Rye Nova: Between Wrong and Right

By K.M. Greffe

Rye Nova has suffered with visions and night-terrors for most of his life. The things he sees are never detailed enough to allow him to change the inevitable. He is doomed to wait and watch as they play out in real life, just as they did in his dreams. That is, until he stops for breakfast in Hawthorne, Nevada.

For the first time Rye has enough knowledge to do something about what he has seen. He takes action, but will it be for the wrong person or the right reason?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781777240929

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Rye Nova: Between Series

Rye Nova: Between Wrong and Right

Rye Nova: Between Flight and Fight

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

All characters are fictious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-77724-090-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-77724-092-9

© 2020 K.M. Greffe

Contents

THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

WHAT RYE DIDN’T KNOW

TWO WEEKS LATER

THE BEGINNING

The pain numbing his arm suddenly let up, and Rye unclenched his fist as the man who sat next to him finally placed the gun on the table.

You know I love my work, but I hate seeing you walk through that door. Marcus squeezed the bottle of alcohol solution and wiped down the latest artwork.

The newest scene inked in black and grey filled the inside of Rye’s left forearm - peeking out from the cuff of his black leather glove. Gloves, he rarely took off. The five-hour sitting resulted in the completion of a collection that shrouded both arms in sleeves. A full baker’s dozen of nightmarish and unsettling images.

Are you sure this is really cheaper than therapy? Marcus was one of only two people who knew the story about his collection because Rye felt the man was owed an explanation on the third visit a few years back. "Because I’m charging you way more than my going rate." The artist always tried to lighten the mood during the sittings.

The reply came in the form of a lazy shrug.

The tattoo artist applied the padding and secured it with tape. Plans for tonight?

Reno. It was nearly a seven-hour drive north, and it was already past eight. This was going to be a long night.

Well, good luck my friend. A handshake was offered, and, as always, Rye hesitated before accepting, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope to never see you again. It had become the traditional departing words from the shop owner.

He walked out of the brightly lit storefront into the equally brightly lit street and climbed into his black Jeep Patriot. Rye could only hope that one day Marcus would be right.

It was now three-thirty in the morning and Rye was pounding on the door to the motel room. On the other side was the person he had been sent to find. Although his employment could barely be considered legal, it was what he did to pay the bills. Technically, Rye had a piece of paper that said, ‘private investigator’s license’, but it may not have been acquired through proper channels. He found people. And he was good at it. Private investigator, bounty hunter, freelancer, call it what you will. It allowed him to make his own hours, choose the jobs he wanted to do, and keep away from other people as much as possible.

With the Glock at the ready of his right hand, snugged against the small of his back. Matthews! I know you’re in there! Rye’s loud voice held no sympathy for anyone who may be sleeping in a nearby room. The fist pounding continued to rattle the door in its frame until the curtain fluttered, and a wide eye peaked around. There’s nowhere for you to go. Give it up. I want to get paid today. The eye disappeared a fraction of a second later, but the door remained closed.

It only took an instant before Rye threw his shoulder into the weak door and crashed into the room. The space was humid with the stink of human sweat. Rye quickly scanned the room and saw the closet door close. These assholes are not very smart, he thought, yanking open the folding door.

Crouched in the darkened corner was Matthews. The fee for your return will go up now because I’m going to include the damages for that door. He threw a pointed finger behind him as if scolding a young child. Squatting down to be level with the man who was struggling to press himself into the wall. They will not be happy.

Rye worked out of Las Vegas most of the time for a guy by the name of Max. Although but his talents were known in Reno as well, this trace had been given upon recommendation. A voice over the phone instructed Rye to find this gambling loser either here in the city or elsewhere.

I…I…I can get you the money. Matthews sputtered. Just tell him you couldn’t find me. I’ll leave town. He’ll never see me again. I promise. It ended in a whimper as his hands rose, shielding his head in a cowering posture.

Without answering, Rye grabbed the collar of the man’s t-shirt with a gloved hand and roughly dragged Matthews out of the pathetic hiding place. Matthews’ feet peddled, attempting to find purchase against the threadbare brown carpet. The man let out a grunt as Rye pulled his catch, still traveling backwards, sneakered feet clanging against the metal stairs, down to the parking lot.

