False Positive

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  Books by C. Ryan Bymaster

  The eMOTION Series:

  Featuring Fifth and Dent

  eMOTION: Forced Pair

  eMOTION: Hard Wired

  eMOTION: False Positive

  – Forthcoming 2015 –

  Surge Protector

  Forsaken: Ev and Ell

  eMOTION:

  False Positive

  A Fifth and Dent Novel

  By

  C. Ryan Bymaster

  Text copyright: C. Ryan Bymaster, 2014.

  All related characters and elements are copyrighted by the author.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author.

  PROLOGUE

  “Aisle fourteen … aisle fifteen … aisle sixteen.”

  He turned down aisle sixteen and scanned the shelves, looking for the chocolate-covered pretzels. And there they were, right where a mother and daughter were standing, also perusing the snacks in that area. The mother, he took immediate notice of. Perfect Goldilocks age — not too old, not too young, maybe just a bit older than his own thirty-two years.

  He sauntered over their way.

  The two women paid him no mind, going about their gabbing about sugar content and dietary points. He took a deep breath through his nose, once, twice, and a third time. Still they went on, oblivious to him.

  Which was expected. Something to which he’d long ago gotten accustomed, though it still riled him.

  He reached over, grabbed the bag he wanted, and leaned back, his movements oblivious to the two women. A few seconds later, he had the bag open and shoved a few pretzels in his mouth. He walked past the women and was about to turn the corner when he stopped and grinned. He couldn’t pass up this opportunity.

  He took a few steps back, needlessly looked around, then reached down, grabbing a handful of Goldilocks’s ass.

  Now that got her attention. She turned, her face a storm of indignation, a curse on her tongue.

  “What the hell?” she screeched, eyes as wide as her mouth as she stared at the man who’d seemingly appeared out of thin air and felt her up.

  Her outburst had drawn her daughter’s attention to him. And now that his presence had been made known, she started screaming at him, as well. Like mother, like daughter he supposed.

  He laughed at the sight, which only drew more screams and curses from the two women. Before one of them decided to actually take a swing at him — which at least three out of four women usually did — he back-stepped to the edge of the aisle, turned crisply on his heels, and disappeared around the corner.

  But apparently Goldilocks and her daughter weren’t going to let him get away that easy. Feisty little things, they were. He grinned all the wider. They rushed around the corner to the aisle he was standing in and he almost laughed at the slack-jawed, confused looks they both wore when they came to an abrupt halt, eyes scanning what their senses told them was an empty aisle.

  Goldilocks shook her head. “Where …?”

  “He came down this aisle, mom,” the daughter proclaimed with absolute certainty. “Maybe he ran?” she added, now with a bit less certainty.

  Less than three feet away in front of them, he shook his head. There were positives to his … affliction. His talent. He winked, though they we ignorant of his action, popped a pretzel in his mouth and turned, leaving the two confused women to their confused jabbering.

  He made it to the end of the aisle and turned down the main walkway. He still needed to get deodorant, toothpaste, socks, and ….

  “Son of a bitch!” he snapped, rubbing his hip where some idiot ran into him with a shopping cart.

  “Sorry, buddy,” the idiot stammered, looking left and right as he tried to figure how a man suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “I swear, I didn’t see you.”

  Famous last words, he thought.

  And then there were the downsides to people not being able to register your presence. He was tempted to reach over and snap the man’s neck, only the sudden ringing of his phone stayed his hand. He flipped the idiot off, ignored the indignant responses, and headed back down the walkway, searching the headers for the deodorant section while digging out his phone.

  “Yep?” he answered.

  “Ingram. Where are you?”

  “Just passing the shampoo aisle.”

  “Ingram.”

  “Fine, fine. I’m in some backwater city along the highway.”

  “No luck with locating them?”

  “Nope. After the motel incident, Dent took off with Kasumi like a bat out of Hell. I didn’t get a chance to tail them. Too busy putting my nose back in place. That bastard broke it.”

  “I’m sure the ladies still find you irresistibly handsome.”

  “Takeda, Takeda, Takeda.” He smiled at her jibe as he shook his head. “Did you call to harass me?”

  “No, Ingram. I called see where you were and how close you were to a city called …,” he heard her tap a few keys all the way over in Japan, “… Graftsprings, Utah.”

  “I’ll have to check my GPS.”

  “Head out there. Check in when you’re in the area.”

  He found his brand of deodorant, slipped it into his pocket, and began the hunt for toothpaste. He asked, “What’s in Graftsprings, Utah?”

  “Chisholme had a test subject in play out there.”

  “Had? And was it anyone I knew?”

  “Dent shut the operation down. And no, I don’t think you ever met Connor. He was not in your … class.”

  Ingram shrugged, even though Takeda couldn’t see. He passed by the cologne section and stopped. Something else he’d needed. And something that could be fun, in its own way. It was entertaining to see people stop and sniff the air, trying to determine why they smelled cologne but didn’t notice anybody walk by.

  He ran a finger over the plastic-and-glass security case, scanning the bottles and boxes inside. “What do I do when I get there?” he asked his employer.

