Maybe fear isn’t the only emotion that can trigger this…Manna. He briefly wondered what might happen if he allowed himself to get angry. What might rage produce? For the first time, the fear that had gripped him intermittently since Westlake had started pursuing him took on a new aspect: fear of what he himself might do. His lack of control might be seriously dangerous to anyone nearby.
Taking a deep breath, Seb turned his attention to the movement of air through his nostrils into his body and back out again. The thoughts whirring around his mind, the unanswered questions, the fears and hopes for what the future might hold - they all began fading into background chatter as his attention on his breath deepened. He offered up a silent prayer of thanks to Father O’Hanoran for teaching him Contemplation when he was a teen who might have ended up pursuing a very different path. More quickly than usual, he reached that place of emptiness. He tried to reach out toward the car with his mind, but it was like grabbing a handful of mist. He could feel a presence again, a hum of possibility under the surface, like the charged atmosphere before a huge storm. He was about to try reaching out again, when he had an idea. He gently allowed Bach’s prelude to begin sounding in his mind. Bach had always elicited strong emotions in Seb. Emotions he couldn’t name. They just rose up inside him in response to that particular arrangement of the twelve notes in the Western scale. As he listened internally to the music, the composition seemed to provide a structure through which he could reach out again with the Manna. This time—as his mind stretched out—it was as if the metal gave way like butter. There was a moment when his awareness seemed to expand; his sense of self shrinking. He was unworried, calm, doing what needed to be done right now, this moment.
“Well,” said Walt from behind him, “that’s a pretty nice job.”
Seb opened his eyes and stood up, stepping backward from the car. There was no evidence of any damage. In fact, the Lincoln looked like it had just rolled off the production line. It gleamed in the sun, the alloy wheels painfully bright.
“I even prefer the color,” said Walt. Seb looked again. The car was a deep midnight blue. Three minutes earlier it had been white.
Walt narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to one side as if listening.
“I wonder…” he murmured. Picking up a rock, he hefted it in one hand for a second, then snapped his arm back and threw it at the Lincoln. It sailed through the air before landing squarely in the middle of the hood, bouncing off and leaving an egg-sized depression with some surrounding scratches where the bare metal showed through.
“What are you doing?” said Seb, but Walt just held up a hand, his eyes never leaving the car.
Seb looked too. The dent began to move, the area around it looking briefly like water rippling on the sunlight. Within a second the hood was perfect again, no evidence of the damage visible.
“Thought so,” said Walt. “Wonder how long it’ll last?” He walked over to the car and held the door open for Seb. Steve’s impassive features showed no surprise at what he’d just witnessed.
“Imagine if you could patent that,” said Walt. “You’d make a fortune.”
Steve started the engine. Walt tapped the newly replaced security glass. It slid smoothly down.
“Someone on that train might remember seeing you leave,” said Walt. “And this Lincoln is not the kind of car you forget. It’s still supposed to be just a concept car. I had to pull a few strings to get it. So I gave it a little disguise. Then I had Steve drive us a few miles south. Anyone looking for you will guess you’re headed for Mexico in a black Chrysler. I’m a magician, Seb. I just made you disappear.”
Roswell. New Mexico. That is where I need to go. But maybe not straight off, if Westlake thinks that’s where I’m going.
“So where are we heading?” said Seb, as the big Lincoln swung around to face the other way.
“My place,” said Walt. “Las Vegas”
15
Los Angeles
Bob knocked back a shot of bourbon, the liquid burning his throat as it chased the seven bottles of beer he had already sent down there. He held up his finger for a refill.
“Are you sure you need another?” said Rachel, owner of the Heroes And Villains Bar and Grill. Her clientele had tended toward the Villains end of the market as the neighborhood got rougher and the only grill in the place these days was the one she pulled down at the end of the night to stop the window getting a brick through it. Bob was a regular - one of her favorites. He had even shared her bed occasionally. Tonight, though, he was worrying her. He’d never been a serious drinker. One or two beers then home, Marcie barking goodnight as he headed down the street. Now he was drinking with a kind of grim determination she didn’t much like.
