Chasing Power (Hidden Talents) (2 page)

Smooth
, Samantha thought,
really smooth.

“Gesundheit?”  he said.  Wisely, he did not try and pat her on the back, or Sam might have had a full-fledged stroke there on the spot.  Finally catching her breath, she cleared her throat, struggling to regain her dignity.  It’s a miracle he’s still standing there, she thought. Cute was an understatement for this guy, but it was all her brain could come up with.

Late twenties.  Either a grad student or maybe a young professor, with a wiry but muscular build.  Dark brown hair and a self-conscious puppy-dog “please like me” expression.  Despite better intentions, Sam found herself smiling back. 
Right
, her good sense chimed in,
encourage the stalker.  That’s always a good idea.
  Realizing her little voice had a point, Sam steeled her expression and arched her eyebrow: “Thanks for returning these.  But I don’t need a book to give me a headache.”

”Really.” It wasn’t a question, and from his tone, Sam got the impression he’d been expecting that answer.  The way you expect the final piece of a jigsaw to slide in to place.  An awkward silence descended.

Crud
, Sam thought,
he’s cute.  And he might be flirting with me.  How do I handle this?  I don’t want him to not flirt with me.  Think; what would Annie do?

Damn.  Her roommate would lean forward and present her breasts, and Sam didn’t have nearly the décolletage or the absence of shame.  She’d have to settle for conversational wit.  Yes.  Witty repartee.  She could do that.  Sam cleared her throat, “So, whatcha doing in the library?”  OK.  Maybe wit wasn’t in the cards for her, either.

“Studying for finals and—holy cow, look at the time!”  The man made a show of glancing at his watch in surprise: “Geez, I’m gonna be late for class.  Gotta run, but I’m sure I’ll see you again, Samantha!”

“All right, see you—wait a second—” When had she told him her name?Sudden blinding pain shooting through her temple put a stop to the reaction.  Sam swore, grabbing the bridge of her nose while flashes of light obscured her vision.  When the pain faded, the man was gone and one of the two other students in the library was looking at her strangely.

The world
, Sam thought,
conspires against me.
  Sitting down heavily in her chair, she went back to her books.

#

A few hours later, Sam pushed the heavy inlay door of the library open and blinked in the sudden darkness of the outside world.  Checking her watch, she realized that it was already past nine.  Oops.  Her stomach growled, reminding her that her quest for answers had gotten in the way of dinner too. 

Many of the books, like
Past Lives and Present Lies,
fairly oozed BS buzzwords and magical thinking.  But one or two had presented genuine evidence of...something.

Samantha had never really delved into neurology, but the more she learned about the human brain, the more she’d wanted to know.

And so she stayed late, investigating admittedly questionable titles out of curiosity, if nothing else.  She waded through the heavy text and multiple citations, hoping to find something that struck a chord of reasonability because...again, her mind came up short of a viable excuse.

Because the whole thing, she finally admitted to herself, was just plain weird.  And modern science, as she knew it, couldn’t quite explain the accident, or the headaches, or the myriad other strange things happening to her that all had to be linked somehow—if she could only find the common thread.

Bottom line, Sam was tired of answering “I don’t know.”  She was tired of the headaches, of thinking that she might have a brain tumor.  She’d always loved solving puzzles, but she enjoyed understanding them more.  Finding out how the pieces went together, the logic behind the construction.  There was a connection between the exploding light bulbs, the headaches.  She knew there had to be, because they’d all started happening after her accident last week.    

Intent in her thoughts, Sam almost didn’t notice the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.  Years of living alone, however, had ingrained in her a natural caution and suspicion that worked even when her brain was otherwise occupied.  She stopped, taking stock of her surroundings.  Nothing.

The campus of her school was well lit, creating a false twilight in the darkness.  She crossed the college commons now, the flat plateau of the University bookstore steps rising to her left.  The well-groomed hedges of a small park to her right.  Bending to tie her shoes, she checked out her surroundings.  One or two students were still wandering around, grabbing snacks, visiting girlfriends.  But then there was one person—definitely not a student.  

