Cracks in Reality (Seams in Reality Book 2) (9 page)

Before Blake left, he told the agents, "You never saw me. If anybody asks, Phillip is still living here. Your reports to headquarters will contain nothing alarming."

The man and the woman nodded dumbly.

"Oh, one other thing," Blake said. "Does the BPI make you take blood tests?"

"Twice a week," the man said.

"How does that work exactly?"

"We draw samples, pack them in ice, and ship them overnight to headquarters for analysis."

"From now on," Blake said, "draw another person's blood. Yours will test positive for sorcery, and I can't have that. Pay a homeless person to let you take his blood, but label it with your names. The BPI must not know I was here. Create the impression everything is normal."

Blake took Phillip to the car, a black BMW luxury sedan. Blake placed the suitcase into the spacious trunk alongside his own. The old man and the boy climbed into the warm interior.

"Go to Lincoln," Blake said.

The driver nodded, started the car, and drove off.

Phillip sat quietly with a contented smile, but only because Blake was suppressing the boy's natural anxiety about riding with a stranger. Controlling a sorcerer, even a very young one, was a different experience than controlling a normal person. An untalented mind had no defenses. Blake could barge in and have his way with minimal effort. Phillip was instinctively pushing back, forcing Blake into a psychic wrestling match.

"I should introduce myself. I'm Blake. We're both sorcerers, and you'll be my apprentice."

"What's an apprentice?" Phillip said in an innocent voice.

"It means I'll be your teacher. You'll learn everything you need to know from me, and you'll also help me achieve my goals. Sometimes two minds are much better than one. We'll be partners."

"Oh."

Blake had last seen Phillip around Christmastime. The inquiry into Serkan's death had led the investigators to a survivalists' camp in Georgia. Blake had joined the investigation to covertly make sure it went in a direction favorable to him. Discovering Phillip among the survivalists had been a pleasant surprise, and Blake's plans for the boy had started to form at that time.

"You're kind of old," Phillip added.

Blake smiled in a condescending manner. "Charming. I'm still young enough at heart."

Phillip looked out the window at the dreary Nebraska countryside. They had already left the town and were travelling down the highway. There was nothing to see but frosted dirt fields.

"Where are we going?" Phillip said.

"Lincoln," Blake said. "It's about an hour and a half away. A seam is there."

"A seam?"

"A place where the universe is weak and malleable. Sorcerers need seams to do their work. I always carry one with me."

Blake pulled a leather pouch out from under his shirt. He opened it and poured the Russian Eye out. The enormous emerald gleamed in the sunlight. It was so big, it looked like a piece of glass, and most people assumed it was costume jewelry when they first saw it.

Phillip's eyes lit up. "Cool."

"It's very cool. Close your eyes and see if you can feel the special energy inside the crystal. This seam is tiny, so a novice like you probably won't be able to detect it, but you might. You certainly have the talent."

Phillip closed his eyes.

"Relax," Blake said in a soft voice. "Be calm and aware. Sorcerers have what we call an inner eye which allows them to see what others can't. It's a sixth sense."

"Where is it?"

"Inside your brain, I suppose. I'm sure scientists have dissected sorcerers to try to find the inner eye, but I've never heard of any positive results. Don't worry about it. Your job is simply to use your talent. Don't think about anything except what you're experiencing right now. Athletes call this 'being in the zone.' Zen masters call it the 'mushin' state of mind. To perform any sorcery, you have to start there, so practice now."

Phillip became very still. Blake observed the boy using his own inner eye. An invisible storm cloud surrounded Phillip, but it was just a minor tempest, and the pattern was messy. As sorcerers gained skill, their energy signature became more impressive. A master like Blake had a majestic vortex of smoothly flowing power around him.

"I see something," Phillip said excitedly. "The crystal has a heartbeat."

"That's excellent." Blake smiled.

"But if you already have a seam, why are we going to Lincoln?"

"The one there is much bigger, and I'll need a big seam to turn you into a real sorcerer."

"How long will that take?" Phillip said.

"Normally, years, but my program should take two weeks."

"Why are you so fast?"

