The Fifth Seed

By John Sheehan

Deep in the heart of Minnesotas north woods, a remarkable young woman by the name of Anna Jenkins flees from an obscure treatment center with a dark, foreboding secret. Institutionalized there, for most of her young life, Anna and the three other escapees, possess an extraordinary intellect with the ability to glimpse spectral visions of a not so distant future. And as the group begins a deadly game of hide and seek, stretching from the urban confines of Minneapolis to the verdant landscape of Frances Loire valley, each tries desperately to recapture their lost lives, while staying one step ahead of the man who doesnt want them backhe wants them dead.
Now, the hopes of the fugitives lie helplessly entangled in the hands of a frustrated ex-federal agent Grady Hamilton, who discovers old co-workers have their own agenda in the deadly game. Yet, through the ever-growing bond between he and Anna, Grady somehow begins to rebuild the pieces of his shattered past. And as they work hand in hand to expose a plot that could alter the face of humanity, Grady will find out there is another who covets Anna. Known only as The Fifth Seed, this young savant will stop at nothing to destroy him, and reclaim what he believes is rightfully his.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481779593

John Sheehan

John Sheehan is an accomplished writer by trade, graduating from the University of St. Thomas with a degree Journalism. He currently lives in Farmington, just south of the Twin Cities, with his wife Shelly, his two daughters, Genevieve and Olivia, and their French Brittney Gus. An avid traveler, John's books are intricately intertwined amidst the history and geography of some of his favorite locales.

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CONTENTS

Prelude

The Escape

Chapter 1

A Father’s Plea

Chapter 2

Falling

Chapter 3

The Connection

Chapter 4

Stakeout

Chapter 5

Fitful Sleep

Chapter 6

Grady’s Past

Chapter 7

The Kid

Chapter 8

First Sight

Chapter 9

The Deceit

Chapter 10

The Observer

Chapter 11

The Dance

Chapter 12

Uninvited

Chapter 13

Hatching A Plan

Chapter 14

Anna’s Move

Chapter 15

Grady’s Gamble

Chapter 16

On The Run

Chapter 17

The Frame Up

Chapter 18

Road To Rochester

Chapter 19

Going Home

Chapter 20

Ben

Chapter 21

Picking Up The Pieces

Chapter 22

Northwoods

Chapter 23

Seeing Is Believing

Chapter 24

Disturbing Melody

Chapter 25

Tipped Off

Chapter 26

What’s In The Past

Chapter 27

Rochester

Chapter 28

Unexpected Visitors

Chapter 29

Ulterior Motives

Chapter 30

The Siege

Chapter 31

Flight Or Fight

Chapter 32

Uneasy Truce

Chapter 33

The Cleanup

Chapter 34

Lanesboro

Chapter 35

Settling In

Chapter 36

Cottage Talk

Chapter 37

Unhappy Returns

Chapter 38

The Devil’s Deal

Chapter 39

Anna’s Secret

Chapter 40

Regrets

Chapter 41

Trent And Joe

Chapter 42

The Next Morning

Chapter 43

On The Town

Chapter 44

Breaking And Entering

Chapter 45

Rousting Mary Jane

Chapter 46

New Beginnings

Chapter 47

Silent Invitation

Chapter 48

Full Fury

Chapter 49

The Silent Visitor

Chapter 50

The Good Soldier

Chapter 51

Leaving Lanesboro

Chapter 52

Paying A Visit

Chapter 53

Tom Foolery

Chapter 54

Setting The Trap

Chapter 55

State Of Mind

Chapter 56

Partners In Crime

Chapter 57

Catch Me If You Can

Chapter 58

Higher Interests

Chapter 59

Last Leg To London

Chapter 60

Rift

Chapter 61

Mind Games

Chapter 62

Road To Folkestone

Chapter 63

Duality

Chapter 64

Hotel Le Clos Medicis

Chapter 65

The Street Rat

Chapter 66

Respite

Chapter 67

Prying Eyes

Chapter 68

Sophia

Chapter 69

Detour

Chapter 70

Montmartre

Chapter 71

Cat And Mouse

Chapter 72

Touching The Void

Chapter 73

Unsettled

Chapter 74

Anna’s Anguish

Chapter 75

The Call

Chapter 76

Sizing Up The Score

Chapter 77

Falling Hard

Chapter 78

The Handoff

Chapter 79

On The Move

Chapter 80

The Morning After

Chapter 81

Predestined

Chapter 82

Pushed To The Edge

Chapter 83

A Father’s Anguish

Chapter 84

Road To Chinon

Chapter 85

The Face

Chapter 86

Breaking It Down

Chapter 87

Chinon

Chapter 88

Refuge

Chapter 89

The Morning Of

Chapter 90

Kept Secrets

Chapter 91

Veiled Threats

Chapter 92

Twist Of Fate

Chapter 93

Gathering Storm

Chapter 94

Twist Of Fate, Part 2

Chapter 95

Chateau Du Chinon

Chapter 96

Opening The Door

Chapter 97

Battle Of The Chateau

Chapter 98

The Agnès Sorel Tunnel

Chapter 99

The Final Connection

Chapter 100

Compromised

Chapter 101

The Gates Of Hell

Chapter 102

Anna And Kyle

Chapter 103

Called On The Carpet

Chapter 104

Inn Kahoots

Chapter 105

Lying In Wait

Chapter 106

Moment Of Truth

Chapter 107

The Hammer Falls

Chapter 108

Losing Control

Chapter 109

Air Force One

Chapter 110

Saving Face

Chapter 111

Father And Daughter

Chapter 112

Anna’s Visitor

Chapter 113

Stoking The Fire

Chapter 114

The Fifth Seed

Chapter 115

Nemesis

Chapter 116

Foretold

Chapter 117

Truth Be Told

Chapter 118

Convergence

Chapter 119

Minot

Chapter 120

The Bowels Of Hell

Chapter 121

Weight Of The World

Chapter 122

The Hunt

Chapter 123

Prey

Chapter 124

Devil’s Daughter

Chapter 125

Rolling Mist

Chapter 126

Face Of The Future

Epilogue

Part 1

Two Months Later

Acknowledgements

Author’s Notes

To my wife Shelly, who always believed.

