Gods and Mortals: Fourteen Free Urban Fantasy & Paranormal Novels Featuring Thor, Loki, Greek Gods, Native American Spirits, Vampires, Werewolves, & More (134 page)

By the time I parked and got inside my house, the adrenaline rush was fading. It left me exhausted.

I should call Justine.

That thought made the panic begin to rise.

The phone’s all the way upstairs
, I told myself,
and I’ll have to look up the number
. I never called Ben at home, anymore, and didn’t remember it.
I’ll call her later
, I thought. Tomorrow was soon enough, especially after she’d been so rude.

Besides, I had stuff to do. I needed to clean up the basement and make some dinner. Then I’d read a little and go to bed early — tomorrow was a workday. I tried to push the memory of Ben’s house and the attack into the background.

After getting a drink of water, I headed down to the basement to neaten up. I’d left my desk a mess the night before, when I’d freaked out about the monster-foot trick. Looked like I’d even left the lights on.

I was most of the way down the stairs when I looked up and saw a man standing at my desk, going through a sheaf of prints. I froze, not really processing what I was seeing.

After what seemed like ages, he looked up at me. He didn’t look at all like a burglar caught in the act — there was nothing surreptitious or guilty in his manner. He just stared at me, then set the prints down on the desk.

That motion jogged me out of my paralysis. I turned and ran back up the stairs, trying to remember where I’d set down my keys.

I’d only made it a few steps when my left foot was jerked out from under me and I fell, banging my forehead on a step hard enough to make me dizzy. I lay there, feeling confused and tangled up in my own limbs.

As though from a distance, I felt the man step over me and heard him close the door at the top of the stairs. Then he dragged me back down the steps and over to the desk. He leaned me up against the wall. I promptly slid over onto my side, feeling sick. He went back to what he was doing — looking through stacks of prints. I closed my eyes for a while and just listened to the slippery rustle of photographic paper.

Slowly, the spins and nausea receded. I collected my thoughts a little. It occurred to me that he was probably going to kill me. I’d gotten a good look at him. I’d be able to ID him in a line-up.

My head ached fiercely. It was like I could actually
hear
it hurting. I thought about pretending to be unconscious, but that didn’t seem useful. If he was for sure going to kill me, he’d do it whether I was awake or not. If I talked to him, maybe I could help myself.

I opened my eyes. The man had moved on to the images on my hard drive. He was scrolling through them, studying each one carefully. All my prints were out on the desk in piles.

Something about him nagged at my brain. It took me a minute, but then I realized he had a thick, lumpy scar on his left wrist. And a blue sweatshirt. And jeans.

I stared at him. He was a white guy and had brown hair, but otherwise he looked nothing like the man who’d been with Callie in the restaurant. Whereas that man had been bland enough to fade into a white wall, this guy was anything but. Instead of neat and conservative, his hair looked shaggy and none too clean. His features were severe. He looked a lot bigger, and he was the opposite of unnoticeable. “Dangerous” just roiled off him. If this guy had walked into Pete’s Eats, Pete would’ve reached for his shotgun.

And yet, the scar looked just the same. And the clothes were so similar. Was it the same shirt, or just one very like it? His sleeves were pushed up, so it was hard to be sure. But did it matter? Two men could dress the same, but they wouldn’t have the same scar. This must be the same person — a master of disguise, or something.

My god, had “Moral Crusader Callie” gotten herself involved with terrorists?

I took a deep breath. “What do you want?”

No response.

“Are you looking for money? My purse is upstairs.”

Silence.

“What are you going to do with me?”

He didn’t bother looking up.

I thought about how close my neighbors’ houses were. My basement was mostly underground. The few windows were up near the ceiling and only a foot high. Would anyone hear me if I screamed?

As if he’d heard what I was thinking, the man said, “No screaming.” He had a slight accent, and his tone was flat, affectless. It sounded unnatural.

He continued going through the images, ignoring me. It took quite a while — I had many more images on the computer than I had prints. I sat there watching, too terrified to think of what to do.

When the task was done, he crouched down in front of me. His face was as blank and emotionless as his voice.

“Where are the pictures you had at the restaurant?”

I hadn’t really believed, not completely, that this was the same guy. Taken by surprise, I blurted out the truth. “Upstairs. On the kitchen counter.”

Then again, I couldn’t think of an advantage to lying. He’d already seen them.

“Have you taken pictures of any other Seconds?”

“What?”

“Seconds,” he said flatly, as though I were being evasive. “Beings of the Second Emanation.”

