The Vanishing
Gary Winston Brown
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Have you met gifted psychic turned FBI agent Jordan Quest? Get the series prequel and read her backstory here, for free.
A tragic accident brings with it an incredible gift. But is the price too high?
When a young Jordan Quest is discovered lying on the bottom of the pool at her family’s stately mansion she is pulled out of the water and pronounced “vital signs absent” by the attending paramedics.
Unwilling to give up on the girl, Jordan is rushed to the hospital in a desperate attempt to revive her. Teetering on the brink of death, aware of her surroundings but unable to communicate with the trauma team working frantically to save her life, a strange and mysterious presence makes itself known. In that moment, Jordan’s life is changed forever.
She calls it The Gift, and her newly discovered abilities will have a profound influence on the world’s understanding of psychic phenomenon. Hers is now the voice of the dead. And law enforcement is listening.
In helping the authorities locate and bring to justice killers who have long evaded capture, Jordan soon discovers an unsettling truth: Is her astounding ability really a gift? Or is it a curse that brings with it unimaginable consequences.
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“When evil men plot, good men must plan.”
Martin Luther King, Jr.
Contents
Start reading the Jordan Quest series today for free
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Also by Gary Winston Brown
About the Author
1
EXCEPT FOR A van travelling several car lengths behind him, the canyon road was especially quiet. The drive to the top of Zion Point was usually a pleasant ten minutes. Oliver Prescott was in no rush. He expected the traffic to be heavier considering it was the fourth of July and celebrations were already in full swing behind him in the small town of Paulo Brava. On just about any other night he would still be in his office at the Center nursing a snifter of warm brandy with Bach or Brahms playing softly in the background. But this evening was special. It was the celebration of his retirement. The end of the first chapter of his life and the long-awaited commencement of the next.
Elaine Prescott leaned across the passenger seat of the Porsche Carrera and nestled her head against her husband’s shoulder. Oliver glanced out his window and took in the ocean’s beauty glistening in the moonlight. He thought of his two beautiful daughters, Claire and Amanda. Claire would be out on the town tonight with her boyfriend, perhaps even watching the fiery display from Steve’s boat in Paulo Brava harbor. How time flies, Oliver thought. Claire was already in her third year at university. A naturally gifted student, she had made the dean’s list two years in a row, determined to follow in her father’s footsteps. Oliver knew several of her professors personally. All agreed Claire was one of their best and brightest students. He thought of Amanda, and his heart pained. She had disappeared two years ago without a trace. Despite the efforts of some of the finest law enforcement officers in the country, she could not be found. She had simply vanished. For six long weeks, the Prescott’s once peaceful household was transformed into a base camp for local and federal police agencies. Residential and business telephone lines had been tapped. Background and association checks were run on family, friends, professional acquaintances, and enemies. Sophisticated electronic equipment of various purposes had been set up to assist in every manner to monitor and track the progress of the search. A mobile command center had been posted at the entrance to the estate, manned around the clock. Only the Prescott family and those with on-premises security clearance were allowed access to and from the home. Both Oliver and Elaine knew the authorities had been excruciatingly thorough in their search for Amanda. Nothing, it seemed, had been overlooked, no stone left unturned. Yet despite their best efforts, hours soon turned into days, days into weeks, and the many leads the investigators valiantly pursued into dead ends. Over time it became necessary to reduce the intensive human resources being exerted in the search. Difficult though it was, they made the decision to pare down the investigation. The case, for all intents and purposes, had gone cold. Oliver could still recall the looks of disappointment on the faces of the investigators who had been a part of their lives for weeks, now forced by their superiors to pack up their equipment and move on to other cases. They offered their prayers and apologies and wished them luck. As a family they had been drawn into an unending nightmare, relentless in its determination to test them beyond their limits. Eventually, they were forced to confront the unthinkable reality that for some unknown reason Amanda was gone. And in all probability, they would never see her again.
Waves charged into the shoreline, crashing violently over the rocks at the foot of the canyon, their rhythmic mantra barely audible above the soft whine of the Porsche and the occasional boom of the fireworks.
Elaine Prescott clutched the spoils of the night’s affair in her arms. Oliver glanced at her in the mirror.
“Nice award,” he said. “Care to read the inscription to me one more time?”
