Mad Powers (Tapped In) (2 page)

Wait a minute. Those aren’t my thoughts. What’s going on in my head? I must have a serious concussion or something. Thoughts … why am I picking up this guy’s thoughts? It’s like the coyote thing, again. It’s probably my imagination. Maybe I’ve lost my mind. I don’t care. At this point I’ll try anything.
Need to concentrate …

Hey, you, policeman! I’m down here—I’m alive! In the Kia or Hyundai, just bend the hell down and look inside. I’m alive!

Through the open gap I could see the patrolman stop in his tracks. He hesitated and slowly bent down.

That’s right, you heard me … down here!

He got all the way down on his hands and knees and used his flashlight to peer inside the car. Since I was pinned upside down, he seemed to have a hard time finding my face. Then the beam found my eyes—my open, blinking, alive eyes.

Startled, the cop fumbled his flashlight. “Holy shit, man, hold on … just hold on, we’ll get you out of there. I’m officer Garry Sullivan, and I’m not going anywhere.” With that he stood up and disappeared from view. I could hear him back on the radio, excited and out of breath.

“Louise! One of our DOAs is actually alive; get EMT out here—hurry!”

How could I have missed that
?
Shit! Look at his car—he should be dead, that’s why.

I could hear his thoughts—which had been kicked into overtime—a rapid-fire, machine gun spray of questions no one could answer.

He was back and looking at me again through the open gap. He was saying something to me. I answered him without actually talking.

Listen up. I’m wedged in here tight as a cork in a bottle and I can’t move a muscle. I’m injured—not sure where exactly or how bad, and I have a hot 30,000 volt power line dangling inches from my head. Oh, and I think you’re squatting in a pool of gasoline—probably from that truck right behind you.

Officer Sullivan’s forced-smile dropped its pretense, now showing total alarm. For a large man, Garry could move quickly. He was up and back at his cruiser, rifling around in its trunk. He returned a few moments later with a small fire extinguisher. He pulled the pin on the nozzle and began spraying down the street with a layer of thick white foam. Then he was back on the radio. “Hey, Louise?”

“Go ahead, Garry,” the dispatcher replied, now with cool efficiency.

“Yeah, we need Edison out here pronto—we’ve got a live power line hanging off a utility pole. It’s hanging right into the vic’s car. We also have a major diesel leak.” Garry’s voice was filled with tension.

“OK, I’m on it, Garry. Sounds like you’re having a real night. I’ll see if I can light a fire and get people moving.”

I could only see Garry’s legs, but he was obviously moving with far more purpose and urgency. And why shouldn’t he? The scene had gone from a three vehicle, three-fatality pileup—one where any rushing around would have little effect on the unfortunate victims—to something far more immediate. Not only was
someone
alive … he was injured, with a live, high-voltage power line hanging just inches from his forehead. Oh, and just to complicate things, diesel fuel was leaking
all over
the fucking place. Yeah, without a doubt, Garry was having a night. I heard sirens blaring in the distance.

* * *

The feeling of loss was profound. It had only been ten minutes or so since the power had been shut off, but I
needed
them to turn it back on. Someone needed to turn it back on. Tears welled-up in my eyes as I saw the power line pulled and heaved upward and away, and disappear somewhere above and behind me—such a loss, such a shame. Wow, I really need to get a grip. Seriously, what the hell’s wrong with me?

The next face I saw was a young fireman. His oversized yellow helmet cast a deep shadow across his face, making his features hard to discern. As with Garry, clear as a bell, I could hear his thoughts even before he spoke.

You make it through this, man, and you’re truly lucky. I’ve never seen this much blood. You should be stacked in the coroner’s wagon with the other guy …

They used the Jaws of Life to pry open my misshapen automobile. Three firefighters grabbed hold of the door and peeled and twisted it back, creating an opening large enough for an Hispanic-looking EMT worker to wiggle in next to me.

“How you doing, sir?” he inquired, while checking my pupils with a small pen light. I tried to talk but couldn’t. “My name is Juan. I just need to do a quick assessment before we transport you. You’re going to be fine,” he said.

