Willpower

by Anna Durand

  "You know him?" Hannah asked.

  "Who?"

  "The man who brought you in."

  "Not really."

  Hannah fluffed the pillow behind Grace's head. "The doctor'll be in soon to take a look at you."

  "Again?"

  "He ain't seen ya yet, sweetie. You've been asleep."

  "But I woke up and he was here. Looking at my leg. He told me to sleep."

  "The doctor's been busy with a critical patient. You must've dreamed it."

  Grace said nothing. No point in arguing, really.

  The nurse eyed her with a curious expression. "You've been to the ER before, haven't you? With real bad migraines."

  Grace's breath caught in her throat. How did the nurse know about her headaches? Oh, duh. She'd come to this emergency room and seen doctors whose offices were in this hospital. Of course they'd have her records.

  "Still havin' those migraines?" Hannah asked.

  Limited honesty seemed the best policy right now, so Grace told the woman, "Sometimes. I've got medicine for it."

  "Good." Hannah turned to leave, then glanced over her shoulder at Grace. "You need anything, you be sure to let me know."

  Grace tried to relax, but she hated hospitals. And doctors offices. And needles. And blood pressure cuffs. The one wrapped around her arm right now, taking her blood pressure at regular intervals, pumped itself up again for a new reading. The pressure on her arm pinched harder and harder.

  She squirmed on the bed. A sharp object dug into her hip. She shoved a hand into her jeans pocket and felt the key tucked inside it. Kellogg's key. Tugging it out of her pocket, she turned it between her thumb and forefinger. Bits of lint stuck to the tape residue on the key, along with a tiny breath mint. Her pocket wasn't exactly a sterile environment. She flicked the mint off the key. It flew past the nurse's left eye.

  Grace winced. "Sorry."

  "Don't worry," Hannah said. "I've had worse things thrown at me. What was that anyway, a TicTac?"

  "Uh … yeah." Grace fiddled with the key. "Wintergreen flavor."

  Hannah grinned. "My favorite. You got any more?"

  "No. Sorry."

  As the blood pressure cuff deflated, releasing its grip on her arm, Grace let out a breath. She adjusted her position on the bed — and promptly dropped the key on the floor.

  Hannah snatched it up, glancing at the key as she handed it back to Grace. With the key once again in her hand, Grace closed her fist around it.

  "Don't worry about your mail," Hannah said. "Store's closed anyhow."

  "What?"

  The nurse patted her arm. "My hubby keeps a box at Mail 'N More too. He gets off work at five-thirty, so he always has to rush to make there before the store closes at six."

  "Oh. Right." Grace tried to act nonchalant, though her heart was beating faster. The monitor nearby registered ninety-eight beats per minute. "I just realized I forgot to pick up my mail today, that's all."

  "Store opens at eight in the mornin', sweetie."

  "Thanks."

  "Sure thing. Now y'all take it easy till the doctor comes."

  The nurse winked at Grace, and then departed. The curtain settled back into place behind her.

  Grace tucked the key into her pocket again. She knew what the key unlocked now. Tomorrow morning, she would go to the Mail 'N More franchise and find out what Kellogg had hidden there. He must've hidden something in the box, else why bother concealing the key? Maybe some of the answers she sought awaited her there.

  The heart rate monitor read one-hundred-five beats per minute.

  Grace ran her hands over her injured knee — her formerly injured knee. She had not dreamed the man, or boy, who examined her leg. He existed. Once in awhile, a person had to accept the truth no matter how impossible it sounded. She had witnessed the evidence, touched it, smelled it. Men existed who could appear and disappear whenever they chose, commit murders while remaining invisible, and heal injuries with their bare hands. Or their minds. She hadn't decided which made more sense, although trying to find sense in the chaos seemed futile. The truth no longer made sense, while sorcery became believable. In this bizarre new world, logic was extinct.

  She must protect herself, or risk her own extinction.

  Monitors beeped nearby. A patient snored next door.

