by Anna Durand
Someone is watching.
The thought burst into her mind. She stood there for a moment, facing forward again, and let the thought sink in as she listened and waited. Nothing happened. No stalkers leaped out from behind bushes. No footfalls clapped behind her. She found no logical reason to believe she was being tracked. Still, she patted her purse to feel the hard outline of her .357 Magnum revolver inside, snug in the holster sewn into the purse.
Yet as she started off down the sidewalk again, the uneasy feeling stayed with her. It haunted the recesses of her mind even after she boarded the bus. By the time the bus turned onto Main Street a few minutes later, the sensation had lessened but not disappeared.
The bus conveyed Grace into town amid a cloud of oily smoke and a throng of people who looked as hopeless and helpless as she'd felt for the past two months, until her pre-dawn epiphany. Maybe she would sink back into the malaise later, when Brian Kellogg turned out to be delusional and her shadow man proved to be a hallucination.
No. She was not crazy. If it took every ounce of strength she possessed to keep her head above the morass, she would never again allow herself to drown in a quagmire of self-doubt.
Never.
At least not today. At least not until lack of a decent night's sleep caught up with her.
Stop it.
The bus deposited her in front of the truck stop that hunkered at the base of the freeway on-ramp. The two-block trek from the truck stop to the motel, along the edge of the on-ramp, gave her time to organize her thoughts. She tried to organize her thoughts anyway. What could she say to Kellogg? What should she say? Gimme the damn evidence right now, you scumbag seemed inappropriate, thought it suited her mood. She was sick of feeling helpless and hopeless. She wanted to prolong the empowered feeling she'd woken up with this morning. Yet the closer she got to the motel, the less empowered and invigorated she felt.
Damn.
Just as she veered off the sidewalk and into the motel parking lot, she glimpsed a shape darting out of the ditch on the other side of the on-ramp.
Grace spun around to face the road.
The scarecrow man rushed across the single lane, heading straight for her.
She tore open the purse's main compartment, seized the revolver, and whipped it out of the purse. Leveling the gun at the scarecrow man, she shouted for him to stop.
He jerked as if she'd shot him. She hadn't. Her finger wasn't even over the trigger, but resting on the barrel above it.
His face contorted into a frightened expression. He mumbled to himself, the words indistinct. When his gaze fell on the gun, his eyes bulged.
The poor little loon seemed more scared than she was.
To hell with this. She lowered the gun to her side, aimed at the ground, and waved her free hand in a casual greeting. "Hi, it's me. Still want to talk?"
His lips worked soundlessly.
"Well?" she asked.
"Not here," he said. "They see. They know."
"Here or nowhere."
He hesitated. "All right."
Dragging his feet, he moved off the road and halted a half dozen feet from her, to her left and slightly in front of her. He cringed and flitted his gaze back and forth as if watching for demons from the fiftieth dimension to suddenly appear and suck him into their hell-world. He paced along the road's periphery, but maintained a couple yards distance between the two of them. Fine with her. She wanted to stay clear of him too.
"I'm only trying to warn you," he said. "Someone has to."
Someone has to warn you. The shadow man had said that to her yesterday.
The scarecrow took a step toward her. "He tries to stop me. But I push him out. Free. For awhile."
"Who tries to stop you?"
His lips curled. He spat one word. "Them."
"Who is 'them'?"
"The — ones. Who want me. And you. He tries to make me do things for them. Bad things. I don't want to. I want to help. Not hurt. Never hurt." He choked back a sob. "Please don't let him take me. Please, please, please."
His voice rose to a crescendo as he repeated the word please a dozen more times, faster and faster with each iteration. His cheeks flushed. His body trembled.
She must calm him down before he lashed out, enmeshed as he had become in a frenzy of syllables. She had no desire to become the object of his terror. Fear could easily shift into violence, especially in someone as deranged as this little man.
"I know you want to help," she said in a soothing tone. "I believe you."
