Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (22 page)

I heard a muffled scream, followed by hurried steps as Lori nearly bowled me over.

“You really need to calm down!” I grunted, between gritted teeth.

“That wasn’t the electrical room. I felt—”

I cut her off, “It doesn’t matter. This room is where I need to be.”

“It’s pitch black. How can you possibly know—”

I cut her off again: “Just stay here and don’t move.” I heard a desperate squeal come from the back of her throat.

“Ten minutes, then we’re out of here.” I pulled away from her and used my outstretched arms to navigate the room. Like an invisible beacon, I detected high-voltages emanating off to my right. Three further steps and I felt the cold surface of a metal electrical cabinet. My hands followed its rectangular contours—first down, then beneath—where a large conduit came up through the floor. Instantly, I knew what I needed was here. I lowered to my knees and brought my head forward. In an instant, I was tapped in, and, in that same instant, knew that he, the presence, the unknown entity … was there—waiting for me.

Typically, tapping in was a calming, rejuvenating experience. Sure, there were always drawbacks—drawbacks akin to those suffered by a heroin addict. While their need engendered a cost, both financial and physical, mine entailed a search, inconvenience, and what I sometimes find lurking in the dark shadows of my own mind. Whether it was a needle for the junkie, or an electrical conduit for me, if either wasn’t readily accessible, then terrible and similar physical withdrawals ensued.

I no sooner entered into an altered state of consciousness than the same ominous inner presence drew near. Even as my physical form began to strengthen, like a dark cloud, unease permeated the inner recesses of my mind. Seeing the form approach, it occurred to me that I’d given it little thought while conscious. I now wondered if it was because I didn’t consider it anything more than a dream figure, or if it so unnerved me, I’d relegated mere thought of it to the realm where nightmares are stored away—too awful to bring forth into the light of day.

“Stay away from me,” I said.

As though there was a wall of diffused glass between us—only small areas clear enough to actually see through—the specter’s out-of-focus form nevertheless appeared in repulsive clarity: greenish scales on the upper part of an arm, a lower lip fringed with wispy tuffs of hair, a small, snake-like eye.

“It is my turn.”

“I don’t know what that means. Stay away!”

“I can force you … make you linger here, like me, all alone and forgotten.”

“Why me?”

“You know why. You pretend not to know what you know,” the specter said, its words sounding wet—indicative of someone speaking through copious amounts of saliva.

I stepped back as a hazy, undefined arm above a three-fingered hand drew close, held at bay only by the nearly invisible barrier between us. The other arm came up; both hands were curled and claw-like. Then I saw it—a fracture. Like miniscule spreading branches, the hairline crack kept growing more and more visible. The ominous presence began using claw-like fingers to pry open a tiny section of the barrier.

“Where did you come from?” I asked.

“Why do you ask what you already know the answer to?”

“Tell me anyway.”

“From the energy, of course. From the limitless.”

“Why can’t you return, go back to where you initially came from?”

A section of the barrier was spreading apart. It wouldn’t be long before a hand reached through.

His answer never came.

“Doc!”

I felt her arms encircle me as she mumbled again, “Doc!”

I was consciously drawn back into the pitch black electrical room. “What … what is it?”

Lori whispered, “There’s someone in the front room.”

“How long have I been in here?”

“I don’t know … maybe thirty minutes. Seemed to me like forever. What have you been doing all this time?”

“Never mind that. Did you close the door to this room?”

“Of course I did.”

I saw a band of soft light appear underneath the door. Colman had lit a lantern.

“What if they come in here?” she asked.

I looked around the now slightly illuminated room. Wooden buckets and a mop were in one corner, stacks of dry goods on the opposite wall, and what looked like a bundle of large black trash bags. No, not trash bags—body bags. And I saw a second door, directly across from the door we first entered. I figured it led outside to the back of the building.

I thought of the broken glass near the front door. “We need to get out of here.” I took her by the hand, then hesitated. I heard their muffled, but clearly understandable voices—Billy the Kid talking to Colman. They were addressing the break in, but not coming to any definitive conclusion. Colman was on the defensive.

