Willpower

by Anna Durand

  "Wait," she said. "Someone attacked me in my house. He might still be there."

  "I'll check."

  He vanished.

  Grace stood there, feeling more perplexed than at any other moment in her life. People did not disappear like that. He must be a ghost, but he insisted he was not dead.

  Suddenly, she wished she drank alcohol. Getting soused appealed to her right now.

  David snapped back into view. She'd blinked and — poof — he was there again.

  "The house is empty," he pronounced, and motioned for her to come. "Let's go."

  She didn't move.

  He gestured again. "I'll answer any questions you want later. For now, we have to go."

  "Fine."

  Grace slung her dilapidated purse around her neck to hang across her torso. David watched as she marched to the door, shoved the chair aside, unfastened the lock, and flung the door open. He followed her outside, as if he needed a doorway to get out of the room. She strode to the bus stop.

  "Where's your car?" David asked.

  She sat down on the bench. "My car is trashed."

  "What now?"

  "We wait for the bus."

  Grace rode the bus alone, since David disappeared again fifteen minutes later, right before the bus pulled up to the stop. The trip seemed to take forever, probably because she spent the entire ride thinking about Waldron and the flash drive and going back to the house where more than one someone had attacked her recently. Andrew Haley struck her as harmless. Waldron was far from it.

  She wanted to go back to the house slightly more than she wanted to lie down in the middle of the interstate at rush hour. David was right, though, and it was annoying as hell. She needed to go back so she could search through her grandfather's effects. Everyone else believed he'd left her the flash drive. If so, then he must've hidden it in his belongings, among the things he knew she would receive upon his death.

  Which meant he knew he would die. Or at least knew somebody wanted to kill him.

  The bus pulled up to the stop in her neighborhood. She disembarked, heading down the sidewalk toward home. As she turned the corner onto her street, she slipped her hand inside her purse to grasp the gun. She had four bullets left, since she'd fired two at Waldron. God, she hoped he was in pain. Lots and lots of pain.

  The car she'd seen earlier was nowhere in sight. Either it had nothing to do with Waldron, which seemed improbable, or Waldron and his buddy had left the vicinity. Maybe the other guy drove Waldron to the hospital. Maybe he'd be laid up for days, safely out of her orbit.

  Or maybe he'd found a better place to park his car, where she couldn't see it.

  Might as well be positive. He probably left, at least for awhile.

  She kept her hand on the gun anyway.

  When she reached the house, she hesitated with her hand on the knob of the front door. She'd left the door wide open, more concerned with escaping than locking up the house. Waldron must've closed the door. Creepy.

  She twisted the knob. It turned in her hand. Waldron might've shut the door, but he didn't lock it. Well, given that she had invisible beings trying to kill her, worrying about the unlocked door seemed a tad pointless.

  Shoving the door inward, she walked into the house.

  Quiet. Still. Vacant.

  Grace wandered into the kitchen, and then the hallway. Empty.

  A memory flashed in her mind. Waldron's arms around her. Hauling her backward.

  She blinked away the memory. Jeez, she couldn't remember eight months of her life — eight months she really needed to remember — but she recalled in vivid detail events she would've preferred to forget.

  Down the hallway. Into the bedroom. No one there either.

  She swung open the folding doors that concealed the closet. Behind her shoes, at the back of the closet, sat a cardboard box sealed with clear packing tape. She'd opened the box once, glanced at the contents, and sealed it up again. They weren't her belongings. She had no use for them and she didn't like looking at them. It reminded her of Grandpa. It reminded her of how much she'd lost. She just couldn't deal with those feelings on top of everything else.

  At the time when the box arrived, "everything else" had meant amnesia and migraines. Now the term referred to a hell of a lot more. Too much more.

  No choice. She had to suck it up and keep moving. Falling apart was not an option. It would get her killed.

  Pushing her shoes out of the way, she reached for the box.

  A hand grasped her shoulder.

  She yelped and jumped. Glancing backward, she saw David crouched behind her.

  "Let me do that," he said.

  Well, she couldn't see the harm in letting him carry the box for her. He might disappear with it, she supposed, but she doubted it.

  Why she doubted it, she couldn't explain. She just did.

  She scuttled backward, out of the way. David picked up the box and carried it to the bed, where he set it down on the comforter. Grace met him at the bed, seating herself beside the box, on the edge of the mattress. The comforter felt soft and cushy under her. Even better than the motel mattress. She longed to stretch out on the bed and take a nap.

  Not yet. Suck it up, girl, and keep moving.

  David ripped the packing tape off the box. It made a zipping sound.

  The box's flaps popped up a little. Grace folded them back, revealing the box's contents. A sweater her mom had knit for her grandfather lay on top. She lifted it out, setting the garment on the bed. No flash drive there. David lifted out three framed diplomas representing Edward McLean's degrees — bachelor's, master's, and doctorate. There was a scarf, also knit by Grace's mother, and a photo album filled with images of their family. Grace lifted out a Christmas tree ornament, one of three she'd made in the fourth grade. One was for her parents, the other two for her grandparents. The last item in the box was a trophy from her grandfather's high school days, when he'd won a swimming competition. Packing peanuts filled the rest of the box. Grace rifled through the peanuts but found nothing hidden within them.

