I nodded, though I didn't really understand his urgency, and poised my pencil to begin sketching.
He closed his eyes and I dipped into his mind. Humans don't think in linear thoughts, not usually. Most of the time people's minds are crowded with a blend of words, images, emotions, sensations and subconscious whispers. I spent a lot of years learning how to fill in the blanks and make sense of things in a way that would serve my work, so it wasn't difficult to push past the clutter in Mr. K's head to find the brightest image to draw. I just had to stay away from the dark corners, the places where his thoughts hadn't been tethered to the sane.
My hand raced furiously over the page, as if on autopilot. Time drifted into nothing and I became one with the art. Thirty minutes later Mr. K opened his eyes to examine my work.
"Remarkable. Sam, you've outgrown me in talent and ability. I'm so proud of the artist you've become."
I looked at the sketch in my hand and had to admit it rocked.
A wooden box, carved with the same symbol as the pin on my new sketchbook, and detailed images of nature took up the whole page. The box seemed to come alive, as if begging me to open it.
Mr. K smiled and made a few notes on his evaluation form.
I must have passed.
***
The next morning I waited by the front gate with Old Charlie and my very own bodyguard, who introduced himself as Gar. What kind of name is Gar?
Gar didn't talk much, but his rippled, veiny muscles, and a jaw so square it looked cartoonish, made him look scary—perfect for a bodyguard.
I clutched my overnight bag to my chest and shivered in the cool morning breeze. A limo arrived promptly at six and whisked me to the secret airstrip we used to fly to all of our assignments. The drive only took twenty minutes, and I never saw a highway or city sign, just trees and valleys of nothing.
Once there, Gar grabbed my overnight bag, but I strapped my backpack to my shoulders, not wanting to lose control of my most precious belongings. I boarded the Cessna Citation X, the world's fastest mid-sized jet, and sank into one of the plush leather seats.
I knew the drill: once we were airborne, Lollie, the stewardess, came to my seat with a needle balanced on a silver tray. I closed my eyes as she injected the drug into me, the one that would render me unconscious for the duration of my trip. This was for my protection, so I'd never be able to disclose the location of the Rent-A-Kid school. As always, it quelled any nervousness I had about the assignment.
My doubts and fears drifted away on a cloud, as darkness overcame me.
***
Something cool and soft tickled my forehead. My eyes pried themselves open as my head attempted to clear itself of the drug-induced fuzziness.
Lollie had her small hand pressed against my skin. "Time to wake up. We'll be at our destination in thirty minutes."
She handed me a cup of orange juice and a turkey sandwich and helped me get my seat into an upright position. The rush of sweet sugary fruit gave me clarity and a burst of energy. I tackled the sandwich like a man who hadn't eaten in a week—a common side effect of the drug.
With a few minutes to spare, I used the bathroom and brushed my teeth, then pulled my long brown hair into a bun. A quick touch-up to my lip gloss and a bit of mascara to accent my blue eyes, and I was ready to roll.
I went back to my seat and reviewed my file on the client one last time, though I knew the whole thing by heart. New last name, new identity. Each assignment we got a new name, but I didn't actually have a last name of my own. Didn't need one, really. The target had a son, Tommy. I hated assignments that involved kids, but what could I do? I pushed away my reservations and rehearsed my cover story in my head.
We landed at another private airstrip, where a middle-aged driver in a tux waited for us. "Sam Tinsley? Mr. Dollinger is waiting for you. Please come with me."
I climbed into the back and Gar sat in the front with the driver. The driver told us we were in Utah. This didn't register as anything terribly exciting for me. Once the limo hit the highway, I pulled out my new sketchbook and began drawing what I saw, which was mostly flatlands and farms, until we pulled into a wealthy neighborhood with big, lumbering mansions that looked out of place in their environment. Naturally, we beelined for the biggest, gaudiest one of them all.
