Chasing Power (Hidden Talents) (7 page)
“OK, that does it. I promise I won’t call the police on you. But if you don’t give me the phone, I can’t promise that
you
won’t have to call the police on
me
.”
This time, Harry didn’t hesitate. He handed the phone over. Digging into her purse once more, Sam pulled out the business card she had for the head of HR. Seeing as it was 3 AM, she wasn’t surprised to get the answering machine. Samantha quickly ad-libbed a story: a fictional friend got in a car accident. She had to drive out of town to take care of them. Plausible enough.
Sam didn’t like lying. In most cases, strategic obfuscation worked better and had less risk. But in this case, the truth was going to be less believable.
It was with mixed relief that Sam handed the phone back to Harry. Now all she had to do was pray that they actually believed her. And that they didn’t give the job to someone else in the meantime.
“You guys ready?” Lane and Al walked over, arms full of various snack foods. “We’ve got breakfast.”
Breakfast, as it turned out, was her choice of chocolate or powdered mini-donuts; coffee, hot chocolate, or juice in a Styrofoam cup and a wrinkled piece of fruit. Considering the turmoil her empty stomach was in, Sam had few complaints. After Lane paid with his credit card, they headed back for the car.
“I can drive,” Al volunteered.
“No!” Harry said emphatically.
Lane was more tactful: “That’s all right. I’m not tired.”
Al rolled his eyes, “Neither am I!”
”Maybe next time. We need you at the top of your game,” Lane said, sliding into the driver’s seat. Harry let out a relieved breath and Sam couldn’t help but smile a little. Maybe next time, that’s what her mom used to say when she’d known an outright ‘no’ wouldn’t work.
After buckling his seatbelt, Lane pulled out his own cell phone and speed-dialed a number. A brief, friendly, and non-productive conversation followed. Then a second. The three waited patiently. Lane had just finished with the third call when his phone rang again: “Have any news for me? Great, that helps. No, it does. Thanks.” He snapped the phone shut, “Apparently Jacobs texted one of his friends at HQ a picture of himself with a stripper.”
Al tilted his head, “OK? So? How’s that narrow it down?”
“The stripper was dressed—half dressed—as a knight. I’m pretty sure there aren’t that many male strip shows, and even fewer ones where they wear medieval costumes.”
Al clapped his hands, “Damn right! Let’s hit up Camelot!”
#
The Camelot was one of the tackier hotels on the Strip, and that said a lot. Garish round towers, with primary red and blue roofs built one on top of the other, hung over the far-end of the Strip. The whole effect looked nothing like an actual medieval castle, but rather like an amalgamation of what grade school children imagined a fairy tale castle would look like. One of the earlier “new” casinos on the Strip, the Camelot had been built in the eighties, and apparently the founders had hoped to cash in as one of the few family-friendly resorts in town. This tactic had failed, so while the bright, childish exterior remained, the interior had been redone to better suit the real Vegas customers, as had the entertainment. A large billboard mounted over the parking lot advertised one of Camelot’s main attractions, the Noble Steeds, an all-male, Medieval theme strip show.
The casino floor and lobby were done in gleaming gold fixtures and rich red, green, blue, and gold imitation tapestry carpet. Pathways built into the floor clearly defined the lines that minors could not cross. Not paying attention, Sam crossed over one of the lines and veered towards a slot machine. A woman dressed in a polyester suit immediately appeared at her arm: “May I see your ID, miss?” Sam was a couple years past that, but in no mood to prove it, so she stepped back onto the walkway, hurrying to catch up with the three boys who were already standing and talking to someone at the long gleaming registration desk.
“I’m sorry sir, I really can’t reveal private information about our guests. If you think your party is staying here, you may leave them a message and have it passed along.”
“I really can’t wait that long,” Lane said, “It’s an emergency.”
The man shook his head ‘no’. Dark hair, a ruddy face, and a little extra weight hinted that despite his fastidious upkeep, he knew how to play in his off-hours.