  She propped herself on one arm, surveying the Styrofoam peanuts that lay scattered over the bed and the floor at her feet.

  David sat down on the bed, on the opposite side of the box. He returned the three framed diplomas to the box.

  Grace stared at the frames. Something tickled her brain. Knowledge just beyond her reach.

  She grabbed the frames and deposited them on her lap. Turning each over to examine both sides, she compared the three frames. One had a slight bulge on its backside where the cardboard backing had warped. The bulge was visible only when the light struck it a certain way. Maybe it was a manufacturing defect.

  "What is it?" David asked.

  She raised a hand to silence him. Setting aside the other two frames, she took hold of the third and carefully turned the little metal prongs that held the backing in place. The cardboard came free. She eased it out of the frame, laying it on the bed. In the space now revealed, she saw a small, thin black rectangle of plastic.

  Grace picked up the little object. A smile broke across her face as triumph buoyed her spirits. The object in her hand was a flash drive.

  She grinned at David, waving the flash drive in the air like a miniscule flag.

  "You found it," he said, sounding surprised and impressed at the same time. Before she could respond, he announced, "I should go. I've been out too long."

  "Out? What, are you a fugitive?"

  "Something like that."

  He rose from the bed and stepped backward. She knew that meant he was about to disappear again.

  She lunged off the bed, grabbed the front of his shirt, and dragged him closer.

  "Oh no you don't," she said. "You promised to answer my questions."

  His face was inches from her own. She felt the warmth
of his body through his shirt. A ghost couldn't feel warm, and anyway, he said he wasn't a ghost. If not a spirit, then what?

  "Are you an alien?" she asked.

  He smiled and chuckled softly. "No."

  "Then what are you?"

  "A messenger. Someone has — "

  "To warn me." She let go of his shirt. "Yeah yeah, I've heard that already. I have no idea what I need to be warned about, but I sure as hell know I'm supposed to be warned."

  "Take the flash drive to Senator Faulkner in Washington. He'll know what to do."

  "Destroy it, keep it. Go away, do me a favor. Make up your mind."

  He brushed a finger across her cheek. "If you don't do this, they'll kill you."

  "Fine, I'll take it to Senator Falcon."

  "Faulkner. Elias Faulkner."

  "Whatever." She pushed away from him. "Just tell me one thing before you — "

  He was gone. Wind gusted through the room, swirling toward the center. The damaged door rocked on its hinges.

  People kept ordering her around, demanding information from her, trying to kill her. None of them bothered to tell her what the blazes was happening. They expected obedience without question.

  Grace flopped down on the bed. It was mid afternoon, though it felt like at least two o'clock in the morning. Her body hurt all over, from bruises and weariness. She could no more fight villains right now than she could scale Mount Everest. An anthill might prove too much for her.

  Sleep. She must get some sleep.

  Not here. The house felt … tainted. Waldron might come back for a rematch, and this time he just might win.

  She tucked the flash drive in her jeans pocket. Picking up the document frame, she slid the cardboard backing into place and locked it there with the metal prongs. The diploma inside the frame was her grandfather's doctorate degree. She returned the frame to the box, resealing the packing tape. In case Waldron did return to the house, she lugged the box back to closet and stowed it behind her shoes.

  At her desk, she plugged the flash drive into the USB port on the front of her computer. A message popped up on screen: ENTER PASSWORD.

  A secondary message below that one warned that she had three attempts before the drive would be permanently locked. Terrific. She was too tired to figure out the password. Maybe after a decent nap, her brain would function better.

  She stashed the laptop in its carrying case and left the house, heading out the back door. An alleyway separated the houses on her street from those on the next street. She decided against going to the same bus stop as before. This time, she walked in the opposite direction, to a bus stop a little farther away. The wait seemed interminable, but finally the bus pulled up and she boarded.

  This bus had a different route. The closest stop to the motel was three blocks away. She lost track of time as the bus chugged down the streets, pausing at stops along the way. Eventually, she made it back to the motel and into her room. Her purse she tossed onto the bedside table and set the laptop case on the other table, by the window. After bracing a chair under the door handle, she kicked off her boots and collapsed onto the bed without bothering to pull back the quilt.

  Her mind plummeted into sleep.

  Grace woke as a gasp exploded from her. The dream. For nearly a year, it had recurred nightly. Until a few days ago, she hadn't dreamed of the corridor in months. Certainly, she had never dreamed of a faceless man until recently. This time, the dream had changed again. She had seen the mystery man's face.

  He was Xavier Waldron.

  The corridor. The room. The man.

  Waldron. Her mind could've inserted his face into the dream because of her encounter with him earlier. The creep had assaulted her and tried to drug her.

  No, the truth was far more unsettling. She knew, by instinct and emotion, that the figure in the dream had always belonged to Xavier Waldron. Somehow, he hid his features from her until tonight when, through a process that bewildered her, she unmasked him. In a dream. With her thoughts. Three days ago, the notion would've made her laugh. Today, she believed it with absolute certainty.