  Stay alive. That was her priority. Finding answers to the many questions bouncing around in her brain, that might prove the only way to keep herself alive.

  At the foot of the bed, the curtain billowed as if someone had walked through it.

  A draft chilled her skin. She rubbed her arms and scrutinized the empty air around the bed. No one was there, of course. At least, no one she could see.

  Hardly comforting these days.

  She relaxed against the pillow. Well, she tried to relax anyway.

  Stay alive.

  Leaning back against the bed, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. From past experience, she knew the doctor wouldn't let her leave the ER until her heart rate dropped below ninety. Relax, she commanded herself. She pictured the oak tree behind her house, her favorite place to sit and take it easy. Listening to the birds chirp, feeling the grass beneath her, those things eased the tension in her on a normal day. This day was far from normal. Still, she imagined the scene. Let her muscles go slack. Let her mind empty of all thoughts.

  Sitting under the tree. Leaning against the trunk. Watching little cumulus clouds scud across the sky. Feeling a hand grasp hers, their fingers intertwining. She let herself imagine muscular arms sliding around her, drawing her into an embrace, surrounding her with human warmth. She knew who it was now, who she needed, though she didn't understand why. Just this once, she didn't worry about why. The sensation, even the imaginary version, imbued her with a kind of serenity she'd never felt before.

  Grace opened her eyes a crack to check the heart rate monitor. It read eighty-four beats per minutes.

  She closed her eyes and drifted back into the fantasy. His effect on her was uncanny — and totally illogical. Right at this moment, she didn't care.

  Blue eyes. Blonde hair.

  Who are you?

  An hour later, Grace shuffled out of the hospital into the night. She needed a taxi or a bus to get home. Spotting a bus stop on the other side of the parking lot, she trudged toward it.

  Despite the ordeal of the day, she wanted to do something. Had to do something. Waiting for truth to find her didn't work. Success stemmed from action, therefore she must take action. Right now. The night camouflaged shadows and shadow men. It also concealed humans. She could sneak somewhere and accomplish something.

  Great plan. Sneak somewhere. Do something.

  Reaching the bus stop, she dropped onto the bench. She had no idea when the next bus might arrive. It gave her time to think, she supposed, but no great thoughts occurred to her. Clasping her hands on her lap, she studied the lines on her palms.

  A memory catapulted from the depths of her mind. Winston striding down the hillside. Urging her to go with him. The gun — no, the cell phone in his grasp. The memory mutated. Winston sprawled on the dirt.

  He killed Grandpa.

  The thought exploded in her mind. She'd accused Winston of murdering her grandfather back on that roadside, seconds before she ran — okay, limped — away from him. At the time, he said nothing in response. No denial, no angry retort, no confused look on his face, no shouted expletives. He simply took one monstrous step toward her.

  She had thought, when he reached for his cell phone, that he would pull out a gun. Going for a phone made no sense. Unless he thought he'd whack her with the device, he couldn't stop her with a phone.

  Maybe he was calling for backup.

  What kind of backup? The cops? Men in white coats to drag her off to an asylum?

  A shadow fell over her.
r />   She jerked her head to look up. Henry Winston stood in front of her, an arm's length away. A nearby streetlight cast a sallow glow on his face and glinted darkly in his eyes.

  "Need a ride?" he asked, as casually as if she bummed rides from him every day.

  "I'll wait for the bus."

  "My car is more comfortable."

  She forced a bland smile. "I'm going green. Saving the planet one bus ride at a time."

  They stared at each other in silence for three heartbeats. He broke the silence first.

  "Come with me," he said, his tone sharpening into a dangerous edge. "I won't ask again."

  She glanced at the suspicious bulge under his jacket. Too big for a cell phone.

  Winston took a step closer. "We need to talk."

  Right now his eyes reminded her of doll's eyes, rather than jewels. Reflective but lifeless.

  She resisted the urge to shimmy sideways on the bench, away from him. Showing fear seemed like a bad idea at this particular moment. So instead, she asked, "Talk about what?"

