by Shutt, Tom
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Her tongue felt wooden in her mouth, and there was a lingering scent of wine on her breath. Her fingers were stiff, and she fumbled with the buttons of her top. Next came the bra, then the rest of her clothes. She shivered as the cold air cozied up against her smooth, clammy skin. It didn’t carry the same feeling of comfort as it had the other night. Alex needed a shower, the hotter the better.
She stood immobile for several minutes beneath the intense spray. The tension residing in her shoulders trickled away, knots unfolding beneath the steady stream of water. Once the thin veneer of sweat had been wiped away, the warmth spread through her limbs in earnest. Memories of what happened the night before came back to her in bits and pieces. Almost at the same time, she felt a now-familiar presence pressing against the fringes of her consciousness.
Arthur Brennan.
You’re fucking kidding me. Alex resisted the urge to slam her head against the tiled wall. Unwilling to leave the shower just yet, she reached out with her mind. She touched a dozen different dreaming people before she found someone who was awake. Judging by the dull and inactive brain, she figured it was a man. He was watching the television, or rather, mindlessly staring at the screen while something played in the background. She suspected he was neither awake nor asleep, but in some transitory stage. I just need you to look at the clock, she thought.
Seemingly by pure coincidence, the man lolled his head and looked toward the kitchen. Three thirty in the morning.
Back in her shower, Alex sighed. It was early, too early to be awake, but her early slumber meant she’d captured a full night’s amount of sleep. Even if she went back to bed now, she knew she wouldn’t find rest.
“What’s a girl to do?” she pondered. She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Steam clouded the mirror and hung in the air like fog over the moors. Alex wondered at her internal narrator. It wasn’t often that she compared her bathroom to the Scottish highlands.
The cloying, humid air escaped from the room as she opened the door, and her body tingled all over as colder air rushed to meet her. It felt right this time without her coating of feverish sweat, and she was reluctant to leave that feeling even as she started pulling on clean clothes. She wormed her way into a snug pair of dark jeans, then slipped on a gray t-shirt over her bra. She checked herself in the mirror and added a leather jacket to the ensemble.
Alex emerged from her room as silent as a mouse, walking on the balls of her feet in heavily padded socks. She never wore shoes in her apartment, and only rarely so in the building as a whole. She stopped in the kitchen, confirmed the time, and grabbed a short, sharp blade from a wooden block full of knives meant for chopping, slicing, dicing, and whatever other motions were involved in cooking. She didn’t even know why she grabbed it, only that it felt good in the grip of her hand.
What am I going to do, kill him? It seemed a bit much to kill a stranger for keeping her from sleeping at night. If she gave in to those urges regularly, her building would be almost entirely devoid of tenants. Still, she held the knife.
She padded softly and swiftly down the hall to the elevator, which opened at her touch with a mercifully quiet ping. It was a relatively short ride to the sixteenth floor, and the psychic pressure she’d felt before was dramatically reduced in strength. Either the stranger had gone to sleep, which would make her job all that much easier, or else her resistance to the mental assault was simply improving.
Win-win, she thought as the elevator doors opened. The hallways were identical to those of her own floor, and Alex relied on the pressure on her skull to guide her. She turned left and walked slowly, and the pressure mounted gradually with each passing step. Alex watched the room numbers as she moved. Sixteen-oh-eight. Sixteen-ten. Sixteen-twelve. Sixteen-fourteen.
She paused. Two steps back toward room sixteen-twelve, and she felt certain that she had reached her destination. The psychic pressure peaked as she pressed her ear to the door; nothing could be heard from the other side.
Like hers, this door required a key. Alex cursed herself for leaving her lock picking kit in her room. She wasn’t an expert by any means, but it was an idle hobby that had turned into an occasionally useful talent. She bit her lip as she surveyed the door. Even if she could pick the lock, was there another layer of security beyond it? It seemed unlikely.
It won’t take more than two minutes to get the kit and come back, she reasoned. She hardly took a step before the door to room sixteen-twelve opened inward, and Alex jumped back in surprise.
A man appeared from the darkness. He was short, with a wreath of white hair that made him look like a wizened Renaissance monk. His clothes were rumpled, yet still spoke of expensive origins. Dark glasses concealed his eyes, and he ventured forth with a slender cane half a step ahead of his feet.
Alex held her breath. This was not the kind of man she had been expecting. She remembered the heavy weight in her hand. Had she been about to murder an old, blind man just so she could get some sleep? Yes, he’s blind. She suddenly had an image of two men standing stock still in front of a T-Rex. Hold your breath and don’t move. He can’t see you.
“But I can hear you,” the old man said. His lips moved as soon as she had completed her thought, as if taking his turn during the course of a normal conversation.
Alex didn’t respond, nor did she so much as twitch a muscle. It was impossible for him to hear her.
“Up here,” he said. He tapped his wrinkled dome for emphasis. His dark glasses were locked on her exact position. “You speak quite loudly with your thoughts. It is a wonder that anyone can sleep at night with you lurking around.”
