Lies (The David Chance Series Book 3)

by Hileman, John Michael

  He shook his head.

  "Your mind can see it all, Jon, everything, all at once, the past, the future. But it is too much for you to bear, so you have shielded yourself from it by creating these voices to guide you toward what you know you need to do."

  "Jillian," he said, diplomatically. "I’ve seen them. I’ve seen their crafts in the sky."

  Her face dropped.

  "These are not just voices in my head. I’ve seen them."

  "But Jakson said," she stammered.

  "I don't know where Jakson is getting his information from, but it's not true." He shifted closer to her. "Does it really matter where the voices are coming from? Something big is going on, and we get to be a part of it, together. Isn't that enough?"

  Her lovely face warmed. "How do you do that?"

  "What?"

  She craned her neck and studied him harder. "How are you able to just accept things as they are, without question?"

  "I question," he said defensively.

  "You're so quick to trust, to give yourself over to what you experience." She pulled her eyes from his face for the first time since climbing into the limo. "I'm always second guessing everything. It drives Jakson crazy. I've never trusted anything or anyone in my entire life." Her eyes came back up. "Until you."

  "And I trust you." He winced inwardly as the words came out. Nice job. Way to sound like a soap opera actor. "What I mean is, for the first time since my mother left, I've found someone I think I can actually care about without wondering when my heart will be shattered."

  She slid her hands up his arms and pulled him in. "I've watched your trust betrayed so many times, and cried with you as you suffered in secret." A tear broke free from the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. "But you never lost faith. You never stopped trusting people. You’re stronger than me, so much stronger."

  Her lips hovered inches from his mouth, close enough so he could smell her sweet breath. Would she allow a kiss? Had she drawn him in to give him the opportunity? He leaned in and watched her, looking for any signs of withdrawal. She stayed fixed, with eyes locked on his lips, trembling.

  The door to the limo flew open and Castle's voice filled the cab. "We're free to move on to the next appointment if you kids are up for it.

  Chapter 25

  "Get up, Sam."

  Sam Donavan's eyes flicked open; his breath sucked in. With a jolt, he sprang from his bed and crumbled to the carpeted floor. "Where am I?" he said, scrambling desperately.

  "Where you have always been," said the slow, steady voice from above.

  No. He was in a field, a field of dead bodies, where they bring their dead, like a garbage dump. So many had died, or were they yet to die?

  He dug his fingers into the fibers of the carpet. "What’s the date?"

  "Find it," said the voice with indifference.

  His wrinkled hands came into focus. When had he become old? There was a time when he had known the answer to that question, but he could not acquire the memory from the library of his fractured mind. With great effort, he wobbled to his feet and peered around the dim room. Not a field. A room. He knew this place, this comfortable dungeon. It was his home. It had been for as long as he could remember.

  Though his body ached, he shuffled forward to the wall. This, also, was his, thousands of index cards, mixed with photographs and thick black writing. Some of the people had lived, some had died. Some had lived that weren't supposed to. He slid his fingers along a thick, black line, tracing it to the corner of the room and onto the next wall. Years and months and days were all marked with index cards placed on the wall by his own hand. This was his timeline, his reality. He moved faster, scanning and studying each clump of photos, news clippings and writings, faster and faster, until he came to the thick metal triangle that represented the present moment. But that moment had changed! A pang of fear gripped his gut. What was the date? Where was he in time? His eyes bounced from photo to photo. Which of these events had already occurred and which were yet to occur? The uncertainty of it filled him with dread.

  The clock!

  His body flipped around. On a small table behind him sat a red digital clock. He cataloged the year, day and hour and turned back to the current-time indicator. It was off. He looked closer. Fourteen hours! Was that how long he had been sleeping? What had changed in the time he was away? Fourteen hours was a long time.

  He pulled the metal triangle free of the wall, moved its tip to the proper position on the timeline and with shaking fingers sunk it into place. His frail body loosened slightly. With the CTI where it belonged, reality felt less like a swirling vortex and more like a fixed thing, though it was not.

  "Do you have a name?" said the man behind him. He recognized the voice now. It was his jailor, his tormentor, and his comforter, come to pay him a visit.

  Did he have a name? A name for the unifier? No. He did not. Thankfully, he had not dreamed it, yet. Because if he had he would have been compelled to write it in on the timeline, and doing so would mean the death sentence to that man. It was beyond his control, really. If he didn't write the dreams down, they would disappear, and with them, his sanity. The scribblings on his walls and on the index cards were his only anchor to reality. Without them he would slip into the vortex of time and never return.

  What did it matter, anyway? Writing the name meant the death of one innocent man, but to not write it meant the death of everyone at that conference. Jakson had already proven his willingness to destroy Massachusetts and half the east coast, to ensure the death of this unifier. He would stop at nothing to prevent him from making his speech.

  Sam didn't understand the repercussion this speech would have. All he could see was the lives that would be lost if he hid the knowledge from his enemy. He couldn't live with the blood on his hands.

  "No. I haven't seen his face yet," said Sam softly.

