ã€ŠPushing My Luck, Book 1ã€‹


 Chapter 1 - Book 1

    This asshole put something into the woman¡¯s drink. I''ve just come out of the restroom when some random opening in the shifting crowd allows me to see it, plain as day, and it pisses me right off.

    I¡¯m on the other side of the bar. She¡¯s dressed for a night out in a white, fluffy sweater and combing her fingers through her dark hair, smiling up at a tall man in a suit. This is a college bar with the campus right down the street, so the suit¡¯s a little out of place. The tie he¡¯s wearing is solid black. His face is craggy, stubbly, like a pale rocky hill after a forest fire. His deep-set eyes are twin empty caverns no light can reach under that broad forehead.

    When the woman looks at the bartender, the tall man taps a powder from a tiny package into her glass while pretending to scratch at his arm.

    Nobody else seems to have seen anything and the other patrons milling around soon block my view. It¡¯s Friday, after all, and people are out.

    I get up on my tiptoes and rock about like you do when you¡¯re out trying to get your buddy¡¯s attention.

    Finally, I catch Nick¡¯s eye and gesture for him to come here.

    He sees me and smiles.

    I shake my head and point to the bar. At the pre-rapist.

    ¡°Join. Me. At. The. Bar,¡± I mouth to him.

    He must think I¡¯m buying another round because he waves me off with a big grin. We¡¯ve been talking to those couple of nursing students for a little while. He''s very hopeful. I''m still skeptical and although the ladies have been nice, I don''t get the feeling it''s really going anywhere. Especially not now.

    I sigh. There¡¯s nothing for it. I¡¯ll have to do this on my own, so I lower my head, set my jaw, and move toward the bar.

    By the time I weave my way through the bearded hipsters and their dates, though, the tall man and the woman in the sweater are gone.

    I double check, but they¡¯re not there and I don¡¯t see them at any of the tables.

    I go outside.

    It¡¯s a late October evening, and the air is cool. My jacket''s back at the table with Nick and the nursing students. Any colder and I¡¯ll be able to see my breath.

    The bar is on the side of a hill nestled between other businesses that closed hours ago. Two flights of stairs lead down to the street which passes below me. There are people on the sidewalks, but no tall man and sweatered woman.

    On the other side of the street, more stairs lead down into a park. I catch a flash of white between two other figures moving down a paved path, deeper into the park.

    I dart across the street to get a better look and, yeah, I¡¯m pretty sure that¡¯s her. They¡¯ve put a coat on her, but as she stumbles, I can see the fluffy sweater. The tall man catches her and keeps her from falling. On the brunette¡¯s other side, is someone new. A woman helps steady her as they move farther into the park.

    Yeah, this is not good. Time for the police.

    But when I reach for my phone, I don¡¯t find it. I must¡¯ve left it in the bathroom at the bar. I sometimes need a little space, you know? The bathroom is a usual spot for me. I read a little news, check my social media, decompress. Sometimes I screw up and leave it in the stall and have to go back to get it. It happens more often than I like to admit. Like right fucking now.

    Obviously, I can¡¯t go get it. God knows what these two are up to. I mean, it was bad enough when it was just the one man, but now that there¡¯s two of them involved, well, that just seems odd to me.

    The more I think about it, the weirder it feels. A man alone, I get, right? But a man and a woman together? Seems kind of crowded for a rape. And the guy seems way too businesslike about this whole thing. Handling the woman is awkward, but they go about it like they¡¯ve done it a hundred times.

    I could start shouting, but that doesn¡¯t seem like a good idea. By now, she¡¯s probably got a good look at her kidnappers¡¯ faces, if that¡¯s what they are. For all I know, if there¡¯s any sign of a witness, they¡¯ll knife her and scatter into the night. I don¡¯t feel like I¡¯ve got the right to risk her life like that. Better to wait and watch for a better opportunity.

    So, not having a better idea, I hurry down the stairs after them.

    There are streetlights in the park and the three of them stick to the walkways. I¡¯m catching up to them, keeping to the tree line to stay out of sight. Neither the man nor his accomplice look around much, but they check behind them a little. I figure they¡¯re really good at this and know how not to look suspicious, or they¡¯re brand new and overconfident.

    I can hear them talking, but I¡¯m not close enough to hear what they¡¯re saying. The female kidnapper has short hair that¡¯s burnished auburn in the lamp¡¯s light overhead. She¡¯s wearing a coat that¡¯s a little longer than her dark skirt.

    She turns and I freeze because I¡¯m pretty sure she¡¯s looking right at me even though I''m pressed against a tree. I don''t see how she could tell I was there unless the leaves under my feet gave me away. They don¡¯t stop though and the drugged woman trips again and, this time, she starts a slow slide to the ground. The tall man stoops, wraps an arm around her waist, and hauls her back up to her feet, basically carrying her. This distracts his friend from me as she loops her victim¡¯s arm over her shoulder, and they''re off again, looking like a couple of friends helping a third that¡¯s had way too much to drink.

    Maybe if the lady had spotted me for sure, they¡¯d have done something else, but I have no idea what. Both kidnappers¡¯ coats are long. They could have any number of weapons under there. I need to be more careful.

    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    It¡¯s a dark night and getting colder, but I keep moving so I''m warm enough, and it¡¯s not hard to keep them in my sights while I keep out of theirs. There¡¯s something deeply wrong here. I have a feeling that if I screw this up, that woman¡¯s dead. And maybe me too.

    I decided a long time ago that there were certain things I just wouldn¡¯t allow to happen in my presence. I know how that might sound. Like a self-important, righteous idiot, right? Look, when I was a kid, I was at the zoo with some friends. I saw a guy carrying a kid and running. He ran right past me. There was a moment when I considered stepping in front of the guy and asking him what was going on, but I hesitated and he ran right past. The screaming mother came next, and then the father, holding his daughter close, her chubby face smeared with chocolate ice cream, as he sped after his wife, and the look on mom and dad¡¯s faces has haunted me ever since.

    I heard nothing more about what happened that day at the zoo. We didn¡¯t see any clusters of cops or flashing lights. There was nothing in the news and never has been. Nobody knew anything about it at school. Eventually, I resigned myself to the fact that I would never know. I was maybe twelve at the time and I know that guy, whoever he was, probably would¡¯ve just run me down, but I did nothing.

    Never again.

    It¡¯s gotten me into trouble a few times since then. A couple of fights. Nothing serious. But more often than not, people don¡¯t really know what to do when you confront them. They always seem a little confused, then a lot confused, then angry and confused, which is when I can normally see them make the choice. I''ve put myself in the way and they¡¯ve either got to relent or go through me. Most quit whatever it was they were doing and go away.

    I¡¯m six foot nothing and wiry, and Nick will tell you that the only time I¡¯m at all frightening is when I do things like that. He says I stand there ready, looking like I''d punch Godzilla right in the mouth, and that''s intimidating. It''s a little scary to face down a guy who''s willing to go all out on anybody, he told me, though the only time he ever saw me do it was when a couple of football players for the university were bothering a server at this restaurant we go to. I don''t invite people to fight or anything. That escalates things. I just tell them to stop, politely. I insist. That gets my meaning across.

    So, for whatever reason, just like that time with the football players, most people decide to cut it out and not have to deal with me. Yeah, I¡¯ve been lectured by friends, Nick included, and a couple of times by police who seem to understand. I always tell them I don¡¯t go looking for trouble, but that sometimes somebody needs someone to step in right now. Yeah, there are people who can sit back and watch something wrong happen in front of them. I can¡¯t. It¡¯s earned me some stitches over the years, and once Nick had to bail me out of the county jail, but so far, I¡¯ve been lucky.

    I wonder how this is going to work out this time. I wonder if this time these fucks are armed. Kidnappers normally are, right?

    Time to be really careful.

    We get to the other end of the park and there¡¯s an allotment of houses above us on top of the hill. There are lights here too, but the backyards of the houses facing us are darker than the park. The kidnapped woman''s feet are no longer moving, the tips of her pumps dragging through the grass as the two evil fucks take her up into the side yard of a sprawling ranch house. I move a little faster because, yep, they¡¯ve come to a side door, opened it, and entered. It''s the only place they could''ve gone.

    Now. Right now, I should run for the cops. Pound on a neighbor¡¯s door. But it¡¯ll take time for them to arrive, right? What¡¯s the average for this town? Seven minutes? A lot can happen in seven minutes. If I leave now, who¡¯s going to look out for her? If these two psychos hear me arguing with Bob from next door, who¡¯s to say they won¡¯t start up the murder spree? I definitely should not follow them inside, right? That¡¯s crazy. What the fuck am I going to do?

    I¡¯m going to make sure she¡¯s okay. I¡¯m going to look for a phone. I¡¯m going in, but I¡¯m not taking any risks. Can¡¯t help anybody if I¡¯m dead. I feel like going in is the right thing to do, so I got to go. Goddammit.

    The door¡¯s ajar. When I peek in, I see the glint of chrome and glass. It¡¯s a two-car garage. A sedan and a minivan parked side by side, and the garage door closed. The only other way out is the door to the house.

    I creep around the vehicles, hoping nothing is lying around to trip over, to try the knob. It turns, unlocked. Trying not to make any noise, I open it slowly and peer inside.

    It¡¯s a kitchen. The lights are on, shining from a fancy chandelier hung over a table in a small eating area on the other side of a counter. It¡¯s bright and I have to blink while my eyes adjust.

    The room is empty and clean. No dishes left out anywhere and everything is in its place. There¡¯s a door to my left, but it¡¯s closed. I look around for a phone, thinking that maybe there¡¯s a handset I could take back into the garage and call nine-one-one, but there¡¯s nothing.

    I hear voices, but they¡¯re muffled, like they¡¯re in another room or behind a door.

    There¡¯s a door to my left. I don''t think they''re in there, but it''s best to make sure. There are stairs leading down into the basement but they''re dark, and for a moment I get the impression of a yawning throat threatening to swallow me into darkness. I shake it off and listen. Nothing. I leave the door open. If I have to run, I¡¯ll try to make for the garage instead. The car and the van will give me cover, but there¡¯s no harm in leaving a false trail, right?

    I move into the dining area and peek around the corner. It¡¯s a living room. There¡¯s an overstuffed couch and an easy chair arranged in front of a humongous television hung on the wall. On the far side of the room is another door, slightly open, with light spilling around its edges. There¡¯s the sound of a man¡¯s voice coming from the other side.

    I get to the door and listen.

    The man says, ¡°I¡¯ll check the street.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll make the call,¡± says the woman. ¡°Then we¡¯ll go down and get the others.¡±

    There¡¯s nothing more.

    Others? Other what? Kidnappers? Victims?

    I open the door just enough to look through. There¡¯s a short hallway that opens into a larger room. The woman in the sweater is lying on the floor not three feet away from me.

    I duck in, collect her under her arms, and pull her through. The door starts to close behind us and I worry it¡¯ll make a noise when it shuts. I snatch a throw pillow from the couch and use it to prop it open.

    She doesn¡¯t so much as twitch throughout the whole procedure. Whatever they gave her has her out cold.

    Others.

    What if there are other victims inside?

    No way I can abandon her here, but I can¡¯t leave without making sure there¡¯s nobody else in danger. I¡¯d never be able to forgive myself.

    I check the woman¡¯s pockets and find her cell phone. Holding it up to her face unlocks it, and I immediately call the police. I put it down on the coffee table by her head and go back through the door, closing it after me this time, just as I hear the operator come on and ask about the emergency.

    I stalk back down the hallway and poke my head into the living room. Huh. Another living room is odd, but hey, it takes all kinds.

    The place is empty.

    The floor plan here is remarkably like the other. From where I am, I can make out part of a chandelier and the chairs around a table almost identical to the one I saw when I first came into the house.

    I see movement from that way, something big. A man? But then there¡¯s a terrific impact in my stomach and I¡¯m on the ground, kneeling. My breath won¡¯t come.

    Two large dress shoes, somewhat scuffed, shine up at me, and then, walking in from the right, a pair of black heels.

    The dude punched me in the gut.

    I¡¯m caught.

 Chapter 2 - Book 1

    ¡°Watch him,¡± says the woman. ¡°I¡¯ll kill the others.¡±

    The man grunts. ¡°He¡¯s closed the door.¡±

    ¡°He what?¡±

    ¡°Girl¡¯s gone. He¡¯s closed the door.¡±

    The woman marches down the hallway and flings open the door at the end. A bathroom. The lights are on in there and it¡¯s clearly a bathroom. A bathroom. That¡¯s the way I came in, though. I''m sure of it.

    Aren¡¯t I?

    She turns and comes back, her face set as she approaches.

    My breath won¡¯t come, but I¡¯m able to reach out, tug once on the woman¡¯s skirt, and mouth the word, ¡°Please.¡± I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m the reason she¡¯s going to go murder the others, to kill anybody that could recognize her, but I have to stop her, slow her down, something. It¡¯s the only thing I can think to do.

    She squats down to look me in the eye. Many would find her pretty. Her face might be a bit too wide and square for beautiful, her lips too thin. Her nose is too long, too sharp, but it¡¯s the cold and unfeeling eyes that turn her into something ugly.

    ¡°Don¡¯t touch me,¡± says the woman. ¡°Ever.¡±

    I raise my hand in apology and shake my head.

    She smiles, and if you¡¯d have told me that a grin could make me nauseous before this, I¡¯d have never believed you.

    She reaches out with her hand, just short of touching my forehead, and draws something in the air with her thumb.

    ¡°There,¡± she says. She looks up at her accomplice. ¡°We don¡¯t have much time. I¡¯ll¡ª.¡±

    A noise from the kitchen interrupts her and I remember the movement I saw there before. I think someone else might be here.

    There¡¯s a tremendous, sharp crack and the tall man¡¯s head whips backwards and he¡¯s falling, a perfectly round hole in the center of his ponderous forehead.

    Two more explosions, deafening inside the home, and the woman falls beside me, missing most of her head.

    It¡¯s all so sudden and what¡¯s going to happen now or what to do. I¡¯m on the edge of panic, but there¡¯s people in the house in trouble, so I have to swallow that the fuck down. And now the room is getting darker.

    No wait, it isn¡¯t.

    Am I fainting? I concentrate for a moment. I can see just as much in the dim light as before. The place just seems like it¡¯s getting darker, like I¡¯m feeling the loss of light rather than seeing it. I must be in shock.

    A man is here, sitting on his haunches much like the woman he¡¯s killed was doing a moment ago. He¡¯s got a scraggly dark beard streaked here and there with gray and silver. He might be Italian or Middle Eastern. His eyes are big, brown, and alight with intelligence and concern. He looks in each of my eyes, then stares at my forehead, where the woman almost touched me. He must''ve put the gun away. I don''t see it.

    I manage a breath, heaving it into my lungs like I¡¯ve forgotten how the whole mechanism works. The man in front of me smells of gunpowder.

    The new guy says, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m too late. Goddamn malocchio.¡± He speaks quietly in unaccented English, his voice a pleasant baritone.

    I can only gasp. I want to tell him about the other people in the house, but I¡¯m not breathing well enough to speak yet, so I shake my head and hold up a finger.

    The man stands up. He squats back down. ¡°You know,¡± he says. ¡°I doubt it¡¯ll work, but maybe¡­.¡± He draws a figure in the air above my forehead, much like the woman had done, only he uses his forefinger and the pattern is more complex. When he¡¯s done, he smiles and shrugs. He¡¯s got my wallet in his hand. ¡°That probably won¡¯t be any help at all¡­.¡± He looks at my driver¡¯s license. ¡°Benjamin P. Walker, my friend, but it¡¯s the best I can do for you.¡± His tone is mild, like he¡¯s much more satisfied now about the way things are turning out. He stands.

    ¡°Wait,¡± I croak.

    ¡°Can¡¯t,¡± says the strange man. ¡°Gotta go. I¡¯m sorry about all this. Things are about to¡ª. Well, never mind. You''ll see.¡± He turns the corner back into the kitchen, and he¡¯s gone.

    The room isn¡¯t as dark as it was.

    Wait. No, there are some lighter parts, but the dark seems to overpower the light right now. Like it¡¯s winning.

    Then there¡¯s more light.

    From the big window in the living room. Headlights outside shining in. They¡¯re angled down and bouncing. I can see them through the curtains. The street this house sits on is only part way up the hill. A car or something is coming down it. I can only see the lights which are dribbling up and down much too much. And getting larger. Much larger. And too fast.

    I go to stand, but it¡¯s too late.

    The car smashes through the wall, blowing through the drywall and the window, sending shards flashing past me. A soft shape angles out at me. The couch pushed by the car.

    It knocks me off my feet, scoops me up, and I¡¯m weightless, flying.

    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    I flail around, trying to grab something. My hand finds metal behind me. I grasp it. Something golden. It¡¯s the chandelier.

    I¡¯ve caught it just right to sling me around. My momentum redirects out in an arc, but then there¡¯s a jerk. The fixture has come out of the wall as I rotate over the kitchen table, and I¡¯m too scared to let go.

    The point becomes moot when the damn thing pulls free, and I fall. Somehow, I land on my feet and stay upright, taking a few steps backward.

    The chandelier is still in my hands. I drop it with a crash onto the linoleum.

    There¡¯s too much light in the room.

    Okay, no there isn¡¯t. It just feels that way and the dark is gathering again. Something¡¯s going on with my vision, and I don¡¯t know if I should see a shrink or an optometrist. No wait, it¡¯s both. Definitely both. Either way, I need a moment. I lean back against the wall.

    Only there¡¯s no wall.

    It¡¯s the open door to the basement and I¡¯m falling through it, knowing I¡¯ll be lucky if I don¡¯t break my neck on the way down.

    The stairs are carpeted, thank God, but the edges of each stair dig into me as I tumble down. I wait for the snap and the pain of something inside me breaking, but I wind up at the base, alive, with my ass halfway up the wall when I come to rest on my neck, staring up at my crotch.

    Noises from my right.

    A family of five, bound, gagged, arranged on a sectional couch in a lovely finished basement. They¡¯re staring at me, eyes wide, panicked, confused. One of them is pitifully small. She¡¯s five? Six years old? The other two kids, a boy and a girl, are in their early teens.

    Jesus.

    I roll over and wobble to my feet. Nothing seems broken. I feel okay and I¡¯m breathing normally.

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t me,¡± I say and show them my empty hands. "I didn''t hurt anybody and I''ve no part of this," I tell them.

    They just look at me. Yeah, I guess they don¡¯t much care about who did what. Besides, why would they take me at my word? They¡¯re much more worried about what I¡¯m going to do next.

    I go to mom first. She¡¯s a full-figured woman, her blonde hair in sodden, sweaty curls. She¡¯s crying. I take down her gag first, looping my fingers under the rag, and pulling it down over her chin, careful not to scratch her.

    ¡°Please,¡± she says. ¡°Please.¡±

    Like I¡¯d said upstairs to the dead woman.

    ¡°Ma¡¯am,¡± I say as I work on the zip ties and duct tape around her wrists. They used like eight of them here and a yard of tape. ¡°I¡¯m here to help. Honest.¡± But the ties are dug into her flesh. Pulling on them isn¡¯t doing any good. ¡°The kidnappers are¡­.¡± I look at the kids. ¡°Gone. It wasn¡¯t me.¡± I hold up my empty hands. ¡°There was another guy. He¡¯s gone too. Uh, in an entirely different way.¡±

    There¡¯s nothing nearby I can see to cut the ties, which may be a good thing. These folks probably aren¡¯t ready for me to have anything sharp in my hands yet. I settle for pulling the gags from everybody.

    By the time I do, I can hear sirens.

    I know I should stay, but what the fuck am I going to tell them? Sure, I can maybe think something up, but I¡¯m a miserable liar. There¡¯s a car crashed upstairs, the driver in God knows what condition, two dead bodies, both shot, the man who did it long gone, leaving me, the guy who came in through the bathroom? There wasn¡¯t even a window in there!

    And why''d I pull down the light fixture? Huh?

    I have no idea what¡¯s going on. I have no idea what to say to the police. No clue what to do. Time to think is what I need, but I won¡¯t get that if I stay.

    Running feels wrong. Very not me. Nick would tell me to run right to a lawyer, and you know what? Look what being me has brought me so far today. Time to listen to Nick and bug out before I end up in prison.

    I look at dad.

    He¡¯s looking at me.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t do any of this, sir. I¡­. There was another woman they had. That they took. I helped her, but left her alone. I¡­. I have to go.¡±

    The man nods once. ¡°Go then,¡± he says. There¡¯s nothing accusatory in his tone, his face impassive, but I feel like shit anyhow. I should stay and help. I should. I know I should.

    I don¡¯t.

    Instead, I run upstairs.

    The mess in the kitchen and living room makes me hesitate. I really should check on the driver of the car, but I hear the creaking crunch of a messed-up car door opening and a dude staggers out. Drunk maybe?

    Time to go anyway. There are the telltale blue and red flashing lights parading around on the walls.

    The kitchen has a sliding glass door. I tug on it. Locked. I unlock it and open it. The deck is pale treated wood, unpainted. There are a few lounge chairs and a grill and stairs down into the backyard. I take them and I¡¯m back in the park in moments.

    I move along the asphalt walkway in a daze. What the Hell just happened? What did I do? Did I do the right thing?

    I see a bench and go to it like it¡¯s the only thing floating in an empty trackless sea and I¡¯m at risk of drowning. It has a streetlight above it, shining down on it like a spotlight in a stage production. I try never to mix my metaphors, but it felt like that, both at once.

    I get to it and sit. With the adrenaline bleeding off, I fight the urge to lie down. I guess I can¡¯t stay here for long. The police will look for a man of my description soon with their questions, and I can¡¯t blame them at all. I have questions myself.

    Did I foil some kind of serial-killing kidnapping ring?

    No, I had not. I witnessed the strange bearded fellow do that by gunning them down. The most I¡¯d done was get that woman in the sweater out. Through the bathroom? There wasn''t a bathroom there before. It was another living room, twin to the one that now had a car parked in it.

    That house had two kitchens? Two living rooms?

    I can still see it from where I am, a two-story colonial, bathed in blue and red swirling lights. It doesn¡¯t look big enough. None of it makes sense, so I turn my brain in another direction.

    The Beard told me something. Goddamn malocchio? What was that?

    I can look it up on my phone if I can get the spelling right, maybe.

    Except, my phone is back at the bar. Maybe someone¡¯s turned it in by now to the lost and found or something.

    And what the fuck is going on with my eyes? How can I see dark and light that isn¡¯t there? It¡¯s like my vision is mottled, like I''ve got a thin cloth over my eyes in an inkblot pattern that I can see through without obscuring my vision at all somehow. But there¡¯s nothing external that can cause those¡­ discolorations? Light doesn¡¯t work that way. And they¡¯re only there when I look for them. I feel them and, right now, the dark seems to be winning.

    The buzzing of the lamp above me grows louder, then flickers.

    The ¡®dark¡¯ in my vision swirls stronger, spikes, and the light bulb in the lamp pops. Hot glass rains down, some of it getting behind the collar of my polo shirt, in my hair.

    I want to jump up and shake myself, but it is glass, so I don¡¯t. I take my time instead, even though it burns, and eventually, I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve got it all out.

    Huh. I really don''t know what to make of that either, so I file it away and start off toward the bar.

    I¡¯m concentrating on those fake blots of darkness and lightness. They move and seem to wrestle with each other, the dark against the light and vice versa. I find I don¡¯t like the dark bits much. They feel cold and dangerous somehow now that I''m paying attention. The light parts feel much more comfortable and right.

    It''s bizarre.

    It¡¯s not been that long since I was last walking here. Right over there is where they had to start carrying the woman. I check my watch. It¡¯s a little past ten at night. I¡¯m pretty sure I left the bar just before nine-thirty? And I¡¯d spent most of that time following those assholes through the park.

    I don¡¯t have to be as careful this time and I¡¯ve got my new friends, those splotches of light and darkness, to keep me occupied, so I¡¯m in front of the two flights of stairs leading back up to the bar before I know it.

    Only when I get to the top, the bar isn¡¯t there.

 Chapter 3 - Book 1

    Okay, the bar was right there. Right where this dry cleaner¡¯s business is now. The two other stores on either side are the same, I swear, but the bar is gone, and this place is closed.

    I go up to the window and press my forehead to it to get a better look inside.

    Yep. There¡¯s a counter and a cash register and things that look suspiciously like racks of clothing behind. The place looks like it¡¯s been here for ages, too.

    But where¡¯s the bar with Nick and the nursing students in it? My phone¡¯s there along with my jacket, and it¡¯s getting colder.

    October in Ohio, right? We never know what we¡¯re gonna get. Could be eighty. Could be forty. Could rain, sleet, or snow. Could be all that in one day, frankly.

    And I guess that bars with friends inside can brown and blow away like leaf off a tree in the fall, right out of your life.

    Nope. Uh uh.

    Bars don¡¯t do that.

    Gotta be me, right? I¡¯m misremembering. I¡¯m wrong. This wasn¡¯t the place. Those fucking kidnappers dosed the woman in the sweater. Maybe they slipped me something too.

    I feel my stomach. It hurts pretty bad. He really walloped me. Maybe when that guy punched me, he had a hypodermic needle in his hand or maybe a ring with a spike coated in something? I¡¯ve heard of that.

    I lift my shirt and look at my belly. It¡¯s already bruising, a swollen round lump of tiny yellow, purple, and blue continents, but the skin isn¡¯t broken anywhere.

    They¡¯d slipped that lady a powder into her drink. Maybe I¡¯d inhaled some, and it¡¯s messing with my memory.

    Deep down, I know something else is going on, but I¡¯m at a complete loss here. The bar has to be here, right? Somewhere?

    So, I pick a direction and start walking, hoping the bar will be nearby and this night could end. It''s getting cold out.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    It doesn''t work out that way.

    I didn¡¯t expect it to, if I¡¯m being honest. Not really.

    Walking uphill two blocks with no success, I just find a couple of gas stations and more closed businesses.

    When I walk back past the dry cleaner¡¯s going downhill for three more blocks, I don¡¯t have any luck either. On the block after that, I see one of those chain restaurants I know has a bar inside. I shrug. Maybe Nick¡¯s in there with my phone. He could be. Probably? I walk across the parking lot toward the entrance.

    I¡¯m getting used to the light and dark blotches swirling around in my vision. I wasn¡¯t sure I would, but it¡¯s amazing what people can get used to. Another friend of mine, Ramal, told me once he¡¯s got a bunch of swimmers in his eye. Little weird thingies that he can see sometimes that aren¡¯t really there and the eye doctor can¡¯t do anything about. He ignores them. I wonder if what I¡¯m looking at is remotely the same, but I can tune them out when I want like he does, which is awesome. I can¡¯t imagine watching a movie or something with this crap getting the in way.

    When I step into the restaurant, the blotches swirl around faster. The light and the dark seem equally balanced. I¡¯m not sure what to make of it.

    The hostess is a cute blonde with short, stylish hair and glasses. When she smiles up at me, she¡¯s sporting no less than four dimples. I¡¯m not sure she¡¯s out of high school.

    ¡°I¡¯m here to meet somebody, but I¡¯m not sure they¡¯re here yet? Mind if I¡­?¡±

    She nods. ¡°Go on in!¡±

    I do.

    I go to the bar first for no better reason than that''s where I last saw Nick, even though this is a totally different place. It¡¯s late and they¡¯ve got to be getting close to closing. The stools are mostly empty and a few solitary men haunt the tables here, watching some game on the television screens, picking at their food, nursing their drinks. Two empty spots still carry the detritus of a meal, waiting to be bussed.

    Nick isn¡¯t here, of course, nor are the future nurses, but the black in my vision grows a bit and gets darker the closer I get to all the alcohol.

    I¡¯m worried that it¡¯ll spike like it did under the streetlight in the park and, I don¡¯t know, the sprinkler system will go off or something.

    Telling myself that Nick might¡¯ve gotten a table in the restaurant proper, I leave the bar area and case the place.

    The farther I get from the bar, the more things in my vision balance out once more.

    Some laughter from a corner of the place sounds a little like Nick¡¯s, maybe, but when I get there, I see a family of four, the two daughters probably in their mid-twenties, mom and dad in their late fifties. Dad¡¯s grinning at some prank he¡¯s just pulled. His kids do their best to look exasperated by his behavior, but they¡¯re pleased too.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    It makes me miss my dad, who died when I was a kid, which makes me miss my mom, who is very much alive and would be worried about what¡¯s going on with me.

    I¡¯ll call her tomorrow.

    Nick¡¯s just not here.

    I don¡¯t know what I was expecting. It worries me I¡¯m not being rational. Why would he be here? Some random restaurant in the general vicinity of the now nonexistent place where I left him? That¡¯s not thinking. That¡¯s panic.

    This means that my phone and jacket aren¡¯t here either, which sucks because I¡¯m cold and need to call, like, everybody. I don''t know what to make of it. Any of it. I''m exhausted and confused. None of this makes any sense. I¡¯m seeing things. Maybe somebody slipped something into my drink.

    You know what? I¡¯m just going to go home. I¡¯m going to sleep on all this and let whatever¡¯s in my system run its course. In the morning, I¡¯ll wake up, find the bar, grab my phone, and call Nick. I¡¯ll tell him about this bizarre fucking dream I had.

    I¡¯m on my way out the door when a tired-looking waitress in her forties stops me. ¡°Did you forget your coat, hon?¡± she asks, smiles, and walks off into the kitchen.

    I walked to the bar that evening. My place is only about three more blocks from here, but I could really use a coat. It¡¯s October and things are strange. A coat¡¯s a good idea.

    I go back to the hostess. ¡°You know,¡± I say, ¡°the last time I was here I left my coat. Do you have a lost and found?¡±

    The dimples reappear as she nods. ¡°Yep,¡± she says. ¡°Can you describe it for me and I¡¯ll go take a peek?¡±

    Can I describe it?

    I say, ¡°Well, it¡¯s dark. It¡¯ll fit me.¡± I¡¯m tallish and lanky, though I''ve often wished my shoulders were broader. The point is, I''m not a difficult fit. ¡°Black¡­. Long? It¡¯s got¡­.¡± I gesture vaguely up and down my sides.

    She looks skeptical, but probably just doesn¡¯t want to confront me by saying anything. I notice the light blotches are a bit more prevalent now than the dark ones. I take a moment and really look at them. They¡¯re not like the little swimmer thingies people get in their vision sometimes. They don¡¯t look like worms or paramecia. It¡¯s not quite looking at the coat of a dalmatian with the dark and light spots wrestling. I don¡¯t know. Never seen anything like them before and, like I said, the weirdest part about them is that they don¡¯t hamper my vision like actual light would. The brightest or darkest spots, blotches, swatches, whatever, I can tune them out, kinda, so that I see them, but see through them like they aren¡¯t really there. Maybe they aren¡¯t.

    The light swirls flash, pushing the darkness away for a moment.

    ¡°I¡¯ll go take a look,¡± the hostess says with a shrug.

    Huh.

    Something is going on with me. I mean, a fricking car hit a sofa, which hit me and launched me into a chandelier before I fell down some stairs and didn¡¯t die or break a bone.

    The blonde with the dimples comes back with her hands full of something black and a dubious expression. She holds it up. It¡¯s a long dress coat, black, and someone¡¯s added chains around the hips. It¡¯s what I¡¯d wear to convince folks I was a gothic vampire.

    ¡°Yep,¡± I say. ¡°That¡¯s it.¡±

    ¡°Sir,¡± she says, handing it over. ¡°Are you sure? The buttons are on the wrong side?¡±

    I look at her, not getting it.

    ¡°This is a lady¡¯s coat?¡±

    How did I not know that? I was today years old when I discovered¡­. Whatever. I need a damn coat. ¡°It was mom¡¯s. I know it¡¯s weird, but I like to put it on sometimes now that she¡¯s gone.¡± I¡¯m blushing. Great.

    She looks at the chains.

    ¡°Mom was weird too.¡± I smile, take it from her, and put it on with a wink.

    She giggles.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    I feel a little weird about it, okay? Here I¡¯ve stolen a coat, a lady¡¯s coat, and now I¡¯m cross-dressing, walking down a street in the town where I live but do not at all recognize.

    Maybe the woman this coat belongs to wouldn¡¯t mind me borrowing it, despite the chains. I mean, she¡¯s probably not a nun. Well, maybe from one of the stricter sects. Joking aside, I promise I¡¯ll return it tomorrow.

    Somewhere in the universe, my Uncle Pat is smiling.

    My mom told me that my uncle was flamboyantly gay back when that kind of behavior could get you beat up and killed. He¡¯s so awesome. Funny. Insightful. He told me once that sometimes a bully forgets that a gay man is still a man, and he occasionally likes to feel instructive. ¡°A dude might be a little light in the loafers,¡± he used to tell me. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t mean he¡¯s limited to being Fred Astaire. Jackie Chan is just as graceful.¡±

    Pat is my dad¡¯s brother. Dad had a black belt in karate. Uncle Pat has three black belts in various fighting styles and instruction in a few others. I haven¡¯t been in a fight since I was in junior high. The guy¡¯s clock got cleaned because I horsed around regularly with my dad and my uncle in our backyard and learned a bunch of stuff. Instructive, like I said.

    I¡¯m relieved that my apartment building is still here and that my fob works to get me inside. When I get to my floor, my key opens my door.

    But none of this stuff inside is mine. I don¡¯t have a folding screen with Japanese mountains on it. My television is bigger and so is my coffee table.

    When the woman comes out of the hallway to the bathroom in a towel, drying her hair, I don¡¯t recognize her either.

    She sees me.

    We look at each other.

    I¡¯m scared.

    She¡¯s scared.

    I watch her realize she doesn¡¯t know me and there¡¯s only one reason I¡¯d break in like this, so I say, ¡°OhmyGodsosorry,¡± and start running right before she screams.

    I make for the door to the stairs. Elevator''s too slow. I¡¯ve used them a hundred times rather than wait for the elevator, but these stairs are different. The landing is shorter, and I¡¯m going too fast.

    I hit the rail and start to go over.

    My apartment¡¯s on the fifth floor and the stairwell yawns below. Then I¡¯m over. The dark in my vision has almost completely overwhelmed the light. Fitting. I¡¯m going to die.

    So, I Push.

    I can¡¯t describe it better than that. It¡¯s not pushing. Not really. It feels more like pushing than anything else. Whatever it is, I do it and the light doohickeys explode.

    I stop in midair. Hauled up by my armpits.

    My coat¡¯s caught on something, pulling away from me. I have to struggle to keep my arms down. Some of my chains have caught on the end of the metal post on top of the outside banister.

    I¡¯m slipping, and if I don¡¯t do something, I¡¯m going to fall.

    If I''m careful, maybe I can climb down and out of my coat. Maybe get a hand on a stair? From there, I bet I can drop onto the flight just below and be okay.

    The coat is upside down now and my right arm is farther out of its sleeve than my left, so I start with that one. I get a good grip on the fabric.

    The armpit of the coat is a hook for my left arm. It¡¯s caught me good, though I hear the material beginning to strain. My right comes all the way out, but the left won¡¯t budge, and I¡¯ve slid too far down already. Lifting myself to get free seems like the thing to do, but when I try, I hear the coat tear.

    This sends me into a panic. I scramble down the coat, grabbing fistfuls of it as I descend, but when I run out of material and snap out of it, I see I¡¯ve gone past the lip of the stairs and I¡¯m dangling there with nothing within reach.

    The coat jerks when some of the chains are torn out.

    The colors in my vision are almost totally black again like they were when I first started to fall, so I Push again.

    I¡¯m also kicking my legs like I¡¯m a kid on a swing set.

    There¡¯s another soundless flash and the coat tears free with a sickening ripping noise. My feet sting when they clap onto the cheap linoleum and I¡¯m stumbling down the stairs, bleeding off my momentum from the brief drop. Hey, at least I''m upright and I¡¯m okay.

    I pull the coat back on, such as it is, and then I¡¯m through the door at the base of the stairs and out into the night, which is once more filling with the sounds of sirens.

 Chapter 4 - Book 1

    There¡¯s a sound. It wakes me.

    ¡°Hey, buddy!¡±

    I open my eyes. There¡¯s a bus. The driver is leaning towards his open doors.

    ¡°You getting on?¡± asks the driver. He¡¯s smiling at me like he knows what¡¯s going on.

    Probably thinks I¡¯m drunk. I¡¯m at one of those covered bus stop thingies. No memory of how I got here. I was so tired after my apartment building. My guess is I just plopped down the first place I could. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever been as exhausted in my life. Even now I¡¯m having trouble keeping my eyes open. I know I¡¯m not drunk because I don¡¯t drink. There¡¯s a history of alcoholism in my family, and I¡¯m not tempted to try to dodge that particular bullet.

    ¡°Buddy?¡± says the driver again and I realize I haven¡¯t answered him.

    I shake my head and wave my hand. ¡°Nope, sorry. Just got tired. Sat down and nodded off.¡±

    The guy grins and shakes his head. He closes the doors and the bus whines and grumbles away.

    I check my watch. It¡¯s dead. No way to charge it. I go to reach for my phone and remember that it¡¯s gone. Along with the bar and Nick and a prospective date.

    It¡¯s still dark. I try to remember if the bus service runs all night in this town, but I have no idea. My guess would be no, but that¡¯s all it would be, a guess. At any rate, I don¡¯t know if that was the last run on a late night or the first one of the early morning. It feels like the latter, but I don¡¯t trust it.

    No idea. I¡¯m saying that a lot lately.

    Dammit, I need a bed and rest.

    I check my wallet knowing there¡¯s only twenty dollars in cash in there I keep for emergencies. I use my bank card for everything else.

    Right. Will it work?

    Gotta be an ATM around here somewhere. I can check without embarrassing myself at the front counter. If it works, I''ll get some money out and rent a hotel room.

    I¡¯m about four blocks from home. I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m not in the back of a squad car right now. They¡¯ve got to be looking for me, right?

    There should be a bank on the next block. I try not to use it since it¡¯s not mine and the fees do add up, don¡¯t they? But it¡¯s close, so I do sometimes anyway. Only they don¡¯t have a machine for pedestrians, so I feel a little weird walking through the drive-thru lane to put my card in the machine and type in my code.

    I¡¯m not even surprised when the thing eats it. It doesn¡¯t even say anything. There¡¯s no alarm or warning. It just goes back to its home screen like nothing ever happened.

    Great.

    Huh. This time there wasn¡¯t any sign of the darkness in my vision growing. Just like there wasn¡¯t in front of my apartment door before I opened it. So, sometimes I get a clue when good or bad things happen or they¡¯re about to, and sometimes I don¡¯t?

    It feels like there should be more to it than that. I''m missing something. Probably a lot of things.

    A couple of times now it felt like I, I don''t know, moved things the way I wanted them to go. When I was falling down the stairwell, I¡­ Pushed. Yeah, like I said before, it¡¯s not much like pushing anything physical. There¡¯s nothing physical to it at all, but that¡¯s how I think about it. I shoved, and the light flared, and I got saved when the chains caught me.

    Those chains, by the way, are gone now. They were dragging on the ground behind me as I ran. I remember that. I vaguely remember getting annoyed by the sound and tossing them in a garbage can.

    And now I¡¯m standing here at the ATM like an idiot. If I don¡¯t keep moving, I think I¡¯ll just slump to the ground and curl up to sleep.

    I need a place to sleep, but it¡¯s not like I can get that for twenty bucks. I can¡¯t call anybody because I don¡¯t have my phone. Besides, I don¡¯t know anybody¡¯s number, anyway. That¡¯s all in my phone. I guess I could go in to work and see who¡¯s there. I¡¯m friendly with most of the people there and the newspaper has someone on staff all night, just in case, but I¡¯ve only been there a few months and I¡¯m not thrilled to impose on anybody there. Most of my money still comes from the freelance stuff I do, and the gig economy doesn¡¯t encourage close friendships. Maybe there''s a shelter or something, but where?

    No, if I want to sleep, the best way to do that is to turn twenty dollars into, well, more than that. The stairwell, the chaos of the house with the car crash, kidnappers, and everything. The weird things going on with my vision. I should be dead or in jail. The only reason I¡¯m not is I got lucky.

    Well, after I got crazily unlucky, true, but when I Pushed things went right. Mostly.

    Okay then, what I should do now is test this, right? See if I¡¯ve had some kind of psychotic break, or¡­ I don¡¯t know what. There¡¯s not anything going on here at the bus stop, but I need money and there¡¯s a convenience store two blocks over.

    That might do.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    There¡¯s a clock over the clerk¡¯s head telling me it¡¯s a little after five in the morning. I figure I must¡¯ve passed out for a few hours back at the bus stop then. It didn''t seem to do much to rest me.

    I¡¯ve never bought a scratch-off lottery ticket in my life. Nick loves the things and often tries to get me to play. They¡¯re behind the guy. He¡¯s a little taller than I am and skinnier. His hair is long and needs a good wash, and he looks as tired as I am.

    I ask him for one of the ten-dollar scratch-offs and he shows me a row of them behind him on the counter.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    Concentrating for a moment, I try to remember how it felt when I Pushed before as I consider each of the colorful rolls of tickets. I really need this to work.

    There¡¯s a flash of light, but it¡¯s different. There¡¯s an afterimage, almost like a photo negative, maybe? I blink, knowing even as I do so that none of this has anything to do with my eyes.

    I point. ¡°The green one there, please,¡± I tell the guy.

    He tears it off and rings it up. I pay him.

    I pat my pockets, looking for a coin. You¡¯re supposed to use a coin, right? I don¡¯t find one.

    I check the pockets of my coat.

    The guy clears his throat. He¡¯s holding out the ticket, fake smile in place.

    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say.

    ¡°You fucked up your coat,¡± says the guy. That''s putting it mildly. There are great big holes around the hips where the chains got torn out and there''s a split in the middle.

    ¡°Yeah. One of those nights.¡±

    I pull out a tiny square of paper. It¡¯s part of a movie ticket. The Return of the King. How long was this coat in the lost and found? Hey, this coat was abandoned years ago. I feel better about taking it.

    ¡°You can use your keys,¡± says the clerk.

    ¡°Sorry?¡±

    ¡°Your keys?¡± He pantomimes scratching off the ticket. I don¡¯t get the sense that he¡¯s trying to be rude. He¡¯s personable enough in how he''s saying stuff, I guess. I figure we¡¯re both just tired.

    Moving down the counter out of the way, even though there¡¯s no one else in the store right now, I take up my obsolete apartment key and, after reading through the directions a few times, start scraping away the silvery gray crap.

    There¡¯s a thrill when I realize I¡¯ve won!

    Holy shit! I can win the lottery whenever I want?

    ¡°What? Did you win?¡± asks the clerk.

    ¡°Yeah!¡± I say. I show him the card. ¡°Does it say what I think it does?¡±

    He leans over and squints. ¡°Dude,¡± he says. ¡°That¡¯s twenty thousand dollars!¡±

    I look again, double-check the directions, and, yep, twenty thousand dollars!

    The clerk bends down while I¡¯m double and triple-checking the ticket. Maybe he¡¯s got a gizmo to verify it or something? I ignore him. Twenty thousand dollars.

    ¡°Hand it over.¡±

    I look up and the clerk has a shotgun leveled at me.

    ¡°What?¡± I say. This was not how I thought this would go. I feel so very exhausted.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, man, but I need that money more¡¯n you.¡± He racks a shell into the chamber. A sound I¡¯ve only ever heard in video games. His eyes are wide and staring. ¡°Hand it over.¡±

    ¡°Why do you have a shotgun?¡±

    ¡°Convenience stores get robbed a lot,¡± says the guy.

    ¡°Is this going to work out for you?¡± I ask. I can¡¯t help it.

    ¡°Probably work out better if there were no complaining witnesses and I¡¯m the hero that stopped a robbery. Look, I need that money, man. I¡¯ve been trying to figure it out all day, and here you are with all that. Gimme. My house¡ª.¡±

    "Aren''t there cameras?"

    "I''ll delete the files. What do you care? You''ll be dead." The clerk shrugs. "Armed robbery." He hefts the shotgun. "Self-defense. It kinda is. Your life or mine, dude."

    ¡°I¡¯m not even armed!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve got another gun in my car, man. I¡¯ll drop it on you. You look kinda rough. The cops¡¯ll buy it. Boom. Case closed.¡±

    I doubt it¡¯ll work out that way for him, but it doesn¡¯t seem like it¡¯s the time to say so. I wonder why I¡¯m not more scared.

    ¡°Look,¡± I say. ¡°Make you a deal. I¡¯m pretty sure that I can win again.¡± I nod toward the wall of scratch-offs. ¡°Let me try. I¡¯ll even pay for another ten-dollar one, right? I bet I can do it. You can have whichever one wins the most, okay? I just really need to get some sleep.¡±

    The guy snorts, then he surprises me by thinking it over. ¡°You know? I can¡¯t think of a single reason not to,¡± he says. He keeps the gun on me as he rings up another sale.

    I point to the black and gold ones and Push.

    ¡°Do it right here,¡± says the clerk.

    I oblige, taking my time to read the directions carefully once more. Better if I don¡¯t screw things up now. When I¡¯m done, I show him.

