Death Prophets (Strange Gravities Book 3)

by Steve Armstrong

  Matt rose to his feet and put his hands back on her shoulders. “That’s not true. Look, I can’t take away your depression, but I can stand by your side. But you have to hang on, okay?” Although Grace didn’t nod or respond in any other positive fashion, Matt seemed to conclude she would heed his directions. He gathered her in an impromptu embrace. “Just don’t go anywhere right now,” he said softly, his arms wrapped around her.

  “I’m supposed to meet Dr. Driscoll,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  “Okay, that’s good. Go and talk to Julia. Just don’t go anywhere else and be careful.”

  Matt stepped back but maintained his gentle but firm grasp on her shoulders, reticent to surrender her to the hands of fate. He reached out and placed his hand on Grace’s cheek, though his touch didn’t move her. Finally, he released her and disappeared through the door.

  49

  Felicia dialed the number of Chris Lonnagan’s elderly father. John had disappeared after taking the phone call, a fact which she ignored for the moment. Al Lonnagan lived in a small town in Colorado, occupying the same house where he and his wife Nancy—already deceased—raised all three of their children. Lonnagan was the last family member Felicia planned to call. A brief conversation with Garret Muller’s and Cal Walker’s mothers had netted no new information.

  Truthfully, Felicia expected to hear the same details each of the other victims’ families had reported: some accident, indirectly related to Chapman-Bower’s Disease. But that was the thing about investigative journalism—and Felicia assumed police investigations, too: anomalies could surface anywhere. So Felicia was prepared to ask the same questions all over again when the shaky voice of Al Lonnagan answered her call.

  “Hello?” Lonnagan was pushing eighty, which didn’t necessitate his memory would be diminished by dementia, though that possibility was certainly in play.

  “Hi, Mr. Al Lonnagan?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, I’m Felicia Monroe, a reporter with the Poughkeepsie Journal. I’ve been doing some research on an old story involving a break-in at Stevenson Industries, some thirty years ago.” Felicia spoke slowly so Lonnagan could process the details. “I understand your son Chris was treated there and I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

  Al Lonnagan remained quiet. “Mr. Lonnagan? Are you there?”

  “Yes, sorry Ms. Monroe. I just...that was a long time ago, is all. What did you want to know?” A short burst of coughing punctuated his question; Felicia waited for it to subside before proceeding.

  “I’m sorry to bring all of this up, sir. If it’s too much for you to talk about, we don’t have to.” Felicia possessed no intention of giving up so easily, but a softer tactic with the senior gentlemen would most likely yield better results.

  “No, it’s alright. You just caught me off guard is all.”

  After thirty years, who else remembered Chris Lonnagan? High school classmates, maybe, and family members. But how many of these consciously thought of Lonnagan on a regular basis? Certainly, his father did.

  “Okay, but if any of my questions make you uncomfortable, please let me know.” Felicia prepared to launch into her scripted questions: side effects, Stevenson Industries, and cause of death. “Just before your son passed, the facility where he was being treated was broken into. Did you know anything about that?”

  “No, can’t say as though I did. Chris was planning to go back in a few weeks for another round of treatment. But since he died before that, we never really had much more contact with that place.”

  “Did Stevenson Industries contact you after your son’s death?”

  “Yeah, once they did. Just after he passed. I guess they wanted to see if he’d experienced any improvements.”

  “Had he?”

  “Chris thought he was doing better. Thought his balance was better. We were starting to get a little hopeful.”

  “Did Chris experience any side effects while he was treated? Could be anything at all: nausea, headaches, mood swings?”

  Lonnagan was overcome by another coughing fit. “Excuse me. I’m fighting a cold. Chris did seem a bit moodier, though he was always kind of a high strung kid, so it was hard to tell. Everything else seemed normal.”

  That ruled out telekinesis, which certainly would have seemed out of place. “How was he moody? Was it anger? Sadness?”

  “More anger. He snapped at me and his mother a few times. Once, he put his fist through a wall.”

  “And that was unusual?”

