The Overseer (23 page)

She focused on her breathing—listening for the quiet voice of eternity.

Then she felt it.

The past was quiet. No pictures. No sounds. Just the feeling of the keyboard. She lifted her hands, setting her fingers on the keys.

She felt the motion, her finger moving from its resting place to a key—then struck. Then another key. She could feel what had been done before—so many times, as if warmth were rising from each key. Hannah tapped away—a string of more than ten letters and numbers—a code that meant nothing to her, a total jumble no person would ever guess.

She struck the enter key and opened her eyes.

The screen went black.

Her breath caught in her throat for a moment. The desktop loaded, icons populating the field as they appeared intermittently in a jagged pattern.

Hannah let out a small sigh. “We’re in.”

Devin stood, coming around behind her.

Her hands continued, feeling out the warm path backward through time. The mouse cursor glided effortlessly across the screen, her finger gliding toward the image that seemed to rise up in her mind.

Double-click. A desktop folder opened. Another set of clicks, another opened folder. She didn’t even have a chance to read the label on the digital folder—images of the process unfolded in her mind like a tutorial, taking her through the steps.

A document opened. Not a Word document. Something else.

“Devin,” she said slowly, “what am I looking at?”

He eyed the screen over her shoulder for several seconds. “These are source files for a Web site.”

Hannah looked over the images: pornography. Naked bodies of young girls—their faces all cropped out of the image. Hannah felt embarrassment and discomfort, even though it wasn’t much different than some of the things she had seen hanging on dorm room walls back at school. She frowned. “Why aren’t their faces in the pictures?”

Devin was silent for a moment, his eyes turning up toward the counter now to see if any of the management had noticed what they were perusing. “They’re minors,” he said, voice strained.

“How do you know?”

He groaned to himself. “Because in the eyes of the law it’s not considered child pornography unless the face is showing.”

Hannah’s stomach tightened in a bad way.

Devin continued, “And if you’re going to have a public Web site advertising what you have in your possession, you don’t want to make the girls identifiable to begin with, and you certainly don’t want to get hit with child pornography if you are caught. The courts don’t like it, and fellow inmates don’t take well to it either.”

Hannah nodded, focusing on her breathing and her stillness. “Do you think these are our girls in these pictures?”

“Does it matter?” Devin asked. “We’re still dealing with very horrible people.”

“But will it help us find the girls?”

Devin reached for the touch pad, moved the mouse cursor, and clicked on a link. He read for a moment: “Jackpot.”

“What?” Hannah asked, not bothering to read the screen.

“It looks like the girls are being auctioned off at a private residence in another state.”

“Where?” Hannah asked, searching the large block of text on the screen. Then she saw it. She wasn’t as surprised as she might have suspected.

“Las Vegas, Nevada,” Devin said with a nod. “Everything is pulling us there.”

John Temple walked the halls of the hotel, nearing the room.

He was tired. He was beaten. His body ached.

Had Angelo been right? Was Trista Brightling going to die? Could he stop it? Was Angelo even lucid enough to know the difference between fact and delusion?

His world seemed to float. Arms, heavy and fatigued, swung at his sides as he walked. Each step seemed to land with a strange certainty. Ahead he saw the room. A few more steps. Standing in front of the door he reached for the key card. John swiped the black magnetic strip, the light flashed green, and the lock slid away with a thud.

He reached for the door handle, but it turned on its own. Someone inside opened the door and threw it open:

Trista.

Her eyes were wide—scared? Excited? It didn’t matter.

She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into the room, the door sliding shut behind them.

“John,” she stammered, almost tearful, “I was scared to death. You ran off, and I came back to the room and you weren’t here.” She pulled away, smiling at him. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”

John stared into her eyes. Big and beautiful.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

He shook his head, eyes never leaving hers. “Why?”

“You’re just looking at me like…”

He pushed a blonde strand from her face with one hand, cradling her cheek with the other. “Trista, I want you to know something.”

Her expression changed to confusion. “What?”

“I’ll protect you,” he said with a sincere nod. “No matter what happens, I’ll do everything to protect you.”

Her eyes seemed to soften, more vulnerable than before. “Are you OK?” she asked, still confused. “What about Angelo? What if he finds us again? Do you think he’s trying to kill us?”

“I’d die for you,” he said, holding her face gently. “You know that, right? You know that I’d—”

She kissed him.

John stared at her. “Why did you do that?”

“Shut up,” she seethed. “Shut up and kiss me.” She moved close to his face. “Kiss me before I come to my senses.”

Lips touched. Like static, John thought, mind racing—world vanishing. Her arms around him, pulling him close. He pushed back, lips working in tandem, pressing her into the wall.

She muttered his name, and he moved to her neck.

“John,” she said.

His teeth worked gently on the soft skin of her neck.

“John,” she said again, “stop.”

