Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (3 page)

It was the stress talking, not Sunny, Jackson reminded himself. He’d known this woman and had been best friends with her husband for such a long time. Her mistrust cut like a serrated bayonet, but how could he blame her?

He spoke slowly, emphasizing his sincerity. “Sunny, our remote viewers gave us two scenarios. We’d hoped this venue was the correct one. The RVs’ majority opinion, five of six, said this was the most likely locale. The minority opinion had a much more complicated and challenging scenario — a different Gold Rush. If that single RV is correct, the scope of this plot is incredible. Dozens of people we thought were dead for years, even decades, might still be alive. But for this new mission, the difficulty level will be daunting, and I’m sure the government won’t be willing to risk it.”

Sunny shook her head again. “You’re saying it’s hopeless?”

“No. I’m only a major, Sunny, but I’ve made a lot of contacts over the past twenty years. A whole bunch of people owe me. I’ve called in all my markers for this one. We have equipment already staged at the alternate objective and we will be ready to go as soon as we get there.” He paused, knowing what he was about to say would give her a glint of hope. “Since we can’t count on our own government footing the bill or authorizing our mission, Gunny Sampson is backing us with money and logistics.”

Sunny’s face only hinted a reminiscent smile. Jax knew that several years had passed since she’d seen their friend
The Gunny
.

Staff Sergeant Chambers reemerged arm first from the driver’s hatchway, his hand gripping the handle of a thin, black attaché case. “Sir.”

Jackson took it and glanced into the redhead’s vibrant green eyes. “Dan’s like a brother to me, Sunny, you know that. And I owe him — I owe him my life. I’ll search in every corner of this Earth for him, if that’s what it takes — spend each hour of every waking day. I promise you that I
will
find Daniel, or I’ll die trying.”

He supported the case against the sloped front of the armored vehicle and opened it. As he took out an inch-thick file folder and handed it to her, he said, “I have some satellite photos I’d like you to see.”

Chapter 1
— Gold Rush, Three Days Later

I had no idea I would begin a killing spree on such a lovely morning. I felt animosity for no one. I willed no one dead.

My name is Robert Weller. I’m the type of guy who will trap a spider in the shower, take it out to the bushes in the middle of the night and bid it farewell and happy hunting. But early on this Monday morning a change seemed to come over my life as subtle and lethal as a glass of Chardonnay laced with arsenic.

I was dreaming. I saw myself sitting in a large room, white and cold. It smelled of antiseptic. In the middle of the room was a table with a large brown envelope propped up on it. I sat to one side in a hard oak chair. On the opposite side of the room, behind a small, gray-metal desk, sat a woman in a U.S. Army uniform. Her name was Lieutenant Vanzandtz, and she appeared to be in her early thirties. Her mismatched chair was thick and upholstered in burgundy leather or more likely cheap Naugahyde.

In this dream, I was shirtless and covered in goose bumps. I didn’t know what the cathode-ray tube beside me monitored, nor did I care. That was their business. I was getting three hundred bucks. The jumping green lines and the constant blips from the machine
were
becoming annoying, however. The monitor’s leads were stuck to my temples and to well-shaven areas on the base of my head and on my chest.

I closed my eyes but didn’t concentrate on the envelope as the lieutenant had just instructed. Instead, I thought of her. She had yet to smile. I guessed she’d have a pleasant smile if she’d ever try. But she just sat behind her desk, her face stern, mouth small and tight. I considered how a broad smile on her narrow face would’ve nicely balanced out her large-framed glasses and the bun of walnut hair on top of her head.

My focus changed to the contents of the envelope. Somewhere behind my eyes a three-dimensional image formed. I saw blue-green water, deep but calm, near a beach with sand as white and fine as table salt. In the water, a white sailing yacht, probably eighty feet, floated peacefully with three large sails billowing in a light breeze. The name Chairman was scrolled in blue across the leisure vessel’s stern. To the left of the boat, the sun posed like a huge tangerine ball drifting in the ocean, and above, the clouds were wispy ghosts painted coral by the sun’s last rays.

With eyes still closed, I turned my attention to a thick file folder in front of the lieutenant. Another vision came clear, the file’s jacket.
Project: Grill Flame
, it said in large, stamped-on letters. On its index tab was a name I didn’t recognize —
Daniel McMaster
. I focused on the heading of the first page.
Remote Viewer Evaluation
, it said. A list followed with all of the boxes farthest to the left checked under the
Excellent
column. Under
Notes
was written:
Top candidate. Subject excels in all measured areas
. Someone’s entire life put down in letters and numbers, I thought, and I got the distinct impression that this man’s file, this Daniel McMaster, was being used for comparison — some sort of watermark, the bar everyone else should strive to reach.

