On the Path of Outcasts: The Outcasts Saga, #2

INTRODUCTION

If I’m saying hello to you for the first time, there’s something that’s only fair to let you know:  the book you are now reading is part of a series, and this is not the first entry.  That credit belongs to Through the Eyes of Outcasts, and is really where this journey begins.  The novel you now hold in your hands takes place two weeks after the events described therein, and is what I like to think of as Act II.  If you’re starting the Outcasts Saga here, you’re starting in the middle.

Oh, sure, there’s some refreshers sprinkled around here and there.  If you’ve ever watched a television series, I’d be willing to wager that you’ve seen show openers which say something along the lines of "previously on Show You’re Watching," followed by a little skit that’s designed to remind you of what happened in prior episodes.  Unless you’re binge-watching on home video or Netflix, the show’s producers understand that you’re probably not firmly back into the mindset that will enable you to fully enjoy what you’re about to watch.  That’s how I’d like for you to think of these moments as you encounter them within the following pages.  Readers tend to be avid readers, after all; my story knows that you’ve been reading around with other novels, and it’s not in the least bit jealous.  In fact, it applauds you.  As do I.  Book tramps are some of the best people in the world—or at least that’s what I like to say, since I’m one myself.  Self-interest, you see.

But the point of these refreshers is not to introduce ourselves.  There will be times when I’ll refer to (or develop upon) things that were major points of the first novel, and the road ahead can get a bit bumpy if you’re just now boarding the bus.  If you’ve been with us the whole time, those bumps are probably the reason why you’ve stayed aboard.

Hopefully you’re here to continue our trip, you’ve found a comfortable seat (you know where all the best ones are), and you’re just waiting for me to shut my yap and let you get on with the show.  Truth be told, I’m happy to do that. 

Here we go.

—J.K.

CHAPTER ONE

Sheriff James Folsen stood at the window in his office, waiting.  Outside the sun was shining in a cloudless sky, something that was happening more and more frequently these days.  Spring was coming.  Through the plastic gray slats of his Venetian blinds, he saw that the trees had begun to look supple and alive, losing winter’s dead dry stillness.  Folsen’s eyes weren’t as keen as they had been when they served a younger man, but he could see tiny green buds on the branches, the birth of new leaves.  In large shaggy patches, the grass on the lawn outside the sheriff’s office was starting to grow, losing dormancy.  In another week or so, the landscapers would make their appearance to hack it all down again, and the sheriff’s workweek would once again begin to the smell of freshly-cut grass. 

It was a time of year that he loved.  New life which dared to spring from cold ground was everywhere, and the birds were returning from their winter migrations.  The wind had stopped threatening so much, its bite missing more and more of its teeth.  This morning, in fact, Folsen had debated on whether to bring his jacket to work with him.  Being a man who had grown accustomed to always being prepared (and having grown used to this state’s ability to change the weather at a second’s notice), he had relented, folding it over a forearm as he walked out the door... but he had debated it just the same, hadn’t he?  He sipped from his mug of coffee, a grin folding well-traveled lines on his face.  It almost made him forget the constant ache behind his eyes, and the stiffness that always seemed present at the back of his neck.  Tension, he had decided, was not a good companion for him.

Winter was on its last breath according to the calendar, its end yet one week away, but to James Folsen it looked like that frigid beast had suffered an early death—and good riddance.  Why he had decided to move to a state that was only warm six months out of the year, he didn’t know; maybe because the cold had never bothered him so much as a younger man, and thus had not factored into his thinking at the time.

What did factor was that he had been leaving the horrors of big-city police work in favor of serving a smaller area.  New York City had been rather generous for his job security, bringing the daily gifts of rapes, aggravated assaults, murders, and domestic disputes.  His former precinct had been located in a wealthier part of that sprawling metropolis:  while variance did occur, for the most part the rich brought violence, while lower-income areas brought theft.  In Folsen’s case, he had felt more like a bouncer than he did as an officer of law enforcement.  He had been in his mid-forties at the time, an officer with children of his own, and found that he couldn’t stomach the thought of continuing his career in such a place.  The only thing that mattered to that version of James Folsen had been that his new home needed to be in a small town, one which kept its name out of major newspapers.  This wasn’t a small town—it was a smaller city—but its police department had an opening, the chief of police had a good reputation and seemed willing to take him in, and so his decision had been made.  It really had been that simple.  He had later transferred to the sheriff’s department and became a deputy, then as a deputy he ran for and was elected sheriff.  Thanks to the kindness of the voters, he had continued his service in that position ever since.