    He takes it and his eyes go big. ¡°Ten thousand? Again? I¡¯ve never seen anybody win twice like that and I¡¯ve worked here ten years!¡±

    ¡°So, you keep the twenty and I¡¯ll take the ten,¡± I say. ¡°Um, do you do that here? Cash ''em?¡±

    The clerk¡¯s eyes have glazed over and he replies in a distant voice. ¡°No, man. There¡¯s an app run by the state.¡±

    Shit. I need a phone. I look around, but there¡¯s no display near the register for any cheap cells. When I turn to the guy to ask, the barrel of the shotgun is an inch from my eye.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be taking that one too,¡± says the clerk.

    ¡°We had a deal.¡±

    ¡°Deal. No deal. I¡¯m the guy with the gun,¡± says the clerk. He shrugs one shoulder, so the shotgun doesn''t move.

    ¡°Good movie,¡± I say.

    ¡°What?¡±

    I knock the gun up with my hand.

    It goes off with a horrific bang.

    I duck and run for the door, and I hear another shell racked into the shotgun. I Push. To my surprise, I stumble and nearly fall.

    The bottom half of the glass door explodes into tiny squares right in front of me. The way it''s fallen onto the sidewalk makes it look like a galaxy. If I hadn¡¯t stumbled¡­.

    I dive through and roll off the curb into the parking lot. I get to my feet and hurl myself toward the corner of the building. If he¡¯s coming after me, he¡¯ll either have to hurtle the counter or come around it. Either way, he¡¯ll have another shell jacked in by now.

    The window to my left gets blown out with a crash and I¡¯m pelted with glass. Nothing worse hits me and I¡¯m past the rest of the windows and to the corner of the store, nice solid brick between me and Billy the Clerk.

    There¡¯s a thin strip of woods here between the store¡¯s lot and the strip mall next door. I bound my way through it, branches and weeds whipping at me, stinging my hands and face, pulling at my legs and coat.

    I¡¯ve got the ten-thousand-dollar winning ticket in my hand, though. With no way to cash it.

    I keep moving even as I slow down a bit. I¡¯m a block away from the store and I keep looking behind me to see if he¡¯s followed.

    He hasn¡¯t and my guess is he¡¯s making up a story for his boss and the police. I¡¯ll be hearing sirens again any moment now.

    Jesus Christ. All I want is some sleep. I¡¯ve got ten thousand dollars, but no way to use it, and I¡¯ll be lucky if I¡¯m not in a jail cell within the next ten minutes.

    Luck.

    Is that what this is?

    Out here on the street by the strip mall, the light and dark patches and swirls in my vision calm and seem to balance. In the restaurant¡¯s bar, there was more dark while the eating area was more light. So, there''s that. And I¡¯m sure that with the car crash, the fall down the stairwell, and the convenience store, the light won over the dark each time, but what is it I''m ''seeing?''

    If not luck, maybe probability?

    I¡¯m well past the strip mall now. It¡¯s probably best if I avoid any direct routes to the convenience store, so I take the right at the next intersection into a residential neighborhood. I hear sirens now and if I see the lights getting close, I should be able to get into some bushes or something. The best thing for me to do now, I think, is walk like I belong here. Wave at anybody driving by. That kind of thing.

    The adrenaline, again, is leaving my system, and again, I¡¯m having trouble putting one foot in front of another.

    Up ahead, I hear a door close. I see a man in a suit hurry down his driveway five houses away, like he''s late to work or something. He gets in his car, starts it up, and backs it up. When he¡¯s completed the turn and is about to head off, the car stalls.

    I see him have a bit of a tantrum, pounding on the wheel and shaking his head before he gets out and slams his car door closed. He¡¯s got his phone to his ear. Whoever he¡¯s trying to call doesn¡¯t answer, and he stabs fingers on the screen, texting someone.

    He looks up and sees me when I¡¯m still one house away.

    I wave and smile.

    He rolls his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m having a morning,¡± he tells me.

    I can relate. ¡°Car won¡¯t start?¡± I say.

    ¡°Know anything about them?¡±

    ¡°Nope, sorry.¡±

    ¡°Uber it is then.¡±

    I nod. ¡°Your wife can¡¯t take you?¡±

    ¡°I live alone.¡±

    ¡°Want me to help you move it out of the way?¡± I ask. I mean, why not? This guy isn¡¯t quite having the day I¡¯m having, but still, I can help.

    The guy smiles and says, ¡°Yeah, would you?¡±

    He opens the driver¡¯s side door and steers while I put my shoulder into the sedan from behind. For once, nothing explodes, no guns pulled, no bodies pop out of the trunk. The swirls leave me the hell alone.

    We move the man¡¯s car so it¡¯s parked along the curb and he thanks me.

    We¡¯re still shaking hands when his ride shows up. He waves and leaves.

    I try the rear door. It¡¯s unlocked, so I slide in, cover myself with the coat, turn over, and I¡¯m asleep in moments.

 Chapter 5 - Book 1

    I¡¯m not sure how long I slept. When I wake up, I take a quick look around and, not seeing anyone out and about on the street, I open the door and get out of the car. The sun is high, but I don¡¯t think it¡¯s noon yet. I shut the door quietly and shove it closed with my hip. No need to tempt fate by making a lot of noise.

    I feel bad for sleeping in the guy¡¯s car, but it wasn¡¯t like I¡¯d planned it. After helping him, I was just so tired I couldn¡¯t resist when the idea struck. Honestly, I¡¯d never felt so exhausted in my life and when he left the door unlocked¡­. Well, now that I¡¯ve gotten maybe a few hours of sleep, I feel better.

    I hurry away as quickly as a casual walk can take me.

    Last night¡¯s dinner at the bar was an eon ago, and now I¡¯m so hungry that I¡¯m shaky and lightheaded. Nick¡¯s got to be freaking out, wondering what happened to me. Did anybody else see what went on in the bar? Would the woman in the sweater be able to tell anybody anything? And what is going on with me? The strange house with two kitchens and two living rooms didn¡¯t look so strange or large enough for all that. Something beyond weird is up, and I don''t mean just the light and dark swirls that are perking up and moving around now that I¡¯m up and moving again.

    That was my apartment, right? I mean, it isn''t now, I know. It''s the lady¡¯s in the towel, but my key opened the door. My fob let me into the building. My card kept by the ATM. I can''t explain any of that, but none of it seemed to be affected by my luck or whatever it is.

    The kidnapper lady did something to me before the Beard killed her, and then he did something else. He said something too. ¡°Goddamn malocchio.¡± After that, I¡¯ve had a string of disasters I barely lived through and some extraordinary luck that got me out of them and now I¡¯m walking around with a ten-thousand-dollar lottery ticket I have no idea what to do with. It¡¯s a lot of money, but right now I can¡¯t get a meal at McDonald¡¯s. It''s very frustrating.

    I don¡¯t know anything about anything right now. I do know that I need to eat and have a place to sleep and that once I have those things and get some rest, I¡¯ll be able to think and figure things out, however weird they are.

    The lottery ticket has a QR code on it. There¡¯s a website listed, and an app advertised there, saying I can use those to get the money, or I can go to a local Ohio Lottery Regional Office, but there¡¯s no address listed and I have no way to look it up. I suppose I can go to the public library, but even if my library card works, it¡¯s on the other side of town.

    The bank is closer, and they¡¯d know, right? It¡¯s money or has to do with money. Plus, I can check to see if I do have an account there still or if whatever¡¯s happening has happened to that too, and it''s gone. And it¡¯s just a few blocks away.

    It¡¯s warm enough I don¡¯t need the coat, but who knows what tomorrow¡¯s temperature will be or what my circumstances will amount to then, so I don¡¯t want to throw it away. It¡¯s black, so in the dark it was harder to see how messed up it was. Now, in the stark light of day, the places where the chains tore out and the back split and the oversized girly buttons, well, it all kind of sticks out.

    I¡¯m walking on a service road behind the rows of businesses that line one of the major streets of town. There¡¯s one of those wooden fences that surrounds a dumpster back here. I walk over and peer into the enclosure. The fence is in poor repair and there¡¯s a rusty nail sticking out. I hang the coat on it, half expecting it to fall, but the nail holds, so I leave it there, silently thanking it for its commitment to saving my life and being a blanket this morning. I can safely say I¡¯ve never had a more satisfying experience wearing women¡¯s clothing. Not that I¡¯ve ever done that before or ever will again. So far as anybody knows. Still, the day is young.

    My polo shirt is also black, which is a good thing. If it were white, it¡¯d look a lot dingier after last night¡¯s adventures. I should probably get cleaned up the best I can before I go to the bank, or I''ll probably get stopped at the door. There¡¯s a fast food place on the next block and I go inside.

    I avoid eye contact with anybody working there and head straight to the bathroom.

    My hair¡¯s more asymmetrical than usual, lopsided where my head rested on the seat of the car this morning. With curly hair like mine, symmetry must be the goal. It¡¯s a light brown and doesn¡¯t look dirty though I usually wash it every morning. If I do that before bed, by morning I¡¯m lucky if I don¡¯t look like Albert Einstein on a bender. I straighten it up just fine with a little water and my fingers, and then I take off my shirt and examine it. There are a few odd streaks that I scrub off, and I decide just to wash the pits with hand soap and water. Yeah, it¡¯ll be damp when I put it back on, but better that than stink, which it surely does. It¡¯s true that fear sweat is worse than the regular kind.

    After I finish with the shirt, I take a look at my jeans. No way I¡¯m taking them off in a public restroom at a sink. Not with the luck I¡¯m having. A Girl Scout troop would march in or something. The denim seems fine. No tears or holes. No horrible stains. Somehow.

    I wash my face and armpits as best I can and dry myself and my shirt as best I can with the air dryer. When I¡¯m all dressed, I look as respectable as I always do after a rough night.

    I¡¯m able to leave the restaurant without catching anybody¡¯s eye. I feel awkward not buying anything and resolve to once I¡¯m done at the bank, if I¡¯m able to get any money, that is.

    The bank isn¡¯t busy. I can hardly remember the last time I was in one. Most people, I guess, do it all online. I would too if I had the option.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    There¡¯s one teller open with another one dedicated to the drive thru. A manager sits with two men, one of them in a college jacket, in one of those glassed-in offices they have off to the side. The vault is right there, open. The big round metal disk on the inside of the door always reminds me of a hobbit hole.

    There¡¯s an old fellow in front of me in a ball cap and flannel. He¡¯s got his checkbook in his hand while the teller finishes up with the heavy-set African American woman.

    A woman comes in behind me with a stroller. She¡¯s only a few years older than I am, blonde, wearing a cardigan over a pretty yellow blouse with a cherry pattern and beige slacks. The baby¡¯s got a rattle she¡¯s enjoying the Hell out of, swinging it around like a tiny Conan the Barbarian attacking flying monkeys or something. As I watch, she lets it go flying over into a corner and then fusses. Thwarted and vexed by the consequences of her own actions? Welcome to the human condition, tiny.

    Her mom was looking in her purse for something and didn¡¯t see. When her kid complains, mom squats down looking concerned. ¡°Now, where¡¯s your rattle?¡± she says.

    ¡°I got it,¡± I tell her, and smile as I go off to where it landed by the water cooler and coffee machine.

    I¡¯m bending down for it when the front door opens with a crash and three armed men come in yelling.

    Because of course they do.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    I¡¯d been doing so well. Almost half an hour conscious and nothing. Now I¡¯m crouched beside the little cabinet the bank uses for its coffee stuff with a baby¡¯s rattle in my hand, hoping to go unnoticed or, failing that, unshot.

    I¡¯m terrified. I don¡¯t know what to expect because of what¡¯s been going on with me, and this is so much worse than the convenience store. There are people here. Women and children. Did I do this somehow? I feel sick.

    Three men, one with a huge shotgun, one with an AR-style something or other, and the last with a MAC-10 submachine gun, are telling everybody that this is a robbery, and no one is going to get hurt. They gather everybody but one teller out into the lobby where we¡¯re all made to sit on our hands.

    Shotgun stays by the door, watching us. AR slings his weapon onto a shoulder and pulls out a pistol to deal with the teller while MAC paces between his partners, looking at everyone and everything, his eyes wide and crazed.

    Do people even rob banks anymore? I didn¡¯t know.

    The baby starts crying.

    Her rattle is a plain white plastic thing with a round bit up top with beads inside. I think about tossing it to the kid, but any kind of sudden motion is probably a bad idea.

    The colors in my vision are really swirling now and growing darker by the second. I Push a little, trying to keep things on the lighter side.

    I¡¯m managing it. Wherever I see a dark blotch forming, I kind of shove in that direction and it recedes, but it¡¯s getting a bit whack-a-moleish. Honestly, I don¡¯t see why that should be. If this is a straight-up robbery, it shouldn¡¯t be a problem. Give them the money and let them go, right?

    But the baby is crying, and people don¡¯t like that. I think it¡¯s worse because there¡¯s danger. There¡¯s something primal in us about babies. We¡¯re biologically engineered to help them. When we can¡¯t, it annoys us, and we get impatient for someone to do something that¡¯ll help. In our minds we phrase it like, ¡®Will someone shut that kid up?¡¯ but I think it¡¯s because we¡¯re supposed to help and can¡¯t. Now, when there¡¯s danger? That¡¯s all dialed up to eleven.

    I see movement and notice that the young man in the college jacket has shifted his weight. He¡¯s big. Athletic. I realize it¡¯s a letterman¡¯s jacket he¡¯s wearing. Nobody does that at college except for football players. He¡¯s looking intent, watching the robbers. MAC passes close by him on his route between the man at the door and his buddy stuffing money into the gym bag at the counter. There¡¯s a point where MAC lines up perfectly between Johnny Football and AR.

    Oh shit. I can see his plan.

    He¡¯s going to tackle the one into the other and count on getting a gun away from one of them before Shotgun can do a thing.

    He doesn¡¯t see that Shotgun is on to him, watching him, his eyes narrowing.

    The baby is screaming now, and mom is getting frantic. She sits on her hands like she was told, but she¡¯s struggling not to touch and soothe her child. She''s doing the best she can, singing to her in a quavering, sweet voice.

    The screams last longer than seems possible, with the red-faced infant squeezing every last bit of air out in a ragged, shuddering wail that grates every nerve before sucking in another breath to do it again.

    The darkness is getting away from me however frantically I Push, and I know things are about to come to a head. Johnny Football is about to do something, and people will start dying.

    I have to do something, but what? I¡¯ve got nothing on me except this fucking toy! Well, that and my wallet.

    I pocket the rattle. Setting it on the dirty floor seems wrong. I Push a little harder and I¡¯m able to get to my back pocket without Shotgun or MAC noticing. So, here¡¯s my beat up brown leather wallet that used to be my dad¡¯s, and there¡¯s nothing inside but the usual stuff. I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m even bothering to look. It¡¯s not like I keep an uzi or an icepick in here or could. What am I doing?

    Wait a second. Maybe I don¡¯t need a nuclear weapon or anything. I just need to be a distraction. Something to diffuse the situation. I need to be a pinprick. A mote in the eye. More than anything else, I need to try or I¡¯ll never forgive myself.

    My library card is sturdy, slick plastic. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, Push, and fling it at MAC¡¯s feet as he walks away from me.

    The card zips under MAC¡¯s heel just as his foot comes down. His leg flings out from under him with a yelp and he¡¯s doing a split he¡¯s not flexible enough to pull off. He¡¯s falling over.

    His gun goes off, amazingly loud in the confines of the small bank, stitching bullets into the counter, the man with AR, and then the ceiling. AR goes down like somebody cut his strings.

    Shotgun has aimed his weapon at Johnny Football, but sees me coming and tries to swing it around on me.

    I catch the barrel with my left and the stock with my right to keep the gun off me. I¡¯m still Pushing as much light into the situation as I can and the shotgun bucks in my hand with a roar. MAC catches the blast in the throat just as he points his gun at me. The MAC-10 goes off twice more and Shotgun falls away, leaving me holding his weapon.

    I blink down at it.

    Movement from my right. Outside.

    A man is running up to the bank from a car, its driver''s door open, a rifle of some sort in his hand. Of course. There¡¯s got to be a getaway driver, right?

    I move to the side of the entrance. The bank has two-way mirrors for the front wall. Probably a security feature for something just like this. The shotgun is a pump. I ratchet it down, hoping I¡¯m doing it right. My plan is to put it to the guy¡¯s head and tell him to drop his gun, then hold him for the police.

    He bursts into the bank and sees his friends there, dead on the floor. As damaged as my ears are, I still hear him flick off the safety and raise the weapon.

    Feeling sick, I pull my trigger first, not having said a word, and his head comes apart in front of me.

 Chapter 6 - Book 1

    I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve just killed four men. One with my own hands, the other three with my¡­ ability.

    The shotgun is still in my hands. I want to drop it. It feels radioactive, like it¡¯s cooking my guts.

    Someone is taking it from me.

    She¡¯s speaking in gentle tones I can¡¯t quite make out over the ringing in my ears. It brings tears to my eyes, her kindness.

    It¡¯s the bank manager. She¡¯s making the same sort of face my mom did whenever I¡¯d hurt myself, and she was trying to be brave about it. I want to let her fold me into her arms.

    She takes me by my shoulders and steers me over to her office and into one of her understuffed chairs. She pats my face and leaves.

    I don¡¯t want to be alone at all, but before I can stand, the woman with the stroller blocks the door. She comes in and sits beside me. The baby is quiet, her big eyes searching the room.

    ¡°Oh,¡± I say. I take out the rattle and hand it to the woman.

    She takes it and sobs once, then takes my hand.

    The black woman comes in then too and sits down in the chair on the other side of me. She takes my other hand in both of hers and strokes my forearm.

    I say, ¡°There¡¯s blood on me.¡±

    ¡°I know, baby,¡± says the woman, but she doesn''t pull away. She¡¯s full-figured in a tight blue jogging outfit. Her face and eyes are kind.

    I look at the blonde woman. ¡°I¡¯ve got it all over me, don''t I?¡± I say.

    She nods. ¡°It washes off,¡± she says. ¡°Though I¡¯d burn the clothes. God knows where those evil bastards have been.¡±

    The other woman snorts and says, ¡°That¡¯s the truth right there.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say.

    ¡°For what?¡± says the woman in blue.

    ¡°I¡¯m crying,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m a mess.¡±

    ¡°Everybody¡¯s crying, hon,¡± she tells me. ¡°In relief. In thanks. To you. My name is Marjorie, and I am so so pleased to meet you.¡±

    The blonde sniffs and says, ¡°I¡¯m Laura Rigby. And if you¡¯re going to be sick, there¡¯s a trash can right there.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m Ben,¡± I say. My stomach is roiling, but I don''t think I''m going to vomit.

    I hear a commotion behind me and turn my head. The bank manager has collected more chairs and arranged them in front of the counter. She gets everybody to sit down while she uses a piece of paper to pick up each of the dead men¡¯s weapons and put them in the wastebasket. I''m pretty sure it''s the one from next to the coffee machine.

    I hear sirens. The police are coming and there will be questions I¡¯m not sure I can answer. I panic and want to stand, but the ladies keep hold of me.

    ¡°What is it?¡± says Marjorie. ¡°The cops? Yes, they¡¯re coming here, but not for you.¡±

    Laura says, ¡°One of them is probably Arthur. My husband. He¡¯ll be frantic.¡±

    Wanting to run is stupid, I know, but I¡¯m scared and, ¡°So tired.¡±

    ¡°I know you are,¡± says Marjorie. ¡°You must be.¡± She¡¯s rubbing my back.

    Blinking, I realize I said that last bit out loud. Is that really a thing?

    I hear the bank manager talking to the people out in the bank proper. Then she comes to the door. ¡°How¡¯s he doing?¡± she asks.

    Laura says, ¡°He¡¯s doing fine, considering.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± says the manager, and she smiles at me. ¡°I¡¯m very glad to hear that. The police will be here any moment. Stay seated and do what they say. Have nothing at all in your hands. They might be kind of excitable. I¡¯ve told the dispatcher that it¡¯s over, but in the training courses they make us take, they tell us it¡¯s always better to be careful, okay?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t I know it,¡± says Marjorie.

    The manager squats down in front of me to look me in the eye. ¡°Everybody is so thankful for what you did,¡± she says. ¡°You might have saved us all.¡± She squeezes my knee. ¡°I have two children.¡±

    ¡°I''ve got three,¡± says Marjorie, smiling. ¡°Four, six, and nine.¡±

    ¡°Twelve and thirteen,¡± says the manager.

    ¡°You poor thing,¡± says Marjorie. ¡°Teenagers.¡±

    The manager rolls her eyes. She looks at the baby and looks for permission from Laura before taking the little tyke¡¯s foot between forefinger and thumb. The manager plays with the baby¡¯s foot, gently lifting it up and down. The baby giggles.

    ¡°And how old is little miss?¡± asks the manager.

    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°Four months,¡± says Laura.

    ¡°Sleeping through the night yet?¡± asks Marjorie.

    ¡°God, no.¡±

    The women laugh as the first police cars pull up. There are no sirens now. Cops pile out and hurry into the building, hands on their holsters.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be right back,¡± says the manager. She stands and walks in slow, measured strides out her office door with her hands on her head.

    A third police car screams into the lot. The door opens almost before the smoking wheels stop turning and a man leaps out, running for the door.

    ¡°Arthur,¡± says Laura.

    Arthur must¡¯ve forgotten to put the car in park. It¡¯s rolling toward the curb and gathering momentum. I¡¯m worried that it¡¯ll hop the low curb and crash into the windows, which is all we need right now.

    I Push a little at the darkness building up out there and the car rocks back from the lip of the sidewalk and comes to a rest.

    Maybe that was me. Maybe not.

    Arthur is calling for his wife in the lobby.

    Laura stands and waves. ¡°We¡¯re okay,¡± she tells him when he reaches the door. ¡°Everybody¡¯s fine.¡±

    ¡°Except for the robbers,¡± says Marjorie under her breath. ¡°Thank God.¡±

    ¡°Thank God!¡± echoes Arthur, who takes Laura into his arms. ¡°I remembered you were going to the bank this morning and when I heard the call¡ª. Then you weren¡¯t answering your phone¡ª.¡±

    ¡°I turned the ringer off when the bastards came in and dialed nine-one-one. I turned the volume all the way down,¡± says Laura, and she shrugs. ¡°Seemed like a good idea at the time.¡±

    ¡°It was,¡± says her husband. ¡°It was!¡± He looks at me. ¡°Is he okay? Are you okay, sir?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s fine,¡± says Marjorie. ¡°That isn¡¯t his.¡±

    Blood. She means all the blood. On me.

    ¡°He saved us, Arthur,¡± says Laura. ¡°One of them tripped and fell. When he did, he shot the guy at the counter with the bag. Then Ben here grabbed the shotgun from the robber who had it and it went off, killing the guy who tripped. Before he died, he shot the man with the shotgun and Ben got to the front door and waited for the last man.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to kill anybody,¡± I say. ¡°He was about to start shooting.¡±

    Arthur leans in close to me. ¡°Don¡¯t say anything else,¡± he says in a low voice. ¡°You¡¯re not in trouble, but the less you say, the better, okay? Any discrepancy in your story from here on out might look funny, and you don¡¯t need that. You saved my wife and child. I¡¯ll look after you as best I can.¡± He gives me a friendly swat on the arm. He kisses his wife. ¡°I¡¯m going to go fill them in, okay? We¡¯re taking statements. The detectives¡¯ll be here soon.¡± Then he¡¯s out the door.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    ¡°Mr. Walker?¡± says a voice.

    I realize I¡¯ve fallen asleep. Probably just for a few minutes.

    ¡°Poor baby,¡± I hear Marjorie say. She¡¯s still got my hand. So does Laura.

    I look up, and Arthur is there, looking down at me. ¡°Yes?¡± I say and then I wonder how he knows my last name. I¡¯m pretty sure I didn¡¯t tell anybody.

    ¡°We want to take you down to the station to get your statement about what happened, okay?¡± says Arthur. "We''ll get you something to eat and you''ll be comfortable there."

    Laura says, ¡°Is that really necessary? I told you what happened. It was all right in front of me, Arthur, plain as day.¡±

    But Arthur keeps talking to me. ¡°You¡¯re not being arrested at this time, Mr. Walker,¡± he says. ¡°The sheriff wants to do everything by the book. People are dead, so we¡¯ve got to be careful, right?¡±

    I nod and the ladies help me stand. Might have fallen over if they hadn¡¯t, I¡¯m so tired and I''m shaky. Dude, am I in shock? Isn¡¯t there supposed to be somebody with a blanket or something?

    ¡°I¡¯ll take him down there myself,¡± says Arthur to his wife. ¡°And I¡¯ll do what I can to look after him, I promise.¡±

    ¡°He saved my life, Arthur,¡± says Laura. ¡°And Beth¡¯s. We owe him a lot.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡± Arthur turns to me and gestures toward the door. ¡°Right this way,¡± he tells me, and soon I¡¯m in the back of his squad car.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what I would¡¯ve done if either of them had been hurt,¡± says Arthur. ¡°You don¡¯t have to worry about the bank, Mr. Walker. I can probably tell you that everybody there¡¯s been telling the exact same story. You¡¯re a hero. Tell me, was that football kid about to try something?¡±

    I nod. ¡°Yeah, I think he was. He looked like it.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I got that impression.¡± Arthur sighs. ¡°Look, this place has loads of cameras. If there¡¯s anything odd about anything that went on, and I¡¯m not saying there was or you¡¯re to blame or anything, but if there was, it wouldn¡¯t be a terrible idea to get a lawyer, okay? You¡¯re not in trouble, as far as I¡¯m aware, but if I were you, I wouldn¡¯t say anything without an attorney present. It¡¯ll piss off the sheriff, yeah, and the detectives might get a little irritated, but you should think about it.¡±

    I do.

    He¡¯s right, I know it. I wonder what the police know. My guess is that if they don¡¯t know everything already, they soon will. The kidnap victims must¡¯ve given them my description. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if there was an officer over there right now showing them a picture of me. The lady in the towel in my apartment might¡¯ve filled out a report, too. The clerk at the convenience store? Who knows what he told them? It¡¯s probably in his best interest to lie his ass off, especially if he could delete the files from the cameras like he said.

    So, they have me present at two crime scenes at the very least. The house and the bank. They might also have me at the apartment or the store or both. That¡¯s four crime scenes possible and a grand total of six dead bodies. I should absolutely, without question, say not another word and get myself the best lawyer a ten-thousand-dollar lottery ticket can buy.

    If I do that though, he¡¯ll tell me to shut up and get me out of there, and I¡¯ll probably be able to leave, sure. I¡¯ll even bet that lawyer could help me find answers to the questions I¡¯ve got too, but I wonder if he¡¯d have the same resources as law enforcement. Or the inclination to really help me. I mean, a lawyer is supposed to do that, but they don¡¯t have to believe me, which is what I want most.

    A lawyer can check my bank account, my record, and my past (all of which I figure is gone now somehow), but it¡¯d take time. He¡¯d have to get permission. The sheriff¡¯s department could do it all in minutes.

    And fuck! I didn¡¯t do anything wrong! I tried to help those people in the house. I did help the people in the bank. The goddamn clerk robbed me, and the lady in my apartment? Okay, I got in, yes, but I didn¡¯t break in. My key worked, and I left as soon as I saw her. Maybe it was a mistake to think I could try to get into my apartment. Maybe I should''ve knocked. If it was still my place, it wouldn''t have done any harm. So, maybe that was a mistake. It doesn''t mean that what I did there was immoral, though. I barely even looked at her. Couldn¡¯t tell you how old she was or anything about her figure or even the color of her hair. I saw the vague outlines of a female form swathed in terrycloth and got the fuck out.

    I didn¡¯t do anything wrong.

    I didn''t.

    Yeah, I know innocent people sometimes get in trouble. Sometimes they even go to prison, but I tell myself that, despite what my life¡¯s like now, it won¡¯t happen to me. The first time things feel like they¡¯re going that way as I talk to them, I¡¯ll shut up and demand a lawyer. Besides, I need to know what¡¯s happening to me and maybe they have some answers. Answers they¡¯re more likely to give if I cooperate. I know it goes against everything I¡¯ve seen in every cop show ever, but I don¡¯t sense anything dark here. Maybe I need to trust in my luck more. I need help, dammit. They¡¯re supposed to be in that business.

    So, I decide to tell them everything.

 Chapter 7 - Book 1

    The station, tucked away at the end of a strip mall, looks more like a post office, but the big storefront window says, ¡°Portage County Sheriff¡¯s Office¡± in a stylized font that screams law enforcement somehow.

    We pull around back where there¡¯s a small fenced-in impound lot and one other squad car. No doubt, the others race around town, dealing with the aftermath of my last twenty-four hours.

    Hell, it hasn¡¯t even been that long. It¡¯s just after lunch and I left the bar last night at nine-thirty. That seems like ages ago.

    People always say that, don¡¯t they? A bunch of stuff happens all at once and then, afterward, the life they had before seems like it might as well have gone on while Lincoln was president. All I can say is, yeah, it really does feel like that.

    Officer Rigby parks his car and lets me out of the back. I keep waiting for handcuffs, but they stay on his belt. He¡¯s been quiet and I¡¯m grateful because it¡¯s let me think.

    I¡¯m pretty sure that telling the police everything is the way to go, though it¡¯s not without risk, I know. I¡¯ll close my mouth and request a lawyer when I think things are going south.

    Rigby opens the door for me, and we go inside. The dark and light colors in my vision are more well-balanced here, though they¡¯re almost static. Barely moving around at all. I have no idea what that means, but it¡¯s worth noting.

    ¡°They¡¯ve asked me to put you in an interrogation room, Mr. Walker,¡± says Rigby. ¡°I hope that¡¯s okay. You want a sandwich or something? There¡¯s a good place just down the block. We order in a lot from there. Deli stuff.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°Sure.¡± But something else has caught my attention.

    We¡¯re in a short hallway standing in front of a door while Rigby fiddles with his keys, looking for the one that unlocks Room 1, as it says on a little plate by the door. I can see into the space of the former storefront. There are a few desks there and a counter. Beyond that is a waiting area. A cop stands there waiting on a big, bearded fellow, hair shot through with gray streaks. Darkness swims all around him.

    ¡°That guy,¡± I say. ¡°Who¡¯s that?¡±

    Rigby looks up from his keys and sees which way I¡¯m looking. ¡°Oh, Eddie? He¡¯s in here every other day for something or other. I¡¯m pretty sure this is the one.¡± He tries a key and, sure enough, the door opens.

    ¡°He¡¯s about to try something, I think,¡± I say. ¡°Not sure what.¡±

    ¡°Eddie?¡± Rigby looks over at the man, squinting, studying him. ¡°He¡¯s a little strange,¡± says the officer. ¡°But he¡¯s never¡­. You know what? Why don¡¯t you go on inside? I¡¯ll be back. Hopefully, with your sandwich.¡±

    I go in and Rigby shuts the door behind me. I hear him lock it again. For all I know, that¡¯s standard procedure. There¡¯s a small table with an office chair on either side, just like in TV and the movies. The colors in here are faint, almost invisible. I can still feel the dark around that Eddie guy, though, even if I can''t see it. It¡¯s like a spot of cold where he was standing. I have no idea what the guy was up to or what he was going to do, if anything, but I decide to Push some light out that way, just in case. I don''t want anybody hurt, and Rigby and Laura seem like good people.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    The door opens and I pick my head up off my arm. I¡¯ve fallen asleep again.

    I¡¯m hoping it¡¯s Rigby with my sandwich. Instead, two people come in and they¡¯re not wearing uniforms. The man is tall, thin, well-dressed in a three-piece suit that just misses giving the impression that he''s overdressed. He could be a butler or a mortician, but I''m sure he''s a detective. His expression is as blank as I¡¯ve ever seen.

    The woman is an African American in her forties. She has on a floral print, reddish brown blouse with a pinstriped suit, and she wears her hair straightened into wavy curls. Her smile is wide and genuine. Her eyes sparkle with intelligence.

    ¡°You have had a busy day!¡± says the woman. She takes the chair opposite me.

    The man leans against the wall beside her.

    I¡¯m not sure what to say, but I can¡¯t go wrong if I simply agree, right? I start to do just that when the man says, ¡°A busy two days.¡±

    He could be referencing the house or my apartment or both. I¡¯m sure they¡¯re watching my reaction. It''s time to explain.

    ¡°I¡ª.¡±

    But the man interrupts me again. ¡°Where¡¯s your phone?¡± he says.

    ¡°I lost it,¡± I say.

    The man shakes his head in disgust but says nothing.

    ¡°Sorry about my partner,¡± says the woman. ¡°I¡¯m Detective Smythe and this is Detective Torelli.¡± She touches me lightly on the hand. ¡°I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t have to tell you that you¡¯re required to have your smartphone on you at all times,¡± she says.

    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    That was a new one.

    ¡°I left it at the bar last night. I¡ª.¡±

    Torelli cuts me off. ¡°Which bar?¡± he says. ¡°Where?¡±

    I tell him, describing it and its location, but then remember that it¡¯s now a dry cleaners.

    ¡°I don¡¯t remember a bar being there,¡± Smythe asks Torelli. She sounds genuinely perplexed.

    Torelli shrugs.

    Smythe turns back to me. ¡°Now then,¡± she says. ¡°Since you don¡¯t have your phone, do you have a sponsor?¡±

    I¡¯m confused. ¡°I don¡¯t drink.¡±

    ¡°Sorry?¡± says Smythe.

    ¡°I¡¯m not in AA,¡± I tell her. ¡°I just don¡¯t drink. History of alcoholism in my¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Not that kind of sponsor,¡± says Torelli. ¡°Jesus Christ, this guy.¡±

    I wonder if Torelli is the Bad Cop or if he¡¯s just normally like this. Smythe is trying for a motherly vibe, being soft-spoken and gentle. A natural Good Cop.

    ¡°Look,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re right. I¡¯ve had a crazy time since last night. Do you want me to just tell you about it from start to finish? I''m willing. Oh, and no, I don¡¯t have any kind of sponsor.¡±

    Smythe has one of those big purses on her lap. It¡¯s another folksy floral print. Pink roses on a gray background. She takes out a small plastic bag. She places it in front of me but keeps her index finger on it.

    Inside is my library card.

    Which is how Rigby knows my last name, I bet.

    ¡°You are Benjamin P. Walker?¡± Smythe asks.

    ¡°Yes,¡± I say.

    ¡°You have identification?¡±

    I pull out my wallet and remove my driver¡¯s license. I take a moment to get it free of its little compartment. Damn thing always sticks. I place it in front of her. She hands it back to Torelli, who leaves with it.

    ¡°He slipped on it, didn¡¯t he?¡± asks Smythe.

    I look at her.

    ¡°The robber with the MAC-10,¡± says Smythe. ¡°Those things have a tendency to go off like that. He slipped on your library card?¡±

    I nod. ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°He shoots his friend, then shoots his other friend after you blow his neck away?¡± says Smythe. She¡¯s a lot less motherly at the moment. ¡°And you don¡¯t have a sponsor?¡±

    ¡°I guess I don¡¯t know what that is.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t know what a sponsor is?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    Torelli comes back in, a tablet in his hand. He hands it to Smythe.

    Smythe¡¯s sculpted eyebrows raise almost to her hairline. It¡¯s a little forced.

    ¡°Seems you don¡¯t exist, Mr. Walker,¡± she says. ¡°What¡¯s your real name?¡±

    ¡°I¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Even the library card is fake,¡± says Torelli. ¡°It¡¯s a good fake, but the library doesn¡¯t have a record of him and the number on it is for someone else.¡±

    ¡°Who fakes a library card?¡± asks Smythe.

    ¡°I¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Same guy who doesn¡¯t know what a sponsor is and conveniently loses his cell phone,¡± says Torelli. ¡°Same guy who¡¯s been present at no less than four crime scenes in less than twenty-four hours where six people have died violently, a family kidnapped, a woman peeped on, and a store shot up.¡±

    ¡°A very. Busy. Day,¡± says Smythe, looking at me.

    I decide to wait.

    After a few moments, Smythe says, ¡°Well?¡±

    Dammit, this is probably really stupid, but I¡¯ve already decided. ¡°I¡¯ll just tell you what happened, okay?¡± I say.

    Torelli shrugs.

    Smythe gestures for me to begin.

    I leave nothing out, telling them about the bar, following the kidnapped woman to the strange house, and everything after that. I even tell them about the coat and the car I slept in.

    They listen, only interrupting here and there to ask a clarifying question. They are very interested in my description of the house. When I¡¯ve brought us all to the present time, I¡¯m expecting to ask about the weird blotches in my vision. Instead, they ask me again about the house.

    Smythe says, ¡°So you entered through the garage, went through the kitchen, the dining area, and living room where there¡¯s a door.¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°You open that door and find the woman. You drag her through, then because you think there are more victims in the house, you call nine-one-one on her phone, leaving it behind, and then go back through the door, closing it behind you?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°The kidnappers are later upset by this. You closing the door?¡±

    ¡°It seemed that way.¡±

    ¡°You went into a second living room, then?¡±

    Torelli snorts.

    I say, ¡°It was a little odd, but yeah. Two living rooms. Two kitchens too.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s only one of each in the house now,¡± says Smythe, but she doesn¡¯t sound like she¡¯s mocking me. She sounds like she¡¯s onto something.

    ¡°What?¡± I ask.

    Torelli looks interested too.

    ¡°You seemed surprised we were upset about your lack of a phone,¡± says Smythe.

    ¡°You said I¡¯m required to have one?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± she says. ¡°You are.¡±

    ¡°Since when?¡±

    ¡°Since twenty-four years ago,¡± says Smythe. ¡°Longer than you¡¯ve been alive if the dates on your driver''s license aren''t fake, too.¡±

    ¡°But¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Your fob for your building let you in?¡± says Smythe. ¡°The key worked?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°There was no sign that anybody broke into the apartment,¡± Smythe says. ¡°But we¡¯re having somebody double-check.¡±

    ¡°The key worked,¡± I say again. ¡°It¡¯s my key.¡±

    ¡°But not your apartment,¡± says Smythe. ¡°You didn¡¯t recognize any of the things inside?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s Nick¡¯s last name?¡± says Smythe.

    She¡¯s all over the place. I¡¯m deeply confused but I still think that this is the best way to get answers myself.

    ¡°Bonaventura,¡± I say.

    Torelli is tapping that into his tablet. After a moment, he shakes his head.

    ¡°He doesn¡¯t exist either?¡± I ask. ¡°Same as me?¡±

    Torelli shakes his head.

    ¡°Take my fingerprints!¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m in the system. Had to do that for a job I took once. The FBI ran a background check.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve already taken your fingerprints,¡± says Smythe. ¡°From the bank and the store. You aren¡¯t in the system.¡±

    ¡°But¡ª.¡±

    ¡°The bearded man you say shot the kidnappers at the house,¡± says Smythe. ¡°Did he say something to you?¡±

    When I first told them that part of the story, my emphasis had been on the fact that I hadn¡¯t shot anybody but that the Beard had done it.

    ¡°Right,¡± I say. ¡°Sorry. Yes, he checked me out and told me he couldn¡¯t help me. It was weird. He swore and said something. I think in Italian maybe? Then he did something else and said it was the best he could do. He left right after that.¡±

    ¡°What did he do?¡± asked Smythe.

    ¡°I have no idea. Well, before he did, it felt like everything was getting darker,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s hard to explain. I know that I¡¯m not really seeing the dark. It¡¯s not visually present, if that makes sense? I was only ¡®seeing¡¯ the dark, and it was getting darker. Then, he did something, and I could see the light thingies the same way.¡±

    ¡°The Italian,¡± says Smythe. ¡°Do you remember what it was?¡±

    ¡°Something like, ¡®malocchio?¡¯ or something like that?¡±

    Both Torelli and Smythe rock back in shock. Torelli leans down and takes Smythe by the shoulder.

    She shakes her head. ¡°You go,¡± she says. ¡°Get everybody out.¡±

    ¡°But¡ª.¡±

    Smythe holds up a hand. ¡°Go. Right now.¡±

    Torelli leaves.

    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± My voice sounds small in the little room.

    ¡°We¡¯re evacuating the building.¡±

    I stare at her.

    Smythe says, ¡°The last known person to be cursed with the Malocchio was crushed by a falling satellite during a professional hockey game in Toronto in 1997. Over a hundred people died.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, ¡®Oh,¡¯¡± says Smythe. ¡°He was cursed not twenty minutes before that. Most don¡¯t last that long. How are you even still alive?¡±

 Chapter 8 - Book 1

    ¡°The malocchio,¡± continues Smythe when I don¡¯t respond. ¡°Also known as the Evil Eye. It¡¯s a curse of bad luck, to death. No one has ever survived it for more than a few hours.¡±

    She¡¯s utterly still. Like any sudden move on her part and I¡¯ll explode or something.

    ¡°A curse,¡± I say.

    ¡°The curse, some would say,¡± says Smythe. She arches an eyebrow. ¡°You don¡¯t seem impressed.¡±

    ¡°Because you¡¯re telling me I¡¯ve been cursed,¡± I say. Superstitious people come in all shapes and sizes, work in all kinds of jobs. I remember hearing that the less control you have in an occupation, the more random it is, the more likely people are to believe in that sort of thing. Professional athletes are famous for it, especially baseball players. Cops make sense. Still, I don¡¯t want to piss her off by suggesting she¡¯s ridiculous, so I keep my face carefully schooled.

    ¡°They don¡¯t have curses where you¡¯re from?¡±

    I blink at her.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re from here,¡± says Smythe.

    ¡°I was born around Akron, but¡ª.¡±

    ¡°This is Willamette.¡±

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that out west?¡±

    ¡°Northeastern Ohio.¡±

    ¡°I''ve lived here all my life. Never heard of it.¡±

    ¡°County seat of Portage County,¡± says Smythe.

    ¡°That¡¯s Ravenna.¡±

    ¡°Never heard of it,¡± says Smythe.

    I lean back in my chair.

    Smythe says, ¡°The dead practitioner. The woman from the house? The kidnapper? She had a level three sponsorship.¡±

    ¡°She had a what?¡±

    ¡°Right. You don¡¯t have those either.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    ¡°I think she opened a gateway to somewhere else,¡± says Smythe. ¡°Where you¡¯re from. Sometimes they do that. Harder to track a body when it¡¯s not from this universe. You closed the gateway when you shut the door, cutting her off, see? But then she had you.¡±

    ¡°Had me for what?¡±

    ¡°Practitioners sometimes use human sacrifice to fuel their spells. The truly awful ones do, anyway.¡±

    ¡°Human sacrifices and curses,¡± I say. What the fuck?. This has to be some kind of weird interrogation technique. They didn¡¯t evacuate the building. There is no curse. They¡¯re all out there huddled around a monitor, stifling their giggles as they watch me on TV.

    ¡°The man with the beard?¡± says Smythe. ¡°I think he¡¯s a practitioner, too. I think you got caught up in their rivalry. Maybe he killed the lady and her helper, thinking you were an ally. He tried to help you and must¡¯ve something right or that car that hit the house would¡¯ve killed you instead of giving you an express trip to the basement.¡±

    ¡°Come on¡ª.¡±

    ¡°What did you take from the convenience store?¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°We watched the recording,¡± says Smythe. ¡°You left with one of the scratch-offs. The clerk says you stole it.¡±

    I snort. ¡°I thought he was going to delete the files.¡±

    ¡°Oh, he got the local ones. The company keeps an offsite backup he didn¡¯t know about. His version of the story doesn¡¯t quite line up with the video, but we don¡¯t have sound. The scratch-off. Did you win?¡±

    ¡°Yeah¡­.¡±

    ¡°So. You walk through a door in one house and come out into an identical house. A house you think has two living rooms and two kitchens, only they¡¯re gone now. You go back to the bar, which is now a dry cleaners. You go to your apartment building. The fob works. The key works, only someone else is living there. The ATM eats your card because you don¡¯t have an account there, or anywhere, and never did. You¡¯re not in the system. Your driver¡¯s license looks authentic, but the town listed doesn¡¯t exist and the state has no record of you at all. There¡¯s no record anywhere of you or Nick Bonaventura. Ben, you¡¯re not from here.¡±

    ¡°But¡­.¡± She¡¯s right. I know she¡¯s right. She''s got to be. I¡¯m not from here.

    ¡°You¡¯re gonna be okay,¡± she says and takes my hand. ¡°And I want to get you that sandwich that Rigby went and got for you. You¡¯re hungry, right?¡±

    My last meal was¡­ last night? I nod, knowing if I don¡¯t get something in my stomach soon, I¡¯ll get shaky.

    ¡°But before I get you that, I have to make sure you¡¯re safe. The Evil Eye is no joke, and we don¡¯t know what Mr. Beardy did to you.¡± Smythe leans in. She says, ¡°You say you can see dark and light stuff and¡­ Push for things to happen?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°Is that how you knew about Eddie?¡±

    ¡°Eddie?¡±

    ¡°The man out front when you came in,¡± says Smythe. ¡°You remember him?¡±

    ¡°Oh yeah,¡± I say. ¡°He had darkness kinda swirling around him, which was odd because things were hardly moving at all in here otherwise.¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°Okay,¡± says Smythe. ¡°That¡¯s it? You saw that and told Rigby?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± I say.

