"I ... don’t know. As you can imagine, it happened pretty fast, and I wasn’t expecting it. I guess it was just white — and it was very bright, of course. If I’d been looking directly at it, I probably would have been blinded."
Steve almost panicked when he realized what he’d said, but Takayasu sailed right over it. "How about the noise?"
"Pretty damned loud."
"Deafening? Has your hearing been impaired by the event?"
Given the circumstances, Steve hadn’t even thought about his hearing. "... no. It was loud, but I guess it wasn’t ‘deafening.’ What difference does that make?"
"I’m merely trying to determine the exact nature of the rogue’s abilities," Takayasu explained. "Paranormals with electrical control are a relatively common manifestation ..."
"Really? I thought all paranormals were unique?"
"Oh, no, not at all. It’s difficult to nail down hard numbers — so many stay hidden, and more people turn paranormal each year — but we estimate that less than a fourth of paranormals have abilities that aren’t mirrored elsewhere."
"Huh. Didn’t know that." This conversation was certainly giving him new food for thought — information he would have to familiarize himself with if he were going to continue down this insane road.
"Many of them do, however, have their own personal ‘twists,’ " Takayasu continued, apparently on a roll now that Steve had expressed interest. "For instance, some electrical paranormals can generate a charge internally, while others can only manipulate external sources. The ‘lightning’ that struck your motorcycle sounds as though it were produced from a fairly local source, and not from the sky."
"It came in sideways."
"That doesn’t always eliminate the sky, but natural lightning does tend to be much louder than the biological variety. I’d wager that this rogue was his or her own generator."
After that, the questions became more mundane again. A few minutes later, the ensign finished. The man stood, thanking him again and mentioning that he sympathized with Steve’s recent loss. Steve looked away as he mumbled his thanks, and that was the only reason he noticed Takayasu’s burn scars as they shook hands this time. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask about them, but he decided that might be in bad taste.
Takayasu had just turned away when he stopped. Facing Steve once more, the ensign suddenly appeared to be studying his face with a scrutiny that made him uncomfortable.
"Something else, Michael?" he probed, trying hard to sound casual.
"You commented before that if you’d been looking right at the lightning, you could have been blinded ..."
Uh, oh.
"I understand that you did, in fact, suffer eye-injury as a result of the incident."
"Yes. It was, uh, touch-and-go for a while there. They were afraid that I was going to be blind, but it turned out not to be as bad as they first thought."
"Your vision’s been fully restored?"
"Better than ever."
"Good. Good for you." But he kept staring.
"Anything else?" Now he added a touch of irritation.
"It’s probably nothing, just an error in our files. We had you listed as ‘hazel eyes,’ but I was just noticing that yours are very blue."
Think, Steve! Think, think, think!
"Probably because of my driver’s license," he lied. "They got it wrong years ago, I just never bothered to correct it."
"Ah. Well, have a good day, Mister Davison."
"You, too."
When the door closed behind the ensign, Steve melted into his seat. Now that his performance was at an end, his body apparently realized that it was all right to sweat ... and sweat it did! He had to grab a trembling handful of tissues from his dad’s drawer to mop it up.
That was pretty weak, Steve, he chided himself. "Got your driver’s license wrong?" Like that can’t be researched easily enough! You should have just said the accident had damaged your vision, and now you’re wearing colored contacts.
Except that there were problems with that story, too. After all, Takayasu could merely request that he remove them, and then where would he be? Unless he was making too big a deal of it all, and it was just a curious observation on the ensign’s part ...
Damn. He needed to call Alan, tell him about this little—
The intercom buzzed again. Now what?!
He stabbed the button sharply, and said even sharper, "Yes?"
"... I’m sorry to bother you again, Steve," the receptionist said, obviously sensitive to his tone of voice. "I just wanted to let you know that we tracked down the man you asked about. I spoke with him briefly. He’ll be stopping by for an application this afternoon — civilian division, of course."
At first Steve had no idea what she was talking about and almost said so ... and then he remembered. "Thanks," he said instead, and in a much softer manner. "Let me know how it goes."
"Sure thing."
The "man" she was referring to had been unemployed for several months now. Steve had no idea what his actual skills or qualifications were, but he figured that the man could use any paycheck at this point. It would also provide a note of security that he would not be fired from this institution simply because he had the paranormal ability to change the color of things.
Steve snorted and groaned quietly when he also comprehended the potential advantage that was now lost. Figures that we’d make contact with the man after the opportunity to alter a few critical color tones has already come and gone. Damn Murphy’s Law, anyway.
