halfway back to the bar.
Darner gripped his arm. “Did it work? Did you get anything? ’Cause I didn’t.”
Stone thought he probably did, at least subconsciously. And the image of the blond man’s face was clear in his mind—so clear he could probably pick him out of a lineup if he had the opportunity. “Yes. I got something. Thank you, Mr. Darner.”
“You mean I helped?”
“You did.”
“And maybe you’ll help the cops catch this son of a bitch?”
“That’s the plan.” Well, one of them, anyway. He glanced around to make sure they weren’t being watched, then pulled the rest of the promised cash from his pockets. “Here you are, just as we agreed.”
Darner stuffed the money in his pants pocket. “That was the easiest two grand I ever made.” He swallowed hard. “You really think that’ll help get rid of the nightmares?”
“As I said, no guarantees. But I hope so.” He pulled out another twenty. “And this is for the beer I promised you. Drink it in good health.”
He could feel Darner’s gaze on him as he turned away and headed out through the crowd toward the front door, but he didn’t slow down. He wanted to get back to his car as fast as possible, so he could write down as many notes as he could about what he’d seen in Darner’s mind. He didn’t think the images would fade, but he didn’t want to take chances. Already, he was thinking about talking to Jason about getting together with a police artist—perhaps the man he’d seen was already known to the authorities. That was probably too much to ask for, but stranger things had happened.
Stone reached his rented Chevy and fumbled in his pocket for the key. He’d sit in the car for a few moments, recording his impressions on his phone, and then he’d send Jason a text. If he got back to the portal soon, perhaps the two of them could get together tonight and he could—
His head exploded with pain as something hit him hard from behind. His vision went from red to white to black, and he didn’t even feel himself falling.
16
Everything was wrong, everything hurt, and nothing made sense.
Awareness returned at a glacial pace, in painful fits and starts.
There
was no conscious thought, at least not at first. He had no idea how long it was—time wasn’t a concept that made any sense right now.
All he felt was pain, and a crushing sensation pressing down on his body.
He couldn’t breathe.
Gradually, so slowly, these sensory inputs began to coalesce into something resembling a clear picture.
He cracked open his eyes, and immediately his head lit up with pain again as something dropped into them.
Dirt? Dust?
Gods, his head hurt.
Why did his head hurt?
Where was he?
Who was he?
In the instant before he squeezed his eyes shut again, he’d seen only darkness. Why?
Was it night?
Was he blind?
He gasped for breath, struggling against whatever was pressing on him. A violent coughing fit wracked him as more dirt or dust tumbled into his mouth.
He forced himself to clamp his mouth shut, some vestigial self-preservation instinct telling him that whatever it was, he didn’t want to inhale it.
It didn’t get worse, though. Something covered his face—something soft and heavy, like a blanket.
It came to him all at once, a bright lance of terror:
Dear gods, I’ve been buried alive!
He didn’t even think of magic. The splitting agony in his head wouldn’t have allowed it anyway, even if he’d remembered he was capable of it. Instead, his response was far more primal, more immediate, and more desperate: he flailed his arms, jerking his body back and forth, heedless of the growing pain which seemed to be settling mostly in the back of his head. He had no other thoughts now, only the single, most important one:
Get out. Get free.
It wasn’t as difficult as he’d feared, which was a good thing: if he’d been buried any deeper, he wouldn’t have had the strength to struggle free. He continued scrabbling at the dirt, lurching his arms up and down, back and forth, until it began to fall away.
As soon as the pressing feeling lifted he jerked himself up to a half-seated position, flinging away whatever covered his face, pulling deep, gulping breaths of fresh, clean air and immediately dissolving once more into another coughing fit. It was far more violent this time since he wasn’t breathing in bits of dirt.
Instantly, bright red spots appeared in his vision, and his head lit up worse than before. A red tide rose and engulfed him as everything went gray again and back to refreshing, painless black.
When he awoke again it was dark, and for a moment terror gripped him. Had someone come by and buried him again?
But no, as he blinked his streaming eyes, he could barely make out stars lurking among the drifting clouds and the swaying tops of trees.
He swallowed hard, which wasn’t easy because his mouth felt dry and sticky and tasted of dirt.
His whole body still hurt, especially his head, but perhaps not as much as it had before. It was hard to tell. He didn’t even know when before was. How long had he been here? He lay back on the cool, dewy ground with a loud, shuddering sigh, and shivered against the night’s chill. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered it was almost summer—or at least it had been.
How long had he been here?
Where was here?
He didn’t feel like moving—he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel like moving again—so he lay back the rest of the way.
As soon as the back of his head hit the ground, his whole body lit up again. He grunted in sudden pain, turning his head quickly to the side. That was definitely the main source of the problem.
Had someone hit him? Had he been in an accident? His thoughts, normally so ordered and precise, darted around like bugs in a jar, refusing to let him settle on one for more than a couple of seconds.
He went through the same process at least three more times he could remember: trying to think, passing out, struggling back to consciousness. He didn’t know if he dreamed; if he did, the dreams were no more than nightmarish, shadowy figures he couldn’t identify. Occasionally he thought he heard voices, but when he opened his eyes—did he open his eyes?—he saw nothing.