  Waldron had invaded her dreams. He was no FBI agent. He wasn't even human, because no human could torment her by invading her dreams. Yet he seemed human enough. Totally evil, but human.

  Questions and suspicions. Riddles and mysteries.

  If he wanted her dead, why didn't he just do it? She hated being the duck in the shooting gallery, hearing the shots, uncertain which bang would signify the bullet that shattered her head. Waldron could've killed her anytime he pleased — strangled her, shot her, pushed her in front of a bus. Instead, he tormented her and tried to abduct her. He wanted the flash drive.

  David had said someone else was in charge of Operation Drive Grace Insane.

  A headache pushed against her skull with the force of ten hammers pounding inside her head. Even the pale yellow glow from the bedside lamp pained her eyes. Another migraine. Why did the dream give her migraines? Why did everything have to be so hard?

  She covered her face with her hands. Light seeped between her fingers. She rolled over onto her side, her back to the lamp. She really didn't want to turn off the lamp. Never knew when a psycho might break through the window to assault her. So instead, she draped her arm over her eyes. It worked a little better than her hands.

  What awaited her in the future remained a mystery, a gift she preferred to leave wrapped, not that she had a choice. Tomorrow collided with today no matter what. The gift would open itself. Her life had turned into a nightmare.

  And all because of a tiny plastic rectangle.

  A memory of the dream whispered through her mind in the form of the man's inhuman voice. He didn't urge her to give in, like before. Instead, he murmured something far more disturbing and bewildering.

  You are mine, golden girl.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Grace woke to the sound of an engine growling outside the window. She didn't remember falling asleep again. The sunlight no longer trickled in through the gaps between the drapes and the window frame. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was nearly eight o'clock. She'd slept for … a long time. Since she couldn't recall what time she'd made it back to the motel, she really had no clue how long she'd slept.

  Pushing off the bed, she stood. Her bruises were firmly set now, but they hurt less than before. She walked toward the window, tripped, and knocked into the table hip first. Pain lanced through her. A little grunt burst from her. Okay, the bruises hurt less except when she banged them.

  At the window, she parted the drapes a crack and peered outside. The parking lot was quiet, save for a big old four-door sedan that sat idling in front of the third room down from hers. A middle-aged woman slumped in the passenger seat of the sedan holding a road map, which she studied with intense interest. No one else was in sight.

  Not that seeing nothing meant nothing was there.

  Grace let the drapes fall closed. She tossed her purse onto the bed and grabbed her laptop case. Once she'd settled into a comfortable position on the quilt, she unzipped her purse. The gun lay snug in its holster. She brought it out and set it on the quilt beside her. She hadn't wanted to turn off the bedside lamp for safety reasons, but she forgot to keep the gun with her. Her brain had been more exhausted than she realized, apparently.

  Digging in her purse, she located the microcassette recorder. Before tackling the password problem on the flash drive, she needed to hear the entire recording. It must contain vital information, otherwise Brian Kellogg wouldn't have taken such pains to conceal the tape.

  She pressed play.

  The tape hissed. "What's going on in there?"

  Grandpa's voice sounded distant, strained, as if he had laryngitis.

  Thump. Another voice croaked, "No."

  Knock-knock. It sounded like someone rapping on a door. Interference w
hined on the tape. Creak.

  A gasp. "Holy mother of God … "

  On the recording, thunder exploded. Wind howled. Grandpa screamed.

  Grace's throat constricted. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away. On the tape, interference whined again. Someone wheezed, probably her grandfather. She bit her lip, shut her eyes, sucked in a breath. She must listen. She must know.

  Laughter grumbled close to the recorder. "Say good night, Edward."

  Every molecule of liquid in Grace's body seemed to freeze. She opened her eyes, glancing around the room. Nothing had changed. The voice on the tape sounded exactly like the disembodied voice she'd heard in her car.

  The tape continued, this time with her grandfather's voice. "Stop this, please. You want me, the others are innocent. Let them go, take me inst — "

  He cried out, the shout choked off by hands that, though she could not see them, she felt around her own neck as she listened to the strangled gasps and gurgles emanating from the tape. He'd suffered. Some invisible bastard had murdered him and he had suffered.

  She choked back a sob.

  The inhuman voice growled, "I'm coming for Grace next. You can't protect her anymore. I will have my golden girl."

  The recording ended with a click.

  Grace massaged her throat. A tear trickled down her cheek. He suffered. She studied the cassette player, as if it might sprout a mouth and chomp off her hand. She could no longer call such an event impossible. Anything was possible. The universe had gone insane. Grandpa had been murdered by a ghost, a demon, something evil beyond comprehension.

  And now it wanted her. It killed her grandfather to get to her.

  Golden girl. The disembodied voice called her that. In her nightmare, Waldron called her the same thing. The evidence seemed to connect Waldron to the disembodied attacker. But if he had that kind of power, why assault her in such an old-fashioned physical way, as he had in her house earlier today? Maybe the person or thing behind all this madness wanted her to think Waldron was her top enemy — so she'd stop looking for another culprit. She couldn't know for sure.