Beyond Belief

by Roy Johansen

  “It's a match!”

  “Same shape, same color, same lettering position,” she said. “It belongs to Apex Security. They're pretty small. I don't think they service many properties.”

  “Looks like I win.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Howe thought it would take you at least thirty minutes to run this down. I bet him you could do it in less than five.”

  As Lyles and Natalie drove into the tiny Acworth airstrip, the last traces of sunlight disappeared behind a nearby row of pines. Ryland was already there, flanked by his two bodyguards.

  “He's not expecting me,” Natalie said. “You should have come alone.”

  “I need to know you're not working with him to set me up.”

  “So if he tries to kill you and take your money, you'll use me as a shield?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You don't know who you're dealing with. If that's what he wants, he wouldn't hesitate to blast right through me to get to you.”

  “I don't know. Seems like he has a crush on you.”

  “Doesn't matter. He'd kill his own mother if it meant more money in his pocket.”

  They pulled alongside Ryland's car and climbed out. Lyles glanced around the deserted airstrip. “Where's Kahn?”

  Ryland crossed his arms. “On his way. You hear that?”

  Lyles cocked his head, and he could hear the staccato rhythm of a helicopter engine in the distance.

  “You got my money?” Ryland asked.

  Lyles tossed him a banded stack of fifty-dollar bills.

  Ryland looked at it with disgust. “This is bullshit. We agreed on twenty thousand. There's not more than two or three here.”

  “It's three. I'll get you the rest after I've met Kahn.”

  “That wasn't part of the deal.”

  “It is now.”

  The bodyguards moved into alert mode as the chopper's engine grew louder.

  Ryland stared at Lyles. “If I don't get the rest of it, you're not going to live through the night.”

  “I wouldn't expect anything different. I just need some assurance I'm going to get what I want out of this transaction.”

  The rotor suddenly grew louder, and the helicopter roared over the treetops. It was a red and white Crown Windrider, better suited for corporate charters than drug runs, Lyles thought. It hovered over the tarmac and slowly came down for a smooth, beautifully controlled landing.

  Lyles's gaze narrowed on the pilot.

  Was it you? Did you take him from us?

  The rotor powered down. The pilot kicked open the cockpit door and ambled toward them with a shit-eating grin on his face. What a piece of work, Lyles thought. Michael Kahn was a thin, long-haired man who wore silver-painted cowboy boots and a plaid flannel shirt that covered a tie-dyed T-shirt. A ridiculously long walrus mustache covered half his face. He looked like the result of a bizarre cowboy-hippie gene-splicing experiment.

  Ryland playfully pounded fists with Kahn. “I heard you made the delivery this morning. Good work.”

  “Easyville, big man.” Kahn's southern accent was about as thick as it could get without being completely unintelligible.

  Ryland pointed at Lyles. “Here's the guy I was telling you about.”

  Kahn smiled even more broadly. “Hey there, friend. I hear you got some work for me!”

  “Maybe,” Lyles said. “Ryland tells me you're pretty good.”

  “Pretty good? Was Jimi Hendrix a pretty good guitar player? Is Jack Nicholson a pretty good actor? Is—”

  Lyles cut him off. “Okay, I get it. I do have a job, but I'm not sure if you have experience in this kind of thing.”

  “Friend, I have experience in pret’ near every kind of thing.”

  “Kidnapping?”

  Kahn's smile vanished. It was him.

  “Kidnapping?” Kahn said it as if he'd never heard the word before.

  “Yeah. Me and another guy make the grab, you airlift the three of us out. Easyville?”

  Kahn nervously scratched his cheek. “Uh—I don't do that shit, friend. You'd better look somewhere else.”

  “No, I think you're just the man I'm looking for.”

  “Bullshit.” Kahn turned toward Ryland. “What the hell's going on here? Do you even know who this guy is?”

  Ryland obviously didn't understand his anger. “He wants to throw some work your way, man. Listen to him.”