    ¡°I probably shouldn¡¯t tell you this, but he had a body in his trunk. Eddie comes in here all the time complaining about the neighbors and asking about cases he hears about in the news or on his scanner. Mostly, we thought he was just lonely. But sometimes people get fascinated with police work for the wrong reasons. I think now he was fighting some powerful urges and lost that battle sometime yesterday or the night before. Right before Rigby got to him, Eddie went for Sanderson¡¯s gun. After Rigby tased him, they searched his car.¡±

    ¡°Wow.¡±

    ¡°So, if you can see things and Push for another outcome, can you control it?¡±

    ¡°I think so. Some. I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°Try it.¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡±

    Smythe gave me a lopsided smile. ¡°Normally I don¡¯t tell cute young white boys to push their luck with me, but you go on ahead.¡±

    I laugh.

    ¡°No really. Go on ahead. Do something.¡±

    ¡°Like what?¡±

    ¡°Ben, I have no idea. But you don¡¯t get the sandwich until you do. If you can control whatever this is, then everybody will feel a lot safer.¡±

    I sit there for a moment and think. Is what she¡¯s saying as crazy as all the other shit that¡¯s been going on? What Smythe is telling me is bizarre, but it seems to fit.

    And I do seem to have some control over it, right? I mean, it didn¡¯t work out with Billy the Clerk, but it did in the stairwell and the bank. In those cases, I was trying to accomplish something specific. Smythe needs some kind of demonstration, but nothing is happening in the room. The colors are there but faint and they¡¯re hardly moving at all.

    Can I get them moving somehow?

    I try for a moment, but nothing I do seems to change things. There¡¯s maybe a bit more light here than there was. Okay, maybe I can work with that. Maybe I can just Push in general. Force away the dark and something will¡ª.

    Her phone dings twice.

    She takes it out of her suit pocket and looks at it. Frowns. She holds up a finger as she reads the message over.

    ¡°Oh shit,¡± she says and looks at me. ¡°I have to go.¡± She stands. ¡°Right now. You stay here. Don''t do anything. I will not lock you in, Ben, but you stay right there, I swear to God.¡±

    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± I say.

    Then she¡¯s out the door.

    She comes back thirty seconds later with my sandwich, looking harried, and then she¡¯s gone again without a word.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    I¡¯m in the bank.

    The getaway driver bursts through the door into the lobby, and I¡¯ve got the shotgun up and pointed at him.

    I don¡¯t hear the click of the safety. His rifle stays pointed at the floor.

    I fire and his head comes apart.

    MAC sits up. His neck is fine. He¡¯s just looking at me.

    I pump another shell into the shotgun, point it at him, and fire. His throat dissolves in gore and his head tilts back way too far as he falls. For a moment, I think it¡¯s going to fall off and that I¡¯ve decapitated him.

    But he rolls over instead and stands. He¡¯s fine. No wounds showing anywhere. He¡¯s smiling at me.

    I jack in another round.

    I ram the gun into his midsection and pull the trigger.

    Red awfulness sprays out from his back and purple things slide out of him onto the floor.

    He doesn¡¯t go down.

    He¡¯s fine, in fact.

    I pump the shotgun.

    He hisses at me, finally angry. Drops of spittle spatter onto my face. It keeps spattering, and it smells awful.

    I¡¯m wet.

    I¡¯m dreaming.

    I¡¯m in the interrogation room and it¡¯s raining. Stinking water from the sprinkler system above me. Some gets into my mouth. I spit it out. It tastes even worse than it smells. I remember hearing that water for sprinkler systems can sit stagnant for years and now I can testify that it¡¯s true. Yay.

    Is there a fire?

    I don¡¯t hear an alarm.

    The water is chilly.

    I try the door. It opens, and I poke my head out. I don¡¯t see anybody. The place is still empty. I guess they did evacuate. I don¡¯t see a fire or any smoke. None of the other sprinklers are going off. Just mine.

    Great.

    I swore to Smythe that I¡¯d stay in the room, dammit.

    I close the door and curl up under the table. Maybe I¡¯ll get used to the smell. I try to convince myself the water''s not that cold.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    Smythe comes to get me an interminable time later. She¡¯s got a blanket that she wraps around me as soon as she coaxes me out of the room. She doesn''t want to get wet, and I don''t blame her a bit.

    Torelli is with her. She has him take me into the bathroom where there¡¯s a shower.

    I clean up and find that they¡¯ve left me some generic underwear and a lovely orange jumpsuit to wear with the name of the establishment on the back. So, I¡¯ve got that going for me. My clothes and personal effects, all I¡¯ve got in the world now, are probably evidence or something, bagged and tagged and on a shelf.

    Smythe is waiting for me in the hall when I step out. ¡°Sorry about the duds,¡± she says. ¡°It¡¯s what we¡¯ve got.¡±

    ¡°Did it work? Did something happen?¡± I ask her.

    She beams. ¡°Oh yes,¡± she says, but she leaves it at that. ¡°Right this way.¡±

    She leads me to Interrogation Room 2, which is much like Room 1 except it isn¡¯t wet or raining and there¡¯s a large mirror on one wall. Just like on TV.

    Smythe smiles at me as she sits. ¡°It¡¯s a bit old school, yeah, but not everybody watching prefers video.¡±

    ¡°Gotcha,¡± I say.

    Torelli comes in and leans against the wall like before.

    ¡°Sorry about the sprinkler system,¡± says Smythe. ¡°It¡¯s not supposed to do that, obviously. Do you know what happened there?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°I was asleep. I did have a nightmare, though.¡±

    She considers a moment. ¡°About the bank?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll have those for a while.¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    "You know," Torelli says. ¡°Only two types fall asleep in interrogation rooms.¡±

    Smythe rolls her eyes. "Here we go."

    ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± says Torelli. I swear I don¡¯t think his face would change expression if his parents got blown up in front of him. ¡°Either they¡¯re guilty as sin,¡± he says. ¡°Or they¡¯re dead tired.¡±

    ¡°Of course he¡¯s tired,¡± says Smythe. ¡°Look at the day he¡¯s had. And now his nightmare has set off the sprinklers.¡±

    ¡°He probably did something to them.¡±

    ¡°Like what?¡± says Smythe. ¡°If he did, it¡¯d be on tape. It¡¯s been reviewed. He didn¡¯t do anything. It¡¯s his luck.¡±

    Torelli snorts.

    I say nothing.

    Smythe smiles at me. She says, ¡°Thank you. I can¡¯t say much, but I got a lead on a case I¡¯ve been working.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± I say. I mean it. I think I like Detective Smythe. She reminds me of my mother. I''m surprised to find I like Torelli too.

    ¡°You think he did that?¡± says Torelli. ¡°That case has been cold for two years. It¡¯s coincidence.¡±

    He¡¯s right. I am tired. ¡°You know what? You got a coin?¡±

    Torelli looks at me. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a quarter.

    I take it, and I¡¯m about to flip it and ask one of them to call it in the air when I stop myself. ¡°You got any more?¡±

    A few minutes later, my hands are full of coins, collected from folks all over the station. The pile is mostly pennies, but there are a few quarters, nickels, and dimes. If I¡¯m really in a different world now, the money still looks the same. I¡¯ve got probably three dollars in my hands.

    I look at Torelli. ¡°Heads or tails?¡± I ask.

    Torelli shrugs. ¡°Heads.¡±

    ¡°Oo, I¡¯ll take tails,¡± says Smythe.

    When I toss them into the air, I say, ¡°Edge.¡± And then I Push.

    The coins fall with a clatter, and they all roll every which way.

    The door opens. Standing there is one of the biggest women I¡¯ve ever seen. I don¡¯t mean fat. I don¡¯t mean tall. She¡¯s simply built on a different scale. She¡¯s also a pretty brunette with her wavy hair resting on her shoulders. Six-four if she¡¯s an inch. Curvy in her dark suit.

    Standing beside her is another woman who might be five feet tall in her heels. Her hair has tighter curls than mine. Her coloring is a little darker than her companion¡¯s. Maybe Latina. She wears mirrored sunglasses, and she¡¯s chewing gum.

    Some coins roll out the door past their feet. Both women look down to watch them go.

    All the coins still left in the room have rolled to the wall where they¡¯re upright, resting on their edges. There¡¯s one or two tilted against a table leg. Smythe picks up a quarter that¡¯s propped against her shoe.

    She laughs. ¡°Edge it is,¡± she says. She looks at the women. ¡°Who are you guys?¡±

    ¡°Agents Ochoa and Tyler,¡± says the big one. ¡°FBI.¡±

 Chapter 9 - Book 1

    Officer Rigby comes in behind them carrying two folding chairs.

    Agent Ochoa takes one, plops it down with the seat facing me, and sits with her knees almost poking into my left thigh. She¡¯s quiet, doesn¡¯t smile. She just chews her gum at me behind her mirrored sunglasses. It''s awkward, and probably it''s supposed to be.

    Agent Tyler takes her time and smiles at the other two officers. She notices Torelli is still standing. ¡°Oh,¡± she says. ¡°Can we get you a chair?¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t want us to leave?¡± asks Smythe.

    Tyler smiles. ¡°Not at all. We¡¯re not like that. We¡¯re not taking over, detectives, but we are here to help,¡± she says. ¡°As partners.¡±

    ¡°Whether we like it or not,¡± says Torelli. The cop¡¯s face is expressionless.

    ¡°That you got right,¡± says Ochoa, still chewing and looking at me. I think.

    ¡°The kidnappings bring us into it, I¡¯m afraid,¡± says Tyler. ¡°That and the possible multi-dimensional angle.¡± She looks down at me as the patrolman unfolds the chair, careful not to jostle Smythe. The room is getting tinier and tinier. ¡°I¡¯m sorry this has happened to you,¡± she says to me. ¡°We can lay some things to rest pretty quickly with your cooperation.¡±

    Ochoa pulls out a phone and places it on the table in front of me.

    ¡°That¡¯s yours, Mr. Walker,¡± says Tyler.

    Ochoa smiles.

    ¡°Free and clear,¡± continues Tyler. ¡°If you have, in fact, really been abducted from another dimension, this should tell us, and there are things we can do for you if that''s so.¡±

    I look at her.

    ¡°This kind of thing has happened from time to time,¡± she says. ¡°Sending you back is highly unlikely, I¡¯m afraid. There are so many dimensions, Mr. Walker, and quite literally millions of them are so similar that without the original practitioner''s precise incantation, it¡¯s just not feasible. There¡¯s a chance that the dead woman in the house was not the one that cast the spell and, if so, we may be able to track down whoever it was that did. In that case, it might be possible to return you home, but I don¡¯t want to give you any false hope. It is almost certain that Ms. Lansky, the dead woman, was the one who opened the portal. I¡¯m so sorry.¡±

    Not knowing what else to say, I say, ¡°Thanks.¡±

    ¡°If you pick up the phone,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°We can start.¡± She¡¯s smiling and chewing her gum. I wonder if she¡¯s deliberately playing into the dumb sexpot, Latina stereotype. I figure she probably is. It¡¯s probably unavoidable, really. Law enforcement types have to develop something to knock people off guard. Detective Smythe has the motherly thing going. Detective Torelli is the social sniper, planting barbs, bon mots, and provocations at opportune moments. Agent Tyler is big, and you¡¯d expect her to try intimidation, so she goes for direct kindness. But Agent Ochoa here, she comes across as vapid and juvenile. It¡¯s hard to tell with the sunglasses, but I guess that she¡¯s my age. I bet she¡¯s also the smartest one in the room.

    I pick up the phone.

    When I turn it on, Ochoa punches in the code with one long, manicured pink nail. ¡°You can set it to fingerprint or face recognition later,¡± she says. ¡°Open up The App.¡±

    When the home screen pops up, there¡¯s only one icon. A big black capital A in a simple white square. I hit it with my thumb.

    The screen goes black and one of those white circle thingies swirls around.

    ¡°It¡¯ll need a moment to read you,¡± says Ochoa.

    Smythe asks, ¡°You¡¯ve identified the woman from the house?¡±

    Tyler looks my way. It¡¯s clear she¡¯s wondering if she should say anything in front of me. She shrugs. ¡°Anabelle Lansky,¡± she says. ¡°We know her as a freelancer. Hires out for odd jobs, both legitimate and otherwise. We¡¯ve suspected her of inter-dimensional kidnapping before. Arrested twice, but couldn¡¯t make a case. We think she¡¯s involved in some other things we¡¯re looking into in the area. It¡¯s why we got here so quickly. We have no idea who she was working for, though.¡±

    ¡°In Willamette?¡± Smythe arches an eyebrow.

    ¡°Yes.¡± Tyler nods.

    ¡°Shit,¡± says Smythe.

    ¡°Lady, you don¡¯t know the half of it,¡± Ochoa says as the app on my phone finishes whatever it was doing. A bunch of numbers come up on the screen. ¡°There we go,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Gimme a sec.¡±

    She¡¯s got her own phone, tapping on it, her fingernail clicking on the screen. ¡°Oh yeah, he¡¯s not from here,¡± she says. She looks at me, I think. ¡°The App, Mr. Walker, provides you with some basic information about yourself, and it can give it to us.¡± She waggles her phone and her eyebrows at me. ¡°Like the fact that you¡¯re from another dimension. Authorities of various types have various levels of access to your information, and you can choose to allow different levels of access to others at your discretion. It¡¯ll give you your statistics, whether you have a sponsor¡­,¡± she says. She looks at the detectives. ¡°Which he doesn¡¯t. As well as any ongoing¡ª. Holy shit!¡±

    ¡°What?¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°The Malocchio? And you couldn¡¯t warn a girl?¡± says Ochoa. All the color drains out of her face.

    Torelli offers a minimalist shrug.

    Smythe says, ¡°We thought you knew.¡±

    ¡°The Malocchio?¡± says Tyler, frowning. ¡°Why aren¡¯t we all dead by now?¡±

    ¡°Because there¡¯s another one,¡± says Ochoa. She¡¯s scrolling down with her thumb, reading. ¡°The Good Eye?¡±

    Smythe nods. ¡°Jewish tradition. We had to look it up.¡±

    Ochoa stares at her phone. ¡°My God,¡± she says. ¡°Both level four.¡±

    Nobody says anything.

    ¡°Is that bad?¡± I say.

    Smythe takes my hand. It¡¯s a little awkward because it¡¯s the one holding the phone. Still, I know she¡¯s trying to comfort me. ¡°Three is the limit, Ben. There isn¡¯t supposed to be a level four.¡±

    Tyler shoots her partner a look. ¡°Mo? How?¡±

    Ochoa considers a long moment. Then, ¡°Lucas Pratt.¡±

    Smythe says, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Lucas Pratt?¡±

    ¡°Cursed three times,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Back in the eighteen hundreds. He was kind of a Lothario? Seduced a practitioner¡¯s wife. The husband hit him with an unlucky-in-love thing. Two years later, a very lonely Mr. Pratt cheated at cards. One man he cheated knew a guy. Pratt got hit with another level one curse, halitosis. He fucked up again later and got hit again. Acne. The three curses drove him crazy and later, it killed him. Lonely, bad breath, and acne to death. When experts examined him, it was determined that he had three level three curses instead of three level ones. They speculated that the three curses built upon each other as they interacted. The first was a level one. The second made them both a level two. The third raised them all to three.¡± Ochoa shrugged and grinned. ¡°Ben here got hit with the Evil Eye, which is a known level three. The bearded guy who killed Lansky and wanted to help, hit him with the Good Eye to counteract the bad luck with good. Two level three curses take him to level four.¡± She shrugs. ¡°You know, maybe.¡±

    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    Smythe says, ¡°That doesn¡¯t explain four.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve never heard of it either,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Lord knows what it¡¯s doing to him. What effects it¡¯ll have.¡± She¡¯s looking over a nickel she plucked off the floor.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say. ¡°Good luck is a curse?¡±

    Even with the sunglasses on, I could tell that Ochoa rolled her eyes.

    Tyler says, ¡°A good luck curse of this magnitude, Mr. Walker, is just as fatal as its counterpart. It works very differently and slower. You win the lottery, say, and then you win it again. And then a third time, only you didn¡¯t even buy a ticket to play. Some computer error or something makes you win. People think you cheated. The government brings you in for questioning. They can¡¯t make a case, of course, but everybody thinks you lucked out, so to speak. Everybody knows you must¡¯ve cheated. They look into you, trying to see how you did it. A week later, you¡¯re one of the richest people in the world. You¡¯ve met the woman of your dreams. Maybe you meet three of them. How long before jealousy gets you murdered? Before some crazed stalker kills you in your sleep because they can¡¯t have you? Before some nut thinks you¡¯ve got all your money buried in your mansion¡¯s wall and tortures you to death to find out where?¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± I say.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Two level threes get you a level four. Who knew? Still, people are going to think you can do magic because, in effect, you can. I bet ya that if this had been two level two curses that bumped them both up to level three? You¡¯d be dead now. Maybe it¡¯s that fourth level that gives you some control. Or it¡¯s the unique way these two interrelated curses interact with each other. Can¡¯t tell you. Never seen it before. Nobody has. What do you think, Cal?¡±

    Tyler nods. ¡°That tracks,¡± she says. ¡°He¡¯s alive. Maybe it¡¯s sort of like life on the Galapagos Islands? Nobody really knows how it gets there. It¡¯s so remote, right? Only they¡¯ve got birds and iguanas and tortoises¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Charles Darwin,¡± I say, nodding.

    ¡°Who?¡±

    Multiple people said it. Oh wow. I really am not from here. I sigh. ¡°Never mind.¡±

    ¡°Anyway,¡± says Tyler with a smirk. ¡°Life finds a way. Maybe alligators and zebras once made it there too, only they died out for whatever reason and left no clue about their passing. For all we know, level four curses get handed out every Tuesday at the supermarket with every order of American cheese. Nobody lives long enough for us to know any better.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re saying I¡¯m the Galapagos Islands?¡± I say.

    Tyler shrugs. ¡°I¡¯m sure there are better metaphors. Give me a break. I¡¯m still processing all this. I¡¯ll run our ideas up the chain and see what the office thinks.¡± She looks over at her partner. ¡°He have any numbers we can use?¡±

    Ochoa nods. ¡°You were a journalist, Mr. Walker?¡±

    ¡°A baby one,¡± I say. ¡°I did mostly freelance stuff. I work¡­ worked part time at the Tribune doing odd stories.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the Willamette Chronicle here,¡± says Smythe.

    ¡°Here,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Take a look at your numbers on the App.¡±

    I do.

    Name: Benjamin Pierce Walker

    Sponsor: None.

    Age: 24

    Prime Attributes

    STR: <u>2</u>              DEX: <u>3</u>             CON: <u>3</u>

    INT: <u>3</u>               WIS: <u>2</u>             CHA: <u>3</u>

    Learned Attributes

    PER: <u>3</u>             STA: <u>3</u>              EDU: <u>2</u>

    Skills

    Brawling +1

    Computers +1

    Dodge +1

    History +1

    Library +1

    Listen +2

    Psychoanalysis +1

    Psychology +1

    Write +2

    CURSED!

    Malocchio 4

    Good Eye 4

    ¡°Not bad,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°No ones at all in the first tier. Two twos in skills. Listening and Writing. Probably from training he got in college. We can work with this.¡±

    Tyler says, ¡°Your degree¡ª. I imagine you have a degree?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°It¡¯s nonexistent here, of course,¡± says Tyler. ¡°We¡¯ll have to do some assessing, but we¡¯ll probably be able to get one for you based on your data and personal history. You know, make up something that fits so you can function here.¡±

    ¡°Can he function here?¡± asks Smythe. ¡°We¡¯re still mopping out Interrogation Room 1 from when he had a nightmare.¡±

    Ochoa shrugs. ¡°No choice,¡± she says. ¡°He¡¯s here.¡±

    ¡°Look,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but what does all this mean? Plus ones? Two for STR? Is that Strength, like from a video game?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± says Ochoa, smacking her gum. ¡°Huge nerds designed the App, which of course often includes a double dose of geek, if you know the type, and they borrow from what they know. Government practitioners designed the analysis part of the App, but it''s the nerds who had to figure out how to represent the readings, see?¡±

    I really didn¡¯t. She can tell.

    Ochoa sighs.

    ¡°Okay, so for Strength you¡¯ve got a score of two. They¡¯ve broken down things into three tiers. The first tier is how you stack up against all of humanity. Average strength puts you at two, see? You can see that the two is underlined. It¡¯s a link that, if you touch it, gives you more information. When you get a chance, you should look at it. Tells you where you stack up, more specifically. Your average strength out of everybody, right? But it takes that third you¡¯re in, breaks that up into thirds, and shows you how average you are. Are you in the top third of the average or the bottom, get it?¡±

    I nod. ¡°I think so? Like, Einstein would¡¯ve been a three, three, right? Top third of the top third in the top third?¡± I say.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know who that is, but assuming he¡¯s a genius from your place, yeah, probably,¡± says Ochoa. She winks at me. ¡°The App breaks that up again into a third tier. Nobody hardly looks at those. Anyway, your Einstein would probably be a three, three, three ¡ª the top of the top of the top. I checked out your brains there, Ben.¡± She waggles her phone at me, her eyebrows arching above her sunglasses. ¡°And your three, three, one is pretty good,¡± she says. ¡°Congrats.¡±

    Well, at least I¡¯m smart. ¡°Okay, I think I know what the other ones are for Primary Attributes. Those are the most important ones?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Not really, though everybody has a different opinion. Primaries are the ones that you''re born with and develop over time. The Learned ones are more complex,¡± says Smythe. ¡°They grow from the others, but are too important not to be included. Babies don¡¯t have them at all. You get those a bit later. Age six? Seven? It varies.¡±

    ¡°Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma, right?¡± I say.

    ¡°Yep,¡± says Ochoa.

    ¡°PER is what? Perception?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Very perceptive of you,¡± says Ochoa.

    Smythe rolls her eyes.

    I¡¯m pretty sure Torelli is asleep.

    ¡°What¡¯s STA?¡±

    ¡°Stamina,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°It¡¯s not just physical. Mental too. We figure that means it takes just as much mental toughness to keep running when you¡¯re tired as it does physical.¡±

    ¡°EDU is education?¡±

    ¡°Uh huh.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s going on with these Skills then?¡±

    ¡°Best we can figure is that for anything you try to do, it¡¯s a combination of two attributes to see if you can do it. You¡¯d have a decent chance to do anything involving your Intelligence, for example. But if it also required Wisdom, you might have some trouble since you¡¯re on the low side of average there,¡± says Ochoa.

    ¡°Hence my current predicament.¡±

    Ochoa grins. ¡°The skills,¡± she says, ¡°add to the ease of the task if they apply. You have a plus two in both Listen and Write, which means you¡¯re pretty good at those. It¡¯s easier for you than someone with only a plus one and a lot better than someone without the skill at all. You don¡¯t have the Drive Skill for instance, so, if you were driving fast, say, and needed to make a turn, you¡¯re stuck with just your Dexterity along with maybe Perception to see if you stay on all four wheels or plow through a building.¡±

    ¡°Maybe?¡± I say.

    ¡°No one knows for sure specifically how it works,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°And it seems to change, given the circumstances. Our scientists and practitioners are still figuring it out, but this is our current best guess.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. But what about my curses?¡±

    Ochoa looks at Tyler.

    Tyler nods.

    Ochoa sighs. ¡°Um, we think that happens after you try to do something. Your¡­ luck, for lack of a better term, kicks in one way or the other and shifts things. In the report, it says you can see it? Like, light and dark swirls and blotches in your vision?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°I bet you can kinda see probability and maybe some other stuff that applies,¡± she says. ¡°Your brain has to make sense of what it''s sensing somehow, right? It chose to represent it visually. You say you can see it, but you know it¡¯s not really there or affecting your actual vision?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°That tracks,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°So, um, good and bad luck are always kinda fighting it out all around you and you can affect it somehow, like you just did with all the coins.¡±

    ¡°Only it gets away from me too sometimes,¡± I say. ¡°Like with the sprinkler system. Or at the convenience store.¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°So, I¡¯m fucked. Twice. No, three times.¡±

    Ochoa cocks her head.

    ¡°I¡¯m trapped in a new dimension with no friends or family, and I¡¯m twice cursed.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Yeah, twice-cursed and thrice fucked. Sounds about right.¡±

 Chapter 10 - Book 1

    It¡¯s quiet for longer than is comfortable in the small room, kinda like in my Dad¡¯s old Monty Python movies when they take way too long to make the next joke or move the dialog or plot forward, and it¡¯s all funny, yep, but no one is laughing right now.

    Still, I figure maybe they''re waiting for me, so I say, ¡°You guys think I¡¯m right then. I can see luck?¡±

    Ochoa snorts. ¡°Weirder if your brain had gone with taste or touch, but yeah, that¡¯s our best guess. It¡¯s got to make sense of it somehow.¡± She looks at Tyler, who gives a slight nod.

    ¡°And it¡¯ll look like I can do magic,¡± I say. ¡°But I can¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s magic alright,¡± says Torelli. ¡°And you''re doing it. It¡¯s just not yours.¡±

    Everything Torelli says always confuses me. I try not to get irritated. Instead, I frown and exaggerate a shrug.

    Ochoa smiles as she chews her gum. ¡°He means that the magic¡¯s done to you. It doesn¡¯t come from you. It¡¯s kind of like Lansky stabbed you and left the knife embedded in your chest. Now you have a new knife that you can do knifey things with, but only if you can figure out how to use it without hurting yourself further. Now, is the knife yours? Maybe. Maybe not. Then Beardy gave you another knife. Technically, you can do more than before, but the power comes from the knives, not you.¡±

    ¡°I have no idea what that means,¡± I say.

    Smythe says, ¡°She¡¯s talking about sponsors.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± I say. ¡°What are those?¡±

    ¡°Magic is real here,¡± says Smythe. ¡°Practitioners get access to it through runes. You remember you told us that Lansky and the Beard both drew something in the air above your head, right? That was a rune. Sponsors are like batteries for magic. Practitioners, wizards, witches, whatever you call them, tap into a sponsor¡¯s power to affect the world around them. Someone draws the rune, but the sponsor powers the magic.¡±

    "Okay," I say. "You still didn''t tell me what a sponsor is."

    "No one really knows," says Tyler. ¡°There are lots of theories.¡± She shrugs.

    ¡°Can we, I dunno, erase the runes?¡± I ask.

    ¡°They don¡¯t work like that,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Once they¡¯re up, they¡¯re up.¡±

    Ochoa¡¯s smile broadens. ¡°Look at it this way. Practitioners give away a good bit of their energy when they take a sponsor. You get to use somebody else¡¯s magic without paying any of the usual costs.¡±

    ¡°Wait a moment. This thing I can do¡­. It isn¡¯t mine?¡±

    Tyler pats me on the upper arm. ¡°It¡¯s like the knives. You didn¡¯t forge them. Spent no time designing or gathering materials for them. Then, they got forced onto you.¡±

    ¡°But if Sponsors are batteries, can they just turn off my knives?¡±

    Ochoa snorts. ¡°That¡¯s not how knives work, dude.¡±

    Tyler frowns at her, looks back at me. ¡°Sponsors don¡¯t do that. They empower a rune, but once they do, they stay up.¡±

    ¡°Unless there¡¯s something you don¡¯t know. Level four curses and supermarkets?¡±

    ¡°Granted.¡±

    ¡°So, as far as you guys know, this power is mine, and I¡¯m stuck with it?¡±

    I¡¯ve never had so many people nod at me with so much solemnity. ¡°Great,¡± I say. ¡°Except for the whole curse thing. Twice.¡±

    There¡¯s another lull in the conversation. It feels like that now, rather than an interrogation. It¡¯s a lot better, but now I don¡¯t know what to say or ask. I¡¯m so tired. I want to call my mom and dad or one of my brothers, but they¡¯re gone. I¡¯m all alone.

    There¡¯s a hand on my shoulder. ¡°Mr. Walker?¡± says Tyler.

    I look up at her. She looms over me like the Colossus of Rhodes in a business suit.

    ¡°According to the FBI, you are a victim in all this,¡± she tells me. ¡°I know it must be overwhelming. You¡¯ve got a phone now. Agent Ochoa and I will go to the bank tomorrow. I have a feeling that since you foiled that robbery, they¡¯ll cooperate and expedite matters. We¡¯ll get you a couple of bank accounts ¡ª checking and savings. The clerk gave up that twenty-thousand-dollar ticket, and there''s no reason for you not to have the money. If you want, you can give us the other ticket and we¡¯ll take care of that too, but your phone can download the state lottery app. I imagine the bank may choose to reward you as well. They do that sometimes. And the convenience store company will probably offer you a settlement. Your money issues, at least, are no longer an emergency for you.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m grateful for all this,¡± I say. ¡°But shouldn¡¯t I do that myself? Go to the bank?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± says a deep voice from the hall. The door opens and a tall man in a pale uniform stands there. He¡¯s whip-thin, in his late fifties, and grimacing. ¡°You can¡¯t.¡±

    I get a sinking feeling.

    ¡°Why not, Sheriff?¡± asks Smythe.

    ¡°Because I¡¯m having Rigby here,¡± says the sheriff, and Officer Rigby steps into view to wave his hand at us, looking embarrassed, "drop Mr. Walker over the county line in a little while.¡±

    ¡°But¡ª,¡± says Smythe.

    ¡°How many crime scenes has he been in for the past twenty-four hours?¡± asks the sheriff. ¡°How many dead? And the sprinkler system?¡±

    ¡°The Hatcher case,¡± says Smythe. ¡°A bank robbery and family kidnapping foiled.¡±

    ¡°The Hatcher case?¡± asks the Sheriff.

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    ¡°I got a lead,¡± says Smythe. ¡°Because he Pushed.¡±

    ¡°Can you say for sure he gave you that lead?¡± says the sheriff. ¡°Can you say for sure he didn¡¯t cause the kidnappings or the robberies with these curses of his?¡±

    Nobody said anything.

    The sheriff sighs. ¡°He¡¯s walking chaos. He goes. Soon as you¡¯re done here. There are no charges, Mr. Walker. Willamette thanks you for your help, but you¡¯re too dangerous to keep around. No hard feelings, but you¡¯ve got to scoot.¡± And then the man walks away.

    Rigby gnaws his lower lip. He says, ¡°Laura and I live out by the county line, anyway. Be glad to take you. There¡¯s a motel not too far from there. Least I can do.¡±

    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say.

    "Well, shit," Ochoa says. ¡°Hardly seems fair.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s not wrong,¡± says Torelli.

    Everybody looks at him.

    ¡°Well, he isn¡¯t,¡± says the dapper detective. ¡°Look kid, you¡¯re brand new at this stuff. Yeah, you can control it, but how well? This is a very controlled environment.¡± He swirls a finger over his head. ¡°Everything in this place is built to house dangerous people in every circumstance. It''s monitored and carefully arranged. The staff are well-trained professionals who are community-minded and do their best to keep their moral compasses fine-tuned. What might it be like for you on Main Street at noon? Downtown during happy hour?¡± Torelli shakes his head. ¡°It¡¯s a damn shame, but I see his point.¡±

    ¡°I do too,¡± I say.

    Everybody looks at me.

    I nod at Torelli. ¡°What if I hurt somebody or cause somebody to get hurt? I can¡¯t do that. No, I''ll cooperate and do as the sheriff wants. No problem. I''ll... figure this all out.¡±

    After that, we iron out a few details and I answer a few more follow-up questions, but soon things break up. One by one, we stand, getting ready to go.

    Ochoa stops me as I move to leave. She says, ¡°Why¡¯d you do it?¡±

    ¡°Sorry?¡± I say.

    ¡°Follow the lady in the sweater from the bar,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°You don¡¯t know her. It had nothing to do with you.¡±

    ¡°It has everything to do with me,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m not the type of guy who lets women get abducted from bars. If I was, then women are at least one guy less safe, right? Because I¡¯m not, everybody¡¯s one guy safer. That¡¯s just simple math.¡± I jam my index finger down onto the table. ¡°I know and care about lots of women. My mom¡¯s a woman. If I ever get a girlfriend, well, she¡¯ll be a woman too. I don¡¯t get to pick who the kidnappers victimize next, so yeah, that could affect me directly. Looked at like that, if anybody¡¯s less safe, then everybody¡¯s less safe. I don¡¯t see why that¡¯s confusing or surprising.¡±

    She lowers her sunglasses for a split second to peer over them at me, and I get just an impression of large, luminous eyes. Then the mirrors are back up in place and I¡¯m left to wonder if what I saw there was all an illusion. ¡°Making it a point to tell me you¡¯re single, eh?¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Are you flirting with me, Mr. Walker?¡±

    ¡°What? No!¡± I say a little too quickly. I feel my face warm.

    ¡°Well, why not?¡± she¡¯s frowning at me. ¡°Don¡¯t like law enforcement types? Typical. I¡¯ll remember this, Mr. Walker.¡±

    ¡°No! What? I¡ª,¡± but I should stop talking.

    Ochoa grins and I realize she¡¯s, what, teasing me? Playing around? Picking on me?

    She turns away and sways out of the interrogation room.

    Rigby is there in the hall, scratching his nose to hide a smile. ¡°I think she likes you,¡± he says.

    I''m baffled. ¡°She¡¯s out of her mind, then.¡±

    Twice cursed. It doesn¡¯t exactly cry out for domesticity, does it? Fucked once more.

    Rigby says, ¡°Come on, I¡¯ve got another sandwich waiting for you in the car. They didn¡¯t feed you, did they? And it¡¯s dinnertime! The monsters!¡±

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    When we get out back to the rear parking lot, I¡¯m surprised to find Laura Rigby putting a car seat in the back of her husband¡¯s prowler.

    I look at Rigby.

    He shrugs. ¡°It¡¯ll be crowded with you all in the back. Want to ride up front?¡±

    ¡°I mean, are you sure this is even a good idea? What with everything that¡¯s been happening around me?¡±

    Rigby¡¯s having trouble finding the ring between the seats for the carabiner to hook into. He stands up. ¡°Yeah, weird stuff happens around you, sure, but at the end of the day, it¡¯s the bad guys who paid the price with no innocents hurt, right? Besides, that kind of stuff can¡¯t happen to you all the time. Could you imagine what your life¡¯d be like?¡±

    It¡¯s clear he wants to do this for me, but I¡¯m still worried. I try a different tack. ¡°Am I even allowed?¡±

    Rigby shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s not normal, but I¡¯m off the clock and you¡¯re not under arrest or anything, so why not?¡±

    Laura straightens and smooths her cardigan. She smiles at me. ¡°Arthur won¡¯t let me or Beth out of his sight for more than five minutes right now,¡± she says with a sigh. ¡°And after today, I¡¯m in the mood to humor him.¡±

    I smile. I don¡¯t blame her at all.

    Rigby¡¯s got the car seat in place. His wife gets in and secures the straps around her baby. She waves me into the car, saying, ¡°It¡¯ll be fine.¡±

    So, what can I do?

    I¡¯ve never been in a police car. There¡¯s the radio and the laptop on the end of that arm thing that folds out so the cop can type on it. Rigby¡¯s got a shotgun in a holder there between the seats. I think I¡¯ve seen that before, but only in the movies.

    Rigby sees me staring at it. ¡°Oh crap, I forgot.¡± He glances back at his wife, then back at me. ¡°When the call came in about the bank robbery, I was doing a traffic stop. I grabbed it out from the trunk before I got moving,¡± he says. ¡°There¡¯s a spot for it there. It¡¯s safe and secure. I¡¯ll put it back later. Just don¡¯t fool around with it, okay?¡±

    I nod.

    I¡¯m feeling a bit awkward. I¡¯m not normally very talkative. I¡¯ve always been a bit shy, honestly. Well, okay, when I¡¯m supposed to talk to people, I¡¯m fine, like if I¡¯m interviewing them for a story, and I think I did okay in the interrogation, but this? Who wants to impose, you know? I¡¯m not sure where I fit in with the Rigbys, but I know they¡¯re trying to be nice and help me out for what I did in the bank, and they seem like super nice people, but I¡¯m just not sure what to say.

    Laura does. "So," she begins. ¡°Arthur tells me you¡¯re not from here?¡±

    Rigby groans. ¡°Laura, c¡¯mon.¡±

    ¡°Oh, cut it out,¡± says his wife. ¡°He didn¡¯t mean to tell me your business, Mr. Walker. I pestered him fair and square. You''ll find that everybody knows about extra-dimensional travel. It''s in a lot of our stories. Movies and things? I''ve never actually met somebody who''d done it, though.¡±

    ¡°I hope you¡¯ll call me Ben.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m Laura and this is Arthur, but only I call him that. Most call him Art, especially after New Year¡¯s two years ago,¡± she says and there''s a twinkle in her eye.

    Art sighs. ¡°Goddammit,¡± he says under his breath as he shakes his head and offers me a rueful smile.

    I know I¡¯m supposed to ask, so I do. ¡°What happened two years ago at New Year¡¯s?¡±

    Laura giggles and says, ¡°We were at a party and Torelli got drunk. He¡¯s waving this margarita around and gets everybody¡¯s attention. I thought he was going to make a toast or something, but he called us a bunch of uncultured swine. He''d been asking people who Hieronymus Bosch was. You know, the painter? Smythe was the only one there who knew. I guess there¡¯s a detective series, books, and TV. Somebody brought it up. Anyway, Torelli said," and here Laura arranges her face into a perfectly placid imitation of Torelli¡¯s. ¡°¡®It¡¯s very important,¡¯ he said. ¡®To expose yourself to Art.¡¯ And then he turned around and dropped trou, mooning Arthur right there in front of everybody in the Mexican restaurant!¡± She laughs.

    "Torelli did that?" I ask.

    Art nods. ¡°They¡¯re still doing it too,¡± he says.

    ¡°What? Mooning you?¡± I say.

    ¡°Yep. Smythe got me this morning.¡±

    Laura gasps, scandalized. ¡°She did not!¡±

    Art laughs. ¡°You''re right. She did not.¡±

    "You''re awful," his wife tells him, but she''s grinning.

    Rigby makes a left and we¡¯re on the two-lane state route out of town. One minute we¡¯re passing gas stations and fast food places. The next we¡¯re in the woods. Good old Northeastern Ohio is like that.

    We sit for a moment or two in quiet before everybody¡¯s phone goes off.

    I feel sick. Everybody knows that sound. It¡¯s an Amber Alert. I guess they have those here in this dimension, too.

    I always read the description, even if it¡¯s going on two towns over. This time, I read it out loud because Rigby''s driving and he needs to hear. "A maroon four-door sedan, American-made, older model. License plate begins with an H. Home invasion. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous."

    ¡°A maroon four-door?¡± Laura says, ¡°You mean like that car there?¡±

    I look where she''s pointing and three cars in front of us, traveling in the right lane, is a maroon Impala from the late nineties. The license starts with an H.

    Figures.

 Chapter 11 - Book 1

    It¡¯s dark out, but the Impala has a little light on over the license and we can all read it, plain as day. H. Of course, I still might¡¯ve been able to tell something was wrong from all the darkness swirling around the car. It''s as bad as I''ve ever seen it.

    As I watch, the darkness deepens. Something¡¯s making it worse. I see Rigby¡¯s hand going for the radio to call the station, and I knock it aside.

    The darkness recedes.

    ¡°What the fuck?¡± says Rigby, and the car swerves a little he¡¯s so surprised.

    He reaches again and the dark blooms over the Impala like an evil flower. It''s so dark there now that it becomes difficult to see.

    I switch the radio off as Rigby raises the handset to his mouth.

    ¡°Sorry,¡± I say. ¡°Something¡¯s wrong.¡±

    ¡°What did you do?¡± asks Rigby.

    ¡°Nothing,¡± I say.

    Rigby nods at the car. ¡°Is this you? Huh?¡±

    I shake my head. ¡°I wasn¡¯t Pushing, I swear.¡±

    ¡°Helluva coincidence.¡±

    I don¡¯t know what to say to that.

    ¡°Okay, why can¡¯t I use the radio?¡± Rigby asks. His face is flushed, and he looks pissed. ¡°There could be a kid in that car that needs help.¡±

    ¡°I think that is the car,¡± I say. ¡°It''s got bad luck all around it and I saw the dark kinda concentrate each time you went for the radio.¡±

    Rigby looks thoughtful.

    Laura says, ¡°Maybe he''s got a radio too. Or a police scanner.¡±

    Rigby nods. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s what I was thinking. Maybe if he hears me calling it in, he''ll panic. If he wasn¡¯t going to do something like that, then there¡¯d probably be no reason for things to get all dark over there, right?¡±

    ¡°I have no idea,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m new to this too, but that sounds right to me. Can we just, I dunno, follow him? See where he goes?¡±

    ¡°Every minute that kid is in the car with him,¡± Rigby explains. ¡°Is another minute that something could go wrong. For all I know, he''s hurting the boy right now as he''s driving.¡±

    ¡°But I can Push things. Make that less likely?¡±

    ¡°Ben, things happen around you whether you¡¯re Pushing or not,¡± says Rigby. ¡°No offense.¡±

    He¡¯s right.

    My God, this is the rest of my life. And that? That right there? That pisses me off.

    ¡°I got an idea.¡±

    Rigby glances at me. He¡¯s frowning. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re only three cars back, but he¡¯s not running yet,¡± I say. ¡°He¡¯s thinking we haven¡¯t seen him, right? Otherwise, you¡¯d be calling it in or doing the siren and lights thing.¡±

    ¡°I probably wouldn¡¯t do the ¡®siren and lights thing¡¯ right now. That could escalate a situation like this, but that might be what he¡¯s thinking, yeah,¡± says Rigby.

    Laura taps on the plexiglass divider. ¡°Don¡¯t you forget you¡¯ve got Beth back here, Arthur,¡± she says. ¡°And I have Detective Smythe¡¯s number in my phone. Want me to call her?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, but tell her to keep things off the radio and tell her why,¡± says Rigby.

    I hear her dial.

    ¡°You going to tell me your plan?¡± says Rigby.

    That would be a bad idea, but I have to tell him something. I say, ¡°Hang back here and look for an opportunity to get up there without setting him off.¡±

    ¡°You want me to ¡®get up there?¡¯¡±

    ¡°Alongside him, yeah.¡±

    ¡°Alondra? Hi!¡± says Laura from the back seat. ¡°Yep, it¡¯s me. We¡¯ve got a thing¡­.¡±

    ¡°Why do you want to get alongside?¡±

    But I¡¯m tuning him and Laura out to concentrate. There¡¯s too much dark around the Impala and, as I watch, pitch-black tendrils swipe out at random intervals at the scenery, the other cars, at nothing. Maybe what I¡¯m seeing are different awful possibilities if things go wrong. Maybe those are on the verge of coming true. I can''t have that.

    I Push.

    Light tussles with darkness over the kidnapper''s car like two blurry rabid octopuses wrestling over a giant maroon oyster.

    Octopi?

    Who cares? I''ll look it up later.

    The light¡¯s a little stronger, Pushing the dark away back to wherever it goes, and this makes sense. The terrible possibilities are random, generated by the kidnapper in the car, but even he just wants to get out of there. He just wants to escape, right? Nobody here wants anything bad to happen, so I figure that makes it easier for me. There''s no opposing will.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    I hear Rigby say something. Then he exclaims.

    We¡¯re in the right lane, same as the kidnapper.

    Kidnappers? I should keep in mind there might be more than one in the car with the child. And what is it with me and kidnappers all the sudden?

    I see a growing light from behind. It¡¯s not me. The lights are electric and then our car shudders as someone passes us on the left at, like, warp speed.

    ¡°There¡¯s our opportunity,¡± says Rigby. He hits the lights and siren, and we lurch into the left lane after the speeder.

    Rigby¡¯s got the handset in his hand, calling it in. He risks a glance at me.

    I give him a nod. Ready.

    I press the button to roll the window down.

    We¡¯re getting closer to the Impala and I¡¯m really Pushing now.

    I look ahead as we''re all sucked down into our seats from the acceleration. I see guardrails up ahead on either side of a small bridge as the land on either side of the road falls away toward the river. We¡¯re surrounded by farmland now. There are combines in the fields like sleeping monsters. Huge bales of hay looking like tombstones for giants.

    The speeder has passed the Impala and shows no signs of slowing down.

    Laura is talking to Smythe. ¡°They know we¡¯re not going after the speeder, right? Wow, he¡¯s flying!¡±

    The window is down. The rush of air is loud. We all have to shout to be heard, and the baby shrieks, making a sound like canvas tearing, making me worry about the integrity of her vocal chords.

    I have to be careful. If I telegraph my move, Rigby is certain to stop me.

    He¡¯s glancing at me, his eyes growing rounder and more scared as we get closer to the Impala. It''s clear he¡¯s clueless about what I''m about to do. Good.

    I can see into the car a little now. From what I can see from the back of their head, the driver is a man or a tall woman with a short haircut. Is this the kidnapper? My instincts say yes, but I just got the damn things. Am I sure about this?

    I¡¯m sure. This is going to work. I feel it.

    We¡¯re passing.

    I see the driver turn his head. The lights of the cop car do odd things to his face. When it''s red, he looks like he¡¯s angry. Like he wants to murder the world. When it''s blue, he looks sullen and put-upon. There¡¯s an odd discoloration below his left ear. It¡¯s not a bruise or a tattoo, but it looks familiar to me. I can¡¯t remember why.

