by Anna Durand
The sirens wailed. Voices shouted outside.
Andrew crumpled to the floor and curled up in a ball.
She couldn't carry him out of here. She couldn't stay either. The police would want to know who strangled Brian Kellogg. She could tell them an invisible man did it, or maybe the ghost of Jack the Ripper, but somehow she doubted the police would buy either explanation. Without another suspect, they would level their sights on her.
And pull the trigger.
She poked her head out the door. The police cars had parked at the far end of the building. Two officers were talking with a man in a bathrobe. The man waved his arms in her direction.
Andrew sobbed.
She couldn't leave him here alone.
No choice. She tiptoed out the door, hopped over Kellogg's body, and slunk past two more rooms to the end of the building. A field sloped down the hill away from the motel, into the woods half a mile distant. Rounding the corner, she continued up the opposite side of the building. Another row of rooms filled this side, identical to the others except in the numbers on the door. Three cars occupied spaces in front of the rooms.
She stopped. The police might search this side of building. She couldn't just mosey past them. The man in the bathrobe must've seen her. Even if he hadn't, the police would likely stop anyone who attempted to leave the motel.
The air felt sticky and warm, yet her teeth chattered. Dammit.
She angled off into the field.
He returned to blackness. They shut off the lights when he traveled. He gave up asking why a long time ago. They would only refuse to answer. That's classified, they'd say, as if they were secret agents. They liked pretending they worked for the CIA or the military, spouting terms that meant nothing in the private sector, treating him like a prisoner.
No, they viewed him more as a slave than a prisoner, someone who obeyed their commands without questioning, without thinking, like a robot made of flesh and blood.
"I'm back," David announced.
The electrode wires tickled his arms. The chair felt cold, hard. When he shifted position, the straps around his ankles, wrists, and forehead chafed his skin.
The lights came on in a burst of white. He blinked in the sudden glare.
One of the technicians jiggled the door knob from the other side. It had become a ritual. They jiggled the knob before entering the room to insure that he hadn't pulled a Houdini, unlocking the door and escaping without triggering any alarms. Next, they'd peek through the tiny window set into the metal door, in case he'd somehow manipulated the surveillance cameras into displaying an image of him seated in the chair while in reality he hid near the door waiting to ambush them. Never mind that he knew nothing about cameras or alarms and had no clue how he might manipulate those devices.
Finally, with reasonable assurance of their safety, they would enter the room accompanied by two armed guards. Never know, he might spontaneously acquire superhuman strength that allowed him to break the leather restraints, leap the fifteen feet from his chair to the door, and butcher them all with his bare hands.
They thought he was an animal.
In some respects, they overestimated his abilities. Yet in other ways, they underestimated him. They had no conception of what he could really do, if he chose to. If they knew, they'd realize no precautions would protect them. They also lacked one piece of information that might ease their minds.
He had given up on escaping.
Satisfied that he hadn't tricked them, the technician unlocked the door and entered the sterile white room. Tesler, the lead technician, was a tall and wiry man in his sixties, with short-cropped gray hair and freckles that hinted red hair had once crowned his head. He wore a lab coat with a name badge pinned to the lapel. The lump in his pocket marked the location of his tablet computer. All the technicians at the facility carried tablets instead of pen and paper. Handwriting was passé.
No guards accompanied Tesler. Strange.
David arched an eyebrow. "Would you mind unstrapping me?"
Tesler approached him. The older man eyed David's restraints for a couple seconds, then reached out to unbuckle the forehead strap. Clasping David's chin in one hand, Tesler twisted his head from side to side, scrutinizing his subject's face. He released David's chin and seized his wrist, measuring the pulse with two fingers.
On a metal table positioned near David's chair, the heart rate monitor showed his pulse. They kept him hooked up to so much equipment, various kinds of monitors and meters, that he felt like he might physically meld with the machines one of these days. Still, Tesler always ignored the heart rate monitor and checked David's pulse himself.
"Normal," Tesler said. He sounded disappointed.
David glared at him.
As Tesler released the other straps, he asked in a faux-casual tone, "How was Seattle?"
"Dark and dreary. You'd love it."
Tesler ripped the electrodes from David's head. Hairs dangled from the sticky patches. His scalp burned where the hairs had torn loose.
A smile flickered on Tesler's face. "Reynolds will take you to the debriefing room."
"Don't make me go, I'll miss you too much."
Tesler unhooked the straps that bound David's wrists. He pulled handcuffs out of his pocket.
As he secured the cuffs on David's wrists, he said, "Where did you go today?"
"Seattle."
Tesler released the straps around David's ankles. "Where else?"
"Outer Mongolia. I heard it's nice this time of year."
Tesler leaned over him, placing a hand over each of David's forearms. Tesler's lip twitched. "David, don't lie to me. You were gone for five hours. Where else did you go?"
"I got lost."
