Mad Powers (Tapped In) (11 page)

“I’m glad things have worked out for you. So now what? Kill me? Finally get revenge?”

Harland smiled as if he was in on some kind of inside joke. I’ve learned over the last few days in observing other people’s thoughts,
mind reading
, that it isn’t a complete brain dump. Their older cognitive memories aren’t mine to peruse, like files saved on a computer hard drive. I am able to read someone’s thoughts, but usually only when those thoughts first screen across his mind. Sometimes I also pickup on stray, or errant, images—those evoking strong emotions, which may relate to something else entirely. Such insights, collectively, allow me to piece together a better understanding. So, when Harland’s mind flashed to his current employer, someone named Dwight, I realized Harland had mixed feelings, more than a little fear, when it came to the guy. And there was something else. I wasn’t the only one he’d been contracted to apprehend. Memories were continuing to seep into my consciousness.

Pippa walks away from me. I hear the sound of her laughing at something, and then she looks back over her shoulder at me. A strand of hair catches at the corner of her perfect mouth. She turns and continues to walk backward, away from me, still laughing. Playful. I take all of her in at once: her long legs—legs that have stopped traffic. She’s saying something to me and, just like that, her expression changes—what is that expression? That face she’s making? It’s a wonderful mixture of competing emotions … innocence and sultriness … confidence and insecurity. She’s beckoning me now; gesturing me to follow her into the bedroom.

When Harland speaks, the sudden vision, my own memory of Pippa, fades like wisps of a cloud. And with the sound of his voice I know Harland will stop at nothing to kill her—he’ll kill her as I’m forced to watch.

Harland gestured to the street ahead. “Drive, fuckface.”

Chapter 17

“You know, this is really an interesting city,” Harland said.

I focused on a rocky plateau ahead in the distance then looked out the side window toward another rocky plateau. Everything was the color of dirt. Just a lot of sameness.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I replied. I needed to quell my emotions, but just hearing him speak only ratcheted up my need for revenge—my anger.

“The city of Kingman has two sections: the newer, more substantial, industrialized and commercial areas where the Regional Medical Center is located, and then there’s the historic Route 66 section, along the southwestern side of the city. That’s where we’re headed. Turn left here.”

I made the turn as instructed, while monitoring Harland’s thoughts. Not that I was an expert on the workings of the human mind, but I had several days’ experience of life-in-the-trenches mind-meddling. There was a similarity—a spectrum of thoughts, emotions, desires, and a whole range of cognitive thought patterns that, for the most part, were not so different from person A to person B. But Harland’s mind wasn’t functioning within that spectrum. Not even close. Manic and paranoid, his thoughts came in rapid-fire bursts. Often, nonsensical conversations would play over and over again, then abruptly cease and he would be functional, almost normal. I felt Harland’s eyes on me and then saw what he was mentally conjuring: Pippa, her head pulled back—her chin forced forward—Harland’s fingers entwined in her long blonde hair. He’s pulling harder now, forcing her neck forward. His eyes never leave mine. He’s smiling. He brings the knife, no … the scalpel up and slowly, almost delicately, draws the razor-sharp edge across the mid-point on her neck.

I slammed on the brakes. Wheels locked and the SUV fishtailed in the middle of the street. Harland careened forward and his bandaged hand thumped against the dashboard in front of him. Cars behind honked.

“What the hell!” Harland barked, cradling his injured hand. He jammed the Glock deep into my ribs. “Another move like that, and I’ll end you. You understand?”

His face was close—putrid breath hot on my cheek. I nodded my head. Several cars from behind us passed and, once clear, I accelerated into traffic again. The pain in my side wasn’t subsiding. I might have had a broken rib.

“As I was saying, a lot of history here, Chandler. Two hundred years ago this was nothing but old trails laid out by early explorers. Soon it became a well-worn wagon route that helped establish Kingman as a trade and transportation center.”

“Fascinating,” I said.

“Uh huh, and in 1857, I think, or maybe it was 1858—anyway, a Lt. Edward Fitzgerald Beale ambled across the present site of Kingman. A surveyor by trade, the once-old wagon road along the 35th parallel later became the infamous Route 66.”

