Fatal (20 page)

“I’ve never seen anything like that. What happened? You looked like you were asleep at first. Then you began to sweat like a pig and your whole body went stiff. I pulled your eyelids up and all I saw was white.”

“It’s not as easy as it used to be,” Ronnie said. “It gets worse every time.”

The doctor finally spoke. “His blood pressure was sky high, and his pulse … I don’t think I’ve seen anything that fast before. I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but I wouldn’t recommend doing it anymore. You’re at risk for a major stroke, even as young as you are.”

“I’ll try to avoid it in the future,” Ronnie said. He looked at Wesling, who waved everyone else out of the room. When they were gone, she came and sat on the couch again. “Well?” she said.

“Omsk,” Ronnie said. “He’s at Omsk.”

*****

“I just thought it was time to come home,” Clayton Beuhl said. Karen Strait was sitting across the table from him in Beuhl’s kitchen, wearing a burgundy satin top, skintight jeans, and a pair of dangling gold hoop earrings. She arrived with a flourish an hour earlier, immediately forcing him to take her on a tour of the house.

“You never brought me home when we were dating,” she said, giving him a look he couldn’t interpret.

“I never brought anyone home,” Beuhl said. “It wasn’t a great place to be when I was growing up. Then my mother died and my father sent me off to school. So…” He shrugged.

“So who’s been here since you got home?”

“The housekeeper. She comes in, cleans up and cooks. That’s about it. I’m not the most sociable guy around and I don’t have a lot of fond memories of the place. The house I mean.”

“Hmm,” was all Karen had to say. Beuhl took her through the downstairs, which featured a small but elegant dining room, a formal area used for entertaining business associates, and his father’s study. The study had three walls of bookshelves. Set in the middle was his father’s desk. A wooden box his father used to store cigars and a green felt placemat were the only things on the desk. Beuhl had gone in once and sat in his father’s chair for two minutes, trying to get a feel for the man. He opened the top drawer in the desk while he was sitting there. He found two plain BIC pens and his father’s address book. The alphabetical part contained a long list of contacts by company name. The last page had the phone number of a limousine company and the whorehouse in the next town. He put the book back, closed the drawer and never went in the room again until tonight.

The upper floor was all bedrooms. Karen was fascinated by his father’s room, left unaltered since his mother’s death. His father had never been one for sentiment, and as long as he was comfortable, nothing was changed. The furniture was solid oak, the silk coverlet on the bed a dazzling array of colors and patterns. Beuhl’s mother had ordered it from Japan. The guest room was plain but comfortable. Beuhl’s own room, the one he had occupied as a child, was sparse. After his father’s death, he had removed all the posters and knickknacks of his childhood, stuffing them in a cardboard box which went into the attic.

“No wonder you sit on the porch and drink beer,” Karen said. “This place is depressing. You need to get out more.”

“Actually, I don’t sit on the porch and drink beer anymore,” Beuhl said. “I kind of gave that up.”

“Why? Did the neighbors complain?”

“I don’t have any neighbors. At least any that care what I do. I found a better place to sit. I’m trying not to drink so much either.”

Karen arched her eyebrows. “And how’s that going?”

Beuhl laughed. “Better on some nights than others. When you see apparitions in your front yard, you do two things. You stop sitting on the porch and you cut back on your drinking. Come on, let’s get the steaks on the grill. If you want to hear the story of Clayton Beuhl’s visitation you’ll need a full stomach.”

The coals were ready and Beuhl had the steaks marinating. He put them on the grill, satisfied with the sound they made when they hit the hot metal grid. The potatoes were already in place. He took Karen back into the kitchen, telling her the story of the girl who appeared in his front yard while he made the salad. He left nothing out, including the fact that he had polished off the better part of a dozen beers before it happened.

“Are you sure you just weren’t dreaming?” she asked when he finished. The steaks were done, grilled dark on the outside and pink in the middle. Beuhl opened the bottle of red wine had Karen brought with her despite her fondness for Rolling Rock, pouring them each a full glass.

