Sweet Mercy

by Naomi Stone

  “But his print was on the bomb?” Tom asked.

  David gave him a nod.

  “And we did some checking. His former employer, the man who fired him, was recently found dead at his home outside Cincinnati, apparent suicide. And three months ago Johnson’s ex-wife and her second husband died in Milwaukee—looked like a murder suicide, with the wife shooting the husband, then turning the gun on herself. But I think in light of recent events, we’ll be taking a second look at these deaths.”

  “Could we have a puppet master on our hands?” Fluke asked.

  “Given Longo’s state, that’s the working hypothesis.”

  Groans greeted the news.

  David went on, “It’s a rare talent. Hopefully we’re wrong. Could be drugs, hypnosis—some other form of coercion involved. We’ve got people checking Longo out before we make a final determination.”

  “If Johnson made himself vanish for ten years, why’s he coming out of the woodwork now?” Rachel’s icon accompanied the message, the sight of it kicking Fluke’s system into high gear.

  “We think his ex-wife’s second marriage triggered him somehow.”

  Questions flooded in from the team members.

  “How do we deal with a puppet master?” Stacy Peterson, telekinetic, according to the database, asked.

  From Tom Stanton: “What’s his next move?”

  “We got any photo ID on the guy?” asked Hank Stanislaw,

  transmuter.

  “Think he’ll try again for the Capital Finance board?” Fluke added his own top concern to the queue.

  “The only photos we have are over ten years old.” David responded, “but I’m uploading one now over your links. And yes, we think he’ll try again for the Capital Finance board. He appears to be going after people he blames for his hard luck back pre-Event.

  “Problem is, a puppet master is not likely to do anything directly. He’ll try to get at them using someone else—could be anyone.”

  “I don’t see any clairvoyants on the local team,” Fluke noted.

  “No. True, reliable foreseeing is a rare talent, and we just lost the nearest one, out of Cincinnati... looked like a suicide, but we’ll check on that one too. There are a couple more on the continent and we’ll try to get one on the case.”

  “David?” Rachel’s icon glowed in Fluke’s VR field. “Um. I’ve seen this guy. Today.”

  “What? Where?”

  “He looked older than the picture, but he would… a little grayer, a little balder, but the same guy. He showed up here, at the ashram—not long after Fluke dropped me off.”

  “Shit. I mean, crap. He’s spotted you. He must have been at the scene this morning and followed you.”

  “It’s okay. I think he tried to get to me but it failed—incompatible talents.”

  “We can’t be sure.” The concern in David’s voice carried over the channel.

  “Yes, we can.” Fluke jumped in. “A puppet master would have made her forget seeing him—or forbidden her mentioning it. At least this one would have. How’s Johnson been living all these years? Where has he stayed? How has he gotten food, clothes, and transportation? He must have been getting people to fill his needs, but nobody’s ever reported the things stolen or bills unpaid—he’s making them forget. He wants to be invisible.”

  “That’s reassuring.” Rachel sounded relieved. Funny how he could almost feel it, even halfway across town from her. The thought of her in that monster’s power had been intolerable—for the brief instant he’d entertained it.

  “Looks like we dodged a bullet,” David returned to business. The man must have ice in his veins. His own sister might’ve been turned into a living puppet if things had gone differently.

  “We can’t count on being that lucky next time—unless you’re Fluke,” David shot him a tight-lipped grin from the neighboring chair. “Rachel, I want you to talk to the police sketch artist so we can get an updated picture of Johnson circulating out there.

  “Trina.” He addressed the team’s secretary—a normal—over the link. “We need to dig up more data on the ‘puppet master’ talent. Especially on its limitations. I need to know how we can get to him.

  “Everyone, I need your input. Ideas? Suggestions?”

  “He tried to get to Rachel.” Fluke started thinking out loud. “Why? He might think he can use her. He might try again. I suggest that I stick close to her—increase the odds of catching him at it if he does try again.”