And to my daughters:

Genevieve, a young author in the making;

and Olivia, my little dreamer.

You inspire me every day.

That I may understand whatever binds the world’s innermost core together, see all its workings, and its seeds.—Faust

PRELUDE

THE ESCAPE

Seeing the foursome, one never would have suspected they were running for their lives. Three men and a woman—young and full of energy—and they darted in and out of shops at the Mall of America, wrapped in the excitement of their newfound freedom. On September 2 nd they had escaped from a private treatment center for troubled youth, secreted away in the extreme northern reaches of Minnesota, just northeast of Bemidji on the outskirts of the Chippewa National Forest. What follows are excerpts from a journal kept by one of these extraordinary individuals, describing their first few days of freedom—and their last days together.

Excerpt from Joe Meyer’s Journal

September 2nd: Pre-Dawn

Well, we have finally done it and life on the outside seems strangely abnormal. Our escape from Northwoods Mental Health Treatment Center has left the four of us exhausted and at odds about the future. But at least we are free and together . . . if only for now.

I can’t say as I write by the light of a full moon, resting for a few brief moments before we push on, that it was easy. But so far it seems everything has gone to plan. It certainly helped to have aid from the inside. Our thanks to an old friend at Northwoods who I shall never name here on these pages—for should this journal ever be ripped from my possession, this blessed friend, our saving grace, would be in grave danger. Still, this individual’s contribution should be noted.

I won’t go into the exact details of the escape. That is best left for another day, another time, when we do not live with the constant fear of being hunted and forced to return. With my freedom only hours old, I already can’t imagine life any other way. I won’t accept life any other way.

To the group’s knowledge we have not been followed. Yet we are quite certain the search has begun for us in earnest, as dawn begins to stoke up the horizon into a smoldering red sky to the east. To this point we have been on foot, yet as we pause now to break into pairs and find the separate roads we seek heading west, we pray for good weather, good fortune and helpful strangers to aid us in our journey.

I can’t imagine having to say goodbye to Curt and Anna, not so soon after we have sipped from the same cup of freedom. But after much heated discussion, and Trent’s unwavering insistence that we stick to our plan, we finally agreed it was for the best. Pairs will still give us strength, a friendly shoulder to lean on and will make hitchhiking a more realistic possibility. Yet if the unimaginable happens, and Northwoods swoops down upon us one night, like a hawk snaring its unsuspecting prey, we hope separating might ensure at least two may slip through their grasp, to someday tell our story.

God willing, we will rejoin somewhere northwest of here, in a town called Grafton, a town I scarcely knew existed only a month ago . . . and today still only know by name. There, another friend of our cause awaits, another link in the underground chain, to propel anyone who might survive this ordeal onto the next leg of our freedom’s journey. But for now, my weary legs must move again . . . we are heading out.

September 2nd: 8:00 p.m.

Trent and I are in a run-down motel, in a $15 room paid for out of the cash our few friends at Northwoods had smuggled to us over time. Yet even in this broken down rattrap I feel more alive than I can ever recall. The past 12 hours have been a living hell. Heavy rains hampered our travel, and of the few drivers who passed us, even fewer were kind enough to stop.

You cannot imagine the turmoil we faced each time we spotted a set of disembodied headlights racing toward us down a water-slicked road. Trent and I each wishing out loud for them to slow and then stop—yet in the same breath praying that those huddled figures inside the cars, obscured by torrents of rain, washing way any figments of human shape, had not been sent for us.

The one ride we did get came from a kindly old farmer, attending the funeral of one of his cousins, right here in this tiny town of three hundred souls. To our luck and his sorrow, the trip was long and we parted with our ‘thank yous’ and sincere sympathies as he drove out of our lives in a wash of rain.

As rain still plinks in a steady crescendo off the rooftops, we have not seen Anna or Curt since our parting, and we wonder how they might be faring. The route they chose runs due west to Grand Forks then north into Grafton, while ours runs a more direct northwesterly route to the same destination. By distance alone they should arrive after us, but who knows when you are traveling by thumb. I pray they are okay, and wonder if perhaps in tonight’s dreams we might find them well.

Tonight I go to bed, for the first time in as long as I can remember, tired but free.

September 3rd: Noon

We woke today to an unpleasant discovery. According to a map from a local gas station, the town we are in is farther west and nearer to Grand Forks than we planned to be. So far off our intended route are we that Trent and I wondered whether Anna and Curt might be sleeping in the room next to us. As it was, we haven’t seen them, and our dreams held no clues. Who knows exactly why or when these beautiful and horrid minds, we have for some reason been blessed with, will let us see what we see. Again I write, praying they are well. Yet I can’t help wondering about the broken relationship Curt and Anna once shared, and the hurt feelings that lingered. I hope they are getting along.

