by CJ Martín
“What else should I expect?”
“You should expect that I will kill you slowly and painfully if you do not keep your mouth shut. We have come too far for you to screw it up now. Keep a low profile and only take on what you must as a candidate.”
He nodded, knowing her threats were not empty.
“Think before you speak and act. I will not be here to clean up your mess. I must go hunt your hunters. I hear them even now. I will stop them before they come near, but you must watch what you say. The election is yours to win or lose. And losing will involve more than just your hurt pride.”
“I…” McGregor began to speak to an empty room. Kaileen had vanished and left him feeling weak and vulnerable. He hated her, and yet he wanted her. He needed her eyes, and she had not given them to him this time.
Then, he realized that it was a lie. The weakness that she had seen began to change into something else.
He realized he didn’t need her. All he needed was himself. He was McGregor! The savior! His emotions and thoughts turned darker. With eyes full of anger, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was strong—stronger than that damn woman would admit. He would be a smashing success at the midnight gala. As the star of the show, he would present himself as the man equal to the task. And should the Temporal come for him, he would take care of them without her.
Three knocks on the hotel door turned his head.
Through the peephole, McGregor saw a porter in traditional red bellboy garb. He opened the door a crack but kept the chain on.
“Yes?”
“Sir, I have a letter for you. I apologize for the late disturbance, but it was marked urgent,” the bellboy said, holding up the letter and sticking it partially through the two-inch door opening.
“Uh,” he said, taking it and closing the door.
The envelope was addressed to “Prof. Todd McGregor.” Under his name simply read, “URGENT.”
Within seconds, the torn envelope was on the floor and the unfolded letter was inches away from his nearsighted eyes. The letter had two names, a location, and an invitation:
Becky Sanders
Michelle McIntyre
lobby
come alone for a chat
McGregor’s hands began to shake as images of the two girls he had murdered formed and then floated among the words on the page. The faces and words jumped at him.
No.
He steeled himself, remembering the woman, Kaileen. She had called him weak, pathetic. He was not weak. If there were threats to his presidency, he would find them and then destroy them. He would handle this, and the public will love him even more for stopping these additional threats to America.
Chapter 45
KAILEEN
Kaileen’s appearance changed dramatically as the elevator descended eleven floors. She was no longer wearing a flowing black dress, but a police uniform. Her face, while still recognizably feminine, had a tougher look. Her hair was now up and hidden beneath a blue United States Capital Police cap. She stepped out and took a moment to revel in her impending success, the culmination of all she had planned and worked for. She would gain the list from Sam’s head and then kill him with the rest of them.
She could strongly feel Sam and Suteko’s presence as her hunt began.
Samuel Williams was irritatingly loud. He was new to the Temporal and had not yet learned to control his thoughts. The woman, Suteko, was harder to hear, but she was with the man. When they talked, thanks to Sam’s inexperience, at times Kaileen could actually hear their conversation.
They mostly seemed to speak of insignificant things—the weather, past travels, what to eat, and other daily concerns. This seemed strange to Kaileen. She would have thought they would be discussing how to stop McGregor or, more importantly, how to stop her—the assassin who was coming for them.
Surely, they know. And yet, the more she listened in, the more she became convinced they did not know.
More than their words, she was interested in their location. They were near. She could feel them; she heard Sam’s words grow in intensity as she left the hotel.
The policewoman walked two blocks toward Sam’s voice, stopped, and then turned around. The direction of Sam’s voice had changed. He was so loud the echoes let out false readings, making it hard to pin down an accurate direction.
She spent several minutes concentrating until she was certain of the origin of the voice. Every block she walked, she had to stop and adjust her ears.
Soon, the voice was unmistakably near. Turning a corner, she spotted an old apartment building that she knew housed her enemies.
Sam had information she needed. She would kill the woman, gain the information from Sam, and then finish him off as well. Or else, she would keep him as a pet—it wouldn’t matter. There would remain no serious threat to both her immediate plan with McGregor and her ultimate plan for control of her order.
She entered the building and climbed three flights of stairs. Turning the corner, she stopped in front of room 306. She knew her prey was behind the door. Sam’s thoughts were beyond loud. It was as if he wanted to be found.
The fool.
Even better: it sounded like Suteko had left him alone—gone on some errand, no doubt. She knew the Japanese woman was the more powerful of the two. Without her experience, the man wouldn’t stand a chance.
She almost felt regret. He simply had not had sufficient time and training to control his thoughts better. Had this kill not been so terribly important, she would have given him more time to mature—for the sport of it.
She pulled out a small razor-like object that began to glow red. She inserted it in the slit just above the deadbolt. Within seconds, its temperature reached 1600 degrees Fahrenheit, and the metal softened and then spilt from the door. A breath of air from her mouth cooled the surrounding area before the door could catch fire. She had been quiet enough. Sam’s thoughts continued unabated—he was thinking of going to Japan with Suteko.
The fool. The careless fool.
She silently twisted the knob and prepared herself. A flick of her wrist and the door flew open.