“I don’t know. It would be nice to think so, I guess. That would be better than having drunken hallucinations. If it was a dream, it was the most vivid dream I’ve ever had in my life. You know how a lot of times when you’re dreaming you kind of know it? You wake up the next morning and you know it was a dream? I woke up the next morning scared to death because it didn’t seem like a dream. It didn’t have that quality to it.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much about it,” Karen said. “You’re just spending too much time alone. You should come down to the restaurant for lunch. Lots of the guys we went to school with come in. You know, find somebody to hang around with. Which reminds me, I bet you don’t know what happened to Eddie Groom.”

She was off. For the next hour, Karen gave him the running scoop on just about everyone in their high school graduating class. Whether it was just conversation or whether she was trying to change the subject Beuhl didn’t know and didn’t care. He was feeling more comfortable in his own house with Karen there than he had the whole time he had been home. In return, he told her some scandalous stories about his cases back in the city, where he had handled more than one divorce and watched more than one marriage fall apart. By the time he finished, the wine was gone. Karen leaned back in her chair, folding her hands across her stomach.

“Now that,” she said, “was a meal. Simple yet elegant, and oh so filling. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” Beuhl said. “I also make a mean omelet, and nobody can beat my special Chef Boyardee dinners. Seriously, steaks I’m good at. The rest of my diet, if the housekeeper doesn’t cook it, comes from cans and takeout.”

“And bottles?”

“Well, hopefully not so much of that anymore. Hey, you want to see something I found? I almost forgot about this.”

“What?”

“Come on,” Beuhl said.

Five minutes later they were standing on top of the house on the widow’s walk, watching the night sky. The weather was clear, a light breeze rustling the treetops. Karen stood with her hands on the rail. The only light visible in the distance were those of the Ag Center. Beuhl could see the outline of the building. To his surprise, he could also see figures moving away from it. Two headed away from him into the blackness and disappeared. Two more came in the direction of his land. He lost sight of them as they moved from the light of the building.

“That’s weird,” he said.

“What?” Karen asked.

“Over there.” He pointed to the building. “Someone’s moving around in the field out there. I’ve never seen anyone in that field except the guy who cuts the grass, and he only shows up every couple of weeks.”

Karen moved to the opposite railing beside Beuhl. “I don’t see anything,” she said.

“They were standing by the building under that back corner. Two took off in the opposite direction and two headed this way.”

“Why would they be wandering around out there in the middle of the night?”

“You got me,” said Beuhl. “The more I watch that place the more it makes me think something weird is going on. It’s not an agricultural anything. Something else is going on.”

“Listen, Clayton,” Karen said. “You need to get over this thing you’ve got going on about this place. You mentioned it when you came by the restaurant. Now you’re out here on top of your house and you’re wondering about it. I think you’re right. I don’t think it’s what they say it is. But the U.S. government does things like this. They’ve got to do it somewhere. Why not here? Why does it bother you?”

Beuhl had no solid answer. “I don’t know. I keep seeing all these cars coming and going. If it was just that, I might be able to ignore it. But, the other day I was out checking my mail. One of those cars passed, the black Lincoln Town Cars that are always in and out? In the back of this one there was a kid. A boy. He was watching me when they passed and there was something in his eyes that made me feel … I don’t know … like something wasn’t right. Who the hell knows what they’re doing in there.”

Karen turned to him. He could see the look of concern on her face. “You should just forget it,” she said. She reached over, grabbed him by the collar with her fingertips, pulling in close. “I can think of more interesting things to talk about.”

“Really,” Beuhl said. “Like what?”

“Kyle Beecher came in for lunch the other day. He told me you ordered a load of hay for your barn. He thought that was strange since you don’t have any horses.”

Beuhl laughed. “I’m caught I guess. What did you tell him?”