  “He’s not going to try for me again.” Rachel sounded annoyed. Fluke grinned to himself over that. Kind of fun, getting to the Serene Queen. She continued, “He already knows I’m no good to him as a puppet. He’ll look for someone more useful.”

  “We can’t take that risk.” Fluke cut in before David could comment—and what was he saying? Since when had he been unwilling to take any risk that came along?

  “We’re his link to the team. He obviously spotted us—Rachel and me—together at the hostage scene. He knows the team is onto him. He has to follow up, at least try to track us to a more vulnerable team member if he wants to keep the Guardians from messing up his plans.”

  A moment of silence greeted this assessment.

  “Good point,” David said at last. “We’ve got to keep someone on Rachel and Johnson’s already made Fluke. We won’t be exposing anyone new. Only problem is, he might get to you.” David shot him a piercing look, eye to eye.

  “Odds are against that,” Fluke met the look unfazed. “I doubt my talent would allow it.”

  “Don’t I get a say in this?” Rachel cut in.

  “No.” Fluke and David spoke in unison.

  ~ * ~

  Her overnight bag sat in the trunk of Fluke’s Porsche. She’d strapped herself securely into the passenger seat and closed her eyes against the rush of passing buildings as they merged onto the Interstate, heading south. “I don’t like this.” Rachel drew a long, deep breath, envisioning a golden light of pure peace surrounding her.

  “Would you rather have your friends at the ashram in the middle of this, expose them to any potential danger?”

  “No” Rachel’s breath expelled in a sigh. “No, of course not. But I hate running. I hate leaving my home, my kitchen, my familiar stuff.”

  “Aren’t yogis supposed to be detached from all that material stuff?”

  She could hear the grin in his voice, even with her eyes closed.

  “Non-attachment isn’t the same thing as detachment,” she said, “and I don’t claim to have reached that perfected state of being.”

  “You could consider this an exercise to bring you a little closer.”

  “I could,” she admitted, “but I’m not currently feeling all that motivated in my spiritual quest and would rather have a little sympathy.”

  “I like a girl who knows how to ask for what she wants.”

  I’ll bet you do. “Why do I get the feeling that this little excursion is more about what you want?”

  “It’s not a zero-sum game,” he told her. She peeked from under narrowed lids to see the late afternoon light trace his face in an enticing contour running from well-defined cheekbones to squared jaw to throat.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means we can both get what we want out of this.” His lips quirked at the corners.

  “So where’s my sympathy?”

  “Poor baby.” He spoke deadpan. “Having to spend a couple days in a luxury hotel suite where you’ll be pampered day and night.”

  “You don’t sound very sincere.” But now a grin colored her tone. Why be a stick? This expedition could prove fun, if the effort to ignore his considerable charm didn’t kill her first. “What makes you think a casino is such a great place to hide out?” Rachel watched the cars falling behind to her right as Fluke overtook them one by one. It was a testament to her abilities that she could remain calm, riding with such a speed demon.

  “Leading Johnson away from our other people and drawing him into the
open? Two reasons. One: there’s got to be a limit to how many people he can control at one time. If he comes after you at the casino, where it’s crowded day and night, we can make sure he’s outnumbered, overwhelm him.”

  “And the second reason? I know you discussed this with my brother while I packed, but I’ve got an interest here too.”

  “I gave him Reason One. Reason Two is that we can enjoy ourselves —and each other —while we’re there.”

  His words sent a frisson through her, but she ignored it, even knowing he probably hadn’t.

  “I’m not into gambling.”

  “You don’t have to be—besides the spa, they’ve got live entertainment every night, a world class buffet, and I’ve reserved the top three floors of the hotel—there won’t be anyone else close enough to be affected if you let yourself go.”

  He had to have felt the spike of excitement thrill through her at these words—even if his control of the car never wavered. She focused again on her breath.

