The Overseer

by Conlan Brown

  “Understood,” she replied, quickly again. “I’ll take responsibility for the situation.”

  “Good. How soon can you be in Nevada?”

  “Tonight.”

  Devin nodded. “Good. Keep me informed. You have my cell number.”

  “Understood.”

  Devin snapped his phone shut, dropping it in the breast pocket of his jacket.

  He couldn’t see how this was going to end—but he knew that when it did, things might never be the same again.

  “What’s the plan?” John asked, watching Trista put her phone away.

  “I’m going to Las Vegas to prepare a plan to prevent the assassination.”

  John nodded, removing the sport coat he was wearing. “And Devin thinks I’m a liability?”

  “Yes,” Trista replied, devoid of any attempt to soften the news.

  A pinprick of hurt plucked at John’s chest. “What do you think?”

  Trista kept her eyes on the road. “I think you can be reckless.” She turned her focus to him, expression unforgiving. “Are you going to be reckless?”

  He laughed, trying not to let his voice crack with the feelings of disappointment and hurt he felt. “Reckless is what I do.”

  “I’m serious, John,” she said with a nasty edge.

  He laughed again, trying to maintain some dignity in the face of Trista’s flagrant doubts. “I haven’t taken anything seriously in years,” he grunted sarcastically.

  Trista angled the car to the right, slamming the brakes hard— the car coming to a screeching stop at the curb. “Get out,” she commanded, eyes still on the road, expression stony.

  “Trista, I—”

  She didn’t look at him. “I’m serious, John. Whatever is happening, it has a lot of people scared.” Trista turned her attention to him—expression anything but friendly. “I’m scared, John,” she said without emotion, “and I’m not going to bring you along if you insist on being a child about this.”

  “I—”

  “Do you understand, John Temple?” she interrupted, as if he were a four-year-old.

  John said nothing for a moment, then nodded silently.

  “I need to know I can count on you,” she said sternly. “I need you to promise me that you’ll pull through for me.” She glanced past John, toward the street beyond. “Or I need you to get out of this car and out of my way. Do you understand?”

  John sat in silence for a moment, examining her face—every beautiful line—then looked out the window at the street.

  Trista said nothing, her face serious.

  Then John nodded and reached into the backseat, grabbing his sport coat. He opened the car door and stepped onto the street, walking away from Trista and the car. He flung his jacket over his shoulder like a fashion model and moved down the street.

  Behind him he heard the car rev and take off. It shot past him—and disappeared around the corner.

  She left him. She actually left him.

  John looked around. Neither the best nor the worst neighborhood. He didn’t know if there was a subway station nearby. He would need to call someone to come and get him. But who could he call? Vince had had him ejected from office—yet another job he’d been fired from. Devin was leaving the state.

  He looked at his shoes. He couldn’t believe how poorly he’d handled that. Trista was scared and worried, and he’d treated it like a joke. And now…

  A car stopped next to him. He looked—Trista. She must have gone around the block and come back for him.

  The mechanical window lowered, and she looked at him. “Get in,” she said with an indecipherable tone.

  John looked around, then got in the car.

  Trista put the car into gear, rolling away from the curb. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” he said with a nod, looking forward.

  They drove the rest of the way to the airport in silence.

  Chapter 11

  HANNAH STARED OUT the windshield, watching the sun sink farther behind the horizon as they drove down the highway. What state were they in now—Ohio? Had they really been on the road that long? They’d left the house in New Jersey around lunchtime, and now the sun was setting. She hadn’t looked at the signs or bothered to keep track of the miles. It had apparently been longer than she had realized.

  Devin sat silently in the driver’s seat. They hadn’t said anything in hours. Perhaps there were things to talk about, but Hannah kept her focus tightly clenched on the road—feeling the world pass through them, the past swirling around her. She could feel something like a warm current as they stayed on the right path, cooling only when they deviated. But she had to stay aware of it—with a quiet mind. Whatever small talk they might have would only have been a distraction.

  Devin didn’t seem to mind the quiet. He kept still and silent, navigating the road as if he were gliding across ice. Whatever he had seen was leading him forward as well—making him equally consumed by his own calling.

  Hannah felt the path start to cool. Chills ran up her arms. She hugged her arms and felt it—

  Exiting the highway. Into the gas station.

  “There.” Hannah pointed toward the exit.

  Devin nodded, switched on the turn signal, and aimed the car at the exit.

  Hannah sat up in her seat, excited. This was it. This was where the girls had been brought. This was where…

  She could feel herself losing touch with the past.

  No—she couldn’t give in to the overflow of thought and chatter. She had to clear her mind—let it all wash over her with clarity of thought.

  “The gas station,” Devin said with a nod. “This is it.”

  Hannah nearly wrung her hands, squirming in her seat. Stop it, she thought, settling in. The car came down the off-ramp, nosing into the turn—into the parking lot.

  “This is wrong,” Devin said, shaking his head. “It’s too dark. They were here when there was more light.”

