PSI/Net

by Rob MacGregor

  As she spoke, Calloway glimpsed a vague form. He reached for a notepad and pen on the bedstead, closed his eyes. The image remained obscure, but he quickly sketched its essence—four parallel lines and another line that arched over the others. It was a skeletal view of.. of something.

  Then he turned his attention back to what Clarke was saying. ". . . but it's out of my jurisdiction. I'm going to give you a number where you can contact special agent Lewis Fielding of the FBI."

  "Does he know about the bomb?" Calloway asked.

  "He's aware of the bomb threat and he's looking into the possibility of a connection with George Wiley. In fact, he is in charge of the Wiley investigation. Also, Ms. Hidalgo asked me to give you a number where you can reach her while she's in Colorado."

  Calloway jotted down the numbers, then examined the abstract sketch again. He realized the four lines represented a roadway. The arching line that crossed over the others was a bridge or overpass. "Did anyone look for the bomb underneath that bridge?"

  "What bridge?" Clarke asked.

  He closed his eyes again, focused. Still relaxed from his night's sleep, images and impressions flooded over him. He knew that he'd hit upon something important. "The overpass near where they turned around."

  Clarke remained silent for several seconds. "How do you know they turned around near an overpass?"

  Calloway ignored the question. "You better get someone on it fast. Someone's picking up the bomb. It might already be gone."

  "I'll contact the Highway Patrol. We'll check it out immediately," Clarke said and hung up.

  Gordon Maxwell's shoulder muscles twitched. He squeezed the steering wheel, fighting the urge to shove the accelerator on the Corvette to the floor. He needed to wait for the right moment. Then he'd shake the damn black Suburban that had followed him off two exit ramps and back onto the interstate again.

  No doubt about it. Wiley's men had found him. He'd gotten to the bomb first, because he'd known right where the kid had put it. But they'd shown up, probably tipped off by someone in the highway patrol. They must've spotted him pulling away from the overpass, and trailed him into the city.

  Shit. What a mistake. Wiley would kill him for the bomb. He should've kept his nose out of it, and anonymously tipped off the authorities. Then he and the boys could've taken care of Calloway before he looked any closer. Too late now.

  He flashed past the first exit to Salt Lake City. He could easily outrun the Suburban. No problem. But he might pick up the highway patrol and no matter how fast he drove the cops would be waiting for him as soon as he left the interstate. He definitely didn't want to get stopped with a nuke in the trunk.

  But he needed to do something. Something soon.

  He moved into the left lane, accelerated. The Suburban picked up its pace, but stayed in the middle lane. He hit a hundred and five. The Suburban shifted to the left lane to avoid traffic and came up fast. One mile to the exit.

  One-ten, one-fifteen. The early-morning sun flashed off the rear windshields of the cars he passed. Half a mile. In spite of his speed, everything seemed to move in slow motion. A quarter mile. He glanced once more into the rearview mirror. Now.

  He swerved into the center lane, then the right lane. Hit the brake. Skidded. Every muscle in his body tense. He gritted his teeth, knuckled the steering wheel. Came up on two wheels.

  "Shit!"

  The 'Vette dropped back down. And shot out the exit. Still braking, gasping for breath, Maxwell looked into the mirror just in time to see the Suburban fly past the exit.

  Christ. He'd almost killed himself. But he'd shaken Wiley's gang. Now he needed to ditch the bomb. He pulled into a Holiday Inn and drove around to the side of the building. He noticed a shed at the back of the property near a set of Dumpsters and eased over to it. He got out and saw the lock on the door. He was about to put the bomb into one of the Dumpsters when he noticed a large sewer pipe wedged between the shed and a high concrete wall.

  A better choice. He could pick it up later without worrying about the Dumpsters being emptied. He hurried over to the car and opened the trunk. He couldn't help staring in amazement at the green backpack. A fucking nuclear bomb stuffed in the trunk of a 'Vette. In-fucking-credible. He lifted out the pack and carried it gingerly over to the sewer pipe. After finding the bomb just before dawn following an all-night drive, he'd considered burying the weapon somewhere out in the salt flats. But when the Suburban had latched onto him, he'd nixed the idea.

