Read Online Flashback (The Saskia Brandt Series Book Two) by Ian Hocking - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ian Hocking
Tags: Science-Fiction, technothriller
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meet , he thought, removing his hat.
He took the long key from around his neck, pushed it into the lock, twisted, and felt the resistance give. The door shuddered open. Inside, the mausoleum was sparsely appointed. The altar held a dry bouquet of wildflowers, a tallow candle, and a cross. Cory lifted the candle and took the note. He read it voraciously.
... beneath a Jacaranda tree...
... the whetstone...
There was a sound behind him, a swish of rat tail through a puddle, perhaps, but he feared that the discovery of the note had compromised his situational awareness. Someone was standing at the door. Cory struggled to sense the stranger’s electrical signature. It was a skill he had yet to master; the human-shaped ghost was fainter than an afterimage.
Cory reached inside his jacket and removed a cigarette lighter. In a flash of solvent, the note was nothing. He drew his cane from the folds of the umbrella, and, turning,
( Transform , he thought, clear in his intention.)
aimed the gun at the intruder.
‘ Amigo, Señor Will-for! ’ cried Lisandro.
Chapter Ten
Berlin
Jem woke fully clothed on Saskia’s bed. As the fog of sleep cleared and the events of the day before pulled into focus, she noticed Ego sitting in a patch of streetlight near the edge of the duvet. He blinked a slow greeting and looked towards the window.
‘What’s new, pussycat?’ she asked, following his gaze.
There was nothing to be seen through the window but the corner of an apartment block. She turned back. The cat was gone.
‘Ego?’ She shifted the duvet and checked the floor. ‘Where are you?’
But Ego was staying with a Turkish friend of Saskia on the other side of Berlin. Jem had overheard Saskia making the arrangements.
‘I’m hallucinating cats. Different.’
Jem checked her phone. Now, in the dark, she understood that its vibrating alert had woken her. She rubbed her eyes. The bright egg timer tumbled twice before a message appeared.
Wer sind Sie? Who are you? İsminiz ne? ¿Quiénes son usted?
She replied:
Funny one, Danny. How did you get my number?
She flopped back against the oversized German pillow, but a new text arrived before she closed her eyes.
I am not Danny. I am in your apartment.
Jem remained staring at the words until the display dimmed. She could admit that she was scared. No need for lies; not here. Be honest: she had slept fully dressed because there was something odd about Cory. In fact, hadn’t she come in here intending to give it an hour before leaving unnoticed? She must have fallen asleep.
What to do? Who was sending her messages?
She thumbed out a reply:
I called the police. Who are you?
She waited, drumming the back of the phone. She looked at the door. Was it locked? Yes. Her heart was sprinting.
You are in danger. Meet me at the door to the apartment. Cory is a killer. This is the last message I can send.
The screen faded. Its stamp-sized afterimage floated before her eyes as she glanced around the room, checking shadows.
Was someone really waiting for her downstairs? She imagined a man in the coats, studying the darkness of the upper hallway for a sign that she had emerged. With a suddenness that surprised her, Jem decided it was the policeman she had spotted outside Wolfgang’s apartment. What was the connection between Wolfgang and Cory? Why send her a text message? If the policeman had evidence that Cory was dangerous, why not arrest him?
Yet the message felt genuine. She eased herself from the bed, walked to the door and turned its key. The hallway was gloomy and quiet. She strained to hear something from downstairs, but there was no breath, shoe scuff, or creak. The door to the spare bedroom, through which Cory had retired, was still closed.
She stepped out and rolled each foot heel-to-toe. Her rucksack was near the telephone. The rucksack found her shoulder with a practised swing. Another glance at Cory’s door. At the top of the stairs, she checked for Cory once more, and, as
He took the long key from around his neck, pushed it into the lock, twisted, and felt the resistance give. The door shuddered open. Inside, the mausoleum was sparsely appointed. The altar held a dry bouquet of wildflowers, a tallow candle, and a cross. Cory lifted the candle and took the note. He read it voraciously.
... beneath a Jacaranda tree...
... the whetstone...
There was a sound behind him, a swish of rat tail through a puddle, perhaps, but he feared that the discovery of the note had compromised his situational awareness. Someone was standing at the door. Cory struggled to sense the stranger’s electrical signature. It was a skill he had yet to master; the human-shaped ghost was fainter than an afterimage.
Cory reached inside his jacket and removed a cigarette lighter. In a flash of solvent, the note was nothing. He drew his cane from the folds of the umbrella, and, turning,
( Transform , he thought, clear in his intention.)
aimed the gun at the intruder.
‘ Amigo, Señor Will-for! ’ cried Lisandro.
Chapter Ten
Berlin
Jem woke fully clothed on Saskia’s bed. As the fog of sleep cleared and the events of the day before pulled into focus, she noticed Ego sitting in a patch of streetlight near the edge of the duvet. He blinked a slow greeting and looked towards the window.
‘What’s new, pussycat?’ she asked, following his gaze.
There was nothing to be seen through the window but the corner of an apartment block. She turned back. The cat was gone.
‘Ego?’ She shifted the duvet and checked the floor. ‘Where are you?’
But Ego was staying with a Turkish friend of Saskia on the other side of Berlin. Jem had overheard Saskia making the arrangements.
‘I’m hallucinating cats. Different.’
Jem checked her phone. Now, in the dark, she understood that its vibrating alert had woken her. She rubbed her eyes. The bright egg timer tumbled twice before a message appeared.
Wer sind Sie? Who are you? İsminiz ne? ¿Quiénes son usted?
She replied:
Funny one, Danny. How did you get my number?
She flopped back against the oversized German pillow, but a new text arrived before she closed her eyes.
I am not Danny. I am in your apartment.
Jem remained staring at the words until the display dimmed. She could admit that she was scared. No need for lies; not here. Be honest: she had slept fully dressed because there was something odd about Cory. In fact, hadn’t she come in here intending to give it an hour before leaving unnoticed? She must have fallen asleep.
What to do? Who was sending her messages?
She thumbed out a reply:
I called the police. Who are you?
She waited, drumming the back of the phone. She looked at the door. Was it locked? Yes. Her heart was sprinting.
You are in danger. Meet me at the door to the apartment. Cory is a killer. This is the last message I can send.
The screen faded. Its stamp-sized afterimage floated before her eyes as she glanced around the room, checking shadows.
Was someone really waiting for her downstairs? She imagined a man in the coats, studying the darkness of the upper hallway for a sign that she had emerged. With a suddenness that surprised her, Jem decided it was the policeman she had spotted outside Wolfgang’s apartment. What was the connection between Wolfgang and Cory? Why send her a text message? If the policeman had evidence that Cory was dangerous, why not arrest him?
Yet the message felt genuine. She eased herself from the bed, walked to the door and turned its key. The hallway was gloomy and quiet. She strained to hear something from downstairs, but there was no breath, shoe scuff, or creak. The door to the spare bedroom, through which Cory had retired, was still closed.
She stepped out and rolled each foot heel-to-toe. Her rucksack was near the telephone. The rucksack found her shoulder with a practised swing. Another glance at Cory’s door. At the top of the stairs, she checked for Cory once more, and, as
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