  "Everything." He hesitated, and she could almost hear the gears clicking in his brain. Finally he said, "I suppose it's time I came clean. I work for the FBI."

  "And I'm the reincarnation of Cleopatra."

  Winston looked straight at her. Like a covered pot, his face revealed nothing of what simmered beneath the lid. His expression was cold, or maybe her bias colored her perceptions. She trusted no one.

  Especially not him.

  What a dark and lonely place in which to find herself. No one to trust, no one to lean on for support or comfort, no one to counsel her. The isolation had once frightened her. No more. That was her advantage over people like Henry Winston. They believed they could squeeze her into a hole and she would beg for light. They were wrong. She'd found herself in this place before. She knew it well and recognized the contours of the walls, the texture of the bars, the depth of the shadows.

  The dark no longer frightened her.

  "May I explain?" Winston asked.

  "Why not. I could use a good laugh."

  From an inner pocket of his jacket, he extracted a thin wallet. Flipping it open, he handed it to her. An ID badge with the letters "FBI" on it. The badge could've been real or a good fake. She would hardly know the difference.

  She returned the wallet to him. "Nice forgery."

  A muscle in his jaw pulsed. "As I said, I work for the FBI. I'm investigating your grandfather's death."

  "Uh-huh."

  Grace searched Winston's expression and his body language for a clue to his veracity. Maybe she had attributed evil to him where none existed. She let paranoia take root in her psyche, braiding its limbs around her mind, blocking rationality with its dense foliage. The sensation of someone watching her, hidden in shadows or crowds of people, stayed with her even now. The feeling swept over her at intervals, like the beacon of a lighthouse. Sometimes she felt a presence right beside her and swore she felt a hand graze her skin. Other times, she sensed the presence coming closer, moving away, dissipating.

  Paranoia had become her best friend.

  She couldn't dismiss her gut feelings. They had served her well in the past.

  If she trusted her gut, then she was wrong about one very important thing. She wasn't without allies. Deep inside, she knew she could trust one person. Her shadow man.

  Returning her attention to Winston, she said, "My grandfather died in a plane crash."

  "I'm afraid not."

  "You have a theory."

  He rubbed his chin. "He was murdered. By a co-worker."

  She had zero reasons to buy his story or to believe any explanations he offered, yet she could reject nothing at this point. When options melted away, the ridiculous became reasonable.

  "The killer broke into your house," Winston said.

  "To borrow my lipstick, I suppose."

  "He wants a flash drive. He thinks you have it."

  A flash drive. She was damn sick of hearing about the thing. "He's mistaken."

  "Doesn't matter. He'll kill you anyway."

  An eighteen-wheeler rocketed down the road, far exceeding the speed limit. The air displaced by the truck blustered over Grace and flapped Winston's clothes. Pebbles kicked up by the big truck's wheels ticked on the sidewalk. The headlights splayed across them both for just long enough to temporarily blind Grace.

  She listened to Winston's story. He provided her with a solid, rational explanation for almost everything. Part of her longed to accept the story. Most of her knew she could not. It was a lie.

  He hoped to seduce her with his lies — not seduce her into bed, but rather into lowering the drawbridge and admitting him into her personal fortress.

  Winston explained that Edward McLean had worked on a secret project for a pharmaceutical company, studying how the brain works to help design better drugs. Her grandfather had been on the cusp of a major breakthrough, according to Winston, until one of his assistants grew jealous of his accomplishments and killed him.

  The scenario made sense. Kellogg had mentioned both the pharmaceutical company and the study. She might've accepted Winston's version. Asked no questions. Fretted no more.

  She couldn't. Kellogg had insisted the study was a façade. He'd insisted — and now he was dead. He died because he knew the truth. Because he tried to tell her.

  "So," Grace said, "why was my grandfather going to Washington?"

  "To receive an award."

  "Why wouldn't he tell me about it?"

  "Maybe he wanted to surprise you. Drop by on his way home."