Once Matthews was handcuffed in the back of the Patriot to the eye-bolt (a custom installation in the ceiling), Rye stopped in at the motel office. This is for the door. Room 219. He tossed two one hundred-dollar bills on the desk.

It took a moment before the bored night clerk behind the desk to turn his eyes from the television and comprehend what was going on, but by then, Rye was already behind the wheel.

Fifteen minutes later the payout was in hand. Whatever happens to Matthews was no concern of his. Wouldn’t come easy. Made me break down the door. I need another two hundred.

The man who sat at the old metal office desk, counting out the finder’s fee, shook his head. Then with a humorless grin that caused Matthews to shrink, Couldn’t go easy, could ya? He peeled off two more bills.

It wasn’t always legal, but it paid the bills.

CHAPTER TWO

Two hours later, during the drive back to Vegas, outside of Hawthorne, Rye realized that he had to give in to either sleep or hunger. He didn’t like to sleep.

Just up the highway lights flickered to life inside a diner - Walter’s Mess. It was ten minutes before six when he pulled into the parking lot. The neon OPEN sign was still dark, so he waited. His eyes fell closed as his head leaned back on the headrest. Rye felt himself nod off and jerked himself awake. Don’t fall asleep. He climbed out of the Patriot and rolled his shoulders as he walked to the back to grab a fresh t-shirt from his travel bag in the trunk. The desert air was still cool, and he found the light breeze just refreshing enough to prickle his skin, giving a much needed boost of energy.

I’ll sleep when I get home. Rye promised himself, running a hand over his head and face, trying to scrub away the exhaustion that hung heavy.

In the time it took to change from one dark grey shirt to a second one that was exactly the same, and peel the protective padding from the latest ink, the OPEN sign buzzed to life.

Two timeworn pickup trucks that had already been parked in the lot when he arrived released two old fellas who, if Rye had to have guessed, came here every morning for the last century. Giving the old guys a head start, Rye delayed by once again stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders, taking in more cool early morning desert air.

The old guys were at the counter on their usual stools, no doubt, when Rye walked in and selected a booth in the far right corner, furthest away from the door. As the smell of grease, coffee, and toast hit him, he appreciated how hungry and tired he truly was.

Having taken care of the coffee for the counter guys, the waitress made her way to his booth.

Rye didn’t wait for her to ask as he turned over the coffee cup. Three eggs over hard. Bacon burnt. Toast dry.

She poured. He drank it black. It wasn’t the worst coffee he’s had while on the road, even if it was weak.

She brought the ticket to the window then sat in the booth at the opposite end of the diner, her back to everything.

Waiting for the food, Rye scanned the environment. A 24-hour sports channel played mutely from the far corner, and a chalkboard over the kitchen pass-through announced the daily specials. Thursday was a club sandwich. Too bad it was only Wednesday.

A bell dinged. The waitress moved. His food arrived.

She placed the plate on the table. You’re not from around here. Tess, according to the name tag - that he didn’t look at - offered a weak smile - that he didn’t see - as a start to an even weaker conversation. Was she trying to flirt for a better tip?

His eyes fixed on the plate before him. Neither are you. He was tired, hungry, and a bit snarky.

Taking half a step back, her jaw dropped just the slightest. A flicker of something, perhaps fear, danced in her eyes for the briefest second.

Rye’s bristly attitude left him suspecting a refill on the coffee would not be offered later.

The waitress was securely back in her booth before Rye pulled off his black leather gloves and picked up the fork. With a bite of egg and toast getting worked over, he put on his thin black-framed glasses then pulled out his phone to check the latest news feeds and world events. He didn’t have all the details and still wasn’t really sure what he was looking for, but some days he got lucky and didn’t find anything.

Most might consider this a disturbing or perhaps even morbid hobby, scanning for tragic events, but this was no hobby. It was an attempt to keep his sanity and not go over the edge. Since Rye could remember, the majority of his nighttime dreams turned into real-life nightmares for other people.