Now in the silver years of his sixties, his present position saw him in charge of deputies and officers who served, for the most part, a lower-income population:  it followed the same trend he’d noted in New York for that income level, the most common crimes involving theft or alcohol abuse, with a sprinkling of minor assaults and domestic battery thrown in for rare variety.  Drug activity was present in any community, regardless of size or income level, so of course Folsen’s officers had frequently spent their time carving that particular bruise out of what was otherwise a pretty decent potato.  Most of that bruise involved calling embarrassed parents and lecturing panicked high school kids about their little sandwich bags which were full of what looked like oregano but surely wasn’t used as much for cooking.

Overall, his community was constructed of decent people who occasionally lost their way—but with a good scare and a gentle nudge, could be shown their way back on track.

In the years James had spent here, he had never dealt with as much as a single murder.

Until that one day two weeks ago.  And indeed the floodgates had certainly opened on that score:  A gunfight had broken out in a nearby neighborhood.  Four men had been killed.  Blood... It was as if New York had thumbed a ride and decided to stop in for a quick visit.  His headaches had started then, coming along as New York’s traveling partners. 

Folsen glanced at the stack of overstuffed manila folders on his desk, and wasn’t surprised to find himself glaring.  His smile melted like so much winter snow.  He returned his gaze to the world outside.

A robin, freshly back from his winter migration, was pulling hard at a worm which was the size of a small snake.  Folsen could relate—both to the bird as well as to the worm.

There was a knock on his office door, and his secretary poked her head inside.  Sheriff?  Mr. Winfield is here to see you.

Folsen turned away from the window. Thank you, Sally.  Just show him right in, please. 

Sally nodded, and closed the door behind her as she retreated.  The sheriff heard the muffle of voices, then a few moments later she came back in, holding the door open as Winfield entered.  He was alone, Folsen noted.

Agent Winfield was a younger black man (Folsen had pegged him at forty-five or so based on his voice over the phone, and guessed that he might have aimed high, if only by perhaps five years), tall and with a pleasant smile.  He was dressed in business casual attire.  Winfield met Folsen at the midpoint of the office, his hand outstretched.  Agent Winfield, FBI.  Thank you for taking the time to meet with me this morning, sheriff.

Folsen shook his hand.  Of course.  Pleasure.  And... call me James.  I suppose it makes me an old-timer, but these days I try to be as informal as possible.

Winfield’s smile broadened, and he said, Well, now, I like that very much, James.  Clarence.  Clarence Winfield.

Folsen motioned toward the chair in front of his desk.  Please have a seat, Clarence.  Can I get you coffee?

Clarence dropped into the thin padding of his chair, keeping his hands away from the arm pads.  Germaphobe, Folsen figured, and not the first of his kind to be seated there.  Of the offer for coffee, Winfield replied, No thank you.  Kind of late in the morning for me.

Folsen nodded.  You’re probably doing your stomach a favor.  Peterson usually makes it, and it gets a bit on the chewy side.  I’ve got creamer to cut it with—and that does help—but most days what you really need is a knife.  He made his way around his desk and sat in his chair.  On the phone, you told me what you’re here for.  But to be honest with you, the state police are the ones who are most active at this point.  They have better resources, and I’m more than happy to let them use them.  Considering that this is a state-wide manhunt now, turning over the wheel seemed the best thing to do in any case.  If you’re serious about opening this thing into a nation-wide manhunt, they’re the ones you need to see.

Winfield folded his hands into his lap.  The nails were well-groomed.  Certainly I do plan on coordinating with them.  Some agents would have done that first.  My approach is a bit different.  I need to know this situation as completely as possible, and to me, that means reconstructing the timeline.  Your units were the first responders, so I’m starting here with you.

What can I tell you here that I couldn’t have told you on the phone?

Tell me?  Winfield shook his head.  "I’m more interested in what you can show me.  You’re the first person I want a tour from.  Do you know the expression, ‘too many chefs in the kitchen?’"

Folsen nodded.  Of course.

"We have you, and your units.  We have the chief of police, and his officers.  We also have the state police, who as you know have departments.  Each department—whether we’re talking about CSI, forensics, patrolmen, whatever—each have a chain of command.  Lots of chefs in the kitchen.  You’re all trying to make the same meal, but you all have different ideas about how to make it all happen.  In the meantime, details get lost.  Things get overlooked.  Everything that does get noticed, everyone figures the guy before them took care of it."