At least luck for Trent and me seems to have rediscovered us like the day’s welcome rays of sun. For as I pen these words in the back seat of an old Ford Crown Victoria, we have made it back to the road we detoured from last night, and are again heading northwest. The young man who picked us up is in auto parts sales and told us his next stop was a Minnesota town near the North Dakota border. He’ll take us that far, which by the map I have sprawled out beside me appears to be less than a half hour’s drive from our ultimate destination.

Still, I can’t seem to relax. Every now and then I look back through the rear window to see the same damned car hanging back about a quarter mile. I try to look away and dismiss it as nothing, but my mind won’t let me stray long, and I forever feel I must take another look. When I do, the car is still there.

Logic tells me I’m being foolish, for where else is there to go on this lonely stretch of flat, treeless road cut from the farm fields but straight ahead. Twice I’ve thought about broaching the subject with Trent, but could not bring myself to do so—not in mixed company at least. I hope I am not overreacting. I hope my next entry in this journal finds me a fool.

September 4th: Morning

I have reason to believe the car behind us was a false alarm, but more on that later. Curt and Anna are here! All of us are now in Grafton, safe and sound in the home of a friend. We all arrived within hours of each other last night, and this morning we celebrate with a breakfast buffet out. Though we are all overjoyed, Anna is the happiest: she received her first word of Mary Jane in almost a year. Our gracious host even offered insight as to where she might be living and informed us she was well. Mary Jane’s dismissal from Northwoods a year ago had changed Anna terribly; leaving her depressed and dejected much of the time. Today Anna could hardly contain her excitement: in a few days she plans to reunite with the woman she adores like a mother.

For now, we will stay here to rest and recover. We have no set timetable, but tentative plans to travel with Anna by bus to the Twin Cities where perhaps we might all spread out and explore the world for a while on our own. As it is, this is as far as our post-escape planning had taken us and we hope the rest of our lives are open for us to write. Perhaps we are too giddy with our recent successes, but we can’t imagine Northwoods having the resources to discover us here, or stake out the bus stations of every rural town in the region.

Still, I have a concern. Curt and Anna are at each other again. Their trip together seems to have ripped open old wounds that never healed, rather than bringing them closer together. Even now, Anna’s happiness seems to be wearing on Curt. And I am starting to have suspicions about Curt’s health. He says he had his addictions under control, but I can see the bags under his eyes and the muscle twitches that tweak his body relentlessly. I suspect he wasn’t clean, as he had reassured us only days before our escape.

There’s more to tell, but I have gone on too long. Everyone is getting ready to go.

September 5th: 1:15 a.m.

Oh my God, I am drunk . . . we celebrated together all day and partied all night in a great little bar called the Extra End. Curt and Anna are arguing again. I wish they would stop. I need sleep. Until tomorrow.

September 5th: 3:45 a.m.

I had a dream. No, a nightmare. I can’t even fathom its meaning. I pray it is wrong but I’m not sure. How can I be sure? In a month, I fear only one of us will remain.

September 5th: 12:30 a.m.

We celebrated again tonight, but I did not feel like drinking. I still have concerns about my dream, but if any of the others shared it, they are not saying. Anna seems too happy for such thoughts and Curt is too strung out. He got blitzed tonight and almost got us thrown out of the bar. I’m not sure about Trent . . . though he seemed enough like himself today.

So now, I hold this secret . . . and wonder if I should tell them . . . but I can’t bring myself to. How can I when we all have felt so alive these past few days? I can’t dash their hopes on something I am so unsure of. What should I do?

Sleep can’t be far off . . .

September 6th: 3 p.m.

We departed Grafton today for the Twin Cities. Just before we left our host sprung a surprise on us, handing over $15,000 to each of us. She explained it was from Mary Jane, and was to go toward starting our new lives. We are all extremely grateful. The money seems to have sealed it . . . we have decided to separate, at least for now. The thought scares me, as I have no place to go. Anna is going to try to track down Mary Jane and Trent seems to want to travel—to where he has not said. Curt talks of family in San Francisco, but I can’t imagine where he will start to look. Like many of us, he was turned over to Northwoods at about age eleven or twelve—most likely with his parents’ approval and probably an exchange of cash. Still, I hope for his sake he finds them.

For now, we share some of our last moments together, perhaps our final moments if my dream comes to fruition. The bus we ride on is a tour bus headed to the Mall of America in Bloomington. We will disperse from there, with plans to meet again about a month from now. It was Curt’s idea to come back together, and that it should be our secret . . . shared with no one else or risk endangering the group. I can’t imagine whom we might tell, but we have all agreed. I just hope there is more than one of us at the reunion.

Their time together now almost at an end—Anna, Trent, Joe and Curt slowly made one last trip around the massive indoor mall. Their feet finally paused at the center of the large indoor amusement park. There they hugged, kissed and laughed away tears as young children screamed nearby, oblivious on their rides. In a month, God willing, the four would all meet again. But for now, each spread out in different directions. These widely divergent paths had been planned to avoid long goodbyes and re-intersecting paths. But as Anna got lost in a moving sea of unruly families and overburdened shoppers, one silent observer watched fitfully.

CHAPTER 1

A FATHER’S PLEA

The man who called himself Bruce Jenkins gazed blankly out the newly installed bay window of a quaint Craftsman bungalow. The St. Paul home, tucked back along the scenic river bluffs of Merriam Park, was being gradually restored by its owner.

Bruce’s watery eyes fell momentarily on a small squirrel nestled in at the foot of a giant oak. He watched absent-mindedly as it dug in a nut for winter storage. As he stood there, contemplating his story, stray words popped into his mind: purposeful, deliberate, intuitive . . . yet pitifully stupid.

