The Beholder (4 page)

Chapter 7

In less than an hour the gravel driveway in front of Debbie’s two-story cottage crackled under Jason’s car’s wheels. Debbie cut the engine and rubbed her arms, which were dimpled by goosebumps though the day was hot. Jason still clutched the paper, but he was no longer reading. Now his eyes were glued to a picture of a person lying facedown, covered with blood.

“Let’s get inside,” Debbie said. “Matt should be here any minute.”

Their doors slammed shut, and Jason followed Debbie towards the house. Jason had always liked her place. Everything felt welcoming. The ancient oaks surrounding the house provided shelter from the intolerable heat and helped Jason—at least for a little while—forget about the urban chaos that existed not far away, about New Yorkers who were always rushing, and about evil red creatures who wanted his blood.

He followed Debbie inside, then hung his dusty jacket in the closet and followed her down a small corridor on the right that led to the kitchen. Jason had been to the house so many times he knew it as well as he knew his own apartment.

“Coffee?” she asked, switching on the machine.

“Yeah, I think I could do with a cup.” He pulled a stool toward the counter and set both the newspaper and letter in front of him. “Well?” he asked, looking up at her. “Do you believe me now?”

Debbie fussed in the cupboards, pulling out cups and spoons, cream and sugar, but eventually she nodded grudgingly.

“What changed your mind?”

Debbie opened the fridge and leaned in, her eyes searching for something. “When I saw the newspaper I thought about you. I still had doubts, of course. I mean, it’s not a natural, logical jump, is it? But when I called and your cell phone was switched off, I went to your place. That’s when I saw the letter, and I knew you were in danger.”

“Why?” Jason furrowed his brows.

Debbie took some cheese from the fridge, then shut it with a thump of her hip.

“Take a look at page seven,” she said, setting the plate in front of him. She slid the newspaper closer and thumbed through it. Then she stopped and poked the page with her finger. “Here.”

Jason leaned in for a closer look, already feeling beads of sweat studding his forehead. The photos showed close-ups of the marks left on the victims, and Jason shuddered. The marks were exactly the same as the TW seal on the letter he’d received the day before.

“They are the same,” he said quietly, tracing a numb fingertip over the photos. “Only the letters are different each time.”

“Yeah, and I tried matching them with the victims’ names, but it doesn’t work.”

They both stared at the grisly photos a little longer, then he looked up and met Debbie’s eyes. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Her voice was gentle. “We’re friends. How could I
not
?”

The sound of a car approaching interrupted their conversation, and Debbie craned her neck to look outside.

“We’re in the kitchen!” she called through the window, then smiled at Jason. “Matt’s here.”

A few moments later he appeared at the kitchen door, greeting them both with his lazy smile.

“Why didn’t you call?” Debbie snapped. “Did you find him?”

“Easy, girl.” Matt raised his tattooed hands in the air. “I tried, but his cell doesn’t respond, and no one in the restaurant knows where he is.”

“What’s going on?” Jason asked, looking up from where he sat.

Matt tilted his head slightly and gave Jason an accusatory frown. “Hey, why didn’t I see you at work today?”

Jason lifted one eyebrow, a rueful smile on his face. “Thanks to Debbie, I’m taking a break.”

Matt turned to Debbie, then grinned at Jason. “What? You lucky devil! I wish I had a break.”

Debbie shook her head. “Keep on wishing. Hey, why don’t you guys head into the living room? I’ll bring coffee.”

The living room was the most spacious room in the house. An ivory white pianoforte took up the entire far right corner. Across from it stood a writing desk, piled high with fashion magazines, and Jason knew the Apple notebook was tucked somewhere in between. Paintings and prints cluttered the walls, displaying a variety of styles and colors that Jason loved to browse. A bar took up most of the rest of the place, and though Jason and Matt both liked the room, after a while Jason felt a bit claustrophobic around such closed confines.

Jason sat close to the window. Though the room was cool enough, the thin curtains rippled invitingly with a subtle draft.

“Who’s Debbie asking about? Who’s missing?”

“William,” Matt said, settling into a nearby chair.

“What?”

An image shot into Jason’s mind, a picture of William talking with the black-coated man at the restaurant. Could he possibly be connected to all this?

Matt shrugged. “No one knows where he is. He hasn’t been seen since yesterday. And Debbie is freaking out.”

“I guess so. This,” Jason held up the newspaper then passed it to Matt, “is the reason she’s freaking out.”

Matt took the paper and read the article, looking confused.

“Turn to page seven,” Debbie said, carrying in a small tray with cups of coffee and sandwiches. She set it on a table in the middle of the room, then sank onto a lush sofa. “When I went to Jason’s, I found a letter with that kind of symbol on it, you see? Like those letters there? And now they’re being found on these people’s left shoulders—do you remember Jason talking about how painful his left shoulder has been lately?”

“Wait,” Matt said, trying to figure it out. “So you’re saying whoever sent the letter to Jason might be the same ones who are killing these people?”

Debbie crossed her legs and sipped on her coffee, then nodded. Jason noted she had changed into black, close-fitting knee breeches and a rose shirt. She’d even pulled her hair up and added some mascara. She looked lovely. But her eyes were unsmiling and wary.

He sipped on his coffee, then set it down. “Can’t say for sure, but someone’s trying to scare the hell out of me. And with William missing, the situation is getting even more out of control.”

“Should we report him missing?” Debbie asked, rubbing her arms together, though she couldn’t possibly be cold.

“It’s probably too early yet,” Jason replied.

Matt was reading the rest of the article, his dark eyebrows arched with disbelief. “Reykjavik, Atlanta, Erevan, Frankfurt am Main, Minsk,” he whispered, then raised his eyes to Jason and Debbie. “That’s like … the whole world!” He laughed out loud, but the sound was constricted.

