“How have you been doing, Clayton?” Walter asked as he strode up to the man in smocks. Clayton stood just over five feet and was about as wide as a bamboo pole. He was the local Crime Scene Investigator. This was probably his biggest case in years though he sure didn’t show it.
The man twisted and looked up at Walter. “Good. And you?” Clayton didn’t talk much. His conversations were generally brief and to the point.
“I’m good. As you can see, I’m eating well,” he chuckled.
Clayton didn’t seem to get the fat joke. He ran a bony hand through his thick, unruly gray hair. From the back, his head could have passed for that of the late, and great, Albert Einstein.
“So, Walter began, “what do we have here?”
“Apparently three men were involved in an altercation. Two of the men are lying here on the floor, dead. The other man ran away. What the fight was about hasn’t been determined yet.”
“Okay. Can you be more specific on how they died?”
“No. I can be more precise after the autopsy.”
“Then speculate. I won’t hold you to it.”
The man nodded. “Alright. I think my opinion will hold up anyway.” He turned and looked at the two bodies as though to support his decision. He turned back. “The nearest body to us, a male Caucasian died from blunt force injuries to the face and head. Most likely the blows were from fists, chairs, tables, and any of an assortment of debris scattered about.” He paused and looked around as though considering if he needed to add anything. “The other body,” he continued, “is a black male. He died from a splintered chair leg that pierced his chest cavity. In fact, most of the wood is still lodged inside him.”
“These two men are pretty big. Looks like they could play a little football.”
“Yep. Guess they weren’t good fighters though.”
“Guess not. Any witnesses?”
“Many, but most of them ran out when the fight escalated. I think the few who hung around are in the kitchen.”
“Good,” Walter said. “You’ve been a lot of help.”
“Part of the job.”
“It was nice seeing you again.”
“Uh-huh,” he answered, and turned back to his corpses.
Walter made his way back to the front door where Art was still standing, intending to ask him about speaking to the witnesses. This time there was another cop standing next to him. Walter didn’t recognize him though he had thought that he knew everyone on the force.
“Art,” Walter said, walking up to him. “I understand there are some witnesses.”
“Sure,” he answered. “But first, have you met Howard here?” He motioned with his head to the stout man standing beside him. The man carried broad shoulders, a thick sinewy neck, and a head about as large as a bull’s.
“No. You must be new to the force.” Walter smiled and stretched out a fat hand to the other man.”
“First day,” he said, and grasped a firm hand around Walter’s hand.
Walter felt it immediately. He clenched his teeth and struggled to keep the smile on his face. It was as if he had stuck his hand into a live electrical panel. An experience he had not had in quite some time. Quickly, the inevitable pictures began to flash inside his head.
CHAPTER 3
He finally slowed to a walk. It seemed to him that he had been running for the last hour.
He didn’t know where he was going, or entirely what he was running away from. He just knew that those sudden blasts of memories he had experienced in the back seat of the police car tied him to the fight at the restaurant and he didn’t relish the idea of languishing in jail awaiting trial. Especially when he had no idea if he were guilty or innocent.
He couldn’t imagine that he could have killed anyone. At least, not without severe provocation. But, then again, he had no idea what type of person he was or used to be. Maybe he had just developed a conscious as the result of whatever trauma it was that had struck him.
He figured that he had lost his pursuers. Only minutes after his escape he had heard the cars screeching to a halt, some commotion, and a bit of shouting. But even then, he was too far away to see anything. At once he had quickened his pace and the noise behind him had quickly dissipated. He had, however, continued running. He ran as if in a trance, only aware of what was directly in front of him.
He wasn’t winded. Apparently, he had kept himself in pretty good shape, aerobically as well as some weight training. He was somewhat astonished at the ease with which he had snapped the handcuff chain.
He looked up into the heavens. The night had finally slid across the sky engulfing what was left of the day leaving in its place a scattering of twinkling stars and a quarter moon to illuminate an otherwise black stretch of woods. But that was okay. Oddly, the darkness had a way of settling him and allowed him the clarity to decide what he should do next.
He continued to stroll as he thought not aware of where he was going only the need to keep moving as he tried to make sense of the few facts that he knew. He first needed to know who he was. The policeman had called him Stone. “Stone,” he said the name aloud as he had done before hoping that this time there would be something. Perhaps, an inkling of familiarity. Maybe a stirring inside him. But again, nothing. He could just as well be a nameless nomad wandering the streets.
So, besides the name, who was he? What did he do for a living? What had been his aspirations? His dreams? Who were his friends? Was he married? Nothing came to mind. His past was blank as though he never existed.
He thought of his driver’s license. That proved that he indeed had a past. And more. It would contain some pertinent information. His address if nothing else.
He slid his wallet out of his back pocket as he came upon a slight clearing. Spotting a tall, thick pine tree he slid down against it propping his back against the big trunk. He slipped his license out of its sheath and held it up to the vapid light of the partial moon.
