by Roy Johansen
She nodded. “No rest for the weary.”
“Hey, would you like to go grab a cup of coffee? There's a Starbucks around the corner.”
Darlene appeared to think about it, but she finally shook her head. “I'm sorry, Harry. I have things at home to take care of. Maybe some other time?”
“No problem. Hey, it was nice talking to you.”
Lyles climbed into his pickup truck and waved to her as he started it. She waved back, and he could see that she wanted to give him her number, her card, or anything else that might ensure another pleasant encounter with this forgotten man from her past.
He backed out of the parking space and drove away.
Before he reached the exit, he saw her struggling to start her car. The starter whined, but the engine refused to roar to life. He turned his truck around and pulled alongside her.
“Engine trouble?”
“Yes. I don't understand it. It was working fine.”
She reached for her cellular phone, pushed the power button, and stared at the display. “Damn. It's not working. I was using it just before I went into the store.”
He flashed her his biggest smile. “Get in. There's a pay phone down the street.”
* * *
Joe pushed past the reporters camped in front of Jesse Randall's one-story project home in Techwood. Located near both the Georgia Tech campus and Coca-Cola's worldwide headquarters, Techwood was known for its low-income housing and vicious gang activity. Despite the bad rap given to it on the evening news almost every night, Joe knew that most of Tech-wood's residents were honest, hardworking people who took pride in their modest homes.
As he walked to the front door, he noticed that one of the news cameramen was getting a shot of a rusted car on blocks across the street.
Sure, Joe thought. Never mind the beautiful flower garden only twenty feet away.
He held up his badge and knocked on the door. There were footsteps and a rustling sound that told him he was being examined through the peephole. Finally the door opened and a slender woman stared at him.
“Ms. Randall?”
“Yes?”
“I'm Detective Bailey, Atlanta P.D. I'd like to talk to you and your son.”
“Why?” she asked sharply.
“May I come in?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Those people on the sidewalk want to come in here too. Why should I treat you any differently?”
“Because I'm a police officer,” he said gently. “And because you want all those people to go away. The sooner I figure out what really happened to Dr. Nelson, the sooner they'll be out of here. But I can't do my job unless you help me.”
She stared at him for a moment, then swung the door open for him to enter.
It was a pleasant, cheery home filled with knick-knacks and an exotic collection of salt and pepper shakers. Cushions were strategically placed over the parts of the furniture that were obviously worn or split, and Joe assumed that the awkwardly positioned area rug covered a stain or hole in the carpet.
He looked at Latisha Randall. She was an attractive woman in her mid-twenties, but it was obvious that the day's events had taken their toll on her. What in her life could have prepared her to be thrust into a situation like this?
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“Stupid question. Reporters are camped outside, the phone's been ringing off the hook, and my little boy thinks maybe he killed a man.”
Joe nodded. “Do you think your boy killed Dr. Nelson?”
She paused. “How will answering your questions get those people away from us?”
“If I do my job right, they're going to know that your boy isn't responsible. Do you really believe in the shadow storms?”
“I don't know what I think. Jesse has a gift, but how do I know what happens when he's asleep? If his subconscious does take over, that's not his fault, is it?”
“Have you ever seen any of his … phenomena here while he was sleeping?”
“Never. Dr. Nelson started noticing it in his house earlier this week.”
“His girlfriend said that all hell would break loose after nine o'clock. Dr. Nelson felt that Jesse's disturbing dreams may have been causing it?”
“That's what he said. Jesse has been having bad dreams. Since he discovered his gift, he's been afraid people would take him away from me. But it got much worse after Dallas. Dr. Nelson wanted to take him to a psychic research institute in Switzerland. Jesse didn't want to go, and I didn't want him to go either. Jesse was upset with Dr. Nelson. That's a lot of pressure for a little boy to take, you know? He started having terrible nightmares.”
“He's not the first child to have bad dreams.”
Latisha nervously wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans. “Jesse isn't going to be in any trouble, is he?”
Joe shook his head. “I can't imagine how he could be. I'd like to talk to him though. Is he here?”
“He's in his room.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “But if you say one thing to upset him, I'm throwing your ass right out of here.”
She turned and led Joe down a narrow peach-wallpapered hallway. She opened a door and spoke softly. “Jesse, honey, there's someone here to see you.”
Joe couldn't hear a response, but Latisha walked into the room and motioned for him to follow. It was a small bedroom, perhaps eight by ten feet, decorated with rap group posters and an assortment of Star Wars models dangling from the ceiling on fishing lines.
Jesse was lying on the twin bed, and Joe was surprised at how small and fragile he seemed. Jesse was probably average height for an eight-year-old boy, but Joe realized that he had expected someone more theatrical, like so many of the fake psychics he had made it his business to expose. He'd never studied a kid before.
“Hi, Jesse. How are you doing?” He never talked down to children, remembering how much he'd hated adults talking to him as if he were a moron.
Jesse's head didn't rise from the pillow. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Hi.”
“You don't have anything to be afraid of, Jesse. I'm just trying to figure out what happened to Dr. Nelson.”