Nevertheless, the exchange helped shake Steve, from both his anxiety over the interview with the PCA and his previous melancholy. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his copy of Jeffrey Lawrence’s essay on the paranormals. He read the part about the color-changing man again, then re-read the essay in its entirety once more.
By the time he finished, he was back on track. He chastised himself for losing focus so soon. Yes, he was in a state of mourning. There was no denying or escaping that — nor would he want to as yet. But that night in the hospital, when he’d first laid his new eyes upon Nurse Lawrence and her son’s essay, he’d decided that maybe, just maybe, there could still be something more in his life than a single-minded drive for vengeance. Maybe he could still find hope ... and that inspiration had come, ironically, from the words of a 5th grade boy who seemed to be seeking hope himself.
Could Steve find hope in his own life through the act of providing it to others?
By God, he was going to find out!
Grabbing the phone, he poked around until he found the correct extension.
"Alan Russell," he heard when the phone stopped ringing.
"Alan, it’s me."
"Steve. How are you feeling?"
"Better. I just had an interview with a P C Agent."
"What?!"
"Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it. Are you still set up for the tests down there?"
"Well ... yes, but if you’re not up to it—"
"I’m up to it. I’ll be there in a few minutes. And Alan?"
"Yes?"
"That material you showed me — the micro-chainmail stuff?"
"Yes, Steve?"
"Does it dye?"
" ‘Die?’ "
"Dye. Other colors, like a fabric. It doesn’t have to stay that off-white color, does it?"
"Well, no, I suppose it doesn’t. This sample is creme, but I imagine we could weave it with just about any color you’d want. It would probably come out a little shiny — after all, it has metallic fibers. But why do you ask?"
For the first time in over an hour, Steve was grinning. "I’ll tell you later ..."
TAKAYASU, VORTEX, AND SHOCKWAVE
"I’d like to speak with Steven Davison, please," Michael told the surprised secretary. "I understand he’s on property today."
"Why, yes, he is." Then her eyes narrowed slightly. "I don’t believe I’ve met you before, sir. May I see your identification?"
"Certainly," Michael replied, producing his PCA ID.
The woman’s eyes widened once more when she absorbed that he was an actual field agent. "Thank you ... Ensign Ta-ka-ya ...su. You’re actually in luck. Steve is in his father’s ... well, in his office right now. If you would please wait just a moment?"
"Of course," Michael agreed with a warm smile. Clasping his hands behind his back, he casually paced around the reception area and inspected the many plaques, awards, and certifications on the walls. It was a bit surreal to actually be here — after all, he’d heard about Davison Electronics this and Davison Electronics that since his first day at the Academy. He almost envied Shockwave, who was making a circuit of the property right now.
"Mister Davison will see you now, sir— uh, Ensign."
"Thank you."
Some security mechanism disengaged with a whir, and Michael entered the office.
Steven Davison was seated behind the large desk. Although his eyes did not appear bloodshot, Michael suddenly had the gut feeling that the young man had been crying. For a brief moment he thought about bowing out, then reconsidered. After all, the intrusion was already underway, wasn’t it?
"Steven Davison?" he clarified as he approached the desk, although he already knew the man’s face from his file.
"Yes," Davison replied as he stood.
Michael introduced himself and offered his hand. Davison met it with a surprisingly firm grip. Michael recalled that Davison was something of an athlete. "If this is an appropriate time, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your recent experience with the rogue."
He almost expected Davison to insist that it was not an appropriate time, but instead the young man shrugged. "Sure, I guess." He sat back down and indicated that Michael should take the seat across from him. He seemed both bored and tense, but Michael didn’t think much of that — many people became nervous around authority figures. "I’ve already told the police everything I know."
"I understand that, Mister Davison," Michael commented as he lowered himself into the chair. "I’ve read the report. However, I’ve been indirectly assigned to your case, and I felt it prudent to acquire all my information as directly as possible." By "indirectly," Michael was referring to the fact that he had orders to nail McLane, and Davison’s recent tragedy was technically only a related issue. Davison did not ask for clarification, so he continued, "I’m sure you understand."
Davison shrugged again, but the gesture seemed almost forced this time. Michael began to wonder just what was going through the man’s mind. "I’ll help you in any way possible, Agent Takayasu."
Michael smiled to himself — at least Davison hadn’t struggled through his name as the secretary had. "It’s ‘Ensign,’ actually. How about you just call me ‘Michael?’ "
"Sure."
As he pulled out his notepad, Michael absorbed the fact that Davison did not invite the same familiarity. Not the friendliest guy Michael had ever met, but then he was sure Davison had a lot on his mind these days.
