Page 45 of The Mastermind

My body trembles as the room turns colder. The silhouettes part, making way for a faceless man wearing a hooded jacket.

I glance down at my feet. “Move!” They don’t budge.

Terror grips me, but I keep my gaze on the approaching man. Bile rises to my throat when he stops in front of me. He has no face, just all blackness.

He laughs. “Mind your business.” Then he lifts a silver gun, presses it to my chest, and clicks.

My body jolted awake with sweat beading my face. Raking a hand through my hair, I breathed in and out slowly and tried to calm my racing heart.

I hadn’t had one of these nightmares in a while. Who was the faceless man? Was he trying to warn me? Scare me? Or was he a distorted version of the man who had been murdered?

A reminder blinked on my phone regarding my meeting with Slash tomorrow. I wasn’t sure how our conversation would turn out, but the meeting was like the past greeting the present, or vice versa. Maybe my subconscious knew I was meeting Slash and had triggered this nightmare.

I had some questions that needed answers.

CHAPTERTWENTY

REMINGTON

I strodealong Canal Street in the pleasant May weather, passing the city art sculptures and heading toward Memorial Park. The crowds, traffic, and noise had doubled because of the college graduations at Brown University, Rhode Island School of Design, and so many others. But that activity would dwindle in a few weeks.

I had missed the high energy of the crowded city when I went to Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut. New Haven wasn’t bad; it just wasn’t for me. Providence embraced middle-ground energy, whereas New York City could be an overdose of noise, traffic, and pollution.

As I walked, I remembered all the reasons I loved it here and why I had purchased businesses and properties in Providence. The constant loud chatter coming from every angle, the scent of diverse foods that enticed me, the modern and old architecture, the abundance of creativity displayed everywhere, and the salted air that added a unique flavor to the city.

I had a history here, something incomparable to anywhere else.

I wore comfortable clothing and sneakers, knowing I’d be walking a lot today. It helped clear my mind as I made my way to South Main Street, where The Church of Compassion sat. It had transformed into a youth counseling center and food pantry for the city. The brick façade had been updated, including the sign with the church name and a subtitle that read Youth Center and Food Pantry.

So much had changed, and yet, somehow, it hadn’t. The event inside this church changed me. It linked me to a faceless hooded man who had visited me many times in dreams. It also connected me to a man who had “saved” my life.

There had been moments when I felt like I was dying, over and over. Those damn nightmares had lasted for several years until I went to therapy. Recently, I’d begun seeing that faceless man in my dreams again. I didn’t know why I was seeing him instead of the murdered victim. Between the nightmares and the sexual dreams about Audri, my mind desperately needed a purge.

Turning down a small street, I spotted the Burrito Shack, the place where Slash had wanted to meet. After a thorough search, I discovered he and his wife opened the restaurant five years ago. The internet reviews gave them five stars. I wouldn’t blindly meet someone like Slash in an unfamiliar place. Over the years, I had kept tabs on him.

I yanked the door open and stepped inside to a quaint place with yellow walls and wooden tables and benches. A group of college students huddled in the corner.

“Hey, amigo!” Slash rose from his seat near the back and waved me over. “Sit down. Sit down.” He pulled out a chair that screeched against the tiled floor.

“Thank you.” I slid into the seat and looked at him.

Wrinkles fanned out from the corners of his eyes, and deep cracks had carved into his forehead. But more than anything, the light brown eyes held exhaustion and secrets. The scar that had given him the nickname hadn’t changed.

“You’ve aged, Slash.”

He laughed. “You too, amigo.”

We never addressed each other by our real names, even though we knew them. Hector Gomez was born in a village in Mexico and immigrated to Texas when he was twenty years old. He worked for several restaurants and met Maria when she attended the University of Houston. They married a few years later and moved back to Providence, where she had family.

“Cuz I’m old now.” Slash shrugged. “But you look good, man.” His accent had improved.

“Comes with eating good food and not sleeping well,” I said and watched his response.

“Keeping things in your chest?” He placed his palm over his heart. “Not good. Need to get rid of them. You’re young. You need to sleep.”

“You sleeping well?” I asked.

He leaned in, smiled, and whispered, “With the right alcohol. Don’t tell my wife.” He gestured to the door that led into the kitchen.