Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense by Fynn Perry (popular romance novels TXT) 📗

She nodded. “I’m being silly. Don’t worry about me. You need to rest, too.”

David looked exhausted. She let him make his way up to his bedroom.

John watched him go and said to Jennifer, “I know you’re not going to like this, but I think I need to check out DNA. It’s the only lead we have. Maybe I can find something that will explain all of this. I have a feeling that what happened at O’Donnell’s, the mess Donovan’s in, and the spirit you saw are all somehow tied up with this gangster El Gordito. The spirit was wearing a jumpsuit, right?”

“With lots of stab wounds.”

“So, I’m guessing he was murdered…in prison. There can’t be many other places that could happen to someone wearing a jumpsuit. That would make him a criminal, possibly a gang member––that might explain why he was stabbed so many times. Maybe he knew El Gordito, perhaps even Donovan?”

“But then why would he want you dead?”

“I still have no idea. It’s just a hunch. I’ll take a look around the club’s offices. Nobody will see me.”

“Except spirits, John—they can see and hurt you!” she cautioned. “What if you meet the one that came out of Hardwell?”

Her intensity seemed to catch him off guard but his tone was resolute: “We can’t just do nothing, Jen, and wait for more shit to happen. I need to find out more about Supreme Holdings. I was naïve before, I know, thinking I could stay out of trouble by luck, but this time I promise I’ll be more careful.” He offered a hopeful grin.

Jennifer nodded with a resigned expression. This time it would be useless for her to argue with him.

Nine

John headed for Midtown Manhattan, hitching rides on buses. It was an hour after sunset, and the rhythm of the city showed no signs of slowing down. Crowds of people still filled the sidewalks and formed clusters at crossings; the streets were still choked with buses, trucks, cars, and a seemingly endless supply of yellow cabs. Megawatts of electricity powered millions of bulbs casting incandescent light onto the streets and through glass walls high above him. Amid it all was his own, somehow self-generated, illumination and that of thousands like him.

Nowhere was their presence more evident than in Central Park. Dimly lit in comparison to the avenues and streets, its shadowy depths glittered with orange-glowing specks. He got out of the bus at the next stop, by one of the peculiar orange-and-white-striped stacks that rose out of sidewalks all over Manhattan. Billowing the same iconic steam that appeared from manholes in the street, it looked like a chimney connected to a sunken factory.

East 53rd. Street was a short walk away, and DNA was on the top floor of one of its tallest skyscrapers. As he walked closer to the building, the mortal and the spirit crowd began to look more and more hip. He walked past the club’s discreet entrance, located beside but completely separate from the building’s grander one, noticing that two huge doormen were rejecting many of the queueing visitors. He also realized that no spirits were attempting to get in, which told him he should find a better, perhaps safer way to enter the club.

Jennifer had found an article about special access to the club's VIP elevator in the basement parking lot. He guessed that the building’s designer would have put the club's freight elevator close to it, and that the latter would offer a quieter and more discreet way to get to the club’s offices, which were also likely to be in the back-of-house area.

It was just after 10:15 p.m., so the club had only just opened. He walked down the ramp to the parking garage and moved toward the rear of the first basement level, where he noticed an area with delivery trucks. Moving closer, hiding where possible behind columns, he was acutely aware that his orange glow was seeping out.

He saw that a delivery was in progress. One of the men stood out, dressed in a dark-grey dress shirt with a bow tie, a purple waistcoat, and pants. The others were dressed like delivery guys—in practical work boots and uniforms. Thankfully, John could see from their eyes that none of them were possessed. As he moved closer, he noticed the satin back of the waistcoat was patterned with a repetitive motif comprising the letters ‘D-N-A’ in regimented rows.

The employee in the waistcoat finished signing some papers and handed the clipboard back to one of the delivery men. Everyone seemed oblivious to John’s presence as he shadowed the employee, who was now pushing a dolly laden with boxed alcohol and cigars away from the truck and toward the steel doors of an elevator. A card reader beeped, and John followed the employee into the elevator and watched as he used the same passcard to allow him access to the fortieth floor.

It may have been just for deliveries, but being in a modern high-rise, it was an express elevator, and in less than a minute, the floor indicator showed '40' and the sound of a gong announced their arrival. John suddenly considered the mistake he had just made. If, on the other side of the doors was a hostile spirit, he had nowhere to escape except down a forty-floor drop. He held his breath, not knowing what to expect.

The doors opened, presenting two guards blocking the entrance to the fortieth-floor lobby. They were both as tall as John and twice the size of the waistcoat-wearing employee—both barrel-chested and without a distinguishable neck. The employee looked down as he approached them, wheeling out his trolley, clearly intimidated. John was less so. He could see from their eyes that they weren’t possessed.

One of the guards grabbed the shirt of the employee, hurrying him past with the trolley. "Come on, boy, keep it movin’ or I'll have to fackin’ smack ya one." John recognized the accent and choice of words as