He read the address. One twenty-four South River is what it said. Again, there was no stirring from deep inside him. He had wished that he would have felt something.
The age on the license said that he was twenty-three. He almost laughed but caught himself. What was the joke? Was his subconscious mind trying to tell him something? He closed his eyes in frustration. Perhaps instead of his mind trying to tell him something, it was trying to hide something from him. Something that was better left hidden.
CHAPTER 4
Mayor Byron Jenson stepped quickly over to the long oak table, a cup of hot coffee in one hand, his dark gray suit jacket unbuttoned, and his gray and white striped tie hanging loosely around his neck. His demeanor was stern. The wrinkles on his face looked deeper than usual, his eyes sharp, but missing a bit of the confidence they often contained. He sat down gingerly as though the chair might not hold his weight.
He hadn’t been mayor long. Less than a year, in fact. But it was enough time to settle in and get his own people into positions. He had big plans and expectations far greater than this pissant mayor’s job.
Getting voted in wasn’t a problem. Not after the former mayor had his unfortunate ‘accident’. After he had passed there was no other worthy opponent to run against him. Still, it was good that many of his own people had become residents and were able to legally add to the vote. Just in case.
Right now, he had a rather troublesome problem facing him. It was one that he believed to be tenable if he took care of it quickly. If not, it had the potential to spiral out of control.
Four people were already at the table. Three men, and one woman. Two of the men and the one woman looked to be in the mid-twenties to early thirties. One man appeared to be in his fifties. All of them were dressed casually except for the older man who was wearing designer dress slacks, a custom made shirt, and an expensive necktie.
“I’m not crazy about discussing this kind of business in my office,” the mayor began, “so let’s get this over with. I’ve got other matters to attend to.” He
turned to the one woman in the room.
“Mira, fill me in.”
Mira Capilano was tall, her body somewhat slim, but muscular like that of a professional gymnast. Her hair was auburn, mostly straight, but curled somewhat as it reached her shoulders. Her face was delicate, her eyes a soft brown. In all the totality of her features successfully belied the strength and aggressiveness that the woman possessed.
“Yesterday,” Mira began, “we picked up an unusual reading coming from somewhere near the Abbott farm. As you know we routinely monitor the farm since that is where we store some of our more sensitive material. The reading was brief so we didn’t think too much of it. Sometimes solar flares will create certain anomalies like this. But, after eliminating all known causes we were still left with the questions. It was then that I decided to send over two of our guys to investigate.”
“And what did they find?” the mayor asked.
“Nothing. Not at the farm.”
“So, how did they pick up on this guy?” Jessie Donne asked. He was five feet, ten inches tall, medium build with short-cropped blonde hair. A dragon tattoo snuck out from the right sleeve of his black pullover shirt. He was the owner and manager of the only established night club in town. His club specialized in all types of rock music.
“This man,” Mira began, “who appears to be in his late twenties, was almost to the restaurant when our guys spotted him. Stone Wilson is the name he goes by. Has anyone heard of him?”
“No, doesn’t ring a bell,” Jessie Donne answered. The others in the room shook their head no.
“Anyway,” Mira continued, “my guys hadn’t seen this Stone person around town, and since he was walking away from the Abbott farm they felt it right to stop and ask him some questions. When they had gotten close to him, they picked up some irregular electrical pulses on the meter. An electronic type signature though they were unable to say what it was. They called me and I told them not to question him, but to follow him until I could decide what this meant. If I thought this important, I would consult with the mayor on what he wants to do.”
“So, Mira, I assume you never had any contact with your guys once they reached the restaurant?” Neil Thomson asked. He was the head of the largest security company for over a hundred miles and was a friend or acquaintance with most of the Nexus city cops.
“No. And they weren’t supposed to have any contact with him. I don’t know what happened.”
“Do you know anything about this guy?” Stanton Bach asked. He was well dressed, slightly overweight, and had a head full of gray hair. He was the oldest of the group. He was a city councilman and owner of the only luxury car dealership in Nexus.
“No. But seeing how he handled our two men I think it important that we find him.”
“What about the cops, Neil?” the mayor asked. “Do they know anything?”
“Not to my knowledge. I’ll casually ask around, see what I can find out.”
“Good. I’ve got a bad feeling that he could be trouble for us?”
“I agree,” Mira answered. “But assuming he hadn’t left the area I believe we can track him through this electronic signature he’s putting out.”
The mayor nodded. “Okay. Take care of it.”
CHAPTER 5
Walter Jackson lumbered down the winding nature trail pausing occasionally to gaze about at his surroundings. He was searching for something he had seen in his mind the day before.
Yesterday, while shaking hands with Howard, the rookie policeman, he had felt the familiar shock, -like that from a low voltage electric wire - course through his body. He had gritted his teeth as it sluiced through him, fighting off any other reaction that might reveal the fact that something odd was going on within him. Luckily, the sensation passed quickly, and no one seemed to notice. Immediately the pictures had begun to flash in his mind. Brief seconds later they had also passed.
