The Entity Game: An Aurora Donati Novel

by Lisa Shearin

  The three of us walked down the street to the coffee shop. It was almost eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning and the place was packed. Berta went to the counter to talk to the baristas while I scanned the bar that ran the length of the front window.

  Every stool was occupied—except for the one closest to the wall.

  Elias Halverson’s killing perch.

  No one wanted to sit there.

  Just like the area of carpet where Halverson had stood in Julian’s office. People sensed an alpha predator, and even though that predator was long gone, his psychic scent remained, and people unconsciously steered clear.

  “That it?” I heard Marshall ask.

  I gave a single nod.

  “I’ll get us some coffee.”

  “I’ll take that seat.”

  I took a slow breath and let it out—and sat where Elias Halverson had waited to kill my grandfather.

  Not surprisingly, only a few people had occupied the stool since Halverson had, and then only briefly. Fortunately, they were as psychically inert as rocks, so nothing was between me and Elias Halverson.

  I placed my hands on the counter and looked out the window toward the town house. An unobstructed view.

  Halverson had sat, drank coffee, and waited for us to come home.

  I got even more than I had in the Hart Building, and it came in a dizzying rush.

  He’d brought a laptop with him. He’d turned the stool at an angle so that the back of the screen faced the town house. He’d typed gibberish, pausing as if thinking, and then typing again. All the while, he would glance over the top of the screen, watching for our arrival. He blended in perfectly; no one thought anything about the man working in the corner.

  He’d been out of breath, not from running or any type of exertion, but from excitement. It was almost too easy.

  Greed had killed Dalton…He had merely made the delivery. The two senators went easily; the aide was only in the way. He’d had plenty of practice on DC’s homeless…Now his skill in killing from a distance would be tested. The old man psychometric and his granddaughter would be his first official distance kills…

  Me. He was supposed to have killed me along with Grandad.

  When the SUV had pulled up in front of the town house, Halverson had removed his glasses and briefly squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose as if tired. Then he looked out the window as if resting his eyes, watching our every move.

  He didn’t know if it would work. It was the farthest he’d ever been from a target.

  The old man was between him and the granddaughter. He couldn’t see her. So he focused first on the old man, pictured his heart inside his chest, imagined it clutched in his fist, quivering as it struggled to beat. He squeezed harder and the old man’s legs gave way. Satisfaction surged through him. He squeezed harder still. This would be his most important kill. Renwick had said it was a dress rehearsal. Then the FBI agent blocked his view of both targets as he and the granddaughter quickly carried the old man out of his sight, and the granddaughter out of his range.

  He pushed down his rage. He should have taken the FBI agent first, leaving the old man and granddaughter in his sights.

  He calmly powered down and closed his computer, gathered his coat, and tossed his empty coffee cup in the trash as he left.

  I set my elbows on the bar and rested my forehead on my raised hands, my breathing ragged. I sensed rather than saw the man seated next to me quickly get up and leave. I must have looked pretty bad. I didn’t blame him. No one wanted to be thrown up on.

  Marshall slid onto the now empty stool. “Do you need anything?” he asked quietly.

  I swallowed on a dry throat and gave the barest shake of my head as nausea threatened to overwhelm me. After a few moments, I forced it down and slowly raised my head, focusing my eyes on the countertop, then Marshall’s arm in its leather jacket, and finally his concerned face. Berta was standing close behind me, blocking me from view.

  Suddenly, it was way too warm in here. “I need to go home.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “I got it all.”

  We were back at the town house, in the office. Gerald had brought a ginger ale and saltine crackers to where I sat on the room’s small sofa. Berta was next to me, and Marshall had pulled over one of Grandad’s guest armchairs.

  The only thing that came close to describing how I felt was drunk—and not the fun kind. Instead of overindulging in alcohol, my brain had been overloaded with a psychic download of Elias Halverson’s murderous thoughts.

