Monsters: A Christopher Wren Thriller by Mike Grist & Michael John Grist

Author:Mike Grist & Michael John Grist [Grist, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mike Grist
Published: 2019-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

27. FARMER

Wren leaned forward with his head in his hands. In shock. His phone buzzed on the thin gray carpet before him. A message. He saw it but didn't see it.

Grayson Ferat was dead.

It hit him like a sucker punch. The last thing he'd expected. Since he'd been seventeen in Ferat's 101 Pysch class the old man had become an odd, unexpected pillar of Wren's world. The things he'd taught in class had started formalizing Wren's understanding of the human mind. The lesson he'd taught back at his apartment, following an invite for a special tutelage session, when he placed one hand on Wren's knee, had been even more valuable.

Namely, that there was nothing for Wren to be scared of. There was little worse in the world than the Pyramid. There were few people as dangerous as that, few predators as cruel or persuasive, and in turn that meant Wren was strong. He'd never fully realized until then just how strong he was. Everything that followed had been built on that foundation.

Now Ferat was gone, and his Foundation was crumbling.

He felt sick and dizzy. It wasn't blood loss but something else. His own roots coming unstuck. His cult was in the wind, its records winging their way through the postal system. The Blue Fairy knew who he was and had already dug out Ferat. Maybe it could dig out others. He saw again the pictures of mutilation in his mind. He imagined that done to his members.

His family.

He shuddered.

"Boss," came a voice, but he barely heard it. A hand rested on his shoulder and he looked up.

"Oh," he said. It felt strange that he could even talk. "Rogers."

She looked scared. "Your phone, boss. I'm sorry for whatever just happened, but we need to destroy it. If they were watching the doctor, if they really have some kind of second skin on the Internet, then they're watching us now."

Wren looked at the phone. Black plastic and metal resting on a gray carpet, on a plane somewhere over Illinois. Maybe Iowa now. He reached toward it and saw a hand stretch before him, like it wasn't his own. A stranger's fingers picked it up, and he felt nothing. There was an edge of red on the rim near the speaker. Blood, he realized, from his ear. Pressed too hard.

"Boss," urged Rogers, and Wren opened the lock screen automatically, not thinking. A message hung down in his notifications and he swiped it open.

MY BOY

LANCE GEBHART, NOT HEBBERT, WAS A PIG FARMER, ONE DAUGHTER MONA GEBHART

SHE DISAPPEARED 15 YEARS AGO AT AGE 11, NEVER SEEN AGAIN

FACIAL AGING SOFTWARE PROJECTS A MATCH TO CLARA BAXTER

LANCE PRESUMED DEAD 9 YEARS AGO, ALONG WITH HIS WIFE CINDY GEBHART, WHEN THEIR FARMSTEAD BURNED DOWN

NO IDENTIFIABLE REMAINS WERE FOUND

THE PROPERTY AND LAND WERE ALL INTESTATE AND REMAIN FIFTY ACRES NORTH OF RIRIE

YOURS IN BELIEF,

GRAYSON FERAT, PROUD MEMBER OF THE FOUNDATION

Wren read the words, but they didn't seem to make sense. Clara Baxter was Lance Gebhart's daughter? That revelation was lost in the enormity of it being Dr.

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