  He climbed back into the Corvette and drove off. Stay off the interstate, he told himself. Wiley's men would be watching for him.

  He drove across town until he noticed a ma-and-pa motel with parking at the rear. Perfect. He checked in as Charles Simms and used one of Marlys's credit cards. He quickly found the room, took off his shirt and shoes, and lay on the bed.

  He would rest a few hours, then call Wiley. He'd reason with him, tell him exactly why he took the bomb. Wiley might be angry, but he understood power, and through him, Wiley had access to unusual power. The power to see, the power to manipulate, the power to kill without leaving a trace of evidence.

  Maxwell closed his eyes. Yeah, Wiley would understand.

  Doc stood in the doorway between rooms, her hands on her hips. She wore a voluminous Colorado Rockies T-shirt that reached her knees. "Out of his jurisdiction. Can you believe that? If Washington blows, he won't have a jurisdiction."

  Calloway sat on the edge of the bed in gym shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. "Take it easy, Doc. I think he'll follow up on what I said. He can't ignore it."

  "But why would the kids dump the bomb, make a U-turn, and drive into traffic? Tell me that, Trent."

  "It sounds like something unexpected happened in that vehicle." She didn't respond right away and seemed to be holding her breath. "Do you know what it feels like to me?"

  Calloway nodded. "I think I do. Someone turned the driver into a puppet, a self-destructing one."

  "Exactly. Max's boys."

  "When Clarke was talking about what happened, I could almost feel them out there, working on those kids as it happened."

  "I felt it, too. I just didn't want to believe it."

  Calloway crossed his arms over his chest. "Should we congratulate Maxwell and his gang for saving Washington or should we turn him in for killing those two kids?"

  "Either way, Maxwell would just laugh it off. He wouldn't admit to killing anyone and there's no way he could be convicted."

  He thought a moment. "Let's assume they forced Heming to ditch the bomb. What was their reasoning? Why didn't Maxwell just leave it in the Cherokee?"

  "Maybe he thought the bomb might explode," she responded. "Or maybe he wanted it for himself."

  Doc frowned. "I can't imagine why he would want a nuclear bomb, Trent."

  "Maybe he wants to sell it back to Wiley. I wouldn't put it past him."

  "That would be very cynical and dangerous."

  Calloway shrugged. "Maybe. But what if he's working for him, what if he was following orders?"

  Doc frowned. "But why stop the bomb?"

  "Maybe Wiley changed plans and wanted the bomb back and the kids eliminated."

  "I suppose that's a possibility," Doc replied.

  "Have you been following the FBI's search for Wiley in the news?" Calloway asked.

  "I hear about it now and then."

  "Well, the first two FBI agents in charge of the case died accidentally. One was killed in a car crash like those two kids. The other had a massive heart attack." Calloway walked over to the window, gazed out over downtown Denver. "If Maxwell's behind their deaths, how many people do you think could actually figure out what's going on?"

  Doc picked up the thread. "They look like accidents. The investigators would never even consider the possibility that remote viewers were involved. And even if it did occur to them, how could they prove it or even stop the real perpetrators?"

  "They couldn't. But we can track down a remote killer," Calloway said. "We co
uld not only expose what's going on, but we could see what's being planned."

  "Of course this is all speculation," Doc said. "We don't really know that Maxwell is involved in anything illegal."

  Calloway rubbed the back of his neck. "Is it? I think we do know, Doc. We're both picking up on the others and their involvement."

  "And they're picking up on us, too," she said.

  Doc slumped into the thick upholstered chair where he'd remote viewed. She closed her eyes and he knew that she was sinking into her zone. Although Doc preferred to monitor others, from time to time she and Calloway had reversed roles, and he knew her abilities were substantial. She raised, then lowered her right hand, indicating that he could direct her to a target.

  "What's Maxwell doing?"

  "Sweating and sweating it out. He's afraid things have gotten out of hand. Way out of hand."

