The Lightning's Kiss: Wylie Westerhouse Book 3

by Nathan Roden

  Robert Jamison stared out of the window. He saw the decimated building where smoke still rose into the air.

  He nodded.

  What am I doing here? Robert thought. In the tiny township of Wellmore Village, Scotland. Why would Tara come here?

  But there had been no other leads to where Tara might be. Last night’s fire at this run-down old Inn had claimed three lives: the Inn’s owner, his employee, and a man staying in the room next to the office. That man was reportedly a drunk who seldom left his room—except to get more liquor.

  During the police investigation, two other tenants reported that there was a young girl staying at the Inn. The girl had paid for the room under the pretense that she was with her father, who was ill. The Innkeeper said that he knew the girl was lying. She had checked in under the name Ellie McGuire. The girl had not been seen since the fire.

  Robert Jamison followed Archer and Ned as they spoke with members of the local police. The police stood at the end of the parking lot, providing crowd control. The police waved the three men through. Archer spoke to the officer in charge in front of the still smoldering office. The officer pointed to the door of the unit in question—the room where Tara had been staying.

  An elderly lady with a pass-key opened the door and walked away. The three men walked into the room. Robert’s heart began to race.

  “Don’t touch anything!” he shouted. He pointed outside.

  “Get…get that woman back in here!”

  Ned ran from the room and returned with the housekeeper.

  Robert looked at the woman. He pointed at the bed.

  “Did you make up this bed?” he asked.

  The woman shook her head.

  “I haven’t been in this room in days. The ‘please do not disturb’ sign has been out.”

  Robert swallowed hard.

  “The linens on that bed—they look brand new.”

  The woman took a closer look.

  “That they do. Somebody must have bought their own. The cheap bastard who runs this place sure wasn’t about to buy any new linens—especially nice ones like that. And somebody sure knows how to make up a bed, I’ll grant you that much. That looks like a bed from a high-priced Inn, if you ask me. I believe you could bounce a half-crown to the ceiling off of that top sheet!”

  “It was her!” Robert said.

  Archer motioned toward the door. Ned rushed the housekeeper out of the room.

  “We told you to keep quiet, Robert!” Archer said between clenched teeth. “Do I have to remind you that we are stretching the limits of cooperation here?”

  Robert clenched his fists.

  “And need I remind you that my sixteen-year-old daughter is all on her own in this filthy mess?”

  “Stand down, Major,” Archer said. “This is not a matter of rank, Robert. This is a matter of military security and police business. They could shut us out at a moment’s notice.”

  Robert paced and ran a hand through his hair.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Robert looked at the bed again and squeezed his eyes shut. He jumped when a crash sounded from outside.

  Part of the roof of the Inn’s office had collapsed. The three men stepped out of the room.

  “She might be alone, Robert,” Archer said. “But I’m not so sure that she’s the one in danger.”

  Archer reported into his office. Three computer technicians entered new information into a database. The most powerful computers on the continent went to work in the search for Tara Jamison.

  The triangulated search area now included London, Wellmore Village in Scotland, and Branson, Missouri, USA.

  An hour later, one of the technicians chased down a lead. The computer lit up an alert with a person-of-interest in the database of Scotland Yard’s cyber division. The technician called Archer immediately at his hotel in Edinburgh.

  “We’ve got something, Sir,” the technician said. “And not far away from the old Inn that burned down. The subject in question runs an antique shop. Scotland Yard has had an eye on this man for a few months now. He is suspected of dealing in firearms and illegal surveillance for some of the shadier groups in Europe. They haven’t been able to link him to any terrorist groups, or they would have already taken him down. We have picked up electronic communications linked to a global surveillance network based in the Far East. This man has a travel and bank account tracer active that will be of some interest to you.”

  “Where is the tracer?” Archer asked.

  “In the U.S., Sir,” the technician said. “There are electronic trackers and monitors on a Miss Holly McFadden.”

  “Well, it appears that I will be browsing for antiques in the morning,” Archer said. “Excellent work, lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Here is the address.”

  Archer and Ned walked into the antique shop shortly after it opened for business. Archer turned the lock on the inside of the front door. He turned the sign in the door to “closed”.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Merchant asked.

  “We’re about to make you a deal—the only one likely to save your life.”

  Sebastian Wellmore sipped his tea and looked out of his office window. Another large crowd made its way up the hill for the first of the days’ tours. Sebastian heard a quiet tapping on his door. It opened, and Mildred’s head appeared.

  “We’re sold out again today, Mr. Wellmore.”

  “Outstanding, Mildred.”

  “We would have no problem selling out another one if you chose to schedule a tour after dark. In fact, I believe you could command an even higher price if you did that.”

  “We’ll talk about that at a later date,” Sebastian said. “I do not wish to overwhelm the young ladies—they are still attending classes. I have no desire to interfere with their education.”

  “I can appreciate that,” Mildred said. “But I have a number of young people inquiring about tour guide positions on an almost daily basis.”

  “Thank you for your concern. I am pleased with our success, but this does remain my home—I should like to enjoy it.”