We were entering a section of town where the architecture was late nineteenth century, early twentieth century. Brick and slump-stone buildings, topped with ornate crown cornices, populated both sides of the street. Some looked to have been caringly restored to their original splendor, while other properties were nothing more than long-abandoned, dilapidated hulks
—
no visual similarity to their past glory evident.

“Now listen, Chandler. I don’t want you to judge this place by its somewhat seedy exterior. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble procuring this hideaway. There’s a certain charm about the place. I’ve been making some modifications to your accommodations, you know, to ensure your stay here will be fruitful. For all concerned.”

We were approaching 4
th
Street and I brought the Murano to a stop at the intersection. Across the street, on the adjacent corner and taking up a full street block, was a faded pink building. High above, supported by a collection of steel support struts, was a massive discolored sign:

BEALE HOTEL
AIR-COOLED

As was common back when a room with a view wasn’t so important, the hotel had several rows of dark and narrow windows. It was evident that plywood sheets, now dark and rotting, obscured every opening—every doorway.

Harland instructed me to turn right and then make the next left. Halfway down what was more of an alleyway than an actual road, Harland indicated where I should park. He opened the passenger-side door. “Hold on till I come around and fetch you,” he said.

I needed to make my move soon. I had a pretty good idea what Harland wanted—and it wasn’t something I had any intention of allowing to happen.

Harland came around the front of the Murano with his gun steady, pointing in my direction. Once he stood directly outside the driver-side door, about eight feet away, he gestured for me to get out.

“Slowly, Chandler,” Harland said, from the middle of the alley.

I had my emotions somewhat reeled in. Had stopped thinking about Jill and had settled down my accelerated heart rate. A plan had formulated in my head. Within the next few moments I’d give him a mental suggestion—something abrupt and frightening, perhaps that a car was coming, about to run him over. He’d be startled and turn. That’s when I’d make my move.

I stepped from the SUV and swung the door closed. The alleyway was deserted—nothing for seventy-five yards in either direction. Harland hadn’t bothered to look at anything but me. This just might work. I took a step and then another. He was letting me come closer. Perfect. I wanted to look defeated. Apprehensive. I slowed, reluctantly walking to what would most assuredly be my final resting place.

“Move it, Chandler!” He stepped in and grabbed for my arm. But it wasn’t my mental suggestion, a goliath, Peterbilt tractor-trailer barreling down on him that caught his attention. No. It was the sound of a pager. The pager vibrating in my front right pocket. My mental suggestion, poised to enter into Harland’s consciousness, evaporated … and with it so went my opportunity.

“What is that?” Harland asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know, I thought it was you.” The vibrating had stopped. His eyes continued to stare at my front pocket.

“Slowly, take it out.”

I did as I was told. I looked at the last incoming phone number. It was Whittier.

“Who even uses a pager these days?” Harland asked, irritated. “Show me the number.”

I showed him the end of the pager with the displayed phone number.

“Who is that? Who called you?”

“Your mother. We have a thing.”

Harland brought the Glock up to my face.

“The police. I’m a suspect in the murder of a young nurse.”

Harland’s demeanor once again changed. Thinking that funny, his smile was back and apparently all was well with the world. “Okay, this way. Let’s go.” He gestured down the alleyway with his chin, toward the back of the Beale Hotel. Again, my hatred for him was all consuming.

I continued on down the alleyway with Harland, gun in hand, several paces behind me. The back of the faded-pink building stood there, fifty yards in front of us. Ominous, it seemed to be beckoning—
come closer
. Dark, blood-colored rust stains streamed from a hundred blackened window openings. Electrical and telephone cables converged, like tendrils, at strategic locations midway down the hotel’s exterior rear wall.

As we approached the hotel’s rear parking lot, Harland surveyed the area—ensuring we hadn’t been observed. “There.”