James eased back in his chair, considering.  Sounds about right.

My approach is to step through it, from the beginning all the way to the point where you and I are warming these seats with our behinds.  I do that, and I might grab some ideas as to where we can find our boy.  Winfield sat quietly after saying this, studying Folsen.

I don’t have a problem with that, James replied.  He leaned toward the stack of folders on his desk, picked one up, and said, "But everything I can show you here is a copy of what the state police now have.  Unless I miss my guess, I’d say it’s the same thing as they sent you.  It’s also the same thing as we sent you."

Clarence smiled again.  "Sure.  Every report, every photograph.  I read through all of it before calling you.  But... see, there’s a difference between looking at pictures, and looking at pictures with someone who knows them—maybe even took them.  There’s also a difference between reading a report and talking to the guy who wrote that report."

Folsen moved his coffee mug away from the edge of his desk.  What can I do for you?

Clarence had been sitting perfectly upright before, and now he leaned forward.  Let’s start at the beginning.

In the beginning, God created heaven and earth, Folsen said.  But what I think matters to you are the events of February the twenty-seventh.

Agent Winfield’s smile remained.  Heaven and earth’s important, too.  But yes, when did Scott Ingram come into your life?  Quick ballpark.

James straightened in his chair, scooted in closer, and laid his folded arms on the desk.  At 12:37 in the afternoon we received a call from 911 dispatch about shots fired in a residential neighborhood.  By 12:38 we had an address, and issued an all-units alert.  Officers Jim Preston and Katie Armond were the first to arrive on the scene at 12:45, by Officer Armond’s estimation.

Winfield noted that despite the precision of the quoted times, the sheriff did not refer to his files.  That’s exactly the type of detail I’m looking for, he said.  Please continue.

They were greeted by screaming neighbors who were pointing down the street and insisting that a vehicle had just left.  Of course the officers could not pursue a vehicle they weren’t there to see leave, and it needs to be said that first responders have to secure the scene.

Certainly.  The general public doesn’t seem to understand that.  I imagine your officers had quite a time convincing them of it.

Folsen sighed.  Preston did.  It’s funny how when there’s a female officer present, most of the frustration gets vented to the men.  All the same, we were able to radio an APB on the description of the vehicle.  One of the witnesses had written down the plate number, and that was radioed, too.  Officer Preston kept the witnesses off the scene, while Officer Armond did the radio duties.  During this time, other units arrived.  This is fortunate, since the first responders had not had the opportunity to enter the scene and assess the situation.  They couldn’t do that and maintain control of the witnesses at the same time, and if active shooters were still present... well, calling it ‘hazardous’ is a bit of an understatement.  The witnesses were focused on the escaping vehicle, and mighty insistent that we pursue it.  It’s my understanding that the Blazer was discovered at a car wash later in the day.

A state trooper discovered it.  Winfield folded his hands into his lap.

That’s my understanding, yes.  It was just outside of my jurisdiction, in Elmo County.  It’s also my understanding that they couldn’t lift a single print from the vehicle’s interior.  The suspect had soaped out everything inside and out, back to front.  James pointed to the folders.  Because it was a statie who found it, not one of our guys, there’s pictures, but not in those files.

You received no copies?

No, sir.  Maybe Elmo County’s sheriff did.  Maybe just the state police have them.  That’s why I questioned your motives for seeing me instead of them.

"Would you like copies of those photos?"  Winfield asked.

Please.

Consider it done.  Clarence steepled his fingers under his chin, and sat back into his chair.  You described the driver as a suspect rather than a perpetrator.  That’s interesting wording, and we’ll get back to that.  But what I’d like to know is if you think the driver might have been Scott Ingram.

Folsen shook his head.  No I don’t.  Ingram was seen leaving the scene on foot.  He was confronted by a neighbor, but continued walking away.  The witness was too focused on the scene itself to detain him.  He told us in a statement that Ingram appeared to be injured—shot in the leg, which sounded like a fair assessment given the previous gunfire as well as the locations of the blood on the scene.  According to the timeline and description we’ve established from witnesses, the driver was someone else.  As to whether or not it was someone trying to flee the scene without having participated, that’s unknown.

Scrubbing down the vehicle’s interior is more than a little incriminating, am I right?