Tesler pressed the weight of his body down on David's arms. The metal of the chair pinched his flesh. David stared into Tesler's eyes. The man's fingernails dug into his skin, while his thumbs pressed into nerves. David's arms throbbed from deep within the flesh. He wanted to belt Tesler. He wanted to repay the man for all the pain he'd caused. All the pain he would cause.
Get off me.
Tesler's eyes widened. He flew backward, limbs flailing, a cry choked off in his throat. His face flushed bright red.
With a thud and a gasp, he hit the concrete wall.
Tesler blinked. Though he opened his mouth, no sound came.
Well, that was a new one. Not that he believed the ability had come from him. It was borrowed power for sure — and he knew exactly where it had originated. He must never let Tesler figure it out.
David rose from the chair. Even he didn't know the full extent of his abilities. No one did.
"You tripped," he said, striding toward Tesler to offer his cuffed hands to the man. "Better be more careful."
Tesler ignored David's offer of help. He pushed himself up from the floor. Smoothing his lab coat, he straightened his spine and rolled his shoulders back.
When he spoke, a sharpness edged his voice. "Nice, David. Try that again and I'll put you in a coma."
David swallowed the smart retort that bubbled up inside him. He'd probably aggravated Tesler enough for one day. The bastard could do whatever he liked to David, so long as he got nowhere near Grace.
David moved toward the exit.
Tesler knocked on the door. It swung outward as a guard outside opened it. The guard and his partner, both armed with bulky semiautomatic handguns, stepped into the threshold.
Tesler glanced at David's handcuffs. "Maybe you need shackles on your feet."
The guards guided David out into the hallway. He paused and glanced over his shoulder at Tesler.
He smiled. "You can't shackle my mind, Tesler."
"Yes, I can," Tesler said. "With drugs. Test me and I'll prove it."
David's smile faltered. Drugs. They had given him drugs before, though n
ot to suppress his abilities. He had no idea if drugs really could interfere with his powers, though Tesler seemed convinced. He might be lying. Of course, they might've tested drugs on their other subjects.
Dammit. If they had drugs to stop him …
Grace would die.
Chapter Nine
She was lost. Grace cursed herself. She had headed into the middle of the woods, where the trees formed a canopy overhead, blocking out the rays of the sun. An ambient radiance guided her through the woods. Underbrush choked the ground. Briars nipped at her arms and pant legs.
She'd avoided the roads in case the cops fanned out in search of her. She assumed they knew about her. Call it intuition. Or just common sense. Or paranoia.
Maybe a little of all three.
Either way, she sensed the danger. Someone had known Kellogg would confide in her and opted to frame her for his murder. The good citizen in her urged her to turn around, report to the police, tell them everything — how she met Kellogg, what little he had told her — and then explain to them how he died.
Gee, Mr. Policeman, it was a ghost that strangled him.
Right.
The police had no way of knowing her name. The person who called them couldn't know her. She was safe.
Unless Andrew talked.
God, she had to stop torturing herself. The sensible thing to do was to go home, think, and formulate some kind of a plan to save herself. A plan to fight off invisible killers? No problem. She'd whip one out in five minutes flat.
More than a plan, she needed rest. Her body cried out for a break. Her mind slogged through the facts, unable to siphon off the relevant data. Her eyes were gritty. She pushed through a clump of briars. The trees thinned, opening into a clearing. Twenty feet away, a deer paused in its grass munching and looked up at Grace. She took a step toward the deer. The animal darted into the woods. The white tuft of the deer's tail bobbed through the brush until the creature melded with the darkness of the deeper woods.
Across the clearing, Grace spotted a woven-wire fence, camouflaged by vines and briars. The fence spanned that side of the clearing and disappeared into the woods. She trotted across the clearing. The fence was chest high and corroded. A strand of barbed wire had been strung along the top. The barbs looked rusty. If one of them nicked her, she'd need a tetanus shot.
She wasn't up to testing the structural integrity of her fate. Not today. It might collapse under her.
The fence lured her into the trees again. The fence must lead somewhere, to a road or a stream, something she would recognize. From there, she'd find her way back to town.
Or she'd upset a hive of killer bees and die from hundreds of stings.
Way to think positive.
Christ, she had to stop visualizing the worst possible outcome of every situation. Start picturing the happy endings. Even if she never made it to the happily-ever-after, at least she could nourish her psyche with the fantasy.
Half an hour ticked by before the woods opened onto a dirt track. Not exactly a road, the track cleaved the earth where vehicles had driven through an opening in the woods. Grass, sparse as a balding man's hair, had cropped up between the tire tracks.
She glanced up and down the track. One direction led toward town, the other out into the hinterlands. If she could just tell which one led to town …
The sun had started its westward descent through the sky.
North led to town. Studying the sun's trajectory, she guessed that taking the road left would aim her back toward town. Either that or some rancher would find her desiccated body lying in the woods a decade or two from now.
She followed the road leftward.
Twenty minutes later, a stream blocked her passage.
The dirt track had vanished into the shallow waters, reappearing on the other shore. The water was cool and relatively clear. She coughed. Her throat burned and tickled with each inhalation. Her tongue was parched. She'd be in trouble if she didn't drink something, even partially muddy water, very soon.
