Connected (Bureau #12)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

K eaton started to worry when the rain began.

He knew it was stupid. It was only a storm, one of dozens that would roll through Copper Springs this year. And Owen was hardly defenseless—he was a grown-ass man. In fact, he was a Bureau agent who probably knew a dozen ways to kill manticores using nothing but rubber bands and chewing gum. Plus, he’d grown up in this town and undoubtedly had plenty of experience with the challenges of Wyoming weather.

Keaton told himself he needed to chill.

He turned up the speakers loud enough to hear the music over the rattling windows and sang along while he stripped layers of wallpaper from the plaster. When he was a kid, his mother had insisted on voice lessons, with the intention of making him more marketable. Although nobody had ever cast him in anything that required it, he often sang as he worked, simply for enjoyment. It helped to keep him from noticing how empty his house was.

Today, though, singing didn’t help much. He kept losing track of the lyrics and finding himself staring out at the dark sky. The porch roof didn’t keep the wind-blown rain from streaking the front windows, and in the cemetery across the street, the treetops swayed like possessed creatures trying to escape captivity.

Finally he gave up, turned off the music, and sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, scrolling through videos on his phone. Nothing on the phone particularly interested him, but then it rarely did. One of his weird quirks was that, despite his time as an actor, he didn’t much enjoy watching performances via electronic media. Because he couldn’t read the actors’ emotions, everything felt flat, a little like a sci-fi movie with terrible special effects. Live theater was much more fun—assuming the actors were talented and put genuine feelings into their work. Otherwise the experience was too discordant. In any case, Copper Springs wasn’t exactly a theatrical mecca, and it had been years since he’d attended a play.

He wondered if Owen liked the theater. The guy pretended to be hardboiled and callous, but it was just an act, and not a very convincing one. For Keaton, at least. Maybe the two of them could meet up for a few days in Chicago or San Francisco or LA and see some plays. Keaton could probably withstand the emotional bombardment of a real city for a few days at least. They could even?—

No. He and Owen had zero future and he was an idiot even for thinking about it.

And anyway, where the hell was Owen? It was getting late, and the storm was growing stronger. Surely he couldn’t be investigating anything in this weather.

Keaton gave up on the phone and paced instead, wearing a trail from the front windows to the back, and then to the side where he could see—through the driving rain—the empty driveway at the guesthouse. This didn’t calm him. He wanted to do something, but exactly what, he had no clue. What the fuck could he do?

As he walked the circuit for the umpteenth time, he was struck with the certainty that something was wrong and Owen was in trouble. This wasn’t Keaton’s super-duper empathic powers at work, and he hadn’t suddenly developed Spidey-sense. This was plain old ordinary intuition and common sense.

He tried a few deep breaths, which didn’t help at all, and for the first time in forever craved a drink. Not to block his empathy this time but more to block everything . To make the world seem far away and unrelated to him.

Well, it was a good thing there was nowhere to buy booze at this hour.

After more indecision, Keaton sat down at the kitchen table with a pencil and a sheet of paper. What he needed was a plan like he’d created to aid his house renovations. Step by step. At the top of the page he wrote his goal: Make Sure Owen Is Safe. Beneath that, he wrote the number one with a period next to it.

And then… nothing. He couldn’t think of a first step.

“Come on ,” he growled at himself. “Use your brain for once.”

Well, he could text. Not that it would do him much good, because except along the freeway, there was no cell service once you ventured outside the city limits. Certainly none at the tipple, which was nowhere near human habitation. He tried anyway and received a notification that the message wasn’t delivered.

The Bureau. The next step was to contact the Bureau and inform them that their agent was endangered. Except how was he supposed to do that? The number would be in Owen’s phone, but surely Owen had taken his phone with him.

Just in case he’d left it behind, Keaton dashed from his house to the guesthouse, impatiently keyed in the code, and stumbled inside. He was soaked to the skin and shivering, and he felt somewhat guilty for invading Owen’s private space. Still, Keaton searched the little building. The bed was neatly made. Owen’s small suitcase lay open on the luggage stand and his dirty clothes, including the suit, were shoved into a plastic sack that sat on the closet floor. An empty garment bag hung in the closet. A little dopp kit in the bathroom contained the essentials. In the kitchen, a drinking glass and coffee mug were upside down on the drying rack.

And that was it. Nothing especially personal. And certainly nothing that gave any indication of how to contact Owen’s boss.

Feeling defeated, Keaton sat heavily on the guesthouse sofa. He took out his own phone and, with little hope of success, googled “Bureau Trans-Species Affairs Los Angeles.” To his considerable surprise, he came up with an extremely bare-bones website and a phone number.

Someone picked up after the first ring. “Bureau. How may I direct your call?” The woman sounded bored.