He spoke in a stilted manner as if he were taking deliberate care to ignore contractions, or perhaps was unaware of them altogether. Was he toying with her? What kind of game was this? Alex had been lured by the most psychically violent thoughts she had ever heard, those of a veritable madman, yet this geezer was as calm and collected as if—
As if he expected me to be here.
And then, the impossible. A smile cracked across the old man’s leathery lips. “Please, do come inside. I know why you are here.”
She shook her head and took a step in retreat.
“You have nothing to fear,” he chided. “I sensed your confusion the moment you stepped inside the building. Yours is a powerful gift, and not the first of its kind that I have witnessed.”
Alex’s composure cracked, and she cleared her throat. “When I stepped inside the building?”
He seemed delighted to hear her speak. “Yes, that is right. You reached out to me in the lobby.”
Ahh, so you’re the one. She immediately reined in her probe and imagined a stone wall between her mind and the outside world. He had been the one to speak to her with his thoughts. Somehow, he had sensed her in his mind when no one else had. She couldn’t allow him to hear any more of her thoughts.
His head tilted curiously, as if he could feel the retreating tide of her psychic probe. “There is no sense in hiding who we are from each other.” He leaned heavily on his cane, one hand resting on top of the other. “My name is Benjamin. What might you be called?”
She considered lying. This man, Benjamin, was a stranger. More importantly, he was a stranger who knew what she was. The knife was still in her hand, hidden behind her back. He was slow, old, and weak. It would take less than a second to end it all here. Yet something stayed her hand.
She wasn’t a murderer. Even if it was in her best interests, even if it protected her from being exposed as her father had always feared would happen, Alex couldn’t strike down a blind, unarmed man.
What am I thinking? Of course I can. Her hand tightened around the knife’s grip. It was her or him. She realized that it was no longer a petty case of losing a little peace and quiet. This was for her own protection, the preservation of her own life.
“That would be ill-advised,” Benjamin rasped. In the span of a moment, he had assumed
a defensive stance. The cane, no longer supporting him, was held like a staff between both hands. Blind or not, he apparently had some way of sensing her movements. Even the slightest muscle contraction from gripping the knife hadn’t escaped his gaze.
Alex dropped the knife. “I apologize,” she said, adopting Benjamin’s speech pattern. She had read somewhere that mimicry was the easiest way to build a rapport with someone new. It had served her well so far in life, allowing her to blend easily with normal people. “You may call me Stephanie.”
“Stephanie,” he echoed. He said the name again and frowned, but the staff became a cane once more and pleasant features quickly returned to his face. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Reader.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are a Reader,” Benjamin stated calmly. “I am a Pathfinder.”
Alex dropped the copycat speech pattern. “No idea what you’re talking about, but you’re not who I was looking for.” She turned to leave.
“If you leave now, you may never find peace. I know what torments you, and I know what will set you free.”
“You do?”
Benjamin pointed into his room with the cane. “Come inside and I will explain everything.”
“You don’t know what my questions are.”
“You do not know which questions are worth asking.”
Alex looked toward the dark doorway with apprehension. She knew that the source of burning, naked hatred for Arthur Brennan lay somewhere in that darkness. “Fine,” she said. “Take me inside. I want to speak with whoever is in there.”
Benjamin nodded. “He would like very much to be heard.”
The old man turned sharply and walked back into the room, seemingly without need of his cane. Alex followed him, though she groped the wall until her hand found a light switch. It made sense that the room hadn’t been lit before; a blind man had no need for lights. But what of the other man?
Inside the apartment, the furniture was identical to her own, though everything was arranged in a rather simpler layout. Glass end tables were pushed against walls or other furniture so that nothing stood out as an island, nothing directly in the way of a blind man’s meanderings. It gave the apartment a greater sense of openness. Without the lights on, it might have easily been a gaping cave shrouded in shadows.
Two for two describing normal rooms with creepy imagery. Imagination, thy name is overactive.
“In here,” Benjamin said. He stood outside the bedroom at the end of the hall and waited expectantly. Alex opened the door with the same enthusiasm that one might unveil a basket full of cobras. The interior was surprisingly underwhelming.
It was dark inside, but not pitch black. A sliver was parted between the curtains, through which the light of the center city seeped in. A bed, smaller than hers, was pushed against the far wall and lay directly in the path of incoming light. Reclined on the bed was a man of average height and unimpressive features, and if not for the tubes connected to his arms he might have been resting peacefully. He was still at rest, but it looked more like the kind of repose that was reserved for coma patients and those near death.
“He’s Fractured,” Alex said aloud. She immediately retreated behind the stone wall of her mental defenses. Fractured minds were hopeless to cure, far beyond the reach of modern medicine. She suddenly understood why the psychic shouting had been so singularly driven by one powerful emotion—the bedridden figure was, quite literally, a madman. He would obsess about this one fixed idea until the end of his days.
“It is a terrible fate,” Benjamin said. “I would not wish this upon my worst enemy, nor even upon the person responsible for doing this.”
“Arthur Brennan?”
“You are familiar with him?”