    When my window is even with the Impala¡¯s front tire, I try to take the shotgun out of its holder, but it won¡¯t come out. Some sort of locking mechanism. There¡¯s some sort of mechanism on the side of the holster-thingy. I don¡¯t look too close. Instead, I Push, fumble with the lever or buttons or whatever, and the gun comes free, so I point it out the window at the hubcap, and Push for all I¡¯m worth.

    I hear the Rigby¡¯s shouting and there¡¯s a flash of light and then the photo-negative thing, like what happened in the convenience store.

    The Impala swerves away, off the road. The tire I was planning to blow runs up onto the guardrail of the low bridge and the Impala flips out of sight.

    I¡¯m Pushing and Pushing.

    Laura is screaming.

    Rigby is shouting.

    Our car shrieks as it''s brought around in a one-eighty, and I''m thrown against the door. The other two cars pass through the smoke of our tires and are gone. We pull over at the beginning of the bridge to block both of the lanes on this side of the road.

    The shotgun gets ripped out of my hands and rammed down back into place. Rigby is red-faced and showing his teeth. For a moment, I think he¡¯s going to hit me. He gets out of the car instead.

    I follow, still Pushing.

    The car¡¯s closer to the edge of the incline than I expected, but with some strategic arm waving and hip gyrations, I keep from tumbling down it. This is impressive because most of my attention gets stolen by what¡¯s happened to the Impala.

    It¡¯s upside down on the back of one of those huge hay trucks, wheels still spinning.

    Rigby is hurrying toward the back when the trunk whumps open and something big falls out of it, which Rigby catches. The cop stumbles and falls on his ass.

    The ground is soft and moist. It sucks at my shoes as I go to help Rigby.

    He¡¯s got a boy in his arms. Ruffled, caramel-colored hair, rosy cheeks. The kid can¡¯t be more than seven. He¡¯s got a death grip on the cop and he¡¯s shaking.

    Rigby is rubbing the boy¡¯s back as I help him back to his feet. He drops the boy into my arms without a word.

    I hold him close. The boy¡¯s still shaking.

    We¡¯re both watching the driver¡¯s door.

    It¡¯s closed and looks undamaged. I can see one square-looking hand resting against the glass.

    ¡°Is he okay?¡± I hear Laura ask. She¡¯s above me, looking down over the guardrail.

    ¡°Seems okay,¡± I say, but I try to get a look into his eyes. It¡¯s no good, the kid won¡¯t cooperate. His chin is digging into my neck and won¡¯t budge. ¡°Are you okay?¡± I keep asking him.

    ¡°I don¡¯t see anything wrong,¡± says Laura. ¡°Can you get him up here?¡±

    It takes a while, but I do. The climb back up to the road is treacherous and I¡¯ve got the added weight of the child.

    Laura checks him out. She says, ¡°There¡¯s just some bruising.¡± She moves around behind me to look at the kid¡¯s face. ¡°Are you okay, little boy?¡± she says. Her voice is so kind.

    The boy reaches for her, and Laura takes him. She talks to him. Soothes him.

    I go over to the rail.

    Rigby is sitting on the hay by the driver¡¯s door, looking up at me. ¡°You are out of your damn mind,¡± he says.

    ¡°The boy¡¯s okay, we think,¡± I say.

    ¡°The driver¡¯s out cold. Alive and unresponsive. I¡¯ve already called for an ambulance. No one else in the car,¡± says Rigby. ¡°Nobody else with guns. No other children. No explosives or weapons rolling around with their safeties off.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Didn¡¯t what?¡± says Rigby. ¡°Didn¡¯t think about what you were doing? Didn¡¯t consider all the possibilities? Ben, you¡¯re in the possibility business now. What the fuck were you thinking?¡±

    The adrenaline leaving me this time has a much different effect. I¡¯m shaky and I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯m going to be sick. It¡¯s the guilt. I feel stupid and wrong.

    ¡°I was going to shoot the tire,¡± I say.

    ¡°Shoot. The. Tire,¡± says Rigby. ¡°Like in the movies. Ben, is this a movie?¡±

    I can¡¯t say anything.

    ¡°Shoot into a car. On the highway. At speed. With a kid in the trunk?¡± says Rigby.

    When I don¡¯t reply, he sighs. ¡°You can do things, I know. But this¡­ should have turned out better.¡±

    ¡°I Pushed too hard, I think,¡± I tell him.

    ¡°Too hard?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. I think that sometimes when I Push things, things Push back. Like a backlash. It happened in the convenience store.¡±

    ¡°You look like you¡¯re going to fall down. Sit on the guardrail and stay there,¡± says Rigby.

    I sit. I stay.

    ¡°Laura have the kid?¡±

    I nod.

    We hear sirens.

    ¡°The sheriff is going to fucking kill me.¡±

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    He doesn''t though.

    I think he''s going to fire Rigby. I think we all do, especially when Rigby tells him about the shotgun. How I¡¯d grabbed it. And Sheriff Abernathy turns bright purple when he hears the story, but it turns out the boy we saved is the nephew of the Mayor of Akron, and no one had been hurt. I hadn¡¯t even fired the gun. So, Abernathy sends Rigby home on a three-day suspension, and I go back to the station. In handcuffs.

    In the back of the sheriff¡¯s own cruiser.

    He says nothing at all to me the whole time, though I do get my share of penetrating glances in the rearview mirror.

    I haven¡¯t barfed, but it¡¯s been a struggle.

    I tell myself I was trying to help. That I did help, but I¡¯d scared the living shit out of everybody around me doing so. I should have been able to think of something better. I¡¯m smarter than that. Maybe if I¡¯d had more sleep.

    The truth is that I did what I did. I didn¡¯t think of anything else. Nobody did. The kid is safe. The kidnapper is alive, caught, and being treated at the hospital. All that should help how I feel, but it doesn''t.

    When the sheriff locks me in the holding cell, I feel right at home. The light and the dark are barely present here. I lay down on the cot and I¡¯m asleep before the weight of my head dimples the pillowcase.

 Chapter 12 - Book 1

    There¡¯s a tapping at the door to my cell that wakes me up.

    I blink and sit up. There¡¯s no clock in here. No way to tell what time it is without checking my phone, which is way over there plugged into the wall, but I think I finally managed a full night¡¯s sleep. All it took was to get arrested. But, hey, I didn¡¯t wake up on fire or anything, or drenched like last time, so I figure I¡¯m ahead.

    The tapping comes again, like a fingernail on the thick plexiglass.

    I swear, if it¡¯s a raven, I¡¯m checking myself right into a mental hospital.

    A face peers in. It¡¯s Agent Ochoa. She¡¯s got her head tilted way back, and she¡¯s looking past her nose into the room. I take a moment to understand she¡¯s on tiptoe, otherwise she¡¯d be too short to see through the window.

    I¡¯m off to the side and she hasn¡¯t seen me yet. Her eyes are darting this way and that, and there¡¯s a faint grin on her face. I sigh.

    ¡°Ben?¡± I hear her call. ¡°You decent?¡±

    ¡°Yeah!¡± I say, but I¡¯m not sure they can hear me.

    The door opens.

    I hear Tyler snort. ¡°Did you really just ask if he was decent?¡±

    Ochoa steps in, looking back over her shoulder. She¡¯s wearing a different suit. Light gray with a pale blue blouse. Her mirrored sunglasses are in place. ¡°You never know,¡± she says, chewing her gum. ¡°He could¡¯ve been on the can or working out in his boxers. Oh! Or maybe he sleeps naked, or¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Agent Ochoa!¡± says Tyler.

    Ochoa looks at me, smiles. She¡¯s chewing her gum. ¡°What?¡± she says, rolling her eyes and gesturing at me. ¡°He¡¯s decent. Darn it.¡±

    Tyler pokes her head into the room. ¡°I just need a word with her and then we¡¯ll be right with you, Mr. Walker,¡± she says, then she frowns at Ochoa and jerks her thumb over her shoulder. ¡°Outside. Now.¡±

    But Ochoa doesn¡¯t move. Her smile evaporates and, still facing me, she says, ¡°That¡¯s really unnecessary, Agent Tyler. I got this. Mr. Walker, Agent Tyler, is right to point out that I have been acting inappropriately. If I step into the hallway with her right now, she¡¯ll tell me she thinks I¡¯m doing it because it clearly confuses and provokes you and that you don¡¯t know what to do with it. She supposes that my outrageous behavior could be designed to elicit information from you that you have thus far kept hidden or to gauge your character as a brand new unknown quantity in the supernatural community, or that I simply enjoy tormenting you. She would have me come back in here to apologize to you and let you know you would be well within your rights to file a complaint, either with Agent Tyler or her direct supervisor.¡±

    ¡°I¡­,¡± I start, but that was a lot to process. It¡¯s early in the morning. Or it¡¯s not. Dunno. Besides, Ochoa''s right. I don¡¯t know what to do with her or with what she said either. I almost thank her for her apology, but then again, I''m not sure she made one.

    Tyler steps inside the cell. She has a small manila folder in her hand. ¡°I don¡¯t believe you,¡± she says to Ochoa.

    ¡°What?¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Did I miss anything?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not the point,¡± says Tyler. ¡°I¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Please don¡¯t correct me in front of the extraterrestrial,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°It¡¯s embarrassing and unprofessional.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t call him that.¡±

    ¡°Unprofessional?¡±

    ¡°Extraterrestrial!¡±

    ¡°Why not?¡± says Ochoa. Then she says in a silly robot voice, ¡°He is not from this planet, ergo he is an E.T.¡±

    Tyler sighs.

    ¡°E.T., prone bone,¡± says Ochoa with a snort.

    ¡°Mo!¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°Last one, I swear,¡± says Ochoa, and I don¡¯t know how, but she conveys a wink to me even with those sunglasses on that cover half her face. ¡°Did you guys even have that movie?¡± she says.

    ¡°Uh, yeah,¡± I say.

    ¡°It¡¯s a good one.¡±

    ¡°I liked it,¡± I say.

    ¡°Oh my God,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Mr. Walker, I apologize for my partner. The sheriff is not going to press charges. You are not under arrest and are free to leave whenever you wish.¡± She holds up her envelope. ¡°In here is a temporary driver¡¯s license, social security card, and birth certificate. We¡¯re hoping to have a detailed work history, complete with references that will answer if called, within a week or two, but we¡¯ll need to sit down and work all that out with you sometime. That should help you get on your feet. Your new bank sent us a bank card and account information. Most people do all that through their phones these days. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a pamphlet inside or something that¡¯ll guide you through the process. We¡¯re told that the money from the ticket the clerk stole from you was deposited. You can deposit the other whenever you want. In cases like this, we can create a credit history for you with an adequate score for someone in their early to mid-twenties. That¡¯ll all take up an afternoon at our offices sometime soon. We¡¯ll have to set that up. In the meantime, everything you need to start your new life here is in that envelope. If you think of anything else you need, both my contact information and Agent Ochoa¡¯s are also inside.¡±

    ¡°Wow,¡± I say. ¡°Thank you.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± says Tyler. ¡°We''ve found it''s better in the long run to help new arrivals rather than have them run around desperate. Standard procedure is to get new arrivals inoculated and given a thorough physical by a doctor, complete with MRI and chem panel. It¡¯s impossible to know what immunities you have or don¡¯t have, what vulnerabilities to viruses or bacteria that exist here but don¡¯t where you¡¯re from, you understand. It¡¯s a safety precaution, but an important one.¡±

    ¡°I understand,¡± I say.

    ¡°Great,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Let¡¯s get you out of here, get you some clothes, get you something to eat, and get you to the hospital so you can get on with your life.¡±

    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    She¡¯s proud of all those ¡®gets,¡¯ and I smile.

    I hear Ochoa say, ¡°Get a life,¡± under her breath, but she spoils her grumpy remark by giggling.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    Breakfast is at a fast food drive thru, and I¡¯m pleased to see that this universe has my usual. Sometimes I gotta have that bacon, egg, and cheese bagel.

    As we eat, Ochoa says around a mouthful, ¡°So, what have you figured out about your abilities? You going to be able to¡ª.¡±

    There¡¯s a tremendous noise in a parking lot in front of a strip mall off to our left, like God hit a tank with a baseball bat. The front of a Mustang convertible is resting on its frame as the rear wheels bounce in place. It almost looks like the sports car is abusing itself to the khan or something and twerking at the same time. I bark a laugh, earning a glance from each of the government agents in the car with me.

    There¡¯s a softball-sized hole in the hood of the stricken vehicle which starts smoking as I watch.

    We¡¯re still in the exit, waiting to pull into traffic. Tires squeal as Tyler redirects us into the opposite parking lot, while Ochoa dials nine-one-one.

    Firemen soon arrive and begin pouring buckets of sand into the engine block to keep it from igniting.

    One of them is looking under the car. When he looks back to where I¡¯m standing with the two agents, he says, ¡°There¡¯s a hole in the goddamn asphalt.¡± He¡¯s got his phone out and we watch him turn on the flashlight app and take another look. ¡°Yep,¡± he says. ¡°Right through the engine block and into the ground.¡±

    ¡°What was it?¡± asks Tyler.

    The fireman sits up while one of his coworkers pours another bucket of sand. ¡°You know,¡± he says. ¡°I think it¡¯s a meteor? Like, from space?¡±

    Ochoa and Tyler turn to look at me.

    I shrug. ¡°So, here¡¯s what I understand about my powers,¡± I say.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    I explain it all, seeing no reason to hold anything back from them. I can¡¯t remember everything I said to them before and what I¡¯ve figured out since then, anyway.

    One. I know that sometimes crazy things happen around me without me Pushing. There was no sense of the meteorite, for example, which seemed to be a random event. What can I say? I am a shit magnet.

    Two. I can see amorphous concentrations of light and dark that aren¡¯t really visually there and that seem to represent positive or negative outcomes.

    Three. The light and dark thingies are not static. They move around. Sometimes more. Sometimes less, depending on the situation and what people are doing around me.

    Four. Things get dark when there are people or things that might make a negative outcome more likely, like the alcohol at the restaurant bar and Crazy Eddie at the police station.

    Five. Things get light when there are more positive people and influences around like the Rigbys and the agents. Even the sheriff seems to calm things down, probability-wise, despite him not liking me.

    Six. The light and the dark get more agitated the more people are around, and the circumstances are less controlled. There¡¯s just not that much opportunity for things to go haywire in a holding cell or an interrogation room. I figure that¡¯s why the sprinkler system went off during my nightmare. Bad things happen when my luck gets dark, and there was very little else for it to affect in the room. When I¡¯m outside? In the wild? Well, all those colliding intents and purposes, all that mortal coil shoving things this way and that, expands and excites possibility. Duh.

    Seven. I can Push my luck to have something happen the way I want it to. If I couldn¡¯t, I¡¯d be dead, in jail, or both.

    Eight. There¡¯s an art to it. I can Push too hard and have things backfire like they did in the convenience store and with the kidnapper¡¯s car. There was that flash and photo negative effect, and then oops.

    There might be more to all this, but for now, that¡¯s everything I think I know. I probably have some of that wrong, or it¡¯s incomplete, and I figure I¡¯d better keep that in mind.

    ¡°Here¡¯s something I don¡¯t understand,¡± says Ochoa.

    "Just one thing?" Tyler quips.

    We¡¯re back on the road heading to the hospital for me to get checked out.

    ¡°Take the speeder that helped you guys get next to the kidnapper¡¯s car without triggering him,¡± she says. ¡°You were Pushing at the time, correct?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Okay, here¡¯s the thing,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°That guy didn¡¯t just manifest out of nothing. He didn¡¯t get summoned from the great beyond. He was already on the road before you Pushed.¡± She holds up her phone. ¡°More importantly,¡± she says. ¡°He was already speeding. The staties got him a couple minutes after that fucker went off the road for his spontaneous upside-down exploration of that hay truck. The kid bragged that he had been doing ninety since he left Willamette. Again, before you Pushed.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s your point?¡± asks Tyler.

    ¡°The point is either Ben didn¡¯t make that happen,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Or that he did.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, so what?¡± says Tyler, then she gasps. ¡°Oh shit. What the hell?¡±

    ¡°What?¡± I say. ¡°What is it?¡±

    ¡°How¡¯d that kid start speeding before you Pushed? He was doing what you needed before you know you needed it.¡±

    Oh wow. ¡°Um.¡±

    ¡°Wait. This is actually happening a lot.¡± Ochoa points at me. ¡°Those lottery tickets. They didn¡¯t teleport into those dispensers at the convenience store. The bank robbers chose your bank. All that happened before you even were here in this world.¡±

    ¡°Did I do that? Or did my luck move me where I needed to go?¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Or maybe it does. Maybe that¡¯s academic? What it means, though, is that your ¡®luck,¡¯ as you call it, might not function linearly in time.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Your Push,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Could have traveled back in time to affect the decision-making of the speeder, the lottery tickets, the bank robbers¡¯ plans.¡±

    ¡°My¡­ will can travel in time and make people do things?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°The kid chose. He¡¯s responsible. Nobody forced the robbers to walk into that bank. The clerk made a choice. Even if you Pushed, it¡¯s not like you held a gun to anybody¡¯s head. I mean, probably not, right? We''re still figuring this out.¡±

    ¡°I don''t know...,¡± I say.

    ¡°Assuming that meteorite was you too, how long ago was it when something nudged it onto that trajectory? Rocks in space, knocking into each other around Saturn or some ringed planet from another solar system. A supernova. A hundred years? A thousand?" Ochoa shakes her head. ¡°Dude, you might be the first person able to act outside of our normal three dimensions.¡±

    ¡°Four if you count time,¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°Nah, the fourth dimension isn¡¯t exactly time,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°I mean, Finkle said it was, yeah, but there¡¯s since been some¡ª. Why am I talking about this?¡±

    ¡°I have no idea,¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°Who¡¯s Finkle?¡± I ask.

    They just look at me like I asked who George Washington was. Shit. Is he a thing over here?

    ¡°Still, this is cool, right?¡± says Ochoa.

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure Mr. Walker would agree,¡± says Tyler.

    I¡¯m not sure I would. But then I¡¯m not sure I wouldn¡¯t. It¡¯s all too new, and I''m too scared.

    I say, ¡°You guys can call me Ben.¡±

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    We spend a lot of time with various doctors at the hospital where they give me a bunch of shots, take my medical history, and shove me into or through machine after machine.

    The whole time I¡¯m thinking about what Ochoa said about me being able to act outside of time and what that means. Hey, none of us really get to know what our existence is for, right? The absurdists I enjoyed reading in high school and college would say there is no purpose. That life is pointless. I always felt that, if they¡¯re right, then good. We get to choose for ourselves. Only now, maybe I don¡¯t get to do that. Not fully.

    Now that I¡¯ve got this power, maybe it directs me to where I need to be. Maybe the space I¡¯m in, the people I¡¯m with, the problems I face are all where I¡¯m supposed to be. Where I''m needed. Where I can do the very best for myself and others. Maybe that¡¯s true for everybody and we just can''t tell, and maybe it means that everybody can make that true. It¡¯s just that, with me now, it¡¯s more so.

    Does that make any sense?

    When the doctors are done and I¡¯m pronounced healthy and immunized, we get in the elevator and I¡¯m thinking we¡¯re about to leave and go to the car. These two lovely agents are done with me, and I¡¯ll be able to please the sheriff by getting out of town. Just where I¡¯ll go, I have no idea.

    We¡¯re on the second floor and the elevator showed when we got on that it was going down, but Ochoa punches the button for eight.

    She¡¯s rubbing her plump bottom lip, looking at me like she¡¯s trying to guess my weight.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± asks Tyler.

    ¡°We were here all last night trying to identify that kidnapper and get him to talk to us, right?¡± says Ochoa.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°Would you say we didn¡¯t have any luck with him?¡± says Ochoa.

    Tyler says, ¡°Yeah, he totally stonewalled us. I¡¯ve never seen anybody so¡­.¡± Tyler looks at me.

    I shrug and smirk.

    Then, ¡°Oh!¡±

 Chapter 13 - Book 1

    Tyler says what I¡¯m thinking, ¡°Is this a good idea?¡± She opens her hand at me. ¡°He¡¯s in a hospital.¡±

    Ochoa shrugs. ¡°His luck goes both ways,¡± she says. ¡°It evens out. Besides, my guess is he¡¯s been Pushing this whole time.¡±

    I¡¯m not¡­. Yes. Yes, I am. My guess is that I¡¯ve been doing it at least a little for a while now. It feels that way. I didn¡¯t know I was doing it and I don¡¯t remember consciously deciding to do it. It''s not like there''s a kind of speedometer for it, you know? Or a log? I¡¯ve got no way to measure it, how much I¡¯m Pushing versus how much I need to Push or how far is too far to Push. Now that I''m paying attention, I dial it down a notch or two, so it''s just barely into the lighter side of even. Just in case.

    ¡°Ben?¡±

    It¡¯s Tyler. She¡¯s been trying to ask me something while I was thinking. It¡¯s not hard to guess what she asked.

    ¡°Yeah, I was,¡± I say. ¡°Pushing. I didn¡¯t even know I was doing it.¡± I look at Ochoa. ¡°How¡¯d you know?¡±

    But she just smiles and chews her gum at me.

    Tyler snorts.

    The elevator opens and we head out into the hall. It¡¯s very¡­ hospital. There are rooms at intervals on the right and utility, storage, and the nurse¡¯s station on the left. At the end of the hall, two uniformed police officers stand outside a hospital room with a wide window. Inside, a very large African American man in scrubs is working on the guy from the Impala.

    As we walk down the corridor, I hear a frantic beeping from the room we just walked past. I can feel the cold dark gathering there and I Push at it, trying to keep it back.

    Nurses and a doctor are hurrying towards us, but I¡¯m concentrating on my struggle so I¡¯m slow to get out of the way. Tyler¡¯s big hand takes me by the shoulder and pulls.

    I stumble and trip, falling toward the wall, face first.

    Not wanting to break my nose, I try to get my hands on the wall to brace myself. Better to slide down the wall in style with my dignity intact, but my hand closes on something that gives me some purchase and I¡¯m able to keep my feet. Hard and plastic. It moves in my hand.

    Lights flash, and a voice directs us toward the exits.

    Great. I¡¯ve pulled the fire alarm.

    I look at Ochoa and Tyler.

    They are both looking at me, hands on their hips, eyebrows expectant.

    Something¡­ behind me.

    I turn.

    The room with Captain Impala in it is swallowed in darkness. Black tendrils search from the doorway. As I watch, the big nurse steps out like he''s emerging from a storm cloud, glaring at me.

    There¡¯s a white flash behind him, and the hospital shakes with an explosion that pounds at my eardrums.

    I step in front of the agents.

    Searing pain in my hip as I¡¯m spun into them, and we all go down together in a tangle of limbs.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    ¡°Mo¡¯s mad at you,¡± says Tyler.

    I look up at her.

    She¡¯s smiling. Her expression is¡­ fond?

    "''Mo'' is short for Monica?" I ask.

    "Yep."

    ¡°She''s mad?¡±

    ¡°Yep,¡± she says. ¡°She said she always imagined being blown up would be more fun. You spoiled it by getting in the way.¡±

    ¡°Sorry.¡±

    Tyler waves that away. She¡¯s got a shallow cut on her forehead. ¡°She¡¯s upset you¡¯re hurt,¡± she says. ¡°That you got in front of us. It was her idea to bring you up here. Now she¡¯s thinking about charging you with pulling the fire alarm. Triggering one without there being a fire is a felony, you know.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m damn lucky that you did,¡± says the man in the other bed. It¡¯s the big nurse from Captain Impala¡¯s hospital room.

    We¡¯re each on a gurney tucked to either side of the ward¡¯s corridor while triage is being done on others. He¡¯s lying on his belly with a blanket over him. He¡¯s naked otherwise. The scrubs he was wearing were burned and shredded. If he hadn¡¯t been in a hospital, he¡¯d be dead. From what I understand, if he¡¯d been in my universe when it happened, he wouldn¡¯t have made it either. Practitioner magic had saved him and dealt with the worst of the burns.

    As far as we know and can tell, the nurse got hurt worse than anybody, and they worked on him right there for the better part of an hour, removing bone fragments and taking grim pleasure in identifying the pieces. The only person hurt worse was Captain Impala, of course, who exploded.

    They took a single shard of the kidnapper¡¯s pelvis from my hip. It hurts. I got seven stitches and something for the pain.

    The hospital room Impala was in is a red shambles. There was no fire, but there''s a smell like burned bread or something that¡¯s still lingering.

    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    The nurse says, ¡°You pulling that alarm saved my life, and my big ass blocking the door probably helped a bunch of other people.¡±

    ¡°What about the other emergency?¡± I ask. ¡°From right before.¡±

    ¡°Mr. Teasdale?¡± says the nurse. ¡°He¡¯s fine. They got him back up and running. Worked on him right through the explosion.¡±

    ¡°Some day, huh?¡± I ask.

    ¡°You don¡¯t know the half of it,¡± says the nurse. ¡°Earlier today, right before my shift? I picked up some donuts and a fucking meteorite blasted through the engine block of my car!¡±

    Tyler wears a carefully neutral expression.

    ¡°Only took the temporary plates off yesterday. Had that car for a minute, then boom, a rock from outer space,¡± says the nurse. ¡°And now I¡¯m blown up. It¡¯s only Tuesday!¡± And the big man begins to laugh.

    I sit up.

    ¡°Whoa, what are you doing?¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°Bathroom,¡± I say. I point down the hall. ¡°There¡¯s one right there. I¡¯ll be fine.¡±

    They¡¯ve got the nurse¡¯s personal effects piled at his feet. There¡¯s a wallet, his car keys, his ID.

    I hold out my hand to him. ¡°I¡¯m Ben Walker,¡± I say.

    He shakes my hand. I¡¯m six feet tall and slim, not a small man. His hand dwarfs mine, but his grip is firm and gentle. ¡°Gerald Whately,¡± he says.

    I slip my lottery ticket into Whately¡¯s stuff. It¡¯s not like I¡¯ll miss it. I¡¯ve got twenty thousand in the bank I got for ten bucks, a settlement coming probably from the convenience store, and maybe a reward from the bank. Maybe I can get used to this.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    ¡°Where is Ochoa?¡± I ask when I get back. ¡°Is she that mad at me?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± says Tyler. ¡°She¡¯s handling something else.¡±

    I nod. ¡°What¡¯s with the sunglasses?¡± I ask. ¡°It¡¯s cloudy today. And we¡¯re inside.¡±

    Tyler sighs. ¡°They aren¡¯t sunglasses. They''re two-way mirrors,¡± she says. ¡°Don¡¯t tell her I told you.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± I ask.

    ¡°She¡¯s a woman in the FBI,¡± says Tyler. ¡°We all have our issues working there. Ochoa? She¡¯s got volumes of issues.¡±

    ¡°Fake sunglasses though? Why not real ones?¡±

    ¡°She wears them inside and at night, too. She¡¯s kinda famous for it.¡±

    ¡°Why though? Why wear them?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯d have to ask her.¡±

    Fair enough. ¡°She¡¯s got her sunglasses,¡± I say. ¡°What¡¯s your thing?¡±

    ¡°Me?¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m very large. Sometimes I¡¯m forced to throw my weight around. When I do, I¡¯ve chosen to do it, every time, demonstrably. I¡¯ve been known to inspire people who annoy me to spontaneously travel through walls. It¡¯s helped.¡±

    ¡°The patriarchy¡¯s firmly in place here too, I see.¡±

    Tyler snorts.

    ¡°Does Willamette have an FBI branch office?¡± I ask.

    Tyler frowns. She says, ¡°No, we¡¯re out of Akron. Why?¡±

    ¡°You guys were already here,¡± I say. ¡°I remember you said. Before I got here.¡±

    ¡°Yes, but that has nothing to do with this.¡±

    ¡°So, where¡¯s Ochoa?¡±

    Tyler says, ¡°I guess it¡¯ll be in the news later, anyway. There were other explosions here today. Four. In the morgue. She''s down there looking into it.¡±

    ¡°Four?¡± I say. Then it hits me. ¡°The bank robbers?¡±

    ¡°Shhh! Keep it down!¡±

    ¡°Dead bodies exploding?¡± I say in a low voice. ¡°But Captain Impala was alive, right? He was up here. Not in the morgue.¡±

    ¡°Captain Impala?¡±

    ¡°The Impala guy. The kidnapping bastard.¡±

    ¡°Oh, I get it. Nice,¡± says Tyler. ¡°No, he was alive. Now, well, I don¡¯t imagine you thought you¡¯d go pelvis to pelvis with a real-life kidnapper when you got up this morning, now did you?¡±

    ¡°Something¡¯s going on in Willamette,¡± I say. ¡°Something that¡¯s not me. What part of the FBI do you work for? They¡¯ve got different sections, right?¡±

    ¡°Ochoa and I have the honor of being the only two agents making up the Paranormal Assessment Unit in the Akron office.¡±

    ¡°You guys investigate spooky stuff?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s one way to put it.¡±

    ¡°Dude, there was a whole popular TV show based on that where I come from.¡±

    ¡°Here, that could be a documentary.¡±

    ¡°Are Ochoa¡¯s eyes spooky then? Magic or something?¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s that about my eyes, asshole?¡± says Ochoa. She¡¯s down by my feet. When did she get here?

    ¡°Hola, mami. ?Que tal?¡± I hear Whately say.

    Ochoa rounds on him. ¡°I don¡¯t speak Spanish, big boy. So, I¡¯m going to have to guess at the proper response.¡± She swats him on his ass.

    He howls.

    ¡°Oops,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Must¡¯ve got it wrong.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not so sure,¡± says Whately. He''s laughing through the pain. ¡°That¡¯s all the Spanish I know, I swear.¡±

    Ochoa looks at me. ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong. I¡¯m Latina. It¡¯s just that my family dates back to St. Augustine, Florida. Older than Jamestown or Roanoke, bitches." She sneers at Whately. ¡°My family¡¯s forgotten more Spanish than you¡¯ll ever know, big boy.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re so weird,¡± says Whately. ¡°I dig that about you.¡±

    Ochoa giggles. She turns to me. She adjusts her glasses. ¡°Now, what was this about my eyes?¡±

    ¡°Nothing.¡±

    ¡°If you want to see ¡®em, just ask.¡±

    ¡°You gonna spank him if he does?¡± asks Whately.

    ¡°Agent Ochoa!¡± says Tyler. She''s massaging her temples. ¡°Let¡¯s step out into the stairwell for a moment, shall we and you can tell me what you¡¯ve learned?¡±

    The FBI agents step away and I can hear Whately laughing.

    ¡°What?¡± I ask.

    ¡°You poor bastard,¡± he says.

    ¡°What?¡±

    But he won¡¯t tell me.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    There¡¯s something I¡¯m missing. It¡¯s bothering me.

    The FBI was already in the neighborhood when I ran afoul of that first kidnapper, Lansky, and her goon.

    Lansky cursed me and left me for dead, but Beardy the Wizard shot her.

    After he examined at me, Beardy cursed me too, then kicked bricks.

    I think it was Tyler who said the FBI was aware of Lansky before this. She said she was a freelancer, and Tyler and Ochoa belong to the Paranormal Assessment Unit, right? Maybe they were looking for Lansky or whoever hired her.

    Okay, put a pin in that for a moment.

    Captain Impala was a kidnapper, too. He just blew up along with all the bank robbers. Why?

    I mean, it¡¯s possible that Impala did it to himself somehow, but the assholes from the bank?

    The exploding people all have to be connected somehow, don¡¯t they? Beyond the fact that they¡¯re criminals? Gotta be, but I don¡¯t see how.

    Is it all connected?

    Maybe not. Lansky and her henchman were professionals. Were the bank robbers? I don¡¯t think so. They were much too nervous, and I think a professional driver would¡¯ve escaped rather than run in and start shooting. I wonder if there¡¯s been any success in identifying any of them, and would they tell me if they did?

    As far as Impala being a pro, I have no idea. There''s not enough data.

    And then there¡¯s the smell. The burned bread odor is still there and has been since the explosion.

    It reminds me of the bank somehow, but I can¡¯t figure out why. Did I smell something like that there? I can¡¯t tell. Smells are funny that way. Tied strongly to memory, yeah, but not as orderly as the other senses, I think. At least not for me. I mean, a certain smell can take me some place totally unrelated to whatever it is. Lavender, for example, always reminds me of a date I took to a college hockey game. I don¡¯t know why.

    A psychology professor told me once that the brain is like a big filing cabinet managed by someone who can¡¯t always be bothered to get it right. You¡¯ll forget a name, for example, and it¡¯ll bother you for a week until someone hands you a cheeseburger and then, somehow, you remember. The name file got put in the cheeseburger folder, see?

    So, for right now, the yeasty smell of burned bread calls up the bank. Is it a clue or is it a misfiling? There¡¯s no way to tell.

    Wait a minute. How¡¯s any of this my business? I¡¯m just some guy. I shouldn''t be mixed up in any of this. It''s interesting to think about academically. You know, solving a mystery? It¡¯s not like I was an investigative journalist. You know, maybe one day. That¡¯d be awesome, but no, I covered church functions and high school plays and stuff. I''m literally nobody here. I''ve got an envelope filled with lies to prove it.

    Nobody.

    Only I¡¯m not anymore, am I? Things are going on. Bad things. And I can help. If I can, I should.

    I decide I¡¯m going to.

 Chapter 14 - Book 1

    When Tyler comes back with Ochoa in tow, I tell them, ¡°I want to help.¡±

    Tyler puts a hand on my shoulder. ¡°You are helping,¡± she said. ¡°A lot. You helped a family escape what was probably going to be a mass human sacrifice, stopped a bank robbery, and foiled a kidnapping. Ben, you¡¯ve got things to contend with now that few people will understand. You should take some time to¡­ get a handle on it. Learn to use it rather than have it use you.¡±

    ¡°Something¡¯s going on in Willamette,¡± I say. ¡°Something you¡¯re investigating. Something that got me cursed, twice. It¡¯s put people in danger, and I can do something about it. I want to do more. Help you figure it out and stop whoever needs stopped.¡±

    ¡°Yes, but we have to do things a certain way. It all has to hold up in court. What investigative training have you had?¡± says Tyler. She¡¯s being gentle. ¡°With your abilities, it might be easy for you to find something, but it has to be found the right way, so we can use it in court. And what if these people are dangerous? Have you taken some kind of self-defense classes? What weapons instruction?¡± She gestures at Ochoa and herself. ¡°We¡¯ve been through Quantico. The FBI trains its people well. Maybe if you¡ª.¡±

    ¡°The FBI does hire consultants,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°He might make a good one.¡±

    Tyler looks at her for a beat too long. ¡°Maybe,¡± she says.

    ¡°He took down four armed bank robbers with a library card,¡± says Ochoa.

    I can see the man falling, his gun going off, killing his friend. The red ruin of MAC¡¯s throat. The¡ª.

    ¡°Yeah, and that was just yesterday,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Look at him. Has he processed that yet? If you had shot those men, where would you be right now?¡±

    ¡°In a shrink¡¯s office and waiting for review before I could return to the field,¡± says Ochoa. She turns to me. ¡°She¡¯s right. You need some time.¡±

    ¡°I tell you what,¡± says Tyler. ¡°A consultant is a good idea, if you agree, Ben. I can start the paperwork. It¡¯ll take some time and the department will want to evaluate you. They might even let me handle that. In the meantime, you should really talk to somebody. I¡¯ll write down a list of some people we¡¯ve used before in similar situations, okay?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡± I can¡¯t tell if I¡¯m excited or disappointed. Probably both. Then it occurs to me that maybe what she¡¯s doing is a delaying tactic. Something to placate me now, so I step back. I won¡¯t have it. ¡°Wait. Could you evaluate me?¡±

    ¡°I do those sometimes. I¡¯m a licensed psychologist,¡± says Tyler with a shrug.

    Ochoa winks at me. She says, ¡°Tyler wanted to go to Behavioral Science to chase serial killers, but we lucked out instead.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll set aside some time. Meanwhile, why don¡¯t you go get changed,¡± says Tyler. ¡°That room right there is open for the moment. We¡¯ll take you someplace to get some rest and start up that paperwork. What do you say?¡±

    I say, ¡°what can you tell me about what¡¯s going on?¡±

    Tyler doesn¡¯t bat an eye. ¡°The FBI cannot comment on ongoing investigations,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m sure you understand.¡±

    I understand alright. Time to get my things and take them into the other room where I get dressed. I pat all my pockets to make sure I¡¯ve got everything. Wallet, keys to nothing and nowhere, the envelope Agent Tyler gave me. Everything I have in the world.

    I go to the door and Push my luck.

    I turn the knob and step out.

    There¡¯s a commotion down the hall. The clatter of a plate and a metal lid or something. I don¡¯t look, and I certainly I don¡¯t look for the agents, worried that they¡¯ll feel my eyes on them, turn, and see me. They haven¡¯t seen me or they would say something. I go for the stairwell.

    I catch Whately¡¯s eye as I pass. He smiles and gives me a little wave. I wonder how long it¡¯ll take him to tell Tyler and Ochoa where I¡¯ve gone. It probably doesn¡¯t matter, so I shrug, wave back, and exit through the door.

    I go down a floor and then exit the stairwell, walking clear to the other side of the building, where I go up two floors to catch another elevator back down to the third floor, trying to confuse the trail.

    It¡¯s not like I know what I¡¯m doing, but I figure any amount of chaos I can add to things helps.

    Yeah, it¡¯ll probably mess with them, but by the time I make it to a tiny waiting area by the ICU, I don¡¯t know what I should do or how I should proceed. Am I really thinking about investigating this myself? Can I? Should I? Normally, I¡¯d call a friend or Mom or Dad. Get some advice.

    Can¡¯t though. I don¡¯t know anybody here but the nice folks I¡¯m hiding from right now.

    I¡¯m all alone.

    I sit down for a moment and pull out my phone to stare at it. Maybe I can google something? Post something up on this world¡¯s version of Reddit?

    Huh.

    I¡¯ve got a notification. It¡¯s from the App.

    I click it.

    New Skill: Luck +1

    Huh. I guess all that Pushing and trying to affect things has paid off a bit. Not that I know what that means exactly. Clicking around, it doesn¡¯t tell me what two attributes combine to help with my Pushing. Maybe it depends on the situation? Getting the world to make a phone call to a detective is probably vastly different from keeping me from falling to my death down a stairwell. Who knows? The help menus don¡¯t seem to live up to their name and what¡¯s online is too shallow or too technical for me to figure out.

    And what was I thinking, anyway? Everybody seems really sure no one else has ever gone through this stuff, this combination of horrible curses, at my level. There¡¯s no point of reference, right? How can there be a way to look it up or ask anybody about it?

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Yeah, okay, I¡¯m glad to get that little plus one, sure, but it can¡¯t tell me anything, or even point me in the right direction.

    Frankly, I feel a little betrayed by my phone right now.

    I mean, the sum total of human knowledge is accessible through this little device, but you¡¯re just as likely to stumble into the depths of our stupidity and ignorance, too. Tyler is right. I need to talk to somebody, but everybody I know in this universe is in law enforcement and would be duty-bound to turn me over to the FBI, who won¡¯t let me help. Helping will keep my mind occupied. If I¡¯m not able to do that, I¡¯ll have to start dealing with being alone in a new universe, with everything and everyone I¡¯ve ever known gone, that I¡¯m cursed and what that might mean, and the fact that I¡¯ve killed people, as bad as they were. I know I¡¯ll have to deal with it all eventually, right? But it¡¯s a lot all at once. I figure avoiding all that is understandable. I mean, who¡¯d blame me? Yeah, I¡¯ll have to deal with it, but maybe I could space it all out a little? One or two at a time? The only way to manage that is to stay busy and here I have become involved in a real-life mystery. Ben Walker and The Case of What the Fuck is Going On? seems a lot more doable right now.

    But what to do next?

    How much am I in trouble for ditching the FBI? They¡¯re probably looking for me right now, not to mention that I¡¯ve also pissed off the country sheriff. I don¡¯t have the first clue what¡¯s going on in Willamette, either. I haven¡¯t so much as checked the news on my phone.

    I need advice.

    Shit.

    I shrug and resolve to do three things I hate.

    One, talk on the phone. Why do that? Text me, bro. If I text somebody, they can choose when to handle it. Now might not be a good time. Texting always feels more polite to me.

    Two, I hate bothering people, especially strangers. Especially out of the blue. I have a tremendous aversion to being seen as creepy.

    Three, asking for help. I don¡¯t consider myself a toxic male, though I¡¯m well aware that¡¯s part of the stereotype. I just don¡¯t want to bother anybody.

    Shit.

    I sigh and feel a little sick to my stomach, but thumb in the three-three-zero area code, then a bunch of random numbers, hit the call button, and Push.

    On the third ring, I hear someone with a shaky voice answer, ¡°Hello?¡±

    ¡°Hi!¡± I say with as much sunshine in my voice as I can stand. ¡°I got your number from a friend. Sorry to bother you. You don¡¯t know me. Uh, I need some advice.¡±

    ¡°From me?¡± the woman sounds surprised. ¡°I don¡¯t understand. Who is this?¡± At first, because of the quavering in her voice, I thought I was talking to an old lady, but I¡¯m revising that as I listen to her. She doesn¡¯t sound old. She sounds distressed.

    ¡°My name is Ben,¡± I say. ¡°A friend gave me your name. I was talking to her in line at the grocery store about some problems I¡¯m having, and she mentioned your name and said I should give you a call. I¡¯m wondering if you can help me.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t see how,¡± says the woman. ¡°What kind of help do you need?¡±

    That¡¯s an excellent question.

    ¡°Um, maybe some legal advice?¡± I say. ¡°Oh, or financial?¡±

    There¡¯s a pause, then, ¡°My brother¡¯s a lawyer. He shares an office with his wife, who¡¯s a CPA.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s perfect!¡± I say. ¡°Do you think they could see me today?¡± I¡¯m getting the feeling there¡¯s something really wrong here. The woman¡¯s responses are lifeless, in a near monotone. ¡°Oh! Maybe I could pick you up and you could direct me to them? Introduce me? I could buy you lunch! Have you eaten?¡±

    ¡°No, I¡ª. Who is this?¡±

    ¡°My name is Ben,¡± I say. ¡°Ben Walker. You don¡¯t know me, but some people got me in some trouble, and I need some help. Will you help me¡­. Dammit, I forget what she told me your name was.¡±

    ¡°Candace,¡± she says. ¡°Never Candy. Candace.¡±

    ¡°Can you help me, Candace? Give me your address and I¡¯ll come and get you. I¡¯ll take you to lunch if you like, anywhere you want to go, and then you can introduce me to your brother and his wife.¡±

    ¡°You know, why not?¡± It sounds kinda like she¡¯s accepting a dare. Like, she¡¯s almost hoping I¡¯m going to take her off somewhere to rape and murder her. This worries me.

    She gives me her address and I¡¯m so surprised it¡¯s worked that I¡¯ve hit the street before I remember that I no longer have a car.

    Yeah, okay. No problem.

    I start walking backward and hang out my thumb.

    Not long after I start Pushing, a car pulls over to let me in and I get a little thrill. I¡¯ve never hitchhiked before and wasn¡¯t sure if it was still a thing, or was one here.

    The driver is a middle-aged woman, very stylish, with spiraling brown curls almost down to her waist. The cross strap of her seatbelt gets lost in her ample cleavage and I have to make an effort to look her in the eyes.

    ¡°Hello!¡± she says. ¡°Where you headed?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m off to meet a friend,¡± I say. ¡°My car died and I¡¯m late.¡±

    ¡°Aw,¡± she says and leaves it at that.

    I give her the address and then she pulls off into traffic as if we¡¯re the only car on the road.

    I double-check my seat belt.

    ¡°That¡¯s not far,¡± she tells me, nodding at my phone and the GPS map slowly scrolling on it. ¡°What? Five? Three minutes?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°Says three, but it¡¯d be a lot longer walking. Thank you so much for picking me up. I¡¯m safe, I promise.¡± And just so I stay that way, I keep Pushing so that things remain on the light side.

    ¡°Oh honey,¡± she says. ¡°I waited tables in a bar all through college. I can take whatever you¡¯ve got to dish out, but you seem like a nice young man. What are you? Twenty-two?¡±

    ¡°Twenty-four.¡±

    ¡°Close,¡± she says, and she smiles.

    I¡¯m glad she¡¯s not worried. I¡¯d hate it if she was.

    ¡°I¡¯m Ben,¡± I say. ¡°Ben Walker.¡±

    ¡°Stacy,¡± she says. ¡°Nostrum.¡± She gives me a big grin.

    I get an odd feeling and sneak a peek at her left hand. No ring.

    I wonder if I¡¯m in trouble again.

    ¡°What do you do, Ben?¡±

    ¡°Freelance journalist.¡±

    ¡°You can make a living at that?¡±

    ¡°No, ma¡¯am,¡± I say.

    She laughs. ¡°Hey, it¡¯s okay. We all need help from time to time. I¡¯m home sick from teaching middle school today. Not that I¡¯m really sick,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m playing hooky because, well, sometimes you gotta or you¡¯ll kill one of the bi-polar little shits you love so much, you know?¡±

    ¡°I was thirteen once,¡± I say. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t wish that on anybody, let alone in bulk.¡±

    She laughs.

