Overtaken

by Mark H. Kruger

  Strangely enough, as the afternoon wore on, I kept running into Chase in a series of awkward encounters. I bumped into him several times in the stairwell between classes and once nearly collided with him as we came out of our respective bathrooms. It seemed weird. What were the odds of so many coincidences in a single day? Each time Chase made sure to say something flattering about my hair or clothes. Of course, I didn’t fall for his phony fawning bullshit, though it was nice to be complimented. And since Jackson seemed to be sticking to Dana like glue every time I saw him, what was the harm in enjoying some meaningless flattery?

  The more I saw Chase, the more I sensed that something had changed—something was different about him. Not that he and I had ever been good friends before, but Chase Cochran was a pretty transparent guy. His wardrobe was predictable—J. Crew from head to toe. He liked football, being in charge, and throwing his money around. He also liked bossing Maya around and having her at his constant beck and call. He was certainly not one to betray emotion or vulnerability. And yet that’s precisely what I caught him doing.

  I spotted Chase sitting alone at one of the picnic tables in the quad after school. At first I thought he was asleep. His head was slumped down toward his chest. Locks of blond hair covered his eyes.

  “We gotta stop meeting like this,” I teased as I approached. But as I got closer, I realized that he’d actually been crying. I’d never seen him look so dejected and incredibly sad.

  “Yeah.” Chase quickly wiped his moist eyes and flashed a phony smile.

  “Everything okay?”

  He nodded. “Just waiting for my ride.”

  Even though Chase had been given the okay to return to school, he still wasn’t allowed behind the wheel of his car just yet. Which meant that he needed to rely on his friends, or worse yet, his father, for a lift to and from school. A lift from Dad was humiliating enough when you’re twelve—mortifying when you’re seventeen.

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Of course. I’m me,” he said with a sarcastic laugh. Though I definitely saw a crack in his normally invincible, devil-may-care facade.

  “That you are,” I retorted, keeping the mood light, not pressing him further. I needed to hustle off and find Oliver.

  “Nica?”

  “Yeah.” I stopped and turned back.

  “You heard from Maya at all?”

  Maya? Really? Not what I was expecting. I covered up my surprise and just shook my head. “Sorry. Not a word.”

  Maybe Chase was playing me. Gossip around school that day branded Maya’s disappearance a “private family matter.” Which was Barrington-speak for don’t ask too many questions about what happened. Eerily similar to what was said when Dana vanished. It was no secret that Maya had been publicly losing it those last few weeks, culminating with Chase’s near-fatal brush with the great hereafter. The fact that Maya was gone meant that she’d either been sent to stay with relatives out of state, or sent to a mental hospital because of stress.

  “It sucks not remembering what happened,” Chase confessed with wounded pride. Stripped of all his usual bravado and coolness, he actually displayed a touching vulnerability.

  For a brief moment, I felt sorry for him, the way I might feel compassion for a lost puppy that I found wandering the streets. Then I remembered what a conniving bastard Chase had been before his unfortunate coma. And what he’d done to Maya. Best to keep my distance and proceed with caution.

  Just then a car horn honked twice. I looked up to see a sleek black Mercedes-Benz sedan pulling up to the drop-off area. All the muscles in my body instinctively tensed with apprehension. I recognized Richard Cochran’s car even before the darkly tinted driver’s-side window slid down to reveal him sitting there, flashing that charming but vaguely menacing cobra-like smile.

  “How’s our boy doing, Nica?” Impeccably attired in a crisp midnight-blue designer suit, Cochran tilted his green-mirrored aviator sunglasses down along the bridge of his aquiline nose.

  Our? When had the man who I regarded as my mortal enemy suddenly gotten on such intimate terms with me?

  “Great,” I replied, turning back to Chase, hoping my face didn’t betray any uneasiness or animosity at being in his father’s immediate presence.

  “You’re late,” snapped Chase as he hopped off the table and tramped over to the car. I’d never seen him act so testily before—least of all around his father.

  “Busy afternoon,” Cochran explained, never taking his sharp gaze off me. “Unavoidable.”

  “Always is.” Chase shrugged dismissively, popping open the passenger door, having zero interest in his father’s excuses.

  “Can we drop you somewhere, Nica?” Cochran eyed me.

  Through the window I could see Chase’s body stiffen, stewing with rage.

  “No, thanks,” I responded with a polite but hesitant smile. “I’m meeting a friend.”

  Cochran didn’t react or smile back. “Don’t let me keep you.” He just continued to stare in my direction, eyes hidden behind reflective lenses. Studying me, scrutinizing me.

  A shudder of fear ran down my spine. I could’ve sworn Cochran was trying to read my thoughts, bore inside my brain. I held my stare and half smiled, determined not to be cowed or look away, all the while trying to erect an impenetrable Berlin Wall to protect me—from what, I didn’t know.

  Our brief contest of wills concluded when the driver’s window abruptly rolled up, concealing Cochran behind the tinted glass. And the car drove off, leaving the school grounds.

  “That was intense,” quipped Oliver as he walked over to where I stood, watching the Mercedes as it disappeared down the street. “Trying to do a Vulcan mind meld?”

