“Did you hear me?” she said in a low voice. “I couldn’t get it close enough. It won’t work. I’ll have to put him out.” Her purse strap was on her shoulder now, and she was holding one hand to her ear. The other hand was under her jacket as if she was getting something from an inside pocket.
Who the hell is she talking to? Harvey asked.
I scanned the intersection. There was no one else within fifty feet of her.
“I have no choice,” she complained. “He’s too dangerous.”
At that moment, I felt the familiar pressure and buildup of heat in my forehead and then that shooting pain across my temples. The base of my skull tingled. I leaned against the traffic-signal pole and rubbed my forehead. The concussion’s aftereffects were lingering much too long. I probably should have stayed in bed, I thought.
Then a new but smaller crack snapped across one lens of my spectacles, and I realized this had nothing to do with my concussion. As the odd feeling wore off, I glanced back across the street. The woman I’d bumped into only a moment earlier was lying sprawled out and face down on the sidewalk.
Disregarding the red light, I sprinted back to her side, knelt down and gently rolled her onto her back. Her eyelids were half-open. Her pupils were dilated. I touched her neck to get a pulse, but felt nothing. I saw no rise or fall from her chest.
By now, several people had gathered, and I called out, “Does anyone have a cell phone?”
“I do,” a man on a bicycle said. He pulled it out of a blue fanny pack that matched his blue shirt and biker pants and then punched the keypad four times with his finger.
A man in a small Volvo parked at the curb and came trotting up just as I pulled the lady’s chin down and checked her airway, preparing to give her rescue breaths and chest compressions. Her teeth were crooked. Her thin face was somehow familiar.
It’s the woman in the dream, Superman. Lieutenant Iron Pants, remember?
“My god,” I said aloud. It was her, Lieutenant Vanzandtz, but she’d aged a good fifteen years since this morning’s dream.
The man from the Volvo interrupted my thoughts. “Kindly let me through, please. I am a doctor.” His skin was dark as a Hershey bar, and his accent sounded Pakistani or Indian. He wedged his rotund body through the bystanders. “May I be assisting you?”
“No breathing or pulse,” I said, as a faint siren blared in the distance.
Damn fast, wasn’t it? Harvey said. Too fast.
The doctor said, “Everyone kindly stand back, please.”
As I moved away to give him room, the woman’s coat fell open, exposing a handgun. It was tucked into a webbed holster and neatly harnessed to her side. The holster’s flap was unsnapped.
Nine-millimeter Makarov? Harvey asked.
I thought he was correct. But how in hell did I know? I couldn’t remember ever caring about guns or ever actually firing one, let alone knowing one brand from another. And more puzzling, how did this Harvey persona inside my mind know?
Then I noticed that the pistol barrel had an extension on it.
Silencer!
I looked at her face and saw that she wore an earpiece—like the GI Joes.
She was going to kill you, Superman!
Again, Harvey was being ridiculous. That didn’t make sense. Why would the woman want to kill me? She was probably a cop, or some sort of special agent in town on business. Maybe that earpiece was only a hearing aid. Her holster flap had come open when she fell. All that made sense—except for the silencer.
The dark-skinned doctor began giving the woman chest compressions with clasped hands. He then moved back to her head, more agile than I would have expected a man of his bulk might be. He held her nose and, with his mouth covering hers, gave her two breaths.
The ambulance came around the corner, its lights strobing, and its siren fell silent as it stopped in the street.
I backed away and watched along with a small crowd of seven or eight people while the EMTs took over the CPR from the doctor.
“She’s not responding,” one of them said.
“Load her up,” another one said, and they swiftly, yet skillfully gathered her, placed her on the gurney and took her to the ambulance.
Within thirty seconds, the small crowd and I were left to watch the back of the emergency vehicle driving away.
The doctor stepped up to me. “Poor woman. Did she speak to you of having problems?”
