“Lane?” she asked, already knowing the answer. This wasn’t Lane. It just looked like him. The chameleon smiled again, showing yellowed teeth. It was the last thing she saw before the flood of pain hit.
#
“Where is she, god damn it?”
Lane stood in the middle of Sam’s empty room. Al arrived seconds later, Harry bringing up the rear. They surveyed the room. The blankets had been tugged to the ground, but that was the only evidence of a struggle. To the casual observer, it might look like she was a fitful sleeper.
“I don’t know, Lane,” Al said, “It looks like she left on her own. Are you sure she’s in trouble?”
“Yes,” Lane said grimly, “And someone’s with her.” It was true. Since that initial flood of pain, another force had come in, totally severing the tenuous connection Lane felt with her. Strange, he hadn’t noticed the connection the two had shared, not until it was gone. Something about the way the two had been interacting must have linked their consciousnesses. Except now it was gone, leaving Lane feeling like there was a blank in the corner of his mind.
Al looked up and down the hall, watching as screaming little kids ran to the ice machine and back to their room: “He couldn’t have taken her far. This place is crawling with people, even this late. Someone would have noticed a kidnapping. Or a large body. Even with talent you can’t account for surprises.”
“OK, so she’s nearby,” Harry said, “What next? There are at least twenty rooms on this floor, and I doubt our kidnapper is going to open up if we knock.”
Lane stared at his friends, for once at a loss. It was Al who finally spoke up, “Why don’t we smoke him out?”
Al told them his plan. The three quickly split up, cell phones handy, Al and Lane each taking one of the two flights of stairs and Harry taking up a post by the elevators, hiding behind a potted plant. When he got there he called Lane, “Ready.” On their side of the hall, Lane signaled Al, who reached out and yanked the fire alarm.
People poured out of the rooms. Parents left rooms with kids in their arms, an exhausted businessman came out pulling his suit back on. And one old lady opened the door a crack and slammed it shut again. Harry hit the speed dial, “Hey Lane, did you see that old lady poke her head out and go back into her room?”
“Yes,” Lane said, “But I didn’t see an old lady.”
Chapter 21
The pain eased, but immobility remained. She watched his face, Lane’s face—now so wrong, so different—as he carried her out of her room and down the hall. She knew that something terrible was about to happen; she knew this man was evil, but she couldn’t do anything. No matter how hard she tried, her body refused to respond. It was like one of those horrible nightmares where you opened your mouth to scream and nothing would come out, where you tried to run but your legs stuck like glue. She wanted to fight back, but first she had to figure out how he was doing it. After opening another door, the man placed her on a hotel bed and kneeled down next to her.
“You know why I’m here,” he said, “I’m going to kill you.”
All right, Sam thought, You’re a badass. Very scary. I get it. Now let me go. Let me go so I can kick your ass in a fair fight!
Pseudo-Lane shrugged, “Sorry, fair fights? Not so much fun for me. Ready?”
No, I’m not ready. I’m definitely not ready, Sam thought. Please, monologue some more. Pseudo-Lane laughed.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, OK, I’ll humor you. There’s a little game I like to play. You see, I only think it’s fair that before someone dies, they see their life flash before their eyes. That way, I get the info I need and you get to have one fun reminder of why life is over-rated anyways.”
And with that he went back into her mind. His presence was disgusting, sour, curdled milk... no, slimy strong tentacles reaching into her subconscious and rifling through it like so much old baggage, picking through to find the prime pieces, holding them up to the light. Fighting bitterly, Sam pulled her consciousness apart, keeping that one key sense of self separate.
The tentacles made their choices and turned to Sam’s small inner-fortress of self. “There you are,” Pseudo-Lane said, “That’s pretty good.” The tentacles reached and pulled her in. They took the energy and wrapped her with it, tying it into the memories. She tried to escape, tried to keep her mind above, clear, blocked. But she couldn’t outrun the sticky arms that latched around her and dragged her back. Back into memories that she had thought she’d buried forever. Sam saw, she felt, she experienced, and she screamed, screamed louder than she ever had in her life. If only someone could hear her.