  I washed down a bite of cracker with more ginger ale. “It feels like I jammed a fork in a light socket. Too much, too fast. Direct current.”

  “Any theories as to why—” Berta began.

  “It has to be the chip,” I said. “It magnifies Halverson’s PK, maybe it does the same to his thoughts. I’ve been picking up impressions since I was two—or so Mom and Dad tell me—and I’ve never experienced anything close to this. The only difference between those people and Halverson—besides every kind of rampaging psychosis—is that chip. I’ve gotten impressions of killers from weapons, objects they touched, even from the bodies of their victims if they did their killing hands-on, but I’ve never felt like I had a direct link to what they were thinking. In the Hart Building’s men’s room, Halverson said that his power had been amplified when he was killing Mark Dalton.”

  “Like a guitar with an amplifier versus unplugged,” Marshall said.

  I nodded. “Good analogy. I don’t know if that’s the reason for the loudness or clarity of Halverson’s thoughts, but it’s the only explanation I’ve got.”

  “How you can do it isn’t as important as what you got from him,” Berta said.

  “What I sensed from the spot in Julian’s office was the closest to normal,” I said. “The impressions were hours old, and he stood there for only a few seconds. Dalton’s murder was fresher and much more intense, like I was inside his head as he killed. But again, he was only there for less than a minute.” I took a long drink. “He had to have sat on that stool for at least an hour, probably longer.” I turned to Berta. “What did the baristas say?”

  “They remember the guy in the corner, but he didn’t look anything like the sketch.”

  “Great. Though I’m not surprised. He’s a young, white guy who successfully impersonated an elderly black man. I wouldn’t put any disguise beyond him.”

  “I asked the one who remembered him best if she’d be willing to sit down with one of our artists. She said she’d be glad to. I can’t see Halverson using a different disguise every time. She said he came in, ordered a large coffee and sat on that stool without budging for just under two hours, focused on that laptop. It stands to reason that to be there that long, he would’ve used the disguise he felt the most comfortable with.”

  Marshall’s voice was soft. “You’re stalling.”

  “You bet I am,” I snapped.

  “What did you see?”

  I focused my eyes on a small Cezanne on the wall by the sofa in an attempt to organize my thoughts. “His first target was Julian. Poor Alan was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Halverson killed Alan because he had to get past him to reach Julian.” I paused. “And because simultaneous kills were good practice. Mark Dalton suspected where Renwick had gotten the extra money for the Entity Project. Rather than report him, Dalton had the bright idea to blackmail him to get some of that Russian money for himself and his reelection campaign. Halverson said greed killed Mark Dalton, and that he merely made the delivery. Halverson was also wearing glasses. Probably fakes, but have the artist ask the barista about them.”

  “Will do, Berta said.

  I took a deep breath. “He said Renwick told him that killing Grandad and me—”

  Berta went dangerously still. “He was supposed to kill you, too?”

  I nodded. “Renwick told him we’d be his dress rehearsal. He said, ‘The old man an
d his granddaughter know too much and could soon discover even more.’ Halverson referred to us as his first official distance kills.”

  Berta swore, and Marshall made his own contribution.

  Marshall leaned forward. “He specifically said first official?”

  “Yeah.” I took another sip to settle my stomach. “He practiced distance killing on the homeless in Franklin Square, and when he found three clustered together, killing them all at once. The son of a bitch smiled while he remembered ‘those nights in Franklin Square, strolling through the park like the Grim Reaper himself, looking for clusters of two or three huddled together.’ He said he hadn’t needed confirmation of those kills because he’d felt them die.”

  Berta’s dark eyes were on Marshall. “I can’t tell you how to do your job because I’m not an assassin, but you damned well need to do it quick.”

  “Count on it.”

  “I am. We all are.”

