Lies (The David Chance Series Book 3)

by Hileman, John Michael

  Copyright©2014, Amlin Publishing

  Kindle Edition 2014

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  BOOKS BY

  John Michael Hileman

  UNSEEN

  VRIN: Ten Mortal Gods

  The David Chance Series

  MESSAGES

  VOICES

  LIES

  The Beautiful Dead Series

  The End Came with a Kiss

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 1

  Jon Blake took his eyes off the traffic outside of the West Side Diner and focused on the napkin in front of him. He turned it slightly and wrote, "What could do that?" The words fit neatly in the space between two other lines he had written. "They knew about the buried money," and, "They knew about the hidden evidence." His eyes brushed across other words he had written: "Precognition, ESP, mind control." He drew a line under mind control. Control was a factor, of this he was certain. Someone, or something, was sending messages to him and David Chance for the purpose of controlling them. But who could do that? He patently rejected the belief that the messages were from God, as David believed, but the other options were just as crazy, if not more so. He looked at the left corner of the napkin and drew a line through the word "CRAZY" and wrote "NOT CRAZY" below it. It was certainly crazy for a person to hear voices in their head. But his voices were different. His voices knew things—things they couldn't possibly know.

  A familiar buzz started to grow in the back of his head, but he squeezed his eyes shut and forced its influence back. He didn't want to hear what they had to say. They’d used him—lied to him.

  He wrote "LIARS" under "What could do that?" and traced it several times—until it was the blackest word on the napkin. If there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that they could not be trusted.

  As the waitress came to the table he covered the napkin and pulled it in.

  "Want your coffee topped off, honey?"

  He looked at his half-empty cup and gave a quick nod.

  "You okay?" Her forehead tightened.

  "Yeah," he said, without looking up. "Thanks."

  "Well, if you need a friendly ear, go ahead and flag me down, 'kay sweetie?"

  "Thanks," he said, again, lifting the mug to his lips.

  She took a couple chews of her gum, then continued on her rounds.

  A phrase formed in the back of his head, so faint he might have mistaken it for his own thoughts, if he didn't know better.

  "We have the answers you seek," it said, weakly.

  He growled at himself for letting the waitress distract him. Go away, I don't want to hear your lies.

  "You have questions." This had an urgent sound to it. Probably because they could feel him pushing them away.

  Jon lifted his hand from the napkin and studied the words numbly. There were so many questions, questions maybe only they could answer. But how would he ever know if they were telling him the truth?

  "Lies are necessary," said a sultry female voice.

  You used me.

  "Yes."

  I can't trust a word you say!

  "Lying and trust are separate concepts. We did lie, but you are safe and you are better off than when we found you."

  His chest tightened. Are you KIDDING?! Everything you gave me is gone!

  "Not everything."

  No thanks to anything YOU did!

  "You think we are unable to give you more?"

  I want to know why you took back what you gave already.

  "That was not our intention; we didn't cause the plane to crash."

  But you could have warned me. Now the money is gone, buried under a pile of rubble.

  "Money is of no consequence. There is always more."

  I went through HELL to get that money! I earned it!

  "There are other sources. Easier sources."

  Why am I even having this discussion with you? The money doesn't matter. I can't trust you.

  "How have we lost your trust?"

  For one, you tried to make me KILL an innocent man!

  "Elliot James is not innocent." There was venom in their words.

  You said he was responsible for Sandra's death. You said his men were chasing me. All lies! And the guards at the bank, they weren't behind me on the stairs, you just wanted to herd me into that basement to do your dirty little deed.

  "It was necessary."

  Breath burst from his lips. Why did I think you would give me a straight answer?! He squeezed his eyes and pushed with his mind.

  "If we hadn't lied to you, you would have given in to your weakness. But look at you now. You're stronger than you have ever been."

  The truth of their words caused him to slow his push.

  "The lies were for your good. To make you strong. To give you a passion to do what was needed."

  For his good? How had anything turned out for his good?

  "You are better with us, Jon. Stronger."

  It was true. They had led him to do things he had never had the courage to do before, and there was no denying how it had made him feel, powerful, indestructible.

  "We make you stronger. With us you are the person you were meant to be. Do you remember what you were before us?"

  His defenses were beginning to erode as their words struck deep in the tempest of his soul. With their help he was stronger—and for the past ten days he’d gotten a taste of what it would be like to live without them again. At first, the news agencies couldn't get enough of him. But now, only ten days after the biggest news story in local history, he was all but forgotten. Their love affair with David Chance had relegated him to page-five news.

  "With us, nothing is out of your reach."

  But I can't trust you, he thought again, weakly.

