by Roy Johansen
He moved through the trees and took another look at the building. The wood panels were chipped and faded, and the surrounding grounds were as overgrown as the rest of the property.
He stepped toward the chain-link-and-razor-blade fence. Much newer than anything else in the vicinity.The depot had been deserted for eight years, but the fence still had a chrome sheen that couldn't have been more than a couple of years old. He walked around the back of the building. There was a new blacktop driveway marked with a fresh set of red clay tire tracks. The tracks had been laid since the last rain.
He walked around the perimeter, studying the ground beneath the fence. He spotted a clump of pine straw and soft earth, which he kicked with his toe. It moved easily. He kneeled and dug at the earth, opening a narrow gap under the fence. He lay on his back and pushed himself along with his legs, turning his head to avoid the sharp ends of chain-link. After emerging on the other side, he stood and glanced around.
He walked across a clearing and climbed three rickety steps that led up to the door. Nailed shut by large slats of lumber. He looked down through the steps and saw that they covered a crawlspace beneath the building. He jumped to the ground, knelt on all fours, and crept underneath.
He paused to allow his eyes to adjust. The sun was setting, and his only illumination was a shaft of light spearing through the trees. Finally he saw a pipe jutting down on the other side of the building.
He crawled toward it, trying to avoid the chunks of rock and concrete that littered the hard earth. Perspiration covered his face as he breathed in the still, musty air.
Finally he reached the pipe. He gripped it and ran his hand up to where it penetrated the floor above. He lightly fingered the hardwood floor, feeling itssmooth surface. Was there a seam here? He reared back with his elbow and struck the floor. The access panel flew off, and harsh fluorescent light jutted through the small rectangular opening.
He poked his head through the panel and found himself staring into a sparkling-clean bathroom that looked brand-new. A trace of pine scented the air.
He lifted himself up into the room, moved toward the door, and pulled it open. He peeked through the opening to see a long corridor that must have run the entire length of the building. The decor was sleek, with plush carpeting, subdued colors, and ornate sconces lining the walls. What the hell was this place? He may as well have been in the offices of a high-priced Buckhead law firm.
He moved down the corridor, glancing into the open doorways as he passed. Most were gray and institutional in their appearance, with a table, a scattered few chairs, and a mirrored one-way glass at the end. They reminded him of the marketing research labs he'd visited in his college days, where for a quick fifty dollars he'd sat with focus groups and discussed cars, clothing, or soft drinks.
Farther down the hall, the rooms were more cheerfully decorated, with bright colors, rainbows, and animal prints on the walls. A kiddie version of the observation rooms.
At the end of the hall, he stepped into an area that resembled a television studio's master control center. A large control board dominated the area, facing a bank of monitors. Three video cameras on mobile tripods rested in back. He was about to continue down the corridor, when he spotted a white, glossyboard marked with a schedule of some kind. The names on the grid were familiar: DAY. ISSER. IVERSON.MILLS. COHEN. GAINES.
It took him only a moment to realize that the names all belonged to well-known psychics—Butler Day, Jake Isser, Jackie Iverson, Ramona Mills, Sharon Cohen, and Monica Gaines—and this was a schedule of traditional psychic tests to be performed in various rooms in the building. Joe nodded to himself. Of course. This was a paranormal testing center. He had visited several others, including the facilities in Atlanta's Landwyn University, but nothing as elaborate as this.
“Don't move.”
Joe froze.
The voice came from behind him. “Turn around. Slowly.”
Joe turned and saw two men standing in the doorway. Both wore plain gray security guard uniforms, and each held a .38 leveled at his heart.”I'm a police detective,” he said.”I'll show you my ID.”
The shorter of the two men, whose name badge read GRIFFITH, raised his gun.”Don't move.”
“Does that mean you'll take my word for it?”
“No.” He glanced at his partner.”Check him.”