And it wasn’t the guy from the library, either.  Unlikely as it seemed, a man his late thirties, the picture of impeccability in an Armani suit, perfect silvery blonde hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, shadowed her.  He sauntered, rather than strode, endeavoring to look casual.  But he couldn’t quite disguise the purpose in his steps.

Samantha quickened her own pace, cursing herself for spending so much time chasing dust motes in the library.  She didn’t want to lead this man back to where she lived.  Because he was following her,
that
she knew for certain.  The way a doe knew a hunter had locked sights on her. 

OK, time to think, what was that sensible thing they never did in the movies?

Doing a fast U-turn, she doubled back to the bookstore and took the steps three at a time. Standing at the glass doors, she could see that one or two employees were still closing up at the registers.  A security guard was beginning the rounds.  Sam began knocking on the door, the sound a hollow bell in the night.  The guard looked up and over.  Sam made a gesture indicating urgency. She mouthed, “I need help.”

Coming over, the guard unlocked the door.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m being followed.”

“Followed?”  The security guard poked his head out the door and made a show of looking around: “Now just who do you think is following you?”

“Him.”  Samantha pointed to Armani.

The guard watched as Armani strolled by, swinging a briefcase: “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, her heart pounding as Armani approached.

“But he’s not even stopping, see?”

Armani passed the building and kept walking.  He didn’t so much as glance at Samantha as he continued past them.  Within moments, he’d turned a corner and was gone.  The guard smiled at her with fatherly warmth and condescension.

“A lot of people take the same routes,” the guard said. “He looks like a finance professor to me.”

“I know every finance professor on campus; he’s not one of them.”

“A guest speaker, then.”

“But he was—”

The security guard raised an eyebrow.  Sam sighed: following her or not, Armani was gone now.  What difference did it make?  

The guard offered to call the campus cruiser for her.  Sam refused.  She wasn’t that far from her dorm.  Besides, she didn’t feel much like waiting forty minutes for the car to arrive, only to get lectured on how not-far it was to her room.  Campus cruiser was made up of work study students, reluctant to actually do any of the work they were being paid for.

Taking a deep breath, assuring herself it was only paranoia—not a stretch, all things considered—Sam left the safety of the bookstore.

Five minutes later, her head started to ache again; a dull pounding that numbed her other senses.  She tried to tune it out, along with the rest of the world, in an attempt to escape the pain.  Ten minutes after that, she realized that somehow, in concentrating so hard on staving off the headache, she’d missed a turn.  It was difficult to admit, since she’d walked this route hundreds of times. But everything looked different in the dark.  At least, that’s what she told herself as she stared in consternation at a street sign that could have been written in Greek, for all she comprehended.

“Thirty-fifth?”  she said to no one in particular, “How did I wind up on Thirty-fifth?”  And she didn’t even recognize the name of the cross street.  

“Excuse me, miss?”  A chill went down Sam’s spine at the cultured voice. “You look a little disoriented.”

Armani stood behind her.  A few feet away, smug smile playing on his lips.  Heart pounding, Sam took a step back, suddenly short of breath.  Armani took a step of his own to close the gap. “Do you need help, miss?”

Sam tried to think of a reply, but the pain in her head blocked out almost all rational thought:  “I—no—I   just—” She couldn’t even stutter out a protest.  

Armani moved forward: “You don’t look too well.”

“Stay away from me,” Sam said, and took another shaky step back from his approach, heart pounding.  Her brain may have been addled, but she still knew danger when it smiled at her blandly. 

Armani held his hands out: “I only want to help.”

She tried desperately to think of a counterargument, something she could say to make him leave.  But he kept advancing, and her headache kept increasing.  Stop!  Think!  But her thoughts were muddied, her head and heart pounded in unison, and Armani was within arm distance, reaching out, and he was going to touch her.  No! 