You were saying, a voice nudged carefully from behind him.

Bruce, a large burly man with close cropped salt and pepper hair, stood almost six-foot four inches tall. He turned abruptly to face the voice.

The man who’d spoken was ex-FBI agent Grady Hamilton. It was his home office in which Bruce now stood. The office appeared to be immaculately kept, with Grady’s antique mahogany desk taking up the vast majority of the room’s smallish footprint. The young private investigator sat with his back to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase crafted of dark stained oak. The shelves were crammed with leather-bounds—but the office and the books were all show. Grady rarely used the library behind him, doing all his research online these days.

At the moment, Grady’s eyes were focused intently on Bruce’s massive frame, blocking his view of the bay window he’d installed himself and of the backyard beyond. It was there Bruce began grasping for his next words… the right words. What he was about to explain required the utmost care and tact.

After a moment’s pause Bruce appeared to compose himself. As I said, I want you to locate my daughter.

And her full name? Grady inquired, asking what he already knew.

Anna Rae Jenkins. Bruce replied swallowing hard, perturbed by Grady’s oddly repetitive line of questioning. As I said, I haven’t seen her in over a year.

Yes, yes… I recall you saying something like that on the phone. But you said you couldn’t or perhaps wouldn’t elaborate then.

No, I needed to meet you before we went into details.

And? Grady prodded again.

You’ll do. Bruce said with a bluntness he regretted immediately.

I can’t thank you enough for your overwhelming show of confidence, Grady jabbed back sarcastically.

Go to hell were the first words that came to the tip of Bruce’s tongue, but he held back. He wasn’t about to blow it… not now. Instead, Bruce tempered his response. I’m sorry, I’m a little emotional right now.

How so? Grady inquired with rapid-fire skepticism. "From our brief phone conversation you and your wife sent your daughter off at the age of twelve to a special center for problem children—someplace up in northern Minnesota.

It’s called Northwoods, and yes, it’s near Bemidji, Bruce answered, but…

In any event, Grady said cutting Bruce off, from my standpoint you abandoned your responsibilities as parents, paid what I assume was top dollar to institutionalize your own flesh and blood in a private home, and then washed your hands of her for the last six years, visiting her on what I will respectfully describe as an irregular basis. Excuse me for being harsh, but that certainly doesn’t fit the loving, caring father role all too well.

You must understand. There have been complications. Bruce paused, flushing with a show of apparent grief.

Impatient, Grady nudged him forward. Go on.

My wife, you see. She’s sick. Has been for the last two years. The last year it’s been complicated… anyway the doctors don’t think she’ll make it. Another choke of emotion cut him off.

For the first time in the interview, Grady backed off and sighed. I’m sorry Mr. Jenkins. I didn’t know.

Still apparently grief-stricken, Bruce tried awkwardly to wave Grady off and turned back toward the same squirrel digging at the base of the old oak.

Grady watched as Bruce’s body heaved a couple of times with silent sobs, and for a brief moment he felt a sliver of guilt for the hard tack he had taken with Mr. Jenkins. But this was Grady’s style. In his three plus years of working as an investigator for hire he had seen more than his fair share of clients walk through his door. Most of them had a story. And most of them lied, especially to him. In this business he had developed a detached, less-than-empathetic attitude toward those who retained his services. It was this hard line of questioning that usually helped him figure out who was telling the truth and who was giving him a dump truck full of bull.

A minute passed before Mr. Jenkins spoke again, still facing the window. You see Mr. Hamilton.

Call me Grady… everyone does, he offered, a little more politely.

Okay, Grady. As I told you on the phone, my daughter is missing. Actually I guess you’d call it an escape. Anyway, she walked out of Northwoods along with three other patients about a week ago. You must understand, all her young life she has been treated for clinical depression, mild schizophrenia, and drug abuse.

I see, which for you, justified the home.

Yes, Bruce spoke turning back to Grady, letting the man’s jab slide this time. At age twelve… my God she was only twelve. Another sob. She got in with the wrong crowd. She was always smart—perhaps too smart. Martha, my wife, and I saw it coming. She started getting bored in school… lost interest in her studies. Her A average quickly slipped to a B and then a C, and still lower. We tried everything, from tutors to psychologists. Everyone said the same thing. Anna was amazingly intelligent, but her mind wandered terribly. She started having horrible nightmares, fell into fits of depression and was caught skipping school on more occasions than I could count. It was then that we discovered her stash.

Do you know what kind of drugs she was into, Mr. Jenkins? Grady asked evenhandedly.

We only found a baggie of pot, but after she had spent some time at Northwoods they told us she admitted to drinking and experimenting with meth.

Grady watched Bruce closely as he spoke. The man seemed amazingly composed after his short breakdown only a few seconds ago. Something was odd about him. He seemed to slide in an out of his emotions quickly, and his words were now more deliberate… or rehearsed. Grady was sure Jenkins was hiding something, and he thought he knew what it was.

I’m sorry, Mr. Jenkins, but I have to ask. Your daughter…

Yes. Bruce asked cautiously, as if sensing what was coming next.

Was she abused? Grady asked, his unblinking eyes never leaving Mr. Jenkins’ own.

Bruce eyed Grady with contempt. Christ! I don’t need this shit. There are twenty other investigators I can get to take this damn job, he yelled, snatching his coat off the back of a chair as he stormed for the door.