The taller guard, whose name badge identified him as HARRIS, unsnapped Joe's holster, lifted out his gun, and patted him down before removing his wallet and badge. He flipped open the badge cover. “It says he's with the Atlanta PD.”
Griffith glared at him. “This isn't your jurisdiction. You have no right to be here.”
“I'm investigating the Monica Gaines case.” Joepointed to the schedule. “She's been here, hasn't she?”
Griffith glanced at the schedule, then shoved Joe out of the room. He pulled the door closed. “This place is off limits to you.”
“Why? Is this some kind of control room?”
“The whole building's off limits. Now we have to figure out what to do with you.”
“I'll make it easy. Just give me my gun back and answer a few questions. Who's responsible for all this?”
“You're in no position to be asking questions.”
“Fine. Why don't you tell me what position I amin?”
Harris nervously spoke to his partner. “He's a fuckin'cop.”
“I know.”
“I didn't sign on for this. What are we supposed to do now?”
“I don't know. Shit. Let me think.”
Joe stared at the gun barrels trained at him. He was reasonably certain that in three quick moves he could grab one of the guns and put a bullet into its owner. But that still left the other guy free to make Nikki an orphan. There had to be a better way. He'd never shot a man and he wasn't eager to start now. “Look, you can call my captain at the Atlanta Police Department. She'll back me up.”
The short guard shook his head. “You don't understand our problem.”
“Then help me understand.”
“Shut up.” Harris glanced at his partner. “We'll put him in one of the rooms upstairs.”
The tall guard nodded uncertainly. “Then what?”
“Fuck if I know.”
They led Joe up a small stairwell to the second floor. More open doors. Living quarters, Joe realized, decorated with plush carpeting, beds, sectional sofas, and entertainment centers. The guards shoved him into one of the rooms and closed the door.
Joe tried the knob. Locked, of course. He surveyed the room, and it appeared to be identical to the others. A dormitory for psychics?
It was all too surreal.
Who would have the money and influence to gather a “dream team” of psychic superstars to this godforsaken place? And why?
There'd be time to wrestle with that later, Joe thought. Now there was only one problem that needed his immediate attention.
Getting the hell out.
He had one major advantage—the building obviously wasn't designed to keep prisoners. It had been originally constructed as a supply warehouse. Then, more recently, renovated as some kind of testing center.
Surely he could do this. As a struggling nineteen-year-old magician, one of his earliest stunts had been an escape from a new juvenile detention facility in Al-pharetta. A friend of his father's was the warden there, and he'd agreed to lock Joe in a cell until either he escaped or the center opened for business thirty-four days later.
Joe had escaped in an hour and twenty-six minutes. Sam typed up a press release, and within days the story was in newspapers all over the country. For the first time, Joe's magic act was in demand and hewas able to leave behind the birthday-party gigs and corporate shows that had been his bread and butter. Now, after all these years, it was time for an encore.
Forty minutes later, Joe took inventory of the materials he'd gathered in his prison: approximately thirty feet of heavy-gauge video cable from the television; coils of wire unwound from a sp
iral notebook; a can of hair spray; a sample-size bottle of shampoo from the bathroom, and a long-handled butane fire starter from the gas fireplace. He wished he'd taken a closer look at the building's exterior before barging in, but he hadn't expected to be staging an escape.
He cut slits in two small silk toiletry bags, looped his belt through them, and deposited most of the materials inside. He coiled the video cable and hung it from his shoulder.
He glanced up at the ceiling. Probably the best way out. He was sure he could pick the door lock, but if the corridor was rigged with motion sensors and/or security cameras, the two guards would pay him a nasty visit. Up and out made more sense.
He picked up a table lamp, yanked off the shade, and stood on a chair. He tapped on the ceiling, trying to find a hollow space between the joists. Easy enough. He swung the lamp's base upward, punctured a hole in the ceiling, then clawed down several chunks of chalky white drywall. He gripped the exposed wooden joists and lifted his head into the attic. Tiny, and covered with dust and rolls of pink insulation. He'd have to crawl.
