Shades of Gray

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “My friend’s missing husband. I need to ask you a few questions.” I dared to move forward a few feet. The room seemed to have been made from two smaller ones, and another matching door leading into the hallway was partially covered by an oak filing cabinet.

  “The police were already here,” Russo said. “I answered all their questions.”

  “I’m not with the police. I have different questions.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid I’m really busy. Some other time maybe?”

  “No.” The firmness in my tone surprised both of us. The guy in front of the desk grinned wider, while the man at the window made a display of pulling back his jacket to reveal his gun.

  “I don’t know anything about the man or his disappearance,” Russo said.

  “Dennis recognized you,” I countered, “and it scared him to death, but he was also just a tiny bit relieved that you’d found him. I want to know why.”

  Russo’s eyes narrowed, and he stared at me for a full ten seconds before speaking. “You can go, Ace. We’ll talk later.” Russo’s eyes didn’t leave my face as he spoke.

  “Righto.” The man in front of the desk stood and started for the door. He winked at me as he passed, but I pretended not to notice. Where did I know him from, anyway?

  “Charlie, wait in the hall,” Russo added.

  Without a sound the man by the window obeyed, shutting the door behind him. I didn’t know whether to be glad or afraid now that I was alone with the man who had evoked so much terror in Dennis’s heart.

  And the rush of warmth, I reminded myself. Which I needed at the moment. This room was as cold as the precinct had been yesterday.

  “Have a seat,” Russo invited. His eyes were blue, I saw as I approached the desk, dark enough to appear brown from a distance. I tried to remember what color Dennis had given them.

  If I sat in the chair, I would have no opportunity to touch anything on his desk, though looking around at the office, all the furnishings seemed relatively new, so it was possible that he hadn’t yet left any imprints. It was typical upscale office gear—filing cabinet, bookcase, mini bar, nice paintings, even a plant. No personal touches that I could see. But Russo hadn’t sprung up from nowhere, so he might have brought things with him from New Jersey or wherever he had originated. Something on the desk, maybe.

  “Well?” Russo asked when I didn’t sit, impatience in his voice.

  I smiled and met his gaze, continuing up to the desk.

  Surprise lit his face, though whether at my refusal to sit or the fact that he’d noticed the different color of my eyes, I couldn’t say.

  “I’m a friend of Sophie and Dennis Briggs. Sophie asked me to look into her husband’s disappearance.”

  “I still don’t see why people think this has anything to do with me.”

  “Because after he saw you, he bought a suitcase, went home, packed it, and left. No one knows where he is.”

  “So the police said. But you still haven’t told me what that has to do with me.”

  I let my fingers trail over a dolphin-shaped paperweight. No imprints. I leaned forward as though to share a confidence, but really it was to touch the book a short distance away, the title hidden by an invoice of some type. “Dennis told me he recognized you,” I said. A stretch, but true all the same. “I know he was afraid for his life and family after he saw you. I also know that he cared about you or something you represent.” The book held imprints of personal enjoyment, nothing more. I wished I could see the title. Maybe it would tell me more about Russo than the fact that he’d enjoyed reading a book.

  “When did you last talk to him?” The words burst from him, too full of intensity to be a casual comment.

  “Then you do know him.”

  Russo’s eyes narrowed. “When did you last talk to him?” he repeated, emphasizing each word.

  Something clicked. “You don’t know where Dennis is, do you? But you care an awful lot about finding him. How do you know him?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I told you. I’m a friend. His wife asked me to help find him.”

  “You don’t have to worry about his wife anymore.”

  I stopped reaching for his stapler, though it was automatic and I doubted he’d touched it since it was placed there. “Of course I do. Sophie’s my friend. She’s worried about him. She’s worried about what will happen to her and the children if he doesn’t come home.”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “Wait. One minute you don’t know them, and the next you say she’ll be fine?” My thoughts were racing. “Does this have anything to do with the new car in Sophie’s driveway? She thinks Dennis gave it to her, but he doesn’t have that kind of money. You know what? I’m betting you gave it to her.”

  He didn’t reply, and I continued, “Is that payment for his death? Taking care of the woman you made a widow?” I hadn’t meant to sound so accusatory, but my nervousness had taken over.

  “No,” he barked. “I don’t know where the man is. I haven’t seen him since that meeting with my attorney. I think you should leave now.”

  I reached for the set of car keys I’d spied beyond the book, but his fingers closed around my wrist. It was his left hand, and I could clearly see where half the middle finger was missing.

  “Is there some reason you keep touching my things?” he asked.

  “Personality quirk.” I tried to pull my hand from his, but his fingers tightened, and the wedding ring he wore touched my skin. I gasped with the vivid image of his/my hand coming down on a dark-haired woman’s narrow face. She cried out. I stopped pulling my hand away and the image vanished, but the anger that accompanied it had become my own.

  Russo’s face was hard. “I heard about you. You’re the one who claims to be psychic.”

  “I don’t claim any such thing.” In another situation, I might explain that my ability was a fluke of genetics, that a part of my mind had simply developed that didn’t in most people, but I couldn’t trust Russo.