  “Fuck you.” Kahn walked back to his helicopter.

  Ryland nodded to his bodyguards, and they advanced on Lyles.

  In one smooth motion Lyles reached into his holster, gripped the handle of his Lanchester, and squeezed off five quick shots through the back of his jacket as he spun around. One bodyguard fell dead and the other lay twitching on the ground.

  As Lyles whirled toward Ryland, he caught sight of Natalie holding her Berettas. Who was she siding with? Before he could decide, two shots rang out and Natalie fell to the ground. Ryland had put two bullets into her with his snub-nosed.38 revolver.

  Funny. Lyles had him figured for an automatic.

  He killed Ryland with one clean shot through the mouth. The bullet broke his front left tooth in half before demolishing the entire back of his head.

  Lyles spun toward the helicopter. “Don't move, Kahn.”

  Kahn stood at the open cockpit door, again wearing that idiot grin.

  “What's so funny?”

  “I was starting to think you were a cop. Shows what I know.”

  “Get on the ground, arms and legs spread to the four corners. Don't even think of reaching for the handgun you're carrying.”

  “Whatever you say, friend.”

  As Kahn spread out on the ground, he was still grinning. Crazy bastard.

  Lyles knelt beside Natalie. She'd taken hits in the arm and right torso. She was still conscious. “Goddamn, it hurts. What's your expert opinion?”

  He examined the wounds. “The arm's nothing. I can't tell about your side. Too much …” His voice trailed off.

  “Too much blood?”

  He nodded.

  “Great. And the one person who can help me will be five thousand dollars richer if he lets me die.”

  He applied pressure to the chest wound. “I pay my debts. If it comes to that, is there anyone I should give the money to?”

  She closed her eyes. “No. No one. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

  “Just relax.”

  “Jesus, I sold Ryland that gun.”

  “Are you having trouble breathing?”

  “Not really. It just kind of … burns.”

  After glancing up to make sure Kahn was behaving himself, Lyles shed his jacket and tied it snugly around Natalie's chest. “That should slow the flow of bleeding. You could come out of this okay.”

  “Get me to a hospital.”

  “No. Too many questions. Surely you know someone who can fix you up.”

  “Yeah, but he charges a fortune. He'll eat up all my profits.”

  “But he'll give you your life. We're going there.”

  “What about your friend?”

  Lyles stood and walked to where Kahn was lying on the ground. He struck him three times on the base of the skull, knocking him unconscious.

  Lyles turned to Natalie. “He'll come with us.”

  Joe walked through the underground parking garage at Woodlake Downs, an exclusive Lenox Road high-rise condominium building. A phone call to Apex Security had told him that six buildings in the metro Atlanta area were using their card system. Four were downtown office buildings, one was a hair-care-product depot in Mableton, and one was this pricey residence that was a favorite of high-powered young executives and Hollywood actors shooting films in the city. He and Howe would check the businesses tomorrow, but Joe decided to swing by Woodlake Downs on his way home from work, when there would be a greater chance of catching the residents at home. He wasn't in a hurry to get back to his apartment. He knew it would be difficult to find both Nikki and Vince g
one.

  He walked through the garage's aisles of cars. His head hurt; it hadn't stopped throbbing since he first found out about Vince. He'd just spoken to Professor Reisman, who was understandably concerned about Joe's destruction of the parapsychology testing center. Reisman knew what had happened the previous night, and he'd diplomatically suggested that Joe take a few days off from his university work. Reisman clearly thought he was crazy.

  Joe rounded a corner in the garage. There it was. A black BMW motorcycle, the same one that had almost run him over outside Blues Junction.

  He'd found the red-haired guy.

  Joe pulled out his notebook and jotted down the license plate number. He'd have somebody on the evening watch run it through, and—

  “So you found me, Mr. Bailey.”

  Joe glanced up.

  The red-haired man stepped from the shadows of the garage, wearing a bemused smile.

