Realizing this wasn’t working, Lane got up. He stood up and announced his intention to his sleeping friends to go for a walk. Which, he reasoned, was technically correct as he would be walking about six steps to Sam’s room next door.
He stood in front of the closed door for a moment. She wasn’t asleep (he could sense the low buzz of anxiety), but she was close. He thought of her reaction when he’d spoken to her earlier and decided against bothering her. Instead, he kept walking, down to the vending machines where he put in a few quarters and pressed the button for a snack cake. As he waited for the machine, he pulled out his phone and hit speed-dial again.
The voice on the other end was groggy, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
Oh. Right. Oops.
Tess grumbled something incoherent before managing to form a sentence. “What do you want?” she asked.
“Any news on Samantha?”
“Ehn...A little. Her permanent records are sealed, hard to break into. I only found a few high school transcripts in Oregon and her college stuff. Good grades, Key Club, the usual for a type A.”
That didn’t surprise Lane.
“But nothing major. She doesn’t even have a driver’s license, did you know that?”
“I did, actually. That’s it? We had a nasty run-in with a crazy dog man today. I’d really like to have a little more information about what’s going on.”
“No,” Tess said, “A dog guy? Weird. No, nothing usable. Maybe a few rumors, but I haven’t been able to pin them down yet. Even my contacts,” — For Tess, who made social interaction her hobby, it was a wide net — “are coming up with nada. But look, I might have an idea. Let me get some sleep, and I’ll see what I can do, k?”
Lane didn’t have much choice. He thanked Tess for her patience and hung up. He unwrapped the cake and took a bite, thoughtfully chewing. Samantha was hiding something, he knew it. He hadn’t been able to peg it at first, reserved as she was, so careful not to have any emotion at all, but her actions solidified what he’d already been sensing—too much caution, too much suspicion, rooted deep and strong. It indicated a trauma, more than the bus or anything recent. And what Al had said at the gas station must have stirred a memory for her, sudden and repressed, which caused the outburst. Whatever it was, Lane would have to figure it out. Repressed trauma and transitions didn’t go so well. Or rather, they went together like a smoldering match and a keg of dynamite.
Chapter 11
Now how did I get here? Sam sat up and looked around the generic motel room. She turned off the alarm. Six a.m.? Who set that? And why did her mouth feel like dust bunnies had had a wild party in it the night before?
And—ow—she rediscovered the stitches as she tried to sit up. Oh god, her shoulder hurt. And her arm and leg muscles were tired. Almost like, Sam thought, I had to run for my life. That’s right. The previous day rushed back to her. The dog attack, the resulting stitches, and the cough syrup she had taken way too much of at Lane’s advising. Nothing like a cough syrup hangover to start the morning off right.
Sam rolled off the bed. Smacking her lips, she stumbled into the bathroom, still trying to wipe the fuzziness from her head. She’d have to remember to avoid operating heavy machinery for a day or two. After splashing her face with cold water, she felt slightly more awake. She was about to get in the shower when she remembered the stitches. That was a conundrum. Could she shower with them? She decided to find out what the boys were up to and ask Lane how to handle the stitches.
It didn’t take her long to find him. When she opened her door, he fell into the room, hitting the floor and her right foot with a grunt of surprise.
He sat up, rubbing his head, bleary-eyed.
“Good morning,” Sam said, “What are you doing on my doorstep?”
“I, uh,” Lane looked like he was having trouble waking up himself, “I slept here last night.”
“Did Harry and Al kick you out?”
“No.” Lane stood up, yawning, “But after yesterday I was worried.”
“About me?”
He coughed, switching his weight from foot to foot and rubbing his arms.
Sam studied him. Either Lane was embarrassed to be caught protecting her, or he was lying about his motives.
Sensing her skepticism, Lane tensed for the verbal battle he was about to engage in. But Samantha surprised even herself with her response. She decided to give the benefit of a doubt to the person who had kept her from bleeding to death. Or at least from a really nasty infection.
“That was sweet,” she said.
And it was. As much as she hated it, Lane was quickly taking over the top spots in her “Top Ten Nicest Things Ever Done For Me” list. Every time she saw him, in fact, he seemed to be doing something nice. Secretly, she hoped he would snap soon and say or do something mean. It was a little unnerving to travel with someone without knowing just how bad his bad side was. Unless she’d already seen his bad side. That thought was almost more disturbing than the first.
Lane cleared his throat, and Sam realized he must have said something while she was staring at him.
“Dare I hope you’re starting to like me?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow, “You’re the empath, figure it out for yourself.”
Lane chuckled. He pointed to her arm, which she absentmindedly gripped with her good hand. “Need help with that?” She nodded.
The wound wasn’t any prettier on the second day than it had been on the first, but at least it didn’t look infected. Now that her pain had subsided to an ache, it was easier for Lane to get a good look and focus on the stitches. He gently cleaned around them, inspecting his own handiwork. He made a noise that Sam took for satisfaction and sat back.
“You’ll have a scar, but it’s a lot better than it could have been.”
