Watcher of the Dark: A Jeremiah Hunt Supernatual Thriller (The Jeremiah Hunt Chronicle) (15 page)

That left me with only one name.

John A. Bergman at 402 West Cavalier Drive.

It was time to pay Jack a visit.

I gathered my things, tucked the twenty I’d promised my helper into his jacket pocket, and used his sight to help me navigate over to the librarian’s desk. With my sunglasses firmly on my face, I explained that I was blind and asked if she would be kind enough to call me a cab.

Ten minutes later I was on the 405 headed toward West Cavalier Drive and what I hoped would be some answers.

*   *   *

“You sure this is the place, man?”

I leaned forward so I could hear the cabbie better through the thick plexiglass window that separated us.

“402 West Cavalier Drive?”

“Yeah, yeah. I got the right address an all, I’m jus’ asking if you’re sure this is where you wanted to go. It’s all boarded up and shit.”

“Boarded up?”

“Yeah, you know, plywood over the windows and two-by-fours nailed over the doorframe? From all the graffiti it looks like it’s been this way for at least a couple of months, maybe more.”

Damn. Teach me to listen to my gut.

“I must have the wrong address then. Sorry for the trouble.” I told him to take me back to Fuentes’s place in the Hollywood Hills, which he was more than happy to do.

“Whatever you say. You’re the boss,” he said, in that cheery voice of his, and suddenly I wanted to hit him. I settled for leaning back in the seat and fuming.

It had not been a very productive day.

19

The sun was going down by the time I made it back to Fuentes’s estate. I had the cabbie drop me off at the main gate and then had a security team member take me back to my bungalow in one of the electric carts kept on hand to make getting around the property easier. I kept the curtains drawn at all times so once inside all I had to do was shut the door behind me to shut out the last of the day’s light. Taking off my sunglasses, I let my eyes adjust to the darkness.

Roaming around L.A. all day had left me feeling gritty and hungry. I took care of the latter first, calling a local pizza joint and ordering a large pie with everything on it. Once that was handled, I grabbed a change of clothing from the bedroom and headed for the shower.

I turned the water on and let it heat up for a moment, then stripped and turned to get into the shower. From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror over the sink.

Someone else’s face stared back at me.

I spun around, my hands clenched into fists, ready to defend myself as my heart pounded in my chest and adrenaline flooded my system.

My own eyes, wide and frightened, stared back at me from the surface of the mirror.

There was nothing, and no one, else there.

Just my reflection.

“You’re seeing things, Hunt,” I said aloud, trying to reassure myself, but my voice sounded hollow against the backdrop of the running water.

I could have sworn the face I’d seen hadn’t been my own. My years hunting my daughter, Elizabeth, had given me a lean, wiry look, never mind an upper body covered in tattoos. The face I’d seen had been wider, and darker, than my own. I think it was the eyes that caught my attention though; it’s hard to miss the pale whiteness of my orbs, but the eyes I had seen had been dark and full of a kind of crackling intensity that had shocked me to the core.

And yet … I had to have imagined it.

What else could it have been but that?

Well aware of what stress can do to a person, I shook my head to clear it of the crazy notion and stepped into the shower, convinced the hot water would turn me into a new man.

A shower and some food, that’s what you need, Hunt.

A shower and some food.

Half an hour later I knew I’d been right. The shower had washed away the grime of the city streets and half a large pizza supreme had eased the hunger pangs in my gut. I felt good, better than I had in days really, and the nonsense of the face in the mirror seemed to be just that—nonsense and nothing more. A result of poor lighting on a barely glimpsed image and a day spent staring at photographs of Jack Bergman and his employer, Michael Durante, though borrowed eyes.

Shaking my head and laughing at my own absurdity, I grabbed another slice of pizza and sat back, trying to figure out my next step. I needed to find Bergman, if he was still alive, that much was clear. Bergman could explain the relationship between Durante and Fuentes, might even be able to tell me what this mysterious Key was and why Fuentes wanted it so badly.

