Page 17 of Connected
Keaton gave up on the phone and paced instead, wearing a trail from the front windows to the back, and then to the side where he could see—through the driving rain—the empty driveway at the guesthouse. This didn’t calm him. He wanted todosomething, but exactly what, he had no clue. What the fuckcouldhe do?
As he walked the circuit for the umpteenth time, he was struck with the certainty that something was wrong and Owen was in trouble. This wasn’t Keaton’s super-duper empathic powers at work, and he hadn’t suddenly developed Spidey-sense. This was plain old ordinary intuition and common sense.
He tried a few deep breaths, which didn’t help at all, and for the first time in forever craved a drink. Not to block his empathy this time but more to blockeverything. To make the world seem far away and unrelated to him.
Well, it was a good thing there was nowhere to buy booze at this hour.
After more indecision, Keaton sat down at the kitchen table with a pencil and a sheet of paper. What he needed was a plan like he’d created to aid his house renovations. Step by step. At the top of the page he wrote his goal: Make Sure Owen Is Safe. Beneath that, he wrote the number one with a period next to it.
And then… nothing. He couldn’t think of a first step.
“Comeon,” he growled at himself. “Use your brain for once.”
Well, he could text. Not that it would do him much good, because except along the freeway, there was no cell service once you ventured outside the city limits. Certainly none at the tipple, which was nowhere near human habitation. He tried anyway and received a notification that the message wasn’t delivered.
The Bureau. The next step was to contact the Bureau and inform them that their agent was endangered. Except how was he supposed to do that? The number would be in Owen’s phone, but surely Owen had taken his phone with him.
Just in case he’d left it behind, Keaton dashed from his house to the guesthouse, impatiently keyed in the code, and stumbled inside. He was soaked to the skin and shivering, and he felt somewhat guilty for invading Owen’s private space. Still, Keaton searched the little building. The bed was neatly made. Owen’s small suitcase lay open on the luggage stand and his dirtyclothes, including the suit, were shoved into a plastic sack that sat on the closet floor. An empty garment bag hung in the closet. A little dopp kit in the bathroom contained the essentials. In the kitchen, a drinking glass and coffee mug were upside down on the drying rack.
And that was it. Nothing especially personal. And certainly nothing that gave any indication of how to contact Owen’s boss.
Feeling defeated, Keaton sat heavily on the guesthouse sofa. He took out his own phone and, with little hope of success, googled “Bureau Trans-Species Affairs Los Angeles.” To his considerable surprise, he came up with an extremely bare-bones website and a phone number.
Someone picked up after the first ring. “Bureau. How may I direct your call?” The woman sounded bored.
Keaton hated talking on the telephone. Without emotions to guide him, he always struggled to understand what the other person wanted and to communicate effectively. But he had no choice now. “Um, one of your agents is here and I think… I think something’s wrong.”
“Which agent, sir?”
“Owen Clark.”
“One moment, please.”
It was more than one moment. It was more like three eternities, in fact, and Keaton ended up pacing while he waited. Except there wasn’t nearly as much room to roam in the guesthouse. He sighed with relief when there was a beep on the phone line.
“Who’s this?” barked a male voice.
“My name’s Keaton Gale and I’m in Copper Springs, Wyoming. Agent Clark is staying at my guesthouse?—”
“We are aware of that. What is the nature of the problem?” Was this man, whoever he was, genuinely concerned? Frustratingly, Keaton couldn’t tell.
“Who am I speaking to?” Keaton asked, suddenly wary.
“Grimes. Chief of the West Coast Division.”
Oh. The man with the demon lover. Owen had talked about him a little and conveyed the general impression that the chief was fairly terrifying. He didn’t sound scary over the phone—just impatient and businesslike.
“Okay,” said Keaton. “He went to the tipple to investigate, but that was hours ago. A nasty storm is here, he hasn’t returned, and there’s no cell coverage out there.”
There was a brief pause. “Other than his absence, do you have any reason to believe he’s in danger?”
“Um….” Shit. He was going to have to say this out loud to someone who wasn’t Owen. “I’m pretty sure something ugly is going on over there. I…. When I went there, I had a really bad feeling. Which you might not think is a big deal, except I can?—”
“You’re an empath. Yes. Did you inform Agent Clark that you sensed something amiss?”
Keaton was stunned into silence. Chief Grimes clearly knew about his… talent. That meant that Keaton’s skills hadn’t been simply the previous chief’s secret and that the Bureau had certainly investigated his identity before sending Owen here. Why nobody had bothered to inform Owen was a mystery. But not important right now.
“Mr. Gale?” Grimes prompted.
