Shine: Season One (Shine Season Book 1)

by William Bernhardt

  A moment later the motor sputtered and died. “No, not now,” she thought, blaming her placenta brain for not getting the car serviced. It was then that she noticed the garage door was already open and two agents outfitted in black fatigues stood in the entrance with laser scopes aimed at her chest.

  “Hands,” one of the agents said.

  The purse dropped, her hands shot up into the air, and then Saul ran into the garage.

  Two rounds from an assault rifle hit him in the chest. Saul collapsed and fell down the stairs, landing on the side of his head.

  “No,” she screamed. “Not my Saul.”

  She crouched down and rolled him over. One of the bullets had hit him in the right shoulder and the other dead center in the middle of his chest.

  Blood flowed from the two bullet holes as if they were faucets. Saul coughed and spit up blood that splattered on her dress. Red drool dripped down his chin. He grabbed for Lola’s hand, brought it to his lips, and his eyes closed.

  “No. Please no.” She cradled his head. “Help. Somebody help him.”

  The commanding officer walked down the steps, pulled Lola to her feet, and shoved her towards the two officers in the garage entryway. “Here’s the Shine. Take her.” Then he turned, and kicked Saul’s limp body in the ribs with a sickening crunch.

  Saul jerked awake, trying to breathe. The wheezing brought up more blood.

  Two officers grabbed her by the armpits and dragged her out of the garage.

  Lola’s entire body was shaking. “Saul,” she cried looking back. No response. The black- clad agents shoved her into the back of a grey unmarked choppercar, whose wheels had silently just met the driveway.

  “Saul,” she screamed before the door slammed shut. Not even a flutter of his eyelids, though the pool of blood surrounding him continued expanding.

  CHAPTER 2

  Frenchie’s long auburn-streaked blonde hair was swept over her shoulder and tied into a bun. A few tendrils of hair poked out to better frame her neck and face. She leaned forward and reached her plump lips toward the straw to sip the stale water.

  Detective Mark Glenhill, of the Nashville, Tennessee Police Department, seemed more interested in her hair and her hands than her lips.

  She sat up and smiled. He was old enough to retire, but batting her eyelashes had worked for her before.

  The detective tossed his paperwork on the table and sat back. The wheels on his chair inched toward the opposite wall. “Really, Frenchie? You’re going to play that game? I bet those moves haven’t worked for you since high school.”

  She folded her arms and glared at the door. She couldn’t believe that the imbecile was already bringing up her past. Or that he was using her nickname. Only her friends and family called her Frenchie.

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “You never bothered to finish high school. You were one of those brave souls that left academia for the Real World.” The moron actually put up quotation marks with his hands. “A true, live, beauty school dropout,” he said. “Was that a good move? Was beauty school all that you thought it would be? Did life as a hair dresser catch your fancy?”

  Frenchie sat bound to the chair with handcuffs, wanting to do nothing more than smother the schmuck opposite her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Being a hair stylist satisfied me,” she said. “I guess I could have gone to college, studied psychology, and become a pompous ass. But where would that have gotten me?” She returned her gaze to the detective. “Maybe a few initials next to my name and a $120,000 piece of paper that states that I have no real skills. No thanks. I didn’t need to sign up for the educational abyss. And my parents didn’t need to take out a second mortgage only to end up with two tons of debt that, thanks to you and your government friends, I would never even have the opportunity to pay back. So yeah, I think it was a good move.”

  “So do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “I already told the last two cops. Why don’t the three of you get together and compare notes?”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  Frenchie rolled her eyes. What the flick. She’d already been in the police station for three hours and there was no doubt that she’d lost at least four clients because of the incident. This stupid clownfest was costing her time and money. “Before I repeat it all over again, can I at least get a diet soda or something? Your tap water tastes like it came from the urinal.”

  The detective waved to the window and asked them to bring a drink in. A moment later an officer entered, popped the top, and poured the warm soda into an even warmer glass.