In the real world, the quality of light changed. Pseudo-Lane stood and turned, but he didn’t have time to say anything before he crumpled like a rag doll.
But by this point, Sam could no longer see what was happening in the world around her. She knew only one thing, and that was the horror of her past.
#
Harry and Al stood slack-jawed in the doorway. They said nothing as Lane pushed past them, Sam in his arms, and strode down the hallway.
“Is he dead?” Al asked Harry. On entering the room, they’d seen the man/woman/whatever, hovering over Samantha. He’d turned to look but Lane hadn’t hesitated. Lane had hit the man in the side of the face, one punch and he’d gone down like a sack of potatoes. It was clear from the blow that, consciously or not, Lane had brought some of his TK into play.
Shooting Al a concerned look, Harry leaned forward and checked the pulse. He gave Al a quick nod: still alive. Now that he was unconscious, the man looked...like a sleazy, nondescript thirty-something wearing a silk bowling shirt.
“Are you two coming?” Lane yelled, already halfway down the hall. Harry grabbed the shopping bag filled with Sam’s things—the chameleon must have taken it with him, to make it look like Sam had left on her own. Al nodded in approval, holding the door open for him. Then the two hurried to catch up.
No one noticed them in the milling crowd. Harry was pretty sure that had something to do with Lane, or at least that was better than thinking an angry man toting an unconscious woman across a crowded parking lot would be allowed to pass without comment or question.
Lane tossed Al the car keys and put Sam in the back seat, climbing in next to her. It wasn’t until they were a mile or two from the hotel that Al glanced in the rear-view mirror, “Is she going to be all right?”
“No,” Lane said, “She’s not.”
“He can’t still be hurting her, can he?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he used her amplifying power, or—I don’t know, get us out of here, all right? Let me handle this.”
“Will she recover?” Harry said, looking at Sam for the first time. No longer limp, now and then a hand or leg would twitch, and her eyes were roving around, staring at nothing.
“I guess we’ll find out,” Lane said, settling in next to her and closing his eyes.
#
It was easy, really. Her defenses had been obliterated, and the chameleon had no reason to put up any blocks for her. And all Lane needed to do was take her hand. Stuck as she was, in a state of semi-consciousness, it didn’t take much for him to renew the link they’d had earlier, to use his own skill to strengthen it further. Having done so, Lane waded past the superficial stillness into deeper emotions of fear and anger and desperation. He felt, more than saw, the inky taint of power that had implanted itself in her mind. Lane reached for the inkiness and felt it slip out of his grasp and back into place. He wished he had the power of the chameleon, even one-tenth of the ability that would allow him access to her mind the way he could access her emotions.
But all Lane could do was hold her and hope she had the strength to live through it. He closed his eyes and prayed. Sam’s hand on his arm tightened slightly and Lane felt his mind start to slide away.
#
They sat in the back of the car, strapped into a safety seat and pounding her legs on the side. It was dark outside, and the lights of the di
stant city and the passing streetlights fascinated her. One hand clutched a cheap plastic bear, a toy from Lucky’s. The other was wrapped in a cast. A little doll from the drugstore lay next to them on the seat, thrown there hastily by Mommy in a desperate attempt to coax her into good behavior. That and the promise of a Lucky Kid’s Meal had bribed her into content silence and kept her from questioning this strange midnight excursion.
Mom smiled brightly, talking about a grand adventure. The babble seemed more for Mom’s benefit than Sam’s, but now and then she answered a question with carefully formed sentences: A new home would be fun. An exciting new town. Just the two of them, forever and ever. The stars outside the window echoed the thought, stretching out forever and ever.