“Give me a break, Rachel,” said Bob, only slurring his words very slightly. “I know my limits. One more and I’m going home, anyway.”
Rachel suddenly realized what was missing. The first thing Bob usually asked for was a bowl of water to take outside for his dog.
“Where’s Marcie?” she asked. Bob looked up and held her gaze before sighing and staring at the empty shot glass.
“She’s dead,” he said and slid the glass toward her. She put her hand on his and placed the bourbon bottle in front of him.
“It’s on the house,” she said. He looked up again and nodded at her, not trusting himself to speak. Rachel moved away down the bar and found some glasses to polish. She hadn’t run a bar for thirty-five years without learning how to tell when someone needed some space. She watched Bob refill his glass and drain it.
It had happened the previous night. Bob had decided a little research into Westlake and his mysterious soldiers might help him understand what Seb had got himself into. And he didn’t believe he was being watched, despite Westlake’s threat at the station. It had to be a bluff - the sheer expense of twenty-four hour surveillance on someone pretty much guaranteed it. About twenty minutes internet research had uncovered nothing of interest. In fact, he’d found nothing at all. No Westlake listed anywhere, despite trying various government departments. He had half-expected it. The sort of work Bob suspected Westlake to be involved in required a degree of invisibility.
Bob had stopped to brew fresh coffee then changed tack. He trawled through some conspiracy sites, looking for sightings of military personnel with no traceable link to the US Government. Things started to get more interesting. Sifting through various reports after dismissing the obvious paranoid fantasists, there were three or four instances in the last year where unidentifiable military types had been seen in action. All of the reports were categorically denied by the military and no evidence could be presented to prove otherwise.
One report in particular caught Bob’s attention. Three years ago, an Idaho farmer claimed to have shot dead an intruder who was part of a group of armed men he’d seen advancing on his house. He had called it in to the local sheriff and, when he’d arrived, had led him to the edge of his field where they found the corpse of one of his horses. Ballistic evidence had matched the bullet to the farmer’s rifle, but he had sworn blind the gun wasn’t his - he claimed they must have been switched. What made the story interesting was the sheriff’s statement. First, he’d pointed out that it was a full moon - hardly a night where someone might mistake a horse for a man. Second, the farmer was an ex-Navy Seal. His testimony was detailed, thorough and convincing. Third—and most compelling for Bob—the Sheriff had heard a helicopter as he left for the farm. The official report had been unable to reach a definite conclusion. Bob wondered why the Sheriff or farmer hadn’t pursued it further, but a quick search of their names revealed they had both died within three months of the incident: the previously healthy sheriff from a heart attack and the farmer in a car wreck.
The phone rang. Bob picked it up absently, his attention still on the screen. The voice at the other end was chillingly matter of fact. “Stop it. Or you’re next.”
“Who is this?” said Bob to a dead line. You’re next? Who…Oh my God. Me
era. He realized he had no way of contacting her. She knew where he lived but they hadn’t even swapped numbers after the discussion with Westlake. He suddenly needed some air to clear his head.
“Come on, Marcie,” he said, grabbing his jacket along with her leash. He stood by the door for a few seconds.
“Come on girl,” he said. “Let’s walk it out.” The silence told him what he couldn’t bear to admit to himself. He had just said the word ‘walk’ and Marcie, far from leaping up and running for the door, hadn’t made a sound. He went back to the living room and looked at her bed on the floor. She was perfectly still. She might have been asleep if it hadn’t been for the ever-widening pool of blood spreading out under her sweet, trusting head. Bob looked at the window, always left open this time of year. A light clicked on and off in an apartment in the building opposite. Bob stood absolutely still for over a minute, fighting his instinct to grab his gun, run across the street and put a bullet in the sniper who’d killed his best friend. But he knew he’d be long gone. Instead, he turned off the lights, knelt by Marcie’s cooling body, stroked her soft fur as she slowly stiffened and cried as he had never cried before.