  She took a sip and then rolled her shoulders around in a circle. “Okay. Here we go again. It’s pretty simple. I was working in the salon, when this crazy woman ran through the door and started assaulting me. End of story.”

  “Do you know the woman?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know why she assaulted you?”

  “Because she’s crazy. Look, I don’t understand why you have me chained to the chair. She came at me, in my salon, with a loaded weapon – a freaking huge revolver. And yet I’m the one chained up like a common criminal.”

  “You’re far from common, Frenchie.” He opened his file and slid an 8x10 photograph across the table. “Recognize him?”

  She picked up the photo. Of course she recognized the two-timing jerk, it was her boyfriend, or her ex-boyfriend anyways. Last night she got off work early and tried to surprise him. She went over to his place with a pizza and some cold beer her fake ID had helped her acquire. And that’s where she found him – hunkered down in his red Camaro breathing heavy over some brunette.

  Frenchie didn’t rip open the door and beat the two of them senseless like she wanted to. The two of them deserved each other. She let them go at it for a few minutes as she watched the windows steam up, cursing their every breath. And then everything stopped. The woman let out a shrill scream, threw open the door, and ran.

  “That’s Trevor Bellows,” she said. “The numbskull used to be my boyfriend.”

  “Used to be? Until when?”

  “Last night,” She said. The police obviously already knew all about him. There was no use trying to hide it. “I caught the jerk with some other girl.”

  “I see,” Detective Glenhill said. “And did you get a good look at the other girl? Do you know who she was?”

  Frenchie shook her head. “Nope, I never saw her face. I didn’t confront them. I just cried in the parking lot and went home.”

  “You did nothing?” the detective asked.

  “What was I going to do? Or what is it that you think I did? Unfortunately, both my two-timing boyfriend and whoever this bimbo was got together and decided not to let a silly thing like our relationship stop them. I called the jerk and dumped him last night. Go talk to him. Check his voice mail. I just had some maniac crash into my salon with the intent to kill me and I don’t think you should be holding me here to give me relationship advice.” The manacles were digging into her wrists and her pulse raced against the steel cuffs.

  “Trevor admits cheating on you. But he also told us why Loraine took off running from his car.” Detective Glenhill tossed a second picture onto the table.

  Frenchie picked up the photo. Loraine was beautiful and maybe the fact the girl had let Jared round third base was the reason that her ex-boyfriend ended up cheating. But that was all in the past. Frenchie made sure that no one would be touching Loraine for a while thanks to a dark, bushy, Hitleresque mustache that now sprouted from her upper lip.

  “And why’s that?” Frenchie asked.

  Detective Glenhill swallowed and looked at the reflective window across the room. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck were erect and damp with sweat. She could sense it. “Because of the mustache,” he said.

  “What,” Frenchie snorted. “You think that was me? I know I’m a good hairdresser, but she’s not even a client. Like I said, until you gave me that photo, I’d never seen her before.”


  She took a sip of soda and moistened her lips once again. “Now, if there’s nothing else, detective, I’d like to leave. If you insist on keeping me I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for my lawyer.”

  Detective Glenhill stared at the mirror again as if waiting for something. He knew that they didn’t even have circumstantial evidence. There was no way they could continue holding her.

  He stood up and crossed the room with his keys in hand. He unlocked Frenchie’s left handcuff and then bent over her to the right handcuff when someone rapped on the door.

  The door popped open and an officer stuck his head in. “Book her,” he said. “The genetic tests confirmed it. She’s a Shine.”

  CHAPTER 3

  For three days, Frenchie was forced to wear a bright orange abomination that made her look like traffic cone. But today she was allowed to wear some real clothes. Her mom had picked out a nice ensemble. The plain Jane church dress wasn’t what Frenchie would have selected, but it was a zillion times better than the alternative.