Folsen gave Winfield a measured look.  It’s not my job to prove guilt or innocence.  That’s what the courts are for.  Investigators round up evidence, and we round up anyone who looks connected to it.

Clarence pointed his finger steeples at the sheriff.  You haven’t been a small-county sheriff all your life.

No.  I was a New York City patrol officer before I came here.  Folsen took a sip of his coffee.  I must admit this line of questioning has gotten confusing.

Winfield smiled again and shrugged.  Just sizing you up.  Most small-timer sheriffs become accustomed to doing everything their own way and lose sight of the bigger legal picture—and boy, does that ever make a mess for us.  Most of the big city boys have been stomped on enough to know their place.

Irritated, Folsen asked, Is this a hobby of yours, or does it pertain?

Winfield leaned back and crossed his legs.  His slacks pulled up to his calf, revealing ankle-high black socks.  It pertains.  I need to know how much faith I can place on what you tell me.  Whether you’ve drawn your own conclusions and will pepper your statements with opinion.  It’s nothing personal.

The sheriff relaxed, but said nothing.

Let me ask you this:  do you agree with the state police assumption that this was gang-related?

No, I do not.  Folsen shook his head.  The closest thing to gangs we have out here are teenagers with chips on their shoulders.  If we have gang dress codes, it’s apparently baseball caps flipped around backward.  They do have gang activity in some of the larger cities in this state, but nothing inside of my jurisdiction.  I think the staties jumped the gun on this one.  If that’s peppered with opinion, just remember that’s what you asked for.

Indeed it was.  I trust the identities of the bodies help base your opinions.  Adding to the pepper, if you will.

Identities were shared, unlike the photographs of the vehicle.  Of the four bodies recovered, three have been identified by finger prints.  As far as I know, the fourth man is still unidentified.  All three who have names are ex-military, so they had prints on file to match up with.  It’s strange, but all three lived in different states, and did not appear to be connected to one another on so much as a social media page.  One of those bodies belongs to the man who owned the vehicle.

A Blazer, is that correct?

Folsen’s face flushed, and his posture stiffened.  That’s what the reports you read describe, yes.

Winfield laughed at this.  You can let down your guard, Sheriff.  I’m not here to stir you up, and it’s all part of the process.  Can we go back to what Ingram’s house looked like?  Will you describe the scene?

Folsen reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of acetaminophen.  Popping the lid off with a thumb, he said, A two-bedroom house, surrounded by a wooden privacy fence.  Most of the homes on that street are rentals, and so was this.  It’s owned by—

Sheriff, Winfield interrupted, my apologies.  I mean, describe the scene as you found it.

James held his breath for a moment, then gusted it back out.  Shaking pills into his hand he said, War zone.  That’s really as simple as I can make it.  Four bodies, all male.  Three were gunshot victims, one by knife.  The gunshot victims were found inside the residence, while the knife victim was found... You saw the pictures.

Yes, Winfield agreed.  And I read the medical examiner’s report.

I can’t imagine he had much trouble establishing the cause of death, Folsen said.  He looked down to his mug, his mouth bitter.  Of that much, I’m certain.  He took his pills, then pushed the mug away.  They even found blood on the roof, same blood type as one of the dead men in the bathroom.  Since dead guys in bathtubs don’t tend to run outside and climb houses, and since it’s also the same blood type as whoever had apparently been standing on the other side of that wall—and given witness descriptions of Scott Ingram’s leg—we can assume it’s his.

Has the property been released back to the owner?

Folsen shook his head.  Not quite yet.  It will be soon.

Winfield nodded.  Once the cleanup crew finishes.

James released a humorless chuckle.  Maybe in New York.  In this state, there’s no cleanup crew.  We may have hauled off the bodies, but the fact remains the landlord still has one hell of a mess to clean up.  It’s on them to bring in a disaster or biohazard cleanup crew.

So at present, none of these things have been done?

Not until the property is released.

Winfield smiled again.  That’s perfect for my purposes, because I would like for you to take me there.

––––––––

Scott Ingram had given up on sleeping.  The road beneath the bus was poorly-maintained, and potholes were frequent, rocking the vehicle.  There was also the matter of the seats, which were not the flat pew style of a children’s school bus; rather, they resembled car passenger seats, did not lean back at all, and only afforded comfort while he was seated upright.  He had attempted to place his backpack between himself and the wall of the passenger cabin in order to have something to lean against—but found this did little to improve the situation, and so he simply sat, each bump jarring his entire body.