“Hello, Kaileen.”
Instead of a surprised younger man, however, she saw an old acquaintance.
“Marcus—I should have known.”
The old man was standing at the ready and in a standard fighting stance: his body turned, knees bent, and hands up. It was a facade; he had spent most of his energy emulating Sam and Suteko’s unique patterns. It was all he could do to appear strong and battle worthy.
The momentary surprised look was quickly replaced by pure hatred.
“Very clever. But where are your children...” The words spewed out like molten lava, heavy and burning.
Marcus saw a flash of recognition dash across her face.
“McGregor,” she said, understanding that she had fallen for their diversion and that her plan was in danger of collapsing. With a pointed finger directed at Marcus, she said, “I will come back to kill you, lover.”
She disappeared. Flying out the room, she turned down the hall toward an east window. Her speed didn’t give the glass and metal enough time to slice into her morphic clothes as she leapt from the building and onto the hood of a parked car three stories below, setting off the car alarm. She made a perfect landing and neatly rolled into the street. A car was approaching, honking. Her outstretched hand pushed fiberglass, metal, and plastic three feet into the engine block, causing the airbags to deploy.
Heading down the stairs, Marcus took care to not destroy the doors as he approached them. As worn-out as he was, he knew Kaileen would be gone by the time he hit the street. He knew, however, that there was only one place she could be heading, and he had to get there before she did.
Chapter 46
McGregor was in the lobby mere minutes after receiving the clandestine note. He was pretending to read a newspaper. Propped up inside the newspaper was the piece of paper with the girls’ names written on it. Reading and r
ereading the blackmailer’s note helped calm his nerves. He remembered their beautiful angelic bodies that he had helped create. After taking care of this current threat, he would demand Kaileen show him her eyes as a reward—he would demand to see the stars and the girls, his creations.
Even close to midnight, the lobby was well-lit and soft piano music trickled from a host of unseen speakers all around. The environment calmed the killer’s nerves and prepared him spiritually for meeting his Temporal foes.
Out of sight of the lobby, Sam and Suteko were in a hallway listening to the echoes. They were most interested in any sign that McGregor wasn’t alone. Sam didn’t sense any of the Nephloc in the vicinity, but McGregor also had the Secret Service protecting him. The murderer was, after all, a high-risk presidential candidate. A bullet from a gun held by a human would be just as deadly as a Nephloc.
With a nod from Suteko, Sam left the hallway. Before he realized it, he was sitting across from McGregor whose eyes had strayed from his newspaper to meet his coming blackmailer.
Upon seeing Sam, McGregor stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket and set his folded newspaper on a coffee table next to his seat. No one else was nearby as their eyes locked.
Sam was wearing a fake moustache, a hat, and darkened glasses. The moustache looked surprisingly real—but he wasn’t sure he even needed the disguise. Since their first meeting in New Orleans, both men had undergone significant changes. McGregor had been nothing more than a nervous little mouse of a man, barely conscious of his surroundings. McGregor’s now confident eyes betrayed no sense of recognition, but it was certainly possible he had learned to hide his feelings well.
“Mr. Vice President, one million dollars.” Sam kept his voice low and his words to the point. He wanted McGregor to see this as nothing more than simple blackmail.
“What? I’ve done nothing wrong. You have the wrong guy.”
Sam tossed a manila envelope with a piece of tape over the flattened clasp. It landed in McGregor’s lap.
“What’s this?”
“Evidence. One million dollars and the two copies of the recording will disappear.”
“Who are you?”
“A concerned citizen,” Sam said imagining himself as Harry Callahan only without the comfort of his Smith & Wesson.
McGregor ripped open the top of the manila envelope and dumped its contents into his lap. A lone USB thumb drive fell out. McGregor looked up at Sam. “Shall we go to my room? I have a computer there to view the files.”
Sam nodded and stood, following McGregor to the nearest bank of elevators.
Sam continued to listen. He was now extremely familiar with McGregor’s pattern. He couldn’t read McGregor’s thoughts in real-time, but he could feel his intentions. He heard new echoes that suggested McGregor knew—or at least suspected—who Sam was, but it wasn’t because McGregor remembered his face from New Orleans or Los Angeles; McGregor had been forewarned to expect them... by Kaileen.
A woman in her fifties joined them inside the elevator. She stood next to the panel and smiled. “Which floor, gentlemen?”
Sam let McGregor answer even though he knew McGregor’s room number, “Eleven, please.”
The woman pressed the eleven button and quickly returned her gaze to McGregor.
“I know... Mr. McGregor? It’s you, isn’t it?” The woman became uncontrollably excited. “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to meet you! My parents are huge fans. They won’t believe—you must give me your autograph—please!” Her eyes were wide with excitement.
He nodded as she fished a pen from her purse. Handing him the back of a stray receipt and the pen, McGregor signed his name and gave it back to the woman with a wordless smile.
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor and beeped. As the doors opened, the woman backed out continuing to sing his praises. McGregor maintained his smile until the door closed.
