Chapter Seven

He detested stakeouts. The boredom factor was off the charts.

Gideon absently massaged his aching leg. He was sitting on a small folding stool in the shadows of the rear door of a pizza shop. The restaurant had closed two hours ago. His position gave him a clear view of the service entrance of Amelia’s apartment complex.

When he had arrived earlier he had been pushing a rusty shopping cart filled with the accoutrements of the cover he had chosen to use for the night’s work—some empty fast-food take-out cartons, a well-worn backpack, and a grungy sleeping roll. Just another homeless person trying to get through the night. Anyone who happened to pass by would look the other way.

Not that he expected a lot of foot traffic, not at one o’clock in the morning. It was unlikely that any innocents would wander into the poorly lit service lane at that hour. It would be the equivalent of taking a stroll down a dark alley. The flip side of that logic meant that if someone did show up it was a good bet the individual would not be an innocent.

He hadn’t set out to become a private investigator. Growing up, he and everyone else in the tightly knit Sweetwater clan had assumed he would join the family business, Sweetwater Security. But no, he’d just had to strike out on his own. The problem he had encountered—and that everyone else in the family had warned him about—was that his talent severely limited his career options.

Most of his work involved predictions, but not of the psychic variety. Criminals, like everyone else, were creatures of habit. They planned and carried out their crimes according to the old adage If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it . Amelia’s stalker had only had two nights to establish a pattern, but that was enough.

He was wondering if Amelia was still awake when a figure appeared at the far end of the service lane and moved quickly toward the gate. There was no hoodie tonight. Instead, the newcomer wore the uniform of a private security guard company, the cap pulled low over his eyes. He got points for upgrading the disguise, but the rest of his actions fit the pattern. As was the case with so many criminals, he had failed to do his research. Amelia’s apartment complex did not employ a security service.

The fake guard stopped in front of the security gate and prepared to open it with a key fob.

Here we go , Gideon thought.

He grabbed his cane and levered himself up off the seat. Pain shot down his right leg. He had been sitting too long. Fortunately adrenaline was kicking in, allowing him to keep moving.

He made it across the service lane just as the fake guard started to open the gate.

“You and I need to have a chat,” Gideon said. “I’ve got a few questions.”

The guard glanced at him and immediately lost interest.

“Get lost,” he growled.

“That’s not how this works.”

The guard rounded on him, his eyes hot. “You stupid fuck. You only get one warning.”

The bone-chilling jolt of energy struck with the force of an electric shock. Gideon staggered back a couple of steps and nearly went down. He managed to save himself with his cane. But before he could recover, the fake guard delivered another invisible blow.

The second psychic blast sent him to the ground and threatened to freeze his heart. Stunned, he tried to get to his feet.

The guard loomed over him. “Who do you think you are, you crazy fucker?”

The assailant readied himself for a kick to the head. Gideon rolled to the side. The boot caught him on the shoulder. He went with the force of the blow and wound up on his back.

“You’re a dead man.” The assailant’s eyes glittered with a feverish light.

So much for engaging in a conversation that might have provided some useful information. Gideon pulled hard on his talent, got the fix, and channeled a current of energy. He aimed it at the fragile barrier that separated the assailant’s dreamstate from his waking state. The delicate border shattered like a wall of glass hit by a meteor. The nightmares roared forth.

Unable to cope with the sea of horrors, paralyzed by the inability to separate dreams from reality, the assailant reeled, lost his balance, and came up hard against the wrought iron fence. He lost consciousness and collapsed. There was an unpleasant thud when he hit his head on the pavement.

Gideon considered the jolt of lethal energy the guard had unleashed. Some psychic you are, Sweetwater. Did not see that coming.

When he was back in control, he steadied himself with the cane, got to his feet, and leaned over to search the fallen man. The pat-down produced nothing except the key fob, which had no doubt been stolen. No ID. No forgotten credit card receipts. No phone. No communication devices of any kind.

That was not good news. It meant the fake guard was not a run-of-the-mill obsessed stalker, assuming there was such an entity. He was a professional, one who had been trained to leave all traces of identification behind before going operational. And he had a lethal psychic talent.

Amelia had a serious problem.

Fortunately the stalker was still alive. Between the damage to his head and his trip into Nightmare World, he might not wake up. But if he did there would be a chance to question him. In the meantime, he had to be stashed somewhere. Unconscious people lying out in the open tended to draw attention.

Gideon took a beat to consider his options.

His leg and ribs protested mightily when he leaned down to grasp the fake guard’s wrist, but he managed to get a grip. He was preparing to drag his burden across the pavement and into the shadows of an empty doorway when he heard the sound of an accelerating vehicle. He glanced around and saw a delivery van, lights off, rushing toward him.

The pro had brought backup—or maybe this was a cleanup team.

He dropped the unconscious man, gripped his cane, limped across the lane, and used the fob Amelia had given him to open the gate. He stumbled inside the grounds of the apartment complex, closed the gate, and took cover behind a massive trash bin.

He listened as the van braked to a sharp halt. Doors slammed open.

“Hurnley is down,” a man said.

“Get him,” another man ordered.

The driver, Gideon decided.

“What about the homeless guy?” a third man asked.

“Forget him,” the driver snapped. “We can’t risk chasing him down. Too many cameras in there. He isn’t important. Just some loser trying to grab a little cash for drugs.”

“How the fuck did he take down Hurnley?” the first man said. He sounded incredulous.

“Hurnley got careless,” the driver said. “Move. We need to get out of here.”

There was some commotion out in the alley, a few grunts, and then the van doors slammed shut. The vehicle drove off.

Gideon waited for a moment and then, stifling a groan, he pushed himself away from the side of the bin, took out his phone, and texted his new client.

New developments. I’ll be at your door in a couple of minutes. Don’t panic.

He dropped the phone into the pocket of the ancient coat he had picked up at a thrift shop. Had he been too cryptic? Telling someone not to panic was a surefire way to encourage them to do just that. But it was too late now. The message had been delivered.

He made his way through the gardens, heading toward Amelia’s wing. This was going to be embarrassing. A lesson in how not to impress a client.

He passed the glowing swimming pool, found the stairs, and climbed what felt like Everest to get to the second floor.

He went down the outside walkway to apartment two-fifteen and knocked softly. The peephole darkened briefly. He heard the muffled sound of three locks being unlocked.

The door opened a couple of inches. Amelia peered out.

“Mr. Sweetwater.” She stared at him, appalled. “What happened? Did you fall down the stairs?”

“That’s the first thing that pops into your head? Really? I fell down a flight of stairs? Never mind. Are you going to invite me in?”

“What? Sorry, yes, of course.” Amelia stepped back. “Sit down. Should I call nine-one-one?”

“No, don’t call nine-one-one.” He moved past her and turned to watch her lock the three locks. “We don’t have time for me to spend the rest of the night in an emergency room. The good news is, you don’t have a stalker.”

Amelia spun around to face him. “I don’t?”

“No, Amelia. Someone is watching you, but what I interrupted tonight was an attempted kidnapping.”