The Thief of Souls

Lifting the revolver, I shouted, “Hey!”

Both Lane and his driver swung around with surprised looks.

“Stay put, fellas,”  I told them and nodded to the pistol.  “It works, and I know how to use it.”

I directed them to move away from the girl, away from the gurney, to the far wall of the room.  They quickly obeyed, expressionless.  Once they had moved and seemed well out of reach, I stepped toward the gurney.  The girl seemed asleep, her head propped uncomfortably on a pillow to accommodate the ridiculous metal device that had been strapped to the top of it, like something out of a “B” science fiction movie.

Turning back to Lane and his driver, I asked, “What the hell is going …”  but I never got the chance to finish the question.  The girl had suddenly sat up and, removing  the metal contraption from her head, used it to knock me out cold.

#

The next hours were a blur.  I was placed on a bed somewhere in the mansion, strapped down, drugged.  I drifted in and out of consciousness.  There were shadows, forms hovering about, inaudible, echoing voices as if from a dream.  My arm was lifted, pricked, and off I went again into a dreamless sleep for an unknown time.





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