He pulled himself up. It was now dark outside, but there was moonlight filtering through air vents on each end of the attic. He glanced at the criss-crossing beams that held the roof. Better to head west, away from the full moon. The building's shadow would offer at least some cover if he made it outside.
When,not if.
He pulled the fire starter's trigger, keeping the flame ignited as he wedged the tiny shampoo bottle into the trigger guard. He put the handle into his mouth and crawled on the narrow joists. Shards of fiberglass insulation pricked his exposed skin.
Crickets chirped outside. He was getting closer.
Slow down, man. Can't let the guards hear you thumping around. Focus on the vent.
He felt the cool, damp night air. Just a little farther …
Finally. He was there.
He tugged at the vent.
It didn't budge.
He held up the fire starter and saw that the grille was secured by four flat-head screws. He pulled a dime from his pocket, angled its edge into the screw head, and turned. He worked it loose, then tackled the other screws until the vent grille fell silently into a clump of insulation.
He stuck his head outside. Higher than he'd thought. Thirty-five, maybe forty feet. Shit. He glanced around, looking for a security camera. It was, as he'd suspected, at the roof's highest point, only six or seven feet away. He pulled out the aerosol can and sprayed its contents toward the camera, forming a dense film over the lens.
typical nighttime condensation, they'd think. At least, he hopedthey'd think. He'd seen enough diffused, cloudy surveillance tapes to know that outdoor security cameras were often worthless beyond the dew point.
He tied the coaxial video cable to the nearest cross beam, then tossed the other end out of the vent opening. He eased outside, legs first, wrapping the cable around his wrists. He glanced down. A long way to fall if the cable didn't hold.
He yanked on it. It seemedsturdy.
Only one way to tell.
He dropped from the vent, putting all of his weight on the cable. So far, so good …
He lurched downward.
Just the slipknot tightening, he realized. His lifeline was holding.
He moved down, inches at a time. He hadn't realized it was so damned windy. The gusts blew him back and forth like a clock pendulum.
Forget about the wind. Stay the course….
He continued to move down, hoping that the guards wouldn't spot him. Here, suspended so far over the ground, he was completely vulnerable.
End of the cable. He looked down. Only ten feet to go.
He dropped to the hard earth, rolling as he landed. He jumped to his feet and hugged the side of the building.
Silence.
He moved away, inching toward his entry point at the fence. Another few feet, and he'd be—
A loud, high-pitched alarm sounded. The entirearea suddenly flooded with white, intense light. Either they'd discovered he was gone, or he'd tripped a motion sensor.
Christ.
He bolted for the fence.
Using the distant glow of Remington as his guide, Joe moved through the dense foliage and creek beds that peppered the landscape between the town and the old supply depot. No telling how many people would be looking for him, but his chances were much better if he stayed away from the roads.
After what seemed like hours, he finally emerged on a hilltop overlooking the town. Just below him was the good old Funky Tusk bar.
He half ran, half slid down the grassy hill and threw open the front door. The place was now packed. Joe glanced around for a pay phone as he pushed through the crowd.
The same kid was tending bar. He looked Joe up and down, his eyes widening at his ripped and stained clothes.”What happened to you?”
“Never mind. Let me use your phone.”
The kid plopped a cordless phone on the bar, and Joe punched a number. To his surprise, Captain Henderson answered.
“Henderson, it's me, Bailey.”
She didn't sound surprised.”Are you all right?”
“Yeah, but you wouldn't believe—”
She cut in.”Are you in Remington?”
“Yes, but you don't understand. I was just—”
“I dounderstand. It's going to be all right. Where in town are you?”
Joe hesitated. Something was very wrong here.
“Bailey?”
“Yeah. It's a bar called the Funky Tusk.”
“Okay, here's the drill. The guys who grabbed you will be bringing your car and personal possessions there. Are you okay to drive?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Come straight here.”