“I told him you were a sweet, sweet man,” she said, and pulled him in for a kiss.

*****

Sixteen hours after the traffic stop, Gene and Cassie crossed the Virginia state line. Two miles after that, Gene was downshifting, slowing the rig for a turn into a truck-stop along I-95. Overhead, a neon sign proclaimed this to be Lucky’s, which Cassie took for a good omen. Cassie spent most of her time in the cab or in the sleeper behind the seat. The one time she had gotten out of the truck, Gene had given her a greasy brown jacket and a ball cap. “Just playing it safe,” he said.

Clark County, according to the map, began ten miles to the east. If she was going to say goodbye to Gene, this was probably the place. She kept the ball cap and jacket on at his insistence. Cassie scanned the parking lot as they walked toward the entrance. No police cars were visible. Inside, the diner was half full, occupied mostly by drivers sitting at a long counter. A haggard-looking woman with two kids sat in a booth against the wall. Gene went off to arrange for fuel, leaving Cassie to wander around a small convenience store attached to the diner. She bought two cokes, a couple of prepackaged sandwiches out of the cooler, and a half dozen candy bars. Gene met her as she left the store.

“The next intersection is the highway into Clark County,” he said. “It’s probably best if I roll off the Interstate, you hop out, and I roll right back on. You don’t want to be hitching out of this place. The cops watch for stuff like that.”

Cassie stayed in the truck while Gene topped off his truck. The rig rolled out again. Cassie watched as the exit approached, where she would leave Gene and be alone again. It was strange. She hardly knew the man but she felt safe in the truck. Now she was leaving it, in the dark of the early morning. She gathered her pack as the truck rolled to a stop. The intersection was dark, the only light coming from the cars passing overhead on the Interstate.

“Thanks for the ride,” Cassie said as she hopped out. Gene nodded, stuck the track back in gear, and pulled away. Cassie watched until his lights faded into the darkness, put on her backpack, and started down the road. She took the pistol out of her backpack as she walked, tucking it in her waistband under the jacket Gene had given her. Shortly after dawn, she passed a green sign riddled with bullet holes, welcoming her to Clark County. She thought about adding a bullet hole of her own, decided against it, and bent back into the walk.

Somewhere up ahead was Ronnie. She could feel him. Instinct drove her on. She had no other way of finding him. While both she and Ronnie could travel, there was no amazing form of communication between them, no psychic telephone line. They each could do what they could do, but it ended there. Ronnie was better at finding locations. Once, for General Archer, he picked up the location of a lost pilot using nothing more than a photograph. Cassie was better at plucking emotions and intent out of scenes. She was also more attuned to the people around her and upcoming events. Ronnie tended to avoid using his ability unless pushed. Cassie had no such qualms. She used her ability as a kind of compass to get through situations. She was also, she knew, the more aggressive of the two. It was something she struggled with at times. When in danger, she found herself acting as an animal would, lashing out in fury.

She had reached the crest of a hill when she heard the car behind her. Cursing her lack of attention, she dropped off the road and stepped a few feet into the brush alongside. She lost sight of the car as it dipped into the crest of the hill behind her. The driver, whoever it was, was moving fast, pushing the long black car hard. The ground beneath her vibrated as it approached. Alarm bells began going off in her head. She crouched low against the ground, watching. The car slowed before it reached the top of the hill, gained speed as it hit the down side, and was soon out of view. Cassie was left with the certain feeling she had just escaped a bad scene. She checked both directions on the road, patted the pistol in her waistband, and went back to walking. In the distance she could see a two story house, and behind it a barn. The asphalt was growing hotter under her feet.

*****

Jennifer Wesling had been going at Ronnie for an hour and a half, dragging out every detail of his trip. When she finished, she went over it again. Ronnie wanted to go back to his room and lie down. He kept his hands folded in front of him, trapping them between his knees. He had come out of the session with his left hand trembling, and the vision in his left eye blurry. Wesling’s voice grated on his ears.