Grady was intrigued by Mr. Jenkins’ quick response. Grady had never directly suggested Mr. Jenkins was the abuser, but the man seemed to have taken it that way. Still, Grady let him go, watching as Bruce blew past his desk, out of the office, on his way to the front door. No longer able to see Mr. Jenkins, Grady played his last card. Why didn’t you call them first then… the other investigators? he shouted after Mr. Jenkins.

At first there was no answer, but Grady never heard the front door open. So he waited, hands clasped in his lap and head down, waiting patiently for Bruce to reply or leave. To Grady, it really didn’t matter either way. But then Grady heard the soft shuffle of footsteps across his hardwood floors, signaling Bruce’s slow return. Out of the corner of his eye, Grady saw the man reappear, pausing just inside his office doorway.

You’re so smart? Bruce said after a long, deliberate pause. You tell me.

Lifting his head, Grady turned, swiveling slowly to face Bruce. Because I’ll find your daughter.

CHAPTER 2

FALLING

Two Weeks Later

Peering through the thick, dense fog, like a lone, ominous eye it came toward him: a round object, at first only a glimmer of yellowish-white light, glowing dimly, and then ever so slowly brightening.

Curt stood the only ground he had, fiercely clinging to a broad metal column rising up beside him, his knuckles whitening against the cold, brisk breeze that buffeted the Golden Gate Bridge. Below him, his sneakered feet rocked precariously on the outermost rust-orange rail, the final impediment separating pedestrians and cars from the churning waters of the bay below.

In his mind’s eye he could sense the throng of observers who had stepped from their cars and now clustered on the walkway behind him. Their shouts to come down only vaguely registered in his troubled mind. Instead his thoughts centered upon the irony of his situation. For years his life had not been his own. For years he had longed to be free, to live as he chose, as he wished, and not by another’s code. Yet here he was tonight, finally free, as he had been for the last few weeks. Yet now his life seemed somehow even more unlivable.

Curt knew all too well the darkness would eventually find him. He knew deep down, like few people could truly understand, that his captors were closing in, and that what lay before him was his only way out. He so desperately wanted to be away from them… those horrible people and the sheer terror of what they could do to him… and the things they could make him do.

Teary eyed, he lifted his gaze skyward once more at the eye hovering out in the mist, parting the thick night sky. The light’s brilliance now accompanied by the deep thumping chop of helicopter blades as they beat the crisp autumn air with a vengeance. The hanging bird closed in, the spotlight finding Curt’s trembling body, bathing it in an almost spectral white glow, as the wind wash from the churning blades tore unrelentingly at his clothes.

Curt gazed, nearly blinded by the light, trying to see past its beam, where he could vaguely make out the sleek, streamlined shape of the helicopter behind. His eyes fell once more to the blackness below. He couldn’t see the water—certainly there beyond the mist and darkness—but he could just barely hear its waves lapping at the bridge’s massive support columns, waiting for him.

Yet what he heard next wasn’t the waves, and it sent a violent shiver through him, as though someone had just poured ice water down the length of his spine. It was a mere whisper, set upon the wind and delivered only to his ears. An eerie voice, that rose above all the others, was spoken with such softness it might have come from his very own mind. He knew its origin, though. He knew it was not his. It was them… it was him . . . The Fifth Seed. They had found him, just as he had anticipated, just as he had known all along they would. It was why he was here in the first place tonight, wasn’t it?

Instinctively he glanced over his shoulder to see who could have gotten so close to speak this single word. So close he could almost feel the puff of breath tickling the short hairs on his neck. But he knew even before he saw—no one had come within twenty feet of his precarious perch.

Now Curt knew he had no choice. If there was a part of him that would prevent him from tossing himself to the waves, it was now gone. His self-preservation instincts had suddenly been shoved aside by the wicked and foreboding voice that goaded him in a one-word whisper. Jump.

Gathering himself, he breathed his last words, Goodbye, Anna. I love you. I’m so sorry. With that Curt heaved himself out into the air, his body seemingly hanging there momentarily before plummeting in a terrifying descent to the murky black of the turbulent water below.

As the crowd looked on aghast—screaming out in combined shock and horror—a lone dark figure observed from a safe distance, finding immense pleasure at the sight. And riding on the connection that was just made, he offered his own parting words to the wind. I’m coming for you, Anna, he whispered, before fading away once more into the thick, hanging mist.

CHAPTER 3

THE CONNECTION

Half a continent away, in a townhouse set in a sprawling Minneapolis suburb, the connection was completed, and Anna Jenkins woke with a terrible shiver. The white cotton tank top she wore to bed was soaked with sweat and her hands trembled uncontrollably. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand she saw the neon display flash over to 12:01 a.m. Dashing across the floor she flicked on the wall switch, hoping the bright light would wash away the sick and frightened feeling she had. She crawled back into bed and curled up in the fetal position, hugging a thick floral comforter to her like a massive security blanket. There she began to weep softly.

In her mind, she had experienced the same events, like a horrible nightmare, yet she knew it was not a dream at all. After all, she was the connection. Horrified, she could feel Curt falling through the black void, the terror he felt and the presence that had pushed him literally over the edge. She knew this, to her utter horror and revulsion, like a twin might sense something terrible had happened to a sibling—only ten times more vivid. She knew what her mind told her to be true: Curt was lost, and The Fifth Seed was coming for her. Now there were only three.

CHAPTER 4

STAKEOUT

Grady Hamilton watched patiently from the soft leather bucket seat of his 1999 metallic-blue Ford Explorer. As he did, a light winked on in the front room of the townhouse, number 3345—the home he had been watching for the last five hours. On a yellow pad on the empty seat beside him, Grady scribbled the following: 12:03 a.m… . light on… front upstairs window. The entry followed a whole host of observations he had strung together, but as of yet, they offered no solid clues.