    We¡¯re in the residential area surrounding Willamette now. Big houses shoehorned in tight beside one another in a sprawling allotment. People with enough money either for a big house or a big yard, but not both, I guess.

    I realize Candace might not be willing or comfortable driving me anywhere and, like an idiot, I implied that I¡¯d be driving when I offered to pick her up. Inviting anybody to take me for a ride in their car to her brother¡¯s office seems a bit much.

    ¡°Hey, Stacy?¡±

    She looks at me.

    ¡°So long as you¡¯re playing hooky from school,¡± I say. ¡°You want to get some lunch with my friend and me? As a thank you? My treat. I know it¡¯s weird, but I was supposed to come and get her and¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Maybe.¡± Stacy shoots me a look and arches an eyebrow like she¡¯s curious about my motives. ¡°I¡¯ve nothing else to do¡­. Oh, and here we are.¡± She pulls into the driveway of a resplendent brick house with a three-car garage and lots of tall, narrow windows. She parks the car and shrugs. ¡°You seem nice enough, and I am hungry. Who¡¯s your friend?¡±

    The front door opens, and a woman steps out. She¡¯s tiny, five-one, five-two, maybe forty-five or fifty years old, pretty with short blonde hair. Her eyes are sad. She¡¯s clutching her purse like it¡¯s the only thing keeping her alive.

    Stacy gasps. She opens her door and stands. ¡°Candace?¡±

    Candace freezes, staring at Stacy. ¡°Stacy Nostrum?¡± she says.

    Stacy runs to Candace and hugs her. They seem like friends that haven¡¯t seen each other in a long time. I can¡¯t hear their conversation, but I can see that Stacy¡¯s managing most of both sides. The ebullient brunette seems so excited, and it¡¯s not the fake polite kind you see among people of a certain age and tax bracket. It¡¯s genuine, and I find myself liking Stacy and worrying a lot more about Candace.

    It¡¯s a little awkward. They¡¯ve forgotten all about me, and I¡¯m tempted to exit the car and just leave. I did promise lunch, though, and I still have no idea why Candace agreed to help me. Looking back and how she spoke, and seeing her now so sad, that ¡°Why not?¡± she gave me earlier seemed so determined. Something is wrong.

    I open the door to wait in the corner between it and the frame, leaning into it at ease, smiling, patient. I want to remind them I¡¯m here, but show them I¡¯m in no rush and that I¡¯m pleased at their reunion. You know, without seeming creepy.

    Stacy sees me first and shakes her head. She says, ¡°Oh, I forgot! Ben!¡± She turns to Candace. ¡°How do you know Ben?¡±

    ¡°I really don¡¯t,¡± says Candace.

    ¡°She really doesn¡¯t,¡± I say. I hold up a finger. ¡°But I can explain. Where do you want to go to lunch, ladies?¡±

 Chapter 15 - Book 1

    They choose a diner they say they used to frequent when they were teenagers together and, for a diner, it doesn¡¯t look bad. The customers are around Stacy¡¯s and Candace¡¯s age or older, the servers wear genuine smiles, and the food smells great.

    I explained to Stacy on the way over that I got Candace¡¯s number from a nameless person as someone who could help me. I don¡¯t enjoy lying to her, but the truth could scare them. Maybe it should. I feel a moment of crushing guilt as we settle into an overstuffed booth and our waitress, an older lady with fading red hair, offers us each a menu like everything¡¯s normal. Like I¡¯m not some kind of time bomb. I should get out of here. I¡¯m putting everyone here at risk, aren¡¯t I? Yeah, it¡¯s not for sure, but I don¡¯t know what step to take next. Where to go. I still need help. Besides, if I can be a danger, I can also be a benefit, so maybe it evens out? Am I selfishly rationalizing? I don¡¯t know for sure. I¡¯ve no reason to trust my analysis. Not with all this going on.

    Shit. I¡¯m a mess.

    Stacy has been chattering away. It¡¯s calming, I think, for both Candace and me. It¡¯s easy to get caught up in her stories and inanities. Calming for me to know that she¡¯s not scared of me. For Candace, it seems to pull her out of her own head as Stacy reminds her old friend of mutual acquaintances and whatever tragic or amusing gossip relates to them, and then she reminisces about their shared adventures back in the day. Candace is soon laughing despite herself. It¡¯s a brilliant and gentle monologue for both of us.

    We were lucky to get a table. The place fills up, running out of seating in the waiting area. A harried manager pushes a few tables together to accommodate a couple of big parties that arrived all at once. The thinly organized chaos that¡¯s a busy restaurant has me Pushing against little patches of darkness that keep cropping up. Eventually, I¡¯m going to miss one and the cook will burn himself or an old man will trip or the ceiling will collapse or something.

    Then Stacy arches an eyebrow and says, ¡°So, I heard you married Craig?¡±

    Candace collapses into herself. For a wild moment, I think that she¡¯ll continue to do so, that my luck has gone crazy and she¡¯ll spaghettify and get sucked into a button on her blouse because it¡¯s turned into a black hole. Her face screws up, flushes with shame, and she starts to cry.

    Stacy moves from beside me to sit by her friend and embraces her. ¡°What¡¯s that shit gone and done, eh?¡± says Stacy. ¡°Who could hurt a sweetheart like you?¡±

    Candace laughs despite herself. She says, ¡°He caught religion a few years ago. One of those mega-churches? I went a few times, but it wasn¡¯t for me. They¡¯re a bit narrow-minded for a girl who grew up with Sesame Street and Diff¡¯rent Strokes.¡±

    ¡°Oh, one of those,¡± says Stacy, shooting me a meaningful look I¡¯m not sure I understand.

    I nod.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± says Candace. ¡°Jesus this and Revelations that. Church should be uplifting, you know? That doom and gloom and scare them into the pews stuff was supposed to be over with the Salem Witch Trials.¡±

    Stacy barks a laugh.

    I smile and nod.

    ¡°But he¡¯s gotten worse,¡± says Candace. ¡°He¡¯s alienated our friends and family. He hasn¡¯t touched me in months.¡± She looks up at me. ¡°Sorry.¡± She blinks and leans into Stacy. She sobs. ¡°This morning, he took the kids to a retreat, he says, but he won¡¯t tell me where or when they¡¯ll be back. They both hate that church, but Craig doesn¡¯t care.¡±

    ¡°What an asshole,¡± says Stacy, rubbing her friend¡¯s back.

    ¡°He¡¯ll barely talk to me, Stace,¡± says Candace. She sits up and looks Stacy in the eye. ¡°I haven¡¯t spoken to anybody in weeks. I¡¯ve been so alone.¡±

    Stacy tears up and they grasp each other.

    I choke on a sob of my own. I have no one who would hold me like that. Not in this world, and it fucking hurts.

    Stacy catches it.

    She stands, bringing Candace with her, and I¡¯m astonished to be pulled into a hug with both of them.

    It is so what I needed. It¡¯s like I didn¡¯t know I was starving and she¡¯s put a perfect cheeseburger in my mouth. With bacon and onion rings. A dash of sriracha. Something the salivary glands meet with painful eagerness, right?

    I guess I know what I¡¯m going to order.

    We stand in the aisle beside our table and have a good cry.

    Then I hear a sound. At first, it¡¯s so out of place, so extraordinary that I can¡¯t recognize it. The eighties music that was playing has stopped and one woman, over in the corner, is singing. Then another and then a third. The notes diverge into discord that shimmers beautifully. More women join and now it¡¯s their entire table. A man stands and conducts with a table knife.

    Stacy, Candace, and I sit, captivated by the wonder of it.

    The music pulses in its phrasing and soon the other crowded tables join. Men¡¯s voices blend effortlessly into the women¡¯s, creating something so ethereal, so otherworldly that I¡¯m weeping now, not in pain but with the gorgeous surprise of it all.

    The song swells, the sound vibrating in my chest and head. The conductor¡¯s eyes are closed as he moves, not just his choir but everybody in the room.

    We get so caught up in popular music, don¡¯t we? With its sexy fun, its catchy tunes that get stuck in your head, its commercial shallow awesomeness, that sometimes we forget, I think, that music can be beautiful. It can be so lovely that it restores your faith in humanity or yourself. If you¡¯ve never heard a song that made you cry, not because of the words ¡ª I can¡¯t understand a single lyric of whatever they¡¯re singing now. I think it¡¯s in Latin ¡ª but from its majesty and wonder or sheer fucking beauty, then I wonder if you can actually say you know what music is.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    This flash mob in the diner? These singers remind me, and my eyes aren¡¯t the only wet ones in the place.

    It¡¯s wonderful.

    The end of the piece steals my breath. The soprano and alto are so pure as they refrain with the bass and tenor supporting as they all bring the song to a shining conclusion.

    There¡¯s electric quiet for a moment and then applause. Many of the diners pull the singers and the conductor into hugs, offering heartfelt thanks. I¡¯m surprised to find I¡¯m one of them.

    Candace, Stacy, and I sit there afterward, stunned.

    ¡°I think that was one of the most beautiful moments of my life,¡± Stacy says in a near whisper.

    Candace and I nod.

    There are all kinds of luck. Whatever else my life has become now, it includes things like this, too.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    It¡¯s Stacy that brings us back to ourselves. She proudly displays to us a paper napkin with two names and a phone number. ¡°This,¡± she says. ¡°Is the name of that wonderful conductor and his phone number.¡± She giggles. ¡°I wonder if he conducts himself just as well in the bedroom,¡± she says with a wink.

    Candace rolls her red eyes, but she¡¯s smiling fondly at her friend.

    ¡°And this,¡± Stacy¡¯s finger taps beside the other name. ¡°Says Knut Nystedt. I was sure to spell it right. He¡¯s the composer. I think I¡¯m going to make a playlist with everything he¡¯s ever done on it. My God, wasn¡¯t that wonderful?¡±

    Candace and I nod.

    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t it be great if he caught on?¡± says Stacy. ¡°Instead of ¡®Send nudes,¡¯ it could be ¡®Send Knuts.¡¯¡±

    We laugh.

    ¡°I mean, the poor guy probably had to write such wonderfulness with a name like that in pure self-defense. Named after a type of lizard,¡± says Stacy, deadpan.

    She cracks more jokes and the combination of her humor, and the music has restored us quite a bit, Candace and me.

    Candace laughs so hard she soon excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She leaves her purse behind, and Stacy snatches it up with a determined expression, opens it, and roots around.

    ¡°Whoa, Stacy, what¡ª?¡± I begin.

    But Stacy plops down a full bottle of prescription pills in front of me. Then she sets another down beside the first.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what kind of trouble you¡¯re in, Ben Walker,¡± Stacy tells me. She pulls out a bottle of whiskey that¡¯s still a quarter full and sets it beside the pills. ¡°But I think you saved my friend¡¯s life today. Take those to the men¡¯s room, will you, sweetie, and destroy them?¡±

    I nod, gather up the pills and the bottle without a word, and take them to the bathroom where I empty the pills and the bottle down the toilet. I¡¯ve heard that you¡¯re not supposed to do that, but I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll be forgiven, considering.

    When I return, both women are standing and ready to go. Candace frowns at the sudden lightness of her purse, but she doesn¡¯t say anything.

    I pay the bill and we¡¯re off.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    I have instant reservations when we pull up in front of the office used by Candace¡¯s brother and his wife. There¡¯s a sign on the wall of a robin¡¯s egg blue trailer reading, ¡°Alex W. West, Attorney,¡± and ¡°Myra West, CPA.¡± The trailer is just outside town in a lot with nothing else around.

    Candace shrugs. ¡°It doesn¡¯t look like much, I know,¡± she says. ¡°Alex says the taxes out here are cheaper and both of them are just starting out their own practices. He¡¯s really good. So¡¯s she. Myra¡¯s odd, but a whiz with numbers.¡±

    Candace leads us up to the door and opens it. When she sees Stacy still waiting by the car, she says, ¡°No, uh uh, you¡¯re coming too. They¡¯ve got cucumber water.¡±

    ¡°Oh. Well,¡± says Stacy. ¡°Cucumber water.¡± But she comes inside with us.

    Inside, instead of where in a regular trailer you¡¯d expect a living room, there are matching desks to either side of us. Behind each, I¡¯m sure, sits Alex and Myra West, respectively.

    Alex is a big man. He¡¯s a few inches taller than me and broader by a quarter. Heavier too, by at least fifty pounds and maybe more. He looks like a bricklayer or a professional wrestler rather than a lawyer. ¡°Hello!¡± he booms in a big bass voice. ¡°You must be the guy my sister texted me about.¡± He turns to Stacy. ¡°Stacy Nostrum,¡± he says. ¡°A vision. You haven¡¯t aged a day since high school.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re not doing your profession any favors,¡± says Stacy. ¡°Lying like that.¡± But she giggles, pleased.

    Alex turns to his wife, who¡¯s still sitting behind her desk. Her glasses are big and round. She is little and waifish with a pixie-cut hairdo and an owlish expression. ¡°Myra? Did you ever meet Stacy?¡±

    ¡°Nope,¡± says Myra. ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±

    Stacy says, ¡°Myra, I¡¯ve heard such great things.¡±

    Alex says, ¡°Do you need advice too, Stacy? I¡¯m always available to help a friend. Myra and me both.¡±

    Stacy says, ¡°Nah, I¡¯m just the driver.¡±

    Alex blinks. ¡°Driver?¡±

    ¡°Yep,¡± says Stacy. She turns to Candace. ¡°I believe I was promised cucumber water?¡±

    Candace snorts. ¡°They¡¯ve got a little room back here to wait in. Come on.¡±

    Alex looks back at me. He looks skeptical. ¡°Stacy¡¯s your driver?¡± he says.

    ¡°Not exactly,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s kind of a long story and, if you¡¯re going to be my lawyer and your wife¡¯s going to be my accountant, then I¡¯d better tell you all of it.¡±

    I do. Every last bit.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    ¡°No way,¡± says Alex when I¡¯m finished.

    Myra looks deep in thought.

    ¡°Stacy and Candace were there for the flash mob. Stacy can tell you about the pills. I don¡¯t know if Candace is ready to talk about that yet. For the rest, well, the sheriff¡¯s department and the FBI might tell you.¡± I shrug.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to kill Craig,¡± says Alex. ¡°What¡¯s he done with my niece and nephew?¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t kill Craig,¡± says Myra. ¡°You¡¯re an officer of the court.¡±

    ¡°Exactly,¡± says Alex. ¡°I know people.¡±

    Myra just looks at him.

    Alex rolls his eyes and smiles fondly. ¡°I¡¯m not going to kill Craig, Myra.¡± Then, to me, he says, ¡°Myra¡¯s very literal. You get used to it.¡±

    Myra says, ¡°I¡¯ve been working for a client, doing some forensic work on his books.¡± She leans back in her chair. ¡°I know I¡¯ve seen the evidence I need to prove his partner¡¯s embezzling, but I can¡¯t find it. I know it¡¯s here.¡± She indicates a file cabinet. ¡°I work better with print.¡± Then she points a finger at me. ¡°Find it.¡±

    That¡¯s fair.

    Shrugging, I walk over to the cabinet and Push. I open a drawer at random and pull whichever file seems brightest. I open another and pull two more. Then I walk over to Alex¡¯s side of the office, where he¡¯s got a matching set of cabinets, open one of his drawers, pull one last file from there, and deposit them all in front of Myra.

    Alex says, ¡°What the hell? She didn¡¯t even tell you¡ª.¡±

    Myra holds up a finger as she goes through what I brought her. After a minute or two, she says, ¡°My God, this is it.¡± Then she says, ¡°I think. What the fuck is this?¡± She holds up the file I brought over from Alex¡¯s stuff. His folders are all blue while Myra¡¯s are green. ¡°Never mind,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m convinced. Alex, you and I will take a look at this,¡± she holds up the blue folder, ¡°Later. It doesn¡¯t make any sense to me, but it¡¯s in your bailiwick, after all.¡±

    Alex looks doubtful. ¡°Well, if you say so, Myra. Mr. Walker, you¡¯ve got yourself a lawyer and an accountant in one fell swoop. We charge a thousand-dollar retainer, payable now, if it¡¯s convenient.¡±

    Myra snorts. ¡°And even if it isn¡¯t.¡±

    I hand over my bank card.

    Alex takes it to his desk, pulls out one of those reader thingies you attach to a tablet, and swipes it.

    After a long moment, he swipes it again.

    ¡°Um, you got another card?¡± asks Alex.

    I have a sinking feeling. Sure enough, when I check my bank app, all my money is gone.

 Chapter 16 - Book 1

    When I show Myra my phone, she makes the keys on her computer keyboard rattle like they¡¯re angry. ¡°Yep,¡± she says. ¡°This is really odd. We should have no difficulty challenging things at the bank. I mean, some of these numbers¡­. We might get it all back as early as tomorrow. Maybe.¡±

    ¡°What happened?¡± asks her husband.

    ¡°Completely drained and over-drafted,¡± says Myra. ¡°In weird increments. Something¡¯s very wrong with this.¡± She looks up at me. ¡°Do you mind if I print this out?¡±

    ¡°Go ahead,¡± I say.

    Alex looks troubled.

    ¡°What is it?¡± I ask.

    ¡°If it was anybody but you, Mr. Walker,¡± says Alex. ¡°I¡¯d wonder if this relates to the bank robbery, or the FBI was doing something hinky with your assets or something. Probably not with either of the kidnappings.¡± He gives his head a shake. ¡°Wow. But since it is you, it could be anything. As your lawyer¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Are you my lawyer?¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t pay you.¡±

    ¡°Ah,¡± says Alex. ¡°There is that. Well, with your permission, we¡¯ll take the retainer out of your account when it becomes available. You could write us a check? Did they give you checks?¡±

    I shake my head.

    ¡°Well, pro bono until then,¡± says Alex.

    ¡°Is that okay?¡± I say.

    ¡°It¡¯s done all the time,¡± says Alex. ¡°I¡¯ll draw up the paperwork.¡± He moves toward his desk.

    ¡°Would it be better if I paid something?¡±

    ¡°Maybe, but like I said ¡ª.¡±

    ¡°You got a couch?¡± I ask.

    I find eighty-six cents between the cushions in the green sofa in their break room with the two ladies and the cucumber water. For that, I get both my lawyer and a CPA looking into stuff for me.

    ¡°I just bought that last week,¡± says Alex, staring at his couch.

    Myra says, ¡°Maybe people sat on it in the showroom?¡±

    ¡°Maybe,¡± says Alex. He smiles. ¡°Let¡¯s get you situated, though, Mr. Walker.¡±

    ¡°I wish you¡¯d call me Ben.¡±

    ¡°Only if I¡¯m Alex,¡± says Alex. ¡°And that¡¯s Myra.¡±

    Myra gives a little wave above the printouts of my bank account.

    ¡°That¡¯s a deal. What do you mean, situated?¡±

    ¡°Well, for starters,¡± says Alex. ¡°No more talking to law enforcement without me there.¡±

    ¡°Oh! I¡¯ve been meaning to ask, what kind of lawyer are you? I mean, what kind of law do you practice?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a general practitioner,¡± says Alex. ¡°I assure you it¡¯s a thing. Our idea was to land a few clients and get paid to manage their affairs, whatever they might be.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡± It was exactly what I needed, I think.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re in any trouble since you¡¯re out and walking around,¡± says Alex. ¡°But you¡¯re at least a person of interest in multiple cases. When you talk to them, sometimes law enforcement hears you get one aspect of your story wrong, or they see the tiniest of inconsistencies and they get suspicious and confirmation bias is a thing. They¡¯re only human. Best to keep contact to a minimum and whatever contact there is should go through me, okay? I can call them and let them know I¡¯m representing you.¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± I say.

    ¡°Now, you need a place to stay that won¡¯t burn down or explode if you have a nightmare, as well as food, clothing, and whatnot. Fixing the bank account will help with some of that. I don¡¯t suppose you want to go win with another lottery ticket?¡± says Alex.

    ¡°My track record there is not so great.¡±

    ¡°Say no more. The credit history the government gave you should be able to land you a credit card or two. Maybe by this evening. We can handle that for you. Heck, it might even work better with us as a bit of a buffer between you and your money.¡± He looks over at Myra.

    She recognizes her cue but doesn¡¯t look up from my records. ¡°Two to start,¡± she says. ¡°Maybe three or four soon, depending. We should also spread your money around a bit. We need to take into account, so to speak, your unique nature and count on bank error, bank closure, natural disasters, and so on.¡±

    ¡°Where should he sleep, do you think? That abandoned hotel out by the highway? I know the owner. He¡ª.¡±

    ¡°In a property that isn¡¯t being maintained and in a dubious state of repair? A high-end hotel would probably leave less to chance,¡± says Myra.

    ¡°But there¡¯s lots of people,¡± says Alex. ¡°We need a nice place that¡¯s safe. Up to code, and with few people.¡± He snaps his fingers. ¡°An Airbnb.¡±

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    Myra nods and gets immediately reabsorbed into my finances. Somehow. I mean, there¡¯s only two days¡¯ worth, and that¡¯s including today. It¡¯s, like, two pages long. And she¡¯s probably using a large font.

    Alex says, ¡°I know just the place. You going to have Stacy take you there?¡± He starts typing on his computer.

    I shake my head. ¡°She should stay with Candace, I think.¡±

    Alex frowns and nods his head. ¡°Fucking Craig.¡±

    I lean in. ¡°I think you need to talk to your sister too, Alex,¡± I say. ¡°A lot.¡±

    His frown deepens, and he nods. ¡°Yeah, okay, Uber it is.¡±

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    I¡¯m not at all disappointed when the driver drops me off at a tiny house in a cul-de-sac in an older neighborhood on the outskirts of Willamette without once rolling the little Mazda over once or being abducted by aliens.

    It¡¯s exactly what I need. A little cottage built long enough ago that anything major that was going to go wrong with it probably would¡¯ve happened by now and kept in good enough repair that nothing was likely to go wrong with it now. The street is quiet with hardly any traffic. When I go inside, I find it furnished, but just barely. There¡¯s a couch and an easy chair in the living room. A table and two chairs wait in the eating area just off the kitchen, and a queen-sized bed with two end tables is all that¡¯s in the bedroom. I go through the house checking everything, unplugging anything I don¡¯t need right away, like the television and the microwave and the washer and dryer. There¡¯s a rug in the living room and I roll it up. By the time I¡¯m done, the dark and light spots in my vision are almost invisible and, aside from a twitch here and there, motionless.

    It¡¯s early in the afternoon, which has always been a kind of low-energy time of day for me, so, tempting fate, I take a nap in the bed. Fully clothed, of course, just in case I¡¯ve got to run out of there, but I surprise myself by relaxing and drift off to sleep.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    An hour and a half later, I¡¯m awakened by the buzzing of my phone. I pick it up and see texts from Myra.

    The first says, ¡°What do you make of these dollar amounts? $10010.00.¡±

    Then, in a new bubble, ¡°$1100.101.¡±

    ¡°$1101.10.¡±

    And then finally, ¡°$1.11???¡±

    I text back and say, ¡°What¡¯s with that second one? Is that a typo?¡±

    ¡°Hardly,¡± comes the instant reply. ¡°That¡¯s the figure, and it shouldn¡¯t be possible, according to the bank. Anything else strike you as odd?¡±

    I look at them again. ¡°They¡¯re all 1s and 0s.¡±

    The three little dots appear, letting me know she¡¯s replying.

    But then I type, ¡°Holy shit! It is binary?¡±

    The dots disappear and reappear. Then, ¡°Very good! It took me a bit, but it¡¯s what convinced the bank that something was off. Alex got on the phone and the good news is that your money¡¯s all back. We took out our retainers, 1k each, and we¡¯re sending you a pizza. Pepperoni ok?¡±

    ¡°Awesome!¡± I type. ¡°Thank you! Pepperoni¡¯s fine! Very thoughtful of you. Did you figure out what it said?¡±

    ¡°Now, Ben, I don¡¯t want you getting ideas.¡±

    ¡°What did it say?¡±

    ¡°I had to extrapolate it to this sequence: 01001000 01100101 01101100 01110000.¡±

    ¡°And?¡±

    My phone rings. It¡¯s Alex.

    I answer and say, ¡°Hi Alex, I was just texting Myra.¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± he says. ¡°Ben, the message spells out the word, ¡®Help.¡¯ We¡¯ve notified the police, of course, but¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Help?¡± I say. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡±

    ¡°Ben, I want you to stay in that nice place we rented for you and eat your pizza. Myra and I have an idea that¡ª.¡±

    But I¡¯m looking at my bank records on the app. ¡°It looks like somebody took me back up from a dollar eleven to forty-one dollars and then more numbers to three, four¡­ six decimal places, then over-drafted me eighty-one dollars and six more. What the fuck?¡±

    ¡°Ben, that pizza¡¯s really good,¡± says Alex. ¡°Myra and I get it once a week. You¡¯ll love it. Best when it¡¯s hot.¡±

    You know that feeling you get when you know you¡¯re just about to figure something out? That excited tickle in your brain and belly? Maybe you don¡¯t. Maybe it¡¯s different for everybody, but that¡¯s how it feels for me. Anyway, that¡¯s what I¡¯m feeling when something else, cold and dark, spread somewhere far off to my left. West? A bit south?

    Something was wrong and going wrong fast.

    Maybe I could see something if I pulled up a map on my phone.

    Wait. A map.

    ¡°Alex, those are coordinates, right? Latitude and longitude?¡± I say.

    I hear Alex mutter something about smart clients. ¡°Yeah, Ben, they are. I advise you to stay clear. The police have been notified. I bet they¡¯re getting a warrant right now.¡±

    ¡°Right now?¡± I say. ¡°You sure? Won¡¯t the cops need more than that? I feel it getting bad over in that direction right now.¡±

    ¡°You feel it?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s happened once before. Maybe once I¡¯m aware of a problem and pay attention to it, I can do that maybe? Track it emotionally? I dunno. I¡¯m still new at this.¡±

    Alex sighs. ¡°It¡¯s hard to tell how long it¡¯ll take them, Ben. This is the same bank that was robbed the other day?¡±

    ¡°Yep.¡±

    ¡°That might speed things up. Maybe tomorrow?¡±

    ¡°Maybe?¡±

    ¡°Best guestimate.¡±

    Somebody went to a lot of trouble to call for help and rob me at the same time. My account drained in a matter of moments, with seven or eight transactions one after the other. Nobody was going to miss that.

    ¡°Great pizza, Ben,¡± says Alex. ¡°Honest.¡±

    ¡°Do we know where the money went?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Some account in Jamaica,¡± says Alex. ¡°The one in New York City. We think it might be a shell. It¡¯s a business account made to look like a personal one, but that¡¯s as far as we can go with it.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going,¡± I say.

    ¡°Ben, think about this. You¡¯re going God knows where against God knows who, alone, unarmed, un¡ª.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a good point.¡±

    ¡°What? No, that¡¯s not what I meant. I¡ª.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going.¡± Maybe there¡¯s something in the house I can use. I go into the kitchen and start opening drawers.

    ¡°As your lawyer, I can¡¯t advise¡ª.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll, what is it? Observe and report. I¡¯m not planning to do anything illegal or crazy.¡±

    ¡°You must have a broader definition of ¡®crazy.¡¯¡±

    I hear Myra¡¯s voice in the background.

    Alex doesn¡¯t bother to mute the phone. ¡°He says he¡¯s going.¡±

    She says something else I can¡¯t catch.

    ¡°Yes, I told him about the pizza,¡± says Alex.

    ¡°I¡¯ll call you or the cops if I see anything, okay?¡± I say and then I hang up.

    All I can find in the kitchen are three serrated steak knives and a pretty hefty meat tenderizer, but I¡¯ve got nowhere to put them. All I¡¯ve got in the world is my white t-shirt, jeans, a belt, my wallet, my pointless keys, a pair of socks, my sneakers, and the envelope Agent Tyler gave me. The knives are tempting, but no good. I¡¯d have to hold them in my hand. The meat tenderizer I could tuck in my belt but decide against it. I leave them all behind on the kitchen counter. I¡¯ll figure something else out.

    I open the door to leave the house and find the pizza guy on the doorstep about to knock.

    ¡°Oh!¡± I say. ¡°How much do I owe you?¡±

    He¡¯s a few years younger than me. Long brown hair under a Guardian¡¯s ball cap. Glasses. He says, ¡°It¡¯s paid for.¡±

    He slips the pie out of its warmer and hands it to me.

    ¡°They tip?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Yep. Thanks!¡±

    I say, ¡°You wouldn¡¯t want to give me a ride, would you?¡±

    ¡°Sorry, man,¡± says the guy. ¡°I¡¯ve got other deliveries.¡± He opens his car door, sits, and says, ¡°And I ain¡¯t a Uber.¡±

    I wave.

    He backs his car into the cul-de-sac, turns, and leaves.

    I look at the box. I open it. It does look good. Smells wonderful.

    Fuck it. I¡¯ll take it with me.

    I walk down the street, eating a slice, my thumb ready to go.

 Chapter 17 - Book 1

    A teenage boy picks me up just past the allotment. From the outside, you¡¯d think that this Ford Fiesta from the nineties is on its last legs, but inside it¡¯s clear he cares for it. It¡¯s clean and in good repair. Surprisingly, it even smells nice. Everything¡¯s the complete opposite of what I expect.

    ¡°Is that a pizza?¡± he asks when I get in.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say.

    ¡°From Ma Barker¡¯s? That¡¯s the shit!¡± he says.

    I look on the box and sure enough, there¡¯s ¡°Ma Barker¡¯s Pizzeria¡± printed there in stylized Art d¨¦co, though I wasn¡¯t sure what she has to do with northeastern Ohio. It sure was tasty, though.

    ¡°You want a piece?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Sure!¡± says the kid. ¡°There¡¯s napkins in the glove compartment. I keep extras from fast-food places? They always give too many.¡±

    I take a few and hand him a slice.

    ¡°Where you headed?¡± he asks.

    ¡°Down by the highway? Seventy-six,¡± I say. ¡°Just the way you¡¯re going.¡±

    The boy nods as he chews. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m going right by there.¡±

    We talk a little about nothing. His name¡¯s James Monroe. ¡°No relation to the president,¡± he says, and winks.

    ¡°Ben Walker,¡± I say, and we talk about the weather and what shows he likes to watch. I¡¯m not sure how many of them I¡¯ve watched are a thing here, but I recognize some titles he mentions. He seems to be a big fan of anime and Korean television.

    I¡¯ve seen some anime but can¡¯t say I¡¯m a big fan.

    He lets me off by a park near the coordinates. I leave him the rest of my pizza and wave as he pulls away. Nice kid.

    The cold and dark feeling is not far away.

    I walk through the park and know I¡¯m getting closer to its source. The park¡¯s more of a wild space rather than anything landscaped. The pave path I¡¯m walking is narrow, wide enough for two people side by side. There¡¯s a dog park, a big empty field, and a couple of pavilions. The bad luck feeling leads me into the surrounding woods. I see structures ahead as the path turns, but I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯m looking at where the ugly luck is coming from.

    There¡¯s a large ranch-style house surrounded by a chain-link fence here, one of those big, detached garages for car enthusiasts, and a couple of oversized sheds. It has the feel of a makeshift compound, and there are a whole lot of motorcycles leaning almost on top of each other in the backyard where they¡¯re invisible from the road. Big men in leather and denim carry boxes to a U-Haul parked in front. There¡¯s what looks like a white church bus parked in the driveway between the house and the moving van. I can hear it idling from here.

    Some men have holstered pistols on their hips and one guy, smoking something long, thin and dark, has an AR-15 style rifle slung over a shoulder.

    That cloud of cold, evil intent swirls and spikes from the house. I Push at it, but it doesn¡¯t do much more than calm things down a little, kind of like soothing a big black dog that¡¯s quit barking but is still growling and about to tear your face off for dinner.

    Nothing they¡¯re doing seems illegal or dangerous. Whatever¡¯s wrong is coming from inside the house.

    I don¡¯t see any sign of the authorities at all. For all I know, they¡¯re minutes away, but it could be hours. Maybe if I can bring them some kind of evidence, recordings from my phone, pictures, something like that, they could do something faster.

    There are a lot of people here, all of them men, all of them biker types, all of them armed that I¡¯ve seen so far. Maybe twenty? There¡¯s a lot of movement. The afternoon is warm for October. Some men have taken off their shirts or at least their motorcycle jackets. There¡¯s an emblem on the back of each one of those. What it is, I can¡¯t make it out from where I am, but they¡¯re all the same. Got to be some kind of motorcycle club or gang.

    I figure my current outfit of jeans and a t-shirt would fit right in. Before I give it too much thought, I Push somewhat harder than I¡¯ve been doing and hurtle the fence, trying to do it without it making that ¡°Hey-I¡¯m-jumping-this-chain-link-fence sound¡± that sounds a little like Christmas bells you put on your cute dog, only in a minor key. My luck holds and the fence makes no noise at all.

    I keep Pushing and walk toward the house like I belong there, scratching the left side of my face with my right arm to hide my face as I pass the armed guard. I nod at him as I pass.

    He¡¯s just gotten a text on his phone. He¡¯s looking at it when he nods back, not half paying attention.

    I nearly scream when my phone vibrates. Just once. Maybe somebody texted me.

    I must¡¯ve jumped because the guard is looking at me.

    I pause and knuckle my chest like I¡¯ve got heartburn or something. ¡°One of those one-off hiccup burp things?¡± I say. ¡°You ever get those?¡±

    He snorts and goes back to his phone.

    I open the sliding glass door and I¡¯m inside.

    It¡¯s a living room packed to the walls with boxes and a couple of wooden shipping crates.

    A strange, motorized growling is coming from the kitchen. The floor plan is open, so I only need to take a few steps that way to see a greasy generator vibrating on a counter. Cables run from it to the open door to the basement. There¡¯s a faint, unpleasant smell, like gasoline and sewage.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°What¡¯s up? You the IT guy?¡±

    I have to be, right? Who else would be crazy enough to walk right in here?

    A short man with a heavy gray beard and motorcycle jacket looks up at me from an easy chair. I didn¡¯t see him before because it¡¯s dark in here and bright outside and he¡¯s sitting in a chocolate brown recliner that¡¯s a couple of sizes too big for him. My eyes couldn¡¯t adjust to the light fast enough to spot him. There¡¯s a bottle of beer in his hand and a shotgun on his lap.

    Not knowing what else to do, I nod, hook a thumb over at the basement door and arch my eyebrows.

    ¡°Sent for ¡®em already, did he?¡± says the guy. ¡°Better go get ¡®em then. We need to get the fuck outta here.¡±

    ¡°He say why?¡± I ask because why the hell not?

    ¡°We think maybe one of them got a message out,¡± he says. ¡°Can¡¯t be sure.¡±

    ¡°Where is he?¡±

    The man smiles and holds up his bottle. ¡°Beer run,¡± he says. ¡°What¡¯s the matter? You look nervous.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t want to screw up is all,¡± Screw up? What the fuck am I even doing here? I¡¯ve got to be out of my mind. ¡°I¡¯m Ben.¡±

    Why am I giving him my real name?

    ¡°Otter,¡± says the guy with the beard. ¡°Just make sure nobody takes anything and shut everything down. We¡¯ll take the hard drives out for ya for when you get back. You know where you¡¯re going?¡±

    I nod and head for the stairs. There are lights on at the bottom, but none for the stairway itself. Cables snake down, tucked over to one side. The smell is worse. Rancid. I don¡¯t want to have anything to do with this.

    ¡°You¡¯re gonna need these,¡± Otter says.

    I turn and he hands me a bundle of tiny keys. I¡¯m pretty sure they¡¯re for handcuffs.

    ¡°Send ¡®em up one at a time,¡± he says. ¡°They won¡¯t give you any trouble. They know better. Then me and you take ¡®em to the new setup. You get ¡®em hooked up there and get everything running and you¡¯re done. No problem.¡±

    I nod and go down the stairs.

    It¡¯s the high school computer lab from hell down here. It¡¯s dark, with the only lights coming from a couple dozen computer screens, and the smell is palpable. I have to take a moment to blink my eyes clear from their watering. Close to thirty people, all young men, are chained to their very own computer station. Nobody¡¯s wearing pants and each of them sits on one of those portable toilets you can set up in the living room when you break your leg or something. Each of them has some of their desk space dedicated to cereal boxes, bags of snacks, some fruit, and bottles of water.

    I have no idea what I¡¯m looking at. Apparently, I¡¯m supposed to get them all upstairs to go to the ¡®new set up.¡¯ Probably on that bus. Okay, he also said that we¡¯re the ones taking them there, right? Me and Otter? So, I¡¯m driving? I can work with that.

    The dark swirls are moving quickly now, but now they¡¯re punctuated by little spots of light. Things are already improving. I keep Pushing as I move over to the first computer.

    The kid can¡¯t be older than sixteen. He¡¯s playing a computer game, of all things. He says, ¡°Please, I¡¯m almost level twenty. I need, like, another ten minutes. Maybe twenty.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re not in any trouble. Just shut everything down as I uncuff you, okay?¡±

    He complies without a word.

    He¡¯s handcuffed to a ring on the end of a short pole that¡¯s sunk into the concrete floor of the basement. Looking around, I see they all are. The first key works and the cuff springs open.

    Some pants are hanging on a hook beside him. He stands with some difficulty and puts them on commando, then he heads up the stairs at a stately pace without a word.

    The next two are playing the same game. Both comply and shut things down for me like I ask as I set them free. One is in his early twenties, the other is only thirteen if he¡¯s a day. I¡¯m willing to bet their faces are on a milk carton somewhere.

    I¡¯m angry and sick, but I know better than to give any outward sign of it. The safest thing for me to do is play along. I have to maintain and get them on the bus.

    The fourth young man has two screens in front of him. Both look like chats.

    ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡± I say.

    He points to the left screen. ¡°I think this one¡¯s about ready to meet,¡± he says. He points to the other. ¡°This one? I dunno yet. I think I need more pictures to send.¡±

    Some kind of catfishing maybe? Blackmail? I grunt and say, ¡°Tell them you¡¯ll talk to them later. It¡¯s time to go.¡±

    ¡°Oh, goody.¡±

    Most of the others are playing games. One by one, I free them and send them upstairs.

    The last kid, the one farthest from the door, has the fanciest setup. Three monitors, the central one over-sized and curved, and all of them look to have documents up. The big one has four windows up, one of them displays search results, one looks like a commercial website, one¡¯s a chat room with a lively conversation scrolling down it, and the third, well, I think he¡¯s coding. His fingers rattle over the keyboard and text that makes no sense to me appears.

    He¡¯s rail thin, pale as death, and wearing a sweater three sizes too big. His hair matted. There are running sores on his legs.

    ¡°I¡¯ve just about got it,¡± he says. ¡°Two minutes.¡±

    I take out my phone and show him the text Myra sent me: 01001000 01100101 01101100 01110000.

    He looks at me in horror. ¡°Oh my fuck,¡± he breathes. ¡°You a cop? We¡¯re so dead.¡±

    ¡°Nope, not a cop. I¡¯m the guy you robbed.¡±

    ¡°Walker? Who in fuck are you? Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re with them?¡±

    ¡°No, I¡¯m not. I know you¡¯ve got questions,¡± I say. ¡°Later though. We¡¯re getting out.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I know. I¡¯m the reason for all this,¡± he says. ¡°I got past the firewall but not as cleanly as I thought. They know someone got something out, but not what or who. Their IT guy¡¯s gotta be good. That isn¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Nope.¡± I¡¯ve unhooked him and now I¡¯m helping him stand. ¡°I can barely spell IT.¡±

    He snorts and puts his pants on, nearly falling over in the process. ¡°If they find me, I¡¯m dead. Fuck, they have to know it was me. Larry¡¯s the only other guy even close to good enough, and it¡¯s not like they¡¯re gonna give me a fair trial or anything. They¡¯ll just kill anybody they suspect. Or everybody. We¡¯re dead, Walker. Dead!¡±

    ¡°Shut up,¡± I tell him.

    He opens his mouth.

    ¡°No, shut up,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯re getting out. All of us. Right now. Come on.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t forget about the girls in the closet then,¡± he says.

    ¡°The¡ª?¡±

    He¡¯s pointing at a dark door.

    Five little girls sit and shiver on the floor of the cold closet. They¡¯ve been in darkness so long that even the faint light causes them to squint their eyes against the glare. I feel sick when they flinch away from me as soon as I open the door, and they cringe and weep, shaking in their efforts to hide from me. To not call attention to themselves. They¡¯re all in their underwear and over-sized novelty t-shirts. Dark blotches and streaks mark their faces. Their legs and feet are bare, streaked with dirt and blood. None of them are even into their teens. It¡¯s hard to tell. There¡¯s no light in here, but from their dark hair and eyes, they might be Hispanic. God knows what those bikers did to them.

    The sight is almost enough to chase the smell from my mind. I wish it did. It¡¯s concentrated despair, unwashed bodies, and fermenting excrement from a single, brown streaked bucket in the corner. I remember reading that people could smell slave ships miles away. These kids are all slaves. All of them, closet and cubicle, and I¡¯m in the hellish darkness belowdecks in a modern version of a goddamn slave ship.

    I want to kill every biker there.

    Choke it down.

    The girls are all looking at me. Their big brown eyes round and bright around the grime on their faces. The other three are listless. They wouldn¡¯t say a word if I set them on fire.

    I say in my sweetest voice, ¡°I need everybody to stand up.¡±

    They cry harder.

    ¡°They don¡¯t speak English,¡± says the hacker from behind me.

    ¡°Um¡­ arriba?¡± I keep my voice even, devoid of anger, knowing I¡¯ll burst into tears, vomit, or both if I scare any of them more than they already are.

    They help each other up and stand in line. My guess is they¡¯ve had lots of practice, and I grit my teeth.

    The hacker kid and I walk them up the stairs.

 Chapter 18 - Book 1

    I have to get everybody out of here with nothing going wrong. Whatever¡¯s been going on with these kids, I think I¡¯ll puke on my shoes if anything further happens to them because of me. I¡¯d rather die. I¡¯ve heard people say that sometimes, but right now I know I mean it.

    When I come up out of the basement, I¡¯m ready to kill or die to get these kids out of here.

    Otter is standing in the living room, all his prisoners doing their best to stand out of the way, quietly, heads down, as the other bikers pick up boxes and take them outside. The crates are gone. There¡¯s not much left.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± says Otter. ¡°Straight out to the bus, everybody. No running and no trying to run away. I¡¯m looking at you, Kevin.¡± He pumps a round into his shotgun. ¡°It ain¡¯t loaded with rock salt this time. I¡¯ll take your fucking head off.¡±

    None of the children and teenagers react to the threat. For some reason, that makes me angrier. I force a cough and school my face. Without a word, I head outside. I hear them follow behind.

    The church bus is a little shorter than its yellow cousins, but not by much. The folding door is open and when I climb in, the interior is indistinguishable from anything I ever rode in to and from school.

    You know, they¡¯re not really yellow, are they? School buses. They¡¯re orange. Huh.

    I guess my mind does weird shit when I¡¯m scared out of my mind.

    The hacker comes up the stairs first. Like I hoped he would.

    I say to him, ¡°Sit close. I¡¯ll need you to distract him, but don¡¯t say anything right now.¡±

    The kid looks at me, his eyes wide. He looks pissed, but he doesn¡¯t open his mouth. I¡¯ve got no choice but to hope he¡¯ll do what I asked. If he doesn¡¯t, this could be a quick trip. Either way, it¡¯s not going to go the way Otter thinks it will.

    The biker gets on last and takes the first seat on the other side of the bus from me. He rests his shotgun on his shoulder. ¡°You know where you¡¯re going?¡± he asks.

    I almost say yes. I know exactly where we¡¯re going. Instead, I say, ¡°The general idea, yeah, but they didn¡¯t give me an address. You got it? I¡¯ll put it in my phone.¡±

    He rolls his eyes and reads it off to me.

    Once I¡¯ve typed it in and the map comes up, I see that it¡¯s in the exact opposite direction I want to go. Of course.

    I save both this current address and the one he¡¯s given me in the GPS app, and as I do so, I turn the volume down, hoping Otter won¡¯t notice.

    I back the big bus out of the driveway and into the street without incident. There¡¯s only this one road, the houses spaced out every couple of acres up and over a hill where it disappears. A perfect neighborhood, probably, for human trafficking or whatever this is.

    The first turn we have to make doesn¡¯t conflict with where Otter thinks we¡¯re going, so that¡¯s okay. I¡¯ve never driven a bus before, but so far so good.

    The next turn is onto a state route and I¡¯m afraid he¡¯ll notice when I go the wrong way.

    The hacker kid hasn¡¯t said a word. He¡¯s just staring out the window.

    I say, ¡°Why they call you ¡®Otter?¡¯¡±

    Otter says, ¡°Long story.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s because he doesn¡¯t listen too good,¡± says the hacker.

    ¡°Shut up, Amir,¡± says Otter.

    ¡°A couple of years ago,¡± says Amir. ¡°They were watching History of the World, Part I, right? The old Mel Brooks movie?¡±

    We were coming up on the turn.

    ¡°Shut up, Amir,¡± says Otter.

