The Patent by P.S. Wells

Author:P.S. Wells
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: patent
Publisher: PeggySue Wells

Chapter Forty-seven

Marc’s head pounded. He’d had a few migraines in his day, and this felt like one on steroids. He tried to move, but his body refused to respond.

At first, he thought he felt dizzy. But the irregular yet rhythmic sway continued. From the exterior sound of a throaty whistle, he surmised he floated aboard a ship. That didn’t compute. How many ships were in Indiana? Certainly, plenty of ski and pontoon boats dotted the one hundred or so lakes in his Midwest state, but none of them had a whistle so deep that the tone resonated in his chest.

Breathing deeply, he inhaled the briny smell of salty ocean water. Far from Indiana, the ocean lay either far to the east or farther still to the west. Or south. Either option caused a wave of panic to flood his veins.

His eyelids felt too heavy to lift, which added another baffling fact. He squeezed his eyes tight and tried to remember. Why would he be in a boat on the ocean? He recalled Mallory had come for a visit. He pictured himself bicycling to work as usual. He had chatted with Thurmond. Then he went into his office. Violet wasn’t in yet. A typical day so far.

Another long and deep whistle sounded, followed by the indignant shrill of seagulls. He heard the hum of the vessel’s engine purr to life beneath him. A fresh wave of alarm made him nauseas. He fought the pounding in his head as he again struggled to recollect what brought him to this situation. He had been in his office. At the computer. He remembered that the bell jangled over the front door.

Slogging through his sluggish memory felt like trying to run a marathon in a swimming pool. With great effort, he determined to take the next step. The front bell had rung. That meant someone had come in. Thurmond? No. Violet? No. Mallory? No. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. To slow the pounding of his heart fueled by fear. To invite his memory to release its panicked stranglehold on the information he sought.

Someone had come into the office the night before. The same person who came in that morning. Someone who made him uneasy.

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“On the contrary, you are exactly the one who can help me.”

Mentally, he repeated the conversation several times but still couldn’t picture who had said that last line. Turning his head, he felt an arrow of pain zing through his temple. The sensation reminded him of being stung by a bee. Once as a kid swimming in a pool. And again in the back of his knee. He had been walking and someone walked behind him.

“On the contrary, you are exactly the one who can help me.”

An eerie image wavered in his memory.

Mr. Spencer.

But why would Mr. Spencer want him on a ship?

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