Oh my god, Callie had convinced him “hellspawn” were real and I was passing around pictures of them. Or maybe he was the one who’d convinced her. That thought brought a wave of nausea. Callie’s moral crusades were annoying, sure, but they were basically harmless. If this guy was the one launching the crusade, there’d be harm. Lots of harm.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing special about my pictures. Someone was just playing a joke on me, sticking that foot in there.”

His face was motionless, like a mask. “Why did you photograph the green man?”

“
Green
?”

He looked at me, silent, waiting.

“Come on, this is crazy. That picture shows a black guy walking in front of a bar.”

He reached back and grabbed a big handful of my hair, close to my scalp. Then he twisted it.

It might seem like a pretty small thing, almost schoolyardish — someone pulling your hair. But no one had ever intentionally hurt me before. It hurt so much more than I would’ve thought. It was like, in that instant, I knew I was at the mercy of someone who cared nothing about me, maybe someone who enjoyed hurting me. I had no control over what was going to happen to me. Panic surged through me, and I thrashed and flailed, screaming. I would’ve told anyone anything. Resistance was unthinkable.

I think he only hurt me for a few seconds, but it seemed to go on forever. It was a while after he stopped before I could get any words out.

“Take the pictures! Erase everything. I don’t care. I won’t tell anyone. Just leave me alone — please!”

“Tell me why you photographed him.”

“I didn’t! I was just taking pictures of the bar. I didn’t see him!”

For the first time, an emotion crossed his face: surprise. Then he looked thoughtful.

“You never saw it?”

I shook my head. Big mistake — it hurt.

“Did you see the one in the cemetery?”

“No! There was nothing there.”

He stood up and leaned back against the counter, thinking. I slumped back against the wall and took deep, shuddering breaths.

“Have you ever taken any other pictures that showed weird things?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I only started taking pictures last year. Everything I’ve taken is on that computer.”

“Any back-ups?”

I shook my head.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Why did you start taking pictures?”

My fear started receding a bit. It wasn’t that the situation seemed better. I think it’s just not possible to maintain that level of terror for very long. In its place came exhaustion. I sensed it was almost over, maybe that
I
was almost over.

I looked up at him, not really focusing.

“Tell me why you started taking pictures.”

“I got the camera.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I mean, I won the camera in a raffle, so I just started using it.” I stumbled, trying to get the words out quickly. “It makes me feel better. Less anxious. I don’t have so many attacks. Panic attacks, I mean.”

He was silent for a while. Then he rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Fuck.” He knelt down and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. For the first time, I really saw his face close up. It was harsh and heavily lined. No, a lot of those were scars, not lines. His eyes looked too dark. He was terrifying.

“Someone’ll come talk to you about this soon. For now, don’t tell anyone I was here. Don’t take any more pictures. Don’t show your pictures to anyone. Don’t talk about them with anyone. Don’t leave town. Don’t attract attention to yourself in any way. If you do any of those things, you’ll die. You understand?”

I couldn’t have spoken for the world. I just jerked my head.

He stared at me for another few seconds, maybe to make sure I really got it. Then he stood up and left.

For a long time, I just sat there on the basement floor, staring at nothing. I had no idea what to do. I felt oddly listless and distant, as though most of me was far away, connected to the rest of me by a thin tether.

What am I going to do?

Move. I have to move.

I shifted against the wall, and my body came alive with sensations. None of them were pleasant. My head swam and pounded, my scalp hurt, and my right hand ached where I must’ve slammed it against the wall. Plus, I was cold and wet. I’d pissed myself.

This is the worst moment of my life
.

I had no idea what to do. He’d said someone would come for me. Someone like him? Who was he? Some sort of religious vigilante? What was going to happen to me?

A single thought formed: get away. I had to get far away and never be found. Not by him or anyone like him. Once I realized it, I was completely clear on this point. It was essential.

But no … is that really right?

He’d said I’d die if I told anyone about him or if I tried to leave. I believed he meant it. He would do it himself. It didn’t matter what his motives were. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t done anything wrong. Dead is dead, even if you’re killed by a crazy person for a crazy reason.

But he’d also said someone would come for me. I couldn’t sit here and wait for
that
to come again. I could not. It was a terrible struggle not to run screaming from the house that very moment.

It occurred to me that I probably wasn’t being rational. I tried to take a step back.

What if I sleep on it and decide in the morning?