He had not had this experience in nearly a year now. And this was the first time it had come with a mere handshake. Prior to yesterday all of his experiences had occurred after touching inanimate objects, such as doorknobs, pictures, and computer keys. It had never happened through the touch of a person.
Most of the photographs in his head made no sense. One was of a man (whom he did not recognize) taped to a chair. Then a long, Stone stairway. There was a room full of caged animals. None of these mental images meant anything to him.
The one picture that he scantily recognized was that of a landscape. He felt certain he had seen it before, a few years ago, somewhere along this trail. He just couldn’t pinpoint where.
Colt Wilson park was a relatively small city park. It was roughly forty square miles of nature trails that meandered through the hills and valleys and through the thickness of woods and brush. Quaint wooden bridges stretched over the couple of creeks that wound its way through the park. An array of flowers had been planted in several strategic spots to give it a touch of elegance.
The city of Nexus had been nearly destroyed during the civil war, but a former confederate officer named Colt Wilson decided he wasn’t going to let it die. In the place of all the miseries of war that he had seen he wanted to create something of beauty. Something everyone could enjoy. Perhaps to show that the world can be more than a place of conflict. It can be a place of peace, beauty, and reflection.
Walter continued along the trail trudging slowly along the dirt path that slipped in and out of the thickness of the forest and rolled across the small hills.
It would take him quite a while if he had to explore the entire length of the winding trail that stretched for several miles through the forest. He hoped that he had the endurance for it if he needed it, after all, he was many pounds heavier than he had been the last time he had made the trip.
Though this was meant as a place of peace he still felt a pang of hurt and depression. This was the place his first true love, Veronica, had broken up with him. He wasn’t sure why she had chosen this place that they had often visited to call it quits. Perhaps she thought it would be easier on him if she revealed to him that she had met someone else in a place they were both felt comfortable in. But it wouldn’t have mattered where she did it. It would have hurt just as much anywhere.
After a few quick bursts of anger, he had left her in the park that day. He rushed out to his Camaro fighting back the tears that were soon to come. He left out of the parking lot squealing tires. The rest was a little hazy. He remembered heading toward the interstate crying like a baby but not much more. He was told later that it had started raining. It was just a drizzle but enough to make the roads a little slick. He was informed that he had been driving way too fast. Somewhere along the line he had lost control, run off the road, and flipped several times.
Following the accident, he had remained in the coma for three days. He had suffered a massive head injury as well as a broken arm and leg. He was told later that he was lucky to be alive. For a long time, he didn’t feel that way.
For the first couple of weeks, he had some trouble speaking. He had had to concentrate on what he was saying to make the words come out correctly. His thoughts too, were sometimes muddled and it was often difficult to focus.
At that time, he was a rookie cop in the Atlanta area. Many of the people on the force came to visit him. He was an easy-going person and made friends easily. Veronica, the one person he wanted to see, however, never showed up.
He had spent another month in the hospital allowing bones to begin to mend and wounds to heal.
Shortly after leaving the hospital the headaches had begun to assault him. They happened nearly once a week. They weren’t too bad. Tylenol would usually take care of them. What worried him was that there might be something more serious going on in his head. At the request of his doctor, he had gotten an MRI. The results had not turned up anything out of the ordinary. That was good, but the mild headaches continued. He guessed he’d just have to live with them.
He went back to work as soon as he was physically able
. He couldn’t stand the complete emptiness of the house, filled with boredom and loneliness. He had had too much time to think and his thoughts almost always went to Veronica. He had thought that they were the perfect couple. Apparently, he was wrong. Somehow, he was not able to see the signs that must have been there.
Back then Walter was working in Folsom, a turgid city near Atlanta with a population of nearly a million. A city where crime was a constant customer. It was a great place for anyone in law enforcement to lose oneself in a multitude of cases. A place for him to push painful thoughts to the furthest part of his mind so he wouldn’t have to deal with them.
The first time Walter had felt the gift—if one could call it that—was when he arrived on the scene where a murder had occurred. He wasn’t a detective back then. His primary job was to protect the victim or victims and secure the area.
He and another officer responding to a report of gunfire found a woman lying face up on her bedroom floor. She was in her nightgown and judging from her clothes it didn’t look as if she had been molested. She had been shot twice in the chest. It was obvious that she was dead.
While the other officer called into the station to report the death Walter began to walk around as a curious sensation washed over him. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. It was like an itch he couldn’t seem to scratch.
He stopped by the front door. The door was partially opened. He pulled it open and stepped outside. When they had first arrived, they noticed that the lock had been jimmied. As he had looked at the door he was suddenly drawn to the doorknob. It was nothing he could see that had drawn his attention. It was something he felt. Since he had used the doorknob when they first entered the residence, he knew that touching it again wouldn’t make a difference in the investigation to follow. He reached out and grasped the knob.
The Nexus Page 3