Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (12 page)

Xiang’s lip curled. He wondered what his superiors would do if he were to murder a diplomat. 

Chapter 9

“Mr. Weller?” the first smiling man asked as we met on the sidewalk. He was the taller of the two men stepping toward me, blocking my path.

They were both younger guys — probably early twenties — well-built and with thick necks. Both had short, military-style haircuts. They wore Polo shirts, the taller one light green and the other a medium grey. Their tan slacks were nicely pleated and they had on black athletic shoes. I had no reason to fear them, still I was very apprehensive — they wore no
blue
.

“Yes,” I answered, not returning their smiles.

“Could we speak with you for a moment, sir?” the other man said, politely. He was stockier than the taller guy, his arms like thick tree limbs.

“What? What’s this about?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Weller,” the taller man said. “Please don’t be alarmed.” He glanced around us. Seeming satisfied no one was within a hundred yards, he produced a five by seven photo from his back pocket. “Do you recognize this man?”

They both kept their smiles, but behind their pleasant faces I recognized a seriousness that was a bit frightening. I wondered if they were detectives, FBI or possibly with the IRS. But, if they were, they should have identified themselves. It made me leery. Then I noticed a smudge of dark green on the tall guy’s ear
— it reminded me of camo paint, the kind you see soldiers wearing in the movies to camouflage their faces in order to blend in with the vegetation of their surroundings. Evidently GI Joe missed a spot before getting dressed up in his civilian attire. Focusing on that ear, I saw something else odd — some kind of tiny earpiece or hearing aid.

The guy must have noticed, because he angled his head so I couldn’t see. I shot a glance at the other one’s ears and saw that he had one, too.

Hesitantly, I averted my gaze away from them and frowned at the picture proffered in front of me. I took it and studied it briefly. “What’s his name?” I asked finding the face vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

“Daniel McMaster,” the tall guy said.

At first, the name didn’t register. Then Harvey came back — with his more excited but cordial voice this time.
Geez, Superman! That’s the guy’s name from your dream
.

I quickly realized he was correct. I flashed back to this morning’s dream. That was the name on the tab of the file that laid open on the Air Force Lieutenant’s desk. I wasn’t about to tell these two that the only time I’d ever heard the name was in a dream. But how was I going to explain the surprised look I was giving them, now?

“Uh,” I said dumbly, trying to buy some time for thought. What was this all about? I’d heard of déjà vu, but this was ridiculous. How could I have dreamed up a name while sleeping that two men would ask me about a couple of hours later? “What was the name again?”

My two interrogators glanced at each other as if to say,
Uh-huh, we got a winner!

The stocky man repeated, “Daniel McMaster.”

“What’s this about?” I asked. “Has he done something?”

“No, Mr. Weller, nothing like that. We think he might be in some kind of trouble and need our help.”

“Why are you asking me? Who told you that I might know him?”

Now the looks on their faces were more like
we’re losing him
when they glanced at each other.

“Please, Mr. Weller. Daniel McMaster needs our help. Could you just tell us where he is?”

I looked at them skeptically, growing tired of their evasive friendliness. “The name is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve heard it. And I don’t have a clue as to where he is. Why don’t you ask Tom Dailey,” I said, shoving the photo back to the shorter man.

“Tom Dailey?” he asked.

“The chief of police,” I said. “He should be driving by again any minute.”

I began walking around the two men who were still blocking my way. But the short stocky one grabbed for my arm, and I didn’t like it. I felt heat, an ache building in my temples and the tingling at the base of my head again, like before the television blew up.

My reaction was quicker and more offensive than even I expected. I blocked his right hand with my own left, brought my arm over his and locked his forearm behind my back. With pressure on his elbow, I bent it in a direction it wasn’t intended to bend. With a quick jerk, I could have easily broken his arm.

My right arm cocked, the V of my hand was aimed at his throat. I didn’t know where I’d come up with such a move
— TV, movies, a demonstration I’d once seen — but I did know that in less than a second, I could crush the man’s trachea, quickly causing him to either suffocate or drown in his own blood. By the surprised looks on both men’s faces, they knew it, also.

The ache intensified in my temples and the men’s faces contorted. The tall man stumbled back behind the guy I had a hold of, holding the sides of his head. I saw the look of incredible pain on the shorter man’s face and it shocked me. I didn’t wish to hurt anyone. I released him.

Immediately, the ache subsided and both guys tried to shake it off, their eyes wide.

“Go away,” I said. “Go away and leave me alone.”

They did as I had ordered, turning quickly and then sprinting between the two houses we had been standing in front of. I watched them disappear. But they didn’t disappear into the distance or run behind a house. They seemed to reach for something next to one of the homes, and then they . . . just simply vanished — leaving my sight in a blur, blending in with scenery. Did they just evaporate? It made me wonder if I had hallucinated the entire thing or at least their departure. It could only have something to do with my concussion, I was sure.

Getting over my astonishment, I became angry, but not at the disappearing men
— more so at myself. Had I overreacted? Had they really planned to attack me? I could have seriously hurt — even killed — one of them. And what was happening inside my head, physically — the intense pain and pressure that built so suddenly.

I hurried on, mulling over all this, and decided that the first thing I should do when I got to my store was to call Mish
— hoping the phones were working by then — and tell her to be watchful for the two men, should they come by the house. They knew my name, so they were sure to know where I lived — and where I worked if they wanted to pursue this matter further. I’d also call Tom Dailey and report the incident to him — make sure he kept an eye on the house, too.

But what about this McMaster guy? Was he in some kind of danger? I thought my unconscious had created him in the dream. But was it only a dream? Maybe it was some sort of remembrance, reality obviously distorted by my mind’s subconscious wanderings
— I had never taken part in any sort of experiment or studies conducted by the military . . . had I?