He asked a few basic questions first — pointless little warm-ups really, intended to put Davison at ease that this would not be an intense interrogation.
It didn’t work — Davison did not relax. It seemed to Michael that he was behaving somewhat strangely, but he could not quite put his finger on what it was that was off-kilter. So he decided to cut to the chase. After all, he was primarily here to learn what he and his partner were up against.
He began pressing Davison for more details about the exact nature of the assault. At first, Davison reacted with what appeared to be genuine confusion until Michael explained that many paranormals shared similar abilities, and were therefore, when possible, categorized by type.
"Really? I thought all paranormals were unique."
Michael shook his head. "Oh, no, not at all. It’s difficult to nail down hard numbers — so many stay hidden, and more people turn paranormal each year — but we estimate that less than a fourth of paranormals have abilities that aren’t mirrored elsewhere."
"Huh. Didn’t know that."
Davison stared off into space, for the first time losing his self-conscious attitude that he’d borne since Michael walked into the room. He leaned back, the movement placing him into the ray of sunlight shining through the window. For a split-second, something nagged at Michael ... something about Davison’s appearance. But again, Michael was not quite certain what it was that was bugging him. He continued to elaborate on the previous topic to fill the silence.
"Many of them do, however, have their own personal ‘twists,’ " he told Davison. "For instance, some electrical paranormals can generate a charge internally, while others can only manipulate external sources. The ‘lightning’ that struck your motorcycle sounds as though it were produced from a fairly local source, and not from the sky."
"It came in sideways," Davison agreed.
"That doesn’t always eliminate the sky," Michael pointed out, "but natural lightning does tend to be much louder than the biological variety. I’d wager that this rogue was his or her own generator."
Michael then proceeded to finish up as quickly as possible. Davison was not proving as helpful as he’d hoped. What bothered him was that he wasn’t quite sure whether or not it was from legitimate lack of knowledge. Somehow, he got the distinct impression that Davison was hiding something. But why? Wouldn’t he want McLane found and brought to justice?
The interview came to an end soon enough. Michael stood, thanking Davison again and expressing his condolences. Davison looked away as he mumbled his own thanks — the whole notion apparently made him more uncomfortable than anything else. Davison’s gaze brushed over their clasped hands, then out the window.
Michael turned to leave, then stopped. Facing Davison once more, he finally figured out at least one of the things that had been bothering him. Perhaps it was nothing, but for some reason, Michael found it ... interesting.
Davison suddenly became aware that Michael was still there, and staring at him, no less. He returned the look and asked, "Something else, Michael?" with what felt to Michael like forced ease.
"You commented before that if you’d been looking right at the lightning, you could have been blinded," he baited. When Davison just stood there, rock still, he continued, "I understand that you did, in fact, suffer eye-injury as a result of the incident."
"Yes," Davison admitted, squirming just subtly enough that Michael might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching so closely. "It was, uh, touch-and-go for a while there. They were afraid that I was going to be blind, but it turned out not to be as bad as they first thought."
"Your vision’s been fully restored?"
"Better than ever."
"Good. Good for you."
Davison was lying. Lying about ... something. Of that Michael was now absolutely, positively certain. But about what? His eye injury?
"Anything else?" Davison asked, now sounding irritated.
"It’s nothing, just an error in our files probably," Michael commented nonchalantly. "We had you listed as ‘hazel eyes,’ but I was just noticing that yours are very blue."
Davison froze, not even breathing for several seconds. When he spoke, he sounded like a robot. "Probably because of my driver’s license ... they got it wrong years ago, I just never bothered to correct it."
"Ah." Liar. "Well, have a good day, Mister Davison."
"You, too."
PCA
"Woah. You think the guy helped McLane slaughter his family?"
Michael quickly and adamantly shook his head. It was certainly an interesting leap for Westmore to make, but Michael hadn’t picked up on anything that extreme. Part of the problem was, now that he was out of Davison’s suspicious presence, he was even less sure than he had been about what was bothering him. He and Westmore were in their agency car and just leaving the grounds as Michael shared his thoughts with his partner. Rather than let things go any further in such a nefarious direction, he further clarified. "No, I don�
�t think it’s anything quite so heinous. But something is definitely going on that he wasn’t sharing."
Westmore considered things further. "You think maybe he’s going after McLane himself?"
Michael mused. "Now that’s certainly possible. His family’s got enough money, he could pick up a few mercenaries ... or even a paranormal soldier-of-fortune if he knew where to look. But we don’t know about any of this for sure, so not a word to Brase, okay?"
Paranormals (Book 1) Page 13