  “Yeah, at least, to that extent it was. I just figured it was the disease taking its toll. That’s a hard thing for anyone to handle, but especially for a young guy like Chris. He was only twenty-two, you know?”

  “Yes, that is really young. I’m truly sorry for your loss,” Felicia said.

  “Thank you. It was hard for all of us to take,” Lonnagan said, coughing again.

  “Did you ever meet any of the other patients who were receiving the same experimental treatment Chris was?”

  “Yeah, actually. One of them was there the day Chris died.”

  Felicia crinkled her forehead. “Do you remember who?” According to the timeline she’d established, all of the other test patients had died when Chris took his fateful fall.

  “It’s been so long, I just can’t….no, I can’t remember. But I think he was from the Midwest or something. Pretty sure he was, anyway.”

  Midwest ruled out Cal Walker, Garrett Muller, and George Oliver. The only person she knew who fit the description was Greg Tolliver. “Was his name Greg Tolliver?”

  “Could have been. Young guy. A little older than Chris, but still really young.”

  “What happened to Chris? How did he pass?” Felicia asked delicately, conjuring whatever sympathy she could manage.

  “He fell down the stairs. We lived in one of those big farmhouses. I didn’t like Chris using the stairs because of his problems, but he was feeling better and wanted to show his friend around. On their way down, I guess Chris lost his balance and fell. He fractured his skull.”

  “I’m really sorry, sir.”

  Felicia’s condolences were followed by the conversation’s first prolonged pause.

  “You know, I always wondered if he would’ve gotten better, if maybe the treatments would have worked if he just had more time. Guess we’ll never know,” Lonnagan finally said, his voice full of resignation.

  “What happened to Chris’ friend after the accident?”

  “I don’t really remember. Didn’t really pay much attention to him. He was there at the hospital when Chris was pronounced dead, then he kind of disappeared. Every so often over the years, I wondered about him, and if he made it. But I didn’t know how to reach him. Couldn’t even remember his name properly.” Lonnagan chuckled—the kind of chuckle that often resulted in a sigh. “I don’t know if I helped you much, Ms. Monroe.”

  “No, you did. I really appreciate your help.”

  “What were you hoping to find out, anyway?”

  “The police have reopened an investigation into that break-in because someone was killed at the same Pharmaceutical company. Your son and the rest of the test patients came up, so I thought speaking to the families involved might give me some context for the story. They’ll probably never solve who broke in and killed Dr. Banks.”

  “Yeah. Well, like I said, it was a long time ago.”

  “Thank you again for your time. Take care, Mr. Lonnagan.”

  Felicia had heard the oft-repeated idea that nothing hurt more than burying your child, even if that child was a grown man. She’d interviewed people who had. Nothing ever replaced the crater formed by that loss: not other children, not grandchildren, not anything. Some day down the line, Chris Lonnagan would be an afterthought to Felicia, a name replaced by so many other facts she would uncover in her lifetime. But Al Lonnagan would always remember Chris, even if his seemingly intact memory started to splinter.

  Felicia pondered that possibility as her
phone chimed. It was a message from John. Going after Josh Williams in Warwick. Will let you know what happens. So that was where John had disappeared to. Felicia slammed her phone down, torn by the feeling that she should be there to help bring Williams in and a strong desire to never see the telekinetic again in her life.

  50

  Pacing his motel room, Josh Williams stopped occasionally to check his phone. Jessie hadn’t texted him back, yet. That fact in and of itself shouldn’t have been alarming, even in an age when most people expected immediate responses from their communication. But Parker’s words had unnerved him: war was coming, whether he wanted to believe it or not.

  Parker should have known best if his stark declaration was true. God only knew how many years he had wandered the earth, traipsing across continents in an effort to escape the grasp of Stevenson Industries. So Josh had heeded his de facto mentor’s advice and had thrown a stone into the water. Now he would see how far the ripples went. Williams’ power was growing and flowing more naturally. His hands trembled ever so slightly.