  She sat on the wooden pew staring at the ground, oblivious to the five other girls next to her. What happened to innocent until proven guilty? What happened to the right to a fair trial? She should be at home or in the salon, not awaiting sentencing. Loraine the loon is the one that belonged here. She was the real danger, threatening people with guns.

  She gripped the pew so tight, hair sprouted out of both her wrists. No, she thought, not now. She quickly wished the hair away before anyone could see that she’d Shined.

  How could she have been so stupid? She’d dropped out of High School during her junior year, went to beauty school, and started working in a salon. She’d been in hiding for over five years and hadn’t told a soul. Jared, her ex-boyfriend, was the only person who even had a suspicion about her powers. But thanks to the philandering of Loraine the bimbo and her ex, Frenchie had lost her cool and made Loraine look like the bearded lady’s twin sister.

  The door swung open and in stepped the bailiff. “Paige Evans.”

  Frenchie didn’t flinch; she was barely cognizant of her legal name.

  “Paige Evans, it’s your turn.”

  Frenchie looked up. The bailiff was a big man; his face stoic, no emotion whatsoever and no hair either. He had a glistening bald black head and face as if every hint of hair in the courtroom had been outlawed. She stood up and walked in to face the judge.

  Her parents sat on the front row just behind her lawyer. Her mom was weeping and her father looked indifferent. Frenchie knew he blamed her for destroying the family name her great Greek grandfather spent a life time building. She used to be Daddy’s little girl, but the last inkling of that stopped when she dropped out of school. And of course he blamed that incident and her enrollment in beauty school on her Shine ability.

  The courtroom had been seated for only a few minutes when the judge slammed down his gavel. “Paige Evans.”

  Her lawyer nudged her out of her chair and onto her feet.

  “I understand that your record is clean. That this is your first offense.”

  “Yes,” Frenchie said, assuming that by first offense the judge was referring to Loraine’s hair incident.

  “I understand that you selected rehabilitation,” the judge said.

  Some choice. Rehab or indefinite detention, aka prison. Who on earth would ever elect to go to prison? Rehab, shmeehab. Sure they would try to get her to give up her power, but that wouldn’t be such a bad thing in today’s world.

  “Yes, your honor,” Frenchie said.

  The judge looked over at the prosecution. “Does the state have any objections?”

  The attorney glanced to the back of the room before addressing the judge. “The State would like to ask for a show of good faith, if the court will allow it?”

  “I don’t understand. What are you referring to, Mr. Kondrotieof?”

  “We have with us today Miss Lorraine, who was irreparably injured by Miss Evans. We request that the court give permission and a one-time reprieve to Miss Evans so that she can use her powers to correct the wrong that has been done. The State believes that such a demonstration will be indicative of her rehabilitation efforts.”

  “Bring Miss Lorraine forward,” the judge said.

  Mr. Kondrotieof nodded toward the back of the room. Loraine stood up with her face veiled and walked to the judge.

  “How is it that Miss Evans injured you?” the judge asked.

  Loraine removed her veil. Her Hitleresque mustache was thicker than a toilet brush.

  The audience mumbled. Some snickered.

  “I see,” said the judge. “Paige Evans, can you correct this?”

  Frenchie wanted to give the girl cornrows so tight they would scalp the girl, but instead she forced a smile. “I can, if it pleases the court.”

  “Please do so,” the judge said.

  Frenchie concentrated on Loraine’s quivering lip and told the hair follicles to close up and go dormant. Immediately the dark hair fell from her lip to the floor as if it had been cut by a razor. The only evidence it had been there at all was an odd tan line.

  Loraine’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, thank heavens,” she gasped. “Thank you judge, thank you, Mr. Kondrotieof.” She walked down the aisle and when she reached the back of the courtroom, she opened the door and ran.

  Frenchie didn’t mind letting the bimbo get away. The act had gotten her into the Rehab program, and she had told Loraine’s hair cells to continue to lie dormant for a few months, but then to grow a Fu Manchu that would belong in the Chinese record books.