Samantha spun on her heels and took off running.  She’d sprinted two blocks when she realized the gravity of her error.  The streets in this area were more deserted than the last.  She fumbled for her cell phone, pulling it out of her pocket and shakily dialing 9-1-1.  She waited as the phone rang, and rang, and rang.  This was the middle of Los Angeles, and 9-1-1 was giving her a busy signal.

Stupid, Sam cursed to herself, stupid.  Stupid.  Stupid.  She needed to get to a place where there were people, where the apathetic couldn’t just walk past and pretend they didn’t hear her calls for help.  She’d have to backtrack.  Another block, still no people.  How the hell could a city this overpopulated be so deserted?  It just didn’t make sense!

Armani dogged her steps, toying with her, taking his time.  Digging down into her reserves, Sam put on an extra burst of speed and managed to increase the distance between them—almost half a block now.  But the boost had its drawbacks.  Sam felt a familiar constriction in her lungs.  She reached for her inhaler and realized, with a sinking feeling, that she’d dropped her purse. 

Don’t think about suffocating
, she told herself,
think of where you’re going to go.
  She could take a turn down the next street.  Do a loop and head towards the nearest major street.  Maybe she could find a bus stop.

She turned right at the next corner.  Spotting an alley, Sam got an idea.  He was too far back to see her—she could cut through the alley and retrace her steps.  Then, maybe, she could slow down and breathe.  Warning bells rang in her subconscious, but Sam ignored them.  This was her only chance.  It had to work, it
would
work—aw no.

It didn’t work.  Dead end.

Sam stumbled to a stop, wheezing, struggling desperately to get her lungs to absorb oxygen.  Little dots punctuated her vision.  Dead end?  Now that was something that did happen in the movies.  Right before the girl was saved by the superhero.  Or killed.  Depending on the genre.

Sam knew that, with her luck, it would most likely be the latter.  Two miracles in one week were more than any mortal could hope for.  God, she needed to get out of here, but she couldn’t run if she couldn’t breathe.  Placing her hands on her knees, she crouched behind a dumpster and tried to control her wheezing.  The dim glow of a streetlight cast a long shadow as Armani crossed the entrance to the alley.  Please don’t stop here, Sam thought, please keep going.  I’m not here.  I’m invisible. 

If God existed, he wasn’t listening.  Armani turned down the entrance to the alley: “Not too many places to hide?  Or is transition just muddling up your mind?”

What the fuck?
  Sam silently cursed.  Wonderful, just brilliant.  The disgusting part was that his suit remained impeccable, his hair neat and tidy, and his shoes shiny and unscuffed.  Already feeling dirty, exhausted, and shabby, it was enough to make her sick to her stomach.  Time for Plan B.  Now that there was no use for hiding, maybe false bravado could buy her a chance.

Sam straightened and strode out from behind the dumpster, hands on her hips, a well-practiced glower on her face. “Can’t you just consider me harassed and go back to whatever tacky neo-nazi villain catalog you crawled out of?”  She hoped he wouldn’t notice the gasping breath she had to take every fourth word.

“It’s not that easy, Miss Gibson.  I gave you the option of coming quietly.”  He raised his hand.  As ridiculous as it seemed, there was something in that gesture that implied a threat.  A lingering potential hummed, malevolent, in the air around it. 

They said the best defense was a good offense.  Growling, Sam leapt forward, preparing to claw the man’s eyes out, punch him in the groin—whatever, it would come to her and it would be dirty.  Instead of forward, however, she found herself flying backwards, colliding with the brick wall.  Her head followed in short order, slamming into the implacable wall.  She slid to the ground.  Mass times acceleration equaled... ouch.  Her ears rang.

No.  No way had she just magically flown backwards.  Sam forced herself to her feet, her brain rushing to find some logic in the situation.