I need water …

He nodded, but furrowed his brow, seemingly confused how I’d conveyed that information. He positioned the straw-end of a plastic water bottle between my lips and gently squeezed. A small amount of wonderfully cool water filled my mouth and burned its way down my throat. Desperate for more, I inhaled some into my lungs, which only made me gag and cough.

“Easy man, just sip it … just a little at a time, okay?” he said, letting my coughing subside before offering me more. Looking down, he assessed the condition of my body.

Multiple lacerations to the lower extremities, some pretty deep. Severe trauma to right arm; that needs to come off. Top of head is red and blistered. Scarification above left eye … I’ll need to clean off some of this blood …

Eventually we made eye contact again.

What the hell do you mean, “That needs to come off?”

Shocked, Juan looked at me with surprise. Just like the coyote and Garry, Juan was startled having
someone
else’s thoughts
intrude on his consciousness. Watching him, only a foot away from my face, I could hear his thought processes.

Was this guy reading my mind? No. That’s impossible. There has to be some other logical explanation. I must have spoken out loud … or something.
He shook his head and smiled. “No, man, the seatbelt, that’s got to come off. You’re lucky. Really lucky—it saved your life. You should be fine.”

Juan got an I.V. going, cut the seatbelt away from my shoulder, and prepared to get me extricated from the car. I could feel the narcotics entering my bloodstream. Probably morphine, or something equally mind numbing—I started to slip in and out of consciousness. At some point, the back of the car was cut away, and light from above poured in. Multiple hands were being positioned, ready to lift me out. But something nagged at me, something important—what was it? I just wanted to sleep. My drug-induced thoughts pleaded for my eyes to open … just one more time, and I peered around the mangled car interior. What is that? There, on the floor, or what was now the ceiling … something caught my eye. Oh, yeah … the little red heart on a cream-colored envelope. I needed that envelope. That just might be the one connection to who I am. Am I Rob? I put all my attention back on Juan again.

Juan, I need you to pick up that envelope. It’s by your left knee. Yes, that one … now put it in your top left pocket.

Juan did what I asked, as if I’d spoken the words aloud. The top of the envelope peeked out above the pocket flap, which was now unable to close. He looked at me, irritated.
You need to stay the hell out of my head, man …

In one fluid motion I was lifted from the car to a waiting gurney. Everything was moving much faster now. I only saw glimpses of things … the accident scene, the truck driver now gone, crews busy spraying down the pavement, a bright blue tarp draped over the other vehicle. I looked back at what had been my car. It was a misshapen ball of crushed and torn metal. I can’t believe I lived through that. But my full attention was really on the telephone pole behind it. My eyes traveled up the deep brown wood, up to its very top, where the pole tapered nearly to a point. Several large black cables, one hanging down several feet lower than the others, swayed back and forth, back and forth … And I felt a deep longing for that connection again.
I don’t want
to leave you
.

Chapter 3

Harland Platt had decided to stay, just in case, to make sure he was in fact dead. He’d been perched up high on a ledge about a half-mile from the accident scene for hours.
Of course he was dead. Look at that car. He took one more look through his binoculars, readjusted the focus, and steadied his arms on the rocky surface beneath his elbows. Finally, they were extracting the body. Shit! Dead men don’t require an I.V. Harland wasn’t one to typically show his emotions. His training had been impeccable—the best in the world. But now he was angry. He inhaled, held the desert air deep in his lungs, and concentrated on calming himself as he slowly exhaled through pursed lips. He’d spent the better part of two days setting this up. Everything timed to the second. Everything calculated, using probability matrices that clearly showed Chandler should be dead.

Harland removed the binoculars from around his neck and stowed them in his pack. An early morning mist floated several inches above the ground, adding an almost mystical aspect to the rocky terrain. Red and blue lights continued to strobe from the emergency vehicles on the highway.

Being an independent player, a choice he’d made years ago when he’d left the CIA, was not for everyone. But Harland had come to realize he was different than others in covert ops. Those with a moral compass were best when aligned with an agency where they could, at least somewhat, justify their actions. Harland had no such restrictions. Feelings of guilt or remorse were as foreign to Harland as the emotions of love and compassion were.
Does that make me a sociopath?
he wondered as he headed off into the desert
. Undoubtedly, it does.