“No,” I answered. “Except when I passed her in the street, some idiot blasted his horn at us, and we bumped into each other. It scared her so much she spilled her purse all over the street. We got it picked up and then went in opposite directions. She did seem to be talking to herself for a moment. The next thing I knew she’d collapsed.”
“It may be found to be a heart attack. One never knows when their heart might simply stop beating. They are more delicate machines than we wish to think.” He looked up at me. “My name is Rajiv Shekhar.”
“Glad to meet you, Dr. Shekhar. I’m Robert Weller.”
“It is truly an honor. Not everyone on the street would react as you did. But please, you must call me Rajiv.”
“Rajiv,” I repeated and shook the man’s small, pudgy hand.
“Well, I must go. It has been a long night—working at Mount Rainy Biotronics, you know. I hope we will meet again under more pleasant circumstances.”
I nodded as serious doubt crept into my mind as to whether or not I would ever again be a part of “more pleasant circumstances.”
* * *
Major Jackson sat with Sunny in the DPV while the lieutenant and sergeant kept guard nearby. He scanned their small encampment. Things were peaceful now—the wind still, no sounds, human or animal. Jax wondered how long the calm would last.
Sunny was rubbing her temples. It had been a couple of minutes since she stumbled through from the hole in the fence, tossed off her ghillie and collapsed in the DPV. Her expression made it evident she had not been successful. Her mouth was drawn, her eyes low and her cheeks were flush. She appeared distraught and in pain.
Corporals Tippin and Dorsey had returned directly behind Sunny. As they threw their camouflage ghillies to the side, they’d apologized to Jax about their failure. They didn’t understand how they’d been thwarted. Weller seemed to be armed with some kind of self-defense weapon that created intense pain to whoever accosted him—“Like some kind of electric eel,” Dorsey had said.
Frustrated, Jax had instructed them to get back into their black military fatigues.
Jax allowed Sunny a moment to catch her breath and gather her thoughts before he asked, “How’s the head, Sunny?” He touched her shoulder.
“Better. I’ve had these killer headaches for the past two years—since Dan disappeared. Lately, the pain’s had company, a kind of tingling.” She moved her hands to her face and stroked her closed eyes with her fingertips for a moment, then looked at Jax, a kind of ironic smile on her face, tears pooling in her eyes. “I almost had Weller, Jax. If it wasn’t for that damn patrol car.”
Jax nodded sympathetically. “We’ll have to rethink snatching Weller. He seems to be able to thwart any unwanted contact. Tippin and Dorsey didn’t have a chance. You may be the only one who will be able to get him. Do you feel up to trying again?”
Sunny nodded. “I’m sure I can coax him to come with me, but I don’t think we’ll be able to make it all the way back here without stopping. I need a midway point. Set up some sort of safe haven. I’ll need a little time to do some considerable convincing.”
Jax pulled out the plastic pouch from beside his seat. He opened it, took out several satellite photos and held them on his knee where Sunny could study them also. The two browsed through the photos.
“First of all, we need to find out where Weller is now.” He placed his index finger at specific points on the pictures as he spoke. “Our most accurate remote viewer has identified several places in the town, but I haven’t had contact with her lately. Weller could be at this
hardware store or even several miles farther out at the Biotronics facility. That might make things difficult.”
“If he’s in the town, I’ll find him,” Sunny said and pointed at a small rectangle on one of the photos. “What’s this?”
“Let me look.” Jax brought out a piece of paper that had been under the pictures, and he unfolded it. On the paper was a list of locations in reference to the photos.
Sunny was studying him. “Jax, I thought the Defense Department’s remote viewing team was made up of only five RVs—you’ve mentioned six. This one remote viewer who’s been correct on everything so far—the one you just called ‘her’. . . who is it?”
Jax stared at the paper in his hand without an answer. How could he keep credibility with her if he told her the truth?
“Jax?”