  The voice of a little girl filled his head. "Ask your waitress where her daughter is."

  What?

  "Ask her."

  Why?

  A baritone voice replaced that of the little girl. "You need to remember who we are and what we are capable of. Our power can be yours."

  He looked at the waitress clearing a table nearby. What were they up to? Should he do what they asked? Should he set his foot on that road again? He knew
where it led. It would begin with an easy task but soon he would be caught up in something beyond his control. No. He would be careful this time. But he would do it, because the questions on the napkin screamed for answers, and this was the only way to get them.

  "Miss?" he found himself saying.

  She turned and looked at him with a welcoming smile.

  "I have a question."

  "Sure, sweetie, what is it?" She left her rag on the table and walked toward him, adjusting her apron as she approached.

  "Where is your daughter?"

  She came to a stop, and her brow scrunched. "Why would you ask me that?"

  Great. He could tell from the switch in her demeanor that he had poked a hornet's nest. They were already setting him up for failure. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to pry."

  "Do I know you?"

  The little girl's voice filled his head again. "Tell her you have a message from her daughter."

  He did as she requested.

  The waitress scowled. "Is this some kind of sick joke? My daughter is dead."

  His body went numb. "I- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I..." He fumbled to put the napkin in his pocket.

  The little girl spoke again. "Tell her I love her."

  What? he thought.

  "Tell her it wasn't her fault."

  Horror gripped him. Were these voices from people who had moved on? There was no time to reflect on the revelation.

  The waitress pressed in on him "Why would you say that about my daughter?"

  He set his eyes on hers. "She wants me to tell you it wasn't your fault and that she loves you."

  Her face twisted, her head shook with disgust. "That's it. I don't need this." She turned and began to walk away.

  "Wait!" pleaded the little girl. He spoke it aloud to her mother, with desperation. "Tell her I have watched her cry alone where no one can see."

  "She has watched you crying," he repeated. "She has seen you cry alone where no one can see."

  "Because she doesn't want anyone to know how sad she is."

  "Because you don't want anyone to know how sad you are."

  The waitress came to a stop, but didn't turn.

  "I saw you kiss my clothes as you packed them away in boxes, I cried with you." He repeated the little girls words.

  The waitress turned with tears flooding her eyes. "How could you possibly know that?"

  Jon fought back his own emotion. "Because I think I’m talking to her right now."

  The waitress wiped at her tears. "That's not possible."

  "I know you want to be strong for Grammy but she needs to see your tears," said the little girl in his head.

  He shared the message with the waitress, and watched as her body seemed to groan in agony as the words hit her like a wave. "Danni?"

  "Yes, Mom, it's me," said Jon.

  "It's really you?" she whispered.

  "Tell her Grammy needs to see her tears."

  He shifted in his seat. "She says Grammy needs to see your tears."

  The woman's face tightened. "I can't, honey. It would be too much for her to see how broken I am. I need to be strong for her. I need her to know I'm going to be okay, that she won't lose me too."

  "She needs to see your tears, Mommy. She needs to see how sad you really are."

  He repeated the words.

  "I've put her through so much. I don't want her to think I would try to take my life again. I'm stronger now. I need her to know I'm all right this time."

  "But you aren't, and we are both scared for you."

  He relayed the message.

  The waitress was a mess of tears and redness. "I'm trying so hard." Her voice broke off.

  "Go to Grammy and tell her how you feel."

  "She wants you to go to your mother and tell her how you feel."

  "I can't..."

  "It's what you need," he said, on his own initiative.

  "You don't understand!" she screamed, "I killed her!" The air in the room seemed to suck out as the waitress stood like a wounded animal, trembling in the middle of the cafe, every eye focused on her. "I killed her. I killed my baby girl."

  "It was a mistake," said the little girl in his head. "The ladder was left in with the pool cover on. It wasn't her fault."

  "It wasn't your fault," he said.

  "I was so caught up in my own stupid life, my own stupid comfort. I'm so sorry."

  "Tell her it didn't hurt. It was scary, but it didn't hurt."

  "She says it didn't hurt."

  "It was like going to sleep. It was warm and peaceful."

  He relayed the message.

  The waitress gripped her gut with crossed arms and sank into a chair.

  "I'm sorry but that's all I have time to say. I have to go. They're calling me."

  "What?" he said out loud. "Who's calling you?"

  "Tell her to be honest with Grammy and that I forgive her."

  Wait! Where are you going?

  She didn't answer his question. Her response was a simple "Thank you for helping me." Toward the end it grew faint and distant.

  The waitress scanned the air with her eyes. "What's happening?"

  He took a deep breath. "She said she had to go."

