Silently flipping through the thick manilla file, I sipped on a hot cup of java from a local diner, that I fully intended on paying with money from Sam's wallet I recently stole. Thirty minutes of sifting and most of it was dead end leads or crappy amateur photos taken of family and friends in the passed ten months or so.

Several mini basic profiles on note worthy characters were placed at random throughout the file, unorganized, and I was two ticks of a second close to giving up when a black and white photo caught my eye.

At first glance it would have seemed like any other stupid photo of Sam trying to look sexy on a Harley, but it was the building in the background that caught my attention.

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Seven months before I was incapacitated, my research on the Gray began to heat up as I came across a facility in a small town on the coast of Washington state by the name of Joseph Greyherdt's Mental Health Facility. At first it was just a name of one of the many areas where incidents with the Gray had occurred, but inside of me a switch clicked as if I knew there was something waiting for me.

Over the next three months I kept this side research under lock and key as more and more information from various parts of the nation flowed in. That is, until I came across a messenger in her mid-thirties by the name of Trisha Stevens. Originally she was under strict orders from an old ally to wait for me and others in front of an ancient-looking brick antique shop built circa 1900, trade some information and leave, but she was a little antsy in her pantsy while we were waiting and began to talk incessantly.

Annoying me severely, I was going to shut her down verbally like I did to every other paranoid newb, but then she began to ramble about why she was there . . . about Greyherdt's. Apparently in the recent year or so, she had been an RN working in the upper floors of the center. Her whole life she had been working in the medical field and the average pay for a nurse was never as high as the facility offered, so she immediately took the job.

My forehead muscles softened and realized I must have been wearing my anal face, an odd cross between 'Where-the-hell-is-the-thorazine'? and 'I'm-going-to-smother-you'. Slightly bobbing my head up and down, she continued despite my sudden interest in her babble-talk and dismissed it with a short pause.

" The job sounded incredible and I was so excited I packed up my bags and moved all the way from Jersey," she began to explain, "When I got there the place wasn't too bad and the staff seemed fairly nice, but something just didn't seem right about it all. Sometimes I'd be filing papers or handing out meds when this sick feeling would hit me. It's not like the flu or a cold, it was as if something vile was there all around me, breathing on the back of my neck. It was true disgust and fear.

" When I first started working in Greyherdt's it, was an adjustable problem and didn't really bother me since it was only every once in a while. Hell, the pay was good and I didn't have a home in Jersey anymore, so even if I wanted to leave I was shit out of luck," she offered me a cheap menthol and accepted only to show I was truly interested, "I was there only ten months and near the end they were getting worse. Sometimes it felt like I was in a perpetual state of falling, my bodily fluids were always churning and I noticed my constant paranoia about the hospital sky rocketing."

She paused and took a long drag and stared at the ground, her mind floating away to a remote place inside her head. Finally I had to speak up, "Continue."

For a second it appeared as if her eyes had glazed over and all emotion from her face fell as she turned from me to her watch and answered back "Kalheel is never late."

Another few moments passed and she finally looked up, "Maybe we can meet up tomorrow for lunch and discuss this."

Suspiciously I nodded in agreement to both comments. Not only did I need as much help as possible trying to figure out what happened there, but our business partner Kalheel had always been on time no matter what. Always on the dot and a suspect of OCD.

Reaching into my pocket I pulled out a matchbook from Marley's Funeral Parlor and searched my person for some sort of writing utensil. When none was found, I looked up in hopes she had one, but before my questioning eyes could meet hers, blood and skull fragments splattered all over me and the surrounding area. After a few moments a feeling akin to being a fish in a barrel washed over me and I gagged a little into my jacket's sleeve.

At the time, I was in minor surprise, but as professionally as possible I bent down to her body, pulled her handkerchief which had been slightly hanging out and wiped my face off. For a second I just stared at her lifeless body, but with a sigh I stuffed the cloth into my own pocket, removed her purse, and used her cell phone to call her employer to remove the body. Luckily we were in a part of town in which cops and citizens disliked each other equally.

Grabbing her skinny ankles, I moved the body to a more shadowed area between the antique shop and a deli where you'd only find her if you're looking, just incase a patrol car dared to enter this neighborhood. That night was the last time I ever had a lead.

------------

In actuality I had never had the true cajones to even attempt driving to Greyherdt's. Not only was it a problem with time or money, but I truthfully was scared shitless at the idea of visiting a mental facility connected to the most underground knowledgeable Illuminati like syndicate.

Despite being intimidated by the thought of walking into the complete unknown, I knew I needed to get there within the next 24 hours. For all I knew Cory could be there, Warren could be there.