  "Because of Wiley?" Calloway realized too late that he was leading her. But Doc didn't follow him.

  "Wiley, yes, but also the net."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The net. All of us. Everyone who took the drug. We're all bound together in a big, invisible fishnet. When one part of the net moves, the others feel it."

  "Tell me more about the net."

  "It's expanding beyond what Maxwell thought possible. He wants to control and manipulate, but he's afraid that it's out of control."

  "You mean us. He's afraid of us?"

  "All of us. You, me, and Eduardo Perez, in particular. But he's concerned about the others, too. He doesn't want to believe that they're out of his control, but deep inside he knows that something is wrong."

  Calloway realized that Maxwell had carried on the experiment that he'd begun with Bobby Aimes as a target. He'd thought Calloway would be pleased to kill Aimes, because his old friend had stolen his girlfriend and turned into a drug pilot. But Calloway had been tricked and forced into the act, and Maxwell had lost his best remote viewer.

  Calloway snapped out of his momentary reverie as he heard Doc groan. Her face was twisted in pain. She slid off the chair, dropped to her knees. Her hands clasped her head. Her eyes bulged. She gasped for breath.

  "Doc! What's wrong?"

  Her mouth moved, but she couldn't speak.

  He took her by the arms, tried to lift her off the floor. As soon as he made contact, he catapulted instantly into his own zone. He felt the others crowded around Doc, pushing, pressing in. He pushed back. He heard the same sharp cackle rattle inside his head. Calloway, get ready to be dead. Real dead.

  Then they were gone. Calloway found himself lying on the floor, depleted. A few feet away, Doc gasped for breath.

  "They wanted to crush me, to squeeze off the blood to my brain," she whispered between breaths. "I think they could've done it, but you distracted them."

  Chapter Seventeen

  An hour later, Calloway and Doc headed out of Denver with plans to meet Eduardo Perez, the only other person who could not only grasp what was happening to them, but might help them overcome Maxwell's invasive gang of remote viewers.

  As they headed west on State Road 6, Doc paged through the complimentary copy of the Rocky Mountain News that had arrived with breakfast. She held up the paper for him. "Did you see this?"

  The headline running across the top of the page shouted: Dustin-alien mystery deepens.

  "I'm getting tired of it already. What's the big deal now?"

  "Nothing that I can see. It's just that the idea of the president being abducted by aliens is just too juicy to leave alone. Even if it isn't true."

  Calloway had glanced at articles and seen snatches of television news reports. He was vaguely aware of upcoming specials and a renewed focus on all that was alien. But he remained preoccupied with the bomb and now wondered again if the FBI had found it yet. He allowed his gaze to stray to the distant mountain peaks. He had a bad feeling that someone else had gotten there first.

  "Listen to this," Doc said, interrupting his thoughts. "This is what the Senate majority leader says. 'If the president truly wants to run the country, and as he says, get on with the business of government, then he must come clean. He must address the nation on his so-called alien encounters. He must tell us what it's about and why he made those comments. Otherwise, his presidency will be terminally ill, weighed down by questions and doubts about the president's ability to govern and lead the nation.'

  She looked over at him. "The bastards are definitely after blood. I mean it was a metaphor, wasn't it? He didn't mean it literally. Unless he really did have an encounter."

  Calloway shook his head. "No, I doubt that."

  "Oh, why not? We used to remote view UFOs for Maxwell." Her voice trailed off.

  "Interesting that you mention that," he answered.

  Calloway recalled that when Maxwell began targeting UFOs, a variety of scenarios had resulted—aliens that looked like reptiles, others that looked tall, blond, and Nordic. But gradually the remote viewers started only seeing one type of alien—the thin gray ones with large heads and black eyes that looked like wraparound sunglasses. According to the information they'd gathered, the Grays were from an advanced society that was dying because they were losing their ability to reproduce themselves. As a result, they were using genetic materials from humans to revive their species and they felt they had the right to do it. The reason they picked on humans and felt they were justified was because they were us—vastly advanced and mutated humans residing on Earth thousands of years in the future. Essentially, they looked at their relationship to us as we looked at our relationship to apes.