Right now he was my only link to some badly needed answers, and I had to find him before anyone else did.

Unfortunately, I had no idea where I might find the guy, which made setting up a meeting between us rather difficult.

I was going to need some help.

I might not know where Bergman had gone to ground, but I knew someone who most likely did. All I had to do was ask her.

I stood up and moved to the center of the room. I raised my face to the ceiling and extended my arms out to either side, palms up. Closing my eyes, I called out softly.

“Come to me, Whisper. Come to me.”

As I called her name, I pictured her doing what I wanted.

I repeated my request, over and over again, until at last I felt the air pressure in the room change and knew that I was no longer alone.

I opened my eyes, expecting to see Whisper standing nearby, and was surprised to find her standing on the far side of the room, as far away from me as she could get without being in a different room entirely. She was staring at me with an expression that could only be defined as fear.

What the hell?

I hadn’t seen Whisper this edgy, not even the night this had all started, when she’d shown up in my motel room with warnings that “he’s coming.” Rivera and his crew had shown up seconds later, bashing down my door and doing what they could to take me hostage. Only Whisper’s warning had allowed me to fight my way clear and get out of the room. Of course I hadn’t gotten far, but at this point that was like water under the bridge; nothing to be done about it now. I’d come to the conclusion that the “he” Whisper had been referring to was either Rivera or Fuentes, though I supposed it could refer to someone I had yet to meet.

Now there’s a lovely thought.

I shook myself, chasing the negativity away.
Focus, Hunt.

“I need your help, Whisper,” I told her now.

She just kept staring at me with eyes wide open and that uneasy look on her face.

I’d never seen her react to me like this before. The first, faint stirring of irritation passed through me.

“Come here, Whisper. I need you to help me, understand?”

Whisper shook her head.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I processed the fact that she’d actually responded to a specific statement, that she’d shown beyond a reasonable doubt that she recognized what I was saying, and felt a thrill of wonder that the two of us were actually communicating directly. That wonder, however, was quickly replaced with irritation as I realized that she was refusing my request.

My temper flared and I could feel my lips curling into a snarl of anger.

“I said get over here!”

The shout echoed in the confined space of the bungalow, leaving no doubt as to who thought they were in charge of the relationship.

What was wrong with me?

I didn’t shout at Whisper. Ever. It was something you just didn’t do; I knew that instinctively. Had known it since the day we’d met. And yet here I was, raising my voice.

Expecting Whisper to vanish at the first sign of confrontation, I was surprised when I looked up again to find her still standing there.

Now, however, she wasn’t alone.

Where Whisper went, Scream was never far behind.

I should have remembered that too.

Scream stood roughly halfway between Whisper and me. He, too, stared at me, with not a fearful but a disgusted expression on his face.

Being in his general vicinity makes most people uncomfortable; being right beside him could make you literally sick with fear. I had never experienced Scream’s aura of terror before—had, in fact, thought I was immune—but as I stood there I was suddenly assaulted with all my worst fears at the same moment. My thoughts were flooded with all the things that haunt my psyche in the deepest dark of the dead of night, the things that no matter how hard I try I can never seem to get away from, and the sensation made me literally take several steps backward, away from my ghostly companions.

If I thought my temper had flared before, it went positively supernova now. I did not like being intimidated, particularly by something as insubstantial as a ghost, and my fury enveloped me with the swiftness of a summer storm rolling in off the plains.

My hand dipped into my pocket and came out again with my harmonica clenched securely in its grip. I’m not sure exactly what I intended to do—control him? banish him?—but thankfully, whatever it was, I didn’t get the chance to see it through. As my harp rose to my lips, Whisper and Scream exchanged a glance between them and then vanished as if they had never been there at all.

