Page 18 of Connected
“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 theonlyperson he’d ever truly connected with. The only one he’d openedhis heart and soul to. Which was pathetic, really, but true. Owen meant something to him.
And Owen could be suffering right now. He could bedead.
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. Notanyemotions, 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.
CHAPTER 8
“You can call me Miller,” said the reedy voice.
Owen fought through the fog, which was so thick that he was drowning in it. But that didn’t make any sense. There was a thunderstorm, not fog. Although now that he thought of it, the rain and wind had stopped, leaving him in silence except for his own struggling breaths and the irritating voice.
“It’s an apt name. A miller takes raw, hard material, and through the use of pressure and friction creates something much more useful. Suits me much better than Clark suits you, seeing as you are neither a cleric nor a scribe. You should consider something new. Once you’ve settled into your new role, perhaps.”
A bit more consciousness returned, and Owen was able to open his eyes.
