Paranormals (Book 1) (22 page)

Christine stared deeply into his eyes as she asked, "Do you have a girlfriend, Michael?"

He swallowed, his throat again dry, but for slightly different reasons. "No."

Her warm smile slowly returned. "Want one?"

POWERHOUSE

The envelope came two weeks later.

Lincoln was returning home from work late for the third day in a row. Moving quietly so as not to awaken the kids if they had, with any luck, somehow fallen asleep, he was also moving
slowly
— otherwise, he might have walked right over it and not noticed it until later. As it was, he spotted it instantly.

Plain envelope, slipped under the door. On the front, was hand-written:
Lincoln ‘Strong-Man’ Roberts.

Very funny
, he grumbled inwardly as he bent and snatched it up just as his siblings emerged from the kitchen, boasting of how they’d made a late dinner for him ...

Forty-five minutes and three peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches later, Lincoln excused himself to the bathroom and opened the surreptitious delivery. Sitting carefully on the closed toilet, he drew a deep breath and viewed its contents.

Inside were ten $100 bills and a letter. He pulled out the money first, gently running his fingers over the bills as though he somehow expected them to crumble away like dried leaves.

If ever there was
dirty money
, this is it
, he thought. He pocketed the grand.

With even more dread — but also a sense of resolution — he read the accompanying letter:

Dearest Lincoln,

You haven’t forgotten your Uncle Richard, have you? Of course not, how silly of me to even ask. I hope that this letter, and its accompanying advance, finds you and your young charges doing well. If you would be so kind, please see to it that you are present at the address below no later than 11pm tonight. I have already taken the liberty of informing your illustrious employers that you will be absent until further notice, so you need not tell them, or anyone else, your new schedule. Fear not: I promise that you shall be home in time to share breakfast with the little ones ... a breakfast that will, no doubt, consist of finer foods from here on out. See you tonight!

Lincoln swallowed bitterly against the lingering taste of peanut butter as he found the address — but no signature — at the bottom of the page, as promised. It seemed to Lincoln that they were taking a bit of a risk, just giving him the address like this — what if he were a PCA plant or something? Or just went to the police for help? But no, Richard McLane had looked into his eyes, and what he had seen had been a cornered, beaten man.

Somehow, for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate even to himself, he was certain that McLane had not bothered to personally write this letter, but the sarcastic tone would be right up that redheaded smartass’ alley. It wasn’t exactly comforting that these people had been in touch with the construction company, either.

Was he
really
going to do this? Just ...
sell out
like this? He had no idea what McLane would ask of him, but he also harbored no delusions as to what the
nature
of the assignment would be — "illegal" might prove to be an understatement.

How ... how can I just ...?
 

From the living room, Lincoln heard the echo of his sister’s coughing, still left over from her lingering chest cold — a cold she would have gotten over already if only he’d been able to get her some antibiotics ...

Flushing the empty toilet, Lincoln stuffed the letter and envelope into his pocket with the $1,000 and began scripting the lie he would tell Sarah and Tommy to explain his upcoming absence.

PCA

"Oh-ho, myyy
god
!" the redhead stammered before bursting into laughter. Clutching his sides, he pointed and gasped, "Get a load of
that
!"

All eyes turned toward the redhead, then over to Lincoln. McLane and the acne-scarred man were both there, as were two new men and one woman — the woman’s eyes, Lincoln noted, were fully encompassed by an unsettling shade of
silver
. All but McLane gaped, then broke into grins of various sizes as they chuckled along with ol’ red. The big man himself merely stared, neither smiling or frowning.

Not knowing what else to say, Lincoln spoke softly, "Reporting as ordered ... sir."

That made the redhead laugh even harder, and the silver-eyed woman joined in.

Lincoln was grateful that none of them could see that he was blushing — none of them could see his face at all because of the blue ski mask he’d dug out of the back of his closet. He wasn’t sure whether or not it "went well" with his black-and-purple jogging suit, but all he’d wanted were the most nondescript clothes he owned ... and
some
thing,
any
thing, to hide his face.

"Well, well," McLane said at last, "Lincoln Roberts, I presume."

Lincoln cleared his throat, dreading the reaction that he knew was coming. "If it’s all the same to you, Mister McLane, when I’m ... working, I’d rather you call me ... ‘Powerhouse.’ "

As predicted, the redhead almost
died
over that one, howling so out-of-control that a wave of electricity briefly crackled between his upper and lower teeth. The woman was laughing almost as loudly, and the acne-scarred man had to cover his face with his hands. Even McLane found a hollow smile. "A sobriquet is hardly necessary, Lincoln. As I’m sure is quite obvious, this is
not
the PCA."

"I know that, sir," Lincoln responded as firmly as he could manage. "But ... well, if it’s all the same to you—"

"Fine, fine," McLane retorted, now clearly irritated at the ongoing uproar. "No need to repeat yourself. ‘Powerhouse’ it is." He turned to the electrical man. "Graham,
shut up
."

