Chasing Power (Hidden Talents) (5 page)

He watched her go.  Cynical, maybe, but that girl had a nice walk.

“Dude, you listening to me?”

No, he hadn’t been.

Watching Sam shimmy towards the ladies’ room, Harry leaned over to Lane, “What are you reading?”

Lane frowned, shrugging, “She’s tense, but that’s understandable.  Anything more is hard to tell.  Doing a read on her is like trying to read Tolstoy upside down in a mirror.”

“She’s a hard read because she’s in transition,” Al said, “People are always screwed up during transition.”

“Or maybe she’s been a Talent for years and is just faking us out.  There are a lot of possible explanations, Al,” Harry said, “Right, Lane?  I mean, you’re the almost doctor here; isn’t she too old for transition?”

“Headaches can be anything.  And it’s not like we’ve seen her power firsthand.”

“And there’s something off about her,” Harry said, “She’s almost too calm.  Especially for having just been kidnapped.”

Lane nodded, “If it’ll make you feel better, we’ll call N.T.U. and have them run a background check.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, “That will make me feel better.”  The three chewed in silence, waiting, trying not to watch the bathroom door too closely.

“What do you think she’s doing in there?”  Harry said.

A milkshake was the only thing Sam had ordered, and now it sat melting on the countertop, barely touched. 

“Doing her makeup?”  Al ventured a guess.  They’d returned her purse to her, which, in retrospect, might not have been the best idea.

“She doesn’t seem the type,” Lane said.

“Maybe,” Harry said, “she’s calling the police.”

Ding-a-ling.

The three men looked over as the door swung open and four C.H.P. officers walked in.  Lane glanced out the window and saw two more cops leaning against his car.  He looked over at Harry, who raised his eyebrows in an angry, “I told you so!” expression.  Two of the officers approached their table.

“Hello sirs,” the tallest one said, “We’re going to have to ask you to step outside.”

#

“Are you OK, miss?”  The police officer asking was heavy, just large enough to be intimidating, Sam noted with satisfaction.

She nodded, “I’m fine, thank you.”  She was now.  The manager on duty had kindly provided her with a Dr. Pepper and the caffeine was doing wonders for her outlook on life.  She stood now in the newer part of the building, leaning against the cashier’s counter in the gift shop/convenience store that aimed to pry even more money from passing travelers’ hands.  Heck, even Sam was feeling tempted to splurge.  A clever fridge magnet might be just the right kind of souvenir for this experience.

”You did the right thing,” the first officer’s partner said, a middle-aged woman making a concerted effort to be warm and motherly.  She’d introduced herself as “Fran” and the name fit.  “You kept them calm, but called the police. That was exactly perfect.”

”Are they going to jail?”

Fran shrugged, “Kidnapping is a felony.  And the F.B.I. will probably want to get involved, since they carried you across state lines.  Then again, a lot of it depends on what you’re willing to do.  What charges you want to press.”

Did she want to press charges?  They had kidnapped her, for crying out loud, but they seemed so absolutely convinced they were doing the right thing, and she hadn’t been hurt.  It was just so strange.

“Don’t worry, hon.  You’re safe now.” 

Safe.  Yes, safe.  Through a slat in the blinds, Sam had just watched as Lane, Harry, and Al were read their rights and none-too-gently shoved in the back of a car.  They looked so embarrassed and stricken, she’d felt even guiltier.

Don’t.
  She reminded herself,
remember your mantra: better safe than sorry.
  Besides, nice guys ask your permission before carrying you across state lines.

“Miss, did you hear me miss?” 

Sam blinked at Fran and shook her head in response, “I asked if you knew anyone who could come here and pick you up.  Friends?  Family?” 

Sam frowned.  She hadn’t had a proper family since middle school, and friends were not exactly her strong suit.  Sure, she had lots of acquaintances, people she was friendly with, but someone willing to drive two and a half hours to come pick her up?  The only person who came into mind was Anne, and her roommate didn’t own a car.  Though Anne usually dated a guy who did.

