Connected (Bureau #12)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

C opper Springs, Wyoming

Keaton Gale stood at the highest point in Copper Springs Cemetery and watched a wall of black clouds fill the western sky. He couldn’t smell the storm yet, but his skin prickled with the expectation of electricity and his head pounded with a sinus headache. The birds that usually fluttered around in the nearby ash trees were nowhere to be seen or heard. One of those ash trees had been struck by lightning in a storm last year; if Keaton remained where he was, he might end up struck as well.

Still, he didn’t move.

The headstones around him bore names from all over the world. People had immigrated here for over a hundred years as Copper Springs fed the nation’s endless appetite for power: first coal, then oil, finally natural gas. All of those industries had died out, and now the town was dying too.

Maybe it wasn’t healthy to think so much about death. But Keaton was, after all, standing in a cemetery. Lightning flashed in the distance, the echoes of thunder reaching him several moments later. He shivered despite the warm air.

When his phone pinged in his pocket, it startled him so much that he nearly cried out. The text was from an unknown number with a 310 area code.

Is your rental available tonight and tomorrow night?

Keaton stared at the screen, considering. He hadn’t had a guest in weeks and didn’t particularly want one now, but his bank account was looking thin. Besides, the storm was going to be a bad one, and he’d feel slightly guilty subjecting the unknown traveler to the Copper Motel under those conditions. And it would be for only two nights—he could handle that.

Yes. $300/night for up to two people, plus $50 cleaning fee.

The rate was too high, but it was his place and if he wanted to gouge customers, he could.

The answer came immediately.

Ok. Can I check in now?

Great—another $600 in Keaton’s pocket. That would cover expenses for a while.

Sure. 1024 Marchant. Little yellow house next to a big white one. You can park in driveway.

Be there in 15.

The guesthouse was at the other end of the city cemetery, just a five minute walk away, but by the time Keaton got there, the temperature had plummeted and the wind whipped his hair. He ducked inside to get things ready. He cleaned it often, even without guests, so all he had to do was put on fresh bedding. He was just tucking in the blanket when he heard a car engine approach and then turn off. The doorbell rang a few seconds later.

He opened the door, and even though he’d shielded himself as fully as possible, an emotional wave hit him so hard that he gasped and fell back a step. The big man in front of him was stone-faced, but his insides seethed with anger, regret, sorrow, loneliness, and uncertainty.

“Are you okay?” the man asked, brow drawn into a frown.

Keaton tried to get his shit together fast. “Yeah, I…. Sorry. I didn’t realize the storm had hit already. It’s nasty out there. Come in.”

It was nasty, with the sky gone almost night-dark, the wind sending leaves and small branches skittering down the street, and fat raindrops splattering on the pavement. The tornado sirens hadn’t gone off, however, so that was good.

Keaton shut the door and, inner protections redoubled, had a better look at his visitor, who stared at him quizzically. The man was tall and broad, heavy muscles evident beneath jeans and a plain black tee that both looked new. His size would have been truly intimidating if Keaton had sensed any hostility from him. He was clean-shaven, with broad cheekbones, serious brown eyes, and thick sandy hair not yet going gray although, like Keaton, he was probably in his mid-forties.

“I’m sorry,” said the man. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

Which was when Keaton realized that he’d met this person—half a lifetime ago. Encountering him again wasn’t a complete shock, seeing as Copper Springs was the man’s hometown, but Keaton hadn’t exactly expected him to show up literally at his front door.

“I get that a lot,” he said, not untruthfully. “I guess I have one of those faces. I’m Keaton Gale.” He stuck out his hand.

“Owen Clark.” His palm was warm and dry, the grip solid but not overwhelming. And he hadn’t mentioned anything about being an agent, which was interesting. Maybe he’d left the Bureau.

“Welcome.”

“Sorry about the last-minute booking. I had planned to stay at the Copper Motel, but….”

“But calling that place a dump is unfair to dumps.”

Clark almost smiled. “My boss’s assistant found your rental on a list somewhere. I can tell already it’s a major improvement. Do you want payment now?”

“Why don’t you go ahead and bring in your luggage before the downpour arrives? Then I can show you around and we can settle payment.”

