Dimensions

by Krystyne Price

  Jane moved down the hall, grabbing her purse and keys from the table next to the front door. She looked around briefly, mentally checking that she’d shut the gas stove off, fed the fish and turned off all the lights. Satisfied, she turned to open the door, but just as her hand reached the deadbolt she gasped, something catching her peripheral vision. She turned, but no one was there. Frowning, she peeked around the corner into her small kitchen, but only her appliances stood as silent sentinels in an empty room. She headed back to her bedroom and peeked in through the door, but it was empty as well. “You’re losing it, Jane,” she muttered, shaking her head and continuing out the door. “Good Lord.”

  But Jane couldn’t help looking over her shoulder as she made her way down the steps from her second-floor apartment and out to the parking lot. Her building was fairly small with only twenty units, one being occupied by the building manager. The parking lot had forty spaces, nearly half of which were covered by car ports, and her car was parked in one of those. She supposed now with the money she was making she could afford the car she’d always wanted – a Hummer – but her cautious nature prevented her from making even that dream a reality. Not yet. She still had this third book which hadn’t yet been published. And as she noted her rather beat-up four-door sedan, she made herself a promise. If this book sold as well as the others, she’d buy her Hummer. Then again, the thought of spending that much money on a vehicle made her feel a little sick. Maybe the promise was too premature.

  She unlocked the door and got into the car, tossing the manuscript and her purse across to the passenger seat. Closing the door, she put the key in the ignition and yelped in surprise. For someone was sitting right next to her. She whirled her head toward them, but just like that, they were gone. She immediately craned her neck back behind her, only to see an empty back seat. She locked the doors and looked all around out the windows, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. For the second time she thought she’d seen someone. “You really are cracking up,” she whispered aloud as she started the car and put it into gear.

  Then again, it didn’t really surprise her. She’d been eating, sleeping and breathing the world of her book for the last two months, nose buried in it – and her computer – every single day of that time. It had been a little scary going sometimes, what with Vasan very nearly capturing John Tanner, and the more she wrote Vasan the more antsy she became. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it except to say that the man was pure Evil, and as she’d delved deeper into him, she’d begun to wonder if that was wise or not. But she knew how writers worked, and she knew that Vasan represented her own darker side. A side she needed to explore, if for no other reason than to banish it from her existence.

  Yet he also intrigued her in a way she couldn’t quite put name to. There was something about him that was equally seductive as it was terrifying. He had a definite Asiatic look, she’d decided, and was a large man, something not often found in the native Chinese or Malay population. Bulging muscles only added to his menacing stature, but it was his face or, more specifically, his eyes that struck the fear of all things unnatural into her. They were so dark they were nearly black, and seemed to glitter in the light. It had unnerved her how easily this character had come to her, how easy it was to make him do things she herself found utterly despicable.

  But the Tanners, after surviving a terrifying kidnapping ordeal in her first book, had needed an arch-enemy as did all do-gooders. For their part, they ran a large conglomerate of companies that produced and taught people how to use fantastic machinery for peaceful times. A lot of the equipment they created and patented wound up being used for rescue purposes; machines that could dig underground to get trapped people out, or large flying craft that could hover and maneuver in high winds when needed. They spent time going to other countries helping those less fortunate not only with their everyday living conditions, but with the means to keep themselves alive should disasters arise. The moneymaking side of things could be attributed to all the real estate they held worldwide.

  As billionaires, the family could afford the magnanimous philanthropy. Plus they made plenty of extra money off their designs and still found time here and there for their special interests. John and Steve both loved to fly and had several jets apiece. Vincent was an engineer, and not a bad pilot himself. Johnny was more into discovering new planets, comets and stars, but had done a stint at NASA before leaving it to work with, and for, his father. Their father…once again, the idyllic father Jane had wished she’d had growing up. A man of peace and full of love not only for his family, but for people the world ‘round. A man who’d made it his life’s ambition to become wealthy not for the sake of being wealthy, but to enable himself and his family to help those who couldn’t help themselves. And on Earth in any universe, there would always be plenty of those.

  In this latest novel, Vasan had outfoxed the Tanners and very nearly gotten every last one of them. His motivation was simple: he wanted their technology, their welath and the resources of their companies. Security was tight, and a great majority of the work was done by John and his sons on their huge walled-off estate in Iowa. She had based the book in her home state for the same reason most writers did: she knew it. Backwards, forwards, up-side and down, unfortunately. Growing up there had been less than exciting, and even more so for the daughter of a Baptist minister. She reflected as she came to stop at a red light that part of her desire for a life with more exciting tones had come from the utter boredom of her childhood. Being force-fed religion from the time she’d been born, being a preacher’s kid, had taken its toll. Most other children didn’t want to be her friends because she was a bit odd, or because she was the PK.