The very room reacted to the thought, closing in on me, crushing me. My breath came in gasps, and all the strength left my muscles. Black spots rushed at my eyes from the far wall. I flopped forward, trying to claw my way to the stairs. I didn’t make it.

I woke up on the basement floor, not sure how long I’d been there. There was no more question of staying in Dorf. All I needed was a head start. I needed time to pack some things, get my money out of the bank, and put gas in my car. Then I was out of there.

I would call the police. I’d say I’d walked in and found Callie McCallister’s boyfriend rifling through my stuff. He’d assaulted me, then run off.

I could make it believable. Billy and Doyle had heard Callie accuse me of photographing “hellspawn” in Pete’s earlier. He’d been with her and had shown an interest in my pictures.

It could work. I had a big lump on my forehead as evidence of assault. He hadn’t been wearing gloves, so he’d probably left fingerprints all over the place. Maybe one of my neighbors had seen him getting in or out of his car — even when he left, it wouldn’t have been totally dark yet.

But would anyone have recognized him? He looked so different.

My mind skittered away from that thought.

Even if the charges didn’t stick, I’d have a chance to get out of town before the cops let him go. Doyle was a good guy. He’d let me know if they were about to release my assailant.

I got up slowly, testing my legs. They worked. I went upstairs and dialed 911. Then I sat down to wait.

During the many hours that followed, the police were unable to find the folder with the two photos. The man had taken them.

“
B
etty
? Hey, it’s Doyle. Honey, the charges aren’t gonna stick. Turns out the guy’s FBI. Paperwork’s going through now. He’ll probably be out within the hour.”

“He’s in the FBI?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Yep. Apparently he’s up here investigating a meth ring.”

“A
meth ring
?”

“Yeah, you know, it’s this drug —”

“I know what it is, Doyle. I’m just having trouble believing it. I mean, if he’s an FBI agent, where’s his partner? And why’s he living with Callie McCallister?”

“Beats me. Maybe he was undercover or something. Guess we blew that.”

God, was he really in the FBI? Was that who the government was hiring now — thugs who broke into people’s houses and beat up women?

“You guys checked this out with the FBI directly, right?”

“Sure thing. The chief called Washington and talked to his supervisor. Who was pretty darned pissed, actually.”

Suddenly I felt very alone. Very alone and very scared.

“You believe me, don’t you, Doyle? About what he did to me, I mean?”

“Sure, Betty, I believe you. All of us do. I mean, you got that knot on your head.”

Did I hear doubt in his voice? Maybe he was thinking about other explanations for that so-called evidence. They hadn’t found any way to confirm my story. None of my neighbors had noticed the man’s car, and somehow he hadn’t left any prints. It was just my story and my injury.

“Okay, Doyle, thanks. And thanks for calling to let me know. I really appreciate it. I owe you one.”

“No problem. You hang in there, okay? Just give us a call if something seems funny. Hey, maybe have Janie come stay with you for a few days.”

“Good idea, Doyle, thanks. Bye.”

I gave myself exactly one minute to sit in my car and cry.

Callie’s boyfriend’s name had turned out to be John Williams. The cops had picked him up early that morning, after spending the night going over my place and hearing my story. Now it was a bit after 2:00 in the afternoon. What with the things I’d had to do before leaving town, I’d gotten less than six hours’ head start.

I wiped my face on the back of my sleeve and got out of the car. I was parked in an interstate rest stop, where I’d pulled off to get gas. Heading over to the parking area for the big rigs, I took a moment to tuck my cell phone behind the cab of one of them. It was an ultra-cheap pay-as-you-go model I’d bought that morning, just so I’d be able to get updates from Doyle. I couldn’t risk keeping it now — they could track a cell phone’s location, right? It had served its purpose, anyway.

I got back on the road. I was glad I’d gotten most of my money out of the bank before leaving Dorf. If Williams was in the FBI, he’d have a lot more resources at his disposal than I’d imagined. I probably shouldn’t use my debit or credit cards.

Then again, if he was in the FBI, he wouldn’t be pursuing me, right? He’d stay in Dorf, investigating meth dealers.

Somehow I didn’t believe it. Maybe he wasn’t really in the FBI but had contacts in the FBI who would lie for him. That sounded more like it. It also sounded a lot more frightening.

I stayed on 90 westbound for another hour, then turned south and headed down into Iowa on county roads. Hopefully the semi with my phone would keep heading west.

I drove until I couldn’t stay awake any longer. It was the middle of the night. I stopped in a small town in the southeastern corner of Nebraska. I found a sleazy-looking motel and paid in cash. When I told the clerk I’d lost my wallet and didn’t have ID, he just rolled his eyes.