He sounded inordinately pleased with himself. Looking at the stitches, Sam had to give him credit. He had done a good job, especially considering he’d done it in a moving car half-loopy from pain.
“It doesn’t hurt as much,” she said by way of conversation.
“I noticed. If you’re careful, the pain should almost be gone in a couple of days. You might have phantom pains for a while, though.”
Lane had finished cleaning and was re-bandaging the wound when Harry knocked on the door, poking his head in.
“Uck,” Harry said, walking in, “Perfect timing. I’m so glad I missed what just happened.”
“Guys!” Al pushed past Harry, “Turn on the TV, quick!” Al grabbed Sam’s remote and flicked the TV on, switching to cable news. It was the tail end of a segment, but he was in time for them to catch the wrap-up:
“—but Samantha Gibson is gone, and with her, the answers to this mystery.”
A camera panned over a picture of the College Bowl team. Sam was facing to the side, slightly out of focus, and the camera tightened on her face, as if to emphasize the so-called enigma that was her.
“A straight-A student with a bright future, it’s hard to believe her involvement in this string of incidents is pure coincidence. Where is she now? What happened to her, and was she complicit? The police have these questions and more to ask, and they hope that they can find her in time to get the answers. Tune in to Barbara Snow tomorrow for the latest updates.”
“God, Samantha, that picture of you is awful,” Al blurted out. Sam flinched; it was. Taken from her senior high school yearbook, she’d had pimply skin and lank hair, and the same glasses she wore now. She’d been a little more focused on escaping the hellhole that was high school in a poor town at that point, showing every bit the lack of a female influence in her life.
“I told that Snow woman I didn’t want to do an interview about three times last week. This must be her way of getting revenge.”
“You’re an attractive, white, waif-like missing woman. And then all the weird deaths. The media eats this stuff up with a spoon.” This from Harry, accompanied by a ‘what can you do?’ shrug.
“
It’s going to complicate things, maybe, but I’m sure it’ll blow over in no time,” Lane said, taping the bandage in place. He stood, helping Sam up.
She grabbed the small shopping bag that she used to hold what now amounted to a good portion of her worldly possessions. “Let’s go, then.”
At that moment, Lane’s phone rang. Looking at the caller ID, Lane quickly left the room, “I have to answer this.”
Sam tapped her toes, annoyed. “Why does he always do that? Who’s he talking to?”
“His girlfriend, Tess.”
Girlfriend? Ha! A mean little voice in Sam’s head yelled, I knew it was too good to be true!
“Harry!” Al said, “Tess is his ex-girlfriend. They broke up, but they’re still friends.” Al explained, “She works for N.T.U. and she’s acting as our liaison.”
That made Sam feel marginally better. She didn’t care if Lane had a girlfriend, she told herself, and it wasn’t like she had any romantic intentions. It just would have been ironic, that’s all, if the first decent guy she’d met was already taken.
Lane came back, his mouth set in a grim line.
“What’d she say?” Al asked.
“She gave us an address of someone who might help us.”
“Help us how?” Sam said.
“Help us figure out why the Corp is so intent on getting you. This person is really good at, uh, I guess you could say...reading people.”
“Is this who I think it is?” Al fairly hopped on his toes in excitement, “Are we going to see the Hermit? Please tell me we’re going to see the Hermit. Because that would be so awesome.”
“Yes, Al, we’re going to see the Hermit. Take a deep breath.”
“Yes!” Al cheered, “Give me five seconds and I’ll be ready to go!”
“The Hermit? Who’s the Hermit?” And why was it every Talent felt the need to nickname every other Talent? That was one thing the comic books got right.
“Like I said, she’s good at reading people. She might have the answers we need. Now let’s go, we have an appointment in San Francisco and it’s a long drive.”
“It’s always a long drive,” Al said.
“Lane,” Harry said, “Do you really think she can help us?”
“Sure,” Lane said unconvincingly, “She can’t make the situation any worse, right?”
#
Harry, having slept the best, took the first shift of driving. Lane climbed into the back with Samantha. As Al flipped on the radio, turning it up, Sam leaned close to Lane. She felt honor-bound to point something out: “So far, we’re going against Darth Vader, Pyro, and an evil version of Ma-Ti. Is it wrong to say that we may be a little outmatched?”
Lane’s eyes crinkled. “You know, you’re kind of a nerd.”
Sam pursed her lips. “You knew who I was talking about.”
“Only ‘cause I hang out with Harry too much,” he said, half-laughing. Sam raised an eyebrow. “OK, OK,” Lane admitted, “I really hang out with Harry ‘cause I like that stuff too. You got me.”
“Listen, Lane, kidding aside, I have a point: are you sure ya’ll want to stick it out? We might have a better chance on our own.”
“We might. You won’t.”
Sam sighed. This, she knew, was sadly true. A group with the Corporation’s resources would have no trouble finding her, no matter how underground she went. And she didn’t want to spend her life in hiding, any more than she already did, that was. “All right, then, do you think maybe it’s time to start teaching me something, then? I mean, we oughta even the odds at least a little, right?”
“Good point,” Lane said, “but I haven’t ever had to teach anyone how to actually use their talents. That was Jacobs’ job.”