From under the pad, Grady pulled a large legal-size leather folio in which he had been keeping information he had gathered on the case. With one eye on the townhouse Grady dug into the file’s contents. It had been nearly two weeks now since Bruce, Anna’s father, had stormed to Grady’s front door, threatening to leave. Yet the overwrought father had eventually settled down and handed Grady the case.

At the time, Mr. Jenkins had unequivocally stated that he had never abused his daughter. Still, Grady wasn’t so sure—there was obviously something traumatic in this young girl’s life. But the issue had been dropped for the time being. Right now Grady had other things to worry about, like what was going on behind the windows of 3345. Was Anna inside? He wasn’t sure, but so far it was the best lead he had.

From the file Grady pulled out a photo of Anna. He had looked at it many times before, so he set it aside. He couldn’t look at her anymore, finding it hard to imagine this young lady had so many problems. In Grady’s mind’s eye she seemed too well put together… too self-assured. Yet the information he had received from Northwoods, through Mr. Jenkins, was unmistakable. She had a history of drugs, had been released to halfway houses four times—each and every time returning to drug abuse within a month of supervised release. The file also indicated Anna had attempted suicide twice, and nearly overdosed another four times. Still, the question Grady had was why?

Momentarily pushing those disturbing thoughts from his mind, he returned to his file, retrieving a stack of papers nearly a half-inch thick. This was the fully typed transcript of Grady and Mr. Jenkins’ conversation, along with observations he had inserted after the fact. Grady always recorded his sessions with clients, but rarely offered that tidbit of information to his customers. It was probably a legal issue, but if they never found out, what was the harm? Ultimately he was amazed at how much he could discover by referring back to the conversations once he was further along in his investigations—especially inconsistencies that arose in people’s stories over time. But he had read the transcript dozens of times, so it too was quickly set aside.

Next, Grady removed brief bios and photos of the other three escapees, tossing them into a stack with the other items, before finally retrieving four photocopied newspaper articles fastened together with a paper clip. Absent-mindedly, Grady thumbed through the news clippings, catching their headlines and little else. He had read and reread each many times over. The first was the most recent, a story from the Minneapolis Star-Tribune’s regional section. It was short, and the headline simply read: Four escape from Northwoods.

The second article was longer, but covered the same topic—though this one had been retrieved from Grady’s local library and had run in Bemidji’s own weekly rag. Both articles detailed a lapse in security at Northwoods caused by a series of suspect errors that ultimately led to the escape of four of its troubled patients.

The escape had taken place several weeks ago now. Speculation was that an orderly failed to lock in one of the patients, and that patient, Curt Browning, had released the other three, including Anna. From there, a malfunctioning door alarm on a delivery entrance, and a security camera system that mysteriously was down during the escape cleared a path for the patients to slip unnoticed off the grounds. Grady suspected an inside job, but neither article posed that possibility. The stories went on to give brief descriptions of the escapees and the unsuccessful attempts to track them down. None were described as dangerous, except possibly to themselves.

The third article was from about two years back, again retrieved from the library archives. The feature article from the Rochester Post Bulletin was titled, Medical Mind Games. Grady was quite sure it held no significance to his case, but a search using the keyword Northwoods had pulled it up from the library’s files. The article went into some depth about recent medical studies authored by a doctor at the Mayo Clinic dealing with increased brain function through different physical and mental activities, including games. Northwoods appeared only at the end in a brief reference to the doctor’s bio. Apparently the man had served as a consultant to the facility in some capacity.

The last article held what Grady was looking for. It was an article from a medical journal about another doctor by the name of Mary Jane Henderson and the color photo offered a crisp, clear picture of her round smiling face. Mary Jane was a psychologist, specializing in childhood disorders, particularly as they related to savants—and she had served as a caregiver at Northwoods for nearly five years. He wondered why a woman with her background, with an expertise in matters of savants, would spend part of her promising career dealing with the bratty children of rich families and their various vices—particularly at a private treatment center in the middle of nowhere Minnesota. Something didn’t quite fit. Unable to resolve it at the moment, he tucked this anomaly in the back of his mind.

Perhaps the answers would come soon, as it was Mary Jane’s home that Grady now watched. Grady had been given her name by Mr. Jenkins, along with some other pieces of information that weren’t published in any articles or journals. Apparently, while at Northwoods, Mary Jane had been assigned to Anna’s case and had developed an unnatural motherly attachment to Anna. Then, a little over a year ago, Mary Jane had been released from her duties at Northwoods. The parting was officially termed a resignation, though Bruce seemed to indicate it was actually more of a firing.

Mr. Jenkins seemed to think—with his daughter becoming so attached to her—Anna might try to seek out Dr. Henderson after her escape. For Grady, it seemed like a long shot, but it was the only lead he had to go on. While Bruce had been able to get Northwoods to release some of Anna’s files, Grady had no luck trying to get the private facility to share any details around the escape or the other escapees. In fact, he’d been told unceremoniously that the police were looking into the matter… period. With that door shut, and little else to go on, Grady had gone about the task of trying to locate Dr. Henderson.

Doing so ended up being much more difficult than he ever anticipated. For shortly after Mary Jane left Northwoods, she seemingly disappeared. Grady even tried calling in a few favors owed to him from his Bureau days, but a discreet search, provided by an old friend and colleague, failed to turn up anything concrete on Mary Jane’s whereabouts. It was actually the article he held in his hand that began to slowly expose the trail of a woman who didn’t seem to want to be found.