A great cast iron gate with a lion's head crest blocked our entrance into the palatial estates. Gar took a moment to confirm with the guard, and, after a grating buzz and a few groans, the lion gate opened to allow us in. All around us, bushes trimmed into lion sentries stood guard as we passed. Someone had read too much C.S. Lewis.
My breath hitched in my throat when we arrived at the front door and a tall, lean man in a suit came out to greet us. He smiled at me through the tinted windows, but the smile looked painted on, like a clown's.
The driver opened the car door and I stepped out, straightened my spine and forced myself to meet my client's eyes.
He played his part well and held out his arms for me. Did he want a hug? Not happening. I shifted back, slightly, but enough to get my point across. His eyes flickered a flame of anger before he smothered it with false sincerity.
"You must be Sam. I haven't seen you since you were a baby, but your father says such great things about you. I'm sorry for everything you're going through, but rest assured, no harm will come to you while you're here."
Before I could reply, a small boy of about six ran out the front door with all the enthusiasm of youth. "Is she here? Is she here yet, Uncle Henry?"
"This must be Tommy." I raised an eyebrow. "Your nephew?"
He mussed the boy's hair while maintaining eye contact with me. "The Beaumont's son. We've been partners so long we're practically family."
I choked on his words. Right, family that's ready to throw each other under the bus for a buck. I shoved the judgment deep down and played my part in this farce—this family that wasn't a family—with as much enthusiasm as I could.
"Daddy says to say hi, and that he still remembers the night you drank too much and threw up on his date." I giggled like a rich, ditzy teenage girl and then smiled down at the boy, who hadn't stopped staring at me. For a moment, I let my real self come through. "Hi there. I'm Sam, what's your name?"
All boyish boldness fled as he dropped his big brown eyes and shyly muttered, "Tommy."
"Well, Tommy, did you know that I can draw any animal you can think of? Even animals that don't exist?"
His cherub face lit up in the happiest smile I'd ever seen, and I instantly fell in love with the little kid. A pang of guilt hit my heart.
Tommy belonged to the Beaumonts—the family I had been hired to ruin.
Chapter 5 – Drake
At four in the morning, Drake woke and couldn't fall back asleep. He hadn't told Father Patrick about his car or reported it to the police. Brad had given him enough grief as it was.
He rose, made coffee and sat on their balcony that overlooked the beach. His cell phone beeped—another text from Kylie asking if he planned to come over before the competition. His annoyance mounted, and he turned off the phone and ignored it.
The sun hadn't found its way to the coast yet, so Drake waited for sunrise in silence.
The crashing waves and smell of saltwater tried to calm him, but this time they failed. Despite his still body, his mind hammered out worry after worry. Brad had made him swear he'd at least consider dropping the competition, but Drake knew he wouldn't. He refused to run away from his dreams because of a few slashed tires and a bad feeling.
Oranges, reds and purples filled the dark sky as the sun reflected against the ocean's waves. He waited for the sun like a man waiting for a lover to come home. When the bright morning rays reached the balcony, he closed his eyes, basked in the warmth, and let all worry go for just a moment.
Brad's voice broke the spell. "You're going through with it, aren't you?"
Drake nodded.
"Come on, then, I'll walk with you."
They left
for Venice Beach, where hordes of people would be gathered to see the competition—winning would earn him a place in the U.S. Open in Hawaii.
This had been Drake's dream since childhood. Each time he landed in a new foster home, he prayed it would be near the ocean. When it wasn't, he'd take busses for hours to get to the beach. Nothing could keep him away then, and nothing would keep him away now.
They arrived early enough that a large crowd hadn't yet formed. Drake found a spot for their boards and supplies, then put his wetsuit on, removed his surfboard from its bag, and rubbed it down with surf wax. The exotic coconut scent tickled his nose.
Soft arms wrapped themselves around his waist. He turned to face Kylie, and frowned.
She'd been a fling that had become too clingy. He didn't have time for, or interest in, a girlfriend—something he'd told her repeatedly—but Kylie didn't seem to get the message.