I showered, then made a dinner out of some granola bars and peanut butter I’d brought with me. The sheets were scratchy and the room was cold. My head still ached fiercely from its impact with the stairs. It didn’t matter — I hadn’t slept in a day and a half, and for a good chunk of that time, I’d been scared to death. I was out as soon as I lay down.

M
orning gave
me my first good look at America west of the Mississippi. I’d always thought of Nebraska as flat, but in this part, at least, it was hilly.

I felt a lot better than I had the night before. Calmer, clearer. My head only hurt a little.

Standing at the window looking out, I also felt a lot less certain I’d done the right thing. I’d planned my getaway, yes, but I hadn’t really thought about it in a bigger sense. In fact, I dimly remembered deciding
not
to think about it.

Where exactly was I going to go? If I just kept moving, I’d run out of money pretty fast. I needed to settle some place and get work. But how could I do that without getting found? I didn’t know the first thing about getting a job without ID, or about getting fake identification, for that matter.

Did I even have enough to rent a place somewhere while I looked for work? I emptied my wallet and the envelope of cash I’d gotten at the bank. It came to $1,264, plus change. That wasn’t much when you factored in a security deposit. Could I get a place here in — I looked at the phone book — Sway Creek for that? And wouldn’t any landlord want my social security number?

I drummed my fingers on the bedside table. No solutions presented themselves.

What about Ben? I hadn’t told him I was leaving, much less where I was going or how to get in touch with me. Ben and his girls were all the family I had. Was I prepared to never see them again?

I’d called him Monday night right after I called the police. He’d come and met me at the hospital, where they’d taken me to make sure I didn’t have a concussion. Ben wasn’t the most emotive guy, but that night he looked pretty scared. I’d always known how much I needed my brother. It was a big part of why I resented Justine — she kept him from me. But the reverse hadn’t really occurred to me: maybe he needed me, too.

I sat still, holding my breath as an awful new thought crawled to the surface.

If I’m not there to hurt, will John Williams hurt Ben instead? Or the kids?

Horror settled over me. It was the feeling of having screwed up. Big.

I have to go back.

No. No, I couldn’t. Williams had given me a direct order not to leave town. He’d also ordered me not to tell anyone about him. If he found me, he’d kill me. Twice.

I needed to call Ben and make sure he was okay. I’d tell him to take the family on a little trip. I could do it from a pay phone, then drive in a random direction for the whole day. It was chancy because it might let Williams track me, but it was the best I could do.

“
B
eth
? Oh my god, where are you?”

Ben sounded panicked.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m just getting out of town for a while, until that Williams guy leaves. You heard they didn’t charge him, right?”

“Beth, Justine’s gone!”

It so was not the response I was expecting that it took me a moment to grasp it.

“What do you mean, ‘gone’? She left you?”

“No, I don’t know, she’s just
gone
! She didn’t pick the kids up from school yesterday. No one’s seen her. Beth, I know something terrible happened to her. She might leave me, but she’d never leave the kids.”

I stood there in shock.

“Beth? Beth?”

“I’m here. When’s the last time someone saw her?”

“The security camera at the Cenex caught her getting gas a little before noon. That’s it. She was supposed to be at the school at 3:30, but she never showed.”

Doyle had called me at 2:15 to say Williams would be out soon. “Within the hour,” he’d said.

Oh god, oh my god
.

He hadn’t been able to get at Ben. Ben had been at work, surrounded by people. So he’d taken Justine instead.

“Beth?”

“Did you call the police?”

“Of course! Beth … they want to talk to you about it.”

It took me another few seconds to understand what he meant.

“They think I kidnapped Justine? Ben, you can’t be serious!”

“I know. They’re wasting their damned time. But they couldn’t find you either, and people saw you two fighting at church.” His voice slid from anger to defeat. “I think it’s the only lead they have. Could you please just talk to them? Maybe once they let go of that idea, they’ll get a better one. Beth, we have to find her. I need her.”

“Ben, I’ll call you back.”

“Beth —”

I hung up on him. Then I stumbled to the curb and threw up my breakfast beside someone’s junky pickup. I was in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven — the first place I’d seen a pay phone. What a place to be when you find out you’re going to die.

E
ven taking
the most direct route, it took me more than twelve hours to get home.

That morning, I’d bought a bottle of water and rinsed out my mouth. Then I’d called my brother back and told him I’d be there to talk to the police as soon as I could.