He pulled back, looking at her face, lipstick smeared. “What?”

“Stop,” she stammered, pushing him away.

“I’m sorry, Trista,” he said, trying to think of what to say to make it right.

She wiped her lips with the back of her arm. “I’m sorry, John. I never should have done that.”

“Trista,” he pleaded, stepping toward her, “talk to me.”

She put up her hands. “Stay back, John, OK? Just leave me alone for a while. It was a mistake. That never should have happened.”

He opened his palms to her, pleading. “Why not? Will you just talk to me?”

She shook her head, backing away. “We can’t be together, John. We can never be together—not ever. I’m sorry to make things more difficult for you. I really am. I’m sorry for leading you on, but it was a mistake. It was always a mistake.”

“Trista,” he called toward her as she moved into the suite’s bedroom, “wait.”

The door shut. The lock clicked. And John Temple stood in the hotel room by himself. He walked to the bedroom door and knocked. There was no reply.

He waited thirty minutes, then left.

Devin stepped out of the coffee shop, moved to the trunk of his car, and popped it open with the remote on his key fob. Hannah was still inside, using a restroom.

His phone chirped in his jacket. “Hello?” he said, phone at his ear.

“Devin Bathurst.”

Devin frowned in confusion, recognizing the voice. “Mr. Goldstein?”

“It’s been awhile,” Clay Goldstein said from the other end of the line, voice enigmatic and strangely neutral.

“It has been awhile,” Devin said, trying his best to get the other man to betray something in his tone. “The meeting in San Antonio, right?”

“That sounds about right,” Clay Goldstein said with his usual casual tone. “It was the night everything went bad. Morris Childs went missing, and there was the incident between Henry Rice and Blake Jackson.”

“Blake Jackson killed Henry Rice,” Devin said unceremoniously, seeing if his lack of finesse might draw something out in Clay’s voice.

“That’s right,” he replied, strangely jovial, “but I didn’t call to reminisce.”

“OK,” Devin replied, hesitantly, still deeply confused. “Then how can I help you, Mr. Goldstein?”

There was a belly laugh from the other end of the line.

Devin cracked an awkward smile, feeling like the butt of some kind of joke. “Is something funny, sir?”

“Don’t call me sir. My father was sir.”

“Very well.” Devin nodded. “Mr. Goldstein.”

“And don’t start that either,” he said sternly. “It’s Clay, got it?”

“OK.” Devin paused. “Clay. How can I help you?”

“I don’t need your help,” Clay said with a certain charismatic warmth. “I’m calling because I am going to help you.”

“Vincent Sobel made it very clear that—”

“Vince,” Clay grumbled, “is getting a little ahead of himself.”

Devin shut the car trunk. “What do you mean?”

“We can discuss that later,” Clay assured. “Right now you need to get to Nevada, and you need to get there fast.”

Devin glanced from one side of the street to the next, seeing if anyone was watching him. “What makes you think I want to go to Nevada?”

Another solid belly laugh. “You forget that I see things as they’re happening. I may be in California, but I can still see you in the moment. And I know what you want.”

Devin looked around the street, trying to spot anyone who might be watching him. A man glanced up at him from a park bench across the street.

“That guy doesn’t work for me,” Clay said.

Devin shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” Clay laughed. “And why do you shake your head when you’re on the phone?”

“What do you want?” Devin demanded, turning his back to the street, speaking intensely into his phone.

“What about you?” Clay asked. “What do you want? The sale is the day after tomorrow, and driving will take too long.”

“You don’t see the future,” Devin said sternly. “How do you know when the sale is?”

“Because you know. And I also know how to use the Internet.” Clay laughed. “This is the twenty-first century, you know.”

Devin considered for a moment. “And you want to buy me a plane ticket to Nevada?”

Another enigmatic laugh. “How does a charter jet sound?”

John Temple wandered the halls of the hotel. Thoughts of Trista filled his head—none of them fully formed or coherent.

How long had the thought of her been haunting him? Like his own shadow. He couldn’t seem to shake the thought of her. The desire that he had tried so hard to pray away, think away, wish away—escape. He knew that the only way to ever rid himself of his desire of her was to find comfort in God. To turn to the Word.

“God,” he muttered the address. There was no auditory response—but God didn’t work that way. God spoke to his soul. Right?

He stepped into the elevator and punched a button with his thumb.

The thought of Trista’s touch. Her skin. The smell of her hair. God’s love for him was so much more real than all those things— the taste of a kiss, the feel of her arms—all of that was less meaningful than believing in a very real, very personal God.

Wasn’t it?

Wanting anything more than his Savior was a sin. Idolatry.

Wasn’t it?

“God?” he said again, nearly pleading. He couldn’t feel anything.

The elevator doors opened, and he walked into the casino, walking through the jumbled forest of sensations. Jingling bells. Bright lights. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes.