Unearthed

“I’m not a reader, Michael. I’m a graphic guy. If a story can’t be told in pictures, I’m not interested.”

“And if it’s over ten minutes long. Yeah, yeah, I remember. Short attention span. You know, your romantic life must be a mess.” Michael added a scone to his tea saucer.

“My romantic life is just fine. I’m sure Katrina can provide a glowing recommendation if you’re interested.” Katrina was Keith’s significant other. She was organized and neat, the exact opposite of Keith. “In twenty-five words or less, what do you want me to do with the concepts of the city?”

“Older.”

“Older?”

“The buildings need to be older. The edges are too defined. There aren’t enough barnacles and age spots. And there should be scars from past wars. Gaps and missing pieces.”

“Ah. See? You could have just said that in your email.”

Chagrined, Michael knew it was true. He hadn’t been focused. He’d been distracted. He still was. Only, now he was thinking about the encounter with Aleister Crowe and alternative ways he could have responded.

“So where’s your head at, Michael?”

“Just sorting through things.”

“Your friend’s shooting still bothering you?”

“I haven’t forgotten about it.”

“Maybe I should wander up that way for a few days.”

Michael smiled at the thought. “You? In Blackpool? Aside from the fact that Molly would be afraid you’d get us strung up on the nearest yardarm, you wouldn’t last a day before you’d go as mad as a hatter.”

“You have such little faith.”

“I know you and I love you, mate. You’re a brother to me. I appreciate the offer, but there’s nothing you can do here.”

“If that changes, you’ll tell me?”

“The very instant.”

“Okay. Well, in the meantime, I’ll age your city.”

“By thousands of years. It should be literally on the verge of turning to dust on the seafloor.”

“Got it. I’ll work it up and get it back to you.”

“Soon?”

Keith laughed. “Soon enough.”

“I want the city to be the only thing aging.”

Keith groaned good-naturedly. “Thought you were retired and away from all the deadline pressure. Just for fun, you said. Just to keep your hand in.”

“I meant that, but we’ve still got people waiting on us for work so they can keep cashing paychecks.” That was the secondary reason for keeping the studio alive. The primary one was because Michael couldn’t stop imagining games. There were just too many interesting things in the world. Actually, worlds. And a lot of them were always traipsing through his mind.

“Give me a week, mate, and I’ll present you with a much older undersea city.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Michael rang off and started to pocket his mobile, but it buzzed to signal a new text.

I HAVE NANNY MYRIE. DID YOU KNOW SHE CAN FLY A FLOATPLANE?

Michael shook his head. He couldn’t imagine Rohan Wallace’s grandmother at all, much less as a floatplane pilot. He slid his iPhone into his jeans and headed back to his friend’s room.

A MAN STOOD BY ROHAN’S BED when Michael reached the open door. About six feet tall and thirtyish, he had chestnut-brown hair pulled into a small ponytail. A dragon tattoo snaked up from the collar of the dark blue suit jacket he wore. His jeans were tucked into motorcycle boots.

“Rohan. C’mon, mate, I need you to wake up.” The man’s voice held a desperate note. “You’re leaving me hanging here. These guys I’ve got chasing after me aren’t messing about.”

Moving quietly, Michael put the teacup and saucer onto the small window shelf by the door. “Who are you?”

The man whirled around. Wild-eyed and breathing fast, he stared at Michael. “Just checking on my mate. That’s all. Nothing to get your knickers in a twist over.”

Michael spread his hands away from his sides to show that he meant no harm. “My name’s Michael Graham.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly. “I know who you are. I’ll ask you to clear that door.”

Slowly, Michael shook his head. “Not until you give me some identification.”

The man grinned, but it was a sick expression and tainted with panic. “You don’t need that.”

“Sorry. I don’t succumb to Jedi mind tricks. But I will be having your name.”

“Let me introduce you to Mr. Slicey.” With a quick snap of his wrist, the man pulled a switchblade knife into view. He flipped it open as easily as breathing and the stainless-steel edge gleamed. It would have been an excellent cut-scene in a game. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. I don’t have time for a lot of questions.”

His stomach twisting and turning sour with fear, Michael raised his hands. Until moving to Blackpool, he’d led a rather dull life when it came to criminal affairs. But recently he’d been threatened, beaten and shot at. He wasn’t becoming any more inured to violence—his quivering stomach was the perfect illustration of that fact—but he was determined that he wasn’t going to allow any information this man might have about what Rohan was doing in Crowe’s Nest that night to slip through his fingers.

“Stand aside.” The man held the switchblade before him.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. I need to know what business you’ve had with my friend.”

“None of yours.”

“I’ll have to be the judge of that.”

Smoothly and without hesitation, the man lunged forward, his body following the knife. Reacting instinctively, reflexes honed from rugby and other sports he’d played, Michael slapped the man’s hand away. The fellow tried to slip through the door, but Michael slammed his body into his attacker’s and bounced him off the door frame.

Off balance and slightly dazed, the thug swept the knife back at Michael, who managed to grab the man’s wrist in both hands, but not before the blade sliced through his rugby jersey and burned across his stomach. Twisting viciously, Michael experienced a momentary thrill of success as the switchblade clattered to the floor. He took just a second to kick the weapon under Rohan’s bed, then the man head-butted him in the face.

The room and the lights swam in Michael’s vision and pain filled his skull. He managed to stay upright despite the dizziness that surged through him. He felt blood running down his face and stomach and told himself he was a proper cretin for trying to mix it up with a man with a knife.

Then his attacker slammed a shoulder into him and knocked him backward. Before Michael could recover, the man shoved him out of the way and ran. Staggering, senses reeling, Michael followed.

MERCIFUL ANGELS WAS SMALL. The second-floor nurses’ station was in the center of the building next to the flight of stairs leading down. Hospital rooms lined halls on either side of the large area. Frightened nurses stepped back from the man as he ran. Michael trailed at his heels and, with his longer strides, gained steadily.