He choked, coughed, choked again. His breaths came shallow and fast.
"I believe you," she repeated. "I understand."
"Understand? You do?"
"Yes. What's your name?"
He looked at the ground. "Andrew."
Henry Winston told her this man's name was Adam Hansen. Yeah, she really needed to fight hard to control her shock at realizing Winston lied to her.
"You wanted to warn me," she said. "What about?"
"They're after you now. The man with evil eyes. Darkness inside. His name … " Andrew thumped the heel of his hand on his forehead. "Can't remember. All fuzzy."
She waited, unable to think of a thing to say.
Andrew clasped his hands to his temples. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rocked back and forth on his heels. "Fuzzy, so fuzzy. Must clear."
Grace took a step backward and tightened her grip on the gun. "Why are they after me?"
"What Dr. McLean gave you. They want it."
"Dr. McLean. My grandfather."
"Uh-huh."
This loony little man said the same things Brain Kellogg had said — that Grandpa gave her something, an object that strangers wanted to steal. The shadow man claimed it was a flash drive. If so, she had no clue what the drive might hold. Maybe she shouldn't assume this lunatic could piece together enough coherent thoughts to tell her the truth. She should mistrust him — and the shadow man.
Unless the three of them worked together, in a conspiracy to confuse and irritate her, she had to believe them. Three people told her Grandpa left her something.
Andrew thrashed his head side to side. "Don't give it to them. Don't."
If she ever found "it," she would give the thing to no one. She wouldn't destroy it either. Whether it was a flash drive or something else, the object must contain the answers she sought. She needed those answers, desperately.
Whether or not Andrew could help her, he most assuredly needed help himself. Maybe she could help him. Together they might shed light on the shadows.
How had he found her here? Did he follow her? That might explain why she'd felt like someone was watching her ever since she left the house. She supposed he could've snuck onto the bus after she climbed aboard. This cloak-and-dagger stuff was new to her, after all. She knew nothing about counterespionage, or whatever spies called it when they tried to evade other spies.
Checking the surroundings for strangers with "evil eyes," she slipped the gun inside her purse, tucking it inside the holster. She had to trust someone. Since she would no way trust Henry Winston, that left her with a choice between the shadow man and this twitchy nutball.
She'd take the nutball.
"Andrew," she said, "will you come with me to meet someone?"
He wrapped his arms around his torso like a self-made straitjacket. "I don't know."
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Then come with me, Andrew. Maybe I can help you."
"Go. With you. Yes."
Turning away from him, she marched across the parking lot. The sound of footsteps behind her made Grace look back. Andrew had fallen into step behind her. He clutched his arms, head bent down, shoulders hunched.
She slipped her hand into her purse until her fingers grazed the gun. Safe. Maybe.
As s
he approached the door to Kellogg's room, her stomach twisted into a pretzel knot. A pang erupted behind her eyes. When she raised a hand to knock on the door, the pang stabbed deeper into her brain. God no, she could not handle another migraine. Not now.
Andrew shuffled up behind her, staying an arm's length away.
Hand hovering in midair, she hesitated. Took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Repeated the deep breathing twice more. The pang faded. Her stomach still burned with acid, but at least she'd headed off the potential migraine.
She rapped on the door twice.
Grace had never gone inside one of these rooms before. She had noticed the Bed & Bath Inn many times as she drove past and read the sign advertising "a cheap, clean place to sleep." The sign made no mention of cable TV, room service, or other amenities. The bulbs inside the motel's sign flickered at night. In the daytime, the sign looked cracked and faded. Graffiti slashed across some of the room doors.
Icy worms slithered inside her gut. Behind her, Andrew sniffled. What a pair they made.
She rapped on the door again.
Kellogg's voice came through the scarred metal. "Yes?"
"It's Grace Powell."
The lock clicked. Kellogg swung the door inward. He motioned her inside. When she stepped into the room, Andrew started after her.