Killing Chandler had been his sole mission for nearly two years. Even while Harland was still at the Agency working alongside Chandler, sometimes on a daily basis, his orders had been implicitly clear. Terminate Chandler; ensure the hit would not be tied back to them. This was his second attempt, an embarrassment. He either completed the assignment, or faced being terminated himself.

He found the stolen black 1990s vintage Ford Explorer with switched-out plates right where he’d left it. He wouldn’t call it a road, more like a dirt path that paralleled the highway about a mile to the east. He opened the driver’s side door, placed his pack on the seat and dug out a map and a small penlight. He held the light between his teeth and, moving his head around, surveyed the greater Kingman-area map.
Easy peasy,
he said out loud.
Only one hospital.
He refolded the map and pushed it into the pack, but dropped the flashlight in the process.

In the cool early morning dawn, the single best place to find radiating heat had been underneath the slow-cooling engine of Harlan’s Ford Explorer. Not one, but three Diamond Head rattlesnakes had quickly settled in there for the morning. Even before Harland opened the driver’s side door, they’d become agitated, leery of his presence, coiled tight, ready to strike, if warranted.

The first of the strikes came when the flashlight dropped. Only when Harland reached for it did the other two snakes strike simultaneously. He pulled his hand back reflexively and saw the four puncture wounds. The pain wasn’t instantaneous. But by the time Harland had the truck up and running and was headed back down the dirt path toward the city of Kingman, he was having a difficult time focusing and staying conscious.

Fortunately, he knew right where to go, and traffic at this time of the morning should be minimal, but he didn’t think he could stay conscious the fifteen minutes needed to drive to the Kingman Regional Medical Center. The SUV shook as it traversed over uneven ground. Pain, like bolts of electricity, shot up his arm. Once the path turned to a dirt road, and finally into a paved street, Harland accelerated. He needed to cut minutes from his trip across town, so light signals and stop signs were ignored. Two cars were together up ahead, facing in opposite directions; the drivers pulled in close to converse. Harland didn’t slow; if anything, he gunned it even more. Veering to the left of the two cars, the Explorer’s right-side mirror swiped one of the vehicles, disintegrating into a hundred fragments onto the pavement. Harland briefly lost consciousness, and then sideswiped a pair of garbage cans left on the side of the road. Coming awake with a jolt, he saw a slow-moving trash truck lumbering along less than a block ahead. Darkness was pulling at him, engulfing him. His last thoughts, before totally blacking out, were of Chandler shooting his wife.

Chapter 4

Pippa Rosette, delayed by an extended overseas phone conversation with an envoy at the Turkish Embassy, had wanted off the phone ten minutes earlier. She had to pee and she crossed her legs, but it gave her little relief. She didn
’
t like being rude, but she had to cut off the foreign diplomat mid-sentence.

“
Well
…
thank you, Adiguzel, again. Let me follow up with a few things here on my end and get back to you in a few days. How does that sound?
”

Impatient, her foot had started to tap rhythmically against the leg of her desk.

“
Good, good. Yes, I
’
ll definitely do that, and say hi to Sevda for me.
”

Pippa could still hear Adiguzel
’
s voice as she hung up the phone and darted toward the ladies
’
restroom. An obstruction. Halfway down the corridor, Agent Giles, in his too perfect-looking suit and too perfect-looking hair, was on his hands and knees looking up into the internal workings of the massive office printer. A ream of paper and a large paper tray sat on the floor at his side. The end of his nose was black, and she noticed ink stains covering his fingers.

“
I
’
ve got to get by you, Giles
…
Like, now!
”

Giles looked up at her, not seeming to understand what she wanted.

“
Oh, sorry, I
’
ve made a bit of a mess here. Just give me a minute or two
—”

“
Nope, can
’
t do that.
”
Pippa edged in behind him, her legs brushing against his not insignificant backside. Surprised, he looked back at her and then smiled. Pippa furrowed her brow in response. She felt his eyes on her ass as she ran down the corridor and disappeared into the restroom.