  The slender man slapped a folder onto the table, and photos spilled out. Sam flipped the cover open. The photos on top were of David Chance from the side and the back.

  "Is he the one? Is this the unifier?"

  He tried to tap into the image from the dream, but there were so many versions of that moment they all blended together. It was impossible to see the man clearly now.

  "I'm sorry, Jakson. I can't see it."

  "Try harder!"

  "I can't see it! But if I do, I'll mark it on the timeline. You know I will."

  Jakson's face grew hard. He was aware of Sam's compulsion. If he had seen the unifier, he would not have been able to resist the need to paste it on his timeline. His eyes drew to slits. "Put these in their place and be quick about it."

  Sam noticed the change in the man's tone. It was subtle, but unmistakable. The ancient entity known as Jakson had departed, leaving only his perpetually irritated host who always spoke with a hint of anger in his voice, and understandably so. He was nothing more than a slave, watching through his own eyes as another man lived his life. How could anyone do that? How could anyone give their free will over to the will of another? Sam was as much a prisoner as the host Jakson favored, but at least there was some comfort in knowing that he had not given up his freedom willingly.

  He snatched the pictures up greedily and with a handful of tacks posted them in their appropriate locations. As each image fit into its place on the timeline, a sense of contentment filled him. He no longer had to wonder what was real and what was never meant to be. These were now a matter of record and he could rest in the solidity of it.

  When the last photo had been posted, he left his finger tips on it and smoothed it against the board. With everything in place, his mind felt free to allow his most recent dream to add its paths to the timeline. As with all his dreams, there were many stories melting together. Some of the stories had changed. But which ones? Which events had Jakson tampered with? What would no longer come to pass because of his meddling?

  Oh dear.

  Sam stared at the tapestry of time unfolding before his e
yes. In it he saw a face, a very frightened face.

  "What is it like?" he said, over his shoulder.

  "What is what like?" said Jackson, the anger still present in his voice.

  Sam turned. "Does it bother you that your life is controlled by another?"

  The comment caused Jackson's agitation to increase. "My life is my own."

  "Do you really believe you have any say? Do you believe you can resist after giving in to his influence all these years?"

  "I have no need to resist."

  "A time is coming when you will want to resist with everything that is in you." He felt his head jerk back as he realized the error in his wording. "Well," he said, "not everything that is in you."

  Jackson's jaw tightened. "What have you seen, old man?"

  "Your parasite doesn't value your life as much as you think it does."

  "What have you seen?!"

  "Nothing of consequence," he said, stifling a laugh at his own cleverness. "Just your death."

  Chapter 26

  Jillian Mack didn't speak another word about aliens. She stood quietly by Jon's side as talk show appearances turned into news appearances, and news appearances turned into television appearances, many of which were done remotely with nationally syndicated shows from New York. Jon spoke with the biggest names in the business and left them all in stunned silence. Crowds of people had begun to gather at each new location, some hoping for a glimpse of the miracle man, others reaching out with desperate hands for a touch, like somehow his gift could rub off on them.

  They’d even begun to turn their adoration toward her, pleading for her to tell them their future, to kiss their babies, to give them hope and direction. She envied Jon because, for him, their cries were lost in the din of the pressing crowds. But she could not hide from their begging lips. They called to her from across the sea of worshiping faces. They cried for help. They cried for healing. They begged for a blessing. And all the while, Jon humbly resisted their attempts to elevate him to the status of a god.

  A warm presence came up beside her on the balcony of their hotel room, pulling her from her introspection; the dark landscape of the city came back into focus. Jon turned toward her so she could read his lips. "Penny for your thoughts?"

  She placed an elbow against the rail and let out a sigh. "I was thinking how amazing you are."

  He flashed the kind of devious smile only he could pull off. It claimed credit for the compliment, but hinted at the absurdity of it.

  "I doubt anyone will ever question your abilities again after what they've seen today."

  "There will always be scoffers," he said, wrinkling his forehead.

  "I imagine there will be," she said.

  A flash of a memory forced her cheeks to tighten.

  He tuned into her change of expression. "What?"

  "You almost made Oprah drop her microphone."

  They both laughed.

  She loved his smile, the way it flashed across his handsome face in the most appealing way, and how he always kept his eyes on her face, though he didn't have to. It felt intimate, and disarming, as though his silver blue eyes could see into her soul. Yet, what he saw didn't frighten him away. He was happy to continue his silent observation.

  He pulled back suddenly, and she realized that her eyes had wandered from his lips. They had tracked down to his strong forearm, protruding from his rolled up cuff.

  "Phone," he said again, so she could see. He went back into the room and picked up the receiver. His eyes were on her as he answered. "Hello?" After a pause, he said, "It's Castle."

  She nodded.

  "What conference?" he said, scrunching his face.

  A shiver ran down her spine. This was it. This was the call that would bring Jon to the conference in place of David Chance. It was faster than she had expected, but then again, this day was not exactly what she had expected, either. Jon left no room for guessing. He had abilities unlike anything anyone had ever seen, and the personal way with which he implemented his gift left people wanting to know more about him. It only made sense that they would ask for him.

