Page 7 of Connected
“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 asif 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 boughtthe 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’dfinish 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.
CHAPTER 4
Two days of driving had worked their way into Owen’s muscles, making everything feel stiff and tight. He’d really hoped for a hotel with a gym, but upon arriving in Copper Springs, he’d discovered that things were worse than he’d remembered. The old Miners Hotel downtown stood empty, a derelict brick shell among a handful of struggling businesses. Over by the highway, nothing remained of the Rest-Eze Inn except weedy patches of concrete. That left the Copper Motel, and he’d been to ghouls’ dens that were more inviting.
And of course a thunderstorm was barreling in. After two decades on the West Coast, he’d forgotten how menacing the sky could become.