“What does a girl have to do to get a guy to buy her a drink?”
Bob turned, knocking an empty beer bottle with his elbow and sending it flying off the bar. Before it reached the floor, Meera snatched it out of mid-air.
“Reflexes of a cat,” she said. She turned to Rachel, who had stopped polishing glasses and was eyeing the young Asian girl with more than a little suspicion, Mee could hardly blame her. Glen Campbell was playing on the jukebox, a couple of old boys were halfway through a game of pool and the TV was on a channel that was apparently dedicated to re-runs of Cheers. Meera was wearing bondage trousers, a Sex Pistols tee shirt and her hair seemed to be making a bid to leave her head in order to find a more conservative area in which to settle down. It might not draw much attention in the bars she usually frequented, but Mee realized everyone in the place was staring at her, a couple with their mouths hanging open.
“What?” she said, “I normally go butt-naked painted green with a peacock feather up my ass, but Bob told me it was dress-down Friday.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before the dozen or so customers returned to their drinks and tried to pretend they weren’t talking about her.
“Could I get another glass, please?” she said, and Rachel set her up after looking her up and down slightly disdainfully and raising an eyebrow at Bob.
“Meera,” he said.
“What a gift for recall,” she said, “although only my mother calls me Meera. Call me Mee.”
“Mee Mee?” said Bob.
“Just Mee is fine,” she said before narrowing her eyes and sipping at the bourbon. “God, this stuff is rougher than a bear’s backside. No wonder you’re drunk.”
“Not drunk,” said Bob, shaking his head. He slid off the stool and took a quick corrective step to stop himself falling over.
“Well, maybe a little drunk,” he admitted.
Meera grabbed his arm.
“Let’s get you home,” she said. “I need to talk to you. You can pack some stuff. We’re going after Seb”
Bob suddenly looked around the bar, searching for unfamiliar faces.
“Are you crazy?” he said. “Westlake wasn’t playing games. Were you followed?”
“No,” she said.
“Are you sure?” said Bob. “These guys aren’t amateurs and they’re dangerous.”
“Well,” said Mee, “they scared the shit out of me at the station so I didn’t take any chances. Climbed out of the bathroom window at the club during the break. Then I borrowed a car from Mrs. Reynolds. She’s ninety-two and thinks I’m dating her son. He died twelve years ago.”
Bob looked at her.
It’s complicated, ok?” said Mee. “All you need to know is, she won’t report the car as stolen. She probably won’t remember she had a car.”
Bob didn’t move.
“Come on,” said Mee. “I’ve been sitting around like a pussy for two days, but I’m not letting those fuckers tell me what to do. Now let’s swing by your place, pick up some clothes and your dog and get going.”
Bob said nothing but something in his expression got through.
“Oh God, what happened?” she said.
Bob told her. As he spoke, he could see her getting angrier and angrier. He started to feel ashamed that his own reaction had been to crawl into a bottle.
“So who do you think these wankers are?” she said, white-lipped and almost shaking with rage.
“I don’t know,” admitted Bob, “but they’re well-funded and run on military lines. No one just flies around the country without anyone knowing about it, even if their chopper has some kind of stealth technology. For once, I think the conspiracy theorists are probably right. Whatever they’re doing, the government must know about it.”
“So what do they want with Seb?” she said. “And what the hell happened the other morning? I thought he was dead.”
Bob thought back to that first glimpse of Seb’s body on the forest floor. He hadn’t been breathing.
“I was sure he was dead,” he said. “Ok. You’re right. Let’s go find him then we can ask him ourselves. You been in touch with him?”
Mee frowned. “Nope,” she said, “He dumped the phone at the station. My gut tells me he was on that train to Chicago.”
