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“You said that you spoke with the witnesses?” He prompted the man to continue his story as they headed up the stairs.
“Yep.” The deputy’s heavy boots clanged loudly on the metal steps. Valen and Peri moved in silence. “All of them.”
“And?”
“They claim that they have no memory of what happened.”
Valen frowned. “No memory of the shooting?”
“No memory of anything after a crew from the local stockyard came in and started drinking. It was as if they were in one of those sci-fi movies where aliens come down and scrub away people’s memories.” The man glanced over his shoulder. “You ain’t here because the government thinks this was aliens, are you? Honestly, I hope you are. To me aliens makes more sense than some weird cult.”
Valen ignored the question. Let the man believe aliens had visited. He’d sleep better.
“You’re saying that not one witness remembers what happened during the shooting?”
“Not a single one.” They reached the top of the stairs and the deputy pulled out a key card to open the heavy metal door. “It’s a case of mass amnesia.”
Valen glared impatiently at the man’s back. “That’s not rational. There’s no such thing as mass amnesia.”
“Rational or not, no one is willing to admit what happened at the bar. And I meanno one.”
The door swung open to reveal a large room divided by two cells with a narrow pathway between them. At first glance they both appeared empty, but turning to his left, the deputy grabbed the bars of the door and gave it a shake. There was a loud metallic rattle that grated against Valen’s nerves. Super hearing wasn’t always a blessing.
“Hey, Jerry. Wake up.”
A shadowed form lying on a cot at the back of the cell slowly rolled over, the blanket pulled over the prisoner’s head.
“Fuck off, Anderson,” Jerry called back.
The deputy clenched the bars, clearly intending to give them another shake. Valen reached out to touch his shoulder.
“We can take it from here,” he said, the words filled with command. “You return to your office.”
The man’s beefy features smoothed into a blank expression as he obediently turned and retraced his steps. Like a wooden soldier marching off stage.
There was a stir inside the cell. Had the prisoner finally sensed the danger that prickled in the air? Slowly the blanket was pulled down to reveal Jerry. He was a human male in his early twenties with tangled black hair and a thin face that was pale in the glow from the fluorescent lights.
“What the hell?” Jerry glowered at them as he shoved himself to his feet. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that revealed adozen tattoos on his arms and worn jeans that hung loosely on his gaunt frame. “It’s bad enough to be locked up when I’m a wounded victim.” He lifted a hand to touch the gauze taped over the side of his neck. “At least I should be allowed a decent night’s sleep.”
Valen stepped toward the bars. “Stop talking.”
The man took an instinctive step back even as he tried to pretend he wasn’t terrified of Valen.
“Who the fu—” Jerry’s mouth snapped shut as Valen released a burst of power.
“That must come in handy,” Peri mused, moving until she was standing at Valen’s side.
Valen sent her a wry glance. “You have no idea.” He returned his attention to the cowering prisoner. “Tell me what happened at the bar.”
Jerry wrapped his arms around his waist. “You mean the shooting?”
“Start from when you entered the bar.” Valen had zero interest in listening to the human ramble, but he needed to nudge the man’s thoughts in the right direction as he peered into his mind.
“It was just another night. As usual there was nothing to do in this shithole town so me and a crew from the local stockyard met up at the bar.” Jerry’s mind was suddenly filled with the image of walking through the door of the Jackalope Station and heading toward a center table where five other men were already several beers deep into the evening. “We drank and pissed away a few hours. Like I said, just another night.”
“Clearly not just another night,” Valen corrected. “Unless you always end the evening by shooting your companions?”
“Course not.”