Lane smiled, “Hey man, it’s OK. I understand. What’s your name, Robert? Nice to meet you, Robert.” Lane extended his hand and, with a little hesitation, Robert took it.
“How do you like Vegas, Rob?”
“Pretty good. I have fun.”
“Ha, I bet you do.” With a knowing wink, Lane leaned in, one arm on the counter, “Since we’re going to be waiting here a while, any shows you’d recommend, sights we can’t miss?”
“Well, that depends.”
“On whether I’m taking my girlfriend or not?”
Laughing, Robert nodded his head, “Exactly.”
Sam watched the exchange with interest. Before, Robert had been businesslike, distant. But as Lane talked, he began to loosen up. He smiled and laughed more. Almost like he was hypnotized. Sam had taken business management classes where they talked about techniques to use in getting people to like you: mirroring, teaming. But Lane wasn’t really doing any of those things. He was just talking to the guy. In fact, Robert, for his part, was now acting like
he
wanted Lane to like
him
. His body language changed, he started imitating Lane’s gestures. When he cracked a joke, he watched Lane’s face to see how he’d react.
“It looks like you’ve already pulled an all-nighter or two,” Rob said, “but if you still want some fun, I can help you out.”
“Yeah, we’ve been up all night, but not by choice. Maybe you can help us out another way. My friend forgot to tell us what room he was in, and now I’m worried we’re going to wind up sleeping on the Strip.”
“Oh, well,” Robert looked around for his supervisor. The woman was engaged with another customer. Robert leaned forward, “What’s his name again?”
“David Jacobs.”
Robert typed something into the computer. The computer spit something out and Sam’s eyes widened as she saw him slip two laminated key cards into an envelope and wrote a room number on it. He slid the envelope across the counter towards Lane.
“Here you go, dude. But if anyone asks, you found them on the floor, right?”
“Right. Thanks man, I won’t forget it.”
“No prob, man,” Robert said, “Just look me up next time you’re in town. We’ll go play some blackjack.”
#
“That was unbelievably weird,” Samantha said, “That guy went from not giving a flip what happened to us to wanting your phone number so he could call you to talk about life.” The four of them stood in the elevator, watching the numbers climb.
“It’s not weird,” Al chimed in, “He does it all the time. That’s his talent.”
“Getting people to like you?”
“Sort of,” Lane admitted, sheepish, “I’m an empath. I feel what other people feel and can pick up some emotions.”
“Some?” Al said, “Dude, you’re a veritable encyclopedia on other people’s deepest fears and desires.”
“Thanks, Al,” Lane said shortly.
Sam paused, suspicious, “You don’t just sense. You were manipulating him.” Which meant he’d probably been manipulating her, too. Did that explain the weird emotional state she’d been in in the alley, and in the car?
“I wouldn’t say manipulate so much as...influence.”
“So what do you do, make people like you?” Sam said, “Screw with their thoughts?”
“Yes and no. I can’t make people like me. But I can make them comfortable around me. I can make them relaxed, happy. And I can’t influence thoughts directly. Though emotions are the root of most thoughts, so, technically, the last one’s up for debate.”
Lane gave her a worried glance to see how she would react to this.
Not well. Sam’s expression went dark, her eyes narrowed. She had spent her life learning to control her emotions and her reactions. She didn’t like the idea of someone coming into her brain without permission and messing around with them. “Not that I’m not thankful to you for saving me—because I really am—but in the future I would appreciate it if you didn’t ‘influence’ me.” She said, clipping her words, “There’s enough disturbance going on in my brain as it is.”
Bing! The elevator reached the eleventh floor.
“Uh, he’s in 1146,” Harry said, uncomfortably aware of the tension filling the small room. Lane took the lead, following the signs down the blank hotel lobby. Most of the glamour was toned down here. The rugs and wall were painted in subdued tones of gray and blue, and showed signs of wear and tear. The only hint of the Camelot’s theme now came only from the watercolor portraits of knights and faux medieval wall sconces. Sam made a point to keep up with the group. The sooner they got to this Jacobs guy, she figured, the sooner she could get away from Lane and his helpful ‘influence’.