"Because unlike most sorcerers," Blake said, "I'm not afraid of breaking with tradition. We're going to try a technique I invented. Now sit back and be quiet. I want to meditate for a while before we get to Lincoln."

He put the Russian Eye back into its pouch and closed his eyes.

* * *

Lincoln was the capital of Nebraska, but it still failed to impress Blake. Calling it a city at all was a stretch. He saw few tall buildings, and even the State Capitol was hardly an awe inspiring monument. In general, the architecture of the city was very bland. He wondered if people in Nebraska were afraid of calling attention to themselves.

The place did have some nice aspects though. Smooth, wide avenues formed a regular grid, and the traffic flowed easily. Winter had turned the grass yellow, but the many spacious lawns were still immaculate. Blake didn't see any vagrants or slums. He expected the people were kind to each other.

Phillip pointed out the window. "What's that?"

The car was passing a tall concrete wall with guard towers at regular intervals. Fences and barbed wire provided additional security.

"Probably a prison," Blake said. "The Nebraska State Penitentiary. We must be getting close to the seam."

"How many seams are there?"

"I'm not sure. In the United States, maybe fifty big enough to be useful. Not a lot."

"How are seams made?" Phillip said.

"It usually takes bloodshed. The psychic energy released by many violent deaths can weaken the walls of reality. It's like a bomb exploding, but it doesn't always work. You need the right mix of horror and pain. It helps if a victim is a sorcerer."

"Oh." Phillip furrowed his brow. "That's the only way?"

"Sorcerers have searched for other ways to make seams since antiquity. I'm not aware of any successful experiments, but the BPI might have those secrets locked away in the Vault."

"The who? The what?"

"The Bureau of Physical Investigation," Blake said. "It's a government agency dedicated to controlling all sorcerers. They treat us like slaves. As long as the BPI exists, we will never have real freedom. One way they control us is by stealing our power. Seams, important artifacts, and research notes are kept in the Vault. It's like a secret fortress in the desert, and sorcerers aren't allowed inside. My main goal these days is to acquire the contents of the Vault. I firmly believe that will enable me to defeat all my enemies."

Phillip appeared confused. Blake could tell the boy was too young to understand, but it didn't matter. The training would fix that deficiency.

The car entered an industrial park containing warehouses. The giant buildings were made of corrugated sheet metal painted white or blue. Machine shops and light manufacturing occupied some of the spaces.

Blake sensed the seam nearby. It was medium-size, big enough to do the job but nothing to get excited about.

He felt a pang of jealousy. He would've killed for a chance to work with one of the monster seams. The most famous were the Theosophical, the Avanessian, and the mighty Manassas. The three sorcerers on the Tribunal, Tonya, Keene, and Richard, owned those seams respectively. They were all fearsome fighters and probably too much for Blake to handle. One didn't get those appointments by being soft.

Lesser seams were guarded by lesser sorcerers, and there was always some jockeying among the lower ranks. Historically, sorcerers fought to the death to win better seams, and it still happened occasionally in modern times. The BPI tended to turn a blind eye to such incidents, calling them "typical sorcerer politics."

It appeared no sorcerer was guarding the seam in Lincoln. At least, Blake couldn't sense one in the area, but he wasn't surprised. Such a mediocre seam wouldn't satisfy even a weak sorcerer. Better ones were available.

A BPI team was certainly on duty though. BPI expense reports had brought Blake to this specific location. The federal agents would be alert for trouble, and they had the authority to kill renegade sorcerers. He needed to proceed very carefully.

The energy from the seam guided Blake, and he gave directions to the driver. The car headed towards a blue building with a sign that read, "Tad's Truck Parts and Supplies."

"Stop here," Blake said. "Don't get any closer."

The driver pulled over and parked under a tree.

Blake studied the target building from a safe distance. No cars were parked near it, and a "CLOSED" sign hung in a dusty window. He didn't see any movement at all.

"See anything?" he said.

The driver took a pair of binoculars out of the glove compartment and slowly scanned the area.

"Surveillance cameras," he reported, "lots of them, and they're the expensive kind."