As a child with little support - and the fear of criticism from the adults around him - they were not aware of these night-terrors. The scenario would develop, following the same predictable pattern: an intensely vivid nightmare that felt as though he were directly involved in some way, that in the future, would become a reality. The first of these that Rye could remember was from the age of six and involved a local child who had been kidnapped, beaten, and sexually abused before being slowly strangled to death. Rye saw it all happen behind closed eyes as he slept. It had felt as if it were happening to him. He could recall feeling the punches, the kicks, the hands around his throat getting tighter and tighter, not being able to breathe, and the … the other stuff. Upon waking in a state of pure panic, Rye tried to explain it to his foster parents, but it was just brushed off as a food induced nightmare after sneaking those cookies before bed. This accusation was punctuated by a belt to his palms. His young body felt the aching from the beating in his dream for the next two days and it hurt more than the discipline.

It was two weeks later when he heard about Georgie Parsons.

The physical aching returned and shadowed him for the rest of the day.

In the years that followed, the night-terrors would keep Rye awake and on edge. Then things got worse. By the age of fourteen those same nightmares would take their confidence, occurring during the day while he was awake, manifesting with hand to hand contact. It wasn’t guaranteed every time, but when it did happen, it was absolute and terrifying for someone so young. Rye could never be sure if what he saw was going to happen to the person who touched him, or if they would just be a witness to the event. There would never be enough detail, just a flashing glimpse that would follow and haunt him.

That was when he decided it was easier to stay away from others. It was easier to wear gloves.

Over the years, the night-terrors graduated from local tragedies to worldwide catastrophes. Each event that he’d see would be the result of humanity’s flawed, unscrupulous, or evil decisions. This, Rye took, was a small blessing only because if he were given privy to the disasters that Mother Nature was planning to unleash…well, who knows.

It was with mild relief that he found no matches to his latest nightmare from a few days ago, but Rye knew it was just a matter of time. Diverting his attention from the phone, he examined the newest ink. Not only was it fresh on his skin, but it was still raw in his mind. This night-terror hit closer to home than any other. To anyone else, it may look innocent enough - a door with a number - 32-135. It had taken him more than ten months to gather up the courage and request if Marcus would be willing to sketch it out then make it permanent.

Rye swiped the last of the toast across the plate to collect the final smear of egg yolk and bacon crumbs then popped it in his mouth. His eyes drooped closed for a second. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he last allowed himself some fitful sleep.

Rye felt a hand touch his as it rested on the screen of his phone. Traveling from a great distance the muffled words from the waitress barely worked past the concussion of thunder as it ripped through his head. The dazzling flash took only a nano-second, causing him to draw in a sharp breath. It was as if a bolt of lightning and crack of thunder attempted to possess his body in the same instant.

Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Tess gestured with the coffee carafe. More coffee?

With great exertion Rye managed to shake his head, more so in an effort to clear it, than as an answer.

She smacked the check on the tabletop, trudged to the back counter, poured out what remained of the coffee, and started a fresh pot. By this time, two other booths had become occupied.

Rye pocketed his phone, pulled on his gloves and dropped a twenty next to his plate. This was far more than what was needed to cover the bill, not to mention a generous tip for the mediocre service, but he didn’t care. There was a sudden motivation of urgency to get back on the road. To get away from here.

Outside everything seemed too bright. The sun was blinding as it floated above the horizon. Rye slid on a pair of sunglasses and pulled onto US 95, turning the Jeep towards home. His head crackled like breaking glass eager to explode into a million little pieces while an instant migraine burst onto the scene. A wave of nausea did it’s best to creep in, but he forced it back down.

A direct hand to hand touch had never been so intense. In the past, as unnerving as they have been, it usually carried the sensation of a strong vibration, but this one was different. This one had electrified every single nerve ending. His muscles ached from the percussion of thunder that accompanied the touch. There had been no immediate vision, no waking nightmare. It was just an instant two-handed shove at his back. An instinctual force was urging him to get away.

Over the next forty minutes as the miles unraveled the vision began to materialize. He now witnessed the waitress as she carried a tray burdened with three plated club sandwiches and fries. Thursday’s special is a club sandwich. He spoke out loud as if to validate what he had seen. Rye jerked the Jeep to the side of the road and jammed on the breaks. As he swerved across the two lanes of blacktop, the blare from a car horn followed him.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Rye tried in vain to convince himself that this wasn’t real. No, no, no. Shaking his head, then adjusting the rear-view mirror, Rye made eye contact with