From the article, Grady discovered Mary Jane’s last place of employment. Prior to joining Northwoods she had been with the University of Minnesota’s medical research department, dealing specifically with young savants. Grady called an old girlfriend, Marie, who worked in the university’s personnel department. They were still on friendly terms, and so, against university policy, she dug into her computerized files to see what she might be able to unearth. It was a long shot that initially didn’t pay off. The search yielded nothing. Mary Jane had not had any contact with the university in the last year and their most recent address for her was five years outdated.

Discouraged, Grady had been just about to hang up when Marie threw him a bone in the form of a phone number. After running a cross-search of personnel from Mary Jane’s department, Marie had come across the name of another woman who appeared to have partnered with Mary Jane on several research projects. The woman had since left the university, but was still in town. She had left her forwarding address and phone number. After Grady promised not divulge where he got the name, Marie recited the information to him over the phone.

Thankfully, Abby Turnbill was a gossip—Grady could tell that ten seconds into their call. Representing himself as a reporter, wanting to do a follow-up story on her old colleague Mary Jane, Abby had immediately opened up, offering any assistance she might be able to provide. Without any prompting she began to relate what she described as a stormy partnership between the two research professionals, with Abby emerging in the limelight. Grady did all he could to feign interest before he had to cut her off and get to the meat of what he wanted.

You want to know where she is? Abby had said incredulously, as if she were the only person Grady would need to talk to. I haven’t spoken to her in over nine months.

But it was the glimmer of hope Grady was looking for. Nine months meant Abby must have seen Mary Jane after she had vanished.

With a bit of prompting, Grady soon discovered Abby had run into Mary Jane at one of their favorite restaurants, the Uptown Café. According to Abby, Mary Jane seemed flustered, and in a hurry to leave, so much so, that she left before the waitress could return her credit card. I was so surprised, Abby had said to Grady, when the waitress ran out with her card calling after her… Miss Flannigan! So, I asked her if she got married and she just looked at me all embarrassed before finally saying yes. Then she grabbed the card from the waitress and ran off.

Thanking Abby, Grady instantly began his search anew, looking for a Mary Jane Flannigan. Still, he couldn’t find a Mary Jane Flannigan or M.J. Flannigan listed anywhere in the Twin Cities metro area. And the two M. Flannigans listed turned out to be male. It took a week’s worth of cold calls to hospital, clinic, and medical research facility receptionists to finally find a Mary Jane Flannigan employed at MediView, a small research clinic.

Upon arriving at the clinic itself, Grady discovered it to be a newer building, located on the site of the old Meyer Brother’s dairy in the wealthy suburb of Wayzata, an area he knew well. For the two days following, Grady staked out the company’s parking lot armed with the photo from the article. He must have missed Mary Jane the first night, or perhaps she hadn’t come to work that day, but he struck gold the next, seeing her leave the facility and get into her 2001 Mitsubishi Gallant. Based on the old photo from the article, she had changed her hair color, but it was definitely the same round friendly face from her earlier days.

After that, the rest was easy. Grady simply followed Mary Jane home, bringing him to where he was now, staring at a light in a window, hoping Anna was somewhere behind the veil of white curtains. A few minutes later, at 12:46 a.m., the light in the front window flashed off again. Grady recorded the time in his ledger. It would be his last observation of the night. For the rest of the evening the townhouse remained in darkness.

CHAPTER 5

FITFUL SLEEP

Mary Jane wandered down the dimly lit hallway from her master bedroom in the rear of the townhouse. She awoke at 12:37 a.m. to a soft moaning coming from Anna’s room. Anna’s light was still on, and the glow from it spilled out around the seams of the door and out into the hall.

She paused a moment, listening and then whispered her name. Anna? There was no response. She spoke her name again. This time she didn’t wait for a response, but carefully pushed the door open to find the young woman sprawled out on the bed. Her body was heaped in a messy tangle with the thick, tufted comforter as though she had been fighting an imaginary foe.

Anna? she asked again in a soft, concerned voice.

The young woman tossed fitfully at the sound of her name, but was apparently asleep.

Mary Jane walked quietly over to the bedside and sat ever so softly on the edge. For just a moment, the bedsprings creaked with the added weight, and Mary Jane held her breath, hoping the young woman wouldn’t wake up. Satisfied she wouldn’t, Mary Jane slowly began to stroke Anna’s thick tangle of black curls while whispering a soothing mantra, It’s okay dear, everything’s going to be okay. In her mind she wondered if it really would be. She had been so careful, so meticulous in her departure from her previous life.

For a year she had worked to build a safe haven for Anna, assuming a new identity and secreting away reserves of cash in hopes of this very day arriving, when Anna could be free, as she deserved to be. But she couldn’t help but wonder about one tiny slip that could cost them everything.

Anna moaned again, and Mary Jane began to gently rub her back. A few minutes passed and Anna seemed to settle into a deeper, more restful sleep. Kissing her own hand, Mary Jane applied it to the young woman’s temple before quietly removing herself from the room. Whatever had roused her from her sleep would have to wait until tomorrow.

Taking one more look at Anna’s petite, prone figure, a concerned smile pinched Mary Jane’s round face. Then she turned out the light and returned quietly to her own waiting bed, oblivious to the dangers gathering outside.

CHAPTER 6

GRADY’S PAST

At precisely 2:00 a.m. Grady called off the hunt. Exhausted and fairly confident nothing else would happen beyond the windows of 3345, he began his long drive home to his work in progress. The 1890s bungalow he was remodeling himself was just a half-mile removed from the Mississippi River in St. Paul.

