Signalz by F. Paul Wilson

Author:F. Paul Wilson [Wilson, F. Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: supernatural thriller
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2020-03-29T16:00:00+00:00

HARI

They’d rented two rooms—two—at the Renaissance on State Street in downtown Albany, had a big dinner of steaks and a delicious Ripasso, and then she and Donny went their separate ways.

Hari had just finished rearranging the umpteen pillows on her king-size bed and settled back to browse the movie selections when someone knocked on her door.

“Now what?” she muttered as she padded across the room and peeked through the peephole.

Donny.

She pulled open the door and there he stood with a bucket of ice and a very large bottle of Patrón Silver.

“Room service,” he said with a grin.

If he was thinking he could ply her with tequila and join her between the sheets, he had another think coming. He didn’t know about her hollow leg. But the tequila looked good.

The room was listed as “deluxe”—hey, Art was paying—and had a little sitting area. Very soon they were relaxing with glasses of Patrón on the rocks.

“So let me ask you something,” Donny said.

Hari made a face. “Are you going to ruin this with chatter?”

“Seriously, I like to get to know the people I’m working with.”

Here we go: Let’s see if we can soften her up.

“Why?”

“I just do. So tell me: Are you a cat person or a dog person.”

“Do I look like a cat lady?”

“I said ‘person.’”

“Neither.”

“No pets?”

“Didn’t say that. I have a pet crab.”

“Can we be serious, maybe just for one minute?”

“I am serious. Her name is Pokey and she’s an Atlantic blue crab. Callinectes salpidus. Means ‘beautiful swimmer.’”

His face took on a look of wonder. “You’re serious.”

“I am. Pokey and I got off to a rocky start. I added her to my fish tank and she gobbled up a couple grand worth of tropicals I had there. I was planning on sautéing and eating her as a soft shell during her next molt but grew attached. I can’t say we’re good buddies, but we’ve achieved détente.”

His expression remained dubious as he added more Patrón to both their glasses. “Seriously? You have a pet crab?”

“I believe I’ve answered that.”

He said nothing for a few heartbeats, then, “Okay, this is where you ask me about my pets.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t care about your pets.”

Okay, that sounded harsh. She hadn’t said it to hurt him, and she might have found a gentler way to phrase it were it not for the tequila mixing with the wine from dinner—in vino veritas and all that—but no matter: It rolled right off him and he launched into a lengthy discourse on how he’d always had a dog as a kid and would have one now if his schedule would allow it, blah-blah-blah. He kept the tequila flowing while he rambled.

His eyelids were at half-mast as he concluded his doggy dissertation with a jarring non-sequitur: “The Septimus people have marked someone for death.”

“Whoa!” Hari said. “Where did that come from?”

“I was visiting a dark web chatroom last night and this guy who calls himself ‘Belgiovene’ said it looked like he was going to be doing ‘another freebee.

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