  “If only I could,” I replied with a fatalistic sigh. “Then I’d know what the hell’s going on around here.”

  “What if there was another option?” Oliver teased with a sly smile.

  “I’m all ears, Spock.”

  • • •

  “Wait,” I urged Oliver as we hoofed it through town on foot, sticking mostly to the quieter residential streets where there was little traffic. “Telling Cochran you’re his son is extremely risky. There’s still too much we don’t know.” I was diligently watching every vehicle that drove by to make sure Bar Tech Security or any other suspicious cars weren’t tailing us on our way home.

  “Whatever Bar Tech wants from us, I don’t want to be a part of it,” Oliver announced as he shrugged off my concerns. “They can’t force us to do anything. Bar Tech doesn’t own us.”

  “Not yet,” I warned. “Did you forget what they did to Maya? Things may be weirdly quiet for the moment, but don’t be fooled. Cochran is planning something.”

  “Problem is that Cochran doesn’t see us as people,” Oliver countered, “but as his genetic experiments. Investments. If I can get close to him, maybe I can persuade him that he’s got it all wrong.”

  “How?” I looked at Oliver, hoping he had something clever up his sleeve. “What’s your brilliant plan? That he’ll welcome you with open arms?” While I really wanted to believe my friend was right, I wasn’t convinced that he or any of us were in a position to change minds. Our destinies? Perhaps. But Cochran’s plans? Highly doubtful anyone was going to be able to move that powerful billion-dollar mountain.

  “That’s the thing, Nica,” Oliver replied with a hesitant laugh. “My brilliant plan requires help. Your help.”

  “If you’re going to approach Cochran, it might be best to do it on your own. One-on-one.”

  “First I need proof.”

  “I doubt Cochran will consent to a cheek swab for some DNA.” I was becoming warier by the second.

  “Who says the DNA has to be from him?” Oliver shot me a long look, signaling that he had an alternate strategy.

  I stopped in my tracks and stared at him, suddenly catching his d
rift. “You’re talking about getting Chase’s DNA.”

  Oliver nodded. “Just need a few strands of hair to prove he and I are brothers. No big deal.”

  “You can’t seriously expect me to volunteer for that,” I proclaimed, “especially when I’ve been doing everything in my power to avoid being alone with him.”

  Great. Oliver’s plan started with me getting up close and personal with Chase. This was one situation where I wasn’t sure how I felt about having Oliver’s back.

  “It’ll be easy,” countered Oliver. “It’s not like Chase will miss a few strands of his precious golden locks.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to wrap my brain around this scheme. “Let’s suppose for the sake of argument that I can actually get you some of his hair, then what?”

  “I send it to one of those fancy labs with my own DNA and get back scientific proof that we share the same genes. Same father. It’ll make it impossible for Cochran to turn me away.”

  And there lay my quandary: I could do what Oliver was asking and help him reunite with a man that I not only didn’t trust but was convinced was actively evil, or I could risk one of my only friendships in Barrington by saying no. This was an impossible situation with way too many variables.

  “How can you be sure Cochran doesn’t know the truth already?”

  “Because my mother never told him,” answered Oliver, eyes moistening, emotions bubbling to the surface. “That night after the accident, when I saw my mom lying in the hospital . . . Everything suddenly became crystal clear. If she’d really been hurt . . . if something had happened to her . . . I’d be all alone.”

  Oliver’s deep longing to connect with the father he never knew and fill that hole in his heart was palpable and real. And I didn’t want to stand in Oliver’s way to connect with his own father. But if he had to follow his heart, I had to follow my head.

  “Oliver, I . . . just wish you’d wait.”

  It took a second for my reluctance and resistance to register with him, but after it did, his face went ash white.

  “You’re turning me down?” Oliver’s shoulders slumped. He looked so crushed and disheartened, as if someone close to him had died.

  “I can’t imagine how difficult this all must be . . . what you’re going through. But there are so many things that can go wrong. Things that can expose you in ways you don’t even know about. I just can’t be a part of you putting yourself in a vulnerable position to be taken advantage of. Or worse.”

  “I better get going,” muttered Oliver, barely making eye contact with me.

  “Oliver . . .” At a loss for the right words, I stood there feeling helpless and torn apart about turning my best friend down.

  Before I could apologize and say I was sorry, Oliver turned and ran off, practically leaving me in a cloud of dust. This was not how I’d planned for the afternoon to go.

  I had turned onto my street, relieved to see my house looming in the distance, when my pocket buzzed. I reached for my phone, hoping it was Oliver. Our conversation had been cut way too short. And I’d been swimming in an ocean of regret about how badly I had (mis) handled the situation. Maybe there was another way to deal with the whole father issue that I hadn’t considered. If Oliver and I just sat down and really worked it out, maybe we could—

  The text was from an unknown number. I tapped it open with my thumb.

  Won’t find answers if you ask the wrong questions.

  I stopped dead and looked around, suddenly feeling eyes on my back that were not there. My breathing sped up and my heart rate spiked. I clenched my jaw and focused, determined to keep my invisibility at bay. Paranoia be damned. I was going to keep myself under control. Who had my number? Why didn’t they say who they were? I summarized them all as one:

  What?