I turned to Lori. “Go out the back door and head for the saloon; just follow the same path back. Stay out of sight.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you … go!” I whispered, putting more urgency into my voice.

Lori moved to the back door, fiddled with the lock, and quietly opened it. Moonlight filled the doorway—the voluptuous silhouette of her figure hesitated a moment before she hurriedly moved out of sight. I closed the door behind her.

I brought my attention back to Billy the Kid and the undertaker. I needed a clear sightline to read people’s thoughts and I recalled the undertaker’s oil lamp—the soft light it threw out. With care, I turned the doorknob, slowly easing the door into the main room open by less than an inch. Billy and Colman were standing at the same table Butch lay on earlier, talking about the next morning and something about a wagon.

“It’s about twenty minutes by flatbed. Jude or Jordan will take you … just make sure all the bodies are included in the load. None can show any indication of a bullet hole, so cut away what you need to,” Billy said.

“You’ve already made that perfectly clear,” Colman said.

“Once that’s done, get them all in body bags for transporting. The smell is becoming unbearable in here.”

“How many more do you anticipate—”

“Don’t worry about that. Just take care of the bodies here for the time being,” Billy the Kid said.

Perhaps due to the extended amount of time I was able to tap in, I peered into Billy’s mind with surprising clarity. His thoughts were preoccupied by a hand-delivered message he’d received from HQ in Denver. The new co-leader, his elected counterpart, would be arriving in the morning. Billy the Kid—
Palmolive
—stood trancelike in the semi-darkness, watching the undertaker assemble the tools of his trade on top of the drunken, dead, gunslinger’s chest—a rusty handsaw; a long, thin-bladed knife; and some kind of pliers or forceps.

Billy the Kid leaned back against an adjacent table. As he chewed on a stubborn hangnail, his eyes watched the undertaker’s bony thin fingers pluck the sharp knife up in one hand and the forceps in the other, though his thoughts were somewhere else. The news he’d received was bringing out a small measure of forbearance, but something else, too … yes, both a longing and a lust. Again, I saw the naked image of Heidi Goertz. Then I saw her dressed the way Palmolive had last seen her, wearing a smart-looking, dark gray uniform. A band on her upper left arm held a black swastika on a field of red. She’d promised him that the Neo-Nazi bullshit would be left behind, agreeing that the WZZ, and its fanatical Adolf Hitler-reborn prejudices, had no place in today’s modern realm. But she had lied. She never really intended to let go of her precious WZZ’s true directives. He cursed his own weakness.
How had she so captivated him?
The Order—the shadow-government—secretly influencing geopolitical circumstances for nearly a century, was an organization disliked but readily accepted by corporate moguls and world leaders alike. Considered a necessity of modern times—the underlying glue—that bound and kept geopolitical, and all unstable powers from going too far astray in any one direction. The Order was very possibly being derailed, now that there was a new co-leader—Heidi Goertz.

I watched as Palmolive mentally conjured up long-past images of World War II: Hitler in his motorcade—arm defiantly outstretched toward a frenetic cheering crowd; the death camps, where thousands of emaciated, half-naked Jews were herded into large, windowless, brick buildings. Palmolive pondered on a new-world-order-to-be under the influence of the WZZ. Even now, the subterranean thoroughfares beneath the United States and Europe buzzed with activity. Armies, not huge, but highly trained, were being positioned to seize control of major municipal electric and water works across both massive geographic areas. Those actions alone would bring the United States to her knees, Palmolive had little doubt about that. The world was heading into a very dark and menacing era. Was his obsession with Heidi that powerful, he asked himself? Yes, the answer was yes. He would do anything to keep her. It was far too late now, anyway. The WZZ had managed to slither its way into the most powerful organization in the world. He and Heidi would rule the world together.

I found it difficult to extricate myself from Palmolive’s crazy mental ranting. At least I had the intel I’d come here for. Now I could get out of here and, at the very least, warn Baltimore.

I touched the snaps at my collar.
Time to bring in the cavalry?
No—not yet. Tomorrow Palmolive and Heidi Goertz, together, would be dealt with. Both needed to die … then I’d contact SIFTR.

