He sat down facing the way he’d come, and Grayson activated the camera app but held it low on his lap as if reading or texting. He angled it to center the man he was following on the screen. He started tapping to take snapshots and then activated the record mode to catch him in motion. He kept his eyes on the screen and saw what he expected to see.
He watched Stiles turn his head, and start to pivot, evidently perusing the people passing nearby. There was an increasing overt sensation that Grayson sensed of sexuality, and it was centered where Stiles stood. When Grayson saw his eyes swing past where he sat, he looked up again and saw the broad-shouldered image faintly superimposed over the slender Stiles his eyes saw more sharply. He looked back at his phone screen, and that matched what his eyes told him. He tried zooming the image to see if the camera could detect something like a holographic projection around the man, but nothing like that was apparent.
If the others were seeing the same double image that he saw, it should have stirred different expressions, such as curiosity, amusement, or amazement, and surely someone would ask Stiles about the method of projection. Suddenly, Grayson was certain that they didn’t see the actual man, and his sense of direction for the secondary image told him Stiles generated that, and somehow, he was able could see through the façade. It sent his mind racing, thinking about how this man’s presence where the fatal car accidents happened might explain what fooled the drivers into steering onto sidewalks.
What if they saw some type image that fooled them? Although, that didn’t seem to be sufficient. Why didn’t they slam on their brakes before or after they jumped the curb? The answer to that question came when he resumed following the man as he shopped.
Closer to the food court, Stiles paused at another men’s store and performed another of his pivot moves, smiling and obviously looking at the people observing him, and his eyes briefly paused as he looked towards attractive women, particularly the young ones.
Grayson sensed an increase in the impression of sexuality coming from Stiles, and he realized the man was seeking to pick up a woman if she responded to his false image. Before he finished turning all the way around to see his stalker, Grayson turned away.
Suddenly, clear in his mind, and instantly recognizable as emanating from Stiles, standing only ten yards away and undeniably directed to himself, he sensed a voice in his mind. Look at me; You know you want me. Wink at me.
He didn’t know how, but Stiles was apparently aware of being followed, so Grayson started walking away. Other words then formed in his mind, trying to order him to stop. He kept walking until he sensed a level of anger and a willingness to kill him, and he received a dangerous instruction: Stop breathing.
He broke into a run, and after that, he sensed less intense commands that were directed to those around him and not to him personally, as Stiles tried to force others into action to stop him. If that worked, Grayson knew he’d not leave the mall alive. He broke into a dead run, and watched for people he needed to avoid, and heard in his mind what Stiles ordered people to do, and his use of an attempt to seek any nearby police help or mall security.
Grayson’s greatest fear was that a uniformed cop might be in the mall, which Stiles could fool into firing at him. With a flash of insight, he knew that must be how Stiles had killed Gil and Maureen, tricking them into a gunfight. Uniformed mall security guards were far less worrisome to him. Apparently, Stiles wasn’t aware they didn’t carry guns. However, one of them might be perfectly willing to physically engage him, and slow him down long enough for Stiles to direct them, and the surrounding people to attack and kill him.
No matter what he did to defend himself to get away, and he carried not only his ankle gun tonight but had his Glock 9mm in a waist holster. If he were seen drawing a weapon on mall cameras, he’d be actively hunted by police officers he’d never willingly shoot. If arrested, they’d take him where Stiles could eventually find him. He’d never get a chance to tell his story to anyone that would believe him, and he’d not live to face the false charges.
His only hope was to stay anonymous and to get away. He wouldn’t even return to his car right away. Once out of the mall parking lot he’d change his appearance by buying a baseball cap and a different shirt at a budget store, and circle back to his car in a few hours before the mall closed, after watching for any police activity. He didn’t believe Stiles would stick around to file a formal complaint or to force anyone else to do that.
The man was one scary, murderous sonofabitch!
****
At 1:20 AM Saturday, Grayson drove through his subdivision but stayed clear of his street. He could see the front of his home between houses from the next street over, and the front porch light was on, as was the light atop the small brick column next to the end of the walkway where it met the drive. That was as he’d asked Barb to leave them when she left with Stacy. The drive was empty, and the front interior was dark. He circled to the next street behind his home and saw the rear patio light lit, and a dim light shone from above the kitchen window over the sink. That was also per his instructions, so everything here appeared to be as expected, but he was too uneasy to risk going home, even if he parked his car a block away and walked.
He’d kept his cell phone powered off, and hadn’t risked calling Barb or Stacy yet, but he wanted to send them the pictures he had of Stiles. He didn’t know if they had driven to her sister’s house across town, or to her parents home in Elizabethtown. He could text them the pictures and the short video as attachments, but that would result in multiple phone chimes, possibly waking them. However, he wanted to send the images to both Barb and Stacy. Barb knew what he’d been doing tonight, so she could brief Stacy on what the photos meant. He didn’t want to send a longer explanatory text, or to call them, to minimize his phone’s activation time.
Parked on the side of the road, he selected both of them for the text message, attached the pictures and the video, and pressed send. Then he turned his phone off and drove towards his business office. He parked at an all-night Walmart two blocks away, where no one would notice his car sitting overnight. He parked in a dark, remote row that many employees used, to avoid dings on their doors.