“I’m sure we can find you a ride home.  Or we can probably get you a room for tonight somewhere.”

Great
, Sam thought,
I can’t even afford new underwear. Where am I going to find the cash for a hotel room and a bus ride home?    

“
Walter, you there?”

Walter grabbed his walkie-talkie and walked a few steps away, “Roger.”

“Be on the lookout—one suspect has escaped custody.  He may be on his way to the girl—”

Escaped custody?  Someone got away?  How?  Sam had seen the police cuff them, watched as they searched them and locked them in the car before driving off—how the hell had one escaped? 

Stepping back, Sam did a quick survey of the gift shop, noting exits, hiding places.  Fran noticed her anxious look: “Relax, honey, Walter’s calling in backup.  You’ll be fine.  Besides, if someone escaped, they’re probably high-tailing it to the next county—not coming back for you.”

Rubbing her temple, Sam nodded.  Despite having subsided earlier, the slow throbbing in her head signaled a clear return to skull-splitting agony.  At this point, Sam had to acknowledge the headaches as a reliable indicator that she was about to get slammed with a great big mess of trouble.

“All the same, we should probably move into a back room or someplace out of sight.  At least until backup arrives.”  Fran glanced at the manager, who nodded and led them towards the back of the store.  Meanwhile, Walter moved in the opposite direction, stationing himself near the front door. 

They passed through a swinging door into a large room that served as both office and storage closet.  The manager took a seat on a swivel chair.  Nonplussed, he yawned and looked at his watch.  Fran smiled at Samantha reassuringly and subtly unsnapped the holster of her gun, leaning against the wall, her foot propping the door open so she had a good look at her partner on the other side of the store. 

Standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, Sam switched her weight from one foot to the other.  Lane, Al, Harry?  Weird, yes.  Actual threats to her life?  The jury was still out on that count.   

Suddenly, Fran’s radio erupted in a burst of static—shouts, threats, gun shots—then the noise stopped.

OK, Samantha thought, now I’m scared.  She looked to Fran for guidance, but the woman was otherwise occupied.  She’d stuck the top half of her head out of the swinging door, asking Walter what they were going to do.

“Stay put,” Walter called out, “Backup’s on its way.  There’s some man in a suit coming up the street.”

Oh, shit, Sam knew a man in a suit.  What had Lane called him, again?  Stone?  Sam grabbed Fran’s shoulder, shaking it to get her attention, “Fran?”

“Not now, sweetie.”

“But the guy in the suit—”

“Get under the table!”

Glancing back towards the table in question, Sam discarded Fran’s suggestion.  No way in hell was she going to huddle there, a target in plain sight. 

 Walter’s voice cut through the palpable silence of the room: “Put your hands up, sir, and stop—”

 Walter’s remaining expletive went unspoken, his yell cutting off in a gargle.  Pushing forward, Sam tried her best to look over Fran’s shoulder and through the crack in the door.  It was difficult to tell, but from her perspective it looked like he was plucked from his feet and rammed against the ceiling.  Just like an invisible hand had grabbed him and tossed him around as casually as a sack of potatoes.  The same way she’d been thrown into the wall earlier.

“Geez Louise,” Fran said, “What the hell is going on here?”  She slid back into the room, picking up the radio, “Where the hell are you guys?!”

Sam stayed, possessed with watching as Walter picked himself up, crawling towards their door.  Only to do an abrupt face-plant, as a cookie jar shaped like a Harley Davidson hit him solidly on the back of the head.

“Close the damn door!”  A hand clamped around her shoulder and yanked Samantha back into the room.  Fran glared at her, “Hide!  We’re waiting for backup!”

Right.  Stay here with the cop who had a gun.  Except those guns sure hadn’t helped the other cops outside.  The sanctuary of the back room began to feel more like a deathtrap to Sam.  Besides, Sam was what this guy wanted.  Maybe if she drew him out, he’d leave Fran alone. 