“Okay,” Elaine replied. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
“The American Psychiatry Association Lifetime Achievement Award. Presented to Dr. Oliver Stanford Prescott in recognition of outstanding professional contribution to the field of Forensic Psychiatry.” Elaine sighed. “Wow.”
“That’s all you have to say… wow?” Oliver teased. He put his arm around her as the tight canyon road unwound before him, then stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. He delighted in teasing
her, leading her on, pretending he was serious when he was not. They had been married for twenty-six exhilarating years, and he still loved her with every ounce of his being.
Elaine turned in her seat. She had always been a beautiful woman, and the sparkle in her eyes told Oliver how much she still loved him.
“I’m so incredibly proud of you, honey,” she said. “I know how hard you’ve worked for this. All the hours you’ve put into building your practice, the sacrifices you’ve made.”
“You mean we’ve made,” Oliver said. He weaved his fingers through her silky blond hair. “I couldn’t have done it without your support. I hope you know that.”
“I do,” Elaine replied. “But this is your night. I want you to enjoy every second. We should celebrate!”
“What did you have in mind?”
Elaine slipped her hand under his shirt. “I remember a time not so long ago when we would take a drive up this same canyon road and fool around until the sun came up.”
“That was twenty-eight years and two kids ago,” Oliver laughed. “And as I recall, The Amazing Mr. Winky and I were a little younger then.”
“Really?” his wife said. “I have a feeling, given the proper motivation, that Mr. Winky could be persuaded to come out and play. Don’t you?”
“Yes, if we don’t end up in an accident before we get to the top,” Oliver replied. “Not that I necessarily want you to stop, you understand.”
“Perfectly,” Elaine said as she loosened his tie.
2
THE VAN NARROWED its following distance. The driver turned on his high beams. The powerful glare from the halogen lights reflected in Oliver’s rearview mirror, illuminating the interior of the car with an incandescent pallor.
Oliver flipped the lever on the classic sports car’s mirror to its night driving position, reducing the glare to a bright but manageable level.
Elaine sat up in her seat. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m not really sure,” Oliver replied. “The van behind me suddenly accelerated and turned on its high beams. To tell you the truth, I think it’s been following us since we left the awards ceremony.”
“Can’t you just pull over and let him pass?”
Oliver shook his head. “Not here. This section of the road is too tight.”
Oliver pressed his foot down on the accelerator. The Porsche responded immediately, sped ahead, and rounded the narrow turn at the top of Zion Point. The van took the corner seconds later, then nosed up behind them, inches from the rear bumper. Its powerful headlights bore down on the car like a wild beast stalking its prey. Oliver tapped hard on the brake pedal, then punched the accelerator. In his mirror he watched the front of the van nose-dive, then fall back. As though provoking a savage rage within the mechanical beast, the van raced ahead and re-staked its claim on the tail of the Porsche. The driver pulled out and drove alongside them on the two-lane mountain road, matching Oliver’s speed, refusing to pass until the side of the van was nearly touching Oliver’s door.
“What the hell?” Oliver yelled. He struggled with the steering wheel, trying desperately to maintain control of the car on the narrow gravel shoulder. In the distance, a caution light flashed. Crash pylons warned of the sharp turn ahead.
“I’m not going to make the turn! For God’s sake, hold on!”
Oliver slammed his foot hard on the brake. With a tremendous screech, the Porsche screamed to a stop. The van blasted past them up the canyon road, the glare from its high beams bouncing off the luminescent bands of the safety pylons as it careened around the corner, its taillights peering back with malicious contempt as it hugged the turn then disappeared from view.
“What in God’s name was he thinking?” Oliver said. “That idiot could have gotten us both killed!” He slammed the car into gear. Loose sand and gravel spewed back from beneath the squealing tires.
“Let it go, Oliver,” Elaine pleaded as Oliver raced up the canyon road after the van. “He could have had a thousand reasons for driving the way he did. Perhaps…”
“Damn it, Elaine! He tried to run us off the road!”
“You don't know that for sure. Maybe his accelerator got stuck, or a passenger distracted him and didn’t realize what he was doing until it was too late, or…”
“Or maybe he’s just a bloody fool. Either way, I’m going to find out.”