Kellogg's mouth dropped open.
Grace said, "This is — "
"Andrew Haley." Kellogg ushered the pitiful scarecrow into the room and shut the door. To Andrew, he said, "What are you doing here?"
Andrew's lower lip quivered.
"You know him?" Grace asked.
Kellogg nodded. "We both worked with Edward."
"What?" Grace felt a jolt of dizziness, as if the earth beneath her feet had tilted. "Andrew worked with my grandfather?"
"Uh, yeah." Kellogg guided the other man to the bed. "Why don't you watch TV, Andrew?"
"TV," Andrew said, perching on the bed's edge. "He's not in the TV. Good."
Kellogg walked to the TV and punched the power button. A talk show appeared on the screen. Two women were screaming and pulling each other's hair, their profanity bleeped out while the host nodded and gestured, his expression laden with contained glee.
"Couldn't you put on something calmer?" Grace asked.
Kellogg switched the channel. Mickey Mouse cavorted with Donald Duck. Andrew giggled.
Crossing the room in two steps, Kellogg opened the door and shoved Grace outside. He followed, shutting the door but not latching it. Traffic on the interstate rumbled in the background.
"Where did you find him?" Kellogg asked.
"He found me."
He stared at her.
She stared back at him.
"That's not possible," he said. "Andrew's been locked up in a mental ward for almost a year. He couldn't escape."
"Obviously, he could."
"He doesn't have the capacity to plan ahead. He can't remember things. Not anymore."
Through her teeth, she said, "I don't have to justify myself to you, Mr. Kellogg. You contacted me."
He averted his gaze to the pavement. "Sorry. I'm nervous."
Scared to death, she would've said. But if he wanted to play down his fear, she couldn't blame him. After all the strange things she'd seen in the past two days, she liked the notion of chopping the fear into bite-size bits too. She'd had enough riddles and evasion, though. She wanted answers. Now.
"You said my grandfather was murdered," she said. "Prove it."
"It's hard to explain."
A groan escaped her throat. She clenched her teeth and bit the inside of her lip. The tang of blood coated the tip of her tongue. Her jaw ached. Massaging the joint, she tried to relax the muscles. Though she sympathized with Kellogg, she'd slug him if he didn't produce evidence that supported his claims. Soon. Like in the next five seconds.
She forced a less-than-pleasant smile. "Please try."
"I've made you angry." He slumped his shoulders. "I apologize. But I … I know you won't believe me. Sometimes I can't believe it."
"Try me."
"We — Edward, me, Andrew, and others — worked in a research facility in California. A pharmaceutical company funded the project, or so I was told. Publicly, we were studying how the brain works so the company could develop new and better drugs to treat mental disorders."
"Publicly?"
"Only a tiny part of the facility was devoted to that research."
"And the rest of you were studying … "
"Parapsychology." The wind gusted, and he paused to adjust his hairpiece. "Psychic phenomena. You know, telepathy and the like."
"Why would a pharmaceutical company care about that?"
"I'm a subordinate. They tell me what I need to know, nothing more. The area I worked in wasn't strictly related to parapsychology, but it had relevant applications. I studied hypnosis as a means of manipulating a person's thoughts and self-hypnosis as a means of inducing certain psychic phenomena."
He spoke quickly. Her brain whirred at high speed, yet failed to interpret the meaning of each word before Kellogg launched into the next. "What does that mean?"
"Oh God." His mouth dropped opened once more. His body tensed. His eyes focused on something beyond her face.
She looked around but saw nothing. "Is something wrong?"
"Get away," he hissed at her. "Go!"
She shook her head.
With both hands, he shoved her backward. She stumbled, nearly landed on her butt, then found her balance. Kellogg choked, his eyes widening. He pawed at his throat. His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he gasped and clawed at the air in front of his face. His knees buckled.
Grace rushed forward to grab his arms.