Grady was all of 32, a young man who seemed to have fallen into a rut early in life. A promising, yet grunt-like, undercover career with the FBI had been dashed at the age of 29. He had moved on to the only line of investigative work that would take someone with such a short, muddy history.

For the most part, Grady hated what he did. Approximately 90% of his current work found him following adulterous husbands and wives around with a DSLR and a telephoto zoom, snapping compromising photographs. They were filthy little assignments, a far cry from the six years he had spent working undercover, making drug busts and occasionally helping track foreign agents operating in the Twin Cities.

Recruited right out of the halls of the University of St. Thomas, after receiving his B.A. in Criminal Sciences with a minor in psychology, Grady had been assigned to the local Bureau. There, his role in several high-profile regional busts had pushed his stock through the roof. Then, just as he was about to be reassigned at a national level, something happened that would turn his life upside down.

He could recall the details like it was yesterday. And as he sped along the nearly deserted corridors of highway 394 toward the I-94 junction, tucked under the looming expanse of Minneapolis skyline, he began to relive his misfortune all over again.

It began on a snowy New Year’s Eve, almost four years ago. Grady had been indulging at his favorite Irish bar . . . O’Gara’s. It was a busy, multi-roomed establishment, located on Snelling Avenue, on the streets of old St. Paul. The pub offered several venues including a traditional Irish pub, a quaint piano bar and modern dance hall named O’Gara’s garage. On this particular night, Grady found himself in the long narrow pub, a place he frequented often, ever since his college days. Proud of his Irish heritage, he felt at home there, and he spent several New Year’s Eves in attendance. It was an occasion not to be missed if one could manage, rivaled only by the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations.

The night of the incident, Grady had been attempting to carry on a conversation with a bartender he had gotten to know quite well. The man’s name was Flynn and he had a thick Irish accent to boot. But as the midnight hour approached, the two friends found conversation difficult, as the din within the small Irish pub rose to a rowdy-loud level. Tired of trying to speak over the noise and in-between the constant drink requests Flynn had been receiving from other patrons, both men had finally given up. Instead Grady sipped the head off his third Guinness Stout of the night and began the enjoyable task of people watching.

Alone with no date to speak of this year, Grady had decided he would duck out just before the clock struck twelve. He was generally comfortable with himself, but with it being New Year’s and all, he would prefer to avoid any awkward feelings once the sea of people paired off with their partners, or recent acquaintances, for a drunken midnight kiss.

At approximately 11:45 p.m., with his beer only half empty, Grady decided it was time. Just as he was about to get up and leave, a regular, sitting to his right, whom Grady knew only as Shawn, suddenly tottered off his barstool and crashed awkwardly to the floor. Grady watched, amused, as the drunken man picked himself up and brushed himself off. He even allowed a smirk to cross his face as Shawn deposited all the change from his pocket on the bar as a gratuity for Flynn’s expert service. It couldn’t have amounted to more than 65 cents, Grady guessed. Giving an awkward wave and a drunken grin, Shawn stumbled his way through the throng of people and out into the snowy night.

With the brief entertaining interlude over, Grady began to maneuver the black leather bomber he had been sitting on out from underneath him. It was difficult, as the crowd was thick, and it took quite a balancing effort before he successfully retrieved the coat and slid it over his broad shoulders.

Giving an appreciative nod to Flynn along with his own generous ten-dollar tip, Grady slipped a foot to the sticky floor—now sporting a shiny coat of spilt beer—just as someone from behind touched him gently on the shoulder. Before he could even turn to see who it was, a lovely vision, with long, straight dyed-blond hair, hopped spryly onto the stool recently vacated by Shawn.

Hey, Grady, she said with a perky smile, and a slightly noticeable alcohol-induced slur.

The touch on the shoulder and the greeting caught Grady by surprise as he found himself gazing into the bright green eyes of a woman he found vaguely familiar. He smiled quizzically, returning her friendly greeting. Hello, he replied with the feigned enthusiasm of someone trying to hide the fact that he had no clue who she might be. Still stumped, he added with a hint of embarrassment. Do I know you?

Ignoring his question at first, the pretty young woman simply replied, I’ve been trying to get a seat by you for the last two hours. I noticed you from across the room and had to talk to you before you left. Glancing at his coat she added, You were leaving, weren’t you?

Grady gazed at her, scanning her pretty face before peeking at her slight yet curvy figure, all in hopes of unearthing any clue that might spark his foggy memory.

Oh my god, the woman said shocked, you really don’t know who I am, do you? I thought you were just playing with me. It’s Nancy, she offered. Yet there was still no recognition from Grady. Nancy Anderson, she finally elaborated with a bit of a perturbed huff.

It was then the light flicked on in Grady’s beer-fogged mind and fond memories flooded back to him like a two-minute film clip set in extreme fast forward. Speechless, he now realized his mistake. They had dated before, for almost a year when both attended St. Thomas. But life’s differing ambitions had gotten in the way of something more lasting.

She had been pretty then, but now she looked stunning. Her hair had been darker in college and she had generally worn glasses coupled with thick baggy sweaters—a studious but sexy look that Nancy had pulled off well. Now her eyes glimmered, no longer obscured behind specs. Her hair, longer and more lustrous than ever before, was tucked softly behind each ear, spilling from there in a silky wave before it came to rest just above the noticeable curve of her figure. Of course! How have you been? he said with genuine sincerity mixed with a hint of