3
REACHING THE ENTRANCE to the parking area the driver quickly reduced his speed, killed his headlights, drove to the far end of the lot, parked the van next to a service road at the foot of the town’s radio broadcast tower and shut off the engine. He ran to the back of the vehicle, opened the rear doors, retrieved a knapsack, and slung it over his shoulder. A gym bag lay in the corner of the van which he placed on the ground at his feet. He slammed shut the rear doors, picked up the gym bag, looked towards the entrance of the parking area, and waited. Within seconds, the lights of the Porsche raced into view. Upon seeing the car, he jogged towards the gated tower entrance.
The gentle whine of the Porsche’s engine trailed to a whisper as Oliver rounded the turn. In the commotion he had caught a glimpse of the fleeing vehicle: mottled gray with black trim, no company logo, likely a passenger van and not a commercial vehicle. Several cars were parked along the retaining wall of the canyon lookout. In the distance, exposed under the dim glow of a lamppost, stood the van.
When he had reached the perimeter of the tower, the driver looked back along the path. Satisfied he had not been seen or followed, he dropped to one knee, opened the gym bag, and removed a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters. The surrounding fence was gated, protected against unauthorized access by a heavy-gauge chain wound around each post and secured with a padlock. He cut off the heavy-duty lock, unraveled the safety chain, slipped inside, then closed the gate behind him and replaced the chain so as not to arouse the suspicion of a routine police patrol. Staying in the shadows, he ran to the base of the tower. The hatch leading to the main ladder was securely locked. He ascended the ladder, cut the lock, and braced the heavy metal door as he lowered it. With the knapsack over his shoulder and the handles of the gym bag clenched firmly in his teeth, he ascended the narrow passageway several hundred feet to the maintenance platform. The platform presented him with an unobstructed sprawling view of Zion Canyon and Paulo Brava. He placed the bags on the serrated metal platform, opened the knapsack, removed a rifle stock fitted with a folding bipod, a reflection-resistant blue hued barrel, night scope, barrel silencer, and two fully loaded clips. He could, if required, assemble the weapon in absolute darkness under any condition, recognizing each of the various components entirely by feel. He would not require this talent tonight. This was not a professional operation.
This was personal.
He rummaged through the bag, removed a cellular telephone, turned it on. The face of the phone cast an iridescent glow against the palm of his hand as it powered up. A single telephone number programmed into its memory flashed on the screen. He placed the phone at his feet, slid the barrel into the rifle stock, inserted the clip, fitted the silencer and night scope to the barrel, and expanded the legs of the metal bipod from the stock. Intermittent bursts of brilliant color and spectacle unfolded before him in the night sky as he inspected the weapon. First, a thunderous crackle break, then a blue streak, then green glitter, then a red break, green again, then blue chrysanthemum, then another crackle break, and finally a multi-colored showering of red, white, and blue. He watched as the Porsche backed into a parking space on the opposite side of the lot from the van, then drew back the rifle bolt and chambered a round.
“I’m going to check out the van,” Oliver said as he turned off the ignition. “If there’s a problem, call 911. Tell the police who you are. I’ve worked with every cop in town on one case or another over the years. Trust me, they won’t waste any time getting here. Sit tight. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Don’t go, Oliver,” Elaine pleaded. “This doesn’t feel right.” Before
she had finished speaking, Oliver had already stepped out of the Porsche.
Oliver approached the van, thumped his fist twice against the door, then stepped back. No response. He cupped his hands against the heavily tinted windows and peered inside. Lamplight from above cast ghostly shadows within the interior and revealed several discarded coffee cups, empty cigarette packages scattered across the dashboard, and a crushed McDonald’s sandwich wrapper. A map of the San Francisco Bay Area lay open on the passenger seat. Oliver walked to the front of the van. Still warm to the touch, the metal hood crackled as it cooled and contracted. The license plates, scratched and faded, were from out of state: New Mexico.
The service road leading to the communications tower was flanked on either side by thickets of tall course grass which sloped up the hillside into the woods. Like the heartbeat of a monolithic creature, the bright red light atop the structure pulsed with metronomic precision and briefly illuminated the tree line every few seconds. Oliver walked up the path and looked around. Whoever had been driving the van was long gone. He dismissed any further notion of locating the driver. Besides, Elaine was worried. The longer he thought about it, the more he realized how foolish his actions must have seemed to her. As he turned away, a glint of light caught his peripheral vision. A reflection from somewhere on the tower. He looked up, saw nothing. He turned away from the tower and walked back to the Porsche.
The Vanishing Page 1