The Vanishing Gary Brown (booksvooks TXT) 📖

the door and safely inside. As he crawled out from behind the picnic table, the white-hot fire that had been smoldering beneath his broken skin flared to life. He had no choice but to move. With Fallon lurking outside, he had to make himself mobile now. Which meant forcing his crippled leg to bear the unwanted trauma if he were to escape the room undetected. He unraveled the length of linen he had torn from the fabric bolt, wrapped it several times around his leg to maintain a tight, even pressure, and tucked the remaining fabric snugly into the top and bottom of the improvised truss. Waves of pain erupted through his leg as he tested it with his full weight.

The amber glow of Fallon’s lamp floated up from the ground once again and peered in through the bank of windows as though it were an energy source of extra-sensory intelligence, aware of his presence and capable of revealing him at will.

Trapped in the glare of the oracle lamp, Virgil felt his way around the obstacles in his path, keenly aware that the fiery eye that watched his every move from outside might close without warning and plunge him once again into total darkness. He slid his hands along the tops of the furniture as he moved, slowly and cautiously, each predetermined step a calculated risk, careful not to lose his way and find himself an open target should Fallon suddenly come crashing through the door, led to him under the powerful influence of the psychic lamp.

Negotiating the first ten feet was relatively easy. Only two turns remained: the first around several stacks of wooden chairs, the second past a set of bookcases. As Virgil reached the second turn, the eye beyond the windows blinked, then narrowed its focus and followed him. It matched him step for step as it floated past the bank of windows, aware of his every step, and brought the room once more to life. Ethereal shadows danced across the floor, crept up the walls, and slithered back and forth between the ceiling beams. The bookcase ahead of him moved in the faint light, stepped in his way, grew wider and taller, and blocked his path to the door. The bookcase hadn’t actually moved, of course, not physically at least, but its shadow had, as did those of the rest of the objects in the room, shape-shifting in unison as the transient outside light fell upon them.

The form that was Fallon was on the move again. Virgil watched as he turned in the doorway’s direction. Substituting heightened tactile senses for much preferred night vision, he felt his way around the monolithic shadow of the bookcase and passed wooden crates and packing boxes until at last his hand slipped around the door handle.

Virgil cracked open the door which led into Communion Hall and listened. Above, voices carried from the kitchen and adjoining dining room where dinner preparations were underway. The service corridor lay empty. Virgil slipped out of the room into the corridor, quietly closed the door behind him, then watched through a crack in the doorframe as the room exploded with light. Too late, the oracle lamp had found his former hiding place and brought Fallon with it. His pursuer stood in the doorway, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp.

Fallon swept the lantern from side to side, searching for signs of the intruder, anticipating a confrontation. He listened carefully for anything that might deceive his quarry into revealing their presence: a creak, squeak, or rattle. Other than the voices emanating from the kitchen area above, the workroom lay cemetery quiet. Nothing appeared out of place. He surveyed the room a second time with the lantern. Empty. Other than several stacks of tables and chairs, which the lamplight saw through, there was no place to hide.

Perhaps it was all in his mind.

Creatures of the night.

And yet every instinct told him he was right.

If someone had been in the room, they had already made good their escape.

He took a last look around, then opened the door and stepped outside into the shadow of the silver moon. Perhaps a quick inspection of the grounds was necessary. If an intruder had infiltrated the compound, they would be found and dealt with, swiftly and permanently.

The outside world was not welcome here.

He walked back and forth, then stopped and inspected the fallen woodpile. Perhaps soaked from the downpour that had earlier hammered the grounds, the rain-slicked stack had simply collapsed under its own weight; a result of the logs being placed precariously atop one another. He nudged the remaining side of the pile with his shoe, tested his theory. As if by cue, they fell. A field mouse fled the bottom of the woodpile from the sudden earthquake that had condemned it to homelessness. Fallon watched it scurry away.

Creatures of the night, after all.

He placed the lantern on the ground, looked up at the clouds as they glided across the peak of Mount Horning, and reflected upon the time he had just wasted. It was almost funny.

He reached down and picked up the lantern.

A glint of lamplight bounced off a shiny metal object partially hidden at the bottom of the toppled woodpile. He knelt, placed the lantern back on the ground, lifted several pieces of wood from the pile, cast them aside, and freed the object.

Just a thin strip of plastic with a silver metal crimp. The kind used to bind lumber.

He twisted the length of wet plastic in his fingers, tossed it aside, wiped his hand on his jeans, and picked up the lantern. As he rose to his feet, he noticed a smear on his jeans where he had just wiped his fingers.

Fallon placed the lantern against his pant leg for a closer inspection, checked his fingers in the bright light, then frantically searched for the strip of plastic he had carelessly discarded. He found it lying on the ground several feet from the pile of fallen