  The answer didn’t come right away. I had enough time to scoot off the street and into my house, where I felt like I could breathe again. Without thinking about it, I retreated to a bathroom with no windows as if to say, Try it—invade my privacy now.

  My phone buzzed. I held it up. 1 New Message. My finger hovered. Whatever the message contained, I had the sneaking suspicion it was going to make matters more complicated, not less. Maybe I should just ignore it; pretend I’d never received it. Or better yet, pretend it had never been sent. The little “message” symbol taunted me. It teased a mystery, and like always, I couldn’t resist. I swept my thumb to the side and opened it.

  9918 North Elm.

  The address sounded familiar, though I couldn’t place it. Somewhere off Main Street in the heart of town. I could only assume the mystery texter wanted to meet. I headed to my room to shake off my school clothes and put on something more appropriate for espionage. All black seemed a safe bet.

  • • •

  9918 North Elm. My eyes pinged off my phone and then to the gold numbers fastened to the storefront. I’d expected a dark parking garage or a back alley. Maybe a wooded area or an abandoned sewer tunnel. But I was way off. This was where the texter wanted to meet: Ebinger’s Bakery. Great. Way to make sneaking around nice and easy, Mystery Texter. Send me to a place where a classmate or neighbor might be stopping in to get snacks or coffee. Next time maybe we could meet in the cafeteria during lunch. It would be about as private.

  For a minute I considered slipping away. I thought about turning invisible and waiting for someone to open the door so I could sneak in without raising any suspicions. Of course, this presented the problem of how I could reappear in the small, tight space to greet the mystery texter without anyone noticing. It would be almost impossible. Not to mention my ability was still highly unpredictable. I also had to consider the fact that whoever had texted me wasn’t necessarily a friend. Sure, it seemed like I was onto something good here, but what if it was a trap? What if I was being followed or watched? What if someone was trying to trick me into going invisible so they could prove I had a power? I couldn’t take that chance. Besides, I had to assume that the mystery texter was indeed on my side and that they had thought this plan through enough to execute it without putting either of us in an awkward (or potentially dangerous) situation. With that, I wrapped my fingers around the chilly metal doorknob and pushed my way inside.

  As I stepped inside the bakery, my senses dialed to eleven as I took in my surroundings. All it would take was a wave or a greeting from a friendly classmate to call attention to me and possibly ruin the whole meeting. I mentally cataloged everyone inside: a few grandparents, soccer moms, and a man in a dark-blue suit. My brain swam in a flood of endorphins as I realized any of these people could be the mystery texter. Who could it be? One of the soccer moms laughing and chatting over croissants? I imagined that one of them had a baby like me, whose very DNA was warped by Bar Tech’s experiments. Maybe she didn’t want her children to end up like us. Or could it be one of the grandparents? They all sat alone, reading newspapers—exactly the way I imagined a secret source would wait for someone. What motivation could they have, though? Was it possible that one was a disgruntled Bar Tech exec? A whistleblower whose conscience was finally getting the better of her?

  Truth was, my mysterious texter could be anybody.

  The only person who looked up when I sounded the door chime was the buttoned-up man in the dark-blue suit. I stared for a moment too long and his gaze caught mine. I quickly looked away, hoping he would just ignore me. He didn’t make a sound or even a gesture as I moved past him.

  So who was left? Maya? I didn’t think so, but then again I hadn’t heard from her in days. Maybe she’d gone incommunicado because she’d worked her way into a position where she could play both sides. Not something as big as working for Bar Tech, but maybe she’d made a friend on the road who knew something the rest of us didn’t. Maybe she couldn’t risk getting caught by continuing to text us, but once she got close enough to learn something important, she’d decided to reach out again. The bi
gger question was if she would really risk being seen in Barrington again. In any case, I had no choice but to settle in and wait.

  With my head down, I headed straight for the counter to order a coffee. A guy I recognized from school—sporting a name tag that dubbed him NOAH—took my order. He had a surfer’s cool but with a scientist’s intense eyes—the kind that noticed everything.

  I was on edge, so it could’ve been my imagination, but I could swear he was staring at me suspiciously. I ordered a coffee and scooted away to find a place to wait for my not-so-secret rendezvous.

  I cozied into a chair by the door and gulped down coffee in an attempt to calm my jangling nerves. I felt Noah’s eyes on my back and tried to focus on something mundane until before I knew it, I’d finished a second and a third cup of coffee and was quite buzzed and ready to leave. By now the bakery had started to empty out, the sun was long gone, and my dad was probably beginning to wonder where I was. He hadn’t texted, so I was most likely in the clear, but not for much longer. I couldn’t wait here all night, but I couldn’t resist my curiosity.

  What if the texter knew that? What if this was all some sick joke being orchestrated by someone who wanted to see how long I’d play along? As that possibility loomed large in my mind, I grew agitated. The coffee I’d been sipping for the past seventy minutes didn’t exactly curb my emotions. My inner switch had flipped from “intrigued” to “exasperated.” Screw this, I thought. If someone really has answers or questions or any kind of tips for me, there are better ways to get in touch. We don’t have to play secret agent.