Keaton hated talking on the telephone. Without emotions to guide him, he always struggled to understand what the other person wanted and to communicate effectively. But he had no choice now. “Um, one of your agents is here and I think… I think something’s wrong.”

“Which agent, sir?”

“Owen Clark.”

“One moment, please.”

It was more than one moment. It was more like three eternities, in fact, and Keaton ended up pacing while he waited. Except there wasn’t nearly as much room to roam in the guesthouse. He sighed with relief when there was a beep on the phone line.

“Who’s this?” barked a male voice.

“My name’s Keaton Gale and I’m in Copper Springs, Wyoming. Agent Clark is staying at my guesthouse?—”

“We are aware of that. What is the nature of the problem?” Was this man, whoever he was, genuinely concerned? Frustratingly, Keaton couldn’t tell.

“Who am I speaking to?” Keaton asked, suddenly wary.

“Grimes. Chief of the West Coast Division.”

Oh. The man with the demon lover. Owen had talked about him a little and conveyed the general impression that the chief was fairly terrifying. He didn’t sound scary over the phone—just impatient and businesslike.

“Okay,” said Keaton. “He went to the tipple to investigate, but that was hours ago. A nasty storm is here, he hasn’t returned, and there’s no cell coverage out there.”

There was a brief pause. “Other than his absence, do you have any reason to believe he’s in danger?”

“Um….” Shit. He was going to have to say this out loud to someone who wasn’t Owen. “I’m pretty sure something ugly is going on over there. I…. When I went there, I had a really bad feeling. Which you might not think is a big deal, except I can?—”

“You’re an empath. Yes. Did you inform Agent Clark that you sensed something amiss?”

Keaton was stunned into silence. Chief Grimes clearly knew about his… talent. That meant that Keaton’s skills hadn’t been simply the previous chief’s secret and that the Bureau had certainly investigated his identity before sending Owen here. Why nobody had bothered to inform Owen was a mystery. But not important right now.

“Mr. Gale?” Grimes prompted.

“Yes. Sorry. I told him.”

“Do you have any specific information about what’s at the tipple?”

Keaton shook his head, realized Grimes couldn’t see him, and sighed. “No. Just that it’s… it’s fucking awful. And Owen—uh, Agent Clark—went there by himself, and he hasn’t come back. Why the hell didn’t you send him with a partner or backup or something?”

“That’s immaterial.”

Keaton bit back a nasty response. “Should I call the local cops?” That idea hadn’t occurred to him until just now.

“No. If he’s working, they’ll get in the way. If it’s something he can’t handle, they’d be placed at great risk.”

“But—”

“If Agent Clark does return, have him contact me immediately. I’ll send some agents out, but they can’t get there until morning at the earliest.”

“Morning could be too late!” Keaton yelled. “He’s out there all by himself and anything could be happening to him.”

“We’ll get there as quickly as we can. I will also text you my direct line so you can contact me if necessary. Mr. Gale, the Bureau is engaged in a hazardous business. Agent Clark is well aware of this.”

“He’s all alone.” As if repeating it would make a difference. As if repeating it made the truth any less miserable.

“We’ll do our best, Mr. Gale.”

The call disconnected.

A few seconds later, a text came through from Caller Unknown.

Grimes here. Notify me @this number with any updates .

Keaton stared at the message until the screen went black.

That exercise hadn’t been entirely useless, but it was close. The agents would show up tomorrow. If Owen was fine, they would have wasted a trip. If he wasn’t, they’d be too late.

Keaton’s stomach clenched so tightly that he thought he might vomit.

He felt so fucking useless, sitting here on the couch and waiting for his worst suspicions to be confirmed. And why did Owen’s plight distress Keaton so deeply? They barely knew each other. But Keaton was well past forty, and Owen was the only person he’d ever truly connected with. The only one he’d opened his heart and soul to. Which was pathetic, really, but true. Owen meant something to him.

And Owen could be suffering right now. He could be dead .

Keaton closed his eyes and, for the first time since he had erected his mental barriers as a toddler, opened a gate in them. Instead of blocking external emotions, he did the unimaginable: he reached out in search of them. Not any emotions, of course, but Owen’s. Keaton sought through the roaring wind and pouring rain, through the darkness, up over a hill and into the barren lands surrounding the tipple.

And he felt… something.

Just a tickle, very faint, like a whisper far away or the tiniest blur on the horizon. He couldn’t assess the shape of it, the flavor. But it was there, and it was Owen. And it was very, very bad.

“Fuck this.”

Before better judgment had a chance to kick in, Keaton sprinted back to the main house and grabbed his car key fob from the hook near the back door. With the windshield wipers working frantically, Keaton drove almost blindly through the storm toward the tipple.