"Drakey, you didn't come over last night."
He backed up and placed his board between them. "What do you want, Kylie?"
"I'm your cheer squad, and I missed you. You never come by or hang out anymore. I just thought maybe you could use a little fun before you hit the waves. We could head to the bathrooms for some privacy."
He cringed in disgust. "Look, I had a good time with you, but, like I said before, I'm not looking for a relationship."
She puckered and pouted and puffed out her chest. "But we're so good together."
"No, we're really not. Go find someone else to drape yourself on. I'm not the guy for you."
He waited for her to leave, but her eyes turned to slits and she crossed her arms over her ample chest. "You can't get rid of me so easily, Drake. I'm not going anywhere. We belong together and I'm not leaving until you see that."
Seriously? His temper flared to life but he pushed it down. "Get out of here, Kylie. I mean it."
She reached for him and pushed herself against his chest. "Don't you want to at least say goodbye properly?"
A war raged in Drake. He couldn't use force on her; he didn't want to hurt her or attract attention.
The murmur of voices around him faded into the background and his focus zeroed in on her vacuous mind. In a voice anyone else would have had to strain to hear, he pushed all his power at her. "Go away, Kylie, and leave me alone. We're done."
He hadn't just nudged her this time, he'd put the full force of his power behind the compulsion.
She nodded, a vacant expression on her face, and walked away without another word.
A small twinge of guilt plagued him, but he ignored it easily enough. She'd be fine, and would soon enough latch on to another hot guy like the barnacle she was.
Brad arrived with two bottles of water. "What's up with Kylie?"
"Nothing. She won't be coming around anymore."
Brad shrugged but didn't say anything, and Drake appreciated the silence. He needed to get into the zone and prepare for the competition.
He'd never suffered from excessive paranoia, but as he drank his water, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being followed... and not by a sponsor.
***
Max McKerry, the celeb surfer, broke the silence when he knocked into Drake's board. "You think you're going to beat me with that piece of shit? Dream on, loser."
Brad rolled his eyes at Drake but directed his comment to Max. "Get a life, man. Do you really think anyone here is scared of you?"
The cocky smile plastered on Max's face didn't fade in the least. "It doesn't matter. Your friend's going to lose either way. No way a homeless orphan is going to win this competition."
Words had no power over Drake. The insults slid off his back like water off a duck. One thought and Max's ass would be groveling on the hot sand begging to kiss Drake's toes, but that's not how he wanted to win, so he ignored the jerk and stayed in his zone.
He didn't get off on the competition against others; the real journey existed only between him and the ocean. Her power claimed him, and nothing else mattered. The glory, the sponsors, the trophies—they were only a means to an end, a way to live well, to have financial security while doing what he loved.
Max may have had a better surfboard and more fans, but he didn't know this water like Drake.
Brad grumbled and set up his chair in the sand. "I don't know why you don't put that guy in his place. He's a jackass."
"No point. He'll find his place when we're in the water. I'm not worried about it."
Drake's confidence was not misplaced or unfounded. As the day progressed, each set brought him closer to victory as other surfers were weeded out.
Finally, three surfers remained: he, Max, and a girl named Chrysta who had surprised them all with her entry and success. The surf crashed to the beach and pulled Drake into the open arms of the Pacific. He let everything go and emptied his mind of all worries, angers and fears. Floating and bobbing in the swells of water set his mind at ease. Thoughts floated in and out like the currents, but he paid them no mind; he only waited for the right wave.
Then it came, and all his focus went into paddling. Every muscle, every ounce of energy, pushed him toward the pulsing water. In that last moment, he stood and glided on top of the wave, slicing through the surf.
Eckharte Tolle wrote in The Power of Now, "If the primary focus of your life is the now, then you will be free from pain and suffering." Drake understood those words only when surfing. In that moment, nothing else mattered, and no other thoughts or feelings had any chance to hatch and take hold. In that moment, only the wave mattered.