  Clever. A bit too clever. Somehow, he knew Grandpa had liked surprising her with his visits. The statement sounded innocuous, but she had trouble seeing it as nothing. Everything Winston said struck her as contrived.

  With every word, he nudged her toward the conclusion he preferred.

  Both Brian Kellogg and her shadow man told her someone had to warn her. About what, they didn't say. Maybe about Henry Winston. Of course, they might both be crazy. She might be crazy. Winston might be the sane one.

  Sure, he might be sane. But sane did not automatically equal honest or trustworthy.

  Winston slipped a photograph out of his shirt pocket. Handing it to her, he said, "This is David Ransom. He's a sociopath, a master manipulator and a murderer. He killed your grandfather."

  She took the photo. The paper was limp, the gloss degraded. The snapshot captured a young man standing on a beach, probably along the ocean. The sunset blazed behind him as he smiled at the camera, his blonde hair ruffled by a long-ago breeze, his blue eyes focused on the camera.

  David Ransom. Her shadow man.

  She shoved the photo at Winston.

  He arched an eyebrow. "You recognize him?"

  "Nope."

  "He's extremely dangerous. Volatile, unpredictable." Winston stepped closer and knelt in front of her. In a voice that sounded a bit too earnest, he said, "If you see him, call me. Do not approach him or talk to him."

  "Yes, sir."

  The sarcasm in the statement eluded him, she thought, because he gave a satisfied half-smile and rose to his full height. He expected everyone should obey him. Most people probably did. They fell for his pseudo-concern, ignored the subtle signs of darkness beneath the surface, and trusted what they heard rather than what they saw.

  Winston called David Ransom a master manipulator. Maybe he was really talking about himself.

  Retrieving car keys from his pocket, Winston said, "I understand why you don't trust me yet. But I can't help you without your trust. That's the key."

  The key.

  She jammed a hand into her jeans pocket. Her fingers contacted metal. It was the key Brian Kellogg had taped to the inside of his unnecessary hairpiece. She now knew it led to a mailbox in the local Mail 'N More franchise. Kellogg's ke
y might prove, well, key in more ways than one. It might be the vital clue that unlocked the entire mystery. Or not. She wouldn't know until morning.

  Her pulse quickened. Winston must never find out about the key. Of that, she was certain. Why she was certain, she couldn't explain.

  She pulled her hand out of her pocket but left the key safely inside.

  "You must come with me," Winston said. "For your own protection."

  "I appreciate the offer, but no. I'll manage on my own."

  Winston hooked his thumb through the key ring and flipped his keys in a circle. Once. Twice. He let them dangle then, clinking against each other.

  "Where do you live?" Grace said.

  Winston frowned at her.

  She arched her eyebrows. "You're the one who said you wanted to come clean and you want me to trust you. Answering a few questions might help with both."

  The frown morphed into a tight line. "I live in Los Angeles, but I've been camped out here in Lassiter Falls for nearly six weeks."

  Which meant he arrived shortly after Edward McLean's death. She tried to sound nonchalant as she said, "Why didn't you tell me all this when came to my house the other day?"

  "Because I didn't."

  "That's not an answer. Tell me who you really are."

  She met his gaze. His eyes were narrowed to slits. His entire face had tightened into a mask of contained anger. Lines fanned out from his eyes and creased his forehead. He clutched his keys so tightly in his fist that his hand trembled slightly.

  Her throat constricted. She swallowed, but it felt like trying to gulp down a rock.

  The anger tightening Winston's features slackened into a smirk. "All right, if you want honesty then I will give it to you. Just remember you asked for it." He folded his arms over his chest, tilting head back to stare down at her through narrowed eyes. "My name is Xavier Waldron. I've come to retrieve something my employer wants, which we know Edward McLean gave to you."

  "You're mistaken," Grace said.

  Waldron chuckled, though it sounded in no way jovial. "You are coming with me this instant, Grace. Your only choice is whether you walk on your own or I carry your limp, unconscious body to the car."