Free Mad Powers (Tapped In) by Mark Wayne McGinnis

his own internal dialogue. Why would I want to help this guy?
    I fought to stay patient and not lose the connection. It’s not for you to question, Benny. This man needs your help. You want to help him.
    Benny seemed to be bouncing this around in his head. He seemed to have come to some sort of conclusion . I do want to help this man.
    I felt relieved and continued communicating with Benny: Very good. He’ll need full access to Motel 6. Do you know what that means, Benny?
    Benny’s thoughts didn’t hesitate. Yes, he should have a full set of master keys.
     
    * * *
     
    I didn’t return to the mission. Instead, I had taken advantage of Benny’s generosity and slept at Motel 6. With a set of keys, including a credit card type master key-card in hand, I found not only an empty guest room, but a nearly uninhabited upper floor, on the south wing of the motel. I took a quick shower. Standing with a towel wrapped around me, I turned on the TV and muted the volume. I opened the plastic bag of toiletries and the plastic razor I’d collected from the hotel’s supply closet. Someone was walking past the door in the hallway. I stopped moving and listened until the footfalls moved on down the corridor. I wasn’t sure how long the mental constraints I’d placed on Benny would last. One day? A week? Forever? But like any good experiment, I’d need to test it and verify the results. I also needed to come to terms with the moral and ethical issues of reading other people’s inner thoughts and manipulating their actions. The truth was, I hadn’t asked for this ability, but it was a part of me now. How I used it, and with whom, well, that needed to be held to some sort of measurable standard. I thought about that as I shaved and brushed my teeth. I assessed myself in the mirror. I looked almost human again. Then I noticed something on television reflected in the mirror. It was a news bulletin describing a local homicide. I sat on the edge of the bed and turned up the volume. The camera was pointed downward into a cement culvert that was strewn with trash and weeds. The camera angle then zoomed outward to focus on a bright blue tarp on the ground and several uniformed cops standing near. The feed changed to a solemn-looking reporter standing close by, holding a mic. A red banner at the bottom of the screen scrolled the words: Young Nurse Dies In Brutal Homicide.
    They showed stock footage of the Kingman Regional Medical Center, and then a small, outlined picture of Jill appeared on the screen. The reporter said the victim’s name was Jill Connolly—my heart stopped beating—time collapsed around me. No… Oh my God… The correspondent continued, obviously emotionally affected by what he was reporting:
    “… and was killed sometime between midnight and three this morning. Apparently, the young nurse was found partially clothed with multiple stab wounds to her upper and lower torso. Although actual cause of death is pending via the coroner’s report, an officer at the scene, who has asked not to be identified, told me that beyond doubt she’d died from significant blood loss—in his words, she’d completely bled out.”
    Someone had brutally murdered Jill—her body indifferently tossed into a drainage ditch. I thought of Jill and her little tattoo: the bird free from its cage. I’m so sorry, Jill. The only person in my life I cared about, at least that I could remember, had been killed. I’d find out who was responsible and I’d end him—of that, I had no doubt.
    I cleared out of my motel room, doing my best to leave it as undisturbed as possible. I needed to get to the hospital.

Chapter 12
     
     
    The largest conference room in the building held sixteen occupied chairs at the mammoth-sized table, and another eight chairs along the glass wall. Pippa slipped in, trying to be quiet and not disrupt Assistant Director Hayes ’ presentation. She took the last remaining seat by the door. As she settled in — digging out a