Within two minutes, I came to the first stoplight on the east side of town and paused at the red light. The gentle breeze had calmed, and the birds became quiet. Anxiously, I watched the light traffic, waiting for the signal to change. I noticed the man and two women waiting on the other side of the street, but I didn’t concern myself with them
— they weren’t the thick-necked military type. Instead, I gazed absently through the smoky haze at Rainy Mountain hulking protectively over the town, and I tried to make some sense of the earlier encounter. I couldn’t.

When I glanced back at the light, it had already changed to green, and I stepped into the street. I exchanged good-mornings with the man and one of the women. The other lady lagged behind, digging through her purse. From her salt-and-pepper hair, I guessed she was in her mid-fifties. She acted nervous, her eyes shifting about but never meeting mine.

As we passed, a horn blared. A van came to a screeching halt next to us, barely short of the crosswalk, and we both stepped aside and bumped into one another. She let go of her purse, dumping its contents into the street. Little tubes of lipstick rolled everywhere. Gum, a compact, her wallet, a pack of tissues, keys on a ring with a big K on it, all lay in a loose pile.

I glared at the man behind the wheel of the Ford van who had caused the disturbance.

What a jerk! Give him a piece of our mind, Superman. Go on. He deserves it.

“Leave me alone, Harvey,” I said under my breath, and the woman took a questioning glance at me. I curled the corner of my mouth and shook my head slightly. Obviously, I had no power over my imaginary yet unwanted companion, so I figured I’d simply have to ignore him.

The big, chubby-faced van driver just sat behind the wheel in an expressionless stare. I thought better of Harvey’s advice and helped the lady round up her belongings. It didn’t matter that the light had changed. The big bruiser in the van would just have to wait.

The woman said nothing and gathered her things quickly. I handed her several items, and she stuffed them into her bag. When we had finally collected most of it, she stood over me as I picked up one last lipstick case.

She reached toward the back of my shoulder, I’m guessing to pat me on the back, and she said, “Thank you so much.”

At the same time, I pulled away defensively, and her hand only brushed against my collar. I hadn’t intended to be standoffish. It was a subconscious reaction, considering my earlier meeting with the two inquisitive men.

Her face was as blank as that of the driver in the van, who had since backed up and now drove around us.

I dropped the lipstick into her open handbag, and she scurried on her way, and I went on mine. However, as I reached the curb I thought I heard her say something, and I glanced back.

“Did you hear me?” she said in a low voice. “I couldn’t get it close enough. It won’t work. I’ll have to put him out.” Her purse strap was on her shoulder now, and she was holding one hand to her ear. The other hand was under her jacket as if she was getting something from an inside pocket.

Who the hell is she talking to?
Harvey asked.

I scanned the intersection. There was no one else within fifty feet of her.

“I have no choice,” she complained. “He’s too dangerous.”

At that moment, I felt the familiar pressure and buildup of heat in my forehead and then that shooting pain across my temples. The base of my skull tingled. I leaned against the traffic-signal pole and rubbed my forehead.  The concussion’s aftereffects were lingering much too long.
I should have stayed in bed
, I thought.

Then a new but smaller crack snapped across one lens of my spectacles, and I realized this had nothing to do with my concussion. As the odd feeling wore off, I glanced back across the street. The woman I’d bumped into only a moment earlier was lying sprawled out and face down on the sidewalk.

Disregarding the red light, I sprinted back to her side, knelt down and gently rolled her onto her back. Her eyelids were half-open. Her pupils were dilated. I touched her neck to get a pulse, but felt nothing. I saw no rise or fall from her chest.

By now, several people had gathered, and I called out, “Does anyone have a cell phone?”

“I do,” a man on a bicycle said. He pulled it out of a blue fanny pack that matched his blue shirt and biker pants and then punched the keypad four times with his finger.

A man in a small Volvo parked at the curb and came trotting up just as I pulled the lady’s chin down and checked her airway, preparing to give her rescue breaths and chest compressions. Her teeth were crooked. Her thin face was somehow familiar.

It’s the woman in the dream, Superman. Lieutenant Iron Pants, remember?

“My god,” I said aloud. It
was
her, Lieutenant Vanzandtz, but she’d aged a good fifteen years since this morning’s dream.

The man from the Volvo interrupted my thoughts. “Kindly let me through, please. I am a doctor.” His skin was dark as a Hershey bar, and his accent sounded Pakistani or Indian. He wedged his rotund body through the bystanders. “May I be assisting you?”

“No breathing or pulse,” I said, as a faint siren blared in the distance.

Damn fast, wasn’t it?
Harvey said.
Too fast.

The doctor said, “Everyone kindly stand back, please.”

As I moved away to give him room, the woman’s coat fell open, exposing a handgun. It was tucked into a webbed holster and neatly harnessed to her side. The holster’s flap was unsnapped.

Nine-millimeter Makarov?
Harvey asked.

I thought he was correct. But how in hell did I know? I couldn’t remember ever caring about guns or ever actually firing one, let alone knowing one brand from another. And more puzzling, how did this Harvey persona inside my mind know?

Then I noticed that the pistol barrel had an extension on it.

Silencer!

I looked at her face and saw that she wore an earpiece — like the GI Joes.

She was going to kill you, Superman!

Again, Harvey was being ridiculous. That didn’t make sense. Why would the woman want to kill me? She was probably a cop, or some sort of special agent in town on business. Maybe that earpiece was only a hearing aid. Her holster flap had come open when she fell. All that made sense — except for the silencer.