In a perfect moment of synchronicity and connection, the wave broke and wrapped him in a watery cocoon from which he would emerge reborn. In that state of bliss, he barely noticed Max cutting him off, barely felt the pull of the current until his board threatened to spill him into the depths of the ocean.
With paranormal strength, he steadied himself and kept his feet under him. A look of surprise flashed across Max's face before he directed his attention to the wave that also threatened to engulf him.
The men rode their boards to shore and were greeted by hundreds of voices cheering their success.
To anyone watching, they had both just scored a serious victory. Even the judges wouldn't be able to tell that Max had cheated and tried to sabotage Drake.
Words mattered little to him, but Max had just declared war.
Drake shoved Max to the sand using a touch more than normal strength, just enough to sting. "What the hell, man? Are you so desperate to win, and so afraid of me, that you would cheat?"
Max's eyes turned cold, but he pushed himself up and stared at Drake. "I don't know what you're talking about, but do that again and I'll make sure you're disqualified from the final round."
A group had formed, drawn into the drama. Drake passed his board to Brad and stormed off toward the showers to cool down before he blew it for good.
***
The warm sand squished under his feet, and the hot sun blazed down on his head.
He stripped off his wetsuit and stood under the showers, letting the warm water wash away the sand, salt and anger. Today could change his life forever; he just needed to keep his cool and ignore Max.
He'd been so absorbed in his rage that he hadn't noticed the buzz of warning under his skin that someone was watching him.
By the time he felt it, it was too late.
Something stung his shoulder.
He reached around and pulled out a dart. His thoughts swirled around in his head, and his recent clarity gave way to a jumble of incoherent ramblings.
"Dude, are you all right?"
A voice spoke to him, but male or female, he couldn't tell. His vision blurred and he slumped onto the wet cement, the now cold water spraying over him until it ran out of time and stopped.
"Drake, you'll be okay. Come on, boy." Another voice he didn't recognize.
He reached out with his mind to stop whoever was touching him, but nothing happened. His power didn't work. Then he felt it, the compulsion to
obey, directed at him as someone siphoned his powers from him.
When hands pulled him away from the familiar noises, he tried to fight with his muscle.
"Damn it, he's still too strong. Get him to the van, quick."
"Don't worry," one voice said to the other. "Drake, you will relax and walk quietly to the van with us. You will not put up a fight or make any noise."
Drake nodded, stood and walked forward.
Before he could process anything more, a painful whack to his head sent him tumbling toward darkness.
The leader yelled at whoever had hit him, and then Drake found that darkness.
Chapter 6 – Sam
The next morning, I still had nothing on Beaumont, but my bond with Tommy had deepened, not in small part to the twenty new drawings I'd given him of the most fantastical creatures he could think of.
The kid had quite an imagination.
He followed me everywhere, and I didn't mind. Between him and my Gar shadow, I had a freaking entourage. A longing for a real family with a little brother just like Tommy threatened to undo me, but I smacked it down and stayed focused on my work. Mostly.
It would have helped if Mr. Beaumont had actually been home more. My mind reading skills weren't all-powerful. I required some proximity to my target if I wanted to connect with him, especially someone with an unfamiliar mental signature. It was like a voice in the crowd—the more familiar the voice, the easier it was to pinpoint and lock onto it.
That morning I finally had my chance to corner Dollinger without Tommy tagging along. The pressure to finish up this assignment so I could leave the next day weighed heavy in my mind, and pushed me into confrontations I would normally have avoided.
I found my client pouring himself a stiff drink in the study, and got straight to the point. "I can't do what you hired me for without access to the target. When will Mr. Beaumont be home?"
His eyes hardened into black coal, but he kept his tone civil. "He's going to surprise everyone with a trip to the fair today. You'll have an all-day pass to his mind. Use it well."
The Forbidden Trilogy Page 4