    Amir says, ¡°You remember the part where they go, ¡®Auto de fe? What¡¯s an auto de fe?¡¯¡±

    I say, ¡°It¡¯s what you oughtn¡¯t to do, but you do, anyway.¡± I must¡¯ve watched that film a dozen times growing up. Dad was a fan.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± says Amir. ¡°So, we get to that part, only this guy says, ¡®What¡¯s otters got to do with anything?¡¯¡±

    ¡°Goddammit, Amir,¡± says Otter.

    ¡°So, I¡¯m rolling around laughing but no one else is, right?¡± says Amir.

    I¡¯ve made the turn.

    Otter is glaring at Amir.

    I¡¯m beginning to worry about the kid.

    ¡°Nobody got the joke,¡± says Amir. ¡°They didn¡¯t know what an auto de fe was. I guess the Wild Specters aren¡¯t that into history.¡±

    I still haven¡¯t gotten a good look at the backs of their jackets. There was something white though. Could¡¯ve been a ghost.

    ¡°After I explained it to them, the name stuck,¡± says Amir.

    ¡°I¡¯ll stick you,¡± says Otter.

    It just hit me that Amir said ¡®years.¡¯ These guys held him for years.

    ¡°What fur? I¡¯m not your type,¡± says Amir. ¡°Too old. Keep your paws off me.¡±

    ¡°He gets like this,¡± says Otter. ¡°Last time, Patches almost drowned him in the toilet.¡±

    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    Amir shrugs. ¡°Needed a bath anyway. I mean, it ain¡¯t floating cutely on my back in a river, but hey. Beggars. Choosers.¡±

    Otter stands and, for a second, I think he¡¯s going to shoot the kid right then.

    Amir turns to look out the window. ¡°What? I didn¡¯t even use any puns that time. Water you know?¡±

    ¡°You did there.¡±

    Amir looks shocked. ¡°Who?¡± he says. ¡°Me? Look, it¡¯s getting hairy in here, Otter. Why don¡¯t you put the gun down beaver you hurt someone?¡±

    ¡°Just you.¡±

    Amir stands. ¡°You would deny me my petty revenges? What do you think I do all day besides hack and code?¡± He levels a finger at Otter. ¡°Puns burrow through my brain and I squirrel them away, waiting for moments such as this current one. The idea that I can annoy you,¡± shouts Amir. ¡°Keeps me from rabbiting out the door. Keeps me alive rather than the riverse. Keeps me sane, unbroken, and useful to you. Keeps me from finding a way to rat you guys out!¡± Amir is screaming at Otter now. ¡°I don¡¯t like yelling! I¡¯m a mice kid! Possumbly, I¡¯m overreacting. Maybe you should put me in the ground. Hogging the attention like this. I know I¡¯m badgering you. You¡¯re dangerous, I know. My sanity must be beginning to chip. Monkeying around like this¡¯ll get me killed despite what I can ferret out for you guys online. Put me down, which is another type of fur. Sort of. Okay, it¡¯s from birds, you cretin. Kill me and be done with it, you tiny cute little animal motherfucker.¡±

    Amir sits and looks back out the window.

    Otter doesn¡¯t know whether to jam the shotgun into Amir¡¯s mouth or his own, I think. He sits. Laughs once, despite himself, then stares out the window.

    ¡°Kind of outfoxed you there, Otter,¡± I say.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you start.¡±

    ¡°Lame!¡± says Amir.

    Agreed. So? I couldn¡¯t think of one for capybara or prairie dogs.

    Whatever. It seems like it works. We are definitely headed the wrong way and Otter¡¯s just staring at the scenery without seeing it. I want to ask Amir questions, like how long he¡¯s been with the Wild Specters, or how he wound up with them, or what he does for them, but anything I ask might break the spell and clue Otter in.

    Wild Specters. Stupid name. Are there tame spirits? Domesticated haunts?

    We¡¯re getting close to town. It can¡¯t be much longer before Otter realizes we¡¯re not going to the right place. I hope maybe he¡¯ll pick up his phone or something, but he doesn¡¯t. He¡¯s lost in his own thoughts.

    We hit a light.

    A gray car pulls up on my left. The intersection has one of those extended left turn lanes that has part of the space in between hashed out with white paint into a no-man¡¯s-land. The car is far enough from me to shift the angle to one where we can see each other with little trouble. I know I shouldn¡¯t look over, but I do, and when I do, the woman driving looks over at me.

    She does a double take.

    There¡¯s something familiar about her. She¡¯s blonde and curvy. Very pretty. I don¡¯t want to stare at her and make her uncomfortable, so I look away. The last thing I need is more attention right now.

    I hear her shout.

    The light changes and I pull away.

    I see the gray sedan pull out of the turn lane to follow us. She¡¯s shaking her fist out the window.

    Where have I seen her before?

    ¡°What the fuck?¡± Otter has noticed the woman.

    She¡¯s flashing her lights now and honking her horn.

    ¡°We got a flat tire or something?¡± says Amir.

    ¡°No, I¡ª.¡± Then I remember where I¡¯ve seen her. In my defense, I didn¡¯t get a really good look. She was wearing a towel at the time.

    Otter is standing, squinting, and looking out the window. ¡°We gotta find a side stree¡ª. Wait a minute, where are we?¡±

    Oh shit.

    I say, ¡°The GPS¡ª.¡±

    But Otter cuts me off. ¡°Bullshit, this is Willamette. What did you do?¡±

    ¡°Side street?¡± I ask. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s going to get the cops on us,¡± says Otter. He points the gun at me. ¡°What did you do?¡±

    ¡°Shortcut,¡± I say. ¡°What? You want to kill her? Are you crazy? It¡¯s broad daylight on the edge of town!¡±

    ¡°Roll the dice on killing her against that? That¡¯s for sure.¡± He hooks a thumb back at the woman who¡¯s pounding on the side of her car, flashing her lights, honking her horn, and swerving around. Anything she can do to call attention to herself.

    Jesus Christ, lady. You were wearing a towel.

    Okay, that¡¯s unfair. From her point of view, I sneaked in somehow to leer at her in a vulnerable moment. It must¡¯ve felt like a violation. I feel awful.

    ¡°Take that next right,¡± says Otter.

    The street he¡¯s talking about leads into a residential area thick with trees.

    ¡°Nope,¡± I say.

    ¡°Do it,¡± says Otter. He aims the shotgun at my temple.

    But we¡¯ve already passed it.

    ¡°Look,¡± I say. ¡°I pissed her off way before all this, okay? She knows nothing about you or the kids back there. Besides, if she¡¯s doing all that, she¡¯s probably not on her phone¡­.¡±

    But I can hear sirens.

    Otter is leaning out into the aisle, his feet braced, both hands on his weapon. The bore of the gun looks huge.

    I¡¯ve been Pushing luck this whole time, mostly without paying much attention to it. There¡¯s a rough part of the road ahead, standing water in a puddle. I aim for it and Push harder.

    Otter growls, ¡°Last chance, B¡ª.¡±

    The bus lurches up and down. It wasn¡¯t a puddle, but a pothole. We¡¯re all flung up into the air. I¡¯ve got a seatbelt though, and I was ready.

    I snatch the shotgun out of the biker¡¯s hands as he reaches out to steady himself. By the time the bus settles, I¡¯ve got the barrel resting in the crook of my right arm, aimed at Otter¡¯s center of mass.

    ¡°You stay right there and don¡¯t you move,¡± I say. ¡°Amir, come here.¡±

    ¡°But¡ª.¡±

    ¡°You come here right now,¡± I say.

    He steps into the aisle but hesitates as he gets near Otter.

    ¡°Good idea,¡± I say. ¡°Otter, you sit in the stairwell where I can watch you better.¡±

    He complies and then he says, ¡°You are not the IT guy.¡±

    ¡°Amir, my cell phone is in my right pants pocket,¡± I say.

    ¡°Dude, I am not reaching into your pants,¡± says Amir.

    ¡°I¡¯m not giving you the gun,¡± I say. ¡°Just get it. You know the number for nine-one-one, right?¡±

    The kid snorts. He hesitates.

    ¡°Okay, look, we need the cops and the way to them is in my pants, yes!¡± I yell. ¡°It¡¯s awkward, uh huh. Nobody here will think you¡¯re gay if you call for help, goddammit!¡±

    ¡°I will,¡± mutters Otter.

    ¡°I will kill you where you sit!¡± I¡¯m screaming at him. Oh fuck, I¡¯m losing it. ¡°You fucking pedophile slaver piece of shit!¡± I spare a quick glance at Amir. ¡°Now get my phone!¡±

    He does, even if he goes about it like he¡¯s disarming a bomb or something. He sits back down in his seat and dials.

    ¡°The addresses where you were being held and the new one are both saved in the GPS app,¡± I say. ¡°Give them those. Tell ¡®em we have one of the bikers on here and that I¡¯ve got a gun on him. Then tell them all the rest. Oh, and don¡¯t forget about the angry lady following us.¡±

    I have to ease down on the brakes for a turn. The police station is a block ahead.

    When I slow, Otter jumps up and runs down the aisle toward the back of the bus.

    I don¡¯t shoot him. I hesitated, and the moment is gone. There¡¯s no way to shoot with all the kids around, and maybe I wouldn¡¯t, anyway. I let him go. Probably I¡¯ll regret that later.

    I wonder if he¡¯s going to grab one of the kids, but he keeps going, hits the emergency door which slams open, and then he¡¯s rolling behind us in the intersection.

    The lady following almost flattens him, and he¡¯s nearly run over two more times before he makes it out of the street. He turns a corner and is gone.

    I wonder if Ms. Towel is going to pull over to help him or yell at him for knowing me or something, but she stays on our tail.

    Less than a minute later, I¡¯m spinning the big bus steering wheel and pulling into the rear of the sheriff¡¯s station.

    I¡¯ve come in too fast. I clip a cruiser and the bus¡¯s tires are howling and smoking.

    The kids in the back don¡¯t make a sound.

    I get the behemoth stopped with a hiss of hydraulics and open the door.

    Police are spilling out the back door, some with their hands on their weapons. I see Torelli and then Smythe.

    I unhook my seat belt, hold the shotgun over my head in both hands, and hurry down the stairs.

    ¡°Walker?¡± I hear Smythe say.

    Torelli takes the shotgun for me and ejects the shell.

    ¡°What the hell?¡± asks Smythe.

    ¡°One of them¡¯s getting away,¡± I say.

    ¡°What? Who?¡±

    ¡°Pervert!¡± and then the world goes sideways, the left side of my face feels ablaze, and I stagger against the side of the bus.

    I hear the sheriff say, ¡°This is why I wanted him out of town, goddammit.¡±

 Chapter 19 - Book 1

    There¡¯s the sound of handcuffs being ratcheted closed as Smythe puts Ms. Towel under arrest.

    I put up a hand and say, ¡°Don¡¯t do that. I¡¯m not pressing charges. Please.¡±

    Smythe looks up at me.

    So does Ms. Towel, who¡¯s flushed, with her eyes all red and watery. I can¡¯t tell if she¡¯s crying, or she¡¯s one of those people that cries when they¡¯re super angry. Yeah, she looks pissed, but she¡¯s not struggling or anything. If anything, she seems resigned, perfectly fine with whatever¡¯s going to be done with her. There¡¯s no acknowledgment from her or any response to what I just said.

    Smythe says, ¡°You sure?¡±

    I¡¯m about to answer when the bus bounces a little and Torelli bounds out the door. ¡°Bunch of kids in there,¡± he says. ¡°Quiet as church mice.¡±

    ¡°From the bikers,¡± I say.

    Torelli arches an eyebrow at me.

    ¡°From their compound?¡± I say.

    I hear the sheriff swear. He takes a deep breath while rubbing his forehead. Those around me brace for orders.

    He opens his mouth to give them, but there¡¯s a commotion from the street. A wake erupts through the rear ranks of officers as they¡¯re jostled aside as someone short bullies through. I have time to wonder what¡¯s going on before I see the tall figure of Agent Tyler, grim-faced, trailing the disturbance. Ochoa steams through like a tiny tug boat, knocking aside battleships to stand in front of me. She flinches at me, there¡¯s a searing pain in my face, and the world tilts again.

    She¡¯s slapped me! On the same side as Ms. Towel!

    I should¡¯ve figured.

    Straightening back up slowly, holding my face, the sound comes again of handcuffs being applied. Agent Tyler¡¯s putting them on Ochoa.

    I shake my head. ¡°I won¡¯t press charges against her either.¡±

    Tyler marches Ochoa toward the station, anyway. ¡°Sorry?¡± she says, pointing to her ear. ¡°Can¡¯t hear you. Too much noise. Tell me again in about an hour.¡±

    I¡¯m led away soon after as the sheriff¡¯s cursing bitterly. Seems some asshole left a bus blocking the exit.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    I¡¯m in my old holding cell and it¡¯s totally fucked up that I feel more at home here, safer than anywhere else in this universe, even if it gives me time to think. For things to sink in.

    What did I do?

    What did I just do?

    The little room is a tad too small for satisfactory pacing. The damn walls are too close together, and I¡¯m turning so quickly and often enough that I¡¯ll probably get dizzy.

    I¡¯m not under arrest but ¡®being held for questioning¡¯ and I want to answer and ask some of my own, but they¡¯ve got me waiting.

    I feel on the edge of panic. I feel like, if I sit down, I¡¯ll only have to stand right back up again to deal with something else. God knows what. A fire? A gunfight? Godzilla?

    And I¡¯m so tired. I know I¡¯m not thinking clearly. Yeah, I got some sleep. Was that last night? But not enough, obviously. How else do you explain what I just did? Walked through a criminal biker gang¡¯s hideout to pull almost thirty kids out of there by myself? It¡¯s insane. I could¡¯ve gotten killed. I could¡¯ve gotten the kids killed.

    But what else could I do? I felt what was going to happen. If I had waited¡­. Well, we¡¯ll never know, right asshole? You went and did it, anyway.

    I know those kids are okay now. That they¡¯re out in the station being looked after, their parents called, probably being wrapped in a blanket.

    Wait. I¡¯m wrapped in a blanket. When did that happen? Isn¡¯t that for shock? Am I in shock?

    Never mind.

    Amir¡¯s got my phone. I should ask for it back. I need to call¡ª.

    Ma Barker¡¯s pizza chooses that moment to mount its revenge. Pizza doesn¡¯t normally do this to me, but it¡¯s hardly been a typical day. The holding cell¡¯s got a toilet, thank God, and what happens next at my southern end is unspeakable.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    An hour later, I¡¯m still pacing.

    The door opens and Agent Tyler steps in. She looks down at me, her arms crossed.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you sit down, Ben,¡± she says. ¡°Get some rest.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t.¡±

    Agent Tyler is very large. She puts her hands on my shoulders and guides me to my bunk. I sit.

    ¡°You need to rest,¡± she says.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    ¡°Are the kids okay?¡±

    ¡°Yes, they¡¯re all fine.¡±

    ¡°Good. Agent Tyler, the things they went through¡ª.¡± My voice cracks and I¡¯m tearing up.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to have a talk,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Now.¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°You did a lot of good today. Did a lot of things right,¡± she says. ¡°You saved twenty-nine kids¡¯ lives. Amir Amin? He¡¯s been missing for four years. He¡¯s the oldest of them at twenty. The next oldest is sixteen. The youngest is eight. One of the little Guatemalan girls. They were sold by a coyote at the border three weeks ago, and we¡¯ve been looking for them. You got us the address of the house they were being held in and the address of the house they were going to be moved to. Ben, there were only fifteen workstations set up there. We think they were going to eliminate some of the computer kids. There was no sign of any holding area for the girls, but there was a backhoe in the backyard beside a ten-foot by ten-foot by ten-foot hole, and ten bags of quicklime. We think Amir¡¯s message spooked them and they were tying off loose ends. Reducing their risks. Do you understand what I¡¯m telling you?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°They¡¯re all alive because of you. Because you acted.¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°Now, you did some unimaginably stupid things today, too. You ditched me and Ochoa. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen her that mad,¡± Tyler says. ¡°And she gets mad a lot.¡±

    ¡°She really hates me, doesn¡¯t she.¡±

    Tyler snorts. ¡°Then you did something seasoned undercover agents have difficulty doing. You infiltrated a biker gang that was armed to the teeth and on high alert, commandeered a bus you didn¡¯t know how to drive, fought with a biker armed with a shotgun around a bunch of kids, sideswiped a cruiser, and blocked the exit of the police station when they were trying to respond to the crisis you precipitated. The sheriff¡¯s people rounded up six bikers once they got out of here, but the rest, including that Otter guy who knows what you look like, got away. For now.¡±

    ¡°Shit.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Here¡¯s my point, Ben. You did a lot of good today. Stupidly. Yes, if you hadn¡¯t acted, the bikers would be at their new location, some kids would be dead, the rest still enslaved, and we¡¯d have not the first clue where they were or what was going on. You know what all this tells me?¡± She pokes me in the chest. ¡°You. Need. Help,¡± she says. ¡°I want you to understand something. As I¡¯m getting to know you, understanding you a little bit, I can see you struggling with all this, think. I know you want to help. You feel driven to do so and I bet you always have. It¡¯s what¡¯s got you here, cursed like you are, and you know that. Here¡¯s what you don¡¯t know. You don¡¯t have to take responsibility for everything. Every bit of bad luck that you feel happening around you? That¡¯s not your fault. My guess is that luck is just the confluence of events all around us, crashing together to develop strings of causality as a direct result of the actions and intentions of all the people around us. Bad things happen sometimes because people make bad choices. Sometimes bad things happen anyway. Good things too. None of that happens because of you.¡±

    ¡°Yes, it does! It¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Why? Because you feel it? Because you can see it just before it happens? Because you can nudge it one way or the other? If I throw a rock at your head and you duck, causing the rock to hit an eight-year-old child behind you, did you hit the kid with a rock? What if you actively knock it aside instead and some other kid gets hit? Are you to blame? I threw the rock, Ben. Not you. Right?¡±

    ¡°I guess.¡±

    ¡°You need to think about that some more. Believe it or not, I¡¯m here to help, and like I said, you need it. I¡¯m going to give it to you. Now, first thing¡¯s first. You¡¯re going to sleep.¡±

    ¡°But¡ª.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re exhausted. If you lay down and can relax, you¡¯ll sleep, trust me. Besides, if you don¡¯t lay down right now, I¡¯ll get an EMT in here to sedate you.¡± She looks at me, her eyebrows raised. They don¡¯t so much as quiver until I concede and lay down.

    ¡°Good,¡± she says. ¡°We¡¯ll talk more in the morning. Oh! I almost forgot. Melanie is doing great. I don¡¯t think we¡¯d have even been able to get the kids off the bus without her.¡± There¡¯s a twinkle in her eye.

    ¡°Melanie?¡±

    ¡°Melanie Linn,¡± she says. ¡°Doctor Melanie Linn. She¡¯s a child psychologist? You first met her in her apartment when she was wearing a towel. She specializes in trauma, if you can believe it. How lucky are we?¡±

    I bark out a laugh.

    She widens her eyes and tilts her head back, extends her hand, and moves it in a tight circle. ¡°Sleep,¡± she intones, like she¡¯s casting a spell. Then she winks at me and closes the door.

    There¡¯s no way I¡¯ll be able to sleep, but I owe it to her to give it a shot. I¡¯ll just relax, maybe do some deep breathing exercises and¡ª.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    The door opening wakes me up. Startling awake like this always disorients me. I know I¡¯m in the holding cell. Then I remember that I¡¯m not in trouble. Then I remember that I¡¯m only probably not in trouble and, when I rub the stubble on my cheeks, my face still hurts.

    ¡°Good morning,¡± says Agent Tyler.

    ¡°Is it?¡± I say. ¡°How¡¯d I do?¡±

    ¡°You had a station full of capable people looking after a bunch of scared kids,¡± says Tyler. ¡°One of the vending machines quit working at about three a.m. for no reason which forced the sheriff to invest in some donuts which, sadly, are all gone. Was that you? Who knows?¡±

    I hear the rustle of a paper bag and look up, hope in my heart.

    Sure enough, Agent Tyler, a saint and a genius, has brought me breakfast. It¡¯s fast food but, hey, like Amir said yesterday. Beggars. Choosers. I take the bag from her, gratefully, and start digging through it.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been asleep about ten hours, by the way,¡± Tyler tells me. ¡°How do you feel?¡±

    ¡°A little stiff,¡± I say. ¡°But better.¡± I take a bite of my breakfast sandwich. Now I¡¯m much better.

    ¡°Good,¡± she says. ¡°We need your help, Ben.¡±

    ¡°Oh, I can help now?¡±

    Tyler smirks. She takes a letter from inside her suit and hands it to me.

    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± I say, setting my sandwich aside to open it out of the way.

    ¡°The paperwork for you being a consultant for us. I got my boss to rush the process a bit after telling him what you¡¯ve been up to these past three days. The rest of your paperwork seems to be coming along.¡±

    It¡¯s been three days? Feels like three weeks. This would be the morning of my fourth day in my new universe, maybe a week until Halloween. I¡¯ll have to check. My sense of time is off because of my sleep schedule and, well, all the chaos, and I still don¡¯t have my phone.

    I set the letter aside. I¡¯ll sign it after breakfast.

    ¡°So, yeah,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Now you can help.¡±

    ¡°Where¡¯s Ochoa?¡± I say, my tone dark.

    Tyler smiles. ¡°She¡¯s been doing interrogations and debriefings non-stop, but there¡¯s one that she just can¡¯t crack.¡±

    I nod. ¡°Amir,¡± I say around a mouthful.

    Tyler nods. ¡°Amir. He won¡¯t even give anybody your phone. Which has been ringing all morning and driving everybody crazy.¡±

    The sandwich, hash browns, and orange juice are soon gone. I sign the papers and now I¡¯m officially employed on a case-by-case basis by the FBI. Who knew?

    Tyler leads me out of the room. ¡°We¡¯ll get you a shower and change of clothes later,¡± she says. ¡°Did you figure things out with the bank?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°My money¡¯s all back. Amir took it and sent the codes and coordinates. You knew that, right?¡±

    Tyler nods. ¡°Yes, and we¡¯d dearly love to know how. Our friends at the Secret Service are scratching their heads. He¡¯s got them and the FBI thinking of recruiting him for white hat work.¡±

    ¡°White hat?¡±

    ¡°White hat hackers test systems to prevent breaches before the bad guys can do it,¡± says Tyler. ¡°We employ a lot of former criminals in that capacity. Amir did it all under duress, which, in my book, makes him even more impressive. We think he¡¯s done a lot more for the bikers, but he hasn¡¯t talked yet. We¡¯ve let him sleep and we¡¯re getting him ready for our best interrogator in east of the Mississippi.¡±

    She leads me around the corner to the interrogation rooms where Ochoa is standing by the door, her arms crossed, the lips under her glasses are tight and thin, with all the blood squished out of them. Her thumb aims at the door. Inside, through the little window, I can see Amir Amin. He looks scared and determined.

    ¡°Will you talk to this kid, Ben?¡± she says. ¡°So, I can get started already?¡±

 Chapter 20 - Book 1

    Okay, I¡¯m not expecting an apology, exactly, but Ochoa¡¯s standing there waiting for my answer as if she didn¡¯t hit me last night and everything¡¯s normal and fine. You know what? Fine.

    I smile and say, ¡°I¡¯ll do what I can, Agent Ochoa.¡±

    Without another word, I walk past her into Interrogation Room 2.

    Amir Amin is sitting there at the little table wearing the same clothes he was wearing when I found him ¡ª a too-big brown sweater that¡¯s hanging off a blade thin shoulder and black sweatpants. He¡¯s barefoot and his black hair¡¯s mussed. His eyes are a little clearer and he seems wide awake.

    He perks up a little when he sees me. ¡°Mr. Walker!¡± he says. ¡°You okay?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine, Amir,¡± I say. ¡°They let me sleep too. You okay?¡±

    ¡°I still can¡¯t believe I¡¯m free,¡± says Amir, a little dazed. ¡°It¡¯s been four years! I can¡¯t believe my message worked. I can¡¯t believe you came and got us. I can¡¯t believe how you grabbed Otter¡¯s gun right out of the air. I can¡¯t believe any of this.¡±

    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s real,¡± I say.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got your phone,¡± says Amir. ¡°It¡¯s been ringing like crazy. ID says ¡®Wests?¡¯ I didn¡¯t know if I should give it to anybody, you know? I¡¯m surprised the cops didn¡¯t just take it off me.¡±

    ¡°I figured,¡± I say. ¡°Probably needs charged by now.¡±

    ¡°Charged?¡±

    ¡°My phone.¡±

    ¡°Like a¡­ credit card or something? Is this one of those pay-as-you-go things?¡±

    I blink at him.

    My phone rings. I look at it. Sure enough, it¡¯s the ¡®Wests.¡¯ I look for the telltale battery icon in the upper right corner of the screen. I look for it at the bottom right. Upper left.

    ¡°You gonna answer that?¡± says Amir. ¡°Please? So they¡¯ll shut up?¡±

    I answer.

    I hear Myra¡¯s voice say, ¡°I¡¯ve got an idea.¡±

    ¡°Oh, hi Myra.¡±

    ¡°Yes, hi. Could you open up your messaging app for me, Push, and then I want you to type in, let¡¯s say, five sets of random letters? Letters? Yeah, I think letters would be best. With spaces in between. Could you do that?¡±

    ¡°Uh, sure,¡± I say, typing in a bunch of random letters and hitting the spacebar whenever.

    ¡°Who is it?¡± says Amir.

    ¡°Who¡¯s that?¡± says Myra. ¡°Wait a minute. Where are you? I¡¯ve been trying to call¡­. You¡¯re in trouble again, aren¡¯t you? Alex!¡±

    I hold the phone away from my ear as she shouts for her husband. ¡°It¡¯s my accountant,¡± I say.

    ¡°Your accountant?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°Who¡¯s Alex?¡±

    ¡°Her husband and my lawyer.¡±

    There¡¯s a tap at the door. Ochoa¡¯s there, the top of her head just visible through the tiny window in the door. All I can see is one eye and the curls of her hair. She points at Amir and makes her hand kind of shrug somehow, clearly wanting me to get on with things.

    I hear Alex¡¯s voice through the phone. ¡°Ben? What¡¯s going on?¡±

    ¡°Hi, Alex,¡± I say. ¡°What¡¯s Myra up to with those random letters?¡±

    ¡°What?¡± says Alex. ¡°Random--? I have no idea. Are you in trouble?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think so?¡± Sighing, I say, ¡°I, um, rescued a bunch of kids last night, and I¡¯m still at the police station.¡±

    ¡°Rescued--? You haven¡¯t talked to them, right? The police?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Did you commit any crimes during this rescue?¡±

    ¡°Shit.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Don¡¯t say anything. I¡¯m on my way. Where are you?¡±

    ¡°The sheriff¡¯s station in Willamette.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t say anything.¡±

    He hangs up.

    Before I put my phone away, I notice that I have a new notification from the App.

    New Skill: Nerve +1

    That must¡¯ve been that alert when I was approaching the biker house. Nerve? Yeah, no shit. I¡¯m out of my mind.

    Pocketing my phone, I consider walking out of the room and waiting quietly for Alex, but I already gave my word. I sit down in the other chair.

    ¡°Agent Ochoa wants to talk to you,¡± I say to Amir. ¡°They told me you didn¡¯t want to.¡±

    Amir looks at the table and shifts in his chair.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think anybody here can understand the first thing about what you¡¯ve been through, but they all know you¡¯ve been through a lot,¡± I say. ¡°That, they get. But look at what you¡¯ve done. You¡¯re the reason you and the others are free. You know that, right? Everybody here knows you¡¯re a good guy. A hero.¡±

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Amir just looks at the table.

    ¡°I had a bad night just the other day and Agent Ochoa and Agent Tyler really helped me out. If they hadn¡¯t, I wouldn¡¯t¡¯ve been able to help you guys. Those bikers are terrifying, but they¡¯re not the FBI. They aren¡¯t the US government. They don¡¯t have spy planes and smart bombs and tanks, right? And you know what?¡± I take out the papers, naming me a consultant and slide them over. ¡°Take a look at those. Fresh off the printer this morning. Dude, me and the FBI are gonna go squish Otter and those other bastards into goo.¡±

    The corner of Amir¡¯s mouth quirks up. He looks at the papers.

    ¡°I mean, I know that Ochoa¡¯s scary looking,¡± I say.

    Amir snorts.

    ¡°And Agent Tyler? I bet she could pick us both up by the neck with either hand. I heard George Washington did that once.¡±

    ¡°Yeah?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. If I remember right, it was when he was in the army. I don¡¯t know if it was during the Revolution or before. He saw two men fighting or about to, drove his horse between them, and lifted them both off the ground.¡±

    Amir grins. ¡°I could totally see Agent Tyler doing that,¡± he says.

    ¡°Look, talk to them, okay? They¡¯re good people. And I¡¯ll look after you, too, I promise.¡±

    ¡°Okay.¡±

    I pat the table and stand. Ochoa is waiting at the door.

    She stands back so I can open the door.

    ¡°I¡¯m scary looking, eh?¡± she says to me with one fist backwards on a cocked hip. ¡°In what way do I scare you, Mr. Walker?¡± She¡¯s smiling, though.

    I have no idea what to say, and she doesn¡¯t really scare me. At all. Mostly.

    She goes past me and closes the door behind.

    Tyler¡¯s there. She says, ¡°Thanks, Ben.¡± He gestures for me to lead the way, and we step into a narrow room where we can see Ochoa sitting down at the table, her back to us, through the one-way glass.

    ¡°Is it called one-way glass or two-way?¡± I ask Tyler.

    She laughs. ¡°Either really.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡±

    She nods. ¡°I guess they can¡¯t count or something.¡±

    I say, ¡°My lawyer¡¯s on his way. He doesn¡¯t want me talking to you.¡±

    Tyler grins. ¡°You should absolutely not talk to any of the sheriff¡¯s people unless your lawyer, myself, or Agent Ochoa are present.¡± She winks at me.

    We hear Ochoa say, ¡°Thanks for getting Mr. Walker back his phone. I know he appreciates you looking after it for him. Like you were looking after all those kids.¡±

    Amir looks at the table.

    ¡°Did you say she was good at this?¡± I say.

    ¡°She¡¯s the best I¡¯ve ever seen in an interrogation room.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡±

    Tyler nods. ¡°She knew to get you, didn¡¯t she?¡±

    Ochoa leans back. ¡°Like I said before, Amir, you are not in any trouble at all. You¡¯ve been missing for four years and presumed dead. I¡¯m so sorry about your parents,¡± she says.

    ¡°His parents?¡± I ask.

    Tyler says, ¡°Home invasion. The kidnappers murdered them when he was taken.¡±

    ¡°Do you know the particulars?¡± says Ochoa. ¡°They fought, Amir. Both of them. I thought you should know. They fought hard.¡±

    Amir¡¯s face scrunches up and he sobs once.

    ¡°Your mom?¡± says Ochoa. ¡°They found a finger in her mouth. She bit it off a guy. We found him soon after. DNA match. But he wouldn¡¯t give up his buddies. He¡¯s in prison now and will be forever. Your dad¡¯s hands were bleeding. Three of his knuckles were broken. Pretty good for a dentist and a secretary, if you ask me. If I ever have to go down fighting, I hope I go like that.¡±

    Amir¡¯s crying.

    ¡°Is all that true?¡± I ask.

    Tyler nods.

    Then Ochoa does something I don¡¯t expect. She takes off her glasses.

    Her back¡¯s to me. I can¡¯t see her face and for a moment, I have the wild urge to tap on the glass to make her turn.

    ¡°Look at me, Amir,¡± says Ochoa. She reaches out and takes his hand.

    Amir does. He looks at her with such hope that it breaks my heart.

    ¡°You have an aunt and uncle,¡± she says. ¡°We didn¡¯t want to track them down or say anything to them without your say-so. You¡¯re twenty now. You don¡¯t have to go to them or go anywhere you don¡¯t want to, okay? I heard Mr. Walker say he¡¯d look after you, and I believe him. You are free and safe, but others aren¡¯t. Those bikers are out there doing what they do. What they did to you, they¡¯re still doing to others. We got some that were holding you, but a bunch got away.¡± She takes his hand in both of hers now. ¡°You were around them for years. There¡¯s things about them you¡¯re not even aware you know. And you were in their systems. I bet you know all kinds of things. Don¡¯t get me wrong. We¡¯ll get them, but if you help us, we¡¯ll get them that much faster.¡±

    She sits there, holding his hand, for a long time.

    Amir says something.

    ¡°What was that?¡± says Ochoa.

    ¡°I made copies,¡± Amir says. ¡°It started out as a troll farm, you know?¡±

    ¡°Troll farm?¡± I ask.

    Tyler says, ¡°Internet trolls peddling conspiracy theories for political and financial purposes.¡±

    ¡°But that wasn¡¯t making enough money,¡± says Amir. ¡°Not after the election, anyway. So they had us playing games. We¡¯d start an account, get good, then sell off our accounts to other players for cash. Some kids who were older and better typists they had catfish people for blackmail. I was into computers when they took me, and I already knew how to do a little coding. They made me learn to hack. I did a little ransomware and some other stuff. Broke into private companies¡¯ files and did some freelance corporate espionage. Four years. I kept records.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve got it all on, what, a flash drive up your ass?¡± says Ochoa, and laughs.

    Amir laughs too. ¡°God no. It¡¯s on the cloud,¡± he says. ¡°I keep my car keys up my ass.¡±

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    Ochoa and Amir talk while Tyler goes and fetches her partner¡¯s laptop. Amir¡¯s opening it when Tyler rejoins me in the little room. I¡¯ve seen a bunch of laptops over the last few days and I realize that not a one of them had a power cord. This phone they gave me doesn¡¯t even have a port for one.

    ¡°Why doesn¡¯t my phone need charging?¡± I ask. ¡°I keep meaning to ask.¡±

    Tyler looks at me, confused. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, what? Charging?¡±

    I hold up my phone. ¡°How¡¯s it powered?¡±

    ¡°Sponsored energy,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Every provider has a practitioner or two.¡±

    I nod. ¡°Is Amir why you¡¯re here?¡± I ask. ¡°In Willamette?¡±

    ¡°Hmm? Oh, no,¡± she says. ¡°He was taken in Oregon. The little girls came up from the border and all the other kids all come from other places no where near Ohio. Based on what we¡¯ve already learned, we think the Wild Specters have quite a human trafficking system. They take them from one place and then move them far away where no one¡¯s looking for them. We didn¡¯t even know they were here.¡±

    ¡°Why are you here?¡±

    ¡°There has been a rash of kidnappings in the area, some of them resembling what you interrupted on your first night here. We think some sponsored freelancers are operating in the area. All the missing are young people. How old would you say that woman was from the bar?¡±

    ¡°The woman in the sweater?¡± I say. ¡°Probably twenty-one or twenty-two.¡±

    Tyler nods. ¡°That fits. Most of the victims have been younger. None of them older than that.¡±

    ¡°Why? Is it some kind of sex thing?¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t think so. Younger people have more possibility attached to them. Current magic theory believes that possibility has its own energy that the sponsored can tap into somehow to boost their abilities.¡±

    ¡°Through human sacrifice?¡±

    ¡°When all that possibility ends, the energy has to go somewhere. Practitioners who know how can channel it.¡±

    ¡°Jesus. How many kids are missing?¡±

    ¡°We think somewhere around forty.¡±

    ¡°Oh my God.¡±

    ¡°Look, you¡¯re new to this, so here are the rules. We don¡¯t talk to people about ongoing investigations. That can screw us up. The bad guys could hear about it. You could let something slip and reveal our methodologies or other agents or thousands of other things. We¡¯ll only speak about it when we¡¯re alone. You¡¯re going to be held to the same confidentiality standards as any agent. Understood?¡±

    I nod. ¡°You mean forty kids just from around here?¡±

    Tyler nods. ¡°Probably more.¡±

    Amir is talking to Ochoa like their old friends. Her glasses remain there on the table. She hasn¡¯t turned around once.

    ¡°She¡¯s really got him talking,¡± I say.

    Tyler shrugs. ¡°He was just scared and gone through a traumatic experience. He actually wants to talk to us. Wants to hurt the people that hurt him. Wants justice. But yeah, I told you she would.¡±

    There¡¯s a knock at the door.

    Agent Tyler opens it.

    Alex West is standing there in a suit with Sheriff Abernathy, who looks irritated. He always does. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s me or if his face is just like that.

    ¡°I told him you were busy,¡± says the Sheriff in his deep voice.

    Alex holds his hand out to Agent Tyler. ¡°I¡¯m Alex West. I represent Mr. Walker.¡±

    ¡°Agent Cal Tyler,¡± says Agent Tyler. ¡°Nice to meet you. We should all sit down and talk.¡±

    Alex looks up at Agent Tyler. He bends to peer around the door frame to see into the interrogation room. He looks at me. ¡°You¡¯ve been talking to them, haven¡¯t you?¡±

 Chapter 21 - Book 1

    Alex insists we talk in private first, but there¡¯s no place private left. The place is full of the kids I rescued and the ongoing efforts to deal with them. The sheriff¡¯s pulled in every shift. Half the force and all the office staff are on the phones.

    We go out to Alex¡¯s car instead. It¡¯s a roomy sedan, electric, big and black.

    I say, ¡°How come some things run on electricity and other things, like my phone, don¡¯t?¡±

    Alex does a double-take at me as he sits in the driver¡¯s seat. ¡°Well, we¡¯re not going to risk our communications systems with electricity,¡± he says like it¡¯s obvious. ¡°Electricity sometimes fails, right? How are you going to call for help when the power¡¯s out? What about all those people in the hospital with machines keeping them alive?¡±

    ¡°Where I¡¯m from, we have rechargeable batteries and backup power generators.¡±

    ¡°Ah,¡± says Alex. ¡°We have those too, but not for things like phones and the internet and stuff that¡¯s got to be kept powered or people die.¡±

    ¡°Makes sense.¡±

    ¡°Now, what did you tell them?¡±

    ¡°Nothing!¡± I say. ¡°Honest. They know I helped rescue those kids and they know I stole the bikers¡¯ bus to do it. They saw me sideswipe that police cruiser¡ª.¡±

    ¡°You sideswiped a police cruiser?¡±

    ¡°I needed to get here as soon as I could before Otter got away.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a fucking otter?¡±

    ¡°One of the bikers.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a biker,¡± says Alex. ¡°Whose name is Otter?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought, right? Turns out it¡¯s a joke nickname from a Mel Brooks movie.¡±

    ¡°Right. Okay. Beside the point. You didn¡¯t tell them anything, though?¡±

    ¡°No, they put me right to bed last night. I think the FBI is kinda shielding me?¡±

    ¡°Why would they do that?¡±

    ¡°Because I work for them now.¡± I hand him the documents showing I¡¯m now a consultant. ¡°I¡¯m gainfully employed.¡±

    ¡°With the FBI.¡±

    ¡°A consultant. Is that not a good idea?¡±

    ¡°It should help, I think.¡± Alex looked troubled. ¡°You didn¡¯t kill anybody this time?¡± he asks.

    I wince.

    ¡°Like at the bank?¡± he says. ¡°Sorry. I have to ask.¡±

    ¡°No. I didn¡¯t hurt anybody.¡±

    ¡°You raided a motorcycle gang by yourself, rescued the kids they were trafficking, unarmed, and got away without so much as throwing a punch?¡±

    I find myself blushing and shrug. ¡°I¡¯m not Batman, Alex. You make me sound¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure?¡± says Alex. His tone is deadly serious. ¡°I mean, do you know you¡¯re not Batman?¡±

    ¡°Yes, I know I¡¯m not Batman,¡± I tell him. ¡°Look, there was trouble. I could see it getting worse and knew whoever did that to my bank account was in danger. I could see it. Right in front of me. Was I supposed to just sit there? I can¡¯t do that.¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± says Alex. ¡°If that¡¯s it, I don¡¯t think they¡¯ll do anything about any of this.¡±

    ¡°I want to offer to pay for the damages to the cruiser,¡± I say. ¡°I did that.¡±

    Alex grins. ¡°That shouldn¡¯t be a problem,¡± he says. ¡°We¡¯ve been in touch with the bank as your intermediaries. We¡¯ve accepted a preliminary reward of five thousand dollars on your behalf from the bank for foiling the bank robbery. There¡¯s likely to be more.¡± He snorts. ¡°It¡¯s funny how comic book language kind of wiggles its way into the vernacular when comic book things happen, huh? Never thought I¡¯d use the word ¡®foiled¡¯ professionally. Oh, and we low-balled the convenience store for a settlement. We figured you¡¯d want the money sooner since I¡¯m probably looking at everything you own in the world right now. Thirty thousand dollars, just about doubling your net worth.¡±

    I¡¯m shocked. ¡°I have fifty thousand dollars?¡±

    ¡°Your lottery ticket, the settlement, and the initial bank reward mean you have fifty-five thousand, minus anything you¡¯ve spent, of course, like our own modest fees. Oh, and you gave ten to Myra to play with, too.¡±

    ¡°I did?¡±

    ¡°It was in the paperwork.¡±

    It was. I remember that now. She wanted to make some investments for me, get me some health insurance and stuff. The bed-and-breakfast. ¡°Is that what that was earlier? With the random letters?¡±

    ¡°I have no idea,¡± Alex says with a shrug. ¡°She won¡¯t tell me anything about it. Oh! That¡¯s right. She wanted me to ask you to text her another random bunch, same rules as before.¡±

    I pull out my phone and start tapping out nonsense.

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Alex says, ¡°I¡¯ll hang out with you for a bit, okay? I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll have some questions, the sheriff and the FBI both, and I should be there for that. You tell them the truth, assuming that¡¯s what you told me¡ª.¡±

    ¡°It was.¡± I hit send on the message to Myra.

    The three dots appear almost instantly and then, ¡°Thank you!¡± pops up from my accountant.

    ¡°Be that as it may,¡± Alex says. ¡°The truth¡¯s easier to keep straight. Our memories, though, are not perfect. Something to keep in mind. Everybody here knows this much better than you do, so I¡¯ll stick around. I¡¯ll keep my nose primed for anything that might even smell like a contradiction and stop you before things get out of hand. If you have a question or something for me you¡¯d rather not get overheard, just say so and we can come back out here, okay?¡±

    I nod.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    We meet with Sheriff Abernathy in his office. Agent Tyler is here, along with Detectives Torelli and Smythe. I assume Ochoa is still working with Amir. The office has oak wood paneling, one of those big L-shaped desks with the hutch against the wall with bookshelves and cabinets. Three-ring binders with official logos on them lay in thick piles wherever they might fit. Tasteful landscapes decorate the walls. He doesn¡¯t have his credentials hanging on the wall or pictures of himself standing beside celebrities. It smells like lunch and aftershave.

    The sheriff is sitting behind his desk in his chair. Tyler, Torelli, and Smythe have taken up the chairs in front of his desk, though they¡¯ve turned and arranged them to include a small leather sofa meant for me and Alex.

    Abernathy says, ¡°I was just telling Agent Tyler here that I¡¯ve been on the phone with the District Attorney this morning. His office sees no reason to charge you for any of your actions last night, Mr. Walker, always assuming nothing further comes to light that should change that opinion. I don¡¯t think that¡¯s likely. If you¡¯ve told us everything, that should be the case, right?¡±

    I start to speak, but Alex beats me to it.

    He says, ¡°We¡¯re happy to hear it, sheriff.¡±

    Abernathy says, ¡°In fact, Willamette owes you quite a debt, Mr. Walker.¡± He leans back in his chair. I¡¯m not so sure he¡¯s being entirely genuine, but maybe that¡¯s just his way. ¡°First the Norrises, then the bank, and now this. Aren¡¯t we lucky?¡±

    Alex says, ¡°Indeed we are, sheriff. I¡¯m glad you seem to be coming around. Mr. Walker has only good intentions toward our community¡ª.¡±

    ¡°If that were true, counselor,¡± says the sheriff. ¡°He¡¯d leave it. Don¡¯t get me wrong, Mr. Walker. You¡¯ve done us yeoman service, but with those curses, I think you¡¯d be better off living in a hut in the desert.¡±

    I¡¯m not sure he¡¯s wrong. It pisses me off. I take a breath to say something. I¡¯m not really sure what, but it¡¯s Tyler who cuts me off this time.

    ¡°We¡¯ll keep an eye on him, sheriff,¡± says the tall FBI agent.

    ¡°Indeed, you will,¡± says Abernathy. ¡°He¡¯s your headache now. And if he blows up a school or burns down a church, I¡¯ll know just where to lodge my complaint.¡±

    I know where he can lodge his complaint right now.

    ¡°This is not why we¡¯re here,¡± says Tyler. She crosses her legs. ¡°The preliminary reports from our bomb techs have found no evidence of any bomb materials from the morgue or the hospital room. They¡¯re certain as of this morning, though they¡¯ll keep looking, of course.¡±

    ¡°How can that be?¡± asks Smythe.

    ¡°We¡¯re not sure,¡± says Tyler. ¡°The medical examiner is just as positive that the explosions began inside each man.¡±

    Abernathy is looking up at the ceiling and pursing his lips. ¡°The bombs were inside them? What? Surgically implanted?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s no sign of that and no sign of any bomb material, if that¡¯s the case,¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°Somebody goofed,¡± says Torelli.

