Mad Powers (Tapped In) by Mark Wayne McGinnis Page B
Authors: Mark Wayne McGinnis
Tags: A Thriller
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fuckface.”
Chapter 17
“You know, this is really an interesting city,” Harland said.
I focused on a rocky plateau ahead in the distance then looked out the side window toward another rocky plateau. Everything was the color of dirt. Just a lot of sameness.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I replied. I needed to quell my emotions, but just hearing him speak only ratcheted up my need for revenge—my anger.
“The city of Kingman has two sections: the newer, more substantial, industrialized and commercial areas where the Regional Medical Center is located, and then there’s the historic Route 66 section, along the southwestern side of the city. That’s where we’re headed. Turn left here.”
I made the turn as instructed, while monitoring Harland’s thoughts. Not that I was an expert on the workings of the human mind, but I had several days’ experience of life-in-the-trenches mind-meddling. There was a similarity—a spectrum of thoughts, emotions, desires, and a whole range of cognitive thought patterns that, for the most part, were not so different from person A to person B. But Harland’s mind wasn’t functioning within that spectrum. Not even close. Manic and paranoid, his thoughts came in rapid-fire bursts. Often, nonsensical conversations would play over and over again, then abruptly cease and he would be functional, almost normal. I felt Harland’s eyes on me and then saw what he was mentally conjuring: Pippa, her head pulled back—her chin forced forward—Harland’s fingers entwined in her long blonde hair. He’s pulling harder now, forcing her neck forward. His eyes never leave mine. He’s smiling. He brings the knife, no … the scalpel up and slowly, almost delicately, draws the razor-sharp edge across the mid-point on her neck.
I slammed on the brakes. Wheels locked and the SUV fishtailed in the middle of the street. Harland careened forward and his bandaged hand thumped against the dashboard in front of him. Cars behind honked.
“What the hell!” Harland barked, cradling his injured hand. He jammed the Glock deep into my ribs. “Another move like that, and I’ll end you. You understand?”
His face was close—putrid breath hot on my cheek. I nodded my head. Several cars from behind us passed and, once clear, I accelerated into traffic again. The pain in my side wasn’t subsiding. I might have had a broken rib.
“As I was saying, a lot of history here, Chandler. Two hundred years ago this was nothing but old trails laid out by early explorers. Soon it became a well-worn wagon route that helped establish Kingman as a trade and transportation center.”
“Fascinating,” I said.
“Uh huh, and in 1857, I think, or maybe it was 1858—anyway, a Lt. Edward Fitzgerald Beale ambled across the present site of Kingman. A surveyor by trade, the once-old wagon road along the 35th parallel later became the infamous Route 66.”
We were entering a section of town where the architecture was late nineteenth century, early twentieth century. Brick and slump-stone buildings, topped with ornate crown cornices, populated both sides of the street. Some looked to have been caringly restored to their original splendor, while other properties were nothing more than long-abandoned, dilapidated hulks — no visual similarity to their past glory evident.
“Now listen, Chandler. I don’t want you to judge this place by its somewhat seedy exterior. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble procuring this hideaway. There’s a certain charm about the place. I’ve been making some modifications to your accommodations, you know, to ensure your stay here will be fruitful. For all concerned.”
We were approaching 4 th Street and I brought the Murano to a stop at the intersection. Across the street, on the adjacent corner and taking up a full street block, was a faded pink building. High above, supported by a collection of steel support struts, was a massive discolored sign:
BEALE HOTEL
Chapter 17
“You know, this is really an interesting city,” Harland said.
I focused on a rocky plateau ahead in the distance then looked out the side window toward another rocky plateau. Everything was the color of dirt. Just a lot of sameness.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I replied. I needed to quell my emotions, but just hearing him speak only ratcheted up my need for revenge—my anger.
“The city of Kingman has two sections: the newer, more substantial, industrialized and commercial areas where the Regional Medical Center is located, and then there’s the historic Route 66 section, along the southwestern side of the city. That’s where we’re headed. Turn left here.”
I made the turn as instructed, while monitoring Harland’s thoughts. Not that I was an expert on the workings of the human mind, but I had several days’ experience of life-in-the-trenches mind-meddling. There was a similarity—a spectrum of thoughts, emotions, desires, and a whole range of cognitive thought patterns that, for the most part, were not so different from person A to person B. But Harland’s mind wasn’t functioning within that spectrum. Not even close. Manic and paranoid, his thoughts came in rapid-fire bursts. Often, nonsensical conversations would play over and over again, then abruptly cease and he would be functional, almost normal. I felt Harland’s eyes on me and then saw what he was mentally conjuring: Pippa, her head pulled back—her chin forced forward—Harland’s fingers entwined in her long blonde hair. He’s pulling harder now, forcing her neck forward. His eyes never leave mine. He’s smiling. He brings the knife, no … the scalpel up and slowly, almost delicately, draws the razor-sharp edge across the mid-point on her neck.
I slammed on the brakes. Wheels locked and the SUV fishtailed in the middle of the street. Harland careened forward and his bandaged hand thumped against the dashboard in front of him. Cars behind honked.
“What the hell!” Harland barked, cradling his injured hand. He jammed the Glock deep into my ribs. “Another move like that, and I’ll end you. You understand?”
His face was close—putrid breath hot on my cheek. I nodded my head. Several cars from behind us passed and, once clear, I accelerated into traffic again. The pain in my side wasn’t subsiding. I might have had a broken rib.
“As I was saying, a lot of history here, Chandler. Two hundred years ago this was nothing but old trails laid out by early explorers. Soon it became a well-worn wagon route that helped establish Kingman as a trade and transportation center.”
“Fascinating,” I said.
“Uh huh, and in 1857, I think, or maybe it was 1858—anyway, a Lt. Edward Fitzgerald Beale ambled across the present site of Kingman. A surveyor by trade, the once-old wagon road along the 35th parallel later became the infamous Route 66.”
We were entering a section of town where the architecture was late nineteenth century, early twentieth century. Brick and slump-stone buildings, topped with ornate crown cornices, populated both sides of the street. Some looked to have been caringly restored to their original splendor, while other properties were nothing more than long-abandoned, dilapidated hulks — no visual similarity to their past glory evident.
“Now listen, Chandler. I don’t want you to judge this place by its somewhat seedy exterior. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble procuring this hideaway. There’s a certain charm about the place. I’ve been making some modifications to your accommodations, you know, to ensure your stay here will be fruitful. For all concerned.”
We were approaching 4 th Street and I brought the Murano to a stop at the intersection. Across the street, on the adjacent corner and taking up a full street block, was a faded pink building. High above, supported by a collection of steel support struts, was a massive discolored sign:
BEALE HOTEL
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