  “I don’t know how many he killed or when,” I continued, “but you could find out how many homeless supposedly died of heart attacks or aneurysms in the past month or so.” I took a steadying breath. “Then I saw him killing Grandad and how he pictured his heart inside his chest, imagined it clutched in his fist, struggling to beat. He squeezed harder as Grandad fell. He enjoyed it. The bastard got off on it. He kept squeezing until his view was blocked by me and Rees. He didn’t get a shot at me because we moved too quickly getting Grandad into the house. He wanted to take me and Grandad together, but Rees was in the way. After we got Grandad in the house, he said he should have taken Rees first. That would have left me and Grandad in his sights.”

  “Jesus,” Berta breathed. “Rory, I am your shadow. No, cancel that, I am your conjoined twin. Do you hear me?”

  “I thought you already were.”

  “That was unofficial. Now it’s official. At least it will be once I call Rees and tell him what you just told us.”

  My phone rang from inside my purse. I scrambled to get to it.

  Georgetown Hospital.

  I didn’t need Elias Halverson to stop my heart, it was doing a fine job by itself.

  “Aurora Donati.”

  “Ms. Donati, it’s Dr. Beck. I wanted to let you know that your grandfather is awake and talking.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “And he would like very much to see you.”

  I still felt light-headed, but now it was from profound relief. “Thank you so much, Dr. Beck. Tell him I’ll be right there.” I ended the call, grinning from ear to ear. “Grandad’s awake and talking. We’re going to the hospital.”

  I ran into the kitchen to tell Gerald. He wasn’t there, so I ran up the back stairs to his room. I knew Grandad would want to see him, too. When I came back, Berta was alone in the office.

  “Where’s Marshall?”

  Berta gave me a fierce smile. “He’s gone to do his job. He got a call, too. Elias Halverson has just been spotted near the UN.”

  Gerald brought cinnamon rolls and a thermos of coffee in case Grandad could have them, and we made a party of it. A low-key party because we were still in the ICCU, but Dr. Beck told me that if Grandad continued to improve, he would probably be moved to a private room in the cardiac unit tomorrow.

  I’d never been happier to see those blue eyes open and looking at me. His left hand had an IV attached to it, so I was holding his right hand with both of mine.

  I’d just finished telling him—quietly, of course—that his cardiac arrest had nothing to do with his health, and everything to do with a microchip-enhanced psychokinetic assassin, the same man who killed Julian, Alan, and Mark Dalton. Those were all Grandad had known about before his attack. That a PK assassin existed was more than enough for Grandad to process in his condition. I did tell him that said assassin had been seen in New York, and that the FBI and New York’s finest were coming down on him like a ton of bricks as we spoke.

  I didn’t tell him what he was likely doing there.

  Berta had filled me in on the drive to the hospital. Tomorrow morning was a UN Special Session. The newly inaugurated US president would be there in her first meeting with international leaders including the French president, Canadian prime minister, the German chancellor, and the British prime minister—any of whom could be the target of a PK assassin presumably doing the bidding of a Russian oligarch looking to impress his boss. After the special session would be a reception where world leaders would be mingling and standing together, talking and laughing, getting to know the new US president.

  Elias Halverson would see them as clusters of targets ripe for the killing as he drifted through the room disguised as a waiter, a guest, or anyone.

  I kept telling myself that the FBI knew this and that my part was over, and that the FBI and a certain CIA assassin were more than qualified to take it from here.

  “What about Barrington?” Grandad’s voice was rough from the breathing tube. “Did you find him?”

  “Yes, we did. Turned out he’s one of the good guys. Kind of. The FBI has him in a safe house, in quasi custody.”

  Grandad nodded and swallowed painfully. I helped him drink from a cup of water with a bendy straw. Dr. Beck had nixed the coffee and cinnamon rolls, but Grandad was just happy to have the scent wafting around him.

  I gave my seat to Gerald for a while. Berta had darted in and given Grandad a peck on the cheek soon after we arrived, then had stepped out to take a call. She was back now and gestured me out into the hall.

