The Man from Nowhere

by Rachel Lee

  And like a Category Five hurricane, he was going to leave wreckage in his wake. Dreams and hopes long buried, picked up and life breathed into them, passions driven like flotsam on a storm surge, needs she had spent years denying not just watered but flooded. All that was missing was some reporter from the Weather Channel on her front porch, leaning into the wind-driven rain to report: You can see the storm is really picking up. And as I stand here with power lines falling and tree limbs flying past my head, I should once again warn everyone to not be where I am doing what I’m doing.

  She would have laughed at herself except that a message popped up on her screen.

  Account locked. Contact Administrator.

  The last moments of happiness, the last wisps of hope, dissipated instantly.

  “Grant? Grant!”

  He nearly ran. Well, as much as he could with his bad hip, but the tenor of her voice had changed so much that he no longer heard it in tones of plum, but now in a sharp, biting blue.

  He reached the door of the office, his hip shrieking now. “What? What?” All he could think was, thank God, she looked all right. In one piece. No blood.

  “Look at this.” She pointed to her screen and he limped over to her, three short steps that felt as if shards of sharp glass were grinding in his hip.

  He bent over and swore. When he saw that her hands were shaking beside the keyboard, he took one and squeezed it.

  “Hank’s involved,” she whispered.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe everything is locked down for the auditor.” But he didn’t believe it because the instant he touched her hand, the darkness that had been edging his mind since the visions began to grow.

  She looked up from the screen, meeting his gaze, and he could tell she didn’t believe it, either, not even enough to clutch at the slender straw she offered.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the practical. “You said you downloaded the files.”

  “Some of them. The latest ones that I had verified.”

  “Is it enough? Along with your e-mails to Hank?”

  She closed her eyes a moment, as if steadying herself. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I think so.”

  “Then make the copies of what you have. On CD, on paper. I’ll take one set to Gage on my way back to the motel.”

  “Okay.” She started to turn back to her computer, but Grant let go of her hand and gripped her shoulder. When she looked up again, he kissed her with warmth and passion.

  “There will be a later,” he said against her lips, lips still a little swollen from their earlier lovemaking.

  Forcing himself to pull back proved harder than he would have expected, but this was no time to grab her and curl up with her in the back of the darkest hole they could find. No time. He had to feed her so she’d have energy, and then he had to leave, because he didn’t dare risk changing one little thing.

  “Come get dinner as soon as you’re done,” he said, forcing a smile he didn’t feel.

  The meal that he had hoped would be special enough to extend the beautiful experience they had shared earlier, had hoped might leave her with a good memory of him, might as well have been sawdust. Oh, she complimented it, and once she tasted the chicken she even seemed to savor it.

  But the darkness was crowding in, both outside and inside. He wanted to say something to leaven the moment, to ease her fear, to do anything that might make her feel better, but there wasn’t a word or an act that could do that.

  She tried, too, smiling at him, talking about how she hadn’t expected to like the maple-vinegar sauce, and what a pleasant surprise it had turned out to be.

  “I’m glad,” he said. “I’ll make it for you again.” A mention of a future that might never happen. He felt as if he’d dropped an anvil into the middle of the table.

  Neither of them ate as much as they might have otherwise, but as soon as they cleared the table, they filled cups with coffee and went to the living room.

  And finally he had to say it. “I have to leave soon.”

  “I know. I can drive you back.”

  He hesitated. Would that affect anything? Probably not. “Sure. If you want, just drop me at the square. It’s not that far from the sheriff’s office to the motel.”

  “Far enough. You think I can’t see you’re hurting?”

  “It’ll pass. I’ll be fine.” With respect to that, anyway.

  She looked down at the cup she held in her lap. “It can’t be much longer.”

  He didn’t have to ask what she meant.

  “If they’ve locked me out of the server, I don’t think it’s for an audit. I would have been contacted first.”

  “Usually.” He wanted to argue with her, but couldn’t.

  “You said we were operating with a short fuse if Hank was involved.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  She turned her head with a pained grimace and looked hollowly at him. “I’ll be glad when this is all over.”

  Yeah, and probably be glad to see the last of him, too, he thought. What had he brought her except terror? In her mind he was probably all wrapped up in the threat she faced.

  At that moment he happened to glance at the clock on the box atop her TV. “It’s after nine,” he said, startled. “God, I’ve got to be going.”

  “But…” Her protest died before she voiced it. She put the back of her hand to her mouth, closed her eyes and took a moment. “Let me get the files,” she said finally when she opened her eyes again. “And one thing. You said you saw me in my bedroom.”

  He nodded, feeling his heart jerk uncomfortably.

  “Then that’s where I’ll be,” she said.

  He was amazed to see resolve in her gaze. As if she had crossed some internal bridge and left fear behind.

  She went to her office and returned with two thick manila envelopes. “One for you, one for Gage. They’re sealed for security reasons. I’m probably breaking a law just by putting these in your hands.”

  “Not if they’re coded,” he said. “I do know something about handling classified information.”

  “They’re coded. I guess you’re right. I could probably put most of this on the front page of the newspaper. The company would be furious, but nothing classified would be revealed.”