  Once again, Josh checked his phone. No messages. What if they had come for Jessie already? A pair of men in suits could have easily tailed her to work and waited until she went on lunch break. They’d shove her into a car just like they dragged him into a van. But maybe that was just paranoia. He had to believe a conglomeration with the resources of Stevenson Industries could have easily tracked down Jessie already. But they hadn’t.

  Josh walked over to his window and peeled back the curtain. The parking lot of the basic inn that offered hourly rates was quiet. Had he been followed after completing his errand? He looked up and down the parking lot as far as the window in the room allowed him. Nothing seemed amiss.

  Josh glanced at his phone again on the off chance it had failed to alert him to a new message. Again, nothing. He couldn’t stand more waiting and resolved to go to the mall and make sure Jessie was there in the least stalkerish way he could manage.

  Grabbing his coat, Josh walked back over to the window. As he pulled the jacket over his shoulders, he surveyed the parking lot again. A gray Ford Crown Victoria, like the kind police used, was pulling into the lot. Taxi companies used similar vehicles, too. But no company lettering marked the side. The car pulled into a spot on the far side of the lot. A man of medium build wearing a trench-coat climbed out of the car and approached the motel office. He certainly looked the part of a cop.

  Josh was about to make a break for it when his phone finally chimed. The message came from Jessie’s phone, but it was not what he expected: a picture of Jessie tied and gagged with the brief caption, You know where to find her. The terror in her eyes caused him to drop his phone. This woman who had endured so much violence and hatred had now been abducted.

  War had come. Parker was right. And Josh would help his new friend finish it.

  51

  John was already on edge when he met Detective Franklin at the Warwick Motor Inn. This was not how he wanted his next confrontation with Josh Williams to occur. The original plan he and Matt had designed involved John distracting Williams while Matt hit him with a tranquilizer gun or a taser, depending on how far away he was from Williams. After that, the plan got murky. Matt suggested killing Williams, an idea John had instantly struck down.

  But Franklin’s insistence on following the lead left behind at the crime scene in Windfall—as any good cop would have—had forced Harrison’s hand. John couldn’t allow Franklin to confront Williams by himself. Though Williams might have brushed the encounter off with denials, if backed into a corner, the telekinetic might unleash his powers on the unsuspecting detective. Matt was en route, but might not be there soon enough to assist the detectives. And how would John explain to Detective Franklin why they had tranquilized their suspect, especially if they hadn’t been given just cause or why John’s private investigator brother was involved? They would have to improvise now.

  Franklin emerged from the motel office and headed down the paved walkway that led between rooms on the multilevel motel.

  “I just talked to the desk clerk. He recognized the photo of Williams you gave me and said he’s in room 115, which is down this way,” Franklin said, skipping over the usual pleasantries.

  John followed him down the walkway. Room 115 was only three doors down. Franklin pulled open his trench coat, exposing his sidearm.

  “Is this guy armed and dangerous?” Franklin asked.

  “I don’t recommend guns,” John said, after hesitating a bit.

  Franklin narrowed his eyes and glared at John. “So is that a yes?”

  “He is dangerous. But he’s much more dangerous if he feels cornered. Williams most likely doesn’t want to hurt us. He wants to hurt people who in his mind are guilty or are threatening him.” At least, John hoped that was true. Williams had reasonably conformed to that pattern in the past, but enough variables existed in the man’s psyche to doubt how he’d react to the detectives’ presence.

  “Most likely? Don’t you have anything more concrete than that to offer me?”

  “Just trust me. I want to get us both home alive.”

  “Alright, if you say so.” Franklin withdrew his hand and let the coat drop back over his holster.

  They reached door 115. Before Franklin could knock, the door opened. The deceptively ordinary face of Josh Williams greeted them. Franklin stepped back. “Josh Williams?”

  The telekinetic, seemingly stunned himself, didn’t answer.

  “We have some questions for you in connection with some recent homicides,” Franklin said, his tone remaining even. Though it was Franklin addressing him, Williams looked only at Harrison.