Perhaps she would understand. After all, Sunny seemed to have some sort of paranormal connection with Dan, and she obviously believed in his abilities. Jax glanced to a bracelet made of colorful beads on his wrist, and then thumbed the small arrowhead laced to it. He glanced up at Sunny, realizing the sadness in his own eyes but unable to wipe away the emotion.
“Your warrior’s bracelet?” Sunny asked. “Moonfeather?” She put her hand on his. “Your wife? Jax, she’s been gone for more than four years.”
Jax turned back to the bracelet, and he spoke slower than he intended, knowing she was staring at him still astounded. “It started over three weeks ago. Her words just appeared on the laptop monitor—seemed to come from nowhere, untraceable. Had nearly two dozen messages pop up since then. I know it’s her.” This was no place for emotions that wouldn’t do any good—sentiment that wasted time. He cleared his throat, and his attention went back to the list accompanying the photos. “The building might be a motel.”
A long moment passed before Sunny said, “A motel?”
He was thankful he’d been able to redirect her. “Appearances, Sunny. Most mountain towns this size have at least one motel for the tourists and visitors. They probably use it for their guests, visiting dignitaries and scientists, perhaps.”
She smiled at Jax. “Maybe I can find a vacancy.”
Chapter 10
The crowd dispersed, and I hastened on my way, becoming more concerned and anxious about all of the morning’s odd happenings by the minute. The simultaneous cracking of my glasses, recurring pain in my head and the woman falling dead could have been coincidental—still I was befuddled by it all. Without being able to make a logical connection, I shoved it to the back of my mind with the already mountainous pile of befuddlements I’d tossed there.
I thought about what Rajiv had said, that the human heart was more fragile than most people think. Seeing the lady die like that reminded me of how quickly a life can terminate. I should be thankful for every minute my wife, son and I had, no matter what fate awaited us. Regardless of Dr. Xiang’s prognosis this afternoon, I would be thankful for our time together.
I bid cautious hellos to several more people on the street, a number of them fellow merchants. Some of them I knew, but I was a little surprised I didn’t recognize more—a strange thing, memory. Doc Xiang told me that in order to retain experiences in memory, specific connections had to be made in the brain. If those connections weren’t made, neither were the memories. Or if they were somehow jostled loose, those memories would be lost. Many of mine had been jostled considerably and, according to the doctor, there’d be little chance of retrieving most of them. “Do not worry,” Doc Xiang had said. “Go out and make new and happier ones.” I was trying to take my doctor’s advice, but even since the accident on Friday morning, I’d had experiences I couldn’t remember. The doctor told me that would be temporary. I hoped he was correct.
When I reached my hardware store, I noticed the front display windows could use a good washing. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d cleaned them. Fumbling for my keys, I looked up at the traffic in the street. It was still sparse, but one of the drivers happened to catch my eye as he drove past. He looked at me with an emotionless stare. Again, the shooting pain struck my temples, and the base of my skull tingled. It was less severe as if I had become more tolerant of the pain, and I shrugged it off.
As I pushed open the door, again the sound of screeching tires came from the street, this time accompanied by a crash. When I stepped back outside, several cars had stopped. Then, across the street and about four shops down, I saw the back end of the vehicle that’d passed a moment earlier hanging out of Calamity’s Café. It was a dark-blue Ford van. The guy who had honked at us before the woman died—his van was dark blue, also.
It’s the same guy.
Unlikely, I told Harvey as I jogged across the street. Two men were pulling the driver out of the van. A navy-blue suit coat fell out of the door as they laid him on the tile floor of the café. It was the same man. Body limp. Eyes half-open. No obvious injuries. The van’s windshield had not been broken. Clipped to his collar was a wire, an earpiece hanging from the end, just like the one the woman, Lieutenant Vanzandtz and the two GI Joes was wearing.
A waitress behind the counter picked up a telephone and punched three numbers. The two men worked on the driver, attempting to revive him. Within a minute, sirens blared once again, and I realized I could do nothing except get in the way. I walked away stunned, dodging the traffic as the ambulance pulled up.