  “Keep at the ready. As soon as anything pops up indicating Dent or Fifth, I want you there.”

  “Will do,” he replied, his voice a little strained as he had to break the plastic security bracket to get to the cologne he wanted. He grunted with effort and gave the plastic a harder tug until it finally snapped. The sharp crack drew the attention of a man walking his way but, other than a cursory glance and a confused look, the man didn’t do much else.

  “Is everything okay, Ingram?”

  “Fine. Just shopping. Like I said.”

  “I don’t want you drawing unwanted attention to yourself.”

  This time he laughed aloud. The woman could do stand-up comedy, if she ever gave up her current line of work.

  He heard her give an exasperated sigh. “You know what I mean,” she told him.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you when I’m in Utah.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yep.” He clicked off and went to pocket his phone, only the deodorant was already there. Looking around, he saw a woman put her basket down to pick up an item from the shelf. He walked over and snagged the basket for himself. In the next aisle, he dumped her items, put in the deodorant, the open bag of pretzels, and the cologne, and decided he might as well fill the basket while he was there.

  Twenty minutes later, his basket full, he walked past the registers, grabbing a pack of gum as he did, and on toward the exit. He would have filled a shopping cart, but that sometimes drew attention. Baskets and bags rarely drew a second look. But shopping carts did. Maybe it was the size of the cart that drew attention to him. It simply might
be too obvious a thing for people to ignore, giving them something for their brains to focus on, which led to them inevitably notice the man pushing it along. His curse could only do so much.

  Just ahead, the automatic doors slid open at his approach and he smiled.

  Now, automatic doors, he loved. Maybe, when this whole Kasumi fiasco was finished, he’d talk to Takeda about having some automatic doors installed in the house she’d promised him.

  For Ingram Weiss, the man that Kasumi had — unbeknownst to him — named Noman, automatic doors offered something that people did not.

  They took immediate notice of him.

  He didn’t have to go to extremes to get a response from them. He didn’t have to inflict pain on them to get noticed.

  But then again, automatic doors could be so boring in that same respect.

  I

  Almost four weeks they’d stayed at Sheriff Bobseyn’s place. Marion Dent would have preferred to have left at least a week ago. The worst of his wounds had mended, now his ribs hurt only when he breathed, and there had been no further sign of Grant Chisholme or his men in Graftsprings. If they were there, they were doing a fairly competent job of staying under the radar. It was time he and Fifth left, time they headed back to the solitude of his secluded estate back along the east coast.

  Away from Sheriff Bobseyn and his daughter, Cherry.

  It wasn’t that Dent disliked the sheriff, or his daughter. In fact, it was that he started to, in some unwanted way, grown accustomed to the man and his daughter. Just two days ago, out of nowhere, Dent actually asked how Cherry’s day had been. Odd thing about it, he had been honestly curious. Not to the point that he’d deeply cared, though, and the ten-minute diatribe had been nine minutes too long, but something inside him had told him it was the right thing to do at the time — to ask and then sit there and take his punishment for doing so.

  Dent went back to folding his laundry, three small and neat stacks for lights, darks, and in-betweens, finding comfort in the rote action. His mind wandered as he folded the last of his pants, settling on the probability that something was wrong with him.

  And he knew it was Fifth.

  His spending time with her was affecting him. Her talent was bleeding through to him somehow. It was … unexpected. Bothersome, even, if he could name the emotion he was feeling. He’d set out to protect her, to ensure that she would never have to go through the trials he did as a young child — poked and prodded, tested and trained, all for the benefit of those who wished to profit from her uniqueness, her special ability to force her emotions on others.

  No, Dent thought, he couldn’t continue being around other people while at the same time protecting her. It was bad enough he’d turned his pragmatic world upside down for Fifth, and he no doubt would do the same if offered the choice again, but to have to put up with these burgeoning emotions and play-act with other people, was not what he’d signed up for. Fifth had found a way to get to him and it unsettled him. How could he make the difficult decisions and take the appropriate actions to keep her from harm if he was too caught up being curious about the sheriff’s daughter’s day?

  Last of his laundry neatly tucked into the drawer, Dent stood, staring out the window overlooking the back porch of the sheriff’s house. He needed to get away, get Fifth away from here. She’d likely growl and gripe at him for making her leave, but as the adult in this situation, he made the decisions. And Bobseyn, who’d taken to giving Dent pointers on what it meant to be a parent, or at least a guardian, would probably give Dent another speech about how Fifth needed a normal life.

  But normal didn’t fit in with their complicated situation. A sociopath caring for a girl who couldn’t control her infectious emotions. It was like … like … he couldn’t come up with a proper analogy, but he was sure Fifth would have been able to. Maybe he should ask her when she got ….

  “Dent!”

  He turned from the window at Rick Bobseyn’s voice calling from downstairs.

  He made his way down the hall and just hit the top of the stairs when Bobseyn called out again.

  “Dent!” This time the man’s voice was higher pitched. Urgent, perhaps?

  Dent shook his head. Fifth would know.

