FBI Agent Diederik Hart's frown was illuminated by the computer screen in front of him. After receiving Win's call, Hart had decided to get the task over with and shuffled half-asleep into his home office, clad in only his blue and white striped pajama bottoms. The house was dark and nested in the deep silence of early morning.

Hart reached for a pen and hastily jotted down a few notes. His index finger banged down on a few keys and the information on the screen disappeared while a new screen loaded.

SUBJECT NOT VALID

Hart glanced down at his notepad making sure he had the right name. Win had said "Parker Graham". Hart typed the name in again. The screen took its time loading, but the same message appeared: SUBJECT NOT VALID.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Hart chewed on the cap of his pen. Win would not have been mistaken. If Win called him in need of information on a subject then the subject existed. It certainly wouldn't be "not valid."

Unless.

"Damn." Hart poked at the keyboard with both index fingers and typed in the address for a different database.

When the new database loaded he typed "Parker Graham" into the search box.

The screen loaded.

Hart scanned the information and then quickly hit the print button. As his printer whirred to life he started reading again from the top, this time very slowly, making sure not to miss a single word.

After reading the page top to bottom three times, Hart leaned back in his desk chair and rubbed his chin, considering what the hell it meant. Deep in thought, Hart nearly fell out of his chair when the sound of his desk phone ringing cut through the dark silence like a fog horn. He glanced at the caller ID and saw that it was blank. Not 'Unavailable'. Just blank. A chill ran up his spine. He did not move. After the third ring the phone went silent. Hart had no automatic voice mail to pick up unanswered incoming calls. That meant whoever was calling had hung up after just three rings.

Hart stared at the phone, his mouth hanging half open, expecting it to ring again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement on his monitor. He turned to see the webpage about Parker Graham replaced by a 404 error page. An invisible hand controlled the mouse cursor, moved the little white arrow to the X on his browser window and closed it.

The agent's nerve endings jolted when his desk phone's shrill ring broke through the silence again. The same blank screen appeared on the caller ID. Again, it rang just three times and stopped.

Hart did not wait for the ringing to begin again. He pulled open a desk drawer and took out a revolver. He checked the chambers to make sure the gun was fully loaded then set it on top of his desk.

Without turning on a single light Hart went into his bedroom and fumbled into a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. Not bothering with folding, he shoved a few items into an overnight bag, including two additional handguns and a taser. Swinging his arms through a shoulder holster, he made his way back to his office. As he was securing the gun from his desk into the holster he watched the monitor on his laptop. The mouse was still moving of its own free will and began deleting essential operating files. The laptop was committing suicide.

Hart grabbed the papers off his printer. With the overnight bag on his shoulder and the revolver tucked securely against the small of his back under a hooded sweat jacket, Agent Hart grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter and got into his car. As he backed out of the driveway he was hit with a sudden pang of melancholy. He had grown rather fond of this house, especially after all of the backbreaking improvements he'd made to it himself. But he couldn't allow the hope of returning here enter his mind. Right now the focus needed to be on getting away from here.

As he turned out of his subdivision he glanced in the rear view mirror, sure he had seen movement behind him. When the overhead streetlights did not illuminate another car he let out the breath he had been holding. He kept his eyes on both the road in front of him and the road behind him as he made his way out of town.

Win Lockwood was not someone you wanted to say no to, but Hart wished he hadn't agreed to this request.

Parker stared up at the ceiling in the dark, clutching a pillow to her chest. The dream was already fading, but its effects lingered. Adrenalin coursed through her bloodstream. Her heart was pounding and her respiration was shallow and quick. Beads of sweat dotted her brow.

She focused on her breath and tried to calm down.

Despite her nonchalant attitude towards her current predicament she was scared and her fear was creating dark, twisted dreams where unseen men pursued her, and no matter how hard she ran they always got to her. She would feel their thick, calloused hands on her perspiration-dampened skin as they yanked off her clothing and pulled her to the ground. Rocks cut deep into her back when the men flipped her over. And when she would look up to see who was assaulting her, there was only a dark, infinite blackness where a face should be. She'd open her mouth to cry out for help, but no sound would issue from her throat. She was as silent as the apparition in The Scream.

A small, very foolish part of her had hoped that having company in the other room would stop the nightmare from visiting her.

Still clutching the pillow to her chest, Parker rolled to her side and watched the minutes tick by on the alarm clock's digital display. She kept sleep at bay until the sun began its ascent over the horizon.