The third time he woke up, things seemed different. A little better, maybe. His head didn’t hurt as much this time—a definite improvement. And the bugs in the jar were more sluggish, too. Maybe they were tiring of whizzing around in there.
Or maybe they were dying.
Maybe he was dying.
Slowly, ever so slowly, testing himself with each small movement, he rose to a sitting position. This time the gray fog surged and the little red dots appeared, but he closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths until they passed.
It looked like it might be dawn. Faint light picked out a wooded area with no sign of human habitation. No fences, no houses, not even the sound of far-off traffic or planes overhead.
He remembered traffic and houses and planes. That was a good thing.
His head still hurt, but not as much. More the dull ache of an infected tooth than the sharp stab of a twisted knife.
Progress, maybe?
He looked down at himself. Recognized his black Adicts T-shirt, jeans, and boots. All of them were crusted with grime, as were his bare arms. A glance sideways revealed the huddled form of his black overcoat, and a flash of memory returned: that must have been what had covered his face, what he’d flung away. With care, he reached out a shaking, shivering arm and pulled it to him, covering himself with it like a blanket.
That was a little better.
The sight and feel of the coat against his skin brought more memories flooding back:
A roadhouse bar.
Jangling, annoying country music.
A skinny man with blond hair.
Darner.
He tensed again, and had to stop and wait for the gray fog to clear.
Had Roy Darner done this?
The last thing he remembered was pulling out the key to his rental car in the parking lot. Had Darner followed him out there and smashed him in the head?
He’d given the man a lot of money. Perhaps Darner had thought he had more.
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a wave of nausea.
That didn’t seem right, though. He’d observed Darner’s aura—
Aura. Yes. Magic. He could do magic.
Would that help now?
He wasn’t sure he could manage it yet.
He focused on his previous thoughts: He’d observed Darner’s aura, and despite his rough life, the man didn’t seem the type to murder someone for a few hundred dollars.
Murder?
No. Attempted murder. He wasn’t dead.
Maybe whoever hit him had thought he was dead, and buried him alive.
He should be dead. Even if he hadn’t been before, being buried and unable to breathe would take care of it.
How long had he been here?
“Slow down…” he whispered, his voice ragged and barely audible against the silence. He coughed again, but not as hard this time. His head throbbed.
Moving with care, he checked the pockets of his jeans. The keys to his BMW back home were still there, but his phone was gone. So was his wallet.
Wait. He’d left his wallet in the car. But the phone was definitely gone. Whoever had done this, they didn’t want anyone tracking him back.
Next, he slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket. The familiar wad of cash was still there.
So robbery hadn’t been the motive. That probably left Darner off the suspect list. He’d have to find out, though. He’d have to talk to Darner again.
Later.
Right now, what he had to do was get the hell out of here, back to civilization where he could call someone.
The prospect of getting up seemed more than he could manage, though.
His head kept throbbing. Apparently it didn’t want him to forget about it for more than a few seconds. Gingerly, he raised one hand and touched the back of it, afraid of what he might find.
Even touching
it made it hurt worse. No wonder his thoughts were jumbled: whoever had hit him, they hadn’t been shy about it. His searching fingers felt stiff, matted hair, and when he brought his hand back around he saw bits of red among the dark grime.
He’d been bleeding, but now it had mostly stopped.
Had someone whacked him with a brick? Hit him with a baseball bat?
How was he still alive?
Not important right now. You are still alive, and you won’t be for long if you don’t find some help.
Deep down, though, he wasn’t so sure about that. He still felt terrible, but he felt better.
Enough questions. Time for questions later. Right now, his number-one priority was getting away from here.
Still moving slowly and carefully, half-crawling and half-inching along like a worm, he dragged himself to a nearby tree. It took him four false starts before he finally struggled up enough to stand, swaying against the thick trunk. Once again he waited, using deep breaths and meditation techniques to drive away the encroaching fog. He was not going to pass out again. Only when he felt steady (or steady enough, anyway) did he open his eyes and take in his surroundings.
He was wrong about there being no civilization nearby. Off in one direction were more trees, a gently rolling, forested hillside. But in the other direction, a couple hundred yards away, he spotted the skeletal structures of buildings, and a few grimy yellow earth-moving vehicles.
A construction site!
He watched for a few more moments, but didn’t see any sign of movement. Either the site wasn’t active today, or else it was too early for anyone to be here. He looked around a bit more, and relief flooded him when he spotted a small trailer. If he could get to it, maybe they had a phone.
It seemed so far away, though. Normally, he could have covered that distance at a brisk jog in less than a minute, but now he wasn’t so sure. True, he did feel better, but better in the sense that he didn’t think he was in danger of imminent death, not in the sense that he felt he could manage any brisk jogs. Not today. Not for quite some time.
He struggled into his coat, which took some of the chill from the early morning air, and fixed his gaze on the trailer. There was a sign next to it, but he couldn’t read it from here.