He went around to the back of the line of businesses and shops to the rear door of his leased office space, and let himself in by the glow of a streetlight. He’d had the front door and lock repaired, but the glass door and front window meant he couldn’t turn on any lights there. He fumbled for his tiny keychain penlight and shut the door to the rear area, with its dual-gender toilets required of any business. In a cleaning supply closet were a fold up cot and a bag with bedding, which he or his partners had occasionally used for a nap or overnight stay at work. He pulled out one of the two blankets and used it to seal the crack at the bottom of the door to the front so the light wouldn’t leak under that crack. The rear door had a solid metal outer sheath with no window and was watertight for rain, making it safe to switch on one of the restroom lights. The overhead hall light was too bright, and he intended to sleep in that short corridor, but he wanted some light.
By not checking into a motel, and with the “Closed” sign on a dark office, he decided he was adequately untraceable for the night. He wasn’t exactly hiding from Stiles because he didn’t think the man knew who he was. For tonight, and possibly tomorrow, he was hiding from the agents of this mysterious Bureau of International Intelligence. Avoiding them at least long enough for him to come up with some plausible story they might believe and more information about Stiles.
He now knew who Stiles was, what he looked like, and some of what he apparently could do. Although, he needed to be careful of how he shared that information. His story would sound insane to anyone he told about a man that sent thought instructions to make people do his bidding, and could make them see him as some other person. Stiles had proven he was a ruthless person that made people kill themselves or they killed others for him.
He lay there in the partial light from the nearly close
d ladies room door, thinking about events in the mall. Apparently, he could make women yield to him because until he focused on Grayson, he seemed intent on finding female companionship.
That triggered the next inner question.
How did he figure out I was following him?
He analyzed the sequence of events before he drew Sikes attention, and deduced the two modes of Stiles application of his mind control. He’d been sending his thoughts to everyone, projecting his false image, and had ordered people to look at him as he scanned the faces looking his way.
Suddenly his mistake seemed obvious in hindsight. I was secretly following him, and I didn’t want him to see my face. I turned away, which no one else did. That was when he directly ordered only me to look at him and wink.
He remembered that it felt like a more powerful thought than before when Stiles was projecting to everyone. His ability wasn’t limited to using only a general broadcast, like a TV signal. He could also be selective, like for a phone call, which was stronger and sent to one person.
He wondered. Why couldn’t he make me do the things he ordered others to do? I knew what he wanted me to do, I sensed his exact words, but I felt no compulsion to obey him. The other people did obey him, at least to some extent.
Because not everyone leaped to attack him or try to stop him when he ran away, the inclination to obey Stiles orders must have some limits.
Ah Ha! He knew what it had to be. That’s why he can’t easily make people kill themselves. It’s their survival instinct. He fools them, or get others to kill his victims for him.
Before he finally dozed off, he asked himself again, Why didn’t it work on me?
****
Wake up. I’m a federal agent. Please unload your guns and lay them on the floor, then unlock the back door.
The words softly echoed in his sleepy mind. He thought he was dreaming of the events in the mall again. The fabric of the damned lumpy cot had stretched, allowing his ribs to press against one of the aluminum cross supports. He was a side sleeper, and the only way the bar didn’t press his ribs was when he used his remaining blanket as a mattress pad to ease the lump of the crossbar. He opened his eyes and looked at his watch in the sliver of light from the bathroom. It was a quarter to six. He re-plumped and folded his thin pillow in half, and shifted his position, determined to get another two hours of sleep.
Mister Grayson, we are federal agents, here to interview you. Unload your guns and open the door. Superintendent Brogan needs to speak with you.
“What the shit?” he muttered softly. He rolled over and sat up. He wasn’t dreaming that time. This soft insertion of someone’s thoughts into his mind wasn’t as powerful as last night, but Stiles had somehow found his hiding place and knew who he was.
Perhaps if he hadn’t been half awake, due to the uncomfortable cot, he might have sleepwalked and obeyed. He wasn’t falling for it now. He picked up his Glock in its holster from the floor and verified he’d not removed its clip in his sleep. He could feel the comforting lump in the ankle holster. Careful to not tip the cot over or make any noise, he used a door frame to help stand and shift his bed to the side a foot so he could walk in the narrow hall.
Stiles might have brought henchmen with him, or had people, even police officers, held enthralled with his mental control. He damned well wasn’t opening a door, armed or not, to a hail of bullets.
He wondered who Brogan was supposed to be to him? Why use some random name he wouldn’t recognize? He quietly racked a round, reholstered the gun and clipped the holster to his belt on the right. He knew the person communicating with him was standing on the right side of his heavy steel clad rear door. He didn’t know how he knew that, but the directionality and distance were very clear to him.
Another thought, subtly different but equally soft, unintentionally informed him there was someone in front of his office, standing to the side of that door.
We believe you’re aware we’re here. You were compelled to wake up. There are multiple federal agents here, and all we want to do is talk. I order you to forget any compulsion the man in the mall embedded in your mind. Lay down your guns, and unlock the rear door with your hands raised.