“We wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans, now would we?” said Sam, pointing to the thumb drive that McGregor was still fingering.
“You are unarmed, of course?”
“Of course.” Sam lifted his hands, inviting a pat-down. McGregor ran his hands up and down Sam’s sides and over his pockets until he was satisfied.
He then removed a small device and began moving it up and down Sam’s body.
“What’s that?”
“Just want to make sure pest control doesn’t need to be called.”
Sam smiled. He had turned down an earplug and microphone to communicate with Suteko, preferring instead to listen to the echoes. The old man’s influence had saved him from being discovered.
The elevator stopped and beeped again, this time on the eleventh floor.
“Follow me,” said McGregor as he slipped the device and thumb drive into his pocket. They entered the hallway and turned a corner that led to his room.
Sam slowed his mind and tried to listen to the echoes. He heard Suteko and her thoughts were soothing.
The Echoes of Eternity encouraged him with every step.
Sam had come a long way since arriving in Tokyo just a few months before. But despite his growth, he felt the pressure; if he failed now, a terrorist may very well become the next President of the United States. Sam refocused on the echoes and Suteko’s thoughts; he was here to blackmail and stop a murderer.
McGregor swiped his hotel key card and, holding the door open, ushered Sam in.
“Would you care for some Scotch? A beer perhaps?” After allowing Sam a few seconds to answer, he added, “No? Well, the laptop is just over here.”
There were two queen beds in the room. The laptop was on a nightstand between them. McGregor invited the blackmailer to sit on the opposite bed.
The computer had been in sleep mode, and the two men each breathed heavy but wordless breaths while it revived. The thumb drive held a single audio file. McGregor double clicked the file and a media player loaded. He kept a cursor over the volume bar to make sure it was loud enough to be heard a foot away, but not farther.
The audio began with footsteps but no talking. There was a light breeze blowing into the mic. McGregor’s face remained proud and unfazed.
Then he heard it. McGregor instantly knew what the recording was.
“Michelle—wait up. I didn’t mean it...”
It was a male voice—Michelle’s beau, the obstacle McGregor had to remove to get Michelle to love him. For a moment, McGregor’s face betrayed him—the face of a hurt little boy. He quickly turned away from the blackmailer and inwardly seethed.
“I told you I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
But hearing her voice—alive!—was exhilarating. He had seen Michelle several times since that night—in Kaileen’s eyes—but this was her voice while she was still alive. Who recorded this?
“Look, I know I was a jerk, but I was just playing. Give me another chance. I...”
“I can’t deal with this now. I need to think, clear my head.”
“Promise me you’ll call me.”
At this point, McGregor’s memories of the event took over. He saw half of her face so clearly. He had to stifle the urge to reach out to touch her. Golden puffs of hair were tucked behind her ear. It had been a gloriously sad face.
“If you leave now, I’ll consider it.”
“I’m leaving—just... call me, okay?”
She had stood there so still until the jerk left out of sight. She then squatted to the ground, sobbing like a little girl who lost her favorite doll.
McGregor’s hand reached out unconsciously. His present will was no longer strong enough to pull it back. That weakened will, however, was screaming for him to wake and deal with the blackmailer. The woman—Kaileen—would be most displeased. But he couldn’t resist listening. He was once again with Michelle. He knew what came next and smiled in anticipation.
Violent sounds of rustling leaves and branches slapping his arms and face reverberated through the laptop speakers and in his memories.
He had invited her into his fortress, but she was struggling as if she didn’t want to be there—as if he were a monster—as if he wasn’t her savior from that jerk or from a cold, unfeeling world. McGregor heard his own voice shushing her, trying to calm her and show her his love. He was the hero she needed. All the rest of the world saw that—why couldn’t she? No one else but he could provide that kind of total love.
McGregor heard a click, but its meaning didn’t register. He was still there in that moment with Michelle. She was so silent, so beautiful. He no longer heard the sound of the breeze or the staccato song of a mockingbird.
The present McGregor could hold it back no more. “Shut up! Don’t you see that I love you?”
Then there was silence for what seemed like days before the blackmailer spoke.
“That is exactly what you said the night you took the life of Michelle McIntyre.”
“Shut up!” McGregor’s words sounded weak even though he was shouting.
“Had I continued the recording, we would have heard your voice saying those same words, isn’t that correct?”
McGregor just buried his face in his hands.
“You also killed Becky Sanders, a young girl just starting out in life. You took the life of two innocent girls and now you pretend to be some hero. You are, in fact, more responsible for what happened in New Orleans than anyone else, isn’t that right? You were there. You set up the bomb.”
“Shut up.” His voice was not loud, but its strength had returned.
“The money, Mr. McGregor.”
The bed groaned as McGregor’s weight left off the springs. He walked with confidence toward the bathroom.
“I’ll wash my face and then we will transfer the money online. You will destroy that?” he said, pointing to the computer. “How do I know you won’t come back asking for more?”
“You don’t. I can only give you my word,” Sam said, remembering a line from some forgettable late night movie.
