Deadly Visions Part 22

"Do you think they were romantically involved?"

Deanna missed her shot. "No idea. It's not like I was watching them that close. The only reason I noticed is that I thought she looked a lot like the psychic. I spent nineteen bucks on her stupid hotline once and never even got to talk to her. All I got was some lame recorded message from her, then I got patched through to some dumb-a.s.s girl who got everything wrong. It's your shot, Joe."

He sunk the eleven ball. "When was the last time you saw her?"

"I don't know, maybe a month ago."

"That recently?"

"Yep. You know, people usually come here to have a good time. But those two never looked like they were having any fun at all."

Joe left town via Old Fenton Road. The cellular telephone tower that had relayed Monica's calls was located north of the city, so he decided to take a look in that direction before circling back and heading toward Atlanta. After his conversation with Deanna, he'd stopped in the town's two motels and one Waffle House, but no one else had seen Monica during her visits. Hopefully, Deanna wasn't just yanking his chain for a free game of pool.

Within five minutes, Joe found himself on a dustyrural road. Fine grains of clay blew in the wind, coating his car with dark red dust. Definitely the sticks, he thought. Except ...

A tall fence in the distance. He gunned the engine.

Barbed wire and ominous warning signs. The old supply depot.

He drove alongside the fence, looking at the overgrown fields and weather-beaten corrugated tin shelters that had once covered hundreds, if not thousands, of military vehicles. The shelters went on for miles, almost like rows of tombstones stretching into the distance.

He followed the road around a thick cl.u.s.ter of trees until, on the other side of the bend, he caught sight of a brown two-story building with no windows. Distinctive horizontal panels jutted out from its side. It was an older building, possibly World War II vintage. He studied it. There was something odd about its shape. It almost looked like a- He froze as the realization hit him.

It looked like a crate.

He cut the wheel hard right and circled back to the cl.u.s.ter of trees. This had hadto be what Monica was talking about. An unlikely spot for a love nest, but if isolation was what she wanted, this certainly fit the bill. He parked in the shade of a weeping willow and climbed outside.

He moved through the trees and took another look at the building. The wood panels were chipped and faded, and the surrounding grounds were as overgrown as the rest of the property.

He stepped toward the chain-link-and-razor-blade fence. Much newer than anything else in the vicinity.The depot had been deserted for eight years, but the fence still had a chrome sheen that couldn't have been more than a couple of years old. He walked around the back of the building. There was a new blacktop driveway marked with a fresh set of red clay tire tracks. The tracks had been laid since the last rain.

He walked around the perimeter, studying the ground beneath the fence. He spotted a clump of pine straw and soft earth, which he kicked with his toe. It moved easily. He kneeled and dug at the earth, opening a narrow gap under the fence. He lay on his back and pushed himself along with his legs, turning his head to avoid the sharp ends of chain-link. After emerging on the other side, he stood and glanced around.

He walked across a clearing and climbed three rickety steps that led up to the door. Nailed shut by large slats of lumber. He looked down through the steps and saw that they covered a crawls.p.a.ce beneath the building. He jumped to the ground, knelt on all fours, and crept underneath.

He paused to allow his eyes to adjust. The sun was setting, and his only illumination was a shaft of light spearing through the trees. Finally he saw a pipe jutting down on the other side of the building.

He crawled toward it, trying to avoid the chunks of rock and concrete that littered the hard earth. Perspiration covered his face as he breathed in the still, musty air.

Finally he reached the pipe. He gripped it and ran his hand up to where it penetrated the floor above. He lightly fingered the hardwood floor, feeling itssmooth surface. Was there a seam here? He reared back with his elbow and struck the floor. The access panel flew off, and harsh fluorescent light jutted through the small rectangular opening.

He poked his head through the panel and found himself staring into a sparkling-clean bathroom that looked brand-new. A trace of pine scented the air.

He lifted himself up into the room, moved toward the door, and pulled it open. He peeked through the opening to see a long corridor that must have run the entire length of the building. The decor was sleek, with plush carpeting, subdued colors, and ornate sconces lining the walls. What the h.e.l.l was this place? He may as well have been in the offices of a high-priced Buckhead law firm.

He moved down the corridor, glancing into the open doorways as he pa.s.sed. Most were gray and inst.i.tutional in their appearance, with a table, a scattered few chairs, and a mirrored one-way gla.s.s at the end. They reminded him of the marketing research labs he'd visited in his college days, where for a quick fifty dollars he'd sat with focus groups and discussed cars, clothing, or soft drinks.