  “As you wish, Sir,” Mildred said. She closed the door.

  Sebastian jumped when he heard a ringing phone. It was the cell phone inside of his desk drawer. He cursed himself. The phone’s number was known only to one man—and that man had dissolved their business relationship.

  Why would he be calling?

  “Yes?” Sebastian answered.

  “There is a matter of mutual interest,” Mr. Merchant said. “It would be good of you to visit.”

  “I’ll be there within the hour,” Sebastian said.

  Sebastian stopped by Mildred’s office.

  “I will be out for the rest of the day.”

  Sebastian walked to his car and pulled away.

  Half a block away, a plain sedan followed at a distance. Sebastian parked his car twenty minutes later. Adrian Crane passed by, circled back, and parked where he could watch Sebastian’s car.

  Sebastian entered the antique shop. Mr. Merchant crossed the floor, lowered the shades, and placed the “closed” sign in the window of the front door. Sebastian followed the man to the back room.

  “You ended our professional relationship. What is this about?”

  “My associates have expressed some concern,” Mr. Merchant said. He was visibly uncomfortable.

  “Your concerns are not my concerns,” Sebastian said. “I paid your outlandish fees in order to avoid concerns.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Merchant said. “I understand, and under most circumstances, I would be tempted to dismiss these comments. But, it seems that my…our…..last inquiries garnered an unusual level of attention—”

  “What do you mean—attention?” Sebastian growled as he took a step toward Mr. Merchant.

  Mr. Merchant held up his hands.

  “I have much at stake here, as well. There is another party seeking the McFadden girl. This party has a much greater reach than I—
and they are in fact searching for the same two girls.”

  “That is highly unlikely,” Sebastian said. He narrowed his eyes.

  “Unless you are being watched.”

  “My security is beyond state-of-the-art, I assure you,” Mr. Merchant said. “I do not meddle in the business of my clients, but I would very much like to distance myself from this other party.”

  Mr. Merchant leaned toward Sebastian. He spoke softly.

  “Have you located the Jamison girl?”

  The tingling of the doorbell sounded in the front of the shop. Both men turned their heads in that direction.

  “What in the—?” Mr. Merchant whispered. “I locked that door!”

  He ran into the front of the shop and looked around. There was no one there. He rubbed his hands on his arms.

  “What is it?” Sebastian asked.

  A cold wind blew through the shop—from nowhere.

  “Nothing,” Mr. Merchant said. The wind blew right through him—chilling him. He wrapped his arms around himself.

  “Do you feel that? It is so cold!”

  The lights in the shop dimmed. White wisps of smoke appeared along the ceiling and then darted across the room. Mr. Merchant watched this with his eyes wide.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered.

  Sebastian cocked his head. He watched the smoky wisps dart around the ceiling. They began to twirl around Mr. Merchant.

  Sebastian heard a sound—a faint, crackling noise. He moved his head, listening. His eyes settled on Mr. Merchant’s chest.

  Sebastian grabbed Mr. Merchant by his shirt collar and jerked down. Mr. Merchant screamed as the tape that held the transmitter wire across the man’s chest ripped out his hair.

  Mr. Merchant turned to run, but Sebastian tackled him. He wrapped his gloved left hand around Mr. Merchant’s mouth. Sebastian took a syringe from his coat pocket with his right. He jabbed the needle into Mr. Merchant’s neck. He held on until he felt the life leave the man’s body. The lifeless form slid to the floor.

  Sebastian pulled his collar up high on his neck and left the store.

  Adrian Crane watched Sebastian drive away. He waited three minutes and walked to the antique shop.

  “Hello?” he said as he entered. He found the body, face-down. He turned the man over with his foot. When he saw the torn shirt and the red patches of skin on the dead man’s torso he knew what had transpired. He also realized that someone was attempting to incriminate Sebastian Wellmore.

  And obviously, Sebastian Wellmore was not a man to be taken lightly.

  Twenty-Two

  Holly McFadden

  Branson, Missouri

  The catering truck arrived at Castle McIntyre an hour before the press conference. Quentin and Oliver moved the projector and screen to where it could be seen from the upstairs balcony. Quentin had decided to make a party out of the occasion and he invited several people over. They moved the video components so that the ghosts could watch from the second story loft and balcony.

  Elvis Rushmore brought along his girlfriend and six other friends and employees. Quentin called to invite Herbert Plimpton. Mr. Plimpton was the former owner of Branson Music and Wylie’s boss. Mr. Plimpton’s son answered the phone. He explained that Mr. Plimpton had not been feeling well.

  The pool table was as popular as ever. The current game was paused while everyone pitched in to set up the dinner table and unload the boxes from the caterer.

  “It smells divine, Quentin,” Gwendoline McFadden said.

  “What delicacies do we look forward to this evening, Quentin?” Oliver asked.

  “I don’t even have to look,” Elvis Rushmore said.

  Elvis closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply and smiled.

  “Pappy’s Barbecue! Am I right, Mr. Lynch-mob?”