I stalked around the room, ranting and raving and doing God knows what all; everything was pretty much a blur after that. I know I broke a few dishes and smashed my foot through the coffee table in an effort to release all the anger that had built up inside me during the confrontation. It must have worked, for eventually I wandered into the bedroom, collapsed on the bed, and fell asleep …

20

… only to find myself behind the wheel of the Charger I don’t know how much later. I was parked by the side of the road, staring across the two lanes of traffic at a three-story motel that looked like a thousand others across the city, including the fleabag place I’d been staying in when Rivera and his crew had found me the week before. It was the kind of place you went to when you needed to lie low and didn’t want to be found for a while.

I had no idea how I came to be there. I didn’t remember getting in the car. I didn’t remember driving there, wherever
there
actually was.

Had I been sleepwalking?

I’d heard of people doing crazy things while caught in a fugue state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, but I never thought it would happen to me. I knew I was under a lot of stress, but come on! Driving while asleep? This was ridiculous!

I glanced around, noted that it was still dark out.

The clock on the dash said 4:16 a.m., which meant dawn wasn’t all that far away. I wasn’t sure exactly where I was, but figured I’d have a better chance of getting back to Fuentes if I left now than if I hung around waiting to be trapped by the rising sun.

I shook my head to clear it, put one hand on the wheel and the other on the key, intending to start the engine, when my gaze drifted back to the motel across the street.

A blond-haired man was hurrying along the second-floor crosswalk, a bag of groceries in his hands. I only caught a glimpse of his face, but a glimpse was enough.

It was Jack Bergman.

I was positive of it.

My first instinct was to rush across the street, but I stayed were I was, watching him. From here I had a good view of the entire upper floor of the motel and was able to watch as he stopped at the third door from the end, pulled out a key, and, with a wary glance around him, opened the door and slipped inside.

The fleabag motel. The early morning run for groceries before anyone else was awake. The surreptitious glances around him to be sure no one was watching.

This was a man on the run.

But from who? Fuentes?

Or someone I didn’t even know about yet?

Only one way to find out.

I got out of the car, locked it up, and hustled across the street. I figured I had, at best, another half hour of darkness left in which to make my move. After that, it was back to being blind for the day until darkness fell once more.

Hopefully it would be enough time to do what I needed to do.

I had no clue how it had happened, but somehow my subconscious mind must have put two and two together and deduced where Bergman was hiding out. Stranger things had happened, I knew, so I didn’t try to analyze it too much as I hurried across the street and into the motel parking lot.

The room he’d rented was the third from the end, which meant the only window was the big plate glass one in front. That was also the only other exit besides the door, as his unit backed up against the one behind him on the other side of the building. Bergman wouldn’t be expecting anyone at this hour; hell, he probably wasn’t expecting anyone at all. If I could get inside the motel room I was pretty confident that I could get him to listen to me.

Hard and fast, that’s the way it needed to be done, I decided. Explanations could come after I knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

I hurried down the walkway until I reached the room I’d seen him enter. Looking around and not seeing anyone else, I leaned close to the door and listened for a moment.

Nothing.

Hopefully Bergman was alone.

I bent down to where the edge of the building met the surface of the walkway and scooped up a little of the dirt and grime that had gathered there with my finger. Adding a bit of spit, I smeared the guck over the outside surface of the peephole. Bergman wouldn’t be able to see through it now to confirm I was who I said I was.

Satisfied, I stepped to the side and put my back to the wall next to the door. Reaching out with my left hand, I knocked briskly.

A moment passed, then a voice called out from inside.

“Who’s there?”

“Management, sir,” I said, in a clear voice. “You dropped this on your way across the parking lot.”

I heard the chain come off and the bolt thrown back as Bergman unlocked the door. As soon as it started to open I spun around and slammed all my weight against the door, forcing it open and sending Bergman falling backward to the floor.

Had to give him credit, he rolled over and started scrambling for the bathroom on hands and knees even as the door was swinging shut behind me. I let him go, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere once he locked himself inside.