  “Bobseyn,” Dent said in acknowledgment, as he made his way down the stairs.

  “Get in here!”

  Dent continued down at the same pace. When he reached the living room, Bobseyn, in his usual uniform of dark brown polo shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots, was standing before the couch, television remote in hand. He pointed the remote at the screen when Dent stopped and stared at him.

  “What?” asked Dent.

  “Kasumi,” Bobseyn said, pointing again at the screen. “Seems she’s garnered some attention.”

  This spurred Dent to move. In two steps he was at Bobseyn’s side and had snagged the remote so he could turn up the volume. Sure enough, Fifth was on the television. Apparently being interviewed by a reporter in front of what looked to be a mini-mart.

  The female reporter was asking, “Can you tell us what happened in there?”

  Fifth was wide-eyed and moved her arms about as she answered. “He had a gun. I think … I know he wanted to rob the place.”

  “And you talked him down? Weren’t you scared?”

  A shrug of her shoulders, something Dent believed she picked up from him. “I just wanted to make sure nobody got hurt.”

  Bobseyn turned to Dent. He was about to say something when his police two-way chirped. He snapped his mouth shut and grabbed it up from the coffee table. Dent tuned the man out as he spoke to his deputy on the other end. The sheriff was being called in to the scene.

  Staring at the screen, staring at Fifth as she spoke to the reporter on live television, Dent had an incredible urge to use one of the many foul words Fifth had in her repertoire.

  “Dent ….”

  This was not good.

  “Dent ….”

  This would be all over the internet within minutes.

  “Dent!”

  A hand on his shoulder and Dent whipped around, almost burying the remote in Bobseyn’s eye.

  The sheriff jumped back, gaze flicking up and down Dent’s tense body. “We have to get going,” he said, softly. “Ramirez is already on scene and I told her to grab Kasumi and get her off that darned camera. We’ve got to get going. Now.”

  Dent didn’t argue. In fact, he was already moving to the door. His Glocks were in the Escalade.

  “Hold on! I’m driving, Dent.”

  “We can take your Cherokee, but I’m driving,” Dent replied, throwing open the front door.

  “No,” Bobseyn said, yanking the car keys from Dent’s hand. “Last time the young miss was in trouble and you drove, we almost didn’t make it there in one piece.”

  “Fine.” Dent unlocked the Escalade and pulled one of his guns out from under the rear driver seat.

  “And I swear to high heaven, Dent, you best not try to shoot anyone when we get there.”

  Dent knew better than to answer. One of the problems he’d always had with his condition was an inability to lie. Too convoluted a thing for his mind to process, to come up with feasible half-truths and falsities. So instead, he checked his magazine, pushed it back in, and felt the reassuring tick when the Glock’s palm ID scanner clicked off the safety.

  He settled into the passenger seat of the Cherokee, put on his seat belt, and looked over at Bobseyn.

  The man stared at him, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. After a heartbeat he shook his head and turned the keys.

  II

  Cherry Bobseyn was over at the nail salon, and since Kasumi Takeda didn’t feel like having her nails done — more like she was embarrassed because she chewed on them all the time — she told Cherry she’d be back, that she wanted to grab a soda a few shops down in the strip mall. Cherry waved her away, telling her to be careful.

  Like anything could happen, really.

  Kasumi left the blonde girl — well
she was older than Kasumi so she guessed Cherry was a woman, and since Kasumi was fourteen now, she was practically a woman, too. Anyways, she left her friend, her only true friend she’d had these past months other than Dent and headed to the mini-mart.

  As she walked, careful of the cracks in the sidewalk, Kasumi thought about how dismal her life had become. Running from people who wanted to lock her away and study her for what she could do, with only Dent as her stable friend. He’d started this all by kidnapping her, but now that he knew she was in danger, he’d learned his lesson and became her guardian.

  It was tough, she thought, trying to teach him how to be a normal person. But that was how she would repay him for risking his life to save hers. Dent would keep people like Mister Chisholme and Noman and even her own mother from capturing her and she would make him less, well … Denty. It was part of their unwritten contract. Except, as time went on, she was starting to think she had the harder part of the contract to uphold.

  She sighed, just as the automatic doors of the mini-mart sighed when they opened at her approach. She stepped in, looked around, and gave a small shiver at the amped-up air conditioning in the place. She waved to the young man behind the counter on her left and spotted the fountain drinks over on the far right corner of the store.

  By the time she wound her way through the short aisles to the drinks, she had a bag of flaming-hot chips in one hand and a pack of winterfresh gum in the other. Tossing her goods on the narrow counter near the nacho cheese dispenser, she grabbed the biggest cup available and stared at the soda machine. Today she’d go for a “suicide” — a mix of every drink this place had to offer. It’s what her old friends back in Japan use to call it. Back when she had friends, back when her mother hadn’t locked her away in the hospital.

  Shaking those dismal thoughts from her mind, she started to fill her cup. She was onto the third dispenser, a pink-lemonade sports drink, when she heard someone give out a half-yell back near the front of the store. Curious, she turned that way, and noticed a woman two aisles over do the same.