Allan Leverone - Mr. Midnight

But he could not help how he felt, and he was determined to place everything else in his life—including his current project, Rae Ann the Schoolgirl Hooker—on the back burner until he could settle this mysterious score with the beautiful unknown woman.

To that end he sat in a utilitarian plastic chair in the Boston Public Library, perched in front of a gigantic desktop computer that had probably been brand-new sometime around the turn of the century, checking search engine results for “Granite Circle, Massachusetts.” Milo couldn’t afford a computer of his own, and in any event, had no need for one. The World Wide Web was of little interest to a man who spent the majority of his time in the shadows, moving from dark alley to dark alley, living his life outside the realm of so-called “normal” society.

Milo felt uncomfortably exposed in the library. The lighting seemed harsh and unnaturally bright, causing the shadows cast by his body to stretch away at odd angles, their edges knife-blade-sharp on the chocolate brown of the worn carpet. The soft murmur of muted voices should have been soothing and reassuring, but instead seemed fraught with danger, as if at any moment someone would leap from between rows of hardcover volumes and point accusingly, shouting, “That’s him! That’s the man who mutilated and murdered my wife/girlfriend/daughter/top-earning prostitute!”

But this was the only way to accomplish what needed to be done, short of traveling through the state checking telephone books to see if any of the towns in their coverage areas contained a street named Granite Circle, so it was the library or nothing.

He looked around nervously. No one was paying any attention to him. He relaxed slightly and ran the second vision through his mind again, concentrating with particular emphasis on the young woman’s recitation of the address. “7 Granite Circle.” He had replayed it a hundred times in his head, each time willing the stupid bitch to recite the name of the town or city as well, each time infuriated when she did not. She was fucking worthless, and this was just more proof of that fact.

The search results popped onto the monitor’s screen after a length of time so absurdly short it seemed impossible the damned computer could have done its job. In just .22 seconds, less than a quarter of a second, Google claimed to have examined its entire database and returned over six million results. Ridiculous.

Milo made a conscious effort to tamp down his frustration and anger. Focus. That was the watchword for today. Focus, get the answers he was looking for, and then he could get the hell out of Dodge, also known as the Boston Public Library, and escape the smothering sensation of claustrophobia threatening to overwhelm him.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand and examined the search engine results. Six million, two hundred sixty thousand results for “Granite Circle, Massachusetts”? When he started clicking links, though, Milo relaxed, even managing a tiny smile.

The first link provided the answer he was seeking: there were two.

Two towns in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts contained streets named “Granite Circle.” How the search engine managed to bombard him with more than six million other things it claimed might be a match for “Granite Circle, Massachusetts” Milo had no idea, nor did he care.

The town of Sandwich contained a Granite Circle, and so did the city of Everett. Now we’re getting somewhere, Milo thought. This was going to be easy, almost absurdly so. Sandwich was a sleepy little village on Cape Cod, east of Buzzard’s Bay and south of the Mid-Cape Highway, roughly in the vicinity of the bicep on the crooked arm forming the cape’s outline on a map.

Everett was the polar opposite of Sandwich. Located just north of Boston—not far from the neighborhood housing Milo’s current residence, in fact—Everett was a hardscrabble, blue-collar city filled with traffic and people, aging factories and mills, high unemployment and a kind of determined refusal to knuckle under to an economy that had left the city behind years, if not decades, ago. If Sandwich was latte, Everett was black coffee left on the burner too long, with muddy grounds lining the bottom of the cup.

And that was all. Out of 351 cities and towns making up the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, only two contained streets with the name, “Granite Circle.” Milo sat back and replayed the two visions in his mind yet again, hoping to unearth some detail he could use to ascertain which Granite Circle he was interested in. His line of sight during the second vision, the one that took place outside the older woman’s home, had been toward the three people having their strained conversation and away from any neighborhood landmarks or other characteristics he might have been able to use for easy identification.

Still, there had to be something. The house itself had seemed worn and bedraggled, old. It appeared beaten down by decades of neglect, maintenance delayed either by lack of funds or lack of interest, more likely a product of the bleak environs of Everett than the leafy suburbia of Sandwich.

And there was something else. Although Milo had not been able to see anything of interest during the vision, that did not mean he hadn’t been able to hear anything. As he caressed the second vision in his mind like a lover stroking his partner’s skin, Milo began to recall sounds, almost unnoticed by the long-time city dweller; things that told him the meeting had taken place in an area surrounded by people. A lot of people. Thousands upon thousands of people, all packed into a steaming concrete jungle.

The honk of a horn from a frustrated driver, the rumble of a big diesel engine, the constant white noise of city life that was curiously absent in the suburbs. It was all there in the vision, just waiting to be noticed.

And now Milo had noticed it.

And he knew. Everett it was.

He picked up the small notebook he had brought on the mistaken assumption that he was going to have multiple cities and towns to remember, pushed the chair back on the carpet, and stood to leave. He relaxed, feeling almost normal for once, thankful he had not been observed despite the fact he might have been the worst-dressed person in the library. Scratch that. He definitely was the worst-dressed person in the library.

He took one step toward the door when it hit.

His eyes rolled up into his head and he stumbled forward, crashing face-first to the floor like an Olympic diver hitting the pool. His nose mashed the thin carpet and he rolled onto his side, the motion accomplished more by momentum than by planning. He struggled to his knees, blood cascading down his face, and fought hard to maintain his equilibrium.

Milo Cain was caught in the grip of another disturbingly intense vision, his third within the last eight hours.

This time when it finally faded, Milo was prepared. The overwhelming feeling of lethargy he had experienced following the first two visions was there this time, too, but he was ready and tried to fight through it. It seemed unlikely the Boston Public Library would allow him to nap on their floor. He blinked a few times to ease the watering in his eyes brought on by the throbbing in his nose, then wearily pushed himself upright, using his sleeve to stanch the flow of blood.

And a hand grabbed his elbow. It was a small hand but one with a surprisingly firm grip. Milo turned to see a fussy-looking bespectacled man pulling him back into the chair he had so recently vacated. The man was chubby, not overweight, exactly. The word “portly” sprang into Milo’s head unbidden. A vague suggestion of a mustache colored the man’s upper lip and his thinning salt-and-pepper hair had been combed meticulously across his head, the act serving no real purpose other than to alert everyone around to the fact he was going bald.