Secret Passage. Amanda Stevens

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t think the old guy was homeless. He tipped too generously to be down on his luck, but he had the look of a man that time had forgotten. His heavy wool overcoat was threadbare in places, but Zac suspected it had once been quite elegant, perhaps custom-made for the man’s tall, slender physique.

      Zac waited a couple of beats, then ambled to the end of the bar. Wiping off the mahogany surface, he said cheerfully, “What’ll it be tonight?”

      “Whiskey,” the man muttered without looking up.

      His raspy voice was like nails on a chalkboard to Zac. He poured the whiskey, then slid the drink across the bar. As the old man’s skeletal fingers closed around the glass, he glanced up. His eyes were the color of night. Dark, cold, scary.

      Disconcerted by the man’s stare, Zac started to turn away, then paused. “Do I know you? Have we met before?”

      The old man lifted his whiskey. “Do you think we’ve met before?”

      Zac tried to laugh off his uneasiness. “Now you sound like a shrink.”

      The old man lowered his empty glass. “I’m not a shrink. I’m a scientist.”

      “A scientist, huh? We don’t get many of those in here.” Zac scrubbed at an invisible ring on the bar. “So what brings an educated man like yourself to a dump like this?”

      “You do, Zac.”

      The hair at the back of Zac’s neck rose. “How do you know my name?”

      The dark eyes gleamed in the murky light. “I know a lot about you. Probably more than you know about yourself.”

      “Is that right?” Zac felt the first stirrings of anger. And maybe even a touch of fear. “How do you figure that?”

      “Because I’m the man who created you.”

      Something tightened around Zac’s heart. Like a fist trying to squeeze the life out of him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded, thoroughly unnerved now by the stranger.

      The man smiled slightly as he fished a card from his coat pocket and laid it on the bar. Zac glanced down in spite of himself. Dr. Joseph Von Meter. The address was in the Chestnut Hill area, a historic neighborhood about as far removed from Blue Monday’s as one could imagine.

      Zac lifted his gaze. “You’re a long way from home, old man.”

      “As are you, Zac. You have no idea.”

      HE CAME BACK THE NEXT NIGHT. And the next two nights after that. It was easy to avoid him on the weekend. The live music of Blue Monday’s attracted a noisy crowd—aging hippies for the most part and some suburbanites in town for a night of drinking and slumming. Zac kept his distance, allowing the new bartender to wait on the strange old man.

      But the place was empty again on Sunday night, and Zac was alone behind the bar when Von Meter showed up, precisely at nine, just like the other nights.

      Bored and anxious to close up, Zac had been staring out the window when the limo pulled to the curb in front of the club. A uniformed driver got out and came around to open the back door, then reached a gloved hand down to help his passenger disembark.

      Definitely not homeless, Zac thought, watching the old man shuffle through the snow.

      The driver waited until his charge was at the door, then he got back in the car and drove off.

      A blast of cold air followed Von Meter into the club. He wore the same rumpled suit under the same shabby overcoat with the same hat pulled low over his eyes. He hobbled to the end of the bar and took his usual seat even though the stools closer to the door were unoccupied. Folding his arms on the bar, he bowed his head and waited.

      Zac’s nerve endings tingled in apprehension as he studied the old man’s profile, what he could see of it, and he berated himself for not closing up earlier. He hadn’t had a customer all night. The snowstorm had kept everyone home, which was where he should have been hours ago. Had he subconsciously been waiting for Von Meter to show up?

      “I know a lot about you. Probably more than you know about yourself.”

      “I’m the man who created you.”

      Telling himself he should throw the old goat out and be done with it, Zac walked slowly down the bar until he stood in front of Von Meter. “What’ll it be tonight?”

      “Whiskey,” the old man rasped.

      Zac poured the drink, then slid it across the bar. As the man’s wasted fingers closed around the glass, a feeling of déjà vu crept over Zac. They’d played this scene too many times before.

      “How long do you plan on keeping this up?” he asked abruptly.

      The old man set the empty glass on the table and lifted his gaze to Zac’s. His eyes were darker than Zac remembered. Dark and cold and…somehow timeless. “Until you ask the right question.”

      Zac lifted an eyebrow. “Then why don’t you save us both a lot of trouble and tell me what the right question is?”

      The old man licked his lips, as if savoring the taste of the whiskey. “You don’t remember much about your past, do you?”

      “I don’t remember you,” Zac said. “But I get the impression you think we know each other. How did you put it? Oh, yeah. You’re the man who created me. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me you’re my long-lost father or something.”

      The dark eyes held Zac’s gaze. “I’m not your father. But we are connected.”

      “How?”

      He didn’t answer immediately, but instead slid his glass across the counter for a refill. When Zac complied, the old man’s gaze turned enigmatic. “Shall I tell you about the woman?”

      Zac’s blood froze and, for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. Then he said angrily, “What woman? What the hell are you talking about?”

      “The woman you dream about. She’s lovely, isn’t she? Ethereal. Ghostlike. Too beautiful to be real.”

      Enough, Zac thought. Von Meter wasn’t just creeping him out now. He was starting to scare him. And, apart from the nightmares, Zac didn’t scare easily. “How do you know about her?”

      The old man leaned across the bar. “I created her. I put her in your head. She was my gift to you.”

      “You created her, you created me. Who are you, God?”

      Von Meter merely smiled at Zac’s sarcasm and fished another card from his pocket. He laid it on the bar, faceup, and rose shakily to his feet. “Memories are a funny thing, Zac. In the right hands, they can be manipulated, suppressed, planted. How can you know what’s real? And do you really want to know?”

      “Look,” Zac said angrily. “I don’t know what kind of head games you’re trying to play here, but I want no part of it. You come in here again, I’ll throw you out. You understand?”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