Farther down the hall, the rooms were more cheerfully decorated, with bright colors, rainbows, and animal prints on the walls. A kiddie version of the observation rooms.

At the end of the hall, he stepped into an area that resembled a television studio's master control center. A large control board dominated the area, facing a bank of monitors. Three video cameras on mobile tripods rested in back. He was about to continue down the corridor, when he spotted a white, glossyboard marked with a schedule of some kind. The names on the grid were familiar: DAY. ISSER. IVERSON.MILLS. COHEN. GAINES.

It took him only a moment to realize that the names all belonged to well-known psychics-Butler Day, Jake Isser, Jackie Iverson, Ramona Mills, Sharon Cohen, and Monica Gaines-and this was a schedule of traditional psychic tests to be performed in various rooms in the building. Joe nodded to himself. Of course. This was a paranormal testing center. He had visited several others, including the facilities in Atlanta's Landwyn University, but nothing as elaborate as this.

"Don't move."

Joe froze.

The voice came from behind him. "Turn around. Slowly."

Joe turned and saw two men standing in the doorway. Both wore plain gray security guard uniforms, and each held a .38 leveled at his heart."I'm a police detective," he said."I'll show you my ID."

The shorter of the two men, whose name badge read GRIFFITH, raised his gun."Don't move."

"Does that mean you'll take my word for it?"

"No." He glanced at his partner."Check him."

The taller guard, whose name badge identified him as HARRIS, unsnapped Joe's holster, lifted out his gun, and patted him down before removing his wallet and badge. He flipped open the badge cover. "It says he's with the Atlanta PD."

Griffith glared at him. "This isn't your jurisdiction. You have no right to be here."

"I'm investigating the Monica Gaines case." Joepointed to the schedule. "She's been here, hasn't she?"

Griffith glanced at the schedule, then shoved Joe out of the room. He pulled the door closed. "This place is off limits to you."

"Why? Is this some kind of control room?"

"The whole building's off limits. Now we have to figure out what to do with you."

"I'll make it easy. Just give me my gun back and answer a few questions. Who's responsible for all this?"

"You're in no position to be asking questions."

"Fine. Why don't you tell me what position I am amin?"

Harris nervously spoke to his partner. "He's a f.u.c.kin'cop."

"I know."

"I didn't sign on for this. What are we supposed to do now?"

"I don't know. s.h.i.t. Let me think."

Joe stared at the gun barrels trained at him. He was reasonably certain that in three quick moves he could grab one of the guns and put a bullet into its owner. But that still left the other guy free to make Nikki an orphan. There had to be a better way. He'd never shot a man and he wasn't eager to start now. "Look, you can call my captain at the Atlanta Police Department. She'll back me up."

The short guard shook his head. "You don't understand our problem."

"Then help me understand."

"Shut up." Harris glanced at his partner. "We'll put him in one of the rooms upstairs."

The tall guard nodded uncertainly. "Then what?"

"f.u.c.k if I know."

They led Joe up a small stairwell to the second floor. More open doors. Living quarters, Joe realized, decorated with plush carpeting, beds, sectional sofas, and entertainment centers. The guards shoved him into one of the rooms and closed the door.

Joe tried the k.n.o.b. Locked, of course. He surveyed the room, and it appeared to be identical to the others. A dormitory for psychics?

It was all too surreal.

Who would have the money and influence to gather a "dream team" of psychic superstars to this G.o.dforsaken place? And why?

There'd be time to wrestle with that later, Joe thought. Now there was only one problem that needed his immediate attention.

Getting the h.e.l.l out.

He had one major advantage-the building obviously wasn't designed to keep prisoners. It had been originally constructed as a supply warehouse. Then, more recently, renovated as some kind of testing center.

Surely he could do this. As a struggling nineteen-year-old magician, one of his earliest stunts had been an escape from a new juvenile detention facility in Al-pharetta. A friend of his father's was the warden there, and he'd agreed to lock Joe in a cell until either he escaped or the center opened for business thirty-four days later.

Joe had escaped in an hour and twenty-six minutes. Sam typed up a press release, and within days the story was in newspapers all over the country. For the first time, Joe's magic act was in demand and hewas able to leave behind the birthday-party gigs and corporate shows that had been his bread and b.u.t.ter. Now, after all these years, it was time for an encore.