“Here we are,” Lane said. They stood in front of room 1146. A ‘do not disturb’ sign dangled from the knob. Lane knocked. No answer. He knocked louder.
“I hope he’s not with a girl,” Al whispered, “That would be awkward.”
“Don’t worry, he went to Noble Steeds,” Harry whispered back, “He’s probably not going to be with a girl.”
“Yeah. Still awkward.”
Sam hung back, letting Al and Harry crowd in front. Jacobs was going to be pissed to be woken up this late, she guessed, so she didn’t want to be the first face he saw. Let them take the flack.
Apparently, Jacobs was a heavy sleeper. A minute plus of knocking, and still no answer: “Are we going to wait here all night?” Samantha asked.
Shaking his head, Lane took out the room key and slid it into the lock: “Maybe he’s out,” he said as he opened the door, leading the group down the short hallway that lead to the bedroom: “But we can wait here until—”
Suddenly Lane turned. Without a word he pushed Sam back, into the main corridor, before she had a chance to see the hotel room.
“Hey!” Sam protested, “What’s going on?”
Green, Lane shook his head, “You don’t want to see that,” he said, gagging.
Harry and Al followed them out in a rush, Al with his hands over his mouth, Harry with his eyes wide. They leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.
“What’s in there?” Samantha asked, “What? And what’s that smell?” The scent of charred...something permeated the air. Not anything she had smelled before; it was definitely unpleasant.
Still not getting the answer she wanted, she dodged Lane’s grasp and stormed into the room, only to stop dead in her tracks. She covered her mouth. Now she understood why Harry was throwing up in the hallway.
A man—at least, she thought he was a man, it was hard to tell when 90% of his skin was gone—lay on the bed, burned to a crisp. The image was surreal. The bed and corpse looked charred, blackened in such a way that suggested an inferno. The rest of the room was fine, unburned. Absently, Samantha wondered why the smoke detectors hadn’t gone off. And whether he had been asleep. It didn’t look like it. A knocked over lamp and a partially burned chair suggested a struggle. Oh. Oh sad.
“All right, time to go. Gotta go. Right now.”
Sam let Lane take her hand and lead her out of the room. Like Blackbeard’s wife, she wished she’d listened to him. The image was burned in her retinas now, to haunt her nightmares. Probably for the rest of her life.
“Was that Jacobs?” Her voice sounded weak to her, choked. Lane closed the door, wiped his eyes and his nose. He was trying to hide the fact that he was crying, Sam realized, and felt a pang of sympathy. It wasn’t easy for Sam, and she had never met the man. It must be infinitely worse knowing the person that...husk had been.
“Lane,” Harry said, “I know this is tough man, but we have to consider what this means.”
“Yeah, I know,” Lane said, voice choked, “Let’s go.”
No one said a word. Back through the long corridor, the interminable elevator ride, and across the casino floor. As Samantha pushed the door open to the parking lot, though, Lane stopped her.
“Wait,” he said, “I don’t think going back to the car’s a good idea.”
It was past 4 AM. The night owls were in bed, and the early birds were just waking. The night felt still, cold and empty. A feeling of dread stole over Samantha. She shook it off. For all she knew, that was Lane again. How could she trust anything she felt around him, now that she knew about his talent?
“Why not?” Al said, “We have to get out of here, fast.”
“You’re a mech, Al,” Lane said, “How easy is it for someone like Hal to blow a car up?”
“Oh,” Al said, “OK, yeah, let’s not go out there.”
“Who’s Hal?” Sam asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” Lane said, “For now, isn’t there a monorail around here? Or something without a combustion engine?”
#
They made their way down the Strip, finding their way to a food court inside an Egyptian-themed casino with soft, cushy booths. A fake stone tomb offered both architectural interest and a little bit of shelter from the rest of the casino.