Blake frowned. The smart approach to protecting a seam was by using remote surveillance. A hidden team could operate cameras and weapons from far away. That way, agents couldn't become victims of mind-control or illusions. Soulless cameras were much harder to fool than people, and Blake didn't think any sorcerer was skilled enough to stop a bullet in mid-flight. BPI headquarters used that strategy extensively.

That fact didn't imply the smart approach was being used here. The BPI was bound by stupid regulations which mandated on-site protection for seams. Most likely, they were blending smart and stupid in a typical government compromise.

Blake clucked his tongue as he considered his options. While he contemplated, he took out his phone and used the internet browser to do some quick research.

He discovered a mass murder had occurred at Tad's Truck Parts which didn't come as a surprise. Ten years ago, a gang of prisoners had escaped from the penitentiary. They had taken cover in Tad's while state troopers surrounded the building. Later that day, six prisoners, five hostages, and two cops died in a gun battle.

Blake had an idea.

"Go to the building," he told his driver. "Act like you're drunk. Pull out your gun and wave it around. Shoot a few windows. Be threatening and make a lot of noise. If the police come to arrest you, surrender and allow yourself to be taken away. Don't cause so much trouble that they shoot you."

"You want me to go to jail, sir?"

"Yes. I'll get you out in a day or two. Don't worry about it. Oh, and give me the binoculars."

"Yes, sir." The driver handed back the binoculars.

He got out of the car and jogged towards the building.

"Get down," Blake told Phillip. "Stay out of sight."

Phillip laid down on the car seat.

Blake zipped up his coat and stepped out of the warm car. Biting cold made him shudder.

He hurried over to a location where he had a better view of the action. A hedge provided a nice screen, but he had to duck down. His old spine protested the strenuous position, so he knelt on the frozen ground instead.

His driver played his part well. The man drew a gun from under his jacket and shot at random windows. He yelled incoherently about a girlfriend who had dumped him. It was a loud, passionate performance, sure to get quick attention.

Two men in blue parkas came running out of Tad's Truck Parts. The jackets were bulky enough to conceal body armor, and the agents openly carried compact assault rifles. Blake's man dropped the gun and raised his hands in surrender.

Blake looked through the binoculars in all directions. He made a slow, careful scan.

He smiled when he saw more men in blue parkas standing in front of a white building in the distance. They also had assault rifles, and they seemed ready to run over as reinforcements.

Got them,
Blake thought.

He continued to watch through the binoculars. When it became clear Blake's driver wouldn't cause more trouble, the spare BPI agents went back into the white building. It was the size of a small house.

Blake double-checked nobody was looking at him. When he was sure it was safe, he jogged towards the white building, taking the long way around. He used all the cover available to hide his approach.

He was soon out of breath and slowed down to a walk. The frigid air wasn't helping him breathe easier. He realized he needed to work on his physical conditioning even though it was hard to do on the road. Someday, he might have to run for his life.

The white building had a sign that read, "Federal Protective Services." Blake assumed it was a cover story for the BPI. The Bureau liked to keep all its activities secret.

Before getting too close, he checked his disguise in a car mirror. He had dyed his normally gray hair black. His beard was gone, but he had kept his mustache. Colored contacts made his eyes appear watery blue. An artfully placed fake wart on his forehead was sure to draw attention. Using a disguise for this operation wasn't strictly necessary, but it was impossible to be too careful. Cameras could be anywhere.

He calmed his mind until he was in the proper mental state for sorcery. He boldly walked up to the front door of the building and knocked.

After a moment, a muscular young man in a blue suit opened the door. "I'm sorry, but we're not open."

Blake immediately took control of the man's mind.

"Stay out of my way," Blake commanded.

He walked into the building.

The interior turned out to be mostly open space. A surveillance control console was in the corner of the room, and sixteen monitors showed various camera views. There was a break area with a couch, a recliner, and a television. A kitchenette in the corner had a microwave oven and a coffee brewing pot. Shelves against a wall held weapons and body armor. Some doors in the back probably led to bathrooms, closets, and bunkrooms.