  Calloway had always withheld judgment on the alien targets. While Maxwell felt he had solved the puzzle, Calloway had never been completely convinced that their interpretations were accurate. He sensed it was more complicated, a multidimensional puzzle that would continue to perplex and baffle for a long time to come.

  "What are you thinking?" Doc asked.

  "That I've got to talk to Camila again. If Maxwell and his gang can kill those kids and raise havoc with our heads, they could damn well put aliens in the president's head."

  "That thought just occurred to me, too," she replied. "They could also push the vice president's wife into saying she's going to divorce her husband. They could cause all kinds of outrageous behavior."

  As they continued along the road in the bright morning sunshine, Calloway's thoughts drifted back to the river, the highway of the ancients. He realized that he missed his rafting trips and, yes, he missed his quiet evenings with his beer and his radio. A part of him wished that Doc had never turned up, never pushed him into going after that target.

  How about stopping for a beer right now?

  He pushed the stray thought away. He had a six-pack of O'Douls in the cooler in the back, if he really wanted one. He thought about his last trip on the river and wondered if the software guys had complained to Ed Miller about him, about how he'd shoved Art out of the raft. If that was the case, he wouldn't have a job to return to when this odd journey was over.

  Calloway, I made you push him. You're under my thumb. Now how about that beer? Yeah, a beer.

  "What's wrong?" Doc asked. "You just tensed up."

  "They're here again. Right with us." He heard the familiar cackle in his head. Then he recognized its source.

  "It's Steve Ritter. He's their front man."

  Good guess, guy. But I'm not alone.

  "Maybe you should pull over and stop," Doc suggested.

  Sure, why not!

  The Explorer suddenly swerved to the shoulder, spewing stones and dust. Calloway struggled with the wheel, trying to steer back onto the road, but the Explorer edged closer to a steep slope. Doc lunged over, grabbed the wheel. The instant their hands touched, Calloway felt the presence release. He braked, eased over to the side of the road, and slumped over the wheel.

  "Are you okay, Trent?"

  "They almost did us in, Doc." He raised his head and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "They're strong, stronger
than I imagined."

  "But they let go as soon as I grabbed the wheel."

  "I noticed," Calloway said, dryly.

  "When we get Eduardo with us, we should be able to hold them off and find out what they're up to."

  "Let's hope so."

  But Calloway had the feeling that Ritter and the gang were just playing with them, like big cats with glowing eyes and deadly claws toying with a couple of mice before the kill.

  The rest of the drive unraveled without incident. After lunch at a roadside diner, they turned south on 82. An hour or so later, Crested Butte Mountain came into view. "Let's stop in town," Doc said. "I told Eduardo I'd warn him when we got here."

  She sounded uneasy and he wondered why. "Fine with me. I'll try Lewis Fielding again, and give Camila a call, too," Calloway said.

  They parked in front of a café on the main street of the old mining town. He found a pay phone and called Fielding first. As earlier, an answering service took his name. This time he left Perez's number, then left it again when he tried to reach Camila.

  "Let's hope we get to Eduardo's place before he gets calls from an FBI agent and the president's press secretary," Calloway said with a laugh as Doc handed in a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup.

  Doc looked stunned. "You gave them Perez's number? How did you get the number?"

  "You wrote it on the notepad by the phone. I picked it up before we left. What's the big deal?"

  "Well, I didn't want to discourage you from driving here, so I didn't tell you that when I talked to Eduardo from the hotel he didn't exactly sound accommodating. He wouldn't tell me how to get to the house."

  "Great. Now you tell me. What did he say this time?"

  She frowned.

  "You did get the directions, didn't you?"

  She gave him a guilty look. "Not exactly. I tried to get him to come here and meet us."

  "And?"

  "He wouldn't do that either."

  "Wonderful. So we just wasted our day."

  She smiled, held up a napkin with some scribbling on it. "Nope. I got lucky. I asked the waitress if she knew anything about an underground mansion and it turned out her husband did some work on it. She gave me directions."