Secret Passage. Amanda Stevens
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 understand everything. And soon you will, too.” With that, the old man shambled across the room to the front door and drew it open. Through the eddying snow, Zac caught a glimpse of the limo gliding to the curb, as if the driver had been summoned by a telepathic command. A moment later, they were gone.
FOR THE REST OF THE EVENING, Zac tried to ignore the warning bells clanging inside his head, the gnawing sensation in his gut that told him disaster lurked around the corner. As he got ready to close up, he tried to convince himself that Von Meter was just some weird old guy getting off by messing with his head.
But as the night wore on, so did Zac’s uneasiness.
Locking up, he grabbed his coat, then paused on his way out as his gaze lit on the card still lying faceup on the bar. His first instinct was to toss it the way he had the other one, but, changing his mind, he grabbed it and stuffed it into his coat pocket as he headed out the door.
The snow was coming down harder now. Shivering in his lightweight jacket, Zac paused in front of the tattoo parlor next door to watch. Even in the garish lights, the flakes were beautiful. White. Crystalline. Dreamlike. Their delicate beauty reminded him of something…someone…
“I created her. I put her in your head. She was my gift to you.”
Zac tried to conjure an image of the woman now, but suddenly she was more elusive than ever.
“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?”
Ducking his head from the cold, Zac hurried down the street. The wind blowing off the Delaware River was brutal tonight, but luckily, he didn’t have far to go. The two-room flat he rented was just at the end of the street.
He was halfway home, lost in thought, when a cab pulled to the curb beside him. As Zac strode past, he could see that the driver was alone in the car. He sat slumped in the seat, arms folded, as if waiting for a fare.
But the streets were deserted.
Except for Zac.
His hands were in his pockets and he fingered the business card he’d stuffed in there earlier. He pulled it out now and gazed at the name and address under the streetlight.
Backtracking down the sidewalk, he rapped his knuckles on the driver’s window. “Hey, you waiting for somebody?”
The driver rolled down the glass. “Just you, buddy. Where you want to go?”
“Chestnut Hill.” Zac gave the man the address, then asked about the fare. Whistling softly at the amount, he mentally counted the cash he had in his wallet. The trip would take about half of what he had on him—his life savings—but what the hell? Who needed to eat?
Climbing