“Well,” Sam said, “Jacobs is dead and you’re not, so you’re what I’ve got.”
“Frank and to the point.”
“Yep. Shall we start?”
Nodding, Lane did just that. The best way to get through transition, he informed her, was to use your abilities as much as possible. Otherwise, the excess energy built up and caused trouble. So Sam sat and muddled through with her headaches. By midmorning, she had started on basic defense, learning to shield her mind from minor telepaths, or “skimmers” as the Talents knew them. Almost all Talents could do this, even elementals and kinetics, and Sam got the impression it was part of an elementary curriculum. The method itself was straightforward enough, just involving imagining a wall. It wouldn’t block everyone—the more raw power or skill or willpower a Talent had, the better they would be at breaking through mental blocks—but she’d improve with practice and exposure to other Talents.
That was the only progress she made. Despite a million different explanations and demonstrations from Lane, Sam couldn’t wiggle so much as a pencil with her mind. They dabbled a little with pathic techniques, but she failed in that arena, as well. Lane put it down to stress and told her not to worry. But Sam saw the way his forehead furrowed when she wasn’t looking. When she asked him about how well other Talents adapted, he shrugged and said, “It differs.” This Sam took to mean she wasn’t doing so great.
She consoled herself with the very nice accomplishment of at last being able to make sure that Lane kept out of her head. Self-protection, unlike other aspects of using your talents, was more a question of willpower than skill. Unfortunately, like a chain lock on a door, her block could probably tell people to keep out, but might not hold up under real assault. It all depended on the willpower of the Talent attacking you.
This made Sam think about the people chasing her, other Talents who’d had a lifetime of experience and training. How powerful must they be? Lane’s attitude conveyed that he saw himself as mediocre in terms of actual power, but high in terms of skill, and she’d already witnessed a few of the amazing things he could do. What about a pathic like Lane who had both the skill and the power level to match?
The sobering thought killed what little sense of accomplishment she felt. No matter how fast she learned, it wouldn’t be fast enough.
Sensing her discouragement, Lane suggested they break for lunch, and Sam gladly conceded. They were entering the city limits of San Francisco now, and they would need to regroup before they set about locating this Hermit.
Chapter 12
“Oh my god,” Harry groaned as they crested the fourth floor, “Another floor? And these stories are twice as tall as normal. How many stairs can one building have?”
“For someone claiming to be exhausted, you sure are a chatterbox,” Al snapped, huffing himself.
Lane, for his part, could feel the sweat trickling down his back. Good god, it was only May. The older building didn’t have air conditioning, and the muggy weather didn’t make the climb any easier. Not to mention Al and Harry’s griping for the last hour. They griped about having to park six blocks away, on a narrow street with a steep incline. They griped about the heat. They griped about the exercise—which Lane thought they should be grateful for, since they’d also griped about being stuck in a car for too many hours.
“I gave you two the option of waiting in the car,” Lane said, “That still stands.” The two muttered something in response. Neither wanted to wait in the car, not in this heat, and not with the promise of adventure at the top of these stairs. Lane glanced at Sam to see how she was. He noted, with worry, that her lips were a little blue. Her mouth hung open, and she wheezed with each step.
“We stop here,” Lane said. Sam nodded and opened up her purse, fishing around and pulling out her inhaler.
“Sure, we stop when she needs it, but when I almost twist my ankle it’s, ‘Buck up Al, we don’t have all day.’”
“You didn’t really and we don’t,” Lane said shortly. Even he was starting to lose patience. “Do you want to sit down, Sam?”
“Nah,” she replied, “We don’t have all day.” She smiled sweetly at Al and started up the next flight. Lane restrained a chuckle and followed her.
“C’mon, Al,” Harry said, still huf
fing and puffing, “I thought you said you wanted something to tell your kids about.”
“At this rate I’ll be dead before I ever have kids,” Al muttered.
“Who is this person, anyway?” Samantha said. She was the only one who didn’t seem to be flagging, beyond the breathing issues. “What makes her so special?”
“You’ll see,” Lane said ominously.
Samantha rolled her eyes. “Hurry up then, you two. I hate surprises.”
Grumbling stopped when the four finally reached the sixth and top floor of the walk-up. Lane consulted the scrap of paper in his hand and led them to the end of the corridor. There, someone had propped open a window that opened onto a fire escape. They stopped for a moment, reveling in the slight breeze.
Finally, Lane turned towards the door. “Here goes.” He knocked.
No answer.
#
“I guess she’s not home,” Sam said, only a little disappointed. In her experience, build-ups like this were almost always letdowns.
“No!” Al wailed.
Lane frowned, concentrating. He shook his head and knocked again, louder. Still no answer. He knocked again, and again. “Hello?” Lane said, “We just want to talk to you.” No answer. “Look, we know you’re in there. I can sense you.”
“She’s not here!” A female voice, surprisingly young, answered from the other side, “The freak is out. I’m her cousin. Go home.”
Lane rolled his eyes, “Teenagers.”
“I heard that!” the voice replied. “And you are so wrong.”
Chasing Power (Hidden Talents) Page 10