Right, thought Grayson, cynically. He was being compelled to ignore an embedded compulsion.
Wait! There was at least two of them, and they knew about the mall activity last night. He mentally compared the two thoughts, and the intensity he’d received, and they were as different from each other as they were from those he’d received from Stiles. There apparently was three men with that ability. He wondered how he knew they were men? It felt like they were.
They also assumed he experienced their instructions to him as orders they thought he couldn’t resist, just like Stiles had. Again, he was apparently able to resist orders they each believed he’d obey. He might be able to use that expectation to his advantage.
They obviously weren’t just going away even if he didn’t answer. Right or wrong, they believed he was in here and would verify that visually after forcing the doors. Staying quiet and waiting wasn’t going to work. He loosened the elastic ankle holster and slipped out his compact Springfield Armory XD-E 9MM. He pressed a release and removed the magazine and laid it with the weapon on the cot. The single stack held half the load of his Glock, and the short barrel length made it less accurate.
Unlock the door and surrender now.
They were growing impatient. So, speaking loudly as a delay to provide the time needed, he told them, “I’m not going into custody in my damned underpants. I placed my unloaded gun on the cot where I was sleeping. I’ll let you in after I pull on my pants, shirt, and shoes. There’ll be no Goddamned news or booking pictures of me looking like some common criminal, like those I’ve arrested so often in the middle of the night.”
He noisily shoved the cot closer to the rear door, the XD-E laying on the end where they would see it, and he stepped into the toilet next to the rear door. He’d slept fully clothed, so he didn’t need to dress.
Another voice replied from the back of the building, and it seemed more authoritative sounding than either of the two thought sources.
“This is Superintendent Richard Brogan, of the BII. I know Captain Franklin told you to expect us to contact you later today or tomorrow. I woke his ass up several hours ago after we intercepted calls about some odd incidents at a mall. He identified you from their surveillance recordings. He’s pissed off you didn’t take his advice to stay clear of this investigation. Nobody was at your house, so we came here. I give you my word we are not going to take you into custody unless you lie to us or if you withhold any evidence you’ve gathered on Stiles.”
Grayson was standing on the tank of the men’s toilet when he heard this. He’d already lifted two foam ceiling panels when the man’s voice started speaking. It sounded like he was on the outside of the wall behind the men’s room, and below him. Probably standing behind the man that had sent the first thoughts to wake up. His words gave him pause, and a slight sense of relief. The voice was deeper and had a New England accent. It wasn’t Stiles.
Nevertheless, he wasn’t giving up quite that easily. His friends had died when they apparently were fooled into seeing or believing something that wasn’t real. He raised himself into the ceiling and supported himself on the wall next to the back door, and the top inner edge of the back wall of concrete blocks. He removed another dusty ceiling panel over the rear door so he could see down from over the entrance. The deadbolt was face-high on the right, and he bent down and grasped the manual latch knob.
“When I unlock the door, don’t try to come rushing in at me. My gun is sitting on the end of a cot where I slept, and I’ll go for it if you enter aggressively. Let me move down the hall so I can see you when you enter. I have a mop handle, and I’ll fight you if you don’t have your identification out where I can see it. Do you have badges or cards?”
He knew his voice would be coming from just behind the door, where they expected him
to be. He was prepared to scream as if he was wounded if they fired through the door. Even if they did what he asked, he’d be ready to take some of them with him if they were part of Stiles organization.
He loudly flipped the latch open, and said, “Let me back away before you open the door. You’ll see my gun on the cot. Kick the door open if you feel safer doing that.”
There were no gunshots, as he half expected, and the deep, authoritative voice only said, “OK. We’ll give you a count of three to back away. We won’t come through before we can see what’s on the other side.”
“Understood.” Now he waited for their count. If it were him making the entry on a possibly armed criminal, he’d have bashed open the door on the count of one. They waited.
He heard the doorknob turning somewhere below the deadbolt, but he couldn’t see it in the darkened hall. They kicked the door open, but not violently, as he expected. The glow of the streetlight revealed the shadow of one man crouching to the side of the door, and one was further back in a bent over stance if that shadow was accurate.
He heard the Boston accented voice tell someone softly, “I see his gun. I’ll cover you Hector, but go slow. This man has resisted Stiles, you, and James. I truly need to talk to him, and test his DNA.”
Hector proved to be the man crouched by the side of the doorway. That figure stayed low and entered slowly, gun in hand, but he held something else. He never looked up but gave a cautionary warning to Grayson.
“This is Agent Hector Colone, and I have my ID card out, but my belt runs through my badge holder, and I’m not putting down my weapon to pull it free. I’ll toss my wallet around the corner for you to examine. Don’t swing that mop handle at my hand or take my damned cash.”
He crept forward and used his left hand and a flip of his wrist to throw the wallet down the hall. Behind him, a man in a suit approached the open door, a gun in his left hand and what appeared to be a badge in his right hand, reflecting some of the street light. “Hector, here’s my badge, toss that around the corner.”
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