#
A few years later, a couple of feet taller, but the car was the same one they’d always had. Only now they were sitting in the front seat. Tall enough to see over the dashboard now, old enough to recognize that something was wrong.
“Mom, stop!”
Mom said nothing but gripped the emergency brake, pulling as hard as she could. They continued towards the red light.
Panic swamped her, “Mom, STOP!” The car barreled down the hill and into the intersection, and she watched with dread as another car, oblivious to the honking of the horn, continued forward—straight towards them. Mom must have seen this too, because she yelled something about holding on even as she pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, spinning the car around. The world seemed to slow and Sam knew if she could just hold it still, she could do something, could change something if she could. Just think, if she could just concentrate, she knew she could stop it, but instead the world stopped on its own—
—Starting again as someone pulled her out of the passenger seat, asking if she was okay. But her side was undamaged, turned safely away from oncoming traffic. It was the driver’s side that had been crushed on impact.
#
Good intentions paved their way back to the front stoop of her first home, clutching a suitcase and staring at peeling paint that seemed both familiar and alien. Her impression of her long lost father was similar. He was the same handsome man she remembered. He had smiling eyes and an easy laugh. But there was something else at work behind those eyes, something indistinct and not quite normal.
#
They stared down at her hands. The sticky, hot blood, she realized, was her own. Putting her hand gingerly to her face, she touched her nose. The pain was incredible. The wall was stained with blood where she’d hit it. The stain would stay there, despite scrubbing. And her father, afraid of questions doctors might ask, refused to take her to the hospital. Instead, he told her he was sorry, he hadn’t meant to. He sat her on the bathroom counter, carefully cleaned the blood away using alcohol and cotton balls and promised a milkshake to make it up to her.
#
Lane fled back to his mind. He let go of Sam, separating their bodies. That was all he could take. Almost too much. He felt overwhelmed, swamped by the power of the connection, shivering in shock and amazement. This was more than he should be able to do. More than he had ever done before.
But now, at least, he knew what the chameleon had done. He’d trapped Sam in memories and places of power, moments in life where anger and energy combined, the moments that created people like them. In doing so, the chameleon had made a feedback loop that was focusing and refocusing Sam’s own energy. He’d taken away all of the breaks and fail-safes that her mind might have, essentially putting Sam’s brain into self-destruct. Already the twitching had increased to tremors. If the memories didn’t stop, Sam would have an aneurysm. She would die.
Lane didn’t know how his psyche meshed with Sam’s. He was not only with Sam, he was so connected to her that he was Sam, getting lost in her own painful memories. If he was going to help her, he couldn’t let that happen.
Girding himself, he reached out and took Sam into his arms, allowing himself to slide back into her mind, her memories.
#
“We have bible study every week, right here in the kitchen.”
This house was bigger than the last, a sprawling 1970s ranch, but it still didn’t feel big enough for all the kids running around. The shag carpet and the wallpaper were reminiscent of old sitcoms on re-run, but this world was real. Everything felt dirty. The toys were run down.
“Doesn’t that sound like fun?” the social worker asked, “They do lots of activities together.”
Sam, gangly and awkward as a thirteen year old, nodded. She wanted to be liked, wanted to fit in. But the way the children were watching her, predatory, distant, made her worry that she wouldn’t. This house didn’t feel like it was filled with love or happiness, like in those TV shows. It felt like a jail, all of the kids just doing their time until they could break free.
#
They sat at a table crammed with at least four other kids, of various ages and skin tones. The food was in the middle of the table, and every time she reached for something there was another hand there, grabbing it first. When she finally did get a hamburger, she put it on her plate to reach for something else and a ten-year-old boy with dark skin leaned over, grabbing it right off her plate. “Hey!” she yelled.
“That’s hers,” the teen sitting next to her said. Reaching around, he deftly hit the younger child on the back of the head and grabbed the burger. He put it on Sam’s plate with a slick smile. Immediately, Sam broke eye contact, looking down. When he reached for her leg under the table, she tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.
