Beyond belief
Authors: Roy Johansen
PRAISE FOR ROY JOHANSEN'S
THE ANSWER MAN“A tale of power and manipulation, of avarice and
violence, “with an array of interesting characters
trying to stay alive. A thriller all lovers of the genre
can sink their teeth into.”—
Booklist“This is a gripping debut thriller, brimming “with
dangerous seduction and unrelenting suspense.”—
Buffalo News“Johansen's portrait of a man facing temptation
and his darker side rings true.”—
Tulsa World“Johansen … comes up “with aces.
He plots like a string of firecrackers …
not a moment's rest.”—
Kirkus Reviews“Races cleanly through a maze of techno
clues and multiple suspects,
pulling readers along for a quirky ride
“with likable companions.”—
Publishers WeeklyBEYOND BELIEF
“A-list plotting … Johansen keeps the wires,
hidden or not, humming.”—Kirkus Reviews
Also by Roy JohansenThe Answer Man
Deadly Visions
Silent Thunder
For Lisa, who is proof enough that there is
magic and wonder in the world.
T
hey were coming for him.Shouting men.
Barking dogs.
Flashing lights.
Just like last night. And the night before.
What did they
want?
He was only eight years old; how could he possibly matter to them?The men were getting closer. Their shouting was getting louder and the lights were getting brighter.
Brighter and brighter until all he could see was white. The light was hot; it burned him. The shouting voices were all around.
The ground shook. He looked down. What was happening?
Two hands burst from the ground and grabbed his ankles.
Before he could scream, the hands pulled him down. He could feel the cold, moist earth around his calves, knees, and thighs.
The voices were icy whispers now, buzzing around
his head and ears. He still couldn't understand what they were saying.The ground was now at his waist. He pounded on the earth, trying to keep the hands from pulling him under.
It wasn't working. He went even deeper.
The ground closed around his chest, pressing his lungs.
He couldn't breathe!
God, please help me….
He dug his fingers into the cold ground, scraping dirt with his nails as he went under. The dirt covered his chin, and he angled his head back, staring into the bright light. The earth crawled over his ears, muffling the whispers snaking around him. He struggled to keep his nose and mouth aboveground as he smelled the grassy turf creeping over his cheeks.
No, please God, no …
He screamed as his face went below.
Dark.
Cold.
He was pulled deeper and deeper, the rocks and tree roots scraping against his face and arms on the way down.
The whispers were getting louder again:
Jesse … Jesse … Jesse …Shadowy figures flying around him.
And those eyes.
Dark eyes. Cold. Menacing.
He knew those eyes.
The shadows called his name.
Jesse …
He had to fight. It was his only hope.
Clawing, punching, scratching …
He was moving in slow motion, swinging at the figures through the cold earth.
Jesse …
One of the figures moved in close, and Jesse struck out with both fists.
Contact.
The figure slumped, oozing blood from its midsection. It was still.
Did he kill it?
The hands around his ankles loosened slightly.
He punched and clawed at the others.
More blood. It oozed through the soil and coated his arms and chest.
The hands around his ankles were loosening with each hit.
He could do this, he thought. He could get free.
He punched and kicked even harder.
Blood everywhere. The whispers were getting fainter.
He kicked free of the hands and clawed upward through the warm, bloody soil. Higher, higher, higher …
Jesse …
Don't listen to the voices. Just climb.
Jesse …
He crawled past the tree roots that had scraped him on the way down. How much farther?
Jesse …
He broke through to the surface, clawing and kicking out of the ground. He was covered in dirt and blood.
The ground was shaking.
He jumped out of the way as another pair of hands broke through the ground.
He ran.
Behind him, he could hear the voices. And the dogs. He knew if he turned around, he would see those eyes.
It was starting all over again. Just like the other nights.
He knew it was a dream, but he couldn't wake himself up.
Wake up
, he told himself.
Wake up.No use. This dream might never end.
Not until it killed him.
M
aybe tonight was the night he'd learn to believe in magic.
Not damned likely, Joe Bailey thought.
Over the years, he'd received too many calls that promised something extraordinary but never actually delivered. Why would tonight be any different? He unbuttoned his overcoat as he climbed the polished granite front stairs of a mansion on Habersham Drive. He checked his watch: 1:40.
The call had come only fifteen minutes earlier from Lieutenant Vince Powellr, who headed the evening watch at the station. There had been a homicide.
“I'm in bunco,” Joe told him. “You're sure I'm the guy you want?”
“I know who you are,” Powell said. “You bust up all the phony séances, psychics, and witch-doctor scams.”
“Among other things, yeah.”
“Well, we got something right up your alley. It's
scaring the shit out of the officers on the scene. You wanna take a look?”
No, he didn't want to take a look, but he was here anyway. He strode through the open door. It was a cold February night in Atlanta. Mid-thirties, he guessed. He could still see his breath in the air as he walked through the foyer and looked for the uniformed officer who usually secured a crime scene.
Probably upstairs getting the shit scared out of him.
There were voices echoing down the stairway. Not the matter-of-fact grunts he'd heard at the few murder scenes he'd visited; the words were the same but uttered faster and louder. A totally different energy.
But whatever it was waiting for him up there, he was sure it wasn't magic. He always tried to allow for any possibility, but in his six years on the bunco squad, he had yet to see the genuine article. He'd been a professional magician in his twenties and early thirties, so the smoke-and-mirrors stuff had quickly become his specialty. It was still only a small part of his job, but when the squad needed someone to pull apart spirit scams or sleight-of-hand cons, he was the man.
He'd never been asked to investigate a murder.
“Who the hell told you that you could be a
real
cop?” a voice drawled from the top of the stairs.
Joe looked up to see Carla Fisk, a detective he had once worked with on a beauty-juice investigation. The perp had been selling bottles of tonic that supposedly made its female users flower into beautiful
specimens of womanhood. Carla, who cheerfully admitted that her face looked like the “before” picture of almost every beauty ad ever printed, had worn a wire and purchased a few of the bottles. She was no glamour girl, but she was one of the most beautiful people Joe had ever known.
He smiled. “It's past your bedtime, Carla. You're not working nights, are you?”
“Nah, I was down the street at Manuel's Tavern. Everyone wanted a look at this one.”
“Why?”
“You'll see. How's that little girl of yours?”
“Furious. She wasn't happy about being woken up and shuttled to a neighbor's place so I could go check out a Buckhead murder scene.”
“She'll understand.”
“Maybe if I come back with Yo-Yo Ma tickets.”
“You gotta talk to your kid about the music she listens to. People are gonna think she has a brain.” Carla grinned, flashing yellow teeth. Then she cocked her head down the hall. “You'd better get down there. They're waiting for you.”
He walked down the long hallway, feeling a sudden chill. Was it getting colder? No, it was probably just his imagination, fed by the nervous voices at the end of the hall.
What was in that room?
He stepped into the doorway and froze. He thought he was prepared for anything, but he was wrong.
Suspended high on the far wall, a man was impaled by a large spiked sculpture.