The air inside was stuffy.  Even though the weather outside had continued to warm with the arrival of spring, it was still too cold for most of the passengers to open their windows to allow the entry of a fresh breeze.  The smells of sweat and old clothing accompanied every breath.  Ingram could only imagine the odor this vehicle could trap while crowded, making him even more thankful for the empty seats that separated him from the other riders.

At the very least, his leg was being given a break.  It ached both dully and constantly, angry from the many miles Ingram had been forced to walk.  Most of this traveling was not done on even ground, treading carefully along the banks of rivers and streams.  At times he would chance walking along a road, but tried not to do so whenever possible.  It was bad enough to have risked this bus ride, and indeed it was not his first.

Too much risk of being seen.  Too many people who were looking for him.

He would get off this bus at the next stop, which would see him stepping out into view in a small town.  If he stayed on the bus instead, he knew that the next opportunity to exit would occur in a large city.  Small towns meant fewer people, and therefore a smaller risk of discovery; fewer people would see him leave.  From there, he would be back to walking, finding another small town where—if all looked well—he would board yet another bus.  If all did not look well, he would continue hiking into another small town.  Such had been his pattern for awhile now.

Smaller towns presented another asset, but it was not one which he was proud to take advantage of.  Forced into thievery, he would have better luck looting for the supplies he needed.  In Ingram’s home town, he had broken into two places of business:  There was the pharmacy which had provided him with necessary supplies for his tender leg, and there had also been the sporting goods store which had yielded most of the outdoor supplies which he now had, including his backpack.  What he did not have any longer was food, and Ingram needed it.  He wanted a change of clothing, as well; a new shirt at least, as well as a replacement pair of shoes, the worn fit of what he currently wore being responsible for the soreness of his feet and the blisters just below his Achilles’ tendons.  Privately-owned shops abounded in small towns, and these same stores were the easiest into which to gain entry.

Ingram also wanted to rent a room for the night.  If he wished to continue to avoid attracting attention to himself, he desperately needed to bathe—and couldn’t deny the tempting prospect of sleeping in a bed, if only for one night at a time.  Registering for a room went a lot smoother in a Mom-and-Pop motel, with no identification needed; all he had to do was sign a register next to all the other fake names.  Ingram smiled as he wondered if Douglass Stevens knew how many rooms in which he had stayed despite his retirement weeks previously.

But Doug wasn’t Doug anymore.  Having given up his professional moniker in favor of his true (and shared) name of Scott, Scott Stevens was now more interested in figuring out what kindergarten he was going to enroll his son into than he was in accepting yet another assignment.  Doug’s handgun remained under the seat of his truck, untouched for weeks.  The weapon’s silencer remained stored in the vehicle’s glove box.  These were the tools of an assassin, and Scott Stevens was no longer that.  Doug had been put to rest.

Their plan had been successful.

This Ingram knew because he had often checked on Stevens.  Not because there was any concern that Douglass Stevens and Scott Ingram would ever cross paths again—no, Doug and everything that he had stood for had been retired.  In part, Ingram was fascinated that he still had that ability.  He could enter Stevens’ head at will and with ease; he could read Doug’s thoughts, and see things as they happened through different eyes.  It was a disorienting experience at first, dizzying, but Ingram was growing accustomed to those sensations.

There was another reason for Ingram’s visits:  Scott Stevens was afraid.  Doug was gone, he had been put to rest, but his shadow still fell over everything.  Every car that drove by.  Every person on the street who looked his way.  His dreams were tormented, and the time he spent with his family was strained.  Worry and anxiety clouded around him like locusts.  His last target had been spared, and that decision had come with a price; a price that fell due several times during the course of every single day.  With the object of his deception freely roaming the land, the chance that his charade would be uncovered was great almost to the point of certainty.

Ingram could never stay with Doug’s thoughts long.  Stevens would suffer headaches upon Ingram’s arrival, and the former assassin’s thoughts would travel to the kid.  To Ingram, it was almost like discovery, being caught in the act of violation.  Scott Ingram would always be thought of as the kid in the eyes of Doug, much like Doug would always be the name Ingram associated with Stevens.  All the same, the kid did pay his visits frequently.

