The Fog of Dreams
Page 15
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Six days ago. Day five of the Strickland experiment.
Normal people greet the early morning with a lingering and slothful reprehension, clawing their way from the blessed dark of sleep as if scaling a steep and crumbling cliff. Deep darkness surrounds them at the bottom, wrapped around them and cradling them in a blacked out, comforting warmth. These normal people know they must creep towards the light. They know responsibilities lay up there that they must face with the early morning sun, but they don't hurry, they go hand-over-hand, reluctantly bringing themselves from blissful, sleeping ignorance to a bright and sharp daytime reality.
Richard Grace has never been accused of being normal people. On the small table next to his hotel room bed, the preset alarm chirped with three shrill beeps, a trio of sharp darts that might jolt ordinary people into an uneasy wakeful state. Grace, however, seemed to hover just below consciousness, as if his body was simply waiting to be told it was time to get up. Always ready and always eager. Before the final chirp of the phone had completely silenced, the man was upright, his left arm bent and pushing himself from the soft comfort of his unfamiliar bed as his right hand grasped for fingerfulls of hair. Already his eyes were half open, darting and alert underneath gapped lids.
He was generally a light sleeper and an eager awakener, but this morning was even more so. His muscles were tensed and ready to approach whatever the day had to offer, his mind was extraordinarily clear, and a deep beat of determined realization thrummed in his head, sharpening his senses and bringing him fully awake within moments.
Grace swung his legs from bed, the thin cotton boxers pulling tight against clenched thigh muscles, his bare feet touching lightly upon the carpeted floor. A slow wave of pain stretched from his right ribcage to the small lower back on his left side, but he pushed that pain away and brought himself fully upright, stretching his arms vertically towards the ceiling, pulling skin even more tightly over lean muscle underneath. A dramatic and clear sense of urgency remained in him even as he grew clearer and more alert. Something had happened last night, something that he would have to be prepared to deal with. Suddenly he was as sure of this fact as he was of his weight, a calculation he carefully measured every single morning before his shower. Quickening his pace, Grace strode towards the bathroom, wanting to get in the shower soon?if his instincts were right, his phone would be ringing shortly, and he wanted to be ready for whatever was to come.
During any normal morning routine, Grace's unnerving efficiency pushed him through the shower and shave in less than thirty minutes. This morning, approximately fifteen minutes after awakening, he stepped from the bathroom with his white towel wrapped tightly around his waist, and drying water shining on his pale, muscular skin. Three steps from the bathroom, the phone on the end table trembled, sending the vibration notification into the faux polished wood surface. As the small device did a shaking dance across the smooth surface, the man scooped it up and answered.
"Grace," he responded swiftly, his greeting just as efficient as every other part of his morning process.
"Morning," came an unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line. It was a gruff voice, thick with the rural accent of this part of New England. The voice of a lifetime resident of one of these local one horse towns. "This is Officer Brantz over ta Norwood. Got somethin' we need to talk to you 'bout, if we could."
"Where did you get this number, officer?"
There was a slight pause on the other end. "State gave it to us. We got us a situation over heah, sir. State is sendin' someone over, but said I needed ta get in touch with you, soon as possible."
"Is it at the Strickland residence?" Grace asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah. Got some bodies here, sir."
Grace dropped his chin to his chest. This hadn't come at a particular surprise to him. But he had hoped this could have been more effectively contained.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Appreciate it."
He slipped the dark phone back onto the table, and turned towards his dresser, the cheap fiber board trademark of hotel living.
A few moments later, Grace swept himself into his black rental car, thumbing his Bluetooth headset into his ear.
"Burndock," he said flatly as he brought the car into a smooth, lurching gait, down the ramp from the nearby parking garage and out onto one of the busy side streets of Hammond. Inside his headset a series of warbling chirps connected him with his right-hand man.
"Burndock here," he responded.
"Are you on site?" Grace asked, leaning out and making sure his path was clear.
"Just cruised by. Things are hot."
"So I hear. I'm on my way now."
There was a moment of silence on the other end, like Burndock was trying to solve some complex equation. "Someone call you?"
"Yes, some backwoods cop. Said he got my name from the State." Grace navigated his dark sedan right onto Main Street coaxing it down towards the main road between the two towns.
"That sound fishy to you?" Burndock asked. Grace could hear the muffled grumble of an engine turning over. "Why didn't our normal guy call first?"
"No idea, but I think they've got a new chief of police over there. Burndock, what are you seeing?"
He drew in a deep, tired sigh. "Looks like we lost a couple of contractors. I couldn't get too close, but we have cop cars and the meat wagon just showed up. Not good."
Grace narrowed his eyes, digging a deep furrow between his curled lids. "Was it Strickland?"
"Not sure how it could be anyone else."
"Damn."
"Did we misjudge him, sir?"
"Let's not continue this discussion on the phone. I'll be at Strickland's property in fifteen minutes. Meet me there."
The rental car continued down the steep hill towards the bridge.