Kneeling at the water's edge, she cupped her hands together, scooped water from the stream, and took a sip. The water tasted faintly of dirt, but it soothed her parched throat. She gulped in the liquid.
A twig popped behind her.
She froze. Water dribbled down her chin.
Another twig snapped.
Slowly, she rose to a crouch and slipped the gun out of her purse. She squinted into the trees, searching for the source of the noises. The cracks had sounded close, somewhere behind her, but she couldn't tell for certain. She'd been concentrating on quenching her thirst, not inspecting the woods for enemies. No one could've tracked her out here. She would've noticed another person clomping through the thickets.
A twig cracked. Closer now, a few yards from her, the sound so loud it echoed in her ears. The hairs on her neck prickled.
Gripping the gun in her hands, vise-tight, she whirled around.
The track was empty. In the trees to her right, a beast growled.
"Who's there?" she said.
Rustling. Soft growling.
"Come out or I'll shoot."
The weeds parted. A dark shape slunk out of the shadows into the road.
She swung the gun toward the shape. The black cougar halted in the middle of the dirt track, ears flattened back, upper lip curled, a growl reverberating in its chest.
She held still, the gun directed at the cat. Although she'd heard tales of black cats showing up in the area, she hadn't seen one herself. The stories always sounded like rural legends to her.
Now she crouched face-to-face with the reality of those tales.
The cougar watched her. She watched it. Maybe it wasn't a cougar, but some other kind of large cat, like a jaguar. It hardly mattered at the moment. Whether it selected her as its next meal mattered a hell of a lot more. Her heart hammered inside her chest.
She didn't dare move.
Suddenly, the cat dashed into the woods. Twigs splintered in its wake. The sounds faded into the distance.
Her heart still pounded, so she sat motionless for a minute or two, drawing in deep breaths, until the rushing of blood slowed to a more sedate pace. Then she hopped across the creek.
And stumbled to a halt.
He stood there. In the middle of the dirt track. Straddling the strip of grass that bisected the trail.
She blinked. Nope, he was still there.
His blonde hair glistened in the filtered sunlight. She frowned at him. After their encounter in the mall, she had hoped he might leave her alone. But then, she couldn't expect a hallucination to heed her wishes. Problem was, she no longer believed he was a figment of her screwed-up mind.
She raised the gun. "Get out of my way."
"You don't want to shoot me."
"Don't push me. I'm having a bad day."
He pointed up the road. "You're going the wrong way."
"I'm going north."
"Not anymore. The road turned."
Reluctantly, she took her gaze off him and glanced up at the sky. The sun had shifted. It now hovered behind and to the right of her. She was facing southeast — approximately.
Damn. She hated admitting he was right. The ache behind her eyes burgeoned anew.
She lowered the gun. "I would've figured that out. Eventually."
"When you got to Cuba?"
He stepped closer to her.
She raised the gun, finger on the trigger.
He shook his head.
"Thanks for the help," she said, "but I can take it from here."
"Have it your way."
She spun on her heels and marched down the track in the opposite direction.
He cleared his throat.
She paused mid step.
"You need to go through the woods," he said, "or you'll end up going s
outh again."
She clenched her fist around the butt of the gun. Saying nothing, she veered off the track into the trees.
She sensed him trailing her. Though she neither saw nor heard him, she felt his presence in the air, like rain about to pour down from the heavens. Not that she equated her shadow man with rain. She loved rain, and the smell of damp earth afterward that permeated the air. No, she did not equate her stalker with rain.
That would mean she liked him.
Up ahead, a trail cut through the trees. Animals had worn this trail into the landscape — deer, cows, horses. Humans might've used the trail as well, though she saw no footprints to indicate it. The boughs of the trees curled over the trail. Although the sun's glow bathed the woods, the orb itself — her compass — stayed hidden above the canopy. The sun's heat nonetheless warmed her skin, drawing a sheen of sweat from her pores. She stopped and tilted her head backward, squinting at the treetops.
"This way."
His voice murmured behind her, too close behind. She sensed him move closer still until his body felt mere inches from hers, though she didn't dare look back to see if her estimation was correct.
"Go left," he said, his voice soft and deep.
And sexy. A shiver snaked down her spine. The shiver wasn't creepy, but rather …
Oh, she absolutely would not finish that thought.
He grasped her shoulders and gently turned her leftward. Now she could see him out the corner of her eye. Tall and handsome and so very close.
She shook off his hands and snapped, "I know left from right, thank you very much."
"Then move."
Good idea. She fully intended to move. Her muscles, however, seemed to have gone on strike.
He scrunched his eyebrows. "You really don't remember me, do you?"
"Sure, I remember. You cornered me in a department store fitting room yesterday."
She marched past him down the trail.
Fifteen minutes had passed since he first appeared, ostensibly to guide her, and she had yet to see any evidence that they traveled in the right direction. He might have a worse sense of direction than she did. Or he might have a reason for keeping her lost.