Without further ado, Sam slipped out the door, ignoring Fran’s hissed protests.  At the end of the day, Fran wasn’t much of a hero, letting her go when it became clear she’d have to risk her own neck to bring her back.  Crouching low to the ground, Sam made her way to her right, towards an emergency exit that led to the side of the building.

“Is that you, Miss Gibson?”

Sam froze in her tracks.  It was him, all right, Armani, no, Stone as Lane had called him.  And there was the emergency exit door, only twenty feet away to her right.  Dispensing with theatrics, Sam straightened and ran, heading towards the door in a flat-out sprint.

Only to slam into it, full speed.  Sliding to the floor, Samantha gripped her head, which rang with the impact.  Stuck!  The door was stuck shut!

Behind her, Armani laughed.  As he crossed the room, various trinkets, knick-knacks, and doodads began to lift off their shelves, drifting along behind him, as though caught in his current.  He grinned, “So, how would you prefer to have your head bashed in: Bugs Bunny telephone or candy juke box?”

Standing, Sam pressed backwards against the exit door in vain.  The thing wouldn’t budge.

“I’d prefer Bugs,” she said, only stuttering a little bit. “Maybe his regenerative powers will wear off on me.”

“Clever.  Trying to stall, hoping to draw me into conversation and give yourself time to—”

Bang!  The force of the gunshot dislodged a ceiling tile, which crashed to the floor.  Surprised, Stone spun around. Concentration broken, the accumulated hovering souvenirs crashed to the ground with the tile.  And Sam felt herself pitch backwards as the door suddenly, blessedly, swung open.  Taking a few stumbling steps into the parking lot, she turned back to see how Stone was going to respond.

But Stone wasn’t paying attention to her.  Instead, he was looking at Fran.  She crouched outside the door of the storage room, her gun drawn. “Shoot him!” Sam yelled through the door, “Shoot him now!”

Fran ignored her, “Put your hands on your head and lie down!”

Stone laughed, shrugging, “Should have listened to the girl.”  He smiled and the gun flew out of Fran’s hand and into his own.  Cursing, Fran turned to run back to the storage room—but now she was the one locked out. 

 “
You
put your hands on your head.”  Fran obeyed. “Great.  Now duck.”  Stone fired twice, hitting Fran squarely in the chest.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.  Please let her be wearing a flak vest,
Sam thought. 
Please let her be alive.
 

And then Stone turned back to her.

Sam ran.  Her tennis shoes slipped and slid on the pebbly concrete of the parking lot as she raced away from the diner.  She made it to the other side of the lot as he blasted through the back door.  Sliding to the ground next to a pick-up, Sam wiggled under the car, wedging herself as far under as she could.

Stone took his time walking over to her this time.  Crouching, he peeped under the car.  “This was the best you could do?”

He leaned towards her, and another jolt of pain went through Sam’s mind: a sign of building pressure.

Something was there, getting stronger, fueled by terror, and the intense desire to fight back.  It felt like power, the way the air felt before a lighting storm.  She could sense it, hovering at the edge of her vision, rippling around them like the air rippled in a heat mirage, but almost palpable.  It surrounded Stone, stronger, more distinct, and fueling him somehow.      

Stone reached forward, grabbing her right ankle. Sam twisted, pulling away, “Get away from me, you freak!”  She kicked out with her left leg, nailing him square in his pretty face.  Taken by surprise, Stone fell backwards onto the ground, holding his bloody nose.

“Bitch!” he said, “You want me to—”  And then the world went white.  Literally, white, as lightning arced down to the ground, enveloping Stone in a flash so bright it seared Sam’s eyes.

From the safety of the dirty, oily undercarriage of the pick-up, Sam watched, eyes wide, as Stone’s body twitched in shock.  Still, he sat up straight, wobbling, looking at her with his mouth hanging open in some strange parody of a sneer.  Then, a sudden squeal of tires as another car pulled up on the other side of the truck.  Turning, Sam saw the tires belonged to the bottom half of a familiar blue sedan.  Crawling out from under the pick-up as fast as she could manage, Sam reached up, gratefully, into the pair of arms that pulled her up and into the safety of their car.