  “Then don’t even worry about it. I expect both these envelopes will be in the feds’ hands soon, and they can break the code.”

  She nodded, watching as he picked up his jacket, tucked the envelopes inside and zipped up.

  “I’ll drive you,” she said again. “You need to give your hip a break so you can get back here tonight.”

  He hesitated, bothered in some way, but couldn’t put his finger on it. The killer wouldn’t come until after midnight, and if he was out there somewhere, watching, all he’d discover was that Trish was going to be alone.

  So what was bothering him? The driving? He felt around in his head. No, he didn’t get a bad feeling about her driving him. But something else…

  “I don’t know why,” he said, “but bring your shotgun. You might want to check the house out when you get back. Top to bottom.”

  “But I’ve got watchers, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Besides,” she said, “the killer leaves the bar just before 1:00 a.m.”

  Reminding him of his own vision. She was incredible, and equally incredible was the determination he saw in her now.

  “I can’t take the gun. If the killer is watching, I don’t want him to know I have it or that I’m concerned.”

  Irrefutable logic. He hated it, but couldn’t argue with it.

  So she drove him back to the motel, a five-minute trip. She had insisted he rest, that he could leave the envelope with the sheriff on his way back to Mahoney’s. More logic, in a place where logic was all they had.

  Before he climbed out, he had to reach for her, hold her close, kiss her as if his life depended on it.

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  She almost smiled. “I
know you will.” She cupped his cheek and whispered, “It’s almost over. Tonight. Tomorrow night. I can feel it.”

  “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “Yeah.” And pulling away from her felt about as painful as pulling off his own skin, but he made himself do it.

  Because he had no choice. Because if he blew it this time, he was going to jump off a bridge.

  Tad was drowsy, and she had to encourage him to take his nighttime walk in the backyard. He yawned a few times, but managed to do his business. Then he came back inside, not prancing as usual, but rather sedate.

  She squatted down as she took the leash off inside the kitchen and rubbed his ears. He yawned. “I guess the tension gets to you, too, huh?”

  He yawned again, then found a corner where he walked his usual circle, flattening grass that wasn’t there. When he dropped it was with an almost comical thud.

  “I wish I felt that sleepy,” she told him. He opened one eye briefly, then let it droop closed.

  “Some watchdog.” Although, there was nothing to disturb him right now, no reason for him to bounce and bark. If someone tried to break in, though, he’d probably be true to his species.

  She walked the entire downstairs, checking to be sure everything was locked up tight. No reason she had to make it easy on this guy, even though if Grant was right, he was going to get in, anyway.

  Shotgun in hand, she finally headed upstairs with a cup of hot cocoa. Glancing at the clock, she saw she still had time. Time to get in her flannel nightshirt, time to read for a while and try to distract herself. Given the clarity of Grant’s timetable, she didn’t have to turn off the light until around twelve-thirty, which was good, because she didn’t think she could stand being alone in the dark for long.

  Not after finding out her account at work had been locked. If she’d had a remaining shred of doubt that she might be in danger, that had erased it.

  She had become two loose ends without a middle.

  The room still held the aromas of their recent lovemaking. She put her cocoa on the nightstand, gave up all hope of reading and, instead, rolled over to hug the pillow beside her. It still smelled of Grant, still smelled of them.

  The scent comforted her as she watched the hands of the clock tick slowly forward.

  Across town in the motel, Grant couldn’t sleep, either. He tried to watch TV and gave up. Instead, he lay on the bed, knowing he needed to rest his hip if he was going to be anything more than utterly useless tonight.

  Tonight. Why he felt so certain he couldn’t say. He didn’t have another vision or anything, just a feeling. Seeing that Trish had been locked out of her account had been an emotional Big Bang, and while he knew logically that it could have been nothing but a move by an auditor to preserve the records, he didn’t believe it.

  No, the cover-up had begun. Forces had been put into motion to protect someone or something. Maybe the FBI had called Hank, Trish’s CFO, to set up a meeting tomorrow. Who knew? No way to know.

  All he could say for sure was that something had shifted, because just yesterday she had been able to access her work account to get her e-mail.

  Tonight.

  The agony of anticipation and terror held him in thrall. No way out.

  Tonight.

  Chapter 11

  A little after midnight, Grant rose and pulled on his boots and jacket. Just as he had every night before, he stuffed his room key in his pocket, turned out the light and stepped out into the brisk night air.

  His hip had eased up some after the rest, so the walk to Mahoney’s wasn’t the grinding impossibility it might have become. Indeed, he was surprised when he glanced at his watch. He’d made it in record time. Five minutes early. He took in the scents of the night and the way the town had quieted at this late hour. It was almost as if the world had frozen into suspended animation, to be awakened only by the warmth of the rising sun.

  “Evenin’,” Mahoney said, sliding Grant a bowl of pretzels and his now customary shot of rye, neat.

  “Evenin’ and thanks,” Grant replied. He sipped his drink, watching nearby seats, waiting to see a man leave. Then he realized that Mahoney had not only made him feel like a welcome regular, but seemed to have given him more than a single shot. Grant put a ten on the table. “It’s perfect.”