The redhead —
Graham
— reeled in his titter, but with obvious difficulty. Everyone else followed suit.

The letter had led Lincoln to a medium-sized, single-storied business complex. This was no secret, super-villain lair — it was smack between a photo-developer and a shoe-and-boot repair shop. All the other places were long closed at this hour, and Lincoln had been surprised to find the front door unlocked. If someone off the street had walked in here, they would have had no reason to suspect that it was anything other than what its sign claimed it to be — an independent recording studio. In the end, Lincoln supposed that was the point.

Only one person had been in the outer room to greet Lincoln — a bored-looking, overweight, middle-aged security guard. If he were paranormal, he, too, was inconspicuous. He’d glanced up from his Playboy magazine just long enough to wave Lincoln through — if he thought anything of Lincoln’s ski mask, one way or the other, he gave no reaction. Thinking very poorly of the man’s security skills, Lincoln had moved on, continuing until he entered this sound-proof recording room — presumably another advantage to this facade — and found this very
un
welcoming committee.

"Well then, ‘Powerhouse,’ please come sit down next to Ms. Waid." McLane gestured to the empty seat, then turned back to his discussion with the acne-scarred man. Lincoln avoided looking into the woman’s disconcerting eyes as he complied. He half-expected some sort of group introduction, but McLane simply ignored him for the moment.

Of course, Lincoln. He knows when his man is
bought
.

Shut up
.

"That’s not going to help you much, kiddo."

Lincoln started when "Ms. Waid" spoke. He glanced over at her, then looked away from those creepy eyes. "Excuse me?" he mumbled.

"That ski mask," she clarified. Her voice was very rich, and a little deep for a woman. Lincoln slowly became aware that, aside from her eyes, she was quite attractive. She brushed a strand of dark hair out of her face as she continued, "It’s not going to help you much if the cops or the PCA come after you. That’s why you’re wearing it, right? You’re only doing this for the money, not the power or the glory, so you want to protect your ‘secret identity,’ like in the comics. That would explain the hokey name, too — ‘Powerhouse.’ Am I right or what?"

Lincoln shrugged.

Taking his response as an affirmative, Waid smirked. "Well, this
isn’t
the comics, kiddo. If we see any action, any
real
action, how long do you think that mask’ll stay in one piece? Even if it does, they’ll know your approximate height, weight, skin color, eye color ... and do you think they skip dusting for
fingerprints
just because you’re paranormal?"

Lincoln looked down at his gloveless hands. He hadn’t thought of that. He hadn’t thought of
any
of what she was saying. But what was he supposed to
do
? He just wanted to protect Sarah and Tommy...

The woman chuckled and patted his forearm. "Now, now, kiddo, no reason to get upset. Besides, if what McLane’s told us about you is true, there probably aren’t too many jail cells that can hold
you
, huh?"

"Doesn’t the PCA—?"

"The
PCA
," McLane interrupted him, making him jump again, "will not be a concern for very much longer.
You
will help us guarantee that."

They were all staring at him again, Graham with an obnoxious leer on his face. McLane seemed to want a response — Lincoln struggled to come up with one. "So ... by helping you, I’m helping myself, too?"

McLane smiled that empty smile. "How right you are, ‘Powerhouse.’ How well you’re learning to
see
."

Graham and Waid chuckled again at the mention of his self-appointed codename. The idea had been to protect his real name along with his face, but now he just felt embarrassed and childish for his efforts. He wished he’d never brought it up, but he didn’t have the nerve to correct McLane the other direction now.

"Tonight’s assignment is simple," McLane announced. "You will accompany Ms. Waid and Graham. Two of our people
are
being held in a jail cell right now, and their trial is imminent. Rather than take the Department of Corrections’ PC division by storm, which would prove a successful but
costly
venture, we’re going to see to it that the prosecution’s key witness is convinced of the error of her ways. Understood?"

Miserable, Lincoln nodded ...

PCA

The night was chilly, but Lincoln tried not to think about the fact that temperature extremes no longer affected him. Instead, he concentrated on the job at hand.

None of them spoke as Graham brought the car to a halt. The witness — one Linda Nolan — lived just two houses down. Lincoln wanted to ask if this was perhaps too close to their final destination, but conversing with the redheaded jerk wasn’t high on his list of favorite things to do, so he kept his mouth shut.

Following his companions, Lincoln considered the Nolan residence. Not a huge house, but a
nice
one. Linda Nolan wasn’t hurting for money, that was for sure — Lincoln hoped that she would be smart enough to
remain
unhurt, and take the advice they were about to deliver.

Striding right up to the door, Graham rang the doorbell, then stepped back so that Waid could take the lead.

"Who’s there?" a male voice asked mere seconds later.

"We’re here to see Linda Nolan ..." Even before she finished speaking, Waid stood on her tip-toes and looked into the fish-eye lense that was the outside of the security peep-hole. No doubt, Lincoln realized, the owner of that voice was looking through from his side, trying to identify the callers.