Joe glanced at the clock on the wall: 9:05 P.M. “I won't be there until after eleven.”
“We'll be waiting for you. See you then.” She hung up.
Twenty minutes later, Joe watched as his 4-Runner entered the parking lot and rolled to a stop in front of him. Griffith was driving. He climbed out and handed Joe a padded manila envelope. “It's all here. Your wallet, ID, cell phone, everything. No offense, buddy.”
'Buddy ?Whatthe hell happened out there?”
“I have a hunch you'll find out soon enough.”The man turned and cocked his head toward a white pickup truck that had just entered the parking lot. “There's my ride. Have a good night.”
Eleven-sixteen P.M.
Joe walked into Henderson's office to see the captain, Howe, Carla, and two men he didn't recognize.
Howe gave him a thin-lipped smile.”Okay, Bailey. Is this your revenge for us dragging you along with Monica Gaines in the middle of the night?”
Before Joe could reply, FBI special agent Raymond Fisher entered the room. It had seemed like ages since Joe had seen him at Grady Memorial, but it actually had been only the previous morning. “Uh-oh. Why are you here?”Joe asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me,”Fisher said.
Henderson stepped around her desk and shook hands with Fisher. “Agent Fisher, thanks for coming on such short notice.”She motioned to the two strangers. “This is Craig Oka, assistant director of Army intelligence, and Derek Haddenfield, projectleader. They came to us a few hours ago with some interesting information. Gentlemen?”
Oka adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Thank you.
I regret you were inconvenienced earlier this evening, Mr. Bailey. I trust you're okay.”
Joe nodded.”Fine. Now, what the hell is going on?”
Oka addressed the group. “As you probably know, in military intelligence we try to keep ourselves open to a variety of information-gathering tech-niques. We conduct studies that relate to surveillance methods, persuasion strategies, polygraph technologies, you name it. From time to time, our studies also explore extrasensory techniques.”
Joe half smiled. “Don't tell me you're trying to groom psychic spies?”
“No,”Oka said flatly. “But if we find evidence that true psychics
do, in fact, exist, it obviously would be an avenue worth exploring. Our latest project, called the Narada study, has been taking place in a former military installation in South Carolina. Mr. Hadden-field is the director of that study.”
Haddenfield was clearly uncomfortable. He didn't look anyone in the eye as he spoke. “It's been going on for almost two years. We gathered several world-renowned psychics and subjected them to a variety of tests. Monica Gaines participated several times over the past eighteen months.”
Howe glanced at Joe. “That's where she was all those times?”
Joe nodded.”I found the testing center today. I was locked up there most of the afternoon.”
Haddenfield crossed his arms in front of him as if bracing for an attack. “There was nothing sinister go-ing on, no government conspiracies. It was just important that we maintain security precautions.”
“Even from a police detective?”Carla asked.
“It took them a while to verify that's who he really was,”Haddenfield replied. “This was a classified study.”
Oka stepped forward. “With no offense toward Mr. Haddenfield's work, this study is just the type of thing that brings ridicule to the military and its spending policies. We knew that we probably wouldn't find anything there, but it was an idea worth exploring.”
Haddenfield's face went red with anger.
“What wereyour results?”Joe asked.
Haddenfield glared at him.”That's classified.”
Oka smiled.”The findings have been inconclusive, Detective, just like all of our previous studies.”
“It's still ongoing,”Haddenfield snapped. “Monica Gaines cut short her last series of tests to come here and offer her assistance to your department. We've never studied a psychic in action like this, investigating a crime. So, I gathered a team and came here to observe her. We stayed even after her accident. If there was some paranormal component to her attack, it could have been worth studying. It was going well until a member of my team disappeared a few days ago at Grady Memorial.”
“That's the guy I've been looking for?”Fisher asked.
Oka nodded. “Yes. I'm sorry we weren't more forthcoming with the Bureau. He was working on a classified study, and we had to decide how many people to let in the loop.”