  Frenchie said goodbye to her parents and the few friends who would still acknowledge her, then she was led to a different room where another girl sat chained to the railing. The bailiff slipped a pair of manacles over Frenchie’s wrists and locked her to the same bar, then left the two girls alone.

  The girl was solid and stocky. She wore her brown hair in a tight ponytail and her athletic jacket didn’t contain a single crease. She looked familiar, but Frenchie couldn’t place the name. Where did she know her from? School, or the gym maybe. She closed her eyes and then pictured one of the Wheaties cereal boxes that always seemed to sit on her parents’ pantry shelf un-opened. Then she recognized the wide almond eyes that seemed to stare forward in deep concentration. The young woman was Shinal McGraw, the youngest American to ever win the World Cup Women’s Gymnastics competition and the Olympics.

  “My name’s Frenchie.” She inched her handcuffs along the bar and tried to offer her hand to Shinal.

  Shinal’s gaze went straight through her, focusing instead on the brick wall. Frenchie decided to leave her alone.

  Ten minutes passed. Vague sounds through the door indicated that the sentencing of other Shines had continued. But no other girls joined them in the little room. A bailiff checked on them every few minutes as if the three security cameras that recorded every square inch of the room might have missed something.

  “No. No. You can’t,” a girl screamed from the courtroom.

  Two bailiffs ran through their small room and into the courtroom. The door was slow to close behind them.

  Frenchie strained against the cuffs to get a better angle through the cracked door. Li’l Miss Silent Pants, to her right, did the same.

  “Bailiffs, get her under control before she brings this entire city down on us.”

  “Please, your honor. They’ve already killed my husband; you can’t take my baby too.”

  The judge slammed his gavel down. The door shut.

  Frenchie looked at her feet and winced when she heard a muffled scream.

  A few minutes later the bailiff dragged in an unconscious girl and chained her to the bar next to Frenchie.

  CHAPTER 4

  Lola woke up. Her hands went straight to her stomach and started palpating. It was faint, but she was certain she could still feel the heartbeat. The tones were normal, the same as they’d always been anyway. Neither the beating from the crowd, nor the Taser from the bail
iffs seemed to have affected her baby girl. Only her. And she was okay with that.

  “I’m Frenchie.” The blonde girl next to her said. “Are you ok?”

  “What do you think?” Lola said, rubbing her puffy red eyes and wiping the water dripping from her nose. “The only reason the judge sent me here instead of to prison is because of my baby. They’re sending us all to some kind of brainwashing camp. And once I give birth, they’re going to take my baby away.”

  “What about your husband? Your family?”

  “They shot my husband, and arrested him for trying to protect me while in our own home. I’m not even sure he’s alive. And even if he is, they’ll just throw him in jail. These days, helping a Shine is considered worse than being a terrorist.”

  Lola felt the goose egg on her head and winced. “Stupid girls,” she muttered. They were the real reason why she was being held prisoner. The two Shines had reduced both Santa Monica and Seattle to rubble when they couldn’t control their own powers and now if a young woman had the extraordinary ability to do so much as clear up their own acne problem they were on the National Security Agency’s watch list – because Shines, of course, were uber-dangerous. Being blessed with the gift of tongues used to be reserved for some of God’s most righteous patrons and now it was akin to wearing a suicide vest to a public function.

  A bailiff stepped around the corner. “You have 15 minutes, ladies. If anyone needs to go to the bathroom, do it now. You’ve got a long drive to Thunderhead Ranch in the Smokey Mountains. Who needs to go?”

  All three of the girls tried to raise their hands but the manacles wouldn’t let them.

  The bailiff rolled his eyes. “Fine, give me a minute to find some female escorts.”

  Five minutes later three female bailiffs showed up with batons in hand.

  The head bailiff took the cuffs off the three Shines. “There will be no warnings and no funny business. It’s not too late for the judge to reverse his decision and send all three of you to Gromlin.”