Lane came up for air. A different part of the loop, but no difference. He had to think, he had to try and figure out how to break the cycle. When the replay started over, he reached out and tried to find a way in without being part of Sam. He fought to keep his own sense of self separate, unique. I AM HERE, he thought.
For a second, just a second, the instant replay changed. In a kitchen, one-year-old Samantha, a triangle of sandwich in her hand, turned wide-eyed towards him before she was pulled back into the parental drama unfolding before her.
Damn it, Lane thought, you saw me, didn’t you? And Lane, straining with the effort of keeping himself apart, waited and watched.
#
This memory didn’t seem so bad at first. They were in Dad’s kitchen, cooking dinner. Her father grabbed a fork and a potato, doing a little dance with the two. It didn’t quite work the way it did in the movies, but it was funny to her, all the same. She laughed, and they talked, and after they ruined dinner, they threw it in the trash and he pulled a carton of ice cream out of the fridge. Mint chocolate chip, Mom’s favorite. And when she mentioned that, he nodded, “I know.” He said, “I know something else, too.” He took a bite.
“What?”
“It was your fault.”
She paused, spoon half in and out of her mouth, “What?”
“That she died. It was supposed to be you. But enjoy it, honey.” And he stood up from the table, leaving her to sit in the kitchen by herself, alone with her tears.
“It’s not. God, Sam, it’s not your fault,” Lane said.
The little girl looked towards him with teary pixie eyes and said, “I know that.”
#
The sound of the TV blaring greeted her as she opened the front door. She watched him as he watched the TV, his back to her as he sat on the couch. As she quietly shut the door, he turned and smiled, “Hey, there’s my all-star student!”
That look in his eyes was the second sign. She smiled in response, sidling along the wall towards the stairs.
“Want to watch TV with me? This is your favorite show, isn’t it?”
She shook her head.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can order pizza.”
“I have a lot of homework,” Samantha choked out, “But thanks, anyways.”
“Sam, come here when I tell you to.” He grinned, “You have to learn to relax.”
With visible reluctance, she took a step towards him. And that’s when she c
aught sight of the shotgun lying on the couch next to him.
#
Lane watched as she tore into the bedroom, panting and fearful. Saw her bracing the door, pleading with the phone to hurry. He placed his hand on her shoulder and she looked back at him. She was young, painfully young. She couldn’t have been more than twelve, now. The scenes were so similar, and he imagined how many times this had played out for her in only a few short months.
“Who’re you?”
“It’s Lane.”
She started to shake her head and paused, staring at him. Lane saw his chance, “Sam, you’re trapped here.”
“I know.” She nodded earnestly. “But I don’t know how to stop it.”
“Try changing it. Think of something else. Something you want to do. What do you want to do?”
A familiar look of determination stole over the young face. “I want to fight back,” she said.
#
He stood in the corner of a darkened room, blue shag carpet under his feet. There were two sets of bunk beds. The shape curled up in one of them was a long and gangly adolescent, clearly too tall for the bed already. A door opened quietly, and a shape moved deliberately towards her.
It was the boy from dinner. Young as he was to Lane, he was still older, and bigger, than the girl on the bed. He leaned over where Samantha slept and her eyes flew open. They glittered in the dark like a lioness, “Try anything, and I’ll cut your privates off.”
The boy looked down. Sure enough, a small steak knife—smuggled from dinner—was pointed at his nether-regions. He backed up and quietly left the room.
Samantha rolled over in bed, propping her chin on her hands, knobby elbows pointing out. “See?” she said, “I told you I can fight back.”
“Then keep trying,” Lane whispered.
#
The door broke down. Two shots rang out. Her father crumpled in the doorway. Twelve-year-old Sam cringed and burst into tears. And an officer moved forward, swept her into his arms and carried her out of the room: “It’s OK, it’s OK, it’s OK”
Chasing Power (Hidden Talents) Page 17