  “I can’t do this now. They have her.” Despite Williams’ generic use of pronouns, Harrison knew exactly which ‘her’ and ‘they’ he was talking about.

  “What are you talking about? Who has her?” Franklin asked.

  “Please, you need to stay out of my way. I have to help her,” Williams said, his voice desperate.

  Franklin’s hand dropped to his side, a motion that caught Josh’s attention. Williams’ eyes steeled over.

  “Josh, please calm down,” John said. He searched for what he could offer Williams. If John had been right about Williams, he was a killer, now four times over. He couldn’t dangle freedom or assistance for Williams’ unique issues with any confidence. So he offered the only thing he could. “I can help Jessie. But you can’t keep going down this path. Innocent people are going to get hurt.”

  “The people I’m going after aren’t innocent,” Williams said.

  John hesitated. Williams might have been right. He wasn’t sure Thomas Wilson or Jack Walton qualified as innocent. But Williams didn’t get to play God.

  “I’m only asking you once more,” Williams said, his tone rising. “Get out of my way or I will move you out of my way.”

  Franklin, who had been watching this entire scene unfold with his hand only inches from his service weapon, now went for it. But before he could even reach underneath his coat, Williams sent him lunging through the air and onto his back, nearly ten feet away from the door. Williams turned his attention to John, who remained static.

  “I’m walking out this door and you better not stop me,” Williams warned.

  Franklin, initially stunned by the harsh impact against the pavement, now struggled to reach his weapon. With a swipe of Williams’ hand, the detective was hurtled into a nearby car, ricocheting to the ground with a thud.

  John knew he couldn’t stop Williams. Not like this, anyway. He’d never draw his weapon in time to take down Josh. As it was, John was completely at Williams’ mercy. All he could do was stall and hope Matt showed up soon.

  “How do you know Stevenson Industries has Jessie?” John asked.

  “They sent me a text on Jessie’s phone with a picture of her tied up. They told me that I’d know where to find her.” His voice shook with rage. Williams’ demeanor was spiraling out of control.

  “Can I see the text
?” John asked. Williams eyed him suspiciously, so John raised his arms and held them high. Though his gaze remained piercing, Williams took out his phone and showed the most recent text to Harrison. John winced at the sight of the fearful woman.

  “I know you’re angry right now, Josh, but I need you to think. I can use this photo and get a warrant to search Stevenson Industries. You can’t just go in there alone. Nothing good will happen. And Jessie might get hurt in the process.”

  “I don’t plan to go in there alone,” Williams said, his visage fierce.

  Out of the corner of his eyes, John saw a familiar Hyundai pull up along the street next to the motel. John hoped that Williams had somehow missed the vehicle while he was gazing at his phone. Offhand, John guessed that Matt’s car was fifty yards away, which was in range for Matt to target Williams, though it would require quite a shot. John had gone to the range with Matt before and knew his brother was a skilled marksman. Still, their best hope for taking down Williams involved getting him closer to Matt. It didn’t help that the .32 gauge rifle was just a tad bit conspicuous—not that they had time for such considerations, anyway.

  John stepped back and away from Williams to give Matt a clearer shot. If Matt did manage to strike Williams, they weren’t out of the clear. The hope was that the tranquilizer would incapacitate Williams enough to allow John to tase him and give the tranquilizer more time to take effect.

  “Fine, you want to go Josh, then go. I know I can’t stop you. But don’t get Jessie killed. You’ll never forgive yourself if you do.”

  John stepped to the side, giving Williams a clear path to depart. Williams started to move forward but then stopped. “Sorry, Detective, I can’t have you following me-”

  Before Williams could complete his thought, a dart hurtled through the air, followed by a thud as it struck Williams on the shoulder. A good shot, but not good enough. The sedative wouldn’t take effect through that impact point. Williams turned toward the shooter. John reached for his taser but found himself flying through the air through the open motel room door. From the floor, he could see a man wearing a red hoodie enter the parking lot from the street. John couldn’t see Matt, but his Elantra suddenly flipped over.