I told the lieutenant what I saw in the thin package on which she had requested my attention, but I said nothing of what I’d discovered in the file folder, and I opened my eyes.

She stood and walked leisurely toward the monitoring equipment next to me. As she stepped past the table, she plucked the envelope from it. After taking a moment to check the equipment, she turned to me and pulled out a line drawing on a standard, letter-size sheet of paper.

Drawn in minimalistic pencil sketch was a scene exactly as I’d described, sans color and detail, except the sun was setting to the right of the boat.

“Are you dyslexic?” the lieutenant asked, and she finally smiled. Her teeth were crooked.

“No,” I said, “you had the drawing turned around.”

*  *  *

Seeming more like a distant memory than a dream, the vision faded as the scent of fruity lotion and perfumed powder roused me to consciousness.

I didn’t open my eyes, yet I knew what I’d find when I did — my wife Michelle sitting naked at her make-up table across the room.

It brought a smile to my face, and I reached for my glasses on the night table. When I looked, it was as I’d envisioned
— Michelle sitting on her snow-white bathrobe like a Matisse painting I’d seen. I couldn’t remember where. There sat my childhood and high school sweetheart, the girl of my dreams, the mother of my son — the sweetest, most generous woman I knew.

I must be strong for her today
— be positive, for her. She had been through so much. This could be the day that would turn our lives around — that might bring Michelle out of the terrible slump of depression she’d succumbed to since the accident. Late this afternoon, we would find out whether or not our five-year-old son would ever be able to walk again — and we would finally be able to bring him home from the hospital after over six months of surgery and analysis.

While inhaling the sweet potpourri of aromas, I sat up to enjoy the pleasantness for a long moment, and I smiled at my thoughts and the image before me. I inspected Michelle’s backside: the gentle curves, the soft and subtle beads of her spine
— and I noticed the droplets of water her bath towel hadn’t reached in the small of her back. In a nearly entranced state, I observed the faint motion of her back and shoulder muscles as she pulled an ivory brush through her coal-black hair. Then I watched her massage peach-scented body oil into the silky, cinnamon skin of her shoulders, arms, breasts, stomach and legs
. My little China doll
, I thought, and my smile grew into a grin.

Then, at precisely 6:42 a.m., according to the Sony digital alarm clock on the nightstand nearby, I slipped out of bed wearing nothing but a pair of silk boxers. A slight dizziness came over me, forcing me to hang onto the bedpost for balance.

Easy, Superman,
a voice told me.

I paused while considering the voice and then quickly glanced around the room. Seeing only Michelle, I was momentarily perplexed. Slowly, I realized the voice wasn’t totally unfamiliar
— that it must have been my own thoughts. But I couldn’t remember my thoughts coming so audibly, so distinctly. I immediately shrugged it off, supposing everyone heard voices at some time or another — the good spirit, bad spirit sort of thing. Perhaps mine was more of an alter ego, safely buried deep in my subconscious but there to give caution and warning whether I needed it or not.

With the light-headedness easing some, I felt stiffness in the side of my neck and rubbed it while recalling the fall I’d taken on Friday morning in the shower. I remembered the day and night long stay I’d been forced to make in the same hospital as my son. I thought of the intense, throbbing headache I’d had and the lump low on the back of my head, which I now touched gingerly. It was still tender.

My muscles were weak and tight, more so than I thought three days of recuperative rest should have caused. While doing a few tentative and simple stretches to limber up, I discovered something else a little odd — my underwear: purple silk boxers covered in pink hearts —
hmmm
.

My alter-ego voice surprised me again.
Jeez, Superman! Where the hell did you get those sissy-assed things?

I made a cursory scan of the room for a second time with the same result
— no one standing behind the curtain, nobody lurking beneath the bed. The voice definitely seemed to originate inside my skull as if George Lucas himself had wired Dolby® Surround Sound® to tiny speakers and bolted them to the inside of my cranium.

Deciding it was better than conversing with
Harvey
, the imaginary talking rabbit from that old Jimmy Stewart movie, I gazed at my shorts to answer my ostensible entity within. But I couldn’t remember where I’d gotten the suspect sleepwear. A Valentine’s Day present, I surmised. Probably stuffed into one of those
I [Heart] You
coffee mugs with a clutch of colorful balloons tied to the handle.