    ¡°It¡¯s why we¡¯re double-checking,¡± says Tyler.

    Smythe says, ¡°For our part, we¡¯re still going over the victims¡¯ statements and the data Mr. Amin gave us. So far, the Wild Specters don¡¯t seem to have any connection to anything we¡¯ve been looking into, either the explosions in the hospital, the bank robbery, the Norrises, or the other local kidnappings.¡±

    Tyler says, ¡°We¡¯re pretty sure the Norrises are related to the local kidnappings, but aside from that, we¡¯ve got nothing.¡±

    ¡°Who are the Norrises?¡± I ask.

    ¡°The family you saved from Lansky,¡± says Smythe.

    There¡¯s a knock at the door.

    ¡°Come!¡± says the sheriff.

    It¡¯s Ms. Towel. Tyler told me her name was Melanie. Dr. Melanie Linn. She¡¯s a pretty woman in her early thirties, maybe five-six, curvy. Long blonde hair corkscrews past her face and halfway down her chest. Her eyes are wide and bright blue. She says, ¡°Sheriff, lunch is coming up and ¡ª oh! I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t realize.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s okay, Doctor Linn,¡± says Abernathy. ¡°What do you need?¡±

    She sees me then and hesitates. She looks back over at the sheriff. ¡°Lunch is coming up,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯d like to go ahead and make arrangements. Some of them are coming out of their shock and eating will help them keep calm. I recommend we get some candy and snacks, too.¡±

    ¡°Hopping them up on sugar really that good an idea?¡± asks Torelli.

    ¡°Yes, actually,¡± says Linn. ¡°They¡¯ll eat it and I¡¯ll take them out back to run around in your lot, if that¡¯s okay. Then, when they crash, they¡¯ll get some more sleep. It¡¯s loads better than panic and tears.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, okay,¡± says Abernathy with a sigh. ¡°I¡¯ll see to it.¡±

    Linn turns to me. ¡°I just want to apologize, Mr. Walker,¡± she says.

    ¡°Please,¡± I say. ¡°There¡¯s no need.¡±

    ¡°I hit you,¡± she says. ¡°I endangered your escape on the bus.¡±

    ¡°Nah,¡± I say. ¡°If anything, you helped keep Otter distracted, so thank you.¡±

    ¡°Thank¡ª? Otter?¡± she says.

    ¡°The biker¡¯s name was Otter,¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°Oh,¡± says Linn. ¡°Thank you.¡± She turns back to me. ¡°I feel just awful about it, anyway. After all you¡¯ve done for these kids. I was just so upset. What they¡¯ve gone through. Oh, dammit.¡± Holy shit, she¡¯s started crying.

    I stand, but then I have no idea what to do. It¡¯s not like I can hug her or even put a hand on her arm. So, I shrug. ¡°Please, Doctor Linn. You caught me in your home while you were¡­. Well, you were well within your rights.¡±

    I look over at Tyler.

    ¡°Oh, I¡¯d¡¯ve shot you,¡± says Tyler.

    Linn laughs. ¡°At least it was a nice towel,¡± she says.

    ¡°I have no idea,¡± I say. ¡°You were a blur in my peripheral vision, doc.¡±

    Her face is a little red, either from the crying or the laughter or the embarrassment. Hey, I didn¡¯t bring up the towel.

    She lays a hand on my arm. ¡°It¡¯s nice of you to forgive me,¡± she says.

    I say, ¡°Lady, I was the one who broke into your home.¡±

    ¡°They told me it was an accident? You had the wrong floor and your key worked?¡± she says.

    I say, ¡°Lady, I was the one that came into your apartment by accident.¡±

    She laughs and says, ¡°We¡¯ll in that case, I guess we forgive each other. I will if you will.¡±

    I nod.

    She gives me a smile, waves to everybody else, and shuts the door behind her as she leaves.

    I sit and look over at Tyler, whose face is suspiciously impassive. ¡°What?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Nothing.¡±

    I snort. ¡°You think Ochoa will apologize?¡±

    ¡°Not in a million years,¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°For that love tap?¡± says Torelli.

    ¡°Love tap?¡± I say. ¡°That hurt!¡±

    Smythe snorts. ¡°Boy, which one of those ladies hit you harder? Ochoa or Doctor Linn?¡±

    ¡°Linn.¡±

    ¡°One of them is a trained FBI field agent?¡± says Smythe.

    ¡°Yeah, but she¡¯s little,¡± I say.

    Tyler reaches for both my hands. She looks me deep in the eye. ¡°Never,¡± she says. ¡°Never let her hear you say that.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s, what, five-two? I doubt it¡¯s a surprise.¡±

    ¡°I warned you,¡± says Tyler. ¡°I¡¯m sure she feels just as bad as the doctor for slapping you. Even though she could have laid you out.¡±

    I say, ¡°No, she doesn¡¯t.¡±

    Tyler says, ¡°No, she doesn¡¯t.¡±

    Abernathy grunts and says, ¡°If we¡¯re done gossiping like a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls, I believe we were comparing notes? You know, on the very troubling criminal cases involving kidnapping and murder, goddammit?¡±

 Chapter 22 - Book 1

    Tyler says, ¡°Right. Okay. We have several cases that seem separate right now. First, we have the rash of kidnappings in the area. They may or may not relate to Lansky¡¯s abduction of the Norrises and the woman from the bar that Ben rescued. Best to keep those separate until we know for sure. Next, I think we can safely assume that the bank robbers and the man who kidnapped Liam McDonald.¡± She looks over at me. ¡°Liam¡¯s the boy you and the Rigbys found in the trunk.¡± She continues, ¡°Those five men exploded all at the same time through unknown means. They¡¯ve got to be on the same team.¡± She pauses and looks around the room.

    There are some nods, but no one says anything.

    ¡°That¡¯s three then so far,¡± says Tyler. ¡°The exploded, the Norrises, and the spate of kidnappings. The Wild Specters make four.¡± She looks over at Abernathy.

    The sheriff sighs, ¡°All the rescued are from out of state, and they weren¡¯t abducted here either. We¡¯re fifteen minutes into Amin¡¯s information, and he¡¯s got detailed records of these evil assholes¡¯ trafficking operations, bless him. They use long-haul truck drivers, some don¡¯t even know what they¡¯ve got in their trailers, to move people around the country. Most of their other crimes are local. Some drug and weapons dealing. Some blackmail and computer fraud. Nothing suggests they connect to the other three cases. Not yet.¡±

    Torelli says, ¡°The weapons.¡±

    Everybody looks at him.

    Smythe says, ¡°The records of weapons sales are particularly troubling. Automatic weapons, machine guns, even a rocket launcher.¡±

    I say, ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡±

    ¡°She isn¡¯t. It¡¯s a Precision Shoulder-fired Rocket Launcher-1, to be precise,¡± says Tyler. ¡°All that firepower could mean there¡¯s something big going on locally. It was all delivered here.¡±

    ¡°Shit.¡±

    Smythe says, ¡°The customer¡¯s names are all in code but the PSRL-1 and a bunch of the other more powerful weapons all went to the same place, but we don¡¯t know where. Could be here.¡±

    ¡°Do we know where they got them from?¡± asks Tyler.

    Smythe nods. ¡°A corporal at the arsenal outside town got catfished and blackmailed.¡± She looks up at the clock the sheriff¡¯s hung on the wall above his office door. ¡°He should be in our custody by now. I don¡¯t expect he¡¯ll know much.¡±

    ¡°What do they have on him he¡¯d risk, what, arms smuggling charges?¡± I ask.

    Torelli snorts.

    Ochoa gives him a look, inscrutable behind her glasses. ¡°If Corporal Dumbass doesn¡¯t play ball, the blackmail is certain to come out. If he does, there¡¯s a chance it never will. You¡¯d be surprised how many folks will roll the dice like that if it keeps people from knowing they like to dress up in mom¡¯s lingerie.¡±

    Abernathy nods. ¡°Ain¡¯t that the truth? At any rate, Amin¡¯s information dump will put paid to the Wild Specters once we find them all. Maybe if we can get one of the bikers to talk, we can start decoding their customer files and get a little further, but they aren¡¯t known for rolling over. Once we¡¯ve got some room, I¡¯ll set up the conference room as our joint command center, complete with murder boards for each case and all the trimmings we can manage here at the county level. In the meantime, let¡¯s get back to it.¡±

    I want to speak up then, but everybody stands, and I decide to talk to Agent Tyler. I touch her arm as she turns to go. ¡°Agent Tyler? You know, I could try to do something. Maybe, I dunno, throw a dart at a map or something?¡± I say.

    The sheriff goes to his window. It looks out to the rear of the building into their parking lot. He calls to somebody out there and asks them to clear a space for the kids to play in.

    She nods at me. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about that,¡± she says. ¡°It¡¯s an idea, but I¡¯m worried that if we go looking for trouble, we might find it. The bikers, for example, might have nothing to do with what I came here to deal with. You did a great thing, don¡¯t get me wrong, and if there are other people here in trouble, I want to help them, but we¡¯ve got two problems if we do that. First and foremost, there¡¯s a difference between tackling every awful thing going on in and around town and trying to deal with it all at once. You might lead us to three or four fresh cases that¡¯ll only spread us thin and make us rush. Mistakes are more likely to be made. People might get hurt. Second, this is police work. We have to find and collect evidence, interview people, and build a case. That can be frustratingly slow, yes, but it helps us put the bad guys away and keep them there as well as protect the innocent, right? Throwing a dart at a map, even if it¡¯s you doing it, is not an established method of finding probable cause.¡±

    It makes sense, but now I feel like a third wheel. ¡°So, what do you want me to do?¡± I say.

    Tyler looks down at me, her face very stern. ¡°I want you to listen carefully, Ben,¡± she says. ¡°Because this is very important. I¡¯m about to give you your first order as an employee of the FBI and you absolutely will follow it and you will not argue.¡±

    I look over at Alex, who¡¯s smirking, dammit.

    ¡°You¡¯ve gotten one good night¡¯s sleep in four days,¡± says Tyler. ¡°I have a feeling you¡¯re not entirely yourself and you need to get your head right. Find your feet. So, you¡¯re going to go get some lunch. You¡¯re going to go home. Maybe buy some things for your new living space. Go shopping. Get some clothes. Watch some TV. Rest. Ochoa and I will think about the best way you can help us in the meantime, and we¡¯ll meet up tomorrow, okay? Okay.¡±

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    I shrug. She¡¯s got a point.

    Alex says, ¡°I¡¯ll give him a ride.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, counselor.¡± Agent Tyler smiles, and she leaves the sheriff¡¯s office to go do FBI things without me.

    The sheriff is puttering around his desk, shuffling papers, and not looking at me. I give him a jaunty wave he either doesn¡¯t see or ignores, and then Alex and I head out.

    When we open the door to go, it causes a bit of a breeze from the window the sheriff left open. I don¡¯t blame him, it¡¯s nice outside, but it blows a couple of papers off his desk, and I get a whiff of his cologne or deodorant or something. Maybe his lunch, or maybe the kids¡¯ food is arriving.

    Sure enough, when we get into the hall there are a couple of delivery guys from Ma Barker¡¯s, neither one of which is the one I met earlier, and there are many happy cheers as Dr. Linn and some of the police officers help distribute the food. Despite everything, it makes me feel pretty good about my life choices lately.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    ¡°How¡¯s your sister?¡± I ask once we¡¯re in the car.

    ¡°Candace?¡± says Alex. ¡°Much better. She¡¯s staying with us right now. We¡¯re looking for a therapist. Do you know how difficult that is? Everybody¡¯s booked solid. That can¡¯t be a good thing.¡±

    ¡°Maybe it is,¡± I say. ¡°Hell, the way things are, I should probably find one myself. I¡¯m glad she¡¯s feeling better.¡±

    ¡°¡®Better¡¯ as in ¡®not trying to actively kill herself,¡¯¡± says Alex. ¡°I swear, the minute I find Craig might be the last one where I¡¯ll be able to practice law ever again.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t find him?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s not answering his phone,¡± says Alex. ¡°Hasn¡¯t been by the house that we can tell. We keep trying. What do you want for lunch?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m keeping you from your clients,¡± I say. ¡°How about you just take me through a drive thru and I¡¯ll eat at home.¡±

    ¡°You are a client, Ben. I get paid for this. Well. You¡¯re not keeping me from anything.¡±

    He takes me to a fast food place anyway and I spring for lunch.

    I eat it at my rented place in the cul-de-sac, thinking about what Tyler said.

    Do I want to bother decorating the place? I have no idea how long I¡¯ll be here and I¡¯m not much of an interior designer or whatever, anyway. The place is empty. Quiet. Fine.

    Okay, what do I need? Groceries. Clothes. Toothbrush and toiletries. The place has those little travel-sized things, but I¡¯ll need my own, of course. I can have all that delivered.

    What else?

    Well, I keep getting into trouble. I¡¯ve been in fights and robberies and God knows what I¡¯ll get into tomorrow. I need to be able to defend myself. Yeah, I know I took out the bank robbers with my library card, but that was in a highly chaotic moment in a place with a lot of people making conflicting choices. In other words, yeah, I had to Push pretty hard but the conditions in the bank helped me do it. If some psychopath came at me with a knife right now, here, where I¡¯m alone at the ass end of this idyllic cul-de-sac where the light and dark possibilities barely flicker, I don¡¯t know how I¡¯d do.

    I can talk to Tyler and Ochoa about learning some self-defense stuff. Hand-to-hand, weapons training, and I don¡¯t know what else, which all seems like a good idea, but I need something now. Because, for me, a psychopath breaking into my house to stab me in all my most important organs in alphabetical order doesn¡¯t seem as far-fetched as it would have a week ago.

    I need ways to increase the disorder in any given situation so that I can Push easier and have a better chance at winning a fight. So, what would do that? Probably nothing conventional.

    Any kind of gun¡¯s out. I¡¯ve never really liked them, and I don¡¯t know how to use one. Plus, they¡¯ve got all those moving parts. Probably not a good idea for me. Maybe a revolver, though? They¡¯re simpler, right? Don¡¯t jam or have a much less likely chance to do so. I dunno. I think I remember that from a movie or something. It¡¯s a question for the FBI agents. I¡¯ll take their advice, I guess. What¡¯s the use of having access to experts if you don¡¯t seek and listen to their advice? Maybe they¡¯d even be willing to train me. I¡¯ll put a pin in that for now.

    So, what? A bow and arrow? I took archery lessons in gym class years ago and I could always practice, but they¡¯re bulky and impractical. Hmm. If I miss, though, there¡¯s the arrow lying around on the ground. They don¡¯t roll well, but if somebody steps on it¡­.

    Fuck, I¡¯d probably get more mileage from a bag of marbles! Dump one of those out and all the bad guys could be down in seconds.

    Ball bearings would be better. They¡¯d be easier to throw. They¡¯re heavier, would hurt more, and they come in different sizes.

    Wait. Throw?

    I open the shopping app on my phone. I buy a hunting slingshot with the highest ratings and then, after considering all the random shit that can happen to me now, I buy two more. All of them come with their ammo, which looks like little ball bearings. All three models I bought have multiple replaceable bands with various-sized pouches. For ammunition I can get steel, plastic, or lead. The latter is what¡¯s recommended for hunting. I¡¯m not sure I can kill a person with one of these, but I am sure I don¡¯t want to. The idea here is to provide a painful deterrent and add a little entropy rolling around underfoot. After a little research and some instructional videos, I figure steel is better for practice anyhow because the lead can lose its shape if it hits something hard enough. The plastic ones are inaccurate and wouldn¡¯t help me much. I buy the big steel ones.

    While I¡¯m looking around, I¡¯m surprised to learn that they make darts for slingshots too. There are bands designed for them. Instead of a pouch, it¡¯s got a short little bowstring type thingy, and there¡¯s a hook near the tip of the dart used to pull it back and fire it. I buy some of those, both with sharp tips and blunt ones.

    A few bags of hard rubber bouncy balls go in the cart too. I almost buy some racquetballs, but they wouldn¡¯t work. Not for the slingshot anyway, they¡¯re too big for the pouch.

    I put in the shopping cart a bunch of leather pouches I can string on a belt to keep it all in.

    Four sets of throwing knives with nine blades in each seem like a good idea while I¡¯m at it. The sets are identical and come with a nylon sheath for all nine that I can strap onto my arm or leg. The blades are black, about as long as my middle finger, and have a large ring at the other end. My thinking is that I¡¯d rather keep an enemy at range, but if I have to do something up close, well, it¡¯s still a knife.

    That purchase leads me to a telescoping baton that goes from about six inches to two feet long, which is cool, and then I find an even bigger one that looks like the pommel, grip, and hilt of a sword. It goes from a bit less than a foot out to three feet. Why not buy both of them?

    That might do it for now.

    It costs extra for it all to be shipped out to me by tomorrow, but I can afford it.

    I do the same for two weeks¡¯ worth of clothes and some basic amenities. It¡¯s tempting to go out and rent a car, but I decide not to. I don¡¯t feel like going anywhere. I¡¯m tired, and I have to wait for the grocery delivery, anyway.

    But then I can¡¯t think of anything else to do.

    I sit there thinking for a long time.

    When the deliver guy comes, I put the stuff away.

    After that, I go to bed.

 Chapter 23 - Book 1

    Something wakes me up in the morning.

    I don¡¯t think it was a sound. Whatever it is, I¡¯m sitting up in bed listening, looking around. I don¡¯t see anything. My bedroom door is closed. I don¡¯t hear footsteps or feel any, I dunno, vibrations from anybody moving around. Then I see a dark spike of possibility reach up and, now that I¡¯m looking, the light and dark¡­ whatevers are simmering, agitated, dark and light popping like bacon grease will do in a pan.

    I realize that I¡¯ve been Pushing back this whole time, trying to calm things down, and I¡¯m certain I was doing it in my sleep. Which is probably a good habit to get into, but also worrying. Maybe, if I¡¯m in a particularly deep sleep, I could drop out of this automatic monitoring altogether and wake up with the house on fire or the Swedish Bikini Team having a pillow fight. Maybe I have a bad dream and the house next door¡¯s boiler blows up. Maybe I have a wonderful dream and win a lottery I didn¡¯t even buy a ticket for. Or maybe it works the other way around? A bad dream would make me Push harder against it, right? Something good would happen then unless, in my terror, I go too hard and there¡¯s a backlash.

    Is the Swedish Bikini Team even a thing anymore?

    Maybe I should google that later.

    Also, I need to figure out something to call these things. The dark and light swirls, blotches, and blobs that show what chance is doing all around me are¡­ indicators? Or should it be Indicators, capitalized? Sounds too cold. Shadows is too negative and neglects the positive. What are they, really? Defining them might help me name them.

    So, they¡¯re the way my brain decided to sense the fluctuations of possibility or entropy around me resulting from my two curses reacting to each other.

    Hmm.

    Language has a way of simplifying itself, doesn¡¯t it? Big words get shrunk over time and usage to simpler, smaller words. The most important words in our language are either all short or brand new and haven¡¯t lasted long enough to get truncated. It makes sense. Like, if two cavemen meet and they have to communicate, if one guy¡¯s word for ¡®rock¡¯ is ¡®rock¡¯ and the other guy¡¯s word for it is ¡®compressedsedimenthardthingy,¡¯ they¡¯re going to settle for ¡®rock.¡¯ Small. Simple. Important. That goes for all the senses. Eyes see, noses smell, tongue tastes, skin touches, ears hear. All of them are one syllable or two depending on the verb tense.

    Balance is technically a sense too, a gift from our inner ear, so the odd-looking things hanging off the sides of our heads handle two senses. The nose helps with taste, right? So, it¡¯s got one and a half? And now my eyes see color and movement and chance.

    Huh.

    I say all this to conclude that the word I pick, if it¡¯s a long one, I¡¯ll eventually shorten. Or want to. So why not cut out the middleman and aim for something short in the first place? An abbreviation? An acronym? They are Possibilities, Entropic Signals, Chance? P.E.S.Cs? Oo, if I could come up with an ¡®I¡¯, they could be Joe Pescis.

    PECS?

    Nah, people might think I go to the gym.

    I should start going to the gym, actually. I don¡¯t see any reason this chaos wouldn¡¯t apply to my physical health. The rest of my life I¡¯ll have to dedicate myself to reducing risks. I should also baby-proof my house. Ben-proofing.

    How else do we name stuff? A portmanteau? Jam a couple of those words together? Like a motor hotel becomes a motel?

    How to jam together entropic amorphous bullshit thingies swimming around in my vision?

    Amorphous entropic thingies.

    Aethings. I like it.

    Okay, so why are the aethings pissed off?

    I get up and check the bedroom and then the bathroom. I open the door and check the hallway. The kitchen is clear. So¡¯s the living room. I find the garage empty and quiet, cleaner than any garage I¡¯ve ever seen. The laundry room is fine. No hobgoblins, metaphorical or otherwise, are hanging out in the guest bathroom. The basement? I don¡¯t hear anything, as I listen at the top of the stairs and look for any hint of motion or disturbance in the light. Seems unnecessary to go down there. It¡¯s eight-thirty. Too early in the morning to deal with any basements unless it¡¯s an emergency.

    The last time I was in a basement, I found a family tied up and gagged.

    I call down, ¡°Hello?¡±

    There¡¯s not so much as a rustle in reply. I close the door and resolve to check it later.

    I look out the front door. I look out all the windows. Nothing.

    I think about it in the shower.

    Something¡¯s got the aethings moving around. There¡¯s an occasional flare of dark or light that I suppress, but other than that, the levels are only a little worse than they are at the police station. Low as they are, they¡¯re bubbling and popping like they¡¯re percolating. I¡¯ve not seen that before. It¡¯s probably not anything big, but I don¡¯t know what it means and, seeing as I¡¯m the foremost expert on aethings in the world by default, there¡¯s no one more qualified to ask.

    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    I shrug. When I get the chance, I¡¯ll ask them anyway. I know that Tyler and Ochoa will be along because Tyler said they would. I figure they¡¯ll call first, being professionals. When they get here, I¡¯ll pick their brains. They¡¯re smart.

    I wrap a towel around me and head off to the kitchen to see what I can find for breakfast.

    Yeah, I just ordered my groceries yesterday, but sometimes I don¡¯t know what I want to eat until I¡¯m looking at it.

    I¡¯m leaning toward having the frozen biscuits and sausage gravy, but I¡¯m not convinced. I check the pantry. It¡¯s one of those that just fits beside the fridge. A long, narrow cabinet with shelves that pull out so you can see what you¡¯ve hidden in the back.

    That¡¯s when I hear the front door open.

    I locked it. Somebody¡¯s breaking in!

    I close the cabinet and go for a knife from the block by the stove. My towel falls away. The pantry door closed on it. I hesitate.

    The door opens and there¡¯s a family of five on the doorstep. Mom gives a little yelp when she sees me and covers her smallest daughter¡¯s eyes. Dad tries to do the same for the other two, but he¡¯s a little off-target with the oldest who¡¯s blushing but staring.

    I open the refrigerator and just about climb inside.

    The girls do not enjoy having hands over their eyes and mom and dad, now that I¡¯m covered, allow them to look.

    ¡°Uh, hi?¡± I say. ¡°Can I help you?¡±

    Dad just lifts a hand at me. Drops it.

    ¡°Yes, hi,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m renting here?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re renting here,¡± says mom.

    ¡°Ah,¡± I say. ¡°I don¡¯t think so. I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve booked it for the week.¡±

    ¡°Did you book it?¡± asks mom.

    ¡°Um, no, my lawyer did.¡±

    ¡°When?¡±

    ¡°Uh, two days ago, I think?¡±

    ¡°Same time as us,¡± mom looks thoughtful.

    Dad raises his hand again at me. Drops it.

    Mom says, ¡°Did they talk to a computer or person?¡±

    ¡°I have no clue.¡±

    ¡°We used the computer.¡± Mom gasps. ¡°I bet they double-booked us.¡±

    Dad indicates me a third time.

    Mom says, ¡°Yes, I know.¡±

    A shadow looms behind the family. They all turn to find Agent Tyler there looking down at them. She looks over at me. I see Ochoa peek around the door frame, her mirrored glasses making her look like some kind of curious bug.

    ¡°FBI,¡± says Agent Tyler, deadpan. ¡°What seems to be the problem?¡±

    Ochoa is grinning and smacking her gum. ¡°Oh, I hope he¡¯s naked in there,¡± she says. She looks over at the oldest girl. ¡°He¡¯s naked, isn¡¯t he?¡±

    The girl nods. She¡¯s still blushing, but she¡¯s smiling.

    Ochoa says, ¡°I knew it.¡± She looks over at dad. ¡°You¡¯re gonna wanna wash that fridge.¡±

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    It¡¯s like Mrs. Edelman said. A computer error double-booked them and me. They¡¯re here for a wedding and need the place for the rest of the week. The Edelmans are nice about everything. Nobody¡¯s upset. Not even me. Maybe I¡¯m getting used to this kind of thing.

    I volunteer to find another place. They¡¯ve got more luggage than I do, although of course, technically, I don¡¯t even have any luggage or boxes, so I¡¯ll have to get some. We agree that my stuff can stay here until I can move it all out, and I promise to do that by the end of the day.

    This discussion all happens after Tyler ushers everybody outside so I can dress. I half expect Ochoa to protest, but the most she does is flash me a broad smile and waggle her eyebrows.

    After, while the Edelmans bring in their things, the agents and I talk in the kitchen.

    ¡°What happened?¡± says Tyler. ¡°Did you get any kind of warning this time?¡±

    ¡°The¡­. I¡¯m calling them aethings for Amorphous Entropic Thingies.¡± I shrug.

    ¡°No, I like it,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Cute and mysterious. Reductive maybe. Diminutive, certainly. Shades of the ancient. Aether. Aethelstan.¡±

    ¡°Aethelstan?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Anglo-Saxon king,¡± she says. ¡°Read a book.¡±

    ¡°I read books!¡±

    ¡°You two quit flirting,¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°We¡¯re not flirting!¡± I say.

    Ochoa smiles and says nothing. Goddammit.

    ¡°The aethings woke me up,¡± I tell them. ¡°I thought something was wrong, but couldn¡¯t find anything.¡±

    ¡°So, you took a shower,¡± says Ochoa.

    ¡°Yeah. Standard morning behavior,¡± I say. ¡°You know. You¡¯ve got curly hair too. Gotta wash it in the morning or it¡¯s asymmetrical bedhead all day.¡±

    ¡°Yep, first thing I do when something¡¯s about to go wrong is get naked,¡± Ochoa says.

    ¡°Good to know!¡± I say. Man, she irritates me. ¡°Hang around with me and you¡¯ll save a lot in dry cleaning.¡±

    Ochoa snorts.

    ¡°Warn me, will ya?¡± I say. ¡°I want to take pictures.¡±

    Ochoa tilts her head, cocks a hip, and grins. I¡¯m either going to get hit or shot.

    ¡°Yeah, you¡¯re not flirting,¡± says Tyler.

    ¡°This is not how I flirt, dammit,¡± I say. I nod at the tiny FBI agent. ¡°She fucking hates me.¡±

    Tyler face-palms and shakes her head.

    Ochoa giggles and steps forward, right into my personal space. I think I¡¯m about to go flying.

    She kisses me full on the mouth.

    Then, she turns and helps an astounded Mrs. Edelman manage her suitcase down the hall.

    Okay, what?

    I thought I was channeling Han Solo from that one scene where he thinks Princess Leia hates him, right? Only to find out I¡¯m Luke Skywalker in the infirmary all along?

    Yuck. If Ochoa¡¯s my sister, I¡¯m outta here.

    ¡°She can¡¯t stand the sight of you,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Yep. Totally. You were saying about the aethings?¡±

    I look up at her. ¡°Can she do that?¡±

    Tyler rolls her eyes. ¡°Lips are standard for most agents, yes.¡±

    ¡°She kissed me.¡±

    ¡°Complete autonomy over our lips is granted when they¡¯re issued,¡± she says. ¡°You¡¯ve given her a big ol¡¯ button to push. All bright red and shiny. It makes funny noises when she pushes it,¡± says Tyler. She says it slow. Pedantically. I¡¯m testing her patience. ¡°The aethings?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I think maybe they build up?¡± I say. ¡°They don¡¯t just¡­ reflect on people and the relative chaos that free will or whatever brings into things. It¡¯s exposure to me over time, I guess. Like erosion or something like that. Stress on a bridge over the years just from use will bring it down, eventually.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve been here since, what? Yesterday afternoon?¡± asks Tyler.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say.

    ¡°That¡¯s pretty fast, Ben. You know, for erosion.¡±

    ¡°Yep.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re going to have to keep moving,¡± she says.

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°That really sucks. I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    She puts a hand on my shoulder. For a moment, I think the big woman is going to pull me into a hug. I¡¯m surprised to find that I want her to. That I would welcome it.

    She doesn¡¯t. Instead, she hesitates. ¡°Better check on your finances.¡±

    ¡°What? Why?¡±

    ¡°Can you think of anything more complicated and subject to entropy?¡±

    I better check on my finances.

 Chapter 24 - Book 1

    I shrug and dial Myra West¡¯s number.

    She answers on the third ring. ¡°Ben, I want to talk to you about your finances,¡± she says.

    I look over at the agents, who must¡¯ve heard because they¡¯re both grinning.

    I shrug.

    Myra says, ¡°More importantly, I want to talk to you about our arrangement. Is now a good time?¡±

    ¡°Hi Myra,¡± I say. ¡°I suppose. I had some questions myself. Like, how¡¯s the stock market going?¡±

    ¡°Really well actually!¡± says Myra. ¡°Three of the stocks tanked and we lost everything we put in there, but the other three did more than make up for¡­. Oh, you figured out what I was doing?¡±

    ¡°Random sets of letters to a financial type with my kind of luck? Was I not supposed to?¡±

    ¡°I meant it as a surprise. At first, it was an experiment. You know, to see how we did? Anyway, the point is we¡¯re way up and I want to renegotiate the arrangement you have with us. My husband and me,¡± says Myra.

    I have no idea what she¡¯s about to say and I wouldn¡¯t be qualified to offer an opinion, but I do know that it was my good luck that brought me to the Wests. I decide to trust it. Tentatively.

    ¡°What do you want to do?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Well, let me say that Alex and I decided to match your investments with our own, so we¡¯re all up. Now, what we do with our money is our business, of course, so I hope you understand, but I have a proposal for what we do with yours.¡±

    ¡°Fair enough.¡±

    ¡°We continue to play the market. We¡¯ll do it through various brokers and apps. It¡¯s not that we¡¯re doing anything shady. I¡¯d just like to fly under the radar. I¡¯ll keep it all straight and keep an itemized and clear record of everything I¡¯m doing on a cloud I¡¯ll give you access to. That way, you know what I¡¯m doing. Whenever you make money, Alex and I will keep fifteen percent. For that, we do everything for you. We manage all your financial and legal needs. We¡¯ll probably keep few other clients. You¡¯ll probably be¡­ labor intensive. We figure for that we should get paid, same as anybody. We¡¯ll spread your money around, reinvest in some safer, less volatile commodities. An IRA. Whatever. The point is, I can make sure you always have money barring the complete collapse of the American economy,¡± she laughs. Then she says sotto voce, ¡°Which could happen, I guess, now that I think about it, shit. Need to work that into my thinking.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ probably a good idea.¡±

    She snorts. ¡°Right. Anyway,¡± she says brightly. ¡°We do everything for you. You become our one major client. We get fifteen percent of earnings from the stock market. What do you think?¡±

    ¡°How far up are we?¡±

    Myra says, ¡°Conventional wisdom says that with a ten-thousand-dollar investment, somebody can expect a five percent return. Five hundred dollars. In a month.¡±

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°Ben, even counting our losses, we doubled our money.¡±

    ¡°I see.¡±

    ¡°This is huge!¡±

    ¡°Seeing as I had absolutely nothing, what was it, five days ago? Yeah, it is. Okay, as long as I can spend it when I need it, I think we have a deal. Do you need more random letters today?¡±

    ¡°Yes, please. Our biggest performer was one that showed up in both texts.¡±

    I open the texting app and Push, tapping in letters. While I do that, I say, ¡°Myra, we just learned something. If I stay in one place too long, the¡­ I¡¯m calling them aethings for ¡®amorphous entropic thingies.¡¯ The aethings get agitated and cause things to happen.¡±

    ¡°What happened?¡± she says and then, ¡°Alex!¡±

    ¡°No, no,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m not in trouble. I got surprised by new renters in the kitchen while I was naked.¡±

    ¡°New renters?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°For the bed-and-breakfast? That shouldn¡¯t have happened.¡±

    ¡°I know. Double-booked.¡±

    ¡°¡­Did you say naked?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to flay them alive.¡±

    ¡°No, it wasn¡¯t anybody¡¯s fault, and I¡¯ve learned that I should spend very little time naked. A valuable lesson.¡±

    ¡°Probably a good idea. So, you can¡¯t stay there.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡±

    ¡°You need a place to live that moves around.¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°There¡¯s an RV place out by Akron. My mom and dad bought theirs from there and I handled the purchase and whatnot. They¡¯ve got a good rep. I¡¯ll text you the address. Do you have a ride there?¡±

    ¡°Can I afford an RV?¡± I say.

    ¡°Not to buy outright,¡± Myra says. ¡°They¡¯re around a hundred thousand dollars. But with the credit history, the FBI provided you and a healthy down payment, yeah. We¡¯ll pay it off early, when we can, just in case. They¡¯re good people over there, and I¡¯ll make sure they know you¡¯re coming. I¡¯ll see if I can get the same salesman that my folks used too.¡±

    ¡°Sounds good,¡± I say. ¡°Thanks, Myra.¡± I look over at the FBI. ¡°Um, Myra knows an RV place. Wants to know if I have a ride there.¡±

    Ochoa and Tyler share a look.

    Tyler says to Ochoa, ¡°You were going to do some interrogations.¡±

    Ochoa says, ¡°Yeah, but our idea for that won¡¯t work without him. Not as well, anyway.¡± She sighs. ¡°I¡¯ll take him over there and keep him out of trouble.¡±

    ¡°Famous last words,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Who¡¯s going to keep you out of trouble?¡±

    ¡°Me?¡± says Ochoa. ¡°I¡¯m a saint. You get me everything we have on all those bikers. Everything the locals have, we have, fucking Interpol, everybody. I¡¯ll crack one. In the meantime, I¡¯ll babysit junior here.¡±

    Ochoa¡¯s maybe five minutes older than me, but I don¡¯t say anything. I¡¯m also really nervous about being alone in the car with her that long. Akron¡¯s like thirty minutes away from here.

    Tyler looks doubtful.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be good,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Promise.¡± She¡¯s grinning and chewing her gum.

    ¡°Fine,¡± says Tyler. ¡°Try and be quick.¡± She looks at me. ¡°And don¡¯t get used to it. We¡¯re the FBI, not Uber.¡±

    ¡°Myra,¡± I say into the phone. ¡°I have a ride.¡±

    I say goodbye to the Edelmans and warn them I have packages coming and that I¡¯ll be by later to get the rest of my things.

    Tyler calls the sheriff¡¯s office for a ride, and I get in the car with Ochoa.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    I don¡¯t know what to say to her, so I look out the window.

    She lets that go for ten minutes, then says, ¡°I grew up in eastern Pennsylvania.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±

    She says, ¡°I said, I grew up in eastern Pennsylvania. Lived there most of my life. My dad¡¯s a contractor. Mom¡¯s on the school board.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± I still don¡¯t know what to say.

    She says, ¡°You don¡¯t really talk much if you can help it, do ya?¡±

    I say, ¡°Oh. I guess I don¡¯t. Sorry.¡±

    ¡°You do say, ¡®oh¡¯ a lot.¡±

    ¡°Sorry.¡±

    ¡°And you apologize a lot, too.¡±

    I almost do it again. Instead, I say, ¡°You¡¯re right. I¡¯m not trying to be difficult. I¡¯m just¡ª.¡± But I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m just so I clam up.

    ¡°It¡¯s a lot,¡± she says as she turns the car onto the highway. ¡°New world. Strange abilities. The violence.¡±

    I¡¯ve been trying not to think about that. I¡¯ve killed people. The library card I could almost blame on fate, maybe, but I took that shotgun and¡­ well, I can see what I did with it, plain as day, like I just did it right this second.

    ¡°Shit,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Ben. I¡¯m screwing this all up. Still, you don¡¯t make it easy.¡±

    ¡°Easy for what?¡±

    ¡°Like I said, if you¡¯re not being asked direct questions, you don¡¯t talk much. Makes it hard to get to know you.¡±

    ¡°Agent Ochoa¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Mo,¡± she says.

    ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°My name,¡± she says. ¡°Mo. Short for Monica. We¡¯re working together. Call me Mo.¡±

    That¡­doesn¡¯t feel right, but, ¡°Okay.¡±

    ¡°You think I don¡¯t like you,¡± says Ochoa.

    I snort and focus on the passing landscape. Sometimes, if you watch the tops of the trees, especially the dead ones, you can see hawks and other kinds of raptors there, keeping an eye out for breakfast. Shit. I haven¡¯t had any breakfast. Too busy being naked in front of a family of five, including underage girls. I¡¯m so going to Hell.

    Ochoa says, ¡°Do you make friends easily?¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Because I don¡¯t,¡± she says. ¡°I have a way of keeping people off balance. I do it on purpose and, if I¡¯m honest, I like doing it. Cal says it¡¯s a defense mechanism. I think she¡¯s right. She¡¯s a good friend. She likes you, I can tell.¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°Not like that,¡± Ochoa laughs. ¡°You¡¯re on the wrong team.¡±

    ¡°The wrong¡ª?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d have a better chance with Cal than you,¡± she says. ¡°Do you get what I¡¯m saying?¡±

    ¡°Oh!¡±

    ¡°Yeah, ¡®oh.¡¯ Don¡¯t think I haven¡¯t thought about it either. She¡¯s hot and there¡¯s so much of her and I¡¯m so small. Mm.¡±

    I laugh.

    She grins over at me. ¡°Cal does that,¡± she says. ¡°Adopts? She¡¯s still in contact with lots of people she¡¯s run into over her career. Checks up on them. Victims, witnesses. Even a few felons. Sometimes, people do bad things. Doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re bad people.¡± She shrugs. ¡°You don¡¯t run into that attitude as often as you should in law enforcement. I¡¯m pretty sure you just got a big sister.¡±

    ¡°At least I¡¯ll have somewhere to go on Thanksgiving.¡±

    ¡°You laugh, but it¡¯ll occur to her. Just watch. You¡¯ve got no one here. She¡¯ll remember and take steps,¡± says Ochoa.

    I¡¯m astonished to find that I¡¯m tearing up. I look out the window, turning my head away far enough so Ochoa can¡¯t see. Tyler told me that Ochoa was the best she¡¯d ever seen in an interrogation room. I think I¡¯m seeing why that might be.

    Ochoa¡¯s voice softens. ¡°She¡¯s a good friend,¡± she says.

    ¡°Are you?¡± I ask.

    ¡°A good friend?¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Fuck no. I¡¯m prickly and difficult. Always trying to prove myself the same time I¡¯m pushing people¡¯s buttons.¡±

    I gasp in false shock.

    ¡°Oh, you noticed?¡± she says. ¡°I got this theory, okay? About you? I want to run it past you. You let me do that and I¡¯ll ease up on you a bit. Deal?¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± I say.

    She says, ¡°There¡¯s more going on here than just you being weirded out by what¡¯s happened to you the last few days. I¡¯ve been studying you. Only fair since Tyler and I are your handlers now, and¡ª.¡±

    ¡°My what?¡±

    ¡°Handlers,¡± she says. ¡°Right, we haven¡¯t explained. You¡¯re hired, yeah, but if you hadn¡¯t been, me and Cal would still be around a lot checking up on you, making sure you¡¯re not crashing planes or something. We in the Paranormal Assessment Unit keep track of folks like you when they crop up, which isn¡¯t often. When they do, the nice ones? Do you know what they do, Ben?¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°They have it in their heads that they¡¯re dangerous,¡± she says. ¡°And lots of times they are. They shove people away. You¡¯re personable. You¡¯re polite. Patient. Kind. I think you don¡¯t like bothering people. I think you probably think you¡¯re bothering people more often than you actually are bothering them and now all this is compounding all that. You¡¯re not talking to me much, Ben, not only because I make you feel¡­ off, which I do, and not just because it¡¯s kind of your habit. You think you¡¯re too dangerous to hang around.¡±

    Was that true?

    ¡°You might not have given it much thought,¡± she says. She shrugs. ¡°Maybe you have. Maybe you haven¡¯t had much of a chance. My guess is that, however much you¡¯ve been wondering, it¡¯s not enough to articulate it even to yourself, but you¡¯re the type. That fucking sheriff said you should go off and live like a hermit in the desert. Cal told me. What a dick. Thing is, I bet you thought that was a pretty good idea at the time.¡±

    I don¡¯t say anything.

    ¡°Do you know what happens when people like you do that? Go hermit?¡± Ochoa says. ¡°One of two things. They either go crazy and die or they go crazy and become the threat they feared, and we kill them. You¡¯ve already lived longer than anybody ever has with a level three curse, and you¡¯ve got two level fours. You¡¯re alive because you had help, Ben. People who were friendly to you because you¡¯re a sweetheart in trouble. People who could be your friends. If you¡¯re smart. That¡¯s what¡¯ll keep you alive and functioning.¡±

    She shuts up then.

    I keep my face pointed at the window.

 Chapter 25 - Book 1

    I¡¯m still quiet when we pull into the RV lot. Turns out I have a lot to think about.

    Now that I see it, I think I remember a place like this when I was a kid, but it must¡¯ve gone out of business years ago in my world. The south of Akron by the highway is hilly, and in this world, shining white specks that grow into various sizes of recreational vehicles dot the hillside as we approach.

    What is it about what Ochoa said? I weigh it against what I¡¯ve known about myself for a long time that might apply. First, I have a horror of imposing on people. People are great, I mean. I just don¡¯t want to bother them. I find it strange, but I¡¯ve never had a problem talking to whoever if it¡¯s expected, right? Maybe that¡¯s because I¡¯m a journalist and have to for my job. It¡¯s what¡¯s expected from the role. That¡¯s fine. Calling somebody up out of the blue? Asking somebody for the time? Nope. I always feel like an asshole or a creep or both. I hate it. Second, I¡¯m an introvert. My dad once explained the whole extrovert, introvert thing this way: Some people understand the world through interacting with others. They build a kind of consensus of comprehension to help them make their way. That¡¯s your extrovert. An introvert, though, understands the world by understanding himself. Whenever I don¡¯t understand something, somebody does, I first try very hard to put myself firmly in their shoes. What would make me do that thing? Dad said that both types have their strengths and weaknesses. For example, if something¡¯s confusing, or if there¡¯s no one around to question, the extrovert might have more trouble grasping whatever it is. All an introvert needs is himself. So, since we do okay on our own, we do that. We can get lonely. Or odd from our isolation. Or both.

    In my world, well yeah, I was probably odd there too, but I wasn¡¯t lonely most of the time. But now I¡¯m thinking that was because of the support I had. Nick and I have been friends for years. I was close with my parents. Yeah, I generally get along with people, but I had friends and family who facilitated that. Here, I don¡¯t. Nobody to introduce me to others and help me integrate and socialize because they know how I am.

    The point is that even though I¡¯m getting a handle on how to use these powers of mine, I don¡¯t understand them and when I look into myself, well, I got nothing. That scares me.

    Asking others, bothering them about it, upsets me and my fear that someone could get hurt just by being around me adds fuel to that fire. I¡¯ve been telling myself that nobody¡¯s been in my shoes before, right? Only Ben¡¯s been in Ben¡¯s shoes, so how could anybody help me figure this out? And why would they when a runaway train might squish them, or a tiger escaped from the zoo could try to hump their leg?

    The odd thing is that people have tried.

    Looking back, the Rigbys were reaching out to me. So did Stacy Nostrum, though her motives might¡¯ve been¡­ less than pure. The Wests? Dr. Linn?

    Ochoa has essentially told me she and Tyler were up for it.

    Have I been pushing them away?

    If not, I certainly have been less than welcoming. And that¡¯s not like me. I¡¯m shy but I¡¯m a people person, if that makes sense. I¡¯m so welcoming my name should¡¯ve been Matt.

    Fuck that. If I have to live with this, then I might as well live with it as myself. As a person I like and respect.

    Okay, then.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    When we pull into the lot, I know that as soon as we get out of the car, we¡¯re going to be mobbed by salespeople. Right? How many people idly drop by a place like this if they aren¡¯t seriously looking to buy? And I¡¯m buying. As soon as they pick up on that, it¡¯s going to suck. They¡¯re going to try to lead me around and list a bunch of features that I don¡¯t understand because I¡¯ve never bought an RV before and haven¡¯t had time to do any research even though this is going to be my new home and now I feel like an idiot.

    Right.

    I sigh and do some thinking out loud. ¡°I don¡¯t want anything too big. Got to be able to drive it around. Too small and I won¡¯t want to live in it. Ochoa? Can you drive us over to those over there?¡±

    They have the different vehicles arranged by size and type. The ones I indicated aren¡¯t the smallish van-looking ones or the big bus-looking ones, but the truck-looking ones where most of them have that overhang whatever over the cab.