  Forced to wear nothing but skirts until she was eleven, and then subjected to the sharp sting of her stepmother’s tongue had only served to make her withdraw simply to stay alive. Hours alone locked in the attic or her room. Being shut outside on long, hot summer days because her stepmom simply didn’t want to see her. As long as she’d had a notebook and pencil, she’d been good. The occasional child had stopped by to play, but Jane’s imagination was always elsewhere. The mulberry bush in the back yard was magical, and she found herself climbing up and hiding in its thick branches often. The large oak tree directly behind the house provided hours of dreaming about climbing up to its highest branches and being able to fly off into the sky to get away.

  The sandbox her father had built of wood had given her thoughts of burying people alive, only to have them saved by a knight in shining armor. Riding for hours in the backseat of the car on their way to the nearest large town forty miles distant had brought images of her riding horses bareback along the side of the road, jumping fences and racing through corn and soybean fields as fast as the car traveled. Or she would see herself upon a Pegasus, flying through the air doing loop-de-loops and taking hard dives, then pulling back into the air just as it seemed she and the Pegasus would crash. She supposed that’s where making most of the Tanners pilots had come into play. She had always loved the whip of the wind in her face, her favorite amusement park ride being roller coasters, and had loved to fly, though it had only been twice in her childhood that she’d been on commercial airliners.

  Adventure and excitement were what she sought, and her made-up stories gave her those things and so much more. So now, as an adult, she had come full circle. Moving through the world of corporations and cubicles, office politics and working for “the man” had drained her very spirit. It was never what she wanted; only what she’d been taught she had to do to make it in this world. But eventually she’d been unable to stifle the creativity any longer, and over the course of four months, Lightning Strikes had been born. Lightning, the name of the Tanners’ company, had seemed appropriate because of her love of thunderstorms.

  That was one reason she was contemplating taking a trip. Living in Southern California had been handy for a variety of reasons, but she’d outgrown it. She got off the exit for Century City and breathed a sigh of relie
f. Ten years had seen her liking California’s freeway system no more than she had the first time she’d driven it. Now that the third book was finished, and there would be another three to four weeks before it came back with revisions, Jane felt like she needed to get away. And for some reason Iowa called to her. Called to her like a siren’s song she could not ignore. It probably came from writing about it so much. But whatever the reason, by the time she pulled into the parking garage of Janix Press, Jane had made up her mind that the next morning she’d be on the first flight to Cedar Rapids. And from there, she’d make the trip home.

  She couldn’t help but wonder what she’d find. Were the same people there? Would they know her, remember her? Had they read her books? Did they recognize some of themselves in the extra characters? Did they recognize the church, the small town, the one-building school housing Kindergarten through twelfth grades? She smiled as she grabbed her purse and manuscript. She got out, shutting the door behind her and jumped. Just behind the car stood a man. For a split second they locked eyes, then she blinked, and he was gone. She thought for a moment that he seemed familiar somehow, but it wouldn’t register.

  Yes, she definitely needed a vacation. Because she was losing her mind.

  She went through the revolving glass door and headed for the elevator. As she watched the people milling about, she was reminded of how much she felt like an outcast. Never one to bond with anybody growing up, she’d always been outgoing and friendly, but always a loner. Those who had tried to get close had gotten the door slammed on them pretty quickly. A lot like Johnny Tanner, she mused quietly as the elevator rose. Jane had felt from an early age like she didn’t belong, and she had pretty much decided that was because she’d never known her real mother and had always been treated like a bastard child by her stepmother ever since she’d snagged her dad when Jane was a mere infant.

  No, she’d never fit into her own family no matter what she did. Trying to follow the path of her father’s Baptist teachings had been expected, not rewarded. Writing had been a silly pastime that would never lead anywhere. Her singing voice, lauded by teachers and schoolmates alike, had been made fun of by her stepmother. It wasn’t until she was fifteen she’d finally cajoled them into letting her join the church choir. She was in all the musicals and talent shows at school. If writing was her first love, singing was her second. Yet again, another thing she could never make money at, she’d been told. Not good enough, nobody will pay to hear you. And so had come the years of unhappiness at college and later on in banks as she tried to do what she’d been taught she must.

  She remembered the day she’d decided to take matters into her own hands with perfect clarity. It had been nearly twelve years since she’d last thought of her made-up family the Tanners. One day she’d sat down in the living room to turn on the television when suddenly they’d flashed before her, as though all standing in a row at attention. Seeing them in her mind after such a long absence had floored her, and her childhood obsession had begun all over again. She’d started writing stories about them, mostly short ones. Then half a year later she’d written one that wound up being over 250 pages long, and that’s when she realized it was long enough to be an actual book.

  And so she’d submitted excerpts of it to an on-line writers community, where she’d garnered a lot more praise and encouragement than she’d expected. Thanks to that boost of confidence, she’d written, rewritten and rewritten some more. A full six months after she’d started the book it was in such a form that she thought it was ready for an agent. But first she’d wanted an objective opinion. One person in the online community had been particularly helpful and friendly. Lori James, who had become a pretty good friend as internet friends went. When she’d e-mailed her asking if she had time to read through the draft, Lori had readily agreed and off it had gone.