Jesse turned away. “I don't know what happened.”
“Did you dream about him last night?”
Jesse didn't answer.
Latisha softly rubbed her son's arm. “Honey, it's okay. You can tell him.”
Jesse looked at his mother, then back at Joe. He nodded.
“Were you hurting him in your dream?”
Jesse sat up. “He was hurting me in my dreams! I was trying to run away, and he kept coming after me. He wasn't just one person…. He was a lot of people. They all had his eyes. He even came up from the ground and tried to pull me under. I kicked him and hit him so he'd let me go.”
“Well, that's what I would do to someone who was chasing me. Did you like Dr. Nelson?”
“I used to like him a lot.”
“What happened?”
“He got mad at me.”
“Why?”
Jesse shrugged. “He wanted me to go away to Switzerland so they could study me. I didn't want to go, and he said I was letting my mama down.”
Latisha sat on the bed next to him. “Honey, you never told me that.”
“Jesse, how long had you known Dr. Nelson?”
He wrinkled his brow and looked at his mother.
“About four months,” Latisha said. “When we discovered the things he could do, I called the university. I talked to Dr. Nelson, and I started taking Jesse there for tests a couple of times a week. Jesse and Dr. Nelson spent a lot of time together.”
“Jesse, how did you discover you could do these things?”
The boy looked at his mother again. She nodded her encouragement.
Jesse swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned closer to Joe. “I was visiting my uncle in Ma-con, and my cousin always cheated at checkers. He moved the pieces when I wasn't looking. If I tried to move ‘em back, he'd pound me. I just wanted to m
ove ‘em to where they belonged, and I found out that if I thought about it hard enough, the pieces would move by themselves. Pretty soon, I could make almost anything move by itself.”
“My brother called me from Macon,” Latisha said. “He was so excited that he was almost out of his mind.”
Joe nodded. “I can understand why he would be.” He reached down to the floor, picked up a pair of Star Wars action figures, and put them on the night table. “Do you think you can make Darth Maul and Yoda move for me, Jesse?”
Latisha stiffened. “He doesn't have to do that.”
“Of course he doesn't,” Joe said. “But it would help me understand. You want to give it a try, Jesse?”
Jesse was clearly uncomfortable, but he nodded. He took off his glasses and stared at the figures, taking deep, slow breaths.
The change in Jesse's demeanor was startling. He was suddenly still.
Focused.
Determined.
Where was the eight-year-old boy who was just here?
Joe's glance shifted back and forth between Jesse and the figures.
The boy's eyes opened wide, and then …
Nothing.
No movement.
Maul and Yoda didn't budge.
Jesse slumped. “I'm sorry.”
“Come on, try it again,” Joe said. “I have time.”
Something snapped within Jesse. His expression twisted with anger. “Don't you do this to me,” he said, emphasizing each word.
Joe involuntarily stepped back before he could catch himself. Jesus, this was only a kid. Yet Jesse's manner was not that of a child. It was positively chilling.
“Sometimes it just doesn't work,” Latisha said. “Can't you see he's been through enough already today? This is the last thing he needs.”
Joe hadn't taken his eyes off Jesse. The boy was still glaring at him.
“Fine,” Joe said. “I'll come back.”
How could a woman who had appeared so strong, so confident, leave this world in such a pitiful manner?
Lyles watched Darlene Farrell burn in the hastily gathered pile of leaves and branches. He'd made Darlene gather her own funeral pyre, and the woman had cried the entire time, offering him money, influence, and even sex to spare her miserable life.
She should have known better than to hurt Jesse Randall.
Lyles knew that Jesse could have taken care of her himself, just as easily as he had dispatched the professor. But it was his honor to serve the Child of Light.
Are you happy with me, Jesse? Did I serve you well?
Lyles breathed in the tart smell of the roaring, crackling fire.
Burning flesh.
He knew that odor well. He wished he didn't, but there was no erasing the past. He could, however, atone for his past, and if he could direct his talents and abilities toward a higher purpose, salvation might be at hand.
He climbed into his truck and drove back to Highway 23, which would take him to I-85 and Atlanta.
He couldn't escape that tart, tangy smell.
Was it on his clothes? It couldn't be; he hadn't been that close to the fire. It was always the same: Long after the sights and sounds of his kills had faded, the smells remained. Whenever he smelled freshly cut grass, he thought of the nine dead soldiers in Ireland. Gasoline? The vanload of journalists in Colombia.
Now Darlene Farrell had her own scent.
This time, at least, it was for a good cause.
It had been almost two years since his new life began, when he met Bertram and Irene Setzer of Birmingham, England. They were a well-heeled couple who had hired him to escort their corporate officers out of Sarajevo during a particularly violent period of civil unrest. He had accomplished the mission with his usual efficiency, and as a special reward for his efforts, Bertram and Irene invited him to spend his summer at a villa on their eleven-hundred-acre estate. He knew that they probably just wanted to keep him handy for other jobs that might come up, but he welcomed the opportunity to spend time in the beautiful English countryside. He frequently dined with the Setzers, and it was during those long evenings that he became acquainted with their unusual beliefs. At first, he found their ideas odd and confusing, but as the weeks wore on, he discovered a strange comfort in their philosophy.