    She obliges me with a grin, and I surprise her by returning it with double the wattage. Buying my home is kind of exciting.

    When we get out, I close my eyes and stretch out my arms. ¡°Quick,¡± I say, ¡°Before the sales zombies get us, spin me around and give me a shove.¡±

    She giggles and I feel her hands on my waist.

    I was expecting shoulders but, okay. Ochoa¡¯s messing with me again. Fine. Fine.

    So, I¡¯m blushing as she spins me around a lot. Entirely more than necessary, but I¡¯m damned if I say so. Instead, I Push.

    At least she¡¯s gentle with her nudge when she¡¯s done, and I stagger off. As dizzy as I am, I don¡¯t even try to walk in a straight line. All I want to do is stay upright and not give Ochoa any more reason to laugh at me. I just concentrate on keeping my feet and following the brighter concentrations of aethings. I stumble again when my foot moves off the asphalt. Are there even any RVs over this far? I¡¯m not going to tumble down the side of the hill, am I?

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    My hand hits something solid that feels a little like aluminum siding.

    ¡°Good choice!¡± says a voice behind me before I can even open my eyes.

    When I do, I¡¯m looking at one of the longer truckish ones, maybe over thirty feet long, with the overhang. It¡¯s white with some abstract whooshy designs and has part of it sticking out like it folds back in by its ass.

    I turn and see Ochoa standing beside a grinning salesman, who¡¯s a bit taller than me, blond, with a ruddy complexion like he was just out fishing this morning, and a wide, genuine smile. He¡¯s wearing a navy blazer, blue buttoned-down shirt, no tie, and blue jeans.

    The grin widens as I approach, and he holds out his hand. ¡°Ian Freeman,¡± he says. ¡°And that is the most unique way I¡¯ve ever seen to find the best Class C motorhome on the lot.¡±

    ¡°Ben Walker,¡± I say. ¡°That¡¯s Agent Monica Ochoa of the FBI. Class C?¡±

    Freeman holds up his hands and chortles. He¡¯s a chortler. ¡°I¡¯m not in any trouble, am I?¡± he says. He points to the bus-like RVs and says, ¡°Those are Class A.¡± He points at the van-like ones. ¡°Those are Class B.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not how I thought that was going to go.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I know, right? You¡¯d think it¡¯d be biggest to smallest, A, B, C, and I don¡¯t know the reason why it¡¯s not. Never bothered to ask even though it comes up a lot,¡± says Freeman and he shrugs. ¡°I promise myself I¡¯ll find out or look it up every time, then immediately forget.¡±

    ¡°Are you the one that Myra West has dealt with in the past?¡± I ask.

    Freeman nods. ¡°Yep. Nice lady.¡±

    ¡°She is,¡± I say. ¡°Well, we¡¯re going to take this one.¡±

    ¡°Oh!¡± says Freeman, his eyebrows climbing up to his hairline. He looks from Ochoa to me and back. ¡°Is this the wife?¡±

    ¡°No!¡± I say way too fast.

    Ochoa giggles.

    ¡°Uh, no,¡± I say. ¡°She¡¯s a friend. She gave me a ride here, I mean. Today. This morning.¡±

    Freeman smiles. He pats the side of the motorhome. ¡°You don¡¯t want me to tell you about it first?¡±

    ¡°Gas? Diesel?¡± asks Ochoa.

    ¡°Gas,¡± says Freeman. ¡°Sponsored battery both to help run the engine and the amenities inside. Sleeps five. A queen bed, bunk beds built into the side there.¡± He nods at the bit that sticks out over the rear wheel by the side door. ¡°Plus, the cabover.¡± He points at the overhang over the cab. ¡°Fifty-five-gallon tank. Forty gallons fresh water, 28 gallons gray, 28 gallons black. Stand-up shower, toilet, stove, microwave, two forty-inch televisions. One in the bedroom. One over the dinette. Sofa¡ª.¡±

    ¡°You have a practitioner on staff?¡± asks Ochoa. ¡°For reinforcing?¡±

    Freeman nods. ¡°Yes, indeedy. Premium package for¡ª.¡±

    Ochoa nods at me. ¡°You¡¯re gonna want that,¡± she says.

    ¡°Keeps stuff from breaking?¡± I ask.

    She nods.

    I¡¯m glad she¡¯s here. I wouldn¡¯t have thought to ask.

    ¡°Um, do you only have the one?¡± I say. ¡°Uh, motorhome in this model?¡±

    ¡°You want two?¡± Freeman laughs.

    I say, ¡°No, but I might need another one in a hurry one day.¡±

    Ochoa nods in approval.

    ¡°What are you planning?¡± Freeman¡¯s joking, but he¡¯s curious.

    I¡¯m not about to go explaining my curses to everybody I meet. Instead, I say, ¡°Myra said she¡¯d handle the particulars. This is the one I want. Go ahead and give her a call, please, Mr. Freeman.¡±

    Freeman¡¯s smile is prodigious.

    I turn to Ochoa. ¡°I didn¡¯t have any breakfast. While he¡¯s doing that, you want to get something to eat? There¡¯s like a thousand places nearby.¡±

    Ochoa says, ¡°Are you asking me out?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s lunchtime,¡± I say with a groan, rolling my eyes as my heart tries to box my larynx. ¡°I¡¯m hungry. You hungry?¡±

    ¡°Yep,¡± she says, drawing the word out and popping the P.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t dare ask you out, Agent Ochoa,¡± I say and swallow. ¡°I¡¯m much too intimidated by you.¡±

    ¡°And that, Ben Walker,¡± says Ochoa, flicking a finger at my chest. ¡°Was a flirtation.¡±

    ¡°Was not.¡±

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    Ochoa let me pick the place by spinning me around again with my eyes closed and my arm out, finger pointing as I Pushed. Up on the side of the hill near its top, we overlooked the whole area. Okay, maybe it¡¯s overkill for just lunch, but why not?

    ¡°Applebee¡¯s?¡± I say.

    Ochoa shrugs. ¡°Maybe they¡¯ve got their best cook on or something,¡± she says. ¡°Or the cutest waitress.¡±

    So, Applebee¡¯s.

    When we get there, the hostess can seat us immediately. Ochoa excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

    The place is only a quarter full. I don¡¯t notice any special waitress. Something smells good, like savory and cinnamon, but it¡¯s nothing particularly ambrosial. I wonder why my luck brought us here to the wonderment that is Applebee¡¯s.

    But there, sitting at a table in the middle of the dining area, facing the door, is Beardy. I mean, it¡¯s really him.

    I¡¯m sure I confuse the hostess by sitting down across from him, but she doesn¡¯t protest and, after a moment, leaves me alone with him.

    He is staring at me.

    That¡¯s okay, because I¡¯m staring just as hard at him. Boggling, in fact.

    ¡°You¡¯re alive,¡± he says. ¡°How can you be alive?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s your fault,¡± I say. ¡°The¡ª.¡±

    ¡°The second curse reacted with the first!¡± he says, eyes bulging. He hops in his seat. ¡°Two level threes?¡±

    I nod. ¡°Two level fours now.¡±

    ¡°Level fours!¡± he whispers. ¡°My God, I¡¯ve never heard of anybody with a level four anything. They haven¡¯t killed you?¡±

    ¡°They try,¡± I say. ¡°I can see probability, which helps. Luck? I can affect it a little. There¡¯s an art to it, though. If I Push too hard, there¡¯s backlash.¡±

    ¡°Oh wow,¡± says Beardy. He¡¯s totally fan-girling, which is a novel experience for me.

    ¡°I¡¯m Ben Walker,¡± I say. ¡°If you hadn¡¯t cursed me, I think I¡¯d be dead now.¡± I hold out my hand. ¡°So, thanks.¡±

    He hesitates. He says, ¡°Call me Adam.¡± He shakes my hand.

    ¡°You¡¯re a practitioner,¡± I say.

    ¡°Oh, yes.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re still in town,¡± I say. I lean over and whisper, ¡°After killing Lansky and her partner?¡±

    He snorts. ¡°That was not her partner. Just a hired goon,¡± he says. ¡°And technically, this is another town.¡±

    ¡°But you know what¡¯s going on in the area, don¡¯t you?¡± I say.

    He chews on his bottom lip but says nothing.

    I say, ¡°Why¡¯d you kill them?¡±

    ¡°Any practitioner caught in the act of something like that is subject to summary execution by the authorities,¡± says Adam. ¡°They were evil pricks. I stepped in, saving them some work.¡±

    ¡°What? No trial? That¡¯s legal?¡±

    Adam nods. ¡°Yeah. I mean, not for me, no. They can do it. Look, you¡¯re new here. Think about it. How do you incarcerate or even control someone who can melt your face or escape to another dimension with a gesture of their hand? The law came about because one guy liquefied the Boulder police department.¡±

    ¡°Holy shit.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, not just the cops. The whole department. A five-story building drained away into the gutters with everybody inside it and the guy got away.¡±

    ¡°They never found him?¡±

    ¡°They didn¡¯t. I shot him in the head in Caracas a week later.¡± Adam shrugs.

    ¡°You¡¯re here for the kidnappings!¡± I say.

    Adam shushes me. He says, ¡°Who told you about that?¡±

    ¡°The FBI.¡±

    ¡°The FBI?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, she¡¯s in the bathroom.¡±

 Chapter 26 - Book 1

    Adam looks like he¡¯s going to bolt.

    I can¡¯t decide if he¡¯s Italian, Persian, or Latino. He¡¯s olive complected with thick curly black hair that¡¯s as bushy as his beard, all of which is shot through with gray. His large eyes are wide and staring.

    ¡°How¡¯d you find me?¡± he breathes.

    ¡°Luck, man, how else?¡± I tell him. ¡°I Pushed a bit and picked a restaurant, thinking we¡¯d get better food. My bad.¡±

    He snorts but holds himself in a fragile stillness.

    ¡°We¡¯re not here for you, I swear,¡± I say. ¡°Besides, I kind of owe you. Wait. Are they looking for you? The FBI?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± he says and shifts his weight, preparing to stand and leave. ¡°You seem okay, but I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll risk it, Ben.¡±

    I hold out a hand. ¡°Please,¡± I say. ¡°I have so many questions. Just for a moment.¡±

    Adam relaxes, just a bit, but stays in his seat.

    ¡°What can you tell me about the kidnappings?¡± I ask.

    Adam sighs. ¡°Lansky was gathering victims to sell to someone else. I don¡¯t think she was the only one. Things I¡¯ve learned tell me there¡¯s quite a market around here, but she¡¯s the only one I found and stopped. I don¡¯t think this is for a trafficking thing,¡± he says. ¡°It¡¯s going to be a mass event.¡±

    ¡°A what?¡±

    ¡°What do you know about sponsors?¡±

    ¡°Not much. Batteries for practitioners.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the company line,¡± says Adam. He leans in and jams a forefinger onto the table. ¡°They are so much more than that. Okay, think of a person in the present as the base of a tree. All the branches that stem out from there are all the possible futures for that person, right? They reflect the choices we each make that set us down different paths of causality. You with me so far?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°When a person first learns a rune and gains power, the cost is a good bit of those branches. The sponsor eats those possibilities for the energy, limiting the practitioner¡¯s future choices. We think of power as giving us more freedom but, in this case, because of the sponsors and their nature, practitioners lose it.¡±

    ¡°Because of the sponsors¡¯ nature.¡±

    ¡°Yep,¡± says Adam. ¡°They want to eat. Once you¡¯ve learned a rune and gained power that you¡¯re not supposed to have, it has a corrupting effect, and not just psychologically. The sponsor wants a practitioner to learn more runes so it can eat more. The main thing preventing us from just jumping right up through the ranks is the jealousy and paranoia of the folks who know the runes. We don¡¯t like sharing. But there are other factors too.¡±

    ¡°You kill each other.¡±

    Adam fires a finger gun at me and grins. ¡°Bingo. Like all predators, the sponsors compete for food. Officially, there are eight known sponsors, all labeled with letters of the Greek alphabet. There could be many, many more. No one knows for sure.¡±

    ¡°And that¡¯s what you do? Compete?¡±

    Adam smiles and says, ¡°No, I¡¯m different. Like most kinds of competition, the worst possible result is someone winning. I balance things.¡± Something makes him frown. ¡°Uh, is that your FBI friend?¡± He nods behind me.

    I turn and see Ochoa. She¡¯s standing in the lobby looking out the window, staring. A white panel van has stopped in front of the entrance.

    ¡°Oh, uh, oops,¡± says Adam.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Well, I wasn¡¯t meeting you here, was I? I thought you were dead. I might¡¯ve set up one of my targets.¡±

    ¡°To trap him.¡±

    ¡°Yep.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s trapped you instead, didn¡¯t he?¡±

    ¡°Looks like he¡¯s going to try. Duck!¡± He drops below the table.

    I follow.

    The wall explodes inward. The noise is horrendous. I feel the pressure in my chest from the shockwave and glass and fragments of drywall and splinters of wood rain down on me. When I look up, I see the entire front of the restaurant cracked like an egg. The van¡¯s side door is open, and a metal man is standing there with a glowing mace in his hand that¡¯s swung up like he just gave somebody an uppercut with it.

    He looks like Golden Age of Comics Iron Man, only nobody bothered with a paint job. He¡¯s all burnished steel.

    I don¡¯t see Ochoa.

    Adam says, ¡°They¡¯ll kill you just for meeting with me. Sorry, Ben.¡± He stands up and rabbits, leaping over a table and making for the kitchen. ¡°Good luck,¡± I hear him cry and then he giggles. It¡¯s high-pitched and eerie.

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    ¡°FBI!¡± I hear Ochoa shout. ¡°Freeze!¡±

    She¡¯s standing in the little corridor that leads to the bathrooms, gun out and pointing. She must¡¯ve gotten behind the wall which sheltered her from the blast.

    The metal man doesn¡¯t freeze, though. He steps into the restaurant through the hole he just blasted in it.

    The van behind him lurches, and another guy gets out, also encased in steel. Judging by what he did to the van¡¯s suspension, he¡¯s heavy. He¡¯s also got a fucking two-handed bearded axe. Once he steps out of the van, it peels off and zooms around the side of the building, probably to head off Adam.

    Where were the fucking aethings? There¡¯d been no warning!

    ¡°You will stop, or I will shoot!¡± says Ochoa. ¡°FBI, assholes!¡±

    The first guy looks at her. He looks at me.

    He takes a step.

    Ochoa fires.

    I hear metal-on-metal right after the gunshot and the distorted ricochet passes over my head like an angry hornet. I duck after the fact like an idiot.

    The guy with the mace doesn¡¯t look particularly bothered by the first shot, or the fourth. I can see the air distorting around the weapon¡¯s business end.

    I know that in a moment Ochoa¡¯s going to say something to me and then they¡¯ll know we¡¯re here together. They¡¯ll kill her.

    I stand up and say, ¡°You¡¯ll never take me alive, pig!¡± and run right at Maceman.

    ¡°What?¡± I hear Ochoa say.

    I Push my luck and duck and twist as I pass Maceman.

    He slips on some debris and his weapon swings wide. I can feel the heat of it on my skin. The damn thing¡¯s hot!

    I angled my run to put the axe guy between us. He¡¯s moving, but I¡¯m faster. I leap over the wreckage, land on a large piece of glass just large enough to surf it out of range. The axe chunks into the asphalt behind.

    I hear the roar of an engine and look up to see a van speeding at me.

    The glass I¡¯m riding bites into something, bringing it to a sudden halt, and I tumble off, rolling ass over teakettle between a couple of parked cars. I wind up on my hands and knees.

    The trunk of the car to my left leaps forward as the van smashes into it and I¡¯m scrambling forward. I¡¯m scared I¡¯m not fast enough to get clear, so I leap onto the hood ass first. You know, like they do on television to slide to the other side? Only my belt gets hooked on that little thing that sticks up to squirt water onto the windshield and I¡¯m brought up short.

    I look back.

    I thought the van that was after me was the same one that chased after Adam, but no, this is another van and two more men ease out, causing the van to bounce on its axles. One¡¯s got a sword bigger than I am. The other has a spear.

    None of the helmets the metal men are wearing are particularly expressive. Glass-covered eye-slits and a grill over their mouths make for a pretty good poker face, but I would swear that Maceman is grinning when he golfs into the rear of the car I¡¯m sitting on and I go flying.

    It¡¯s quiet for a moment as I tumble through space.

    I expect ground before now, but then I remember we¡¯re on the side of a big hill. The side parking lot I¡¯d just been clobbered out of was on the steep side of it.

    A shadow passes over me and I know the goddamn car is above me.

    I Push and reach out with my feet.

    Somehow, a toe hits dirt and I find myself running down the hill.

    There are gunshots behind me and squealing tires. Ahead, the slope eases and I¡¯m coming up on a dubious-looking bar with a bunch of motorcycles leaning there, the chrome heliographing into my eyes. The car crashing down interrupts my view, front first, and flips over.

    I hurl myself to the side before I slam into it, trip, and roll the rest of the way down.

    Okay. Sitting up, breathing hard, I take quick stock of myself. I seem fine. My head didn¡¯t hit any rocks or anything, and yeah, I¡¯ll have some nasty bruises, but now the aethings kick flashing black. Maybe I was Pushing too hard? Or too long?

    Where¡¯s the next disaster?

    I see the two vans, one right after the other, speeding down the road toward me. They¡¯ll be here in moments.

    I look at the bar. Its patrons spill out to see what¡¯s going on. They¡¯re standing there. Gawking. Pointing.

    Otter. He¡¯s right there, pointing right at me, eyes wide, the goddamn human-trafficking pedophile son of a bitch. I¡¯m about to call him out when I realize that everybody he¡¯s standing with has matching jackets.

    Right. It¡¯s a goddamn human-trafficking pedophile son of a bitch convention. Time to go.

    I run.

    Some start after me. The rest, I bet, are going for their bikes.

    Next door, across a narrow strip of grass, is a strip mall. The first store is a big sporting goods place. I crash through the door, flinging it open, startling the customers and staff.

    There¡¯s no way to tell if the bikers are armed or when the metal assholes will get here, but better safe than sorry. I yell, ¡°Get down! Active shooters! Call nine-one-one!¡±

    There are screams and people get the fuck away from me. I hurry and duck into the clothing racks with bikers right behind me. I pull one down, Push, and hear swearing.

    There¡¯s a wall of guns over on my left but I see the bikers heading me off that way, so I go the other. Here the aisles are taller and, by doubling back and generally making no sense as I run, I lose a couple off my tail.

    Praise Jesus, here¡¯s the baseball section. The balls are in a bin, and I empty it behind me and grab a bat. There¡¯s a guy at the other end of the aisle. He pulls a sawed-off shotgun, thrusts it in my face, but I knock it straight up with my Louisville Slugger.

    The gun goes off, deafening me and showering us with glass from the lights above.

    I feel somebody tug on the bat and I immediately let go to hear said somebody fall on his ass. The shotgun ratchets and I duck into the next aisle.

    At the far end, I see the exit into the employees only section of the store. To either side of me are skateboards. I knock them down behind me as I go. I stumble, tripping over nothing at all, and smash into the skateboards to my left just as the ones on my right get blown to flinders by the shotgun.

    Rolling to my feet, I grab a skateboard and throw myself through the swinging doors into the stockroom.

    There¡¯s an employee with these huge headphones on and a clipboard, just bopping to his tunes. Clueless. I tackle him to the left as I hear the shotgun fire again and a hole as big as my head appears in one of the doors.

    The kid looks at me, one earpiece over his eye. He says, ¡°Thanks!¡±

    I pat him on the shoulder as I stand. ¡°Run.¡±

    There¡¯s daylight and I head for it. The loading area. It¡¯s empty. There¡¯s a slim road that runs behind the mall, weeds, grass, and specks of trash on the upward slope ahead. To my left is the long length of the mall. If I¡¯m caught on that, there¡¯s nowhere to go.

    To the right is back towards the bar. I tell myself they won¡¯t be expecting that and run off with my stolen skateboard.

    Oh my God, I¡¯m a thief.

    I snort out a laugh.

    Oh well, something for the Wests to do later.

    I haven¡¯t been on a deck for ten years and even then, the most I could do was stay on pretty good. Never learned any tricks or went to a half-pipe or whatever. It¡¯s never too late, I guess. Throwing it down, I hop on, figuring any extra burst of speed I can manage will help.

    There are shouts behind, but I make the turn before they get a shot off. I don¡¯t see anybody on the side of the sporting goods store, but the air is shuddering with the sound of motorcycles and I see the two white shapes of the vans making the turn into the lot ahead.

 Chapter 27 - Book 1

    I keep going. The bikers who chased me through the sporting goods store won¡¯t be far behind. I pick up some speed, kicking the ground to add momentum, and sail around the corner into the front parking lot on my skateboard.

    It¡¯s pandemonium.

    People are running, motorcycles are milling around like chromed vultures. A few people are getting into cars, though I don¡¯t see how they¡¯ll be able to get anywhere.

    One of them¡¯s backing up slowly out of its space twenty feet ahead of me. I hurry up and latch onto the bumper, forcing my fingers between it and the body of the car for a good grip, channeling my inner Marty McFly. I keep low to keep out of sight of the driver just as much as the bikers.

    The car pulls forward in fits and starts as its path gets crossed and recrossed by fleeing customers and once when a bike shudders past. I get thrown against the trunk again and again, but it¡¯s not too bad. We¡¯re going pretty slow.

    I hear the roar of engines revving up behind me and turn to see three bikes accelerating my way through the lot.

    The car I¡¯m holding onto has reached the end of the aisle and is speeding up into a turn. Letting go, I use its momentum to speed me into the next aisle down, then zip into the narrow space between vehicles where I have to duck side mirrors. I take less than a second to cross the next aisle, but I see gang members tracking me, following my path.

    I pass through another aisle and then another, but on the third a biker is there, racing toward me, and I know I won¡¯t be able to get clear in time. I turn toward him and send my deck into a powerslide to slow. The bastard has a length of chain in his hand. He means to rake me with it as he passes or loop it around my neck and drag me to death.

    I give a little hop and let my feet leave the deck, which flies up into my hands. Doing my run out, bleeding momentum, I Push my luck, duck, and swing my skateboard¡¯s edge at the bike¡¯s handlebars.

    The chain whines over my head.

    The board hits the bike and the force of the blow added to the speed he was traveling means I hit it hard. The front wheel turns, and the bike and rider tumble past.

    I¡¯m back on my board and headed back the way I came to try and confuse my pursuers, feeling sick, thinking I might¡¯ve just killed that guy.

    Something blocks out the sun.

    I look up.

    A large sedan turns in the sky, the side of it crushed out of shape. I swerve and zip down an aisle as the Cadillac swan dives on top of the cars to my right, showering me with broken glass as the windows burst.

    I see bikes turning in on both sides of the main aisle and making for the narrow space between again. This time, though, I¡¯ve chosen poorly. The guy on the left parked over the line and I won¡¯t fit.

    I do another pop up run out, the board coming up into my hand, as I leap up and get a foot on the side mirror. It holds long enough for me to get onto the hood before it breaks off and I stumble.

    Now I¡¯m sprinting from roof to roof. Gunfire erupts around me like the world¡¯s angriest popcorn machine. I have no idea where I¡¯m going. I¡¯m just going.

    Too late, I notice that the next car is a ragtop convertible at the same time something hits me in my right shoulder, turning me. I tear through the material and end up sitting in the passenger seat.

    For a moment, I think my shoulder is on fire, but when I look down at it, all I see is red.

    Not on fire then. Only shot.

    There¡¯s a sound like King Kong popping a balloon made of glass and metal outside. A truck is upside down on the little Prius.

    Good. More cover.

    I reexamine my shoulder. There¡¯s a bloody furrow creasing my trapezius less than an inch wide. A graze, I think it¡¯s called in the business. Hurts, but nothing to worry about.

    There¡¯s no movement outside. No more cars flying overhead. Maybe they think they got me or they¡¯re not sure where I am.

    I need to think instead of just running in a panic like I¡¯ve been doing. That¡¯ll get me killed. I¡¯m in a parking lot full of criminal, murdering, magic knight mother-fucking psychopaths with innocent people are running around. I wonder if anybody was in any of those cars they threw at me. Kids in car seats. There¡¯s no way to know.

    I need to get away from here. Out of the parking lot. Either way, I need help or a diversion. Something.

    Where''s Ochoa?

    I look back toward Applebee¡¯s just in time to see the agent''s car tip over the edge of the restaurant¡¯s lot and nose its way down the hill. It fishtails and I Push. If it slides too far it¡¯s going to roll, but she rights it. Then she, um, lefts it to pull it straight. She smashes a few bikes out of the way with the front of the car when she reaches the base of the hill, and all four wheels leave the ground when she moves over the grass between this lot and the bar¡¯s. Her wheels scream and smoke as she spins the car to a rocking stop, passenger''s side out.

    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    There¡¯s the whine of feedback like from a loudspeaker and I hear her voice say, ¡°You will cut it out right now or I¡¯ll kill you all dead. Drop your weapons, stop your bikes, put your hands in the air, and shut the fuck up!¡±

    If anybody complies, I don¡¯t see it. Instead, she takes fire. Bullet holes appear in the side of her car. The passenger side window explodes. The driver¡¯s door opens, and Ochoa appears, the top of her head peering over the engine block.

    I have to do something.

    The glove box in front of me has a long-handled flashlight nestled among some napkins, paperwork, and other things. I take it. Damn thing''s as long as my forearm. One of those that doubles as a club for self-defense, maybe. Feeling hopeful, I hit the trunk release and open the car door, staying low, the skateboard tucked under my arm.

    I hear gunfire from Ochoa¡¯s direction.

    I look up. She¡¯s got a long gun to her shoulder, shooting back. She¡¯s aiming it toward where the thrown cars were coming from.

    I look that way and see Maceman staggering, three smoking holes in the armor over his chest. He falls.

    I get to the rear tire of the convertible and duck when I hear motorcycles getting closer. I shrug and reverse the flashlight so that the light is toward me. Calling once more upon my movie lore, I hurl my flashlight like a javelin at the front wheel of the bike as it passes. Trapped in the spokes, the flashlight hits the part of the frame holding the wheel, stopping it from turning, throwing the bike and its rider high into the air.

    In the trunk, I see a long lug wrench, snatch it up, throw my board down, and hook the wrench into the apparatus of the other motorcycle that¡¯s slowed to dodge around his somersaulting buddy.

    The wrench seems pretty well lodged in something behind the seat. Maybe caught in the suspension? I don¡¯t know. I decide to hang on and stay low for a bit and see where this goes.

    The gunfire doesn¡¯t stop. I see the metal fellow with the spear go down.

    Both of those big white vans are still on the move. Both have bullet holes appearing regularly and I realize the metal men and the bikers are also fighting each other. As I watch, the nearer van¡¯s windshield spiderwebs in front of the driver, and the vehicle careens into some parked cars to come to a hissing stop. I can see the shadow of the driver, slumped over the wheel.

    The motorcycle I¡¯ve hooked onto makes a swift turn and now I''m back in front of the sporting goods store.

    Ochoa sees me, her eyes going wide, but her finger never leaves her trigger.

    I give her a wave, but her passenger¡¯s side front tire explodes then, and I decide not to distract her further.

    My motorcycle turns up the next aisle, which is good because the wide open space in front of the store is much too exposed, but I see bikers in the parallel aisles come even with us, signaling to my driver, pointing back at me.

    The bike wobbles as the asshole driving turns. He flinches when he sees me, then grins and says something I can¡¯t hear. I see his foot slam down and the bike lurches forward.

    I see the van pulling up in front of us before he does.

    The biker hauls his ride to the right, going into a slide.

    I lose my grip on the lug wrench and I¡¯m hurtling right at the driver of the van. He¡¯s got his window down so I can see him clearly. He¡¯s not wearing a helmet, his expression''s all business.

    I Push my luck hard and jump, grabbing my ankles and now I¡¯m flying sideways in the fetal position at, like, twenty miles an hour.

    Right through the open window I go when the bike plows into the side of the van, setting off the airbags.

    I bounce around a little but come comfortably to rest in the passenger seat, surrounded by big white pillows.

    There¡¯s an airy pop to my left.

    The driver has torn the airbag with his gauntleted hands. He doesn¡¯t look at me as he wrenches open his door which whines in protest as he gets out. There¡¯s a long-handled sword in his hand. He¡¯s moving quickly. I see his shadow moving around the front of the van.

    I get the door open, but the damn airbags make that tricky and I wind up falling out onto the asphalt. A good thing too. The driver¡¯s sword hammers into the door frame around the window, shattering it and once again I¡¯m covered in glass. If I''d gotten out in traditional fashion, I''d have a split personality.

    I scramble to get up, to find some cover, to get away.

    My skateboard is nearby and I snatch it up.

    I hear a footfall, spin, and see the sword slashing at my head.

    Somehow, I knock it away with my deck.

    I block the next blow and deflect the following thrust away. It¡¯s purely defensive. His sword has a foot more reach than my board.

    He pauses and gifts me a smile. The dude¡¯s a redhead, hair cropped close to his skull, wearing a steel breastplate with strange sigils etched over his chest. His camo pants have matte black armored plates riveted on, and there are strange squiggles etched there too.

    He holds his sword out to the side in one hand. He twists it. There¡¯s a flash that lights up his cold features and his sword is alight with dripping flame. The drops, when they hit the ground, keep burning. He¡¯s ten feet away from me but I can feel the heat of his blade from here.

    Think.

    The only thing I can think to do is to close my eyes.

    Black envelopes the space where the driver of the van stands. Dark shapes flicker around me, tendrils reaching and searching. The light aethings are few and far between.

    It¡¯s less noisy. The motorcycles are leaving. At first, I think it¡¯s because this guy¡¯s going to kill me, but then I hear sirens. There¡¯s no more gunfire.

    The pulsing shadow of the driver takes a step and raises his sword across his body. He¡¯s too far away to hit me with the blade. He¡¯s going to splash me with fire.

    A thin line of pale aethings appears on a slant in front of me and I let myself fall to the side, spinning into the light.

    Heat washes past me.

    I hit the ground and roll, trying to get to my feet. Before I do, another bright space opens up low and to my left. I lurch for it only to be brought up short.

    What I¡¯d assumed was an escape is instead a parked pale blue sedan. I stumble and fall.

    The driver finds me on my knees by the front wheel. Smiling, he raises his sword.

    I hear a shot and his head jerks a bit to the side.

    It doesn¡¯t even cause him to change expression. Some kind of force field? I¡¯d been wondering why he wasn¡¯t wearing a helmet.

    He thrusts for my heart, both hands driving the sword forward. He¡¯s going to pin me to the engine block.

    I get the skateboard between us and manage another parry, deflecting the burning blade past my right arm to sink deep into the side of the sedan.

    There¡¯s a tremendous crack, and the man is flung away twenty feet to embed himself into the rear of his van. He hangs there, smoking, limp, and unmoving.

    Ochoa steps around the side, glances at me, but keeps the barrel of the gun aimed at the driver. She pokes him with her rifle, but there¡¯s no reaction. She takes his pulse.

    I¡¯m fine right where I¡¯m sitting, thank you, now that the sword¡¯s extinguished. It turned off or whatever when he let go, though little puddles of fire remain all around me.

    Ochoa drops her hand and relaxes. She looks at me, looks at the driver, looks at the sword, then peeks at the rear of the sedan. She nods once. ¡°EV,¡± she says. ¡°Sword must¡¯ve hit the battery.¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t touch it then.¡±

    ¡°Probably gonna start melting soon,¡± she says. ¡°Nice board.¡±

    The skateboard is beside me, charred and smoking, but fine otherwise.

    ¡°Thanks. I stole it myself.¡± I laugh. It¡¯s either that or start crying. Or screaming. I¡¯m starting to shake.

    ¡°You know I¡¯m a cop, right?¡± She helps me up and we both go back to sit on the trunk of her car to wait for the authorities.

 Chapter 28 - Book 1

    We don¡¯t have to wait long.

    Just long enough for Ochoa to hand me a protein bar since we didn¡¯t make it to lunch, and I haven¡¯t eaten since yesterday. The thing tastes like cardboard, but I¡¯m so hungry it doesn¡¯t matter.

    I check my phone and see that I¡¯ve got three notifications from the App. My Brawling, Dodge, and Luck have all increased to plus two. I guess I shouldn¡¯t be surprised. The adrenaline is draining out of me and the exhaustion is creeping in. We¡¯re sitting on the back of her car and I lean back against the glass of her rear windshield. It¡¯s still somehow intact. The pleasant day and relative quiet is surreal. So is my sudden need for small talk.

    ¡°Nice gun,¡± I say around a mouthful, nodding at the rifle she¡¯s got tucked behind her, on a sling over her shoulder.

    She smiles and brings it around to rest in her lap. Then she takes a bite of her own bar and points out a series of runes carved into the body of the rifle with one manicured finger. Then, she points to the safety.

    I don¡¯t know much about guns, but I know ¡°red you¡¯re dead.¡± What I¡¯m looking at here is a tiny lever with a thumb pad. Next to it is a little window that¡¯s currently showing black. She flips it and the window turns red. She flips it farther and now it¡¯s gold. Ochoa says, ¡°Gold goes through pretty much anything. This gun? Worth about three of your motorhomes.¡±

    I nod.

    I glance back at her car. It looks like the surface of the moon, cratered with bullet holes, some of them quite large. I consider the hill she drove down, tire tracks carved into the side of it, winding into each other. The incline has to be, what, forty degrees at the top? Forty-five? Would I have driven down that?

    I turn to Ochoa, meaning to thank her, but she¡¯s getting up. Cops are zooming into the lot now. There¡¯s a fricking helicopter overhead. I see other cruisers blasting past, chasing after the fleeing bikers, no doubt, though the Wild Specters have an unfortunate head start.

    I¡¯m pretty sure all the metal men are still here.

    Ochoa walks toward the police, her rifle pointed up in the air in one hand, her badge in the other.

    ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    Akron¡¯s police station is much larger than Willamette¡¯s, of course. Akron¡¯s bigger. It¡¯s busier too, which makes me nervous. The aethings are calmer here than back at Applebee¡¯s, for instance, but they¡¯re nowhere near as calm as it was at Sheriff Abernathy¡¯s office.

    I¡¯ve noticed that I¡¯m always monitoring them now, even when I¡¯m not paying attention. I catch myself nudging chance over and over, keeping things just to the light side. Huh. Must be getting used to doing it. I shouldn¡¯t be surprised. People can get used to pretty much anything. I suppose it¡¯s a lot like walking outside in a field or something. You walk along and sometimes your foot hits a bump or finds a root or a hole and you might stumble, but how often do you fall? No, you correct and adjust your balance. That¡¯s what I do when there¡¯s a dark flareup. I correct and adjust the balance.

    Adam said he was a balancer. I don¡¯t think he was talking about the same thing.

    And the police are very curious about Adam. I go over the story over and over again. That leads to telling them the whole thing over and over again, from me leaving Nick at the bar to now, all five days.

    This is the afternoon of my fifth day in this dimension. My God.

    Whenever they leave me alone for more than five minutes, I nod off. The one thing I haven¡¯t gotten used to yet is the aftereffects of adrenaline. I¡¯m exhausted.

    They¡¯ve got me in an interrogation room where I¡¯m assured that I¡¯m not in any trouble. I¡¯m not under arrest. I¡¯m a hero, in fact. Nothing to worry about. I¡¯m sure they¡¯re right, but Alex is on his way anyhow.

    They¡¯ve got the big mirror on the wall. Cameras in the corners. The little lights aren¡¯t on, but I doubt there¡¯s any law that prevents them from being disabled. I try not to worry about it.

    Ochoa shot a bunch of bad guys. Agent Tyler¡¯s got her gun pending review. Technically, Ochoa¡¯s on suspension while they clear her of the shootings, which is why I¡¯m surprised to see her come into the room alone.

    She¡¯s still got on her pale gray pantsuit with the shiny pink blouse. She¡¯s had a rough day, but she doesn¡¯t look any worse for wear. I remember she kissed me this morning not long after finding me naked and cowering with my junk hidden from the Edelmans in the refrigerator.

    ¡°Hey, Mo!¡± I say in falsetto.

    She smiles graciously, like she¡¯s never heard that before. Oh shit. Maybe she hasn¡¯t. Are the Three Stooges a thing here? I¡¯ll have to look that up.

    ¡°I thought you were on suspension?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Ochoa sighs. ¡°But they want me to do this.¡± She gestures at the room.

    ¡°Okay,¡± I say. ¡°What¡¯s that mean?¡±

    Her smile morphs into a grin. She gives her gum a few last chews, saying nothing, before she swallows.

    ¡°That¡¯s not supposed to be good for you,¡± I say.

    ¡°You¡¯re loosening up,¡± says Ochoa. ¡°Good for you. What can I say? I live dangerously.¡± She waggles her eyebrows.

    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°You¡¯re on suspension, but you¡¯re still here,¡± I say. ¡°To talk to me.¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry you had to do that.¡± Kill those men, I mean. I can¡¯t say it.

    ¡°Yeah, thanks.¡± She sighs. ¡°Ben, there are things you aren¡¯t saying. You might not be aware of it, and it might not be much, but we can all tell. Memory is weird. It edits itself. Changes things around sometimes. I¡¯m here to help you remember.¡±

    Tyler told me she¡¯s never seen anybody better in an interrogation room than Monica Ochoa.

    ¡°I want to help.¡±

    ¡°I know you do.¡± She reaches up. And takes off her glasses.

    Sometimes a person seems attractive in sunglasses or a face mask and then they ruin the illusion by removing them, right? I read somewhere or watched a documentary or something that says it¡¯s our brain that does it to us. We see somebody a couple of blocks away and think, wow, she¡¯s really cute. Then, the closer she gets, we have to revise our opinion the other way. Sometimes it even turns out to be a dude when you were hoping for a woman.

    The point is that I thought Ochoa was attractive when she had her glasses on. I knew that might change if I ever got the chance to see her with them off. I knew I might be disappointed, but expected the opposite. That¡¯s fair, right? Wouldn¡¯t most people hope for cuter? Even if there was no way on Earth I would get with her or have a chance with her? No? Just me?

    Ochoa¡¯s face is a perfect oval. High cheekbones. Delicate features. It¡¯s her eyes. They¡¯re large, round, soft, and contain way too much light. They¡¯re kind. And somehow, don¡¯t ask me to explain, they listen. They¡¯re the eyes of someone who loves you. They make me want to cry.

    I don¡¯t think I can say a word to her right now. Her eyes take her way past beautiful. I can¡¯t look at her.

    The glasses make sense now. Why she wears them. Very few cops could take eyes like that seriously. Me? If she keeps looking at me that way, I¡¯ll tell her anything. I mean, if I can get my mouth to work.

    ¡°Ben,¡± she says. ¡°When you pointed at Applebee¡¯s, that was probably your luck finding Adam, wasn¡¯t it?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°When we got to the restaurant, I went to the bathroom. Is that when you saw him?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°When the hostess took you back?¡±

    I nod.

    She takes my hand. Holds it.

    I glance up at her. She¡¯s smiling and her mouth looks like it normally does, yes, but it¡¯s an entirely different experience now because of those eyes. I look back down. Goddammit, am I blushing?

    Monica says, ¡°He was surprised to see you?¡±

    ¡°Yes. He thought I should be dead.¡±

    ¡°Because of your curses.¡±

    ¡°Yes. He said he was excited to meet¡ª. No, he said he never heard about anybody with a level four anything.¡±

    ¡°¡®Fangirling,¡¯ you called it.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Maybe that¡¯s sexist? But that¡¯s easier than saying he had an almost inappropriate level of interest and excitement, right?¡±

    ¡°He wasn¡¯t¡­ aroused or anything, was he?¡±

    ¡°No!¡± I look at her face to see if she might be joking. She¡¯s not. The FBI deals with all types, I guess. ¡°No, I didn¡¯t get that impression, but, uh, I didn¡¯t make a close inspection.¡±

    She smirks. ¡°Had to ask. I don¡¯t think you would¡¯ve even if you did swing that way, Ben,¡± she says. ¡°He said his name was Adam?¡±

    ¡°No, he said to call him Adam. I think it was a polite way of letting me know that wasn¡¯t his real name while acknowledging that I should have to call him something. I mean, I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he did that and his name really was Adam. He seems the type.¡±

    ¡°He admitted he was a practitioner?¡±

    ¡°Oh yes,¡± I say. ¡°He said, ¡®Oh yes,¡¯ like he was really into it. Big time.¡±

    ¡°And he knew Lansky?¡±

    ¡°Well, he knew of her. Said the other man with her was a hired goon rather than her partner.¡±

    ¡°He admitted to killing them?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Said he was saving you the trouble. He said you¡¯d kill her for catching her in the act of something like that.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a little more complicated than that but, essentially, he¡¯s right. Some people are too dangerous to be contained or detained. The law recognizes that, but we¡¯re supposed to be real careful about it.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure you are.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve never had to do it, but thanks.¡±

    The shit in the parking lot was self-defense and protecting others. Adam was talking about state-sanctioned summary executions after a minimum of due process. Totally different.

    ¡°Then he talked about the Boulder police department?¡± asks Monica. ¡°Boulder, Colorado?¡±

    ¡°He just said Boulder. Said a guy melted the place with everybody in it. That he killed the guy later in¡­ Caracas? What¡¯s that, Venezuela?¡±

    Monica nods. ¡°He didn¡¯t give you a name. Date? Specific location?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°Wait. He said he shot him in the head.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s when you told him I was in the bathroom.¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°He wanted to leave.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, but I told him I had questions.¡±

    ¡°That was all it took? To keep him from running?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. He seemed to sympathize. That, and he had some of his own. I don¡¯t think I got around to telling him I work for you guys too, but I still think maybe he wanted to know what I knew.¡±

    ¡°Okay.¡±

    ¡°He asked how we found him. If the FBI was looking for him.¡±

    ¡°But that was as he was leaving, right? Before you got him to stay?¡±

    ¡°Oh, right. That¡¯s right. Then he told me all that about sponsors. Did he have that right? About what they eat? About there being at least eight and maybe more? All named after letters in the Greek alphabet.¡±

    Monica nods. ¡°That¡¯s the current theory, yes. You met the Epsilons today.¡±

    ¡°Epsilons?¡±

    ¡°The Knights of Epsilon,¡± Monica intones. ¡°The people they send out aren¡¯t practitioners. They make the weapons and armor their acolytes use in their missions. We didn¡¯t know they were in town.¡±

    ¡°He said the eight of them compete. Like, there¡¯s different factions.¡±

    Monica nods. ¡°Factions he couldn¡¯t allow to ever win, right? He called himself a balancer?¡±

    I wince. ¡°Not exactly. His words were, ¡®I balance things.¡¯ If he was part of a larger group, he would¡¯ve said, ¡®We balance things,¡¯ right?¡±

    Monica shrugs. ¡°Maybe. Not enough data yet.¡±

    ¡°Did I, uh, get the thing you needed yet?¡±

    Monica says, ¡°When he spoke about Lansky, he said something about the kidnappings.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, he said that she was selling off the people she took. He suspected it was for something he called a mass event. He said it wasn¡¯t a trafficking thing.¡±

    ¡°A mass event. That¡¯s all he said?¡±

    ¡°He said from all he¡¯d found out, it was going to be a mass event.¡±

    ¡°Thanks, Ben.¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡±

    She started to get up, then stopped herself. ¡°Oh, Ben! What was he wearing?¡±

    ¡°Huh? T-shirt? Windbreaker?¡±

    Monica smiles. ¡°Designs on the t-shirt?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. It was old. The lettering was fading off from too many washings.¡±

    ¡°Could they have been runes?¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Runes. He was there to trap somebody. Presumably to kill them. He¡¯d be prepared. Were those runes on his shirt?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know runes.¡±

    She stands and comes around the table and places her phone in front of me. On the screen is a rune. A wavy line on the left, a straight one on the right, some random dots and crossings. It looks like a styled hint at the letter A done by a drunkard. I¡¯ve never seen it before. She scrolls and the next one does.

    ¡°That could¡¯ve been on his shirt, yeah. Maybe. I couldn¡¯t swear to it.¡±

    She keeps scrolling. I identify three more possibles.

    She sits down heavily.

    ¡°That was what you needed?¡±

    She shrugs. ¡°We knew there was something.¡±

    ¡°Something¡¯s wrong.¡±

    ¡°The competing factions you were talking about?¡±

    ¡°Yeah?¡±

    ¡°They don¡¯t share runes. Ever. Epsilon¡¯s runes are Epsilon¡¯s runes. They¡¯re carefully guarded secrets, enforced by painful death.¡±

    ¡°Okay?¡±

    She holds up her phone with the first rune I identified on the screen. ¡°This is an Epsilon rune,¡± says Monica. She scrolls to the next. ¡°This is an Alpha. This one is an Eta. This is a Gamma.¡±

    ¡°Oh. Oh shit.¡±

    ¡°The windbreaker could¡¯ve been covering more. For all I know, they went all the way around his shirt.¡±

    ¡°Shit. Uh, what¡¯s that mean?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve no idea.¡±