Yeah, uh-huh, sure.

I let the briefs fall to my ankles and then kicked them into an open clothes hamper in the corner next to the bathroom doorway.

Michelle glanced over her shoulder with an ever-so-slight smile. I answered it with a wink. Then I went to her and, as I did, her large dark eyes followed me through the mirror. She looked me over, and it did my heart good to find the almost imperceptible smile remaining on her lips indicating pleasure in what she saw. When I reached her, I pressed my nude body against hers and ran my hand gently up and down the full length of her backbone. Her eyelids heavy and nostrils flaring, she responded by baring the side of her neck, giving me all the room I needed to kiss it, and I lingered there.

God, I love this woman
, these words coming to my thoughts so naturally as if whispered into my ear. A collage of memories from before the accident swam in my head: of Michelle, her brilliant smile, her laughing Asian eyes, her beautiful lips, the first time we kissed when we were still preteen, the night of the prom when she came ambling down the steps wearing a beautiful light-blue dress, the evening we went skinny dipping — her naked and shivering in a cold mountain pool — and then we made love for the first time.

That had been nearly twenty years ago, now. She’d always been so beautiful, so perfect. I couldn’t stop kissing her tender skin.

She stroked my face with her slim fingers. “Rob-bert!” She giggled softly. Her voice was as tiny, yet as lively as she was. “Didn’t you get enough last night?”

I knew her levity would be brief
— it seemed she would only allow short asides from the guilt that haunted her daily — so I took advantage of the moment. My arousal grew as I gave her my best Boris Karloff, Frankenstein-monster groan and mouthed her flesh like a man insane with passion.

“Silly!” she squeaked with laughter. “You’ll be late.” She raised her shoulder and squirmed away, and her humor stole back into the place guilt kept it prisoner. “How’s the head?”

I figured I wasn’t getting anywhere — that I had opened the door to her old self for as long and as wide as it would go, and it had slammed back shut. Besides, she was right. I didn’t have the luxury of idle time this morning. So I readjusted my eyeglasses and left a parting love peck on the hollow of her neck.

After clearing the sleep from my throat, I kept my lips close together to hold in the morning breath and said hoarsely, “Not bad, really.” My throat was dry and scratchy. It felt as though I hadn’t spoken in days.

“Good. Now use the handholds in the shower, okay, Robert?”

I frowned at her. She was treating me like a klutz.

“And you’re not going to overdo it today, right?”

I grunted. What little sexual stimulation that had blossomed, diminished quickly.

“Need help?”

I shook my head.

“Your breakfast will be ready by the time you’re dressed.”

I grunted again and found myself staring at her shoulder.

My Harvey wannabe said,
Something’s different. Something’s changed
.

Having such a vocal inner voice wasn’t normal
— now, I was sure. However, the voice was correct.

I asked, “Didn’t you use to have a mole there, Mish?”

“Where?”

I pointed to the top of Michelle’s right shoulder. “I always thought it was sexy. Did you have it removed or something?”

She looked up at me, and the modest smile returned briefly. “No, dear. You must be thinking of one of your other girls.” She rapped me on the fingers with the back of her brush, and the surprise stung.

“Ouch!” I said. I took her by the jaw tenderly, as if embracing a rare and delicate moth, and I gave her a long kiss.

I’m tellin’ ya, there’s something different here.

When we parted, we gazed into each other’s eyes, and I said, “You’re the only one for me, darling.”

As I departed, she replied, “Of course I am.”

Mush-shee!

In the bathroom, I placed my eyewear on the vanity. After relieving myself of a night’s build-up of fluids, I turned on the shower and adjusted the water to a comfortable warmth. I stepped through the new tempered-glass enclosure and shut it, then found a bar of Dial soap in the caddy.

Look closer, Superman.

Still not used to the strangeness of having this inner voice, my eyes searched even the shower stall for its source. But then I took the soap bar from the caddy and briefly inspected it. Edges sharp, it was dry — brand new, fresh out of the wrapper. And glancing around me, I noticed the shower door had no water on it, no droplets, no little streams. But Michelle had just taken a shower. Her back was still wet.

I noted the small squeegee stuck to a suction-cup hook on the wall and then frowned, thinking of the new, paranoid personality inside my skull. Ease up a little, I told my alter ego. She’d obviously finished the old bar of soap and replaced it with a new one. And she’d squeegeed the stall after showering to keep down the lime and scum buildup.