  “Garbage.” He let me go, and I stumbled backward, nearly falling. “Charlie will show you out.”

  “Please don’t hurt Dennis. He has a wife, children—a life.”

  He stiffened at my words, which I was already regretting. Me and my big mouth. “Take my advice and keep out of it,” he said.

  Turning, I yanked open the door and made my way out. Without being asked, Charlie accompanied me back to the kitchen, where the men were piling the chopped vegetables into large plastic containers, and through the employee break room to the warm, bright parking lot.

  Behind me, Charlie cleared his throat, and I looked to find him standing in front of the doorway, smirking. Bald men should never smirk, I decided, since he looked more like a cartoon ogre than a tough bodyguard.

  I grinned at the thought, but his only answer was to fold his hands across his chest and stare at me without blinking.

  I started across the parking lot to my car, but the asphalt had become hot enough that even my tough feet felt uncomfortable. I dug for the keys in my pocket so I wouldn’t have to spend a moment more than necessary on the hot surface.

  Glancing over my shoulder as I slid inside, I saw that Charlie was now talking on the phone.

  So what had I learned? Russo definitely wanted to find Dennis, but I didn’t know if he’d come to Portland for that sole purpose or if it had been a happy coincidence for him. All his businesses seemed to indicate the latter, yet I didn’t believe in coincidence. There had to be a connection.

  As I left the parking lot, the steering wheel pulled hard to the right side. I came to a stop and jumped out to investigate. A flat tire. There was no obvious damage, so I must have run over a nail, but the timing was too coincidental. I glared toward the restaurant where Charlie had disappe
ared. No one else was in the parking lot, and I didn’t feel anyone watching me—not that I had any special ability that way.

  Nothing for it but to fill the tire before the trip back. I’d seen a station half a block down where I could get gas as well. I didn’t have a working spare, but I had an aerosol bottle of goo that would plug the hole and inflate the tire enough to get to the station and maybe even last a few days.

  The air hose was around the back of the station, so I headed there first. Feeling jumpy, I scanned the area to make sure no one suspicious was around. Nothing. A man finished filling his tire and drove off, leaving me alone.

  I’d filled the tire and had turned to replace the air hose when a rush of footsteps warned me that someone was coming—fast. Whirling, I glimpsed a white man with close-cropped hair, the glint of a knife in his hands. He was of average build for a man, which meant he had fifty pounds and the advantage of few inches on me. I didn’t have time to worry about that since I was busy forcing my brain to remember my moves. I’d had nine hours of intense private training since coming out of the hospital and six hours of group training. Add that to the hours of practice at home and my teenage lessons, and it still wasn’t nearly as much as I’d wish for in this situation. My reflexes had kicked in this morning during my bout with Edward, but real life was something completely different.

  Sidestepping, I followed through with a blow to his back. He recovered almost immediately and sprang toward me again, but my clumsy success told me he wasn’t formally trained. I kicked out at the hand holding the knife and felt a surge of triumph when it clattered to the blacktop. I expected him to run away, but he didn’t. Nor did anyone come around to use the air, though I could hear plenty of cars driving in the street out front.

  He came at me again, but I ducked in plenty of time. I beat him in agility hands down. He wasn’t even as good as Edward.

  I kicked again at his knee and felt the blow connect, but I was too busy dodging the fist he sent toward my face to make the kick really count. I countered with a strong left hook to his jaw that I hoped hurt him more than it hurt me. The keys still in my hand added power to my blow, but he didn’t back down. He scored on my hip, which sent a shock of pain through my leg. At this rate we would wear each other down equally. My quickness was an advantage, but one slam to my healing ribs and it might all be over. I had to end this fast.

  We exchanged several more blows before I connected a roundhouse to his stomach and followed it up with a straight slice at his groin. He grunted in pain, but he didn’t collapse to the ground as I’d hoped. Follow it up again! Keep at it! I heard Steve’s voice urging me as he always did. Letting the tips of the keys slip outside my fist, I sent a punch to his right eye. This time my blow left him writhing on the ground, grabbing his eye and moaning. I rubbed my right hand, hoping I hadn’t damaged my wrist again.

  As my heart rate gradually slowed, I studied my attacker. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and his wispy goatee was accentuated by a lip ring. He looked more like a street thug than someone in the hierarchy of organized crime, but I got the message loud and clear. Someone wanted me to stop asking questions.

  I was betting on Russo, though I wasn’t sure how he would have put the attack into place so fast. Or could this be a simple mugging? Despite the knife, he wasn’t well-trained.

  Running my tongue over the new split in my lip, I took out my cell phone to call the police, but the man leapt to his feet and hobbled away. I wasn’t about to go after him. Calling the police was still a good idea, though. The gas station might have cameras out here, and possibly the man could be identified from footage of the attack.

  Something gleaming on the ground caught my attention. The knife. It would be taken away by the police in a plastic bag the minute they arrived. Now might be my only chance to see if it held imprints that could lead to who had hired my attacker.