In the instant her fingers brushed his sleeve, his feet were hoisted off the ground, seemingly by an invisible force. He dangled in midair as if hanging by a noose. Saliva gurgled from his lips. He thrashed his legs, clutched at his throat.
Grabbing his abdomen, she yanked him down. Despite an effort that choked the breath out of her, his body refused to move. He hung there, stiff and flailing, sputtering and grunting.
His body went limp.
He crumpled onto the concrete walkway. She collapsed with him, entangled in his limbs. For a moment she just lay there on top of him, too stunned to think and too out of breath to move. The second her strength returned, she extricated herself from his arms and legs.
She felt for a pulse in his neck. Nothing. She bent over him, pressing her ear to his chest. No sign of breathing or a heartbeat.
Brian Kellogg was dead.
He couldn't be dead. She jammed her finger into his neck again. Nothing. She slumped against the wall of the motel. Though it was the last thing she wanted to do, she raked her gaze over Kellogg's corpse. A person did not spontaneously choke to death. Something on his body must offer a clue to the real cause of his death. Of course, she was no medical examiner. What did she know about determining cause of death?
Then she saw it. A series of bruises had formed on his neck. Two big bruises discolored his throat near the larynx. Smaller bruises dotted the sides of his neck. The bruises looked the size and contour of fingertips.
Someone strangled him.
Impossible.
The man had levitated half a foot off the ground. He'd grasped at his throat and wheezed, clearly struggling to breathe. Now bruises had formed. Exactly like someone had strangled him.
Kellogg studied psychic phenomena. Could someone have used some type of mental ability to kill him? The idea sounded ludicrous, but so did the idea of a man vanishing into thin air. She could believe almost anything now — or at least consider almost anything.
Frozen wide open, Kellogg's eyes stared outward with the blankness of death. With the tips of two fingers, she eased the lids down over his eyes.
Strands of hair stuck out from beneath his hairpiece. Hair under a toupee? No, the hairpiece must've shifted position. A man wouldn't wear a toupee if he had natural hair. She tugged on the hairpiece. It slipped off in her hand.
Thick hair covered Brian Kellogg's head.
The hairpiece lay stiff in her palm. She flipped it over. A key was taped to the underside. Prying the tape off, she removed the key and held it close to her face. A number was engraved into the metal. The key might unlock a post office box, a locker at a bus station, anything.
She shoved the key in her jeans pocket.
Sirens ululated on the interstate. Two police cars, tires squealing as they swerved from the freeway onto an off-ramp, sped toward the motel. Within half a minute, they would careen into the parking lot. Brian Kellogg's body rested at her feet, his neck bearing the signs of strangulation. Another tenant of the inn must've seen her with Kellogg, witnessed his death, and called the police. The police were coming for her. She knew. Even if the witness remained anonymous, the cops would find her standing over Kellogg's body with no evidence that anyone besides her and the dead man had been in the area.
Shit.
She threw open the door to Kellogg's room. Andrew was gone. No, he couldn't have left. He would've walked right past her and, despite the chaos of Kellogg's attack, she would've noticed.
Someone whimpered.
Andrew. The sound came from the other side of the room — if eight feet away counted as the other side. She trotted around the end of the narrow bed, into the two-foot gap between the bed and the wall. Andrew huddled on the floor, mashed up against the wall in the corner. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he held his hands clamped over his ears. Tremors shook his body.
The sirens howled outside, louder, closer. Seconds away now.
Seizing Andrew's hands, she yanked him to his feet. He gasped in a breath and fought her pull.
"Come on," she said. "We've got to go."
"No, no, no. He's out there. It was him."
"The cops are coming. We have to go, Andrew. Now."
"No! He'll get us too. Please."
The whine in his voice grated on her eardrums. She hauled him toward the door, but he planted both feet on the carpet and leaned back with all his weight. Despite his scrawny build, the change in momentum knocked her off balance. Her feet skidded across the carpet. Andrew keened. His wrists slipped from her grasp.