The headaches were a universal marker, Ingram learned.  One thing he did anytime he boarded a bus or entered a crowd was to scan the people around him, looking for recognition.  In all cases, the moment Ingram established contact, the subject’s immediate thoughts were about the sudden pressure—usually behind the eyes, sometimes at the base of the neck as well.  Scott could increase the intensity, as he had learned with Doug at one time, and he could reduce it, but one thing he could not seem to do was to avoid causing it.

Ingram was learning how to control his abilities, however.  In the past, what he had come to think of as The Episodes would come at random and uncontrollable times, collecting a massive dump of shuffled information.  The Episodes, when they came, had always followed physical contact.  A handshake or even a gentle rub against another person seemed to be all that was required.

It had been physical contact while in heated combat with a former Green Beret who had liked to operate under the name of Kevin that had given Ingram the knowledge he had needed to defeat him.  Kevin’s memories, even after his death, continued to serve Ingram:  Scott’s last meal had been grasses found at the side of a stream, Kevin’s training showing Ingram which types were safe to eat.  Ingram had also known to dig in the mud for earthworms, which were a good source of nutrients and protein.  Besides food, Kevin’s knowledge enabled Ingram to construct small shelters under which he would sleep, safe from the wind and foul weather.

It had been physical contact that had opened the channel with Dennis Bulman, who, as he died, had indeed set this entire thing into motion.  Like Kevin, Dennis had been an outdoorsman, and Ingram had gained a useful set of skills from that encounter.  He now knew how to build campfires.  He understood how to use landmarks and his stolen compass to keep from losing his way during his endless miles of hiking.  Dennis had also been cross-trained as a medic while in the military, and it was Dennis who had given Ingram the necessary information which had enabled him to care for the injury to his leg.

Scott knew he could continue to live off the land indefinitely should his situation require it, but his feelings of guilt about theft did not outweigh how much better traditional foods tasted, and how much more nourishing they were.  And while there was greater risk of being seen, no amount of clearing rocks out of the way could make a patch of ground feel like a bed.  There was comfort attached to such things, and Ingram had learned how powerful that feeling was toward strengthening his motivation, toward keeping him determined.

It was Dennis’s knowledge toward which Ingram continued to return the most.  Had the circumstances been different, the two might have easily become friends—and that certainly played a role in Ingram’s preference.  It also mattered that Dennis had chosen not to finish his contract against Sarah; it was a decision which had led to Bulman’s own death, but it had also been spiritually redeeming.  It was a beautiful choice, a human choice. 

In no small way, it was through Dennis that Ingram had met Sarah.

A young woman with remarkable insight and a gift for instruction, Sarah Bollinger had been Ingram’s only companion for the past two weeks—even if her presence thus far was all inside of Ingram’s mind.  She had been harsh and abrasive at first, scolding like a disappointed parent (something of which Ingram had a lot of personal experience), but as time went by, she had grown softer, friendlier.  Soon she was joking and sharing stories with him.  These conversations would sometimes span entire days, and the subjects were wide-ranging; their interests and views were similar, and the flow of dialog was as enjoyable as it was easy.

It was through Sarah that Ingram had learned he was not alone.  She knew what it meant to live with Ingram’s abilities, since she shared many of them herself.  She knew how to live in peace with those abilities, and how to incorporate them into her sense of identity.  She did not hide from them—she embraced them.  It was also through Sarah that he had learned control over his own; her voice traveling through the channels of Ingram’s mind, she had advised him.

This works however you allow it to.

She had been right.  Now instead of collecting huge amounts of information from others, only to be left confused as to how to sort it all out in order to use any of it, he imagined each person’s contributions as volumes in a massive library.  To learn something for himself that a given person knew, all Ingram had to do was pull down that particular book.  It was how Ingram allowed it to work, and it was indeed working very well.

It was a good library.  Even if every book was only a segment of memories Ingram carried within his own head.  Even if most of these memories were not his own.

He had learned a lot—including the fact that physical contact was not a requirement; it was simply an amplifier.  He could make a connection happen from a distance by merely willing it to occur.  While his attempts still felt awkward at times, he was getting better, and his confidence in his ability to control it grew stronger each time he used it.  Just being aware of a person’s presence was enough to at least make an attempt, and he was succeeding more and more.

Frustratingly, there still remained some people that Ingram could not gain access to at all.  He had tried on multiple occasions to open a channel with Doug’s former boss, Rob Blacksmen; such a channel would prove useful for verifying that Ingram’s existence was still unsuspected, and would also give away just how close Rob and his