  “We’re late?” Hannah asked, fighting her worry and concern.

  Devin looked around as if he were trying to confirm his hunch—then nodded. “We’re late.”

  “How late? Do you think they might still be here?”

  He pulled the car to a stop just outside of the gas station, rolling into a parking space. “Maybe twenty minutes.” He parked the car and turned off the engine. “I’m going inside. I’m going to ask some questions. You stay here. Understood?”

  She bit her lip with nervous energy. “Yeah.”

  Devin stepped out and moved toward the glass doors. He stood in line, waiting to talk to the man at the counter.

  Hannah pulled in a lungful of air and held it. This was ridiculous. The girls—the kidnappers—they had been here. They had been here. If they had gone into the store for any reason they would have used those very same doors. The only thing that was missing was time. They were late.

  The idea seemed incomprehensible. Everything seemed so interconnected—so closely tied. How could a few minutes be enough to lose them?

  No, she thought. It was all connected. Every piece. Every fragment of the universe. All one complete whole.

  She closed her eyes.

  Her mind wanted to talk to God—to beseech Him for help. But not with words. Nothing so limited and invented as words. She reached out with…herself.

  Her mind cleared. Her thoughts went blank.

  Her brain told her to open her eyes and search…but something compelled her to stay in the silence a moment longer. To let it…

  The dragon—in the gas station.

  From the door to the truck—opening the rolling freight door.

  The girls—ripped from the truck, thrown into a van.

  Doors slamming. Girls screaming silently through bindings and duct tape.

  The van pulling away…

  Up the ramp to the empty highway.

  Gone.

  Hannah opened her eyes and stepped out of the car. She couldn’t see Devin inside—but she didn’t wait. The truc
k—had it left yet? Was it still here?

  She circled around to the back of the building into the darkness—a single light positioned above the station’s back door, flickering from a dying bulb.

  The truck. It was still there.

  It looked like a moving truck, some corporate logo on the side—for hauling milk, maybe?

  She could feel the footprints on the ground, circling from the gas station—still warm in her mind. Hannah paused for a moment, glancing side to side. Maybe there was someone still in the truck.

  She silenced her mind and marched forward—resolve thundered in her chest like a physical sensation. The truck thirty feet away—then twenty—then ten. She reached out, touching the handle to see if the back was locked—

  The door moved effortlessly against her touch, swinging out a few inches.

  Hannah stopped. There was no way to know what was beyond that door.

  She took a deep breath and opened the door. The metal squealed quietly as the hinges ground against themselves.

  The doors opened.

  Hannah stared into the darkness, eyes adjusting. Just plastic crates, stacks and stacks of them rising all the way to the ceiling, only a few feet in.

  A dead end?

  This wasn’t right. This was where the girls had been kept— she could feel it down to her core. This was where they had been placed and held and moved from. But there wasn’t enough room to carry three girls, was there?

  Despite the concerns of her logical mind, Hannah climbed up into the back of the truck. The compartment dimmed as the truck doors swung slowly back into place. Darkness covered everything for a moment, until her eyes had a chance to adjust, working with the minuscule fraction of light that came in from the crack in the door.

  She examined the crates, then let her breathing slow.

  The latch that they had used—between the crates.

  Hannah reached out, putting her hand between the crates. She reached wrong, adjusting. The crates should have shifted, or at least moved some tiny amount. Instead, they stayed stuck in place—a solid wall of crates. Her hand adjusted and found something cool and metallic—a dead bolt, running vertically.

  She lifted the metal nub, and the wall of crates—only a few inches deep—swung out to reveal what was behind.

  Devin waited for the big man who reeked of cigarette smoke to finish paying for his latest pack and move to the door. Devin stepped up to the counter, set down two bottles of water, and reached for his wallet.

  “Just the water?” the attendant—a short middle-aged woman with dark hair and bad teeth—asked in a gravelly voice.

  He nodded. “I was supposed to meet someone here,” he said, putting a ten-dollar bill on the counter.

  “Oh yeah?” she said absently as she rang up the water and opened the register.

  “He had a tattoo on his arm—a green dragon. Does that sound familiar?”

  She nodded. “He was just in here. He was with that guy that just bought cigarettes…”

  It hit Devin like a brick:

  Hannah ripped from a truck—beaten bloody—in mortal danger.

  He stepped away from the counter.

  Hannah stared at the walls—close and claustrophobic—foam pads spread across the floor with bundles of mildewed blankets.

  Here. They had been here.

  Whoever owned this truck knew who had taken them—and maybe where they were going. Her heart raced, trying to form a plan from thin air.

  The back end of the truck dipped slightly, and there were footfalls. The wall of fake crates pushed the rest of the way shut—and she heard the dead bolt drop into place.

  She rushed to the fake wall—pushing hard, but it didn’t budge.

  Then she heard the outer doors to the truck slam shut—and latch.

  Devin bolted from the front door of the gas station, his expensive shoes moving as quickly as they could carry him, trench coat billowing against the air he pushed through.

  Out the door. Around the corner. Behind the station.

