Page 33 of PenPal Hero

Foster proceeded to lead Holt around the shop, pointing at various numbers and barcodes on the equipment, asking him to read them aloud. They ended up beside Holt’s pickup truck, which he’d parked inside the empty bay at the far end of the garage.

“Will you read your truck’s VIN number to me? That’s it,” Foster assured. “Then I’ll spill the beans.”

Holt read it, feeling weary all the way to his soul. “Okay.” He spread his hands. “Clearly, something’s going on here. Something I’m missing.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the whole point.” Foster’s cryptic comment did nothing to shed light on the matter.

“Listen, I really hate to break it to you, but that Miata over there is a stolen vehicle.” Foster pointed to the middle bay.

“That’s impossible!” Holt’s head whipped toward the car in question. “I check the VIN on every vehicle that comes through here. You can’t be too careful in my line of work.”

“I believe you. We believe you.” Foster stressed the word we, and Lyon nodded in agreement. “That’s why I had you read so many numbers back to us. We wanted to be sure our suspicions were correct.”

“That I’m helping camouflage stolen vehicles?” Holt’s voice dripped with bitterness. Their underlying accusation stung. He leaned back against his truck, wondering if he was about to get fired from the best paying job he’d ever had.

“Nope.” Foster looked sad. “We believe that someone is using you without your knowledge to do that.” He grimaced. “And making you look awfully guilty in the process. When this garbage hits the fan, and eventually it will…it always does, you’ll make the perfect fall guy.”

Holt shook his head, more puzzled than ever. “I’m afraid I’m not following you.” He was starting to feel like Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole.

Lyon folded his arms and studied him seriously. “I’m certified in kinesics. That’s why Foster insisted on bringing my cranky self to your shop this evening. He wanted me to read your body language, and it says you’re innocent, bro.”

“I could’ve told you that.” Holt gestured helplessly. “Still don’t see what the problem is.”

Foster gave him a curious once over, like he was seeing him for the first time. “Every time you read a VIN, you transpose the third and fourth digits of the serial number. You’re consistent. When you read us the VIN in your email, you did the same thing. Which, incidentally, returned it to the correct serial number, if that makes any sense?”

“I think so.” Holt nodded slowly, absorbing what he was hearing in slow degrees. “Are you saying I’m dyslexic?”

“Not at all.” Foster’s voice was grim. “You read back every other number I pointed out with one hundred percent accuracy. It’s only when you’re reading VINs that you transpose numbers. Even then, you only transpose the middle two digits of the part that comprises the serial number. Every blasted time.”

“Why would I do that?” It made no sense whatsoever to Holt. “Why would anyone do that?”

“We suspect you were programmed to do it.” Foster’s gaze filled with empathy. “Possibly when you were abducted.”

Holt stared blankly at him, straightening against the side of his truck. “Come again?”

“You have roughly six missing hours in the statement you gave to the police concerning your abduction,” Foster informed him gently.

That’s impossible! “Who in the world decided that?” Holt demanded, wondering if his boss had any idea how preposterous he sounded.

“A man by the name of Jude Westfield,” Lyon supplied. “He’s a convicted felon working as a consultant for Sheriff Cade Malone, who serves as his handler of sorts. A bizarro genius dude with a take-over-the-world complex. The cops claim they would’ve never caught him if he hadn’t turned himself in.”

“His forensic analysis skills are off the charts,” Foster added. “He pieced together a timeline out of your written statement that revealed a time gap that everyone else had missed.”

Holt leaned back against his truck again, spreading both arms out against the sides of the bed. “Are you telling me I’m another one of Real Sons’ experiments?” It made him sick to his stomach. Me?

“Not Real Sons, per se, since they went belly up. They were only one cog in the wheel of a much bigger criminal organization,” Foster explained. “According to Jude Westfield, it’s an organization that’s designed to rise from the ashes and reinvent itself every time it gets shut down by the authorities. Dozens of their top brass have been arrested. Jude was one of them, by the way.” He blew out a long, weary breath. “What makes this organization so dangerous are their mind control techniques. Think about it, Holt. They manipulated you to cover their trail of stolen vehicles, without you having any idea they’d ever been inside your head.”

Holt pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. “Guess that would explain the inward shadows.” Ever since his abduction, he’d remained on edge. Off balance. Borderline paranoid about being enclosed in small spaces. He’d harbored a sense that there was more to remember — things just out of his reach. He’d just assumed it was from being shut inside that old railroad container until he’d nearly suffocated, but what if something else had caused the paranoia?

Oddly enough, now that the embedded trigger had been exposed, the shadows inside his head were quickly fading.

He lowered his hands from his temples. “I feel different all of a sudden. Like I’ve been debugged or something.”

Foster smiled. “Would you be willing to submit to further medical evaluations?”

“Of course.” Holt didn’t need to think twice about it. “Anything that helps bring these bozos to justice.” He gave his bosses a rueful look. “As much as I hate to say this, I understand if you no longer want me on your team.”

“Are you kidding?” Lyon glared darkly at him. “This will be the second time you’ve gone head-to-head with these guys and busted the case wide open.”

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