No regrets. No guilt. No remorse.
There was more to it than that, of course, but he realized that it was exactly what he needed in his life. The years had taken their toll on his psyche, but this new way of life stripped away much of the pain and anguish that had been consuming him.
Now he couldn't imagine life without the Millennial Prophets. He wasn't worthy yet, but he soon would be.
If only he could get away from that horrible smell.
It was a few minutes past nine by the time Joe came back to his apartment building. As he stepped into the cargo elevator and pulled the accordion-style metal doors closed, he performed his nightly ritual of trying to shake off the job. He rolled his shoulders and breathed deeply. Let it go.
He pressed the button for the third floor. He couldn't help but think back to his meeting with Jesse Randall and how quickly the boy's demeanor had changed. He'd pushed Jesse to perform, which had probably triggered unpleasant memories of Nelson and the other testers.
From one moment to the next, Jesse had transformed from a meek little boy to an angry, venomous child. Nelson had sure done a number on him.
Joe rolled his shoulders again. Not now. Leave it behind. Keep it from interfering with—
He went still. There was something different about the elevator tonight.
The floor was shaking, rattling.
A low metallic groan echoed in the shaft below.
He punched the button again.
The vibration intensified, jarring him backward. The elevator car trembled and creaked, and the hanging light fixture bounced crazily overhead.
Before he could regain his balance, the bottom dropped out of the elevator.
He clawed at the air, finally catching the accordion-style door in front of him. His fingers curled around the sharp diagonal bars as his body slammed against the oily shaft. The floor plate clanged downward, echoing in the void below.
The elevator car abruptly stopped. Still dangling from the door, he tried to get his bearings. What the hell had just happened?
He looked down. Darkness. Shadows.
Death.
He swung his legs back and forth, trying to get a toehold somewhere in the shaft. Not a chance.
Shit.
The door bars, pulled by the tension of his weight, pinched like nutcrackers around each finger. Blood oozed over his hands. He couldn't hold on much longer.
Nikki. He'd never see her again.
Sounds from above. Clanging. Whirring. Gears shifting?
The elevator car lurched downward.
His hands were numb, and he knew that he could lose his grip at any second. He kicked outward, trying to keep his body from brushing against the side of the shaft.
The car moved faster. And faster.
Was it falling? Not quite, he realized, but almost.
The second floor flew by. He was headed for the basement. Though he couldn't see it, he knew that the cement floor of the shaft was rushing toward his outstretched legs.
Climb, he told himself. Now.
He gripped the next row of diagonal metal strips and pulled himself up. It hurt like hell. He grabbed the next row with his throbbing left hand. The elevator was picking up speed. He could hear sounds echoing off the bottom of the shaft.
Climb.
He swung his legs up.
Bam!
Contact.
The force of the impact threw him backward onto the floor of the shaft. He was caked in oily sludge.
He stood up and realized the shaft had been cut about three feet deep into the basement. He forced open the doors and hoisted himself up to the floor. He crossed his arms in front of him, tucking his bleeding hands under his armpits.
The
crippled elevator hummed, taunting him as he staggered away. Thank God Nikki hadn't been with him.
He leaned against the dark basement's concrete wall, shaking.
All hell broke loose after nine o'clock.
For some crazy reason, Eve Chandler's voice was ringing in his ears.
Joe angled his watch into a shaft of light cutting through the basement's glass brick window.
Nine-fifteen P.M.
Twenty-four hours after Nelson's murder.
Fifteen minutes after Jesse Randall's bedtime.
If his hands weren't still hurting so badly, Joe might have chuckled. He knew what the Landwyn University parapsychology team would say if they heard about this: another shadow storm. He had upset Jesse, and the boy's subconscious was striking back.
Joe looked back at the humming elevator and the overhead light that was still swinging back and forth.
The spook squad would have a field day with this one.
Joe walked into the Landwyn University Humanities Building. He'd hoped to get there earlier, but he had spent much of the morning with the elevator service technician, who couldn't offer any explanation for the previous evening's malfunction. He had shown Joe how the floor panel fit snugly in the base of the car; no reasonable amount of force could pry it loose, and even if it had somehow happened, the elevator's base panels would show the stress. The panels were rigid and straight.
Forget it, Joe decided. It had been an accident, like the dozens of other elevator accidents that occur every day. Nothing spooky about it.
A female grad student was standing guard outside the parapsychology testing room. “Wait here, please. Séance in progress.”
Joe looked up at the video monitor over the door. The picture was dark, but there were the requisite spooky sounds, bumping furniture, and amazed exclamations from the supposedly objective research team.
The grad student looked Joe up and down. “Dr. Kellner will be out in a couple of minutes. Are you a seer?”
“No.”
“Spiritualist?”
“No.”
“Telepath?”
“No.”