“Four people killed and more alleged missing,” Jason said. “Do you know what that means … to me?”

Debbie fidgeted with her golden Believe necklace, staring past Jason into nothingness. She nodded slowly. “It means you’ll have more dreams.”

Jason closed his eyes. She was right.

“That sucks,” Matt muttered.

“Let’s check the internet,” Debbie said, hopping up from the sofa.

In one smooth move, she cleared her desk of all the magazines and dropped them in a neat pile nearby. Then she plopped into the rickety desk chair and opened her laptop. Jason and Matt watched over her shoulder as she googled the title of the newspaper article, then leaned in when a few links popped up. She clicked the first one.

CORPSES WITH MYSTERIOUS MARKS REMAIN UNIDENTIFIED

A number of murders and abductions taking place in capital cities around the world are attracting more public attention every day. The first victim was found in Reykjavik, but the case received extensive media coverage following the discovery of three more bodies. All the victims bore similar marks on their left shoulders. At this point, experts have not been able to account for the origin of the marks, or to decipher their meaning. What is more mystifying is that the authorities have so far been unable to identify any of the victims.

“Wait!” Jason cried, realization hitting him like a blow to the head. “My first dream! In it there was a man, a German. His accent was unmistakable. The shadow creatures chased him, then captured and tortured him. I saw everything. I also felt everything he felt until the connection between us broke. I guess that’s when he died.”

Matt and Debbie exchanged a worried glance, then Debbie stared back at the screen. Jason noticed her fingers trembling over the keyboard, and he raised his eyebrows at Matt. Matt put a comforting hand on her shoulder for support, and she glanced up at him, her smile warm.

“Look,” she said, focusing on the computer. “They have a few pictures of the victims. Does anything look familiar?”

Jason didn’t know what to expect, but he leaned closer, intrigued. He’d never met those people, had no idea they’d even existed, yet they had suddenly become an essential part of his life.

The picture downloaded, and they all gasped with horror at the image of the man before them. The cause of death was obvious: a dent in his skull, as if he’d been smashed by a hammer. The dead man’s face still twisted in a final scream, his eyes gaped open, imprinted with terror. All four limbs were extended at unnatural angles, his body mutilated.

Jason gagged, feeling as if someone had punched him in the stomach. With infinite clarity, he remembered being inside that person. He knew exactly how the man had died: his skull had cracked when the shadow stomped on it. That was when he’d woken up. 

Matt stepped back from the screen, his face pale. “That’s not pretty.”

Debbie closed the file hastily. “You recognized him?” she asked, then swallowed hard when Jason nodded.

“So this is real,” Matt said. “They are the victims from your dreams?”

Jason nodded again, and Debbie picked up the newspaper.

“I don’t understand how they could accomplish it over such vast distances,” she began. “Look at this. It’s more than just the five they had in the article. Reykjavik, Atlanta, Erevan, Frankfurt am Main, Minsk, Edinburgh, Jakarta, Asunción, and Sydney.”

Jason studied the list, entirely confused. “What do they want from me?”

“And what about the letter? Why did they send it to you? You said when you went to Times Square you saw the evil men, but also that one in the cloak which you say rescued you. Who sent the letter? The murderers?”

“What if the person who sent you this letter is actually good, but being watched by the bad guys?” Matthew asked. “They’re afraid of exposing themselves to the bad guys.”

“But why me? What’s going on?”

“Maybe … maybe you’re seeing the future, Jase.”

Debbie turned around all the way so she could take Jason’s hand in hers. “Let’s think about this. Whoever the bad guys are, they want to kill you. But whoever the other guy is, he wants to save you. That tells me you are special in some way that we can’t see. Whatever is going on in your brain may be dangerous for whoever they are.”

Jason twisted his face into a scowl. “That’s ridiculous. What can I do to them?  Makes no sense.”

But something about the place names disturbed him, and he focused on the screen again. What if the murders hadn’t been random? Was there some kind of pattern?

Then he saw it, and he broke into a cold sweat, feeling panic lodge in his belly.

“It’s a riddle.”

“What?”

“Look.”

It all became clear in the worst possible way. In Jason’s mind the letters ignited, burst into flames, forming a threat that could not be a coincidence. He felt dizzy and flushed, and wondered whether these awful people knew every damn thing about him: his friends, his address, his workplace. In a moment of clarity he realized that by researching them this way, he had probably played right into their hands.

“What is it, Jase?” Matt asked.

Jason’s voice was flat. “They arranged it so I would notice. Read the first letters of each place from here.”

Debbie frowned. “R. A. E. F. M. E. J. A. and S. What does that mean?”

“You have to play with it a bit. Watch.”

He reached for a piece of paper and pen, then wrote all the letters down.

R … A … E … F … M … E … J… A … S …

Then, one by one, he crossed them out.

R … A … E … F

M … E

J … A … S … O … N

“But ‘raef’ isn’t a word,” Matt pointed out.

Jason took the scrap and made some changes to it. “No, but this is. Look. Switch the letters around and you get this.”

F … E … A … R

M … E

J … A … S … O … N

The friends stared at the piece of paper. “There’s no ‘O’ or ‘N’,” Debbie pointed out.

But Jason was positive. “Believe me. There
will
be ‘O’ and ‘N’.”

“Who’s
‘Me’
?” Matt wondered, tapping one finger on the paper.

Jason didn’t answer, but he thought he knew. It had to be the shadow—the one who wanted the nimble girl dead.

“So if you’re right, there will be two more killings,” Matt said. “The last letter is ‘N’.” He looked at his friends, fear in his eyes, and said softly, “I bet it’s going to be New York. It’s going to be here.”