Back at my store, I tried to bury myself in my work, but I couldn’t concentrate, a heavy fog seeming to settle over any sort of normal thought. Remembering Michelle had told me I kept an extra pair of glasses in the desk drawer, I checked. They were there in a cushioned case next to a new box of pencils. I took off the cracked pair I was wearing, put on the replacements and slipped the broken ones back into the protective pouch.
I tried to call Michelle, but the line was busy. Then, I called Chief Dailey’s office and left a message with the desk sergeant, asking for the Chief to call me back. He did right away. I told him that I had been near the woman who had fallen dead earlier, and I sensed that he understood my stress. He told me that he and his two officers on duty had been delayed on the other side of town at a minor traffic accident. He tried to calm me—assuring that he would keep tabs on Michelle and our house. I also told him about the GI Joes. He said that he saw two men fitting their description leaving town a few minutes earlier and not to worry—he reiterated that he would check in on Michelle—would stop by our house right away. I was relieved.
Again, I tried to involve my mind into the busy work on my desktop. Next to the desk, I found the packages Mike Wu had left for me, collected from Frank’s Barbershop on Saturday. Then I reviewed the UPS bills of lading a number of times to ensure the orders were correct. At eight thirty, I replaced the battery in my old watch but it did no good. The second hand still didn’t move. I tossed the watch in the trash and picked out a new, moderately priced Seiko from the display case, set the correct time, and stuck an IOU in my register so I wouldn’t forget when I did the daily books.
Having a new watch didn’t keep time from dragging. I called Paul’s Pest Control and got the machine. I left a message about our little houseguest, and within ten minutes a woman called back. She said Paul had a cancellation and would go right out. “Live traps,” I told her and “Release him in a nice field somewhere.” She said that would not be a problem.
The line was still busy when I tried to call Michelle again. I figured she was talking to Colorado Power and Light about our power surge and outage problem, to the insurance company or maybe to one of her friends. I followed up with a call to the electric company’s main office in Summitview, just in case. I found it odd when, once again, I got voice mail. Sure, they were probably busy with the power outage, but what was the world coming to? Soon, there would be no more two-way human phone conversations. Only human/machine messages. Or perhaps machines calling machines.
Yeah, have your voice mail call my voice mail, and we’ll do a conference-call lunch, Harvey said.
Again, after
I left a message with the utility company, a woman called back. She said she did have a record of a Michelle Weller calling only a few minutes before. She promised to send a service order immediately with the hopes a technician might respond soon. However, the outage seemed to cover a good part of the east edge of town, which included over a hundred homes, and she could not give any promises. I asked her to do the best she could, as if that would do any good, and I also asked her to have the service person bring a claim form for the television and any other appliances we found had been damaged. She said she would, but our homeowners insurance would probably have to take care of it.
Sure, pass the buck, Harvey said.
Then, I realized the possibility that our home phone could have been affected by the power surge, also. I hadn’t checked it before leaving for work. Perhaps that was why the line had been busy. But I remembered hearing the Banks’ telephone ringing, and he lived only a couple of blocks from our place. Still, I called the phone company, and I was surprised actually to be connected to a human. The guy in customer service said what I’d expected. He checked our line and found it not working. There’d been no other complaints from my area, so the power surge seemed to have only affected our home phone. Neither Michelle or I had cell phones—she must have called the utility company from the neighbors. The service rep told me they had someone in the Gold Rush area, and our service should be restored soon.
I briefly considered closing the shop and walking home to check on Michelle. She’d be upset if I did. So much required my attention here at the store. She was a big girl. She would surely go to the neighbors and call or drive the eight blocks to the store if she needed anything. The phone would be working again soon, anyway. Besides, Chief Dailey was watching over her. I had nothing to fear.
A number of customers stopped in, but they mostly wanted to talk about the van accident, so mainly I listened. One man had been there when they took the driver away, dead at the scene. The EMTs had told him the victim was probably dead before the crash—heart attack.
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