  The returned e-mail three days later proclaiming it to be “a hot item” and something publishers would “go crazy over” had been the words Jane had longed to hear all her life. Recommendations from Lori were incorporated, then more changes were made in the form of four subsequent drafts. At last it was ready. Lori had put her in touch with Marge, and the rest was history. The first box of books she got had seen her and Lori meet face-to-face for the first time, and the two had become friends in person as well as on the internet. Lori was heavily involved in the television industry, but had always had a passion for writing, and in that mutual passion the two found common ground for forging the strongest bond Jane had ever felt with another human being.

  It wasn’t that Jane had been completely friendless as a child; she’d had those with whom she’d passed notes during class, those she’d eaten lunch with or hung out on the playground with. Some of them even read her stories, though it had been her 7th grade Reading teacher Mrs. Koch who’d been the most instrumental in encouraging Jane to write in those early years. But nobody had ever quite gotten past the minister’s daughter, the one who was never allowed to wear what was fashionable, the one who wasn’t allowed to go to the movies or over to her friends’ houses for sleepovers. It was as though she was somewhat untouchable, for a variety of reasons. And so Jane had developed the persona being projected upon her.

  That’s why she felt this friendship with Lori might actually be one she could allow to blossom. Lori had, thus far, seemed to accept her for who and what she was. Which, funnily enough, even Jane didn’t quite have a handle on. But Lori would let her talk, she’d listen, she’d offer advice. And Jane, in turn, heard about a life substantially more exciting but much less desirable than her own. Lori’s enthusiasm over each book Jane finished was outshined only by her own. And though Lori usually got first crack at her newly completed manuscripts, in this case Jane had fallen a bit behind and was barely meeting Janix’s deadline. She had popped it off to Lori in an e-mail before leaving home, and looked forward to Lori’s feedback almost more than she did than the company paying her for it!

  The admin behind the front desk of Janix’s offices smiled brightly. “Hi, Jane! Marge is waiting for you. Biting at the bit, as usual!”

  “Thanks, Lacy,” Jane returned her smile as she headed through the double-doored office. One of the drawbacks to being a best-selling novelist was the fact that you had to spend hours with the publisher every now and again. It was okay, just a bit annoying for one not used to being overly personable. Jane took a deep breath as Marge turned around and smiled.

  “Janie!”

  Jane cringed. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dog-tired. That was the only way to describe it. Marge had largely skimmed the book, but what she’d read, she’d gone nuts about. And ‘nuts’ was just the word to describe it, Jane thought as she rode the elevator down to the lobby of the twenty-floor skyscraper. She checked her watch as the doors opened and sighed. No wonder her stomach was grumbling; it was already nearing eight o’clock. She walked out into the chilly night air of a late April evening, thankful for the sweater to keep her warm.

  Jane headed for the parking garage. It was only as she started up the steps that what she’d seen earlier came back to haunt her. For as she approached the first landing, she saw him again. Him? Or it? Whatever it was, it frightened her this time. The man was huge, but once again she only saw him for a split-second. She stopped and looked down the steps behind her, then up and around to the next flight of stairs that led to the second floor. She had to go to the fourth, and suddenly wondered if the elevator might not be safer. Or if not safer, at least less spooky than this stairwell. Nodding to herself, she turned and jogged back down the steps, making a fast beeline for the elevator which, thankfully, was open and waiting with no one else inside.

  She pressed the number four and leaned back against the wall, breathing a sigh of relief. Maybe it was the stress of having gotten behind on this book. Or the stress of having to spend five hours with Marge. Or maybe she’d been right earlier and she really was cracking. Not an appealing thought, but a distinct poss
ibility. The fact that she never saw whoever it was she was seeing long enough to identify them was scarier than if she’d known who it was. And then the voice on the other end of the phone came back to her mind as the elevator opened on the fourth floor. She stepped out and looked around, but it was deserted. In fact, hers was the only car in sight. It was one of the few times she’d actually been glad to see the dark blue Corsica.

  She hurried across the parking garage, hearing the caller’s voice in her mind for a moment until something else caught her ear. She stopped and turned, certain she’d heard footsteps. But again, as before, there was no one there. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and a shiver went up and down her spine. Something told her she was not alone. The large concrete columns made it easy for anyone to hide, and there was one right in between her and her car. She cursed herself for having nothing more than a rape whistle on her keychain. She’d have felt a lot safer with pepper spray, but right now if she wanted to get home she had to make it to her car.

  Steeling her resolve, Jane pulled her keys out of her purse, whistle firmly between her thumb and forefinger, and continued on her way. Quick paces brought her nearer and nearer the column. There were no more footsteps, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She gave the column a wide berth to allow herself leeway to be aware of anyone who might be hidden there before he had the chance to grab her. It was times like this when she wished she weren’t so alone. What she wouldn’t have given right now for one of the Tanners at her side. She knew it was one reason she’d made them so big, strong and capable, because that type of man made her feel safe, as it would any five-foot-four woman.