Clark hurried outside and returned a moment later with a small suitcase and a garment bag, both of which he tucked into the little closet near the door. Then Keaton gave him a tour, which didn’t take long. There was a bedroom, a living room, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchen.

“Cozy,” Clark commented.

“You’ll find pretty much everything you need if you poke around. The folder on the coffee table lists the Wi-Fi password, the nearest market, a couple of recommended restaurants… that sort of thing. If you need anything else or have questions, just send me a text. I’m right next door.” Keaton pointed in the appropriate direction.

“Are you sure I don’t know you? Your name isn’t familiar, but I used to live here. A long time ago.”

“I’ve only been here for eight years.” Keaton felt a little bad about not being upfront with Clark, but not bad enough to come clean. He didn’t want the Bureau poking around in his business, and he didn’t want anyone to know who he used to be. Besides, his previous meeting with Clark hadn’t exactly been pleasant. Keaton had behaved like an asshole before flouncing off.

“Oh.”

Clark looked… different. Not just older, but also harder. In that restaurant in LA, he’d been fresh-faced and earnest, so wholesome that Keaton could barely look at him. He’d looked as if he’d just stepped off the farm. Now it seemed as if he wanted to kick the shit out of everyone and then drown himself in booze.

Which was an image that Keaton didn’t want. AA meetings were hard to come by in Copper Springs.

“So if you’ll just give me your credit card,” he prompted. “Or I can do Venmo.”

Clark slid a card from his wallet and waited impassively while Keaton used his phone’s card reader and then handed the card back. Keaton planned to leave after that, but hail began to pound the roof and window glass. “Have you had dinner? I could bring something over so you don’t have to go out in this mess.”

The hard face momentarily softened, just a little. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“I was going to make myself dinner anyway. As long as you don’t expect anything fancy.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

When Keaton had bought the property eight years ago, both the Victorian-era main house and the mother-in-law unit next door had been in rough shape. He’d fixed up the smaller place first because that was the easier job, and he’d lived in it while making the bigger house habitable. All told, it was way more real estate than he needed, especially considering that he didn’t originally plan to rent anything out. He’d bought it primarily because the proximity to the cemetery meant there weren’t many living neighbors nearby, buffeting him with their emotions.

But he had run through his savings faster than expected and ended up taking in occasional guests. Except for a new roof on the big house and necessary upgrades to its kitchen and bath, a good portion of the house hadn’t yet been restored. Maybe he’d finish it someday, or maybe he’d just let the empty rooms remain genteelly decrepit.

He was thankful to have a decent kitchen as he chopped a salad, pan-fried a couple of pork chops, and nuked two potatoes. He filled two plates, added necessary condiments, and covered each to retain warmth. Then, setting aside his own meal for later, he dashed through the storm to deliver Clark’s.

“Here you go,” he said, standing in the doorway and handing over the food. He was thankful for the little covered porch, but because the wind was still driving the hail toward him, he spoke quickly. “No basement here, so if your phone gets an emergency weather alert for a tornado, sit in the bathroom—interior room, no windows. Or come over and use my basement.” Although he wasn’t sure he wanted to be stuck in a small enclosed space with this man.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks for dinner.”

Keaton bobbed his head and then dashed back to the big house, where he ate his dinner alone, as he almost always did. But this time he was thinking about Owen Clark also eating dinner alone, just next door. Keaton wondered why the guy was full of so many raging emotions. Even here, through multiple walls and with his shields up, Keaton sensed some of what Clark was feeling.

And why was Clark here? He’d said that someone at work had helped with his lodging arrangements, which implied that this was a business trip. But Keaton didn’t know if his business was still the Bureau. At least Keaton was fairly certain that Clark wasn’t here to round him up and… do whatever it was that the Bureau did to freaks of nature. Stick them in a lab and experiment on them maybe. He shuddered at the thought. Anyway, Clark hadn’t even realized who he was, and that was a good sign.

As Keaton finished his potato, he reminded himself that it was none of his damn business what Clark was up to. He was renting the guy a room for two nights and that was it. Afterward Keaton could go back to his emotional solitude. Back to slowly restoring the rooms in his house that nobody would ever use. Back to standing in the cemetery and waiting for lightning to strike.