  "Yes. I can attend. I'll get a speech prepared. Okay. Thanks." He set the phone down and a stunned look stretched his features.

  "What?"

  "There is a Christian political rally coming up. They've asked me to speak at it."

  "Christian?"

  "Yeah, and apparently this is what they have been waiting for." He gestured toward the ceiling when he said the word "they."

  She wanted to remind him again that his voices were nothing more than a creation of his own subconscious mind, but decided against it. For whatever reason, his incredible mind needed this delusion it had created for itself. She didn't dare upset the delicate balance any more than she already had.

  "What do they want you to do at this conference? You’ve talked about an evil man who would plunge the world into darkness. Are they sending you there to stop him?"

  Jon's shoulders went back and his posture changed almost imperceptibly. She had seen this behavior several times. Immediately following the change in demeanor, a confidence would take hold of him, like a stronger personality dominating the weaker.

  "Our goals are the same. The unifier cannot be allowed to give his speech."

  She inched in toward him. "Are they controlling you, Jon? Do they completely take over?"

  His head shook; it was as though the marionette strings snapped away. "What? No."

  "When you do that, it's like you become another person."

  His posture became defensive. "They don't control me. I let them guide me in what to say and do, but I can stop them at any time."

  "You never lose control?"

  "No. It's just easier than repeating everything they say in my head."

  "What does it feel like to have them take over so completely?"

  "They don't take over. It's like non-verbal communication. They ask to move my hand and I let them. They ask to move my lips and I let them. Everything is a request. It just happens so fast it looks like they are in control, but they aren't. I am. I never let them do anything I don't want to do."

  "I don't know why, but that’s a relief. Having them control you like a puppet is really creepy."

  He shortened the gap between them farther, and she could feel the heat of his body. It always surprised her, the effect he had when he drew near. Was it his scent, or the promise of his touch that set her skin tingling? She felt like a little school girl with a crush.

  "If it bothers you," he said, "I won't ever let them do it again."

  "Nothing about you bothers me," she said, suppressing a nervous shiver. "Your voices are a part of you, and I love every part of you, Jon Blake."

  He leaned in, pressed his lips against hers, and kissed deeply. She wanted to melt into him, get lost in his strong arms, but she couldn't. Not yet. Not with all that was going on. She didn't want their first time together to be tainted by the anxiety of what tomorrow would hold. It took every ounce of strength to push him back, but she kissed him the whole way. "I can't," she whispered. "I want to so badly. You don't understand how long I've waited. But I can't. Not now. Not yet."

  His face hovered in front of hers. His chest heaved silently.

  "After tomorrow. No matter what. I promise."

  His eyes caressed her face. "Will you at least stay here tonight? You can sleep in the other bed. With your clothes on," he added.

  She gave him a nod.

  "I won't try anything. I just want you here."

  She rubbed a hand up his chest. "I'm not going anywhere. I know you don't understand it, but I've been yours for a very, very long time. How could I be anywhere else but with you?"

  Chapter 27

  A voice brought Jon to consciousness. His eyes flicked open.

  "Jon."

  What? What's going on?

  "Get up. Get dressed."

  He looked at Jillian sleeping silently on the other bed.

  Is something wrong?
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  "Get up, get dressed, and go out into the hall."

  He rolled out of bed and put his clothes on quietly in the dark. Half way through he stopped and chuckled at himself. Why was he being quiet? She couldn't hear him. He finished quickly, without the constraint of keeping quiet.

  "Go to the hall."

  He fastened his belt and slipped out the door.

  "Take the elevator to the thirty-fifth floor."

  Why? What's on the thirty-fifth floor?

  "There is a task we wish for you to complete."

  Can't it wait till morning?

  They gave no response.

  With a grumble he walked to the elevator and pressed the button for the thirty-fifth floor. After an excruciatingly long time, the doors slid open, and he stepped out into a long empty corridor.

  "Good. Fourth door on the right."

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, walked down the hall, and stopped in front of the door. Now what?

  "Open it."

  What's on the other side?

  "We don't want to ruin the surprise." There was a hint of playfulness in the voice.

  He twisted the knob and pushed in through the door. As the light from the room hit his eyes there was a startled scream as a short, balding man rose from the bed and aimed a revolver in his direction. "What are you doing?!" His face was red and wet, his eyes bloodshot.

  "Whoa!" shouted Jon, lifting his hands as though they could protect him from a bullet. "Calm down!"

  "You have the wrong room! Get out!"

  A strong voice filled his head. "Stay! You are here to help him."

  "I'm here to help you!" he blurted. He could feel the alien tentacles attempting to take hold of him, but self preservation caused him to resist.

  "Let go, Jon."

  The middle-aged man wiped at tears on his face with aggression. "I don't need any help!"

  Jon sucked in a breath and gave himself over to the forces begging for control. He heard his voice say, "Donald, put the gun down. I have a proposition for you."

  The man looked like he was recovering from an uppercut. "How do you know me?"