  Joe dropped the pen and paper. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The man spread his palms outward.

  “Step closer.”

  The man slowly walked toward Joe. “I'm here in the spirit of cooperation,” he said in a middle-European accent. “I've done nothing wrong.”

  Joe pulled out his handcuffs. “You assaulted a police officer.”

  “I was not yet prepared to speak candidly.” He nodded toward the cuffs. “Are those really necessary?”

  “Afraid so.” Joe yanked the man's hands behind him and clasped the cuffs around his wrists. “Tell me, are you prepared to speak candidly now?”

  “I wouldn't have let you see me if I wasn't. My name is Claude Zurcher. My employer has authorized me to be completely forthcoming.”

  Joe turned Zurcher around to face him. “Your employer?”

  “The Lindstrom Institute for Paranormal Studies in Bern, Switzerland.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I'm a researcher. It's my job to travel the world, searching for subjects worthy of my institute's attention.”

  “Subjects like Jesse Randall?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I suppose your institute was where Robert Nelson wanted to take Jesse.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did Nelson need you? Jesse was the best thing that ever happened to his career. Did you offer him a job?”

  Zurcher hesitated. “Am I under arrest, Mr. Bailey?”

  “At the moment, yes. Depending on what you tell me, you may improve your position.”

  Zurcher leaned against a parked Mercedes while Joe read him his Miranda rights. “I waive my right to counsel,” he said. “I didn't offer Dr. Nelson a job, but I did give him something he needed very much.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes. Mr. Bailey, you of all people can appreciate just how difficult it is to find instances of genuine paranormal phenomena. My institute is extraordinarily well supported by public and private funds, but that support will come to an end without results. My job has been to bring in subjects who will provide those results.”

  “Even if you have to resort to bribery?”

  “Incentives.”

  “Whatever you want to call it, Nelson took your money to influence Ms. Randall to let Jesse go to Switzerland for your institute to study.”

  “Yes, but to Dr. Nelson's credit, he turned me down when I first approached him. He wasn't interested in my offer. Then he made a mistake with that Rawlings girl. He stood there, doing nothing, while that faker worked on her. I was watching his activities closely at the time, so it was a simple matter to piece together what had happened.”

  “You spoke to the girl's parents and persuaded them to press Nelson for a settlement.”

  Zurcher raised an eyebrow. “You've done your homework. Yes, I convinced them that they were entitled to some measure of compensation. There's nothing wrong with that. I thought it might encourage Dr. Nelson to take me up on my offer. To my disappointment, he merely channeled the money through his program.”

  Joe nodded. “Until Roland Ness's audit, when he suddenly found himself in the position of having to repay a hundred and sixty thousand dollars to the coffers. Your offer must have looked pretty good to him then.”

  “Very. Suddenly he was most eager to take our money. I was allowed to participate in the sessions, and he began to put pressure on Jesse to join us at our institute.”

  Joe looked away. Christ. Jesse never could have imagined the trouble his tricks would stir up. “Why didn't you just offer the money to Jesse and his mother? They're not wealthy people. They might have taken you up on it.”

  “It's against the institute's policy to offer payment to our subjects.”

  “Because it's not ethical?” Joe said caustically.

  “Because we don't want to give the subjects a financial motivation to cheat. We provide food, lodging, and some incidental expenses. Nothing more.”

  “Except to Nelson, who made out like a bandit.”

  Zurcher shrugged.

  “Did your institute abduct Jesse?”

  “No, we don't operate that way. For one thing, we would be unable to publicize our studies, which is precisely why we want him. And if we did have Jesse, I would have no reason to remain here. I would be in Bern, enjoying what's left of the opera season.”

  “Why are you still here?”

  “I'm hoping the boy will soon be found. Mr. Bailey, I know how suspicious I must seem to you. That's why my institute gave me permission to cooperate with you in every way possible. We're willing to do anything we can to help you.”

  “Then tell me, did you plant a video receiver above the testing lab to intercept Jesse's sessions?”