Rudy Palmolive, aka Billy the Kid, left the gore and stench of the undertaker’s storeroom convinced that together, the saloon girl and Doc Holliday were responsible for the break in there. They were spotted together behind the saloon earlier and neither had been seen since. Why? He didn’t know, but all too soon he would. The woman, the vulgar whore with the big tits, would easily be dispensed with. Hell, she was here on a one-way ticket, anyway. But Doc, or Troy McAlister, was far more important—a crucial addition into the ranks of the Order.

Billy the Kid crossed the street and heard a loud metallic sound, akin to the gong of a church bell. He drew his Colt and slowed his pace. The street was clear—no one else around at this ungodly hour. He moved with caution, slowing as he approached the nearest alleyway. He raised the barrel and eased back the hammer until it clicked into place. At the building’s corner he peered into the blackness of the alley beyond. It was faint, but he was hearing something … breathing? In a quick, well-practiced movement he stepped out into the open, his weapon raised.

“Whoever you are, come out with your hands up. Do it now. I’m a very good shot … you don’t want to test me.”

There was movement, fifteen feet back in the alleyway. Billy adjusted his aim—tracking the sound with the barrel of his gun. The culprit emerged, looking guilty—ears down and tail between his legs.

Billy continued to hold the animal in his sights. Ol’ Yeller approached and after taking two steps forward, sat down. As he looked up, he tilted his head first to one side, then the other.

“Fucking mutt … I should …” his words trailed off. He released the hammer and re-holstered his gun as he turned away. Then, taking two steps, he suddenly drew his Colt, whirled back around, and pulled the trigger in one fluid motion.

* * *

Billy the Kid entered the saloon and caught the eye of Jude, back at the Faro table. Interestingly, Doc Holliday was there too. By the size of the stack of chips in front of him, he was winning—again. That, by itself, since the game was rigged, was a mystery. Added to the fact he’d been snooping around didn’t bode well for the man’s longevity. More and more, the man was becoming a real concern … least of which was his obvious familiarity with firearms and edged weaponry.

Billy headed for the bar, arriving at the same time a shot of whisky was placed down on the polished mahogany bartop. Downing the whisky without acknowledging the bartender, he turned and watched the large crowd huddled around the Faro table. Holliday seemed to be popular with the other men. He raised his glass toward the bartender—signaling for another. He found it strange: McAlister, thoroughly vetted, was simply a nerdy tech genius; he’d capitalized on several inventions, making millions in the process. Repeatedly, he had showed interest in the Order, being introduced to it by another longstanding member. Arriving here, facial recognition software confirmed his identity. Billy the Kid’s eyes narrowed as he took in the room, before focusing on McAlister again.
So what the hell game are you playing?

Jordan entered through the swinging door. Spotting Billy the Kid, he joined him at the bar.

“Check the monitors like I asked?” Billy questioned.

Jordan nodded. “McAlister’s been nosy. He and the whore were inside the undertaker’s place. It was too dark to see what they were doing.”

Billy made a face as if he’d smelled something foul. “You say they were there together?”

Jordan nodded.

Billy the Kid let out a breath with a perplexed expression.

“Dolan says the whore’s been in her room ever since.” Jordan added, “She told one of the others, going on shift, that she’s not feeling well.”

Billy the Kid considered the news. Dolan, who monitored the security feeds all around town, though mostly in the saloon, was known to nod off. The saloon ladies were housed in the building next door, unless entertaining guests in the rooms upstairs. Everything was recorded, but the whole point of having a manned security station was to catch issues when they first arose.

“What is she doing … specifically?”

“I checked her room feed and rewound the tape. She was lying down for a while then turned off the light. It’s not one of the rooms with a night vision camera. So we have to assume she’s still in there. Do you want me to go and check on her?” Jordan asked.

Billy considered it a moment before saying, “Yeah, go check on her, then put a bullet in her head while you’re at it.”

Jordan held up mid-step, checking to see if his boss was dead serious. Billy the Kid, from his grim expression, made sure Jordan understood he was. “Clean up any mess you make,” he added. “Then tell Colman to collect the body.”