  The truck—roaring to life, taillights flashing.

  He surged toward the vehicle as it started to roll. Devin shouted with the utmost fury he could muster, waving an arm.

  A cloud of dust swirled around him as the truck accelerated and its taillights shrank exponentially in fractions of a second. Devin skidded to a stop, then spun—heading back to the station—back to the car.

  Moments later he was in the driver’s seat—the gas station attendant staring at him with confusion through the big glass windows. He started the car and threw the vehicle into reverse, working the gas and the clutch in a smooth motion—the car ripped backward in a turn, the front end swinging. The shrieking of tires and the burning of rubber attacked his senses—

  And he took off into the night.

  “We have a lead,” Drew said from across the line. Sitting in the Overseer’s office, Vince Sobel rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah?”

  “It’s John Temple.”

  Vince sat up, eyes suddenly open, leaning into his desk that used to be John’s. “What have you got?”

  “We have a hit on his bank account.”

  “The Overseer stipend account we set up for him?”

  “Yes. He made a withdrawal at the airport.”

  “How much did he take?” Vince asked, not really worried about the dollar amount as the percentage.

  “All of it,” Drew said with certainty. “He drained all the funds from the account.”

  Vince winced. “Why didn’t we close that account?”

  “That’s what I was doing when I found this.”

  “OK,” Vince said, accepting it with a nod. “The airport,” he said, moving to the next subject. “Any idea where he’s going?”

  “We can only speculate,” Drew said, somewhat resigned.

  “Contact Trista Brightling; maybe she has a lead on his whereabouts.”

  “We’ve been trying to get in touch with her by phone and e-mail,” Drew reported. “So far we haven’t been able to contact her.”

  Vince thought for a moment, eyes fighting to stay open after such an eventful day. “Keep trying. Any word on Angelo?”

  “I’m sorry, but he seems to have simply…vanished.”

  Vince turned his chair, looking out the window at the city’s lights in the darkness. “Keep me informed,” he said with authority and ended the call. He stared out into the evening.

  So this was what it was like to be Overseer.

  John Temple woke suddenly as the voice on the intercom announced that they were going to be landing soon. It was dark out the window, and it was hard to see where they were the few times he had looked out.

  Twenty minutes later they were on the ground, and as others were trying to unload overhead luggage, John simply stepped off the plane—no luggage or carry-on to speak of.

  He couldn’t remember if he or Trista were supposed to land first. She’d explained it to him several times, but travel to him had always been more about winging it than well-fleshed-out logistics. They hadn’t been able to get flights together and so had flown on different airlines, with different flights at different times. The result was confusion—and a very real chance that Trista was avoiding him entirely.

  John stood in front of the arrivals board, staring blankly at the circus of letters and numbers that were supposed to represent flights. Hundreds of planes from all over the country—and the world—all pouring into Las Vegas, the city of sin, in a steady stream.

  “My flight was held up,” Trista said as she stepped up next to him.

  John looked at her and nodded. “How was your flight?”

  “Bumpy. Yours?” she asked, cordial but uninterested.

  “I slept.”

  “Hmm.” Trista looked ahead. “Let’s go get the rental car.”

  Devin screamed down the highway in his car, watching the stream of red taillights approach and disappear behind him— the dotted line between lanes flashing past the car in a flickerin
g parade.

  Hannah. His mind narrowed on her, trying to stay focused.

  Why had she left the car? She knew better. Couldn’t she see what would happen? Her future leapt into his mind:

  Hannah—ripped from the back of the truck.

  The truck—she was in the truck—wherever it was that it was going.

  A violent punch to her face—nose broken, spilling blood.

  He focused his eyes through the darkness, scowling at the night. Devin didn’t pray with words—but he prayed that this stretch of highway wasn’t being patrolled, that there were no police to pull him over, to slow him down, to lose Hannah.

  Grabbing her by the hair—dragging her across the dirt.

  The future could always be changed. But it was never easy. And time was always running out.

  The slick leather gearshift moved under the direct control of his hand, the mechanism gliding from one gear to the next. He signaled fast, changed lanes, pulled ahead of the last car in the pack, and saw the vehicle ahead of him.

  A truck. Like a small moving truck of some kind.

  He recognized the back doors—this was it. Behind those doors Hannah was waiting—trapped.

  There were only a few options—try to run the truck off the road and risk Hannah being hurt in the back, or follow until the truck came to a stop.

  Devin shifted gears and settled in behind the truck.

  Hannah sat on a foam pad, back against the cold metal, trying to think. She reached for one of the blankets. Ignoring the smell of dirt and mildew, she wrapped the thick material around her shoulders.

  The truck hit another bump, jostling the entire interior again, shaking up and down, from side to side.

  She held the blanket close, the smell nearly overpowering. Hannah pulled the blanket away and sniffed the air—the odor of sweat, salty and bitter. The girls had been here—the three of them, at least—

  Crammed into the space like canned fish, moving down the highway in the sweltering heat of the packed metal box.