  "Go?" Her eyes were wild with desperation. "She can't go!"

  "She wants you to be honest with your mother."

  The woman shook with grief. "She can't go! Tell her not to go!"

  "And she wants you to know that she forgives you."

  The woman fell at his feet. "Don't let her go. I need her."

  He swallowed back the emotion crawling up from his chest. "I'm sorry. There isn't more."

  "Please!" she pleaded.

  A strong firm masculine voice resonated in his mind. "This is who you are with us, who you were meant to be."

  The woman gripped his legs and cried.

  Who are you? The question drifted away into the numbness buzzing in his head. Are you the voices of the dead?

  "Death is not what you think it is, Jon. We are not dead, and neither is this woman's daughter."

  He put his hand on the sobbing woman's head and tears breached the corners of his eyes. I don't understand. The girl is alive?

  "No. But she could be again. We have the technology to regenerate her physical body from a single cell."

  Who are you?!

  "This is a lot to take in, Jon, you are not ready yet."

  He wasn't sure why, but he found himself peering out the window at the rooftops and down the windows of the building across the street as though he might find someone watching him from a staked-out position. He knew it was a fruitless effort. They weren't out there.

  Are you here, in the room?

  "Jon. You need to get up and leave the woman. There is much to do and very little time."

  What do you want me to do?

  "We are going to remind you what your life can be if you trust us."

  Chapter 2

  The pretty young woman with golden curls sat, as she had for the past ten days, watching and remembering every detail of the enormous casino floor. Though she had been born deaf, the eyes God had given her were able to remember and catalog every image they had ever seen, not only images, but patterns as well. In this case, the patterns were the paths people would take through the maze of tables and slot machines below. Each appeared in her head as a string in a cat's cradle. Each string was given a name.

  From her perch on the balcony of the casino bar she saw the string called Patty enter from the elevators. Her string was so reliable it was almost a constant. She arrived every evening at 8:00 p.m. and headed up the side stairs to the bar. Though an army of waitresses were adept at keeping a steady flow of alcohol to the gamblers around the tables, Patty enjoyed getting her first drink from the bar. And since it correlated with the pattern called Bartender Tom, it was reasonable to conclude that they were sleeping together— because every night, for the past six nights, patterns Patty and Tom had disappeared at 9:45 and reappeared at 10:30
when the pattern James arrived from outside the casino with his briefcase and pressed suit.

  James would always find Patty at her favorite Blackjack table. After a random amount of time the two would cash their chips and make their exit through the elevator from which Patty had emerged.

  On rare occasions the pattern called James would appear in the matrix again, but it would always wander aimlessly with no helpful purpose, and thus, was of no interest to her.

  Ultimately, the focus of her acute attention had been reduced to one pattern, the pattern called Agent Bob. There were many guards and security agents in the casino, but his was the one she had isolated as the most vulnerable, partly because she could get him where she needed him at precisely the right time—but mostly because he was easily distracted by anything in a skirt.

  She took a sip from her drink to coat her mouth, then stood. The security patterns were about to lock into their pre-night routine. There was a margin of error but at 8:15 that margin was considerably reduced. She walked casually to the stairs and sauntered down. There was no doubt her short skirt and low, loose-fitting shirt was attracting attention, but once she reached her position on the floor, tucked behind a wall of slot machines, only one person would have an easy view of her assets. That was the plan, at least.

  From the middle of the stairs she took note that the security patterns were moving as expected. Agent Bob was working his way up the side from the front of the casino. Her mobile device vibrated in her purse, signaling that she had arrived at the bottom of the stairs at precisely the right moment to get to her position under the balcony. All eyes would be on the front of the building where a group of officers met with internal security on the plush lobby rug for their daily exchange, and hopefully not on her, as she baited her prey into the only blind alcove in the room.

  She teetered forward on high heels, allowing her discomfort and inexperience with heels to play off as inebriation. Her target was sure to be in position at this point and would no doubt have her locked in his sight as he made his walk around the back of the casino. It was his responsibility to keep a ground-level eye on things during the officers’ transaction, but that eye tended to wander.

  There was a subtle shiver in her ribcage as she reached her mark, but she drew in a breath. This grift was nothing more than a series of variables laid down by professionals whose life goal it was to study people, then take advantage of them. All she had to do was follow the script. Funny, for most, the actual sleight of hand and misdirection would have been the challenging part, but not for her. For her the social interaction would be the challenging part. For a girl whose best friends were C++ and TcP ip networks, getting into someone's personal space in a non-threatening way seemed like an insurmountable task. She didn't even understand what the words "personal space" meant. Her only hope was that her sex appeal would be enough to allow her into his no-fly zone.