Bob grabbed his jacket, feeling more sober by the second.
“Well, they’re probably still watching my place,” he said. “Hold on. How did you find me?”
“No answer from your apartment when I buzzed,” she said. “This is the third bar I’ve tried.”
“Shit!” he said. “They will have followed you here from my place. They’ll kill us both. I mean, it’s not like you blend in.”
“Easy, tiger,” said Meera, shaking out a bundle she had under one arm. It was a shapeless poncho-style raincoat with a hood. She put it on, stooped slightly and began walking away from him. Bob burst out laughing. Nothing of the feisty lead singer of Clockwatchers remained. She was an old bag-lady, shuffling, muttering and occasionally stopping to inspect something on the floor.
“That’s incredible,” he said. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”
“I left my phone at home, so they can’t find us that way,” she said, straightening up and flinging back the hood. “But I’ve brought my old cell. It’s pre-paid, first one I had when I came to the States. No way they’d know about it. Car’s parked a couple blocks away. This place got a back door? I assume they’ll have someone watching the front.”
“Maybe the back, too,” said Bob, impressed at Meera’s street smarts. “These guys are serious.”
Bob felt more sober still as they ducked out of the Heroes and Villains fire door and walked toward the car. As they passed a dumpster he suddenly stopped, grabbed Meera’s arm and pulled her behind him.
“What are you—,” she said, then stopped when she saw the two men step out of the shadows.
“It’s ok,” said Bob with relief, knowing immediately from the way the men moved that they were local muggers, not trained professionals.
“It’s not ok,” said the bigger of the two men, pulling a hunting knife out and passing it from hand to hand. “Put your hands where I can see them.” He had heard the relief in Bob’s voice. He was used to hearing fear. Fear was good, he enjoyed the fear he provoked in his victims almost as much as the money he took from them. But this guy wasn’t afraid and that was making him angry. He clicked his fingers and his companion stepped alongside him, a heavy metal bar in his hands. He was going to have to take this guy’s money and hurt him a little to teach him a lesson.
Bob looked squarely at the bigger man and smiled.
“You ever play Rock, Paper, Scissors?” he said.
The smile was too much for the bigger guy. He stepped quickly forward. Meera held her breath, then let it out as the big guy stopp
ed, suddenly looking much less sure of himself. She looked at Bob. From nowhere, a gun had appeared in his hand. She had barely seen him move.
“Gun beats knife,” said Bob. “You lose. Toss your weapons in the dumpster.” The men did as they were told.
“Now empty your pockets,” said Bob. Their hesitation at obeying him only lasted a second, during which Bob cocked the pistol. Then they couldn’t comply quickly enough.
“Go,” said Bob. The muggers looked at each other briefly before running. Bob stepped forward and looked at the haul. A few wallets, some money clips. He took the cash and threw everything else in the dumpster.
“About a grand,” he said. “We’re probably going to need it.”
“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises,” said Meera, taking his arm. “Oh shit.”
It seemed that the muggers had only made it as far as the corner before running into the rest of their gang. The two Bob had humiliated were now heading back toward them, followed by four others. Two of them had guns. The rest carried baseball bats, metal bars or chains. Bob did some quick calculations. He figured he could draw his gun, take one of the armed guys out, roll and tag the other one before the others knew what was happening. But if the second guy got a shot off, it would stand a pretty good chance of hitting Meera. And—goddammit—he was fifty-eight, not twenty-five. Fifty-eight and drunk. Shit.
“Toss the gun over,” said the first mugger, swinging a baseball bat casually by his side. “Nice and slow, Pops.”
“You’re a tough guy now?” said Bob, taking his gun and putting it on the floor in front of him. “Amazing how quickly you grew a pair once you found your buddies.”
“Shut up and kick the gun toward us,” said the mugger.
Bob looked at Meera. “Sorry,” he whispered. She shrugged but he could see she was shaking. He kicked the gun away.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 12