  “Right you are, Mount Rushmore!” Quentin said.

  “I hope you have enough napkins, Boss,” Elvis said.

  “You can’t have enough napkins for Pappy’s,” Q said.

  “True that,” Elvis said. “If you’re not wearing it—it ain’t Pappy’s!”

  At that moment, Holly blurted out a curse word. Everyone froze for a second before they started to laugh. Holly bit into a barbecued rib and it squirted out of her hand. She tried to catch it with both hands. By the time it hit the floor, she had barbecue sauce all over her blouse, on her arms, and in her hair.

  “Well, it’s a shame that Toby’s not here,” Holly said.

  Forty-five minutes later, everyone pitched in to move sofas and chairs in front of the projector screen. A voice announced the following special broadcast, and a cheer went up in the great room of Castle McIntyre. The castle audience celebrated along with the live media audience as Skyler KwyK and Wylie walked into the room.

  Holly sat on a sofa between her parents. Gwen took Holly’s hand and squeezed it while Wylie was introduced.

  “That’s my boy, Wylie!” Elvis Rushmore shouted.

  There were individual cheers of support. When Chris Chadwick finished with Wylie’s introduction, Wylie received a standing ovation from his Branson friends. This included his friends and family who watched from the second story. Nora McIntyre squeezed Duncan’s hand.

  “I’m so proud of him,” Nora said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Duncan said.

  Chris Chadwick introduced Skyler. There was applause at Castle McIntyre.

  “That’s the girl who made it all happen!” Elvis yelled. “You go, Skyler!”

  The castle crowd joined the media crowd in a big cheer when Skyler stood up. Skyler and Wylie sat down.

  A few seconds later, you could have heard a pin drop at Castle McIntyre.

  Holly stood up and walked out of the room. By the time she reached the threshold she was running. Seconds later, Elvis’s girlfriend stood up and pulled Elvis up with her.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  It didn’t take long before everyone got up to leave. Gwendoline had her hand to her mouth. Silent tears slid down her cheeks. Oliver tried to comfort her. They walked out of the room.

  Duncan Westerhouse could not believe his eyes. He looked at Nora, who had a hand covering her mouth. Nora looked at Duncan briefly. She turned and floated away.

  Quentin Lynchburg found himself alone and staring at the television screen.

  “Oh, Wylie. What are you doing?”

  Q continued to stare; unable to turn away, like at an accident scene.

  He saw Wylie forcefully pull his hand away. Quentin realized that Wylie was not a willing participant in the public display of affection.

  Quentin whipped around.

  “Hey!”

  Quentin looked around the room. He looked upstairs. And he saw that he was all alone.

  Quentin fell into a chair, and his head fell into his hands.

  Twenty-Three

  Wylie Westerhouse

  St. Louis, Missouri

  “Is this a private party?”

  It was Chris. I had just gotten the fire going in the fireplace by the gazebo. I would need the fire for warmth since Veronica and Toby were hogging the blanket.

  “Nope,” I said. “Have a seat. I wish I had bought more beer, now. I didn’t know the boss lady was such a teetotaler.”

  “Ha!” Chris said. “You should have asked me.”

  “So,” Chris said. “Did you ask him?”

  Veronica shook her head.

  “Ask me what?” I said.

  Chris sighed.

  “We don’t have many choices about how to play this thing, Wylie. Dammit, the tour starts in a week.”

  “What do you want me to do? You haven’t forgotten that I’m the bad guy, have you? Things have been working fine with me keeping my mouth shut.”

  “We had friends in the room tonight,” Chris said. “So we had access to all of the video. Here’s what we’re thinking. You were sweating the entire time. Sorry, but you were. You looked flushed—and your face was red.”

  “Oh my God. You’re not
going to tell the world that I’m dying!”

  “No!” Veronica said, “For heaven’ sake, Wylie.”

  “We think the best thing to do is this,” Chris said. “We say that you started getting sick—like the flu or something—right before the press conference. You insisted that you were fine and that we should go ahead as planned. We brought a doctor in—you were running a fever, like a hundred and three. You had a shot and a lot of fluids.”

  “So, I’m only almost dying,” I said.

  “You’re not dying,” Veronica said.

  “I would rather hear that from the doctor. Even the fake doctor.”

  “Here’s the rest of it,” Chris said. “We say that Skyler was really worried about you—even though the doctor was saying that you were okay. After we walked into the room, she knew that the room was too hot. She saw that you were flushed and sweating. She saw you swaying a little bit and she was worried about you passing out and falling down. That’s why she kept holding your hand, so she could squeeze it or pinch you to keep you from blacking out.”

  I stared into the flames and digested what Chris was saying.

  “You know, I don’t know how much or how often you people have to lie, but you’re really good at it.”

  I held out my hand. Chris smiled and looked at it. Veronica shook my hand as well. I held my hand out to Chris again.

  “What?” he said.

  “I want your business card. One with all of your phone numbers on it. If I ever wake up in a strange place and can’t remember why, I’m calling you.”