Things had been pretty clear to me after I talked to Ben. I’d made a bad mistake when I left Dorf. If I went back now, maybe Williams would let Justine go. Maybe taking her was his way of sending me a message:
Come back, or else
. If he’d already killed her, at least going back now would keep him from hurting anyone else. What he did to me was out of my hands, but maybe I could keep him from doing anything to anybody else. That idea had brought a measure of calm.

That calm was still with me when I pulled into the parking lot in front of the small brick building that served as Dorf’s police station.

I sat for a minute, enjoying the warmth and familiarity of my car. It was a ’91 Le Mans. It had been my mother’s. When I’d gotten the job with Dr. Nielsen, Mom had offered it to me, sort of offhandedly. We were cleaning up after dinner one night, just the two of us. She’d said she thought she’d get herself a newer car, but maybe we should hang onto this one for a while so I could drive to work.

I’d been so ashamed, back then, of failing at college. She’d saved for years for me to be able to go. It’s not like you make that much, working at a supermarket. She took extra hours whenever she could, even did some house-cleaning on the side. With my scholarships and financial aid and her loans and savings, we’d just been able to make it work.

But when I got there, the panic disorder flared. I’d always had attacks a couple times a week, but in Madison, I started having them every day, sometimes three or four times a day. Sometimes in the middle of class. I felt like I was floating in dark water, and terrifying things were sweeping by me at random, brushing my legs. The sense of terror was constant, overwhelming — crippling. I didn’t last a semester. I didn’t even last two months.

It came down to this: I’d thrown Mom’s money away, and all her hopes for me too, because I was too crazy to do what millions of eighteen-year-olds did every year.

And there she was, still trying to help me.

I should’ve gotten in her lap and cried like a baby; instead I shrugged and said, “Sounds good,” as if it didn’t mean the world to me, how much she cared.

She never got that new car, either. Instead, she got run over crossing Center Street.

I sighed and got out. It was uncomfortably cold. I stood next to the car, wondering if Williams was already hunting me. Maybe he’d shoot me from a distance, and I’d never feel a thing.

After a minute, nothing had happened. I gathered my courage and headed into the warmth and light of the station.

“
Y
es
, Justine and I don’t like each other. No, I didn’t do anything to her.”

The police chief scowled.

I scowled back. I was repeating the same basic information I’d been giving him for the last hour. I’d been scared at first. Then fear had faded to nervousness. Now I was just annoyed. Why was he being so dense?

“So, let me get this straight,” he said, consulting his notes. “Right after we brought in Agent Williams on Tuesday morning, you left Dorf, even though we’d asked you to remain available.”

“That’s right.”

“And you did this why?”

“I was afraid of him. He told me he’d kill me if I told anyone what he’d done.”

I might be a dead woman walking, but like hell if I wasn’t going to let people know who killed me. Well, who was going to be responsible for killing me when it happened, that is.

“Betty, do you really think we’re going to accept this story of yours again? John Williams is an agent in good standing. He’s never been reprimanded. In fact, he’s been decorated three times — I have his file right here.” The chief patted one of the folders on the table. “You expect us to believe he broke into your house, assaulted you, and tried to steal your photographs?”

“I don’t care what you believe. Fact is, I was afraid of him, and I left town at about 8:00 on Tuesday morning. I drove to Nebraska. When I heard from my brother that Justine was missing, I headed back. That’s it.”

“Problem is, you have no proof of that, which means your whereabouts are unaccounted for during the time that Mrs. Ryder went missing.”

This was infuriating — so not helpful to finding Justine.

Well, so be it. I guess it’s true that no good turn goes unpunished.

“Actually, Officer Shumaker’s phone logs should support my story. Since I was so scared Monday night, he was kind enough to call and let me know Williams was getting out. I talked to him at about 2:15 Tuesday afternoon, and I was already in western Minnesota when I received the call.”

The chief looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. I couldn’t have kidnapped Justine between 11:45 and 3:30 and also been across Minnesota at 2:15.

“What’s the number on your phone?”

I got out my wallet and handed him the scrap of paper where I’d written down the number.

“Where’s the phone?”

“I left it in a truck after I talked to Officer Shumaker.”

“How come?”

“I thought Williams might be able to trace where it was.”

The chief looked at me as though he were realizing for the first time that I was the saddest, most pathetic lunatic in Dorf.

“Wait here.”

He got up and left the room with the phone number. I felt bad about ratting out Doyle, but I thought he’d probably be okay. The chief was his brother’s godfather, so they were family friends.