  “I thought you might like to have an update,” she said.

  “You thought right. They got him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you mean ‘not yet’?”

  Berta looked like she wanted to hit someone. “Too many head chefs in too small a kitchen, and one of them has a big mouth. Rees doesn’t know how it got out, but the Washington Post has a ‘highly placed source’ saying that Mark Dalton’s death was a murder and the person of interest is…” She reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out the sketch of Elias Halverson she’d showed the barista just hours ago.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Wish I was. This picture is online and trending.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, but heads are going to roll when Hudson finds out. And now the tin-foil-hat crowd are connecting Senator Pierce and Alan Coe to him as well.”

  “The method sucks, but since it’s true, isn’t it a good thing?”

  “Not if it’s driven Halverson to ground.”

  “Didn’t the ME release Dalton’s cause of death as an aneurysm?”

  “Official cause of death doesn’t matter if the story’s juicy and starts trending. The UN is locked down, and Rees says that place is just one clown short of being a circus.”

  “He didn’t actually say—”

  “No, but that’s what it is.”

  “Has anyone heard from Marshall?”

  Berta gave me a flat look. “He’s not a ‘phone home’ kind of guy.”

  I glanced through the door at Grandad. His eyes were closed and his chest gently rising and falling. He was asleep. Gerald was fussing with his covers.

  I went in the room, got my phone, and came back out in the hall to Berta. “Marshall said you had his number. Give it to me.”

  Berta shrugged and scrolled to her contacts. “Can’t hurt to try,” she muttered. “He likes you more than me.”

  I entered his number. “That might change.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Gabriel Marshall didn’t answer either call or text. I left a voice mail and left him alone. Hopefully our CIA assassin was a busy man.

  If he’d been a normal person, I might have been worried that something bad had happened to him, but he wasn’t normal, and I didn’t have time to worry.

  At least not about him.

  I needed to go back to the coffee shop.

  I’d been so hyperfocused on Halverson describing his kills that I might have missed a lot
. Berta told me I’d sat there for about four minutes, though it’d felt like an eternity to me. According to the barista, Elias Halverson had been there nearly two hours. There had to be more information that I could access, a lot more.

  Gerald was going to stay at the hospital with Grandad a bit longer, and one of the FBI agents said he’d arrange to see him safely home when he was ready.

  Berta and I went to my apartment to get my laptop, but rather than leave her car there, we went around the block to see if there was parking close to the coffee shop. I hoped there wouldn’t be a repeat of this morning’s link-induced nausea; but if so, I’d only have to stagger to Berta’s car.

  It was late Sunday afternoon, not a busy time for a coffee shop, so she found an open spot one space down from the door. The area directly in front had a fire hydrant.

  There were a few people inside. A couple was at one of the small corner tables, and a group of friends were relaxing on two small sofas facing each other.

  No one was sitting at the bar in front of the window.

  I went with Berta to the counter and ordered a ginger tea. In case I had a repeat, I wanted a medicinal beverage on hand.

  I sat on the stool next to Halverson’s. I wanted to better prepare myself this time. Berta took the stool next to mine.

  My phone chimed with an incoming text. I took it out of my purse and looked at it.

  Gabriel Marshall.

  I’d texted from the hospital: Have you found him?

  His response just now: NO

  I showed it to Berta. “Well, at least he’s alive. And maybe too busy to chat. Or too pissed—either at me or Halverson.”

  “Or yes to all of the above. Like I said, he’s not the phone home type. Now explain to me what we’re doing here again?”

  I glanced back at the counter. The barista Berta had spoken with earlier wasn’t there. The customers weren’t paying any attention to us, but I still kept my voice way down. “Your barista said that Halverson sat on that stool for nearly two hours. I got from Halverson’s thoughts that he was typing gibberish to look busy. Absolutely no one can stare at a screen and type nothing for that long. He had to have surfed or read. But what?”