  Zurcher looked puzzled. “No. Someone did that?”

  Joe grabbed Zurcher's arm and pulled him toward the garage entrance. “You got anything else for me?”

  “No. Judging from our trajectory, I suppose I haven't sufficiently improved my position.”

  “We're going to the police station. We'll contact the Lindstrom Institute in Switzerland, and if what you say checks out, then we can talk about where you stand.”

  Lyles drove to the side entrance of Natalie Si-mone's apartment building. It was 10:16 P.M., and he and Natalie had spent the evening in Cat Morgan's basement operating room in Midtown. Cat specialized in emergency procedures on gang members, thieves, and other criminals who could not afford to have their gunshots and other injuries reported to the police. Lyles wasn't sure of his qualifications, but Cat performed his operation on Natalie with the skill and confidence of an expert surgeon. His fee was one of Natalie's choice semiautomatic handguns, payable in advance. Before the procedure, he'd given Lyles a syringe loaded with enough sedatives to keep Michael Kahn safely knocked out in the trunk. Kahn was still there, but Lyles knew it was almost wake-up time.

  Natalie gripped the car door handle. “Thank you. You could have left me to die out there.”

  “Yes, I could have.”

  “Why didn't you? You got everything from me that you needed.”

  He stared at the dashboard for a moment. “Today. But the only way to stay alive in my business is to have a large network of people you can count on, in every corner of the world. Someday I may need you again.”

  “That's why you saved me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don't believe you. You don't need me.”

  “Then why'd I do it?”

  “I don't know. But I hope the guy in the trunk helps you find what you're looking for.”

  “I hope so too.”

  “It must be really important to you. More important than money.”

  “It is.”

  “What if you don't find it? What then?”

  “I can't even consider that possibility. I can't go back.”

  “Back to where?”

  He finally looked up from the dashboard. “You'd better go inside and get some rest.”

  “I guess this is good-bye.”

  He handed her a thick fold of bills. “Here's your money.
Thank you, Natalie. Do you need help up to your place?”

  She opened her door. “No. Good luck.”

  “Good-bye.”

  She held her arm and gingerly walked up the stairs to her apartment.

  Joe sat in his car on a dark street in Morningside, letting the engine idle. It had begun to rain, but he still didn't want to go home.

  Claude Zurcher's story had checked out. The director of the Lindstrom Institute had backed up everything he said and promised to keep Zurcher in Atlanta while the case was still being investigated. Joe had just gotten off the phone with Howe, bringing him up to speed. Howe had seemed a little upset that Zurcher was allowed to go home, but of course he was the one who'd taken the punch to the stomach at the club.

  After Joe had left the station, he called Nikki. She was still upset, of course, but it sounded as if her grandpa was doing his best to keep her occupied. She didn't want to talk about Vince. The feelings were too raw, too painful. Joe felt the same way.

  Joe glanced at the small house on the other side of the sidewalk. Why was he here? Before he could come up with an answer, he cut the engine and climbed out of the car. It was one of those cold, miserable winter rains, but he could barely feel it. He walked to the house's front door and rang the doorbell.

  Suzanne Morrison answered, wearing sweat pants, socks, and a worn South Park T-shirt. She squinted at him. “Joe?”

  His hair was soaked, and water droplets ran down his face. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Sorry I didn't make it to your concert.”

  “I really didn't think you would. After I saw you today, I heard on the news what happened with your daughter and Vince. I'm sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  A gust of wind sprayed him with a sheet of cold rain.

  She opened the door wide. “I'm sorry, come in.”

  He stomped on the mat and walked inside.

  “Take your coat off and I'll hang it over the radiator.”

  He shed his jacket and handed it to her.

  “I'm glad you came over,” she said as she left the room. “I was worried about you this morning.”

  He smiled ruefully. “And you're not now?”

  She laughed in the other room.

  “It's been an insane couple of days,” he said. “I guess I was just going along for the ride.”