Forty minutes later, Joe took inventory of the materials he'd gathered in his prison: approximately thirty feet of heavy-gauge video cable from the television; coils of wire unwound from a spiral notebook; a can of hair spray; a sample-size bottle of shampoo from the bathroom, and a long-handled butane fire starter from the gas fireplace. He wished he'd taken a closer look at the building's exterior before barging in, but he hadn't expected to be staging an escape.

He cut slits in two small silk toiletry bags, looped his belt through them, and deposited most of the materials inside. He coiled the video cable and hung it from his shoulder.

He glanced up at the ceiling. Probably the best way out. He was sure he could pick the door lock, but if the corridor was rigged with motion sensors and/or security cameras, the two guards would pay him a nasty visit. Up and out made more sense.

He picked up a table lamp, yanked off the shade, and stood on a chair. He tapped on the ceiling, trying to find a hollow s.p.a.ce between the joists. Easy enough. He swung the lamp's base upward, punctured a hole in the ceiling, then clawed down several chunks of chalky white drywall. He gripped the exposed wooden joists and lifted his head into the attic. Tiny, and covered with dust and rolls of pink insulation. He'd have to crawl.

He pulled himself up. It was now dark outside, but there was moonlight filtering through air vents on each end of the attic. He glanced at the criss-crossing beams that held the roof. Better to head west, away from the full moon. The building's shadow would offer at least some cover if he made it outside.

When,not if.

He pulled the fire starter's trigger, keeping the flame ignited as he wedged the tiny shampoo bottle into the trigger guard. He put the handle into his mouth and crawled on the narrow joists. Shards of fibergla.s.s insulation p.r.i.c.ked his exposed skin.

Crickets chirped outside. He was getting closer.

Slow down, man. Can't let the guards hear you thumping around. Focus on the vent.

He felt the cool, damp night air. Just a little farther ...

Finally. He was there.

He tugged at the vent.

It didn't budge.

He held up the fire starter and saw that the grille was secured by four flat-head screws. He pulled a dime from his pocket, angled its edge into the screw head, and turned. He worked it loose, then tackled the other screws until the vent grille fell silently into a clump of insulation.

He stuck his head outside. Higher than he'd thought. Thirty-five, maybe forty feet. s.h.i.t. He glanced around, looking for a security camera. It was, as he'd suspected, at the roof's highest point, only six or seven feet away. He pulled out the aerosol can and sprayed its contents toward the camera, forming a dense film over the lens.

typical nighttime condensation, they'd think. At least, he hoped hopedthey'd think. He'd seen enough diffused, cloudy surveillance tapes to know that outdoor security cameras were often worthless beyond the dew point.

He tied the coaxial video cable to the nearest cross beam, then tossed the other end out of the vent opening. He eased outside, legs first, wrapping the cable around his wrists. He glanced down. A long way to fall if the cable didn't hold.

He yanked on it. It seemed seemedst.u.r.dy.

Only one way to tell.

He dropped from the vent, putting all of his weight on the cable. So far, so good ...

He lurched downward.

Just the slipknot tightening, he realized. His lifeline was holding.

He moved down, inches at a time. He hadn't realized it was so d.a.m.ned windy. The gusts blew him back and forth like a clock pendulum.

Forget about the wind. Stay the course....

He continued to move down, hoping that the guards wouldn't spot him. Here, suspended so far over the ground, he was completely vulnerable.

End of the cable. He looked down. Only ten feet to go.

He dropped to the hard earth, rolling as he landed. He jumped to his feet and hugged the side of the building.

Silence.

He moved away, inching toward his entry point at the fence. Another few feet, and he'd be- A loud, high-pitched alarm sounded. The entirearea suddenly flooded with white, intense light. Either they'd discovered he was gone, or he'd tripped a motion sensor.

Christ.

He bolted for the fence.

Using the distant glow of Remington as his guide, Joe moved through the dense foliage and creek beds that peppered the landscape between the town and the old supply depot. No telling how many people would be looking for him, but his chances were much better if he stayed away from the roads.

After what seemed like hours, he finally emerged on a hilltop overlooking the town. Just below him was the good old Funky Tusk bar.

He half ran, half slid down the gra.s.sy hill and threw open the front door. The place was now packed. Joe glanced around for a pay phone as he pushed through the crowd.

The same kid was tending bar. He looked Joe up and down, his eyes widening at his ripped and stained clothes."What happened to you?"

"Never mind. Let me use your phone."

The kid plopped a cordless phone on the bar, and Joe punched a number. To his surprise, Captain Henderson answered.

"Henderson, it's me, Bailey."