  I approached the knife, dread forming a knot in my stomach. There was no telling how this knife had been used, and I knew I was opening myself for a nasty imprint that might give me a worse hurt than the information was worth. Yet what choice did I have? Sophie and her children needed Dennis. I’d been attacked in daylight in the parking lot of a gas station. If I didn’t use my ability to make things right, what was the use of having it?

  My hand shook as I reached out, but I made it stop. Not wanting to leave a fingerprint, I bent my forefinger and touched my knuckle to the shiny blade. Rapid images flitted through my mind, scenes of death and destruction that horrified me. I tried to push them away, tried to lift my hand, but I couldn’t move. My heart thundered in my ears. My energy leaked away.

  Only twice before had I experienced malicious imprints jammed so tightly together that one horrific image could not be separated from the next, and both times I’d fainted.

  The last thing I felt was the hard ground smacking into my head.

  Chapter 8

  I turned the watch over and read the inscription. The old man was smiling, and I could feel his love as we hugged. No, not me. Shannon. An imprint.

  My eyes blinked open, and there Shannon was, leaning over me, his watch digging into the bare flesh of my arm. I was tired—oh, so tired—but I couldn’t seem to move. Just let me sleep for a while, I wanted to say. My mouth refused to obey, which put it into the same class as the rest of my body.

  “Autumn, are you okay?”

  I shut my eyes and let myself float. As stuffy as Shannon was, if he was here, there was no way the street thug could get me now. I didn’t seem to have any new wounds since the attack except a pounding headache, so I would be okay with a little sleep.

  I could still feel the imprints of Shannon’s watch—probably because I’d somehow hooked a finger in it. I was too tired to be embarrassed by my involuntary action. I had no control at the moment.

  The next thing I knew, I was being lifted from a car onto a gurney. “What’s going on?” I mumbled.

  “You were attacked,” Shannon said. “You’re all bruised. We want to make sure there’s no internal bleeding.”

  I moved my head and saw that I was heading into an ambulance. “Stop.” No way I could afford this. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.” I struggled to sit up.

  “Then what’s this?” Shannon’s finger brushed across the split in my bottom lip.

  “I beat him,” I said. “He ran away.”

  “I saw that part. But then you collapsed. Could be serious.”

  “It was the imprint on the knife.”

  Shannon looked at the uniformed officer with him. “You bag a knife?” The man nodded.

  “I just need to rest.” In fact, I was feeling better by the minute.

  Shannon signaled the ambulance workers to give us space. “Who attacked you?”

  “I don’t know.” I gave him a description, and by the time I was finished, I wanted to curl up in my bed and sleep for a week.

  “You went to see Russo.”

  “How did you know?” I didn’t think Tracy would rat me out.

  “Never mind how I knew. That was a dangerous thing to do.”

  “So I found out.”

  “You think he sent that guy?”

  “I don’t think I’m on anyone else’s hit list. Yet.”

  Shannon sighed. “Autumn, I suspect Russo is as dirty as they come, but I can’t find any connection between him and Dennis.”

  “He was looking for Dennis, and Dennis was scared to death to see him, but he also felt something else—relief, maybe even a little liking for Russo.” How else could I explain that tiny rush of warmth? “Russo gave Sophie that new car sitting in her driveway—I’m sure of it—so there is a connection.” I thought of Russo’s hand coming down on the dark-haired woman. “Dennis might already be dead.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  I grabbed Shannon’s arm and pulled myself to a s
eated position. “I am not going in that ambulance. I can barely afford the mortgage on my shop as it is.”

  “Then I’ll drive you home.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “You were unconscious.”

  I didn’t bother to tell him that he’d be unconscious, too, if he had experienced the imprints on the knife. “It’s been a long day. You didn’t have to come after me. I would have been fine after a little nap.”

  “On the pavement?”

  “So?”

  “Fine. You didn’t need me, but I’m still going to drive you home.” He looked anxious now, and I knew I’d have to give in.

  I sighed. “If you drive me, how will I get my car back?”

  “I’ll drive you home in your car.” The way he said “car” let me know he was being kind in calling it that. “One of the officers can take mine. You know, I would have let you come with me if you’d asked.”

  “Would you really?”

  He shook his head. “No. But I should have.”

  That was close enough to an apology that I almost forgave him for trying to cart me away to the hospital.

  “Knowing how you are and everything,” he added, which nixed my forgiveness.

  “I’m going to do whatever I can to find out what happened to Dennis,” I said. For Sophie and her children but also for my pregnant sister who lived next door to them and could be in danger of getting caught in any cross fire.

  “Well, we’ve identified the place in Tawnia’s picture, and we have officers canvassing the nearby hotels and gas stations. There was a report of shots fired in the area Thursday evening, but the police concluded it was a car backfiring.”

  “It had to be a gun, and whoever had it was after Dennis.” My money was on Russo. I pushed myself gingerly off the gurney, feeling as if I’d gained three hundred pounds. My hair was plastered to my head with the heat and humidity.

  “Was there anything on the knife?” Shannon asked.