Alex shook her head. “No, but it’s kind of hard to keep him”—she looked toward the bed—“from broadcasting it, and I’m the only one receiving.” She rubbed at her temples. “I didn’t realize someone could transmit thoughts like that.”
Benjamin frowned. “You have already done this yourself,” he said, his tone perplexed.
“You’re wrong. I read minds—when I want to, and even when I don’t—but nothing more.” She walked to the window and peered out through the crack in the curtains. “So who is Arthur Brennan?”
“A Sleeper. A detective. The one I hold responsible for this man’s current state of mind.”
Alex still had her eyebrow raised from the first in the list. “A Sleeper? They don’t exist.”
“If we do not exist,” Benjamin said quietly, “then how do you explain my being here? How is it that I can sense your presence in my thoughts? Do you truly think that you and your father are alone in your gifts?”
She lowered her eyebrow and slipped on a neutral mask. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The man who did this carries a badge and a gun and pretends to uphold the law. However, he has hunted more men and women around the world as a Sleeper than he has ever caught for the police. He is a ruthless thug, no better than his father.”
Alex watched him carefully for a long minute. “This man,” she said, pointing to the bed. “Who is he to you?”
“Henry. He was my grandson. He is my grandson,” he amended. His voice sounded thick with remorse. “In his mind, Arthur Brennan holds me responsible for the death of his wife, and he chose to abandon our mission because of it. Henry was tasked with bringing Brennan in for debriefing.”
“Debriefing?”
“Yes. Despite peaceful intentions, an altercation occurred, one which left my grandson without any sense of reality.”
“You said you wouldn’t wish this upon your worst enemy or Arthur Brennan. After what happened, this man isn’t your number one enemy?”
His gaze landed heavily upon her. “No,” he said simply.
“Okay,” Alex said. “This cop thinks you killed his wife, and you think he Fractured your grandson. Henry here clearly holds a grudge; it’s the only damn thing he’s been thinking since you got here. But what kind of life is this for him? Why is he holding on? Why are you holding on to him?”
“He will not find rest in the next world until he makes peace with this one.”
Alex rolled her eyes. “Right, because that isn’t cryptic and twisted.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You seriously think that getting revenge will put his soul at ease?”
Benjamin shook his head. “I do not seek vengeance upon Arthur Brennan.”
It was Alex’s turn to be confused. “I’m sorry? I obviously didn’t hear you right, it sounded like you don’t want to murder the man who killed your grandson.”
“Henry is not dead, nor do I wish death upon anyone, Miss Brüding.” Alex shivered as he said that. She had never given him her last name. Hell, she’d even given him a false first name. “The Great Spirit would not suffer those who needlessly cause harm to others. I suspect Arthur Brennan will receive his just desserts in the next life. No, I do not intend to hasten his departure from this earth. In fact, he is essential for stemming the tide of death that washes over this city.”
Alex stared at him openly, mouth slightly agape. “So…you need his help?”
“Put simply, yes.”
She gripped her jacket closer to herself as chills ran down her spine. Before her stood a man who, despite blindness and age, was clearly more dangerous than most men alive. He felt personally begrudged by one of his Sleepers—which in itself said a lot about him, if he considered the Sleepers to be “his”—and yet he needed this cop to be a temporary ally against…what, exactly?
“The tide of death,” Alex said. “What are you talking about?”
“We are being targeted.”
“Sleepers?”
Benjamin waved a hand. “Sleepers initially, yes, but the target list has since expanded.” He took off his dark glasses and met Alex’s eyes. His were milky white, all except for a thin ring of gold that circled where his pupils once were. It
must have been a trick of the light, but they looked like they glowed faintly.
“Expanded to who?” To whom, she corrected mentally. Damn you, Sam.
“Anyone with a power,” Benjamin said somberly.
She let those words sink in for a moment. “There can’t be that many of you, that many of us. Until now, I was under the impression that my father and I were unique in Odols.”
“You were wrong. I do not intend to be rude, but I must be blunt in telling you that time is of the essence. We are all in danger, and none of us will be safe until this serial killer is brought to justice.”
“So let the police handle it, that’s their job,” Alex said. “I can look after myself. I don’t want to be involved in any of this.”
Benjamin bristled at her words. “You are already a part of this,” he said harshly. “There is nothing connecting the murders that can be traced by the police.” The last word was filled with no small amount of scorn. “Arthur Brennan, as crude an instrument as he might be, is the only tool at our disposal. Point him in the right direction, and he will lead the police to our hunter.”
“Why me?”
“Because he is utterly incapable of reason. Brennan will never accept my word. He holds his lies too close to his heart.”
“And when this is over,” Alex said, “do you plan on killing him?”
“I fail to see how that is any of your concern.” His eerily glowing eyes bored holes in her.
Alex’s gaze shifted away to the bed. “Henry? What is his part in all of this?”
Benjamin regarded his ailing grandson with pity. “He is as much a part of this as you or I. Until the serial killer is caught and Brennan himself is brought to justice for his actions, my grandson remains.”