From what I could see, thick wood planks were nailed across two rear-entry doorways; the hotel was sealed up tighter than a drum. With another flick of the Glock I saw where I was supposed to go. On a secondary wall, maybe eight feet high, and out some ten feet from the back of the hotel, there was a cubbyhole. Must have been used to obscure several large, industrial-sized dumpsters. As I came around the corner all I saw was debris. Broken bottles, several sets of twisted pink venetian blinds, a large gray couch—its yellowed foam rubber, like a gutted whale, spewing from center cushions. A large rat scurried across the concrete and disappeared into the back wall of the hotel.

“Home sweet home,” Harland said, eyebrows raised. “Move the couch out of the way.”

I shuffled through the garbage, kicked a broken toilet seat out of my way, and positioned myself behind the couch. I shoved it over to the far wall. There, on the concrete, was a square metal grate approximately three feet wide by four feet long.

“Okay, back up against the wall. Don’t move.” Not taking his eyes from me, he knelt down, laid the Glock at his feet and pulled a set of keys from his jacket pocket. He unlocked two ancient-looking padlocks and pocketed both. He retrieved his Glock and stood. “Okay, in we go.”

“What do you mean, in we go?”

“Pull open the grate and get in there,” Harland commanded.

I bent down and reached over and grabbed the metal bars with two hands. Pain shot through my right side, where Harland had cracked one of my ribs with the muzzle of his gun. I shifted my position and used more of my left arm and pulled the grate straight up. I stared down at the deep, dark, blackness below.

“It looks worse than it really is. Here, take this.” Harland took out a small Maglight from his pocket and passed it over to me.

I looked at the ridiculously small flashlight and turned the top portion to illuminate the light’s radius. “You have to be kidding.”

“Just get in there. I’ll be right behind you,” Harland said, his annoyance rising.

Chapter 18

I had to put the flashlight between my teeth to use both hands. I lowered myself into the darkness. A smell wafted up that was beyond disgusting. I found the top of a metal-runged ladder and eased myself down. Ten feet below, my feet were on solid ground. I heard Harland above me coming down the ladder, then stopping. Light from above reflected off his gun, which was pointed at my head.

“Keep going. You’re in a drainpipe. You may be thinking this is your opportunity to strike. To make your move. It’s not. I’ve thought this through. I won’t hesitate to shoot you, Chandler. Ten more paces and you’ll come to another vertical rise. Once there, use your flashlight to tap on the bottom metal rung. Then I’ll follow.”

Harland was right. I was about to make my move. I walked forward, flashlight in hand. The beam of the light was shaking. My hand was shaking. The telltale signs that I needed to tap in. With a quick check, I discovered I could no longer read Harland’s thoughts. I came to a juncture where the drain split off in two directions, up or straight down. I gave the bottom rung of the ladder going up a couple of taps.

“Up you go,” Harland said, from the darkness behind me.

Flashlight in teeth again, I climbed.
Shit!
Ten feet up my head careened into something metal.

“Oh, forgot to mention, there’s another metal grate up there … did that too, my first time here,” came Harland’s voice from the intersecting pipes below.

With one hand secured on the top rung, I used the other to lift up on the heavy iron grate. I moved it aside and out of the way. I climbed out and stood in what looked to be a large supply closet.

“Step away. Move over to the door,” Harland said, his voice echoing from below.

I looked for something that could be used as a weapon. Perhaps a pipe or piece of lumber. There was nothing.

Harland’s bald head suddenly appeared from the open drain, shortly followed by his gun. “This is going quite smoothly, Rob. I’m glad you’ve been smart enough not to try anything. It would be a shame to have to kill you.”

So now he was using my first name. Like best buddies.

Harland was out of the drain and gesturing toward the door. “It’s unlocked.”

I opened the door and stepped into a large room. Streams of sunlight filtered in from three boarded up windows, allowing just enough light for me to make out what must have been the hotel’s main dining area. Several tables, each upturned onto their sides, sat in the middle of the room. Multi-colored graffiti filled the walls and several stained mattresses had been laid, side-by-side, to the left. At my feet lay a used condom and three hypodermic needles. I heard the sound of a rodent skittering around between the floors above.

“Before she was boarded up, this had become a refuge for the homeless. We don’t need to worry about that now. No one comes here anymore. We have the place all to ourselves.” Harland looked at me with his ever-present smile. Then his brow creased. “You’re not looking so good, my friend.”