Phoenix by C. Dulaney

heels of Mort’s shoes. Each time he did, his
mentor would grunt and throw a dirty look back at him. They
investigated the kitchen, finding it in the same shape as the
living room.
    Mort swept the beam back and forth, looking
for anything out of place, anything that could tell him what had
happened here. "Nothing."
    Brad took a few steps away and turned. The
skin under his left eye was twitching. "You know, I probably
imagined all that shit, like you said. The Suit probably wasn't
even here. I was just seeing things." He jabbed his thumb toward
the ceiling. "They’re probably up there right now, asleep, and if
we keep creeping around, we’re going to wake them up and Mister
Henderson is going to come down here with his shotgun and blow our
asses off."
    Mort raised an eyebrow, pushed Brad aside,
and headed toward the staircase. Brad balled his fists, and
eventually followed.
    "That bleach stink is getting stronger."
Brad’s voice was muffled; he had covered his nose again.
    "Yes, it is."
    They reached the landing.
    "See, I told you he killed them. Probably
used Clorox to clean up the evide—"
    " Shhh !" Mort hissed. His flashlight
was pointed at a door to their left. It was ajar.
    Brad’s eyes widened, but he kept still. Mort
tipped his head in that direction, and the pair moved. Mort
couldn’t sense anything in the room beyond, or in the house for
that matter. Other than a very anxious Brad. The older man stopped
just outside and listened. The only sound was the soft patting of
his pen against the fabric of his pants. After several moments of
nothing, Mort toed the door open.
    The air rushed from Brad’s lungs. "I told
you!"
    The Henderson’s lay in their bed. Quiet,
peaceful, and, judging from the utter lack of anything Mort was
able to read from them, dead as hell.
     
    * * *
     
    Rakburn busied himself with readying his new
location. He preferred heavy curtains over the thin ones the
apartment had, but they’d have to do. He glanced out the window.
From this vantage he could see directly into the precog’s
apartment, into what looked to be three different rooms. It was too
dark to see, but a set of night-vision goggles, binoculars, and a
spotting scope on a stand next to him would serve him well. If he
wanted to, he could spy without aid. However, in order to keep his
cloak in one piece, he needed to remain singular in power usage.
Staying invisible now was more important than ever. This meant
surveilling the old fashioned way: with his physical eyes, instead
of his psychic ones.
    At least he hadn’t had to remove anyone from
this apartment.
    When scouting for a backup location, Rakburn
had been extremely lucky when he found this one up for rent. The
older gentleman and his wife who lived across from Mortimer had
been unfortunate. Rakburn didn’t care for killing; he felt it was
too messy. He also understood that sometimes it was required. There
had been a time at the beginning of his career when he’d tried
keeping innocents out of his way by simply restraining and stowing
them somewhere. This still left him with the issue of witnesses,
and he’d had to dispose of them anyway.
    He sighed and turned away from the window,
again relieved that this location had been vacant.
    Up until the meetings had started at the
empath’s home, Briggs had occupied this space. Rakburn had been
told the young precog was of the same priority level as the empath,
but had assumed the older of the two could potentially cause the
most trouble. Because of that, he took up the primary location,
leaving Briggs with the secondary. Things now being as they were,
this was the last viable spot available that would afford him a
view of both targets.
    Now he was here, in an empty apartment that
stank of Briggs’ cheap cologne, questioning the wisdom of his
orders and pondering the likelihood of escape if he refused, while
Briggs was keeping an eye on the other local member of this "Book
Club."
    "Good evening, Agent Rakburn."
    Rakburn