  Mahoney nodded and grinned as he picked up the bill. “So’s this.”

  “Yup,” Grant said, forcing himself to make small talk. “I left the counterfeit ones back at the hotel.”

  “Thank God,” Mahoney said. “They’ve been getting mixed in with the ones I print up in the back, and that’s killing my quality control standards.”

  “Life is tough.”

  “True that, as my grandkid would say.”

  Grant usually enjoyed their repartee, but tonight was not the night for it. He smiled and nodded in a way that said thanks, I’m done, and sipped his drink again. Mahoney returned the nod and moved down the bar. Apparently not much slipped past him. It was a knack shared by most good bartenders. Tonight, Grant thought, looking down the bar at the empty stool two seats away. He’ll come tonight. He’ll order a drink, a shot of liquid courage, then he’ll glance up at the clock. At ten before one, he’ll leave. And Grant would follow him and then…?

  Well, that was the big question, wasn’t it?

  And one for which Grant had no ready answer. He had to follow the guy, just to be sure it wasn’t someone who happened to wander into a bar for a nightcap, having not the slightest intention of harming Trish. But once he’d done that, and once he was sure…what? It’s not as if Grant was a trained bodyguard or even a former soldier. Even if he had been, he was a cripple. And unarmed. And the other guy would be a trained killer, a pro, doubtless carrying a weapon he knew how to use.

  It was, Grant thought, a recipe for disaster. But it was the only recipe he had. And as he’d learned back in college, sometimes you just take a recipe and riff until something good comes out. E pluribus wing it.

  It struck him, as he glanced at the empty stool again, that there was a lot of truth to Einstein’s quip when asked to explain time being relative: “A two-second kiss is much shorter than two seconds with your hand on a hot stove.” The hours he’d spent with Trish today had flown by. The few minutes he’d spent here at Ma honey’s tonight were crawling.

  He glanced up at the clock over the bar: 12:50 a.m. Anytime now. The scientist in him could almost track the up-tick in adrenaline. His fingers did not quite quiver, but he realized his palm felt slick against the glass. He knew it was the opening of pores, releasing sweat, part of the fight-or-flight response, a cascading of set physiological adjustments crafted by millennia of evolution to optimize physical performance in dire danger. It had happened on the plane in those awful moments after he realized he and his family, and the rest of the passengers, were locked in the death spiral of his vision. Then he had been unable to do anything. But tonight, once he saw the man, he could at least try.

  The man should be here now. He should already have walked up and sat down, ordered his drink. It had to be tonight. Grant could feel it. But where was he? Grant looked at the empty stool again, and again at the clock over the bar: 12:50 a.m.

  The clock’s second hand wasn’t moving.

  “Oh, God,” Mahoney said, apparently having seen Grant stiffen as he looked from his watch to the clock. “Oh, God. The clock stopped this afternoon. He left before you got here.”

  “Who left?” Grant asked, looking at his watch—12:52 a.m.

  “The guy you’ve been looking for,” Mahoney said. “Sat in that stool, the one you always look at. Scotch neat. Big sumbuck, too. He left not five minutes before you got here.”

  “But he’s supposed to come at ten to one…” Grant said, his voice trailing away.

  Then it clicked. In his vision, he’d been seeing Mahoney’s stopped clock.

  “Go,” Mahoney said, smacking a key ring on the bar. “My bike’s out front. I’ll call Gage. Go.”

  “Thanks,” Grant said
, scooping up the keys. “Tell Gage to meet me at Trish Devlin’s place. And tell him to get his UC team over there now. He’ll know what I mean.”

  “The couple from Laramie staying next door?”

  “Does everyone in this town know everything about everyone?” Grant asked as he made for the door.

  “Yeah, they do,” Mahoney said. “But your big sumbuck ain’t from this town. Now go.”

  A single creak as the screen door opened.

  The sound was almost too quiet to hear, but to Trish’s ears it might have been a boom of thunder. Her eyes shot open, and her body stiffened. She looked at the clock. 12:53 a.m. It wouldn’t be Grant. He wouldn’t be here yet. And Grant would knock. There wasn’t even a whine or a bark from the dog sleeping downstairs. Had she misheard?

  She held her breath, listening, and heard a different sound, like some thuds. Was that a groan? But it was outside somewhere…and then another creak of the screen door. Her heart slammed.

  Trish forced herself to take a long, slow breath, exhaling through her nose, as her father had taught her to do before squeezing a trigger. It quieted the mind, as well as the body. And she needed both right now. Then she slid first one leg and then the other off the bed, crouching on the floor as her hand grasped the stock of the shotgun. She lifted it as a mother might a sleeping baby, carefully so as not to wake it. Or, so as not to make a sound.

  Why wasn’t Tad barking?

  Might it be Grant, after all? Even if it was, Tad would let out his usual happy yelps of delight. There was not a sound from him. Only the slow, measured, near silent steps of someone moving through the living room. Had her senses not been so attuned, had the sounds not been in her own home whose sounds she knew so well, she wouldn’t have heard them. But she did. And Grant could not move with that stealth.