  She had no idea how to respond to the prospect he presented. Even thinking about it at eighty miles per hour seemed like a bad idea. “Um. Do they have a pool and gym?”

  “Sure do.”

  Eyes on the road, he still grinned, damn it.

  “Aren’t you being just a bit presumptuous?”

  “How so? With all those rooms you can have a suite to yourself—if that’s what you want—you don’t have to include me in your fun.”

  “I should hope not.” And she should feel a lot more sincere in saying it than she actually did.

  After miles of idle chat while suburbs turned increasingly rural, Fluke tossed out a question in casual tones, “Can you tell if someone is following us?”

  “I haven’t been paying that much attention to what’s behind us.”

  “Me either, but I’d swear I’ve seen that same blue Toyota behind us—a few cars back—since we got on the highway.”

  Rachel turned sideways in her seat, checking the road behind them.

  “Could be he’s just another gambler heading for the casinos.”

  “Could be, but I’ve been changing my speed over the last few miles, slowing down, then speeding up, slowing down again and switching lanes—and that car always stays about the same distance back.”

  “Sounds suspicious.” She focused inward to soothe her rising sense of anxiety. “What should we do about it?”

  “Just keep an eye on it for now. Let’s see how long it stays with us. Better the devil we know.”

  “Right.” Like a wasp in the room, it was better to know where it flew.

  Now that she knew of it, Rachel couldn’t keep from glancing back at the suspicious car. Could it be Johnson? One of his puppets? A thought struck her and she opened her specs channel.

  “David? You there?”

  “Yeah, Sis.” His tone conveyed long-suffering patience.

  “Did you or the police detail someone to follow us to the casino?”

  “No. We’ve already got people operating in that area. Why are you asking?”

  She quickly filled David in on the situation.

  “Keep an eye on it and get back to me if anything changes. Meanwhile, don’t worry. The casino’s still a good place to try to corner our target, Fluke’s still with you and I’m counting on his luck slanting things in our direction.”

  Rachel signed off. David made a good strategist. She generally trusted him in these things, but she didn’t like this at all, leaving her home base, going into strange territory, running like a hunted animal. It reminded her too well of parts of her past best forgotten. This whole expedition was as much about flushing Johnson into the open as it was about protecting her. The thought gave rise to more anxiety. She closed her eyes again, turned her focus back to envisioning herself embraced in that familiar all-encompassing golden light of peace and serenity.

  ~ * ~

  Fluke shifted his gaze back and forth between the traffic ahead and around him and the rearview mirror. Fewer cars traveled the highway now, ahead of the homeward rush hour traffic. Their presumed tail stayed in sight.

  He couldn’t help but catch Rachel’s nervousness, but it helped knowing its source and, as she focused on calming herself, the waves of peace washed over him as well until he had to admit some of those nerves had been his own. That constituted a change from his usual state of cool.

  How long since he’d been truly nervous about anything? He’d come to rely so much on his luck he’d started to take winning for granted. He’d come to expect things would always go his way. Where was the fun in that? After the first few years anyhow. No wonder he’d started taking bigger and bigger risks lately—not just buying into more volatile stocks and taking up sports like sky diving, but volunteering with Team Guardian to defuse bombs. Is that what it took these days to get a thrill out of life?

  But Rachel changed the ball game. If he wasn’t afraid for himself he was afraid for her, with her, sharing her apprehensions. He could only hope his luck would extend to protecting her. That, more than anything else, made it imperative to keep her close.

  He continued monitoring the rearview mirror as he drove on, but also shot glances to the passenger seat beside him where Rachel appeared to be in some deep meditative state, eyes closed as if in sleep.

  ~ * ~

  Rachel jolted alert when the car slowed to a crawl. She looked up to see they’d reached the Spirit Lake complex and had turned in to a parking lot stretching over the acres surrounding hotel and casino.

  She looked behind them and saw the blue Toyota enter the lot, still a few cars behind them. “You see it?” she asked.

  “Yep. Don’t look back. Let him think we haven’t spotted him.”

  He drove a winding route between the lots, finding a parking space in front of the hotel, but back far enough to have some other free spaces nearby.

  When they went to get their luggage from the trunk he raised the lid and whispered, “Don’t look around, but stay here for a minute. Rearrange my tire iron and jumper cable, make it look like you’re dealing with a lot of baggage.”

  “Okay… What will you be doing?”

  “Recon.” He moved around to where the trunk’s lid shielded him from sight and ducked even lower. She pulled her one purple overnight bag out and set it on the tarmac beside her, hoisted out Fluke’s black carryon bag, and stayed bent over the open trunk. Only a few items remained, the practical gear Fluke had mentioned plus small containers of oil and wiper fluid. She began shifting them around.

  ~ * ~

  Fluke ducked low enough to move unseen between the parked cars. He’d spotted the blue Toyota parking half a dozen cars down their row. Staying low, working around from the next row, he approached his quarry from behind.

  The driver appeared only in silhouette beyond the reflection-veiled glass of the car’s windows, but sat positioned facing the Porsche where Rachel busied herself at the trunk.

  Dropping to hands and knees, Fluke came up close enough to read the numbers of the license plate. He opened a link to the Team secretary. What was her name? Trina. He read them out to her. “See if you can get us some info on the driver.”

  With that, he stood, brushed off the knees of his hundred dollar jeans and approached the driver’s side door. He tapped on the glass. “Excuse me.”

  The window rolled down a couple inches. The face peering out at him couldn’t be Albert Johnson. For one thing, her tightly curled gray hair looked nothing like that of the balding man in the sketch produced after Rachel’s session with the police artist.

  “Yes? What is it?” No recognition showed in her narrowed eyes.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I saw you behind us on the highway. Have you been following me?”

  “What? I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “The red Porsche? You seemed to be watching it just now.”

  “Nonsense. I’m just taking a minute before I go in to the Bingo games. Now get away from my car before I report you to the police
.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Fluke backed off, holding his hands out in a placating gesture, and returned to Rachel

  ~ * ~

  “The car belongs to Mabel Atkins, 451-33rd Street South, Minneapolis.” Trina reported over a conferenced specs channel.

  “That’s right around the corner from the ashram!” Rachel leaned against the car, all the strength gone out of her legs.

  “He must have recruited one of your neighbors to follow us, and to find some logical reason for going wherever we wound up—she thinks she’s here to play bingo.”

  “He must have instructed her to report back somehow, too.”

  “If she has a cell phone, which she probably does, she’s already made the report.” Fluke took Rachel’s elbow, helping her stand without the support of the vehicle. He grabbed both bags, slinging the straps over a nicely broad shoulder, took her elbow again and propelled her toward the hotel. And a good thing he did. The thought of an innocent neighbor being dragged into this flooded her with guilt she worked to defuse. She wasn’t responsible for Johnson’s behavior, she reminded herself. She meant to stop him anyhow she could.

  “The question,” Fluke went on, steering her through the wide main doors into the hotel lobby, “is what’s he up to while Mabel keep tabs on us?”

  Centered again, Rachel freed her elbow. “At a guess, something to do with his original targets. He’s got it in for the Capital Finance board.”

  “True, and that’s enough to show he’s not firing on all cylinders—

  the board has whole new members since the company foreclosed on his house ten years ago. But now he knows the Team is on to him and will interfere if he makes a move on any of them.” Before he joined the queue of guests waiting to check in at the hotel’s front desk, Fluke approached an older woman who stood uncertainly nearby.

  “The bingo games are next door in the casino, Mabel,” he told her. “You can tell him we’re checking in here under the name ‘Coward.’“

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped. “I was just wondering whether to plan on staying overnight, Mr. Coward.” She sniffed and turned away.